Title:  Rise From the Ashes
Author:  Flyerfly
Rating:  R (language and some sexual innuendo)
Category:  MSR/UST
Time Frame:  Early S6, somewhere around Drive.
Summary:  Mulder, restless after being sent on 
another dead-end assignment, decides to take 
matters into his own hands and sets out in 
search of an X-File.

Disclaimer:  None of the regulars are mine.  
Those that aren't, are.  But I don't care, 
C.C.  If you want them, you can have them. 
I'm not picky.

*roll the credits*


Interstate 30W
9:45 A.M.

"Mulder, did you hear what I said?"  Dana 
Scully's voice sounded strangely muffled from 
behind the unfolded map in her hands.  The 
only signs of her presence were the intense 
red hairs that emanated from atop the papers 
that dominated the passenger's side.

"Mmm?" Mulder purred.  Scully could tell he
was deep in thought.  Both of his hands were 
planted firmly on the steering wheel and his 
body frame was tight and severe.  His gaze was 
steady, staring out through the windshield, 
and his gray-green eyes were alight with that 
intense excitement that always shone when he 
was in the midst of an investigation.  Why was 
a matter of some debate, however.  Scully, 
herself, could not see anything remotely 
interesting about being dragged off to inspect 
yet another supposed American-made terrorist 
attack.  Ever since she and Mulder had been 
reassigned, they had been sifting through one 
big pile of shit after another.  With the 
X-Files closed, she wondered if there 
was any reason at all to stay in the Bureau.  
It would be a hell of a lot easier to turn over 
her badge.  They had been trying to get rid of 
them for years now.  The terrorism work was 
absolutely punishment for their "insolence," of
that she was sure.  Sometimes, it really wasn't
worth it.  She lowered the map and peered 
closely at his strong, handsome features, 
evidence of the strength he carried within 
himself.  Other times...

"I said that the exit towards San Antonio was
back there towards the right," she folded the 
map and replaced it in the dashboard, "It's 
probably about a mile back now."  

Mulder smiled thoughtfully and took his eyes 
off of the stretch of thousands of straight, 
empty road in front of him.  "I thought we'd 
take the scenic route, Scully," he said, and 
turned once more towards the highway, but not 
before Scully caught the playful gleam twinkle 
in his eyes.

"Mulder," she reminded him, "we don't have time 
for the scenic route.  We have to go investigate 
this potential terrorist.  Kersh has been looking 
for any excuse to give us our walking papers, we 
can't give him any incentive.  Side trips are 
just not in the itinerary."

"Scully," Mulder reproached, "aren't you getting 
tired of sifting through feces?  Just because Mrs. 
Kelly Horst in San Antonio purchases a large 
amount of fertilizer to facilitate the growth of 
her tree farm, it doesn't mean that she is 
necessarily about to generate the next Oklahoma 
City."  He glanced at her, a boyish smirk apparent 
on his lips.  "Besides," he said, "If there's a 
load of shit to dig up in these contiguous 
forty-eight states, then I'm pretty sure that most 
of the shoveling is occurring in the vicinity of 
Washington, D.C., not Texas."

"Mulder..." she started, but he interrupted her with 
a wave of his hand.

"Listen, Scully, we will absolutely, positively 
check out the sadistic tree farmer on the way back, 
okay?  If not because it is our job, but simply to 
assuage any fear or concern that you might carry 
for the welfare of our fine nation."

"On the way back?" she questioned, "Mulder, Kersh 
is not going to be happy."

"Don't you think that he'd be more concerned about 
the monetary expenditure required in finding the 
next exit miles down the line, turning the vehicle 
around, traveling back, and then heading off to 
San Antonio?  I'm sure that he would agree that 
the most positive course of action would be to 
take a short cut."

"Mulder," she huffed, cheeks reddening with a 
mixture of contention and ire, "these roads are 
completely straight.  There are no shortcuts."

"Scully, you'll never get to the top of the F.B.I. 
hierarchy with that attitude."

Scully folded her arms across her chest and sat 
back in petulant, silent, defiance as Mulder 
hummed aloud to the car radio.

US Highway 90
12:49 P.M.

Scully's arms were still folded when Mulder 
directed the silver Ford Taurus off the side of 
the road as it puttered away its dying breath and 
came to a sickly stop.  Taking his right hand off 
the steering wheel, he paused long enough to look 
at his partner and command her, "Don't say a 
word."  Then, he unbuckled his belt, opened the 
door, and swiftly jumped to his feet, happily 
stretching his aching muscles after having sat 
stationary for so long.  As he plucked his cell 
phone from his pants pocket, he thought he heard 
her say something to the effect of, "Nice 
shortcut."  Choosing not to grace her comment 
with a response, he turned around, phone to his 
ear, and gave her a stern look of disapproval.  

"Triple A, how can I help you?"

"Hello.  My name is Fox Mulder and I need some 
assistance.  My car has broken down on US 90.  I 
am located about 26 miles away from Alpine, Texas.  
Could you send someone out to pick me up?"

"As soon as we possibly can, sir," the 
cheery-little-teenaged-operator chirped, "At the 
moment we have no one available on staff.  I can 
have someone out in an hour or two."

Mulder sighed to himself.  His hazel eyes 
glistened as he contrived a plan.  "Okay," he 
responded sweetly, "that's fine."  He paused and 
then said, seemingly as an afterthought, "Oh, did 
I give you my name?  It's Special Agent Fox 
Mulder," making sure to emphasize the "Special 
Agent."

"Yes you did, sir," she answered, just as 
innocently, "It'll be an hour or two."

"Thank you," he replied despondently.  He turned 
the phone off and placed it back in his pocket.  
"Dumb bitch," he muttered as he walked back to 
the car, head facing the dirt and hands in his 
pockets.  He glanced up, trying desperately not 
to meet the gaze of the woman with the hair as 
fiery as the gleam in her eyes.  

He opened the door and sat down, grabbing for the 
handle to push the seat back into a reclining 
position.  He closed his eyes and placed his hands 
behind his head.  "Don't say a word."

2:42 P.M.

"How did ya'll manage to find yourselves out here 
by your lonesome?"  The cute woman with the long 
blonde hair smiled through ruby-red lips.  Mulder 
was seated in the passenger's side of the 
tow-truck, grinning ear-to-ear.  

"I'm not alone now," he thought devilishly.  

"Well," he said, looking at the name on her 
standard-issue uniform, "Amber Lynn, I was out 
here working on a case for the government but I 
misjudged the distance from the road to the next 
rest-stop, and I guess I just ran out of gas."  
He shrugged his shoulders, still grinning.

"Ya'll work for the federal gov'ment?" she asked, 
astonished, "Whatta you do?"

"I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation," 
he beamed, "Wanna see my badge?"  He pulled the 
identification from his jacket and displayed his 
picture proudly.

"Fox?" she said, "Your name is Fox?"

He winced and nodded his head in affirmation.

"Well," she said seductively, gazing into his 
eyes, "the name certainly fits."

He was beaming with masculinity.  

"Maybe you could show me what there is to do 
around here for a little excitement," he cooed.

"Do you wanna know what I like to do for 
excitement?" she asked.

Mulder leaned in closer, but instead of 
sweet-nothings, all he received was an earful of 
hard knocks...literally.  Mulder's body engaged in 
a full-body heave as he awoke from an 
uncomfortable sleep.  The knocking came again, 
and Mulder, startled, beat his head unwittingly 
against the door.

"Ow."  He rubbed his head and opened his groggy 
eyes, adjusting them slowly to the intense light 
of day.  Scully appeared first through his 
blurred vision, lying asleep in the passenger's 
side.  He cracked his neck and looked towards the 
left, towards the direction from which the sounds 
were coming.

"Amber Lynn?"

He gazed out through the open window.  Instead of 
a slender, beautiful, woman, his gaze was met by 
that of a heavy-set, middle-aged man glancing 
into the car.

"Did somebody call for some roadside assistance?"

3:08 P.M.

"I guess that does it."  Kenny, a
balding, middle-aged Triple A worker jumped, 
albeit a little-awkwardly, to his feet after 
securing the last connection from the tow-truck 
to Mulder's rented Taurus.  He hiked up his pants, 
covering the "handyman's crack" that had made an 
appearance when he crouched down.  He dusted off 
his hands, informing the pair that, "We're all set 
to go."

As Kenny climbed into the driver's seat, Mulder 
opened the passenger's door with his right hand 
and extended his left in a gesture of admittance.  

"After you, Scully."

Scully glared at him as she climbed into the 
stuffy three-seater truck.  Mulder followed suit, 
and soon the three were driving at a far-too 
leisurely pace down the highway.

"So where ya'll from?" Kenny asked in a comedic 
southern accent that Mulder thought seemed 
slightly reminiscent of the buck-toothed vampire 
that held Scully's amorous affection.  

"Washington," Scully answered abruptly, putting 
a fist to her nose in an attempt to stifle the 
smell of sweat and grime that emanated from the 
auto-man's body.

"Ah, Washington," Kenny responded dreamily, 
spitting a wad of tobacco out the window, 
"Beautiful state.  Lovely place for a couple 
to settle down."

"We're not together," Scully said insistently.

"Is that a fact?" Kenny asked, arching his 
eyebrows and smiling widely.

"Oh for Christ's sake," Scully moaned under her 
breath.  Her hand moved to her forehead as she 
turned and glared at Mulder.  "I'm going to get 
you for this," she mouthed to him.  He shrugged 
his shoulders in response.

"Washington, D.C.," Mulder explained.

"What's that now?" Kenny asked.

"We're from Washington, D.C.," Mulder repeated, 
"We're partners at the Federal Bureau of 
Investigation."

"Sure 'nuf?" Kenny asked, surprised at 
encountering federal agents all the way off 
the beaten path, "I always wanted to be in the 
F.B.I. when I was a littlin.  So what are ya'll 
doing out here?  Investigatin'?  Can I see your 
badge?"

"We took a short cut," Scully told him bluntly.  

Mulder shot her a look of reproach, and pulled 
out his identification.  "We're investigating a 
potential terrorist threat," Mulder answered.

"Oh," Kenny said simply, gazing in awe at 
Mulder's picture.  This was followed by an 
awkward silence.  

"Kenny," Scully finally said after some period 
of time, "do you think you could turn on the 
air-conditioning?  It's a little stifling?"  In 
reality, it wasn't the heat so much that 
bothered her, but the effect it had on Kenny's 
odor that was truly upsetting her.

"Sorry, ma'am," he said, "but my 
air-conditionin' has been on the fritz ever 
since those lights done come to town."

"Fabulous," Scully replied under her breath, 
once again placing her hand to her nose.

"Lights?" Mulder asked, his interest piqued, 
"What lights?"

"Well, it's the damndest thing...," Kenny started, 
and then said, "Nah, I can't tell you.  You 
wouldn't believe me anyway."

"No, no, go ahead," Mulder said, leaning forward, 
"You'd be surprised what I'd believe."

"Okay, well, here goes."  He adjusted his uniform, 
feeling important in such prestigious company.  
"A couple of nights ago, I was drivin' out on this 
very highway, fixin' to pick up some guy with a 
flat tire.  About five miles out, I see these 
lights in the sky -white, blue, and orange- just 
dancin' around like a fox in a henhouse."

Mulder urged him forward as Scully chuckled at 
Kenny's unknowing faux pas.  

"Well, my radio starts goin' all haywire and 
then all the power in the car goes completely 
dead.  I keep watchin' the lights and they sorta 
stop in mid-flight.  Then they start up again and 
hear this weird sound, like 'BAM!'.  And then 
quick as a flash, they were gone.  My truck 
finally started up a couple of minutes later.  I 
went and made my pickup and then went back home.  
Ever since then, my radio and my air-conditionin' 
hasn't worked."

Mulder sat back in deep thought.  "Where did you 
see the lights?" he finally asked.  

"Back in the other direction, maybe about two 
miles outside of Marfa."

"Turn around," Mulder commanded, "I want you to 
show me where you saw the lights."

"But it's in the other direction, sir," Kenny 
informed him, "We'd be goin' in a direction 
opposite my shop."

"Turn around," Mulder repeated.

"Okay," Kenny agreed, as he proceeded to turn 
the car around.

"What was that about monetary expenditure?"
Scully asked.

Mulder leaned in close to Scully.  "Hey, 
Scully," he whispered in her ear, "you smell 
bad."

3:58 P.M.

"This is it."  Kenny pulled the tow-truck off 
to the side of the road.  It came to rest 
before a small hill that overlooked miles of 
flat land in every direction.  There were a 
few trees and a long, white fence, but other 
than that, it was grass as far as the eye 
could see.

"That's where I saw them," Kenny explained, 
pointing to the area immediately above the 
fence.  

"Why don't we get a closer look?" Scully said, 
throwing the passenger door open and pushing 
Mulder out into the road.  

"Good idea, Scully," he muttered as she closed 
the door and stepped over him.  Mulder stood 
up and dusted the dirt off of his pants.  He 
followed after Scully, who had her hands on 
her hips and was enjoying stretching her stiff 
legs.  

"Well," she said, turning around to face him, 
"I don't see anything out of the ordinary."

"Maybe you're not looking hard enough," Mulder 
replied, brushing past her and walking farther 
out towards the edge of the fence.

"They kinda skittered along the posts, there," 
Kenny told them, "sorta like this."  He made a 
gesture parallel to the fence.  "Then they 
stopped and were gone."

"What do you think the objects were?" Mulder 
asked him.

"Well...umm..."  Kenny hesitated.

"It's okay," Mulder told him, "Just say it.  
I'll believe you."

Scully rolled her eyes.  "Even if he 
shouldn't," she said.

Mulder shot her a warning look.  "Go ahead,"
he said again.

"Well, I don't know if ya'll believe in that 
kinda stuff," he bit his lower lip, "but I 
sorta thought that maybe they might be 
U.F.O.'s?"

"In my experience," Mulder told him, "it's 
never a good idea to rule out any theory, 
however remote it may seem."  He continued 
walking out into the fields, parallel to the 
path of the fence.  Once he was out about 
two-hundred yards, he turned around and 
brushed his hand along the top of it.  

"He's kind of an odd-bird, isn't he?" Kenny 
asked, jerking his neck in Mulder's direction.

"Some might even say spooky," Scully replied, 
and then called to him, "Train is leaving, 
Mulder, with or without you."

He gazed at the fence for a little while 
longer and then turned and slowly proceeded 
back towards the truck.  He was greeted by 
Scully who was opening the passenger door.  
"After you, Mulder," she told him.

Davey Crockett Motor Court 
Marfa, Texas
4:12 P.M.

