By DAVID HEARNE
ottercrk@sover.net
 
 
 

CLASSIFICATION: X-FILE

RATING: R (yes, very much so)

ARCHIVE: Ayup.

Send feedback to ottercrk@sover.net

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is a sequel to "Goin' Down South." You don't have
to read that one to understand this story, I believe. Any relevant questions
you might have about the previous story get answered.

You should also know that the tone of the story is pretty much set by the
first line of dialogue. When "Goin' Down South" came out, I didn't get much
in the way of complaints about the descriptions of perverse sex and bloody
violence. (In fact, a lot of people seemed to be tickled by the former.)
Furthermore, this sequel is not as graphic. (There's no House of Solomon in
here.) And the fans of "The X-Files" have seen things like deformed
incestuous families and a man pushing his way out of his own mouth so maybe
nothing bothers them.

Still, this story is R-rated for a reason, so watch it.

Before we start, I would thank Caroline and Exley_61 who first read "Headin'
Back South" as well as Laurie for editing it.

In any case, off we go, returning to a backwater town called Final,
Mississippi...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART ONE
IT'S JUST A JOB

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

*The town of Final, Mississippi is much like any other
small town -- quiet, low-key, removed from the cares and
troubles of the outside world. Its citizens are a simple
folk. Their lives revolve around their families and
churches. They desire nothing more than to take care of
their loved ones and raise them in the traditions which
have kept the community together for so many generations.
Just a simple, peaceful town.*

"You goddamned cocksucking son-of-a-bitch!"

George Kane turned to the window and frowned. In the
street outside Sarah's Bed and Breakfast, a debate was
being earnestly conducted.

"You shitlicking two-faced whore!"

"You worthless, tiny-dicked, no-good-in-bed faggot!"

"You lazy, back-stabbing, every-man-in-town-come-to-my-
pussy whore!"

The debate was between a man and a woman. The topic seemed
to be about the woman's faithfulness or the man's sexuality
or some such thing. In any case, it was loud enough to
interrupt his work.

Kane tried to focus on the portable computer in his room.
Taking a sip of bourbon, he continued to type --

*However, the leisurely idyll of Final has been given a
horrible shock. The community now faces a crime so
disturbing...*

The word 'disturbing' didn't really satisfy Kane. He
checked up his thesaurus. Next to 'disturb' was 'worry,
agitate, trouble, disarranged...' None of those words
suited him, either. 'Disarranged?' Sounds like you're
describing furniture.

"I oughta to kill you, you lying little bitch!"

"Go ahead and try it, you ugly bastard! Maybe you ought to
go home and eat some of your boyfriend's shit to build up
your strength!"

Kane sighed and rubbed his forehead. Why didn't he stay at
The Old-Time Motel, just twenty miles away from Final?
Because, you dummy, he thought, the motel was a favorite
stopping ground for drug addicts, illegal gun dealers and
Scientologists. A corpse had been found in the ice machine
only a week ago. That had been the third time in the past
two months. "I don't know why the hell they keep putting
them in there," the motel manager had complained. "It's not
like it's the best hiding spot around."

That's why he was here in town at this bed and breakfast.
Of course, the building got the designation of "bed and
breakfast" only in a loose sense. It was a house was owned
by Sarah Collins, a heavy, puffy-faced woman whose eyes
managed to look sleepy and hostile at the same time. Up for
rent in her house was a room on the second floor. When Kane
first stepped into the room, he had found an unmade bed,
long water stains on the walls and curtains which had been
victimized by a member of Sarah's cat brood.

"Got a problem?" Sarah muttered when she saw his lips purse.

"Oh, no, no, it's good," he said, keeping in mind that
there was nowhere else in Final to stay. To tell the truth,
Kane was probably staying in the house's best room. As he
had been led here by Sarah, he had noted the piles of
clothes on the furniture, the cigarette burns in the carpet
and great dusty piles of Reader's Digest. At least in his
room, the scent of cat pee was less forceful.

"Breakfast is at eight-thirty," Sarah informed him after
he had paid her in cash. "Lunch is at..."

"Oh, don't put yourself to any bother," Kane replied,
trying not to imagine a meal with this woman. Surely, Sarah
Collins limited herself to only two food groups -- beer and
pancake mix. "I'll eat out," he told her.

"Suit yourself," Sarah said, then left him to unpack,
trailing behind her a herd of cats pathetically meowing.

Kane could have put up with the smells and discomfort of
Sarah's Bed and Breakfast, but not the havoc outside. He
pressed his fingers against his nose and closed his eyes,
wishing for the two idiots below his window to shut up.

"I'll bust your face on the sidwalk, you dirty slut!"

"Try it and I'll kick your ass, you queer!"

"Don't mess with me, you..."

The gun blast almost made Kane fall out of his chair. For
a moment, he had thought one of the debators had changed
the course of the argument. Then he heard his landlady call
out --

"Shut up, you noisy little fuckers! I'm trying to get some
sleep!"

The shout was followed by quick footsteps racing off to a
distant point. Kane wondered whether the debators would
continue their argument elsewhere or if they would end up
tearfully forgiving each other. Getting threatened by a gun
tended to take the air out of a person's anger.

The air had certainly gone out of Kane's muse. Sarah's
inspired form of moderation had shocked him stupid. He
could only stare at the computer on his desk as it waited
for more prose.

He needed to get relaxed again. Luckily, he had done his
research and knew whose services to call for. He had also
paid Sarah Collins a little extra to ignore any visitors he
might have at night.

That night's visitor was Jennifer Wright, also known as
"The Tongue." Forty minutes later after Kane had called up
The All-Night Escort Company, she poked her blase face into
his room. He was pleased to see that she was black. He
liked having black women do things for him.

"You George Kane?" she asked as she grinded the gum in her
mouth.

"That's right," he said. He scooted back from the old
wooden desk in his room and patted his crotch. "Over here."

Jennifer walked over to him on her long heels, knelt down
before him, stuck her gum on the desk and reached for his
zipper. Without looking at her, Kane slid his chair forward
until he could reach his keyboard.

"Hey, hey!" Jennifer cried out as she was pushed back into
the cramped space under the desk.

"Just continue," he said.

Jennifer looked around at her boxed position, then
shrugged. She unzipped Kane's fly and pulled out his penis
like a ticket being offered by a fortune telling machine.
When she opened her mouth, she heard typing above.

"What are you doing up there?"

"You do your work and I'll do mine."

"What, while I suck you off?"

"Yep."

"Isn't that distracting?"

"Half the screenwriters in Hollywood do it like this,
honey. Now go on."

After awhile, the words and phrases were just spilling out
of Kane. "...the temptations of evil..." "...youth seduced
by the darkness..." "...Satanic forces at work..." "...an
unspeakable, abominable crime...."

"A...bom...i...na..able..." he let out in a warm breath.

"Mmmmm?"

"Not you, sweetie. You're doing...just fine."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Agent Sally Ash wondered how not to make herself sound
insane. The difficulty there was that she *was* insane in
her own opinion.

She waited in Assistant Director Walter Skinner's office.
Skinner was seated behind his desk, waiting with her.
Neither of them were talking which was okay with Ash. She
was glad that the assistant director didn't feel the need
to fill the time with bullshit small talk.

Then the door opened. The poster boy and girl for the FBI
walked in. Or, rather, the two people who should have been
the poster boy and girl walked in. Agents Fox Mulder and
Dana Scully were two intelligent, attractive and highly
presentable people. They had the right credentials to go
high in the FBI. Instead, they were hunkered down in the
basement. Instead of being respected, Mulder was considered
a joke and Scully a sucker who had gotten pulled into his
pile of crap.

Sally Ash had mixed feelings about the two of them. On one hand, she didn't
give an alligator's ass for what cases
Mulder and Scully chose to invesitgate. If they didn't want to go the route
expected of them, that was their business.  On the other hand, she had to
wonder about people who had tossed away the very thing she had to struggle
to get -- respect. Wide-bodied and pug-nosed, Sally Ash was a poster girl
for not one fucking thing. Furthermore, she was a refugee from a rusty
toilet of a Southern town. Everytime she talked, she could just see the
words flashing in the minds of certain people -- Hick, Cracker, Squeeeeallll
Like a Pig.

Yeah, well, pigs can bite.

When she left Final, Mississipi, Sally asserted herself. She asserted
herself to long hours of studying law enforcement procedure. She asserted
herself in the simulations of hostage situations, nailing every 'terrorist'
in sight. She asserted herself in self-defense classes as she slammed smug
Yankee men to the ground. She asserted herself right through the FBI academy
with honors. Why?

Because she wanted to get out of Final.

Because of pride.

Because of a promise she had made.

She had her FBI identification card now. She didn't have
many friends, though. Most people were intimidated by her
single-mindedness and her defensive attitude. She was
respected, but not much liked.

Now, she was standing up to greet two people who were
neither much respected or liked.

"This is Agent Sally Ash," Skinner said.

Both Mulder and Scully shook her hand with enough
cordiality, but they were giving her strange looks.

"Is there something the matter?" Sally asked.

Mulder and Scully looked at each other. They had a brief, unspoken
conference. Apparently, they decided to dismiss
whatever was bothering them.

"No, nothing's the matter," Scully said. "How may we help
you?"

"Well...it's like this. I come from this little town in
Mississippi..."

"Final?" Mulder said.

Sally blinked. "How did you..."

"I...never mind. Go ahead."

Spooky Mulder, Sally thought. One of the reasons that
Mulder had been originally expected to go far was his
intuition. Sally was a good agent, but she knew that she
lacked a certain...imagination. Mulder, on the other hand,
had loads of it. ("Too fucking much," was the assessment
around the water cooler.) He was like a hound dog, able to
pull out scents in the air no one else could find. Somehow,
he was able to figure out her hometown through means she
couldn't understand.

She already knew one firm explanation for his knowledge,
but she shoved that to the back of her mind.

"Well," she said. "it's a tiny town but it's got more than
its share of strangeness. Recently, there's been something
happening even stranger than usual."

She could see this odd little light in Mulder's eyes. He
motioned for her to take a seat before continuing. Sally
noticed that Agent Scully's expression was cooler, more
cautious. Sally was closer to her personality than Mulder.
Scully was a straight arrow instead of a zig-zagging one
like Mulder. Of course, her trajectory had landed her in
Mulder's ground so you had to wonder.

"It started when the minister's son got arrested for
murder," Sally said. "Albert Burnside was found a week ago
in a barn with the corpse of one Charlotte Taft. Charlotte
had been killed and then mutilated. Parts of her still
haven't been found yet. Albert was unconscious when they
found him. He claims to have no recollection of what
happened in that barn. Or, at least, he doesn't know what
happened to Charlotte."

"What can he tell us?"

"That he and Charlotte had come to the barn because they
heard of a party there. There were five other teenagers in
that barn and they were doing pretty much what you expect --
drinking, smoking, heavy petting. The others say that they
left Albert and Charlotte by themselves in that barn.
Albert hasn't denied or confirmed that."

Sally reached into his jacket and pulled out a piece of
paper. "Now, here's something that's made the whole affair
even more of a pain."

She handed it to Mulder. He unfolded it, allowing himself
and Scully to look at it.

A square was written on it -- a square with four diagonal
lines inside it. Two were drawn from the right-upper corner
to the left-lower. The remaining two connected the other
corners. The diamond formed at the center was filled in
with black.

"It was found drawn on the floor of the barn. In pig's
blood."

Mulder nodded, not quite getting it.

"So what do you think, Agent Mulder?"

"I think that I want Mexican for lunch, but that doesn't
have much to do with this case."

Sally had been warned about this -- Fox Mulder, Smart-Ass
Extraordinaire. Both Scully and Skinner were giving him the
kind of warning look he was undoubtedly used to getting.

"I'm sorry, Agent Ash," Mulder said, not very sorry. "But
this drawing isn't striking any bells with me. Should it?"

"You don't think it might be...um..."

"What?"

"Satanic?"

Mulder looked again at the drawing, then back at Sally.
"Is that what the town thinks?" he asked.

"As a matter of fact, yes."

"Ah. Well..." He handed the drawing back to Sally. "That's
not a Satanic symbol."

"What is it then?"

"It's not anything. Not only does it lack a relation to
any Satanic ritual, but there's not one form of mysticism
or any paranormal cult that employs such a symbol."

"You know them all?"

Mulder smiled. "Quiz me."

For a moment, Sally was wondering if Mulder was being
condescending to her because she was Southern. Then she
realized that when it came to explaining the paranormal,
Fox Mulder was the same asshole to everybody.

Scully decided to step in here after giving another look at Mulder. "Is
Albert Burnside suspected of performing a kind of ritualistic sacrifice?"

"Yeah and using Charlotte as the lamb. Of course, even if
Albert hadn't been found at the scene, he would have been a
suspect anyway."

"How so?"

"He and Charlotte were having a thing going. And what's
the one issue that can make any relationship in the South
look suspicious? If you say 'tractors versus plows,' Agent
Mulder, we'll have to step outside."

Mulder lifted his hands up in a gesture of innocence.
Sally looked over at Skinner, realizing she might have gone
too far. The assistant director just nodded his head
slightly in approval.

"Black-versus-white," Scully said, bringing the discussion
back to its proper place.

"Right. Albert may be the minister's son, but he's still a
black guy dating a white gal. It doesn't take much of a
leap for people to think of him as a Satan-worshipper, too."

Scully nodded. "You said, this murder was the start. The start of what?"

