regressive hypnosis. Scully suspected that Mulder's memory of the event might be unreliable, that the hypnosis sessions had only rein-forced images he himself wanted to believe.
But Mulder had to trust his memory. He had nothing else to go by—except for his faith that Samantha must be alive and that he would find her again some day.
"It's the not knowing that's the worst," Rubicon said, interrupting his thoughts. "Waiting and waiting, hearing nothing."
Someone else in the back squealed "Bingo!" and Entertainment Director Roland set to work, meticulously checking the numbers off. Apparently the winner of each game received a free tropical drink at their tour group's resort in Cancun.
Mulder fervently hoped that the entire group would board a double-decker luxury bus and drive off to a hotel—any hotel—far from where he, Scully, and Rubicon had made reservations.
Finally, the plane began its gradual descent, and Mulder could see the distant coastline of the Yucatan Peninsula, a curve that sliced across the azure waters of the Caribbean.
"At least you can do something to find your daugh-ter," Mulder said to Rubicon. "You have a starting place."
Rubicon nodded and folded his notepaper, tucking it into his pocket.
"Traveling again feels good—to get out and around, I mean," he said. "It's been a long time since I did, uh, field work. I had thought my days of Indiana Jones excitement were long gone."
He shook his head, looking very tired, very sad. "I've wasted far too much time teaching, lecturing about arti-facts that somebody else discovered and brought to a museum. I've been reduced to an old fart who lives on his lost glory, doing nothing but puttering around." He said the word with derision. "I just wish it hadn't taken such an extreme event to wake me up."
Scully leaned over. "We'll do everything in our power to find your daughter, Dr. Rubicon. We'll find the truth."
Yucatan jungle, near Xitaclan Thursday evening The jungle at night held a thousand noises, a thousand shadows, a thousand threats....
The big silvery coin of the moon cast its watery light like rain, barely penetrating the clenched fists of branches above. Pepe Candelaria felt as if he had been transported into another universe, all alone.
He stopped to get his bearings. He could see the stars, but was barely able to discern the trampled path through the underbrush. Even without the path, though, he knew his way back to the Xitaclan ruins. His unerring sense of direction was an innate skill, common among his Indian ancestors.
Thornbushes snatched at his pale cotton sleeves like desperate beggars, holding him back. With his father's machete, he hacked them away and moved onward.
He felt greatly honored that his friend and employer Fernando Victorio Aguilar had such confidence in him. Pepe was Fernando's most trusted guide and helper—
although such an exclusive level of trust often meant Pepe had to accomplish his tasks without the luxury of assistance. Sometimes it seemed that his work could not be done by one man, that Fernando was taking advan-tage of him, pushing him too far—but Pepe could not refuse. Fernando paid him well enough.
Pepe Candelaria had four sisters, a fat mother, and a dead father. On his deathbed, sweating and moaning from a fever that coursed like lava just beneath his skin, Pepe's father had made him promise to take care of the family.
And now Pepe's mother and sisters took him at his word. .. .
He ducked under a low-hanging tangle of gnarled branches. As he jiggled the twigs, something small and many-legged dropped down on his shoulder. Pepe briskly swiped it away without taking the time to iden-tify the creature. In the jungle, spider and insect bites were often poisonous, or at least painful.
The moon continued to rise, but shed little light through the gauze of high clouds moving swiftly across the sky. If he was lucky, and worked hard, he might be able to get back home before dawn.
Pepe followed his
But Mulder had to trust his memory. He had nothing else to go by—except for his faith that Samantha must be alive and that he would find her again some day.
"It's the not knowing that's the worst," Rubicon said, interrupting his thoughts. "Waiting and waiting, hearing nothing."
Someone else in the back squealed "Bingo!" and Entertainment Director Roland set to work, meticulously checking the numbers off. Apparently the winner of each game received a free tropical drink at their tour group's resort in Cancun.
Mulder fervently hoped that the entire group would board a double-decker luxury bus and drive off to a hotel—any hotel—far from where he, Scully, and Rubicon had made reservations.
Finally, the plane began its gradual descent, and Mulder could see the distant coastline of the Yucatan Peninsula, a curve that sliced across the azure waters of the Caribbean.
"At least you can do something to find your daugh-ter," Mulder said to Rubicon. "You have a starting place."
Rubicon nodded and folded his notepaper, tucking it into his pocket.
"Traveling again feels good—to get out and around, I mean," he said. "It's been a long time since I did, uh, field work. I had thought my days of Indiana Jones excitement were long gone."
He shook his head, looking very tired, very sad. "I've wasted far too much time teaching, lecturing about arti-facts that somebody else discovered and brought to a museum. I've been reduced to an old fart who lives on his lost glory, doing nothing but puttering around." He said the word with derision. "I just wish it hadn't taken such an extreme event to wake me up."
Scully leaned over. "We'll do everything in our power to find your daughter, Dr. Rubicon. We'll find the truth."
Yucatan jungle, near Xitaclan Thursday evening The jungle at night held a thousand noises, a thousand shadows, a thousand threats....
The big silvery coin of the moon cast its watery light like rain, barely penetrating the clenched fists of branches above. Pepe Candelaria felt as if he had been transported into another universe, all alone.
He stopped to get his bearings. He could see the stars, but was barely able to discern the trampled path through the underbrush. Even without the path, though, he knew his way back to the Xitaclan ruins. His unerring sense of direction was an innate skill, common among his Indian ancestors.
Thornbushes snatched at his pale cotton sleeves like desperate beggars, holding him back. With his father's machete, he hacked them away and moved onward.
He felt greatly honored that his friend and employer Fernando Victorio Aguilar had such confidence in him. Pepe was Fernando's most trusted guide and helper—
although such an exclusive level of trust often meant Pepe had to accomplish his tasks without the luxury of assistance. Sometimes it seemed that his work could not be done by one man, that Fernando was taking advan-tage of him, pushing him too far—but Pepe could not refuse. Fernando paid him well enough.
Pepe Candelaria had four sisters, a fat mother, and a dead father. On his deathbed, sweating and moaning from a fever that coursed like lava just beneath his skin, Pepe's father had made him promise to take care of the family.
And now Pepe's mother and sisters took him at his word. .. .
He ducked under a low-hanging tangle of gnarled branches. As he jiggled the twigs, something small and many-legged dropped down on his shoulder. Pepe briskly swiped it away without taking the time to iden-tify the creature. In the jungle, spider and insect bites were often poisonous, or at least painful.
The moon continued to rise, but shed little light through the gauze of high clouds moving swiftly across the sky. If he was lucky, and worked hard, he might be able to get back home before dawn.
Pepe followed his
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