A doctor has just wrapped up a follow-up exam of Olivia, and she's still changing out of exam gown (displaying a hell of a bruise farm on her back under her ever-present black bra) when Nina Sharp walks right in, saying she hasn't had a chance to visit since Olivia's "accident." Olivia says she's fine, but Nina warns that the physical part is the easiest. Without giving away how much she knows about what Olivia's been through, Nina reminisces about her own cancer diagnosis and her sense of betrayal. "The realization that my own body was fundamentally foreign to me. That it was a threat." Writing something on a pad, she warns Olivia not to overlook her latest ordeal of many. The note is the contact info for "Sam Weiss, the man who helped put me back together," Nina says, handing Olivia the slip of paper. Olivia starts to demur about needing a psychologist, but Nina says, "He's not a psychologist. When you're ready, I believe he can help you." Hey, does this mean Olivia's going to get a robot arm?
At the Hughes residence, Agent Jessup is among the agents and uniformed officers searching the place. Well, actually, they're searching; she's just wandering around like she's thinking about buying the place. At least until she spots a cabinet door marked with a big green cross. She opens it and discovers a small, self-contained shrine inside, complete with a Bible. It opens right to a yellowed newspaper clipping from September 18, 1992: "Eveline Hughes and baby die in childbirth, cause unknown," reads the headline. Behind the clipping is a note: "Andre - Don't blame yourself. It was God's will. Your wife and child are with him. -- Pastor Lisburn." DUN DUN -- wait, what?
From there, we leap -- in more ways than one -- to the Harvard lab, where Peter hangs up the phone and reports that Olivia just told him that according to Agent Jessup, Hughes may have killed his wife and child. Yeah, I said we were making a leap. Agent Jessup is sure making things happen in this case despite not having any lines. "Finally, some good news!" Walter crows. Off Astrid and Peter's confused looks, he says, "I assume we can dig them up?" He carps about not having been able to examine any bodies despite seven missing persons. Well, that's because they're missing, Mr. 196 IQ. Astrid heads out to get an exhumation order. Maybe she should get one for herself while she's at it, considering how seldom she seems to get out of this basement.
And from there we go to the graves of Eveline Hughes and "Baby Boy Hughes," who according to their respective tombstones died in November 1991, ten months before the date on that press clipping Agent Jessup found. Way to put the "news" in "newspaper," Lansdale's primary print media organ. The coffins are being noisily craned to the surface, in what is apparently the middle of the night. Meanwhile, Andre Hughes is alone in that holding room back in Boston, and nobody appears to have noticed that he's taken down one of the wire frames that suspend the fluorescent light fixture, which is now flickering and swinging from one end and generally making the tiny room look haunted by a poltergeist. What's Hughes doing with the wire? Eating it, apparently. Who knows how long it's been since anyone brought him any food? "Hughes is hiding something, we're going to find out what it is," Peter boasts to Sherriff Golightly. Hughes continues getting some iron in his diet, now grunting and bleeding from his gums. Mrs. Hughes's coffin is opened, and she looks about like you'd expect a woman who's been dead almost two decades to look, only sadder. Hughes is now twisting his wire into a loop. Maybe he's just flossing? Baby Boy's coffin is opened. Try to look surprised when I tell you that it's empty. "There's no body," Sheriff Golightly murmurs no astonishment, displaying exactly the kind of investigatory acumen that make his case files such a scintillating read. Looking at the hole chewed through the bottom of the box, he adds, "Looks like something dug its way in." "Or dug its way out," Olivia corrects. Indeed, when they go back to look inside the now-empty grave, there's a narrow but clear tunnel leading straight down into the earth. And to think the kid never even got a name. Well, I'm giving him one right now: I'm calling him Billy, which is short for, what else, William S. Burrows. "I think we have some questions for Mr. Hughes," Olivia says. Mr. Hughes, however, is still hanging in his supernaturally-lit holding room. Literally.