TITLE:   Hearts and Bones
AUTHOR: Michelle Kiefer
E-MAIL ADDRESS: MSK1024@AOL.COM
DISTRIBUTION: Archive if you like, just tell
me where.  
DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully and Skinner belong 
to 1013, Chris Carter, and to the X-Files. 
All other characters are mine.
SPOILER WARNING: some for Requiem		
RATING: PG-13
CONTENT: X, Casefile, MSR
COMMENTS: Please visit my other stories at:
http://members.aol.com/msrsmut/MichelleKiefer.htm
SUMMARY:  In 2006, a child abduction/murder case
hits very close to home for Mulder and Scully.

I’ll be posting this in 3 or 4 parts a day.  I hope to have
the whole story on my site some time today.

Hearts and Bones  (Part 1 of 11)

By Michelle Kiefer

March 2, 2006  -  4:15 PM
Potomac, MD

“Well, if I were her, I’d put my lawyer on speed dial.”

Balancing the phone against her shoulder, Doreen felt the 
frisson of exhilaration one received from really good gossip.  
Doreen could hear the roar of the TV in the family room as 
her older children watched some noisy kid’s show.

Scrubbing at a bit of dried egg on the kitchen counter, Doreen 				
watched through the window as her youngest child played on the 
driveway.   Five-year-old Casey rode her little pink bike in careful
circles, the chilly March breeze stirring her long blond hair and the 
purple streamers that hung from the handlebars.  

Casey had received the bike for her birthday last week, so even though 
it was too cold to play outside, she insisted on riding.  The child had 
been crushed to find she wasn’t able to ride without training wheels.   
Doreen made a mental note to bring Casey’s bike helmet out to her.

“So spill—what happened?” Sheila’s voice was strident on the
other end of the phone and Doreen had to lift the handset away
from her ear.  

Leaving her post by the window, Doreen moved away from the
family room so she wouldn’t be overheard.

“I heard that she found her husband in bed with Donna Taylor,”
Doreen’s voice thrummed with excitement.  “She came home
from work early and caught them, as the saying goes ‘in the act.’”

“Oh. My. God.” Sheila’s voice was becoming even more shrill.
“Donna--PTA President--Taylor in bed with her VP’s husband?”

“Well, they say that politics makes for strange bedfellows.”  Doreen
returned to the window and waited for Casey to circle back into view.
When the child didn’t ride back up the driveway in a few seconds, Doreen
decided that a scolding was in order as the sidewalk was off limits to the
little girl. “Sheila, I’ll have to call you back.  I need to check on Casey.”

Snagging the pink bike helmet off the mud room coat rack, Doreen 
stepped out onto the patio.  The air was still: no little girl giggles or
wheels squeaking their need for WD40.  Doreen tugged her sweater
closer around her as the raw wind lifted her hair. Trying to convince 
herself that Casey had simply stopped to investigate a bug or pretty 
stone, she rounded the corner of the house.				

Doreen’s hand flew to cover her mouth and she stopped, legs leaden 
with fear at the sight of the little pink bike, overturned at the end of 
the driveway, its back wheel slowly rotating.

-=-=-=-=-=-

March 12, 2006  -  6:10 AM

McLean, VA

In another life, Dana Scully had stayed in bed until the last possible
moment before starting her day.  Her snooze button had been well 
utilized in the days when she lived alone.  But these days, the 
early morning quiet was too valuable to squander dozing.

Looking at Mulder, she couldn’t help but smile.  He was still
soundly asleep, having worked very late the night before.  He looked 
younger than his years with his face pillowed on his arm and his
hair sticking up in tufts and whorls. She had roused for a moment in 
the middle of the night, when he’d climbed into bed and molded 
his body against her back. 

During the night, his t-shirt had ridden up, and she longed to trace 
the thin line of hair that ran down his stomach.  She knew that his 
golden skin would be firm and sleep-warmed, but she denied herself 
this so he might have an extra hour of sleep on a Saturday morning.

Careful not to wake him, she slipped out of bed and closed the door
behind her.  She padded quietly down the hall, pausing briefly at
her daughter’s room to listen for signs of movement.  The only sound was
Molly’s even breathing, so Scully crept past the door and down to the 
kitchen in search of coffee and the morning newspaper.

She was on her second cup of coffee and the editorial section when 
Mulder walked into the kitchen, five-year-old Molly clinging to his
back like a monkey.  The child’s thin arms were linked around Mulder’s
neck and he supported her legs at his waist.  He backed up to the kitchen
counter so his passenger could disembark.  

With her tall, spindly frame and tangle of dark hair, there was no 
mistaking whose gene pool Molly swam in.  Only her intense blue eyes 
and rosebud mouth spoke of the Scully side of her inheritance.  

“I hoped you could get some sleep this morning,” Scully said over the
rim of her mug.  Mulder looked wonderfully rumpled in his t-shirt and
pajama bottoms.  His eyes had a drowsy quality that made her want to 
pull him back to bed.

“I had to get up soon anyway.” He smiled as he helped Molly hop 
down from the counter.  “So Squirt, what’s it going to be for breakfast?”

“Could we have french toast, Daddy?” Molly looked up at her father
hopefully.   “With cinnamon?”

“Sure, why don’t you get the eggs and milk out of the fridge,” he said
as he poured himself a cup of coffee. Smiling, Mulder waved off Scully’s 
attempt to help and bent to pull the frying pan out of the cabinet.  There 
weren’t many dishes in Mulder’s culinary repertoire, but french toast was
one he excelled at.

Almost as an afterthought, Molly wandered over to her mother for a 
good morning  kiss. Scully pulled her daughter onto her lap and they 
watched Mulder as he cracked eggs into a bowl.  Mulder seemed to her, 
far more comfortable as a parent than Scully thought she would ever be.  
He was natural and relaxed in the role, as if he had been waiting his whole 
life to take the stage. Maybe it was the sense of wonder that Mulder 
brought to life that allowed him to connect with their daughter on a level 
that Scully could not reach.  

Scully combed through her daughter’s hair with her fingers and pressed
a soft kiss to the crown of Molly’s head.  She loved her daughter with every
cell in her body, but sometimes she felt awkward and stiff, as if motherhood
exercised muscles too long unused.  It felt at times as if she had been dropped 
into someone else’s life.  It was beautiful, but one she didn’t quite fit.

She and Mulder had cobbled together a life from the remnants of their 
partnership and the love that had kindled after so many years.  Parts of past 
lives could be seen here and there: Mulder’s old leather couch in the den, 
her armoire in the bedroom.  Medical journals fought for space with tabloid
newspapers on the coffee table.   

Unexpected pregnancies had been changing lives for thousands of 
years, and she and Mulder were no exception. Mulder had been returned 
in ragged shape, scant months before Molly’s birth.  For days after he 
was found shivering in a frost covered field in Iowa, he had been unable 
to speak, as if he hadn’t used words in a long time and was out of practice.  
Scully had held his hand and talked to him quietly.  She longed to hear his 
deep, rich voice tease her or argue with  her or even shout at her.  Instead, 
he had searched her face with a bemused intensity as he tried to assimilate 
all that she was telling him.  

His trembling hands had traced her face, her collarbone, and then drifted to
her rounded belly.  He seemed to take her condition in stride and she
wondered if he had somehow known about her pregnancy during the time
he was missing.    He surprised her when he finally spoke, his voice hoarse
from disuse, “Are you going to let me make an honest woman of you?”

She and Mulder had taken advantage of her maternity leave and
his recuperation time to hammer out their future.  For reasons they could
never quite uncover, they were given a great deal of accommodation at the
FBI.  They never found out who smoothed the way, but it seemed she and
Mulder had some leverage.

For the first months of Molly’s life, they had feared she would be taken, and
both of them had lost more sleep than average new parents.  Tests had
shown Molly to be nothing more than a healthy, normal baby, and they both
breathed a little easier knowing that their various medical problems hadn’t 
affected her.  

While the issue of Molly’s health seemed secure, her parents still wondered
what interest certain parties might have in their daughter. After many 
days and nights spent startling at every sound, peering into every shadow, they 
decided that by allowing their lives to be consumed by fear, they could protect 
their child right out of her childhood.   

There were more questions than answers in the days after Mulder was returned.
Why had he been taken, and what had happened to him while he was gone?  For
that matter, why had he been returned?  Was alien invasion still a threat, and who
among the known players still was in the game?  Their investigation brought no 
answers to that raft of questions.  

The conspiracy seemed to have folded itself back up as mysteriously as it 
had developed.  Scully could never decide if the silence from the consortium 
was comforting or ominous, but for over five years, the quiet had persisted.  
If there was still a threat to any of them, there was nowhere to hide 
that they couldn’t be found.  When there is no place safe to hide, you stay 
in plain sight and try to protect yourself. 

So they bought the house in McLean, a four bedroom, three bath Colonial in
a tree lined neighborhood.  They installed the best security system they could 
find, and then searched for a babysitter they could trust.  Myrna was great with 
Molly and Mulder and Scully felt confident after the Lone Gunman did a 
thorough background check.

Finally, she and Mulder approached the Bureau and explored the limits of their 
newly discovered leverage.   They met with Skinner as soon as Mulder was 
released from medical leave, proposing changes to the X-Files division that would 
work with their new lives.  Mulder would continue to work from the basement
office, with two agents under him.  Scully would resign and work with the FBI 
on a consultant basis, her first priority cases from Mulder’s group. 

The restless child on her lap brought Scully back to the present.  “Let’s set the 
table while Daddy finishes cooking.” 

Molly’s movements as she and Scully arranged the plates, glasses and silverware
were graceful and sure.  Mulder carried the plate of french toast to the table as
Scully poured orange juice.   Sitting with her family, sharing a lazy Saturday 
breakfast, Scully thought of Teena and Bill Mulder.  Had they too lingered at
the table, enjoying the peace and gambling that they could keep their children
safe?

The ringing phone pierced her thoughts.  Mulder moved to pick it up, after
taking a gulp of coffee. Scully watched him stretch his arm up to brace 
himself against the kitchen cabinet as he spoke, the muscles in his back 
moving smoothly beneath his shirt.

“God, how long has it been?   They’re both fine….yeah, she’s growing 
like a weed.” His voice was casual, but she could see his stance begin to
change as he listened to the voice on the other end of the phone.  As minutes
passed, Mulder’s murmured comments seemed more and more abrupt, and his
body stiffened.  

“Is the body still in situ?  Okay. Yeah.”

Silently, he replaced the phone and stood for long seconds looking out the
kitchen window.

“Squirt, if you’re done with breakfast, why don’t you go get dressed.” He
didn’t move from the window.   His voice would have passed for normal 
to anyone else, but Scully could hear the tension.  Molly seemed to sense her 
father’s changed mood as she cooperated in what was usually at least a 
minor struggle.

“Body still in situ?” She came to stand next to him by the window, touching
his arm lightly.

“That was Dave Sutton from ISU.  He wants me to drive up to Riverbend
Park.  They have a murder victim he wants me to look at,” his voice was now
expressionless.  She always worried when she couldn’t detect emotion from
him.

“Why does he want you?”  

“The condition of the body fits the pattern of a series of murders he and
I worked on a long time ago.”  Sunlight streamed through the window, 
highlighting the tiny lines at the corners of Mulder’s eyes. “Back then
over an eighteen month period , three girls were abducted and murdered, 
their bodies left in Caledonia State Park in Pennsylvania.  This new 
murder has some striking similarities. The girls were found dressed in  
different clothes than they were abducted in.”

“How long ago was this, Mulder?  You think this could be the same guy?”   

“They asked me to consult on the case maybe twelve years ago. Fall of ’94.” 
He turned his face away and it frustrated her not to be able to see his eyes. 
“We never caught him.  The murders just stopped.”

“I don’t remember you consulting on a case like that….oh.” She stopped 
short as she suddenly realized why she didn’t recall the case from 
fall of 1994.  She didn’t remember anything from the fall of 1994.  

He turned back to face her and pulled her into his arms.  She wondered if 
he was here with her now, or somewhere back in that dark time. He held her 
tightly, as if he was afraid she would again be ripped from his embrace, and 
lowered his mouth to cover hers, in a kiss that surprised her with its need.  
She answered that need with all the tenderness she could muster as she 
parted his lips with the tip of her tongue.  

She slipped her hands under his t-shirt, finally granting herself the touch 
she had resisted earlier that morning.  Mulder groaned into her mouth as 
her fingers glided over his chest.   Pulling back from the kiss, she studied 
his face, trying to take his emotional temperature.  His smile, as he looked 
down into her eyes, seemed resigned, that of some ancient warrior perhaps,
honor bound to battle an enemy who outnumbers him.

-=-=-=-=-=- 

Hearts and Bones (Part 2 of 11)

March 12, 2006  -  11:15 AM

Riverbend Park
Potomac, MD

“Sorry to ruin your Saturday, Mulder,” Sutton said as he
negotiated his way down the muddy path.  The weather had finally
warmed up after several weeks of bitter cold, and the thaw had
made for sloppy roads and squelching mud.

Dave Sutton hadn’t changed much over the years: he was still a
jock, still what people refer to as “a nice guy.”  Sutton’s boots
slipped a little and he caught the branch of a fir tree for balance, 
releasing a shower of  melting snow.

Mulder concentrated on not falling on his ass.  Like Sutton, 
Mulder wore boots with his dark suit and overcoat, practicality
winning over fashion.  He didn’t get out into the field as much
as he used to, leaving the legwork to the agents under him, but he
remembered how wet and messy crime scenes could be.

The two men made their way down to the Potomac, toward the
yellow crime scene tape strung between the trees like Christmas
lights.   Mulder could see the technicians and detectives moving 
carefully on a small rise overlooking the river.      

“Kayakers spotted the blanket covering the girl from the river.” 
Sutton nodded in the direction of a detective at the edge of the
scene. “Brennan from the Fairfax County PD remembered 
the Caledonia murders and called the Bureau.  Lucky break that 
his call got put through to me.”

Mulder supposed they were “lucky” in some macabre way.
It was a rare opportunity to view the body where it had been 
found, to really absorb the details.  Most often in his profiling 
years, he had worked with photos and visits to crime scenes
days or weeks after the body had been removed.

Mulder saw the small shape, covered by a red blanket, still
lying in the snow under a stand of trees.  A young woman with
short dark hair bent from the waist and took photographs of the
blanket.   Mulder recognized some of the law enforcement 
people and Steve Klein, the county medical examiner, who was 
waiting to examine the body.

 Detective Brennan approached them as Mulder and Sutton
ducked under the yellow tape.  “They got a nice boot impression,
but not much other trace evidence. We still need a positive ID from 
the parents, but we think the little girl is Casey Marino, 
five-years-old, who disappeared from her front yard ten days ago.” 
Brennan pulled a snapshot out of his pocket and handed it to Mulder.   

A moment captured in time, little Casey stood proudly with a 
beribboned pink bike.  Mulder could feel his jaw clench; Molly 
had the same bike, down to the iridescent purple streamers.

“According to her mother, the day she went missing, Casey wore 
jeans, a purple sweater, and a pink and blue ski jacket. She had been 
riding the bike shown in the photo with her mom watching from the 
house.  Mom turned away for a second and the kid was gone,” 
Brennan said.  Mulder wondered how hard the detective had to 
work to keep his voice businesslike.

“But she isn’t wearing those clothes now?” Sutton asked.  All three men
looked toward the center of activity as the technicians folded back the 
blanket to reveal what lay beneath.  The young woman with the camera
recorded every detail.  While she efficiently worked at her grim task, 
Mulder could see the woman’s face was wet with tears.  

“No, that was what clicked and made me call you.  One of the kayakers 
who spotted the blanket climbed up here to investigate.  When he called
the police, he mentioned that the kid was wearing a party dress.” 

The technician crouching over the body called the coroner over and 
Mulder and Sutton moved closer.  Mulder swallowed hard, as he prepared
himself to view the dead child.

She looked as if she were on her way to a birthday party and had stopped 
to take a nap.  Mulder could still see that she’d been a pretty kid.  He tried
to force his mind to view her clinically, to not see her though the eyes of
another little girl’s father.   

Still, he couldn’t help noting that she was smaller than Molly, and chubbier
and he was ashamed that he was glad there was no resemblance. The child
was wearing a green dress with white and pink sprigs and a white lace
collar, white anklets and shiny black shoes.  Her blond hair was braided into
long plaits, tied off with green ribbons.

