LITTLE MONSTERS (1/6)

by

Lacadiva

December 1, 1997

XF/MSR(mild)/HC/Horror
Spoilers: Small reference to several episodes including Pusher, Duane Barry,
and Fire
Rating: PG13/R for Violence.

Disclaimer: All characters belong to Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen and Fox. No
copyright infringement is intended, and I won't make a nickel from this, so
please don't sue me.

Please do not archive this unless you email and ask. I'm easy. Your comments
are most certainly welcome.

Summary: While investigating a 30-year-old case of governmental experiments on
rural children, Mulder discovers a dangerous addiction more potent than his
search for the truth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Hide me from the conspiracy of the wicked...."
Psalm 64:2

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

FBI Headquarters
Washington, DC
April 14
6:11 am

People were rarely in the basement of the J. Edgar Hoover building this early.
'Only the FBI's Most Unwanted,' Mulder mused as he quietly let himself into his
own office. Quiet was essential, just in case there was someone lurking in the
shadows. His level of paranoia was higher than usual. He was tense, nervous,
given to moments of brutal anxiety. He was sweating right through his suit.
His hands had developed a slight tremor. You had to look real hard to see it,
but he knew it was there, he could feel it. He hadn't slept in days, not
because he couldn't but because he knew he didn't have to. He also had not
eaten in as many days. Food was not essential. The "booster" took care of
everything.

As he sat down at his desk, he could feel IT in his inside jacket pocket as if
it were alive, slithering like a snake. Sweet-talking and beckoning him. He
knitted his fingers together as if he could wait out the desire, but it was too
strong. His attempt to go without it, to work it out of his system, was
failing. He burned and ached from head to toe. He had spent most of the night
before hugging the toilet, dry heaving until he thought he'd puke up a few vital
organs. His head pounded, his eyes felt as if they were going to explode in
their sockets. Thick, foul tasting, bile-like fluid kept building up in his
throat and mouth, threatening to choke him. But worse were the hallucinations
-- sporadic, all-too-real and frightening visions, almost apocalyptic in nature.
They had slowed down, for now, but he knew they would start up again. Like in
his shower, less than an hour ago, when the water had turned to blood and his
towel was filled with razors that ripped his skin to shreds. What if it happen
ed again, and he hurt himself? Or worse, what if he hurt his partner?

He had no choice. He had to give himself another "booster". The promise of
instant relief and temporary invincibility far outweighed the fact that he was
about to shave another year off of his life.

A wave of nausea hit him. He grabbed the black trashcan from under his desk and
leaned over it, knowing nothing would come out, but feeling better having the
can there just in case. The can was suddenly filled to the brim with a million
pink, squirming maggots. Mulder gasped and kicked the trashcan away. It was
empty again. He covered his face with his hands, then wiped away the tears that
had squeezed through his tightly shut eyes. Mulder made his decision.

He stood up and removed IT from his inside jacket pocket -- the covered h
ypodermic needle filled with green fluid. Part narcotic, part alien DNA, part
God only knew what else. He sat it on his desktop and stared at it. This would
keep him going for a couple of days at least. But there was only enough at home
for another two or three days. After that, there was no choice -- pain and
madness were inevitable.

He shook as an icy chill ran through his body. "One more time," Mulder said out
loud, and he removed his jacket. He carefully unbuttoned the cuff of his once
starched now sweat-soaked white shirt and rolled up the sleeve. He removed his
belt, then sat down and looped the belt around his arm. Tighter, tighter,
holding the leather strap with his teeth. He waited for the vein to bulge, then
flipped the cap off the needle. There was a time he detested needles.

He aimed for the vein.

He didn't hear the door open, but felt her presence. It was like a radar signal
going off in his head, an instant awareness of her proximity -- her soap, her
perfume, her hair spray, her own natural perfume. He'd never noticed that kind
of thing before. How could he have ignored it?

Mulder let the strap fall from his mouth. Caught. "Scully, this isn't what you
think."

Mulder could tell how hard it was for her to keep it together. She was running
on adrenaline. She'd had as little sleep as he and had been through so much
more. She had almost died. And as it was so many times before, it was his
fault.

"No? Then what is it, Mulder?" She could not hold it together any longer. Her
eyes turned red, stung by tears. "I haven't been able to reach you for hours.
I was afraid you were dead already."

Mulder trained his eyes on his arm, not wanting to look at her. A vein was
standing up, blue-green and engorged with blood, ready to receive. "Right now,
I wish I was."

"Don't say that. We can beat this. Please, put it down, Mulder," she said as
she slowly approached, holding out a hand. "You don't know what's in there.
You don't know the long-term effects. It's destroyed so many people already.
Don't let it destroy you."

"I did it for you, Scully." A tear streamed down his cheek.

"I know you did. But I'm safe now. You don't have to do this anymore. Please,
Mulder. Put it down."
"I can't Scully. I tried. I can't beat them without it."

"Yes, we can, Mulder."

"Because we're right? Because we're the good guys? No. Only the strong
survive, Scully. Only the strong can beat them. Even if it kills me."

"Do you really believe that?"

"No. I want to believe."

"Then put it down."

"I don't have the strength. I don't think I can."

"We have to try. Mulder, please. Please."

Mulder jammed the needle into his arm.

"NO!"

* * *

FBI Headquarters
One Week Earlier
8:30 a.m.

Sometimes it was hard to work on days like this, Agent Dana Scully thought as
she stepped into the elevator and descended to the basement level. Spring had a
special effect on Washington, D.C. Cherry Blossoms, azaleas and such. Bold
squirrels would actually approach you if you happened to be eating a hotdog or
popcorn from a sidewalk vendor along Pennsylvania Avenue. Kids on skateboards
instead of in school were out enjoying the break in the weather. By lunch time
businessmen in shirtsleeves and business women wearing sneakers with their
designer suits would crowd the streets as they left their gray cubicles for a
taste of early warmth. Scully imagined taking a little walk herself at lunch.
She could use a little color, after an exceptionally dismal winter. It was a
shame she had to spend so much of her day cooped up in the basement, filing
reports. She silent wished for an excuse to get out sooner.

Entering Fox Mulder's windowless office, one might not have thought the sun was
out at all. The lights were off, and there sat Agent Mulder on the edge of his
desk, oblivious to the glorious day outside, staring at disturbing images
projected on a screen.

"Morning Agent Scully, nice of you to join us."

"Morning, Mulder. What's the slide show? Aliens autopsies? Sewer beasts? Fat
sucking freaks?"

"Suicides," Mulder said dryly. "Apparent suicides."
The images on the screen were gruesome -- self-inflicted gunshot wounds, crushed
bodies in smashed cars, hanging victims. Scully, though never squeamish, still
turned away from the screen.

Mulder handed Scully a file. The unmistakable X was imprinted on it. She sat
down with a sigh to read.

* * *

"I agree there are some interesting coincidences," Scully began, the image of a
suicide victim projecting onto her dark suit as she walked by the screen. "All
were mid-to-late thirties. All had non-professional jobs but still seemed to
live relatively well. All were exceptionally high scholastic achievers,
graduating from some of the top universities in the country. But look, Mulder,
they're male and female, black and white. One lived in Manhattan, another in
Annapolis, another in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. How can these be ritual suicides?
There's no discernable pattern."

"Keep reading," Mulder said.

Scully flipped through the pages again, looking for the common thread she had
apparently missed. "Stafford Hills," she said. And then she saw the town's
name again. And again. "Staff -- they're all originally from the same place?"

"Bingo," Mulder jumped up and leaned over Scully, pleased and excited at getting
her involved in the hunt. "Stafford Hills is a tiny speck in the wilds of
Southern Virginia. So it wouldn't be too farfetched to assume all the suicides
knew each other. They probably played in the same sand box together."

"I'll admit it may be more than a coincidence, but that hardly qualifies this as
an X-file. There's nothing here that indicates paranormal phenomena. Maybe it
was some strange suicide pact. Whatever it is, Mulder, I think you're wasting
your time."

"Think again," Mulder said, handing Scully another file. "An X-file from 1966.
Go on, take a look."

Scully opened the file, and the first two words she saw gave her pause.
"Stafford Hills?"

"In 1966, twelve children attending Stafford Hills Grade School disappeared over
a 72 hour period. Eleven returned with no memory of where they'd been or what
they'd been doing. The twelfth child disappeared without a trace. A few months
later, the townspeople reported strange occurrences that included everything
from missing pets to freak accidents.

"Look at this -- a teacher from Stafford Hills Grade School was found dead in
the woods, an apparent suicide. A little girl -- Kathy Jenkins -- receives
first and second degree burns over sixty-five percent of her body in a classroom
filled with kids, but nobody knows how it started. A groundskeeper was found in
the tool shed on school property, impaled on his own rake. A few of the
townspeople seemed to believe that the children were somehow responsible."

"What, Children of the Damned? Come on, Mulder."

"What if," Mulder whispered, moving closer to his partner, his excitement
building, "these five recent suicides are somehow connected to those dis
appearances? What if they are those disappeared kids? What if whatever
happened to them is causing them to commit suicide thirty years later?"

Scully fought the urge to smile. "You believe they were abducted, don't you?"

Mulder said nothing. He reached over and turned off the slide projector, then
turned on the office light.

"Why don't you just compare the files," she offered, "and see if the names match
up?"

"The X-file from sixty-six conveniently didn't include names."

Scully did smile this time. "More likely to protect the children than as part
of some grand conspiracy. Barring your abduction theory, if these five suicides
are indeed connected to the twelve disappearances, that would leave seven more
suicides to go."

"Six," corrected Mulder, "assuming the twelfth victim is already dead. So,
Scully, I thought we could go poking around Stafford Hills for a few days. We
can stop at Stuckey's for Pecan Logs."

Scully sighed. At least it was a beautiful day.

* * *

October 22, 1966
Stafford Hills, Virginia

"Come here, my boy."

The pale, skinny boy took one step toward the black Nova. He was afraid of the
Bald-Headed Man. That's what they called him. He was mean, and would take them
away, just like they took away Lacy, if they didn't obey him.

"Closer," he said, with just a trace of a German accent.

The boy took another step and stopped, frozen. He could feel his knees knocking
together inside his overalls.

Vapors rolled from the Bald Headed Man's mouth as he spoke. "I'm not going to
hurt you. Do you understand how important you and your little friends are to
me?"

The boy shrugged.

