10:13 P.M.
Mulder stuck his head outside the window
and gazed up at the night sky. He breathed
in the cool, crisp air, his dark hair
blowing wildly in the shadows. As he
lowered his eyes, he took in a new form
- a sleek, tan duster tightly surrounding a
slender waistline, held closely in check by
a rap-around belt. One of the figure's
well-manicured hands was resting elegantly
on her hip, while the other lounged at her
side, carrying a large, brown paper bag.
"Hey there, stranger," Scully said, "you
hungry?" She dangled the bag in front of
his eyes and shook it playfully.
"You have no idea," he answered, a strange
intonation in his voice, as she walked
around front of the car to the passenger's
side.
"What did you say?" she asked, as she
opened the door, "I couldn't hear." She
gestured to the wind, which was now howling
wildly through the trees.
"Uh, nothing," he responded, swiftly changing
the subject, "Whatcha got in there?" He
pointed to the bag.
Scully smoothed her rumpled hair back behind
her ears and unrolled the paper bag. She
reached in and pulled out a meatball
sandwich for him and an egg-salad sandwich
for herself. Mulder accepted it greedily,
unwrapping the cellophane like a hungry dog.
"Thanks," he mumbled between bites, "what
took you so long?"
"Well," Scully replied indignantly, "what
with the wind blowing, and walking ten blocks
in high-heeled shoes, you're right, Mulder,
it should have only taken two minutes, but I
appreciate the concern."
Her ire faded instantly when she looked over
at him. He had eaten his sandwich so
ravenously that he hadn't even noticed the
marinara sauce that clung haphazardly to his
chin. Scully laughed out loud and reached
into the bag for a bundle of napkins.
"What?" he asked.
"You've got a little schmutz," she replied,
dabbing motherly at his chin.
"Thanks," he said affectionately, repaying
her kindness with a winning smile, "Got
anything to drink in that bag?"
"Iced tea," she answered, pulling the drink
from the bag and handing it over to him.
Mulder took it gratefully, opened the tab,
and took a long swig from the can.
"You think it's strange?" he asked abruptly.
"Think what's strange?" she answered, a
little taken aback.
"The weather," he replied, "how does it
go from being such a sunny day to such a
miserably overcast one?"
"What are you saying, Mulder?" Scully
asked between sips, "that you think Henry
Phoenix is causing this?"
"Well this is what it looked like at all
the other crime scenes, didn't it?"
He gazed up at the home of Esperanza Cortes.
The last light had gone off about an hour ago.
"You think he's causing changes in the
weather pattern, Mulder? Really?"
Mulder shrugged.
"It's been known to happen," he said simply.
They sat in silence as the wind picked up.
The swirling gray clouds above grew angry
and roared their impassiveness. A tree
branch snapped as lightning danced across
the sky. The booming of thunder came closer
and closer, like the sound of timpani rising
steadily louder above an orchestra.
"Hey, Scully," Mulder asked suddenly, "if
you were a tree, what kind of tree would
you be?"
"What?" she asked in response, almost
spitting out her tea all over the dashboard,
"What are you talking about, Mulder?"
"I don't know," he answered, "I heard Barbara
Walters ask it once. Just humor me."
"Okay," Scully responded uncertainly. She
bit her lip and thought hard.
"I guess I would be an apple tree," she
said after a few minutes had elapsed, "we
used to visit this orchard in Seattle one
time when my father was stationed in
Washington. I loved everything about them,
the look and smell of the blossoms, the way
the blossoms gave way to fruit for us and
all the animals. It was as though you could
see the entire cycle of life right there in
that one tree. I used to love swinging
through the branches with Bill." She smiled
fondly. "He used to get upset when I'd beat
him to the top."
Mulder nodded his head thoughtfully.
"You know, Genesis describes the famous apple
tree of Eden as the Tree of the Knowledge of
Good and Bad," Scully continued, "A bite from
its fruit gave Adam and Eve insight into the
truth, but also paved the way for their exile
from the Garden of Eden."
"I think the path to find the truth of
everything is like that," Mulder told her,
"It comes with a terrible burden. If you
decide to find the truth, you must be willing
to accept the consequences that come with it,
no matter how disturbing."
He grew silent and morose.
"On second thought," Scully said, "maybe I'm
not an apple tree after all."
Mulder grinned like a schoolboy.
"No?" he asked, "Want me to take a bite of
you and find out."
"Mulder," she reproached him, but she had to
turn her head so that he wouldn't see the heat
she felt rising to her cheeks.
"No," he said, after an uncomfortable silence,
"I don't think you are either."
"Oh no?" Scully asked, facing him once more,
"So what kind of tree do you think I am?"
"An oak," he said firmly.
"An oak?" she asked, "Why an oak?"
"They're strong, sturdy, dependable. Just like
you, Scully. And they make really good headboards,
too."
Scully smiled.
"Well, thank you for analyzing me, Mulder," she
replied, "but let me guess what kind of tree
you would be. Let me see now, how 'bout a redwood?"
"Scully," he answered, making a disapproving
clucking noise with his tongue, "It's not the
size of the tree that matters, just the hardness
of the wood-"
He never got to finish the thought.
"He's here Mulder," Scully cut him off, "Look."
She pointed up to the window where Esperanza
Cortes had extinguished the last light earlier
that night. It was filled with flames.
Mulder leapt out of the car and made a running
start for the house.
"Take the back," Mulder called to Scully, as
he grabbed the gun from his hip and advanced
toward the front door. Cradling it with both
hands, he lifted the gun towards the swirling
sky, his elbows locked firmly in position.
With the utmost caution, he kicked the door
open with his left leg and held the gun
straight out in front of him. No one there.
He checked to the left and to the right.
Still no one. He jogged into the foyer as
quickly as possible, not allowing himself to
advance without warning in the face of
recklessness. He proceeded up the stairs,
gun pointed to the top of the banister. As
he inched along, he could smell the smoke
hanging like a thick fog over the house. The
sound of a fire alarm shrieked in his ears, a
terrible siren song beckoning him closer with
fiery fingertips. Once he arrived at the
summit of the staircase, he turned left and
proceeded slowly down the hall. He could see
the smoke now, billowing out of the third room
on the right. With his left hand still
clutching his weapon, he reached down and
grabbed for the knob with his right palm.
"Mother fucking piece of shit."
He pulled back his hand with an angry moan.
Glancing briefly at it, he felt the burning
like a red-hot poker.
"You stupid ass," he belittled himself,
hanging the burnt hand listlessly at one
side. It would be of no use to him now.
Mulder took cover behind the wall of the
doorway and readied his gun. Taking a deep
breath, he brushed aside his childhood fear
of fire and kicked the bedroom door open,
like he had the front door. As the door
opened wide, the flames hit him like a hot
iron. He flung his body back against the
hall and shielded his eyes with his arm.
"Esperanza?" he shouted into the flames,
"Ms. Cortes, are you in there?"
There was no answer. As the wind howled
through the second-story fireplace, the
breeze briefly parted the tongues of fire,
and multicolored balls of light could be
seen floating peacefully through the air.
"Esperanza, Esperanza?" he called again.
This time, he heard a muffled scream in
response, but it wasn't coming from the
bedroom. Mulder quickly continued down
the hall, checking each of the doors as
he progressed. He heard a door slam at
the other end and broke out into a full
run to catch up with the assailant. The
door at the end of the hall was closed
and locked. Mulder attempted to break
it down, but the heat was becoming far
too intense. Clutching his shoulder, he
placed an ear to the door and heard the
sound of footsteps running down a wooden
staircase. Mulder double-backed and ran
down the steps to the entrance. He
followed the hall back to the rear of the
house, catching sight of one figure
throwing another into a truck through the
large, back windows. Mulder followed in
pursuit, but his foot snagged on a large
object that lay at the bottom of the rear
staircase. He caught himself as he began
to fall and glanced to see what blocked
his path. A wisp of red hair grabbed his
attention. Scully had been knocked
unconscious. He quickly knelt down and
checked her pulse. She was still alive.
He ran a few paces and tried to shoot out
the tires, but was unsuccessful. Pulling
out his cell phone, he stored the numbers
of the license plate, and went back to
check on Scully.
