ACT ONE
Tuesday, 9/26
J. Edgar Hoover Building
2:15 p.m.
Tuesday afternoon in the basement. Peaceful. Welcome.
Meeting at 9, lunch at noon, paperwork 'til five, then home. Most field agents complain about the slow pace of an office-bound day, the boring rhetoric and stats; but Dana Scully appreciates days like this. They are normal, although she isn't sure she knows what the word means anymore.
Seven years of tracking aliens, long lost siblings, global conspirators and assorted and sundry monsters have turned "normal" into a perverse caricature of itself. There was a time when her life was simpler. That ended the day she accepted an assignment to work with Fox Mulder. Though her role has changed, she often wonders at her own willingness to continue on this path.
She sighs, pushing an auburn lock behind her left ear while she sits down at his desk, form in hand. Long ago, they agreed she would handle their expense reports. Mulder simply has no patience for the mundane details of casework. It boggles the mind. The man can profile a criminal on scant evidence, raise questions no one would think to ask, answer them himself, then write a monograph of such precision it's practically erotic to law enforcement types. Yet, he can't or won't maintain a balance sheet.
At least she's gotten him to start organizing their fieldwork receipts. Granted, his version of organized means that the top center drawer of his desk is crammed with varied evidence of their travels. Scully's task is to make sense of the contents and prepare a credible request for reimbursement of funds. She looks at the blank form waiting to be filled with legible numbers and precise listings of the whys and wherefores of every out-of-pocket dime spent while in service to Uncle Sam. Her eyes turn to Mulder's drawer and she pulls it open with a gingery touch, as if paper snakes might jump out at any moment.
She gathers the charge slips that will show up on the reviewed agency account. Further inspection reveals some scattered hulls and a few untouched sunflower seeds, a matchbook from 7-11, the paper cover of a straw overwritten with phone numbers, a half-used Post-it pad, two pencils -she pauses and looks upwards at three Ticonderogas stuck into the ceiling tiles above her head before resuming her inventory - a news clipping about tsunamis on the Eastern Seaboard, a program from Camden Yards, a rubber doll whose eyes bug out when you squeeze it, a computer disk marked "TRNSCR," a Waterman pen, a day-glo orange Magic Marker, colored paper clips and a cheap calculator. Great.
Fifteen minutes of sorting the relevant from the ridiculous and she grabs the Waterman, filling the empty waiting boxes in a neat script that belies her medical training. Calculations are reviewed twice for accuracy. This isn't what she imagined life in the FBI would be like when she signed up so long ago. She's just about to sign her name when a covered Starbucks cup appears beneath her nose. She pulls back and grabs it without a word, a wry smile crossing her lips.
Lifting the brew to her mouth, she closes her eyes and takes in the first hot swirl of fluid through the small opening in the lid. The tang of espresso laced with chocolate and whipped cream slides over her tongue and down her throat, warming her inside. She drinks tea as a rule, and mocha lattes are on her list of delicious-but-dangerous foods. Pure indulgence. Still, this is Mulder's usual recompense for shirking the report. She sets the cup down on the desktop and laps the last trace of coffee from her upper lip with a dab of her tongue.
"Am I forgiven?" a warm baritone purrs into her ear.
"I'm not so sure, Mulder," she replies with affected coolness.
She feels his breath beside her cheek and her own hormonal reaction to his closeness. He's leaning behind her, his right forearm braced against the desk, his left somewhere in back of her, but not touching her. He knows better than that, but he's pushing it. She allows herself the luxury of this nearness for a few seconds then reaches into the drawer, grabbing the matchbook before pushing back in the desk chair.
"Whoa!" he exclaims as she swings around.
She hesitates for only a moment before fixing her sights on him. Charcoal suit, white shirt, dark silk tie, new haircut and wire-frame glasses. On anyone else, common. On Mulder? She has to admit she savors the way his good looks register on her each day.
He's watching her, a chagrined look in his eyes as he spots what's in her hand. "I kept that so I'd remember the Slurpees," he explains as she tears off a match.
"Slurpee, Mulder." She closes the cover. "One." Strikes the match. "Yours." She allows the flame to flare for a moment or two, then blows it out. She watches the smoke curl and spiral in the air, then looks to her partner, lips still pursed. She has his full attention now. In an undertone she asks, "So, that's why there are matches in your desk?"
"What do you mean?" he replies, eyes lifting in a lazy line from her mouth to her eyes.
"Sure you're not sneaking the occasional drag?"
A look of mock pain graces his features. "Scully, I'm hurt you'd think that. Oh, I- I still get the urge once in a while, but my memory of life as a tobacco beetle hatchery is still quite intact. Anyway, you know how addictions work."