"I let you go home because I like you. But you have to be very careful. Nobody
must know about the games we play. Making the ball dance in the air, moving the
chair, we have to keep those games to ourselves. Do you understand? It's our
little secret. If the others knew the games we played, I would have to go away,
and they would take away the medicine that helps you play. Do you understand?"

"I ain't no little kid. I unnerstand."

"Good." Dr. Emil Vorcek patted the boy on the head, then reached into the glove
compartment. "Oh, goodness. Look what I have here." He unfolded a white
handkerchief. Several pea-green stained sugar cubes sat in his palm. "Treats
for my favorite little friends."

"Me too?"

"And the others, yes. Would you like these?"

The boy nodded and reached for a sugar cube. Vorcek snatched it away.

"First, you must promise me that you'll always do as I say. Because if you
don't, I will take the medicine away, and it will hurt. Hurt so very badly,
worse than you can imagine. I don't want that. Do you?"

The boy shook his head.

Dr. Vorcek offered the cubes again and allowed the boy to take one. The boy
quickly popped it into his mouth, then stepped back.

"Don't forget to share these with your friends. See that they each get one."

The boy quickly picked the cubes out of the handkerchief and dropped them into
the pocket of his overalls. As he reached for the last one, Vorcek grabbed the
boy by his skinny little arm and pulled him close, almost through the car
window.

"And if you ever try to use your skills on me," Vorcek said with a malevolent
smile, "I will kill your mother, your father, your brothers, your little friends
and your dog. Then I will kill you. Is that understood?"

The sugar cube almost caught in the boy's throat. He shook his head vigorously.

"Tell your friends, I'll do the same to them. Now go." He gave the boy a
shove.

The boy ran from the car on rubbery legs, back to his friends hiding in the
woods.

* * *

Antiquarian Book Store
Herndon, Virginia
12:04 p.m.

Robert Earl Stiegers always got a little dizzy walking down the winding metal
stairs, especially when he had to bring down an armful of dusty old books. He
let out a sigh of relief when he hit the bottom, then searched the store for the
customer who had requested the musty, out-of-print volumes that sent him
searching in the much-hated attic office of the store. Robert felt something
behind him and gasped.

He turned quickly and stared into the face of a woman about his own age -- 37 -
and only an inch or two short of his six-foot frame. Her face was a deep,
smooth mahogany. Her eyes were so dark they seemed to drink in light. Her
mouth, painted a pale coral, twisted in an I-know-something-you-don't grin.

'How beautiful' Robert thought for a second, until he recognized the smile, the
face, and the odd shock of white hair mixed with long, tightly twisted
dreadlocks. She wore all black, tight fitting pants and shirt, big Doc Marten's
and a long leather trench coat.

Robert felt faint. "Lacy?"

"In the flesh."

He tried to smile. He couldn't. His face muscles would not obey. He was
terrified.

"They told me you were dead."

"Shall I quote Samuel Clemens?"

"What do you want?"

"Is there someplace we can talk? Someplace private?"

Robert Earl led her up to the office. His fear was no longer of the vert
iginous, winding stairs that squealed with every step, but of the woman so
closely behind him.

The office was jammed with boxes and books and unruly piles of paper. As
always, dust instantly triggered the burning urge in Robert Earl's sinuses to
sneeze. But he held it in, not wanting to make a sound, but desperately wishing
he could disappear.

Lacy closed the door, locked it and leaned back against it. "This isn't a
social visit, Robert Earl," she said. Evidence of her smile was gone. "I know
what you've been doing."

"What do you mean? I haven't --"

Lacy held up a hand and instantly Robert Earl's mind went blank -- just for a
second -- and returned. 'What was I saying?'

"I kept your secret all these years," she spoke in a monotonous whisper, her
eyes fixed on Robert Earl's. "If they knew, they'd've killed you. Or worse,
turn you into me."

She started walking toward him slowly. "I could have told them about you a
hundred times, but I never opened my mouth. You were my friends. My only
friends. But now you've gone too far. I can't let you do anymore damage."

"They threatened me. I didn't have a choice."

"Of course you had a choice! You could have come to me."

"I was afraid."

Robert Earl barely blinked before Lacy moved -- actually leaped and landed atop
the desk behind him. She grabbed him by the back of his polo shirt and yanked
him up, off the floor, and pulled him to her until their foreheads met.

"Do you feel better now?" she snarled. "You knew the rules. Now you pay."

Robert Earl remembered his own power. It was certainly no match for Lacy's but
it may be enough to buy him some time, he thought. He pushed his way into
Lacy's brain. It wasn't easy. It was like banging his own head against a brick
wall, but eventually he found a tiny breach through her defenses and filled it
with imagery that made Lacy begin to shake.

Robert Earl thought he was winning. He kept pushing. Then Lacy began to laugh.
It was a strange cross between a hiccup and a growl. He felt nauseous as he
realized she had been faking, playing with him. And then she threw him.

For the second he was in the air, he was surprised to be thinking how unusual
this was, and wondering how would he explain this to anyone who might ask. But
when he hit the wall all wondering ceased. Stunned, he lay upon crushed boxes,
straw and Styrofoam popcorn.

And in a flash, Lacy jumped from the desk and landed right beside him. She
pressed one of her Doc Martens against his chest and leaned down close.

"Tell the others I'm onto them. Tell them, we're aware of their activities. I
could kill you, but I know you're nothing without them. So you can be my little
messenger, or --"

She slipped into his mind with ease, like oil down a pipe. She saw every
secret, every fear, every joy, every sorrow in the time it took to blink an eye.
She latched onto of his greatest fears. Robert Earl began to howl. In an
instant, she released him, physically and mentally.

Lacy stood up, straightened her coat, and put on black shades. She pointed at
the front door. The latch automatically unsnapped, and the door opened. She
didn't have to point to it. She was just showing off. Lacy walked out without
turning back.

Robert Earl lay in a pool of his own urine, sweating and gurgling in fear. 'I
have seen the devil, I have seen the devil' he thought.

* * *

Mr. Beckwith waited impatiently by the cash register. Robert Earl had left the
three volumes of Irish poetry for him, but had disappeared before he could ring
him up. And there was a tremendous amount of racket overhead.

A very pretty, very tall Black woman descended the winding stairs with such
grace, Mr. Beckwith could not take his eyes off of her. And then her eyes met
his.

A big wolf spider was suddenly on his shoulder. Mr. Beckwith hated spiders. He
let out a shout and began slapping his shoulder, knocking books off the counter
and knocking over displays in his frenzy to kill the furry arachnid. Then
suddenly it was gone. So was the woman.

Robert Earl came down the stairs. He went straight to the cash register and
opened it.

"It's about time," Mr. Beckwith said, still shaken by the thought of that spider
he thought he saw. "You all right?"

"Peachy," said Robert Earl, as he reached into the register drawer and pulled
out a small gun. "Just peachy." He put the gun into his mouth and pulled the
trigger.

Beckwith screamed.

* * *

Southern Virginia
3:00 p.m.

Once past Manassas, Route 66 takes on a true rural flavor, with a few upscale
malls thrown in between to break the monotony of hilly land and lazy cows
grazing. It had been a long time since Mulder had just gone for a drive for the
pure enjoyment of it. He rolled down all the windows and let the warm air
assault them. He smiled as he stole a glance at his partner next to him,
shimmying out of her over coat and holding back her auburn hair to let the wind
hit her full in the face. Her cheeks were already flushed -- kissed by the sun
and from temperatures a touch over seventy.

Two hours later, the two agents were getting out of their bureau registered
Taurus, stretching their legs and sizing up the town of Stafford Hills. It was
quaint, and as expected, truly out of the way. You could go fifteen miles or
more before realizing you'd missed the poorly displayed exit.

Mulder popped on his shades, and with Scully began walking down the narrow Main
Street. The old civil war era built clapboard houses all had cannons or flags
or both in their front yards. A plow chugged down the street along side a
pickup truck with an old yellow dog in the back. Vintage vehicles -- no doubt
souped up to wake the dead-- were parked at the Dairy Queen and KFC. Somewhere
nearby radios played -- John Mellencamp and Randy Travis were competing.

An old man on a porch, drinking from a Mason jar, waved at the two agents.

"What do you think he wants?" Mulder asked.

"I think," said Scully, "he was just saying hello."

"Oh. I knew that."

* * *

The agents entered the Stafford Hills Municipal Building ten minutes before
closing time. The pretty blonde behind the desk, not too long out of school,
nearly dropped her Big Gulp when the agents showed her their badges. She barely
noticed Scully however, her eyes locked on Mulder.

"We'd like to view the student records for Stafford Hills Grade School, n
ineteen-sixty-five to about nineteen-seventy."

"You need special permission for that," the blonde said, taking a seductive pull
on her straw.

"How do we get special permission?" Scully intervened.

"Well," the blonde said, still directing her comments and attention to Mulder,
"you have to come between the hours of 8:30 and 2:30, when Mr. Sheldrake is
here. He's in charge."

"Which means," Mulder said, leaning over the counter, playing along with the
girl's seductive game, "that when Mr. Sheldrake's away, you're in charge?"

"Pretty much," the girl said. "But don't say that too loud. Mr. Sheldrake's my
dad."

"I see. So, Miss Sheldrake --"

"Amanda."

"Amanda...what do my partner and I have to do to get special permission to get
ahold of these records?"

"Promise you won't tell nobody?"

"Cross my heart," Mulder whispered, making a little X on the middle of his
chest.

Scully cleared her throat loudly.

Amanda Sheldrake led the two agents to a dark, dank closet filled with archival
file boxes covered with several years worth of dust and cobwebs. She pointed to
the boxes the two agents needed, and Mulder pulled them down from the shelves.
He and Scully dug in immediately.

Amanda Sheldrake watched them the entire time. Rather, she watched Mulder.

"You know, that old grade school hasn't been used in years, not since they built
the big day school campus off route three. It's got air conditioning and they
just put in another Olympic size swimming pool. Course, they waited till after I
graduated to do that. Makes me so mad. Anyway, I wouldn't go near that old
school now if somebody paid me."

"Why not?" asked Scully.

"I don't believe it, but folks say it's haunted."

"Really?" said Mulder.

"Yep. I don't think there's ghosts or nothing. Still, you won't catch me over
there. That place gives me the creeps. They would've torn it down long time
ago, but it's kind of a historic site, 'cause they said it was a stop on the
Underground Railroad back in slavery times."

"Do you know anything about the twelve kids who disappeared back in sixty-six?
Do people talk about it much any more?"

"Not to me. All I know is the stories I heard when I was a little. Some kids
wandered off one day and showed up three days later. They said they were lost.
I never been that lost before."

