Novels The Damascus Files In The Interest of Science Other Stories A Deafening Silence Finding Zuzu's Petals Into The Mystic Je T'aime Knockin' On Heaven's Door Knowing Korena, Korena Matthew 19:14 Nightwing Sweet Dreams Symbiosis A Texas History Lesson This Could Be Heaven,   or This Could Be Hell Timepieces Your Soul in My Heart Other Info About Kat Linkage Feedback   Finding Zuzu's Petals Select a chapter Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Text Only Part One F.W.M. Case 11391 - December 10, 1999 (Personal Reminder: Do not save permanently to hard drive. Download to zip files when you get home.) I know the length of the night on any given date of the year. It's something an insomniac learns over time. You develop rituals to be performed, depending on the season, to speed the sleepless seconds of the clock ahead and make it through to morning. I have mine and they're practiced with a fervor and belief that borders on fanaticism. Summer is for rookies. I can get through summer standing on my head. Those short moonlit hours pass quickly. A run through the park, a drive to the country, midnight concerts, late night movies. Summer nights are alive and easy to fill. Now winter, that's a different story. A cold, late fall/early winter is nothing but torment for those of us who are slumber challenged. Whomever it was that first claimed hell is cold was most definitely an insomniac. Wakefulness in November and December is a choice between tossing and turning while eyeing the clock as it diligently reminds you of your stubborn insomnia. OR watching "It's a Wonderful Life" all night, every night, on every channel. The decision is usually settled by the toss of a coin. Heads I lose, tails I just can't ever win. It was Thanksgiving and I felt I had little to be thankful for. I had secured your wrath for all eternity by dragging you along on a week long, wild goose chase which only succeeded in keeping you from enjoying the holiday with your family. Yes, I was the only turkey you saw that day and before we parted company late Thursday night you gave me the bird. Because I hadn't slept in two days, I was certain exhaustion would allow me at least a few hours rest. It took me a good five minutes to even get my door open I was so tired. I hit the TV's on button and my couch in one weary stumble. I didn't have the energy to hunt for the remote even when I noticed Jimmy and Donna doing the Charleston. I groaned, knowing this was the first of many nights I'd be spending with Clarence Oddbody. Shutting my eyes against the flickering light, I attempted to relax. By the time Uncle Billy had lost the savings and loan money I was desperate. I leapt up and manually began to surf the tube, finally discovering one channel that was blessedly sans holiday movies. I fell asleep sitting up, drifting off even though the four on-screen psychics were amazing their phone-in customers. It was still dark when I was slowly reeled awake by my cell phone. By the time I'd struggled from the thick, cottony haze my exhaustion had wrapped me in the ringing had stopped. Cursing, I struggled to sit up, elbows on knees, leaden head in hands. Looking through splayed fingers I spotted my phone on the top of the television set. Even as I glared, it once again began it's tinny, electronic jingle. "Mulder," I mumbled, even my teeth feeling dull and thick. "Fox, you need to help her." The surge of adrenaline felt like an electrical shock, making every muscle in my body give a quick, harsh spasm. There was a loud click in my ear as the signal cut off and I immediately checked the tiny screen. It was blank, save the small, blinking battery informing me I'd once again forgotten to recharge the damn thing. Every cell of my body began shaking as my sudden rush of energy seeped away. Dazed, I shuffled my way back to the couch. I sat for hours, long past daybreak while the call played over again and again in my mind. The small, soft voice had sounded exactly like my sister's. I was late to the office the next morning, but since I was practically the only employee to show up for work it wasn't quite the smudge on my sterling record it could have been. Jack, the guard, didn't bat an eye when I passed him. What else would Fox Mulder be doing on a day meant for basking in the warmth of one's hearth and kin except sitting in his dungeon, alone. I slumped to my chair, memories of the odd call making my mood and spirits far darker than lack of sleep alone ever had. I knew it hadn't been Samantha. Scully, I'm a fool, but I'm not totally stupid. (Okay, I can see that smile and it hurts.) I knew someone, someone who knew me, was playing tricks. But, to what end? After two hours of attempting to make a report on the week's fiasco of a case, I found my hand on the receiver of the phone, actually considering an attempt to contact you. I