From: sclay@connix.com (Sheryl Clay) Subject: New Story: THOSE WHO LOVE (1/7) Date: Wed, 06 Sep 95 07:00:48 PST This story is PG 13 for some adult situations. There is a somewhat steamy, (though NOT explicit,) dream encounter between Mulder and Scully, so if that sort of thing gives you fits - even as a dream - you can skip that part. This is not a "romance" in the accepted sense, however, so please feel otherwise safe in proceeding. The references attributed to Dr. Hans Holzer are taken from his book: Yankee Ghosts. And the words to the song sung by Nicole White are from the ballad: "The Grey Silkie of Sule Skerry." If anyone wants more background on what is behind Scully's reaction, this can be found in my story, "Sea of Desire." Thanks to Tish Sears for all the editing help! AUTHOR'S NOTE: The Colter farm is based on a real place, although the names have all been changed to protect the innocent, as they say. It's about five miles from the house where I grew up, and the ghosts are a bona fide local legend. I have been all through the house and property, and have seen the graves. And although *I* have not seen the ghosts, myself, I have talked to people who swear they have. David Bowman is fictional, however, and his "experience" is the product of my own imagination. Comments welcome, critique encouraged, flames humbly accepted. "Those Who Love" is posted in seven parts, all parts posted on September 6, 1995. Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions, lovingly borrowed without permission, and without any intent to infringe, annoy or otherwise upset. The rest of the characters are mine. ***************************************************** THOSE WHO LOVE - Part 1 CUMBERLAND, CONNECTICUT James Dolan swatted a mosquito on the back of his neck, and wondered, once again, what had possessed him to take his law degree to the bank, literally. True, it was fairly satisfying, if not very challenging, work, guiding young couples through the morass of legal mumbo-jumbo that surrounded closing on a newly purchased piece of property, or representing his employer in such transactions with other banks. He was not going to get rich doing it, but it paid the bills, and it did leave him plenty of time, and creative energy, to work on the novel that was his life's real passion. Most days he did not mind his job, but this task that he was about today made him long for a nice little private practice defending petty criminals and processing divorces. Temple Realty, one of his bank's biggest clients, had a bid on this parcel on behalf of some developer who wanted to put in more ugly contemporaries and colonial reproductions, and he, Jimmy Dolan, was out here "walking the land," looking for God knew what. As if there was any way this deal would not go through. Jimmy was a suburbanite, born and raised on a cul de sac in West Hartford, and the closest he had ever gotten to real wilderness was one disastrous encounter with summer camp when he had been in the seventh grade. He was not particularly pleased to be tramping around out there in the woods in jeans and work boots. He also doubted he was the appropriate person for this job, and the unfamiliar insecurity was worrisome. He knew more than he gave himself credit for, though. For one thing, he had recognized that a clump of weeds he had passed a little while ago as one of the primary indicators of a potential wetland; he would need to alert his superiors that the local Inland Wetlands committee was likely to have heyday with that, if they did not find a way to deflect them, or make them otherwise happy. He also knew that there was one old structure on the property that was going to have to come down, but there did not seem to be any problems there, no title disputes or other questions. In fact, it was more curiosity than anything that made him decide to go look at it. The Colter farm had been a legend in Cumberland for as long as the natives could remember. Haunted, the old timers said with the same matter-of-factness that they used when they talked about the weather, or the latest crop of hay. It amazed him, sometimes, how these pragmatic, old swamp Yankees, most of them without an imaginative bone in their bodies, could accept so nonchalantly the idea of an actual haunted house. Dolan thought it was just plan silly. The idea of a house standing for over two hundred and fifty years intrigued him, though. If anyone had asked, he would have told them that he thought it was kind of a shame to tear it down. As Dolan came up over a rise, he found himself out of the woods, in a brush filled clearing. There had been little undergrowth in the forest itself, and after that relative openness, trying to navigate through the tall weeds in the lot that lead up to the Colter homestead was almost enough to make him change his mind. He really wanted to see the place, though, so he forged on ahead, making sarcastic remarks to himself about becoming Daniel Boone as he went along. The house was small, unimpressive, and deserted. Dolan found himself vaguely disappointed. Not much to it, really, just an old salt box, that looked about ready to come down on it's own. He pounded a piece of siding and heard the tell tale hollowness that indicated dry rot. And probably termites or carpenter ants, too. It did not look much like a haunted house, either. To Dolan, a haunted house should be a three story Victorian on a deserted street, and look like Herman Munster lived there. Still, the place was interesting, in its way, with its drooping roof line, and the oddly shaped windows that were obviously created and installed by hand. No factory built precision here, and the old glass, each small pane with a "bull's eye" from the blower's stem and ripples near the bottom the flow over time, was charming. Dolan stood on tip toe, and tried to look in, but it was too dark inside to see much. The door was on the other side of the house, but he would need to come back with a key if he really wanted to see what was inside. He doubted it was worth it. He walked around the outside. It was not until he saw the old well that Dolan realized that he was tired and thirsty. He was unaccustomed to a lot of physical exercise and this hike through the woods had taken a lot out of him. He walked over to the circular stone structure, and flopped himself down on the well cover. He leaned back on his hands and gazed at the old house. From this side, he could see that there was really a lot more to the place than he had originally thought; the small, square, and probably original, front portion was followed by a large annex that Dolan knew contained a modern kitchen added by some more recent resident, and a covered enclosure that had probably housed a carriage or farm wagon at one time in the past. The place was really delightful, and Dolan felt himself regretting, again, it's ordained demise. He thought, rather wistfully, that maybe, if he ever got around to proposing to his girlfriend, Deborah, they could find some old place like this someday and fix it up. He sighed and leveraged himself off the well cover. Time to be getting a move on, he still had a long walk back to his car. He was just brushing the dirt off his hands when he saw a movement back in the carriage house. Frowning, he stared into the darkness there. Strange, he could have almost sworn that a person had ducked into the shadows, out of sight, now. Terrific, just what he needed, vagrants. He tramped over, shouting loudly to whoever it was to get on out. No one answered him, and no one moved. Dolan stopped about ten yards from the house. The temperature had suddenly dropped with an abruptness that usually meant an incoming storm. The sky was still cloudless, but growing up in New England had taught him never to trust the condition of the sky. If a summer thunderstorm was on its way, he was damn sure he did not want to get caught out in it. Somebody else could come deal with this squatter, if there was, in fact, someone hiding back in those shadows. And anyway, it had just occurred to him that he, an unarmed, overweight, out of shape lawyer with no idea how to defend himself, really had no business trying to chase anyone off of anywhere. He was going back to his car. Then he saw it, again. The temperature dropped still further, nearly arctic now. Dolan hugged his arms with cold, but he could not move. His heart was racing, and he felt a strange sensation paralyzing his legs, riveting him to his spot. He broke into a heavy sweat, despite the chill. Swallowing hard, he stared into the shadows, at the vague movement he sensed almost more than he saw. A creeping terror suddenly overwhelmed him. "Who is it? Who's in there?" he demanded, in a weak voice. No one answered. A shadow moved. Dolan screamed. He screamed with a violence that sounded as if all the fiends in hell had just pointed at him and claimed him as their own. He screamed as if it were his very soul being wrenched from his body. And then he collapsed onto the ground. FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION WASHINGTON, DC "I don't get it, Mulder," Special Agent Dana Scully frowned across the desk at her partner. She lifted the file in her hands. "All you've got, here, are three men who died of entirely natural causes. What am I missing?" Fox Mulder nodded slowly. "Three fairly young, relatively healthy men, two surveyors, and a lawyer. All who died of the same natural cause, all within a week of each other, while standing on approximately the same plot of ground. Doesn't that strike you as a little odd?" Scully made a face. "Yeah," she agreed, cautiously, "I will admit that the coincidence *is* a little unlikely. Still, I don't find anything here that would indicate that there has been anything out of the ordinary in these deaths, other than strange coincidence. And the last I knew, willful or unwillful participation in the perpetration of a coincidence was not a federal crime." Mulder smiled at the quip, but otherwise remained quiet, letting her stew. Scully scrutinized the closed file a moment longer, then blew out a breath. "At most, I would suspect some kind of environmental toxin, since they were all out of doors when they died." She looked back at him. "But that is hardly a Bureau concern. And it's certainly outside the realm of *your* interests..." She cocked a smile at him, he chuckled. Mulder stood up and flipped on the light to his slide projector. "Look at the pictures, again," he directed. "Tell me what you see." She knew what he was doing. He was not teasing her, this was not some exercise in patronization. He saw something, something about which he was unsure, and he needed her to see it, too, on her own, to help him confirm his interpretation. She understood it, but it was still an exasperating