"I know it's a daily choice."
"Just for you."
"Umm-hmm," she responds, tilting her head at him, a thin edge of sarcasm coloring the contralto of her voice.
"I do plan on sticking around for a while, so you better get used to my bad habits."
"Like I have a choice?" she gibes.
"You do, you know," he says with more seriousness than she expects.
Picking up the expense report, she stands and moves to where he leans against the file cabinet and hands it to him. He takes it and she steps in closer, the pages in his hand curling between them. She knows she's standing too close, the edge of her jacket brushing into his. Close enough to smell the soap he used this morning mingled with the scent of laundered cotton, the afternoon's perspiration clinging. Close enough to observe the widening of his pupils, black ringed with hazel-gold; the flare of his nostrils as he breathes her in; and his Adam's apple dipping as he swallows down his response to her proximity.
"Next time, Mulder," she states with some intensity, "a mocha latte won't cut it."
His brows knit together and his mouth drops open a notch. Then, he gives her a slow smile. His right hand slips beneath her jacket to rest against her waist, branding her where his fingers circle. He drops his voice and his head to her, murmuring, "Really? And what will it take to satisfy you?"
The heated memories in their shared gaze have no place here, yet they arise in vivid, unspoken detail. That they should be standing here, flirting in the open while surely being surveilled, is arousing but risky and unprofessional. Then again, when had that ever stopped Mulder? She eases her desire to taste his mouth by inhaling, straightening her shoulders and replying after releasing her breath, "A yogurt muffin would be nice." She steps past him and hears his soft chuckle at her back.
Managing a professional and personal life with Mulder is as precarious as it is pleasurable. They've had to learn to manage more than cases. Time is always an issue, and propriety. Emotional baggage also plays no small part in their emerging dynamic. In the end, however, it's the work - always the work - that structures, defines and balances them.
Mulder drops a stack of correspondence into the mesh basket at the corner of the desk and her reverie is curtailed, the tension in the room diffused. Grabbing a letter opener, she begins screening correspondence. Mulder logs onto his Bureau e-mail and scans the dozen or so posts that sit waiting.
"Frohike wants us to stop by," he tells her. "Says he's got a new device to show us."
"Boys and their toys..." she mumbles without looking up.
"And my Canadian contact says Sasquatch sightings in the Toronto outskirts are up 30 percent since last month."
"Uh-huh."
"Hey Scully, did you know that more people believe in Big Foot than in the Loch Ness Monster? Oregon State and the University of Aberdeen hooked up and did a survey-"
"That's nice."
She's only half-listening, her brows furrowed as she takes in a letter written on expensive paper with fountain ink in an elegant hand.
"Anything interesting?" he asks. Scully looks up to find Mulder removing his eyeglasses.
"Maybe. This is a letter from someone out on Long Island asking for your help." He nods, then sits back waiting for her to read:
"Dear Mr. Mulder,
Over the last two weeks, five women have disappeared and reappeared off the shores of the Island's East End. In each case, the woman vanishes without a trace, only to wash ashore a day or so later, barely alive. They have no memory of their lost time -"
She looks up and spies the glow of anticipation in his eyes.
"- and all of them speak about a bright light before blacking out. Our local authorities have no leads, but I suspect foul play of a non-human nature."
She pauses again and this time she finds Mulder's head dropped back onto his shoulders, his eyes closed.
"I understand that you follow such things, so I am imploring your help.
Cordially, Miss Olivia Van Helden Sag Harbor, New York"
Without moving, he says, "Lost time and bright lights, Scully. Sounds like alien abductions to me."
"More like one too many at a Martha Stuart soiree."
His eyes open and without scoffing says, "So, you've been to the Hamptons." She laughs softly.
"Mulder, the victims have been recovered. This isn't an FBI matter."
"No, but it's an X-File."
"Might be an X-File." Her hesitancy bears the stamp of fatigue. September has been difficult and she's worried about him.
He wags a brow at her. "East End, Long Island, Scully. Playground of the rich and famous. Who knows? Maybe you'll see some hot celebrity strolling the sands."
She chuffs at him. "With my luck, it'll be Donald Trump in a Speedo. Thank you very much, but no."
Her attempt at sarcasm fails to faze him. Instead, he leans over the desk and catches her eyes. "Come with me," he says, his voice sliding over her like molasses. "I'll take you for a walk on the beach."
She regards him from under her lashes for five seconds. "You know, they have a name for what you're doing, Mulder."
"What's that?"
"Bribery." Her tone is somber but her eyes are smiling.
Thursday, 9/28
Sag Harbor, New York
10:00 a.m.
