Pretty Angel

by Helen Pattskyn

Erring on the side of caution, I'm rating this XFilesCrow crossover story R rather than PG13. It is not as voilently graphic as some Crow stories.

Crow stories are, by their very nature, violent in both theme and content; please read this with the understanding that the following story contains vulgar language, some violence, and some extremely adult themes.

Pretty Angel is dedicated to Darrell Wannamaker (AKA the Evil Melt-Mulder, and a host of other online pseudonyms), friend, fellow oddball, and all around neat guy....

Pretty Angel By Helen Pattskyn

My name is Angelina. I should be dead. Maybe I am dead; God knows it hurts enough when I try to think about it. All I remember is the cold and the darkness. And the Pain. Death should take the Pain away, but it doesn't, it only makes it worse. Sharper, like the edge of a knife. Or a razor blade.

"Hold her down!" one of them grunted.
"Stop screaming, bitch, or you're gonna get hurt!" Another growled.
Grunted. Growled. Just like animals. Didn't they realize that I already was hurting?
There were five of them, four to hold me and the fifth – the fifth to hurt me. They took turns being the fifth one. Over and over and over until the hurting finally stopped. Release. Ending. Except that I woke up...I woke up and I wasn't dead. I wished that I was, but I still drew breath, my heart still beat, pushing blood out of the wounds that they'd left...

"Caucasian male, age sixteen." Gheeze, they were getting younger every day, the red head woman mused to herself. She set the tape recorder aside and took a half a moment for her own thoughts; her partner was in the room, watching her, waiting for some sort of information. What could she say? The kid was dead and although Dana Scully considered herself to be a pretty tough lady, sometimes the things she saw were just a little too gruesome, a little too strange, for her to really wrap her brain around them.
"Well, I think we can pretty much figure out the cause of death," Mulder said, nodding towards the lead pipes sticking out of the boy's rectum and mouth. The boy was lain carefully on his side.
"Yeah, lead poisoning," Scully replied dryly.
Mulder grimaced; Scully was starting to pick up his sense of humour...or maybe he was just starting to notice how alike they really were. THAT was a scary thought. "It would take an awfully strong person to do this."

"Not to mention twisted," Scully replied - she turned her attention back to the body. The boy's name, according to the Sheriff, was Nate Thomson. Nate was a high school junior, member of the track team and captain of the school wrestling team. A team that had made the state championships mostly because of Nate's skill and strength, at least that was according to the principal who had been in the Sheriff's office when the arrived. Nate was the second boy from the local high school to be found mutilated in the woods outside Copse, a small coal-mining town in Illinois. The first boy, Jack Saffarian age seventeen, was also on the wrestling team and had been a quarterback on the football team - in line to be the captain next year according to Principal Taylor Burns. Both boys had been members of the same church (one of only three churches in town) and had done charity work after school. They had also both worked at the same hardware store that was owned by Nate's father, Collier. Jack had been impaled with a foot ball, although exactly how anyone had gotten it where it had been found Scully was at a loss to explain - ultimately it was the drop off of the cliff that had probably killed the Saffarian boy - either that or having been set on fire. It was hard to say with only the local M.E.'s report to go on. "There is a very sick mind at work here," Scully said, though she was mostly thinking out loud.

Mulder nodded - he didn't need a background in criminal psychology to tell him that. "I'm going to go and talk to the first boy's family, see what I can turn up."

"I'll call you if I get anything more here - but I'm guessing its pretty straight forward." Mulder didn't have overly much difficulty finding the home of the Saffarians. It was a two-story farm house, although it wasn't exactly situated on a farm, just a large piece of property near the edge of town. The yard was immaculate with perfectly trimmed bushes and some sort of white and yellow flower in full bloom all the way up the long winding drive way – some type of mum perhaps. Mulder didn't know much about flowers. The Saffarian home was located just up the road from the town's only cemetery. Mulder approached the house slowly, allowing himself to take in the entire picture; the paint job was new, a bright cheery yellow with pristine white trim and a white picket fence. There was a Lincoln in the drive way, parked in front of a two and a half car garage - there was a new Dodge Ram parked next to it - there was a jeep in front of the Ram. On the large front porch two boys and three girls sat drinking lemonade. It was like something Norman Rockwell would paint. Mulder pulled the rental car up behind the Lincoln and got out - the kids, all about high school age stood up - one of the boys descended the steps towards him.

"You lost, Mister?"

"No, I'm special agent Fox Mulder with the FBI."

"You'd better get your Ma," the other boy said.

Just then the door opened, "Tim, you'd better run on home now. You too May. LuAnn, Jimmy, Ellen, get on inside and start washing up for dinner."

Mulder watched Tim eyeing him as he passed - the boy got into the Ram and pulled slowly out of the drive way, never quite taking his eyes off of Mulder. The agent smiled and waved to the kid, then turned his attention back to the woman in front of him. She was not quite slender with an hour glass shape that was exaggerated by the cloths she wore (a crisp pink blouse cut to come in at the waist and flair at the hips) with a pair of form fitting capri pants and clog sandals. She had bleach blond hair and a lot of it - the woman must go through a case of hair spray a week. Awful seventies come-back meets southern farm wife, Mulder thought.

"Mrs. Saffarian?"

"Please call me Rae-Ann," she smoothed her hands over her pants nervously. "Ah 'magine you're here bout Jack and Nate. Ah know Bill - Sher'ff Keely - has done his best - but ah sure do hope y'all can find who did this to our boys. May there is - was - Nate's baby sister. Him and Jimmy and Jack and Tim Baker and Bobby Miller - they've been inseparable for as long as any of us can remember."

"Bobby Miller?"

"He's - he's not well. He's been ill since last year," Rae-Ann Saffarian said, casting her glance up towards the cemetery on the hill.

"What happened last year?" Mulder asked wondering if it was relevant or not - but at this point anything could be a lead.

"Last year - just about this time too - is when Angelina Prichard died. She was Bobby's girl - he'd been sweet on her since they was both small - Bobby and my Jack practically grew up together. See, Bobby's mamma was - well you know single," she lowered her voice to a whisper. "Never did marry, not even to Bobby's father, who ever he really was - we never believed it was that beau of hers, Lee McCoy. She worked for us so Bobby was practically one of my own - Tim and Nate, they were always over. Always. Now Bobby's in that hospital and - oh, I'm sorry!" She began to sob.

Mulder put a hand on her shoulder and waited for the woman to compose herself. "Can you tell me where I could find Bobby's mother now?"

"Why on earth do you want her? She isn't - I mean she couldn't? Could she? Ah heard a little of what Sheriff Keely said - he said it musta taken a strong man to do what was done to Nate - then the Sheriff realized that Ah was listening." She blushed just a little. "But Ah want to know what's goin' on."

Mulder decided that the woman was half-hysterical. "Right now my partner and I are talking to everyone who knew either of the boys. What hospital is Bobby Miller in?"