After filling Mulder's tank and telling him 
that the tow-fee would be "free of charge," 
Kenny waved to the agent and drove deeper into 
town.  Mulder turned around and walked into 
the motel that would serve as his room for the 
night.  Scully was already setting up her 
laptop and her personal belongings on the 
dresser by the wall.  

"This one's mine, Mulder," she told him as he 
entered the room.  She folded her jacket 
neatly into a drawer.  "Yours is next door."

"You know, Scully," he told her, "if you're 
really so worried about charging money to the 
Bureau, we could think of alternative ways to 
save some cash."  He grinned broadly, his 
hazel eyes sparkling with mischief.  "You up 
for a sleep over?"

"I think you might ask yourself the same 
question, Mulder," she responded wryly.  She 
unpacked her hairbrush and gestured to the 
adjoining room.  "Yours is next door."

"Well, don't get too comfortable, Scully," he 
said resolutely, "We've got to leave in an 
hour."

"What do you mean we've got to leave, 
Mulder?" she asked, "We just arrived here in 
the middle of bumble.  What motivation could 
you possible have for leaving?"

"One hour, Scully.  We don't want to miss the 
sunset.  I hear it's beautiful in Texas this 
time of year."

US Highway 90
9:27 P.M.

Mulder thumbed his fingers anxiously against 
the steering wheel as Scully leaned against 
the passenger's door, her hand to her temple.  
She sighed deeply, hoping Mulder would note 
her obvious irritation.  He glanced at her 
briefly, then reached into his pocket and 
produced a bag of David's Sunflower Seeds.  
He popped a few in his mouth and replaced the 
bag as Scully sighed for a second time.  He 
glanced at her again.

"How you holdin' up over there, Scully?"

"Well, aside from the fact that I am sweaty, 
sleep-deprived, and still have the odor of 
an overweight tow-truck driver clinging to 
my clothes, I'm perfectly fine, Mulder."  
She turned towards him and replied blandly 
in an overtly condescending tone, "How are 
you?"

Mulder grimaced.  "Do I detect a note of 
sarcasm, Agent Scully?" he asked.

"It's nice to see the months of Bureau 
training weren't lost on you, Agent Mulder."

She ran her fingers absent-mindedly through 
her glistening hair.  After a rather lengthy 
silence, she folded her hands and finally 
asked, "Mulder, what are we doing here?"

"We're enjoying the serenity of a peaceful 
Texas night," he answered, fixing his gaze 
towards the open field and the white fence.  

"No, Mulder," she said, "you might be, but 
I'm not.  There is nothing about this 
rink-a-dink town that I enjoy.  There is no 
good reason why we should even be here.  If 
Kersh finds out that we neglected our 
casework..."

"C'mon, Scully, stop playing off the 'good 
Catholic school girl' image.  Be a little 
adventurous, for once in your life.  Kersh 
will never know.  Besides, if by some act 
of God he manages to actually find out, we 
can simply tell him the truth."

"That being?"  She arched her eyebrow as 
she braced for the answer.

"That we had car problems on the way to 
San Antonio and a case of greater magnitude 
presented itself."

"A case of greater magnitude?"  Scully 
inhaled deeply and rolled her cerulean eyes.  
"Mulder, there is no case here.  Just the 
ravings of some backwater hick who's seen 
one-too-many George Lucas movies."

Mulder's feigned a look of mock dismay.  
"Now, Scully," he said, "didn't your mother 
ever teach you about the evils of 
stereotyping?"

"Actually, Mulder," she replied, "It's a 
proven fact that the good majority of 
stereotypes are usually true.  For instance, 
when I first met you, I formed the opinion 
that your 'dungeon' in the basement was a 
metaphor for how you chose to live your life 
- solitary, brooding, self-inflicted 
confinement.  You presented yourself as a 
troubled man whose desire to seek out the 
truth was almost as obsessive and torturous 
as a salmon's need to swim upstream."

"But then you got to know me," he added, 
"the true me.  And you couldn't help 
yourself, right?  Scully?  Are you listening 
to me?"

Scully wasn't listening.  Instead, she was 
staring out the front window, eyes wide and 
mouth agape.  Directly ahead, floating 
parallel to the fence were five bright 
lights in triangular formation.

Mulder's face became instantly solemn.  
"Looks like we're going to get our money's 
worth from this trip after all...".

He flung open the driver's side door without 
a moment's hesitation and went running out 
into the night.  Scully followed in suit, and 
soon the two were standing in the middle of 
the field where Mulder had been standing 
earlier that day.  The lights climbed into 
the moonless night, higher and higher.  Then, 
suddenly, they swept down, coming to rest 
directly above the guardrail of the fence.  
As Mulder advanced, the lights grew dimmer 
and dimmer, until they disappeared into the 
temperate night.  He halted where he saw the 
lights depart and Scully was soon standing at 
his side.

"Mulder?" she asked, "Where'd they go?"

He glanced down over at her.

"They just vanished, Scully," he answered.  
Now his gaze was elsewhere.  "Look at that," 
he said, motioning his head in the direction 
of the fence.  She turned as he brushed past 
her.  

"What is that, Mulder?" she asked him.  He 
was sweeping his hand over the top of the 
wood as she had seen him do from afar in the 
morning light.  She pulled out her flashlight 
and shone the bright beam on the fence for 
further examination.  As she stepped closer, 
she could see the black streaks which should 
have been white.

"It looks like it's been charred," she told him.

"That's how it looked this morning, too," he 
responded, "just not nearly to the extent that 
it is now."  He rolled some ashes between 
pointer finger and thumb.  "I think we should 
get this sample analyzed," he said, "determine 
its chemical composition."

"For what, Mulder?" Scully questioned, "What 
are we looking for?  I still don't even know 
why we're here."

She could she Mulder's scowl of disapproval 
in the dim light.  She sighed in response, 
walked forward, and placed some of the charred 
fence remains securely in her pocket.  Stepping 
back, she wrinkled her nose as a fresh odor 
danced over her nostrils.

"Do you smell that?" she asked.

Mulder raised his arm and sniffed his shirt.  
He shot her a sheepish look and shrug his 
shoulders.

"Not you, Mulder," she replied, "It smells 
like..."  She wrinkled her nose and took a deep 
whiff.

"Teen spirit?" he finished for her.

"No," she said, tight-lipped, "It smells 
like..."  She pointed the flashlight in the 
direction of the pleasant-smelling aroma.  
Scully's mouth dropped open as the beam 
illuminated the subject of the smell.

"It's a dead cow," she informed him.  It was, 
indeed.  By the glare of the small flashlight, 
she could see what had formerly been a rather 
large Holstein.  It was now blackened beyond 
recognition.

"Looks like leftovers for weeks, Scully," he 
said stoically.  As the words came out of his 
mouth, the sound of a car engine came roaring 
through the plateau.  Mulder and Scully 
immediately turned towards the sound but by 
the time Scully shone the flashlight in the 
car's direction, all that could be seen was 
the outline of a truck with a dark bumper.

"Who do you think that was?" Scully asked.

"Better question," Mulder answered, "is what 
do you think he was hiding?"

Davey Crockett Motor Court
Marfa, Texas
9:49 P.M.

Scully unlocked the door to her room, pushed 
it aside, and folded her coat carefully on the 
bed, being sure not to lose any of the precious 
ash that she had collected at the field.  She 
kicked off her shoes, unbuttoned the top 
buttons on her blouse, and advanced into the 
bathroom to clean her face after the night's 
excursions.  She turned on the water, cupped 
her hands beneath the faucet, and splashed the 
cool stream over her face.  She reached for a 
towel as a knock came at the door.

"It's open," she called as she dried her face 
and replaced the towel on the hook by the 
mirror.

"Hey, Scully, it's me," she heard Mulder call 
from the other room.  She took one last look 
at herself in the mirror, pulled her hair 
behind her ear, and walked towards the sound 
of his voice.

"What's going on, Mulder?" she asked.

He took one look at her, shirt partially 
unbuttoned and pulled out from her slacks, 
hair disheveled, slightly shiny from the sweat 
of their impromptu workout.

"Geez, Scully," he said blandly, lips thin and 
unquivering, "you didn't have to get all 
dressed up for me."

She cocked her head to the side, a scowl 
encompassing her regal features, and placed a 
hand to her hip.  "Is there something you 
wanted?" she asked.

"Scully," he shook his head in mock disdain, 
"didn't anyone ever tell you that you shouldn't 
bite the hand that feeds you?"

She noticed the brown paper bag in his hand for 
the first time as he raised it to her eye level.  
"That's right," he said, shaking it back and 
forth, "I brought sandwiches."

"Ohh," Scully moaned, her stomach ached with the 
pangs of hunger.  She hadn't realized just how 
complete her starvation was until that moment.  
She bit her lip and then waved him in.  "Well," 
she asked him, "what are you waiting for?"

Mulder walked into the room and seated himself 
on the bed, pushing aside her jacket.  He placed 
the bag on the bed and pulled the 
cellophane-wrapped packages from their container.  
Scully sat beside him and anxiously grabbed for 
one of the sandwiches, unwrapping it.

"I don't suppose you have anything to drink in 
there, do you?" she asked through greedy 
mouthfuls of the food.

Mulder produced a Diet Coke from the bag and 
pointed to the can.

"Just for the taste of it," he told her.

She smiled gratefully, placing the sandwich 
in its bag and popping the can open with 
well-manicured fingernails.

"So, Mulder," she asked through gulps, "what 
do you think is going on here?"

"You mean besides the late-night barbeques?" 
he responded blithely, raising his own soda 
to his mouth.  She detected the faint hint 
of a smirk on his lips.

"Yeah, besides that."

"Well," he began, "I must admit that I 
didn't find here exactly what I was looking 
for."  He took another swig for suspense and 
then continued.  "At first, I believed that 
the lights corresponded to some landing site 
for a craft of extraterrestrial origin.  You 
should be well aware by now, Scully, that the 
southwestern United States is a hotbed for 
U.F.O. activity."

His diatribe was momentarily interrupted by 
the sound of a large belch that seemed far 
too vast to have had its origin in Scully's 
small frame.  

"Excuse me," she said, cheeks showing the 
smallest signs of reddening.

Mulder raised his eyebrows, his face 
expressing disbelief.

"How lady-like," he said drolly, "It's 
amazing that no one's snatched you up yet."

"At least I don't have to dial nine-hundred 
numbers to have a good time," she responded 
in similar fashion.

He shot her a look of extreme distaste.  

"May I continue?" he asked.

"Please," she replied, "don't let me 
interrupt you."

She positioned herself against the headboard 
and waited politely for the other shoe to drop.

"As I was saying," Mulder stated, "I believed 
that the lights had some connection to 
extraterrestrial craft.  The majority of 
well-documented close encounters often 
describes lights of different colors aligning 
in a 'V' or triangular shape.  The method in 
which the tow-truck worker described their 
parallel movement also suggested to me the 
movement of reported alien crafts."

"But now you don't believe that's what we 
witnessed?" she asked incredulously, "I must 
say, Mulder, I'm a little out of my element 
here.  If not alien crafts, what do you 
believe caused the lights that we saw?  And 
what about the cremation of the cow?  How do 
you explain it?"

"I didn't recall it until I saw the burning 
tonight," he said, "There is an X-File that 
dates back to 1957, only a decade after the 
first reported U.F.O. sighting in Roswell.  
A cattle-rancher was riding out on horseback, 
checking up on his animals before an 
approaching thunderstorm, when he observed 
red, yellow, and white balls of light dancing 
across the night sky.  They fell to about 
three meters off the earth, where they 
remained stationary for about a minute, 
before disappearing into the night.  He 
recorded a loud bang as the lights departed, 
and a lingering, rancid odor."

He paused to take a breath before beginning 
again.

"That was not the first recorded sighting, 
however.  Ancient Greeks and various populations 
throughout the Middle Ages have reported seeing 
balls of light moving across the sky.  Sailors 
have reported similar phenomena, designating it 
by the name 'St. Elmo's Fire.'  Other cases have 
been described by such terms as 'swamp gas,' 
'static electricity,' and 'ghost lights.'  
Theories as to its origin abound, from 
electromagnetic energy being conducted through 
elements in the earth, to radiation signals from 
extraterrestrial aircraft."

Scully smiled warmly.

"So this is another U.F.O. chase after all, then?"

He returned the smile.

"Not exactly.  I believe that I said that some 
people purport that the lights are the result of 
alien craft."

"But you don't believe that is the case."

He was grinning ear-to-ear.

"I want to believe."

"I'm having a little trouble reading between the 
lines, Mulder," Scully informed him, discarding 
the empty cellophane on the table beside her bed, 
"Why don't you just spell it out for me?"

"I-T-O-U-T-F-O-R-M-E."

"I meant tell me what you think, smart ass."

"What I think," Mulder smirked, "is that I won't 
be sure what we're dealing with until you get me 
those lab results on our little sample."  He stood 
up and patted her coat pocket with seeming love and 
affection, then turned and walked towards the door.

"And what are you hoping to gather from that?" she 
called after him.

He turned back to face her, one hand on the doorknob.  
"Just get me the results, Scully," he answered.  He 
opened the door and walked out into the moonless 
night.

Scully stood up and after him.  Bracing herself with 
one hand on either side of the door frame, she called 
to him from the threshold, "What about the cow, Mulder?"

She heard only a voice call back, "The results, Scully."

Davey Crockett Motor Court
Room 1121
3:42 A.M.

"Mmm...that's right.  You know I like it 
like that.  Mmm...that feels good."

Dana Scully twisted her silken legs 
between the cotton sheets.  "Oh," a moan 
of ecstasy escaped her lips.  She felt her 
cheeks flush with heat.  She licked her 
lips as her eyes rolled back in her head.  
"Oh, oh God," she breathed, "Oh God!"  She 
could hear the headboard knocking against 
the wall - thud, thud, thud.  It was slow 
at first, but then became more insistent.  
Thud, thud, thud.

"Stop, oh God!  Please, oh God!"

Thud, thud, thud.

"Oh, God!"

"Scully?" 

She could hear the voice calling her name.

"Yes, yes!"

"Scully?"

The voice came again, questioning, 
uncomprehending.

"Scully, it's me, wake up."

Scully awoke with a start.  The knocks came 
again, this time originating from the motel 
door.  

"Scully, are you there?" she heard Mulder 
call again.

"Coming," she answered.  She stood up and 
faced the bureau mirror.  Her clothes were 
soaked with sweat, clinging to her like a 
newborn to her mother's breast.  Her hair 
was hanging wild and free and her entire 
body was hot and flushed.  She ran into the 
bathroom and splashed some cold water over 
her face.

"Scully?"

"I'll be right there!" she called to him.

