Title: Madjahando (1/1)
Author: aka "Jake"
Rating: R (R for Language and Violence)
Classification: X (X-File)
Spoilers: Vague references through Season 7
Summary: "The Adventure of a Lifetime" awaits Mulder and Scully when they travel to investigate a series of bizarre killings at MarMar North Country Camp, a remote hunting camp in northern Maine's timberland wilderness.

Disclaimer: The characters Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and Walter Skinner are the property of Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions. No copyright infringement intended. This is for fun, not profit.

MADJAHANDO
By aka "Jake"


------------
Northwestern Maine
October, 1682

In a frosty clearing beside the Shishiqua River, Bernard LaBossiere lay on the ground bleeding to death. A bear trap gripped his lower leg, its teeth sunk to the bone. Deer flies buzzed above the pool of thick, dark blood oozing from his wounds.

"Georges." Bernard groaned. "Georges, you can not leave me here to die." 

Tying beaver hides onto the backs of two patient ponies, Georges Vaillancourt ignored Bernard's pleas.

"Georges! Please! You are my best friend."

"That may be, Bernard, but I have wanted you dead for many years." Georges glanced at the dying man. He felt no pity. "You set that bear trap yourself. You trod on it yourself. I consider it to be Fate at work and I take no blame in it. You are a vile man, Bernard LaBossiere. I ain't sorry to see your spirit leave this life." 

Georges turned his back on the injured man and mounted one of the horses. "Goodbye, Bernard," he said over his shoulder. He headed south with the second pony in tow. They quickly disappeared from Bernard's view, lost in the dense forest of maple and spruce.

"No! Georges! Come back!" 

Bernard struggled to sit. His arms trembled with effort as he tried again to pry open the jaws of the bear trap. The metal teeth remained deeply embedded in the flesh of his shattered leg. 

"Georges!" he screamed, his breath fogging the cold October air. 

The autumn sun hung low in the sky. It cast a blond light across the clearing but provided no warmth. Exhausted and shivering, Bernard eased onto his side. He knew he was dying.

"Damn you, Georges Vaillancourt," he muttered. "Damn you." 

Bernard stared dully at the river and waited for death to come. 

A powerful bull moose waded shoulder deep into the icy water not ten yards away. Its dark, liquid eyes gazed back at Bernard. 

Bernard felt pulled into the creature's bottomless, black stare. 

"Nodah."  *Hear me,* he thought he heard the moose say in the Abenaki language of the local Indians.

"Awanigia?" *Who are you,* he asked the beast.

"Madjahando." *Power, evil.*

-------------
Misery Township, Maine
Present Day

David Vaillancourt and Jason LaClair shuffled through fallen autumn leaves, following Misery River south through a lowland at the base of Williams Mountain. They were scouting moose trails in anticipation of next week's hunt.

"You ever been moose huntin' before?" eighteen-year-old Jason asked his young cousin.

"Course. Lotsa times. I helped Uncle Marty cut and haul a moose out of Moxie Gore last year. That bull dressed out at 1200 pounds. We're still eatin' meat from that tough old moose."

"Can't believe I lucked out and got me a permit this year. I'm gonna bring back the biggest friggin' bull the state has ever seen!" Jason laughed.

"Jason, look at the size of this track!" David squatted to examine a two-pronged print pressed deeply into the mud. He ran his finger around the impression. "Track's fresh. This mornin', maybe," he said. "I can't hardly wait for next week! Look, here's another track." David pointed and took a few excited steps before stopping. The smile vanished from his face. "What the...? Oh my God, Jay, it's...it's a dead man!" 

The boys approached the battered body of a man dressed in camouflage. A compound bow lay across his chest. 

"Musta been huntin' deer. God, he's all stove up. Whaddaya suppose happened to him?" Jason asked, fear in his voice.

"I ain't got no idea, but we better call the Warden." 

-------------
Greenville, Maine
2:32 PM

Scully drove the agents' rented Jeep due north on Route 15. Mulder sat in the passenger seat and read aloud from a colorful tourist brochure.

"'The Adventure of a Lifetime! A vacation to remember awaits you at MarMar North Country Camp, a four-season wilderness paradise featuring world class bear hunting, deer hunting, and moose hunting.' I'm sensing a theme here." 

"Hm." 

"'MarMar North Country Camp is located on 800 privately owned acres, ten miles west of Maine's Moosehead Lake. The Camp is nestled in a magnificent wilderness among pines and cedars overlooking scenic Misery Lake.'"

"*Misery* Lake?" 

"That's what it says. 'The endless miles of primeval forest and shadowy bogs have lured hunters in search of trophy game for centuries.'"

"Primeval forest. Shadowy bogs. Sounds like your kind of place, Mulder."

"You'll like this part, Scully: 'MarMar offers complete, modern comfort in a rustic wilderness setting. The Camp's accommodations include large cabins with private baths and hot showers, cleaned daily.'"

"That does sound better than most of the motels we stay at."

"Nothing but the best for you, Scully. 'Meals are prepared in our large country kitchen and served up family style. Our spacious modern dining room with large stone fireplace is the perfect spot for the telling of tall tales.'" 

He flashed her a conspiratorial smile.

"Too bad we don't know any." She returned his smile.

"Should I have had the Flukeman stuffed and mounted on my living room wall?"

"Sure, right between the Mothman and Big Blue."

Mulder nodded before returning to the brochure. "'Towels and linens are supplied; you need only bring yourself and your favorite gun.'"

Scully snorted. "The only thing I needed to pack was my weapon? No sweaters, no thermal underwear, no hiking boots? No hat, no gloves, no blaze-orange jacket? You could have saved me a lot of time if you'd read me the brochure back in DC. Blaze-orange is impossible to find in Washington, by the way." She squinted through the dusty windshield at the thick forest. "Tell me, what exactly brings us to this neck of the northwoods?" 

"Didn't you review my case notes?"

"With all that packing, who had time?"

"We're here to investigate the deaths of two hunters."

"Hunting accidents hardly qualify as X-Files, Mulder. The cause of death is generally pretty obvious."

"Not in these cases. Marty Vaillancourt, our host at MarMar North Country Camp," -- Mulder waved the brochure at her -- "claims both victims were murdered by the spirit of his great, great, great, great...eight greats in all...grandfather's best friend and worst enemy, Bernard LaBossiere."

"That's unlikely." 

"Is it?" 

Shaking her head, Scully considered how Mulder, once again, was proposing an outlandish theory supported by no more than paranormal hearsay and wishful thinking. She had to admit, however, his uncanny ability to process information and leap to conclusions -- both plausible and implausible -- often put him several steps ahead of her during their investigations. To her chagrin, he turned out to be right with infuriating regularity. 

She decided to ignore his latest preposterous idea for now. Slowing the car, she pulled into a parking space in front of Moosehead Lake Outfitters. Several dozen protesters crowded the sidewalk outside the store. They carried signs that read "Stop the killing!" and "End the slaughter!"

"Pro-Lifers?" she asked.

"More like Bullwinkle fans." Mulder pointed to a sign demanding "No More Moose Hunt!"

They exited the car and headed to the store's entrance, where a second small but vocal group taunted the protesters from the front porch.

"Tree-huggers! Go back to southern Maine and take your goddamn environmental, animal rights, communist crap with you!" yelled one irate young man.

Mulder placed a hand at Scully's back and guided her through the shouting crowd and into the shop. Although they were dressed in jeans and sweaters instead of their usual suits and trench coats, they nonetheless looked conspicuously out of place with their city haircuts, polished shoes, and not a stitch of plaid flannel.  

A display of hunting knives at the front counter caught Mulder's attention. Scully left him there while she explored an aisle stocked with bottled water, film, ammo, fishing lures, and first aid items. She passed these by, looking for snacks -- the real reason for their stop. They were already well supplied for their trip; they'd brought FBI-issue compasses, flares, and flashlights. She had restocked her medical kit before leaving DC. She carried her Sig and knew Mulder had his sidearm, as well as a Walther PPK strapped to his ankle. She'd packed plenty of warm clothes and hoped Mulder had had the sense to do the same. 

Finding an assortment of snack foods, she selected a couple of granola bars for herself and a packet of sunflower seeds for Mulder. Returning to the front of the store, she grabbed an iced tea and a root beer from the cooler. When she laid her items on the counter, the smiling clerk was handing Mulder a bag.

"What did you buy, Mulder?" 

"A little present for you." He reached inside the bag and withdrew a bright blaze-orange knit hat.

"Nice, Mulder, you shouldn't have. What else is in the bag?"

"A hunting knife." He looked a bit sheepish. "It's a Buck 180DL with a 7-inch blade. I needed a new one, Scully. I really did. That Flukeman dulled the old one. You can't imagine how tough fluke hide is." 

Arching an eyebrow, Scully said nothing as she handed the clerk some bills. Mulder scooped up their purchases and trailed her back to the Jeep. 

Although MarMar was located only ten miles as the crow flies, the dense Maine forest forced Scully to follow Route 15 north along the shoreline of Moosehead Lake, skirting the wilderness to the west. The road bent nearly back on itself in the little village of Rockwood, which was no more than a collection of a dozen houses and camps. 

Several miles later, Scully searched for their turnoff. The setting sun provided scant light. Multiple logging roads diverged from the main route like splayed fingers. None were marked by signs. 

"Take the next right," Mulder said. 

"These sideroads all look alike. Are you sure?"

He waggled the map at her.

She shifted the Jeep into four-wheel-drive and steered onto a deeply rutted, logging road. The Jeep lurched over tree roots and stones. They traveled for about half an hour. When the sun set, the forest became one of the blackest places Scully had ever seen. She was about to proclaim they were lost and suggest they turn around when a dim light appeared up ahead. Several log cabins came into view, dotting the shore of a small lake. The largest building was clearly marked "MarMar North Country Camp." 

--------------
MarMar North Country Camp
Misery Township
5:40 PM

Stepping into the rustic lodge, Mulder and Scully were greeted by the buzz of lively conversation and the clatter of cutlery coming from an adjoining room. The delicious aroma of grilled steaks and coffee hung in the air. Mulder's stomach growled. He hoped they weren't too late for dinner. They followed the noise to a large dining room with a massive table at its center. Twelve scruffy hunters, all sporting lengthy beards, sat joking, laughing, and eating around the table. Their talking ceased and twelve sets of curious eyes turned their way when Mulder and Scully entered the room.

"ZZ Top convention?" Mulder whispered in Scully's ear, then added, "You could cut the testosterone in here with a Buck 180DL."  

"You must be Fox and Dana," a woman called out to them as she emerged from an open door at the back of the dining room. She was large-boned, with graying blonde hair and a radiant smile. She carried a steaming coffeepot "Come on. They won't bite. Well, most of 'em, anyway!" She laughed and winked at the burly man who held up his mug for a refill. "I'm Peggy Vaillancourt, proprietor of this humble establishment. You're just in time for dinner. Take a seat and I'll bring you some plates. Tonight we're having deer steaks, potatoes, squash, turnip, biscuits, and canned fiddleheads. I put those up myself last spring. Blueberry cake for dessert. You can settle into your cabin after you eat. Come on, make yourselves comfortable." 

