"The Poe Mountain Horror" X Files Tale by West Shore westshor1@earthlink.net SUMMARY: While a little Tennessee Mountain town revels in its new-found celebrity status as an alien abduction site, Mulder and Scully try to tell them that they are ignoring the real danger and are caught in the snare of an evil serial killer. THE RATING: R (violence, language) THE DISCLAIMER: I gratefully acknowledge that Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and 20th Century Fox *really* own the two action figures that I am playing with here. The X Files Universe is ruled and owned by the man above. No. Not Him. The man in the above paragraph. I will not profit from their use (as if). Characters other than Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are sprung from my head (I admit with some trepidation) with some help from the pages of the Palm Beach Post. X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X+X "The Poe Mountain Horror" by West Shore Sheriff's Office Early December Berrien, Tennessee The din of voices seemed to rattle the windows in the crowded office of the sheriff. FBI Agent Dana Scully scanned the room quickly for her partner, Fox Mulder. Reporters. Politicians. Curiosity seekers. Cops. No sign of any tall, forlorn-looking FBI agent. Scully sighed and shook off the chill she had acquired dashing without a coat between the two tiny municipal buildings that made up the whole of the government offices of Berrien, Tennessee. The weather was changing fast outside, a snowstorm threatening overhead, unnoticed by the throng of people inside. She had left the noisy claustrophobic atmosphere of the office to gather the last of her faxes from the Washington D.C. labs, reports of special tissue and toxicological screens she had requested on specimens taken from the body of Roy Earl Destin, a former favorite son of this tiny town, now known as "Victim Number Five" of alleged alien visitations. An abduction about every six to eight weeks since early spring. Young men, ranging in age from 27 to 15. Four locals -- and one out-of-towner unlucky enough to be up on Poe Mountain when the third "alien visitation" took place. Each had been returned as a lifeless corpse, without hands and with odd scarring that prompted the first speculations about abductions and experimentation. In the frenzy that followed the discovery of the fourth body, the mythology of alien abduction had taken hold firmly. In the hysteria that accompanied the discovery of the latest victim, a media circus had been born out a few fragile facts and a number of tall tales. And two major facts were relegated to minor status: Each corpse was returned minus its hands and minus the vehicle the victim had last been seen in. The involvement of the FBI's obscure X Files division had come when the Office of the Governor of Tennessee made a request of the Bureau to put the case to rest and end the two week long media blitz that was taking away from the governor's embattled bid for budget reforms and tax proposals. As Scully scanned the office again, she ruefully recalled that Mulder had been four-square against coming here at first. A quick review of the information sent to them made the alien abduction theory seem unlikely. In fact, Mulder had laughed outright in Assistant Director Walter Skinner's office during the initial case review and assignment. Skinner had glowered as Mulder squawked about the negligible statistical probabilities that the "Poe Mountain Aliens" had any "need of antique human technology requiring complex, fossil fuel- burning, pollution-creating, gravity-challenged engines in late model autos such as those owned and driven by the five victims." The Assistant Director had merely dangled Governor Menkin's official seal in front of Mulder. It was attached to a formal request for assistance from the FBI. Scully's partner had still balked at getting involved, expecting another set-up designed to discredit their X Files Division within the FBI. His complaints had fallen on deaf ears. They were on the road to Berrien within eight hours of receipt of the governor's request. The glamour of a story as sensational as alien abductions focused in one tiny community had garnered lots of attention for the area. The news had been picked up internationally. Radio and television stories had been highlighting the tiny mountain burgh for the last two months. The governor's office had insisted on the FBI's involvement as the media circus threatened to become more unmanageable. The town of Berrien was basking in its glory, however. There were lots of visitors arriving. And with them, lots of money. The one motel and one aging inn were filled to capacity for the whole week, an event unparalleled in Berrien history. When the two federal agents had arrived, the day after the body was found, the small town was full of fables about alien kidnappings that had plagued this otherwise peaceful community for the past six months. At the conclusion of just three interviews of citizens claiming to have witnessed strange lights and an oddball assortment of "phenomena" that seemed to accompany each disappearance, Mulder was seething. In the spotlight of their newfound celebrity, the locals had begun weaving "yarns", each story more fantastic than the first and each story less worthy of Mulder's attention than the last. Scully smiled as she remembered her partner muttering under his breath, dismissing the trio as "one sorry alcoholic; a half-blind old geezer; and one woman who, in the previous year, had seen Jesus' face in the rusty water stains in the walls of her molded plastic shower stall..." Mulder's face had taken on a set, grim affect by the time they had been led to Destin's body on that first day. Stored in the meat locker of the town's only grocery store, it had waited for the FBI's forensic specialist, Dr. Dana Scully, to render facts and opinion as she gleaned them from the youth's ruined, pitiful corpse through a careful autopsy. Mulder had not said a word. Scully knew he would be tightly wound, despite whatever he already believed about the preposterous "alien abduction" theory, until he heard and saw the reality of the tale that Destin's mangled body was going to tell his partner. Even as he had stood nearby, not watching the autopsy, she had known he was listening to her every word, each sterile, detached description of all the horrors that had been inflicted on the once- handsome youth. Had aliens possibly done this? No, she had concluded. They both had known she would find no evidence of treachery from off-world marauders this time. The surgical incisions had been remarkably precise, probably done with a scalpel, but too random. Some wounds had shown clear evidence of stitches and healing as if the young man had been kept alive through an extended period of torture until his eventual death in the clutches of the ghoul who had held him. And four other victims before him. The hands had been removed after death had occurred. Tissue and tox screens overnighted to the Washington labs would confirm most of her immediate impressions in a few days while they continued to sift for truth among the townsfolk. It had been absurdly simple, she remembered thinking at the time. So obvious. The pattern of neatly inflicted surgical incisions did not make any sense, that is, if one were to cut up a body in the interest of science and to further the cause of alien visitations on this planet. She had looked up from her recorder as she stated the obvious: young Roy Earl had met his death cruelly at the hands of a very real, very human, madman. She remembered the way Mulder's broad shoulders had relaxed then, almost imperceptibly. He had been facing away from the improvised autopsy table, leaning his head against the frigid wall of the meat locker, rolling his forehead against cold metal as he listened to Dana describe a young man's brief life and torturous death to a tape recorder. The tiny slump of shoulders had been a silent gesture of relief, one of the many bits of the unspoken language of Fox Mulder. Dana Scully marveled at how easily she had learned that language. Being so finely attuned to her partner had certainly helped her survive four extraordinary years with the tall, darkly handsome agent that had eschewed almost every other attempt at 'hitching him into the harness' of partnership. She had pulled the paper drape over the victim's body, signaling