process. She watched as he cycled slowly through the three slides of the three dead men, taken at the "scenes." The slides each showed a man, lying in what looked like a field. It may also have been an overgrown barnyard, there did seem to be a ramshackle building in the background. Each man had a look of surprise, almost a grimace, on his now still features. Scully concentrated more closely on the expressions. Yes, she supposed, it could be some kind of death rictus, certain poisons *did* have that effect, but a poison would have turned up in a toxicological exam. And there was nothing out of the ordinary in any of these men's' reports. In fact, other than a severely elevated adrenal level in the blood, there was nothing out of the ordinary at all, in any of the exams. And the adrenaline surge could easily be explained by the fear associated with a heart attack. These men all died from simple heart failure. Period. "I just don't know, Mulder. An airborne toxin, maybe?" she sighed, trying hard to give it the benefit of the doubt. She shook her head. "That could have caused this rictus, I suppose, and perhaps still not shown up in the tox. But nothing that I'm currently familiar with..." She looked at Mulder and shrugged helplessly. "Is it possible, Scully," her partner asked, "that these men might have been frightened to death?" Scully sat back in her chair. "Look, Mulder, I'm sorry, but I surrender. Give. What's going on here? What do you know?" Mulder leaned over and handed her a map. "This is a map of the grounds, and surrounding area, where those three men died. This piece of property is currently for sale; there is a bid outstanding on it, and it's earmarked for a housing development. Pretty straight forward stuff. It was being surveyed by two of those dead men at the time they died; the first man to die, James Dolan, was a bank lawyer taking a look around prior to the loan approval." "You think someone is trying to block the sale for some reason?" Scully frowned at him. "But that still doesn't explain how these men might have been killed, if you're right and they men did not die of natural causes." "I never said these men did not die of natural causes. But I am about to suggest that the natural cause was generated by an 'unnatural' experience," Mulder replied. "Or rather, a supernatural one." Scully sighed. "This hundred acre parcel is mostly undeveloped woodland, and some pasturage," Mulder went on, ignoring Scully's expression. "It is free of any existing structures. Except one." Mulder leaned across the desk and pointed. "Up here in the northwestern corner, where our bodies where found, is an old farmhouse, built in the mid-1700's. If you look in two of those slides, you can see it, right there, in the corners of the pictures. The house, as well as the adjoining twelve acres, is owned separately by the Bowman family, but is being offered as part of the rest of this parcel. Something to do with road access, I believe. "Up until the last ten years, the house has been occupied, most recently by a Martha Bowman Jacobs, who passed away six years ago. Her nephews inherited the property. The house is currently empty. Except...," Mulder leaned back and looked at her, "reputedly, for two resident ghosts." Scully sat back and looked at him over the tops of her glasses. "Mulder..." Mulder reached behind him, and removed a book from the place it was precariously balanced, under a pile of paperwork on the bookcase to the right of his desk. Scully winced. One of these days, she thought, watching him, that whole mess was going to come right down. Mulder handed the book to Scully. She looked at the aged and torn cover. "Haunted Places in New England..." she read and gave Mulder a jaundiced eye. "If you'll turn to page twenty-seven, I think you'll find our piece of property there. It was called the Colter Farm, after the family who built the place originally. It's still called that, as far as I know." Scully sucked in a smile, and turned to page twenty-seven. The chapter title leaped out at her - "Ghostly Lovers in Cumberland, Connecticut: The Colter Farm Ghosts. " Scully looked back up at her partner. "So I ask you, Dr. Scully," Mulder went on, "could those men have been frightened to death?" "I don't believe this." She closed the book and tossed it on his desk. "Look at the pictures, again." "Mulder, do you honestly expect me..." Scully sputtered. Mulder just held up a hand. "Look at the pictures, again," he said, very gently. Then he smiled at her winningly. "Please?" Scully blew out a breath. But his expression made her laugh, a little. She took the projector control from him, and cycled through the slides again. "Three heart attacks," glossed Mulder, as she looked. "In one week. In the same place. Suffered by young men with no former history of heart disease, and no," he held up a hand again to ward off her protest, as she glanced up at him, "indication of early heart disease in the autopsies. "Could they have been frightened to death?" "Mulder, that's very rare..." He nodded. Then he raised his eyebrows at her. Scully sighed and looked back at the slide on the screen. She shrugged and nodded. "Well, they did all show extremely elevated adrenal levels. Yes, I suppose they could have been frightened to death," she relented. "In the absence of other evidence to the contrary." She looked back up at him and finally smiled for real. "Ghosts." Mulder shrugged sheepishly. Scully shook her head. "Look," she said, "I'll admit that the 'coincidence' is troubling. And intriguing. But ghosts, Mulder? And anyway. This still isn't a Bureau matter. No crime has been committed here." "There are three bodies," Mulder replied. "And three unexplained deaths." Scully did not bother to remind him that the deaths were too explained. She rolled her eyes a little. "You gonna tell Skinner about this one?" "Eventually," Mulder agreed. "He's gonna be wild," Scully warned him. "Skinner cuts you a lot of slack on these investigations, but he still has people he has to answer to. He won't appreciate it much if you make him look like a fool." "That's why I'm going to keep this little excursion to myself until I can figure out if there's really something there. Come on Scully, it's only Connecticut. We can be there in two hours. We should know inside of twenty-four whether or not there's anything worth investigating. We can be there and back before anybody even knows we're gone." Scully sighed. She really did not want to admit how much this little puzzle was starting to interest her. Not that she believed for a minute in Mulder's ghosts... But it *was* weird that three healthy young men should drop dead on the same piece of ground. She nodded slowly, relenting finally, and Mulder grinned. "I'll pick you up at your place in an hour," he beamed. HARTFORD, CONNECTICUT J. (Jamal) Gallagher, got out of his car, and walked toward the entrance of a small neighborhood bar. His step was confident, his charcoal Grey suit and designer tie impeccable. His attitude was serene. He looked every inch exactly what he was: a successful man, completely in charge of his life and situation. Gallagher coordinated cocaine distribution in eastern Connecticut for the "family" in Springfield, Massachusetts, moving their product, making their deals, and negotiating a substantial profit for all parties. A business man by trade, Gallagher had risen up out of the ghetto in the north end of Hartford, fought his way through college and up the corporate ladder on brains, cunning, and a willingness to work obsessively to obtain his goals. He had finally reached the position in life where he could leave his childhood roots behind him. Unfortunately, however, Gallagher had expensive tastes: fine houses, fine cars, fine wine, and these tastes were not supported to his liking by the salary afforded a corporate executive in an insurance company. He could have gone into private consulting, perhaps, and made more, but his talent was for research, and political manipulation, not for the kinds of histrionics required for freelance work. It was perhaps ironic, then, that it was to his childhood roots that Gallagher eventually turned when the need arose to supplement his income. Gallagher had no illusions about his role, or his importance to the overall organization he represented. He was a flunky, elaborately disguised as a player. His job was to make arrangements, to pick up the "shipments" of product that would supply his ring of local pushers, to negotiate the price, and pay for said product, and to collect from the "distributors," nothing more. He was strictly a middleman. He did not mind. The job "paid" well, and took up very little of his time, overall. And he found himself liking the excitement, and the element of danger. He was the connections man, he found the sources, organized the drops and the pick-ups, he paid for the goods. It was he who made the recommendations when certain "disciplinary actions" became necessary. But he made no decisions, and he liked it that way. He would be the "fall guy," he knew, if the organization ever came down, but Gallagher was careful and clever. He did not expect to get caught. He carried a gun, in addition to the switchblade he always kept in his car, and had trained himself in its operation, but the weapon was really just for show. J. (Jamal) Gallagher had no intention of ever putting himself in a position where he might need to use it. Gallagher strode through the door and looked around. Except for two old men sitting by the jukebox, the place was empty, as he knew it would be at that hour. He nodded to the kid behind the bar. Larry was on his "payroll," not a heavily reimbursed retainer, but provided enough money to convince the kid it was wiser to keep his mouth shut about who Gallagher might have been seen with, and when. The gesture was more theatrics than anything. Gallagher generally met with other "businessmen" who were supplementing their incomes. No one in the least suspicious looking had ever sat across from him at the booth into which he now slid. It was one of his precautions. Larry brought him a beer while he waited. Gallagher was early for his appointment, which was another one of his precautions. He sipped his beer and waited. Within fifteen minutes, the door opened again, and a second man entered the dark environs of the bar. Leslie Hendricksen had none of Gallagher's cool composure. Overweight, perspiring in the summer heat, he looked as rumpled and ineffective as the badly tailored suit he wore. Gallagher smiled to himself. This one would be easy. Hendricksen approached him cautiously. "Mr. Gallagher?" Gallagher nodded, but did not stand. "Mr. Hendricksen. Please have a seat." He gestured to Larry, as the other man sat down. "What are you drinking?" Hendricksen