"Ever since the murder, there have been lots of...things.
Strange things. Just stories. People are seeing weird
shadows passing by in the night. A calf has been born
without legs. There have been rumblings in the walls of the
library. And on and on." Sally grimaced. "Just a little
hick town gone nuts, right?"

"This kind of hysteria is not confined to small towns,"
Scully assured her. "The fear of Satanists has become a
common phobia through a wide cross-section of society. It's
become one of the favorite boogeyman of our times."

"Like government conspiracies, right?"

Mulder coughed. Scully gave him a brief smile, then turned
back to the other female agent. "What is your opinion,
Agent Ash?"

"I have trouble believing that Albert Burnside would kill
anybody. Not that he hasn't been acting up a bit lately.
Nadine has told me..."

"Nadine?"

"Uh, Reverend Burnside. She's an old friend. Both she and
her husband. What I know about them makes me a doubter."

"And that is?"

"That they're the kind of parents I wish I had when I was
a kid. Like I said, Albert had been acting up. You know,
the whole snotty adolescent thing. But I don't care if they
found him at the scene. I just can't accept that he would
kill Charlotte. He really cared for her."

"I can understand all that. But why come to us?"

"Well...I hate to say it, but I don't know where else to go."

Mulder spoke up. "We're your last resort."

"If you want to put it that way..."

Mulder leaned forward and gave Sally the kind of smile that reminded her why
female agents would sometimes giggle like schoolgirls when Mulder passed by.
"Agent Ash," he said. "the X-Files is by nature the 'last resort' for
investigations. When conventional thinking and established analytical
technique is no longer sufficient for the enigmas confronting us, the
X-Files represent the step into the unknown, the mythical, the uncharted
areas of human knowledge. While I suspect that there is nothing supernatural
about the crime involving Albert Burnside, Agent Scully and I are more than
willing to provide any assistance we can in areas where questions might only
be resolved by examining the possibility of paranormal phenomena."

Shit, Sally thought, does he always talk like that?

"If you're wondering, yes, I do often talk like this."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TWO
THREE FOR FINAL, ONE STAYS BEHIND

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As she rode in the passenger seat of an eighteen-wheeler,
Audbjorg was talking.

"You know, I've met a lot of people like me. My travels
have taken me across the paths of other travellers. You
wouldn't believe how many hitchhikers are in this country.
Or if they're not hitchhiking, they're driving some rusty
old Volkwagen ready to die on them.

"All of them are wandering. They pick out any random
direction and just go. Like me, their only nation is the
state of motion. They float up and down the borders of the
U.S.A., claiming their birthright to constantly reinvent
themselves by changing their location. They make the roads
their home -- the roads and the motels and the rest stops
and the forests and everywhere else they can rest their
head. They are fovever being led by their dreams and the
promise of another journey."

She rolled down a window so she could light up a cigarette
and let the smoke flow out into the rushing air.

"I am one of these people. I, too, am following a trail
whose beginnings and endings have reshaped themselves a
thousand times. My wanderings have taken me from one coast
to another, through sprawling cities to small towns with no
names, over mountains, lakes and deserts. I have seen many
wonders. I have done many strange things. Whenever I meet
someone like me, I always tell them the same thing. I
impart the same bit of wisdom that my journeys have taught
me. I look them straight in the eye and say --

"'Get the fuck off the road.'"

She took a puff off her cigarette.

"I tell them to settle down. Buy a house. Find yourself a
piece of land and set your ass down on it. Because for
every beauty you'll find on the road, you'll find five
banalities and at least one piece of sheer ugliness. For
every exhilirating moment of freedom, there's a moment of
loneliness. For every wise man, there's a psycho. Not to
mention there are the problems of an empty wallet and a
hungry stomach."

She looked at the truck driver next to her. She gave him a
little smile.

"I know, I know. 'So, why are you on the road then?' I
always have the same answer -- I don't have a choice. Don't
ask me why. I just don't. But if you have a choice..."

She sighed.

"I sound like I have a few bad stories to tell. Well, not
just a few. More than once, I've been hurt by people who
acted like they wanted to help me. I've taken rides with
drivers who turned out to be nothing less than evil.

"Of course, you and I got along, didn't we, Tom? I mean,
we had a little trouble in the beginning, but we worked
that out. Right?"

The truck driver nodded. On his right cheek was a long
bandage.

"Speaking of the beginning, we're near the ending. You can
let me out at the next stop."

The truck driver nodded again. He had been doing a lot of
that for Audbjorg. Not speaking, just nodding.

Just like she asked, the truck driver let her out at the
next truck stop. Audbjorg picked up her backpack, opened
the door and hopped out of the cab. She turned to the truck
driver and said --

"Well, goodbye to you, Tom. Oh, by the way, word travels
fast, even among hitchhikers. If I hear about you trying to
hurt anybody else, I'll track you down, cut off your penis
and stuff it up your truck's exhaust pipe."

She closed the door.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

While eating yogurt, Scully read about severed arteries,
torn skin, cracked bones, flesh invaded and pillaged. She
was seated behind Mulder's desk in the basement office
which held the X-Files.

Mulder entered. "Who's that sitting in my chair?" he
called out.

"Goldilocks and she's packing heat," Scully replied
without looking.

Mulder took a chair and pushed it up until his knees were
pressing against the desk. Then he lowered his head down to
the top of the desk. Resting on his arms, he looked up at
Scully with a look of a child waiting for his mother's
attention.

Finally, Scully stopped reading the report. "Well, Mulder?"

"Know where I've been?"

"You said that you were going to research that symbol at
both the library and the local occult bookshop."

"Yep. And I did. Remember how I said that symbol didn't
match anything in any cult or supernatural belief?"

"Yes."

"I was right. Chances are this is something Albert and his
friends made up."

"Albert *and* his friends?"

"If some kind of occult game was going on in that barn, I
doubt that Albert and Charlotte were the sole
practicioners. That is, if Albert and Charlotte
participated at all." He pointed his chin at the report
Scully was reading. "What have you got there?"

"An autopsy report on Charlotte's body. Agent Ash got it
faxed up to me. The work was done by Dr. Nick Woolcott, the
sole practicioner of medicine in Final, Mississippi."

"My keen FBI instinct detects a slight dissatisfaction
with Dr. Woolcott's work."

"Without getting into too much medical terminology..."

"Which always makes my head hurt."

"...I'm not convinced that Dr. Woolcott did a thorough job
of examining the body. Or if he was even qualified to do an
autopsy."

Mulder nodded.

"Of course, other than expressing my disapproval of sloppy
work, I'm not sure how much more we should involve
ourselves in this. Especially if there doesn't seem to be
any occult-related elements to this case."

Mulder sat up straight. He placed one foot on the desk's
edge and tilted himself back.

"What are you thinking, Mulder?"

"I'm thinking about what I heard on the radio before I
came to work yesterday."

"What did you hear?"

"An interview with Meyer and A.C. Burnside."

"Burnside?"

"They're blues musicians. Their debut album is selling
lots of lots of copies. It's called 'Straight Out of Final.'"

"I take it these two are related to Rev. Burnside?"

"Meyer is her oldest son. A.C. is her brother-in-law."

"Ah."

"Pretty interesting, huh?"

"Interesting, but not exactly meaningful."

Mulder dropped both of his feet to the floor and leaned
towards Scully. "Oh, come on. Don't you remember how we
both felt when we woke up that morning?"

"I do."

"And didn't we both have the feeling that we had seen
Agent Ash before?"

"We did. I also thought we decided that we didn't give a
shit."

"Well...maybe we should."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sally Ash was behind her desk and trying to do some work
when her phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Agent Ash, it's me, Mulder."

"Oh, yes. Have you and Scully found out anything
interesting?"

"Not on my end. But Scully has some questions about the
autopsy done on Charlotte Taft. We're going down to Final
to straighten things out. Of course, if you want to come
with us..."

Sally felt a presence next to her. She kept her eyes
focused on a computer screen.

"No," she said. "I've got my own work to do and my A.D.
won't look kindly on me going down South on what's just a
personal matter for me."

"I understand. We'll keep you updated."

"Thanks. Good-bye."

She hung up.

"So, you're just going to stay here and do fuck-all?"

Sally had learned not to look when this voice spoke to
her, especially when she was in crowded places like her
office area. She continued typing up a report on the
computer.

"For jumping Jesus Christ's sake, Sally, this is
important! Even more important than just what the Burnsides
are going through! Of course, that should be enough for you
to get your ass back to Final!"

Sally felt the speaker lean in close to her ear. "I know
you think you're going crazy. But you're not. This is real.
This warning is real."

Sally stopped typing. When she resumed doing so, she wrote out --

IF YOU'RE REAL, THEN TELL ME MORE. WHAT IS SO IMPORTANT?

The speaker sighed. "I already told you. I've given you
enough as I can."

THEN FUCK OFF.

"Sally..."

FUCK

OFF

"Okay, Sally. But nothing has changed. There's a darkness
rising in Final. If you don't do something about it, then
we will all be fucked up the ass with a telephone pole."

Sally finally turned to look.

No one was there.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART THREE
SOUTHERN HOSPITALITY

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

After being dropped off by the truck driver, Audbjorg
bought dinner out of vending machines at the rest stop --
some crackers and a can of apple juice. Then she kept on
walking down the highway.

A pickup truck sporting a confederate flag on its front
bumper passed her by. The white male occupants yelled out,
"Suck my dick, you nigger cunt!" and laughed.

Mississippi, she thought. What the fuck am I doing back in
Mississippi?

She kept on walking until nightfall. By then, she had left
the highway for the tight and dusty back roads. Her path
had taken her into a forest. She decided to sleep for the
night among the dark trees. When she woke up early the next
morning, she found herself surrounded by two deer, a family
of rabbits, three possums and a fat bear. All of them were
looking at her with devotion and love.

"Get lost," she told them. They scattered. Every damn
time, she thought. Everywhere I go, some big smelly animal
wants to cuddle up to me.

Except for the snakes.

Snakes were the one animal that didn't like her.

She looked inside her backpack for food. She had some
crackers and water, but she wanted to save those for later.
She considered getting breakfast at a diner. What the hell,
she decided. I still have some money left over from the
house painting job back in Louisiana. Let's splurge.

She found a creek to wash her hair in. She looked down at
her face in the water. She supposed that she looked pretty,
but she remembered a day when she was much better-looking.
Spending over a year on the road had hardened her features
immensely. "La vie goddamned boheme," she commented.

Then she got back on the roads. She walked on for a half-
hour until she reached a road sign with enough bullet holes
to nearly obscure the name written on it. She managed to
make out the word "FINAL."

She crossed into town just at the time Mulder and Scully
were meeting up with Chief of Police Shawn McDonald.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Chief McDonald prayed to God for strength to deal with
these heathen interlopers. After he was done praying, he
let a smile form under his enormous, burly mustache and
then walked out of his office.

Mulder and Scully were waiting next to the dividing line
between the main office area and the front foyer. McDonald
walked past his team of deputies and office workers, all of
whom were pretending to concentrate on their typing and
phone conversations and not on the agents.

McDonald walked up to the two agents with his hand
extended. Looking at the stretched grin on his face, Mulder
and Scully got the impression that the Chief was going to
sell them a used car. Nevertheless, they both shook his hand.

"Welcome to Final, Agent Mulder..."

Jew, McDonald thought.

"...and Agent Scully."

She's wearing a crucifix, but this woman is undoubtedly a
feminist. Can lesbianism and atheism be far behind?

"Please come inside my office."

Sitting in front of McDonald's desk, Mulder and Scully
faced two sets of eyes. The first was McDonald's. The other
belonged to the painting of Jesus on the wall behind him.
Jesus looked friendlier than the Chief of Police, despite
the smile on the latter's face. McDonald's suspicious eyes
contradicted that smile.

"That's quite a large operation you've got out there,
Chief," Mulder said. "I'm surprised that a town this small
should have so many people working in the police
department."

"Oh, we're planning on getting much bigger, Agent Mulder." McDonald crossed
his hands together and placed them on the desk. Together, they looked like a
very large mallet. "Now, what brings the federal government down
here?"

"We're looking into the death of Charlotte Taft," Scully
said politely.

"Ah, what a tragedy that was. The devil is surely walking
among us. But how does that concern you?"

"Sally Ash asked us to look into it."

"Oh, yes. I should have known. The small-town girl who
made good. Well...does she have a problem with our
investigation?"

"She doesn't believe that Albert Burnside is guilty."

"Then I guess we have a difference of opinion here. Of
course, even though I am the one down here and Sally is way
up there in Washington and even though we found Albert at
the scene covered in that poor girl's blood...I am more
than willing to listen to any insights she can offer."

Hoo-boy, Mulder thought.

"She is not a member of our investigation," Scully said,
still polite. "However, *we* are willing to offer any
insights we can."

"Such as?"

"I would like to confer with Dr. Woolcott about his
autopsy. There are a few points that I need to review with
him. And, if necessary, I would like to perform a second
autopsy."

McDonald stopped smiling. "Miss Scully..."

"Agent Scully." Now, she was the one smiling.

"Agent Scully...Charlotte Taft has received a good
Christian burial. Neither her family or myself would
appreciate her being dug up again."

"If there was evidence missed in the first autopsy, then
I'm sure the family would appreciate it."

"Where is the need for the new evidence? We have the
killer in jail."

Mulder reached into his pocket. "And you believe..." He pulled out the
drawing of the square and placed it on the chief's desk. "...this is the
motive?"

McDonald looked down at the drawing, then back up at
Mulder with a deadly serious expression. "Isn't this the
reason behind all evil? Isn't the devil behind all crimes
and travesties of justice?"

