Davey Crockett Motor Court
Room 1121
3:42 A.M.
"Mmm…that's right. You know I like it
like that. Mmm…that feels good."
Dana Scully twisted her silken legs
between the cotton sheets. "Oh," a moan
of ecstasy escaped her lips. She felt her
cheeks flush with heat. She licked her
lips as her eyes rolled back in her head.
"Oh, oh God," she breathed, "Oh God!" She
could hear the headboard knocking against
the wall - thud, thud, thud. It was slow
at first, but then became more insistent.
Thud, thud, thud.
"Stop, oh God! Please, oh God!"
Thud, thud, thud.
"Oh, God!"
"Scully?"
She could hear the voice calling her name.
"Yes, yes!"
"Scully?"
The voice came again, questioning,
uncomprehending.
"Scully, it's me, wake up."
Scully awoke with a start. The knocks came
again, this time originating from the motel
door.
"Scully, are you there?" she heard Mulder
call again.
"Coming," she answered. She stood up and
faced the bureau mirror. Her clothes were
soaked with sweat, clinging to her like a
newborn to her mother's breast. Her hair
was hanging wild and free and her entire
body was hot and flushed. She ran into the
bathroom and splashed some cold water over
her face.
"Scully?"
"I'll be right there!" she called to him.
She dried her face and rushed to the door.
She stopped in front of it, gathering her
composure. She grabbed the robe off the
counter, placed it on, and smoothed out the
wrinkles. When everything was set to her
satisfaction, she pulled off the sliding lock
and placed a hand on the doorknob. Pulling
wide the door, she glared deeply at her partner.
"Mulder, don't you ever sleep? It's nearly
four o'clock in the morning."
He stared at her, gazing deeply into her
facial features. He smiled broadly, knowingly.
"What?" Scully blurted out, a little too
harshly and a little more anxiously than
she would have liked.
"Oh, nothing," his smile grew larger,
"Nothing at all."
A little rouge inadvertently rushed to
her cheeks.
"Was there something you wanted?" she
asked curtly.
"Get dressed," he commanded, "there's
been…a development."
"Get dressed?" she repeated, "Where are
we going? It's four o'clock in the morning?"
"I'm leaving in five minutes, Scully," he
told her, "You can join me if you'd like."
He stole one final glance, smiled, then
turned and departed.
Scully closed the door behind him and
prepared to dress herself. As she walked
towards her luggage, she found herself
wondering exactly how much Mulder had
overheard.
Blanca Cortes Residence
1013 West Waco St.
4:22 A.M.
An officer signaled to Mulder with
outstretched hands as he pulled the silver
Ford Taurus up to the normally cozy
cul-de-sac that was, at the moment, overrun
with flashing ambulance lights, black and
white cars, and yellow dispersion tape. A
crowd of curious onlookers stood on the
sidewalk in red and green robes, gazing
with simultaneous interest and dismay at
the unhappy and unexpected wakeup call.
Mulder reached for his identification as
he steered the car up alongside the policeman.
Rolling down the window, he lifted the badge
towards the officer's eyelevel.
"Special Agent Fox Mulder. Can you direct
me to the officer in charge?"
The officer nodded in affirmation as Mulder
put the I.D. back in his pocket.
"Detective Harris," he replied, pointing out
a tall gentleman of medium-build who was
sporting a lengthy, tan duster and an
outlandishly gaudy orange and green tie.
"Thank you," Mulder responded, directing the
car to the curb and turning off the ignition.
"Hard time picking that guy in a crowd, huh,
Scully?" Mulder said as he unbuckled his belt
and stepped from the car. Scully rolled her
insomnia-induced red eyes as she opened the
door. She caught up to Mulder, who was holding
up the yellow police tape for her to pass
underneath. She did, and he followed after.
They advanced towards the front porch, where the
detective the officer had pointed out was
standing.
"Detective Harris?" Scully questioned.
The comely detective turned around, grinning
broadly beneath a wide-brimmed ten-gallon hat.
"That's right ma'am," he said, putting his
pointer finger and thumb to his hat, tipping
it in her direction, "Now I do believe that you
own the advantage, here. Mebbe you could do me
the honor of evenin' out the odds."
Scully arched her eyebrows, thoroughly confused.
"I reckon he's askin' for your name," Mulder
whispered in her ear as he, for the second time
that night, pulled out his identification.
"Special Agent Fox Mulder," he said, presenting
his picture to the detective, "and my partner,
Agent Scully."
"Ah, yes, Agent Mulder," he nodded his head in
affirmation, "I do believe we spoke on the phone."
"That's right, sir. I hope you don't mind if we
have a look around?"
"Not at all," Detective Harris answered, leading
the agents into the house, "Actually, we're all
a little stumped as to how this all could've
happened. I was hopin' that, mebbe, this kinda
thing would fall under your area of expertise."
Detective Harris led the partners past the front
foyer and a set of swirling, wooden staircases
that led upstairs. They proceeded through an
expansive hall, laden with framed family photos.
Happy photos, Scully noted, happy photos of
camping trips, and adventures by the lake, and
beachside relaxation. She sighed deeply,
wondering inwardly how many lives had been
disrupted on nights just like this. How many
motherless children were out there, abandoned
due to the whims a merciless, cold-blooded
killer?
"If you can't figure this one out, I don't
know who can."
Scully snapped back from her reverie as
Detective Harris advanced into a pleasant
living room, full of cream-colored couches
and a fireplace just as warm as the room,
itself. An oaken coffee table graced the
middle of the room, perfectly complementing
a grand oaken bureau that was situated in
the back corner, filled to the
brim with crystalline and porcelain
knick-knacks. There was only one, quite
literal, stain on the otherwise perfect home
before her eyes. Situated on the middle
cushion of the couch was a large black stain.
Scully advanced closer and grabbed some latex
gloves from one of the medical examiners. She
snapped them on and picked up some of the dark
particles that constituted the stain.
"It looks like ash," she said, bringing it
nearer to her face for closer inspection,
"How did ash get on this sofa?"
Mulder nudged her with his elbow.
"Well, I don't know if my powers of deduction
are as finely-tuned as yours, Agent Scully, but
I think I can make a conjecture." He pointed
to the floor. Scully's mouth dropped wide as
she saw the object of his interest. All that
remained of the former owner of the cozy room
were two legs, charred at the knees, and a pile
of ash and bones.
Marfa Medical Examiner's Office
9:08 A.M.
Scully stepped away from the metal cart that
carried the scant remains of Mrs. Blanca Cortes.
She tossed her transparent surgical gloves in
the nearest trashcan and flipped her safety
goggles to the top of her head as the examining
room's large double doors opened towards her.
Mulder strode rather quickly into the room, his
dark, knee-length coat trailing gracefully behind.
"What'd you find, Scully?" he asked abruptly.
"Good morning to you, too, Mulder," she replied
haughtily.
"Good morning. What'd you find, Scully?"
"Well, Mulder," Scully began, "there wasn't
exactly much left to examine. I'm actually at
a bit of a loss to describe what transpired at
the Cortes household. The only item that I could
definitely ascertain is that extreme heat was
needed in order to generate this kind of
corporeal disintegration."