Mulder nodded at Klein, and stepped away to give the M.E. room to 
examine the body.  Sutton followed him to the edge of the small plateau.
The river seemed to sparkle under the sun with a thousand tiny mirrors
as the water rushed past.  Mulder thought that this must be the perfect
picnic spot in warm weather.

“It’s pretty here,” Mulder observed. “He chose this place for her.”

“We’re going to transport her now.”  Klein had walked over to stand with
the two men at the river’s edge. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with
something other than the smell of death.  “I’ll know more after the 
post-mortem, but it looks like she was suffocated.”

“Can you determine the time of death?” Sutton asked.

“That’s going to be a little tricky due to the extremely cold weather we’ve
had over the last couple of weeks.  Pending further examination, I’d put
time of death between five to eight days ago.”

A small flurry of activity caught their attention and they turned to see the 
morgue attendants beginning to move the gurney bearing the child up the
path.  Mulder forced his gaze back to the sparkling river and tried to 
get into the head of a man who would scout out the nicest view for his
tiny victim.  

As the last of the detectives and technicians straggled up the path, 
Mulder felt a wave of tremendous sadness.   

“You coming?” Sutton called out from the path.

“I’ll meet you back at Quantico.”   Mulder listened to the rushing water
and the wind whispering through the trees.   With a deep sigh, he 
started back up the path to the car, pulling his cell phone out of his
pocket.

“Scully, I’m heading out to Quantico.  I want to look at the files from
the Caledonia cases.”  He leaned against the car and waited for the 
balm that could ease his heart.

“So the murders are related?”  

“I think so.  The victim was dressed in a party dress, like the others. 
The other girls were older, and there were a few other differences, but 
my gut tells me this is the same guy.”  

“Who’s doing the autopsy?  I can drop Molly off with my mom and 
assist if you want.”

“Scully, I can’t ask you to do that.”  He closed his eyes in relief at her
offer.  He knew he was standing in the doorway of a very dark room
and nothing would make him feel safer than Scully’s hand in his.  He 
wondered how much of that relief was evident in his voice.

“Look, Riverbend Park is Fairfax County, right?   I’ll call Steve 
Klein and see when she’s scheduled.”

-=-=-=-=-
  
March 12, 2006  -  6:45 PM

McLean, VA

“Dammit!”  Scully rubbed the pins and needles twang out of the elbow
she had banged on her way in the door.  The house seemed unnaturally
quiet, as if it was saddened by the lack of little kid noise.  When she 
had asked her mother to babysit,  Maggie had suggested that Molly
spend the night at Grandma’s.  

Scully ached to hold her daughter tight, to run her fingers through glossy
hair, and maybe blot out the image of a corpse that measured no more
than forty-two inches in extremis.   Scully knew it was best that Molly 
not pick up on either of her parent’s feelings about this horrible case, but 
her absence was almost painful.  

Scully crossed to the refrigerator and poured herself some juice.  Sitting 
at the kitchen table, she covered her face with hands that shook only 
a little.  Forty-three pounds. The body had weighed forty-three pounds. 
She drank some juice and tried to remember how much Molly weighed.
It seemed to her that a mother ought to know how much her child weighed.

Rising from the table, she stalked into the small office she shared with 
Mulder, where household records were filed next to reports on mutant worms.
Sitting at her desk, she dug through the drawer searching for the card from 
Molly’s last pediatrician visit.   Her increasingly frantic scrabbling among 
the papers masked the sound of Mulder entering the house, and she was 
startled when he appeared at the office door.

“What are you looking for?”  he asked in weary voice.

“How much does Molly weigh?”  Blinking, she looked up at him.

“A little over forty pounds. Why?”  His expression was one of confusion and 
he flinched a bit when she slid the drawer shut forcefully.

“I’m glad one of us knew that,” she murmured softly.  She tried to make her 
voice gentle. “Are you hungry?  I could order a pizza.”  

He looked too tired to eat, but he nodded his head. “Okay.  I’m going to take
a shower before it comes.”

Forty-five minutes later they sat across the kitchen table, picking at the pizza
and discussing the case.  Mulder looked slightly refreshed, his hair still damp,
as he asked her about the autopsy.  

“Cause of death was asphyxiation, probably by the blanket the victim was 
wrapped with.  We found tiny red fibers in her nasal passages.  There was 
no evidence of sexual molestation, but Steve did find a spot on her leg that 
appeared to be dried semen.  We sent that off for analysis.”  She worked
very hard at not letting the wrenching sadness of the afternoon color her 
voice.

“I need you to look over the autopsy reports from the three victims
from Pennslyvania. You might pick something up that was missed.”  
She felt a flush of pleasure at his trust in her. 

“Sure. You mentioned that there were some differences.  Tell me about
the Caledonia cases.”  She pushed her plate aside and leaned forward, 
over arms folded on the table.

“The victims from Caledonia State Park were older than the Marino 
girl—between ten and thirteen, but the thirteen-year-old looked much
younger.  The oldest of the girls, Ashley Collins disappeared while
walking home from the library.  Amelia Montalvo never made it
home from school one day and Carlie Bryant went missing from her
front yard.”  He stopped to take a long pull on his beer.

“Witnesses?” 

“Only for Amelia--conflicting accounts from other children walking
home from school.  They saw either a tall man or a short man, wearing
a hat or not, pull Amelia into a white or light blue car.”  Mulder finished 
the beer and rose to get another from the refrigerator.

“Were these girls suffocated, too?”

“No, two were strangled and one died from a blow to the head.  
The thing that convinces me that this is the same UNSUB is that the 
previous victims were all found wearing party dresses and not the 
casual clothes they disappeared in.  Their hair was braided and tied 
with ribbons, again, not the way they wore it when they went missing.”
  
“Sounds almost like he was playing with dolls,” she said with a
shudder as she began to clear the table.  

“What was really significant was the dresses weren’t new.  They
were from the late 1970s, a popular clothing line—Gunne something.”

“Gunne Sax,” she offered. “I had one—they were very common.”

“Yeah, they were sold everywhere so we weren’t able to trace them.  
The dresses were in good condition, but had been worn and washed 
several times.” He played with a fragment of pizza crust on the table.  

“You said the dresses were significant,” she prompted. “You don’t think
he bought them second hand?”

“I think the original dresses belonged to someone important to the
UNSUB: someone he looked up to, idolized--a sister or a
cousin.”  Mulder pushed back in his chair. “I think she became
disgraced somehow in his eyes, most likely during adolescence—
maybe drugs or a pregnancy.  I believe he was trying to recreate this 
person before her fall from grace, to redeem her.”

“But then the murders just stopped.”

“It happens sometimes.  We thought he might have died or been arrested
for an unrelated crime.  He could have been institutionalized.”

“Mulder, I saw the dress that Casey Marino was wearing.  It looked 
new and it wasn’t the same brand.”  The dress had been pretty.  Scully 
remembered thinking it was the kind of dress she would have picked 
out for Molly.

“I think he no longer has access to the original dresses. Something has
changed in his life recently and it is stressing him enormously, triggering
his need to seek out another victim, and this time he’s gone after someone
much younger.  I haven’t got it all worked out, but that’s significant too.”

He sighed, a ragged sound that tore her heart.  Scully came to stand
by his chair and he put his arms around her waist.  She chuckled 
slightly when he nuzzled between her breasts. “It tickles.”

“Then, I’m obviously not doing it right.” His voice was muffled by
her sweater.  She threaded her fingers though his hair and remembered
another case, another time, when they had stood like this.

“Oh, I think you’re doing just fine,” she said, as she gripped the bottom
of the sweater and pulled it off.  “It must be the material that tickles.” 

She caught his grin as he lowered his mouth to kiss the skin above the 
edge of her bra. Her fingers clutched at the soft cotton of his t-shirt
as he worked the bra clasp and pushed the scrap of lace and satin away
to caress her breasts.  Feeling a sudden hunger to touch warm, golden 
skin, she tugged at his shirt with impatient hands,  peeling it off.  
Mulder drew her onto his lap and they sat, arms around each other, 
bare skin to bare skin.

Her face was pressed against the skin of his neck, and she could smell
the soap from his shower.  A shiver ran through her that had nothing to
do with the temperature of the kitchen, as his fingers lightly grazed her
skin, running up and down her spine.  Her touch was firmer as she slid
her palms along his arms, shoulders and down the planes of his back.
She simply could not satisfy her need to touch him everywhere, his arms 
rough with hair, shoulders smooth and well muscled.

And then his lips were on hers, his mouth tasting of pizza and beer and
need.  She met that need with her own hunger, kissing him deeply.  She
gasped into his mouth as he suddenly stood, lifting her in his arms and
knocking the chair over. Lacing her arms around his neck, she laughed.

“Mulder, are you crazy? You’re going to throw your back out.”  But
it did feel wonderful, in an “Officer and a Gentleman” way.

“Nonsense, my beauty.  I’m a manly man in the full bloom of my manhood.”
His arms certainly felt secure as he carried her through the house.  He did
allow her to climb the stairs to their bedroom, remarking that manly men
in their forties did have a few limitations.   

It was ironic, really, that people, so thoroughly educated, so intellectually
blessed, found communication difficult. Words had always been 
inadequate between them, unsatisfactory expressions of how they felt.  
That night, hands and mouths and bodies communicated in ways that 
spoken language couldn’t.     

-=-=-=-=--

Hearts and Bones  (Part 3 of 11)

March 13, 2006  -  8:25 AM

McLean, VA

Maybe the bloom was off his manhood after all. Mulder bent at
the waist, resting his hands on his knees, and tried to catch his
breath.  He knew he must look pathetic, wheezing and coughing
at the end of his street.  Though many years had passed since his 
experience with the tobacco beetles, he always felt a split second 
of panic when he couldn’t breathe.

He had hoped to work off some of the nervous energy he felt 
over the Marino case and decided some exercise would do the
trick.  As he ran, he’d turned the facts over and over in his mind, 
and the miles had passed almost unnoticed. What had started as a 
simple morning run had turned into a punishing trek worthy of 
Marine boot camp.  His knees were screaming at him to curl up 
on the side of the road and die like a sensible person. 

He smiled, remembering that the morning had started out rather 
pleasantly. Waking up naked, wrapped around an equally naked 
Scully, brought back memories of their all too brief first days as 
lovers. Life with a five-year-old had made sleeping in the buff 
unwise, so waking to the sight of Scully’s pearly skin glowing 
in the morning light was a rare delight.  Fitted along Scully’s 
back, one hand resting on her hip, he had gloried in the feel of 
her warm flesh. 

He and Scully held the record for the longest courtship in the 
history of couples, but had been physically intimate for such a 
short time before he was abducted.  He returned to find fatherhood 
looming, causing his heart to pound with more fear than he had 
ever felt from the various terrors he’d faced in his work.

His worries had faded a bit, with Molly’s birth.  That night, he’d 
sat by Scully’s hospital bed while she slept, and quietly made his 
daughter’s acquaintance.  Molly’s tiny body had almost completely fit 
in one hand, her feet not even reaching the crook of his elbow.  
Though he was pretty sure that newborn babies couldn’t see, Molly 
seemed to look right into his eyes, as she made the tiniest sounds like 
the cooing of doves.  He’d fallen instantly, irrevocably in love.

Warmed by the memory of Molly’s slight weight in his hands, he began 
to walk slowly toward home, willing himself to breathe normally.   He 
thought back to his profiling years, when he had run to the point of 
exhaustion on an almost daily basis.  He’d watched the men and women 
around him search for some way to blot out the horror of their days.  
Some drank to numb themselves, but that had always brought too many 
memories of a darkened living room, the sound of ice clinking in a glass 
the only clue that someone was there.

At last, ahead was the welcome sight of his house, bricks burning honey 
warm in the morning sun.  He shivered slightly in his soaked sweats, 
but his breathing was more comfortable now.  With a little luck he could 
slip under Scully’s worry radar.

He craved a shower, a cup of coffee and his arms around Scully, in
no particular order.  Well, maybe the coffee first.  As he began to 
cross his yard’s yellow tinged grass, Mulder winced inwardly as he 
spotted his neighbor waving a greeting from the immaculately 
manicured lawn of the house next door. 

“Good morning, Fox.  Good to see someone with enough time for
a jog.”  Whit Bradley’s booming voice rang out across the low
stone fence. Mulder had long ago given up on trying to get his 
neighbor not to call him “Fox.”

“Good morning, Whit,” Mulder called back, hoping to get out of the
chilly air and avoid a long conversation.  Whit had a tendency to ramble
on about the relative merits of  mulch versus compost until Mulder 
wanted to impale himself on Whit’s rototiller.

“You know, Fox, looks like termites are getting at that deck of yours.”
Whit gestured toward the offending stucture. “Don’t want to let them
get a foothold, Fox, or one day you’ll fall right through the floorboards.”
  
Mulder was actually thinking that disappearing from sight through a 
hole was a great idea.   With relief, he noticed Scully walking across 
the lawn, jacket pulled tight around her.

“Well, good morning to you, Dana.”  Whit said.  “I was just telling
Fox that you need to have your deck looked at.  I can see from here
that you’ve got termite damage.” 

Whit was the leading authority on other people’s property. In summer, 
he had advice on greening up that lawn and in winter he could tell you 
that your weatherproofing was inadequate.  He could tell you how much 
you had overpaid for your car insurance and why the model of car you 
chose didn’t get the best mileage.

“You know, Whit, we’ll be sure to get that looked at right away.” 
Scully smiled and nodded.  “Thanks so much for letting us know.”

Scully never ceased to surprise Mulder with her ability to make nice
with the neighbors.  While her interaction with them was mostly 
superficial, years of dealing with local law enforcement had 
left her with a talent for smoothing the wrinkles out of people.  
Mulder shivered again as the wind picked up.

“Mulder, let’s get you inside, you’re soaked.”  He could hear the 
concern in Scully’s voice. “Whit, thanks again for telling us about the
deck.”

“Thanks for the rescue, Scully,” Mulder whispered as they walked back
to the house.  He felt a cramp at the back of his calf and hoped Scully 
wouldn’t notice that he was favoring his left leg. “I was losing my 
will to live.”

“Whit means well,” Scully said as they reached the back door. 

“Whit is a well-meaning bore.”  Wincing, Mulder toed off his running 
shoes and left them on the mat.  “Who’d name their kid ‘Whit’ anyway?”

Mulder smiled at Scully’s “look who’s talking” expression.  He was glad
to see there was coffee still hot in the carafe.  Before he could pour a cup,
Scully snatched the empty mug out of his hand.  Replacing the mug in the 
cabinet and reaching up, she grabbed a large glass off the shelf.

“Mulder, you look awful.  You’re pale and clammy.  And don’t think
I didn’t notice you were limping.  You pushed yourself too far, didn’t 
you?”   Scully opened the refrigerator and poured Mulder a glass of 
orange juice.  “Drink this, it’s better for you right now than coffee.”

 “I’m fine.  I think I’m still capable of a morning run,” he said with more
testiness than he intended.  “I want to interview the Marinos today.”

He could see the worry in her face and it both touched and annoyed him.
He downed the orange juice and rinsed out the glass.  Bending to put the 
glass in the dishwasher, he could feel the muscles in his back were 
beginning to stiffen.

“If I suggest that you take a hot shower, are you going to bite my 
head off?”

A hot shower was going to be a necessity if he wanted to be able to walk 
later.  He allowed a small smile to break through and stripped off both 
sweatshirt and t-shirt.  He was well aware that Scully was far more likely
to be placated when he was bare-chested.  Her answering smile showed 
him that the shirtless look still worked.

“What can I say, Scully?  When you’re right, you’re right.”  

 Half an hour later, he was on his way to meet Dave Sutton in Potomac. 
Scully had handed him a bagel wrapped in a napkin as he walked out
the door.  She’d refrained from commenting about his need to eat 
something for breakfast and he was grateful.  Still, the bagel sat on the 
seat next to him, untouched and destined to become as hard as granite.

Meeting with family members was usually heartbreaking and he 
anticipated this interview would be especially difficult.  It was necessary, 
though, to get a feel for who the victim was, to see why the UNSUB was 
attracted to this little girl and not the child down the block. 

He could feel his stomach churning as he drove through the suburban 
streets, past the churches filled with Sunday morning worshippers and 
the coffee shops busy with diners enjoying lazy breakfasts.  Too soon, 
he was turning onto the street where Casey Marino had lived.  He spotted 
Sutton’s car parked in front of a sprawling, modern-style home.