Marfa County General Hospital
9:22 A.M.
"Doctor, she's coming to."
Scully lifted her eyelids, slowly, painfully,
taking in the blurry image of a woman with
dark hair in an achingly-too-white outfit.
A soft, guttural moan escaped her lips as she
placed a hand to her forehead. She closed
her eyes, then opened them again, wider this
time. She was in a hospital. A man was
leaning over her. His stethoscope hung
loosely at his shoulders and his fingers
were cold to the touch as he checked her
vitals. He held her eyelids open and shone
a bright light in them. The stench of
chlorine and bleach invaded her nostrils.
"You can take that light out of my eyes,"
she heard herself say, "I'm not suffering
from a concussion."
He instantly turned off the penlight, slightly
taken-aback.
"Excuse me," he replied a little indignantly,
"but I do believe that you are in no position
to tell me your condition."
"Excuse me," Scully replied, just as indignant,
"but I do believe that I am, seeing as how I
am a trained medical doctor, and I can assure
you that I have none of the symptoms - no
amnesia, no nausea, no blurred vision, and my
pulse is steady. Other than a pounding
headache, I am in perfect physical health, so
if you would kindly discharge me, it would be
most appreciated."
She heard him mutter something under his breath
about not "asking for a second opinion" as he
picked up her chart, and within five minutes,
she was redressing herself and gathering her
belongings. After slipping her watch gently
over her thin wrist, she checked the time - 9:30.
She had been unconscious. She remembered how she
had gone around the back of the house the previous
night, how she had caught sight of some of those
strange lights in the sky, just drifting by the
second story window. She remembered walking up
to the backdoor steps, then nothing. He must
have cold-cocked her, she decided.
She threw the maroon jacket of her
pants-and-jacket-suit-ensemble over her
shoulders and reached for the cell phone
in her pocket. She dialed Mulder's number
and tapped her fingernails restlessly on a
nearby table as she waited for him to pick
up. After two rings, she heard his voice.
"Mulder."
"Mulder," she replied mechanically, "it's
me." She breathed a sigh of relief, not
knowing why his absence distressed her so.
She was sure he was fine. How else would
she have gotten to the hospital? Still,
the sound of his soothing monotone had an
instant calming effect.
"Scully," he replied, his voice brightening,
"glad to hear you're up and about."
"Where are you, Mulder?" she asked, "what
happened to you last night? Did you find
Phoenix? He was there, Mulder, I saw the
lights."
"I know," he answered, "I saw them, too."
He recounted the story of what transpired
the night before, how he found the room on
fire, how he watched as Henry made off with
Esperanza, and how he had found her
unconscious and had taken her to the
hospital for treatment.
"So I had Danny do a check on the license
plate," he finished, "and he confirmed that
it belongs to one Henry Phoenix. I had him
do a check on homes and workplaces in the
area where he might have fled. I have
already searched five former residences and
four places of employment of Phoenix's
parents, Joaquin Still-River, and Blanca
Cortes. I am currently on an unkempt,
one-horse road heading for the Marfa
Juvenile Detention Facility, a building
which was abandoned nearly five years ago.
I believe that's where I will find Henry."
As Mulder spoke these last words, the path
opened wide, revealing a decrepit, dark
one-story building. The windows were
boarded up, and those that weren't
contained large holes, an obvious result of
delinquent rock-throwing. Weeds overran
what Mulder thought must have once been a
rather nice-looking lawn and flowerbed. A
shack just beyond the facility was in
shambles, and a lone tree peeked out of the
earth next to it, blaringly out-of-place in
the otherwise completely naked terrain. A
small, weathered tire hung sadly by a rope
to a weakened, broken branch, the sole
evidence of the children who had once played
innocently on that very ground. Mulder
turned off the car and stepped from it.
"Mulder, I'm coming out there," Scully told him.
"Are you sure you're up for it, Scully?" he
asked, ambling slowly towards the shack, "I
don't want you out here if you're not ready."
He heard the familiar sigh on the other end
of the line and instantly knew he should have
known better.
"Mulder," she said, irritation prevalent in
her voice, "I am perfectly fine. I have been
discharged from the hospital without incidence,
and I will meet you at the Facility as soon as
possible."
"Good," Mulder answered, "I'm going to need your
help."
"Why, Mulder?" she asked, "What's wrong."
"Henry Phoenix is here, Scully," he replied,
"Call Detective Harris and get down here as
quickly as you can."
He placed the phone back in his coat pocket
and stared silently at the object of his interest.
Behind the shack sat a shabby little dark-blue
pickup truck, the same truck he had seen driving
away from Esperanza's. And on the side a different
color could be seen distinctly, brightly - it was
red, it was blood.
Mulder wasted no time. He bolted straight towards
the front doors and tried the knob. Locked. He
jogged around the side of the building, checking
each of the windows and each of the doors, looking
for any point of entry. Nothing. He circled the
building and found his way back to the front door.
"There has to be some way in," he thought to
himself, placing his palms against the cold steel.
But not through there, it was bolted. He
retraced his steps back to the truck, searching
the ground for any evidence of their whereabouts.
The ground was hard and dusty. There were no
footprints. He circled the shack, coming upon a
chipped, wooden door with faded blue paint. He
tried the knob. It opened.
He pulled his gun from behind his back and held
it in his left hand, still nursing his right. He
pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness.
There was no one there. He searched the room for
a light switch but found none. Glancing up, he
noticed a long chain which led to a bulb at the
top of the room. He grabbed the thin wire and
pulled, expecting nothing. Light immediately
filled the room, bringing dusty, old boxes and
garden tools into focus. In the corner, a piece
of cloth covered a grimy table, supported by a
coverless book with yellow pages. On top of the
table sat a plastic tray, filled with dirty bowls
and glasses that still contained the remnants of
someone's breakfast.
"Cozy," Mulder mused aloud, "I wonder if there are
any other rooms available in the area?"
He crouched down and examined the floor. A small,
red blotch drew his attention to a rectangular
portion of the floor that did not seem to match
the other hardwood panels. Mulder fit his fingers
in the rectangular grooves and pried them up. The
floor gave way to a concrete staircase which
descended into blackness.
"There's never a white rabbit around when you need
one," he muttered sardonically.
Pulling a flashlight from his pocket, he flicked it
on and advanced slowly, cautiously down the steps.
Left foot. Stop. Right foot. Stop.
The echoing of his every footfall seemed to
reverberate off the walls, a tympanic crescendo
pounding through his brain in the disconcerting
silence. He hesitated ever-so-slightly with every
step, drawing in a painful breath of stale air each
time his foot landed on the cold stone slabs.
Left foot. Stop. Right foot. Stop.
Mulder inched through the darkness, balancing
himself by placing a palm against the wet rock to
his right. Every once in awhile, his pace was
unexpectedly halted as he felt his hand brush some
fuzzy creature, and leaped back, repulsed, but once
he convinced himself that it was merely some form
of mossy overgrowth, his pulse began to slow and
he continued along his way. His flashlight
provided the only beacon of light in the
desperately thick ink that surrounded him, an
inanimate Virgil leading the wondering modern-day
Dante further and further into the deepest circles
of the recesses of Hell.
After what seemed an eternity, the stairway
finally ended its corkscrew descent. Mulder
shined his light in all directions. The
staircase had given way to a tiny room, small
enough that it could be filled by about four
people standing shoulder-to-shoulder. He scanned
the wall, searching out every nook and cranny that
might hide a hidden block or panel.
"It has to be here somewhere," he mused aloud,
"There's no other way they could have gotten in,
not unless Phoenix could have psychically
transported himself into the center."
For a split second, Mulder seriously considered
the possibility, but then decided against it,
shook his head, and set back to the task at hand.
After fifteen minutes, he had still found nothing.
He was about to abandon all hope and retreat
dejectedly back up the stairs when the light fell
upon a stone that seemed slightly discolored in
comparison with the rest of the rocks. Placing
his hand against the coldness, his fingers traced
the outline of the stone. It seemed to jiggle
slightly beneath the touch of his hands. Placing
the flashlight between his teeth, Mulder shined
the light on the stone and put both palms against
the rock, one hand on each side. Placing his
fingers along the crevices, he managed to dislodge
it little by little as he waited with bated breath.
