April 2, 2002
South Carolina State Road 626
"Ghost plane. You know, you think you've heard them all, but this absolutely takes the cake, huh?'
Monica Reyes simply shrugged and continued staring out the window. The scenery whipped by...the old mansions, shotgun shacks and the gas stations with one teetering pump. The rented Taurus bobbled up and down over potholes and puddles. They seemed to be the only people heading anywhere. There hadn't been another car near them for miles in either direction.
"I've never been down here before. It's kind of nice, I guess."
They passed a trailer park with a number of late-model Camaros up on blocks. A few months ago, Monica would have smiled at this. She just kept staring, expressionless.
John Doggett had noticed a change in his partner even before her car accident. That beguiling smile had begun to fade. Then, after the accident, all the light was gone from her eyes. Now she was a shell of her former shelf, too skinny and too pale.
John knew he wasn't in good shape, either. The past six months had really taken their toll on his body. There always seemed to be a new crop of scars. His clothes were too big. He wondered if she even noticed this. Sometimes they'd lock eyes and know what the other was thinking. John had no psychic gifts. Maybe, he thought, it's rubbing off a little. But Monica didn't seem to see...or want to see...the way they were both changing.
"Want the rest of this?" He waved the rest of an ice cream cone in her face and felt an inward smile when she accepted it wordlessly. Their fingertips touched for a long moment. His were sticky with dripped ice cream. Monica blinked and turned back toward the window, impassively licking the dripping vanilla.
She didn't say anything until they were on the ferry. They leaned against the car shoulder to shoulder and watched the gulls swoop around the deck.
"Trashbirds," she said as one flew by with a french fry container in its beak.
John squinted at her and turned his attention back to the birds. This was the kind of case she liked. Maybe the sun and the salt water would do her good. It had to. Just getting out of DC could even be the cure. Scully had become Monica's friend in an odd way, but Dana wasn't a picnic to be around. You don't exactly "hang out" with Scully, who cut people up for a living. Morose, silent Scully, so beautful but so tragic.
A lightbulb went off in John's brain. She's turning into Scully. But even she had said once that Monica was more like Mulder. Monica just looked tired now, sunglasses barely hiding the deep, dark circles under her eyes.
John pulled her into his arms. Monica laid her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes. He noticed how her body had transformed into a series of gaunt right angles. "You okay?" he asked, letting his chin rest on her head.
"No, I'm not," she said. At least John knew she wasn't lying. Monica sighed as the wind whipped her hair into cowlicks. A large purple bruise ran down the side of her arm. John traced the bruise with his fingertips.
"Neither am I," he said, wishing they could be free of the borders the FBI placed on them. His heart was held intact by her; they had never even kissed.
Pawley's Island Police Station
The young policeman was visibly cowed by the FBI's presence. When they walked in, he stashed the Mountain Dew and Cheetos he was eating under a desk and busily wiped the crumbs from the front of his rumpled blue uniform. The station was nothing but a little Quonset hut, really, sitting on stilts in the middle of a swamp.
"I dunno how it happened," he said in a thick accent. "All I know is, we found this at her feet."
It was a black satchel, speckled with mud. Monica snapped on a pair of rubber gloves and zipped it open. She inspected it with a flashlight before dumping it on a desk. A wallet, a compact, a pair of sunglasses and a ticket spilled out. They all squinted at the stuff as if the seemingly ordinary items had come from Mars.
"It didn't have Mrs. Kiser's prints. Nothing had her prints in that bag and we didn't find her with gloves on," Corporal Mosby frowned.
"This ticket's for 1952," Monica said, fingering its corner. Mosby just nodded. They all stood quietly for a moment until John popped the wallet open and frowned at what he saw.
"I hope this is some sort of joke. Cause if it isn't, I won't know what to think."
He held out a driver's license. "Myrtle Kramer, expires 1954. Residence 1664 Rockaway Boulevard, Queens, New York."
Monica's brow furrowed. She took the driver's license and stared at it, looking for any evidence it could be a fake.
"Eastern flight 2012 crashed in 1952. Miss Kramer was on the passenger manifest," Mosby said quietly. "That's why I called you both out here. They never found the plane but most folks figured it went down in the ocean. The families had to bury empty coffins."
"Like I said, I really hope this is some joke," John repeated. The other contents of the wallet added up to exactly twenty dollars and ten cents.
