A/N: I'm not a doctor...so forgive me for playing a bit fast and loose here.


Hours later, after discarding her bloodied apron, recording her findings, checking out with the attendant, and searching every office on the mortuary floor every corner of the floor below that, she found him, hidden in a vacant examining room near pediatrics, pacing in his dress shirt, his sleeves rolled up to his bony elbows. His eyes looked bright again, too bright. They reminded her, suddenly, of bile. Of infection. She suppressed a shudder.

"What are you doing in here? I've been chasing you down for half an hour," she cried.

"We've been wasting our time here," he said. "We have to go to the girls. The second one might be different."

"You don't even know what happened to the first infant yet."

He stopped pacing and looked at her. Or through her. "It died."

"I just spent my first morning as your partner cutting open a newborn. I'm going to tell you my findings."

Destler barked a laugh. "You're not my partner."

"The FBI says otherwise." She crossed her arms, hoping to look serious, desperate to stop her hands from shaking. She would not let him frighten her.

"We have to talk to the girls. The body can't tell us anything about what happened to them."

"It certainly can. The infant was born at least three months premature. It displayed signs of exposure to amphetamines, PCP, alcohol, and other chemicals – some sort of cocktail ingested throughout its development. There are no aliens, Agent Destler. Just drugs."

"Could you explain every anomaly on that body?" He approached her, growing taller with each step.

"Well, no." She pursed her lips. "But drug and alcohol abuse can lead to unpredictable birth defects, especially in unknown quantities and combinations."

"Or, there could be another factor here. Something more difficult to identify."

He was a maniac. She was sure of it. "It is highly unlikely. There was nothing inhuman inside that baby, nothing otherworldly. Frankly, I think it's ridiculous that FBI agents were called here at all." But he wasn't listening to her. He was unrolling his sleeves and grabbing his coat from the chair behind him. "The baby was born dead, Destler. His lungs, kidneys, and heart were all malformed. He likely died in utero. She didn't murder him, at least not after giving birth."

He met her eyes for a second. She swallowed.

"Well," he said, his voice sudden velvet. "You can give her the news yourself."

He swept out the door, and she jogged after him, wondering how fast he would drive this time, and dreading the months of car rides to come.


The girl, Natalie Hanson, had been released on bail. They interviewed her on the plush, floral sofa set in her parents' living room. Her parents were out at some vague dinner, which baffled Christine. It had hardly been two days since Hannah was released from the hospital, and here she was, alone, letting strangers into her house. She was thin, ashen, her brown hair pulled back in a limp braid. She held a pillow in her narrow lap. Her eye's darted from mask to pillow, mask to pillow. Christine cleared her throat, coaxing the girl's gaze her way.

"Natalie," she said, her voice as soft as she could make it. "I know this is difficult. But you have to tell us what happened while you were pregnant."

"I already told the police everything."

Christine forced herself to smile. "I know. But now you have to tell us."

"I'm not a child," Natalie snapped. "Don't talk to me like I'm in preschool."

Christine sat up straight and pursed her lips. She hated teenagers.

"Natalie," Agent Destler crooned. "Natalie, you're right, you're not a child. It's time to tell us what happened to you."

Christine struggled to contain her shock. She had never heard a voice like that before. Destler's normal speaking voice was beautiful, certainly, but he had transformed it into something else. Something dreamy and powerful, seeping right down to the marrow. Christine watched Natalie's eyes soften. The girl's whole body relaxed into the sofa.

"That's right, child. Tell us what happened to you. Everything you can remember."

Natalie's eyes were far away. She spoke without emotion, without hesitation. "I was in the woods. Near the burned tree, with the hole in its trunk. And then it was sunset, and everything started vibrating. There was so much light, and a voice. I had to reach for the voice. And so I did. And then I remember floating in the air, then lying down under all of these lights. And there were shadows, like men. Small men. Something was cold on me. Then everything was warm. When I woke up the next morning, I was naked."

Christine looked between Natalie and Destler with raised eyebrows. They didn't seem to remember she was there. Maybe that's why the FBI hired him, she thought. That voice.

"And then what happened, Natalie?" he said.

"It stayed so small. I didn't know for sure. I could hide it. I hid it really well. I had it by myself, in my bathtub, while my parents were at work. It died. So I took it to the mall and found a dumpster. And that's it, really. That's all."

"Did you take anything, while you were pregnant?" Christine asked. Natalie's pupils narrowed. She blinked.

"Not when I knew."

"But before?" Christine pressed.

Natalie bunched her hands into her pillow, her body once again rigid and upright. Destler glared at Christine, then brought his attention back to Natalie. "It's okay. It's all right. Did you take something, before you knew?"

"I did what they said was right," Natalie said in a glassy whisper.

"What do you mean?" Destler asked.

"They gave it to me."

Christine couldn't take it anymore. "Where did you get the drugs, Natalie?"

"I don't want to talk about this anymore." The girl seemed to crumple in on herself.

"We're trying to help you," Christine said.

But before she could insist any further, they heard the back door open and shut. It was the second girl, Hannah Briar, waddling under the weight of her pregnancy, with one greasy paper bag in each hand.

"Oh," Hannah said. She stopped in the doorway between kitchen and living room.

"Welcome, Ms. Briar," Destler said. "We were planning to visit you later. How lucky that you've joined us."

"I was just dropping off stuff for Natalie. But I'll leave. Okay?"

"You're not supposed to be here," Natalie hissed.

"She's right," Hannah said. "My moms wants me home. So I'd better go. I'll just leave this on the table."

Destler stood and gestured to Hannah, beckoning her toward the empty couch cushion. "No. Why don't you stay and chat with us for a while. Rest your feet."