"Any of them still live around here?"

"I don't know. Maybe."

"What about the girl that never came back?"

"Huh?" Amanda crinkled her nose to show her confusion. "Way I heard it all of
them came back, then one of them disappeared again."

"Mulder," Scully interrupted, "take a look at this. A Mrs. Doris Rainey was the
teacher, grades three through six, 1965 and 1966. Is she still around?"

"Old crazy lady Rainey? Yeah. She's at the old folk's home down the road from
the Dairy Queen. But you ain't gonna get much outta her. She hasn't talked to
anyone since they put her away for kidnapping that little black girl."

"Excuse me?" said Scully. Mulder's curiosity was peaked as well.

"That's what I'm trying to tell you. Mizz Rainey went crazy and took that girl,
the one who disappeared. She just up and took her one night, sneaked in her
house while her parents were sleeping and took her. I guess they thought Mizz
Rainey killed her and did something awful to the body, buried it somewhere or
something, cause they never found the girl. Mizz Rainey was put in the crazy
house for about 25 years, but now she's out and she ain't much better. All that
time, she never told anybody what she did to that girl and she ain't spoken one
word. I don't know if I could do that."

Scully wanted to laugh, but instead, asked, "Do you remember the little k
idnapped girl's name?"

"Nope, it was way, way before my time. And I think it was a kind of unusual
name."

Scully and Mulder kept flipping through the dusty yellowed rosters for clues.
Mulder stopped quickly and put his finger on the most unusual name on the list.
There, buried under a hundred Beckys, Billys, Henry Joes and Earls:

"Lacy Jordan?" asked Mulder.

"I'll betcha that's it." Amanda smiled. "Wow, I'm helping the FBI. Wait till
I tell my Uncle Frank. He's a State Trooper and --"

"Miss Sheldrake," Mulder interrupted, "Would you mind if we borrowed these files
overnight?"

"If you promise you won't mess 'em up, or forget them."

"Promise."

"Cross your heart?" She batted her lashes.

"Let's go, Mulder," Scully said impatiently.

* * *

Investors Bank
Office Park
5:22 p.m.

The black monolith that housed the bank and several small financial businesses
in the county of Stafford Hills was generally considered by most an
architectural experiment gone sour. It was just a big ugly slab surrounded by
empty parking spaces. And, as usual, by five o'clock, office workers spilled out
of the building and headed home, leaving Peyton Grey to the silence and
emptiness of the hi-tech monstrosity he had secretly designed.

In the cavernous black and chrome conference room, Peyton Grey cranked up the
air conditioner to near freezing, turned down the lights, opaqued the windows
and sat a the head of the table. He often sat for hours that way, sometimes
until well after midnight, conducting what he called his side job. He had an
extraordinary talent, one people were willing to pay him insane amounts of money
to use on their behalf.

It didn't matter to him that sometimes innocents had to die.

He placed his thick palms on the black lacquered conference table, the coolness
sending a shiver through him. He never understood this affinity for cold; it
must have had something to do with the booster. After his first booster, he was
never quite the same. Even before the booster he believed he was different from
everybody else -- from his family, his classmates, literally everyone. For a
while this bothered him -- how could he live in a world where normal people
bored him? And then he met Dr. Vorcek, and he had given him the booster.

Peyton concentrated on his work. His mind stretched out to find his target. A
million thoughts of a million strangers raged in his head. He could "see" the
thoughts and feel the emotions of everyone as he briefly touched them. He could
recognize in an instant their weaknesses and failures. How miserable these
people were. How easy it would be to simply zap each one of them out of their
misery. A stroke here, a heart attack there.

The old Bald Headed Man was still living, but hardly alive. His body was
failing him. He could barely see or hear. His muscles were weak and his old
withered legs were useless. Each day Peyton chipped away a little bit more of
the old man, increasing his agony, but never letting him die. He hadn't needed
Vorcek in years, not since he had learned on his own to manufacture the
"medicine."

Peyton was concentrating on the steady, painful movement of a blood clot when a
new thought, an energy like his own but not as powerful interrupted. Peyton
opened his eyes as Virginia Scurlock entered the conference room.

She hadn't changed much since childhood. She was still short and thin and pale
to an unhealthy cast. Undernourished as a child due to circumstance,
undernourished as an adult because of vanity. Her hair was teased high and fell
low, as was the fashion in this neck of the woods. She wore pink far more often
than most people would deem appropriate and reminded him of a mouse caught in
one of those sticky traps -- constantly struggling to be free, until it
ultimately tore itself apart.

"Peyton," she said in a strangled whisper, "Frank just called. Robert Earl is
dead. Shot himself in his store."

"I know. I felt it when it happened."

"They're on to us. They're killing us off one by one."

"Don't panic Ginny. We can't panic now. We got enough in the kitty to go away
and never come back."

"It ain't about the money no more! They know what we're doing, and they're
gonna come after and us AND THEY'RE GONNA KILL US!"

"Ginny!"

Ginny felt the inside of her head become cold and tingly, like her brain was
becoming numb. "Stop it, Peyton!"

The numbness began to subside.

"I know you're scared, Ginny girl, but fear will destroy us. We gotta keep
ourselves together if we want to survive this. Remember that. We're short now,
ain't but you and me and Clarence and Frank and Debralee left. We gotta be a
team, or we're as good as dead. Are you with me, Ginny?"

Ginny nodded. She just wanted to run. But she knew it wouldn't take much for
Peyton to reach out and find her and she'd be on a slab in her Uncle Ned's
funeral home.

Peyton stood and approached Ginny, putting his arms around her. He knew the
slightest show of affection would always bring her around. It never took much.

"You go call Frank and Clarence and Debralee. Let 'em know what's happened if
they don't already know. And tell them we have to have a meeting. We got a
couple more big jobs to do and then we can get the heck out of the country and
start our family. You ready for that?"

Ginny nodded. She had to work hard to keep Peyton for seeing how she really
felt.

* * *

Stafford Hills Grade School

The land surrounding the crumbling condemned one-room schoolhouse looked like a
dead forest out of a dark fairy tale. A light rain was beginning to fall,
putting a oily sheen on the branches and dead leaves.

Inside the school, several buckets and plastic containers were placed around the
room to catch rain leaking from the old roof. A broken down upright piano that
once led children in song was now a nest to rats. Broken, spider web infested
desks and chairs were piled in a corner like old bones. In a back corner,
however, a small but technically advanced array of portable surveillance
equipment was hiding under protective heavy tarp.

Lacy entered the old school room and powered up the generator. It coughed,
sputtered, then kicked to life. A dim lamp near her surveillance console cast a
yellow glow on the room.

Lacy looked around, and could not help but remember. She could almost hear the
voice of her old classmates screaming, laughing, and taunting.

She whipped the tarp away and sat in a broken chair. She turned on the tape
recorder and listened to the conversation of her surveillance subjects as it was
being recorded.

"I know you're scared, Ginny girl, but fear will destroy us. We gotta keep
ourselves together if we want to survive this..."

A laugh escaped her coral lips.

Lacy continued listening to the surveillance tape as she removed her heavy
leather coat and tied a rubber tube around her arm. From a silver case, she
took a syringe filled with cloudy green liquid. As soon as a thick vein bulged
she pumped the syringe for air bubbles, then jabbed the needle into the vein.

The nausea lasted only a few seconds. When she was little, the green stuff
would make her sick for days. Eventually, it became hours, then minutes. She
was just beginning to feel normal, when the pain hit. That stabbing pain in her
head, right at the base of her skull. The green stuff used to help keep the
pain at bay, but not anymore. She was getting worse. The pains were coming
more often and stronger impeding her concentration. They warned her it would be
this way. Another pain, stronger than the last hit her with such force that she
was knocked out of her chair and onto the floor.

"I'M IN CHARGE!"

Instantly the pain began to subside, leaving her trembling, weak, sweaty, and
momentarily disoriented.

Lacy pulled herself off of the floor and back into the chair. She took a deep
breath and concentrated on the surveillance tape, and fantasized about Peyton
Grey's death.

Stafford Hills County Home for the Aged
7:00 p.m.

The agents pulled up in front of the Home. Men well over seventy-five sat on
the clapboard porch playing board games and snoozing. The ones where were awake
never took their eyes off the agents. One gray hair gentleman took an immediate
liking to Agent Scully and offered her a lascivious wink. She pretended she
didn't see it, and the look in on her face told Mulder to do the same. His
smirk died as they entered the old house.

As they introduced themselves to the head nurse on duty, someone upstairs was
howling. A doctor and two attendants were racing up stairs. "Don't fret," she
assured the agents. "That's Mr. Emil. There's always something wrong with him.
How can I help you?"

* * *

"I don't know what you expect to get out of her," the nurse said as she lead
Mulder and Scully up the stairs to the now quiet hall of bedrooms, "but good
luck. She ain't said a word since before Nixon." The nurse opened the door.
At a window, bathed in the last bit of waning sunlight, sat an old woman in a
wheel chair. White hair cascaded down her sloped back.

"Call me if you need me," the nurse advised, then left them alone.

"Ms. Rainey?" Scully said in her lowest register. "Ms. Rainey, we're with the
FBI. We'd like to ask you a few questions concerning a few of your former
students."

No response. Not a sound, not a movement.

Mulder took his turn. "Ms. Rainey, we understand you were a teacher at Stafford
Hills Grade School the year the children disappeared."

Instantly the wheel chair turned around, and the woman, thin as a rail, with the
look of sheer fright on her face, rolled toward them at such a speed, both
agents took a step back. The woman stopped right in front of them.

"I knew somebody would hear me someday!"

* * *

'She looks like the Crypt Keeper,' Mulder couldn't stop thinking when he first
saw the face of Doris Rainey. But the thought died when she spoke. Everything
they had heard about the woman so far was untrue. She was quite a talker. She
literally pulled the agents into the room, insisted they lock the door and close
the blinds before she would tell them anything.

She beckoned the agents to sit on her old, worn Victorian couch.

"I was one of the first white teachers in all of Stafford County to allow black
children in my class room. I did not abide separation of any kind. Even when
the rest of the town talked about me, called me horrible names. Even when I
woke up one night to find a cross burning in my front yard. I have always
believed in this county, and loved it. But I cursed it the day the vans
arrived."

Scully's eyes widened. "The vans?"

"I can trust you, can't I? If they had sent you, you'd have killed me and gone
by now."

"You can trust us," assured Mulder. "Tell us about the vans."

