COLD CASE 
By Jacquie LaVa
MSR, Case File, Rating R to NC-17
Spoilers: Assorted up to and through Season Seven's "Closure"

Summary: When a "cold case" over twenty years old resurfaces with new victims, 
Mulder and Scully are called in to head up the investigative team 

PROLOGUE
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
OCTOBER 10, 1969

Through the reddish and brownish leaves of the dying hedge, he watched them. He 
saw them smile, rush to each other, embrace. He saw them kiss.
Anna. And that bastard.
He pressed shaking hands to his head, against his aching eyes. He didn't want to 
see anything else.
He had to see more. He had to know. Though it would kill him, he had to.
She'd told him she was shopping, going to the movies, meeting Carolyn for lunch, 
working late at the school office. She'd told him any number of goddamn lies, 
tossed out over a six-month period. She'd be late coming home from work, 
wouldn't make it home for lunch, missed the bus, couldn't hail a cab. The car 
broke down, she had to get her hair permed, she had to buy work clothes.
Pick a lie, any lie. 
It was like a deck of cards and he was the joker. Always the joker, the last one 
to know. The one her gal-pals would snicker about, behind their hands. Good old 
Neal. Never had a fucking clue.
They were kissing, passionately. It hurt to watch. Had she ever kissed him like 
that, even during the early years of their marriage? Had she ever felt that way 
toward him? If he asked her, would she tell him she was still madly in love with 
him after ten years together? Would it all be just one huge lie?
He hunched lower behind the hedges and watched them. 
A goddamn motel. Could she fall any farther from decency? In the middle of the 
day, too. Anyone could see them walk into a room together. He had buddies who 
worked close to this place. Friends who could look out their windows and see 
good old Neal's adulterous wife stepping into a motel room with another man, 
after having kissed the lips off him in the parking lot. In the middle of the 
fucking day.
The bastard had his hand on her ass. Her firm, sweetly rounded ass. The ass that 
belonged to HIM; the ass that went with the body that she'd pressed against him 
one fine spring night when he'd slipped the half-carat diamond on her finger and 
had begged her to marry him. Years ago, when he'd been younger, stronger. When 
the only hands she'd wanted on her ass, were his.
He wanted to kill her. And then kill the son of a bitch who thought he had the 
right to touch her.
He remembered the fight they'd had a week ago, after she'd washed the dishes...
"You have to let me go, Neal. I don't want to do this anymore. I'm not happy; 
can't you see?" Her eyes had glistened with tears. Her lovely, bright green 
eyes. He'd fallen in love with her eyes, first.
He'd refused to listen. He'd merely replied, "We love each other, Anna. We have 
a child together. Maybe you feel a little restless; you should take a few days 
off, and we'll go to the beach. Maybe Cape Cod. You like Cape Cod, Anna." He'd 
taken her hands in his, and she'd shaken him off and backed away, until she 
faced him across the width of the kitchen table.
She'd said, "You're not listening! You never did bother to listen to me! I told 
you I wasn't ready to be a mother and you didn't listen. I told you I wanted to 
go back to college and get my degree and you arranged for me to work in the high 
school office, instead. And I've told you, over and over, that I've fallen out 
of love with you. That I love someone else. That I want a divorce. You DON'T 
LISTEN." 
Anna's hands had been clenched; now they opened and her left hand cupped her 
wedding ring and diamond. She laid them on the table and took a deep breath. 
"I'm moving out of the house tonight. I don't want anything. I'll sign whatever 
you want me to. I don't even want child support. Just let me go. I'll give you 
partial custody of Punkie, if you promise to let me live my own life -"
He'd interrupted her. "Anna, I love you. More than my life. I don't want us to 
live apart. I don't believe you when you say you don't love me anymore. You're 
just tired. You need a vacation. I'll pick up some pamphlets tomorrow and we'll 
go somewhere special, just the two of us. I'm sure your mother would be happy to 
watch Punkie." With that, and a smile of indulgence, he'd walked out of the 
kitchen, leaving her to scream after him that she was going to divorce him, go 
be with this man she claimed to love, take his child with her.
He'd smiled again, knowing the only man she'd ever want to be with, was him. His 
Anna was such a jokester...
Now he stood behind a hedge at the local Motel 6, and he wasn't laughing. He 
wasn't even smiling. His lips were stretched over his bared teeth but no one 
would have called it a smile. His hands were fisted at his sides and his 
breathing was heavy, labored. 
The bastard had his hands on his WIFE. His Anna, who'd never loved anyone but 
him. The bastard wanted to break up their home, destroy their family unit, take 
his wife. Take his child.
Over his dead body, Neal thought. 
Over his dead body.

CHAPTER ONE
TEN-SEVENTEEN MOSS LANE, NEW HAVEN
OCTOBER 24, 1969
When she let herself into the house, Neal was waiting for her in the kitchen. 
Standing by the table, he smiled at Anna as she halted in the doorway, staring 
at him and the sight before her eyes.
The table was set with her best china and linen. Fresh-cut roses from the garden 
speared out of a crystal vase they'd received as a wedding gift, years ago. From 
the scents that permeated the room, she could tell he'd made pot roast, which 
she'd always disliked. The smell of simmering beef, mixed with the fragrance of 
the roses and the candles burning on the table, served no purpose other than to 
make her slightly nauseous.
He wasn't supposed to be here. She'd come by to pick up more of her things, 
secure in the knowledge he'd be at work, and not here...
"You're not supposed to be here -" 
Neal interrupted her, as he'd interrupted her so many times during the course of 
their marriage. "Anna, I'm so glad you're home. I fixed all of your favorites. 
Pot roast and vegetables with gravy. Crescent rolls and lemon icebox cake. And I 
bought a bottle of champagne." Without waiting for her to reply, Neal bustled 
over to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle, already uncorked. Anna simply 
stared at him, at the staged seduction scene, in utter amazement at his complete 
refusal to see the reality of their situation. She was having trouble finding 
her voice, but when Neal approached her and took her arm, intending to seat her, 
Anna snapped to in a hurry.
She yanked her arm from his grasp and immediately put the length of the table 
between them. "You were NOT supposed to be here, Neal. You're supposed to be at 
work. I told you I was coming over sometime this week to get more of my clothes 
and other things. I'm not having dinner, or anything else, with you." She turned 
toward the door, but as an afterthought spun back around and added, "And I hate 
pot roast and lemons. You know that. You've known it ever since we got married, 
Neal, but as usual you just overrode my feelings, my preferences. As you have 
always done, about everything in our lives. If you ever wondered why I chose to 
leave you, maybe this will give you something to think about." With that, Anna 
turned back to the doorway.
She'd taken two steps when her arm was again grasped, this time from behind, and 
twisted painfully up against her shoulder-blade, causing her to cry out. Anna 
struggled as Neal forcibly walked her to the table and pushed her into a chair. 
When she tried to jump up, he cuffed the side of her face. Anna started sobbing, 
holding a trembling hand to her reddening cheek, while Neal calmly poured 
champagne into her glass. Her wide, suddenly frightened eyes stared at him as if 
he were a stranger.
Neal held the glass out to her. "Take it, Anna. Tonight we're celebrating the 
beginning of our new life together. You've been working too hard. I spoke to 
your manager and told him you'd be taking a leave of absence. He was sad to hear 
you've been so tired and tense lately, and wishes us a wonderful vacation 
together. He said you can take as much time as you need."
Anna shook herself out of her fear long enough to comprehend what Neal had said 
about her job, and to gasp in shock and anger at his utter presumptuousness. She 
tried to stand but Neal pushed her back into her chair. Anna's hands clenched so 
hard that her nails cut into her palms; incensed, she spat furiously, "You quit 
my JOB for me? In my name. You had the NERVE to talk to MY boss? This time 
you've gone too far." She fought her way out of the chair, slapping Neal hard 
across the face when he tried to push her back down again. 
Gaining some space between them, Anna made a dash for the door, only to scream 
in pain once more, when Neal caught up with her and sank his hand into her hair, 
yanking her back into the kitchen. He spun her around and backhanded her, 
knocking her to the floor. Looking up into his face, Anna saw a man she didn't 
know at all. There was no anger on his face, nothing but a small smile on his 
lips and blankness in his eyes. 
In that moment she knew her husband was out of his mind. And she was very 
afraid.
"Neal..." Anna flung out a hand, in appeal or in protection, she wasn't quite 
sure.
He was too busy pulling his belt out of the loops of his slacks, to notice. 
"You need to understand, Anna. You need to understand how it's going to be with 
us. I love you, Anna. We took vows." His smile was awful to see as he worked the 
belt free and looped it in his right hand. When she tried to scramble away, he 
simply reached out and caught one wrist, then the other. "Until death, Anna. I 
will love you - and you will love me - until death."
Her scream echoed around the quiet kitchen, as he bound her wrists together.


LAW OFFICES OF FIELDING, FIELDING AND SMYTHE, NEW HAVEN
THREE MONTHS LATER
The attorney was a son-of-a-bitch who'd obviously never loved a woman in his 
life; never had a family to protect. 
Neal's hands were clenched into fists under the table. His tie was strangling 
him and he badly needed a drink. There was an antique grandfather's clock in the 
corner of the office whose slow, resonant ticks were going to drive him crazy, 
way before anything else did. He hated attorneys and their self-righteous, smug 
legal-talk. 
He didn't know where Anna was. He needed to know where Anna was...
"Where's my wife? Where's Anna?"
The attorney, a Mr. Forrest Fielding, of Fielding, Fielding and Smythe, 
Attorneys at Law, fought to keep his voice level and patient. "Mr. Carson, I am 
under no obligation to provide you with any information regarding Anna Carson, 
your wife. And I might add that I have every right in the world to show you the 
door. The only reason you're sitting here right now is because I can see how 
upset you are."
Neal stared at the younger man, wondering how in hell someone who looked like a 
kid fresh out of high school could be some fancy-ass lawyer. He wouldn't trust a 
lawyer any farther than he could toss one... which was about to happen if this 
asshole didn't start answering a few of his questions. 
"Where's my wife? I come home, expecting her to be there and have supper on the 
table, and instead some idiot comes to my door and hands me this." Neal shook 
the thick envelope in Fielding's face. "Divorce papers! I want to know what 
you've been saying to my Anna. 
I want to know how you convinced her to sign these papers."
Fielding rubbed at his eyes and sighed. This was going to be a long afternoon, 
he could feel it. He dropped his hands and studied the man facing him across the 
expanse of his desk, and thought about some of the things that Anna Carson had 
told him when she first came to see him about starting separation proceedings.
From all he'd been told, Neal Carson was overbearing, arrogant, a control freak 
and smotheringly possessive. Right now the grounds for divorce were based on 
mental cruelty and irreconcilable differences, but Fielding knew Anna was 
prepared to add in sexual battery and physical abuse, if her husband proved 
unwilling to grant her a divorce. 
Anna Carson didn't want anything from her husband. No alimony or child support. 
She didn't want the house, the cars, or any other material possession. All she 
wanted, was out. Fielding had talked to her until he'd been blue in the face, 
trying to convince her otherwise, but Anna had figured the best way to get away 
from her husband was to leave everything behind. The only thing she'd insisted 
on was full custody of their minor child.
Now, looking at Neal Carson, Fielding had an uneasy feeling that this man would 
never let his wife go under any circumstances.
He sighed again, and chose his words carefully. "Mr. Carson, your wife has 
petitioned for divorce. That's all I'm really allowed to say to you. I would 
suggest you sign the preliminary paperwork, allowing for a court date to be set, 
and participate in a meeting between you, your wife, myself acting as her legal 
counsel, and your own legal counsel."
Neal's hands clenched and unclenched. "Anna likes to joke around. She was only 
joking. We're very happy together. We have a good life together. I don't need a 
lawyer. Anna doesn't need you." He wore a placid smile on his face, but his eyes 
were over-bright and his voice was beginning to rasp with emotion.
"I repeat, Mr. Carson: your wife, Anna Carson, has filed for divorce. That's all 
I can tell you at this point. Why don't you let my secretary make an appointment 
for a meeting, and we'll work out the rest of it?" Wanting nothing more than to 
bash his head against his own desk in frustration, Fielding found he'd lost what 
small amount of sympathy he'd felt for the man who sat across from him and 
showed signs of increased agitation. He certainly hoped he wouldn't have to call 
in Security to have Mr. Carson removed.
Lord, he knew how difficult this must be for the man; he seemed to adore his 
wife and child. Fielding could understand how Neal Carson felt; he'd had a tough 
time dealing with his own divorce, three years prior. However, after listening 
to Carson's delusions of marital bliss and normalcy, Fielding was beginning to 
comprehend why Anna Carson had felt the need to put some permanent space between 
herself and her soon-to-be estranged husband. 
Neal Carson's eyes had narrowed ominously as the word 'divorce' was again 
repeated. His fisted hands came up from below table level and he smiled when he 
saw Fielding's eyes drawn helplessly to them. When he spoke, Neal's voice was 
low and a bit shaky. "There will be NO divorce. You can tell all of your 
attorney pals, if you want. Anna and I took vows before God. 'Till death do us 
part.' Well, I'm not dead yet and neither is my Anna. I won't let her go. She 
really doesn't WANT to go. She's just kidding around. She loves to kid around."
Fielding stifled a weary sigh. "Mr. Carson, I certainly wouldn't presume to know 
all of the ins and outs of anyone's marriage. And of course there are always two 
sides to every divorce case." Fielding rushed through the hated word, and added, 
"But the fact is, she did file and it has to be addressed either between both 
parties, with legal representation present, or in a court of law should you and 
your wife fail to come to any reconcilable conclusions or compromises. Now, I 
think we should go ahead and have my secretary Janine schedule that meeting." 
Fielding stood up, came around the side of his desk and paused by Neal's chair, 
intending to escort him to the door. 
Neal stood as well, silent and brooding. In his mind he was back in the kitchen, 
three months ago when he was forced to realize that his wife wasn't going to 
stay with him or love him forever, as he'd always thought she would. 
He remembered the delicious smell of the pot roast. The delicate perfume Anna 
always wore made him dizzy with desire as it had from the first time she'd worn 
it. To entice him, he knew. Always to entice him... 
He remembered how she felt, so small and soft beneath him, and how it had been 
too long since she'd taken him inside her body and let him make love to her. And 
he remembered the utter shock of it, the pain of the candlestick on the back of 
his head when in his frenzy to get inside of her, he'd jostled one of the table 
legs hard, and she'd somehow gotten free of the belt he'd used to bind her hands 
together, and managed to grip the heavy silver holder.
Neal couldn't then, as he couldn't now, understand why his Anna would have hit 
him that way; would have run away from him like that. She loved him.
His Anna loved him.
Beyond the sudden buzzing in his ears, the hateful Fielding was yammering on 
about his secretary Janine and her stupid appointment book. Buzzing that was 
increasing his headache. Buzzing that he didn't want pounding at him any longer. 

Neal Carson turned and faced Forrest Fielding, Attorney at Law. Nothing this man 
said or did could possibly be in Anna's best interest, regardless of what she 
claimed to want; he was like all other lawyers, charging by the minute and 
determined to rack up as much time on the clock as he could. Neal had never in 
his life trusted lawyers. He sure didn't trust this one.
There was a pit of fury churning inside him, needing to burst free. Now was not 
the place for an outburst. Fielding had already looked at him several times as 
if he'd lost half his marbles. But Neal knew better. In fact, he'd never felt 
stronger, more sure of himself and of his Anna.
He reached for his jacket, hanging on a brass rack near the door, and shrugged 
it on. "Mr. Fielding, I appreciate whatever time you have spared for me today 
but my wife won't be needing your services any longer. I told you, Anna likes to 
joke around. She doesn't want to keep me away. Why should she? We're very much 
in love. I'm going home now to wait for Anna. Maybe I'll make a nice pot roast 
while I'm waiting. Anna does love a nice pot roast. She's been working hard and 
she needs a little pampering, that's all. We're going to go to the beach, just 
the three of us. Maybe Cape Cod. Anna has always liked Cape Cod." With a nod, 
Neal turned and walked out the door.
Forrest Fielding stood for a few moments longer, facing his half-open office 
door; trying to come to grips with the fact that his client's husband might be 
nuttier than the proverbial fruitcake. And he knew from personal and 
professional experience in dealing with people like Neal, that fruitcakes made 
for very loose cannons. He didn't want to represent anyone related to one of 
those damned loose cannon-type fruitcakes. However, added to what he'd 
discovered about Neal Carson, he couldn't help but worry about the safety and 
well-being of Anna Carson. He also had scruples and couldn't just refuse Anna as 
a client based on the possible reactionary antics of her husband.
He knew most of the specifics concerning the restraining order Anna Carson had 
been granted against her husband. He also knew that at this time he couldn't do 
anything that would toss Mr. Neal Carson's decidedly warped ass in jail, not 
unless he went after his wife again. 
As a frequent court-appointed legal representative, Fielding saw all kinds of 
marital difficulties in court and when warring spouses sat across from each 
other in conference rooms and battled it out. He'd heard his share of lies right 
along with the truths. He'd learned to take much of it with a grain of salt, 
stay uninvolved and just get the job done.
But Neal Carson really disturbed Forrest Fielding.
With a sigh, Fielding gathered up his files and stepped to his cavernous file 
credenza; placed them in the "Pending" slot right in front. Maybe a phone call 
to Matthew Hogan, one of the detectives at the downtown police station, might 
not be a bad idea. Maybe a warning, a kind of heads' up, might be in order. It 
might not hurt to let Matt know that there was a potential domestic powder-keg 
happening right under his nose. Of course Matt wouldn't be able to do a thing 
about it, unless Carson got violent and threatening. But better safe than sorry, 
right?
After all, he was godfather to Matt's son. Surely a friendly phone call to 
inquire about his beloved godson couldn't be construed as unethical, could it? 
And he could casually mention his concerns during the call. 
Forrest wasn't an alarmist, but this had 'disaster' written all over it. 


UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
MIDNIGHT
The bastard's out again, walking around as if he owns the world.
<Look at him, standing there. Thinks he's hot shit. Thinks all the women are 
drooling over him, wanting him. Thinks he can have his pick, can point a finger 
at any woman and she'll beg him to fuck her.>
Son of a bitch. 
It's not going to happen again. He isn't going to get away with it, with ruining 
another life, hurting another family, taking what belongs to another man. 
<Look at him.>
<Thinks it's due him, just because he's taller, better-looking. Younger. Because 
he's got better threads, more cash in his pockets, drives a fancy car. Lives in 
a better place. Because he thinks he's better than anyone else. Thinks all the 
women will go for him. 
Because of all that.>
Fucking bastard.
He won't get away with it. He won't hurt anyone else.
He won't take her away, again.
Never again.


CHAPTER TWO

NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
MARCH, 2000
12:45 AM
Someone was following him. He could feel it. 
Damn it, he should have taken the fucking bus.
He flipped up the collar of his leather jacket, which was just about ineffectual 
in the cold, drizzling rain. He upped his pace a bit, not enough to show any 
kind of anxiety but enough to get him moving down the sidewalk a little faster. 
His sneakers made a little squicking sound on the wet pavement as he walked. 
Raindrops ran down the back of his head and glittered on his dark hair each time 
he passed under a streetlight. In his eagerness to reach his destination, he 
took a shortcut on one of the side streets that forked off from Orange. It would 
save him at least ten minutes.
He was too worried about the possibility of being followed, to notice when the 
streetlights petered out to a scarce few per block.
It wasn't as if he thought it might be a mugger. Even this late at night, the 
city was relatively safe, and walking uptown along this section of Orange had 
never been a big deal. He'd never encountered a threat; neither had any of his 
buddies. It was one of the reasons he'd always liked living in New Haven.
He could still feel it. He could even hear it, now that traffic noise had 
filtered out. A kind of gritty, clicking sound, the kind made from the soles of 
new shoes hitting older pavement. Maybe half a block behind him; it was hard to 
tell.
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe he was being a paranoid jerk. After all, he couldn't 
be the only fool out walking in shitty weather.
Still, it paid to be cautious.
Who the hell would want to follow him?
He walked faster. 
The clicking behind him easily kept pace with his increased stride.
Fuck.
Up ahead, the corner of Orange and Cottage was well-lit; he slowed down, trying 
to act nonchalant, and approached as if planning on crossing the intersection. 
He reached for the pedestrian button and punched it. There were maybe ten cars 
in various positions along the intersection in any direction; people no doubt 
antsy to get home out of the chilly rain. No one looked his way or seemed to pay 
him any attention as he casually glanced from the corner of his eye in hopes of 
spotting someone behind him.
Nothing. No one there. He turned around completely and stared behind him, 
squinting to see if he could get a clearer view.
Nobody.
He sighed and shook his head at his own foolishness. He must have been imagining 
things. His shoulders relaxed as he caught the 'walk' light; he crossed Orange 
and started up Cottage, refusing to feel relief in knowing he was only a few 
blocks from home.
When he reached his apartment he released a relieved sigh even though he told 
himself he was being stupid. He climbed the stairs, removing his jacket and 
shaking off the excess moisture; then fished his keys from the pocket of his 
jeans.
The tiny foyer was blessedly dry and warm. He draped the damp jacket over one 
arm and turned to shut and secure his front door...
And let out a grunt of pain when the swing of a weighted sap caught the side of 
his head and took him down, partially in and partially out of his warm, secure 
apartment. 
Bleeding from his left ear, knocked cold by the sudden attack, he didn't feel 
the ridge of weather-stripping on the floor as he was dragged over it and into 
his home. He didn't feel the hands that stripped away his clothing. Not much of 
anything penetrated his unconscious state...
But it would.

FBI NEW HAVEN
FIFTY-FOUR HOURS LATER
"Agent Pierce. Agent LaVeille. Please have a seat." Special Agent Ross Morris 
gestured to the small conference table in the far corner of his office, waiting 
until both agents seated themselves. Since the sun was streaming in through all 
three windows and blinding them, he quickly adjusted the vertical slats before 
claiming his own seat.
He took a moment to reacquaint himself with what he knew of the agents, who'd 
been partnered for almost four years and who spent massive amounts of time in 
the field. They mostly handled cases the Bureau deemed problematic. Not exactly 
unsolvable, but certainly tougher than the more cut-and-dried crimes that 
sometimes hit the desks of smaller field offices. Morris knew that Pierce was 
married and LaVeille was something of a loner. Both were seasoned, strong in 
mind and body, and dedicated. 
Exactly what he needed for the case that just crossed his desk...
"We have a possible re-emergence of a cold case, approximately twenty-three 
years old. Copies of the original file are in front of you as well as what 
evidence we've collected from a rash of murders committed in and around New 
Haven over the past month. Please take a few minutes to look over both files." 
While each agent flipped through their copies, Morris sipped bottled water and 
refrained from rubbing at his tired eyes. He'd read and re-read the file so many 
times it felt as if he'd memorized the entire mess.
Agent LaVeille looked up from the files and their lurid displays of crime scene 
photos, with a carefully blank look on his face, but his normally ruddy 
complexion had paled a bit. "I remember this. I remember my father working on 
one of the task forces set up by the local cop shop, trying to catch this 
monster. Are you thinking he's on the loose again, starting all over? Are you 
saying we're possibly dealing with the same perp?"
"Not so fast, Agent. Let's not jump to any conclusions. If you're familiar with 
the case, then you'd also know it was classified as 'cold' about eight years 
ago, when the last few leads we had simply deadened out. Whoever committed the 
original crimes covered their tracks well, leaving us very little. Even with the 
advent of DNA identification quite a few years after those crimes were 
committed, what fingerprints, hairs we collected were mostly worthless. The 
killer wasn't in the system and consequently his ability to 'give us the slip,' 
so to speak, was a hard pill for us to swallow." Morris gave into the need to 
rub at his eyes, then sighed and gulped more water before continuing.
"If you take a look at what we were able to accomplish, you'll see it was 
estimated the killer was between the ages of thirty and fifty. This from the 
original profile done by this field office back in nineteen seventy-seven. I 
don't think we're looking at the same killer. His current age would be well over 
sixty, I believe, and unless he was in supreme physical condition, I doubt he'd 
have the strength to take down the victims as they are listed here."
Agent Pierce read from his copy. "Three men, ranging in age from thirty-one to 
thirty-five years old. Height range six-feet to six-feet-three, brown and brown. 
In each case last seen after midnight on a weeknight, close to or actually in 
their place of domicile. First killing occurred approximately one month ago; 
second occurred two weeks ago and the third happened a little over two days ago. 
No viable evidence, no fingerprints collected other than those of the victims'. 
Therefore, no DNA. Documentation gathered at each scene indicate death by 
stabbing, multiple wounds that bled out slowly, compounded by a final mutilation 
of the victim that left them without sexual organs. Their penises and testicles 
were removed and laid on... their faces? Was that the MO for the original 
murders as well?" 
Morris nodded. "Yes. In each of the original killings, the victims were knocked 
unconscious by some kind of weighted weapon, possibly a coin sap. They were then 
restrained, stabbed in random patterns over their bodies and their sexual organs 
removed and placed over their faces. No note. No messages to the police 
explaining why. Nothing."
"Grisly." Pierce's one-word comment was more than enough to cause his partner to 
nod in agreement. They looked over the photos again, their eyes flat and 
emotionless. Cop eyes. Since they'd both spent time on the streets wearing the 
blue uniform of New Haven's finest, before they ever went to Academy and traded 
in one kind of badge for another... it was easy to see the thin veneer of cop 
under the dedicated Agent.
And the photos were, in a word, hideous. Both sets of them, from years and years 
ago as well as from just weeks ago. 
These had been handsome, virile men, judging by their physical appearance. 
Dark-haired and dark-eyed. Tall and in most cases broad-shouldered, solid 
musculature, well-dressed and living in decent areas in and around New Haven. 
The latest victim, identified as Jason Walker, had been engaged and he and his 
fiance had been expecting their first child. 
Pierce sighed in sudden frustration. Married for eleven years and the proud 
father of two boys, he knew quite well just how bright with promise Walker's 
future would have been, right up to the moment when he was so senselessly 
murdered. Of course, all murders were senseless. But this one went beyond 
senseless. This one - and all of the others like it - was a tragedy in the most 
base sense of the word. And the hardest of all to swallow, especially for those 
killings over twenty years old, had to have been the lack of justice for the 
victims and their no doubt still-grieving families.
Morris watched his agents absorbing the crime scenes in both sets of murders and 
knew what they were pushing around in their minds. How. Why. They'd ask again 
and again, just as the first task force had asked, twenty-three years ago. The 
difference was, his agents would solve both crimes. He knew and believed it as 
strongly as he believed in anything in this fucked-up world.
"Okay, Agents. For all intents and purposes, we seem to have a copy-cat serial 
killer, recreating crimes that happened over twenty years ago. No DNA so far, no 
clues or notes to the police begging them to 'stop the madness, catch me before 
I kill more' and so on. Thoughts? Where to start? I'm open to any and all 
suggestions."
Agent LaVeille looked up from the files in his hands. "Only one, Sir. I 
recommend we pull in an expert profiler. I just read over what profiling had 
been done years ago during the first series of murders, and if you ask me it 
wasn't nearly enough. You need someone who can get into the murderer's head."
"And do you know such a person, Agent LaVeille?"
LaVeille smiled, albeit grimly. "Oh, yes. I know someone. The best profiler the 
Bureau ever managed to produce."

CHAPTER THREE
FBI HEADQUARTERS, WASHINGTON DC
8:35 AM
"What have you got there, Mulder?" She closed the door with her foot and set her 
coffee down on the desk. Her partner leaned against one end of it, a fat file in 
his hands, eyeglasses sliding down his nose as he flipped through the contents. 
Scully reached out and pushed his glasses back in place, an absent-minded 
gesture that he acknowledged with a vague smile in her direction, before 
returning his attention to the file he held.
"Mulder?" Not bothering to wait for a response, Scully stepped closer and peeked 
over his shoulder at the contents, shuddering as she did so. "Yow and ouch. Is 
that...?"
"Yeah. It is. A stellar set of male sexual organs, laid precisely dead-center on 
the face of the owner of said organs. Not surprisingly, the once-proud owner is 
quite dead. Bled out, from that massive wound as well as multiple stab wounds 
over the chest, lower abdomen and thigh area."
Scully studied the photo and noted the date. "This photo is twenty-three years 
old. This is a cold case, Mulder. How did you get your hands on a cold-case 
file?" 
From the middle of the file, Mulder pulled out a thick report and gave it to 
her. "It was handed over to me this morning. Originally sent directly to Skinner 
from the New Haven field office. Connecticut," he added helpfully, sending her a 
little smirk when she mumbled under her breath that she knew where New Haven 
was. "Unsolved murders, totaling eight, perpetrated in and around the New Haven 
area. All men, all right around thirty years old. All dark-haired and dark-eyed, 
tall. Six feet, on average. All bled out to death by multiple stab wounds in the 
upper and lower torso and full castration. Testicles and penis."
"Well. Ouch, again." 
He had to smile a little over the short yet succinct response. "Oh, yeah. 
Big-time ouch. Someone once had a real case against a tall, dark, probably 
handsome man, and took it out on the general populace of New Haven, over and 
over again. No real clues, a few fingerprints left behind that didn't match 
anything; a few hairs, again that didn't match anything already on record. Too 
bad DNA identification was years in the future, right? Each man killed in their 
place of residence, close to or in their beds, at roughly between one and three 
AM. Murders occurred over about a two-and-a-half-year period, keeping the city 
in a terror-grip; then just stopped. Local authorities turned it over to the FBI 
early on, but they had no more luck in solving it, or even finding a decent 
crack. Some serial killers really do get away with murder, and this one was a 
prime example of it."
"There has to be something. Who did the original profile? Which Bureau office? 
Or didn't anyone bother?" Remembering her coffee, Scully picked it up and sipped 
at it, then offered the cup to Mulder who drained it in three gulps. Scully gave 
him an exaggerated sigh and he bit back a chuckle as he handed her the empty 
cup. 
He poked at the file, sending a few of the grisly photos sliding across the 
desk. "The New Haven field office ran a profile, but it's not much. I read it. 
Their office still doesn't have a real profiler and we both know it takes more 
than dedication to the job at hand to get inside a killer's head. We've been 
asked to assist, reporting to Special Agent Ross Morris. In New Haven."
"We? Mulder..." She stared at him, then at the file again. "But isn't this all a 
moot point? This is a cold case, right?"
"It was, up until very recently. Now it's become something else." His response 
was sober, a little weary. "We're also talking about three murders - identical 
to these original crimes - that have occurred within the last month... in New 
Haven." 
"A copy-catter. Well, hell."
"Oh, yeah. Hell, for sure." He shrugged, resigned to it. "I was asked. They 
didn't know I had a partner. One of the agents assigned to this case is a fellow 
Fed I worked with briefly, years ago when I was solo. LaVeille. Decent enough 
guy, as I recall, and a hard worker. But he's not a profiler."
"Mulder, we just came off a rough one. Do you really want to take this on?"
"Yes. I do. But only if you're with me, Scully. With so little evidence to go 
on, I really need your forensic expertise. You know how my mind works. You'll 
see things that I'll need to know that another forensic pathologist might miss." 

"How fortunate for me." It was said jokingly enough that he'd see she was all 
right with his reasoning.
He had to smile at her, a little. "Pack your magnifying glass and your pipe, 
Sherlock."
"I thought I was Watson."
"Well, whatever."


ALEXANDRIA, VA
THREE DAYS LATER
8:30 AM

She had a habit of watching him when he wasn't aware of it. She gauged his 
energy level, the recouping of his muscle tone, his stamina.
She couldn't help it.
He was a risk-taker, this partner of hers. Sometimes he'd think himself 
invincible. Always, he thought he could take care of himself, that trouble might 
land on him but it certainly wasn't anything he couldn't tame.
Scully often figured that she must be living proof of the way Mulder considered 
himself infallible. After all, he'd braved a lot to bring her back from a Hell 
she still found herself unwilling to think about. Almost two years after it 
happened, she'd resolutely shied away from recollection of where he found her, 
and what he'd saved her from becoming. But for the determination of Mulder, she 
would have certainly become something unspeakable. Something unimaginable.
So she kept an eye on him, though they'd been back on active duty several weeks. 
It had been a hell of a several weeks, too. All she could think was that every 
insane crazy in the world waited for them to get back into the field work, 
before coming forward and doing what insane crazies do best. 
In between cases, reports and somehow managing to stay alive, they'd also grown 
so much closer. It was as if all of the bad, the negative, had been given a 
reversed charge. Suddenly there was more understanding, more outward affection, 
more teasing and flirting. More smiles, more touching.
More everything. She liked it. She seemed to crave it, and so did Mulder.
But she'd still need to watch him for any signs of unusual fatigue or weakness. 
She ought to have known better, though; this was Mulder she dealt with. After 
almost seven years together, she knew the man had uncommon stamina and inner 
strength.
And a level of emotional vulnerability that still drew her, kept her unbalanced. 

She liked that, too.
Still, this upcoming case would be very difficult for both of them, especially 
Mulder. She was, unofficially, still his doctor. She had a professional duty to 
him, above and beyond the personal one. 

They'd come off the most horrendous case, and both had been exhausted and 
heart-sore. Interspersed with a child's abduction had been revelations about 
Mulder's sister that quite literally cut him off at the knees. Compounded by the 
death of his mother, Scully had seen his strength and fortitude take a serious 
hit, and she'd been very worried about him. In what she considered her meager 
way, she tried to offer as much support as he allowed her to give, and it hadn't 
seemed like very much. She stayed with him when she could; protected him when it 
seemed as if he'd taken on so much that any more could destroy him.
Maybe he knew what he was talking about when he said he was finally free. Scully 
hoped so.
In the meantime... it was a rainy Saturday and they were due to fly out in three 
hours. Scully let herself into the quiet apartment, her overnight bag in hand 
and a smaller leather duffel waiting out in the hall. She never packed very much 
when they had these initial consults out of town. Neither did Mulder, if the bag 
sitting in the middle of his living room floor was anything to go by. Scully 
tried to imagine a few of Mulder's elegantly tailored suits firmly packed inside 
that little rectangle of Samsonite, and just couldn't picture it.
As she dropped her bag on the floor next to his, Mulder came out of the 
bathroom, clad in jeans and a sweatshirt, mouth full of toothpaste. Scully 
looked him up and down, envying him his clothing comfort and wishing she'd opted 
for anything other than one of her form-fitting suits. 
He smiled at her, all foam, and gestured to his mouth. Scully waved him back 
into the bathroom and removed her trenchcoat; then sat on the edge of the sofa. 
The New Haven file had been tossed on the coffee table; she poked at it with one 
finger, unwilling to admit that she was more or less raring to sink herself into 
this fascinating mess. She pulled her hand away when he walked back into the 
room, jacket in hand. He gave her the once-over much the same as she'd done to 
him.
"Scully, you sure you want to cramp yourself into a suit as well as a seat in 
Coach? You look great but you probably should have worn jeans." Mulder shrugged 
into his jacket and picked up the file on the table as Scully stood and smoothed 
down the skirt of her suit.
She resisted the urge to sigh, and instead answered sedately, "I'm fine. It's 
not that long a flight, and besides, I didn't really pack any jeans. I'll be 
comfortable enough, Mulder."
"You left a pair of jeans over here weeks ago, when you... when you stayed 
over." He didn't have to add anything more; she knew he was talking about the 
night she stayed with him and kept him sane when he grieved so heavily for his 
mother. He added, "I tossed them in with my laundry and hung them up. You could 
wear them, and maybe one of my shirts." 
Giving into the need to unbutton her jacket, Scully instead found herself 
tugging it off, and walking toward his bedroom without further comment. Mulder 
allowed himself one huge grin; then called, "Left side of the closet. Hanging on 
the top rod. You'll find a white Henley in the top dresser drawer that shrunk 
the last time I bleached it; I bet it'll more or less fit you."
Her muffled, "Thanks," wafted out the open door.
A few minutes later Scully walked out of the bedroom, feeling much better. The 
jeans were old and faded; Mulder's shirt was soft from many washings. She'd had 
to roll up the sleeves a few times but the collar didn't bag much on her and it 
wasn't overly long. She'd left her heeled boots on; they were reasonably 
comfortable. All in all, a much better way to travel.
She picked up her coat and Mulder helped her on with it and squeezed her 
shoulders briefly. "Ready to get this road on the show?" 
"Don't you mean, 'get this show on the road?'"
"Whatever." He shoved the file into an outer pocket on his carryon case, scooped 
up her overnight bag and settled the strap over his shoulder despite her 
protests that she could carry it, and guided her to the door with his free hand 
warm and stable at her back. 
She couldn't resist a fast tease, spoken as she walked through the door and 
snagged the bag she'd left in the hallway. "So, Mulder... how many suits DO you 
have stuffed in that weenie bag of yours?"
His lofty reply, "Wouldn't you like to know," left a smirk on her face all the 
way to the lobby. 
As they waited to hail a passing taxi, Scully couldn't help but wonder if Mulder 
even knew how to iron Armani.

