Title: DOMINION (1/1) Author: aka "Jake" Rating: R (VERY strong R for Violence) Classification: X, MSR Spoilers: Leonard Betts (only a vague reference) Summary: "So what's in New Orleans, Mulder?" His slanting smile widened into an all-out, cat-who-ate- the-canary grin, producing a seldom seen dimple in his unshaved cheek. "The third in a series of decapitations, Scully. Ritualistic overtones." He waggled his eyebrows. "The heads are still missing." Disclaimer: The characters Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are the property of Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions. No copyright infringement intended. This is for fun, not profit. This story contains graphic violent descriptions. We're talkin' grisly here. If you can make it through the first short section, however, you can make it through the rest. Author's notes at end. DOMINION by aka "Jake" __________ New Orleans 12:23 AM Eyes bulging with panic, the man struggled to scream behind a strip of duct tape. He could manage no more than a muffled cry heard only by his captor. She hummed as she worked, pulling her weapon from a bag she carried. The man, trussed hand and foot, watched with horror as she lifted her knife to his neck. She placed the blade against the fragile skin, drawing a line of blood. A tear spilled down his cheek and sluiced over the duct tape. A shiver vibrated his naked legs and arms. He swung his head desperately left to right. "Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah..." the woman sang, her voice low. She sunk the point of her knife into the man's flesh just below his collarbone. He twisted in agony, shock fixing a scream in his throat. She slid her blade deftly through the skin circling his neck, cutting low at his chest, up over his shoulders and low again at his nape. Ignoring the wash of blood, she peeled his skin up and away from the ropey ligaments underneath. She sawed her knife through the man's bobbing Adam's apple, cutting through the layers of his larynx, esophagus, and muscle. A sputter of bloody air hissed from his opened windpipe. Her knife halted when she hooked his spinal column. She jerked the blade, snapping through the knobby bones of his neck, disconnecting his head from his now limp body. Wasting no time, she cut a slit up the back of the severed head, scoring through the man's soft, dark hair. Carefully peeling the flesh from the skull, she stripped the skin from the bone in one unbroken piece. She stuffed the skull, the skin and her knife into her bag. Laughing, she rose and walked stiffly away, leaving the headless body where it lay on the grass. __________ Washington DC 3:43 AM * * * "Daddy?" "Starbuck! How's my little girl?" "I'm fine, Dad. What...what are you doing here?" "I'm checking on you, sweetheart." "I've missed you." "Tell me, Starbuck, are you still tossing away your medical degree at the FBI?" "Daddy, I don't think--" "I was very disappointed when you left medicine, Dana. Very disappointed. You could have been a great doctor, made a real difference in the world." "Dad, I think what I'm doing is--" THUMP! "Dana--" THUMP! "Your talents are--" THUMP! "wasted at the Bureau." THUMP! "Daddy, I'm happy where I am--" THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! * * * A series of knocks pulsed down the hall like a panicked heartbeat. The noise surged into Dana Scully's bedroom and drummed her from her dream. With a gasp, she sat up in bed. Pushing tangled hair away from her forehead, she stared into the dark. Her eyes locked onto her gun, only an arm's length away on her nightstand. She listened for the sound to repeat itself. Thud, thud, thud. Not a dream, but someone outside her apartment door. "Scully?" Mulder's voice called out to her. "Damn it," she hissed. She threw back her blankets and grabbed her robe. Thrusting her arms into the sleeves, she hurried to the door before Mulder could bellow out again, rousting her neighbors. "Why don't you use your key instead of waking half of Georgetown?" she whispered, swinging the door inward. Mulder stood slouching against the doorframe, key chain twirling around the end of one finger. He flashed her a cockeyed grin. "Hey, Scully." He ignored her sleepy, irritated expression and stepped inside. "You weren't in bed, were you?" "Mulder, it's a quarter to four. Yes, I was in bed." She noticed he still wore the suit he'd had on in the office the previous day. "What are you doing here?" "We're going to New Orleans. Hurry up and pack," he said. Folding her arms across her chest, she didn't budge. "What's in New Orleans?" His slanting smile widened into an all-out, cat-who-ate-the- canary grin, producing a seldom seen dimple in his unshaved cheek. "The third in a series of decapitations, Scully. Ritualistic overtones." He waggled his eyebrows. "The heads are still missing." "Mulder, I'm going to Holly's wedding this afternoon." "Holly?" "From Computer Records." "Can't you skip it?" "I'm her witness." "Oh." "Can't *you* wait until later this evening to fly down to New Orleans?" He shook his head. "The murders have occurred on the last three consecutive nights. Another day could mean another victim." "Well, Mulder, I guess you'll have to go without me this time." He blinked, not quite believing he had heard her words correctly. She *always* went with him. He couldn't recall a single time when she hadn't reshuffled her schedule to accompany him wherever it was he asked her...er...told her to go. Sure, she sometimes complained, saying he monopolized all of her time, making it impossible for her to enjoy any semblance of a normal personal life. But, hell, they're talking about an X-File here! What was a wedding when compared to a decapitation? With ritualistic overtones, no less. "Scully...are you sure?" "Incredible as it might sound, I'm going to skip this one." "Maybe you could fly down later, right after the ceremony," he suggested. "Mulder, you don't need me with you on this. Why not allow me to bask in the joy of ordinary life, just for one day?" "Scully, I *always* need you with me," he said. When she arched an unbelieving eyebrow at him, he amended his statement. "I always *want* you with me." Scully felt herself vacillate under Mulder's persuasive gaze. She found it nearly impossible to say no to him, to deny him his prerogative even when she thought he manipulated her. A psychiatrist would have a field day, she realized, with her constant deferral to his whims. Without a doubt, her partnership with Mulder would be held up as a mirror to her past relationship with her now-deceased father. She would be accused of using Mulder as a benchmark when judging her own success against the yardstick of Bill Scully, Sr.'s unexpressed pride. The thought disturbed her. Especially after her most recent dream. Scully preferred to think of herself as an independent person -- only following her partner's course out of loyalty or respect...or possibly because of some as-yet-unarticulated love. Lately, however, she was beginning to wonder if those were not her reasons at all. Maybe her desire to follow Mulder came from a deeper need to gain his male authoritarian approval. After all, not wanting to disappoint had been her modus operandi with several of the men in her life. The important ones, anyway. Ahab, Jack, Daniel, Mulder. She went where they led, consequences be damned. She eyed Mulder and squirmed under the weight of this uncomfortable possibility. The notion that he could control her actions because she was loath to disappoint him irritated the hell out of her. "You'll be fine," she insisted, trying to convince herself as much as him. "I can't perform the autopsies, Scully. That's your department. I just chase mutants." "Mulder--" "Come on, Scully. Pack. We don't have a lot of time." He plucked at the sleeve of her robe. "No, Mulder. I'm staying. But...give me a call later today, after the wedding. If you think you still need me, I'll fly down," she said, trying once again to dodge his imagined disapproval. "Okay, but I will need you, Scully." He presented her with one more resolve-breaking smile before he headed out the door. "Enjoy the wedding," he told her cheerfully. Once he had left, she stood for several minutes staring at the closed door, trying not to feel so damnably guilty. __________ New Orleans 3:20 PM A ponytail of pretty curls hung down the woman's back, reaching nearly to her waist. Her hair swayed as she moved. She sang while she stirred her boiling pot. Steam flushed her face. Her lively voice climbed up and down the song's scale. "Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah, someone's in the kitchen I know." She hit each note of the familiar tune cleanly, sweetly, sounding happy as she cooked. She prodded a chunk of meat with her spoon. Satisfied it was cooked, she carried the pot to the sink where she dumped the contents into a colander. Brown water poured out and down the drain, leaving nothing behind but a rubbery piece of flesh. She lifted it with a spoon. "Perfect!" She spread the boiled hide on a drying rack. Two miniature eyeholes stared back at her from above a shrunken nose and shriveled lips. She combed a shock of wet, dark hair away from the tiny forehead. "What did you say?" she called down the hall, turning from her handiwork. "Daddy? Did y'say somthin' t'me?" __________ St. Louis Cemetery New Orleans 3:20 PM The graveyard was deserted. Flapping yellow tape outlined the crime scene. Mulder squatted to examine dried blood matting the grass between two aboveground crypts. He held a police photo in his hand and compared it to the scene. The tombs were the same. However, in the photographs, the headless body of Daniel Pendleton lay stretched between the final resting places of the Toussaint and Broussard families. "Agent Mulder?" A mustached man approached, picking his way through the rows of elevated crypts. He had thinning gray hair and startling blue eyes. He wore a dark suit and walked with the confidence of a cop. Mulder stood to greet the man. "Yes, sir. You must be Detective Gautreau." Mulder shook the detective's hand. "Can you fill me in, tell me what happened here?" "Glad to. The body of Daniel Pendleton was discovered last night by a Ghost Tour." "Ghost tour?" "Yeah, New Orleans has vampire tours, ghost tours, zombie tours, you name it. If it's scary, the tourists wanna see it. Especially in the middle of the night. This particular cemetery is popular because the infamous voodoo queen, Marie Laveau, is buried here." Unable to contain his curiosity, Mulder's eyes flickered across the graveyard. "'Bout six rows over." Gautreau laughed, pointing along an uneven line of raised vaults. "The tour guide called the station around 1:30. That picture you're holding was taken just