Dark Night of the Soul ************************** by Patti Murphy (patriciam@igs.net) "Dark Night of the Soul" is about Scully struggling with her sister's death, while investigating an X-File that forces her to confront her Catholic roots. I started this story long before "Revelations" aired (but I write slowly....damn day job.) Although this story and "Revelations" both have religious themes, that's about all that's similar. "Dark Night of the Soul" would probably precede "Revelations" in X-files time, perhaps even setting the stage a little for it. There is no sex between our heroes, although I hope there's a lot of UST, because in *my* X-Files universe, unlike Season Three, Mulder and Scully *like* each other. There is violence. There are also a few cuss words, but I'll bet you've heard them before. Heartfelt thanks to: Gerri, for posting this; Amy for her support; Eleanore for mother henning when required and for her comments; John for mocaccinos and for being even more twisted than I am; and Patti S., Celtic goddess, for always making me try harder. <> Please let me know what you think of the story. I'm e-mail accessible at > Dark Night of the Soul (1/6) ************************** by Patti Murphy (patriciam@igs.net) Nov. 1, 1995 Washington, D.C. 6:12 a.m. The sun had not yet come up when Scully threw open her closet, grabbed three suits and quickly flung them into her suitbag. This was ridiculous. It was the third day that she'd overslept this week, and now she was late to meet Mulder, their flight for Maine left in just over an hour and the traffic to Dulles was going to be hell. She stuffed pyjamas, pantyhose and underwear into the outer pockets, not bothering to fold anything, then tossed in her make-up bag and a few other items. She zipped everything shut, looked around for her gun and holster, then hurried across her apartment. Her briefcase and trench coat were mercifully by the front door, and she tried to remember if her cell phone was in her coat pocket. She hoped so, because there wasn't time to look for it if it wasn't. She opened the door, shifted the suitbag so that she could pick up the briefcase and then, just as she had done every day for the past six months, she saw them. The blood stains. Every morning as she left for work, she would see them, and every evening when she came home, she saw them again. She had unconsciously gotten into the habit of not turning on a light until she was across the living room, but even then, even in the cold darkness, she knew that they were there as she stepped over them. She had tried to get rid of them, of course. She'd used everything from soap and water to commercial stain removers but there was still a discolouration, an echo that marked the spot where the blood had seeped deep into the creamy white carpet. The blood. Her sister's blood. The stains had set and taken root long before she'd had a chance to return to her apartment and clean them. She remembered the day that she'd first looked at this apartment, when she'd been considering signing the lease. Her Mom had come along for moral support. Scully had been enchanted with the place and was already mentally arranging her furniture. She had loved the stained glass by the back door and the way the morning sun filled the kitchen with a warm glow. But Margaret Scully had shaken her head and said, "It's lovely honey, but I don't know about the carpets. White carpets are so hard to keep clean. One bad stain and it'll be there forever." Scully stood, suitbag and keys in hand, staring at the faint rusty outlines of her sister's precious life, and thought, yes, the stains will be there forever. Her mouth tightened into a thin line of resolve. She refused to cry. Not this morning. She snatched up her briefcase and pulled the door shut, wishing she could slam it over and over until it came right off its hinges. She had said little on the flight and Mulder knew better than to ask. It wasn't so much the look on her face, although after two years of studying every nuance of her expressions, he could read her fairly well. He had known not to say much to her this morning by the fact that she was twenty minutes late and had almost caused them to miss their plane. One thing Mulder did know for certain about his partner was that she was almost always on time. And when she wasn't, she usually didn't want to talk about it. So he kept to himself, waiting for Scully to cross the distance and talk to him, knowing that she would do so only when she was ready. By the time they landed and transferred their bags to a rental car, she'd read the police report enough times to be able to recite it from memory, and Mulder knew it wouldn't be much longer. The report was sketchy, but intriguing. Francis Lazslo, a fifty-nine year old Roman Catholic priest, had been found dead in his confessional, his eyes burned out of their sockets. There was no sign of a struggle. No blood was found at the scene and the cause of death was as yet undetermined, pending an autopsy. The local sheriff, worried that this was perhaps the work of satanists, had phoned the FBI. "You don't really think this is some cult, do you?" she finally asked, once they were a half hour from the airport, driving through rolling farmland. Mulder resisted the urge to smile in relief. Instead, he fished another sunflower seed out of his pocket and set about shelling it. "The proximity to Hallowe'en, the choice of the victim and the mutilation of the body could suggest that, but no, I don't think that this was a ritual murder," he replied. "Any theories that you'd care to share?" she asked. "I've got lots of theories." He allowed a slight smile. "But I'm not sure you'll like them." "Try me." "Spontaneous human combustion," he said. She sighed heavily and looked out her window. "I said you wouldn't like them," he said. "What's the other one?" "How's your Latin?" "A little rusty," she admitted. "I think this might be an occurrence of incendium amoris," he said, taking his eyes off the road to glance at her expression. "The fire of love." She gave him a dubious look. "Mulder, if that's a new pick- up line, I think I should tell you, it needs work." He chuckled. "Sorry to disappoint you Scully, but I can't take credit for it. It's actually one of the charisms recognized by the Catholic church as a sign of holiness." "Charisms?" she said. "As in gifts from the Holy Spirit?" "Somebody was paying attention in Sunday school," he said. "Mulder, are you saying you think this Father Lazslo was killed by the Holy Spirit?" "That's one possible interpretation," he said. Scully could feel a headache building. "There are records of such occurrences dating right back to the middle ages. There are reports of people experiencing intense sensations of heat, accompanied by external manifestations that ranged from heat blisters to scorched clothing." He glanced at her again, gave her his most sincere expression. "It's all documented, Scully." "By whom? The National Enquirer?" "No, by the Congregation of Rites, which was founded by some pope in the sixteenth century to investigate candidates for sainthood." "Sainthood," she repeated, incredulously. She examined his face for any sign that he might be kidding and as usual found none. "You think this priest was a saint?" "Either that or maybe he was being possessed by some supernatural force that was just too powerful for him," he said. "You mean the devil," she said. "The man's eyes were incinerated, Scully. Something caused that to happen." "Or someone. Sometimes ordinary people commit crimes, Mulder." She could hear the sharpness that had crept into her tone, but couldn't stop it. "Not every case is an X-file, you know." Mulder didn't react right away. When he did glance over at her, his voice was gentle. "I'll keep an open mind, Scully." She felt a flicker of embarrassment for having so nearly snapped at him, and she stared out the window to compose herself. The fields were stark and bare and it seemed like they were waiting for the snow to come and cover their nakedness. She made sure that her voice had regained its usual timbre before she spoke. "There's something that we should get straight right now, Mulder," she said, as seriously as she could manage. "What's that?" He took his eyes off the road, and she knew she had him. "It's going to be your job to explain to Skinner why we're requesting a warrant for the arrest of the Holy Spirit," she said. He smiled. Hubbard, Maine was a very small town, and whatever boom days it had seen were now a memory. The county road which cut through the middle of it and served as a main street was lined with small shops, many of which sported "Space For Lease" signs. The stores that were open were well-kept however, and most displayed crisp American flags. The sheriff's offices were in a modern brick building, a short distance from the town center. There were two utility vehicles with state insignia parked in front and Mulder pulled the rental car alongside. They entered, Mulder ushering Scully ahead of him, but before they could identify themselves to the young woman at the receptionist's desk, a uniformed man sprang out of a nearby office to greet them. "Agent Mulder? I'm Neil MacIntyre. We spoke on the phone," he said. He was a muscular man, with close cropped hair that had once been light-coloured, but which was now muted with grey. He wore wire-framed glasses that softened the squareness of his face. Mulder shook hands with him and then motioned to Scully, as he introduced her. MacIntyre moved closer to shake her hand and Scully found herself looking straight up at the huge man. "Nice to meet you, Agent Scully," he said and Scully's hand was engulfed by his surprisingly gentle paw. He led them into an office, which looked like it was awaiting a drill sergeant's inspection. Once Mulder and Scully had seated themselves, he lowered his huge frame into a chair on the other side of the desk. Certificates and commendations papered one wall of the office and a large stuffed fish hung on the opposite wall. Three blonde children grinned at Scully and Mulder from a photograph on the desk. "I appreciate you coming so quickly," MacIntyre said. "I don't need to tell you that this sort of thing doesn't happen very often around here. It's really got folks shaken up." "Understandably," Mulder said. "Has your investigation turned up anything else since we spoke?" "Not much. We've preserved the crime scene as best we could for you, but frankly, there isn't much to go on. We found no physical evidence to speak of." "Have you considered the possibility that Father Lazslo was murdered somewhere else and his body was moved to the confessional?" Scully asked. "That would at least explain the absence of blood." "If he was, we haven't found anything to indicate where the murder took place. I'm hoping that the autopsy will turn up something. The coroner said he would fax me the report as soon as he finished." MacIntyre frowned. "There is one other thing that's kind of strange. Apparently there was a little sliding latch on the inside of the confessional door, to hold it closed when the priest was inside. When Father Lazslo was found, they had to break the door to get him out, because the latch had been pulled across." Scully raised an eyebrow. "Did you find any fingerprints on the inside?" "Just Father Lazlo's." "So, whoever killed him either found a way to lock that latch from the outside," Scully said, "or..." "...or killed him without ever touching him," Mulder said, regarding Scully with an annoyingly neutral expression. "Agent Mulder, I told you his eyes had been burned out," MacIntyre said, his brow wrinkled. "How could somebody do that without touching him?" Scully winced in anticipation and tried not to look at Mulder. "Just considering all the possibilities," Mulder said. The sheriff's features relaxed slightly. "Who found the body?" Scully asked. "A fellow by the name of Doug Parnell. He's a sort of janitor and handy man up at St. Teresa's. He was cleaning up in the chapel and found him." "St. Teresa's?" Scully asked. She was skimming through the thin file. "Is that the parish church?" "No, actually, it's a big, old convent outside of town that's been converted into a sort of old folks home. The nuns run it mostly, but there's a few people from town that work there. Father Lazslo was the chaplin for them." "With local people working there, a stranger would probably stand out," Mulder said. "Did anyone notice anything unusual?" MacIntyre shook his head. "One of my deputies is still out there interviewing the staff and the residents, but so far, no one has reported anything out of the ordinary." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his orderly desk, and seemed to be debating something with himself. Finally, he sighed. "Look, I know the preliminary report I sent you mentioned the possibility that this could be related to some sort of occult activity, but..." He frowned and self-consciously smoothed his tie. "Well, the truth is that I don't put much stock in that idea. If there was some bunch of Satanists running around the county, I think I'd have heard something about it. Hubbard is not a big place, Agent Mulder. Hell, most people know what their neighbours are having for supper." "Then why did you call us?" Mulder asked. The sheriff shifted a little in his seat. "Well, the fact of the matter is that the man was a priest and it's got a lot of people real upset." He grinned sheepishly. "And I don't mind admitting when I'm in over my head." Mulder nodded. "You did the right thing," he said. "How soon can we see the crime scene?" Scully leaned against the car and studied the cement coloured sky while she waited for Mulder. The wind was picking up and rain clouds were skidding along the horizon. Across the parking lot, the sheriff and Mulder were leaned over the hood of a car, looking at a map of the county. He was showing Mulder the fastest route to the convent, which seemed pointless to Scully, since they intended to follow him there anyway. She crossed her arms and sighed, trying to quell her rising impatience. She wanted to get moving. Pine and nearby rain mingled in the air. She looked at the sky again and waited. The front doors to the sheriff's offices opened and a woman in uniform strode out. She was tall and slender and had auburn hair that curled around her shoulders. MacIntyre looked up as she approached and she held up a file. He said something to her and then motioned towards Scully. The woman headed across the parking lot, her regulation shoes crunching on the gravel. She was still thirty feet away when Scully first saw the resemblance and it grew with each step. The hair was too dark, but it was there in the shape of the face, in the arch of the cheekbones, in the intensity of the eyes. "Agent Scully?" the woman said, with a polite smile. "Sheriff MacIntyre said to give this to you." At first, Scully made no move to accept the file which the woman held out to her. Instead she just stood there, studying the woman's face. The woman's polite smile faded to concern. "Agent Scully?" she asked. "Is something wrong?" The realization that she was staring jarred Scully, and she quickly averted her eyes. She summoned up a weak smile. "Uh, no. No," she said. She could feel her cheeks reddening and still, her eyes were drawn to the woman's face. "No, it's just that...you look like someone else." "Oh," the woman said. She searched for something to say, and quickly gave up. She extended the file again. "Here. It's the coroner's report on Father Lazlo." Scully thanked her and accepted the file. The woman smiled politely again, then marched back to the offices. Scully was watching her walk away when Mulder arrived at the car. He glanced in the direction Scully was looking, then at his partner, who seemed oblivious to his presence. "Scully?" he said, as he unlocked the door. "You OK?" She nodded. "I'm fine," she said, but her voice sounded vacant. Before Mulder could speak, she opened the door and got into the car, without looking at him. St. Teresa's Home for the Aged was an imposing limestone building which appeared to have several wings. It was surrounded by acres of lawn which were well-tended but which looked brown and lifeless in the November rain, as if the colour had been bled out of the grass. A statue of the Virgin Mary smiled sympathetically from a stark white grotto near the front door, her azure robes in vivid contrast to the day. Scully glanced at it as she got out of the car. MacIntyre led the way to the front doors, then stepped aside to let Mulder and Scully enter. They found themselves in a waiting area, furnished with a sofa and a few arm chairs. There was a crocheted blanket draped across the sofa and a framed picture of the Pope hung directly above it. The lobby opened onto offices on the left where two women were seated at desks. The younger woman stopped typing and looked up. The older of the two, a matronly woman in a navy blue skirt and floral blouse, got to her feet when they entered. She wore a small silver cross pinned to her blouse. "Good afternoon, Sheriff," she