Christine glared at Destler in disbelief. This girl was a minor, so far clear of any accusation of wrongdoing. They couldn't just bombard her. It was bad enough they'd questioned Natalie while her parents weren't home.

"We're with the FBI," Christine blurted. "We're just talking to Natalie about her pregnancy."

Natalie and Hannah exchanged glances.

"So, you two are close?" Christine asked. "It's probably nice, having a friend who understands what you're going through."

Hannah blanched. "Yea. I think I'll go."

But before she could turn to leave, Erik called to her again, wrapped her up in that tender cocoon. Even Christine found herself unable interrupt him. Though her mind thrashed against her skull, she felt incapable of opening her mouth. She could only sit and listen as he asked his same questions, her mind suddenly desperate to capture the voice's every note. She hardly heard Hannah give almost the exact same answers. The same tree, the same vibrations. Cold then warm. Beneath the oppressive, cottony calm, Christine felt sick. She wanted to scream. And she wanted to lie back and bask in that voice forever. But then she was walking, one foot after the other, walking weightlessly to the front door, two steps behind Destler's dark frame.

Say goodbye, Christine, a voice whispered in her ear. A singsong tenor.

And, to her horror, Christine heard herself say goodbye.

She didn't fully return to herself until they were in the car, speeding along the town's main road.

"What the hell was that!" she yelled, her voice strained and unfamiliar.

"I don't know what you mean," Erik said. "I thought that went very well. Two birds with one stone. Thank you for letting me handle the questions."

"No! Don't play innocent with me! You hypnotized those poor girls. You hypnotized me!"

"I was simply talking."

She dug for her cell phone. "I'm going to call Assistant Director Kahn and report you right now. How dare you!"

Destler swerved the car to the side of the road.

"What the hell!" Christine screamed. She wanted to beat him over the head with her phone and drive him back to the hospital herself. Not that he would deserve medical care!

"Stop. I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry." From behind the mask, his eyes beat into hers. He was gripping the steering wheel. "Don't call Kahn. Not now."

She felt herself panting. "Why? Why shouldn't I? They hired me to tell them you're a lunatic, and you've made my job really, really easy."

"I'm used to working on my own." He seemed to search for words. "My voice…has a strange effect on people."

"No kidding!" she shouted.

"But, it's not hypnotism. It's simply…persuasion."

"Ha! And you thought it was appropriate to 'persuade' me? So you could coerce two teenagers into telling you what you want to hear?"

"I didn't force them to say anything. Those were all their own words."

"Just like you didn't force me to say 'goodbye.' How did you do that?"

He sighed. "I can throw my voice. It's a useful talent." He rubbed his hands over the steering wheel. "But I didn't force you to say anything. I merely suggested it, and you wanted to do what I asked."

"I'll be sure to pass that along to Kahn." She lifted her cell phone.

"No!"

Christine scowled at him, waiting for his excuse.

"This case…this case is important to me. I swear, I'll never do that again."

"I don't have much reason to believe your word," Christine shot back.

Destler sighed again. "I know. I got carried away. I know you can't understand, but the girls might be key to something enormous. Something truly remarkable. Did you hear those stories? Nearly identical accounts of abduction, from the same exact spot, both resulting in pregnancy." His voice was growing more and more excited, almost frantic. "And, if the second fetus has the full nine months to develop, it might come out differently. We need to see what these infants look like whole. Then we'll have something to work with."

Christine looked at his eyes and then, as if for the first time, his mask. Perhaps it was the first time in the hours they'd been together that she really studied its hard lines, its perfect symmetry. Such an elegant nose. She wondered what it was like to breathe through air holes punched into leather. She wondered what he was hiding. She thought of the baby on the operating table, its exposed, graying tongue. Exhaustion washed over her, along with the tug of some hazy flicker of sadness. She closed her eyes and leaned back into her chair.

"Fine. Alright," she groaned.

She heard him exhale.

"But," she warned, "if you ever do that to me again, I'll report you in a heartbeat."

"Understood," he said.

She opened her eyes and watched them pull back onto the road. "Those girls weren't abducted, Destler. Everything they described makes perfect sense when you consider the substances they were almost certainly abusing. Or, at least that Natalie was almost certainly abusing."

"They said that someone told them to take something. They were instructed."

"Yes. Probably the dealer, or worse, the person who drugged them and assaulted them. A human man. It's the clear, logical explanation."

Destler kept his eyes on the road. Christine realized she didn't know where he was taking her. Fear bubbled below her belly button.

"Tomorrow, we're going to visit those woods."

"Tomorrow?"

"We're staying in town tonight. At the local motel."

"What! I didn't bring anything with me. No toothbrush, no change of clothes."

"You'll know better next time."

Before she could stop herself, Christine rolled her eyes. "I wouldn't push it if I were you."

"No," Destler said, unexpectedly gentle. "Don't worry, you have your own room."

Christine snorted. "I should hope so."

Destler's jaw tightened and released, so quickly she wondered if she'd imagined it. They rode in silence for a mile or so.

"Thank you," Destler said.

Christine watched his gloves on the steering wheel. "I feel like I'm going to regret this." She tried to make it sound like a joke.

His mouth twisted into something between grin and grimace. "I wouldn't be surprised if you do."

They didn't speak as the car bounced into the motel parking lot, or as the petrified receptionist handed over their keys. When they reached their adjacent doors, they nodded to one another and murmured goodnight, though the sun was still staining the sky above them.

And later, as she crawled between the scratchy bed sheets in her underwear, Christine swore she heard a violin, slow and mournful and muffled, like a buried memory of loss weeping its way back to consciousness only to evaporate, again and again, just beyond her reach. She closed her eyes, unwilling to cry, and allowed the specter to play her into a bewildered sleep.