AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

CLASSIFICATION: XH

RATING: R

ARCHIVE: Yes.

Send feedback to ottercrk@sover.net

Website is located at http://members.dencity.com/hearne

AUTHOR'S NOTE: For some reason, I'm hearing Whitesnake's
"Here I Go Again" in my head. That's probably not a good
sign.

I don't know if this is a signal I'm emerging from
retirement or if I'm just putting the finishing touches on
it. I do intend this as the final story in the "Final" series.
I'm also planning to post a sequel to "The Seventh Age"
as well as musing over a post-"Requiem" story that will
attempt to "tie everything up" like "Strangers and Pilgrims"
tried to do. (God save my soul.)

All that aside, here's "Gone to Florida." Once again, I
thank Laurie Haynes for editing it. I also would like to
thank Alfred Metraux whose "Voodoo in Haiti" provided
me with insights. Any misrepresentations of voodoo
here are strictly my own bloody fault. I would also
like to acknowledge Carl Hiassen. The "epilogue" idea
for the previous two stories was taken straight from his
own funny books. I thought it would be appropriate to
set the final story in his home turf of Florida.

Okay, then...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TABLE OF CONTENTS

1. HE'S GOT RHYTHM

2. SUGAR, SUGAR

3. FAMILIAR FACES

4. TALE OF AN ENGLISH BASTARD

5. EVERYBODY GOES TO BUJU'S

6. ANOTHER FAMILIAR FACE

7. BLOOD ON THE FLOOR, VOICES IN THE HEAD

8. THE BLUES OF OSCAR HALL

9. LOVE IS IN THE AIR

10. BLIMEY, THAT HURTS!

11. A LITTLE WISDOM FROM YOUR ELDERS

12. BAKKKA

13. THE NEW DRUMMER

14. DO YOUR DUTY

15. FOUND ONE, LOST THREE

16. LET'S GET IT ON

17. BLIMEY, THAT HURTS AGAIN!

18. ATTACK OF THE FAIRY GODMOTHERS

19. HERE'S THE TORCH, DON'T PISS ON THE FLAMES

20. IT'S DIVINE INTERVENTION, MON

21. THE LOOSE ENDS OF LOVE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART ONE
HE'S GOT RHYTHM

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Councilman Neil Downard was becoming quite the tourist
attraction. Passers-by and residents of the Sparkle Beach
Hotel were crowding onto the sidewalk and staring wide-eyed
at the councilman. He looked back at them with eyes also
wide but blank and unreceptive. If he could see them,
though, it would have been upside down, considering that
the upper-half of his body was sticking out a window with
his back resting on the sill. However, considering that a
large red triangle of glass was jutting through his torso,
what he could have seen was a moot point.

Visitors staying at the Sparkle Beach Hotel were greeted
with this sight as they stepped out into the hot sun.
Forgetting about the beaches and the souvenir shops, they
focused on the councilman dangling from a second-story
window of their hotel. They were joined by other tourists
who joined them in their whispering and mutterings.

Then they beheld a new sight almost as exotic to their
eyes as the skewered councilman. A very large and fat man
stepped up to the window; a very large and fat *Cuban*. He
was dressed in a wrinkled grey jacket and pants, a white
shirt with many unremovable stains, a loosened red tie
and a hat that must have been sat on a few times. A cigar
jutted from his mouth and you could smell its heady odor
from the sidewalk. The face around the cigar belonged to a
man in his fifties and he wasn't smiling. He regarded the
people below him as the sun baked their puffy flesh. When
he heard a camera click, he proclaimed with his cigar
between his teeth, "What the hell is with you people? Don't
they have dead bodies up in Hairy Ass, Michigan or Inbred,
Missouri or wherever you come from?"

This prompted a gasp from the onlookers and a woman
standing close to the Cuban. "Detective Carranza!" the
woman cried out.

Tomas Carranza and his cigar turned to Frances Sheen, a
member of her city's Board of Tourism. "Those people are
visitors to our city!" she told him. "Show them some
courtesy!"

The cigar tilted up in Carranza's mouth. Then he removed
it, turned back to window and said, "Welcome to fucking
Miami. Now, scram, you gringo jerk-offs."

The scowl on the Cuban's face had yanked many a confession
out of a suspect. It was no less effective in making the
crowd disperse. Mrs. Sheen trembled, ready to rip out
Carranza's throat with her teeth.

Detective Max Miles stepped between them. Miles was
Carranza's partner and any other two men could not have
had a more differing appearance. The clothes on Miles
were always clean and presentable. The body in them was
more than presentable. When the handsome, blonde-haired
and broad-shouldered man smiled, he could warm the hearts
of most women (and some men), not to mention make their
underwear tingle.

"Please, Mrs. Sheen," Miles said. "It's best that we don't
have a crowd of tourists gawking at the crime scene.
Besides, this isn't something you want to bring attention
to, is it?"

He smiled. Mrs. Sheen -- a woman who had been married for
ten years -- felt her pelvis loosen.

"I...I guess I can understand that," she stammered. "But
wouldn't it be best to...uh...remove the body from sight?"

"Well, that will be up to the forensics team and they
can't do that until they have finished documenting the
scene. They're working as fast as they can, though.
Just another minute and Mr. Downard will be out of sight."

Mrs. Sheen sighed with relief. "Thank you, Detective
Miles." She looked over his shoulder at Carranza. "It's
nice to see some members of the Miami Police Department
have remembered their manners."

She turned away. Carranza started to say something, but
Miles lifted up a finger in his direction. Carranza
shrugged and stuck the cigar back into his mouth.

"As ever, I am ying to your yang, Tomas," Miles observed.
"Or is that yang to your ying?"

"I'm trying to care." Carranza waved a hand at Downard's
body. "Look at this, won't you?"

"I see it."

"The first one was weird enough. But now we've got *two*
of them."

"Is it the same as Kidder's death?"

Carranza made a circle in the air with his hand,
indicating the entirety of a dining room where small tables
with white tablecloths had been arranged in front of a
long table. A considerable amount of damage had been done
in this room starting with the smashed podium and bent
microphone in the center of the long table. It led in a
trail of shattered plates, broken chairs and thick drops of
blood to the window. Policemen and forensic specialists
were busy with their own little jobs, collecting evidence
or interviewing the stricken people gathered in one corner.

"The damn thing happened in front of some of Miami's
finest businessmen," Carranza informed Miles. He pointed a
huge finger at the group of frightened people. "The
esteemed councilman was making a speech about the importance
of community or some kind of mule crap when he started
dancing. *Dancing*. He did the goddamned Macarena all over
the room. They tried to hold him down, but he shook them off
like a big old bull. It only stopped when he ran into the
window here."

"The Macarena, huh?"

"Actually, it might have been a yanvalou."

Both Miles and Carranza blinked, then turned to the voice
addressing them. They both saw a tall, brown-haired man
striding past the tables towards them. Just a step behind
him was a petite woman with red hair. She looked a little
uncomfortable as they got closer to the two detectives.

"Or a banda. Or a dahomey-z-epaules." The man stopped
before the detectives and the impaled corpse. "Of course,
the Macarena would have been even scarier."

"At the risk of sounding obvious," Carranza said. "but who
the fuck are you?"

Without blinking an eye, the man pulled out a badge with
the letters 'FBI' printed on it. "I'm Agent Fox Mulder.
This is Agent Dana Scully. We've come to offer our
assistance in this case." Mulder looked at the body. "Looks
like we arrived in time for the second act."

As Mulder studied the body, Max Miles studied him. He took
in Mulder's full sensual lips, intense hazel eyes and his
slim yet muscular frame. He also took note of Mulder's
prominent nose which actually served to accentuate his
handsome features.

Then he looked at Scully. Bright red hair, blue eyes like
light through an icicle, slender and well-proportioned
body, smooth skin...

He liked what he saw. In both of them.

Carranza missed the smile forming on his partner's face.
He was concentrating on Mulder. "Look, Agent, I'm sure it's
a lot of fun to just walk into a place and confuse the hell
out of people, but would you mind explaining..."

"We came here to look into the death of Councilwoman
Jessica Kidder. When we arrived in town, we were informed
that the detectives investigating that death had received
word of a similar fatality."

"And just what interested you about the first death?"

"Witnesses described her as 'dancing' and shouting strange
words as she stepped into the street and got hit by a car."

"That was pretty strange, huh, Tomas?" Miles interjected.

Carranza looked at Miles, his face saying "Who asked for
your two goddamned pennies?"

"Now, we have a second death," Mulder continued. "Just
like Kidder, Downard was a member of the Miami City Council
as well as the Zoning Commission. Like Kidder, Downard
'danced' his way into harm."

"That doesn't explain why the F...B...I is here," Carranza
said. The way he spoke "FBI" suggested he thought they
stood for "Fucking Bullshit Ingestors" which -- oddly
enough -- he often believed.

"We have come to offer an explanation for these deaths."

Carranza folded his arms over his chest. "Let's hear it."

Mulder opened his mouth and said, "It sounds like a trance
brought about by possession from a loa -- a spirit invoked
in voodoo ceremonies."

Carranza stared at the FBI agent with no expression. A
puff of smoke burst from his mouth.

"Voodoo?" Miles said.

"During voodoo ceremonies, participants are often overcome
with a need to dance. The banda and yanvalou are two
examples of this kind of dancing. However..." Mulder
indicated the councilman's body. "...I have never heard of
one that ended up like this."

Carranza turned his head to Miles. The slowness of the
action and the cigar in his mouth made his head look like a
tank turret. Miles also turned to his partner. Unlike
Carranza, he had an amused smile on his face. (Of course,
Miles was almost always smiling while Carranza just tended
to frown.)

Carranza shifted his head, re-aiming his cigar at Mulder.
"Well," he said. "Strap a gerbil to my butt and call me
Richard Gere."

That's when Scully spoke up for the first time. Her voice
managed to sound forced and calm at the same time.

"For the moment, Agent Mulder's theory remains just that --
a theory. However, if you can suggest one that's more
logical and suitable for this case, we would be more than
grateful to hear it."

The dumbfounded look on Carranza's face almost made Miles
burst out laughing. Mulder and Scully were looking more and
more interesting. Any woman who could take the air out of
Tomas Carranza was worth getting to know better. As for
Mulder, he was obviously a bit weird, but weird was good.

Weird could mean...playful. Curious. Likes to experiment.

"Well, I can't speak for my partner..." Miles said.

You gonna fucking do it anyway, Carranza thought.

"...but I admit these deaths are a real puzzle for me. At
this point, I am willing to consider anything."

"That's all we're asking," Mulder said.

"I like to keep myself open to new experiences. Just as
I'm sure you two do."

Miles smiled. Then Mulder smiled. And Scully smiled.

Carranza looked at all these smiles. He noted something
familiar in Carranza's expression and rolled his eyes.

"How about you, Detective Carranza?" Mulder asked.

Carranza took out his cigar and waved it in his hand.
"Sure, why the hell not? Let's have a party."

"Yes," Miles said, looking Mulder and Scully over. "Let's."

"Okay, then," Mulder said. "First of all, we have to start
by ruling out any other possibilities. Agent Scully is a
licensed medical examiner. She can do an autopsy on the
body and check for..."

The body in question lifted up his head and screamed.

Every conversation and every movement in that room stopped
cold. The only things that moved were a few bowels which
expelled brown chunks into some unfortunate pants. The
policemen, the forensic team, the businessmen in the
corner, Mrs. Sheen, Miles, Carranza, Mulder and Scully
stayed stuck to their positions as they listened to
Councilman Downard scream.

"AGWE TAROYO, KOTE U YE! AGWE TAROYO, KOTO U YE! AGWE
TAROYO..."

During this, he thrashed his arms and kicked out with his
legs. His eyes were staring at a far corner of the
room, his madness giving him the sight to see a person
invisible to others.

It took a few seconds for Scully to get out of shock and
her physician instincts to kick in. "We need a medical team
here now!" she shouted as she grabbed onto one of the
trembling legs. The men beside her were stirred from their
own fear, stepping forward to help her.

Unfortunately, Downard's thrashings served to press his
body harder against the long glass shard through him. Like
a saw, the glass cut new inches of space into the flesh
still intact. The weight of Downard's body outside the
window helped to tear the cut even further. Guts split
open. Bones were snapped.

Downard let out one more cry of "AGWE..." before his body
separated in two. The top half dropped from the window. A
policeman who was too horrified to move served as landing
pad for the plummeting half-Downard. As for the bottom
half, most of it thumped to the dining room's floor. Scully
held onto its leg for a second longer, then let go.

The room became silent.

Then Carranza looked across the room to one particularly
ashen face. "Oh, Mrs. Sheen," he said. "the body is no
longer hanging out the window."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Oscar Hall looked out the vast window making up one wall
of his beautifully decorated office and was bored, bored,
bored. The downtown area of Miami stretched out before him
like toy blocks, but he felt no desire to play. He thought
about what was scheduled for tonight. Oh, yes, another
dinner function. Undoubtedly, it would be attended by
millionaires, powerful men of government and celebrities.
Undoubtedly, Oscar would be the center of attention.
Undoubtedly, he would leave with many people in his favor
and a beautiful woman to take to his bed.

Oscar sighed and pressed his head against the window.

The intercom on a desk older than some cities gave him a
buzz, then the voice of his astoundingly efficient
secretary (skilled in everything from stenography to coffee
making to the occasional blow job) could be heard. "Mr.
Hall, Mr. Rogers is here to see you."

Oh, Lord, he thought. Just what I need. He waited a few
seconds, then said, "Send him in."

A thoroughly nondescript man entered the office. Mr.
Rogers was so subdued in his manner that it was easy to
overlook him -- an unwise thing to do. "Good afternoon, Mr.
Hall," he said, his voice as polite as ever. "I'm afraid I
have some unpleasant business to bring up."

