LAMMTARRA - The Collector's Edition By Luvmulder@aol.com, Ruefrex@aol.com, jhumby@iee.org Rating: PG-13 (with language warning) Classification: XA *************** SUMMARY Mulder spirals down into darkness when he begins to believe that an old ISU friend of his, who had apparently committed suicide, was really murdered by a dastardly elusive killer. First published - May '97 Collector's Edition - February '98 DISCLAIMER We would say that these characters belonged to Chris Carter and Fox, but his have been replaced by clones and we've decided to play with the better versions of Mulder and Scully. Unfortunately, though, he does still seem rather proprietary towards them, so we'll give him that much. LAMMTARRA * * * * * * * * * * P R E S E N T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder hurled his keys across the room. They hit the far wall with a satisfying sound, but the belated jingle CRASH made Mulder groan. With trepidation, he kicked clean laundry, unread magazines and empty video boxes out of his way. He knelt down and picked up the now-limp form of his only plant, shredded to death by his house keys. "Well, fucking hell shit," Mulder muttered, less upset than amazed. After the last generation of fish had perished Scully had convinced Mulder to try something a little easier to care for. And he'd gone and murdered it. Mulder examined the yellowish leaves. What the hell. It was practically dead anyway. He wiped dead house plant from his hands, got to his feet, and sighed. He looked at the clock. Nine-thirty. At night? Nine-thirty at NIGHT?? He'd been at work since eight that morning, writing reports, sifting through case files, attending that damnable meeting with Skinner. "I need a case," Mulder mused. "WE need a case." Still absently shoving his belongings out of the way, he pulled a stack of files from his battered briefcase, plugged in the coffee maker, and went to turn on the TV. He paused as he saw the message light on his answering machine flashing. He glanced with longing at the dark screen of the TV, then sighed and pushed the button. A scratchy voice filtered through the machine and Mulder made a mental note to get a new answering-machine tape. Lately, everyone sounded like they were calling from the Andes. "Hey, Mulder, it's Wiggins...Carl Wiggins," the familiar voice said, anxious to be recognized. Mulder, spent, dropped to the couch and rotated his neck as Wiggins droned. Goddam. Wiggins still droned, even after all these years. But now he droned as the head of the ISU. He droned to scores of brilliantly intuitive men who probably wanted to drive a spike through one of his eyes for being so goddammed boring. "I know we haven't been in touch lately..." Damn straight we haven't been in touch. You know why, Wiggins, Mulder thought, I could barely stand you when we were profiling. Now you've got to be insufferable. The next scratchy words made Mulder's blood freeze. "I've...got some bad news. I didn't want you to hear this from anyone else...I know how close you were...it's Jack, Jack Caulfield. He...God, Mulder...he committed suicide this morning. I've already called Pam ..." Wiggins' voice faded into the background and Mulder's world turned gray around the edges. Flashes of Jack moved swiftly through his mind. Jack...dead? Suicide? Not possible. "Not possible," Mulder said aloud, his hushed voice, so full of conviction, startling him. Oh, no? his inner voice asked. Mulder squeezed his eyes shut. Wiggins' voice jolted him back to the present. "...so she's probably going to come down in the next few days. I don't know if you two ever met...I'll talk to her...I just thought, if you DID know her...it might be nice for you two to talk. Anyway, S.O.P. says we have the body autopsied by a forensic pathologist. It'll be done at Quantico. I'm sorry to be the one to give you this news, especially on your machine like this, but I didn't have any other number for you and I knew you'd want to know. Give me a call, Mulder, okay?" Like hell you didn't have another number, Mulder thought viciously. You chicken-shit bastard. We both work for the FBI, for Christ's sake! And if Wiggins truly didn't know how to get in touch with him he could ask his brilliant profilers, who were always calling Mulder for advice. Fucker. The smell of coffee made Mulder open his eyes. Coffee. It had been such an innocent need when he'd come home. Jack Caulfield. Dead. Jack Caulfield. Took his own life. TOOK it. Mulder flashed on his unwilling finger pulling the trigger of the gun...Modell laughing at him, taunting him...anyone can do it...anyone can end it...just end it...shit, not now, Mulder thought. He blinked, trying to stop the images. Jack...dead...pull the trigger, Mulder. She shot you. I read it in her file... Mulder sat up suddenly. Every muscle in his body was tense and he could feel a crick developing in his neck. Fuck the coffee. What he needed was a run. A long, desperate, furious run. P A S T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The killer had a hand fetish. Mulder stared at the pictures and tried to imprint them on his mind. He sighed and leaned back in his chair. Was it cold in here? He got up and checked the thermostat. Actually, he should be warm. He felt his forehead. Was he coming down with something? "Hey, Mulder, got a minute?" Mulder smiled and turned around. Jack Caulfield, tall, stoop-shouldered and gentle, hovered at the door to Mulder's temporary cubicle. "Sure, Jack. What have you got? The Cleveland case, right?" Jack nodded, a bit reluctant. "Yeah, Phil Hardesty, the worst profile coordinator in the country. Hate that guy. He thinks we're Silence of the Lambs here or something." Jack took a few steps into the office, then stopped. Mulder was immediately on the alert. "What's wrong?" Mulder asked. Jack started to shake his head, then he sighed and closed the door behind him. He sat down, staring at the folder in his hands. "I don't know...I can't see this guy, Mulder," he said. Mulder obsessively looked at the thermostat again and sat back down. "Is it cold in here?" he asked. Jack looked up, startled, noticing the dark smudges under his friend's eyes. "Ah...no, it's not. You coming down with something again?" Mulder shrugged. Jack made a useless gesture with his hand. "Shit, Mulder...you don't need this." Jack stood and Mulder stopped him. "Jack, come on. What is it?" Jack took his time sitting down. Very reluctantly, he pushed the folder across Mulder's desk. It was a big folder. A very big folder. Mulder frowned. He really didn't have time for this but Jack was a good friend. Mulder flipped through the folder. Ordered, as always. Jack was the most meticulous person Mulder knew. He color-coded, for God's sake. Mulder was lucky if he finished a report that didn't have coffee rings on it somewhere. "We're at our wits' end here. Local cops are completely lost, field office didn't even look at this, just passed it on to Phil so he could shot-put it up here. It's not like we all don't have other stuff to work on," Jack said, watching Mulder worriedly. Mulder tried to concentrate on the file in front of him. Concentrating had been a tough job today. Very tough. Okay, the UNSUB had been taking little girls and killing them. The M.O. was random. The little girls were random. There was nothing that connected them, aside from the fact that they were girls between the ages of six and twelve. They did not resemble each other physically. Definite sexual assault. So the killing was necessary but not important. The signature...Mulder flipped through the photos. They made his stomach twist. Five dead girls. Two strangled, one eviscerated, one drowned, one, the first girl, killed with an overdose of...heroin? Jesus. The bodies were not displayed in any special manner. No signature. A situational molester turned killer? Mulder glanced up at Jack. Jack was staring at him, almost ashamed. "Have you considered using hardening targets?" Jack nodded unhappily. "I thought that's what you'd say. Patterson said I'm not working hard enough on the preliminary profile. He said hardening targets are only to be used -" "-when all other avenues have been explored," Mulder finished. Jack grinned ruefully. "We've got nothing on this guy, Mulder. He's a pedophile, obviously, likes little girls..." Jack's voice trailed off. "You say here that you don't think the murders are premeditated," Mulder asked. Jack nodded. "Cause of death. M.O. It doesn't make sense. If they were premeditated he'd have a signature, there would have been a link...but the killings appear hurried and random." Mulder slowly shook his head. He looked at the pictures again. "You know you've already interviewed him," Mulder said. Jack rolled his eyes. Mulder grinned. "And there's nothing you can use for a control detail..." Mulder mused, more to himself. Mulder went back to the little girl killed with an overdose. "You've got a killer who can be considered a serial because of the consistency of the victims, but not the consistency of the crime...how is it possible that he thinks he can get the same thing from five little girls?" Jack shifted in his chair. "What do you mean?" he asked. "Let's take this from the beginning. Here's what we can infer. The UNSUB was triggered by a particular stressor in his life, probably work or a relationship. The girls were all killed at night, indicating that he has a job and that it's probably a fairly well-paying, white-collar job. So that leaves a change in a relationship." "Phil Hardesty thinks the guy lives with his parents," Jack offered helpfully. Mulder grimaced. "That's why Phil's only a profile coordinator for a field office." Jack raised his eyebrows. Mulder grinned. "He's working up to something, isn't he?" Jack asked. Mulder shook his head slowly, his gaze distant. "I don't think so...as you mentioned, the killings appear random, even sloppy. Not much care to the actual process. It's hard to see what he could be getting out of these killings aside from sexual gratification and the need to dominate but..." Mulder's voice trailed off. He frowned, thinking. He kept flipping slowly through the file. "It looks situational but situational molesters don't generally kill." Jack leaned forward. "I wish you were handling this case, Mulder. Why does Patterson even consider giving kid killer cases to me?" Mulder glanced at Jack. "To give me a break, maybe?" he said belligerently. Jack flushed. Mulder closed his eyes. "Sorry, that was uncalled for," Mulder muttered. Jack looked down, twisting his fingers together. "No it wasn't," he said quietly. "I know what this kind of case does to me and I don't handle nearly as many of them as you do. I can't even imagine what looking at photos of mutilated kids does to you." Mulder shifted in his chair, squared his shoulders, and methodically flipped through the file once more. "I don't need to tell you this, Jack, but I think you need to hear it, just to get yourself back on track. Let's look at the model. The UNSUB needed the sexual contact. He fantasized about the girls being women who desired him, because some woman had recently done quite a number on him. He talks to the first girl, gets her to go somewhere with him. She does. He tried to have sex with her, she struggles, not only is the fantasy blown but since he's made no attempt to disguise himself he has to kill her. She's the only girl he covers. What do you infer?" Jack nodded thoughtfully. "That the UNSUB knew the subject." Mulder flipped through the file. "What does this tell you about the other murders?" "That he started in his comfort zone and worked his way out from there," Jack said. "And...?" Mulder prompted. "That there's no remorse for the other girls. That he just used them." Mulder nodded. "You can call that part of a signature, if you want. It's stretching it a bit, but -" Mulder broke off and frowned. "He needed the first girl, he felt remorse for her. He needed the others and de-personalized them. The heroin..." he muttered. "What?" Mulder paged through the folder and his eyes lit on a toxicology report, then he scanned the police report and the autopsy. He looked up at Jack. "It doesn't fit, Jack," Mulder said grimly. Jack looked stunned. "What do you mean?" "No wonder you're having a hard time with this. Look at this. The first girl, Tina Mathers, was twelve years old. She was sexually active before her assault and murder." Jack's face went white. He grabbed at the report. "Oh shit..." he muttered. Mulder thumbed through the tox screens and grimaced. "Dammit. How small a font do they use over there, anyway?" Jack chewed on his lower lip as he stared at Mulder. "What?" Mulder turned the file around and handed it to Jack. "One day, I will run across a pathologist who leaves decisions about what's important on a forensics report to the profiler. Small doses of heroin were injected post-mortem into each victim." Jack stared blindly at the file. "Goddammit, Mulder...I didn't even look that far." Mulder hesitated, then reached out and took the folder from Jack. "You shouldn't have to. They shouldn't try and bury information just so it will look nice on the report. Your first victim died of a heroin overdose." A distressed Jack shook his head. "Look, I'm sorry about this, especially after the Cathcart case. I know what that did to you and I shouldn't have....but now, you've only begun to look at this and it's turned everything around...I'm at my wits' end with this one. Patterson's dogging me to get into this guy's head but I can't, Mulder!" Or you won't, Mulder thought. Jack had been under just as much pressure as the other profilers and while Jack was a good, diligent agent, he didn't possess that brilliance that Patterson demanded. For Bill to tell Jack Caulfield to go deeper was ridiculous. Jack had an uncanny ability to connect murders in several different ways in other cases, but his own case? And one like this? Jack didn't want to go deeper. He didn't know if he could get out. Why do I do it, Mulder wondered. Because you don't care if you get out, a voice sounding suspiciously like his father told him. Mulder knew it was cold in here now. His eyes hurt suddenly. He took off his reading glasses and closed his eyes. The figure swooped down on him. Talons extended, it began to claw at his eyes. Mulder jumped and put his hands to his eyes. He let out a shaky breath. Jack was staring at him in abject horror. Mulder tried to smile but failed miserably. "Jesus, Mulder," Jack whispered. Mulder's heart sank. "So it looked as bad as it felt, huh?" he said, trying to make light. Jack shook his head. "This isn't funny. How often has this happened recently?" Mulder shrugged. "I'm overworked. We're all overworked." "That's no excuse. And you're coming down with something, too." Mulder flipped through the file again. "Don't worry about it, Jack. Really. It's no big deal. Hell, it's probably an hallucination anyway." Jack smiled grimly. "That's what worries me." Mulder looked up and met Jack's level gaze, that gaze that said 'I am only thinking of your best interests.' It wasn't a gaze that Mulder was generally familiar with so the first time it had happened with Jack, he had been startled. Ever since, Jack had been there for him when he needed to talk. Jack was the only friend Mulder had who understood what profilers went through and since the sheer number of cases Mulder handled was greater than that of any other individual profiler, he was grateful for the shoulder. Jack had begged Mulder to call him when the nightmares got bad and Mulder actually had, then felt better about it later. Patterson hated this kind of closeness among his agents, preferring instead to foster a resentment and a will to succeed at the expense of your fellow man. But Jack had glommed onto Mulder almost as soon as the young profiler was assigned. Mulder was younger, smarter, faster and more intuitive than anyone else in the ISU and as such, they resented him. And Patterson encouraged it, thinking he was helping the division by forcing his profilers to think more, to strive harder. And the thing was, it worked. They did work harder. And they were damned good. Mulder and Jack stared at each other for a long moment. Then Mulder flipped the file closed and set it in his in-box. "How about if I get this to you tomorrow morning? A preliminary profile, nothing fancy. Would Bill leave you alone?" Jack shook his head. "I don't want you to do it now. I won't do that to you, Mulder. You've given me enough to go on. If the girl knew her killer, he's someone in the family or the neighborhood, and we'll look for him. We'll get him. I'll take another look, okay?" Mulder smiled a twisted grin. "You are the worst liar." Jack sighed, his eyes resting on the pile of unmarked files perched precariously on the corner of Mulder's desk. Before Mulder could say anything Jack reached over and grabbed a handful. He grinned at Mulder. "Then the least thing I can do is to take some of this consulting shit off your hands." "Jack -" "This isn't the first time we've made this swap. What are you going to do, Mulder? Tell Patterson, who doesn't approve of this crap in the first place? Or maybe I should tell him so you can get some goddam sleep." Mulder slouched down in his chair. "You know he'd just assign those cases to me anyway," he said sulkily. "Irrelevant. Thanks, Mulder." Jack grinned affectionately at him, turned and left. Mulder closed his eyes. While he would rather stick needles in his eyes than do another profile tonight, he would do anything for Jack. Jack had saved his ass more times than Mulder cared to count. So what if he wasn't feeling that great? So what if he had eight cases to look over before he could go home? So what if Patterson was riding him again about the consulting? Mulder would do this for Jack. P R E S E N T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Scully clenched her teeth and carefully, quietly pushed the door open, risking a quick glance at her watch and readying her defense. She and Mulder were supposed to go over the cases he'd been looking at in the hopes that they could get the hell out of this office and drive for several hours to some small town in the middle of nowhere to investigate fantastic claims that she would later prove false. Yes, Scully was that desperate to get out of town. She poked her head in and the clock on the wall glared down at her. Three-thirty. Mulder, seated at his desk, didn't seem to notice her. His head was bent over the inevitable files. Scully groaned inwardly. Why did this always happen to her? Why did she always have to play Super Pathologist and be denied her input into their cases? She wondered what they would be investigating this week. She prayed against any kind of neo-monster. She wasn't ready for that yet, not after their last case. Scully frowned. Mulder still hadn't noticed her. She eased her way into the room and let the door shut behind her. It made its familiar scritch-creak sound. Still Mulder didn't look up. Now curious, Scully paused in front of his desk. His head was propped up on his fists. "Mulder?" she said quietly. Nothing. She bent over. "Mulder?" she said a little louder. He was asleep! A miracle. Scully set down her briefcase, poured herself a cup of rancid coffee, and sat down, being very careful not to disturb him as she flipped through files. During their years together, Scully had developed a quick system of perusal. Anything with clippings from ANY news source other than the accepted major newspapers, got circular filed. Scully tossed six thick folders of information from one of Mulder's favorite Weekly World News "writers" before he finally stirred. "Hey," she said brightly when he looked up. Scully's smile faded. He looked terrible. Even though he'd been asleep he looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. He looked... "You look like shit," Scully said without thinking. Mulder grimaced as he stiffly rotated his neck. With a practiced move, he reached up and absently kneaded the back of his neck. "Where've you been?" he asked quietly. Scully carefully set her coffee down and watched him. Had he worn that suit yesterday? Mulder sighed and moved his neck again. Scully got up, went around behind him. "Got a knot?" "Yeah," he said wearily. "That's what you get for falling asleep at your desk," Scully admonished, suddenly praying that he wouldn't get direct with her. She'd just seen him yesterday. All systems go. As usual, he'd been there when she'd left. Nothing had happened; just another dull day between cases. She hadn't had a chance to call him before leaving to go to Quantico to do the autopsy on that poor agent... "Jesus, Mulder, it's like you've got an extra bone in there or something!" The knot in Mulder's shoulder was something else. Both his shoulders were hunched and as Scully worked on the knot she could tell it wasn't doing any good. She was probably making it worse. Finally, she gave up and sat down again. He looked at her. "Why'd you stop?" he asked, in the same even, quiet voice. "Do you have the pain down your arm again?" Scully asked. Mulder hesitated but Scully glared at him. He nodded. "You should put heat on it." He nodded again. What in the hell had stressed him out so badly since yesterday? "How long have you been like this?" Mulder tried to shrug, then ended up just leaning back in his chair. He disgustedly shoved the files away. "I went for too long of a run last night," he said. Scully nodded. A run. Sure. "You didn't even go home last night, did you?" Scully asked. Mulder looked at her, blankly surprised. "Yeah, I went home. I told you I was going home. Why would I tell you that -" Mulder stopped himself. He looked down, reluctantly pulled the files towards him. He hadn't even followed up on his question about where Scully had been and he seemed...uninspired, as if something was pulling him down. Weighting him down. The dead FBI agent who had been a top profiler... "Mulder...did you know Jack Caulfield?" Scully asked, regretting the words as soon as they left. Mulder jerked his head up and Scully saw...pain. And fire. And anger. Anger at her intrusiveness. He caught himself and stopped, the uncaring, hooded gaze taking over his features once more. Inwardly, Scully shuddered. Nothing scared her more than watching her partner withdraw in order to protect himself. Nothing. Mulder cocked his head and then awareness filled his eyes. "Jesus...did you do the autopsy? Is that where you've been?" he asked, his voice hushed. Scully swallowed hard, then nodded. Mulder looked down, suddenly interested in tearing his notepad to shreds. Scully leaned forward and put a hand over his. He stopped but didn't look at her. "I got the call late last night. Everyone there knew him...none of the regular pathologists would do it. Went to Quantico this morning. I tried calling you, but your machine wasn't working...and your cell phone was turned off. As usual. Mulder, I -" She couldn't say anything. Mulder smiled grimly, a vague memory of himself destroying the answering machine and Wiggins' hateful voice flitting through his mind. Destroying his mind. Hateful mind. Mulder blinked, glanced at her. "Was it suicide?" he asked hoarsely, his voice tinged with something hopeful but what, Scully couldn't imagine. He could get a hold of the autopsy report if he wanted, no problem. Scully didn't know whether he hoped it was or hoped it wasn't. She could only tell him the truth. "Yes," she said reluctantly. "He...died of carbon monoxide poisoning. In his garage." Scully watched the blood leave Mulder's face as he stared at her in horror. "Carbon...what...no..." Scully watched for a long moment as the information hit him. She didn't know if he was processing it or not. "Mulder," she said gently, still unsure of how close Mulder was to Jack Caulfield, "he meant to kill himself. He padlocked the garage door, blocked the door to the kitchen, and stuffed rags and towels underneath the garage door. There wasn't anything anyone could have done. If someone really wants to do it..." Scully, angry at herself, stopped talking. She would not blather on like an idiot without knowing how her words were impacting Mulder. Four men had been present at the autopsy, four men who had worked with Jack Caulfield almost their entire careers, and they had been reduced to tears at the mere mention of Jack Caulfield in the past tense. Caulfield had been a good agent, a solid profiler, but more than that, he'd been a good man. And now, watching Mulder practically dissolve in front of her, Scully wondered how good Jack Caulfield had been to Spooky Mulder, brilliant outsider. It hit her then that he'd known. He knew about the death. The suicide, she corrected herself. He'd been told. When? Last night? He'd kept this in until now? No wonder his shoulders were rock hard. Scully watched Mulder try to keep it in now and she winced at the effort it was taking him. He pulled his shoulders in and took a deep breath, then looked up at her. "God, Mulder, I'm so sorry," she said softly. "I'd like to see the autopsy report," he said through practically clenched teeth. Scully nodded dumbly. Mulder got to his feet. "Excuse me," he mumbled, then strode out of the office. * * * * * * * * * Scully was meeting with the review committee, presenting her autopsy. Mulder popped the cap on a bottle of Flexiril and downed two tablets. Doctor MacSamphire had given the Flexiril to Mulder after he'd fallen off that building and Mulder had kept the bottle around, just for emergencies. The muscles in his left arm were burning. He couldn't move his head at all. That constituted an emergency. Mulder hated taking anything, especially muscle relaxants, but he had no choice in this matter. Maybe Scully will drive me home, he thought. Mulder leaned back in his chair in an attempt to get comfortable but that just made it worse. Is there not one ergonomically-correct chair in the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation, Mulder wondered. If there is one, how do I get a hold of it? Mulder opened one eye and looked at the clock. Five. Five o'clock. Quitting time. Time to quit. Time to go home. Quit. Mulder's vision blurred. Damned Flexiril worked quickly. He was jarred out of his stupor by the phone. He winced as he leaned forward to pick up the receiver. "Mulder," he mumbled, rather unprofessionally. It was Hardesty. Shit, Hardesty. Mulder hadn't thought about Hardesty in years. Hardesty had almost poked Mulder's eye out during an ISU pick-up game, years ago. Hardesty liked to win. Hardesty was talking now. What was he saying? Were two Flexiril really a good idea? "Sorry, Hardesty...what?" Hardesty wanted to know if Mulder would go through Jack's things. His case files. The old case files, the ones they had closed together, the ones they had fought over, the ones they had consulted on. All of them. The tragedies and the triumphs. Triumphs. Fuck that. There were no triumphs, just less tragic tragedies. The last thing Mulder wanted to do was to go to Quantico and sift through a dead man's belongings. Mulder wondered if Pamela was going to go through Jack's personal effects. Mulder wondered if Pamela, love of Jack's life until the ISU got the better of him, would dare set foot in that house now that another bad memory had been added to the stack. Mulder wondered if he could become suddenly disaffected and not so connected...not so...involved. His nerve endings quivered, sending sharp shocks through his aching body. He had run too long last night. He'd run for hours, his lungs burning and muscles quivering. He'd run for so long that he'd made himself sick, right there in the park. That was the only thing that could have ended his run. He'd tried to run away. But you can't run away, his father's stern voice told him. You can never run away. You have to face it. No you don't. You don't have to face it if you're scared enough to fucking kill yourself. Or lie to yourself. Then you don't have to face anything. Or anyone. Mulder remembered his father's gray face, the blood spilling out onto the cool tile of the bathroom floor...the face that had never been peaceful in life was also disquiet in death. There was a flicker of thought at the edge of Mulder's dulled consciousness that night. Did he want this? Had he...done it...to himself? Had he done...what? Had Bill Mulder put a gun to his head and blown it off with his stupefied son in the next room...had he cared that little...of course not...Krycek...it was Cardenal...Krycek... "Mulder!" A powerful jolt of electricity shot through Mulder's body. He jerked, then opened his eyes. Scully swam into focus. "What?" he asked sluggishly, part of him still with his father. Why had he been thinking about his father? Scully reached out and took the receiver out of his hand, then hung up the phone. Scully looked back at him. "Mulder...did you take something?" she asked slowly. Mulder tried to sit up but found that he couldn't. His head swam every time he shifted his gaze. Peach fuzz. His brain was filled with peach fuzz. Cotton wool. "For my shoulders...uh..." Muzzily, Mulder reached out and clubbed the bottle of pills to death. Scully picked it up, read the label, then glanced back at him. "How many did you take?" All of 'em? How many had he taken? "Two," he said, fairly sure. Scully raised both eyebrows in amazement. "Two?" she asked in disbelief. Was that wrong? Mulder tried to think. Cotton wool. Cotton Mather. She was talking again. "Shit, Mulder...just because they're prescription doesn't mean you can take them as you please. You took 40 milligrams of Flexiril. We'll be lucky to have you back by Friday." Friday? It was Friday? He must have asked that aloud. "It's Tuesday, Mulder," Scully said wearily. "Come on, I'll drive you home." Ah, she will drive me home, Mulder thought. The last thing he remembered was... * * * * * * * * * Carl Wiggins had put on weight. Weight of success, of getting what he'd always wanted. He glared at Mulder now...no, stared severely...through his beady, clueless eyes. Wiggins had always wanted Patterson's slot and he was the kind of person who considered himself lucky to get it this quickly, after Patterson lost his mind. Wiggins had never been too fond of Mulder, not until he realized that Mulder didn't want to be the king of ISU. When Mulder quit Wiggins was suddenly his best friend, trying to make up for three years of torment. But Mulder didn't give a damn. All he wanted to do was go through Jack's things and get the hell out of here. He never felt comfortable at Quantico; it was deceptively protective. Mulder never felt protected here. Patterson wouldn't allow it. He glanced at Scully, suddenly, absurdly glad that she'd come with him. The Flexiril had finally worn off and miracle of miracles, the knots in his shoulders dissolved as well. He could feel himself tense up again, however, as he followed Wiggins through familiar ground, stopping at what had once been Mulder's old office. Mulder, surprised, glanced at Wiggins. "Jack wanted it," Wiggins said, by way of explanation. "After you left. Patterson gave it to him." Wow, Mulder thought. He remembered leaving. He hadn't even cleaned out his desk. He'd been too eager to get out of there. He stepped into the office and paused. Just like Jack, neat as a pin. The lateral filing cabinet was neatly labeled. Everything was neatly labeled. Stacks of brightly- colored file folders sat in Jack's out-tray. Why hadn't they collected those? Jack's coffee cup sat on a coaster at the edge of the practically empty desk, next to Jack's favorite photo of him and Pam on a ski trip. Smiling goofily into the camera. Arms around each other. Familiarity, even love. Mulder didn't even hear Wiggins leave. Scully, hesitant, touched his sleeve. "Do you want me to leave?" she asked. Mulder shook himself, then smiled at her. "No, of course not. I just...this used to be my office. It looks a hell of a lot different than it did when I had it." "I don't doubt it," Scully said wryly. "For one thing, you can see the top of the desk." "And the carpet," Mulder said. "And it looks like Jack actually used the filing cabinets to file things in." Mulder took another step into the office and felt Scully relax behind him. Jesus. She must think I'm ready to unravel, Mulder thought. Huh. Wonder why? He sat down at 'his' desk, spread his hands out, looked out the window into the bullpen. Profilers scurried, chatted, argued, talked on the phone...but the sense of terror that Patterson engendered was missing. Wiggins might be a prick, but he didn't play the psychological mind games that Patterson had played with his profilers. Mulder wondered how successful Wiggins really was, how this crop compared to Patterson's. They had truly been the golden boys of the Bureau. They were famous. Or notorious. And Mulder had been right in the middle of it. Would it be better now? Had Patterson made a huge mistake by recruiting Mulder so young? Mulder sighed, closed his eyes, and leaned back in the familiar chair. "Mulder?" He opened his eyes. "Sorry." "What do you want me to do?" Scully asked, still standing at the door clutching her briefcase. "Shit, sorry, Scully. Uh...I guess we should start going through the filing cabinet. The cases should already be separated by type but I need to separate out the official files from Jack's notes, get everything in order for the review committee." Scully, more at ease, set her briefcase down and took off her overcoat. "Another review committee?" Mulder grinned. "Well...not officially. Wiggins will have a very unlucky group of guys go through Jack's notes and see what they can salvage. They never throw anything away down here." Scully nodded. "Okay, then. Three hours till lunch." Mulder glanced at her. She raised an eyebrow. "I'd better be getting lunch out of this." "I know this really good caf'." * * * * * * * * * Mulder took off his reading glasses and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with ink-stained fingers. Jack Caulfield had saved everything, including test profiles from the profiling program and that damned manuscript Patterson had put together of his star profilers' top cases. Mulder had thrown his away. Mulder opened his eyes and let them focus on the "still to do" pile. Jesus. Wiggins had already been through the office and pulled Jack's current cases and cases for the year. Jack had been a profiler for eons. Mulder would never have figured his friend for a pack-rat, not with his neat fetish, but Jack was just a really neat pack-rat. Mulder heard Scully sigh. He glanced at her. She was still sitting in Jack's guest chair, a stack of files on her lap. Mulder stood up. "Come on, Scully, lunch," he commanded. Scully blinked wearily at him. "It's two. Come on. We're pretty much done here." Scully got to her feet and looked around. "You think?" she asked caustically. "Because if I see one more ISU memo..." Mulder chuckled. "He saved everything, even supply requests." Scully nodded and waved a paper in Mulder's face. "Want to know how much a box of staples went for in 1982?" * * * * * * * * * The tomato soup was still fabulous. Mulder inhaled his turkey sandwich and noted that Scully averted her eyes. He hadn't had a real meal in days. Looking around, Scully noticed the caf' seemed to be populated by similarly-clad men and women. She glanced at Mulder. "Is this an ISU hot spot?" Mulder nodded, slurping soup. Scully winced. When Mulder was hungry, nothing could stop him. "Yeah. It's sort of out of the way, so it's usually not too busy. Actually, I'm kind of surprised it's still in business." Scully nodded. "I'm surprised I never found it, what with all the time I put in at Quantico," she observed. Mulder picked up his sandwich again. "It takes a profiler to even be able to find the place. An unimaginative pathologist..." Mulder shook his head in mock regret. Scully bit back a smile. It was good to hear him joking again. He'd taken Jack Caulfield's suicide very hard and as a matter of fact, he hadn't even wanted to discuss any of her findings or see the autopsy reports even though he'd originally asked for them. Scully knew he was in denial, but she could hardly blame him. She still wanted to know how close they were, wondering if her "profile" of their relationship was accurate. "How long did you work with Jack Caulfield?" she asked innocently. Mulder, still intent on his expansive lunch, wasn't suspicious. "All three years I was in the ISU," he answered. The waitress refilled Scully's iced tea, then did a double-take at Mulder. "Hey...Spooky, right?" she asked, proud of her memory. Mulder glanced at her, squinted. "Uh...yeah." The waitress grinned broadly. "Irene! Remember? The birthday party?" A look of incredible surprise, followed by a guilty flush of memory, flashed across Mulder's features. "Oh, sure...Ken's party...how on Earth did you remember that?" Irene glanced behind the counter at the large man helping customers, then back at Mulder. "It was a very memorable occasion. You guys are all so buttoned-down, it was a real shock to see you cutting loose like that." Mulder slid Scully a glance. She opened her eyes very wide, totally innocent. Irene hopped-to as the mound behind the counter shifted his beady gaze towards her. "Nice to see you again," she said, good-humored. Mulder nodded and she sprinted away, towards another iced-tea emergency. "So..." Scully said archly. Mulder flushed. "It was a birthday party. You've never been to a birthday party?" Scully looked from Irene to Mulder. "Obviously not." Mulder gave her that one. He attacked his soup again. Scully leaned her elbows on the table and watched him. "So did you replace Jack as profiler extraordinaire?" Scully asked. Mulder shook his head. "Nah. Jack was never...he didn't have that kind of intuition. He was a great guy to have on the team, very fair and even-tempered. Wrote good, solid profiles. Rarely rocked the boat. Jack always wanted to be a cop, always wanted to catch the bad guy. He married Pam right out of college, joined the police department, got recruited for the Bureau, worked a field office for about three years, then Patterson spotted him and sent him through the Academy Program." "A two-year training program, right?" Scully asked. Mulder nodded and leaned back in his chair, rotating his head. She didn't blame his muscles for tightening up again. Hers were tight as well. They'd both been bent over files all morning. Scully frowned, trying to remember what she knew about the ISU. Generally, in order to be considered, one had to work in a field office for quite some time. Nobody got recruited directly out of the Academy. But Mulder... "Mulder...you profiled Monty Propps in 1989." Warily, Mulder nodded. "Why isn't that working, time-wise?" she asked, more to herself. Mulder grinned at her. "Because, dear Scully, I didn't go through the training program." Scully gaped at him. "But you can't -" "Yes you can, if Bill Patterson wants you badly enough. I didn't do the required field work either, but he was apparently quite taken by the work I did with Reggie and moved some mountains so I could come be tortured by him way before my time." Scully shook her head, suddenly stunned. Mulder had just been a green kid when he'd been asked to do the hardest, most emotionally draining job at the Bureau. Just a kid! Scully looked at him. He looked back soberly, knowing what she was thinking. "If I had it to do all over again," he sad quietly, "I would have refused Bill's offer. I would have finished up with Reggie and gone through the program. But Bill...he said I was empathic, that I had an instant connection with not only the criminals but with the victims as well. Do you know how important it is to be able to identify with the victims? A lot of people don't. A lot of people think that in order to catch a criminal you must only look at what he's done, not at the victim. But you have to be able to..." Mulder's voice trailed off and Scully thought about the countless times she'd worried that Mulder had identified too closely to the victim. She thought about Lucy Householder, she thought about Samantha. Jesus. "No wonder you quit," Scully said without thinking. Mulder smiled wryly. "I would have been done for a lot sooner if Jack hadn't been there. The other guys thought I'd gotten in on scholarship or something. They hated me and Bill encouraged that hate. Bill was like a coach, always pitting his players against each other so they'd be driven to do better work. But it didn't work. Well...not completely. This kind of job...it's not a game. You can't treat it like it is. You can't put even more pressure on the people who do this job, more pressure to be good at it, when there are people dying out there, people who may not have died if you were quicker or more intuitive at your job. Every person that dies is another nail in the coffin, isn't that ironic? It's one step closer to failure, only it's not personal failure, it's...something deeper. And Bill made it personal. He put personal pressure on us, pressure to succeed. A lot of guys couldn't handle it." "How did you handle it?" Scully asked softly. Mulder shrugged. "I didn't handle it for very long. The pressure was on the other guys, mostly. Bill goaded them to be as good as I was, I guess. But he never told me I was any good. He kept reminding me of the statistics, of the people who had died because I hadn't put connections together quicker, because I hadn't decided on a course of action, because I hadn't been firm enough with local authorities as to how they should proceed." "But Mulder," Scully said in amazement, "you didn't have the experience for dealing with local cops!" "No kidding," Mulder said. "I think I worked my way through every resentful career cop in my region and then when Bill took me out of my region and made me the golden boy, I got to annoy cops the country over. That was quite a thrill." Scully took a deep breath, regretting but needing to ask her next question. "How did Jack Caulfield handle it?" Mulder stared down at his cold soup. