Title: "Profiles in Courage" Author: N.C. Writer Posting: March, 2000 E-Mail: lselleck@hotmail.com Rating: PG Category: Case File, MSR Spoilers: Up through "Closure" Disclaimer: All "X Files" characters belong to Chris Carter & Co. Summary: Mulder the Wonder Profiler struggles with a case. Archive: Ask first, please! Feedback: Love it! Thanks: To Paige Caldwell for prodding me seriously to write "just one story" and all whose preexisting suggestions helped greatly. PROFILES IN COURAGE (1/4) February,2000 As I like to tease my partner, "X marks the spot." I lean over, stretching, reaching to point a downward finger towards the crossed tree roots as the rain pounds the freezing earth and runs dripping off the end of my nose. We all strain to see farther down the side of the embankment without slipping. Sullen skies earlier that morning had never lightened, only intensified as our search progressed. As Scully has yet to arrive, the local police and I make our way together to another crime scene in a series of ugly encounters. I look closer, two uniformed helpers one step behind. "There it is," I grimace. Cold puffs of air escape my mouth, as the temperature continues to drop. My two observers glance at each other and nod. They knew Spooky would come through for them, and come through fast. Observing from the sideline, Detective Spencer steps closer to the edge of the road, carefully bending over just enough to see the exposed ravine at the bottom, to make his own confirmation. Twisting slightly at the waist, he swivels and turns. There are the tell-tale marks on the rock wedged in between two ancient, gnarled tree roots. "The same as before. Two "T"s carved into the stone." As I point out the now obvious, I strain to tug the gray oval from between the hardened wood and then step back up onto the roadside. "Well, Agent Mulder," Spencer speaks, turning to me with appreciation, "once again your help has saved us needless hours of questions and confusion." They all shift their direction back towards the waiting vehicles, each promising a dry, warm interior, as the side door seals of Virginia glisten with rain-mixed sleet. I straighten and nod in response. I am not surprised to find Turino Thomas's greeting card this close to the site where his latest victim had been discovered. Earlier this week, a hitchhiker, stepping off to the side to avoid a careening car, had slipped and in catching himself saw an exposed arm with attached hand stretching upward through the climbing weeds. The rest of the local law division and myself included breathed easier late last night after we had finally located and picked up the suspect, now behind bars -- presumably for the rest of his life. That fortunate conquest was the result of non-stop, hard profiling work. Days and nights blended together as my connections, appearing as random links to my watching and waiting fellow investigators, had in hindsight been proven correct, inextricably interwoven with the leads that took us straight to Thomas's hiding place. By midnight, after intense questioning of the suspect and diligent reordering of thoughts to reach correct conclusions, I believed we had almost enough evidence to wrap up this case. The last recovered etched stone, left near the victim, revealed after liberal dusting a fortuitous partial print that added to the building evidence. This latest rock, with the clear marking, is as good as a business card left by Thomas, without a doubt nailing him as the culprit of a string of murders. We didn't need to worry that a copy cat was at large. This particular killer and I had locked horns before, years ago before the X Files division opened. I had helped as a young rookie on a serial chase that eventually spotlighted Thomas, and my evolving skills had cinched the case. Thomas's fury at the time was totally directed towards me, and at one point in the arrest procedures he attempted a physical attack. The police had intervened, of course, and I left satisfied that justice would be served. Little did I know during my drive home that Thomas would soon escape somewhere during transport from the local facility to a more permanent lock-up. He laid low over the next decade, and if he did commit murders he chose not to flaunt his identity. These recent deaths, however, had his signature rocks tucked away for personal vindication. As I tracked the clues, I knew he had decided to go public with a vengeance. It gave great satisfaction to know we had recaptured an escaped criminal, and could close the cases on these latest murders at the same time. I hear her footsteps approaching slowly, easing down the gravel road with a sure but familiar gait, despite the continued downpour. "Scully," I turn with a friendly wave, "glad you could join us." "Looks like I'm too late to be of service, Mulder." Scully quickly observes the retreating backs of the local officers as she lifts her arm straight up and offers me protection under her umbrella. "Hey, Scully," I grin, grabbing the handle and lifting it high enough to be of use. "You're here just in time to keep me from looking like something the cat refused to drag in." I lean closer into her side as we make our way back within the hour to D.C., back to our dry, warm basement office. +*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+ One Week Later The third letter arrives within a matter of days. Sniffling from the cold he would not admit to catching, I watch as Mulder searches his desk drawer for an opener, then impatiently rips the end off the envelope, pulls the paper out and quickly scans the page. DON'T GET COMFY IT'S NOT OVER THINK YOU'RE CLEVER MR. MULDER? "So, Mulder, another mailing from an admirer?" I glance from my side of the room to see what my partner has in hand. "Hmm." He looks the envelope over and notes once again no distinguishing marks. "Yeah, guess he wants to keep