Mulder pulled out a chair next to a hulking, dark-haired young man and gestured for Scully to sit. She gave the stranger a quick smile. Mulder took the seat across from her. A large, balding man to his right put down his fork and extended a beefy hand.

"Rick Stewart," the man identified himself. He pointed to the younger man sitting beside Scully and added, "My son Rick, Jr. We call him Richard, just to avoid confusion."

Richard reached across the table to shake Mulder's hand. He offered Scully a friendly "Hi. Nice to meet you."

"Where are you two from?" Rick asked.

"DC. I'm Fox Mulder and this is Dana--"

Peggy reappeared at Scully's elbow. "Here're your plates and silver, hon." She'd brought napkins, too. She raised her voice to shout to the man at the far end of the table, "Pass them steaks this way, John. We got hungry folks over here." 

A platter of venison made its way down the long table, followed by a big bowl of steaming mashed potatoes, and a plate of what Mulder assumed must be fiddleheads. 

"Butter's right there in front of you, dear." She pointed it out to Mulder. "Coffee?"

"Yes, thank you." 

Peggy filled both his and Scully's cups before hurrying away to the kitchen.

"We're up from Jersey," Rick told Mulder in a friendly tone. "This is our first moose hunt. How about you? You got any experience hunting big game?" 

"Um, yes, actually. A few years back I bagged a two-hundred pound fluke--"

"Mulder!" Scully cleared her throat. "Pass the potatoes, please." 

He lifted the bowl, took a scoop for himself, and then passed the rest to her. 

Squinting suspiciously at the platter of fiddleheads, he spooned a few onto his plate. The dark green coils didn't look like anything you'd want to -- or should -- eat. He tested the texture of one with his fork. A burly man on the other side of Richard noticed his hesitation.

"Those fiddleheads are excellent. Don't be afraid of 'em," he said. 

Mulder forked a couple into his mouth. The texture was mushy and the taste somewhat earthy. 

"Ya' know, it takes Peg forever to skin all them little caterpillars," the burly man said. 

Mulder's eyes widened as he swallowed. Did he really just eat worms? His stomach rolled as the men around the table guffawed at his obvious discomfort.

"Marty, when are you gonna' stop torturin' folks with that old prank." Peggy had returned with fresh biscuits and a deep bowl of squash. She faced Mulder. "Them's only vegetables, Fox, not caterpillars. Marty's just tryin' to get a rise out of you. Dana, Fox, meet my not-so-better half, Marty."

"Pleased to meet you," Marty boomed. Laughter still lit his features. "Welcome to MarMar. Don't forget to register for the raffle. The winner gets a free two-week stay with us next huntin' season."

"Feeling lucky, Mulder?" Scully asked.

*          *          *

After dinner, Peggy showed Mulder and Scully to their cabin. She briskly led them through its tidy rooms, pointing out where to find clean towels and explaining how to work the finicky hot water valve on the shower. 

"We serve three meals a day," she told them. "Breakfast is at 5:00 a.m. so the hunters can get an early start, lunch is at noon and dinner at 5:30 in the evening. You can come to the kitchen anytime for coffee or a snack. Help yourself to whatever's left over in the fridge. Just be sure to clean up after."

"Thank you, Peggy." Scully smiled at the likable older woman. "By the way, you're aware we're FBI agents investigating the recent deaths of two hunters, aren't you?"

"Yes. But I didn't want to mention it in front of the guests. Marty and I depend on their business to make enough money to live on 'til next huntin' season. We'd appreciate it if you could keep a low profile while you're here. No need to scare payin' customers away with stories about hunters being found dead in the woods nearby. Tomorrow mornin', Marty and the warden'll take you out to the place where the body was found. Warden'll be here around nine o'clock."

"Thanks," Scully said again. She walked Peggy to the door.

"Let me know if you need anything, honey. Marty and I live up over the lodge. One or th'other of us is always around." 

---------------
MarMar North Country Camp
7:10 AM

Early morning sun flooded Scully's bedroom, waking her from a dreamless sleep. Through her open door, she could hear Mulder's gentle snore coming from the living room. Quietly, so as not to wake him, she slipped out of bed and pulled on a pair of jeans, a sweater, and her boots. She tiptoed past him asleep on the couch and silently let herself out the front door. 

Outside, the cold autumn air was sweet with the smell of cedar and pine. Scully folded her arms against the chill and headed for the lodge, hoping to locate a cup of hot coffee. 

When she arrived, the dining room was empty. No trace of the hunters' early morning breakfast remained except the lingering smell of sausage and French toast. Going to the kitchen, she discovered it, too, had been wiped cleaned, dishes washed, food put away. She located a coffee urn, lifted a mug from an upper shelf, and poured herself a steamy cupful. Carrying her mug to the kitchen's back door, she stepped out onto a sunny porch that overlooked the lake. 

On the porch, Peggy sat in a wooden rocker peeling apples.

"Good morning, Dana. Sit down. Join me. You sleep okay?" 

"Yes, thank you, I slept very well. I see we missed breakfast." Scully sat in a rocker next to Peggy.

"Yeah. The boys left more than an hour ago. Can't hold 'em back from the hunt." She laughed. "There's plenty of food left over though. You and Fox can help yourself whenever you're ready." She offered Scully a crisp slice of apple.

"Thanks." Scully took the apple and bit into it. "S'good!" 

"Wait 'til you taste 'em in my pie." Peggy smiled.

Scully wrapped chilled fingers around her mug and gazed out across the sparkling lake. Miles of wilderness forest spread out around the camp. The only sound came from Peggy's paring knife. No traffic. No television. Nothing but a stillness so complete it raised the hairs on Scully's arms.

"Why do you live out here, Peggy?" Scully asked without judgment, simply curious. "It's so far from everything, so isolated."

Peggy chuckled. "It's hard to explain to people who are used to city life, everything conveniently nearby. But, look out there beyond the lake. The hardwood trees are on fire with fall color. No buildings, no signs spoil the view. The air is so fresh and clear you can see Mount Kahtahdin over to the east, fifty-five miles away, like it was sitting right next door. The water in that lake," -- Peggy pointed her knife -- "is so clean, the bass can't hide from you. And, if you plan ahead, everything you need is right here."

"It's lovely. But don't you get lonely?"

"Honey, who could get lonely?" Peggy laughed. "Even after all the hunters go home to Massachusetts or New Jersey, we still got neighbors, family, and friends. They're just spread out a little more than you're used to." 

Scully nodded and sipped her coffee. 

"Are Maine winters as harsh as they say?"

"Nine months of snow and three months of bad sleddin'? Well, that's the rumor we perpetuate to keep the tourists from movin' up here permanently. That and the story that black flies are so big and fierce in the spring, they can carry off a bull moose!" She laughed again. "The fact of the matter is, honey, that a Maine winter is one of the most beautiful sights a human being can witness. There's a strength to it that takes your breath away. The snow piles deep on the ground. The pines look like they're hugging' themselves, their branches are bent so tight to the trunks, weighted with ice. Snow lasts so long into the spring you just about think it'll never go away. And then, suddenly it does. The ice goes off the lake, the apple trees bloom, birds start singin', and you could weep from the beauty of it. To be honest, I feel sorry for people who live in a place where the climate is always the same. They miss the severe magnificence of winter and then the achin' loveliness of the summer that follows. We get to appreciate that here every year, and if we're lucky, maybe eighty or ninety times in our lives. It's such an overwhelmin' feelin'. I always wonder why someone would choose to go their whole life and not know that experience." 

Scully considered the older woman's words; she wondered what it would be like to stop chasing mutants, phantoms, and aliens to live in a peaceful place like this. 

"You almost make me want to move here."

"I did mention the black flies, didn't I?" Peggy teased.

"Hey. Morning," Mulder said from the kitchen door, a mug of coffee in one hand and a plate of cold French toast in the other.

"That for me?" Scully asked. He lowered the plate so she could lift a slice off the top of the stack. 

He settled into the chair on Peggy's left. 

"What does 'MarMar' mean?" he asked, his voice still raspy from sleep. "Is it an Indian word?"

"Hell, no." Peggy laughed. "It's short for Martin and Margaret!" 

-------------
MarMar North Country Camp
9:09 AM

Marty and the local game warden, John Randall, stood beside four all-terrain vehicles and explained to Mulder and Scully how to run the machines. The warden was a youngish man, in his mid-thirties. Clean cut, sandy hair. A cleft in his square jaw reminded Scully a little of Dudley Do-Right, the cartoon character.

 Autumn leaves swirled through the air, ripped from swaying branches by a brisk wind from the north. Scully's cheeks stung from the cold. She was thankful for the hat Mulder bought her. 

"We'll be able to go most of the way on these four-wheelers, but will have to walk the last couple of miles. Fox, Dana, I'm glad to see you're both wearing blaze-orange. Moose huntin' season started today. The state of Maine issued permits to fifteen-hundred lucky yahoos who are out walkin' the woods with 'moose fever' this week," Marty warned.

"Is 'moose fever' recognized by the AMA?" Mulder asked with a smile.

"Maybe not but in these parts, it's highly contagious. You catch it and you'll be back every season, dressed from head to toe in camouflage with two rifles mounted in the rear window of your pickup, I guarantee it." 

"That would be a great look for you, Scully. Not that your blaze-orange ensemble isn't sexy." He tugged at her sleeve.

"We're wearing matching outfits, Mulder." 

"Yeah, embarrassing, huh?"

Mounting one of the ATMs, Marty signaled the others to follow and then led the way into the forest. The path he chose was little more than a deer trail, but the four-wheelers rode easily up and over the lumpy forest floor, around blowdowns and boulders. 

Marty guided them into a lowland between Misery Ridge and Williams Mountain. They followed Misery Stream north to a sump of bursting cattails. The ATV's noisy arrival startled a flock of Canada geese into a raucous flurry of wings. 

Marty cut his engine and stood. 

"We'll go on foot from here," he said. "The bog's too swampy for the four-wheelers. We'll hike upstream about a mile and a half, then cross to the other side. The second body was found just west of the crossin'."

"Who found the body?" Mulder asked.

"I did, two mornin's ago." Marty picked his way carefully through the marsh. "My nephew found the first body last week."

"You told the Warden that the victims were killed by a spirit?" 

Scully noticed John Randall smile.

"Yeah, I told him that, but John here doesn't really believe it," Marty said, showing no sign of embarrassment.

"Can you tell us the legend?" Mulder asked.

"The story goes that Georges Vaillancourt, my great, great, great, and a helluva lot more greats, grandfather left his companion Bernard LaBossiere to die in these woods back in the late 1600s. LaBossiere had stepped into one of his own bear traps, breaking his leg bad. Georges left him because LaBossiere wasn't a very nice man. He'd killed several men, one a relative of Georges, for no more reason than to watch 'em die."