needed to talk to you about last night's disturbing call. I needed to have your input on the matter. Well, yes, I'll admit it, I needed to hear the sound of your voice. I faltered, my hand moving away. I did NOT need the rejection I'd feel if/when, after spotting where the call had come from, you would refuse to answer, knowing I was the only person it could be. I believe I jumped at least a foot out of my chair when the ringer went off the moment my fingertips left the black plastic hand-piece. "Mulder," I snarled, feeling a little sheepish even though no one had been around to see my startled response. "Fox, you have to save her," the soft, youthful voice pleaded into my ear. It was so familiar. So haunting. "Who is this?" I shouted angrily. Like I said, I knew this was not my sister. It could not be her. But I wanted secretly to believe the lie. "Fox, we only have a few more hours left. Come to Wyoming now, please." The quiver of tears in the soft plea made my hands shake. "Why are you doing this? Who is this? You're not her you sick Mother..." I knew it wasn't her, yet I couldn't bring myself to finish the swear. Those words weren't for those tender ears. The click which came a heartbeat later was actually a relief. I called you, but all I got was the recording. I hung up without leaving a message. What could I have said? "Scully, I've gotten two phone calls that I know can't be my sister but they upset me just the same. You want to leave your family and come hold my hand while I wallow in self pity because some sick asshole, somebody who has a grudge against me, has found out that I don't handle holidays too well?" I knew that's all it had to be. Nothing mysterious, nothing supernatural. Nothing but a little cruel, but harmless revenge from one of the countless many that I've managed to piss-off. There were three more of the desperate entreaties over the next three hours. The voice finally gave me a name. That's when I bit, Scully, and swallowed, like I always do. I'm Fox Mulder, champion of lost causes. Open minded, but empty headed fool who can be counted on to blindly rush in where no angel or sane, halfway intelligent person would even think of treading. Right? The caller claimed she was Anna Trainor and was phoning me from Chugwater, Wyoming. I ran a quick check on that name. The Missing and Exploited data base told me no one had seen Anna Trainor since the early morning hours of July 28, 1998. She'd vanished from her family's fifth wheel trailer while they'd made an early morning run to grab supplies. They'd left her alone, sleeping, but her brother and his family were there, just the next site over. They'd locked the door and after all, Anna was 13. She was a smart girl, very mature for her age. And they were only gone for half-an-hour. They had only wanted to buy some coffee and a few things for breakfast. The Trainors lived in Fort Collins, Colorado, but had traveled up to Wyoming that weekend for Cheyenne's Frontier Day's celebration. They'd reserved their space at the campground in Vedawoo months in advance. A quick check showed me Vedawoo was less than an hour's drive from the little town of Chugwater. December 10, 1999 My report was interrupted first by a nurse, who, disappointed that she'd missed out on waking me for that all important, wee morning vital signs check, made sure her next strike would be victorious by giving me something that knocked me out until she got to wake me for breakfast. That's when you arrived, then the doctors, the people from x-ray, the vampires from the lab, more doctors, the press, (Note - I need to tell you thanks for getting rid of them. Also, need to let the doctors know I think we can start cutting down on pain meds, so I can quit writing myself all these notes.) that call from Skinner, the Marquis de Sade from respiratory therapy and so on. Somewhere in there I know there was lunch, dinner, a bath, bandages being changed, more meds, a little sleep and we still found time to talk a bit. You're worried I'm depressed. I flippantly told you, "'tis the season and I AM in a hospital, after all, so what do you expect?" You tried to cover the fact, but I know my remark stung. Still, you didn't leave my side until just a minute ago. It's eight o'clock on a Friday, a fortnight before Christmas. You are dead on your feet. Not from shopping or any of the million and one things that need to be done for the holidays, but because you've been watching over me almost day and night for two weeks. You'll probably grab a quick salad from one of the fast food places between here and your motel room and drift off to sleep before it's half eaten. But you'll be up bright and early tomorrow morning, ready to do it all again. They're calling me a hero, Scully. I know the truth. Look inside any hero and you'll find bravery and strength. I look to you to find