Updated Chapter 2. It goes almost without saying that I own the rights to none of these guys: Scully, Mulder, Sam, Dean, that neighbor guy, none of them. Not even the little fellow hiding behind the hedge over there. See him? I don't even own him. And I don't feel in any way put off about it. Lots of people have hidden behind hedges before, you know.

Chapter Two: American Spirit

The Impala hit Sedaia – population 2,854 by the faded sign – that mid-morning. Nestled in the forested foothills of a wing of the Rockies, it was smaller than it had seemed from the web pictures, or maybe simply stolid and serene. It was completely out of character with the muggy, dizzying heat that had rolled in; a local side-effect of the peaking solar cycle, perhaps. The boys had grown up in Kansas but even the heat of those shimmering summers paled in comparison to the thick, wet summer outside. Dean flipped the AC to full blast. 'Nice place,' Sam said wistfully.

'Beer and chicken wings tonight,' Dean insisted.

Sam nodded. 'First stop?'

'Scene of the crime.'

'Ah: gabardine,' said Sam.

A few minutes later, they were in their best federal agent suits – Sam still disparagingly called them 'costumes' – the pickings from a truck stolen near Rochester. Neither high-power nor low-rent, they passed muster with local authorities. Dean called them natty. Sam's opinion was only a letter different. 'Jesus, are we closer to hell here?' Dean asked, loosening his tie.

'Not by altitude. Record heat this season,' said Sam from the shady side of the car. 'I'm taking this off,' he suddenly said, loosening his tie.

'Chaaaaaaracter,' Dean chided, abandoning the black car's overworked AC and cranking the window.

'We got time.'

Short Drive, on which the Hearns residence was located, was actually longer than the connecting street Long Way, so the planners had clearly had a sense of humor. The community was older – 1980s or so, now neither very rich nor very poor. The Hearns residence was a small two-story lot littered with spruce and pine. The grass was bitter and shot with weeds – hard work for a single woman – but the garden plots were well turned. 'Rich people get landscapers; poor people get crabgrass,' Sam philosophized as he finished his tie.

The driveway was sharply inclined so Dean parked on the road and turned off the Impala's chunky ignition. A couple deputies nodded appreciatively at the muscle car; Dean nodded back at the blond female one, who gave him a warm smile and tapped the rim of her hat demurely. 'God, I love uniforms,' he muttered sotto voce to Sam.

They climbed the driveway. There were cop cruisers everywhere; the porch had been taped off by two deputies ostensibly looking for clues but actually not. 'Sheriff's round back,' one said, touching the brim of his hat in salute. Dean nodded in return. The deputies watched the boys go by. 'Oooh, feds,' the short one mocked when they had gone.

'Now we'll see some inaction,' said the tall one.

Sheriff Joe McCarthy took off his hat and ran a hand through his thinning hair.

He was a man turning irrevocably to seed. His football years – Pop Warner, one of the oldest clubs in the state – long past. Still, Sedaia had never been a place for really active police work; few criminals needed to be chased down by foot in a community where most people knew each other by name. Most of the business was drunk-rousting, domestics, lost kids that turned up again – or almost always so. He glanced towards the woods. Now Miranda was gone too. McCarthy looked up at the bright sun gleaming overhead like the relentless eye of God. Perhaps He had seen where Miranda Hearns had gone, but if He had, He was not saying. 'Sheriff?' said a voice.

Two men were approaching. An instinct made McCarthy's gut immediately twist; feds. Young ones, too: early side of twenties, crap suits and reaching for their identification. One had a crew-cut and the other, strangely, was a giant with hair past his ears. McCarthy had a man with long hair too; he made a note to speak to him about it again. They said it was a new era, but not by McCarthy's lights.

There was a little gray flash as he stood up; age, weight. It went soon enough but a fresh round of sweat threatened to break out on his back: how many more good summers had he, really? Not that this was a good one, now. He wiped his brow with a handkerchief.

Crew-cut gave him the kind of professional smile practiced in front of a mirror again and again with shirt and suit-jacket. He extended a hand. 'Sheriff McCarthy? Agent Stanley. This is Agent Thayer.' Crew-cut, who was Stanley, and Longhair, who was Thayer, flipped open their wallets. IDs, check, check, badges, check, check, just like the movies. 'We're with the Bureau.' There was the tiniest theatrical hesitation before he said Bureau, as if Crew-Cut Stanley was sharing secret knowledge, never, ever to be given except to the worthy. 'The field office in Denver requested that we investigate and provide some insight given the strange series of coincidences that have plagued your small community,' Stanley continued flatly. Thayer blinked and gave Stanley a long, disbelieving look.