"That so?" Oscar replied as he slumped into a chair.

"Yes, sir. Apparently, Ass-Kickers, Inc. have hired a
zobop."

Oscar sat up a little straighter in his chair. This was a
little more interesting than usual. "Really? I didn't think
Morgan had that kind of imagination."

"Not him, sir. He has recently acquired a new partner who
is a little more...imaginative, as you say."

"Hm. So, what kind of damage do you think they're planning?"

"They've already done it, sir. Downard and Kidder are dead."

"Who?"

Mr. Rogers cleared his throat ever-so-slightly. "They were
our key members on the Zoning Commission, sir. With their
help, we were sure to acquire the desired property."

"Ah. Well, then, we just have to make sure their
replacements are..."

"For the love of God's own dick, son, would you get your
head out of your fucking ass?"

Mr. Rogers turned around and faced the old man who was now
in the office. Oscar had to hand it to Rogers. Very few men
could look Oscar's father in the eye and not flinch,
especially when he suddenly appeared behind you. Yet Mr.
Rogers regarded the old man as if he had been there all the
time (which was probably true.) However, Oscar wondered if
Mr. Rogers would have been able to maintain his aplomb if
he knew who Oscar's father really was.

Then, again, maybe Mr. Rogers did know the old man's
identity. Truthfully, it wasn't all that surprising.

"Don't you think that asshole Morgan hasn't thrown a few
hints to the rest of the Commission? You know, watch it or
you'll be doing the watusi right through a goddamn window?"

"Your father is correct, sir," Mr. Rogers said.

"Of course, I'm fucking correct! Now, why is it that your
damn real estate broker sees the problem and all you can
see is the inside of your own shit-covered rectum?"

Oscar said nothing. He just looked back at his father with
a flat expression.

It was a bit discomforting to see them as father and son.
The son wore his clothes with the slick panache of a model.
Loose strands of cloth hung from the father's brown suit
and pants. Oscar's face was fresh and handsome. His
father's skin looked like a discarded burger wrapper and
blue veins ran all over protruding bones. Oscar's voice was
pleasant to listen to. His father had a voice to scare away
little children. Oscar was built like a basketball player.
The father leaned upon a dented cane, looking ready to fall
over at the slightest nudge.

Then you saw the look in the old man's eyes and realized
that touching this man in any way would be a bad, horrible,
godawful idea. He had an expression as cold as a polar
bear's ass and mean as a Nazi pit bull. There was also the
peculiar yet unmistakable feeling that after he got done
hurting you, you would wish some other sperm had made it to
your mother's egg.

Oscar had learned how not to squirm in the face of his
father. Sometimes, it was hard.

With his voice still calm, Mr. Rogers said, "In any
case...we should take measures against the zobop."

The old man smacked the flat end of his cane once on the
floor. "Son-of-an-ass-licking-bitch, Mr. Rogers, haven't
you learned the rules yet? If it was possible for me to
intervene, don't you think I would have pulled Morgan's
brains out his fucking ears?"

"That's not what I meant, sir."

"Well, what the fuck did you mean?"

"I was referring to an initiative on my own part."

"Then that what's you should have said, goddammit!"

Mr. Rogers resisted clearing his throat. "Yes, sir."

"Whatever that needs to be done, do it and do it as soon
as fucking possible! Now get your faggot ass out of here!"

With one last "yes, sir," Mr. Rogers left the office.

"Voodoo! Mother-father-brother-sister-fucking voodoo! I
can't believe it!"

"I'm sure Mr. Rogers will take care of everything," Oscar
said in a casual voice.

The old man narrowed his eyes at his son, reclining with
such a lazy air in his chair. "You're just shitting concern
for this situation, aren't you?"

"I am concerned. But I don't see any point in getting all
worked up..."

Oscar's father lifted up his cane, reached over the desk
and prodded Oscar in the chest. "You...don't...see...any...
fucking...point?" he growled, poking Oscar on each word.
The younger man just sat there and took it, giving his
father the blankest expression he could.

The cane rose up to press under Oscar's chin. "We are
looking at the culmination of centuries and centuries of
work," the old man continued. "This is what I've been
waiting for, goddammit. This is the fulfillment of
prophecy. And now...now it's all getting fucked up by some
shit-eating nigger magic. You expect me to stay calm
while..."

The intercom buzzed. "Excuse me," the secretary said. "but
I have a call..."

"Don't interrupt our father-son bonding!" the old man
screeched at the intercom.

Unflappable, the secretary said, "It's a call for your
father, Mr. Hall. From Miss Hutchinson. She's waiting with
her lawyer."

The cane's point slipped down to the floor. The rage that
threatened to explode the old man's head simmered down into
weariness. In that moment, he looked like nothing more than
an old man.

"Ah, hell, Oscar," he said, "why couldn't I have picked
some other hole on that woman to stick myself into?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: GONE TO FLORIDA (2 of 21)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TWO
SUGAR, SUGAR

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Who in their right fucking mind would eat a honey-glazed
ham? Audrey Bjorg wondered. She considered this mystery as
she watched the other diners at the table eat their lunch.
As they carved up their separate cuts of ham and chewed on
them, Audrey tried not to think about the appalling taste
of sweetened meat and that slick gunk which sticks to your
lips after every bite.

"Are you sure you're not hungry?" an old mulatto in a
patched shirt asked.

Audrey put on her best smile and said, "No, thank you. I'm
fine with just a glass of water."

"Oh, sweetie pie!" one of the other diners called out to a
passing waiter. It was an endearment made enticing by the
fact that the diner was a beautiful woman. The waiter was
stopped like a mouse caught by a cat.

"Would you please get us a refill?" the woman said,
holding up an empty pitcher. The hand holding the pitcher
was decorated with many rings. Rubies and diamonds
glittered on her fingers just like the pearls around her
neck, the golden earrings hanging from her ears and the
bracelets around her ankles. The cost of those items along
with her silk dress probably exceeded the gross national
product of Ireland. On another woman, such a display would
have looked wasteful but disgust turned to devotion when
her green eyes sparkled in your direction.

"Of...of course, ma'am," the waiter said, trembling as he
took the cup. He found nothing odd in that this bunch had
gone through two pitchers of soda already. Nor did he pay
attention to the white residue at the bottom of the empty
pitcher or the empty sugar packets on the table.

The woman gave the waiter a sly wink. The waiter rushed to
the kitchen, trying to cover up his erection with the
pitcher.

The woman turned back to her plate. "So," she commented as
she speared another piece of ham with her fork. "So, so,
so...I hear you are having a little trouble with a loa."

Audrey held back an angry reply. Instead, she said, "Yes.
We are. That's what I already told you."

"Apparently, it's Oscar Hall who is having the real
trouble," the old mulatto observed.

"But it's my group that's still caught in the middle.
Originally, we had been hoping that Hall Enterprises and
Ass-Kickers, Inc. would cancel each other out. However, if
one of them gets an edge..."

"Are you sure you don't want a bite?" the woman said,
sticking out a fork with a piece of glossy, slimy meat on
it.

"Uh, I'm sure. Either way, my side loses the bay. And we
are not eager to have Constantine Morgan set up shop there."

"But it would be even more dangerous for Hall to set up
there, wouldn't it?" the old man said.

"Yes. It would. But even if Morgan won, Hall and his
father would still find a way to..."

"Are you sure you don't want a taste?" the woman asked.

"I said...I'm sure." Audrey paused. "What was I saying?"

"You were saying that Hall might find a way to do
something," the old mulatto reminded her.

"Yes. The main thing is that Jeremiah Bay would be lost,
whether Morgan or Hall gets it. So, I've come here to ask
you..."

"It's really quite tasty. Why don't you have one quick..."

"I don't want to taste the damn thing!" Audrey shouted,
banging her fists on the table.

It became silent as everybody else looked at Audrey,
including the fourth person at the table. His apparent age
was in his mid-thirties. Like the woman and the old man, he
was a light-skinned mulatto. He wore a white naval
officer's uniform and white gloves separated his skin from
his utensils. His sea-green eyes stared at Audrey until she
looked down at the table.

During this silence, the waiter arrived with a pitcher
full of soda and ice. The woman gave him a perfunctory
wink. It was enough to send him into the employees bathroom
to whack off like a monkey in heat.

In a gentle voice, the old mulatto said, "You are asking us
to directly intervene. To stop this loa."

Audrey lifted her head up. "Yes. That's actually what I'm
asking."

"I'm afraid we cannot do that."

"And...why not?"

"Because it works differently on this side. We come when
we are summoned."

"Well, hell, we have something like that on our side, too.
It's called prayer."

"Yes, but you also have the option of intervention if it's
deemed absolutely necessary. We have no such option."

Audrey looked over the three other faces. "I see. So, I
came here for nothing."

"Now, don't you go..."

Audrey's chair screeched as it was pushed back. She stood
up and marched towards the restaurant's exit. As she walked
there, she passed by a piano player who was plunking out a
Celine Dion tune. She gave the piano a look and its player
was shocked to hear five of his piano strings snap at once.

"...off mad."

The old mulatto looked at his two dining companions.
"Perhaps, we deserved that."

"Maybe," the woman said. "But we are bound by the rules."

For the first time, the man in the naval uniform spoke.
"Are we sure of that?"

The old mulatto and the woman blinked in surprise.
"Well...yes," the old man said. "Aren't we?"

"Let's make sure. Because...as they say here in
America...we all have to duck when the shit hits the fan."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"That," Carranza said, jabbing one of his meaty fingers
onto a map. "is the fucking point of contention."

"Jeremiah Bay," Mulder read aloud. He was looking at the
map spread out on Carranza's desk at Miami Police
Headquarters. Miles was with them. Carranza's partner was
standing close to Mulder, every once and while looking at
his full lips.

"It is probably the last bit of property in Florida that
doesn't have a hotel, a stadium, a condo or a goddamned
amusement park built on it," Carranza said in disgust. "In
fact, it's pretty weird that none of those cock-sucking
developers have noticed it until now."

"So who has noticed it?"

"At first, it was Hall Enterprises," Miles said. Oh, Lord,
to feel those lips around my long john, he thought.

"Oscar Hall?" Mulder said.

"You know about him?"

"Just that he is one of the fastest rising businessmen in
America, if not the world. He's involved in a wide
portfolio of interests from real estate to entertainment to
the farming industry."

"Shit, you're pretty knowledgeable, aren't you, Mulder?"
Carranza said.

"Well..."

"You must have a helluva lot of free time."

Mulder cleared his throat. Miles imagined that throat
swallowing another white serving from Max Miles' Sausage of
Wonder. It was apparent Mulder did have a lot of free time
and it was more likely spent with his hand than with
another warm body. It would make him all the more frisky
when the time came.

So to speak.

"Yeah, Oscar Hall wants Jeremiah Bay," Carranza said. "The
funny thing is that no one is quite sure why he wants it.
He's only given a lot of vague crap about 'development.'
But if Oscar Hall wants something, he's got the moolah and
the brass ones to get it."

"But someone is in his way."

"Two someones, actually. The first is Constantine Morgan,
some bastard out of England. We know what he wants to do
with it."

"And that is...?"

"The Dome of Blood."

"Huh?"

"It's some big arena for extreme combat tournaments. You
know, that sport where a lot of big schmucks go around
knocking the shit out of each other in a big cage?"

"I've heard of it. I thought that went out with the mid-
nineties."

"Well, I guess this Morgan asshole is staging a comeback
for it. Of course, you can't go up against the likes of
Oscar Hall alone. That's why he's in cahoots with November
Sun, one of our local gangsters."

"November Sun? What is he, a Native American?"

"Nope. He's pure uncut honky." Carranza took a cigar out
of his desk and lit it up despite the "NO SMOKING" sign
seen by all. "If you meet this guy, don't underestimate
him. He comes across as a flake but he's as deadly as an
alligator whacked on jalapeno peppers."

"So, these are the two someones in Hall's way."

Miles spoke up. He wasn't going to let Carranza dominate
the conversation with Mulder. "Actually, the other someones
are the Seniors."

"Okay. I'll bite..."

So do I, Miles thought.

"Who are the Seniors?"

Miles moved until he was an few inches within Mulder. If
Mulder didn't notice how close Miles was, Carranza did and
he shook his head in amazement.

"The Seniors are a group of old people who have been using
Jeremiah Bay for years."

"Oh, so they're the owners."

"No. Not in a legal sense. They feel that they have a
moral right to it."

"A moral right?"

Miles shrugged. "They've been using it for years without
complaints from anybody. They say that makes it theirs."

"The fucking geezers in Florida think they own the state,"
Carranza grumbled.

"Ah, come on, Tomas," Miles said. "Wouldn't it be better
if they owned instead of Morgan? And you know all Hall is
going to just build another damn condo."

"That doesn't give people the fucking right to just..."

"Uh, let's stay on track here," Mulder interjected.

Oh, he likes to take charge, does he? Miles thought. "Of
course. In any case, we have three groups competing for the
same chunk of land."

"And now it's shifting towards...?"

"Ass-Kickers, Inc. Downard and Kidder were the front guard
for Hall Enterprises on the Zoning Commission. Now with
them gone..."

"I see." Mulder rubbed his lower lip (that thick, sensual,
very kissable lower lip).

"So you're thinking that Morgan had something to do with
these deaths?" Carranza said. "'Cause from where I'm
sitting..."

"You can't get up," Miles said.

As Carranza scowled at his partner, Mulder said,
"Actually, I was wondering about November Sun. When you
said he was a flake, what did you mean?"

"Meaning he's into all that mystic shit. You know, healing
yourself by sticking a crystal up your ass or something."

"Does his interests include voodoo?"

Miles and Carranza looked at each other, then back at
Mulder. "We don't know," Miles said.