after sunup. Body was transported soon after that." "You find the head yet?" "No, sir. Not Pendleton's or the two others. As you know from our fax to the FBI, Pendleton is the third headless body we've recovered in as many days." "And you suspect cult activities." "Mm. Can't imagine why anyone else would want to collect human heads." Mulder turned back to the patch of dried blood. "What about the victimology? Any common traits?" "All the victims were male, white and approximately fifty years of age." Gautreau hooked his thumb in the direction of the bloodstain. "Mr. Pendleton was from DC. Computer analyst for the FBI. Guess that's why you're here, huh? Victim number two was James Fleming, Director of Safety at Energy East in northern New York. And the first victim was Kenny Bartlett, a medical supply salesman from Kentucky. All three were visiting New Orleans on business." "Were all of them found here in this graveyard?" "No. Fleming was found twenty blocks from here, behind the French Market. Bartlett was discovered in Jackson Square. All the bodies were naked and bound with duct tape. The clothes were piled nearby." Gautreau withdrew an evidence bag from his pocket and passed it to Mulder. "We found this with Pendleton's clothes." The envelope contained a small shrunken head, about the size of a man's fist. "Guess he shoulda' washed it in cold. Is it a fake?" "No, it's the real thing. And it's the killer's signature. Both Fleming and Bartlett had similar heads with their belongings." "Where would the killer get a shrunken head?" Mulder handed the bag back to the detective. "In any one of several local souvenir shops that claim to sell the genuine article. Dozens of tourist traps sell replicas -- fakes made from rubber or sometimes animal hides. But a few places advertise the real deal." "Severed body parts. That's an interesting memento." "Like I said, if it's scary, the tourists will buy it. Uh, Agent Mulder...you mentioned your partner was coming down from DC to autopsy Pendleton. If he's here, I can ride him over to the morgue." "She, actually. And no, she hasn't arrived. Yet." __________ Washington DC 4:05 PM Scully's cell phone trilled inside the pocket of her trench coat. In order to hear above the traffic noise at Dupont Circle, she ducked into the doorway of Lane's Café. Plugging one ear, she raised the phone. "Scully," she identified herself. "Hey, Sunshine. You catch the bouquet?" "Not this time." She smiled at the sound of Mulder's voice. "It was a civil ceremony, Mulder. No flowers to toss, no garters to sling." "No? How about a moving rendition of 'We've Only Just Begun'?" "Lucked out there, too. What about you? How's your decapitation case going?" "I need you, Scully." "Need?" "Okay, 'want.' Come down. I've lined up a reeeeally interesting autopsy for you." "Let me guess. A guy without a head. Exactly why is he an X- File, Mulder? And please don't tell me he managed to regenerate a new head before walking out of the morgue on his own." Mulder chuckled on the other end of the line. "No. Mr. Pendleton's body is still in the morgue. Sans skull. The local police are playing hide and seek with the missing head right now. They're guessing a cult of some sort is involved." "Voodoo?" "Nah. Despite popular myth, voodoo doesn't include the practice of human sacrifice. That was just a rumor started by Sir Spenser St. John, an English consul in the mid-1800s. He was a tad prejudice against the blacks of Haiti." "Who then?" "Well, there are several cultural groups who are known as headhunters. The Asmat of New Guinea. The Illongot of the Philippines. The Jivaro of South America. Some tribes in Fiji." "And you think one of those groups has set up a local chapter in New Orleans?" "Maybe. Why don't you fly down and help me find out?" "Not unless you've already looked in the yellow pages under 'Heads R Us.'" "See, Scully? I never woulda thought of that on my own. I'm tellin' you, I need you with me on this." "I don't think I can contribute anything to your case that can't be accomplished by the local medical examiner. I'm sure he's quite competent." "Competent or not, I don't wanna share my luxury hotel suite with the ME. I'm told he snores." "Luxury? Since when?" "Since the Omni Royal Orleans is located right across the street from the police station. I've got us first class accommodations on the NOPD's dime. They worked out some kinda deal with the hotel. Whaddaya say, Scully? Located right in the heart of the French Quarter. Fine food. Rooftop swimming pool. I'm calling from my bathroom phone right now." "Mulder..." Scully shook her head, aware that his customary campaign of pleas and bargains had been launched and he would without a doubt continue to pester her until she joined him. "Pleeease, Scully. The ME wouldn't know a flukeman from a tulpa." "Mulder--" "If you leave right now, you can be here before midnight." "Mulder--" "Suite 710. Give the guy at the desk my name." "Mul--" Before she could finish, a dial tone buzzed in her ear. She sighed into the receiver. Deciding to ignore her resolve to prove her autonomy -- at least for the time being - - she resigned herself to Mulder's wishes. After all, when she had strayed from Ahab's charted course, look where it had gotten her. She dialed the airport. "I'll definitely say no to the next decapitation." __________ New Orleans 5:10 PM Turning the skin inside out, the longhaired woman scraped away all the remaining bits of flesh. Satisfied the hide was clean, she turned the skin right side out once more. She inspected the withered face. "Strummin' on the ol' banjo," she sang, heading into the next room to get her sewing basket. She walked with only the slightest hint of a limp, despite the prosthesis that peeked out from beneath the hem of her long skirt. Most people never noticed she wore an artificial leg, her gait was so nearly natural. She returned to the kitchen with needle and thread. Using precise, even stitches, she sewed together the slit that ran up the back of the miniature head. Tenderly, she combed the hair over the scar, hiding it. She threaded her needle once more and tied the eyes and mouth shut, closing each hole behind a line of uniform sutures. She went to the stove. Sliding a mitt over her hand, she opened the oven door and withdrew a Pyrex measuring cup filled with baking sand. She poured the scorching sand into the head through its open neck. She carefully shaped the face with a hot knife as the sand cooled, shrinking the tiny head even smaller. "Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah, strummin' on the ol' banjoooo." Her voice held the last note as she massaged charcoal dust into the fist-sized head, blackening the shriveled face. "This'uns comin' good, ain't it, Daddy?" she said, pausing at her work. "Might be th'best 'un yet. Doncha think so?" __________ Laveau's Voodoo Shop Bourbon Street 5:30 PM Mulder squeezed in between a crowd of incoming and outgoing tourists on the slanting front steps of Laveau's Voodoo Shop on Bourbon Street. The store was dark and small inside. The shelves overflowed with exotic items. Mulder became the proverbial kid in a candy store. His green-eyed stare never settled, but traveled from fabric voodoo dolls to giant New Guinea carvings to South American masks to bowls and bowls of shark's teeth, alligator jaws, powders, potions and monkey's paws. Hand painted signs advertised palm readings, tarot readings, past life readings, ranging from fifteen to forty- five dollars. The shop smelled like incense and dust and mildew and something totally indescribable. Shoppers chattered and laughed all around him. He oozed his way into the back of the store. It was there, above a display of books on witchcraft, he found what he'd come for. At least fifty shrunken heads dangled from the ceiling. Some were more shrunken than others, but most were about the size of a man's fist. Black-faced and sour, the scrunched faces squinted through stitched eyelids. Bones pierced their noses above sewn lips. Dark, glossy hair, parted in the middle, hung down past their shriveled cheeks. Mulder reached up and stroked one of the heads with his fingertip. His touch set it twirling, exposing a price tag on the back. $12.99. It was a fake. Mulder went to the counter, crowding out the other customers. "Do you sell any *real* shrunken heads?" he asked the tattooed clerk. The shopkeeper tugged thoughtfully at the thick silver stud piercing his lower lip. Heaving his bulk from his stool, he leaned across the countertop to whisper, "Yeah. But they ain't cheap." "Can I look?" The clerk considered. "Sure. Come on out back." Shuffling to the rear of the store, the large man disappeared behind a curtain of beads. Mulder followed, rattling his way through the colorful strands to find himself at the shopkeeper's elbow in a cramped, dusty storage space. The big man rearranged several boxes before selecting one and dragging it from its shelf. Setting the box in front of Mulder, he removed two or three layers of newspaper before exposing a small, dark head. "Do you mind if I...?" Mulder asked, indicating he wanted to pick up the object. "Go ahead, buddy. Knock yourself out." It looked real. It looked damn real. Nothing like the rubber fakes out front. "Where'd it come from?" he asked, his eyes never leaving the tiny head. "South America. It was made by the Jivaro tribe in Ecuador. It's probably more than 500 years old." "Five *hundred*?" Mulder asked, disbelieving. "Sure. The Spanish outlawed headhunting in the 1500s. That artifact has to be at least that old." "It's genuine?" Mulder wanted to be sure. "As real as yours or mine." "Why'd they do it? Shrink the heads, I mean." "The Jivaro believed shrunken heads brought the power of the victim's soul to the killer. Shrinking the head was thought to paralyze the spirit of the dead enemy so that it couldn't escape and take revenge on the murderer. That's the story anyway." "Hm. How much you want for it?" "Four hundred bucks. Cash." Mulder set the head back in the box and took out his wallet. He counted his bills. "One ninety. That's all I've got." The clerk smiled and shrugged. "Looks like you just bought yourself a shrunken head, mister." __________ Omni Royal Orleans 11:42 PM Sitting slack-jawed in the cab's back seat, Scully blinked disbelieving eyes at the elegant Omni Royal Orleans. "There must be some kind of mistake," she told the taxi driver. The historic, five-star hotel in no way resembled the cut-rate lodgings Mulder usually booked. "Ya' said the Omni Ro'l, dint'cha? Well, ma'am, thississ the Omni Ro'l," the cabbie drawled. Unconvinced, Scully swiveled to check the opposite side of the street. Sure enough, the NOPD faced the hotel. "I must be dreaming," she mumbled, paying the driver and