The old woman took a deep breath.

"We received word that what they called Health Mobiles would be visiting our
school from time to time to provide the children with health care their parents
could not afford. Stafford Hills has always been a desperately poor county. I
thought, how wonderful! A need would be fulfilled. But I knew from the moment
they arrived in those big metal monstrosities that something was terribly wrong.

"You see, they would not allow any teachers to accompany the children inside the
vans. They said it would intimidate the children, but how could that be? They
trusted me more than they trusted their own parents most times. And we were
discouraged from asking the children questions about what went on inside those
vans. I heard the children mention sugar cubes, that they were getting medicine
on sugar cubes. I thought, how odd...the county was already providing polio
vaccines on sugar cubes free of charge. When I inquired, I was told to keep to
the business of teaching. And then I noticed that some of my children were
becoming very ill. And once a week, like clockwork, those vans would arrive."

Mrs. Rainey wheeled slowly towards a steamer trunk at the foot of her bed. Her
arthritic fingers shook as she dialed the combination lock. Mulder and Scully
both came to her aid, opening the trunk for her.

"This, of course, " continued Mrs. Rainey, "made me all the more curious. So I
borrowed my brother's Bell and Howell and took home movies."

Mrs. Rainey reached into the trunk and pulled out a small silver film can. She
gave it to Scully. Scully opened it and pulled out a plastic gray reel with
brownish 8mm film.

"There isn't much footage," Mrs. Rainey went on, "but you'll understand once
you've seen it."

"What prevented you," Scully asked, "from showing this until now?"

"I never knew who to trust."

Mulder took the film reel from Scully and pulled out a few feet. He held the
strip up to the light, but could not see much.

"Do you remember," he asked, "the night twelve children disappeared?"

"As if it were yesterday."

"Do you know where they went?"

"I believe they were taken."

"By whom?"

"The men in the vans."

"The children were in your class?"

"They were all in my class. Would you like their names?"

Mulder pulled from his inside jacket pocket the folded class roster. She
provided them with names of every child involved, except one.

"What about Lacy Jordan?" asked Mulder.

Doris Rainey went pale. Her bottom lip began to quiver. She shook her head.

"Why did you kidnap her?"

"I was trying to save that child. She was such a bright girl, so smart, so
quick. She didn't ask for that, what they did to her. But they wanted her. I
had to get her away from them, but they found us, followed us in the middle of
the night, and they took her."

"Who?"

"They broke the window of my Impala, and pulled her right through it, like she
was a rag doll. I held onto her for dear life..."

She pulled a small, worn black patent leather shoe with a broken buckle out of
the trunk and shined it against her dressing gown. She reverently replaced it
among her keepsakes.

"...but those men were determined to have her. I still hear that poor child
screaming in my sleep sometimes.
And I still see the face of that man in the black sedan, so young, but so
evil, smiling and smoking, smoking and smiling."

Mulder immediately shot a look at Scully. No other description was necessary.

"What about Kathy Jenkins?" Mulder asked.

"I tried to put it out," Mrs. Rainey said, holding up her hands. For the first
time, Mulder and Scully noticed the old scar tissue among the wrinkles.

"Kathy Jenkins' little ragged dress went up like paper. The sheriff's report
said she was most likely playing with matches. Most likely."

"How do you think it happened?" asked Mulder.

"They did it. The children. Those little monsters. That's what they made
them. Little monsters."

End part 1

Please email comments to 'Lacadiva@aol.com'. Don't stay in the lines.

LITTLE MONSTERS (2/6)

by

Lacadiva (@aol.com)
December 1, 1997

Disclaimer in Part 1.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Southern Virginia
Route 27
8:34 p.m.

The gray Taurus was the only vehicle on the winding, narrow highway. The high
beams barely cut through the thickness and completeness of the backcountry
night. Rain was falling rather hard now, each drop racing toward the windshield
and splattering violently against it.

The temperature had dropped as well. So much for an early spring, though
Scully. She had insisted upon driving, but now, with the road so slippery, she
wished she hadn't volunteered so quickly. Mulder was using a pen-sized
flashlight and read the notes and school records over and over again. He banged
the penlight against his forehead when the battery began to die and the light
dimmed. It didn't help.

"I can hear it, Scully."

"Hear what?"

"The wheels and gears of skepticism turning in your brain."

"I feel like we're chasing our tails, Mulder."

"Am I chasing yours, or are you chasing mine?"

"All we have are a few strange and random events and we're trying to weave the
pieces together into a big conspiracy. It just isn't making sense to me,
Mulder. How dependable is this Doris Rainey? I mean, everyone says she won't
talk and as soon as we show up, she's spewing like Old Faithful. How do we know
she's not just telling us what we want to hear?"

"The five suicides were from her class, Scully."

"I'm not saying an investigation isn't warranted. I'm simply questioning the
angle you are pursuing."

"You heard her, Scully. One minute, little Kathy Jenkins is reading 'Fun With
Dick and Jane,' and the next she's a bonfire. They used those kids--"

"'They' who, Mulder? We still don't even know who 'they' are."

"She described who was responsible, or have you forgotten all about our c
igarette smoking friend?"

"That could have been anyone, Mulder." Scully took a deep breath, holding on
tightly to the steering wheel. "I see where you're going with this. Health
mobiles were not uncommon. Disappearing children, tragic but not uncommon. Do
you really believe the Government would sanction the use of experimental drugs
on innocent, indigent children --"

"Yes. And you do, too."

"But to what end? What on earth was their objective here?"

"Little monsters."

Scully could feel the car being momentarily taken by the slipperiness of the
road. She adjusted and gripped the steering wheel harder.

"All right, Mulder. I will for the moment entertain the suggestion that someone
may have exploited these children. But until we know more, I cannot subscribe
to your theory. I need proof Mulder. Give me proof."

"Fine. First, let's get Doris Rainey's home movie transferred to videotape.
Then, we'll go down the list and run a check on each member of the class and
find out where they are. Let's start with -- Peyton Grey."

Investors Bank
Office Park
8:05 p.m.

Peyton kept the room so dark that Ginny could barely see the faces at the
conference table. Clarence Harvey was there. She remembered being eight and
hearing her father, drunk, calling Clarence and his father terrible names, and
warning her to stay away from him and "those people." Yet here they were in the
same room, sitting in the dark and holding hands.

Clutching her other hand was Franklin Pickett. Frank's palms were sweaty, just
like when they were kids. And he still mumbled under his breath. She
remembered that his hair fell out after his first booster -- even his eyelashes
and eyebrows. His hair never grew back. This along with his State Trooper
uniform made Frank oddly attractive to Ginny.

And there was Debralee. She wasn't doing so well. Debralee was close to Robert
Earl. His death hit her harder than anyone else at the table. Her mousy brown
hair hung limp and obscured her face, which was red and puffy from crying. She
hadn't cried this much since she'd lost her twin sister.

Ginny would also miss Robert Earl. Robert Earl was gentle. He liked old books
and herbal tea. He was shy around women and never quite knew how handsome he
really was, Ginny thought. She would miss the way he would --

"GINNY!"

Peyton's voice startled her so terribly she nearly leaped out of the chair.

"Concentrate on your work."

Ginny settle back, took a deep breath, and concentrated hard. This was always
difficult for her. Her mind loved to wander. But what they were doing would
fail without the concerted effort of each person at the table. And it didn't
help that their number had been cut short. She closed her eyes and zeroed in on
the image as Peyton had instructed. See the plane, he'd said. See the airplane
in your head. And see it going down....

* * *

Stafford Motor Inn
9:15 p.m.

The television was on, but the sound was down. Some idiotic sitcom had been
thankfully interrupted for a special report, but Mulder was hardly paying
attention. He paced the tiny room, stretching the phone cord the entire length.
He had been asked to hold for an inordinate amount of time. He was getting
antsy.

Mulder looked out of the window and could see red flashing from the neon vacancy
sign a few windows down. Nothing stirred outside. Just the rain. He wondered
what Scully was doing next door. The walls were so thin he could hear the
shower running earlier, and knew the moment when she was done. He felt a little
guilty. He never paid that much attention to Alex Krychek's coming and goings.
He stayed with the image of Krychek, his fist pummeling his pretty-boy face.
Better to imagine whipping the crap out of that turncoat than imagining his
redheaded partner naked and wet from the shower.

"Are you still there?"

The voice of the old man startled him. "Yes! I'm still here. I'm trying to
locate a Peyton Grey. I understand he lives --"

"Mr. Grey has not lived here for several years," said the voice on the other
end. It was dripping with irritation.

"Would you have any idea where I might find him?"

"Not at this hour. You city folks may not mind getting calls all times of the
night, but that don't chop cotton out her in God's country. People need their
sleep."

"I can appreciate that," said Mulder. "But this is an emergency. If you hear
from him, would you please have him contact me here at the Stafford Inn, or call
the FBI in Washington, DC? It's important."

Click.

So much for the kindness of country folk. Mulder sat down on the bed just as
there was a knock at his door.

"It's open."

Scully walked in. She looked tired, thought fresh from the shower. Her auburn
hair was still damp, and she was wearing a dark green sweatsuit.

"Anything?" she asked.

"Not much. Peyton Grey still lives in Stafford Hills but no one seems to know
where. He works for the Investment Bank. I left a voice mail for him. I also
found the house he used to rent. Think I ticked off the landlord. Nothing yet
on Virginia Scurlock, but Franklin Pickett is a Virginia State Trooper. We can
check him out right after Peyton Grey first thing."

Mulder glanced at the television set. "Whoa, look at this." He grabbed the
remote control and turned up the volume. On the screen was the result of an
airline disaster. A plane had crashed just moments after receiving landing
clearance. The wreckage of the jumbo jet was burning out of control. According
to the newscaster, the number of casualties could reach well over 200.

"Terrorists?" Scully asked.

"I don't know." He had enough. He muted the set again and turned to his
partner. "What did you find out? Better luck than me I hope."

"I think so. Nothing yet on Debralee Jenkins, though I'm willing to bet she's
related to the deceased Kathy Jenkins. Clarence Harvey has a small estate
approximately ten miles south of here. I say we pay him a neighborly visit
first thing in the morning."

"Why wait?" Mulder grabbed his trench coat. "Let's piss off some more country
folk. Get changed. I'll warm up the Taurus."

Harvey Estate
10:04 p.m.

