Charles Grant - Whirlwind

"Then how did you know about Donna Falkner? You were there."

"I have a police scanner in my truck." He grinned. "It comes in handy."

"A scanner?" She sounded doubtful.

The grin snapped off. "I'm an Indian, Agent Scully I'm not a savage."

"You nearly cut a man's head off," Mulder said mildly. "That sounds pretty savage to me."

Ciola only glared at him, a quick glance, before he looked back to Scully. "Anything else?"

"Theft," she said.

The leg slid slowly off the arm. "I kill people, Agent Scully, I don't steal from them. You want a thief, I suggest you have a word with Saint Nick."

"What were you two arguing about? Yesterday. In the street."

"Do you know something, Agent Scully? For the life of me, I can't understand why a woman like you would—"

"Ciola," Mulder said, raising his voice.

The man sighed the sigh of a terribly put-upon man, and looked.

Mulder held up his ID. "Just for the record, the Federal Bureau of Investigation has legal authority on Indian reservations, whether we're asked in or not. That means, Mr. Ciola, that I don't need anyone's permission — not the sheriff's, not your Council's — to bring you in for questioning concerning the murder of Donna Falkner. Or Paulie Deven. Or Matt and Doris Constella." He put the ID back in his pocket. "Why don't you just cut the crap, and answer Agent Scully."

The man looked ready to bolt, and from the corner of her eye, Scully saw Mulder tense for the chase. "He told us it was personal," she said quickly, watching them both relax as if strings had been severed.

"It is."

"How personal?"

"We hate each other, Ms. Scully. I'm an ex-con and he's a saint. I dropped out of high school, he's got degrees up his ass and out his throat." Palms down, he spread his fingers on the table. After a long moment, he said, "How confidential is this? If I tell you something, you put me back in the pen?"

"That depends," Mulder answered.

"On what?"

"On whether I say so," Scully said, holding back a grin at the astonishment on his face.

"Let… let me think about it."

"While you're thinking” Mulder said, "tell me how you managed not to be killed by the Sangre Viento."

Ciola gaped, his left hand moving unconsciously to his cheek to brush over the scars. "How the hell did you know that?"

Mulder didn't answer.

Scully knew, however. Now that she could examine them without fearing a knife in her throat, the pattern across his neck and face was clear; at least, clear enough to anyone who knew about the Wind.

"I had a pony," Ciola said quietly. "When I was very little, a man died, one of the six. During the ceremonial, no one leaves the Mesa, or goes into the desert. It's a foolish chance. Only people like Saint Nick do something dumb like that. I was little, and I was foolish, and I wanted my pony. She had broken out of the corral, and I chased her for nearly an hour.

"I almost had her once, but she bolted. I couldn't figure out why until I turned around, and there it was. Right behind me. I fell over backward into an arroyo, and that’s what saved me."

Scully couldn't help it: "You believe in this Blood Wind?"

Ciola's fingers fluttered across his face. "That’s a stupid question, chica. Do you want a stupid answer?"

"No, just a truthful one."

His eyes widened at her boldness, but one of the front doors opened before he had a chance to say a word. Nick Lanaya walked in, an old man trailing behind, both of them unaware of Ciola until they were halfway across the floor.

Lanaya stopped; the old man didn't. He continued on to the table and took the chair on Scully's right.

"What do you want, Leon?" Nick demanded.

"The FBI calls, I answer." He grinned at Mulder. "It's the law, don't you know that?"

"Get out, Leon. They need you in the warehouse."

"Oh, I don't know. There are many questions left to ask." He looked to Scully for support. "They want to know, for example, about Donna. How we loved, how we fought, how we—"

"Chinga!" Lanaya spat, face darkening with rage. "You kill, you dare to come back here as if nothing ever happened, and now you dare to talk—"

"Enough!" Mulder ordered, thumping the table with his fist. "Excuse me," he said to the old man, and turned back to the others. "Mr. Lanaya, for all our sakes, let me or Agent Scully be the ones to decide when Mr. Ciola has told us enough, okay? Mr. Ciola, I take it you're not planning a vacation or anything like that?"

Ciola laughed as he stood. "Don't leave town, eh, gringo? Don't worry. I won't. I still have to go to Donna's funeral."

Lanaya grabbed the man's arm as he brushed past him and whispered harshly in his ear. Scully couldn't understand what was said, but it made her wonder when Ciola swallowed heavily and left, nearly at a run. Nick made to follow, but a grunted word from the old man brought him to the table, where he sat in the chair Ciola had just used.

"I'm sorry," he said with a sheepish smile. "The man just drives me crazy." His hand waved in front of his face as if clearing the air of a foul odor. Then he introduced Dugan Velador. "He speaks very good English, so—"

"Have I left, Nick?" Velador asked quietly.

Again Lanaya's face darkened, and he lowered his head and didn't move.

Scully raised an eyebrow to Mulder at the control the old man had, then sat back so she could see both of them at once. She wasn't sure what Mulder wanted her to say, and so deferred to him when he cleared his throat, a signal that he wanted to take charge of the interview for a time.

She hoped, though, that when the Sangre Viento came up, as it surely would, Velador wouldn't be insulted. It would be easy for him to think they were mocking him, or being condescending. And although Nick had warned them of the probability, she was somewhat taken aback when the old man said, "I want you to leave the Mesa now, please. There is nothing here to discuss or tell you."

He stood, the bone necklace he wore rattling softly.

Lanaya stood as well, quickly, but Mulder only clasped his hands on the table and said, "I have reason to believe, Mr. Velador, that someone, probably one of your people, has been using either you, or the six, to establish control of the Sangre Viento." When the old man reached out to grab the edge of the table, Mulder paid him no heed. "If that's true, then this man, sir, has committed four murders, and Agent Scully and I don't intend to leave until we find him, and arrest him."

Well, Scully thought as Velador sank back into his chair, that’s certainly being subtle.

A small leaf danced in a circle in the air, several inches above the ground. From a distance it looked like a butterfly searching for a blossom. Seconds later it was joined by another, this one pierced by a cactus needle. Below them, the sand began to rise.

Mulder hoped neither the old man nor Scully noticed when he released the breath he'd been holding. Sparring with Ciola had been bad enough, but Velador, whose posture and expression told those who saw him he was meek and too dull to be considered, had given him a start as soon as he'd walked in. He may have been behind Lanaya, but he was clearly the leader.

When he sat, nothing about him moved, except for those black eyes.

Mulder had no doubt that in another time, in another culture, Dugan Velador would have been royal.

Right now, a quivering left hand covered the rattlesnake necklace, while the right hand rested on fingertips on the table. He said nothing, and Mulder kept silent. What amazed him, and puzzled him, was that Lanaya hadn't protested either. He, too, sat with one hand against his chest the other out of sight in his lap.

It was Scully's concern that broke the silence. She leaned toward Velador, a hand out but not touching. "Mr. Velador, are you all right? I'm a doctor, sir, if you need help."