"That big one over in Heritage - its just half a days drive. The boys go up to see him once in a while - but he ain't got no better since they put him in there. Ah think Connie Miller works in some bar near there now. Ah haven't seen her in a while."

Mulder thanked the woman for the information she'd given him and was taking his leave when she grabbed hold of his hand. "It's a terrible thing what they did to Angelina's grave."

Mulder frowned a little, "Her grave?"

"Vandals. It was a horrible, horrible thing, to dig up a grave like that. Just horrible. Happened just a week before - before - oh, Ah'm sorry!" She burst into sobs again - Jimmy came back out onto the porch and put his arm around his mother.

"You should go now," he said coldly.

"Can you tell me anything else about this girl, the one whose grave was vandalized."

"Dug up!" Rae-Ann almost shrieked it. "It was dug up coffin and all!"

"Can't you see you're upsetting her?" Jim demanded.

Mulder nodded - he watched the youth take his mother back into the house and went back to his car. Next stop, the cemetery. "Dug up?"

"The entire body has been removed," Mulder told his partner when they met for dinner. "I went to the cemetery after finishing up at the Saffarian house."

Scully paused to take another bite of her salad. She washed it down with a sip of the really bad coffee and reminded herself to order tea next time. "But what does that have to do with the two boys?"

"I think it's more than a coincidence that she was dating one of the murdered boy's friends."

Scully raised a skeptical eyebrow.

"Call it a hunch," Mulder took another bite of his burger. "Hello Angelina."

The voice came out of no where. I looked wildly about me in the darkness, seeking out the source of the sound.

"Look up." His voice had a delightfully malicious tone; I savoured its deliciousness. I was compelled to obey.

Just as I looked up, he leaped down from his high perch up in the old twisted tree; the yard is full of them, old dead trees. Nothing is alive there. Nothing but me. Except I'm not alive, am I? There used to be life in this yard, in this house, I'm sure of it...only its all gone now, all the life, all the joy. Drained away on a sea of red. Everything is dead. I'm dead. I stood absolutely still. He has the grace of a cat. In the low branches of the tree above my head the crow who had been my constant companion and tormenter cawed and rustled its feathers.

In the dark of twilight his face shone like a white mask surrounded by shaggy black half curls that hung just to his shoulders - his eyes and lips were painted black, a harlequin's mask of Death. I knew he was Death and prayed that he had come to take me away.

"Only you can end your suffering, Angel."

"Angel," I whispered - Angel. That's what - what - I couldn't remember. I started to cry. "What have I become?"

"You are an Angel of Death, just like me," his voice was softer now - he held out his hand and cradled my cheek in his palm. "You have taken two already. I can smell their blood on your cloths, on your skin. In your hair," he stroked the long dark blond tresses that tumbled down my shoulders. I used to take care of it - I used to take care of myself - I never would have been caught dead wearing old ratty blue jeans and the t- shirt and leather that I'd stolen from that bar the first night. Dead. Caught dead. That's exactly what had happened, I'd been caught dead. I started to laugh; the sound of my own voice startled me. I laughed the more manically for being startled by it; I laughed so hard I cried some more.

"I'm really dead, aren't I?" I said, when I was finally able to find my voice again; he wiped away my tears.

"For almost a year now. Just like me when I first came back."

"First came back - you mean - you're like me? But I thought you said that I could end my own suffering?" I begged to know the answer.

"You can. But its not going to be easy. And sometimes you get sent back again, to guide along another or to answer a prayer for vengeance - or if your own grief is too great. Sometimes it takes more than just the death of your own killers to ease your soul. Then you end up like me, stuck here, longing to be reunited with my Shelly but still facing the demons that this world produces."

"Shelly?"

"We were engaged to be married - married on Halloween. But she died. Murdered, Brutally. We both were, only I came back."

"Why, I don't understand? All I know is that I've had these feelings, this need - only I don't know what I'm doing or where it's taking me. I don't want to kill anybody!"

"Sure you do. You are driven to kill those who killed you."

"But I've never hurt anyone in my entire life!"

"That doesn't matter. You're dead now." His voice had taken on the slightly malicious edge again - I looked up at him through my tears. He was smiling at me. "Don't be afraid of it - cry now. Cry if you have to."

I was shaking, I was sobbing. "I don't understand - who are you? What are you?"

"My name is Erik. The crow is your guide - he is your eyes and your ears and he will help you find the ones you must kill."

"He tortures me!"

"I know," he held me then, suddenly pulling me into a cold embrace.

When I looked back up there were at least two dozen crows sitting in the tree above us. "I thought you said you were my guide," I managed to get out through my closing throat; all this laughing and crying – I'd never been like this before! I was always the stable one....always.....always....so many thoughts refused to coalesce in my head. Nothing made sense except the need for blood. Erik dried my cheeks gently.

"I am your guide," He told me in an icy, velvet voice. "The crow will help you find them - but I will be there when you need me the most. Only then. I'll help you."

"I don't understand."

"You will, Angel. Unfortunately." He leaped back up into the tree and with a strange suddenness was gone - thirteen crows took to the air, leaving only my tormentor gazing blackly down at me. The pain - all over, everything hurt. I could barely move - but somehow I managed to get home. Somehow. I must have crawled. No one was home when I got there. No one ever was. I cried. I must have cried all night. No one came to me. No one cared about me - no one ever had except for - for who? I still can't remember - trying to remember only makes it hurt worse, even now. They say it's the pain that reminds you that you're alive.

I look around the place I used to live and can barely remember living here. The furniture is still here, covered in dust - a rat scurries through the cabinets in the kitchen. Roaches crawl through the walls - I can hear them. I can smell the perfume I used to wear - I wander aimlessly until my feet bring me to my own room and I fall onto the bed with my arms spread wide and I begin to remember again.

I'm laying on my bed sobbing, hurting, blood - I'm bleeding, its like I'm realizing it for the first time. I know where the blood is coming from. I'm bruised - I'm cold because my cloths have been ripped from me and I can't seem to get warm, even when I cover up. I feel dirty - I take a shower. But I don't feel any cleaner than I did before the water washed over me. I scrub and I scrub and I cry and I cry and finally I can't take it any more and I find the razor blade that Josh uses to shave his face. He thinks it makes him manly. Or something. All I want is to warm up; all I want is to make the pain go away. I just want to be warm, to stop hurting, to go to sleep and never wake up. But I did wake up.

I woke up in the cold, dark, damp earth. I woke up in a wooden box wearing the tattered and decayed remains of my dress - the dress I was going to wear to the prom with - with - I can't remember his name, but I can almost see his face. It seems so far away now - all around me were the faded flowers. I was gasping for breath, not quite panicked - somehow I knew that I had to get out. To claw myself out of the box, out of the grave. And somehow I found the strength that I had been lacking the night that I took my own life - somehow I found what I had never possessed before. But what price have I paid for this strength?