"You think Bernard LaBossiere's spirit haunts these woods?" Mulder asked.

"I do. The story that's been passed down through generations says a moose took the spirit of Bernard LaBossiere into itself. The moose was Madjahando, which translates into 'evil power' in the Abenaki's native language. Madjahando's been responsible for many deaths over the centuries, accountin' for this place bein' called 'Misery.'"

"That sounds rather fantastical," Scully said. She thrust her hands deeply into her jacket pockets to keep them warm.

"Yeah, I know. But I believe it and a lot of other people around here believe it, too. John here is just not one of 'em."  

Randall chuckled. "Sorry to call your beliefs into question, Marty. But it just doesn't strike me as being a very likely explanation for the deaths of those two hunters."

"Tell 'em about the bodies, John. Describe their condition."

"Well, they looked to be badly beaten."

"Trampled, John."

"That's not conclusive. The bodies still need to be autopsied. I understand that's your area of expertise, Agent Scully. I've scheduled a bay for you at Greenville Memorial Hospital this afternoon, if you're interested in doing the autopsies yourself."

"Yes, I am," Scully quickly agreed.

"Can you imagine it?" Marty asked. "What it must have been like to have your spirit devoured by an immortal creature of evil? To sense yourself loosen from the physical bonds of your flesh, separate from your bones? Your soul stripped from your body only to look out through the eyes of Madjahando at your own motionless corpse?" Marty strode to a narrows in the stream and jumped across.

Scully touched Mulder's arm. He paused to lean close.

"Sounds like a tall tale by the large stone fireplace," she whispered.

"Over here," Marty called. "This is the place." He pointed to a depression in the vegetation, blackened by dried blood. 

Mulder jumped the stream. Squatting, he traded his cold-weather gloves for a latex pair from his pocket. He scooped a blood sample into one of the plastic evidence bags he carried.

Large animal tracks pocked the area. 

"Look at this, Scully." Mulder indicated one enormous print, pressed deeply into the mud. "Warden, what type of animal makes tracks like these?"

"Moose. Big one."  

----------------
Greenville Memorial Hospital
1:33 PM

Dressed in hospital scrubs, Scully adjusted her safety glasses. She pulled a mask over her nose and mouth. In front of her, a naked body lay on the stainless steel table, the torso battered and torn open, the face splattered with dried gore. She checked her tray of instruments and then reread the victim's chart. Turning on the recorder, she spoke into the mike.

"Scott L. Vaillancourt, white male, age 56, 196 pounds. Evidence of widespread trauma to the abdomen, chest, neck, and face." 

She inspected the man's hands and arms. 

"Defensive cuts, abrasions, and contusions on the forearms and palms." 

She pressed a gloved finger into his cheekbone. 

"Facial bruising and probable fractures to the superior maxillary, malar, and masseter. Fourteen-centimeter cut on the left cheek. The nasal bone is broken and pushed deeply into the ethmoid." 

She lifted the bloodied upper lip. 

"Chipped incisor. Recent."  

Moving down the body, Scully continued her external exam. 

"Left clavicle is shattered. Ribs four, five, and six are broken, costal cartilage is torn from the sternum. The superficial fascia of the abdomen has been pierced and the small bowel is ruptured and protruding. Bruises on the thighs. Abrasions and contusions on both knees. Right femur, tibia, and fibula are broken. I'll begin with a Y-incision." 

---------------
Scott Vaillancourt residence
Big Squaw Township
1:33 PM

Trenchcoat flapping in the wind, Mulder knocked on the home's front door. He wore a suit and tie for this afternoon's interviews with the victims' families. Witnesses tended to be more forthcoming when he dressed the part. 

The door swung open. A middle-aged woman stared at him with red-rimmed eyes.

"Yes?" 

"I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder from the Federal Bureau of Investigation." He held up his ID. "I'm investigating the death of Scott Vaillancourt. Are you Mrs. Vaillancourt?" 

"Yes, sir, I'm Judy Vaillancourt." She gave him a care-worn nod. 

"May I speak with you for a few minutes, Mrs. Vaillancourt?" He kept his tone gentle.

She hesitated, then stepped back, allowing him to enter. 

He followed her into the living room where, to his amazement, at least a dozen large deer heads looked down at him from pine-paneled walls. Above a river stone fireplace hung the enormous head of a bull moose, its imposing antlers spreading nearly six feet from side to side. 

"Please, have a seat. Can I get you some hot tea?" Mrs. Vaillancourt asked.

"No, thank you. I'd like to ask you a few questions about your late husband, if that's alright." 

Mulder stepped around a massive bear rug in the center of the room. Its snarling jaws faced the fireplace. The teeth and claws looked deadly. He sat in the nearest chair, which was sturdily constructed of hand-hewn logs, like much of the room's furniture. The cushions were covered in a heavy red and black plaid material. Mrs. Vaillancourt sat primly across from him, brushing an imaginary piece of lint from her dark skirt. At her elbow, a pair of intertwined deer antlers formed the base of a table lamp. 

"Mrs. Vaillancourt, was your husband an experienced woodsman?" 

"Oh, my, yes. He and his cousin Marty hunted together for years. They're both registered guides, you know."

"Your husband was Marty Vaillancourt's cousin?" Mulder asked, surprised.

"Yes. Distant cousins, once- or twice-removed, but cousins, yes. They spent a lot of time together, particularly during huntin' season. Scott and Marty just loved bein' out in the woods this time of year. Are you sure you wouldn't care for some tea, dear?"

"No, thanks. When did you last see your husband, Mrs. Vaillancourt?"

"Two days ago. Scotty was an early riser, so we didn't have much of a conversation. He just kissed me good mornin' when he got out of bed and told me he'd be back b'fore supper. Marty found him later in the day...dead." Mrs. Vaillancourt removed a crumpled tissue from her pocket and dabbed at her eyes.

"Did your husband and Marty plan to hunt together the day he died?"

"No, I don't think they were together that day."

"Mrs. Vaillancourt, did your husband ever discuss the legend of Bernard LaBossiere?" 

"Oh, that crazy old tale." She looked annoyed. "Scott and Marty swore it was true. They told it to all the tourists. Made them both sound like fools. I ask you, what sane person would believe a moose could be possessed by an evil spirit?" 

--------------
Greenville Memorial Hospital
3:14 PM

Scully stood a few feet away from the autopsy table and spooned a mouthful of fat-free yogurt from a small container she'd purchased in the hospital cafeteria. She faced the battered body of Peter Trask and inspected his gaping wounds while licking her spoon. The corpse was in a rather advanced state of decomposition after a week in the woods. This wasn't going to be pleasant. She tossed her empty yogurt cup and plastic spoon into the trash. Tying on a clean apron, she approached the body.

"Peter M. Trask," she said into the mike. "White male, age 32, 168 pounds. Evidence of widespread trauma to the abdomen, chest, neck, and face." 

Refitting her mask and goggles, she snapped on a fresh pair of latex gloves and picked up a scalpel. 

"I'll begin with a Y-incision." 

--------------
Peter Trask residence
Moxie Gore Township
3:14 PM

A bedlam of barking dogs and children's shouts reached Mulder the moment he stepped from his car. By the time he stood on the cinder block that served as the mobile home's front step, the noise from inside the trailer had risen to a roar. He rapped loudly on the home's metal doorframe. Thinking that his knock couldn't be heard above the din inside, he pounded several more times with the heel of his hand.

"I'm comin'! Keep your goddamn shorts on!" a female voice called over the clamor. The door opened a crack and a young woman with frizzy blonde hair and a baby on one hip peered out. "Who the hell are you and whaddaya want?" she asked before turning to swat a boy who sat on the floor at her feet pulling the tail of a scrawny cat. "Cut it out, Petie! I told you to leave that friggin' cat alone!" She glared at Mulder. "Well?" 

The baby stuck a dirty finger into its wet nose and regarded Mulder with wide, blue-gray eyes.

"Special Agent Fox Mulder of the Federal Bureau of Investigation." He held up his badge and the baby reached for it. He quickly pulled it away and pocketed it. "I'm investigating  the death of Peter Trask. Are you Mrs. Trask?"

"I wouldn't be livin' in this shithole with all his goddamn kids if I wasn't." She appeared irritated, but Mulder guessed she always looked that way.

"May I speak with you for a few moments, Mrs. Trask?"

"Do I look like I got plenty of time to be talkin' to a government man?" 

A child screeched somewhere in the back of the trailer. 

"God *damn* it, Billy, leave your sister alone! And come get these friggin' dogs outta here!" the woman yelled over her shoulder. She looked back at Mulder and sighed. "Kids! Come on in, mister...what'd you say your name was again?"

"Mulder. Agent Mulder."

"Oh yeah. *Special* agent, you said. Just what makes you special, Agent Mulder?" She cackled at her own joke, exposing a missing front tooth. 

Turning from the door, she pulled out a chair for him at the kitchen table. Using her free hand she brushed spilled Cheerios from the seat. 

"Take a load off, special Agent Mulder."

He sat and was relieved to hear no crunch of cereal. "Mrs. Trask--"

"Cindy. My name's Cindy."

"Uh...Cindy...I'd like to ask you a few questions about your husband."

"Then get on with it," she said. She lifted the baby off her hip and into her lap as she sat opposite Mulder. The baby extended a sticky hand toward him and gurgled, "Dadadadadadadadada."

"Can you tell me what happened to your husband, Mrs...uh...Cindy?"

"He got himself killed in the woods, the friggin' fool. Left me high and dry with all these damn kids."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"Wednesday. He was all excited about gettin' a moose permit. We was gonna feed these kids all winter on that moose meat. Don't know what I'm gonna do now. You got a cigarette? I'm dyin' for a cigarette."

"No, sorry. Did your husband know this area well? Had he hunted here before?"

"Jesus H. Christ! Course he hunted here before. We've lived here our whole lives. He and his Uncle Scott was plannin' to moose hunt together today."

"His Uncle Scott?"

"Yeah. Scott Vaillancourt. He and his wife Judy live over to Big Squaw. Come to think of it, you should talk to Scott if you wanna know about Pete. Pete spent more time with his friggin' uncle than he spent here at home with me and the kids." 

The baby started to whimper.

"Mrs. Trask...uh, Cindy...I just came from the Vaillancourt's. Scott Vaillancourt was found dead two days ago."

"Are you shittin' me?" She appeared genuinely surprised. "No one tells me nothin'. I'm always the last to know. So Uncle Scott's dead. Ain't that somethin'. Takes the cake, 's'all I can say."

"Well..."

"When d'it happen? Hell, *how* d'it happen?"

"Maybe you should talk to your aunt."

The baby wailed.

"Mrs. Trask...uh, Cindy, I have just one more question. Did Pete ever mention the legend of Bernard LaBossiere?"

"HA! Please! That's the oldest horseshit story in this whole stinkin' state." 

---------------
Greenville Memorial Hospital
5:54 PM

Focused on wrapping Peter Trask's body, Scully didn't hear Mulder push through the double doors of the autopsy bay. He paused at the threshold to watch her tie the final knots. No matter how many times he observed her perform an autopsy, the contrast between the wrecked bodies she examined and her own perfect beauty still staggered him. 