sliding from the cab. She half expected the Omni to morph into a more familiar Motel 6 by the time she reached the hotel's enormous front doors. Instead, a uniformed doorman ushered her into the hotel's marble foyer. She crossed to the front desk and gave Mulder's name to the smiling clerk. To her amazement, he handed her a key to suite 710 and pointed her toward a bank of brass elevators. Flabbergasted, Scully rode to the hotel's uppermost floor. "Pinch me," she said when the elevator doors opened onto a thickly carpeted hall lit by real crystal chandeliers. She followed the corridor around several turns before reaching 710. Knocking softly, she wondered if Mulder was already asleep. He'd been up since early Friday morning. Perhaps longer. She inserted her key into the lock and opened the door. "Mulder?" she announced quietly, stepping inside. "It's me." The outer room was lit by only a small desk lamp. She tiptoed into first one bedroom, then the other. To her surprise, both rooms were empty. Mulder was not in the suite. "Damn it, Mulder. Where the hell are you?" It irritated her that she'd allowed him to coax her to New Orleans and now he was nowhere to be found. She flicked on another lamp and dropped her overnight bag onto the desk. Hands on hips, she surveyed the suite. It was nice. Expensive, refined, squeaky clean. Well, except for the haphazard path of Mulder's cast off garments marking a trail from one of the bedrooms to the bathroom. She recognized the suit he had been wearing for the last two days. Comforting to know I'm in the right room at least, she thought. She rummaged through her bag for her toiletries. Just as she managed to locate her toothbrush, the hall door exploded inward. "Sculleee!" Mulder greeted her. A big grin lit his face. "They found Pendleton's head. About half an hour ago. Guess where?" "I have no idea." "Canal Street," he announced, as if the answer should have been obvious. "Canal Street?" "It makes perfect sense." He crossed the room in three strides and tossed himself onto the couch. "Does it?" "You're gonna love this, Scully. The head was just a skull. It had no skin on it." "I'm not following you, Mulder." Scrambling from the couch, he pushed past her to the desk. He slid open the middle drawer and withdrew a crumpled paper bag. "Here. A little present for you. It'll explain everything." He looked pleased as punch and handed her the bag. A bit apprehensive, she peeked inside. "What the...Mulder, it's a shrunken head." She lifted the tiny head out of the bag by a single strand of its long, black hair. "This is for me?" "Yep. Actually, it was a tossup between that and the alligator jaw letter opener." "Well, I guess nothing says 'I care' quite like withered human remains. Mulder, how does this fine example of tourist kitsch explain anything about your case?" "*Our* case, Scully. And it's not kitsch. That head is the genuine article." "I seriously doubt that, but let's assume for the sake off argument that this is a real human head. So what?" "So plenty. While I was waiting for you to finally get here, I did a little research. That head is a 'tsantsa' made by the one of the most feared tribes of southern Ecuador, a group of people called the Jivaro. The Jivaro tribe believed that killing an enemy and shrinking his head brought the power of the victim's spirit, his arutam, to the killer. The more people you killed, the more powerful you became. A person who killed four or more people was given the title of kakaram, meaning 'powerful one.' Such men became feared and respected leaders. These men were thought to be invincible. Because of the presence of the arutam, the kakaram was guaranteed eternal life -- he couldn't die." "You're not saying you think the eternal spirit of an Ecuadorian tribesman is roaming the streets of New Orleans lopping off tourists' heads, are you?" "Why not?" Scully laughed at his serious expression. "I guess you're right, Mulder. You do need me here." "I know it may not sound like the simplest answer, Scully, but it is the most likely." He shrugged out of his leather jacket and pitched it into a chair. Once more he stretched himself out on the couch. Leaning into the armrest, he yawned and closed his eyes. "You said something about Canal Street..." Scully reminded him. "Oh, yeah." His eyes opened. "After peeling the skin and hair from a skull, the Jivaro would then discard the skull into a river, leaving it as a gift for the pani, the anaconda snake." He paused for effect. "Pendleton's skull was found on *Canal* Street, on the steps of the Anna Conda Strip Club." "I shudder to think what they do for an opening act. Anyway, where does that coincidental tidbit leave you?" She tossed the shrunken head to him and it landed with a bounce on his stomach. "*Us,* Scully. It leaves us looking for Pendleton's missing face." He held up the tiny head, turning the stitched eyes toward her. "I suspect he's beginning to look like this guy's twin brother right about now." "Well, Jivaro tribesman or not, someone has obviously gone to a lot of trouble to get Pendleton's skin. It has to be somewhere." "Exactly. So tomorrow, while you're autopsying Pendleton's body, I plan to do a little headhunting of my own." "Where?" "Voodoo shops." "Is that where you picked up your little friend there?" She nodded at the shrunken head. "Yep. He came from Laveau's. A lone diamond in a sea of zirconias. Some of the other shops in town claim to satisfy the most discerning Jivaro tastes. According to their yellow pages ads, several offer a full line of genuine shrunken heads. One even sells a detailed recipe on how to cook a shrunken head of your own." "That would be popular fare at the next Bureau potluck luncheon. Yellow pages, huh?" She smiled, remembering her facetious advice. "I've been tryin' to tell you, Scully, I'm lost without you. And this little guy right here," -- he held up the shrunken head -- "he's more than just a thank you gift, you know." "How's that?" "He's your protector, Scully." "He doesn't look much like a knight in shining armor." "Maybe not, but rest assured, he is. The Jivaro believed in the existence of three distinctively different types of souls. The average, everyday soul was called the nekas. Trouble was, the nekas and the world of ordinary waking life was considered 'false.' So the Jivaro took steps to acquire the second type of soul, the arutam, allowing them to enter the 'real' spiritual world." "How did they do that?" "Hallucinogenic drugs. People who possessed the second soul were capable of forming a third avenging soul, called the miusak. This soul was very powerful and dangerous. It could avenge not only the living, but the dead as well." "If they were already dead, Mulder, how...?" "Spiritual life, not everyday life, was real to the Jivaro. To protect their eternal souls from vengeance, they had to capture and control the miusak. This was accomplished by shrinking the victim's head. The shrunken head became a neutralizing depository for the avenging spirit, protecting the headhunter from retribution. So you see, to protect you from the overwhelming power of the spirit world, I'm giving you a little head. Uh...I didn't mean that quite the way it sounded." "Mulder, the only power I need protection against is yours." She frowned. "Scully, I really didn't mean...wh...what exactly are you saying?" "Never mind. It's not important. We can talk later." "No, Scully." He sat up. "I want to talk about it now." "Mulder, you haven't slept in two days. You must be exhausted. Let's just go to bed." "No, no, no. Scully, are you saying I control you in some way?" She pinched the bridge of her nose and debated whether or not to discuss what was really on her mind. They rarely talked about personal issues. Almost never. They weren't good at it. "Maybe not 'control,' Mulder. 'Manipulate' might be a more accurate word, actually. But, yes, that's what I'm saying." "Scully, that's ridiculous. You do exactly what you need to do. I have no control over your actions." "Mulder, have you ever asked yourself why for the last seven years I've continued to chase along after you even when it's been against my better judgment or my best interest?" "I guess I figured I was your road to sainthood -- your beatification," he said, managing to momentarily erase the solemn expression from her face. "Actually, Scully, I prefer not to ask why you're still with me. I know what you've suffered because of our association. You've made sacrifices that go far beyond the call of duty or loyalty or even friendship. Rest assured, I feel plenty guilty." "Mulder, I don't blame you for anything. To be honest, I blame myself." "Yourself? For what?" "For allowing myself to be so easily swayed. The weakness is in me, Mulder. I know your opinion affects me. I...I guess I tend to measure my worth by your estimation of me." "Scully, you surpassed my standards a long, long time ago. And I don't judge you, by the way." "I know that. The problem is, I judge myself." "On...?" "On whether or not I succeed in meeting your expectations." "I have expectations? What is it you think I'm expecting?" "Trust. Belief. Loyalty." "Oh, well...yeah, those things." He bowed his head. "Are they really so hard for you to give to me?" "Yes...no...sort of. Only because you expect them so...so unconditionally." "I expect them uncon...? Am I that fragile, Scully? Are you sure it's not you who expects to unconditionally give these things?" She considered his question while chewing her lower lip. "You may be right, Mulder," she said at last. "Am I right because I'm right or am I right because you want to please me or am I right because I'm a domineering bastard?" That caused a soft chuckle to hiss from her nose. "Scully, I think you make your own choices. Always. And I'm just one lucky son-of-a-bitch because you're willing to live with the consequences of those choices." "Well right now, my choice is to go to bed." She yawned. He held out the shrunken head. "Don't forget Sir Lancelot." "Thanks." She accepted his odd gift. "Goodnight, Mulder. See you in the morning." "You've got an eight o'clock appointment at the morgue," he told her. Stretching out once more on the couch, he settled comfortably into the cushions and closed his eyes. "Mulder, you have a perfectly good bed in the other room," she pointed out. "I like it here," he mumbled, already near sleep. Moving into her own bedroom, she balanced the shrunken head upright on the dresser. After a moment of consideration, she spun it to face the wall before undressing for the night. __________ New Orleans 12:10 AM The longhaired women knelt beside her prisoner. The prosthesis made it difficult for her to get down on her knees. She felt no discomfort, however; she had worn the artificial