"I'm no doctor, Scully, but I could've told you
that."
"Then let me tell you something you don't know,"
Scully replied indignantly, "The temperature
would have to be, on average, somewhere around
three thousand degrees Farenheit to do this kind
of damage. Only, that heat would do more than
burn this woman into oblivion. Her entire home
should have been destroyed, Mulder, but not even
the couch was scorched."
"What are you suggesting, Scully?"
"I'm not sure, Mulder," Scully answered. She
shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
"The victim's death certainly wasn't accidental.
There was no fire in the fireplace, and Cortes
detested cigarettes. If homicide came into play,
then oil or some other accelerant should have been
found on her body, but there were no traces of any
chemicals present on the remnants of her clothing."
Mulder smiled. "So that leaves, what? Spontaneous
human combustion?"
Scully sighed. "At this point in time, I don't
believe that it is possible to rule any theory out."
"You know, Scully, spontaneous human combustion
isn't that outrageous an idea. Many reliable cases
have been well documented throughout the ages,
beginning with the publishing of the 'De Incendiis
Corporis Humani Spontaneis' by Jonas Dupont in the
seventeenth century, to the Reeser case in the
fifties, up to the present day. In 1957, Anna
Martin's torso and shoes were found, a result of
burning conditions that must have reached up to
two thousand degrees, but newspapers were found
only two feet away from her body. Hell, Scully,
even you once suggested the possibilities of
spontaneous human combustion."
"And that avenue didn't prove to be the correct
one, did it, Mulder?"
"Well how does this grab you?" Mulder asked,
producing a folded piece of paper from his jacket
pocket.
Scully took the paper from his hands.
"What's this?" she asked, shooting him a quizzical
look of concern.
"Copy of a witness report," he responded, "See
anything of interest?"
Scully leafed quickly through the two or three
paragraphs. One sentence in particular jumped
out at her: "Witness reports viewing five
multi-colored balls of light enter the victim's
house at approximately 10:00 P.M.."
"That's right," Mulder said, nodding his head
in affirmation, "Looks like a case of greater
magnitude just presented itself."
Debbie's Diner
11:14 A.M.
Mulder grinned boyishly as the buxom, apron-clad
waitress bent over to refill his black coffee, her
cleavage line appearing ever-so-slightly through
the low-cut white blouse.
"You want any cream with that, sir?" she asked in
a southern-belle drawl.
"I've got plenty of my own," he replied softly,
eyes drawn to the blonde's bust line.
"What was that, sir?" she questioned, "I'm
afraid I didn't hear you."
"I said 'no thanks'," he answered, for the first
time looking up at the face to whom he was speaking,
"I like it black."
"Let me know if you need anything."
"You bet I will," he responded. The waitress
turned on her heels and departed as Scully walked
through the door. She shot Mulder a sideways glance,
then seated herself on the plush red cushion in the
booth seat across from him.
"Ball lightning," she stated abruptly, throwing a
stack of folded papers on the tabletop.
"Scully!" Mulder tsked, putting on his best doe-eyed,
feigned look of dismay, "You know I asked you not to
call me by my nickname when we're in public!"
Scully frowned with disapproval.
"First of all, Mulder," she replied, "given the
miniscule number of female social acquaintances of
yours that I've met in the six years that I've known
you, I believe I can say without hesitation that I'm
quite certain that that nickname does not apply to
you."
Mulder smiled.
"Wanna find out?"
Scully continued as though she had heard nothing.
"Secondly, I was referring to the cause of death of
Mrs. Blanca Cortes."
Mulder's demeanor instantly became serious.
"What do you mean?"
"I did a little research after I left the medical
examiner's office this morning. There is a phenomena
known as 'ball lightning' that has come under
scientific study in the past couple of years. Ball
lightning is usually reported as appearing in the
form of small baseball-shaped spheres of multi-colored
lights. Its origin is unknown, although several
reports have cited thunderstorms and tornados as the
cause. A paper published recently in the scientific
journal 'Nature' suggests that the magnetic force
generated by the electricity present in a lightning
strike causes electrons to be stripped violently from
elements present in the earth or in the atmosphere,
most often copper. This process causes only
positively-charged molecules to remain, generating a
form of high-temperature gas, what the authors refer
to as 'plasma'."
Scully halted her informational harangue as the
waitress advanced to take her order. After Scully
ordered her standard coffee and breakfast roll, Mulder
asked, "And you think there's some connection to the
Marfa occurrences?"
"Well, the temperature generated from such an act
would be somewhere on the order of fifty-thousand
degrees Fahrenheit. That is the type of heat
necessary to effectively cremate the body of Mrs.
Cortes. In addition, the high temperature would
cause the effected elements to become conductive,
thereby losing a large amount of electrical
resistance. This would enable them to seemingly
float in midair, in such a fashion as reported by
the tow-truck man and the witness to Cortes' death."
Mulder did not look convinced.
"Scully, what you describe sounds like a rare
condition caused by natural, environmental forces.
Yet, the death of Cortes occurred inside her own
home."
"Ball lightning has often been reported as entering
buildings, Mulder," she replied without hesitation,
"Witnesses report ball lightning flowing through
windows and doors, floating down hallways, and even
entering airplanes."
Mulder chuckled softly to himself.
"And you believe that that theory is plausible?"
he scoffed.
"I believe it's a hell of a lot more plausible than
spontaneous human combustion," she replied, "What's
more, the tests came back on the ash that we found
on the fence, and it contained large quantities of
copper, larger than amounts that should be present
in ordinary wood."
Mulder nodded his head as the waitress returned
and placed Scully's brunch meal in front of her.
"Eat up, Scully," Mulder said, "we have a busy day
ahead of us. You're going to need all of your
energy."
"Why, Mulder," she asked, picking off a piece of
her roll and popping it in her mouth, "Are your
lightning balls feeling electrified?"
Mulder smiled broadly.
"Scully, have I told you I love you today?"
Apache Nation Reservation
11:42 A.M.
"How did you find out about this place, Mulder?"
Scully asked as she stepped from the car and
closed the door behind her.
"I found a brochure in the motel lobby this morning,"
Mulder answered, meeting Scully around the front of
the car. They began advancing through the waterlogged
dirt road as he reached into his pocket and produced
the informational booklet, handing it over to his
partner. She opened it and browsed through briefly
as he continued.
"It relates some of the local folklore surrounding
your 'ball lightning.' I asked the manager if he
could elaborate on the stories and this is where
he directed me." He gestured with his hand to the
rink-a-dink shanty town that surrounded them. "He
said that the man who could best answer my questions
resided here."
"And who is that?" she asked, glancing up from her
light reading.
"A much respected elder of the local Apache nation,"
he responded, "Hopefully he can provide insight into
what we're looking for."
"What are we looking for, Mulder?" she questioned
softly, putting a hand to his arm to stop him in his
tracks. She felt suddenly and grossly aware of the
hundreds of eyes fixated on the two strangers as they
paused in front of a dilapidated one-story home with
dingy, faded, white paint that was peeling off the
sides.