Clarence Harvey always did the same three things when he got home late like
this. First, he would put on his favorite CD, a collection of classical tunes
cleverly called "Bravo, Beethoven." Next, he would place a frozen dinner in the
microwave and put on a pot of Kona coffee. While the food nuke and the coffee
brewed, he would take a walk out to his modest stable and check on his horses.
Three beautiful mares. He'd paid incredible amounts of money for them, but they
were worth it.

He fed them, brushed them, talked to them. He told them his troubles. He told
his horses things he would never tell people. He never trusted people. Not
even his family. And especially not Peyton Grey.

What they had done tonight made Clarence shudder. He never worried much about
doing things to people who deserved it. But how could he justify killing 203
people just because a "foreign investor" wanted one of the passengers dead, and
needed it to look like an accident? If anyone knew the horrible things he had
done, and allowed to be done....

But the money he made allowed him to buy and take care of his mares. At least
there was some joy in his life. He picked up a brush and started brushing his
favorite horse. "Atta girl, Maddie...atta girl..."

He felt the hair on the back of his neck begin to prickle, as if lightning was
about to strike. That was his true talent. Not so much as making things
happen, as knowing when something was about to occur. Lightning did strike, and
in the split-second flash of white light Clarence saw a figure silhouetted
against the hill in the horizon. He blinked once, twice, and the figure was
gone. When he turned back to strap a feedbag on Maddie, he realized he was no
longer alone.

"Hello, Clarence."

Thunder rumbled. Clarence dropped the feedbag.

"Lacy..."

The last time he saw Lacy, they were just kids. She had once given him a look
that scared him so badly that he wet his pants. He remembered standing in line
for a fire drill and feeling the hairs on the back of his neck prickle up, just
like now.

Thunder rumbled again like the stomach of an angry beast.

* * *

The Taurus pulled up to the driveway of Clarence Harvey's estate. The front door
was open and several lights were on.

Mulder stepped out of the car into the drizzle, followed by Scully on the
passenger side.

"I thought it was a myth," said Mulder.

"What?"

"That people in the country didn't lock their doors."

"It is," said Scully. Both agents reached inside their coats and pulled out
their guns.

They climbed the steps and checked the corners of the verandah, then knocked and
the screen door.

"Hello?" Scully called out. "Mr. Harvey? We're with the FBI. We'd like to
speak to you."

No answer. Just the sound of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. Mulder nodded and
entered with Scully watching his back.

Inside the house, the smell of coffee and spicy tomato sauce reminded the agents
that neither had eaten for several hours. Scully found herself wishing she had
a Pecan Log.

Mulder pointed to the full, steaming pot of coffee and the clean mug waiting on
the sink. Scully found the frozen dinner dried and withered beyond visual
recognition in the microwave. Mulder peered out of the window.

"There's a light on in the stable. Wanna see the horsies, little girl?"

* * *

Mulder pushed the door open with a big foot and Scully raced in, gun ready.
Mulder followed. The horses were agitated, upset. It was no wonder. Mulder
and Scully found Clarence Harvey. He was impaled through the gut to the wooden
stable wall by a pitchfork. His eyes were still opened. He twitched once.

"Call an ambulance," Scully cried as she raced to the body and felt for signs of
life. "Better make that a coroner."

Mulder ran out of the stable to find his cell phone. He was sure he'd left it
somewhere in the car. He opened the door and peered inside. As he did,
headlights-- brights-- flashed on, blinding him. Mulder raised a hand to shield
his eyes and pulled out his gun. He heard an engine gunning, the vehicle
heading for him, but his eyes had yet to adjust. He couldn't see anything. He
fired once into the air as a warning, but it made no difference.

Mulder moved to leap out of the vehicle's way, but he was too late to clear
himself. The car slammed into Mulder's side, winding him, knocking him hard to
the ground.

Scully was at his side seconds later.

"Don't move! Keep still!" she demanded.

The car screeched away over the damp road, into the night.

"Aaaaaccch!" Mulder tried to rise, despite Scully's attempts to keep him down.
He clutched his side and hissed through his teeth.

"I said keep still! You may have a couple of broken ribs."

"Say it ain't so."

* * *

Harvey Estate
11:21 p.m.

Stafford County Sheriff Irving Tucker was a nice, amiable individual, just the
kind of lawman one would expect to find in a small town. He walked around the
taped off crime scene overseeing the work his men and women were doing, making
sure no one missed a single piece of evidence. He was very saddened by the
death of Clarence Harvey, but he was also excited -- this was Stafford Hills'
first real murder investigation in over a decade.

Mulder leaned against the Taurus hugging his aching side. He thought the pain
would have begun to subside by now, but it only seemed to be getting worse. It
hurt whenever he inhaled. It was getting harder and harder to hide this from
his partner.

Scully divided herself equally between monitoring the investigation and hovering
over Mulder. "You okay?" she would ask between requesting a finger print check
or the collection of fiber samples or molding for mudprints.

"I'm fine.

"You need to be in a hospital."

"The paramedic already wrapped me."

"You need x-rays to determine the extent of the damage, Mulder. There could be
internal bleeding. A broken rib could puncture a lung, and -- "

"Noted and filed. What have you found?"

"Not much. And you didn't see anything? The driver? The make of the car?"

"The brights were on. I was blinded."

Sheriff Tucker wandered over, and all three watched as attendants carried and
loaded Clarence Harvey's covered body into the coroner's wagon.

"This is kinda odd for me," Tucker confessed. "I knew Clarence from when he was
in high school."

"How well did you know him?" Mulder asked.

"'Bout as well as I know everybody else in this community. It's my job. He was
always a little stranger than most, though. Kept to himself mostly, especially
after his folks died."

"Were you in Stafford Hills the night Clarence and eleven other children
disappeared?"

"Nope. I was a kid myself 'round then, living over in Faquier County. Funny
you should mention that."

"Why's that?"

"We had a fire at the police station not two weeks ago. Not much damage, except
for some incident reports, including the those old sixty-six reports about those
kids."

"What was the cause?"

"Unknown. I figured one of the deputies was probably smoking, but there's no
evidence to substantiate that."

"Did Clarence happen to pay the office a visit around the time of the fire?"

"Not to my knowledge. What are you getting at, Agent Mulder?"

"I dunno. Just a theory. Anything strange every happen while Clarence was
around?"

"Anytime Clarence was around strange things happened. I remember once hearing
'bout how he'd pissed off his poppa something fierce. Must've back-talked or
something. Anyway, the old man tended to drink and get a little loud. Got mad
one night and threw a jar of peach preserves at Clarence. I don't know what
kinda spin he put on that jar, but it came tearing back at the old man like a
boomerang. Old man got fourteen stitches and a concussion. Strange part is,
Clarence always said he did it."

"You mean he threw it?"

"No, sir. He thought it."

* * *

Route 29
October 18, 1966

"The boy showed negligible results, as did the rest of the children. Oh, they
could guess a few shapes on the backs of cards correctly, but beyond that, I
would consider them in my professional opinion to be of no further consequence
to the project. The girl, however, she's is a different story."

Cigarette smoke swirled around the other man's face as they walked along the
lonely stretch of highway. "The black girl? I've seen what she can do.
Impressive, indeed, but I can't exactly parade her around my superiors. Are you
sure about the boy?"

"You don't trust me?"

"Of course I trust you, Emil. After all, I brought you in on this project.
We'll take the girl."

He shook out a Morely and proffered it to Dr. Vorcek. "Cigarette?"

"Thank you, my friend."

* * *

The Stafford Motor Inn
8:20 am

When Scully knocked on Mulder's door the next morning to check on him, she found
him dressed in a crisp white shirt and UFO tie, already at work and on the
phone. He gestured her in, then grabbed his side, that slight movement enough
to make him bend over in pain.

"Got it, thanks." Mulder hung up. "You're not gonna believe this, Scully."

Mulder grabbed his suit jacket and tried to put it on slowly. Every movement
sent pain jack-hammering through his chest and side. Scully grabbed the jacket
and helped him slip it on.

"I can't believe you still refuse to see a doctor."

"It's not that bad. Listen, Clarence Harvey's parents both died of massive
strokes on the same night within hours of one another."

"Who went first?"

"Mr. Harvey, why?"

"It doesn't happen often, but wives have been known to die following the death
of their spouses, sometimes weeks, days or hours after, and often under the same
or similar circumstances."

Mulder sighed Why couldn't she see things his way?

"My money says Clarence Harvey's responsible. Let's go."

"Where are we going?"

* * *

Scully drove, heading towards the Stafford Office Park. She knew her partner
wouldn't last the day going by the pinched look on his face. He was in pain but
too obsessed by the chase to pay attention to his health. One more grunt,
though, she promised herself, and she would turn the car about and find a
hospital.

Mulder was fighting with his cell phone. He kept getting cut off and having to
re-dial, only to be cut off again.

"Yes, this is Special Agent Fox Mulder again. What were you saying? What do
you mean 'mislaid'? How do you mislay a body? What? Hello! Damn it! This is
worse than AOL," Mulder grunted. As he pocketed his phone, another spasm of
pain made him wince again.

"Mulder!"

"I'm fine! Just sore. Listen, that was the county coroner. Clarence Harvey's
body was 'mislaid'."

"Mislaid? You mean they lost it? They lost the body?"

"That's the story. They 'expect to find it soon'. I expect they won't. It's
starting, Scully. Disappearing evidence. Disappearing corpses. Don't leave
your laptop in your motel room. The killer is so far ahead of us. Four more to
go. Where's the list?"

"Wait a minute, Mulder. You think all of the victims were murdered? You don't
believe they were suicides anymore?"

"I believe the killer somehow forced them to kill themselves, which, tech
nically, makes it murder, yes. Each of those supposed suicides were carefully
orchestrated murders, designed to look like random, unrelated suicides. The
killer got sloppy with Clarence Harvey."

"Mulder, how do you make a half a dozen people commit suicide?"

"Does the name Modell remind you of anything?"

"Modell? But he's --"

"Not Modell, but the twelfth kid. The one Ma Rainey tried to hijack."

"Lacy Jordan? Mulder, you've lost me."

"C'mon, Scully, we've seen it before. Government experiments. Drug-induced
psychokinesis. Better soldiers through chemistry. All of it being conducted
right at the height of the Vietnam War. Eleven of those kids were failures, so
they let them go. Erased their memories of the incidents -- the tests, the
drugs -- and sent them merrily on their way. But one kid, one kid becomes the
star pupil, and this kid comes back to take care of the others."

"But why? Why come back and kill her old classmates after thirty years? What,
did they pick at her relentlessly and she never got over it? What's the point,
Mulder? What's the motive?"