CHAPTER FOUR
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
APRIL, 1970
The divorce was final. Expedited, that's what he'd been told, by Fielding's 
office, on some kind of fancy official-looking letterhead paper. A follow-up in 
Fielding's office - the bastard had made him waste a day of work and actually 
come there - assured Neal Carson that he was a free man. The smirking grin on 
Fielding's face when he'd said the word 'free' had made Neal want to plant his 
fist right on that smirk.
Divorce final. Free. He could start his life over, move on. He was single now. 
The world was his goddamn oyster. The grin had remained as Fielding had escorted 
him out the door and slammed it in his face.
Fucking moron.
Neal gulped down the rest of his warm beer and flung the empty can against the 
kitchen wall. It clanged noisily and the sound echoed around the silent kitchen; 
through the silent house.
Gone. Anna was gone. His child was gone. Even the fucking dog was gone; Punkie 
had refused to leave without Moosie, the yappy little mixed-breed terrier Neal 
had brought home from the pound last year.
On the stove, the pot he'd left simmering had already boiled dry, the potatoes 
no doubt burned and stuck to the bottom. He'd planned a special meal: pot roast. 
His Anna's favorite. She was coming over. He'd called her and had asked her very 
nicely, to come over so they could talk. She'd hung up on him, but that was so 
like Anna... always joking around. She was coming back to him, he just knew it. 
He'd been ready to celebrate it. In a flurry of nerves and excitement, he'd 
dropped the phone and had grabbed hold of the rug sweeper and a can of Pledge.
It didn't matter what the judge had said, did it? Anna loved him. There'd been 
no need to go stand in front of a judge and listen to talk of community property 
and visitation rights. Neal was a husband, a father. His Anna would remember 
what they had together. She would remember, and come home. Neal had never shown 
up on any of the court-appointed dates. He hadn't needed to. His Anna was such a 
jokester...
The date of the final court appearance had come and gone; it wasn't important to 
him, so he hadn't bothered to go. Why should he? Waste of time, since his Anna 
loved him. Instead, Neal had gone about his business at home and at work. He was 
planning on surprising Anna, with a romantic dinner followed by a weekend at 
Cape Cod. She had always loved Cape Cod. He'd cleared the time at work; his boss 
hadn't been happy about it but when Neal told him about the romantic weekend and 
all, his boss understood and let him have the extra time. His boss was married, 
and knew how it was sometimes, with wives and their needs. 
Neal had been proud of himself for doing the right thing by his Anna; for taking 
care of her emotions and needs. Part of doing the right thing included letting 
her have some space. That's what they were calling it nowadays; 'some space.' 
Women seemed to need it, so he was going to be a more modern husband, and allow 
for it.
So he'd done just that, and he hadn't pestered her. He let her think about what 
she wanted. Women appreciated a little time to themselves, didn't they? Time to 
do a bit of shopping, maybe have her hair done. Time to prepare herself for 
coming home to her loving husband. Neal was okay with that. He could be generous 
with his patience; he could wait. He'd given her a week. He thought that was 
plenty of time. And while she was taking her 'space,' he could set the stage for 
their romantic reunion. 
But a week passed, and she hadn't come. After all he'd done for her, she hadn't 
come. He'd even gone out and bought a new bedspread for their bed. Blue flowers 
on a pink background. His Anna loved blue flowers. 
But she hadn't come home.
In a panic, Neal had called all of her friends. Surely something awful had 
happened to Anna if she wasn't walking in their front door anytime soon. Her 
friends all said they didn't know where she was. Every one of them denied 
knowing anything about the awful thing that must have happened to Anna...
It scared Neal senseless, that his Anna might be somewhere helpless to come home 
to him. Maybe she'd had an accident. Maybe someone had kidnapped her and was 
holding her against her will. She was so beautiful. A madman could have her; 
some maniac who'd tear her pretty clothes, hurt her, force her to do things to 
him that she didn't want to do. 
Neal had run out the door, barely remembering to slam it shut, and had jumped in 
his car; had driven all over town looking for her. Each day for a week, he'd 
driven everywhere he could think to drive, searching for her. He never caught 
even a hint of where she might be; it was as if she'd never existed. As if their 
past together had never happened. No marriage. No Punkie.
Neal found himself drinking more at night, just to get through his despair.
And then, after almost three weeks of nothing, no word... Fielding the asshole 
had called, had dragged him into that fancy office and had told him it was over. 
It. As if ten years of marriage could really just be called 'It.'
The meal he'd cooked for Anna - an almost identical copy of the meals he'd made 
for her every night that she'd never come home to eat - burned on the stove as 
Neal popped the tab on another can of beer and drained it.
His Anna wasn't coming back. She wasn't bringing his child home to see him. 
According to some legal mumbo-jumbo spoken in a fucking courtroom downtown, she 
was now free. Like him. Free.
And as Neal realized just where his Anna must have been all this time, 
especially during the dinner hour when happily married people sat down at the 
table together and shared a meal... he crushed the beer can in one 
white-knuckled hand. The sharp edges cut into his palm but he never felt it. The 
fury and pain brewing within him allowed for no other smaller twinge to get 
through; fury when he finally figured it out and pain when he unwillingly had to 
believe it.
Why hadn't he thought of it sooner? But a man in love with his wife would never 
think she'd lie; when he'd insisted on having a way to contact her, Anna had 
relented and had given him a phone number she'd claimed belonged to a friend of 
hers named Karen. And each time he'd called that number, Anna had always 
answered. Why would he be suspicious; why would he think she'd lied to him?
Now, he knew better. Now he knew there was no Karen.
She was with that bastard. It had to be HIS phone number that Neal had been 
using. The bastard she'd been kissing that day in full view of anyone who might 
look out their windows and see them in the parking lot of that sleazy motel 
where he'd followed her and where she'd spent the afternoon. With another man. 
With another fucking MAN...
Neal knocked the pot of burned potatoes off the stove. His fingers flexed and 
curled into fists as he stared blindly out the kitchen window with his ruined 
dinner on the floor behind him. In a fog of anguish, he could see the rest of 
his life playing out before him; years of loneliness, of not being able to 
understand why Anna couldn't love him as much as he loved her. Why she had to 
seek from another man what he'd been more than willing to give her, every day 
for the rest of her life.
And in the weeks and months that followed, Neal Patrick Carson would find ways 
to put the blame for his failed marriage on everyone except him... and his Anna.
~~~~ 

CHAPTER FIVE
FBI NEW HAVEN
MARCH, 2000
The New Haven field office was small, but seemed to be well-staffed and very 
modern. Mulder followed Scully into the main conference room, taking 
appreciative note of the large table, comfortable chairs and well-appointed 
equipment. The three men seated at the conference table all rose when they 
walked in; the one closest to the door stepped around his chair, extended his 
hand.
"Agent Mulder? I'm Special Agent Ross Morris." He shook Mulder's hand and then 
Scully's, adding, "Thanks for getting here so quickly. My team, Agents LaVeille 
and Pierce." As two other men came around the table, Mulder smiled at the one he 
recognized. LaVeille reached him first and stuck out his hand for a firm 
handshake. 
"Agent LaVeille, good to see you again." Mulder shook his hand and quirked an 
eyebrow at the way the other man glanced at Scully, did a little double-take, 
and sent her a slow smile. Which Scully either didn't see or chose to ignore, as 
she extended her hand in a gesture that was all professional. Mulder stifled the 
urge to chuckle aloud and said, "My partner, Special Agent Dana Scully. She's a 
forensic pathologist as well as being one of the best agents Bureau Headquarters 
has to offer."
Scully shook all three men's hands; removed her trench coat as Mulder shed his 
heavy jacket. And tried not to wince when she realized she still wore her faded 
jeans and Mulder's borrowed Henley shirt. Not the most professional appearance, 
and even more difficult now to live up to the lofty introduction provided by her 
partner. She could feel Agent LaVeille in particular giving her the once-over as 
she took a seat next to Mulder and opened the file placed in front of her by 
Morris.
Agents Pierce and Morris wore wedding rings, she noted. LaVeille did not. Scully 
let out an inaudible sigh and gave her attention to Morris, who was speaking. 
LaVeille continued to stare at her. Not the most professional agent she'd ever 
seen. But she'd deal with it...
"Agents, I know you've had a chance to look over the files we sent Assistant 
Director Skinner. I had followed up with a phone call yesterday, and AD Skinner 
told me he was sending me the very best. Although Agent Scully is an unexpected 
and welcome bonus." Morris smiled charmingly at Scully, who resisted grinding 
her teeth in frustration and instead nodded briefly at Morris.
Mulder fought back a bit of teeth-grinding himself. He knew exactly what was 
going through Scully's mind. Usually they weren't hit with anything like this 
until they'd been through the door a bit longer than five minutes. Damn it all. 
"Agent Scully and I have been partners for seven years. Our area of overall 
expertise might not be what you need, but a good profiler and forensic 
pathologist team is something you most assuredly DO need. We'll do our very best 
to help you find your perp. You have our word."
Morris nodded. Stared hard at Agent LaVeille when it was clear his agent showed 
little or no interest in anything but the pretty agent from DC that had been 
added to the team as a real surprise. LaVeille caught the look of censure and 
immediately took his attention back to the file in front of him.
Mulder noted the byplay and tried not to laugh. He wasn't worried about Scully 
and her ability to handle other agents in an unfamiliar office and under the 
issue of unfamiliar teams. He was remembering more and more about Agent 
LaVeille, however, and recalled the younger agent had a real thing for the 
ladies, including the ones he worked with and was supposed to maintain 
professional courtesy with. Mulder tapped Scully on the foot, unobtrusively; a 
tap of support. She kicked him lightly in the shin... a kick of thanks, he 
figured.
Or of irritation. He'd figure it out later. In the meantime, they had a copycat 
killer to find.

"We're dealing with someone who identifies with the original killer. That much I 
can tell you, right up-front. And I'm sure this initial observation comes as no 
surprise." Mulder stood at the projector and clicked on the next slide. An image 
of Mason Roone, one of the original eight victims, flashed on the white 
pull-down screen across the room.
"The original case generated national attention. Anyone, tuning into the news at 
seven, would have seen something about it. Anyone listening to the radio would 
have heard of its progress, from reports as each victim was discovered, to law 
enforcement's and the FBI's frustration in failing to turn up any suspects. 
Nationwide coverage would have given any fledgling copycats out there plenty of 
inspiration.
"What strikes us immediately, however, is the possible age of anyone back in the 
seventies who might have found themselves enthralled by this particular crime. 
We're talking about a killer with enough upper-body strength to take down a man 
who averages six-feet-two inches tall, with an average weight of two hundred 
pounds. So we can't assume too young and we can't assume too old. Original 
profiles placed the killer at between thirty and fifty years of age. I'd be a 
bit more conservative and place the maximum age at forty."
Mulder paused for a moment to take a sip of water from the glass at his side. 
Clicking the next slide, he continued, "Jason Walker, the latest victim. In 
comparing the first victim with the latest victim, you can see a lot of 
similarities not only in height/weight, but in coloring, age, even quality of 
clothing. Not in overall style, of course. But in the quality of that style. 
Both men were well-dressed and lived in decent areas of town. Both were killed 
inside their supposedly-safe homes."
"So you're saying the killer - in both cases - can be placed at an approximate 
age of thirty-five?" This from Pierce, who was now studying the side-by-side 
photos of Walker and Roone. The resemblance was creepy.
"Exactly. Which tells us that when the original killings occurred, our current 
killer should have been very young. Not quite an adolescent. So, how did this 
current killer 'get the goods' on your original perp? Access the Internet and 
you'll find quite a bit on the original killings. But not a lot of viable 
detail. I think the first thing we need to establish is how much detail is 
spot-on. It gives us a starting point."
Morris nodded. "Agreed. We have several task forces set up. A primary and a 
secondary. The secondary will stay mostly behind the scenes, handling all 
computer input, tracking everything the primary task force turns up either on 
the original crimes or this latest spree. Agents Pierce and LaVeille are on the 
primary, as are you and your partner, Agent Mulder. And you are in the lead 
here. We follow your directive; you're the profiler, after all."
Mulder glanced toward Scully, noting the rather set expression on her face. Also 
noting that LaVeille had decided to continue his staring routine, Mulder chose 
his next words carefully. "Agent Scully, will you please provide a quick rundown 
on everything you'll need?"
"Yes, thank you." Scully stood up and walked to the head of the table. She 
ignored LaVeille and instead addressed Morris directly. "I need a full forensic 
lab, and I need access to the latest victim, Walker. We've been informed his 
body is being held pending notification of next-of-kin, and that no autopsy has 
been performed yet. This helps me out enormously, if my autopsy can be exercised 
exclusively. It would also help if one of the original victims could be exhumed, 
and another autopsy performed on the body. I might find something obscure, 
something a general autopsy of twenty-three years ago might have missed. I would 
appreciate it if you could give it serious thought, Agent Morris."
Morris nodded in agreement. "You'll have everything you need, Agent Scully. And 
I'll get the paperwork for the exhumation started immediately." He stood, 
collecting the files and photos scattered in front of his chair. "Why don't we 
break this up for now, and let you both get settled in your hotel? Maybe get 
something to eat. We can either start first thing tomorrow, or later on tonight. 
Your decision," he deferred to Mulder, figuring the agent would speak for 
himself as well as his partner.
From the look in Scully's eyes, Mulder figured she'd stay irritated until Morris 
and his agents finally understood the nature of their partnership. Pierce 
wouldn't be a problem, but LaVeille might. Mulder decided he'd let it go for a 
few days. His hand went to the back of Scully's chair and slid it out for her, a 
gesture he'd never had to think about or worry about possible misinterpretation. 
She gained her feet gracefully and simply nodded to the three agents in general, 
before gathering up her files and slipping them into her briefcase. She was 
angry. But she'd never allow it to overshadow her professionalism, and that was 
what set her apart from the rest.
A look from Mulder, and Scully knew he was passing the choice to her, as to 
whether or not they'd continue after dinner. She sent him a silent 'thanks,' and 
gave an almost-imperceptible nod. Mulder shrugged into his coat. "I think Agent 
Scully and I will take a little time, get settled in. I'd like to go over what 
you've given us in a bit more detail, compare it to the files we were provided 
with before we left DC. Let's plan to meet first thing tomorrow morning, ready 
to go. We'd like to meet the secondary team at that time, too. How does that 
sound?"
"Doable. We'll see you both tomorrow, then. Agent Scully, Agent Mulder." Morris 
waited until they'd all filed out of the conference room, then went out last and 
locked the door behind him. The agents split up at the elevator doors, with 
LaVeille and Pierce taking a side corridor toward their offices. Morris chose 
the stairs closest to the conference room.
As Scully stepped on the elevator ahead of Mulder, she idly commented, "Maybe I 
should wear one of your suits tomorrow, Mulder."
"Nope. You'd stretch bumps into it where there aren't supposed to be bumps." 
Mulder deliberately jostled her shoulder with his own as they stood side by 
side, watching the decreasing floor numbers.
She chuckled, albeit unwillingly. "Ah, but Armani has such give in the fabric."
"So does Donna Karan. Does that mean I can wear that little navy number you 
bought last month?"
She was impressed that he'd remembered. "Only if you wear the matching heels." 
"It's a done deal, Scully." He kept the elevator door open for her as they 
stepped out and walked to the front doors. As they hailed a cab, Mulder 
observed, "You think you can handle LaVeille? I'd forgotten what a ladies' man 
he thinks he is."
"I'll try not to let him ruin the case for me, Mulder." Her droll reply made him 
laugh as they settled into the back seat of the cab. Mulder looked out the 
window as they headed away from downtown New Haven. 
Somewhere out in this nice, fairly peaceful city, a murderer was plotting. And 
waiting.

CHAPTER SIX
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
JANUARY, 1971
Neal Carson crushed the single handwritten sheet of paper between his hands. 
Crushed it as hard as he could, imagining that bastard's neck in his hands 
instead of the now-balled-up letter. He flung it to the floor and ground the 
heel of his shoe into it. Staring down at the flattened, crumpled paper didn't 
make him feel any better.
Nothing ever would.
Anna had remarried. His cousin Freddie had seen fit to write him and let him 
know. As if Neal wanted to know these things. As if his mangled heart could 
handle this kind of bad news. Well, Freddie had always been an insensitive 
asshole.
It was cold in the two-room apartment. He couldn't turn up the heat, not unless 
he wanted the super to give him yet another rash of shit about conserving 
energy. Besides, he couldn't afford the additional heating bill. Goddamn 
cheapskate super. Pick a utility, he'd said. Pay for the electric or pay for the 
heat. One or the other. Some apartments in New Haven paid for everything except 
the phone. Neal had figured the lesser of the two expenses would be the heat, so 
he'd chosen that one. How in hell was he supposed to know that the super had an 
inferior heat system installed in all of the apartments? Another asshole. The 
world was full of them.
Neal kicked at the paper. Freddie had seen the announcement, as he'd written (no 
doubt gleefully) in the letter. He'd seen it a few months ago. Nice of the 
asshole to wait two months before telling him, Neal thought bitterly. If he'd 
had any clue at all, that Anna was thinking about marriage, he'd have found a 
way to contact her, see her, change her mind. His Anna still loved him. Neal 
knew it. A divorce decree on a piece of paper didn't alter their love, the fact 
they were meant to be together always. And a restraining order changed nothing, 
as well...
He remembered the first time he'd gone to Anna, after the divorce, trying to see 
her, to talk to her rationally. He hadn't a clue where she'd moved, which meant 
he'd had to go to the school office and try to talk to her there. She'd called 
the cops on him as soon as she'd seen him, and he'd gotten himself tossed in 
jail for three days; got slapped with a fine. And a warning: stay away from 
Anna. He'd also lost his job. He'd been out of work for weeks, before he'd found 
another job, flipping burgers at Fast Shack Lunch. It was a pissant of a job, 
working long hours for barely above minimum wage. He hated it. But he hadn't had 
any choice.
Then, four months after the divorce, he found out Anna had moved to Groton. One 
of the neighbors who'd kept up a friendship with Anna had told him. She'd 
stopped by the school to invite Anna to lunch and had actually caught her on her 
last day there. Anna had left... with that bastard. 
His cousin Freddie lived in Groton and when Neal contacted him and begged him to 
keep an eye on Anna, Freddie had readily agreed. Months had gone by without a 
word from Freddie; Neal called him back, demanding to know what was going on and 
Freddie simply said he was having trouble finding Anna. Neal forced himself to 
be patient. Anna was in Groton, she wasn't going anywhere. Sooner or later she'd 
realize her mistake, have the restraining order lifted, and then he could go and 
get her, bring her back home to New Haven. Anna and Punkie.
Sometimes Neal tended to forget about Punkie. In his frenzy to keep some kind of 
tabs on his wife, he'd forget that Anna had taken his only child with her when 
she'd left New Haven. He'd forget that another man - a bastard - was raising and 
influencing Punkie. 
Now, he had to have it pounded home to him - in the form of a goddamn letter 
from his cousin - that Anna and Punkie had moved on. She was married. His child 
had a new daddy. If he tried to contact Anna, tried to go to Groton and see her, 
he'd get his ass thrown in jail again. He'd lose what little he'd been able to 
gain, since the last time he'd had his ass thrown in jail. He was supposed to 
accept that his family was lost to him.
Neal pressed his clenched fists against his eyes, pushing back the headache that 
throbbed and pulsed. Each time he pictured his Anna's face, her lovely body... 
and imagined another man holding her and looking into her eyes, the throbbing 
worsened. It had been that way since he'd lost her. It had been that way for 
months and months.
He had to accept it. She was gone. 
He couldn't accept it. She was his wife. She'd always be his wife, irregardless 
of what a lousy piece of court-sanctioned paper said to the contrary. 
He called Freddie. It seemed the best way to proceed. Even though Freddie was an 
asshole, he'd obviously meant well. After all, Neal had asked him to keep tabs 
on Anna; Freddie was just doing what Neal had requested.
The phone rang ten times before Freddie deigned to answer. "What?" He sounded 
groggy. Neal had probably gotten him out of bed. Well, too bad.
"It's Neal. I got your letter, you asshole."
"What? Who? Neal? Why're you calling me an asshole? You wanted to know about 
your ex, I told you what's going on. Look, I had a long night. I'll call you 
later."
"Wait! Where is she living? Freddie, I need to know. You have to tell me."
"I don't know where she is, man! Shit. I saw a wedding announcement in the 
paper, okay? I guess his folks are some high mucky mucks here in town. It was in 
one of those fancy society pages in the paper. No addresses listed. Groton ain't 
exactly a small town, y'know. She lives somewhere in the city. And before you 
ask: no, I'm not telling you the jerk's name, the guy she married. You'll just 
end up back in jail."
"You know his name? You have to tell me!"
"I ain't gotta do shit, Neal. Get over it. You're not the first dupe who had his 
wife screw around on him. Christ, Sheila pulled that shit on me, didn't she? Who 
needs it? Best day of my life, when I signed those papers and divorced her ass. 
You want some advice? Get on with your life. Forget Anna and find another 
woman." With that, Freddie hung up. 
Neal cursed and immediately rang him back. Freddie didn't answer. 
He tried ten more times, and ten more times the phone rang and rang. Enraged, 
Neal flung the phone across the room. It hit the wall and smashed into several 
pieces, cracking the cheap drywall in the process.
"Well, FUCK!" Neal stomped in a furious circle, pulling at his hair. Now he'd 
have to pay to get the fucking wall fixed. He'd have to get another phone. He 
could barely make rent this month as it was.
It was all that bastard's fault. Neal rubbed hard at his aching head. It was all 
that bastard's fault. The one who stole his Anna.
All his fault.

UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
1:30 AM
<Hate the streets. Slime walking it, every day, every night. Worse at night.>
It's dark on the corner. Dark in the alleys. This part of town shouldn't even 
have alleys, and yet they're here. 
<Follow him. He's the one; I can tell. I can smell it. He's on his way to HER. 
He's going to spend what's left of the night fucking her; fucking someone he's 
got no right to even look at, much less touch... much less stick it to.>
It's never fair. Over and over again it happens. Over and over again, it has to 
be stopped. There has to be punishment. It's not her fault. She was wooed, 
courted, swayed by a weakness that all women share. It's not her fault.
<So beautiful. She's always so beautiful. She can't help being weak... but that 
fucking bastard on his way to her bed CAN help being the one that takes 
advantage of her weakness. Won't let it happen, not again.>
It's dark crossing the wide street. He doesn't even know there's someone 
following him, stupid bastard. His mind is no doubt filled with images of how 
he's going to take off her clothes, toss her on the bed and push himself into 
her. She's weak. She doesn't want him, not really. But she's too weak to refuse. 
She'll let him do whatever he wants because she's not as strong as she should 
be.
<Up to me, to stop it. Again, to stop it. Again, to save her from herself. From 
him.>
Getting closer. Almost there. Almost close enough to do it. Just waiting for the 
bastard to open the door, walk inside. 
<It'll be the last door he ever opens, better believe it.>

CHAPTER SEVEN
HAMPSTEAD CAFE
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
7:30 AM
"How can you eat that stuff this early in the morning? And without sucking down 
an entire vat of coffee?" Mulder eyed the omelette on Scully's plate with 
thinly-disguised revulsion.
"Good morning to you, too. And what's wrong with my breakfast? Egg-white 
omelette. You should try one, instead of the meat-infested, fat-ingestible feast 
you're no doubt planning on ordering." Scully cut another neat square of her 
omelette and ate with frank enjoyment. There was a cup of what looked like 
herbal tea next to her plate.
Herbal tea. Gad.
Mulder shuddered and buried his face in the menu. From behind the stiff 
cardboard he muttered, "Eggs - especially scrambled ones - are supposed to be 
yellow, Scully. Not albino. And tea shouldn't smell like flowers and oregano." 
He glanced up and smiled at the tired-eyed waitress who came over to pour him 
coffee. "I'll have the short stack. Blueberry, I think. And a side of sausage 
links and bacon. Large juice, and hash browns, too." He chuckled at the 
horrified look on Scully's face as he handed the menu to the now-smiling 
waitress, and relaxed in the booth. "At least my breakfast will be sticking to 
my ribs."
"That's not all it'll stick to," Scully mumbled.
"What was that?"
"Nothing, nothing. They're your arteries, Mulder. And I can hear them 
congealing, from over here." As he smirked at her remark, she finished her 
breakfast and leaned back in her seat. Mulder's heaping plate was set in front 
of him and he systematically plowed his way through his meal, occasionally 
staring out the window at the wet street in front of them. 
Scully found herself turning in her seat, eyes drawn to her partner. In his dark 
gray suit and pale blue shirt, he presented - as always - a professionally 
handsome figure that never failed to set her heart to beating faster. After 
seven years she could still be struck by the initial look of him, that face and 
those eyes, that full, sensuous mouth. There had been more than a few times in 
seven years that sitting next to Mulder - anywhere - was almost more than she 
could take, and this morning was no exception. 
Sometimes she could forget it for months on end... the need she had, for him. 
The wanting that she never quite found courage in admitting, to him. Or herself. 
After years together they were closer than ever, bordering on something more 
than friendship, almost ready to take that final, stumbling step toward 
intimacy. Almost.
He'd kissed her several times and she'd kissed back. Nothing too deep or too 
wet, but stirring, just the same. She hadn't been unaffected and neither had 
Mulder. He'd held her in his arms often enough in the past but lately those arms 
had felt altogether different around her body. Once, during a hug, he'd nudged 
his bottom lip along the sensitive cord of her neck and had just about shot her 
out of her shoes when the shivers had overtaken her and she'd trembled against 
him. When he raised his head and looked down at her, the expression in his eyes 
had melted her from the inside out. For the first time in her life, Scully had 
felt a touch of shyness, of hesitancy, around the opposite sex. It was a little 
unnerving.
She loved him. She knew he loved her. But there were more complications in the 
probability of their relationship than in most other couples who worked together 
and found themselves on the threshold of becoming romantically involved. If they 
moved slower than most - if their current pace seemed to rival a snail's - it 
was surely understandable.
Didn't mean she couldn't enjoy looking at him first thing in the morning.
Mulder caught her staring and sent her a quizzical look. "Something wrong with 
my tie? Do I have a cowlick sticking up?"
Scully shook her head and picked up her lukewarm tea. "No, you're fine. I 
just..." She sighed a little and hid her sudden longing behind the rim of her 
mug. "You look nice, Mulder. I like the suit."
Her cheeks were slightly pink, he noted. As he watched, she tucked a thick 
strand of hair behind her ear. A nervous habit of hers, one he'd seen her do 
countless times over the years. Now Mulder was doing the staring, as he lowered 
his coffee cup and transferred all of his attention to his partner and best 
friend.
In her new navy suit, with its shorter, form-fitting jacket and slim skirt, 
Scully looked wonderfully feminine as well as formidably professional. LaVeille 
would no doubt swallow his tongue when he saw her. Mulder loved looking at her, 
especially when she was conscious of his regard and a bit self-conscious as a 
result. It was never a hardship, looking at Dana Scully.
She was beautiful. One of the most beautiful women he'd ever known. But that 
wasn't really what drew him to her. She was strong and resourceful, 
compassionate, frighteningly intelligent, too. All characteristics that 
attracted him. He'd never made a secret of that attraction, and she'd never been 
coy about accepting it. Over the years, they'd built a foundation of love and 
trust based on what they could give to each other, and accept from each other. 
Now, at last, they seemed to be moving toward consummation of what they'd 
started between themselves, all those years ago in that candlelit motel room in 
Bellefleur. Trust and loyalty, acceptance and a sense of family... that had only 
been the start. It was much more, now. 
It was everything, now. And both of them seemed curiously suspended, as if 
waiting for the right moment, the correct second, to share more, and start 
another chapter. Add another layer.
But first, the job. The case. It always came first, with both of them. Which was 
why they had that embarrassingly high solve rate. And why their personal lives 
suffered as a result.
"What?" Now it was her turn to squirm, under his scrutiny. Mulder didn't bother 
to hide the grin, or the prolonged gazing. 
He shrugged and pushed aside his mostly-empty plate, not even remembering having 
eaten any of it, and got to his feet. He moved to pull out her seat, and 
murmured as she stood and reached for her coat, "Only that you look great in 
that suit, Scully. I couldn't help but notice. Nice shoes, too." He gave her 
dainty heels the once-over, then drew that gaze right up her body, until he 
could smile into her eyes as he helped her on with her coat and guided her 
toward the door, one hand at her back.
It was his usual courtesy toward her. It was their normal modus opporandi, and 
it should have felt the same as it always did.
Meeting her partner's eyes briefly, then glancing away... to Scully it felt 
suddenly - completely - different. 

FBI NEW HAVEN
8:45 AM
The conference room was crowded when they got there. Judging by the number of 
people milling about, both teams were apparently already in place. Mulder held 
the door for Scully as she preceded him, and took note of the agents and staff 
ranged around the table. There were a few women; not as many as he would have 
thought. Perhaps the New Haven field office was more heavily-populated with men, 
which might account for Agent LaVeille's reaction the other day. Then again, 
Mulder mused, LaVeille had always been a gawker, of sorts. He probably couldn't 
help it.
Ross Morris broke away from the conversation he'd been holding with one of the 
team members and met them inside the doorway. "Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, hope 
you had a restful night." His smile encompassed them both as he waved a hand at 
one end of the table. "If you'd like to take a seat, I'll introduce you and then 
if you like, we can have self-introduction from the team members, later on."
Scully chose a side seat, leaving the end chair - and closer proximity to the 
staring LaVeille - to Mulder. She stifled a sigh at the agent's persistent 
regard and Mulder, hearing it, spared her a little wink. She waited until he'd 
seated himself, and gave his shin a light kick. 
Morris stood next to Mulder's chair patiently until the group's attention was on 
him. "Good morning, everyone. I'd like to introduce you to Agent Fox Mulder and 
Agent Dana Scully. They're on loan to us from FBI Headquarters in DC, and they 
specialize in unsolvable and unexplained cases. They have a very high solve rate 
and I am confident their expertise and experience will be invaluable to this 
case. Agent Mulder is a top-notch profiler and Agent Scully is a doctor and 
forensic pathologist. At this time, I would ask Agent Mulder to lead the 
meeting."
Mulder murmured his thanks to Morris and stood, taking a silent moment to make 
eye contact with everyone seated around the table. They all stared back at him, 
alert and - he hoped - eager to get started. He counted twelve people in 
addition to Morris, Pierce and LaVeille. 
"Good morning. First of all I'd like to extend my thanks for what I know will be 
your dedication to this case. It's not going to be an easy one to deal with. We 
have a repeat UNSUB who has apparently decided to resuscitate a series of 
murders that are twenty-three years old and unsolved. At this time we will go on 
the assumption that we have a copy-cat killer, and I'm basing this on two 
preliminary profiles: one of the original killer from twenty-three years ago, 
and the other from three known murders perpetrated over the last month.
"If you have studied the evidence from both sets of murders, then you already 
know the victim. He's between the ages of thirty and thirty-five. He's between 
six feet and six-feet two inches tall, and weighing between one hundred sixty 
and one hundred eighty pounds. Dark hair and eyes. Well-dressed, white-collar. 
Some of the victims were married and had children; others were single. Because 
of the apparent randomness of the marital status of these men, I would say such 
status was and is unimportant to the killer. It doesn't seem to be what he is 
focused on." A hand went up, and Mulder pointed to a woman sitting near the 
other end of the table. "Yes?"
"You assume the killer is male." Her voice was low and rough. She appeared to be 
in her late forties, faded brown hair tightly pulled into a bun on top of her 
head. At Mulder's inquiring look, the woman flushed a bit and stood up. "Agent 
Lauren Claire. I'm with the primary team. I am wondering why the killer is 
assumed to be a man."
"Fair question, Agent Claire. We assume the killer is male because of the 
overall upper-body strength needed to incapacitate a six-foot tall man who 
weights between one sixty and one-eighty. Granted, there are several ways to 
render a man helpless. But until we have a clearer picture and profile of the 
killer, our UNSUB is judged to be male."
Agent Claire nodded tightly and tugged at her loose jacket as she sat down, 
apparently satisfied with Mulder's reasoning. Mulder continued, "Each victim was 
found near or in their place of residence. In most cases the front door was left 
open. Single blow to the head, possibly caused by use of a weighted sap. 
Multiple stab wounds around and over the upper abdomen, stomach, down to each 
thigh. Penis and testicles removed and then placed over the victim's face, 
possibly for reasons symbolic to only the killer. Victim bled out in a matter of 
an hour or two. No note. No fingerprints, hairs, fibers, shoe-prints, nothing of 
value from twenty-three years ago and very little to go on in the more recent 
murders." Mulder paused long enough for a swig of water, and noted with 
satisfaction that he had the teams' complete attention.
He added, "To further elaborate on the response I gave Agent Claire, I believe 
we're looking for a man between the ages of twenty-five and forty. He's copying 
on purpose; that is, not ascribing to the original murders purely by accident. 
He may have a case of hero-worship for the original killer. He may believe that 
his killings are a kind of homage to the original killer. And no, at this time 
my profile discounts the original killer as having surfaced twenty-three years 
after the spree actually began. He would be in his sixties at best estimate, and 
in my opinion physically unable to incapacitate any of the three latest 
victims."
"Agent Mulder?" One of the male agents a few seats down from Scully called out, 
and at a nod from Mulder stood up and introduced himself as Ken Shay with the 
primary team. "Agent Mulder, is there any possibility of a personal connection 
between these killers?"
"Do you mean, if we find one, we solve the other? I suppose anything is 
possible, Agent Shay. I'd like nothing better than to catch two for the price of 
one. But there isn't any evidence that the killers have any set connection other 
than the latest killer somehow identifying in some way with the original killer. 
And that connection could be as simple as hero-worship, as already mentioned. In 
actual fact, there isn't much evidence to speak of. Agent Scully will be 
spending most of today with the local forensic team, and she'll perform the 
autopsy on the latest victim, Jason Walker. Also from what I understand, 
permission to exhume the remains of one of the original victims has come 
through. Agent Scully?" Mulder gestured in Scully's direction, turning it over 
to her.
She thanked him quietly and stood, addressing the room at large. "We'll be 
looking for as many forensic similarities between the original murders and the 
latest ones, as we can find. We'll look for any small thing that might have been 
overlooked the first time. Twenty-three years ago, the basic autopsy was 
sometimes a hit-and-miss event. With the now-standard DNA testing and proof, 
forensics is much more exacting and a far better science.
"I'll need to meet with the forensic team separately, and then we'll begin. Any 
other questions?" Scully glanced over the room and huffed a quiet sigh when she 
saw the way Agent LaVeille stared at her. Again. Out of the corner of her eye 
she confirmed that Mulder had noticed it as well, and was frowning just the 
tiniest amount. To anyone else his facial expression would seem somber, placid. 
But Scully knew that face and all of its many expressions as well as her own. 
Crap. She didn't - most assuredly did NOT - need this sort of attention from a 
fellow agent. And she was going to really hate having to deal with it using any 
kind of verbal chastisement. 
After a few more minor questions, the meeting broke up, with both teams 
streaming out to their respective office areas. A few hung around a bit longer, 
hoping to chat with either Mulder or Scully. A few of the secondary team members 
approached them and introduced themselves, as not all of that team had been 
present at the beginning of the meeting. One of them - a thin, pale blonde named 
Lynda Kelly - shyly reported that they'd been given a small office for their use 
on the second floor. "If you need any additional supplies, just let me know. 
I've also been assigned to you as a temp assistant." Mulder gave her a smile in 
response and the poor woman flushed bright pink, ducked her head and scurried 
away, after hastily handing them both a key for the door of their office.
Scully couldn't help but shake her head sadly and then lean into Mulder as they 
watched her disappear around a corner. "What did you do, make eyes at her? 
You're such a heartbreaker, Mulder."
He pushed at her shoulder lightly. "Shut up. And it's going to be your turn to 
buy lunch." He steered her into an elevator with the intent of checking out 
their new office. 
As the doors swished closed behind them, Scully retreated to a far corner and 
stated, "I can't. Neither can you. I'll be too busy, Mulder. And if I'm too busy 
for lunch, you'd better be, as well. Fair is fair. I will, however, spring for 
dinner. Your choice of place, as long as there's chicken on the menu."
"Didn't you once tell me you were never eating chicken again in this lifetime, 
Scully?"
"Well, yes. But I have somehow managed to block out a great deal of the 'Chaco 
Horror.' At least I had, until you couldn't resist mentioning it again. Thanks a 
lot."
"You're welcome. Always happy to help keep you healthy. If you haven't got your 
health, you haven't got anything, you know."
Scully merely eyed him in amused disbelief as they stepped off the elevator and 
headed down the hall in search of their temporary office. "This from a man who 
ate fried variations on an entire pig, for breakfast - and doused THAT with 
butter and syrup."
"You leave my arteries out of it, Scully." 
They spent ten minutes poking around in the little office, before splitting up 
for the day, each with their individual assignments. Mulder cautioned, "Don't go 
past five. We need time to meet with Morris and his agents, before six." At the 
dramatic roll of her eyes, Mulder shot her a grin and adopted an exaggerated 
Brooklyn twang. "You want I should rough up LaVeille some, let him know he's 
horning in on my bimbo?"
Scully ignored the tiny possessive thrill those joking words invoked. "Sure, 
Guido. You do that little thing. I'm going to go pare and slice."
"Well, that'll be fun, too." Mulder gave her shoulder a quick squeeze, and they 
parted ways back at the elevator doors, each already thinking about the long day 
ahead of them.
Morris nabbed Scully as she headed toward the stairs, determined to walk off 
some of her breakfast. "Agent Scully, Agent Mulder's not with you? Can you get 
hold of him?"
"Sure. What's happened?" Scully was already pulling out her cell phone.
Morris's face was grim. "There's been another murder."


CHAPTER EIGHT
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
MARCH, 1973 

Outside the bedroom window the rain sluiced down and dripped onto the wooden 
outer ledge - which badly needed a coat of paint. Along the top edge of the 
window, a crack in the glass split a little farther each winter, courtesy of 
poor insulation and a goddamn cheapskate super.
But inside the small, cluttered bedroom, it was mostly dry and mostly warm. The 
child sleeping in the old twin bed, curled around a ratty stuffed teddy bear, 
had no idea just how cold and how damp the world out there could be.
The man who stood in the doorway - a glass of Old Harper in one hand and a 
half-smoked Lucky in the other - knew.
Neal Carson was drunk, and planning on getting a whole lot drunker. He had a 
third of a bottle of Harper left, plus a full fifth of some generic brand of 
Scotch that was probably little more than rot-gut. Well, taste didn't matter to 
him... only results. And if he got shit-faced enough, the result would be worth 
the three dollars he'd spent on the bottle.
Two weeks ago he'd gotten the phone call that had changed - hell, ended - his 
life.
His Anna was dead. Gone, forever. 
And it was all that bastard's fault; the bastard who'd stolen her from him.

An accident. That's what the cop had told him over the phone. Neal had been 
drinking beer and half-heartedly watching the game on the old television that 
sometimes worked but more often than not was full of static and fuzz. He'd just 
shoved a handful of corn chips in his mouth when the phone had rung; he'd 
lumbered to his feet and had cursed while he dug for the phone, buried under a 
pile of outdated newspapers on the rickety old telephone table in a corner of 
the living room.
"Yeah."
"Neal Carson?" The voice in his ear was gruff and tired-sounding.
"Yeah. I'm Carson."
"Mr. Carson, I have some difficult news concerning your estranged wife, Anna 
Carson Blanden."
Neal had blinked in confusion, had waded through beer fumes to comprehend the 
words being spoken. "Blanden? Who the - I have a wife. Anna. We're, um, taking a 
break from -"
The gruff, tired voice had interrupted without apology. "Mr. Carson, I'm sorry 
to have to inform you that your ex-wife, Anna, was in an automobile accident ten 
days ago. She - and her husband, Douglas Blanden - were hit head-on by an 
inebriated driver, and were killed instantly."
"What? Anna? Anna's gone? My Anna?" Neal's knees had given out on him and he'd 
sunk to the floor right in front of the telephone stand. Over the buzzing in his 
head, the horrible, scraping buzzing, he'd heard the gruff cop spewing details 
about funeral services already completed. About the location of the burial plot. 
Interment at Groton Cemetery. The minor child, Tracey Blanden, who was currently 
in the hands of New London County Family Care, pending notification of a family 
member...
"Punkie." Neal's tongue refused to cooperate when he tried to speak. "Punkie. 
Where's Punkie? Tracey. Where -"
"That's what I'm trying to tell you, Mr. Carson. Mr. Carson! Calm down and 
listen to me. The child is with Family Care right now. We had no idea that 
Douglas Blanden wasn't the biological father. We need to know how to proceed, 
sir. We need to know if you are willing to accept parental responsibility for 
Tracey Blanden. Now, I understand your ex-wife had full custody of your minor 
child..."
Neal had sat on the floor and had let the words and vocal cadence wash over him. 
He was unable to fully absorb anything past the words, 'Anna,' and 'dead.'
His beautiful Anna. Gone. Harsh tears had pushed up from his aching throat and 
had ripped their way past his lips, had flooded his eyes and had slid down pale, 
unshaven cheeks.
Oh, God, Anna...

No opportunity to see her, talk to her... tell her it wasn't her fault, that 
he'd never blamed her for going away. No chance, not ever again, to ask her to 
come home, to promise her not to fuck it up this time. Neal had gone over it 
again and again in the almost-four years that she'd been out of his life. He'd 
worked his way past the anger and sense of betrayal; past the bitter jealousy of 
knowing another man held her, kissed her, took her to bed at night and buried 
himself inside her. Dared to marry her.
And he had come to understand his Anna wasn't to blame. Men were treacherous 
bastards, always wanting what they didn't have and didn't deserve. Always 
willing and ready to break up a happy home and take what another man owned. 
Bastards, every one of them... and one of them had snared his wife. One of them 
had taken her away, had forced her to wear his ring and take his name, even 
though in her heart Neal knew she'd have thought of herself as Anna Carson, 
forever. And when the bastard had stolen all he could steal, he'd let her die in 
the most agonizing way. He'd been careless with her, this Blanden bastard, 
careless with Anna. As a result of his carelessness he'd had her in the car when 
a drunk - who should never have gotten behind the wheel in the first place - hit 
them and killed them. Killed his Anna.
Neal wished that the bastard was still alive... so that he could reach into 
Blanden's chest and rip out his treacherous heart and grind it to mush with his 
bare hands. 

He stood just inside the small room where Punkie, worn out from the long day 
they'd had, was asleep. Three and a half years had wrought significant changes, 
he could see. No longer a baby, yet not old enough to leave alone. It would be 
so difficult to build a life around a child he didn't even know and who barely 
remembered him.
It hadn't been made any easier by the way Punkie cried for Anna. "Mama. I want 
my Mama. MAMA!!" The cry had echoed through the shabby apartment, until Neal had 
clutched at his aching head. Hung over from the night before, the last thing he 
needed to hear was a whiny kid sobbing for Mommy, when Daddy was right there in 
the room. And yet, didn't he do the same thing late at night, alone in his own 
bed? Didn't he sob into his pillow, pretending it was the slender body of his 
Anna; didn't he soak that pillow with tears as he remembered every single time 
they'd made love, each time he'd watched her sleeping and vowed nothing or 
nobody would ever take her from him? And he'd failed. In the end, he'd failed to 
keep her, to watch over her and protect her from the treachery of other bastards 
like the one who stole her from him. He hadn't been vigilant enough. He hadn't 
taken care, enough. If he had, she'd never have left him. She'd still be 
alive...
NO! That wasn't right. Neal had yanked at his hair until his mind had cleared. 
Ignoring the sobbing Punkie, he'd gone into his room and shut the door, locked 
it. He'd sat on the rumpled bed and had wrapped his arms around the pillow, 
taking what comfort he could from knowing it was Anna's old pillow he embraced. 
He wasn't supposed to blame Anna. Never, ever, would he blame her. It wasn't her 
fault, and it wasn't his, either. He'd done everything right; he'd loved her and 
worked hard for her comfort, to put food on the table and to afford a nice home 
for her to live in. To have enough money for her to buy pretty clothes and 
sweet-smelling perfume – 
So that she could dress provocatively for other men. So she could wear scent 
behind her ears and on the inside of her arms, so that men would be tempted to 
get close enough to smell her...
NO! That wasn't right! That wasn't the way it was. Neal tore at his hair again 
to rid himself of the murky thoughts slogging through his brain. His Anna wore 
those pretty clothes for him. She couldn't help it if other men saw her wearing 
them and lusted after her. It wasn't her fault that men could smell her perfume 
and crave a taste of her perfect skin. His Anna was blameless. It was that 
bastard's fault. Always, his fault...
"Mama! Want Mama!" Punkie's voice had turned pitiful and sounded as if it was 
coming from right outside his bedroom door. 
"Stop crying." Neal couldn't bear to hear any more. He stumbled over to the door 
and grasped the handle, then fell to his knees in front of the still-locked 
door, holding onto the doorknob, his own voice rising in cadence with the 
weeping child on the other side.
"Stop crying. Stop CRYING! Goddamn you, SHUT UP! SHUT UP! Shut up shut up shut 
up..."


1731 ALMOND COURT
NEW HAVEN
The smell hit them as soon as they crossed the police tape and entered the 
one-story ranch style home. It was an odor they were both well-acquainted with. 
Heavy, with a sickeningly-sweet undertone that blended noxiously with the other 
smells that death brought to the body. Mulder resisted putting his hand over his 
nose and instead breathed shallowly through his teeth. Scully did the same, as 
they picked their way through the hallway where the chalk outline of the body 
could plainly be seen.
Morris rubbed at his tired eyes as he looked down at the outline. "Damn it. This 
makes four, in less than two months. He's escalating. And we have nothing." He 
rubbed at his eyes again, succeeding in reddening them even more, and turned to 
glance at Mulder as he studied the body's fall pattern. A broken hall table lay 
in a heap close to the outline; the victim must have either knocked into it or 
tried to grab at it as he went down.
"Who do we have this time?" Scully indicated the outline.
Morris consulted the preliminary report he'd been given. "Matthew Borden. 
Twenty-nine years old, six-foot, one hundred and eighty pounds, brown and brown. 
Employed with Rugers and Rugers Accounting, here in New Haven. Single. Lived 
alone. Parents are deceased. No siblings. That's all we know for now. If he has 
a next-of-kin, we haven't found them yet."
"What was he wearing at time of death?" At Morris's raised eyebrows, Mulder gave 
a small shrug. "Indulge me. Everything matters, now. Everything means 
something."
Morris blew out a breath, and checked his notes again. "Dark green blazer and 
tan slacks. White dress shirt and loafers. Nice watch, no other jewelry. Doesn't 
look as if anything was taken from him, his wallet was still in his pocket. I 
think we can rule out robbery. We know what this is, Agent Mulder. We know it's 
our guy."
"Initial injury to the cranium. Same as the others, I am assuming. Yet, I don't 
see that much blood around the head area." Scully slipped on a pair of latex 
gloves and knelt carefully near the outline, tracing some dried blood that 
formed a pattern within the chalked-in head area. She lifted her hand and looked 
at her latex-coated fingers, noting the trace of blood and deciding it was way 
too little for what must have been used to knock the victim out. "This may or 
may not have been caused by a weighted sap, as the others appear to be. Maybe 
indicative of a victim who was incapacitated before he was attacked. Was there 
any indication of inebriation, drug use, in the body?" 
"Not so far. But we put the body on hold for you, Agent Scully. When you're 
finished here I'll take you over for the first scheduled autopsy. If you have 
time after that one, the body we exhumed is also ready for you." Morris tucked 
the folder under his arm and waited patiently. He had heard enough about Agent 
Mulder from LaVeille, to know the man might very well take hours to scour a 
crime scene, looking for the smallest clues. 
Morris sighed, prepared to stand around for a while. If the amount of blood 
circling the body of the outline was any indication, Matthew Borden had bled 
even more copiously than the other three victims had, even though there was 
relatively little blood from head trauma. Morris could see no variation on how 
this latest victim had been killed. It didn't matter how capacitated - or not - 
that Borden might have been, for he had still been knocked unconscious, then cut 
and stabbed repeatedly in a pattern guaranteed to make him suffer but bleed 
slowly - until the killer finally tired of his little game, and sliced off penis 
and testicles, allowing the final bleed-out to occur. He'd have choked on his 
own blood and probably smothered from the placement of his genitals directly 
over his nose and mouth. Too weak to push his own flesh out of the way, so that 
he could breathe. Jesus, what a way to die.
Morris came out of his reverie when Scully reached over and placed a hand on his 
arm to gain his attention. He shook himself out of his own gruesome thoughts and 
apologized, "Sorry, Agent Scully. Just trying to do some visualizing, and 
failing miserably, I might add. Guess my brain doesn't really want to imagine 
any of this."
"Well, I can't say as I blame your brain, Agent Morris. This is pretty 
horrendous. Perhaps I should get started on the autopsies. Agent Mulder? Are you 
ready?"
Mulder glanced up from his study of the surrounding room, and shook his head. 
"Actually, if you don't mind, I'd like to check out a few things here. Agent 
Morris, if you could take Agent Scully to her appointment, I can use the rental 
to meet you both later, is that all right?" 
"No problem." Morris wasn't supposed to be relieved to be getting out of there, 
but he was honest enough to admit he was. Mulder pulled Scully aside briefly as 
Morris headed out to his car to wait for her.
"What are you looking for, Mulder?" Scully leaned in close to Mulder as she 
spoke.
"I'm not sure. I just want a little more time, mostly. This is the first crime 
scene we have been able to examine. I'll either meet you back at the field 
office or over at the morgue. Take your time. 
Have fun. Don't do anything I -"
She interrupted him hastily. "Don't say it, Mulder. Please."
Mulder grinned at her and gave her hand a squeeze which she returned, before she 
headed out the front door, leaving him behind in the front hall, surrounded by 
the remnants of violent death.

After Morris and Scully left, Mulder took a few minutes and looked around the 
house, trying to see if anything rang any sort of bell. It was difficult, as 
this was really the first victim's residence they'd been able to enter. He made 
a mental note to ask Morris if it would be possible to view Jason Walker's 
place. He recalled the deceased had lived in an apartment building in an upscale 
section of New Haven. 
Mulder wandered into the master bedroom, located toward the rear of the house. 
It wasn't a big room, but was very nicely decorated and the furniture, as what 
was in the rest of the house, was of good, solid quality. Everything was neat, 
no speck of dust anywhere, nothing jarring or out of place. Either Borden had 
been a really tidy guy, or he'd had a housekeeper. Mulder nosed into the walk-in 
closet, and found clothes that reflected a man who appreciated fashion, wasn't 
afraid to wear color, and obviously wasn't shy about spending enough money to 
assure he'd have quite a wardrobe to choose from. Mulder figured that said a lot 
about what kind of victim their killer had been looking for, too.
Someone young and handsome. Someone who made a decent, white-collar living, 
lived in a nice place, probably frequented the more upper-level bars and 
restaurants in town. The UNSUB didn't seem to care if his chosen victims were 
single or married, in a committed relationship or on the prowl for new blood. At 
least, not so far. Aside from the physical resemblance between both sets of 
victims - past and present - it was clear the killer sought to rid himself of 
the same enemy, each time he killed. 
Mulder dug in his pocket for his notepad and pen. Working his way back to the 
hallway and the chalk outline, he jotted down everything that made sense to him 
thus far: a jealous man, perhaps driven to kill his rival over and over again. 
Scully might try poking holes in the jealous man angle, but to Mulder it made 
sense, given the way each victim had been mutilated and then left to die. 
Choking on the blood of their own genitalia... that sure felt like jealousy gone 
far around the bend, to him. 
An obsessive man, who lost the woman he loved in some way, decides to... what? 
Decides to kill the man who took her from him? Did she go willingly; was her ex 
a jerk, a loser, running around with escalating mental difficulties? Any or all 
of the above could apply. Did he kill the original rival? Mulder didn't think 
so; if he had, then why kill the man over and over again? That kind of 
repetitiveness would better match with mounting frustration for the killer, that 
his enemy got away from him in the first place. 
Okay, they had a man who carefully chose and then killed his enemy, again and 
again, over a period of months. He then disappeared, to e-merge twenty-three 
years later, and reprise his crime? No. Mulder shook his head as he circled the 
chalk outline once more. There was very little possibility this could be the 
same killer, twenty-three years older, choosing to begin all over again. For one 
thing, he wouldn't have been able to contain himself for a few decades; he'd be 
busting to kill. Statistics would definitely hold up that theory. 
So where did that leave them? Pretty much where they were, except for a few 
hunches, a certain feeling about this one. Mulder put away his notes and left 
the crime scene. He'd meet Scully, catch some dinner, and then bend her ear with 
those hunches of his. Mulder stifled a grin as he nodded to the young cop in his 
squad car who had been instructed to patrol the area. He'd bet she'd already 
come to several conclusions of her own, and they'd be fairly close to his. 
Mulder pulled away from the curb and headed over to the morgue.

NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
MAY, 1977
"Please. Why are you doing, oh, God, PLEASE..."
The man on the floor was beyond terrified, beyond caring whether or not he 
seemed cowardly simply because he begged for his life. He'd come home, 
pleasantly buzzed from an evening of drinks and jazz at his favorite cafe. His 
date, an attractive blonde named Susan, had given him more than one come-on, her 
subtle teasing and flirting an assurance that if not tonight, then very soon, 
she'd be in his bed. Grinning mistily at the thought of her, he'd mounted the 
steps to his apartment building none too steadily; had inserted his key into the 
outside security lock. A small sound behind him had registered in his foggy 
brain, but when he turned to peer into the gloom, he'd seen no one. 
He'd walked to his first-floor apartment and had inserted a second key into the 
lock. That was all he remembered doing, until he awoke with a hideous pounding 
in his head; awoke on the floor of his own tiny foyer, hands bound together over 
his head and his legs forced apart and each ankle fastened to something. He 
couldn't tell what. He couldn't think of anything except the deepest, most 
bone-numbing terror he'd ever felt in his life. 
He was naked. In his own apartment, naked, tied up, head pounding, and he didn't 
know why.
Then he felt the first cut... and his terror escalated, lightening-fast.
"You want to beg? Go ahead. Beg. Beg all you want, you fucking bastard. You 
killed my Anna." The voice had hovered over the man's left ear, close enough 
that hot breath burned his skin. The voice was low, guttural, alive with hate. 
Maybe something past hate, although to the terrified man on the floor, it 
wouldn't have mattered all that much. He'd already begged himself hoarse; it 
hadn't stopped the knife from slashing at him. Pain had riddled his body, fright 
had taken his sanity, and now there wasn't much left of him. Still, he pleaded. 
Still, he begged.
"Please. I don't know any Anna. I don't know you. I don't know anything... 
please, why? Just tell me, why..." The man was crying now, thick tears that ran 
down from his eyes and into his sweat-soaked hair. He didn't recognize his own 
voice - fright had reduced him to something sub-human.
"You know. What you did to her. You KNOW." The voice was very close and 
suddenly, so was its owner. Through tear-drenched eyes the man saw for the first 
and last time, the face of his tormentor. He saw the twisted hatred on a face 
belonging to a madman, and with an anguished groan he closed his eyes, knowing 
that any further begging would fall on deaf ears. With a kind of detachment, the 
man heard his list of sins being spewed out, everything from adultery to 
wife-stealing, to outright murder. The words coated him, inescapable. The pain 
saturated him, loss of blood making him incredibly weak and dizzy. He tried to 
let himself fall into unconsciousness, but his body wouldn't give up the fight. 
And fresh terror washed over him when the man watched the knife move into his 
view, its serrated edge gleaming wickedly in the light from the overhead 
chandelier. 
When it arced down, the man flinched and slammed his eyes shut, certain the 
knife would cut him from ear to ear. Somehow, as unimaginably agonizing as that 
would be, it would also mean a kind of blessed relief, from his nightmare. 
When the final, vicious cut DID hit him, the man threw back his head and 
screamed, understanding there were worse tortures in life than stabs and cuts - 
and having your throat slashed...
~~~~ 
Neal stumbled into his apartment. He left the lights off, feeling his way by 
instinct. He wasn't drunk; he'd never have been able to complete his mission, 
had he been anything other than sober. 
He was proud of himself; he'd only gotten sick once. When he'd weaned himself 
off the booze, he'd been sick as hell. But he'd had an agenda, a purpose. It 
wouldn't have been possible for him to mete out the kind of justice he'd needed, 
if he'd been drunk. So he'd cut out the drinking, and he'd given himself several 
months to dry up. Several months of the shakes and the nausea, while he plotted 
and planned. While he looked for the bastard who'd killed his Anna.
It had taken three months to find him, but Neal had been persistent. Going out, 
night after night, looking in the fancy places, the nicer bars and taverns. The 
son of a bitch had been wealthy, had lived in a great apartment. Neal had 
discovered that much just by pumping Anna's friends for whatever information 
they'd been willing to give him. He knew, he just KNEW, the bastard had gone 
back out to all his regular haunts, looking for another married woman to steal. 
Another woman, happily married, never intending to stray, to give herself to 
anyone other than her own husband... Men like that bastard deserved to be strung 
up by their balls and left to rot. Men like that deserved to bleed until they 
choked on their own blood... 
When he'd finally found the bastard, sitting in his fancy place with a lovely 
blonde, laughing, plying her with drinks, no doubt plotting to get her drunk and 
then take her from her family, her life... Neal knew what he'd had to do. 
He'd followed the son of a bitch; followed him on several different occasions. 
To his apartment, back to the upscale bar where he hung out. He bided his time, 
carefully. Sooner or later, the bastard would give him an opening; sooner or 
later, Neal would make his move.
Tonight had been the right time. And Neal had followed him home, had slipped in 
through the open security door knowing the asshole was too smashed to know 
someone was that close behind him. Neal had been ready for him the second he'd 
walked into his fancy apartment.
The rest had been justice. The rest had been a way of balancing the scales. The 
bastard had gotten away with murder, and Neal had punished him.
He fell onto his bed, not bothering to remove the bloody shirt and jacket. 
Tomorrow, he thought. He'd clean it all up tomorrow. He wouldn't worry about it 
right now.
As Neal fell asleep, still fully dressed, in the other room his child slept, 
locked in, unaware that for several hours that evening, Daddy had become a 
monster.