'Er,' said McCarthy. 'Right. Pleased to meet you,' he said, though he was not. His visitors looked young for FBI; actually they looked a lot young to be FBI, but they had solid handshakes. God, was he really getting that old? 'Sheriff Joe McCarthy. Welcome to Sedaia. We've never had the FBI here before. You're… here to take up the case?' Which meant: you're here to take the case away? This woman is one of ours; she was of us. It is we that should give her rest and justice.

Longhaired Thayer instantly held up an open hand. 'No, Sheriff. We're here to help, and only to help,' he said firmly. He cleared his throat. 'The Bureau understands the needs of each county for due process of justice. Sometimes… the Bureau has been… heavy-handed in the past – but no more. We just want to co-operate to see that that justice is done,' Sam finished, really getting into the part.

Stanley, the crew-cut, coughed loudly and elaborately into his hand. 'I'm sorry; did you say something?' Thayer asked him archly. 'S' just a cough,' Stanley said, looking surprised, contritely spreading his hands.

Thayer's manner was so forthright that McCarthy could almost believe him. 'Well… I'm not sure what you can do for us that we can't do ourselves,' he temporized. 'What do you know already?'

'Miranda Hearns, 55, divorced, lived alone, missing since Friday night when her neighbor visited her,' Agent Thayer recited. 'Last seen Monday June 11th by a neighbor. No priors, no complaints, no restraining orders or reports against anyone. Bank history normal.' Sam knew these things for a fact; he and his laptop had been busy. 'No signs of forced entry – or of any entry – struggle, or robbery.'

'Yeah, that's right,' McCarthy admitted. 'Her neighbor, one Mr. Daniel Avidan, saw her come home from her shift at the diner. No one's seen her since as far as we know.'

'This neighbor – anything there?'

'No. He's a bit of an… odd dresser,' McCarthy said, inferring something he left unsaid, 'but not dangerous. Definitely not a suspect.' He let out a breath he'd been holding. 'I think this is the part where I have to get around to asking what the FBI's actual interest in this is.'

Thayer and Stanley looked at each other. Possibly they were stunned by the frankness of McCarthy's question; they took a moment before saying anything. Finally Stanley spoke. 'Well, we believe it may be connected to some disappearances in Cheyenne - about two years back?' He jerked a thumb behind him as if the elements actually lay literally behind him. 'Nothing really crazy, but there are some strong similarities and the disappearances here are really close together, just like then. The major elements came up in as a hit from our database and given the proximity, if there's a connection, then it's likely the perpetrators have crossed state lines.'

Which meant they would take the case over. McCarthy grunted; he did think he'd heard of some odd disappearances up there. 'What kind of similarities?'

'Alone, isolated, older single adults, middle-class residential neighborhoods at the fringes of suburbia,' Stanley supplied smoothly, ticking off his fingers, just as quickly as if he'd read it off a card. 'Residences just far out enough to be a little isolated. Complete disappearances.' He nodded sagaciously. 'We think this has happened before.'

'Hmph.' That appraising, suspicious look was still there.

The 'FBI guys' both smiled disarmingly. 'We reviewed the file on the way over, of course, but what we'd really like is your impressions,' Agent Stanley said. 'Trust us, sir: the Bureau is very interested in this case. Disappearances in these districts have been a particular – '

The word districts triggered a thought. 'Hold on… just a second…' McCarthy scratched his head. 'The Denver office sent you out… the Governor sent you down here, didn't he?' Things were starting to make sense. The FBI agents glanced at each other nervously and that was when McCarthy knew, knew that he had them. Well well. Elections were coming along and Sedaia was a district in the balance; a little TLC from upstairs was just what the incumbent needed to remind them who their friends were. He didn't know whether to laugh or what. Votes to buy and here was Miranda dead. How lucky for everyone. 'Worried voters. Governor's thinking ahead. Right?'

The young, young FBI agents gave him sheepish grins. 'Sheriff,' said the bristly Stanley. 'We really can't comment on – '

'Never mind,' McCarthy spat. 'I know what you can't comment on.' So that was it. Just that. It angered him, made him feel dirty, like they were walking on Miranda's grave. 'Come on.'