the end of the procedure to her partner. Despite his squeamishness, he had insisted on staying with her in this odd, hastily arranged autopsy room. She knew he hadn't wanted her to feel uncomfortable and alone in the cold windowless vault, hung with a few animal carcasses as mute witnesses to her work. "So. Mulder." He had already turned to face her, letting his dark eyes skitter down to the draped corpse and then quickly back to her face. She had smiled grimly. "No aliens in the mountains." "Right. No aliens. Should have known." His voice had been soft. She knew why he had been relieved to know that this wasn't the handiwork of aliens. He wouldn't have to dream about this death. He wouldn't have to let his mind replay all his own half-remembered horrors, nor imagine that his young sister, abducted decades earlier while he helplessly looked on, might have suffered the same fate as Roy Earl Destin at the hands of her abductors. His face had held a new grimness and preoccupation, though. Scully recognized it. Mulder, the self-appointed warrior for truth, was also a hunter for justice. If this death, and the others, were not the end products of alien abductions, then that meant that there was a beast loose out there. A killer. A human with a taste for the blood of his fellow humans. And Fox Mulder was as instinctual about hunting predators as a well trained, thoroughbred hound. In his world, a dark world wallpapered with ghostly images of foreign beings, the intrusion of a human monster was an insult; a deviation that he knew he had the power to conquer, unlike his ineffectual grasping at the alien denizens of his nightmares. Fox Mulder needed to hunt human monsters. He needed to find them and conquer them. Because for every battle fought and won in his waking hours, he took more inner strength into the subconscious battle of the young Fox Mulder versus the monsters that tore his little sister -- and his life -- away from him There was little he had to fear from human monsters: He knew what they looked like; he knew what they did; he understood why they did it. He was unafraid to face them, to transform himself into their hunter by transforming his thoughts into copies of theirs. He had sensed the killer of Roy Earl Destin and four other young men was going to be different. ********************************** Scully finally caught a glimpse of Mulder's familiar form out of the corner of her eye. He stood at the back of the room, looking out a small window, seemingly oblivious to the carnival atmosphere in the little office. She squeezed past Ed Swift, Berrien's part-time mayor and full time owner and operator of the Dew Drop Inn. He was standing belly-to-belly with Sheriff Pete Zames. Their animated discussion had been about only one thing every day since the Destin boy's body had been found: which one of them was to talk to the reporters calling in from all over the world and just what "facts" on Berrien's Alien Invasion were going to be released for publication? Scully didn't bother to interrupt their heated discussion. Both men had neatly avoided the FBI's presence and advice since the two agents had arrived several days before. She dropped a copy of her report on the sheriff's desk, on top of the open file that also contained the neatly typed copies of their notes and Mulder's most recent profile and warnings about a serial killer lurking on Poe Mountain. Fingering through the reports one last time, she sighed. These warnings were being ignored. Mulder was taking his usual rounds of abuse for his "theories". Ironically, she thought, he's sticking to *earthly* facts, and he was still meeting resistance. Well, they had completed their end of the assignment. They had turned in their conclusion and tried to make some headway with the local law enforcement agency. It wasn't likely Assistant Director Skinner would let them spend any more time on this local issue when the letter of their involvement had been satisfied. That would be fine with her, she mused. It was close to the holidays; she was tired; and fed up with dealing with people who would not listen to reason. Mulder. She smiled. He was getting a taste of his own medicine for a change. She doubted he even noticed. His mind was already on the "hunt" for a serial killer. He was probably feeling frustrated, and she knew that wouldn't bode well for her wish to get out of this little town as soon as possible. As Scully shouldered her way through the rest of the crowd toward her partner, clutching a thermos, two paper cups and her own carefully collated reports, she was approached by a thin, sickly- looking fellow with thick glasses perched precariously on the bridge of his beak-like nose. He had four or five expensive cameras swinging from his chest and shoulders. The FBI agent groaned inwardly. Another self-important member of the press, eagerly riding the wave of sensationalism engulfing the tiny town of Berrien. "Excuse me, miss, I'm with a paper from Illinois. Do you suppose you could get me a quick interview with your boss? I'm running late on my deadline times." "Perhaps you should ask that question of a secretary." Scully's voice was colder than the wind stirring outside. "But I thought...," the man began to whine. Scully had already turned her back on him. After a moment's consideration, he called after her, " Hey. Hey, wait a minute! You hear anything about the FBI being here? Do you know a ... a... let's see... his name is Mulder. 'Spooky' Mulder? Is he here?" Scully could feel the blood pounding in her ears as she pushed her way to the back of the room. She ignored the annoying little man. "Spooky Mulder, indeed," she grumbled under her breath. she thought angrily. "Heads up. A member of the noble press is looking for you," Scully growled as she glided up behind Fox Mulder. He was still gazing out the window at the gathering storm. He shrugged but did not turn around. "Yeah, I thought I heard my name being taken in vain." He leaned forward, squinting as he peered up at the iron gray snow clouds outside. "Looks like a storm. Maybe we should stay another..." Scully wouldn't let him finish. She didn't want to hear it. She hurriedly pressed a paper cup into his hand, ignoring his astonished stare as she uncapped the thermos. "I took the opportunity to run across the street to our inn while the clerk collated our report, Mulder. I am packed and ready to leave. Here." She poured a generous amount of hot, sweet-smelling coffee into the cup Mulder held. "Our saintly innkeeper, little ol' Miss Etta, sent this coffee and hot chocolate mix back with me. She made it pretty clear it was for you, but..." She filled and lifted her cup in a toast to Mulder. "...she's letting me have some, too. Here's to the love you inspire in genteel little ladies -- and here's to our quick getaway." "Scully?" His voice was already plaintive. "Don't. Don't even ask me." He had heard that tone in her voice before. It was a warning; she would brook no argument. He pursed his lips, shook his head and stared stonily out the window again. Scully watched the muscle in his angular jaw twitch as it always did when he was tense. She suddenly regretted cutting him off. She should have heard him out. This messy case had evolved into something else for her partner. Looking back at the crowded room, she saw cops and politicians, reporters and gawkers. Everyone was talking; no one was listening. She sighed with resignation. She could see what her partner saw with that "spooky" sense that his fine-tuned perception gave him: Roy Earl Destin was going to be forever remembered as one of the five 'alien abductees' by this conflagration of fractured facts. The only other person, beside she and Mulder, who knew the true horror of what those boys went through was free and possibly planning how to catch another victim in his web. The truth was vulnerable in Berrien today. All the distortions of facts were being jotted down, quoted, recorded, or broadcast in the confusion of sensational circumstances. Even the normally cooler heads of the law enforcement officers were being influenced. Under these circumstances, facts were held hostage. Scully's autopsy, Mulder's serial killer theory, his pinpoint-narrow profile, their procedural recommendations -- all would be ignored. And the Destin family would bury their hopes for a young man's life in the coffin with their son. The killer would be safe