Chapter 2
March 22nd
Bell's farm
Mulder exited the sedan, and squinted against the bright sun. Again he had forgotten to bring his sunglasses. With more force than needed he slammed the door shut and walked to the big barn where he had seen something move.
"Hello? Someone there?" he shouted. Three men with long forks in their big hands emerged from the shadow of the barn. They met halfway. "My name's Mulder. I'm with the FBI." He flipped open his badge. The men didn't react, just looked at him with cold eyes. Their faces were tanned and wrinkled from constant outdoor life. They had broad shoulders and intimidating features, and they carried heavy
tools in the pockets of their work pants and pitchforks in their fists.
"There were three murders near here. Three dead bodies were discovered four days ago. Do you know anything about it? Have you seen anything or heard rumors?" He put his wallet back into the inside pocket of his jacket, damning himself for wearing a suit. Jeans and T-Shirt would have been a better choice.
One man spat on the ground.
"No, sir, ain't seen nothin'." Then he fell silent again. The others didn't even bother to open their mouths. From their appearance, Mulder thought they had to be one family.
"What's your name, sir?"
"Bell. I'm Raymond, these are my brothers Hank and Joe."
"All right, Mr. Bell. Is there anyone else living here that I might question?"
"Nope."
Mulder glanced over the man's shoulder and spotted movement at the curtain of a window.
"You sure?" No answer. "Well, if that curtain over there is any indication, there is someone else inside the house." He didn't want to sound impatient, but he did.
The man in the middle of the three answered, "Only my wife and kids. And they're none of your business."
"I'm a federal agent, sir, and I want to talk to everybody who lives here."
The men remained standing in front of him like a wall. "I don't want to ask you again to let me pass." Mulder was tall enough to meet the eyes of the men in front of him, and, reluctantly, they let him pass. "Thank you."
The men breathed down his neck, and only put their pitchforks down when the went inside the house. A woman in her mid-forties looked up, and two children of two, maybe three years of age, withdrew behind her long, spot-stained skirt, putting their thumbs in their mouths.
"Excuse me, m'am, I'm Fox Mulder with the FBI. I'd like to ask you a few questions about three murders that occurred near here."
She looked at him, puzzled, then at the men behind Mulder to get assurance.
"So?" she asked in a low, husky voice. She closed the top button of her blouse as if to hide herself from Mulder. It was the agent's term to be puzzled.
"No more than 'so'? Three people are dead, m'am, and I'm investigating the circumstances of their murders. I would like to know if you've seen any strangers around here during the last two months." He turned to face the men. "Any piece of information might be helpful." But he knew from their faces that he'd have to stumble over the information to get it. "M'am? What about you?"
"No, I... I don't go out much. I have the kids, y'know." She bent down to pull one of the children into her arms and lift him. Promptly the other started whining. "I'm here mostly. Do the housework." She avoided Mulder's stare again. He made her nervous. He knew it. He didn't need to be a profiler to see that she knew something that might be worth telling, but she didn't dare to speak.
"Mrs. Bell, the murderer is still on the loose. We don't know when he'll kill again. Or whom he might kill. This is serious. If you have information that could lead to this person, you must tell me." He glanced over his shoulder. With three watch dogs, she wouldn't even tell him the recipe for baked potatoes. He cursed silently.
This was a hard nut to crack. And he didn't have Scully to back him up on this.
March 23rd
Sarah's place
Mulder fought his way back to consciousness as if through thick molasses. There was movement around him, someone moving him, touching him. Coldness at his calves and ankles. A feeling of wetness, too. Then it changed, and he got warm again. But the pain rose at the same time. He wanted to wake up, to snap out of this state of dreams and illusions, but the nearer he got to the surface, the more pain welled up from his waist and leg, not to mention his brain, which seemed to be on fire as well. He felt soft linen under his fingers, knowing the surface was only inches away. He tried to swallow, to open his eyes. Damn, how could his lids be so heavy?
Sarah changed the linens. The agent was sweating and shaking with fever. She had medicine to get his temperature down, but he'd have to be awake to take it. So she had to wait, keep him warm and be around to notice the slightest change in his condition. The cold compresses had helped, and both of the wounds she had stitched had stopped bleeding, which was encouraging. But he still wasn't out of the woods. She pulled the dirty blankets into a heap and covered Mulder with fresh ones, added a cover and pulled it high to his chest. When turning away to carry the laundry to the kitchen, she heard him make a feeble sound. She stopped and waited at the bedside.