"Maybe, but we're not prosecuting the devil. We don't even
know that this was an occult-related crime."

"There can be no other explanation for what I saw in that
barn. I believe...I know that Albert was doing the devil's
work that night."

"What about the other teenagers who had been there? Do you
think they were involved?"

"No. I've questioned them thoroughly and I'm convinced
that they had nothing to do with this. Despite the sins
they were indulging on that night, they are good Christians
at heart."

"And the son of the town minister isn't?"

The smile returned to McDonald's face. It wasn't as big as
before, but it was amused and condescending. Mulder felt a
strong desire to rip the chief's mustache off.

"Reverend Burnside is...a good person." He said the phrase
'good person' as if it was a mild thing like a bowl of
soup. "And her husband is...a good person. However, you
need to be more than good to be a true Christian in the
eyes of the Lord. Frankly, the Burnsides have a strong
tinge of secular humanism in their..."

"Chief," Scully said. "we did not fly all the way down
here to hear you speak ill of the town minister."

The smile popped off McDonald's face. Scully wasn't
smiling, either. Mulder had suddenly taken interest in a
corner of the room.

Scully continued. "We came here because I have doubts
about this autopsy and my partner has doubts about the
occult elements in your theory. Our doubts do not mean that
Albert Burnside is innocent. However, these are elements
that a lawyer can use to mess up the prosecution. It's in
everybody's interest that they get cleared up."

McDonald said absolutely nothing in reply. Scully stood up.

"I'm going to go talk with Dr. Woolcott. Agent Mulder is
going to talk with Albert Burnside. This will hopefully be
the beginning of a brief, efficient investigation for us.
Good day, Chief."

With that, she left the office. Mulder got up and tagged
along behind her.

"Nails for breakfast, Scully?" he whispered into her ear.

"Shut up, Mulder."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

No one took notice of Audbjorg as she walked into Joe's
Diner, including George Kane. Kane was busy interviewing
Mrs. Abigail Maynard. When Abigail had heard that George
Kane was in town writing a book about the Charlotte Taft
killing, she had contacted him as soon as possible. She
told him that she had all kinds of information about the
Satanic activities of Albert Burnside. Well, actually, it
wasn't stuff she had found out herself. She had picked it
all out of second-hand and third-hand sources. For
instance, Susan Graham...she was in Abigail's sewing class,
she could knit the most wonderful sweaters, everybody told
her that she should market the pattern to Macy's, not that
any of those big-city dealers paid any attention to people
from small towns...anyway, Susan Graham had heard from
Eleanor Pratt...Eleanor Pratt was a cousin on Susan's
mother's side, the Pratts had come to Final after the War
of Northern Aggression, such a fine, proud family...anyway,
Eleanor told Susan (and Susan then told Abigail) that
Albert Burnside once sacrificed a chicken in some ungodly
voodoo rite...

As you can see, Kane was having his brain numbed by
Abigail's story. That's why he failed to notice Audbjorg at
first.

Audbjorg was glad no one was looking at her. As she had
walked through the old, old streets of Final, she was
regretting ever coming to the town. It wasn't just the
strong sense that the whites here weren't
exactly...progressive on the subject of race. There was
something else.

A feeling which made her spine tense.

An uncertain quality in the air.

And too many dark corners for this time of day.

Still, she had come to get pancakes and bacon and, dammit, she was going to
get pancakes and bacon. However, as she looked at the cracked and moldy
floor of Joe's Diner and heard the cursing from the kitchen, she decided to
just stick with the pancakes. No telling what they used for meat around
here.

Again, no one had noticed her yet. She decided to sit in a
booth right next to the door, be nice and wait for service.

A minute later, three men entered. They did not seem so nice. They were
smiling and laughing, but their laughter was a little too abrasive and their
smiles a little too malicious. A display sign had kept them from seeing
Audbjorg through the window. She watched them from behind as they sauntered
up to the counter. She took note of the paint and grease stains on their
jeans, their steel-tipped boots and their leathery skin.

Behind the counter was a blonde-haired waitress in her
late twenties. She was pretty and shy-looking. One of the
three men zeroed in on her. He leaned against the counter
as his buddies stood to the side. Their grins indicated a
show was about to begin.

The waitress cleared her throat and took out her pad. "May
I take your order?"

"Yeah," the first man said. "I would like your pussy
smothered in syrup."

The other two men cackled. The waitress squirmed. "Um..."
she said.

"Oh, come on, baby. How about it? You look like you could
use a little fun." The first man's long arm shot forward
and made a grab for the waitress's skirt. She jumped back
against a table, rattling the pots and pans lying on it.

Audbjorg took a quick survey of the bar. There were eight
other people in Joe's Diner and none of them wanted to play
the rescuer here. In fact, they were doing their best to
give their attention to other matters.

George Kane had his eyes fixed on the drama. In his mind,
he was writing sentences like "Like a deer with her foot in
the iron claws of a trap, the waitress stood behind the
counter and faced her harassers with wounded, frightened
eyes..." Abigail was murmuring, "Oh, this is terrible,
terrible..."

"Tell you what," the first man cooed. "Why don't you take
the day off and have a little fun with us?"

"No, I can't, I can't, I have to stay..."

The first man frowned. When he spoke again, he sounded very offended.
"Listen up, girl. My friends and I are working on The Temple. That fucking
building is going to bring a lot of money to this shit hole of a town. The
least you damn crackers can do is show some appreciation. Now you come with
us right now or I'm..."

A hand reached over the first man's head and hooked its
fingers in his nostrils. The first man squawked as they
jammed themselves in tight. The arm over his head pressed
down hard. He dropped to his knees like a man doing the
limbo.

At first, the other two men were too shocked to move. The
black woman with her fingers in their pal's nose had jumped
out of her booth faster than they could react. The shock
wore off as they heard their pal groan. They started to
advance.

Then out it came.

It didn't seem to reflect the light so much as eat it up
and burn it inside. The tip of its seven-inch blade was
followed by a line of teeth on the blade's underside. Those
teeth looked hungry.

Just the sight of it made the two men halt in their
tracks. Their lack of motion was assured when she cut the
man at her feet.

"OWWWWW!" the man cried out, now bleeding down the side of
his neck as well as leaking blood around the fingers in his
nose. "Ze cub off muh ear!"

"No, just your earlobe, jackass," Audbjorg said. "I want
you to be able to hear me clearly."

He could hear her, all right. Everybody in Joe's Diner
could hear her. Kane was watching with his mouth wide open,
staring at this beautiful black woman in her faded blue
denim jacket and white jeans.

"I don't know why you scum think you have the prerogative
to terrify people just because you're horny. I suggest that
you leave and go fuck each other because that's the only
way you're getting laid and it's what you want to do,
anyway. Leave or they'll have to add a new special to the
menu. 'Pissant's balls a le creme -- 50 cents.'"

She released the man's nose and kicked him in the butt. He scrambled to his
allies, moaning and not knowing which part of his head hurt worse. Audbjorg
took a couple of steps back, just enough to give the three men room to exit
through the door.

The other two men picked the bleeding man to his feet.
Their eyes were poisonous with anger. One of them summed up
their mood by saying, "Don't let the sun go down on you in
Final, you nigger bitch."

"Don't let the sun go down on me? Well, Benny, you and the
Jets better skedaddle because every night is all right for
fighting with me."

The three men left the diner and drive off in their truck.

Audbjorg cleaned off the knife with a napkin, then it went
back into the black leather sheath under her jacket. Then
she turned to the waitress, smiling in anticipation of the
gratitude she would receive.

"Why did you do that?" the waitress complained.

"Huh?"

"That only makes things worse! Why didn't you leave alone?"

Audbjorg's shoulders dipped. "Hey, it's okay," she
muttered. "You don't have to name your first-born child
after me."

She shook her head, then slung the backpack over her
shoulder and left Joe's Diner.

"Tch, tch, tch," Abigail said. "That's only going to make
trouble. Oh, well, that nigger should have known better.
You just don't....Mister Kane?"

"Wha...?"

"Are you all right? You look all flushed."

Kane drank all of his water down. "No, I'm...I'm fine.
Now, you were saying about Susan?"

Abigail picked up her story, thoroughly forgetting
everything which had just happened. Kane hadn't forgotten,
though. Abigail's story made no impression on her ears as
he ran the image of that knife-welding black woman over and
over in his head. He would have chased after her if it
wasn't for one thing.

He had an erection the size of a German sausage.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART FOUR
TAKE A LITTLE PIECE OF MY...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"You don't look like a man who has much faith in other
people, Agent Mulder."

"Should I have faith in you, Albert?"

The sixteen-year-old sat on the cot of his cell. He looked
back at the tall white man in with him between those ugly
stone walls.

The look between the two men was broken when Mulder heard
a squeak. He turned to see a rat scurry around the cell's
toilet.

"That's just Muddy," Albert said. "He's all right. Mind
telling me why you're here, Mr. FBI?"

Mulder turned back to Albert. The younger man was keeping
up a cool front right now, but Albert would have been a
fool not to be worried.

"Sally Ash asked me to come down here."

Albert smiled a little. "Good old Sally. You know, her
boyfriend saved my mom and dad's life."

"Really?"

"Well...to the truth...I'm not sure if Meyer was her
boyfriend." Albert shrugged. "Old history. Don't worry
about it."

"Okay. Let's worry about recent history. Did you kill
Charlotte Taft?"

For a few moments, the only sound heard was the pattering of
Muddy's feet.

Then, Albert said, "What do you think?"

"So far, the case seems to be based on a lot of innuendo.
And I detect a trace of racism in the air."

Albert just nodded.

"On the other hand, you were found at the crime scene. And
you can give no explanation for being there."

"I told you. There was a party going on and Charlotte and
I went to it."

"Were you invited to this party?"

Albert hesitated, then said, "No. Not really. Charlotte
took me to it. She said that it would be fun."

"I take it you were the only black person there."

"As a matter of fact, yes. The others weren't too
comfortable with me being there at first, but...there was a
lot of drinking. I guess you can forget about most anything
that way."

"Who else was there?"

Albert looked up at the ceiling and let out a breath as he
tried to remember. "Alex Marsh...Eric Gray...Cynthia
Rogers...and another guy and his girlfriend...I forget
their names. I was doing a little drinking myself."

"I understand that you do a lot of little things which
aren't exactly kosher for a minister's son."

For the first time, Albert gave the FBI agent a look of
hostility. "We can't all be the good son in the family,
Agent Mulder."

Mulder decided he'd better back off from this subject
quickly. "Was there anything else done at this party except
drinking?"

The hostile look changed to a smile. "What, are you
looking for the graphic details? You want exact
descriptions of our sweaty young bodies?"

"I'm looking for an explanation for this." Mulder pulled
out the drawing.

Albert looked away. Muddy ran out through a hole in the
wall, squealing.

"The townsfolk are saying that it's Satanic. Is it?"

Albert closed his eyes, wishing the FBI agent away.

"I came to help, Albert. In my own clumsy, ham-fisted, white
federal agent manner, but I came to help anyway. So answer
my question. What is this drawing?"

"I don't know what it is."

"Albert..."

"I mean it." Albert opened his eyes and looked at Mulder.
Now, Mulder could see the fear that had been kept hidden
away. "It was just something Alex found in a book."

"Ah. Okay. What book?"

"Just some...old book. I don't know where he found it.
But, when it got really late, Alex pulled out this book and
a pitcher of pig blood. Said he was going to perform some
ceremony. Just for laughs, you know."

"Describe the ceremony."

"Oh, I don't know. A lot of chanting, a lot of dancing
around the square."

"A Satanic square dance?"

Albert smiled. Just a little bit. "Maybe. The whole thing
just sounded like some crap out of Dungeons and Dragons. Of
course around here, people think D & D *is* Satanic."

"Did you participate?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Hell, I am the minister's son, after all. I have a few
scruples."

"So, what happened then?"

Albert took the longest pause of all.

"Albert?"

"I don't remember," he muttered. "I just remember being
woken up by the sheriff and..." Albert laid down on the
cot, pressing his fists against his chest.

Mulder looked the young man over, then he said, "That'll
be all for now, Albert. Thank you."

Mulder went up to the bars and called out for the guard.
As he waited for the jail to be opened, he said, "I do
believe you're innocent."

He turned back to Albert. "But I also believe you're
hiding something."

After Mulder had left, Muddy stuck his nose out and
squeaked.

"Don't get cute on me, Muddy," Albert sighed and closed
his eyes.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The old woman was seated in a very proper-looking room.
Just about everything in the room was either pink or white
-- the lace curtains, the soft rug, the chintz table covers.
The color brown was reserved for the rocking chair being
used by the old woman. She was sipping from a china cup
full of tea as her chair creaked on its runners. At first
glance, you would wonder why there was no cat curled up in
her lap and no grandchild listening to stories at her feet.

Until you saw her eyes.

They were cold.

Cold as a dark mineshaft.

Cold as the bottom of the ocean.

Cold as Pluto.

No child would have gotten close to her. No cat would have
dared to touch her body. (She did have something curled up
against her, though.)

She rocked in her chair and drank her tea and looked
straight ahead with her cold, cold eyes. She was waiting
for someone. As she waited, she thought and planned.

Then a woman stepped into the room. There's wasn't a
stitch of clothing on the woman's long, muscular body she
hadn't made herself. Deer skin had been used for her
sleeveless shirt and the pants had the thick fur of a
bear. Racoons had been transformed into shoes and a skunk
made into a hat decorated with hawk feathers.

The woman always looked like she was aiming at something
with the crossbow hanging from her shoulder. Even the way
her mouth was slowly chewing suggested contemplation of a
possible kill.