me guessing." "He." I stress the pronoun. "Just how do you know it's a `he,' Mulder?" I cross the room and pick up the letter. "You do know it's someone with an ax to grind -- so my guess is that it could be anyone on the planet . . . or beyond." Flipping the sheet back onto the desk, I smile sweetly at him, then return to my laptop. Now that I'm a believer it's easier to tease my paranormal friend. "Hey, Scully, I bet we might find a link if we search all the files for poor poetic complaints or insults." He leans back with a grin, I realize with a pang just how much I had missed his cheerful demeanor, that had regularly appeared and grown more outwardly confident during the fall. That chipper Mulder face had gone sadly missing these past few weeks as we laid to final rest all hope of finding a living, breathing Samantha. It hurt me to see his pale, solemn countenance. This sudden smile affects me like a sweet, summer breeze. I find myself playfully eager to make it appear again. I keep a straight face. "We, Mulder?" The last time you asked me to search all the files for a 3-word phrase -- if memory serves me correctly, I believe it was "in the light," -- I created my own list of choice 3-word phrases. Each one with you in mind. Unless you want to hear them, no thanks. We'll just have to wait for another communique from your new buddy." He smiles gain. +*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+ We don't have to wait long for Scully's wish. That evening, as we stride toward our vehicles situated side by side on the third level of the parking deck, she sees it first. "Mulder, look!" Scully quickens her pace and reaches the side of my car a step ahead. A long ribbon of yellow police tape spans the driver's door diagonally. I peer through the window, and then, seeing nothing more suspicious, slowly unlock the door and quickly glance through the front and back. We look at each other, then I shrug. "Could just be a local prankster. Nothing to worry about `til there's something to worry about, I guess. Just in case, I'll have it checked for prints." I quickly strip the tape off, holding it by one end, and let it flutter to the floor board over the front seat. After checking under the hood for any signs of disorder, I slide in behind the wheel, turn the key and listen as the motor starts up. "I think I'll just follow you on to your apartment, in case there are any further surprises. What do you think?" Scully looks concerned enough for me to agree to her plan. "Alright. See you in a bit. We can order take-out if you like. Think about what you're hungry for, Scully." My grin spreads across my face before I can think twice. Shaking her head, Scully bleeps her door open as she approaches the driver's side. To Be Continued In Part Two . . . "PROFILES IN COURAGE (2/4) BY N.C.WRITER (Disclaimer in part 1) +*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+ We sit side by side on Mulder's couch with the remains of the usual pizza spread out before us, when the chirping begins. Holding his slice close to the box, Mulder reaches for his cell phone while I sit finishing mine in dainty little bites. "Mulder." His face closes off as I watch. "Oh, really? How interesting. No, I'm glad you called. Thanks for keeping me up with things." I give him a puzzled look as he slips the phone into his shirt front pocket. "That was Spencer calling from Herndon. I , um, was told that another rock had shown up at a murder site - just like the one Turino Thomas left behind with all his victims. The same intertwined "Ts". They found it crammed into a cubbie in an old desk hutch in the room where the body was discovered." "But Mulder," I reply, "the police never released the details of the carvings to the media." I wipe my hands with a napkin and settle them over each other in my lap. "Yeah, so they didn't." "What do you suppose this means?" "Well, it can mean alot and it can mean very little. But I think what it means right now is someone wonders whether I'm going to go after him in a hurry." I smile just a little at Mulder's assumption. "But you need to be invited back into the investigation before plunging ahead, don't you?" He doesn't disagree. He just sits quietly, thinking. "Wonder if this has anything to do with the letters you've been getting lately?" "Dunno," he shrugs. "Hey, Scully, you want that last piece of pizza?" Mulder asks as he reaches across my lap and snatches it up from the box. +*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+ "Agent Mulder, so glad you're here." Detective Spencer reached across his desk while pushing up from his chair and grasped my hand in a tight clasp. "Good to see you again, Spencer," I reply. "This is my partner, Agent Dana Scully." "Hope we're not taking Agent Mulder away from anything urgent, Agent Scully, but we really need his help right now." "Um, no, we're glad to be able to come." I sense Scully's slight hesitation before her response. "We're curious as to what has been developing. Your faxes were fascinating." "Well, we just don't have a clue at the present. It's a puzzle, all right. You see, thanks to Agent Mulder's brilliant guess work a few weeks ago, we've managed to squeeze Turino Thomas away so tight he can't wiggle without permission. But now, after finding those stones at two more murder sites, we're at a standstill." He turns his face back towards me. I nod. "We know you want to get this guy, and fast. Before the community is traumatized again. Let's see what you've got." +*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+ I stand in the corner and watch and wait. Wait and watch. Like usual, Mulder is the center of all activity. He turns and twists and talks a mile a minute to each officer as they attend his every word. "Hey, Scully," Mulder throws over his shoulder. "Yes," I reply, taking one baby step forward. "Can you get me a cup of