"I'll never be warm again," I whisper now, finally coming back from the past - I can still see myself lying on the bathroom floor in a puddle of red.

I find that I have gotten up in the middle of my nightmare and walked to the bathroom - I lay down on the cold tile like I laid there that night. Death came to me that night, it came and it took me into its cold embrace. But tonight there is only emptiness, a shallow façade of life. Tonight there is only suffering - tonight someone else will suffer too.

I find that I have risen up from the tile - I remember Erik's face, the mask of Death that he wears. I go to my room - everything is like it used to be, except that I don't live here anymore. No one does. But I don't really spare a moment to wonder what has happened to Josh - he is not my concern tonight. Over my shoulder the crow caws, perched on the post of my bed. He urges me on.

I smear the pale make up on over my face - I paint my eyes with black eyeliner in a way that I have never worn it before. Thick lines surround my eyes making them look bigger - I paint my eyebrows, too. For my lips I choose a dark garnet red - its so dark its almost black, almost purple. I paint my lips and then use it as eye shadow, covering my eyelids, smearing it off towards my temples in a garish way. I look at what I have become. My dark, dishwater blond hair hangs in lazy tendrils around my face, down my back. I strip the leather from my back, the cloths from my body, tearing the old t-shirt that I had filched from the body of the man I killed that first night (I killed him only to get his cloths - and because he was leering at me in a way that suggested what he wanted to do to me. No one will ever treat me that way again!) I go to my closet. My cloths are still there. I put on the black turtle neck - it's absurdly warm for this time of year but I feel neither heat nor cold. In a drawer I find a pair of leather, fingerless gloves - in another drawer I find the black jeans that lace up the sides and crotch. I find a pair of calf high black boots; I go to my jewelry box - I feel as if I'm aflame with passion and rage. There - a silver ankh, how fitting, it was a symbol of eternal life to the Ancient Egyptians. Black nail polish, I'd forgotten about my nails. Yes, I do them in a flurry. I slip the leather jacket back on over it and I look at myself in the full-length mirror in the corner.

I am a pretty Angel. A Pretty Angel of Death. A wicked smile flickers across my lips. I can feel the Power and I like the way it feels. Two down, three to go - no, I realize not just three more. There are three others besides the ones who hurt me, three who covered it all up, made it disappear - made me disappear. They are just as guilty as the perpetrators of the crime itself. They are also the walking dead, even if they haven't realized it yet. "You're poking your nose round where it don't belong," Sheriff Keely said in a slow drawl as he slammed the door the storage room where the fed was thumbing through a year old file. "You're 'posted to be here to investigate the murder of those two boys, not cemetery vandalism or a year old drug over dose."

"I think there's a connection," Mulder replied. "And I'm not so sure about that drug-overdose/suicide allegation."

"You calling me incompetent?"

"Not really," Mulder murmured. He had spent the rest of the day tracking down the family of the dead girl. Her parents had died when she was ten, just five years before she killed herself - what a fifteen-year- old had to kill herself over was beyond Fox Mulder's comprehension. She had a brother, Josh, who was currently a resident in a State Penitentiary twenty mils away, on charges of armed robbery, assault with a deadly, grand larceny (he stole a car during his flight from police) and drug possession (cocaine, the very drug his sister supposedly over dosed on). "I just think it's a little suspicious that even though the official report says that she was jacked up on cocaine that the coroners report only mentions the slit wrists, which generally indicate suicide. Even if it was drug related, cocaine is an upper, not a downer - people usually kill themselves when they're using downers."

"Yeah well, this is a small town, once in a while we forget to cross our t's and dot our i's because we all know everybody and Sam knows damn well that she was full of coke when we found her and says that that's what killed her. I found the evidence myself."

"Mind if I take a look at it?" Mulder queried.

"As a matter of fact, I do." Keely said. "Its late, you should get on back to your hotel."

Mulder closed the file folder he'd been reading - it hadn't sounded like a suggestion so much as an order. He'd already seen everything he needed to see anyway. "Mulder the case is here, now." Scully glared at him over her cup of hotel coffee in a Styrofoam cup - she had gone down early to indulge in the 'continental' breakfast and had brought a cup of coffee and stale donut to his room as well. No fun in suffering alone. It was right after his first sip of coffee that Mulder had let her know of his plans for the day.

"I'll be back by night fall," Mulder fumbled with his tie. "I know that there's a connection somewhere - and I'm sure that Keely is covering something up."

"Did you ever think that maybe he just thought that the current situation was more important than some drug induced suicide from a year ago?"

"It wasn't a suicide. Or at least it isn't what they're trying to make it out to be. Talk to the coroner, see what he has to say about it. I talked to the funeral director on my way back here last night, and do want to know what she said about it?"

"Not really but I have the feeling you're going to tell me anyway."

As if he hadn't even heard her, Mulder went on, "She said that the girl was so covered in bruises that she had a hard time covering them all up - her arms, her face, even her hands. She said that it looked like the girl had been in a real fight for her life - she doesn't believe that it was a suicide either, but was afraid to say anything."

"Afraid to say anything?" Scully asked skeptically.

"This is a small town, Scully - if someone is trying to cover something up, and if the Sheriff is involved -" he left it open-ended for his partner to draw her own conclusions. "She also told me that Rae-Ann Saffarian is Sheriff Keely's sister."

"I think that you're reading way too much into all of this, and I think," she handed him the cup of swill the hotel staff called coffee, "That you should be concentrating on the case at hand."

"I am," Mulder took it from and gulped down a large swallow. He made a face. "What is this?"

"Coffee. You should try the donuts."

"No thanks." He waved it away and grabbed up his coat. "Anyway, I concentrating on this case, I'm just approaching it from a different angle. I'll be back as soon as I can - talk to the coroner and call me."

Scully shook her head after him - another day of working the case alone while Mulder went off chasing after wild geese. Still, with nothing else to focus in on, she decided to go and have a chat with this funeral director herself. Alma-Lee Watson wasn't what Scully would have expected. She was a widow, which she was quick to point out, about thirty five give or take a couple of years and fairly average though certainly pretty. She let the FBI agent into her home/business - it smelled of fresh baking apple pie. "Please sit down - your partner was here yesterday night - he's gone up to see Joshua hasn't he."

"Well - yes, he has," Scully admitted reluctantly.

"I knew he would - coffee? It's better than anything you'll get in that awful hotel. Melba is just to darned cheap to buy decent anything."

"No, thank you."

"Oh please, it's the least I can offer you," Alma-Lee smiled warmly. She disappeared through a swinging door leaving Scully a few moments to look around the parlor. It was a brightly cheerful room with pale yellow walls and gauzy curtains with pink cabbage roses as the print. The furniture had a Victorian look to it - there was a print of the Blue Boy and several other similar looking 'classics'.