"Sara Lee," the old woman said in a voice as chilly as her
eyes. "Not only are you tracking mud on my carpets, but you
seemed to have picked up the disgusting habit of tobacco
chewing."

"It ain't chaw," Sara Lee said through her stuffed mouth.
"Ah found a bird outside." She spat out a beak onto the soft
rug.

The old woman looked at the beak, then up at Sara Lee.
Normally, the look in her eyes would have soaked anybody's
underwear with piss. Yet Sara Lee looked back with no
concern.

The old woman decided to overlook Sara Lee's manners.
Overlook, but not forget. "What have you to report?" she
asked.

"Ah talked with one of dem kids who wuz at the barn. He
don't know where the book be."

"Are you sure?"

"'Course ah'm sure. Ah had a nice, long talk with him." Sara
Lee spat out a claw.

"Does he have any idea where the book is now?"

"He say dat one of the uther kids got it. He don't know who."

The old woman nodded. Creak, the chair said. Creak.

"You want me to go talk with dem uther kids?"

"No. I'm sure the young man in question will relay your
intentions to them. If one of them has the book, then that
person might have enough brains to turn it over. If not,
then you will have to continue your efforts. Is there
anything else to report?"

"Yup. Two FBI agents just come into town. Guess ol' Sally
Ash got a couple of her Fed buddies involved in this."

"Are they going to be any trouble?"

Sara Lee rolled a shoulder, making her crossbow rise and
fall. "Nothin' ah can't handle."

"Careful, my lamb. We don't need the dead bodies of FBI
agents stirring up trouble."

"Maybe. But if you got the book, then you don't have to
worry about nothin' from nobody."

The old woman said nothing. She sipped her tea.

"So, how long we wait?"

The old woman looked at a tall clock in the corner. The
clock's face -- painted to resemble a benevolent old man --
gave time as being one in the afternoon.

"We'll give those young people until midnight. Then you
may proceed in any manner you see fit."

"You know, ah wunder -- what was it they did in dat dere barn?"

"We won't know anything until we get the book." The woman looked at Sara
Lee. "Tell me, are you...frightened?"

Sara Lee stopped chewing on the bird guts for a moment. Then she said, "No,
Miss Grant. Ah was jus' wonderin'." She tipped her hat and left the room.

The old woman rang a tiny bell. A servant immediately
rushed in and began to clean up the mud left behind by Sara
Lee's shoes as well as the bird parts. The servant make
sure not to look at the old woman in the eye. He especially
made sure not to watch as something moved under her dress.

The pink-and-white dress was a couple of sizes too large
for the old woman's thin and emaciated frame. However, the
dress was bought for two occupants, not one. That other
occupant was pressing itself against the fabric -- a long,
tube shape sliding around the old woman. "Not now, Bunyan,"
she said. "Mama's thinking."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As he faced the three young men and two young women in the
school courtyard, Mulder told himself to be "tolerant."
These were disenfranchised teenagers living in a forgotten
town. In all respectable circles, they would be simply
dismissed as hicks and disposable meat for the low-wage
industries. Yes, a lot of ugliness had come out of their
culture ranging from the KKK to violent militias. However,
they had to put up with a lot of ugliness themselves and
you had to respect that.

Of course, he still wanted to close a car door on the head
of Alex Marsh.

The seventeen-year-old lad seemed to be the unofficial
leader of the group. He was also the tallest and most surly-
looking. He did not seem grateful that Mulder had gotten
him out of class.

"He said what?"

"Albert Burnside said that you..."

"I heard you the first time."

"Oh, I'm sorry. I interpreted your comment as a question
and not as a statement of your bewilderment."

Alex narrowed his eyes. A light wind blew off a cloud of
dust from a ground which had long since given up the idea
of producing grass.

"Just because you're some government faggot don't give you
the right to talk down to me," Alex informed Mulder.

Mulder smiled. "Maybe. But it does give you the obligation
to answer my question. So, tell me...did you perform some
kind of occult ceremony that night?"

Alex folded his arms across his chest. His sleeveless
shirt gave you a full view of his tough biceps. "If Albert
Burnside says I did, then he's a dirty lying nigger."

"Well. Does anybody here substantiate Alex's side on this
issue?"

No one answered. "Sub-stan-ti-ate," Mulder said. "Verb. To
provide evidence for. To give substance or..."

"It's true."

That was Eric Gray who was a little shorter and a little
less mean-looking than Alex. Next to him, Cynthia Rogers
nodded a head loaded with a turban of blonde hair. "We
didn't have nothin' to do with no occult ceremony," she
confirmed.

Mulder turned to the remaining two. Both at fifteen, Sammy
Coburn and Jane Lexington were the babies of the group and
they looked it. Mulder noticed that they were touching the
other's hand. He also noticed the black-and-purple welt
around Sammy's eye.

"You two agree with this? That Albert Burnside is 'a dirty
lying' not-a-nice-word?'"

"Um..." Jane said.

Sammy squeezed her hand.

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess so."

"Uh-huh. How did you get the bruise, Sammy?"

"Fell down," Sammy murmured.

"Was it either Messrs. Marsh or Gray who did it?"

Sammy looked Mulder immediately in the eye. "Oh, no, sir!
It wasn't!"

"No, who did?"

Sammy's eyes shifted away.

"What the fuck are you doing here anyway, Agent Mul-DER?"
Marsh inquired. "Since how did this get to be the Feds'
concern?"

Mulder kept looking at Sammy as he answered. "It's a
concern of Agent Sally Ash."

Alex snorted. "Oh, yeah. I know about her. Local-heifer-
makes-good."

Eric and Cynthia guffawed. Mulder turned to Alex.

"Well, Alex...you have referred to me as a homosexual and
another federal agent as a cow. Sodomy and farm animals.
Are those closely related in your mind?"

Eric and Cynthia stopped laughing.

Alex took two steps towards Mulder. "Listen, you son-of-a-
bitch," he snarled. "Just because you're older than me and
carry a badge doesn't mean I can't kick your queer ass back
to Washington. If you throw away that gun of yours, I'll
show you..."

Mulder took a step towards Alex. He looked him straight in
the eye.

"You listen to me," he said quietly. "I have faced all
kinds of evil from serial killers to the simply inhuman. I
have known men who could fix it so that you never existed.
I have run into every monster that has crawled across God's
green earth. So, if you think some zit-faced redneck is
going to make me flinch, you are deep in the country of
wrong. Now...take...three...steps...back."

And Alex did just that.

Mulder looked over everybody. "I'm going to let you in on
something. I actually believe in the occult. And even
though I'm not a fundamentalist Christian, I do believe it
is not something to be messing with just to liven up a
Saturday night. Now, everybody seems to be covering up
something, including Albert. I suggest you better come
clean or you'll have bigger problems than my questions."

Mulder left the five of them to ponder that. He went to
his car and drove off. As he did, he shook his head.

"Frightening teenagers," he said to himself. "You would
make a great hall monitor."

He hoped that Scully was having easier relations with the
locals.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Dr. Nick Woolcott burst out of the morgue, his skin the
color red going on purple. Mulder had to jump to the side
or else a trembling fifty-year-old man in glasses was going
to knock him down. He looked at the swinging doors leading
to the morgue. Scully stepped through them, pulling off
bloody latex gloves from her hands. She looked much more
calm than Woolcott, but still tense.

It was 4:45 p.m. already and Mulder had been spending the
time in the local library, trying to get a fix on that
mysterious symbol. Nothing on the shelves or in the local
folklore could explain it. In the meantime, Scully was
performing a second autopsy on the remains of Charlotte
Taft with the reluctant assistance of Dr. Woolcott. After
conducting his unsuccessful research, Mulder had gone to
the town hospital whose basement also contained the morgue.

As Woolcott sped around the corner, Mulder said, "A
disagreement among professionals?"

"Something like that," Scully said. "Dr. Woolcott called
me something that starts with 'c' and ends with 't.'"

"A cat?"

"It also had a 'u' and a 'n.'"

"Coconut?"

Scully gave him a look.

"Right, right. I'm telling you, Scully, if we actually
meet someone in this town who likes us, I'll have a brain
aneurysm."

"This case makes for a tense environment," Scully said as
she tossed the gloves into a trash can. "You can understand
why people are on edge."

"Still, I'm surprised that Dr. Woolcott doesn't have a
scalpel sticking out of his thorax."

"With his skills, I'm surprised that he hasn't done it to
himself by now."

"So, the doctor did not perform a proper autopsy?"

Scully sighed and leaned against a wall. "That was an
unfair comment from me. The amount of damage done to the
victim made it to difficult to learn anything."

"What did you find out?"

"Charlotte Taft was not murdered. The evisceration occurred after death.
Most of it, anyway."

"What do you mean?"

"Charlotte committed suicide."

"How?"

"By ripping her heart out with her bare hands."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART FIVE
HAVE MERCY

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

As she walked away from Joe's Diner and felt her stomach
rumble, Audbjorg was thinking she should have let the three
men have their way with that silly little cracker bitch.
All she had accomplished was to spread the word that an
uppity nigger had come to town. Soon, every pig-fucking
redneck in Final would be breathing their moonshine-stinky
breath down her ass. What the hell was she...

No. She did the right thing. What was wrong was expecting
the world to bless you for it. Like her old boss used to
say, "The people who walk alone are often the most
righteous." Audbjorg used to tease her boss for saying such
things. "You sound like that B.S. 'Touched By An Angel'
show!" she would laugh.

Looking back on it, she wondered if she had hurt her
boss's feelings. He never let on, but you had to wonder.

She was walking alone in any case. It was also probably
best to walk straight out of town. However, she realized
that a change had occurred to Final as she crossed over the
train tracks. It turned out the town wasn't completely
dominated by whites. It had its own black section. As she
walked down the streets, she saw children riding their
bikes, old men talking on street corners, men doing
construction work on houses, women sorting out clothes in a
laundromat -- all of them African-Americans. She found
herself smiling in relief. Maybe she didn't have to leave
Final after all.

A rusty, old low-riding car passed her by. From inside,
three young black men drinking from a bagged bottle yelled
out, "Suck my dick, bee-itch!"

Audbjorg sighed. Some things never changed.

Still, she kept on walking until she reached a place
called Hornet Street. This seemed to be the place where the
black-owned businesses congregated. She walked past a
barbershop, a hardware store, a... What the hell?

The bar did not look like it belonged in daylight. It was
as black as coal with a bright red door. The wood used for
construction had not been sanded smooth. Audbjorg touched
it and felt the rough bark of a tree. A stone gargoyle was
perched atop of an unlit neon sign. The gargoyle had the
standard winged-and-forked-tongue look, but it also held a
guitar in its stone claws. The neon sigh stretched all the
way across the bar's front, spelling out "The Unspeakable
Blues Bar."

She was so fascinated by the place that she didn't notice
the other woman until she heard --

"Ahem."

Audbjorg turned to see a pretty black woman carrying two
paper bags. The woman looked at Audbjorg as if she was
learning her every secret.

"Hey," Audbjorg replied automatically.

"That's my business," the woman said in a matter-of-fact
voice.

"Oh. Well, it's...it's something."

"Want to see inside?"

"Uh...okay."

"Help me with this, will you?" The woman held out one of
the bags. Audbjorg took it. She could feel the bottles
grouped inside the bag.

The walls were as rough and black as outside. A bar ran
alongside one wall while a stage took up another. Facing
the stage was a long empty space followed by an area full
of tables and chairs. The lights had a golden tinge like
late-afternoon sunlight. The decor was attractive, but
Audbjorg didn't quite understand all the handguns and
rifles hanging from wires on the ceiling.

After they put the two bags on the counter, the woman
said, "There's a room in the back you can stay in."

"What?"

"You don't have anywhere to go, don't you?"

"Well...now that you mention it..."

"So you can stay here."

Audbjorg took a good, long look at the woman. "Are you
doing this out of fellow kindness to a sister?"

"I'm doing it because we need someone to wash dishes,
sweep the floor, carry the band equipment..."

"I get it, I get it."

"You have a problem with that?"

"No. Not at all."

The woman nodded, then held out a hand. "I'm Zola Burnside."

As she shook it, Audbjorg replied with her name. Zola
blinked and said, "Funny. You don't look Icelandic."

"Gee, I never heard that one before."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Meanwhile, in the office of Chief Shawn McDonald...

"Let me be...perfectly clear on this," he said, tapping
his fingers in front of his mustache. "Are you saying that
this young girl killed herself?"

Mulder had to resist giving Scully a grin. How many times
had he heard sentences from her beginning with "Are you
saying..."?

"That was what my autopsy has revealed," Scully said
quietly yet firmly.

"By pulling her own heart out?"

"Yes. The rest of the evisceration occurred afterwards,
but she died at her own...hands."

MacDonald tapped his fingers a few more times, then he
dropped them to his lap. "Let's say I believe this..."

Let's see you disprove it, you Bible-beating prick, Scully
thought.

"...then who mutilated the body?"

"I can't say."

"Possibly Albert Burnside?"

"Possibly. I would like to see some forensic evidence that
proves it."

"So, you don't think his presence at the crime scene
counts for anything."

"I can tell you that he's not the murderer."

McDonald lifted his fingers back up to his mustache.
"Maybe not directly."

"When you're on the witness stand, Chief, you better give
a better answer than that," Mulder warned.

MacDonald gave the agents an oily smile. "Unlike the
Godless court system you know, Agent Mulder and...Agent
Scully...the juries and the judges around here are more
aware of Satan's evil ways."

"You want to unpack that last sentence for me?"