Mulder pulled his car behind Sutton’s and both men climbed out. Mulder 
grimaced as his left foot hit the pavement, aware again of the twinge in his 
calf muscle.

“How the hell did you hurt yourself between yesterday afternoon and now?”
Sutton shook his head in disbelief. “If it wasn’t for bad luck, you’d have 
no luck at all.”

“Sutton, don’t ever let them tell you you’re not an original thinker.”  
Mulder felt warmed by the banter.  When other agents had been 
whispering that Spooky Mulder had misplaced his latest partner and was 
truly off his nut this time, Dave Sutton had behaved the only way he knew 
how—like a good guy.

They had called him in on the Caledonia case during the darkest days of his
life.  Mulder had only just become accustomed to the light of Scully’s 
presence.  He had felt like one blind all his life, given the gift of sight only 
to have that sight ripped away.   He’d been mired in guilt, feeling powerless 
to help Scully or anyone else.  Maybe that was why he threw himself into 
the case.

Sutton had been straightforward and respectful, a little awed by Mulder’s 
ISU reputation.  As he’d watched Mulder sink himself deeper and deeper into
the UNSUB’s mind, Sutton’s concern finally overcame the awe.  With the 
distance of time, Mulder could admit that back then, Sutton had reason for 
worry.  The three little girls had populated his nightmares until the dreams 
took over his waking hours.

They approached the house, and if Sutton noticed any difficulty Mulder had
in climbing the steps, he kept quiet about it.   Sutton rang the doorbell and a
few seconds later, the door opened to reveal a middle-aged blonde woman.

“Ma’am, I’m Special Agent Dave Sutton of the Federal Bureau of Investigation,
 and this is Special Agent Mulder.  We’d like to speak with Mr. and Mrs. Marino.”

“I’m Susan Kovach, Doreen’s sister. Please come in.”  Mulder could see that the
woman’s eyes were red-rimmed and her voice was husky.  “My brother-in-law
took the kids out for a little while.  It’s so hard for them to understand why 
someone would do this. Doreen’s here though.” 

 She led them through a living room where the scents of a number of floral 
arrangements competed, producing a sickly sweetness.  They passed 
through a well-appointed family room into a kitchen where cakes and pies 
covered the counter. 
  
Mulder recognized Doreen Marino by the look on her face.  He had seen the
numbness, the shock, in too many parents.  She looked like a woman who 
was only beginning to realize that life as she knew it was over.  Doreen had 
joined the group that no one wanted to be a part of—the club of parents who 
had outlived their children.

“Doreen, this is Agent Mulder and Agent Sutton of the FBI.” Susan spoke
gently to her sister.  She turned to the agents. “Can I get you some coffee?  
Something to eat?  We have all kinds of cake.”

Mulder asked for a cup of coffee, while Sutton accepted a piece of carrot cake.
Susan bustled around, pouring coffee and cutting cake, actions born out of the
need to do something, anything, in the face of the utter lack of power against 
death.  She set the cups and plates on the table and began to wipe down the
counter, moving each cake and pie to scrub underneath. 

Mulder took a closer look at Doreen and wondered if she had slept since 
her daughter disappeared.  He could tell that two weeks ago, she had been a
pretty woman. Now, lines were etched into her face, and the skin around 
her eyes seemed bruised. She looked weary beyond words.

“Mrs. Marino, I know you’ve already gone over this with the police.” Mulder
said, with as much gentleness as he could muster.  “It’s important for Agent
Sutton and I to understand what happened the day Casey disappeared.”

Doreen closed her eyes, as if it hurt too much to remember with them open.
Her hands were clenched so tight that the knuckles stood out like little white
stones.

“Casey was riding her bike on the driveway.  She only had it a week and she
was so determined to ride without the training wheels.  My husband wanted her
to get used to the bike first.  You know, I’ve never seen a kid with a will like 
Casey’s.   She practiced every day after school and nagged to have the training 
wheels taken off every night.  She was driving her dad crazy.”  Doreen smiled 
at the memory, but the smile faded as the reality of the next part of the story set in. 

 “I looked away for a moment—a second really--and she was gone.”  A trembling
hand reached up to cover her mouth. “Do you know what I was doing?  Why
I looked away from the window?”  Her voice turned bitter. “I was gossiping 
with a friend—I don’t even remember what about.  I was jabbering about 
something stupid and trivial while some monster was pulling my baby off her
bicycle.”

Doreen turned her face away sharply and Mulder was grateful to be spared the 
view into her shattered soul.  “Do you know your neighbors well, Mrs. Marino?” 

“As well as anybody does these days.  Everybody works.  I know some of the
other mothers, some of the kids.”  She turned to him again.

“Have you noticed a car parked that you weren’t familiar with, anyone you 
didn’t know walking in the neighborhood?”  Mulder asked.  

“No.  Not that I noticed.” Doreen’s eyes searched his face.  “Mr. Mulder, do 
you have children?”  

“We have a little girl.” Mulder spoke softly.  He prayed she wouldn’t ask how
old his daughter was.

“I have….had three kids.”  Her voice was barely a whisper.  “I count heads 
constantly.  Where are they and what are they doing.  A hundred times a day.
How long is it going to take before I stop counting to three?”

The interview drew to a close, and he and Sutton gently extricated themselves 
from the sorrow that permeated the Marino house.  Mulder found that going 
down the front steps hurt worse than going up had.  He walked across the front 
lawn to stand at the end of the driveway.   

He pictured Casey pumping up the slight incline and gliding back down, a 
look of determination set on her little face.  Was that what attracted the man
who watched her?  

“He must have watched her for a while.  Maybe from a car parked on that
corner.”  Mulder jerked his chin in the direction of a side street.  

“You think this is the same guy?  Thirteen years is a long time.”   Sutton
glanced over in the direction Mulder indicated.  “Local law enforcement 
think this is a copy cat crime.”

“No.  It’s him.  He’s been away somewhere, in prison or more likely an
institution, but the same compulsion drives him now as it did back then,”
Mulder said with stony conviction.  

“What do you think he was looking for in victim selection?” Sutton asked.
“The girls ranged in size and body type.  The only thing they seem to have
in common is long hair, but that varies in color and texture.  Now he’s moved 
to someone younger and it makes it even more puzzling.” 

“I’m not sure.  It could be something very intangible—they way they moved,
the way the wind moved their hair on a given day.  Something reminded him
of a person that meant a lot to him.”

“How long do you think we have before he starts looking for another kid?”

“He could be looking right now.”

-=-=-=-=-=-      

Hearts and Bones  (Part 4 of 11)

March 14, 2006  - 8:45 AM

Quantico, VA

It was ironic really.  Now that he had a window in his office, Dave
Sutton missed the basement.  Back in the days when the ISU was 
located sixty feet underground, the offices had seemed much 
more appropriate for the dark work done there. Sutton looked down 
at the bright sunlight glinting off the cars in the parking lot and gulped 
down the last of his lukewarm coffee.  He wondered if Mulder was 
already working somewhere in the ISU offices.  When Sutton had 
left the office late last night, Mulder had still been at work, muttering 
that he’d go home soon.

He found Mulder at a desk in a temporarily unassigned office.  It looked 
like Mulder had been there for hours, filling page after page of a yellow 
legal pad with scribbled writing.  Stacks of reports and several paper cups 
containing what appeared to be varying amounts of coffee covered the 
desk.  Flipping through his notes, Mulder ran an impatient hand through 
hair that was already standing up. 

“Did you stay here last night?”  Sutton asked from the doorway.

Mulder looked up, distracted. “No.  No, I went home for a while.  Look, 
Sutton, I have a wife if I want someone to fuss over me.” 

“And I’m sure she has her hands full on that account.”  Sutton pulled a chair
around to the desk and straddled it.  “Want to go over the profile?  I know the
task force is getting antsy.”   

The Potomac and McLean PDs had formed a task force to investigate the 
Marino case.   Sutton had detected the usual low level of distrust for the
Bureau, but the team had requested help with the profile.  

Mulder, eyes closed, leaned back in his chair and was silent for several 
seconds.  Sutton wondered if he was falling asleep. Finally, he spoke.

“My original profile of the Caledonia UNSUB was a white, male, mid-to-
late twenties.  Probably unemployed, living with and dependant on a 
female relative.  Above average intelligence, compulsive, very organized.
He feels inadequate and has some kind of impediment, perhaps a deformity.
It’s probably very slight, but he feels it sets him apart from other people. 
He’s remorseful about the killing and he takes great pains to lay the body
out in a respectful way.  Killing the girls isn’t his first intention. He wants
to recreate some golden time in his past when he had a special relationship
with a female relative. He kills the girls when they resist and the spell
is broken. In short, he panics.”  Mulder’s voice took on the monotonous 
drone that Sutton remembered well from the past.
 
“All of that stands?” Sutton prompted.

“Yeah.  I stand behind all of that, but I’ve started to wonder why we couldn’t
find him in 1994.  I thought about it all night, and I think it was because he’s
reclusive.  It’s just a hunch, really, but it fits. The less contact he had with 
outsiders, the less chance there was for someone to notice odd behavior, less 
chance he would talk to a friend, brag to a coworker.”  Mulder sat forward and 
began to check each of the coffee cups on the desk, looking for one that might 
be still warm.    

“You mean like Boo Radley?” Sutton asked.

“Yeah, only a lot more disturbed.  And Boo never kidnapped Scout and strangled
her.   No, this guy isn’t content to watch from a distance.  Something triggered his 
compulsion, drove him out where he began to stalk his victims and fantasize 
about the past.”

“What about this relative he was living with?”

“I still believe he was dependant on someone, at least in 1994, and she may 
have covered for him.  Or was in denial.”

“We better get going if we’re going to meet with the task force,” Sutton 
said, looking at his watch.

Mulder got to his feet and began to stack the folders and load them into
his briefcase.  Exhaustion showed in his every move as gathered his
suit jacket and Sutton’s thoughts drifted back twelve years.  

Sutton had never seen anyone as much in despair as Fox Mulder back then.
He’d considered Mulder a legend, larger than life, and had been shocked
at the appearance of the frighteningly thin man who walked into his office.  
But he hadn’t been disappointed in Mulder, not in his brilliance nor in his 
kindness. 

Sutton had heard that Mulder’s partner had disappeared under suspicious
circumstances.  Mulder never spoke about it and Sutton didn’t ask, but he
could tell that the loss was like an open wound.  Sutton found himself 
worrying about Mulder’s fitness for duty.

Sutton had become truly alarmed when he roomed with Mulder during
the investigation in Pennsylvania.  Mulder ate next to nothing during 
those days and hardly seemed to sleep.  The man had seemed more 
concerned with disturbing Sutton with the noise from his nocturnal 
movements than with his own comfort.   

The few times he noticed Mulder doze off, he seemed restless,
arms and legs twitching as if ready for flight.   Once or twice Sutton
caught him jolting awake, breathing heavy, his eyes darting around 
the room in search of something.  Sutton never forgot the haunted look
in Mulder’s eyes.
  
Both he and Mulder had been called to other cases after the profile was 
handed to local police,  Sutton to New Jersey and Mulder to California.
As they parted company, Sutton had truly wondered how long it would be 
before Mulder “ate his gun” or died in the line of duty. It was with 
tremendous relief, that Sutton heard that Dana Scully had turned up alive. 

Over the years, he would run into Mulder or hear some wild story about 
him and his partner.  It wasn’t long after Sutton’s own marriage had 
taken one final downward spiral that he heard Mulder had succumbed 
to marriage and parenthood.  The irony of that turn of events was not
lost on him.

“Sutton?”   Mulder was looking at him with amusement and he realized 
his mind had been drifting.  He could feel his face flush as he steeled
himself to steer the conversation in a direction he was sure would
irritate Mulder.

“I was thinking back to the original case.  It got rough back then.” 

“It was hard for everyone who worked on that case.”  There was
an unspoken warning in Mulder’s voice. 

“Jeez Mulder, I thought you were going to end up in the hospital.  I 
just don’t want you to get in too deep this time.”  

“I don’t need you hovering over me. I’ll be okay.” Mulder softened
his tone, perhaps recalling twelve years past.  

“Sorry.  I…uh….have you caught a kid case since you got married?”  
Sutton asked. 

“Sutton, I’m hardly a rookie.”  Mulder said with some annoyance. 
“But since you asked, no.  This is the first one in a long time.”

“Listen, it’s different than when you were single.  Don’t underestimate 
how rough this can be.”  Sutton took a deep breath. “You know, you’re 
ahead of the game in a way.  Your wife understands the work.  Vickie 
was a children’s librarian.  Poor kid had no frame of reference. I think 
she felt like she had fallen down the rabbit hole.”

“Divorced?”  Mulder asked and Sutton nodded slowly.  “How long?”

“Almost five years.  Look, just take it easy, okay?”
  
-=-=-=-=-=-=-

He can’t see their hands, but he knows they will be icy.  His heart 
pounds at the thought of their frozen touch.   They stand before him, 
just as they had all those years before: three girls, pale as moonlight, 
cold as stone.  Their ruffled dresses drift around them, long hair floating 
on unseen wind.  It’s their empty eyes that frighten him the most, with 
sockets black as night.  

Their voices echo in his mind, asking questions he can’t answer.

“Why couldn’t you save us?” 

“Why didn’t you stop them?”

“Why?”

He covers his ears, trying to block out the whispered words, but he can
still hear the pleading.  The solemn children part and a small figure pushes 
through the gap; this part of the dream is new.  The child, smaller than 
her ghostly sisters, doesn’t speak.  Her mouth is open in a silent scream 
and her hands reach out and their touch burns cold.  He tries to move 
away but the other girls surround him, their hands clutch at him, freezing 
his skin through his clothes.    

“Mulder?” A clear voice broke through the echoing whispers.

He woke with a start, knocking over one of the paper cups of cold coffee.    
Flustered, he moved his notes out of the river of black liquid.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t quick enough and the scribbled writing on the 
last page was smudged.     

Scully stepped forward and helped him gather up the files and notes and
stacked them on a file cabinet.  She found a pile of paper napkins in one
of the desk drawers and mopped up the spilled coffee.  He knew by the
set of her jaw that she was concerned at finding him asleep at his desk 
late in the afternoon.  

“What are you doing here, Scully?” Mulder asked. “I thought Myrna was
off today.”

“I reviewed the autopsies on the first three cases.  I figured if I wanted to
talk to you about them, I’d better come down here.  I fell asleep waiting for
you last night.”

“Is Molly with your mother?” he asked.  

“Molly had a play date with Lindsay Kaplan.  Lindsay’s mother asked her
to stay for dinner.”  Scully tossed the wet napkins in the trash and began
to gather up the coffee cups.

“Scully, what were you thinking?” he asked, his voice growing louder. “How 
well do you know this Kaplan woman?” 

“Can you give me a little credit here? Linda Kaplan is a very responsible 
mother.  She’s read the newspapers—she won’t let the girls out of her sight.”  

“Fine.  Let’s hope that Linda Kaplan doesn’t look away for a second like
Casey Marino’s mother did.”  He knew his voice was harsh and loud, 
that he was being unreasonable, but he didn’t seem to be able to stop 
himself.  The look in Scully’s eyes told him that he had pressed on that tender 
spot that she kept hidden so very well and he hated himself for it. 

“Look, you asked me for my help on this.” Her voice was low, but he
could hear the anger simmering just below the surface.  

“Okay.  You’re right.  What did you find?”  He nodded toward the 
chair.  He could see the tension in her ramrod straight posture
as she sat down.  She retrieved a folder from her brief case and
flipped through some notes.

“The post-mortems appear to have been handled meticulously. Things
were pretty much as you said they would be. There was significant 
bruising on all three of the girls, especially on the wrists and shoulders.  
I think it’s safe to say that they all put up a fight.  Ashley Collins and 
Carrie Bryant’s throats were manually compressed; both had fractured 
hyoid bones. From the bruising, I would say the UNSUB used one hand
at the throat, with the other holding them across the chest.”

“Could that indicate he killed them while trying to restrain them?”

“Possible.  You don’t need to use much force to strangle someone
that young,” she replied.  “It could have happened unintentionally, I
suppose.”

“What about Amelia?” he asked, leaning back in his chair.  He felt
unutterably tired.  