CHAPTER NINE
FBI FIELD OFFICE
5:30 PM
Anton LaVeille loved women, and it showed. Enthusiastically single, aggressively 
determined to sample as many as possible for as long as possible, he had a bit 
of a reputation at the New Haven field office. He was charming (he thought), 
generous with his money and open to just about anything. Add in the tall, lean 
body, the dark hair and eyes, and white Pepsodent smile, and you had a hell of a 
package. That was Anton's honest opinion of himself. He'd sure gotten no 
complaints from the ladies he'd wined, dined and bedded over the years.
New Haven had its share of lovely women and LaVeille had dated plenty of them. 
His family hailed from outside New Orleans and he'd also plowed that particular 
field quite nicely before he'd even started college, outside of Baton Rouge. 
He'd given up a half-formed desire to be in criminal law and instead had joined 
the Baton Rouge PD, working there for a year before moving to New Haven and 
walking the beat here as well. A few more years of cop under his belt, and Anton 
had been ready for something else when he was recruited for the FBI. He'd been 
happy to return to New Haven after his stint at the Academy. And he'd never 
looked back nor regretted his decision to trade his 'Officer' title for 'Agent.'
He'd discovered that women seemed fascinated by his profession. When he'd been a 
cop he'd never had trouble finding dates, but his success rate with the ladies 
had escalated to new heights when he stuck 'Agent' in front of his name during 
introductions. Anton, never dull on his feet, picked up on that little bonus 
right away. A cop was strong and moralistic and protective, but a Federal Agent 
had a touch of mystique layered over all of the other base impressions. Anton 
liked it. Hell, he loved it.
He was a good agent. It wasn't just all women and flirting and screwing, for 
him. He was damn good at his job. Fellow agents respected him. His current 
partner was married, but Anton really liked Don Pierce. Don's wife was nothing 
to write home about in the looks department but she was nice, and they had a 
couple of cute boys. Pierce sure seemed to love his life and Anton always 
figured he was welcome to it. He didn't want to settle down. There were so many 
delicious ladies out there who could benefit from Anton LaVeille's special 
Southern style... 
Like Agent Dana Scully. Now, THERE was a woman! She was breathtaking. Anton had 
long been partial to redheads, and Agent Scully's coloring was particularly 
tempting against all of that silky-looking skin. She was slender and fine-boned, 
another attribute Anton liked. Hell, there wasn't a thing in the world he didn't 
like about Dana Scully. And he knew, sooner or later, he was going to get called 
out for his persistent staring, which he couldn't seem to stop doing. Morris 
probably didn't like it. Pierce had already mentioned it to him, albeit in a 
joking way. Anton had a feeling Dana Scully didn't like it much, either. He sure 
didn't mean to make her feel uncomfortable, as that wasn't a cool way to deal 
with a lovely lady. But, damn -! It was hard not to stare.
They'd all been very busy since the task forces had been set up and Anton hadn't 
a chance to get to know Dana, dazzle her with his style and charm, and lock her 
into a date. He was chomping at the bit to get her alone and talk to her, but it 
was just about impossible to do so. If Morris wasn't with her, then her partner 
was.
Anton couldn't help but wonder if there was any kind of personal relationship 
between Mulder and the pretty Dana. From what he'd heard, they'd been partnered 
for seven years. That was a long time in the Bureau. Their solve rate was off 
the charts and Anton knew it had everything to do with the way they worked 
together both professionally and personally. Trust and loyalty had to be there 
on both sides of your life when you were a Fed, for your success rate to zoom 
that way. It was even more impressive when he took into consideration her 
relative youth. She sure didn't look much older than about twenty-five or so, 
although realistically he knew she had to be older than that. All he really knew 
was that he wanted her. It might be unprofessional as hell, and he might be 
horning in on another man's prior claim. But he'd seen no overt possessiveness 
from Mulder regarding Dana, so in Anton's mind she was fair game.
Anton paused for a moment in front of the mirror in the men's bathroom and 
adjusted his tie, smoothed down his hair. He flashed his teeth, checking for 
stray food from lunch, and found himself grinning once again at the dazzling 
whiteness of his smile. To think how loudly he'd bitched and moaned when he was 
a kid and had to wear braces for three years! It had been worth it, though. 
Anton knew how much women were turned on by straight, white teeth. He brushed 
off a few specks of lint from his jacket, admiring the way the fit accentuated 
the breadth of his shoulders. The dark blue was very effective against his pale 
gray shirt and muted blue and gray tie. He looked damned fine. Maybe today was a 
good day for cornering Dana, and persuading her to have dinner with him. 
Although, he didn't think she'd take all that much persuading.
He walked out of the bathroom just as the elevator doors opened and Dana stepped 
out, her nose buried in a report she held in her hands. 
Talk about fortuitous! Anton couldn't believe his luck, especially when a quick 
glance into the open door of the elevator revealed no Mulder or Morris following 
in her wake. Well, never let it be said that Anton LaVeille didn't know how to 
take advantage of an opportunity –
"Agent Scully? Agent - Dana! Wait up!" Anton had to rush down the hall after her 
when it became apparent that she had no intention of looking up from her report 
to see him lounging casually against the wall. She'd simply walked off the 
elevator and kept on going, down the wide corridor without raising her head at 
all. He caught up with her right before she reached the double doors that housed 
some of the main offices as well as the large conference room the task force was 
currently using.
Scully looked up when she heard her name being called in a slightly panicked 
voice, and she watched Agent LaVeille hurry toward her. Oh, great. Just what she 
didn't need. She stifled a sigh and snapped the folder shut, pausing in the 
middle of the corridor with a vague, polite smile on her face.
"Yes, Agent. Something I can do for you?" Scully's voice was remote and as 
polite as her smile. 
Anton came to a stop in front of her, a little puzzled by the tone of her voice 
but determined to come away with the promise of a dinner date, preferably that 
very night. "You've been gone most of the day. I was curious as to how the 
autopsy went." His mouth formed the words but his eyes were caressing as they 
gazed at her. 
Scully fought down the impatience, and figured the best way to cool this man's 
jets was to keep it icily professional - and to pretend she hadn't a clue what 
he was after. In Scully's experience, nothing deflated a man's ardor faster than 
ice and cluelessness. When applied together, usually even the most amorous Don 
Juan found himself stymied.
She replied formally, "My findings on the autopsy performed this morning will be 
presented to the task force en masse, tomorrow. In this way all task force 
members benefit from hearing the same findings, backed up with a report, and 
there shouldn't be any resulting speculation which could be damaging to the 
case." With a polite nod and a murmured 'excuse me,' Scully turned to walk away, 
but LaVeille reached out one hand and snagged her arm. Taken by surprise, Scully 
looked down at his hand on her arm, then looked up at him with both eyebrows 
raised in query. Inside, she was irritated. She disliked being touched by 
strangers, and she especially disliked being detained by men who thought they 
were God's gift to all women. 
The oil in his voice just made it worse. Idly she speculated how many times in 
his life some woman had told him that slick way of drawling his words was some 
kind of aphrodisiac, as he smiled confidently at her and said, "But wait! I 
haven't had a chance to ask you about where you'd like to go for dinner." He 
watched her carefully, as if to gauge the way his words and arrogant assumption 
might affect her. No doubt he figured she'd swoon at the chance to be with him. 
Lord.
Aloud, she simply stated, "I have plans. If you'll excuse me, Agent, I have a 
lot of work to do." She stepped away, pulling with her arm to dislodge his hand, 
but Agent LaVeille wasn't about to let go. Scully swallowed a huff of extreme 
impatience. Either the man was obtuse as hell or he thought he was irresistible. 
Either way, he was going to lose a finger or two in about one minute, if he 
didn't release her arm. She looked pointedly at his hand, then raised her 
narrowed eyes to his, noting with disgust the confident jauntiness of his 
expression. 
The man really WAS in love with himself. God save her from all idiots of the 
male species... She pulled again, and he held fast, still smiling. "I know a 
fantastic place that serves a primo Moroccan grille. What time should I pick you 
up?" 
"Oh, for -" He was a complete moron. How had Mulder put up with being partnered 
with him, even during one isolated case? Scully knew for a fact that Mulder 
suffered fools not at all. She tugged again, and this time her voice reflected 
her anger. "Let go of my arm, Agent. Your behavior is unprofessional and 
bordering on harassment. Release me now or I'll report you. I don't care how 
necessary you might be to this case. Do you understand?"
Anton dimly realized he'd pushed it way too far with her, but he couldn't seem 
to help himself. This close up, she was even more gorgeous and he was having an 
impossible time restraining himself and his aggressiveness. He couldn't 
understand why she was resisting him; women usually loved the masterful 
approach. He'd had nothing but luck when he'd used it in the past. Unless -
"Are you involved with someone else? I'm sorry, I should have asked." Anton let 
go of her arm and pretended not to notice when she took a wide step back. Her 
eyes were flashing at him and he found himself entranced by the clear blue of 
them. He was more determined than ever to find a way to get her to succumb to 
his charm, and he smiled his best smile at her. "I can't help but envy whoever 
has your affection, Dana."
She ground her teeth together at his familiar use of her name and started to 
turn away just as he asked her again if there was someone in her life... and 
right about then Mulder emerged from the main office area, through the double 
doors. Scully's expression went from furious to entreating in a hurry, and she 
took two steps toward Mulder and laid her hand on his arm. He smiled at her, his 
eyes lighting up the way they always did when he saw her - and LaVeille 
immediately got the wrong idea.
Or in this instance, maybe the best possible idea.
"Oh. I see. Well, lucky you, Mulder. I should get going." Anton firmly tamped 
down envy and jealousy as he took note of the way Mulder had stepped into Dana's 
space, her hand still on his arm and their eyes suddenly locked on each other, 
effectively ignoring him. It rankled, it really did. And instead of making him 
back down, it suddenly had the reverse effect on him, for he waited until he'd 
managed to catch Dana's attention once more, and murmured softly, "I'm not 
giving up, Agent Scully. You know the saying, 'All's fair.' I've got a lot to 
offer." He paused, and his smile turned wolfish. 
"A lot." Nodding to Mulder, Anton walked away, whistling.
Mulder stared after him, shook his head as if to question the man's sanity, and 
turned to his partner, who was still holding his arm. "Mind telling me what that 
was all about? Although I did catch some of the silent scenes, through the glass 
doors. Nice and clear, these doors. They sparkle. Not as much as the daggers 
your eyes were flinging at poor old LaVeille, however. What happened? Did he 
come on like gangbusters?" 
She sighed and moved her hand to her face, rubbing at her eyes. "You might say 
that. The man is demented, Mulder. That's all I can figure. How well do you know 
him?"
"Not that well. We worked one case and I was up to my eyeballs in profiling. I 
recall LaVeille was astute, hard-working and respected his badge. It was about 
two years before you and I met. He was a playboy, even back then. Well, let's 
say he aspired to be a playboy. LaVeille has always been like that."
"He came on damned strong with me, and almost got his fingers broken as a 
result." She was still fuming.
"He touched you, beyond holding your arm? That's bold, even for LaVeille." 
Mulder didn't like it, not one bit.
Scully was quick to reassure, seeing the look in Mulder's eyes. "No, just my 
arm. But he wouldn't let go even after I asked, then demanded. It was foolhardy 
and rash, Mulder. I could get him in serious trouble with Morris. But I won't. 
I'll let this little episode slide, for now. If he persists, however, I won't 
hesitate to have him pulled from the task force and suspended."
"I don't blame you. And I'm glad I came along in the nick of time." When she 
looked confused, Mulder clarified, "You know, so that you could use me as a 
boy-toy decoy." He grinned at her and Scully snorted out a laugh, falling into 
step with him as they both turned back toward the conference room. His hand 
rested warmly at her back and she sighed a little, feeling the support and 
taking comfort from it.
"Well, sure. Nice of you to read my mind and understand my desperate need for a 
boy-toy, right about then. Above and beyond the call, Mulder. I'm a fortunate 
woman." This said in the most deadpan voice she could muster.
"Anytime, Scully. Anytime."
They walked into the conference room side by side, smiling a little, both 
thinking of one small moment when it seemed as if public acknowledgement might 
become a forgone conclusion.
Anton LaVeille watched them as they came through the doors. He saw the hand at 
the small of the back; saw the smiles, the ease of their regard for each other 
that went noticeably beyond a professional partnership. And knew he'd called it 
right when he'd said Mulder was a lucky man.
But not for long. Mulder was a nice guy but he was about to be replaced in Agent 
Scully's affections. Anton never gave up when he wanted something... and he 
wanted Dana Scully.

NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
NOVEMBER, 1979
"Daddy." No answer. She tried again. "Daddy? Are we going to make the turkey?" 
The apartment was chilly but she was used to it. Her father, always short of 
money, often refused to turn up the heat in an effort to save a few dollars. She 
pulled the sweater tighter around her shivering body and tried again. "Daddy? 
What about the turkey? Did you buy one?"
He roused himself from his slouch in the old easy chair. Shifted around until he 
could stare blearily at her, standing in the doorway hugging herself against the 
cold air in the room. As usual, her presence often irritated the shit out of 
him. 
She looked like him. Skinny, pasty. No color in her at all. Nothing like Anna. 
Jesus, he'd have given anything if the damned kid at least looked like Anna.
"Daddy?"
"There's no goddamn turkey. Who's got money for that expensive shit? You can 
have a hamburger." Neal Carson turned his back on his daughter and resumed 
watching the Macy's Thanksgiving Parade, flickering in and out along with the 
fuzzy static on the old television set across the room. With most of the lights 
out, the picture was a little easier to see, although he really wasn't seeing 
it. 
Fuck, he hated all holidays. He'd hated them ever since he'd lost Anna. Awash in 
the usual memories, he stared at the television but saw instead the lavish 
spread of food on the table in the house they used to own, steaming and 
delicious against the snowy white tablecloth and sparkling crystal goblets and 
china plates. Anna had made the best holiday meals. They'd eat until full to 
bursting, Punkie in the highchair banging on the little tray with mashed potato 
in her hair, the dining room ringing with laughter. Those early days had been 
sweet, so sweet... and then it had all gone to hell. 
Now he WAS in Hell. He was working a shit-fuck job that he hated, living in a 
dump with a landlord who'd just raised the rent - AGAIN - and all he had to show 
for his miserable life was a head full of memories of a wife forever lost to 
him, and a sniveling child who couldn't have had the decency to resemble her 
mother, even a little. Maybe he'd have found some comfort in his child's 
presence, if she'd looked like Anna.
Neal scrubbed at his unshaven face. Without turning around, he knew Punkie was 
still standing in the doorway staring at him. The kid would do that all the 
time; stare at him with wounded eyes. He hated it. He was trying, for Christ's 
sake, wasn't he? He'd stopped drinking because the expense had been killing 
them. He'd given up smoking for the same reason. He went to work every day even 
though he wanted desperately to quit. He went out and bought food, paid the 
bills, made sure she had clothes for school and enough lunch money every week. 
What more did the little brat want?
"Daddy?" There were tears in the word, in that shaky little voice. He couldn't 
stand listening to her voice. Why didn't it sound like Anna's? Why couldn't he 
have had at least that small bit of comfort?
It was all that bastard's fault. And he was still out there, destroying 
families, wrecking marriages. All his fault.
"All his fault. Son of a bitch. Bastard. All his fault." Neal was on his feet 
and walking unsteadily toward his daughter. She trembled wildly but didn't 
shrink away when he dropped to his knees in front of her and took her by the 
shoulders, staring into her wet eyes with burning intensity. "His fault. Not 
mine. You understand, don't you? DON'T YOU?" He was shaking her by the shoulders 
and she was sobbing and trying to answer him through chattering teeth, as he 
shook her and shouted that it wasn't his fault. 
"Stop. Daddy, STOP!" 
He let her go abruptly and she crumpled to the floor, crying, as he managed to 
gain his feet. Neal dug all ten fingers into his scalp and yanked at his hair 
twice, three times, until his head cleared. The parade roared on over the old 
black and white television, huge hot air balloons shaped like Superman and 
Snoopy, Mr. Magoo and Underdog. Some school band was playing "Shake Your Booty" 
way too loudly. Neal turned his head to stare stupidly at the screen. What kind 
of asshole band played "Shake Your Booty" during a Macy's parade? Didn't they 
have any respect for Thanksgiving? It was another sure sign of the way the world 
was breaking down into nothing but shit. Something had to be done.
"I'll fix it. I can fix it. He'll pay, I promise." Neal reached for his daughter 
and dragged her to her feet, supporting her when her thin legs threatened to 
give out. He pulled her up until he could see her tear-streaked face, and 
muttered, "I have to fix it. Won't take long. We'll eat when I get back. You 
lock the door, Punkie. Lock it and I'll be back later." He made her sit down in 
his easy chair. She stared up at him in confusion, wiping at her face, 
hiccupping a little. "You watch the parade. See the pretty balloons? You like 
balloons. I'll buy you one just like them, someday. But right now I've gotta fix 
it." Neal grabbed a jacket and walked to the door.
"Daddy, where are you going? Please don't go! Daddy!" 
But Neal was already gone, in more ways than just his presence in the dingy old 
apartment.
Breaking into fresh sobs, his daughter curled into the easy chair and stared 
blindly at the fuzzy screen, wondering how long he'd be gone, this time. 
~~~~ 

UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
Watching the news is becoming more and more fun. See them trying to figure out 
who's balancing the scales? Assholes. Dumber than dirt and twice as thick as a 
ton of mud.
<They should be thanking me. They should give me a fucking medal.>
So many bastards out there. It's gone beyond punishing just one man. Beyond 
teaching him a lesson. Been there and done that. Now it's all of them, all the 
bastards who thought they could get away with taking a woman from her husband, 
from her family. Her children.
<Stupid cops should pay ME for what I've done for moral decency, around here. 
Ungrateful sons of bitches.>
Can't stop, not yet. There are too many out there who need to be taken down for 
what they've done. They're everywhere. Everywhere.
There goes one, now.


HAMSTEAD HOTEL
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
7:10 PM
"Come on in." Scully held her door wide open as Mulder stepped through, his arms 
full of take-out. "What did you do, buy out the place?"
Mulder dropped his bags on the small table in the corner of the hotel room and 
shrugged off his jacket. He laid it on her bed and stretched lavishly, popping 
several neck muscles as he did so. "I splurged. I missed lunch and I know you 
did, too. I figure a hungry Scully is a cranky Scully." 
She turned on a few more lights, then moved to the table and poked through the 
bags. "So you decided to stock up on food whose leftovers we cannot possibly 
keep refrigerated, all in the name of un-cranking me. I'm not paying for half of 
this, Mulder. All I wanted was a salad."
"It's on me. And there's salad. Keep looking; you'll find it. I also got you 
low-fat dressing. And egg rolls. And a quesadilla. 
And I think there's some barbequed chicken in that large bag, along
with cole slaw. And I didn't forget the cookies -" 
"Good Lord. Is there anything you DIDN'T buy?"
He smiled sweetly at her. "I forgot the iced tea." 
She merely chuckled and started digging out the food, setting it up buffet-style 
in the middle of the table. "You're a piece of work, Mulder. We'll be eating the 
leftovers for breakfast."
"Well, anything has to be better than that albino omelet you were scarfing down 
the other day." Mulder grabbed a paper plate and started loading it up.
For a few minutes they sat and ate, making a decent dent in the food covering 
the surface of the table. Both found they were hungrier than they'd originally 
thought. It had been a long, dismal day and Scully in particular was tired, her 
fingers cramping up from the back-to-back autopsies she'd performed and her neck 
stiff as well. She reclined on the tiny sofa under the wide window, and gave 
herself a few moments to stretch and pop her upper vertebrae.
Mulder sat down next to her and silently pushed his thumbs into the knotted 
muscles, remarking, "You're a mess, Scully. You should never let it get this 
bad."
"Well, it's rather hard to crack bones when weighing a large intestine. I had my 
hands full. Ouch." Mulder had both thumbs in a very sore place and the relief he 
was providing was at once painful and soothing. She arched into his hands.
"Hold still. I'm almost done." Thankfully, he thought to himself. Scully had the 
softest skin in the world and he was fighting like mad to keep his wandering 
fingers above the covers, so to speak. It wasn't easy as the collar of her 
sweater was loose and he'd gotten bare skin several times.
As if reading his mind, she flushed a bit and moved away from him, flashing him 
a grateful if self-conscious smile of thanks. Leaning toward the little coffee 
table in front of the sofa, Scully picked up a folder, the same one she'd been 
carrying earlier in the day when Agent LaVeille had issued his asinine dinner 
request. "We might as well go over this before the briefing tomorrow."
"Did you find anything of interest?" Mulder scooted a little closer to her and 
looked over her shoulder at the contents of the file.
"A few things. One thing I did find was evidence of the sedative Nembutal. Not a 
large dose, but enough to induce drowsiness. Standard forms of this drug are in 
pill form but it's available in syringe form as well. And I found a needle trace 
on the lower neck area of the victim Matthew Borden."
"What about the body that was exhumed? Which one was it?"
"Mason Roone, the victim whose photo we saw side by side with Jason Walker. Whom 
I also autopsied, by the way." Scully stifled a yawn.
"Three of them? Jesus, no wonder you were sore and stiff!" Mulder shook his head 
in disbelief. She must have broken the record on world's fastest slice and dice, 
and yet he knew Scully would have done each autopsy with the utmost care and 
attention to detail. "I'm going to ask the obvious: how did the two latest 
victims compare?"
She pointed to a section of her neatly-typed report. "Look for yourself. Almost 
identical, right down to the syringe puncture in the neck and the sedative of 
choice. The killer dosed them both, probably to keep them under long enough to 
restrain them to his satisfaction."
"Were they, um, molested or handled in any way prior to death - that you could 
tell -beyond the obvious cause of death, that is?" Mulder felt a little squicked 
out for asking and for imagining, even for one second, a deranged killer sitting 
beside his naked victim and 'playing around' with anything.
Scully also felt the edge of squick, as she answered. "First off, may I simply 
say 'eww.' No molestation that I could spot. Just the needle puncture and the 
trace evidence of Nembutal. Now, the interesting thing: the recent murders are a 
decent copy of the original murders, Mulder... but not exact. I found no trace 
of sedative in Roone's body. What does that tell you?"
Mulder thought a moment. "That Roone's killer didn't need the added security of 
keeping him under long enough to tie him down. And that the current killer might 
be weaker physically, enough that the sedative would become necessary. Weaker. 
Maybe older. Maybe of an age to have committed both sets of murders; then and 
now."
"Yes, exactly. The evidence of Nembutal changes everything, Mulder. Now I'm 
wondering if perhaps the original killer might have come back to continue where 
he left off."

FROM THE JOURNAL OF NEAL CARSON
'I can't stop him. He keeps coming back. I've killed him over and over and he 
keeps coming back.
'It's a miracle I haven't lost my job. I come home at night so wiped out that I 
barely wake up in time to go to work the next day. I stay out until three, four 
in the morning, looking for the bastard. I have to search for him carefully. 
People in town are scared. If they only knew, stupid assholes; if they only knew 
I'm doing it for them. So that the bastard doesn't get THEIR women, destroy 
THEIR happy homes.
'He'll keep doing it. He'll go out to the bars and hide out in respectable 
places, looking for another woman to fuck. He doesn't care how many times he 
ruins someone's life, kills their love and hurts their kids. The bastard doesn't 
care.
'I care. I always have. If I can rid the world of him, once and for all, it's 
the least I can do, isn't it? I let him take my Anna. I let him take her and 
then get her killed. I won't hide away like a goddamned coward any longer, 
allowing the bastard to rip apart another family. Every time he tries, I'll be 
there, and I'll stop him. I'll punish him.
'I'll fix it, I swear. I'll fix it. And this journal will be a record of my 
responsibility, my duty.'
~~~~ 

HAMSTEAD HOTEL
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
12:12 AM
After the third or fourth yawn, Mulder realized they'd lost the edge and there 
was little point of spending any more time discussing the case. He rose to his 
feet and picked up his discarded jacket. Scully was relaxed against the cushions 
of the little sofa, trying hard to pretend she was still awake. 
He grinned sleepily at her. "Give it up, Scully. You're dead on your feet."
"I'm not standing up." She yawned.
"Okay, you're dead on your ass. Whatever. I'm taking off. Meet me for breakfast 
tomorrow?"
She stood and moved to the door behind him, stretching her arms above her head 
and fighting against another yawn. "So you can suck up more pig and butter, 
drowned in syrup?"
"Well, sure. Beats albino chickens and their terrible offspring." Mulder turned 
to her, one hand on the doorknob, and smiled at the way she swayed ever so 
slightly on her feet. Sometimes he forgot that she had her more fragile times; 
when the day just took so much out of her and wrung her mostly empty. He was 
glad he'd given her a massage. He'd gladly give her another one, any old time 
she wanted. Hell, he'd drop his jacket and give her one more, right now...
As if reading his thoughts, Scully touched her hand briefly to his shoulder. 
"Thanks for the TLC and the meal, Mulder. I'll be able to sleep tonight without 
too much muscle cramping."
"Good." They stood a few seconds more, looking at each other, neither one ready 
to end the evening even though they knew six AM would come awfully early.
Scully moved first, taking a step back, toward the door. "Well, goodnight, 
Mulder." Her lips formed the words but her eyes held a look of longing that was 
impossible to miss.
He decided not to miss it. It was suddenly very easy to reach out a hand, cup it 
around her neck, pull her close and give in to the need to kiss her mouth. Which 
was exactly what he did. It was by no means their first kiss.
But it was their most intense, because this time he opened his mouth, and his 
tongue came out to play.
This time, her tongue answered the invitation. 
Deep, but not soft. Slow, but not greedy. Wet, but not sloppy and so, so sweet. 
The moment spun out, five seconds, ten, twenty. Thirty. And he was coming up for 
air and looking into her eyes as deeply as he'd kissed her; looking for 
something, some response to it, in hers; finding that response and giving a 
short murmur of joy, jubilation... before lowering his mouth and kissing her all 
over again.
Who needed sleep? He didn't. They kissed, and kissed. And kissed some more. His 
hands held her gently, his fingertips caressed slowly, maddeningly along the 
elegant curve of her spine. They ventured no further than above her clothes. 
Unusual, because Mulder wanted so much more from her. He wanted the skin and the 
flesh, the core of her, the good of her. He wanted all of it, and badly. 
But not tonight. Soon... but not tonight.
The quiet in the room was broken by the sound of lips pulling apart, of rapid 
breathing, an audible swallow - and a soft murmur of agreement when their lips 
joined again.

