From: OpheliaMac Date sent: Thu, 2 Apr 1998 10:49:05 EST Title: Come Away, Human Child Author: Ophelia E-Mail: OpheliaMac@aol.com Rating: PG Category: X, H Spoilers: N/A Keywords: Mulder/Scully friendship Summary: An article on Irish folklore prompts Mulder to investigate an apparent SIDS death as a child abduction. ****************************************************** The Disclaimer: This copyright violation is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual imaginary people, living or dead, is because I patently stole them. I acknowledge that the characters of Mulder and Scully, the X-Files universe, etc., are the property of Chris Carter and the Fox Network. I have no intention of trying to make money from this story. I have no intention of seeking recognition for it under my own name. I have no intention of putting on a lime-green Spandex bodysuit and skulking through the aisles of Meijer's at 3 a.m. I further acknowledge that several quotes contained in this story, including the title, were stolen from various literary sources. I am therefore evil, and when I die, I will become a file clerk in the afterlife. (I have been a file clerk in this life, and yes, it is *that* bad.) Having said all this, here's the story. ****************************************************** Come Away, Human Child F.B.I Headquarters Wednesday, 9:20 a.m. Mulder's phone was ringing. He had to hunt for it briefly under the stacks of papers and books on his desk. He often told his partner, Agent Scully, that a messy work area was a sign of creativity. She told him it was a sign that he was a slob. He finally located the phone under layers of The Behavioral Science Journal and the World Weekly News. "Michael Jackson to Channel Princess Di's Spirit!" screamed the latter's headline. He picked up the receiver. "Mulder," he said. "It's me," came Scully's voice. "You're late," he said, glancing at his watch. There was a clock on his desk, but that was buried, too. "I've been here since a little after seven," he said, allowing himself to sound a little smug. "That's because you don't have a life," Scully teased him. "Look, I can't be in today. There's been a death in my apartment building." "What happened?" Mulder asked, concerned. "The family upstairs lost their baby girl this morning," she said. "Oh, God," Mulder said, suddenly sorry he'd rubbed it in about her not having shown up yet. "How?" he asked. "I don't know for sure, but it looks like Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. The baby seems to have just stopped breathing during the night," Scully said. "They called me up because they know I'm a doctor, but there was nothing I could do. I think Rachel died between about four and six this morning." "That's terrible," Mulder said. "Anyway, I'm watching their older daughter, Amanda, right now. The parents are dealing with the medical examiner and the police. It's a formality, but in cases like this they have to determine that it wasn't a homicide," Scully said. "You don't think they killed their own child, do you?" Mulder asked. He could hear the voice of the little girl in the background, saying "Miss Dana? Miss Dana?" "Just a minute, Amanda. I'm on the phone," Scully told her gently. "No, Mulder. I know these people . . . they're good parents. They're both devastated by this. We may never know the exact reason that Rachel died. Sometimes, these things just happen." "Miss Dana, they tooked my sister," Amanda was saying. Those words hit a sore spot in Mulder's heart. He'd lost a sister once, himself. "I know they did, honey," Scully said, "they took Rachel to see the doctors so they can try to find out why she died." "No, not that. Before," Amanda said. "Before when?" Scully asked. "Before all the policemen came. Last night. Bad Bear did it," Amanda said. "Who?" Scully asked, sounding confused. "Scully, can I talk to her?" Mulder asked. "Yeah, ok," Scully said. "You want to talk to a friend of mine? His name is Agent Mulder," he heard her say. "No, I wanna talk to you," Amanda said. "I'm coming over," Mulder said. "Don't do that, Mulder. There's nothing here you can do," Scully told him. "I'm coming over anyway," Mulder said, "see you in about twenty minutes." He hung up the phone. It ended up taking him slightly longer than that, because he stopped at McDonald's to get breakfast for three, and then at a Wal-Mart to pick up a box of crayons. In his experience, kids opened up more easily if they had something to do. He knocked on Scully's door, and when she opened it he said, "Hello, Miss Dana." She smiled at him. "Well, I can't have Amanda call me Agent Scully, can I?" she asked. "She's only four. It would sound too bizarre." Mulder walked in past her and saw the little girl curled up on the couch beneath a blanket, staring blankly at a rerun of "Captain Kangaroo." "Hi, Amanda. I'm Mulder," he said, trying to sound reassuring. Amanda looked at him but didn't respond. She was a cute little thing, he thought. She had straight brown hair cut in a pageboy and fair skin with apple-ruddy cheeks. Her hazel eyes were very sad. "You had breakfast?" he asked her. Amanda shook her head. "Do you like Egg McMuffins?" he asked, rattling the McDonald's bag. Amanda wrinkled her little nose. "Eggs are gross," she said. "Well, you can eat the muffin part, then," Mulder said, setting the bag down on Scully's kitchen table. Amanda came over and crept into a chair. She was wearing jeans, a Pocahontas T-shirt, and mismatched socks. One was pink and the other was yellow. Mulder imagined that her mother must have had other things on her mind as she helped her remaining daughter get dressed that morning. He recalled that he'd started making his own school lunches after his sister disappeared, because after that, his mother never remebered. He pushed a container of milk and a packet of hash browns at Amanda. Rather than questioning her immediately, he let her eat. She consumed all the hash browns and about half the milk, and picked at the bread on her Egg McMuffin. "It smells like eggs," she protested. "This is fairly gross, Mulder," Scully said. Although he knew that Scully considered fast food to be starvation rations, he'd noted that she seemed to be having no trouble putting away her own breakfast. "Everybody's a critic," he said. Once they'd finished and Scully had cleared away the trash, Mulder produced his secret weapon: the crayons. He handed them to Amanda along with some scrap paper he'd fished out of the trash at the office. A lot of it was stuff he'd downloaded from the Web and then found out he couldn't use. Most of the pages had dithered pictures of almond-eyed aliens on them. Amanda accepted the crayons and pulled out the black one. She began to draw elaborate squiggles. "Want to tell me a little about Bad Bear?" Mulder asked her. "He came to my window. With Pillow," she said, not looking up from the paper. Mulder exchanged looks with Scully. "Who's Pillow?" Mulder asked. Amanda shrugged. "They knocked on my window and said, 'Let us come in!'" she mimicked a squeaky voice when quoting Bad Bear. "Her family lives on the fourth floor?" Mulder asked Scully. "Yes, but there's a tall tree just outside the girls' window. It's conceivable that there could have been an intruder," Scully admitted. "What did Bad Bear look like?" Mulder asked. "This," said Amanda, and she grabbed the brown crayon. She drew a round body and a head with round ears. The arms and legs were ovals stuck straight out from the body. "That looks like a regular teddy bear," Scully said. "He was, but he had mean eyes," Amanda said. She put down the brown crayon and chose the red one, and made two large, burning circles on the bear's face. Mulder noticed how her small shoulders tensed as she pressed down on the crayon with all her weight. Last, she picked up the black crayon and added a big frown. "That's one angry-looking teddy bear," Mulder said. "He was a mean bear," Amanda agreed. "What did he tell you to get you to let him in?" Mulder asked gently. "He said he was cold out in the rain, and that I should open my window for him. It was locked, and he had to tell me how to undo it," Amanda said. She was adding blue droplets beneath the squiggles at the top of her paper, which were apparently clouds. Mulder looked up at Scully as she stood by the table. "Did they check the window?" he asked. Scully shifted her weight from one foot to the other, looking slightly uncomfortable. "There was no sign of violence on Rachel's body," she said, "It would have taken a very determined and agile killer to get up that tree and close enough to the window to enter it." "So the answer is no," Mulder said. "That's right," Scully admitted. "What happened after you opened the window?" Mulder asked Amanda. "Bad Bear and Pillow came in. Bad Bear walked, like this," she said, miming a lumbering bear walk with two fingers across the table. "Pillow scrunched around like a caterpillar." She still didn't look up from the paper. She'd added eyes and frowns to the clouds. "They went to my sister's crib and climbed up in it. I asked Bad Bear what he was doing, but he said 'Shhh,' it was a secret. Then he picked Rachel up and carried her out of the crib. They had to jump on Pillow to get to the floor. Then Pillow got into Rachel's bed and Bad Bear carried her to the window. I said to stop, but he just looked at me with his mean eyes and smiled. Then I don't know what happened. It's like he made me fall asleep . . . I tried not to, but I couldn't help it. My mommy found me on the floor by the window this morning." Mulder looked at the little girl with a feeling of compassionate sadness. After his own sister, Samantha, had disappeared, he'd also experienced a strange gap in his memories of the event. At various times he'd considered the possibility that his memory had been wiped by alien abductors or Shadow Government agents with a vendetta against his father. Scully must have sensed his sorrow because she stepped behind him and rested one hand lightly on his shoulder. "I need to look around upstairs," Mulder said, looking backward and up at Scully. "Do you have a key?" "Yes," Scully said, "but the police may still be up there." "Even better," Mulder said. He stood up and headed for the door. After a moment, Scully and Amanda followed. Mulder took the stairs. Upon opening the stairwell door he immediately perceived which apartment Amanda's family lived in. Apartment 45 was the one with the open door and the police officers in rubber evidence-handling gloves going in and out. "Federal Agent Mulder," he introduced himself to the cop closest to him. "I was told this wasn't a homicide investigation." "Well, probably not," the other man said. Mulder noted that his badge said Officer Fosskey. "We've just got to make good and sure. Did you know there was one lady who had five kids that supposedly died of SIDS? They didn't catch her until she offed her husband, too. Doesn't reflect too good on law enforcement." "No, I'd guess not," Mulder agreed. "Mind if I look around inside?" "No, go ahead," Fosskey said. "This is my partner, Agent Scully," Mulder said, "and this is Amanda. She's this family's other daughter." "Rachel's my sister," Amanda explained. "I live downstairs," Scully said, "I've been watching Amanda while her parents are with the medical examiner." Fosskey looked suspiciously at Amanda and then back at the Federal Agents. "Just don't let her get into stuff," he said. "We'll keep an eye on her," Scully said. The three of them entered the apartment. Amanda hung onto Scully's hand. "You want to show me your room, Amanda?" Mulder asked. The little girl pointed toward the right and he and Scully followed her to a door decorated with a large decal of Big Bird. This apartment was laid out identically to Scully's. Scully used the analogous room as a study-cum-storage space. Mulder thought it was odd to see a room so similar stocked with a crib and a child's bed, and liberally scattered with children's toys. He glanced over at Scully, but she had no readable expression. He knew how badly she'd been wanting a child of her own. The revelation that, due to the government tests performed on her, she could no longer have children, had hit her hard. Mulder walked over to the window and looked at the latch. It was unlocked. "Can I get some gloves, here?" he asked, and one of the officers brought a pair. As Mulder snapped on the little white gloves he held his hands out in front of Amanda. "Hey, Amanda, I'm Mickey Mouse," he said. She rewarded him with a shy grin before turning and pressing her face into Scully's blouse. Scully ran her hand protectively over Amanda's hair. Mulder returned his attention to the window. "Has anybody seen this?" he called out, using one fingertip to brush a tuft of brown fuzz that was wedged between the window frame and the sill. "Seen what?" asked a female officer. When she came over and saw what Mulder was pointing to she said, "Aw, hell. Murray! Come look at this!" Officer Fosskey appeared in the doorway. "What?" he asked. "Fiber evidence. We gotta dust this sill for fingerprints," the woman said. "I doubt you'll find any," Mulder told her. "Have the fibers analyzed -- it's probably polyester." The female officer gave him a quizzical look. "What are you suggesting, Mulder?" Scully asked, "Do you really think a teddy bear killed Rachel Miller?" "No," Mulder said, "but I think something masquerading as one might have abducted her. Amanda, did the Bad Bear look like that?" he asked, pointing to a stuffed bear sitting on the room's pink dresser. "Uh-huh," Amanda said, "but he didn't have plastic eyes. His eyes were mean." "What about Pillow? Did he look like yours?" Mulder asked. "Yeah," Amanda said. She picked up the pillow on her bed. It was pink with an image of Disney's Little Mermaid on it. "It looked like mine, but it wasn't. It scooched, like this," she said, and made the pillow inch forward like a worm. "What are you getting at, Mulder?" Scully asked him. "This situation reminds me of the legends about changelings," he said. "In various cultures throughout the world people tell stories about a non-human race that abducts human children, often leaving an impostor in their place." "Mulder, that baby was dead. I examined her myself," Scully said. "You examined something that looked like a dead baby, just like Amanda saw something that looked like her pillow," Mulder said. "You're saying this thing shape shifts?" Scully asked. The woman officer by the door looked incredulous, but Mulder ignored her. He was used to that reaction. "It might," Mulder said. "Can I talk to you for a minute?" Scully asked. She walked over and took his arm. "Sure," he said, and allowed her to steer him to the kitchen area, which happened to be as far as possible from the police officers. "Mulder, I don't know how to say this politely," Scully said softly. "This changeling theory of yours is bizarre. In all the years I've known you I don't think I've ever heard you come up with an explanation so . . . improbable." "Well, I had to top myself sooner or later," Mulder told her with a mischievous smile. "This isn't funny, Mulder," Scully said, "we already have a child who's dead. You don't need to make things even more difficult for her family by holding out false hope." "What, you mean that Rachel might be rescued? I think she might," he said. "Mulder . . . don't be dumb," Scully said. "That baby was blue and going stiff when I saw her at a little before eight this morning. They're going to do an autopsy on her. Sad as it is, Rachel Miller is very dead." "Ever read William Butler Yeats? 'Come away, O human child! To the waters and the wild, with a faery, hand in hand, for the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.'" Mulder quoted. Scully looked appalled. "Don't even tell me that you think Tinkerbell abducted this baby," she said. "Tinkerbell is a sanitized, Disney myth. The original fairies were at least half evil. People feared them; they refused to speak their names out loud. They called them 'The Good Folk,' or 'The Old Ones,'" Mulder said. "That's nothing but superstition, Mulder," Scully said. "You want to tell that to Bad Bear?" Mulder asked. "Come on, I want to see if the carpet's wet under that window." It was. "Amanda, you said it was raining when Bad Bear came to the window?" Mulder asked. "Uh-huh," the girl said. She was standing where Mulder and Scully had left her, by the window, gazing out with a sad look on her little face. "Scully, were Rachel's clothes wet when you found her this morning?" Mulder asked her. "Well, she was a little damp on her tummy, where she'd been lying. Frankly, I thought it was just baby drool," Scully said. "Call up the medical examiner and tell him to get a serologist to test the fluid on Rachel's pajamas," Mulder said. Scully looked less than happy about it, but she took out her cell phone and began to dial. "Annapolis, Maryland," she told the operator, "Anne Arundel County medical examiner's office, please. Thank you." "Do you really think this kid was abducted?" the female officer asked, sounding alarmed. "I think it looks that way, yes," Mulder told her. "Damn," the woman said. She looked distressed, but she seemed to accept his explanation. Suddenly she smiled at him. "Handy having the FBI live downstairs, isn't it?" she said. "They have one of us hiding out in every apartment building in America, cleverly disguised as tenants. Don't you listen to talk radio?" he asked her. Scully's conversation with the ME's office was apparently not going well. "Yes, the pajamas," she was saying. "The fluid in the fabric could be rain water. No, I don't know how it would have gotten there, that's what I'm trying to find out. No, I don't want to hold -- darn it," she said, as the other person apparently cut her off. "Why do I always have to be the one to make the embarrassing phone calls?" she asked Mulder. "Actually, I was about to make a few of those myself. Can I use your phone downstairs? It's kind of long distance," Mulder said. "How long distance?" Scully asked. "Ireland. I'll pay you back for whatever the phone company bills you," Mulder promised. "Who do you need to talk to in Ireland?" Scully asked. "The editors of a magazine called F‚rrinne, that's Irish Gaelic for "Truth," Mulder said. Scully groaned. "I can just imagine what they publish," she said. "Articles on Brigadoon and the Loch Ness Monster." "Brigadoon's just a story, Scully," Mulder told her, "and they consider the Loch Ness monster to be an established fact. What's the challenge in reporting that? Usually, they publish theories on how the British government is conspiring to oppress and destroy them. The Irish are wonderfully paranoid folks. I like them a lot. "Anyway, a back issue of F‚rrinne I read recently contained an article by a man named Tom Sheehy, about an old woman living on the island of Inishmaan. She claims that as a