limb for years. It simply wasn't as flexible as her remaining leg. She traced a line around the bound man's neck with her finger. Softly. She barely made contact with his skin. Even so, her touch raised a stipple of gooseflesh across his bare arms and chest. With the gentlest of strokes, she brushed his hair from his frightened brow, combing her fingertips through the silky strands at his temple. "Someone's in the kitchen," she sang into his ear. Her warm breath swirled downward into his eardrum, following the lovely vibration of her voice. The hostage's gray irises swam behind red-rimmed lids; tears spiked his lashes. A series of nervous blinks sent his tears spilling down his cheeks when the longhaired woman laid the flat blade of her knife against his collarbone. He tried to struggle and free himself. But the tape that wrapped his arms and legs constrained even the smallest movements. Completely naked, he lay stripped of his clothes and his liberty. The singing woman dictated his short future. She would make his final choices. The man twisted his head to get a better view of his captor, to look her in the face and to silently plead with her to let him go. She stopped singing while he gaped at her. She offered him a tiny smile. Encouraging, almost. Pretty. He didn't know her; he had never met her before today. Yet, now, she owned him. He saw she wore an old ragged scar circling her throat like a necklace. A puckered and mean looking thing. Poorly healed. His bold stare brought her hand to her neck in a practiced move to hide her secret mark. A mere hint of her past. She pulled her collar higher and hid the ancient brand from his scrutiny. Like a queen laying claim to her realm, her hands descended on his flesh. She slipped her knife beneath his skin and skidded her sharp blade quickly around his neck. His shocked eyes bulged, then glazed over. She tugged the human hood upward, jerking the skin from its muscle and making room for her knife to slice through the thickness of his neck. __________ Omni Royal Orleans 3:42 AM * * * Drip. Drip. Drip. Water? One tiny drop at a time strikes the bowl of a sink somewhere in the next room. A room where? A hotel? Scully tries to break the surface of her dream-filled mind. Sleep fogs her head, trying to claim her for another hour or two. She opens her eyes -- no more than slits -- and peers into the night. "Mulder?" she calls, thinking he must be in the bathroom, has turned on the water. "Shhhhh. Quiet," his voice hisses into her ear, startling her with its unexpected closeness. "Jesus, Mulder, you scared--" "SHHHH!" he repeats and clamps his palm across her mouth, sealing her lips. "Don't speak," he whispers. "I'll speak." His words confuse her and she shakes her head in protest. She tries to slide out from under his pressing hand. "Uh uh, Scully. No." He moves over her, straddling her between long legs. The mattress heaves with the shift of his weight. "You do what I say," he tells her. And to prove his government of her, he pins her chest with his bare knee. Squeezing the breath from her lungs, he pushes her deeply into the bedding. *What's happening? What's happening?* The phrase circles around in her head as her chest heaves with a desperate desire for air. Her sleep-soaked brain struggles to unravel the incongruous event she is suddenly living. She fights for release. *I can't breath, Mulder.* "I own you, Scully." He raises a knife to her throat, causing tears to well in her eyes. Panic fills her chest beneath his crushing knee. "Nekas. Arutam. Miusak." Her eyes dart around the room. She searches. For help. For escape. For any clue to decipher this moment of unpredictable horror. She focuses on the ugly shrunken head glowering blindly at her from its resting place on the bureau. A gift from Mulder. Her protector? *Jesus!* Two heads now grin stitched smiles as they witness her entrapment. Then there are three. Four. *What's happening?* She blinks. Dozens of heads dot the dresser. Dark, horrid, deformed. More. More appear. They heap one upon another. Cramped. Frightful. No longer confined to the bureau, they cover the floor. They pile on the blankets. They bump against her skin. One hideous face suddenly turns in the growing stack. It opens its little sutured lids and stares at her with two empty eye sockets. The stinging knife at her neck draws her attention back to Mulder when he presses the blade's icy edge against her skin. *Mulder, what are you doing?* "I will paralyze your spirit," he breathes into her ear, stirring a strand of her red hair across her cheek. He drags the point of the knife along her collarbone with deliberate slowness, scraping a line of bright blood to the surface. *You're hurting me! Stop, please!* "I have captured your soul, Scully." *Mulder? Why are you doing this?* "Now I'll cut off your head." Two tears slide from the outer corners of her eyes and fall invisibly into her hair. Ignoring her fear, Mulder pushes the blade of his knife slowly into her neck just below her larynx-- * * * "Scully?" Mulder's fingers closed around her arm. He gave her a gentle shake, trying to wake her from her nightmare. "Scully, wake up." "Mulder!" she gasped, sucking a great gulp of air into her lungs. "Jesus!" "What is it? What were you dreaming?" Scully tried to slow the rush of air in and out of her lungs. She wanted to roll into Mulder's arms, have him chase away her nightmarish bugaboo. But unfortunately, Mulder was the boogeyman in this case. So she remained still, listening to her heart pound in her eardrums. "I'm fine, Mulder," she lied. "Then why are you still shaking?" He slid his hand further up her arm, shifting his body closer. He pulled her to him. Impulsively, she flowed into his embrace. She allowed him to tuck her against his chest. His comforting hug calmed the tremors that chattered her teeth. "What did you dream?" he asked once more. His words disappeared into the crown of her head. "You tried to kill me." "I...?" She felt his Adam's apple slide upward in his throat as he swallowed against her forehead. "Why would I kill you, Scully?" "It was just a dream, Mulder." "But it meant something to you. Dreams are answers to questions we--" "Haven't learned how to ask," she finished for him. "So you've said before." "Tell me about it," he said. "Mulder..." "How did I try to kill you, Scully?" "It was probably a metaphor. Isn't that what dreams usually are?" "Sometimes. Do you think it was a metaphor?" Irritated by his persistence, she drew back from him. Instinctively, he tightened his hold on her. He wanted to soothe her. But his confining embrace made her uneasy, reminding her a little too much of her recent dream. She jerked free from his hold. "No, Mulder!" She rose from the bed and strode to the dresser. Snatching the shrunken head off the bureau, she thrust it into a drawer. She held the drawer shut with one knee. "Scully--" "You tried to cut off my head, Mulder." He nodded. "Why? Why did I try to cut off your head?" She turned to face him. "Dominion." The word hung in the air. "Dominion?" "Yes, yours over mine...over me." She left the dresser and returned to sit with him on the bed. She picked up his hand and traced the hilly ridge of his knuckles. "Mulder..." "It's okay, Scully. You don't need to soften it. You're still worried about your role in our partnership. You're experiencing a lack of autonomy. Sometimes you feel I'm a little..." -- he searched for the right word -- "oppressive?" A small smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. "Well, maybe not in the tyrannical sense, Mulder, but certainly in the 'sometimes overwhelming' sense." He returned her smile. "If we're gonna argue the semantics of my personality, Scully, how about we clarify *all* the terms. Exactly which definition of the word 'overwhelming' are we using here? Are we talking 'crushing,' 'overpowering,' 'devastating'? Or are we thinkin' more along the lines of 'awe-inspiring,' 'tremendous,' and 'irresistible'?" "Maybe a little of each." She leaned against him. "Sorry. I didn't mean..." "There you go, trying to appease me again, Scully. I told you, I'm not fragile. Well, kinda fragile, but tough enough to admit I can sometimes be a manipulating son-of-a-bitch. Come here." He coaxed her back into his arms. "You're not trying to manipulate me into doing something I shouldn't right now, are you?" "Scully, you have all the power here." "How is that?" "You're the girl. You hold the best cards." __________ New Orleans City Morgue 8:15 AM The morgue was predictably chilly. The smell of antiseptic didn't quite mask the strong odor of death. Scully studied the headless body of Daniel Pendleton. The decapitated skull sat stripped of its skin on a nearby tray, next to the dead man's dental records. "Dr. Dalliard, I understand you've already confirmed the identity of the skull," Scully asked the ME. "Yes. And please call me Paul," the Medical Examiner insisted. "We have three bodies -- not to mention Mr. Pendleton's head - - to autopsy today. We'll be old friends by the end of the afternoon." He snapped on a pair of latex gloves and adjusted his safety glasses. "Alright, Paul. I'm Dana, then. You want to read off the particulars?" "Why don't you do the honors?" He winked at her. He had a nice smile with straight white teeth and a dimple at the left corner of his mouth. His accent was decidedly south of the Mason-Dixon line. Sandy-haired and green eyed, Dr. Paul Dalliard was a handsome man, not much older than Scully. He seemed relaxed in the NO morgue. Scully adjusted the microphone. "Daniel Patrick Pendleton, male, Caucasian, 53 years of age. The body is headless, weighs 176 pounds, and is 167 centimeters in length. The head appears to have been cut from the body using a very sharp, knife-like implement. The dermal incision is clean and precise and dips to the sternum's fourth articular depression on the chest and the..." she paused while the ME helped her roll the body just enough to view the back, "fourth dorsal spinous process at the back. The spinal column is severed between the atlas and axis. Several obvious horizontal grooves are visible along the anterior surface of the axis. The skin of the neck appears to have been raised upward from the subjacent muscle and removed with the skull. A straight, smooth cut was made through the myoides, mastoids and other muscles of the neck to completely sever the head." "It's odd there are literally no defensive wounds," Dalliard pointed out. "Mmm. A few minor scrapes, consistent with kneeling and lying naked on the ground. Some grass stains. A small bruise or two. Nothing on the hands or forearms really. Mr. Pendleton didn't put up much of a fight. We'll need to run a blood toxicology. He may have been drugged before he was bound