CHAPTER TEN

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
JANUARY, 1997 
Tracey was thirty years old when she found the first of her father's journals.
She'd been in her rented unit in the mini-warehouse, looking through old papers, 
tax statements and such, trying to find enough to present for a tax audit. The 
very words 'tax audit' chilled her to the bone, for she knew any trouble with 
the IRS could spell doom for her savings account. She had a decent job but she 
didn't make a whole lot of money. She'd been on the lower rungs of the 
professional ladder for going on seven years, and despite all of her efforts it 
didn't look as if she'd ever make it even several rungs up farther from where 
she was. She just didn't have what it took to succeed, she supposed.
It was probably her father's fault, but even now, even after all these years, 
she had a hard time thinking of her father without suffering severe stomach 
pains and difficulty breathing. Conflicting emotions within her heart would just 
about flatten her, for if ever there was a love-hate relationship between a 
father and his daughter, Tracey had one with Neal Carson.
He'd died when she was eleven. Had been walking home from who-knows-where, on 
foot because he'd crashed the car a month before and hadn't the extra money to 
get it repaired so that it would at least be driveable. Walking along one of the 
lesser highways coming in and out of New Haven, still it had been a dangerous 
place for anyone to be, late at night during a heavy rain. Visibility had 
probably been low and he'd never seen the truck that hit him. Or the driver of 
that truck never saw him. Either way, he'd died almost instantly. 
Tracey had sobbed for days, alone in the cramped bedroom where she'd been little 
more than a prisoner. Her reluctant sanctuary, for she'd grown to depend on that 
small area she'd called her own, even as she'd railed against it over the years 
that she lived in the dingy old apartment with her father. Her aunt Miranda had 
sat with her at times, stroking her tangled hair, and at other times had 
remained in the messy kitchen, smoking one cigarette after another and making 
lists of what was needed to be sold and what could be junked. Apparently Aunt 
Miranda thought most of her brother's apartment could be easily junked, for 
she'd done exactly that. And she'd strode into Tracey's tiny room, opened the 
equally-tiny closet and sent one scathing glance over the meager assortment of 
clothes hanging on crooked wire hangers, before turning to her niece and holding 
out a handful of paper shopping bags.
"Pack your things, Punkie. You're going to come home with me. I'm going to take 
care of you."
Besides an overflow of bitterness, cursing life in general and blaming everyone 
else for what had gone wrong in his world, Neal Carson had left nothing for his 
daughter except for a few heavy boxes labeled 'books,' and another small box 
labeled 'Anna.' When she'd opened that box with trembling fingers, she'd found 
only a folded stack of her mother's clothes; things she hadn't wanted when she'd 
left her father for Papa Doug. 
Tracey had been only three, but she remembered the day they'd walked away from 
the pretty little house on Moss Lane. She'd pitched a fit because she'd loved 
her frilly pink bedroom, and Mama was pulling at her, trying to get her stuffed 
into the car so quickly. Papa Doug had been behind the wheel, smiling at her and 
telling her everything was going to be all right, he'd be her daddy now and he'd 
adopt her, take such good care of her...
Thing was, he'd made good on all of his promises. Doug Blanden had adopted her; 
given her his name. He'd treated her as if she were his very own. She'd had a 
lovely, spacious room in the big house in Groton, and for a while she'd been so 
very happy. Her mama smiled all of the time and had pretty new clothes to wear. 
Tracey had lots of toys and dolls to play with; best of all her dog Moosie had 
come with them, too. Life sure seemed perfect.
Then she lost it all - everything. Her mama. Papa Doug. Even Moosie, who'd run 
away and was never found. How she'd cried! Tracey remembered all of it as if it 
had happened yesterday...
He'd slipped his leash and had run off. Tracey had been in her bed, dozing; the 
babysitter was in the living room, watching television. Mama and Papa Doug had 
been out to dinner and were supposed to be home late. Tracey had awoken to hear 
Susan swearing, which in itself was unusual, for Susan never swore. She was only 
sixteen years old but she was very responsible and she never said bad words, 
even when Tracey wasn't around to hear her.
"Shit! Goddamn it! Now what am I supposed to do? Stupid dog!"
Tracey had crept down the stairs and had sat on the first landing, watching as 
Susan alternately paced the foyer and stared out the window. Susan knew she 
couldn't leave Tracey all alone. She had called a few of the neighbors and asked 
them if they'd seen Moosie running around; none had. But Mama and Papa Doug had 
come home earlier than they'd promised, and to this day Tracey recalled the 
happiness simply radiating from them, when they'd walked in the house.
They'd been celebrating, Papa Doug had said with the world's biggest grin. There 
was going to be a new baby, he said. Mama had gotten dizzy at the restaurant and 
he'd rushed her home. 'Susan, you know how these ladies are when they're 
pregnant...'
And Susan, finally getting a word in edgewise, told her mama and papa that 
Moosie had run off. And right about then, Tracey had come flying down the rest 
of the stairs and had launched herself at her mama, begging, "Please find my 
doggie! Please find Moosie!"
Well, that was what they'd done. With a smile and a hug, Mama had promised 
they'd find him, and she'd asked Susan to stay a little longer, because she 
figured two heads were better than one when it came to looking for that silly 
dog, and even Papa Doug knew that Moosie was stubborn enough to come only when 
Mama called for him. He had never really gotten used to Papa.
So out they went to look for Moosie. They never came back. Hours later, a 
tired-eyed policeman knocked on the door and told Susan that Mama and Papa had 
been hit head-on by another car when they rounded a sharp curve out on Spring 
Road, looking for Moosie. The policeman said the man in the other car was drunk 
and weaving all over the road, driving way too fast. 
They never came back... any of them. Mama. Papa Doug. Moosie. 
Gone.
And so was her life, as she knew it... gone. She went back to New Haven with her 
toys and her dolls, and lived the next six years in that grimy old apartment 
with a father she didn't even know, listening to him rail at night about his 
beautiful Anna. Watching him smoke endlessly, drink himself into a stupor and 
lose three jobs in the space of two years. Afraid to talk to him, afraid to get 
too close to him, and yet needing a touch, just one small touch from him, to 
assure her she wasn't all alone in the world... A touch that never really came. 
Knowing in her heart that she'd never be able to measure up to her mama, at 
least never in her father's eyes.
Tracey had sat in the dim storage space and remembered it all, as she sorted 
through folders and files and placed anything that looked like tax mumbo-jumbo 
in a neat pile. She'd dug in the final box, bypassing a few old photographs, her 
emotions too raw to handle looking at anyone's pictures... and then she found 
it, in the bottom of the box.
Two journals, banded together with a piece of string. A binder, stuffed with 
clippings and what looked like the edges of snapshots peeping out along the 
sides. And she had no idea why on earth she should feel such a chill, coming up 
from the floor and saturating her as she sat there and stared at what was in her 
hands. No idea at all.
She untied the journal bundle and opened the one on top. It wasn't very thick 
but as she flipped through, it looked as if every page had been filled with her 
father's curiously neat handwriting. She thumbed back to page one and started 
reading.
'I can't stop him. He keeps coming back. I've killed him over and over and he 
keeps coming back.'
Tracey had dropped the book as if it had suddenly developed snake-like fangs, 
and jumped to her feet, staring at it with eyes gone wide with utter shock. For 
endless seconds she stood, trembling, staring at her father's journal -
Then she sank to the floor and picked it up, hands shaking, and began to read.

CHAPTER ELEVEN
HAMSTEAD HOTEL
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
7:05 AM
When he answered the door, toothbrush in hand and a mouthful of foam, Scully 
found herself grinning inanely. Mulder could look like a five-year old when he 
performed some of the most everyday rituals. Somehow the sight of him in his 
doorway holding a hot pink toothbrush, that warm light in his eyes, did her in. 
She must be losing it.
And she was having an impossible time forgetting the night before, when his 
mouth had kissed her almost senseless and his hands had touched her with such 
restrained passion.
She had to tease him, just to regain a bit of balance. She pointed to his 
toothbrush and inquired, "Pink?" Her expression reflected amused disbelief. 
Mulder shrugged as he turned back to the bathroom to spit and rinse; she heard 
water running. He walked out wiping his mouth on a hand towel and before she 
could react, swept her into his arms and planted a good-morning kiss on her lips 
that obliterated what small amount of lipstick she'd applied and erased vital 
brain matter right along with her Lancome Rosy Gloss. She kissed him back, one 
hand clutching his shoulder, needing that anchor.
So, this was the path, she thought dizzily. It was happening fast, not fast 
enough, she was ready, she was in a panic of not-ready, she wanted it, feared 
it, this would interfere with their work concentration, this wouldn't change who 
they were, this would affect every nuance of their lives, who was she kidding, 
this was everything to her. To both of them. She kissed him back and her arm 
went around his neck as she pressed herself to him.
He released her lips but kept her close. "Morning. You ready for breakfast? Are 
you hungry?" His eyes were even brighter, the smile in them so warm. Up close, 
it was almost too much. She had to ease back just a little, had to regain some 
small chunk of composure. He allowed a few inches, his arms now loose about her 
waist. 
Scully cleared her throat. "Breakfast would be - Mulder, are we being stupid, 
here?" She couldn't help it. Always in the past they'd been careful to keep that 
physical distance irregardless of what their eyes, their hearts might be saying 
to each other. Seven years, and she felt ready for more... but she still had to 
question it.
Damn it. So much for going with the flow. 
Mulder didn't pretend ignorance. He stroked a palm over her hair and rested it 
against her neck. Cocked his head just a bit to the side the way he did when he 
was processing something of importance. His eyes searched hers, noting the 
traces of confusion as well as the desire still banked from the other night. He 
could relate; he was a bit bemused himself. And yet, this felt right. Felt good. 
He knew what he wanted and he knew it was the same as Scully's wants. But he 
understood her hesitance, far better than she might think he did.
"Maybe we are, a little. Stupid, that is. Let's face it, our lives right now 
might not be all that conducive to romance. But Scully," he drew her closer, 
relieved when her arms went about his waist, "I wanted this two years ago. 
Three, four, five years ago. I wanted this when I barely knew you. I wanted this 
before I knew you. The years have simply urged up the wanting. Ten years from 
now that urge will still be there, and if we aren't together at that time I'll 
still live and work and exist, but I won't be happy. I won't be fulfilled. And 
neither will you." He shook her gently, as if to persuade her to see. "Will 
you?"
She shook her head, slowly. "No. I wouldn't be happy. I might be saner, but not 
happy."
"Oh, well... sanity is way overrated, trust me. Better to be off your onion." He 
bent his head and rubbed his cheek against hers. His low rasp feathered the hair 
at her ear when he repeated, "You ready for breakfast? Are you hungry?" 
Her whisper almost took him to his knees. "I'm hungry. But that's another story. 
I'm also ready for breakfast, too." She slipped from his arms and reached for 
the jacket hanging in the tiny closet in the narrow hallway. Holding it out, she 
quipped, "I'm buying. But only if you eat something healthy."
Mulder shrugged into the jacket and caught at her hand, pulling her out the 
door. "Then it's a good thing I have cash on hand. I feel the need for saturated 
meat fat and sugar."
"Ugh." 
They walked to the elevator and stepped on. As the doors closed, Scully inquired 
sweetly, "So. Pink?"
His reply was long-suffering. "That's what the clerk at Rite-Aid asked me when I 
bought it. What, real men can't use a pink toothbrush? Anyhow, I thought it was 
orange."
"Like that's any better. Mulder, that thing is as hot pink as they come. You 
need glasses."
"I have glasses. If you're a good girl, I'll wear them tonight, just for you."
"The wire frames?"
"Yep."
Her droll, "Oh, be still my heart," simply delighted him.

FBI FIELD OFFICE
8:45 AM
Lynda Kelly, the assistant from their secondary team, greeted them both when 
they walked in. She handed Scully a thick folder and shyly informed them, 
"Special Agent Morris is running late. This is the latest from the primary team; 
some of it you have already seen, Agent Mulder." She blushed when Mulder smiled 
his thanks at her, and stammered, "I'll be in your orifice, um, I mean I'll be 
in your office setting up the boards. Do I have everything you want in there?" 
Her pale eyes darted from Mulder to Scully and back again and her cheeks 
reddened even more as she realized what she'd said. 
Mulder replied gently, "We have all we need at this time, Lynda. Thanks very 
much." He watched as she nodded and bobbed up and down a little, almost as if 
she were curtsying, then turned and hurried out of the room. "She's a timid 
little thing, isn't she?"
"Well, actually she's taller than me. But I know what you mean. She's not sure 
what to make of you, Mulder. What did you do this time, wink at her?" 
"I never did! I barely smiled at her, Scully. Honest."
"Uh-huh." Scully hid a smile of her own as they chose seats at one end of the 
conference room. 
Mulder sat down next to her and, noting the as-usual persistent stare of one 
Anton LaVeille from across the wide table, muttered under his breath. "Speaking 
of... have you mentioned LaVeille's behavior to Morris, yet? They're occasional 
weekend golfing buddies. Might not be a bad idea for Morris to say something. I 
know it makes you uncomfortable."
She shook her head and turned in her chair, effectively giving LaVeille the 
shoulder treatment. Mulder noticed the dark look that crossed his face, before 
he turned and started chatting with the agent sitting closest to him. Nudging 
her lightly with his elbow, Mulder vowed, "I'll protect you. My nail-clippers 
are a registered lethal weapon."
"You're a goof." Scully knew what he was doing; deflecting her attention from 
the grisly photos that she'd unearthed when she'd opened the folder. "Mulder, do 
you realize that any of these victims could be related to you? The resemblance 
is uncanny." She'd noticed it the very first day but hadn't wanted to say 
anything about it, much less think it. But it had to be mentioned. And she could 
no longer deny her worry.
Mulder glanced over at the photos. Shrugged, "Well, I have better taste in 
clothes than they do, but yeah. I noticed. Kind of hard not to. But Scully, 
there are several men in this room that fit the description. Tall, dark and 
handsome is common enough in any city, don't you think?" He fluttered his 
eyelashes at her and weaseled a partial smile out of her. 
But she persisted, "That's not the point. We need to be as cautious as anyone 
else. YOU need to be, Mulder. No more late-night jogging through the dark 
streets of New Haven. Not unless I'm with you."
"You want to jog with me? You hate jogging."
"Yes. I hate it. But I kind of um, like your skin, and I'd hate to see it flayed 
open or anything like that. So humor me. I'll start going with you."
"If you insist." Secretly he was thrilled at the thought of extra evening time 
with her. How could he not be? 
Morris came in as they both turned their attention back to the folder in front 
of them, glancing up when he walked directly to their side of the table and 
slipped into the seat next to Scully. "Agents." He poked at the folder with one 
blunt finger. "We might have a break on this latest victim, Mathew Borden. We 
have a witness."
"A witness? From where?" Mulder exchanged a hopeful expression with Scully.
"Borden's neighborhood. A house two doors down, a Mrs. Barbara Fordent. Widowed, 
retired and probably nosier than hell, which fortunately for us could be a good 
thing. Mrs. Fordent has a habit of getting up late at night and making the 
rounds of her house, staring out through every window and sometimes standing out 
on her porch with binoculars. She called into the local PD when Borden's photo 
hit the news. Said she saw someone on the front porch of Borden's residence, 
someone she says looked suspicious. Of course, probably everyone walking around 
in her neighborhood she doesn't know would look suspicious. Can you go over 
there and talk to her?" 
"Definitely." Mulder was on his feet and pulling out Scully's chair, already 
thinking ahead. Scully rose and gathered up the folder, nodded to Morris and 
preceded Mulder out of the conference room. Morris noticed LaVeille's eyes never 
left her as she walked away with Mulder - as usual, it would seem - guiding her 
with one hand at the small of her back. Well, maybe 'guide' was the wrong word. 
Whatever the proper interpretation, it was clear to Ross Morris that the pretty 
agent was spoken for. He sighed and got to his feet, intent on pulling LaVeille 
out the door and giving him a lecture concerning the impropriety of continually 
gawking at a fellow peer and how lucky he was that Agent Scully hadn't peeled 
the flesh from his bones, yet. Delicate-looking she might be, but Morris had a 
feeling she could more than hold her own when crossed or seriously hit on by 
some fool who didn't know better. Like Anton LaVeille. 
He caught LaVeille's attention and then jerked a thumb toward the outer door. As 
the younger agent rose and walked toward him, Morris couldn't help but feel as 
if he was about to lecture one of his own kids. 

CHAPTER TWELVE
1727 ALMOND COURT
NEW HAVEN
10:30 AM
Barbara Fordent was a late-sixty-something, retired bookkeeper who had a 
houseful of cats, some lethargic-looking goldfish swimming in a small aquarium 
and a pair of mini-binoculars slung around her neck. Mulder had the feeling she 
put them on in the morning and didn't take them off, even when she went to bed 
at night. 
Six cats of varying size and gender watched the goldfish with predatory eyes as 
their mistress perched herself on the edge of a flower-print sofa and in a 
breathless voice regaled her reluctant visitors with the comings-and-goings of 
the entire neighborhood. 
"And I told the poor woman that she really needed to keep a better eye on her 
husband. Why, you know how these men wander about and get themselves tangled up 
in affairs with younger women! It happens all the time. If I hadn't been looking 
up the street that morning, I'd have never seen that floozy sneak in the back 
door as soon as Dorothy walked out the front!" Mrs. Fordent brushed a cat off 
her shoulder as absent-mindedly as one would brush at lint; the cat leapt 
sideways with a muttered hiss and missed landing on Mulder's knees by merely 
inches. He flinched and the affronted feline streaked into another room. 
Scully turned a laugh into a cough; then tried to steer the woman toward the 
subject at hand, for about the third time since they'd arrived and sat down on 
her cat hair-infested sofa. "Mrs. Fordent, tell us about the suspicious-looking 
person you saw on Matthew Borden's front porch. Can you provide a description?"
Mrs. Fordent gave it some thought as she reached down and picked up an 
enormously overweight cat that obviously hadn't missed any meals, be it Lil' 
Friskies or goldfish. She propped the purring blob on her chest and held it like 
a baby as she remarked, "Well, let me think. It was hard to see even with that 
full moon. The crazies always come out during a full moon, don't they? Why, I 
remember a few years back, when Frannie Loomis over on Oak Lane up and stabbed 
her poor maid, Maisie, with a pair of scissors, then ran out in the back yard 
wearing nothing but an apron and lopped off the heads from every single rose in 
her garden!"
"Mrs. Fordent. Could you please try to think about what happened just a few 
nights ago -"
The cat lady was on a roll, however. "And then there was that rash of newspaper 
robberies, here on the cul-de-sac. Someone stole every single paper in 
everyone's mailboxes. Rolled them up and piled them on the Thompson's front lawn 
and set fire to them, and all because Arnold Thompson liked dancing in his 
wife's underwear in his own living room. It was a wonder the flames didn't reach 
the house, what with the wind that evening!" She quivered self-righteously as 
she recounted the event, the cat purring in tandem with her huffing breaths. 
Mulder rubbed at his eyes, feeling a headache coming on.
"Mrs. Fordent -"
She ignored his attempts to change the subject and plowed gleefully on, secure 
in the knowledge that she had a somewhat captive audience. "I've often thought I 
should move. This neighborhood simply isn't what it used to be, you know? But 
I'd have to dig Herbert up, if I did. I couldn't stand to leave him behind."
Scully knew she was going to regret asking, but she just couldn't help herself. 
"Herbert? Is that one of your, um, cats?"
"Oh, heavens NO! Herbert was my husband! I had him cremated when he passed away, 
oh, I guess it's been fifteen years, now. I planted him in the Japanese garden 
out back. The poor man always wanted to go see Japan but we never could afford 
the trip. I figured making that garden for him and then laying him to rest in 
that fancy lacquered urn was the next best thing to a week in Tokyo." She beamed 
at Scully, who sent her a weak smile in return and wondered how the hell this 
interview had gone down the tubes so damned fast.
Mulder appeared to be choking on something but it was impossible to see his face 
as he had his hand shielding his eyes. Scully decided it was past time to reel 
Mrs. Fordent in; they'd be here for the rest of the week, sitting in cat hair, 
if her relentless storytelling wasn't stopped. She stood and hovered over both 
woman and cat, hoping to project a bit of professional intimidation. "Mrs. 
Fordent, Agent Mulder and I are investigating a murder. It would help us a great 
deal if you could concentrate on the events of the night Matthew Borden died, 
and tell us what you saw. Without embellishment. Please."
Barbara Fordent puffed a bit indignantly but apparently realized she'd milked it 
for all she could, because her reply was surprisingly concise and brief. "I was 
up at around one in the morning. I walked to the back door, let out a few of my 
babies, then walked to the front door to check the lock, which I do every night. 
I noticed a dark shape on the porch of Matt's house. I looked out the screen 
door and watched this person walk down the street toward me. I don't think he 
knew my front door was open. I watched him until he turned the corner."
"Can you describe this person? And are you certain it was a man?"
"I'm almost positive it was a man. Below-average height, I guess, for a man, but 
I'm certain of the gender. Maybe five-seven. Maybe less. Wore all black from 
head to foot. Black hat, what you call a watch-cap, on his head. I couldn't see 
any hair sticking out. No skin showing, either. Wasn't carrying anything that I 
could tell."
"What about his build, Mrs. Fordent? Age?" Mulder scribbled quickly as she 
paused to consider.
"It was hard to tell, because his clothes looked bulky. Might have been heavy. 
Might have been slender. I'm just not sure. I couldn't even guess his age, 
truly. But I knew he was up to no good. Why on earth would anyone dressed all in 
black be skulking about in this neighborhood at one in the morning? This is a 
nice neighborhood, always has been. Even if some of these folks around here are 
a little eccentric."
"Yes, of course. Thank you, Mrs. Fordent. You've been a big help." Scully backed 
toward the door as Mulder smiled blindingly at the woman, causing her to pause 
in the middle of yet another tattle on one of her hapless neighbors. She put a 
hand to her throat and managed a sighing 'good-bye,' as they made their escape.
Mulder brushed off clumps of feline fur from his slacks. Sneezed twice. Scully 
started laughing as soon as they reached the car, and he pointed an admonishing 
finger at her.
"Not a word, Scully. Not a single damned word."
"Wouldn't think of it. I'll drive, Mulder. You're all... fuzzy." 
She swallowed a chuckle and moved to the driver's side.
"Oh, shut up."

FBI FIELD OFFICE
3:20 PM
He paced outside the elevators. Then he paced around the entrance to the 
stairwell. Then he stalked to the entrance of the conference room and paced 
there, awhile. And he steamed as he paced. Anton LaVeille was pissed.
Morris had chewed him out like a first-year rookie. It hadn't set very well at 
all. Granted, his boss had done the chewing in a vacant room on the first floor, 
but it had rankled. It made him feel like an idiot. LaVeille didn't appreciate 
being made to feel like an idiot.
Okay, so he stared at Dana Scully, some. Okay, a lot. All right, damn it, all 
the time. Shit, how the hell was he supposed to control a basic male urge like 
that? Any other woman would have been thrilled to find themselves the object of 
his regard. Any other woman would have loved the attention. He was doing this 
chick a favor, as far as he was concerned.
As soon as Anton thought of it that way, he immediately felt some shame. Dana 
Scully wasn't like that, as far as he could tell. She genuinely didn't SEE him 
for the man he was, because she was too far gone on Mulder, the lucky bastard. 
Hell, he knew some of their background, didn't he? Partnered for seven years, 
through some of the worst and most bizarre cases in FBI history. He knew all of 
that. He knew there'd been a bad time in Dallas, the beginning of their sixth 
year, when both had gone out on a massively-complicated case and they'd barely 
made it back alive. He'd made a point of reading up on a little of their history 
inside the Bureau. After all, he and Mulder had been paired on a case, once. 
They'd been temporary partners, and he'd remained curious about the young agent 
whose reputation had grown by leaps and bounds.
Admittedly, some of what he'd read had seemed way too fantastical to be real. He 
supposed anything could be exaggerated, and perhaps the Bureau had its own 
reasons for plumping up the Dynamic Duo's solve rate. Who knew for sure? So 
they'd been through a lot together. They were dedicated to each other. Shit, for 
all of their clinging to each other, he should assume they'd been screwing on a 
regular basis, too. He'd have been hard put to set Dana aside, if he'd been 
Mulder and had a chance for a piece of that sweet ass of hers...
It didn't mean she couldn't give someone else a chance, a try, did it? How in 
hell could she know who was best for her unless she sampled what was out there? 
Anton knew it was up to him to educate her. He didn't give a fuck who told him 
differently, boss or not. Anton was on a goddamn mission. That was enough of a 
reason for him. 
He was going to talk to her, tonight. He was going to make her understand what 
she was missing by avoiding him. He'd never had a woman avoid him in his entire 
life, never. It was completely foreign to him. For as long as he could remember, 
women had fallen all over themselves to be around him, including his sisters. 
He'd been the only boy in a household of five older sisters and a doting mother. 
He'd learned early in life that charm and good looks got you everything you ever 
wanted. Add a fascinating job into the mix and you could pretty much write your 
own ticket. He was a damned good agent because he'd used what God had given him; 
his intelligence and his looks. 
Anton could feel himself calming down, walking around instead of pacing, his 
natural good humor restoring itself quickly. He was one hell of a catch. He knew 
it and all of his lady friends knew it. He'd had several girlfriends already 
this year, and he'd parted from all of them with no regrets on his part and just 
enough longing on theirs to feel pride in his abilities as a ladies' man. He'd 
been on the lookout for quality, and Dana Scully was exactly what he wanted.
All he had to do was convince her of it...
"Agent LaVeille? You wanted to know when Agents Mulder and Scully returned. 
Agent LaVeille?" Hearing his name called, Anton turned and faced the thin blonde 
standing in the corridor leading to the main conference room, her fingers 
twisted into knots in front of her. He frowned for a moment, then his confusion 
cleared as he recalled her name. Lynda Kelly, the temp the Bureau had borrowed 
from the local PD. Part of the secondary team, mostly made up of New Haven's 
police enforcement and assistants like her who kept the basic cogs moving. Not 
much more than a gofer, really, but he supposed the mousy little thing was 
getting a big charge out of being a part, however small, of an ongoing 
investigation such as this.
He smiled at her widely, noting the way she blushed and stammered as she 
explained that the Agents had called in and were expected back sometime later. 
She mumbled a little when she talked and her eyes never really met his. Anton 
figured she was a professional virgin - no surprise there, considering how pale 
and rabbity she was. Well, what the hell. He was bored waiting for Dana to 
return, and here she was, blushing at him, no doubt wishing for a little 
excitement in her drab life.
"Thanks, Lynda. The Bureau appreciates all of your help. I do, too, did you know 
that? You're always so well-organized. It's so very important with a case like 
this one." Another smile aimed at her, and her eyes were bright as stars when 
they looked up at him. Her hands fluttered at her waist as if she wanted to 
reach out and grab onto him. Anton continued to smile at her and felt that 
familiar power come into him; the power a man felt when a woman who had never 
experienced much excitement suddenly looked to him to provide it. And usually 
women like that were so very grateful...
"Um, Lynda, I was wondering: what are you doing this evening? I'll bet you never 
had time for lunch, did you? How about an early dinner, just you and me?"
This time when she smiled at him in astonished pleasure, and reached out one 
fluttering, nervous hand toward him, Anton took it in his and held onto it, his 
smile never dimming one bit. 
Well, why not? He'd bet anything Dana Scully and her partner had already made 
plans. He'd bet anything they'd get back here late. What was the point in 
waiting around? His shift had ended early today and he was free until morning. 
Might as well have a bit of fun.
He'd talk to Dana tomorrow. Anton tucked Lynda's thin hand in the crook of his 
arm and guided her toward the elevator, smiling down at her, using all of his 
considerable charm to dazzle her. As the elevator doors closed behind them, he 
wondered idly how long it would take to get her clothes off and into his bed. Or 
hers, he wasn't fussy. Probably not long at all.
Maybe he should make a bet with himself. Just for kicks.

HAMPSTEAD HOTEL
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
9:45 PM
If the first kiss knocked her sideways, the second - and the third - wiped the 
floor with her. She'd expected it. Hell, she'd craved it. But she didn't know 
just how much - until Mulder backed her up against the locked door of her room - 
that she'd needed it.
Oh God, his mouth. 
Crushed to hers, drinking deeply, taking everything she had and giving back more 
than she imagined was possible. She'd thought the kiss they'd shared that 
morning was wonderful but he'd obviously been toying with her. Just the idea 
that Mulder had a hell of a lot more pulsing inside him than what he'd given her 
hours before... it was mind-boggling. 
They'd skipped breakfast in the first place and by the time afternoon had segued 
into early evening, they were starved. They'd argued good-naturedly about where 
to eat and had settled on a diner just a few blocks from the hotel. Scully had 
figured she'd find a decent soup and salad bar; Mulder was trolling for 
meatloaf. They'd ended up with fried chicken and biscuits and a double serving 
of apple brown betty for dessert. 
They'd walked off the filling and calorie-rich dinner, wandering in and through 
Wooster Square; moving briskly along River Street when the wind kicked up and 
the night turned colder. They wimped out in reaction to the cold and decided to 
forego walking back, instead jumping into a cab and taking it back to the hotel 
when they felt frozen straight through their coats and gloves. 
And they'd kissed for the first time that evening in the slow-moving elevator 
that took them up to the tenth floor.
The first time that evening, but hardly the last.
His lips had been cold and firm. They'd warmed against hers, sugar melting in 
the sun, heating up the way his body seemed to give off bolts of power 
everywhere it pressed into hers. Through layers of coats, suit jackets and the 
thinness of silk and cotton underneath, they'd felt it. Addictive. So very 
addictive...
She'd gasped into his mouth, against his tongue. He'd swallowed the sound and 
his groan had echoed it.
He lifted her into his arms, holding her high so that he could nuzzle her 
collarbone and drag his mouth along the upper swell of her breasts, still 
covered with her silk blouse. He didn't want to put her down long enough to even 
rip open the buttons. He kissed her through two layers of silk and the heat of 
it seared her. She arched impatiently against him.
<Oh, God. Do I want to do this? Am I ready?>
<Yes. You're ready, you asshole. Don't stop now.> The two halves of her brain, 
the sensible and the foolish, both argued and fought for supremacy while she 
hung in Mulder's embrace and he dampened her blouse at nipple-level with a dozen 
kisses. 
Thoughts of the case went out the window. Fragments of sensible behavior also 
got tossed aside; things like early to bed and early to rise, 
non-sexual-involvement with your partner, the impropriety of intimacy in the 
field... all pitched out that same window. Seven years, she thought, thrusting 
ten fingers into his hair and holding on tightly. Seven long, often-lonely and 
starving years. Waiting for the right time to do more than simply gaze at one 
another and maybe steal a kiss or two. 
Enough, she managed to declare in silent rebellion, in between kisses. No more 
denial.
He let her slide down his body; let her feel every eager pulse and ridge of it. 
That alone had her weak at the knees. All that lovely heat, just for her. All of 
that passion and fire; Lord, who knew Mulder carried that much passion and fire 
around?
Somehow they spun together, from the wall to the bed. Somehow they landed on 
enough of the mattress, that they didn't immediately slide off. She looked up 
into the face she knew as well as her own, and saw dark intensity there. Saw a 
glitter in the eyes that held her almost spellbound; felt the hard muscle 
beneath the finely tailored suit. Knew his fingers could bruise as well as 
soothe. Right now she'd welcome either.
"Cell phone." He muttered the words against her neck, then bit where he'd 
muttered.
"What about it?" Her voice was a thin wheeze.
"Off?" Accompanied by another bite, this time on her earlobe.
"Think so. Yours?" God, she couldn't get enough air in her lungs to breathe.
"Yes, no, I don't give a fuck -" He bit her again. And that little pinching 
caress made her vibrate all over.
He grasped the buttons on her blouse and then suddenly fisted a hand in it, 
fully prepared to rip it from her body. And her body would have welcomed that 
level of savagery. But her mind, well... that was different. Her mind always 
traipsed along behind her body when it came to sex. To intimacy. And her mind 
always had to find ways to toss wrenches into wherever her emotions tried to 
send her. 
Damn it.
But in this case, she didn't have to toss a single wrench, because as if reading 
her mind, his fingers relaxed on her buttons, and he released the material. Took 
that hand on a gentle slide down her breast, to her waist, and rested it there. 
"Mulder." Quietly spoken, even as she pressed another kiss on his lips. She 
broke away and caught him, eye to eye, honest desire and equally-honest worry in 
hers.
He nodded slowly, and his forehead met hers briefly in a kind of half-amused, 
half-frustrated resignation. "Yeah. I know. Me, too."
"What's wrong with us? Besides the obvious, I guess."
"It means too much to both of us. That's what's wrong. It's too important. I 
don't want to mess this up and you don't either, Scully. We're both warped." He 
tried to smile and she took the small gesture at face value, returning it at 
about the same wattage.
"Off our onions. I believe that's a better term." They remained close, arms 
still holding on, her face now pressed into his chest. Beneath her cheek his 
heart pounded fast and strong, and she could feel hers regulating alongside that 
rushing beat. 
A muffled shout and a thud outside the hotel door had them easing
apart, as footsteps ran by the room. Mulder picked up his coat from
the floor where he'd dropped it, and Scully made a subtle effort to
re-tuck her blouse back into her slacks. They never broke eye
contact. They didn't really smile. But all of the longing that came from years 
of wanting and pretending otherwise... that was thick in the air between them.
He cleared his throat but his voice still came out in a deep rasp. 
"Breakfast tomorrow?"
She shivered. "Yeah. I'll come by and get you."
"Ooh, a date. I'll make sure the back of my neck is extra-clean. 
You know, in case you want to sniff it."
She refused to laugh at his silliness. "Why would I want to sniff your neck, 
Mulder?"
"Because it's there." He opened the door and stepped out with one foot, then 
darted back in and grabbed her, kissed her again. One more for the 'road,' so to 
speak. Before she'd even had a chance to respond he'd let her go and was walking 
down the hotel corridor, loose-limbed and elegantly lanky, turning to look at 
her and stopping long enough to deliver a parting shot. 
"Reprieve, Scully. For both of us. It's getting closer, though. You know it is. 
And when it hits, it won't make a damn bit of difference if we're on a case or 
on vacation, in the basement or in a DC cab. We'll deal with it, as we deal with 
everything." And with a nod, he stepped up to his door and unlocked it, slipped 
in. 
Her breath shuddered out in a shaky little sigh. They'd deal with it, for sure.
And with each other.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It was daylight - barely - when she awoke. She stretched, luxuriously, yawning 
and rolling over on her back. Staring at the ceiling. Her ceiling. Remembering, 
she looked over at the pillow next to hers, the indented and wrinkled cotton 
casing telling its own story.
She hadn't slept alone last night... but she was alone now. Lynda Kelly blinked 
hard, forcing down the tears. They wouldn't serve any purpose; they never did.
In actuality, she had much to smile about. She'd spent the night with one of the 
most handsome men she'd ever known, someone exciting and sexy. He'd wanted her. 
He'd taken her.
He'd also left her before first dawn. Lynda tried not to be bitter about it. But 
of course, she was.
Story of her life.
She knew what men saw when they looked at her. Too thin. Too pale. Not a snappy 
dresser. Shy and hesitant with a habit of stammering. A femme fatale she sure 
wasn't; she supposed it was rather pathetic.
In school she'd been the outcast who never went to a single dance, never 
attended a prom. Barely had more than two dates. She'd walked the halls of her 
high school with her eyes cast down and only spoke if she was spoken to, first. 
Her teachers had probably thought she was mentally deficient. It was a wonder 
she'd even graduated.
She'd dropped out of college; too much social pressure. And she'd hated the 
dorms; all of those popular, bubbly female underclassmen who looked down their 
noses at her because she had a hard time ridding herself of her painful shyness. 
She'd fared no better when she'd tried joining one of the lesser sororities. So 
she'd simply quit.
It had taken her a long time to make a place for herself, finally finding and 
then working a job she liked and could handle. If she was lonely at night after 
she came home to her little apartment and at loose ends on the weekends, she 
told herself it wouldn't always be that way. Someday she'd meet someone who'd 
think she was wonderful. Someday.
Then she met Anton LaVeille. And she fell for him, hard. Of course he never 
noticed her; why should he? Men like him never noticed women like her. 
He'd been in and out of the NHPD offices often. But in her tiny cubicle, one of 
many in a maze of equally-tiny cubicles, Lynda didn't often get to see new 
faces. She rather liked it that way. But one day she'd been super busy, a phone 
stuck at her ear and typing madly at the same time... and he'd walked right by 
just as she'd looked up to take a much-needed fortifying breath. The sight of 
him had yanked her attention from her work and from the demands coming through 
the receiver in her hand. He didn't see her, but she sure saw him. Later that 
day she'd been introduced to him when he headed up a short seminar on the 
importance of local law enforcement/Bureau relations. She'd shaken his hand, and 
he'd smiled at her. That was all it had taken; she was immediately attracted, 
instantly besotted. 
And when the secondary task force was formed for this latest, gruesome case... 
Lynda pushed her way to the forefront and asked to be assigned to it. She'd 
never acted so boldly before, never. But she'd seen Anton's name on the list of 
primary team members, and she recognized it as her chance to spend some time 
around him, even if it would be in a professional capacity.
But the first several days had gone by with no acknowledgment from Anton that he 
recalled ever meeting her before. Surely something about her, some small thing, 
would have been memorable enough for him; after all, he'd spent a few minutes 
talking to her when they'd first been introduced. Apparently she was singularly 
unmemorable. 
Then the agents from DC had joined the case, and Anton ceased to notice anyone 
except the pretty Agent Scully. Lynda might have been besotted but she wasn't 
stupid nor was she blind. Anton's eyes followed Agent Scully wherever she 
walked, observed every movement she made. Lynda was certain his fascination was 
not returned, for Agent Scully seemed to only have eyes for her handsome 
partner, Agent Mulder.
And who could blame her? Agent Mulder was the very epitome of all that Lynda had 
always searched for in a man: tall and dark, handsome, caring, intelligent and 
thoughtful. In just a week, she'd seen all that and more, especially in the way 
he treated Dana Scully. And she'd seen what others might not have been astute 
enough to detect: the way they looked at each other, these two agents. The way 
they touched, even casually. If they were not in love quite yet, then they were 
sure headed in that direction. Maybe because Lynda herself had fallen in love, 
she'd easily noticed it. And maybe if Lynda's heart were not already emotionally 
engaged, she might have fallen for Agent Mulder, herself. But he wasn't for her. 