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I really don't know. Things bothered him...little things, mostly. I knew his marriage to Pam broke up because of the job but I never knew if it was because of the hours, the kind of work he did, whether or not he brought it home with him...he never talked about that. He was always there for me, Scully. He could read me, better than anyone. And he wasn't in awe, you know. He would bawl me out when I got out of control, or let me talk if I needed to...the first case I had when I became Bill's pet profiler was this heinous child molestation and murder case in Montana. Just hideous. I'd never seen anything like it. Four dead little girls. I'd only profiled out in the field a few times and those were individual murders, not serial cases. But this guy was a real live serial killer and he was a sadist and the bodies...it was awful. He killed two more girls while I was working the case. I'd gone from case to case to case without a respite and this one nearly broke me. I thought I was done for. Bill finally had to send me back to Washington for a few days and Jack stayed with me the whole time, just stayed there, not doing anything, really. I had blackouts and nightmares. I don't remember much of what went on. But I remember him being there, always being there...and I didn't know him very well right at the beginning, not as well as I did later...but never a day went by when he didn't let me know I could count on him. Anyway, things got better after a few days, and I went back to Montana and finished up the case. Caught the guy. Got a lecture from Bill about spreading myself thin." Mulder looked at Scully. "Ignored it," he said caustically. Scully smiled, more out of reflex than anything else. She knew how hard the job had been on him but to actually hear him talk about it, as if it were yesterday...it drove the point home in ways Scully didn't even want to consider. Mulder leaned forward. "Scully," he said quietly, "it was the job. Nothing more." Nothing more? How can losing your soul be nothing more than just the job? "Is that the way Jack felt about it?" Scully asked. Mulder sighed and dropped his eyes. "I don't know," he said, his voice low. "I don't know." Disgusted, Mulder balled up his napkin and tossed it. "And I should know, because he was my friend. I should know why this happened. He'd been so happy, the last time I'd talked to him...he liked working under Wiggins, still loved the job...this just isn't like Jack, Scully. It just isn't." Scully chewed her lower lip as she watched Mulder's muscles cramp up again. Shit. We need a case, Scully thought. She'd even go for neo- monsters, if that was all Mulder could dig up. Anything to get his mind off Jack Caulfield. P A S T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder saw the hot-white of the blade slicing through epidermis, blood, bone and gristle. He felt his face contort in pleasure as the victim screamed. He sawed frantically with the knife, deriving pleasure from the dull, grating sounds it made against the bone. Nobody would be able to touch him again. Mulder jerked awake, his heart pounding. He'd fallen asleep at his desk again, thanks to the generic flu medicine he'd taken. He stared down at his shaking hands and suddenly felt the urge to vomit. Too much time on the hand fetishist. He took deep breaths, then got to his feet and turned the thermostat down. He paused, turning as he heard voices. Loud voices. One very angry voice. Bill. Mulder gulped down the rest of his cold coffee and moved towards the door, listening. Not just Bill, but Jack Caulfield as well. Yelling. About Mulder. Shit. "...because nobody can do them, Bill! Christ, most of these cases don't require your best profilers anyway. I can coordinate -" "You're not going to coordinate anything unless I tell you to, Caulfield," Bill replied angrily. "And neither is Mulder. This is ridiculous. You are not his mother. These cases have already been assigned and if someone in this or any other division isn't capable of doing his work, I don't want you or Mulder covering for them. I don't know how much plainer I can make it." Mulder pressed his ear towards the door. "I'm not just talking about the consulting, Bill, and you know it. Look, Mulder doesn't know when to stop. He lets you heap these cases on him and he never complains. He just does the work." "If Mulder isn't -" "Just let me finish!" Jack barked. Mulder jumped. He'd rarely heard Jack this angry. He'd rarely heard anyone this angry over him. "He's having nightmares again, Bill." Mulder closed his eyes. Shit. Thanks loads, Jack. Naturally, Bill didn't respond. Jack continued. "He's got so many open cases that he can't even think straight. He had a waking nightmare yesterday that would curl your hair. If you had any." Mulder would have smiled if Jack wasn't digging him such a deep hole. "He does your work, does whatever you ask, and you don't let up. The kid should be home in bed, Bill. He's been sick as a dog all week and all you've done is heap more work on him." "Are you done with the social-work shit, Caulfield? If Mulder's got a problem he can come to me." "But he won't." "That's not my problem." Jack sighed. Mulder knew his friend was losing the battle. "I do appreciate the irony of the situation, Caulfield. You picked up some of Mulder's unauthorized work so he wouldn't be as overworked. If he's having trouble keeping up, and I've seen no evidence of that, then he wouldn't be seeking out these outside jobs. The rest of the Bureau can live without the help of Spooky Mulder." "He doesn't seek it out, Bill. It seeks him out. He gets ten, fifteen calls a day from agents stuck on cases, from local police outside his assigned district. He does profiles over the phone better than anyone I've ever seen. Hell, he does profiles better than anyone I've ever seen. I'd think you'd be very careful about washing out Fox Mulder." Bill laughed. "Mulder washing out? Fat chance. He'll never wash out. He needs this job." Mulder smirked. Sure, until he could figure out what he really wanted to do with his life. The voices got quieter and Mulder heard footsteps. They were leaving. Bill had calmed Jack down by simply overpowering him. A typical Patterson maneuver. Mulder rubbed a hand over his face and looked back at his desk. He could go home, but that seemed like an awful lot of effort. * * * * * * * * * Bill's couch was really quite comfortable. Mulder pulled his jacket around him and closed his eyes. He just needed a few minutes of rest. Then he'd be fine. The sound of footsteps made him open his eyes. Jack stood at the door. Mulder sat up quickly, too quickly. His head began to swim and he shut his eyes. "Shit, Jack, you scared the hell out of me. I thought you were Bill." "What are you doing in here, Mulder?" Jack asked. "Let me know if he's coming. I'm just trying to get a little rest. Do you know how comfortable this couch is?" Jack smiled sourly. "Like I'd ever be bold enough to try it out. You look like shit, Mulder," Jack said, concerned. Mulder smiled grimly. "Why are you stalking me, Jack?" Jack glanced down the hall, then stepped inside and closed the door. He didn't look happy. "Did Bill say something to you about the profile?" Mulder asked innocently. "Yeah, he did...he read me out, the way he does. You know. But..." Mulder waited. He was used to waiting until Jack could sort out his thoughts. "Mulder...I just wanted to know how you did it." "Did what?" Mulder asked, perplexed. Jack sat down next to him. "Did the profile. Mulder, I couldn't get anywhere on it. But now, we've got a very short list of suspects, an understanding of what we're looking for...it's been bothering me. I just need to know how you did it." Mulder was flabbergasted. How could he explain this to Jack? Why should he have to? Jack was a good profiler. Maybe not spectacularly intuitive, but good. His solve rate was way above average. Why did this bother him so much? "I don't know, Jack...maybe you were too close to it. Maybe the correlation I saw only made sense to me because I was looking at it fresh." "Don't make excuses for me, Mulder!" Jack almost shouted. He stood, agitated. "Jack, I wasn't -" Mulder began. Jack glared at him. "Next to you, I suck at this job," Jack said. Oh shit. Mulder rubbed a hand over his eyes. "Jack, you don't want my intuition," Mulder muttered. Jack seemed to calm down. "Maybe not, but...but I need it, Mulder. How many little girls have died because I didn't have what you have?" Mulder, freaked by the way this discussion was going, stood. "Look...you can't think that way," he said, trying to be soothing even though his relatively-new sore throat made that impossible. "Listen to me. None of us is perfect. We all wish we could have caught the UNSUB one death sooner...maybe if we'd put a little more time into it, given up on sleep..." Mulder's voice drifted off and he could see by the cold look in Jack's eyes that not only was he lying, he was patronizing the hell out of his friend. "You should talk, Mulder," Jack said quietly. He sighed, suddenly giving in. "Hey, I'm sorry. I'm just a little wound up, I guess. Patterson gave me a real dressing down but I'm still on the case, so I guess I haven't fucked up too much. I just feel like such a shmuck for imposing on you like that. I guess I feel guilty for getting you into it with Patterson." Mulder smiled twistedly. "Don't worry about it. I'm always in it with Patterson anyway. Hey, let's get out of this office, huh? First off, I'd hate to be caught in here and secondly, it gives me the creeps." Jack smiled for the first time that day. P R E S E N T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder kept his hands in his pockets as they made their way back to the office. Scully watched the hunched shoulders and the stoop in his walk. He'd be back on muscle relaxants if he kept this up. Mulder decided that he would just grab a few of Jack's personal things and head back to DC. He could finish up the files tomorrow. He'd done enough tidying for one day. He avoided looking at anyone as he entered the office, avoided listening to Dana Scully's careful steps as she kept pace with him. "Mulder." Wiggins voice stopped Mulder in his tracks. "Pamela's over at the house. I'm going to see her here tomorrow. But I just wondered...if you would like." Mulder let his eyes drift shut. No, he wouldn't like. He wouldn't like that at all. No, he didn't want to sit in Jack's immaculate kitchen listening to Pam and staring at the door to the utility room that led to the garage. Mulder lifted his head. "Yes, of course I'll go over. I'll be back tomorrow to help finish up here." Scully felt a tingle of exasperation as she heard the words. Mulder shouldn't have agreed. And Wiggins. Of all the tricks to pull. Delegate the messy stuff, give the job to the man who'd not worked with Jack in years but who wouldn't walk away. * * * * * * * * * "Scully, you really don't need to come. You've never met Pam. It's been years since I last saw her." Scully listened but chose to ignore his remarks. "If you need some more Flexiril you're going to need a designated driver and if you don't unclench your muscles soon you won't have a choice." A tone of voice with no room for argument, not that Mulder looked like he'd want to argue with anyone. She softened the attack. "Anyway, tell me about Pamela." He nodded slowly. "Don't know much after they split up. Jack told me she remarried a few months ago. He seemed pleased for her." Then Mulder just fell back into silence for the rest of the trip. Mulder kept his eyes averted from the garage as they walked towards the house. Pam was on the doorstep almost immediately, a striking middle- aged woman with soft, warm eyes, red from crying, but dry now and looking pleased to see them. "Mulder." "Pam. Sorry, that we're meeting like this. This is my partner, Dana Scully." "Partner?" "You remember, FBI speak." He forced a smile. "A colleague and a friend." "Pity." She led them in. Mulder surveyed the room. He couldn't help but smile as he noted that the place had a new carpet, albeit the same shade and color as the old one. Very Jack, that. Pam turned automatically to lead them towards the kitchen but Mulder hung back. Pam stopped when she realized that he wasn't following. "I'll bring some coffee into the living room," she said quietly. Mulder wandered the room, remembering photographs, studying book titles. Pam came back a few minutes later, poured three cups of coffee and tried to get Mulder's attention. When she failed, she just started to talk. "I was surprised when that prick Wiggins told me you were coming over. I'd heard you'd left ISU years ago. I didn't know you and Jack were still close. But it figures that it was you who'd come. Jack always said they gave you the shit jobs." Her voice started to fade, then crack, then died away. Mulder became suddenly alert, moving quickly to the seat next to her on the couch. She leaned her face into his shoulder. When she spoke again, her voice was muffled by the fabric and hiccuping with sobs. "I never stopped loving him, you know. But I couldn't stay. You know." Oh he knew. Of course he knew. He even knew now that he had been part of the problem. Stealing Jack's evenings and weekends, leaning on Jack because he had needed the help and because Jack would always help anyone. He'd been stealing the time that Jack should have been sharing with Pam. Not that he'd been the only one. Pam sniffed for air. "Mulder. What happened? Why now? He seemed okay. I thought he was okay." He stroked her back and said nothing words. He'd thought the same thing. Good old Jack, who everyone could lean on. And no one saw the signs that it was Jack who needed helping, not until it was too late. Except that wasn't true, Mulder knew it wasn't true. He had known that Jack was in trouble, desperate trouble and he'd done nothing. He'd had years of warning. After a long while, Pam pulled herself up straight and grabbed a handful of Kleenex. She blew her nose and looked across at Scully. "Look after him for me, Dana." Mulder smiled and did the reply for her. "She does." Pam regained her balance, put on a brisk voice. "I've found a stack of paperwork, some of it's Bureau stuff, I don't know." "Let's go look." Mulder rose from the couch and stretched out to give Pam a hand to pull her up. Scully opened the walk in closet of what had once been planned as a guest bedroom but which was now clearly an office. She looked inside and took a couple of steps back. The clothes rails had been replaced with file hangers. Amazing. "There's as much stuff here as in the ISU office." Pam leaned in over Scully's shoulder. "Don't worry. Most of it's about money and the house and things, I'll get to it. But those shelves." She waved her hand at a section of the woodwork. "I opened one folder and a photo fell out and..." Her voice faded out again. Scully waved her away. "It's okay, we'll handle it. You've probably got other things to do." Pam shook her head. "No, not really." A pause. "Can I fix you some food?" Mulder started to say no, that they'd only just eaten, but stopped himself as he saw the hopeful pleading in her eyes. Pam carried on quickly. "It's no trouble. You wouldn't believe the amount of food in the freezer. I'll give you some of the packs to take home as well. If I wrap it well, it'll stay frozen for the drive back." Mulder bowed his head. Oh, he'd believe the amount of food in the freezer. Real food. Emergency food. Comfort food. All neatly bagged, labeled and dated. The first time he'd been sent in there to look for burgers, after an evening watching a game on TV, he'd teased Jack about him having forgotten to include the evidence numbers on the packs. Pam left Mulder and Scully to deal with the walk-in closet and the monsters in the paperwork. The intention was easy. Get the work related papers out of there, load it all up into Mulder's car and then sort it out tomorrow with the rest of the ISU files. Scully moved quickly through the stacks of papers, splitting home from work. She noticed that Mulder had stopped helping. She avoided looking at him for as long as she could, certain that he'd spaced out or had needed to close his eyes to it all. Even a vague hope that he'd maybe just succumbed to tiredness and fallen asleep on the bed. When at last she turned to him, she realized he'd done none of those things. He was sitting cross legged on the bed reading a file. "Mulder?" He looked up at her, blinking hard as if suddenly startled to be reminded that she was still there. "Cleveland." He mumbled. As if that should be explanation enough. P A S T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * All Mulder wanted was to go to sleep, but he forced himself to keep his eyes open as Wiggins droned on. Mulder hated briefings more than anything. This was Patterson's way of making sure the ISU felt like one big, happy family. Mulder already had a big happy family. He didn't need another. He unscrewed the top off a honey bear and downed half the contents, grimacing. Whoever said honey helped a sore throat was nuts. It just gave him a sugar rush. Jack's turn now. Mulder sat up and made eye contact with Jack. If there was one thing Jack could do well, it was talk. He was the best public speaker Mulder had ever seen. On top of the world Ma, Mulder thought as Jack smoothly presented the Cleveland evidence. He had all the information in the correct spots but there was something missing. Mulder frowned. He knew that Jack was working from Mulder's profile. Maybe that's what it was. Jack didn't have that innate familiarity that a profiler had when they'd done their own profile. Nothing to worry about, Mulder told himself uneasily. A four-year-old could have understood Mulder's profile. But can Jack Caulfield work from Mulder's written words to a plan of action, so that the locals can pick this sicko up? Patterson was determined that Jack would remain on the case. For one thing, this was a high profile case and the press liked him. And for another...this was a high profile case and the press liked him. It would look fishy if the agent in charge were replaced. With Mulder's profile, Jack looked brilliant. If it was anyone else, Mulder would have been slightly peeved. But not Jack. "So with this new evidence we feel we can corral the UNSUB pretty quickly," Jack said, wrapping up his briefing. Mulder, up next, began scanning his notes and tried to ignore the little voice in his head, which was beginning to shout at him. He tried to tell it that he had everything under control, that he knew why he felt this way about Jack but the voice wouldn't shut up, and then Jack was shaking him. Mulder blinked. Patterson stood behind Jack, frowning, judging. Mulder took a deep breath, trying to ignore the tightness in his chest. "Mulder? You okay?" Jack asked, concerned. Mulder nodded slowly, gathered his papers. "Sure, fine. Why?" Jack turned and glanced at Patterson, who shook his head. Jack started to say something. One look from Patterson stopped him. Jack glanced back at Mulder. "Get some rest, huh?" he murmured. Puzzled, Mulder nodded, then wondered if he'd drifted off during the briefing. Shit, probably. No wonder Bill was pissed. Mulder swigged more honey, then got up to do his briefing. * * * * * * * * * Boston. Mulder did not want to go to Boston. Maybe he wouldn't have to. He really just needed weekend...okay, a day...all right, a few hours...he didn't want to track this psycho to Boston but it looked like that was exactly where he was going. Mulder's hand fetishist was starting to get on his nerves. For the fourth time that morning, he got up and adjusted the thermostat. He glanced at the clock. Lunchtime. Mulder sighed. He hadn't been hungry in what, weeks? But there seemed to be a lull around the office and Patterson was off terrorizing some poor rookies at the Academy. Fuck it, Mulder thought, I'm taking lunch. Mulder didn't quite make it to his favorite caf'. He ended up on a bench, coat wrapped around him, staring miserably into the hazy sunshine. Wasn't sunshine supposed to be good for you? He couldn't remember. He couldn't remember anything except the hand fetishist and the child molester they'd just interrogated. It had been hellish and Mulder had been at his short-tempered best. At the very least, he hoped he gave the fucker whatever illness he had. Mulder wondered if he was going to throw up again. Maybe. Possibly. He didn't know. A figure stalked towards him and Mulder sat up. He squinted, not quite able to make out the face. As the figure got closer Mulder saw why. There was no face. He got up to run but the figure reached him in two quick strides and grabbed him by the throat. It was insidiously strong. Mulder struggled as best he could but he was losing the battle. Spots appeared before his eyes. He was going to die. Someone was yelling "Breathe!" at him. That sounded like a good idea and in spite of the iron grip at his throat, he took a breath. Then another. And another. He opened his eyes. He was still on the bench and Jack Caulfield was in front of him, eyes wide with fear. Mulder took another breath. That went down okay. He tried to say something but Jack stopped him. "Just sit for a minute," he said grimly. So Mulder sat and breathed and tried to figure out what had happened. His chest was tight again and he figured he'd fallen asleep and had another of those fucking nightmares. Terrific. He was suddenly sweltering. He took his overcoat and jacket off and loosened his tie, then tipped his head against the back-rest. Jack sat with him and just talked to him, nonsense talk, in low, soothing tones. Mulder started to feel better. He opened an eye and looked at Jack. "I'm okay now, I think," he said quietly. "Have you had anything to eat today?" Jack asked. Mulder raised his head. "I tried to go to the caf'..." Jack nodded and picked up Mulder's coats. "Come on. I think they've got tomato soup today." Jack helped Mulder to his feet. * * * * * * * * * The tomato soup was heavenly but Jack wouldn't let him eat all of it. He got a Styrofoam container for the leftovers. Mulder stared at it with longing as he finished his iced tea. Jack smiled. "You want to keep this down, don't you? Eat half in a few hours, the rest before you go home." "Yes, sir," Mulder said in mock resignation. Jack's expression turned serious. "From where I was standing, Mulder, that looked suspiciously like a panic attack." "It was just a nightmare," Mulder shot back quickly. Jack shook his head, unconvinced. "You were struggling to breathe. Your pulse was racing. I almost called 911." "Bill would have loved that," Mulder said wryly. Jack still wasn't letting Mulder get away with the lighthearted comments. Shit, Mulder thought, I must've scared the hell out of him. "I hear you might have to go to Boston," Jack said. Mulder frowned. What was he up to? "Maybe. Actually, probably. It looks like my fetishist is on the move and that's where my profile puts him." "Your fetishist is spending too much time in your head and your immune system is completely out of whack. You don't have to follow this guy, Mulder. You profiled him. Let the others get him. That's what the local bureau office is for." "It's not that easy, Jack, and you know it. I still don't have the perfect picture of this guy. I need to go deeper. Besides, if he doesn't hit Boston I'm fucked because that means I don't know him at all. I need to be there if he does, and I need to be there if they catch him." Jack sighed. "I just wish you'd take a break. You need one. Badly. Just tell Patterson -" "I appreciate your concern, Jack, but it is my life. I've been through worse." "I don't even want to know," Jack muttered. Mulder smiled grimly. Jack looked at him. "Look, aside from saving your pathetic life, I came to apologize." Mulder blinked. "For what?" Jack looked embarrassed. "For the other day. When I was asking you how you got into my psycho's head. I was stressed, I'd been yelled at, Patterson called me your mother." Mulder chuckled. "Forget it. Really. It's nothing." Jack nodded, at ease. Mulder sat up. "Hey, I forgot to congratulate you on getting your UNSUB," Mulder said. Jack smiled. "Thanks. We're 99% sure it's the guy. I couldn't have done it without you, Mulder." "Sure you could have," Mulder said, a little wary. Jack waved a hand. "I know, I did a lot of work that went into apprehending the guy...but you laid the groundwork for me, Mulder. Thanks. I mean it. Hell, nobody else ever thanks you. How does courtside at a Knicks game sound?" Mulder grinned. "Sounds great. How did you finagle courtside seats?" Jack shrugged modestly. "Unlike you, Mulder, I cultivate contacts." "I'll have to try that. I never knew contacts could get you things you actually wanted." Jack smiled again. Mulder leaned forward, eyeing the soup. Jack ostentatiously moved it away from him. "You going to Cleveland to interrogate him?" Jack shrugged. "Looks like. I'll probably just coordinate." Mulder frowned. "You? The Grand Inquisitor?" Jack smiled at him. "Thought I'd let Phil's boys get some of the glory," Jack said easily. Mulder watched him. Jack was reluctant to interrogate the suspect. He still didn't know him. Shit, Mulder thought bleakly. I shouldn't have done that profile. "Why? You want it?" Mulder laughed. "Christ, no! Do you think I want to ask Patterson if I can have more work? I just wondered if you had your questions straight. That's all." Mulder's completely noncommittal answer caught Jack's attention. "Mulder, that was years ago. You weren't even out of the Academy yet. I was green. I haven't had a time like that since. Not that Bill has ever forgotten." Mulder shrugged and debated making a grab for the soup. "Elephants never forget. I just...I had a few...just some ideas, from my profile. A way to stage the questioning. Of course, if you've already got everything straight..." "Like I'd ever turn down one of your ideas," Jack said lightheartedly. Mulder looked at him thoughtfully. "You're the only one," he mused. Jack dumped more sugar into his coffee. "I'm not the only one. I'm the only one who's not scared shitless of you. You should hear those jamokes when you leave the room. They whisper about you in hushed tones." "Thanks for being my spy on the wall, Jack," Mulder said caustically. "Hey, what are friends for?" * * * * * * * * * Mulder had never gone the herbal tea route and now he knew why. Chamomile tea had to be the most noxious substance on the planet. Bar none. He sipped at the tea, silently berating Jack for buying him a hundred chamomile tea bags. He took another sip. It DID make his throat feel better. Mulder jumped at the rap on the door. Patterson. Glowering. Shit. "What is it, Bill?" Mulder asked, too tired to sound bright and motivated. Bill crooked his finger. Mulder sighed, slowly got to his feet, grabbed his tea, and followed Bill into his office. Mulder's heart sank as Bill flipped on the TV and started the VCR. Jack Caulfield was questioning his suspect. Mulder wished he had a copy of the evidence, lab results and arrest report. He knew what Bill was doing here and he refused to be Spooky right now. He desperately wanted to close his eyes but he found his gaze riveted to the screen. Goddam. Jack moved smoothly through the initial interrogation, presenting what they had and cajoling the suspect. Cajoling, wheedling, almost begging. Mulder watched the suspect grow more comfortable and he began to despair. The suspect had no prison record, nothing in police files at all. He'd never even been given a traffic ticket. He was an accountant, made a good living, had broken up with his girlfriend two weeks before the first murder. The first dead girl was his girlfriend's daughter. The relationship with the girl's mother ended because the girl reported the abuse. Jack postulated that he'd turned his rage on what he believed to be the cause of the break- up, the child. The girl's mother was a recovering heroin addict. He planned the murder, planned to kill her, and planned to make her look like one of many, like a serial killer was at work. He'd read up on serial killers and had included the sexual assault with the heroin injections. The irony was, he began to like it and he began to escalate. The suspect was a sick sadist whose joy came out of the suffering of these little girls. He viciously assaulted them, killed them, and then injected them with the heroin. Out of the first murder grew a signature and the hard thing to discover had been the fact that even in the first murder, a signature was there. That was what had tripped Jack up and Mulder got the impression that Jack still didn't believe this guy was this kind of sadist. He would believe it if he'd written the profile, Mulder's little voice admonished. Jack Caulfield still didn't have a handle on this cocksure son of a bitch. Jack was playing right into this guy's hands because he didn't have a plan of attack. Since the suspect was personally close to the first girl, Mulder had suggested using something of hers as a proactive strategy, but he didn't see anything in the room. That would break this man; repeated questioning wouldn't, because he had reconciled what he had done. In essence, he'd talked himself out of doing it. Only the physical reminders would bring his true self to the surface and Jack didn't even have photos. Sure, he would bring in photos later, but this man's delusions would be stronger by then. If he was deluded. If he'd done it. Mulder watched the suspect's eyes and suddenly wasn't too sure. "Damn," Mulder muttered. Patterson eyed him sharply. This guy was still too confident. Jack hadn't made a dent in that armor of confidence and he was going over the same ground, stumbling and sweating. Mulder wondered about the physical evidence. Did they have enough to hold him? Would they have to let him go? Had his appetite for killing increased exponentially? Would Jack Caulfield be profiling this man again in the near future? Yep, Mulder's little voice told him. Absolutely. Bill glared at him and mercifully turned off the tape. "You gave him questions, didn't you?" Mulder tried belligerence. "Yeah? So?" Patterson sighed. "Mulder...you know why that's a bad idea. Caulfield doesn't have a handle on this guy at all." Mulder shrugged. "If you think that, then let me question him." Patterson shook his head. "That's no good now. If he's our UNSUB, he knows we don't have him. This case is specious at best, Mulder, and if you had not put thoughts into Jack Caulfield's head we wouldn't be in this mess." "We sure wouldn't," Mulder came back at him, "because you wouldn't even have a suspect. The only reason you have one so soon is because of my profile. Jack needed time on this and you wouldn't give it to him." "Of course I wouldn't give it to him," Patterson almost shouted. "Because the sick fuck would have killed again!" "Then quit bitching at me about assisting the other profilers," Mulder growled. "If you didn't do it they wouldn't need your help," Patterson hissed. Mulder, suddenly drained, rubbed a hand over his face. "It's the same old argument isn't it, Bill? I understand why you won't coddle anyone but this...this is completely over the top. We don't all work the same way and that doesn't mean that Jack Caulfield needs coddling. It just means that he should be allowed to do his work the way he needs to do it." Patterson stabbed Mulder with a forefinger. "I run this department, Mulder, not you. If Caulfield can't hack it he should get out." "You're not going to wash him out, are you?" Patterson sighed. "No, I'm not going to wash him out. We don't have enough to hold this asshole. You swore he'd confess. He didn't. Caulfield couldn't get into his head." Mulder stared at him. "The cops made a premature arrest, didn't they? Jack gave them his genius profile and they made a quick arrest. There's no physical evidence, is there?" Patterson glared daggers at Mulder. "We both know this is the guy." "Because the profile says so? What about your grand lecture, Bill? Don't rely too heavily on the profile. Shit. Jack's the fucking profiler on the case. Did they railroad him?" Patterson sighed. "Did they?" Mulder demanded, suddenly pissed. "Caulfield isn't in charge of the investigation, Mulder. He's a consultant. Nothing more. He can suggest, he can't order. That's kid's stuff. You know this shit." Mulder stared at Patterson, suddenly understanding. The problem with his profile was that it was too easy to understand. It made too much sense. Mulder's profiles generally made perfect sense only to himself, because he demanded a modicum of control over any given case. He'd seen too many suspects go free because the locals became so enamored of the profile that they threw caution to the winds and arrested the perp even though they didn't have any more to go on than a profile. But Mulder, tired and sick as he was, gave Jack an elementary profile of a complicated case. "We might have DNA," Bill was saying. Mulder exploded. "Might?" Mulder asked. "You might have DNA? And you might get the results when? A week? A month? A year? You'd better fucking let Jack off the hook on this one, Bill. You pushed him, he did his job -" "YOU did his job -" "-and you didn't do yours." "You told me, in YOUR profile, that he'd confess." The words were like a dagger through Mulder's heart because this time, he knew Patterson believed them. Mulder tried to tell himself that it wasn't his fault, that it wasn't Jack's fault, but he'd just told himself exactly what he'd done wrong and he remembered how tired and sick he was and when he got tired and sick he got cocky and sloppy...Mulder wanted to sink down to the floor, put his head in his hands, and shut out the world. P R E S E N T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Dana Scully made it her business to get called out to Quantico on an urgent consultation the following morning. It wasn't that she felt obliged to keep tabs on Mulder; just that he seemed to be so tired and so distracted. He hadn't even argued about the plan to take only one car, hers. Usually he hated being pinned down like that, but this time he'd just meekly loaded himself into the passenger seat. When Scully finally wandered across to the ISU office an hour or so after their arrival on site she was greeted with a warm smile from Wiggins. "Mulder's gone off for