A furious voice from inside the bag rumbled, "Pedicator!"

Mr. Kopeck sighed. "I told you to stop calling me a buttfucker. Besides, can't you think of something a little more original?"

He felt a sense of relief. He'd made it through an encounter with Kandee, and gotten rid of her without doing anything he should regret. He'd survived an actual interrogation -- well, questioning, anyway -- from a pair of FBI agents, and said nothing to make them suspect he was harboring the murderous spawn of Satan. Most importantly, neither Kandee nor the agents had discovered the demon in his house. He was starting to feel like he might actually have a handle on the situation.

The gym bag stirred, and the demon spoke again. "Expedi me!" it demanded for the hundredth time that weekend -- set me free.

Mr. Kopeck, both hands on the steering wheel, broke into a falsetto rendition of Sting's "If you Love Somebody Set Them Free": "Free, free, set them free, who-o-oa..." he warbled. "Free, free, set them free..."

"Puellae modo cantas," spat the demon from inside the bag -- you sing like a girl.

"I sing like Sting," Mr. Kopeck corrected, relief making him flippant. "You're just unable to appreciate it fully because there's no music and no tantric sex in the underworld."

"Verpam meam suge, mentula contumax!"

"Now, now," said Mr. Kopeck mildly. "I think I actually preferred it when you called me a buttfucker."

He turned the car down the road that would take him to the gym. Birch trees and a white-washed wooden fence lined the quiet road. From behind the white fence, a brown cow watched his car go by with bovine indifference.

"I haven't given up yet, you know," said Mr. Kopeck to the demon. "I'm sure eventually I'll find some way to get rid of you. My father did. An exorcism, maybe."

"Cacabo ego vos et irrumabo!" the demon snarled -- I will shit on you and fuck your face.

Mr. Kopeck shook his head sadly. "My, my, we certainly have a serious case of potty mouth today."

He swung into the parking lot of the gym, pulled into a space, and cut the engine. "You be quiet from now on," he told the demon as he picked up the gym bag. "I thought I was going to have a heart attack back at the house, when that FBI agent heard you stirring."

Whether the demon was actually heeding him or was just too furious to answer, all was silent as Mr. Kopeck strode into the gym with the Nike bag over his shoulder.

******

Even in the car, it smelled like autumn: crisp air, burning leaves. This was the kind of quiet country place that most people pictured when they heard the word "romantic," Scully thought as they drove back to the bed and breakfast. It was certainly having that effect on her.

"Well, I guess that settles that," she said, admiring the red and gold beauty of the landscape. "Mr. Kopeck didn't particularly strike me as the Svengali-type who would put a teenage girl up to murder."

"No," Mulder agreed. "And despite her air of brilliance and intrigue, Kandee never really struck me as the murderous type, either."

He appeared not to notice her pointed look.

"So is that it for this case?" she asked. "Are we agreed the two deaths at the high school were just an unfortunate coincidence?"

Mulder frowned slightly. "I'm not sure. Kopeck's family history does suggest some interesting possibilities."

"It does?"

"I'm thinking of his father. Richard Tyler Kopeck was more than just some guy who sold genuine fake EBE skeletons by mail, Scully. He was prop master and special effects consultant on a number of well-respected cinematic classics and -- "

"Was he?" She folded her arms under her breasts. She needed a coffee. And some Mulder. Not necessarily in that order. "Which ones? Casablanca? Citizen Kane? Braveheart?"

Mulder snorted. "I said 'classics.' Unearthly Evil I, II, and III, Night of the Banshees, Return of the Banshees, Vampire Vixens, Vampire Vixens on Fire...

"Guess they haven't shown those on the Discovery channel lately."

"Fine films," Mulder assured her. "Highest quality. True art."

"So what's his family doing in Craftsbury Common? It isn't exactly Hollywood."

"True enough. But the last film he worked on was -- Gothar's Revenge." He gave her an expectant look.

She felt like the slow contestant on Jeopardy. "Should I know this one?"

"Scully, Scully, Scully..." Mulder shook his head in mock disgust. "THE Gothar's Revenge. Probably the best-known unfinished film never made. The entire production was plagued by one disaster after another -- accidents, fires, the near-drowning of a boatload of extras. The leading man broke both legs before the production started and had to be, as they say, hastily replaced, and the leading lady was attacked by a knife-wielding psycho on the way to the set one morning. The cast and crew complained of things going missing, inexplicable noises, random acts of destruction. The second lead was brought in and within a week OD'd on aspirin of all things, and a stunt man lost an arm in a misfired explosion. Finally, about halfway into filming, the director, writer, producer and three cameramen were all killed when a scaffold collapsed. Not surprisingly, the whole project was thought to be cursed." He shook his head again. "I can't believe you don't know anything about it."

"And I can't believe you know that much," she countered with a smile. "So this forced Mr. Kopeck's father into early retirement?"