He took them into the middle of the wide back yard. It had a certain vista quality to it on the far side, where an open space looked down on the town at large: quaint, quiet. There was a long stretch in the center cordoned off with bright yellow tape. 'We think this is where… whatever it was happened.'

He looked over the area with them, letting his anger cool. 'No trace evidence so far.' He wiped his brow again. McCarthy gestured. 'Look for yourself.'

Sam and Dean knelt in the grass. Flattened, shiny footprints were still visible in the overgrown lawn leading from the rear door towards to the rusty kid's playset, a little splayed from time and wind but still recognizably smaller than a man's. Dean stalked carefully onto the lawn. 'No signs at all?'

'Like I said, no trace evidence,' said McCarthy. Sam was scanning the lawn along the path of the prints. The tracks stopped abruptly a few feet from the swingset. Dean frowned. 'Before you ask, the prints are the right size and they're the only ones coming from the house. The tread pattern here matches some prints out in the frown yard.' He pointed to a wavy shoeprint in a small place where the grass had died.

Dean looked around in all directions. There were no tracks leading from the heavy old iron swing-set, just the one set coming from the house. 'No other prints?'

'None. Believe me, I checked that myself. Kept most of the others out of here, swept the yard for signs. Then I taped off the important avenues with her prints. That's it.'

'How can that be? Where'd she go?' said long-haired Thayer, shooting an oddly arch look at Stanley.

'We… don't know,' McCarthy said bitterly. He walked them around the swings. 'The only thing that… it's…' He stopped and took off his hat again, playing with the brim, then mopped his forehead again. This was not the way things ought to go. It wasn't… right. Wasn't normal. There were elections coming up. He'd have to run. His pension wasn't indexed high enough yet. Jean would have to understand. 'It's as though she walked to the swings, turned around in place a little, then just… disappeared. Like she clicked her heels together and flew off to Never-Neverland.' He snorted.

Instead of laughing… the feds gave each other another of those strange looks. It made a funny chill run down McCarthy's back, even in the humidity.

'Could she have maybe climbed up here?' Thayer said. 'Climbed up and jumped to the woods?'

'Twenty feet? Miranda wasn't in much shape that I ever knew her and less these last years. She couldn't have managed anything like that.'

'What about a rope?' Thayer suggested.

McCarthy decided that he really hated sideburns. 'What, she swung across like Tarzan?' The trees did seem to overhang the swingset and for an idiot moment, he found himself considering it. He shook his head brusquely.

'How much did she weigh?' Stanley asked him suddenly.

'What?'

'How much did she weigh?'

McCarthy frowned. 'Hell, I don't know. One forty to one sixty. Why?'

'Maybe she was brought across. Maybe someone met her here and grabbed her.'

'And what? Jumped twenty feet to the woods, carrying a woman on his back?' Thayer asked his partner, incredulous. McCarthy blinked at that. Public infighting seemed a little unprofessional, particularly since it was a sure thing that Stanley was the senior partner. Then again, it wasn't his business anyway.

'Well, she didn't just fly away – right?' Thayer said. Stanley just shrugged. There were no tracks between the swingset and the woods edge; it was less than twenty feet, though. Maybe fifteen.

'Marks here,' said Stanley, pointing to the top of the swingset. 'And the top bar is bent. Look.' Sure enough, he was right. Stanley circled the set. 'Abrasions here.' Thayer inspected it and was forced to grunt agreement. 'I'm guessing no one uses this anymore?' Stanley asked McCarthy.

'No,' McCarthy said quietly. 'No one uses it anymore.'

'She had a kid,' Thayer said. 'It wasn't in the report. How old? Boy or girl?'

McCarthy sighed. 'Yeah. A boy, twelve. Christopher. He died, twenty-two years ago. It wouldn't be in the report because it isn't related. Chris Hearns was killed on a hunting trip. It was two decades ago and it isn't relevant.' He added as if an afterthought, 'He did love that swingset. Spent hours on it, every Saturday and Sunday. Are you guys almost done here?'

Thayer was tucking something back in his coat pocket that looked like a cross between a cellphone and a TV remote, looking vaguely frustrated. 'Yeah, think we're good here,' said Stanley. 'Anyone looked in the woods yet?'

'Not yet. We're doing a search tomorrow. It's the most likely thing. Neighbours, relatives in town, just good citizens trying to find a lost woman.' McCarthy made it sound like a challenge. He was a little out of sorts, he decided. He didn't like being near the woods any more. They'd never looked the same to him, not after Chris.