"Mr. Mulder? Can you hear me?" She took his hand in hers. Long, slender fingers so unlike her husbands', who had always done hard labour to earn money. This man probably never touched anything heavier than a pen or a computer keyboard. "Please, press my hand if you can hear me."
Mulder heard the voice, but it wasn't Scully's. So where...? He slowly understood that the voice wanted him to make sure he heard her. He gently pressed the hand that held his. He tried to swallow again, but his throat was too dry. 'Open your eyes,' he ordered himself. 'Just open them! Then asked for water, and something to help the pain.'
Sarah was so relieved she blinked tears away.
"You're doing fine, Mr. Mulder, just go on. You almost made it."
He tried to follow her demand. He didn't know how long he had been out cold, but being able to see the scenery would be a change for the better in any case. Mulder slowly opened his eyes, took in the late morning light, and tried to focus, which was like nailing fog to the wall. He couldn't make out more than the rough outline of a person standing beside him, talking to him. Above all, the pain in his midsection and left leg demanded his attention.
"I'm so glad to have you back, Mr. Mulder," Sarah said, and it took a load off her heart. She pressed his hand again, then let go, pushed a strand of brown hair behind her ear. "You think, you can drink something?" He wasn't able to answer, but she'd try anyway. But the glass was hard to handle. She hurried for a straw, put it in the glass, then lifted Mulder's head to slip a second pillow under it. He gasped from the pain it caused at his waist. Sarah noticed, but would deal with it later. She held the glass for him, so that he felt the straw touch his lips. "Try it." He sipped some water and finally swallowed. The first time was painful, but it got easier. Deliberately he sucked in more water, until she took the glass away. His stomach rumbled, but he couldn't think about eating. He let out a deep breath.
"Okay, now, relax." Sarah put the glass down on the bedside table. "How're you feeling?"
He parted his lips to answer, but no words came out. He was dizzy, and the pain took a strong hold of him. Sarah frowned and held two fingers in front of his face.
"How many fingers do you see?"
Mulder swallowed again, blinked. Slowly he held up two fingers on his right hand. His head seemed to slowly prepare itself for explosion. He could already see yellow dots swimming in and out of focus.
"Fine. Now follow my fingers with your eyes." He did, and Sarah nodded. "Okay. You better lie still, Mr. Mulder. As I see it, you might have a concussion. I'm no doctor, so I can't tell for sure. You hit your head when the car crashed at the post of the gate. Do you remember anything about that?" He closed his eyes and opened them again, waved his hand. 'Some of it.' "Good, so you didn't lose your memory - or not all of it. Fine."
"Pain," he murmured, begging her with his look.
"I know." She hesitated. "I've got morphine, but, as I said, I'm no doctor, so I better start this on a small dose, okay? I don't wanna knock you out." Her smile failed to reach her eyes. She didn't tell him that her husband had stolen it from a hospital, and he didn't ask. Sarah filled a syringe and gave him the injection. "If this doesn't take effect in ten minutes, I'll do it again." She put away the syringe, letting her breath out she had held the whole time. 'A physician's assistant,' Roberta had called her. If so, she had a lot to learn.
"Where...?"
"This is my place. You collapsed on my porch yesterday night. That means you were unconscious for about eight hours." He swallowed and closed his eyes again. She couldn't tell if he did so just to take in the information or... "Mr. Mulder?" He didn't reply. She quickly checked his pulse, but it was okay, and his breathing was normal. He was sound asleep.
March 22nd
Bell's farm
Mulder braced himself for a fight, putting the wall behind him before he asked his next question.
"Mrs. Bell, what did you see? What happened here?"
"As I said..."
"No, not as you said. I know that you're hiding something from me!" He let his voice rise, making the men behind him grumble and the woman tremble. She held the child more tightly to her bosom.
"I don't think you..."
Mulder took a step forward. This was too close to call. Either the men showed him the door or he was allowed to stay due to his reputation as a man of the law. He could feel the oldest man breathe behind him, but he went untouched.
"Mrs. Bell, do you want a murderer in your neighbourhood? On your property? In your house? We don't know why he kills or how he finds his victims. He could break into your house tonight. Do you want that?"
Mrs. Bell swallowed hard, made eye-contact with Mr. Bell multiplied by three, then decided.
"Y'know, it's not right to say something about a neighbour..." Her voice trailed off. Mulder waited. He knew instinctively that he shouldn't step any closer or the men would throw him out before he got an answer. Mrs. Bell looked down at the child hanging at her skirt. "I... the boys... I was out with the boys and heard a cry." Mr. Bell the Eldest snorted, but didn't object. "It was... well, y'know it could've been an animal. In pain. Terrible pain. - Sure could've been an animal, but it sounded like a woman."