girl, she witnessed what she described as 'fairies' abducting another child." "How does the British government figure into that?" Scully asked. Mulder smiled, "Sheehy wasn't sure, but he was convinced that it had to be their fault somehow," he said. "I think I should introduce him to Frohike and the basement boys." Scully sighed and said, "All right, go ahead. I know it's no good trying to dissuade you." "True," Mulder said. "Amanda and I will be down in a minute, if the medical examiner's receptionist ever decides to pick up the phone again," Scully said. Finding the number for F‚rrinne's offices proved more difficult than he'd expected. The magazine had listed an address in Dublin, but they were no longer there. After getting put on hold and disconnected by the international operators several times, Mulder eventually tracked F‚rrinne to the town of Poole. "They're in Laughton street, above the Animal Control Office," the operator had said. Mulder figured the rent there had to be pretty good. When someone finally answered F‚rrinne's phone Mulder could hear dogs howling in the background. "Who is this?" demanded a man with a gruff voice. "I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder from the United States' Federal Bureau of Investigation. I'm looking for a Mr. Tom Sheehy," Mulder said. "Naw, Sheehy's not here," said the man. "Sacked the old SOB six months ago for coming into work staggering drunk. No loss. Sheehy's God's next biggest mistake after England, if you want my opinion. You want to arrest him for something?" "No, I'm just trying to get some information. Do you know where I could find him now?" Mulder asked him. "Likely in Donegal Town, living with his mum. He's too sloshed to keep a job and too proud to go on the dole, so somebody's got to support him," the man said. "Do you know his mother's first name?" Mulder asked. "No. He always just called her 'Mum,'" said the man. "You don't get very far with Information just asking for 'Mum,'" Mulder said. "You know, if you really want to find him, you could call the Donegal Police Department. Like as not Tom's been in their drunk tank lately," the man said. The man's words proved uncannily accurate. Since he had no other leads, Mulder did call the Donegal Police. Someone who identified himself as Officer McKinley answered the phone. When Mulder asked him whether he knew of a Thomas Sheehy, there was a brief silence at the other end of the line. "Thomas James Sheehy?" Officer McKinley asked. "I'm afraid I don't know his middle name. I was told he spent a fair amount of time in your drunk tank," Mulder said. "So he does," McKinley said. "I've only just sent him home. Caught him pissing against the wall of the post office, in broad daylight, too. He frightened a little old lady." "I'm sure he did," Mulder said, "Do you know of any way I can get in touch with him? I'm a United States Federal Agent and I'm hoping he can give me information about the abduction of a little girl." "Oh, my! Well, I'll try to help you any way I can, Mr. Mulder." McKinley said, then he added, "Erm, you understand I can't give out his number over the phone? With all due respect, sir, as far as Department protocol is concerned, you might be someone hired to beat Sheehy up, or even a reporter." "I'm not either of those," Mulder assured him. "I can tell you that Sheehy's mother's name is Clara -- lovely lady -- and that they live in the Westchester block of flats along the Smithfield Motorway. You ought to be able to get the number from the operator," McKinley said. Mulder thanked him and dialed the number for Irish telephone information again. He got put on hold and disconnected three times. If this kept up, he was going to owe Scully fifty bucks and an elaborate apology, he thought. Finally, he got Sheehy's number. When he dialed it, the phone rang and rang. "Come on, Sheehy, after all that, you've got to be home," Mulder said. Someone on the other end picked up the phone. "What the devil are you calling me for at this hour?" a very drunk and groggy-sounding man said. Mulder was momentarily taken aback. He was pretty sure it would be about 3 in the afternoon in Ireland. "Mr. Sheehy, I need to contact a woman you once interviewed for F‚rrinne Magazine," he said. "I don't do that no more. Stinkin' Fergusson the stinkin' editor sacked me six months ago," Sheehy said. "I know that, Mr. Sheehy. I just need to know the name of the woman on Inishmaan who said she'd witnessed a child being abducted by fairies. In the article you said you'd changed her name to protect her privacy," Mulder reminded him. "Oh, hell . . ." Sheehy said, and was silent a long time. Mulder was beginning to wonder if he'd passed out when he finally said, "Corey. Alice Corey. Crazy old bat. You can't contact her though, she's got no phone." Mulder placed one hand against his forehead. Of course she wouldn't have a phone, he thought. "She has got a son though, he's in the States," Sheehy added. "Really?" Mulder asked, wondering if his luck were turning good for a change, "What's his name?" "I dunno . . . Barney. Barnaby . . . Barabbas, something like that. He's in Chicago, making parts for . . . things," Sheehy said. "I see," Mulder said, "Well, Mr. Sheehy, if you remember anything else, give me a call. You can call collect," Scully was going to kill him, he thought. He gave Sheehy Scully's number as well as all of his own: home, office and cellular. "Yeah. Ok, will do," Sheehy said. This did not fill Mulder with confidence. After he hung up the phone he sat back in Scully's kitchen chair with a frustrated sigh. Scully and Amanda had recently returned. "That didn't sound encouraging," Scully said. "All I've got is that the woman's name is Alice Corey, she has no phone, and the only way to contact her is through a son who might be named Barabbas and who lives in Chicago manufacturing 'things,'" Mulder said. "Boy, you were right. I liked my embarrassing phone call better," Scully said. "I got a serologist to do a test for the enzymes normally found in saliva on the liquid on Rachel's pajamas. Some of it really was drool, but it seems that some of it wasn't." "Can they identify it?" Mulder asked, sitting up straight and turning around to look at her. "We soaked some of the water out of the carpet by the girls' window. If the two samples match, it'll support your abduction theory," Scully said. "Well, at least we're getting somewhere," Mulder said. "This doesn't mean the child I examined this morning was really a changeling," Scully reminded him. "Doesn't mean she wasn't," Mulder countered. "Mulder, there's something I want to ask you about this changeling business," Scully said, and stepped close to him. Apparently whatever she was going to say she didn't want Amanda to hear. "They're doing an autopsy on Rachel now," she said softly, "That means cutting open her abdomen and removing her organs. If she really were a . . . fairy impostor, wouldn't she scream or try to escape?" "Not necessarily. How do we know what a supernatural and possibly immortal being would perceive as painful?" Mulder asked. "For that matter, the fairies are supposed to be able to take a block of wood, or a 'stock,' and create the illusion that it's a dead body. When the entity that Amanda calls Pillow realized what was about to go down in the morgue, he might have pulled a bait-and-switch maneuver." "Mulder, the county medical examiner is a trained physician. He's studied pathology and forensic medicine. I'd say that by now, he knows the difference between a block of wood and a human body," Scully said. "After a couple of thousand years' practice, Pillow might be able to whip up a pretty good fake," Mulder said. Their conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the phone. Scully picked it up and said, "Hello?" Mulder saw her expression change to one of confusion and annoyance. "No, I don't want to accept a collect call from Thomas," she said. "Yes, you do!" Mulder said, jumping up from his seat. He hurriedly took the phone from her and said, "We'll accept the charges." "Hey!" Scully said. "I'll take care of it," Mulder replied. "All right, Thomas, you can go ahead," said the British-sounding operator. "Er -- Mr. Mulvey?" Sheehy said. He sounded slightly more clear-headed than he had a few minutes ago. "Mulder," Mulder corrected him. "Right . . . I found some of my old notes from when I was interviewing Alice Corey. Her son's name is Barnaby Corey, and he works as an electrical engineer at TFS Manufacturing in Chicago. I've got what looks like a work number for him . . . and I seem to have a credit card number, too," Sheehy said, as if genuinely puzzled as to how it got there. "Just the phone number would be great," Mulder said. He scrambled for a pen but settled for one of Amanda's crayons. He wrote down the number Sheehy gave him on the back of one of the alien pictures. "Thanks a lot, Sheehy. You've just made my day," he said. "Uh . . . sure, no problem. Always glad to help . . . you don't know anyone who's looking to hire an out-of-work journalist, do you?" Sheehy asked. "Well, not really, but if I hear of somebody who does, I'll let you know," Mulder offered. "Ok . . . all right. Thanks," Sheehy said, and hung up. "Guess what? We just won the lottery," Mulder said. "Is that what you're going to use to pay my phone bill?" Scully asked. "Just one more call, Scully. This one's in the United States and everything," Mulder said. "Yeah, all right, but next