and killed." "I hope so, for his sake. He was taped pretty tight. Look at his wrists, ankles, knees and elbows," the ME said. The duct tape had caused significant swelling where it bound the man's limbs. Scully ran her gloved finger over the adhesive residue remaining on the man's right wrist. "I wonder what this is," she said, lightly scraping away a smudge of black embedded in the adhesive. "Let's take a sample and have it analyzed." __________ Waldenberg Park 8:36 AM Mulder joined Detective Gautreau on a grassy knoll overlooking the Mississippi River. Curious passersby already crowded the pretty waterfront park. Joggers and early-rising tourists stopped to gawk at the ongoing police investigation. This early in the day, the sun's reflection off the water was blinding. Mulder wished he'd thought to bring sunglasses. "What d'you find?" Mulder squinted into the shadows beneath a stand of well-pruned shrubs. More yellow tape cordoned off the crime scene. The body was still in place and CIU was busy taking pictures. Several uniformed officers kept the onlookers at a distance. "Philip Sanderson. Same as the others. Naked and bound with duct tape. Clothes piled nearby. No head." "Do you mind if I take a closer look?" Mulder indicated he wanted to cross the tape barrier. "They're almost finished with the pictures. Yeah, go ahead." Mulder stepped under the tape. Steering clear of the photographer, he surveyed the area around the body. An odd dent in the blood-soaked ground caught his eye. "Did you get a picture of this?" he asked the photographer and pointed to the peculiar depression. The photographer shook his head and aimed his camera. He clicked off several shots. "Where are the clothes?" Mulder asked Gautreau. "Already bagged." "Can I see them?" "Johnson!" Gautreau beckoned one of his officers with the waggle of two fingers. "Bring the vic's clothes." "What was the time of death?" "Between eleven and one, just like the others." Johnson approached with the clothing. Mulder pawed through the evidence bags. He held up an envelope containing a shrunken head. "The killer's still signing his work, I see." Mulder continued to sift through the bags. A conference attendee's badge for a currently running Radiologist's Symposium caught his eye. As did the victim's brand new touristy t-shirt. Bold letters across the shirtfront declared "Zombies Voo-Doo It Best." "Are you still three and one on heads, Detective?" "Yeah, no luck locating the others, I'm afraid." "You might try looking in places named after bodies of water. Or snakes." Gautreau gave Mulder a confused stare. "Why water and snakes?" "I think the killer may be playing out an Ecuadorian headhunting ritual." "For real, Agent Mulder?" "Either that or he's an actual miusak spirit of a Jivaro tribesman, avenging his own decapitation in the South American jungle several hundred years ago," Mulder suggested. After a shocked pause, the detective guffawed, "Right! Well, we'll let you know if we find anything. In the meantime, we're transporting Mr. Sanderson's body to the morgue -- put it in line with the others for your partner and our ME. Forensics will go over the victim's clothes and other personal effects. What about you?" "I'm going to see if I can find where our killer is picking up his little calling cards." He waggled the shrunken head. __________ New Orleans City Morgue 12:15 PM Scully and Dalliard wrestled the body of Kenny Bartlett onto the examining table. Completing the first two autopsies, including Pendleton's head, in just less than four hours, the two pathologists decided to continue with Bartlett before taking a short break for lunch. They had already learned a fourth body was on its way. They planned to autopsy Sanderson after they ate, allowing them time to clean up before reviewing the toxicology screens when they became available later in the afternoon. "Your turn," Scully told Dalliard. "Okay. Kenneth Robert Bartlett, male, Caucasian, 51 years of age. The body is headless, weighs 216 pounds, and is 164 centimeters in length. As with the previous two victims, the head has been completely removed from the body using a sharp, knife-like instrument. The dermal incision descends to the sternum's third articular depression on the chest and the fourth dorsal spinous process at the back. The spinal column is severed between the atlas and axis. A straight, smooth cut was made through the muscles of the neck in order to sever the head." "Probably could have just said 'ditto' after you gave his height and weight." "That would've saved time." Dalliard laughed. "Once again, there's an obvious absence of defensive wounds on the victim's hands and forearms." "Look -- here's more of that strange black substance in the tape adhesive. We've found it on all three victims. It's odd, isn't it?" "Take another sample. I'll rush it through the lab." "Good. These bodies are coming in almost as fast as we can autopsy them." "I have to say, Dana, I'm grateful you're here to help me. Pardon my asking, but what's the FBI's interest in this case anyway?" "Daniel Pendleton was a Bureau employee," she said. "Yeah, but lots of FBI employee deaths never get treated to a personal investigation by two agents sent from Washington. What's so special about Pendleton?" Scully concentrated on cutting the Y-incision down the victim's chest. "Uh, my partner...Agent Mulder...he has an interest in cases of this kind." She kept her head bent over her work. "Serial decapitations?" "Not quite. Cases with...extreme circumstances." "Meaning...?" "Unexplainable phenomenon. Supernatural or extraterrestrial events." She looked Dalliard straight in the eye. "Really? The FBI has a division for that kind of thing?" "Yes. We do. And before you start thinking your tax dollars are being wasted, Agent Mulder and I have a case solution rate of seventy-five percent. That's well above the Bureau standard--" "Hold on, hold on. I'm not objecting. I was just wondering..." "What a nice girl like me is doing in a job like this?" "Yeah, something like that." "Funny, I've been asking myself the same thing lately." __________ Chartres Street 2:43 PM Mulder paused on the corner of Chartres and Ursulines to review the yellow pages he'd torn from the New Orleans phone book. Already he'd visited six popular voodoo shops, all claiming to sell genuine shrunken heads. With the exception of a tiny store on Esplanade, he'd found no real human body parts in any of them. In that particular little shop, he discovered a ghastly human eye encased in polymer resin. The eyeball was strung on a sterling silver chain, ready to be worn as a necklace. It was a tempting purchase, but since Scully's birthday was months away, Mulder left the store empty handed. The only place remaining on his list was Headhunter's Voodoo Shop. Checking house numbers, Mulder backtracked along Chartres. Nine-eighty-six. Nine-eighty-seven. Nine-eighty- nine. Where the hell was nine-eighty-eight? He peered down a narrow alley separating Lafayette's Antiquary from Tout Tout's Coffee Shop. An iron gate closed off the entrance to a courtyard behind the shops. Mulder swung the gate inward, causing it to creak like a coffin lid in a b-grade vampire movie. Permanently shadowed by the buildings on either side, the alley was humid and dark. Spongy moss flourished between the uneven bricks. Following the path, Mulder felt as though he was walking down the gullet of a sleeping animal. The alley opened into a sunny courtyard filled with potted plants and smelling like perfume. Flowering jasmine tumbled from the lacy iron rails of an upper balcony. A sign beneath the blossom-covered overhang identified Headhunter's Voodoo Shop. Mulder entered the shop through an old wooden door. A bell tinkled overhead, announcing his arrival. "Hello? Anybody here?" Mulder called into the back. Nobody answered. Shrugging, he began to look around. The shop was similar to Laveau's, although smaller. It smelled musty. Almost rank. Dozens of dust-covered shelves were jam-packed with curiosities. Snake skins. Shark's teeth. Crystals, teas, incense, amulets. Voodoo dolls, of course. A long row of jars ran from one end of the counter to the other; each bottle was neatly labeled. Bats wing. Dried frog eggs. Powdered baboon testicles. "Ouch." Mulder winced, squinting at the handwritten label. More bottles contained powders and plants with Latin names. Aconitum Napellus. Lobelia inflata. Conium maculatum. Mulder thought he recognized several poisonous herbs. And some hallucinogens? Cystitus scoparius. Datura Stramonium. Psilocybe caerulipes. He knew psilocybins were Magic Mushrooms. He opened the jar and took a sniff. "Jesus!" He wrinkled his nose and closed the bottle. "May I help you?" He spun to see a beautiful, longhaired woman standing at the shop's rear door. Her dark, curling hair was tied into a ponytail that reached nearly to her waist. She smiled when his eyes met hers. "My name's Amanda. Amanda Latourneau. Are y'lookin' for somethin' in particular t'day, Mistah...?" "Mulder. Uh, Fox Mulder. Yeah, I'm looking for a shrunken head. A *real* shrunken head." "Animal or human?" "Human." "Any particular ethnic pref'rence?" "Pardon?" "Sev'ral very sep'rate cultures are renowned for their head shrinkin' practices. Do y'have a pref'rence?" "No. No. Any one will do. You have some?" "Sev'ral. On the shelf. There above th'counter." She pointed and stepped forward. "Maybe y'can reach 'em down f'me." She was a small woman, too short to reach the uppermost shelves. He noticed that she wore a prosthesis, although the artificial leg barely showed below the hem of her skirt. He blushed when she caught him looking at the synthetic limb. "Uh, sure. Which box?" "There are two, atchu'ly. See 'em?" she pointed. "Next t'the alligator masks." He pulled the boxes down one at a time and set them on the counter. She nodded, giving him permission to open one. He lifted the lid. Nestled inside the box on a cushion of packing material was a small black-faced head about the size of a man's fist. "Take it out," she urged him. He lifted the head from its nest of crumpled paper. "How can I be sure it's real?" He smiled to show he meant no offense. "Atchu'ly, it's quite easy t'spot a fake. For 'zample, the most common non-human fakes are often made outta goat or monkey skin. A counterfeit tsantsa will not have nasal hairs. In addition, fakes gen'rally cannot match the intricate details of the human ear." Mulder found himself inspecting the ear. It looked human enough to him. "Where did this particular head come from?" "South America. It's Jivaro. The Shuar tribe, sp'cifically. My father's a 'curio-hunter.' He has traveled the world lookin' for oddities and marvels t'sell to tourists. He claims t'have once seen an entire shrunken