The stone crept slowly from its hiding space.
Mulder bent down and placed it carefully on the
ground by his feet, then stood up and anxiously
peered into the chasm. Behind the well-placed
stone was hidden a lever, one usually reserved for
Nancy Drew novels or old James Bond movies. After
throwing the switch, Mulder stepped back, waiting
on cue for the inevitable. He listened as creaky
hinges swung, unlocking some hidden bolts and
latches, and watched as the whole stone panel to
his left gave way to another dark passage.
Mulder couldn't mask his boyish amazement. He
watched with widened eyes as the lone word, "Cool,"
came to his lips. The monosyllabic phrase was all
he could muster from his immense and articulate
vocabulary. He was for once glad that Scully was
not with him. He could almost hear the sardonic
tone in his ears, mocking him for his childlike
whimsy.
He took a brief moment to mentally prepare himself
for what lay ahead. Then, he shone the light into
the dark and proceeded into the lengthy hall.
He had only gone a couple of feet when an immense,
unseen cobweb grabbed at his face. He moaned in
disgust and immediately clutched at the clingy
silken threads. He successfully removed it, but
not before he felt the strong fangs of a spider
breaking his skin.
"Ow," he cried, flicking the pesky arachnid from
his face, "mother fucking piece of shit!"
After gently caressing the hot bump that was already
beginning to rise over his gentleman's stubble,
Mulder continued on his way. The darkness seemed
to grow about him, enveloping him, suffocating him,
as if he were Marlow, traveling deeper and deeper
into a night of his own mind's creation. The
flashlight appeared to grow dimmer, proving more
and more ineffectual against the brooding, glooming
darkness. Mulder continued walking another ten
minutes, about the length of a football field,
until the thin light illuminated yet another spiral
set of stairs. He proceeded up the staircase and
placed an ear to the wooden door that stood stately
at its summit. He heard no sound. Grabbing the
circular, iron handle, he opened the door a crack
and peered cautiously outward. The doorway opened
to another hallway composed of large, thick stone
blocks. Tattered, worn draperies suggested to Mulder
that someone had at one time attempted to make the
home hospitable, though lack of money or desire to
keep up the place caused it to be a rather cold,
castle-like environment in which to grow up. The
thick moss on the wall gave the impression that it
had not been used for years, but two sets of
footprints visible in the mountain of dust on the
floor proved otherwise. To his left, Mulder noticed
some boarded-up windows. Prying off one of the
warped pieces of wood, he glanced out through the
streaked glass and saw the truck still sitting calmly
by the shack. He was right. The stairway had led
inside the juvenile detention center.
"It must have been used as a means of underground
evacuation," he surmised, glancing at the now
unlocked padlocks which at one time must have
been heavily guarded.
At that moment his thoughts turned elsewhere as
the quiet murmuring of multiple voices could be
heard echoing through the hall. Mulder placed
the board at his feet and followed the sound of
the voices. Putting the flashlight in his pocket
and pulling the gun from his hip, Mulder peered
around the corner of the doorway from whence the
voices emanated.
He was staring at a large room, the size of a
basketball court, which had once been a rather
uncomfortable-looking cafeteria. Lengthy tables
were situated in long rows of ten and unused trays
were still stacked neatly on the back counter. It
looked like a ghost town. It was as if, one day,
everyone had just decided to get up from lunch and
leave. The quiet, desolate atmosphere was in stark
contrast to the very lively and heated discussion
been propagated in the middle of the room.
"So you kill her? For what? To get to me? Did
you honestly think that that would endear you to
me?"
Esperanza Cortes was seated atop one of the tables,
her long, black hair flowing like a river down the
curvature of her back. Her feet were resting
lightly on a faded orange bench so that her knees
were pulled close to her chest, folded almost
directly underneath her chin. Henry Phoenix was
pacing in front of her, visibly upset by the manner
in which things were progressing.
"I did it all for you, Esperanza. You used to tell
me how unhappy you were, how all you wanted was to
get away from your family. They way they controlled
you, they way they wouldn't let you do anything that
didn't maintain their high-society style of life.
You just wanted freedom, Esperanza, and I gave that
to you, I gave it to you because you're my family,
my blood, and I love you."
Phoenix stopped pacing and stood directly in front
of her. He bent over her and clasped his hands over
hers. His face wore a familiar expression of anguish
and despair, one that he himself had borne quite
frequently throughout the years.
"We can leave here, Esperanza, get away from the
pain. Start a new life somewhere else. There's
nothing here for either of us anymore, nothing
but the past. It'll be you and me, brother and
sister, the two of us, just like the old days.
You were my best friend. We can have that again.
We don't need anyone else."
A thin smile appeared on his lips as the
recollection danced through his mind, exposing
the crooked, yellow teeth hidden behind his mouth.
Esperanza's head had been folded in her hands as
she listened to him, obscuring her face from Mulder's
view. She slowly lifted her chin and her eyes became
level with his. He noticed for the first time the
river of blood that was streaming down her cheek,
mixed with the remnants of plentiful tears that she
had shed. Still, her face was set with a fierce anger
that betrayed her conflicting emotions. Her dark
eyes were fixed, her gaze, cold and unwavering.
"You're right," she said, "you were my best friend.
Even when papá and mamá told me to stay away from
you, I wouldn't listen. I told them that underneath
all of your misgivings, you had a good soul.
Abuelita defended you, and you killed her,
murdered her in cold blood. Why would I ever
consider going anywhere with you, let alone choose
to look at your face for one second longer?"
The smile turned quickly into a scowl of disapproval.
"Because I'm your brother," he answered, grabbing
so forcefully at her forearm that she winced in
pain, "I'm your blood, and there's no greater bond
than that."
Mulder felt the rage rise so quickly within himself
that he was barely unable to control his next actions.
"Federal agent," he said, jumping out from his hiding
space behind the door, "stop right there."
Esperanza was so spooked by the unexpected
interruption that she nearly fell off the
table. She and Phoenix both turned and faced
the man who had a government-issued gun pointed
at their heads.
"That's enough, Phoenix," he yelled,
walking into the room, "Put your hands
above your head and step away from Esperanza."
His footsteps echoed like two stones sliding
in a crypt. Phoenix relinquished his grip on
Esperanza as Mulder advanced towards them but
he did not back away.
"Put your hands up," he repeated, this time
more forcefully, "and step away."
Phoenix only glared at him.
"You think you can come in here and tell me
what to do?" he snarled, "You don't know who
you're dealing with."
He seemed to mutate before Mulder's very eyes,
his face taking on a grotesque, ugly form, as
if his internal hatred had become externalized.
"On the contrary," Mulder reciprocated, his
hazel eyes taking on a hard, amber hue, "I
know exactly who I'm dealing with - a
psychotic murderer with a strange penchant
for frying up anyone who stands in his way."
Phoenix's eyes began to widen as he realized
that he had been found out.
"That's right," Mulder continued, "I know
everything. Tell me, what did your adopted
father, Mr. Joaquin Still-River, see before
he died? Did the man who took you in and
raised you as one of his own say anything
to you before you set him on fire?"
Phoenix did not respond, but narrowed his
eyes until all that remained were two yellow,
python-like slits.
"What about Blanca Cortes? What did she say
to you? Was there fear in her eyes? Did she
beg for mercy before you incinerated her?"
Esperanza released a gentle hiccough of sorrow
before her eyes plummeted to the floor. She
began weeping softly to herself. Henry looked
lovingly at her and then turned his gaze coldly
back to Mulder.
"Why didn't you burn her house, too?" Mulder
continued, "Was it because it was all a game
for you, see if you could kill her without
scorching the furniture?"
"You upset my sister," Henry interrupted, his
voice filled with a lack of emotion that
reminded Mulder of the most heinous serial
murderers that he often interviewed from his
days back on the Violent Crimes Division, "I
told her that I wouldn't let anyone upset her.
You made me lie. Now you're going to pay."
"Mr. Phoenix, I will ask you this one more
time, step away from Ms. Cortes or I will be
forced to take lethal action."