"Lots of people here on the island reported hearing the plane go over and it was making a sputtering sound. No one heard it crash. It just seemed to pass over and the sound just faded away," said Mosby.
"So they never found anything from the plane? Normally something floats to the surface," Monica asked. Mosby just shook his head sadly.
"It just went away and took 60 people with it. Or they just kept flying."
Monica and John looked at each other and winced.
Salem Church Cemetary
"I still say she could have brought it out here with her," Monica sighed, crouching in front of the stone that dealt Midge the fatal blow. The daffodils surrounding it were stained with blood.
"At least they didn't have to take her far." John was by the newly-dug grave, batting at the butterflies that were dive-bombing the flowers. The air was saturated with a swampy smell of decay. "No way carry-ons just fall from the sky. It looked too new to fall out of a tree."
"Well, if we were closer to the Bermuda triangle...," Monica began, but quickly broke off. A breeze was beginning to blow, rustling the trees. "If there is such a thing as ghosts, John, they'd be here."
"These tombstones are enough to convince me," he said, squinting at an inscription. As I am, so you will be, May Higgins, 1889.
Monica, who had done tombstone rubbings in her youth, ran her fingers across the stone. "In New Orleans, a guy named Moriarity's wife died and he put four statues around her grave. They represent faith, hope, charity and Mrs. Moriarity."
"You miss New Orleans any?"
"Sometimes," she smiled.
A black dog wandered into the cemetary. John instinctively backed up, but Monica approached it.
"The dawg's friendly. He just gets a little excited sometimes," called a voice. A little old man was shuffling down the path through the cyprus trees. "You must be the FBI. I'm John Byrnes. Lived here all my life."
"Mr. Byrnes, do you remember the night that Eastern Airlines plane crashed?" Monica asked, scratching the dog's ears. It whined and collapsed on her feet.
"Sure do. It was clear as a bell out here. You could even see the plane's outline as it went overhead. We saw those Connies come over all the time, but this one sounded different, like a hundred Volkswagon bugs starting at once. My gramma called me outside because even she knew it just didn't sound right. We heard about what happened the next day. I went out and rowed all over the place, all through the inlets and sandbars hoping to find something. Nothing ever did turn up."
"Did you know Mrs. Kiser?" asked John. The high whine of a Cessna passed overhead and they all looked up, searching the sky. It skimmed among the clouds, steel skin glinting in the mellow spring sun.
"Well, this is a small place," said Byrnes. "I knew her my whole life. She was the sweetest thing on earth. I hate the fact she died out here. I think of her death as a sign from God, I really do."
"How do you mean?"
"That suitcase came from that airplane. Someone's trying to tell us something. Like that," he said, pointing to the tombstone that took Midge Kiser's life.
Angels Spread Their Silvery Wings and Cast Me Asunder
7:05 PM
Cottage Grove Inn
The porch was nearly silent, save for the sound of two tops popping. The Inn overlooked the ocean. John never forgot what the sky looked like that night. The stars twinkled beyond the purple dusk, streaked with bands of pink. This felt like a vacation and it very well could be but John was scanning the sky for a lost Constellation, buzzing the coast for its last time.
"You're looking for it, aren't you," Monica said in sleepy, dreamy voice. She was starting to relax as the beer kicked in.
"I don't think I'll find it. You're probably right...the lady brought out that bag."
"After all we've seen, though, I can't quite explain it away. So it's a sign. I think it's almost comforting that part of us goes on even though, in a physical sense, we're gone," Monica said, taking a long sip. "When I was in the hospital, part of me knew you were there, John. I don't remember much, but I did feel a strong force telling me to fight. It was your voice, your soul even, that pulled me back fromthe edge of wherever."
John felt his cheeks turn red. She knew. That time had been terrible for him. Scully had been sympathetic but it was obvious she was a veteran of these touch-and-go situations. For John, there had been Luke, and those wounds were still so raw. He just couldn't lose anyone else so soon.
"I'm a big believer in absolution, Monica. You know that," he said, not really going in any type of direction. "And if there's something freaky attached to that old puddle jumper, then I want those people on board to have their chance to rest. Fifty years is a long time to wait."
She got up, bumping around. "I'm going to turn in," Monica said. When she passed John, she grabbed his hand and squeezed. When she dropped her grip and kept on walking, John's eyes followed her dim figure down the porch to her room. The door shut and the light inside went out.
John cracked open another beer, still watching the skies but still thinking of Monica laying in that hospital bed.