"First we're looking for lights in the sky, then a
runaway cow assassin, and now we've come to the
middle of nowhere in a desperate attempt to glean
what little information we can about local history
in order to catch a killer? What exactly are you
hoping to find, Mulder?"
The agents turned their heads as the squeaking of
hinges signaled the opening of the front door. An
elderly, wrinkled, white-haired gentleman appeared
from behind the screen.
"I believe that he's come seeking the truth."
11:45 A.M.
"I was born and raised in this town. Seventy years
ago my father moved my mother and seven brothers
here, seeking out a better existence, one where
prejudice and rage had no room to grow. I was born
the following year, and have lived here ever since.
In that time, I have come to know the people, each
generation passing freely like the day into the
night."
The wise man paused as he attempted to stifle a
cough. He picked up the mug of hot tea that was
situated on the kitchen table in front of him and
drank from it slowly. He felt the soothing liquid
travel down his throat. Then, placing the mug back
on the table, he gazed long and hard at the
stern-looking man and his cherubic partner. He
could sense the conviction in him, some tireless
devotion to the search. There was faith in her
also, just of a different kind. He cleared his
throat once more and resumed his account.
"As soon as he moved to Marfa, my father was told
a story by the local people of lights of different
colors that often appeared in the night sky, moving
in one motion like coyotes stalking their prey. When
I grew older my father told me of an Apache legend
that was told to him in turn. It was said that there
was once a mighty chief, strong in body and will, but
weak in judgment. One night, the chief, Alsate,
offended a tribal God. The reason why is unknown.
However, the God repaid the chief for his deed by
condemning him to wander this plain for eternity,
his soul ever restless, never able to gain refuge.
It is said that the lights are the spirit of Alsate,
still walking the earth."
The man, Mulder, leaned in, seemingly engrossed in
the discussion. He could tell that the woman, on
the other hand, was not so enthused. Her eyes were
aloof and her arms were folded neatly across her chest.
"I had heard that there were alternative theories
regarding the lights," Mulder said, "something about
a family."
"That is right," John Runninghorse answered, "The mid
1800s was a time of great growth in Texas,
specifically in this region. Marfa was a point
through which many settlers traveled. One of those
families had the misfortune of getting separated from
a caravan during a moonless night. They got turned
around after many hours, the oil from their lanterns
began to wear thin. Some believe that the souls of
that family are found in the lights, their lanterns
forever shining until the day when they can be
reunited with their friends and family."
"Yes," Mulder continued, "but I thought there were
other theories as well, theories that do not involve
dead spirits?"
Runninghorse was truly confused.
"I am afraid that I do not understand."
Mulder sat up straight in his seat.
"Do you ever see any other sights, sights that
could not be explained by any other means?"
Runninghorse shook his head.
"Do you see bright beams of light?"
"I am afraid not, Agent Mulder."
"Does anyone ever go missing and is returned days
later, without having any recollection of the events
that occurred in their mental absence?"
"No."
"Do you ever get the sensation that you are
missing time?"
"Missing time?"
"The feeling that you suddenly lost some minutes
in your day that should have been present, but
weren't?"
Runninghorse shook his head again.
"I am sorry, Agent Mulder, but I have never
experienced any of what you are saying."
Agent Scully uncrossed her arms and stood up
from the table.
"Thank you for all of your assistance, Mr.
Runninghorse. You've been more than helpful."
Then she looked over at her partner, "Let's go,
Mulder."
He glanced briefly back at her and held up his
pointer finger in protest.
"Hold on a second, Scully. Just one more
question, Mr. Runninghorse."
"Anything, Agent Mulder. I am more than happy
to help in any way that I can."
"Do you know of anyone that owns a dark truck,
maybe black or navy-blue?"
Runninghorse leaned back and put his finger to
his lips.
"Well," he said, "there are very few people that
own trucks around here. Of the few, there are a
couple that I can think of with that color truck
- Jim Brohawn, Kenny Ryan, and Henry Phoenix."
"Henry Phoenix?" Mulder questioned, putting a
hand to his hip and arching his eyebrows
ever-so-slightly, "Aren't the Apache often named
after animals indigenous to the area and culture?"
Runninghorse nodded his head.
"Yes, that is right."
"Then how did this man Henry come to be surnamed
with an animal that is neither real nor
fictitiously indigenous to this area?"
"Henry Phoenix is quite his own legend
altogether," Runninghorse answered, a look of
uneasiness clouding over his eyes, "His parents
were well-educated, and versed in philosophy and
Greek culture. They moved to Marfa when Henry was
two years old with the hopes of creating a school
to teach our people. They thought that if the
people were taught, they would be able to leave
this meager existence and obtain real jobs.
Unemployment is a big problem here, and it leaves
greater alcoholism in its wake."
Runninghorse took a deep breath, then continued.
"Less than a year after they moved here, there was
a terrible fire in their home. The flames reached
twenty feet in the air and the heat could be felt
from miles away. The flames did not subside until
the morning light blanketed the earth. By that time,
all that was left of the house, and Henry's parents,
was a pile of ashes. But sitting undisturbed where
the house once stood was Henry, his face covered in
soot, but otherwise unharmed. In honor of his
parents, and the miraculous gift bestowed upon him
by the gods, his relatives gave him the name
'Phoenix,' like the creature of Greek myth who would
rise from his own ashes in order to begin his life
anew."
Mulder's eyes were wide with awe.
"Do you know how we can get in touch with Henry
Phoenix?" he asked.
"Yes," Runninghorse answered, "I'll give you the
address." As he left the room to get a piece of
paper to write on, Mulder stood up and faced
Scully, a smile broad on his face.
"Let me guess," she pre-empted him, "Somehow,
Henry Phoenix has generated powers of combustion
that allow him to char any object beyond recognition,
but also allow him to remain unscathed."
Mulder grinned from ear-to-ear.
"Scully," he asked, "are you coming on to me?"
Scully was about to reply when Runninghorse
emerged from the living room, paper in hand.
"Here is the address, Agent Mulder," he said,
handing the sheet with writing over to the tall,
mysterious man.
"Thank you, Mr. Runninghorse," he replied,
lifting the paper in a gesture of thanks, "We
appreciate all of your help."
He turned and followed his partner to the door.
He was about to follow her over the threshold
when the aging oracle called to him a final time.
"Agent Mulder?"
Mulder turned and faced him. Words were not
needed. The questioning expression in his eyes
provided all the needed communication.
"Light is not always a sign of righteousness and
truth. Though the night brings fear and
uncertainty in its darkness, it is the light
that distorts reality, that causes the darkness.
In its rising and setting, the sun plays a daily
trick on all of its children, forging lengthy
shadows with its trek across the sky."
"What are you trying to tell me," Mulder asked,
"that I'm looking for answers in the wrong places?"
Runninghorse sighed deeply.
"When Icarus flew too close to the sun, he paid
for his pride with his life."
Mulder angrily placed a hand on his hip. He didn't
have the time to talk in circles. There was a
dangerous man on the loose.