Detective Nick Guarino leans his burly 6-foot 6-inch frame over the narrow ledge at the nurse's station and picks up the chart on Mallory Lowell. He's no medical expert, but he knows how to read a chart after 19 years on the force. From the indicators regarding the girl's vital signs, it's a pretty sure bet she'll come through her ordeal intact. As for any psychological impact, there's no shortage of therapists in the area if she needs one, that's certain.
"Hey, Nick."
"Hey, Diane. How's it going?" His deep voice rumbles as his eyes lift to watch the full-figured brunette entering the nurses' station.
"It's going just fine. How's DeeDee?" His eyes return to the chart.
"Good, good. Just happy school's back in session keeping Linda out of trouble." Guarino sets the chart back in its place and looks back up.
The nurse's face is full of concern and more than a little worry. "We got enough of that to go round," she says.
Guarino nods, once. "Got that right. How's Mallory doing?"
"Better today. Breathing on her own and Dr. B thinks she'll be able to go home tomorrow."
"That's good, real good."
"Was Linda upset?"
"She'll be okay."
"Yeah. She and Mal will be back at the outlet mall spending money before you know it."
Guarino chuffs at her and in one fluid motion, smoothes down his dark moustache and rubs his chin. "Has she said anything since she became conscious?"
"Not much, but," Diane leans in and her voice dips in volume. "Do you really think it's a good idea having her talk to those FBI people?"
"FBI?" His eyes squint at her.
"I thought you called them in on this."
Guarino shakes his head. "Where are they now?" he asks gruffly.
"In her room- Nick?" she calls after the figure moving down the hall with deliberate intent. The telephone buzzes and she shrugs before answering, "Floor Two Nurses' Station."
Guarino stands in the doorway of Room 248, his large frame filling the space. Inside, next to the window, Mallory Lowell is sitting up in bed; her streaked, blonde hair piled up on her head with a large-toothed, purple clip. She looks pale, worn out. But she's awake and speaking with two official-looking folks that stand near the bed. Guarino takes a quick read: FBI.
The woman has her back to him and is speaking in soft tones. She's petite in stature with a head of cropped, red hair. Her tailored, black pant suit looks trendy and her suede high-heeled shoes, new. A female fed. Probably plays by the book. Her counterpart is tall, lean, what most women would call good-looking even with that nose. His suit is pricy, but he slouches against the window frame watching the woman and Mallory as they chat. College boy, too smart for his own good, though his age and his attitude suggest experience.
Guarino shifts his weight with a shuffle of his feet and the man looks over at him. "I'll be right back," he says. His left hand reaches into his jacket as he approaches and he pulls out what Guarino acknowledges as a legit FBI badge.
"I'm Agent Mulder." He extends his free hand and Guarino takes it, surprised at the strength in the slim-fingered grip that clasps his massive hand. They release and Mulder gestures with his head to the woman, who now stands facing them. "That's Agent Scully, my partner. We're investigating the kidnappings that have been going on here for the last few weeks."
"Well, seems like everybody's been recovered, so I don't understand why the feds would involve themselves."
Agent Scully joins them. "We don't mean to interfere with local police business, Detective..."
"Guarino. Nick Guarino," he says shaking the woman's hand.
"Of course. We'd just like to ask Ms. Lowell a few more questions, if you don't mind. Her story might help us prevent this from happening to someone else."
Guarino scratches the back of his head. "I suppose there's no harm as long as Mallory is up to it and I stay."
They cross back to the bed with Guarino in the lead. He stops at the foot of the bed. The gruff face softens as he addresses the girl. "Hey honey. How are you today?"
"Hi, Uncle Nick. Okay, I guess."
"You scared us."
"You? I was scared."
"Well, you're safe now. Your mom coming today?"
"What else? She's been a pain-in-the-ass."
"Mind your mouth."
"Sorry, but she's so annoying."
"She loves you and she was sick with worry. Don't give her a hard time."
"Whatever." The girl rolls her eyes at him.
"Mallory, these agents want to ask you some questions. Do you mind?"
Mallory's eyes brighten. "No, I don't mind. At least they don't look at me like I'm crazy or something. Like that nurse."
"Nurse Itzkowitz?"
"Yeah, her."
"What have you said?"
"The truth."
Mulder interrupts, approaching the other side of the bed. "Which is what I'd like to go over again, if you don't mind."
"I don't mind. It's like I told you before. Ray and I were on the beach..."
Mulder pulls a pad from his pocket. "Raymond Weill."
"Yup, that's Ray." He nods at her reply. "We were just chillin' and then we had a fight and he went into the woods to pee." Mallory stops and looks at Scully.
"It's okay," Scully says. "Just tell the detective what happened next."
"Well, I thought I heard something and when I looked back at the water, I saw this guy coming up at me. I tried to get away, but I felt frozen. I called for Ray, but he didn't answer and then..."