to hunt again. Scully turned back to Mulder. The silence between them was palpable. She hated this part of the negotiation process between them. She would have to be the first to cut through it. "Did you call Skinner?" He stiffened slightly and tilted his head sharply away from her. A sign of defeat. That little gesture told her Skinner had agreed with her. "Yes, I did. He thinks this has been a colossal waste of time. He says we should cover our asses regarding procedure, turn it over to the 'ringmasters' there..." He motioned over his shoulder at the sheriff and mayor. "... and head home." He looked as if he was going to continue but had thought the better of it. Scully waited, watching him sip his coffee. She rolled her eyes. He was bound to be moody about this for a long time, and she dreaded his moodiness more than his manic turns of excitement when he was on the threshold of solving a case. He wanted to solve this one. He wanted to be let off the leash to pursue the madman he sensed was out there. While everyone else had their eyes on the skies, Mulder would be nose to the ground, hunting the real killer. And Scully knew she would be his partner in the hunt, too. She leaned against the window frame and could feel fingers of an icy draft slither up her back. As she faced her partner, she mentally kissed her vision of herself lulling in a hot, soapy bath, safe and warm at home, good-bye. "What is it, Mulder? I'll listen. Promise." He moved his hazel eyes to her. He seemed suspicious of this extended offer of solace. She was used to that, too. She waited, careful to keep her face impassive. He was like a skittish colt when he was feeling emotional about a case. She watched, looking for the hard edge in his eyes to soften up. There. "They're not listening, Scully." "That was apparent from the day we arrived, Mulder." "It flies in the face of reason! Aliens? How...." He was sputtering, tripping over his own tongue in his eagerness to get all his stormy thoughts and feelings unloaded onto a sympathetic ear. Scully smiled. "I recall saying something very much like that to you on some of our more famous cases." He looked exasperated at first, then smiled back. "Zing. Right to my heart." He laid one hand over his chest, covering an imaginary wound, and his serious expression returned. "Roy Earl Destin's ghost is screaming, Scully. And I haven't done anything to stop that screaming." Scully gently pulled his hand off his chest. "We, Mulder. *We* haven't done anything to stop the screaming. Don't forget, I seem to have a martyr complex that rivals yours," she sighed in resignation. She looked over her shoulder at the threatening dark sky. "Looks like a storm, Mulder. Maybe we should tell Skinner it's not possible to head back today." She could feel the radiance of his smile without even looking at him. "So how do you propose we spend our precious time here?" This time Mulder was eager; he was free of the leash. He could start the hunt. "We know the killer's profile, Scully, and this 'ain't' New York. A person like him should stick out like a sore thumb in an area like this. I'm pretty sure he's not a local -- maybe living here now -- but not raised here. He's educated. He's a neat freak and he has some medical knowledge, but just more than rudimentary, right? That much you can tell from the wounds inflicted on the bodies. I don't think his primary motivations are driven by sexual fantasies despite the male - only selection of victims. I think the odd pattern of wounds indicate a search. He's looking for something he needs from the bodies of these young men." He shook his head absently for a moment. That last statement pulled him back into his thoughts again. "Needs something?" Scully echoed. "You mean like a substance? A bodily fluid? An organ? There wasn't anything else missing in or on the body except the hands." "Missing. The killer's missing something -- something of his own. But it may not even *be* physical, Scully. I mean... what if he feels he's missed his youth, for instance? Maybe that's an element of the reason he picks young males." Scully shuddered. "Well, I, for one, am glad he isn't 'missing' his mother, if that's the case." Mulder nodded somberly. "But there's something else about him, something I just can't quite fathom. It's the hands. What is it about the hands?" He paused again for a moment. "I've been thinking that perhaps this guy has some sort of physical deformity. Maybe that's why he takes the hands. They are more than a trophy; I'm almost sure of that. I'll need to add that bit to the profile." Scully gawked at him. "Well, I'm afraid I don't quite follow you on that leap of logic, Mulder. What makes you suspect a deformity?" "During the autopsy, I remembered you remarking about the incisions on the body. About how precise - how carefully made they were. I wondered if that kind of precision comes from skill or from extreme cautiousness. Slowness. Maybe because the killer has a hard time cutting into a live specimen. He was being slow deliberately. Why? Bad eyesight? Weakness from some old injury or disease? A deformity which prevents him from being swift. A deformity that may make him envious of young men." Mulder fell silent, lost in his own thoughts. "Well, if that's true, perhaps he fantasizes about 'fixing' this deformity," Scully interjected. "Maybe that's what he used them for: he fantasizes about fixing his own deformity, possibly his own hand -- or hands. Assuming the deformity, again, it might be a plausible explanation for his level of apparent medical knowledge. If he grew up with a congenital birth defect, he may have had numerous hospitalizations and/or surgeries in his past." Mulder grinned, pleased that his partner was now more interested in his hunt. Scully knew better than to smile back and encourage any kind of smug attitude from him. "What about the missing cars and trucks, Mulder? Nationwide searches for all of the vehicles have yielded nothing. Those are pretty large clues to hide -- even for 'alien' perps," Scully reminded him. He pulled his full, lower lip in and gazed thoughtfully out the window again. "Those vehicles are the biggest puzzle, in more ways than one. While it may not be unusual that a search for the cars has turned up 'zip', what is unusual is that at least one of them would not be considered *desirable* in the stolen car market because of its age... And what use would this guy have for five vehicles that he may not even be able to drive?" His voice trailed off as something outside caught his attention. Scully turned to follow his gaze. ********************************** Outside, a few snowflakes had begun to fall. The parking lot below the window was full. One bright green BMW was illegally parked. In the midst of the small sea of cars was an aged tow truck, its paint job long gone. Its owner was bent over the truck's aging winch, tugging clumsily at rusted chains that he was trying to fasten to the front of the new-looking BMW. Scully saw the skinny, offensive reporter that had bothered her earlier running toward the tow truck. He seemed to be shouting. His hands were waving wildly, and the expensive cameras he had had around his neck were bouncing and banging against his thin chest as he ran. "What's the problem?" Scully asked, watching as the two men outside began arguing. Mulder laughed. "Looks like the mountain man there is trying to hook that dude's front-wheel drive Beemer." Scully was puzzled. "So? It looks like the fool was parked where he shouldn't be. Maybe Mr. Mountain Man is just doing his job." "Not with that antiquated tow truck," her partner said. " If he hooks the Beemer up the way I think he's trying to, he could really screw up the front end and..." Mulder went quiet so suddenly that Scully turned around to see what had happened to him. He stood silently, suddenly regarding the little scene outside with more intensity. He moved his hand past Scully's shoulder to open the windows blinds a bit wider, leaning over her to get a better view of the truck. "Tow truck. Scully. That's got to be it," he whispered, almost as if to himself. "These kids' vehicles were taken away by a tow truck, not the Mother Ship." "C'mon, Mulder. My mom still has my brother's set of toy Tonka trucks from the seventies that look stronger than that one. I mean, it's ancient and you just implied that a truck like that could never haul a newer