She dried her face and rushed to the door.  
She stopped in front of it, gathering her 
composure.  She grabbed the robe off the 
counter, placed it on, and smoothed out the 
wrinkles.  When everything was set to her 
satisfaction, she pulled off the sliding lock 
and placed a hand on the doorknob.  Pulling 
wide the door, she glared deeply at her partner.

"Mulder, don't you ever sleep?  It's nearly 
four o'clock in the morning."

He stared at her, gazing deeply into her 
facial features.  He smiled broadly, knowingly.

"What?" Scully blurted out, a little too 
harshly and a little more anxiously than 
she would have liked.

"Oh, nothing," his smile grew larger, 
"Nothing at all."

A little rouge inadvertently rushed to 
her cheeks.  

"Was there something you wanted?" she 
asked curtly.

"Get dressed," he commanded, "there's 
been...a development."

"Get dressed?" she repeated, "Where are 
we going?  It's four o'clock in the morning?"

"I'm leaving in five minutes, Scully," he 
told her, "You can join me if you'd like."  
He stole one final glance, smiled, then 
turned and departed.

Scully closed the door behind him and 
prepared to dress herself.  As she walked 
towards her luggage, she found herself 
wondering exactly how much Mulder had 
overheard.

Blanca Cortes Residence
1013 West Waco St.
4:22 A.M.

An officer signaled to Mulder with 
outstretched hands as he pulled the silver 
Ford Taurus up to the normally cozy 
cul-de-sac that was, at the moment, overrun 
with flashing ambulance lights, black and 
white cars, and yellow dispersion tape.  A 
crowd of curious onlookers stood on the 
sidewalk in red and green robes, gazing 
with simultaneous interest and dismay at 
the unhappy and unexpected wakeup call.  
Mulder reached for his identification as 
he steered the car up alongside the policeman.  
Rolling down the window, he lifted the badge 
towards the officer's eyelevel.

"Special Agent Fox Mulder.  Can you direct 
me to the officer in charge?"

The officer nodded in affirmation as Mulder 
put the I.D. back in his pocket.  

"Detective Harris," he replied, pointing out 
a tall gentleman of medium-build who was 
sporting a lengthy, tan duster and an 
outlandishly gaudy orange and green tie.

"Thank you," Mulder responded, directing the 
car to the curb and turning off the ignition.

"Hard time picking that guy in a crowd, huh, 
Scully?" Mulder said as he unbuckled his belt 
and stepped from the car.  Scully rolled her 
insomnia-induced red eyes as she opened the 
door.  She caught up to Mulder, who was holding 
up the yellow police tape for her to pass 
underneath.  She did, and he followed after.  
They advanced towards the front porch, where the 
detective the officer had pointed out was 
standing.

"Detective Harris?" Scully questioned.

The comely detective turned around, grinning 
broadly beneath a wide-brimmed ten-gallon hat.

"That's right ma'am," he said, putting his 
pointer finger and thumb to his hat, tipping 
it in her direction, "Now I do believe that you 
own the advantage, here.  Mebbe you could do me 
the honor of evenin' out the odds."

Scully arched her eyebrows, thoroughly confused.

"I reckon he's askin' for your name," Mulder 
whispered in her ear as he, for the second time 
that night, pulled out his identification.

"Special Agent Fox Mulder," he said, presenting 
his picture to the detective, "and my partner, 
Agent Scully."

"Ah, yes, Agent Mulder," he nodded his head in 
affirmation, "I do believe we spoke on the phone."

"That's right, sir.  I hope you don't mind if we 
have a look around?"

"Not at all," Detective Harris answered, leading 
the agents into the house, "Actually, we're all 
a little stumped as to how this all could've 
happened.  I was hopin' that, mebbe, this kinda 
thing would fall under your area of expertise."

Detective Harris led the partners past the front 
foyer and a set of swirling, wooden staircases 
that led upstairs.  They proceeded through an 
expansive hall, laden with framed family photos.  
Happy photos, Scully noted, happy photos of 
camping trips, and adventures by the lake, and 
beachside relaxation.  She sighed deeply, 
wondering inwardly how many lives had been 
disrupted on nights just like this.  How many 
motherless children were out there, abandoned 
due to the whims a merciless, cold-blooded 
killer?  

"If you can't figure this one out, I don't 
know who can."

Scully snapped back from her reverie as 
Detective Harris advanced into a pleasant 
living room, full of cream-colored couches 
and a fireplace just as warm as the room, 
itself.  An oaken coffee table graced the 
middle of the room, perfectly complementing 
a grand oaken bureau that was situated in 
the back corner, filled to the 
brim with crystalline and porcelain 
knick-knacks.  There was only one, quite 
literal, stain on the otherwise perfect home 
before her eyes.  Situated on the middle 
cushion of the couch was a large black stain.  
Scully advanced closer and grabbed some latex 
gloves from one of the medical examiners.  She 
snapped them on and picked up some of the dark 
particles that constituted the stain.

"It looks like ash," she said, bringing it 
nearer to her face for closer inspection, 
"How did ash get on this sofa?"

Mulder nudged her with his elbow.

"Well, I don't know if my powers of deduction 
are as finely-tuned as yours, Agent Scully, but 
I think I can make a conjecture."  He pointed 
to the floor.  Scully's mouth dropped wide as 
she saw the object of his interest.  All that 
remained of the former owner of the cozy room 
were two legs, charred at the knees, and a pile 
of ash and bones.

Marfa Medical Examiner's Office
9:08 A.M.

Scully stepped away from the metal cart that 
carried the scant remains of Mrs. Blanca Cortes.  
She tossed her transparent surgical gloves in 
the nearest trashcan and flipped her safety 
goggles to the top of her head as the examining 
room's large double doors opened towards her.  
Mulder strode rather quickly into the room, his 
dark, knee-length coat trailing gracefully behind.

"What'd you find, Scully?" he asked abruptly.

"Good morning to you, too, Mulder," she replied 
haughtily.

"Good morning.  What'd you find, Scully?"

"Well, Mulder," Scully began, "there wasn't 
exactly much left to examine.  I'm actually at 
a bit of a loss to describe what transpired at 
the Cortes household.  The only item that I could 
definitely ascertain is that extreme heat was 
needed in order to generate this kind of 
corporeal disintegration."

"I'm no doctor, Scully, but I could've told you 
that."

"Then let me tell you something you don't know," 
Scully replied indignantly, "The temperature 
would have to be, on average, somewhere around 
three thousand degrees Farenheit to do this kind 
of damage.  Only, that heat would do more than 
burn this woman into oblivion.  Her entire home 
should have been destroyed, Mulder, but not even 
the couch was scorched."

"What are you suggesting, Scully?"

"I'm not sure, Mulder," Scully answered.  She 
shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other.  
"The victim's death certainly wasn't accidental.  
There was no fire in the fireplace, and Cortes 
detested cigarettes.  If homicide came into play, 
then oil or some other accelerant should have been 
found on her body, but there were no traces of any 
chemicals present on the remnants of her clothing."

Mulder smiled.  "So that leaves, what?  Spontaneous 
human combustion?"

Scully sighed.  "At this point in time, I don't 
believe that it is possible to rule any theory out."

"You know, Scully, spontaneous human combustion 
isn't that outrageous an idea.  Many reliable cases 
have been well documented throughout the ages, 
beginning with the publishing of the 'De Incendiis 
Corporis Humani Spontaneis' by Jonas Dupont in the 
seventeenth century, to the Reeser case in the 
fifties, up to the present day.  In 1957, Anna 
Martin's torso and shoes were found, a result of 
burning conditions that must have reached up to 
two thousand degrees, but newspapers were found 
only two feet away from her body.  Hell, Scully, 
even you once suggested the possibilities of 
spontaneous human combustion."

"And that avenue didn't prove to be the correct 
one, did it, Mulder?"

"Well how does this grab you?" Mulder asked, 
producing a folded piece of paper from his jacket 
pocket.  

Scully took the paper from his hands.

"What's this?" she asked, shooting him a quizzical 
look of concern.

"Copy of a witness report," he responded, "See 
anything of interest?"

Scully leafed quickly through the two or three 
paragraphs.  One sentence in particular jumped 
out at her:  "Witness reports viewing five 
multi-colored balls of light enter the victim's 
house at approximately 10:00 P.M."

"That's right," Mulder said, nodding his head 
in affirmation, "Looks like a case of greater 
magnitude just presented itself."

Debbie's Diner
11:14 A.M.

Mulder grinned boyishly as the buxom, apron-clad 
waitress bent over to refill his black coffee, her 
cleavage line appearing ever-so-slightly through 
the low-cut white blouse.

"You want any cream with that, sir?" she asked in 
a southern-belle drawl.

"I've got plenty of my own," he replied softly, 
eyes drawn to the blonde's bust line.

"What was that, sir?" she questioned, "I'm 
afraid I didn't hear you."

"I said 'no thanks'," he answered, for the first 
time looking up at the face to whom he was speaking, 
"I like it black."

"Let me know if you need anything."

"You bet I will," he responded.  The waitress 
turned on her heels and departed as Scully walked 
through the door.  She shot Mulder a sideways glance, 
then seated herself on the plush red cushion in the 
booth seat across from him.

"Ball lightning," she stated abruptly, throwing a 
stack of folded papers on the tabletop.

"Scully!" Mulder tsked, putting on his best doe-eyed, 
feigned look of dismay, "You know I asked you not to 
call me by my nickname when we're in public!"

Scully frowned with disapproval.  

"First of all, Mulder," she replied, "given the 
miniscule number of female social acquaintances of 
yours that I've met in the six years that I've known 
you, I believe I can say without hesitation that I'm 
quite certain that that nickname does not apply to 
you."

Mulder smiled.

"Wanna find out?"

Scully continued as though she had heard nothing.

"Secondly, I was referring to the cause of death of 
Mrs. Blanca Cortes."

Mulder's demeanor instantly became serious.

"What do you mean?"

"I did a little research after I left the medical 
examiner's office this morning.  There is a phenomena 
known as 'ball lightning' that has come under 
scientific study in the past couple of years.  Ball 
lightning is usually reported as appearing in the 
form of small baseball-shaped spheres of multi-colored 
lights.  Its origin is unknown, although several 
reports have cited thunderstorms and tornados as the 
cause.  A paper published recently in the scientific 
journal 'Nature' suggests that the magnetic force 
generated by the electricity present in a lightning 
strike causes electrons to be stripped violently from 
elements present in the earth or in the atmosphere, 
most often copper.  This process causes only 
positively-charged molecules to remain, generating a 
form of high-temperature gas, what the authors refer 
to as 'plasma'."

Scully halted her informational harangue as the 
waitress advanced to take her order.  After Scully 
ordered her standard coffee and breakfast roll, Mulder 
asked, "And you think there's some connection to the 
Marfa occurrences?"

"Well, the temperature generated from such an act 
would be somewhere on the order of fifty-thousand 
degrees Fahrenheit.  That is the type of heat 
necessary to effectively cremate the body of Mrs. 
Cortes.  In addition, the high temperature would 
cause the effected elements to become conductive, 
thereby losing a large amount of electrical 
resistance.  This would enable them to seemingly 
float in midair, in such a fashion as reported by 
the tow-truck man and the witness to Cortes' death."

Mulder did not look convinced.

"Scully, what you describe sounds like a rare 
condition caused by natural, environmental forces.  
Yet, the death of Cortes occurred inside her own 
home."

"Ball lightning has often been reported as entering 
buildings, Mulder," she replied without hesitation, 
"Witnesses report ball lightning flowing through 
windows and doors, floating down hallways, and even 
entering airplanes."

Mulder chuckled softly to himself.  

"And you believe that that theory is plausible?"
he scoffed.

"I believe it's a hell of a lot more plausible than 
spontaneous human combustion," she replied, "What's
more, the tests came back on the ash that we found
on the fence, and it contained large quantities of
copper, larger than amounts that should be present
in ordinary wood."

Mulder nodded his head as the waitress returned 
and placed Scully's brunch meal in front of her.

"Eat up, Scully," Mulder said, "we have a busy day 
ahead of us.  You're going to need all of your 
energy."

"Why, Mulder," she asked, picking off a piece of 
her roll and popping it in her mouth, "Are your 
lightning balls feeling electrified?"

Mulder smiled broadly.  

"Scully, have I told you I love you today?"

Apache Nation Reservation
11:42 A.M.

"How did you find out about this place, Mulder?" 
Scully asked as she stepped from the car and 
closed the door behind her.

"I found a brochure in the motel lobby this morning," 
Mulder answered, meeting Scully around the front of 
the car.  They began advancing through the waterlogged 
dirt road as he reached into his pocket and produced 
the informational booklet, handing it over to his 
partner.  She opened it and browsed through briefly 
as he continued.

"It relates some of the local folklore surrounding 
your 'ball lightning.'  I asked the manager if he 
could elaborate on the stories and this is where 
he directed me."  He gestured with his hand to the 
rink-a-dink shanty town that surrounded them.  "He 
said that the man who could best answer my questions 
resided here."

"And who is that?" she asked, glancing up from her 
light reading.

"A much respected elder of the local Apache nation,"
he responded, "Hopefully he can provide insight into 
what we're looking for."

"What are we looking for, Mulder?" she questioned 
softly, putting a hand to his arm to stop him in his 
tracks.  She felt suddenly and grossly aware of the 
hundreds of eyes fixated on the two strangers as they 
paused in front of a dilapidated one-story home with 
dingy, faded, white paint that was peeling off the 
sides.

"First we're looking for lights in the sky, then a 
runaway cow assassin, and now we've come to the 
middle of nowhere in a desperate attempt to glean 
what little information we can about local history 
in order to catch a killer?  What exactly are you 
hoping to find, Mulder?"

The agents turned their heads as the squeaking of 
hinges signaled the opening of the front door.  An 
elderly, wrinkled, white-haired gentleman appeared 
from behind the screen.

"I believe that he's come seeking the truth."

11:45 A.M.

"I was born and raised in this town.  Seventy years 
ago my father moved my mother and seven brothers 
here, seeking out a better existence, one where 
prejudice and rage had no room to grow.  I was born 
the following year, and have lived here ever since.  
In that time, I have come to know the people, each 
generation passing freely like the day into the 
night."

The wise man paused as he attempted to stifle a 
cough.  He picked up the mug of hot tea that was 
situated on the kitchen table in front of him and 
drank from it slowly.  He felt the soothing liquid 
travel down his throat.  Then, placing the mug back 
on the table, he gazed long and hard at the 
stern-looking man and his cherubic partner.  He 
could sense the conviction in him, some tireless 
devotion to the search.  There was faith in her 
also, just of a different kind.  He cleared his 
throat once more and resumed his account.