"Then..." Mulder prompts.
Mallory looks at him. "Then it gets weird."
Mulder takes a step closer. "Weird, how?"
"He was chanting or something. And I-I just lost track of everything. Next thing I know, I'm here."
"Did you recognize what he was chanting?"
"That's another thing. It was some foreign language I never heard. But I understood what he was saying."
"Which was what?" Mulder's eyes have narrowed a bit.
"I know it sounds crazy, but he kept saying 'Come to me, come to me' over and over." The agents exchange a look.
Mulder returns his attention to the teenager and asks, "Mallory, you said earlier that you remember a bright light and then losing track of time. Do you remember if any tests were performed?"
"What are you talking about?" Guarino growls.
"It's okay Uncle Nick. No, I don't remember anything like that. Honest. But- oh!"
"What is it?" Scully asks.
"I just remembered something." Mallory's eyes grow wide with remembered terror and she begins to shake.
Scully moves to sit beside her on the bed and takes her hand in her own. "You're safe with us. You can't be harmed here."
Mallory stares at Scully, then looks up at Guarino and last, to Mulder. "About the light..." she begins.
Mulder leans forward. "The light? From the sky?" he asks.
"No," she replies with a slow shake of her head. "Not the sky."
Guarino interrupts. "Mallory, what you trying to say, honey? Was it a car, a boat on the water?"
Mallory continues to shake her head, her voice soft and distant, as if she sees the man before her again. "Not a car. Not a boat."
Scully squeezes the girl's hand. "Can you show me where the light was?"
Mallory pulls her hand from Scully's and closes her eyes. She takes in a deep breath and gives a shuddered sigh. Opening her eyes, she lifts a slow hand towards Scully and points... to the center of her chest.
Guarino exits the tiny hospital at a good clip, keys, coins and apparatus jingling as he moves. He feels Mulder and Scully trailing. Damned feds. Always thinking they're superior to cops. He turns when he reaches the squad car curbed at the brick sidewalk and confronts Mulder.
"I was hoping Mallory would verify some of our facts this morning, but then you started in with your mumbo-jumbo and blew my chance."
Mulder remains nonplused, but Scully bristles. Mulder's voice refocuses his attention. "All the women taken experienced time displacement and talked about a bright light before losing consciousness. Those are classic elements of an alien abduction scenario."
"Hold on, agent," Guarino says in a dead calm voice, his eyes squinting against the midday sun. "What kind of dog-and-pony show do you think you're gonna run here? Look, Mallory is my sister's little girl and I'm not about to have you adding to everyone's distress. I've got enough problems without you spreading alien abduction crap."
"Actually, I'm not convinced it is alien abduction crap," Mulder rejoins, which garners an arched brow and a suppressed smile from Scully. The lawman reaches in through the open, passenger-side window of the car to grab a manila folder off the front seat.
"This is what we've got so far. You'll see it's solid police work," he tells Scully as he hands the file to her, surprised the Bureau would keep a wacko like Mulder on the payroll. Must be some VIP's kid.
"Is it possible to talk with the other abductees?" Mulder asks.
"I could arrange that, although we've done so already. What do you hope to find?"
"A connection that may have been overlooked."
Guarino is miffed at the agent's presumptive attitude, but cooperation is key. "Just let me know what you need."
"Appreciate that. How do you account for the bright light?"
Guarino's thumbs hook into his belt loops. "Searchlight from a boat is what we figure, given that all the kidnappings occurred offshore and at night. Maybe a car."
"But no witnesses," says Scully, her eyes on Mulder.
"Except one," he responds, meeting her gaze.
"Ray."
Mulder nods.
Guarino watches the exchange, knowing that more is being said than the simple words he's hearing. Figures. Most partners develop an unspoken code, but only after years of successful experience. From the way these two watch one another, it's clear they've worked together for some time. What's more, they trust one another's assumptions. Their dissimilarities may explain the subtle tension he feels between them, but it might be something else, too. Something more basic to human nature.
Scully's brows furrow as she flips through several pages. "There may be someone else, Mulder."
"Who?"
"Oracoff."
Guarino clears his throat and two sets of eyes converge on him, necessitating response. He's chagrined he hadn't mentioned it sooner. "Dr. Julian Oracoff. He's the one who found Mallory." He pauses. "And several of the others."
"Three out of five," Scully states and looks back to her partner.
The man swears he can feel unspoken dialogue. He decides to trust his instincts on these two, at least until he's had a chance to check their backgrounds. He reaches into the vehicle for the radio. The static-charged voice of a dispatcher answers his call. "Jerryl, this is Nick. I want Raymond Weill brought in for requestioning," he barks into the unit. "And get me the number for Dr. Julian Oracoff at Southampton."