"Well, we should look into that. And we should look into
the Seniors, too."

"Oh, those people are harmless."

"There's no such thing as a harmless old person," Carranza
growled. "And I'm fifty."

"Well, I just want to cover our bases."

Miles directed another one of his wonderful smiles at
Mulder. "I've been covering the bases all my life."

Carranza coughed on a mouthful of cigar smoke. Mulder
wondered if he had missed some inside reference, but he
said, "Okay, then. You know, I'm glad we're cooperating
on this. Too often when the FBI and the local police
meet, the whole thing turns into a pissing match."

"I, for one, will keep my zipper up." Miles paused. "For
now, anyway."

Carranza coughed again.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"What happened?"

"Are they going to help?"

"What did they say?"

"Tell us, tell us..."

"Have you seen my watch?"

These questions and these voices assaulted Audrey the
moment she stepped into the front hall of the Golden Gate
Apartment Building. The voices belonged to a dozen elderly
men and women. It wasn't until she shouted "PIPE DOWN, WILL
YOU?" that they became quiet.

"Yes, I did talk with them," she said. "Their answer was --
no."

"No?!"

"The nerve of them!"

"We oughtta take 'em to court!"

"This country just ain't what it used to be."

"I saw my watch right there yesterday..."

"People, people!" Audrey called out. "Let's just settle
down, okay?"

"Well, what can we do, Audrey?" said an old man wearing
long dark socks with sneakers.

"I'm not sure, Theon. But...here's a possibility we should
be considering. Why not let Morgan take Jeremiah Bay?" She
lifted a finger to silence any protest. "Must I remind you
of the alternative?"

"But what Morgan wants to build there..." Dova said,
trembling in her pink rose dress. "It's just...well, it's
just sinful!"

"And we wouldn't get to use the beach anymore!" Ledagam
declared as he shook his fist in the air. "It'll be full of
young hoodlums and riffraff!"

"Well, you wouldn't have this problem if you had legally
owned Jeremiah Bay in the first place," Audrey shot back.

"It was given to us by Divine Proclamation, goddammit!"

"Yes, but we're in Florida. Not Heaven. And in Florida,
property law is the First Commandment. Haven't you figured
that out by now?"

The old people shuffled on their feet and looked away
except for the old man who sat in a corner with his hands
pressed together under his chin. "So what do you recommend
now?" Ru asked in a solemn voice.

"I recommend that we prioritize. And I think our first
priority should be keeping Oscar Hall from getting Jeremiah
Bay. If necessary, we may have to throw our lot in with
Morgan."

This suggestion caused silence for a few moments, then Ru
said, "They're evil men -- that Morgan and his partner."

"I know. But Oscar Hall represents something even worse."

"Maybe if we...maybe if we told Morgan who Oscar Hall is,"
Theon said. "And who we are."

"You know that's against the rules," Audrey sighed. "You
guys decided to settle here. You have to play the same game
as everybody else."

"All right," Ru said. "You do what you feel is best.
However...it's quite possible that Morgan could be co-opted
by Hall. It wouldn't take much to appeal to his greed."

"Then I'll have to appeal to something stronger."

"And that is?"

"I'm thinking about it. I'm thinking like it's the end of
the world."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: GONE TO FLORIDA (3 of 21)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART THREE
FAMILIAR FACES

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Agent Scully was contemplating the two halves of
Councilman Downnard when Detective Miles walked into the
police department morgue. She turned and nodded to the
detective as she finished speaking her report into a tiny
tape recorder.

"...in conclusion, the cause of the victim's fit remains
unknown." She turned off the recorder.

"Zatso?" Miles said.

Scully nodded. "Yes. Zat is so."

"Hmmm," Miles said as he looked her over from head to toe.
He found himself wondering just how strong she was. She had
a small, petite body but she moved with an easy grace. She
also had concentration in her pretty blue eyes. There was
also the possible factor of when the last time was she had
a good fuck. If it had been suitably long ago, then she
would be a bomb of sexual energy ready to be dropped into
his lap.

"I did not find anything to indicate a toxin which could
induce the kind of violent fit Downard experienced..."

"Uh-huh," Miles commented as he moved within a foot of
Scully.

"...nor could I find any evidence of a neurological
disease that might have induced such behavior."

"Yeah." That sweet red hair, Miles thought. I want to run
my hands through it or feel it brush against my crotch.

"This correlates with the autopsy done on Councilwoman
Kidder. Which leaves back on square one."

"Guess so."

Scully noticed just how close Miles to her and the little
smile on her face. She pushed aside a suspicion and asked
where Agent Mulder was.

"He's gone with my partner to go talk with a possible
suspect. He suggested that we do the same with another one.
Then he wants to meet up here." He held out a note with a
name and an address written on it. Scully stepped closer to
him so she could read it. "Who is this?" she asked.

Oh, to feel those breasts rub against me as my cock makes
its way into her wet, warm, succulent pussy... "Mulder says
he's some local expert on voodoo."

"I see."

"You sound less than enthused, Agent Scully."

Scully smiled, just a little bit. However, on that usually
solemn face, it was like a firework against a dark sky. I
could make you grin ear-to-ear, Miles thought. I betcha.

"I am not inclined to believe in these things as readily
as Mulder," Scully said. "Especially not without some
quantifiable evidence."

"Well, we have no evidence of any kind indicating anything."

"Which...is why it's probably best to follow Mulder's lead
on this matter. In any case, I'll tell the morgue to put
the remains away and then we'll..."

"You know what, Agent Scully?"

"What?"

"You're the first person I've met who can make an autopsy
outfit look fashionable."

Through the goggles perched on her nose, Scully looked
down at her white button coat and then back up at Miles.
"Uh...thank you."

"Must be one of the perks of Agent Mulder's job to be
around you so much."

The smile on Scully's face widened. And why shouldn't she
have smiled? This was a good-looking man paying her a
compliment. "Thank you again, Detective Miles."

"As it must be one of the perks for you to be around him
so much."

With the subtext missing her by a mile, Scully said, "Oh,
I wouldn't go that far."

They both laughed. (For the record, this was not the first
time Miles had made sexual innuendo in a morgue. In fact,
he had once consummated a whole relationship in one. Those
cold slabs can be warmed up surprisingly quick.)

"It's nice to see we've gotten off on the right foot
here," Miles observed. "Sometimes, it's hard for local
police and the FBI to cooperate."

"Well, I'm sure my partner and your partner are also
cooperating to the fullest extent," Scully replied.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"You're a fucking space-case, you know that, Mulder?"

Mulder was willing to debate whether he or Tomas Carranza
was the actual space-case. However, he didn't want to anger
the detective any more than necessary. Carranza had the
steering wheel of a departmental car in his humongous hands
and he liked to spin it as if he was playing roulette. He
charged the automobile into traffic as if he was going into
battle. It seemed to be a personal offense against him to
actually have other cars on the road. He whipped around
them, jumping from one lane to next, making sudden turns
and engaging in heated conversations through the dialect of
horn blasts. Mulder clutched his seat as tightly as he kept
his mouth clamped shut.

"I mean, sure, this case is as weird as a shit salad, but
where do you get off saying that the whole thing -- HEY,
ASSHOLE, QUIT USING YOUR HAND TO JERK OFF
AND PUT IT ON THE WHEEL!! -- how can you just come
in and say 'voodoo?' Huh? I mean, what kind of evidence
do you -- THE LIGHT IS GREEN, BITCH! QUIT LOOKING
AT YOUR FUCKING HAIR AND MOVE! -- what kind of
evidence do you have to really support your hypothesis? Tell
me that."

"Agwe."

"What?"

"Agwe," Mulder repeated through grinding teeth. "The loa
who commands the sea."

"What the fuck is a loa?"

"It means 'spirit' or 'god.' The voodoo religion is based
on the worship of a wide pantheon of loas. When Downard
was...in his little fix, he was screaming out the first
line of a prayer used by sailors in time of danger. 'Maitre
Agwe, where are you?'"

"Downard was a damn Councilman, not a sailor."

"Nor was he Haitian. And I doubt he practiced voodoo.
However, I think that," Carranza made a sharp turn which
made Mulder queasy in the stomach, "in his situation, he
knew the cause of his situation. And on some instinctual
level, he called out to a powerful loa."

"His situation was that he was fucking dead. At least, he
was dead when we got there."

"What we heard was the cry of his soul. It hadn't left the
body yet."

Carranza paused for a moment, then turned to Mulder. "That
has to be just about the most ass-backwards kind of
reasoning I've ever..."

"Look out!" Mulder warned in a voice much higher pitched
than he preferred.

Carranza slammed on the brake just to keep his bumper from
becoming unnaturally entwined with a car driven by a
shocked elderly couple.

"GODDAMN GEEZERS! I OUGHTTA RIP UP YOUR
LICENSE, YOU OLD SHITS!"

Never had Mulder wanted so much a car trip to end. He
didn't care if they were going to see the devil himself.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The Highest Circle awaited for his entrance. He could feel
it beckoning him, promising wisdom and the completion of
his inner soul. This world was nothing but a veil to pulled
aside; a blindfold between him and spiritual Nirvana. He
had but to reach out and...

"Boss, there's someone to see you."

"Davey, what have I told you about coming in here while
I'm meditating?"

Davey Whistler gulped and said, "You said...uh..."

"What did I say?"

"You said...'don't.'"

"It disrupts my inner consciousness. And you know what
happens when that is disrupted, don't you?"

Davey gulped again. "You...you hurt people, boss."

"Only if you consider slicing off a man's nose and sewing
it to his forehead to be hurting a person. I prefer to
think of it as purging myself of negative energy."

"Sure, boss. Of course."

"Now...since you have interrupted my meditation...I assume
that it must be extremely important."

"Um...there's, uh, a couple of cops here to see you."

"Hmmm. I see."

November Sun stood up from the rug and blew out the
candles around his shrine to the Highest Circle. Then he
turned to Davey and said, "Let us greet them."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Okay, he had flirted with her. That was not unexpected. A
few men over the years had actually gone so far as to
suggest she was an attractive woman. There was no reason to
start squawking about professional behavior and boundaries.
If Detective Miles attempted to go beyond mere flirting,
she would politely yet unambiguously decline to...

Wait.

Did she want to do that?

As Miles drove the two of them to their destination, she
kept looking at him. The detective had the wholesome, blond-
haired looks of a poster boy for army recruitment. Then he
would smile like a lion liking his chops. Even then,
though, there was nothing nasty in his face. It was more
like "Hello, little schoolgirl, can I come home with you?"

And surely Agent Dana Scully who had been long abstaining
from certain kinds of pork like a Muslim was entitled to
imagine what playtime would be like with the handsome
detective from Miami.

Still, first things first and numero uno was business at
hand. (Speaking of which, Miles sure had nice ones --
strong, lengthy and connected to muscular arms...) Scully
and Miles were going to look into the Seniors -- the old
folks who were claiming Jeremiah Bay as their own. That
meant talking to their lawyer and official representative.

The office of Audrey Borg was located in one of the
cheapest buildings of Miami. She shared the same floor with
Wet 'n Hot Video Productions and Matarozzi Loans ("Quick,
easy and discreet.") Just before Miles knocked on the door,
a voice screamed from behind it.

"You tell the councilman that if he doesn't return my
calls, then I'm arranging a press conference so I can tell
the world he thinks old people ought to sleep in their own
shit and fight with the dogs over scraps of meat!"

Miles and Scully looked at each other. He gave her another
great smile --one that invited her to enjoy a joke.

She smiled back. Dammit, she did.

Then Miles knocked. "Come in!" the voice barked.

Audrey Borg was digging through one of the jagged piles of
documents on her desk, searching in vain for some necessary
paper. I ought to be yelling at my secretary, she thought.
Unfortunately, that's me. The whole cramped office
displayed her haphazard sense of order. All around her were
files waiting for their proper places, books of law without
shelves, discarded wrappings for sandwiches.

A voice said, "Hello. I'm Detective Miles."

She looked up, ready for the latest round of crap to be
fired at her.

She wasn't ready for this, though.

The handsome, blonde-haired man turned to the pretty, red-
haired woman next to him. "And this is..."

Agent Dana Scully, she thought.

"...Agent Dana Scully."

Audrey hesitated for just a moment, then said, "Take a
seat."

Miles removed a hunk of papers from a chair and sat down.
Scully remained standing. She looked at Audrey curiously.
"Excuse me, but...have we met before?"

"Can't say we have," Audrey said as she thought, Fuck,
fuck, fuck...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A tall man came walking down a spiraling staircase. He
wore a black turtleneck sweater and jeans. Sandals were
hooked onto his feet. A crystal dangled from his neck. His
movements and lazy face suggested a man heavily under
sedation but was contradicted by the knowing look in his
eyes. He held his hands behind him as if he never bothered
using them.

"Good health and good living to you both," he said to his
visitors who were waiting in a room full of wicker
furniture and chimes. It was one of many rooms in his
mansion. Through an open window, the repeating sound of
waves flowing onto a beach could be heard.

"What might I...Agent Mulder?"

Mulder blinked to hear himself addressed. "Uh, yes."

November Sun smiled in a genial way. "I am familiar with
your work."

The fat old Cuban with him snorted. "Big fucking surprise."

November Sun turned to the Cuban and said, "I do not know
who you are. Nor why you are filled with so much negative
energy."

"My name is Detective Tomas Carranza and the only
goddamned thing filling me up is barbeque."

"I see. Well, won't you have a seat?"

They all took seats on the furniture. November Sun crossed
his legs under him, folded his hands in his lap and said,
"What brings you to my home?"

"I take it you have an interest in paranormal phenomena,"
Mulder said.

Again, that genial smile. "I prefer to think of it as the
Science of Life, but, yes, I do have an interest in the
'paranormal.' That's how I came to know of your work in the
FBI."