time, we make your place the base of telecommunications," she said. "Next time a kid in my apartment building gets abducted by the Fey Folk, I'll do that," he said, and punched in the phone number that Sheehy had given him. The phone only rang twice before a woman answered. "TFS Manufacturing, Tina speaking. How may I direct your call?" she asked with impersonal cheeriness. "Hi, I need to talk to Barnaby Corey," Mulder said. "And whom shall I say is calling?" Tina asked. Mulder wanted to say, "Somebody who doesn't misuse the word 'whom,'" but he restrained himself. "Special Agent Fox Mulder of the FBI," he said. "Oh," Tina said, sounding surprised and a little alarmed. In Mulder's experience, the letters "FBI" inspired more fear in the average citizen than any other acronym except for "IRS." At times, that could be useful. "I'll get him right away," Tina said. She put Mulder on hold, thus forcing him to listen to several bars of a muzak version of "Stairway to Heaven." Mercifully, Corey was quick to come to the phone. "Yes, what is it?" Corey asked. He had a noticeable, but not intrusive, Irish accent. "I'm sorry to disturb you at work, Mr. Corey, but I'm looking for a way to contact your mother. I think she may have some information that will help us recover an abducted little girl," Mulder said. "My mum?" Corey asked, sounding incredulous. "I don't mean to disappoint you, Mr. Mulder, but I'm sure you must be mistaken. My mother's never been out of County Donegal. She has an eighth-grade education, for all she's a very learned woman regarding Irish history and folklore. I doubt she even knows what the FBI is." "Actually, it's because of your mother's knowledge of folklore that we want to talk with her. Is there any way we could get a phone call through? You must speak to her sometimes; I bet she wants to hear about her grandkids," Mulder said. "No, I have no children, Mr. Mulder. And generally when I want to speak to my mum, I go back to Inishmaan." Mulder rested his chin on his hand, feeling another defeat coming. After a moment, though, Corey seemed to get an idea. "To tell you the truth, though, I've been trying to get her to come over here for years. My mother's blind, you know. She's getting on a bit, too, and she's been alone in that old house since Father died. She won't leave the island for her own sake or mine, but she might do it for a wee, lost girl. If she happened to stay on with me, well then so much the better." "That sounds like it could be the best solution for all concerned," Mulder said. "How soon will you know if you can get her here? It's a little baby who's missing, and the longer she's gone, the more danger she'll be in from mistreatment or neglect." "I can leave tonight," Corey said. "Yes, my supervisor will understand, given the circumstances. I could have Mum call you tomorrow from the pier at Kilronan." "I would really appreciate that, Mr. Corey," Mulder said, and gave him the full list of his and Scully's phone numbers. He told him he could call collect, too, despite Scully's glare. By the time he hung up the phone he was feeling downright chipper. "Not bad for a couple of hours' work," he told Scully. "I don't want to burst your bubble Mulder," she began, but he cut her off. "Oh, yes, you do," he said with a grin. "It's your job and you love it." He saw her try to repress a smile. "Do you realize that you're disrupting a lot of people's lives for an almost nonexistent chance at success?" she asked. "I think Mr. and Mrs. Miller would say that Rachel was worth whatever chance she could get," Mulder answered. "It would be cruel to get their hopes up and then dash them again," Scully said. "It would be worse to give up on Rachel while she still has a shot," he replied. "All right, Mulder." Scully said, shaking her head. "Do it your way." "I always do," Mulder said. He stood up and grabbed his trench coat, which he'd thrown over the back of a chair. "I think I'll go over to the Library of Congress, and see what I can dig up about changelings in folklore. If you hear anything, give me a call." "Can I call you collect?" Scully asked. "Sure," Mulder told her. He walked over to the couch, where Amanda had curled up and fallen asleep. "Poor kid. She's had a rough day," he said. He couldn't help smiling at the little girl's mismatched socks. He lifted up the blanket that she'd wadded under her feet and laid it over her. "She's probably going to hate pillows for the rest of her life." Scully stood looking at him with an affectionate, and almost sad, smile. "I'll give you full marks for good intentions, Mulder," she said, "I just hope that they don't pave your way to Hell one of these days." Library of Congress 5:42 p.m. Mulder sat hunched over a large heap of books, most of them open. He was trying to read them simultaneously, a technique which he found worked well for quickly synthesizing a lot of information. The books' titles ranged from Celtic Tales for Lads and Lasses to C.G. Jung's Man and His Symbols. The glasses he wore for extended reading had slipped down his nose, but he didn't notice. He was so engrossed that when his cell phone rang he startled violently, knocking a couple of books to the floor. A passing librarian gave him a dirty look. "Whoa, hey," he said to her with a sheepish grin, "I gotta lay off the Frappachino." Her frown of disapproval deepened. He realized that his phone was buried again. This time he found it under a dissertation abstract called Tam Lin: Reflections on the Celtic Tradition of Supernatural Seduction. The title had been something of a turn-on, but to Mulder's disappointment he'd found the dissertation itself was boring and not terribly relevant. He flipped open his phone. "Mulder," he said. "This is your American Telcom operator. Will you accept a collect call from a Miss Dana?" said a woman with a nasal voice. "And I didn't think she had the gall to do it," he said to himself. "I'm sorry, sir?" the operator said. "Yeah, put her on," Mulder said. As soon as the operator connected him he heard Scully say, "Gotcha." "You know, when you call me on the cell phone I pick up the charge anyway," he reminded her, trying not to be amused. "That's not the point," she said. "You're the one who's always telling me that I should relax and be more spontaneous." "I take it all back. Please be more uptight and predictable," he said, although he didn't mean it. "Is there a reason for this call or are you just yanking my chain?" "As it turns out, there is a reason. I just heard from Bob and Kathy Miller about the medical examiner's findings. They tell me that Rachel's internal organs had a significant number of minor, gross abnormalities," Scully said. "How gross? Do I want to know?" Mulder teased her. "'Gross' means that the malformations were visible in the shape of the organs themselves and not confined to their internal structures. Actually, from what they said, none of the deviations from normal should have significantly affected her health, but taken all together it does suggest that something was wrong," Scully said. "Such as?" Mulder prompted. "Well, it could be the results of a genetic mutation. Kathy might have been exposed to radiation while she was pregnant. Prescription drugs have been known to be put on the market before doctors realized they caused birth defects . . . actually, Rachel's unusual viscera could have been affected by a lot of things," Scully said. "Such as a non-human entity's imperfect attempt to simulate a human body?" Mulder asked. "I knew you weren't going to let go of that," Scully said. "Did they do any blood work?" Mulder asked. "Yes, they drew some, but we're still waiting for the results," she told him. "To be honest, I think there's something wrong there, too. It shouldn't take this long to do a CO2 level." "Have them do a blood type test," Mulder said. "You want me to call up the medical examiner's office again? They already think I'm a wacko for cold-calling them once with strange advice. I think they did what I told them last time just to shut me up," Scully said. "That's the way you get things done," Mulder said, "Investigative work isn't for the shy." "There's a difference between being shy and trying to avoid annoying people I may have to work with again. I talk to a lot of medical examiners, Mulder," she said. "If you want, I'll call," he offered, "But I don't think they'll listen to me. I'm just some behavioral psyche nut. You're the doctor." "No, I'll call. Just at least tell me what you want the blood type test for," Scully said, sounding resigned. "It's one way to determine whether that baby is really the Millers' child. If we're dealing with a creature that can't quite get the human organs right, you can assume it would fail to accurately reproduce something as subtle as Rachel's blood type," Mulder said. "And if their blood types do match? Are you going to ask for a chromosome comparison next?" Scully asked. "If necessary," Mulder said. "How much proof is it going to take? Sometimes, little babies really do just die," she said. "Lying in rain water in their own cribs?" Mulder asked. Scully sighed. "All right, I'll do it. But you owe me after this," she said. "I'll worship you for the next week. I'll spread my coat over puddles so you don't have to get your little feet wet. I'll recite elegiac poetry in praise of Scully, fairest of the Federal Agents," Mulder said. "Please don't," Scully said. "I've heard your taste in poetry. It's creepy," "Spooky," he