Thayer nodded. 'Of course. Can we see inside the house?'

'Sure.' He walked them along the grass, off the taped-off track. 'We searched every inch of the house. Our guys didn't even find any extraneous fingerprints.' They had maybe found one other set, but Bill Sykes, his fingerprint tech, had wisely not mentioned those to him. Or perhaps they were gone, wiped away. It had been two years now – no, three. 'The back door was open. Screen door latched shut.'

'Locked?' asked Crew-cut Stanley.

'We don't lock our doors here.' But McCarthy expected people would start doing it now; maybe take out old pistols and hunting rifles, polish them up. There'd be a few near-shootings or careless discharge reports next week, sure as God made little apples. 'She'd been doing the dishes. Full sink, clean stuff in the rack. No signs of forced entry, and no damage. Nothing taken, just like the report says: car, TV, cash, nothing. Whatever happened, it just happened… to Miranda.' He stopped, thinking.

'Sheriff?' Stanley was looking at him a little funny.

'Uh – nothing.' McCarthy shook his head. 'Nothing.'

They went through the back door into a simple kitchen with a faded yellow floral design. True to McCarthy's pronouncement they found a sink stacked with dishes and a ring of dried soap, the water having long ago drained out around the stopper. There was a slight layer of dust in the house, and motes floating in the slanted sunlight. There were, indeed, no signs of struggle. They went room to room: the bed was made. The furniture was a little worn but serviceable and undisturbed. The bathroom was clean and tidy. Nothing broken, nothing tossed. A handmade crochet was thrown across the back of the couch.

'This is Mrs. Hearns?' Sam said, looking at a photo. McCarthy grunted in the affirmative. Sam looked at it. A woman from twenty years ago, early thirties, brown hair, a few extra pounds: a kid with her in the shot, blonde hair and freckles. Both laughing. Sam gazed into the photo. The simple photo-booth shot that Dad kept in his wallet swirled to the surface of Sam's memory. Sam had sometimes sneaked a look at it when Dean stole the wallet to go buy beer. Just a simple photo of a young, pretty blonde girl grinning straight white teeth beside Dad with his big nostrils and a neat, respectable haircut. She had friendly green eyes – with just a hint of something else behind them, steel in her spine, unconquered. There had been another photo of them at what looked like the Grand Canyon, blue expanse stretching out behind, and another of a pregnant Mary, heavy with his brother Dean and another, presumably carrying Sam himself. And that was all. Nothing else had survived the fire. He had been a direct, honest man and they had been… a little apart from her family, and his. It had been a strange thing, never explained. He would likely never know now. He could not see her, alive, in his mind's eye, nothing more than an image – a little like poor Miranda Hearns. Sam tried to imagine a photo of him and his mother like Miranda and Chris – happy, laughing together – and could not, no matter how he tried.

He found a more contemporary photo of Miranda showing what Sam had grimly expected; the weight of age, of loss. Her shoulders were bowed, head dragged down, brown gone to gray. There was no joy in this picture: it was a statement of existence, of persistence but life had bled out of it. And out of her, a voice seemed to say behind his eyes. He blinked. Where had that come from? He looked up to see McCarthy staring at him. 'Sorry, what?' Sam asked.

'I said, are you done? Can we move along?' The Sheriff's eyes flicked back and forth from Sam to the picture, a little possessively. Sam put the picture down.

'So no extraneous prints, nothing besides Mrs. Hearns?' Dean confirmed.

'No. She didn't have visitors. No prints on the windows either, or either outside door. Upstairs windows all locked, no marks.'

'Thorough,' Dean admitted. 'DNA?'

McCarthy laughed. 'On what, son? We can't sample everything. Well… anyway, we have a technician collecting fibres, too. He'll send it all to Denver. Maybe something will turn up.'

They went through the whole house including the small upper bedroom. McCarthy turned his walrus-like frown on Dean. 'Why do you want to see Chris' room?'

Dean shrugged. 'Just a hunch. Maybe a perp used it to get in, or handled something there. If something was taken – a picture, some kind of memorabilia – then that might suggest that Miranda either walked away from her life, or that she was taken by someone connected to her personally.'

McCarthy glared at him with grudging acknowledgement. 'You mean, maybe Tom took it.' He looked upset at the suggestion that Tom Hearns might have been involved.