“Amelia died from a massive subdural hematoma.  The back of the 
skull was fractured.  There were very prominent finger-shaped bruises 
on her shoulders, so I think it was possible that he slammed her head 
against a wall or the floor.  And she didn’t die right away.  Judging from the 
intercranial bleeding, I would say she was unconscious for a few hours 
before she slipped away.”

“So, there was nothing new?” he asked, trying to keep the disappointment
out of his voice.

"There was something I saw in one of the photos, but I can't be
certain.  The coroner's report made no mention of it."  At her words, he
sat forward, his exhaustion draining away.  "The bruises on Carrie's
throat were especially distinct."

She lay a photo on the desktop.

He studied it, although he knew it by heart.

"The ecchymoses correspond to the four fingers of the killer's right
hand," she continued.  "Maximum bruising seen here, here, and here."
She tapped with a pencil.  "But the ring finger--"

"It's too short," Mulder interrupted.  "The bruise is too short.  He's
missing part of his finger."

"Not necessarily," Scully said, trying to balance his energy with her
calm.  "It might just be that his finger was bent."

"Why didn't I see this before?  Why didn't somebody see it?"  Mulder's
frustration was palpable. “I knew you’d find something,” he said, trying 
to repair the damage he had done.  She stood up and tugged her jacket down.

“I better let you get back to your work,” she said, sharply.  “Are you 
going to be late tonight?  Mulder, you’re exhausted.”  Her voice softened.

“I’ll try to be home early.”

-=-=-=-=-=-


Hearts and Bones  (Part 5 of 11)

March 15, 2006 – 12:45 AM

McLean, VA

The world’s dullest medical journal was not going to lull Scully 
to sleep tonight, so she snapped off the light and lay
wide-eyed in the darkness.  Every synapse was on alert, every 
cell listening for the sound of a car door in the driveway.
  
Molly had been wired too, after her visit with Lindsay.  Fits
of little girl giggles and ice cream after dinner had Molly
nearly bouncing out of the car on the drive home.  The child
was monumentally disappointed in not seeing her father again
and it had taken “If You Give A Mouse A Cookie” and two
George and Martha books to get her to sleep.

Scully had hardly seen Mulder for more than a half an hour
at a time in days.  He’d come home well after midnight the
night before and left for Quantico early the next morning.  
She knew he hadn’t slept for more than a few hours since the
morning Sutton called with the Marino case and he probably hadn’t 
eaten anything substantial in days either.

 She’d been unnerved the first time she had seen this behavior, back 
in the early days of their partnership.  He’d frightened her badly as he 
sunk deeper and deeper into another man’s dementia.  At the time,
she had feared the gentle man she had come to care about wouldn’t
be able to climb back out of the madness.

She knew the price that profilers paid to do their work.  The stress on 
the human body was undeniable—ulcers, heart disease, depression all 
took their toll.  She knew it wasn’t uncommon for profilers to run 
themselves to exhaustion, but that didn’t make it any easier to watch.

At the rumble of Mulder’s car pulling into the driveway the tension 
drained out of her and she was almost too tired to get out of bed.  She 
lay blinking into the dark and listened to the distant creaks and bumps as 
Mulder moved around downstairs.  That thump was the little table in the 
entryway.  He always stumbled into that late at night.  That rustle was 
Mulder looking through the mail.  Swoosh and thwap were the refrigerator 
in the kitchen as he got himself something to drink.

Finally, the need to see him, to assess his state of mind and body,
overcame her weariness and she pushed herself off the bed.  Gliding
quietly through the dimly lit hall and down the stairs, she stood 
silently in the doorway watching him.

His movements were clumsy with exhaustion as he spread his
notes and files over the kitchen table.  He shrugged out of his jacket
and proceeded to roll up his sleeves and she was struck with a 
wave of love so strong it nearly knocked her down.

Her anger over his behavior this afternoon dropped from her like
the leaves in autumn.  “Mulder?” 

“Did I wake you?  I’m sorry.”  His voice had a soft, late at night 
sound as he sat at the table.

“No, I couldn’t sleep.”  She saw that he had poured himself some
milk and she was glad he was getting some nourishment.  She
poured herself a glass and came back to the table.

“I’m sorry I blew up at you this afternoon.  The task force was less
than open to the idea that the crimes were from the same UNSUB.
I shouldn’t have taken that out on you.”

“S’ okay,” she said as she bent to kiss the top of his head. “Mulder,
there are going to be sleepovers and class trips and Girl Scout camp
before we know it.  We both have to get used to the idea that Molly 
will be out of our sight some of the time. You know, it’s only a matter 
of time before the boys start to call.”

“Boys?”  he asked, with the hint of panic.  “When does this boy stuff 
happen?”  

“Oh, thirteen or fourteen if we’re lucky.  Twelve if she’s precocious.”
Scully smiled at the mental image of Mulder grilling Molly’s dates,
casually revealing his service weapon in its holster.

“Oh you think that’s funny, do you?” He took her hand and seemed to 
relax a little.  “I’m planning on having background checks done on all 
prospective suitors.”

“Come up to bed,” she said, squeezing his hand. “You need to rest.”

“I’ll be up in a minute.” He smiled reassuringly, but she knew he would
be still be working at the table when morning’s light brightened the kitchen
window.
 
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

March 15, 2006 – 9:30 AM

Quantico, VA

1 girl’s cotton dress, size 6X
1 pair patent leather shoes, size 12
1 pair white cotton socks, no size listed
1 white cotton undershirt, size 6
1 white cotton panties, size 6
2 green ribbons, 18 inch length 

Mulder thought it read like a shopping list for Easter Sunday
and not an inventory from the coroner’s office.  As he read 
off each item, he lifted a plastic bagged article of clothing from 
the cardboard box. Last of all, he slipped the dress out of its 
plastic bag and spread it over the desk.

The cotton fabric was crisp and new.  He fingered the lace that
rimmed the collar and stroked the slippery ribbon sash.
The crime lab had determined that the dress was a current style
available at Sears stores across the country.   The shoes, socks
and underwear were purchased through Sears also.  

He tried to picture Boo shopping at Sears, sliding dress after
dress along the rack until he found the perfect one for his little
doll.   He and Sutton had taken to calling the UNSUB Boo Radley
and he almost felt the need to apologize to Harper Lee.

The task force had officers visiting Sears stores in the area, having
the staff check inventory and computer records in the hopes of 
identifying where and to whom the dress had been sold.  There was 
a slight chance that someone might remember a painfully shy man 
who seemed out of place choosing children’s clothes.  Mulder was 
sure that Boo had paid cash, counting out money that had been  
precisely arranged in his wallet, each bill facing the same way. 

Mulder held the sash up to his face, rubbing the slick satin against
his stubble.  He could see Boo dressing Casey, buttoning each tiny
heart-shaped button, arranging the satin sash in a bow.  Was Boo
crying?   Did he keen and sob as he brushed Casey’s hair?  He
hadn’t meant to kill her.  She was the one, the precious redemption.
The other had become soiled, worldly and sad.  This one was to
be the happy child, the pure girl again. 

“Jeez Mulder, you look like shit.”   Like a phone line severed,
the connection to the UNSUB was lost.

Sutton leaned against the doorjamb, arms folded across his chest.  
A whole lot shorter, wearing a Donna Karen jacket and 4 inch 
heels, it could be Scully standing there.  

“Why, thank you,” Mulder said, with as much sarcasm as he could 
manage with his head pounding.  “So Sutton, does Boo Radley start 
out as Boo Radley?”  

“You mean was he born that way or made?   I guess a little of both.”  

“Yeah.  But at some point in his life, Boo had to interact with the world. 
More than likely, he attended grade school somewhere.  I’ve been looking
at the first murder—someone like Boo would start out very close to home,
where he felt safest.  Carlie Bryant was the first victim, snatched off her
front lawn one summer afternoon as she cooled off under the sprinkler.”

Mulder’s head hurt and he knew that about fourteen hours of undisturbed 
sleep was the only thing that would help.  Unfortunately, sleep was
the enemy right now.  He reached into his briefcase and rummaged
around until he found the bottle of aspirin he’d tossed in.  He swallowed
three, chasing them down with lukewarm coffee.  Though Sutton watched
him carefully through this, he mercifully kept quiet about it.

“They did a thorough search of the homes around the Bryant’s.  Fayetteville
isn’t that large,” Sutton said as he watched Mulder clumsily refold the
dress and put it back in the plastic bag.

“We missed him the first time.  The neighbors may have had no idea he 
was living there.  He probably rarely left the house in daylight and when 
he did he would have avoided interacting with anyone. We have to go 
to Fayetteville—the key to this whole thing is there.”  Mulder laid each
item of clothing back in the evidence box and folded it closed.

“But he’s got to be in the Potomac area now.  You think we’ll find anything
in Fayetteville?”

“We have to try and trace this guy back, far enough that someone might 
remember him.  Before he became Boo Radley.”

-=-=-=-=-=-

March 15, 2006  11:45 AM

McLean, VA  

“Mommy, can we give Daddy some of our cookies to take to Pennsalania?”
Molly asked as she drew her finger through the flour that coated the kitchen
counter.

“Pennsylvania.”  Scully corrected.  “And I’m sure Daddy would love some 
cookies.  I just hope they’re ready in time.”   

Scully was reminded of childhood afternoons spent baking with her mom as 
Molly stood on a chair across the work island.  This was what mothers and 
daughters did, wasn’t it?

Mulder had come home unexpectedly with news that he and Dave Sutton 
were going to Fayetteville, hoping to find some trace of their UNSUB’s 
early life.  She and Molly had been elbow deep in green tinted sugar cookie 
dough,  cutting out leprechaun hats and four leaf clovers for St. Patrick’s
Day.

Mulder had kissed her and then Molly, brushing some flour off the little 
girl’s cheek.

“Oh Molly, you’re covered with so much flour, you look like a little ghost,” 
Scully had joked.  She was puzzled over Mulder’s sharp intake of breath and
took a good look at him, noticing how pale he was.  His eyes seemed hidden
in shadow.  She knew he hadn’t slept last night.  She had missed his solid 
warmth against her back as she drifted in and out of sleep.  

She wanted to ask him if he was well enough to be going anywhere but up to 
bed, but found herself unable to broach the subject with Molly nearby. 

“You okay?” she asked.  That would have to be the extent of her interrogation.

“I have a headache, that’s all.”  He ruffled Molly’s hair.  “I’m going upstairs 
to pack a few things.”  

The last batch of cookies was nearly cut out and ready for the oven when the 
doorbell rang.  She was just dropping the last four-leaf clover onto the cookie 
sheet when she heard Mulder call out, “I’ll get it.”

“Well, I’m just so glad I caught someone at home,” a loud and cheery voice 
rang out. “You must be Fox Mulder.  You don’t mind if I call you Fox, do you?”

“Excuse me.”  Mulder sounded polite, but she could hear annoyance. Scully
could picture his jaw tighten.

“I’m Pinky Mayhew Dubord, your neighbor from across and down.  We’re 
asking folks to sign a petition to get a traffic light installed on the corner of 
Reynolds and Evergreen.” 

Scully tried to place Pinky among the neighbors.  Was she the extraordinarily 
thin brunette in the red brick Tudor or the nipped and tucked blonde from 
the big Dutch Colonial.  Scully began to wipe her hands off on a dishtowel.

“Mrs. Dubord, this really isn’t a good time.”  The annoyance in Mulder’s 
voice was up a notch.

“Oh but Fox, we really can’t be too busy for our children’s safety.  That 
corner is just two blocks from the school.”  Pinky’s intensity level was on the
rise, her voice becoming more shrill. “I’m sure you can find a moment to look 
this over.”

“Look, this isn’t convenient right now.  Maybe you could…”

“Fox, this won’t take but a minute.  I’m sure you wouldn’t want to neglect
your civic duty.”

Snapping off the oven and warning Molly not to open its door, Scully left
the kitchen.  Her protective instincts coupled with intense curiosity propelled 
her into the living room.  Ah yes, it was the fluffy blonde after all.  Mulder’s 
hands were clenched tightly and Scully could see the little vein in his forehead 
pulsing.

“What  part of ‘not now’ don’t you get?” Mulder was shouting now, two
bright spots showing on his cheeks against the pale skin.  “Now, will you 
please get the hell out of my house before I haul out the handcuffs.”  

Pinky’s face registered the kind of shock that only the wealthy and pampered 
can really achieve.  She sputtered incoherently and Scully would have loved 
to see Mulder slap the cuffs on Pinky, but Molly was watching wide-eyed 
from the doorway.  Scully walked across the room and laid a gentle hand on 
Mulder’s arm as she moved past him.

“Pinky, you don’t mind if I call you Pinky?” Scully said, voice firm and low. 
“Did I mention that my husband is an armed federal agent? I’m sure you have
lots of other stops to make and we wouldn’t want to hold you up. Or shoot you.”  

Pinky’s mouth gaped open and Scully was pleased to see that the woman had
been rendered speechless as she pushed the stunned Pinky out onto the front
step of the house and firmly closed the door.  

“I’m sorry,” he said, quietly.  All the anger seemed to have drained out of him
along with any energy as he looked over at the frightened child in the doorway. 
He crouched down, or maybe his knees gave out. “Oh god, I’m sorry.  
Molly, c’mere honey.  It’s okay.  Daddy’s not angry with you.”  

Molly threw herself into Mulder’s arms and he swung her up into an embrace.  
Scully moved closer and laid a hand on Mulder’s back as she stroked Molly’s 
hair.   This might have been the first time Molly saw her father really angry.  
Not just angry because he stepped on a Lego with his bare foot, but angry enough 
to shout at a stranger.  The child seemed to be calming already as Mulder cuddled 
her and whispered to her.

“Molly sweetie, it would be really nice if you got some of those cookies for
Daddy to take with him.  Can you get a paper bag and fill it for Daddy and 
Agent Sutton?”  

Molly trotted off enthusiastically and Scully wondered how many cookies
she was going to ‘taste test’ as she put them into the bag.  Scully took 
Mulder’s hand and pulled him over to the couch.  “Sit down, I want to 
talk to you.” 

“I really am sorry.  I shouldn’t have let that woman get to me.”

“Mulder, I don’t care about that.  I would have gladly helped you kick
Mrs. Pinky Mayhew Dubord’s surgically enhanced backside down the
front steps.”  She looked deeply into his eyes, worried at the turmoil
she saw there.  “I’m worried about you.  Do you want me to come with 
you?  I have an autopsy this afternoon, but I could try to get someone 
else to do it.”

“No.  I’ll be fine.   I’ll call you if we find anything.”

-=-=-=-=-=-

Hearts and Bones  (Part 6 of 11)

March 15, 2006   - 2:30 PM

I-70 West

“Daddy, you have to save me.”  

Mulder woke with a start, the whispering voice silenced.  His eyes 
darted around the car, out the window, as he tried to control his 
ragged breathing.  Sutton threw a puzzled glance at him before 
returning his attention to the highway.

When he arrived at the house in McLean, Sutton had announced that 
he was driving after taking one look at Mulder’s haggard appearance.   
Mulder had fallen asleep before they hit the Beltway, lulled by the
monotonous movement of the car.

It seemed lately that no rest would be complete without a visit from
the ghostly little girls, now appearing as a quartet.   This dream had 
been worse, and Mulder had awakened in a cold sweat while they were 
just outside of Hagerstown.   It felt like there wasn’t enough air in 
the car, so Mulder lowered the window and shivered as the cold air hit 
his damp clothes.

The car still smelled of sugar cookies and the sweet vanilla scent made
him nauseous.  Molly had pressed a paper bag of cookies into his hand
when he’d kissed her goodbye.  He smiled as he remembered her solemn
admonition to be sure and share the cookies with Agent Sutton.  

He shivered again as he remembered hearing Molly’s voice in his 
dream.  Mulder wearily rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands,
trying to scrub out the image of Molly standing with the dead children.
Her face had been as white as the flour that covered her earlier and her
blue eyes were icy cold. They frightened him worse than the blank
eyes of the other children.  Molly had begged him over and over to save 
her.  Save her. 

“Jeez Mulder, it’s freezing in here.”   Sutton looked over at him as 
Mulder closed the window.   Mulder could practically hear Sutton’s 
doubts about a road trip with a nutcase and he could hardly blame him. 

Scully could probably have him committed after threatening a neighbor.  
His head had been pounding and the woman had kept rattling on.  He knew
on some level that a petition for a stoplight wasn’t trivial.  He just had a
hard time getting past the vision of Casey Marino decked out in her
Sunday best when the obnoxious Mrs. Dubord wouldn’t shut up about
civic duty.