"I don't know yet, but AAAAAhhhhh!" Mulder doubled over and held his side when
the car hit a pothole and lurched. He grabbed the dashboard with the other hand
to steady himself.

"That's it!" Scully cried. We're finding the nearest hospital."

Mulder looked up, red faced and teary eyed. Something ahead caught his a
ttention.

"No, wait Scully," he said through clenched teeth. "Stop the car."

"Mulder --"

"Pull over here. Pull over!"

Scully pulled off the road and stopped the car. Mulder stared at the old broken
down structure at the very top of the hill. He forgot all about his injury as
he climbed out of the car and began walking up the overgrown path toward the old
Stafford Hills Grade School building.

When Scully realized where they were, she was out of the car in seconds and
caught up with her partner quickly. Both agents headed towards the old
building, but stopped within twenty feet. They could not go any further.
Neither one knew why. Both pulled their service weapons.

Mulder saw his partner physically shudder. "You felt it, too, didn't you?" he
asked, as a thin stream of cold sweat ran down the middle of his back.

The agents saw movement inside the building, through broken out windows. A
figure in a long black leather trench coat and Doc Martens came out of the
crumbling building. Her finely twisted dreadlocks were splayed across her
shoulders. And she had the strangest patch of white hair.

"Can I help you?" the woman asked cordially. She pulled back her black trench
as if showing the agents that she was not armed.

Mulder and Scully both held up their I.D.'s. Both were too far away for anyone
to read their names without coming closer, but to the agents' amazement, she
did.

"Agent...Mulder...and Agent...Scully. What can I do for the FBI?"

"You can start by telling us who you are and what you're doing here," Scully
said flatly.

"I'm thinking about buying this land. Great old school house, isn't it?"

'Incredible eyes," Scully thought of the odd woman standing before her. She
fought to ignore a weird tugging in the back of her mind, as if she was being
split between two competing activities, both demanding her full attention.

"People say this land is haunted," Scully said, a little to loudly, trying to
keep herself in the moment.

"I never believed in ghost stories. Monsters, demons, not me."

Scully looked over at Mulder. Strangely, he hadn't said a word. He was staring
at the woman, his eyes locked on hers. It was more than staring. It seemed
more like he was being held.

"Mulder...?"

Mulder didn't hear his partner calling him. His eyes were fixed on the strange
woman. There was a moment when he thought he had heard the woman's voice yet
her mouth had not moved.

The woman took a step closer. "There's nothing here. Nothing. Now, get off my
land. Please."

Mulder took a step forward, but one step was all he could take. Something held
him back, something not from within, but strangely from without. "We just want
to know --"

The woman held up a hand. Time stopped for both agents. Just for a few
seconds.

When time resumed, the woman was gone.

"Damn it, Scully! Mulder and Scully both spun around, searching the area for
the woman in the black trench coat. She was gone. Just gone.

"Which way...which way did she go?"

Mulder made a move toward the old school house, but again, something stopped
him, something he could not identify.

"Did you feel it, Scully? We should have stopped her! We should have --"

Mulder doubled over in pain, dropping his Sig Sauer.

"That's it. I'm taking you to the emergency room, now!" Scully grabbed Mulder
to to help him back to the car, retrieving her partners service weapon.

"No! Scully, I think it was her! I think it was Lacy Jordan."

"Maybe it was, but we can't deal with her now."

"Scully!"

"Don't fight me on this! You need medical attention!"

"She's getting away!"

"She got away."

"We have to find her. Place her under arrest."

"And charged her with what?"

"I don't know. How about suspicion of being spookier than me?"

End Part 2
Send forth thy comments to 'Lacadiva@aol.com'

Du-dah-dah-dah.

LITTLE MONSTERS (3/6)

by

Lacadiva (@aol.com)
December 1, 1997

Disclaimer in Part 1.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stafford Hills County Hospital
11:21 am

Scully yanked hard on the vending machine knob, until the candy bar came
tumbling out. She ripped of the wrapper and took a bite. Stale. She dropped
the offending bar into a nearby trash can and wandered back to the waiting room.

Mulder appeared a few moments later, looking cowed. Chewed out hard by the
doctor, no doubt, for not seeking medical attention sooner.

"How are the ribs?" Scully asked.

"Tender," said Mulder, "but I recommend the chicken."

"Ha, ha."

"The doctor says they're not broken, but badly bruised. She says I should take
it easy a couple of days."

"Now that's funny."

"You know me."

"Why don't I drop you off at the motel. You can get some rest and I will go see
Peyton Grey."

"I'm okay, I can go..."

Scully shot him a look; he knew better than to argue.

"We can take a look at this, too." Scully pulled an unlabeled videocassette
from her trench coat pocket.

Mulder's lips curved into a lascivious grin.

"Scully, is that what I think it is?"

"Actually it's the video transfer of Mrs. Rainey's eight-milimeter footage. I
called the lab and had them deliver it here, just to be on the safe side."

"Good work."

The agents walked across the parking lot side by side. Scully kept her pace
slow to accommodate Mulder's condition. She unlocked the door on the
passenger's side and held the door open for Mulder. He did not get in right
away.

"Mulder, what is it?"

"Have you ever known me to back down so easily?"

"You're still thinking about that odd woman."

"Lacy Jordan."

"We don't know for sure."

"What stopped us? What stopped us from questioning her, or checking out the
school house?"

"Lack of evidence?"

"She did something to us, Scully."

"Please don't tell me," Scully said as she walked around to the driver side,
"you think she put the whammy on us."

Mulder stared at his partner over the roof of the car. "Scully, look me in the
eye and tell me you didn't feel something."

Scully looked away, pursing her lips. "All right. I'll admit it. I did feel
something. I was distracted. It was like my body was one place, and my mind
another. And there was this odd sense of dread."

There was more, but she didn't want to tell him. Scully had experienced what a
lot of people might call a vision. She preferred to believe exhaustion and
anxiety contributed to activating her imagination. Whatever it was, she saw her
darkest fear: She was lying in a coffin, in complete blackness, alive,
screaming until her throat was raw, scratching at the lid until her fingers
bled. And then the air began running out.

Scully ran a hand through her auburn hair. No, she would not tell Mulder this.

"We were both exhausted," she continued. "Neither one of us were thinking
straight."

"She did something to us, Scully. Don't you want to find her? We need to go
back and --"

"There's nothing there, Mulder. Nothing."

"That's what she said."

"Then let's go back to that school house. We'll go right now."

"No!" Why did he say that? Hadn't he wanted to, truly wanted to just seconds
ago? That odd sense of dread -- just like Scully described -- came thundering
back. He could feel the hairs on the back of his neck rising and a rush of
adrenaline that made him want to run. Fire. In the back of his mind, all he
could think of was fire.

"You win. I'll get some rest. We'll go later."

Both agents climbed into the car. Mulder winced when Scully slammed her door.
She gave him an apologetic look, then silently helped Mulder into his seat belt.
She couldn't help but notice that he had suddenly grown pale and broken out in a
sweat.

* * *

Stafford Motor Inn
3:02 p.m.

Mulder sat on the bed, back against the headboard, fiddling with the remote
control to the rented VCR. Scully paced the floor, on the phone.

"Thank you. Please tell him I'll be there in about forty minutes."

She hung up the phone and began rubbing knots out of her neck, then sat down
next to Mulder.

"Peyton Grey is in meetings the rest of the day. His assistant said she'll try
and call him out."

Mulder reached over and placed a big warm palm on Scully's neck. She jumped at
first, caught off guard, but settled down and allowed her partner this
un-partnerlike moment.

"The man won't make time for the FBI?" he asked as he attempted to gently
massage away Scully neck tension. "That's downright un-American. Scully,
you've got a knot the size of Cleveland back here."

The impropriety of the situation made Scully feel all the more tense. She
pulled away and forced a smile.

Mulder understood. He resumed his fiddling with the remote control, finally
pressing the 'play' button.

"Here we go."

Both agents stared at the television screen as the black and white leader began
its countdown from ten to one. Ancient, grainy gray images bounced on the
screen, shaky hand-held camera images of a few dozen boys and girls from the
sixties running and playing, swinging on old truck tire swings, waving and
cutting up before the camera. All outside the Stafford Hill Grade School.

The image would quickly jump from one series of activities to another. More
random shots of kids playing, then an interior shot. There was not enough
light, and the film had certainly lost some of its clarity through the years,
but both agents could tell they were inside the infamous schoolhouse. Well over
thirty kids sat at desks vigorously raising their hands. At the head of the
room, a fourty-year-old Doris Rainey presided over her class.

The image changed to outside again to a random shot of the woods surrounding the
school. An unstable pan to the left revealed two Twinkie-shaped metallic vans
parked near the school. There were none of the fun, playful images one would
associate with pediatric medicine-- no clowns, no balloons, no lollipops. There
was a long line of kids, all going one by one inside one van or the other. Men
and women in lab coats seemed to be dividing the children into two separate
groups. One little girl -- a little black girl -- was pulled out of line by
stern faced, balding man.

"He's no Doctor Spock," Mulder said, sitting up, despite the pain. "I recognize
him, Scully. He's in the photograph."

"What photograph?"

"The one with my father."

Scully barely heard her partner. She's was riveted to the screen.

The balding man pulled the little girl harshly by the arm, leading her to the
other van. She tried to pull away, but the man simply picked her up and carried
her kicking and screaming to the van. She had the oddest little shock of white
hair mixed in with her little plaits.

"Oh my god, Mulder, you were right. It's her." Scully whispered. "That was
Lacy Jordan we saw."

Mulder hit the pause button, catching a disturbing image of little Lacy frozen
in mid-scream in the arms of Dr. Emil Vorcek.

* * *

Giant Supermarket
3:15 p.m.

Debralee Jenkins' favorite place in all of Stafford Hills was the new Giant. It
was as big as a high school football field and fill with the best produce and
the finest cuts of meats you could find in all of Virginia. Some of the fruits
and vegetables came from the farmlands of old family friends.

Her favorite section was the international aisle. Debralee loved the fact that
people from other countries ate such exotic fare. She stopped to read the back
of a box of falafel mix. Very soon, Debralee would be living for good in some
exotic place, eating exotic foods, though she had yet to make up her mind which
country it would be. There were so many choices, and Peyton had promised to
fulfill her heart's desire.

Debralee heard footsteps coming her way. She suddenly felt very cold. She
turned. No one was there. She reached to return the falafel box to the shelf
and felt a thin stream of warm air on her neck. She spun around with a gasp.