coffee with a couple of people, why don't I show you around the place?" Scully nodded in acquiescence. They toured the office, Wiggins handling the introductions. Scully recognized some of the names, mostly of people who Mulder helped out. She'd met a few of them. "You know, Agent Scully. Sorry. Is it okay if I call you Dana? I'm Carl, by the way. ISU's usually a first name sort of place." He paused. "Except for Mulder, of course." He paused again and Scully assumed he was looking for a smile at his feeble remark. She didn't oblige. "Dana's fine. Scully's fine. Whatever." Scully looked around the room. Well this might be the pressure cooker but the profilers seemed remarkably well adapted. Hard working, serious? Certainly. But tormented, suicidal, consumed by the work? If they were, they hid it well. The only obvious shadow was Jack Caulfield. And that was sadness for a friend. Wiggins kept prompting her with questions. "You've been helping on an autopsy this morning?" "Yes. That's right. Nothing special as it turned out." "You worked here as an instructor I believe, for a time before the X- Files." Scully tried to remember. Teaching new Agents the basics of pathology. Handling autopsies. It seemed like a lifetime ago. She tried to remember a time when putting her gun on in the morning was a chore from her job description, not second nature like combing her hair. She sighed her reply. "I've learned a lot myself since then." "You're quite a team. I know that you are very well respected by the whole forensics crew. And Mulder. Well I guess a lot of people thought he'd be the one following Patterson in here." She turned to face Wiggins, taken aback for a moment. It was rare for either of the X-Files partners to get a compliment so two in one sentence came as a surprise. She measured her words, smiled an acknowledgment. "We often handle cases that have already been investigated, things that benefit from a multi-disciplinary approach." "Exactly. Exactly, my point exactly. It's what I want to see happen in here. ISU, 'Investigative Support Unit', we handle thousands of cases a year, hands on or as consultants. Yet sometimes we can't give it our best shot because we miss data that would be meaningful in the hands of a trained scientist." Scully winced. Thousands of cases. Not all dead bodies, of course. But enough to be reminded of the depth of horror that existed in a world of ordinary human monsters with ordinary powers. "My knowledge can make a difference on the X-Files cases. Mulder's sharp on reading reports but he's usually got a supplementary question or two that he might find hard to get answered if I wasn't there as translator." Particularly when he starts speculating, she added to herself. Wiggins' soft, mildly encouraging tone hit her again. "I'd guess all my analysts feel that way." A slight pause and an almost conspiratorial edge arrived in his voice. "I don't know if you've ever considered working in a team environment like this?" Scully started for a moment, wondering if she'd misheard or misunderstood. "I've certainly never seen myself as a profiler. I've read the literature, of course, but I'm more comfortable dealing with the victims and their families than worrying too much over the motives of their killers." "We're changing the way we work. At the moment we have this tradition of a psychology-based approach and the forensics teams have their physical science-based approach. I'm looking for scientific specialists who've also proven themselves in the field. People who can help pull it all together." "I'm not sure I'd want to develop that kind of empathy with the killers." "Ah. Empathy? Well. Mulder's a disciple of Bill Patterson. Listen to them talk and it all sounds like magic. Brilliant analyst, of course, but he does sometimes obscure the science by always talking in those terms about intuition and the like. Most of it's clear-cut. We can see patterns. We've built up a solid foundation of statistics. Most of it's about common sense and observation. Mulder might talk empathy but actually he's very sharp on detail. Just like you. I've seen some of your work. You could do great things here." Scully felt a certain relief at Wiggins' words. She blinked, feeling slightly guilty for accepting the flattery. It seemed almost disloyal. Still, Wiggins was being just as complimentary about Mulder so maybe it wasn't that bad. She smiled. "I already have a job." "Of course, of course. But no one wants to do the same job forever. And after here, well, you know our people can go anywhere. Right to the top." Scully wondered about her job, her extraordinary job that stretched her mind and challenged her faith; a job that had seen her lose her sister and sometimes, her peace of mind. One that might yet cause her death. One that might yet save her life. Worth it because of the success they had. Then she wondered about working in the ISU and realized with a start that Wiggins was recruiting her. Recruiting HER, Dana Scully, super- pathologist, because he admired her mind. Because he thought she'd be an asset to the group. She didn't get that "Mrs. Spooky" vibe that generally accompanied any of her dealings with other agents. It was fine when Mulder was around; all she had to do was see the steely determination in his eyes and she felt cool and confident about her life. But when he wasn't...when she had to be FBI Special Agent Dana Scully on her own...she felt as if she had no control over her life. She and Mulder were supposed to be partners. WERE partners. But there was no denying whose lead they followed. Not that Scully blamed Mulder for that. She didn't. Did she? Scully shook her head, unwilling to think about it. Not when Mulder was so damaged, not when he needed her so badly. But didn't he always need her? When did it end? Scully forced herself to stare at a Monet print on the wall, forced herself to stop this line of thought. She considered Wiggins' offer. Thousands of cases? Could she really make some kind of difference to so many people? * * * * * * * * * Fox Mulder was still sitting in the nearly deserted cafeteria interrogating two of his old colleagues. "I hear the words, but you aren't telling me anything. What did Jack actually do that was so disturbing? What did he actually say?" "Shit. Mulder. We aren't suspects, you can save the cross-exam. You know this crap. Stressor number one, his ex-wife who he was still in love with, had remarried. Fantasy of reconciliation over. Stressor number two, he thought he should have seen Patterson's breakdown coming. Stressor number three, he was in danger of losing the only thing he cared about, his job, because his therapist thought he was obsessed with it. And that's the thing. He was obsessed. We tried, don't think we didn't try, but we couldn't make him stop." Mulder tore another few strips in the vending machine cup. "Describe the behavior that demonstrated the obsession." "Ripping up plastic cups." Mulder grimaced politely. "Ha, ha. Try harder." His colleagues groaned. One of them took a deep breath and tried an explanation. "He never played cards, stopped coming the ball games, wouldn't come for a drink. And it wasn't because he had friends outside the Bureau. He was working. Except if you really pushed him about what he was working on he wouldn't say. He was falling behind with his casework. And Jack never fell behind. But if you went in his office, he'd put the file away that he was working on or he'd hide it with another one. If he was on the PC, he'd flick up the screensaver as soon as you walked up to him." Mulder shook his head. "That doesn't sound like someone obsessed with his job. Sounds like someone who was working on something else." "I only said the therapist thought it was the job." Mulder's voice was insistent. "Go on." A delay in the profiler's words, as if he was trying to find a way to say words not normally said out loud in polite society. "Jack had gotten a pile of junk case files together and started brooding over them." He paused. "Hey, I'm not knocking it, you carved yourself out a whole department based on the same premise." Mulder nodded an acknowledgment. "You're just a barrel of laughs today. Keep going. Did you see any of the files?" "They were junk, Mulder. Trash can fodder. Some of them weren't even cases. Suicides, car crashes, shit like that." "What was he looking at?" No reply, so Mulder turned the intensity up another notch. "Come on. Somebody must have asked him." Another deep breath. Anything to shut Mulder up. They knew better than to hope he'd just lose interest and go away. "I cornered him one time. He claimed they were the work of a single perpetrator. Some fucking genius record-breaking serial killer." "What did you say?" Mulder's voice sounded suddenly tired. "I told him that he should call you. You know. Leaps of faith a specialty." Mulder's eyes drifted to look at the edge of the table. "He didn't call." "No, I guess not. I don't think he was so far gone he really fell for it intellectually. But it tore him up." Mulder stared at the table and tried to resign himself to the message he was hearing. * * * * * * * * * Mulder returned to the ISU office accompanied by his two old colleagues. The threesome scattered gloom as they walked. The conversation hadn't cheered any of them. They were deep in thought. Praying to whatever God or faith or spirit they still believed in to do the right thing and look after Jack Caulfield. As the trio walked in, Wiggins was beaming at Scully and showing off his electronic pride and joy. The other two men turned to Mulder. Mulder shook his head but a faint smirk appeared on his lips. Computerized generation of Behavioral profiles. As VICAP was to the world of the known MO and the historical records, so this would be to the world of the ill-defined and the psychological motivations of the deranged. "Working, is it?" Mulder's voice contained only a fraction of the sarcasm that was present in his eyes. "Close. Getting better and better." "Right." A little more sarcasm breaking through. "It's not a panacea, it's just a way of reducing the burden." Just a little indignation breaking into Wiggins usual flat dirge of a voice. "It's just a pseudo-scientific way of allowing people to ignore inconvenient and contradictory evidence because it doesn't fit nicely into one of its approved and statistically validated check boxes." Wiggins glared. Scully was taken aback by Mulder's obviously carefully considered vehemence but more than a little relieved to hear her partner back to his usual obnoxious self. There was even a slight twinkle in his eye, presumably put there by Wiggins' obvious discomfort. They politely excused themselves and headed off to the Hoover Building. While Scully drove, she tried to push Mulder for information. Any information at all. Anything new on Jack. Anything on the files. Anything on how Mulder was feeling. Anything on that relationship between Jack and Mulder. Anything on that life that Mulder had led back in ISU, that life he'd admitted had given him blackouts and nightmares because, 'it was the job. Nothing more.' And Jack who had always been there for Mulder. Jack, who was dead. Because no one had been there for him. Anything to get Mulder talking. But Mulder wouldn't talk. So Scully told him bright stories about how Wiggins planned to transform the ISU profilers from individual, isolated profiling machines into a supportive team. And how he had full management backing, especially now, with the warnings that first Patterson's and now Jack's breakdowns had given. Mulder just studied the road and said that he wished Wiggins luck. So Scully decided to try direct questions. She asked him about cases, incidents, his weird career history that obeyed no known FBI formula. The history that got him fast-tracked to star status in ISU and then made him leave it so quick he didn't even bother to move the things out of his desk. Eventually, he seemed to have loosened up enough to be actually answering the questions. He even seemed to want to talk. So she gave him an open question. "What finally made you leave ISU?" "Everything." "But the last straw. You said things happened in a rush at the end." Mulder sighed. It would do her no harm to hear the story from him. There were plenty more exotic versions doing the rounds. If she spent enough time in ISU, she'd hear them soon enough. "I took the weekend off, left work on Friday night, came back Monday morning. I went to a UFO convention in New York. Don't laugh. I'd been reading the X-Files. It was ISU-related at first, one thing led to another. They used to make me do the satanic cults, all that stuff. Patterson said I'd find it easy, you know, an Oxford education should prepare you for arcane languages and bizarre ceremonies." He paused, aware he was being evasive. He restarted with a flourish. "Anyway I went to the convention. Got back on Monday and the weekend reports on my cases were in." The flow of words slowed. "I opened the first file. It was another kid killer case. Bill reckoned I was good at them because I was only a kid myself. I'd been getting nowhere on it. The locals hadn't gotten the experience of handling complex homicide sites and I'd coached them on the phone. You know, what photos I wanted, what angles, what measurements." He stopped talking and watched the trees go past. Scully nodded but said nothing. She kept her eyes firmly on the road ahead, hands fixed tightly on the steering wheel, concerned that if she looked at him or spoke or moved too much, he'd lose his nerve. Even so, Mulder took a long deep breath before continuing. "So this baby had been killed over the weekend and the PD had followed the instructions to the letter and sent me the photos. And I looked at the photos and my first thought was that at last they'd sent me something useful. And then I lost it. I locked myself in the bathroom until I'd got rid of everything I'd eaten for the last year, went back to my desk and blanked out. I'd looked at the picture and seen the evidence instead of the dead kid and I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me." Scully waited until she was convinced he had nothing more to say. "So you asked for a transfer?" "No." He sighed, a soft almost chuckle in his voice, but one that contained no pretense of humor. "No. That was Patterson's fault. He was just too clever for his own good and he reckoned he could read me. Saw the state I was in, thought it was guilt over taking the weekend off to go the convention. He'd heard rumors that it wasn't the first time. So he thought this could be a lesson to stop me getting distracted by outside things. ISU had one of its 'team meetings' and Patterson led off with a little chat on what had happened to our assignments over the weekend. I was top of the charts, five deaths, three in some weird religious cult internecine war, a kidnap victim and the baby. And then he turned to me, like it was an AA meeting and I was supposed to denounce myself for falling off the wagon. I just went back to my desk." "What did you do?" "I called Reggie Pardue and a couple of other people in VCS, got an appointment with the Assistant Director and told them all I wanted a transfer." "You could have been on the next bus to Nebraska." "Could have been. Wouldn't have cared. But there are some managers in VCS who are cynical enough to understand the statistics. I was good for their figures so they took the risk. I used their greed to get me out. It worked. It might sound unlikely, but I was considered a catch. Back then." The rest of the journey passed in nervous silence. Scully's mind was racing with questions, but Mulder's eyes had now been blanked over, shut down with "no admittance" signs firmly locked in place. She knew him well enough to know that he'd already decided he'd told her too much. * * * * * * * * * Scully looked optimistically into the in-tray as they returned to the X- Files office. They'd identified some cases which had seemed to warrant further investigation and had put feelers out with the local Bureau offices for extra information. Just one glimmer on one case, that was all they would need. Then they could pack their bags and let DC and Quantico fade in the distance. Mulder needed to get his mind off Jack and the best method was to give him some work to do. Scully thought of the night before and Mulder sitting quietly on the couch with Pam as they waited for Pam's new husband to arrive and take her home. Mulder had been dead on his feet by the time he'd dropped her at her own apartment. He didn't look a lot better now. Funny, going out on the road would give him the chance to get some rest. She would make sure of it. But first she had to find the right case. "Scully." She was startled from her survey of the day's mail by Mulder's voice. She was worried when the same voice then requested that she drive him home so he could pick up his car for another trip out to Jack's house. He refused her offers of a companion for the trip over to Jack's as just being a waste of her time. He followed up by insisting that she had better things to do. Better things, like finding them a case, for example. In the end she had to agree. But that didn't make her feel any better about it. She talked herself into the idea. Maybe he needed to be in the house alone. Get it out of his system. He'd been wound up like a spring in front of her and he'd been on his best behavior in front of Pam. Maybe he needed to give himself permission to unravel. Then he'd bounce back to be his usual irritating self in the morning. And by then she'd be making travel plans to get them out of town. Good deal. * * * * * * * * * Mulder looked around the deserted street, feeling vaguely guilty and oddly conspicuous as he let himself into Jack's house using the spare key he'd borrowed from Pam the previous day. He looked around again, as if keen to justify to someone his need to get in the house. He shivered as he stepped over the threshold, but he knew it wasn't with cold. He walked around the rooms, turning on as many lights as he could find, and tried to remember why he'd come out here. Concentrate. He made himself walk into the kitchen and switch on the coffeemaker. It would have to do without milk and sugar but it would have caffeine in it. Pretend you know what you're doing. Easy. You've done this before. Walked into an investigation blind, before knowing what you were looking for. So you look for everything and wait for something to push the right buttons. Trouble was, everything was pushing the right buttons. Even that door from the kitchen that led to the garage. Especially that door. Okay. So get that over with. He pushed the door open. More lights he could switch on. Good. Oh God. Okay. It's the scene of a death. It's been handled like a crime scene but only up to a point because it was a crime, but everyone knew that it was the kind where you didn't get to go after the bad guy. He stood very still and forced his eyes to focus. What can you see? A garage. Try again. Jack, slumped over the steering wheel of his car. No. Try again. Blankets, oily, rolled up, they'd been on the floor blocking the doorways. Okay. Remnants of duct tape around the edges of door frames. Unnecessarily thorough; the gaps would have made no difference to the outcome. All very premeditated. Anything else? No tape on the small window. Course that hadn't mattered; it was only a small window so the gaps wouldn't have been enough to let sufficient air in. But why no tape there? Doesn't matter. One thing at a time. Observe now, analyze later. The window's high but not too high to reach from a chair, no higher than other things that have been sealed. Two feet square, single pane, closed. Okay. Look again. Nothing on the floor. The car's been taken away to impound, probably not long after the body had been shifted in some body bag to Quantico. How many tribes of elephants had been through here since Jack...who found him? A neighbor. A neighbor saw the smoke, thought it was smoke, anyway. Why didn't you give me a chance, Jack? I'd have come. You knew that. Why didn't you let me help you? Why? Mulder leaned against the workbench and let his body take a break while his brain screamed. * * * * * * * * * Yuk. Engine oil. Luckily he'd ditched the suit in favor of jeans before he came out here. Now he just had to remember not to sit on any of Jack's furniture. Not that it mattered to Jack. Fucking hell. Why didn't you call me, Jack? Okay. The phone. That was next. Mulder returned to the house. Everything had a place in this house. The address book would be in the office. Mulder walked to the right room and checked the desk drawer below the phone. An address book. He looked for his name and found it. Home, office and cellular numbers written neatly in place. Then crossed through and replaced as a phone got damaged or a number became too widely known. Bang up to date. So Jack knew all the numbers. Okay. Mulder looked at the phone. M7 - Mulder. He pushed the dialer for memory 7. Number disconnected? Why? He quickly pushed the buttons for himself and a phone rang. Where's the answering machine? In the trash, genius. Okay, but it wasn't in the trash last week and it isn't 'disconnected'. He tried the speed dial again and the same digital voice brushed him off. He listened for the blips as the dialing signals went out. Different to when he pushed the buttons, sounding like it didn't dial anything much. What did it mean? Doesn't matter, one thing at a time, analyze it later. Did any of the others work? No. Apparently not. Nothing stored, probably lost its memory when unplugged. But then it should be blank, not disconnected. Okay. But even if Jack thought his phone was working and that Mulder really had changed his number and forgotten to say, Jack would have tried the cellular number. Mulder dragged the phone from his pocket. Might as well carry a brick. Battery flat again. Scully would be pissed. Okay, so he wasn't that careful with the cell phone when he was in town. Why not the office, then? Because it was the wrong time of night and Jack didn't give himself another day. Why? Why, Jack? He reviewed the contents of the medicine cabinets. Nothing, just like the report said. Prozac, sleeping pills, aspirin. By the standards prevailing during Patterson's reign of terror in ISU, Jack was a model of pharmacological probity. No suicide note, either. Why not? Did you try and write something, Jack? He booted up the PC. What was he looking for - suicide.doc? He zipped all the files changed in the last month and growled with irritation as he spotted the 40Meg Windows swap file that was trying to get in there. No rush. Just abort it and do it again. Properly. Three disks later and he had the files in his pocket. What else? Yesterday, in the living room, something else. Something about the books? No. Videos. Where were the videos? What was the bet the videos were filed and cross-referenced and indexed and somewhere? Over there, perhaps disguised as another filing cabinet. Dozens of them, a real pack rat. "Manhunter", Patterson's joke Christmas present; soppy romances; sports tapes; you could tell a lot from the video collection. And home recordings, lots of them, designated only with numbers. No. Jack. Don't let me down on this. Don't label every burger in your freezer and then fail on the video tapes. Shit, Jack. You've indexed them, haven't you? There's a book here that tells me what's on each tape. Where would the index be if not with the videos? Because it's a book and the books are on the shelves. Mulder sprang to his feet just a little too quick and remembered he'd had nothing to eat. Slow down. It's not going anywhere. Mulder scoured the shelves and found the neat leather-bound book carefully indicating the contents and recording dates and duration of each tape. Now, Jack, indexing your tapes like this, this really is obsessive behavior. Films, favorite TV programs, CNN recordings. CNN recordings? And copies of police videos? What were you doing, Jack? What exactly was this work you brought home? Mulder gathered up the videos with the strange contents and threw them into a plastic bag together with the index book. He turned to go and paused. Shoved behind the leather book was a rubber-banded bunch of tattered Day Runner inserts. Mulder sighed, debating, then reached out a reluctant hand and pulled the first one free. Not many appointments for something so beaten up. He frowned at the handwriting but he was so tired...he shoved the lot of them into the bag, along with the video tapes and other Jack paraphernalia. Last night he'd taken home the paperwork they'd found in Jack's house. But today he hadn't dropped it all back in ISU like he'd planned. He'd just taken them a couple of files that should have been returned to the record's office. The rest of it was back in Mulder's apartment. Filed under F for floor. Mulder did a last tour of the house, switching off lights and closing doors as he went. He picked up the videos and left. Saying sorry to a man who wasn't there, he locked the front door. * * * * * * * * * Mulder couldn't stop the twinge that ran across his shoulders when he saw Scully's car in front of his apartment. You're in it, boy. No battery in the cellular, no answering machine. Expect a flaying. You deserve it. Mulder moved to get the videos from the passenger seat and decided against it. Safer, fewer awkward questions if you just go straight in with nothing in your hands. "What are these?" She said grimly as he opened the door. "And Good Evening to you too, Agent Scully." She tilted her head to indicate that the answer was unsatisfactory. "Files from Jack's. Not ISU stuff. I thought I'd sort them out and get rid of them to the right places." "Generous of you. Anyway you can't, we're off to Indianapolis." "Gee, I didn't know it was time for the 500." "It's time for you to do some work. We've got a job." Yesterday, he'd wanted nothing more than an excuse to get out of town. Now he wasn't so sure. There were things he wanted to understand first. He wanted to find more out about Jack's phone calls for one thing. He wanted to read those files from Jack's PC, see what was in the web history file, what Jack had been browsing, what had been on his mind. What was in your head that was more important than calling me and telling me what was wrong? What had Jack written? What was on those videos? And he wanted to do it all without getting into a row with Scully. "Could we delay a couple of days? I..." He paused. Tell a half truth and it would be better than no truth at all. "I want to be here for the funeral." Scully breathed in sharply. Of course he would. What had she been thinking? "Sorry Mulder, I got carried away. I can go alone or else I'm sure you'll be able to come back for it. Everyone will understand, there are plenty of flights. The case is a sudden death, a school teacher, no cause of death determined. Fifth member of staff at the School to die in a year. You'd logged an interest in the incidents and the PD came looking for us when they got the latest body. So it kind of chose itself." "Yeah. I recognize it. Mystery poison or voodoo curses." He put his hand over his mouth and laughed. "Hey, now I'm giving away the plot." She pretended to look stern, but couldn't pull it off. She was too pleased to hear him joking. Not up to his normal standards, but it would do. "We'll discuss cause of death after the autopsy. I'll see you at National, at seven fifteen. Unless you want me to pick you up?" "No. I'll see you there." Then I won't get any hassle about bringing a spare suitcase full of Jack's stuff because you won't know about it until we get off the plane and by then it'll be too late. P A S T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder was trying to concentrate. Mulder was trying to concentrate, but what he was trying to concentrate on was a case with a hand fetishist whose activities had just moved to Boston. Unfortunately, what he was actually thinking about was a case in Cleveland that was slipping out of Jack Caulfield's grip. How could Jack have gotten suckered into letting the guy take a polygraph? And why was he depending upon the profile like it was his lifeline? Mulder would expect the local cops to be grasping at straws. He frequently had to remind local law that a profile was an investigative tool, not the means to an end. The phone rang and suddenly Mulder was back in the ISU office watching the cup of coffee he had been nursing go flying across the desk, drenching files as it went. < Hey. That was cool, now why not see if you can wow whoever is on the line with your calm professionalism> He threw a handful of napkins into the pool of coffee, took a deep breath and picked up the call. He immediately wished that he hadn't. The unmistakable voice of the head of the Boston Bureau was on the line. It was an old trick. The local PD pressurizes its best friends in the local Bureau office, the top man calls Patterson and gets no change out of him. So call direct to the profiler, bypass Patterson. Use someone so high up the Bureau pecking order that he's supposed to be able to scare the Analyst into queue jumping their job. Mulder assumed that even old tricks sometimes worked. He understood their frustration. The case was getting to him as well. He'd already suggested to Patterson that he should go to the Boston office for a few days. Patterson had turned the idea down flat. 'Not worth it. You have too much other work. We have to play percentages on this. Anyway, you look like shit, you aren't looking after yourself and you'll be down with pneumonia if I let you out of my sight.' So Mulder had returned to the pictures and tried to force them to make sense. And now he listened to the head of the Boston Bureau trying to pull rank on him. Mulder tried to end the call. It was a waste of time and he'd listened to too many calls like this to want to listen to another one. The Bureau chief was all kind words and flattery, at least to begin with. 'Know you're busy... know there are priorities.... this case..... the victims.... the escalation .... the stress on the police officers... the relationships with the Bureau.... the public profile in the area... good for the Bureau's reputation .... and yours.' Mulder just stalled. Patterson sets the priorities. The chief decided that the flattery angle wasn't working and switched to a display of military force. Mulder spotted the change in the tone of voice, from a request to an order. Mulder made a mental note to get the guy's bio later. Obviously ex-Army, definitely not Marines or Air Force. Probably got as high as Captain, but no higher and that wasn't during active service, probably later when he worked at a training camp or something. Used to scaring new recruits. Well fuck him. Mulder was a lot of things but he was never a GI. Mulder switched his tone of voice to match the new tempo of conversation. "It's not appropriate for me to have this discussion with you, Sir. My own management would view any offer I made to change priorities as insubordination on my part. Please discuss it directly with them." Utterly polite but with such a twist in its tail that the Bureau chief could almost hear the unspoken 'and fuck you, Sir', at the end of the sentence. Mulder got ten minutes of peace and quiet before Patterson called him into his office. Everyone in the office recognized the set up. Patterson had no hesitation about chewing his staff out in the open office. So a call into his private office and a closed door? That was a special kind of trouble that Patterson usually reserved only for Mulder. They weren't disappointed. The walls were thin and Patterson wasn't actually keeping his voice down. Mulder stood silent in the middle of Patterson's office quietly counting the number of minutes Patterson's diatribe had run for, automatically tracking the number of obscenities versus total number of words. Finally, Patterson looked him over and turned down the volume. "You're lucky you never got assigned to a field office, Mulder. Some ex-Marine Bureau chief would have had you castrated by now." Mulder looked back at his boss. "No way is he an ex-Marine." Patterson nodded his head. "Just making sure you haven't lost your touch. Haven't you got any work to do, Mulder?" Mulder looked for an instant as if he was considering the question before adopting an innocent tone for his reply. "I can probably find something." Mulder left. Patterson allowed himself a brief shake of the head as the Agent closed the door behind him. Mulder replayed some of his boss's words. Funny, better than a commendation. Was a commendation, really. Just not the kind that got put on the personnel record. A Patterson special. 