looked up at the bar keep nervously. "A beer, just a beer," he said. Gallagher nodded to the boy, indicating that anything would do, then waited until Larry returned, then left again, before he addressed Hendricksen. "Terrible day, isn't it," he said, his voice soft and soothing. There was no hint of a street patois in his carefully pitched and controlled speech. J. (Jamal) Gallagher had spent long hours practicing to be sure that there never would be. "This heat is unbearable. I heard on the radio this morning that this is the worst heat wave the country has experienced in over ten years. Even worse than the summer of '88." "It's a scorcher," Hendricksen agreed. He sucked on his beer, then gasped, the cold liquid stealing his breath. Gallagher could see his hands shaking, and smiled. Guy must be a virgin, he thought, and considered that he should be able to strike a very good deal here. He smiled encouragingly. "You have some information for me, Mr. Hendricksen?" Hendricksen nodded, but looked around worriedly. "You have no need to be concerned, Mr. Hendricksen. We are quite safe here, and quite alone. Don't mind Larry." Hendricksen did not look exactly convinced. He sipped some more of his beer, then leaned forward conspiratorially. "Pete said to tell you there's a shipment coming in," he whispered. Gallagher nodded, and waited. When nothing was forthcoming, he prodded. "How large a shipment, did Pete say." Hendriksen told him. Gallagher nodded, pleased. "When is the, ah, merchandise expected, Mr. Hendricksen?" In two weeks, he was told. Gallagher sat back, and steepled his fingers before his face. The pause was theatrics, he had already decided where he was going next. But the allusion of consideration would put Hendricksen on a malleable defensive. "Where will the drop be made?" "Not here," Hendricksen said quickly. "This place is too busy. I want a quieter setting. Little town." Gallagher pursed his lips. Amateur, he thought. Any fool would know that a small town was no safer than a large one, for such business. Often just the opposite; their type of transaction would more likely attract attention in some little hamlet than here in the city. Still, it did not matter all that much. Gallagher only dealt in small trade that was easily concealed. If it made the man happier, and more tractable to complete the transaction in some bucolic setting, so be it. "Do you have some place in mind?" Hendricksen nodded. "Cumberland. Out by the university. I'll contact you as to where," he replied, relief giving him confidence. Gallagher nodded. He knew Cumberland. He visited the town frequently, he had friends there. If he was recognized, his presence would not seem out of the ordinary. "Very well," he nodded. He contemplated a little more. Then: "And are you prepared, Mr. Hendricksen, to negotiate a preliminary price? Pending examination of the product of course?" Hendriksen took a deep breath, looking very nervous, again. But he nodded. "Good," said Gallagher, and he leaned forward across the table and smiled. ============================================================= ======== ====== From: sclay@connix.com (Sheryl Clay) Subject: New Story: THOSE WHO LOVE (2/7) Date: Wed, 06 Sep 95 07:04:53 PST This story is PG 13 for some adult situations. There is a somewhat steamy, (though NOT explicit,) dream encounter between Mulder and Scully, so if that sort of thing gives you fits - even as a dream - you can skip that part. This is not a "romance" in the accepted sense, however, so please feel otherwise safe in proceeding. Thank you to Tish Sears for all the editing help! Comments welcome, critique encouraged, flames humbly accepted. "Those Who Love" is posted in seven parts, all parts posted on September 6, 1995. Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions, lovingly borrowed without permission, and without any intent to infringe, annoy or otherwise upset. The rest of the characters are mine. ***************************************************** THOSE WHO LOVE - Part 2 CUMBERLAND, CONNECTICUT "Ever been to Connecticut, Scully?" Mulder asked as he turned off the Interstate onto the exit for Rte 195. Scully nodded. "Once. A high school friend of mine went to college at the University of Connecticut. She married a guy from up here. I went to her wedding." Mulder nodded. "UConn, yeah. Great basketball teams! Their women were the 1995 NCAA national champs, did you know that?" he replied enthusiastically. "We're only about ten miles from the campus, right now." He stopped at the end of the exit ramp and signaled left at the light. Scully looked around her. Cumberland, Connecticut, looked a lot like a lot of towns she knew in Maryland and Virginia, rural farm districts recently become bedroom communities for the larger cities. As they drove through the rolling hills, she saw large, expensive, modern houses sitting incongruously on what apparently used to be pasture, with the occasional old barn, or out building providing a startling contrast, and a reminder of what used to be. Strip malls dotted what was otherwise wilderness. It was a town in transition. Scully found the idea a little bit sad. "How are we doing?" Mulder asked, nodding at the map in her hand. "Take a right at the next intersection, and that should be the road we're looking for. Randall Road." Mulder turned down what was little more than a paved trail leading off into the woods. "Boy," he mused as the road pitched upward suddenly and he started to climb, "this is pretty isolated. I wonder what this place is like in the winter." He looked out the window. "How far is the house?" "Map says three miles. On the right." It was a little more than that. Mulder pulled over to the side of the road and parked the car. They could see the weathered brown structure there on a small rise across a heavily overgrown field. Scully made a face at the prospect of trudging through the weed filled lot. "I'm really not dressed for this," she commented, looking down at her beige linen slacks suit and pumps. Mulder made a sympathetic noise. "You can wait here in the car if you'd like," he offered helpfully. Scully shook her head. Fat chance she was going to let him wander off alone. "No, I'll come," she sighed. At least the ground was hard and dry. Scully followed behind Mulder, letting him tramp down the weeds a little bit before her. She tried very hard not to think about the spiders and snakes that had probably made homes all around her, just waiting there for her to rouse them. Mulder came to a stop before the front door of the old salt box house. He was smiling broadly. "Hey, Scully, look at this," he said, pointing to the door. Scully looked. "See that pattern of nails there? Looks like a decorative design?" "Yeah..." Scully acknowledged cautiously. "That's a symbol of wealth. Back in the 1700's and early 1800's, nails were extremely expensive because each one had to be made by hand. I remember reading accounts where during the early westward movement people would burn their houses down before they emigrated, so they could salvage the nails to take them out west with them. Using them for decorative art like this was very ostentatious. Especially on a front door. It was a means of telling your neighbors that you were so well off you didn't need to worry about such things. Scully gave Mulder an odd look, and smiled. The man never ceased to amaze her with the incredible collection of trivia he managed to store away in that eidetic memory of his. Still, it *was* an interesting, if not very useful, bit of data. She gave the door a nod. "Where were those bodies found?" she asked, bringing him back to the reason they were there. Mulder looked around. "I'm not sure, over there, I think," he considered. They walked around the side of the old house. It was Scully who found the spot, recognizing the angle from one of the slides. She stood on the ground where Jimmy Dolan had collapsed and looked at the house, making small, thoughtful movements with her mouth as she did. "What?" Mulder asked, watching her. "Well, if I remember correctly from your slides, the way all three of those bodies were lying would indicate that they were probably looking at the house at the time they collapsed," she said. She walked straight ahead, along what would have been the probable line of sight of the three dead men, and entered the lean-to like structure off the back of the house. It looked like an old carriage house of some kind. It was noticeably cooler in the shade inside the lean-to. Scully turned around slowly. A chill passed over her and she rubbed her arms briskly. Amazing, she thought, how those old buildings kept out the heat. She moved to the side of the lean-to closest to the house, strangely drawn to the blank wall there. She eyed the flat surface, half expecting to see marks of some kind, or some tell tale evidence that her subconscious was registering before her eyes. She ran her hand along the wall. She felt something run up her arm, like an electrical current, and pulled it away. "Hey, Mulder, you seem to know something about the way these old houses were designed. What do you think is on the other side of this wall?" Mulder frowned at her, but stepped back, anyway, and eyed the house from outside. "Well," he began. "Judging from the size of the chimney back here, I would say the kitchen... " Scully walked over to join him. "See?" he pointed. "Little chimney in front to heat the bedrooms and parlors, only when necessary. Big chimney in back, because the kitchen is used all year round and the fire place will be huge. Now *that* wall..." he eyed the wall about which she was curious, "my guess is that's the borning room." "The what?" Scully asked. She was not quite sure what she expected him to say, but that was not it. "The 'borning room,'" Mulder repeated. "It was a room that was usually found off the kitchen because the kitchen is the warmest, most frequently populated room in the house. The borning room was used for childbirth, and nursing the sick. Most people who died of an injury or illness probably died in rooms like that. Why?" "Just curious," Scully said. But the words "died in" were not lost on her. She hugged her arms. They were not lost on Mulder, either, and he knew Scully well enough to know she was never 'just curious' without good reason. Died in, huh? Scully glanced over at Mulder, and saw the sparkle in his eyes. She realized her question had played right into his theory about the ghosts, and she was almost sorry she had asked it. She was about to warn him not to start jumping to conclusions when an unfamiliar voice interrupted from behind them. "Can I help you folks?" Mulder turned around to see a man approaching them across the overgrown "yard." He looked about fifty, balding and lean as a