coffee?" Well, he has been at it for the entire day. And we didn't stop for lunch. And he is looking at me with that stupid, ridiculous grin. And his cold is still giving him grief, big surprise since he forgets to take his relief medicine regularly. Oh well, what's a medical degree for if I can't figure out where the snack room is located? But I'm not going to complain too loudly. The press of the case is already showing its effects on Mulder's face. It's not going quickly this time -- in fact, it's not going well at all. * * * We're back at the motel. Mulder's almost zoned out in front of the late show. Sound muted, I join him as we watch Leno's chin jut forward and his amiable face lurch towards his guest. Mulder's weary voice softly drifts toward my ears. "I don't understand, Scully. We've been over everything dozens of times. I can't think of any ground we haven't covered." We're on our fourth day in this lovely little hamlet. There's not been much for me to follow up on, after the last autopsy. Of course, we're all glad there hasn't been another murder. Yet. But that doesn't mean things haven't been happening. The second evening of our stay found us returning to the motel, only to discover a dented and tarnished sheriff's badge, the kind easily purchased at a theatrical shop, sticking into Mulder's room door. No prints, of course. And no one saw any suspicious character lurking about. The next evening, as Mulder prepared for bed and lifted the spread, he found small river-bed rocks slightly larger than gravel strewn over the sheets. After that, all of our locks were changed and a stake-out was established just in case the violator decided to return. His e-mail box is now chock full of not so friendly letters, each one relaying in succinct fashion just how out of fashion he is becoming. Each day that passes without a break on the case is alluded to in the awkward phrases. They show up out of the blue, no traceable return, which has the Lone Gunmen back in D.C. hopping with frustration. They can't figure out where the letters are coming from, either. "Yea, this is one smart son-of-a-gun," Langley laments to us over the speaker phone. "We're really stumped. Not to worry, Byers has some fresh ideas and Frohicke is just about to fire up his workstation to see what else he can find. We'll get back to you as soon as something shows up." I could tell Mulder was as frustrated as Detective Spencer was anxious. Spencer had been sure we -- I mean Mulder -- would waltz in here and have this mess all tidied up in short order. Frankly, I have myself come to assume quick results from Mulder's concentrated efforts. I wonder what parts of the puzzle we are missing. +*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+ I startle when she drops her hands ever so lightly on my shoulders. Seated at Spencer's back-up desk, head in hands, I fight the urge to sneeze. My headache comes as much from this miserable cold as it does from the dead end I sense after spending the entire day and evening going over data. "Mulder, you should quit for the night. Enough now." Her voice is ever so soft against my ear. Scully has been patient throughout this entire ordeal. There's not really been that much for her to do. But her very presence is a calming balm to my spirit, which has felt pretty wild at times these past few days. We are getting nowhere fast. "Mulder, come on. Let's head back for some rest. You're not going to have a breakthrough tonight, and you know it." I know it, all right. It didn't happen last night or the night before. In fact, I can't believe we haven't cracked this case yet. My mind is weary from the effort to not dwell excessively on this nonstop. At the same time these concerns have unintentionally but helpfully displaced other obsessive thoughts that have threatened to consume every waking moment, thoughts that have plagued me since my mother's recent death and a mystical encounter with what I believe to be Samantha's final reality. And I still find it almost impossible to believe, Scully's medical evidence to the contrary, that my mother took her own life. Some days it seems death is all that surrounds me. Never one in the past to succumb to nihilism, the effort these days to hope for something, anything, that alludes to a positive personal future, a satisfying destiny with purpose and plan, seems at times outside of my reach, beyond my grasp. Scully tugs me gently back from the desk, and I rise slowly to my feet. My body aches and my neck bones snap, crackle, and pop from the heavy weight of my head hanging over piles of papers from so many hours of fruitless labor. We make our way out of the mostly empty police station. Detective Spencer left long ago for home and hearth. Scully's right, it's time to rest. Maybe a break will come with the morning light. Then again, maybe not. +*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+ We have just this evening returned from Richmond and a brief face-to-face with Turino Thomas in prison on the outskirts of the state capital. Mulder was silent during the entire drive back to Herndon. We found no evidence that Thomas knows anything about what's been happening, just waves of hatred rolling through the tense air, directed at the both of us. We've rechecked all Thomas' connections, including family. His former wife filed divorce papers after the infamous escape from the police, and now lives out in Oregon. A son was found dead from drug overdose four years ago, an adult daughter had recently been enrolled in community college out in the midwest but after suffering an emotional breakdown placed herself under state psychiatric care. There are no partners in crime that we know of, as serial murderers usually go solo. Thomas's former work place acquaintances all are intensely eager to help us in anyway possible. No leads there. I turn my attention back