vehicle." "Right. Right. Not this truck," he agreed excitedly. " But a truck... a big one. A new state-of-the-art tow truck -- you've seen them -- with the platform that the cars ride on. It would be simple. Wouldn't leave a lot of evidence around, either. The cars could be transported virtually anywhere under wraps, stripped and then sold for parts." "So, we are now looking for a deformed truck driver with a brand new tow truck, a cross country stolen car business and a taste for torture?" Scully gaped at her partner then rolled her eyes, incredulous of Mulder's leap of logic. "I think you're right, Mulder -- a person by that description *would* stick out like a sore thumb." Mulder ignored her sarcasm, watching the scene outside in silence for a moment, worrying his lip between his teeth again. "No. No. The killer, if I'm right about my profile, wouldn't -- couldn't -- do it. Even if it weren't impossible for him physically, it would definitely be too 'menial', too messy for him. I'm beginning to think our killer has an accomplice." Scully turned back to the window, mulling that over. It fit. She watched the scene outside with renewed interest. The tow truck driver was a powerfully built man, in his late fifties. He could make a good suspect in Mulder's newest theory. He looked cruel, Scully mused as she watched the bigger man lunge at the skinny reporter. She saw him suddenly grab the small man by the nape of his neck and shake him roughly. "Oh-oh. Time to call the cavalry," Mulder sighed. He called back into the crowded room, "Deputy Merrill? I think you've got a situation in the back parking lot that's going to need your attention." A young uniformed man pushed his way through the mob and hurried to the window to peer out. "Shit! It's Hodd," he hissed. Pulling on his coat and hat, the officer rushed to the back door, muttering, "I'd better catch him before he gets violent. He's probably been drinking. Damn! Who called him in the first place? Sheriff Zames! Outside! It's Hodd Arlik, again." The room seemed to empty within seconds, leaving Scully and Mulder to watch in astonishment as the crowd followed to watch the melee in the parking lot. "Hell, if I'd known 'Hodd Arlik' were the magic words, I'd have yelled sooner," Mulder said, shrugging. "It was getting a bit close in here, don't you think?" ************************ The back door of the office swung open violently, bringing a blast of cold wind and snowflakes in. The two parking lots combatants were shoved ahead of Sheriff Zames and his deputy. The reporter was complaining in high, squeaky whines, and the tow truck driver was snarling in low, bear-like rumbles. Scully wrinkled her nose at the stench of stale whiskey and cigarettes that wafted up from Hodd Arlik as he was pushed into a chair near where she stood. She moved to the other side of the small room. Mulder, however, stayed where he was, arms crossed over his chest, studying the scene before him. "Hodd, for Chrissakes, man! What the hell did you think you were doin' out there?" Sheriff Zames shouted. His face was red with anger. It was clear he and Arlik had had these encounters before. "I'll tell you what the idiot was doing," the skinny stranger screeched. "He just about destroyed my BMW! After he'd have gotten through with it, I couldn't have sold it for parts. How is it a moron like him has a license to operate one of those?" "Shut up," Zames roared at the reporter, showing the first real sign of backbone that the FBI agents witnessed from the sheriff. "Matt!" Deputy Merrill straightened when he heard his name. "Issue this gentleman his parking ticket, and drag him over to the clerk's office. Tell Mabel he's willing to pay our new *upgraded* rate for his fine. She'll know what I mean." Deputy Merrill escorted the reporter from the building amid the man's sputter of protests and threats to sue. Sheriff Zames turned back to the big man swaying in the chair in front of him. Mulder drew closer to watch the man, but Scully kept her distance. >From where she stood, the man looked unhealthy. Aside from being intoxicated, he was wheezing and panting. She had seen how strong he seemed when he went after the reporter outside, but she could tell he soon wouldn't have whatever strength he had had in his prime. His eyes were rheumy and his stomach was distended, the classic symptom of someone suffering from chronic liver disease. His skin color was dusky and his hands mottled with purple blotches. Scully shuddered. She had seen enough of these symptoms in med school textbooks and hospital wards. But in Hodd Arlik, this look of impending death seemed to make him more a character to be feared than to be sympathized. His eyes, even as they were glazed with alcoholic stupor, were steely with meanness. His heavy jowled face was grizzled with two days growth of beard. His hair, if he had any, was hidden under a frayed winter hat, trimmed in dirty fur. Even Sheriff Zames seemed to be cautious of him, sitting behind his desk, putting a few feet of wood, paperwork and safe space between himself and Arlik. "You hit him first, Hodd. Assault and Battery. That's gettin' to be your middle name in these parts, mister. I oughta lock you up." Arlik's meaty fist came down with a crash on the desktop. Sheriff Zames nervously reached for his service revolver. "Goddamn fool asked for it! Ya seen his fancy car! I was gonna pick up some extra bucks towin' him away for ya." "It ain't proper procedure, Hodd. We'd have called if we needed your help. You and that ol' truck could of done a lot of damage to that city fella's car, and then we'd of had a real mess on our hands." "Fuckin' city people," Arlik growled drunkenly. His eyes caught on the polished dark shoes of the other stranger in the room, traveled up the neat creases of a dark, pressed pair of pants, wandered over the silky dress shirt and dark suit coat and settled on the handsome face. "Another one," he sneered at Fox Mulder. "Are we being invaded or somethin'?" "Mr. Arlik, do you own the tow truck outside?" Mulder asked quietly. "You a lawyer, Fancy Pants?" "No, I'm not. I'd just like to ask you a few questions about tow trucks and your whereabouts on the day Roy Earl Destin disappeared." Scully tensed as she watched the sheriff jump up from his chair and head toward Mulder. Arlik glared at Mulder for a long moment and then addressed the local lawman. "Who the fuck is Roy Earl Destin?" "Dennis Destin's boy. Lived in the holler below you. He's the latest one of the five that's believed to been taken by them strange lights we been havin' over the past months." The sheriff answered in a more civil tone than Arlik deserved. Arlik assumed a look of mock pity. "Aw, that's too bad 'bout the boy." He stood, weaving, and returned his glare to Mulder. "You wouldn't be thinkin' I'm workin' for them alien monsters, are ya, Fancy?" Mulder's tone hardened, but his face remained calm. "You may call me Special Agent Mulder. FBI. It's more probable that the young men have been abducted by human monsters, Mr. Arlik. And the killer would need a tow truck." "Now see here, Agent Mulder." This time it was Sheriff Zames protesting. "Hodd's old truck spends more time broken down by Grady's Bar than it does on the road. If he was hi-jackin' them kids' cars, someone around here would have noticed. And, besides, Hodd, here is hardly a rocket scientist. Look at 'im." The sheriff snorted. "You're supposed to be the expert here, Agent Mulder. I read your new theory on these 'abductions'. Now if you're goin' to tell this town there aren't any UFO's to worry about and then turn around and point the finger at one of our locals here -- Well, I gotta tell ya, people are going to have a harder time believin' in that than aliens." Mulder pushed on. "You have a bigger problem than aliens, sheriff. You've got a killer. And he may be working with outside help. The missing vehicles are an important part of completing this puzzle and a tow truck is an important part of the answer to what's been done with those vehicles." "Hodd's truck couldn't safely handle any vehicle less than twenty years old, Agent Mulder," Zames snorted. "That's right, Sheriff, but perhaps Mr. Arlik knows if there are there any other tow truck operators or newer model tow trucks in the area?" Mulder turned his eyes back to the big man who was glaring murderously at him now. The sheriff didn't wait for Arlik to answer the question. He