said, pleasantly. "Afternoon, Sister," MacIntyre said to her. "I wonder if you would tell Sister Cecelia that we're here." "She's on the phone at the moment," she said. She motioned towards a closed door on which was painted "Cecelia Waddington, OLMC," in black letters. MacIntyre bobbed his head. "All right then, we'll go on over to the chapel. Would you ask her to meet us there when she's able to?" "I'll tell her as soon as she's off the phone," she said. Scully noticed that the younger woman sat silently, watching them. Her hair was an unlikely shade of blonde and there was a harshness about her face which her heavy coat of cosmetics did not soften. Her eyes swept over Scully with barely concealed contempt, then lingered for a moment on Mulder, before returning to her typewriter. She languidly pecked at a few keys. The sheriff started off down the corridor, with the two FBI agents in tow. "Is that other woman a nun as well?" Scully asked, as they strode down the hall. MacIntyre smirked. "Well, folks around here have called Judy Bassett a lot of things, but I think that's the first time she's ever been mistaken for a nun." "What sort of things have they called her?" Scully asked. "Oh, she was a wild one, always getting into some kind of trouble. Got herself pregnant in high school, had to drop out after the baby was born," he said. Mulder waited for Scully to say something. When she didn't, he glanced over at her, and tried to determine whether she was actually biting her tongue. The sheriff continued. "She and her husband have got a farm not too far from here. Money's kind of tight, so Judy's been working for the sisters for, oh, must be three or four years now." Directly ahead was a set of carved wooden doors that had been polished to a high gleam. MacIntyre held the door open for them. The chapel was large, with two dozen rows of pews at least, and tall, ornate stained glass windows that cast puddles of coloured shadows on the floor. At the front, above the grey marble altar, was a life-size crucifix, a plaster of paris Jesus casting his eyes imploringly toward heaven. It was the smell that made Scully pause. Candle wax and tired incense, the scent of oiled wood and something else, that she couldn't place. She breathed it in deeply, without realizing it, and suddenly she could remember standing beside her father, wearing knee socks and an itchy dress, her nose stuffy from the incense. She'd sniffled and her father had smiled down at her and then given her his handkerchief. "What other entrances are there to this room?" Mulder asked. He was already prowling up the side aisles, peering under pews and into small recesses. "There's the main doors here and then there's two behind the altar up there, in the sacristy. One leads outside and one leads down to the basement," MacIntyre said. Mulder walked slowly around the church to the confessional, which was still cordoned off with bright yellow tape. "Did the janitor say if any of those doors were unlocked?" Scully asked. "As far as I know they were all unlocked, ma'am," MacIntyre said. Scully gave him a look of disbelief. "None of them were locked?" "We don't have a whole lot of crime in Hubbard, Agent Scully," he replied. "You do now," she said. She crossed the church to examine the confessional more closely, her footsteps echoing like gunshots. Mulder had opened the door of the confessional and was running his hand along the edge of the frame. "What time was the body found?" Mulder asked. Scully flipped the file open. "Says here that the janitor discovered the body around nine o'clock." He shut the door. "At night?" She nodded. "Was the coroner able to establish time of death?" "He's estimating seven o'clock," Scully said. Mulder rubbed his chin and thought for a moment, then opened the door again. "Can you smell that?" Mulder asked. Scully stepped closer and sniffed the air. "Yeah, what is it? It smells like...lavender or lilacs or something." Mulder nodded absently. "What was the cause of death?" he asked. Scully scanned through the coroner's report again. "Well, there were lesions on his heart. It's likely that the shock of whatever happened to his eyes was just too much strain, and his heart gave out. Although judging by the advanced cirrhosis of his liver, I'm not sure he had much longer anyway." She turned a page and raised an eyebrow at the toxicological report. "It also seems that Father Lazslo had been using cocaine shortly before he died. There were elevated levels of it in his blood." "Cocaine?" the sheriff asked, incredulously. He stood a short distance away, his hat in his hands. Scully nodded grimly. The sheriff shuffled his feet and looked uncomfortable. "He'd always been one to hit the bottle, but...Jesus, I didn't know he was into any other stuff." "What does the coroner say about the wounds to his eyes?" Mulder asked, and Scully could see that he was getting that look he always got when he had a theory simmering. "He couldn't identify the instrument that was used, but the eyes were apparently completely carbonized. He's speculating that whatever it was, it was so hot that it literally cauterized the wound," she said. She looked up from the file. "The weapon itself must have stopped the bleeding." "But what sort of thing could do that?" MacIntyre asked. "I don't know," Scully said, absently. She flipped back a page and read intently. "What's even stranger is that the coroner found no damage in the tissue surrounding the eyes." Mulder, who was examining the floor around the confessional, stopped and looked up. "His eyes were burned to a crisp in his head, but none of the surrounding tissue was affected?" he asked. Scully nodded and frowned. "Maybe it was some sort of surgical instrument." "Dear God, who could do such a thing?" The voice came from behind them and Scully, Mulder and MacIntyre all turned to locate the speaker. A woman stood just inside the wooden doors, her face ashen. "Sister Cecelia," the sheriff said, and went to meet her. She appeared to be in her late fifties, and her once black hair was streaked with splashes of silver. Her skirt and blazer were navy blue and cheaply made, but there was pride and grace in the way she carried herself. MacIntyre introduced her to Mulder and Scully. She wore no make up, Scully noticed as they shook hands, but her eyes were sharp and they darted across their faces, taking everything in. They lighted for the shortest second on Scully's pendant, and Scully's hand went self- consciously to her neck. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," she said, "but I was on the phone with the Mother Superior in Portland. She's afraid that we're all about to be murdered in our beds and it took some fast talking to assure her that we're OK. Now I just have to convince myself." She glanced at the confessional, then took a deep breath and fixed her eyes on Scully. "You think someone burned his eyes out with a surgical instrument?" "It's just a possibility," Scully said. "We're still trying to piece it all together." "Sister, we're going to need to ask you some questions," Mulder said. "Well, of course, I'm happy to co-operate however I can," she said, "but would you mind very much if we spoke elsewhere?" She gestured towards the door. "I could give you a little tour and then we could have tea in my office. If that's all right?" Mulder and Scully both nodded and the nun led the way to the exit. At the rear of the chapel, near the door was a porcelain bowl with water in it. Sister Cecelia dipped her fingers in as she passed, and quickly crossed herself as she went. Scully walked past the bowl, her hands deepening in the pockets of her trenchcoat, her head ducked slightly. Mulder noticed but said nothing. "St. Teresa's, in the old days when it was a cloistered convent, probably housed about 200 women," Sister Cecelia said. They were strolling through the resident's wing. The walls were a warm rose colour and were adorned with paintings of landscapes and seascapes. Scully glanced into the rooms as they walked by, and they appeared small but comfortable. A few people looked up as they passed, but most of the rooms were empty, their beds neatly made. Scully spotted handmade quilts in a few rooms and everywhere, there were pictures of grandchildren. She thought about the other old folks' home she'd visited with Mulder in Worcester, and remembered the sickening smell of urine, mildew and death that had hung in the air there. By contrast, St. Teresa's smelled like home cooking. "We opened up as a home for the elderly in 1976," the nun continued. "There were about 40 nuns living here then and we were able to run the place almost entirely unassisted." They turned a corner and headed down another carpeted hallway. The sound of a television turned low filtered into the corridor. "These days, we're down to 13 sisters and they're nearly all the same age as our residents." Sister Cecelia smiled apologetically. "Most of them still work in some capacity, but we wouldn't be able to survive without the local community. We employ twenty two local people here, with obvious benefit to us, but because of this, St. Teresa's is also able to give something back. Jobs are scarce everywhere these days, but particularly so in Hubbard, and without us, I'm afraid a lot of these people would be forced to collect unemployment insurance or welfare." An elderly woman with a walker was making her way down the hall towards them. She beamed at them and Scully found herself smiling back. Sister Cecelia stopped and laid a hand on the woman's arm. "How are you today, Eleanore?" she said, loudly and deliberately. "I'm just fine, Sister, thank you," the old woman replied, "except for this terrible business about poor Father Lazslo." Sister Cecelia patted her arm. "I know, Eleanore. We're all very upset by it," she said. "I'll drop by and talk to you later, all right?" The old woman nodded and then continued on her way. Sister Cecelia watched her walk unsteadily away. "We have 49 residents at the moment, and another 30 waiting to get in," she said. "Isn't there enough room?" Mulder asked. She shook her head. "Oh, we have plenty of room. It's money we're short on. I can't pay any more staff and, despite my prayers, I doubt that the price of food is about to drop in the near future. Of course, people around here are very generous, you know, always donating food and sheets and what have you." She watched the old lady and her walker disappear around the corner then looked at Mulder. "I've known the people around here for years and I just can't imagine one of them doing something like this." Mulder didn't reply, and finally Sister Cecelia shook her head and turned abruptly, continuing down the hall. At the end, a set of double doors opened onto a large common room. Inside, a dozen or so elderly people sat around in groups, talking and playing cards. Over by the window three women had a quilt stretched across a frame and they were busily stitching, white heads bent over their labour. Sister Cecelia motioned to a tiny woman who was seated in one of the armchairs, talking to an old man in a wheel chair. The woman said something to him, then crossed the room to where Mulder and Scully stood with the sheriff. Sister Cecelia introduced the little woman as Sister Julia. "As far as we can tell, Sister Julia here, was the last person to talk to Father Lazslo before he was murdered," MacIntyre said. "What time was that?" Mulder asked the nun. "It was just before six thirty," she replied. "I remember because right after I spoke to him, I came to the common room and Dan Rather was just starting to read the news." "Did you speak to Father Lazslo in the chapel?" Mulder asked. She nodded. "In the sacristy," she said. "I asked him whether or not he thought the altar cloths needed to be washed that evening. He said he thought that they were fine." She looked helplessly from Mulder to Scully and back again. "That was all we said." "Do you recall seeing anyone around the chapel as you left?" Mulder asked. She shook her head slowly. "I don't think so, but I may have passed one of the residents, or one of the other sisters and not really thought much of it." Mulder thanked the tiny woman for her help, reassuring her that anything she could remember would be useful to them. Scully drifted over to the wall of windows that overlooked the grounds, and looked out. Across the yard, a young man in work clothes was hauling bags of garbage to a dumpster. He worked slowly, carrying two bags at a time, lobbing them half-heartedly into the huge bin. Scully watched him make two trips before he stopped suddenly, his back to her. He slowly turned around and looked directly at the window where she stood, as if he had suddenly felt her eyes on him. He was at least fifty yards away, but Scully could see the fear on his face. He quickly threw the last bags into the dumpster, then hurried back inside, glancing over his shoulder as he went. It was only then that Scully realized that she wasn't alone at the window. One of the quilters, a white haired woman with a gentle face, stood an arm's length away from her. She smiled benignly at Scully but her eyes betrayed her interest. "You've lost someone," the woman said, matter of factly. Scully gave her a questioning look. "Excuse me?" The old woman's eyes searched Scully's face carefully, as if she was reading something. "Someone you care about very much has died," she said. "You blame yourself." Scully's mouth opened to say something, but she couldn't find words. Instead, she stood there transfixed, felt herself drawn into those watery blue eyes. She heard herself speak. "My sister. She...died, recently." The old woman nodded wisely. She picked up Scully's hand, held it between her own and smiled. Scully felt like a warm touch had reached deep inside her. "Scully?" It was Mulder. He and the sheriff were at the door to the common room with Sister Cecelia. They appeared ready to leave. Scully returned her gaze to the old woman who held her hand and noticed for the first time, the silver cross that was pinned to her sweater. The nun patted Scully's hand reassuringly and smiled as if she possessed some wonderful secret. "Are you familiar with Matthew, chapter 11?" she asked. Scully scrambled for an answer but the old woman shook her head gently. "Chapter 11, verse 28," she said. Another smile and she released Scully's hand. "Scully?" Mulder again, closer now, with a question in his voice. Scully looked up blankly into his face. "Uh, yeah, I'm coming," she managed to say. Mulder nodded to the little old woman before he steered Scully towards the door. He ducked his head and said quietly, "What was that about?" They were across the room at the doorway before Scully answered. "Just a nice old lady," she said. Mulder was deadpan. "I wonder how they can tell that you're the Catholic one," he said. He started down the hall, trailing the sheriff and Sister Cecelia. Scully glanced back into the common room. The old woman stood by the window, her eyes on Scully. Scully quickly looked away, and hurried after Mulder. =========================================================================== From: GYRFALCON@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: "Dark Night Of The Soul" - 2/6 Date: 9 Feb 1996 03:48:19 GMT <> Dark Night of the Soul (2/6) ************************** by Patti Murphy (patriciam@igs.net) Mulder and Scully found Doug Parnell near the delivery entrance, at the rear of the convent, not far from where Scully had seen him putting out the garbage. He was washing a half dozen aluminum garbage cans, hosing them down from a few yards away. He looked up when they approached. "Doug Parnell?" Mulder asked. The man nodded slightly then returned his gaze to the trash cans. "I'm Special Agent Mulder with the FBI," Mulder said, holding up his badge. "This is Special Agent Scully. We understand that you're the person who found Father Lazslo's body yesterday." Parnell nodded again and continued working, the spray from the hose hitting the cans with a steady metallic drumroll. He was a young man, in his mid-twenties Scully guessed, but with deep lines around his eyes which suggested that he had greeted more than a few dawns with a beer can in his hand. His hair was black and needed trimming, and despite his tired expression, there was a wiriness about him. "I wonder if you could tell us about it," Mulder said. Parnell turned off the spray nozzle and dropped the hose to the asphalt. "Not much to tell," he said, flatly. "I found him. He was dead." He picked up a scrub brush and ambled over to the cans. "What were you doing in the chapel?" Scully asked. Her voice made him pause briefly, and then he resumed scrubbing. "Sweeping," he said. "Do you always work so late?" Scully asked. He shifted his eyes from the trash can to Scully and regarded her with no expression for a moment, then smiled sourly. "Am I a suspect or something, Special Agent Scully?" he asked. Scully kept her face immobile. "Just a routine question," she said. She stared back at him until he finally lowered his eyes again. She waited another few seconds, then said, "So, do you?" "Do I