courage and with you beside me I have strength. Another interruption, but I think this little RN is afraid of me. That or she doesn't really care that I need my rest because I got away with no sleeping pill. Now, maybe I can finish this up. You've already made the official report on this case. I know you probably did it while I was still in the ICU, right after I first told you the 'official' version. Do you know about MY reports? Probably. I suspect you, too, have always made your own personal log of our cases, though I doubt your notes resemble these. No, yours are most likely the precise, detailed, neatly typed, single spaced compositions that you could turn in as official --if you didn't feel the need to protect me. Mine wouldn't quite pass muster. Most begin as longhand scribbles on legal pads, only making it to the zipped discs when I find the time to transcribe them. (There is an upside to being an insomniac. I'm only a month or so behind and with this nice long medical leave ahead I should be in great shape for the new millennium.) They tell the tales as we seldom get to relate them, as truthfully as possible, with nothing hidden. Each and every possibility, plausibility and wild speculation is detailed. In these reports, I can be utterly fearless because no one will see them but me. There is no worry of rejection or reprisal. In these reports, I can talk --about you. I talk to you. Without the fear. The person who claimed to be Anna Trainor had identified "him" during the same call in which she'd informed me of her own name and location. My quick check had given me nothing on a Larry Jones. No, perhaps I should rephrase that. It actually gave me too much. With nothing more to go on than a state-wide location and that oh-so common moniker, I wound up with a list two pages long of felonious Larry Joneses, one third of whom had been convicted of crimes of a sexual nature. That is what I was being solicited to stop. According to my mysterious caller, Larry Jones was not only a kidnapper, he was also a child molesting murderer. The type of sadistic predator who tortured and killed the young and innocent. Unless I stopped him, he had plans to strike again this very weekend. When asked, during that longest and most informative of our conversations, how exactly she knew of this monster's plans in such detail, the girl had divulged that she'd been held at his house since her own abduction the prior summer. She'd then given me what she said was her name, along with the date and location of her abduction, which as I've already told you, matched exactly what had been in the M&E data base. That Anna Trainor's history is public knowledge, easily accessible by anyone who might care to take the time to search this national network, is a fact that didn't fail to cross my mind. It didn't help me to believe her story when my question of how she'd gotten the telephone numbers to both my office and my unlisted cell phone was blatantly ignored. My temper flared a bit, so I played along, as if I believed what she was telling me. "Well, Anna, I have an idea," I told her, keeping my tone even, trying to convey solemn sincerity. "Because time's running out, wouldn't trying to find help there in Chugwater be a good plan. Dialing 911 is just so much quicker and easier than dialing long distance. There are lots fewer numbers to punch in. And, probably, the local sheriff might make a little better time driving over to where you're being held, since he's not over a thousand miles away like I am." The response to my barbed chide was, at first silence. Then, after a sad sigh, my caller explained, "I tried that, Fox. Nobody hears me. You're the only one I can get through to. You're the only one who can help. I thought you'd believe me." The voice shook a bit in disappointment. I almost stopped it here. Scully, I was this close to hanging up. I think I manage do a good enough job of heaping guilt on myself alone, I don't need another person shoveling. My frustration boiled over. I'd demanded bluntly that she was at least going to tell me where she'd gotten my name or 'else'. All my threat brought was the vague reply that I had been referred by 'someone you once knew, Fox'. Well, of course Samantha's name was rejected from the list I was titling "Anna's and Mulder's possible mutual acquaintances" right from the start. I didn't think my sister would have given me a very sterling recommendation as a rescuer. There was one last, pleading cry for help and the conversation ended. I sat at my desk, mulling over everything that had been said. This was a joke. I couldn't believe someone had gone to this much trouble, done all this research just to try and set me up, but that was what it had to be. I figured they were making fool's pudding. Want the recipe? Take one Fox Mulder, and just let him sit, through several sleepless