to my increasingly irritated and irritating partner. "No, Mulder, I don't think you're getting my point." "So what's your point, Scully?" We face off with each other, he glaring at me, I returning the look with intensity. We've been at it again for another twelve straight hours. The investigative team has all but given up on our task. They have moved workers about to create space, our own small makeshift office, to work in, and left for the day. Mulder holds in his hand the list with all of the names of murderers from our data base with somewhat similar modes of operation, choice of victims, manner of making the kill. He continues his remarks. "Nothing. Nada. I can't find anyone who both closely matches Thomas's techniques and leaves a similar token behind." His pale cheeks look somewhat sunken in the low wattage light from overhead. But this copy cat killer has struck again, just within the last 24 hours, creating havoc in the town, destroying what fragile sense of well-being that had remained. And propelling us to that face-to-face with Thomas. And Mulder's still getting mail. Reams of it. All with not-so-clever pointed jabs and jeers at his not-so-clever profiling abilities. We could both just scream. Something needs to give, and fast. "Mulder, listen to me. You aren't looking at this from every angle." "Scully, you don't know what you're talking about. You don't get it, do you? I've gone over every name, every profile, every possible suspect. None of these men make the connection." "But what about the differences in these new crimes and Thomas's method of murder? Have you considered that these shifts and changes have most likely been deliberately made to put us off track?" I'm referring to the state of the victim found in each case. Thomas always attacked with a blunt object, then shot each unfortunate through the temple. The copy cat, however, reverses the pattern, first shooting the victim, then, after death, perversely raining blows along the face and torso. In fact, we wouldn't even call it a copy cat except for those tell-tale rocks that continue to turn up, cleverly nestled in some inconspicuous place near the body. Nobody should know about Thomas's carvings. This is our stumbling stone. To Be Continued In Part 3 . . . "PROFILES IN COURAGE" (3/4) BY N.C. WRITER (Disclaimer in Part 1) * * * He's too tired, he's too sick, he's too intense to talk to right now. I know not even to try. Although I do have some ideas of my own that have been slowly evolving these past few days, each time I try to articulate them Mulder's anger shoots them down before he hears me out. Finger poised high, he jabs and stabs the air in front of my face, unrelenting in his frustration at the case and at my resistance to accept without question each and every one of his theories. I can't believe we are even on this case. Mulder had asked Skinner for personal time off, before we literally unearthed the garden of children out in California. Before Mulder was pulled by Harold Pillar into their joint spiritual searching for the innocents gone missing from their lives. Before this journey, that for all my loudly vocalized doubts, amazingly enough did track Samantha back to her final documented earthly appearance. We both need closure, time to heal these deep wounds of our spirits, to ease ourselves from the devastating disappointment of not finding a living, breathing Samantha. Mulder may now feel freed from his burden to search without ceasing, but I know his heart still aches for his sister, her tragic violations of mind, body and soul, and his own unresolved grief at choosing to accept her death as final, to let her go at last. Perhaps this casework is a gift of time, meant to allow Mulder the luxury of putting off too much soul-searing thought and anxious wondering and worrying hindsight -- was there something that could have been done that was not considered, not followed through that could have made the difference for Samantha? Perhaps the timing of Thomas's resurfacing and Mulder's subsequent reinstallation onto the crime team is a delay that allows a merciful gradual acceptance of the horrors of the events of this last month, and an acceptance of the truth as has been revealed to him in the spiritual sighting of Samantha by starlight. However, the local law officers are not aware of our personal exhaustion and recent demonized cases. They show collective signs of wear and tear as the search for this latest killer presses onward. I too am becoming impatient of the time delay in solving these crimes and the decreasing sense of confidence I see in the faces of our fellow team members. Mulder, I know, is acutely aware of their unease. Despite my personal ruminations, I have been attentive these past thirty minutes to Mulder's words directed steadily, if not convincingly, towards me. Finally, he stops. He gives up the chase, if only temporarily. We mutually accept the fact that we are not going to make further headway this evening, quietly close up shop, and head back to the motel. We enter my room first, and Mulder immediately calls for food delivery. I don't know what he's ordered, and I don't care. But this is the room that has the most cleared space for sitting and eating, and so we wait. Mulder doesn't look too good. In fact, I have been resisting touching his temple all day. I think he's running a fever and he's been sneezing up a storm. We need a physical respite from the press of the case. I seek to address his workaholic tendencies. "We should stay in tomorrow. We need to rest. We need to let our minds go blank and clear out all the garbage. We need to restore our energies and recover a new perspective." Mulder snaps his head around and glares at me. Where indeed have all those sometimes charming, sometimes annoying grins gone? I haven't seen one now for days. "You want to stay in tomorrow and rest, be