body in Panama. It was less than 12 inches tall." "You're joking. Aren't you?" "That's what he claimed." "Can you tell me how the heads are shrunk?" "Mmhm. The skin is stripped from the skull in one piece and then boiled. Further shrinking is done by fillin' the head with hot stones or sand." "What makes the face black?" "Ash or charcoal is rubbed into the skin. We sell packets of charcoal dust if you're int'rested in makin' y'own shrunken head." "My own...?" "I'm talkin' about a fake, a'course. You can eas'ly make one from an apple. As a matta'fact, in the 1960s, a kit was sold, featurin' actor Vincent Price. The kit provided hair, beads, feathers and so on t'use with apples t'make shrunken heads. I've got one of the original kits if you're willin' to pay for it. It's in pristine condition. Never been opened. You can have it for $125." "No, thank you. I didn't come to buy. I came to ask if you'd recently sold any shrunken heads. Real shrunken heads." "No. Most people pr'fer t'pay fifteen or twenty dollars for a fake. At five hundred dollars or more apiece, the real heads are of int'rest only to serious collectors. Museums and whatnot. Are y'sure I can't sell y'one?" She laughed prettily and opened the second box, trying to entice him. "Uh-oh, looks like you've got mice," Mulder said, peering into the box. Rodent droppings dotted the packing material. He carefully lifted out the head. The nose and cheeks had been completely chewed away leaving only a gaping hole. "Talk about stuffing your face." "Oh, my!" Amanda looked startled. The damaged face was hideously deformed, its features shredded or missing altogether. "Tha'sa shame. Let me get rid of it." She took the head from him and closed it back inside its box. "Daddy'll be upset about that'un." "Ms. Latourneau, do you know of any other shops in the city that might sell genuine heads?" "No, sorry, Mistah Muldah. I do not." __________ New Orleans City Morgue 6:10 PM Scully and Dalliard sipped coffee and discussed the lab results. They passed the toxicology findings back and forth across the small conference table. "Pendleton, Fleming and Bartlett were definitely drugged. Psilocybe. The report's not back on Sanderson yet," Scully said as she shuffled through the reports. "Let's hope the victims were so stoned, they didn't feel a thing when the murderer cut off their heads." "The elevated levels of cortisol and adrenaline might indicate otherwise, Paul." "Maybe, maybe not. Stress could have been the result of a bad trip rather than as a response to the violence of the killing." "True. What did the lab find out about the black--?" "Mind if I join this show and tell?" Mulder poked his head in the door. "Not at all. I'm guessing that you are the Agent Mulder I've been hearing about all day." Paul winked at Scully. "Don't listen to him, Mulder. Your name never came up. This is Paul Dalliard. New Orleans ME." "That's 'Nawlins,' Dana. You better keep practicing. Nice to meet you, Agent Mulder. Have a seat." Dalliard gave Mulder's hand a hearty shake. "What have you found?" Mulder asked, straddling the chair next to Scully. "A couple of things. For one, the victim's were drugged with psilocybin-containing fungi -- more commonly known as 'Magic Mushrooms.'" "Poisoned?" Mulder asked. "No. Not poisoned. The amounts were too small. The mushrooms most likely caused hallucinations, however." "You said you found a couple of things. What else." "All four victims had a black powdery substance embedded in the residual adhesive of the duct tape." "What was the substance?" "Ash. Common ash." "That's interesting. One of the shops I visited today was selling packets of ash. It's used to blacken the faces of shrunken heads. I remember seeing Magic Mushrooms for sale there, too." "Where was that?" "A place called Headhunter's. Scully, do you remember I told you about the three souls of the Jivaro? The tribesmen would take hallucinogens to acquire the second type of soul, the arutam, allowing them to enter the 'real' spiritual world. Since Magic Mushrooms are indigenous to the New World, they likely were included in the Jivaro pharmacopoeia. And the ash- -" "Wait a minute, Agent Mulder. What are you proposing here? You think some kind of black magic is responsible for these decapitations?" "No. Not black magic. I think we're looking at an ancient headhunting ritual." "Some nut thinks he's a headhunting tribesman?" "Possibly. Or--" "That's the most likely scenario," Scully cut in. "Why would the killer leave a shrunken head with each of the victims? Is that part of the ritual, too, Agent Mulder?" "Not from what I've read. Sometimes, the Jivaro threw away the heads after expelling the avenging soul with dances, feasts and chants. The power of the captured soul was transmitted during the rituals to the head taker. Afterward, the head became nothing more than a trophy or symbol of power to be sold or tossed away. That may be it actually. The killer could be using the shrunken heads to show off his newly acquired power." "Like saying 'I was here'?" "No, I think it may be more than a calling card or even a boast. It feels very proprietary. Like marking territory. He's saying 'this is mine.' After all, the Jivaro believed they literally conquered the souls of the victims they beheaded. They captured and trapped the spirit of the dead inside its own shrunken head. Possession of the shrunken head was a guarantee of protection against retribution. Through the ritual ceremony, the head taker acquired the power of the deceased's soul. The more souls he reaped, the more powerful he became." "The kakaram." "Exactly, Scully. The kakaram, 'the powerful one.' He was thought to be invincible. His dominance was assured." "So where does that leave us, Agent Mulder?" "Hell if I know." Mulder shrugged, causing the ME to laugh. "In that case, I'm going home to my wife and kids and hopefully some dinner. Thanks for all of your help today, Dana." "You're quite welcome." She smiled. "How about you, Mulder? You ready for dinner?" "Thought you'd never ask." __________ Chartres Street 6:24 PM Sitting at the shop's counter, Amanda Latourneau's hands shook as she tried several times to thread her needle. "Tumash akerkama. Numpenk. Amianu. Napin," she murmured over and over again. She thrust the threaded needle into the shrunken head's gnawed face and yanked the strand taut. Plunging the needle back into the leathery flesh, she hurried to seal the ragged breach. "Oh, Daddy. I'm so sorry. So sorry." She sewed stitch after stitch, puckering the black face and further distorting its ruined features. She quickly tied a knot and bit the thread free. "Dinah, won't you blow..." a deep, slow voice drawled from a dark corner of the room causing Amanda to prick her finger in startled surprise. "N-no. No." The word squeaked from her throat. Not daring to look directly at the intruder, she stared at the tiny dot of blood swelling from her stuck finger. "Tumash akerkama," she mumbled. "Dinah, won't you blow..." A foot scraped across the wooden floor. Amanda lifted her head. Her eyes widened. In the corner she thought she saw the shadowed figure of a headless man. Her fingers automatically went to the scar at her throat. Her touch left a stripe of fresh blood on her neck. "NO!" She stood, allowing the shrunken head to tumble from her lap. She inched backward across the room, her eyes wide with fear. When her shoulder blades finally made contact with the shop's door, she opened it and ran from the house. __________ Bourbon Street 7:45 PM Mulder and Scully sat at a small table on the second-floor balcony of Tricou's Restaurant overlooking Bourbon Street below. The busy avenue resembled the artery of a living organism with human-sized blood cells flowing between its confining narrow walls. The steady, stream of tourists moved from one end of the French Quarter to the other. The regular sound of laughter punctuated the night. Music thundered from the open doors of bars and strip clubs. Men walked arm-in-arm. Women walked arm-in-arm. Men and women groped each other in dim doorways. "Look at that, Mulder." Scully pointed her fork at the balcony across the street where men lined the lacy, iron rails to ogle the women on the avenue beneath them. The men catcalled from their perch high above the street. "Mulder?" He was focused on a glossy black and white photograph lying next to his plate of etoufee. "Mulder. What's in the picture that's had you so fascinated for the last twenty minutes?" "Hmm? Oh...it's a crime scene photo. From the park this morning. I picked it up just before I came to the morgue." "May I see it?" "Sure." Mulder slid the picture across the table. "That's Sanderson's body at the top." "So, what am I supposed to be looking at?" "Actually, I'm not sure. I've been trying to identify that strange, smooth depression. See it? Next to the body." "It could be anything, Mulder. A footprint?" "It's too round." "A knee print?" "What would make the distinct ridge in the middle?" "An artificial knee?" Mulder pictured Amanda Latourneau's prosthesis. "That's it, Scully. Come on." He rose from the table, dropped his crumpled napkin over his uneaten dinner and tossed a couple of twenties between their plates. "Wait! Where are we going?" "Headhunter's." Mulder strode across the restaurant and jogged down the stairs to the street level. Scully rushed after him. "Mulder, wait!" she called, pausing on the stairs when her cell phone trilled from the pocket of her jacket. Reluctantly, Mulder halted at the restaurant's front entrance. He paced while Scully answered her call, a finger of warning pointed at him. "Come on, Scully," he urged, his eyes darting to the crowded street and back to her. "It's Paul," she mouthed. "The police have found another head." Mulder scanned the passersby, waiting impatiently for her to finish her call. When he spotted Amanda Latourneau in the passing throng, he headed out the door. "Check out the head, Scully," he called over his shoulder, sliding his way into the stream of tourists. "Mulder!" she yelled, and tried to follow him, but he was already gone, vanished into the crowd. Mulder squeezed through the crush of tourists feeling like a salmon struggling upstream. Fifty feet ahead, he could see Amanda's long hair swaying against her back as she wound her way through the crowd, seemingly unhampered by her artificial leg. Mulder realized he was actually losing ground. He pushed harder through the noisy human river. Up ahead, Amanda disappeared around the corner at Conti Street. "Damn it!" Mulder hissed. When he finally reached the intersection, Amanda Latourneau was nowhere in sight. __________ City Morgue 8:28 PM Paul Dalliard met Scully at the morgue's front door. "The killer's getting careless, Dana. The police