She almost didn't recognize the woman standing so close to her, practically
towering over her. Then, she noticed the shock of white hair. Debralee almost
spoke, almost screamed, but the woman put a finger to Debralee's lips.

"Ssshhh."

Debralee nodded.

"You know who I am?"

Debralee nodded again.

"Then you know why I'm here. I can help you. But first, I need you to help me.
I want Peyton."

"Don't...."

"Ssshhh. If you don't, you'll end up like Clarence and the rest, I guarantee."

Debralee nodded, and allowed Lacy to take her by the elbow and escort her out of
her favorite Giant.

Stafford Hills County Home for the Aged
4:25 pm

Fox Mulder could barely climb the stairs to the verandah. The elderly men
watched the younger man struggle, an arm clenched around his sides, his face
twisted in discomfort. Mulder hit the last step and let out a sigh.

He rang the door bell. The head nurse he and Scully had met the day before came
to greet him. She did not look very cheerful. "Agent Mulder, right?"

"Yes. Sorry to bother you, but yesterday, when my partner and I came by to
interview Mrs. Rainey, there was a man yelling. You referred to him as Mr.
Emil. I need to know if that man's name is Emil Vorcek."

"Yes. Why?"

"May I see him?"

"I'm afraid you can't."

"It's important."

"Mr. Emil passed on during the night."

Mulder stopped, closed his eyes for a moment. Somehow, that was exactly what he
had expected to hear but hoped he wouldn't. One step forward, two steps back.

"Has anyone come to claim the body?"

"Some men were here earlier."

"Family?"

"I guess. Is he in some kind of trouble?"

"Not any more," Mulder said dejectedly. "I need to get a cab back to my motel.
May I call one?"

"You know, I think it's Reggie's day off."

One cab in all of Stafford Hills. Mulder cursed under his breath.

The nurse stepped back inside. Mulder turned, staring at the stairs he'd have
to negotiate his way down. After much protest, Scully had reluctantly dropped
him off on her way to see Peyton Grey, making him promise to call a taxi or wait
for her. A cab - the only cab in all of Stafford Hills, was apparently out of
the questions. He could wait for her or hoof it back to the motel. He decided
to walk.

* * *

Investors Bank
4:30 pm

Scully paced the shiny black floor in the waiting area. The room was much
cooler than it was outside, and Scully could feel herself begin to shiver.

There was a strange, muffled trilling, and Scully realized it was the high tech
phone at the reception desk. The woman who filled that position answered it
quietly.

"Mr. Grey will see you now," she announced to Scully. Scully gave the re
ceptionist a quick nod and headed directly to the double doors. She was taken
aback when the left door opened just as she reached for the knob.

Ginny Scurlock stood there, a hand extended. Scully thought the woman held her
hand a little longer than she should have.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Agent Scully. Come on in."

Ginny escorted Scully to a medium size office with a window overlooking the
parking lot. A handsome man in his mid-thirties stood up and offered his pale
hand to Scully.

"Mr. Grey, I presume?"

"Agent Scully. So sorry to give the FBI such a run-around, but my schedule has
been a might busy. Investor's is close to being bought out by another financial
institution and everybody here is about as nervous as a cat in a roomful of
rocking chairs, 'fraid they're gonna lose their jobs."

"I understand, sir. I promise not to take up too much of your time."

"Won't you have a seat?"

Scully settled into a black leather chair that looked more comfortable than it
felt. "Sir, my partner and I are investigating --"

"I know what you're investigating. I heard about Clarence Harvey, and I assume
you also heard about Robert Earl Stiegers."

Scully quickly pulled out her notes and found Stieger's name on the list of
former students, but not among the dead.

"Perhaps you could fill me in on Mr. Stiegers."

"You're the FBI, shouldn't you know?"

"My partner and I had a rather energetic night."

"Really?"

"He was injured in the line of duty. If you would be so kind..."

"Robert Earl ran a little second hand bookstore up in Herndon. He shot himself
in the face in front of a store full of customers."

"Doesn't it bother you that another former classmates from Stafford Hills Grade
School is dead?"

"It deeply disturbs me. But I can't say that I have kept track with all these
individuals, or maintained a friendship with them. Don't you worry, though. I
have no intention of committing suicide. How 'bout you, Ginny?"

Ginny shook her head.

"That's just it, Mr. Grey. My partner, and to a small degree, even I suspect
that these are not suicides anymore."

"You mean you think they were murdered?"

"Mr. Grey, have you received any threatening phone calls, letters, or com
munications with anyone that may have given you cause for alarm?"

"I have to say no."

Scully looked up at the mousy woman in pink polyester standing near Peyton
Grey's desk like a nervous little sentry.

"What about you, Miss Scurlock?"

"I have to say no, too."

Scully studied the woman's expression. She knew something. There was no doubt
about it. But she was taking all of her cues from Grey.

"Sir, do you know Lacy Jordan?"

"Lacy Jordan? Lacy Jordan. Oh, Lacy Jordan! I remember her. She was that
weird little girl with the white hair, back in something like third or fourth
grade. You remember her, Ginny?"

Ginny nodded nervously, then turned to look out the window. Scully noted the
reaction.

"Poor little thing got kidnapped by crazy old Miss Rainey, woo, back in sixty
six. They never did find her body."

"That's probably because she was never a corpse. I have reason to believe that
Lacy Jordan is alive, and may be responsible for the deaths of your former
classmates."

"Go 'way from here."

"And it is also possible that you and Miss Scurlock, could be next on her list."

Scully noticed the woman shudder. Peyton Grey, however, was as cool as a
cucumber.

"Alive! Why, that's great. But why would she wanna hurt me or Ginny, or any of
us?"

"We believe it has something to do with the night you and your classmates
disappeared. I wonder if you remember anything of that night."

Peyton sat back, relaying his grief with all the emotional depth and realness of
a b-movie actor. "I'm afraid, Agent Scully, that after years of therapy and
sheer frustration, I have yet to uncover from my psyche the events that unfolded
that night. I am at a loss, as is my assistant Ginny, for anything that
happened that night. All I remember is knocking on my parents' door at dawn,
cold and hungry and confused.

"You share the same memory loss, Miss Scurlock?"

"I don't recollect nothing. I'm sorry."

"Do either of you remember the health mobiles that visited your school?"

"Come to think of it, I do," said, Peyton. "Big old shiny things. They check
all of us for childhood diseases, malnutrition, ringworms, eyesight. They gave
us candy after each check up. I was partial to Squirrel Nut Zippers and Now and
Laters."

"Ever receive any medication on sugar cubes?"

"Sometimes. Used to use an eye dropper to drop liquid vitamins on the cubes.
The sweetness took away the bitter taste of the vitamins."

"Do you recall the names of the doctors who administered these vitamins to you?"

"Don't recall if they ever even told me."

"Does the name Emil Vorcek mean anything to you?"

"Can't say it does."

"Ever suspect that you were getting something other than what they were telling
you?"

"Agent Scully, we were just kids, simple farm kids. We had no reason to suspect
anything. Are you saying we shoulda?"

"I'm saying it's possible things were not as innocent as they were presented.
Have you or Ms. Scurlock suffered any odd or recurring symptoms?"

"If you count bursitis as odd. It does have a tendency to recur."

"No," said Scully. "I imagine it would be something a little more serious."

Peyton stood up, as if ready to call the meeting adjourned. "Well, if something
comes up, I'll let you know. Wouldn't mind suing and getting back all them
taxes I've been paying."

Scully stood, and felt the room tilt just enough to make her stagger. Peyton
Grey reached out with those big pale hands and steadied her. Like his mousy
counterpart, his touch lasted a little longer than it should have, just past the
point of being polite. Scully pulled away and straightened her trench coat.

"I think it would be wise if you both considered being placed under protective
custody."

"You mean arrest us?"

"No, sir, I mean, I can arrange to have the local sheriff keep watch around the
clock, in case Lacy decides to pay you a visit."

"You can't be serious."

"Several people are dead. I'm very serious."

"Agent Scully, I see no reason for Lacy to even come round here. We never did
nothing to her."

"I'm sure Mr. Harvey, Mr. Stiegers and the others could say the same thing. We
may not be dealing with a sane individual, therefore her motives may not be
clear. We are also trying to get in touch with Franklin Pickett, and Debralee
Jenkins."

"Frank's a State Trooper. Last I heard Debralee works for the fabric store at
the strip mall."

Scully pulled FBI business cards from her pocket, along with a pen, and quickly
jotted information on the backs of both cards. "This is the motel where I'm
staying. If you should hear from Lacy, or if perhaps you remember something,
please don't hesitate to call."

She handed a card first to Peyton, then to Ginny, then headed for the door.

"I will call you and Mr. Mulder post haste," Peyton promised.

"Excuse me?" Scully said, her hair whipping back as she turned back to face
Peyton Grey.

"I said I'll call you."

"I don't remember giving you my partner's name."

"What?"

"I never told you my partner's name was Mulder."

"No, you didn't." Peyton held Scully's card up. "You gave me his card."

"No I didn't." Scully was positive. She saw the card as she pulled it from her
pocket. She remembered. She looked at the card now in Peyton's hand. Sure
enough, it said Fox Mulder. How did that happen? She could have sworn....

"Sorry," Scully muttered. Something wasn't right. She needed to get outside,
to get some air. She felt nauseated, closed in. She needed to go. She quickly
left the office and headed down the cold hall for the door.

Peyton and Ginny watched the agent leave. They waited until she was out of
earshot, then:

"She's trouble." Peyton looked at the business card in his hand. Dana K.
Scully, it read. "But she can be manipulated. Call Frank, tell him to empty
out the drunk tank tonight. We may wanna put that little redhead under
protective custody ourselves."

* * *

Dana Scully took a deep breath once she cleared the door and entered the parking
lot. That was weird, she thought. Peyton with his down home charm and Ginny
practically shaking in her shoes. As she headed back to the Taurus, she was
struck by a thought. Scully removed the handful of business cards in her
pocket. She shuffled through each card, twice, and not a single one belonged to
her partner.

* * *

Interstate 29
5:20 p.m.

Scully could not get the meeting with Peyton Grey off her mind. Something about
him had affected her the same way her impromptu meeting with Lacy Jordan had
left her feeling uneasy. It was as if the two of them were wearing those old
fifty's x-ray specs, and could really see inside her clothes. Or worse, inside
her head. So many thoughts were plaguing Dana Scully's mind that she barely saw
the woman who stepped out into the middle of the road, right in front of her
car.