my guest. But I have things to do." "Yes, Mulder, you and I both have work to do. But this case is not going to be resolved any sooner if you fall down on your face from fatigue and fever. Why don't you take a hot shower and I bet our food will be here by the time you're out?" I don't usually address his body needs directly like this. We are both adults, after all, and perfectly capable of doing whatever is needed to be done without nagging. But ever since New Year's I have felt a slow draw towards Mulder, a growing pull, an increasing sense of responsibility not just as his partner, but . . . I don't know exactly as what, but things are shifting. Ever since that millennium kiss we have alternately at times looked more clearly into each other's eyes, and ironically, have also both avoided more honest, more open communication. I confess to having enjoyed the increase of smiles and personal contacts Mulder has generously geared towards me in recent months. Since the Pfaster case, however, we have run steadily, doggedly, chasing devils and slaying demons, and it has taken its toll on the both of us. I am more and more aware of a growing ersonal deprivation at the absence of Mulder's gentle, teasing manner. Even after all the consortium did to Samantha, they could not totally erase from her tortured mind the memories of a loving, affectionate brother. His was too large a presence to effectively eradicate. And, I admit to myself, Mulder's presence in my own life has grown so important that I cannot imagine continuing on without him by my side. We had come into a time of personal change, of shifting dynamics, before all these deaths exploded in our faces. Mulder's approaches to me during working hours had been accompanied with a freer, more cheerful openness, a friendlier demeanor, a more intentionally pleasant and personal charm. Mulder was shifting not just his greeting and working style towards me, but his manner after hours. In my worst of times, at his very best, Mulder's voice has always been soothing, gentle, quiet, calming as I have faced my most frightening enemies, my tallest giants. At other times his natural arrogance and intellectual confidence would strive for the upper hand and his voice would bark his anger and dissatisfaction with my slowness in agreeing with ideas, or snap at my hesitancy in following his lead. These days his voice is more consistent, almost always at ease and friendly towards me. This evening's discomfort is now an abberation, a regression to communication styles of years past when we were both on edge and not fully confident and trusting of each other's professional capabilities. I suddenly realize that all this time I have stood gazing out the picture window of the motel room while my thoughts drifted, hand clutching the heavy drapery. I pull it back enough to note patches of moonlight casting cold shadows beyond the trees that edge the vacant lot next to the parking area. Mulder has not spoken a word, but continues to sit still and silent as we wait together for nourishment to arrive. I let the curtain fall, and turn to him. He slumps down, his elbow pushing into the chair arm as one hand grips the little hair it can hold onto while his head leans to the side, and the other rests on his knee. I rise and go to him. I lean against the desk, our faces almost level. I gently put my hand over the one at rest. I look at him, and he returns my look, not with impatience or frustration, but with a tiredness and sorrow that always penetrates right into the very interior of my being. This is a good man, a man who wants to be of help, of service, to dispel the demons, to bring order out of chaos, and when his gifts shut down he suffers. He raises his eyes and I feel the weight of his other hand as he places it on the top of my head, slowly smoothing and stroking downward, then brushing stray hairs away from my face. He brings his hand down to cover mine and continues to meet my gaze. We continue to be silent. It is an easy way to be. * * * A tiny opening, a sliver of a crack, but nevertheless a breakthrough. We have exhausted all resources available to us and tyrranized the clerk of documentation in this small town, but somehow one thing has begun to make itself perfectly clear. This copy cat murderer, of course, has a great hatred towards Mulder. It is not just a pathological need for control, for the abuse of power. What is happening through these murders and the assaults on Mulder's ego is personal. And so we must make it personal. We must consider all possiblities of who might hold a vendetta against Mulder, a burning rage from past encounters. We have extended our profiling searches to those individuals for whom Mulder's former work has resulted in either incarceration or death row. There are a few locked up in Virginia prisons, and we plan to visit these before week's end. Mulder's face paled when I showed him my jar of facial cream the other night -- full of rock salt, poured and stirred. Apparently the stake-out was not sufficient in spotting and detaining this particular intruder -- now my intruder also. Mulder by nature was already concerned about my own safety, and this latest just escalates his protective tendencies. We now conduct thorough searches of our rooms before turning in. But again I feel we are missing something. What will it take for us to sit up and notice? I imagine our enemy laughing, ecstatic at stumping Mulder, at enjoying watching the local police puzzled over the lack of progress. This fair-headed boy is now bowed low from physical exhaustion and mental weariness, and each moment of each day we remain on the case is filled with increasing internal distress that any normal person would find overwhelming, debilitating, hopeless. +*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+ "Scully, look at this." She turns and looks my way. I can