"Then maybe you also know about the deaths of council
members Jessica Kidder and Neil Downard."

"Ah, I'm afraid not. My lack of interest in politics has
always been one of my failures. Or one of my virtues.
Whichever you pick."

Carranza's nose wrinkled as if somebody had just waved a
dog turd at him.

"I would imagine that you would know Kidder and Downward.
They were both on the Zoning Commission. Currently, the
inner politics of that organization is of particular
interest to one of your associates."

"I'm afraid I have many 'associates.' Which one are you
referring to?"

"They're bloody well referrin' to me."

Mulder and Carranza turned to see a man with a piece of
his head missing.

The man said, "And if you two wankers got anythin' to say
to me, say it to my fuckin' face."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The man stood in the water with the legs of his white
pants pulled up. He looked out over the sea as it spread
out sunlight into twinkling golden lines. The water rubbed
against his ankles like a friendly cat. Looking to the left
and right, he saw white sand and tall grass on the
shoreline where an occasional pelican might ramble.

Lovely, he thought as he stood there, looking like he
owned all of it.

Then he felt...something.

Something unpleasant.

He turned and looked behind him. A man was standing on the
spot where the road met the beach. The man was a thousand
feet away but he felt as threatening as if he would have
been standing in front of you with a chainsaw.

He waited for the man to make the first move.

The man waved. Awkwardly yet friendly.

He waved back. "Stay right there!" he called out. Then he
stepped out of the water, picked up his black shoes from
the sand and walked towards his visitor.

"It's quite attractive," Oscar said when the man in the
white naval uniform reached him.

"Yes, it is. Would you like to take a swim?"

Oscar smiled in a sad way. "You know I can't do that."

"Hm. No, you can't. Isn't that strange? A man of your
power and you can't step onto a beach."

"It's my father who has the power, not me."

"You sound...very discouraged."

Oscar shrugged. "I guess I just don't see the point of my
father's plan. I don't think I ever did."

"Then perhaps it's time to find your own way."

"I wish I could. But there are rules, as you know."

"I know that very well. But who made the rules?"

Oscar looked straight into his companion's sea-green eyes.
"The better question is -- what will happen if they are
broken?"

"What do you think?"

"I don't dare think of it," Oscar answered, shaking his
head. "Do you?"

The man in the naval uniform made no reply. When a long
period of silence went by, Oscar said, "Well...I better
leave. My father..."

"Yes, of course. Good day to you, Mister Hall."

"Bye," Oscar said before vanishing.

The man in the naval uniform took a good long look at
Jeremiah Bay.

"Pito muri pase m'kuri," he said in a low voice.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: GONE TO FLORIDA (4 of 21)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART FOUR
TALE OF AN ENGLISH BASTARD

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Every time Constantine Morgan saw some televised debate
about violence in the American media, he wanted to throw up
or kick the television or both. It wasn't because that he
specialized in particularly violent entertainment. It was
because he was sick of Americans worrying about how violent
they were.

These fuckin' American wankers, he would say. They don't
know a bloody thing about violence. They think they're so
fuckin' dangerous 'cause they got nuclear missiles and the
Marines and drive-by shootings and street gangs and Clint
Eastwood. None of that matters. You know why?

They got no balls. None whatso-fuckin'-ever. I've got proof.

I went to a football game once -- a Yank football game.
You know, the kind with a bunch of fat darkies in shoulder
pads throwin' around something that looked it fell out of
an elephant's bum. Real fuckin' stupid version of the game.
I would like to see any one of those ponces take off their
precious helmets and play a little rugby.

But what was really disgustin' was the audience. Ev'rybody
had seats. And ev'rybody stayed seated. Oh, they got up
ev'ry now and then to cheer for some wanker who had just
scored a touchdown. But, mostly, they just sat and ate hot
dogs. Nobody threw anything. No fights broke out. And it
stayed like that for over three hours. After it was done,
they all stood up and took their kids home.

What kind of fuckin' football game is that?

Now, if I had a few of my boys from Shepherd's Bush there,
we coulda livened things up a bit. We woulda gone onto the
field and make those big-arsed darkies take off their fairy
head gear and play like real men. Any wight who tried to
sell us hot dogs would get them shoved up his bum, then
ordered to bring us fish 'n chips, not to mention some real
beer instead of that frozen piss Americans like to drink.
We woulda throw bottles at those fuckin' marchin' bands
until they played "O Brittania." Afterwards, we would go
up to the cheerleading squad, kick the men with their fairy
jump suits into the ground and take the women away just so
they would know what a real man feels like.

Now, that's a football game.

Oh, sure, ev'ry once and awhile, a few cars might get
turned over here in America. But that's only in the cities
where the team wins. Back in England...fuck, we would start
the riot before the game even finished. And it would be a
real fuckin' riot with hundreds of drunken Englishmen
running through the streets. Furth'rmore, we don't just
break out the windows in London. Whenev'r our team is
playin' in another country, we follow after them. Spain,
Italy, Brazil...it don't matter. We'll follow and we give
those foreign wankers a sweet taste of hell, just like we
used to in the old days.

Before the country got soft, that is.

Before king and Parliament lost a whole bleedin' empire.

I guess that's why I've come to America and started this
little enterprise. It's time to let Americans know that
some of us Englishmen haven't forgotten when we had the
world by the balls; that some of us still remember when we
had millions of wogs and chinks kissin' our arse; that
England ain't "Downstairs, Upstairs" or Jane Austen.

I am the face of England. Look at me, America. See that
big fuckin' dent on the right side of my forehead? I lost a
fist-sized chunk of my fuckin' head in Italy when some wop
copper fired a gas canister at me. You think any American
would still be walkin' after a chunk of their skull fell
out? You think that any Yank could still run a business
with a piece of their head missin'?

Look at me, America, and tell me just how bloody tough you
are.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Constantine Morgan was five-foot-six, but there was a
thickly built body under his bright green dress suit. The
never-ending belligerent look in his eyes and the gigantic
dent in his head served to intimidate others.

It didn't do much to Detective Carranza. He hauled himself
up to his feet and said, "Yeah, I've got something to say
to you. Maybe I'll do it between kicking your ass and
breaking your neck."

"Am I supposed to be scared by some fat darkie cop?"

"First of all, the word here in America is 'nigger,' not
'darkie.' Second, I'm a spic, not a nigger. Third, using
any three of those names here in Miami is a good way of
getting your limey heart ripped out."

"There is too much negative energy in this room," November
Sun sighed.

"I'm inclined to agree," Mulder said as he stepped between
the detective and the Englishman. "We just came here to ask
a few questions."

Morgan and Carranza spent a few more seconds staring at
each other, then Morgan walked over to November Sun's side.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and said, "Wot about?"

"The deaths of Kidder and Downard. Unlike...uh...Mr. Sun
here, you can hardly say that you don't know who they are."

"They were a couple of wankers on the Zoning Commission.
Heard they went funny and killed themselves."

"That's sort of what happened. Certain facts have to be
acknowledged, though. For instance, their deaths give you
the advantage in the purchasing of Jeremiah Bay."

Morgan smirked. "O, lucky man. Well, I'm still not sure
where you goin' with this, mate, but let me tell you that I
can hardly be blamed if some stupid cunt decides to jump in
front of a car or through a window."

Mulder looked straight into Morgan's smug face (while
trying to keep his eyes off the dent) and asked, "Do you
know what a zobop is?"

The smirk vanished. Morgan's eyes shifted towards November
Sun. Unlike the Englishman, however, November Sun looked as
calm and placid as a sleeping baby.

"Do you, Mr. Morgan?" Mulder asked.

"No, I...I..." Morgan shook off his nervousness and
snarled, "I don't know what a fuckin' zobop is. What is it,
some new kind of darkie dance?"

Mulder watched Morgan in silence -- just long enough to
make Morgan nervous again.

"I think you know more about zobops than you give yourself
credit for, Mr. Morgan." The FBI agent paused, then said,
"Thank you for your time. We'll be leaving now."

Carranza gave Mulder a bewildered look. Mulder motioned
with his head and walked out the room. Giving one last
scowl at Morgan, Carranza followed.

"Bloody hell!" Morgan said. "How did that fuckin' copper
know about our zobop?"

"He was an FBI agent, not a cop," November Sun said, his
voice still quiet. "Furthermore, Agent Mulder is an
experienced investigator into unusual phenomena. He seems
to be on the trail to Estime."

"Oh, that's just a boot up the arse," Morgan groaned.

A tiny smile rose on November Sun's face. "But what if he
does learn about Estime? The beauty of this crime is that
it's very hard to prove in court."

"Well, that's the bloody reason why I agreed to it. I
mean, I don't care about all this darkie magic..."

"You've already made that clear."

"Jus' as long as it gets the job done, I say. But, still,
this could be trouble."

"In that case...then I suspect Estime will protect his
turf, as they say. And if he fails to do that...well...we
have our own resources at our disposal, correct?"

A huge, nasty smile formed on Morgan's face to match the
smile on his partner's. "Yeah," he said. "A lot of fuckin'
resources."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Well, that was a goddamn waste of time," Carranza
observed as he and Mulder walked to the car parked in front
of November Sun's mansion.

"Not really. Did you see the look in Morgan's eyes? He got
very nervous when I brought up zobops."

"I'm sure I would be really impressed if I knew what a
zobop was."

"A member of a secret society of voodoo sorcerers. In
lore, they are blamed for creating mischief of all kinds,
including death."

Carranza stopped in his tracks, making Mulder stop as
well. "Is that what you're thinking?" Carranza asked. "That
Morgan and November Sun hired a magician to kill those
council members?"

"It was probably November Sun who set the whole thing up.
I doubt Morgan has that kind of imagination." Before
Carranza could favor the FBI agent with his obscenity-
enriched wisdom, Mulder said, "I'm still waiting for your
better theory, Detective."

Carranza looked at Mulder, making the latter think he was
about to receive a punch. Then Carranza threw his hands up
in the air and said, "Whatever, then. So just how the hell
do we investigate an angle like this?"

"Most likely, the zobop lives right here in Miami."

"Most likely, huh?"

"Yes. That's why we're going to meet Andy Antoine. My
sources tell me he's the best source on voodoo in this
city."

"Your sources, huh?"

Mulder cleared his throat. "Scully and Miles ought to be
finished with their interview soon. Let's go see Antoine
and meet him at his shop."

Carranza pulled out a cigar and lighter. "All right.
You're gonna have to give me directions. I don't know
where..."

"Actually, I was hoping I could drive."

Carranza locked his eyes with Mulder's. "And...just why is
that?"

Mulder decided that this was his "do-or-die" moment.
"Because you drive like an asylum patient with a fucking
cocaine addiction."

Still keeping his eyes on Mulder, Carranza bit off the end
of his cigar, spat it out of the side of his mouth, shoved
the cigar between his lips, lit it up and blew out a thick
mist of smoke. Mulder didn't blink the whole time.

Then Carranza reached in his pocket and pulled out his
keys. He threw to Mulder who caught them even though they
were slick with the detective's sweat.

Carranza turned and walked towards the car, hiding the
smile on his face.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Pardon me for saying so, Miss Borg," Miles said. "but the
legal position of the Seniors is pretty damn dubious."

Audrey gave Miles a weak smile. "I'm aware of that every
second of the day."

"Not to say that I don't agree with it in principle..."

"Well, bless your handsome face."

"Thank you."

Scully felt a brief moment of possessive jealousy. Then
she went back to her mild bewilderment. She just couldn't
shake the feeling that she had met this woman before.
Furthermore, it hadn't been the first time she had a
feeling like this. About a month ago, she had woken up with
a strange sense of dislocation; a suspicion that she should
have been somewhere else. Later that day, Skinner had
called her, Mulder and...what was her name? Agent Sally
something?... into his office. He asked if there was any
need for a meeting now. With no small amount of confusion,
they had to say no. With that, Skinner dismissed them in
his usual, curt manner.

Now, she was having the strange sense of dislocation again
in Miss Borg's office.

And she couldn't help but suspect that the lawyer felt the
same way.

"Essentially, our position is that the Zoning Commission
should recognize the moral ownership of the Seniors for
Jeremiah Bay. They have been using it as a recreation spot
for several years now. Why should that usage discontinue
now?"

"Unfortunately," Miles said. "the whole idea of moral
ownership could turn all of Florida back to the Seminoles."

"They're not asking for all of Florida. All they're asking
for is this one scrap of land. And why not leave it
undeveloped? Why should we build another condo? Or another
stadium? Why do we need an arena for extreme fighting?"

"As I said, I agree with you in principle. But the Zoning
Commission is going to give Jeremiah Bay to whoever has the
most power and money."

"That would be Oscar Hall."

"Well, you would think. But now that Kidder and Downard
are dead..."

"Yes. Of course, Hall still has the money."

Audrey placed her elbows on the desk and leaned forward.
"Detective Miles...Agent Scully...you wouldn't be here if
you didn't think there was something funny about their
deaths."

"Do you think there was?" Miles asked.

"I do know that the surviving members of the Zoning
Commission are scared out of more shit than a herd of pigs
could make. Besides...rumor says Morgan has Chairman Burns
under his control."

"Really? I didn't know that."

"Oh, yes. Morgan holds the whip hand. Quite literally."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. The fact is -- I was originally hoping that
Hall Enterprises and Ass-Kickers, Inc. would cancel each
other. Now...well, I'm back to step one. And I wouldn't
count Oscar Hall out yet."

"So...if you had any substantial proof of wrongdoing..."

"You would be the first to know."

"Well..." Miles put out a business card and laid it on the
desk. "...if you have any information, you can call me
here. In the meantime, I appreciate...oh, hell!"

"What?"

Miles turned to Scully. "I'm sorry, Scully. You were being
so quiet that I forgot you were there. Do you have any
questions for Miss Borg?"