"Are you warning me, Mr. Runninghorse?"
"Warn is not the right word, Agent Mulder,"
Runninghorse answered, "I only caution.
Do not look for truth in the sun, Agent Mulder,
or you will be blinded by the light."
Mulder turned and heatedly pushed aside the
front screen door, sending it careening back
on its hinges. Scully was waiting patiently
by the car as he appeared.
"What did he say to you?" she asked.
"He asked me for your number," he responded
stoically, not deigning to permit a smile to
cross his face. He unlocked the doors roughly
and seated himself at the driver's wheel.
Scully gazed back at the house as she opened
the door. John Runninghorse was staring
despondently through the screen. As she seated
herself beside Mulder, Scully wondered to
herself what he was hiding.
Henry Phoenix Residence
422 Breckenridge Rd.
12:38 P.M.
The unusually dark day would have made it
nearly impossible to navigate through the
obscure, narrow, tree-lined passage had it not
have been for the alternating red and blue
lights illuminating the sky. Scully could see
the lights half a mile down the offset, muddy
path before the gathering crowd of officers and
medics even came into view.
"Mulder?" she questioned, throwing her arm behind
his seat and leaning in a slightly forward position.
Her eyes darted from one direction to the other,
fruitlessly searching the scene for answers.
"I don't know," he responded softly. A slight
frown of consternation clouded his brooding features.
The lights grew bright and blinding as the silver
Taurus rolled to a stop. Scully grabbed a black
umbrella from the back seat and stepped from the
car. She rejoined Mulder in front and lifted the
umbrella clumsily over his towering head. She
increased her gait to keep in pace with him as he
pulled the I.D. from his jacket. The rhythmic
pounding of the rain on the leaves was heavy and
strangely unsettling.
"Agent Mulder," he said, raising the identification
to the eye-level of a nearby officer, "F.B.I..
What happened here?"
"Fire," the balding, stocky man replied, "big one
by the looks of it."
"Were there any injuries?" Scully asked, taking
in the presence of several EMTs, "I'm a medical
doctor. I may be of some assistance."
The officer nodded his head.
"One male victim…we think."
"What do you mean, you think?" Scully asked.
"By the time the fireman got here," he responded,
"it was too late." He sighed deeply and shook his
head. "I've been on the force for ten years now,
seen a lot of bad stuff, but nothing that ever
looked like this."
Mulder wasn't paying attention. He was watching
intently as Detective Harris questioned a witness.
"Scully," he said, "why don't you see what you can
find out from the medics. I'll go see if I can help
the good detective."
Before she could respond, he ducked out from under
the umbrella and joined Detective Harris as he
finished with the frightened robe-wearing elderly
woman.
"Here's my number. Call me if you need anythin'."
Detective Harris handed the woman a card and
dismissed her with a wave of his hand. He smiled
as he looked up from his notes and took in the form
of Fox Mulder approaching him.
"Agent Mulder," he said, "why'm I not surprised to
see ya'll here?"
"Well," he answered, with a little pseudo-enthusiasm
in his voice, "you know what they say about bad
pennies."
"Worth two inda bush, right?"
Mulder slowly turned his head from the panicked
scene on his left to the tall man on his right.
"Um, right." He smiled and nodded his head in
false agreement.
"So what do we have here, Detective?" he asked
in an effort to mercifully change the subject. He
looked down at the blue body-bag at his feet.
"A Mr. Joaquin Still-River," he said with some
difficulty, "or what we're currently assumin' to
be. The body was charred beyond all recognition.
Wit' the intense heat generated by the fire, the
current theory is arson, started wit' some kinda
gasoline or sometin'."
Mulder nodded and stooped down to the ground. He
unzipped the bag to reveal some black bones and a
pile of ash. He glanced up at Detective Harris.
"All that wuz left," he told him, "The house was
gone before we got here."
Mulder stood up and dusted the mud off of his
hands as Scully approached him in the darkness.
She halted in front of him and allowed an "Oh my
God," to breathlessly pass her lips before
acknowledging the presence of the two men. She
finally looked up.
"Just like the other one," she said to Mulder
who nodded in agreement.
"What'd you find out, Scully?" he asked her.
"Upon arriving on the scene, the medics found a
man fifty yards from the ground where the house
once stood. He showed no signs of burning on his
dermal layer, but he was suffering from slight
smoke-inhalation and muscle and abdominal pain.
He was taken to the nearest hospital twenty
minutes before we arrived. I'll give you two
guesses as to who that man was, Mulder."
"Don't tell me," he said, "Henry Phoenix?"
"That's right," she answered, not even the hint
of a smile on her immaculate features, "and for
your grand prize you get an all-expenses paid
trip to Marfa County General."
Marfa County General Hospital
1:18 P.M.
"This is simply amazing, Mulder."
Scully raised an eyebrow as she flipped from
one page to the next.
"What is it, Scully?"
Mulder joined her at her side and looked at the
patient's chart over her dainty shoulder.
"With the amount of smoke that was found in
his lungs, it is almost certain that Henry
Phoenix was present in the house during the
fire, yet his dermal layer shows no signs of
first degree burns, let alone the third degree
burns that should have been present with the
heat that the firemen described."
"Are you sure that he couldn't have been close
in proximity to the house, say directly outside
of it?"
Scully shook her head adamantly.
"No, Mulder. It's simply not possible. This
man inhaled enough smoke to induce a coma."
Mulder nodded in comprehension.
"Well, that explains it, then," he told her.
She folded a strand of hair neatly behind her ear.
"Explains what, Mulder?" she asked.
"That explains how 'O Henry' in there is able to
control temperatures so hot that it converts
people and buildings to ashes, but remains
unscathed."
Scully smiled sardonically.
"I'm sorry, Mulder," she said, "I'm just not
seeing the connection."
"Scully, if what you say is true, and that man
was inside the burning house, how do you explain
the complete absence of burns?"
Scully shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't know, Mulder. I've never seen anything
like it."
Mulder leaned in closer to her, so they were at
the same eyelevel.
"Scully, what if this man had some genetic
anomaly that permitted him to survive extreme
temperatures, so that even as the wood and
upholstery around him burned to the ground, no
traces of fire were able to touch his body?"
Scully's eyes drew askance as her smile grew
broader.
"Mulder," she started to explain, "there's no
precedence for what you're describing."
"Bear with me a second, Scully," he interrupted
her, "If there were such an anomaly, isn't it at
all possible that the person to whom it belonged
would be able to, say, set himself on fire?
Maybe if he doused himself in some sort of
accelerant, he would have been able to kill
Blanca Cortes and then smother the flames, all
without doing any damage to his own body."
Scully sighed deeply.
"I suppose anything is possible," she said
reluctantly.
Sometimes, it was just better to appease him.
"Listen, Scully," Mulder said, "I'm going to
find out whose ashes we picked up at that house.
Why don't you do me a favor and personally
examine Henry Phoenix?"
Scully put a hand on her hip.
"What am I looking for, Mulder?" she asked.
He turned to walk out the door.
"You can tell me when you find it," he answered.