feel my face reanimated as my adrenaline slightly surges. I hand her the sheet. "No, Mulder," she responds after quickly reading through the information. "This is not going to help." My bland mask drops into place again. "We need to reconsider the possibility," she continues, "that whoever is doing these things wants to drag you down as low as you can go. What we need is to identify people connected to you through your crime solving record who might not be considered suspect at all." "Well," I say briskly, "let's put some time into thinking that over as we take a little trip." "Where are we going?" I pick up my keys and scoop my suit jacket off the back of the chair. "We're going back to the source of this nightmare. We're going back to see Thomas." +*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+ The miles speed by and I press my face against the window of the car door. Mulder hasn't said a word since we left Herndon. After several hours of interstate traffic we reach Thomas' prison home on the northwest side of Richmond. Our status is cleared, doors are unlocked, and we are ushered into a private meeting room. Some time later, Thomas enters with his hands in cuffs, closely attached to a chain locked around his waist. He sits at the desk situated in the center of the room, and stares at Mulder. Nothing is said by either for a few minutes. Finally, Thomas starts the ball rolling. "Hear you got problems, Mulder. You come to me for help?" His disdain is like a foul smelling emission. "Wondered how you were doing in your new place, that's all." Mulder stands with his body quiet in front of Thomas. "They treating you all right?" "Cut the crap, Mulder. I hear you're on hard times. You wanna cut a deal? You need a lead to crack your cases?" "Oh, we just wanted to see for ourselves that you're locked away good and tight. Any complaints, or is it all you ever dreamed it would be?" Thomas glares and looks down at his immobilized hands. "Think you got headaches now? You just wait, Mulder. You ain't seen nothing yet." Silence. Finally, Mulder turns to exit, then, almost as an aside, he turns his head back towards Thomas. "Well, if we can't get anything for you, we'll keep in touch. Take care." Mulder leads the way out of the room and we're back in the hallway. Before we leave, Mulder inquires how many visitors Thomas has had since his lock-up. "Only one," the clerk informs us. "She was here earlier in the week." He takes a clip board off the wall, flips back a few pages, then pushes it towards us. Mulder turns it around to scan names and dates. "Charlotte A. Scarborough." He turns and looks at me. "We should check her out, Scully." I jot the name and social security number down. Turning back to the clerk, Mulder asks, "Was this her first visit?" The clerk swept the board up and hung it on the wall behind the desk. "Yep." Mulder nods his thanks and we leave. While speeding down the highway, I search names over my laptop and find one matching Charlotte A. Townsend residing in a Washington suburb. We decide to head back for a much needed overnight in our own beds, then make the personal visitation tomorrow morning, hopefully returning to Herndon by lunchtime. We also have decided to fly out over the weekend to Iowa to visit Thomas's daughter. Perhaps she would have something to offer up that would help. Or not. To Be Continued In Part 4 . . . "PROFILES IN COURAGE" PART 4: By N.C. Writer (Disclaimer in Part 1) +*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+ Spencer's call comes just as I walk into my apartment. I snap up the phone, listen, say we'll be right along, turn on my heel and leave again. Another murder. I had just deposited Scully at her apartment for an agreed upon 12 hour break and know she will not be happy to hear of our immediate return engagement. I call ahead to warn her, then stop on the way to refuel the car. Somedays it seems that all we do is drive. Scully was right last year, when we were headed to Area 51 for the no show. She sounded so wistful, so earnest about getting out of the car, getting on with a real life, a normal life. Right now I can empathize. This is not a normal kind of life, no matter what I tell myself. Too many dead ends, dead bodies, dead dreams. When all is said and done, when I reach my limits, will all that came before have made that much of a difference? During my younger, more driven days, nothing could have swayed me from my self-appointed missions. But lately it seems as if I now sometimes view the world revolving around me in slow motion. I still see the endless insanity, the needless cruelty, the ridiculous stupidity of the criminal element at work, but it just doesn't impact me in quite the same personal way as it did, well, even last year. Something about walking away from involuntary brain surgery helps you wake up to the reality of your life. And when you don't see enough evidence to be convicted of having a personal life, well, that's when it's time to stop and take stock of things. Time for a personal profile. What was that Scully said the other day? Regain perspective. That's it. I remember Scully asking me, right as the voices were starting up in my head last summer, what in the world I still hoped to accomplish. I remember being hardly able to look her in the eye, pushing deep inside to make my voice loud enough to be heard, that I still hoped to find my sister. What a joke. Well, you gotta love a man who keeps on keeping on for, what, how long was it now? Twenty-seven years? Hell, who in the world was I kidding? The funny thing is, even though I still don't remember everything exactly that happened the night we lost Samantha, I do remember towering over her with my self-assured dozen years of growth, leaning into her little girl smirk, saying, "Get out of my life." I've never forgotten that off-hand remark -- a cocky adolescent to a