"Where was that, and when?"
"Three weeks ago. Over at Harper's farm... I think."
He glanced at her.
"You think - or you know?"
"It was in that direction," she nodded, "But, y'see, the wind and..." She made a gesture with her free hand that indicated she couldn't be any more specific.
"Anything else? Unusual behaviour by Mr. Harper or his workers?"
"He keeps pretty much to himself."
"No workers on that farm?"
"Yes, workers, but they don't come to the house. He has a foreman, who takes care of that. - They only work for him because he pays more than the others," she added with a touch of resentment.
"So no-one sees much of Mr. Harper himself." Mrs. Bell nodded. Now he had a direction to go. "Thank you, Mrs. Bell. Why didn't you tell the sheriff, when he came here?"
"The sheriff? He hasn't been here. Not since Christmas."
Mulder glanced at the three Mr. Bells. He understood why no sheriff ever tried to cross the threshold of this house.
March 23rd
Sarah's place
Mulder felt like he was swimming, light on one side, but drawn deeper in, where breathing became impossible. He'd wake up or drown. Startled he woke up, raised his head, sucking in air. The feeling of swimming was replaced by that of spinning round and round as on a carousel. His stomach turned, and he knew he was going to throw up before he could call to anyone. He leaned over the side of the bed. A bucket was there, but too far away for him to reach it in time. He vomited on the rug beside the bed. Although there was nothing but water in his stomach, it felt like forever before he could lie back. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a movement at the door. Someone was watching him.
Roberta had entered the house asking if Mr. Mulder was awake, and Sarah had been glad to answer that he had been awake for a couple of minutes, but now slept. Roberta had then left her backpack in the living room and walked into the guest room, while Sarah was preparing lunch in the kitchen. Now she came running back.
"He's... he's awake," she blurted out, "but just... just puked on the rug!"
Sarah dropped the potato she had been peeling, left behind John Denver's 'Country Roads', and headed for the guest room. 'What a mess,' she thought, but at the same time she knew she should have put the bucket close enough to avoid the disaster.
"Sorry," the agent said hoarsely, then saw the girl standing in the doorway. He felt self-conscious, and closed his eyes again. "Really..."
"It's all right," Sarah quickly reassured him. "It'll just take a minute to clean up." She caught her daughter still staring at the stranger. "Get me a bucket of water and a mop. On the double!"
Roberta grinned at the order and hurried to get what her mother needed. Anyway it was better to get away from the stink. What a mess! Her mother had removed the wet rug by the time she returned, and then effectively cleaned the wood under it. Done, she washed her hands and the bucket in the bathroom, and placed the bucket near the head of the bed.
"I made you some tea," she told Mulder. "You should try to drink a little," she insisted when he looked at her remorsefully. "I don't mind, really. My guess wasn't that bad after all." The smile was small, but this time it reached her eyes. "Though I wished I was wrong."
"Who...?"
"I'm Sarah. And that girl pretending to be the shyest kitten on earth is my daughter, Roberta." She gestured at Roberta to come closer, but the girl firmly shook her head. Sarah cocked an eyebrow. "Now she is the shyest kitten." She smiled, then turned back to her guest. "I'll get your tea." She patted Roberta's shoulder and left the child watching the agent.
Roberta had been looking forward to the moment when this Mr. Mulder would wake up. She thought he'd be grateful for what they'd done for him and he'd protect them both against the strange man that claimed to be her father. And what had happened? He'd puked on the floor the moment she came to look at him! She was disgusted - in a way. Sure she knew - for mom had told her - that some people puked when they were sick, but... those were other people. She shook her head in disbelief. FBI agents on TV never puked or got hurt. They were tough. Mom had forbidden her to watch such shows, but she had been so curious! And it couldn't be that bad for her if it was aired in the afternoon. They wouldn't show them if they were bad for kids. At least she thought that was true.
The FBI man was moaning, clenching his teeth, his fists. She saw the muscles on his arms tense, and the sweat on his forehead. He breathed heavily, and she thought she'd better tell mom.
She met her mom in the living room.
"He's..." Roberta was lacking the word. "Well, sweaty."
