New Orleans
Part 2
Chapter 5
After travelling an hour, I figure we should almost be at the crime scene. We still haven't eaten, but that isn't such a priority now.
We've been directed to a remote area God knows where outside the city, and the sorry excuse for a road we're on is nothing more than a dirt track so narrow bushes sometimes scrape the car as we pass. I wonder if there's going to be a place we can turn our vehicles around, or if we're going to back out the two miles or so we've come since the turnoff from the main road.
A glance at Monica and I decide to keep my thoughts to myself. The quiet between us is not comfortable and I'm seriously starting to wish she'd talk about what's on her mind. The set of her jaw tells me she won't be sharing anything soon, though.
Sighing inwardly, I look at the crumpled map lying on the console beside me. This so-called road isn't on it. Maybe we're lost, and this rutted track leads nowhere. It's hard not to complain out loud, but I keep quiet and reduce my speed still more as the road gets even rougher.
Just as I seriously begin to think the local police may be pulling a funny by sending the visiting feebies on a wild goose chase, I turn a sharp corner and almost run into the rear end of a police cruiser. It's one of several parked in single file in front of us, and since we can't go past them, I pull our rental in behind the last one in line. We're here, wherever 'here' is.
A young officer leaning against one of the police cars stands as our car draws to a halt. He's been there a while, by my guess: his shirt is sweat stained and crumpled. Poor sucker's so green he doesn't dare get in a car and start up the air conditioning. He's been told to stay there and wait, and stay there and wait is exactly what he did, never mind the dangers of heatstroke.
The usual introductions completed, he leads us into woods so dense the tree branches overhead block out the sunlight. Walking wordlessly in an eerie false dusk, the air around us feels damp and filled with malevolence. Dread crawls up my spine. Reaching a clearing, I see a group of people huddled together on the far side of it.
Where are we, Daddy?
A sense of deja vu sweeps over me. Remembering the gray, November day my life was changed forever, I glance at Monica. Her face is expressionless. Perhaps she is also taken back to another day, another clearing, another body.
As we continue our approach, one person steps away from the group and meets us halfway. Tall, lean, and dark haired, he flashes perfect teeth as he puts his arms out towards Monica, drawing her into a hug that she reciprocates with notable enthusiasm. When they finally part, he keeps his hands on her shoulders and looks down at her like he's been waiting for this moment for months.
"Monica," he exclaims, "I can't believe how long it's been! You look wonderful! God, it's good to see you." He looks ready to hug her again, but then seems to remember the circumstance of their meeting and loses some of his joie de vie. Tearing his eyes away from her, he looks over toward the other side of the clearing for a brief moment and says, "Sorry it's over this. Did you get the faxes I sent?"
Monica nods and smiles up at him, apparently just as glad to see him as he is to see her. "I did, thanks. You've been great." Glancing over at me, she casually moves out of the man's grasp and says, "Peter, I'd like you to meet my partner, Special Agent John Doggett. John, meet one of New Orlean's finest: Detective Peter Haliburton."
I put out my hand to shake his. He smiles and looks me straight in the eye as he says his how'dya do. I stare right back, realising - and not liking - that he's sizing me up as though maybe I'm not up to being Monica's partner.
"You're familiar with the other murders?" I ask, getting right down to business.
"Yes, sir. Monica and I have been keeping each other up to date informally for a while, now. This one's the only one found outside," he says, looking over his shoulder, "but it has all the signature features of the others, here and in New York."
I stifle a nasty surge of irritation at the 'Yes, sir.' I'm not that much older than he is. Shaking off my resentment, I turn without comment and head towards the body. It's important I see the site myself before getting his impressions. It also stops me from saying something unpleasant. Or something that makes me look like an idiot. Peter, of course, does the polite thing and waits for Monica. Squelching the urge to look back to see if his hand is on her back, I continue forward.
The policemen standing by the body step back at my approach. Ignoring them, I look down at the body.
Eyes closed, the yet-to-be-identified woman looks as though she's sleeping, her long, pale hair strewn about her head like a halo. She lies on her back, hands loosely placed one over the other on her stomach. The top hand shows bloody evidence that it's been pierced - the red wound shows up starkly against her pale flesh. Her slender, denim-clad legs stretch out straight, her bare feet showing wounds similar to those on her hands.
Looking more closely, I can see that there's a blood stain on her shirt, just under her ribs. It's partially hidden by her right arm, but I'm ready to bet it's the same sort of wound the other women experienced: the wound that led to their bleeding to death.
I look at the ground around the body - there's no indication of anyone's passage.
"Tire marks?" I ask, gesturing toward the road.
Peter answers. "Hard to say just yet. This is a popular spot for hunting; it was a local hunter who found her. His tracks, plus anyone else's' who've been in and out of these parts - including us - makes for a mess. Our boys will have a look and see what they can decipher."