pesky kid sister. I had never forgiven myself for it either. But thanks to Pillar, I do feel that Samantha has forgiven me any brotherly indiscretions I may have at one time acted out. I believe, I trust completely in the communication allowed us during that starlight encounter that Samantha holds nothing but loving thoughts towards me, that she cares for me still, that she now follows and watches as I go about the pain and turmoil of this life. And I understand now that in the life to come we will be once again united. Love is stronger than death. What was that passage from Solomon? Funny, that out of the one Hebrew book of erotic passages, I most remember those lines of the depth and breadth of human love. "Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm. For love is strong as death. Many waters cannot quench love, nor can floods drown it." I have cried a flood of tears, a torrent in the past few weeks. Yet despite all, our love for each other was not consumed, was never destroyed. Love is eternal. Samantha is in a better place, so maybe it's time that I move into a better place, accept my own life, forge ahead on a new path, a different destiny. Scully's right. It's time to stop the world, get off, establish more normal goals, normal hopes, normal dreams. I always resist this train of thought, equating it with lowered expectations. At times I struggle not to give into an ordinary life, to that yearning and temptation to drift along no particular path, with no particular purpose, plan, quest. If I can't have a real life, having Scully by my side in that car on that endless highway is at least comforting in its habitual practice, a reasonable facsimile to a normal life. But what does that say about my desires for Scully's happiness? Am I content for her life to be as sub-standard as my own? She rides beside me now in silence, her head drooping down as she slowly sinks into a restless sleep. I helped her carry the unpacked suitcases still sitting inside her front door entrance right back to the car and immediately headed for the main thoroughfare into Herndon. We should be there within an hour. We haven't either of us rested properly since this whole business began. As soon as we either crack the case or I throw my hands up and admit that I haven't a clue and it's looking that way permanently, we are going to take a break from all this. I promise myself. Glancing sideways at Scully, slouched down a little farther into her seat, I silently promise her too. We deserve a bit of a normal life, whatever that is, even if it comes in bits and snatches. +*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+ We're back at the same motel, different rooms. I am so weary I can hardly think. I can barely hold my head up to brush my teeth before climbing under the blankets. It's a cold, bitter night and I can hear the wind whistling and howling as it shoots around the corner of my end room and rattles the looser panes of glass in my windows. Mulder has deposited my luggage and said his good nights. There is nothing to be said about our increasing sense of futility in cracking this case. But Spencer has reported yet another murder. Mulder's going to pop in on the crime scene before he turns in, and tomorrow I'll go with him to canvas the place myself. We've already got the local hospital's autopsy bay on reserve. For now, I only want to close my eyes and drift into a dreamless sleep. Please God, be with Mulder. Keep him safe. Keep him from hating himself for his limitations. Send him new ideas, Lord, give him hope, grant him peace. +*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+ I join Spencer as he rubs his hands together in the frigid night air. We are standing near the end of the local high school track field, next to the body of some parents' pride and joy. Although the scene is similar to all the others, in that the boy was shot first and beat upon afterwards, we see that he has been carefully dragged away from the heap of sand under the track bar. The beams of the police flashlights crisscross, creating a spontaneous ground laser show, as the search for evidence continues. We can tell already the body was moved, then the murderer went back and literally covered the tracks, sweeping along the path left in the mix of dirt and grass. Yet, I hold my breath, hardly daring to hope we might find something -- "Spencer - look here!" the words burst out of my mouth as I kneel down beside some scattering leaves that have blown over the unused winter track. Shining my light close to the ground, I can just barely discern the faint partial imprint of a shoe -- so light upon the earth, so small, so feminine in style. +*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+ Crash! The noise erupts out of the blue, startling me from my sleep. I jerk awake, snapping my head in all directions, reaching to the nightstand for my gun, heart already pounding, breath coming in spurts as I unfasten the safety latch with my right hand and begin to lift the bed covers with my left. Apparently a false alarm -- just the winter wind making more noise than usual. I hear it howl like a banshee, laughing at my fear, and I slowly settle back down into the warm covers. But as my fingers begin to slip from my weapon, I remember there is no surveillance posted outside. We didn't call in our decision to return. I hear a faint stirring outside the window. Holding my breath, I am now certain that someone is outside my room, moving slowly by the window's ledge. I am as sure of this as I am sure it isn't Mulder. +*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+ Spencer instructs his team to make a casting of the footprint, and I begin to look around for any hiding place for the signature rock. At the same time thoughts flood my overworked imagination, and I wonder -- if the killer is a woman, then who out of our list