'Too young to do the work....too inexperienced to be assigned to work on cases as important as the Boston job..... insufficiently sensitive to the needs of local offices...no respect for authority.... too rigid.' The other profilers looked Mulder over as he returned to his desk and wondered why he was smiling. Spooky indeed. Wiggins came over to quiz Mulder on the incident. Mulder listened with fascination as Wiggins offered condolences on Mulder's waning career. It made him smile. On reflection, it made Mulder cringe. The FBI's finest behaviorists and they couldn't even profile a little chat between one of their own colleagues and their boss. Less than three years experience and he'd worked and closed more cases than most Agents with five times the service. A folder full of commendations and a smaller folder full of disciplinary warnings, often for the same cases, sometimes even for the same day's work. According to Bureau norms Mulder was still supposed to be out in some field office playing the new boy, making the coffee. Yet here he sat, the star freak in Bill Patterson's nationally renowned freak show. Patterson's little pep talk had done him good, given him a couple of minutes when he didn't have to think about Jack Caulfield and a case gone sour in Cleveland. Mulder's good humor didn't last for long. * * * * * * * * * Cleveland. A preliminary hearing, going for the grand jury indictment. They'd known the names of Forster's high-profile legal team yet they'd still been arrogant enough to take their tenuous evidence into a preliminary hearing. Mulder held the phone away from his ear for a few seconds, he couldn't quite face listening to the rest of the call. Not just yet. Why hadn't Jack called him before this? He took a quick breath. And another. And another. It wasn't even his case. It was Jack's. Mulder concentrated hard, took a deep breath and held his hands to his face, palms stretched as if in prayer, fingertips brushing his lips, flipping the phone to hands free operation. "Jack, you shouldn't have let them try that. Why didn't you talk to me? You've got no confession, your forensics are weak, you've got no case. The only thing you had was time. And now, you don't even have that." "But it's the guy, Mulder. The profile -" Mulder sighed. "Jack, you should talk to Bill. Tell him you're so lost on this case that you're depending too much on the profile." There was a long, crackly silence. "It's your profile, Mulder. If you didn't feel confident -" I do not need this, Mulder thought. "The work is solid, Jack, but it's not letter-perfect. It never is. I can find at least ten people in Cleveland who fit the profile. They're railroading you, Jack, and using the profile to do it." Jack's voice in reply was a faint murmur from a long way off. Mulder could think of nothing to say. P R E S E N T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Indianapolis, Indiana Fucking town. Mulder tried to ignore the metropolis looming beyond the sedan windows. He was struggling to keep the immediate surroundings distanced from the conflicting feelings that had begun raging almost the second their plane touched down--and failing miserably. Mulder didn't need the pain compounded even more. He could have told her. Why hadn't he? Be careful what you wish for his inner voice taunted...you wanted a case, you have a case. Shut up and do your job. Mulder blinked his eyes hard, finding it a challenge to remain focused on the here and now. An endless loop of internal dialog was buzzing in his head begging for attention he knew should be focused elsewhere. Was it really suicide? Jack, you could have called. You *did* promise. Damn you. Mulder sighed. How many times was he going to torture himself with questions he might never be able to satisfactorily answer? Unfortunately, more positive forms of internal psychobabble were having no impact. His mind seemed to be operating on auto-pilot since hearing about Jack, with a singular focus that he knew had Scully more worried than she cared to admit. Seeing Pam again, ISU, his old office. Memories upon memories...the vast majority of them lousy. A life he'd closed the door on before it got to the point. The next thing that closed was the lid to his coffin. Had ISU finally gotten to Jack? Or was it something else entirely? Something personal? Both? They had been so out of touch, Jack's motivation might never be understood. Mulder had to accept that it was entirely probable that Jack Caulfield was the only person who would ever know the reason for what he had done. Over and over, the same tormenting questions. The same lack of answers. He so wanted to believe Jack had been happy. He needed to believe it, but no, Jack was onto something. His colleagues spotted the change in his professional behavior. They should have intervened, dammit! Easy to say, Mulder, the haughty inner voice taunted. You should have intervened. You should have known. He was YOUR friend but you were so busy looking inward -- Enough! Indianapolis, Indiana. Mulder had to concede there was a certain irony at being in Indiana, now of all times. He hadn't expected returning to the state would bother him. He'd been wrong. Seeing the town again had hit him hard. Jack would have appreciated it though. He liked ironies. His life had been full of them, and now, so was his death. Mulder dragged his hand across his face. He was already tired and their day had hardly begun. Random thoughts continued to clamor for attention. Shit, he needed to forget about this situation for a while. Jack's loss wasn't so different from scores of others in Mulder's life. Regardless of the modus operandi, in the final analysis, death was death. He knew how to cope with it, better than most, in fact. Was he so bothered because he was actually missing Jack, or because he felt guilty for having allowed pursuit of the X-files to overshadow the effort it took to remain in touch with an old friend who might have desperately needed his help? What he would give for a few minutes of peace. Just a little while with the knife out of his gut and thoughts of Jack Caulfield out of his head. Mulder shifted around to the right, determined to concentrate on the scenery directly beyond the window. He filled his mind with the sights and sounds of Hoosier land. The speed of the car made the view blurry-- annoying yet hypnotic. Be in the moment. Relax. The blur of colors and shapes continued, eventually becoming almost restful. A vision in which he could lose himself. Mulder hardly noticed when his thoughts slipped gently back into the past. P A S T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder was on the horns of a dilemma. Either take off the sunglasses and risk searing his rods and cones with the bright Indiana sunlight, or leave them on and be unable to glare furiously at Special Agent Jack Caulfield. Mulder would rather be anywhere but here, and he was pretty sure Caulfield felt the same way. Mulder hated being babysat. He had piles of work to do, goddammit. He didn't have time to be nursemaided by Jack Caulfield. "It's not what you think, you know," Caulfield said mildly. Mulder turned and glared through the glasses anyway. "Bullshit. It's exactly what I think. You went to Patterson and had me taken off the Oliphant case. And now I'm in the middle of goddammed nowhere with someone who has some kind of twisted auto death wish." Caulfield's mouth quirked and Mulder wanted to slug him. He ostentatiously reached into his briefcase and pulled out a sheaf of file folders. Caulfield, busy taking the curve on two wheels, still glanced over, making Mulder nervous. "You wouldn't mind watching the road, would you?" "I've driven this road plenty of times. Relax," Caulfield said in that same even tone. Mulder flipped open the first folder and uncapped his pen. "I meant it, Mulder. Relax." Disbelieving, Mulder turned slowly and stared at Caulfield. "What?" "That's why you're here. This might not seem like anything special to you. This may not be the world's most high-profile case but at the rate you're going, you'll be on nothing but high-profile cases so you may as well enjoy this." Caulfield was in a chatty mood and it was the same kind of chatty mood most of the profilers were in around Mulder. And it was the same kind of mild jealousy Mulder was getting sick of. Dammit. Mulder turned back to the folder. Caulfield wouldn't shut up. "It's not all about the big cases -" "You don't have to tell me that, Caulfield," Mulder snapped. Caulfield didn't even seem taken aback and Mulder wondered if he was going to be forced to move into Spooky mode. He hoped not. He was so tired already, and he'd only been on the job a few months. Bill Patterson had proved to have fangs and claws after all. AFTER Mulder had signed on the dotted line. All he needed was a day off. That would do it. He didn't need to make the long trek to Indiana with Jack Caulfield. He didn't need the lecture. "You didn't let me finish. It's not about the cases at all. It's not about the reports or the forensics or the preliminary profile. It's not about graphs and charts and pleasing Bill Patterson by working yourself to death." Mulder was not going to get any work done. He closed the folder and turned to look at Caulfield. "First of all, I am not working myself to death. I'm doing the job. The job requires a lot of hours. I knew that going in. I don't have a problem with it. Secondly, I don't need a rookie lecture from you about what the job is about. I know what the job's about. It's about catching fuckers who cut up little girls and innocents and putting them where they belong. It's about making sure families don't have to go through the hell that I -" Mulder broke off abruptly and looked away. He could feel Caulfield looking at him. Mulder felt he'd done a pretty good job hiding his past from his co-workers. He was brilliant, witty, good-looking, came from some money...and given all of that and the tragedy that had happened in his family, Mulder would qualify to be a Kennedy. But he didn't want everyone at Quantico pitying him, or thinking that he had another agenda; to avenge the loss of his sister. He didn't want everyone thinking that every little girl represented Samantha to him. Only they did. Every one of them, no matter what they looked like. Anyone missing, dead, mangled, tortured. Mulder desperately wanted to be accepted on his own terms again, the way he was before Sam disappeared. Without the stigma, without the blame. And here he was, two months into his big job, getting the shit kicked out of him because he was too fucking good at his job. Would it be better if you let them in, he wondered. If you let them see you as a human being, rather than a profiling machine? Mulder shifted in his seat. He hadn't been a human being for years. He'd been Something Else. He'd been a Good Student. He'd had Potential. He'd been Fox Mulder, brother of that poor little Samantha who'd disappeared. And Fox had been in the room, yet couldn't remember anything that had happened. Mulder heard the buzz-buzz of Chilmark again. It hurt his ears. He heard Samantha say his name again, for the last time. And then she said it again, and again. And again. Beseeching. Hysterical. Happy. Sad. Accusatory. Fox. Where are you? Fox. Help me. Save me. And he couldn't remember if any of that was real or not...none of it was real. All of it was real. Mulder grimaced as the headache lanced through him. Goddammit. This was all Caulfield's fault. The man in question nudged him and Mulder turned slightly. Without taking his eyes off the road, Caulfield unscrewed the cap off a bottle of Tylenol and handed the bottle to Mulder. "Take it," Caulfield said quietly. "Your headache is giving me a headache." That actually made Mulder smile slightly. A part of him worried about the amount of aspirin and Tylenol he'd been taking since he started working, but he told himself not to worry about it. Watching Caulfield unscrew the child-proof cap off the bottle with one hand convinced Mulder that he wasn't alone. And somehow...that made him feel better. He swallowed three Tylenol and stared miserably out the window. "Put the seat back and close your eyes for awhile. We're still a few hours out." "I can't sleep in anything that moves," Mulder said. The words were hard to get out and he wondered with a mild sense of alarm if he'd had another one of his attacks. He couldn't remember...he glanced sidelong at Caulfield. The fucker read his mind again. "Put your goddammed seat back. I didn't say you had to sleep. You want to talk about it?" "Talk about what?" Mulder bluffed, praying he hadn't done or said anything stupid. He hadn't had one of his attacks for a few weeks but he rarely remembered the really bad ones. He hadn't remembered the one at Oxford, the one that had landed him in the infirmary. He'd been out of classes for four days and after they hadn't found anything wrong with him and he'd been allowed to go back to class, he'd had to work ten times as hard just to catch up. It never got better. It only got worse. "Samantha." With shaking hands, Mulder reclined the seat and leaned back, dutifully closing his eyes. Maybe if he just stayed still, did what Caulfield said to do...maybe Caulfield would leave him alone. Hell, sometimes it worked with his father. Mulder quieted his breathing. It didn't fool Caulfield. "What the fuck's wrong with you, Mulder?" Caulfield asked. "You want me to rest or not?" Mulder asked quietly. He felt the car slow, heard the tink-tink of the blinker, felt the tires scrunch on gravel. Heard the scritch of the emergency brake. Mulder sighed, then opened his eyes and looked at Caulfield. "There's nothing wrong with me. The job -" "Right. You want to blame everything on the job, or nothing on the job, depending on the circumstances. What excuses did you use before the job?" "Papers. Tests. Fieldwork. That stupid obstacle course at the Academy..." Caulfield wasn't buying it. And suddenly, Mulder was infuriated. Goddammit, who did Caulfield think he was, anyway? The only thing Mulder had to answer for was the work. "I know how you feel about me, Caulfield. You certainly didn't hide it. You didn't want me in the ISU, and I can't imagine why you're with me now. Because Bill Patterson thought it would be funny, I guess." "Mulder, it's not just me. You don't get along with anyone. You're an arrogant asshole and you think you can soar on your brilliance alone. Well, you can't. We work together in this unit, Mulder, although it might not seem that way to someone like you." Mulder sat up, glaring at Caulfield and trying to ignore the headache. "Save the orientation speech. I don't need anyone else. I can do this job without ever seeing the inside of the ISU office. Didn't Patterson tell you? I'm gifted, intuitive, empathic, insightful. I can see the crime being committed, see the victim being torn to shreds. And I know why the killer kills. You fuckers never get that far." Mulder waited for Caulfield to hit him, tensed up in fact, but Caulfield just shook his head, disgusted. "No we don't," Caulfield said quietly. "And that's why none of us have gone downhill as quickly as you have. Because you can't let it go, Mulder. Maybe it seems exciting at first, to go as deep as you do. But you have to pay the price for it eventually." Mulder shook his head, frustrated. "It's not about that," he began. Caulfield locked eyes with him. "I know, Mulder. I saw, just now, in the car. But it will be. You've got a fucking thick skin from what I've seen, but it's not only about you pushing yourself. It's about Patterson. When he informed the rest of us that he was bringing in Spooky Mulder, you should have seen his eyes light up. It's like you were the coveted first-round draft pick, the All-Star rookie with unlimited potential. No matter what Patterson says to you, he doesn't give a damn about you personally. Everything he tells you to do, every compliment he gives you, every bawling out, is only about the work. It's never about you." "I know that," Mulder said. "That doesn't matter." Caulfield cocked his head and looked at Mulder, almost as if he was staring into Mulder's soul. Almost as if he was profiling him. Mulder shivered. "But it does matter, Mulder, because as far as I can see, you're not getting it from anyone else." Mulder was astonished and then he was furious. "You've got no business -" "I haven't done a goddammed thing. Even given all your highjinks, which are meant to convince everyone how together you are, I can see how fucking scared and lonely you are. So don't give me that Spooky crap. Don't put me at arms length, because I can see right through you." Mulder wavered. The twelve-year-old part of him, that part that had never gone away thanks to Samantha, wanted to dissolve and confess all. But Spooky was too strong. Spooky had been honed over the years to near perfection. Spooky was the survivor. Mulder was the failure. Mulder could see his indecision reflected in Caulfield's face. And then, Caulfield let him off the hook. "You don't have to say anything to me, Mulder. You don't have to explain your life to me. But I am not going to put up with your shit. It's dangerous. We don't have room for it, not on this job. Patterson sent you on this case because he was pissed at me for showing him the logic of taking you off the Oliphant case. And yes, before you say anything, I did get you taken off. You were inextricably wrapped up in that case and it was doing some serious damage to you, only Patterson didn't see it because you always get the work done. You're always in the office, tossing off those one-liners, swigging coffee, being one of us but not one of us. You hide it well. But I saw it. And there's one thing you have to give Patterson credit for. He doesn't wash people out. Oh, he gets close, as close as he can possibly get, but he never crosses that line. He's just never seen anyone like you before. He throws stuff at you, you smile and ask for more. You've actually outwitted Bill Patterson. Congratulations." "And I suppose now that he's onto me, that won't happen anymore, huh?" Mulder asked, still belligerent. Caulfield smiled slightly. "Thing is, Mulder, I don't think Patterson cares. If you're still able to put on an act, you must still be able to work. And you've set yourself a pretty nasty precedent there. It wasn't easy to convince him to pull you from the Oliphant case. But eventually, he saw it. He told me if I wanted to keep that close an eye on you, I could take you to Indy with me." Mulder's big job was starting to look like a big nightmare. "I don't need this, Caulfield," Mulder said quietly. Caulfield shrugged. "Take what you want out of the experience, Mulder. I don't give a shit. Sit there and glare at me for the rest of the trip. Make me look like a fucking idiot by getting your genius profile finished before I've even turned on my computer. No matter how it looks, I did you a favor." "I'm not going to wash out," Mulder said grimly, wincing at the desperation in his voice. Where had that come from? Caulfield shook his head and Mulder shifted, uncomfortable. "God, Mulder. What the hell are you looking for?" Mulder said it before Spooky could stop him. For one brief shining moment, Mulder opened up. And he wanted to kill himself for it. "My sister." The air in the car was thick and heavy and it pulled Mulder down. He wanted to close his eyes again but he couldn't, because Caulfield was staring at him with something Mulder hadn't seen in ages. With compassion. With understanding. Not empathy, but clarity. Caulfield didn't say anything and Mulder heard himself start talking again. "She disappeared when I was twelve. She was eight. Our parents had gone next door. I was in charge. One minute she was there, the next she wasn't. I don't remember what happened. Sometimes I can hear her calling to me, asking me to save her. But I can't. I - it changed everything. It was all different after that." Mulder closed his eyes. He wanted to throw up. He didn't talk about this; he couldn't. But somehow, Caulfield had made him. "What happened to you?" Caulfield asked quietly, his voice level. "I was in the hospital for a few weeks afterwards. I don't remember any of it. I wasn't hurt, I was just...I didn't remember anything. I can't talk about this anymore." Mulder fumbled for the door handle, wrenched open the door, and stumbled out into the Indiana day. He wasn't having an attack. Hadn't he had one in the car? He wasn't having one. He felt his legs carry him away from the car, away from Caulfield. He ran until he couldn't run anymore and then he fell to his knees and vomited up his Egg McMuffin. Goddammit, he thought bleakly. He stayed still until he was sure the nausea had passed. It wasn't an attack. Samantha hadn't called to him. His father hadn't yelled at him. He was still conscious. He took off his sunglasses and blinked at the bright light, felt it sting his face. Yeah, he was still conscious. Mulder felt an enormous sense of relief. He was just nauseous. No big deal. He felt better. "Mulder?" Mulder started. Caulfield had followed him? Mulder turned around. Caulfield, sunglasses in place, watched him worriedly from a few yards away. "You okay?" Mulder took a deep breath and got to his feet. "Uh...yeah. I shouldn't eat shit for breakfast. You didn't have to come after me." Caulfield put a hand on Mulder's elbow and guided him back to the car. "I know, Mulder. Nobody has to do anything for you." Mulder stopped and looked at Caulfield. "Nobody else knows...I've never told anybody about...my sister," he said quietly. Caulfield nodded. "I figured. Don't worry; your secret's safe with me. If you don't want anyone else to see you as a person, that's not my concern. It's your life." Mulder stared at him. "But no matter what, Mulder, I see you as one now. Good smokescreen, but it won't work with me anymore, will it?" Mulder felt himself smiling. "I guess not." "Come on, we're only a few hours away. And I know this great coffee shop. I have a feeling you're going to be hungry." P R E S E N T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Scully glanced at Mulder again. He had been staring out the passenger side window, still as death, for almost ten minutes. She found herself having second thoughts about taking this case. But no, it should do him good to have something else to think about. Being busy was all that had kept her sane when Ahab and Missy died. Mulder had used the same tactic to heal when his father was murdered. He needed this case. "--s. Will that give you enough time?" Scully's voice? The car. Damn, what had she said? Something about... "Time?" he asked glancing down at his watch. "It's almost ten A.M." She was giving him one of her looks. He could feel her eyes like pinpricks on the back of his neck. Scully was the only one he knew who could ask questions with a look he didn't need to see. "Mulder, did you hear anything I said?" she asked. Scully was mildly irritated when he didn't turn to look at her. What was he afraid she might notice? "Sorry. Something about scheduling?" "I'll need about six hours with the local ME. Hopefully I can squeeze in a review of the other victims before dinner. Will that give you enough time for your preliminary with the Indy PD?" "Sure, pick me up when you're ready," he said offhandedly, continuing to gaze out the window. "Are you going to tell me?" she asked with more tolerance than he knew she was feeling. "Tell you what?" "Gee, I don't know, Mulder. That you brought along an extra suitcase because you've got a modeling job while we're in town?" "Very funny," he said turning at last to meet her gaze. Scully could see the haunted look in his eyes. The pain he was trying to diligently hide from her. Hadn't they decided not to play these games with one another anymore? To share what was on their minds? "You brought Jack's cases, didn't you? Some of the files at his house?" Mulder didn't answer. He didn't have to. His face said it all. "What do you expect to find?" "I'm not sure. Something...anything. I'll know when I see it. I hope." "And if there's nothing there?" "Then there's nothing there." But he was sure there was. There *had* to be. "Did you ever bother to read the file for the case we've come to investigate?" Ah, the case. Mulder smiled for the first time since the trip from the airport began. Facts and photographs related to the file began to pour into his consciousness as Jack Caulfield began to fade. "Ready for one of my infamous recitations? Pick the page, I have free choice of paragraph, as usual." Scully grinned. Good, Mulder was back, mentally 'on' and ready to work. * * * * * * * * * "Coffee black, sugar. Rueben, hold the mayo." "Hey, thanks, partner," Mulder replied. "Home already?" "What can I say? The ME started the autopsy before I arrived, so I ended up assisting. We got everything bagged and sent out for analysis." Scully let out a low whistle. Mulder had masterfully transformed the Indy police department's conference room into a command center. Not quite six hours since they'd parted company and he'd already organized the place so anyone walking through the door would be able to scan a set of portable bulletin boards and appreciate the logic as well as the inconsistencies inherent to each of the five victims' deaths. A final board was set aside for synthesis and theory work, the space reserved for all random ideas or insights investigators might feel a desire to pose during their respective shifts. Mulder was fast, but this was amazing even for him. "What do you think so far?" "I think we might be home in time for you to see this week's Melrose Place." "You're kidding." "I'm fairly certain we've wasted our time and Uncle Sam's money on this one." "What makes you think so?" "It's not ours. I've convinced them they aren't looking at accident or natural causes and the PD can run with it from here." "Pardon? You've not seen the autopsy but you've convinced them?" "Coincidences, Scully. No such thing. Not five in under a year in a single school anyway." Scully felt a wave of relief at the tone of confidence in his voice, albeit tempered with some irritation that he hadn't even bothered to ask her opinion on the matter. "Really?" She injected just enough sarcasm into her voice for him to recognize the teasing. Mulder scanned the room. The set up of the command center was so by the book it was funny. How often had he played the guru from DC, parachuting in on the locals and organizing them in the Quantico image? Too often. The X-Files were different. On them they were lucky to borrow a desk and a phone, except of course when the incident was so horrific or unbelievable they couldn't even get that amount of acknowledgment. This was ISU's world, Jack's world. A horrible tremor of deja vu. He'd been in this room before. Dana Scully noted the sudden uncertainty in her partner's eyes. She hadn't planned to throw him like that, not when he was so obviously on song. On auto-pilot. She felt the flicker of realization. Yep, on auto-pilot and she'd just knocked the controls back to manual. No wonder he suddenly looked nervous. Another man's voice intervened. "I'm Nick Laing, you must be Agent Scully, Mulder said you would be along." "Hi. Looks like my partner's been busy." "Mulder? Busy? No way. He just sat there drinking coffee while we did the work." Mulder came out of the haze and surveyed Laing. "Don't pay any attention, Scully. There's brain as well as brawn needed on these jobs." Laing smiled. "Brain work, from a fibbie. Just wait until the boys hear that one." He turned towards Dana Scully. "Sorry, Agent Scully. No offense. I've worked with Mulder before. Took me for ten dollars last time. How much did you make on that case?" "Not enough to retire on." Laing turned again towards Scully. "Half way through presenting the profile to my lot Mulder reckons they aren't paying enough attention so he offers to take bets on type, age and color of the car the perp would be using. Bang on. Cost us a bundle. Put cooperation with the Bureau back ten years." Scully turned to Mulder, trying to visualize him playing games with the local PD to get their attention. Mulder noted the quizzical stare and offered. "Okay, so it was unsporting. Now if they'd made me do make and model it could have been tougher. But small, Japanese jeep-style four-wheel drive? Too easy." A pause, then he turned away. "Back in a minute." Scully turned to Laing as Mulder walked away. "Sounds like he made an impression." "I'll say. I heard he was the one who went after Patterson. Bad business. I'd expected Mulder to take over ISU, but he says he's not with them anymore." "No. We're specialists." Laing chuckled. "So I'm told. Paranormal phenomena. Sorry you ended up on a wild goose chase with this one. Just some tabloid headline writer linking heavy metal band posters to voodoo. I'm embarrassed that we didn't handle this ourselves. I got assigned to the case about half an hour after Mulder arrived this morning. I feel bad that you had to come out from Washington to remind us how to do our jobs." "Well, you may still need our help. We work on allegedly paranormal phenomena but all that means is that the forensic evidence is difficult to explain. You still don't have any proof of murder." "But it's pretty clear, from what Mulder said, from the profile he gave us." "The profile?" Mulder returned with more coffee. "They don't have a ISU profiler assigned to the region at the moment so I thought I'd help out then we can get home." A pause. "Did you get anything from the body?" "Not yet. We're waiting on the tests now. But I need to talk to you about this." No reply. Laing noted the pause and turned to Mulder. "Oh, I get it, secret Fibbie stuff hey? I can take a hint. See you later." Laing walked back to join the detectives reading over the files. Scully tried to guess how many cups of coffee Mulder had consumed and decided she'd rather not know. "I think they need our help. Five deaths. We're looking at heart failure, natural causes, unless they get more out of this analysis than the previous ones. They'll have no evidence. I agree with you about coincidences. I don't agree the job's over. What do you think was the cause of death?" Mulder shuffled from foot to foot. "As soon as I got here I realized there were long delays from last sighting of the victim to the death to someone finding the body. My guess would be insulin poisoning. Pointing to an UNSUB with access to insulin, who knew the victims well enough to get them out of the way without them struggling. Can't be many candidates. The motive will be obvious once they put the shortlist together." "Maybe. So you're going to ask them to bank on getting a confession on their own without backup from behavioral. How come they've no ISU contact?" Mulder's voice was becoming a little shaky. "It's Jack's area." Scully winced. Talk about diving in with both feet. She recovered as well as she could. "I'll reexamine the forensic evidence based on the possibility that we're looking at insulin-induced coma." This just isn't fair. Scully was right, of course she was right, Mulder knew that. They couldn't walk away from five murders until they were convinced that the case was going to be handled successfully. But why them? It didn't need to be them. Not when there was a problem that needed work that no one else could handle except him. Not when he didn't know why Jack was dead. A compromise. He'd try a compromise. "Let's work through tomorrow. I'll fly back tomorrow night, if I can, to the funeral. Then if you still think I'm needed out here I'll come back the day after that." Dana Scully nodded with relief. P A S T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder read the report of the indictment proceedings. He'd hoped that the Judge was wrong and that he could look Jack Caulfield in the eye and sympathize with him over the inadequacies of the justice system. Except the Judge's verdict was hard to argue with; not enough evidence to go to grand jury. There would be a trial, but based on the evidence presented at the preliminary hearing, it would be perfunctory at best. The evidence photos showed only who had died, not who had killed; the profile needed corroborating evidence to be persuasive; the interrogation had given them nothing; the forensics were either fucked up or lost in some black hole between the PD and the DA and the Bureau. Nothing. So much garbage. There were the fibers linking the suspect to the crime scene but enough mistakes in the audit trail to mean it wasn't damning proof and the Judge had decided it wasn't even admissible. The Judge was right. They didn't have a case, but Jack still stubbornly clung to the theory that they had their man. Hell, they could haul in anyone else who fit the profile and get just as much as they did with Forster. It wasn't the guy. They'd jumped the gun. Jack had taken Mulder's profile and run with it because he was too insecure to do anything else. The TV news teams and the rest of the press had been waiting on the steps of the court building. Special Agent Jack Caulfield made few comments, just a statement that the case was closed, that they strongly believed Raymond Forster was the killer and that he'd be brought to justice. Standard Jimmy Stewart fare. Already triumphant smiles on the faces of the Defense Attorneys, a relieved look in the eyes of their suspect, Raymond Forster. The distraught faces of the victims' families. And Jack Caulfield trying to look the part of quietly confident Federal Agent who had his man, who had to believe Forster guilty when Mulder could see he wasn't. Mulder watched. He was still at home in DC but he didn't see anyway of getting out of Cleveland without a few scars. * * * * * * * * * Jack Caulfield was avoiding him and Mulder knew it. Yet Mulder also knew that the rules of the game said that both parties had to pretend their failure to talk was accidental. They communicated by email, but maybe communicated was too strong a word. Mulder scowled at the screen. So Jack had needed to stay in Ohio, clean up after the trial and organize for the next phase of the investigation or the next incident. Incident, a polite word for a dead kid. Fine. And then Jack was on a few days vacation, hey, everyone needed a vacation sometimes. And then Jack was just too busy visiting the VCS team in DC. Except when Mulder was at the Hoover Building and then Jack was on his way to Quantico. The trial had ended as quickly as Mulder had thought it would. The judge threw everything out, seemed to treat the prosecutor with disdain. 'Don't waste my time' seemed to be the prevailing attitude. There would be another death. No doubt about it. A little girl would be taken and scream and die in the night and only a miracle would prevent it. And no miracle came. The murder had occurred only an hour after the verdict came down. Mulder looked at the story that had come in over the wire. Even Patterson couldn't stop him chasing this one. But the Boston case would stop him traveling to Cleveland to do it. Jack Caulfield appeared in front of Fox Mulder's desk at a little after 9am. Jack's face said it all, but still Jack felt obliged to speak the words. "It was him, fifty miles out of town. It was him. Wasn't it?" The tone of the question almost turned it into an accusation. Mulder nodded and handed Jack a printout. Tightly worded. This time the i's were dotted and the t's were crossed. Jack scanned the first page, closed his eyes and offered up a silent prayer. "I won't let you down." Mulder swallowed. Let you down. He understood all of the words, but the phrase 'let you down', he didn't understand that. For one thing this wasn't about Mulder, for another it implied Jack had a choice about the outcome. "Just don't let them force your hand, Jack. Not like they did with Forster," Mulder said quietly, feeling Bill Patterson's eyes on the back of his head. Patterson stood, calmly surveying the little show playing out in front of him. He'd talk to them about it. Later. * * * * * * * * * Boston, a motel room and a file full of fuck ups. Mulder tried again. Boston. A motel room. And a file that now contained the details of crimes by one UNSUB. A list of suspects that certainly included the UNSUB. And three killings by copycats. Great. Just great. How many hours had he spent on that profile back in DC? Had they read it yet? And what the hell was going on with Jack and Bill? How was Jack handling this latest wrinkle in the case from hell? Mulder shifted his shoulders as they began to tense up. He remembered the almost proprietary look on Bill's face as he'd watched Mulder pick up the Boston files and head out. Had Mulder really fucked up that badly with Jack? He closed his eyes and tried to think generous thoughts. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he'd work the crime scenes. Tomorrow he'd interview the witnesses. Tomorrow he'd argue the arguments. He sipped another glass of Gatorade and studied the chicken sandwich. He'd been eating it for quite a while now, so how come it was the same size as when he started? Maybe he could sell it to Unsolved Mysteries. He sniffed at the plate, at least he could smell the onion in the salad so he was obviously on the mend. Mulder looked down at the file photo. The victim's body was still moving, more blood pulsing its way out and spattering the world with red. The crisp white paper pages turned scarlet and he watched in fascination as the patterns of splashes built over the backs of his hands. He jerked his head back, hitting the headboard, and the folder fell to the floor. He tried to breathe, concentrated hard on the feel of the air arriving in his lungs. < Another good one. Eat your heart out Sony Corporation, 3D moving pictures with tactile feedback and no electronics required.> Though maybe Patterson's throat lozenges had helped with the special effects. He looked at the remaining lozenges and flicked them into the trash. Mulder's eyes, dark and damp, looked around the room for distractions. He switched on the TV, skimming fast, channel to channel. He flicked back, something in his peripheral vision catching his attention. Special Agent Jack Caulfield, smartly dressed, uncompromisingly upright in stance was staring into a CNN camera. Eyes blank, lips silent. The reporter did the talking for him and the reporter had the video footage to tell the story. The police guards led Raymond Forster from the jail. The secure van was waiting for them only yards from the door. But they never got there. Victor Samuel Jackson, father of Victoria Jackson, second victim of the killer, had appeared from the lively crowd of spectators that had gathered in front of the jail. Two minutes later Forster was dead and Jackson was dying from the gunshot wound he'd inflicted on himself as soon as he was happy that he'd done his job with Forster. The Agents carefully recorded the names of the crowd who'd witnessed the shootings. Not that it mattered. They had perfect, professional, broadcast quality video footage of the whole event. Special Agent Jack Caulfield, overseeing the operation, stood numbly while the TV crews jostled for position. Mulder sat in his motel bedroom and watched the images on CNN that night. A lot of people saw Jack Caulfield trying to keep it all together, to stay professional, that night. P R E S E N T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder dropped the remote control as soon as he heard Dana Scully's knock on the motel room door. He looked around the bedroom. The VCR he'd borrowed from the PD was perched precariously on the TV and was decorated with a disorderly stack of videos. Piles of photos, newspaper cuttings, photocopied casefiles now covered the bed and the floor. No chance of hiding the evidence. He sighed and opened the door. Scully handed him the pizza box. "Hmm, nice room. Unusual carpet. Color-coded FBI case files. Obviously not yours." Mulder shrugged. "There's a lot of it. I'm just trying to make some sense out of it." "Why?" "I need to know why Jack killed himself." Scully took a deep breath. At least he's accepting the suicide. Be cruel to be kind. Make him see this was unreasonable. Especially when they had a real case of their own. That focus that had let them work through the deaths of loved ones, where was it now? "Haven't you heard enough?" she asked evenly. "You've hardly seen the guy in years. I didn't even know you knew him until a few days ago. Why does it have to be you who does this?" "I know that I've not seen much of him." A pleading tone arrived in her voice. "There were people he was working with, who knew he was in trouble and who couldn't help him. He was in therapy and that didn't help him. But you're the only one who's knee-deep in his old papers. Why?" Mulder's voice held a pleading tone of its own. "Because he didn't tell me there was something wrong and I have to know why." "Why would he tell you?" "He promised." "Promised? Promised what? What are you talking about?" Mulder fidgeted nervously. "That he would call if he was in trouble." "Why you?" "Because I made him promise." Scully sat and stared at her partner. The lost look in his eyes. Yet mixed with an almost petulant body language that was screaming 'hands off'. She resolved that she would make him talk, if not tonight, then soon, after the funeral. She'd give him that long. She'd work this case alone if she had to. But, it was clear that the best she could hope for from Mulder was auto- pilot. Not that he was bad at it. Just that an auto-pilot running on empty could be a dangerous thing. * * * * * * * * * Dana Scully swapped notes with her partner over breakfast. Wired was not the word. Jumpy. Tired. Anxious to get home. His mind was on overdrive and wherever it was, it wasn't here in Indianapolis. Grief, she'd seen. Whatever was going on with Mulder, right now, she didn't recognize. Let him get through the funeral. She'd do what she could out here and maybe he wouldn't need to come back. She watched the transformation as he walked into the police headquarters. Calm professionalism. Way to go, G-man. Mulder talked through the profile as if he was reading pages from a text book. Probably some abstract philosophical text on the number of angels that could dance on the head of a pin, though the words themselves were all taken from the jargon of serial killing. Crucially, the killer was not escalating even though he had operated undetected. His reaction to police involvement would give him away. He would not attack again while the heat was on so they had time to get it right, gather the forensics, gently interview friends, family. Wait for someone to identify himself. Nick Laing took it all in. Listened intently. Accepted it as surely as if the words were set in stone on tablets that had arrived accompanied by Moses. Scully looked on in stunned silence. She'd seen this Mulder before, but how he could turn it on and off that quickly, she couldn't imagine. How much that split personality cost him to maintain, she couldn't guess. When she dropped him and both his suitcases back at the Airport for the flight back to DC she found herself wishing she was going with him. No wonder he wanted to get away as soon as he arrived. She regretted having to stay. But she had to stay, this was her job. If he was no better when he got back from the funeral, she'd make him take a few days off. P A S T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The head of the Boston Bureau was treading a fine line between relief at grabbing a very convictable killer complete with signed confession and wanting to complain to Patterson and his crew that they'd left him exposed and unsupported for too long. Mulder sat