She straightened to inspect her work. Clearly satisfied, she peeled off her gloves and removed the mask that dangled around her neck. She freed her ponytail from its clip. Her hair fell loose and she casually ran her fingers through it. Stripping off her apron, she tossed it high over the corpse and neatly into the bin on the other side of the table.

"Two points."

"Jesus, Mulder!" She spun, startled. "When did you come in?"

He crossed the room.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you." He gave her an apologetic half-smile and smoothed an errant wisp of red hair from her brow.

"You don't scare me, Mulder." She looked up at him through russet lashes. 

"No? I'll have to try harder." Placing his hands on her shoulders, he straightened to his full height and purposely loomed over her. 

"You still don't scare me."

"Really?" He hid a smile and leaned in closer. "You look a tad nervous to me." 

They stood only inches apart. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his face. He drew tiny excited circles around the curves of her shoulders with his thumbs. 

"Mulder..." She arched a cautionary eyebrow. 

Ignoring her, he rested his forehead against hers and stared into her eyes. 

Returning his gaze, she swallowed hard. "Mulder?" 

He was making her nervous. Which made him feel triumphant. And aroused. 

"I'm gonna buy you dinner," he said, breaking contact and pulling away.

"You're buying me dinner? Mulder, you never buy me dinner. Now you *are* scaring me." She reached up and pressed the back of her hand to his forehead. "Hm, you don't have a fever."

"Stop that." He laughed.

"Mulder, as your doctor, I'm only trying to find out what's wrong with you. You're obviously delirious."

"Deliriously pleased to find you still have all your front teeth." He smiled remembering his interview with Cindy Trask. 

She squinted at him, clearly confused by his remark.

"Never mind, Scully. Just let me buy you dinner."

--------------
The Landing Restaurant
Greenville
6:34 PM

A busload of cheerful white-haired ladies poured into the retaurant's dining room just ahead of Mulder and Scully. They chattered about the vivid autumn foliage they'd seen along the back roads during their daylong tour. A major tourist attraction, the fall colors were at their peak. The forests of Maine were aglow in magnificent shades of red, yellow, and orange. 

A young waitress led Mulder and Scully to a small table by the window and apologized for the hubbub. "Leaf-peepers!" she exclaimed. 

"Leaf-peepers?" Mulder asked.

"Yeah. They come from all over to look at the trees. Had a couple in here yesterday from Hawaii! Can you imagine leavin' an island paradise to come here to look at fallin' leaves? To each his own, I guess." She poured water into ice-filled glasses. "So, what can I get you folks?"

"Since he's buying, I'll have lobster," Scully said with satisfaction.

"A big spender! Better hang on to him, honey." The waitress laughed and turned to wink at Mulder. "How 'bout you, mister? Lobster for two?"

"No, thanks. I'll have the Mooseburger, extra rare."

"Okey-doke. Anything to drink with that other than the water? Cocktails, sodas, coffee?"

"Iced tea," Scully said.

"Make it two." Mulder smiled.  

"Will do. Food will be up in a few." The girl tucked her pad into her apron and headed for the kitchen.

"What'd you find out today?" Scully asked once the waitress was out of earshot.

"That Scott Vaillancourt is Marty's cousin."

"Marty from MarMar?"

"Yep. And that Peter Trask is Scott Vaillancourt's nephew."

"Small world. Think it's just a coincidence?"

"Possibly. Half the people around here are named Vaillancourt."

"Didn't Marty's nephew find the first body?"

"Yeah. David Vaillancourt."

"This is confusing."

Scully turned her gaze to the window overlooking Moosehead Lake. A waning October moon sent a finger of golden light across the dark water.

"Both victims were experienced woodsmen and avid hunters," Mulder continued. "You should have seen Scott Vaillancourt's living room. Somewhere in this town lives a very rich taxidermist."

"What about the Trask home? Was it full of wildlife, too?"

"Yes, but none of it stuffed and mounted." 

She shot him a questioning look. 

"Don't ask," he said.

The waitress soon returned with a heavy tray of food, which she set on a folding stand next to the table. She doled out the drinks, fresh rolls, and salads, then placed a very large, very rare burger in front of Mulder. "We knocked off the horns and yelled fire." She giggled at her own joke.

Ceremoniously, she unfolded a disposable plastic bib and fastened it around Scully's neck before lifting a huge, two-pound, steaming red lobster onto the table. "Enjoy!" she called over her shoulder as she hurried back to the kitchen.

Scully cracked open one large claw and picked out a chunk of firm white meat with a small fork. She dipped it into a small bowl of melted butter before popping it into her mouth.

"This is good," she said between bites. "You're welcome to have some." She held out the second claw dripping with butter.

"No, thanks. I had my fill growing up on the Vineyard. I've always thought it looked like something left behind by the Mother Ship. 'Phone home,'" he mimicked ET, picking up the claw's empty shell and pointing it at the moon.

"At least it won't be attracting vampires." She indicated the bloody juices puddled beneath his burger before spearing another slippery morsel of lobster with her fork. "You have some on your chin." 

He swabbed his face with his napkin. "Speaking of blood, what did the autopsies reveal?"

"Both the bodies were badly beaten. They presented similar injuries: facial and upper body lacerations, perforation of the abdomen, fractured and broken limbs, crushed facial bones. Both men fought back against their attackers; they each had defensive wounds on their arms and hands. Until the lab results are back, I'd have to say they bled to death."

"What was the murder weapon?"

"I couldn't determine that. But I am certain it was not a knife, gun, baseball bat or bare hands."

"A lead pipe? Candlestick?" he suggested.

"A pry bar maybe. Something fairly sharp would've been necessary to punch such a substantial hole through the fascia of the abdomen and extirpate the internal organs like that. The small bowels were ruptured...mashed, really. Looked like hamburger." She took another bite of lobster.

"Uh...Scully, do you mind? I'm trying to eat." He eye-balled his burger and regretted ordering it rare. "Is it possible the victims were...uh, trampled to death by a...large animal?"

"You're not suggesting a possessed moose killed these men, are you?"

"I'm not ruling it out. Isn't it possible a moose -- an ordinary moose -- could have inflicted those injuries?"

"I suppose it's possible...but not plausible. Why is it you never go for the simple answer, Mulder? Although..." she hesitated.

"What?"

"I did find some odd looking fibers on both of the victims. Some kind of hair or fur. But both victims were avid hunters. You said so yourself. It's likely the fur came from one of their recent hunting expeditions, not their killer...if both men were even killed by the same person. And I do believe the killer was a person."

"My money's on the possessed moose theory." 

"I sent the fur samples to the Maine State Crime Lab for identification. I also took scrapings of a caliginous substance that appeared to be blood from under the victims' fingernails and sent that to be analyzed as well, along with the blood we gathered at the scene. The results will be faxed to the hospital tomorrow. The hospital lab is running a toxicological on the victims' blood. That'll be available by late morning."

They finished their meal with no more grisly talk about the autopsies, much to Mulder's relief. Feeling stuffed to the gills, he pushed away his plate and dug into his pocket for his wallet. 

"You're an expensive date, Scully."

"This was a date? Is it your habit to talk about corpses on your dates, Mulder? No wonder you never see the same girl twice."

"It just so happens, most women are fascinated by my line of work."

"Oh really? Is it the mutants or the apparitions they find appealing?" 

"The legendary beasts, actually. Bigfoot is a *big* turn on."

"Mm-hm. So all these years, it's been the allure of finding Sasquatch that's kept me chasing after you."

"Or my cute ass."

"I get paid to watch your back, Mulder, not your ass." 

He left some bills on the table and stood. Together, they walked through the cozy din of the dining room and out onto the street. The night sky was clear, cold, and teeming with stars. They sauntered past tourists shops, an art gallery, a real estate agency. All were closed and dark. In contrast, two blazing spotlights illuminated the side yard of a two-story building near their car. A crowd of protestors was gathered there beneath a large blue and white sign that read "Frank's Meat Cutting: Specializing in Deer, Moose, and Bear." Laid out in the parking lot were the gutted carcasses of thirty or more moose, great fur-covered mountains stretched side-by-side on the pavement, their dull eyes open and their dry tongues lolling from their mouths.

"So many," Scully said. "Didn't moose hunting season just start today?"

Overhearing her comment, a stout woman stepped forward from the group of protestors and informed Scully, "Hunting moose is like shootin' cows in a pasture. No sport in it. It's a disgrace and it's got to stop!" The woman pushed a flimsy pamphlet into Scully's hand.

The protestors began chanting, trying to intimidate a smaller group of hunters at the edge of the lot.

"Mulder, maybe we're looking past an obvious motive for our killer. There are a lot of angry people here. Environmental watchdogs, animal rights activists. Passionate people sometimes do desperate things to make their points."

A shouting match erupted between the protestors and the hunters. 

Mulder watched and considered her words. "My money's still on the possessed moose." He corralled her with one arm. "Let's go."  

Staring over her shoulder at the rows of dead animals, she let him steer her to the car.

--------------
Route 15
Rockwood
8:03 PM

Mulder drove them back to MarMar through mile after dark mile of nothing but pine forest. A full stomach and the long ride made Scully feel sleepy. 

"Thank you for the lobster," she murmured, her eyes closed. She felt sated and content. 

The car suddenly swerved. "Shit!" Mulder cried out. 

Scully's head thumped hard against her window. The Jeep lodged with a jolt in the ditch. 

Mulder unbuckled his seatbelt and bolted from the vehicle. 

"Are you alright?" she heard him yell, concern in his voice. 

She put a hand to her cheek, checking for blood, then realized he wasn't talking to her. She unfastened her own seatbelt and hurried to join him in the road.

"Goddamnmotherfucker! You nearly ran me over, you shithead!" A lean, dark-haired man railed at Mulder, his fists balled. "You coulda' killed me!" 

"Are you okay?" Mulder asked again, his tone calmer this time. 

The scrawny man lurched toward him, legs wobbling. He advanced until they stood nearly toe-to-toe. Mulder reached out a hand to steady him. 

"Don't touch me, you goddamnnumbshit!" The man recoiled, his expression full of rage. "Who the fuck do you think you are?" Without warning, he threw a hard punch; his bony knuckles connected solidly with Mulder's jaw, sending him sprawling onto the pavement.

"Federal agent!" Scully shouted, her weapon aimed at the man's chest. "Step back! I'm armed!" 

Eyes wide, the man tried to locate her in the shadows. 

"Mulder, are you okay?" 

"Yeah. I'm okay." He rose to his feet and rubbed his jaw. 

"What's your name?" Scully demanded, stepping closer to the stranger so he could clearly see her gun in the moonlight. 

"Jack LaBossiere, if it's any of your fucking business." 

"Watch your mouth," Mulder warned. He took hold of LaBossiere's upper arm. "Why were you walking in the middle of the road at night?" 

The smell of alcohol rolled off the man.