Last night she'd made love, at last, with the man who WAS for her. She was smart 
enough not to question her amazing fortune, simply to accept it. For whatever 
reason, Anton had wanted her, although he'd left while it was still dark 
outside, after sleeping in her arms for just a few hours. Had left without a 
word to her, sneaking out with his shoes in his hand, as if afraid to rouse her, 
afraid of what she might do or say. Did he think she'd demand promises from him 
merely because he'd slept with her? She wasn't some innocent fool; she wasn't a 
virgin. True, she'd only been with one other man, and that short-lived 
relationship had occurred in college... but she wasn't some silly, 
emotionally-stunted baby who went off the deep end for a man just because he'd 
had sex with her. 
She genuinely loved Anton LaVeille. She absolutely wanted, needed, a future with 
him. 
But she'd demand nothing, for that wasn't the way to catch a man. Lynda knew how 
to play it cool. She'd smile at him when she saw him this morning; smile and use 
what charm she possessed, to bind him to her. To assure he noticed HER, and not 
some other woman. She could do it. She could swallow her shyness, her overload 
of nerves and that damned stammering problem she had, and make herself alluring 
to the man she wanted. She could do that.
With resolve bolstering her, Lynda rose from her bed and walked with new 
purpose, into her bathroom. She'd wear nicer clothes today; even put on some 
make-up and a dab of perfume. She'd do something with her long, limp hair. She'd 
walk into that conference room this morning and sit down right next to him, 
smile at him, maybe touch his arm as she leaned into him and told him what a 
wonderful time she'd had last night. Let him see her, smell her... make him 
remember how it had been between them in bed in the dark.
She could do it. She was a woman in love, and that alone gave her strength. 
Lynda smiled all the way into her bathroom.
~~~~ 


CHAPTER FOURTEEN

FROM THE JOURNAL OF NEAL CARSON
'I found him again. This afternoon, I saw him. Rotten bastard, doing his usual, 
rotten routine. I have to stop him. Before he ruins another family, I have to 
stop him. She's innocent. Like Anna. 
'No, that's not right, it WAS Anna I saw with him. Maybe her hair wasn't black, 
but that curvy body, oh, yes. That I recognized. Women dye their hair all the 
time, never happy with what God gave them. But it was her, it was my Anna. MINE. 
Not his, never his, the goddamned son-of-a-bitch. 
'Having lunch with her at some fancy little cafe downtown. Right out in the 
open, for anyone to see; trying to turn her head with his money and such. 
Another man's wife, the bastard. Seduce her with some fancy meal, like she's too 
good to eat what I provided, the wonderful pot roasts I made her that she used 
to love. Too good to eat my pot roast, but she'll eat his fucking lunchtime 
shit. I don't care how goddamn fancy the place is - they just serve expensive 
shit.
'I saw the back of her head. I know she was smiling at him. My Anna, smiling at 
another man. Not her fault. Women are so weak. They can't help it when some 
bastard turns on the charm. Women are fucking curious too, have to know what 
else is out there, have to have a taste of some strange. She'd have come back to 
me. I know she would have. She'd have missed what I gave her, the love I heaped 
on her, and she'd have come back to me.
'She believes all the lies he tells her. I know he lies, these bastard 
wife-stealers always do. They lie and they rip families apart. She'll listen to 
him - again - because she's weak. She can't help herself. It's up to a husband 
to control his wife's actions, her emotions. Up to him. She got away from me 
before I could take care of her weakness, but that won't happen again. I'm gonna 
go after that fucking weakness and fix it. Gonna fix the one who's to blame. 
'Maybe this time he'll stay dead. I'll have to take care of it soon. Follow him, 
knock him out, cut him. Make him bleed. Make him suffer for using that worthless 
dick of his to turn my Anna's head. Cut off the fucker's works, all of it, cram 
it in his lying mouth, see how he likes a taste of his own piece of shit cock. 
Let him bleed until he dies. Until I'm finally rid of him.
'Then she'll come back to me. When she sees the bastard isn't around to bother 
her any longer, my Anna will come back to me.
'I'll surprise her when she comes. Pot roast and one of those lemon icebox 
cakes. My Anna loves lemon. I'll go shopping today.'

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
1998
Tracey closed the journal. Her fingers were shaky and she fumbled with the 
ribbons, trying to get them tied properly. When she'd made a halfway decent bow, 
she dropped the bundle into the top drawer of the nightstand next to her bed. 
For about the twentieth time, she wished she had a way to lock it. But she 
figured it was fairly safe, since she seldom had visitors to her bedroom. Well, 
she supposed she could always claim to be writing a novel, should anyone run 
across it, and ask.
Three months ago she'd finally flipped through the binder. Up until then, Tracey 
had actually thought her father might just BE writing some kind of novel. After 
all, she'd barely known him; he might very well have been a fledgling novelist, 
writing his little plots down in a journal, always intending someday to attempt 
getting them published. 
That kind of wishful thinking got blown into tiny bits when she first opened the 
binder, fat with newspaper clippings and photographs.
Oh, God. God. It was real. All of it, real. Tracey had let the grisly photos 
slide through her numbed fingers; she couldn't have held onto them even with 
glue holding them in place. Twenty or more, all taken using one of those instant 
cameras, different angles and different poses. All of the same man...
No, that wasn't right. She'd forced herself to look closer, swallowing the taste 
of nausea that churned in the back of her throat. Different men. Different 
backgrounds, what little was visible in each photo. And, inexperienced with the 
look of death that she obviously was, she could still tell these men were dead. 
When she swallowed more sickness and dared to compare them with some of what 
she'd read in those journals of her father's, she understood at last what he'd 
been trying to do. What he HAD done, for the last two years of his life. 
First he'd photographed them, full face, their eyes open and staring from the 
horror of what had been done to them. Those were on top of the pile. She thought 
the worst of it would have been the stark horror of those eyes, so visible in 
the faded color photos. And then she'd found more photos. And she'd gagged 
aloud, for he'd photographed them with their - with their...
Tracey hadn't even been able to think about it, and if she'd had to say it 
aloud, she'd have vomited on the spot. Yet she made herself look at all of the 
photos. And her mind reluctantly processed what her lips refused to say... 
photos of men with their penises and testicles sliced off and placed on their 
faces. Blood, huge gushes of it, everywhere; on the floor, on their clothes, 
soaking into hair, skin, flooding those open, staring eyes.
She'd have nightmares forever, she thought, shuddering. Shuddering.
Her father was a monster. She was the daughter of a monster.
If she'd had a gun, at that moment, Tracey would have shoved it in her mouth and 
pulled the trigger. She'd dropped the binder and everything had gone all over 
the floor, a photo here, a newspaper clipping there. She'd sank to her knees, 
head drooping forward, hands cupped over her gasping mouth to hold back a 
scream, or worse. 
A complete and total monster, and she'd lived with him for six years. A monster 
who could have come into her little bedroom and killed her in her sleep, any old 
time he'd felt like it; a monster who'd never cared about her because she looked 
and acted nothing, nothing at all like his beloved Anna. Like her mother. Six 
years of it. Tracey curled into a shivering ball on the floor of her living room 
and moaned with terror at what could have been.
Had her mother known this kind of hideousness was in her husband? Had she 
somehow guessed this was buried deep within him, just waiting for a reason to 
come out? Was this why she'd had the affair, had gone with Papa Doug, had left 
Neal Carson? If so, then Tracey could sure understand a lot of things that, as a 
child, were so confusing to her.
Why her mother hated coming home after a trip to the market, or to the beauty 
parlor. The way she always seemed to be anxious to leave Tracey with the 
babysitter during the three mornings a week she worked, rushing out the door as 
if she were escaping. The speed with which she'd signed that thick envelope of 
papers; papers that Tracey later realized must have been her divorce papers. And 
the way she'd hustled Tracey and Moosie into the car, the day she and her mama 
moved out of the house on Moss Lane and drove to Papa Doug's pretty two-story 
Colonial in Groton. So fast, as if something might happen to stop them. Too fast 
for Tracey to grab her most important toys and dolls, her favorite pillow, her 
pink bedspread and pink lamps. All these years later, Tracey had finally 
understood.
They'd run from a goddamn monster. No wonder their phone number had been 
unlisted. Mama probably thought they'd be murdered in their beds. She'd no doubt 
feared for her very life. No wonder she'd made the decision to run.
No. Tracey shook her head as she slowly uncurled from the fetal ball on the 
floor. No, that wasn't right. Mama would have been afraid for herself and 
Tracey, but she'd have never imagined that her ex-husband was capable of 
mutilating and killing random men. She'd have never imagined he'd have anything 
like that inside himself. Looking at the photos, comparing them with the journal 
entries, simply confirmed that all of this must have happened after Mama and 
Papa Doug had been killed in that accident. 
Yes, Tracey thought, as she sat up and wiped at her face with shaky fingers, 
that was more like it. After, not before or even during. Her father was a 
monster, and in his sick mind he'd been killing Papa Doug, every time he 
followed a dark-haired man home from some place. He'd been punishing Papa Doug, 
over and over again, and in the process giving Mama some kind of absolution from 
blame. That had to be it.
Years and years ago, she realized. She'd never heard of it in the news, but of 
course she'd have been very young when it started and wouldn't have been 
inclined to listen to very much on the radio or TV except for music and 
cartoons. She wouldn't have known, not at all. She wondered if Aunt Miranda had 
known anything. Probably not.
Tracey got stiffly to her feet and crossed to the sofa, sitting on the very 
edge, thinking furiously. If she could believe what she'd just finished looking 
at - and reading - then her father had gotten away with murder, several times. 
She'd have to look it up, and the Internet might be her best resource. She'd 
have to force herself to pursue it. Then she'd have to force herself to read it, 
learn all about it, all the murders. All of the victims.
Tracey rubbed the last bit of wetness from her face and her reddened eyes. She 
would have to do it. If she were ever to put this disaster behind her, she'd 
first have to deal with it and that meant delving into the reasons behind it. 
There had to be more than just a man seeking a way to punish the bastard who'd 
ruined his marriage and family. There had to be more than that. She'd need to 
find out.
The library. She'd start at the library.
~~~~ 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN
FBI FIELD OFFICE
2:15 PM
It had been another frustrating day in a week of likewise frustrating days, the 
one break being Barbara Fordent's eyewitness account of the intruder on Matthew 
Borden's front porch, the night he'd been murdered. Scully pushed a ballpoint 
pen sideways along the polished surface of the conference table, thinking about 
what little they had to go on. About as little as the pen she was pushing.
She startled slightly as Mulder's larger finger took over her listless 
pen-pushing, flicking at the ballpoint until it rolled off the table and 
clattered to the floor. She watched it roll, and then tilted her face up to her 
partner's unabashed grin.
"Oops." Mulder leaned over and retrieved the pen, managing to trail that same 
mischievous finger right up the outside of her calf as he did so. Scully jumped 
in reaction to the caress and Mulder stifled a chuckle. His head came up and he 
settled back into his chair, eyes glinting happily at her glare. An improvement 
over brooding, he thought.
"Feel better?" She let a touch of nasty enter her voice, mostly because she was 
fighting against enjoying his usual let-me-take-your-mind-off-it antics.
"Yes, as a matter of fact, you do. Feel better, that is." The words floated to 
her on a soft rumble, just loud enough for her to hear. Scully's muscles 
tightened in response.
"Stop it." Was that her? Breathless? Damn it.
"Nope. I'm duty-bound to make sure you don't brood. I took an oath." A 
self-righteous sniff accompanied this bit of Muldergoof.
"An oath, huh? Guess I'd better stop what you consider to be my brooding, then. 
I'd hate to get you in trouble with the oath-police." Scully rapped her nails on 
the folder in front of her. "I'm just feeling very stymied, that's all. Another 
murder, and we have nothing - yes, nothing, Mulder - in spite of Mrs. Fordent's 
illuminating description of a shady character who may or may not be a man, may 
or may not have been a dangerous threat to Matthew Borden or any one of our cat 
lady's numerous felines. All that little jaunt netted for us was a lot of 
residual cat-hair to clean off our suits and vague nightmares for me that 
centered around a rose-butcher wearing a frilly June Cleaver-ish apron over her 
naked self, and the not-so-stunning visual of a balding cross-dresser dancing in 
his wife's Victoria's Secret Push-up bra."
Mulder bit back the urge to laugh and instead deadpanned, "I can see how that 
might send you screaming into the night. But I think we got more than a bit of 
might-or-might-not-be. We have eyewitness verification on a male UNSUB who is 
below average height, probably slender, which substantiates the idea that he'd 
have to fortify his subduing techniques. Hence your discovery of tranquilizer in 
the systems of the latest victims you were able to autopsy. There is ample 
probability that our killer this time around could be the same killer from 
twenty-three years ago. Older, possibly weaker, needing that extra boost of 
power. Or not."
Scully jumped on his last two-word opinion. "Not? Clarify, please."
"Well, we already discussed this a bit, but dropped it when you found the traces 
of Nembutal. It was the idea of a copy-cat killer, remember? Someone who knew of 
the case all those years ago and found themselves impressed enough by the 
original killer's cunning, to attempt recreating the crimes. Or someone who knew 
the original killer, and is recreating those crimes as a way to pay homage to 
him. Possibly with the idea of completing the job, if for any reason he thought 
the original series of murders were left incomplete."
"Someone younger, able to more easily handle the more physical aspects of the 
crimes..."
He finished it for her. "Or not. That's the thing, Scully. Unless we find 
something substantial, and soon, this case is in danger of heading into the cold 
realm, the same as the first wave did. And, I haven't mentioned it to anyone 
else, but I'm finding this one especially tough to profile. I don't know why."
"Maybe it's because you're feeling an affinity to the victims, Mulder. After 
all, their basic physiology is very similar to yours." She raised a cautioning 
hand as soon as his eyes lit up in reaction to her observation. "And no. 
Flat-out NO. You aren't going to offer yourself up as bait. Skinner wouldn't let 
you do it."
"Bet me, Scully. If it meant catching this fiend before another dark-haired, 
dark-eyed victim lost his jewels as well as several quarts of blood, I'd lay 
odds on my retirement funds that Skinner would be fine with me baiting that 
hook."
"Well, I'm not fine with it." She rose and paced in a tight circle, unaware that 
several pairs of eyes were now looking their way, curious, speculative. Just the 
idea - the mere thought - of Mulder offering himself up as a damn sacrifice 
chilled her blood to icy. Too many things could go wrong; hell, more often than 
not, too many things DID go wrong. More than once during their years together as 
partners, they'd seen bait scenarios go horribly south. It happened. She didn't 
want it happening on their case, to her partner. God. She shivered and Mulder 
reached up a hand, caught her arm, pulled her back into her chair. Made her face 
him. 
"You know you'd do it, Scully. If the situation called for a petite, red-haired 
woman who maybe stayed out too late at night, walked along one too many dark, 
deserted streets... frequented the right bar on the wrong night. You'd volunteer 
in a heartbeat. I know you. I know how your mind works."
She pressed a sharp index finger into his chest, hard. "And I know YOU. How your 
mind works. There's always a better way, Mulder, and that's what we're going to 
come up with. I'm your partner and I have a say in how severely you risk 
yourself in the name of the job. If I were proposing something as risky as this, 
I expect you'd try to talk me out of it. Don't expect me to do less, for you." 
She curled that same finger into the notch of his tie and pulled him subtly 
closer, lowered her voice to a thread-thin rasp. "Not now, not when so many 
things are -" she swallowed, hard, blinked hard, "so many things are starting to 
fall into place for us. Please, Mulder... no."
He covered her hand and kept it against his shirt, unmindful and uncaring of 
anyone else watching. "I'm not going to get myself hurt, Scully. As you say, not 
now, when it's coming together for us. And I don't have a death-wish. But if we 
find it's the best or only way to entice our killer out into the open, then we 
might not have a choice. You know that. You have to accept that."
She shook her head, once. Slipped her hand out from under his, gently. "No. I 
don't have to accept anything except the sure knowledge that both of us will die 
one of these days. I'd much rather it be a hell of a lot later, than sooner. As 
for what not to do on this case, well... there has got to be a better way. We're 
going to find it."
They both eased away from each other as she uttered those final words, reluctant 
to get into anything noisier or heavier, not when the room was refilling with 
team members anxious to get the final meeting of the day over with and either go 
home, or go back to work. Out of the corner of his eye Mulder saw Ross Morris 
slip through the door, followed closely by LaVeille, whose eyes - as usual - 
went straight to Scully and lodged there like popcorn kernels in the teeth. 
Scully ignored him. 
Mulder watched for a minute or two more and because of that, he noticed the way 
their admin, Lynda Kelly, stared at LaVeille with a wounded expression that 
Mulder could spot even across the wide table. She'd been sitting alone at a far 
corner in a spot LaVeille habitually claimed for his own. Anton, walking in 
behind Morris, seemed to glance that way for a scant second, saw her sitting 
there with a smile on her face... and turned away with no acknowledgment. He 
ended up sitting next to one of the secondary officers. Who smiled at him warmly 
and flirtatiously; who happened to be young, attractive and female. 
Mulder noted the shattered look on Lynda Kelly's face and groaned under his 
breath. He suddenly knew where LaVeille had spent his evening and no doubt where 
he'd slept. Knew why, at 11:30 at night, after he'd gone back to his own room 
and called LaVeille to get his take on a few case details, that the agent hadn't 
answered his cell. Well, shit. It would have been a different story if Lynda 
were the kind of woman who could handle that sort of casual yet cruel public 
brush-off with equanimity and blow it off as just another night of fun. But one 
look at her and anyone could see she was sensitive, painfully shy; not the kind 
of woman to fool around with and then treat callously. Mulder didn't know for 
sure if that was what had happened, but he had a pretty fair idea. 
What an asshole. He could have chosen a dozen other women to plank for a 
one-night-stand, if that was all it was going to mean to him. But Mulder 
remembered enough of LaVeille from years ago, to know the man had an ego the 
size of Wyoming and would have gotten a much-larger kick out of mesmerizing 
someone like Lynda Kelly than a woman who knew the score and liked to party. 
Well, it wasn't his problem and definitely none of his business. Mulder scooted 
closer to Scully, smiled at the raised-eyebrow inquiring look she sent him, and 
stroked his fingers over the back of her hand before picking up his folder and 
preparing to take the floor and head up the next section of the meeting. He 
caught the brief melt in her eyes as she smiled back at him... and he also 
caught the glare from LaVeille, as the egocentric agent witnessed the little 
exchange.
Marking his territory? Oh, yeah. It wasn't as obvious as hiking his leg like a 
dog and spraying his turf, but just as effective. With that vaguely disgusting 
yet appropriate thought, Mulder took the floor at Morris's nod, and faced the 
roomful of agents and law-enforcement professionals. When he deliberately sought 
Lynda Kelly's attention and gave her a nod and a reassuring smile, the shy admin 
blinked back tears and smiled back. 
She looked different today. It took Mulder a few seconds of processing before he 
realized Lynda had taken pains with her appearance. Most mornings her hair fell 
in her eyes, pale and flat-looking. She'd wear loose, unflattering clothing and 
no visible makeup on her face. But today her hair was pinned up in a loose bun, 
showing off her long, slender neck. Her sweater was a soft raspberry color and 
the cut of her skirt was flattering, for a change. Both articles of clothing 
were better-fitting, too. She had a touch of rose in her cheeks and what looked 
like mascara on her lashes; all in all a much more appealing picture. She would 
never be a knockout but Lynda Kelly certainly looked cute when she fixed herself 
up. Mulder caught her eye again and gave her a little 'thumbs-up,' which made 
her blush and duck her head. But at least she was smiling.
Mulder noted LaVeille had finally abandoned his usual Scully-staring-fest and 
was making subtle overtures to the attractive female officer sitting next to 
him. And Lynda was now watching him, her smile gone and a look of distress on 
her face. Mulder sighed, soundlessly.
Insensitive asshole.
~~~~ 

CHAPTER SIXTEEN
OFFICE OF SPECIAL AGENT ROSS MORRIS
4:30 PM
Morris leaned back in his chair and regarded the two agents sitting across from 
him. He'd only been working with them little more than a week, but he already 
had a lot of respect for them both as agents and as the tightly-knit team he 
knew them to be. Professionally and personally, these were two people who knew 
each others' moves and reacted accordingly. He wished Pierce and LaVeille had 
that kind of balance within their partnership, although he knew they did well 
together and he shouldn't complain. 
They were all frustrated. Oh, none of them thought this case would have been 
solved within just a few days; that was why it had been labeled 'cold.' But he'd 
certainly figured they'd have more to go on by now. Shit.
"Can we depend on Mrs. Fordent's eyewitness account? From what you tell me, 
she's just a tad eccentric." Morris tried not to grin as he recalled the utter 
monotone Mulder had used when describing the way the woman spied on her 
neighbors. 
"Once we, um, persuaded her of the importance of anything she might have seen, 
Mrs. Fordent was concise in her account of what she saw," Scully replied. "It 
might be nothing or it might be everything. As much as I hate to admit it, nosy 
neighbors often prove to be the very best witnesses around, and some can break a 
stale case wide open."
Morris agreed with her. He'd interviewed his share of neighborhood snoops. Some 
had fizzled out but enough of them had struck gold - and had helped solve a case 
- that he knew they couldn't afford to blow it off and call it useless. "Okay. 
We have a description of a probable UNSUB. You think it would be worthwhile for 
Mrs. Fordent to work with Henley? She's the best sketch artist we have in the 
county."
Scully shrugged. "I don't know. She might not have enough to give us anything. 
She said it was dark, the person she saw wore dark clothing and she saw no 
exposed hair, hands or face. We can assume ski mask, gloves and some kind of cap 
on his head. With this in mind, I'm afraid we'd end up with a sketch that could 
be just about anyone."
"Agent Scully is right. We have so little to go on right now and whatever small 
lead this witness gave us is rapidly growing cold. I think we need to make 
something happen. I think we need to find a way to push our guy out into the 
open." Mulder could feel Scully's eyes on him, but he kept his steadfastly on 
Morris, who was nodding in understanding.
"Mulder..." Scully half-rose in her seat.
He turned to look at her and saw the worry behind the irritation on her face. He 
sighed, "I called Skinner, after the meeting broke." He watched her carefully as 
she sank back down in her chair, frowning. "Scully, I had to. You know he wanted 
daily reports, and neither of us has called him in two days. When he heard about 
Mrs. Fordent, he agreed that it was time to punch some buttons." Her expression 
went from irritated to frosty, and Mulder knew he was in trouble. But he went 
on, doggedly, "That choice we spoke about, earlier? We don't have one any 
longer. I'm sorry to leave you out of the loop but Skinner made the call on 
this, as I figured he would."
"He did, Agent Scully. In fact, AD Skinner called me, right after he spoke to 
Agent Mulder. He was worried about making this kind of call on a case that 
started out in our office, and he didn't want to step on any local Fed toes. I 
appreciate his professional courtesy but it wasn't necessary; I more or less 
turned over control of this case to you and Agent Mulder as soon as I requested 
help from DC. I had a feeling sooner or later we'd have to work a bait. I don't 
think we have a choice, either." Morris kept his voice calm and even.
"I don't like it. I don't think it's necessary, not yet." Scully was on her feet 
now, her arms crossed in front of her. Anger and concern bubbled together and 
made her tone sharp and defensive. And damn it, deep down inside she knew Mulder 
was right. They had to push it. But all she could see was the outline of a man, 
in a room, a hallway, a doorway somewhere, eyes open and staring in horror-laden 
death, and those eyes were Mulder's... 
Morris watched her cheeks suddenly blanch, and he knew exactly what she was 
thinking. Hell, he sure couldn't blame her. Traps worked about as often as they 
didn't, and undercover setups went bad in big ways when they failed. He'd lost a 
buddy that way, years ago, on a bait that went south. It happened, and every 
law-enforcement rookie knew the risks, when they signed on. Every agent who 
sweated the course and earned their Fed badge knew what the job entailed, the 
danger as well as the reward. But it was different when emotions and feelings 
were dumped into the mix. It wasn't supposed to be, but of course it was. 
Another sound reason why the Bureau was less than thrilled when a couple of 
agents heated up the sheets and then made it legal. 
In the case of these two, he figured there hadn't even been any sheet-heating 
going on, quite yet. But that wouldn't make a difference to the level of 
commitment they already shared. Morris leaned back in his chair and kept his 
mouth shut, knowing they'd have to duke it out between themselves before any 
further planning could be accomplished.
But Scully never said another word, and neither did Mulder. She slowly sat back 
down, her face composed, expressionless. Next to her, Mulder gave a resigned 
shrug and flipped open a small notebook. "We know very little about what the 
UNSUB may be looking for in his victims other than the physical attributes. My 
profile so far is on the thin side, but I believe we are looking for a punisher. 
His enemy is male, approximately thirty-one years of age and approximately six 
feet tall, weight approximately one-hundred-seventy. Well-dressed and living in 
the better areas of New Haven. Probably white-collar. That part of the profile 
was easy enough to establish; what's going to be tough is the 'why' of it, and 
until we can establish that, we are pretty much shooting blindly. If we set up a 
bait based on just the physical, we could circulate tall, brown/brown 
undercovers all over New Haven and not net anyone, because we need the trigger. 
And we have nothing except supposition."
Scully added, "The trigger might be very basic, or really complicated. The way 
he's killed his enemy, however... that says 'sexual revenge' to us. This is 
someone who might have lost the girl of his dreams to a dark-haired, dark-eyed 
man. Maybe he caught them in the act; maybe he found letters, heard phone calls, 
followed them, spied on them. Maybe he killed the original transgressor, perhaps 
the woman who betrayed him, too. And in his mind - for whatever reason - the 
enemy didn't stay dead, and needs to be killed, over and over. Or not." She sent 
Mulder a brief look when he gave a soft snort at her choice of words.
He concurred, "Exactly. Or not. And that's the most frustrating thing. Agent 
Scully and I have picked this apart, finessed it, tried on numerous scenarios. 
Any one of them could be the right one. Two or more of them could combine 
together and make the right one. We may be wasting our time if we set it up and 
work it through... or we could get very lucky and hit it, the first time. But I 
think we have to try something, and soon." 
"Agreed. Damn it." Morris took off his reading glasses and rubbed eyes that were 
already red-rimmed from lack of sleep.
"How many can we spare, Agent Morris? If we set up more than one bait, we also 
need to supply backup for each of them. If we send our guys out and about town, 
late at night, just walking around, per se, then we need additional units, too. 
Multiple surveillance. If we set up a single bait, then we reduce our chances of 
catching our man.
Without knowing the damned trigger, we're probably wasting our time and our 
manpower -"
Scully finished, "And the killer can strike again, anywhere in the city, and get 
away clean. If we don't provide him with the right kind of temptation, he'll 
never go for one of ours. It's a Catch-22, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is. But I don't see an alternative. It's worth a try. I'll set it up, 
Agents. Two of ours. We'll keep it downtown where public visibility is heavier. 
In and out of a few upscale bars, that kind of thing. Extended walking around, 
and we'll see how many plain-clothes can be spared for each bait. It'll take a 
few days, so we'll plan for the end of the week."
Mulder nodded and stood, collecting his folders and pulling out Scully's chair. 
It was a courtesy he usually didn't perform unless they were away from the job, 
and the look she flashed him as she stood acknowledged the gesture as well as 
the possible reason behind it: residual guilt over talking to Skinner. Well, 
might as well hang on the noose of a weighted rope... "Agent Morris, I'll 
volunteer for one of the setups. I've done baits before, plenty of times."
"Thank you, Agent. I'll see what we come up with. I want to stay with our guys 
instead of trying to use our cop shop, just in case. Besides, I'll need every 
cop I can get for the extra surveillance and backup. Off the top of my head I'd 
also say LaVeille for the other bait. He's worked a few in the past. Pierce 
doesn't have the right coloring, and Raddison isn't tall enough. Agent Benning 
isn't the right age. You and LaVeille might be our guys for this." And no way 
was he going to look at Agent Scully, Morris decided. She'd probably flay him 
alive.
But again, Scully held it in and merely nodded to Morris as she walked from the 
room. Mulder hung back long enough to murmur to Morris, "She'll handle it. She's 
too professional and too good an agent, not to."
"I know. I'll contact you later when I have more details ironed out." The two 
men parted at the door and Mulder hurried to catch up to Scully, who was already 
at the elevator and holding the door open for him.
Once inside, alone, they faced each other. Mulder reached out a hand for her, 
and Scully hesitated, then allowed him to clasp her fingers. He sighed in relief 
and pulled her a little closer. "Scully..."
She shook her head, but then rested it briefly on his shoulder. As the elevator 
dumped them out on the first floor, they stepped apart from each other and held 
a reasonably comfortable silence until they reached their rental car. Inside, 
the doors shut, she turned to him. "I'm all right with it. As you say, we don't 
have a choice. Just be - damn it, just be careful. That's all. If one of them 
has to be you, then you be damned careful."
"When am I not, Scully? When am I not?" 
"Oh, God. Mulder -"
His sudden grin was cheeky, as was the finger he stroked over her nose and 
slipped under her chin, lifting her face to his. He cast a quick look around to 
assure they were alone in the parking garage; then brought his head down and 
took her lips in a soft, sweet kiss. Scully curled a hand around his coat lapel 
and hung on, as their lips took from each other, as their tongues pressed slowly 
together. The silence in the car might not have been completely without tension, 
but at least the air was warmer, more understanding - more at ease.


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
UNDISCLOSED LOCATION
Goddamn it. Fucking bastard. At it again, I can't believe he's at it again.
No morals, worse than a fucking tomcat. Out and about, determined to take 
another one away from the people who love her. Got a diamond as big as my thumb 
on her finger and one of those wide wedding bands. Hard to miss, asshole... did 
you even LOOK at her hand? What the fuck does he think he's doing? The other 
night it was someone else, some other weak woman. He's just another alley-cat.
She's weak, but that's a woman for you. Weak when it comes to the size of some 
bastard's works. And his is damned sizable. Unless he's got socks crammed in 
there. Wouldn't put it past him, the worthless asshole. Tight pants and a pair 
of rolled-up tube socks. Sick son-of-a-bitch. 
Follow them, I have to follow them. I'm good at it. Fucking brilliant, in fact. 
They'll never see me. They'll never know.
He'll never know... until it's too late.
Not tonight. Too early in the evening, too many people around. Later. Don't want 
her to get hurt, she's mostly blameless. Can't kill a girl just for being 
stupid. She'll go back to her man and forget about this worthless piece of shit, 
as soon as he stops bothering her. As soon as he's dead.
She'd thank me, if she knew. Least I can do, to keep her from making a goddamn 
huge mistake. Bet her man is a decent guy. He doesn't deserve this. No man who 
loves a woman more than his own life, deserves this. 
All his fault, the bastard. It's always all his fault.
I can fix it. I want to fix it. 
And I will, better believe it. I will.

HAMSTEAD HOTEL 
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT 
9:45 PM
"I'm wiped out. It's been one hell of a day." Mulder dropped his coat, his 
jacket and kicked off both shoes all in one fell swoop, leaving them wherever 
they lay. Behind him, Scully merely sighed and bent to pick up the jacket and 
coat, depositing them on the little table in the corner. Shrugging out of her 
coat, she laid it on top of his and kicked his shoes under the table. Toeing off 
her heels, she pushed at them with a bare foot until they knocked into Mulder's 
much-larger shoes. 
Eyeing the huddle of footwear under the table, Mulder commented idly, "I think 
our shoes want to have sex. We should give them some privacy."
"Har har. I have three beers in the mini-fridge. Want two of them?"
"What about Beer Number Three?"
"I'll pour it over the shoes, when they're finished heeling each other. 
Otherwise they might petrify in strange and complex positions. Or maybe I'll 
just drink it myself." She opened the tiny fridge and pulled out two longnecks; 
handed one of them to Mulder. They twisted caps in unison and tapped necks 
together with somber ceremony. And in unison, they dropped onto Scully's bed. 
Four beer gulps later they were both flat on their backs, staring at the 
ceiling.
"I hate these damn setups. A shitload of work and no idea whether or not we'll 
end up netting anything. Anyone."
"I know, Mulder. We're almost ready, and I'm still just as worried. I'm 
reassured the teams are using every precaution but that doesn't change my 
mindset. I just wanted you to know." She turned her head and looked at him, at 
his profile. Strong column of neck and tanned skin against the loosened white 
collar and muted necktie. Just enough evening stubble on his jawline to enhance 
rather than detract from his good looks. Tousled hair, falling away from his 
eyes. Tired eyes. When he sat up again the hair would no doubt comma over his 
forehead in that endearing way it had. Little boy/sexy man, in one hell of an 
elegantly-fashioned package. 
Hers, for the taking. She knew it and he knew it. Just a matter of time, she 
also knew, before one of them acted on it. Before some small thing, some tiny 
little catalyst exploded within her, or him - and the resulting fall-out sucked 
them under. It couldn't happen at a worse time, but they didn't seem to have 
much of a choice. It wasn't as if something like this could be scheduled, after 
all...
Monday: Investigate eyewitness account.
Tuesday: Back-to-back meetings.
Wednesday: Set up surveillance teams, finalize equipment testing, have wild sex 
in hotel room.
Yeah, that might work.
She must have snorted out a small, unconscious laugh, because Mulder looked over 
at her in puzzlement. "You tell yourself a joke? Because I could use a laugh 
right about now." 
"I was just categorizing the week we've had." Safer to tell him only part of 
what she'd been thinking, obviously. "It mostly - what was that phrase Charlie 
used to like to say? 'Sucked canal water.' 
That's about the right way to describe the bulk of this week:
'sucking canal water.'
"It also 'blew chunks.' One of my personal favorites," Mulder clarified, when 
Scully made a face at the image the words no doubt conjured up. "Just think of 
the supremely hideous day that would ensue if both descriptives were enforced, 
together."
"All right, Mulder; that was just mean." Scully sat up and drained the last 
swallow of beer. She placed the empty on the bedside table and nudged Mulder 
with her foot. "Come on, drink the rest. We have work to do."
"No work. My brain can't take any more abuse. Anyway, it's all set, at least our 
part of the festivities. There's nothing else we can do."
"Yes, there is. You can start by telling me exactly what you're going to do 
tomorrow night. Every step you're going to take, what you're going to say as you 
wander the downtown area and interact with people..." Scully trailed off when he 
shook his head. "Mulder, this is an important part of it. We're going into this 
almost completely blind. In fact, this is one of the most dangerous baits we 
have ever set up, simply because we ARE so blind. We don't know what the killer 
is looking for. We don't know what will trigger him, or what he'll do right at 
first. All we know is that a weighted sap of some kind will figure into it. 
Having a place to serve as an impromptu 'residence,' even with cops hidden and 
ready to grab him, doesn't mean you won't be seriously hurt, before we can stop 
it and take this guy down." In her need to make Mulder listen, Scully had leaned 
into him and had taken hold of both hands.
He threaded their fingers together, pressed his palm to hers reassuringly. 
"Scully, I'll be completely protected. So will LaVeille. If our killer goes for 
either of us, and either Anton or I get him to follow us, about the worst we'll 
end up with is a nasty bump on the head. And only that much hurt, if the team 
isn't quick enough to grab him before he can do any serious damage." He tugged 
her closer and released one of her hands; wound an arm around her waist. Looked 
into her distressed eyes and stated, "We have to hook him, make him stick around 
long enough to incriminate himself. He has to believe he's knocked one of us 
out. It's all in the timing but the team is a good one, and they've done this 
before. And we haven't got a choice. You know we don't."
Her shoulder sagged under his arm and she turned and pressed herself against 
him, as they sat side-by-side on the bed. He held her gently and didn't say 
anything else. There wasn't much to say, anyhow. That she was this worried about 
him, about tomorrow night, about everything... well, that told him - stronger 
than any actual words from her mouth - that Scully had already crossed over the 
threshold of 'when.' 
Mulder had, too. 'When' was definitely here.
He whispered against her temple, "We can't control the parameters, but we can 
direct the fallout. In the meantime, is there anything I can do for you, 
anything that'll help you get your mind off the next twenty-four hours, at least 
twenty of which will no doubt blow chunks of sucky canal water?" He rubbed his 
lips down to her ear and felt her shiver.
It was the wrong time for anything other than concentration, yet Scully couldn't 
have resisted any more than she could have flown around the room. His embrace 
was warm and solid, dependable and as comforting as it was exciting. His hands 
caressed each sensitive rib, his mouth slipped along her neck, to her shoulder, 
over the delicate collarbone. When he pressed a kiss to the hollow of her 
throat, Scully bit back a moan. They shouldn't be doing this, not now.
She'd kill him if he stopped doing this...
Still, he was allowing her to choose. His hands, for all of their propensity to 
wander, were without heavy demand. His mouth touched lightly, not hard; just 
enough to stimulate, enough to make her wonder how much more those lips could do 
for her. She threaded a hand into his hair and pulled his head up, until their 
mouths were aligned, until she could choose the only sane way - or insane, for 
that matter - to proceed. She leaned in and covered his mouth with hers. Kissed 
him, opening his mouth with her tongue, slipping inside, tasting him, then 
nipping at him. Her hands were suddenly very greedy as they moved over his body, 
touching his shirt and then tugging at it. Buttons, she hated buttons, so many 
buttons... 
"What about my buttons?" He was breathless with the ache of wanting more, more.
She hadn't realized she'd spoken aloud. Burying her lips against his neck, 
Scully muttered, "Undo them. My hands are too shaky." 
And they were; he could feel it. Trembling on his face, then his shoulder, then 
trailing those trembles down his back, until they fisted in his shirt and tugged 
at it. Mulder hurriedly unfastened the rest of the buttons and she managed to 
get his shirt off before her hands completely betrayed her. Warm skin was what 
she sought and what she found, under the crisp cotton and the loosened tie.
"Oh, God. Your skin." She couldn't think of anything else to say as she pressed 
her fingertips along each bicep, down his sides and around to his spine. When 
Scully huddled closer, his arms gathered her in and brought her up against his 
bare chest. 
They both realized she was still fully-dressed, at about the same time. "Wait, 
wait, skin, yours too -" 
Between their four hands, they managed to pull the thin wool sweater over her 
head; one of her earrings came off with it. Neither noticed. He unzipped and 
tugged at her skirt and she wriggled out of her hose and panties. Her bra had a 
front closure. "Thank God, I don't think I have enough blood left in my brain to 
manage hooks and eyes." His words were scattered along the soft flesh he 
revealed as he popped the fastener and the two halves parted. 
Silky-smooth, her breasts were small and round and beyond sweet. He nuzzled at 
her and she clenched a hand in his hair to keep him there, right there.
"Right there." She didn't recognize the low, guttural voice that came from her 
throat. 
"Yes." He had no immediate need to be anywhere else, and so he stayed there, his 
lips and tongue exploring, acquainting themselves with her taste. Her fingers 
were at his waist, pulling at his belt, fumbling with his zipper. Mulder pulled 
away, just far enough to help her with his clothing, and then they were flesh to 
flesh, at last.
In the low light of the hotel room her eyes, skin, even her hair seemed to glow. 
Mulder wanted to touch everywhere, all at once, and his hands wandered over 
every inch of her that he could reach. He followed those caresses with more 
kisses, damp and passionate, deep here and torrid, there. A flicker of his 
tongue at her navel made her tighten and groan, a nip on the back of her knee 
sent goosebumps racing over her skin. He eased back from her, knelt between her 
splayed legs and simply looked at her, his gaze so tender, so needy, that she 
trembled anew. 
No one had ever looked at her that way. No one had ever mattered enough to her, 
to make her feel flushed and fluttery, deep inside, simply by gazing down at 
her. Scully curled a hand around his arm and pulled at him, until his body 
covered hers, a solid blanket of muscle and tanned skin, gentle hands and an 
eager mouth. Hard and thick, his penis throbbed between them, but he made no 
move to take her. There was so much more, this she knew; so much more they 
needed to do together, to each other, before he merged with her. 
"Tell me." Mulder breathed the demand into her mouth as he kissed her and his 
hips rocked against her. She wound her legs around him and sighed, but didn't 
answer. When he raised his head he saw a faint pink tinge on her cheeks. 
"Scully, tell me." He didn't elaborate. She knew what he meant, what he wanted.
She ducked her head against his shoulder. Words didn't always come easy to her 
on a regular basis, not to mention during moments of intimacy. Yet she knew 
Mulder was a verbal person. He wanted the feelings, the emotions, but the words 
were important, too. So for him, she'd swallow her unease, and tell him as best 
she could.
Yet she mumbled it on his shoulder, the first attempt. "You know. What I feel. 
How I feel." She swallowed hard, and made herself look into his eyes. Her cheeks 
felt hot. He simply held her tightly, his hands combed through her hair, and 
waited. His eyes were patient, his lips now a touch away from hers. It was 
important to him; that made it important to her as well. 
She had to take a deep breath, and hold it, before she could shakily admit, 
"Love. I do, Mulder. I do love you. I always have." She met his lips with a 
sudden, demanding kiss, her hands pressing into his back and her body surging 
against his. Having finally said it, now she was voraciously needful. A biting 
kiss to his lower lip, then a rasping, "Your turn. Tell me..."
He didn't hesitate for even a second. "I love you. I can't even describe how 
much. Years, Scully. For years." The words seared straight through her, hot on 
her skin, piercingly sweet in her heart. And she had no idea - until he'd 
actually said it in just that manner - that she'd yearned for those words, all 
this time. 
She slipped a hand between their bodies, stroked the length of him, palmed it, 
wrapped her fingers around it. Like heated satin, she thought. Heated, strong 
satin, pulsing and steel-hard. She had to have him inside her. She couldn't wait 
a moment longer. Later, they could linger over each other; right now she needed 
him.
One of them moaned, "Please." One of them nodded frantically, and she arched 
against him when he slid inside her with one deep thrust. A tiny, sane section 
of her brain marveled at the wisdom of remaining celibate for years, even as she 
sucked in a fortifying breath at the tight fit, his dagger to her sheath, her 
mortar to his pestle. So good...
In the cool dimness of her room they made eager love, wearing each other out, 
moving with hard purpose, then with tender urgency. Fast, then slow; deep, then 
with shallow, short strokes that wrenched a thin cry from her throat when her 
climax built at a dizzying speed and burst forth. He rode it out with her, 
holding her hips high against his, prolonging it. When her hands slipped from 
his back, leaving ten crescent-shaped marks behind, and dropped limply to the 
mattress, Mulder took her lips in a deep, long kiss, and the words he panted as 
he kissed her made her gasp against his tongue. 
"I'm just getting warmed up, Scully."
"Oh, God..." 

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
DIESEL LOUNGE
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
10:50 PM
"I shouldn't have another. I have to drive home." Caroline Bromley - Caro to her 
friends - placed her hand over the martini glass when her date signaled the 
bartender for another round. Her blue eyes were only slightly fuddled. Caro had 
always been able to hold her liquor quite nicely. But it was a weeknight and New 
Haven's finest liked to get their ticket quota on Hump-Day as well as on any 
Saturday night. 
Besides, she was one of the afore-mentioned finest. The last thing she needed 
was to be pulled over by someone in her cop shop.
Her date had the most gorgeous brown eyes. She'd always thought so. She'd always 
thought he was such a good-looking man. Too bad she wasn't available to take 
advantage of him, damn it all.
"You know, Anton... I love my husband very much." She rested her elbows on the 
small table between them and didn't pull away when his fingers stroked up and 
down her bare arm. 
"I'm sure you do. And yet, here you are, with me." Anton LaVeille was his usual, 
over-confident self. The smoky, shadowed atmosphere of the Diesel made it one of 
his favorite places to drink and be seen. Having Caro Bromley actually agree to 
meet him here had been a huge sop to his bruised ego when he'd asked Dana Scully 
to dinner and drinks earlier today and she'd flatly refused. He'd seen her leave 
with Mulder, their shoulders just touching, and he'd known exactly where she'd 
end up. Not with him at the Diesel, that was for sure. And there was Caro, 
walking down the corridor, right in front of him while he'd stood there, 
steaming. Slipping him a sideways tease of a smile, walking alongside him to the 
elevator, a continuation of the tease-and-tickle they'd had going the day 
before, when he'd impulsively asked her to an early dinner and she'd agreed. 
They'd eaten at the Ibiza, had flirted mildly, nothing heavy. He'd left it open, 
wide open, that he was interested in more if she were. She'd been married for 
three years, long enough to start feeling bored and restless. Anton had seen her 
husband around but had never actually met him. He was a truck driver for CLM and 
was on the road a lot. His loss and Anton's gain, if that gain netted him a 
tasty little babe like Caro, to heat up his sheets. It almost made up for the 
loss of Dana Scully.
Almost.
Now he handed Caro a fresh martini and managed to quell his impatience when she 
shook her head and picked up her purse, a signal that she was calling it a 
night. Hell, no. Anton had invested an easy hundred dollars in this chick, 
between dinner last night and drinks this evening. He was going to see some kind 
of return for his goddamned money. 
"You can't leave me this soon! Come on, Caro. Live a little. Didn't you mention 
you're on your own this week?" Anton was persuasive, smooth.
But Caro was rapidly sobering up and realizing she wasn't as ready as she 
thought she'd be, to take a man home and fuck him in the bed she shared with her 
husband Dan, whose existence she had conveniently forgotten while she was 
sucking down dirty martinis. She shook her head and stood, holding onto the 
table until her legs steadied underneath her. "I can't. I'm really sorry if I 
led you to believe otherwise, Anton. I mean, my marriage isn't all that fabulous 
but I'm not ready for screwing around. I hope you understand."
Anton nodded, outwardly the understanding nice guy. Inside, he was seething and 
horny. Nothing he could do, though, except pour Caro into her car and then go 
home, maybe see if he could find a quick fuck-buddy and get some relief. And as 
he helped Caro on with her coat, he thought of Lynda what-was-her-name, the 
little admin he'd banged a few nights ago... 
Better than nothing, he thought to himself, as he stood outside the Diesel 
waiting for his head to clear, before heading to the parking lot and getting 
into his car. She'd been eager enough, if predictable and somewhat boring. But 
she had a decent body for a skinny chick. He liked more curves, but what the 
hell... a vagina was a vagina. She'd do. He'd call her as soon as he got home; 
ask her to come over. No way was he going over to her place, again. Control the 
situation, that was always the best plan. And with those needy little 
mousy-types, the way to control it was to have them come to you.
A few minutes standing out on the curb, and Anton realized his head wasn't going 
to clear, not enough to drive home. The last thing he needed was to get pulled 
over for a DUI, right in the middle of this damned case. Not to mention the bait 
they had set up for tomorrow night. Christ, Morris would kill him. Anton walked 
over to his car and checked the locks, figuring it would be safe enough in the 
parking lot. Besides, he lived less than a mile away. A walk would really help 
sober him up. Nothing worse than trying to fuck drunk. 
Anton started walking, heading up State Street toward Autumn. It was a cold 
night but clear, and the streets were well-lit. He could at least see where he 
was going. As he walked along, he thought about the work they had to do, 
tomorrow night. Chances were he'd come right back to the Diesel, for part of the 
bait. It was upscale enough to attract the kind of guy who'd been killed, that 
was for certain. 
Maybe they'd catch a break. Maybe the bastard would follow him 'home,' instead 
of Mulder. Anton craved some action, and was honest enough to admit that part of 
the reason was to impress, however briefly, Agent Dana Scully. Anton knew how to 
take care of himself. He was extensively trained in several complicated and 
deadly forms of self-defense, and could more than hold his own in any kind of 
hand-to-hand fighting. He could certainly hold his own against an UNSUB that was 
thought to be less than average height. He began looking forward to it, to how 
it would go down, tomorrow night. Anton whistled between his teeth, a bit 
tunelessly, as he turned the corner at Canner. A few more blocks, and he'd be 
home, sober, and getting laid. Couldn't beat it with a goddamn stick...
As he started up Autumn toward his apartment, Anton thought he heard an echo 
behind him, a footstep echo on the quiet street. He turned, but saw nothing. No 
one. Getting spooky, he thought to himself, as he kept walking. Shouldn't have 
had that last scotch.
He took the steps to his building two at a time, relieved when his legs remained 
steady. Most of the booze seemed to have already worked its way out of his 
system during the walk. Anton unlocked the front door and walked in, the 
air-pressure mechanism allowing the door to swing shut slowly behind him. The 
elevator was also slow - and plodding - and he was in a sudden hurry, wanting to 
get upstairs and make the call, get the chick over here before it got any later. 
He took the stairs; it was only one floor, right?
He was halfway in his entry foyer, reaching behind him to close his door, when 
he heard the faint scraping sound in the open doorway. He turned, his reflexes 
just impaired enough, just slow enough.
"What the -"
It was the last thing he said, thought, as the sap caught him at the back of his 
head.

CHAPTER NINETEEN
HAMSTEAD HOTEL 
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT 
6:50 AM

She awoke first. Every muscle in her body ached, but it was a good ache. It was 
a good, I've-been-thoroughly-used kind of ache, one she hadn't felt in longer 
than she wanted to admit. She awoke with a smile, too. 
Looking over at the pillow next to her; seeing that tousled dark head, a bit of 
morning-stubble just visible on the cheek closest to her, set Scully's heart to 
beating fast. How long had it been, she mused, since she'd awoken in bed with a 
man? She'd forgotten how nice it could be. That warm body, pressed against her 
in the night; a hand cupping her breast. Spooning, back to front, sharing one 
pillow and a mound of tangled blankets. Breathing in tandem, a touch of snoring 
and a taste of last night's toothpaste still evident on the tongue. It all came 
back to her in a jumbled wave as she watched Mulder sleeping.
He'd been a snuggler and a spooner as long as they'd still been awake but had 
flipped over on his stomach and had stayed in one position for most of the 
night. Strange, but she'd always thought Mulder might be a restless sleeper. He 
wasn't, however, at least not that she could tell. He didn't fidget around, 
didn't really snore, didn't talk in his sleep. Didn't hog the blankets. What he 
HAD done, was hold her hand most of the night regardless of what position he'd 
ended up sleeping in.
He was holding it now, she realized. Scully found herself smiling, as she took 
note of their clasped hands.
It was a little early to be getting up, but she knew she wouldn't be dozing off 
again, not when she could look at the man in her bed and remember everything 
he'd done to her the night before. What she'd done to him. Her smile grew wider.
Mulder was an... unexpected... lover, that was probably the best choice of word. 
Tender one minute and rough the next, a supplicant and then demanding as hell. 
Unpredictable, a tad arrogant, and yet so very giving, he'd simply run the 
gamut, all over her emotions, until she'd been reeling with the shock of it, of 
finally loving Mulder. She shouldn't have been a bit surprised, Lord knew he'd 
done the same thing to her in their professional lives together; why should 
their intimate joining be any different?
She wanted him to wake up. She wanted him to wake up and roll her beneath him 
and slide into her, one long, deep slide into pure sensation. It would probably 
make them late for their final series of meetings and they'd miss breakfast and 
most likely would have to skip a shower and right now Scully didn't care about 
any of that. She wanted him with beard stubble and morning breath and the 
residue of last night's sex still viable, somewhere on their bodies. She craved 
it. 
"Me, too." His voice was sleep-scratchy and his hand tightened on hers as he 
turned onto his side, facing her. His eyes opened a crack, hazel glinting 
through thick eyelashes, and the smile he wore was stretched into a yawn that 
smelled faintly of yeast. It just figured that he'd know what she was thinking 
before she could put her thoughts into action.
Scully pretended ignorance. "You too, what?"
He simply raised an eyebrow at her. "Me, too, whatever you were thinking that 
made your skin flush and your eyes take on that greedy glaze. I've been watching 
you for the last five minutes, Scully. Your face ran some revealing emotions, 
one after another. I could almost see you anticipate the orgasm."
"I did not. I have not." She was flustered at having been read so easily.
"Liar. Come over here and say that to my face." 
"I am saying it to your face, Mulder."
"Then say it ON my face."
"Pervert." She was fighting like mad not to laugh. Losing the battle when one 
short chortle escaped her firmed-up lips. Two seconds later they were both 
laughing, clutching at each other, rolling on the rumpled mattress. And rolling 
turned to embracing, which segued into kissing, and more touching... until 
Scully rose over him, shaking the hair out of her eyes, and her thighs cupped 
him, opening to pull him in, take him deep, take him as hard and fast as she 
wanted. As he'd demand. She bent over him, lips against his, biting at his, 
consuming his as her body moved on his and she took, and took. 
Harder. Faster. She'd ache all day but what a way to go, what a way to feel, it 
didn't matter if she ached and was sore, who needed to be ache-free when she 
could feel like this, faster, harder...
And she released one long cry that was a wild mix of his name and something that 
might have been a curse, might have been a prayer, as she came, violently. 
Endlessly.
She went limp on him, a damp and warm blanket of skin, and was barely conscious 
when he flipped them over without separating their bodies, now above her, still 
in her, just as hard and just as fierce as he thrust deeply, holding her 
tightly, his mouth open and gasping against the sensitive curve of her neck. 
They were so immersed in what they were doing, feeling, that they never heard 
his cell phone ringing, there on the little table where she'd laid his coat the 
night before. His phone, and a few seconds later, her phone. Still early in the 
morning, still a bit dark out, and they were trembling in each other's arms, 
caught up in the power of what they'd pulled from themselves and given, 
willingly given as a gift, to be shared. Damp and clinging, too warm and not 
caring, they stayed pressed together, stayed connected. Smiling, soft kisses, 
tender touches, the best way to begin what would be a long and potentially 
dangerous day, they'd needed this connection, oh so much... 
And the room phone rang. Scully reached over Mulder, languidly, and nabbed the 
receiver. Mulder licked at her neck as she maneuvered the cord across their 
twined limbs.
"Scully."
"Agent Scully, it's Ross Morris. I need you and Agent Mulder at the office, 
immediately." Ross Morris's voice was gruff-sounding, raspy.
"What's wrong?" Scully sat up, pulling out of Mulder's arms and raking the 
tangled hair from her eyes. Next to her Mulder sat up as well, frowning.
"It's LaVeille. Damn it, just get here, and quick! Anton's dead."
~~~~ 