found the latest victim's head in a plastic bag along with the murder weapon. Come on. Detective Gautreau is waiting for us inside." Dalliard led Scully into the autopsy bay where Gautreau stood next to a table containing the skinless head of Daniel Sanderson. "Dana, this is Detective Gautreau, NOPD. Jack, this is Dr. Dana Scully." "Good to finally meet you, Dr. Scully. Agent Mulder didn't come with you?" "No. He's...uh, following a lead. What have you found, Detective?" "Sanderson's head. It was located in a fountain behind the Snake Pit Bar. Your partner was right about the water and snake connection. The skull was found in a bag along with a knife. Take a look for yourself." Gautreau gestured to the items on the tray. The lidless eyes of Sanderson's head stared disturbingly out of his fleshless face with a permanent look of startled horror. Next to the gory skull was a bloody knife. Sturdy, with a 10-inch blade. Razor sharp. The bag itself was nothing more than a common plastic grocery bag. A hair ribbon curled across the tabletop between the knife and the skull. "Hmm. The ribbon is odd. Maybe we should be looking for a woman," Scully suggested. "I dunno, Agent Scully. The victims were all big men." "If you think it's hard to imagine a woman as the killer, Detective Gautreau, try picturing her wearing an artificial leg." "What? You must be joking." "Not at all. Look at this." Scully withdrew Mulder's crime scene photo from her jacket pocket. "See the strange indentation beside Sanderson's body? It was quite possibly made from a prosthesis. As a matter of fact, I'd like to check the city hospital's database for prosthetic limb designs. See if I can find a match." "We have access from here, Dana." Dalliard led Scully and Gautreau into a nearby office and pointed to the computer. Scully sat in front of the keyboard. She clicked the hospital's icon at the lower left of the desktop. A menu of hospital services came up on the screen. "Your best bet is to do a search for 'prosthetic limbs,'" Dalliard suggested. She typed in the phrase and hit the Enter key. The computer hummed quietly while it searched. "We need to look for an AK prosthesis," Scully recommended. "AK?" "Above knee," Dalliard answered Gautreau's question. "For a trans-femeral amputation. Here's a likely possibility. The Light-Pro. It's a copolymer prosthesis that is one piece from the socket to the foot base. The shank is custom tailored. It's designed to be dynamic. Should allow for extreme flexibility. Look at the knee design. It definitely could have left the indentation in Mulder's photo." Scully traced her finger across the image on the computer screen. "An amputee requires regular doctor's visits. Paul, is there some way we can find out which local patients may be using this particular prosthetic model?" "Yeah. Here, let me." Scully vacated the chair and Dalliard took over the keyboard, rapidly typing in commands to gain access to the hospital's physician database. "There are six area patients listed here who are wearing Light-Pros. Four are men." "Who are the women and where do they live?" "One, Margaret Rollins, lives downtown on O'Keefe. The other, Amanda Latourneau, lives in the French Quarter on Chartres." "That's it. That's where Mulder went this afternoon. As a matter of fact, he may be on his way there now. I'll find him and we'll check out Ms. Latourneau. Detective, why don't you check on Rollins?" Scully headed for the door, her cell phone in hand. __________ Chartres Street 8:28 PM Even from the street, Mulder could see that the front door of Headhunter's was wide open. A shaft of light fell from the interior across the front step. Mulder hurried down the narrow alley and across the courtyard. At the step, he drew his gun and cautiously leaned into the shop. "Ms. Latourneau! Federal Agent! I'm armed!" he announced. Getting no response, he stepped inside. The shop was quiet. A veil of dust hung in the air, reflecting pinpricks of light from the dim lamp in the corner. The smell of incense, mildew and age curled up Mulder's nose, invading his sinuses and threatening to make him sneeze. He nearly stepped on the discarded shrunken head, left behind on the floor like the carcass of a dead rodent. He stooped to pick it up and study the puckered, missing face. The hasty stitches had closed the hole, but the result was so disfiguring, the head no longer looked human at all. "A face only a mother could love." Setting the head on the counter, Mulder entered the kitchen. The room's rank odor caused him to wrinkle his nose in disgust. Weapon ready, he inched his way forward, trying to locate the source of the smell. The kitchen appeared immaculate. No dirty dishes piled in the sink, nothing left to spoil on the stove. But the stink was overpowering. "Jesus." He spotted a drying rack at the end of the counter. Two flattened faces stared back at him through empty eyeholes. Two pairs of silent lips gaped. Tiny nostrils, unable to smell their own stench, pierced the flayed hides. Mulder knew intuitively, these were not fakes, but real human faces. The skins of Daniel Sanderson and Kenny Bartlett, the two most recent victims. Mulder continued into livingroom. A sewing basket sat on the floor beside a comfortable, overstuffed chair. The basket contained needles, thread, and thimbles, as well as beads, bird feathers, splintered bits of bone. And two shrunken heads. Mulder pulled his cell phone from his pocket and dialed the NOPD. The number didn't ring through. "Shit." He shook the phone. A low-battery light blinked back at him. "Dinah, won't you blow..." a deep voice rasped through the air. Mulder spun to face the intruder. To his astonishment, a headless man stood before him wielding a cast iron pan from the kitchen. A crushing wallop to the side of his skull buckled Mulder's knees and sent his cell phone skittering across the floor. At least I didn't drop my gun, he thought just before the room faded to black. * * * "Mulder?" Scully called through the open door of Headhunter's Voodoo Shop. "Mulder?" She entered the building, her arms extended, her Sig Sauer held steady. She ignored the clutter of merchandise crowding the small shop. Without a second glance, she passed the curious masks, voodoo dolls and dried animal parts. Her only interest was in finding Mulder and apprehending the killer. In the kitchen, she couldn't ignore the smell. Or its grisly source. Her concern for Mulder's safety lodged in her throat at the sight of two human faces stretched out on the drying rack. When she spotted Mulder's cell phone abandoned on the livingroom floor, she paused to listen for any sound that might indicate the presence of someone else in the house. "Hand me th'gun," a breathy voice puffed into her ear from behind, startling Scully with its unexpected closeness. The cold blade of a knife stung her neck. "Now!" The knife pressed harder, drawing blood. Scully slowly brought her gun up to her shoulder, relinquishing the weapon to her captor. "Where's Mulder?" she demanded. "I have no idea where Mistah Muldah might be. Move!" Prodded sharply between the shoulder blades by her own gun, Scully stepped into the livingroom. Behind her, the woman let the knife drop into the sewing basket beside the chair. "Amanda, let me go. I'm a Federal Agent. You don't want to do this." "I got no choice. I halfta do this." "No, you don't. There are--" "Quiet!" The gun dug into her back. Scully felt Amanda's fingers search her jacket pocket for her handcuffs. "Put y'hands behind y'back, Fed'ral Agent." The woman withdrew the cuffs from Scully's coat. "Do it!" Scully complied. The cuffs snicked shut, binding her wrists. "Try t'run and I'll kill you." Scully had no doubt the woman meant what she said. Amanda shoved her roughly into the chair. "Amanda, don't--" A large rectangle of silver duct tape cut off her words. Scully tried to stand but Amanda struck her across the face with the gun. The brutal blow propelled Scully back into the chair. A shower of dizzying stars blurred her vision. She blinked, trying to regain her sight only to find Amanda taping her ankles together. The longhaired woman then wrapped another strip of tape tightly around her knees. Finished binding Scully, Amanda smiled. "Where are my manners? Let me make y'some tea. Be right back." Amanda disappeared into the kitchen. "Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah," she sang, each note sweet and gentle. "Someone's in the kitchen I know." Over the singing, Scully could hear the jangling sound of cutlery as Amanda rummaged through several kitchen drawers. Glancing at the woman's knife where it lay in the basket, Scully wondered if she had time to retrieve it. "The water won't take but a moment t'boil," Amanda was once more at the threshold. Crossing to Scully, she knelt stiffly in front of her. "Po' li'l thing," she cooed at Scully. "So frightened. But y'must know Daddy's gotta do this." She brushed a lock of hair away from Scully's creased brow. She gently smoothed the strands into place. "You've made Daddy very unhappy." She traced a finger lightly down Scully's cheek and around her neck. She let the tip of her finger linger in the silky hollow between Scully's collarbones. The teakettle whistled in the kitchen. * * * A high-pitched squeal punched a hole through the fog that clouded Mulder's brain. His temples throbbed. He tried to lift his head but the movement brought the sting of bile to his throat. *Where...am* The shrieking whistle stopped. A relief. With the sound gone, only the terrible drumbeat of his pulse kept Mulder's head to the floor, his eyelids squeezed shut. *Where...* He inched his palm across the floor, trying to discover the dimensions of the space that held him. It would hurt too much to open his eyes. His fingertips encountered a wall. Another wall braced his back. A third wall pressed against the soles of his shoes. The crown of his aching head rested on the fourth and final wall. A small place. A closet, maybe. He shifted, ever so slightly, experimenting and gauging his body's reaction to the minor movement. The pain was so great, he almost wished he could pass out again. Blood dripped from his forehead. A sticky puddle cradled his cheek. *Where am...I?* He opened one eye a fraction of an inch. For a moment, he thought he might be blind. But, no, a thin sliver of light glowed at one end of his tiny prison. Light under a door, he guessed, but it was too painful to look at it. *What happened?* A headless man rose up in his mind's eye. Was that possible? A headless man with a cast iron pan? The memory of the excruciating wallop brought fresh tears to his eyes. *At least I didn't drop my gun.* His hand went to his side, searching his holster. Empty. The gun at his ankle? No, it was gone, too. *Shit.