They passed the Gettysburg exit and Sutton asked him to check the 
directions.

“We’re almost there,” Mulder said.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-  

March 15, 2006 – 3:34 PM

Fayetteville, PA

It hadn’t surprised Sutton to find that the Bryants had moved 
from the Colebrook Street house a few years after Carrie’s death.   
Mulder had located an updated phone number and had spoken with 
Mrs. Bryant late that morning. 

Mulder had learned that the Bryants had lived at the Colebrook Street 
house for two years before Carrie was abducted.   Mrs. Bryant said the 
family hadn’t really gotten to know the neighbors but hadn’t noticed 
anyone that would have fit Mulder’s profile. 

Sutton knocked on the door at the Bryant’s old address and turned 
to watch Mulder pacing the lawn.  The cold afternoon air must have 
revived Mulder, who now crouched down on hard packed earth and 
scanned the area.  Sutton wondered if he were trying see what 
young Carrie had seen as she played under the spray of the sprinkler.

When it became apparent that the new owners weren’t home, Sutton 
joined Mulder in his scrutiny of the surrounding houses.  Sutton crouched
to the ground as Mulder straightened his stance.

“Do you see that?”

“See what?” Sutton looked up as Mulder had taken off in a trot.

“That big gray house down the street?  The one that looks like an 
advertisement for urban blight.”  Mulder called back as he headed 
down the sidewalk toward a dilapidated home.

“You think that’s Boo’s house?” Sutton huffed as he hurried after
 Mulder.  For a man who fifteen minutes ago had looked like
lukewarm death, Mulder could move pretty damn fast.

Mulder slowed as he reached the edge of the overgrown property. 
It appeared that no one had lived there for some time.  The hedges
had grown so out of control that they nearly obscured the front
door and foot tall weeds had taken over the lawn.  

Mulder climbed the crumbling cement steps to stand on wooden porch,
carefully avoiding patches of dry rot.  He peered through the window, 
trying to wipe a spot clean with his overcoat sleeve.  

“Looks abandoned,” Mulder said as he squinted into the gloom.
“This feels right.”

Mulder turned and looked back toward the Bryant house.  He 
came down the front steps again and walked backwards down
the front walk, nearly tripping on a piece of broken slate.

“I think Boo could see Carrie playing outside from one of the
upstairs windows.  He certainly would have seen her walking 
down the street or riding her bike.” 

“Mulder, you don’t even know who lived here or who owns the
house.”

“You’re right.  But I intend to find out.”  

Questioning the neighbors proved little more than the American
community was not what it used to be.  The couple living in the 
house to the left had no idea who owned the gray house, but vaguely 
remembered a crabby old woman.  The man who lived to the right 
complained bitterly about public eyesores and declining property 
values, but didn’t remember ever seeing anyone at the house.

Driving to Fayetteville’s town hall, Sutton noticed that Mulder 
had progressed from energized to jumpy.  Mulder’s fingers drummed
against the dashboard and he shifted restlessly in the passenger seat.

The gum-chewing records clerk had been less than thrilled to have
Federal agents showing up for research half an hour from closing time.
Fortunately, the young woman’s desire to get home on time motivated 
her to help them find the deed on 369 Colebrook Street.  

“Louise Davenport inherited the home from her parents, Alma
and George Henderson in November 1959,” she said, handing 
Mulder the document.  “I checked the computer.  There was
no activity after that.”

“We need to check birth records,” Mulder announced.  The girl 
rolled her eyes at that,  but led them into another room.  

“Dawn, these guys need a birth record for a….”  

“Louise Henderson,” Mulder supplied.  Dawn seemed no less
enthused at 4:50 PM than her younger co-worker, but she dutifully
searched the files.

“I think this is it.  Louise Henderson, born 1939 here in Fayetteville.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Dawn agreed to continue searching through
marriage records and birth records until she located the names of
Louise’s children.  It was nearly 7 PM when she finally pushed her
chair back.

“Arlette Louise Davenport, born 1961 and Warren Eugene Davenport, 
born 1965,” Dawn said with finality.

“The age is right, an older sister—Warren’s our UNSUB.”  Dawn looked 
puzzled at Mulder’s words, and wasted no time in putting on her coat and 
indicating that she was going home and it was time for the agents to leave.  

Mulder stood on the sidewalk outside the Town Hall, his breath
making little white puffs in the cold night air.  Sutton could see the 
nervous tension in his body; he seemed like a wire stretched to its limit.  

“I want to search that house.  We need to find out where Warren
Davenport went after he left Fayetteville.” 

Mulder turned without a word and started for the car, leaving Sutton
to trail behind.

“Mulder, where the hell are you going?”  Sutton reached the car as
Mulder reached for the car door.  

“Come on, Sutton.  Give me the keys.  The answers are back at that
house.”  There was an undercurrent of desperation in Mulder’s voice.

“Listen, the house isn’t going anywhere overnight.” Sutton said, jingling
the car keys. “There’s no probable cause here, Mulder.  Come on, we’ll
talk to the local PD, get a warrant. Besides, I would really rather not go
to the spook house in the dark.” 

For a moment, he thought Mulder was going to grab the keys out of his
hand, but finally, he rocked back on his heels and blew out a breath.

It was after 9 PM before Sutton was able to persuade Mulder to stop for 
dinner.  The local officers had recommended the Blue Sky Diner--serving, 
he was told, hot food and plenty of it.  Sutton took a bite of his salisbury 
steak and reflected on their failure to mention that the food had absolutely 
no flavor.  Still, it had been hours since Sutton had eaten a sketchy lunch 
so he made short work of his dinner.

Their waitress lumbered over to clear their plates, moving as if she 
were walking barefoot on pebbles.  A nametag pinned to her
substantial bosom told Sutton her name was Eleanor and the 
printing on a photo pin of two small children told everyone she 
was the “World’s Best Grandma.”

“Everything okay?  You barely touched your food, Sugar,” she 
remarked, eyeing Mulder’s plate.  Her voice reminded Sutton of
chains dragged over gravel.

“Everything was fine,” Mulder answered, appearing a bit embarrassed 
at the attention. “Eleanor, ever hear of a family named Davenport?”

“Don’t ring a bell.  Hold on,” she said as she turned around. “Iris, hey
Iris, c’mere.”

Iris gave the long diner counter she was cleaning one final swipe and 
approached their table. A tall woman in her early forties, Iris reminded Sutton 
of plaid pants and a striped shirt, a plain horsey face atop a magnificent figure.  

“Iris here knows just about everybody in three counties,” Eleanor said. “You
fellas want more coffee?” 

“No more for me, thanks,” Mulder answered.  “Iris, do the names Arlette or
Warren Davenport sound familiar?  Maybe Louise Davenport?”

Iris’ long face was a study in concentration that transformed into 
recognition.  “Oh my God.  I haven’t heard that name since high school.”

Mulder slid across the booth seat to make room for Iris and gestured for
her to sit.  Sutton tried not to stare at her perfect breasts as she eased
onto the seat.

“I went all through school with Arlette.  She was the prettiest girl you ever 
saw. Family was weird though.  Don’t remember her after junior year. I think 
she ran away or something.”

“Were you friends?”

“I guess you’d say we were friends. Arlette had to be home right after 
school, couldn’t join any clubs or go to parties.  But you know,  
she snuck out sometimes anyway.  The boys were just crazy about 
her—she had this long, long hair and big green eyes.  She wore these 
fancy ruffled dresses when everyone else was wearing ripped jeans.”

“What about Warren?” Mulder asked, his voice vibrating with excitement.

“Yeah, she had a little brother. I remember Warren now—very shy.
Really strange kid.”  Iris squinted her eyes in recollection.  

 “Do you know what happened to Arlette?” 

“I just remember that one day she wasn’t around school anymore.  
You know, wild stories went around that Arlette run off with bikers, 
but I never believed them.  Arlette wasn’t like that.  She just wanted to be 
normal—date, go places with her friends.  I remember Arlette had 
bruises on her sometimes.”  Iris shifted in her seat.   “Now that I think 
about it, I don’t think Warren was in school after that either.”

“One more thing, and then I promise to let you get back to work.  Do you
remember anything physically distinctive about Warren?” Mulder asked. 
“Maybe something about his hands?” 

“I don’t know,” Iris said.  Her homely face grew on you after a 
while and Sutton thought she looked almost pretty as she concentrated.
“I can’t remember ever seeing his hands.  I think he kept one of them
in his pocket all the time.  Now that I think about it, the kids used to 
tease him about it.” 

-=-=-=-=-=-

Hearts and Bones  (Part 7 of 11)
  
March 16, 2006 – 8:15 AM

Fayetteville, PA

The coffee’s heat leached through the cardboard in the two cups and 
was growing uncomfortable against Mulder’s fingers as he kicked 
Sutton’s door.  Blinking in the morning sunlight, he felt like his eyelids 
were coated with sand.  Mulder kicked the door a second time and 
regretted it when it made the now constant throbbing in his head worse.

“Jeez Mulder, hold on a minute.”  Sutton opened the motel room
door and took the steaming cup that Mulder handed him.  Sutton
was shoeless, his shirt unbuttoned and hair still damp from the shower.

As Sutton finished dressing, he regarded Mulder with a hint of
worry.  Mulder wondered if he’d woken Sutton up when he fought his 
way out of another nightmare just before dawn.  Mulder had held off 
sleep most of the night, watching infomercials and missing Scully, but 
he’d dropped off in the early morning hours.  His visit from the dead 
children had been almost expected.  Mulder was grateful that they 
didn’t drag Molly along for this excursion.

He’d seen no point in tempting another ghostly visitation, so he dressed 
in his sweats, threaded his room key onto his running shoe lace and
went out into the early morning dark to run off some of his nerves.  Now, 
after a shower and a trip to the Blue Sky Diner, all he could think about 
was what they would find at 369 Colebrook Street. 

Half an hour later, they stood on the porch and knocked on the door, 
announcing themselves though they knew no one would answer.  

“Looks like Boo isn’t at home.” Sutton drew out his lock pick with a 
flourish and a grin.

There was some resistance against the door making it difficult to 
open, and Mulder momentarily wondered whether something 
terrible was blocking it.  When the agents finally were able to 
push it open, they peered into the dim interior.  A foot tall pile 
of mail sat on the floor inside the door, having been dropped 
through the tarnished brass mail slot.

The odor of decay hung in the air, not overpowering but still evident.
Thinking about what might be responsible for the smell, Mulder was 
hit by a wave of nausea.  

“Maybe an animal crawled in here and died.” Sutton said wishfully, 
as his thoughts must have drifted in the same direction. He drew on a
pair of latex gloves and Mulder dug in his pocket for gloves of his own.  

Sutton crouched down over the pile of mail, flipping through the credit 
card offers, department store advertisements and utility bills.  

”Postmark on this final notice from the electric company is January 
1995.”  Sutton tossed the mail down and stood up. “The top layer of 
the mail is from the same time period.  The stuff at the bottom of the 
pile is from October 1994.” 

Dust covered every surface, and it was clear that no one had been in
the house for years.  The dust was undisturbed and the two men left 
footprints as if the floor were covered with snow.  

As Mulder walked through the living room, the furnishings reminded 
him of his childhood.  Louise Davenport had decorated sometime in the 
1960s and apparently had been satisfied, as not even an ashtray had 
been updated.  A dusty copy of Time Magazine on the coffee table
proclaimed William J. Clinton, 1992’s Man of the Year.  

Through the doorway, Mulder could see the kitchen: cups and dishes
still cluttered the table and more debris covered the counter and stove
top.  The room had a sour smell, and the agents could see remnants
of food stuck to the plates and evidence that insects had feasted there.

Mulder returned to the living room where Sutton, flashlight in hand, 
searched the dim recesses of a closet.   Unimpeded by tattered curtains,
sunlight streamed through the window at the foot of the stairs.  The
smell was stronger here and Mulder squinted into the darkness at
the landing above. 

Misery and madness hung in the air, as real as the dust motes dancing 
in the light from the window.  Mulder could feel Boo close by.  It
seemed odd, but Mulder still thought of the UNSUB as Boo Radley
even though they had affixed a name to the man.  

The stairs groaned under their feet, as if protesting against having
to bear weight after so many years.  Both men automatically reached
into their pockets for handkerchiefs to cover mouth and nose as the
smell increased.

Three doors greeted them at the top, two standing open and one closed.
A towel had been stuffed into the crack at the bottom of the closed door 
and Mulder was certain that the smell originated there.  He could feel 
the sweat trickle down his back though the interior of the house wasn’t 
much warmer than the air outside. The question of whom or what was 
beyond the door left him feeling as queasy as the stench.

In unspoken agreement, each man moved to an open door, leaving the
sealed room for last.  The bedroom Mulder entered contained double beds,
one covered by a dusty flowered spread and the other by an equally dusty
plaid one.  Posters of rock stars that Mulder recalled from his teens hung
above the pink and purple comforter and clutter of nail polish jars and 
perfume bottles sat on a table by the bed.  

The other side of the room was starkly neat, the plaid spread pulled
tight across the bed.  A film of dust clung to precisely arranged items 
on the bedstand: a book, a glass, stacks of coins.  

He could see Boo sitting on his bed, watching the pretty girl braid her long 
hair, and he could feel the tiny, forbidden spark of arousal.  

He wished she wouldn’t sneak out again. Why couldn’t she stay with him
the way she used to in the days when they would lie in the dark and tell 
each other fanciful stories.  It was lonely when she was gone, and he was 
frightened that Momma would find out, or that Arlette would fall like 
Pollyanna as she jumped from window to tree branch.  Maybe that would 
be good, though.  She’d have to stay home if she couldn’t walk.

He knew she went with boys, letting them touch her through her soft blue
sweater, letting them put their dirty hands under her skirt.  Why couldn’t 
she be good, like when they were little? She was such a good girl then, even
Momma said:  “Arlette, you stay pure, y’hear?  Stay Momma’s good girl.”

But now Arlette was as dirty as the hands she allowed to squeeze her round 
little breasts.  He was torn between wanting Momma to find out what bad
things Arlette did and fear of what Momma would do.  Momma’s anger was
something to avoid at all costs, burning you like her hot iron.        

“Arlette don’t go.  Don’t leave me here alone.”  Mulder wondered how long he
had been speaking as he caught the look on Sutton’s face. 

“Mulder, I really hate to bring this up, but we need to see what’s in the other
room.” 

-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Mulder seemed to have some difficulty shaking off his thoughts in 
Boo’s bedroom, and Sutton hoped he would be able to handle what was 
in the other room.  Sutton knew he wasn’t as natural a profiler as Mulder; 
he lacked the other man’s frightening capacity to displace his own 
personality and get into the mind of the UNSUB.  But even Sutton could 
feel the presence of the children who slept in that room so long ago.  

Finally, Mulder squared his shoulders and nodded toward the closed
door.  Sutton kicked the towel away and pushed the door open.  He 
and  Mulder entered the room, handkerchiefs clamped over their noses.
Something lay in the center of the bed, barely making a rise under the 
comforter that almost completely covered it.

Sutton had always thought that skeletons appeared to be smiling and he 
wondered what this one was amused about.  Whoever it was, she’d been 
here a long time, so comfortable in bed that the body had sunk down
into the mattress.  The smell must have been much worse at one point.

“Looks like some gray hair is still adhering to the skull.  You think 
it’s Boo’s Mama?”  Sutton asked.

Mulder nodded slightly, obviously relieved that they hadn’t discovered
another child, and began to examine the scene.  Pill bottles and drinking
glasses crowded on the bedside table next to a large, well-worn Bible.

Stepping out into the hall, Sutton used his cell phone to call for a forensics 
team and to alert the task force of the latest development.  With unspoken
agreement,  the men left the gruesome sight and stench behind and went 
back to the lower level.  

Mulder pulled off his gloves and reached into his pocket for his cell phone.
Sutton walked back to the open front door to watch for the investigative
unit to arrive and to breathe fresh, cold air.

“Scully, remember when you said to call if we needed you?”

-=-=-=-=-=- 

March 16, 2006  -  8:30 PM

Fayetteville, PA

The car was going to smell like french fries and decay now.  She had
showered after the autopsy, but she still felt that the odor of death trailed 
after her. Scully carried the take-out tray in one hand and her duffle bag in 
the other and hoped Mulder was awake since she didn’t have a room key.