"I am convinced that Albert was performing a Satanic
ritual that night. Charlotte..."

"Chief..."

"Let me finish. Charlotte Taft may have seen horrible
things that night...things that could driven her to
insanity. Who knows how a young mind might react when
confronted with the Prince of Darkness? Albert Burnside may
not killed that poor girl, but he certainly set the scene
for her horrible demise."

Mulder dropped back his head until he was looking at the
ceiling. He now felt very tired. "Chief...for one thing, we
don't know what kind of ceremony was being performed in
that barn. Second, we don't know who was doing what.
Third...what's my third point, Scully?"

"You're an idiot, Chief," Scully said.

Mulder lifted up his head. His expression indicated that
he wouldn't have said that exactly, but he didn't disagree
with it.

The police chief kept on smiling. "That's not a very civil
tone, little lady."

The little lady stood up. She leaned onto McDonald's desk,
hands standing on their fingertips like swords in the
ground. "I can put up with your backwoods, rock-stupid,
'suffer-not-a-woman-to-speak' bullshit," she said. "I will
NOT tolerate your efforts to railroad anybody to jail
simply because...well, I don't know what kind of motivation
gets you up in the morning, Chief, but it makes me want to
vomit all over your mustache."

"Well!" McDonald declared. "I must admit that if I were
alone in this, I would be scared right now. However..."

McDonald stood up. He pressed his own fingertips on his
desk -- the fingertips of his long, hard hands. "I am not
alone. I have three others to back me up and no man...or
woman...can stop them. They are God, Jesus and..."

McDonald stopped himself. "The Holy Ghost?" Mulder suggested.

When McDonald spoke again, his voice was even deeper and
stronger than before. His eyes looked hot enough to cook
barbeque.

"A savior has come to Final. He has brought with him the
message of God's grace. If you pay attention, you can watch
him accomplish what you can't do with your science or your
detective work. He will chase the devil from our town. Once
you see him at work, you will know how very unnecessary you
are. And you can tell that to Sally Ash."

Scully gave the chief one last look. Then she marched out
of the office.

Mulder casually got to his feet. He went to the door. He
stopped there, looked back at Chief McDonald and said --

"Oooooooh, you're in troubllllle."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Scully, I thought we agreed that pissing off local law
enforcement was my job."

Standing outside the Final Police Department, Scully gave
Mulder a look showing how pissed off *she* was.

"Come on, Scully. We've encountered people like McDonald
before."

Scully bit into her cheek.

"I think that the chief's 'backwoods bullshit' may be
affecting you more than you let on."

"I think that the chief would prefer me to stay in a
kitchen."

Mulder lifted his hands, palms towards Scully and thumbs
touching. He looked at Scully past his hands.

"Yeah, I can see it. You wearing an apron, holding the
baby, making breakfast for your man..."

"Hitting you with a frying pan..."

Mulder dropped his hands. "In any case...before we proceed
any further, I suggest we find out why the chief has it in
for Albert Burnside. We should talk to his parents."

Scully nodded. "Agreed." Then she sighed. "I'm sorry. I
shouldn't have gotten worked up like that."

"Ah, Scully, you know how aroused I get when you're angry."

She rolled her eyes.

"By the way, I wonder what the chief meant by that
'savior' crap?"

Any answer Scully would have given was superseded by a
noise bursting through the air.

"HAVE MERCY!!!"

They almost jumped out of their shoes. They spun around to
see what looked like an ice cream truck. Standing on top of
the truck was a short, thin man with a long smooth beard
and equally smooth hair. He was shouting through a
microphone into a massive pair of speakers hanging over the
front window. As a driver with an equally smooth hairdo
moved the truck slowly down the street, the man on top
yelled and danced and shook his fist. If it weren't for the
guardrail on the truck's top, he would have slipped off in
his frenzy. People on the sidewalks were stopping to
listen, cheer and wave their hands.

"OH, I FEEL THE LORD'S POWER COMING
THROUGH ME! IT'S COMING OUT OF MY
MOUTH AND MY NOSE AND MY EARS AND
EVERY ORIFICE ON MY BODY! IT MAKES ME
WANT TO DANCE! IT MAKES ME WANT TO
SCREAM! IT MAKES ME WANT TO
SSSSIIIIINNNNNG..."

While he did all of these things, the man would reach into
a bag and toss out shiny little objects. The pedestrians
would catch them, jumping up and down in glee.

"I WANT TO SEE ALL OF YOU TONIGHT! YOU
COME ON DOWN TO THE REVIVAL! WE'RE
GOING TO HAVE A SCORCHER OF A SERVICE
WHEN THE SUN GOES DOWN!"

The truck passed in front of Mulder and Scully. On the
truck was a poster with the man's pink, happy face enlarged
to the size of a satellite dish. The poster's caption read --

"BROTHER DANIEL WANTS YOU!"

Before it went on its way, Mulder and Scully each caught
whatever was being tossed. They looked at their hands. They
both had a cross-shaped candy in a gold wrapping. It was
chocolate and quite tasty.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART SIX
WHY IT CAN STINK TO BE GOOD

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Brother Daniel Hawthorne did not have enough fingers to
stick in all of his pies. At the center of his little
multimedia empire was the Traveling Show of Mercy.
Hawthorne had strutted up one end of the USA to the other,
criss-crossed the oceans and made his way across every
country you could imagine. In all four corners of the world, he
had preached so hard that it was a wonder (yea, a miracle)
his voice wasn't shot by now. The Traveling Show of Mercy
had left starry-eyed converts in every place visited.

Then there were his best selling books from Mercy
Publishing ("Get in Touch With God!", "Save Your Life
Today!" and "The Brother Daniel Cookbook"), his widely
distributed video sermons and his spoken word albums which
had cracked the Billboard 200. Mercy, Inc. also owned the
rights to the Power Preacher video game (one hundred points
for each conversion and two hundred for every smiting), the
Christian Wrestling Federation and the world's only Passion
Play on Ice.

However, all this was not enough for the president and
spiritual leader of Mercy, Inc. Brother Daniel looked over
his private industry and found something missing. It lacked
a real center. The Traveling Show of Mercy was too unfixed
to provide a real stable point. He needed an element that
would fix people's attention -- a place where the people
would come to him and not the other way around.

As usual, he prayed to the Lord for guidance. He got down
on his knees and wished for an answer. And just like when
he got the first calling to his blessed occupation many
years ago (and which also prompted another major change in
his life, but that's for later), he was shown the way.

Brother Daniel got his sign when Julius Grant got killed.
Grant was a sinister old bastard who lived a few miles out
of Final. His death had left behind a vast network of
illegal businesses, all of which were quickly divided up
and fought over by Grant's former lackeys. Brother Daniel
stepped in and bought up his own piece of Grant's criminal
organization -- The House of Solomon.

The House of Solomon was a whorehouse, debauched and weird
even by the usual standards of whorehouses. Like Grant's
house, it was located near Final. After buying it up,
Brother Daniel's first act was to chase away all the
prostitutes. His second act was to blow it up.

Standing in the charred ruins of the House of Solomon,
Brother Daniel declared, "God has granted me a wondrous
vision! On the remains of this evil place, I will build
something new and beautiful! I will construct a Mecca for
Christians everywhere! They will come to Mississippi to
worship and praise the Lord!"

Thus the Temple of the Mississippi was started. Unlike the
House of Solomon whose customers came in discreetly at
night and left quickly at daytime, the Temple promised to
be an economic blessing to Final. Surely, the faithful
would make stops in that little town and tithe at the
businesses before they prayed at Brother Daniel's creation.

Of course, as incidents like the one at Joe's Diner
showed, Final would have to accommodate a few unpleasant
elements in the meantime. Some of the construction workers
putting together the temple felt it was their right to act
badly in town. The people of Final decided to look away
from the vandalism of their property, the harassing of
women and the drunken fights.

A few complaints managed to reach the ears the chief of
police. He would nod in understanding, then go see Brother
Daniel. With the most obsequious manners, Chief McDonald
asked if maybe...you know...maybe the people working on the
temple would stop peeing on fences and throwing empty beer
bottles at the good folk of Final. "Wellllll," Brother
Daniel had said. "that is a problem. And I'll see what I
can do. But you have to understand...the road to salvation
is often a bumpy one. You tell the good folk of Final to
hang in there. When this temple is finished, it will be as
if God Himself is your mayor."

Chief McDonald would leave, fully satisfied. If the people
he served weren't happy with Brother Daniel's assurances,
they kept it to themselves.

Most of the people did, anyway. One person was decidedly
unhappy with the behavior of the construction workers and
made no bones about it as Mulder and Scully found out.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Pete Starr," Malcolm Burnside as he lit up his pipe.
"That's the name of the bastard whose ass has my footprint
on it."

Malcolm was standing on the porch of his house with Mulder
and Scully. The house was cheap, but it had been kept in
good condition. You could tell that Malcolm Burnside was
chiefly responsible for its state. He was still dressed in his
soiled blue jumpsuit with the words "BURNSIDE HOUSE
REPAIRS" on it. His strong, nimble hands could make even
lighting a pipe seem graceful. He regarded Mulder and Scully
with a respectful, cooperative look yet he was still leaving
room for mistrust. He seemed to be a man who had gotten
duped once and that was enough for him.

"Starr is one of the foremen on that monstrosity they're
building. One night, I was walking down the street when I
heard this racket. Investigating, I found this sorry excuse
for a man knocking over trash cans and smashing mail boxes
with a baseball bat. He wasn't even drunk. He was just
being stupid and mean.

"I asked him to cease and desist. He called me all the
usual stuff. You know, the golden oldies of racist epithets."

Smoke whooshed past Malcolm's lips. "Long story short...I
sent him on his way. The next thing I know, the chief of
police comes over to complain about me overstepping my
bounds. I said that I would be more than happy to keep
within my bounds if our local law enforcement would just
remove its collective noggin from its collective rectum. I
told him that he had a busload of people working for him
and all they did was paperwork and favors for Brother
Daniel. Why not have a few of them do actual police work?

"So, that brings us to this point."

"Well," Mulder said. "that clears up a few things."

"Keep in mind that he's not just out to get me," Malcolm
noted. "He's after Nadine, too."

"What did she do?"

"Do her job too goddamn well, that's what. Brother Daniel
may have control over this town's politics, but he has to
share its spiritual center with her. Nadine has done too
much for this community. They can't just toss her aside for
the first loudmouth who comes to town." Malcolm blew out
another cloud of smoke. "Not right away, in any case."

"It looks like Brother Daniel is making inroads on that."

Malcolm looked out at the final hours of daylight creeping
through the trees. He said, "She can come to their houses
and hold the hands of their dying relatives...she can make
sure everybody gets a hot meal on Thanksgiving and
Christmas...she can tell them about the boundless love of
God...but she's still a woman. And a lot of people in this
town would prefer a man as the head of the church and
that's a fact."

"Is that what the chief wants?" Scully asked.

Malcolm turned back to the agents. "The chief wants his
own son to be the next minister," he said, rolling his
eyes. "Some twerp named Johnny who's not out of high school
yet."

Then he scowled, but not at Chief McDonald and his twerp.
"Hell, would you listen to me? It's Albert who has the real
problems and I'm complaining about what's it doing to me."
He took another good look at the two FBI agents. "I
appreciate that Sally got you into this and I hope you can
get to the truth."

"Well, the truth is proving to be rather elusive," Mulder
told him.

"How so?"

Before Mulder could explain, three people on bikes pulled
into the driveway. Two of the bicyclists were children.
Both were girls. One was black. The other was white.
However, there was a deep resemblance in their features.
They also had the same quiet expression -- so calm and so
removed from the usual frenzy of childhood.

The third cyclist was a grown white woman. She looked
weary and sad. Her eyes spoke of too much work and too
little sleep. Her hair was a mess and her clothes were
wrinkled.

She was the most beautiful woman Mulder and Scully had
ever seen.

She pulled the bike up to the porch and looked at the
agents as she nudged the kickstand to the ground. Mulder
and Scully just looked back at her in astonishment.

"This is Agent Mulder and Agent Scully," Malcolm
explained. "They're from the FBI."

"Oh, yes," the woman said, then she smiled. It wasn't the
best smile she could give, but it made Mulder want to
dance. "Sally told me you were coming. I'm Rev. Burnside,
but you can call me 'Nadine.'"

"Uh...sure," Mulder said.

Nadine turned to the two girls. "You two go in and wash
up. Then you can play in your room until it's dinner time."

"Yes, Mama," the girls said at the same time, then walked
into the house after giving the agents one last solemn look.

"Why don't you two come inside, too?" Nadine asked. "Would
you like some lemonade?"

"That would be...very nice of you," Scully said.

Nadine nodded, then entered the house. Before they
followed her inside, Mulder and Scully looked at her husband.

Malcolm Burnside smiled. He wasn't being smug. He was
telling them that he couldn't believe his good luck, either.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Audbjorg watched Brother Daniel's truck go by as she
helped Zola toss the garbage into the dumpster. "What the
hell was that?" she asked.

"That's the reason why we're not open tonight," Zola
sighed. "We can't compete when Brother Daniel has one of
his revivals."

The last bag was tossed in. Zola offered Audbjorg a
cigarette which the latter woman accepted. Zola lit one up
herself.

"So," Zola said. "where are you from?"

Audbjorg laughed. "Everywhere, I guess."

"You're saying you've been on the road your whole life?"

Audbjorg considered her answer. "No. Not exactly."

"So, what were you doing before then?"

"Everybody has a private life, Miss Burnside."