But Phoenix wasn't listening. A look of calm
clouded his face as he shut his eyes and raised
his hands to chest-level. Esperanza halted her
tears and glanced at her brother. An expression
of widespread fear formed quickly on her face.
"Agent Mulder," she screamed, "you have to get
out of here. Right now. You must go. He's
going to hurt you."
Mulder didn't move or even avert his eyes. He
watched with amazement as Henry's pale,
vitamin-deficient skin took on a reddish hue
as his whole body began to convulse. He
pulled his hands apart so that his palms
faced each other, his long, wiry fingers
curving inward. Thin sparks of electrical
energy shot through the air, jumping from
one hand to the next. Suddenly, Phoenix
clapped his hands together and soft,
feather-like wisps of different colors
were summoned forth from his skin.
"Agent Mulder," Esperanza cried in
desperation, "get out of here now!"
It was too late. The wisps coiled upon
themselves and formed into spherical balls
of light. His eyes abruptly shot open, as
quick as a bullet being fired from a rifle.
He unclasped his hands and held the right arm
straight out. Before Mulder knew what was
happening, the lights came whirring directly
at him.
10:41 A.M.
For the first time, Mulder noticed the sound
of thunder. Strange he hadn't heard it before,
but then again, being unconscious wasn't exactly
conducive to the comprehension of sensations.
"Unconscious. I was unconscious."
It was odd, the way his mind worked, or the
way any mind worked, for that matter. He had
spent all of those years studying psychology,
mentally connecting the thoughts and actions
of men that, to others, would have seemed
arbitrary and discontinuous. It was a
practice that would later serve him well in
his profiling capabilities. And yet he could
still only comprehend but a meager proportion
of the workings of the brain. There was still
so much that was left to be uncovered, so much
hidden in the depths of the undiscovered
unconscious.
Unconscious. He had been unconscious.
Mulder gently lifted his eyelids as the booming,
thunderous cadence jumped from cloud to cloud
somewhere above his head. He could almost hear
the pain pounding between his temples. It was
so loud, so, so loud. As the blurry images that
his eyes observed began to join together into one
coherent picture, he noticed the dingy, gray,
expansive floor. He was still in the cafeteria,
laying on the floor. He attempted to right
himself, but was unable to move his arms. They
were tied very tightly, very painfully behind
his back, using some sort of leather restraint.
He slowly began to realize the pain wasn't just
as a result of the awkward positioning. It was
due to something else, something different. He
tried to move his head, but couldn't. It felt
strange. Half of it was ice cold, sitting
heavily on the floor. The other side was facing
the ceiling, and comprised the opposite extreme,
hot and painful.
The dull pain was much worse than the heat. If
he tried really hard, he could forget about the
intense, scalding sensation for a moment and
concentrate on something else. But the pain was
omnipresent, unending. He could never get away
from it, no matter how aloof he allowed his mind
to become. Mulder suddenly realized it was the
same feeling he had on his arms, on his hands, on
his chest.
He had been burned. Badly.
He couldn't really recall how it had happened.
He remembered someone screaming, a woman? Then
colors. Then nothing. Blackness. Now the pain.
Mulder once again tried to sit up, pulling his
legs to his chest in an effort to counterbalance
the weight of his upper body. He was only able
to move his torso two feet above the ground before
a spasm of pain overwhelmed him. He collapsed to
the floor as a groan of anguish escaped his lips.
He laid there, unmoving, until the waves of agony
subsided. After taking in a few deep breaths, he
tried again. This time, he wasn't even able to
moan before the spasms wracked his body. His head
slammed hard into the floor, causing a sound
reminiscent of the slapping of hands to go
cascading through the room and out through the
empty hallway. Mulder didn't have time to think
as his body succumbed to its injuries, convulsing
with unmitigated rage at the mistreatment.
When he opened his eyes, all he could see was
the red. All he felt was the cold.
"Oh, God, I'm bleeding to death," he said
in his mind, or was it out loud? He couldn't
be sure where his thoughts began and his
words ended. He was so cold.
"Mulder," he heard a muffled voice cry
through the red, "Mulder, don't move."
The red became separated and all that he
saw was the white. Cold. So cold.
"Oh my God," he thought, "It's the white
light. I'm going towards the white light."
The last thing he saw before he lost
consciousness was a familiar cutting,
crystal blue, and he knew that he would
be safe.
Marfa County General Hospital
6:18 P.M.
Mulder slowly opened his eyes, attempting to
adjust them to the bright, white lights, as
the sound of a heart monitor beeped
rhythmically somewhere near his ear. He
noticed a blurry object lean over him, and
then heard a voice say, "Agent Scully, he's
awake."
"Thank God," he heard his partner mumble as
her heels clicked rapidly to his side, "You
really had us scared for a minute there,
Mulder." He allowed himself to play the
dutiful patient to her doctor as she
thoroughly checked his vitals.
"Us?" he replied in a soft, raspy monotone,
"Are you trying to tell me that there's
someone else out there who cares whether or
not I get fricasseed? Scully, I'm touched."
"Yeah, in the head."
She smiled as she removed the stethoscope
from her neck and placed it in her ears.
Mulder tried to smile, but the right side
of his face felt like it was being pulled
apart.
"It's bad, isn't it?" he said so suddenly
it surprised her.
Scully voice quavered as she attempted her
lie.
"No," she smiled, "you look fine, Mulder.
You'll be back to that raging social life
in no time."
"You're lying, Scully," he told her, and
then, "Oh, cold."
"Sorry," she responded, removing the
stethoscope from his chest to her lips,
blowing two hot breaths onto the cold metal,
and replacing it over his lungs.
"How do you know, anyway?" she asked.
"Your face always does this thing," he
answered, "It goes cold, emotionless…oh
yeah, and your eyes do this freakish not
blinking thing."
"That's not true," she said heatedly and
unblinking.
"Right. And I'm not the key player in a
global conspiracy to undermine the legitimacy
of alien abductees in an effort to contain
the knowledge that colonization of this
planet by extraterrestrials is inevitable."
Scully removed the medical instrument, placed
her hand on her hip, and arched her eyebrows.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mulder. I missed the memo
that said that the heliocentric theory is
incorrect and the world now revolves around
you."
He sucked in a deep breath and rolled his eyes.
"Mulder, can't you ever get your point across
in less than five words?"
"Scully, I think I love you."
"That's six words, Mulder."
Matched, if not defeated in his game of
intellectual banter, Mulder shrugged off
her words and began another line of
questioning.
"How did I get here?"
Scully pulled a stool close to his bedside
and seated herself with royal poise.
"After I got off the phone with you, I drove
to the Juvenile Detention Center. I found
your car by the side of the road and
investigated the grounds. I noticed some
deep tire tracks by the shack out front and
located the panel leading underground once I
got inside. I followed it and found you
lying in the cafeteria, unconscious and your
hands tied with a belt behind your back.
You were suffering from convulsions and went
into shock. I phoned an ambulance, which
brought you here."
"Was there anyone at the Facility when you
arrived there?" he interrupted.
Scully shook her head.
"I'm afraid not," she answered sadly, "There
was no sign of either Henry Phoenix or
Esperanza Cortes when I arrived. I had the
Marfa police force comb the entire center.
They are no where to be found."
She paused and took a deep breath before she
continued her account of the proceedings.
"Mulder, you had second-degree burns over
sixty percent of your body. We hydrated you
and dressed your wounds. You're going to
have to remain as still as possible for the
next couple of days, as we had to cover your
burns in synthetic fibers to protect against
bacterial infestation."
Mulder closed his eyes as he spoke.
"How long am I going to be out of commission?"
"At least a couple of weeks," came the answer,
"The doctors are taking every precaution to
ensure your full recovery."
He shifted slightly and opened his eyes wide,
staring into hers. He had a look of
determination on his face, one which Scully
had seen all too frequently on their
investigations into the paranormal.
"Scully," he told her earnestly, without a
hint of sarcasm in his voice, "I need you to
find Esperanza for me. I need to know that
she's safe, that her brother didn't succeed
in destroying her emotionally, as I fear he
has, that his quest to find her didn't end
in disaster."
He mustered up all his strength and lifted his
hand out to hers, gritting his teeth through
the pain.
"I'm relying on you, Scully. I know you won't
let me down."