The two women looked at each other.

"Not unless she has something just dying to come out,"
Scully said.

"Nope," Audrey replied. "I don't."

Scully stood up. "Then we thank you for your time."

After her visitors had left, Audrey Borg sat motionless in
her chair for a long time. Then she leaned forward until
her head was touching the desk. She thought about Agent
Scully and Mulder and a backwater town in Mississippi and
an ancient book and a resurrected god.

She also thought about a handsome, strong man who had made
a year of loneliness seem as insubstantial as air.

She tried not to cry.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In the private office of Mr. Rogers, a discussion was
being held.

"You understand what you have to do?"

"'Course ah do."

"You also understand that you have to be extremely careful?"

"Ah know, ah know."

"Please, Sara. You're dealing with a sorcerer here."

"Ain't no matter to me. Magical or not...he's just another
sumbitch who can bleed."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: GONE TO FLORIDA (5 of 21)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

AUTHOR'S NOTES: Just for your information, "Gone to Florida" is not
available on my fanfic website yet. That's handled by Jintian Li and I think
she's out of town right now.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART FIVE
EVERYBODY GOES TO BUJU'S

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The father of Oscar Hall lifted a finger and said, "I will
hurt you. I will infect your every cell with cancer. Sores
will open up all over your body and spew green pus. I will
cut a long wound in your head and pour salt into it.
Lightning will strike your balls. Maggots will infest your
heart. There will be no end to your pain, not even in your
dreams or at the far ends of the universe."

Phil Shelby smiled. "You may do that. But you will still
have to answer to Florida property laws."

The old man lowered his finger and sank down another inch
into his chair. He was seated in an oak-paneled room in
front of a long table. On the other side of the table were
two people -- Shelby who was dressed in a dark suit that
looked as smooth as the day it was bought and Debra
Hutchinson who wore a coat of real mink and a face of fake
stretched skin.

"Next order of business," Shelby said, holding up another
paper document. "The yacht that is currently docked in
Singapore..."

"How much longer is this ever-loving shit going to last?"
the old man complained. "I've got important business to
tend to."

"The more you cooperate, the faster it will go."

"You mean, cooperate with the slicing of my balls."

"What an appropriate metaphor," Debra said in a sweet
voice. "Considering why we're here in the first place."

"We're here because that worm-ridden fruit of our loins
became a bloated, lazy fuck. That's why we're here."

"No, dear. We're here because you decided to grow a fruit
in somebody else's loins."

The old man closed his eyes and pressed his fingers
against his wrinkled, spotted forehead. "Just what is it
you want? Tell me so I can get out of here."

"Well," Shelby said, his thick eyebrows elevating above
his tinted glasses. "if you're going to be like
that...there is a little property you have. One that's
located far south, so to speak."

The old man's eyelids bounced up. For the first time, he
looked frightened. In fact, it was the first time he had
looked scared in many, many years. "You...you wouldn't..."
he whispered.

"I'm sure I could do wonders with the place," Debra cooed.
"Spruce it up. Make it more festive."

The old man struck the table with both fists. "Do you
really understand who I am?" he said in a low voice. "Do
you really understand who you're looking at?"

"I'm looking at a man who committed adultery so that puts
him on the sharp end of the stick," Shelby responded. "I'm
looking at a man who -- despite his unique position of
authority -- has admitted that he is bound by the rules and
regulations of this state's family law. Correct?"

The old man's chin fell onto his chest. He was silent for
a few moments, then muttered, "What was it we were talking
about before?"

"Yes, what was it? Oh, that's right. The yacht..."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The time was five o'clock and Andy Antoine was just
locking up The Café-Mystere when he heard his name called
out. He turned his round, heavy face to two men approaching
him.

"Andy Antoine?" one of them asked. In an instant, Andy
knew they were cops. Shit, busted, he thought. The only
question was for what. Computer hacking? Possession of
drugs? Spying on one of his female neighbors with a high-
powered camera?

His fear increased when the slimmer, brown-haired man
showed a federal ID. "I'm Agent Mulder from the FBI. This
is Detective Carranza from the Miami Police."

Carranza grunted at Andy, spewing smoke through his lips.

"Wh-what is this about?" the shop owner asked.

"It's about voodoo," Mulder said. "We have a case here
that might be voodoo-related."

The eyes of Andy Antoine blinked behind the thick lenses
in his black-rimmed glasses. "Really?"

"It involves the deaths of council members Jessica Kidder
and Neil Downard. Have you heard about that?"

"Uh, no. Not really. What does..."

Laughter was heard. These was something odd about the
sound which made Mulder turn.

The sound was odd because it was coming from Scully. In
the many years he had been working with her, he had met
more ghosts and mutants than the number of times he had
heard her laughter. Yet, she was strolling down the street
of shops where The Café-Mystere was located and laughing
out loud. Judging from the smile on his face as he walked
next to her, Detective Miles had just amused her with a
joke.

Mulder raised his eyebrows, then leaned over to Carranza
and whispered, "Somebody's getting chummy."

Carranza almost told Mulder the whole truth, but
decided...ah, let the asshole figure it out for himself.

Scully saw Mulder and the familiar old look of
professional detachment went up. He gave her a brief
knowing smile, then said, "Mister Antoine, this is
Detective Miles and Agent Scully. They're also helping on
this case."

"Um, hi," Antoine said as he scratched his Doctor Who t-
shirt. "Look, do we have to talk about this here?"

"Why, is there a problem?"

"Well, it's just that around this time, I'm off to Buju's
for dinner and..."

"Buju's?" Miles said.

"Uh-huh."

"Hell, Tomas and I love that place. Don't we, Tomas?"

Carranza nodded. "We eat there every fucking chance we get."

Antoine's face brightened. "Hey! Then maybe we can go
together."

"I hate to be the spoilsport," Mulder said. "But this is a
police investigation, not a family dinner."

"Oh, come on, Mulder," Miles said and then he put an arm
around Mulder's shoulders.

Carranza looked the other way.

"Surely that tight-ass of yours can loosen up a little
bit?" Miles asked.

"I'm...I'm not a tight-ass."

"Show me," Miles said as he looked into Mulder's rich
hazel eyes.

Mulder looked back at the handsome face mere inches away
from his lips. Then he turned to Scully.

"Come on, Mulder," she said. "What could it hurt?"

He shrugged. "Okay. No one can ever say that I'm not open
to new experiences."

"That's what I'm counting on, Agent Mulder," Miles said
with a grin.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Damn dust bunnies, Jean Estime thought. They were the
worst part of cleaning. He hated moving his furniture
around so he could get at the grey little buggers which
gathered on the rug like some inhospitable army.

He also hated getting phone calls when he had chores to
do. "What is it?" he snapped after he answered the ringing
phone.

"It's me, Estime," a languid yet oddly threatening voice
said.

"Ah. What do you want, November Sun?"

Estime was told about Agent Mulder.

"I see. Do you think he might be showing up here soon?"

"It's highly probable. You might want to take certain
protective measures."

"Yes. I might do just that. Thank you for telling me this."

After he hung up the phone, Estime thought about his
future actions. He planned to take 'protective measures'
but first he had to clean his apartment to his satisfaction.

That was a shame. If he had chosen to put off his
cleaning, then he might have been alive the next day.

And Agent Scully wouldn't have disappeared.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

You could hear and smell Buju's before you saw it. The
sound of outdoor speakers echoed from one end of the
neighborhood block to the other. A wind brushed across the
restaurant's front and delivered a scent of barbeque to the
nose of Fox Mulder.

"Hey!" Mulder said. "What smells good?"

"What smells good is what tastes good," Andy said. "Come
on."

The overweight twenty-eight-year-old Haitian walked ahead
of the rest, leading them down East 5th Avenue. They walked
past gawking tourists, a man juggling knives, games of
three-card monty, drunk frat boys, street-corner painters
and a whole lot of dreadlocks. Along with Buju's on the
street, there were shops selling birds or old Bibles or
vegetables you won't find in any supermarket. There was
also a strip joint full of neon lights and a dance club
with a solid black front.

And there was Buju's. Obviously, the painting of this
building had been done by random strangers. Across the once-
blank walls were drawings done by whoever brought a can of
paint. Some were crude, some were finely rendered. Some
were of flowers or geographic maps of the Carribean or a
goat. Also drawn were portraits of Martin Luther King, Bob
Marley or Frederick Douglas. One person had chosen to draw
a big-breasted woman wearing chain-mail. "I did that one,"
Andy said with pride. "Why am I not surprised?" Carranza
grumbled.

Stepping inside, their feet encountered a floor as bright
red as lipstick. The same aesthetic to the outside applied
to the inside with walls covered with the personal drawings
of customers. Speaking of which, there were quite a few of
them in Buju's that night. It was a little tough finding a
table for five people but Miles' diplomatic grin and
Carranza's scowl assured them of getting one.

After they sat down, three questions were asked by Mulder
and Scully.

"Where are the napkins?" Scully asked.

"You're looking at them," Andy said, indicating the paper
towels laid out before each chair.

"Where is the waiter?" Mulder asked.

"Buju will be around in a little bit with your dinner,"
Miles said.

"But...what if I don't like it?"

"You will."

Mulder and Scully looked at each other. She shrugged. Then
he turned to Andy and said, "About Kidder and Downard..."

"Right. Well, what about them?"

"Both of them died in a way suggesting possession by a loa."

Andy's eyes widened, making them look as big as saucers
behind his thick glasses. He couldn't help but smile. "You
say you're with the FBI?"

"Pretty fucking unbelievable, ain't it?" Carranza said.

"I also believe this was deliberate," Mulder continued,
ignoring Carranza. "I suspect their deaths were the results
of actions taken by a zobop."

The smile vanished off Andy's face, but his eyes stayed
wide.

"What's a zobop?" Miles asked before Scully did.

"It's an evil voodoo sorcerer," Carranza answered, waving
his cigar around. "Don't you know anything, Max?"

"Uh...this is not...it's not exactly a laughing matter,"
Andy stammered. "If a zobop is involved..."

Five dishes of sweet potato appeared on the table.
"Evenin', everybody," a black man said as he gave each
person a dish. He was dressed in a tie-dyed shirt, blue
jeans held up a snakeskin belt and a Miami Dolphins cap.
"How's every little ting, Detectives?" he asked.

"Fine as fucking frog hair," Carranza replied with
something close to a smile.

"And who might be dese two with you?"

Miles was sitting between Mulder and Scully. He reached
out and put an arm over the shoulders of each agents.
"These...are Agents Mulder and Scully," he declared.
"They're from the FBI helping us with a case."

Miles grinned at the black man who gave the briefest looks
to Carranza. An equally brief look from the Cuban detective
confirmed his suspicions.

"I'm Buju," the black man said, holding out his hand. Both
Mulder and Scully shook it, discovering its considerable
strength.

"Hello," Scully said. "Tell me, were you in the Navy?"

Buju lifted his eyebrows. "No. Merchant Marines. But dat's
pretty close."

"My father was in the Navy. Your hands are like his -- a
sailor's hands."

"Aaah," Buju said with a smile. "Well, yes, I've been a
travelin' man for most of my life. Finally settled down
here in Miami. I'm sure you'll have as much fun in it as I
have."

"We're just here for business," Mulder said.

Buju glanced at Miles. "Don't be so sure. Anyway, I'll be
back with your main course."

The black man left, maneuvering with ease through the
crowded restaurant.

"What did he mean by 'don't be sure?'" Mulder asked.

"Oh, nothing," Miles said. "Anyway, where we left off,
Andy was about to shit in his pants here."

"This is not a laughing matter," Andy said in a grim
voice. "A zobop is no one to fool around with."

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Carranza mumbled. "He can sic an
evil loa after you."

"No. Not a loa. A baka. A malicious spirit that works for
sorcerers."

"Whatever."

"Mock all you want, detective, but this stuff is very
real." Andy turned to Mulder. "And you say that this thing
killed two council members?"

Mulder explained the exact circumstances. Afterwards, Andy
shook his head and said, "Sweet fucking Jesus. This is the
first I've heard of someone using a baka for those
purposes."

"You have any idea of who might?" Mulder asked.

Andy's lips pressed together into a thin line.

"Look," Mulder said as he absent-mindedly scooped up a
chunk of sweet potato with a spoon. "I understand that
you're scared. We've already figured out that the zobop is
local and that he's working for one of the city's
gangsters."

"Tattling on a zobop is never a good idea under any
circumstance," Andy said.

"Yes, but..." Mulder bit into the potato.

He blinked as the jerk concentrate added to the potato
jumped all over his tongue. He tasted garlic, thyme,
pimiento seed, Scotch bonnets and a bunch of spices he
couldn't even recognize. They all joined hands and danced
in a circle.

"Wow," Mulder said. "That *is* good."

"Told you," Miles said. "Trust me, Mulder. I know just how
to satisfy a man's tongue."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They walked hand-in-hand down the streets. It made for an
odd sight not because they looked lost or afraid. In fact,
they appeared to know exactly where they were going.
Despite the presence of people much taller than they were
and the darkness over several streets they walked through,
they continued on their way without hesitation and always
looking ahead.

They were headed to The Café-Mystere.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Andy had a name. Mulder knew it; knew that the young shop
owner had info on the local voodoo community; knew Andy was
aware of a zobop who had connections to organized crime;
also knew that Andy was too frightened to give the name up.

Throughout dinner, Mulder tried to pry the name out of
Andy. He pleaded, cajoled, appealed to his sense of
justice. He almost threatened him with an arrest, but both
he and Andy knew the courts would shoot that down quicker
than a Scud missile. "Because he wouldn't give you the name
of a what?" Mulder imagined the judge saying. "What are
you, fucking high?"