Room 1121
3:42 A.M.
"Mmm…that's right. You know I like it
like that. Mmm…that feels good."
Dana Scully twisted her silken legs
between the cotton sheets. "Oh," a moan
of ecstasy escaped her lips. She felt her
cheeks flush with heat. She licked her
lips as her eyes rolled back in her head.
"Oh, oh God," she breathed, "Oh God!" She
could hear the headboard knocking against
the wall - thud, thud, thud. It was slow
at first, but then became more insistent.
Thud, thud, thud.
"Stop, oh God! Please, oh God!"
Thud, thud, thud.
"Oh, God!"
"Scully?"
She could hear the voice calling her name.
"Yes, yes!"
"Scully?"
The voice came again, questioning,
uncomprehending.
"Scully, it's me, wake up."
Scully awoke with a start. The knocks came
again, this time originating from the motel
door.
"Scully, are you there?" she heard Mulder
call again.
"Coming," she answered. She stood up and
faced the bureau mirror. Her clothes were
soaked with sweat, clinging to her like a
newborn to her mother's breast. Her hair
was hanging wild and free and her entire
body was hot and flushed. She ran into the
bathroom and splashed some cold water over
her face.
"Scully?"
"I'll be right there!" she called to him.
She dried her face and rushed to the door.
She stopped in front of it, gathering her
composure. She grabbed the robe off the
counter, placed it on, and smoothed out the
wrinkles. When everything was set to her
satisfaction, she pulled off the sliding lock
and placed a hand on the doorknob. Pulling
wide the door, she glared deeply at her partner.
"Mulder, don't you ever sleep? It's nearly
four o'clock in the morning."
He stared at her, gazing deeply into her
facial features. He smiled broadly, knowingly.
"What?" Scully blurted out, a little too
harshly and a little more anxiously than
she would have liked.
"Oh, nothing," his smile grew larger,
"Nothing at all."
A little rouge inadvertently rushed to
her cheeks.
"Was there something you wanted?" she
asked curtly.
"Get dressed," he commanded, "there's
been…a development."
"Get dressed?" she repeated, "Where are
we going? It's four o'clock in the morning?"
"I'm leaving in five minutes, Scully," he
told her, "You can join me if you'd like."
He stole one final glance, smiled, then
turned and departed.
Scully closed the door behind him and
prepared to dress herself. As she walked
towards her luggage, she found herself
wondering exactly how much Mulder had
overheard.
Blanca Cortes Residence
1013 West Waco St.
4:22 A.M.
An officer signaled to Mulder with
outstretched hands as he pulled the silver
Ford Taurus up to the normally cozy
cul-de-sac that was, at the moment, overrun
with flashing ambulance lights, black and
white cars, and yellow dispersion tape. A
crowd of curious onlookers stood on the
sidewalk in red and green robes, gazing
with simultaneous interest and dismay at
the unhappy and unexpected wakeup call.
Mulder reached for his identification as
he steered the car up alongside the policeman.
Rolling down the window, he lifted the badge
towards the officer's eyelevel.
"Special Agent Fox Mulder. Can you direct
me to the officer in charge?"
The officer nodded in affirmation as Mulder
put the I.D. back in his pocket.
"Detective Harris," he replied, pointing out
a tall gentleman of medium-build who was
sporting a lengthy, tan duster and an
outlandishly gaudy orange and green tie.
"Thank you," Mulder responded, directing the
car to the curb and turning off the ignition.
"Hard time picking that guy in a crowd, huh,
Scully?" Mulder said as he unbuckled his belt
and stepped from the car. Scully rolled her
insomnia-induced red eyes as she opened the
door. She caught up to Mulder, who was holding
up the yellow police tape for her to pass
underneath. She did, and he followed after.
They advanced towards the front porch, where the
detective the officer had pointed out was
standing.
"Detective Harris?" Scully questioned.
The comely detective turned around, grinning
broadly beneath a wide-brimmed ten-gallon hat.
"That's right ma'am," he said, putting his
pointer finger and thumb to his hat, tipping
it in her direction, "Now I do believe that you
own the advantage, here. Mebbe you could do me
the honor of evenin' out the odds."
Scully arched her eyebrows, thoroughly confused.
"I reckon he's askin' for your name," Mulder
whispered in her ear as he, for the second time
that night, pulled out his identification.
"Special Agent Fox Mulder," he said, presenting
his picture to the detective, "and my partner,
Agent Scully."
"Ah, yes, Agent Mulder," he nodded his head in
affirmation, "I do believe we spoke on the phone."
"That's right, sir. I hope you don't mind if we
have a look around?"
"Not at all," Detective Harris answered, leading
the agents into the house, "Actually, we're all
a little stumped as to how this all could've
happened. I was hopin' that, mebbe, this kinda
thing would fall under your area of expertise."
Detective Harris led the partners past the front
foyer and a set of swirling, wooden staircases
that led upstairs. They proceeded through an
expansive hall, laden with framed family photos.
Happy photos, Scully noted, happy photos of
camping trips, and adventures by the lake, and
beachside relaxation. She sighed deeply,
wondering inwardly how many lives had been
disrupted on nights just like this. How many
motherless children were out there, abandoned
due to the whims a merciless, cold-blooded
killer?
"If you can't figure this one out, I don't
know who can."
Scully snapped back from her reverie as
Detective Harris advanced into a pleasant
living room, full of cream-colored couches
and a fireplace just as warm as the room,
itself. An oaken coffee table graced the
middle of the room, perfectly complementing
a grand oaken bureau that was situated in
the back corner, filled to the
brim with crystalline and porcelain
knick-knacks. There was only one, quite
literal, stain on the otherwise perfect home
before her eyes. Situated on the middle
cushion of the couch was a large black stain.
Scully advanced closer and grabbed some latex
gloves from one of the medical examiners. She
snapped them on and picked up some of the dark
particles that constituted the stain.
"It looks like ash," she said, bringing it
nearer to her face for closer inspection,
"How did ash get on this sofa?"
Mulder nudged her with his elbow.
"Well, I don't know if my powers of deduction
are as finely-tuned as yours, Agent Scully, but
I think I can make a conjecture." He pointed
to the floor. Scully's mouth dropped wide as
she saw the object of his interest. All that
remained of the former owner of the cozy room
were two legs, charred at the knees, and a pile
of ash and bones.
Marfa Medical Examiner's Office
9:08 A.M.
Scully stepped away from the metal cart that
carried the scant remains of Mrs. Blanca Cortes.
She tossed her transparent surgical gloves in
the nearest trashcan and flipped her safety
goggles to the top of her head as the examining
room's large double doors opened towards her.
Mulder strode rather quickly into the room, his
dark, knee-length coat trailing gracefully behind.
"What'd you find, Scully?" he asked abruptly.
"Good morning to you, too, Mulder," she replied
haughtily.
"Good morning. What'd you find, Scully?"
"Well, Mulder," Scully began, "there wasn't
exactly much left to examine. I'm actually at
a bit of a loss to describe what transpired at
the Cortes household. The only item that I could
definitely ascertain is that extreme heat was
needed in order to generate this kind of
corporeal disintegration."