"10-4," the dispatcher crackles.
He returns the device and looks back to the agents who stand waiting. "Okay?"
"Fine," Scully replies. "I suggest you be up front with us, Detective, or you may find yourself with another victim on your hands."
Guarino shifts tactics to reclaim his authority. "Tell me something, just how *do* you know about the other stories? I just gave you the file."
Mulder pulls the letter Scully read to him in D.C. from his outside pocket. "One of your townspeople asked for our help."
Guarino takes the proffered paper from Mulder's hand. With lips drawn tight he reads, head wagging from side to side. He lifts his eyes and gives a definitive, "Figures," with an exasperated sough of air.
"What does?" Scully asks, taking the letter back.
"Olly."
"Excuse me?"
"Olly Van Helden wrote this letter." Guarino plants his fists on his hips and lifts his face to the sky. He returns his gaze back to Scully. "Look, I owe you folks an apology for having come all the way out here from Washington on no account."
Mulder's face scrunches up, "How's that?"
"Olly. That's Olivia Van Helden, by the way. She's...well... let's just say she's different."
"Sounds like my kind of person," Mulder interjects with a small smile.
"What do you mean 'different?'" Scully says with a sidelong glance at Mulder.
"She's is a bit of a local legend. Comes from old Dutch money and even older East End family."
"So?" Mulder tosses in.
"She has a rather vivid imagination. Believes in crystals and that sort of stuff. Runs the "Mystic Bookshop" on Main. Sure-fire recipe for breeding what I'll kindly call a kook."
"You have a problem with that?" says Mulder, his surprise genuine.
"I do when it drags a couple of feds all the way from Washington to Sag Harbor. Say, why did you come from D.C.? We have a local field office in Yaphank."
Scully speaks up at that. "Ms. Van Helden felt that my partner's expertise in paranormal phenomena might be useful in this matter."
Guarino's presuppositions about Scully's stability are shaken. "Expertise in paranormal phenomena, huh? As in aliens and voodoo and that sort of thing?"
"That's right." Her tone is serious, defensive of her partner who stands at her side in silence, although the line of his jaw relaxes at her words.
"Look," Guarino begins, looking to his left and his right before replying. "I'll grant you a lo-ong leash as long as you make progress. But, I better not hear you've gone back to badger Mallory or- Speak of the devil," he mutters, interrupting himself. His gaze focuses across the street.
Hurrying down the sidewalk is an older woman of stature. She's tall, reedy, wearing a flowery calf length skirt and a loose blouse, over which is thrown an unbuttoned artist's smock. Thick, gray hair cascades around her shoulders and a large-brimmed rattan hat puts her face in speckled shadow. Birkenstocks clap against the soles of her feet as she makes her way across the street headed towards them with obvious intent.
"Van Helden?" Mulder queries in a low tone.
"The same," Guarino answers.
The woman's agitation is palpable as she strides towards the trio. Without acknowledging the detective, she walks up to Mulder and meets him at eye level.
"You must be Agent Mulder," she says and he nods. "Thank goodness you've come. Now, maybe something will be done to stop this madness." Her voice is mid-ranged, crisp and resonant, though tinged with age. Her diction is impeccable and her manner bespeaks an authority that brooks no argument.
"Now, Olly-" Guarino begins.
"Don't 'now Olly' me, Nicky," she says, shifting her keen gaze to the lawman. "You and I both know that something fishy is going on around here."
"And I doubt you'll find it on the local diner's menu, either," Mulder quips, a smile tugging at his mouth.
Olly's shoulders ease and she turns back to him, eyes softening at his open expression. "What I mean is that more women are going to be taken if you don't stop him."
"Him?"
Her gaze intensifies as she murmurs, "The Marimorph."
Guarino notes the sudden change in the agent's expression. His amusement downshifts with lightning speed into interest, signaling his belief in Olly's absurd suggestion. Mulder's lips form an unspoken "what," but she's already answering.
"An ancient humanoid from the depths of the sea, Agent Mulder. Come to find his literal soul mate on the surface before returning to his watery home. You may have heard of his homeland." She pauses for effect before whispering, "Atlantis."
Mulder exhales and his head pulls back from where it has leaned towards Olly. "Atlantis," he repeats before looking over her shoulder at Scully, who stands listening just beyond them. He's about to say something, but is broadsided by Guarino's voice at his side.
"Okay, that's enough. These people have come a long way at your insistence, obviously *and* unnecessarily. I've got an investigation to run and maybe we can get to the bottom of this with some federal muscle behind it. I promise you, we'll find the guy. Don't worry. Just you be careful and watch yourself."