through the performance, feigning polite interest at the words the manager (ex-Army Captain, last posting, a training academy) was using. Mulder amused himself by pretending to take notes and nodding his head at the right moments in the lecture. At the end of the session, Mulder wrote in the heading to his notes and handed them to the investigating team, 'Copycat UNSUB behavioral profile and investigation strategy'. The Agent in Charge read the opening lines, smiled a thankyou and nodded appreciatively. Mulder returned to DC a week after the death of Raymond Forster and Victor Jackson. As soon as he got back into town he went looking for Jack Caulfield. He knew, thought he knew, that Jack would want to talk to him. Mulder saw Jack Caulfield retreating quickly down the corridor and called to him. Jack simply acknowledged his hello and vanished around the corner. Jack was trying to avoid him again? It didn't seem right. Sure, Jack had been through a bad time. But Jack couldn't just walk away from him, Jack knew better than that. Mulder returned to the ISU office pale and unhappy and not even bothering to try and hide the hacking cough that was all that remained of the flu symptoms. The ISU team weren't the chattiest bunch in the world. A couple of glib jokes, an update on the who's-dating-who gossip. They didn't like to go much deeper. It started to get too close to home. Mulder gritted his teeth and kept nagging. Who'd spoken to Jack? What had he said? Who, exactly, had he spoken to? Fuckers. Fat lot of use they'd be as witnesses in a Court room. The only chance Mulder had to find out what was really happening with Jack would be in person. He called Jack Caulfield's home number, then his cellular, but he wasn't getting past the answering machine. It just didn't feel right so he got in his car and drove to Jack Caulfield's house. It was a pretty place, miles away from Quantico and God knows, Quantico was miles from anywhere. He remembered what Jack had told him about buying it and how he'd picked out the tile finishes and furniture with his wife and how optimistic they'd been and how empty the house was now she'd left him. Jack never wanted to talk about it, just shrugged it off. Divorce, common enough right across the community. Widely viewed as an occupational hazard for any Agent. And for someone expected to tune out the world and tune in with psychopaths? Too common. Mulder turned into the driveway. The lights were off. Just a wild goose chase, then. Jack's car was nowhere to be seen. He'd gone out somewhere, drowning his sorrows perhaps. Mulder ran through his recollections of previous evenings out and wondered if he could guess where Jack would be. Another coughing fit later, Mulder suddenly felt very tired. He'd hunt for Jack tomorrow. It was obvious Jack didn't want to see him tonight. The house was so quiet...Mulder cocked his head. All the lights were off, including the security light that should have flicked on when Mulder drove up. He sat up as he felt a sickening twisting in his gut and then a shockwave of fear went through his head. He got out of the car and ran to the house, banged hard on the door, listened carefully for any noise from within. Heard nothing except his own wheezing. He concentrated on slowing his breathing so that he was able to listen properly. Then he caught it, a low muffled humming noise. He turned towards the garage and banged on the door and found it locked. Mulder screamed with anger and frustration. Thanked God or someone that he'd been in the house before and knew his way around. Thanked God or someone that Jack hadn't bothered to bolt the front door. He barged his way into the house, found the connecting doors to the garage and screamed again as he pushed into the fumes. Surprising how much strength a surge of adrenaline could supply. He pushed the outside doors from the garage open. Switched off the car's engine. Hauled Jack Caulfield's unconscious body back through the utility room towards the kitchen. Jack was bigger than him, same height, but a lot of pounds and dead weight. The virus and the tiredness and the cocktail of flu remedies Mulder had taken to keep working were catching up fast. Add the fact he'd only just started eating again and that he'd been too sick to even go running and it was hitting him. Even Patterson had told him to go home. Mulder inched his way into the house, finally collapsing, choking, retching when something in his mind gave him the instruction he'd moved far enough into the clean air and that he could stop now. The coughing fit triggered the nausea and Mulder felt an odd twinge of relief that at least he was on the tiled floor of Jack's pristine kitchen and not ruining the immaculate carpets of Jack's living room. Not that it mattered. He hoped it mattered. He hoped that Jack was there to care about the furnishings. He looked across at Jack and could see Jack's chest was still moving. The adrenaline high collapsed and there was nothing left. The energy he had spent on the coughing fit had come from an energy reserve he didn't have. The world went dark and cold, so Mulder lay still and waited for the walls of the room to stop moving. When Mulder finally got the energy to open his eyes again he realized that he could hear Jack breathing and sniffing. Jack was by his side. Jack was living, breathing and conscious. And by his side. Thank God. Mulder tried to smile. An anguished cry. "Mulder. What happened?" If Mulder hadn't been lying down he would certainly have fallen over. "Jack." Mulder spoke as carefully and distinctly as he could, trying to make sure Jack heard and understood. But his voice was feeble, weak with shock and sickness. "I have to call the paramedics." Jack's voice was unclear but he got his message over. "What happened to you? Are you okay?" Mulder closed his eyes and tried to make sense of it. Jack was asking him if he was okay. Jack's voice again. "Did he get you, too?" + Mulder tried to get the cotton wool out of his head. A soft reply. "I got you out of the garage. I have to call for help." The sound of Jack's voice as he replied shocked Mulder. It sounded far more powerful than he'd have guessed possible. It was almost a scream. "No." An anguished cry and Jack Caulfield grabbed tight on to Mulder's arm. "No, wait." And Mulder did. And he had no more idea about why he waited than he had about why he had known that Jack was in trouble that night. Mulder tried to clear his throat and mumble out soothing words, but it was still too raw to make it easy. Jack kept his hold on Mulder's arm, a ferocious grip. Mulder tried to pull away. Pull away without hurting Jack any more. He started to pry Jack's fingers away. It shouldn't be this hard, it shouldn't. Mulder was shivering, shaking and he realized that he couldn't move. They sat and waited. Jack mumbled and groaned. Mulder tried to listen to him but all he could hear was his own heart beating. Eventually Mulder's brain started to clear so he waited until he got enough control back to mumble some words. "Jack. Please. You were unconscious, you need to be checked over for that, if nothing else." Mulder knew the comment was stupid. If Jack went to the hospital it wouldn't take a behavioral specialist from the FBI to work out what had happened. Jack gripped his arm tighter. "No. I heard a noise." Mulder felt sick and weak and helpless. "What are you saying, Jack? That someone did this to you?" "Someone." "Then all the more reason to call 911." Jack's voice was collapsing into a whimper. "No." Another whimper. "I know how this looks. No one will believe me. There's no hurry, I'm breathing okay. Wait this out with me. Just wait." Mulder felt the muscles in his neck tighten as the shivers ran more aggressively down his spine. He felt powerless, overwhelmed. He knew what he had to do. He'd heard the lecture often enough. Agreed with it, even. But this wasn't just someone. This was Jack, who'd taken him under his wing, fended off Patterson. Defended him. Encouraged him. Listened to him. Hadn't turned him in when the panic attacks had torn into him. Jack had always let him talk. The least Mulder could do now was let Jack talk. Mulder struggled to form the words. "I can't just leave here and pretend nothing happened." "Help me. Let me get some evidence that I was attacked." Mulder's eyes were filled with disbelief, that Jack could be sticking to such a story. But still he couldn't force himself to pull away and make the call. They waited. "Help me find who did this, you're the best." Jack paused, aware that Mulder wasn't believing any of his words. "And, I'll talk to the shrinks. I didn't do this, but I could have." Jack hesitated. "This could save me. You could save me." Mulder shivered. "Please, Jack. Don't do this to me. You need help." Jack's voice, when it came again, was desperate. "I'll get help. If you report this I'll have nothing. I've already lost Pam. If you turn me in I'll lose my job. I'll have nothing. And you might as well have let me die, because I won't have anything left." Mulder closed his eyes and noticed the tears pooling on his cheeks, some combination of the fumes and the virus and something else. If Jack was telling the truth then he was in the sights of some killer. But even Mulder knew Jack couldn't be telling the truth, much as Mulder would have liked to believe it. The longer it took to call a medical team or push 911 on the phone, the less relevant it seemed. Jack seemed to be in no physical trouble from the asphyxiation. In fact, looking at the two of them and being asked to choose, any stranger would have guessed it was Mulder who needed the medical help. Jack cleaned the kitchen floor. Mulder sat and quietly drank a cup of soup that Jack had blasted through the microwave. It seemed so incongruous. Jack was mothering him again, yet it was Jack who was in trouble. Mulder tried to reconcile the two sets of images in his brain and he couldn't. The longer it took for him to report it, the harder it would get. They worked through the garage as if it were a crime scene. But there was nothing to be found. Two stories would fit. Jack Caulfield fell asleep in his house after taking sleeping pills, walked drowsily into his garage on hearing a noise, and was knocked out and loaded into his car by some unseen, massively strong, unknown, but gloved person who closed the garage doors and switched on the engine. Jack Caulfield took two pills, went to his car, closed the garage doors, switched on the engine. Sustained bruising when Mulder bumped him to the ground while dragging his body back to safety. Two stories. Mulder knew which one he believed. By the end of the day Jack Caulfield looked as if he wasn't sure which one he believed. * * * * * * * * * It wasn't an easy deal to live with, but it was a deal. A promise made. A promise that Fox Mulder was convinced that Jack Caulfield would keep. A promise that might not save Jack's life, but a promise to try. They would keep in touch and if ever Jack's mind turned towards death he would phone. There would be no excuses either way. Mulder would come to him. Jack would give Mulder the chance to get there. And Mulder was sure that Jack Caulfield would stick to his side of the bargain and he would stick to his. P R E S E N T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The funeral passed in a haze of black and charcoal gray suits. Mulder studied the faces. The odd mingling of sadness with the strange bright moments of recognition as people who'd not met for months or years were brought together again. Jack had a lot of friends. Or maybe none. Not when it mattered. And that emotion was there in the crowd as well. Some of it embarrassment at the manner of Jack's death. Suicide was a death not to be spoken of, Catholic or not. But mostly embarrassment that when it mattered, none of the had been able to help. Pamela smiled sadly as she passed Mulder on the path, her arm linked with her new husband's. Mulder softly squeezed her hand and they parted without words. Mulder felt a hand on the shoulder and turned to face its owner. Assistant Director Walter Skinner was standing beside him. Mulder flinched as he took in the AD's expression. Skinner's eyes contained an extra element that Mulder immediately read as alarm. Why alarm? And why when they were about the same height did Mulder feel like he was looking up at Skinner? Oh. Funny what others can see that you can't see yourself. Stand up straight. Sort yourself out. Mulder was gratified to see the slight relaxation in Skinner's features as he adjusted his posture. "Hello, Sir." "I hear you flew back for this." Mulder pulled away slightly, silently willing Skinner not to push him. Skinner read the body language and moved back a little. "I'm glad you were able to get back. Will you need to return to Indianapolis?" "I'll check with Agent Scully tonight. I'd like to hand it back to the PD once we're done." "Your call." A pause. "Jack was a good man. He'll be missed." "Yes, Sir." Skinner moved away. Mulder thought Skinner looked strangely uncomfortable. Actually most people seeing him had looked away nervously, strangely uncomfortable. What did that mean? Shit. Mulder felt the muscles in his shoulders tie themselves in another knot. He didn't do this. Not anymore. He didn't profile friends, colleagues. He didn't attempt to analyze himself from their perspective. He just didn't. They looked at him and saw the guilt. And it was reminding them of their own guilt. Mulder turned away from the grave. Why couldn't you call me, Jack? You could go and talk to the therapists even though they didn't understand what you were going through. You could be so busy working that you missed the deadlines on your own casework. You could catalogue the fucking burgers in your freezer. Yet you couldn't call me. Why, Jack? What was so important? Mulder almost walked straight through Wiggins, but Wiggins took quick evasive action. In fact Mulder couldn't recall ever seeing Wiggins move so fast. "Sorry, Wiggins." Wiggins spoke quickly. "We'll miss him. We'll all miss him. A couple of us are going for a drink. I just wondered." "No. No, thanks." Wiggins inviting him for a drink? Shit. For Wiggins to act concerned he had to be looking fucking awful. Sort yourself out. Get out of here before someone decides to call a shrink to check you over. The drive back to the apartment seemed to take a disproportionately long time. The jams weren't helping. In fact, they were bad enough that he almost fell asleep on a couple of the interchanges, only woken by the sudden involuntary twitch of the neck muscles than reminded him to stay awake. Sleep would be a good idea. He walked back into his apartment, hit the play button on the VCR remote and settled down to another three hours of five year old CNN recordings. What was so special, Jack? Fast forward was making him dizzy. A couple of Advil and anyway, even if you fall asleep, it doesn't matter because there isn't anything on the videos. This is just some weird idea Jack got in his head because he was so depressed and so lonely and his job was sending his mind into some kind of horror story that connected all the tragedies together into one neat tidy web of evil. Must be a conspiracy. Some of it made sense, in an odd senseless way. Some of the victims were the sort of people who don't die in accidents or of natural causes. They get taken out by enemies or more commonly by 'friends'. Yet, they certainly looked like accidents or natural causes or random muggings gone wrong. Or suicides. Staging murder to look like something else was not impossible, just unusual. Well, unless Jack was right and then maybe it was quite common. No wonder Jack got curious about the idea. But this wasn't just a few professional hits. This was dozens of deaths that Jack had clippings for. Victims with no underworld contacts. An outside possibility of them being targets but not so many and not by such a killer. A professional hitman at the top of his profession. Why had Jack roped the other cases in? It turned the idea from the barely credible into the ridiculous. Mulder considered the dates of the deaths. The most understandable targets were concentrated in the early years. Did Jack think the killer had developed a taste for death that even his job couldn't deliver and had escalated? That his job was also his hobby? Identify with that, Mulder. The insistent whine of the phone roused him from the daydream. It was eight in the morning. Had he slept? No idea, didn't feel like it though. He picked up the receiver and heard Scully's voice telling him about the latest death in Indianapolis. A young woman teacher, twenty five years old, had been found dead. She'd not been seen since the evening before but unlike the other victims she'd been found soon after her death. Almost as if someone wanted her found. Stop me before I do this again. I can't help myself. The PD had just barely started to turn up the heat and had immediately been rewarded with another dead body. Mulder's coldly confident words of a couple of days earlier echoed through his head. 'Killer not escalating....would not attack again while the heat was on... Time to get it right.... Wait for someone to identify himself....' And Nick Laing, taking it all in. The Spooky myth claims another victim. Scully was telling him something about an autopsy. He'd get the next flight. Oh, fucking hell. What have you done? How'd you misread it so bad? Because you fuck things up when you're tired and not concentrating. Just like you fucked things up with Jack. He wouldn't take the videos back with him, too awkward to handle, too time consuming to do justice to. He threw a suit out of one of the suitcases and loaded files in its place. He forced as much as he could into suitcase and briefcase and headed to the car. * * * * * * * * * * Arriving at Indianapolis was hard work. Only one suitcase so Scully would know he was trying. Only one but two-thirds full of Jack's files. Better hope you're out of here soon or that the motel's got a decent laundry service. Somebody would be here to meet him. Scully perhaps. He didn't want to see Scully. If Scully was busy, then maybe it would be Nick Laing. He couldn't face Nick Laing. One of Nick's officers. Maybe he could dodge them and get a taxi. Scully almost had to trip him up to stop him. "You know you didn't look up once since you came through the door." He looked up now, looking down meant that he might see her face. "Sorry. I was thinking." "Well, think about this. Definite puncture wound on the latest victim. But I don't think this is going to be insulin." "No?" "No. Deep puncture, you don't need that for insulin. And the other signs are of an OD, heroin, something. We'll know when we get the toxicological back." "But that would mean the other autopsies were completely screwed up." "I think it really is a different MO. Faster. Now that the UNSUB knows we know the deaths are murder our killer doesn't need to be so cautious." Mulder frowned. It was possible, hardly likely though. Shit. What did he know about likely, he'd told them they had plenty of time. Who'd suggest a pattern like that? "You've been talking to Wiggins." "Just to check if ISU had someone to cover the region yet. So we can get back. It's certainly no X-File now." "And as I've already screwed up once you don't think I should screw it up again." Scully hesitated. She'd seen that coming. Everyone agreed that Mulder would be better off back in Washington. Hell, Mulder had agreed with that yesterday. And today he looked just plain awful, as bad as when she'd found him asleep in the X-Files office when she came back from doing Jack's autopsy. Except now he had weeks of not sleeping, erratic eating and God knows what else to mess him up. Didn't he know? "You're exhausted. You look like shit. I bet you didn't eat yesterday." Mulder shrugged. Of course he'd eaten. A hot dog from a stand. He'd eaten that, then had to throw it away. Coffee counts though. Surely. "Let's finish this discussion after I've viewed the latest evidence." And with that Mulder put the "no entry" shutters back in place across his eyes and ended the conversation. They drove in silence back to the station. Nick Laing was the first to greet them. "Hi Mulder. You look rough." "That's a more generous description than Agent Scully suggested." "How was the funeral?" "Usual. One corpse, one hole in the ground. Couldn't have been better." "Are you okay?" "Me? I'm absolutely fucking marvelous. Let's see the new evidence." Laing pulled away and let Mulder get through to the boards, the files and the photos. Laing turned to Scully, moving carefully out of hearing range of Mulder. "Is he okay?" "Three guesses." A lot of coffee and cookies later and Mulder had scarcely shifted from the five yard track in front of the evidence boards. Laing tried to attract his attention. "Mulder. Will you quit with the fucking pacing." "Why? Worried about the carpet?" "You getting anywhere?" Mulder's voice softened, became oddly distant. "Nothing. Zero. I'm going to head over to the latest crime scene, then I'll go back to the motel. This isn't working." "Take a break. Get some real food. Get some sleep." Laing paused and waited for the sharp rebuttal. When none came he decided to keep talking. "Look. I know you don't want to hear this but this isn't to do with your profile. We weren't really rolling. This isn't because you said it was okay to turn the pressure on. Because we hadn't yet." Mulder turned sharply, voice low and harsh. "Don't patronize me. This isn't a fucking game." Laing swallowed and walked away. The crime scene held no surprises. There had been no real struggle. The autopsy had found a few bruises on the victim's arm at the injection point but that was all. Scully trudged patiently behind her partner looking for an opportunity to talk but finding none. She forced him to keep still long enough to actually sit through a meal in the diner. As he knocked back yet another cup of coffee, she decided that she had to say something, despite his lack of attention. "What Laing said. About them not really having upped the pressure at the time of the killing. It was true, the profile hadn't really come into play." "I'll apologize to Laing tomorrow. I shouldn't have snapped at him." "Mulder. That's not what I meant. You're blaming yourself over this and it's not your fault. Just like you're blaming yourself over Jack's death. You need a break, some down time to get sorted out. We aren't needed here now." "So who is? If there's escalation this sharp they need behavioral backup and they don't have anyone in ISU." He paused, suddenly irritated. "Or do they?" "Hardesty's been assigned. He can fly out." A sharp intake of breath. "I'm going to be replaced by fucking Hardesty. Shit. I'd rather they sent the computer. At least when it started churning out crap it would be consistent crap." "You don't work for them anymore. It's more appropriate for Hardesty to handle this. It's not an X-File." Mulder considered the surface of the coffee. If they went home he could get to the bottom of why Jack went off the rails. He needed to do that. This wasn't an X-File. He knew that. But he didn't get things this wrong. Mistakes, sure. But not just plain wrong, not like this, so he had to know why he was so wrong this time. Leaving ISU, it hadn't been getting things wrong that had got to him. Mistakes were mistakes. It was getting things right, over and over again, that was the pressure, the destroyer. When had he started getting things wrong? With Jack. With this case. With... Patterson. Patterson would know. And Patterson would know when it went wrong for Jack as well. Mulder swallowed the rest of the coffee without tasting it and said goodnight. It didn't take long to unpack the contents of the suitcase onto the motel room floor. Looked like he wouldn't need to worry about finding a good laundry after all. Replaced by Hardesty. A sign of the times. So, Jack. What did you have? A professional hitman highly skilled in covering his tracks. So good at his job he could do it without anyone even noticing he was doing it. The best possible cover. Too good a cover perhaps. If your life revolves around lack of recognition, how do you advertise? How do you get a round of applause? Where's the thrill? So you start to kill for fun. People who'll be missed. You sharpen your skills. You get your thrills because you know you should be spotted. Yet you aren't. It's a tribute to your ability and an insult because they still don't know to applaud, to admire. So you do it again. And again. Interesting theme, Jack. Is that where you were heading? So why didn't you come and talk to me about it? I wouldn't have laughed. I wouldn't have dismissed it. Were you scared of being wrong? Dana Scully's knock on the door. Easy to recognize. A mixture of hard and soft, just like her. Light in the window, it must be morning. Shit. You fell asleep with your clothes on. They'll be impressed at the station. Just like old times. She studied him as he opened the door. "I know." He said quickly. "Give me a few minutes. I'll get showered and dressed." "Great. Into the suit you've used instead of pajamas or the one under the pile of papers on the floor?" "A few minutes." He started to grab clothes together. "Yeah, well. I doubt anyone will notice. We've got another body. Nineteen-year-old boy. Fits your UNSUB profile like a glove, aside from the young age. Diabetic father who uses insulin. The kid was receiving out-patient psychiatric care. Liked killing pets. Extremely intelligent, straight-A student. No girlfriend." "How'd he die?" "Probable heroin OD." "Where'd he get heroin?" "Ice cream truck. Whatever. Who knows. Where does any nineteen-year- old get it?" Mulder disappeared into the bathroom. The wrap up would be easy for the PD. Seven bodies. Six victims and the killer who took his own life as soon as they approached. Could have been worse. Mulder said almost nothing. Another suicide. Brilliant. 'The killer will identify himself'... yes but not like that. 'The killer won't escalate' .... yeah, and you're always right, aren't you? Fits your profile like a glove. Too tight, too restrictive. The killer had gotten so out of hand that he'd killed himself. Why now? What had changed? Where was the inciting incident? The stressor that indicated such a willingness to take his own life when the killer was getting his rocks off taking others? You're so good, Mulder. So clear, so concise. Mulder was so tired and it fit so well. He didn't have to wrestle the pieces to make them fit. They fit on their own. Beautifully. Another commendation for Fox Mulder, but this time, he couldn't save any lives, not even the life of a heinous, out of control killer. Fucking brilliant. And Jack's dead. And you had no idea. Except you did. The flight back to DC was horribly silent. Scully thrashed around for something safe to talk about but was coming up blank. What about that despised computer in ISU? Inanimate, impersonal, maybe he'd say something. Bad idea. He scowled at her. Fizzed as if she'd opened the lid on a well- shaken Coke can. All that energy had to go somewhere. "You liked it, didn't you? Its clean lines, its tidy theories. Plug in the symptoms, out pops the profile. Pass it to the known offenders database and it shortlists some names. Just like the computer in the batcave. Pass it to the genetics database if you're looking for the broader picture." He paused, his voice sounding suddenly deflated. "Somehow that idea doesn't seem nearly so reassuring as it once did." Anything was better than silence, so Scully decided to carry on. "I don't see how you can resent it. It's just a tool." Mulder's voice drifted into the quiet, persuasive, impersonal, professional tone he used in reviewing difficult evidence with recalcitrant managers. "Male, female? Dressed, naked, semi-clothed? If semi-clothed then which parts are exposed? Penetration? Before or after death? If with an object then was object brought to site or found there? Was..." His voice drifted back to silence, then he cleared his throat. "I worked on it, off and on, for a couple of months. Me and a computer specialist from VICAP. He kept getting sent home crying. Even Patterson knew to send him home." "And the thing was, we both knew it was a joke. Me and Patterson. Profiling by numbers. Patterson had gotten me in there with this story for Skinner, but he thought I'd soon drop the stupid project and start profiling again. I wouldn't do it." "When did you work on it?" She said carefully. "When you were missing. The X-Files were open but Skinner kept rejecting the cases. Either too personal or too dangerous." Scully made no reply and let her eyes study her suddenly fascinating fingernails. Mulder watched. You're good, Mulder. She's worried about you. So you dredge up a time that terrifies her. She won't ask you any more difficult questions now. She can drown in bad memories of her own. Maybe she can think about how different her life could have been. She can think about a life she hasn't got. A sister she hasn't got. A peace of mind she hasn't got. A faith in a science that gets holes punched in it. A trust in the world that's constantly betrayed. And a partner who'll deliberately push her into a set of memories just to keep her away from his own weaknesses. The muscles in his shoulders tightened some more. He didn't do this. Not anymore. He didn't profile friends. He just didn't. He didn't push their buttons just to see what happened, just to see how easy they were to press. He just didn't. Go on, apologize. She'll probably forgive you, again. Then you can try apologizing to Jack as well. He closed his eyes. He didn't expect to sleep tonight. P A S T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The ISU team meeting that week had an atmosphere. A scent of blood in the water and a patrol of sharks circling. The rivalries that Patterson cultivated were normally screened by a thick layer of professional cool. Not today. Today the pressure cooker had hit its working limit and the relief valve was about to blow. Ken Sullivan still hadn't been replaced. No shortage of applicants; Patterson had his pick of the crop, but no one in place yet. Jack had been basically full time on the Cleveland case for weeks. With the arrest of Raymond Forster, then the court appearance, then the event that had seen Victor Jackson shoot their suspect, Jack had stayed up there a couple more days to cover public relations wrap-up. Even now that he was back, Jack was spending more time brooding than working. Then Mulder had gone up to Boston for a week. Patterson had shuffled the work again but they'd all hit their limits. And now Mulder was back. Mulder hadn't been paying that much attention to the meeting but there was something in Wiggins' words that brought him awake. Of course subtlety had never really been one of Wiggins' strong points. Mulder scanned his mind to think if Wiggins had ever had any strong points, but came up blank. "Maybe the rest of you can give me your take on this." As Wiggins spoke, Mulder noticed Bill lock eyes with him. Hmm. Mulder sat up straight and watched Patterson's trained profiler ream the group on behalf of their boss. "We all have a lot of work to do and I for one don't appreciate anyone cutting into my turf, especially when we've all got our assigned areas and I've already done prelims that go out the window when another profiler takes it upon himself to do my work for me." Mulder glared at Wiggins, but he just smiled patiently and zeroed in on Jack Caulfield. "How about you, Caulfield? We've all noticed the trouble you've been having with Cleveland PD on this serial case." To his credit, Jack didn't flinch. "Anyone who has CNN has noticed, Wiggins. No need to be obsequious towards me." Once again, Wiggins' gaze slid towards Mulder. "The first thing we all learn is that a profile is just another investigative device and that relying too heavily on a profile can be detrimental to the case. It's not magic. Ever since this Cleveland mess, I've been getting fewer calls from my region. The profile coordinators are sitting there playing Tetris on their PCs because local law is terrified of having another Forster on their hands." "Cleveland PD -" Jack began. Patterson stepped forward and cut him off. "You're the advisors. Nothing more. You are not to goad the local law enforcement into accepting your profile carte blanche. This is serious shit, Caulfield." Jack's face paled and Mulder clenched his fists, suddenly aware of what Bill was up to. How could he have been so stupid? Like clockwork, so predictable...Bill's laser gaze bored through Mulder's skull. "Not only that, but I've got to have one man on each case. Consults are fine. Writing entire profiles for other agents is not. It diminishes the profiler's confidence in himself. When one agent can whip up a detailed profile in a few hours on a case that has been giving the primary agent nightmares, it diminishes that agent's confidence in his abilities and reinforces that agent's reliance on the profile because he still doesn't really understand the case. Hence, Cleveland." They were all staring at him now. Mulder was used to it. What an old game, he thought. "You're slipping, Bill," he said aloud. Patterson's eyes didn't move. "He's right, Mulder," Harold Hindman said quietly. Mulder turned and glared at the older agent. Hindman had never liked him and was taking this opportunity to put another nail in Spooky's coffin. "Look, Hindman, you're the one who came to me -" "And you did the whole profile," Hindman said. "You didn't even give me a chance to do it. I just wanted a few tips, a fresh outlook." Mulder bit back a response because something was definitely going on here. Hindman always needed help. He could never see deeply enough. He'd begged Mulder to do the profile. But why was Hindman bringing it up now? He'd caught the UNSUB; the guy had been guilty as hell and the trial speedy. Mulder wracked his tired brain to come up with some reason for this level of character assassination. He'd been pretty low-profile for the past few weeks. What could he have done to deserve this? Well...the Cleveland thing...but why now? And why did everyone know about it... Shit. Mulder turned and looked at Jack Caulfield. Jack was glaring at him, furious. Son of a bitch. It wasn't Mulder who was being set up here. It was Jack. Patterson was trying to teach him his favorite lesson - I'm In Charge. Patterson loved that lesson. There were a thousand different permutations to it and this was just the latest. Infuriated, Mulder opened his mouth to answer but fucking Bill Patterson clapped his hands. "Okay. No more outside consults. You have a problem, you come to me. If I can't help you, I'll give you to someone who can. Nobody takes on outside work here. Nobody writes profiles unless they're your own. Clear?" A murmur of assent ran through the room. There was a confused silence for a long moment, as if everyone was trying to work out exactly what had happened. As the meeting broke up, Mulder caught snatches of conversation. He shut his eyes for a moment. They'd all worked out exactly what Bill had wanted them to - that Mulder had done the Cleveland profile and that Jack Caulfield had fucked up the case by relying too heavily on Spooky. Goddam sheep, Mulder thought viciously. The brightest minds in the Bureau and they could be manipulated with the flip of a switch. No wonder he didn't fit in. Mulder felt a touch at his elbow and opened his eyes. Jack glared at him. "Now they're blaming me," Jack said in his tight, angry voice. "Wiggins is right. I shouldn't have taken your profile to heart like that." Mulder couldn't take it anymore. Jesus Christ. "Yeah, and that's my fault. Fuck off, Jack. I don't have time for this shit." Mulder turned to go but Jack grabbed his arm. "Maybe you don't, but we will. You heard what Wiggins said about his region. I'm in double with Patterson now, because of you." Mulder wrenched his arm free. "Go ahead and blame me if it makes you feel better." Mulder turned on his heel and walked away. "Go ahead and be the martyr, Mulder. That's what you're best at," Jack called after him. Patterson walked over to Mulder's desk a couple of hours later, dragging a chair over to get as close to Mulder as he could without actually sitting on the Agent's lap. His voice took on a conspiratorially low edge. "I've been watching you, Mulder." A pause. "You and Jack." Another pause. "You know I'd have bet money, you'd have gone off to lunch with him, after that little spat this morning. Before the Cleveland case you would have. What's changed?" Mulder tried to unclench his fists. Nothing had changed. Everything had changed. It wasn't supposed to. But how do you go and offload your troubles onto someone more screwed up than you are? You don't. Mulder spoke without looking at Patterson. "Nothing. We aren't roped together you know." Patterson pushed the chair back. "Jack'll work hard now, Mulder. He's got something to prove and he won't be leeching off you to prove it. It'll focus him. He'll be an asset. Better than ever." Mulder pushed his way past Patterson and out of the office. P R E S E N T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Another case. Scully would give anything not to be assigned another case, but this time they didn't have any choice. Three days back from Indiana and a big, fat abduction landed on Mulder's desk. He stared at it sightlessly, then listlessly flipped the folder open and perused the contents. The harsh light from his desk lamp glinted off the glossy photos of 13-year-old Chrissy Banks, abducted from her backyard. Scully was afraid to move. Mulder sighed, then slid the file towards her. Scully looked at it, albeit reluctantly. Mulder waited. Scully glanced at him. "This does look like it could possibly be an X-File," she said slowly. Mulder nodded and read through the police report again. "Yeah, it does. So. Off to Wisconsin?" Scully nodded and grimaced. Mulder cocked his head. "What, you don't want to bring some cheese home with you?" "I'm lactose intolerant," Scully said wryly. Mulder frowned. Scully grinned. "I don't like badgers." The corners