"I'll see to it." Sarah thought about what these events would do to her daughter. At the moment even the most stupid stalker wouldn't disclose his intentions. Would she lose the rest of her trust she had in mankind if this man turned out to be evil? She passed Roberta on the threshold, smiling, although the circumstances weren't funny. Mulder was retching again, and when he leaned back, he looked as pale as the linen he lay on. "You look like the pain has returned." Mulder nodded, and Sarah filled another syringe with Morphine. The injection settled the agent down after a few minutes. "I'd call an ambulance for you, but I've got no phone. I mean, it's not working. The Phone Company said..."
"My phone. I've got a cell phone." He turned to focus on her face. "In the jacket..."
"No, it was in your car. You dropped it. But it isn't working. No service around here." Sarah saw his hopes sink. "I'm sorry. Why did you come here? There's nothin' here for miles."
"Escape." He shivered.
"Yeah." The look on Mulder's face made her shiver, too.
March 22nd
Harper's farm, late afternoon
"Hello? Anybody here?" Mulder rested his hands on his hips and waited. How could two farms looked exactly alike? Or was he too much of a city boy? He loosened his tie, checked the cell phone - still no service - and put it back in his outer pocket. "Hello?" 'What a coincidence, Mr. Harper goes shopping in Des Moines just when I'm trying to find a needle in a haystack.' He sighed. He didn't want to waste time driving from farm to farm, asking if anyone had heard anything. What Mrs. Bell had said was the best clue he'd gotten. And now he had to decide between driving back all the way to the police station to ask the squad to search the Harper farm because of a woman's claim, or to continue on alone and search for Harper on his own. He chose the latter. Why make a fuss, when there's nothing to be done about it?
Mulder knocked on the door of the main house, but no-one answered. He entered, shouting his name and that he was an FBI agent, but only silence came back. It didn't take long for him to search the entire house. It looked like Mrs. Bell was right - Mr. Harper lived alone. No women's clothes or men's clothing in sizes other than a real tall man of sizeable girth. And probably this man was just out on his tractor and having a good time. Maybe make a woman cry in excitement. Mulder left, shut the door and headed for the barn which was about fifty feet away. He stomped into the shadows of the big hay barn. If anybody worked here, they must have heard his car arrive and his shouting. So he didn't expect anyone.
That was a mistake.
The attack came out of nowhere. He only saw a shadow and two hooks coming at him, startling him. Mulder evaded, pulled his gun from his holster, but was too late to aim. He dodged a second time, frightened by the sight of the huge man going after him. Gritted teeth and grunting. And these incredible hooks. No time to yell, no time to argue. He had no breath left to defend himself with words. He was driven back by the attacker's fury. Swung his pistol and fired. Hit the man's shoulder. The man didn't seem to notice it.
"Shit!" He fired again, missing his opponent's cheek by an inch. "Shit! Damnit!" He fell backwards over a bale of hay, and the hook caught his left thigh. He screamed in pain, rolled over his shoulder and neck. Blood was oozing from the wound. The attacker swung his weapons again, growling words Mulder didn't understand; he thought they might be Latin. 'He's so fast!' The assailant hit him with that incredible hook, that extended the man's clenched fist by six inches, in the side. Mulder doubled over, screaming in agony. He brought his weapon up the moment Harper raised the hooks to strike him down. He fired and hit the mark. Fired again. Harper stood for a moment, stopped his grunting, stopped every movement, then his knees gave way under him, and he crashed to the ground, two holes in his chest. The hooks fell to each side, clanking on the floor. Harper's eyes remained open and his outstretched arms indicated that he was a man who waited to be taken to heaven.
Mulder gasped for air, swallowed, closed his eyes to regain control of his breathing. His hands trembled so violently he almost dropped his gun. He needed a minute to climb to his feet, check his wounds. He was losing blood and would bleed dry if he didn't get to a hospital. His hands were already bloodstained and slippery. He staggered out of the barn, and saw the sun was setting. His car waited fifty feet away, but it might as well have been fifty miles. Mulder holstered his weapon and slowly made his way toward the car, he swayed, stumbled, caught himself and when he finally reached the car, he heard a howling that made his blood freeze. He half-turned and saw a man, much younger than Harper, run from the barn.
He ran fast.
Straight in Mulder's direction. The sight of the man's unyielding rage made Mulder shift into automatic to save his life. Disregarding his pain, he opened the car door and slipped behind the wheel, put the key into the ignition and turned it. The motor sprang to life. Mulder put the car in gear, backed up, pulled his gun at the same time, but the man was faster, reaching in through the open door and knocking it out of his hands. The car was rolling. Mulder didn't care, as long as it was away from this screaming lunatic.