Mulder's attempts at getting information were strictly a
solo act. Scully, Miles and Carranza watched his
interrogation in silence with trepidation, amusement and
annoyance respectively. Instead of speaking, they ate the
meals Buju brought them. Taking occasional bites of curried
goat or tomatoes between questions was the only pleasure
Mulder was getting at that moment. Buju was a cook of
almost unholy talent.

During this dinner/interrogation, they had a visitor.

"You ass-kissing, fascist-fucking sellout of a fag!"

Naturally, that got people's attention. The deliverer of
the insult was a woman with arms like a lumberjack and a
body as round as a sequoia. She wore a stud-covered jacket
and heavy boots, both black. Her shaven head was decorated
with a fair number of scabs.

Her insult was directed towards Miles with a voice as cold
and angry as her eyes.

With eyes equally cold, Miles said, "Watch who you're
talking to, you butt-ugly, worthless piece of shit dyke."

Oh, lovely, Mulder thought as the detective and the biker
strode up to each other until their noses were almost
touching. He looked at Carranza. Miles' partner was
watching this confrontation as if it was a game of tennis.
Everybody else in the restaurant was ignoring it except for
Mulder and Scully.

"You need to get fucked by a man so badly," Miles snarled
in her face.

"That's what your dad thought, but I kicked him and his
worm of a dick out of my bed. Your momma just couldn't wait
for me."

"She told me about that. She said your pussy tasted like
cigarette butts."

"And hers tasted like a rat's asshole. Figures when you
consider what came out of it."

"No, they delivered me by C-section. I was so well-hung
that I couldn't get out the normal way."

Miles and the woman stared at each other for a few moments.

Then a tiny smile bent the woman's mouth. "You're gonna
prove that to me one of these days?"

"Anytime you're ready to come over to the dark side,"
Miles replied with a grin.

They both laughed and hugged each other.

Mulder covered his eyes. "Shit," he groaned. Scully sighed.

Miles and the biker woman walked over to the table, arms
over each other's shoulders. "Mulder, Scully...this is
Gloria Kalahan."

"Uh, hi," Mulder said.

Kalahan gave the two FBI agents a good long look,
especially Scully. Then she said, "More representatives of
the corrupt patriarchal fascist legal system, I see."

Mulder tried to come up with a suitable reply like "I
resemble that remark" or "Sez you!" Before he could,
Kalahan turned to Miles and said, "I was going to take a
piss. Want to join me?"

"Sure. Be back in a little bit, guys!"

Miles and Kalahan headed off. Mulder noticed that they
were both going to the men's bathroom. "Hey, they're..."

"Forget about it. Goddamned funny pair, huh?"

"You and Miles don't exactly match up, either," Scully
observed.

Carranza shrugged. "He's smart, he's not on the take and I
trust him to watch my back. Ain't nothing more I could ask
from a partner."

"I think he might be wanting a little more than that from
you, Scully," Mulder observed with a smile.

Scully looked down, starting to blush.

"Come on, Scully. Admit that you're flattered."

"Are you?" Carranza asked.

"Huh?"

"Are you flattered?"

"Over what?"

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" Andy said. "Do you have cataracts
or something? Even I saw it from the word go."

"Saw what?" Scully said. "What are you talking about?"

Carranza pulled out his smoking stub of a cigar and said,
"He's been making moves on both of you."

Mulder and Scully stared at Carranza, then they blinked.
"Hey," Mulder said. "He has been."

"Yeah and it's pretty hilarious. You can see fucking evil
voodoo sorcerers, but you don't notice if a guy is making a
pass at you? Jesus..."

"Why do I suspect this isn't just a game with him?" Scully
said with a frown.

"Oh, it is a game for him. It's just the goal is getting
you both in bed, preferably at the same time."

Scully folded her arms over her chest. "Well, I think he's
going to get neither of us in bed now."

Mulder looked at her.

"I mean...if you were gay, Mulder, he wouldn't...oh, you
know what I mean!"

"Doesn't matter," Carranza said. "He's got you in his
sights. And I haven't seen anybody -- male or female, gay
or allegedly straight -- escape his clutches. Just remember
one thing, Mulder..."

"Does your next comment revolve around anal intercourse
and the necessary lubricants?"

Carranza stuck the diminished cigar back into his mouth
and raised an eyebrow. "Guess no one has to teach you
anything, huh, Agent?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: GONE TO FLORIDA (6 of 21)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART SIX
ANOTHER FAMILIAR FACE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

A college football player from the University of Miami --
a big, thick, tanned piece of young manhood -- was using
one of the three urinals in the men's bathroom when Kalahan
and Miles entered.

"So those two are gonna be your latest conquests?" he
heard Kalahan say. His head spun to see the burly woman
enter. He was too shocked and too drunk to protest.

"Absolutely," Miles said. "That is unless you've got plans
for Scully..."

Kalahan snorted. "That little thing?" She went up to the
urinal next to the football player's and unzipped her
pants. "I clean my teeth out with chicks like her," she
commented as she pulled out a long plastic tube. The tube --
in case you're interested -- was attached to a flat funnel
tied to her groin. The football player stared in
bewilderment as a yellow liquid spewed from the tube and
onto the porcelain.

Kalahan noticed his attention. "What are you looking at,
blue-nuts?" she inquired.

With a large stain spreading on his jeans, the football
player bolted for the door.

As Miles took his own piss, he said, "Of course, if you
change your mind, I'm willing to fight you over her."

Kalahan frowned. "I don't think so. Our first fight was
enough for me."

"Oh, that wasn't really a fight. I just caught you by
surprise, that's all."

"Yeah, I was so surprised that I got my nose broken."

Miles smiled and shrugged. He had met Kalahan when he and
Carranza had been investigating the murder of a Hell's
Angel. Their investigation had led them to The Iron Pussy,
a dyke biker bar. When they tried to ask questions of
Kalahan, she had narrowed her eyes and said to Miles, "I
know you. They did a profile of you in the Herald."

"Yep, they did," Miles said. The profile had been about
"Gays in the Workplace," a piece that Miles had agreed to
participate in because the reporter had been cute. (The
actual fucking had been a bit of a let-down.)

"You have a lot of nerve calling yourself 'gay,'" Kalahan
had snarled.

"Excuse me?" Miles said as he stopped smiling.

"First of all, you're not gay. You're one of those
bisexuals...those goddamn fence-sitters."

"I...prefer to think of it as keeping my options open."

"I bet. Is that why you're a pig too?"

"As I said before...excuse me?"

"A pig. A walking-talking asshole with a badge and a gun.
Another tool of a repressive system. That you're gay...or
whatever...that only makes you more pathetic."

The other dykes nodded and grunted their assent to
Kalahan's position. Carranza -- not a man who could
intimidate easily -- found his hands inching towards his
holster.

"You're a fucking sell-out," Kalahan continued. "A
cowardly assimilationist."

"Well, better to be an assimilationist than a fat ugly
bitch," Miles replied, his smile returning.

Kalahan got off her stool, ready to beat down this faggot
detective. Then she encountered a shockingly quick right
and she fell back on her stool, clutching her nose.

The other dykes moved in on Miles and his partner.
Carranza touched his gun.

"Wait, wait!" Kalahan said. She lowered her hand and
looked at Miles. He looked straight back at her. As blood
leaked over her lips, she smiled and said, "Okay."

Miles replied, "Okay."

Thus was a friendship born.

"Besides," Kalahan said as she dispensed her last drops of
urine. "I ain't gonna change my mind. What would I want
with some red-haired midget? I could break her in two with
my tongue."

"I think she's a lot more durable than you think."

Kalahan looked over at Miles' urinal and smiled. "I hope
so, Simba."

Miles grinned and let out a trumpeting noise.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

In another part of town, someone else needed to take a
piss. Jean Estime had finally gotten done with his cleaning
and now was ready to summon up the baka. He lit the
candles, knelt before the altar and began his chant while
shaking a gourd.

Halfway through his chant, a pressure began to form in his
bowels. He tried to ignore it. This particular baka had a
hot temper and did not like being held up. (There were a
lot of things odd about this baka. Estime wasn't even sure
if it was a baka. Still, it could get the job done.)
However, not even a zobop could ignore nature's bellowing
call.

To hell with it, he thought and got up. As he headed for
the bathroom, he sensed the baka's impatience.

"Keep your shirt on," he muttered. "I'll be back in a
little bit."

He closed the bathroom door. His sigh of relief could be
heard. What couldn't be heard was the person who slid a
window open from the outside and entered his apartment as
silently as smoke.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"No, no, no..."

"Oh, come on, Andy. Please?"

This is pathetic, Scully thought. Mulder is actually
begging. She shook her head and finished off her last bite
of goat. Lord, that had been good.

"I'm sorry, Agent Mulder, but I just can't give you that
information," Andy insisted. "But if you need any help,
here's my card..."

Mulder rolled his eyes and picked up his bottle of beer.
"Yes, that will be most damn useful."

"I think you will," Andy said as he took out a pen and
began to write on the back of the card. "I'm going to write
my home phone number if you need that."

"Oh, thanks."

"No, I mean my home phone number."

"Yeah, sure."

"No, I mean...my *home* phone number."

Mulder blinked and looked at the card. Instead of a
number, he saw a name and an address.

"Actually," Mulder said, "you keep it. I've got it
committed to memory now."

Andy nodded and put the card back into his pocket. Miles
and Kalahan returned from the bathroom.

"I think we've taken up enough of Mr. Antoine's time,"
Mulder announced. "We better get going."

"Ah," Miles said. "Well, I'll catch you later, Gloria."

"I think you're going to catch something before me, Max.
Oh, by the way, straight lady..."

Scully stopped in the middle of getting up.

"Your hetero ass can rest assured that I don't find you
the least bit attractive."

Scully hesitated, then smiled and said, "Who said that I
was straight?"

She headed for the cash register with Mulder, Miles,
Carranza and Andy all staring at her. Kalahan saw the looks
on their faces and discerned the dirty little thoughts
behind them.

"Boys? A word of advice?"

They turned to her.

"Whether we be lipstick lesbians or bald-headed
dykes...you men are just too ugly for us to deal with."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The old mulatto walked down the sidewalk, leaning on his cane
and taking every step at a sluggish pace while he sucked on
a candy cane. He looked like an easy fellow to mug if you
want thought there was something worth stealing from inside
those ratty clothes. He certainly didn't act like a threat.

Then he stopped. His sleepy eyes turned bright and wary.
He watched them as they came his way.

They halted in front of them.

"Well..." he said.

"Hello," one of them said.

"We're glad to meet you," the other added.

"Very much so," the first one concluded.

"Tell me...do you have anything to do with that whole
Jeremiah Bay deal?"

"Oh, yes."

"We've come to deliver a warning."

"I see," the old man said, then stepped aside. "Well,
don't let me hold you up."

"Thank you, sir!" they chimed, then continued on their
way, hand-in-hand.

"A lot of different ingredients in this stew," the old man
mused as he scratched his chin. "What will it taste like
when it's done?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The woman who drove a knife straight up into the chin of
Jean Estime could have told the old man what it would taste
like. She had eaten just about everything.

Everything.

And most of it just tasted like chicken.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"You two wait here," Mulder said to Carranza and Miles.
They had just reached Gem Beach Apartments, a sleek and
expensive-looking building where Jean Estime lived (or used
to live.)

"What the fuck are you talking about?" Carranza said.

"He's talking about not needing four people to talk to
this man," Scully explained. "And we need a couple of
people outside in case he tries to escape."

"Hell, I understand that. But shouldn't Max or I go up
there? I mean, just so you clowns remember, it *is* our
fucking..."

"It's okay, Tomas," Miles said. "We can cool our heels out
here, can't we?"

Carranza looked at Miles, his mouth tightening around his
almost-dead cigar.

"Then it's settled," Mulder said. "We'll tell you
everything after we're done."

The two agents went inside the building.

"You better, you cock-sucker," Carranza muttered, then
spat out his cigar and pulled out a fresh one.

"They know, don't they?" Miles said. "About my...plans for
them?"

"Yeah," Carranza snorted. "I had to spell it out for them
in big fucking letters. Told them that you'll probably end
up slipping them the jammy anyway."

Max smiled and leaned against his car. "Every relationship
has its little bumps."

"Or, in your case, its little humps."

"Nothing little about it, Tomas."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Damn, I can't believe we didn't see it," Mulder said as
he and Scully rode up in the elevator. "It was so obvious."

"Hmmm."

"I mean...it's not like I mind that he was hitting on me..."

"No?"

"I am secure enough in my masculine identity not to be
threatened..."

"Right, right."

"No, I mean, really..."

"I believe you, Mulder."

"It's just that he was hitting on us *both*. I mean, that's
just the height of temerity."

"Or maybe he's that good."

Mulder looked at Scully. She kept her eyes fixed on the
doors. Then he looked at the doors and said, "Let's just go
talk with the zobop."

"Yes. Let's."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Aw, fuckin' shit, the baka thought. That asshole has
gotten himself killed. Didn't I try to warn him? Didn't I
try to send a goddamned signal to stay in the bathroom?
But, noooo, he just thought that I was being impatient.
Well, look at your nigger self now, you son-of-a-bitch.
Look at what that crazy woman is doing to you. I would be
enjoying this if it weren't for the fact that your death
lives me stuck in this fucking limbo with no way to...

Wait. Who's that coming?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They both felt it as they got out of the elevator. The
closer they got, the stronger the feeling became. It was
like hearing a knife getting sharpened right behind you.
Their unease grew with each step.

Finally, they stopped with just a few feet between them
and the door to Apartment 52. They looked at each other.

Then they pulled out their guns.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

They can sense me, he thought. Hot damn. They must
be...what the fuck are they called...latent sensitives.
(Don't know what that means. Sounds like a closet faggot to
me.) Anyway, this gives me a chance to get out of here
because I sure as hell ain't using that crazy bitch as a
ride.

