Crampton (11 page)

He stops the tape.

SCULLY

So where is Ricky Smith now?

MULDER

Nobody knows. We were taken off the case when it was clear it was going nowhere. I heard Smith and Johnson had some kind of blow-up. Smith resigned not long after, and nobody has heard from him since.

Mulder takes a slip of paper out of an evidence bag and hands it to Scully.

MULDER

The man who shot Larry Johnson? This was found in his pocket.

It is a receipt slip, the old kind that requires a sheet of carbon paper underneath to make a merchant's copy. On it is stenciled the name of the merchant, which Scully reads out loud.

SCULLY

Illusions of Empire Magic Shop. Mulder, there isn't anything else on this.

MULDER

Check out the back.

Scully turns the receipt over. On the back in a neat but somehow antiquated hand is a map showing a few roads, but there are no names or compass directions. At one crossroads is a box labeled "Yellow House."

SCULLY

This doesn't tell us a whole lot, Mulder.

MULDER

Well, it's all we've got to work with right now. Skinner wants this wrapped up a-sap--an FBI agent getting gunned down at his desk doesn't look too good on recruiting day.

SUPER: ILLUSIONS OF EMPIRE, EMPIRE, MICHIGAN

INT. MAGIC SHOP

Illusions of Empire is a dank little shop that looks and smells like an old basement. Shelves bow under the weight of boxes with labels like "Glass Box Penetration," "Smashed Watch Gimmick," "Nest o' Balls," and "Bloody Needle Gag."

One wall of the shop is devoted entirely to ventriloquist dummies. Mulder takes one down--the label reads "My name is Laffo!"--and clumsily manipulates the mouth.

MULDER

(mumbling through clenched teeth)

Hi there, kids! Hi there, kids!

DUMMY'S POV: CLOSE UP on Mulder's face, his comic smile. The dummy's head turns, showing Scully looking at Mulder the way a mother looks at a misbehaving child. Mulder puts "Laffo" back on his shelf.

Illusion of Empire's SHOPKEEP is standing behind the counter. He looks like some small-time hustler out of an old gangster movie: greasy hair, thin mustache, smoking an unfiltered cigarette down to a nub with another one behind his ear.

SHOPKEEP

How can I help you folks today?

MULDER

(flashing his i.d.)

We'd like to ask you about a purchase that was made here.

SHOPKEEP

Sure, Officer...

(he squints at Mulder's i.d.)

... Muldoon.

MULDER

Mulder.

Scully hands him the receipt.

SCULLY

We'd like to know who made this purchase and what they bought.

The shopkeep looks at the blank receipt, then back up at the agents with a suspicious smile.

SHOPKEEP

You're kidding, right? There ain't nothing on this. Don't look like they bought anything.

SCULLY

All the same...

SHOPKEEP

Well, I guess I could check the back. I keep copies of my receipts for taxes. Don't want to get in trouble with the Feds, right?

The shopkeep winks, jots down the receipt number and disappears into the back. Mulder, meanwhile, is goofing around with a miniature guillotine. He sticks his index finger through the slicing hole and SLAMS the plunger down, sending the small but obviously sharp blade toward his finger. It appears to pass right through. Mulder wiggles his finger and smiles.

MULDER

Pretty cool, eh?

SCULLY

Yep, pretty cool.

The shopkeep emerges from the back with another slip of paper.

SHOPKEEP

This must be your lucky day. I found your receipt. I'd say it's about four years old.

He shows the merchant's copy of the receipt to the agents.

SHOPKEEP

Looks like they bought a gag gun. You know, the kind where you pull the trigger and a little flag pops out, "Bang!"

Mulder takes the receipt. On it, above the words "Gag Gun, one," in the same oddly ancient script as the map, is an address.

SCULLY

Why didn't this address show up on our receipt?

SHOPKEEP

Did you try this?

He takes the original receipt from Scully. Producing a lighter from his shirt pocket, the shopkeep places its flame near the paper. Brown lettering fades into view: the address, 222 Main Street, Crampton, Ohio; the words "Gag Gun, one;" and, at the bottom, "If you really want to know." At this, the agents exchange a look.