"You killed him! You killed him!" the man shrieked. At the same time he grabbed Mulder's collar with both hands, tried to pull him out of the car. Mulder fought with one hand, steering with the other. His injuries had weakened him, and he knew he would be dead meat if he couldn't get away at once. He was choking, couldn't see clearly anymore.
"You bastard! You're the devil! You killed him!" the man shouted.
Mulder shifted gears, floored the gas pedal and headed for the road, ignoring the possibility of oncoming traffic. The maniac continued to wrestle with him as Mulder wrestled with the car, trying to control the rolling. Pain. Throbbing pain, sinking him to unconsciousness. He couldn't get away fast enough. Lost contact with the gas pedal. And still the man's vicious hands squeezed his windpipe. No air! He couldn't breathe! And couldn't get rid of the attacker. He searched with his left hand for the switch to close the window. Flashes exploded before his eyes. No time! Faster, go faster! He squinted, tried to focus on the road, kept his right hand on the wheel. Pushed the gas pedal down again.
The maniac was spitting at him, and removed one hand to grab the wheel. The attacker found himself squeezed by the glass of the rising window.
"You gonna die, bastard! I'll kill ya!"
Mulder fought to get the man's hand off the wheel. The window was up as far as it could go, squeezing the man's arm. The attacker lost his grip on Mulder's collar, then the wheel. Screaming he fell away.
In the mirror Mulder saw the man hit the blacktop. He coughed, desperately sucking in air. His vision was blurred, but maybe it was his surroundings - fields of corn for miles and miles. No distractions. And it was getting dark. Still driving at top speed, he wasn't able to read the road signs. He drove on, hoping to reach a town sooner or later. He felt the blood oozing out his body and with it, all his body heat. Numbly he fumbled for his cell phone. Shit! Still no service. He threw the phone into the passenger seat.
'Fuck it! Fuck this whole damn place!'
March 22nd
Motel Six, in the evening
When Mulder didn't show up for dinner, Scully called the sheriff from the motel office. The sheriff didn't know what Mulder had been up to, and to Scully's explanation that he wanted to visit the farms, the sheriff answered it could take days to visit them all and - that was the quintessence - find someone to speak to.
"They work outdoors. Sometimes they don't come in over night. It's been dry for five days in a row. They sleep where they work, Agent Scully. But don't worry, he'll show up tomorrow."
But she hadn't been convinced. The problem was that she had no rental car available. Reluctantly she decided to wait till morning to order the sheriff to search for her partner.
March 23rd
Sarah's place
John Denver made another entrance with his old guitar, singing about his lovely wife Annie. Sarah quickly hit the 'next' button. That was the only song she couldn't hear. She always thought about the wonderfully expressed feelings John Denver had put down in that very song. So much love, so much affection. She once had thought that she'd have these feelings for Charles and he for her. But she was deceived, trapped in a marriage that made her kiss his boot and strictly obey his orders. Which would have been tolerable for an amount of time, but it wasn't enough for him. He started abusing her. When she decided to leave him she found out she was pregnant - and stayed. And he vowed to love her and the child as well, and for two years everything went normal - she thought. She didn't find out his secret life until a former friend told her about it. Told her how he beat whores black and blue. First she didn't believe. Second she was shocked. Third she thought about her baby and what would become of her daughter if she ran away.
So she stayed, kept her eyes shut to her husband's strange bedpartners, and hoped it would end sooner or later. That he would lose interest in beating and raping. 'How stupid can a woman be?' she mused bitterly while John Denver went on with the 'Cowboy and the Lady'. Naturally he only satisfied his appetite until he couldn't hold it any longer and came after Sarah again. Roberta was almost four at that time and could understand that her mom didn't always fall down stairs or ladders, and that she was hushed out when her parents had an argument.
Sarah packed her and Roberta's stuff the night Charles slapped her daughter in the face. It was no hard blow, not even left a mark, but Sarah knew it was the end of the line. The last call to get away or Roberta would undergo the same brutality she had suffered from for so long.
They were on the run for some weeks. Sarah decided that the only one who could keep Roberta safe was her mother alone.
They moved various times from town to town, but Charles always found them somehow. He followed her leads as sure as a dog out for the hunt. And she evaded in even more isolated places. Until they came here. Iowa. Sarah smirked. She had never thought of living in rural Iowa. She had dreamt of Boston at least, make it into the upper class by designing draperies. Open up her own store maybe. All gone.
Resigned she took another cup of warm tea to her strange guest.
Roberta stood on watch like a guard, but was unwilling to get any closer. Sarah eyed her.