"Call me Zola. And I guess they do, Audbjorg. But I would
like to know if you're running from the law."

Audbjorg shook her head. Zola examined the other woman --
her long body, her balanced poise.

"Were you a cop?" Zola asked.

Audbjorg blinked. "What makes you say that?"

"You look like someone who used to be in a position of
authority. Were you?"

"Um...it's really hard to explain." Actually, it was very
easy to explain. The hard part was getting the other person
to adjust.

Zola stuck out her lower lip and blew a plume of smoke
straight upwards. Then she shrugged. "Well, you don't have
to explain. Just do your work, make no trouble and you'll
be fine as I'm concerned."

"Thank you."

"Of course, you're getting this night off. Tomorrow will
be a long one, though. A.C. and Meyer are playing."

"Sorry?"

"They're my brother and nephew and they've got one of
the biggest blues act in the country now. They're coming
back to Final for a hometown gig. The place is going to be
wild that night, let me tell you. I'm surprised you haven't
heard of them."

"Well, I'm not a fan of the blues."

Zola couldn't help but frown. "Do you like jazz?" she asked.

"No, not that, either."

"What music do you like then?"

"Country."

Zola stared at Audbjorg, then her laughter came out loud
and hard.

"What?" Audbjorg said. "What?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing. It's just that..." Zola giggled.
"...when I think of country, I think of drunken rednecks
trying to line dance and..."

"Hey!"

"...yodelers who sound like they got their dicks chopped
off."

"I'll have you know that there's a lot more to it than
that. There's a lot more soul. Furthermore, country
musicians know something blues and jazz musicians don't."

"And what's that?"

"They know when to end a goddamned solo."

"Hmm. Point taken."

The two women looked at each other, then they both smiled.
"I think we're going to get along fine, Audbjorg," Zola said.

"Yeah, I think..."

Suddenly, Audbjorg's cigarette exploded like a
firecracker. Audbjorg leapt back two feet as she hurled the
burning paper away from her. It sizzled for a second more
on the ground and then was merely ash.

"You okay?" Zola asked.

Audbjorg checked her hand and found no burns. "Yeah,
I'm..." Then she looked up at Zola. The expression on the
other woman's face was calm and relaxed. Zola held her own
cigarette with no concern.

"What the fuck was that?" Audbjorg demanded.

"That's just...Final. Strange things happen. More so than
lately, but..." Zola shrugged, then took another drag off
her cigarette.

Audbjorg felt her stomach spin. She rushed back into the
bar and ran all the way to the bathroom. Zola followed
behind her. In the bathroom, she heard Audbjorg retching in
one of the stalls. After Audbjorg seemed to be finished
with that, she asked --

"Are you sure you're going to be okay?"

"Yeah...yeah, I'll be fine..."

"Having second doubts about working here?"

"No, I...I've seen some strange things myself. I was
just...a little caught off guard, that's all."

Zola nodded. "Tell you what...I can finish up the rest of
the work myself. You just take it easy, okay?"

"Thanks."

Zola left the bathroom. In her stall, Audbjorg took a
breath and looked up. She saw an arrow pointing back down
to the toilet where yellow-and-green chunks now drifted.
Above the arrow was a sign that read "YOU WRITE ON
THE WALLS, YOUR HEAD GOES IN THERE. -- THE
MANAGEMENT." The walls were clean and unmarked.

Audbjorg closed her eyes and leaned against the wall. She
had been right. There was something very wrong in this
town. The exploding cigarette hadn't just been a little bit
of voodoo weirdness. Like she said, she had seen plenty of
that before.

What made her queasy was what she saw at that moment. It
had been just a brief glimpse and she could have given no
exact details. However, she was certain of this -- there
was a force at work in Final, Mississippi. It wasn't fully
embodied yet, but it was steadily taking shape. Soon, it
would be walking the streets like a killer looking for its
prey.

She should get out of town right now.

But that wouldn't be right, would it?

Damn, she thought. Why do I have to be so fucking noble?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART SEVEN
NO RESPECT FOR LITERATURE

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"We gotta stop this! It's getting all fucked up!"

"Shut up."

"Please, Alex, we can't..."

Thump. "I said, shut up."

Sammy Coburn stepped back from Alex, nursing his cheek.
Jane rushed to his side, opening her mouth to protest.

"I don't want to hear no shit from you, either," Alex
warned her.

She closed her mouth. Alex looked over everybody, making
sure no one else would talk while he was talking. They were
gathered in his bedroom. The walls of the bedroom were
covered with pictures of auto wrecks and plane crashes. ("I
just like looking at them" was his only explanation for the
decor.) A rifle was propped up against an unmade bed and a
couple of empty whiskey bottles laid on the dresser.

Alex and his four acquaintances usually gathered in his
house for powwows on important issues. His parents did not
interfere with these meetings. At this time of day, the
mother was usually too drunk to care and Alex's father was
working the second shift at the chicken-processing plant.
That left Alex to conduct his business unchallenged.

"Before we all start acting like a bunch of pussies," Alex
said, throwing a meaningful glance at Sammy. "keep in mind
that the chief don't suspect us of nothing. As far as he's
concerned, he's got the right person. And *before* you
start saying that Albert is innocent, also keep in mind
that we don't know what the hell happened in that barn. And
we never asked that nigger to come anyway."

Jane flinched as Alex gave her another look. It had been
her idea to invite Charlotte to their party. She had been
as surprised as anyone when Charlotte arrived with Albert.
Personally, Jane didn't have anything against the colored,
but that sort of thing...well, it just wasn't done.
Luckily, by then, people were too drunk or high to care.
Even Alex had placed his arm around Albert's shoulder and
said, "You ain't such a bad little spearchunker." Albert
just smiled in reply.

Of course, later on, there would be a visitor no one could
handle.

"Shit, I don't know even why he and Charlotte stayed in
that barn," Alex said. "I mean, we had the sense to run,
right?"

"Well, you were sure running fast, that I know," Eric
commented with a grin. Cynthia laughed, but her laughter
stopped and Eric's grin disappeared when Alex glared at them.

"My point is..." Alex said in a low voice. "...we got
nothing to worry about."

"But the woman..." Sammy started to say.

"Oh, would you quit it about that woman! If she's got a
problem, then she can talk to me! Is beating you up
supposed to scare me? Shit, one of those fucking
Teletubbies could beat you up, Sammy. She wants to mess
with me and I'll shove my boot right up her twat."

Sammy said nothing. He was a man caught between too many
fears. He was afraid of the cold-faced woman who had
threatened him. He was afraid of Alex Marsh. He was afraid
of that FBI agent.

And he was afraid of what he had seen in that barn.

"Yeah, you'll stand up to her just like you did to that
FBI agent," Cynthia sneered.

"Eric," Alex said. "tell your ugly bitch of a girlfriend
to shut up or I'll shove her straight up into her hair."

Cynthia's mouth dropped open. She looked to Eric to defend
her honor.

"Shut up, Cynthia," Eric muttered, shifting on his feet
and knowing it would be a long, long time before he got to
second base with her again, if ever.

"I didn't back down," Alex insisted. "I'm just biding my
time before I can give that pretty boy the ass-whuppin' of
his life."

No one contradicted him.

"We don't have to worry about him. We don't have to worry
about no strange woman. We don't have to worry about the
chief or anybody. We're safe."

Jane whispered something.

"What? What did you say?"

"What about...the book?"

"That's been taken care of. Don't worry about that, either."

"But where is..."

"What did I just get through saying?"

Jane said nothing more.

"As long as we keep our mouths shut, everything will just
pass over us. And..." For the first time, Alex smiled.
"...we still have the book. I'm telling you right now...I'm
keeping it. Yeah, things got a little crazy, but think
about it, folks. Think about what we can do with it. That
book is the best thing to ever happen to us in this
craphole of a town. Ain't nobody gonna take it away from me."

That concluded the discussion on the subject. No one dared
to raise a doubt in the face of Alex Marsh's authority. No
one even mentioned what they had seen in that barn...what
had risen out of the square Alex had drawn in blood on the
ground. In a tight situation like this, the control of
someone like Alex over a group either shatters or becomes
even tighter than before. Eric, Cynthia, Sammy and Jane
acquiesced to Alex simply because they needed a leader.

Of course, Alex was wrong on just about everything. He
didn't even know that someone else had taken an interest in
them. That person was sitting in his car with binoculars
and watching Alex through a bedroom window. Like Mulder,
this man strongly suspected Alex's crew of being more
involved in Charlotte's death than that dipshit chief of
police believed. When George Kane had first tried to
interview Alex, the young man had refused to speak and
expressed a lack of respect for Kane's profession. "All
writers are faggots, pussies and geeks," he had sneered.

Never insult a writer, Kane thought. They can hold a
grudge until the end of time.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

When Nadine Burnside offers you a glass of lemonade, you
find yourself opening up on a lot of things. Mulder and
Scully ended up telling her and her husband everything
their investigation had revealed.

After they got done, Malcolm reached from the chair he was
sitting in and slowly tapped his pipe three times into an
ash tray. Then he laid his pipe next to the ashtray, folded
his hands together and looked at the FBI agents from his
hunched position. Mulder and Scully were seated on a couch.
Nadine was leaning against a wall, arms over her chest.

"So you can prove my son is innocent."

"We can prove that he didn't kill Charlotte in a direct
way," Scully explained. "But Chief McDonald seems to
believe that the jury's imagination will accept his devil-
worship theory."

Malcolm's hands pressed together until the veins bulged.
Then he said, "God damn this town." He stood up and strode
back outside. A few moments later, the sound of a hammer
striking metal rang out from the back yard.

"This is how my husband likes to work out his tension,"
Nadine explained. "It's best that we leave him alone for
awhile."

"That's exactly what I was thinking," Mulder replied.

Scully said, "Reverend Burn...Nadine...maybe I don't know
enough about the ways of Final, but I'm convinced that we
can clear your son's name."

"Bless you," Nadine told her. The way she said it made
Scully think she ought to be glowing right now.

"However...one of our main obstacles is your son's own
reluctance to talk. He's hiding something and he'll
continue to be in trouble until he speaks openly about it."

"Yes. I know."

"Nadine," Mulder said, liking the way that name came off
his tongue. "was your son..." He stopped himself.

"Was he involved in any kind of Satanic cult?"

"Well...was he?"

"My son has gotten...burnt-out, I guess you can say. By
all rights, he shouldn't have been with Alex Marsh and his
bunch on that night."

"Are you saying that Charlotte Taft was a bad influence?"

"Oh, no. Actually, Charlotte was a very sweet young woman.
A bit wild, perhaps, but...well, it takes a certain amount
of character for a white woman to date a black man in this
town."

"Or to marry one?"

"Um...well, I guess I'm kind of tooting my own horn here,
but...I was glad that she and Albert were dating. I thought
that perhaps with her help, I could..."

Nadine closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened her
eyes, there was a haunted look in their rich blueness. She
said, "The chief is right."

"About what?"

"There was an evil presence in that barn. Something
horrible did drive Charlotte to...to do the thing she did.
And Albert knows what it is."

It was silent in the living room, a strong contrast to the
ringing metal outside.

Then Mulder said, "Nadine...this is going to sound
strange, but when I saw you...and I think I speak for Agent
Scully, too...but I had the feeling..."

"That we had met before?" She nodded. "I had the same
feeling."

Then Nadine walked over to the FBI agents and got down on
her knees before them. Mulder and Scully almost jerked back
in astonishment.

"You know what I think?" she asked quietly.

They both shook their heads.

"I think you were sent here by God."

A particularly loud clang was heard as if Malcolm had just
busted a hole in a bank vault.

"You have been sent not just to save my son, but to save
all of us from the evil walking among us."

"Uh..." Mulder replied.

"Um..." Scully added.

Nadine held up her perfectly-shaped hands to them. "Will
you pray with me?"

What else could they say? They got down on her knees with
her and they all held hands as Malcolm continued to bang
metal outside.

"Dear Lord, guide us through these troubled times..."

Bang. Crash.

"...and grant upon your servants Agent Mulder and Agent
Scully the wisdom to find the truth."

Shriek. Clunk. Boom.

"Please protect the town of Final from the evil that has
beset us. Please show mercy on all who dwell here."

Crash.

"However..."

Bang.

"...I can tell you right now...that I will do whatever I
can to protect my son..."

Clunk.

"...and if anyone of these assholes in town try to hurt
him..."

Mulder and Scully opened their eyes to look at Nadine.

"...I will send them back to the shit they grew from."

Crash. Boom.

"Amen."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Glory Hallejuah! Oh, my goodness gracious, this will be a
night to remember!"

Chief McDonald nodded in happy agreement as he followed
Brother Daniel up the aisles of the makeshift church. In an
open field at the edge of Final, a wide tent had been
stretched out over rows and rows of folding chairs. Around
the tent, a crew was setting up the big television screens
and speakers. A stage had planted in front of the chairs
complete with a drum kit, an organ, a microphone and a tall
iron cross.

Brother Daniel hopped onto the stage and danced all over
it like a kid who has just eaten ten candy bars. Once
again, McDonald was amazed by how much energy was in
Brother Daniel's little body.

"I can feel it coming!" the preacher declared. "Lord have
MERCY! I can feel it coming! Can't you feel it coming,
Shawn?"

"Yes, I can, Brother Daniel."

"Oh, say it like you mean it, Chief!"

"YES, I CAN, BROTHER DANIEL!"

Brother Daniel laughed in delight. It was a sound that
always made the police chief's heart glad, but...there was
always this odd little doubt in his mind. For the hundredth
time, he couldn't help but hear something odd in the
preacher's voice. Or see something strange in his features.
However, as usual, he pushed these doubts aside.