Olly turns to Guarino and draws herself straighter. A look of disdain is in her eyes, but she maintains her temper. "If I didn't know you from when I fed you cookies off my back porch, Nicky, I'd be insulted. But, I thank Detective Guarino for his concern over a poor helpless old woman, such as myself. I'll be fine, thank you." She casts a meaningful glance at Mulder, then moves down the sidewalk with purposeful strides.
Olly's commanding presence lingers in her wake. Guarino's cheeks color at being chastised, his chagrin compounded when he spies Scully's eyes on him. He clears his throat and looks down at his shoes before looking back at them.
"I'm, uh, sorry about that. I told you. She's eccentric. I wouldn't set store by anything she says."
"I'd still like to speak with her further, if you don't mind," Mulder states, his impatience clear as he takes two steps backwards in Olly's direction. "I don't think my mumbo-jumbo can outdo hers, anyway. Right?" Mulder holds out his hands to them and flashes them a winsome and unexpected smile. He turns on his heel, takes a few steps, then turns back. He calls to Scully, "Why don't you speak with Dr. Oracoff and call me when you're done?"
Guarino looks at Scully who nods, then watches her partner until he's out of sight. The unflappable exterior may fool some, but she can't disguise the heat in her gaze, which he's certain could melt his sterling shield. It's been some time since he's had a woman's eyes follow him the way Scully's do her partner, but he remembers how it felt. Oh, yeah.
As for the case, it won't hurt to use Uncle Sam's money to fund his investigation, at least until they grow weary of Olly's game, whatever it is. The feds might be useful after all.
At the Precinct
2:00 p.m.
Mulder strides through the doorway of the stationhouse. The blast of air conditioning that hits his face is welcome. The Mystic was closed when he'd gotten there and he realized, irritated with himself, that he didn't know Van Helden's home address. He shows his badge to the dispatcher. "Guarino?"
She points to a corridor. "Downstairs."
The odor of urinals, dried sweat and institutional food greets him at the bottom of the stairwell. He's been in jails of varying types and this one, at least, is clean and bright. It's still a jailhouse. Why anyone would ever risk losing their liberty is not a mystery to him. He knows the threat of incarceration is not a deterrent in the mind of the hardened criminal. The narrow, fluorescent-lit hallway diverges at the base. The left wing houses three holding cells. He turns right and walks through an open arch into a narrow corridor along whose length runs a plate of one-way glass. Inside, he sees Guarino sitting at a table with a scared-looking teenager. He thumbs "Open" on the intercom beside the closed door. The kid is talking.
"I told you. I don't know what happened to her. I went into the woods and then Mallory was ... just ... gone."
So, this is Raymond Weill. Mulder taps on the door and watches Guarino cross to open. He disengages the intercom and waits until he's admitted without a word. He approaches the boy and sits down opposite. Ray takes a swig from the soda can on the narrow wooden table and sets it down, his eyes on Mulder.
"Raymond? I'm Agent Mulder with the FBI. I'm hoping you can help us figure out what *did* happen to Mallory."
Mulder meets the boy's eyes dead on. He doesn't detect malice there, only false bravado and a trace of fear. He shifts into observatory mode, senses realigning to pick up all the subtle nuances. He notes the clothing: khaki trousers and golf polo, scuffed topsiders. Work clothes, most likely. His buzzed hair is typical of his generation and he sports a gold stud in his right ear. Peer-driven. Heterosexual. Just your average kid. Ray's right foot is tapping toe-to-heel-and-back in an endless rhythm beneath the table.
"Listen, I didn't do anything wrong," the boy says. "We were just talking and fooling around a little bit."
Mulder's certain 'foolin' around' these days is very different from his own adolescent experiences, but he's listening not just to Ray's text, but to the emotion lurking below. In this case, he hears nothing more than male hormones speaking.
"And Mallory wasn't being especially friendly, was she?" Mulder gives the boy a conspiratorial look, which seems to settle him.
"No. She wasn't. But I figure, what the heck? Girls expect you to try something."
"Did you?"
"Yeah," he admits grudgingly. "Look, I was ticked when she said no, but I wouldn't hurt her. Ever. You gotta believe me." Mulder does, but he's certain something else isn't being said.
"Tell me, Ray. What happened next? After Mallory said no."
The boy's eyes shift away, then back. "Nothin'. I went into the woods to take a leak."
"And you didn't see or hear anything unusual?" Mulder hears a stifled sigh behind him. Guarino's patience is limited.
"I- I don't know what you mean."
The metal slides on the bottom of Mulder's chair scrape hard against the linoleum as he pushes back and stands. Hands on hips, he turns from the table and walks towards the mirrored glass. He observes Ray's reflection shift in his seat. For a moment, it seems as if the boy is about to say something, then reconsiders before taking another swig of soda.