what?" "Usually work so late?" He lifted his eyes and they were cold. "I work as late as it takes to finish the job," he said. "Do you remember seeing anyone around the chapel? Anyone you didn't know?" Mulder asked. Parnell took a few more swipes at the can, then dropped the brush and picked up the hose again. "Nope," he said. He fired the hose at the can, made it rattle and dance. "You didn't see anything unusual?" Mulder prompted. Parnell shook his head. "Just a dead body." "Did you notice any unusual smells?" Parnell's eyes met Mulder's briefly, then he looked away again. "No, nothing," he said. "Well, you've been most helpful, Mr. Parnell," Mulder said. "Thanks for your time." He turned to leave, then stopped abruptly. "Oh, one last thing. You said you were mopping the floors in the chapel, right?" The young man turned off the hose. "No, I said I was sweeping them." "Right, I see," Mulder said. "I'm just wondering how it is that you found the body, then?" Parnell's eyes narrowed and the furrows around them deepened. "I just told you. I was in there sweeping." "I realize that, but the police report says that Father Lazslo was found in the confessional box with the door shut." Mulder returned the man's intense gaze, his face mild. "I'm just wondering how it is that you noticed the body in there?" Parnell unscrewed the nozzle gun from the hose with jerky movements. "I don't know. I just noticed it, I guess." Mulder watched him for a few more seconds, then nodded. "Thanks again for your time," he said. He turned toward the convent, his hand at Scully's elbow. Scully waited until they were back inside before she spoke. "I don't think we need him to take a polygraph to figure out that he's lying," she said, dryly. Mudler had a far away look. "Yeah, he's lying about something, but I'm not sure what," he said. "Let's find out if Sheriff MacIntyre has done a background check on him," Scully said. Mulder nodded absently, but didn't respond. Scully studied his face as they walked. He had that look again. "What?" she asked. "There are several different charisms, Scully, things like levitation and stigmata and even one called Reading of Hearts, which is like a kind of telepathy, where the person can seemingly read your thoughts," he said. Scully rolled her eyes. "Mulder," she said, her tone imploring. "No, just wait, Scully. One of the most persistently reported charisms is one called Odours of Sanctity. Now, it's traditionally been observed in conjunction with other supernatural phenomena..." Scully stopped and wheeled to face him. "Mulder, I'd have to say that Father Lazslo and Doug Parnell are both pretty unlikely candidates for sainthood, wouldn't you?" "It might not be one of them," Mulder replied. "It might be related to a specific person or it could be something more ethereal." She cocked her head and regarded him for a moment. "We just spoke to a flesh and blood person who, in all probability, lied to us and has something to hide. Don't you think we should concentrate on corporeal suspects first?" "We don't know why he lied, Scully, or what he's hiding," Mulder said. "Maybe he's scared of something." "He's scared of something all right," she said. "He's scared because he knows his story is falling apart." "I'm not so sure," Mulder said. "I think he noticed the same smell in the confessional that we did. Maybe he knows something about it." "Mulder, there are lots of other explanations for that smell," she said. "Such as?" She let out an exasperated sigh. "Such as cleaning solvent. Or an air freshener. Or some sort of perfume," she said. "Lilac-scented?" he said. "Father Laszlo had interesting taste in after shave." She crossed her arms and gave him a look. "O.K., O.K.," he said, "but you smelled it, too, Scully." "I'm not denying that there was a smell. I'm just saying that there are other plausible explanations besides this Odours of Sanctity thing," she said. "It could even be some sort of illness that he had. There are certain metabolic disorders that can cause strong odours." "Is there any way to check that out?" "I'll go over the autopsy report again. And maybe we could get his personal medical records. But I think it's clear what's happened here," she said. "What?" "I think that Father Lazslo had a drug addiction that had gotten expensive. Maybe he owed somebody a lot of money. Maybe they got tired of waiting." Mulder hiked his eyebrows. "You're saying you think some hired hit man walked into this convent, swung by the chapel, and killed Father Lazslo by causing his eyes to somehow combust in his head, only to leave without anyone seeing him?" Scully's nod was half-hearted. Mulder shook his head. "And you say my theories are far- fetched..." He started down the hall towards Sister Cecelia's office. The door to the nun's office was closed when they arrived at the administration area. Judy Basset, the younger woman they'd seen before was by herself now, still typing lazily. Her eyes zeroed in on Mulder, even before he spoke. "Is it all right if we just go in?" he asked, motioning at the closed door. "She's expecting us." The woman nodded, and attempted a smile, but succeeded only in looking pained. Mulder led the way between the desks and filing cabinets, Scully trailing after him. As they passed her desk, Scully saw the Judy's gaze shift from Mulder to her. Scully felt her eyes sweep over her, studying every detail of her suit, her hair, her make-up. When their eyes met, the pained smile dissolved into sadness for a fraction of a second before the curtain of indifference came down across her face again. Scully quickly looked away and hurried by. Mulder knocked on the door and then opened it and stepped out of the way to let Scully enter. The small office felt charged with the static of a heated conversation, and Scully stopped abruptly. Sister Cecelia looked flustered. The sheriff, who was sitting on a straight back chair, got to his feet, holding his hat. Scully examined both their expressions. "I'm sorry," she said, "are we interrupting?" "No, not at all," Sister Cecelia answered quickly as she stood up. "Please, come in. Sit down. Sister Ursula will be along with tea in just a moment." Mulder shut the door and everyone sat. The sheriff cleared his throat before he spoke. "So, did you speak to Doug?" he asked. "We did," Scully replied, "and we're wondering if you've done any sort of background check on him." Sister Cecelia's eyes widened. "Surely you don't suspect Doug had something to do with this!" she exclaimed. "Actually, we'll be needing a list of all the people you employ here, Sister, as well as the names of all the residents, in order to run a complete check," Scully said. She injected as much reasonableness in her tone as she could. "It's a standard procedure when there's been a homicide." The sheriff had whipped out a little notebook and was scribbling in it. "Anything else?" he asked. "We'll need to examine Father Lazslo's residence," Mulder said. "That would be the rectory. It's in town, right across from the church," MacIntyre said. "You'll probably want to talk to Father Tim, as well." "Who is that?" Mulder asked. "Father Tim O'Reilly. He's the associate pastor at the church. Lived in the rectory with Father Lazslo." The sheriff wrote some more before he looked up again. "I'll call him and tell him to expect you. Anything else?" Mulder and Scully exchanged looks, then Mulder shook his head. "No, that should be it for now. If we could get that list of employees from you, Sister, we could start running checks as soon as possible." "I'll see that you get them right away, Agent Mulder," she said. She laced her fingers together and lowered her head, in a gesture that looked remarkably like prayer. When she raised her head again, she looked anxious. "I've been debating exactly how to say this," she said. Mulder and Scully waited. The nun took a deep breath, then said, "There were... problems...with Father Lazslo." "What kind of problems?" Scully asked. Sister Cecelia shot a glance at the sheriff, who nodded slightly. "I'm not even sure they're worth mentioning, really," she said. Scully leaned forward. "Sister Cecelia, I should remind you that this is a homicide investigation. If you know anything that might help us catch the person who killed Father Lazslo, you need to tell us." Sister Cecelia frowned. "Well, I suppose it wasn't much of a secret that he drank a lot. Sometimes he showed up drunk for mass, and sometimes he didn't show up at all. Father Tim covered for him when he could, but he has three other rural parishes to cover in addition to St. Teresa's." She paused, and looked down at her hands that were still tightly intertwined. "Is there anything else?" Scully asked. The nun looked at the sheriff again. "He wasn't always very kind to the residents," she said, finally. "Did he abuse them?" Scully asked. "Oh, not physically, certainly nothing like that," Sister Cecelia said, quickly. "He just wasn't always very sensitive to them." "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean," Mulder said. "These people are near the end of their lives, Agent Mulder. They are facing their own mortality and consequently, they need to be able to depend on their faith. On their church." She looked steadily at her desktop as she spoke. "Father Lazslo was very much a traditionalist in his thinking and tended to see things in very black and white terms." "What sort of things did he do?" Scully asked. "A couple of times he refused to administer the Sacrament of the Sick to people, before they died." Scully's face registered her surprise. "That's rather unusual, isn't it?" The nun nodded. "Most often, though, it was the things he said that upset people." She took a deep breath to fortify herself. "About two years ago, we had a resident, a sweet, gentle soul if ever there was one. He was a local farmer and he had divorced his first wife twenty five years ago. It seems she'd left him and their three children and gone off to the city with someone she'd met. He needed help on the farm and a mother for his children, and so he divorced her and eventually remarried. He and his second wife had two children, together." Barely contained anger shone in her face. Her words were slow and precise. "Father Lazslo told that poor man, on his deathbed, that because he'd been divorced and remarried, he had damned his soul to hell for eternity. He asked him if he knew what it felt like to be consumed by fire." She looked up at Scully and her eyes were piercing. "I sat by that man's bedside until he passed on, Agent Scully. He was terrified. No one should die like that." Sister's Cecelia's eyes filled up, and she pressed the back of one hand to her lips, and willed the tears away. Scully, Mulder and the sheriff waited while she composed herself. "So, I don't really know if any of that has any bearing on your investigation," she said, a moment later. She moved some papers on her desk. "But I thought you should know." Mulder nodded slowly. "Thank you, Sister," he said. The sheriff shuffled his feet. "There is one other thing," he said. "You folks will be needing a place to stay, I assume." "Yes, we will," Mulder said. "Is there any place that you can recommend?" "Well, there really aren't any motels around here. The closest one is about a forty five minute drive up the county road," MacIntyre said, studying his hat carefully as he spoke. "There is a lady in town, who has some spare rooms that she'll rent out, but I think that her arthritis has been acting up." The nun smiled at the sheriff. "Oh, for heaven's sakes, Neil, just say what you mean." She looked at Mulder and Scully. "The fact is that the other nuns and the residents are a little nervous. The sheriff can't spare anyone to stay here with us and frankly, I'd feel a lot safer if you were here. We have a wing of guest rooms that we keep for visiting families of our residents. It would be no trouble to prepare a couple of rooms for you." She laughed gently. "God has a funny way of answering our prayers, it seems. This morning, I prayed for Him to protect us, and here He's sent us two FBI agents." Mulder looked to Scully for an answer. She hesitated, then nodded, without returning Mulder's gaze. "Of course," she said. "We'd be happy to stay here." Mulder wondered why she was lying. He was worried about her. He studied her with surreptitious little glances, as she sat opposite him in the tiny booth, eating her soup, not saying much. They'd dug through paper all afternoon, checking and cross- checking names, criminal records, past addresses, remotely similar crimes. Scully had been glued to her laptop most of that time, connected by modem to databases back at the Bureau. They had discovered little, and Mulder had kept an eye on her all afternoon, as he did now, as he had every day since Melissa's death. He'd seen plenty of the legendary Scully stoicism in that time. It had taken over, almost right away, helping her to cover up her pain, to deny it to herself and to him. How many times had she answered his questions with "I'm fine, Mulder," in a voice that told him she was anything but? She had tried so hard to keep the grief from seeping through the cracks in her armour, but Mulder knew differently. He could see it. Some days, he could almost feel it. It was there in the dark circles that would appear under her eyes, from time to time, and in the way she picked at her food, but didn't really eat. It was how she would suddenly get so quiet and withdrawn that Mulder wanted to grab her shoulders and hang on to her, to prevent her from leaving him. Mostly though, it was there, in her eyes. Such sadness. Sadness and something else, something that Mulder recognized because he knew it so intimately. Guilt. "How's the soup?" he asked. She looked up from her bowl, had to think for a second before she answered, because she'd been so far away. "It's good," she said. "How's your steak?" "Barely cooked, just the way I like it," he replied. "And thank you for not treating me to your standard lecture on parasites in undercooked beef." He managed to provoke the slightest smile, as he'd hoped he would. He heaped more sour cream on his baked potato. Another quick look at her face, at the mask of emotionlessness that she was trying to keep in place, and wondered what she was thinking. Somebody had stuffed a handful of change in the diner's beat up jukebox and Mulder listened for a moment while James Taylor begged Jesus to see him through another day. Scully glanced up at the words, then seemed to drift off on her own thoughts again. Mulder ate and watched her. Sister Ursula wore crepe soled lace up shoes that made Scully think of her grandmother, and she made no noise as they followed her down the dimly lit corridor. "I hope that you'll be comfortable," she said. "It's not fancy, but I think you'll have everything you need." She unlocked a door and pushed it open and then continued down the hall to the next door. Mulder and Scully peered into the first room. It was small and painted stark white, with a window that looked out into the inky darkness. The furnishings consisted of a single bed, a dresser with a mirror, a straight back chair and a crucifix. Mulder leaned down, and spoke quietly, close to Scully's ear. "I can see now why they call it a cell," he said. Scully gave him a tired smile. "Night, Mulder," she said, and she trudged down the hall to the next room. Sister Ursula had turned on the lamp and was getting extra blankets from the closet. "The bathrooms are across the hall, and at the end of the hall, there's a little kitchen with a kettle and things so that you can make yourself a cup of tea if you like," the nun said. She laid two more blankets on the foot of the tiny bed, then looked around the spartan little room. "It's not the Marriott, is it?" she asked with an apologetic smile. "I hope it's all right." Scully propped her suitbag on the chair and put her briefcase down beside it. "It's fine, Sister," she said. "Well, if there's anything you need, you just let me know, dear," Sister Ursula said. "Actually, there is something you could help me with," Scully said. The nun smiled expectantly. "I met someone today, who I think is a nun. She was over in the residents' wing. I didn't get a chance to ask her name." "What does she look like?" Sister Ursula asked. "I'd say she's 75 or so, about my height. Her hair is mostly white," Scully said. "Half the women who live here would fit that description," Sister Ursula laughed. "Are you sure she's a nun?" "She had a pin like yours," Scully said, "a little silver cross. And very striking blue eyes." Sister Ursula's face brightened in recognition. "Oh, that has to be Sister Mike," she said. "Sister Mike?" "It's really Sister Michael, of course, but everyone calls her Mike. She's quite a character." Scully nodded. "Yes," she said, "she is." Sister Ursula cast a final look around the room. "All right then, if you're all settled, I'm going to go and see if Agent Mulder has everything he needs." She stopped in the doorway, one hand on the knob. "Sleep well, dear," she said. She started to leave, then paused. "Oh, in case you're