quickly responded, "Neddy Collins has one of the newer ones, but he's over 100 miles west o' here. Besides, he was with his wife at County General the night that the Pittman boy disappeared. They were havin' their baby. An' I know all this 'cause Neddy's my brother-in-law and not likely to be in cahoots with a serial killer like you describe in your profile." The answer was meant to show the two feds that Ed Zames was a man who was on top of things: he knew this area inside out, and if there was a killer and a car thief teaming up around Poe Mountain and the little county seat of Berrien for over half a year, he was going to damn well be aware of it before the FBI. The sheriff was angry. He didn't like outsiders, and he didn't like outsiders who tried to make his town look stupid. If there was a killer on or near Poe Mountain, he could find him without the help of the FBI. This pair had been forced on him by the governor's people, trying to polish up the governor for the voting public. Scully came forward. "Sir, we're just looking for possibilities for our theory." "I am up to my ass in theories, if you'll pardon the expression, ma'am," Sheriff Zames shouted, throwing his hands up in the air. "I've had it. I've had it with the phone calls. The questions. The reporters. Star-struck mayors who want to keep their hotel rooms full of alien hunters. I'm fed up. Y'hear?" Scully reddened, swallowed and nodded. Mulder remained quiet in the face of Zames' anger. Hodd Arlik chortled in the heavy silence that followed Zames' outburst. The sheriff whirled on him. "Get your ugly ass outta my office, Hodd. Go crawl back in the hole you slithered out of up there on that mountain. When this storm seals you in up there tonight, I'm gonna pray to the Beneficent God that those roads shut down and don't open up again until sometime in May." Arlik rolled a wad of spit onto his lips and shot it down at the feet of the sheriff. "Get out, you S. O. B.! I've got enough cause to lock you up here and now -- but I want you back up on that mountain when this storm moves in to shut your road down. Then I know I won't have to deal with you for another six months. Get!" Arlik moved slowly, brushing himself up against Mulder with deliberateness. "See ya, Fancy. Maybe you wanna ride in my tow truck? Jus' you 'n me. We can go alien huntin', eh?" Mulder locked eyes with the man. Scully watched nervously. Even as disease-ridden as he appeared, Arlik was a big man. As tall as Mulder was, Arlik still seemed to loom over him. "Hodd." Sheriff Zames warned. "Don't fuck with him. He's a federal agent. Now, I said, get out! It's time you moved on. Count yourself lucky that I didn't bring charges against you." Arlik raked his eyes over Mulder again and left without further argument. Sheriff Zames returned to his desk and picked up the file full of the reports and recommendations authored by the two federal agents. He suddenly looked tired. Waving the copy of the profile in the air, he said, "This town can get more 'mileage' out of our aliens than I can get out of your killer, folks. That's my only truth. My mayor's happy. The business people are happy. Our town is finally on the map. I won't ignore your report. I'm sure it's a fine piece of real police work, but you must realize by now what the public wants me to spend their tax dollars on. Right now, I just can't dedicate the kind of time and manpower a hunt like this should get. And I know your time here is limited, too. Everyone's got a budget to answer to." He dropped the report back onto the desk and sighed. "Look. This ain't the city. If a serial killer is out there, we'd have known it. There would have been signs, neighbor gossip, rumors. Some one like the monster you describe in this very fine report, Agent Mulder, would have been noticed. No one -- nothing -- fits your profile around here. And as for the tow truck theory, it has some sense to it, but again -- someone would have noticed around here." Mulder dropped his head back, silently regarding the ceiling of the little office, lost in thought. He lifted his head and looked back at Zames. "We have been ordered back to D.C., Sheriff. What you do with our report and recommendations from this point on is your business, but Roy Earl Destin's killer is out there. He's gotten five. He'll get more while you let everyone run in the hills looking for spaceships. Maybe you can hope winter will put your killer into hibernation, but I can assure you, he will kill again." Zames' jaw worked anxiously as he glared at Mulder. "Like I said, Agent Mulder, I won't ignore your report. Thank you both for your time." Sheriff Zames dropped himself wearily into his chair and nodded a quick, rigid good-bye to the federal agents. Mulder helped Scully into her heavy coat and draped his over his arm as they headed out the door. They left silently, dismissed by the embattled sheriff of Carrolton County. ********************************** Deputy Matt Merrill rose respectfully to his feet when Special Agent Dana Scully came through the front door and into the large parlor of the old home known as The Berrien Bed & Breakfast. Merrill smiled shyly and dipped his head in a quick greeting. He nodded and smiled again at Scully's partner, Mulder, who had followed her through the door and had paused to fight the rising winter winds which threatened to pull the heavy oak door away from him. Dana Scully returned the smile as she slipped her coat off. The parlor was welcoming, with a hot fire burning brightly in the hearth. Their stay at this inn had been the only bright spot in an otherwise dismal trip. "Deputy Merrill. Done with your out-of-town rabble rouser so soon?" Scully asked as she walked over to him. "Sheriff Zames just finished with his out-of-town rabble rousers," Mulder commented wryly as he combed his fingers through his wind- swept hair. He looked at Merrill. "That would be us, of course." Merrill fidgeted uncomfortably with his hat. "Well, sir, I guess you just gotta understand where Sheriff Zames is comin' from." Mulder leaned in to look Merrill directly in the eyes and countered, "I *understand* where the killer of five young men is coming from, Deputy Merrill. Sheriff Zames does not." Mulder slid into a chair near the fireplace and looked back up at the deputy, who seemed just a bit intimidated by him. He waved a hand in an apologetic gesture. "Sorry. I'm just a bit tired. Agent Scully and I have been told to leave." "Oh no...You and Dana aren't going anywhere, Fox Mulder." The entire group turned toward the diminutive old woman that swept into the room with a tray of sandwiches. She put the tray on the coffee table and motioned Dana to the couch, next to Matt Merrill. "This storm that's heading in is going to hold you hostage here, my dear," Etta Deems said. "If you leave, you could only make it as far as the next town. And I couldn't bear to think of you two suffering at the hands of strangers instead of allowing me another day or two of pampering you here at my inn." Mulder threw his hands up in a mock gesture of surrender and looked at his partner. "Scully was just saying how she'd just love to stay in your little town another few days, Etta. The level of cooperation and communication with the local law enforcement here has been unparalleled in our experience." He glanced quickly over at Deputy Merrill who was blushing at Mulder's sarcasm. "Sorry, again. Present company excepted, deputy." "Matt understands, Fox," Etta sighed as she settled into the easy- chair next to him. "Now, come on, Matt. Tell these two what you came here for." Merrill blushed again and ducked his eyes down to his feet. "I... well, I just didn't want you to leave thinking we were *all* total idiots up here on this mountain." He glanced up at Scully, eyes lingering for a moment. "I...uh... I read your report on the Destin kid, and your conclusions on the others. Way back when we found Darryl Dean ... uh, victim number three... I wondered if we had Satan running loose up here." He relaxed, sitting back on the couch. "I've been watching how the sheriff and Mayor Swift's been treating you. I have to apologize for them. You have to understand they are both good men, but I don't think they are prepared to handle the concept of a killer that might have come from within our community." "And yet they *can* accept an unsubstantiated theory of alien abduction?" Scully broke