rail, with hawk-like features and horn-rimmed glasses. "Hi," Mulder said quickly. "My name is Fox Mulder, and this is Dana Scully. We were, uh, just looking at this wonderful old house here." The man nodded. "Dave Bowman," he said, extending his hand. "It is a nice old place, isn't it. Belonged to my aunt, before she died. Be careful walking around here, this place is pretty overgrown. No telling what you'll find buried in the weeds here." "Snakes?" Scully asked uncomfortably. Bowman smiled at her. "Well, could be, but I was thinking more along the lines of old rakes and boards with nails in them. Wouldn't want you to get hurt." He looked at Mulder curiously. "Mind if I ask what your interest is?" Mulder gave Scully a quick warning look, and plunged into an explanation before she could reach for her ID. "We were just looking the area over. We've been kind of thinking of maybe moving up here," he said, nodding at Scully. Beside him, Scully gaped, her eyes wide. "I sort of liked the idea of finding some old place and fixing it up. You know, a place with some history to it." Bowman nodded. "Well, the place *is* for sale," he agreed. "And it sure does have a history. It was supposed to be sold as part of another parcel, but I'm not too sure, now, if that's gonna go through. How did you folks happen to hear about it?" "We didn't," Mulder lied glibly, "we were just driving by. But it's for sale, you say?" Bowman nodded again. Mulder took a chance. "Actually, we had heard that there was a house out here that was supposed to be haunted," he said, smiling winningly. "We were really very interested in it. This looked like a likely candidate." Bowman smiled. "Oh, yes, there *is* that," he agreed. "Well, since you're interested, why don't you come up to the house and have a cold drink. I'll tell you the story and let you decide for yourselves." He started back through the weeds. "Get you out of this tall grass. Wouldn't want you to get bit by a tick and get Lyme disease, now... Just follow me, I live right down the road, here." Scully followed Mulder back across the overgrown lawn, alternately glaring at the weeds batting her knees, and at the back of her partner's head. She let him have it as soon as they were safely in the car. "Mulder!" "What?" he responded, all innocence. "Mulder, you deliberately mislead that man into thinking that we were interested in *buying* his property. For ourselves, Mulder. I mean, for us, like we were a couple or something!" Scully made an encompassing gesture with her hand, and stared at her partner, openmouthed. "We'll it did get us an invitation to some information," Mulder countered, mildly. "But you never told him who we were, you never said we were with the Bureau... " "We're not, officially. At least, not yet. Come on, Scully, the guy's not likely to talk to a couple of cops unless he has no choice. But a nice young couple from the burbs, looking to get back to the land..." He smiled at her. Scully practically sputtered with indignation. Mulder feigned a hurt look. "Gee, Scully, I never realized I was quite so unpleasant a prospect," he said. Scully made a face at him. "It's not that, don't twist my words," she replied, relenting a little. He eyed her curiously, waiting for her to go on. "It's just that I don't like being here under false pretenses." "Oh, come on, Scully," Mulder teased her. "Where's your sense of humor?" Scully sighed with sheer exasperation. Then she chuckled softly. "Well, since you mentioned it, I suppose it *is* pretty absurd, now that I think about it," she agreed mischievously. Mulder glanced over at her, his expression now truly a little bit hurt. Scully smiled at him smugly. "Gotcha." Mulder laughed. "So where're you folks from?" Bowman asked as he settled them on the porch of his white clapboard farmhouse with a plate of cookies and a pitcher of ice tea. Mulder had planned for this question in the car. "Simsbury," he replied, giving the man the name of a town he had pulled off the map, a considerable distance from where they were, but not so far that they could not have comfortably driven it. Bowman nodded. "Pretty town. What do you do, Mr. Mulder?" Mulder was ready for that one, too. "Insurance," he replied, feeling fairly safe. After all, Hartford, Connecticut, was the insurance capital of the world, supposedly. "For the Aetna," he glossed, remembering the last bill he had paid. Bowman nodded again. "And you, Ms. Scully?" Scully gulped a little, still not happy with Mulder's charade. Well, she could hardly tell the man she was a forensic pathologist, and a Special Agent with the FBI. "Oh, the same," she replied quickly. "And please, call me Dana." She smiled prettily. Bowman smiled back. "What do you do, Mr. Bowman," Scully asked, to prevent the man from asking them any other questions they might not be able to answer. "Me?" Bowman asked, as if surprised that anyone would care to know. "Oh, I teach agriculture up at the university. Use to dairy, some, too, but that got to be too expensive a hobby to be worth the bother. So now I pretty much teach, and write." He smiled. "And lobby Congress for more support of the small family farm. It's a dying way of life. And my own experience has taught me that it's just too costly for most folks to continue. Even thirty years ago, the small farmer could at least expect to break even, most of the time. That is no longer true, today." The two agents nodded politely and Mulder searched his mind for a way to turn the conversation back to the subject of his real interest. Bowman was an articulate speaker, and could no doubt spend the afternoon defending the plight of the family farm, but that was not why they were there. A screen door behind them slammed and another man walked out onto the porch. He was about as different looking from David Bowman as a man could get and still be the of same race. Short, broad, and round faced, it was only their eyes that identified the two men as relatives. "Richard," Bowman said cheerfully. He looked over at Mulder and Scully. "This is my brother, Richard. Richie, Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. They're from Simsbury, out here looking at some property. Seems they're interested in the old Colter place." Richard gave them a taciturn nod. "Actually," Bowman continued, mischievously Scully could have sworn, "they're really interested in the Colter ghosts. Richard Bowman's stolid expression turned sour. "Oh, you and that nonsense. Don't pay any attention to him," he nodded at Mulder. "He's been out in the sun too long." Bowman tipped back his head and laughed. "Join us, Richard," he offered. "Thank you, no," his brother replied. "Going to Agway. I'll be back in a little while." He made his "pleased to meet yous" to Mulder and Scully, then clumped down the porch steps, climbed into a battered pickup truck and drove away. "Richie doesn't think too much of our ghosts," Bowman said, unnecessarily, smiling after his brother. "Claims it's all just old wives' tales meant to frighten children." Mulder smiled with him. "But you believe they are real?" he prompted. Bowman nodded. "I've generally found old wives to be very wise," he assured them, merrily. "It's kind of a nice story, actually, if you like that sort of thing. Do you know it?" Mulder had read it, but Scully had not. And Mulder wanted to hear the story again, from this man whose family had lived in the house, itself. He gestured for Bowman to go on. Bowman leaned back in his chair. "We call the place the Colter farm, because that was the name of the family who built it, originally. I don't think there have been Colters in this town, though, for a hundred years or more. My aunt owned the place for forty five years, she was eighty when she died, and she lived alone in that house until the last four years of her life. "The place has two ghosts, according to the legend, Jeremiah Colter, who was the son of the original owner, and his fiancee, Catherine Hewlett. Colter was twenty four years old when the Revolutionary War broke out, and like many of the young men around here at that time, he went off to fight for the economic and personal freedoms that he felt were God given rights in this new land. The young couple put off their wedding, not knowing if, or when, Jeremiah would return. I personally think Colter senior probably may have had something to do with that, not wanting to run the risk of his son dying and leaving some young girl his heir. "Anyway, within a year of his joining his regiment, Colter was wounded and taken prisoner. He was interred at the prisoner of war encampment on Long Island, to await the next prisoner exchange. That was the custom in those days, as you may know. Neither side could afford the upkeep on prisoners, so generally they just traded 'em back and forth. Unfortunately, there was a small pox epidemic in the camp while Colter was there, and Jeremiah contracted the disease. Since the British army had no particular interest in carrying the expense of treating the infirm, he was just sent home to die or recover as he may. "Once Jeremiah got home, Catherine, who had moved into the Colter house during Jeremiah's absence, nursed her fiancee day and night. Her ministrations came to naught, though; Colter died about ten days after he returned. He didn't managed to die before he infected Catherine, though. She died, herself, within the month. "They are buried in the yard beside the house, up by the stone wall near the pig run. However, because those two were never married in life, they could not be buried in the same grave, wouldn't be seemly, and they are actually buried about twenty yards apart. The spot's pretty much grown over, now, but you can still find the fieldstone markers if you look through the weeds. "Now, the story goes, that, before he'd left for battle, Jeremiah, in his passion, had begged Catherine to give herself to him, but she refused him. In those days, for a girl to go to her wedding bed other than a virgin would have damned her, in both the eyes of man and God, and it was likely these two had not shared so much as a passionate kiss before Jeremiah left for war. When he returned, of course, it was too late for Catherine to change her mind. So they died with their love unconsummated. "According to the legend, Catherine was so heartbroken at having refused that one true act of love that she now roams the house and grounds looking for Jeremiah so that they can be together for eternity. And Jeremiah, in his turn, seeks for her. But never together, they are condemned in their loneliness to search for each other forever, and forever to remain alone." Scully suddenly exhaled, she had been unaware that she was holding her breath. She rubbed her arms, feeling a sudden chill. Mulder glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, then