'It's definitely a consideration,' Dean lied. 'It's something we can check.'

They could almost see McCarthy dig in his heels. 'Fine,' he said.

The room was still and tepid in the bright sun coming in through the windows. It had the strong smell of children's plastic toys over the fainter odor of disuse and abandonment.

Old baseball-themed wallpaper dappled the walls in bright contrasts of black and white. On the colourful dresser, a clock of the same description sat, its hands motionless at 3:42. The shelves were arrayed with baseball gloves, helmets, balls and trophies. A much-thumbed copy of a Hardy Boys reprint sat kitty-corner on a bed-stand, under a lamp. The closet was full of clothes sized for a younger teenage boy. A little out of place, a pair of pyjamas lay discarded on the shag floor, left behind in some rush to somewhere and a drawer, too, hung half-open. Sam and Dean shared a look. It was not abandoned. If anything, it was a shrine. They entered with careful steps, as if afraid where they might place their feet. 'She kept it exactly as he left it,' Sam said quietly.

'Jesus.' Dean went to the window. It let out onto the dark woods. 'The neighbour didn't see anything?' Trees overhung a bungalow on the right and a two-story of a similar model a hundred yards away on the left.

'People generally mind their own business around here,' McCarthy said. 'Although the Bartons – ' he gestured at the far-away house ' – did say their dog was barking that night.'

'Dog barking,' said Sam thoughtfully. He glanced that way through the window.

'Yeah. I guess it's a bit unusual. Old Jasper's usually as calm as a summer breeze.' He took off his hat and fanned himself. 'Mrs. Barton did say she might have heard a noise.'

'What kind of noise?' Dean blurted.

'Well, they weren't sure,' McCarthy said defensively, as if it was he who had heard and said nothing. 'It was very faint. Could have been a scream,' McCarthy said, a little defensive. 'But it could have been the TV. They didn't see anything when they went to look.'

'How long between the scream and when they looked?'

'They didn't say. A couple minutes, I guess. It's not much use to anyone.'

'Not too inquisitive,' Dean said archly.

'People mind their own business around here,' McCarthy said sourly.

They went down into the front room. 'Anyone called her ex yet?' Stanley asked.

'It's being looked into.' McCarthy straightened up and tucked his hands in his belt. 'Miranda didn't – wasn't known to have many visitors since her husband left. Not many friends, no internet; I don't think she even had an email address. Collected some separation benefits, worked a little at the local 4H and for her church district. Volunteered at the women's shelter. Did some part-time cashier work at the Stop-and-Go at the four corners, mostly waitressing at the Piggly-Wiggly,' he said.

'Piggly-Wiggly?'

'Restaurant,' McCarthy said.

'Any, ah, negative run-ins at the shelter?' Sam asked. 'Can be tricky sometimes.'

'Not that I ever heard about.'

'How about her ex?'

'Separated twenty years now; he left a while after Christopher died.'

'Any resentment?'

McCarthy tucked his thumbs into his belt; he'd seen a TV sheriff do that when he was a kid and he'd liked the authoritative expression of it. 'On his part? No. He left her. And Chris was… well, he was with Tom when he died. She hasn't had so much as a look at another man in all that time, and Tom, is an old friend of mine. That about wrap up motive, son?' It wasn't precisely true, but it was good enough.

'Any suspicious activity in the last few months?' Sam asked.

'No, nothing. Nothing different, nothing new.' McCarthy fanned his face with his hat again. They were fast approaching something like a two-decade record this year.

The FBI agents looked at each other. McCarthy could tell when an interview was over. 'Well, we want to thank you for your time, Sheriff McCarthy,' said Stanley. He was clearly the senior agent.

'Yes,' said Thayer. Stanley produced a card from his breast pocket. 'If you think of anything – anything else at all – give us a call.' McCarthy took the card. 'Please call us if anything comes up. Our supervisor's number is on there too: Senior Agent Cooper, Alex Cooper.'

'Right.' McCarthy looked up. 'I've got canvassing and a search to organize… If you really want to help, you could come along tomorrow afternoon.'

The agents exchanged looks. 'Of course,' Thayer said. 'Nothing's more important than finding Mrs. Hearns. We'll be in touch.'

Sam and Dean hopped in the Impala, closed the creaky doors. 'Plagued your small community? You're an idiot, Dean,' said Sam.