of Mulder's mouth quirked. Scully had never seen a more beautiful sight. * * * * * * * * * Scully wormed her way past a veritable army of boxes and furniture, managing to squeeze through to the elevator. She tried to swallow the apprehension she felt as she negotiated even more boxes and the world's largest hand-truck, finally finding herself slightly out-of-breath in front of Mulder's door. She knocked tentatively, then cursed Mulder as she waited. Just like him to make her worry, and just when she'd be at the height of her worry he'd show up, looking calm and innocent and slightly amused at her histrionics. Scully sighed and knocked again, more deliberately. She waited. Nothing, except the sound of furniture being dragged across the floor down the hall. Scully slowly took out her keys and hesitated, debating. She knocked again. "Mulder?" she called. Nothing. Damn. Scully put her key in the lock and slowly opened the door. The apartment was, of course, dark. You'd think Mulder could spring for a light, Scully thought. Nah, probably not. He'd only used the one for signaling X... "Mulder?" she said again, her voice low. Her eyes went straight to the couch, and her recumbent partner. Scully blew out a breath and kicked the basketball out of her way. She knelt down next to him, shook him. "Mulder..." He didn't budge. Scully's hand trembled as she felt for a pulse. Very slow, but steady. Had he taken something? How unlike him. She shook him again, harder, and he groaned, opening one drowsy eye. He'd definitely taken something. "What time is it?" he asked hoarsely, seemingly not surprised to see her in his apartment. "It's one. Did you take something?" Mulder sat up slowly, rotating his neck. "God, sorry, Scully. I always forget how long those damned sleeping pills last." "That's okay. When did you take it?" Mulder's brow creased. "Uh...around seven," he said, somewhat uncertainly. Scully frowned. "Seven this morning?" Mulder nodded. "Were you awake all night?" He nodded again. "When was the last time you ate anything?" Mulder looked at her. "Teddy Grahams count?" Scully shook her head. "I'm afraid not. You can't take those pills on an empty stomach, Mulder." "I thought that was antibiotics." "It's pretty much everything. Are you packed?" Mulder looked around, grabbed his overnight bag, and stood up. "Give me a minute," he said, tucking his shirt in and running a hand through his hair. Scully sat down and picked up a magazine. Men. How they could prepare for a trip in five minutes was beyond her. And sure enough, five minutes later, Mulder appeared, dressed in a fresh suit but looking even more tired. Scully put down the magazine and stood. "I'll drive. I'll warn you, though, someone is either moving in or out of your building, so you'll have to be alert enough to navigate your way down the hall." Mulder nodded and stifled a yawn. Scully hoped he could sleep on the plane. * * * * * * * * * Mulder shifted in his narrow seat, trying to get comfortable. He was determined to try and get some rest on the flight up but images kept intruding into his mind, keeping him awake. Victims. The victims Jack was investigating. They moved quickly through his mind, flashing like a slide show - tall victims, short victims, male victims, female victims...school teachers, engineers, students, mothers, fathers...everyone. A real fucking cross-section of America. Mulder squeezed his eyes shut but the images insisted and he finally opened his eyes and stared out the window. He could feel Scully stir beside him. His partner had become a lot more adept at sleeping on airplanes. He remembered that first flight to Oregon, remembered wondering just how green Dana Scully was...well, he'd seen how green she was...Mulder had wondered if she'd ever been on a plane before. He remembered how small and terrified she looked and thought that she was probably thinking the same thing about him now, and had been for the last few weeks. The Indiana case had been a disaster and even though the local PD were adamant that Mulder had nothing to do with it, in his heart, he knew he had. He'd never seen a killer perform quite that way before but that didn't negate the fact that the killer had, and then that the killer had just stopped. They'd had little forensic evidence to go on, witnesses and suspects all checked out...and most frightening, no motive. Mulder stiffened in his seat. No motive. There COULD have been a motive for the insulin overdoses, but the heroin? Everything about the killer had fit Mulder's profile, except the fact that he would up and kill himself. And if he was going to kill himself, why with a heroin overdose? The kid had been drug-free before that. Where had that come from? And why did it seem so familiar? "Mulder." Scully's voice floated through his head and Mulder realized, with a shock of surprise, that he'd fallen asleep. If Scully had her way, she would find a way to get him off the plane without waking him. Maybe she had already tried and found it impossible. God, his mind was wandering! He opened his eyes and blinked her into focus. She was looking worried again. Shit, he hated that look and he'd gotten enough of it recently, but he couldn't really blame her. They hadn't exactly been communicating lately and not a bit of it was her fault. Mulder determined to make it up to her. He would concentrate on this case, figure out what happened to Chrissy Banks, return her to the loving bosom of her family, and take some time off to work on Jack's cases without distraction. Chrissy Banks and her family lived in a small town outside of Racine in a very sweet clapboard house with a nicely tended yard. It reminded Mulder of his childhood home and he immediately tensed up, trying to rid himself of the foreboding that there was something more insidious about this case than...hell, what was more insidious than the sudden disappearance of a little girl from her own home? Oh, way to get in touch, Mulder, his little voice told him sarcastically. Jane and Michael Banks seemed like the kind of parents who loved and doted on their only daughter. They were, in a word, destroyed. Jane collapsed as Mulder and Scully identified themselves. A helpless Michael led them into the house, seating them in a comfortable and tastefully-decorated living room. "I'm sorry for my wife," he said, voice high and tight. Mulder and Scully nodded sympathetically. "It's a hard time for both of you," Scully said gently. Michael sat down hard, staring ahead sightlessly, still numb. Jane returned, sat down very close to her husband and took his hand. Mulder stared at their clasped hands as they held onto each other for dear life. He had a quick flash of a small child huddled on the floor of his closet, totally alone, listening to his mother's weeping. Mulder swallowed hard as he remembered. He remembered...he stood suddenly. "Excuse me," he said, then turned and strode quickly out of the house. Mulder took deep gulps of air, took off his overcoat and loosened his tie with trembling fingers. Jesus Christ. He distinctly remembered locking himself in his closet after Sam was taken, while his parents were downstairs coping with their grief and blaming him...but he hadn't done that. He had been in the hospital for weeks afterwards. Mulder rubbed a hand over his face. What the hell was going on with him? He jumped at a light touch on his arm. Scully took a step back, her face a mask of worry. "Hey, you okay?" she asked softly. He tried to nod, but he couldn't. He gave a little sigh and a shake of his head. Scully hesitated, then stepped forward and put a firm hand on his arm. He looked down, feeling her concern radiate through him. After all he'd put her through recently, she was still worried about him. She still cared. He felt dizzy suddenly and turned away, sitting down on the front steps, head in his hands. Scully sat next to him, then took his overcoat from him and draped it around his shoulders. "Mulder..." she said, somewhat helplessly. He took another deep breath and let it out slowly, then looked at her. "I'm okay," he said in a small, unconvincing voice. Scully's expression didn't change. She pulled his coat around him. "It's freezing out here. Do you want me to conduct this interrogation by myself?" In her voice, Mulder heard the skepticism. He heard her dismissing the possibility of alien abduction and he wished, in his heart, that it were true, that there were no such things as abductions and tests and little gray men...but that didn't change anything. All of the signs in this case pointed to the fact that Chrissy had been taken from her backyard by whatever was posing as alien these days. This morning, while working out his preliminary investigation, he made himself check for any serial activity in the area, whether it be a series of strange killings, kidnappings, sexual assaults, break-ins, fetish burglaries, anything. He'd then gone through all the files the Bureau had in VICAP on the entire state of Wisconsin. He'd come up with nothing. And now his partner wanted to believe that Chrissy had been taken by someone like John Lee Roche. His partner - Mulder clenched his fists, suddenly scared. What the hell was wrong with him? All he could concentrate on anymore were Jack's cases. He knew each victim intimately, but he didn't know his partner. He allowed his mind to run off and accuse her of the very thing he admired most in her - her strength of belief. Her faith. What kind of an ungrateful son of a bitch was he? Should he let her go this alone, or would that be unfair to Chrissy? Chances were, they'd never find Chrissy. Chances were...Mulder looked up at her and smiled. "Sorry, Scully...I just...I just remembered something. It came as quite a shock..." "You're overtired," Scully said, surprising him by not delving, "and these cases are hard enough for you without that." Mulder stared at her, completely astonished. It wasn't that Scully never cut him any slack; she was constantly making excuses for him, both to his face and to others. It was the tone in her voice, that matter-of-factness that she hadn't even thought about. It just was. Mulder wanted to hug her but thought she would really flip out if he suddenly went manic on her. A slow smile spread across his face and he watched Scully relax. * * * * * * * * * Mulder stood in the backyard, staring down at the circle of dead grass. He looked up at the singed tops of the old trees. He sighed and turned slightly so that he could see Scully and Chrissy's parents through the sliding-glass door. Scully was comforting them. Scully was always comforting the victims. Mulder shook his head in frustration. There was nothing here, except the possibility that Chrissy had been abducted by a UFO. He had to go back in there and tell Jane and Michael Banks that their daughter had not been taken by a killer - not a swift killer, anyway. She had been taken and may never be returned. They could grieve for Chrissy, but never know her fate. Mulder heard the snick of the glass door and Scully's careful footsteps approached him. He turned to look at her. "Looks like abduction, Scully," he said. Scully hesitated, then looked down. "Scully?" She stared at the ground, then finally raised her eyes to meet his. Regret, that's what he saw. Shit. "Mulder," she said hesitantly, "I don't think it's a good idea to broach that subject to the Bankses." Mulder was thunderstruck. "What? But she was abducted, Scully, it's as plain as -" "It's not plain to her parents, Mulder," Scully said. "It would destroy them. They're having a hard enough time and I don't know how they'll respond to something as -" "Something as crazy as this?" Mulder asked quietly. "Not crazy, Mulder, just...not very likely," she said gently. Mulder blew out a breath. "Goddammit, Scully, every clue in this case points to abduction. How can it be harder for them to hear that, than to hear that their daughter was -" Mulder couldn't even finish a simple sentence today without choking up. He turned away from Scully and focused hard on the singed tree-tops. It was abduction. Chrissy Banks, thirteen years old, taken from her backyard. Her parents didn't remember anything, hadn't seen anything. Neither had the neighbors. There was nothing except a power surge inside the house, singed trees, and a missing little girl. Mulder turned back to Scully. "It's the truth, Scully," he said quietly, hoping to appeal to her sense of justice. Scully smiled tightly and looked away. "Sometimes the truth isn't the release that you make it out to be," she said in a low voice. "It's not always best for people to hear it." Mulder gritted his teeth. "I've heard this particular excuse many times before, from people who are afraid of the truth. I'm surprised to hear it from you." He could feel Scully's surprise but she reined it in nicely. "That's not fair, Mulder," she said evenly. "I've spent my whole life in the pursuit of the truth," he began, and Scully cut him off. "No you haven't. You've spent your whole life in the pursuit of answers, not the truth. Answers to questions that you had no way of knowing." "Answers can hurt just as much as the truth," he snapped. Scully nodded. "I know," she said softly. "I know they can. All I have to do is to look at you. The Bankses are not you. Hearing that their daughter was abducted by a UFO is not going to ease their grief, it's going to intensify it. Learning that your sister was abducted gave you a purpose, Mulder, and made the pain and the frustration at not being able to save her lessen. You were a kid, Mulder, a helpless kid. The Bankses are not. They need to deal with this their own way. They need to find their own avenues. You have no right to dictate in this situation." "This isn't about me," he said, his voice low and harsh. "I know it's not. It's about that abstract truth you need to find -" "It's not," Mulder said, insistent. Scully frowned. Mulder looked away again. "It's not, Scully. It isn't about me." Mulder jammed his hands into his pockets and hunched further into his coat. He'd been partners with Scully for so long that he could feel her debating behind him. He wondered if she would recommend to Skinner that Mulder see one of the Bureau shrinks when they got back. Hell, it wasn't his problem. It was Scully who refused to believe the evidence. Suddenly, Mulder felt claustrophobic. Too many people. There were too goddam many people in his life, watching him, observing, reporting, judging. Too many people. He turned and walked towards the gate. "We should get back then," he said over his shoulder. He heard Scully rush to catch up with him. "Mulder -" He stopped and looked at her. "We should get back," he said quietly, forcing himself to make eye contact. Scully nodded slowly. "Okay. I'm just going to give the Bankses the number for the Center For Missing And Exploited Children, just in case." Mulder nodded. "Good idea." Scully looked at him for a long moment, probing, and Mulder wanted to scream. But he stood his ground. Scully flipped the car keys at him and went back inside to console the grieving parents, and to tell them that the Bureau would do what they could, but in situations like this...Mulder shook his head and slammed the gate on his way out. P A S T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The pace in the office continued to be frenetic. Not due so much to an increase in national homicide rates as much as success breeding demand. Each agent was carrying a minimum of one hundred cases, all in various stages of completion. Requests for consultations and seminars were multiplying at geometric rates. Quantico couldn't begin to handle the demand and so now, on top of everything else, profilers were being pressed into mentorships, coordinating different regions of the country as local law enforcement agencies clamored to understand how to best utilize behavioral techniques as part of their daily routines. More responsibility, more headaches, ludicrous stress. No end in sight. Patterson was pushing harder than ever before, wallowing in pleasure that profiling was finally receiving the national recognition and respect it had always deserved. "Long overdue if you ask me." Mulder hadn't, but Patterson told him anyway. Bill also made sure all agents knew a textbook was in the works, noting that many of their past triumphs would be highlighted. Patterson's idea of motivation. His men might die of exhaustion, but every junior college criminal justice intern in the country would be memorizing their cases for exams within the year, by God! Big fucking deal. I'd prefer more staff, Mulder thought sourly when he heard the news. Peter Hansen was in the hospital with pneumonia. Greg had called in with the flu. Karen Richards had requested a nonspecified leave of absence in order to come to terms with a recent split from her husband. Patterson was livid, but he seemed to finally understand the time had come to step back if he wanted his precious solve rate to hold. By the end of the week, he'd floated a memo instructing everyone to consider a personal day sometime within the next six months. A handwritten addendum encouraged agents to take a couple of hours off 'for medical' if they felt a need to do so. Mulder could read between the lines: the memo's content reflected the management philosophy of the A.D. to whom Patterson himself answered. Someone was paying attention from on high and concerned about what they were seeing. Seems the pendulum had shifted to the point someone--the A.D. or the even Director himself--decided to pull rank on Patterson and demand a course change. Generous of the bastards, Mulder fumed. He wondered how long agents who risked taking Patterson up on his offer to treat themselves like human beings would last before being transferred out of ISU. Patterson graced Mulder's cubicle twice the next day, the second time was to extend an invitation. "You're taking me to lunch, let's go." "Thanks, Bill, but I'm not hungry." Mulder was neck deep in the usual. Moments before, Tammy had waltzed by, dropping off six new cases 'as a reward for closing out that mess in Texas.' A conference call was scheduled early afternoon with the Boston Chief of Police and both prosecutors; Mulder wanted time to organize his notes. Chumming with Patterson was not on his agenda. "Now." Okay, so it wasn't an option. Nor was it lunch. Patterson attacked before they'd made it out of the parking lot. "Trying to open a private practice, Mulder?" "Sir?" "This business with Jack. Lay off." "I don't know what you mean, Bill." "The fuck you don't. Let me tell you what I see." Mulder squirmed, wondering how he could gracefully ignore the impending attitude adjustment. He was expecting a sandwich and a glass of iced tea, not a dressing down. Dammit. At this point there was little to do but let Bill have his say. "Jack called me at home last night," Patterson began. Mulder offered no comment, unsure exactly where this was leading. Had Jack come clean with Patterson? "You missed a deadline on the South Dakota profile. The regional coordinator faxed me wondering if we'd closed down." What did that have to do with anything? Was this related to Jack? "Their office threw in some last minute details that changed my timetable." Simple fact. Patterson knew very well this kind of glitch was common. What was he getting at? "No excuses. You were late for one reason, you're too goddamn busy worrying about Jack Caulfield instead of giving every ounce of attention to your job." "Not true," Mulder defended. "Jack is performing better than he has in months. He's coming out of the Cleveland situation stronger than he went into it. You're hovering like a mother hen who's afraid to let her chick out of the nest." Patterson's voice faded as Mulder's attention returned to a similar conversation, weeks before, with Patterson essentially accusing Jack of the same level of overconcern. "--too sensitive to Caulfield! Shit, Mulder. Where do you come off with this ego? You're a kid! I've known Jack for years. Do you think I'd miss the signs if one of my men was having a meltdown?" Mulder wondered for an instant if it was wise to say what he really thought; but what the hell, why hold back now? "You care about us only inasmuch as doing so will get Bill Patterson where he wants to be. You'll see or not see whatever works to your best advantage. " Patterson sucked in his breath, gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. His face did the opposite, rapidly becoming a deep shade of red. Mulder wondered, only half in jest, if he'd be up on charges should Patterson stroke out. Or would people stand in line to thank him? Mulder wasn't surprised when Bill took the next right. So much for lunch. They'd arrive back at Quantico in no time. "I demand to know why you insist on second guessing Jack!" Patterson raged when he found his voice. "If you have some facts, something concrete--spill it. Do it, here; do it, now!" Mulder sat mutely, staring ahead. Patterson waited. And waited. "Well?" Patterson demanded once more. He glowered with impatience as he whipped the car into the first available parking slot. Who did this arrogant, young SOB think he was, dammit! More silence. "If you aren't going to tell me, then concentrate on your goddamn job and let Jack Caulfield do his!" Mulder yanked open the door, not sure he could keep a civil tone if he tried. He took several steps away from the car before turning toward Patterson. "Thanks for 'lunch'," Mulder said, coolly. "I have work to do." P R E S E N T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * You must identify with the victim as well as the killer. Victimology is as crucial in any murder case, hell, in any case, as knowing who committed the crime and why. Mulder stared at the sea of faces and they stared back, beseeching and at the same time, unforgiving. Stern. Unloving. Mulder blinked. Unforgiving. Stern. Unloving. Demanding. Strict. He asks for the moon and I can't deliver. Hands trembling, Mulder shoved the files together haphazardly, suddenly deathly afraid. Of what, he didn't know. But afraid nonetheless. Okay. Back to square one. What is so special about these people, Jack? Mulder knew Scully would kill him if she found him up at two a.m. looking at these files. He was supposed to be taking his goddam pills and getting some sleep. But then Scully wasn't up at this hour, so he had nothing to worry about. Victimology. Chronology? No, he'd done that. He'd looked at the chronology of the killings...but had he matched chronology, victimology and method? Suddenly excited but knowing in the back of his mind that he'd thought he'd made breakthroughs before, Mulder scooped up the crime scene photos of each death and got down on the floor, clearing a blank spot. He lined the photos up chronologically, then reached for his index cards (the only thing he was anal-retentive about) and began the exhaustive task of cataloguing victim and method. Six hours later, Mulder was still on the floor, laboriously writing index cards and setting them onto the photos. He sat back on his heels and surveyed his work, ignoring the wave of despair that came over him. That was normal with a case as enormous as this. The image of himself hunched over that damned computer flashed through his mind. He smiled twistedly. That computer would definitely not know what to make of this. Hell, he should at least have a few more agents looking at this, maybe even VICAP. Maybe even Scully. Mulder shook his head and got to his feet, wincing as he stretched. If Scully ever found out about this, he was going to be toast. They had a briefing this afternoon with Skinner about a case they were asked to consult on, which meant another workload and this time, Mulder could not screw up. He would have to be focused for this one, for his sake and for Scully's. He was all too aware of the fact that he had been dragging Scully down recently and he determined that she wouldn't find out about this. She thought he'd given Jack's cases a rest. Mulder wandered into the kitchen and poured himself a glass of water, then went back into the living room. And froze. He blinked, then looked again at the index cards. There was a pattern. My God, damn it to hell, there was a pattern. Mulder set his glass down. The first twelve cases Jack had singled out were gunshot victims, all within the same two-year period. Then the method changed. Suicides. Eight of them, the first one coming six months after the last gunshot victim. Then a period of five months went by. Then five more gunshot victims, then three months, then seven accidents, then two weeks, then another gunshot victim, then two suicides right on top of that and an accident four days later. Then nothing. That had been a year ago. The killer, if there was one, had escalated the time between groups of murders, but not the number of murders. Mulder frowned. What was missing? It was obvious that if there was one killer, he was de-escalating, but why? What was missing? Mulder sipped at his water, lost in thought. He sat down on the couch and tipped his head back, suddenly queasy. He remembered that he hadn't eaten anything that day...or the day before...had he eaten before that? No, because he'd gotten that damned case of food poisoning, which was an easy excuse for Scully to tell him to take a few days off. He should eat. He could order a pizza or something. Yeah, pepperoni and sausage. A real man's pizza. He set the glass down again and reached for the phone. A lone photograph caught his eye and he slowly picked it up. Jack. The last victim. Now...why did Mulder think that? Forget about that, he told himself, let's go with it for now. "And let's also go with..." Mulder got to his feet and scribbled "Jack's first suicide attempt?" and the date on a blank piece of paper. Mulder dropped Jack's photo next to the last picture and the piece of paper fit somewhere in the middle. Dammit to hell, Mulder thought. If this "killer" had anything to do with Jack's first attempt or even his successful one, it fit right into the pattern that was starting to develop. And there was a pattern; Mulder could see it. He knew it was there, he just didn't know why. He knew nothing about this killer. From what he could tell, there was no signature and definitely no M.O. Hell, the only thing he could even begin to attach a signature to was the strange fallow periods of time in between each group of killings. Each group of like killings, he corrected himself. Mulder stepped back and stared thoughtfully at the photos. There was something in the back of his mind, niggling at him, trying to get his attention, but he couldn't put his finger on it. Maybe he needed a run, he thought. Yeah, he needed to get out of the apartment for awhile. He quickly changed and glanced at his watch. He had a good three hours before the meeting with Skinner. No problem. The crisp fall air raised his spirits and his energy level and he realized how nauseous he'd been for the past few days. He knew he'd pay for running without eating by needing to recover for a longer period of time but he had plenty of time today. He zipped through four miles before his body quit on him, then he had to sit down and try to catch his breath, ignoring the world swimming in front of him. His nausea got worse and he shut his eyes tight and forced himself to breathe. Shit. Was he even going to be able to make it home? He was a mile away. That'll teach him to be nonchalant. The nausea eased a little and he opened his eyes, watching the cars on the road in front of him. He thought about how he used to be able to profile people by what kind of car they drove. Business-types always drove conservative, dark-colored and meticulously maintained sedans. Like the Taurus. Mulder frowned, trying not to think about the fast-food wrappers that adorned his car. Students drove older cars with too much mileage. Teachers drove Hyundais and late-model Toyotas and Hondas, good, solid cars, not flashy or spectacular. Mulder sat up suddenly. That was it. Ignoring his stomach, Mulder scrambled to his feet and forced himself to run/stagger the last mile home. He sprinted up the stairs, eschewing the slower elevator, and fumbled for his keys. He'd left the door open. Great. Mulder pushed the door open, tossed his keys in the general direction of the table, and froze. Scully, her face white, stood in the middle of the room, obviously turning as she heard him open the door. Obviously from staring at his handiwork. Oh, he was in trouble now. He made a snap decision to not even begin to defend himself. He'd let Scully rant, then he'd duck his head and swear it wouldn't happen again, then he'd shower and change and - what the hell was she doing here anyway? He still had an hour. "Scully -" "I've been trying to call you. Your phone's been busy all day." Her voice was like ice and Mulder flinched. Shit. He'd forgotten to hang it up when he decided not to order pizza, when everything had started coming together. She was still worried about him, worried enough to come running over when he didn't answer his phone. His blood pressure rose. "Dammit, Scully, I don't need to be babysat," he spat, his voice harsh. She crossed her arms and leveled her gaze. "Skinner moved the meeting up to two-thirty. I thought I'd save you the embarrassment of showing up at three. He tried to call you, too." Mulder flushed, guilty. He never got to rail at Scully because even when he thought he was in the right, he wasn't. This was totally unfair. "And before you ask, yes I did try to call you on your cell phone, but as usual, it was turned off. What the hell is all this, Mulder?" There it was, all out in the open. Mulder eased towards the photos, his mind still chewing on his latest breakthrough, the one he hadn't yet had a chance to put into effect. And it was driving him nuts. He needed to get Scully out of there. Hell, he only had half an hour or so before that goddammed meeting and he couldn't just leave this thread dangling. He just couldn't. Scully saw what he was doing and stepped in front of him. "We're going to be late," she said, her voice softening somewhat, but still telling him not to go anywhere near his work. Mulder debated for a long moment, then decided, what the hell. The worst thing she could do was to yell at him, and this was still his apartment. "I can shower and change in ten minutes, which leaves me about fifteen to apply another theory to this case," he said neutrally. Scully stared at him in disbelief. "What case? There is no case, Mulder. Even Skinner told you to leave Jack Caulfield alone, so even if you're ignoring me you can't ignore him. Or I suppose you can," she added caustically. He knew she was hurt but at this point, he didn't care. He ached to continue working. "I think there IS a case, Scully, that's what I'm trying to tell you. Jack was onto something here and it may have gotten him killed." Wrong thing to say. Mulder saw Scully's eyes change and hastened to put things right. "I don't think he got quite as far as I have, Scully, and you have to admit that by all accounts, Jack was obsessed over this...idea. I can feel the connection now. I can feel it, Scully," he said, angry that his voice held that begging quality that he despised so much. Scully stared at him, her expression not changing. Then, finally, she sighed and uncrossed her arms. "What have you got?" she asked quietly. Mulder blew out a breath that he wasn't aware he'd been holding. He stepped around Scully and gave the photos a quick once over, delighted that his latest theory seemed to pull things together even more. He gave Scully a quick run-down on everything he'd gathered and then he gave her his latest. "I've been concerned about the victimology. I think Jack went wrong when he didn't put this case together like a profiler. He didn't follow the steps, because he couldn't without any forensic evidence about the killer, so he abandoned the whole process. I've spent...a good deal of time on the victimology, getting to know the victims, their habits, their patterns, their lives. What I hadn't considered as strongly as I should have were their professions. Which is stupid, because I was falling into Jack's trap. The profession of a victim can tell us a world about the crime." Mulder stopped, giving Scully time to assimilate what he'd told her. She turned to look at the photos and Mulder went into the kitchen for a glass of water. When he returned she was kneeling down, perusing the photos. She looked up at him. "How long have you been at this?" she asked. Mulder downed the water and set the glass on the counter. "Not important. Look -" "How long, Mulder." She stood now, fixing him with that level gaze, and he felt that flash of anger. "Forget about me, Scully, and listen, will you?" "Why should I forget about you when this whole thing is about you?" Mulder blinked. Scully shook her head, absolving him and Mulder smiled sardonically. "I'm assuming that's rhetorical. Anyway, to get back to the actual point at hand here, we have thirty-six cases Jack had compiled. It's easier to look at if we separate each segment. These twelve people represented a cross- section of the population and they were scattered around the country. There's no pattern there. It's completely random. Defining characteristics for victimology include lifestyle, employment, profession, personality, blah blah blah, all that stuff we already know to look for. But it also includes significant events prior to the crime, activities prior to the crime, and the victim's chances at being targeted for a violent crime." Scully looked down at the first row of photos and shook her head. "I don't see any correlation." "The first four were men. The first one was a general, the second a police chief, the third an industrialist, the fourth a renowned geneticist. All had announced their imminent retirement. The same activity and significant event prior to the crimes." Scully nodded. "Yes, and the fifth an artist, the sixth a schoolteacher, the seventh another industrialist..." Mulder shook his head. "No, Scully, don't continue." She looked up in surprise. "I need to establish as many connections as possible. The first four are connected. Four men who were giving up their power, giving up responsible and influential positions in society. All killed, as were the eight after them, with one well-placed, neat shot to the head." Scully's eyes widened. "Are you saying these were hits?" she asked in astonishment. "Yes I am." "My God..." Scully looked down at the photos. "Then why the other eight, Mulder? Were they hits, too?" Mulder shrugged. "I'm not sure yet but if we actively discount victimology, it's hard to overlook." "I don't understand. How can you actively dismiss something that you yourself claim is so important?" "Because if I don't, it doesn't fit." "Then how -" Mulder went back into the kitchen for more water. "It will fit, Scully, I just don't know how yet, and I can't presume just because it doesn't look similar on the surface that it's not similar somewhere." Scully conceded him that point. "And what about the others? If you're going to kill someone and you can do it from far enough away, with a minimum of fuss..." Scully shook her head, frustrated. Mulder grinned at her. "That's how I feel too, Scully. I don't have all the answers, but I keep on getting closer." "What about the killer, Mulder? What can you tell me about him?" Mulder almost swelled with pride. She was listening to him, asking him questions, getting involved. She believed him. "I don't know anything about him," Mulder confessed. "I can't see him and I can't find him in the victimology yet." Scully looked at him for a long moment, then smiled gently. "Okay, Mulder, I'll give you this much - it's intriguing. Now you'd better go change or Skinner's going to have our hides." * * * * * * * * * The meeting with Skinner was a disaster. Mulder couldn't stay focused at all on what his boss was saying and as the meeting wore on, Mulder began to get more and more claustrophobic, which was strange, because he'd never been claustrophobic before. He could feel everything that was going on in the room, moving like a bruise over his skin. Too many people, he thought. He tried to disappear into his chair, to get away from them, but it wasn't working. All he could think about was a well-placed shot to the head. Jack's cases. Jack's life. Jack's death. His triumph with the victimology and his failure with knowing the killer. He knew nothing about the killer at all. Nothing was coming through. Had his intuition completely dried up? He needed to jar himself into the work. Mulder surreptitiously reached up and loosened his tie, nodding in what he hoped was the appropriate gap in Skinner's speech. Skinner was handing him a folder now and Mulder took it and stared at it blankly. Scully was asking Skinner a question about the case. What kind of a case was it again? Mulder fumbled with the folder, opening it and staring at the sketch that looked out at him. A serial killer who had somehow managed to be in two places at once. Swell. ISU had done what appeared to be a very thorough job on the case so far, but their unimaginative minds were stumped by this latest development. Scully appeared eager to work the case. She always liked working with ISU. For Mulder, it was a death sentence. "...opinion, Agent Mulder?" Uh...shit. Mulder blinked and looked up at Skinner, who was waiting patiently for an answer to whatever question he'd asked. "Sir?" Mulder said innocently, hoping Skinner would repeat the question. But he didn't; he just sighed and exchanged glances with Scully. "You're both due in Richmond tomorrow afternoon. I suggest you look over the file and get some sleep, Agent Mulder. You look like hell." Skinner leaned back in his chair. Meeting over. Chagrined, Mulder followed Scully out of the office. Without a word, she led him out of the building. Mulder ran to catch up to her. "Hey, Scully, we should go back to the office and -" She turned on him, furious. "Go back to the office and what? Stare at the walls? What the hell is wrong with you, Mulder? You didn't hear a word in there. Where were you? Working Jack Caulfield's cases again?" Mulder flinched. "I'm