Mulder casts a sidelong glance at Guarino, leaning against the closed door beside him. The man's eyes meet his and his cheek muscle gives a twitch. Mulder suspects what the boy is hiding, but needs Ray to say it for Guarino's sake. He watches the image of the detective as he steps forward and in a quiet voice says, "Ray, Mallory has already told us what happened. We just want to hear your version of things."
"She told you-" he stops mid-sentence.
"Son, if there's something you're not saying, I suggest you tell us now." He tilts his head towards Mulder, who turns in place and walks back towards the table, his face a cool mask. "The federal government doesn't take kindly to aiding and abetting criminals."
"I told you, I don't know-"
The boy recoils and gasps as Mulder's hand slams the aluminum can against the wall, where it clatters into a corner, foam spraying gray cinderblock as brown liquid puddles on the floor. The agent's hands press flat against the table and he leans across its width, staring down at the adolescent. "Cut the crap, Ray," he snarls. "You know exactly what happened to Mallory, don't you?" His voice rises with each statement. "Maybe you were part of it. Maybe you helped set it up, huh?"
"No, I- I swear," Ray sputters. "I'm telling you the truth. I didn't hurt her."
"I figure you for 17 or 18, right?" Mulder focuses on the boy's eyes as he bites off his words. "You'll be charged as an adult. Trust me, Ossining is *not* a nice place, although a pretty boy like you shouldn't have any trouble finding a 'protector.' Should he?" He pushes off the table and walks towards the door, as if to leave.
"Wait a minute," Ray calls, his voice laced with panic. Mulder halts. "I did see something." Mulder turns, and he and Guarino move closer. Sitting back down opposite the boy, Mulder smoothes his tie and gives Ray his best official G-man glower.
The boy sighs then says, "There was a guy. He came outta nowhere, I swear. I heard Mallory calling me. She sounded scared, so I went back to the beach and he was just standin' there, next to the blanket."
Guarino pipes up. "Why didn't you say something about this before, Raymond?"
"I dunno. I was scared."
"You were scared," Guarino parrots, voice rising in disgust. "We've been going crazy trying to nail this guy and you know what he looks like? Jesus."
"I don't remember, exactly." Ray's eyes plead with the detective's. Mulder watches agitation override timidity as the real story gets told. "The guy was naked and I thought he was going to attack her. I wanted to help, but I couldn't move. I couldn't." Ray drops his eyes and looks away from both men. "I messed up. Mallory could've died."
Mulder's tone softens, "Help us now, Ray. What did he look like?"
The boy looks back to the agent and leans in. "Tall, thin white guy. It was dark but he must've been carrying a flashlight or something cause I could see Mallory's face. She was really scared."
"Then what happened?"
Ray waits a few seconds, then says, "He was strange. I mean he looked normal, you know, but then..." he pauses.
Guarino presses, "What then, Raymond?"
"There was this light. A mad weird light. I thought it was a flashlight or something like that," he repeats.
"But it wasn't," Mulder adds.
"I couldn't tell for sure, but it looked like it was spillin' right out from this guy's chest. I don't remember anything after that, I swear. I woke up right there in the woods the next morning and went straight to school. My mom thinks I stayed at a friend's house. Then I heard Mallory was missing and Detective Guarino came to find me and I got nervous. I was just happy when they found her. I figured everybody would forget the whole thing."
Mulder sits back in the chair and sighs, running a hand over his mouth. He stands abruptly and turns to Guarino. "You can verify his whereabouts for the other abductions?"
"Yeah."
"Send him home."
Mulder exits the room, with Guarino on his heels. In the outer corridor, Guarino says low, "You believe him, don't you? That crap about the light?"
"Yeah, I do. I also believe, as Ms. Van Helden said earlier, that something fishy is going on around here. I need her home address."
Guarino cocks his head at Mulder, eyes narrowing. "I'm yanking you in, Agent Mulder. You're on a short leash now. A real...short...leash," he says.
Darden Hall, Southampton University
4:15 p.m.
In the warmth of a late summer afternoon, Scully wanders academic corridors, searching for Room 401. Labs peek out from open doors beckoning to her with the lure of a siren's call. She pauses at the doorway to the small office labeled "Julian Oracoff, Ph.D.," then enters. Muted strains of Debussy filter from hidden speakers. Travel posters touting the names of exotic locales and extreme sports cover one wall. Photographs dot another, images reflecting a tall, slim man with blond hair and an enigmatic smile posing with different official-looking types. One photo shows him in a tuxedo holding a plaque. He's handsome. Another wall displays credentials, real and honorary, from European and American universities.