corrected, and then began quoting Yeats again, "'Twenty centuries of stony sleep were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, and what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?' You've gotta like that," he said. "I can see why you don't date more," Scully said. "I'll call you when I've heard anything new." She hung up. After four years of working together, Mulder and Scully seldom bothered with the conventions of saying "hello" and "good-bye." Mulder's apartment Alexandria, Virginia Thursday, 12:02 a.m. The phone was ringing. This time, it was under an old sweatshirt on the floor by Mulder's bed. Foggily, he realized that he'd fallen asleep with the TV on again. It was showing a rerun of "Gilligan's Island" in which the Professor built yet another improbable machine out of coconuts while the Skipper chased Gilligan around, whacking him with his hat. As he dug the phone out Mulder made a mental note to make sure the television was off every night. There were some things he didn't want piped into his subconscious. "Yeah?" he said once he'd gotten the phone to his ear. "It's me," Scully said. "I've just been talking to the Medical Examiner." "At this hour?" Mulder asked, squinting at the clock. "He must be a worse workaholic than me." "The test results took a bizarre turn. First of all, the baby's blood type was indeterminable," Scully said. "The ME said Rachel's blood was like nothing he or his staff had ever seen before. It took so long to get the results because they ran all the tests over and over, thinking that the samples must have gotten contaminated." "Did her cells look mutated?" Mulder asked. "From what he told me, they look like someone put them in a blender," Scully said. "And no one noticed that before? I have a hard time believing that no one's ever drawn Rachel Miller's blood before today," he asked. "Apparently, they did do blood work when she was born, because she had severe jaundice. There was some concern that she might need a transfusion. At the time, they listed her blood type as A positive, the same as her father's," Scully said. "Can you think of any condition that would turn apparently healthy blood cells into something unrecognizable in such a short time? Rachel was a pretty young baby, wasn't she?" Mulder asked. "Nine weeks," Scully said with a sigh. "There is a condition called erythroblastosis, where the red blood cells clot together and their membranes shatter, but that usually occurs only at birth. Other things can cause destruction of blood cells, such as a severe vitamin E deficiency, infections, certain poisons. I suppose those are all still possibilities. But the really weird thing about Rachel's blood is that it doesn't seem to have any hemoglobin in it." "How could that happen?" Mulder asked. "I don't know. Even people with severe anemia have some hemoglobin in their blood. There are iron compounds in her plasma, which you'd expect from severe hemolysis, but they're simple compounds, not proper hemoglobin proteins." Scully said. "Just enough to make the blood passably red colored," Mulder said. "Don't jump to conclusions, Mulder. It's conceivable that her proteins broke down somehow . . . it's even possible that the samples really were contaminated, by an enzyme or exposure to heat," she said. "All of them?" he asked. "I admit it's not very likely. But it's still more likely than fairy abduction," she told him. "Scully, in your opinion, with the number and severity of the abnormalities that this baby suffers from, could she ever have been alive and healthy, much less alive and healthy on Tuesday night?" Mulder asked. Scully was silent a few moments. "I don't think so," she said. "So you agree that it's not the Millers' baby," Mulder said. "That conclusion is seeming more likely," Scully admitted. "The Medical Examiner's having a chromosome comparison done between the baby and Rachel's parents, but pending that, the case has been re-classified as a kidnapping." "Hot damn," Mulder said. He fell backward onto his pillow and rested the phone on his belly. "You know, I almost hoped I was wrong?" "You tell me that now after I've been running around all day trying to help you prove your demented theory?" Scully said. "You know, sometimes I really don't want to believe," he confessed. "If I didn't believe in this stuff, I think I'd sleep better." "Well, maybe you'll sleep better knowing that I called Skinner up at home and he gave us the go-ahead to do a formal investigation," Scully said. "I take back what I said about you being shy. You go, girl," Mulder said. "At least now I have a more-or-less legitimate reason for calling up the ME and telling him to run strange tests after quitting time," she said. "Scully?" Mulder asked as he contemplated the stupid antics of the castaways on the TV screen, "Do you ever have weird thoughts late at night?" "Such as what?" she asked, sounding wary. "Like if you were stuck on Gilligan's Island, and you had to pick one of the guys to . . . you know, get intimate with, would it be Gilligan, the Skipper, the Professor or Mr. Howell?" he asked. "You're very sick, Mulder," Scully said, and hung up. F.B.I. Headquarters Thursday, 11:15 a.m. Mulder had placed his phone front and center in a bare patch on his desk, where he could keep an eye on it. He wanted to be able to grab it quickly in case Barnaby Corey called. He'd been stealing impatient glances at it all morning, until Scully had admonished him about watched pots that never boiled. He'd unsuccessfully tried to distract himself by filling out some of the paperwork that Assistant Director Skinner insisted he submit, rather unreasonably, Mulder had always thought. Finally, the phone rang. Mulder grabbed the receiver. "Mulder," he said. "Hello, Mr. Mulder, it's Barnaby Corey. Mother and I are waiting for the ferry at Kilronan," Corey said. "That's great," Mulder said, sitting up straighter in his chair. "Can I talk to her?" "Certainly," Corey said. "Mother, the FBI man I told you about wants to speak with you," Mulder heard him say. "Oh. All right," came the piping voice of a woman who was clearly very old. "Hello?" said Alice Corey. "Mrs. Corey, my name is Fox Mulder. I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation in the United States. One of the things we do is try to rescue kidnapping victims," Mulder explained. "Yes, I see," Mrs. Corey said. "At some point on Tuesday night or Wednesday morning, a two-month-old baby girl was taken from her room by what her sister has described as an evil teddy bear. The mother found the baby apparently dead, but the tests we've run show that it probably wasn't her real child. I was wondering if you could tell me what you know about child abductions committed by what are called the "Fair Folk" or the "Old Ones," especially when they involve leaving a changeling in the child's place," Mulder said. "The Faerie world is very close to ours, Mr. Mulder," Mrs. Corey said. "Sometimes all that separates us from them is a boundary as thin as a soap bubble. When that happens, things can pop through. I've been blind all my life, you know, and perhaps because of that, certain of my other senses have been sharpened. I heard the Fey Folk once, when they came for my friend Feargus, when I was six years old. We were playing on a hillside out of sight of our parents' houses. People were less frightened, in those days, and they let their children roam. As I recall, Feargus was giving me a bunch of daisies he'd picked for me, when I began to hear strange little voices. They called to him by name. I shouted at them; I told them to leave us alone, but he let go of my hand and wandered away. No one ever saw him again. The police consider it to be an unsolved kidnapping to this day, but the truth is that Feargus Williams was taken by the fairies." "Why do they steal human children?" Mulder asked. "Some of the Fey Folk are jealous of us. They're terribly old, you know, and most of them have had their blood turn to dust in their veins. They can no longer make little ones of their own," Mrs. Corey said. Mulder couldn't help but think of Scully, and how she'd grieved over her own barren condition. "They take these children to raise them?" he asked. "Raise them, yes, and then to breed them. They likely want a sturdy baby girl to help replenish their thin blood stock," said Mrs. Corey. "Or perhaps they simply want to destroy what they cannot have. As long as she is in their power, your lost wee one is in tremendous danger." "What do I need to do?" he asked. "You must find their Fairy Ring, but step into it with one foot only. Those who enter all the way into the land of Faerie are seldom heard from again. When you spot the Old One who has hold of the child, you must drag it out of the ring with you. Whatever you do, don't give in to the temptation to stay. The fairies glamour, their wall of beautiful illusion, is their greatest weapon. They may release you in three hundred years, or maybe four, but it will seem to you as if only a few minutes had passed." "How do I fight that temptation?" Mulder asked, "And how do I find their ring?" "You'll be less suceptible to their glamour if you carry iron with you. The Fey Folk don't like it," Mrs. Corey said. "As to finding their ring, that can be tricky. They hide them well, but I can tell you that they prefer lonely spots under the trees." "The baby disappeared inside the city of Annapolis. Have you ever heard of the Fey Folk