'Sometimes… sometimes the Bureau has been… kind of Darth Vader-y in the past,' Dean soliloquized in an emotional voice, 'But I just want you to know… that you deserve a hug. You all deserve hugs.' He mimed a huddle of weepy embraces. 'I – I just want you to know that – that the Bureau loves you all so mu-u-uch,' and collapsed on the wheel with huge fake sobs, banging his head rhythmically and dramatically off it in a rictus of fake despair.

'Shut up, jackass,' Sam said, though he had to fight down a grin. 'I don't talk like that.'

'Tell it to your drama coach, Julia Roberts.' Turning thoughtful, Dean stared into the middle distance. 'That,' he mused, 'was weird.' He looked at Sam. 'I don't know about your aliens, though. A man could have made that jump.'

'Picked up a hundred-fifty-and-change woman, carried her to the top of the swingset, and leapt into the woods? Not even Hulk Hogan could have made that jump.'

'Maybe,' Dean sniffed. 'But the damage on it looks physical, like something grabbed it. How's that jive with beam me up, Scotty, Sammy?'

'So what's your big idea?'

Dean was thinking. 'All right, I admit it, it was strange. I'm not too big to say I was maybe wrong. Maybe we got something here. But it's not Marvin the Martian. That swingset… something the kid loved. And the damage to it, like a poltergeist or something really malevolent. A focus point for a spook, maybe? She sees it, possessed or something, climbs up on the set, gets dragged or floated up into the trees. Something about her son's death, for sure. Molestation, abuse, murder, something. Hunting accident, my ass. That Sheriff was hiding something, I could smell it on him. The spirit of Chris comes back looking for revenge. Something bad happened out there, Sammy.'

'Maybe. I keep thinking we're missing something. I mean, she just up and vanished. But no sulphur.'

'No – and the EMF was blank.' Dean looked troubled.

'Cold spots?'

'In this weather?' Dean flapped at his collar, trying to vent the humid air down his shirtfront. 'That kid's room was spooky, though,' he said. 'No doubt about it.'

'Kid gets killed, husband leaves… Mom holds onto whatever she can,' Sam mused.

'Yeah. You got that vibe about it?'

'Yeah. Sadness,' Sam said.

'That's Item #1 on the supernatural shopping list, Sammy. I think we need to come back when Sheriff GrumpyPants isn't around and do a proper sweep. More EMF, everything. Dollars down: malevolent spirit. Has to be.'

'Yeah. World's a whole lot of sad,' Sam muttered to himself.

'What was that?' Dean said. He looked across. 'You okay, Sammy?'

'Yeah. Yeah, I'm good.'

'Anyway, this is just speculation.' Another fifty-cent word. 'We'll know for sure once we hit the Dryer house.' Dean started up the car. 'Something else,' he said as they pulled away from the curb. 'You get the feeling maybe McCarthy knew Hearns?'

'Small town, Dean. Everyone probably knows everyone.'

'Not like that. Something tells me he knew her a lot better than from coffee and doughnuts at the Stop-and-Go.' Dean made a rude hand gesture as he turned the corner.

Sam scowled. 'You think everyone is like you, Dean. Men and women can be friends, you know.'

'No they can't, Sammy: it's a proven fact. But there's something tangled up in there, Hearns and the Sheriff. And how does Dryer fits into this? Maybe he knew her too?' He thought. 'But I haven't seen one sign yet, Sam. Not one.'

'Not one sign of what?'

'Look, just… be honest, okay? Just tell me the truth.'

'The truth about what?'

'Just admit that you lied about the ball of yarn. That's all I want.' They left in a cloud of dust.

Sheriff McCarthy was heading for his cruiser, the one with "SHERIFF" across it in gold and blue, just in case people forgot. Out of old reflex he tapped his breast pocket. It was empty. The Stop-and-Go was just a few minutes away – no, no, he wasn't doing that, he had quit and he was going to stay quit. Tilly McCarthy's little boy wasn't going to drop from the lung cancer like his cousin Neil. He found some gum instead and had just started a stick – Wrigley's, was there any gum better or more American? – when a voice called 'Sheriff?' He turned.

Walking towards him were two people: a man and a woman this time, dressed in similar dark business suits. McCarthy frowned deeply. 'Yes?'

The man – tall, narrow-faced, dark hair – held up a flat wallet ID badge as they approached. 'Agent Fox Mulder, FBI.'

McCarthy blinked. 'What?'

END Chapter 2