God...what is she...Lord, that's disgusting...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

There was something odd about the woman Mulder and Scully
saw after Mulder kicked down the door and it wasn't just
that she was yanking out somebody's heart. Or the fact that
every stitch of clothing on her was made of hand-sewn animal
skins. Or the fierce gleam in her eyes.

It was the fact that Mulder and Scully had met her before,
but they couldn't say when or where. Judging from the
surprise on the woman's face, she had the same feeling.

Of course, that was kind of a secondary issue at the moment.

They all stayed frozen for a moment -- Scully and Mulder
with their hands around guns and the woman with her hand
around the heart of Jean Estime which stretched long red
tendrils from a gaping hole in his chest where ribs jutted
out like knives.

Then Mulder decided to speak up.

"Uh...you're under arrest?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Let's see, the baka thought. Which one?

Go with the red head. Yeah, I'd like to get inside her.
Damn right. Get inside and make the cunt play with herself.
That'll be some fun...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The woman growled. It was the kind of sound not expected
from human vocal chords -- low and mindless and
bloodthirsty. The blood dripping off her lips looked all
too appropriate.

Mulder cleared his throat and said, "I mean it. I don't
know who you are, lady, but I doubt you're faster than a
speeding bullet." Or is she? he thought.

The answer seemed to be 'no.' The woman reached up and
wiped off the blood from her mouth with the back of her
hand. She looked between the two guns pointing at her head,
her eyes becoming more cautious if no less hungry.

Mulder was about to reach for his handcuffs when Scully
fainted.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Open wide, bitch...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Scully fell to the side, bumping right into Mulder and
distracting him for a second.

One second was all the woman needed. She bolted through
the air like an arrow and struck both agents with her
forearms. Mulder felt a force that could have taken out an
entire football defense line, much less a pair of federal
employees. He and Scully were catapulted into the hallway
with her tumbling to the floor and him being tossed against
the other wall.

Through the pain inflicted on his back, he heard the door
of Apartment 52 slamming shut. Out of instinct, he fired.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Carranza and Miles pulled out their own guns when they
heard the shots. "You take the stairs!" Carranza ordered as
they rushed into the building. "I'll stand by the elevator!"

It was a sound way of blocking off a retreating bad
guy...but not with this particular bad gal.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Scully regained conscious but she could only pull herself
up to a kneeling position. "Mulder..." she whispered.

"Stay down," he said in a firm voice. He didn't know what
was wrong with Scully, but he damn well wasn't putting her
in danger while she was in this condition. He was on his
feet to the right of a door with two smoking holes in it.
All right, he thought. Carranza and Miles must have heard
that shot so they'll be on their way. And I'm not going to
face with that crazy woman without some fucking back-up. As
long as she was trapped in that apartment...

Was she trapped?

Well, sure, how is she going to get out? Climb down the
outside of...

Wait. How did she get into the apartment at all?

"Shit," Mulder hissed. He kicked the door in again.

Jean Estime was still laid on the floor, still looking
very surprised, still cuts and sliced in several spots with
his heart dangling from his chest like a booger from a nose.

Mulder saw the open window, rushed over, saw the woman on
the second floor and going further down.

He fired. The woman bounced off the wall and fell through
twenty feet of air. Did he hit her?

Nope. She landed on her legs like a cat. A surrounding
circle of palm trees gave her shadows to vanish into.

"Shit and shit some more," Mulder said.

He heard a voice call out "Agent Scully!" He went back to
the hallway, stepping over the puddles of blood spreading
from Estime's body.

Miles was running down the hallway towards Scully who was
still trying to get herself erect. Neighbors were slowly
sticking their heads out. A baby could be heard crying.

"I'm...I'm fine," Scully said as Miles reached her side.

"What hap..." Miles started before Mulder said, "We've got
a killer on the loose. She just climbed down the side of
the building..."

"Excuse me?"

"That's what she did, okay? Get on the radio and put out a
bulletin for a woman in her late twenties. She's dressed in
animal skins. She doesn't seem to have a gun, but she is
still incredibly dangerous."

"Animal skins? Are you shitting me?"

Mulder stepped aside and pointed at the body inside
Apartment 52. "No shit this time."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Andy went back to his shop and his apartment above it,
feeling anxious. He had tried to give the name of Jean
Estime to Mulder in the most nondescript way he could. He
had made enough protestations to be heard by the whole
restaurant, so Estime wouldn't blame him for the cops at
his door, right? And he couldn't just stand by and let some
zobop kill members of his city government, right?

I hate these fucking moral dilemmas, Andy thought. I need
to unwind. A couple of microwave burritos and a little bit
of masturbation to Jeri Ryan's photos should do the trick.

When The Cafe-Mystere came into sight, he wasn't sure that
he was seeing correctly. The closer he got, however, he
realized that his myopic eyes weren't lying.

He ran the remaining thirty feet, huffing and puffing all
the way. He was out of breath when he stopped in front of
the two girls standing before The Cafe-Mystere. Gasping, he
said, "H-h-hi..."

"Hello," the girls said in unison. One was black, the
other was white. However, they had the same eyes, same
lips, same height, same clothes.

"I'm Sue," the white one said.

"I'm Etta," the black one said.

"I'm...I'm..." Andy panted.

"We know who you are, Mr. Antoine," Etta said.

"Do you know who we are?" Sue asked.

"I...I think I do." Andy straightened himself and let out
a long breath. "Why are you here?"

"We've come to tell you many things," Sue explained.

"The first thing is..." Etta said.

"...Agent Scully is in danger..."

"Call up Agent Mulder now."

"Uh...I don't have his number."

The girls knew it.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: GONE TO FLORIDA (7 of 21)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART SEVEN
BLOOD ON THE FLOOR, VOICES IN THE HEAD

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"She...fainted?"

"Yes. She did."

Carranza rolled his eyes. "Jesus Christ..."

"Lay off her," Miles snapped. "I mean, look at that
guy..." He pointed at the corpse before them. Lab
technicians were setting up in Apartment 52 and they didn't
like looking at the body themselves.

Miles said, "If I had seen that and what Mulder has
described..."

"You're a fucking experienced law enforcement official,
Miles," Carranza replied. "I assumed Agent Scully was, too."

"She is," Mulder said quietly. "She's seen things as bad
as this before."

"Then why the hell did she faint?"

"I'm not sure." Mulder looked around the well-furnished,
well-scrubbed apartment. It could have been photographed
and displayed in a decorator's magazine except for the body.

And the altar full of lit candles.

Mulder examined the altar with its tiny statues,
medallions and bowls arranged in a pattern meaningful only
to the dead man. A drum and a gourd waited to be used. It
looked like photos of other voodoo altars.

Even the open can of Budweiser in the center was not
completely atypical. Alcohol and other drinks were often
laid out as offerings to the spirits, though usually they
were sugary in taste. A common trait among the loa was
having an active sweet-tooth.

"What do you think?" Miles asked in a grim voice.

"I think...we have just found the man who killed Downard
and Kidder. This altar was where Estime summoned the baka
sent to perform the job. Judging from the decor, Estime had
been a professional assassin for some time."

"Then why was he killed?"

"Possibly November Sun and Morgan wanted to keep him
quiet. Or Hall Enterprises found out about him and decided
to take care of him."

Miles thought about that briefly, then his eyes widened.
"Oh, Jesus! Arnold Sands!"

"Who?"

"Arnold Sands -- another Miami gangster. Small-time,
really, but he thought he was tough enough to run a
protection racket on a real-estate broker named...geez,
what was his name... something Rogers."

"Oh, yeah," Carranza said. "I remember that piece of shit.
Turns out he picked on the wrong guy. One day, they found
eighty percent of Sands hanging from a palm tree. No one
was ever able to trace the crime back to Mr. Rogers, but
the message was as clear as fucking cellophane. Since then,
nobody has picked on him."

Mulder looked down at Estime and took note of the zobop's
missing nose and fingers. "You think Estime and Sands had
the same killer?"

"I'm definitely inclined to think it," Miles said. "Since
it's Mr. Rogers who is handling the Jeremiah Bay
negotiations for Hall Enterprises. Apparently, Oscar Hall
hired him on the basis of his...ingenuity."

Mulder took a long breath. "Well, that explains that."

Carranza took a long breath himself, but one clouded by
his cigar. "Let's say this zobop shit is for real."

"Why, Detective Carranza, how generous of you," Mulder
said with a smile.

"Stuff it. What am I saying is...if it's true, what's so
fucking important about Jeremiah Bay? I mean, I think I
understand what that asshole Morgan is thinking. He's just
some English prick who hates it when something ain't his.
But Hall Enterprises is a big, big company. What use is
Jeremiah Bay to them? Why the hell are they're willing to
have a war over it?"

Before Mulder could attempt an answer to that, he heard a
small voice say, "Mulder?"

He turned to the door. Scully was standing there and
looking like a grade school student being sent to the
principal's office.

"Excuse me," Mulder said to the detectives. He stepped out
into the hallway and took Scully aside. "How are you
feeling? And please don't say 'fine.'"

Scully sighed. "I'm confused. I don't know what happened.
What that woman was doing...it was horrible, but..."

"Don't worry about that."

"Mulder, because of me, a killer got away. Of course, I'm
going to worry about it."

"All I'm saying is that we should find out what happened
before you start blaming yourself."

"Then how do you explain it?"

"I don't know yet, but...I had a strange feeling when I
saw that bitch-from-hell, pardon the expression."

Scully smiled a little. "It's an appropriate one.
And...uh...I had a strange feeling, too."

"Like you had seen her before?"

"As a matter of fact...yes. That would be the second time
today. When I saw Audrey Borg, she..." Scully shook her
head. "This is meaningless."

"No, it's not. We need to find out..."

Scully gave Mulder the kind of look that cut him straight
to the heart. "You need a partner you can depend on," she
said.

"I depend on you. I always will."

She remained silent for a moment, then said, "I'm going
downstairs. I'll be waiting for you outside."

Mulder watched her enter the elevator and the doors close.
Then he watched the doors for a little bit before he went
back to Apartment 52. Even Carranza kept from asking about
Scully when he saw the moody expression on Mulder's face.

"Uh, Mulder?" Miles said.

"Yeah?"

"You were going to say something?"

"Hm. Well...I was going to say that there's a third group
to consider in all this. The Seniors?"

"What, you think they're involved?" Miles said in surprise.

"I think that Jeremiah Bay has some special meaning to
them. And perhaps it's the same reason why Oscar Hall wants
it." He shook his head. "Lots of ingredients here, but I
don't know what the recipe is for. One thing we ought to
do is have Andy Antoine come down here and look..."

The cellular phone chirped in Mulder's pocket. Mulder
answered it.

"Mulder..." He blinked. "Mister Antoine? We were just..."
Mulder glanced at the body. "Yeah, he's dead. How did..."

He listened some more. As he did, fear rose on his face
like a moon in a dark sky.

"I'll call you back," he said, disconnected the phone and
sped out of the apartment, still clutching the phone in his
hand.

Carranza and Miles gave each other the briefest of looks,
then chased after him.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Settling under a palm tree, Scully found a quiet spot away
from the police cars in front of Gem Beach Apartments. She
sat down on a bench with her back turned to the twirling
red-and-blue lights. In her mind, she replayed the moment
when she and Mulder burst into Estime's apartment. Again,
her lapse into unconsciousness frightened her even more
than the horror they had witnessed. What had happened? Why?

(I'll give you three guesses, bitch...)

She spun around. The nearest person behind her was a
police officer thirty feet away. This voice had seemed to
come from right behind her.

(Closer than that. Way closer than that.)

The chuckling voice was like some fly in her ear she
couldn't swat away. She shook her head, but it kept
talking.

(Can't do nothin' about it. You're stuck with me so why
don't you just relax and learn to enjoy it?)

A numbness settled over her body. She looked down at her
hands and they appeared to be a hundred miles away from
her. Then she saw her knees spread apart.

(Oh, yeah. Let's take a feel at that sweet little cunt of
yours. When I get done, your panties will feel like they've
been glued to your pussy.)

Her hand was moving towards her lap. She made tiny mewling
sounds in her throat.

(Hey! What did I tell you? If you know what's good for
you...)

Fuck you, shit-for-brains, she thought. It's my body. If
you don't back off...

(Or what? Just what the hell will you do, bitch?)

Inside her mind, Scully imagining herself pushing at the
force inside of her. The hand stopped moving, but trembled
like an animal caught in a trap.

(You stinking little whore. You're only going to make this
worse on yourself. You can't hold out forever.)

Scully realized that the voice was right. She needed to do
something. She needed to grab a hold of her body and keep
control. She needed to keep moving. She needed to run.

That's exactly what she did.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Are you going to tell me that not one of you goddamned
idiots saw a woman walk out those doors and what direction
she..."

"Whoa, whoa, Mulder," Miles said, seeing the annoyed faces
of the police officers who were present outside Gem Beach
Apartments. "Take it easy. We'll find her." Miles turned to
the officers. "Spread out and search. She can't have gotten
far."

"Well, what the hell is wrong with her anyway?" one of the
officers demanded to know.

Miles looked to Mulder who said, "She...she may have been
subjected to some kind of intoxicant. Just find her, okay?"

After the police officers dispersed, Carranza said, "All
right. Now can you tell us what the fuck really happened?"

"That's what I plan to find out," Mulder muttered as he
pulled out his cell phone.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Andy was waiting by the phone in his shop. He sat on a
stool with his knees bouncing. Occasionally, he would throw
glances at the two girls. They looked back at him with
unblinking eyes.

The phone rang. He grabbed the receiver. Before he could
say "Hello," Mulder's voice said, "She's gone. What is
wrong with her?"