"I'm no doctor, Scully, but I could've told you
that."
"Then let me tell you something you don't know,"
Scully replied indignantly, "The temperature
would have to be, on average, somewhere around
three thousand degrees Farenheit to do this kind
of damage. Only, that heat would do more than
burn this woman into oblivion. Her entire home
should have been destroyed, Mulder, but not even
the couch was scorched."
"What are you suggesting, Scully?"
"I'm not sure, Mulder," Scully answered. She
shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.
"The victim's death certainly wasn't accidental.
There was no fire in the fireplace, and Cortes
detested cigarettes. If homicide came into play,
then oil or some other accelerant should have been
found on her body, but there were no traces of any
chemicals present on the remnants of her clothing."
Mulder smiled. "So that leaves, what? Spontaneous
human combustion?"
Scully sighed. "At this point in time, I don't
believe that it is possible to rule any theory out."
"You know, Scully, spontaneous human combustion
isn't that outrageous an idea. Many reliable cases
have been well documented throughout the ages,
beginning with the publishing of the 'De Incendiis
Corporis Humani Spontaneis' by Jonas Dupont in the
seventeenth century, to the Reeser case in the
fifties, up to the present day. In 1957, Anna
Martin's torso and shoes were found, a result of
burning conditions that must have reached up to
two thousand degrees, but newspapers were found
only two feet away from her body. Hell, Scully,
even you once suggested the possibilities of
spontaneous human combustion."
"And that avenue didn't prove to be the correct
one, did it, Mulder?"
"Well how does this grab you?" Mulder asked,
producing a folded piece of paper from his jacket
pocket.
Scully took the paper from his hands.
"What's this?" she asked, shooting him a quizzical
look of concern.
"Copy of a witness report," he responded, "See
anything of interest?"
Scully leafed quickly through the two or three
paragraphs. One sentence in particular jumped
out at her: "Witness reports viewing five
multi-colored balls of light enter the victim's
house at approximately 10:00 P.M.."
"That's right," Mulder said, nodding his head
in affirmation, "Looks like a case of greater
magnitude just presented itself."
Debbie's Diner
11:14 A.M.
Mulder grinned boyishly as the buxom, apron-clad
waitress bent over to refill his black coffee, her
cleavage line appearing ever-so-slightly through
the low-cut white blouse.
"You want any cream with that, sir?" she asked in
a southern-belle drawl.
"I've got plenty of my own," he replied softly,
eyes drawn to the blonde's bust line.
"What was that, sir?" she questioned, "I'm
afraid I didn't hear you."
"I said 'no thanks'," he answered, for the first
time looking up at the face to whom he was speaking,
"I like it black."
"Let me know if you need anything."
"You bet I will," he responded. The waitress
turned on her heels and departed as Scully walked
through the door. She shot Mulder a sideways glance,
then seated herself on the plush red cushion in the
booth seat across from him.
"Ball lightning," she stated abruptly, throwing a
stack of folded papers on the tabletop.
"Scully!" Mulder tsked, putting on his best doe-eyed,
feigned look of dismay, "You know I asked you not to
call me by my nickname when we're in public!"
Scully frowned with disapproval.
"First of all, Mulder," she replied, "given the
miniscule number of female social acquaintances of
yours that I've met in the six years that I've known
you, I believe I can say without hesitation that I'm
quite certain that that nickname does not apply to
you."
Mulder smiled.
"Wanna find out?"
Scully continued as though she had heard nothing.
"Secondly, I was referring to the cause of death of
Mrs. Blanca Cortes."
Mulder's demeanor instantly became serious.
"What do you mean?"
"I did a little research after I left the medical
examiner's office this morning. There is a phenomena
known as 'ball lightning' that has come under
scientific study in the past couple of years. Ball
lightning is usually reported as appearing in the
form of small baseball-shaped spheres of multi-colored
lights. Its origin is unknown, although several
reports have cited thunderstorms and tornados as the
cause. A paper published recently in the scientific
journal 'Nature' suggests that the magnetic force
generated by the electricity present in a lightning
strike causes electrons to be stripped violently from
elements present in the earth or in the atmosphere,
most often copper. This process causes only
positively-charged molecules to remain, generating a
form of high-temperature gas, what the authors refer
to as 'plasma'."
Scully halted her informational harangue as the
waitress advanced to take her order. After Scully
ordered her standard coffee and breakfast roll, Mulder
asked, "And you think there's some connection to the
Marfa occurrences?"
"Well, the temperature generated from such an act
would be somewhere on the order of fifty-thousand
degrees Fahrenheit. That is the type of heat
necessary to effectively cremate the body of Mrs.
Cortes. In addition, the high temperature would
cause the effected elements to become conductive,
thereby losing a large amount of electrical
resistance. This would enable them to seemingly
float in midair, in such a fashion as reported by
the tow-truck man and the witness to Cortes' death."
Mulder did not look convinced.
"Scully, what you describe sounds like a rare
condition caused by natural, environmental forces.
Yet, the death of Cortes occurred inside her own
home."
"Ball lightning has often been reported as entering
buildings, Mulder," she replied without hesitation,
"Witnesses report ball lightning flowing through
windows and doors, floating down hallways, and even
entering airplanes."
Mulder chuckled softly to himself.
"And you believe that that theory is plausible?"
he scoffed.
"I believe it's a hell of a lot more plausible than
spontaneous human combustion," she replied, "What's
more, the tests came back on the ash that we found
on the fence, and it contained large quantities of
copper, larger than amounts that should be present
in ordinary wood."
Mulder nodded his head as the waitress returned
and placed Scully's brunch meal in front of her.
"Eat up, Scully," Mulder said, "we have a busy day
ahead of us. You're going to need all of your
energy."
"Why, Mulder," she asked, picking off a piece of
her roll and popping it in her mouth, "Are your
lightning balls feeling electrified?"
Mulder smiled broadly.
"Scully, have I told you I love you today?"
Apache Nation Reservation
11:42 A.M.
"How did you find out about this place, Mulder?"
Scully asked as she stepped from the car and
closed the door behind her.
"I found a brochure in the motel lobby this morning,"
Mulder answered, meeting Scully around the front of
the car. They began advancing through the waterlogged
dirt road as he reached into his pocket and produced
the informational booklet, handing it over to his
partner. She opened it and browsed through briefly
as he continued.
"It relates some of the local folklore surrounding
your 'ball lightning.' I asked the manager if he
could elaborate on the stories and this is where
he directed me." He gestured with his hand to the
rink-a-dink shanty town that surrounded them. "He
said that the man who could best answer my questions
resided here."
"And who is that?" she asked, glancing up from her
light reading.
"A much respected elder of the local Apache nation,"
he responded, "Hopefully he can provide insight into
what we're looking for."
"What are we looking for, Mulder?" she questioned
softly, putting a hand to his arm to stop him in his
tracks. She felt suddenly and grossly aware of the
hundreds of eyes fixated on the two strangers as they
paused in front of a dilapidated one-story home with
dingy, faded, white paint that was peeling off the
sides.