"I ain't got a car, fuckhead." LaBossiere tried to wrench free from Mulder's grasp. "Get your fuckin' hands off me!" he screamed into Mulder's face. 

"Not until you answer some questions." 

LaBossiere's struggling ceased. He stood absolutely still and stared into Mulder's eyes.

"I'm gonna fuckin' kill you, asshole," he whispered with disarming composure. "And after I'm done fuckin' the shit outta that goddamn little whore of yours, I'm gonna fuckin' kill her, too." 

Mulder raised his fist. 

"Let him go, Mulder." 

He hesitated, but didn't loosen his hold on the other man's arm. 

"Mulder. Let him go. He's not worth it." 

Not taking his eyes off the smaller man, Mulder shoved LaBossiere away, releasing him. 

The stranger wasted no time and ran for the woods. From the dark cover of the forest, he bellowed out at them, "I'm gonna fuckin' kill you both!" 

-------------
MarMar North Country Camp
Main Lodge
8:52 PM

Scully emptied an ice tray into the kitchen's deep soapstone sink while Mulder looked for freezer bags. Finding them, he passed her two. She filled each bag with ice and then wrapped them in terrycloth dishtowels. Passing one ice pack to Mulder, she lifted the other to her swollen cheek.

"I thought I heard someone down he-- Dana! What happened?" Peggy stood at the door, a shocked look on her face. Rounding the kitchen table, she inspected the large black-and-blue welt on Scully's cheek. Her eyes widened further when she caught sight of Mulder's bruised jaw. "Well, for goodness sake! Have a seat." She shooed them away from the sink. "I'll make some tea and you tell me what happened." 

Mulder dropped into a chair and placed the bag of ice against his jaw.

"We met Jack LaBossiere," he told Peggy as she busied herself with the cups and saucers.

"Jack hit Dana?" Peggy asked, incredulous. "I hope you beat him senseless, Fox."

"That wouldn't have taken much. Actually, Scully's bruise is my fault." 

"Your fault? Maybe you'd better start from the beginning," Peggy said. She filled the teakettle with water.

"This wasn't Mulder's fault," Scully explained. "He was trying to avoid running over LaBossiere, who was walking down the middle of the road in the dark. The car swerved into the ditch and I hit my head on the window when we crashed."

"Where did all this take place?"

"A few miles from Rockwood."

"Rockwood? What was Jack LaBossiere doing on foot out there?" Peggy asked.

"He was drunk," Mulder said. "And Jack LaBossiere is not a very nice man when he's drunk."

"Jack LaBossiere isn't a very nice man when he's sober. Foul-mouthed idiot. Warden picked him up just a couple of weeks ago for huntin' deer out-of-season. Everyone knows Jack's responsible for killin' the half-dozen or so tame deer over at the Melansson's place, although no one could prove it. Terri Melansson's been puttin' out food for them poor animals for years. A person could walk right up to 'em and scratch 'em behind the ears. Wouldn't take much of a hunter to put that venison on the table. Anyway, Jack spent a couple of days in jail for resistin' arrest. I heard he swore at the warden all the way to the county courthouse." Peggy sighed with disgust. "So now you've told me how Dana got her bruise. How'd you get yours, Fox?"

"Apparently, Jack doesn't like to be touched. At least by me."

Out in the dining room, the lodge's front door opened and shut. A moment later, Marty appeared at the kitchen door, dried blood caking his chest and arms.

"What happened to you?" Peggy rushed forward, her eyes full of concern.

"There's been another murder," Marty said. 

"Who?" Peggy asked. 

"Rick Stewart, our guest from New Jersey. I found his body over near Rockwood. He'd been huntin' along the river between Brassua and Moosehead Lakes with his son Richard. They got separated sometime around mid-day. By late afternoon, Richard came back to MarMar for help. We called the warden and the three of us searched the woods. We followed the river for several hours before we spotted the body hangin' on a downed tree. It was...strange."

"Strange in what way?" Mulder asked.

"Rick's body was draped over that tree like a flag. Almost looked like it had been put there on purpose."

"What time did all this happen?" 

"Couple of hours after sunset. Seven or seven-thirty, give or take. It took us a while to carry the body out of the woods; Rick was a big man. The warden transported him to Greenville Memorial. Richard decided to stay in town. He's pretty shook up."

"Can you take us out there in the morning?" 

"Yeah. Sure. Though the Warden's hoping Dana will perform the autopsy tomorrow afternoon."

Scully nodded. "I need to check the lab reports at the hospital anyway." She rose from the table. Mulder passed her his ice pack. She dumped the melting ice into the sink. 

Marty looked from Scully to Mulder, noticing their bruises for the first time.

"What the hell happened to you two?"

"Scully tried to get fresh with me. She wouldn't take no for an answer. I had to deck her," Mulder deadpanned. 

Marty's eyebrows rode up in surprise and he gave Scully a questioning look.

"Nobody decks me and gets away with it," she said.

-----------
Moosehead River, Rockwood
8:52 AM

"This way," Marty said. He led Scully, Mulder, and Warden Randall around a knot of lowland alders. An overlay of low, gray clouds pushed across the sky, spitting snow and blocking out the early morning sun. 

The foursome emerged on the south bank of Moose River, breathing hard from the hike. Looking downstream they saw a short, balding man wearing chartreuse earmuffs. The man scribbled in a notebook and paced the very spot they had come to investigate. 

"For chrissakes, Perkins, you're contaminating the crime scene," Randall shouted to him.

"I don't see this area taped off," the man answered in a high-pitched voice. He adjusted the perch of his glasses on his wind-chapped nose in order to get a better look at Mulder and Scully. "You the FBI agents I've heard about?"

"Heard about from whom?" Mulder asked.

"Tut, tut, Agent. I can't divulge my sources. That's confidential information. However, let me introduce myself. Harlan Perkins, PI." The little man extended a calfskin-covered hand.

"You're a private investigator?" Scully raised an eyebrow.

"Twenty-five years of experience, specializing in worker's comp fraud and financial investigations. More exciting cases like this one," -- Perkins gestured toward the bloody ground -- "are few and far between." He paused, eyeballing Scully's and Mulder's bruised faces. "Were you two in some sort of accident?"

"Tut, tut, Mr. Perkins. That would be official FBI business." Mulder imitated Perkins reedy voice and wagged an index finger at the spectacled man.

"You've trampled over any evidence we might've found here, Harlan," Randall said. 

It was true. Harlan Perkin's fresh footprints crisscrossed the older tracks, obliterating any helpful evidence.

"How'd you learn about this anyway, Harlan?"

"That would be confi--" 

"--dential," Mulder finished for him. "Unless you can give us a better answer than that, I'll have to place you under arrest for the murder of Rick Stewart."

"What? Me?" Perkins squeaked. "Why would you think I killed anyone?"

"The fact that you know exactly where Marty found the body makes you a prime suspect."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it? Murderers are known to return to the scene of their crime. I don't see anyone else here."

"Just because...this doesn't mean...I, uh...you're bluffing."

"Cuff him, Scully." 

Scully reached into her jacket pocket, withdrew a pair of handcuffs, and dangled them in front of the PI. Perkin's eyes widened in horror. 

"Alright, alright. I picked up Marty's radio call on my CB last night. For goodness sake, if you want to keep something secret, don't broadcast it to the world on a public frequency!" Perkins rolled his eyes. "After overhearing the call, I drove along Route 15 until I found the Warden's car and Marty's pickup at the roadside. I parked my own car several yards back, turned off my headlights, and watched while Marty, the Warden, and another man carried the body out of the woods." 

"Perkins, I want you to stay out of the way on this," Randall said. "Your interference will only slow the investigation. Agents Mulder and Scully don't need to be tripping over you while they conduct their business." 

Perkins looked more than a little hurt. "Well, maybe I shouldn't tell you who walked out of the woods only minutes after the two of you drove away."

Scully jangled the handcuffs. "Obstructing an ongoing Federal investigation is punishable by--" 

"Okay, okay!" Perkins said. "I saw Jack LaBossiere." 

Mulder and Scully exchanged glances. 

"He was acting very strangely, if you ask me. He kept looking over his shoulder, as if he were being followed." 

"What time was that?" Mulder asked.

"Eight o'clock, I think."

"That would have been just before Scully and I met him on the road last night."

"Maybe it was eight-thirty," Perkins amended. 

Mulder leveled his gaze at the smaller man.

"Which was it? Eight or eight-thirty?"

"I'm not sure. Does it matter?"

"If it was eight-thirty, LaBossiere could have been looking over his shoulder for Scully and me. He threatened to kill us both."

"Oh, my. Interesting. And if it was before eight, he may have just left the body. Correct?" Perkins pursed his lips with satisfaction.

"Yes. So which was it? Eight or eight-thirty?" 

"I told you, I don't know. It was too dark to see my watch and I was not about to turn on the car's dome light and give away my position just to check the time."

Mulder sighed. "Scully, I'm going to have a chat with Jack LaBossiere while you autopsy Rick Stewart."

"Mulder, I don't think you should go see LaBossiere alone." 

"I'll go with you, Agent Mulder," Perkins volunteered. 

"No, I'll go," Randall said. "You are not to get involved in this, Perkins."

"But I can help. Let me help. Please?" 

"Are you heading back to Greenville by any chance, Mr. Perkins?" Mulder asked. "Agent Scully could use a ride to the hospital." 

Scully narrowed her eyes at Mulder. 

"Oh, I'd be happy to give you a lift, Miss Scully. It is Miss, isn't it, not Mrs.? I'm single myself, you know. My car is this way." 

"Thanks, Mulder," Scully said through gritted teeth. "I'll talk to you later." 

--------------
Greenville Memorial Hospital
1:24 PM

Harlan Perkins gave Scully a detailed account of his favorite Somerset County insurance fraud case, not pausing once during the entire thirty-mile drive to Greenville. When he finally pulled his car to a stop in front of the hospital, he placed a palm on Scully's knee, waggled his eyebrows, and told her, "This is your lucky day." 

She removed his hand. 

Not deterred in the slightest, Perkins asked her if she'd go out with him to dinner and a movie after she finished the autopsy on Rick Stewart. 

"I don't think--" 

"Oh, if you're already involved with someone else, I'll understand," he said.

"Yes, that's it. I'm involved. With someone else. Yes, I'm involved."

He nodded. "Agent Mulder?"

"Hm." 

"I'll step aside then, Dana. I have no intention of invading another man's territory," he said and her eyebrows shot up to her hairline. "Although, you would be worth fighting for."

"No! Don't do that. There's no point. Really. My heart...is lost. To Mulder. To Fox. I call him Fox. I...I gotta go." She opened the car door and stepped out onto the curb. She hesitated before turning to face him through the open door. "Thank you, though...for the ride." With a rush of relief, she hurried to the hospital entrance.

She was furious with Mulder for foisting Harlan Perkins off on her. But she quickly forgot her ire when she saw the reports from the lab had arrived.

