In Mulder, however, it almost seemed plausible.
All right, she admitted; maybe more than “almost.”
The Tweed Man, on the other hand, was more likely a coincidence, nothing more, and when she said so, he only grunted. Not entirely convinced, but with no solid reason to think otherwise.
“So what does this case mean to… whoever?” she said, staring out at the dark by her shoulder. “And what does it have to do with Louisiana?”
“Beats me. I’m not a psychic.”
She shifted. “Mulder, weird stuff, remember?”
He tapped his forehead. “Got it stapled right here.”
She caught the grin and held her silence until the silence made her sleepy. Then: “So what does it mean to you?”
“I don’t know. Well, yes, I do. It means we have two people dead, and there’ll probably be more.” A glance, a quick smile. “That’s all, Scully, that’s all.”
She nodded her approval, even though she knew there was no question he was lying.
SEVEN
The Royal Baron Motel was a long, white and red, two-story stucco building facing the two-lane county road that led into Marville. On the west side was the office, whose spotlighted top was supposedly a bejeweled gold crown; on the east was a restaurant; between them were two dozen rooms, twelve up and twelve down, with a red iron stairway in the center and at each end.
Behind it, and across the road, there was nothing but dense forest.
The restaurant — booths along the windows, round tables at the far end, and a long counter — was called the Queen’s Inn.
Exhausted, Mulder slumped by the window in a red leatherette booth, still feeling as if he were on something that moved and had no intention of stopping. His head throbbed, his vision blurred now and then, and all he really wanted was to crawl into bed and forget the world existed for a while. Webber and Andrews, however, had been waiting in the office, rooms already booked, just as he and Scully had pulled up. Despite his protestations, he was dragged off for something to eat.
They were the only customers in the room; the young waitress spent her time dusting gleaming tables and whispering to the cook through the serving gap in the back wall.
He didn’t order anything — the very thought of food made his stomach lurch — but when the orders arrived, he had to admit that the plate of silver dollar pancakes Webber had in front of him actually smelled pretty good.
“That bacon’s going to kill you,” Scully said dryly, nodding to the double side order beside Webber’s plate.
“My guilty pleasure,” Webber told her with a boyish grin, and poured what Mulder figured was at least a gallon of syrup over the heavily buttered stack.
Scully watched in amazement. “Never mind.”
Andrews had contented herself with a cup of soup, her lean face etched with weariness, her topcoat buttoned all the way to her chin.
Outside the window, a breeze danced with a handful of dead leaves, guiding them onto the road where they were scattered by a passing car.
“So are we going to check it out tonight?” Webber wanted to know.
Mulder looked at him blankly. “What?”
The agent pointed over Mulder’s shoulder with his loaded fork, then yanked it back when syrup began to drip on the table. “Marville. Are we going to check it out tonight?”
He shook his head. “Not until morning. Then the first thing we have to do is introduce ourselves to the local chief, let him know we’re here.”
Webber nodded. “Hawks.”
Mulder blinked.
“Hawks,” Webber repeated. “Todd Hawks. The Chief of Police. That’s who he is.”
“Ah.”
Webber glanced at his partner, but her attention was on the empty road, and stifling a fierce yawn with her hand. “Didn’t you read the file? I mean, it’s all in there. About him. Hawks, I mean.”
A gust shimmered the window.
Andrews shivered, but she didn’t look away.
“Fox?”
“Mulder.” He pushed a hand back through his hair. “Don’t call me Fox. Mulder is fine.”
Webber nodded once, correction noted and filed, it won’t happen again.
This kid, Mulder thought wearily, is going to drive me up the wall.
And since he knows the drill full well, he must either be too excited, too eager, or he’s scared. That wouldn’t be surprising. So far, the young man’s field work had been primarily confined to the immediate DC area. Now he was out here, no convenient home office to run to, working with a guy supposed to be more than a little off-center.
That almost, but not quite, made him feel better.
Andrews finished her soup, yawned, and stretched her arms stiffly over her head, clasping her hands and popping her knuckles. “God,” she said huskily. “God.” The topcoat did nothing to mask her figure.
Mulder felt Scully’s shoe poke his ankle, so he figured he must have been staring, even though nothing had registered. That more than anything convinced him it was time to stop being sociable and make his good nights. What he hadn’t counted on, however, was Webber trying to save the Bureau a buck by booking only two rooms, one for the ladies, one for the men.
As he unlocked the door and staggered in, tossing his small suitcase on the nearest bed, he said, “If you snore, Hank, I’m going to have to shoot you.”
Webber laughed nervously, swore he slept like a baby, and laughed again while he unpacked, toiletries neatly arranged in the bathroom, fresh suit hung on the clothesrack by the bathroom door, the rest put away in the second drawer of a low dresser that stretched halfway along the left-hand wall.
Mulder was too tired to watch the ritual; he’d take care of his own things in the morning. He washed, he undressed, he was in bed and sleeping within ten minutes, ignoring the soft voice of the news on the TV.
He dreamed.
of a room not quite fully dark, outlines of bedroom furniture, outline of a window where the moon crept around the curtains;
a cool night and all the voices that go with it, from soft whispering leaves to the call of tree frogs and crickets;
a faint rumbling, but he knew he didn’t live near the tracks, knew it wasn’t a train;
louder, and the light around the curtains brightened to a glare, spearing suddenly into the room, shifting, slants and darts stabbing across the walls, the bed and the figure that lay on it, the ceiling, as if its source was spinning slowly outside the window;
frightened
he was frightened, standing by the door, slowly dropping into a crouch;
too frightened to move when the light became too bright and the rumbling too loud and the figure on the bed rose and tossed the coverlet aside, her young face colorless, her young eyes wide not with fear but with intent;
he wanted to stop her, but he couldn’t stop dropping, couldn’t stop himself from trying to push backward through the wall to get away from the light that exploded into the room, making him scream as the girl child was taken and swallowed by the white.
making him scream.
Making him gasp and sit up, crushing his pillow against his chest, blinking sweat from his eyes, sheet and blanket kicked away from his legs.
When he thought he could move without falling over, he sat on the edge of the mattress and put the pillow against the headboard. A forced shudder, a hard swallow, and he pushed himself to his feet, padding around a cheap table beneath its hanging lamp to the thin drapes on the room’s only window. He parted them and looked out, and saw nothing but the road and the trees ranged beyond.
He couldn’t see the stars, but he knew they were there.
Behind him, Webber snored lightly.
Oh, boy, he thought; oh, brother.
He wiped his face with a forearm and moved quietly into the bathroom, closed the door, but didn’t turn on the light. He knew what he could see — a man forever haunted by the disappearance of his sister, Samantha, when both of them had been children. The dream tried to tell him how.