"As soon as he moved to Marfa, my father was told 
a story by the local people of lights of different 
colors that often appeared in the night sky, moving 
in one motion like coyotes stalking their prey.  When 
I grew older my father told me of an Apache legend 
that was told to him in turn.  It was said that there 
was once a mighty chief, strong in body and will, but 
weak in judgment.  One night, the chief, Alsate, 
offended a tribal God.  The reason why is unknown.  
However, the God repaid the chief for his deed by 
condemning him to wander this plain for eternity, 
his soul ever restless, never able to gain refuge.  
It is said that the lights are the spirit of Alsate, 
still walking the earth."

The man, Mulder, leaned in, seemingly engrossed in 
the discussion.  He could tell that the woman, on 
the other hand, was not so enthused.  Her eyes were 
aloof and her arms were folded neatly across her chest.  

"I had heard that there were alternative theories 
regarding the lights," Mulder said, "something about 
a family."

"That is right," John Runninghorse answered, "The mid 
1800s was a time of great growth in Texas, 
specifically in this region.  Marfa was a point 
through which many settlers traveled.  One of those 
families had the misfortune of getting separated from 
a caravan during a moonless night.  They got turned 
around after many hours, the oil from their lanterns 
began to wear thin.  Some believe that the souls of 
that family are found in the lights, their lanterns 
forever shining until the day when they can be 
reunited with their friends and family."

"Yes," Mulder continued, "but I thought there were 
other theories as well, theories that do not involve 
dead spirits?"

Runninghorse was truly confused.  

"I am afraid that I do not understand."

Mulder sat up straight in his seat.

"Do you ever see any other sights, sights that 
could not be explained by any other means?"

Runninghorse shook his head.

"Do you see bright beams of light?"

"I am afraid not, Agent Mulder."

"Does anyone ever go missing and is returned days 
later, without having any recollection of the events 
that occurred in their mental absence?"

"No."

"Do you ever get the sensation that you are 
missing time?"

"Missing time?"

"The feeling that you suddenly lost some minutes 
in your day that should have been present, but 
weren't?"

Runninghorse shook his head again.  

"I am sorry, Agent Mulder, but I have never 
experienced any of what you are saying."

Agent Scully uncrossed her arms and stood up 
from the table.

"Thank you for all of your assistance, Mr. 
Runninghorse.  You've been more than helpful."  
Then she looked over at her partner, "Let's go, 
Mulder."

He glanced briefly back at her and held up his 
pointer finger in protest.

"Hold on a second, Scully.  Just one more 
question, Mr. Runninghorse."

"Anything, Agent Mulder.  I am more than happy 
to help in any way that I can."

"Do you know of anyone that owns a dark truck, 
maybe black or navy-blue?"

Runninghorse leaned back and put his finger to 
his lips.

"Well," he said, "there are very few people that 
own trucks around here.  Of the few, there are a 
couple that I can think of with that color truck 
- Jim Brohawn, Kenny Ryan, and Henry Phoenix."

"Henry Phoenix?" Mulder questioned, putting a 
hand to his hip and arching his eyebrows 
ever-so-slightly, "Aren't the Apache often named 
after animals indigenous to the area and culture?"

Runninghorse nodded his head.

"Yes, that is right."

"Then how did this man Henry come to be surnamed 
with an animal that is neither real nor 
fictitiously indigenous to this area?"

"Henry Phoenix is quite his own legend 
altogether," Runninghorse answered, a look of 
uneasiness clouding over his eyes, "His parents 
were well-educated, and versed in philosophy and 
Greek culture.  They moved to Marfa when Henry was 
two years old with the hopes of creating a school 
to teach our people.  They thought that if the 
people were taught, they would be able to leave 
this meager existence and obtain real jobs.  
Unemployment is a big problem here, and it leaves 
greater alcoholism in its wake."

Runninghorse took a deep breath, then continued.

"Less than a year after they moved here, there was 
a terrible fire in their home.  The flames reached 
twenty feet in the air and the heat could be felt 
from miles away.  The flames did not subside until 
the morning light blanketed the earth.  By that time, 
all that was left of the house, and Henry's parents, 
was a pile of ashes.  But sitting undisturbed where 
the house once stood was Henry, his face covered in 
soot, but otherwise unharmed.  In honor of his 
parents, and the miraculous gift bestowed upon him 
by the gods, his relatives gave him the name 
'Phoenix,' like the creature of Greek myth who would 
rise from his own ashes in order to begin his life 
anew."

Mulder's eyes were wide with awe.

"Do you know how we can get in touch with Henry 
Phoenix?" he asked.

"Yes," Runninghorse answered, "I'll give you the 
address."  As he left the room to get a piece of 
paper to write on, Mulder stood up and faced 
Scully, a smile broad on his face.

"Let me guess," she pre-empted him, "Somehow, 
Henry Phoenix has generated powers of combustion 
that allow him to char any object beyond recognition, 
but also allow him to remain unscathed."

Mulder grinned from ear-to-ear.  

"Scully," he asked, "are you coming on to me?"

Scully was about to reply when Runninghorse 
emerged from the living room, paper in hand.

"Here is the address, Agent Mulder," he said, 
handing the sheet with writing over to the tall, 
mysterious man.  

"Thank you, Mr. Runninghorse," he replied, 
lifting the paper in a gesture of thanks, "We 
appreciate all of your help."

He turned and followed his partner to the door.  
He was about to follow her over the threshold 
when the aging oracle called to him a final time.

"Agent Mulder?"

Mulder turned and faced him.  Words were not 
needed.  The questioning expression in his eyes 
provided all the needed communication.

"Light is not always a sign of righteousness and 
truth.  Though the night brings fear and 
uncertainty in its darkness, it is the light 
that distorts reality, that causes the darkness.  
In its rising and setting, the sun plays a daily 
trick on all of its children, forging lengthy 
shadows with its trek across the sky."

"What are you trying to tell me," Mulder asked, 
"that I'm looking for answers in the wrong places?"

Runninghorse sighed deeply.

"When Icarus flew too close to the sun, he paid 
for his pride with his life."

Mulder angrily placed a hand on his hip.  He didn't 
have the time to talk in circles.  There was a 
dangerous man on the loose.

"Are you warning me, Mr. Runninghorse?"

"Warn is not the right word, Agent Mulder,"
Runninghorse answered, "I only caution.  
Do not look for truth in the sun, Agent Mulder, 
or you will be blinded by the light."

Mulder turned and heatedly pushed aside the 
front screen door, sending it careening back 
on its hinges.  Scully was waiting patiently 
by the car as he appeared.  

"What did he say to you?" she asked.

"He asked me for your number," he responded 
stoically, not deigning to permit a smile to 
cross his face.  He unlocked the doors roughly 
and seated himself at the driver's wheel.  
Scully gazed back at the house as she opened 
the door.  John Runninghorse was staring 
despondently through the screen.  As she seated 
herself beside Mulder, Scully wondered to 
herself what he was hiding.

Henry Phoenix Residence
422 Breckenridge Rd.
12:38 P.M.

The unusually dark day would have made it 
nearly impossible to navigate through the 
obscure, narrow, tree-lined passage had it not 
have been for the alternating red and blue 
lights illuminating the sky.  Scully could see 
the lights half a mile down the offset, muddy 
path before the gathering crowd of officers and 
medics even came into view.

"Mulder?" she questioned, throwing her arm behind 
his seat and leaning in a slightly forward position.  
Her eyes darted from one direction to the other, 
fruitlessly searching the scene for answers.

"I don't know," he responded softly.  A slight 
frown of consternation clouded his brooding features.

The lights grew bright and blinding as the silver 
Taurus rolled to a stop.  Scully grabbed a black 
umbrella from the back seat and stepped from the 
car.  She rejoined Mulder in front and lifted the 
umbrella clumsily over his towering head.  She 
increased her gait to keep in pace with him as he 
pulled the I.D. from his jacket.  The rhythmic 
pounding of the rain on the leaves was heavy and 
strangely unsettling.

"Agent Mulder," he said, raising the identification 
to the eye-level of a nearby officer, "F.B.I.  
What happened here?"

"Fire," the balding, stocky man replied, "big one 
by the looks of it."

"Were there any injuries?" Scully asked, taking 
in the presence of several EMTs, "I'm a medical 
doctor.  I may be of some assistance."

The officer nodded his head.

"One male victim...we think."

"What do you mean, you think?" Scully asked.

"By the time the fireman got here," he responded, 
"it was too late."  He sighed deeply and shook his 
head.  "I've been on the force for ten years now, 
seen a lot of bad stuff, but nothing that ever 
looked like this."

Mulder wasn't paying attention.  He was watching 
intently as Detective Harris questioned a witness.

"Scully," he said, "why don't you see what you can 
find out from the medics.  I'll go see if I can help 
the good detective."

Before she could respond, he ducked out from under 
the umbrella and joined Detective Harris as he 
finished with the frightened robe-wearing elderly 
woman.

"Here's my number.  Call me if you need anythin'."  
Detective Harris handed the woman a card and 
dismissed her with a wave of his hand.  He smiled 
as he looked up from his notes and took in the form 
of Fox Mulder approaching him.

"Agent Mulder," he said, "why'm I not surprised to 
see ya'll here?"

"Well," he answered, with a little pseudo-enthusiasm 
in his voice, "you know what they say about bad 
pennies."

"Worth two inda bush, right?"

Mulder slowly turned his head from the panicked 
scene on his left to the tall man on his right.

"Um, right."  He smiled and nodded his head in 
false agreement.

"So what do we have here, Detective?" he asked 
in an effort to mercifully change the subject.  He 
looked down at the blue body-bag at his feet.

"A Mr. Joaquin Still-River," he said with some 
difficulty, "or what we're currently assumin' to 
be.  The body was charred beyond all recognition.  
Wit' the intense heat generated by the fire, the 
current theory is arson, started wit' some kinda 
gasoline or sometin'."

Mulder nodded and stooped down to the ground.  He 
unzipped the bag to reveal some black bones and a 
pile of ash.  He glanced up at Detective Harris.

"All that wuz left," he told him, "The house was 
gone before we got here."

Mulder stood up and dusted the mud off of his 
hands as Scully approached him in the darkness.  
She halted in front of him and allowed an "Oh my 
God," to breathlessly pass her lips before 
acknowledging the presence of the two men.  She 
finally looked up.

"Just like the other one," she said to Mulder 
who nodded in agreement.

"What'd you find out, Scully?" he asked her.

"Upon arriving on the scene, the medics found a 
man fifty yards from the ground where the house 
once stood.  He showed no signs of burning on his 
dermal layer, but he was suffering from slight 
smoke-inhalation and muscle and abdominal pain.  
He was taken to the nearest hospital twenty 
minutes before we arrived.  I'll give you two 
guesses as to who that man was, Mulder."

"Don't tell me," he said, "Henry Phoenix?"

"That's right," she answered, not even the hint 
of a smile on her immaculate features, "and for 
your grand prize you get an all-expenses paid 
trip to Marfa County General."

Marfa County General Hospital
1:18 P.M.

"This is simply amazing, Mulder."

Scully raised an eyebrow as she flipped from 
one page to the next.

"What is it, Scully?"

Mulder joined her at her side and looked at the 
patient's chart over her dainty shoulder.

"With the amount of smoke that was found in 
his lungs, it is almost certain that Henry 
Phoenix was present in the house during the 
fire, yet his dermal layer shows no signs of 
first degree burns, let alone the third degree 
burns that should have been present with the 
heat that the firemen described."

"Are you sure that he couldn't have been close 
in proximity to the house, say directly outside 
of it?"

Scully shook her head adamantly.

"No, Mulder.  It's simply not possible.  This 
man inhaled enough smoke to induce a coma."

Mulder nodded in comprehension.

"Well, that explains it, then," he told her.

She folded a strand of hair neatly behind her ear.

"Explains what, Mulder?" she asked.

"That explains how 'O Henry' in there is able to 
control temperatures so hot that it converts 
people and buildings to ashes, but remains 
unscathed."

Scully smiled sardonically.

"I'm sorry, Mulder," she said, "I'm just not 
seeing the connection."

"Scully, if what you say is true, and that man 
was inside the burning house, how do you explain 
the complete absence of burns?"

Scully shrugged her shoulders.

"I don't know, Mulder.  I've never seen anything 
like it."

Mulder leaned in closer to her, so they were at 
the same eyelevel.  

"Scully, what if this man had some genetic 
anomaly that permitted him to survive extreme 
temperatures, so that even as the wood and 
upholstery around him burned to the ground, no 
traces of fire were able to touch his body?"

Scully's eyes drew askance as her smile grew 
broader.

"Mulder," she started to explain, "there's no 
precedence for what you're describing."

"Bear with me a second, Scully," he interrupted 
her, "If there were such an anomaly, isn't it at 
all possible that the person to whom it belonged 
would be able to, say, set himself on fire?  
Maybe if he doused himself in some sort of 
accelerant, he would have been able to kill 
Blanca Cortes and then smother the flames, all 
without doing any damage to his own body."

Scully sighed deeply.

"I suppose anything is possible," she said 
reluctantly.

Sometimes, it was just better to appease him.

"Listen, Scully," Mulder said, "I'm going to 
find out whose ashes we picked up at that house.  
Why don't you do me a favor and personally 
examine Henry Phoenix?"

Scully put a hand on her hip.

"What am I looking for, Mulder?" she asked.

He turned to walk out the door.

"You can tell me when you find it," he answered.

Marfa County Investigator's Office
2:03 P.M.

"I'll bring him in as soon as he's 
released.  Thanks for all your help."

Mulder stood up from the plush leather 
chair opposite Detective Harris' desk 
and departed from his office.  After 
closing the door behind him, Mulder 
plucked the cell phone from his pocket 
and dialed Scully's number.  After two 
rings, she picked up.

"Scully," he heard the familiar voice 
on the other line.

"Scully, it's me," he said, "I'm done 
over here.  How 'bout you?"

"I'm finished, too, Mulder," she said, 
placing a hand to her hip, "but I have 
to say that I'm at a loss to explain what 
I've found here."  She hesitated before 
she said, "I think you may have been right."

A broad grin erupted on Mulder's face.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he said, "you're 
breaking up.  Could you repeat that last 
sentence?"

Scully curled her lips disapprovingly and 
ignored the comment.

"Mulder, Henry Phoenix suffers from a 
hereditary condition known as Wilson's 
Disease.  It is a form of sickness which 
results in the body retaining excessive 
amounts of copper in the body."

Mulder raised his eyebrows.

"And that's bad?"