SHOPKEEP

Invisible ink. Hokey as it gets.

SCULLY

That doesn't make sense. Forensics tested the paper for chemicals. They would have found traces of the ink.

The shopkeep lights another cigarette.

SHOPKEEP

That's why they call it magic, toots.

The shopkeep starts to hand the original receipt back to the agents, then notices the map on the back, with the words "Yellow House." A broadly cunning look develops on his face.

SHOPKEEP

Yellow house, huh?

MULDER

What? Does this mean something to you?

SHOPKEEP

It's probably nothing, but there's this saying among magicians. Not all of them, just certain magicians. The ones that are a little kooky, if you know what I mean.

SCULLY

What kind of saying?

SHOPKEEP

"I never want to live in a yellow house."

MULDER

What does it mean?

He takes a long drag off his cigarette, blowing the smoke out his nose.

SHOPKEEP

Dunno. I'm not that kind of magician.

Mulder and Scully take back the receipt and head for the exit. At the door, Mulder is practically knocked over by a CLOWN, its face made up into a smile of torturous proportions. The clown mimes brushing itself off before heading into the shop. Mulder is visibly shaken.

SCULLY

You're not one of those people who's scared of clowns, are you?

Inside the shop, the clown turns towards Mulder and Scully. Slowly and very deliberately, it jams a finger way up into one of its clown nostrils. It is almost an obscene gesture.

MULDER

I am now.

CUT TO:

SUPER: RURAL ROUTE 7, OHIO

INT. CAR

Route 7 traverses a particularly flat and featureless section of Ohio--a pretty flat and featureless state to begin with. Mulder and Scully pass mile after mile of cornfields, mom-and-pop gas stations, and sun-blistered farmhouses.

MULDER

I don't know about you, Scully, but I've got a funny feeling. Like I've been down this road before.

Scully looks out the window. There doesn't appear to be anything about this region that would jog anyone's memory of anything.

SCULLY

Well, numerous forms of déjà vu-type experiences have been documented. Some are related to states of epilepsy or psychopathology. One of the more common varieties is paramnesia--a split-second disordering of the short-term memory. Sort of a mental hiccup. Another form--

MULDER

(interrupting)

I don't think it's déjà vu, Scully. It's more like ... like something I already know rather than something I've already experienced. It's very hard to put into words.

SCULLY

(pointing ahead)

Mulder, do you see that?

Mulder's eyes follow Scully's finger. With the flatness of the land, they can see miles in the distance. Ahead, apparently on this same road, is a house.

MULDER

It's a house.

SCULLY

It's a yellow house.

MULDER

Our yellow house?

Scully checks the map on the back of the magic shop receipt.

SCULLY

It's hard to tell from this, but it could be.

Scully looks up at the yellow house again. Heat waves coming off the asphalt of Route 7 distort the view, making it appear watery.

SCULLY

(squinting to make out the house)

Mulder, shouldn't we be getting closer?

MULDER

(also squinting)

Aren't we?

Despite the fact that they are doing ten over the speed limit, they don't seem to have closed the gap at all.

SCULLY

I don't think so.

As they talk, their car passes through a copse of trees--a rarity in this barren area--and for a moment, the house is out of their view. When they emerge from the trees, the yellow house is right on top of them. Mulder slams on the brakes. The car comes to a SKIDDING stop in front of the yellow house.

MULDER

(catching his breath)

That was interesting.

EXT. YELLOW HOUSE - DAY

The yellow house is small, but from the outside appears well maintained. The front porch is painted white, with flowery accents. Under the front door is a fancy welcome mat.

Mulder and Scully KNOCK on the door. There is no answer. Mulder tries the handle: it is unlocked.

MULDER

Ah, one of those neighborhoods.

INT. YELLOW HOUSE

They enter. The inside of the yellow house is as uninviting as the exterior is welcoming: dark, musty, and overwhelmingly claustrophobic, it looks more like a nest than a home.

MULDER

Hello?

Mulder nearly trips over a bunch of tin cans that are stacked near the front door. He holds a can up for Scully to see. Its label reads, "POTTED MEAT."

SCULLY

Yummy.