of possible . . . oh God, it's his daughter! I know as my mind latches onto these thoughts that this is another leap without a shred of supporting evidence, yet I remember Thomas' venom laced throughout his words during our visit earlier this afternoon. Of course, if it is her, that explains the inside knowledge of the carvings. But how? She's under state treatment. And at the same time I think . . . they are out to do me in. And the best way to reduce me to ashes is through . . . The thought remains incomplete as I dash to my car, Spencer straightening up from the crime scene to shout a surprised "Where you headed, Mulder?" but I spare not a second needed for my get away. The only coherent thought I have at this moment is to get to the motel, to get to Scully. +*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+ She surprises me with her straightforward attack, breaking in right through the front door. Although her gun is pointing directly at my bed, my right arm has begun its sweep across the room towards her upper body area and my trigger finger pulls first. She crumbles to the floor, as the wind moans behind her and icy bursts of air invade my warm space. Her gun slips out of her hand and lands on the carpet near her side. I leap out of bed, kick her gun across the room, and carefully peer around and about the outside area of my room entrance and the parking lot. No sign of another. I close the door, locking it from the inside, call 911, then check the blood flow of my intruder. Still alive, bullet in the left shoulder. She should pull through all right. As I begin to punch in my speed dial to Mulder, I hear tires squeal into the lot, and stepping over her body, I unlock the door without pausing to put on my coat. But it isn't the police. Mulder hurls himself out of the car, weapon already in hand, staring at me standing in the doorway, the overhead light shining down upon me like a spotlight. My hand, which still tightly grasps my gun, slowly moves downward, the woman behind me remaining in a heap. "It's Thomas' daughter, Scully," I hear him say as the wind whips his words out of the air and chases them away. I look down and search her pockets for identification, finding a Virginia driver's license. The name is that of one Charlotte A. Scarborough. The photograph, although a close resemblance to the woman bleeding on my carpet floor, after closer inspection is not the same person, not an exact likeness. Without another reasoned thought I believe Mulder's guess to be correct. Straightening up, I turn back around and nod my affirmation. Our gazes lock upon each others', his face pale and drawn in the slight illumination of the street lamps, the shadows under his eyes deepening. He takes three quick steps and is inside my room, pushing the door closed, shutting out the cold, soaking up my warmth. How many times have we faced off after near tragedies? How many times have I stoically stood, refusing comfort, resisting tender concern, mouthing the all-purpose words, "I'm fine?" Too many to count. In my exhausted state, my mind and emotions race, trying to force the familiar behavior into place, but my spirit rebels. His tired, frightened eyes look straight into mine, and before the usual question can be uttered I walk right into his arms. We stand, the cold seeping from his overcoat through my sleep clothes. The chill of the night air is like an aura around his form. He holds onto me, wrapping his arms so totally around me I am not sure exactly in what space I stand. We hold tightly onto each other, and soon my shaking subsides, and my face lifts upwards, and his moves down. We hold on as our lips move over each others', his breath cool mixing with mine warm. We continue to hold onto each other and even longer, even after hearing the sirens approaching and even after the police pull up outside my door. We hold on. +*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+*+ Scully and I are heading down the highway. Back to D.C. Back to our warm, dry, comfortable basement office. Back to our old, normal for us life. The case is over Scully's would be murderer had indeed been identified as Thomas' daughter. After releasing herself from hospital care against doctors' orders, she journeyed to Virginia, where apparently during a visit to a suburban mall near Richmond, she lifted the driver's license from one Charlotte A. Scarborough. Daughter Thomas is now awaiting trial while incarcerated at the same prison as dear old dad. So, Scully and I turn back down the road, our path homeward bound. Yet we are moving forward. I can feel it. In the past few hours I have taken a hard, clear internal look . . . a self profile, if you will. Things are changing . . . I am changing . . . we are changing, even if the change is slow. We are coming around a bend in the road, one we will journey together, looking outward side by side, not in our old pattern of pull and tug. I trust in this as much as I trust that she is my friend, my one in six billion, my constant, the only one who will always speak truth to me. This trust I have is now totally unshakable, uncontrovertable, unchanging. Her body slumps again in much needed sleep. This time her head rests on my shoulder, my right arm encircling hers as I steer the car with my left hand, her warmth comforting, her breath slow and even. This is more than enough for the time being. Yet I can't help but feel that by tomorrow it will hardly satisfy. I am ready for a change, for a not-so-normal for me kind of life. I am committed to new experiences, higher expectations. I am a reborn believer in extreme possibilities, the most outrageous that of finding personal happiness, contentedness, a lasting love. I am ready, finally, for Scully. ****The End**** My very first fiction story EVER. Would be nice to hear from anyone who stayed with it to the end! lselleck@hotmail.com