nights. Now, throw in a few strange, cryptic phone calls and a yarn about a missing child needing to be rescued. Sprinkle with enough lies, based on truth so he'll be softened up and laced with curiosity. Add to this heaping portions of the boredom and depression that comes to him during the post-Thanksgiving/Anniversary of Samantha's abduction, pre-Christmas season. Let him stew on this mystery until he abandons what little common sense he has. Sit back and enjoy. Still, I wondered, what was the point? So they could laugh that they got me to fly off to Chugwater, Wyoming for the holidays? Another puzzle was who could this be? Who WAS making those phone calls? This couldn't actually be Anna Trainor. Could it? I stood up from my desk, flipping off the PC as I struggled into my coat. I'd finally decided. I knew what I was giving myself for Christmas - a three-day vacation in wonderful Chugwater, Wyoming. It never ceases to amaze me, Scully, how flashing our badges makes travel arrangements so much easier. Even on overbooked holiday weekends. I used a pay phone at Dulles to leave you my message. It was a last minute, spur of the moment sort of thing. Then again, maybe it was my own brand of flight insurance. After all these years, I guess I know it's best to drop a hint, it helps to let you know where to find me. It does make it a little simpler for you, doesn't it, when the time comes for you to once again save my ass? Next time though, I think I'll go easier on you. That Sunday, we wound up cutting things a bit too close, don't you think? My flight put me into DIA at a little after 1:00 p.m. because of the time change. I rented a car there at the airport, drawing an overpriced compact due to the holiday rush. Both the weather and traffic were with me. I made it to Chugwater, Wyoming in just over two hours, having broken the speed limit laws in two states within that span, but still, never leaving the slower right-hand lane of traffic. The only motel in town was The Chugwater Inn. It was a member of the Barely So-so Western chain. Standing in the center of the dreary 10 by 10 room, taking in the sight of the prerequisite cigarette scorch on the faux oak laminated bedside table, the full extent of my lunacy hit me. I was insane, traveling 1500 miles on Thanksgiving weekend because I'd gotten what was probably just some sick puppy's idea of prank phone calls. 'Why was I always doing this kind of thing?' I ranted, mentally cursing myself. 'You're such a fool, always taking off on some harebrained, wild goose chase with nothing more than a tissue paper thin lead, a prayer and a bag of sunflower seeds. You're crazy. No wonder everyone questions why Scully has stuck it out with you all these year. Seven goddamn years. I guess that just proves you're not the only one who's crazy. Why, if it'd been her choosing the cases and they'd been even close to being like some of the windmill tilting disasters you've picked, Fox, it would have been "Hasta la vista, Scully baby," back in 1994.' Everything I was telling myself was the truth. With a disgusted sigh, I bent over, grabbing for my hastily packed bag. If I couldn't get a flight back home tonight, I could at least get a better room in Denver than this fleabag. Then the phone rang. I stared at it blankly, my suitcase slipping from my now numbed fingers. I tried to convince myself it was the Motel office, calling to make sure I liked my room. I didn't believe myself for a minute. Slowly, I stumbled over to the small dresser and picked up the receiver, anticipating the now familiar, soft voice, even before I'd brought the handset to my ear. "Fox, you need to come now! He's getting ready to leave! He's going to go get her! Please!" "I'm on my way," I murmured, hurrying out the door before my second thoughts could catch me. Though I'd promised I'd be right there, I quickly decided a bit of recon was necessary. First, all I had was an address for a destination. The fact that I'd spotted no water in the metropolitan area of the town and that the words old, creek and road were part of said address, suggested to me that the Jones' homestead was in a somewhat more rural locale. In Wyoming, out of town covers a lot of territory. Most of the state, when you get down to it It appeared the only gas station in the tiny burg was closed for the holidays. The thought of asking directions of the tall, pimply-faced teen, who slumped over the counter at the local MiniMart, seemed a venture in futility. Watching the kid worrying with the contents of his nose suggested to me that those particular orifices were probably the only places he knew the location of with any degree of certainty. A quick scan of the other businesses on the wide interstate spur, that doubled as Main Street, showed cars in only two graveled parking lots. The first was some sort of grocery/video