before he convinced himself that he wasn't charging headlong into foolishness. The how of the murders was still beyond him, in spite of Dr. Rios's description. Concentrate on the who and the why, however, and the how would come wagging its tail behind them.
He hoped.
As he pulled out onto the street and headed north, Scully inhaled quickly.
"What?"
They passed a series of four small stores in a common one-story building. A man stood in front of one of them, not bothering to conceal his inter-est in the car.
"Last night," she said. "I didn't see him clearly, but there was a man at the gate, watching me."
He checked the rearview mirror.
The man, face hidden by the bill of his cap, still watched.
There was no flip of a mental coin. Mulder swung the wheel around, made a U-turn, made another to pull alongside the stores.
The man hadn't moved.
Scully lowered her window. "Do you want something?" she asked calmly.
Leon Ciola swaggered over and leaned down. "You the feds?"
With one hand still on the wheel, Mulder leaned over, curious about the fine scars that swept across the man's face. "Special Agent Mulder, Special Agent Sculy. Who are you?"
"Leon Ciola."
"You've been watching us. Why?"
Ciola spread his arms wide in a mocking bow, smiling impudently. "Always like to know who's in town, amigos, that’s all. It’s very dull around here, you know? Not much to do. The sun's too hot. Not much work for a man like me."
"What is a man like you?" Scully said.
"Ex-con. They didn't tell you that?"
No, Mulder thought; there's a lot they haven't told us.
Then he spotted a faint racial resemblance to Nando Quintodo. "You're from the Mesa?"
Ciola's smile didn't falter. "Very good, amigo. Most people think I look Apache." Fingers flut-tered across his face. "The scars. They make me look mean."
"Are you?"
The smile vanished. "I'm a son of a bitch, Agent Mulder. A good thing to know."
He's not bragging, Mulder thought; he's not warning, either.
Ciola glanced up and down the street, then placed a hand on the window well. "Sheriff Sparrow will tell you that I have killed a man. It's true. Maybe more, who knows? He'll tell you, when he gets around to it, that I probably killed those stupid tourists. I didn't, Agent Mulder. I have more important things to do."
He tipped his cap to Scully and backed away, interview over.
Mulder nodded to him, straightened, and pulled slowly away from the curb. The man chilled him.
What chilled him more, however, was the fact that Sparrow hadn't said a word about him. An obvious suspect, a self-confessed killer ex-con, and the sheriff had, conveniently or otherwise, kept Ciola's name to himself.
"Scully, do you get the feeling we've dropped down the rabbit hole?"
She didn't answer.
A glance at her profile showed him lips so taut they were bloodless.
He didn't question her. Something about the man, something he hadn't caught, struck a nerve. Sooner or later, she would tell him what it was. As it was, he had to deal with street signs he could barely read because they were too small, and the vehicles impatiently lining up behind him because he was driving slow enough to try to read the damn signs.
The sun didn't help.
It flared off everything, and bleached that which wasn't already bleached.
Everywhere there were signs of a town strug-gling to find the right way to grow—obviously new shops, shops that had gone out of business, houses and buildings in varying stages of con-struction or repair. It was either very exciting to live here now, or very frightening.
"There," Scully said.
He turned left, toward the river, and found himself on a street where lots were large and vacant, spotted only once in a while by small, one-story houses in either brick or fake adobe. A drab place, made more so by the gardens and large bushes flowering violent colors. No toys in the driveways. The few cars at the curbs seemed abandoned.
He parked in front of a ranch house whose front window was buried by a
He hoped.
As he pulled out onto the street and headed north, Scully inhaled quickly.
"What?"
They passed a series of four small stores in a common one-story building. A man stood in front of one of them, not bothering to conceal his inter-est in the car.
"Last night," she said. "I didn't see him clearly, but there was a man at the gate, watching me."
He checked the rearview mirror.
The man, face hidden by the bill of his cap, still watched.
There was no flip of a mental coin. Mulder swung the wheel around, made a U-turn, made another to pull alongside the stores.
The man hadn't moved.
Scully lowered her window. "Do you want something?" she asked calmly.
Leon Ciola swaggered over and leaned down. "You the feds?"
With one hand still on the wheel, Mulder leaned over, curious about the fine scars that swept across the man's face. "Special Agent Mulder, Special Agent Sculy. Who are you?"
"Leon Ciola."
"You've been watching us. Why?"
Ciola spread his arms wide in a mocking bow, smiling impudently. "Always like to know who's in town, amigos, that’s all. It’s very dull around here, you know? Not much to do. The sun's too hot. Not much work for a man like me."
"What is a man like you?" Scully said.
"Ex-con. They didn't tell you that?"
No, Mulder thought; there's a lot they haven't told us.
Then he spotted a faint racial resemblance to Nando Quintodo. "You're from the Mesa?"
Ciola's smile didn't falter. "Very good, amigo. Most people think I look Apache." Fingers flut-tered across his face. "The scars. They make me look mean."
"Are you?"
The smile vanished. "I'm a son of a bitch, Agent Mulder. A good thing to know."
He's not bragging, Mulder thought; he's not warning, either.
Ciola glanced up and down the street, then placed a hand on the window well. "Sheriff Sparrow will tell you that I have killed a man. It's true. Maybe more, who knows? He'll tell you, when he gets around to it, that I probably killed those stupid tourists. I didn't, Agent Mulder. I have more important things to do."
He tipped his cap to Scully and backed away, interview over.
Mulder nodded to him, straightened, and pulled slowly away from the curb. The man chilled him.
What chilled him more, however, was the fact that Sparrow hadn't said a word about him. An obvious suspect, a self-confessed killer ex-con, and the sheriff had, conveniently or otherwise, kept Ciola's name to himself.
"Scully, do you get the feeling we've dropped down the rabbit hole?"
She didn't answer.
A glance at her profile showed him lips so taut they were bloodless.
He didn't question her. Something about the man, something he hadn't caught, struck a nerve. Sooner or later, she would tell him what it was. As it was, he had to deal with street signs he could barely read because they were too small, and the vehicles impatiently lining up behind him because he was driving slow enough to try to read the damn signs.
The sun didn't help.
It flared off everything, and bleached that which wasn't already bleached.
Everywhere there were signs of a town strug-gling to find the right way to grow—obviously new shops, shops that had gone out of business, houses and buildings in varying stages of con-struction or repair. It was either very exciting to live here now, or very frightening.
"There," Scully said.
He turned left, toward the river, and found himself on a street where lots were large and vacant, spotted only once in a while by small, one-story houses in either brick or fake adobe. A drab place, made more so by the gardens and large bushes flowering violent colors. No toys in the driveways. The few cars at the curbs seemed abandoned.
He parked in front of a ranch house whose front window was buried by a
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