taking a child from an urban area?" Mulder asked. "I'm afraid not, but then I know so little about cities. If I were you, I'd look for a park or the front garden of a great house. If you cannot find it, Barnaby and I should be in your country by . . . when, dear?" Mrs. Corey asked. "Fourteen hours or so, Mother," Barnaby said. "Well, that's not so long. I have a sense for these Old Ones. Perhaps I can help you," she said. "I may need it," Mulder said, "I'm not an experienced fairy tracker." "Do you find them and manage to grab the child, you must be ready for their illusions," Mrs. Corey said. "The baby may seem to change into a serpent, or a tiger, or a red-hot fire poker. You must hold onto her no matter what. If you are brave enough to wait their tricks out, then they'll relinquish her to you." "Then I guess I'll just have to be brave enough," he said. He heard a deep hooting sound over the phone. "That's the ferry," Mrs. Corey said. "I have to go -- but we'll see you in a bit. We'll land where again?" she asked Barnaby. "John F. Kennedy airport, Mum. That's in New York," Mulder heard him say. "Well, there you are. God bless," said Mrs. Corey, and then she hung up. Mulder hung up, too, and sat looking at the phone a minute. Scully came in the door just then, holding a sheaf of papers in her hand. "I've got some more test results for you, Mulder," she said. "Oh, good, just what I've always wanted," he said, with absolute sincerity. He reached out his hand and said "Let me see," but she stepped back and held the papers out of his reach. "I thought you were supposed to be reciting elegiac poetry in my praise this week," she said. "Oh, that's right," he said, and half stood up so he could firmly grab her free hand and pull her close to his desk. "How's this? 'You walk in beauty, like the night, of cloudless climes and starry skies, and all that's best of dark and bright meet in your aspect, and your eyes.'" Keeping his eyes on hers, he lifted her hand to his lips and gently kissed her middle knuckle. Scully looked shocked, but pleased. "Mulder, I'm impressed," she said. "I'm beginning to think you could get a girl of you wanted to." "Of course I could," he said, releasing her hand. "I just don't have time for one. Chasing aliens and dodging shadowy government operatives is a lot of work. Right now, I'd rather see your lab report than any girl. Well, ok, maybe Cindy Crawford and Pamela Anderson-Lee wrestling in Jell- O . . ." he said. "I really didn't need to hear that," Scully said. "So give me the report and shut me up," he said, holding out his hands for the papers. She shook her head at him and handed them over. "All right, now you're reminding me of why I told you you'd be single for the rest of your life," she said. Mulder scanned the pages briefly. "Aha! The water on the carpet and on Rachel's pajamas match," he said. "And this is weird. The fibers I found wedged in the window have disintegrated?" he looked up at Scully. "It says that they've turned into some kind of powder or ash," she said. "Did they analyze it? The ash has to be made of something," he said. "Carbon," she told him, "some hydrogen. It looks like what's left of some organic molecules. It could be the residue of a plastic, as you suggested." "That doesn't explain what happened to it," he said. "No, it doesn't," she conceded. Mulder considered that for a moment. "Has anybody looked at the baby's body this morning?" "I called the Medical Examiner's office a couple of hours ago. They know me by the sound of my voice, now. I suspect that every time I call it makes them unhappy," Scully said. "Yeah, but you have jurisdiction now. You have the right to harass them," Mulder said, with an evil grin. "Sick. You're very sick," Scully said, shaking her head at him. "One of the ME's assistants told me she'd been testing the baby's liver for signs of drugs or cancer, both of which can cause hemolysis. She didn't find either, but she did say that the body is decomposing at an unusually fast rate, despite the refrigerated drawers they keep the cadavers in." "The creatures who created it probably expected us to be done with it by now. Isn't that the old custom , to bury the body on the third day?" Mulder said. "They found her Wednesday," Scully pointed out. "She may have been taken on Tuesday," Mulder said. "Well, for whatever reason, they're scrambling to complete all the tests they can before all the evidence disintegrates," she said. "Good idea. If you want another look at the corpse, you might want to get over there. Mrs. Corey told me about a kind of glamour, or illusion, fairies can cast. If that's wearing off, then pretty soon that thing in the morgue won't even look human anymore." Mulder said. "You have such a cheerful way of putting things," Scully told him. "Well, I do try." Mulder said. "By the way, what happened with the chromosome comparison?" "The body doesn't have any," Scully said. He looked at her for a moment. For some reason, what she'd just told him made him feel faintly ill. "I'm really glad that I'm a psyche nut after all," he said. "I'll just stick to the profiling work. The bloodless, chromosome-less, changeling baby corpses are all yours." "There is a reason you have a limited social life, you know, Mulder," Scully said. "Yeah, because I spend all my time down here in the Hoover Building basement with you," he said. "If you're going to the morgue I'll go with you. Maybe if I comb through the hospital records I can find an unusual pattern of SIDS deaths. They say serial killers tend to live at the geographical center of their crimes. Maybe child-snatching Fey Folk do too." Annapolis Receiving Hospital Thursday, 3:10 p.m. Mulder had set up a temporary work station on the table in the morgue attendants' break room. He knew that they'd parked him there to keep him out of the way. But since the Bureau had stuck him in the Hoover Building basement back in '92 so they wouldn't have to think about him, this offhand treatment didn't bother him at all. At least here he got free soda pop. In fact, he had three half-full plastic cups of Diet Pepsi sitting in front of him now. He'd unplugged the break room phone to commandeer its jack for online research, the results of which he was scanning on his laptop. Pushed off to one side was a map of the county, which he'd dotted with small shreds of yellow Post-it-Notes at the points where a SIDS death had occurred. Unfortunately, the hospital was new, and he was only able to get 15 years worth of records. Still, when he'd gotten online he'd been able to access nationwide statistics on Sudden Infant Death, and he'd discovered that the northeastern part of Anne Arundel County had a slightly higher SIDS rate than the average, when demographics were corrected for. He was contemplating his computer screen and sipping one of his multiple Diet Pepsis when Scully came in the door. "Find anything interesting?" he asked, not turning to look at her. He didn't have to look to know who she was; by now he could distinguish her by the sound of her walk. "The baby's body has decomposed almost entirely to ash," she said. "No one has found any explanation for the strange physical defects she suffered from." Scully walked up behind him and peered over his shoulder. "What are you doing?" she asked. "Checking out the zoning of northeast Anne Arundel County," he said, pushing his reading glasses up with one finger. "Alice Corey told me the fairies choose isolated spots under trees to hide themselves. I've got retail . . . retail . . . residential . . . this is weird," he said. "What?" Scully asked, pulling up a chair and sitting beside him. "A combination county park and Superfund site. How charming," he said. "Where?" she asked. "Near the coast, east of Londontown," he said. "Do you know that area?" he asked, looking over at her as she gazed concernedly at the screen. "You don't mean Bloomer Park, do you?" she asked. "Doesn't say . . . is it along Stoney Creek?" he asked her. "Yeah . . . I used to walk Queequeg there," she said. Mulder had been less than fond of Scully's yappy little Pomeranian, so he did not much lament its demise via a giant alligator in Florida. "Ever see anything like a circle impressed upon the grass?" he asked, "Or else a large ring of mushrooms?" "No," she said. "Why?" "That may be our abductors' base of operations," he said. "Are you sure that's a Superfund site? There's a cider mill along that creek. The EPA wouldn't let people make cider right next to a toxic waste dump, would they?" Scully asked. He pointed to the relevant spot on the zoning map as proof. "Maybe they store it in lead-lined bottles," he suggested. Scully looked very unhappy. "I've drunk their cider before," she said. "Mmm, tasty. Did the jug list its shelf life or its half life?" Mulder asked. "That's no way to talk to somebody you're supposed to be worshipping," she said. "Oh, all right, but I can tell this is going to get old quick. 