"Oh, my, my, my!" Brother Daniel continued. "This will be
the best revival we ever had in Final!"

"I'm sure it will be."

"I just hope nothing happens to mess it up." Brother
Daniel was still smiling, but now there was an undercurrent
of sternness in his voice. McDonald got worried.

"By the way, while I've got you here, Chief...there's a
little matter I would like to bring to your attention. Just
a little trifling problem that needs a solution."

"Wh-what is it, Brother Daniel?"

"A few of the good men who are working to construct the
glorious Temple of the Mississippi, God bless them...they
had some trouble today. They were attacked. By a woman of
the Negroid persuasion."

The back of McDonald's neck got warm. "Zola Burnside," he
muttered.

"Oh, no, not her. No, this was a strange woman. Looked
like some hiker or something. Had a very nasty-looking
knife in her possession. If you ever come across her..."

"Of course, Brother Daniel. Of course."

"Fine. Fine and dandy. Well, lookee who's here!"

McDonald turned to see a man walking towards the stage. He
was the kind of man you only looked at once, if at all. He
was a ghost of a person -- quiet and unremarkable.

"Mr. Rogers has returned to us!"

"Good evening, Brother Daniel. Chief." Mr. Rogers was as
quiet and formal as his appearance.

"I take it that the business up North has been taken care
of," Brother Daniel said.

"Of course, sir."

"Outstanding! I'm telling you, Chief, this man has been a
blessing to Mercy, Inc.! There's nothing he can't handle!
And to think that his talents were once in the service of
that sinner Julius Grant! He was actually in charge of that
ghastly House of Solomon! But not anymore, right, Mr.
Rogers?"

"No, sir."

"You've been saved, haven't you, son?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have mercy!"

Mr. Rogers looked around him. "I see that I came back in
time for your weekly in-town revival."

"M-hm. And, my goodness gracious, does this town need the
Holy Spirit more than ever!"

"How so, sir?"

"You must have been real busy with your work up North,
Mister Rogers," McDonald said. "We were just visited by the
devil himself when you were away."

The brief spark of alertness in Mister Rogers's eyes
happened so quickly that Brother Daniel and the police
chief missed it. "What do you mean exactly?" he asked, his
voice unchanged.

He was told about the murder of Charlotte Taft and the
mysterious symbol found at the crime scene. He nodded, then
asked if he could have the police files about the case.

"I've already given everything I have to Brother Daniel,"
McDonald asked. "But why are you interested?"

"Oh, I'm sure ol' Mr. Rogers has gotten something good up
his sleeve," Brother Daniel assured the chief. "He's
probably thinking up some way to knock the devil right back
into his smelly, black pit! Ain't that right, Mr. Rogers?"

"Yes, sir. Where are the files now?"

"Back at my office."

"If you may excuse me, sir..."

"Of course, son, of course. God bless you."

Mr. Rogers left the preacher and the police chief. His
grip on his briefcase was tight. He tried not to walk too
quickly.

I'm stupid, he thought. Stupid, stupid. I should have been
keeping closer tabs on Final while I was gone. This might
be the very thing I had been looking for.

He went off to serve his true master.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The barn had not been touched since the murder. Yellow
police ribbons still cut off the entrance. Charlotte Taft's
blood still streaked the wooden floor.

The square was still there.

The barn had received no visitors. There had been a few
who had braved a look at it, but they couldn't get within
fifty feet before running off. Even the police didn't want
to return. It stood alone in an abandoned farm whose last
owner had killed himself by throwing himself into a wheat
shredder.

If there had been regular visitors to the barn, they might
have noticed an odd thing. There was less blood on the
floor than before. You might have assumed that it had just
evaporated or faded away, but the square written in blood
was still as red and thick as when it was first drawn. Only
Charlotte's blood was disappearing.

Had you been there at the right moment, you could have
seen another streak of blood vanish from the floor.

You could have heard a growl underneath the floor.

Something below was hungry.

Very hungry.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART EIGHT
A HOLY COMMOTION

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"I'm not sure this is one of your better ideas, Mulder."

"And I'm not sure when you ever liked my ideas."

"You know what I mean."

Mulder looked out at the darkness beyond the lighted porch
of the Burnside house. "You mean, is it a good idea for
Nadine Burnside to go right into the lion's den?"

"Something like that. So why did you suggest it?"

"Because nobody in this town is going to listen to agents
from the 'fural goobment.' They'll listen to her."

"You think so?"

"People would listen to that woman read a electrician's
manual."

Scully smiled. "I think somebody has a crush."

"For heaven's sake, Scully, Harvey Fierstein would have a
crush on that woman."

"Point taken. But this plan could go sour..."

"That's why we're coming with here. Just in case the
townfolk..."

They realized that there was someone else on the porch.
They turned and saw the two Burnside girls looking back up
at them with solemn faces.

"Uh, hi," Mulder said. "Good evening."

The two girls examined the grown-ups very carefully. Then
they stepped forward. Mulder and Scully got out of their
way. The girls halted at the very edge of the porch.

They watched the darkness.

"It's out there," the black girl said.

"It's hiding," the white girl added.

"It's waiting..."

"...for the right moment..."

"...to show itself."

"What's waiting?" Mulder asked.

The two girls turned to Mulder and said in unison, "We
don't know."

"How do you know...it's out there?" Scully asked.

The heads of the two girls shifted to her. "We just do."

Mulder and Scully looked at each other. Then Scully said,
"I'm sorry, but we didn't catch your names."

"She's Etta," the white girl said.

"She's Sue," the black girl said.

"We're sisters," they concluded together.

"Does this...thing out there have anything to do with your
brother?" Mulder asked.

"It was in the barn," Sue explained.

"It wants to do more," Etta added.

"People are saying that it's the devil," Mulder told them.

The girls looked at each other. They seemed to be in
disbelief at this man's ignorance. They turned back to
Mulder. Etta said, "There are more bad things than just
the devil."

"Lots of things," Sue assured him.

Nadine and Malcolm stepped outside. Nadine had just taken
some time with her clothes and her makeup, the final
results being stunning, of course. "I'm ready to go," she
said, then knelt down to her two daughters. "Daddy will
look after you while I'm gone. Be good."

"We will," Sue and Etta chimed, then hugged their mother.

"Agent Mulder?" Malcolm said.

"Yes?"

"You do know that if Nadine gets harmed because of this,
I'll introduce your face to your ass. Right?"

"Right."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Audbjorg wasn't so sure if she was having such a good
idea, either. Earlier, she had told Zola about the three
men she had scared off. Zola explained about The Temple and
the hold Brother Daniel had on the town.

"You might want to lay low in the bar," Zola warned.

"Probably."

"Definitely, girl. You really scared off those sons-of-
bitches?"

Audbjorg showed her the knife.

"I guess you did."

Audbjorg decided to lie a mite less low than her employer had
recommended. Zola had left her alone in the bar to go home.
She had also given Audbjorg a spare key. Audbjorg used the
key to lock up as she left the Unspeakable Blues Bar for
the revival. She kept a careful eye out as she walked
through the darkened streets of Final.

When she arrived on the scene of the revival, a large
crowd had already formed. Actually, it was two crowds. One
was white and gathered under the tent. The other was black
and were sitting about twenty feet back from the tent.
Surprise, surprise.

Audbjorg sat herself at the edge of the black crowd, close
enough to hear them but far away enough not to be noticed.
She listened carefully to their conversations. The main
reason she came to the revival was to pick up more
information about current events in Final.

One of the first things she learned was why Zola kept the
bar closed on such nights. The black crowd was laughing and
talking loudly as they passed around the booze. They had
blankets spread out on the ground. Ice cream and hamburgers
were being eaten in great quantities. It puzzled Audbjorg
at first, but then she noticed how quiet the white people
were. They were just sitting in their chairs and waiting.

Waiting to go nuts.

No wonder Zola closed down the bar, Audbjorg thought. What
blues band could compete with the sight of one hundred
honkies in an evangelical fervor?

As she listened, Audbjorg learned about other things. She
learned about the crime committed up in the barn. She found
out that it was the minister's own son who was being
charged with the murder. And she kept hearing something
about a mysterious square symbol. She could only get a
vague sense of what the symbol looked like from their
descriptions. Her memory couldn't come up with anything
that resembled it.

Her thoughts were cut in two by the sound of a cracking
drum and a thunderous organ. The instruments were joined by
bass, guitar, a full horn section. They may have called it
gospel, but it was rock 'n roll anyway you cut it.

Then Brother Daniel took the stage, his big grin exploding
on the t.v. screen as the cameras zoomed in on him. From
the speakers came the mighty sound of --

"HAVE MERCY!"

What followed next was borderline chaos. As the band
played funky little grooves, Brother Daniel shouted out
scripture, stomped his feet and ripped off his jacket. In
return, his congregation writhed, spoke in tongues and sent
a million "Amen"'s up to the stars.

The black people got into it as much as the white people.
Why shouldn't they? Hell, they helped invent this shit.
They completely lost their amusement and clapped and sang
as hard as the white people. Even Audbjorg was swept into
the feeling.

However, she was not so swept up that she didn't hear a
voice say --

"It's not exactly a Presbyterian service, is it?"

She turned to see three people. Two were attractive. One
was spellbindingly beautiful. The first two were dressed in
dark clothes and had a 'cop feel' to them. They were close
to the beautiful woman as she walked towards the tent.

For some reason, Audbjorg thought "Uh-oh."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Brother Daniel could sense a little trouble coming. He saw
heads turning towards the back. He heard a lessening in
volume of the clapping and singing.

The cause of the disturbance came up the aisle. The Rev.
Nadine Burnside was heading towards the stage with a man
and woman trailing behind. Nadine kept her eyes fixed on
Brother Daniel, giving no attention to the man who was
writhing on the ground in a religious fervor. She just
stepped over him.

With one wave of his hand, Brother Daniel ordered the
music silenced. Then he said, "Well, well, well...I do spy
a fellow minister in the audience. Welcome, Sister Burnside."

The last remnants of dancing and testifying vanished. Now,
everybody was focused on Brother Daniel and the mother of
the most hated teenager in Final.

"You have something you want to tell us?" Brother Daniel
asked. He bent down on the stage and pointed his microphone
at Nadine. It went without saying that she wouldn't be
allowed onto the stage.

Nadine walked up to the microphone and said, "Yes. I do."

She turned to the audience, her mouth close to the mike.
When she spoke, there was no anger. At least, there was no
anger she showed. Her voice was calm, measured, even
understanding. "Over a week ago, a horrible crime was
committed. Most of you believe that my son was the one
responsible for this."

She took a breath. "I am willing to accept this
possibility. However, all the facts must be presented..."

The microphone jumped up to the mouth of Brother Daniel.
"Well, we know what the facts are, don't we, ladies and
gentlemen? The devil is out to get us all and the only way
to protect ourselves is know Jesus, ain't that right?"

"Hallejuah!" the crowd shouted back. "That's right!" That
is to say, the white crowd shouted. The black crowd was
silent. Obviously, the Rev. Burnside was a lot more popular
among the blacks than the whites. Unfortunately, very few
of them went to the Final Baptist Church. That was located
on the wrong side of town for them. The reverend had been
doing her best to make the church more integrated, but to
no avail. Race was still a high dividing wall.  The Church
remained a white institution.

However, they were all on the same spot right now, weren't
they?

Audbjorg felt the growing anger in the black crowd. "Look
at him treat the reverend like that..." they whispered. It
was an infectious anger. It hadn't taken long for her to
develop a liking for Nadine Burnside and it had taken even
less time to figure out the cards were stacked against her.
And this asshole preacher was doing the dealing.

The anger was so intense that she didn't really think
about what she was doing. Her urge to protect Nadine
Burnside was too strong. She just sneaked quietly towards
the tent, one hand under her jacket.

After getting enough praise out of the white crowd,
Brother Daniel lowered the microphone back down to Nadine,
an innocent look on his face.

Nadine took another breath.

"One fact has been brought to my attention...as well as to
the attention of Chief McDonald..."

Near a corner of the tent, Chief McDonald stood. The hair
on the back of his neck was literally bristling. He looked
over at Mulder and Scully. By all rights, his eyes should
have turned them to stone.

"This is Agents Mulder and Scully. They're with the FBI."
Nadine indicated the two people standing in the aisle.
Mulder gave the audience a nervous wave. No one waved back.

"They have looked into this case and it is their
conclusion..." Nadine took one more breath. "...that
Charlotte Taft killed herself."

The roar out of the whites was loud and quick. As loud as
it was, though, one out of the many voices cut through it
all. It was to that voice that the others deferred.

It belonged to a man in the front row. He had jumped to
his feet and was staring at Nadine with a fury that made
his body tremble. Mulder and Scully didn't need to be told
who he was or who was the woman sitting next to him. They
had the look of grief which the agents had seen in a
hundred other parents -- the grief of loss to a horrible
crime.

"How dare you?" Mr. Taft cried out. "How dare you lay your
son's crime on my daughter?"

"Mr. Taft, please..."

"Your boy killed her! And I hope that filthy nigger rots
in hell!"

It wasn't like the black crowd hadn't heard that word
before. And, sure, Mr. Taft was a grieving father and the
things he said in grief shouldn't be taken literally.

That didn't keep them from getting to their feet and
shouting their dismay at Mr. Taft. Mr. Taft then turned to
them and starting using *that* word in reference to them.
The white audience joined him in the usage. Meanwhile,
Nadine Burnside had grabbed the microphone from Brother
Daniel. "Please, everyone!" she begged. "Settle down!"