Mulder stuck his head outside the window
and gazed up at the night sky. He breathed
in the cool, crisp air, his dark hair
blowing wildly in the shadows. As he
lowered his eyes, he took in a new form
- a sleek, tan duster tightly surrounding a
slender waistline, held closely in check by
a rap-around belt. One of the figure's
well-manicured hands was resting elegantly
on her hip, while the other lounged at her
side, carrying a large, brown paper bag.
"Hey there, stranger," Scully said, "you
hungry?" She dangled the bag in front of
his eyes and shook it playfully.
"You have no idea," he answered, a strange
intonation in his voice, as she walked
around front of the car to the passenger's
side.
"What did you say?" she asked, as she
opened the door, "I couldn't hear." She
gestured to the wind, which was now howling
wildly through the trees.
"Uh, nothing," he responded, swiftly changing
the subject, "Whatcha got in there?" He
pointed to the bag.
Scully smoothed her rumpled hair back behind
her ears and unrolled the paper bag. She
reached in and pulled out a meatball
sandwich for him and an egg-salad sandwich
for herself. Mulder accepted it greedily,
unwrapping the cellophane like a hungry dog.
"Thanks," he mumbled between bites, "what
took you so long?"
"Well," Scully replied indignantly, "what
with the wind blowing, and walking ten blocks
in high-heeled shoes, you're right, Mulder,
it should have only taken two minutes, but I
appreciate the concern."
Her ire faded instantly when she looked over
at him. He had eaten his sandwich so
ravenously that he hadn't even noticed the
marinara sauce that clung haphazardly to his
chin. Scully laughed out loud and reached
into the bag for a bundle of napkins.
"What?" he asked.
"You've got a little schmutz," she replied,
dabbing motherly at his chin.
"Thanks," he said affectionately, repaying
her kindness with a winning smile, "Got
anything to drink in that bag?"
"Iced tea," she answered, pulling the drink
from the bag and handing it over to him.
Mulder took it gratefully, opened the tab,
and took a long swig from the can.
"You think it's strange?" he asked abruptly.
"Think what's strange?" she answered, a
little taken aback.
"The weather," he replied, "how does it
go from being such a sunny day to such a
miserably overcast one?"
"What are you saying, Mulder?" Scully
asked between sips, "that you think Henry
Phoenix is causing this?"
"Well this is what it looked like at all
the other crime scenes, didn't it?"
He gazed up at the home of Esperanza Cortes.
The last light had gone off about an hour ago.
"You think he's causing changes in the
weather pattern, Mulder? Really?"
Mulder shrugged.
"It's been known to happen," he said simply.
They sat in silence as the wind picked up.
The swirling gray clouds above grew angry
and roared their impassiveness. A tree
branch snapped as lightning danced across
the sky. The booming of thunder came closer
and closer, like the sound of timpani rising
steadily louder above an orchestra.
"Hey, Scully," Mulder asked suddenly, "if
you were a tree, what kind of tree would
you be?"
"What?" she asked in response, almost
spitting out her tea all over the dashboard,
"What are you talking about, Mulder?"
"I don't know," he answered, "I heard Barbara
Walters ask it once. Just humor me."
"Okay," Scully responded uncertainly. She
bit her lip and thought hard.
"I guess I would be an apple tree," she
said after a few minutes had elapsed, "we
used to visit this orchard in Seattle one
time when my father was stationed in
Washington. I loved everything about them,
the look and smell of the blossoms, the way
the blossoms gave way to fruit for us and
all the animals. It was as though you could
see the entire cycle of life right there in
that one tree. I used to love swinging
through the branches with Bill." She smiled
fondly. "He used to get upset when I'd beat
him to the top."
Mulder nodded his head thoughtfully.
"You know, Genesis describes the famous apple
tree of Eden as the Tree of the Knowledge of
Good and Bad," Scully continued, "A bite from
its fruit gave Adam and Eve insight into the
truth, but also paved the way for their exile
from the Garden of Eden."
"I think the path to find the truth of
everything is like that," Mulder told her,
"It comes with a terrible burden. If you
decide to find the truth, you must be willing
to accept the consequences that come with it,
no matter how disturbing."
He grew silent and morose.
"On second thought," Scully said, "maybe I'm
not an apple tree after all."
Mulder grinned like a schoolboy.
"No?" he asked, "Want me to take a bite of
you and find out."
"Mulder," she reproached him, but she had to
turn her head so that he wouldn't see the heat
she felt rising to her cheeks.
"No," he said, after an uncomfortable silence,
"I don't think you are either."
"Oh no?" Scully asked, facing him once more,
"So what kind of tree do you think I am?"
"An oak," he said firmly.
"An oak?" she asked, "Why an oak?"
"They're strong, sturdy, dependable. Just like
you, Scully. And they make really good headboards,
too."
Scully smiled.
"Well, thank you for analyzing me, Mulder," she
replied, "but let me guess what kind of tree
you would be. Let me see now, how 'bout a redwood?"
"Scully," he answered, making a disapproving
clucking noise with his tongue, "It's not the
size of the tree that matters, just the hardness
of the wood-"
He never got to finish the thought.
"He's here Mulder," Scully cut him off, "Look."
She pointed up to the window where Esperanza
Cortes had extinguished the last light earlier
that night. It was filled with flames.
Mulder leapt out of the car and made a running
start for the house.
"Take the back," Mulder called to Scully, as
he grabbed the gun from his hip and advanced
toward the front door. Cradling it with both
hands, he lifted the gun towards the swirling
sky, his elbows locked firmly in position.
With the utmost caution, he kicked the door
open with his left leg and held the gun
straight out in front of him. No one there.
He checked to the left and to the right.
Still no one. He jogged into the foyer as
quickly as possible, not allowing himself to
advance without warning in the face of
recklessness. He proceeded up the stairs,
gun pointed to the top of the banister. As
he inched along, he could smell the smoke
hanging like a thick fog over the house. The
sound of a fire alarm shrieked in his ears, a
terrible siren song beckoning him closer with
fiery fingertips. Once he arrived at the
summit of the staircase, he turned left and
proceeded slowly down the hall. He could see
the smoke now, billowing out of the third room
on the right. With his left hand still
clutching his weapon, he reached down and
grabbed for the knob with his right palm.
"Mother fucking piece of shit."
He pulled back his hand with an angry moan.
Glancing briefly at it, he felt the burning
like a red-hot poker.
"You stupid ass," he belittled himself,
hanging the burnt hand listlessly at one
side. It would be of no use to him now.
Mulder took cover behind the wall of the
doorway and readied his gun. Taking a deep
breath, he brushed aside his childhood fear
of fire and kicked the bedroom door open,
like he had the front door. As the door
opened wide, the flames hit him like a hot
iron. He flung his body back against the
hall and shielded his eyes with his arm.
"Esperanza?" he shouted into the flames,
"Ms. Cortes, are you in there?"
There was no answer. As the wind howled
through the second-story fireplace, the
breeze briefly parted the tongues of fire,
and multicolored balls of light could be
seen floating peacefully through the air.
"Esperanza, Esperanza?" he called again.
This time, he heard a muffled scream in
response, but it wasn't coming from the
bedroom. Mulder quickly continued down
the hall, checking each of the doors as
he progressed. He heard a door slam at
the other end and broke out into a full
run to catch up with the assailant. The
door at the end of the hall was closed
and locked. Mulder attempted to break
it down, but the heat was becoming far
too intense. Clutching his shoulder, he
placed an ear to the door and heard the
sound of footsteps running down a wooden
staircase. Mulder double-backed and ran
down the steps to the entrance. He
followed the hall back to the rear of the
house, catching sight of one figure
throwing another into a truck through the
large, back windows. Mulder followed in
pursuit, but his foot snagged on a large
object that lay at the bottom of the rear
staircase. He caught himself as he began
to fall and glanced to see what blocked
his path. A wisp of red hair grabbed his
attention. Scully had been knocked
unconscious. He quickly knelt down and
checked her pulse. She was still alive.
He ran a few paces and tried to shoot out
the tires, but was unsuccessful. Pulling
out his cell phone, he stored the numbers
of the license plate, and went back to
check on Scully.