interested, mass is at seven, in the chapel." Scully nodded and forced a smile. "Thank you. I'll keep that in mind." The nun smiled at her and left, closing the door soundlessly behind her. Scully sighed heavily and sat down on the bed. She looked around, ran a hand over the blankets beside her and wondered if she had enough energy to have a bath. She let herself sink back onto the bed, reaching for the pillow to stuff under her head. Her hand brushed against something solid and she sat up. Under the pillow was a leather bound bible, with thin pages that had yellowed with age. It was open to Matthew, chapter eleven. Scully felt a sudden urge to look behind her, as if she might see the old woman standing there at the foot of her bed. She stared at the book for a while before she picked it up and ran a finger through the text to verse 28. "Come to me, all of you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest." She sat for a long time on the side of the bed, the book open on her lap, not moving. The darkness was so complete, it was almost suffocating. Scully rolled over again, pulled the blankets up to her chin, and wished for sleep. She had a feeling that it would be a long time coming tonight, if it came at all. She hoped there wouldn't be nightmares. The time after she went to bed was always the hardest. During the day it was so much easier to escape into work, to keep her mind off things that she didn't want to think about. But at night, when she returned home, it would all come creeping back to her, like sinister shadows that stalked her from the dark corners of her apartment. In some ways, she preferred to be away from Washington altogether. When she was camped out in some sterile hotel room, she could force herself to forget and for a few days, she could pretend that everything was the same as it had always been. As soon as she got back, though, and was confronted by all that was familiar, the illusion she'd clung to would start to crumble and she would realize again that things were never going to be the same. So she would hold the ghosts at bay as best she could for the evening -- she usually brought a stack of paperwork home with her and television was always a reliable sedative -- but every night, when she finally crawled into bed, turned out the light and waited for sweet unconsciousness, it was always the same. It was as if her own thoughts turned against her in that hazy in between time that wasn't quite sleep. She would hear Melissa's voice, had long ago imagined the scene as she'd walked through the door to Scully's apartment. Her mind would replay it again and again, always ending with the explosion of the bullet ripping into her sister's skull. Scully could hear it as clearly as if she'd been the one who pulled the trigger. Gradually, the numbness that Scully had cultivated all day would slip away and a cold ache would move in to fill the space that was left. She would lay there, dreading morning, but dreading the darkness even more, and wonder over and over again what she should have done differently. =========================================================================== From: GYRFALCON@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: "Dark Night Of The Soul" - 3/6 Date: 9 Feb 1996 03:51:55 GMT <> Dark Night of the Soul (3/6) ************************** by Patti Murphy (patriciam@igs.net) The secretary at the rectory was not apologetic when she informed Mulder that it was impossible for Father Tim to meet with them today. "Father is very, very busy," she'd told him on the phone. "I'm not sure when he'll be able to see you." It was only after Mulder let her know that they wouldn't take up too much of Father's time, and reminded her that refusing to co-operate with a murder investigation was a serious offence, that she could see her way clear to pencilling them in for a few minutes around one o'clock. St. Anthony's was a solid old church with a Gothic spire that stretched far into the colourless heavens and which could be seen for miles. A graveyard had taken root around it, and now it sat in the center, surrounded on all sides by tombstones that looked like giant toadstools which had sprouted up from the faded grass. Across the street stood the rectory, a two story brick house with white shutters and a sprawling front porch. Mulder pulled the rental car into the driveway at ten minutes to one. They climbed the stairs to the porch, their steps echoing dully on the wooden planks. Mulder rang the bell and they waited. The wind had turned cold and it made the tails of their coats snap around their legs. Scully pushed her hair off her face with a gloved hand, then stifled a yawn. She looked across at the sombre old church and tried, unsuccessfully, to remember what St. Anthony was the patron saint of. Behind her, the door opened. The man who stood there was very thin, with delicate features and long, white fingers. He looked like he would break, very easily, if dropped. His black pants and Roman collar were too big and hung on him, making him look even younger and paler. "Agent Mulder?" he asked. His eyes darted nervously towards Scully, then back again. Mulder showed his badge and introduced himself and Scully. The young priest tried to smile, but aborted the attempt part way in favour of ushering them in the door. Inside, someone had been baking and the hall was thick with the sweet smell. A huge woman with a sour expression appeared at the end of the hall and glared at them. Mulder decided that she must be the secretary he'd spoken to. He considered going over and flashing his badge at her once more for good measure, but before he could, Father Tim had led them into a sitting room and shut the door behind them. The priest motioned to an avocado coloured sofa that still had plastic protectors on the runner. "Please, sit down. Can I get you anything?" he asked. Mulder and Scully both shook their heads as they settled onto the couch. Father Tim looked nervously around, as if he was afraid of somehow choosing the wrong chair. Finally he decided on a small arm chair across from the two agents and propped himself on the edge of the seat, his hands tightly knotted in his lap. Mulder watched him, and waited until he had stopped moving, before he spoke. "Father, as you know, we're investigating the death of Father Laszlo, and we're wondering if you might have any ideas about who might have wanted to murder him. Anything you can tell us would be helpful." Father Tim's pale fingers clasped and unclapsed, and he studied the faded carpet. "I'm afraid there isn't much to tell. Father Laszlo left to go to St. Teresa's around five o'clock as usual. I was over at the church with a prayer group until after eleven. When I got home, I received a call from the Sheriff telling me that they'd found his body in the chapel." "Can you think of anyone who might benefit from his death?" Mulder asked. "I'm afraid I can't," he said, with a little shrug. "He didn't own anything of any value, as far as I know. His family is all dead, except for one sister out west somewhere. Sacramento, I think." Scully started to speak, but got stuck on the word Father. How could she call him that? He was a kid who looked like he'd just got the hang of shaving. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Was there anyone who might bear him some sort of grudge?" she asked. "A grudge?" His eyes were wide, and he managed to look even younger. "Someone he might have had a disagreement with lately?" she prompted. Father Tim bit his lower lip and cast a glance over his shoulder at the glass door. Scully and Mulder exchanged looks. "Father, is something the matter?" Scully asked. The young priest looked like he was about to jump out of the chair. "No," he said, quickly. "No, it's just..." He peeked over his shoulder again. "It's just that...." Scully and Mulder waited. He wiped his forehead and took a deep breath, then forced himself to look at them. "You have to understand that I'm just the associate pastor," he said. Scully leaned forward, urged him on with a nod. "It's hard being the associate, because it's like it's not really your own parish, you see. You don't get to make the decisions. You pretty much just have to do what the pastor tells you." "Did Father Laszlo ask you to do something that you thought was wrong?" Mulder asked. "No, no, oh God, nothing like that," Father Tim said. "Actually, he didn't ask me to do much at all. In fact, he didn't talk to me very much." "Why was that?' Scully asked. He shrugged. "Hard to say. I don't think he liked me a whole lot." He looked up from the carpet and smiled sheepishly. "I think he may have resented me a little bit." "Resented you? Why?" "Father Laszlo was..." He bit his lip again and his eyes wandered around the room while he searched for words. "...not very popular with some of the parishioners," he said finally. "Was he unpopular enough for someone to kill him?" Mulder asked. The priest shook his head. "I can't imagine anyone being that angry with him..." "Did anyone ever threaten him?" Scully asked. Father Tim hesitated, and his hands fluttered in his lap. "Not exactly," he said. "Well, what, exactly?" Scully asked. The young man frowned. "I don't know if anyone ever threatened him, but I heard him threaten someone once. About two weeks ago." "What happened?" His eyes crept up from the floor again, and studied their faces, searching for some kind of reassurance. "It was down at the tavern," he said, in a tentative voice. "He had been drinking and was starting to get a little loud, so the owner called me to come and pick him up." He waited for their reaction. When they both nodded, he took a deep breath and plunged on. "When I got there, it looked like there had just been a bit of a scuffle. Father Laszlo was very angry, but the owner and I convinced him to put his coat on and to let me take him home. We were in the parking lot, on our way to the car when we ran into Doug." "Doug?" Scully asked. "Do you mean Doug Parnell?" The priest nodded. "Do you know him?" he asked. "We've met him," Scully said. "What happened then?" Father Tim rolled his eyes. "Father Laszlo completely lost it. He started yelling at him and saying all sorts of things. I had to just about drag him to the car." "What sort of things did he say to him?" Mulder asked. "A lot of stuff that didn't make sense. He was pretty drunk. But there was one thing I remember because he sounded so angry when he said it. He said, `You just remember that I know all about you, you little s.o.b.,'." He grinned sheepishly. "Except Father didn't say `s.o.b.'..." "Do you know what he meant?" Scully asked. Father Tim shook his head. "No, no idea. But he was mad." "Did Parnell say anything back?" Mulder asked. "He just kept walking, you know, kind of ignoring him. Of course, that made Father even madder." "Did you ask Father Laszlo about it?" Scully asked. He studied the pattern on the carpet again. "It was always better to stay away from Father the day after something like that," he said. "We never talked about it." "Could Father Laszlo have been talking about something that Parnell told him in confession?" A nervous smile edged across the young man's face. "Doug wasn't exactly what you'd call a regular at confession. But I suppose it's possible." "And you have no idea what it could mean?" Scully asked. He shook his head again. "No, I'm sorry." Mulder and Scully looked at each other, and Scully nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you Father," she said. "You've been very helpful. I wonder if we could see Father Laszlo's room now?" Father Laszlo had been a smoker and the biting stench of stale tobacco smoke hung in his room, and seemed to coat everything. The bed was unmade and there were clothes and magazines piled on every flat surface. On the beside table, a huge ashtray overflowed with butts. Scully and Mulder stood on the threshold a moment and looked around. "Your saint wasn't very big on housekeeping," Scully remarked to Mulder as she stepped in. Mulder said nothing as he began to circle the room, opening drawers, peering into the closet. Scully flipped through a few magazines. "Look, Mulder, he's got some of the same subscriptions you do," she said. Mulder acknowledged her with a nod and a smirk and continued looking around. She tossed the magazine back onto the pile and surveyed the mess around her. "You must admit that it's an odd coincidence that the very person who finds Father Laszlo's body is someone that he publicly threatened, only two weeks ago," she said. Mulder shifted some boxes in the closet. "Does this mean that you're abandoning your hit-man-in-the-chapel theory?" he asked. Scully frowned at his back. "There's just too many connections," she said. "Maybe Doug Parnell was the one selling him the drugs." "In a town where you supposedly know what your neighbour is having for supper, you'd think that Sheriff MacIntyre would know if Parnell was the local cocaine source," Mulder said. He reached up to the closet's top shelf and pushed a stack of shoe boxes aside. The top one teetered, then tumbled to the floor. Mulder ignored it and ran his hand along the shelf behind the boxes. He pulled out a plastic baggie that held a tablespoon of fine white powder. "Funny place to keep icing sugar," he said. When they left the sheriff's office, the sun was fighting for life on the horizon, slowly succumbing to the creeping night. Scully studied the bruise coloured clouds that smothered the last of the light as she waited for Mulder to unlock the car door, and wondered what sort of weather such clouds brought with them. Her father would have known. The wind came up just then and she could feel it through her coat, like cold fingers. She suppressed a shiver. Mulder stacked the reams of files and computer printouts they'd collected into the back seat, then got in and started the engine. He flipped the lock on her door and Scully got in quickly, grateful to be out of the wind. Mulder didn't ask, just somehow knew that she was cold, and he turned up the heater. They'd run every name they had through every database they could access and had come up with no obvious connections, no red flags that marked someone with some link to Father Laszlo which might inspire homicide. The pile of papers in the back which contained service records, social security numbers and countless other bits of personal information would now have to be scrutinized even more carefully, always looking for some tiny detail, some trivial piece of data that would point them in the right direction. Any direction. It was exhausting and boring, a necessary aspect of police work. But even Scully, who usually thrived on the minute details, had had enough for today. She was tired and cold and her eyes were burning from squinting at the blue screen of her laptop. She wished she was home, in a hot bath. Gradually, as the car warmed, Scully felt herself relax. She leaned back in the seat and laid her head against the head rest. Outside, the landscape had been drowned in the even blackness of the night. There were no stars. She looked over at Mulder, whose face was illuminated by the glow from the dashboard. His eyes were on the road, but she could tell his mind was far away, probably on the case, rearranging the pieces, trying to make them fit, trying to find the hole. He seemed relaxed, an illusion created by the sleepy look he always had and the way he stretched his long legs out when he drove, but somehow he was still slightly alert, as if he was tightly coiled inside. She watched him driving and thinking and she wondered again how he had lived with it all these years. She knew he blamed himself for Samantha, just as she blamed herself for Melissa's death. The difference was that she really was responsible. Mulder had been a twelve year old boy the night his sister had disappeared, scarcely able to take care of himself, let alone defend his sister. He had probably been too frightened to do anything. But Scully wasn't a child. She was an adult. An intelligent, capable adult, an agent with one of the most respected law enforcement agencies in the world. She had saved lives, solved horrible crimes, and protected innocent people from predators with dark souls. And yet she hadn't been able to prevent this. All her education, all her experience, all her strength...none of it had been enough to prevent her beautiful sister from walking into her apartment and taking a bullet to the head. The thought that always came to Scully in the coldest part of the night flashed through her head now like a bead of mercury, and made her stomach tighten. Had Melissa felt the bullet? Had she known what was happening? Sometimes, the thought of what Melissa might have felt gripped her with a fierceness that made her chest hurt, as if her heart was being squeezed. Usually she would try to be calm, breathing slowly until the ache started to pass, but once she had found herself on the verge of prayer and she had begged the deaf universe to help her believe that there'd been no pain. After all, Scully told herself, Melissa had never regained consciousness and she