looked back at Bowman. "Your aunt lived in the house, you said." Bowman nodded. "She loved that old place. Would have died in it, if anyone had let her. Should have, if you ask me." Mulder smiled. "Did she ever see the ghosts?" Bowman nodded. "She claims to have. All the time." Bowman smiled. "She used to tell me that Catherine, especially, was a fidgety sort of ghost, always moving things around. The aunt said she could never be sure, when she got up in the morning, if things would be where she left them the night before. As if the poor girl hadn't got enough of housekeeping while she was alive." Both Mulder and Scully smiled, this time. "Did you ever see the ghosts, Mr. Bowman?" Mulder asked. Bowman just looked at him. "I have seen her, yes. Catherine." He leaned forward and frowned down at his hands. "Once. "When I was ten years old, the aunt took sick, and went into the hospital for a few months. At the time we had a handy-man on our farm, and he was also responsible for keeping track of the aunt's place while she was laid up. One day, he came and got me. Asked me if I wanted to come out to the old house with him, he was going to check the wiring. I was just a little kid, I didn't think anything of it. Why would I? "This part of town was even more isolated, then, than it is now. There were only two other houses on the street, neither one of them close to the Colter place. So there was nobody around to hear. "Turns out, this handy-man was not a nice person, and he had a taste for little boys. He got me into the house, and well, things got unpleasant pretty quickly." Bowman glanced at Scully, as if gauging how much to say. Scully looked back at him impassively. The man looked back down at this hands. "He had me down over the back of the sofa with my blue jeans around my knees and a knife at my throat, and that's when I saw her. She was standing over by the fireplace. She picked up this heavy old fashioned oil lamp that the aunt kept on the mantle, and she just hurled it. Hit that bastard right up the side of the head, knocked him out cold. Then she waved for me to run. I pulled up my britches and ran like a son-of-a-bitch, let me tell you." "That was quite a story," Mulder said as they walked back to the car. They had thanked Bowman very much for his time, and gotten a recommendation for dinner. Mulder had also made arrangements to come back the next morning to tour the inside of the house. "Yeah," Scully said, a trifle sourly. "It's almost as good as the one *you're* weaving. I can't believe you're sticking to this masquerade." "Does it really offend you that much?" Mulder asked, a little testily. Scully relented. "No, it doesn't offend me," she replied. "But I don't really like lying to the man. And you were very glib, back there. I know you're enjoying yourself, but don't fall in love with your own fantasy, okay?" She turned her back on him, and pulled open the car door. Mulder watched the back of her head as she slid onto the passenger seat. "Wouldn't dream of it," he replied, under his breath, as the car door clunked shut. He walked around to the driver's side, and got in. ============================================================= ======== ====== From: sclay@connix.com (Sheryl Clay) Subject: New Story: THOSE WHO LOVE (3/7) Date: Wed, 06 Sep 95 07:09:31 PST This story is PG 13 for some adult situations. There is a somewhat steamy, (though NOT explicit,) dream encounter between Mulder and Scully, so if that sort of thing gives you fits - even as a dream - you can skip that part. This is not a "romance" in the accepted sense, however, so please feel otherwise safe in proceeding. Thank you to Tish Sears for all the editing help! Comments welcome, critique encouraged, flames humbly accepted. "Those Who Love" is posted in seven parts, all parts posted on September 5, 1995. Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions, lovingly borrowed without permission, and without any intent to infringe, annoy or otherwise upset. The rest of the characters are mine. ***************************************************** THOSE WHO LOVE - Part 3 J. (Jamal) Gallagher did not like waiting in parking lots, he did not like sitting there in his car. It was too suspicious looking, it smacked too much of the actual business he was there to perform. Hendricksen had insisted, however, that he would not speak to him inside the bustling restaurant. He was to wait outside. Gallagher was already in enough trouble over the delays in this shipment, and he did not wish to antagonize his "superiors" with any further trouble, so he agreed to Hendricksen's condition. But he did not like it. The longer this whole transaction went on, in fact, the less happy he was. First there was the delay in delivery. He had examined a sample of Hendricksen's product, settled on a price very much to his liking, and had been promised delivery within two weeks. Those original two weeks, however, had stretched to three, and then four. Then Hendricksen could not make up his mind where the transfer should take place. That took another several days. If it was not for the fact that Gallagher had negotiated such an outstanding price on the "shipment", he would have called the whole thing off a long time ago, simply reported back that the deal was suddenly too risky. His "superiors" would have trusted his evaluation, and agreed, he was sure. But he had negotiated a very sweet deal, here, and he stood to make a lot of money. And he had bills to pay. He glanced at the back seat, at the locked briefcase lying innocently there. The transfer would be simple. He and Hendricksen would park, car door to car door, the doors opened in such a way that no one would be able to see between them. He would hand Hendricksen the brief case, Hendricksen would hand him the leather backpack containing the packets of uncut cocaine. Neither man would count, or examine, the merchandise or the payment at that time. Gallagher had already approved the samples, and Hendricksen, the price. And this was no amateur street operation. While there might not be honor among thieves, or drug dealers, there was fear, and a healthy respect. The likelihood of a double cross was slim; the last man to try to cheat his "superiors" was still floating up in the Wethersfield cove, a piece at a time. And, for such an illegal operation, his superiors had a surprising reputation for honesty. It was good business, and they were not petty criminals, moving dope out on the streets. These were businessmen with whom he dealt, first and foremost. Gallagher looked at his watch. When he turned his eyes back up to the road, a silver sedan was just pulling into the parking lot. He nodded to himself, and brought the briefcase up to the front seat. He waited until the sedan had pulled up next to him, facing the other way, so that their driver's sides were together. Gallagher rolled down his window, then waited for Hendricksen to do the same. "Are we all set then?" he asked, with strained patience. "Follow me," Hendricksen replied. Gallagher frowned in astonishment. "What do you mean, follow you!" he demanded in a harsh whisper. "I'm not gonna follow you! You have the stuff. I have the money. We make the transaction. Here. That was the deal." But Hendricksen shook his head. "Not here, there are too many people," he replied. "I know a place not far from here that is completely deserted. We'll go there." Gallagher struggled to contain his wrath. He had no intention of following this man anywhere; he was *tired* of this run around. Besides, one of the reasons he was confident that he would never need to use his gun was the fact that he *always* performed his transactions out in the open, in full view, cleverly, carefully, but always in settings least likely to encourage a "business partner" to take a chance and do something stupid. Something fatal. "No way, man," he resisted, anger causing a hint of the old neighborhood patois to creep back into his voice. "No way I'm following you anywhere. The transaction happens here, or it doesn't happen. Now, let's get on with it." He took a deep breath, and struggled to calm himself. Hendricksen just looked stubborn. "I don't have the stuff with me," he explained. "I've got it," he continued, seeing the look on Gallagher's face, "but not here. I've got it hidden on this place. It's not far. Honest. I just can't do it here, man, somebody will see us for sure, here. Just come with me. It ain't far. Just a couple of miles, on an old deserted farm." Gallagher was so angry he was shaking. He took a deep breath and tried to think. There was *no way* he wanted to follow this slime ball anywhere. This whole arrangement was starting to smell like nothing but trouble to him. He did not know what to do. Had he backed out of the arrangement before now, even a short a time ago as a week, his superiors would have understood, and perhaps even complimented him on his acumen. But to call it off now... They knew he was meeting Hendricksen tonight, to call it off now would look too suspicious. At best it would look like he no longer had the edge, or the nerve, to control these transactions, at worst like he had made some sort of a deal on his own behalf. He could not risk their ire. He would have to take his chances with the slime. He nodded. "Where?" he asked shortly. Hendricksen nodded and gave him directions. Gallagher waited until Hendricksen's car was out of sight. Then he threw his corvette into gear and peeled furiously out of the parking lot, nearly taking out a blue Ford Escort rental car in the process. He headed down the street. Mulder pulled into the restaurant parking lot just as the black corvette came flying out, nearly hitting him as it squealed around the corner. "Jesus Christ!" he cursed, swinging wide. He looked back over his shoulder. "Guy must have just caught his wife with another man..." He glanced at Scully, who had been thrown hard against her seatbelt. "You okay?" "Yeah," she sighed, shaking her head. They parked, and went inside. The place to which Bowman had directed them for dinner was called "Cousins", and was more of a bar and grill than a real restaurant. Several tables were set in the middle of the floor, and there were a few booths, but the long mahogany bar that took up most of the far wall left no doubt as to the establishment's real function. Still, wonderful smells had met them in the parking lot, as they pulled in, and that promise was met when their entrees were finally placed before them. Scully cut a slice from her roasted chicken breast, and watched Mulder tuck into his rib-eye steak and fries. She looked at him quietly for a moment. "So, are you still convinced these deaths are actually murders by haunting?" she finally asked. Mulder looked up at her. "The