"Maybe. Probably. But Richard Kopeck was one of the best. Through his work, he not only became the grand old man of pre-CGI special effects, but acquired an almost encyclopedic knowledge of the occult. In fact, after his Hollywood career, he was pretty much a regular on the expert witness circuit, giving testimony for cases involving either." He turned to her and grinned. "Or both."

The conversation was becoming unsettling, though she wasn't sure why. "So...what? You're thinking there's some connection between the senior Mr. Kopeck's expertise and the deaths here?" she asked. "The man's long dead."

"I know." Mulder nodded. "But Richard Kopeck was also extremely well known in certain circles for one other thing."

Scully had to suppress the urge to roll her eyes. She rubbed her forehead with her fingertips. "Do I want to know?"

"Richard Kopeck could conjure demons."

"What?"

Mulder nodded, grinning his kid-in-the-candy-store grin. "I always assumed it was a special effect of some kind, something to do with smoke, mirrors, and dry ice. But this...this fits."

"Fits how?" she challenged. "Fits what?"

"All of it," he answered decisively. "Everything."

She stared at him a moment, watching the scenery rush past behind his obviously delighted profile. Demons. How very Mulder, she thought with sudden resentment. And how very stupid of her to have believed he had anything more on his mind than his usual crackpot theories. Here they were in the middle of a beautiful New England autumn, and he wasn't thinking of romance, togetherness, or even the mind-bending, toe-curling sex that had marked the trip to date. No. He was thinking of evil spirits. When was she going to learn? "I see."

He gave her a puzzled frown. "You see what?"

"Plenty," she muttered, and turned back to the window. Autumn in Vermont had suddenly lost its charm.

****

"Hi, Larry," said Belinda, the girl who worked at the front desk of the gym. She leaned her elbows on the countertop and tilted her head to watch as he signed his name in the members' book.

He looked up at her with a half-smile. "Hi, Belinda. Busy Saturday?"

She laughed. "Nah, not really. Cheerleaders are coming through to practice with me at three, but right now, nobody's here."

He couldn't think of anything witty to say in return and so he pretended to be absorbed in noting down the time. He wished he knew how to make small talk with her, but she was in her early twenties, not much older than his students. They didn't have that much in common.

"I heard about you and Karen," Belinda said. "Sorry about that."

He shrugged. "I'm adjusting."

She gave him a sympathetic smile. "Yeah, I've been there. If it's any consolation, my last boyfriend was cheating on me, too."

"Thanks," he said, wondering why people always thought their infidelity stories would cheer him up.

She glanced up at him through her bangs, and reached out to play with the chain that connected the ball-point pen in his hand to the desk. "I was just wondering..."

"Yeah?" he said, and was suddenly seized with the notion that she was going to ask him out. Uh-oh, he thought, his heart starting to beat faster. He didn't know whether he wanted her to be interested in him or not.

"I was thinking of going to see that movie -- "

"Hey, Belinda!" called a chummy male voice.

Mr. Kopeck spun around. He groaned inwardly when he saw Eric Noonan bounding toward them, wearing sweat-stained workout gear and a grin. Eric sold cars at the Ford dealership in Hardwick and was, to put it mildly, a colossal asshole.

Belinda brightened. "Hey, Eric."

"You're looking gorgeous as usual, baby," Eric said, and winked at her. He seemed to notice Mr. Kopeck as a sort of afterthought. "Oh, hi, Larry. I heard Old Lady Chernoff bought the farm in your classroom day before yesterday."

"Yes, she had an accid -- "

"God, I hated that old bat," said Eric, turning back to Belinda. "My junior year, she gave me a D in Civics. What a bitch. Did you know her, baby?"

Belinda shook her head. "I had Mrs. Dorset for Civics. I think I got a B."

Eric grinned at her, flashing white teeth in an artificially tan face. "B as in Babe-a-licious. I was just on my way to hit the showers. Care to join me?"

"Oh, Eric," Belinda said with a giggle.

He laughed. "Yeah, I guess there wouldn't be room in the shower for me and you and Mr. Happy. One of these days, though, baby." He hunkered over the desk toward her and his voice dropped to a more confidential tone. "Hey, I was thinking of going to see the new James Bond movie tonight. I figured maybe you'd like -- "

Mr. Kopeck picked up his gym bag, and turned toward the locker room with a sigh. Now he would never know what Belinda had been about to ask him. No, instead she'd be out tonight with Eric Fucking Noonan, Mr. Smooth Used-Car Salesman, Mr. Self-Appointed Cocksman of Craftsbury Common. Eric had been an asshole in high school, and twenty years later, he was still an asshole.

Mr. Kopeck was so discouraged that he actually forgot all about the demon as he swung the Nike bag into his locker, and slammed the metal door shut with a clang.

****

End 05/10

Plausible Deniability & Amanda Wilde (MaybeAmanda)
Address: pdeniability@hotmail.com / maybe_a@rocketmail.com