Scully shouted as she twisted the wheel hard to the left to avoid her, and
missed smashing into a huge oak tree by a breath. Scully was thrust forward as
she slammed on her brakes, the seatbelt the only thing saving her from flying
through the windshield.

Scully shook her head clear then climbed out of the car. The woman was lying in
the road unconscious. Scully checked her vitals, then pulled out her cell phone
and called for help.

Thirty minutes later, the woman, who was identified as Debralee Jenkins, was
being loaded onto the back of a coroner's wagon. Cause of death would be
determined by an autopsy, but for now, the Stafford Hills County Medical
examiner on duty was considering the cause of death a massive heart attack
brought on by fright.

Scully tried to reach Mulder, but he was not answering at the motel. Must've
taken a few Tylenol 3's, she thought, and was dead to the world.

A broad-bodied, bald State Trooper gestured Scully to join him by her car.

"Yes?"

"This your car?"

"Yes, it is."

"Ma'am, I'm gonna have to ask you to submit to a breathalizer."

"Breathalizer? I haven't been drinking. Listen, I'm Special Agent Dana Scully,
FBI, I'm investigating --"

The State Trooper reached under the driver's seat and pulled out a small silver
flask. He opened it and took a sniff.

"That's not mine."

"Of course it isn't," the Trooper said nastily.

"This vehicle was rented. It must've belonged to the previous renter."

"Of course. Step over hear, please, ma'am."

Dana reached into her pocket for her ID. "There's been a grave mistake. If
you'll just call my partner --"

Instantly the State Trooper pulled his service weapon and aimed it at Scully."

"Don't move!"

"Easy!"

"Up against the car."

"Are you arresting me?" I haven't...!"

"Hands in the air!"

Scully raised her hands quickly.

The State Trooper grabbed her by the wrist and pushed her against the car. He
slapped on handcuffs so quickly that Scully had no time to react.

"What's the charge?" she asked.

"Driving while intoxicated. Resisting arrest."

"Resisting arrest?"

"You have the right to remain silent...."

The State Trooper pulled her from the hood of the car and turned her around.
She stared at his badge.

"Franklin Pickett?"

"...anything you say can be held against you in a court of law..."

Pickett pushed Scully into his squad car, climbed into the driver seat and took
off before anyone had time to see or ask questions.

* * *

Stafford Inn
9:47 p.m.

The blue light of the television barely illuminated the room. Mulder woke
feeling groggy, not sure of where he was at the moment. He moved and pain shot
through his ribs. Now he remembered.

He'd walked the few miles from the Home to the motel, and by the time he got
there, he thought his ribs would explode. He took two Tylenol 3's and eased
onto the bed, waiting for the pain to ease up. He was asleep in a matter of
minutes.

Mulder carefully turned over and noticed the lateness of the hour. Where was
Scully? Was she back in her room? Perhaps she had noticed he was asleep, and
knowing how exhausted he was, elected not to bother him, to allow him this rare
opportunity to rest. He began to yawn but it hurt too much. He stifled it as
much as he could.

Mulder sat on the edge of the bed carefully and looked at the television. On
the screen, an old William Castle movie was playing -- "Invaders From Mars."
Cheesy special effects, but some good acting here and there. This movie was a
favorite of Mulder's because it was about one little boy who knew the Martian's
had come, and all the grownups who refused to believe him, and how they fell
victim to their inability to believe. The scene that was on used to be his
favorite scene, at least until his partner was abducted. It was the scene were
the boy's mother lay face down on a glass table as Martian machinery is drilling
an implant in the base of her neck. He quickly found the remote and turned the
television off, plunging the room in darkness.

There was a vague flash of red. Then a flash of white, followed by a low and
distant rumble of thunder. He moved to the window and saw that it was raining.
The red neon sign hissed whenever water hit it. He also noticed the
bureau-registered Taurus was not in its parking space.

Mulder forgot all about his aching ribs. He quickly turned on the lights and
grabbed the phone. He dialed Dana's room. No answer. He grabbed his pants and
a shirt, throwing them on haphazardly and stepping into his shoes without
bothering with socks. As he was reaching for the door, the phone rang.

"Scully?"

"Mulder, thank God. I tried you twice. Didn't you hear the phone ring?"

"I was sleeping, Scully, I'm sorry. What's up? Where are you? Are you okay?"

"Not really. I'm in jail."

"What?"

"I've been arrested for drunk driving and resisting arrest."

"Scully, you party animal."

"This isn't funny, Mulder. The charges are fake, trumped up. I don't know
what's going on around here, but no one's listening to me. And guess who had
the duty of slapping on the cuffs? Franklin Pickett."

"Our Franklin Pickett?"

"The one and only. He knows what's going on, and he's trying to stop us.
They're holding me on some weird technicality and I know it's bull. Mulder, you
have to come down here and talk to them. This is the only phone call they're
going to let me make. They said there's no bail."

"No bail? It's not like you killed somebody."

"Well, Mulder, that's not exactly true. Debralee Jenkins ran out in front of my
car. I didn't hit her, I know I didn't, but they're trying to railroad me with
it, Mulder. Get down here and talk some sense into them, please?"

"I am on my way."

"Be careful. They could be after you next."

Mulder hung up, feeling motivated by righteous indignation. He was going to
find Franklin Pickett and tear him a new one. He opened the door just as
thunder rumbled. There was someone standing in the doorway. A small, mousy
woman, drenched from head to toe. She shivered. Mulder couldn't tell if it was
from the cold, or from fear.

"Agent Mulder?"

"Yes?"

"My name is Virginia Scurlock. Please, help me."

* * *

Five minutes, Mulder thought. He'd give her five minutes to explain herself,
then he had to get down to the station to save Scully. He let the woman in and
gave her a towel. She sat in one of the hard chairs near the window and blotted
her hair dry, crying the whole time.

"I don't know where to begin," she said. "I'm so afraid."

"Of what?"

"I never meant to do any of those things."

"What things?"

"Can you protect me? He doesn't know I'm here yet, but he will. We have to
leave now."

"And go where?"

"Anywhere!"

"Look, Ms. Scurlock. I want to help you. I do. But you're not telling me
anything. My partner is in trouble, and I have to go to her. If you want my
protection..."

The woman reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a gun. It was Scully's
service weapon. She sat in on the table in front of her and went back to drying
her hair. Mulder surreptitiously reached out and took it.

"I'm supposed to kill you. He wants to pin it on your partner."

"Who wanted you to kill me? Was it Vorcek?"

"Vorcek's dead, finally. He doesn't want anyone to know what we've done. He
doesn't want anyone to know what we are."

"Who? You're not telling me anything. Who are we talking about here?"

Ginny put the towel down and locked eyes with Mulder. Her skin was chalky
white, her lips near blue, her eyes red and nearly bulging from their sockets.

"He can read thoughts," she said in a harsh whisper. "He can crawl inside your
head like a bug and see everything. He's inside mine right now, but I got up a
wall. It's like this thing you say over and over again in your mind, and it
keeps bad feelers out, but only as long as you can keep saying it. Right now,
I'm so tired."

"What they did to you, what they gave you when you were kids, gave you the
ability to read minds?"

"It's more than that. We ain't human no more. They told us we were better than
people like you, you know, normal people. I just thought we were freaks.
Please, Mr. Mulder, I don't want to die."

Ginny began to cry again. "Don't let her find me either."

"Who?"

"Lacy. You've seen her. She's been inside your head. She wants you."

"For what?"

"I don't know!"

She dropped her head and covered her face with the wet towel.

"I'll protect you. But you have to tell me everything."

She looked up at Mulder. Deeper circles showed under her eyes. "I've done so
many terrible things. If we didn't they would hurt us."

Ginny suddenly sat up straight in her chair as if struck by an electrical
current. She stood, listening to the stillness in the room.

"She's out there. God help me, she's out there!" She reached out and grabbed
Mulder by the front of his shirt, pleading. "Help me!"

Glass exploded across the room as the windows were blown in. Mulder wrapped his
arms around her and turned her away from the flying glass. He felt the impact
of several pieces against his back, but was not sure if he were cut. The
television tube exploded. Wind from outside whipped through the room. Light
bulbs exploded. Even the red neon sigh outside exploded, leaving the room cast
in utter darkness as cold rain pushed by the wind pounded like needles against
them.

Lighting flashed as Ginny's head flew back and strange, strangling noises issues
from her throat. She began to convulse. Blood shot up from her mouth like
steam from a geiser. Mulder ducked in time to miss the spray.

He guided her violently jerking body down to the floor. As suddenly as it
began, the woman's seizure stopped. She lay dead in Mulder's arms. Her bloody
mouth was wide open. He turned away when he saw that she had swallowed her
tongue.

Instantly the wind whipping through the room calmed and silence but for the
sound of rain upon the roof was restored.

Mulder lay Ginny's body softly on the floor, then grabbed his service weapon.
He ran outside, standing in the pouring rain, becoming drenched in the downpour,
looking about feverishly.

"I know you're out here!" Mulder shouted over the rain, gun up and ready to
fire.

Thunder rumbled.

"Show yourself!"

Lacy stepped out of the shadows, as if she were part of the night.

"You killed her! You killed Clarence Harvey! Why are you killing them?"

Lacy said nothing. She stepped back into the shadows, into the dark seeming to
disappear. She was teasing him.

Mulder raced to where she had stood. No sign of her. He quickly spun around.
He could feel her. She was here.

Out of nowhere she appeared again and kicked the gun from Mulder's hand. Mulder
swung out in retaliation, but she delivered another heavy-booted kick to
Mulder's already suffering rubs that sent him crashing into the mud with an
anguished cry.

Mulder tried to get up, but a big old Doc Marten came slamming down on his
chest, pinning him down in the mud, the rain filling his mouth. Lacy leaned
down just as lightening flashed.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a little white vial with a spray cap.
Was it mace? She gave it a little shake, then sprayed it in Mulder's face.

Mulder recoiled and covered his face. He felt her boot lift off his chest and
he rolled over trying to wash the spray out with mud and rainwater. His face
burned like fire, like a million tiny ants racing into his eyes, his ears, his
mouth. He began to wretch and cough, but nothing could relieve the burning. He
could barely breath.

Lacy squatted down next to him and turned Mulder's face around to look him in
the eye, holding him by the chin.

"Welcome to the club," she said and laughed.

She let go of his chin and remained in her crouched position, and for several
minutes, watched Mulder helplessly writhe.

End Part 3

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