evidence seems to point in that direction, yeah," he agreed, eyeing her curiously. "I take it by the look on your face that you don't agree?" "I guess I just don't see anything I could call evidence of anything other than exactly what this seems to be - a very strange coincidence. Nothing more." "But what about Bowman's story?" "About the two ghostly lovers? I thought it was very charming. Delightful, really, and he tells it very well. I got the distinct feeling that he's been telling that story to anyone who would listen, for years." She smiled at Mulder fondly. "My father used to call that 'local color'." Mulder frowned at her. "His aunt seems to have had some personal experience with them," he countered. Scully nodded. "I've got an aunt like that, too, only mine sees angels. Mulder, all's you've got there is an eccentric old woman who forgot where she put things, and blamed ghosts for it. It doesn't prove anything." "What about Bowman's own experience. That was something less than charming, don't you think?" Scully sighed. "Oh, come on, Mulder, look at it logically. You have a little boy, subject to a terrifying and heinous experience. A little boy who was brought up on stories about those ghosts, who romanticized them, whose own family member treated them like household companions. It's only natural to expect that the boy would 'see' one of these ghosts under the circumstances. Like an imaginary friend." "Imaginary friends rarely throw heavy lamps across rooms to save you from being raped," Mulder countered. Scully nodded gently. "And maybe this imaginary friend didn't, either" she suggested. "Did you stop to think that maybe Bowman did *not* escape that assault? That this 'ghost' is actually his mind's way of dealing with what was done to him?" Mulder made a face, but did not argue further. She had a very good point, one that had occurred to him as well. He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, then sighed and nodded. Scully ate her chicken, and let Mulder think for a moment. When he did not offer a counter argument, she ventured further. "Anyway," she began, "I have done *some* reading during my, uh, sojourn on the X-Files..." Mulder quirked a lopsided grin at her, and she smiled back, "and I seem to recall reading that hauntings, for the most part, are generally pretty benign occurrences. Ghosts are suppose to be little more than left over energy from a consciousness that has not found peace in death, for one reason or another, often due to some unfinished business, or violence associated with the death, itself. But usually, this energy just sort of hangs out. It may, possibly, repeat whatever activity is associated with the reasons behind the 'haunting', but nothing premeditated. With the exception of certain kinds of poltergeist activity - which may not even be spectral - ghosts don't really affect their environments much. And even poltergeists usually only move things around, or make noise. Ghosts can be a nuisance, but they are very rarely intentionally injurious to human life. Most of that is a Hollywood interpretation. "What you are suggesting, though, is that these 'ghosts' *intentionally* caused those men to die. Even given the possibility that you might be right about the *existence* of such entities, doesn't that theory pretty much fly in the face of the accepted thinking?" By the time she finished, Mulder was grinning widely. "You *have* been reading," he replied with a small laugh. "And yes, you're right. Most spectral activity is benign in nature. However, I think we have a particular situation here." He put down his fork and looked at her intently. "Let's take Bowman's story at face value for a moment, and assume that he is correct in his belief that Jeremiah Colter and Catherine Hewlett still haunt the Colter farm because of the depth of their love for each other. A love that was denied in life, and therefore cannot be denied in death. It could be postulated that the actual physical matter binding them to this Earth and to each other, is that house, itself. The house they lived and loved and died in. To lose the house would be to lose each other, which is something they cannot allow. They aren't really murdering. They are only defending themselves and their love. "As long as efforts go forward to tear down the Colter farm, I'm convinced that people will continue to die on that property." Scully smiled warmly, and glanced down at her dinner for a moment. Then she looked back up at her partner. "That was very touching, Mulder. Very romantic, actually. I didn't know you had it in you." Mulder smiled, a little sheepishly. But Scully sighed. "Look, I agree that coincidence isn't a very satisfying explanation, here," she admitted, "and, short of exhuming a body and looking for other evidence," she pointed a finger at him warningly, "which we have *no* grounds to do, so don't even think about it, your theory that those men were frightened to death makes as much sense as anything does. But I still fail to see what we can do about it." Mulder looked at her earnestly. "We either have to convince Bowman not to sell that property, or get him to bring in a parapsychologist who can contact the ghosts through a psychic, and convince them to leave the house," he said. "It's the only way to prevent further deaths." Scully pursed her lips. "And, you might even be able to convince Bowman of that, although his *brother* doesn't seem much like the 'parapsychologist' type to me," she agreed. "But what the *hell*, Mulder, are you gonna tell Skinner? This is *not* our job. Under no circumstances can we even justify *this* little junket, we can only hope that nobody has been looking for us, so we can get back to Washington tomorrow without having to explain our absence." Mulder did not look happy. "So what, we just let the deaths continue?" Scully sighed, beginning to get exasperated again. "Mulder, I don't know what you want me to say," she replied. Her partner eyed her, then finally nodded in defeat. "I'd still like to go through the house tomorrow morning, before we leave," he said, his disappointment clear in his voice. "Just to satisfy my curiosity." "All right, if we do it early," Scully agreed, knowing she had won, and not wanting to rub it in. "I'm kind of curious, myself." J. (Jamal) Gallagher pulled off the road behind Hendricksen's sedan, and looked around. There wasn't much moon, but enough to see that he was parked beside an open, and overgrown field. He got out of his car and walked cautiously up to Hendricksen's. He peered in the windows and saw the keys still in the ignition, but the vehicle was otherwise empty. He peered up into the field. "Up here!" Hendricksen called him distantly. In that vague light, Gallagher could just make him out on the boarder of the woods. "Bring the briefcase and come here!" The hell he was going to do that. Gallagher tossed the briefcase full of cash into his trunk and slammed it shut. Then, hand over the butt of his gun, he trudged up the long incline to where Hendricksen was waiting. He could not see well in the half light, so he had several deep scratches and a wrenched ankle by the time he reached Hendricksen. He mood, never very good, was no longer the least cooperative. "Hendricksen, what the *fuck* is this all about, man?" he demanded, frustration destroying the last vestiges of his carefully cultivated speech. "What the *fuck* is going on here?" "Nothing, man," Hendricksen demurred placatingly. "I just, you know, didn't like to do the transfer in that parking lot. Too many people around." He looked at Gallagher. "Where's the money, man. I tol' you to bring it?" "An' I don't take orders from no slime like you," Gallagher hissed. "It's locked in the trunk of my car, and that's where it's gonna stay until you tell me what the hell you're up to. Where's the stuff?" Hendricksen kicked a backpack at his feet. "Right here, man." Gallagher looked down, and nodded. "Let's get the fuck out of this field, then. Bring it down to the cars." He turned and started down the slope. "I don't think so," Hendricksen replied, his voice firm and hard, all traces of whining vacillation now gone. "Turn around." Gallagher turned around and found himself staring down the barrel of a .38 caliber revolver. He gaped in shock. "Now give me your car keys." "What are you *doin'*, man." "The keys, Gallagher. Slowly. Now." Gallagher drew breath slowly. "Are you crazy? They'll kill you, man. I don't show up with the goods tomorrow, they gonna *know* you double crossed them. They'll find you, man." But Hendricksen shook his head. "You don't show up with the goods tomorrow, they'll figure it was *you* who pulled the double cross. By the time they pull your car out of the Cumberland marsh, I'll be long gone. With the cash, and the stuff." "Man, you're nuts!" "Give me the keys." Gallagher dropped his hands to his waist, and thought furiously. He could not believe this was happening. It had to be a dream. His hand brushed the top of his gun butt. Maybe it was a deer, or maybe it was just some rotten tree limb finally giving up and cracking to the ground, but the sudden sharp noise within the woods made Hendricksen jerk his attention to the left, just slightly. It was only a fraction of a second, but it was enough. Gallagher drew his weapon, clutched the butt in both hands, and fired. It took him a moment to realize what he had done. Hendricksen's body collapsed into a heap in the shadows. Gallagher could not see the extent of the damage his bullet had done, but Hendricksen had to be dead. Shit, the man had taken that bullet right in the face, no one could survive that! He kicked the body, and felt no movement, heard no response. Then it hit him. He had killed the man, *killed* him. For all of his flirtation with the underworld, for all that he had grown up on the streets, Gallagher had never killed anyone, before, had never even known anyone, intimately, who had done so. Panic took him. He had to get out of there. Hendricksen's body had fallen over the backpack. Gallagher jerked it out from under him, then opened it quickly. He tipped the mouth of the bag to catch the moonlight, and shuffled his hand around inside. It collided with something soft, and he drew out a clear plastic bag filled with soft white powder that glittered in the faint light. Gallagher dropped the bag back into the backpack, and zipped it closed again. He had to *do* something. He had to get out of there. He could take the coke, he could be take the coke and the money back to his superiors, explain what had happened. But his superiors were tidy men, and serious businessmen. They would not like this little complication, not at all. There was not telling what they might do to "discipline" him for this slip-up. Gallagher shuddered at the thought. He