The hospital's toxicological indicated nothing out of the ordinary. Levels of cortisol and adrenaline, stress hormones that flood the body in response to extreme fear, were elevated, but that was to be expected in the victim of a violent death. The state lab data was more interesting. The fiber analysis confirmed that the hair samples were from Alces alces, North American moose. The blood collected from beneath the victims' fingernails was also from a moose. The report's explication listed the blood contained, among other things, a prion similar to particles present in animals infected with a family of chronic wasting disorders called transmissible spongiform encephalopathies. Mad cow disease.

Scully pulled out her cell phone and punched Mulder's number. She waited impatiently through three rings.

"Mulder," he answered. Static sputtered from the phone.

"Where are you, Mulder?"

"About a mile from Jack LaBossiere's place. Scully, I can barely hear you." Clicks and snaps punctuated his words. 

"Mulder, look for either venison or moose meat while you're at Jack's. Bring back a sample." The phone crackled. "Did you hear me, Mulder?"

"Yes. Deer and moose meat. What's up, Scully?"

"I'll explain later." 

-------------
Jack LaBossiere's residence
Misery Township
1:44 PM

Mulder and Warden Randall approached Jack LaBossiere's small cabin on foot, leaving their car parked out on the main road. Two dusty wheel ruts divided by an overgrowth of late-blooming asters and ragweed led them to the front steps of Jack's ramshackle cabin. The house was tucked beneath a stand of giant pines and rangy oaks, its windows taped over with several layers of torn plastic to keep out the cold. A scrawny malamute-wolf hybrid, its ribs visible beneath matted fur, strained at its chain as the men approached. The dog growled a low warning and the two men stopped just short of its reach.

"Jack?" Randall called. "Come out and talk."

"Who the fuck's askin'?" came the reply from inside the cabin.

"John Randall."

"I don't know any fuckin' John Randall."

"Sure you do, Jack. You swore at me all the way to the county courthouse in Skowhegan just two weeks ago. I'm John Randall. Warden John Randall. Any of this ringing a bell with you, Jack?"

"No! Now, get the fuck off my property!" 

Randall glanced at Mulder and shrugged. "He must be drunk. He's known me for years."

"Let me try to get him out," Mulder said. He raised his voice and shouted at the cabin, "Jack LaBossiere, I'm an agent with the FBI. I'm conducting a Federal investigation. Step outside, sir, to answer some questions. Now."

The front door burst open, slapping loudly against the doorframe causing the dog to flinch. Jack LaBossiere stood unsteadily just inside the threshold, a shotgun twitching in his right hand. 

"Put the gun away, Jack," Randall insisted. 

"Get...the...*fuck*...off...my...land!" Jack yelled. He tried to lift the gun up to his shoulder, but the motion put him off balance. He staggered and dropped the shotgun onto the ground at the foot of the steps.

"Leave it!" Mulder demanded, his own weapon drawn and aimed at LaBossiere's narrow chest. 

The man blinked unfocused eyes at the barrel of Mulder's gun. He swayed uncertainly before lurching back into the house. The door slammed shut behind him. 

Mulder heard the deadbolt slide into place, locking them out. He holstered his Sig.

"Unless you plan to arrest him, Agent Mulder, I'd suggest we come back with a warrant and try again. Uh...hold on a minute..." Randall squinted past the house. "Well, look at that." He tipped his head toward a rickety shed in the side yard. Three gutted deer carcasses hung upside down behind the open shed door. "Don't need a warrant if the criminal evidence is in plain sight." He grinned at Mulder. 

Giving LaBossiere's dog a wide berth, the two men crossed the yard. 

Inside the shed, Randall stuck his index finger into a bullet hole in the shoulder of one animal. "I don't believe gun hunting season starts until the first of November." He smiled. "Let's get LaBossiere."

Knowing they couldn't get past the dog at the front, they circled around to the rear of the cabin. 

They discovered the back door wide open. Trading disappointed looks, they scanned the surrounding forest. Nothing moved in the dense undergrowth. 

Drawing his weapon again, Mulder cautiously entered the house. It took only minutes to search its two tiny rooms. LaBossiere was gone. 

"Those deer carcasses are evidence. You wanna help me haul 'em back to the car?" Randall asked. 

"Sure. Scully asked me to bring her a sample of any venison or moose we found. Think six-hundred pounds will be enough?"

--------------
Greenville Memorial Hospital
4:24 PM

Scully peered into the abdominal cavity of Rick Stewart's body, her masked nose only inches from his pulverized liver. She prodded it with her forceps and frowned. A minute tuft of furry material was stuck there. She teased it loose and placed it on her tray. 

This third autopsy revealed little more than the previous two. The wounds were nearly identical, with one exception. On Rick Stewart's upper thigh, Scully discovered a six-inch bruise shaped like a two-pronged hoof.

She heard Mulder's and the Warden's voices coming toward her in the corridor outside the autopsy bay.

"Hi, honey. We're home," Mulder called out from the door.

Without looking up, her voice muffled behind her mask, she asked, "Did you bring a sample of venison from Jack's place?" She searched the body for more hoof-shaped bruises.

"Yes, indeedy." 

"FedEx it to the Maine State Crime Lab, will you?" 

When he didn't respond, she turned to look at him. 

"The FedEx office closes at five, Mulder. You'll have to hurry."

Mulder glanced at the warden. "Does FedEx have a weight limit?" 

"What's going on?" Scully scowled and pulled the mask from her face.

"Scully, we brought back three entire deer carcasses. What is it you suspect?" 

"T.S.E."

"T.S.E.?" Mulder asked.

Randall supplied an answer. "Transmissible spongiform encephalopathy. You think the victims were killed by a moose suffering from mad cow disease, Agent Scully?"

"No, I think they may have been killed by a person suffering from Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, the human form of T.S.E. I think the killer may have contracted the disease by ingesting contaminated moose or deer meat."

"Is that possible?" Mulder asked.

"Yes," Scully answered. "The disease agent is not a virus or bacterium, but a particle called a prion -- a kind of renegade protein that transforms normal proteins into abnormal, indestructible substances that create spongy holes in the brain. Prion diseases have been found in eighty-five species, passing easily between some animals. When a prion 'jumps' species, new T.S.E. diseases are created."

"These prions are 'indestructible?'"

"Seemingly so. When medical instruments contaminated with prions are boiled for thirty minutes, the prions remain infectious. When infected materials are incinerated, the prions contained in the ash remain infectious."

"Scully, John and I handled those deer. Are we infected?" 

"Not likely. To contract the disease, you have to ingest the meat. Although...some scientists have speculated that the disease can spread by contact with saliva or feces of infected animals." She noticed their worried expressions. "Maybe you should wash your hands," she suggested.  The two men quickly moved to the sink and grabbed for the soap.

Mulder looked over his shoulder at Scully and asked, "What are the symptoms?"

"Behavioral and emotional changes that mimic psychiatric disorders. Depression, difficulty sleeping, withdrawal, fearfulness, paranoia..." She narrowed her eyes at Mulder. "Hmmm. Could explain a lot."

"Very funny."

"An affected person also develops motor abnormalities such as difficulty maintaining balance. They experience pain when touched on the face, arms, or legs."

Mulder and the warden exchanged glances. "Uh, Scully, Jack LaBossiere was exhibiting all those symptoms. We thought he was drunk."

"That's what I thought, too, when we met him on the road last night. But after reading the report from the crime lab, I reconsidered. The lab analysis identified prions in the blood sample I sent down. Remember how violently Jack reacted when you grabbed his arm, Mulder?" 

Mulder rubbed his bruised jaw at the memory. 

"If he was suffering from Creutzfeldt-Jakob, your grip on his arm could have been excruciatingly painful to him. I think it's possible that Jack LaBossiere contracted Creutzfeldt-Jakob by eating contaminated venison or moose meat. That's why I wanted the sample."

"Agent Scully, I've heard of the incidences of T.S.E. affecting wild deer and elk in Colorado and Wyoming, as well as in Saskatchewan, Canada. But those places are a long way from here. The deer and moose in this area don't migrate that far out of our region. How would they have become infected?"

"It's possible the disease is being transmitted at artificial feeding stations set up by local residents. Mulder, didn't Peggy tell us about a neighbor who had been feeding deer in her yard for years?"

"Terri Melansson," the Warden said. "I'm pretty sure LaBossiere jacked those deer of hers a couple of weeks ago."

"Scully, LaBossiere ran off into the woods before John and I could question him. We have to find him and bring him in. If he's suffering from this disease, he could be paranoid enough to murder anyone who crosses his path." Mulder hesitated. "Uh, Scully, I...uh...guess I have to admit you were right on this one."

"You're giving up on your moose-possessed-by-a-spirit theory, Mulder?"

"Guess so."

"And you're saying that I'm right and you're wrong?"

"Mm. My theory appears dead in the water, Scully."

"In that case, you have no idea how much I hate to show you this..." She pointed to the hoof-print-shaped bruise on Rick Stewart's thigh.

Mulder smiled. "Not so dead after all."

--------------
MarMar North Country Camp
5:06 AM

Scully awoke to the shrill ring of her cell phone. Who the hell would be calling? she wondered as she stumbled across the pitch-dark bedroom, located her jacket, and dug through the pockets for the phone.

"Scully," she answered when she finally found the phone and put it to her ear.

"Dana, it's me. Harlan," a high-pitched voice said through a barrage of static. 

Scully tucked the phone between her chin and shoulder and slipped her jacket over her nightshirt. The floor was freezing against her bare feet. She looked at the digital clock glowing on the nightstand beside the bed.

"Harlan, do you know what time it is?" she asked with irritation and pulled her jacket more tightly across her chest. She lifted one foot from the icy floor and placed its chilled sole against the warm, bare inner calf of her other leg.

"Uh, no, I can't see my watch and I don't want to turn on the dome light in the car. It might--"

"Give away your position," Scully finished for the PI. "Harlan, where are you and what are you doing?"

"I'm on Route 15, about twelve miles west of Rockwood. I'm following Jack LaBossiere." The phone hissed and crackled.

"Harlan, why?" Now she was alarmed.

"I think he's the killer, Dana. I'm investigating."

"Stay away from Jack LaBossiere. He could be very dangerous. Can you hear me, Harlan?" She waited through several seconds of clicks and snaps. "Harlan?"

"Yes, I hear you. Obviously he's dangerous if he's the killer. I'm going to find out. I was calling you to ask...oh my God!" 

After nearly a full minute of nothing but static, Scully heard Harlan scream.

"What is it, Harlan? Harlan? Harlan!" Scully yelled into the phone. 

The connection was gone.

"Scully, what's going on?" Mulder asked from the door. He flicked on the light causing her to squint at the sudden brightness. 

"I think Harlan Perkins may have just been attacked."

---------------
Misery Township
6:06 AM

Marty tried not to ram Scully's leg with the stick shift as he slid into fourth gear. She crowded closer to Mulder. The three of them sat side-by-side the pickup's bench seat. Marty floored the gas and the aging engine groaned. He managed to bring the truck's speed up to sixty-five miles per hour. They raced through the autumn pre-dawn, east along Route 15, searching for Harlan Perkins' car.