in, incredulous. "Well, yes, ma'am. I figure it's the easier thing for them to accept." He turned to Mulder. " But I wanted you to know -- both of you -- that I'd like to keep on this, using your profile as a guide, Agent Mulder. It seems to be a real fine piece of work." He smiled enthusiastically. "I'd give my right arm to be able to walk inside a killer's head like that." Scully saw Mulder stiffen a bit and noticed a flicker of despair flash in his eyes. He never invited admiration on his talent for the hunt: his blessing was also his curse. In the cut-throat office politics back at the Bureau in D.C., Mulder's talent had been the fodder for a lot of back-stabbing and mean-spirited name-calling among the few agents who were more concerned with career ladder-climbing than actual law enforcement. He had his admirers, too, Scully knew, but they had largely been a silent majority on Mulder's behalf, especially after he deliberately chose to take on the "verboten" X Files. Merrill must have noticed Mulder's sudden discomfort, too, because he hastened to add, "I mean, the ability to profile a killer like that... Well, I've read how it makes it so much easier to narrow the field and catch these monsters. That's a great service." Mulder nodded his acknowledgment of the compliment but did not say anything. Merrill continued, "I'd like to carry on this investigation in your absence, sir... and, ma'am. And I wanted to get briefed on this case before you left and ask your permission to keep in touch if anything comes up." Mulder shifted forward in his chair, his arms resting on his knees, his hands clasped in front of him. He seemed relieved. "It would make me feel better to know someone is keeping watch, Matt. I think I'd have rather found aliens here than to leave behind a killer like this on the loose." ************************* The next hour was spent reviewing case facts and suspicions with the one person willing to take on the monster Mulder was dreading leaving behind. Deputy Merrill listened wide-eyed, taking notes, asking questions. Mulder had gotten to the floor and start drawing sketches and diagrams of his theory on hastily grabbed napkins. Merrill crouched beside him. Both looked to Scully for medical facts and opinions and then bent over the ten bits of paper Mulder had filled with his scrawled logic. "Looks like he's learning at the feet of the master," Etta whispered in Scully's ear as she cleared away half-eaten sandwiches. "I hope he's near the end. I'm running out of napkins." As if on cue, Matt Merrill got to his feet, gathered the notes and reached for his hat. "Thank you both," he said, nodding respectfully at each of them. "You know, about this killer -- It's funny how it reminded me -- When I was a kid, one of the local legends we all used to scare ourselves silly with was about the 'Poe Mountain Horror'. It was rumored to be an old civil war vet -- a yank, of course. We'd have never made a monster outta one of our own rebs -- Story goes: the yank got caught up on the mountain in a god-awful snowstorm and nearly died. Some locals found him, took him in, barely alive. His hands were so frostbit, they had to be cut off. The yank, he didn't like it much when he woke up to find his hands gone -- never mind that those good folks saved his life by stopping the gangrene from growing up his arms 'til the poisons woulda killed 'im. "Anyway, story goes on that this yank awakes in a horrible fit in the middle o' the night and kicks all of the logs lit in the fireplace out into the room and burns down the house and all the family in it. It was also said he caught fire himself and died, running and screaming into the woods up there in Spirit Pass -- real close to where Roy Earl and them other kids were found, by the way . The legend goes on to say the Poe Mountain Horror is this crazed yank hauntin' the woods up there, still looking for his hands." He paused and shook his head. "Ironic, ain't it, and kinda spooky, I suppose, what with those kids turnin' up without their hands?" He dipped his head in thanks to Miss Etta and headed for the door. He hesitated before he opened it, looking out at the gray skies. "Probably a good idea to stay over tonight. I don't have a good feeling about this storm," he advised. "Thanks for everything. I'll get to work on these possible leads, Agent Mulder. I can get a list of auto salvage shops, body shops and tow trucks and drivers for a two hundred mile radius. If you're both still in town tomorrow, stop by and I'll show you what results I might have by then. And don't worry about Sheriff Zames. His bark is worse than his bite." The howling wind rose and fell as the door was opened and shut for Deputy Merrill's departure. Scully watched the young man run back across the road toward his little office building. She felt a flood of relief that the hunt for the serial killer would not be abandoned. Deputy Merrill seemed like a man of conviction; he would see to it that justice was done. Maybe now Mulder would be more comfortable about leaving this case behind. She looked back over her shoulder at her partner, seated, slumped in his fireside chair again, chin propped on his hand and staring hard into the heart of the fire. His left leg was bouncing impatiently, as if it had a life of its own. Scully thought. "Mulder," she called softly. No response. "Mulder!" A little louder this time, more forcefully. His leg stopped bouncing, and he swung his eyes toward her. "Did you say something?" he asked, almost apologetically. "No. I didn't. You seem a little pre-occupied," Scully responded, walking over to stand in front of him. "You need to let go of this case. Let's just do it now. We have Skinner's blessing. We have the sheriff's 'invitation' to get out of town. And Miss Etta's in the kitchen willing to feed and pamper you -- and me, I hope -- through our last memorable night here in Berrien. Give yourself a break, Mulder." "Deputy Matt mentioned Spirit Pass, Scully," Mulder began enthusiastically. Scully groaned as he continued, "That's just a mile or two beyond the site we visited the other day. And that 'Poe Mountain Horror' myth is a bit intriguing, don't you think? I'd like to go up and scout around." "NOW?" Scully heard her own voice squeak in astonishment at his suggestion. "It's just about an hour, there and back. It's early afternoon and broad daylight -- sort of." He glanced nervously out the big bay window at the angry storm clouds, but continued his argument. "We'd be back before anything got dicey, weather-wise. Now that I think I know what signs and type of tracks we are looking for, I'd like to make a quick survey of that area before the snow flies tonight." Scully groaned. "Mulder, don't make me do this." "Well... Well, okay," he stammered. "You don't have to. I'll take the car, and I'll be back before the storm hits." "Oh, no, you don't," Scully countered. "If you go, I go. It's as simple as that. Still feel like going, knowing you'll be dragging me out into that cold again?" He smiled and cocked his head over to the side. His leg was bouncing impatiently again. " Scully, play fair. I offered to go alone. I won't be gone long. Maybe you could go keep Etta company in the kitchen and, if you're real good, she'll teach you how to make a proper pie crust." His smile grew into a grin. He knew the pie crust remark would push her buttons. He saw her mouth drop open as if to hurtle a snappish insult at him, but to his surprise, she quickly switched her expression to smug. "Let's, at least, change into jeans and hiking boots. You know -- real outdoor wear, not these monkey suits." She turned on her heel and headed toward the stairs, then suddenly turned back to him. "And, Mulder?" He arched an eyebrow at her, still waiting for the snappish insult to be hurtled at him. "You may *never* know how proper my pie crusts are." And she was gone from sight. *************************************** Poe Mountain Spirit Pass Scully watched her partner struggle against the cold wind to get back to their car. He dipped his head, trying to avoid the slashes of icy snow that had begun to fall. Huddled into his parka, with the hood thrown up over his dark, thick hair and his gloved hands shoved deep into his pockets, he stumbled blindly against the front bumper and fumbled for the door handle. His partner leaned over from the passenger seat and popped open the door for him. He hurtled himself into the