'O fairest of Creation! Last and best of all God's works!' Will you do me the honor of accompanying me to the Londontown toxic waste dump?" he asked. "Sounds thrilling. Why there?" she asked. "It's isolated, for one thing. Not a lot of foot traffic in a Superfund site. Also it's in an area with an unusually high number of SIDS deaths and it's near a park, where there'll be plenty of fields and trees. That's where I'd hang out, if I were an evil fairy." he said. "I don't even want to think about that. Has it occurred to you that maybe parents take their young children to this park, and they get exposed to hazardous materials? Babies eat dirt, you know. There could be arsenic in the soil, or lead. That could increase the death rate right there," she said. "How much harm would it do to look? Other than risking the odd exposure to poisons or radiation," he asked. She sighed. "All right, I'll go. My only other choice is the morgue, and I've been there all afternoon. Even radiation might be a nice change." "That's the spirit," he said, powering down his laptop. "You get to call the local EPA office and tell them why we want to go in there, though." she said. "Not a problem," he said. Mulder clicked shut the laptop and stood up. He held his hand out to her and said, "'The two divinest things this world has got, a lovely woman in a rural spot.' Or in this case, a Superfund site." She'd unplugged the computer's cord and wrapped it around its power block. She placed this in his extended hand. "I'm aquiver with anticipation," she said. Near the Londontown Superfund Site Thursday, 4:35 p.m. Mulder drove down a rural road past the Yate's Cider Mill, which was closed for the autumn. On the other side of the street was little Bloomer Park, which consisted of a creek, a few picnic tables and a swing set. A lone mother watched her child swinging. The Superfund site, an area so contaminated that the government had selected it specifically for quarantine and massive clean-up efforts, lay around the next bend, literally within walking distance. At least it seemed to be downstream from the Cider Mill. The inconspicuous driveway he was looking for branched off to the right and dead-ended at a ten foot chain link fence with multiple rows of razor wire at the top. Large metal signs affixed to the fence read, "Danger: Keep Out. Hazardous Materials." The man he'd been told would meet them sat in a tan-colored Chevy with government plates. As Mulder pulled in the man got out. Agent Gilbert of the EPA was a nervous-looking, balding man in a brown suit that didn't fit so well. He reminded Mulder of an accountant facing an IRS audit. "Agents Mulder and Scully," Gilbert said, smiling ingratiatingly as they got out of the car. "Thank you for being willing to help us on such short notice," Scully said. "Oh, the sooner we get it over with the sooner we can leave," Gilbert said. "You know, I don't really like to come out here," he said to her in a confessional tone. "Is it really that bad?" Scully asked, looking rather concerned herself. "Well, the topsoil in the worst parts has been stripped off and sent to a landfill, so short term exposure should be quite safe. Just stay out of the water," Gilbert said. "Nice landscaping," Mulder said, pointing to a tiny patch of flowers and a few vegetables outside the gates. The sign behind it had a yellow ribbon painted on it and read "Gulf War Victory Garden." "Oh, that. We have a lot of military folks around here from the Naval base. They thought it was a nice touch," Gilbert said, completely without irony. He took out a ring full of keys and unlocked the imposing gates. Behind them, most of the terrain looked like the same wooded country as the county park. To the right, though, Mulder glimpsed a plowed-under section between the trees. Before going in he unlocked his car's trunk and took out two forearm-length pieces of iron rebar that he'd picked up at a scrap yard. He handed one to Scully. "You want me to bludgeon Tinkerbell to death?" she asked. Gilbert craned his neck to look on, seeming curious but fortunately too timid to ask. "They're supposed to hate iron. Mrs. Corey recommended using iron to make the shape of a cross, but this was the best I could do. My guess is that a whack with a good chunk of rebar will back down just about anyone or anything," Mulder said. "If you say so," she said, gingerly taking one of the bars. Both metal rods were rusty, and she didn't look happy about getting red grime all over her hands. The appearance of weapons seemed to alarm Gilbert. "Um, do you think it would be acceptable if I waited in the car?" he asked. "Go for it," Mulder told him, relieved not to have to bring the mousy man along. "Scully, why don't you take the upland area and I'll go down by the river," he said. Gilbert had said the water was more dangerous and Mulder wanted to spare his friend any more exposure to toxins than was necessary. From the strange tests performed on her by unknown persons to her recent battle with cancer, she'd had more than her share of chemicals and drugs. "Sure, Mulder," she said. "Now what exactly am I looking for?" As they walked through the gates he explained to her all that Mrs. Corey had told him about rescuing fairy abductees. She still looked skeptical, but seemed at least willing to go along. That was one of his favorite things about Scully; she was usually willing to concede him the benefit of the doubt, no matter how peculiar his ideas were. "I feel silly," she said, whacking at the tall, dry grass in the clearing around the gates. "You look wonderful," he told her. "Never have I seen rebar used so successfully to accessorize an outfit." "Laying it on a bit thick, aren't you?" she asked, but she was smiling. "Not at all," he said, "The rust kind of sets off the color of your hair." She shook her head. "Go find your fairies, Mulder," she said. As he walked away she called out, "And be careful." Mulder headed down toward the river. Even in late autumn, a fair number of brown leaves still hung on the trees, and the thickness of the underbrush quickly cut off his sight of the gates and the road. The poisons in the ground had kept everyone out of here for years. There were no footprints in the soft, damp earth, no discarded candy wrappers or beer cans. "'This is the forest primeval,'" he found himself thinking, despite the fact that he knew there were practically no old-growth forests left in this part of the country. Still, it was almost as if he'd stepped though a gateway into another time, or another world. The river was wide, shallow and sluggish. Strange brown and green scum floated on the surface in places where it opened up into nearly stagnant pools. Overgrown willows leaned in toward the water, their pale, drooping branches trailed in it like fingers. Despite Mulder's relative closeness to the road, it was very quiet. The dense thicket of weeds and brambles on the bank made it necessary for him to practically wade in the river. "Stay out of the water," Gilbert had said. "Ah well," Mulder thought, "too late to worry about that." It occurred to him that he could turn back and search upland, but something about the river's listening stillness made him believe he was close. This place felt right to him. After nearly nine years with the Bureau, he'd learned to trust his feelings.. Looking up from his soaked feet, he saw a little island just up the river. It was really little more than a hummock, rising just above the surface of the water. Nearly all of its land was taken up by one of the most enormous oaks Mulder had ever seen. It had three trunks, which met at ground level, each of them too thick for a man to encircle with his arms. At the center of the trunks was a hollow spot, flecked with bright green moss and choked with leaves. Both he and Scully could have stood in the hollow and still had room to move. Not exactly a circle, he thought, but it was contained within definite boundaries. Perhaps that's how the Fey Folk kept their world separate from the human one. Mulder waded out into the water. It was colder and deeper than he'd expected, and it soaked him to the knees. Oddly, he felt an urge to take out his gun, as if he were creeping up to a drug house. He lifted his iron bar in preparation to strike if necessary. Recalling what Alice Corey told him, he placed only one foot on the island. Then the lights went out. Glancing up he saw stars between the spidery branches of the trees, but they weren't any constellations he recognized. All around him were lights, little flickering balls of cold fire that danced and hovered. Pale, beautiful faces with eyes like submerged jewels turned to look at him. He realized music had been playing, but that it had stopped when he entered. He got the feeling that he was crashing a very private party. "Agent Fox Mulder, FBI. I'm looking for a baby girl," he said. It seemed like a stupid thing to say, but he did not want to stand in silence under their eerie gaze. He didn't bother to flash his badge. A woman, or perhaps a girl, stepped softy to his side. She was diminutive, smaller than Scully, and so beautiful it seemed that she'd been created by art rather than nature. The only thing she wore was a kind of gauzy wrap that didn't leave much to the imagination. Cradled against one fair-skinned breast was a sleeping infant, wearing incongruous-looking pink footie jammies. The woman looked up at Mulder with eyes that were a deep, indeterminable color and smiled. Something about her manner seemed so gentle, so wise, that he felt ashamed of himself for standing there with an iron bar, ready to bash something. He looked down at the weapon he was carrying and said, "Uh . . . sorry." The woman smiled even more sweetly, as if to say that all was forgiven, and reached down to take his hand. As she did so, the tip of the rebar brushed against her leg. She screamed, a high-pitched, inhuman sound that made Mulder want to cover his ears. Instead, he reached out and grabbed