Marfa County General Hospital
9:22 A.M.
"Doctor, she's coming to."
Scully lifted her eyelids, slowly, painfully,
taking in the blurry image of a woman with
dark hair in an achingly-too-white outfit.
A soft, guttural moan escaped her lips as she
placed a hand to her forehead. She closed
her eyes, then opened them again, wider this
time. She was in a hospital. A man was
leaning over her. His stethoscope hung
loosely at his shoulders and his fingers
were cold to the touch as he checked her
vitals. He held her eyelids open and shone
a bright light in them. The stench of
chlorine and bleach invaded her nostrils.
"You can take that light out of my eyes,"
she heard herself say, "I'm not suffering
from a concussion."
He instantly turned off the penlight, slightly
taken-aback.
"Excuse me," he replied a little indignantly,
"but I do believe that you are in no position
to tell me your condition."
"Excuse me," Scully replied, just as indignant,
"but I do believe that I am, seeing as how I
am a trained medical doctor, and I can assure
you that I have none of the symptoms - no
amnesia, no nausea, no blurred vision, and my
pulse is steady. Other than a pounding
headache, I am in perfect physical health, so
if you would kindly discharge me, it would be
most appreciated."
She heard him mutter something under his breath
about not "asking for a second opinion" as he
picked up her chart, and within five minutes,
she was redressing herself and gathering her
belongings. After slipping her watch gently
over her thin wrist, she checked the time - 9:30.
She had been unconscious. She remembered how she
had gone around the back of the house the previous
night, how she had caught sight of some of those
strange lights in the sky, just drifting by the
second story window. She remembered walking up
to the backdoor steps, then nothing. He must
have cold-cocked her, she decided.
She threw the maroon jacket of her
pants-and-jacket-suit-ensemble over her
shoulders and reached for the cell phone
in her pocket. She dialed Mulder's number
and tapped her fingernails restlessly on a
nearby table as she waited for him to pick
up. After two rings, she heard his voice.
"Mulder."
"Mulder," she replied mechanically, "it's
me." She breathed a sigh of relief, not
knowing why his absence distressed her so.
She was sure he was fine. How else would
she have gotten to the hospital? Still,
the sound of his soothing monotone had an
instant calming effect.
"Scully," he replied, his voice brightening,
"glad to hear you're up and about."
"Where are you, Mulder?" she asked, "what
happened to you last night? Did you find
Phoenix? He was there, Mulder, I saw the
lights."
"I know," he answered, "I saw them, too."
He recounted the story of what transpired
the night before, how he found the room on
fire, how he watched as Henry made off with
Esperanza, and how he had found her
unconscious and had taken her to the
hospital for treatment.
"So I had Danny do a check on the license
plate," he finished, "and he confirmed that
it belongs to one Henry Phoenix. I had him
do a check on homes and workplaces in the
area where he might have fled. I have
already searched five former residences and
four places of employment of Phoenix's
parents, Joaquin Still-River, and Blanca
Cortes. I am currently on an unkempt,
one-horse road heading for the Marfa
Juvenile Detention Facility, a building
which was abandoned nearly five years ago.
I believe that's where I will find Henry."
As Mulder spoke these last words, the path
opened wide, revealing a decrepit, dark
one-story building. The windows were
boarded up, and those that weren't
contained large holes, an obvious result of
delinquent rock-throwing. Weeds overran
what Mulder thought must have once been a
rather nice-looking lawn and flowerbed. A
shack just beyond the facility was in
shambles, and a lone tree peeked out of the
earth next to it, blaringly out-of-place in
the otherwise completely naked terrain. A
small, weathered tire hung sadly by a rope
to a weakened, broken branch, the sole
evidence of the children who had once played
innocently on that very ground. Mulder
turned off the car and stepped from it.
"Mulder, I'm coming out there," Scully told him.
"Are you sure you're up for it, Scully?" he
asked, ambling slowly towards the shack, "I
don't want you out here if you're not ready."
He heard the familiar sigh on the other end
of the line and instantly knew he should have
known better.
"Mulder," she said, irritation prevalent in
her voice, "I am perfectly fine. I have been
discharged from the hospital without incidence,
and I will meet you at the Facility as soon as
possible."
"Good," Mulder answered, "I'm going to need your
help."
"Why, Mulder?" she asked, "What's wrong."
"Henry Phoenix is here, Scully," he replied,
"Call Detective Harris and get down here as
quickly as you can."
He placed the phone back in his coat pocket
and stared silently at the object of his interest.
Behind the shack sat a shabby little dark-blue
pickup truck, the same truck he had seen driving
away from Esperanza's. And on the side a different
color could be seen distinctly, brightly - it was
red, it was blood.
Mulder wasted no time. He bolted straight towards
the front doors and tried the knob. Locked. He
jogged around the side of the building, checking
each of the windows and each of the doors, looking
for any point of entry. Nothing. He circled the
building and found his way back to the front door.
"There has to be some way in," he thought to
himself, placing his palms against the cold steel.
But not through there, it was bolted. He
retraced his steps back to the truck, searching
the ground for any evidence of their whereabouts.
The ground was hard and dusty. There were no
footprints. He circled the shack, coming upon a
chipped, wooden door with faded blue paint. He
tried the knob. It opened.
He pulled his gun from behind his back and held
it in his left hand, still nursing his right. He
pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness.
There was no one there. He searched the room for
a light switch but found none. Glancing up, he
noticed a long chain which led to a bulb at the
top of the room. He grabbed the thin wire and
pulled, expecting nothing. Light immediately
filled the room, bringing dusty, old boxes and
garden tools into focus. In the corner, a piece
of cloth covered a grimy table, supported by a
coverless book with yellow pages. On top of the
table sat a plastic tray, filled with dirty bowls
and glasses that still contained the remnants of
someone's breakfast.
"Cozy," Mulder mused aloud, "I wonder if there are
any other rooms available in the area?"
He crouched down and examined the floor. A small,
red blotch drew his attention to a rectangular
portion of the floor that did not seem to match
the other hardwood panels. Mulder fit his fingers
in the rectangular grooves and pried them up. The
floor gave way to a concrete staircase which
descended into blackness.
"There's never a white rabbit around when you need
one," he muttered sardonically.
Pulling a flashlight from his pocket, he flicked it
on and advanced slowly, cautiously down the steps.
Left foot. Stop. Right foot. Stop.
The echoing of his every footfall seemed to
reverberate off the walls, a tympanic crescendo
pounding through his brain in the disconcerting
silence. He hesitated ever-so-slightly with every
step, drawing in a painful breath of stale air each
time his foot landed on the cold stone slabs.
Left foot. Stop. Right foot. Stop.
Mulder inched through the darkness, balancing
himself by placing a palm against the wet rock to
his right. Every once in awhile, his pace was
unexpectedly halted as he felt his hand brush some
fuzzy creature, and leaped back, repulsed, but once
he convinced himself that it was merely some form
of mossy overgrowth, his pulse began to slow and
he continued along his way. His flashlight
provided the only beacon of light in the
desperately thick ink that surrounded him, an
inanimate Virgil leading the wondering modern-day
Dante further and further into the deepest circles
of the recesses of Hell.
After what seemed an eternity, the stairway
finally ended its corkscrew descent. Mulder
shined his light in all directions. The
staircase had given way to a tiny room, small
enough that it could be filled by about four
people standing shoulder-to-shoulder. He scanned
the wall, searching out every nook and cranny that
might hide a hidden block or panel.
"It has to be here somewhere," he mused aloud,
"There's no other way they could have gotten in,
not unless Phoenix could have psychically
transported himself into the center."
For a split second, Mulder seriously considered
the possibility, but then decided against it,
shook his head, and set back to the task at hand.
After fifteen minutes, he had still found nothing.
He was about to abandon all hope and retreat
dejectedly back up the stairs when the light fell
upon a stone that seemed slightly discolored in
comparison with the rest of the rocks. Placing
his hand against the coldness, his fingers traced
the outline of the stone. It seemed to jiggle
slightly beneath the touch of his hands. Placing
the flashlight between his teeth, Mulder shined
the light on the stone and put both palms against
the rock, one hand on each side. Placing his
fingers along the crevices, he managed to dislodge
it little by little as he waited with bated breath.
