Free Whirlwind by Charles Grant

answered then, and he had no answer now as he put on a jacket and left the room, glad now that he had listened to Garson—despite the day’s heat, the desert was downright cold at night.
    He walked through a short passageway between the rooms and the main building, and paused.
    The back was a garden of cacti and now-closed desert flowers set in random circles ringed by stone, as it was in front. Stone paths wound between them and joined at the back to lead to a half-dozen benches that faced the river. Cottonwoods and willows were illuminated by miniature lanterns hanging amid their leaves, leaving patches of lazy shifting light on the ground.
    He wasn’t sure, but he thought he smelled honeysuckle.
    When he was sure he was alone, he sat on one of the benches and watched what little water there was flow past his feet, electric lanterns on metal riverbank poles glowing just enough to turn the dark to gray.
    The moon was out.
    He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets and watched it for a while, thinking of nothing inparticular until a slip of a cloud gave the moon a face.
    Patty Deven, or her mother, adrift in a darkness they would never be able to escape. Pale, only shadows for expression, only hints of what used to be behind their smiles.
    It was an all too easy, and all too painful, jump from there to his sister, gone too many years now. Taken when she was eight, by someone, or something, hiding behind the glare of a light that even now he couldn’t think about without shuddering, or squinting to shut it out.
    To try to see what was behind it.
    That was the foundation of his pursuit of the truths buried somewhere within the X-Files.
    He looked away from the moon and wiped a hand over his face, then absently rubbed the back of his neck.
    He would find Samantha, there was no question about it; until then, however, the best he could do would be to find the men who had murdered Patty’s brother.
    Again his hand passed over his face. When it slipped into its jacket pocket, though, a brief smile was left behind.
    â€œI’m okay,” he said, shifting over to make room for Scully. “Just thinking.”
    â€œOut here, that’ll get you pneumonia.”
    â€œIs that a doctor’s truth thing?”
    She stretched out her legs, folded her hands onher stomach. “No, it’s cold, that’s what it is. God, Mulder, why can’t you ever have a mood someplace warm?”
    They said nothing else for a long time, watching the river, listening to the rustle of the trees, once in a while listening to a dog bark or a car roar past the Inn. For a while the garden filled with diners having after-dinner drinks as they strolled among the garden islands, conversation soft, laughter sometimes loud; for a while the evening breeze stopped, and they couldn’t hear a thing but their own breathing.
    Then Mulder said, “Scully, has it occurred to you that maybe the people who mutilated those cows weren’t the ones who killed Patty’s brother and that couple?”
    â€œNo,” she said at last. She looked over. “Why?”
    â€œThe history, Scully, the history. Animal mutilations of this sort aren’t usually tied to murder. Particularly not brutal ones like these. The animals are assaulted, not people.”
    He watched her carefully as she looked away. He’d only been thinking aloud, but once the thought had been voiced, he had to make sure.
    â€œNo,” she repeated with a slow shake of her head. “Whatever was used, however it was done, the timing’s too close, the similarities too great. From what we’ve been told.” She shifted uneasily. “I’ll know more when I speak to the M.E., but…” She shook her head again. “No.” A quick smile.“Besides, aren’t you the one who told me that there are coincidences, and then there are coincidences? One is real, the other only an illusion?”
    He returned the smile.