knew that people who'd survived head wounds of that severity generally had no recollection of the event, of any pain. But still she wondered what had passed through her mind as she walked across the threshold. Had there been time to be frightened? What had been her last thought? As far as Scully knew, she had been the last person that Melissa had spoken to. Missy had been worried about her, wondering how she was doing, wanting to help. If only she hadn't asked her to come over. If only she'd been able to reach her before she left. If only. Scully sighed and looked out the window, trying to make out forms in the darkness that surrounded the car. The lights illuminated the road, followed the yellow line like a beacon that was steering them through this void. Mulder unlocked the main doors with the key Sister Cecelia had given them. "At least you've convinced them to start locking the doors around here," he said, as he let Scully pass. A table lamp cast a warm light around the waiting area, which was empty. Mulder carefully locked the door after them, then started to usher Scully towards the guest wing. She hesitated. "Our rooms are this way," he said, motioning to the left with his head. Scully buried her hands in her coat pockets, and looked at her feet. "I think I'm going to walk around a bit," she said. Mulder tried to read her expression. "You OK?" he asked. "Yeah, I'm fine," she replied. She looked steadily at his tie. "All right," Mulder said, nodding. "I'll see you a little later, then." He started down the hall towards the guest wing. Scully watched him go and waited until he'd turned the corner before she headed off in the opposite direction. The chapel was dimly lit and as still as death. Scully closed the huge wooden door quietly behind her and then turned and stood there, her ears ringing in the silence. Off to one side, a rack of red votive candles flickered, sending unsteady shadows creeping along the wall and ceiling. She took a few steps forward and stopped beside the huge bowl of holy water. She looked down at it for a moment, then slowly withdrew one hand from her pocket and touched the surface with a fingertip. She crossed herself out of reflex, and then peered over her shoulder, suddenly wondering if she was alone. The church was empty. She stuck her hands back into her pockets and walked up the center aisle, looking at the darkened stained glass windows, listening to her footsteps echo. Near the middle, she sat down in a pew. She sat for a long time, staring at the altar and at the dying Jesus who waited on his crucifix. She thought about praying, tried to make the words come, but couldn't. She didn't hear so much as sense the old lady shuffling up the center aisle, some time later. Suddenly, Sister Mike was just there, beside her, making a little bow in the direction of the altar. Scully slid over in the pew to let the nun sit down. "I thought I might find you here today," Sister Mike said. "Today is the second of November." Scully gave her a questioning look. "It's All Soul's Day, today," the old woman said. "The Church's feast day of all faithfully departed souls." Those gentle blue eyes locked on Scully's face. "You're thinking about your sister, aren't you?" A stinging lump of tears rose suddenly in Scully's throat and the urge to cry was overwhelming. She hung her head and managed to nod weakly. Sister Mike reached over and patted her hand, a soothing, brush of soft, old skin. They sat like that for a long time, neither speaking, the nun's warm touch lulling Scully, as if she was being rocked. "Do you know anything about St. John of the Cross?" the old woman asked after a long silence. Scully took a deep breath to steel herself and to push the last of the tears away. "Uh, he was a mystic, I think," she said. "Yes, that he was," the nun said. "He saw visions and he even claimed to hear God's voice from time to time." She chuckled softly. "Of course these days, when someone says they're hearing the voice of God, we lock them up." Sister Mike glanced over at Scully to see whether her expression had softened a little. When she saw that it had, she went on. "At any rate, he was a bit of a melancholy sort, and he wrote about something that he called the Dark Night of the Soul. Are you familiar with it?" Scully shook her head. "He said that there are times in everyone's life when, for whatever reason, we become separated from God. We feel alone and afraid, lost in the darkest of nights. Ironically, this usually happens after we've been enjoying a certain closeness with God, or after we've had some intense spiritual encounter, like a near- death expereience." "All of a sudden, we are plunged into such despair and longing and unhappiness that we feel unable to go on. We come to believe that the darkness is all there is, that the night is neverending. We think even God can't help us. But that's when, according to St. John, the most incredible thing happens to us." She looked over at Scully, and met her expectant gaze. "Just when we're certain that God has forsaken us, when we can't take another step and we think that the darkness is going to consume us, we find our way to the other side of the night." She smiled benignly and squeezed Scully's hand. "The sunrise comes and the night ends." Scully looked away, struggling to find her voice, her throat aching from the effort of holding back tears. "Sometimes it's hard to believe," she said, hoarsely. "In the sunrise, I mean." "I know. But the sunrise will come, whether you are able to believe in it or not," Sister Mike said, a gentle certainty in her voice. "As sure as there is darkness, Dana, there will be a sunrise." She smiled at her again, in a way that made Scully think of her mother, as she got to her feet. "Good night, dear. Sleep well." She wandered back down the aisle towards the door. Scully watched her as she went, moving slowly, making no sound. =========================================================================== From: GYRFALCON@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: "Dark Night Of The Soul" - 4/6 Date: 9 Feb 1996 03:55:37 GMT <> Dark Night of the Soul (4/6) ************************** by Patti Murphy (patriciam@igs.net) Her sleep, what little there had been of it, was filled with faceless villains and howling wind, and before the first hint of dawn illuminated the eastern sky, Scully pushed back the blankets and got up. The room was cold and she dressed quickly, pausing only to clip her holster onto the waistband of her leggings. She pulled a sweatshirt over top, and slipped noiselessly out of her room. A few minutes later, she was outside, pulling in deep breaths of the chilled morning air. Her body felt heavy and her head ached, but she set off across the lightly frosted lawn at a brisk pace, trying to shake off her stiffness. The grounds of the huge old convent were bordered on three sides by woods and Scully followed the perimeter until she found a break in the tree line. The path meandered through the forest, paved with a layer of wet leaves. She started to run, searching unsteadily for her rhythm, her footsteps muted by the soggy ground. She fought to empty her mind, to let the tangled thoughts spill out behind her onto the trail, but they clung to her, dogging every step. She broke into a sprint. The trees blurred into a swirl of dead grey and still she forced her legs to move faster, to run harder, her arms clawing along in time, every muscle straining to pull her forward. She felt the drag in her legs as her muscles protested and she stubbornly pushed harder, gritting her teeth with the effort. She flew down the path, her legs pounding along to a beat that coursed through her brain and blotted out her thoughts. She ran until she could feel nothing but the burn of the air that she pulled into her lungs in short gasps. Finally, the pain in her legs and her chest welled up to consume her and for the briefest moment, she forgot. She didn't see the slick patch of mud, only felt her foot slide out from under her as she hit it, and then she found herself sitting on the ground, a sharp ache in the wrist that had broken her fall. She sat there, chest heaving, trying to catch her breath. All around her, the naked trees reached upward with their boney hands, begging the sky for mercy. A jagged breath caught in her throat and it all came crashing back to her. She sat there on the unforgiving ground and wept. Later, as she was walking back across the rolling lawn towards the convent, Scully spotted a solitary car in the back parking lot. A single light hung over the rear entrance to the building, casting a welcoming glow around the door, but Scully veered away from it and headed for the car. It was parked at the far end of the lot, near the garbage dumpsters, as if someone had been trying to hide it from view. It was a grey Ford, about ten years old, with stripes of rust at the bottom of the driver's door. Scully reflexively committed the licence number to memory as she approached. Frost covered the windows like a guaze, but when she was a few yards away, she could make out a figure in the driver's seat. She drew her weapon and changed direction, coming up from behind the driver, trying to stay in the blind spot. She slid alongside the car, her senses alert, her index finger gripping the trigger guard of her gun. She steadied herself with a deep breath, then in one fluid motion, flung the driver's door open and dropped into a crouch, her Smith and Wesson leveled at the figure in the car. The stench of scorched human flesh and rotting flowers washed over Scully and she gagged. She quickly pulled her sweatshirt up over her mouth to try to mask the smell, and cautiously edged closer, peering at the still figure behind the wheel. Judy Bassett stared sightlessly back at her, charred holes where her eyes should be. By nine-thirty the crime scene had been documented and the body was being removed from the car by technicians from the county coroner's office. Scully watched as the van with Judy Bassett's remains rolled out of the parking lot, its siren silent. There was no rush to get to the morgue, Scully realized. Mulder came up behind her and touched her arm. "Sheriff MacIntyre is on the phone with the coroner now, trying to clear it with him for you to assist on the autopsy," he said. She nodded, absently. "I don't get it, Mulder," she said, her eyes still on the van as it drove away. "What's going on here? Who's doing this?" "It might not be a who, Scully. It might be a what," Mulder replied. She turned to look up at him, impatience mingling on her face with the specks of mud. "Mulder there's absolutely no evidence to support..." He cut her off. "Then explain to me what killed these two people." She pulled her gaze away and stared out at the tree line, heaving a frustrated sigh. "I can't yet. Maybe we'll know more after this autopsy." The discouragement in her voice bit into him and Mulder felt a quick pang for having spoken so sharply. "Look, Scully, I..." "Agent Mulder! Agent Scully!" Sheriff MacIntyre was over by the dead woman's car. "We've found something!" As Mulder and Scully approached, they could see that MacIntyre had spread the contents of Judy Bassett's purse across the hood of the car. A wallet, breath mints, a chequebook, a hairbrush, a small make up bag, a pack of cigarettes and two matchbooks lay beside the small leather handbag. "What is it that you want us to see?" Scully asked. The sheriff held up a tiny glass vial, with a small amount of white powder at the bottom. "This was in there," he said. "We found cocaine in Father Laszlo's room, too," Scully said to the sheriff. "Apart from the convent, that's the only connection we have between these two people." "I'm not surprised to find this," MacIntyre said. "Judy has been into just about everything you could imagine since she hit her teens. She was a real hellion, that one." "Excuse me, but where is the Pineview Motor Hotel, Sheriff?" Mulder was holding up one of the books of matches. "It's about an hour's drive from here, near Maitland. Pretty sleazy place, actually." "She had two books of matches from there in her purse," Mulder said. He turned the matchbook over in his hand as he spoke. "I think we should go check out their guest book." "Wouldn't be the first time she'd been stepping out on poor old Brian," the sheriff said. "Brian?" Mulder asked. "Is that her husband?" MacIntyre nodded. "Real nice guy. Runs a farm not far from here. Can't imagine what that boy saw in her. I'm on my way over there now to break the news to him." He took off his hat and ran a hand wearily across his brushcut. "Was there anything else in the car?" Mulder asked. "Just those. In the trunk." The sheriff motioned to two five gallon gas cans by the back tires. "They're both full of gasoline." "That's a lot of gas," Mulder said. He went over and looked carefully at the cans. They both still carried price tags. "Oh, by the way, Agent Scully," the sheriff said, "Dr. Langdon says he'd be happy to have you sit in on the autopsy. Maybe the two of you can figure out who the hell is doing this." Scully nodded grimly. "While you're doing that, maybe the sheriff and I can swing by the Pineview Motor Hotel," Mulder said. "Sounds good. I'll go get changed," Scully said. She nodded to the sheriff, then turned and headed for the convent. Mulder watched her go. There was dried mud all over the back of her leggings and some on the elbows of her sweatshirt. Mulder wondered if she'd fallen, but sensed, somehow, that it was better not to ask. One of sheriff MacIntyre's fresh-faced deputies was recruited to drive Scully to Maitland Memorial Hospital, the nearest facility equipped to do an autopsy. The young man chattered at her most of the way, declaring himself to be newly graduated from the state college's law and security program. He was all enthusiam and polished buttons, sprinkling his conversation with reverential "ma'am's" and asking about Quantico and the FBI. Scully listened to him and wondered if she'd ever been that young. If she had, it had been several lifetimes ago. She did recognize herself a little in his passionate commitment to protect people, but as they drove, she also realized that she had some doubts now about this idea of justice. In the beginning, justice had been the organizing principle of her career, the one sacred ideal that she held. It had been as tangible as the holster and pistol that she clipped on every morning when she dressed for work. She had gone about her work each day, secure in the certainty that not only was justice possible, but that the system she was part of was the best way to achieve it. And then these last two years with Mulder, she'd seen so much. And it had shaken her confidence. The very system she was part of had killed her sister and Mulder's father, all the while keeping its horrific secrets buried in bunkers and locked in coded files. The system was as much the enemy now as the serial killers and kidnappers she tracked, whose victims she dissected and studied in a hopeless effort of somehow bringing them to justice. Scully sighed, wearily. Mulder was right. There was no justice. There was only...what? Another autopsy. Maitland Memorial Hospital 11:14 a.m. Scully slipped into the surgical greens and tied her hair back tightly with a clip, her movements mechanical. Even as she exchanged her street clothes for a lab coat and scrubs, she could feel her professional mask sliding into place. It was almost as if she could leave her feelings hanging here in the metal locker, neatly folded beside her navy blue suit. It was a ritual, but it was a necessary ritual. One that allowed her to keep doing her job. And this morning, she was strangely grateful to be able to leave parts of herself outside of the autopsy room. She shut the locker with a decisive clang. As in most hospitals, the morgue was deep in the sub- basement, far away from the more travelled areas and the only sound that followed Scully as she made her way to the autopsy bay was the steady sigh of the ventilation system. The autopsy room itself was small and Judy Bassett lay on a shiny stainless steel table in the center of it, her body covered with a sheet, awaiting the coroner's scalpel. The biting smell that had first assaulted Scully at the car, filled her nostrils again and made her wince inwardly. She moved quickly to the table and snapped on the surgical lamp that was poised over it, illuminating the form on the table with a harsh white light. Scully looked around at the scales and dissection trays, the shelves of instruments and the familiar tools of the medical examiner and wondered if anyone really believed that they would end up one day laying where Judy Bassett was now, waiting to be sliced open and analyzed. Scully jumped a little when the door opened. A man in surgical scrubs entered. He smiled when he spotted her. "You must be Agent Scully," he said. "Didn't mean to startle you." "Dr. Langdon?" she asked. "Bob," he said, shaking her hand. "You'll make me feel older than I am if you call me Dr. Langdon." His hair was mostly white and he had coffee coloured eyes that