"You're fine there?" A nod. "'kay." She turned to Mulder again. He looked still pale, but had been awake for a longer period of time now. "Want the tea first or me to change the bandages?"
"Couldn't you skip that part with the bandages?" he asked looking up pleadingly.
"I'm hard as nails on this, Mr. Mulder." She put the cup down.
"Call me Mulder."
Sarah frowned,
"That's what I thought I do."
"No 'Mister' before it."
"Okay, then, Mulder without a Mister," she announced pulling back the covers, "I'll change the bandages and you try not to jump out of the window." He swallowed and braced himself so obviously she laughed. "Sorry." She bit her lip. "But..." She shrugged and prepared new bandages and gauze on the bedside table.
"No, it's okay, Sarah. Just tell me when I can unclench my teeth." The Morphine helped, but he still could feel too much to be fine when Sarah took off the bandage around his waist and checked the wound.
"A little deeper and more to the middle and you'd have sung in high tunes," she murmured, taking off the gauze.
Mulder swallowed and risked a look.
"If this was to comfort me, it didn't work." He moaned and let his head rest on the pillow again.
"No, no consolation. I just want you to get this real. You could've been killed by - whoever. And I'm no doctor. You should be in a hospital, but there's none. So..."
"You stitched the wounds?" he asked and pressed his lips shut when she applied the new bandage.
"Who else? Would you've preferred to bleed to death?" she snapped before thinking.
"No." Another moan before she finished at his waist. "I want to live." He gasped and looked at her with new admiration. "Quite a job for someone who says he doesn't know..."
"Didn't say I didn't know, but I'm no doc, that's it." Sarah retained her temper and took the second bandage off.
"What's your profession?" he asked to keep his mind from the pain to come. His waist hurt enough to make him sick.
"I..." She hesitated what to tell him. Could she trust him, or would he only wait to fall into her back the moment he could leave the house?
"You don't have to...au!"
"Sorry." Sarah hadn't concentrated, and he had to take the blame. More careful she unwrapped his thigh. The gash still looked awful, and Mulder hardly glimpsed at it. He had seen ugly wounds - but never on himself. He hoped he could hold back the urgency to throw up until she would have finished her work. "I make draperies," she explained applying new gauze and putting the new bandage on tightly. "I mean, I sew them for customers. Sometimes a coat or a suit, too. - Nothing that expensive you wear." She glanced at him. "I earn a living out of it. I sew pretty well." Sarah frowned to Mulder's dead earnest face.
"I hope so."
She blushed the same moment. No witty comment on this. She was taken aback until she saw his weak smile.
"No, Mulder, no more jokes like this on me, okay?"
"Promised." He felt the room turning around again. "Do you know how long a concussion takes to go away? From..." He turned in time, and Sarah made Roberta leave to room to give the agent some privacy in his misery.
"Don't you have homework to do?" she asked her in the living room.
"Shouldn't he be more grateful than..." She pointed with her chin to the door.
"No, honey, he is grateful. Didn't you hear him? He wants to live. And we both were chosen by God to help him. Now, be a good girl and do your homework. Did you say a word to anyone about Mr. Mulder?"
"Just Mulder ," Roberta corrected her. "Why not Fox?"
Sarah shrugged.
"Maybe there are hunters in his town, and every time someone called his name the whole pack of hounds went after him." Roberta took the explanation as truth given by her mother, and Sarah didn't smile to mark it as a joke. She didn't smile until she reached the kitchen to change the CD.
"So did you say anything?" she repeated when she returned. Roberta already sat at the table near the window and had her books beside her.
"No," she said half-turning. "I sealed my lips." She made a gesture as if a zipper was drawn shut.
"Fine." 'I hope so,' she added in her thoughts. If not the trouble would jump to the next scale.
March 23rd
Sheriff's office
"There're all farms on this map, m'am. Where do you want us to start?"
"Can we call them?" Scully asked hopefully, but the sheriff weighed his bully head.
"Most of 'em have no phone or it isn't working. The Company promised to deal with it, but... maybe in two weeks."
"So we have to search all farms personally." She wetted her lips. "All right, groups of two in a car. How many people have you got out here at the moment?"
"It's a small town, m'am," the sheriff said not all too apologetically. "When you need the cavalry, call your people. I still think he's fine and rests on a farm."
"I want to make sure," she said sternly.
"'kay." The sheriff raised his stubby fingers in defence. "We gonna waste our time, your time, and he's having a fine time in the haystack. But as you wish..." He shook his head and told his men what to do.