Chapter 8
"A procedure?" Mulder frowned.
Scully leaned back against the felt of the passenger's seat, staring at the apartment building where she had just left Lenaghan. The image of Ophelia—the image of the painting behind a clearly blind man whose voice was no longer the spine-prickling slither she remembered from the bar—flashed stark across her mind.
"That's what he charges for the dreams?" Mulder pressed.
She shrugged. "That's what he said."
"What does that mean?"
She shrugged again. Lenaghan's coin was in the front pocket of her jeans, and she traced her fingers over it across the denim.
"He, um," she tore her eyes off the apartment complex to meet Mulder's stare. "He mentioned a fiancé—Janet. That's… That could be something to look into."
Mulder nodded, his gaze still on Scully, confused and gaging. "What sort of procedure?" he insisted.
"Mulder, I don't know." She arched up against her seat. "None of this makes any sense to me."
He narrowed his eyes and glanced at the building. "Let's go back to the motel." He revved the engine. "I'll place some calls. I've already got my hands on the numbers of some of his former faculty members—retired Julliard professors who'd given him their best recommendations before he rejected the scene."
He pulled out of the shady side of Canfield.
"Yes, is this Mrs. Williams?" Mulder said into the corded motel phone. "My name is Fox. I was wondering if I could ask you some questions about a former student of yours."
Scully sat down on his still-made bed as he paused, listening to the response.
"Oh, your mother," Mulder said. "I apologize. Do you have her direct phone number available by any chance?"
Scully arched back against the stiff pillows and plucked the tin token out of her pocket. She twirled it between her fingers, letting the glint of sparse light between the drawn blinds catch the rubbed-off inscription. She focused on the faded lettering.
"Oh, I'm so sorry for your loss," Mulder spoke into the receiver. "Two years? I apologize… Really… Cancer… That sudden?... I'm so sorry…"
Scully studied closer the letters on the coin.
Mulder sighed against the phone. "Again, I apologize. She seemed like such a wonderful woman… Yes, I'm sure… You take care now."
He hung up, flipped a page on his notepad, and dialed another number.
"Cogi Qui Potest Nescit Mori," she said softly.
"Hm?" Mulder arched back toward her, the receiver pinched between his ear and shoulder.
"The inscription," she stretched the token toward Mulder. "That's what it says."
He frowned and narrowed his eyes at the coin as he plucked it from Scully's fingers. "What was it?"
"Cogi Qui—"
"Yes, Hello?" He stretched the coin back to Scully. "Is this Andrew Boyd?" Mulder turned away.
She sighed, twirling the tin token between her fingers.
"Mr. Boyd, yes, hello," he perked up on the other side of the bed. "My name is Fox Mulder. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about a former student of yours."
Scully traced the worn bumps on the coin's surface, thinking about the painting of Ophelia.
"Maurice Lenaghan," Mulder said into the receiver, his back turned. "Yes… Yes… Oh, of course—very talented. I saw him perform at a piano bar last night… Yes, a piano bar… Yes, I know he belongs at a better venue…"
Scully sighed and stared at the swirls of plaster on the ceiling above. They reminded her of the brush strokes on the painting in Lenaghan's apartment. She inched back deeper into the pillows.
"You don't say," Mulder said, still not paying her any attention. "Was it really under your tutelage? That piece was exquisite…"
She slipped her hand back and placed the coin underneath the pillow.
"You don't say… I was wondering if you could give me a little more bio—I'm piecing together a newspaper article—your name should be mentioned, of course…"
His voice faded away as the pulse surged through Scully again. She blinked, wondering if she should resist it, but then it washed over her, kneading all her muscles.
She closed her eyes.
She opened them to bright light again.
The splashing sound of the fountain was close, and the music of a piano could be heard in the distance, just as before.
Scully smiled. She knew she was dreaming. She knew it, and she couldn't wait. It was about to be pleasure—pure honey pleasure; she couldn't wait to see the garden again. She wanted to see all the beauty—feel it again, on her fingertips, along her cheeks on the breeze.
She urged her eyes to adjust faster.
She blinked and found herself in a small space—a curtain drawn about her as though she was in a hospital.
A man in green scrubs walked through the curtain split. Scully could hear the fountain and the chirrup of the garden just beyond the barrier, but all sight of the beauty was walled-off. She looked up at the man.
She couldn't see his face.
He had short black hair, but his face—it flickered, as though he was moving it side to side in rapid tempo, and Scully's eyes couldn't catch up: his features were a blur.
"You're dreaming," he said, in a friendly way, almost like a doctor telling her she was awake.
The man plucked up a tool from a short table beside her.
Scully frowned, zeroing-in on the object—it was a razor, glittering sharp.
"Pull up your shirt, please," the man said, his head ever-flickering, ever-indecipherable.
Lenaghan's instructions came back to her: a procedure… No crying out loud. No waking up if she wanted to see the garden.
Scully dipped her fingers against the edge of her navy t-shirt and inched it up.
"That's enough," the man said with an easy tone. "Just above the navel. Thank you, dear."
And he pressed the razor to her skin.
Scully lurched, every instinct in her wanting to scream. The razor was cold—its edge sharp—she could feel everything.
The man paused and looked up. His face was a flashing mess: a face that darted back and forth, features illegible. He hesitated, waiting, blade pressed to Scully's skin.
The instructions were clear.
She swallowed. It's just a dream, she reminded herself. It's not really happening. She wanted to see the garden.
"Go ahead," she breathed.
The man bent back down and slid the razor into the skin above her navel.
Scully bit her lip. She wanted to scream—she wanted to cry out so bad. She looked up to keep from seeing what was happening, and glanced back down because that was worse somehow.
The man pulled back a fold of her skin and reached his fingers into her navel, pulling on... something.
It was too much… too much…
She bit her lip, panting.
He pulled—a string. A red string. He pulled it out of her navel, stretching it out of her.
"Cogi," she breathed. "Cogi Qui Potest Nescit Mori."
The man with the short black hair and no face pulled the red string out of her navel.
"Cogi Qui Potest Nescit Mori."
He measured. He measured six inches. He cut it off and—
He walked away with it.
The curtain vanished.
Scully faced the garden. It was just as beautiful as before. She gasped and checked her stomach. No scar, no mark—it was over. She stepped forward and brushed her fingertips against the billowing flowers, honey pleasure and wonder soaking through her every cell.