"There." Mulder pointed when the pickup's highbeams reflected off Harlan's white Dodge at the side of the road. 

Marty hit the brakes, jolting the truck to a halt, thrusting them all forward in their seats. 

Mulder opened his door and scrambled out. He jogged to the Dodge. Flashlight in hand, he searched the car's interior. 

Inside, he found Harlan Perkins dead in the front seat, his chest caved in and blood soaking the upholstery.

"Oh my God." Scully looked past Mulder into the car. 

"Holy Jesus Christ," Marty whispered from behind Scully. He snaked an arm between the two agents to open the door.

"No!" Mulder stopped him. "We'll need to fingerprint the handle. All the doors are shut. The killer must have touched at least one of them to get in or out of the car."

"I'll radio the Warden," Marty said. "He can contact the county sheriff's office in Skowhegan and wait with the body until a deputy arrives. It'll take John about twenty minutes to get here from Greenville. By then, the sun'll be up and we can go after the killer." 

"Where will we look?" Scully asked.

"That fresh trail through the underbrush would be my guess." Marty nodded at the side of the road before heading to the pickup and the radio.

Scully peered at the forest's edge. She saw no sign that anyone had passed through the dense underbrush. She looked questioningly at Mulder, who shrugged.

"He's a registered guide, Scully. If he says he sees a trail, I guess he sees a trail." 

---------------
Misery Township, Maine

Warden Randall arrived soon after sunup and stayed with Perkins' body while Marty, Scully, and Mulder entered the woods on foot in search of LaBossiere. Marty followed a nearly invisible trail of broken twigs and disturbed soil, guiding them through the forested backcountry. They hiked for several miles beneath a canopy of spruce and fir. A couple of times Marty doubled back, retracing a path they had already traveled. He explained he had mistaken the trail signs, which were scanty at best. After several hours in the raw cold, their noses and cheeks were chapped from the cold, their hands and feet numb.

"We'll be at the river soon," Marty said, although the trees were so thick, the water remained hidden. "You two need to stop and rest?"

Mulder glanced at Scully. She shook her head no. 

"Let's keep going." 

They continued down a gradual slope toward the river. The spongy, needle-covered ground dulled the sound of their footfalls as they made their way between the evergreens. They heard the river long before they could see it, its rush of water booming through the forest. At last, the trees thinned and they arrived at the deeply carved gully of Misery River. The bank was steep here; the river swirled noisily around boulders and fallen tree branches. 

"Looks like he's headin' downstream," Marty yelled over the roar of the river. 

They hiked nearly a mile along the steep riverbank before the terrain leveled off and the river widened. Thundering rapids became silent flatwater. 

Through the sparse trees, Mulder spotted a flash of movement two hundred yards downstream. 

"There he is!" Recognizing LaBossiere, Mulder drew his gun and sprinted along the shore. Scully followed right on his heels. 

"Federal agents! Stop where you are!" Mulder yelled. 

LaBossiere looked back in alarm. He broke into a run. 

Mulder increased his speed and quickly gained on the smaller man. When LaBossiere was only an arm's length away, he tackled him. They both fell roughly to the ground. Mulder pinned LaBossiere beneath him. 

Scully arrived seconds later, handcuffs out. Mulder twisted LaBossiere's arms behind his back and Scully snapped the cuffs around his wrists.

"Goddamnmotherfuckers!" LaBossiere screamed. "Let me go! It's comin'! It's comin'! Let me go!" 

Mulder hauled the hysterical man to his feet. LaBossiere's eyes were wild with fear. 

"Madjahando! Madjahando!" he raved. 

Exchanging glances with Scully, Mulder tugged LaBossiere back to the spot where they'd left Marty.

"Mulder? Where's Marty?" Scully asked, searching the area where the burly man had stood only minutes before. 

"Marty?" Mulder yelled across the tree-filled landscape.

"Madjahandomadjahandomadjahando," LaBossiere chanted.

"Shut up!" Mulder demanded. "MARTY!" 

Mulder's voice echoed through the forest. 

"Shit," he hissed.

"Let's retrace our steps and see if we can find him," Scully suggested. 

Mulder gripped LaBossiere's arm and pulled him along. 

For twenty minutes, they hiked upstream, calling Marty's name. 

Scully finally stopped.

"Mulder, it's nearly three o'clock. The sun sets in less than two and a half hours. Following the river upstream will take us further and further into the woods. We need to head in the other direction, toward Route 15."

"Are you sure, Scully?"

She pulled a map from her jacket pocket and unfolded it. A quick review showed she was right. "Misery River flows northeast into Brassua Lake, crossing the main road. Here." She pointed to the map.

"But if we head upstream instead of downstream, won't we end up back at Misery Lake and MarMar?" He tapped the campsite.

"Only if we're on the south branch of the river. It's more likely we're here, on the north branch since we came in from the north." Her finger traced the path. "If we follow the north branch upstream, we'll end up lost in the swamp at the base of Williams Mountain."

Mulder nodded. "Okay. We'll head downstream. We can come back tomorrow with the Warden to search for Marty's body."

"His body? We don't know that he's dead."

"If he's alive, he'll find his own way out. If we have to come back for him, it's because he's dead."

"Or injured."

"Or injured," Mulder conceded and started downstream. He tugged LaBossiere along with him. The dazed man continued to mutter "Madjahando-Madjahando-madjahando" as he stumbled along.

They followed the river for an hour. Tired and hungry, Mulder stopped in a small, grassy clearing for them to rest for a minute. 

"Let's take a break, Scully," he said. 

He sat LaBossiere down. The man had finally quieted, traveling the last couple of miles in silence. His eyes were glazed with fear. Mulder moved several feet away and plopped down onto the dried grass. 

Scully lowered herself to sit cross-legged beside him. The wind gusted and she lifted her collar to protect her ears and neck, wishing she had remembered to bring her hat. 

"God, I'm hungry," Mulder complained. His stomach growled.

"Well, why didn't you say something sooner?" 

She yanked off her gloves, reached into her pocket and withdrew the two granola bars and the bag of sunflower seeds she had bought at Moosehead Lake Outfitters the day they had arrived. She tossed the seeds to Mulder. 

"Sculleee!" He beamed at her. Removing his own gloves, he tore open the package. "Did I ever tell you you're the best partner a man could ask for?"

"You're a lucky guy, Mulder. I can't believe it's taken you seven years to realize it."

"It's taken me seven years to *admit* it...to you. I *realized* it after our first case together."

"Really? When I figured out the body of Ray Soames was actually an orangutan and not an extraterrestrial?"

"No. When you looked better in your underwear than my previous partner who, now that I think about it, kind of resembled an orangutan himself." 

While Mulder cracked his way through a handful of seeds, Scully unwrapped a granola bar and took it to LaBossiere. The shivering man lay on his side, his hands still cuffed behind his back, his knees curled up to his chest.

"Jack? Would you like something to eat?" she asked. "Jack?" 

He shut his eyes, ignoring her. 

She shrugged and bit into the bar herself.

"Suit yourself." She returned to sit with Mulder. 

Tossing him the second granola bar, she put her gloves back on. Her fingers were numb from the cold. She shivered as another icy blast blew over them.

Mulder finished the bar and licked each finger with appreciation. Then he slipped his own gloves back on and shoved his hands deeply into his pockets.

"Hey, my Buck 180DL." He pulled the knife from his pocket and held it up for Scully to see.

"Great. Now you can skin us something for dinner."

"You shoot it, Scully, and I'll skin it." 

She scanned the trees. "You like squirrel, Mulder?"

He shrugged. "How bad can it be? Probably tastes like chicken." 

"You ever eat a chicken raw?" she asked. They had no means to build a fire. 

Grimacing, he gave the knife a toss. It spun in the air and landed point down in the ground a few inches from his leg. He pulled it free and flipped it again. 

A burst of wind whipped past them and Scully stood to try to warm her legs and arms by walking around. She plucked Mulder's knife from the ground and slipped it into her pocket. 

"You're going to stab yourself in the leg, Mulder. I have no intention of carrying you out of these woods." 

She paced circles around him while he watched.

"Scully, you're freezing."

"I'm fine." She continued to pace, her arms hugging her chest, her hands thrust into her armpits.

"Your lips are blue," he said. 

She pressed her lips together to stop her teeth from chattering. 

"Come here." He unzipped and opened his coat, inviting her to share the warmth of his jacket and the heat of his body. 

She hesitated, glancing at LaBossiere, who was snoring loudly, fast asleep on the cold, hard ground. 

Mulder encouraged her with a "get over here" tilt of his head. 

She stared at his open coat and fleece-covered chest. He looked warm. The heat would feel good. 

Approaching him a bit self-consciously, she lowered herself slowly between his knees, her back to his chest. He wrapped his jacket and his arms snuggly around her. 

"Ouch! Scully, your gun--" He released his hold on her.

"Sorry," she apologized and reached behind her to remove the weapon before it poked him again. She placed it on the ground beside them. 

Settling comfortably against him once again, she relaxed as the warmth of his body seeped into her. Her shivering stopped. He buried his nose in her hair and folded his arms more tightly around her. She could feel the beat of his heart and its steady rhythm soothed her nerves. Feeling relaxed for the first time in days, she drifted off to sleep. 

She didn't sleep long, only a few minutes. When she lifted her head, it startled Mulder, who must've dozed off, too.

Scully glanced over at LaBossiere, only to find him missing.

"Mulder, where's LaBossiere?" She scrambled to her feet. 

"Damn it!" Mulder rose to his feet, too. 

They split up and searched the small clearing. Then the scrub beyond. Nothing. They jogged upstream.

"Jack? Jack!" Scully called as she ran.

Outpacing her, Mulder moved ahead, his long legs carrying him quickly across the scabrous terrain. He dodged a boulder, leapt over a downed tree. Suddenly, he stopped. 

"Shit." 

"What is it, Mulder? Did you find him?" 

"Yes."

Scully caught up to him, a little breathless. On the other side of the fallen log, LaBossiere lay mangled and bleeding at Mulder's feet. She knelt to check his pulse. 

"He's dead," she announced. "My God, Mulder, the damage is inordinate. Broken facial bones. Dislocated shoulders. Broken legs. His abdomen has been penetrated like the other victims. His liver and pancreas are pulverized." A rope of small intestine stretched out several yards from LaBossiere's open torso.

Mulder rolled LaBossiere onto his side, revealing the handcuffs still binding the man's wrists behind his back.

"Hell, Scully, he couldn't even fight back." 

Mulder looked disgusted. And queasy. He turned away.

"Mulder, we had no way to know this would hap--"

"We fell asleep!"

"Only for a minute."

"Long enough to-- Uh, Scully? Look at that." He pointed downstream. "It's Marty." 

Mulder set off at a run.