The stone crept slowly from its hiding space.
Mulder bent down and placed it carefully on the
ground by his feet, then stood up and anxiously
peered into the chasm. Behind the well-placed
stone was hidden a lever, one usually reserved for
Nancy Drew novels or old James Bond movies. After
throwing the switch, Mulder stepped back, waiting
on cue for the inevitable. He listened as creaky
hinges swung, unlocking some hidden bolts and
latches, and watched as the whole stone panel to
his left gave way to another dark passage.
Mulder couldn't mask his boyish amazement. He
watched with widened eyes as the lone word, "Cool,"
came to his lips. The monosyllabic phrase was all
he could muster from his immense and articulate
vocabulary. He was for once glad that Scully was
not with him. He could almost hear the sardonic
tone in his ears, mocking him for his childlike
whimsy.
He took a brief moment to mentally prepare himself
for what lay ahead. Then, he shone the light into
the dark and proceeded into the lengthy hall.
He had only gone a couple of feet when an immense,
unseen cobweb grabbed at his face. He moaned in
disgust and immediately clutched at the clingy
silken threads. He successfully removed it, but
not before he felt the strong fangs of a spider
breaking his skin.
"Ow," he cried, flicking the pesky arachnid from
his face, "mother fucking piece of shit!"
After gently caressing the hot bump that was already
beginning to rise over his gentleman's stubble,
Mulder continued on his way. The darkness seemed
to grow about him, enveloping him, suffocating him,
as if he were Marlow, traveling deeper and deeper
into a night of his own mind's creation. The
flashlight appeared to grow dimmer, proving more
and more ineffectual against the brooding, glooming
darkness. Mulder continued walking another ten
minutes, about the length of a football field,
until the thin light illuminated yet another spiral
set of stairs. He proceeded up the staircase and
placed an ear to the wooden door that stood stately
at its summit. He heard no sound. Grabbing the
circular, iron handle, he opened the door a crack
and peered cautiously outward. The doorway opened
to another hallway composed of large, thick stone
blocks. Tattered, worn draperies suggested to Mulder
that someone had at one time attempted to make the
home hospitable, though lack of money or desire to
keep up the place caused it to be a rather cold,
castle-like environment in which to grow up. The
thick moss on the wall gave the impression that it
had not been used for years, but two sets of
footprints visible in the mountain of dust on the
floor proved otherwise. To his left, Mulder noticed
some boarded-up windows. Prying off one of the
warped pieces of wood, he glanced out through the
streaked glass and saw the truck still sitting calmly
by the shack. He was right. The stairway had led
inside the juvenile detention center.
"It must have been used as a means of underground
evacuation," he surmised, glancing at the now
unlocked padlocks which at one time must have
been heavily guarded.
At that moment his thoughts turned elsewhere as
the quiet murmuring of multiple voices could be
heard echoing through the hall. Mulder placed
the board at his feet and followed the sound of
the voices. Putting the flashlight in his pocket
and pulling the gun from his hip, Mulder peered
around the corner of the doorway from whence the
voices emanated.
He was staring at a large room, the size of a
basketball court, which had once been a rather
uncomfortable-looking cafeteria. Lengthy tables
were situated in long rows of ten and unused trays
were still stacked neatly on the back counter. It
looked like a ghost town. It was as if, one day,
everyone had just decided to get up from lunch and
leave. The quiet, desolate atmosphere was in stark
contrast to the very lively and heated discussion
been propagated in the middle of the room.
"So you kill her? For what? To get to me? Did
you honestly think that that would endear you to
me?"
Esperanza Cortes was seated atop one of the tables,
her long, black hair flowing like a river down the
curvature of her back. Her feet were resting
lightly on a faded orange bench so that her knees
were pulled close to her chest, folded almost
directly underneath her chin. Henry Phoenix was
pacing in front of her, visibly upset by the manner
in which things were progressing.
"I did it all for you, Esperanza. You used to tell
me how unhappy you were, how all you wanted was to
get away from your family. They way they controlled
you, they way they wouldn't let you do anything that
didn't maintain their high-society style of life.
You just wanted freedom, Esperanza, and I gave that
to you, I gave it to you because you're my family,
my blood, and I love you."
Phoenix stopped pacing and stood directly in front
of her. He bent over her and clasped his hands over
hers. His face wore a familiar expression of anguish
and despair, one that he himself had borne quite
frequently throughout the years.
"We can leave here, Esperanza, get away from the
pain. Start a new life somewhere else. There's
nothing here for either of us anymore, nothing
but the past. It'll be you and me, brother and
sister, the two of us, just like the old days.
You were my best friend. We can have that again.
We don't need anyone else."
A thin smile appeared on his lips as the
recollection danced through his mind, exposing
the crooked, yellow teeth hidden behind his mouth.
Esperanza's head had been folded in her hands as
she listened to him, obscuring her face from Mulder's
view. She slowly lifted her chin and her eyes became
level with his. He noticed for the first time the
river of blood that was streaming down her cheek,
mixed with the remnants of plentiful tears that she
had shed. Still, her face was set with a fierce anger
that betrayed her conflicting emotions. Her dark
eyes were fixed, her gaze, cold and unwavering.
"You're right," she said, "you were my best friend.
Even when papá and mamá told me to stay away from
you, I wouldn't listen. I told them that underneath
all of your misgivings, you had a good soul.
Abuelita defended you, and you killed her,
murdered her in cold blood. Why would I ever
consider going anywhere with you, let alone choose
to look at your face for one second longer?"
The smile turned quickly into a scowl of disapproval.
"Because I'm your brother," he answered, grabbing
so forcefully at her forearm that she winced in
pain, "I'm your blood, and there's no greater bond
than that."
Mulder felt the rage rise so quickly within himself
that he was barely unable to control his next actions.
"Federal agent," he said, jumping out from his hiding
space behind the door, "stop right there."
Esperanza was so spooked by the unexpected
interruption that she nearly fell off the
table. She and Phoenix both turned and faced
the man who had a government-issued gun pointed
at their heads.
"That's enough, Phoenix," he yelled,
walking into the room, "Put your hands
above your head and step away from Esperanza."
His footsteps echoed like two stones sliding
in a crypt. Phoenix relinquished his grip on
Esperanza as Mulder advanced towards them but
he did not back away.
"Put your hands up," he repeated, this time
more forcefully, "and step away."
Phoenix only glared at him.
"You think you can come in here and tell me
what to do?" he snarled, "You don't know who
you're dealing with."
He seemed to mutate before Mulder's very eyes,
his face taking on a grotesque, ugly form, as
if his internal hatred had become externalized.
"On the contrary," Mulder reciprocated, his
hazel eyes taking on a hard, amber hue, "I
know exactly who I'm dealing with - a
psychotic murderer with a strange penchant
for frying up anyone who stands in his way."
Phoenix's eyes began to widen as he realized
that he had been found out.
"That's right," Mulder continued, "I know
everything. Tell me, what did your adopted
father, Mr. Joaquin Still-River, see before
he died? Did the man who took you in and
raised you as one of his own say anything
to you before you set him on fire?"
Phoenix did not respond, but narrowed his
eyes until all that remained were two yellow,
python-like slits.
"What about Blanca Cortes? What did she say
to you? Was there fear in her eyes? Did she
beg for mercy before you incinerated her?"
Esperanza released a gentle hiccough of sorrow
before her eyes plummeted to the floor. She
began weeping softly to herself. Henry looked
lovingly at her and then turned his gaze coldly
back to Mulder.
"Why didn't you burn her house, too?" Mulder
continued, "Was it because it was all a game
for you, see if you could kill her without
scorching the furniture?"
"You upset my sister," Henry interrupted, his
voice filled with a lack of emotion that
reminded Mulder of the most heinous serial
murderers that he often interviewed from his
days back on the Violent Crimes Division, "I
told her that I wouldn't let anyone upset her.
You made me lie. Now you're going to pay."
"Mr. Phoenix, I will ask you this one more
time, step away from Ms. Cortes or I will be
forced to take lethal action."