CHAPTER NINETEEN
203 AUTUMN STREET
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
8:15 AM 

The neighbors were already rubber-necking, and there were a few reporters nosing 
around. Yellow crime-scene tape was being strung across the door of Apartment 
B-8, and members of the forensics team milled about, inside and outside the 
apartment building. Everyone was grim-faced. 
It had happened to one of their own. Morris cursed aloud, rubbing his gritty 
eyes. This was a fucking nightmare. 
He knew LaVeille's parents, Raymond and Janine LaVeille. Knew his sisters, and 
their families. They were a close-knit clan, with Anton the beloved only son. 
This would kill Ray and Janine. Jesus.
He hadn't been able to call them, but he'd have to, and soon. It hadn't hit the 
news yet, identification of the victim had not been released pending 
notification of next-of-kin, blah blah, the usual round of bullshit. He was 
waiting for Pierce to get here, and figured Mulder and Scully would arrive any 
minute now as their hotel was closer and Pierce had to drive over from his house 
in Orange. 
Goddamn it. Morris paced up and down the hallway in front of Anton's apartment. 
He wanted a cigarette badly but dared not step outside and light up; he'd get 
swarmed by reporters and in his current mood he'd no doubt kill the first one 
who shoved a mike under his nose. Besides, he was supposed to be trying to quit.
He walked one floor down and paced, right inside the open doorway of the 
apartment building, scanning the crowd, looking blindly out over the heads of 
civilians and cops alike. A fucking local TV station van was setting up, 
terrific. Just what they didn't need.
It couldn't have happened. He kept waiting to wake up in his own bed, or maybe 
from a light doze at his goddamn desk. The bait was set for tonight. Another 
meeting this morning to finalize a few things, and they were ready to catch this 
maniac. Trigger or no trigger, Morris had been sure they'd have caught him, 
tonight... before he had a chance to kill again. Before another dark-haired, 
dark-eyed man met a terrible end to his life.
"Agent Morris." 
Morris spun around and sighed with relief when he saw Agents Mulder and Scully 
push their way through the milling crowd and reach his side. They looked their 
usual, polished selves, albeit a bit pale. Morris reached out a hand, unknowing 
he'd done so, until Scully took it and gave it a gentle squeeze. He looked down 
at their clasped hands, bewildered. She released his hand just as gently.
Mulder took swift note of Morris's overall appearance and condition and said, 
"Sorry it took us so long. We went to the office, first, and were told you'd 
decided not to wait for us and headed right over here. I assume Pierce is on his 
way?" At the tight nod from Morris, Mulder added, "Good. Can we go in, yet?"
"In a few minutes. Forensics should be ready for us soon. Agent Scully, you can 
- um, you can go -" he couldn't say it, couldn't say 'examine the body.' 
Thankfully, she seemed to know what he couldn't spit out and nodded, stepping 
around him. Mulder eyed the TV van with distaste. 
"Didn't take them long, did it? Any idea what happened?"
"All I know is what LaVeille told me after yesterday's meeting. Said he had a 
hot date."
"Do you know who the lady was?"
"No idea. Anton was keeping mum about it, which was actually unusual for him. He 
liked to brag about his conquests." Morris dragged his hands through 
already-mussed hair. "It's goddamned fucked-up. How the hell did he get 
targeted? Where was he last night, that he'd have come under our killer's 
scrutiny? What the fuck was he doing, that pulled the trigger for our guy?"
"Those are all questions we're going to have to find answers to, and soon. I 
think we should go ahead with the bait. Maybe tonight, just get it over with." 
Mulder tried not to think of Scully's reaction when she learned he was going to 
be the sole target. He turned as he was hailed, and saw one of the forensic team 
motioning them in.
"You can go up, Sir. We've taken as much evidence as we can without disturbing 
the body further. Agent Scully is running a few prelims right now. Let us know 
when you're ready for us to transport the body -"
"He has a name, you asshole. Use it," Morris snarled at the team member, who 
blanched and stammered out an apology as the older agent stormed past him. 
Mulder shook his head and gave the flustered young tech a reassuring nod.
"He's upset. He doesn't mean anything by it, you know that. We'll let you know 
when you can bring the gurney up, all right?" Mulder didn't wait for a response 
but walked into the building and hit the stairs at a trot. He found B-8 easily 
enough and ducked under the crime scene tape.
Inside, the apartment was a disaster. Chalk already outlined the body, which was 
gruesomely displayed like the others preceding him. Stab wounds peppered his 
torso and abdomen, ran up and down both arms, both legs. Underneath his head and 
shoulders a spread of blood oozed dark, thickened by exposure to the air. His 
face was almost completely obscured by his own severed genitals, not to mention 
more blood. His hands were pulled over his head and tied to the leg of a hall 
table and each foot secured to the matching doorknobs of a pair of french doors 
which appeared to lead into a dining area. 
Chairs had been overturned and the contents of the hall table lay broken on the 
hardwood floor; a crystal ashtray, several little knick knacks and an address 
book. Even as Mulder made a mental note to grab the book, a tech, wearing latex 
gloves, picked it up carefully and bagged it. Mulder stepped carefully around 
the broken shards on the floor.
LaVeille's clothes lay in a heap nearby the front door. Scully, gloved, was 
prodding through them with a laser pointer covered with an extra surgical glove. 
At the appearance of Mulder and Morris, she looked up briefly and indicated the 
pile of clothes with one finger.
"Blood, here on the shirt. Might be his, might be the killer's. If we're very 
lucky, it'll be the killer's. It's on a section of the shirt that should not 
have received blood spatter at all. Not from the angle of the sap used to knock 
him unconscious. And if this follows the others, the killer would have removed 
the clothes as soon as the victim was unconscious, before beginning his, um, 
routine. Sorry, Morris." She flashed the older agent an apologetic look and he 
waved it away.
"I'm all right, Agent Scully. I had to stop thinking of him as a friend, a 
person I knew, and simply look at him as another body. Later on, it'll hit me 
again. Right now I want everything I can get, all we can find out. I want this 
bastard stopped."
"We all do. And we're going to stop him. You have our word on it, Agent Morris." 
Mulder stepped up next to Scully and the united front they presented gave Morris 
his first reassurance of the day. 
"I'm holding you to that, Agent Mulder. I have to contact his family. Goddamn, I 
hate the job, sometimes."
"You don't have to do it. One of us can -"
"No. Thanks, anyway. I need to do this. His family, well... they know me. It's 
best if I do it..."
Morris's attempt at reassurance was interrupted by the arrival of Pierce, who 
strode through the door, his face leached of all color, his hands clenched into 
fists at his side as he stared down at the man who was his partner and friend.
"Oh, Jesus, Anton. Jesus Christ -"

FBI NEW HAVEN
8:55 AM
She curled into a ball on the floor of the last stall in the women's rest room. 
On the cold floor, grit from a hundred different shoes, under her tear-stained 
cheek. 
It was crazy to think of the dirt on the floor when a man lay dead in his 
apartment across town. Who cared if the floor wasn't clean? Who gave a rip about 
anything other than his death?
She'd once had him inside her. That made him hers. Lynda Kelly felt the 
hysteria, along with another bout of tears, bubble up inside her. 
She let it take her.
She had to go home. She couldn't be here today. Surely nobody would be expecting 
her to get any work done, not today. Maybe not tomorrow, either.
He'd died. Like the rest. Lynda knew what that had meant. She shivered, a deep 
quaking inside her, under her skin, that wouldn't stop. On the gritty floor the 
trembles caught hold of her and wouldn't ease up. 
She let them take her. 
He'd been kind to her. No, that wasn't right. He'd been a bastard to her. He'd 
come into her bed, screwed her senseless, had said some pretty words to her... 
and then had cut her dead the next morning, acting as if she were invisible in 
that conference room. She'd made every effort to make herself attractive, 
desirable, to him. He hadn't even noticed, hadn't even seen.
God, she hurt all over. Lynda lay on the floor and moaned with the pain of it, 
sore muscles, a stomach raw from vomiting several times already that morning, a 
pounding headache. She needed medication. But her purse lay just out of reach in 
the narrow bathroom stall and Lynda couldn't bring herself to sit up, not quite 
yet.
Anton had died the way a dozen others had died before him. Lynda could picture 
it in her mind; she'd seen the scenario enough over the past week. Her stomach 
heaved again, and she'd have vomited anew if there had been anything left in her 
stomach to vomit. 
Oh, God... the bait was tonight. Anton was to have been one of them, the ones 
who'd walk around downtown and try to get a killer to follow them. Only Anton 
hadn't waited for tonight... Anton had gone out and gotten his killer, last 
night. 
She rubbed at her face when a fresh bout of self-pitying tears left her gasping 
and choking on her own sobs. It wasn't fair; they'd just been getting to know 
one another. It wasn't fair.
Life never was. Lynda pressed damp, grimy fingers to her swollen eyes and 
shivered, violently.