His tone doesn't hold out much hope, and I can't blame him.
I look around some more. Monica has gone over to crouch down beside a book I know must be a Bible. It's open, of course, and is placed between two half-burned candles. She turns and says, "Different book and page."
I shrug. So what else is new? I haven't got very far with finding a link between the passages and the victims. For all I know the murderer just tosses the Bible there and opens it any ol' place just for the hell of it. What interests me is that the candles were lit. I figure that indicates she was dropped here at night. To find this place in the dark he'd have to be pretty familiar with the area. Maybe he's a local.
Private speculations finished for the moment, I turn again to look at the body. Time grinds to a halt. My surroundings blur, becoming splashes of green and brown and police navy blue. The body lies in sharp relief against its mossy bed, burned beyond recognition. The smell of cooked flesh fills the air. I stagger slightly, recoiling.
"John?"
Daddy!
Time resumes its regular pace. Monica looks at me with concern.
I close my eyes tightly and wipe by brow. "Yeah?"
She looks at me, then glances at the others. "Nothing," she says, but her eyes promise 'later'.
I force myself not to think. I'm just tired and hallucinating. Sweat trickles down my back beneath my now limp shirt. Likely dehydrated, too.
Twenty minutes later, Monica approaches me, Peter hot on her heels. "I'm driving back into the city with Peter," Monica tells me. With Peter standing right there, I make no comment other than to say 'okay'. We make arrangements to meet at our hotel when she gets in. We'll brief each other on our findings then.
"Peter says they've some new forensic information coming in soon about the last murder," Monica says.
Good for Peter. I tell her to bring it back to the hotel with her. Taking my keys out of my pocket, I traipse back to the car alone, wondering how the hell I'm supposed to get outta here.
Daddy, are you okay?
Chapter 6
There are times I envy Monica her certainties, her ability to believe the unbelievable.
There are other times it irritates the shit out of me. Right now is one of those latter times, so when she looks up at me over the profile that's been drawn up of the killer and says "This isn't right," I feel irritation rise.
"Why? It makes sense to me: young, religious, southern guy. Unmarried, an axe to grind against-"
Interrupting me with a wave of her hand, she says, "I know, I know, but it's still not right."
Her certainty boggles my mind. "Why?"
"I don't know. It doesn't feel right."
I flop against the back of my chair. Monica got back from her visit with Peter about a half an hour ago. She had the dinner we missed with him, picked up some stuff from his office, and brought it all with her. Now she's sitting comfortably, one foot on the seat of her chair, her knee tucked under her chin, disagreeing with work done by one of our best profilers.
"It doesn't 'feel' right?" I ask, just in case I heard wrong.
She shakes her head 'no' and looks away.
I sigh inwardly.
Now, make no mistake: I'm all for gut feelings. Good gut instinct is what makes the difference between a good FBI agent and a run-of-the-mill one. This time, though, I'm pretty sure the feelings she's talking about are a little more than just your regular, everyday gut instinct. She has that look she gets at times, that look that says she 'knows' something through means I can't figure out and refuse to acknowledge.
I look at her closely. There's something else about her, though, an unease, a discomfort about things that goes beyond the usual. I can't shake the idea there's something she's keeping from me. In fact, I'm goddamn positive she's got reasons she thinks this profile is wrong that go way beyond what she's admitting.
I tilt my head to one side, still looking at her steadily. Maybe it's time to clear the air between us, time to have everything out in the open.
"It's more than just a feeling, this time, isn't it?" The tone I use makes the question a statement.
She considers her answer carefully. I can almost see her turning it around in her mind. "I can't see this profile being right," she finally says. "This isn't the guy I picture."
A shadowed figure muttering in the dark. I remember the impression of youth washed in the fervour of crusade...No, this profile doesn't match what I saw while in that dark basement, either, but I can't tell her that.
"This guy," I say, referring to the profiler whose work we're discussing, "he knows what he's doing. He's one of our best."
She nods. "I know. But this killer isn't your typical serial killer."
"Monica, there's no such thing," I grunt.
"No," she agrees. "Maybe that's why this seems too pat a description. I mean, really - a southern Baptist, poorly educated, brought up in a rural setting, probably on a farm..."
She looks up from the notes she's reading. "Probably on a farm?" she asks, tossing the report onto the table in front of her. "It sounds like he's copying from some encyclopaedia of stereotypes, for godsakes."
I still hold out hope the profiler's right. I don't understand what I saw in that basement, and seeing that woman turn to ash...that was just a result of dehydration and remembering my son's death. I pause, remembering my dreams... then shake my head. This case is doin' weird things to my mind.
Daddy, I'm scared.