car and slammed the door behind him, sealing out the murderous winds. "Damn!," he gasped. "That wind! I've never felt anything like it! With no exceptions made for the Arctic Circle, either!" "Hardly surprising, Mulder. This pass is like a wind tunnel. Did you find anything?" "Unfortunately, yes. There is a partial track of the size I'm looking for and tracks that might fix the make and model of the Destin kid's Toyota. It's old and it's faint, but I'm sure it's what we've been looking for. Do you suppose our phones will work up here?" He was already keying numbers into his. After a few moments, a disgusted look crossed his face, and he tossed the phone angrily over his shoulder. "Useless." "I'll try mine," Scully offered reaching into the pockets of her parka. "Are you trying to call Matt Merrill?" Mulder nodded, glaring angrily out the front windshield at the trees bending and battling each other, fueled by the furious winter winds. Snow had begun to fall in earnest. "How stupid could I have been, Scully? We need plaster casts of these tracks and I didn't bring a thing with us." He struck the steering wheel in frustration. "This storm will bury everything unless we can get Matt up here." "My phone's dead, too," Scully said quietly. "The mountains." Mulder shook his head, silently cursing himself. Scully waited. There was nothing she could offer to distract him when he was angry with himself. He just needed some time to wallow in it, and then the hunter in him would come up with an alternative. "The camera," he whispered suddenly. He turned wide hazel eyes on Scully. "Did we bring it?" "I thought I brought it back to my room, but you made another site visit after that. If you put it in the trunk..." She hadn't even finished her sentence before he had bolted out the door and to the rear of the car. She could hear his triumphant shout over the whistling of the winds. Scully got out of the car as he slammed the trunk shut and ran to the area where he had spotted the tracks. "Let's hurry, Mulder!" she shouted above the din of the gathering storm. "We're losing our light, and we're losing our safety factor up here." She watched the sky fearfully as the camera flash strobed. Lights and the straining groan of an old engine struggling up the mountainside caught her attention. Mulder ignored all else but the task before him: preserving some precious evidence. Scully's heart skipped a beat as she recognized the ancient truck of Hodd Arlik roll slowly past their car, pause and then roll slowly past them. She could barely see Arlik through the driven sheets of snow that had begun to fall, but she could feel his steely eyes on them. She shuddered and felt for her service revolver. The man gave her the creeps. Suddenly, he gunned the complaining engine of the old tow truck and disappeared into the storm, heading higher into the mountain. Scully relaxed, watching as the lone red light visible on the back of the truck winked out of sight. She waited patiently for her partner to finish his task, but when the storm winds seemed to pick up a new fierceness, she pulled anxiously on Mulder's sleeve. "That's it! We are out of here, Mulder." He followed her, happy to have gotten some trace of possible evidence preserved on film for later analysis. ********************************** Part 5 They had only gotten a mile or two down before their pace had become a crawl. Snow blinded them, and the dropside of the mountain road no longer seemed to exist. "Maybe this is the Poe Mountain Horror," Mulder breathed between gritted teeth as he inched the car forward. Scully stayed silent, straining to watch for the road edge. A loud pop, followed by another louder bang startled them both. The car jerked, shuddered and tilted sharply to the right. Scully swallowed a scream and instinctually reached out, burying her fingers in a death-grip on her partner's arm. The car, which had not been going fast, skidded a bit, but Mulder had no trouble bringing it to a stop. Silence. Only the purring of the still-running engine and the heavy, ragged breathing of two frightened people filled the interior of the car. "What *was* that?" Mulder asked in a far shakier voice than he expected. He could feel cold sweat trickle down his back. "We seem to be at an angle," Scully offered, her voice extraordinarily quiet. "A blown tire, maybe?" "Well, sure. Of course. What else could happen to us at this point?" Mulder was quickly making the transition from scared to incredulous to exasperated. "Stay here and keep warm. I'll get the tire changing gear out of the back." He pulled and tugged with a strength born of frustration at the new tire and the tire jack. As he set the tire down on the road, he heard the front car door open. The car seemed to bounce violently for a moment, and then he heard the door shut again. Puzzled, he looked up, but the open trunk lid prevented him from seeing into the car where Scully sat. What was she doing? The shard-like snowflakes stung his eyes as he tried to look around the edge of the car for his partner. He blinked painfully and turned back. "Scully, just stay in there. Keep warm. I can handle this." There was no response. Curious. What was she doing? "Scully?" He saw a dark form to his right, just a brief second before he felt a hand snake into his hair, pull viciously, and slam his entire body to the pavement. He felt a knee push his legs open and pin him down painfully. His cry was strangled in his throat when another meaty hand caught him under his jaw and brought him face to face with Hodd Arlik. "Fancy! 'magine my happiness when I realized you and yer cutie- pie had come up here on my mountain to pay me a visit." He leaned forward, increasing the pressure on Mulder's groin. The young man gasped and clawed helplessly at the big man above him, twisting under his bulk. Arlik snorted and leaned back, yanking Mulder up to a sitting position. The back of the agent's head ached at the point his skull had met the cold pavement. A wave of dizziness disoriented him for a moment, but he struggled and pushed at his captor when he realized Arlik was reaching inside of his parka for the gun he carried. "You're a spunky l'il bastard, ain't ya, Fancy?" Arlik grunted, grinning as he struggled to keep a grip on Mulder. The agent's gun popped free from its holster into the man's hand. Mulder went stock still, pressing himself against the bumper of the car when Arlik successfully pulled the gun up, switched off the safety and leveled it at his heart. Arlik's laughter rose above the screaming winds of the storm. "Where's my partner? What did you do to Scully?" Mulder demanded harshly when he got his breath back. "She's sleepin', boy. She's gonna need her rest. So are you." The man smiled, revealing dirty teeth set in a face lined with hardness. Arlik crouched, the gun still pointed at his prisoner. He seemed to be evaluating Mulder, drawing long, appreciative looks over the young man's body. The agent felt a cold feeling in his gut, an icy certainty that Arlik had had something to do with the deaths of five young men in the hidden hills of Poe Mountain. "Yer pretty strong for a city feller, Fancy. I'll be puttin' you to work directly, I 'spect. And as for yer cutie-pie, well, I ain't never brought home no girl." He scratched his grizzled chin. "Maybe Edie'll like some help 'round the kitchen. I don' usually bring her any gifts, but that l'il red-head o' yers jus' might be the ticket, ya know." He smirked. "An' if she don' like it, maybe I'll get rid of Edie and keep yer cutie-pie. Gets cold up there on that mountain top come winter." He suddenly waved the gun at Mulder, and the agent jumped a bit, pressing himself further back against the car. "Nervous type, are ya, Fancy?" Arlik chortled. "Take them gloves off, boy. Let me look at yer hands." Hands. Mulder felt sick. Visions seared into his perfect memory. Pictures of corpses. Young men. Hands severed from their bodies. , he told himself silently, as he obediently pulled his leather gloves off. Hodd Arlik's big hand felt cold and scaly as it tugged at Mulder's hands. The odd man was examining them carefully in the half- light of the dying day and the car's red parking lights. Arlik's own hands were ugly: Big, sausage-like fingers, cracked and rough with calluses and grease and dirt. His palm was broad and huge, almost dwarfing Mulder's long elegant hand as he held it. "City-pretty, ain't