"Um, I'm not sure exactly..." Andy glanced at the two girls.

"Look, Andy, I need to know..."

"Ask him if the candles were still lit on the altar," Sue
said.

"Huh?" Andy replied.

"Andy?" Mulder said.

"Ask him if the candles were lit," Etta urged.

"Andy, who are you talking to?"

The shop-owner said, "Did Estime have candles lit on his
altar? Were they still lit when you found him?"

A pause, then Mulder said, "Yes to both questions."

Andy did some quick thinking and said, "Tell me...have you
two ever had encounter with psychic phenomena before?"

There was a short, humorless laugh heard on the other end.
"Yeah, you might say that."

"Well, that means you two are latent sensitives. You can
pick up the existence of certain spirits if they're strong
enough to...aw, fuck."

"What?"

"Agent Mulder...I think Scully has just been possessed by
a baka."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Witnesses would later say that the woman looked like she
was being chased by Satan himself with Adolf Hitler and
Jack the Ripper bringing up the rear. In actuality, she was
playing a game of chicken with herself...

(Whoooaaaa...)

...and the thing inside her head.

(Slow the fuck down! You're gonna run into something and
fucking kill us!)

So, are you going to get out of my head?

Well, are you?

(Fucking forget...LOOK OUT!)

Two cars honked, squealed and braked to a halt as she ran
across an intersection. She could feel the warmth of their
engines as she passed by them and heard the curses of the
drivers. She continued on, faces and lights flickering
across her vision. Her coat was shrugged off. The pain grew
in her feet as they slammed again and again into the
ground. Her soles began to bleed.

(Oh, hell...oh, man...I'm gonna...)

With a sound like a trombone's bad note, her bowels opened
up. Turds deposited themselves into her underwear,
stretching it out. Urine soaked her front and streaked down
her to leave tiny spots in her wake. Add the sweat all over
her body and you have a smell like the inside of an
elephant cage.

Still, she kept running, long after she had forgotten the
point of it. She only knew that if she stopped moving,
Something Bad Would Happen. Unfortunately, fear can only
conquer the weakness of the flesh for so long. Every spasm
in her legs, every hot breath in her lungs, every heartbeat
that threatened to shatter her ribs was telling her to rest.

Eventually, her body made the decision for her. As if she
had been tripped up, she dropped to the ground. Asphalt hit
across her hands, face and knees, then rubbed black dirt
into her wounds.

(Oh, you fucking bitch...oh, I'm gonna make you pay...)

She no longer cared anymore. The only thing she was
concerned about was where she was. There were no lights and
no buildings from where she could see. Only darkness. Funny.

Then she heard a sound like waves breaking on a beach. She
recognized it as the air rushing over a moving vehicle.
Summoning her last bit of strength, she turned her head in
that direction.

A pair of headlights was growing brighter and brighter.
They looked like two missiles fired at her.

Oh, she thought.

(Oh, shit!)

I'm lying on the highway. Gee, I didn't know I had ran
that far.

(No, no, no, no....)

She made more details around the headlights -- a mosquito-
covered grill, black tires, a driver with wide eyes and a
wide mouth. Scully wondered if she should move, but her
body was too exhausted and her mind was too clouded with
someone else's thoughts.

(OH, GOD, OH, SWEET JESUS, NO...)

Then Scully saw a van whip over to the other side of the
world and pass within an inch of her hair. It sounded like
the brakes scrapped a mile of rubber off the tires before
the van stopped. A door opened and footsteps rushed towards
her. The feet actually sounded angry.

It was the next-to-last thing Scully heard before blacking
out. The last thing was a man with a Southern accent
yelling, "Goddammit, woman, what are you doing in the
middle of the mammy-fucking road?!"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

TITLE: GONE TO FLORIDA (8 of 21)

AUTHOR: DAVID HEARNE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART EIGHT
THE BLUES OF OSCAR HALL

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Whap.

"Oh, yes..."

Whap.

"Punish me, my master..."

Whap.

"Hurt me and bleed me, you great English lord..."

Whap.

Ring.

"'Scuse me a minute, love."

"No, don't stop now."

Ring.

"Have to, love. The phone is ringin'. I need to..."

"DON'T STOP!"

Whap.

"Oh, yes, I am such a bad girl! So VERY bad!"

Ring.

Constantine Morgan looked between the bleeding back of
Zoning Commission Chairman Gwendolyn Burns and the phone.
The chairman had stopped by his beachside house at eleven-
forty-five p.m., a perfectly fucked-up time to be calling
on anybody. However, that was the price he had to pay for
his influence over Burns. A couple of months back, a
clandestine investigation by Morgan revealed an interesting
fetish of Chairman Burns. When confronted with this
information, Burns said, "Are...are you going to blackmail
me?"

Morgan grinned, cracked his knuckles and said, "No need to
do that, you silly little bird."

Burns looked at those big knuckles. "What do you want to
do then?" she whispered.

"Anythin' you want, Chairman. Anythin' at all."

It seemed like a good idea to gain dominance over the
Chairman, so to speak. However, Morgan was regretting the
idea. The woman exhausted him. She was like a fuckin' Timex
watch -- takes a lickin' and keeps on moanin'. Whips, wax
dripping off a hot candle, even the occasional electric
shock...nothing was enough. She just kept asking for more.
What did he have to do to satisfy her? Drop a safe on her
head?

Ring.

"Punish me! Punish me!" Burns demanded. She squirmed in
the straps hanging from a hook. With one hand administering
the whip to her exposed back, Morgan stretched a hand to
the phone resting on a table.

Whap.

"Harder!"

Ring.

Trying to keep himself balanced on his two feet, Morgan
tried to extend his arm as far it could go. Bloody hard to
do when you're trying to whip someone without looking.

"Harder!"

Ring.

His fingers finally touched the receiver. He try to pull
it into his grasp, but it only slipped to the floor.

"I said, HURT ME!"

"Hello?" the phone said. "Anybody there?"

Morgan sighed and gave a nice sharp lash to the chairman's
back.

"Oooooh...."

"Hello? Constantine?"

Morgan scooped up the receiver off the floor. "Yeah, what
the hell is it?" he grumbled as he snapped the black
leather again across the bleeding skin.

"Oh, my master," Burns croaked.

"Constantine, this is November Sun. Am I interrupting
anything?"

"Nah, it's just me and Lady fuckin' Chatterley here. Now
what is it?"

"Estime is dead," November Sun said, his voice as calm as
ever.

Morgan lowered his whip hand and the black leather touched
the floor. "How?" he demanded to know.

"He was killed. Looks like Mr. Rogers arranged it from the
sound of the gory details."

"Fuckin' hell!"

"Constantine, you stopped," Burns whimpered.

"I have no doubt that Oscar Hall is making somewhat subtle
assurances to the Zoning Commission that they can vote
against us without fear of reprisal."

"Well, go out there and get another one of those darkie
wizards, you idjit!"

"Constantine, I have to be punished," Burns insisted.

"Shut yer gob, will ya?" Morgan told her.

"Finding a new zobop will not be easy," November Sun
informed the Englishman. "They are difficult to locate,
much less hire for an assassination. We were lucky to find
Estime. By the time we can arrange one..."

"...we'll be fucked up the bum. Look, couldn't you handle
this yerself?"

"I HAVE TO BE PUNISHED!"

"I SAID, BE QUIET, YOU BLOODY WHORE!"

"Me?" November Sun said. "Summon up a baka?"

"Sure, why not? You know enough about that voodoo shit,
don't you?"

"Well...I've done the reading...but that's not really my
preferred area of spirituality..."

"Listen, mate, you're my fuckin' business partner. I don't
think it's askin' much for you to just try."

There was a brief pause, then November Sun said, "All
right. But now with Estime dead, it's up to you to make
sure Mulder doesn't become more of a problem."

Morgan tightened his grip on his whip. "Oh, trust me. I've
got ways of dealing with that fucker. No way am I going to
let some federal ponce give me grief."

With that, Morgan hung up the phone and stood there,
feeling the whip in his hand. Fuckin' Estime dying on us,
he thought. Fuckin' Mulder, fuckin' Oscar Hall, fuckin' Mr.
Rogers, fuckin' shit everywhere I step...

He spun towards Burns and cracked the whip harder than
ever before.

"OOOOH! OH, MY! YES! YES!"

One nice thing about the arrangement between him and the
chairman -- it provided a nice outlet for rage.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

She was drowning in her own mind. Thoughts and emotions
had melted into a thick sludge which was piling upon her.
Attempts to free herself were useless. She could do nothing
except lie back and suffocate. The terror at this idea was
muted as if she was losing concern about herself. She
wasn't even too worried by the knowledge of another
presence which would take over her carcass at her final
moments. The presence had been shocked into inaction itself
but it would soon recover. Its theft of her body did not
scare her in anyway tangible.

Still, there was a tiny portion of her soul which wanted
to resist. Since it knew that any actions on its part were
futile, it called out for help. Oh, God, it said. Oh,
Jesus. Oh, Mother Mary. Please help me. Please rescue me.

Then, a hand grabbed the invading presence by the neck and
tossed it away into a dark abyss. ("Shiiiiiit" was its moan
as it faded away.) She felt the hand grab her and pull her
free from the sludge.

Her rescuer was a beautiful mulatto woman covered with
jewelry. Standing ten feet behind her was an old mulatto
man wearing patchwork clothes.

"Hello, gal," the woman said, smiling ear-to-ear. "I ain't
Jesus and I sure ain't the Virgin Mary, but will I do?"

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Good God almighty, this woman stinks like the armpit of a
mammy-fucking gorilla."

"Think we ought to take her to the hospital?"

"Boy, what kind of stupid goddamn question is that? Of
course, we ought to take her to the mammy-fucking hospital!"

"I don't know. I don't think she's really sick..."

"No, she's probably just been snorting crack. Anyway, let
the damn doctors figure it out."

"Hmmmm."

"What are you 'hmmmm'-ing about, Meyer?"

"Something about her...I think I've seen her be..."

She opened her eyes and saw the inside of a van. Watching
over her were two men -- one in his forties and the other
not yet twenty. The older man was shorter and more compact
than the tall youth. He was also frowning while the younger
man had an alert, kindly expression.

They both saw her eyes open. "Ma'am?" the younger man
said. "Are you all right?"

She turned her head left and right. She also managed to
tilt it up a little before it fell back to the floor. Doing
so gave her more details -- packed guitars and speakers, a
drum kit, a couple of mattresses, a stack of books, a
driver who kept looking back with a scowling expression.

"Ma'am, are you all right?"

"Boy, you can repeat the mammy-fucking question all you
want and I'll bet you my dick that the answer is still
going to be 'no.'"

She made a choked sound in her throat -- a slurred attempt
at words.

"What's your name, Miss?" the younger man asked.

She cleared her throat. "I'm...I'm..."

Then, to the great surprise of both men, the woman's face
brightened with a grin. Her blue eyes shined with a
lecherous promise as she ran a hand up each of their chests.

"I'm anyone you want me to be, lover."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The following morning...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder woke up with a wallet in his hand and a little
Hispanic boy picking his nose in front of him.

"Hi," Mulder said because it only seemed polite.
Reciprocating the politeness, the boy withdrew his finger,
stuck a shiny green booger towards Mulder and said, "Want
it?"

A fat, gray-haired white woman appeared behind the boy.
"Alejandro! If you don't stop bothering that man, I'll
knock your eyeballs out!"

The boy returned the finger back to his nostril, then
wobbled away from Mulder. He headed for a doorway. The
woman reached down and slapped his butt to make sure he
went through. Mulder noticed that he was lying on a couch
arranged in a living room.

The woman smiled and said, "Morning, Agent Mulder. We have
breakfast ready for you anytime you want to eat."

"Um...I'm not entirely sure where I am right now..."

"Doesn't surprise me. You were kind of frazzled last night."

Mulder rubbed the stubble on his chin. "I was, wasn't I?"
He looked at the woman and said, "You're Mrs. Carranza,
right?"

"You can call me Linda. Tomas thought you should be
watched over and he brought you here."

"That...that was very kind of him."

"It was either here or Max's apartment. I don't think
you're ready for that yet."

"Uhhh, no."

Mulder hauled himself up to a sitting position. He opened
the wallet and saw the face of Dana Scully on a driver's
license.

"They found it lying on the sidewalk," Linda said quietly.

'Yes. I remember."

"Tomas has just left for work. He said that he and Max
will stop by later to update you on everything."

Mulder nodded, still looking at the wallet.

Then he folded it, stood up and said, "I think I'll have
some breakfast now."

Pancakes, bacon and orange juice were being served at a
table in the kitchen. Alejandro was sitting at the table
and eating. (He was no longer picking his nose. Mulder
didn't want to think about where the booger went.) Also
present at the table was a man in his mid-twenties. Judging
from his short haircut, strong handshake and lean body,
Mulder guessed the man to be in the military. He was right.
The man was revealed to be Corporal Felix Carranza, son of
Tomas and Linda as well as the father of the booger-picker.
He was on leave from the Army and was visiting his parents
with Alejandro while his wife was out of town.

Mulder settled with the rest of the family into a quiet,
leisurely breakfast. Five minutes later, Tomas and Miles
showed up.

"HIIIII-YA!"

Felix leapt from his chair and threw a punch at Miles the
minute he walked into the kitchen. Miles blocked it as well
as the next one Felix threw.

"You two take that outside or I'll grind your balls into
dust," Linda warned. The two men left the room and he sound
of battle-cries and thrown punches echoed from the front
yard. Tomas saw the look on Mulder's face and said, "Felix
does that every damn time he sees Max. He keeps trying to
beat him in a fight even he keeps getting fucked up for his
efforts."

"Shouldn't you...try to stop them?" Mulder asked, glancing
at Alejandro who was eating his pancakes with no change in
his expression.