store /curio shop named La Vaca Luna. Since my Spanish is not what anyone might call fluent, I pulled over to the other thriving establishment, "Ye Olde Brew and Dog." Mattie, the fifty-something, platinum, beehived bartender was small town friendly. She confided to me she'd known Larry his entire life. While enlightening me with a continuous flow of gossipy history that centered around the last three generations of the Jones clan, she went about drawing me a wonderfully detailed map on a napkin. The address I sought was pinpointed on her masterfully etched chart by a circled X. I thanked her, flashing a grateful smile, then turned to leave, but stopped, deciding to ask this erstwhile local historian the one question that had puzzled me since I'd first heard the town's name. "It came from the Indians," Mattie chuckled, moving to my side so she could point out the dark hued cliff north of town which turned out to be the focal point of her story. "See that ridge over there?" I nodded, acknowledging I was with her so far. She flashed a wide grin, telling me how much she appreciated my efforts at audience participation during her narrative. Warming up, she moved deeper into her tale. "Well, that cliff overlooks a huge lake. The white men wound up naming it after President Grant, then changed their minds during the sixties. Now we're supposed to call it Lake Kennedy. But the Indians always called it Chugwater." By now, I had an idea where this yarn was heading; a smile started tugging at my lips, but I held my tongue, letting her finish. I knew that most of the fun came in the telling. "Well, that cliff is backed by one of the most fertile stretches of grassland in three states. It once supported a heard of bison that the first settlers say numbered in the tens of thousands. All the Indians had to do to get their dinner was to go pick themselves out a good, fat animal then get him runnin' south. Those big beasts don't stop too good, so they'd hit the cliff in a skid and...well, ever hear the sound a ton of beef makes when it hits water?" "Thanks, Mattie. You made my day," I laughed, enjoying her pleased expression almost as much as her story. I was still grinning when I shoved open the heavy door and stepped out, squinting from even the pale afternoon sunlight after my time spent in the dimly lit saloon. "Say Mattie, if the lake hadn't been there, you think the town might've been named Splat Prarie?" Her laugh was warm, deepened and smoothed by years of cigarettes and whiskey. "Lord, you are a cutie. Now, don't be a stranger, shug," the woman grinned wickedly, giving me a slow, luridly suggestive wink. "We're always open 'til the state makes us shut the doors, so just come on back for supper after your visit with Larry. We serve a lot more than just dogs, hon." I quickly hurried off without a reply. My final glance back, after I'd reached the car, was made with a studied caution because of her last remark, but the aging hostess had already disappeared inside. I drove away contemplating both my directions and my questionable dinner invitation. I found Old Watson Creek Road with no problem, then followed the dirt path as per my instructions, to where it dead ended on the Jones' property. The large, rambling two story farmhouse was surrounded by almost a dozen Cottonwoods, all huge, old-growth trees that created a natural privacy fence. Even leafless, the thick branches intertwined in a tight, intricate filigree that managed to almost completely hide the second story windows. Massive, twisted trunks cast dark, concealing shadows that stretched across the barren ground. They bent askew as they climbed in ebony silhouettes to blanket the building's white clapboard siding. This murky dimness kept the lower story of the house cloistered from view. I watched the dirt drive long after the shimmering full moon had chased away the evening's clouds. Nothing stirred, inside or out. My time was spent trying to remain both still and warm. It was a task I found almost impossible to do while squatting among the boulders and bushes that lined Watson's creek. There was plenty of time to think while I watched that evening but unfortunately, I didn't use it. I have to admit, I was on autopilot. Whether it was from my usual, pre-holiday depression, the almost total sleep deprivation I'd suffered over the week or just plain weariness from trying to figure out the puzzles that were popping up at every turn on this strange, unofficial "case". After the phone call, I began to feel like time and events were sweeping me along. Finally, the back screened door swung open, and a dark form lumbered out into the moonlit night. It was the man himself. Mattie's colorful description of Jones was right on target. He did fit the stereotypical description of a hermit. Larry had been cursed with a body and face that would make