"I inherited this place from my grandma," Alma-Lee said upon her return with a silver serving tray and full service set. The china cups had tea roses on them as well and were gold edged. "When I married we converted part of the house over to my husband's business. When he passed on himself - well, it only seemed natural for me to take over the whole thing and keep on running it. We met when he hired me on to do makeup for him - you know," she smiled serenely. "To make the departed look their best for their families."

"Like on the Prichard girl."

"Angelina, yes. Sweet thing. Tragic too - her parents were killed by a drunk driver when she was ten. Her brother dropped out of high school to raise her up, take care of her. But he couldn't take care of her when she started hanging with the wrong crowd."

"Wrong crowd?"

"The Saffarian boys - rest young Nate's soul, but he was a hellion, he and that brother of his and the lot that they hung out with."

"The other boy, Jack, and -?"

"Timmy Baker and Bobby Miller - he was the worst of the lot, you see, the leader of them. I suppose it's not his fault, raised fatherless by a drunk, that Connie Miller. The five of them were inseparable from early on and always causing trouble. If Bill Keely weren't Nate and Jimmy's uncle - an some say he's Bobby Miller's Daddy, but no one can prove it, Connie always said it was Lee McCoy who was the father, but Bobby's got Keely's eyes and no one can argue with that. And Keely sure looked out for those boys, anytime they was in trouble he got them on out of it again. This time they're in too deep and no man can bail them out, not even the Sheriff."

"What do you mean?" Scully asked, sipping the marvelously wonderful coffee.

"Them boys, they're all going to end up dead like the first too."

Scully frowned a bit, perplexed. "What do you mean?"

"That partner of yours - he's starting to see it. But he can't stop it. Nobody can."

"Mrs. Watson I'm afraid you've lost me."

"I seen this once before, when I was real small. Seen a young soul cut down in the prime of life - he was a friend of my daddy's and he had two children, a boy and a girl. The little boy was killed right in front of him, then they killed his wife because she was a white woman who had married an Indian - then they killed him too and strung him up in his own front yard. The little girl could only watch from underneath the bed and pray to Jesus that they didn't find her too. I guess she got lucky," Alma- Lee cast her gaze out the window for a long moment. A large black crow sat in the branches of the apple tree just out side - she smiled - it ruffled its feathers and bobbed its head up and down. "They say that when someone dies a Crow takes their soul up to heaven - but sometimes someone dies so violently, so horribly, and with so much sorrow in their soul that the Crow brings them back so that they can set the wrong things right."

"You were the little girl, weren't you?" Scully said softly.

Alma-Lee nodded, "My daddy - my real daddy, not the one that raised me after - he was murdered because he was a Indian and my mamma was a white woman. Just for that, no other reason - just the colour o' his skin! Her own brothers came in the middle of the night and lynched them both - they killed my baby brother but I was able to hide from them, under the bed. When they took mamma and daddy out to hang them from the tree I ran to the only friend my daddy had in town - he took me in straight away and called the Sheriff. But the Sheriff got there too late - I think it was on purpose but I could never prove it 'course. The men who did it were never caught - until a year later when they all started dying off. Mysterious, violent deaths. And I saw my daddy, my real daddy again. Just once - he told me that the man taking care of me was my daddy now and that I had to be good for him - but to never forget who I was. Never forget my roots - never forget that I was half Indian and that that was something to be proud of. But my foster daddy was worried, so we moved to another town took his name, but I never forgot seeing my daddy that night, never forgot what he told me. When I got older I moved back here, to this house - met a man and fell in love." She dabbed at the tears and forced a smile, "Listen to me, you must think I'm crazy!"

"Believe me, I've heard stranger things," Scully said thoughtfully. She didn't actually believe in people coming back from the dead - it had probably been a dream or the imagination of a child trying to make up for the loss of her parents under tragic circumstances. Or she could be making the whole thing up.

"So what does an FBI agent want with me?" Josh Prichard sneered at his visitor. "Come to tack on a few more charges, add a few more years to my stay here?"

"Actually I've come to talk about your sister."

The sneer turned to an icy glare. "Then the conversation is over." Josh stood up and began to turn.

"I don't think it was suicide," Mulder said.

Josh turned and scowled.

"And I think that someone is trying to hide something. I'd like to find out what."

"And what's in it for me?"

"I can't do anything for you except maybe get to the truth about your sister's death."

Josh sat back down, "Why should you care?"

"I had a sister once," he said. "No one believed me when I said that she - wasn't dead, that she'd been taken away. I know what its like to loose someone close to you and not have anyone listen to you when you try and tell them the truth. I know what its like when you go looking for the truth and everyone keeps trying to prevent you from finding it."

"No one will believe what I have to say, no one ever has."

"I will," Mulder told him. "I just want to know what really happened a year ago."

"It was that Bobby Miller - she kept on seeing him even when I told her not to. I knew that he was trouble from day one but she just wouldn't listen to me. She loved him - sometimes I thought he mighta loved her too, but he had this reputation and it was more important to him than my sister."

"What happened?"

"They raped her - all five of them. I was working two, sometimes three jobs just to keep a roof over our heads and food on the table - by the time I got home she - it was too late, she was dead. But I knew, the way her cloths were torn from her, the bruises - but they didn't believe me. Keely said he found cocaine on her. Angelina never did drugs, ever, not even pot. She knew I'da killed her myself if she did."

"So what about you?"

Josh shrugged, "You're a fed, you musta seen my sheet."

"They said you had a couple of kilos on you when they caught you."

Josh laughed bitterly, "Yeah, that's right, I'm a real drug user. The guys I robbed were the ones who supply Keely and his cronies with their dope. I had the drugs on me all right - I just didn't know how to destroy it. And yeah, I robbed them with a shot gun pointed at their heads and I stole a car getting away from the cops. And it still didn't do anybody no good and my sister is still dead in the ground, cold and lifeless while I sit in this place." Jimmy locked the door behind him - the basement was damp and cool and the only place in his house that he could be alone any more - and now on top of it all those feds were crawling all over the place. The woman had been back this afternoon to talk to his mother again - he heard that she'd been by Nate's folk's place too and the funeral director's house - he knew that that old busy body knew something - what had she told the feds? What if they found out what they'd done to Angelina last year? That her death was their fault? Nervousness filled him - whoever had killed Nate and Jack would be coming after him next, he knew it. Something rustled in the darkness - Jimmy started. He peered around in the darkness. Finally he saw the big black bird sitting on the old book shelf. "How did you get in here?" he asked it, laughing at his own nervousness. Silly bird. He looked around - the windows were all closed - could it have come down the chimney? All the way down here?

"Hello Jimmy."

He spun around. "No. It can't be. You - you're dead."

Angel smiled sweetly, "Only because you made me that way."

"No way, you killed yourself, you slit your wrists."

She held up her wrists, showing him the fine scars that were left behind, "Oh, I wondered what those were," she said sarcastically. Slowly she crossed the room towards him. She looked at the razor that he held in his hand, the one he had been about to use to cut the cocaine he had been preparing to snort. "You know, that stuff will kill you someday. Unless I kill you first."