She redistributed her load and knocked on the door.  The March wind
cut through her coat as she wondered in what condition she would find
Mulder. 

When she had spoken with him earlier, she had detected the adrenaline
rush that buoyed Mulder up during even the worst cases.  When an 
investigation finally came together, no matter how raw his nerves, 
Mulder would get his second wind.  She could almost clock it, just as she 
could predict his crash when the adrenaline wore off and the case was 
still unsolved. The door swung open to reveal a weary looking, but 
smiling Mulder.

“Ooh, you brought eats,” he said, gathering up the files and papers 
that covered the small table and placing them on the bed.  Scully laid 
the tray on the table and slipped out of her coat.  Her back and neck 
ached as they often did after an autopsy.  It didn’t seem to be getting 
any easier as she got older, either.

Mulder’s hands closed over her shoulders as he stood behind her and
massaged her tired muscles.  Her head felt too heavy to hold up and 
she allowed her chin to rest on her chest.  She could feel his fingers 
part her hair at the nape and his lips graze the back of her neck.

“Keep that up and you may not get a chance to eat.  I think the food’s
almost cold as it is.”  The kisses continued until Scully turned to
face him and one final kiss landed on her lips.  

“Okay, food first,” he said, tucking her hair behind her ears. “You 
must be starved.” 

They arranged the meal on the table, wax paper wrappings making
impromptu place mats.  The hamburger was rubbery, the french
fries were cold and greasy and the soft drink had become diluted by
melting ice.  Scully smiled to herself.  Just like old times.   How many
inedible fast food meals had they shared over the years?   

Nostalgia did nothing to improve the quality of the meal, but she was
hungry.   While Scully managed to eat her dinner, she noticed that
Mulder set his aside after a few bites and watched her with tenderness.

“What did you find?” he asked after she had finished eating.  She knew
he was consumed with curiosity over the autopsy, and she was
touched that he held himself back.  “Was it Louise Davenport?”

“Yes.  A local dentist was able to dig up her records from storage and 
identify her.  The remains were almost entirely skeletonized.  
She’d been in that bed at least ten years, probably more.”

“Were you able to determine cause of death?” 

"Advanced cancer, with metastasis to the bones.  The state of the body
made it impossible to determine the primary site, but the vertebrae show
multiple lesions as well as pathological fractures.  She would have
experienced intractable pain."

“Sutton and I found over the counter painkillers by the bed.  The
expiration date on them was late 1994.  On a hunch, I called local
doctors and no one had been treating her for anything.”

“Mulder, she would have been very, very ill.  I can’t imagine someone
that sick not having medical care.”

“We found a woman who grew up with Arlette.  From what she told us, 
I think it’s entirely possible that Louise toughed it out with a bottle of 
Advil and her Bible rather than reach out to others.”

“And you’re sure her son is your UNSUB?”

“We spoke to Arlette and Warren’s pediatrician.  He’s in his eighties, 
but pretty sharp.   He retired years ago, but was able to recall that 
Warren lost part of one finger on his right hand when he was seven.
The tip of his ring finger was so badly mangled when he got his hand 
caught in a bicycle chain, it had to be amputated at the first knuckle.”

“Mulder, you’ve done good work here,” she said, gently touching his
hand.

“We still don’t know where he is,” he said sharply as he pulled away.
“We know his name, but we don’t have any idea where he’s been for twelve
years. Scully, I don’t want to have to wait for him to take another kid.”  

He moved to the window and parted the curtains, his face reflected in the 
smudged glass.  Her heart ached at the sadness and exhaustion showing 
in his eyes.  Following him to the window, she circled his waist with
her arms.  The cotton from his shirt was wrinkled from his long day and 
smelled faintly of sweat as she rested her face against his back.

“You’ll find him.  But tonight, you need to rest.”

He turned under her arms and pulled her into an embrace that threatened to
restrict her breathing.  “What I need,” he said, taking her face between his
hands.  “What I need isn’t rest.” 

He kissed her with a kind of desperation that used to frighten her long ago. 
Back then, she felt like his need would burn her, consume her like a scrap of 
paper in fire.  Sometimes she thought that was what held her back for so many 
years,  parceling out touches like the last of the bread to one who was starving.

His hands traveled over her, as if her body were the only thing keeping him 
from disintegrating.  With stunning clarity, she realized that she needed his 
touch as much as he needed to touch her, and her fingers began to work the 
buttons of her blouse.  

Steel is forged in fire, made stronger by the flames.  She thought that she,
too, had become stronger through his love.  Just as his faith in her, that 
all-consuming love braced her when it seemed like her knees would buckle. 
She knew she could stand strong enough to bear his weight tonight.

Mulder pulled her to him, lifting her off the floor, and in two steps she was 
laying under him on the bed.  She could feel the weariness in him, in the 
weight of his body, in the hitch in each exhaled breath.   Holding his face
between her hands, she looked into the shadowed depths of his eyes and
tried to stare down his nightmares and force them to retreat.

They struggled out of their clothes, pushing the discarded garments onto 
the floor.  They didn’t speak; there was no sound but ragged breathing as
his lips traveled over her face and neck before finding her breast.  The rasp
of his evening stubble left her sensitive skin pink and heated.

She opened herself under him, drawing him into the cradle of her thighs.
Whatever meager control Mulder had over his emotions seemed to be torn 
away as he entered her.  Her heart ached at the naked expression of need on 
his face as he drove into her.  A wordless cry escaped him, a gutteral sound
not of pleasure, but something more primal.

She reached a point where pleasure evolved into sensations she couldn’t
name, eventually becoming uncomfortable and still he hadn’t found release.
She knew she would be sore tomorrow, but pushed the thought aside as 
she began to stoke his back.  Finally he climaxed, his head falling onto
her shoulder as shudders reverberated through his body. His face, pressed 
against her neck, was wet with tears.

-=-=-=-=-=-


Hearts and Bones  (Part 8 of 11)

March 17, 2006  -  8:45 AM

Fayetteville, PA

A “Kiss Me I’m Irish” button had joined the “World’s Best Grandma” 
pin on Eleanor’s pink uniform.  Luckily, her expansive bustline could 
support the decorations and still not appear crowded.  She poured 
coffee into their cups and returned to the kitchen.  Even in the morning, 
she moved as if her feet hurt.  

Mulder looked up from his coffee with the first genuine smile that 
Sutton had seen in days.  Sutton turned to see Dana Scully enter 
the diner, pocketing her cell phone as she approached the booth.  She
flashed a brief smile at Sutton,  her expression only really warming
when she glanced down at Mulder.

“How’s Molly?” Mulder asked as he moved along the seat.

“She’s fine.  All excited because Mom is bringing her to the St. 
Patrick’s Day parade,” Scully answered as she slid into the booth, 
a tiny wince briefly crossing across her lovely face.    

Scully had arrived yesterday afternoon, cool professional confidence
barely covering worry over her husband.  Sutton had been curious 
about the woman responsible for domesticating Fox Mulder. 
Somehow, he had expected someone taller.  She really was beautiful, 
skin flawless even in the bright morning sunshine filtering through 
the diner window.  It didn’t take a rocket scientist to see why Mulder
had fallen for his partner.

Eleanor returned to take their breakfast order.  Mulder attempted to pass
on breakfast, but ordered an English muffin after  a glance from Scully.  
Eleanor seemed intensely interested in the subtle byplay between Mulder
and Scully.  Sutton craned his neck to search the diner, disappointed when
he didn’t see Iris on duty this morning.

Taking the rest of their order, Eleanor leveled one more assessing gaze
at the three of them, perhaps speculating to herself on how they all might
be related.   Sutton thought she was calculating the millimeters between
Mulder and Scully on the bench and factoring that into her equation.

“So what’s your theory on how Boo got from here to Potomac?” Sutton
asked when Eleanor had cleared their airspace.  At Scully’s raised eyebrow, 
he explained. “Boo Radley.  You know, from ‘To Kill A Mockingbird.’”

“I get the reference,” she said, dryly before she turned to Mulder.
“Okay, how do you think he ended up there?”

“I haven’t worked all that out yet, but I bet that house got to be pretty 
unpleasant after Louise died.  I think Boo….Warren, may have started
fantasizing about the past after his mother began to fail.  I think that’s 
when he started watching Carrie from his window.”  Mulder slouched
back in the booth. “The stress of taking care of an undoubtedly very 
demanding  patient, the fear of being alone, either or both would have
put him over the edge.”

“You think he brought Carrie into the house?  While his mother was
upstairs?” Scully asked, a hint of revulsion in her voice.

Mulder nodded silently when he noticed that Eleanor was returning with
their orders.   She served the food, her movements leisurely, perhaps 
hoping to overhear conversation that would provide some clue to how
everyone fit together.  Eleanor’s eyes took in wedding bands on the 
hands of two of the threesome as she refilled coffee cups.  Finally, with
no further information forthcoming, she lumbered back to the kitchen,
no doubt to enlighten the cook with her theories.

“An even more unpleasant thought occurred to me.” Sutton offered.
“What if the other abductions were triggered by the stress of Louise’s 
death?  He might have brought the other two girls to the house with
Momma lying dead in her bed.  What might compel someone so 
homebound to stray beyond his front yard?  Ashley and Amelia were 
from towns several miles away from Fayetteville.  Warren would have 
been venturing farther and farther from home to find the right 
replacement for Arlette.”

“You may be right,” Mulder said, sounding distracted.  “Maybe he got 
picked up while he was stalking his next victim.  I’m betting his psychosis 
would have been pretty apparent.”

“If he was institutionalized, there will be records.  I’ve got to call the task 
force.”  Sutton said, “They need to check arrest reports, see if Warren was 
picked up back in 1994 or 1995.”

-=-=-=-=-=-    

Mulder had gone up to pay the check as soon as Sutton left, and Scully 
suspected he was trying to avoid any comment from her on his uneaten 
muffin.  She dropped several dollar bills on the table and followed him 
out into the cold March sunshine.

Mulder was standing on the restaurant steps watching intently as Sutton
paced back and forth, cell phone at his ear.  As Scully came to stand 
beside Mulder, Sutton flipped the phone closed and turned to them, 
agitation visible in every movement.

“Boo just tried to grab another girl in McLean.  The kid was on her 
way to school, when a man tried to pull her into his car.  An employee 
from a Dunkin’ Donuts heard her screaming and scared him off.”  Sutton 
ground out the words.  

Mulder’s hands were clenched into fists and seemed to vibrate like a wire
pulled taut.  “The Dunkin’ Donuts on Russell?” he asked.  

“I think so,” Sutton said, a look of confusion passing over his face.  

“That’s a few blocks from our house,” Scully said in explanation.  
“Mulder, Molly wasn’t even at home.  She’s still with Mom today.”

“You think that makes this all right?” he asked, his voice rising. All
color had drained from his face, leaving the shadows under his eyes
blue in the bright sun. “Molly is safe, so we don’t need to worry?”  

“Of course it isn’t all right,”  Scully replied, her voice low and even.  
Arguing with Mulder would serve no purpose other than to further
agitate him.  She had thought the crash she expected had come last 
night,  but now she wondered if Mulder had hit bottom yet.  “Let’s 
get back to the motel and pack up.”

-=-=-=-=-=-

March 17, 2006  -  12:30 PM

McLean, VA

Just about every morning, Mulder stopped at the Dunkin’ Donuts on 
Russell for coffee before driving into work.  He’d brought Molly here 
on Saturday mornings when Scully needed to rest,  conspirators on a 
sugar high given away by donut breath.  It angered him to think 
that this case would tinge yet another facet of his life with darkness.  

Sutton drove down Russell, possibly to scan the site, being less familiar 
with the location than Mulder and Scully.  The drive from Pennsylvania 
had been excruciatingly tense.  They had detoured briefly to drop off 
Scully’s rental car in Gettysburg and driven the rest of the way together.  
Scully rode in the back seat, allowing Mulder the extra room in front to 
stretch his legs.  Mulder could feel her eyes on the back of his head as the 
miles slipped by,  the concern on her face reflected in the car window.

Frustration gnawed at his stomach; the two cups of coffee from breakfast
threatening to make a much less pleasant reappearance.  He’d spent a
leisurely breakfast nudging his wife’s thigh under the table while Boo
was twisting some little girl’s arm.  

He could feel himself slipping into irrationality.   Ironically, knowing he
was thinking illogically didn’t make it easier to drag his mind away
from the recriminations he was piling one on top of another.  If he had
been smarter,  worked harder, he could have solved this case before another
little girl had been put in danger.  Hell, if he hadn’t been such a fuck up 
twelve years ago, he could have solved the damn case and Casey Marino 
would still be nagging Daddy to remove her training wheels.

He scrubbed at his face with his hands, trying to evict the self-doubts. In the
window’s reflection, he could see Scully sit up a little straighter as she
tried to divine his thoughts from the hairs on the back of his head.  He’d allowed
himself to take his frustration out on her again and he hated himself for it.
 
Damn, he had to stop this shit, letting himself personalize every detail of this
case.  This wasn’t the first case that had hit close to home.  As Scully would
be happy to point out, he’d made a practice of internalizing certain cases for
most of his career.   Somehow this case had hit him harder than any of the
others.

 Sutton pulled into the police station’s parking area.   They’d been in touch
with Detective Brennan during the drive and had found that the Dunkin’ 
Donuts employee was still at the station, working with a sketch artist.
They located Brennan in the busy bullpen area of the police station.  

Mulder recalled Brennan’s calm, businesslike attitude at the Riverbend Park 
crime scene. The detective had seemed so totally focused on the police work 
that all emotion might have been excised from his personality. Perhaps that 
was the secret to not losing your mind.   Mulder thought that Brennan 
probably didn’t have dreams about dead children. 

“Taylor Simko, 7 years old, was walking to school this morning at 8:15 A.M.
when a white male, average build, late thirties to early forties, tried to pull her
into a white Honda Civic.”  Brennan read from a small notebook. “Kenshawn
Harris, assistant manager of the Dunkin’ Donuts heard her screaming and ran
out of the store.  He’s just about finished with the sketch artist.”  

Brennan led them along a corridor to an interview room.  Through the large
window, they could see a young black man in the trademark tan uniform seated
at a table before a sheet of paper.  A dark haired woman was packing sketch 
pads and charcoal pencils into a case.  She looked up at the new arrivals and
with a word to the young man, she gathered her things and came out into the hall.

“He has a good eye for details,” she said, handing Brennan the sketch.  “Hope 
this helps.”

“Thanks Karen,” Brennan nodded as the woman left.

Mulder felt oddly disappointed that the face in the drawing didn’t resemble
Robert Duval.  He’d been picturing Boo Radley for so long, that the large
dark eyes and wide forehead seemed wrong somehow.  

The young man looked up as Brennan led the three of them into the interview
room.  “Mr. Harris, this is Agents Sutton and Mulder and Dr. Scully from the
FBI.”  

“I’ll get this into circulation,” Brennan said, as he left the room with the sketch.

“Hey, ‘supersize black coffee, no sugar.’  I didn’t know you were FBI.”  Mulder
was caught off guard by the familiar open face from so many workday mornings.

“Mr. Harris, tell us about what happened this morning,” Mulder asked.  

“I been through this story about thirty times already.” The young man
sounded slightly exasperated.  “Okay.  I was emptying the trash container near 
the front of the store around 8:15.  I don’t usually do that, but we were down two
people this morning.  Anyway, I heard a kid screaming outside, and looked up as  
this guy was grabbing the little girl.  I ran out the store, yelling at him to let her
go and he ran off.”

“And you got a good look at him?” Mulder asked.

“It happened pretty fast, but I got a good look.  He was about 5’10’’, medium
build, between 35 and 45.  Light brown, receding hairline, tan jacket, brown 
pants.  Clean clothes, very neat.” Kenshawn smiled at Mulder’s impressed look. “Criminal justice major, 
Montgomery College.”

“Did you notice anything else?  Maybe something about his hands?”  Scully
spoke up.

“I didn’t get a good look at his hands.  I’m sorry.”  Kenshawn looked slightly
embarrassed at his failure.

“You saved a little girl’s life today.  I have no doubt about that.  I’d say you 
did a pretty amazing job,” Mulder said.

“If I hadn’t been near the door, I never would have heard her. I been thinking
about that all day.  If I’d been behind the counter I wouldn’t have gotten to
them in time.   It scares me to think that she’d be dead on account of that.”