almost anyone want to become a recluse. Adjusting my binoculars, I got an even clearer view of this monster I'd been summoned to stop. I shook my head in awe at the sight. I've seen nature play crueler tricks, Scully. Those mutant brothers we crossed paths with in Home, PA, come to mind. But for a non-genetically challenged human being, old Larry was about as butt-ugly as any I've seen. He had a face that called to mind a bull dog, lantern jawed, with a ferociously vicious underbite. You know, Scully, I'm not usually one to make derogatory remarks about a person's nose, but this particular bulbous snout seemed to have been hit one too many times with the bottom side of a frying pan. And while my vision is not 20/20, and I wasn't very close, my binoculars are pretty powerful. I could plainly see that the man's porcine little eyes were severely out of alignment. Larry was dressed in his hermit/mountain man, Sunday-go-to-meeting best. He wore the complete ensemble, from the Sasquatch sized hillbilly clogs to the prerequisite furry cap with ear flaps. The monster was huge, massive, a mountain that moved. The sheer immensity of his size was both frightening and awe inspiring. Precisely at 7:35 p.m. by my watch, Jones climbed into his rusty, bucket-of-bolts pickup, and peeled out onto the narrow dirt road, tires spinning rooster-tails of dust. I knew this was my chance to check for the alleged Anna Trainor. I waded across the shallow creek, then sprinted over a snow covered field to the hard packed dirt and wispy, dead grass covered back yard. Hunkering down behind a barely standing shed, I spotted a white-washed, wooden door that appeared to open directly into the ground. I believed I'd found my way inside. The temperature had been dropping as the evening wore on. My breath blew out in instantly crystallizing, silver clouds as I sprinted over to the house. I scurried to the heavy cellar door and with both arms straining, heaved it open. The stairway down was deeper than I'd expected. I grabbed the pen light from my back pocket to help me find my way through the gloom of this steep descent. Inky darkness quickly swallowed the thin, pale beam, so my final destination was no more than a black void ahead. With a long sigh, I started down. An iron gate blocked the earth hewn entryway which lay before the last wooden step at the bottom. I pressed against the flaking metal bars, flashing my dim beacon around the cavernous room. Squinting through the dusky gloom I tried to see if struggling to open the jail-like door would be worth my time and effort. I couldn't really see the point of breaking into a place, then discovering that there was no way out but the way I'd come in. I leaned into the rusty gate, straining to illuminate the far wall in the hope of finding some stairs that would take me up to the main floor of the house. That's when my narrow beam caught the slow, writhing movements of thin, pallid arms straining against chains. My heart actually skipped a beat when I realized what I was seeing. Even though my light was dim, the porcelain whiteness of her bare flesh shone with a pale luminance. She almost shimmered against the dark, moss covered brick wall which held her chains. Dark blond hair hung limply about her face. I couldn't see her features clearly because her head was bowed. Her thin arms dangled down from the metal bonds which secured her in a flaccid, crucifixion-like pose. I was spellbound in stunned silence by what I'd found. The cruel, horrifying tableau was a painfully graphic illustration of hopeless defeat. The narrow lines of lingering childhood showed in her thin, jutting hips, but budding maturity had brought the small, soft swell of breasts, which suddenly began to heave. Eerie, keening sobs rose from her to echo off the basement dungeon's walls, bouncing back in whispering harmony to blend with her chorus of pain. I vainly jerked at the bars that separated me from her. The harsh metal rattle clanged a discordant percussion to this agonized song. "Anna!" My first cry was a pseudo-stage whisper which went unnoticed in the din. I realized the need for silence had left us in his ancient pick-up, so my next call was as deep and loud as I could muster. I thought she'd heard me through her grief because her head lifted and the mournful tears stopped short, cut off almost mid-sob. I was wrong. My shout hadn't been what had frozen her so still. Her face twisted in terror when the thud of heavy footsteps announced that someone was coming down from the house above us. I gave the bars one final shake, then turned to leave. I decided that if I retreated before the monster saw me and flanked him by finding some way in through the house, I'd have surprise on my side in my rescue attempt. My mind was racing as I hurried up the stairs, taking them two at a time in my haste. I paused