understand that the Indians in the area have some strange legends and superstitions about the old abandoned city.
I've heard talk about Maya curses and supernatural warn-ings. Do you think it's possible that your daughter in her excavations has perhaps discovered something ... unusual? Something that might have gotten her into trou-ble? Are you aware of the numerous reports of missing persons in that area of the Yucatan?"
Scully sighed and kept her comments to herself, but Mulder looked at the old archaeologist with intense interest.
Vladimir Rubicon swallowed, but raised his chin, as if searching for strength.
"I am fully aware of the numerous disappearances—and it terrifies me that my Cassandra has fallen prey to some awful fate. I have seen many strange things in this world, Agent Mulder, but, uh, I'm more inclined to believe Cassandra ran afoul of black mar-ket artifact smugglers. There's quite a brisk trade in sell-ing off antiquities to private owners. Since my daughter and her team were uncovering an unexploited archaeo-logical site, I think it would have drawn the black mar-keteers like parasites."
He scratched his goatee and looked at Mulder with a concerned expression. "I'm more afraid of men with guns than I am of any myth."
Near the Conquistador mural, one of the children on the field trip pushed open a side door marked "Emergency Exit Only," setting off the fire alarm. The teacher hurriedly dragged the wailing boy away as sirens screeched through the room. The other children scurried like panicked chicks around a mother hen. A security guard came running.
"Sometimes I think it would be more peaceful for an old archaeologist to be back out in the field again," Vladimir Rubicon said, toying with the glasses hanging around his neck. He forced a smile, turning first to Scully, then to Mulder. "So, uh, when do we leave? How soon can we expect to be at Xitaclan?
I'm anxious to find my daughter."
"We?" Scully said.
Mulder put a hand on her arm. "I've already cleared it, Scully. He's an expert in the geographical area, as well as the field in which Cassandra was working.
He knows Maya ruins as well as any guide we could find."
"I've got money saved. I'll pay my own way." Rubicon's bright blue eyes took on a desperate look. "Can you really feel what I've felt since Cassandra's disappear-ance ... not knowing whether she's alive or dead, where she might be?"
Mulder looked at Scully, who was staring back at him. Suddenly it became clear to her how much her part-ner empathized with the old man and his search for his
lost daughter. Years ago, Mulder too had lost someone very close
Mulder swallowed. "Yes, Dr. Rubicon," he said. "You may not believe me, but I can understand exactly what you're going through."
Miami International Airport, Florida Thursday, 1:49 p.m.
Vladimir Rubicon made a fuss, insisting that it would be no trouble, no trouble, as he gra-ciously offered to take the center seat between Mulder and Scully. His form was lanky, but he seemed good at folding it up to fit into tight places. Probably, Mulder thought, because of an early career filled with squeezing through tight openings, sleep-ing in cramped tents, or huddling under trees in the rain while he worked in the field as an archaeologist.
As passengers filed onto the airplane, Mulder took the window seat as usual, hoping to catch a glimpse of something interesting outside. He scanned the rows of other passengers on the specially chartered flight and saw shimmering rows of blue-white hair and musty suit jackets that had been out of style for so long they were bound to come back in fashion any day now.
But instead of being primly nervous elderly people who sat quietly in their seats as if waiting for church services to begin, this group of retirees was as rowdy as kids on a school bus. Each one wore a self-adhesive "Hi! My Name Is:" tag.
Thinking back on all the cases he and his partner had worked on together, Mulder leaned over to the
I've heard talk about Maya curses and supernatural warn-ings. Do you think it's possible that your daughter in her excavations has perhaps discovered something ... unusual? Something that might have gotten her into trou-ble? Are you aware of the numerous reports of missing persons in that area of the Yucatan?"
Scully sighed and kept her comments to herself, but Mulder looked at the old archaeologist with intense interest.
Vladimir Rubicon swallowed, but raised his chin, as if searching for strength.
"I am fully aware of the numerous disappearances—and it terrifies me that my Cassandra has fallen prey to some awful fate. I have seen many strange things in this world, Agent Mulder, but, uh, I'm more inclined to believe Cassandra ran afoul of black mar-ket artifact smugglers. There's quite a brisk trade in sell-ing off antiquities to private owners. Since my daughter and her team were uncovering an unexploited archaeo-logical site, I think it would have drawn the black mar-keteers like parasites."
He scratched his goatee and looked at Mulder with a concerned expression. "I'm more afraid of men with guns than I am of any myth."
Near the Conquistador mural, one of the children on the field trip pushed open a side door marked "Emergency Exit Only," setting off the fire alarm. The teacher hurriedly dragged the wailing boy away as sirens screeched through the room. The other children scurried like panicked chicks around a mother hen. A security guard came running.
"Sometimes I think it would be more peaceful for an old archaeologist to be back out in the field again," Vladimir Rubicon said, toying with the glasses hanging around his neck. He forced a smile, turning first to Scully, then to Mulder. "So, uh, when do we leave? How soon can we expect to be at Xitaclan?
I'm anxious to find my daughter."
"We?" Scully said.
Mulder put a hand on her arm. "I've already cleared it, Scully. He's an expert in the geographical area, as well as the field in which Cassandra was working.
He knows Maya ruins as well as any guide we could find."
"I've got money saved. I'll pay my own way." Rubicon's bright blue eyes took on a desperate look. "Can you really feel what I've felt since Cassandra's disappear-ance ... not knowing whether she's alive or dead, where she might be?"
Mulder looked at Scully, who was staring back at him. Suddenly it became clear to her how much her part-ner empathized with the old man and his search for his
lost daughter. Years ago, Mulder too had lost someone very close
Mulder swallowed. "Yes, Dr. Rubicon," he said. "You may not believe me, but I can understand exactly what you're going through."
Miami International Airport, Florida Thursday, 1:49 p.m.
Vladimir Rubicon made a fuss, insisting that it would be no trouble, no trouble, as he gra-ciously offered to take the center seat between Mulder and Scully. His form was lanky, but he seemed good at folding it up to fit into tight places. Probably, Mulder thought, because of an early career filled with squeezing through tight openings, sleep-ing in cramped tents, or huddling under trees in the rain while he worked in the field as an archaeologist.
As passengers filed onto the airplane, Mulder took the window seat as usual, hoping to catch a glimpse of something interesting outside. He scanned the rows of other passengers on the specially chartered flight and saw shimmering rows of blue-white hair and musty suit jackets that had been out of style for so long they were bound to come back in fashion any day now.
But instead of being primly nervous elderly people who sat quietly in their seats as if waiting for church services to begin, this group of retirees was as rowdy as kids on a school bus. Each one wore a self-adhesive "Hi! My Name Is:" tag.
Thinking back on all the cases he and his partner had worked on together, Mulder leaned over to the
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