*          *          *

Marty ducked into the trees, away from the river. Mulder sprinted after him. He managed to keep the burly man in sight as he dodged trees and bulldozed his way through a stand of thorny wild blackberry canes. Marty trampled a wide path through a bed of tall ferns and, moments later, Mulder zigzagged after him. 

They scaled a steep washout created by spring runoff. Marty disappeared over the top of the rise. Mulder climbed after him. Each step sent a shower of loose gravel rattling down exposed ledge. Nearing the summit, Mulder slowed and drew his weapon. He peered cautiously over the ridge. 

A solid branch hit him full in the face. The blow knocked him backward. Scrambling for a handhold, he dropped his gun. The weapon clattered to the bottom of the gully. Mulder landed with a spine-jarring jolt. Momentum and gravity pulled him further down the slope. He slid several yards across rough gravel before coming to a painful stop. He struggled to rise. Blood poured from a cut on his cheek. A shadow loomed over him. 

Again Marty aimed the tree limb at Mulder's head and swung. Mulder rolled to one side. His shoulder caught the impact instead of his skull. He howled in pain when the branch hit. 

Marty swung again, his muscular arms wielding the branch like a splitting maul. The wood shattered when it struck the granite outcropping next to Mulder's head. 

The impact put Marty off balance. 

Mulder grabbed for him. Yanked Marty down on top of himself. Together they skidded and rolled down the washout, dust billowing and sticking to their sweat-slicked faces. 

Marty gripped Mulder's neck with powerful fingers. Mulder fought for air.

"Marty?" Mulder managed to gasp.

Marty leaned close, the tip of his nose brushing Mulder's. His eyes burned with hate. "My name is Georges," he said through gritted teeth, his words weighted with a thick French accent. "My soul will be free only when I have atoned for the death of Bernard LaBossiere. All Vaillancourts...must...die." He tightened his grip.

"I...not...Vail...lan...court." Mulder reached desperately for the gun strapped to his ankle. He felt himself growing lightheaded, losing consciousness. His fingers brushed the holster. Grasped the gun. Raised it to Marty's temple. Chest hitching for air, vision going black, he squeezed the trigger. 

A deafening blast. Marty fell sideways. Released his grip. Mulder sucked in a lungful of air. Then another. And another. Each painful breath seared his raw, swollen throat. It took several minutes before he could sit and then stand without his head reeling. 

Marty lay in the washout, blood oozing from a neat hole above his eyebrow. 

Mulder picked his way carefully down the slope. He stooped at the bottom to retrieve his gun. He remained there, hands braced on his knees, trying to catch his breath before heading back to the river and Scully.

*          *          *

Scully flinched at the sound of the gunshot. She recognized Mulder's 230. 

Please be okay, Mulder, she prayed as she hurried toward the sound. 

"Humphf!" 

Coming from behind her, the deep, primal noise stopped her in her tracks and sent a chill into her bones. She slowly turned. 

Not twenty feet behind her stood a massive bull moose, his head lowered, his angry eyes locked on her. He tossed his enormous head and pawed the ground, stirring dust and digging into the soil. His massive antlers stretched more than six feet across.

Scully reached behind her back for her gun. Her fingers closed on her empty holster and she remembered she had removed the weapon. It lay on the ground back in the clearing. 

She swallowed hard. The nearest tree was thirty feet or more away. Even if she was lucky enough to reach it before the moose charged, she didn't think she could climb it. It's lowest branches were too high, its trunk too thick.

"Humphf!" 

The moose charged, rushing at her at a heart-stopping pace. She tried to drop and roll but the animal's wide antlers struck her hard in the chest and tossed her several yards into the air. Falling onto her back, the wind knocked out of her, her lungs refused to take in air. When at last she managed to inhale, the moose sounded again. 

"Humphf!"

She tried to stand but the muscles of her legs refused to obey. The moose approached her. It sniffed the air, blowing frosty vapor from its quivering nostrils. Its enormous humped shoulder towered above her. She tried to scramble backward as its front legs straddled her hips. It took another step forward and blew a steamy breath across her face. 

She raised her gaze to look into one huge, liquid eye. She could see every individual dark hair that fringed its lid. 

The eye blinked, momentarily hiding and then revealing its bottomless, black pupil.

"Nodah, Nidoupso."  *Hear me, Sister,* it seemed to grunt. 

Scully's mouth opened in shock. 

"Who are you?" she whispered.

"Madjahando." *Power, evil.* 

Scully shook her head. A tiny whimper hummed in her throat. She felt an odd pulling inside her chest and abdomen, as if she were being tugged inside out. She sensed herself loosening from the physical material of her flesh, separating from her bones. She feared the beast was stripping her soul from her body, sucking her into itself. 

Mulder's knife. Mulder's knife was in her pocket. 

She slipped her fingers into her coat, her eyes never leaving the inky well of the moose's gaze. Her hand closed around the knife's handle. 

In one swift motion, she withdrew the knife and plunged its long blade deeply into the animal's eye. The eye burst; hot liquid sprayed her nose and cheek. She shoved the knife deeper, splitting through the back of the eye socket, pushing into the animal's brain. 

The moose groaned in agony. 

Scully shoved harder, twisting the knife handle, now slick with blood.

The moose wobbled. Bellowed. Dropped to its knees.

"Pujinkskwes." *Witch,* it cried. 

Blood and brains gushed from the pierced eye, coating Scully with red and gray. Steam rose from the hot blood, giving the impression of dancing ghosts rising in the cold air. She blinked and the wind scattered the image.

The moose teetered and fell. Scully rolled out of its way. It huffed a final breath. The wind snatched that, too.

"Scully!" Mulder emerged from the woods to find her on the ground, the moose dead beside her with the handle of his knife sticking out of its eye. "Scully," he breathed with relief as he dropped to his knees and scooped her into an embrace. 

She stared past him at the moose.

"I'm all right, Mulder. So are you." 

--------------
Greenville Memorial Hospital
Two days later

Mulder lightly kissed Scully's cheek before sitting on the edge of her hospital bed.

"The doctor is signing your release papers right now," he said. "How are you feeling? Ready for another 'Adventure of a Lifetime'?"

"I'm fine, Mulder, but no. I'm looking forward to going home."

"We've got an early flight out of Bangor tomorrow morning. I've reserved us rooms at a hotel near the airport for tonight. Are you up for the two-hour drive?" he asked. 

She had suffered two fractured ribs and extensive bruising from the blow to her chest by the charging moose. 

He had fared slightly better. His dislocated shoulder was easily popped back into place and he had required only a few stitches on his cheek where Marty had struck him in the face with the tree limb. His neck bore the black and blue imprints of Marty's chokehold.

"I brought you the autopsy reports on Jack LaBossiere and Marty." He passed her the files. "You were right, Scully. They both had Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease."

She opened and scanned the report. A distinctive pattern of amyloid plaques in the brains of both men proved they suffered from Creutzfeldt-Jakob. LaBossiere's condition had been more advanced, accounting for his more severe symptoms.

"This doesn't explain everything, Mulder. It doesn't explain the moose fur embedded in the abdominal cavities of several of the victims. It doesn't explain the hoofprint-shaped bruise on Rick Stewart's thigh or the moose tracks found at several of the crime scenes. And it doesn't explain what happened to me at the river."

Mulder took her hand and gently stroked the backs of her fingers. 

"Scully, the most plausible explanation is that Marty Vaillancourt was the murderer. He became delusional after contracting Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease. He mistakenly thought he carried the guilt-ridden soul of his ancestor Georges Vaillancourt, a soul who wouldn't rest until it atoned for the death of Bernard LaBossiere by killing any and all descendants of the Vaillancourt family. Marty told that story so many times, he came to believe it after he developed his illness."  

"Not all the victims were Vaillancourts."

"He was delusional, Scully. Hell, he thought I was a Vaillancourt when he tried to kill me."

She took a deep breath. "Mulder, I know what happened to me."

"You were attacked by a moose. The Warden told us that's not unusual at this time of year. Moose are in rut and can be aggressive."

"It was more than that, Mulder. It...spoke to me."

"You had the wind knocked out of you, Scully."

"You're saying I was delusional due to lack of oxygen to the brain?"

"Is that so hard to accept?"

"It called me 'Pujinkskwes' when I stabbed it in the eye. I looked it up, Mulder. It's an Abenaki word meaning 'witch' or 'a female with great medicine.' How did I hallucinate a word I've never heard before?"

--------------
Assistant Director Skinner's Office
Hoover Building, Washington, DC
One week later

Mulder and Scully sat in their customary seats in front of AD Skinner's desk. Skinner chewed at the inside of his lower lip as he reread their reports.

"Agents, I'm not sure what to make of this." He squinted across his desk at them. 

"Sir?"

"Agent Mulder, you're saying you think the killer was a man named Marty Vaillancourt who suffered from Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, contracted by eating contaminated moose meat?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you," -- Skinner turned to look at Scully -- "think the killer was a moose possessed by the spirit of a man who lived and died more than three hundred years ago?"

"Yes, sir." She nodded. "Don't forget the evil force known as 'Madjahando.'"

Skinner eyes shifted from Scully to Mulder and back again. "You two haven't mixed up your reports and mistakenly signed the wrong ones by any chance?"

"No, sir." They shook their heads. 

Skinner looked baffled.

"I would more likely believe the two of you somehow...switched bodies while you were in Maine than I'd believe that Agent Mulder is subscribing to a scientific explanation based on quantifiable evidence while Agent Scully is accepting a paranormal point of view supported by urban myth. Is that the case, Agents -- have you switched bodies?" Skinner asked. 

Mulder and Scully turned to study each other.

"No, sir." They shook their heads again.

Skinner sighed and picked up his pen. Pausing before adding his signature, he stared once more at the reports in front of him. "Uh, Agent Mulder..."

"Yes, sir?" Scully replied and Skinner's lifted his head in surprise.

Mulder continued her charade by asking her, "Mulder, I received the latest monograph on recent forms of transmissible spongiform encephalopathy disorders, if you'd like to borrow it this evening."

"That's a tempting offer, Scully," she replied, "but War of the Worlds is playing at the dollar cinema and I was going to invite you to come along. Dutch treat, of course."

"I'm not amused, Agents. You are dismissed. Get out of my office." 

As they rose to leave, Mulder told Scully, "That's a generous offer, Mulder, and thanks, but I planned to wash my hair after reading the monograph."

"Oooo. Sculleeee. Need any help rinsing out the conditioner?" she asked and waggled her eyebrows.

"GET OUT!" 

  
THE END


AUTHOR'S NOTES: Back in the days before DVDs and streaming on demand, fans had to wait until a show aired on network TV. If you missed an episode, it was months or even years before you got to see it. This was certainly true for me. I began watching the X-Files in Season 4 ("The Field Where I Died" was the first episode I ever saw). I began writing fanfic a couple of years later and Madjahando was my second fic. So, it was several years before I finally saw Season 2's "Our Town." Imagine my surprise when I learned that Creutzfeldt-Jacob disease was the explanation for the deaths in Dudley, Arkansas. Here I thought I'd come up with something original to explain the events in my fic! Oh well.