"The results could be lethal if untreated," 
Scully responded, "Phoenix has all of the 
symptoms - mild tremors, vomiting, muscle 
and abdominal pain, brown circles about the 
eyes, acute liver damage - and yet he has 
been able to survive for more than twenty 
years with no treatment.  It's unprecedented."

Mulder's tone grew excited as he began to 
make the connections in his head.

"Scully, are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

Scully rolled her eyes.

"Probably not."

"Didn't you say that that phenomena you were 
talking about...what was it...ball lightning...that 
it was created when lightning stripped the 
electrons off of copper?"

Scully raised an eyebrow as a look of 
disbelief appeared on her face.

"Mulder," she sighed, "you don't seriously 
think that that rare phenomenon is at anyway 
at all related to the equally rare condition 
that is found in the body of Henry Phoenix?"

"Scully, don't you remember what the weather 
has been like around here for the past couple 
days?  Don't the storms at every crime scene 
suggest to you the possibility of some 
electrical disturbance?  What if, as a result 
of the large amount of copper in his body, 
Henry Phoenix can somehow harbor that 
electrical energy and effectively turn himself 
into one big source of ball lightning?"

Scully humored him.

"The result being?"

"That if one of the properties of ball 
lightning is extreme heat, like you yourself 
said, Scully, Phoenix can manifest enough 
heat to set up his own rotisserie."

"Mulder," Scully started, "I don't even know 
how to begin responding to this."

"Scully, just do me a favor," Mulder 
interrupted her, "Don't let Henry Phoenix 
out of your sight."

"That's not going to be much of a problem, 
Mulder," she replied, "He hasn't woken up 
since he arrived at the hospital..."

Her response was preempted by the sound 
of an alarm wailing down the hall.

"Scully," she heard Mulder say, "what's 
going on there?  What's happening?"

Scully didn't respond.  She pulled the 
phone from her ear as she stopped and 
asked an orderly what was happening.

"Fire in room 326, ma'am," he responded, 
"You need to get out of here as soon as 
possible."

"Oh my God," Scully moaned as she ran down 
the hall to the former residence of Mr. 
Henry Phoenix.  She could feel the heat on 
her face as she approached the room.  It 
slapped her across the face like an angry 
demon from Hell.

Shielding her eyes with the arm that still 
carried her cell phone, she braved the heat 
and looked into the room.  She backed away 
and placed the phone back to her ear as a 
fireman directed her to the nearest 
staircase.

"He's gone, Mulder," she stated simply, 
"Henry Phoenix is gone."

Davey Crockett Motor Court
6:18 P.M.

Mulder glanced up through his thin 
wire-framed glasses as the sound of three 
sharp raps emanated from the wooden door.

"It's open, Scully," he called, folding the 
glasses on top of the reports he had just 
finished scanning.

Scully entered the room and closed the door 
behind her, placing her umbrella neatly 
beside the doorframe.

"How did you know it was me, Mulder?" she 
asked, loosening the tie on her trench-coat 
and smoothing back her wind-rumpled hair.

"Well, it was either you or the girl I hired 
from 1-900-CHICK," he replied, supporting his 
chin with a fist, "but you just missed her so, 
unless you're moonlighting as an escort..."

Scully folded her arms in front of her.

"Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, 
Mulder?"

Mulder looked amused.

"Why, you wanna play house, Scully?"

His voice grew soft and playful.  He rubbed 
the space on the bed beside him.

"C'mon, Scully, who's your daddy?"

Scully put on her best feigned look of 
flirtatious savvy.

"Mulder," she said sweetly.

"Yes, Scully?" he answered.

"Most daddies have something resembling at 
least a third-grade maturity level.  Until 
you obtain that, I'm afraid this mama is 
going to be daddy-less."

Mulder frowned with a mock look of fanciful 
whimsy.

"Oh," he said simply, and then smiling with 
a twinkle in his eye, "You wanna play doctor?"

"No," she answered, pulling a chair up beside 
the bed and seating herself next to him, "I've 
already played that game, and I've discovered 
some interesting details regarding Henry 
Phoenix's condition."

The playful grin left his face.

"What did you find?" he asked.

"Before he pulled his grand disappearing act, 
I was able to obtain some samples of blood.  
I sent them to the lab and had them examined, 
but I have to tell you, Mulder, what I found 
is unlike anything that has ever been 
recorded in modern science."

Mulder rested his elbows on his knees and 
folded his hands in front of his lips, 
nodding thoughtfully as Scully continued.

"You see, Mulder," she began, lapsing 
easily into doctoral oratory, "copper is 
one of the elements necessary for the 
synthesis of hemoglobin, the protein found 
in red blood cells which controls the 
distribution of oxygen throughout the body.  
In normal red blood cells, copper is bound 
to ceruloplosmin and, for the most part, 
does not exist as a free ion."

"But in Phoenix's body, it does," Mulder 
finished for her.

Scully nodded her head in affirmation.

"The copper found in Phoenix's blood is 
bound not only to the blood proteins, but 
also exists in ionic form.  In addition, 
the red blood cells, themselves, appear 
to be present in a greater amount than 
that of ordinary blood.  This, I suspect, 
is due to the fact that copper is also 
used in the synthesis of other proteins 
as well."

Mulder arched his eyebrows.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning that if there is excess copper 
present in Phoenix's body, it is possible 
that it contributes to the production of 
greater amounts of proteins found in the 
blood, and that increased production 
triggers the production of a greater 
amount of cells."

Mulder rubbed his eyes.

"And how would that affect Phoenix's 
condition?"

Scully crossed her legs, folded her hands 
across her lap, and drew a deep breath 
into her lungs.

"Well, theoretically, an increased 
production of red blood cells and blood 
proteins could cause an increased 
production of oxygen in Phoenix's body."

Mulder shifted positions anxiously in 
his seat.

"And since oxygen is not only required 
for fire to exist," he interrupted as 
his eyes began to shine, "but actually 
increases its ferocity, then the 
increased oxygen in Phoenix's blood 
could explain why the fires that he 
causes are able to generate such an 
intense heat."

Scully arched her eyebrows slightly on 
her otherwise expressionless face.

"Um...rriiggghhhttt."

"No, Scully," he continued, "it 
makes perfect sense.  The copper 
functions not only as a catalyst 
for protein and cell production, 
but also enables Phoenix to 
generate your so-called ball 
lightning, which is then 
converted into fire by the 
increased production of oxygen."

"Mulder, that is simply 
physiologically impossible.  In 
addition to assisting in protein 
production, copper serves a variety 
of other functions, including assisting 
in the production of melanin for skin 
pigmentation, repairing connective 
tissues, and forming cross-links in 
collagen and elastin present in the 
dermal layer and elsewhere.  If Henry 
Phoenix was capable of doing what you 
claim, don't you think that other 
abnormalities in any of these functions 
would arise?"

"Scully," he replied, leaning forward 
and placing a hand over hers, gently 
squeezing it for emphasis, "other 
abnormalities have arisen.  You, yourself, 
said that copper aids in repairing 
connective tissue.  Henry Phoenix must be 
capable of that very act.  How else do you 
explain a man escaping with only mild smoke 
inhalation when the building and everything 
within its vicinity was burned to the ground?"

"Good genes?"

The beginnings of a smile appeared around 
the corners of her mouth.

Mulder released his grip from her, put his 
hands behind his head, and leaned back 
against the headboard.

"Scully," he asked, "does everything have 
to be a joke with you?"

The stoic expression returned once more to 
her face.

"Well, Mulder," she responded, "what have 
you been doing all day while I've been 
running around doing your dirty work for you?"

Mulder smiled.

"I'm glad you asked, Scully."

He very loudly and deliberately cleared his 
throat as a familiar look of all-knowing 
intellect manifested itself upon his face.

"Well, Scully," he began, "while you were 
uncovering the hidden mysteries of the 
'Great Copper Caper,' I was doing some 
digging of my own."

"Digging into what, Mulder?"

The expression remained unchanged as he 
asked her, "You going to let me finish?"

Scully extended her hand in a widespread 
gesture of permission.

"Please don't let me stop you," she responded 
dryly, "I can hardly contain my excitement."

Mulder shifted back into teacher mode.

"As I was saying before I was so rudely 
interrupted," he continued, rolling his 
ocean-green eyes in her direction, "while you 
were at the hospital, I took a little trip 
down to the Marfa precinct."

"I know," Scully said, "You were calling me 
from the office when the fire alarm went off."

Mulder shot her an ominous look of warning.

"In-ter-rup-ting," he said, drawing out each 
syllable with a staccato-like ferocity.

"Sorry," she replied.

"Anyway," he began again, "I was at the precinct 
looking into Phoenix's priors.  Turns out he has 
been arrested on four previous occasions - two 
counts of arson, one for disorderly conduct, and 
one count of public urination."

Mulder smirked as the latter words departed from 
his lips.

"Guess he was trying to put a fire out."

"Mulder," Scully asked, "is that what you found 
to be so terribly interesting?"

She swiveled her neck to one side and rested it 
on her shoulder.

"If it is, I'm afraid I'm just not seeing the 
connection."

"No, Scully," he responded, sitting up a little 
straighter as his back arched with excitement, 
"Although I always find public urination interesting, 
that is not what has me intrigued in this case."

"Well, what did you find, then?" she asked.

"After studying Henry's casefile, it occurred to me 
that the choice of his victims didn't add up.  I 
found it curious that Phoenix should choose to 
target two seemingly unrelated persons for his late 
night fireworks display, one elderly, well-to-do 
woman and one middle-aged, poor man found at his 
home.  It just didn't seem to fit.  So, I did a 
little digging into the pasts of one former Mrs. 
Blanca Cortes and the latest victim, Mr. Joaquin 
Still-River.  It turns out that Mr. Still-River was, 
in his living years, the fraternal uncle of our own 
little Henry.  After the tragic and unexplained death 
of his parents, Still-River took Henry into his home 
and raised him as his own.  Still-River didn't have 
much with which to provide the child, but he loved 
him dearly, and gave him everything that his heart 
desired.  Yet, Henry's painful past seemed to stay 
with him.  He began to do poorly in school, his 
grades suffered, he frequently initiated fights, 
and he was diagnosed with clinical depression.  
When Henry was six, Still-River pulled him from 
school and took a second job as a caretaker to a 
wealthy area resident.  He tended the gardens, 
fixed broken pipes, and even babysat the woman's 
grandchild when the need arose."

"Let me guess," Scully interjected, "Blanca Cortes."

"Ding, that's right.  Five-hundred points to the 
lovely red-headed doctor from Georgetown."

"So his guardian babysat for the Cortes'," Scully 
thoughtfully verbalized, "What would be the 
motivation for Phoenix to run around killing the 
only two people who provided him with a stable 
home life?"

"After Henry left his school, Still-River 
frequently brought the young boy over to play 
with Cortes' grandchild, Esperanza, who was 
approximately of the same age.  The two children 
bonded instantly and it was as if Henry's problems 
disappeared overnight.  They remained friends through 
the years until Esperanza's mother found out about 
Henry's past problems and forbade her to have any 
contact with him.  Soon after, Henry, now sixteen, 
began to find trouble.  He was well-known as a 
drunkard and a public spectacle.  He was first 
arrested at age seventeen and three additional 
arrests occurred subsequently."

"So he can't hold his liquor," Scully responded, 
"I'm still not seeing the connection to the deaths 
of Cortes and Still-River, or the reason that he 
started those fires."

"According to the wife of our illustrious Detective 
Harris, it has recently been rumored that Henry's 
father was not a man without indiscretions, himself."

Scully arched her eyebrow.

"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, huh?"

"Apparently not.  It seems that while Mrs. Phoenix 
was in her second trimester with Henry, Mr. Phoenix 
was illustrating the finer principles of the birds 
and the bees to a beautiful tutee of his, Ms. Elisa 
Cortes, mother of Esperanza."

Scully's eyes grew wide and shone brilliantly like 
the azure of a cloudless day.

"So you're saying, then, that Esperanza Cortes is 
the biological half-sister of Henry Phoenix?"

Mulder nodded his head.

"And you think that he recently acquired this 
knowledge?  That he would literally kill to be 
able to find her again?"

Mulder's face grew solemn and pale, as though 
Death himself was staring him in the face.  His 
whispered response was barely audible.

"What man wouldn't, Scully?"

Scully coughed a little and shifted uncomfortably 
in her seat.

"So what's our next course of action, then?" she 
asked.

Mulder threw his legs over the side of the bed 
and stood up.

"We're going to go find Esperanza Cortes before 
Phoenix catches up with her."

Scully's mouth fell agape as she leaned forward 
in her seat.

"Mulder, you know the present location of 
Esperanza Cortes?"

"I had Danny track her down this afternoon," he 
replied as he grabbed his coat off the back of a 
chair.

Mulder walked towards the door, turned the knob, 
and held it open for his partner.

"Let's go, G-woman."

Scully smiled fondly at the name as she obediently 
stood and walked out the door.

Esperanza Cortes Residence
917 West Siren Street
8:49 A.M.

"This is it."

Mulder pulled the car to a stop and shifted it 
into park.  Directly in front of them, a burgundy 
brick pathway led to a double-story Victorian home 
with dark, green shutters and lush ivy.  A 
white-picket fence enclosed a thriving lawn, 
surprisingly verdant for the arid climate.  

Mulder smirked as he unbuckled his seatbelt.  He 
glanced over at his partner.

"Ah, wedded bliss.  Is that a songbird I hear 
cooing in the distance?"

He opened his door and breathed in the fresh, cool 
air.

"I wonder where the kids are.  Fishing, climbing 
trees...playing house?"

Scully slammed the door and placed her hands on 
her hip.

"You're sick, Mulder," she told him.

The sunlight bounced off the immaculate front 
bay window as they approached the path.  Mulder 
unlatched the gate of the fence and held it open 
as Scully advanced, then closed it politely behind.  
By the time he had reached the front door, Scully 
had already rung the bell.  She looked good, 
professional, with her arms crossed and her suit 
pressed.  He couldn't help but think that she 
would do well living there, with her 2.5 children 
and 1.5 dogs.  Of course, he had always assumed 
that she had a wild side, a part of herself that 
she seldom allowed anyone to see.  There was that 
time that she had gotten a tattoo.  Of course the 
whole almost-getting-killed thing had done away 
with that phase rather quickly...

He was stirred from his reverie as the shimmering, 
whitewashed door pulled wide, revealing a rather 
striking young woman with long, silken, wavy, 
black hair.  

"Uhh...hi."

The woman shot him a quizzical look.

"Can I help you?" she asked, placing a dainty 
hand on the frame.

"Esperanza Cortes?" Scully asked.

"Yes?" the woman answered.

Scully pulled her identification from her coat 
pocket and held it up at eyelevel.

