Charles Grant: Whirlwind

"Patience, my friend, is a royal pain in the ass. And you gotta admit, I've been pretty damn patient with you."

Mulder agreed, and decided to take the lawman out back to show him what he had found. Sparrow reminded him that he had already been there, he and his men, but Mulder insisted gently. What he wanted the sheriff to see was something his men, good as they were, probably wouldn't have thought twice about.

"I did the same, Sheriff, the first time I saw it."

They were already at the riverbank when Scully called his name.

He made a silent wish for no surprises, no complications, then looked at the sheriff.

Sparrow was laughing.

"What?"

He pointed at Scully, then reached over and tapped a finger against Mulder's chest. "Couldn't stand it, could you?"

That was the first time Mulder realized that in dressing this morning, he had put on his tie and blue suit. It had been automatic. He had been too busy fighting his headache to think. His hands had grabbed what they knew best.

Scully, too, was the same.

For some reason, even out here, she looked more natural that way.

"Well?" he asked.

Scully greeted the sheriff almost curtly, pushed at her hair to keep the steady breeze from blinding her, and said, "Mulder, I do not want to have to do that again, ever."

"I'd think," Sparrow said, "you'd be used to it by now. Cutting them up, I mean, figuring things out."

"You don't get used to it," she told him. "You just find a way not to let it bother you for a while." She grabbed a folded paper from her shoulder bag, glanced at it, and took a deep breath. "You'll be pleased to know there are no surprises, Mulder. And Dr. Rios was right — it wasn't skinning and it wasn't flaying. Scouring, for the time being, is a pretty damn good word."

"What killed her?"

"Simply? Layman's terms? Shock. If you want the details, we can start with the near-total destruction of a major organ — which is what the skin is — coupled with rapid fluid loss from various sources, including—"

"Never mind," the sheriff interrupted, a queasy look on his face. "I get the picture."

"No/ she contradicted. "I don't think you do. Mulder, there were particles of sandy dirt lodged in the sinuses and eye sockets. And in the brain."

"What the hell could do something like that?" Sparrow demanded.

"Force," Mulder answered. "A lot of force." He started for the river. "Which is why I want you to take a look at this."

Scully looked at him quizzically. "What?"

"Just look, Scully. I'll explain on our way to the Mesa."

She didn't argue, but followed the sheriff to the brush at the edge of the grass, where Mulder pointed out the cleared area farther on. It took a while until they found a way through without ripping themselves to shreds, and when they reached the rough circle, he broke off an already damaged twig and held it up.

"The bark," he said. "Torn off."

The ground at their feet was littered with shredded leaves and shards of twigs and branches.

"If I didn't know better," Sparrow said, "I'd say a nut with a weed-whacker got roaring drunk in here."

"There's the same sort of damage done over at Donna Falkner's house," Mulder told them as they made their way back to the garden. "I saw it, but because the yard was so badly kept, it didn't hit me until this morning."

Sparrow told them to meet him in the parking lot; he'd go in to see if Lanaya had been reached. Scully walked with her head down, every few steps shaking her head. Then she stopped Mulder with a touch. "A device, maybe? Maybe the sheriff wasn't so far off with that weed-trimmer idea." She looked away, looked back. "But that doesn't explain the dirt. Just falling wouldn't do it."

"No, you're right."

He started for the car, but she blocked him, a hand briefly on his chest. "What is it, Mulder? What are you up to?"

"Sangre Viento," he answered. "It's the only thing that makes sense."

"Really?" She glanced over at the sheriff, hurrying toward them. "And you think that makes sense?"

"It does to me."

"Of course it does," she said flatly. "Whatever was I thinking of."

"Nick's waiting at the res," Sparrow said, herding them toward his cruiser. A hard look at Mulder. "We'll ride together, all right? I want to hear this. Just tell me I'm gonna like it."

Mulder couldn't, and by his expression the sheriff knew it. He rolled his eyes in resignation and wondered aloud how Scully put up with it.

"Patience," Mulder said as he slid into the backseat.

"Pain in the ass” the sheriff answered.

"Maybe. But I've gotten used to it."

Scully wasn't amused.

Nick hunkered down beside the old man, hands draped across his knees. "You're going to bake out here, Dugan."

The old man only shrugged.

"The FBI is coming."

"There was a death."

"I know."

"The woman. I think I know her."

Nick shifted uneasily. "Donna Falkner, Dugan. She's… was my partner."

"Ah, yes. I remember her now. She ran pretty good."

Nick couldn't help but smile. "Yes, she did. And she helped us a lot. I hope you remember that, too."

The old man brushed invisible sand from his blanket, the only admission Nick was likely to get.

"There should not have been a killing, Nick."

"Yes. I know that"

"There should not have been any killings." Dugan's head turned stiffly. "The cattle sometimes. I remember a coyote once. But no people, Nick. Never any people before."

Nick nodded earnestly, leaning as close as he could without toppling into the old man's lap. "That's what I've been trying to tell you, Dugan. If we don't do something, the FBI will find out, and we won't be able to stop the news people or the police or anybody from trampling all over the Mesa." He lowered his voice. "But if we stop him now, there'll be nothing to see. Nothing to find."

A breeze stirred the grass.

"Dugan. Father. The Falkner woman won't be the last to die. You know that."

The old man's head bowed, his hands gathering in his lap. "I am hoping for—"

Nick couldn't help himself; he grabbed the man's shoulder harshly. "Damnit, she isn't coming back, Dugan. Annie isn't coming back, and she's not going to help." He felt the shoulder stiffen, and snatched his hand away. "If we're going to make it through this, we have to see that Leon is…"

He didn't finish.

He didn't have to.

All he could do was wait for Velador to make up his mind. As he stood, the old man began a low murmuring, and Nick walked away.

He hadn't gone ten paces when the old man said, "Nick," just loud enough to hear.

He turned to face Dugan's back, and the right hand raised, finger pointing to the sky.

"The FBI."

"What about them?"

"They must be stopped."

The breeze blew. The sand stirred.

Imagine, Mulder said, a group of men, extremely devout men, confined for so long in a single room. The kiva. Imagine, as he had already mentioned to Scully, the energy they must create and radiate as they perform the rituals required of their faith. Suppose, then, there are moments during that time when the energy can no longer be confined, but its excess escapes through the hole in the ceiling. It can dissipate. Maybe someone nearby feels a little discomfort, but nothing more. They might blame it on the wind.

But suppose, just suppose, it doesn't scatter. Suppose it gathers instead. Suppose it concentrates.

Suppose the earliest Konochine knew this. They would also know that such a concentration would be potentially dangerous. So they come to the valley within the Wall from wherever they had been, and make it their home. It’s isolated, protected by both the hills and the mountains, and nobody— not the other tribes, not the Spanish, not the whites — bothers them for very long.