“You’re going to make a fine officer.” Mulder stood up and extended his
hand, smiling to himself over the young man’s pleased expression.

As they returned to the bullpen, Brennan called out to them. “Almost forgot
to tell you, we haven’t found record of arrest or hospital admission for 
Warren Davenport.”

“We know he was somewhere for twelve years, Detective.  There has to
be some record.”  Mulder didn’t try to hide the irritation in his voice.

“I agree with you,” Brennan nodded slightly.  “He just wasn’t in custody
under the name of Warren Davenport.  We’re going under the assumption
that he was unable to give his name or gave a false name, but this complicates
any records search.”

“Davenport is probably seriously spooked right now.  He’ll lay low for a while,
but it is only a matter of time before the compulsion becomes so great that he
braves it again and goes hunting.”  Mulder raked a hand through his hair in
frustration.  “We have to keep searching for the bridge between where we know
he was last and where he is now.”

“That’s exactly what we’re trying to do.  But it’s going to take time.”  Brennan’s
voice had a flat, unemotional quality and Mulder couldn’t decide if he hated
him or admired him for it.  

Scully laid a gentle hand on his arm, but it barely registered through his tense
muscles.  This was the part he hated, where the profile had only brought them
so far and no arrest was at hand.  They could interview the little girl, and would,
but he held little hope that she would give them more than they knew now.  No,
he understood Warren, knew what drove him and what he might do next.  He
knew just about all he could about Warren except his address.

-=-=-=-=-=-  



Hearts and Bones  (Part 9 of 11)

March 17, 2006  -  2:25 PM

McLean, VA

Sutton wasn’t sure how much useful information they could get from 
Taylor Simko. According to Brennan, the child had been too shaken 
to remember much beyond the fact that she was walking alone when a 
man got out of a white car and grabbed her arm and that the older 
brother that she was supposed to walk with had ditched her.  But armed
with Taylor’s address and the desire to cover all the bases, they found
themselves at the Simko’s large brick home. 

Mr. Simko had answered the door, guiding them into the living room where 
Taylor sat on her mother’s lap even though she seemed a little too old for that, 
at least to Sutton.  Her brother, a tall boy of eleven, was no longer the cocky 
pre-teen who had left his sister behind for the more exciting company of his
peers.  The boy stood alone at the doorway to the kitchen, trembling and 
repentant, his eyes red-rimmed.      

Mulder took a seat with Mrs. Simko and Taylor on the sofa, leaving Sutton to 
share the loveseat with Scully.  It was awkward, sitting close enough to 
Mulder’s wife to smell the faint citrus scent of her perfume.  Sutton could 
feel the current of tension that seemed to course through her.  

Mr. and Mrs. Simko had alternated between weepy relief that their daughter 
was safe, and barely concealed fury at their son.  Her mother stroked Taylor’s
long brown hair while shooting angry looks at the very shaken boy. Of the two 
children, Sutton couldn’t tell who would end up more scarred by the incident.  

“Can you tell me what happened this morning, Taylor?” Mulder asked, his voice
soft but without inflection.

“Tucker and me were walking to school, but when he saw some other big boys
he ran ahead.  He does that all the time,” Taylor snuggled a big closer in her 
mother’s arms.  With a little gasp, Tucker began to cry quietly, which seemed 
to infuriate his father.

“Tucker, get out of my sight,” Mr. Simko said, a little too harshly for Sutton’s
taste.

Scully stiffened at Simko’s words, but Mulder hadn’t registered any emotion
at all.  Sutton noticed that Scully seemed distinctly uneasy at Mulder’s lack
of reaction.  He wasn’t sure what all of this meant, but Scully’s eyes never left 
the frozen mask of Mulder’s face.  

“What happened next?” Mulder asked, undeterred by the incident.

“Well, I was walking down the street and this car drove right next to me 
and a man got out and tried to pull me in the car.  I screamed real loud like
they said to do at school.  Then the donut man was yelling and running 
over to us and the bad man ran away.” 

“Did the bad man say anything to you, Taylor?”

“He said something funny.  Something like ‘I found you, I finally found you,’
which is silly ‘cause I never seen him before.”

Mulder rather abruptly indicated that the interview was over, apparently having
found out all he needed.  He rose and politely thanked Taylor and her parents
for their time and began to move to the door.  Sutton couldn’t decide if this 
single-minded, unemotional focus was more frightening than Mulder’s earlier 
intensity.

As they were leaving that uncomfortable home, Scully seemed to hesitate, as 
if waiting for something to happen. After a moment, she excused herself and  
spoke quietly to Mr. Simko.  Sutton couldn’t hear what she said, although he 
did catch the word “counseling.”   

“I need to go back to Quantico,” Mulder said, his voice flat. He and Sutton were
 standing on the Simko’s front walk, waiting as Scully descended the steps.

“Mulder, what more do you hope to accomplish here?  You’ve provided them
with the identity of the UNSUB, you’ve given them the information they need
to catch him.  It’s up to the task force now.”  Scully’s tone was firm, but Sutton
could hear worry behind the words.

“I know what I’m looking for.  I’m not sure the task force does.”  

Scully didn’t argue further and after a brief detour to pick up her car, they
continued to Quantico.  Scully said she wanted to review some autopsy 
records, but Sutton suspected she was keeping an eye on her husband.
  
Mulder seemed to be mostly unaware of his companions as he walked to the
unassigned office he had claimed earlier.  Sutton took a moment to check in
with Brennan, returning to find Mulder seated at a terminal, using the 
VICAP computer system to review arrest reports.   Maybe Mulder was right;
according to Brennan, the task force was becoming frustrated with the amorphous 
nature of the search and wasn’t making any headway.

Sutton moved to get a view of the computer screen. He wasn’t sure what criteria 
Mulder was using for his search, but the man seemed to be scanning for playground stalking, peeping Tom 
cases. Mulder seemed to disregard certain cases, flipping 
by them quickly, but other cases were deemed worthy of a click on the printer icon.

It was around 6 pm, when Scully announced that she needed to get home to their
daughter.  Sutton watched as she leaned over Mulder, concern in her eyes, and
asked him when he was coming home.  He’d mumbled something about not
being late, but his eyes hadn’t left the computer screen and his hands never
stopped typing.  When she laid a hand on his shoulder, he did look up briefly
at her and nodded slightly.      

Mulder hadn’t moved from the computer terminal in hours: no coffee
break, no bathroom break, no meal break.  In fact, Sutton was pretty sure 
Mulder hadn’t so much as blinked as he stared at the screen, his fingers moving 
between keyboard and mouse.  It was eerie, just the sound of clicking, tapping 
and the occasional hum of the printer as pages piled up.
 
“Jeez Mulder, would you go home for crying out loud?  It’s after 11:00.”  Sutton
had finished paperwork on several cases that he had been neglecting while working
on the Marino case.  He’d been surprised to find Mulder still at it, the pile of 
arrest printouts before him.

“Might as well.  I can finish this up at home.” Mulder stood and began 
gathering the papers together.  

“Here’s a novel approach, Mulder.  Why don’t you go home and get some 
rest?”  Sutton was becoming more and more unnerved by Mulder’s steely 
reserve.

Mulder hesitated, as if he was going to speak, then silently left the room.  
Sutton watched him shrug into his coat and disappear from view.

-=-=-=-=-=-=- 

March 18, 2006  - 7:20 AM

McLean, VA  

“Mommy, I can dance like the girls in the Patrick parade.”  Molly 
demonstrated next to the bed, doing a fairly credible rendition of Irish step
dancing.  Scully watched her with one eye open through a veil of auburn 
hair.  Five-year-old enthusiasm was a bit overwhelming before that first 
cup of coffee.

“Very nice, sweetie,” Scully said as she glanced at the other side of
the bed.  The comforter on that side was smooth, Mulder’s pillow undented. 

“Daddy’s downstairs.  He says he’s too busy to watch me dance right
now, ‘cause he’s working.”  Molly’s word came out in little puffs
as she continued to jump and kick her feet.  

Scully swung her legs over the bed and raked the hair back from her
eyes.  She hadn’t fallen asleep until the early hours of the morning, 
waiting for Mulder to come to bed.  He’d waved off her attentions,
when he had finally come home well after midnight, with the same
cold focus he had exhibited all day. 

“Come on bouncy girl, let’s get some breakfast,” Scully said, taking
Molly’s hand.  

As they approached the small office, Scully could hear Mulder on the 
phone, his voice roughened from exhaustion.  She couldn’t make out 
the words,  but she could detect the same flat quality that had worried 
her yesterday.

“Molly, why don’t you go watch television for a little while,” Scully
suggested.  Molly bounced her way to the family room, happy to comply 
with the bonus of  normally restricted television watching. 
    
“It’s an address in Potomac.  454 Laurel Avenue.  No, I’m sure this is 
him.”   

He stood with his back to the open doorway, one hand braced against the desk 
as if he might collapse without the support.   His slacks hung low on his hips,
and she wondered how many meals Mulder had missed over the last few days.
He was wearing the same clothes she had seen him in yesterday, the shirt
creased and clinging limply to his thin frame.

“I’m telling you, this is him.  Suspect picked up October 10, 1994 for loitering 
outside a Germantown, PA dance studio, frightened several little girls by 
peering through a window.  Local police were unable to establish his identity,
when he became incoherent upon arrest.  He eventually gave his name as 
Eugene Smith, but authorities were never able to substantiate his identity: no
fingerprints on file, no one recognized his photo when they ran it in local papers.  
He was institutionalized under the name of Eugene Smith and released last month.  
Well, it looks like they sent him to a group home in Maryland; some kind of cooperative program between 
states for patient placement.”    

She walked further into the room, coming around to see the computer printouts
spread over the desk.  Mulder looked up at her, his expression one of mild 
surprise,  before he turned back to the phone.

“I need you to assemble the task force.  We’ve got to pick him up before he goes
looking for another kid.  Okay. Yeah, call me back.”

“Mulder, did you sleep at all last night?” Scully asked, resting a hand on his 
forearm.  

“I feel fine.  I knew if I could just concentrate, I’d find him,” he said, rubbing 
his eyes.   Stubble darkened his jaw and when he dropped his hand, she could
see tiny lines etching the corners of his eyes.

“You think this Eugene Smith is Warren Davenport?” she asked, nodding 
toward the printouts.

“Davenport’s middle name is Eugene and the age is right.  I could tell more
if I had access to his hospital records, but just from the police report, I’d say
this is him. We have enough to pick him up for questioning.”

“Mulder, you did it,” she said gently. “I think it’s finally over.”

“It isn’t over until he’s in custody.”   She could feel the muscles in his arm tense 
under her hand.

“Come on, I’ll make us some coffee.  It’ll probably take Sutton a while to set
things up.”  She hoped she could get him to relax and let her past the wall of
detachment.  He seemed to hesitate, as if he couldn’t afford to let go of this
focus he had established.  After a moment, she felt something in him give a
little and he allowed her to take his hand and lead him to the kitchen.

Unfortunately, the coffeemaker was a mess, forgotten in the rush two
days ago to get Molly to Grandma’s, rent a car and drive to Pennsylvania.  
Scully busied herself emptying the now dried coffee grounds and trying to
scrub the brown residue from the glass carafe.

“Daddy, you stopped working,” Molly said as she bounded into Mulder’s
arms.  The little girl seemed confused as her normally adoring father held her
in an awkward embrace.  Scully snuck glances over her shoulder as she 
measured coffee into the basket.  

“Molly, what do you want for breakfast?” Scully called out while filling the
carafe with water.

“I want my green bagel.  Daddy, Grandma gave me a green bagel, but it isn’t 
yucky or anything.  It’s a special Patrick bagel.  Can you make it for me, Daddy?”

Mulder nodded slightly and set the child back on her feet.  Molly, obviously
thrilled to have even a withdrawn Mulder nearby,  resumed her jig, jumping 
and kicking with arms firmly at her sides.

“Watch me dance now, Daddy.  Grandma told me you aren’t supposed to move 
your arms.  Isn’t that funny?”

Mulder pulled a sharp knife out of the wooden block on the counter. Though he
still seemed distracted, Scully was glad to see him occupied with something 
other than the case that threatened to swallow him whole.  He held the bagel
in his left hand and began to slice down, while Molly continued to dance at
his elbow.

“Shit,” Mulder grunted, and Scully turned to see blood spurt up onto the 
cabinet door and the tile below it.  The dropped bagel rolled away,
green dough muddied with red.  

“Daddy, Daddy, hold it up!  Squeeze it hard with your other hand,” Molly, 
ever her mother’s daughter, shrieked out advice.  

“You know, if this were a crime scene, we could learn a lot from it,” Mulder’s
voice had an eerie hollow sound. “Molly, look at this. See the pattern the blood
has made, first from the initial cut and then with every movement of my hand.” 

Indeed, as Mulder turned his hand, blood seemed to be dripping everywhere.  
He remained fascinated by the patterns it made, frightening Scully with his 
unconcern. Molly fell silent, her eyes wide as her father rambled on.  “An 
investigator would use this information to reconstruct the events.”

“Mulder, stop it,” Scully commanded, her voice low and serious. Taking a
clean towel from a drawer, she took Mulder’s hand and applied pressure to the
wound. She looked up at him, noticing that there were tiny drops of blood on his 
face. His eyes seemed glazed over, detached, as if this were a crime scene and
the blood were not his.  Scully glanced at Molly and saw that the child had
begun to cry.

“Molly honey, it’s alright.  Daddy’s fine.  He’s going to need some stitches.
You remember when Matthew fell off his bike and had to get stitches?” She tried
to keep her voice calm.

A veil seemed to drop away as Mulder blinked his eyes and looked around 
the kitchen as if seeing it for the first time.  He took in the blood spattered
wall, his towel wrapped hand, his wife’s worried frown and his daughter’s
tears and shook his head slightly.

“Oh God, I’m sorry.”  His knees seemed to buckle as he swayed slightly.
Still applying pressure to his hand, Scully put her free arm around him, 
feeling his ribs all too prominently.

“Come on, you need to sit down.”  When Mulder was seated at the kitchen 
table, Scully took his hand to assess the severity of the cut.  He’d sliced 
deeply across the palm, catching the juncture of the thumb.  The bleeding 
had slowed slightly, but when she lifted the towel away, the cut immediately
welled up with new blood.   She quickly refolded the towel and firmly pressed 
it back over the cut.  “You did a nice job, Mulder.  This is going to need sutures.”

“Sutton is going to call any minute.  Can’t you stitch it up yourself?” he 
pleaded.  She felt the tiniest bit of relief that the flatness had left his voice. 
 
“Mulder, it’s your hand!” she said shaking her head.  “We’ve got to go to the
ER. The cut’s in a tricky place. I’d rather have someone who does a lot of 
suturing  take care of this. Listen, I’m going to throw some clothes on and 
leave a note for Myrna. She’s due any minute now.  You need to keep the 
pressure on this and hold your arm up.  Molly, make sure Daddy does it 
right, okay?”

She could hear Molly lecturing Mulder about proper elevation as she dashed up
the stairs.  Scully looked longingly at the shower as she passed it by and pulled
on jeans and a sweater.  Grabbing some clothes for Molly, she bounded back
down the stairs. As she was searching in the small office for paper and pencil, the doorbell rang and fortune 
was kind for the first time that day. 

“Myrna, thank God you’re early,” Scully said, leading her down the hall.  
“Mulder cut his hand and I need to get him to the emergency room.” 

“No problem, Dana,” Myrna said, glancing at the carnage in the kitchen and then
down at the very pale man seated at the table.  “Hey, you better go.  He don’t 
look so great.”

“I want to see Daddy get sutures,” Molly whined as she realized what Myrna’s
arrival meant.

“Not today, Honey,” Scully said as she shrugged into her jacket and draped
a coat over Mulder’s shoulders. “Maybe next time, okay?”

-=-=-=-=-=- 

Hearts and Bones  (Part 10 of 11)

March 18, 2006  -  12:25 PM

Georgetown University Medical Center

“Almost done,” Dr. Gari said as she held the suture tight and snipped
the thread.  She took a moment to inspect her handiwork, gently 
moving Mulder’s hand to get a better view.  Apparently satisfied with 
the neat row of stitches, she reached for the gauze. 