when I made it to the top, stepping out into the moonlight to check my weapon. I didn't notice the hulking shape of Larry Jones as he silently waited for me beside the cellar door. His moonbeam cast shadow fell behind him, so my only warning came too late. I turned at sensing his sudden, swift movement when he raised the tire iron up. His huge, thigh sized biceps drove the rapid, downward arc of his swing. The blow to my head came long before I was able get my arms up to protect myself. Fortunately, my instinctual duck was just enough to keep the forceful blow from crushing my skull. What can I say, Scully. Some of us are just born lucky, I guess. We're now heading into the fourth day since I began working on this report. This means, the report has taken more time to get through than the case itself. These last couple of days were wasted. I came down with a pretty severe chest cold. A hospital is the worst place in the world to get sick. A slight fever and a little congestion prompted a frantic flurry of blood work, chest x-rays, throat cultures, and entirely too much worry. The problem was no one would believe my assurances that my illness was a common cold and all I really needed was a stiff dose of some of that 90 proof night-time cold medicine so I could get some rest. I am much better today, just a bit stuffy now, but I'm sorry to say I passed it on to Scully and two thirds of the nursing staff. At least my partner is taking a day off from her "holding Mulder's hand while he heals" duty. She's spending today in bed at her motel in order to rest and recover. Maybe it'll give me a chance to finish this up. I drifted in and out of consciousness for most of the night. The first time I'd surfaced only enough to vaguely note that I'd been bound hand and foot. During another one of my brief moments of groggy wakefulness, I was able to focus enough on my surroundings to discover I was lying on the floor of the basement torture chamber. Some undetermined time later I opened my eyes and spotted Anna Trainor kneeling beside me. It took a few minutes but the double vision that had plagued me throughout the night, seemed to finally fade away. The young girl must have read the signs that at last I was truly awake, alert and aware. A soft, glowing smile lit up her young, heart shaped face just about the time my sight cleared enough for me to be able to appreciate its lovely sweetness. The ache in my skull had leveled out to a dull, tolerable throb. I'd suffered through more than my share of concussions over the years so I knew that as long as I remained prone and held my head still, there was a good chance I could keep the severe pain at bay. I glanced over to see that Anna still watched my every move. She finally met my eyes and the connection was opened, allowing the first few bits of communication that passed between us. Our silent introduction was filled with curious stares as we both took stock of each other. It hadn't been a joke. The slim, exceptionally pretty teen who knelt beside me was either Anna Trainor or proof that the old saying that we all have a doppelganger somewhere is true. I'd stared at the young girl's photos on the Missing and Exploited website for so long, with such intensity, the images had been seared into my memory. I knew I was looking at that same girl. Should I admit it now, that even if I'd hoped, I'd never really expected this missing child would be what I was going to find, Scully? I know you are numbered among those who see me as the eternal fool, chasing rainbows, aliens, stopping only to slay an occasional windmill dragon. Do you know though, that my wild goose chases aren't driven by faith, but by guilt? Do you understand the difference? Maybe it's time I explained then, since you are usually by my side on what you assume is my noble quest. I don't know if the truth will endear me to you. You've put your life on the line for 7 years for what you've believed to be an honorable cause. The truth is out there, and you think that's what we're trying to find. It's going to be quite a shock to hear you've jeopardized yourself for nothing more than a selfish, guilt-driven man's life long attempt at penance. Not that this makes YOU any less noble. You've been earnestly risking your neck, believing you were helping someone who wanted to save the world. I think it's time you learned, I'm the one we've been trying to save. How about I lay it all out here first? Maybe I'll find a way of softening what I tell you so it'll be easier to swallow. I doubt it, but here's a try. Scully, you know that poster, the one that says "I want to Believe"? That IS my credo. But, ever ask "what" it is I want to believe? Well the truth is - I want to believe, somewhere out there there's a way for me to wash my hands of my guilt. This is the quest I've been willing to let you die for. December 