"Agent..."

"Mulder," Mulder interrupted, holding out his hand 
to shake hers, "with the Federal Bureau of 
Investigation.  I'd..."

Scully placed her hand to her mouth as she coughed 
conspicuously.

"Err...we'd like to ask you a few questions," he 
continued, "Would you mind if we came in?"

"Of course not," she answered, her mocha eyes 
glistening with curiosity.  She stepped back and 
allowed the agents to enter.  She led them past 
a great foyer, with a pair of winding, wooden 
staircases, and into a comfortable, 
well-furnished room.  She motioned for her 
unexpected guests to take a seat on a rather 
plush-looking cream-colored sofa.  It 
appeared that she had her grandmother's taste
in homes and furnishings.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asked, 
"Some tea, perhaps?  I just made a fresh batch."

Scully shook her head.

"But thank you for the offer," Mulder added, 
flashing her a smile.

"Well, then," she replied, "would you mind 
telling me what brings you out here?"

"We're sorry to have arrived at such an early 
hour, ma'am," Scully began gently, "but we got 
a little turned around outside of Austin."  She 
rolled her eyes at Mulder, who shrugged 
hopelessly in response.

"Well, I was never wrong when driving before 
today, was I?" he whispered, somewhat affronted.

Scully turned her attention back to the woman 
seated opposite her.

"I hope we didn't wake you," she continued.

"No, no, of course not," Cortes answered in a 
half-southern, half-Spanish accent, which 
seemed to Mulder slightly reminiscent of a 
brook lapping gently over weathered rocks, 
"Most everyone around here wakes up close to 
dawn."

Scully coughed uncomfortably and folded her 
hands between her knees.  She leaned slightly 
forward in her seat, unconsciously positioning 
her body to stress the importance of the news 
she prepared to deliver.

"Ms. Cortes...it is Ms. Cortes, isn't it?" 
Scully began.

Cortes shook her head in affirmation.

"Yes," she replied, "Ms. Cortes is fine."

Mulder smiled sheepishly.

Scully arched her eyebrow ever-so-slightly.

"Anyway," she continued, "my partner and I 
are here concerning a case we are currently 
investigating."

"What sort of case?" Cortes asked, her eyes 
wide with a mixture of fear and intrigue.

"We are attempting to locate a former 
associate of yours, Ms. Cortes," Mulder 
interrupted, "a man who I am quite certain 
you have not been in contact with for some 
time, a Mr. Henry Phoenix."

"Henry Phoenix?" she repeated softly.  Her 
dark eyebrows furrowed slightly as she placed 
a caramel-tanned hand to her cheek.  Her lip 
curled as she thought out loud.  "Well, it 
must have been at least twelve years since 
I've seen him.  Why are you looking for him?  
What has he done?"

"He is wanted in connection with several fires 
that were set over the past few days," Scully 
interjected, "fires that resulted in death of 
two people you know."

"What are you talking about?" Esperanza asked, 
a strange tone coming over her voice.  The 
worry was apparent on her face.

Mulder shifted, his body echoing the 
positioning of Scully's.

"I am very sorry to inform you of this, Ms. 
Cortes," Mulder said, his voice strong and 
unquavering, yet filled completely with the 
utmost sympathy, "but two days ago, we found 
Blanca Cortes dead in her home."

After a sharp intake of breath, Esperanza 
managed to eek out the question, "Abuelita?  
How?"  Her chin began to quiver as the water 
filled behind her eyes.

"It's not yet entirely clear," Scully answered, 
"but it seems that Henry Phoenix might be 
connected."

"That's impossible," Esperanza stammered, "Henry 
loved Abuelita, she was like a mother to him.  
He would never hurt her, ever.  I refuse to 
believe it."

"There may be a reason why he would feel forced 
to act," Mulder told her gently.

"And what would that be?" she asked sharply.

"Were you ever aware of any rumors concerning 
your and Henry's relationship?"

"No," she said impatiently, "why don't you 
educate me, since you seem to know more about 
me than I do of you."

Mulder sighed deeply.

"Ms. Cortes," he told her, "we have reason to 
believe that Henry Phoenix is your brother."

"What?" she cried, "That is simply not possible."

"How do you know?" he retorted, "What exactly did 
your mother tell you about your father?  What
kind of man was he?"

Esperanza stood up from the sofa and slapped him 
so quickly across the face that even she was 
surprised.  Her face was filled with rage as 
sputtered, "I never knew him, Agent Mulder, but 
I'm sure he was a better man than you.  Now, I 
would appreciate it if you would get the 
hell out of my house right now."

Mulder glanced up from his shoes, appearing 
incredibly dejected.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Cortes," he apologized, "but I'm 
afraid you need to come with us for your own 
safety."

"No, Mr. Mulder," she answered, "I'm afraid that 
if you don't get out of my house right now, I 
will have to show you out."  She nodded her 
head in the direction of a very impressive rifle 
that was situated over the mantle of the cozy 
fireplace.  "Now, what is your decision?"

9:02 A.M.

"No lo creo...que una cosa terrible decir..."

Scully heard the barely intelligible mutterings 
of Esperanza Cortes, followed shortly thereafter 
by what she considered to be an overtly dramatic 
slamming of the front door behind them.  She 
sucked in her cheeks as they proceeded from the 
house, and folded her arms in front of her.  Her 
eyebrow was raised as she listened to the sound 
of wind blowing through the plentiful trees.  
They had only reached the third step when Scully 
hazarded a glance in Mulder's direction.

"Don't even say it," he instructed her before her 
eyes even took him in.

Mulder had a hand to his face, nursing his 
newly-reddened cheek.  His gaze was fixated on 
the ground.

"Hey," she said simply, holding her hands in 
front of her as if coming in contact with some 
invisible barrier.  She listened in silence to 
the sound of their syncopated footsteps on the 
brick path, until she could no longer hold it in.

"I'm really glad that you took control of things 
in there, Mulder.  I don't know what I could have 
done without you."

"Okay, okay," he replied sulkily, "let's have out 
with it.  C'mon, I wanna hear the rest."

"That's some way with women you've got there."

Mulder nodded his head.

"Uh huh."

"You really have a knack with race relations."

He was still shaking his head.  He stopped walking 
and his full lips seemed to have sunk into his 
mouth, showing only a thin sliver of their former 
selves.

"Yeah.  Uh huh.  Are you finished?"

She turned to him, arms crossed, a large smile 
plastered on her face.

"Yeah," she replied, "I think that pretty much 
sums it up."

"Good," he answered, pulling a pair of sunglasses 
from his pocket and slipping them gracefully over 
his eyes.  Scully placed a hand above hers to 
shield them from the sun.

"So what now?" she asked.

"Scully, when's the last time we had a good 
old-fashioned stakeout?"

"Together?" she asked.

He nodded.

Scully bit her lip and pulled a slip of hair behind 
her ear.  She scrunched up her nose and gazed 
towards the heavens.

"Let's see," she said, "last Christmas, old 
deserted mansion, you shot me, I shot you."

Mulder smiled as the memory flashed through 
his mind.

"Ah," he said, his beautiful green eyes 
sparkling, "it was magic for me, but was it 
good for you?"

Scully just shook her head in response.

"Well how 'bout we have a second go at it?"

"Shooting each other?" Scully asked.

Mulder chuckled to himself.

"The stakeout," he replied.

"Okay, Mulder," she answered, "but I was really 
looking forward to busting a cap in your ass."

10:13 P.M.

Mulder stuck his head outside the window 
and gazed up at the night sky.  He breathed 
in the cool, crisp air, his dark hair 
blowing wildly in the shadows.  As he 
lowered his eyes, he took in a new form 
- a sleek, tan duster tightly surrounding a 
slender waistline, held closely in check by 
a rap-around belt.  One of the figure's 
well-manicured hands was resting elegantly 
on her hip, while the other lounged at her 
side, carrying a large, brown paper bag.

"Hey there, stranger," Scully said, "you 
hungry?"  She dangled the bag in front of 
his eyes and shook it playfully.

"You have no idea," he answered, a strange 
intonation in his voice, as she walked 
around front of the car to the passenger's 
side.

"What did you say?" she asked, as she 
opened the door, "I couldn't hear."  She 
gestured to the wind, which was now howling 
wildly through the trees.

"Uh, nothing," he responded, swiftly changing 
the subject, "Whatcha got in there?"  He 
pointed to the bag.

Scully smoothed her rumpled hair back behind 
her ears and unrolled the paper bag.  She 
reached in and pulled out a meatball 
sandwich for him and an egg-salad sandwich 
for herself.  Mulder accepted it greedily, 
unwrapping the cellophane like a hungry dog.

"Thanks," he mumbled between bites, "what 
took you so long?"

"Well," Scully replied indignantly, "what 
with the wind blowing, and walking ten blocks 
in high-heeled shoes, you're right, Mulder, 
it should have only taken two minutes, but I 
appreciate the concern."

Her ire faded instantly when she looked over 
at him.  He had eaten his sandwich so 
ravenously that he hadn't even noticed the 
marinara sauce that clung haphazardly to his 
chin.  Scully laughed out loud and reached 
into the bag for a bundle of napkins.

"What?" he asked.

"You've got a little schmutz," she replied, 
dabbing motherly at his chin.

"Thanks," he said affectionately, repaying 
her kindness with a winning smile, "Got 
anything to drink in that bag?"

"Iced tea," she answered, pulling the drink 
from the bag and handing it over to him.

Mulder took it gratefully, opened the tab, 
and took a long swig from the can.

"You think it's strange?" he asked abruptly.

"Think what's strange?" she answered, a 
little taken aback.

"The weather," he replied, "how does it 
go from being such a sunny day to such a 
miserably overcast one?"

"What are you saying, Mulder?" Scully 
asked between sips, "that you think Henry 
Phoenix is causing this?"

"Well this is what it looked like at all 
the other crime scenes, didn't it?"

He gazed up at the home of Esperanza Cortes.  
The last light had gone off about an hour ago.

"You think he's causing changes in the 
weather pattern, Mulder?  Really?"

Mulder shrugged.

"It's been known to happen," he said simply.

They sat in silence as the wind picked up.  
The swirling gray clouds above grew angry 
and roared their impassiveness.  A tree 
branch snapped as lightning danced across 
the sky.  The booming of thunder came closer 
and closer, like the sound of timpani rising 
steadily louder above an orchestra.  

"Hey, Scully," Mulder asked suddenly, "if 
you were a tree, what kind of tree would 
you be?"

"What?" she asked in response, almost 
spitting out her tea all over the dashboard, 
"What are you talking about, Mulder?"

"I don't know," he answered, "I heard Barbara 
Walters ask it once.  Just humor me."

"Okay," Scully responded uncertainly.  She 
bit her lip and thought hard.

"I guess I would be an apple tree," she 
said after a few minutes had elapsed, "we 
used to visit this orchard in Seattle one 
time when my father was stationed in 
Washington.  I loved everything about them, 
the look and smell of the blossoms, the way 
the blossoms gave way to fruit for us and 
all the animals.  It was as though you could 
see the entire cycle of life right there in 
that one tree.  I used to love swinging 
through the branches with Bill."  She smiled 
fondly.  "He used to get upset when I'd beat 
him to the top."

Mulder nodded his head thoughtfully.

"You know, Genesis describes the famous apple 
tree of Eden as the Tree of the Knowledge of 
Good and Bad," Scully continued, "A bite from 
its fruit gave Adam and Eve insight into the 
truth, but also paved the way for their exile 
from the Garden of Eden."

"I think the path to find the truth of 
everything is like that," Mulder told her, 
"It comes with a terrible burden.  If you 
decide to find the truth, you must be willing 
to accept the consequences that come with it, 
no matter how disturbing."

He grew silent and morose.

"On second thought," Scully said, "maybe I'm 
not an apple tree after all."

Mulder grinned like a schoolboy.

"No?" he asked, "Want me to take a bite of 
you and find out."

"Mulder," she reproached him, but she had to 
turn her head so that he wouldn't see the heat 
she felt rising to her cheeks.

"No," he said, after an uncomfortable silence, 
"I don't think you are either."

"Oh no?" Scully asked, facing him once more, 
"So what kind of tree do you think I am?"

"An oak," he said firmly.

"An oak?" she asked, "Why an oak?"

"They're strong, sturdy, dependable.  Just like 
you, Scully.  And they make really good headboards, 
too."

Scully smiled.

"Well, thank you for analyzing me, Mulder," she 
replied, "but let me guess what kind of tree 
you would be.  Let me see now, how 'bout a redwood?"

"Scully," he answered, making a disapproving 
clucking noise with his tongue, "It's not the 
size of the tree that matters, just the hardness 
of the wood-"

He never got to finish the thought.

"He's here Mulder," Scully cut him off, "Look."  
She pointed up to the window where Esperanza 
Cortes had extinguished the last light earlier 
that night.  It was filled with flames.

Mulder leapt out of the car and made a running 
start for the house.

"Take the back," Mulder called to Scully, as 
he grabbed the gun from his hip and advanced 
toward the front door.  Cradling it with both 
hands, he lifted the gun towards the swirling 
sky, his elbows locked firmly in position.  
With the utmost caution, he kicked the door 
open with his left leg and held the gun 
straight out in front of him.  No one there.  
He checked to the left and to the right.  
Still no one.  He jogged into the foyer as 
quickly as possible, not allowing himself to 
advance without warning in the face of 
recklessness.  He proceeded up the stairs, 
gun pointed to the top of the banister.  As 
he inched along, he could smell the smoke 
hanging like a thick fog over the house.  The 
sound of a fire alarm shrieked in his ears, a 
terrible siren song beckoning him closer with 
fiery fingertips.  Once he arrived at the 
summit of the staircase, he turned left and 
proceeded slowly down the hall.  He could see 
the smoke now, billowing out of the third room 
on the right.  With his left hand still 
clutching his weapon, he reached down and 
grabbed for the knob with his right palm.

"Mother fucking piece of shit."

He pulled back his hand with an angry moan.  
Glancing briefly at it, he felt the burning 
like a red-hot poker.

"You stupid ass," he belittled himself, 
hanging the burnt hand listlessly at one 
side.  It would be of no use to him now.  

Mulder took cover behind the wall of the 
doorway and readied his gun.  Taking a deep 
breath, he brushed aside his childhood fear 
of fire and kicked the bedroom door open, 
like he had the front door.  As the door 
opened wide, the flames hit him like a hot 
iron.  He flung his body back against the 
hall and shielded his eyes with his arm.  

"Esperanza?" he shouted into the flames, 
"Ms. Cortes, are you in there?"