Scully had insisted on calling a plastic surgeon over Mulder’s objection.  
It was a little cut for Pete’s sake, but the ER staff had sided with Scully, so 
they waited for Dr. Gari to arrive while God knows what happened with
Davenport’s arrest.   Still, his left hand was his second favorite, so he 
supposed it was better to get it properly taken care of.

Mulder had been studying a poster on sexually transmitted diseases behind 
the doctor to avoid watching as she stitched up the damage.  He would never 
admit it, but he still felt a little lightheaded.  Scully would probably insist on 
having him hooked up to an IV or something at the first hint of a wobble, 
so he resolved to keep every movement slow and careful.  

“We’ll just wrap things up now,” Dr. Gari said, smiling at her little pun. 
She pressed several gauze pads over the wound and began to wrap more 
gauze around his hand.  Watching her wind the strip around and around 
was making him a little dizzy and he looked away again, catching 
Scully’s concerned look. 

“I want to see you in about a week to remove the sutures.  Make sure
you keep the bandage dry for at least 24 hours,”  Dr. Gari instructed.  
“Oh, and watch out for those bagels.”

Mulder thanked the doctor and reflected that he was grateful she was a
better surgeon than comedian.  He was going to take a lot of teasing at
work over this injury.  Maybe he could tell people he was hurt in the line
of duty, maybe by a knife-wielding maniac.

Scully helped him on with his coat and they silently made their way to the
car.  She watched him struggle for a moment with his seatbelt, reaching
over finally to fasten it for him.  He closed his eyes and laid his head 
back as Scully started the car.  

“How’s the hand?”  

“Still numb.  Listen, I just want to say I’m sorry.  God, I seem to be 
saying that a lot lately.”   

“Mulder, can you tell me what happened?” she asked softly. “It was like
you were somebody else for a while there.”

How could he explain the abyss of his mind during the last day?  He 
couldn’t tell her what he didn’t fully understand himself.  He had forced
every emotion, every personal connection out of his head, leaving nothing
but cold logic and analysis.  He’d found this even more terrifying than the
mire of pain and guilt he’d waded through on so many cases before.

“I don’t know, really.  I guess I just thought if I could stop personalizing 
everything about the case, stop letting my own fears control me, I could 
solve the case.”  

It struck him as odd that most of his and Scully’s important discussions had 
taken place in a moving vehicle. Maybe it was the fact that one didn’t need 
to look the other person in the eye that allowed for opening up. Scully was 
silent for a moment, her face serious when he chanced a look in her direction.

“I almost can’t believe I’m saying this, but maybe you aren’t cut out to
be detached.  Maybe you make those leaps and see things that no one else
can see because you care so much.”  Her voice was thick with emotion.  
“I just worry about you.”  

“I know you do.  You have no idea what it means to me to know that 
someone cares about me. Sometimes, when I drive home after a rotten 
day, I can’t believe I have people to come home to.”  Mulder turned his 
head to watch her.  Tears made her eyes luminous and he could see that 
she was fighting to keep her emotions in check.

He knew she had just about exceeded her limit for opening up and if he
was truthful, he’d admit that he couldn’t handle much more honesty 
today.  But still, it pleased him enormously to see the hint of a smile 
finally play across her lips.

They arrived home to find Sutton’s car parked in front.  Mulder’s pulse
pounded in his ears as he walked up the front walk to find out why Sutton 
was there.  He could hear Scully’s heels behind him on the slate path as
he pushed open the front door.

Mulder walked down the long hallway to the kitchen where he found Sutton
at the kitchen table with Molly and Myrna.  Molly was kneeling on a chair, 
the pink tip of her tongue poked out in the traditional childhood sign of 
concentration, as she tried to keep her crayon within the lines of her coloring 
book.   Sutton looked up from admiring Molly’s artwork as Mulder and 
Scully entered the room.

“We got him.  Boo was cowering in the closet of his bedroom at the halfway
house.  He actually wet his pants when we opened the door.”  Sutton sounded 
relieved and maybe a little full of himself.  “I tried to get you on your cell but 
it must have been turned off.  I called the house and Myrna told me about your
bagel related accident. You know Mulder, I can see why you married a doctor.”

Molly, looked up from her coloring, her face bright with the pure happiness 
of Daddy home in the middle of the day.  Mulder found himself amazed at 
the resiliency of childhood as she stood on the chair and reached for him.

“Did you get stitches?  Let me see.”  Molly held Mulder’s sleeve and twisted
his hand to inspect the bandages. “They did a very good job, Daddy.”

“Well, I’m so glad you approve.”  Mulder used his good hand to scoop Molly up
and kiss her.  “Molly, why don’t you take Myrna up to your room and show her 
how the girls danced in the parade?”

Thrilled with the prospect of an encore performance, Molly took Myrna by the 
hand and led her out of the room.  Mulder dropped wearily onto the kitchen chair 
and ran a finger over the waxy surface of the crayoned picture.  His bandaged
hand was beginning to throb as the lidocaine wore off.  

“Where is Davenport now?” Mulder asked.  “I want to question him.”

“He’s being processed through Montgomery County.  I’ll speak to Brennan 
and set it up.  How about 4 o’clock?”

“Good.  That’s good.  I want to get a few things together before we talk to
Davenport.”  He was already making a mental list of tools he could use to
get what they needed from Davenport.  “Listen, if I don’t take a shower,
they could throw out the interrogation due to cruelty.”  

Above their heads, the sounds of Molly’s Irish jig pounded, causing all
three of them to raise their eyes to the ceiling.  Mulder looked at his 
bandage wrapped hand, remembering the doctor’s instructions to keep 
the dressing dry.  Patting his arm, Scully crossed the kitchen to locate a 
plastic bag and surgical tape, which she held up triumphantly.  

“Come on, I’ll help you,” Scully offered.  Mulder rolled his eyes at Sutton’s
smirk and followed Scully up the stairs. 

He managed to get his shirt off and Scully taped the end of the bag securely
around his forearm.  Working one handed was going to take some getting
used to.  Getting undressed and into the shower wasn’t a problem, but 
Mulder cursed when the soap slipped out of his fingers.

A blast of cold air hit his wet skin as the shower door opened and a naked 
Scully stepped in.  “Don’t get any ideas.  This is strictly business.”

Mulder found himself grinning foolishly as she bent to retrieve the soap.  
He was suddenly grateful for the nice, roomy shower in the master bath.
True to her word, Scully helped him shampoo and wash the sweat and 
blood from his skin, her touch efficient but gentle.  It felt like her hands 
were washing away the pain and sadness that had clung to him for days.  

No matter how businesslike Scully’s attentions might be, her glistening, 
wet breasts bobbed against him as she soaped his skin and he wished that 
the house weren’t quite so crowded. He found himself ridiculously pleased 
when she couldn’t resist groping his ass as he stepped out of the shower.  

If Sutton noticed that they both returned to the kitchen with damp hair 
and wearing fresh clothes, he had the good grace to keep it to himself.    

“It’s all set up for 4 o’clock.” Sutton said. “So, what do you want to 
pick up before we see Davenport?”

-=-=-=-=-=-

March 18, 2006  - 3:30 PM

Montgomery County Police Station

Mulder stood at the interview table, staring at the photographs spread 
out before him.  Sutton had watched him pull out various items from 
the box they had brought from Quantico.  Mulder’s face reflected 
concentration, but not the frightening blank focus of yesterday, and 
Sutton felt relieved.  

Mulder struggled to pull a bulletin board closer to the table, hampered
by his bandaged hand.  Sutton moved to assist him and together they 
positioned it to Mulder’s satisfaction.  

“Why don’t you show me where you want these pictures?” Sutton asked.

They tacked the photos to the board, crime scene photos interspersed
with school pictures of the dead girls.  When the photos were displayed for
maximum effect, Mulder dug in the box and drew out the cotton dress Casey 
Marino had been found in and hung it from the bulletin board. Finally,
he stood back and assessed the effect.  He was apparently pleased, and he
sat down to wait for Davenport to be brought in.  Sutton could hardly believe
the change in the man sitting next to him.  Though he still looked pale and
terribly thin, Mulder seemed grounded.

Brennan ushered Warren Davenport into the room, indicating where the 
suspect should sit.  Davenport reminded Sutton of a frightened animal
caught in a trap, his hands were cuffed and he kept his right hand curled
into a loose fist.  Warren’s gaze darted around the room, taking in the
photo display, finally resting on the green sprigged dress.  

Brennan set a tape recorder on the table and pushed the “on” button.

“March 18, 4:10 PM, Montgomery County station. Agents present: 
David Sutton, Fox Mulder, FBI and James Brennan, Montgomery 
County Police. Interview with Warren Davenport, also known as 
Eugene Smith.”

“Warren, we have a positive ID on you for the attempted abduction
of Taylor Simko on March 17,” Sutton said,  taking the first round
as he and Mulder had decided.  “Were you going to kill Taylor like
the other girls?”

“I wasn’t going to hurt her,” Warren’s voice trembled a little.

“Like you didn’t hurt Casey Marino when you suffocated her? Did
Casey struggle, Warren?  Did she fight you and clutch at your hands
as you cut off her air?  Did she finally just stop fighting, Warren?

“I didn’t do anything.”  Warren whispered.

“Did you play with her body then, Warren?  Did you jerk off over 
her little dead body?” Sutton carefully allowed the tone of his voice 
rise with each question.  He could see the sheen of sweat on 
Davenport’s forehead and upper lip.

“I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.  I didn’t hurt her.”

“I don’t think you meant to hurt her, Warren.”  Mulder spoke in a 
calm, even tone. Davenport’s attention shifted from Sutton to the 
new, quiet voice. “I don’t think you meant to hurt any of the girls:
not Ashley, not Carlie and not Amelia.  And you didn’t mean to 
hurt Casey.  You just wanted things back the way they were.”
   
Davenport’s attention was riveted on Mulder, almost mesmerized by 
the words spoken with quiet intensity.  Warren forced his eyes
away from Mulder’s face to look down at his hands. Warren seemed
fixated on Mulder’s bandaged hand, his eyes growing large. “I don’t 
know what you mean.”

“Warren, I know about wanting to return to a time when life still
made sense. I probably understand that need better than anyone you 
will ever meet.  I can tell that you cared about those girls.  You dressed
them in beautiful dresses, tied their hair up with ribbons.  You didn’t
want to hurt them, but they didn’t understand. Did they, Warren?”

“No one understands,” Davenport said, large tears rolling down his cheeks.
Mulder noticed Davenport’s scrutiny of his hand, and he turned it subtly,
to give the suspect a better view.

“They didn’t understand that you only wanted to be nice to them.  They
fought you, they struggled against you.  Warren, tell me what happened 
with Casey.”  Mulder’s soft voice was persuasive, and he sat forward 
slightly, giving Davenport his complete attention.

“She was so pretty.  Such a little girl to be all alone like that.  It was
obvious no one cared about her.  I would take care of her.”

“Where did you bring her, Warren?”  

“The house where I live has a basement.  It’s nice and warm, and no 
one ever goes down there.  I…I don’t like to be with the other people 
at the house.  I have to sleep in a room with Fred and he never stops
talking.  One day, I found the broken lock on the basement door.”

“So you brought Casey to the basement.  She wouldn’t be quiet though,
would she?”

“She kept screaming and screaming.  Someone was going to hear her, 
and they wouldn’t let me stay in the quiet place.  I had to make her
stop making noise.”

“You held the blanket over her face, didn’t you?” Mulder asked.

“I had to, can’t you see?  She just wouldn’t be quiet.”  Warren lifted
his cuffed hands to swipe at the tears that continued to slide down his
face, the truncated ring finger finally revealed.

-=-=-=-=-=-

Hearts and Bones (Part 11 of 11)


March 18, 2006 – 10:25 PM

McLean, VA

The wine glowed like a jewel in the lamplight.  Scully rolled her head 
from side to side, trying to relieve the stiffness.  She didn’t allow herself 
wine in the evening very often, afraid perhaps that if she started,
she’d never be able to stop.  Tonight though, it seemed appropriate.

Molly had crashed early, worn out from an emotionally charged day
and eighteen performances of “Riverdance.”  The child had tried to hold
out for Daddy, but Scully had been glad as she carried Molly up to bed.
For very selfish reasons, she wanted to see Mulder alone tonight. After
all that he had been through this week, she wanted to reassure herself
that he was whole.   

She smiled as she heard Mulder at the front door, praying that he had
gotten through the interview with the same emotional steadiness he
had shown after coming home from the hospital.  It only took one 
look at his face for her whole being to relax.  He was still at peace.

“How did it go?” she asked as she crossed the room.  He bent to kiss
her, his lips crushing hers a little more thoroughly than the usual 
hello kiss.  She pulled back far enough to look into his eyes, pleased
to see they were untroubled.

“He copped to all four murders.  I’ve no doubt that a good attorney will
try to throw out the confession, but I think it was pretty solid. Between
the confession and the evidence at the Marino crime scene, I think we
have a strong case.”

“Come on and sit down.”  She drew him to the couch, holding his 
uninjured hand.  “You want some wine?”    

He shook his head, lounging back against the cushions.  “I better not.  I
might fall asleep right here.   We interviewed Davenport for over five 
hours, but he finally told us about all four girls. God, what a sad little man.”

“He murdered four children, Mulder, and was going for number five when
you caught him.”

“I know.  Doesn’t make him any less pathetic.  He killed Carlie and 
Ashley while his mother was dying, and Amelia after Louise was dead.  
He brought them back to the house, with Louise upstairs in one form 
or another, and dressed them in Arlette’s dresses.”

“And Casey Marino?  What made him start to hunt again?”  Scully asked.  

“Davenport was stressed by being forced to live around other people after
so many years in near isolation.  He was closely controlled and medicated 
in the hospital.  When he was placed out in the community, he had 
more freedom, but lost a lot of the support he had in the institution.  All this 
left him vulnerable to those urges to find another Arlette.  I think the 
administration of that group home will have some questions to answer on
both the lack of supervision and how Davenport got access to a car.”

“But it’s over now.” 

“Yeah, it’s over. God, this was rough.”  He rubbed his good hand over his
face.  “It’s good to be home.”

“Do you feel at home here, Mulder?”  Scully asked, quietly.

“Why would you ask such a thing?”  Mulder sat up and turned to face her.

“I worry sometimes that you aren’t comfortable here.”

“Just because I threaten the neighbors sometimes, doesn’t mean I’m not
happy. I’ll admit that I find a lot of the neighborhood goings on to be trivial.” 
He draped his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close with his good 
hand.

“I think we’ve seen too much to fit in around here,” she said as she settled
into his embrace.

“We?” he asked, “I always thought you liked it here.” 

“I like it fine, Mulder.  But you know, this house, this neighborhood, they don’t 
really matter that much to me.  The things I care about are completely portable:
you and Molly.  If you wanted to, I’d live with you in a refrigerator carton 
under the highway overpass.”  She turned her face to him as she heard
him chuckle, and nudged him with her knee.  “What’s so funny?”

“I’m just picturing ‘Miss Crate and Barrel’ living in a crate,” he quipped as he
looked around the well appointed living room.  His arm tightened around her
and as she turned to look into his eyes, he caught her lips in a deep kiss. His
attempt at humor told her how very much he had needed to hear her words. 
Almost twelve years together in one manner or another and they still talked
in metaphors and jokes, but at least they finally understood what each other 
meant.

“Let’s go upstairs.  I’ll change your dressing,” she said as she pressed kisses
along the angle of his jaw.  

“That’s a novel way of putting it,” he said, allowing her to pull him to the
stairs.  “Maybe you can re-bandage my hand, too.” 

End  Hearts and Bones.


Author’s notes:  

I’d like to thank Sarah Segretti for help with Beltway community 
locations and small child questions.  Also, my sincerest gratitude
to Dawn, for more little kid information (mine are all grown and the 
middle-aged mind forgets details like what sizes kids wear) and for her
beta help.  Extra special thanks go to Kel for medical information, great
advice and beta help.  I consider myself a very lucky person to have such
wonderful authors helping me.  Thanks to January for always being there.
Thank you also to Karen, for her never-ending support and friendship.

The story is based in no small way on the books by John Douglas and
Mark Olshaker: Journey Into Darkness, Obsession, The Anatomy of Motive
and especially Mindhunter.  I highly recommend them for a look at the
lives of real profilers.  

My sincerest apologies to Harper Lee for the appropriation of her 
character, Boo Radley.  I have a feeling that serial child abduction/murder
was not what she had in mind for him.