they? Those hands o' yers. Real fine. Fancy, even. Jus' like the rest of ya, eh? Maybe, jus' maybe, you'd be worth somethin'." He paused. "Jus' maybe I could trade you." Arlik seemed lost in thought for a moment. Mulder tried to move to gain a better advantage, but his captor swung the gun up quickly. Mulder froze, sucking in a frosty breath. "How old are you, boy?" Mulder was momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected question. "Uh... I... thirty-five," he stammered. Arlik frowned. "Too old. Don' look it, though. Life's a bit easier on the body in the city, is it, Fancy?" Mulder didn't know if Arlik wanted an answer or not. The man wasn't making any sense. "If ya got those handcuffs on yer person -- an' I know ya do -- get 'em out and put one around yer right wrist. Keep one of those pretty hands right out where I can see it an' move real slow- like." Silently, Mulder did as he was told, his mind racing over the possibilities for rescue from this madness. Had they told anyone where they were going? Had anyone seen them leave? How soon before they would be missed? And how much time had Hodd Arlik ever needed to snare his victims over the last several months? Mulder fought a wave of despair as he snapped the cold metal bracelet of his own handcuffs over his right wrist. He grimly replayed the conversations with Scully in his mind. He had insisted on this. He had wanted to stay; he had wanted to explore more possibilities. And she had deferred to him -- again. And now she lay, probably unconscious, in the front seat of their car. "Now, stand up, boy," Arlik shouted at him. "You've got a tire to change. Then we'll be on our way." ************************ Mulder leaned over the window by the passenger's side of the car, straining to see Scully. He brushed away the snow that had begun to accumulate in the fury of the storm. Scully lay slumped over in the front seat, her red hair draped over her face. An oily rag lay near her shoulder. Mulder looked back at Hodd Arlik who was leaning against the back bumper of the car, grinning maliciously at him. "Better get a move on, Fancy. Can't wait all day for ya." Mulder knelt in the snow, throwing himself furiously into the task of fixing the ruined tire. As he pulled it free, he could see the vicious tear in the rubber. He knew, suddenly, how their "accident" had happened. "You shot out our tire, didn't you?" he asked Arlik hotly, not really needing an answer. He was angry with himself for allowing himself and Scully to fall into such an easy trap. Arlik's laughter bit into him more than the frigid cold. "Squirrel gun's just over there," the older man snorted, waving at a tree, barely visible through the sheets of driving snow several yards up the road. "It's old, but it's useful when I go trappin' squirrels like yerself." He laughed loudly again at his own joke. Mulder set his jaw and slammed the new tire into place, spinning the lug nuts on with a strength renewed in fury. "Aaw...whassa matter, boy? Bit pissed off 'bout ol' Hodd gettin' the jump on ya? Fat lot o' good all them badges 'n papers 'n degrees are gonna do ya up here in Spirit Pass, huh?" Arlik snarled. He leaned in toward Mulder, grabbing his dark, damp hair again and pulling his head back so he could look down in the agent's face. "Yer mine now, Fancy. I cain't let ya go. Yer city smarts are gonna put ideas in that dumbfuck sheriff's pea-sized brain." Despite the numbing cold in his fingers, Mulder suddenly tightened his grip on the tire iron he held and thrust it upward, hoping to reach a spot on Arlik's massive body with a blow that would cripple the bastard long enough to enable the federal agent to grab for the gun. Arlik roared in pain as the edge of the metal bar caught him sharply under the ribs. Mulder felt the grip on his hair loosen. Blindly, he pushed himself up from the ground into Arlik's chest, groping for the gun that he could only guess his captor still held. At almost that same instant, he felt cold steel slam against his left ear. There was an explosion of sound and pain that burned itself into his head. Another sting of pain, like a hot poker on his flesh, touched the back of his left shoulder. He felt the strength leave his muscles. He felt himself sliding down along the length of Arlik's heaving bulk. Arlik was screaming, but he couldn't make sense of the words. He felt as though he was submerged under water; everything was muffled. Except the pain. He lay listlessly against Arlik's thigh, wishing for blissful sleep. Waves of dizziness passed through him as the pain in his left ear intensified, but he was denied unconsciousness, even as he felt Arlik grab his hair again and shove him face first onto the snowy ground. He was dimly aware of his arms being twisted behind his back and the other handcuff bracelet closing tightly over his left wrist. Too tight. Didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Except the pain. Arlik was still screaming. The words came to Mulder in bits and pieces through the roar he heard inside his head. "Stupid... pay for...bastard...kill ya...sonofa..." He closed his eyes and felt the wet warmth of something slide from his left ear and travel along his jaw. He felt the salty, metallic taste of blood tickle at the back of his throat and gagged. The waves of dizziness turned into a vicious nausea. He gagged again, nearly choking as his stomach lurched. Almost lost in the pain, Mulder was startled to feel himself suddenly weightless. Being lifted, he thought dully. Just as suddenly, he felt himself being hurled into the back seat of his own rental car. A new shock of pain rattled his head and the burning sensation on the back of his shoulder briefly flared again. Amidst the agony, he felt the warmth of the interior of the car and was tearfully grateful for it. The cloying sweet smell of chloroform was everywhere. His nausea was renewed in earnest, and he rolled forward, pulling his knees up, trying to stop his stomach from heaving. He could no longer hear Arlik's screaming, he realized. He couldn't seem to hear anything but the noise inside his head. He could feel the shift in temperatures and the pressure of air stabbing sharply against his injured ear drum as the car's doors were opened and closed. His own moans echoed in his head. He felt the subtle vibration of the car's engine die and felt the wintry cold slowly seep into the warm interior. He hurt too much to try to move himself even when he thought of Scully again, wondering if she was okay. Everything was so deadly silent. He could see out of the car windows; he could see the shards of blizzard-driven ice slamming against the glass; he could vaguely see the tops of tall evergreens twisting in furious winds. But the storm's cacophony escaped him. He closed his eyes, listening to the ebb and push of his own heart just below the whine and roar in his ears. It was all he could hear. His eyes popped open with a start. Had he dozed off, he wondered? What had startled him? He jumped again when he felt the car move. He felt it being lifted. Bright lights flooded the whole scene, obliterating the storm outside. He squeezed his eyes against the brightness. It was too painful to look at, too disorientating. And for one giddy moment, Mulder thought of the imaginary aliens of Poe Mountain. The car rocked and rolled violently and the nausea returned. Motion sickness -- an old friend. He wished again for unconsciousness. The car's interior suddenly went dark. He opened his eyes long enough to see something being drawn over the car. A tarp? The last of the light was snatched away, and he lay for a moment in the chilly blackness, trying to make sense of what had happened. Then he felt another vibration, coming from beneath the car he and Scully were trapped in. There were several lurching motions and then Mulder realized they were moving, probably perched atop a brand new state-of-the-art tow truck. He had been right in his suspicions, but that thought was hardly a consolation. Hodd Arlik was drawing his snare up, with him, Scully and their new rental car in it. How easy it had been. A new wave of pain in his ear joined his nausea and dizziness in a symphony of agony. Agent Fox Mulder gave in to the darkness and let himself be pulled into the sweet numbing waters of unconsciousness, his last thoughts damning himself and begging Scully's forgiveness. **********************************