sorry, Scully, but I'm really in the middle of this now," he said quietly. Scully seemed to get even more angry. "No, Mulder, you are not in the middle of anything other than the case Skinner assigned us. If I hear one more word about Jack Caulfield -" "Scully, you yourself admitted that Jack was onto something," Mulder protested. Scully pressed her lips into a thin line, clearly not happy with him. "Yes, I did. Yes, it's interesting. But not at the expense of your actual job. I do not want to deal with a distracted partner on this case. You're the profiling genius, not me. You're the one who has to be on top of this case and I will not take the fall for you. I refuse to make the running on this case. If you're not going to be there, working, tell me now." Mulder swallowed painfully. Forget about owing himself anything. He owed Scully his focus. But it was so hard...and there were so many people. Mulder shuddered as the world closed in on him again. "Mulder? Did you hear what I said?" He nodded, not trusting his voice, desperately wanting a few hours with Jack's cases before looking over the case-file from hell. So many people...dead in so many ways...bullets through their brains, bodies torn apart in the twisted metal of car accidents, shredded by bombs, lungs filled with water, overdoses, beatings, muggings, robberies...their faces flashed by him again, judging. No. No more. No more judging. No more helpless victims blaming him for his failures. No more. He couldn't take it. Solve these cases and be done with them. Solve them. You can solve them. You're the bright boy, aren't you, Mulder? You're the last resort, the one they all call upon when they're stuck. Get into this killer's head, find that one, tell me why this little blond girl was ripped to ribbons. Tell me tell me tell me. Help me. Save me. Mulder felt his knees give and he couldn't stop it anymore, couldn't stop the faces from screaming at him. It was so loud...and he was so tired... He could hear people murmuring from far off, but he couldn't make out what they were saying. He strained to hear, sure it was about him. He moved his head, trying to ignore the sparks of pain that lanced through him. Pressure on his forehead made him stop. It was a hand, holding him still. He could open his eyes and see what was going on. That was a good idea. He opened his eyes slowly, wincing at the glare. It was Scully's hand and she was looking at him in sheer horror. He was on the ground. He'd fallen...or something. He tried to say something but nothing came out. He was light-headed, the buzzing in his ears growing louder. Scully leaned down and seemed to be speaking to him. He made an effort to concentrate. "...okay? Mulder? Say something. Are you okay?" Ah, okay. He could understand her. He tried speaking again. "What happened?" he whispered. Scully smiled with relief, then turned and said something to a fuzzy figure standing nearby. She looked at him again. "You passed out. I told you to eat something." "Passed out...how long?" "Just a few minutes, but you cracked your head pretty good. How do you feel?" "Uh...fuzzy. Headache." "Vision?" she asked, slipping into doctor mode. "It's okay." "Good. You should get checked out by a doctor, just to be on the safe side." Suddenly, Mulder was absolutely starving to death. He thought he'd die if he didn't get something to eat immediately. "Is that really necessary, Scully? I'd just like a hamburger or something." To prove that he was once again of the planet, Mulder sat up. His head swam a bit but he seemed to be doing okay. Scully frowned. "I really think -" "Let's pretend you're not overcautious. Is it necessary?" Scully debated, then reluctantly shook her head. "Not if you feel okay," she said doubtfully. He stood up slowly, Scully helping him. He swayed, but standing seemed okay, too. He smiled down at her. "Yeah, I'm okay. Just hungry." Scully let out a breath. "Okay, good. Let's go, then." "Hey Scully?" She glanced at him. He smiled sheepishly. "Sorry I ruined my bawling out," he said. Scully just smiled and shook her head. * * * * * * * * * Mulder settled for a bowl of soup. He really wanted the hamburger, but Scully warned him he'd be sorry and he knew she was right. She watched him, that worried expression on her face, while he ate. Aside from the throbbing headache, he was definitely feeling better. He remembered Jack being solicitous the day he'd seen Mulder having the waking nightmare. He remembered that great tomato soup. He sighed and sat back in the booth. "Are you done?" Scully asked. Mulder wasn't sure how to answer her. He was so tired. They had to be in Richmond tomorrow afternoon, so that left Mulder the rest of the day, or what was left of it, to try and make some more sense out of Jack's cases. He knew he was close. The key was right there, almost in his grasp, but every time he reached for it, it vanished. He also knew that this was typical for him. Whenever he was handed a new case in the ISU, he was convinced he wouldn't be able to solve it, that his Spooky intuition would fail him. He usually spent the first few hours obsessing over his late, lamented ability, and then he caught fire, only to stall late, and go back to square one. But that was when the stamina was required. When he literally couldn't think of another thing to do, he had to work around the clock in order to fill his mind with every minuscule fact of the case. And then, as if by magic, the solution would appear. The connections would be there. He'd be exhausted, but his profile would be impeccable. He didn't know if he was up to it this time. He certainly didn't have enough time on his own to put together connections for this huge case and his head was exploding. Mulder jumped as Scully put a hand on his arm. "Hey, Mulder, you with me?" "Yeah, Scully, sorry. I zoned out for a minute. What were you saying?" "Have you had enough soup, or do you want some more?" Mulder looked down at the half-empty bowl. Suddenly, he wasn't hungry anymore. His nausea surfaced again and he grimaced. Scully noticed. "I think you should see a doctor, Mulder," she said quietly. "I just need some rest," he heard himself say, knowing it was a lie. But Scully, of course, always agreed with him when he said he needed some rest. She considered him for a moment. "If you have anything that even looks like a dizzy spell, you are seeing a doctor, unless you can hide it from me. Got me?" Mulder nodded slowly. Scully appeared satisfied. Mulder could barely keep his eyes open. He needed to get back, look at the files...he needed...he needed help. He blinked sleepily as Scully paid the bill. She helped him up and herded him out of the restaurant. He made a big show out of opening the car door and getting in himself. Scully started the car. "We're not due in Richmond until one, so you should have plenty of time to try and sleep. Do you need anything?" Mulder chewed on his lower lip as the thought in his mind grew larger. He glanced at Scully, poor thing, driving without a clue as to what his next request was going to be. "I need to run an errand." "Don't be silly, Mulder, I'll drop you off and bring you anything you need. Unless it's pornos. I refuse to rent those." "I don't rent. I buy. No, I need to do something myself and...I'd like it if you came with me." Now where had THAT come from? Did he really want her to come with him? All he'd wanted all day long was to quiet the voices in his head, to get away from everyone. And now he was asking his skeptical partner, who barely acknowledged the obvious point that the first four men on Jack's list had been executed, to accompany him into hell. Well, he usually treated her thoughtlessly, so this was no different. God, he hated himself right now. "Come with you...to where?" she asked, rightfully wary. Mulder fiddled with the frayed edge of his overcoat, not wanting to look at her when he dropped his bomb. "I need to see Patterson," he said quietly. The car jerked as Scully reacted. She must have heard the determination in his voice, because she carefully signaled and pulled the car onto the shoulder. She twisted in her seat and looked at him. "You need what?" she asked, incredulous. "I have to see Patterson. About Jack Caulfield," Mulder said, not bothering to skirt the issue anymore. He knew she wouldn't agree, but she knew he'd just leave when she dropped him off, and he WAS offering to take her with him. God, Mulder, he told himself, now you're playing proactive psychologist with your own partner. To her credit, Scully didn't call him on it, even though it was a thinly-veiled attempt. Maybe she found it endearing. "What makes you think Patterson can help?" she asked, her voice low. Mulder dropped his hands in his lap and looked at her deathly pale face. His stomach twisted in sympathy. He'd put her through so much, not just recently, and she was so patient with him. He felt like a petulant child but he knew he had to get his way on this one and to tell the truth, his head hurt too much for him to be driving anywhere. "He knew Jack. Hell, at one time or another, he profiled all of us. He knew how to push our buttons. I don't know...I don't know if he knew how hard he was pushing Jack's, but he knew Jack. He got Jack to do work Jack had no business doing. I'm too close to this one, Scully, and I'm tired," he confessed. "I can't see anything anymore. I need Patterson's input." Scully was speechless, but not for long. "Mulder, what makes you think handing Patterson Jack Caulfield's case- files is going to help? What kind of insanity is that?" Mulder smiled a broken smile. "It worked in Silence of the Lambs," he said softly, no trace of irony in his voice. Scully's hands clutched the steering wheel. "I'm sorry, but this is nuts. And so is Patterson. He's crazy, Mulder, he killed...he killed all those people. He would have killed you. I saw what he did to you, saw the way he manipulated you. I have never been more scared for you in my life than I was during the Mostow case. Patterson took something from you, Mulder, and I won't stand for him to do that again." "I'm going into this one with my eyes wide open," Mulder said, knowing he was losing the battle. "You went into the Mostow case with your eyes open, too," she countered. Mulder closed his eyes. "Patterson became the darkness, Scully," Mulder said quietly. "He knows it. I can't get into this guy's head. I don't even know where to begin at this point. Patterson knows all evil." Scully didn't say anything. Mulder opened his eyes and looked at her. Her face was ashen, her eyes too large. She shook her head. "That...Mulder, that's...you're tired, you're weak...we've got a case tomorrow..." her voice trailed off as she realized she had no way to combat what Mulder was saying. Mulder watched her slump against the seat. "Patterson crossed that line that he always urged us towards. Nobody else crossed it. Jack...well, he knew that when he started getting close to it..." Mulder's voice choked up. So did he believe his friend had killed himself because he was afraid of becoming that which he sought? Was Mulder so consumed by guilt and grief and personal responsibility that he needed to believe Jack Caulfield to be weak enough to take his own life? "I've lost my objectivity. Patterson hasn't. If anything, he's gained objectivity. He'll help me, Scully, because once, not long ago, we weren't so different. He envied the power I had to slip under the skins of maniacs. I made him into that monster, just as he goaded me. We are each other, Scully, and I've got to see him, got to talk to him about Jack. I've got to." Scully sighed, defeated. She made a last-ditch effort. "Look, Richmond won't take more than a few days. Why don't we go when we come back?" Mulder shook his head. "I have to see him tonight," he said firmly. They locked eyes and Mulder watched Scully try to read him. He stayed neutral, letting her, because this time, he was telling the absolute truth. He believed in the truth; believed that his partner would recognize it and acquiesce. And she did. "Okay, Mulder. I'm very reluctant about this, as you know. I will be there with you while you're talking to him, not reading a year-old issue of People magazine in some green-tinged lobby, and if anything happens at all, I'm hauling you out of there. Deal?" He smiled at her. She did not smile back. "Deal." * * * * * * * * * * * * Bill had lost weight. Mulder hesitated, knowing that he was safe physically, but then he'd never been afraid of Bill physically. Even though Mulder had seen the insanity in Bill's eyes, he felt like he was looking into the cold blue eyes of his supervisor once more. He was like a green kid, already being judged. They stared at each other for a long moment and Mulder could feel Scully shift behind him. Suddenly, he was desperate to keep Bill from noticing his partner. He didn't want Scully to get the treatment Mulder knew he was in for. But, typical Bill, he read Mulder's mind. His sharp gaze drifted towards Scully and he smiled, a slow wolfish smile that chilled Mulder. "You've brought the little lady with you, I see," he said, his voice rougher than Mulder remembered. Mulder didn't look at Scully, didn't acknowledge her presence at all. He wouldn't let Bill use her against him. Mulder felt a cold flash of fear. Butting heads with Bill had never been his favorite thing, but that was before Bill had become a murderous psychopath. It was no longer a mind game. It was for real now. Mulder wondered if Bill was still screaming about being innocent. He guessed not. Bill looked like he'd accepted his lot in life and that he'd embraced the darkness, which had previously attacked and engulfed him. Now, he welcomed it. Mulder suppressed a shudder and Bill smiled again. "Are you cold, Mulder?" he asked. Mulder shook his head and sat down, wishing that he'd taken a few more of those painkillers Scully had given him. His head was pounding now and with mild alarm, he wondered if he really should have gone to the doctor. Bill leaned forward. "How bad is the headache?" he asked. Ah, familiar ground. Mulder was able to smile back. "Pretty bad, thanks for asking. However, this one actually has a cause, unlike the stress headaches I had under your command." "My command...I like that. What are you taking?" "Since your Elvis doctor contact dried up, Tylenol." Bill snorted derisively. "Tylenol. Totally useless." Patterson looked at Scully again. "You're a doctor, little lady. Get him some Vicodin. Works wonders." Mulder's stomach lurched at the mention of Vicodin, and all that time profiling rushed back, moving over him. He clenched his fists and glared at Bill. Shit. Bill had him. He hadn't been here five minutes, and Bill already had him. What sport was there in that? Now Mulder was starting to doubt the fact that Bill could help him. Bill wanted to hurt him, not help him. They all wanted to hurt him, to bring him out into the light and beat him and scream at him and humiliate him. Mulder looked down. Scully stepped forward. "We want to know about Jack Caulfield," she asked, her voice high and tight. Shit shit shit...Mulder glared at her and Bill chuckled. "Feisty young thing, isn't she? What do you want to know, little lady?" Scully hesitated, looked at Mulder. "He didn't tell you exactly, did he? Typical Spooky. He never tells anyone ANYTHING." Mulder flinched. He needed to get out of there he needed some air the walls were closing in there were too many people wanting too many things he can't have that report done because he's got this child molester who may escalate and this serial killer fetish burglary twisted burned corpse little girls all the dead little girls and it's all his fault it's ALL HIS FAULT - "Jack Caulfield was working a series of seemingly unrelated cases that I believe are related after all," Mulder said evenly, giving himself a mental cheer for not melting onto the floor. What the hell was wrong with him? Why was he losing his grip like this? He dug his fingers into the plastic of the chair, straining with the effort, trying to stay in the game. "Mmm hmm," Bill said thoughtfully. "Interesting. Why do you care, Mulder?" Mulder was going to have to tell him. He knew he was. Bill would make him say that Jack committed suicide. I'm sorry, Jack. "Jack's dead, Bill," Mulder said softly. Bill arched his eyebrows, genuinely surprised. "Dead, huh? Jack Caulfield...did he go and do it, then?" Bill was going to make him say it. "I don't know what you mean." Skirt the issue, Mulder, don't give him the power of you admitting it but why don't you give him the power of beating it out of you. Bill smiled and leaned forward. "Sure you do, Mulder. What happened? He die of a heart attack? Someone kill him? What? What happened to Jack Caulfield, Fox?" Mulder flinched again and cursed himself. "He committed suicide. I performed the autopsy." Mulder glanced at Scully, who looked like she would love to rip Bill into tiny pieces. Bill smiled slowly but the smile never reached his coldly calculating eyes. "I wish I'd had the chance to work with you, little lady. You would have made a hell of a profiler." "Coming from you, I'm not sure that's a compliment," Scully replied. Mulder sighed. Well, THIS was going well. But Bill was distracted by the "feisty" Agent Scully. Maybe Scully would keep on distracting him, because it may well be the only edge Mulder had. He forced himself to take slow, even breaths. His vision shimmered briefly and he closed his eyes, wishing he'd taken Scully's advice. Mulder should have gone home and gotten some sleep. They could have done this later. But now, now...Mulder had no choice. There was no way he could walk away from Bill now and expect anything when he returned. He had to do this now. "I like her, Mulder," Bill said. Mulder nodded. "Yeah, I know you do. Look, Bill -" "Catch any mutants lately?" Mulder set his jaw. "At least once a week. You've got no idea how many mutants there are out there, demanding to be caught." Bill nodded wisely. "I can imagine. What's the proportion of serial killers to mutants? Is your time being well spent, Mulder?" More familiar ground. Mulder forced himself not to relax, though. He knew Bill was baiting him and didn't want Bill to think it was working. He had to stay on his guard. He wouldn't let Bill pull him down into the darkness. Not again. "My work is important," Mulder said neutrally. Bill shifted in his seat, his full attention once more on Mulder. "Your work is important. Well. How many little eight-year-old girls have been ripped to shreds since you left?" Mulder cocked his head and looked at his former boss. "That's pretty obvious even for you, Bill. How many little eight-year-old girls have been ripped to shreds since you stopped catching killers and became one?" Bill's eyes flashed and Mulder knew he'd gone too far but dammit, he couldn't help himself. He was exhausted and Bill knew it. Bill wanted him to crack, wanted him to see and accept what he was. "It's funny that you should be on the other side, Mulder. You were just as guilty as I was." Mulder noted the use of past tense. Bill wasn't as secure as he wanted Mulder to think, but then Bill had always been good at putting up a false front. "I didn't kill anyone Bill," Mulder said quietly. Bill crossed his arms. "Not physically," He said. Mulder threw up his hands. "What do you want me to say, Bill? That I went down that road, too? Okay, I did. I followed you into the darkness but I GOT OUT. You didn't. You liked it. You stayed there, preying on the weak and the helpless, on the innocent. And you didn't stop, did you? You wouldn't have stopped. You killed Nemhauser, and you would have killed me to feed your hunger." Mulder stood up and glanced at Scully. "This is pointless. Let's go." Bill stood up, too. "Wait," he said, in an anxious tone of voice. Mulder locked eyes with his partner and didn't turn around. "Come on, Mulder. This is an old battle." Mulder turned around. "Yes, it is. So why are you bringing it up? Do you want to hurt me, Bill? Is that it? Do you want to destroy me because you failed to kill me? You had three years to do that. Don't think you can do it in an afternoon." Bill glared at him. "I was just having fun," he muttered. Mulder nodded. "Yeah, it was a blast for me, too." They looked at each other for a long moment, then Bill dropped his eyes. He'd regained control when he looked up again and he smiled slyly. "You'd let me do it, wouldn't you? If it got you your precious information?" Mulder didn't answer. Bill knew him. Bill could fill in the blanks. Bill sat back down again and motioned for Mulder to do the same. "Tell me a story, Mulder." And Mulder did, starting with his discovery of Jack's case-files and ending with the morning's work. Mulder slipped back easily into his role as profiler and Bill did the same with his role as supervisor. Bill nodded at every bit of information and filed it away. When Mulder had finished Bill sat for a long time, staring at nothing. He snapped back to the present and looked keenly at Mulder. "You've left something out, haven't you?" Mulder frowned. "I don't think so," he replied. Bill nodded his head violently. "Oh yes you have, Mulder. You've left something out. You may not have meant to, but you did. A big chunk of this case." "So you think there's a case?" Mulder asked. Bill nodded. "You're already drawing a correlation. It looks like a case to me, but you left something out." Mulder tried not to get impatient. "What, Bill?" he asked evenly. Bill's gaze slid to Scully then back to Mulder. "Something you wouldn't admit to yourself, I suspect. You haven't listed the Cleveland case." Mulder looked down, trying to think. What Cleveland case? Then he remembered the horrific case Jack had worked, with the murdered little girls and the heroin - the heroin. There'd been another case with a heroin connection and Jack had almost lost his mind. "The killer Jack caught...who was killed...murdered...there was another death..." Mulder said slowly. Bill grinned at him. "Yes, Mulder, very good. There was another death. Who was the target, do you think?" Mulder flashed on Jack, remembered how shattered he'd been. How hopeless. Oh my God. "But that doesn't make any sense," he said. "Why would the killer target Jack? And why by killing someone else?" "God, Mulder, you're not on the beam today. If anything, the fucker should have torn you to bits." Mulder remembered Jack, sweating and stammering in his office. His profile. Jack had caught an innocent man with his profile. Mulder's world flashed again and he fought to stay steady. Just stay calm. You're super- cool. Remember that. He can't fuck with you if you don't let him. And Mulder had taken the fucking Cleveland case out of Jack's little folder because he thought Jack had gotten the case in there by mistake. Great fucking profiling, Mulder. "Why would it take the killer all this time to succeed?" Mulder heard himself ask smoothly. Patterson seemed disappointed. "Ah, but you're assuming, Mulder, that it's just the act of killing that gives our boy the thrill." Mulder ground his teeth, trying to ignore the pain shooting through his head. Geez, the headache was really pounding now. He could almost hear it. "If that's so, there should be a signature," Mulder replied. Bill nodded. "You're looking for one, aren't you? You're looking for a tangible signature, a Blake painting splattered with blood." Bill smiled at the look on Mulder's face. "Red Dragon. Great book," Bill said. "What gives him pleasure, Mulder?" "Not the act of killing...he's an assassin, a killer-for-hire. He works alone...he's lonely." "And who does a lonely man kill, Mulder?" Mulder looked at Bill. "The men in their ivory towers...he was sent to kill them. But the others...they were a reaction to his isolation. He killed schoolteachers and parents, happy, well-adjusted people. They became more..." Mulder put his palm up to his eyes. God, his head was killing him. He heard the rustle of fabric as Bill leaned forward. "They became what, Mulder?" Mulder looked at Bill. "More invisible." "And so your signature would be...?" "The lack of one." Bill smiled at Mulder. "Very good, Mulder. Very good." Mulder shook his head, frustrated. "I still don't understand why he would wait so long to kill Jack, if he was after him back then. That was a long time ago, Bill." "No kidding. Let me ask you this: why did you forget about the Cleveland case?" Mulder frowned, puzzled. "Wasn't it in the case-files?" Mulder nodded slowly. He'd dismissed it because he'd remembered Jack working it. "That was a definite case, not an unexplained death," Mulder answered. Bill leaned forward, more spooky than Mulder could ever hope to be. "What happened between that case and now to make him want Jack dead? What would his objective be, Mulder? Come on, you're stupid, but you're not this stupid." Mulder chewed his lower lip as he thought. What HAD happened? He'd pulled Jack out of the garage and made him promise - Mulder jerked and looked at Bill. "You know," Mulder said. Bill just smiled. "How do you know?" Mulder asked, the fear rising. Bill actually looked modest. "Not too hard to figure, Mulder, but in your defense, you weren't presented with all of this information at the same time. I knew Caulfield was fucked up, I just didn't know how much. I made him go into therapy, you know." Mulder stood up, fists clenched. "Goddammit, Bill, you wormed it out of him, didn't you? How did you do it, huh? What did you promise him? Absolution?" "Oh, heavens, no. Not Jack. Not absolution. Not for him anyway." Bill fixed Mulder with a severe and direct gaze. "For you." Mulder's world turned gray. He stared at Bill in disbelief. Jesus Christ. Had Jack Caulfield sold his career out for Mulder? "He made me promise not to tell anyone, then he went and told you. I don't believe you, Bill. I don't believe that Jack would just make the decision to walk into your office and tell you that he tried to kill himself, because he didn't. He didn't try to kill himself then, and he didn't kill himself now. He just didn't." Mulder felt Scully's surprise behind him and knew he was in for it later. But he didn't care. "Well, Mulder, sorry to disappoint you, but Jack Caulfield marched into my office a week after that pathetic suicide attempt, said you'd saved his life, that he couldn't handle it anymore, and that he needed help. I asked him why he was telling me, of all people, and he said he trusted that I'd keep it quiet, keep the therapy quiet, and MOST importantly, absolve you. So, it's a little late, but consider yourself absolved." Bill's eyes crinkled as he smiled and Mulder knew he'd been had in a big way. In the biggest way. Mulder ground his teeth and considered the hateful visage in front of him. Bill was mad. There were no two ways about it. And he couldn't hide his glee. There was something...but Bill was talking again, making it personal, trying to destroy him with words, just the way he had for three fucking soulless years. "You were always so emotional, so ready to accept anyone who accepted you. Your Achilles heel, Mulder, even though you don't see it, is that you desperately crave acceptance. Even as you pushed people away you desired them." Mulder took a deep breath. Bill smiled slightly. "Jack Caulfield was always unstable, unhappy, lonely. Just the kind of person to fall under the Spooky spell. You must feel so guilty for letting him die. He felt guilty, you know, for not being as good as you." "You pushed him," Mulder accused hoarsely. "I made him do his job, if that's what you mean. But he was never as good as you, was he? None of them were. They had to try, though. They had to find causal connections where they didn't exist, string together deaths that seemed completely unrelated...because that's what Spooky did, and that's why he solved cases and got acclaim. They cared about acclaim, about promotions, about what other people thought of their abilities. Unlike you, Mulder, that was the only way they would work hard. They needed incentives." Mulder abruptly turned on his heel and walked away, Scully close behind him. "Don't let him make you invisible, Mulder," Bill called after him. "He'll have you then." P A S T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The flu or what ever the hell it was had been waging war with his insides, had begun to clear only to reappear with renewed enthusiasm. Chills and fever were becoming such a common part of his daily existence, Mulder was sure he would soon forget what it felt like to eat food instead of Tylenol. Christ! He'd done it again. Increasingly in recent days, Mulder had found himself daydreaming, wondering what life beyond Patterson's influence would be like. Surely there were other departments where his talents could be effectively utilized, divisions that didn't extract a toll he'd long ago decided was too high. An assignment where he could take a weekend off and not feel like he owed the world an apology. A little slice of F.B.I. heaven -- no Bill Patterson allowed. Mulder sank back into his chair, quivering momentarily as a round of chills shot through his body. He had to smile, wondering if Patterson rather than fever was giving him the shakes. Unobtrusively, he'd shot his colleagues his best 'assessment on the fly' glance while grabbing a coffee refill. For the most part, everyone seemed to be hanging on. A few just barely. The ones that seemed to care most passionately about their victims were the hardest hit. Mulder counted himself among the latter group. He and Jack were charter members. Come what may, he knew every agent would keep plugging; giving their best until they dropped because that was the kind of men and women they were: silent guardians who sacrificed selflessly on their countrymen's behalf. Theirs was a class act, in spite of the never-ending pressures. Caulfield, however, was emerging into a class by himself. Or so it appeared. Patterson was right. Jack was not only hanging on, he was flying high, apparently thriving on the same stressors that had previously sent him gobbling Tums like medicinal saviors. Caulfield's newfound energy and success had become the highlight of the rumor mill. "Did you hear Jack made the critical calls on the Middleburg and Nelson cases? Patterson actually called him into his office to say 'thank you'!" Second-hand snippets were all Mulder had to go on. He wanted and needed to know more so he could decide if he could morally accept Patterson's orders to hang back. He needed information; quality feedback from someone he could trust. Himself. But it wasn't easy. Mulder had been on the move so often, flight attendants were greeting him by name. Of late, Jack had made no effort to return Mulder's voice or email messages. Everyone in ISU seemed sure Jack's star was on the rise; Mulder was equally certain the man was primed to go supernova. Dammit. Jack's behavior wasn't making sense. Mulder didn't care how sure Patterson was that his concerns were misplaced; Jack Caulfield had come as close to a crash and burn as Mulder had had the misfortune to witness in a colleague, much less a close friend. >From what Mulder could gather, virtually everyone had seen remarkably little of Jack Caulfield since the night that indefinable 'something's not right' had saved Bill Patterson the embarrassment of his career--the suicide of one of his men. Jack had been in and out, his work visible, but his presence transient as he phased from one assignment to the next. Even from a distance, Mulder knew external stressors were continuing to multiply in Jack's life. Mulder had been unable to renew the talk he and Jack had had about the victim that had turned up dead, dumped less than twenty miles from the area in which Victoria Jackson had been found. Mulder hadn't had time to follow the investigation, but he had heard that the locals weren't quite sure how to interpret this latest horror. They had been resting easy, secure in the belief their UNSUB was waging a useless plea bargain with St. Peter. But Mulder knew better. Jack knew better. Was this a possible reason for Jack's quick change? To add the proverbial insult to injury, Victor Jackson's murder/suicide continued to be exploited by tabloids and insipid talk shows. Public panic and heated finger pointing were raging once more. Particularly toward Jack Caulfield, FBI. The whole situation made Mulder nauseous in spite of the fact that none of the responsibility fell directly on him. Mulder couldn't understand how Jack could be coping with the pressures. He was too vulnerable, even under the best of conditions. In short, Jack shouldn't be managing Cleveland. In his gut, Mulder knew that. But his hands were tied. Mulder doggedly attempted to establish contact whenever his path crossed Jack's at work, but his old friend's body language shouted "no trespassing" each time Mulder approached. Minutes turned into hours, hours into days; the flurry of activity making it easy to be lulled into temporarily forgetting about a friend who was reportedly beating deadlines and wowing his superiors. During a briefing break one afternoon, Carlson had rekindled Mulder's anxiety regarding Jack's welfare when he joked that Caulfield hadn't made it to poker night in weeks. Wiggins offered in return that Jack was probably sucking up to Patterson by trying to break Spooky's overtime record. No one else in the office seemed to be concerned about their colleague. These men were behavioral virtuosos -- weren't Jack's danger signals obvious? Didn't they sense the chaos beneath his bravado? Or was Mulder projecting his own tensions onto his friend? Okay...maybe Jack really WAS on the mend. Maybe he'd begun to find answers that proved the validity of his beliefs regarding attack vs. suicide but wasn't ready to discuss them. Maybe he'd had had a break in the Cleveland case that was being kept under wraps. Had Mulder been so preoccupied with Boston and a multitude of other distractions that he'd failed to interpret Jack's behavior properly? A decidedly Pollyana view and Mulder knew it. Easier said than done when he was seriously concerned about someone. Okay, worried. And when that someone had earned his loyalty. Mulder had enjoyed relatively few friendships during his tenure in the Bureau, and he wasn't the kind to turn his back because a relationship had became complicated. Nor was he inclined to engage in self deception. Mulder felt more than a little uncomfortable going against practices that had been integral to his belief system years before taking psychology 101. When behavioral danger signals flash, you get someone to help. They'll usually thank you later. Period. Why had he gone against everything he believed this time? Because Jack's surrounded by people who make their living reading signals and decoding motivations. Someone will notice. Because I see him fairly often, Mulder's inner voice droned on. He was having a hard time convincing himself. How about this one.... Because I'm me...I'll know. Would he? Because Jack gave me his word. And you always keep your word, don't you, Jack? Another round of chills racked Mulder's body. Christ, his head was pounding in rhythm with his heartbeat. Screw it! This Caulfield crap was making him crazy; admitting Patterson might be right made him downright ill. As if he wasn't capable of that one on his own. Damn that man. Brooding over Jack WAS leaching precious moments from his work day; he owed those minutes to professionals counting on his insights. To the victims that might never have to be. Ignore your body and ignore Jack Caulfield. Life will be less miserable that way. Impossible, but it felt good to imagine such a scenario for a few minutes. Mulder was just diving back into his latest profile when Wiggins walked up and threw an envelope onto his desk. Mulder looked up, his eyebrows broaching the question he was physically too tired to voice. "It's from Jack. He asked me to drop this by." "Any message?" "Just that I needed to get it to you before tomorrow night. Patterson sent him to California to do another seminar. He volunteered," Wiggins added sarcastically. Figures. Mulder opened the envelope, withdrawing a blue and white ticket. Courtside, Knicks. No note. No 'hate to miss this,' no 'we'll catch the next one.' Nothing that smacked of their old relationship. Jack had fulfilled his promise to get Mulder courtside, but the delivery made it abundantly clear their friendship was somewhere it had never been. Dead in the water. P R E S E N T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The guard opened the gate and the two agents left together without saying a word. Mulder moved quickly to the car, looking straight ahead, not allowing his eyes to drift to his partner. Eyes open but unseeing. Bill had kept him working through worse than this. A cocktail perhaps, Vicodin for his headache, Flexiril for the knotted muscles in his shoulders, sleeping pills to put him under and maybe a dash of Valium to take the edge off the nightmares. If you have nightmares when it's daytime, when you are awake, what are they called? Come on Mulder, you're a trained psychologist, you know the answer to that one. Dana Scully moved uncomfortably, tried to play it cool, grateful for his distraction, his introspection. She thought it meant he was in no position to observe the way her hands shook as she tried to put the key in the ignition. Mulder noted her twitch, filed it away with the other information. All the bodies. The old, the young. That handful he'd saved, that graveyard full that had died. And sometimes he couldn't even get the bodies back, just got to watch the nightmares, just hear the screams. No signature. Invisible. Seeing yourself as others see you brings responsibilities, obligations, expectations. Years to build the defenses to avoid seeing their demands, their hopes, to avoid seeing them all in too sharp a focus. Take it further. Keep moving back until it's all blurred, until there are no demands, no hopes. Take it further. What if they can't see you? Freedom in that. Be anything you want to be. Be God. Be nothing. "Mulder." Startled, he jerked upright in the seat. Scully was here. Oh shit. Scully was here, she'd been in that room when