But Phoenix wasn't listening. A look of calm
clouded his face as he shut his eyes and raised
his hands to chest-level. Esperanza halted her
tears and glanced at her brother. An expression
of widespread fear formed quickly on her face.
"Agent Mulder," she screamed, "you have to get
out of here. Right now. You must go. He's
going to hurt you."
Mulder didn't move or even avert his eyes. He
watched with amazement as Henry's pale,
vitamin-deficient skin took on a reddish hue
as his whole body began to convulse. He
pulled his hands apart so that his palms
faced each other, his long, wiry fingers
curving inward. Thin sparks of electrical
energy shot through the air, jumping from
one hand to the next. Suddenly, Phoenix
clapped his hands together and soft,
feather-like wisps of different colors
were summoned forth from his skin.
"Agent Mulder," Esperanza cried in
desperation, "get out of here now!"
It was too late. The wisps coiled upon
themselves and formed into spherical balls
of light. His eyes abruptly shot open, as
quick as a bullet being fired from a rifle.
He unclasped his hands and held the right arm
straight out. Before Mulder knew what was
happening, the lights came whirring directly
at him.
10:41 A.M.
For the first time, Mulder noticed the sound
of thunder. Strange he hadn't heard it before,
but then again, being unconscious wasn't exactly
conducive to the comprehension of sensations.
"Unconscious. I was unconscious."
It was odd, the way his mind worked, or the
way any mind worked, for that matter. He had
spent all of those years studying psychology,
mentally connecting the thoughts and actions
of men that, to others, would have seemed
arbitrary and discontinuous. It was a
practice that would later serve him well in
his profiling capabilities. And yet he could
still only comprehend but a meager proportion
of the workings of the brain. There was still
so much that was left to be uncovered, so much
hidden in the depths of the undiscovered
unconscious.
Unconscious. He had been unconscious.
Mulder gently lifted his eyelids as the booming,
thunderous cadence jumped from cloud to cloud
somewhere above his head. He could almost hear
the pain pounding between his temples. It was
so loud, so, so loud. As the blurry images that
his eyes observed began to join together into one
coherent picture, he noticed the dingy, gray,
expansive floor. He was still in the cafeteria,
laying on the floor. He attempted to right
himself, but was unable to move his arms. They
were tied very tightly, very painfully behind
his back, using some sort of leather restraint.
He slowly began to realize the pain wasn't just
as a result of the awkward positioning. It was
due to something else, something different. He
tried to move his head, but couldn't. It felt
strange. Half of it was ice cold, sitting
heavily on the floor. The other side was facing
the ceiling, and comprised the opposite extreme,
hot and painful.
The dull pain was much worse than the heat. If
he tried really hard, he could forget about the
intense, scalding sensation for a moment and
concentrate on something else. But the pain was
omnipresent, unending. He could never get away
from it, no matter how aloof he allowed his mind
to become. Mulder suddenly realized it was the
same feeling he had on his arms, on his hands, on
his chest.
He had been burned. Badly.
He couldn't really recall how it had happened.
He remembered someone screaming, a woman? Then
colors. Then nothing. Blackness. Now the pain.
Mulder once again tried to sit up, pulling his
legs to his chest in an effort to counterbalance
the weight of his upper body. He was only able
to move his torso two feet above the ground before
a spasm of pain overwhelmed him. He collapsed to
the floor as a groan of anguish escaped his lips.
He laid there, unmoving, until the waves of agony
subsided. After taking in a few deep breaths, he
tried again. This time, he wasn't even able to
moan before the spasms wracked his body. His head
slammed hard into the floor, causing a sound
reminiscent of the slapping of hands to go
cascading through the room and out through the
empty hallway. Mulder didn't have time to think
as his body succumbed to its injuries, convulsing
with unmitigated rage at the mistreatment.
When he opened his eyes, all he could see was
the red. All he felt was the cold.
"Oh, God, I'm bleeding to death," he said
in his mind, or was it out loud? He couldn't
be sure where his thoughts began and his
words ended. He was so cold.
"Mulder," he heard a muffled voice cry
through the red, "Mulder, don't move."
The red became separated and all that he
saw was the white. Cold. So cold.
"Oh my God," he thought, "It's the white
light. I'm going towards the white light."
The last thing he saw before he lost
consciousness was a familiar cutting,
crystal blue, and he knew that he would
be safe.
Marfa County General Hospital
6:18 P.M.
Mulder slowly opened his eyes, attempting to
adjust them to the bright, white lights, as
the sound of a heart monitor beeped
rhythmically somewhere near his ear. He
noticed a blurry object lean over him, and
then heard a voice say, "Agent Scully, he's
awake."
"Thank God," he heard his partner mumble as
her heels clicked rapidly to his side, "You
really had us scared for a minute there,
Mulder." He allowed himself to play the
dutiful patient to her doctor as she
thoroughly checked his vitals.
"Us?" he replied in a soft, raspy monotone,
"Are you trying to tell me that there's
someone else out there who cares whether or
not I get fricasseed? Scully, I'm touched."
"Yeah, in the head."
She smiled as she removed the stethoscope
from her neck and placed it in her ears.
Mulder tried to smile, but the right side
of his face felt like it was being pulled
apart.
"It's bad, isn't it?" he said so suddenly
it surprised her.
Scully voice quavered as she attempted her
lie.
"No," she smiled, "you look fine, Mulder.
You'll be back to that raging social life
in no time."
"You're lying, Scully," he told her, and
then, "Oh, cold."
"Sorry," she responded, removing the
stethoscope from his chest to her lips,
blowing two hot breaths onto the cold metal,
and replacing it over his lungs.
"How do you know, anyway?" she asked.
"Your face always does this thing," he
answered, "It goes cold, emotionless…oh
yeah, and your eyes do this freakish not
blinking thing."
"That's not true," she said heatedly and
unblinking.
"Right. And I'm not the key player in a
global conspiracy to undermine the legitimacy
of alien abductees in an effort to contain
the knowledge that colonization of this
planet by extraterrestrials is inevitable."
Scully removed the medical instrument, placed
her hand on her hip, and arched her eyebrows.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Mulder. I missed the memo
that said that the heliocentric theory is
incorrect and the world now revolves around
you."
He sucked in a deep breath and rolled his eyes.
"Mulder, can't you ever get your point across
in less than five words?"
"Scully, I think I love you."
"That's six words, Mulder."
Matched, if not defeated in his game of
intellectual banter, Mulder shrugged off
her words and began another line of
questioning.
"How did I get here?"
Scully pulled a stool close to his bedside
and seated herself with royal poise.
"After I got off the phone with you, I drove
to the Juvenile Detention Center. I found
your car by the side of the road and
investigated the grounds. I noticed some
deep tire tracks by the shack out front and
located the panel leading underground once I
got inside. I followed it and found you
lying in the cafeteria, unconscious and your
hands tied with a belt behind your back.
You were suffering from convulsions and went
into shock. I phoned an ambulance, which
brought you here."
"Was there anyone at the Facility when you
arrived there?" he interrupted.
Scully shook her head.
"I'm afraid not," she answered sadly, "There
was no sign of either Henry Phoenix or
Esperanza Cortes when I arrived. I had the
Marfa police force comb the entire center.
They are no where to be found."
She paused and took a deep breath before she
continued her account of the proceedings.
"Mulder, you had second-degree burns over
sixty percent of your body. We hydrated you
and dressed your wounds. You're going to
have to remain as still as possible for the
next couple of days, as we had to cover your
burns in synthetic fibers to protect against
bacterial infestation."
Mulder closed his eyes as he spoke.
"How long am I going to be out of commission?"
"At least a couple of weeks," came the answer,
"The doctors are taking every precaution to
ensure your full recovery."
He shifted slightly and opened his eyes wide,
staring into hers. He had a look of
determination on his face, one which Scully
had seen all too frequently on their
investigations into the paranormal.
"Scully," he told her earnestly, without a
hint of sarcasm in his voice, "I need you to
find Esperanza for me. I need to know that
she's safe, that her brother didn't succeed
in destroying her emotionally, as I fear he
has, that his quest to find her didn't end
in disaster."
He mustered up all his strength and lifted his
hand out to hers, gritting his teeth through
the pain.
"I'm relying on you, Scully. I know you won't
let me down."