There was no answer.  As the wind howled 
through the second-story fireplace, the 
breeze briefly parted the tongues of fire, 
and multicolored balls of light could be 
seen floating peacefully through the air.

"Esperanza, Esperanza?" he called again.

This time, he heard a muffled scream in 
response, but it wasn't coming from the 
bedroom.  Mulder quickly continued down 
the hall, checking each of the doors as 
he progressed.  He heard a door slam at 
the other end and broke out into a full 
run to catch up with the assailant.  The 
door at the end of the hall was closed 
and locked.  Mulder attempted to break 
it down, but the heat was becoming far 
too intense.  Clutching his shoulder, he 
placed an ear to the door and heard the 
sound of footsteps running down a wooden 
staircase.  Mulder double-backed and ran 
down the steps to the entrance.  He 
followed the hall back to the rear of the 
house, catching sight of one figure 
throwing another into a truck through the 
large, back windows.  Mulder followed in 
pursuit, but his foot snagged on a large 
object that lay at the bottom of the rear 
staircase.  He caught himself as he began 
to fall and glanced to see what blocked 
his path.  A wisp of red hair grabbed his 
attention.  Scully had been knocked 
unconscious.  He quickly knelt down and 
checked her pulse.  She was still alive.  
He ran a few paces and tried to shoot out 
the tires, but was unsuccessful.  Pulling 
out his cell phone, he stored the numbers 
of the license plate, and went back to 
check on Scully.

Marfa County General Hospital
9:22 A.M.

"Doctor, she's coming to."

Scully lifted her eyelids, slowly, painfully, 
taking in the blurry image of a woman with 
dark hair in an achingly-too-white outfit.  
A soft, guttural moan escaped her lips as she 
placed a hand to her forehead.  She closed 
her eyes, then opened them again, wider this 
time.  She was in a hospital.  A man was 
leaning over her.  His stethoscope hung 
loosely at his shoulders and his fingers 
were cold to the touch as he checked her 
vitals.  He held her eyelids open and shone 
a bright light in them.  The stench of 
chlorine and bleach invaded her nostrils.

"You can take that light out of my eyes,"
she heard herself say, "I'm not suffering 
from a concussion."

He instantly turned off the penlight, slightly 
taken-aback.

"Excuse me," he replied a little indignantly, 
"but I do believe that you are in no position 
to tell me your condition."

"Excuse me," Scully replied, just as indignant, 
"but I do believe that I am, seeing as how I 
am a trained medical doctor, and I can assure 
you that I have none of the symptoms - no 
amnesia, no nausea, no blurred vision, and my 
pulse is steady.  Other than a pounding 
headache, I am in perfect physical health, so 
if you would kindly discharge me, it would be 
most appreciated."

She heard him mutter something under his breath 
about not "asking for a second opinion" as he 
picked up her chart, and within five minutes, 
she was redressing herself and gathering her 
belongings.  After slipping her watch gently 
over her thin wrist, she checked the time - 9:30.  
She had been unconscious.  She remembered how she 
had gone around the back of the house the previous 
night, how she had caught sight of some of those 
strange lights in the sky, just drifting by the 
second story window.  She remembered walking up 
to the backdoor steps, then nothing.  He must 
have cold-cocked her, she decided.

She threw the maroon jacket of her 
pants-and-jacket-suit-ensemble over her 
shoulders and reached for the cell phone 
in her pocket.  She dialed Mulder's number 
and tapped her fingernails restlessly on a 
nearby table as she waited for him to pick 
up.  After two rings, she heard his voice.

"Mulder."

"Mulder," she replied mechanically, "it's 
me."  She breathed a sigh of relief, not 
knowing why his absence distressed her so.  
She was sure he was fine.  How else would 
she have gotten to the hospital?  Still, 
the sound of his soothing monotone had an 
instant calming effect.

"Scully," he replied, his voice brightening, 
"glad to hear you're up and about."

"Where are you, Mulder?" she asked, "what 
happened to you last night?  Did you find 
Phoenix?  He was there, Mulder, I saw the 
lights."

"I know," he answered, "I saw them, too."

He recounted the story of what transpired 
the night before, how he found the room on 
fire, how he watched as Henry made off with 
Esperanza, and how he had found her 
unconscious and had taken her to the 
hospital for treatment.

"So I had Danny do a check on the license 
plate," he finished, "and he confirmed that 
it belongs to one Henry Phoenix.  I had him 
do a check on homes and workplaces in the 
area where he might have fled.  I have 
already searched five former residences and
four places of employment of Phoenix's 
parents, Joaquin Still-River, and Blanca 
Cortes.  I am currently on an unkempt, 
one-horse road heading for the Marfa 
Juvenile Detention Facility, a building 
which was abandoned nearly five years ago.  
I believe that's where I will find Henry."

As Mulder spoke these last words, the path 
opened wide, revealing a decrepit, dark 
one-story building.  The windows were 
boarded up, and those that weren't 
contained large holes, an obvious result of 
delinquent rock-throwing.  Weeds overran 
what Mulder thought must have once been a 
rather nice-looking lawn and flowerbed.  A 
shack just beyond the facility was in 
shambles, and a lone tree peeked out of the 
earth next to it, blaringly out-of-place in 
the otherwise completely naked terrain.  A 
small, weathered tire hung sadly by a rope 
to a weakened, broken branch, the sole 
evidence of the children who had once played 
innocently on that very ground.  Mulder 
turned off the car and stepped from it.

"Mulder, I'm coming out there," Scully told him.

"Are you sure you're up for it, Scully?" he 
asked, ambling slowly towards the shack, "I 
don't want you out here if you're not ready."

He heard the familiar sigh on the other end 
of the line and instantly knew he should have 
known better.

"Mulder," she said, irritation prevalent in 
her voice, "I am perfectly fine.  I have been 
discharged from the hospital without incidence, 
and I will meet you at the Facility as soon as 
possible."

"Good," Mulder answered, "I'm going to need your 
help."

"Why, Mulder?" she asked, "What's wrong."

"Henry Phoenix is here, Scully," he replied, 
"Call Detective Harris and get down here as 
quickly as you can."

He placed the phone back in his coat pocket 
and stared silently at the object of his interest.  
Behind the shack sat a shabby little dark-blue 
pickup truck, the same truck he had seen driving 
away from Esperanza's.  And on the side a different 
color could be seen distinctly, brightly - it was 
red, it was blood.

Mulder wasted no time.  He bolted straight towards 
the front doors and tried the knob.  Locked.  He 
jogged around the side of the building, checking 
each of the windows and each of the doors, looking 
for any point of entry.  Nothing.  He circled the 
building and found his way back to the front door.

"There has to be some way in," he thought to 
himself, placing his palms against the cold steel.  
But not through there, it was bolted.  He 
retraced his steps back to the truck, searching 
the ground for any evidence of their whereabouts.  
The ground was hard and dusty.  There were no 
footprints.  He circled the shack, coming upon a 
chipped, wooden door with faded blue paint.  He 
tried the knob.  It opened.  

He pulled his gun from behind his back and held 
it in his left hand, still nursing his right.  He 
pushed the door open and stepped into the darkness.  
There was no one there.  He searched the room for 
a light switch but found none.  Glancing up, he 
noticed a long chain which led to a bulb at the 
top of the room.  He grabbed the thin wire and 
pulled, expecting nothing.  Light immediately 
filled the room, bringing dusty, old boxes and 
garden tools into focus.  In the corner, a piece 
of cloth covered a grimy table, supported by a 
coverless book with yellow pages.  On top of the 
table sat a plastic tray, filled with dirty bowls 
and glasses that still contained the remnants of 
someone's breakfast.

"Cozy," Mulder mused aloud, "I wonder if there are 
any other rooms available in the area?"

He crouched down and examined the floor.  A small, 
red blotch drew his attention to a rectangular 
portion of the floor that did not seem to match 
the other hardwood panels.  Mulder fit his fingers 
in the rectangular grooves and pried them up.  The 
floor gave way to a concrete staircase which 
descended into blackness.  

"There's never a white rabbit around when you need 
one," he muttered sardonically.

Pulling a flashlight from his pocket, he flicked it 
on and advanced slowly, cautiously down the steps.

Left foot.  Stop.  Right foot.  Stop.

The echoing of his every footfall seemed to 
reverberate off the walls, a tympanic crescendo 
pounding through his brain in the disconcerting 
silence.  He hesitated ever-so-slightly with every 
step, drawing in a painful breath of stale air each 
time his foot landed on the cold stone slabs.

Left foot.  Stop.  Right foot.  Stop.

Mulder inched through the darkness, balancing 
himself by placing a palm against the wet rock to 
his right.  Every once in awhile, his pace was 
unexpectedly halted as he felt his hand brush some 
fuzzy creature, and leaped back, repulsed, but once 
he convinced himself that it was merely some form 
of mossy overgrowth, his pulse began to slow and 
he continued along his way.  His flashlight 
provided the only beacon of light in the 
desperately thick ink that surrounded him, an 
inanimate Virgil leading the wondering modern-day 
Dante further and further into the deepest circles 
of the recesses of Hell.

After what seemed an eternity, the stairway 
finally ended its corkscrew descent.  Mulder 
shined his light in all directions.  The 
staircase had given way to a tiny room, small 
enough that it could be filled by about four 
people standing shoulder-to-shoulder.  He scanned 
the wall, searching out every nook and cranny that 
might hide a hidden block or panel.  

"It has to be here somewhere," he mused aloud, 
"There's no other way they could have gotten in, 
not unless Phoenix could have psychically 
transported himself into the center."

For a split second, Mulder seriously considered 
the possibility, but then decided against it, 
shook his head, and set back to the task at hand.  
After fifteen minutes, he had still found nothing.  
He was about to abandon all hope and retreat 
dejectedly back up the stairs when the light fell 
upon a stone that seemed slightly discolored in 
comparison with the rest of the rocks.  Placing 
his hand against the coldness, his fingers traced 
the outline of the stone.  It seemed to jiggle 
slightly beneath the touch of his hands.  Placing 
the flashlight between his teeth, Mulder shined 
the light on the stone and put both palms against 
the rock, one hand on each side.  Placing his 
fingers along the crevices, he managed to dislodge 
it little by little as he waited with bated breath.  
The stone crept slowly from its hiding space.  
Mulder bent down and placed it carefully on the 
ground by his feet, then stood up and anxiously 
peered into the chasm.  Behind the well-placed 
stone was hidden a lever, one usually reserved for 
Nancy Drew novels or old James Bond movies.  After 
throwing the switch, Mulder stepped back, waiting 
on cue for the inevitable.  He listened as creaky 
hinges swung, unlocking some hidden bolts and 
latches, and watched as the whole stone panel to 
his left gave way to another dark passage.

Mulder couldn't mask his boyish amazement.  He 
watched with widened eyes as the lone word, "Cool," 
came to his lips.  The monosyllabic phrase was all 
he could muster from his immense and articulate 
vocabulary.  He was for once glad that Scully was 
not with him.  He could almost hear the sardonic 
tone in his ears, mocking him for his childlike 
whimsy.

He took a brief moment to mentally prepare himself 
for what lay ahead.  Then, he shone the light into 
the dark and proceeded into the lengthy hall.

He had only gone a couple of feet when an immense, 
unseen cobweb grabbed at his face.  He moaned in 
disgust and immediately clutched at the clingy 
silken threads.  He successfully removed it, but 
not before he felt the strong fangs of a spider 
breaking his skin.  

"Ow," he cried, flicking the pesky arachnid from 
his face, "mother fucking piece of shit!"

After gently caressing the hot bump that was already 
beginning to rise over his gentleman's stubble, 
Mulder continued on his way.  The darkness seemed 
to grow about him, enveloping him, suffocating him, 
as if he were Marlow, traveling deeper and deeper 
into a night of his own mind's creation.  The 
flashlight appeared to grow dimmer, proving more 
and more ineffectual against the brooding, glooming 
darkness.  Mulder continued walking another ten 
minutes, about the length of a football field, 
until the thin light illuminated yet another spiral 
set of stairs.  He proceeded up the staircase and 
placed an ear to the wooden door that stood stately 
at its summit.  He heard no sound.  Grabbing the 
circular, iron handle, he opened the door a crack 
and peered cautiously outward.  The doorway opened 
to another hallway composed of large, thick stone 
blocks.  Tattered, worn draperies suggested to Mulder 
that someone had at one time attempted to make the 
home hospitable, though lack of money or desire to 
keep up the place caused it to be a rather cold, 
castle-like environment in which to grow up.  The 
thick moss on the wall gave the impression that it 
had not been used for years, but two sets of 
footprints visible in the mountain of dust on the 
floor proved otherwise.  To his left, Mulder noticed 
some boarded-up windows.  Prying off one of the 
warped pieces of wood, he glanced out through the 
streaked glass and saw the truck still sitting calmly 
by the shack.  He was right.  The stairway had led 
inside the juvenile detention center.  

"It must have been used as a means of underground 
evacuation," he surmised, glancing at the now 
unlocked padlocks which at one time must have 
been heavily guarded.

At that moment his thoughts turned elsewhere as 
the quiet murmuring of multiple voices could be 
heard echoing through the hall.  Mulder placed 
the board at his feet and followed the sound of 
the voices.  Putting the flashlight in his pocket 
and pulling the gun from his hip, Mulder peered 
around the corner of the doorway from whence the 
voices emanated.

He was staring at a large room, the size of a 
basketball court, which had once been a rather 
uncomfortable-looking cafeteria.  Lengthy tables 
were situated in long rows of ten and unused trays 
were still stacked neatly on the back counter.  It 
looked like a ghost town.  It was as if, one day, 
everyone had just decided to get up from lunch and 
leave.  The quiet, desolate atmosphere was in stark 
contrast to the very lively and heated discussion 
been propagated in the middle of the room.

"So you kill her?  For what?  To get to me?  Did 
you honestly think that that would endear you to 
me?"

Esperanza Cortes was seated atop one of the tables, 
her long, black hair flowing like a river down the 
curvature of her back.  Her feet were resting 
lightly on a faded orange bench so that her knees 
were pulled close to her chest, folded almost 
directly underneath her chin.  Henry Phoenix was 
pacing in front of her, visibly upset by the manner 
in which things were progressing.

"I did it all for you, Esperanza.  You used to tell 
me how unhappy you were, how all you wanted was to 
get away from your family.  They way they controlled 
you, they way they wouldn't let you do anything that 
didn't maintain their high-society style of life.  
You just wanted freedom, Esperanza, and I gave that 
to you, I gave it to you because you're my family, 
my blood, and I love you."

Phoenix stopped pacing and stood directly in front 
of her.  He bent over her and clasped his hands over 
hers.  His face wore a familiar expression of anguish 
and despair, one that he himself had borne quite 
frequently throughout the years.