He slashed at her with the small blade, then drew his pocket knife. She dodged him with amazing agility - on the third try he plunged the knife up to its hilt into her gut. She continued smiling. "Didn't anybody ever tell you that you can only die once," Angel pulled the blade from her gut and used it to impale his left hand to the bookshelf. The boy let out a howl of pain - quickly she stuffed an old rag into his mouth, holding his other hand with super human strength. The rag smelled of oil - it reminded her of what she'd done to Jack and she told him so. "Now, now, we can't have you making that much noise, can we?" she asked coldly, smiling wickedly at him. The terror in his eyes filled her with satisfaction. She kneed his groin savagely, allowing him to double over by releasing the wrist that she held. Next she found another knife and did to his free hand what she had done to the other one. Angel grabbed up the razor from where it had fallen and used it to slash both of Jimmy's wrists. She pulled down his pants, "Does it hurt?" She asked sweetly. "They always say that its painless to slash your wrists? What do you think? Painless or painful?" She looked around and spied a small hack saw, "That's just the thing!" she cried gleefully as she picked it up, waving it in front of his face menacingly.

She waited and watched as he slowly bled to death. Not as artful as what she had done to Jack, but fitting none the less. "Well, its definitely sexually motivated," Scully said into the cell phone to her partner. "This one was castrated and his wrists were slit. And both palms were impaled into the wall, one with a pocket knife that had the boy's initials on it. How did your visit with the dead girl's brother go?"

"I'm just leaving the prison now," he said. "I'll be back in a few hours."

"Why so long?"

"I needed to use their computer to look up a few things - I'll tell you about it when I get back."

"I'll probably be asleep. Hey Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"That funeral director, Alma-Lee, did she tell you a story about her father?"

"No, why?"

"She told me about it - I spent the afternoon checking it out and except for the extraordinary details her story checks out."

"Extraordinary details?"

"I'll tell you about it in the morning."

"As long as we don't have coffee and donuts for breakfast again."

Scully chuckled and flipped her phone closed. There had to be a connection that she was just missing. What was it that Mulder was seeing here that she wasn't? Mulder sat down at a counter seat in the mostly empty truck stop - he was starving and tired of driving.

"What can I get you?" A middle aged waitress asked.

"Coffee - and a burger and some fries."

"Coming up." She poured the coffee and left to the kitchen to place his order.

"Too much red meat will kill you, you know."

Mulder started - he hadn't heard anyone walk up behind him.

"This seat taken?" The stranger asked.

"No - help yourself." Mulder looked at the man - he was tall and had long scraggly black hair hanging in front of his face - his skin was pale though it had an olive tone to it. He looked perhaps part oriental.

"Japanese." The man said. "My mother was from Okinawa."

Mulder frowned. It was hard to tell much else about the man because of the long black trench coat.

The waitress reappeared.

"Just coffee, thanks," The stranger said to her. Mulder noticed that he was wearing fingerless gloves - they were black like the rest of his outfit. He had on black motorcycle boots. Mulder stole a glance outside - right next to his rental car a black bike was parked - he knew that he hadn't heard one pull up. The stranger smiled and pulled some of the hair back behind one ear. "The coffee in that town sucks, doesn't it?"

"What?"

"The hotel, the café - kind of weird isn't it, that the only person there who seems to be able to make a decent cup of coffee is the funeral director."

Mulder continued to stare - there was something very strange about the man, although he couldn't put a finger on it - when the stranger looked at him full faced, he noticed that one of the man's eyes was ice blue, the other dark brown, almost black. A long scar ran down the side of his face with the blue eye. "Shaving accident," the stranger smiled sardonically.

"Who are you?" Mulder asked.

"Its inconsequential. But you're right about one thing - she shouldn't have died. Not so young. I've never seen one so young before."

"What? Who shouldn't have died?"

"Angel. Angelina Prichard. Fifteen," the stranger shook his head. "There's a lot to atone for here, Fox and you can't prevent it. Understanding it will only confuse you more. I know you won't take my advice, but you and your partner should just leave well enough alone and get the hell outa dodge."

"What are you talking about? How do you know my name?" Mulder demanded. "How do you know about Angelina Prichard?"

"Because I've seen her. I'm here to help her in ways that you cannot. By the way, if your partner has anything to say to the coroner she'd better do it soon."

"What do you mean?"

"He helped cover up what happened to Angel."

"How?"

"He examined the body, he knows that she was raped repeatedly, solemnized repeatedly, beaten, bruised. He knows, but he's kept his mouth shut for this entire year and now its too late. He feels guilty about it, but guilt only helps if it motivates a man to action - other wise it's an empty emotion."

"And the cocaine?" Mulder asked.

"Keely lied about finding it. After all he couldn't have anyone accusing his bastard son, two nephews and their friends of rape now could he? So young. So very very young." He shook his head with genuine sadness and drained the last of the coffee. "Hey, thanks for the coffee," he smiled at Mulder as he stood to leave. "Remember what I said - you can't prevent what's happening here and getting too close could get you in the line of fire. Its not a place you want to go, Fox. You have too much left to do with your life. Never stand between Death and its next casualty."

Before Mulder could collect himself to say anything else, the stranger had gone out the door and gotten onto his bike. Then he was gone in a cloud of road dust. "Freeze! FBI." Scully identified herself - the young girl glared up at her with almost animalistic eyes. Predator's eyes - the girl had the glazed over look of a lunatic. She smiled gleefully - she was covered in the coroner's blood - it dripped from the scalpel and from her hands. The man was still breathing, but his breath was shallow. His hands and feet were bound with duct tape. He looked at Scully, silently pleading for her help - he was silent because his lips had been sewn shut - his tongue sat in the dish on the table next to the girl.

"Move away from him, slowly," Scully told the girl - she couldn't be more than fifteen or sixteen years old.

The girl's smile widened, "What are you going to do, shoot me?" she started to laugh maniacally. "Go ahead, one jerk already ruined this top with a knife tonight, might as well put a bullet through it as well!" Her laughter was insane - she threw her head back, laughing harder.

"I said move away from him. NOW!" Scully cocked the hammer of her gun.

Suddenly the girl looked directly at her, all hint of mad laughter gone - her tone was ice. "Fuck you, bitch," she growled. In one swift movement she threw the scalpel down - it landed squarely in the coroner's left eye, ending his misery almost instantly. "He didn't suffer half enough, but I guess it'll have to do - at least I silenced him the way he tried to silence me - he kept quiet for a whole year. Now he'll be quiet for eternity. Eternity in Hell. Now Jimmy, he suffered - he didn't suffer as much indignity as his brother did, but at least he suffered the way he made me suffer. Nate though, that was good - lead pipes - that's exactly what it felt like too, when he did that to me. Lead pipes." She threw her hair back with a jerk of her head and began advancing on the woman in front of her, slow steps one foot in front of the other. "What about you, what have you done in your past that you're ashamed of, Dana?"