Pushing my worries aside, I keep at her, trying to find out what's been going on with her the past couple days. "Why don't you tell me the real reason you think this profile is crap?"
She looks troubled. "I told you - I just feel he's overlooking something."
I sit and stare at her, unconvinced and letting her know it. Since we started working together, the trust between us has come to mean a lot to me. It's the one thing I could rely on during the crazy days of searching for my son, it's what I relied on when I needed help getting Scully out of town for William's birth, and it's what led to my wanting her on the X- Files with me.
Looking over at her, I realise for the first time that maybe the trust isn't mutual. Maybe her trust in me leaves something to be desired. The idea of her not trustin' me doesn't sit well.
The phone rings and Monica moves quickly to answer it, relieved, no doubt, of the reprieve. She listens a moment, says a few things, asks a couple questions, then says, "Thanks, Kelly," and hangs up.
"That was Kelly," she announces needlessly.
"And?"
"She suggests we take a look at the older, professional types on our list."
"We don't have any." I don't think I can handle asking why Kelly thinks this and why Monica is going along with it. Since when did we invite Kelly in on this case, anyway? I thought I'd made myself pretty clear about what I thought of her mumbo jumbo stuff.
"We don't have any professional types because we're looking at the young, college age thing. Why don't we look at people in their forties and fifties?"
I don't have time to answer before the phone interrupts us again.
Monica answers and quickly reaches for paper and pen. Jotting some information down, she says we'll be there soon and hangs up.
I know what it is before she opens her mouth to tell me.
"Another one?"
She nods, and we both rise to leave.
Chapter 7
I stand in the middle of the apartment's large living room and shake my head. All the signs indicate the same killer did this murder. "This is crazy," I mutter, frustration eating at my gut. I'm stopped from saying more by a uniformed policeman coming over and asking if we're Doggett and Reyes. We both nod.
"Gotta message here for y'all from District 49. They got a murder over there with all the footprints of this one. They figure your guy has struck again and that you might want t'have a look before they take the body away."
We look at each other. Christ, he's murdering them faster than we can get around to seeing their bodies.
Half an hour and we're at the newest site. It's a shed in the back of a nice, two-story brick house in a nice, tidy suburb. The smell that greets us when we open the shed doors isn't so nice, however, and the condition of the body makes it obvious it's been there for a while. It'll take forensics to tell us for sure, but my guess is a couple weeks at least. Picture it: a couple weeks of raw meat in hot and humid weather. It ain't pretty. Flies, maggots and other assorted creatures have had a field day.
The owners of the property stand in the growing darkness, looking our way nervously. They've been in the middle of their overgrown backyard since we arrived, waiting, I guess, for us to talk to them. On our way back here, an officer had explained that they'd been away for two months, fishing in Colorado. They get back, and their dog runs to the back yard and starts going nuts. They call him, but he won't come. Finally the guy goes out. He tries to drag the dog away, but the dog won't have any of it and keeps barking at the shed. He decides to see if there's a raccoon or skunk holed up in there, goes in, and finds a woman's body instead. Not one of your more pleasant welcome homes.
When we finally make our way over to talk to them, the owner can't tell us much more other than that he doesn't recognise the woman. I tend to believe him. Of course, in her present condition, I don't think her own mother would.
We do our thing, talk to those who need talking to, and then head back to our rental. We drive a while, saying nothing.
This not talking business is starting to really bother me. Whatever's making her so quiet has got to be taken care of or I'm gonna go nuts. I got to do something about the way we've been, about the way she's been. I take a deep breath. "Monica, I think we should talk."
She responds immediately. "The operative word being 'we', John?"
Ouch. The question and her tone makes me look over at her.
"Keep your eyes on the road, John. You need to make a left at the next intersection."
Oh, God. I put my eyes back on the street. Her use of my name twice in a row tells me she means business. I sigh inwardly. I've known all along that she'd make me talk about what I've been seeing, and it makes sense she'd take this opportunity to make things a 'you tell me yours, and I'll tell you mine'. The idea of talking about bad dreams and hallucinations isn't attractive, but I know I'll agree to. No matter what, I have to know what's going on with her.
"John?"
Her voice startles me out of my thoughts.
Recollecting I'm supposed to be answering her question, I say, "Yeah, sure."
I'm certain she hears a hint of reluctance, but she settles back in her seat and says "Good," with a definite air of satisfaction.
We haven't spoken aloud what we're going to be talking about, but we both know.
Eyes still plastered on the road, I ask, "Your place or mine?"
"Mine. I hate that painting on your wall. It gives me the creeps."
Her comment surprises a smile out of me. "What? You've got something against brown water and florescent green trees? I thought the purple mountains were kind of a nice touch."
She smiles. That smile, and the knowledge we're finally going to clear the air between us, eases some of the tension in my back.