Brother Daniel glared at McDonald. His eyes said, "That
bitch took my microphone from me!" McDonald stomped towards
her for the purpose of dragging her out of the tent.

He was within a few feet of her when Agent Scully stepped
in his way. Mulder was a few steps behind her. He kept away
from this confrontation, not sure if he should play
peacekeeper or just watch.

"Get out of my way!" McDonald ordered.

"She's not the problem, Chief! They are!" Scully pointed
at the two crowds standing with just a few feet between
them and getting louder in their abuse of each other.

McDonald grabbed the little red-haired woman, ready to
toss her over the stage. Mulder took a step forward.

Then he stopped.

He stopped because Scully had just kicked McDonald in the
knee. As the police chief squawked, Scully took him by the
shirt and yanked him downward. At the same time, she
bounced and drove the top of her head into his chin. Neat,
Mulder thought as McDonald fell back on his ass and looked
up at the tent with a dazed expression.

Mulder's admiration was cut short when he saw three of
McDonald's deputies running towards Scully. Mulder was more
in a pickle than ever. What could he do? Grab Scully and
run away? She didn't want to do that. Get in a fight with
the local law enforcement? That would be lovely. Try to be
diplomatic and calm everyone down? Not likely to work.

He realized that the situation was rapidly transforming
into a big pile of shit.

He was still trying to decide when a woman jumped right
between Scully and the deputies. It wasn't clear what she
direction she had come from. What was clear was that she
was holding the scariest-looking knife Mulder had ever
witnessed -- scary enough to stop the deputies in their
tracks.

For a brief moment, Mulder had a sense of security.

Then one of the stage crew -- a man with a bandage on one
ear -- yelled out, "That's the nigger slut who cut me!"

Many of the whites turned from the black crowd and saw a
black woman carrying a knife. This is not a sight many
white people like to see. It was also the same moment that
a person in the black crowd chose to throw a picnic basket
into the white crowd.

And that was that.

The line was crossed.

Chairs were being picked up.

More knives were being drawn.

People were moving on anyone else who was pissing them off.

Nadine called out, "Please, stop!"

Brother Daniel was being whisked away by security guards.

The first punch was thrown.

McDonald pulled himself back up.

One of the deputies was reaching for his gun.

Mulder was wondering if this had been such a good idea
after all.

Then, just at the very moment when the whole crowd should
have clenched together into one violent mass and the blood
should have flown...

A shot rang out, big and thunderous. A hole ripped open in
the tent roof.

And then as everybody froze --

"SIT DOWN AND SHUT UP, YOU STUPID MAMMY-
FUCKERS!"

Two hundred people turned to see a squat-bodied, bald-
headed black man with a shotgun in his hands. He had just
arrived at the scene and was not pleased with what he had
found. Then, again, he didn't look like the type who was
ever pleased.

He stomped past the silenced crowd and onto the stage. He
glared at everybody.

"WELL?"

Everybody sat down.

'Cause A.C. Burnside was back in town.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART NINE
MIDNIGHT

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Not everybody important to this story was at Brother
Daniel's revival. Here was what a few others were doing.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

George Kane was not exactly a respected writer. A reviewer
from The New York Times described his books as "turgid and
sensationalist." The Washington Post judged him to be
"lurid and reckless." A critic from The Baffler had this to
say -- "Reading George Kane is the literary equivalent of
sucking the puss out of a pimple located on the backside of
an ox."

This criticisms were all fair estimations of George Kane's
prose. However, the personal deficiency Kane had as a
writer was made up in other areas. For instance, while he
may have been a fourth-rate writer, he was a first-class
sneak.

This talent served him well when it came to following Alex
Marsh. Granted that Alex wasn't the brightest stone in the
pile, but you have to be impressed by the fact that Alex
had no idea he was being watched. Of course, Alex had a
higher estimate of his own cleverness. After all, he was
smart enough to take the book out of his house, right? He
was clever enough to find a new hiding spot, correct? And
no one would think to look for it in that oak tree located
near the school, wouldn't they?

Well...

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Not everything important to the story was happening in
Final. For instance, back in D.C., Assistant Director
Walter Skinner was kicked out of sleep by a ringing phone.

Skinner did not like getting calls while he was sleep.

He liked hearing the kind of information the phone call
gave him even less.

Agent Sally Ash wasn't too fond of getting calls in the
middle of the night, either. "What the fuck do you want?"
was the first thing out of her mouth.

"Agent Ash, this is Skinner."

"Oh...uh..."

"Agent Ash, you and I are going down to Final."

"We are?"

"Yes. Mulder and Scully have gotten into trouble with the
local law enforcement."

"You mean, Sheriff McDonald? Well, he's an asshole."

"Whatever he is, he has filed a complaint against Mulder
and Scully. I need to go down there and straighten this
mess out. And I need you because I need an agent who knows
this town's ways."

"Sir, I would like to help you, but my A.D. won't..."

"I've already straightened it out with your A.D. Now, are
you coming or not?"

After saying the only answer she could give, Sally hung up
the phone. Then she heard, "Well, ain't that a kick in the
pants?"

Sally gave a hostile look to the man at the foot of her bed.

"Don't give me that look, Sally. Skinner is just making
you do what you should be doing."

"For Christ's sake! You don't think I want to help?"

"What else am I supposed to think?"

"I've got no idea what you're thinking, you son-of-a-
bitch. You keep telling me there's something important down
there, but then you won't tell me what it is!"

The man sighed. "I can't just tell you. There are certain
rules on my side of the fence. I'm stretching them far
enough just being here."

"Well, can't you give me anything else?"

The man said nothing for a long time.

Then he said, "Exodus 4, verses 24 through 26."

"What?"

"Exodus 4, 24 through 26. Read it, woman."

"But what is that supposed to..."

The man vanished.

"You lousy cocksucker! Get back here!"

He didn't.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Why, you puke-eating, tight-assed, shit-licking mule-
fucker you! How you doin'?"

"Fine, sir," Mr. Rogers answered. He was talking with
someone in the basement of his house. The basement had a
cast-iron lock on the door and all the windows were covered
with bricks. Nobody -- *nobody* -- got into his basement
without his key.

"I haven't seen you in the longest time. That Brother Son-
of-a-Bitch must be working you hard, huh?"

'Yes, sir. I..."

"Well, you know what to do if he gets too out of line,
right?" The cackling laughter echoed through the basement.
"I do declare, when you told me his secret, I would have
shit in my pants if I had any. Course, I can't even take a
shit, either."

"Sir..."

"Don't leave me alone too long down here, Mr. Rogers. It's
a sad state of affairs when a man can't even play with
himself to pass the time..."

"Um, sir?"

"Yep?"

"I may have discovered who took the Swamp Bible."

There was a brief pause, then Mr. Rogers was ordered to
tell all. He did.

"Hmmmm. Well, Mr. Rogers, I think you're on the right
track there. Yes, I would definitely look into these brats."

"One more thing, sir." Mr. Rogers reached into his pocket
and pulled out a drawing he had made. "This was the symbol
they found in the barn. Does this mean anything?"

A long period of silence, this time.

"Sir? Do you recognize it?"

"Oh, Jesus Christ with a hard-on..."

"Sir?"

"Oh, the angels are pissing on us! Of all the fucking
ceremonies they could have...oh, God, God, God!..."

"Sir, if you would just tell me..."

"Why did they do it? Why did those pimply little
hayseeds...oh, fuck, why didn't I just rip that page out?
Well, I never thought anybody would be stupid enough to try
it! Sweet mother of shit!"

"Sir!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Rogers...but...oh, Lordy..."

"Am I take it, sir, that these young people really are the
ones who stole your book?"

"You're holding the goddamned proof in your hands. There's
only one place they could have gotten that symbol and that
was in the mother-loving Swamp Bible."

"Am I to also take it, sir, that performing this ceremony
has undesirable consequences?"

"You may take it, Mr. Rogers, that we are in enough shit
to fuel the Space Shuttle."

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The clock read eleven-fifty-six P.M.

Sammy Coburn was wide awake in his bedroom. He kept
rubbing his hands together over and over.

When he heard the tap on his window, his heart almost
stopped. Then he saw Jane on the other side of the glass.

After he let Jane in through the window, he said, "Jane,
what are you doing here? If my parents find us together..."

"We've got bigger problems than your parents."

He sighed as he closed the window. "Yeah, I know."

"Sammy, we gotta tell the police about what happened."

"Oh, and just how are we going to do that? 'Hey, Chief,
guess what? We all performed some kind of weird ceremony
and then this big..."

"This isn't right, Sammy! Albert shouldn't be in jail!"

The clock now read 11:57 p.m.

Sammy looked down at his feet. "What do we tell Alex?" he
muttered.

"Oh, fuck Alex! He don't care about anybody!"

"Yeah, but...he's still got the book. If we talk, maybe he
could use it to...you know, do things to us."

"Alex has no idea how to use that book and you know it. If
he did, Charlotte would still be..."

Jane closed her eyes. Then the sobs broke out of her.
Sammy held her in his arms.

11:58.

"Okay, Jane. We'll go to the police. We'll tell them
everything. Of course, I don't know if they'll believe us..."

"We have to do this," Jane sniffed.

"I know."

They continued to hold each other in silence. Jane's back
was to the window.

11:59.

"I am so sorry," Sammy told her. "I am so sorry that I got
you involved in this."

"It's not your fault."

"No, I should have..."

"It's not...your fault."

Sammy and Jane looked at each other. For the first time in
more than a week, they smiled at each other.

"I love you," she said.

"I..."

Midnight.

"...love..."

Sammy heard the window shatter. He saw something emerge
from Jane's throat as her eyes bulged. Then he felt his own
throat being pierced.

Sammy felt backwards with Jane on top of him. They both
trembled for a few seconds, then stopped moving. The iron
head of the arrow connecting their throats had embedded
itself into the floor beneath them.

Outside, Sara Lee shouldered her crossbow, muttered, "When
ah say midnight, ah mean midnight," and slipped into the
shadows.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

PART TEN
JUST ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE JAILHOUSE ENCOUNTERS

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Well, Sally, I see you're still causing trouble in Final."

"That's Agent Ash to you, you sack of..."

Skinner raised a hand. "Both of you, settle down now."

McDonald and Sally fell silent. The police chief stared at
the hefty woman and bald man in his office. His hands were
gripping the edge of his desk. The bruise on his chin was
thick and purple. "I am perfectly calm," he told Skinner.
"I am also perfectly serious in pursuing my complaint
against Agents Mulder and Scully. Especially Scully for
her assault on me."

"Agent Scully has informed me that you were the one who
first laid hands on her."

"She was getting in the way of police business."

"She also said that you were going to detain the town
minister for no reason."

"Nadine Burnside was causing a disturbance!" McDonald's
voice was rising in pitch.

Skinner's voice was as firmly even as before. "From what
Agent Scully tells me, Nadine Burnside was the only one
there trying to keep things calm."

McDonald clenched his teeth together. Before he loosened
up his mouth to speak, Skinner said, "Before you say so,
Chief, yes, we FBI types do tend to stick together.
Especially when it's the word of a trusted agent versus a
police chief who is a..."

"NO-GOOD MAMMY-FUCKER!"

The voice roared from outside McDonald's office. The
voice's owner kicked his way into the room. "You and I are
gonna talk, you lying mammy-fucker of a police chief!"

The rest of McDonald's face was turning as purple as his
bruise. "Get out of my office, A.C.!"

"Not before you let my nephew out of your mammy-fucking
jail!" A.C. turned to Sally and said in quieter tones,
"Hey, Sally."

Before Sally could answer, A.C. turned back to McDonald
and bellowed, "I've been told all about the mammy-fucking
game you're playing here! It ends right now! You know why?
Because I'm back in town and I've got some damn money!
That's right! And not only do I have money, I know lawyers
who are so vicious that they're almost cannibals! They'll
make you so poor that you'll have to suck dicks in San
Francisco to make a living! What do you have to say to
that, you mustached mammy-fucker?"

McDonald blinked.

"If I may say something here..." Skinner said.

"Who the fuck are you?" A.C. inquired.

"I'm Assistant Director Walter Skinner."

A.C. looked at Skinner and asked, "Have we met before?"

"You know...now that you mention it, I..."

"Aw, who the fuck cares? What are you doing here?"

Skinner cleared his throat. "I am here to oversee an FBI
investigation into the murder of Charlotte Taft." Skinner
looked at McDonald. "From what I've learned so far, I would
advise you to do as this man says."

"What?" McDonald gasped.

"You heard him, you dumb mammy..."

Skinner lifted up his hand again. To Sally and McDonald's
shock, A.C. actually became quiet. Skinner continued to
speak --

"While there are many unanswered questions on this case,
the appearance being given is that Albert Burnside has been
arrested more for political reasons than anything else.
This is not a position any law enforcement official should
be in, especially when faced with a potential lawsuit. I
would strongly recommend that you release Albert Burnside
until you can significantly strengthen your case against
him."

"In other words," A.C. said. "let him go before my lawyers
fuck you up ten ways from Sunday, boy."

McDonald looked at the three people staring back at him.
Damn, he thought. How am I gonna explain this to Brother
Daniel?

"All right," he said. "He can go. For now."

"And Mulder and Scully?" Skinner asked.

The chief's mustache quivered as he breathed in and out.
"I guess it was a big ol' misunderstanding, wasn't it?
Yeah, I'll drop my complaint."

"One more thing," A.C. said. "Let Audbjorg go."

Before Skinner could ask who Audbj