CHAPTER TWENTY
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
1999
Tracey finished the page, her finger tracing along the cramped handwriting as 
she read. She closed the journal with a snap and rested it on her knee. It would 
have to be locked away as was her usual habit. She'd do that in a little while 
but first, she wanted to keep it out and handy. In case she had to read over 
certain sections of it, again.
Seven murders. Seven times, in Neal Carson's mind, that he'd killed Papa Doug. 
Each time he'd been convinced he'd sent Papa to Hell for what he'd done to her 
father's family, his life. Each time, he'd been proven wrong. There were ten 
pages left in the journal. Tracey hadn't glanced ahead, to see if there'd be 
another murder... because of course she already knew there would be. She'd read 
of her father, on the Internet. Nobody knew his name but she'd found him anyway. 
She'd read all she could find on the New Haven Killer, who'd held the city in a 
grip of terror for a little over two years, between 1977 and 1980. 
Tracey didn't know when her attitude about her father had changed from utter 
revulsion to a kind of morbid understanding of why he'd done what he'd done. She 
only knew it had. 
At first, she'd forced herself to read everything in the journals, stare at 
every photo and pore over the yellowed old newspaper clippings. They'd called 
him a diabolical monster, the worst serial killer in history, even worse than 
Jack the Ripper. Men had been afraid to be on the streets after dark, and wives 
and girlfriends feared for their men's very lives when night came and nobody 
knew who'd be next to die. No one had bothered to understand why Neal Carson had 
done what he'd done; nobody had seen beyond the mask of a murderer, to the pain 
beneath. 
But Tracey had tried.
Not just because he was her father, although that was certainly a part of it. 
Tracey wanted to understand why her father just couldn't let it go, couldn't 
just accept that Mama had fallen out of love with him and had formed her own 
reasons for leaving. Mama hadn't been a saint, and Tracey had never been one to 
place her mother on a pedestal the way her father had done. What Tracey tried to 
figure out was why. Why kill a man, over and over again; why think that with 
each killing he'd go away and never come back. It would have been easy to simply 
call her father insane. Tracey didn't think he'd been anywhere near insane.
But she did come to accept that first and foremost he'd been simply a man in 
love. And men in love did unexpected things when their love was threatened. Men 
in love often did anything they could to defend that love, to keep it to 
themselves, to protect it and nurture it.
Neal Carson had been a nurturer. It had been so suddenly plain to see; the 
evidence of it was on the pages of his journal. He'd tried to nourish and 
nurture his love for Mama and to cherish the family. When Papa Doug made that 
impossible for her father to do, and stole her and Mama right out from under his 
nose, Neal had done something about it; he hadn't just stood there with his 
thumb up his ass, gnashing his teeth and crying the blues. 
It had been so easy. Tracey had only to find it, in those journals. Had only to 
see it, in the grisly photos of men who'd sacrificed their lives so that her 
father might come closer to saving the family. Closer to saving what he'd had 
with Mama.
How awful it must have been for him; how it must have eaten at him, to fail so 
many times. To think he'd fixed it, only to find that Papa Doug had triumphed 
after all, had returned to rub Neal's face in it. Laughing, of course; Papa Doug 
would have been laughing. He had a big, hearty laugh and to her it had always 
sounded forced, fake. What a bastard he'd been...
Tracey shook her head hard when she realized where her thoughts were leading 
her. Oh, God, what was wrong with her? Was she going crazy? She'd loved Papa 
Doug. He'd done so much for her and for Mama. He'd given her over three years of 
unconditional fathering. She'd never had to worry about being pretty enough, 
smart enough, adorable enough. He'd showed pride in her childish accomplishments 
and had brought laughter and smiles to her mama's face. She owed him...
<No. Nothing, you owe him nothing he broke up your home your family your parents 
your life.> Tracey's fingers twisted against each other as she closed her eyes 
and allowed both sides of her skewed reasoning to fight it out. Her head was 
pounding and she pressed her fingers into her eyes as she sat on the edge of her 
bed. The journal was half on, half off her lap. She needed to put it away, lock 
it up in the little cabinet she'd bought just for that purpose. If she locked it 
away the treacherous feelings would be locked away, too. 
But her hands were shaking so badly she couldn't get a firm grip on the journal. 
It fell to the floor as she slid off the bed and went down on her knees. Tracey 
reached out for the little book and hooked two fingers around it, pulled it 
closer to her body. Tears blurred her eyes; she could barely see where the 
cabinet was, how far away. Two feet? Ten? She looked down at the journal and 
watched as her hands opened it, smoothed the wrinkled sheets... her eyes cleared 
and the shakes went away when the written words snapped back into clean focus.
<Every day>, she thought, as she traced her father's innermost thoughts. <Every 
day someone loses the woman they love because these cheating bastards can't keep 
it in their pants.> It was a fact. A statistic. Her mother had been a statistic. 
Tracey herself had ended up a by-product of a goddamn statistic. She leaned 
against the bed frame, feeling less shaky, a little stronger. She blinked the 
last of her tears from her eyes and flipped pages until she'd found the exact 
place where she'd stopped reading.
Her father had left a legacy, of sorts, for her. A way to understand him, at 
last understand what he'd endured and the heavy toll his loss had taken on him. 
The price of his naive faith in his marriage had been huge... and he was 
communicating with his daughter now, walking her through those last few weeks, 
before a senseless accident had taken his life and stopped him from completing 
what he'd set out to do. 
Tracey lifted the journal in both hands, and resumed reading. For Daddy, she 
thought, as she read.
For Daddy.
~~~~ 

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
HAMSTEAD HOTEL
NEW HAVEN
5:15 PM
Deja vu, Mulder thought, as he and Scully tromped into her hotel room and locked 
the door behind them. Walking through the door with asses dragging, after a long 
day of the standard fucking run-around-in-circles, had been the du jour from 
yesterday. He dropped his coat on the table and toed off his shoes. Next to him 
Scully did the same, then sank down on the sofa. When Mulder sat next to her she 
turned into his body and burrowed as he brought his arms around her.
"Nothing. Jesus, Mulder. Once again, nothing." Her words were muffled against 
his shirt. Her hands clutched at the crisp cotton. Mulder ran his palm over her 
hair, soothingly. He leaned his head back on the cushion and stared at the 
ceiling.
How in hell could there be nothing? Blood on LaVeille's shirt, in a pattern that 
suggested it might not be his. Except it had been. Not a fingerprint, not a 
single slipup, and no better understanding of why these murders were happening 
again, or why they had even happened in the first place, goddamn it. There had 
to be a trigger. They hadn't found it yet and until they did, everything the 
team planned or tried to do was a wasted effort. 
Like the bait that was to proceed, that evening. He knew it was a waste. Scully 
knew, Morris knew. The entire fucking team knew, and yet they'd go ahead with 
it, anyway. Because they had nothing else. 
Had LaVeille found something, seen someone, figured part of it out? Had he gone 
looking last night, searching for a killer? Or had his death merely been a 
horrible coincidence? He'd told Morris he had a hot date. Had that date somehow 
led to his murder? Christ, they didn't even know where he'd gone! New Haven was 
a decent-sized city, and canvassing it, door to door, could take forever. Maybe 
it was time to take it to the news, feed the public something and hope that 
someone out there watching would have seen Anton around somewhere, with someone, 
last night...
In the meantime, he wanted just a few hours of normal. That was all. Just a 
little dinner although he doubted he could eat. But the semblance of eating 
would be enough, he supposed. Some down time with Scully, maybe right here on 
the sagging little hotel sofa. Not one single case-infested worry, not a thought 
of what was to happen in four hours. Nothing else but them. He wanted it. Craved 
it. 
"I don't want you out there tonight, Mulder. I think it's a very bad idea." 
Scully's soft yet firm words broke over the silence in the room. She sat up and 
looked at him with worried eyes.
Mulder sighed and cupped her cheek, kissed her lips gently, lingeringly, feeling 
her cling to him. Scully wasn't a clinging vine; that wasn't her style. But she 
clung to him, now. And he couldn't let it make a difference. 
Another soft kiss, and he leaned back a little, giving her what reassurance he 
could. "It's not up to me, anymore. Or you. A Federal agent has been murdered 
and that ramps it up like nothing else. You know how it works, Scully. You know 
what kind of reaction LaVeille's death has had on the field office and the team 
members, everyone down at NHPD. They're out for blood, now, even hotter than 
before. I'm the only one who fits the physical description. Tag, I'm it." He 
tried to keep some humor going but there was no answering smile, roll of the 
eyes, anything from Scully. She simply wrapped her arms around his neck and 
pulled at him until she lay beneath him and Mulder covered her, pressed to her 
torso to torso, between the open cradle of her thighs.
The giant lump in his throat was constricting his breathing and he joked through 
it, for both their sakes. "Something on your mind, Scully? Do you have a 
pressing need to share it with me? Because I can promise you, my press is 
definitely needful." He wriggled against her and sighed with relief when she 
emitted a hoarse chuckle.
"You're a nut case. I know what you're trying to do. Trying to distract me, get 
my mind wandering off somewhere in libido-land so that I'll forget about the 
little dog-and-pony show we have to put on, later."
"Is it working?" he asked hopefully.
"Damn you. Yes, it's working." Scully grabbed a handful of his hair and tugged 
his mouth back to hers, the kiss now raw and greedy, oxygen-stealing, bruising. 
Like the flick of a switch the moment had gone from easy and soft to heated and 
demanding. She yanked at his clothes, her fingers scrabbling for zipper and 
buttons, impatient to find skin. Likewise he tugged at her blouse, her slacks, 
uncaring that he tore her hose and then her delicate panties. She plunged a hand 
into his boxers and cupped the hard, bare flesh; he groaned as those slender 
fingers fisted around him. He jerked forward and without trying for accurate 
aim, found himself buried deep within her heat when she released him and lifted 
her hips, seeking him.
"Oh, fuck -!"
"Yes, fuck. Hard." She panted three words against his ear and then bit his lobe. 
Mulder didn't need to be told a second time. He pulled her hips high and tight 
against his and took her with hard thrusts and no preliminaries. The room filled 
with the sounds of flesh slapping against flesh, of moans mingling with harsher 
groans and the single, high keen of woman, reaching her pinnacle, and taking her 
lover with her as she spiraled out of control.
They collapsed on the little sofa together, feet hanging off one end, desperate 
for breath. Hearts pounded furiously together, two drums working overtime as 
their pulses stopped spiking and slowed a little, easing down from that 
incredible high. He forced his heavy eyes to open and found hers already 
fastened on his, the blue of them more intense than ever, swimming in emotion.
Still, Scully must have also felt the need to make light of it, because she 
tilted her head a little to the side and queried, "So, was it good for you?"
It sounded so much like something he'd have said to her that Mulder couldn't 
help but laugh. It rumbled in his chest and erupted from his throat as he turned 
a little to the side and cradled her against his exhausted body. As she joined 
in with a few chuckles of her own, Mulder managed a weak, "No, it was awful. 
Sucked canal water. Blew chunks. You have to do it again, Scully. Until you get 
it right."
"We'll kill each other," she protested, still laughing.
"Yeah, but what a way to go."
They rested on the sofa, curled together while their skin cooled and their 
shorted-out brain cells regrouped. A small reprieve; a bit of a stall, an 
intermission between acts... with the biggest act to come.
Mulder only hoped he was ready for it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
FROM THE JOURNAL OF NEAL CARSON
'Gonna happen tonight. I let him get away and the son of a bitch is back, doing 
it again. Should've killed him twice. Should have cut him deeper. He'd have bled 
faster, if I'd cut him deeper. Something in him, some part of him, got away. My 
fault. I didn't kill him good enough. I never kill him enough. Seven times he's 
come back. I won't make that mistake again.
'I had to write it all down. Even though he denies it, denies being that 
bastard. I needed to write it. Who knows who might see this, someday? I'll pack 
it away afterward, after I cut up all the newspapers and load up my little 
scrapbook. Stupid of me to want to keep a record, but I'm a fucking artist, you 
know? And I'm doing all of this for Anna. Someday, I'll show it to her. So 
she'll know how hard I worked for her. So she'll understand.
'I lined it up today, all my tools. Gotta have the right tools, huh, Anna? I'm 
doing this for you. All for you. I bought more film. Gotta make sure I take the 
pictures. So that Anna can see. I added dimes to the bag. Two more rolls of 
them. Money well-spent. It needs to be heavier. He's getting stronger, you know. 
Bastard. 
I kill him and he comes back, stronger. But this'll fix him. 
This'll take care of him. For you. Anna, my Anna. I do it for you.
'Sharpened the knife. Never used it for cutting anything else but skin and that 
fucker's worthless dick. Nice and sharp. Nice and sharp. For my Anna, I make it 
sharp. Washed my clothes, too. Have to look clean and smell fresh, right, Anna? 
You always hated dirty-smelling clothes. Bought new gloves, too. The other ones 
were shot. New gloves, clean clothes, nice sharp knife, more dimes in the bag. 
More film. I'm dressed to kill. Ha.
'I'm gonna use all of his ties. Truss him up good. So he can't move. I know the 
bastard has a lot of ties in his closet. Fancy-ass suit, does he think because 
he's a fucking accountant that he's something special? Wore a suit the day he 
was tonguing my Anna in the parking lot of the goddamned Motel 6. I hate fucking 
suits. Only fitting that I use up all his ties when I kill him. Spread him like 
a human sacrifice. That's what he is. A sacrifice for Anna's honor. She'll thank 
me for it. She'll come back to me, for it.
'Let him bleed. I like it when he bleeds. I'll cut him a lot, this time. I'll 
enjoy it. A cut for every time he touched my Anna, touched something that didn't 
belong to him. And when I cut off his works and make him eat them, then I'll 
like it even better. Swallow THIS, you bastard. I hope you choke on it. I hope 
you DIE, on it. And then I hope you stay dead.
'Almost time. Almost dark enough outside. I know where he's going, I always know 
where he's going. Some fancy-ass bar, someplace with dim lights where he can 
grope my Anna. I'll find him. I'll find him and I'll follow him. And I'll kill 
him. For Anna.'

BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS
1999
A final turn of the key and the past was locked away. She'd store the cabinet in 
her closet, behind her clothes. She didn't need it, didn't need to read, any 
longer. Her father had told her everything he could. There wasn't any more that 
she needed to learn.
Neal Carson had been a monster. He'd been a killer, stone-cold and heartless. 
And yet he'd had the biggest heart in the world for his family. Wife, daughter. 
He'd done it for them, for the family he'd lost. Tracey wiped the tears from her 
blurry eyes. For her. He'd done it for her. It might have been the most 
unselfish act of his lonely, difficult life. 
How different everything would have been for them, if Anna hadn't been so weak. 
To let another man turn her head, make her forget she had a child at home who 
needed her and a husband who loved her. What if Doug Blanden had never crossed 
her path? They'd still be a family, still be living a happy life in New Haven. 
Maybe she'd have ended up with a little brother or sister. Anna had deprived 
them, Tracey decided, clenching her hands in frustration. Anna had taken from 
them all, the day she allowed that man into her life. Into her body. And yet, 
she'd been only human. There was a reason women were referred to as the 'weaker 
sex.' 
<We need guidance,> Tracey admitted to herself. <We always have. We always will. 
It's why men marry us, care for us. Because we're weaker.>
Tracey sat in her small living room and thought about it, all she had read, the 
way it made her feel. It was suddenly easy to think of her mother as a woman 
instead of just 'Mama.' In her mind she'd already begun calling her by her name, 
just as she'd stopped thinking of Doug Blanden as 'Papa.' How strange. And yet 
it felt right. Felt correct.
Her father was gone, his legacy locked away in a cabinet. From the last page in 
his second journal, Tracey had gleaned that he'd still felt he had work to do. 
His last attempt to rid himself of Doug Blanden hadn't been a success. Closing 
her eyes, Tracey recalled the final sentence on the final written page:
'He came back son of a bitch I saw him he's back he's back'
That had been all. That had been the end. His handwriting had been shaky, 
erratic. It had obviously caused him so much pain when he saw that his latest 
attempt had failed. Tracey was positive he'd meant to do it again, try again... 
But her father had died before he could, and she'd gone to live with her Aunt 
Miranda. His written and visual record had ended up in a box along with Anna's 
clothes. She had no idea who'd packed them up, whether her father did or whether 
Miranda herself had done it. Somehow she doubted her aunt had touched the 
journals and the binder with all the clippings and photos, for if she had then 
she'd have screamed it from the rooftops, that there was a monster in the pages 
of this book. There was a monster taking pictures of murdered men. Oh, yes. 
Miranda would have gone straight to the police and her father's sacrifice would 
have been for nothing.
His sacrifice. That's what she needed to remember. That was her father's legacy 
to her. He'd done it for her.
Tracey rose, stiffly, and walked to the kitchen. She should take something for 
the headache that was pounding itself between her eyes. She filled a glass with 
tepid water and shook four aspirin into her hand. While she gulped it down, she 
looked around the tiny kitchen. The linoleum on the floor was old and dingy and 
the cabinets needed painting. She'd complained to her landlord and the beastly 
man had merely flipped her the finger. He was disgusting and cheap and she hated 
living here. But it was close to her office and she needed to save her money. An 
apartment five blocks from work meant she didn't have the expense of a car.
She walked back into the living room, noting the nappy surface of the carpet 
that covered most of the scarred hardwood. The walls needed paint as well but 
she couldn't afford to buy it. Her bathroom sink leaked and her toilet was often 
plugged up. The neighborhood wasn't safe and she hated going out after dark.
She hated Boston, that was the real truth of it. She missed New Haven.
There was no earthly reason for her to stay here. She could work anywhere; her 
job certainly wasn't specialized. She could go anywhere. A place where the cost 
of living wasn't so high. A place she'd feel more comfortable with.
A place where she'd feel closer to her father. Tracey closed her eyes and 
pictured it. 
And as she sat in her little apartment, an idea came to her; a chilling and 
frightening and awful, temptingly awful idea...
She could carry on her father's legacy. She could finish his work for him. She 
could do it. For him. Tracey broke out into an actual cold sweat, thinking about 
it. And she realized that in reading her father's journals, he'd somehow come 
through the pages, come through them and right into her. Into her, preparing her 
for what needed to be done, what she had to accomplish all in the name of their 
family. 
She was her father's child, after all. She could do it. She knew how.
Maybe right now she was just one of those weak women, but when her father joined 
with her, then she wouldn't be so weak. She'd be strong, like he was. All she 
had to do was find a way to keep him inside her. Find the way. How hard could it 
be? She was Tracey Carson. Not Blanden. She'd never be Blanden again. Maybe that 
was the key... to be a Carson. Fuck Blanden, for he'd sure fucked her weak 
mother, hadn't he? Taken her from her home. Seduced her into thinking he could 
offer her a better life than the one her father had generously provided. A 
better house. A better father for her child. And Anna had gone for it, hadn't 
she? Because she was a goddamn weak woman. But her father had tried to fix it. 
Eight times, he'd tried to fix it. He'd died before he could try one more time. 
Maybe number nine would have done it. Maybe that's what she was meant to do, her 
purpose. Find Number Nine.
She'd have to go back to where it all started. New Haven, she had to go back to 
New Haven. It was her home; she'd been born there. She could get strong, there. 
Find a job, a place to live. Wouldn't have to be much. She didn't need much. 
Daddy had never had much, and he got along just fine. If he could do it so could 
she.
She was weak but that didn't mean she couldn't figure out how to be cunning. 
Plenty of predators didn't have much body strength but they made up for it in 
cunning. She could be damned cunning if she set her mind to it.
She'd left New Haven for good when she was just eleven. Nobody would remember 
her; hell, she'd barely gotten out of the apartment. A skinny kid who stared out 
the windows of her little bedroom, late at night... no, she wouldn't be 
remembered. And what few neighbors they'd seen would have recalled her as 
Punkie, not Tracey. There were lots of apartment complexes in New Haven. Nobody 
would know her. 
She could do anything she wanted to; that was her father's gift to her. That was 
his legacy.
Tracey smiled, sitting there on the faded old sofa. And for the first time in 
her life she felt as if she had a real purpose. 
It felt very, very good. Even better when she spoke the words, those powerful 
words, aloud.
"For you, Daddy. You and Anna. I'll do it, for you."

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE 

FBI NEW HAVEN
10:10 PM
Mulder adjusted his tie, smoothed it down over his shirt. He'd chosen a muted 
blue-gray stripe that was somewhat tamer than the ones he usually wore. Maybe he 
was developing some taste in wardrobe accessories. Then he remembered his mother 
had given him the tie for his birthday, a few years back. 
Well, so much for developing better taste on his own.
Across the room from him, Scully was in conversation with Morris and Pierce, 
going over last-minute details. The vans - two of them - were ready, key 
personnel in place inside, equipment checked and then double-checked. There was 
a tiny microphone nestled in the crease of the Windsor knot of Mulder's tie. 
Wireless, its equally-tiny receiver/recorder was in the inner pocket of his suit 
jacket. It had astonishing clarity and range. That - and a myriad of other 
worrisome details - had Scully going over everything again and again...
"Agent Scully. Dana." When she'd failed to respond to her title, Morris had 
gotten her attention with familiarity. Scully broke off the 
subtle-yet-relentless haranguing of the tech currently pinned by her narrowed 
eyes, and turned to face the visibly-tired agent. He tried to smile reassuringly 
but it was a real effort. "Dana, he'll be safe at all times, I promise you. Do 
you think I'd take any chances, after what happened to LaVeille?"
She sighed and glanced over at Mulder, who was shrugging into his jacket. He 
looked pale but rested, and she'd seen to it that he'd eaten something, although 
to be fair neither of them had been able to choke down much. 
Another hour and everyone would be in place. Mulder would start by walking the 
downtown area of New Haven, popping in and out of bars and taverns, the intimate 
restaurants and cafes that peppered both sides of the main drag. He'd act as if 
he was just another single guy on the town, and see if that kind of attitude 
netted them anything. If it didn't, he would adjust his pattern and change his 
expression, his stance, try something else, until they struck pay dirt. He had 
three hours to get something going and if nothing happened then they'd do it 
again another night.
The news media had been alerted, LaVeille's photograph circulated on local 
television stations. For the sake of a successful bait scenario, Morris had made 
sure that Mulder's face had stayed out of camera range, and that nobody knew him 
to be part of the investigation. It hadn't been that hard to do; Mulder was 
naturally reticent around the media and hated reporters like poison. He'd speak 
to them if he had to but for the most part he avoided them, and quite 
successfully. 
The local PD had been responsible for distributing LaVeille's photo around town 
and people were being asked to look at this young man and think, think if they 
had seen him around New Haven, at anytime during the evening, and to offer up 
any information they had. For the first time since this cold case had been 
reopened, the phones were ringing with advice, eyewitness accounts, the usual 
crackpots who wanted to 'confess' to the crime and calls from terrified women 
who were convinced the killer was right outside their doors, ready to kill their 
husbands and boyfriends. So far, nothing worthwhile had come in; as one of the 
plainclothes cops had remarked, they'd gotten 'bupkis.' Scully thought it an apt 
term. 
She had no professional right to attempt calling this off. And that was exactly 
what every brain cell in her head was screaming at her to do. Call it off. Lock 
them both away in a room somewhere, so they'd be safe. Get the hell out of New 
Haven and hop the first plane back to DC, and forget this damned case had ever 
existed. It was unprofessional and un-partnerly of her. She knew it. And she 
couldn't help feeling such a level of fear. This was the man she loved. This was 
Mulder. She'd put her own ass on the line, time and time again, for the job. But 
she hated it when he did. 
"Hey." A warm hand stroked along her neck and Scully jumped a little, then 
offered a weak smile to Mulder, who had walked up behind her while she'd been 
ticking off details in her head and fighting down panic. He sat down in the 
chair the team's beleaguered tech had just vacated, and kept his hand on her 
neck, caressing gently. She arched into it with a subtle movement, as always 
reserved about public displays of affection but unable to resist the much-needed 
contact with Mulder. When she caught Morris's eye and he smiled at her in 
understanding, Scully figured they weren't fooling anyone. 
"Are you all right? Got everything finalized? We only have about forty-five 
minutes before curtain-up." Mulder gave her a quick once-over, not liking how 
shadowed her eyes looked. He knew she was worried. Hell, he was worried, too. 
He'd be crazy not to be. But he had this gut feeling, even though statistics had 
shown that most serial killers allowed several days or weeks to elapse before 
killing again. Usually the only exception would be if he couldn't contain it and 
blew his wad so quickly between kills that he just had to do it again, the 
sooner the better. Odds of their guy surfacing twenty-four hours after LaVeille 
were slim to none. But they had to try.
"I'm going to be in the first van. We'll never be more than twenty yards away, 
Mulder. You'll have three plainclothesmen on you at all times. Don't do anything 
rash, okay?" Scully reached for his hand and gripped his fingers, hard. He 
squeezed back.
Opting for a bit of jocularity Mulder quipped, "What if some guy walks up to me 
and asks me for a date? It could happen, you know. I look very fetching, 
tonight. And my breath is minty-fresh."
Scully had to laugh; it was either that or cry. She cleared her throat but it 
still felt scratchy when she replied, "Tell him whatever you need to tell him, 
to keep him occupied until we can get our hands on him and see if he's our guy. 
Within reason, of course. I'd hate to have to shoot some unsuspecting male just 
because he's feeling amorous and he thinks you're the answer to all of his 
nightly prayers."
"Well, I am!" Mulder adopted affront. "I'm the answer, Scully. 
I'm it."
"Yes. You're 'it,' all right. I'm just not sure what 'it' is." Uncaring that 
Morris, Pierce and three techs were watching them, Scully leaned in and rubbed 
her cheek against Mulder's, then sat there close to him for a moment, their 
cheeks pressed together. Whispered to him, "You're MY 'It.' You'd better take 
care of it, too. Understand?" 
His hands caught her shoulders and held her, tightened almost painfully before 
he released her and eased back. He gave her the kind of cocky grin that he knew 
drove her the most crazy. "Don't get lipstick on my collar, Agent."
"I'm not wearing lipstick."
"Well, in that case... close your eyes, Morris." Without waiting to see if he'd 
been obeyed, Mulder leaned in, kissed her softly, taking his time. Let her go, 
slowly. Smiled at her, sweetly. "Okay, gotta take off. Big date, tonight. Thanks 
for warming me up." He was up and on his feet and out of there before she could 
say or do anything to stall him, just stall a little longer, just a few minutes 
longer...
"Better get into place, Agent Scully." The tech who'd endured her grilling not 
more than five minutes ago was now the one who touched her arm, followed her 
out, opened doors for her and got her into position when she stepped up to the 
van. His assistance was probably a good thing, especially if she looked as dazed 
as she felt. That kiss had been mind-scrambling.
Shaking herself out of it, Scully took her seat and tested her receiver by 
murmuring to Morris. "Agent Morris. Van One good to go." Her voice lowered 
ominously. "If anything happens to him, you're dead meat. Copy?"
There was silence from all receivers, and then a terse, "Copy, Agent. And 
understood."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
10:25 PM 
Van One's engine started quietly, pulled out silently, following - at a discreet 
distance - the dark blue Honda Accord that had been rented for the evening's 
'festivities.' In the driver's seat Mulder hummed a bit under his breath, alert, 
watching the action on the streets from all angles. He'd park in one of the 
larger parking lots downtown, one that catered to several daytime businesses and 
one or two lounges and cafes. 
He was alert but that didn't mean he wasn't a bit nervous. Only a fool would 
walk into a bait like this - with no knowledge of the UNSUB'S trigger - and act 
over-confident. Mulder was no fool. He'd done this before, and knew the dangers. 
He also knew exactly what Scully was feeling, in the surveillance van. If their 
positions had been reversed, he'd be a fucking basket case by now, and 
frustrated all to hell that he couldn't show it; would have to maintain his 
professionalism at all cost. Oh yeah. He knew what she was feeling. 
Mulder stepped out of the car and locked it, smoothed down his jacket, subtly 
checking his mic and receiver as he did so. He brushed a hand over his hair, for 
all intent looking like a guy on the prowl, and sauntered off down State Street, 
walking with a loose-limbed, casual stride. Beneath his cool exterior he was 
trying to imagine what the hell this animal's trigger might be. Shit, he'd done 
nothing BUT imagine, for the last ten days. It was damned frustrating.
Was their killer looking for a long-lost lover who'd crossed him the wrong way? 
Had he been in a same-sex relationship that had soured, and this was his way of 
punishing his 'bad boy,' over and over? Mulder had found himself smiling 
automatically at every woman he passed on the street, and more than a few of 
them smiled right back, invitingly. He couldn't help himself; women were meant 
to be smiled at. But lately he'd been wondering if thinking in terms of a 
heterosexual killer had been incorrect, all of this time.
Was he giving off the wrong signal? Was the killer watching, even now? Mulder 
looked around; he wasn't the only dark-haired man walking around. Jesus, this 
was impossible. How the fuck had they thought they could just toss him out here 
and expect their killer to see him and think, "Oh, there's my guy! I'll just 
follow him home..."
He bent his head a little and muttered, "So far, nothing. I'm coming up on the 
Diesel Lounge. I'll go in there."
"Copy. Stay alert." Scully's voice, clear and calm. It steadied him. Mulder 
crossed the busy street and walked up to the door of the lounge.
It was one floor, expansive, with a tan brick front and wide windows. The 
interior was dimly lit and packed with people, standing at the bar, seated at 
the bar, grouped around the bar. The music was techno and too loud, the 
conversation even louder as it ebbed and flowed in and around the tables, 
patrons and cocktail waitresses.
Mulder glanced toward the long bar; there were two people behind it, a young 
woman and middle-aged man. Both were attractive and energetic, keeping up with 
the orders shouted out by customers and waitresses alike. Since it appeared that 
all the tables were taken and the only space left was the bar itself, Mulder 
took a stool and perched on it, keeping his focus on the large, noisy room. When 
the female bartender looked his way and smiled, Mulder ordered a Yuengling on 
tap and it was handed to him in record time. He took a gulp of the icy brew and 
scanned the room; turned his head slightly and kept his voice low. "Nothing 
yet."
No sooner had the words left his mouth, than a woman in form-fitting red walked 
up to the bar and sat down on the barstool next to him, martini glass in hand. 
She had curling black hair that flowed past her shoulders and a flirtatious look 
in her brown eyes. Mulder gave her a nod when she leaned her chin on her hand 
and looked him over once, then twice. He took another sip of his beer and wished 
like hell Scully was here with him; that this was just another average night in 
a hopping bar... instead of what it really was.
"... here alone?" The woman with the curling black hair was talking; Mulder 
turned to face her and tried his best to look as if he spent every night in 
places like this, flirting with strangers.
"Pardon me?" <Smooth, asshole. Nothing like failing to live up to your first 
name.>
"I said, are you here alone?" Her mouth was coated in red lip gloss, as bright 
as her dress. Mulder thought she looked as if she'd painted blood on her mouth 
and wondered idly if she might have fangs. 
He quickly abandoned his wayward thoughts when she stared inquiringly at him, 
eyebrows raised. Shit, he hadn't said that aloud, had he? Mulder cleared his 
throat. "Yeah, I am. Interesting place."
The woman smiled slowly and trailed a finger through the wet ring her glass had 
left on the bar surface. "Oh, it is. I come here a lot. The drinks are 
reasonable and you meet the most attractive men, here." She slid a hand over the 
bar and held it out to him, palm up. "I'm Cecily. Cee Cee to my friends."
Mulder took her hand gingerly and gave it a brief shake, then released her. He 
noted her fingers seemed to stay pressed to his; he eased his own further away 
and she slowly returned her hand to her drink. "Nice to meet you."
"Aren't you going to tell me your name?" Cee Cee edged closer. Mulder wisely 
backed up a little. He could smell her perfume. Hell, the people in the bar 
across the street could have smelled her perfume...
"Um, it's Henry. My friends call me... Henry." What an inane conversation. Van 
One was probably having a good laugh over it, or he'd bored them into catatonia 
and they were all asleep. Snoring, too.
"Well, Henry... you look like a very nice guy. I'm an excellent judge of 
character and as soon as I saw you walk in I said to myself, 'There's a really 
nice guy. Maybe he'd like to go somewhere, get to know me better.' What do you 
think, Henry? Want to get to know me better?" Cee Cee leaned in close again and 
this time Mulder was treated to an unfettered view of her impressive cleavage.
Jesus. Why this kind of thing had never happened to him when his heart had been 
free and clear... Mulder looked into Cee Cee's brown eyes and saw nothing more 
than a slightly inebriated woman who was trying to score; a barracuda soaked in 
a suffocating fog of perfume. Mostly harmless if you could avoid the bloody 
lipstick and the overpowering scent. He decided to cut her loose to score 
somewhere else.
"Listen, Cee Cee, that's a great offer but I can't. I'm waiting for someone." 
Mulder gave her a 'damn-I'm-gonna-regret-this-in-the-morning' smile and hoped 
she'd move along soon.
"I'll bet she's not as sexy as I am. I'll bet she's not as... eager... as I am." 
Cee Cee wasn't going to give up without a fight, it would appear. Shit.
"Um -"
"Mr. Mulder? Can I talk to you?" The slightly trembling voice at his elbow made 
Mulder jerk around, and he found himself staring into a familiar face. What the 
hell -?
But he smiled gently at the woman who stood on the other side of him, clutching 
her purse. "Lynda. Hi. Just in time."
Before Lynda could answer, the indomitable Cee Cee looked her up and down, 
disbelief in her eyes. "You have GOT to be kidding me."
Mulder took a few more seconds to pin Cee Cee with a darkened, warning glare and 
a stern expression on his face, which Lynda couldn't see. "I told you I was 
waiting for someone. It was... nice... meeting you, Cecily. Better luck next 
time."
While the affronted Cee Cee slid off her barstool and stomped off, Mulder turned 
back to Lynda. In a very low voice he queried, "What are you doing here? Didn't 
Morris tell you we're in the middle of a bait?"
Lynda Kelly twisted the handles of her purse together, and nodded. "I already 
knew. I'm sorry! I didn't mean to interrupt. But when I saw you come in, I just 
wanted to - I'm sorry!" Her eyes filled with sudden tears, and Mulder stood up 
abruptly and urged her onto his vacant stool. Lynda ended up sitting down in his 
place and sniffling into a cocktail napkin while he signaled the bartender and 
ordered a glass of wine.
He thought about it for maybe three seconds, then reached into his pocket and 
flicked off the little receiver. Whatever Lynda wanted to say to him, the last 
thing he would do was allow it to be broadcast over both vans and half of New 
Haven's finest. He had a feeling the shy little admin wasn't befriended too 
often. And he was remembering the devastated look on her face when LaVeille had 
come in the other morning, and had ignored her when she had so obviously been 
with him, probably the night before.
Her drink came and Mulder pressed it into her hands. She stammered her thanks 
and took two large sips of it, choking a little. "Easy, go slow. Even wine can 
hit hard if you're not used to it."
"I don't drink much. But last night I had three bottles of beer. I wanted to get 
drunk. And this morning - this morning -" She couldn't finish. Her eyes filled 
again and she stared down into her drink, tears plopping on the bar. 
Mulder placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Lynda. Sorry for 
your loss. You and LaVeille, you were becoming a couple, weren't you?"
She gulped and nodded. "I was in love with him. I wanted to marry him. I was 
going to ask him, but by the time I had worked up the courage to, everything was 
changed, everything was ruined." Her tears fell faster and she wiped at her wet 
cheeks with a shaky hand.
"You were going to propose to Anton? Well. I had no idea things had gotten that 
serious between you." Mulder felt pity welling up inside him for this lonely 
woman. She had been building her dreams based on what she thought was a tender 
beginning to a beautiful life together, and to Anton it had no doubt been just 
another one-night stand. Poor girl. 
"I was so mad at him, last night. He never called me. I waited and waited but he 
didn't call." Lynda took another gulp of wine and set her glass down unsteadily, 
too close to the edge; Mulder reached out and grabbed it before it could hit the 
floor. He placed it on the bar and took a surreptitious glance at his watch. 
Then cursed himself for doing so. He could take a few minutes for her, he 
figured. She was a nice person and she deserved to have someone care about her.
"Lynda, maybe Anton simply forgot. I've been stood up before, and for no other 
reason than my date had forgotten. It's not very flattering but it happens." 
She shook her head. "No! He didn't forget. I know he didn't. I, um, I followed 
him. Well, I called him first and I left a message. When he didn't call me back, 
I went over to his apartment. And I saw him leave. He was dressed so nicely and 
I just knew he had a date. But not with me, that's the awful thing. Not with 
me." She rubbed more tears from her eyes. "So I followed him. He met her. The 
cop, the one he sat with in the conference room. They were at this restaurant 
down the street. They ate together. I stood outside and watched them eat. She's 
married, did you know that? She's married to a really nice guy. How could she do 
that to her husband? How could they do that, to me?" Lynda's voice trailed off 
into nothing as she stared blindly down at her wine glass.
"You saw them together at a restaurant down the street. Can you remember the 
name? Lynda, this is important." Mulder grabbed at her arm to regain her 
attention, and Lynda looked up at him with glazed sadness in her eyes. Mulder 
groaned. As a witness she would most likely prove useless, but he had to try. 
"Listen to me. Someone at the restaurant might have seen something, heard 
something that could help lead us to Anton's killer. You yourself might have 
seen him. Think, Lynda. What was the name of the place?"
"I don't know! I can't think of it right now. Don't you understand? He was out 
with a married woman! She was the one talking to him the other day. Not me, it 
should have been me. She was the one sitting there next to him. I should have 
been sitting next to him. Not her! She has a husband! I don't. I don't have 
anyone..." Lynda dropped her head into her hands and sobbed. 
And Mulder found himself rubbing at her back soothingly, shaking his head at the 
bartender when she signaled him, silently asking if he wanted another round. 
Jesus, what a mess. He had to turn his receiver back on. He had to get Lynda out 
of there and continue with this goddamn bait. And he had to find out where in 
hell Anton had been, with Caroline Bromley... for he remembered the attractive 
cop who'd sat next to Anton in the conference room that morning. Someone had to 
contact her, see what she could tell them.
He bent over the sobbing Lynda and spoke quietly. "I know you've been through a 
lot. I'm truly sorry for your loss, Lynda. But you need to concentrate and see 
if you can remember. It's important. I want you to come with me. I'm going to 
take you to Agent Morris, and I want you to stay with him and try to think of 
the name of the place where you saw Anton. I have to finish my work, here, and I 
can't do that if I have to also worry about you. You understand?"
Slowly she raised her head, eyes swollen from crying, and stared at him. Slowly 
her face changed, from weeping, weak woman to flushed, angry woman. It happened 
so quickly that Mulder blinked in confusion; it was almost like looking at a 
completely different person. 
Lynda slid off the barstool and stood on now-steady legs. She scrubbed at her 
face, erasing the tears. "You don't have to baby-sit me, Mr. Mulder. I'm a 
woman, not a little girl. I saw you sitting here and I just wanted to talk to 
you for a while, because you have always been nice to me and I needed a little 
nice, right now." She reached for her purse with erratic movements and knocked 
it to the floor. Some of its contents spilled and Mulder was quick to bend and 
pick them up for her. He closed his hand over a small prescription bottle and 
from force of habit glanced at the label... and the word 'Nembutal' jumped out 
at him.
Ah, shit.
Straightening slowly, Mulder handed her the filled purse and slipped his hands 
into his pockets. His fingers carefully reset the receiver as he said, "Lynda, 
why don't you let me take you home? Nothing much is happening around here and I 
was about to contact Agent Morris and cancel the bait, anyhow. We can set it up 
again for tomorrow night. I'd be happy to escort you home. You shouldn't be 
driving when you're this upset."
"I didn't drive this evening; I took a bus." The shy, hesitant admin was back. 
"But if you could give me a ride I'd be glad to accept. Maybe you could stay a 
little while and I could talk to you some more, about Anton. It's been hard, not 
having anyone to talk to."
"Sure, Lynda. I could stay for a little while. Let me hit the men's room, okay? 
Beer always does that to me." Mulder gave her an easy smile but behind it, his 
mind was racing. He walked to the rest rooms as if he didn't have a care in the 
world.
Once inside a stall, he murmured, "Scully. Listen to me. I need you to get hold 
of anyone at the field office who can run a check on Lynda Kelly."
"What? Our Lynda Kelly?" Scully's confusion was evident in her voice.
"Yeah. How long she's been with the NHPD; where she's from, whatever you can 
find on her."
"Can I ask why, Mulder? And where in hell are you? In a toilet?"
"As a matter of fact..." He flushed the toilet just for effect. "Lynda showed up 
here, upset about Anton and with information on his whereabouts last night. And 
who he was with. Get Pierce or Morris to contact Caroline Bromley. I didn't see 
her this morning but I think I heard mention of her manning dispatch at the cop 
shop desk this evening. She might know something. I need to follow up on Lynda 
Kelly. Stay on me when we leave here."
"Be careful."
"Always." He flushed the toilet again for good measure and walked out.
Lynda was still sitting at the bar. When she saw him she hastily wiped at her 
face, which was damp from crying again, and stood up. Mulder took her elbow and 
guided her out of the lounge. As they walked outside she asked, "Did Agent 
Morris get angry that you're packing it in for tonight?"
Mulder shook his head. No, he's fine with it. My car's over here." As he 
escorted her to the rented Accord, his inner radar was pinging like mad. He 
unlocked the door and opened it, helping Lynda inside. Gently reminding her to 
fasten her seat belt, Mulder got in on the driver's side, inserted the key, 
started the engine. Offered her a reassuring smile when she looked up at him, 
tearstains all over her face. 
<Here we go,> he thought to himself. <And I fucking hope you're all
listening.>

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
10:40 PM
"He WHAT?" Still manning Van Two, Morris's shock was evident, over Scully's 
headset. She winced.
"He called it off, until another night. He thinks he might have something and he 
wants to pursue it. And we're sticking with him."
"And you need information on Lynda Kelly. And Mulder's with her, right now. 
Headed to her place. What the hell is going on?"
"I'm not sure, but let's just go with it and see what happens. Mulder knows what 
he's doing." <Please God, let him know what he's doing.>
"Give me a few minutes, I'll have what you need."
Scully sat back and watched out the darkened window, her eyes struggling to 
track Mulder's Accord as it cut through traffic in front of the van. And she 
tried to piece together in any way she could, the possibility of Lynda Kelly 
being involved in Anton LaVeille's death. It was ridiculous. This was a timid 
woman with low self-esteem. And yet, Anton had treated her badly. A scorned 
woman might be capable of anything. As soon as she thought it, Scully shook her 
head, impatient with herself. No, it was impossible.
No way.
~~~~ 

FBI NEW HAVEN
10:53 PM
Pierce flipped his phone open and held it to his ear, straining to hear over the 
noise of the conference room. "Agent Pierce."
"Have you seen Bromley?" Morris's voice was low and urgent.
"Not here, but I know where she is. She was asked to man the dispatch this 
evening. Since she's secondary, I didn't see a problem." Pierce walked out of 
the room and into the corridor where it was quieter. "What's going on? How's 
Mulder doing?"
"He's tracking a lead. I need you to contact Bromley and pump her for 
information. If she's unwilling to talk, come down on her, hard. She was with 
Anton last night and may well have been the last person to see him alive."
"WHAT?" Pierce's shock was evident.
"I'll explain later. Just get hold of her before she takes off. 
I'd lay money her head's not on very straight, right now."
"On it." Pierce shoved his phone into his pocket and strode back into the 
conference room, grabbing his jacket and motioning to one of the secondary team 
members, a seasoned cop named Robertson who had paired with Bromley several 
times and knew her, better than most. "Robertson! With me, please."
The officer nodded and hurried over, both men exiting the conference room before 
any other team members could ask what was going on. 
"What is it, Sir?" Robertson huffed to keep up with the younger Pierce, who 
hadn't bothered with the elevator and was running down the fire stairs.
"Cop shop. Bromley. Possible witness."
"Say WHAT?"
"Yeah. What."
~~~~ 

NEW HAVEN POLICE DEPARTMENT
10:50 PM
MaryAnne Kenner, one of the night cleaning staff, found it, lying on the floor 
right in front of Caroline's cubicle. She almost broke her ankle, tripping over 
it. "What the hell is wrong with people? Can't they pick their shit up off the 
damned floor?" MaryAnne grumbled as she grabbed the thick pleated manila 
envelope and looked it over. Bromley wasn't usually a slob but she'd been kind 
of in a fog all morning. Hell, they all had, after hearing the news about 
LaVeille. MaryAnne thought it was a real shame. Anton had been one fine chunk of 
man. She'd never gone out with him but she'd still thought he was prime. 
Well, not as if he'd have ever asked her out, MaryAnne thought, as she turned 
the envelope over in her pudgy hands. A guy who looked like Anton could have his 
pick of women and sure as shit he'd never bother with a chubb-o like her when he 
could be planking someone knock-out gorgeous, like Caro. 
Whose name just happened to be on the envelope she held. MaryAnne had seen Caro 
when she'd first come on at eight, manning the front desk. All the cops took 
turns, since Amy Fry, their long-standing day dispatch operator, was still on 
maternity leave and Benny, the night dispatch, had gleefully slipped into Amy's 
daytime slot. Sure couldn't blame him for doing that; anything on the day shift 
around here was choice. 
MaryAnne had even sat in for an evening's rotation on dispatch, which was how 
she'd met Anton in the first place. Nice guy. Fabulous to look at... and now 
dead. Shit.
She walked down the hall to the front desk, figuring she might as well give the 
envelope over to Caro right now. Maybe it would help keep her awake.
Caroline Bromley was leaning on her chin, sitting there at the front desk, 
staring off into space, when she heard, "Caro! Yo! Found this on the floor by 
your cubicle!" MaryAnne's strident voice jerked her out of her reverie and 
Caroline looked up, managing to summon a smile.
"Thanks," she held out a hand for the envelope. "You say it was by my desk?" 
MaryAnne nodded. Caroline looked down at the large, block letters spelling out 
simply, 'Caroline.' "Well, hmm. I'm the only Caroline around, so I guess it's 
mine." Needing a diversion from her damned self-pitying thoughts, needing to 
think of anything other than what had happened to Anton LaVeille - a man she had 
come very close to cheating on her husband with - Caroline unthreaded the 
fastener and opened the envelope, peering inside, pulling out a thick binder 
crammed full of newspaper clippings. As she did so, a handful of color photos, 
the old-fashioned instant kind, slid out and handed on the desk...
"Oh, my God. Oh, MY GOD!" The sight of the photos knocked any self-pity from 
Caroline in a hurry. MaryAnne looked down at the photos and gasped, both hands 
coming up to cover her mouth as she stared in horror at what lay scattered over 
the polished surface of the desk.
Caroline's fingers shook as she reached into the envelope and pulled out two 
journals, tied together with ribbon. She dropped them clumsily, right on top of 
the photos, and both women stared at them, then at the partially-covered photos, 
then at each other...
Just as Pierce and Robertson came through the wide double doors of the precinct 
and strode up to the desk. "Ms. Bromley, I need to talk to - Holy SHIT! SHIT!"
For Pierce had glanced down at whatever Caroline had found more compelling than 
an official summons, and his eyes fell on a photo, peeking out from what 
appeared to be a set of journals tied together. Enough of the carnage therein 
was visible, too, and he saw blood, so much blood, in a scene so eerily familiar 
that it was almost as if someone had stood over his shoulder from just that 
morning and had snapped his partner's picture, lying there, nude, mutilated, 
suffocated in his own blood and flesh.
"Jesus, Caroline! Where the fuck did this come from?" Robertson looked slightly 
green around the gills. 
She raised her head and stared at both men, her face as white as the sweater she 
wore. "MaryAnne found it by my desk. My name is on the envelope, see?" She held 
it out to Pierce and he was careful to take it with only the tips of his 
fingers. "Please, what's going on? Who did this, who took these photos, who sent 
this to me? I don't understand." She looked at MaryAnne who just shook her head 
wildly, white-faced... and who backed away from the desk as if by distancing 
herself from the contents of the envelope, she could make it all go away, as if 
the photo image were not branded in her brain, forever.
MaryAnne suddenly clapped a hand over her mouth and ran down the hall towards 
the nearest rest room. And while Caroline sat like a stone, staring, staring 
down at the photo, Pierce reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell, 
punching in Morris's number. It rang once. "Morris, get the fuck over here! Cop 
shop. Hurry. I don't care who has to take over for you, goddamn it! Sir," Pierce 
belatedly remembered who the hell he was swearing at, "Please, get over here. 
Now." 
~~~~ 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
NEW HAVEN POLICE DEPARTMENT 
11:30 PM
Caroline Bromley sat at a table in one of the department's interrogation rooms, 
clutching a cup of almost-scalding coffee. Her hands were numb and the heat of 
her cup hadn't done much to help re-circulate her blood. But having something to 
hold onto kept her fingers from trembling.
Morris sat opposite her, with Robertson next to her, rubbing her shoulder 
reassuringly. Neither man had come right out and accused her of any wrong-doing 
where Anton LaVeille was concerned, and Caro found some comfort in that. The 
photos, binder and journal were spread out on the table and she tried hard not 
to look. But like anything gruesome yet morbidly fascinating, she found herself 
unable to resist taking a few covert glances at the carnage splayed before her. 
The manila envelope that had held everything was in an evidence pouch and would 
be checked for fingerprints. Caro had surfaced from the numb fog surrounding 
her, long enough to realize the envelope hadn't been sent through the mail. It 
had to have been planted in her cubicle area, by... whom? And why?
"God. This is a nightmare." Her voice was thready. 
Morris caught Robertson's eye and gave him a small nod; the cop had been on the 
force a long time and knew Caroline Bromley well. Maybe they'd get more out of 
her if Robertson talked to her, first. 
Accordingly, Robertson took her cold hand in his beefy grip and chafed her 
fingers. "Why would anyone send you this shit? Gotta be a reason. Your name was 
on the envelope. Caro," he tugged at her hand and she turned her glazed eyes to 
him, "This stuff is old. These photos are from the first case, the one that hit 
twenty-three years ago. Morris looked at one of the journals. It was written by 
the killer himself, there's no doubt of it. He's only skimmed through it so far 
but there seems to be a lot of detail about the murders, the way the victims 
were tortured, things like that." He pointed to the clear evidence pouch that 
held the manila envelope. "This is one of those departmental distribution 
pouches. Doesn't even go through the mail. What we gotta figure out now is why 
in hell this would have been delivered to you."
"I don't know! How would I know? All I did tonight was clock in and head right 
for the front desk! Ask anyone. I didn't go back to my cubicle at all. I didn't 
know this... thing... was even there. I don't KNOW anything!" Agitated and 
frightened, Caroline jumped up and paced away from the table with jerky 
movements. Robertson watched her, concerned. Morris scrubbed at his face, 
frustrated.
Mulder told them Caroline and LaVeille had met for dinner the night he'd been 
killed. That information had come from his conversation with Lynda Kelly and 
while Morris didn't know the admin very well, he had no reason to think she'd 
lie. And Caro had already proved quite cagey where mention of Anton was 
concerned. In actuality, Morris had more cause to suspect Caro of suspicious 
behavior in the murder of LaVeille than anyone else right now, incongruous as it 
might seem.
"Caroline, please - sit down." Morris waited until she sank back into her chair 
and dropped her head in her hands. He leaned forward and spoke firmly. "This is 
important. You were seen with LaVeille on the night he died. No one is accusing 
you of any wrong-doing. We just want to piece together his final evening. Maybe 
someone saw you at the restaurant. Maybe they saw something that might help us 
catch the killer. No one is going to judge you, and what you tell us doesn't 
leave this room."
She raised her head and stared at him with tears in her eyes. "I love my 
husband. I don't want to lose him. He's a jealous man, Agent Morris. If he knew 
I'd had dinner with another man..."
"I can't promise you that your husband won't find out about this, Caroline. I 
can only promise it won't be coming from me."
"That's not very reassuring." But she gave a sigh and sat up straighter in her 
chair. She was, after all, a cop. Withholding evidence of any kind was not an 
option. "Okay, I did go out to dinner with him. He asked and I accepted. We had 
dinner at Ibiza. Then we had a few drinks at the Diesel Lounge. I swear, that 
was all." 
She raked her hair away from her face. She was sweating. Not a good sign when 
under police suspicion. "He asked me for more than a nightcap at the Diesel and 
I refused. I drove home by myself. The last I saw of Anton, he was standing in 
the parking lot looking for his car. I don't know if he went anywhere else. I 
don't know if he was planning on meeting anyone else. All I can tell you was 
that I didn't make an ass of myself and if I'm very lucky, Dan won't ever find 
out."
"Okay. That's all for now. Can you finish out your shift? Or would you rather go 
home?" Morris stood and started gathering up the photos still scattered across 
the table.
Caro glanced down at them and shuddered; then made a conscious effort to turn 
away as she also stood and moved toward the door. "I want to finish my shift. 
I'm all right now. I'll be around if you have any further questions." Her face 
was composed but Morris noticed she all but ran to the door. 
"How long has Lynda Kelly been with us?" Morris pulled the ribbon from the 
journals and opened the second one.
Robertson gave it some thought. "Nine months, maybe a little less. Let me go dig 
out her hiring paperwork." He strode from the room and Morris resumed his seat, 
and reading through the second journal.
Five minutes later he had Robertson paged. "Come back in here. The stupid 
son-of-a-bitch identified himself in his own journal!"

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
110 BENTON COURT, APT. C4
NEW HAVEN
11:35 PM 
The apartment was small but ruthlessly organized and eat-off-the-floor clean. 
The white walls throughout might have rendered it boring but for the unexpected 
splashes of jewel-bright color, everywhere. In the living room a peacock-blue 
sofa held throw pillows of jade, canary yellow and fuchsia. A wing-chair 
upholstered in hot pink and white sat in one corner with a knitted throw of 
eye-bleeding purple tossed over the back. It should have clashed hideously but 
somehow it didn't. From the wildly patterned paisley carpet on the floor to the 
abstract prints on those white walls, the entire room radiated strong, confident 
woman.
Its owner sat on a corner of the sofa, pale and thin, with nervous fingers and 
darting pale blue eyes. Lynda Kelly looked about as far removed from strong and 
confident as anyone Mulder had ever met.
And yet, she had the upper hand, for she sat facing him with a shy little smile 
on her face... and he was tied to a kitchen chair like a turkey trussed up and 
waiting to be popped into the oven. A turkey with a raging, blinding headache.
He still wasn't sure how in hell she'd caught him. He'd been on his guard from 
the moment they'd left the Diesel Lounge and had driven across town. In a voice 
still shaky from crying, she'd given him her address and then had sat quietly, 
staring out the window. He had remained quiet as well, only asking her for a 
direction here and there, to assure he wouldn't miss any turns and streets.
Her apartment building didn't appear to be in the best section of town and the 
building itself was somewhat run-down. There had been a heavy smell of cooked 
onions in the dim hallway outside her door, which was indicative of poor 
ventilation. But once inside her apartment, Mulder had been quite surprised at 
the clean lines of her decor and the bright colors. He'd stood in the tiny foyer 
and had peered into the living room with a bemused look on his face, thinking 
how unlike her the room seemed to be. 
And he had just registered the sound of her locking the door and had partially 
turned toward her, when pain had exploded at the back of his head. He'd gone 
down hard, his vision already fading to black and had known nothing more until 
he'd come around, groggy and with a pounding head - to find himself trussed to a 
kitchen chair placed in the middle of her colorful living room.
He'd shaken his head hard to clear it and through blurry eyes had seen her, 
sitting a few feet away on the sofa, twisting her hands together. Her voice was 
soft but the tone was confident, as she'd confessed, "I'm stronger than I look."
"What the hell -" His voice was thick and raspy, his throat dry. He'd coughed to 
clean out the rasp. "I'd like to know what's going on, Lynda. Is this the way 
you normally treat visitors to your home?"

"He's got the volume down, or off. It's hard to tell. Damn it." Scully sat back 
in her seat and regarded Pierce, who'd just joined the surveillance team in Van 
One, now parked across the street from Lynda Kelly's apartment building. They'd 
stayed well behind the Accord as it had driven through the city; had listened to 
the silence in the car, punctuated with a few clarifications as Lynda had told 
him which streets to take. Her voice each time she'd spoken had been hoarse from 
crying. Mulder's had been calm, as always.
"What do you want to do?" Sgt. Tim Masters turned from his equipment and glanced 
over at both of them.
Scully sighed, knowing that Mulder wanted her to wait. Frustrated because the 
last thing she wanted to do, was wait. "Right now, we have nothing. If we go in 
now, we could actually face legal charges. We have no reason to suspect Lynda 
Kelly of anything. We don't have a warrant. She's probably bending Mulder's ear 
and he's got his hands full with an overwrought, emotional woman. If she has any 
information however vague or knows some small detail, Mulder will get it out of 
her. It's a particular skill of his. She's been part of the overall team and she 
must know this van is in place somewhere close by. She must also know Mulder is 
wired. So, we wait."
"Why the hell did he kill the sound?" Pierce was uneasy and it showed in his 
face.
"I'm not sure. He's done that before, when he's worn a wire. He must have a good 
reason. Believe me, if he gets himself in any trouble he'll signal us. In the 
meantime, tell me what you found."
"I talked to Robertson right before I left. Lynda Kelly has been with the 
precinct about eight months. Hard worker, fast learner. Smart, dedicated. She 
applied for the job two days after one of the cop shop admins got fired. Lynda 
walked in with a solid resume and great qualifications. NHPD hired her on the 
spot."
"Fortuitous. And somewhat of a coincidence, too. I suppose her references were 
never checked," Scully commented. 
"Good question. I'm thinking probably not. They needed an admin, there she was, 
and they hired her. What are you thinking?" Pierce drained the coffee in his 
mug, wishing he'd thought to bring more.
"I'm thinking that there should have been more of a reference check on this 
woman, however fortunate her application for employment might have seemed, 
coming right on the heels of a termination." Scully tried not to waste her 
energy on worry. If there were more to this woman's story, Mulder would find it 
and make sure they heard it. "Tell me about the evidence that was sent to 
Caroline Bromley."
"Morris is going through it right now, and is talking to Caroline. But I can 
tell you for certain that the killer made a thorough and detailed record of his 
kills. Photos, newspaper clippings and two journals, which appear to track each 
kill. He also seems to ramble a lot about personal troubles. Morris hadn't yet 
had a chance to read much of it, when I left. The envelope it came in was 
addressed to Caroline and it didn't go through the mail. It was in a 
departmental distribution envelope."
"Planted, it would appear. By whom? Someone walks into the New Haven Police 
precinct and drops a distribution envelope filled with murder photos, a binder 
crammed with newspaper clippings, and a couple of vastly incriminating 
hand-written journals on the floor of a cubicle belonging to possibly the last 
person who saw Anton LaVeille alive. Then walks away, with no one the wiser and 
no one thinking to detain him. How did he get in? How did he get out? Is this a 
confession? A plea for us to catch him before he kills again? Or an attempt to 
frame an innocent woman who just happened to be in the wrong place at the right 
time? Or is he bragging about his deeds while taunting the police about how he 
can come and go at will, without getting caught?" Scully fired the questions not 
only at Pierce but also at herself. 
She glanced out the window toward the apartment building, and sent Mulder a 
mental command to turn the volume back up.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
NEW HAVEN POLICE DEPARTMENT
MIDNIGHT
"His name is Neal Carson. I've got Lindy running a search on him. Shouldn't take 
long to get an address." Ross Morris leaned back in his seat, holding the 
journal in his hands. "No idea of age, but he does mention a wife named Anna. He 
mentions a young child he calls 'Punkie.' I'm going to assume it's a girl and 
that she was young at the time simply because of the nickname itself."
"So our killer is a family man. Any idea what might have happened?"
Robertson was intrigued.
"Hell, Mulder could probably tell you exactly what happened and his supposition 
would no doubt be ninety-nine percent accurate. But I can make a wild stab at 
it, based on what I've read so far, and surmise that the guy's wife cheated on 
him, sued for divorce and either married her lover or went to live with him. I'd 
bet she took the kid. And I'm betting our Neal went off the deep end when he 
lost her, and started plotting to kill the lover. Probably in his mind this guy 
stole her right out from under his nose. I'd say Carson succeeded in killing him 
and then kept on killing him once he slipped over the edge."
"You think he's nuts? Stupid question; of course he's nuts." Robertson emptied 
yet another cup of coffee and decided reluctantly against drinking any more. He 
pushed a finger into the pile of grisly photos. "Which do you think is the guy 
who stole Carson's wife?"
"Well, the first victim was Mason Roone. If we're going with dead lover then 
Roone might be the initial trigger. Single, never been married. Had a good job 
and lived in a nice neighborhood. It's hard to tell which one he was, in these 
photos. I'm probably going to hell for saying it but they all look alike when 
they're sliced all over and have bleeding flesh covering their faces." 
"Well, that squicks me out," Robertson muttered. Maybe another cup of coffee 
might not hurt; sure as hell he wouldn't be getting any sleep when his shift was 
over, overload of caffeine or not. He moved to the Bunn warmer set up in the 
corner of the room and filled his mug to the brim. When he turned around, Morris 
had the photos spread out over the table and was flipping through one of the 
journals. A copy of the original case lay across from him. Robertson sighed, "I 
suppose you want me to go through the case file and compare photos with that 
other pile of shit you're going to dig through."
"Sorry, but yes. Here's what we know: Neal Carson obviously took these photos. 
That means he hung around each crime scene long enough to snap what appear to be 
several shots of the same victim. He took the time to write it all down and that 
speaks of some kind of pride in his work. And somehow it all ends up in 
Caroline's cubicle. Beyond the why of that, Carson wants to brag. Listen to 
this."
Morris opened a journal and started reading:
'I didn't throw up this time. I took the photos and I looked at the bastard, 
bleeding all over his goddamn expensive carpet, and I hung tough. The first 
time, I puked in the bushes. Didn't think about looking at all the blood. This 
time it was better. Maybe the fucking bastard will stay dead.
'I'd lay money the cops don't have a clue. Worthless idiots. No wonder there's 
so much crime and immoral indecency in this goddamn city! Bunch of lawless 
filth, living here. Think they can do as they want with other people's property. 
Other men's wives. 
'They'll never catch me. I'll make sure of it. I've done the right thing and 
that's why they'll never figure it out. I was so careful this time; he'll stay 
dead. He won't come back. Maybe I can get some fucking sleep for a change.
'For you, Anna. You know I do it for you. So that the bastard realizes you're 
mine. So that as I send him to Hell, he'll know you came back to me. He'll burn 
in eternal hell knowing it.'
"Jesus. The guy's certifiable. I wonder why so many years went by between 
murders, what kept that squirrely mind of his on the more or less straight and 
narrow, until a few months ago." 
"Hard to say. But it looks like his enemy decided to make another appearance, at 
least in this nutbird's mind. We've got to find him." Morris closed the book and 
set it aside, deciding he'd read more later. Right now he needed to check in 
with Agent Scully and give her the name of their killer. And to find out if 
Lindy had had any luck in tracking the son-of-a-bitch down. 