could always just blow. Take the money, take the coke and run. He could be a thousand miles away before the sun came up. But they would find him. He knew they would find him. He had to think. He looked around wildly. Hide the coke, hide it somewhere and go someplace where he could think. He had to get away from the body, get the hell out of that field. He peered into the woods, but it was too dark to see, and he was not going in there anyway. He turned around slowly, looking around him as he did. His eyes strained across the field. He had not noticed the old house, at first, because it was partly hidden in the shadows of the surrounding trees, but his eyes had adjusted to the near darkness, by now, and he could see the outline clearly. It returned to him that Hendricksen had said this was an old deserted farm. He jogged toward the building, desperate to put as much distance as he could between himself and Hendricksen's body, sure he could find someplace in that ramshackle building to safely hide his burden. He ran, unmindful of the rough ground, and the brush clutching as his pant legs. He did not stop until he had reached the house. The old well presented itself like a vision of salvation. Gallagher careened to a stop and bent over, gasping for breath beside the stone circle. He set the backpack onto the ground, and shifted the stone well cover to one side. Without stopping to think, he dropped his gun inside. Then he felt around the inside of the rim. Yes! Exhilaration filled him as his fingers found the iron bucket hook wedged in the wall of the well. He lowered the backpack over the side, and hung the straps over the hook. Then he pulled the cover back over the well. By morning, the trampled grass would be back to normal, rising with the dew. There would be no evidence that anyone had tampered with the well. Gallagher brushed the dirt from his hands, and thought about Hendricksen's body. Leave it, his brain said. The farm was deserted, chances were no one would even find the body until the wild animals had decimated it. And even if they did, there was nothing to lead them back to him. He could drive Hendricksen's car into the marsh; it would be days before it was found. Even Hendricksen had been sure of that. He felt unreasonably better as relief flooded him. The money was in his trunk, the coke would be safe in that well forever, and he had all the time in the world, now, to figure out the best thing to do. He looked around, slightly disoriented, then saw the road. He strode purposefully back down the hill. ============================================================= ======== ====== From: sclay@connix.com (Sheryl Clay) Subject: New Story: THOSE WHO LOVE (4/7) Date: Wed, 06 Sep 95 07:13:53 PST This story is PG 13 for some adult situations. There is a somewhat steamy, (though NOT explicit,) dream encounter between Mulder and Scully, so if that sort of thing gives you fits - even as a dream - you can skip that part. This is not a "romance" in the accepted sense, however, so please feel otherwise safe in proceeding. Thank you to Tish Sears for all the editing help! Comments welcome, critique encouraged, flames humbly accepted. "Those Who Love" is posted in seven parts, all parts posted on September 5, 1995. Fox Mulder, and Dana Scully are the property of Ten Thirteen Productions, lovingly borrowed without permission, and without any intent to infringe, annoy or otherwise upset. The rest of the characters are mine. ***************************************************** * THOSE WHO LOVE - Part 4 Mulder sat in silent thought as the waitress came and cleared their dishes. As she did, a young woman carrying a guitar came out into the small cleared space at the far end of the room, and took a seat on a bar stool. The bartender set up a microphone for her, and plugged it into a dusty amplifier that looked permanently part of the decor. Mulder looked up and watched the goings on. The girl looked like she might be a local college student, she was certainly too young to *drink* in the place. Pretty girl, though, with bright green eyes he could see from where he was sitting, and longish ash blonde hair. "Looks like we're going to be entertained," he said, changing the subject, and trying to bury his general annoyance at the turn events had taken. Scully was probably right. He would even admit it, willingly enough, in a little while. He was too disappointed, right at that moment, though, to feel reasonable. The distraction would do him good. "Want to stay for a while and listen?" Scully watched as the young woman chatted with the bartender, and plucked at her guitar, making last minute adjustments in the tuning. Well, after all, they had no place else to be, that evening, there *was* no case to solve, and a little relaxation might not be a bad idea. Mulder was disappointed, she could tell, and a little annoyed with her. It would probably do them both good. She smiled and nodded at him, as the singer tapped the microphone. "Hi everyone," the girl said, pushing her hair off her shoulders and smiling. "My name is Nicole White, and I'm going to sing a little for you, while you enjoy your coffee and dessert..." "Dessert?" The waitress asked Mulder. He shook his head. "Not for me. You want dessert, or a drink?" "Just coffee," said Scully, "Decaf?" The waitress nodded as Nicole White began the first of the ballads she would sing that night. Scully leaned on her elbows and listened. The woman was very good, and Scully smiled wistfully as the tunes shifted from ballad, to sea chantey, to old folk song. The waitress brought a coffee urn to the table with the cups, and left them on their own. Scully glanced at Mulder out of the corner of her eye, and her irritation gradually dissipated. Sometimes he tried too hard to believe, it was true, but it was also that very single-minded devotion to his beliefs that she found most endearing in him. She felt a sudden rush of tenderness as she watched him fiddling with his coffee. He was such a strange, frustrating and exhilarating man, was her partner. And there were many occasions when she would have cheerfully wrung his neck. But no one had ever stimulated her mind and her imagination the way Fox Mulder had, no one had ever pushed her to the very edges of her credulity, then dared her to jump. She had not jumped, she would not jump. But there was something... attractive about the dare. She had never met anyone who could charge her with this sheer sense of adventure. Scully sighed inwardly. Even this charade of passing themselves off as a couple was more amusing than annoying, if she was really honest about it. It was silly, perhaps, and a little dishonest, but she had protested more from a sense of propriety that because of any real objection. She did wish he would not spring these little brainstorms on her without warning, but still, she had to admit, it *was* a pretty good ploy. She hoped she had not offended him by her reaction, or by her subsequent squelching of yet another wild theory. "She's very good," Scully ventured, nodding at the singer, trying to make amends. "This was a good idea." Mulder looked up from his coffee, and smiled at her. "She *is* good," he agreed. "Enjoying yourself?" Scully smiled and nodded. "I've always enjoyed this sort of thing," she admitted. "Wishful thinking, mostly, I guess. I sound like something in pain, when I sing..." Mulder laughed, friends, again. He watched Scully out of the corner of his eye as she relaxed into the magic of the music. He knew she had followed him on this little adventure as much of out of friendship as out of any burning desire to solve this puzzle, and that knowledge successfully dissolved any lingering irritation he might have had over the outcome of the trip. The truth was, Scully had *never* refused to help him, no matter what her personal feeling might have been about one of his theories or ideas. In fact, she had often put her career, and even her life, on the line to assist him and his work. As much as her skepticism frustrated him, sometimes, he relied tremendously on her clarity of vision and her point of view. He had also come to depend, emotionally, on her friendship, and support. He knew that, too. He leaned back into the corner of the booth and lifted his long legs onto the seat. He took a deep sip of the hot and aromatic coffee and sighed inwardly. They might not have accomplished what he had hoped in coming here, but this was still nice. He and Scully so rarely just relaxed together as friends. They needed to do this more often. Nicole White stopped her singing for a moment. Mulder half expected her to announce that she was taking a break. Instead, she smiled, as if deciding on something, then struck a soft minor chord and closed her eyes. The ballad started slow, mournful and sweet. Mulder closed his eyes and smiled: "In Norwa land, there lived a maid Baloo, my babe, this maid began I ken na where your father is Nor yet the land where he dwells in "It happened on a certain day When this fair maiden fell asleep That in there came a grey silkie And sat him doon at her bed feet" Scully frowned suddenly, and shifted in her seat. Mulder looked at her sharply, and watched memory play across her face. It had been months since their journey to Shelter Island off the coast of Maine and Scully's encounter with that extraordinary, seductive creature who had come out of the sea to bewitch her, but Mulder could see the beginnings of distress in Scully eyes. The being had manifested some magical power that had held Scully in a kind of strange, sexual thrall, leaving her helpless in the face of the creature's will. She had come close to losing her soul, and her life, to that enchantment, and apparently the effects had not totally faded, even after all that time. Mulder suppressed the urge to take her hand. "I pray come tell tae me your name And tell me where your dwelling be My name it is Gud Hein Mailler An I earn ma living oot tae sea "I am a man upon the land I am a Silkie in the sea And when I'm far frae every strand My home it is in Sule Skerry "Alas, alas, this woeful fate This weary fate that's been laid on me That a man should a come frae the West o Hoy Tae the Norwa lands tae ha a bairn wi me" Mulder leaned toward Scully, this time putting his hand over hers. There was no doubt in his mind that it *had* been a selkie that Scully had confronted on Shelter Island. The creature had nearly lured her into the sea to her death, and he did not want to put her through the pain of remembering that encounter. "Do you want to leave," he asked gently. Scully looked at him, her face stricken. "I'm okay," she insisted, struggling for composure. "I'm fine." She smiled at him. "It's just a song Mulder, I'm all right. Really." "Ma dear I'll wed ye wi a ring Wi