twinkled as he smiled. He looked like a character from a Norman Rockwell painting, Scully thought, except she was pretty sure that Rockwell had never produced a portrait called "The County Coroner." "Thanks for lettimg me assist," she said. "Oh, it's my pleasure," he replied. "Actually, it's nice to have the compnay. This is usually a pretty lonely job." He pulled a cart with trays of instruments over to the steel table in the center of the room. "Neil MacIntyre tells me that you were an instructor in forensic pathology at Quanitco," he said. Scully hesitated, then smiled back. She hadn't told the sheriff that. "Yes, I was," she said. "Well, I'm impressed," he said. "Any chance that you'll be able to teach this old dog some new tricks?" Another twinkling smile. Scully smiled back. "I'm sure you know what you're doing." Langdon rearranged some instruments on the tray, then handed Scully a pair of rubber gloves. "All right, then," he said, "let's get started, shall we?" He pulled back the sheet. They looked at the body for a moment. "Mother of God," he said. "This is the second time I see this, but it's not getting any easier." Scully clicked on her tape recorder. "Case number 99-3760, Judy Bassett, on November 3, 1995 at 11:18 a.m.. The body is that of a healthy, 28 year old woman with blonde hair and....indeterminate eye colour. The body is 68 inches long and weighs 127 pounds. Rigor mortis is present in the extremities." She paused the tape recorder and picked up one of the hands, looking intently at her nails, then her hands and forearms. "No sign of defence injuries," she said. "Maybe she was drugged. Nobody would just sit there and let someone do this to them," Langdon said. "It's possible. The blood work and toxicological will tell us if that's the case," Scully said. They worked slowly and methodically, examining every inch of the woman's body, lingering over the wounds to her eyes. "Any blood at the scene?" Langdon asked. "No, same as last time," Scully said. "We collected a lot of fibre samples from the front seat, but there wasn't a single drop of blood." Langdon leaned closer and peered through a thick magnifying glass at the scorched eye sockets. "It might be a little premature to say but at first glance, it looks to me like it's the same story. No damage to surrounding tissue. It's like it was cauterized." "Could this be some kind of surgical instrument?" Scully asked. Langdon looked up. "I don't know what else could be so hot and so precise." "A soldering iron?" He shook his head doubtfully. "Maybe, but you'd think that something that bulky would burn the surrounding tissue. These wounds are very specifically inflicted. No other tissue is involved." "I wonder what the significance of the eyes is," Scully said. "Well, they're supposed to be the windows to the soul, aren't they?" Langdon offered, as he searched the tray for a scalpel. Scully bit her lip. "That's what they say." She watched Langdon carefully making the Y-shaped incision along Judy Bassett's abdomen, from her shoulders to her groin. A few moments later, the woman's ribs yielded to Langdon's surgical scissors and Scully lifted the organs out of the chest cavity, depositing them in pans. "You know, I've been a medical examiner for nearly 25 years," Langdon said as they worked. "I've seen a lot of carnage in my time, Agent Scully. Car accidents and heart attacks and people who fell into harvesters. But I never get used to the homicides. It's so unnatural, so unnecessary." He straightened up and shook his head sadly. "I have a daughter about the age of this young woman. She should be out shopping, or having coffee with her friends, not lying on this table." "It's hard to imagine how someone could do this," Scully said. "Evil exists, Agent Scully. Believe me. I've seen it enough times to know." Landgon reached into the steel pan which held the woman's heart and picked it up carefully, cradling it in his hands, a tired sadness creeping into his eyes. "You know, people are always saying `How can God allow such suffering in the world?' God didn't do this to Judy Bassett, Agent Scully. Some guy who's out there walking around did this to her. And I hope you catch the son of a bitch." Scully watched him walk over to the scale and gently place the heart on it. He felt her gaze and looked over his shoulder at her. "You know, lately I've been thinking a lot about retiring," he said. "It might be time. What do you think?" Scully smiled sympathetically. 3:25 p.m. Scully waited just inside the main doors of Maitland Memorial Hospital, staying out of the wind, watching for Mulder. A steady stream of visitors arrived at the hospital, including one man who carried a huge bouquet of pink roses, and who had the unmistakably goofy look of a new father. Just then, Mulder pulled up in the grey rental car. She picked up her briefcase and laptop and went out to meet him. The wind was bitterly cold but by the time she'd reached the car, Mulder had gotten out and come around to open her door for her. She got in and stowed her two bags at her feet. A few seconds later, Mulder slammed his door shut. "Funny thing about the Pineview Motor Hotel, Scully," he said. "I didn't see a single pine." She allowed the slightest smile. "However, the manager did recognize a picture of Judy Bassett, and was able to identify her most recent companion," he said. "Let me guess. Doug Parnell," Scully said. Mulder nodded. "It seems they've been regulars there for a little over a year now." "It's interesting how his name keeps coming up," Scully said. "It gets better," Mulder said. "Parnell didn't show up for work this morning and he's not at his home, either. The sheriff has some of his men out looking for him and he's going to put out a state wide APB on him." He slid the car into gear and pulled out of the hospital parking lot. "Well, I think I might have found something," she said. "What do you know about psychogenic death?" "You mean death caused by a psychological cause?" Mulder looked over at her with raised eyebrows. "Scully, I'm supposed to be the one who suggests those sorts of things." She smothered the smile that was creeping across her lips. "It's all very well documented in the medical literature, Mulder. Not nearly as spooky as you might think." Mulder chuckled. "So what did you find?" "There were lesions on Judy Bassett's heart, which was unusual, because she seemed otherwise to be in good health. I went back and checked Father Laszlo's autopsy and found that he had them too. It hadn't seemed out of place for him, since he had fairly advanced cardiovascualar disease." "How are these lesions significant?" Mulder asked. "By themselves, they're not, particularly. But in conjunction with the massively high levels of cathecholamines we found in their bloodstreams, they're very significant. I remembered a piece of research I'd read about in a journal, not long ago. Some scientists were injecting dogs with huge doses of epinephrine, big enough to kill them. When the dogs were dissected, it was found that they had developed lesions on their hearts." "You think somebody injected Father Laszlo and Judy Basset with epinephrine?" "No, I think that their bodies naturally produced a lethal amount of it in response to some stressful event," she replied. "Having your eyes burned out would qualify as stressful in my book," Mulder said. He looked over at her, tried to read her face. "Are you saying that something scared them to death?" She nodded. "I've read of cases where somebody died after nearly being hit by a car, or as they were walking on stage to give a speech." Mulder watched the road and thought for a moment. "Interesting M.O.," he said. "But it still doesn't tell us who's doing it. Or how." "I found something else that I think might interest you," Scully said. She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a file. "After the autopsy, I had a look through the emergency room records. It seems that Judy Bassett had sought treatment there twice in the last year, and was admitted for observation on one occasion." "Treatment for what?" She flipped the file open and skimmed her notes. "Dec 12, 1994, she had multiple lacerations on her face, a split lip and bruises on her arms and back. Claimed she fell down the stairs. March 17, this year, she was admitted with a concussion, and a fractured jaw. This time she said she slipped on the ice." "You think it was the husband?" "It has all the hallmarks of domestic violence." She shrugged. "Maybe her husband found out about the affair." "That doesn't explain the priest though," Mulder said. "Unless she'd been having an affair with him too," Scully suggested. "Did you show the guy at the motel a pictue of Father Laszlo?" Mulder shook his head. "There wasn't any reason to at the time. We can get Sheriff MacIntyre to send someone over with a photo." Scully looked out the window at the grey fields. "Where are we going?" "The sheriff is waiting for us at Judy Bassett's house. I think we need to ask her husband some questions." =========================================================================== From: GYRFALCON@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: "Dark Night Of The Soul" - 5/6 Date: 9 Feb 1996 03:59:19 GMT <> Dark Night of the Soul (5/6) ************************** by Patti Murphy (patriciam@igs.net) Brian Bassett sat at the tiny kitchen table, staring into space, his cup of coffee turning cold. He wore a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up, jeans and work boots, and he had the weathered face of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. Sheriff MacIntyre had introduced Mulder and Scully to him, and he had nodded numbly in their direction, but now he sat, unmoving, oblivious to their presence. Mulder pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. "Mr. Bassett," he said, his voice quiet, "I wonder if you could tell us what time your wife went out last night." Bassett seemed to pull himself back to the present, and he looked around, a little surprised to see these people in his kitchen. "Uh,...around nine, I think," he said. "Did she say where she was going?" Mulder asked. Bassett shook his head. "I asked her, but she didn't want to talk about it." He looked at his coffee cup. "It didn't matter. I had a pretty good idea." Mulder waited, watching him steadily. Bassett raised his eyes to meet Mulder's gaze and there was smoldering anger in them. He said nothing. "Mr. Bassett, did you know that your wife was having an affair?" Scully asked. Bassett tried to summon up his rage, to focus it on Scully, but instead, it rushed out of him like a sigh and left him sitting there, shoulders slumped, looking defeated. "Yes," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "I just wasn't sure who with." "Did you know she was taking cocaine?" she asked. "She told me she'd stopped," he said. He stared at the tabletop. "She promised me." Scully fixed him in her sights again. "Mr. Bassett," she said, "did you beat your wife?" "No!" He was on his feet, his face red, his eyes wild with anger. Mulder started to stand, one hand outstretched, as if he hoped to hold him in his seat with the gesture. "I would never do that!" Bassett shouted at her. "Who did it then?" Scully was still leaned against the counter, but she held herself a little straighter, her insides tightly coiled. He stood his ground, taking deep breaths that threatened to turn into sobs. After a while, he sat down again, his anger spent. He slid into the same defeated posture, slumped in the chair. "I don't know. She wouldn't tell me. I followed her once, to try to find out." He glared coldly at Scully. "I would've killed the son of a bitch who did that to her." The glare gradually faded and unbidden tears welled suddenly in his eyes. He turned his head away, swiping at the tears with one hand. "I just wanted to make her happy. Everything I did was for her." He choked on a sob, and struggled to continue. "She just didn't want to be a farmer's wife. I should've known that she wouldn't be happy here. I should've known." He took a deep breath and managed to stop the tears. He rubbed his face with his hands, tried to pull himself together. "We got married when we were 17....at first when she found out that she was pregnant with Ashley, Judy wanted to have an abortion, you know, or give her away." He looked from Scully to Mulder and then back again, his expression begging for understanding. "I convinced her to keep the baby and to marry me. I told her I'd take care of them. I promised her that we'd be happy." He looked away again. "I thought it was the right thing to do." He stared at the floor for a long time, not saying anything. Finally, he raised his eyes and looked at Mulder. "She didn't want to be with me anymore, but...I still loved her." Mulder kept his face immobile and gave the slightest nod. He waited a few seconds before he spoke. "After she left last night, what did you do?" "I had a couple of beers, watched some tv and then I went to bed. I waited up until about two, but she didn't come home." Basset gave a short, humourless laugh. "You just never know what's around the next corner, do you? You just never know." He shook his head. "There was this guy who came around a few months ago, selling life insurance and he sat right here at this table and talked about how nobody ever thinks that they're gonna die, but sooner or later, your number is gonna come up. I guess I just thought mine would come up before Judy's." "Did you buy some?" Scully asked. "Some what?" "Life insurance." "Yeah, we got a policy on me. We thought it was important because of Ashley." A shadow seemed to pass across his face and he hung his head. "Ashley," he said. "She's at school. How am I going to tell her that her mommy is dead?" Bassett looked over at the sheriff, whose large frame filled the doorway, and who, up until now, had been silent. Bassett studied the big man's face, then said, "Neil, you know who did this to her, don't you?" The sheriff ran his hand along the rim of his hat and avoided Bassett's eyes. "We're investigating a few leads, Brian, but for now..." "It was that son of a bitch Parnell, wasn't it? Wasn't it?" Bassett demanded. "He did this to her, didn't he, Neil?" "Now, Brian, don't go getting yourself all tied up in knots," MacIntyre said. "You leave this to us. We're going to get to the bottom of this. You have my word." When he spoke, Bassett's voice was solemn. "I swear Neil, if he did this to her, I'm going to kill him myself." He stared evenly at the sheriff. "I swear to God I'll kill him." "Hey, Scully, look at this," Mulder called. Scully left the sheriff by the police car and made her way across the yard to the barn where Mulder stood, stepping carefully to avoid the mud. "What?" she asked. Mulder pushed the door open a little further and pointed to some tall green tanks and a benchful of equipment. "Those are welder's tools," she said. "Is it possible that those wounds were caused by a welder's torch?" Mulder asked. Scully shook her head. "I don't think so. Both of the victims had extremely isolated tissue damage. Not something you could do with an acetylene torch." She motioned towards the farmhouse. "What did you think of the husband?" "He has no alibi for last night," Mulder replied. "But I still don't see the connection to the priest." "It's interesting that they'd just bought some life insurance, don't you think?" Scully asked. Mulder looked down at her, puzzled. "I don't see what you're getting at Scully," Mulder said. "The insurance policy gives the motive for murder to the wrong person." "I know. But something about it bothers me." She seemed to pursue the thought for a moment longer, then shook it off. "Anyway, come on. The sheriff is going to lead the way to Doug Parnell's house. Apparently they've found something that we need to look at." She headed off towards their car, picking her way through the mud, Mulder trailing behind. A half hour later, the sheriff signalled and pulled off the county road into a narrow dirt lane. Mulder manoeuvered the rental car along after him, slowing slightly to navigate the pot holes. "Do you know what doesn't make sense to me?" Scully said. "What?" "Doug Parnell isn't married and had a place of his own. Why did they go to that motel all the time?" The lane opened into a rough clearing and Mulder stopped the car. Directly ahead of them were the rusty hulks of two huge old cars, neither of which had wheels. One had no doors and it was partly covered by a bright orange tarp that had come loose and was flapping loudly in the wind. Rotting mufflers and various engine parts were strewn about in the long grass, sticking up here and there like tombstones. Mulder surveyed the scene, then pointed to Scully's right. "I think we may have just discovered the reason," he said. Scully looked in the direction he was pointing and saw what at first she thought was a shed. It was small and partly covered by tarpaper, but patches of bare plywood peeked through in spots. She looked back at Mulder. "He lives in that?" she said. "I think it's charming," Mulder said, as he opened his car