Can I sit with you, Daddy?
Once we've settled in her motel room, Monica starts right in by saying she wants me to tell her everything I've been keeping to myself since we arrived. There's the fleeting thought that perhaps I can avoid telling her I've been having nightmares, but I think better of it. If we're going to be honest, we've got to be totally honest. I sigh, nod my head in agreement, and then, just so she doesn't think I'm the only one who's been keeping things away from their partner, I remind her: "And you're gonna tell me what's been bothering you so much these past few days. I'm not the only one who's been keeping things to themselves."
She has the grace to look a little ashamed, and nods her head. "But you first," she orders. She has that determined look I know better than to bother with, so I start. Picking your fights is half the battle, right?
As I tell her about the weird things I've been experiencing, a weight seems to lift. I knew all along she wasn't going to think I was crazy - hell, she loves this stuff - but it still feels good to look over and see her dark eyes serious and interested. She frowns a bit as I get to my nightmares. I've managed one a night since I got here, and all of them had me waking, pulse racing. Her expression grows more and more concerned as I continue.
A flash of insight makes me ask: "You've been having nightmares, too, haven't you?"
She nods.
"Like mine?"
"Not about the same events exactly, but they had the same feel to them."
She's going to say it, so I figure I might as well say it first: "You think the dreams have something to do with the case, don't you?" My tone makes it sound more like an accusation than a question, but I can't help it.
Monica nods and I get a sinking feeling in my stomach.
She'd take to the idea of dreams being involved with the case as naturally as a duck takes to water. I, on the other hand, still wish I could blame them on a pastrami sandwich eaten too close to bedtime. Deep, deep down inside me, though, I can feel a crack opening up in my defences and I begin to consider that it might be possible.
"Tell me what you've been dreaming," I say.
Daddy! Tell me a story!
The genuine look of reluctance on her face concerns me. I lean forward, wanting to somehow reassure her with my presence, to let her know nothing can harm her while I'm here.
Slowly, she starts to speak.
"I've had several dreams. Each time, I've recognised the woman as one of the murder victims. Each time, the woman has been killing someone when I've come upon her."
She stops. I give her a moment. Then a flash of intuition prompts me to say, "But something's happened that makes it worse than just having a dream where you see murdered women committing murders of their own."
There's a moment's hesitation before she replies, "It's the last dream that's got me bothered. I've had it twice now...it's nighttime, and I'm walking near a river. There's a mist rising off the water, I can feel the damp of it on my skin. The ground along the riverbank is uneven, so I'm watching my feet. Gradually, I begin to sense something and look up. Ahead of me is a woman on her knees at the water's edge. She's bending over, with her hands in the water almost up to her elbows. As I walk towards her through the fog, I begin to see that she's holding a man's head under water. She's muttering something. As I get closer, the words make more sense. I recognise them as an incantation. I don't know if she hears me or simply senses my presence, but she stops abruptly and slowly turns her head to face me." She stops again.
I wait a moment. When it looks as though she needs it, I prompt her: "And?"
Her words come slowly. Looking down at her hands, she says, "In the dream, I know what she's doing - she's stealing the life force of the man she's murdering, capturing it before it returns into the world." She looks up at me, her dark eyes slowly focussing on mine. "An individual's life energy has great power for those who know how to use it. My interrupting her during the incantation robbed her of some of that. It was obvious she was very angry with me."
Again she stops and again, after a short wait, I prompt her to continue.
"When she speaks to me, her voice is deep and raspy. She tells me, 'Your turn is coming', then turns away from me as though I'm no longer important. I wake up as she begins to chant again."
She looks at me, waiting for my response. I don't know much about these things, but I don't like the threat or the chill that ran down my spine when I heard it. Just to clarify things, I ask, "She's speaking directly at you?"
Monica nods. "Yes. She's warning me that my turn to die will come."
I sit quietly, trying to figure out some sort of meaning to the dreams she's been having. I feel stupid, but hell, I'm ready to try almost anything at the moment. Besides, isn't it Freud who figured out that you could learn things about a person from their dreams? "Her killing that man by drowning him, was that supposed to cleanse him in some way?"
"No," she replies, shaking her head. "The way she committed the murder wasn't important. She was only interested in channelling his life force when death released it." She then adds reluctantly, "And I don't think it was her talking to me. It was someone else, speaking through her."
I sit silently a moment, trying to take this all in. A part of me - a BIG part of me - says that we're getting a little too close to the stuff grade B horror movies are made of. Another, less confident part of me asks her: "Who?"
She waits a moment, her eyes wide, dark and fathomless. Finally she speaks. Her tone is quiet and matter-of-fact. "Our serial killer - the guy we're looking for. This is his way of letting me know he knows we're closing in - and that he plans to kill me"
End New Orleans part 2