tangled screen of roses. A Cherokee parked in the pitted drive faced the street. As they got out, he saw a suitcase by the driver's door.
"Somebody's going on vacation."
"I don't think so," she said, nodding toward the two other suitcases sitting on the stoop. "Not unless she's planning to stay away for six months."
He knocked on the screen door.
No one answered.
He knocked again, and the inner door was
opened by a young woman with a briefcase in one hand.
"I don't want any” she said.
Scully held up her ID. "Special Agent Scully, Special Agent Mulder, FBI. Are you Donna Falkner?"
It didn't take any special instinct to realize the woman was afraid. Mulder opened the screen door carefully and said, "We'd just like to talk to you, Ms. Falkner. It won't take a minute, and then you can take your trip."
"How did you know that?" Donna demanded, her voice pitched high enough to crack. Then she followed Mulder's gesture toward the suitcases, "Oh."
"Just a few minutes” Scully assured her.
The woman's shoulders slumped. "Oh, what the hell, why not. How much worse can it get?"
The air conditioning had been shut off. The room was stifling. The woman hasn't left yet, Mulder thought, and already the house feels deserted. Donna grabbed a ladder-back chair from in front of a small desk and turned it around. When she sat, shoulders still slumped, she held the briefcase in her lap, looking as if she wanted to hold it against her chest. Scully took a seat on a two-cushion couch, pen and notebook in hand; Mulder remained standing, leaning a shoulder against the wall just inside the room's entry.
It kept him in partial shadow; it kept the woman in full light.
"So," she said resignedly. "What do you want to know?"
"The Konochine” Mulder told her, and saw her gaze dart in his direction.
"What about them?"
"You sell their jewelry," Scully said, shifting the woman's attention back the other way. "We were told they didn't like the outside world very much."
"Hardly at all” Donna answered. Her shoul-ders rose a little. "I got chased off the res once, back before I knew what I was doing." She shifted the briefcase to the floor beside her. "See, they're not the only Indians I deal with, but they give me the most trouble. Or did, anyway. There's this man—"
"Nick Lanaya?" Mulder said.
"Yeah. He's one of the out-and-backers. You know, got out, came back? Well, we met at a party once, got to talking—he's very easy to talk to, kind of like a priest, if you know what I mean. Anyway, he knew his people needed money, and after he asked around, he knew I'd be able to get them a fair price for the work."
Scully moved a hand to draw her attention again. "How mad are the ones who don't want outside contact?"
Donna frowned, the understanding of what
Scully meant slow in arriving. "Oh. Oh! Hey, not that mad. God, no. You think they killed those poor people?" She dismissed the notion with a wave. "Jesus, no. They talk a lot, yell a lot, but Nick just yells right back. He's—" She stopped, frozen, as though something had just occurred to her. "Tell you, though, the guy you should be talking to is Leon Ciola."
"We've met” Mulder said dryly.
"You're kidding." Her right hand drifted down to brush at the case. "You know he was in the state pen, up by Santa Fe? Killed a man in a bar fight." Her left hand draw a line across her throat.
Slowly. "Nearly cut his head off. I don't know how he got out. A good lawyer, I guess."
"Where are you going?" Scully asked.
"Vacation," Donna replied instantly.
"You take more clothes than Scully," Mulder said with a laugh.
"I'll be away for a while."
"Who takes care of the business? Nick?"
She shrugged. "Mostly, yeah."
Scully closed her notebook. "You have no con-trol over what you receive from the Mesa? Or who buys them retail?"
"Nope. Nick chooses the pieces, I choose the shops. After that, it's the guy who has the most money."
Mulder pushed away from the wall. "What if
somebody who didn't
"Somebody's going on vacation."
"I don't think so," she said, nodding toward the two other suitcases sitting on the stoop. "Not unless she's planning to stay away for six months."
He knocked on the screen door.
No one answered.
He knocked again, and the inner door was
opened by a young woman with a briefcase in one hand.
"I don't want any” she said.
Scully held up her ID. "Special Agent Scully, Special Agent Mulder, FBI. Are you Donna Falkner?"
It didn't take any special instinct to realize the woman was afraid. Mulder opened the screen door carefully and said, "We'd just like to talk to you, Ms. Falkner. It won't take a minute, and then you can take your trip."
"How did you know that?" Donna demanded, her voice pitched high enough to crack. Then she followed Mulder's gesture toward the suitcases, "Oh."
"Just a few minutes” Scully assured her.
The woman's shoulders slumped. "Oh, what the hell, why not. How much worse can it get?"
The air conditioning had been shut off. The room was stifling. The woman hasn't left yet, Mulder thought, and already the house feels deserted. Donna grabbed a ladder-back chair from in front of a small desk and turned it around. When she sat, shoulders still slumped, she held the briefcase in her lap, looking as if she wanted to hold it against her chest. Scully took a seat on a two-cushion couch, pen and notebook in hand; Mulder remained standing, leaning a shoulder against the wall just inside the room's entry.
It kept him in partial shadow; it kept the woman in full light.
"So," she said resignedly. "What do you want to know?"
"The Konochine” Mulder told her, and saw her gaze dart in his direction.
"What about them?"
"You sell their jewelry," Scully said, shifting the woman's attention back the other way. "We were told they didn't like the outside world very much."
"Hardly at all” Donna answered. Her shoul-ders rose a little. "I got chased off the res once, back before I knew what I was doing." She shifted the briefcase to the floor beside her. "See, they're not the only Indians I deal with, but they give me the most trouble. Or did, anyway. There's this man—"
"Nick Lanaya?" Mulder said.
"Yeah. He's one of the out-and-backers. You know, got out, came back? Well, we met at a party once, got to talking—he's very easy to talk to, kind of like a priest, if you know what I mean. Anyway, he knew his people needed money, and after he asked around, he knew I'd be able to get them a fair price for the work."
Scully moved a hand to draw her attention again. "How mad are the ones who don't want outside contact?"
Donna frowned, the understanding of what
Scully meant slow in arriving. "Oh. Oh! Hey, not that mad. God, no. You think they killed those poor people?" She dismissed the notion with a wave. "Jesus, no. They talk a lot, yell a lot, but Nick just yells right back. He's—" She stopped, frozen, as though something had just occurred to her. "Tell you, though, the guy you should be talking to is Leon Ciola."
"We've met” Mulder said dryly.
"You're kidding." Her right hand drifted down to brush at the case. "You know he was in the state pen, up by Santa Fe? Killed a man in a bar fight." Her left hand draw a line across her throat.
Slowly. "Nearly cut his head off. I don't know how he got out. A good lawyer, I guess."
"Where are you going?" Scully asked.
"Vacation," Donna replied instantly.
"You take more clothes than Scully," Mulder said with a laugh.
"I'll be away for a while."
"Who takes care of the business? Nick?"
She shrugged. "Mostly, yeah."
Scully closed her notebook. "You have no con-trol over what you receive from the Mesa? Or who buys them retail?"
"Nope. Nick chooses the pieces, I choose the shops. After that, it's the guy who has the most money."
Mulder pushed away from the wall. "What if
somebody who didn't
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