His bookshelves, however, are what attract her most. The first is filled with volumes of scientific texts from many specialties, along with a sampling of philosophy, ancient art, anthropology and music. The other holds a dazzling display of shells, brilliant in color, amazing in diversity. Scully picks up a gigantic hinged oyster, its mottled cover covered with spikes, reminding her of the San Diego beaches of her childhood. Another looks like a miniature conch, striated with brown and cream and gold, its interior awash in palest blue. She turns it around and around in her fingers.
"Lovely, isn't it?" a voice sounds far behind her.
She spins around, shell in hand, startled at having been caught touching someone's personal belongings. She's even more startled to find the man attached to the voice standing just behind her. Her perceptions must be off.
"I apo- apologize," she sputters, taking a step back.
"No, I'm glad you like them. She recognizes Oracoff from the photos, but his physical presence impacts with greater force. Her composure slips for only a moment before her professional demeanor snaps back into place and she pulls her ID from her jacket.
"I'm Dana Scully from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Dr. Oracoff. We have an appointment."
"Yes, my G.A. told me about it." He picks up a fan-like shell, bands of amber, purple and gold spanning the delicate carapace. "This is my favorite," he says, his voice wistful as he holds the translucent piece up to the window, setting it aglow with inner fire. "Its commonly known as the Northern scallop, but its true name is 'Sirrimantu,' the ancient symbol of nobility. When the Atlanteans set sail in their ships of gold, these adorned their hulls." His voice is raw silk, soothing yet provocative, with a quality she can't define. Without warning, the hairs on the back of Scully's neck tingle and she gives a slight shiver.
"Are you cold?" Oracoff asks, moving to the window with casual grace. "Blasted a/c. I hate it. He unlocks and angles out a window, letting in fresher, warmer air. He gestures with his hand, "Please, have a seat, Agent Scully." He sits behind his desk and all at once, he is all-business, his eyes assessing her even as she does the same. "This is about the women I found, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is. You discovered three of the five abductees. That's a rather significant coincidence."
"I know. It's awfully suspicious, isn't it?" He chortles and drops his head for a moment before reclaiming her gaze. His eyes are intense, grey shot through with darker flecks and long lashes that curl at the edges. "But, I'm a naturalist, after all. My research is conducted on these shores and that's where the women were found. I've taken lie detector tests that prove my innocence. I hope I don't have to prove it again. Not to you." The way he says the last sentence is warmer than required and Scully finds herself distracted by his focused attention, even as she relegates him to the category of Suspect and Not-Mulder.
"How long have you been teaching at Southampton?" she queries.
"Only since the beginning of the Millennium," he says. His response is odd, but no more so than any number of things she's heard her partner say. "I came to the campus on a research grant for the year."
"And your research topic?"
"The effects of global warming on the preservation of antediluvian artifacts on the Atlantic Barrier Shelf."
Scully cocks her head. "Thesis work can be a challenge."
"What was your dissertation on, Dr. Scully?"
So, he'd done some digging prior to her arrival. Suspicion mounts, but the questions in her mind dissipate as quickly as they rise, a disconcerting fact she cannot explain. "My degree is in medicine, but my senior thesis covered some of Einstein's ideas."
"Albert was one of our finest minds."
"Albert?"
"I met him once. He was beyond brilliant. He offered the world the secrets of time - immortality revealed - but they still don't understand."
"Immortality?"
"There are more things in heaven and earth, Dana Scully, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.'"
"I believe that."
"You sound surprised about it."
"Yes, well," and she pauses, recalling her experience at the Buddhist temple and how it has expanded her vision of the world. "I've always thought of myself as a scientist first. I set stock in its hard factual approach to any problem. But, I've had certain... experiences... that have challenged my adherence to its principles."
"It is only when we realize what we do not know, Doctor, that we begin to gain wisdom."
Their eyes meet and once again, the strange tingling at the back of her neck reaches cool tendrils down her back.
"Dr. Oracoff, I was wondering..." she starts.
"I'd love to join you for dinner," he finishes.
She arches a brow at him. That wasn't what she was going to ask, but she finds her mind becoming clouded, unable to remember the pointed questions she had planned. Instead, she says, "Isn't that a bit presumptuous?"
"Only if you don't like the idea. Please."
She considers him, then adds, "Fine. I'll call my partner and have him join us."
His disappointment is obvious. Scully keeps her expression neutral, but she's flattered by his response. "You'll like Mulder, I think. He's interesting. Like you."
Julian leans forward over his crossed arms resting on the desktop. "My dear Doctor, Agent, Dana Scully, if Mulder is anything like me, he'll hate me on sight."
End ~ ACT ONE ~ Ancient Mariner