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
110 BENTON COURT, APT. C4
NEW HAVEN
12:15 AM

"I want to tell you everything, Agent Mulder. I want you to know. You've always 
been nice to me. You've always talked to me, smiled at me. You treat me like I'm 
a person of worth. So you deserve to know."
Lynda Kelly didn't seem insane, but she had to be. She sat on her sofa and 
smiled at Mulder as if they were enjoying a friendly chat, instead of 
participating in some kind of bizarre cat-and-mouse game. 
Subtly, Mulder tugged at his restraints; they held firm. Apparently Lynda knew 
how to tie a hell of a knot. The affirmation didn't reassure him in any way. 
Hie necktie was gone; he'd noticed it right away as soon as he'd come to. If 
he'd been able to reach into his pocket he'd no doubt find the little receiver 
missing as well. Not smashed or destroyed, for Lynda wouldn't take a chance at 
alerting the team who - hopefully - sat outside in the surveillance van, 
thinking he was just having himself an illuminating talk with Lynda Kelly. Well, 
he supposed he would, any time now. As for the current threat to his own life, 
Mulder figured he'd have to wing it.
But first, she had a story to tell him, and Mulder knew the best way to delay 
his own death was to encourage Lynda to talk.
"I do appreciate your worth, Lynda. And I'm willing to listen to anything you 
want to tell me -"
She let out a short, tinkling laugh. "Of course you're willing. You think you're 
a knife-stab away from dying." Reaching behind her, Lynda picked up a long, 
lethally-sharp knife and held it up for Mulder to see. "What do you think? Isn't 
it a beauty? It's a family heirloom."
~~~~ 

NEW HAVEN POLICE DEPARTMENT
12:20 AM
"He's deceased. Fuck! Neal Carson died in 1980. Got himself hit by a car." 
Morris had just taken the call from Lindy, who'd found most of the information 
he'd needed. He'd tossed down the phone receiver and turned to Robertson with 
frustration etched on his face.
"Well, that kills the idea that he's resurfaced with a new hard-on for tall, 
dark and handsome. Which, by the way, makes me glad I'm short, bald and ugly," 
Robertson quipped. He rubbed his hands over his shaved head, feeling the same 
level of frustration as Morris. Back to having nothing, both men were thinking.
"Okay. We have to think about this. So the guy is dead. He might have remarried, 
and his wife decided to resurface and carry on her husband's, um, 'work.' Maybe 
she's as warped as he was. Then again, why wait twenty goddamn years?" Robertson 
drummed his fingers on the table in front of him, as he pondered.
"Carson never remarried. I'd stake my life on it. I read enough of his ranting 
in that journal to figure out he'd elevated his wife to almost sainthood status 
despite his insistence that she had cheated on him. He believed women were weak 
and needed a man to keep them in line. He probably wouldn't have been above 
smacking them around. A real prince, our Neal. There has to be something else. 
We're just missing it. I have to read deeper into those journals, but I just 
don't have the time right now. I have to get hold of Pierce and see if they've 
heard anything else from Mulder -"
The beep of his cell interrupted him and Morris looked at the display briefly, 
then flipped it open and spoke into it. Morris. Talk to me, Lindy."
Lindy Powell's voice was pure sex on any phone, but in person the sixty-year old 
grandmother of five looked exactly the way you'd expect a sixty-year old 
grandmother to look, even down to the white hair wound into a bun on the top of 
her head. She murmured in his ear, smoky tones overlaid with a purr. "I have 
more on Neal Carson, Ross. He had a wife, Anna Carson Blanden. And a child, 
Tracey. Anna divorced Carson in 1970 and then remarried later on that year; a 
Douglas Blanden, who legally adopted the minor child Tracey, who would have been 
about four years old. Records show an address in Groton. 
"Now, get this. Anna and Douglas Blanden were killed in an auto accident in 
1973. Drunk driver hit them head-on. Tracey Blanden went back to live with her 
father until his death, in 1980. We can assume at that time she either went into 
foster care or was taken in by a relative. I found a paternal aunt, Miranda 
Clark, who probably took the kid in."
"Jesus. I'm trying to imagine a kid having to live in the same house with a 
serial killer dad. How badly would something like that have screwed her up?" 
Lindy replied, "Pretty damn bad, especially if she'd have known about it when 
she was a kid. But I doubt she knew, because if she did she'd probably have 
blabbed to the aunt as soon as Carson died. And I'll bet you those journals and 
all the other fun stuff in that envelope were well-hidden, for a long time. If 
the aunt had found that stuff, unless she was really embarrassed about having a 
mass-murderer for a brother, she'd have trotted herself over to the cops and 
turned it all in."
"Where did Miranda Clark live?"
"Boston. This Tracey Blanden might still live there -"
"No." Morris was suddenly decisive. "No, she doesn't live there any longer. I'm 
betting she lives right here, in New Haven. And I'm betting we just found our 
killer."
~~~~ 

CHAPTER THIRTY
110 BENTON COURT, APT. C4
NEW HAVEN
12:25 AM

"I had two daddies. Not many kids can lay claim to more than one - and at the 
same time - but I did. But only one of them was my father, and while he was 
alive I hated him." Lynda Kelly curled up on her bright blue sofa and leaned 
into the canary yellow pillow under her arm. Getting herself comfortable as a 
prelude to telling this story was important to her. She'd only tell it once, and 
when it was over, she'd do what was necessary. But Agent Mulder didn't have to 
know that... not yet.
He sat in front of her, his eyes alert and trained on her, all of his attention 
just for her. It was a heady feeling, having all of a man's regard. She'd 
trudged through life being more or less ignored by the opposite sex, starting 
with her father and ending with the one man she'd allowed herself to fall in 
love with. Oh, her stepfather had loved her in his own way, she supposed. But 
even though he'd shown her some affection, most of his love had been for her 
mother. Surrounded by the toys she'd been given and snuggled into her pretty 
little bed each night, still she'd felt deprived of a man's love. In time, she'd 
heap all of the blame for it on her mother's shoulders.
"My father was Neal Carson. He died when I was twelve, and I lived with a 
widowed aunt until I became of age. My father was famous, although no one ever 
knew it. He was a monster, and a murderer. What made him a monster also made him 
famous. No one ever knew any of that, either." Lynda toyed with the fringe on 
her pillow, watching Mulder's eyes.
He knew he was expected to ask questions; that was the way this kind of 
confession usually progressed. Well, he'd play, but in his own fashion. "You 
have a different last name. Did you take your aunt's name when you lived with 
her?"
"No. I chose my own name. I was born Tracey Lynda Carson. When my mother 
divorced my father and married another man, I was adopted by him and became 
Tracey Blanden. But I hated that name, too." Her voice lowered to a hiss. "He 
ruined my family. He killed my father's spirit with loss and pain, with the 
knowledge that his only love had been stolen by another man. Women are weak, you 
know. Weak and impulsive. My mother was weak. She let another man turn her head, 
make her promises. She left my father and she took me with her. I was forced to 
live under the roof of the man who'd destroyed my family. It took me a long time 
to understand what my stepfather had done to me. To my father."
"Whom you hated," Mulder reminded her. Lynda jerked back as if his words had 
been a physical blow, and her eyes blazed with fury once, brightly; then banked 
quickly. She looked down at her clenched hands and when she raised her head her 
expression was calm again.
"I hated him until after he died and I learned the truth. He forgot me, after my 
mother left. He forgot I existed. When I was five my mother and Papa Doug were 
killed in an accident and I went back to my father to live with him. And he 
forgot me all over again. I lived in his house and stayed in my room as he drank 
himself into a stupor every night and cursed the man who'd stolen his wife and 
then got her killed. In time, I learned to curse him, too.
"Then my father decided that Papa Doug had to die for what he'd done to our 
family. I don't think he ever fully accepted the man had died at all, because it 
seemed that everywhere my father looked there were these tall, dark men whose 
good looks got them everything they were arrogant enough to believe they 
deserved. My father decided if he killed Papa Doug again, that my mother would 
somehow come back to him. Maybe he was thinking her soul would return to him, 
maybe by then he was confused enough to forget she'd actually died, too. It 
doesn't matter anymore, does it? He just went out one night and found a man who 
was tall, with dark hair and eyes... like Papa Doug. And he killed him. Stabbed 
him, with this very knife." 
Lynda held the deadly knife in both hands and raised it until the lamplight next 
to the sofa shone on the long, thin blade. "It wasn't enough to just stab him 
and let him bleed, though. My father also cut off that part of a man that makes 
him do lustful, selfish and deceitful things. It was only fair. It was only 
right. The bastard had seduced my mother with a lot of sweet words and a big 
cock. My father took care of both. But Papa Doug wouldn't stay dead."
"How many times wouldn't Papa Doug, um, stay dead?" 
She smiled at Mulder sweetly as she placed the knife on the sofa next to her. 
"Eight times. It would have no doubt been more than that but my father died 
before he could kill the bastard again. He'd leave me locked in my room and he'd 
go out and kill Papa Doug. I always thought I'd done something bad and my father 
was punishing me. I'd sob for my mother; cry myself to sleep. Over and over 
again. 
"He wrote it all down, you know. How he did it. Why he did it. 
And he took pictures. I read it all. I looked at all the pictures. And I came to 
understand my father and how he was led to the decision he'd made, to rid the 
world of men like Doug Blanden. Once I came to understand, then the hatred I'd 
felt for my father went away. It wasn't his fault. And it wasn't my mother's 
fault either. She was only a woman, and women are weak. I knew who to blame. 
That bastard, Blanden. He kept coming back, you see. To torment my father. 
"After I read the journals I decided right then to change my name. Move back to 
New Haven. I used to live in Boston, you know." She said it almost as a playful 
aside, then continued, "I hated it there. I missed New Haven and so I moved 
back. I took my middle name and my mother's maiden name, and Lynda Kelly was 
born. I'll never be Tracey Blanden again."
"Does anyone else know any of this? Did you ever think to go to the police, tell 
them what you knew about your father? Did it matter to you at all that there 
would be loved ones who'd grieve for their men, the men your father mur - 
eradicated, who needed some kind of closure?" Mulder knew he was provoking her 
but he couldn't seem to help himself. And he couldn't hide his own reaction to 
what she'd told him so far... and what he knew she was about to confess to.
Lynda shrugged delicately. "Why would it? If these 'loved ones' wanted to waste 
their time grieving for scum, that was their problem. My father was doing the 
world a favor. Once I figured all of it out, I knew there was only one thing to 
do. I could condemn him and be repulsed by him or I could honor him and his 
life. I could accept him for the person he was and in some small way attempt to 
restore his dignity. I chose to honor him. I chose my father. And I vowed to 
continue his work. His vital, important work..." Lynda leaned forward as she 
strove to make Mulder understand, "To rid the world of the bastards who damage 
the family unit, who think it's all right to fuck women who belong to other men. 
Who think it's funny to break up happy homes, make children cry into their 
pillows every night." 
She leaned forward even more, until she was almost unseated from the sofa and 
close enough to Mulder to reach out a hand and touch him. No longer pale, no 
longer weak, Lynda Kelly smiled widely. Cocked her head a bit to the right, and 
narrowed her gaze as she stared at Mulder. "You know, you remind me of one of my 
daddies, Agent Mulder. You remind me of that bastard, Blanden. I'm surprised I 
never noticed it, before."
Scully couldn't sit still, but the rear of the van was small and there wasn't 
anywhere to stand, much less pace. She'd just gotten off the phone with Ross 
Morris, and the older agent had updated her on the content of the journals found 
in Caroline Bromley's cubicle. They had a name and the supposition of a motive 
behind the killings. 
They had a trigger.
What they didn't have was the current killer, and based on what Morris had told 
her, Scully had to concur that the daughter, Tracey Blanden, was a viable 
suspect. All they had to do was find her. Pierce was working on that at the 
moment.
It worried her, that Mulder had left his mic and receiver off this long. He'd 
been out of contact with them for almost ninety minutes. Every instinct she 
possessed screamed at her to rush the building, swarm apartment C4 and get 
Mulder the hell out of there. Except Lynda Kelly hadn't done anything more 
threatening than show up in the general area of a bait set-up and 
unintentionally interfere. 
She had no reason to panic. She had no reason to interfere, herself.
It was so damned frustrating, this waiting.
Across from her Pierce tapped the keyboard of a small but powerful laptop, 
searching for anything he could find on Tracey Blanden, last known place of 
residence Boston. She must have moved to New Haven. If she did, there would be a 
record of her. Utilities in her name, or a phone number. A driver's license. 
Something.
"Anything?" Scully craved a cup of coffee but refused to give in to that little 
crutch.
"No, not yet. As of 1999, Tracey Blanden lived in Boston. She cancelled her 
electric utility from Essex Power and her phone at the same time. Last known 
residence was at 134 Cedar, in Boston. No idea if she left before her lease ran 
out. But from there, she disappears into thin air. No driver's license. Her 
social security number doesn't turn up a thing."
"She has to be here in New Haven." Scully picked up a pencil and tortured it 
between tense fingers until she snapped it in two. Disgusted with her lack of 
control, she flung the pieces down. 
"Well, not so far. I turned up nothing in her name, no utilities, rent or 
mortgage, phone, registered identification. Nada. Quite the little ghost, our 
Tracey." Pierce was beyond frustrated at this point and it could be heard in his 
voice.
Scully had been staring out the window as if willing Mulder to appear. Now her 
head jerked around in reaction to Pierce's comment. "Ghost. Invisible. She has 
another identity, Agent Pierce. That has to be the answer. A different name. 
Let's see what we can pull together." She grabbed a pen and pad of paper. 
"What's her middle name? Any idea?"
Pierce tapped a few times. "It's Lynda. L-Y-N..."
"Shit." Scully blanched and dropped her pen as she stared at Pierce, who slowly 
raised his eyes from the keyboard, his face now as pale as hers. "Goddamn it. 
Her mother's maiden name, what was it? What WAS it? Never mind." She jumped to 
her feet and turned to Masters. "Get hold of Morris. Warrant or not, we're going 
to go in. Now."

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
110 BENTON COURT, APT. C4
NEW HAVEN
12:45 AM
Mulder's wrists ached and his legs had gone to sleep, but he presented a calm, 
compassionate face to Lynda Kelly as she filled him in on he ups and downs of 
her life. It was what she expected and what she needed. What Mulder needed, 
however, was to run from the apartment - after taking this madwoman down first, 
of course - and grabbing Scully and a set of tickets on the next plane back to 
DC. Then jumping in a cab at the airport and not stopping until they were either 
in his apartment or hers. Didn't matter which one because three seconds after 
they unlocked the door they'd be buried under a few pounds of bedclothes and 
they wouldn't come out for several days.
No wonder he'd had trouble profiling. From the very beginning he'd had his mind 
wrapped around a man, not a woman. And he'd forgotten the first rule of 
profiling: gender didn't always figure into it. 
She'd moved from Boston in 1999. Had taken every penny of her aunt's money and 
what she'd saved of hers, and had moved into this very apartment. Had pounded 
the pavement for a job and then had gotten smart about it, watching and waiting. 
When the admin job at the PD had opened up, she'd been on it immediately. And 
had found a perverse thrill in knowing New Haven's finest had hired on a serial 
killer wannabe.
She'd bided her time when she'd first moved here, getting familiar with the city 
all over again, rebuilding her savings by taking a job as a waitress at a small 
cafe in east New Haven. She'd walked back and forth to work, learning the 
streets, refusing to get a driver's license or buy a car because she didn't want 
to come under any scrutiny due to a bank loan. She'd hoarded her tips and waited 
for something better to come along. That something better had been the job at 
the PD.
"It was fun to work there, knowing what I had planned... knowing what I was 
about to do. Thrilling. I'd never felt anything remotely thrilling in my life, 
Agent Mulder. I was good at my job and everyone was pretty nice to me even if 
they mostly ignored me after hours. I didn't mind. I was used to it. I mean, 
look at me." Lynda held out her arms as if to invite Mulder to give her the 
once-over. "I'm not exactly this gorgeous female. Not like your Agent Scully. 
She's very lucky, you know. Lucky that you're so devoted to her. I notice these 
things. A woman in love always notices when others are, too..." she trailed off, 
looking sad.
"Lynda, listen to me. Do you remember that morning when you came into the 
conference room, wearing that pretty skirt and sweater? You had your hair pinned 
up off your neck and you were wearing makeup. You looked very nice that day. 
Pretty, and delicate. More than one man noticed you, that day. Including me." 
Mulder watched closely for her reaction and was gratified when she blushed and 
smiled a little.
But then she immediately sobered. "That was the morning after I had spent the 
night with Anton. I wanted to show him that I was worthy of his love. I wanted 
him to think I was pretty and notice me, and not just want me because he figured 
I was an easy lay." At Mulder's look of surprise and pity, she flared, "Do you 
think I'm that stupid? I knew why he wanted to be with me that night. He thought 
I was easy. He figured he'd fuck me all night long and then toss me aside the 
next morning, and I wouldn't put up a fuss." 
She had flushed bright red when she'd used the word 'fuck,' but her color died 
quickly as she added mournfully, "And I didn't. Fuss, that is. I played right 
into his hands. I brought him here and let him do anything he liked to me. I 
wanted him so badly. I loved him so much. I'd have been so good to him. I'd have 
made him the kind of man he was destined to be. I'd have made him a better 
person. Instead, he left before I even woke up, and I wasted an hour making 
myself attractive for him... only to watch him ignore me and make passes at that 
cop. And she's married! And he knew it. He wasn't any better than my stepfather, 
Agent Mulder. No better than that bastard."
"Lynda -"
"That's when I knew I'd have to punish him. Women are weak, did you know that? 
Being a cop doesn't make you any stronger, not when you have a handsome man 
fawning all over you. It was only a matter of time before she'd forget her 
wedding vows; before the bastard would have seduced her into betraying her 
marriage. I couldn't let it happen again. My father would have been so ashamed 
of me if I'd let it happen again. So I took care of it. I did the right thing. 
She should thank me, you know. That cop. Caroline. She should thank me for 
getting her out of trouble. But did she? No. They never do."
A cunning look fell over her face. "Nobody would have ever guessed I did it, 
would they? Killed those bastards. I mean, look at me. Nothing to write home 
about, huh? But I'm stronger than I look. I had a bag filled with dimes that I 
used to knock them out. Just like my father used. But he was stronger than I am, 
even if he wasn't much taller than me. So I needed a little help."
"Tell me how you got your hands on the drugs, Lynda. The Nembutal. Is that why 
you used it, because you needed a little help? Tell me about how you got it."
"Oh, that was easy. I stole the pills. One of the women I worked with at the 
cafe was an insomniac and always had them in her purse. I stole a bottle from 
her. She never even noticed. I carried them around in my purse for weeks. I 
thought maybe the powder would come in handy and then other times I might need 
to inject the stuff with a needle. So I tried cooking it down. It took a few 
tries before I got anything I could use, and I had to steal more from her. She 
never noticed that, either. Anyhow, I finally got it to work for me, and I 
bought some syringes online. You can get anything online, did you know that?"
The look on her face bespoke of a child anxiously awaiting approval for being 
clever and resourceful. It chilled Mulder to the bone. Jesus. He fought to keep 
his voice level. "Lynda." He strained at his restraints once more, uncaring that 
Lynda could see him doing it. "Why did you leave your father's journal and 
things at Caroline's desk? Why would you chance exposing yourself that way?"
She smiled sadly. "Because it's time to let everyone know what I've done. 
Because my work is finished. I was going to stop. After the last one, I was 
stopping, and marrying Anton. I planned on asking him to marry me. All I wanted 
was a life with a man who loved me, finally loved ME. Someone who wouldn't care 
if my hair wasn't long and dark and thick, if I didn't have curves like Raquel 
Welch and ooze sex appeal from every pore. Like my mother. She was so beautiful. 
Men looked at her and they lusted for her. Maybe they couldn't help themselves. 
"I just wanted someone who wouldn't care that I'm short and thin and washed-out 
looking, like my father. I thought Anton was that man. But he let me down, just 
like all the others, just like Doug Blanden. Like Neal Carson. So I punished 
him. Like the rest of those bastards who thought they could use women and then 
just walk away."
Lynda got to her feet, slowly. She reached for the long, wickedly-sharp knife on 
the sofa where she'd been sitting. She held it up to the light, admiring the way 
it glinted in the lamplight. "It's so pretty, isn't it? It's done its duty over 
the years. It's served me - and my father - well. It has one final task to do. 
One more duty, and then I'll lay it to rest. I want you to be here with me, 
Agent Mulder. You've been so kind to me. So kind. It's a shame you look like 
that bastard who fucked me and left me, though. I'd hate to think you'd ever do 
anything like that to Agent Scully." She waved the knife in front of his face 
and Mulder couldn't help but flinch. His reaction made her smile.
"Lynda, listen to me -"
"Do you love her, Agent Mulder? Do you love your Dana? Would you do anything for 
her? Would you give her a home and a family? Would you work hard for her, to put 
a roof over her head, food on the table? Would you make her pot roast on Sunday, 
and a lemon icebox cake?"
He shook his head in confusion. What the - but her eyes were glittering now, and 
Mulder had to be very, very careful. "Yes, Lynda. Yes, I'd do all of that, and 
more. I love her very much. I always have."
"I can tell you do, Agent Mulder, and it's a wonderful thing to see. But do you 
REALLY love her? Enough to sacrifice for her? Enough to die for her?" As she 
spoke, Lynda raised the knife and held it out, the point within inches of 
Mulder's face. His eyes locked onto it helplessly.
But he answered with absolute certainty and calm. "Yes, I would. I'd sacrifice 
for her. I'd die for her. Gladly." He took a deep breath and steadied himself, 
and mourned from within, that he'd never see Dana Scully again. He lifted his 
chin and met the bright-eyed gaze of an insane killer wielding a knife...
And she smiled at him. Simply beamed at him. "I knew you'd say that. You have a 
pure heart, Agent Mulder. I can tell. I don't have to worry about you, do I? I 
don't have to worry. What a relief."
So saying, she held the knife high, staring at it, staring at it... then lowered 
her arm and pulled her hand back, at an angle which conveyed to him just what 
she planned on doing, and to whom.
As if in a thick syrup of fog Mulder heard his own raspy voice shouting, "No. 
Lynda, NO!"

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
"Let's go." Scully pushed open the door of the apartment complex, gun in hand, 
sweat beading on her forehead despite the cold night air. Even the short run 
from van to building had seemed like an eternity to her. Above the thunderous 
pounding of her heart was the insistent voice inside her head that begged her to 
believe they wouldn't be too late. As they gained the small, older-style lobby, 
Scully sent up a prayer of thanks that the damn building hadn't had an 
intercom-type security lock in place on the outer door. It would have cost them 
precious time. 
Mulder had been inside Lynda Kelly's apartment for over two hours. At the hands 
of a stone-cold killer with nothing but hatred in her heart for tall, 
dark-haired and dark-eyed men... She swallowed the lump of ice that had formed 
in her throat and nodded to Pierce, who had come up on the other side of the 
front door. They had three flights to take, and they'd use the stairs. Behind 
her, Tim Masters stepped into place. On the other side Ron Bentley flanked her, 
a rookie cop who had asked for the chance to join the initial team. He was pale 
but steady. 
Morris was on his way, with Robertson, the veteran cop who'd partnered Caroline 
Bromley off and on during the past few years. Scully had stressed no sirens, no 
noise at all, nothing to alert Lynda Kelly that anything was going down right 
outside her building. Scully gritted her teeth against the same insistent voice 
that now wanted to scream at her that her partner might be stripped of his 
clothes, tied to the floor, bloody, or worse. 
Not Mulder. He was smart and resourceful. He was a profiler, able to get into 
the head of the worst deviant, able to barter, bargain, stall. It was his gift, 
his talent. It would keep him alive.
<Please, let it keep him alive.>
Silently they ran up the stairs, moving as fast yet as carefully as they could 
to avoid the clatter of footfalls or the squeak of rubber soles. On floor C they 
eased open the door and slipped through, into the dimly-lit hallway. Backs to 
the wall, they sidled toward Number Four and paused, listening at the door. 
Nothing.
Scully bent down until the doorknob was eye level, looking for an indication 
that it was locked or deadbolted, and groaned under her breath when she saw the 
deadbolt. Shit. It would be even more difficult to get in; they'd have to shoot 
the damn lock and that could cost them dearly. Anything could happen in the 
split second it would take to shoot the deadbolt clear. Remembering the way 
Morris had described the knife he'd read about in Neal Carson's journal... 
Scully fought off a shudder as she brought the gun up and clasped it, 
two-handed. Now wasn't the time to be anything other than rock steady.
Her whisper was almost soundless in the stuffy hallway. "On three."
They nodded, braced to go in high and low. She mouthed, "One. Two. 
Thr -"
And they heard it. Heard Mulder, his voice a panicked rasp, shouting, "No. 
Lynda, NO!"
"Fuck!" Pierce swung into position as Scully fired at the deadbolt and cleared 
it. He kicked the door in with one hard boot, and they went through the door. 
"FBI!" DON'T MOVE!"
The four of them erupted into the colorful living room with the white walls and 
the jewel-toned furniture and paisley carpet. Came up short at the sight of 
Mulder, slumped in a kitchen chair, lashed to it hand and foot, covered in 
blood. Blood dripping from his hair, running down his lowered face, splattering 
his dress shirt, his slacks, his shoes. Blood, everywhere.
In front of him, splayed on the paisley floor, blood pumping rapidly from her 
body, lay Lynda Kelly. Pale blue eyes wide open, mouth forming a silent 'O' of 
surprise, as if she couldn't quite believe she'd had the guts to slit her own 
throat. Red coated her clothes, sprinkled itself over the canary yellow and 
fuchsia and jade pillows.
"Ah, shit." It was Pierce, next to her, lowering his gun, staring at the dead 
woman with pity as well as the frustration of knowing she'd never go to trial 
for what she'd done. And pity for the young woman he thought he'd known, who 
never had a real chance to have any sort of normal childhood.
Scully dropped the gun and knelt next to Mulder, reaching out to touch his face, 
gently. "Mulder? Are you all right? Mulder? Are you hurt?"
Slowly his head came up. Blood ran like the drips of tears off his chin. His 
eyes were glassy with emotion; his mouth trembled open. "I'm... all right. Not 
my blood. Jesus, Scully, I couldn't stop her. I watched that knife come down and 
I was sure it was aiming for me." He coughed a little, turning his head to the 
side and spitting. Mumbled an apology for doing so, and whispered hoarsely, "She 
smiled when she did it. This big, happy smile. Her eyes, they were glowing. She 
looked right at me when she swung that knife and there wasn't a fucking thing I 
could do to stop her. I've never felt so goddamn helpless."
Scully caught him in her arms when Pierce finished cutting the ropes that tied 
him to the chair, and she held him tightly, as they shuddered, together.


EPILOGUE

HAMSTEAD HOTEL
NEW HAVEN, CONNECTICUT
9:00 AM 
Mulder shut off the shower faucet and stood, dripping, for a few seconds before 
reaching out beyond the curtain and grabbing a towel. He dried off slowly, his 
mind a deliberate blank.
It was better not to think. It was best not to dwell on anything. That would 
come soon enough, probably on the flight home. They'd take a late-afternoon 
flight out of New Haven and be home by ten PM. Craving either apartment, his or 
hers; it didn't matter. And if he never came back to New Haven in his life, he'd 
be fine with it. He'd wager Scully would feel the same. 
He intended to make good on his vow to grab her, stuff them both onto that 
plane, fly like the wind and then catch the first cab parked by the curb at 
Dulles, ride until they reached his place or hers, and then bury themselves 
under several pounds of blankets and not leave the bed for a couple of days. 
Of course, Skinner might have other ideas. He usually did. And they still needed 
to wrap everything up into a final report and hand it over to their AD. Neither 
of them wanted to think about it until they absolutely had to. 
For Mulder, the nightmare image of seeing a woman slash at her own throat with a 
smile on her face was still too fresh in his mind. He wondered when it would 
leave him. Scully hadn't asked him any questions and he was grateful for that. 
It needed to settle a bit more. 
God, they'd seen some horrible, unimaginable things in their years together, 
fighting the battle of the unexplained... but in his mind nothing was quite so 
horrible as what one human being could do to another, and to themselves. Lynda 
Kelly and her father had been prime examples.
Wiping steam from the mirror, Mulder stared at his reflection. He looked like 
hell and didn't feel much better. His wrists and ankles were bruised and sore; 
his left shoulder was wrenched somewhat from tugging at the thin ropes that had 
bound him to Lynda Kelly's kitchen chair. Hollow-eyed, with bluish smudges under 
each... he'd make a great candidate for a cadaver lookalike, this morning. All 
he needed was a toe tag.
He wrapped the towel around his hips and finger-combed his hair, unwilling to 
drum up enough energy to bother searching for his grooming supplies. Ran a hand 
over the stubble on his cheeks and thought to hell with shaving, too. He'd 
probably only slice himself open, and he'd rather not bleed right now. Sighing 
at the thoughts he couldn't seem to control, Mulder padded silently to the 
bedroom, and sat on the edge of the bed, watching Scully sleep.
After Lynda Kelly's apartment had been marked as a crime scene, they'd gone back 
to police headquarters; Mulder cleaning up in the nicely-appointed exercise 
facility that adjoined the precinct and Scully putting together her initial 
report. Someone had given him a set of sweats emblazoned with the NHPD logo, and 
he'd tossed away every stitch of clothing he'd had on as some of the blood had 
seeped straight through to his underwear. Another suit bites the dust, he'd 
thought wryly, as he'd crammed it in the garbage. It had taken a hard scrubbing 
to get the blood out of his hair. 
Scully had been dead on her feet but she'd given a concise report. Mulder had 
told Morris of his every move, from the time he'd shut off his mic and receiver 
until the moment the 'calvary' had stormed the door of Lynda Kelly's apartment. 
Sometimes the telling of an unpleasant tale served as a natural purge. Mulder 
had hoped that in this case it was true.
They'd finally been allowed to leave and had dragged themselves back to their 
hotel, huddled together in the back of a cab because neither one felt like 
driving the Accord that had been assigned to Mulder for the duration of the 
bait. They'd fallen into bed and had slept fitfully, for all of their exhaustion 
unable to completely turn off their brains. That happened frequently when on a 
grueling case. And although some were worse than others, they were all grueling. 
This just happened to be one of the worst ones.
Although some great things had come from it, he thought... and she was currently 
sleeping under the covers in his hotel bed, one thick lock of red hair visible 
above the sheet and blankets she'd yanked up over her face. He scooted closer to 
her and ran a gentle hand over the shoulder outlined under the bedclothes. He 
hated to wake her; he knew she'd slept as poorly as he had. But they had a lot 
to do before they could hit the airport. Might as well get started.
Her sleepy mumble contained a large yawn. "I'm awake. I've been awake since you 
got up." The covers came down, far enough for him to see one eye and the tip of 
her nose. She pushed at the sheet and revealed a mouth already forming another 
yawn. A hand reached out, grasped his elbow and pulled at him, until he 
stretched out next to her and gathered her into his arms. She snuggled into him 
with her head on his shoulder and rested her hand on his chest, fingers 
immediately toying with the silky hair scattered over his skin.
"How'd you sleep? Better, I hope, than I did?" Mulder's voice was a rumble above 
her ear.
She shook her head and stifled a third yawn. "No, my attempt at restful slumber 
pretty much sucked. Canal water."
"Ah, but did it blow chunks, as well?" The yawning was addictive and he cut 
loose with a jaw-cracker of his own.
"Yes, I believe there might have been a few chunks that blew, along with the 
canal water, Mulder. We probably should have taken the EMT up on his offer to 
provide a sleeping aid." The EMT on scene at the Kelly apartment had recommended 
a mild tranq to help them get a decent nights' rest and they'd both politely 
refused.
"Oh, yeah. A nice little pop of Nembutal, perhaps? I could have gotten behind 
it. Not." He felt Scully shudder at the thought of ingesting the barbiturate 
that had been their killer's sedative of choice, and cracked the first grin of 
the day. He cuddled her closer and let his mind drift a bit. Maybe they'd just 
indulge in a little nap. How long would it take them to pack, after all? He was 
minus one suit and an entire set of undies, wasn't he?
Scully slipped her hand to his waist and brushed her fingers over the towel 
still knotted around his hips. "Mulder, this towel is damp. Take it off." She 
tugged at it and Mulder obligingly lifted his hips for her to pull it away. It 
landed on the floor. "Your hair is damp, too." She trailed her hand up his 
chest, managing to circle each of his nipples with a questing index finger, 
before threading them through his hair and ruffling the slippery locks. He 
sighed, loving her touch.
"That feels good, Scully. Don't stop."
"Don't stop what? This?" She rubbed her fingertips against his scalp. "Or this?" 
She wriggled until her other hand could reach his torso, and she stroked him, up 
and down, then cupped him gently and held him as he hardened, rose up.
Suddenly he was feeling quite a lot better. "Either, or. All of it, whatever you 
like, hell -" He could sense the trembles starting, it seemed from his toes and 
shooting straight to his groin. Turning on his side, he pulled Scully against 
him, delighted when the rest of the bedclothes fell away and he realized she was 
naked. "You slept nude next to me all night and I didn't even know it? I must be 
slipping." He curved his hands under her hips and lifted her until her soft 
center was pressed against him. She slid her fingers away so that their lower 
bodies would align nicely, and wound her arm around him.
She murmured into his neck, "We were both wiped out, Mulder. YOU could have 
slept next to me in a clown suit and I wouldn't have known the difference." He 
chuckled at the mental image and gave her a huge squeeze, which she returned. 
Their bodies tangled together, legs wrapping around hips, softness now cradling 
hard and eager flesh.
She nuzzled his lower lip. "I haven't brushed my teeth yet."
He kissed her. "Don't care. You taste good. Like cotton and sleep."
Scully wriggled until he was better aligned, and moaned softly when he slipped 
into her body and thrust deep. "You're all squeaky-clean and I haven't had a 
chance to shower, either."
He placed his palm on the small of her back and held her close as they moved 
together, still lying on their sides, her leg hitched high over his waist. "You 
feel amazing. You smell good. I refuse to waste this fine boner just because you 
think you have to scrub off a few spots of bacteria."
She snorted a gasping laugh into his neck. "Bacteria? Oh, God.
Such sexy talk, Mulder. Say something else."
He grinned against her lips, his thrusts morning-easy, deep and sure. "Chlorobi. 
Phylum. Mmm, you feel so anoxygenic. I love your spirochaetales, Scully. I want 
to bite your endospores..."
She dissolved into chortles even as she tightened around him. Mulder shifted 
their bodies until she was beneath him, her hair tossed wildly over the pillow 
and her eyes shining up at him, all traces of shadows now gone. She lifted her 
hand and laid it against his cheek, rubbing at the bristles there. Her hips 
arched into his and he held himself still, feeling the pulse of her all around 
him, a heartbeat that connected them beyond the link of their flesh. 
He pressed his cheek to hers and sighed as he felt the spiraling need, coming up 
fast, yet still easy. And when it burst through them, it took her first and then 
shuddered a groan that he released in her ear, paired with the soft cry of his 
name that she uttered when she convulsed in his arms.
He sank down on her, boneless and content, and turned his body to avoid 
smothering her. Stayed connected, unwilling to give up the link between them as 
they shared a pillow and smiled sleepily into each others' eyes. He yawned out a 
mumbling, "That was so phagocytic, Scully."
She snickered. "You're such a sick man. I don't know why in hell I put up with 
you." 
"Well, the sex is mind-blowing, even without all my lust-soaked pillow-talk. And 
besides the fact of my well-known studliness, I also happen to kind of, more or 
less, you know, love you. Even when you're not all that clean."
"Hmm. I suppose I kind of, more or less, you know, love you back.
Despite the pillow-talk which could use some sort of PH balance." She stroked 
his cheek and leaned in to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I'm all 
better now, thanks. How about you?"
"Fit as a fiddle, Scully. And hungry. I could eat a plateful of butter-soaked 
pancakes and sausage. And guzzle down a vat of coffee."
"Oh, gack." Her predictable reaction made him grin happily, as they kissed once 
more, eased apart, then shared a few more kisses and finally rose from the 
rumpled bed. 
As he dressed and Scully headed for the bathroom, he called, "I suppose you want 
an albino omelet."
Her voice drifted toward him above the muted roar of the shower. 
"But of course."
Mulder picked up the phone next to the bed and started to call room service. The 
sound of Scully, humming slightly off-tune over the tumble of water from the 
shower, stopped him. For a full minute he stood still, looking at the half-open 
bathroom door, listening to the sound of woman coming from his shower... smiling 
broadly when he realized he'd soon be in his own apartment, listening to the 
same thing. Or in hers. Or maybe something of theirs, together. It didn't much 
matter. The operative word here was 'they.' 'Theirs.' 
'Together.'
Mulder sat on the edge of the bed with the hotel phone in his hand, for the 
moment forgetting the growl of hunger in his stomach, and thought about what 
changes were coming up for them. Beyond the basic speculation from their 
separate and combined friends, family, their AD, the other top dogs of the 
Bureau... the probable threat that a tight relationship might pose to the 
enemies still out there and a future which loomed unknown and unsure before 
them... he didn't give a shit. Not a flying one or a rolling one. What was most 
important was the forging they'd accomplished, seven years in the making, 
beginning that very first day when he'd invited her to open his dusty door and 
walk into the arena of the FBI's Most Unwanted. 
It wouldn't be easy. Nothing of true worth ever was. They'd no doubt drive each 
other nuts, regularly. Her mother might worry and her brothers would probably 
want to beat him up and stuff him in a dumpster somewhere. He could live with 
it.
What he couldn't live with, was the absence of Scully in his life. 
What he couldn't do without was the affirmation of her love.
"Mulder, don't forget to order breakfast tea instead of coffee, for me - Mulder? 
Mulder, where are you?" A hand waved in front of his face and he looked up, 
startled, when she sat beside him and took the phone from his loosened grip. He 
stared at her. Her robe was tied loosely at her waist. Wet red hair, slicking 
down over her cheeks. Creamy skin, smelling faintly of hotel soap. A small curve 
to her lips and spiky lashes, still damp with water. Her eyes were so blue this 
morning. Mulder smiled, a bit abashed for getting caught gawking, when she 
raised an eyebrow inquiringly.
"Mulder?"
"I'm here." He slid his hands up over her soft shoulders, cupped the delicate 
blades of them, pulled her close, nestled his lips against her neck. Breathed 
her in. "I'm right here. Doesn't matter how bad it gets, Scully. I'll always be 
right here."
She stroked her fingers through his hair and held him to her, the phone falling 
to the floor and breakfast forgotten as they embraced. "I know you will." She 
closed her eyes as she took in the warmth of him, the comfort of him. Whispered, 
a little unsteadily, "I'm glad, that you will."
End