"We can leave here, Esperanza, get away from the 
pain.  Start a new life somewhere else.  There's 
nothing here for either of us anymore, nothing 
but the past.  It'll be you and me, brother and 
sister, the two of us, just like the old days.  
You were my best friend.  We can have that again.  
We don't need anyone else."

A thin smile appeared on his lips as the 
recollection danced through his mind, exposing 
the crooked, yellow teeth hidden behind his mouth.

Esperanza's head had been folded in her hands as 
she listened to him, obscuring her face from Mulder's 
view.  She slowly lifted her chin and her eyes became 
level with his.  He noticed for the first time the
river of blood that was streaming down her cheek,
mixed with the remnants of plentiful tears that she
had shed.  Still, her face was set with a fierce anger 
that betrayed her conflicting emotions.  Her dark 
eyes were fixed, her gaze, cold and unwavering.

"You're right," she said, "you were my best friend.  
Even when papa and mama told me to stay away from 
you, I wouldn't listen.  I told them that underneath 
all of your misgivings, you had a good soul.  
Abuelita defended you, and you killed her, 
murdered her in cold blood.  Why would I ever 
consider going anywhere with you, let alone choose 
to look at your face for one second longer?"

The smile turned quickly into a scowl of disapproval.

"Because I'm your brother," he answered, grabbing 
so forcefully at her forearm that she winced in 
pain, "I'm your blood, and there's no greater bond 
than that."

Mulder felt the rage rise so quickly within himself 
that he was barely unable to control his next actions.

"Federal agent," he said, jumping out from his hiding 
space behind the door, "stop right there."  

Esperanza was so spooked by the unexpected 
interruption that she nearly fell off the 
table.  She and Phoenix both turned and faced 
the man who had a government-issued gun pointed 
at their heads.

"That's enough, Phoenix," he yelled, 
walking into the room, "Put your hands 
above your head and step away from Esperanza."

His footsteps echoed like two stones sliding 
in a crypt.  Phoenix relinquished his grip on 
Esperanza as Mulder advanced towards them but 
he did not back away.

"Put your hands up," he repeated, this time 
more forcefully, "and step away."

Phoenix only glared at him.

"You think you can come in here and tell me 
what to do?" he snarled, "You don't know who 
you're dealing with."

He seemed to mutate before Mulder's very eyes, 
his face taking on a grotesque, ugly form, as 
if his internal hatred had become externalized.

"On the contrary," Mulder reciprocated, his 
hazel eyes taking on a hard, amber hue, "I 
know exactly who I'm dealing with - a 
psychotic murderer with a strange penchant 
for frying up anyone who stands in his way."

Phoenix's eyes began to widen as he realized 
that he had been found out.

"That's right," Mulder continued, "I know 
everything.  Tell me, what did your adopted 
father, Mr. Joaquin Still-River, see before 
he died?  Did the man who took you in and 
raised you as one of his own say anything 
to you before you set him on fire?"

Phoenix did not respond, but narrowed his 
eyes until all that remained were two yellow, 
python-like slits.

"What about Blanca Cortes?  What did she say 
to you?  Was there fear in her eyes?  Did she 
beg for mercy before you incinerated her?"

Esperanza released a gentle hiccough of sorrow 
before her eyes plummeted to the floor.  She 
began weeping softly to herself.  Henry looked 
lovingly at her and then turned his gaze coldly 
back to Mulder.

"Why didn't you burn her house, too?" Mulder
continued, "Was it because it was all a game
for you, see if you could kill her without
scorching the furniture?"

"You upset my sister," Henry interrupted, his 
voice filled with a lack of emotion that 
reminded Mulder of the most heinous serial 
murderers that he often interviewed from his 
days back on the Violent Crimes Division, "I 
told her that I wouldn't let anyone upset her.  
You made me lie.  Now you're going to pay."

"Mr. Phoenix, I will ask you this one more 
time, step away from Ms. Cortes or I will be 
forced to take lethal action."

But Phoenix wasn't listening.  A look of calm 
clouded his face as he shut his eyes and raised 
his hands to chest-level.  Esperanza halted her 
tears and glanced at her brother.  An expression 
of widespread fear formed quickly on her face.

"Agent Mulder," she screamed, "you have to get 
out of here.  Right now.  You must go.  He's 
going to hurt you."

Mulder didn't move or even avert his eyes.  He 
watched with amazement as Henry's pale, 
vitamin-deficient skin took on a reddish hue 
as his whole body began to convulse.  He 
pulled his hands apart so that his palms 
faced each other, his long, wiry fingers 
curving inward.  Thin sparks of electrical 
energy shot through the air, jumping from 
one hand to the next.  Suddenly, Phoenix 
clapped his hands together and soft, 
feather-like wisps of different colors 
were summoned forth from his skin.  

"Agent Mulder," Esperanza cried in 
desperation, "get out of here now!"

It was too late.  The wisps coiled upon 
themselves and formed into spherical balls 
of light.  His eyes abruptly shot open, as 
quick as a bullet being fired from a rifle.  
He unclasped his hands and held the right arm 
straight out.  Before Mulder knew what was 
happening, the lights came whirring directly 
at him.

10:41 A.M.

For the first time, Mulder noticed the sound 
of thunder.  Strange he hadn't heard it before, 
but then again, being unconscious wasn't exactly 
conducive to the comprehension of sensations.

"Unconscious.  I was unconscious."

It was odd, the way his mind worked, or the 
way any mind worked, for that matter.  He had 
spent all of those years studying psychology, 
mentally connecting the thoughts and actions 
of men that, to others, would have seemed 
arbitrary and discontinuous.  It was a 
practice that would later serve him well in 
his profiling capabilities.  And yet he could 
still only comprehend but a meager proportion 
of the workings of the brain.  There was still 
so much that was left to be uncovered, so much 
hidden in the depths of the undiscovered 
unconscious.

Unconscious.  He had been unconscious.

Mulder gently lifted his eyelids as the booming, 
thunderous cadence jumped from cloud to cloud 
somewhere above his head.  He could almost hear 
the pain pounding between his temples.  It was 
so loud, so, so loud.  As the blurry images that 
his eyes observed began to join together into one 
coherent picture, he noticed the dingy, gray, 
expansive floor.  He was still in the cafeteria, 
laying on the floor.  He attempted to right 
himself, but was unable to move his arms.  They 
were tied very tightly, very painfully behind 
his back, using some sort of leather restraint.  
He slowly began to realize the pain wasn't just 
as a result of the awkward positioning.  It was 
due to something else, something different.  He 
tried to move his head, but couldn't.  It felt 
strange.  Half of it was ice cold, sitting 
heavily on the floor.  The other side was facing 
the ceiling, and comprised the opposite extreme, 
hot and painful.  

The dull pain was much worse than the heat.  If 
he tried really hard, he could forget about the 
intense, scalding sensation for a moment and 
concentrate on something else.  But the pain was 
omnipresent, unending.  He could never get away 
from it, no matter how aloof he allowed his mind 
to become.  Mulder suddenly realized it was the 
same feeling he had on his arms, on his hands, on 
his chest.  

He had been burned.  Badly.  

He couldn't really recall how it had happened.  
He remembered someone screaming, a woman?  Then 
colors.  Then nothing.  Blackness.  Now the pain.

Mulder once again tried to sit up, pulling his 
legs to his chest in an effort to counterbalance 
the weight of his upper body.  He was only able 
to move his torso two feet above the ground before 
a spasm of pain overwhelmed him.  He collapsed to 
the floor as a groan of anguish escaped his lips.  
He laid there, unmoving, until the waves of agony 
subsided.  After taking in a few deep breaths, he 
tried again.  This time, he wasn't even able to 
moan before the spasms wracked his body.  His head 
slammed hard into the floor, causing a sound 
reminiscent of the slapping of hands to go 
cascading through the room and out through the 
empty hallway.  Mulder didn't have time to think 
as his body succumbed to its injuries, convulsing 
with unmitigated rage at the mistreatment.

When he opened his eyes, all he could see was 
the red.  All he felt was the cold.

"Oh, God, I'm bleeding to death," he said 
in his mind, or was it out loud?  He couldn't 
be sure where his thoughts began and his 
words ended.  He was so cold.

"Mulder," he heard a muffled voice cry 
through the red, "Mulder, don't move."

The red became separated and all that he 
saw was the white.  Cold.  So cold.

"Oh my God," he thought, "It's the white 
light.  I'm going towards the white light."

The last thing he saw before he lost 
consciousness was a familiar cutting, 
crystal blue, and he knew that he would 
be safe.

Marfa County General Hospital
6:18 P.M.

Mulder slowly opened his eyes, attempting to 
adjust them to the bright, white lights, as 
the sound of a heart monitor beeped 
rhythmically somewhere near his ear.  He 
noticed a blurry object lean over him, and 
then heard a voice say, "Agent Scully, he's 
awake."

"Thank God," he heard his partner mumble as 
her heels clicked rapidly to his side, "You 
really had us scared for a minute there, 
Mulder."  He allowed himself to play the 
dutiful patient to her doctor as she 
thoroughly checked his vitals.

"Us?" he replied in a soft, raspy monotone, 
"Are you trying to tell me that there's 
someone else out there who cares whether or 
not I get fricasseed?  Scully, I'm touched."

"Yeah, in the head."

She smiled as she removed the stethoscope 
from her neck and placed it in her ears.  
Mulder tried to smile, but the right side 
of his face felt like it was being pulled 
apart.

"It's bad, isn't it?" he said so suddenly 
it surprised her.

Scully voice quavered as she attempted her 
lie.

"No," she smiled, "you look fine, Mulder.  
You'll be back to that raging social life 
in no time."

"You're lying, Scully," he told her, and 
then, "Oh, cold."

"Sorry," she responded, removing the 
stethoscope from his chest to her lips, 
blowing two hot breaths onto the cold metal, 
and replacing it over his lungs.

"How do you know, anyway?" she asked.

"Your face always does this thing," he 
answered, "It goes cold, emotionless...oh 
yeah, and your eyes do this freakish not 
blinking thing."

"That's not true," she said heatedly and 
unblinking.

"Right.  And I'm not the key player in a 
global conspiracy to undermine the legitimacy 
of alien abductees in an effort to contain 
the knowledge that colonization of this 
planet by extraterrestrials is inevitable."

Scully removed the medical instrument, placed 
her hand on her hip, and arched her eyebrows.  

"Oh, I'm sorry, Mulder.  I missed the memo 
that said that the heliocentric theory is 
incorrect and the world now revolves around 
you."

He sucked in a deep breath and rolled his eyes.

"Mulder, can't you ever get your point across 
in less than five words?"

"Scully, I think I love you."

"That's six words, Mulder."

Matched, if not defeated in his game of 
intellectual banter, Mulder shrugged off 
her words and began another line of 
questioning.

"How did I get here?"

Scully pulled a stool close to his bedside 
and seated herself with royal poise.

"After I got off the phone with you, I drove 
to the Juvenile Detention Center.  I found 
your car by the side of the road and 
investigated the grounds.  I noticed some 
deep tire tracks by the shack out front and 
located the panel leading underground once I 
got inside.  I followed it and found you 
lying in the cafeteria, unconscious and your 
hands tied with a belt behind your back.  
You were suffering from convulsions and went 
into shock.  I phoned an ambulance, which 
brought you here."

"Was there anyone at the Facility when you 
arrived there?" he interrupted.

Scully shook her head.

"I'm afraid not," she answered sadly, "There 
was no sign of either Henry Phoenix or 
Esperanza Cortes when I arrived.  I had the 
Marfa police force comb the entire center.  
They are no where to be found."

She paused and took a deep breath before she 
continued her account of the proceedings.

"Mulder, you had second-degree burns over 
sixty percent of your body.  We hydrated you 
and dressed your wounds.  You're going to 
have to remain as still as possible for the 
next couple of days, as we had to cover your 
burns in synthetic fibers to protect against 
bacterial infestation."

Mulder closed his eyes as he spoke.

"How long am I going to be out of commission?"

"At least a couple of weeks," came the answer, 
"The doctors are taking every precaution to 
ensure your full recovery."

He shifted slightly and opened his eyes wide, 
staring into hers.  He had a look of 
determination on his face, one which Scully 
had seen all too frequently on their 
investigations into the paranormal.

"Scully," he told her earnestly, without a 
hint of sarcasm in his voice, "I need you to 
find Esperanza for me.  I need to know that 
she's safe, that her brother didn't succeed 
in destroying her emotionally, as I fear he 
has, that his quest to find her didn't end 
in disaster."

He mustered up all his strength and lifted his 
hand out to hers, gritting his teeth through 
the pain.

"I'm relying on you, Scully.  I know you won't 
let me down."

9:55 P.M.

"Where are you, Scully?"

"Heading east on Route 7."

Scully carefully cradled the phone 
between her ear and the nook of her 
neck as her right hand joined the left 
already on the steering wheel.  She had 
been checking out all of Phoenix's old 
haunts ever since she left Mulder's 
hospital room earlier that night.  

"I've checked everywhere, Mulder," she told 
him with much frustration, "I've tried old 
classmates, bars, strip clubs.  I even 
rechecked the Juvenile Detention Facility, 
but he's nowhere to be found."

She could almost hear Mulder smiling through 
the connection as he said, "You went to a strip 
club, Scully?  Just for investigative purposes, 
I'm sure."

Scully scowled.

"Actually, Mulder," she replied haughtily, "I 
was looking for information to add to the case 
file that I've been collecting since our first 
assignment together.  You know, the one that 
hopes to discover if there is at least one 
triple-x facility in these contiguous 
forty-eight states that you have not yet visited."

Mulder was, indeed, half-grinning through the 
side of his face that he could move without fear 
of painful repercussions.

"So what are the results?"

Scully was now smiling as well.

"Currently, the file still remains open."

He shook his head slightly as he saw a nurse 
enter the room out of the corner of his eye, 
her face hidden behind a stack of fresh, white 
linens.  He was too busy chatting to notice her 
close the door and lock it behind her.

"Not those results," he explained, "Phoenix.  
What are the results with Phoenix?"

"Well, other than learning some interesting facts 
regarding his alcoholic and sexual habits, there's 
nothing new to report.  I've put out an A.P.B. on 
both Henry and Esperanza.  I've got the Marfa 
police scouring the countryside, as well as 
cooperation from our local Bureau friends in Austin.  
Hopefully, they will be in custody by daybreak."

"Agent Mulder, I need to change your sheets."

He didn't look up as he told his partner, "I've got 
to go, Scully.  Keep me posted."  He closed his cell 
and placed it on the movable table over his bed.

He gr