a ring ma dear, I'll wed wi thee Thou may go wed wi whom thou wilt I'm sure ye'll never wed wi me "An she had got a gunner good An a gey good gunner, I'm sure twas he An he gae oot on a May morning An he shot the son and the grey silkie Scully startled sharply and rose to her feet as Mulder reached out his hand to her again. "Alas, alas this woeful fate This weary fate that's been laid on me "Excuse me," she said quickly, avoiding his grasp. She left quickly, as the singer finished her song: "And once or twice she sobbed and sighed An her tender heart, it brake in three." Mulder signaled the waitress and settled their bill. Then he followed Scully out. He found her standing next to a tree not far from the door, hugging her arms. "Scully?" He came up next to her. "Are you okay?" She looked up at him, her eyes glistening with tears, and shook her head. "Yeah. No. I don't know," she admitted. "God, Mulder, it's like it was yesterday. I can feel it like it just happened. I can feel that *thing* calling me..." Mulder put his hand on her shoulder, sensing the depth of her distress, and remembering the reasons for it. He felt her trembling. "It's okay," he comforted. "Just take a deep breath and relax. I'm right here." Scully nodded and closed her eyes. After a few moments, she stopped shaking. A few moments more, and she straightened up. Mulder dropped his hand. She took a deep breath and nodded at him. "I'm all right, now," she said, and he could see, this time, that it was true. "I think it was just the shock. I didn't expect to be reminded, and I wasn't prepared for the reaction." She shook her head. "I hope I'm not going to have to spend the rest of my life dealing with this," she sighed. Mulder smiled. "Well, it might be a good idea to stay out of bars with folk singers in them, for a while..." he teased, trying to get her smile. It worked. She laughed a little, and glanced up at him, then away quickly. He could see a shadow play across her face. "What is it?" he asked. Scully shrugged. "It's just a little embarrassing, I guess," she admitted. Mulder made a clucking noise at her. "Oh, come on. None of that." He reached over and caught her chin with a fingertip, lifted her face until she was looking him in the eye. "It's only me." Scully gave him a strange look. "No such thing," she said softly. Then she dropped her eyes. Mulder frowned at her wonderingly. Scully cleared her throat and blew out a breath decidedly. "I'm ready to call it a night," she said firmly, and the moment was broken. Mulder said goodnight to Scully at the door of her motel room, but she could tell by his eyes that he was still concerned. She was grateful, and touched, but she was too tired, and frankly still too agitated, to want to talk further that night. She wanted to be alone, to think and eventually to sleep. Besides, she was in no danger. It was true that the encounter in Maine had come very close to ending her life, but the creature itself was long gone. Dead, probably. She had probably killed it herself. "I'm really okay, Mulder," she said, giving him her very best reassuring smile. "I'm just a little rattled. It's nothing a good night's sleep won't take care of." She reached out and squeezed his arm affectionately. Mulder gave her a searching look, then nodded. "Okay. Good night, then," he finally relented. "But call me if you wake up, okay? Or if you have trouble sleeping?" Scully smiled warmly. She nodded. Then she yawned, and Mulder laughed. "All right, all right," he said. "I'll let you go. Get some sleep." Scully merely covered her mouth and nodded. Mulder watched her until she closed her door, then he went on to his own room. Scully might have been tired enough to call it a night, but Mulder was still wide awake. He made a face at the television; passive entertainment was not what he wanted. He thought about taking a run, but that was not what he really wanted, either. His eyes lighted on his brief case, and he sighed. The Colter ghosts were still heavy on his mind, despite Scully's reasonable contention that there was nothing they could do. He needed to think, and he often did that best with a pen in his hands. Opening the briefcase, he took out his field journal, and made himself comfortable at the small desk in the corner of his motel room. Fox Mulder was perfectly comfortable with computers, and technology. He used them every day. Nonetheless, he still kept certain anachronistic habits from his college days, and from his early years with the FBI's Behavioral Sciences Unit; habits that relaxed him and helped him to think. One of those habits was keeping his field notes "in hand." Scully had teased him, at first, about this peculiarity, pointing out how much easier field reports were when one could cut and paste from a "word" document. But she had come to understand that writing and thinking were often synonymous to her partner. She stopped giving him a hard time. Mulder opened the small loose-bound notebook he used as a field journal, and stared at the blank page, the end of his pen resting on the bottom lip of his mouth. Then he sighed, and started to write: "Although nothing conclusive could be learned at the Colter farm this afternoon, the story told by David Bowman concerning his aunt's and his own alleged encounters with the spirit of Catherine Hewlett do agree with accounts of spectral encounters recorded by parapsychologist Han Holzer, as well as others. It is Agent Scully's contention that Bowman's alleged encounter is merely his mind's way of dealing with the trauma of his apparent rape as a child. While this contention is both valid, and likely accurate, I cannot help but feel that Bowman is completely sincere in his belief that he was 'rescued' from this heinous attack by spectral intervention. Moreover, his story does resonate strikingly of other reported spectral rescues... "I remain convinced that the deaths on the Colter farm property are the direct result of the attempts to sell this parcel toward the end of tearing down the house, and that they are the defensive reactions of the spirits of Catherine Hewlett, and possibility Jeremiah Colter. "Phantoms, ghosts, spirits, by whatever names they are called, these phenomena are generally believed to be the emotional and psychological detritus of lives that have ended through some trauma, or with earthly issues left unresolved. They are, in effect, pieces of a consciousness left behind to re-enact the trauma, or attempt resolution of the issue, over and over, for eternity. While it is undoubtedly their great, though unconsummated, love that continues to bind Catherine Hewlett and Jeremiah Colter to this realm, I believe that it is the house, itself that provides the anchor keeping their spirits on this side of what Dr. Holzer refers to as "the veil". As long as attempts to transact a business deal that will result in the destruction of the house proceed, I am convinced that the deaths will continue. "One must ask oneself, in all of this, if the ghosts, themselves, would not be 'better off' if the house was simply destroyed, and if the intervention of a psychic to assist them back across the line between life and death might not be the kindest thing. How terrible it must be to go through eternity seeking to reconcile a love that was never completely and fully expressed in life..." Mulder put down his pen, and rubbed his eyes wearily. He stretched, then leaned forward against the desk and stared into space, his fist pressed thoughtfully against his mouth. It took him a moment to realize that he was not staring into space after all. The blank wall upon which he gazed was the one that separated his room from Scully's and he wondered if she had been able to get to sleep. He felt a sudden rush of tenderness and concern, and a restless desire to go check on her. He subdued the urge, guessing that it would not be too well received. Still, he hated the thought of her over there, alone, wrestling with whatever demons might have been stirred up that night. He shook his head in frustration at his own inability to comfort and protect her. Protect her, he groaned to himself in amusement. She would undoubtedly *love* to know he was worried about *that*. He smiled to himself and picked up his pen again: "I do not anticipate that Agent Scully's and my scheduled visit to examine the interior of the Colter farmhouse will yield any more conclusive evidence of spectral inhabitation than was gained today. It is extremely rare for persons not psychically sensitive to witness a spectral manifestation. The fact that both Bowman and his aunt claimed to have seen evidence of the ghost of Catherine Hewlett actually lends credence to Bowman's story, as psychic sensitivity tends to run in families. I make no claims to such sensitivity for myself, however, and I am equally sure that Agent Scully, were she asked, would insist, also, that she is free of any psychic powers..." Mulder smiled to himself, imagining Scully's reaction to such a question. "However," he finally concluded, "the opportunity to tour a bona fide haunted house is just to tempting to pass up...." Despite her agitation, Scully had very little trouble falling asleep. She took her time with washing up, and got herself organized for morning. It was not particularly necessary that she do so, this was not a real case they were investigating, there was no need to be out the door at first light, but the routine was soothing. She thought about packing, but their plane did not leave until 2:00 pm the next day, and there would be plenty of time to do so once they returned from the Colter farm. Their plane. Scully sighed and shook her head, wondering what the chances were that their absence would remain undetected, and that a summons from Assistant Director Skinner, demanding an explanation, would not be waiting for them when they got back. She considered that it had, perhaps, not been a very good idea to follow Mulder up here. Except that God only knew what kind of trouble he would have gotten himself into if she had not. Scully laid out jeans and a work shirt for the next morning - she was not going to get caught out in that field, again, in business wear - then glanced over at her laptop computer. It was her habit to spend some time each night before going to bed compiling her field notes from the day, but in this case there really was no need. There *was* no case, if they were lucky no one even knew they were there, and no report to Skinner would be necessary. In any case, Mulder would be making copious notes, she was sure, and if he needed her impressions, he would ask for them. She crawled into bed, switched off the table lamp, and was asleep as soon as her head touched her pillow. ============================================================= ======== ======