door. "In a rustic sort of way." Another police car was parked in the clearing and a deputy had gotten out when the sheriff pulled up. They were talking as Mulder and Scully approached. "Redfield here says there's a message on Parnell's answering machine that we should listen to," MacIntyre said. Scully gave the shack a dubious look. "This place has electricity?" she asked. "When he pays his bills it does," MacIntyre replied. He motioned for them to lead the way. It was as cold inside as out and it smelled of wood smoke, but the wood burning stove which stood against the far wall was not lit. The floor space was roughly divided into a kitchen and a living room, the latter consisting of a couch with no legs, a floor lamp and a wooden chair, upon which was balanced a flat screen TV and a VCR. The kitchen, where they stood, was distinguished from the living room in that it had a stove, a card table and a wall of rickety shelves which served as cupboards. "The Pineview Motor Hotel is starting to look pretty upscale," Mulder said quietly to Scully as he stepped past her. He circled the room, looking at Parnell's possessions while the sheriff located the answering machine. He found it on the floor by the couch and fiddled with the buttons until the small, tinny voice of Judy Bassett was heard. "Hey baby, it's me." She sounded breathless, and there was music playing in the background. "I put the stuff in the trunk like you said....I can't believe we're finally gonna do this....I'll see you at midnight." A pause, filled with faraway guitars and someone singing. "I love you, baby," she said, and hung up. "There was gasoline in the trunk of the car when we found her," Mulder said. "What the hell were the two of them up to that they were driving around with a trunkful of gasoline?" the sheriff asked. Scully's expression changed. "Oh my God," she said quietly. "They were going to burn the house down." Mulder gave her a questionning look. "What are you talking about?" "The Basset house. They were going to burn it down with Brian Bassett in it, so that she could collect on the life insurance," she said. "But wait a minute," Mulder said, holding up a hand. "She's the one who is dead." "Something went wrong." Scully bit her lip. "Do you think that her husband figured out what she was doing?" "Brian's got a temper, but I couldn't imagine him doing something like that," the sheriff said. Scully gave MacIntyre a blunt look. "Revenge has a way of changing people," she said. "I hate to sound like a broken record but it still doesn't explain the priest," Mulder said. Scully sighed. "Yeah, I know." "Well, whatever the hell's going on, we've got to find Doug Parnell," MacIntyre said. Mulder rubbed his forehead and nodded. "Yeah, I think he's going to be able to fill in a lot of blanks. Any sign of him yet?" The sheriff shook his head. "Haven't even found his truck. The problem is that he knows these woods like the back of his hand and if he's headed into the bush, it could take a while to track him down. But I've got every available man out combing the area and the state troopers are sending another half dozen officers tonight. In the meantime, though, I wonder if you two would mind helping out with some surveillance?" "Sure," Mulder said. "What do you need?" "If you would stay here and keep an eye on his house, that would free up Redfield. We could send somebody over to relieve you around eleven or so." Mulder looked to Scully for confirmation. She nodded. "All right," Mulder said. "But I don't suppose you know of a deli nearby that does take out, do you?" Mulder fished another sunflower seed out of his pocket and watched Scully stare out the car window. They were parked on the side of the road, about a quarter mile away from Parnell's driveway. They had listened to the radio for a while, a phone in show about health care reform that had bored Mulder to death, but which he left on because Scully seemed interested. They had drained the tall thermos of coffee that one of the deputies had left them, and they'd played 23 rounds of "Botticelli", a guessing game that Scully excelled at. He'd held his own tonight, though, only losing by four games. All in all, a fairly typical stake-out, especially given the fact that the car was completely engulfed in darkness and that they were, quite literally, in the middle of nowhere. But now it was getting cold in the car and Mulder suddenly realized that Scully hadn't spoken for well over an hour. He started the car, ostensibly to run the heater, but really just to study her profile by the dashboard glow. It confirmed what he suspected. The look on her face told him that she was so far away, he might as well be by himself on this dark road. It was a lonely feeling and he didn't like it. "Seed?" he asked, holding out a palmful of sunflower seeds. Scully tore her eyes away from the window, regarding him blankly at first, then shook her head. He leaned against his door and shelled another seed, watching her some more, trying to decide whether or not to ask. To hell with it, he thought, finally. She could always tell him to mind his business. "I may be way off here, but you don't look like you're busy pondering the finer points of this case," he said. Scully looked at her lap and didn't answer for a long time. He was about to apologize and beat a hasty retreat when she spoke. "In a way I suppose I am thinking about this case," she said. She raised her eyes to meet his. "I'm thinking about revenge." He looked steadily at her. "I hope it wasn't it something I said." She smiled weakly, then looked down at her hands. Mulder noticed that her fingers were knotted together. "Mulder, do you remember back in April...when everything was going on?" She looked up hesitantly, searching for encouragement. He urged her on with a nod. "You know, when I found you with Krycek? I was afraid you were going to kill him and I stopped you..." Mulder chuckled. "Stopped me? That's an interesting euphemism, Scully. I woke up two days later in New Mexico with a scar where you `stopped' me." Scully grinned sheepishly, but the expression faded quickly. She bit her lip and stared at the dashboard, then locked eyes with Mulder. "I really thought you were going to kill him, Mulder." Mulder's eyes broke away for an instant. "I was," he replied. He reached into his pocket, felt around for more seeds. "I just wanted to say...that I understand," she said quietly. Mulder met her eyes again and they were clear and piercing, begging him, somehow. "You think it was Krycek who killed Melissa," he said, not sure whether he meant it as a statement or a question. Whichever it was, it hit the mark. Scully turned her face to the window and stared out at the blankness. "I don't know," she said, after a while. "I have no evidence. It's just a hunch." He watched the back of her head, tried to remember the exact blueness of her eyes. "I've learned to put a lot of faith in your hunches, Scully," he said, softly. He heard her chuckle, but she kept her face turned away. "You're wondering what you would have done if you'd been in my position, if it had been you who'd had Krycek on the business end of a Smith and Wesson." He thought he saw her shoulders sag a little. A moment later, she turned back to face him. "I was brought up to believe that principles like honesty and justice and honour meant something, Mulder. That they were important. I've based my whole career on this lofty notion of justice. I swore an oath to uphold it and I've always fulfilled that promise, but..." Her voice weakened and trailed off. "But this is your sister," Mulder said. Scully looked at her hands sitting uselessly in her lap and cursed herself for wanting to cry. She nodded. They sat for a long time, neither speaking, the only sound the purring motor of the car. "You know when you first came back, Scully, while you were still in a coma and we weren't sure if you would recover, Melissa told me something." Mulder's eyes swept up and down the empty road while he talked. "She said that she believed that whoever had done such a terrible thing to you had an equal horror coming to them." When he looked over at her, Mulder saw that she was smiling. "Karma," she said. He nodded. "Do you belive in that, Mulder? Some sort of cosmic payback system?" He searched another pocket for some seeds, came up empty handed. "I don't know," he said. "I'd like to think that whatever good we do counts somehow." "And the bad?" He laid his head back against the window and thought for a moment. "Yeah. I hope someone is keeping track of the bad stuff too. Which brings us to a very important question." She searched his face. "What?" "What exactly it was that you did in your last life that was so terrible that you got stuck with me." She smiled at him and shook her head. Their relief showed up shortly before eleven with the announcement that there was still no trace of Parnell and with instructions from the sheriff that he would be in contact the moment that they found anything. In the meantime, he suggested that they go back to the convent and get some rest. Two hours later, Scully was still tossing and turning in the uncomfortable little bed at St. Teresa's. She was wired from all the coffee they'd had tonight and she was too preoccupied to sleep, anyway. Outside her window, the wind howled and raged. She pulled the blankets up against the chill in the room. She lay there a while longer, then sighed. She reached over and turned on the lamp, her eyes falling automatically on the battered old bible that sat on the night side table. She looked at it for a long moment, then picked it up and started leafing through it. The pages were old and thin and they crinkled as she turned them. She browsed through the old book, pausing here and there to read a verse, then fanned through a chunk of pages and found herself in Revelations. A passage caught her eye. "The fourth angel poured out his bowl on the sun, and the sun was given the power to scorch people with fire. They were seared by the intense heat and they cursed the name of God, who had control over these plagues, but they refused to repent and glorify him." Scully lowered the book and glanced at the door to her room, suddenly wondering if she had locked it. She knew she should get up and check, but the room was so cold and she'd just started to warm up. Just then, she heard quiet footsteps in the hall. She sat up and listened, her eyes glued to the door knob. A gentle tapping noise and then whispered voices. She waited, straining to hear. Another few seconds and then footsteps coming closer. She glanced around the room, trying to locate her gun. A knock at the door. She froze. "Scully?" She let out her held breath, whipped back the covers and bounded to the door. Mulder stood in his bare feet in the darkened hallway, dressed in sweat pants and a t-shirt. His hair stuck up at odd angles. "What is it?" Scully asked. "Sister Cecelia says that some of the nuns think they heard a noise from the basement," he said. Scully glanced down the hall. Sister Cecelia stood in the shaft of light that streamed from Mulder's room. She was white with fear. "Do you think it's Parnell?" Scully asked. "It could be. He's got keys to everything here, apparently. I'm going to call the sheriff and tell him we're going down to check it out. I'll ask for back up." "O.K." Scully's heart started to beat faster. "I'll get dressed." =========================================================================== From: GYRFALCON@delphi.com Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: "Dark Night Of The Soul" - 6/6 Date: 9 Feb 1996 04:03:29 GMT <> Dark Night of the Soul (6/6) ************************** by Patti Murphy (patriciam@igs.net) It took less than a minute for Scully to pull on her sweats and sneakers. She checked the clip in her gun and grabbed her flashlight then headed out into the hall. Sister Cecelia was waiting there for them, nervously glancing up and down the corridor. Scully touched her arm. "Everything will be all right. We'll just get you to stay in your rooms until we've checked things out," she said. The nun nodded. Mulder emerged from his room in jeans and a sweatshirt. "The sheriff is on his way," he said. They quickly escorted Sister Cecelia back to the nun's wing of the convent. "There's a door at the end of this hall that leads to the basement," she said, once they stood outside her room. "We usually keep it locked so that none of our Alzheimer people can wander down there." She produced a set of keys and gave them to Mulder with trembling hands. "This is the set of master keys. They should open everything." Mulder took the keys and set off down the hall. Sister Cecelia grasped Scully's arm, her eyes wide. "Please, be careful," she said. Scully nodded, then trotted off after Mulder. Mulder unlocked the door and eased it open. They both slipped noiselessly into the stairwell. Directly ahead of them was a flight of cement stairs, that led down into the darkness. Mulder drew his gun, snapped on his flashlight and started down the stairs, stepping carefully to avoid making any sound. Scully followed, her index finger tightly squeezing the trigger guard of her gun. At the foot of the stairs, they came to a metal door. Scully touched Mulder's arm. "If this is Parnell, he's got an advantage here because he knows the layout of the basement," she whispered. "I think we need to find a way to turn on some lights." "But if we turn on the lights, he's going to know we're here," Mulder whispered back. "I know, but we'll make targets of ourselves with these flashlights," she said. Mulder thought a moment, then nodded. "You're right. Once we're in, we'll try to find some lights." He tried the doorknob, found it unlocked. "When I open it, I'll go right. You take left, OK?" She nodded. He leaned against the door. Scully lifted her weapon and cupped the grip with the other hand. Mulder nodded once and then flew through the door, pivoting to the right, his gun levelled. Scully followed, facing the other way, her flashlight beam stabbing through the darkness. The hall was empty. The exit sign directly above their heads bathed them both in an eerie red light. They could hear the sound of trickling water in the pipes that ran all along the ceiling, and further away, the muted roar of the boiler room. Mulder motioned to the left and Scully nodded. They started down the hall, moving slowly, muscles tensed, senses alert. When they reached the end of the hall, Mulder pressed himself against the wall, then peered cautiously around the corner. He searched the hall with his light, but found no one waiting there. They turned right and continued on, passing a door marked "Storage". Mulder tried a couple of keys on it, but wasn't able to open it. They moved on, Scully glancing behind them every few steps. Another turn and they found an electrical panel. Mulder flipped it open and shone his light on the switches. Suddenly, there were footsteps at the other end of the corridor and an explosive flash of light. Instinctively, they both threw themselves to the ground. The bullet whistled over their heads and ricocheted off the wall. Mulder fired blindly into the dark in the direction the bullet had come from. When the roar from the gun fire subsided, they heard footsteps racing away. "You OK?" Mulder asked, as he scrambled to his feet. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm OK," Scully replied. She scooped up her flashlight from where she'd dropped it and quickly got up. Mulder was already sprinting down the hall after the shooter. She ran after him. The corridor connected with another one and Mulder stopped when he reached the intersection. He quickly pointed his flashlight to the right, then the left. There was no sign of Parnell. "Did you see which way he went?" Mulder asked. She shook her head. "I'll take this way," Mulder said, motioning to the left. Scully nodded and headed off in the opposite direction. She jogged along for a few yards, then listened. She could hear Mulder's footsteps receding behind her, and the sound of the boilers seemed louder here, but she couldn't detect any other movement nearby. She continued on, stepping lightly, keeping her back to the wall, pausing every few feet to listen. Another corner. She braced herself with a deep breath, then flew around it, pointing her gun ahead of her, scanning the hall for Parnell. At the far end of the corridor, she heard a heavy door shut with a metallic click. She started to run in the direction of the sound, her flashlight beam following the wall as she went, searching for the door. Near the end, she spotted it. A sign on the door said "Boiler Room" and showed symbols of the sorts of safety equipment that were required to enter the area. Scully noticed, as she eased the door open, that they didn't mention bullet proof vests. The throbbing sound from the boilers got louder. She edged her way across the threshold, her heart pounding in her ears over the roar of the room. Inside, it was dimly lit and she could make out six huge boilers in the center of the room, arranged in a square, with narrow passages between them. She paused, her back to the wall, and tried to get her bearings. She saw the movement a second too late to react. Parnell darted out of the shadows and fired. The bullet grazed the concrete wall above her head in a little burst of sparks. Scully dropped into a crouch, tried to get a fix on him, but lost sight of him behind the boilers. Keeping low, she followed the perimeter of the room, circling around the boilers from the far side. She'd made it nearly halfway around the huge room when she spotted him again, slipping out from behind a water tank. She raised her gun. "Federal Agent!" she shouted. He wheeled around and pointed his gun at her. She fired. She thought she heard him cry out, but the noise was drowned out by the musical crash of steel pipes hitting the cement and rolling. Scully started towards the sound, straining to see in the dim light, but afraid to turn on her flashlight. She rounded the boiler in time to see a door closing. She rushed to the door, stepping over the lengths of pipe that were scattered around, grabbed the door knob and stopped when her hand touched something slick. She flicked on her flashlight and shone it on the door knob. Blood. She'd hit him. She quickly flashed the beam around on the floor. There were small dollops of blood leading back to the water tank. A few feet away, she spotted his gun, lying on the floor. She threw open the door and burst into the hall, weapon levelled. Parnell was disappearing into a stairwell at the end of the hall. She raced after him, pausing only long enough to peek into the stairwell, before she bounded up the steps. The wooden door at the top was open and Scully emerged into the darkened sacristy. It was a small room, with wooden cupboards and shelves. Someone had laid out the mass vessels for the morning and the golden chalice glinted in Scully's flashlight beam. She scanned the room for a hiding place and found none, then hurried down the narrow hall that connected the sacristy to the nave. The church was perfectly silent, red candles keeping vigil by the confessionals. Scully took a few steps forward, her sneakers making no sound on the smooth, old floor. Her eyes swept back and forth across the pews and the altar, searching for some sign of Parnell. She stood very still, catching her breath, trying to hear over the pounding of her heart. High above the altar on his crucifix, the plaster Jesus wordlessly implored the heavens. Scully suddenly sensed the movement behind her and spun to face Parnell. He was in mid-swing when she turned, his face twisted in rage, the heavy pipe that he held whistling through the air in a brutal arc. Her arm flew up reflexively to protect her face. The pipe struck a glancing blow on her forearm and then smashed into the side of her head. She staggered backwards from the force of the blow and collapsed against the altar railing, grabbing blindly at it, trying to stay upright. Her knees buckled and she fell, still holding onto the railing, still fighting to make her limbs obey. She tried to focus but the searing pain in her head grew until it blotted out every thought. The pipe clattered to the floor and Scully tried to remember what had happened to her gun. She felt herself losing her grip on the wooden railing, knew that she was sliding down onto the floor, but couldn't stop herself. She squeezed her eyes shut and struggled to pull herself up. When she opened her eyes, Parnell was looming over her, pointing her gun at her face. Bile rose in her throat and she had to force herself to look him in the eye. He grabbed the front of her sweatshirt and hauled her roughly to her feet. "You goddam bitch!" he bellowed. "Look at what you did to me! Look!" He stuck his gun hand in her face and Scully saw that he was bleeding. He grabbed her with both hands and shook her violently, made her head scream with pain. "You fucking shot me!" Scully felt the strength draining out of her body as he shook her, her arms dangling at her sides. Her eyes started to close and she hoped she would faint. He slapped her hard and the pain jarred her back into her body. "Let her go, Douglas," a voice from the back of the church commanded. Parnell spun around in shock. He slid an arm around Scully's neck and held her in front of him as a shield, the gun pressed to her temple. "Get away or I'll kill her!" he shouted. His words echoed in the cavernous church. He backed up a few steps onto the altar, dragging Scully along. "Let her go," the voice repeated. Scully searched the empty church, trying to locate the speaker. She spotted the tiny figure, almost halfway up the center aisle. Sister Mike. Scully's heart sank. "Get away from me you old bitch or I'll kill her!" he yelled. "I'll fucking kill her!" He tightened the arm around Scully's neck and jammed the gun into her cheek. Scully winced and tried to pull away. He hit her in the face with the gun and Scully let out a stifled cry. Sister Mike moved forward. Parnell nervously stepped back. "I know what you did you crazy old bitch! I know it was you that killed them!" he shouted, as he moved slowly onto the altar, hauling Scully's limp body with him. "I saw you last night! I saw you walking away from Judy's car and when I got there, she was dead! You killed her! You burned her fucking eyes right out of her head! Just like that priest!" Scully watched through half-lidded eyes as Sister Mike moved steadily forward. The nun was talking now and Scully tried to focus on what she was saying, but everything was foggy and distorted. "I came here to stop you, Douglas," she said, as she walked. "You were planning to commit a heinous act. Two unspeakably cruel murders, and you had to be stopped." "How did you know that?" Parnell stopped moving. "That fucking priest told you, didn't he? Ever since the day he caught us talking about it...I knew the son of a bitch was going to sell us out!" Sister Mike was close enough now for Scully to make out the expression on her face and the old nun smiled bitterly at Parnell. "No," she said, "even though Father Lazslo knew what you were planning, he wasn't going to tell anyone. And he'd made sure that you were going to pay for his silence from the insurance money, hadn't he?" She kept walking toward them, her eyes locked on Parnell's face. "You were going to kill an honest man and an innocent child to satisfy your own greed and lust, Douglas. You were going to murder them both in cold blood and Father Lazslo was going to let you." "Killing the kid wasn't my idea, all right?" Parnell shouted, quickly taking a few more steps away from the nun. "That was Judy's idea. She said the kid was just gonna be in the way and that it was better for her to be dead than stuck in some orphanage or something." "I can see what's in your heart, Douglas," Sister Mike said. "It is overflowing with evil and cruelty. The darkness inside of you has consumed you." She reached the bottom step of the altar. "I'll fucking kill her!" Parnell shrieked. "Do you hear me? I'll blow her brains all over this church!" The nun stopped and held him in her gaze. "Your day of judgment has arrived, Douglas. You are standing on the brink of your eternity. Look into it. Look ahead to what awaits you." A sigh passed through the church, and the rack of votive candles was extinguished, smoke curling lazily upwards, their wicks glowing brightly for a moment before they died. Scully felt a rush of dry, hot air caress her face, and she looked down at the little nun standing at the bottom step of the altar. The old woman's watery blue eyes were electric, somehow, and they seemed to pin Parnell in place. The whisper of breeze grew gradually into a wind that danced around them, spiralling and billowing, swelling into gusts that blew the linen cloth off the altar. Parnell suddenly let go of Scully and she managed to stumble a few steps before her legs gave out and she fell. She scrambled a few more feet on her hands and knees, the pain in her head pulsing in time to her pounding heartbeat. The wind in the church was howling now, whipping around her and making her dizzy. She collapsed, her whole body shaking. Scully looked back over her shoulder at Sister Mike. The old lady stood ramrod straight, her eyes fixed with grim determination on Parnell, a strange glow around her which seemed to pulse and grow with each beat. Scully shook her head to clear her sight. The radiance intensified until Sister Mike's whole body was engulfed by a luminescence so brilliant that it made Scully squint. Sharp white rays streamed out of the old woman, lashing licks of piercing light that flowed away from her and flew up into the rafters of the church like a flaming wind. Parnell stood there, not moving, his mouth open, the gun dangling at his side. The pillar of light, where seconds before Sister Mike had been, exploded into a sudden burst of shimmering brightness that sent stabbing pains to the back of Scully's eyes. Scully forced herself to look away and struggled to her hands and knees, her limbs trembling. Blood from a cut on her forehead trickled into her eye and she blinked it back, shook her head over and over to clear it. A wave of weakness washed over her and her arms gave out without warning, her body sinking heavily to the floor. She laid her cheek against the cold floor, breathing hard, trying to gather her strength. Suddenly, hands were grasping at her, pulling her, and she felt herself being dragged further away from Parnell. Scully looked up -- there were only streaks of light and wind spinning madly above her. Over the roar of the wind, Scully heard the slow rumble of distant voices, felt the marble floor vibrate with their approach. The sound grew and expanded until Scully could make out shrieks and moans, the disembodied howls from tortured souls. The voices seemd to spin and writhe around her, brushing past her ears and swooping back to touch her again. The wails multiplied and swelled until Scully clamped her hands over her ears in pain. The screams were inside her head now, and she whimpered along with them, her eyes tightly shut, stinging fear in her throat. Parnell's gun slipped from his hand and he fell to his knees, his mouth open in astonishment, his eyes wide with terror, his gaze fixed on a point in space, watching something. Above them, the gushing light in the rafters crashed against the beams and churned like a luminscent tornado, swirling faster and faster into a hurricane of radiance. The beams creaked and heaved, as if the wind and the light were trying to rip the roof off the church. The tempest reached a crescendo and hovered there, every pew in the church rattling, and then with one final howl, the light exploded into bolts of flame. Parnell looked up and saw them coming. He screamed. There was silence. Scully struggled to lift her head, the smell of burning flesh filling her nostrils and making her stomach pitch. She lay there, her ears ringing, feeling the darkness closing in around her. She fought to hold on, forced her eyes to stay open. Above her, the crucified Christ watched, mutely imploring her. Nov. 11, 1995 Washington, D.C. 9:17 a.m. FIELD NOTES Special Agent Dana Scully "...The autopsy of Douglas Alan Parnell, age 32, revealed that he was killed by a massive release of cathecholamines which overstimulated his nervous system to such a degree that he was, in effect, scared to death. Lesions were found on his heart, although he was otherwise in good health at the time of his death. The tissue damage to his eyes was found to be extremely localized, as it was in the previous victims. The investigation is on going. "The state police and now the FBI have issued a warrant for the arrest of Sister Michael O'Shea, OLMC. She is wanted for questioning in connection with the deaths of Father Francis Lazslo, Judy Bassett and Doug Parnell. To date, no trace of her has been found. "As for the phenomenon that I witnessed in the chapel at St. Teresa's Home for the Aged,..." The cursor blinked patiently, but Scully sat, hugging her knees to her chest, staring sightlessly out the front window of her apartment. Morning sunlight was cascading into her living room, washing the white walls with a pale golden colour. The door bell rang, gently jolting her from her thoughts. She crossed the living room and peered through the peep hole before unlocking the door and swinging it open. Mulder stood there, in jeans and a turtleneck, two Starbucks cups in one hand and a paper bag in the other. "Would you believe I was just in the neighbourhood?" he said, holding the food aloft. Scully chuckled and stepped out of the way to let him come in. He went directly to the kitchen, put the paper bag into the microwave and started poking at the buttons. Scully put some plates on the table then slid into a chair. Mulder brought the tall white cups to the table, eased off the lids. "How's the head?" he asked. She shrugged. "It's fine." His eyes left the coffee, examined her face. There was still a faint mark over her eyebrow. "No more headaches?" She shook her head, but cast her eyes away from his gaze. Mulder pushed one of the coffees across the table to her. "You sleeping OK?" he asked. "Yeah, I'm sleeping well." Mulder studied her, without answering, then nodded. He went back to the microwave and stared at the bag until the oven beeped at him. Scully sat, chin in hand, while he juggled the hot bag over to the table. He opened it and set a huge, steaming cinnamon bun on each of their plates. He sat down, took a bite of his own, then was up again, searching for napkins, his fingers dripping with hot icing. "Over the stove," Scully said. He located the napkins, borught a stack to the table, settled in again. Scully sipped her coffee. "So what's the matter?" he asked. She lifted her face from her hand and sat up, a little startled. "What do you mean?" "If everything is so fine, what's bothering you?" There was no challenge in his words, only concern, and Scully looked at him sitting there and felt herself wanting to give in. She leaned back in her chair and rubbed her eyes, searching for a way to distill it into words. Mulder nibbled on his roll and waited. "I feel guilty," she admitted finally, with a sigh. Mulder said nothing, just watched her intently. "I feel guilty because I'm the one who should be dead," she said, tilting her chin defiantly, her voice barely above a whisper. "It should have been me. Not Melissa." Mulder nodded slowly and wiped his fingers carefully with his napkin. He folded his arms across his chest and looked at her. "Do you believe in fate, Scully?" A little rush of impatience rose in her. "If you mean, do I believe that every detail of our lives is set irrevocably in stone, no, I don't." "So then you believe in free will?" She stared at him, anger flaring suddenly and then trickling away. She looked at the floor. "I don't know what I believe," she said. "Well, if you don't believe in fate, then you must, to some extent, think that we are the masters of our own destinies. That we make choices about every event that happens," he said. Her anger welled up and overflowed. Her eyes locked on his face. "Mulder are you trying to tell me that Melissa chose to die?" she demanded. "Because if that's what you're saying..." She stopped abruptly and glared at him. Mulder let her words wash over him. He lowered his eyes and waited. She simmered another few seconds then squared him in her sights again. "How can you say that? How can you possibly know that Melissa chose to die?" she asked. Mudler saw the pain and anger mingling in her eyes, cooling them to slate grey. When he spoke, he spoke quietly, his voice almost caressing. "Because I have a sister. And if I had the choice, I would give my life for hers." For a moment, Scully looked like he'd slapped her. She stared at him, eyes wide with indignation and hurt, and then she sank back into her chair. She looked down at her lap, her face tight with resolve. Mulder saw her lower lip tremble slightly and knew she was trying not to cry. He hope that she wouldn't because he knew it embarassed her. Scully finally looked up, and noticed as if for the first time that there were shafts of sunlight pouring in the kitchen window. They fell across Mulder's face and hair in golden stripes and bounced off the honey-coloured table top, filling the room and bathing them in warmth. Radiant sunshine spilled in from the living room in brilliant beams and made the stained glass at her back door glow vivid reds and blues. Scully looked all around and then glanced back at Mulder, an unexpected smile slowly dawning on her face. He gave her a questioning look. She searched for words but couldn't find any. Instead, she just reached across the table and laid her hand on his. The touch made Mulder look down at their hands. He wasn't sure what had just happened or what she was thinking, but Scully was somehow back, in a way she hadn't been since April. That was enough for him. ******************************************* Thanks for reading. I hope you enjoyed the story half as much as I enjoyed writing it. I would dearly love to know what you think. I am accessible by e-mail at . Peace. Patti