Scully frowned - had she met this demented girl before somewhere? She was sure she had never seen the girl before, although it was hard to tell - the girl's make up was garish. "Look, I just want to help you, ok?" She tried to reason with the child.

"Help me? Help me!" She erupted into renewed fits of hysterically mad laughter. "You can't help me, you can't even help yourself."

"That's enough, Angel," Said a soft voice over Scully's shoulder. She started, almost dropping her gun - she didn't dare take her eyes off of the demented girl in front of her to see who the speaker was.

"Please lower your gun, Agent Scully," he said. "She won't hurt you."

"Oh won't I?" Angel glared at him. It wasn't Erik, but it was someone else like him, like them.

"No, you won't."

"Why? Why shouldn't I hurt her too? She never lifted a finger to help me."

"She never even knew you, Angel."

Then Erik was there, on the FBI agent's other side. "That's right, Angel. You aren't here for her - you're here to make things right. This woman is only doing her job."

"Why wasn't she doing it when they hurt me?" Angel demanded anger rising in her, making her loose even more control.

"Put down your gun," the new voice said - Dana stole a half a glance over her shoulder - she could see him, a young oriental looking man on her right. On her left a young man with strong features and a vaguely familiar face - his ebony hair was long and straight, his cheekbones were high and defined. He had a large black crow sitting on his shoulder. Slowly the on her right reached out and forced the gun down. "That's right. Nice and easy - your partner will be back at the hotel in about an hour. Why don't you make good on that promise to be asleep by the time he gets there."

"What?" Dana almost lost her grip on the gun.

"I'll walk you out," Said the first man, taking her elbow gently, "So these two can talk without us in the way."

"Thanks," Erik said sarcastically.

"Hey, she's your novice, Erik," the other man said with a smile. The crow on his shoulder rustled its feathers, and cawed loudly. "I'm only here because it's my little girl's birthday tomorrow." Gently he guided the red head out of the building and up into the street.

Under the lights of the parking lot Dana Scully finally got a better look at him - he was tall with strong features. "You'll be all right," he said gently. He was older than she had thought at first - she could see slight wrinkles around his eyes - they looked like the sort usually associated with laughter.

"She killed him - she sewed his lips shut." Scully muttered. "She's demented."

"Just out of balance. Don't worry about her."

"But - she's the one who killed those boys," she said.

"Yes she is. And there will be more before she's finally released - unless she looses her balance, then there's no hope for her."

"I don't understand."

"You aren't meant to," he opened her car door and helped her in. "Your lack of faith in the unseen will not allow you to understand that which cannot be proven under a microscope. There's nothing wrong with that, but you must remember that this is a limitation for you and not expect to understand that which cannot be understood. Simply accept that I exist because you have seen me." And with that he was gone.

Scully blinked and began questioning her own sanity. She went back into the morgue - the girl was gone, the other man was gone. The coroner's body remained, the only evidence that the incident had ever taken place.

Scully phoned the Sheriff's office.

"I just - came in and found him this way," she lied. It wasn't in her nature to lie but trying to explain that she had seen a demented teenager dripping in blood kill the coroner and then she just walked out with some Indian looking guy with a bird on his shoulder who vanished in front of her nose would have taken more energy than she had at just that moment. Mulder looked at his partner incredulously. "I think you've been hanging around me for too long, Scully," Mulder said when she'd finished telling him the story. "He couldn't have just vanished into thin air."

"Well he did. And the other guy seemed to know you - the Indian called him Erik."

"I met a guy when I stopped for dinner - but if he got from there to here in half an hour - he must have been going over a hundred miles an hour."

"I don't know how he got from there to here or how that other disappeared right in front of me, but I know what I saw." She poured herself another shot of scotch and pounded it back. "I'm going to bed now."

"Good idea," Mulder helped her to her room - half the bottle was empty. As he was walking back to his room he saw a large black crow watching him from a near by tree. Headlights coming in the motel parking lot drew his attention away from the bird. It was Rae-Ann Saffarian. "Mrs. Saffarian," Mulder walked up to the car as she pulled in to the spot nearest him.

"Get in - Ah need to talk to you."

"It's a little late, isn't it," it was well past midnight. As far as he could tell she didn't seem as if she'd been drinking.

"It's important. Please," she opened the passenger side door.

A little reluctantly, Mulder got in.

"Ah know whose behind all this but - " she hit the power windows, rolling them up tight. "They're following you, you know? They've been following me everywhere Ah go." She pulled out of the parking spot and headed back towards the road.

"Who is?"

"The crows."

Mulder nodded - nope, definitely had not been the brightest idea to get in the car with her. "Why are they following us?" he asked.

"They want to keep us away from the truth, you and Ah. But Ah already know the truth. It was one a them that killed my uncle when I was just a little girl."

"A crow?"

"A spirit. A ghost. The crows watch us for them. The Indians can tell you all about them. It was the ghost of a heathen Indian that killed my uncle. Now it's the ghost of that little whore that's killed my boys."

"Maybe I'd be able to follow you better if I'd lived her all my life like you have, Rae-Ann," Mulder said calmly. "But this sort of thing doesn't usually happen where I come from."

"No, of course, you're right, Ah'm sorry," she apologized sincerely. "That Angelina - she wore those tight jeans and those short skirts and lead all the boys on. False advertising that's what it was. Look in the glove box - Ah brought that for you. That was my Jack's diary. Read it - he and Jimmy and Nate and Tim - Tim, you've got to get to Tim before she does, Agent Mulder. This would never have happened if she hadn't done all the things she done. Its her fault, she brought it on herself. And now she's killed my boys and those crows they just won't leave me alone!"

"Rae-Ann, where exactly are we headed?"

"To Tim's house."

Mulder nodded as if it made perfect sense. Still it did seem as if anyone who was connected to Angelina Prichard was ending up dead in a fairly gruesome manner. It was hard for even him to believe that a ghost was responsible - it couldn't be her brother, but maybe that Indian and the other guy were friends of Josh's and were helping him kill the boys responsible for Angelina's pain. That made a certain amount of sense. When the finally reached Tim's house, Mulder recognized the black motorcycle he'd seen outside the truck stop. "I'll tell you what, Rae-Ann - I'm going to go inside and talk to Tim's parents. I want you to go back to your house and get some rest."

"You don't believe me!"

"I do believe you - but these things usually sound better coming from - a federal official." He hoped he sounded convincing. He must have because she smiled with relief and nodded. Mulder got out of the car - of course his gun was back in his room. He'd have to improvise. He snuck around the back quietly - the house was dark - he noticed that the phone and electric lines had been cut at their boxes. "Some ghost," he muttered. The back door was open. He slipped inside, keeping low to the floor. He heard movement from upstairs - and foot steps in the next room - hard soled shoes on hard wood floors. It sounded like a woman's shoes.