"First we're looking for lights in the sky, then a
runaway cow assassin, and now we've come to the
middle of nowhere in a desperate attempt to glean
what little information we can about local history
in order to catch a killer? What exactly are you
hoping to find, Mulder?"
The agents turned their heads as the squeaking of
hinges signaled the opening of the front door. An
elderly, wrinkled, white-haired gentleman appeared
from behind the screen.
"I believe that he's come seeking the truth."
11:45 A.M.
"I was born and raised in this town. Seventy years
ago my father moved my mother and seven brothers
here, seeking out a better existence, one where
prejudice and rage had no room to grow. I was born
the following year, and have lived here ever since.
In that time, I have come to know the people, each
generation passing freely like the day into the
night."
The wise man paused as he attempted to stifle a
cough. He picked up the mug of hot tea that was
situated on the kitchen table in front of him and
drank from it slowly. He felt the soothing liquid
travel down his throat. Then, placing the mug back
on the table, he gazed long and hard at the
stern-looking man and his cherubic partner. He
could sense the conviction in him, some tireless
devotion to the search. There was faith in her
also, just of a different kind. He cleared his
throat once more and resumed his account.
"As soon as he moved to Marfa, my father was told
a story by the local people of lights of different
colors that often appeared in the night sky, moving
in one motion like coyotes stalking their prey. When
I grew older my father told me of an Apache legend
that was told to him in turn. It was said that there
was once a mighty chief, strong in body and will, but
weak in judgment. One night, the chief, Alsate,
offended a tribal God. The reason why is unknown.
However, the God repaid the chief for his deed by
condemning him to wander this plain for eternity,
his soul ever restless, never able to gain refuge.
It is said that the lights are the spirit of Alsate,
still walking the earth."
The man, Mulder, leaned in, seemingly engrossed in
the discussion. He could tell that the woman, on
the other hand, was not so enthused. Her eyes were
aloof and her arms were folded neatly across her chest.
"I had heard that there were alternative theories
regarding the lights," Mulder said, "something about
a family."
"That is right," John Runninghorse answered, "The mid
1800s was a time of great growth in Texas,
specifically in this region. Marfa was a point
through which many settlers traveled. One of those
families had the misfortune of getting separated from
a caravan during a moonless night. They got turned
around after many hours, the oil from their lanterns
began to wear thin. Some believe that the souls of
that family are found in the lights, their lanterns
forever shining until the day when they can be
reunited with their friends and family."
"Yes," Mulder continued, "but I thought there were
other theories as well, theories that do not involve
dead spirits?"
Runninghorse was truly confused.
"I am afraid that I do not understand."
Mulder sat up straight in his seat.
"Do you ever see any other sights, sights that
could not be explained by any other means?"
Runninghorse shook his head.
"Do you see bright beams of light?"
"I am afraid not, Agent Mulder."
"Does anyone ever go missing and is returned days
later, without having any recollection of the events
that occurred in their mental absence?"
"No."
"Do you ever get the sensation that you are
missing time?"
"Missing time?"
"The feeling that you suddenly lost some minutes
in your day that should have been present, but
weren't?"
Runninghorse shook his head again.
"I am sorry, Agent Mulder, but I have never
experienced any of what you are saying."
Agent Scully uncrossed her arms and stood up
from the table.
"Thank you for all of your assistance, Mr.
Runninghorse. You've been more than helpful."
Then she looked over at her partner, "Let's go,
Mulder."
He glanced briefly back at her and held up his
pointer finger in protest.
"Hold on a second, Scully. Just one more
question, Mr. Runninghorse."
"Anything, Agent Mulder. I am more than happy
to help in any way that I can."
"Do you know of anyone that owns a dark truck,
maybe black or navy-blue?"
Runninghorse leaned back and put his finger to
his lips.
"Well," he said, "there are very few people that
own trucks around here. Of the few, there are a
couple that I can think of with that color truck
- Jim Brohawn, Kenny Ryan, and Henry Phoenix."
"Henry Phoenix?" Mulder questioned, putting a
hand to his hip and arching his eyebrows
ever-so-slightly, "Aren't the Apache often named
after animals indigenous to the area and culture?"
Runninghorse nodded his head.
"Yes, that is right."
"Then how did this man Henry come to be surnamed
with an animal that is neither real nor
fictitiously indigenous to this area?"
"Henry Phoenix is quite his own legend
altogether," Runninghorse answered, a look of
uneasiness clouding over his eyes, "His parents
were well-educated, and versed in philosophy and
Greek culture. They moved to Marfa when Henry was
two years old with the hopes of creating a school
to teach our people. They thought that if the
people were taught, they would be able to leave
this meager existence and obtain real jobs.
Unemployment is a big problem here, and it leaves
greater alcoholism in its wake."
Runninghorse took a deep breath, then continued.
"Less than a year after they moved here, there was
a terrible fire in their home. The flames reached
twenty feet in the air and the heat could be felt
from miles away. The flames did not subside until
the morning light blanketed the earth. By that time,
all that was left of the house, and Henry's parents,
was a pile of ashes. But sitting undisturbed where
the house once stood was Henry, his face covered in
soot, but otherwise unharmed. In honor of his
parents, and the miraculous gift bestowed upon him
by the gods, his relatives gave him the name
'Phoenix,' like the creature of Greek myth who would
rise from his own ashes in order to begin his life
anew."
Mulder's eyes were wide with awe.
"Do you know how we can get in touch with Henry
Phoenix?" he asked.
"Yes," Runninghorse answered, "I'll give you the
address." As he left the room to get a piece of
paper to write on, Mulder stood up and faced
Scully, a smile broad on his face.
"Let me guess," she pre-empted him, "Somehow,
Henry Phoenix has generated powers of combustion
that allow him to char any object beyond recognition,
but also allow him to remain unscathed."
Mulder grinned from ear-to-ear.
"Scully," he asked, "are you coming on to me?"
Scully was about to reply when Runninghorse
emerged from the living room, paper in hand.
"Here is the address, Agent Mulder," he said,
handing the sheet with writing over to the tall,
mysterious man.
"Thank you, Mr. Runninghorse," he replied,
lifting the paper in a gesture of thanks, "We
appreciate all of your help."
He turned and followed his partner to the door.
He was about to follow her over the threshold
when the aging oracle called to him a final time.
"Agent Mulder?"
Mulder turned and faced him. Words were not
needed. The questioning expression in his eyes
provided all the needed communication.
"Light is not always a sign of righteousness and
truth. Though the night brings fear and
uncertainty in its darkness, it is the light
that distorts reality, that causes the darkness.
In its rising and setting, the sun plays a daily
trick on all of its children, forging lengthy
shadows with its trek across the sky."
"What are you trying to tell me," Mulder asked,
"that I'm looking for answers in the wrong places?"
Runninghorse sighed deeply.
"When Icarus flew too close to the sun, he paid
for his pride with his life."
Mulder angrily placed a hand on his hip. He didn't
have the time to talk in circles. There was a
dangerous man on the loose.