13, 1999 Your feeling better and should be back at your "job" tomorrow. I'll make my confession to you then. From what the doctors say, I'm able to travel now. They're faxing out my records today and setting up arrangements for the flight home. They've got me a room at GMC's rehab center and someone from there will claim me at the airport. It's all set up for Wednesday. All taken care of. You can be home and get your own life in order in time to make a new start in the new millennium. I was amazed that I was actually looking into the face of this young girl, missing for so long. I hadn't known what I would find when I started on my mission to unravel the mystery, especially after that last, out of nowhere, call at the motel. That the small, pleading voice had been telling the truth was not even on my list. That this was the Anna Trainor whose photo was on the M&E data base was obvious, but this young woman/child had changed. Gazing into those gentle blue eyes I saw a knowledge born of having survived what I could barely face thinking about. I'd seen how Larry Jones treated his young, female houseguest. Anna had spent close to 18 months as the captive/victim of a sexual deviant monster. Soon, I was to learn that she had not been the first pubescent girl he'd kidnapped nor the last. I reasoned Anna was still alive because she possessed the courage to do what had to done to stay that way. Was the nausea that was suddenly rising up in my throat merely a symptom of having suffered a concussion? No, that a young girl had been forced to learn such ugly lessons is what made my insides writhe and churn. Grimly I rolled to my side, away from her, violently retching into the soft, cool dirt. The gut wrenching convulsions brought groans of agony as I let the waves of sickness claim me. Nothing alien or paranormal filled me with as much horror as this monster of a man. I wanted them out, these feelings of disgust. I felt if I didn't cleanse myself of the vile, putrid stench that permeated this place, it would smother me. The light touch of a hand on the back of my neck was a cool, dry, welcome relief from the hot sweat that drenched me during this desperate purge. Anna's soft, comforting caress reminded me so much of you, Scully. Gradually, the painful spasm began to subside. My gasping breaths slowed and with the girl's help I rolled over, inching away from where I'd been sick. "My brother Bobby puked like that after he fell off our ATV and hit his head. Think you got a concussion like him? Where Larry hit you didn't bleed that much but you know it sometimes bleeds inside? I wonder if you have a subdural hematoma? Could you have one, you think? I know you're supposed check the pupils to see if they're equal and reactive but I don't know what that really means." Her chatter abruptly stopped and I watched with numb weariness, as this animated young girl leaned over me and began to study my eyes. "They both look the same to me. That's a good sign. Now, for that reactive part, I haven't got a clue what it is much less how to check for it. I..." Her eyes suddenly lit up and I found, even tired, I could muster a grin when she smiled sheepishly, a blush of embarrassment giving a little color to her too pale cheeks. "Yeah, duh. REACTive. Way to go, Anna. It means they're checking to see how your pupils react to the light. My bad." "If he left me my penlight, you can check them if you want," I offered the wanna-be doctor. The raw sound of my voice startled me and I tried to swallow, but found I was too dry. My throat felt sore from all my retching and I knew that both this and thirst had something to do with the raspiness. "Anna, is there any way you can get me some water?" I watched in surprise as her eyes widened, and she paled until she was almost transparent. Her "no" was quick, coming unbidden, and she pulled away from me, pushing up to stand with a jerky stiffness, totally lacking her normal fluid grace. "I, ah -- I have to go. I'll check back on you later and try to ask him if he'll bring you some water." Her voice stayed low, taut with nervousness. "He gives you water, but he won't feed you. He doesn't realize he's starving you. That's how you'll probably die, unless you're lucky enough and he winds up killing you first." Her light, sky-blue eyes were darkly haunted as she spoke. There was a long silence as she mutely gazed down at me, looking as though she was teetering on the edge of saying more. Then she turned away and slipped wraith-like into the shadows. Go to Part 2 DISCLAIMER: "The X-Files" and its characters are owned by FOX and its related entities. All rights reserved. This website, its operators and any content on this site relating to "The X-Files" are not authorized by Fox. No copyright infringement is intended. This site created and maintained by Wasatch Design and Consulting.