"Olli olli oxen free!" Came the lyrical sing-song call - it was a woman's voice. Suddenly there was another voice, a harsh whisper in his ear.

"You shouldn't be here, Fox," the voice held a vaguely malicious sing- song quality of its own.

He spun around nearly banging his head on the counter - the oriental man stood leaning down, his hands behind his back. His face was painted like some demented mime. He smiled broadly. "What do you think - my working face." He held his hands below his chin in a pose that might have been cute on a five-year-old. He was still attired in the same all black clothing he'd had on earlier. "I know, no shirt and tie, but hey, we can't all be FBI agents. Somebody has to be the bad guy."

"And are you the bad guy?" Mulder asked.

"Come out come out where ever you are!" Sang the girl's voice from the other room.

Mulder started to stand.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," the mime faced man forced Mulder down with unexpected strength. "She's a little new - she sometimes gets carried away. If it weren't for George she might have done ugly things to your partner. I probably could have gotten there before Angel killed her at least."

"What did she do, fake her own death?" Mulder asked.

Erik smiled more deeply, "Come on, Fox, you're the one with the imagination. Use it. I wouldn't even be talking to you if I didn't think you could handle it." He gave a not so gentle squeeze on the shoulder that he was still holding down. "You know I could crush your collar bone with one hand if I really wanted to."

Mulder searched the man's eyes - there was a madness there - instability. But without cruelty or hate - he wasn't quite crazy but he certainly wasn't stable.

"Death will do that to a man," Erik whispered in response to Mulder's silent observation.

"Timmy, come out to play!" Sang the girl in the other room. "I promise not to hurt you. Too much."

Erik rolled his eyes, "Excuse me," he said to Mulder in a distinctly exasperated tone of voice. "Don't move, ok?"

"Sure."

Erik stood up and walked into the other room.

Mulder searched the drawers - he was in luck, a gun and bullets! Definitely better than kitchen knives. He heard part of the conversation going on in the next room.

"Angel, darling, cat and mouse is a fine game but only up to a point."

"But I really don't know where he is."

"Then listen - use your senses. Listen for his heart beat - smell his fear. No, the one in the kitchen is mine dear - and besides, can't you smell the after shave, the cologne? High school boys don't wear expensive cologne, not even rich brats like Timmy here. Learn to tell the difference between people's smells. Don't pout."

"But - I want to kill someone!" her voice was like that of a small child who wasn't getting her own way.

"Then toddle along upstairs and go find the one you're supposed to be killing. You've only got about an hour before the parents get back."

"How do you know that?"

"Because I've been doing this a lot longer than you have. Go on now, run along and kill Timmy like a good girl." He came back into the kitchen, not at all surprised to see Mulder with a gun leveled at his chest. "I swear, kids these days have no patience. Put that thing down, will you, Fox? Someone is liable to get hurt."

"You just sent her up to kill some innocent kid?"

"Innocent? Please. Read the other boy's diary - see how innocent they were. They deserve what she gives them."

"Vigilantism? No way. Murder is murder."

"Who is there to protect the innocent, Fox? Who is there to avenge the wronged? You? You and your laws and criminal justice system that have the real criminals out a couple of weeks and boys like Josh Prichard in jail for the rest of his life?"

"It's not perfect but it's the only system we have. I don't know how she faked her death - is the funeral woman in on it too? You helped her then? You must have," Mulder said, thinking out loud.

Erik shook his head, "You just can't believe it, even when confronted with it. I'm disappointed." He began closing the gap between them.

"Stay back - " Suddenly a though occurred to him. "Tim!" He yelled. "Tim if you can hear me, I'm a federal agent - there's a girl here trying to kill you - get out of the house any way you can!"

Erik tisked, "He knows that, Fox. He knows who she is and why she's here."

"I said stay back," Mulder pulled the hammer of the gun back.

"Go ahead, shoot," Erik smiled.

Mulder did - it should have been a clean kill shot, right to the heart. Except that the other barely wavered. "That tickled. Oh please don't faint on me." Erik said, "You'll ruin your tough guy whole image in my eyes."

Mulder blinked and pulled the trigger again and again. And again. He emptied all six bullets into the man who just kept coming at him. Finally Erik took the empty gun from his hand and threw it to the ground. "Like I said, don't come between Death and its next causality. Don't worry, she isn't here for you, just the boys who raped her and the men who covered it up. And I'm only here to help her because she's so young. And because she doesn't realize yet that she's in love with one of them."

"Bobby Miller."

"Exactly. Unless she kills them all she can never be free. I'm only here to help her be free, Fox. And to try and keep innocent blood from being shed. Now why don't YOU go back to that motel and kill off the bottle of scotch that your partner left for you. Take my bike, keys are in the ignition - you CAN ride a bike, can't you?"

Blood dripped from her fingers, from her hair. She sagged to her knees, exhausted from the effort of killing Timmy. But it was done. She smiled. It was done, finally done. The Sheriff had been easy - he was old and fat. Too many donuts - too much beer. He couldn't out run her no matter how hard he'd tried. Finally his heart just gave out on him - but he didn't die, not right away. She was still able to finish him off. She smiled at the memory. She smiled down at Timmy. "It's over."

'Not yet.'

She looked up at the crow sitting on the windowsill - then she looked to Eric. "Not yet?"

"Not yet," Eric said out loud.

'There is another who knows, who has been silent. He knows you are coming and he's waiting.'

"Show me!" She demanded - the bird took off out of the window. She took off after him, leaping to the ground, following on foot with speed and agility she had never possessed in life. Following to where the crow lead her. Following, following. "No." I shook my head, unable to believe where it had lead me. "Not Burns."

'He knows. He kept his silence.'

"Why?"

'You'll have to ask him.'

"His family - " I began to protest - he had a wife and a six - no he would be seven by now, wouldn't he. Seven. A year older than the last time I saw him. I used to baby sit for Burns when I was in Jr. High. Seven. A whole year older. A whole year of my life gone. My whole life gone. "I can't do it with his family here," I said resolutely.

'They aren't here.' The crow said. 'He is expecting you.'

I braced myself. I took the clippers out of my jacket pocket and cut the power and phone lines like I'd done at the Baker house. Then I entered through the back door - it was unlocked. I closed my eyes. Use my senses as Eric had told me. I concentrated - listened. Smelled. Bourbon. Cigarette smoke. Perspiration. Aftershave - I remember his aftershave. I walk towards the smell - I can hear his heart beat now. Its steady, rhythmic. I remember the lay out of the house - they've redecorated some, new tile, new carpet - new curtains in the living room. I walk into the den and there he sits, waiting. He looks up, a pathetic look in his eyes.

"As soon as I realized it was you I sent Pat and Mikey away, to Pat's mom's. Mikey is in little league this year." He holds up me a picture. Curious, I take it from his hands - I remember Mikey - he was always such a sweet kid. He stands here with his father, in his little league uniform, a bat slung over his shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. One tooth is missing, probably a baby tooth fallen out to make way for an adult tooth.