* Once more, he lifted his head from the floor. With enormous effort, he pushed himself into a sitting position to lean exhausted against the wall. *Gotta get out of here.* * * * At the sound of the teakettle, Amanda smiled and headed for the kitchen. "Don't go anywhere." She laughed. As soon as she was out of sight, Scully leaned toward the knife. She struggled to get her hands over the arm of the chair. The knife was impossibly out of reach. "Do y'take honey and lemon in y'tea?" Amanda reappeared at the kitchen door, a single teacup in hand. "Here, let me help ya with that nasty ol' tape." Amanda tugged a corner of the duct tape at Scully's mouth, inching it from her lips and leaving the strip to dangle from one end. "Drink this, Sweetie-Pie." She held the cup to Scully's lips. "No! I don't want it." Amanda placed the barrel of the SIG Sauer against Scully's cheek. "Drink!" The tea scalded the roof of Scully's mouth as it slid down the back of her throat. Lemon and sugar didn't disguise the drink's unusual earthy flavor. She coughed and sputtered as the tea spilled over her chin and down her windpipe. "In'that good?" Amanda asked. "Daddy wants his li'l girl to be good. Are you good, Mandy? Have you been a good girl?" "My name is Dana Scully. I'm a Federal Agent. You...you..." The room swam and Scully blinked, trying to focus. "You're making...a mista..." "Mandy, did y'get into Daddy's things?" "No...I'm not..." "You climbed up on the counter an' took down th'box Daddy tol' y'never t'touch. Then y'opened the box Daddy tol' y'never t'open, din'tcha?" "I..." "You took out th'heads." "No..." "You tore out the stitchin' t'look inside. See what was in th'heads. Dintcha?" "Please..." "Tumash akerkama." "I...I don't underst..." Scully felt as if she might vomit. The room lurched, flowing across her field of vision. Amanda's voice thundered in her ears. A knife flashed, its blade reflecting blinding brightness. Scully squinted. "Mandy, y'all know y'halfta do what Daddy says. S'for y'own good. Daddy's gotta keep y'from doin' bad, climbing on th'counter." The knife flashed again. "No..." "If y'ain't got no leg, y'can't climb on th'counter. Can't get into no mo' trouble. Ain't that right, Mandy-honey?" "Why...don't...I'm not..." "Jus' think about th'song while I do it, Mandy. Think about th'song I sing t'ya ev'ry night 'fore y'go t'sleep an' y'won't feel a thing. T'all b'over before y'know it." Scully heard the fabric of her pants tear, the tip of the knife slicing through the cloth. "Someone's in the kitchen with Dinah. Someone's in the kitchen I know." Scully couldn't see. Amanda's movements made her head swim. The sound of the woman's voice faded in and out. Her tongue felt thick and dry. Her arms heavy. She thought she saw a man...a headless man next to Amanda...behind Amanda...helping her push the knife into her leg. She tried to scream as the sharp knife sliced into her thigh. The headless man... "Drop the knife!" Mulder demanded, his arm snagged around Amanda's neck, his fist covering hers, stopping the knife from digging more deeply into Scully's bleeding thigh. "Drop it!" The knife clattered to the floor. __________ Royal Omni Orleans Sunrise Up on the roof, Scully leaned against the iron railing. From the hotel's observation deck, the entire French Quarter was visible, spreading out seven stories below. The rising sun tinted the rooftops pink; hazy fingers of light painted the narrow streets gold. To the east, the Mississippi River sparkled in the morning sun. Scully inhaled, breathing in the humid odor of the river, the aroma of magnolia and jasmine, the faint scent of chlorine from the hotel's swimming pool behind her. She watched a delivery truck drop off several stacks of newspapers at the doorsteps of the shops on Royal Street below. Other than the driver, the streets were deserted. "Hey Scully." Mulder sleepily climbed the stairs and draped himself next to her at the rails. "How're you feeling this morning?" "Fine." The sun exposed lines of exhaustion around her eyes. She'd barely slept at all. After their trip to the hospital, Mulder had helped her into bed, but the after-affects of the drug-laced tea kept her tossing and turning. Nightmares plagued her. "My leg is sore," she conceded. "Seventeen stitches. Pretty impressive, G-woman." "Well, look at you. Five on your cheek. Three more on your forehead." He watched her eyes count the new, black sutures dotting his face. "So what happened, Scully? I mean, I have a theory..." Scully sighed and gazed back out across the old city. She wasn't sure she wanted to discuss the case quite yet. Still fuzzyheaded, she was unclear about many of the details she had experienced. But Skinner would expect a report, she knew. She and Mulder had to compare notes at some point. "Tell me your theory, Mulder." "We know from the police records that Amanda Latourneau's father was killed twenty-one years ago. His body was found headless in his home with his then twelve-year-old daughter Amanda. Mr. Latourneau's head was never recovered. Amanda almost died, her throat slit and her leg cut so badly it later had to be amputated above the knee. As a matter of fact, she would have died if a neighbor who had heard the girl's screams hadn't found her. Okay, now here's where things get a little..." "Unlikely?" "Speculative." "Ah." "Yesterday when I visited Headhunter's, Amanda told me her father collected curiosities to sell to tourists. He traveled all over the world searching for exotic items to stock in his shop. She mentioned that he bought Jivaro shrunken heads in South America. I saw a couple myself, stored above the counter in boxes." "Above the count...?" Scully paled. "Yeah. Why? What's the matter?" "When Amanda was going to...cut off my leg..." "What?" "I'm not sure. She called me 'Mandy.' She claimed I needed to be punished for climbing on the counter and getting into her father's box of shrunken heads. She accused me of opening one of the heads to look inside it." "That's interesting." "In what way?" "Well, it fits with my theory. I'm thinking that when Amanda...Mandy...was twelve, she opened up one of her father's shrunken heads and released the miusak, the avenging spirit." "Mulder--" "Hear me out, Scully. The miusak was responsible for cutting off Latourneau's head and trying to kill Amanda. He would have succeeded but he was interrupted by the neighbor." "Why would the miusak cut Amanda's leg?" "Maybe Latourneau did that part himself." "Why?" "Because he was an evil bastard? They do exist." "Maybe there was no miusak, Mulder, and Amanda cut off her father's head in self-defense after he'd tried to amputate her leg." "A twelve-year-old girl? With one leg cut practically off?" "It's possible, Mulder. She killed Pendleton, Fleming, Bartlett and Sanderson -- all of whom fit the general description of her father, by the way. Amanda would have killed me, too, if you hadn't intervened. Her actions may or may not be attributed to a horrific past, but either way, she is a killer." Mulder chewed at his lower lip. "What about the headless man who hit me in the face with the cast iron pan? Who was he, Scully?" "Maybe you only thought you saw a headless man. I thought you were headless, too, when you stopped Amanda from chopping off my leg." "You were drugged. I wasn't." "Okay, who was the headless man?" "I think he's the original owner of the shrunken head, the one I found chewed open by the mice at the shop. The mice let the miusak free. Or maybe that head belonged to Amanda's father." "She shrunk her own father's head?" "She would want to protect herself from his avenging spirit more than any other." Scully smiled. "Mulder, do you suppose you and I will ever see anything the same way?" "You're not buyin' this Jivaro spirit thing, are you?" Mulder returned her smile. "You wanna hear my theory, Mulder?" "You have theory?" "I do. I think the avenging spirit existed only in Amanda Latourneau's mind. She took the nightmare of her childhood, whatever that was -- and we may never know the specifics -- and she twisted it with the tales she heard from her father about headhunting. The memory of her father continued to haunt her. Even after his death, she allowed him to hold power over her. She was never her own person. Some people just aren't strong enough to break that kind of oppression." "You're not putting yourself in that category, are you?" "Mulder, it's true I've let the memory of my father affect my actions -- thankfully, not to this extreme -- and there was nothing supernatural about it." Mulder wrinkle his nose, disappointment in his eyes. "But I like it when there's a supernatural answer, Scully." "I know you do." He blew air into his cheeks. "Hey, Scully." He sidled closer. "Yesss, Mulder?" "Since we're all packed, whaddaya say we fly up to Seattle?" "Why Seattle?" "Because there've been three murders. The police are talkin' ghosts." He waggled his eyebrows. "Chains have been heard rattling." "No." "No?" "No, Mulder. Today I'm calling the shots." "Okay, Scully. What do we do today?" He grinned. He was more than happy to go along with anything she might suggest. "We're going to enjoy our luxury hotel suite." "Really?" Mulder's eyes widened. "Did you have any specific activities in mind? A little card trading perhaps?" Scully took his hand, hooking her index finger loosely around his. "You don't ask questions today, Mulder. I'm in control here." "Gotta love a woman who knows what she wants." "Walk this way." Tugging his hand, she led him across the roof and down the stairs. He followed without protest, his slanting smile widening into an all-out, cat-who-ate-the-canary grin. THE END (except for all you Shippers out there who can never seem to get enough of the playful/flirty/touchy stuff. Read on.) "So, Scully, let's put our trading cards on the table." "Fine, Mulder. I only have one." "One?" "It's a good one." "You're right! Babe Ruth. That is a good one, Scully." "I think so. Whaddaya got to trade?" "I've got my favorite, Ted Williams." "The 'Splendid Splinter.' You think your Splinter is up to the same standard as my Babe?" "Nothing's better than a Babe, Scully. But this is the best I've got." "Is your Splinter in pristine condition, by any chance?" "Well...it's been outta the package, if that's what you're asking. You aren't implying your Babe has never been unwrapped, are you?" "No. But a Babe doesn't lose its value when it's been unwrapped." "True. So. You wanna trade, Scully?" "Hmmm. May I hold your Splinter first? Take a closer look?" "You don't have to trade anything at all to do that." "You're too easy, Mulder." "I told you, you hold all the power here." "Well, I wanna hold something more than power. Come'ere, Mulder." "Ooooo, BABE!" (Satisfied, Shippers?)