her arm. At the touch of the iron her flesh suddenly withered, like a fast motion film of a raisin shriveling up in the sun. Her youthful body corkscrewed down into that of a gnarled crone, clothed in rotting rags. He yanked her backward violently and they both splashed into the daylight world of the contaminated river. The hag-thing sunk in on itself, shape-shifting before his eyes into something dark and many-legged with a fang-filled mouth. One crooked limb still clutched the baby, who was awake now and shrieking. Mulder was afraid to strike with the bar since he might hit the child. Instead, he threw himself on the creature and forcibly wrested the baby from its grip. Struggling with it, he lost his footing and both he and the child tumbled into the river. He could feel the thing's legs skitter across his back like a giant cockroach. When he stood up again he was shaking with more than the cold. Mulder hated bugs. He was quite distressed to look down and see that he was holding one. The child had become an oozing, grublike thing with twitching vestigial legs, and it was all he could do to keep from flinging it from him. He remembered what Alice Corey had said about holding on no matter what. As he watched, the grub's head grew bulbous and four tentacles sprouted from its sides. The next thing he knew, he was trying to hang onto a cat-like creature that thrashed and scratched. A claw tore a gash in his cheek and came away bloody. He did what he could to pin all four of the legs to the writhing body. Then suddenly, it felt as if someone had poured burning oil on his chest. Mrs. Corey had warned him that Rachel might appear to become a red-hot poker, but what she actually changed into was something like napalm. He was trying to hold a burning, slimy mass that slithered between his fingers and caused unbelievable agony wherever it touched him. He realized now why Mrs. Corey had urged him to be brave. When the pain got to be more than he could stand, he half dove, half fell under the water in a desperate attempt to quench the thing before sheer misery forced him to drop it. When he surfaced again he was holding a baby. It coughed and screamed and threw up on him. Mulder almost didn't mind. To his immense relief the pain had vanished, but he found he was freezing cold. He tried tucking the child beneath his coat so she might at least take some advantage of his body heat. He was on his knees in the toxic river and wasn't quite confident that he wouldn't fall over if he tried to stand. Somehow, the world seemed gray and distant and he felt sick to his stomach. "Aha, the opening stages of shock," he thought, and hoped he wouldn't do anything so unheroic as to pass out. Scully found him like that, and from the horrified look on her face he deduced that he must look pretty terrible. "Mulder!" she shouted, and came splashing through the river toward him. "So much for my chivalrous attempt to keep her out of the water," he thought. She extended a hand to steady him as he slowly got to his feet. He lifted the edge of his jacket to show Scully the baby, and the gesture made him feel like a two-bit stolen watch salesman. "Hey lady, wanna buy a baby?" he asked, giving her a shaky smile. Scully threw her arms around him and he hugged her back hard with his free arm. It felt better than he could say to hold someone who was not going to turn into anything. When he finally stepped back from her he handed the infant over so she could get a look. His question, "Did I get the right one?" made her laugh, but he'd been quite serious. He didn't want to have to go through that again. "Yeah, yeah, I think you did," Scully said, with patent wonder in her voice. "She sure looks like Rachel to me, but having dealt with a changeling I guess I'll never be completely sure again." "So you admit I was right," he said, already regaining his old smugness. "I deny everything," she said, but he knew she was teasing him. "There's a lot of that going around," he said. Suddenly Scully looked up at something behind him. "Mulder," she said. He turned around and saw a dirty little face peeking out from behind one of the tree trunks. He splashed over to the island and looked at the hollow at the tree's center. There were people huddled there--filthy, scrawny, twitching or staring with blank expressions. They reminded him of the video he'd seen of Lucy Householder, a girl who'd been kept prisoner in a basement for five years. Some of the former abductees were children, but many were not. One or two appeared quite old, but they all looked as blankly uncomprehending as infants. Perhaps they had still been infants in the fairy world, he thought, and when he broke the ring the weight of the years had come crashing down on them. He thought that several piles of ash lying around the island tended to support this theory; those would be the remains of the abductees who'd been missing for more time than a human could survive. "We're gonna need Protective Services," Mulder said, "And a hose." None of these folks smelled too good.Two Weeks LaterThe Millers' HomeSunday, 11:20 a.m. Kathy Miller, a plump, thirtyish woman in a sweatshirt that said "Human Dynamo," hurried over to where Mulder sat on the couch and set Rachel in his arms. To his horror, Mulder realized she had a camera. "Uh," he said, "Smile, Uncle Fox! Smile, Baby Rachel!" Kathy called out. "Please don't call me -- arrgh," he said as the flash blinded him. "Ok, now Dana, you get in there, too," Kathy said. Mulder looked over to where Scully had been watching in what he privately suspected was sadistic amusement. "Oh, I couldn't," Scully protested, but Kathy was accepting no excuses. She grabbed Scully by the arm and steered her to the couch. "You're not escaping this, Miss Dana," Mulder told her as she half sat, half got pushed, onto the couch next to him. "But how could I steal your special moment, Uncle Fox?" she asked, widening her blue eyes at him in a fake-innocent expression. She flinched as the flash went off again. "She never even read us our Miranda rights," he said in Scully's ear as they both blinked away the flash's afterimages. Bob Miller, whom Mulder had never heard so much as a dozen words from, stood in the corner sipping soda with Barnaby Corey and his mother. Although Mulder hadn't needed Mrs. Corey's physical presence to rescue Rachel, he had been glad to be able to thank her in person. Her son had taken Mulder aside and thanked him, since he'd provided a reason for his mother to come to the States. Barnaby had expressed hope that she would stay, but Mulder suspected she would return to Ireland. Something about the soft-spoken, birdlike old lady seemed more in keeping with what Yeats had called "the waters and the wild" than the city of Chicago. "So how does it feel to be a godfather?" Scully asked him. "I didn't wanna be a godfather," he said softly, so Kathy wouldn't hear him over the incessant sound of her own voice. It had seemed so important to the vivacious little woman, and she and Bob had been so grateful, that he hadn't been able to refuse. "I told her I'm not religious and I don't know anything about babies, but she wouldn't believe me," he said. "I got a scab," Amanda informed him. He startled -- he hadn't heard her come up to the couch. For some reason, she had decided he was her special friend and she followed him everywhere, giving him a running commentary almost as continuous as her mother's. Amanda held up her arm and indicated a small scab on her elbow. "It's very nice," he told her, then he leaned over and said into Scully's ear, "Miss Dana, I'm doomed." "Oh, you are not," she said. "I've seen you work with kids, and you're pretty good at it. Besides, you don't have to be religious to be a godfather. It's basically an educational position. Just teach Rachel what you know." Mulder looked at the tiny girl on his lap. "If I told her what I know, the Shadowy Government Syndicate would try to kill her," he pointed out. "For heaven's sake, just use your best judgment. You're a sensible guy," she said, and then got up and headed for the kitchen, presumably to hide from Kathy and her amateur Paparazzi activities. He looked at the baby again, who was placidly drooling on his knee. She was so trusting and helpless, he thought. How could a person live in the world like that? He realized that maybe he could offer her a useful education after all. "Ok, kid," he said with a sigh, "Let me tell you about Roswell . . ." ****************************************************** **************** In Case You Care: The Superfund site mentioned in the story is real. While it is not actually in Maryland, it is in another state that starts with the letter "M." The cider mill, the Gulf War Victory Garden, the contaminated topsoil being sent to a landfill, are all taken from life. Some things are just too weird to make up. The story about the lady who killed her five kids and tried to pass them off as SIDS deaths is true, too, as is the description of the huge, three-trunked oak. (A local Pagan hangout, of course.) Credits for the stolen quotes include (in no particular order): "The Stolen Child" and "The Second Coming" by William Bulter Yeats, "Paradise Lost" by John Milton, "The Story of Rimini" by Leigh Hunt, and a paraphrase of "She Walks in Beauty" by George Gordon, Lord Byron (which no one has ever recited to me, dammit.) ALL DONE. BYE BYE. ****************************************************** *****************