"He's grown," I say. I'm not sure what else to say.

He sets down his glass. "I'm sorry, Angelina. I'm so sorry," there are tears streaming down his cheeks. "I was so wrapped up in what would happen to the team if I lost four of my best athletes that I didn't even consider - you."

"That's a hell of an excuse!" rage fills me. He was more concerned with god damned trophies than a life?

"It's no excuse." He says.

I look down at him - he's hung his head. I feel a twinge of regret, some sorrow. But I know what must be done and I do it as quickly as I can. He's already suffered enough. Scully handed Mulder the bottle of aspirin with one hand and with the other raised the glass to her lips to wash down the two she had just put in her mouth. Mulder took three and swallowed them with the dregs of his coffee. They both whirled around to the sound of tisking - Eric, with a large crow sitting on his shoulder, stood in the open door way holding a carry out drink holder that contained two large card board cups of what smelled like coffee. "Hope you kids don't mind me letting myself in - oh don't do for your gun, Fox. I even brought you real coffee."

Scully and Mulder exchanged glances. They both realized that if this particular person wanted to kill them he probably could.

"That's better," Erik smiled, handing them each a cup of coffee after Mulder put down his gun. "I'm not here for either of you - but little Angel was pretty busy last night. Deputy Carson should be here right - about - now!" He smiled as the Deputy's car pulled into the hotel parking lot. Dust went flying when the car came to a screeching halt.

The Deputy stormed into the open hotel room door. "Where the sam-hill have you two been? I've been trying to reach you all gall-darned morning!" He peered around at the third person, "Who in tarnation are you?" the Deputy was a younger man, skinny as a rail and balding despite his youth.

"Who me?" Eric asked sweetly - he was leaning back against the wall with one ankle crossed over the other casually. "I'm Eric. Mulder's second cousin from Detroit. That's in Michigan. I was just passing through," he smiled. "Decided to bring Fox and Dana here some real coffee."

Jake Carson scowled.

"You said you were trying to reach us?" Mulder prompted, hoping to divert the man's attention away from Eric.

"There were three more murders last night," the Deputy said. "Tim Baker, Taylor Burns -- "

"The principal?" Scully asked.

"Why yes, the principal," Eric smiled sardonically.

Carson turned to glare at him once more, "Have we met before?"

"No, but I'm sure we'll meet again. Deputy." He smiled and exited the room. "See you two later," he called over his shoulder to Fox and Dana.

"Who was the third victim?" Dana asked.

"Sheriff Keely," Carson told them - he didn't look entirely remorseful. "Ok, so Burns knew about the rape and did nothing, same with the coroner," Dana said. Reading the diary they had discovered that after Bobby Miller became 'ill' the boys had gone to their principal and he had advised them to keep silent and just 'let sleeping dogs lie'.

Mulder nodded. "And Keely made it look like a suicide. So that only leaves the Miller boy."

They exchanged glances. In theory they should try to prevent the boy's death, as futile as that was - on the other hand, they had both read the diary. The boys had gotten a thrill out of raping Angelina and had talked about doing it again, to some other social cast out, someone with no one to believe or defend her. Maybe they really did deserve what they got. There it was, empty, waiting. Cool muddy earth. My grave. I fell to my knees, waiting. Nothing happened. I'm not sure what I was expecting, but I was expecting something - it was over. It should be over. It HAD to be over! I looked up at the bird who had been my companion and tormentor. "Why am I still here?"

'You have more work to do.'

"How can that be? I killed them all - the boys who hurt me, that stupid coroner, the sheriff, even my high school principal!" It should have been over - they were all dead. Even Burns; he had been the hardest one to kill. I always liked Burns, but in the end I knew that he had to die too. I think he repented at the end, found forgiveness with the Powers that can grant such things - I hope that he did. I know that I'll never forgive him his silence. Silence for the sake of trophies.

I look up and find my crow companion sitting on my grave stone. He looks at me.

"Why am I still here? Why do I still ache inside?"

'They come.'

I stand and look in the direction he's indicated - two people coming up the hill, a man and a woman, both in dark suits. She has red hair - I remember her from the coroner's office. An FBI agent. "Shit." I mutter. I don't want to kill them, I just want to die myself. I wait as they approach. I sense trepidation in them both - his heart is pounding, hers is more steady. I wait.

"We know who you are," the man says to me.

"Yeah, well as they say, the writing's on the wall," I gesture towards my open grave and the cheap headstone.

"And we know why you've come back," the woman says. "Why you killed all those people."

"So what now, you're going to arrest me?"

The man looks like he's about to say something but stops at a sharp glance from his partner. I feel Eric walk up behind me.

"This is the hard part, Angel," he whispers softly, holding my shoulders gently. I look up - he's wearing his working face. "Show her, Fox," he says to the man. Fox? Who in the hell would name their kid Fox? I take the book from his hand - his hand is shaking.

"What, never been this close to a ghost before?"

"Actually - never mind." He says.

The book is a diary. There is a section marked - I flip to it and read. And I die all over again. "NO!" I run sobbing, screaming, wailing into the night. Not Bobby - he wouldn't have - he couldn't have - but even as the hole is ripped in my heart and I feel my insides turn inside out, I can remember. There were five of them. Jimmy, Jack, Nate, Timmy - and Bobby. He was there - he's the one who started it, put them up to it - said I was too old to be a virgin, that by the time his sister was twelve her cherry had been popped. Said that I couldn't go wearing cloths like I wore and not put out - so they held me down and took me. Over and over and over again. I'm on the ground writhing, crying out - begging for release but death will not come. It will not come.

It will not come tonight either. Not until the last of them is dead. Not until I kill my first true love - a boy I would have given my soul for - a boy I did give my heart to. A boy I was going to give my virginity to. I sob out his name. "I heard the Miller boy died in the hospital," Josh Prichard said to his visitor. She wore tight leather pants and a leather halter top – she looked the same and yet so very different from the little girl he had once known; he wasn't sure if it was Death or Vengeance that had changed her.

"Yeah," she smiled at her brother. "I heard that too."

Her smile told Josh all he needed to know, but was still afraid to ask. "So what now?"

"Now? Now I don't know. I only know that there's no rest for me - sometimes, sometimes the something bad that brings someone back is so horrible that they just can't find rest after making their own wrong things right," Angel told him. "I think I'm one of those." She reached up and touched the glass that separated them. "I was betrayed - I know you think that he was trash, Josh, but he loved me. That's why he ended up in the hospital - some sort of stress syndrome according to the doctors."

"You talked to the doctors?"

She chuckled softly, "What, its not like they knew who I am."

"So what will you do now?"

"Now? Now I'm going to see about getting you out of here."

"Angelina -"

"Not like that. Deputy Carson is working with that fed, Mulder, to see if they can't come up with some angle a lawyer can use to get your sentence reduced."

"Maybe then you can rest," Josh said softly.

"Maybe."