From deeper within the yellow house comes the unmistakable sound of a shotgun RACKING. Mulder and Scully spin to face the sound, their guns drawn.

Standing in the narrow hallway, holding a shotgun in shaky hands, is a rotundish MAN with a bushy, unkempt beard and wild, feral eyes. He has the crazed look of someone who hasn't slept in a long, long time.

SCULLY

FBI! Drop it!

The bearded man complies, though more out of fatigue than obedience. He looks at Mulder.

BEARDED MAN

Ah, Agent Mulder.

MULDER

(shocked)

Ricky Smith?

RICKY SMITH nods. Wasted and apparently exhausted, he bears little resemblance to the "arrogant s.o.b." from the crime-scene videos.

MULDER

What happened to you?

RICKY SMITH

You don't really want to know.

He drops into a chair.

RICKY SMITH

What brings you out here, to the middle of nowhere?

SCULLY

It's Larry Johnson. He's dead.

RICKY SMITH

(with a wry smile)

Lucky bastard.

FADE OUT

END OF ACT ONE

ACT TWO

FADE IN:

INT. YELLOW HOUSE KITCHEN

Mulder, Scully, and Ricky stand around the yellow house's squalid little kitchen. Mulder and Scully have brought Ricky up to date on their investigation of Johnson's murder, and they are now hitting him with a barrage of questions.

SCULLY

Are you sure there's nothing you can tell us that might help us out? Something about the Mystery Line case, maybe?

RICKY SMITH

I'm sorry, Agent Scully. It was a long time ago.

SCULLY

Had you spoken with Johnson recently?

RICKY SMITH

My relationship with the Bureau ended six years ago.

MULDER

I heard that it ended on something of a sour note. Some kind of falling-out between you and Johnson?

RICKY SMITH

We just had trouble seeing things the same way. We'd been partners for a long time. It happens. You'll see.

MULDER

So how did you end up here? "The middle of nowhere"--your words.

RICKY SMITH

I like it out here, in the heartland. Once you live here you never want to live anywhere else. It's real.

MULDER

Compared to what?

From the way they look at the filthy house, the tins of potted meat, it's obvious Mulder and Scully aren't buying it. Ricky sees it, too. In an attempt to change the subject, he opens a drawer and pulls out a pack of playing cards.

RICKY SMITH

Do you like card tricks, Agent Scully? I don't care for them myself, but some people do seem to enjoy such things. Magic. Illusion. Smarmy little creeps in tuxedoes. All that nonsense.

Ricky shuffles the cards, fanning the deck face-down.

RICKY SMITH

Please take a card, Agent Mulder.

Mulder draws the Eight of Spades. He then slips it back into the deck. Ricky mixes the pack again, using a rather theatrical one-handed shuffle. He fans the cards face-up. Mulder checks the deck.

MULDER

No Eight of Spades.

RICKY SMITH

It's in your partner's hand.

Scully, whose hands have been in her coat pocket the whole time, removes them. In her left palm she is cupping the Eight of Spades.

SCULLY

(to Mulder)

You put the card in my pocket.

MULDER

I did not. I know better than to reach into a woman's pockets, Scully. It must have been there before.

RICKY SMITH

In magic, like in everything else, the logical explanation is almost always the right one. Almost.

Ricky pulls a folded piece of paper out of his pocket.

RICKY SMITH

This came through my mail slot a few hours ago.

He unfolds it and hands it to Scully. She reads the words, written in that now-familiar script, out loud.

SCULLY

"She is holding the Eight of Spades."

MULDER

Any idea who sent it?

RICKY SMITH

That's a question I'm afraid I can't answer.

SCULLY

Can't? Or won't?

RICKY SMITH

Bit of both, I suppose.

Mulder produces the magic shop receipt.

MULDER

You could say this came through our mail slot too. It was found on the, uh, man who killed Agent Johnson.

RICKY SMITH

(reading the receipt)

"If you really want to know." Now, where have I heard that before?

He hands the receipt back to Mulder.

RICKY SMITH

222 Main Street is a fix-it shop run by a guy named Fred something. It's closed most of the time, like just about everything in that crummy little town. But you might get lucky. Personally, I think you should forget the whole thing and head back to Cincinnati before it gets too late.