"Are you warning me, Mr. Runninghorse?"
"Warn is not the right word, Agent Mulder,"
Runninghorse answered, "I only caution.
Do not look for truth in the sun, Agent Mulder,
or you will be blinded by the light."
Mulder turned and heatedly pushed aside the
front screen door, sending it careening back
on its hinges. Scully was waiting patiently
by the car as he appeared.
"What did he say to you?" she asked.
"He asked me for your number," he responded
stoically, not deigning to permit a smile to
cross his face. He unlocked the doors roughly
and seated himself at the driver's wheel.
Scully gazed back at the house as she opened
the door. John Runninghorse was staring
despondently through the screen. As she seated
herself beside Mulder, Scully wondered to
herself what he was hiding.
Henry Phoenix Residence
422 Breckenridge Rd.
12:38 P.M.
The unusually dark day would have made it
nearly impossible to navigate through the
obscure, narrow, tree-lined passage had it not
have been for the alternating red and blue
lights illuminating the sky. Scully could see
the lights half a mile down the offset, muddy
path before the gathering crowd of officers and
medics even came into view.
"Mulder?" she questioned, throwing her arm behind
his seat and leaning in a slightly forward position.
Her eyes darted from one direction to the other,
fruitlessly searching the scene for answers.
"I don't know," he responded softly. A slight
frown of consternation clouded his brooding features.
The lights grew bright and blinding as the silver
Taurus rolled to a stop. Scully grabbed a black
umbrella from the back seat and stepped from the
car. She rejoined Mulder in front and lifted the
umbrella clumsily over his towering head. She
increased her gait to keep in pace with him as he
pulled the I.D. from his jacket. The rhythmic
pounding of the rain on the leaves was heavy and
strangely unsettling.
"Agent Mulder," he said, raising the identification
to the eye-level of a nearby officer, "F.B.I..
What happened here?"
"Fire," the balding, stocky man replied, "big one
by the looks of it."
"Were there any injuries?" Scully asked, taking
in the presence of several EMTs, "I'm a medical
doctor. I may be of some assistance."
The officer nodded his head.
"One male victim…we think."
"What do you mean, you think?" Scully asked.
"By the time the fireman got here," he responded,
"it was too late." He sighed deeply and shook his
head. "I've been on the force for ten years now,
seen a lot of bad stuff, but nothing that ever
looked like this."
Mulder wasn't paying attention. He was watching
intently as Detective Harris questioned a witness.
"Scully," he said, "why don't you see what you can
find out from the medics. I'll go see if I can help
the good detective."
Before she could respond, he ducked out from under
the umbrella and joined Detective Harris as he
finished with the frightened robe-wearing elderly
woman.
"Here's my number. Call me if you need anythin'."
Detective Harris handed the woman a card and
dismissed her with a wave of his hand. He smiled
as he looked up from his notes and took in the form
of Fox Mulder approaching him.
"Agent Mulder," he said, "why'm I not surprised to
see ya'll here?"
"Well," he answered, with a little pseudo-enthusiasm
in his voice, "you know what they say about bad
pennies."
"Worth two inda bush, right?"
Mulder slowly turned his head from the panicked
scene on his left to the tall man on his right.
"Um, right." He smiled and nodded his head in
false agreement.
"So what do we have here, Detective?" he asked
in an effort to mercifully change the subject. He
looked down at the blue body-bag at his feet.
"A Mr. Joaquin Still-River," he said with some
difficulty, "or what we're currently assumin' to
be. The body was charred beyond all recognition.
Wit' the intense heat generated by the fire, the
current theory is arson, started wit' some kinda
gasoline or sometin'."
Mulder nodded and stooped down to the ground. He
unzipped the bag to reveal some black bones and a
pile of ash. He glanced up at Detective Harris.
"All that wuz left," he told him, "The house was
gone before we got here."
Mulder stood up and dusted the mud off of his
hands as Scully approached him in the darkness.
She halted in front of him and allowed an "Oh my
God," to breathlessly pass her lips before
acknowledging the presence of the two men. She
finally looked up.
"Just like the other one," she said to Mulder
who nodded in agreement.
"What'd you find out, Scully?" he asked her.
"Upon arriving on the scene, the medics found a
man fifty yards from the ground where the house
once stood. He showed no signs of burning on his
dermal layer, but he was suffering from slight
smoke-inhalation and muscle and abdominal pain.
He was taken to the nearest hospital twenty
minutes before we arrived. I'll give you two
guesses as to who that man was, Mulder."
"Don't tell me," he said, "Henry Phoenix?"
"That's right," she answered, not even the hint
of a smile on her immaculate features, "and for
your grand prize you get an all-expenses paid
trip to Marfa County General."
Marfa County General Hospital
1:18 P.M.
"This is simply amazing, Mulder."
Scully raised an eyebrow as she flipped from
one page to the next.
"What is it, Scully?"
Mulder joined her at her side and looked at the
patient's chart over her dainty shoulder.
"With the amount of smoke that was found in
his lungs, it is almost certain that Henry
Phoenix was present in the house during the
fire, yet his dermal layer shows no signs of
first degree burns, let alone the third degree
burns that should have been present with the
heat that the firemen described."
"Are you sure that he couldn't have been close
in proximity to the house, say directly outside
of it?"
Scully shook her head adamantly.
"No, Mulder. It's simply not possible. This
man inhaled enough smoke to induce a coma."
Mulder nodded in comprehension.
"Well, that explains it, then," he told her.
She folded a strand of hair neatly behind her ear.
"Explains what, Mulder?" she asked.
"That explains how 'O Henry' in there is able to
control temperatures so hot that it converts
people and buildings to ashes, but remains
unscathed."
Scully smiled sardonically.
"I'm sorry, Mulder," she said, "I'm just not
seeing the connection."
"Scully, if what you say is true, and that man
was inside the burning house, how do you explain
the complete absence of burns?"
Scully shrugged her shoulders.
"I don't know, Mulder. I've never seen anything
like it."
Mulder leaned in closer to her, so they were at
the same eyelevel.
"Scully, what if this man had some genetic
anomaly that permitted him to survive extreme
temperatures, so that even as the wood and
upholstery around him burned to the ground, no
traces of fire were able to touch his body?"
Scully's eyes drew askance as her smile grew
broader.
"Mulder," she started to explain, "there's no
precedence for what you're describing."
"Bear with me a second, Scully," he interrupted
her, "If there were such an anomaly, isn't it at
all possible that the person to whom it belonged
would be able to, say, set himself on fire?
Maybe if he doused himself in some sort of
accelerant, he would have been able to kill
Blanca Cortes and then smother the flames, all
without doing any damage to his own body."
Scully sighed deeply.
"I suppose anything is possible," she said
reluctantly.
Sometimes, it was just better to appease him.
"Listen, Scully," Mulder said, "I'm going to
find out whose ashes we picked up at that house.
Why don't you do me a favor and personally
examine Henry Phoenix?"
Scully put a hand on her hip.
"What am I looking for, Mulder?" she asked.
He turned to walk out the door.
"You can tell me when you find it," he answered.