Patterson...when Patterson had...when Patterson had done what? When Patterson had attacked, when he'd moved in for the kill. Not fatal, of course. Just another of his nine lives gone. He'd rise again, a phoenix from the flames. Jack's funeral pyre this time. And this time he would be bringing back news from the dead, claiming vengeance for the corpses, vengeance for Jack and those others whose murders had gone unreported. "Mulder." Her voice again, a little louder this time. "We're almost at your apartment. We need to talk." Talk. No. Not talk. Need to work. Need to look at the Cleveland case, like Patterson said, not just run away from it. Need to look at the jigsaw again. Need to understand what's on those videos of Jack's. Need to. They pulled into the parking lot behind his apartment. Mulder watched in silence as Scully followed him from the car. Send her away. Don't let her in. Keep her away. She won't let you do what you have to do. What Jack needs you to do. Maybe she can help. No, she can't, she won't. She'll try and stop you. She'll tell you things you already know. You should have reported Jack's suicide attempt. You shouldn't have talked to Patterson. You should be eating, sleeping. You should put Jack's files away. You should be focused on your job. People depend on you. Dead bodies if you do. Dead bodies if you don't. Mulder looked at the man in the hallway. A new face. Something to do with all those boxes the other day, maybe. Who's gone then? No idea. So many people and all invisible. He'd move out if he lived here. He smirked at the stupidity of the idea. If he had himself for a neighbor he'd move out. Lucky this wasn't multiple personality disorder. X, dead in the hallway. A man shot, killed by his loving wife under the influence of drugs added to the water specifically for the resident of number 42. It would be better if he moved away. Away from people. Safer for them. And no one watching him, freezing him in place, reminding him of his responsibilities, drowning him. Scully tapped him on the arm to tell him that the elevator had reached its destination. Mulder nodded and led the way into the apartment, heading directly to the kitchen and coffee and iced tea and, and oh yeah, Scully was here and what did she want? Mulder waited for the coffee, prowling the room, almost colliding with the walls as the adrenaline fueled energy arrived in his system. Food. Find some food. He ducked into the freezer, dug around, found home made lasagne. Labeled and dated, had to be Jack's. Look at the date. Sunday the fifteenth and Jack had died the following day. He rooted through other packs. Not just one from that day. Several. Jack had been cooking on the weekend, then decided to kill himself. It made no sense. None of this had made any sense. The only thing that made sense now was that Jack had been murdered. Murdered by a serial killer, a professional hitman by trade, a killer who needed no motive, who had no signature. But he'd had a motive this time. Jack had become invisible, a prime target. And bit by bit the killer had helped make him that way, made sure that even as people cried at Jack's funeral, they had understood the inevitability of his death. So inevitable they didn't even see the cause. Mulder walked into the living room, the frozen packs in his hand. Dana Scully was on the phone, reasoned professional tones in her voice. He winced. She was talking to Skinner. What would she tell him. Not about Patterson? Not about Jack? Please, God, not about Jack. Not telling Skinner that Jack had tried suicide before and that Mulder had covered for him. Please, no. She put the phone down and turned to face him. Patterson judging, prodding, poking, telling him about responsibility, his responsibility towards the dead little girls. Now there would be Skinner, looking shocked, disappointed, confused, telling him about professionalism, about getting help for a colleague in trouble. And Scully. Scully wanted to talk. You don't understand. "Mulder. Sit down. And put that thing in your hands down before you hurt yourself." Mulder looked at his hands. Yes, the lasagne. Blisters on his hands from gripping tight to the frozen block. He pushed the food towards her. "It's from Jack's. Pam gave them to me. Look at the date. It's the day before he died." "Very interesting, but we need to talk." "Don't you see? Jack wasn't suicidal. Why would he cook a couple of weeks worth of food if he was suicidal?" "Routine, Mulder. It's amazing how far people can get by on routine. You of all people should know that. I've spoken to Skinner, told him you aren't well enough to go to Richmond tomorrow. He wasn't that surprised. Quite a few people saw you keel over at the office. I've told him I'll go alone." Mulder nodded carefully. "Did you..." His voice trailed off. "I didn't tell him what Patterson said. You'll have to tell him that yourself. You need to see someone. Talk to someone. Not just one of the Bureau counselors, who'll let you smarm your way around their questions. Someone who can help you come to terms with Jack's death." Mulder pulled back in the chair. "Come to terms? Jack was murdered. I have to get the killer, not come to terms with the death." She groaned. She'd almost expected this, she'd certainly feared it. As she drove the car over here, she'd been mulling over what needed to be said. When the words arrived they sounded like a carefully rehearsed speech. "You don't want to believe that he committed suicide, because you think that makes it your fault, because you should have reported it the first time he tried. But you've got to face it, Mulder. I can't just let you go out on another case and screw it up because you won't get your mind out of some fantasy about Jack." "It's not a fantasy, Scully. It's real. Dozens of deaths. Even Patterson agreed." "Patterson is a madman and he wants you in there with him. He fucked you over, pulled some rabbits out of the hat about Jack, all just to get to you. If we'd stayed there any longer God knows what other games he had lined up to play with you. Anything to push your buttons." The anger started to drain from her words, a note of despair creeping in. "Why do you let him do it to you?" Mulder chose to treat her question about Patterson as rhetorical, she already knew the answer. "It's no game. There are a lot of people dead." "And I don't want you to be the next in line to get killed by Jack's made- up killer with no MO, no signature and no witnesses." Mulder stumbled into silence as another piece fell into place in the jigsaw puzzle in his head. What if whoever had gone after Jack was looking for another target? What if he was choosing the next invisible victim? What if killing Jack had been such a high that he wanted a repeat performance, maybe even another Fed? Wasn't that what Patterson had warned him about? In amongst all the head games, hadn't Bill told him he was in danger? 'Don't let him make you invisible, Mulder. He'll have you then.' Invisible. And right now Mulder wanted nothing quite so bad as he wanted invisibility. No one prying, questioning, probing. Not Patterson. Not Skinner. Not Scully. But Bill had warned him. Too much to take in. Mustn't become invisible. Stay with Scully, don't push her away. You'll be alone if you do. Alone and invisible. Alone would be such a relief. If he was alone, he could think straight. He could piece it together. Fight or flight? Not enough energy for either. Scully was by his side, handing him a glass of water. He'd spaced out again, drifted into a world on his own. He focused on her hand and took the glass. She held her voice steady. "Tell me about Jack. About Cleveland. About the attempted suicide." He froze, startled rabbit now, eyes locked on the headlamps of the approaching juggernaut He breathed shakily and sipped the water. Had to try though. The story took a long time to tell. They paused for coffee and for food. Dana Scully sat quiet, listening to the bubbles of the fish tank. Wondering if she would ever think of anything to say. Mulder watched her as she sat in silent judgment. It had all come back. Jack. ISU. Patterson. Cleveland. Cleveland and heroin. Cleveland and a kid who died after the prime suspect had been killed. Cleveland and how it tore Jack apart. The real killer, or Jack's killer? Impossible to know for sure. "I need to go back to Indianapolis." He said abruptly. Scully stared, bewildered by this latest twist. "Why?" She spoke as calmly as she could manage, yet still a faint note of panic had crept in. "I think the last two killings, the heroin OD's, were carried out by the same person who killed Jack." Scully exhaled sharply, a rising look of horror in her eyes. "Mulder. Listen to what you are saying. You can't blame all your mistakes on some super-human killing machine." He flinched away from the fear in her eyes. She should be scared. The UNSUB was clever, utterly remorseless. But she wasn't scared of the killer. Mulder twitched nervously as he realized that she was scared of him. Or scared for him. It really made no difference right now. If she was going to help, he needed her. If she was going to mistrust him, he really couldn't face her. When he had facts to back up the suppositions, evidence to support the leap he was making, he'd confide in her. He didn't have to go to Richmond. Scully had told Skinner that he was sick. So, he could work on it tomorrow. Maybe get some food, get some sleep, get rid of the thumping, pounding headache that had got him swallowing Tylenol like they were candy. Tomorrow. "I'm tired Scully. I need to get some sleep. We can talk tomorrow after you've been to Richmond." "You need professional help." "I need sleep." "Damn it, Mulder. You're a psychologist. If this isn't 22-carat-gold denial, what would be? I care about you and I won't let you fob me off on this, not like..." She stopped. Mulder looked back, studied her carefully, took a deep breath. "You mean, not like I let Jack get away from me. Because I didn't care enough." A pause. "I'd like you to go home now." "You've just told me Jack wasn't suicidal when he cooked that food and he was dead the following day." A little desperation in her voice. Mulder ducked his head into his hand, swirling his fingers to press hard across the painful pounding in his forehead as if by pushing hard he could push it away. Everyone pushing. Blaming. Watching. Make the pain go. Let everyone go away. Make them go away. It hurts enough without them prodding, judging. Ignoring his partner, he stood up and wandered into the bathroom to search the cabinet for more Tylenol. He stretched, at least he tried to, but the muscles in his shoulders wouldn't let him. He scanned the shelves. Flexiril...worth a try; just one couldn't do any harm. He washed it down with a handful of water. One meeting with Patterson and the old habits were back. Drown the wounds in a haze of drugs until it didn't hurt. Best to get Scully out of here before she discovered that trick. He dabbed his face dry with a towel and looked in the mirror. He looked hard at the reflection and cringed. Gray pallor over the skin, dark heavy bags under scarcely open eyes, hair not so much disheveled as dishragged. Still wearing work clothes, hadn't bothered to change, not even bothered to pull off the tie, creased and crushed. The heavy stubble on the chin was inevitable. It was past midnight now. The rest of it though, was not fair wear and tear, not a day's worth of damage. The rest of it couldn't even be blamed on Patterson. He looked and saw what Scully was seeing, what Skinner had seen, what Patterson had pounced on. Weakness. Falling asleep on his feet. Falling down on his job. He hadn't seen it in the mirror that morning. Yet he'd looked in the mirror. He must have, because he'd shaved. But he hadn't seen this. He stared hard at the image. The background of the room faded away, so now he studied through clouded vision an image of tired eyes. He adjusted his focus and noted how the shower curtain swam into view and his face became just one more feature in the mirror's landscape. You can only see if you look, only remember if you see, only recall the memory if you've stored the clues to bring it back. He didn't recall this face from shaving that morning. Invisible. He watched the mirror and saw the world go soft focus, vague. Found his shoulders unclenching into a slouch. Scully looked at her watch then at the open door of the bathroom. So far as she could tell he'd been just sat on the edge of the bath staring at the wall for the last twenty minutes. She half hoped he'd fallen asleep. She made her way over to him and realized that if he was asleep then he'd fallen asleep with his eyes open. She looked in the mirror at her mesmerized partner. "What do you think he saw, Scully?" Mulder's voice startled her, she took a few seconds to reply. "Who?" "Dad. What did he see in the mirror? Him, Krycek, the gun. You can't see everything in a mirror, not all at once. What did he see? He could have shouted at me, you know. Why didn't he?" "Mulder. Come back to the couch. You need to lie down, get some sleep." "I don't think the killer can see himself. Can he see the madness, see the evil, or is it invisible? The image only tells the truth if you look at it. If you're invisible you don't have to look. No conscience. No strings to pull you by." "Mulder." She reached out an arm. "Come back to the couch with me." Mulder breathed out sharply as if startled by the contact. "You can't see me or hear me, why can you touch me? Jack didn't call, you know. I'd have heard him if he called." She shivered. "I see you, hear you, now let me help you. You need to get some sleep." Sleep. Yes, sleep would be a good idea. Just fall into the dark. Good idea. Why doesn't she leave me alone? Let me go where it's dark, where no one can expect, demand, hope. Where no one trusts me to get it right. To save the little girls. To save Jack. Dad. Sam. Scully. She led him to the couch and handed him a small pill. "Take it. You need to sleep." Another pill? If Scully said there should be another pill there should be another pill. "You're the doctor." "Yes. I'll stay with you until the pill takes affect." Scully slipped out of the apartment an hour later, leaving her exhausted partner asleep in front of the TV. * * * * * * * * * Dana Scully had not slept well and she'd woken up feeling worse than when she went to sleep. Richmond and a killer who could be in two places at once was not an appealing proposition. Mulder wouldn't be fazed by it. Fifty impossible ideas before breakfast. Any one of them would set them on a trail. Mulder. She winced at the sudden memory. The Mulder she left last night wouldn't set them on the trail of anything. He was folding in on himself. It was the first time she'd witnessed an implosion. He'd scared her before, but at least those times the cause had been real, tangible. An actual problem he was trying to solve, a real case he was trying to crack. Not a problem he'd just pulled out of thin air to use to run away from reality. He had to take responsibility for his actions towards Jack Caulfield. It was too late to change anything for Jack. It was not too late for Mulder to pull himself out of the dive. She would be there for him. She couldn't just let him crash like that, but he had to accept her help. She shook the shower water out of her hair and dressed quickly. An early awakening so she'd make an early start, get up there before the traffic built up. Read the files over coffee at the area office. She hunted around the room for her phone and noted its pathetic winking message of a flat battery. Another search before she remembered that the spares were in her desk at work. No matter, she'd be in the Bureau office in Richmond before anyone started chasing and she could charge the phone when she got there. The offices were only just waking up when she arrived. Agents padding in picking up mail, talking through yesterday's interviews and last night's ball game. The Agent running the case arrived and smiled happily at Scully. They'd worked together before. Scully was grateful for that, it meant that she wouldn't have to go through the painful shadow boxing of getting to know him, of convincing him that she knew what she was doing. They could just get down to business. His first question after the hellos was the obvious one. "Where's Mulder?" Scully winced, she'd chosen to forget that they were expecting him. "He's not feeling very well, so I'm on my own." She decided to ignore the flicker of disappointment that ran across the ASAC's face, preferring instead to focus on the relaxed smile that followed it and his enthusiastic remarks about getting started. A woman appeared at Dana's side. "Agent Scully?" Scully turned, instantly reading the look of alarm in the woman's eyes. Something bad, then. Knew it was bad even before the woman said the words. "It's the hospital. Agent Mulder's been taken there. I've got the Assistant Director on the line." Scully nodded carefully and followed the woman to a phone, focusing hard on a pen she noticed lying on the corner of the desk. She listened to Skinner's voice. Cut his wrist. With a utility knife. Called 911. Lost a lot of blood. Recovering. In shock. And now, so was she. The drive back to DC was hellishly slow. Every stop light was against her. And the clock in her brain had stopped ticking. Every second of the last few days, of Wisconsin, of Indianapolis, of Patterson, of Jack's autopsy was replaying in her brain, over and over again. Slow motion. Fast forward. Random order. Her mind filled in the blanks, the unknowns. Mulder. How could he have done it? How could he have done this to her? She'd tried to get through to him. Make him see sense. She'd tried to make him talk. Tried to make him get help. Why couldn't he have let her help? After all they'd been through together, he couldn't even tell her how bad it had gotten. Couldn't even wait one more day. If he hadn't dealt with it today, himself, she would have made him, she would have put him in the car and taken him, insist he talk to someone. Of course, he had dealt with it. Just not the way she wanted him to. She pulled the car over, hot tears stinging her eyes. Hadn't believed he could have done anything like this. How could he? Jack's death. Just the last straw. Too many terrible things had happened. Too many horrors they'd witnessed. Too many losses they'd experienced. Bastard. Chicken-shit bastard. Running out on her. Hadn't even planned on saying goodbye. He'd dug the pit. He'd fallen in it. She'd even helped him dig, scrape away the dirt, literally on one occasion. There was one thing she knew. Knew with absolute clarity. If you've fallen in the depths of a deep hole, the first thing to do is stop digging. She would do that. No more digging. She would have to get herself out of the hole. Scratch her way to the surface. Then she could try and help him. She couldn't help him if she was down there with him. She blew her nose. Blinked the tears from her eyes. Took deep breaths. Sat up straight. Turned the key in the ignition and pulled carefully back into the traffic. P A S T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Mulder?" "Morning, Bill." Great timing as always. Just what he needed after another night of fever dreams. Sometimes it felt like Patterson had radar that could zero in on just those times Mulder least wanted his boss to appear. "Boston PD wants you back for pretrial work." "Why? I've got nothing new to add and I'm booked into next year." "Hold their hands on this one, it's good PR. Get out of here," he insisted. "Might do you good." One of those looks. Patterson knew. Not all of it, of course, but he knew more than he was letting on. And he was determined to handle it his way. Patterson turned to go and Mulder took a deep breath. Now or never. Do it now, avoid the ulcer. Maybe. "Bill?" Patterson turned around and looked at him. "I know what you told me...about Jack Caulfield..." Rather than chewing his head off, Bill actually looked interested. "What about Caulfield?" Mulder hesitated. "Well...I've noticed a radical shift in his behavior -" "That has resulted in a marked improvement in his performance," Bill said smoothly. Mulder nodded. "I know. But he's distracted." Bill sat back down and leaned forward. Mulder wasn't sure he liked all this attention. "Distracted how?" "He's distracting himself with all of these seminars and lectures, with all this officially-sanctioned consulting." "You jealous, Mulder? Want some more work to do?" Mulder glared at him. Goddammit, Bill... "Wow. You've seen right through me. Look, I think you're making a mistake keeping him on the Cleveland case. Hauswald can handle it." "If you're going to do my job for me, Mulder -" "Dammit, that's not what this is about and you know it!" Mulder almost shouted. Even Bill seemed taken aback. "He'll never have a handle on that case. He'll go completely the other way and ignore the profile. And the profile is right, Bill. You know it is." Bill Patterson leaned back and considered Mulder's words for a long moment. "Caulfield was adamant that he stay on that case." "Because he's obsessed." Bill nodded. "Have you talked to him about it?" Mulder looked away. There was no way he was going to confide in Bill Patterson about the rift that had somehow developed between Mulder and Jack. Was Mulder making too big a deal out of this, or did he truly believe Jack needed out? Jack had believed it of Mulder when he'd gotten him yanked from the Oliphant case. That had been the start of their friendship. Could it be mended if Mulder reeled Jack back from the abyss? "He won't talk to me anymore." Bill raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "Why not?" Mulder shook his head. "I have no idea, but I think the Cleveland case is a big part of it. He's changed, Bill, and even though it looks like the changes are for the better, they're not. He'll crash. You know he will." Mulder couldn't read the look in Bill's eyes. Bill stood up. "I see your point." Mulder felt a ridiculous wave of relief. "So you'll take him off?" Bill nodded. "I'll take him off. It'll free him up for other things." Christ. Leave it to Patterson to turn this into a positive for the ISU. Mulder just nodded. Bill turned to go, then stopped. "Hey, Mulder?" "Yeah, Bill?" No lecture, he thought to himself. I'm not in a tolerant frame of mind. "Hold to six hour days and get some extra rest while you're in Boston. My orders." So be it, Mulder agreed, nodding in acceptance. He had pulled together his notes before Bill made it down the hallway and back into his office. It would be good to get out of this town, away from a boss who nurtured you one day and tried to destroy you the next. The promise of a lighter load and some extra rest was making him feel better already. And Jack? Mulder made up his mind. He'd corner Caulfield when he got back. No more second guessing colleagues or rationalizing the challenge of busy schedules. No more listening to anything but his own tried and true instincts. He had to know, first hand, how Jack was doing. Let the fireworks fly. In the meantime, he wondered how his colleagues would divide a single courtside Knicks ticket. * * * * * * * * * If he'd had to spend one more night in a real bed, Mulder wasn't sure he could continue to be held responsible for his actions. His back was killing him -- the usual consequence of too many nights spent on a mattress only a masochist could appreciate. Boston had turned out to be a mini-vacation. In the final analysis, neither the prosecutors nor police had needed his services. His advice had been appreciated and reverently recorded -- but not vital. No gems of wisdom that couldn't have been faxed. He wondered if the trip hadn't been entirely Patterson's idea. The boss had been known to manipulate rest and relaxation into an assignment when he thought an agent would perform more effectively afterward. Self-serving -- Patterson's middle name. Boston had also given Mulder the opportunity to look through some dusty files that had caught his eye. Weird cases; unexplained phenomena, abductions, mutants...the Bureau just looked the other way on these cases. They usually sent out a half-assed investigator who asked a lot of smug questions, then returned to D.C., typed up his one page of field notes, and dumped the file in a basement cabinet. Mulder had found that basement cabinet and thought the stuff was fascinating. It certainly took his mind off the loss of his only friend. It made him feel less alone, less scared. Less different. Physically, Mulder felt better than he had in a couple of months. He'd put in the shortest work week in recent memory spending his days eating, sleeping, typing and making phone calls. Repeating the process again and again, in no particular order. Mulder made himself available to locals far more than the six hour per day limit Patterson had ordered, but work was rarely draining when he was pounding on a laptop in the relative calm of a hotel room. No interviews, no site visits, little antagonism to graciously deflect. Boston was headed for the 'closed' file. Finally. Shit, Mulder hated to admit anyone could read him that well. Patterson wasn't always right, but he could nail him more often than not. His accuracy grated on Mulder's nerves. No more so than Mulder's own ability to return the favor. Patterson resented being profiled as much as Mulder did. But in this case, he reasoned a thank you was in order. He'd offer one Monday, when he returned to the office and the rat race began anew. Mulder groaned when he heard a knock at his apartment door. The last thing he expected -- or wanted -- was company. Who knew he was back in town? Mulder was tempted to play possum when the knock came again, insistent and more powerful than before. As if someone knew he was inside. Damn, he muttered as he headed reluctantly to peer through the peephole and out into the hallway. "Jack!" he uttered enthusiastically, as he yanked open the door. He was genuinely relieved to see his friend. Jack making the first move was unexpected. A positive sign. He looked good, too good to be in trouble. Mulder was ready to admit he'd been wrong. He never got the chance. Caulfield ignored Mulder's outstretched hand, instead pushing past him into the apartment. "What the hell are you trying to do to me, you prick!" Mulder was stunned. "Jack, I don't know what you mean. I've been in Boston." "Patterson ordered me back from California. He's taken me off the Cleveland case." Here we go. Mulder had expected anger, but the white-hot fury was something different. Mulder took a seat on his couch, hoping to diffuse the situation by appearing calm. He should have known Jack would blame him. What the fuck had he been thinking, anyway? Mulder watched in dismay as his friend paced, spouting fire and fury. Jack wasn't likely to hear anything Mulder had to say. Not in his current frame of mind. "I didn't think it would take you this long to get back at me for getting you off the Oliphant case." "Cheap shot, Jack," Mulder said quietly. Jack glared at him. "You have got NO idea how important this case is to me, Mulder. No idea." What the hell? "Why don't you tell me then, because it's just a case, Jack, and it's something anyone else can handle." "Right. Sure. Anyone else who hadn't fucked it up to begin with, right? Jesus, Mulder. I thought you trusted me enough to let me handle this." "This has nothing to do with trust, Jack. Nothing. It has to do with you, and what's been going on with you. I know you've been obsessing over the Cleveland case. I know how many revised profiles you've sent to Cleveland PD. I know how radically different they've all been. You're shooting in the dark on this one. You didn't have a handle on it before and you don't have one on it now. All the signs are there. You shouldn't be on the case. And Patterson agreed." Jack just glared at him, fists clenched, jaw working. Furious. Crazy. Mulder was suddenly terrified. Why was this case so important to him? "I have a career to protect! What gave you the right!" "Friendship!" Mulder retorted, finally becoming angry in return. "A blocked tailpipe and you, two steps from making the biggest mistake of your life," he added, quietly. "Goddammit, Mulder, did you tell Patterson about that, too?" Mulder stood up, angry. "Of course I didn't. But you said you'd tell me if you...you said you'd talk to me, Jack. Hell, I didn't need to do much convincing. Bill saw how you were." "And you saw how I was that night, and that gives you the right to dictate my life to me. You can hold that over my head for the rest of your life." "Jack -" "Who's on Cleveland now, Mulder? You? High-profile enough for you?" "That's not fair," Mulder said. Jack stabbed a finger at him. "You come near me again and I'll lay every nightmare, every panic attack I've nursed you through on the table. I'll make sure everyone in the Bureau knows just how spooky 'Spooky' Mulder really is. You'll be finished." "Jack, we've been friends. Good friends. Don't do this." "Stay the fuck away from me!" With that, Special Agent Jack Caulfield turned and walked out of Fox Mulder's personal life. Mulder could only hope Jack's outburst was the culmination of a very bad week, something they could, one day, both agree to forget. * * * * * * * * * SIX WEEKS LATER "No Chief Webster, I don't think it would help for me to fly to Louisville. The best I've got to offer at this time has already been faxed," Mulder insisted, wearily. "We're going to have to wait for the lab on this one." Mulder rolled his eyes, listening politely as the Kentucky officer continued to lay out the reasons he felt the boys at Quantico should place his case at the top of their priority list. The thank you call regarding the preliminary profile had been a ruse to get past the regional coordinator and through to Mulder's extension. "Need me to ring the doorbell?" a familiar voice whispered. Mulder looked up into the slightly bemused face of someone who'd been a stranger of late. He smiled in return, motioning his visitor to take a seat. "Yes, Chief. Thanks for your call." Mulder hung the phone up, shaking his head. "They never change do they, Mulder." "I can't blame him. He's desperate. Waiting's hard." Mulder stared at Jack Caulfield, a Jack whose face had aged since the last time they had both been in this office. "Aren't you going to say anything?" "You look tired, Jack." "Everyone else says I look great." Mulder shrugged. "I couldn't take it anymore." "Take what?" Mulder asked. Jack was studying the floor, finding it hard to look into Mulder's face. Finally he found the courage, his blue eyes finding salvation in the compassionate gaze that met his own. "I'm sorry," he offered humbly. "Dammit Mulder, you've been nothing but a good friend to me. It just pissed me off to have you pushing, prying...pressuring." "I have to know if you're okay." "Of course, I'm okay. I never stay down for long." Mulder stared at Caulfield, not quite sure whether to buy into Jack's assertion that all was right with his world. "If I had any problems, you'd be the first to know. A promise is a promise." Mulder sat back in his chair, mentally exhaling. Those were the very words he'd ached to hear; Jack confirming that he remembered their agreement and would continue to honor it. Mulder's trust had been badly shaken, but not misplaced. The fact Caulfield was here at all, sharing sensitive information, was a step toward where they had once been, the best of friends. There was just one more thing Mulder had to know. "What about Patt..." "Patterson suspects I had some shaky weeks, he can't prove anything." "You think he'll leave it alone?" "I really don't want to talk about this, okay? It's over." An awkward silence enveloped the small office. As if in an attempt to push the mood back in the positive direction he'd envisioned, Jack reached over and gently slapped Mulder against the shoulder in the traditional 'good old boy' sign of affection. "Thanks for hanging in there with me. I appreciate it." Mulder grinned. It felt good to have Jack back. In time, the warm relationship that had been important to them both, the port to which each sailed when cases threatened to bring them to their knees, might return. Hell, it felt like it was back already. God knows he'd missed having Jack in his life. "How about we catch up over dinner? My treat." "As long as it's not Dairy Queen," Jack warned. "I've got a couple of new cases I'd like to run by you for gut reactions and brilliant insights. You know, your usual." "Sure," Mulder laughed. "And I've got some for you...cases you won't believe. Wild stuff. Damn fascinating." * * * * * * * * * Years later, long after ISU experiences had become bittersweet memory, Mulder would remember the argument Jack staged in his apartment as a time when he'd blown it. Mulder had allowed a situation to ride when he should have immediately pushed for the truth with the same diligence that was to become his signature. He'd been wrong to let Jack Caulfield disappear, even temporarily, out of his world. Had he pressed harder, Jack's future might have turned out differently. Eventually the trail on the Cleveland case grew cold. Other world events occurred that replaced the deaths of a few young Ohioans as the lead story on CNN. Jack faded out of public scrutiny and back to the blessed obscurity of his daily job. When the department's burgeoning workload grew too complex for Patterson to manage single-handedly, Caulfield was tapped to serve as assistant unit chief. Mulder grew increasingly preoccupied with cases he dubbed X Files. Brilliant performances in ISU, combined with ongoing enmity toward Bill Patterson, prompted Director Blevins to approve full time reassignment to a new division devoted to the cases no one but Mulder wanted. Other agents scorned the work as a total waste of time and resources. Mulder had earned his freedom to pursue situations that captured his imagination and removed anomalies from society. He took advantage of the offer when it came. Jack Caulfield didn't care what anyone else thought, the kid was thriving in his new environment. Mulder insisted during a shared lunch here, a shared dinner there, that panic attacks and nightmares had virtually disappeared as a part of his everyday life. On his own, doing what fed the fire in his soul, being Spooky didn't seem to bother Mulder a bit. Caulfield was seeing the young man as he'd never known him; consistently healthier than the years they'd shared in ISU. Mulder was glad to see Jack putting the pain of Cleveland and personal problems behind him, once again becoming a well respected member of the ISU team. Slowly, without intent, as a byproduct of days that never had enough hours, Mulder and Caulfield drifted apart. They attempted to catch up on one another's lives at basketball games, promised to catch a baseball game when the chance arose. Chances rarely did. And then they didn't at all. Jack Caulfield disappeared from Mulder's life, becoming a warm memory of what had been. When Jack reappeared, years hence, it would be as a statistic. A confirmed suicide. Or was it? Shit. P R E S E N T * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * She knew what to expect as she stood in the hallway outside Mulder's hospital room. She prepared herself, anticipated the response that would flood over her as soon as she saw him. Prepared herself to ignore it. Keep her feet on solid ground, ready with the ladder for when he was ready to haul himself out of the pit. She was ready for what she saw, yet still it made her reel. She was grateful that he wasn't awake. It gave her time to take it in, absorb the scene, add it to her memories, store it away for her nightmares. The blood transfusion was over. Just an IV feeding into him. She noted the restraints that held his wrists to the sides of the bed, the tapes that held the IV tap securely in position. Not just glucose and saline in the mix then. He wasn't asleep, he was unconscious, held under by some sedative. She picked up the chart from the end of the bed, studied the medication. It would be a while before the restraints had anything to restrain, they were probably just there to stop him fidgeting and dislodging the IV. She looked over his body, shivered at the bandage that ran from wrist to elbow. She looked at his face, no peace in his features, no relaxation. Dark smudges on pale skin. He'd scarcely slept in days. He wasn't sleeping now. She memorized the key data from the chart and left the room. When Walter Skinner arrived thirty minutes later he found her in the waiting room staring into a cup of cold coffee. "Agent Scully." She looked up, startled to hear a familiar voice, immediately understood that she shouldn't be startled, of course Skinner would come. She read his look of surprise. Why would he be surprised to find her here? Skinner spoke again. "Has something happened, Agent Scully? I'd expected you to be with Mulder." Ahh, now she understood his surprise. She hadn't stuck to the rules, not hovered at the bedside. Not followed Mulder blindly into hell. "He's unconscious, Sir. They've got him heavily sedated. I don't expect him to come around for a while and I doubt he'll be lucid when he does wake up." Skinner nodded and frowned. "Do you understand this? Why this happened? Why now?" "I believe it stems from Mulder's feelings of guilt over Jack Caulfield's death." She was proud of the clarity of her words, the accuracy of her response, the tone of her voice. Just like giving evidence in court. Skinner listened in silence, not bothering to mask his horror, as Dana Scully briefly recounted the visit to Patterson and the bombshell of Jack's previously attempted suicide. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder had woken up. Almost woken up. Brain and body were screaming, that was the only thing they seemed to be able to agree on. The world was dull and out of focus. His body, lifeless and numb. His thoughts unsteady. He tried to move his hands, but they wouldn't oblige. He looked down at them, blurred moving pictures. A bed, wrists restrained. Panic. Despairing, panicking, thrashing pointlessly. Then pain, in his arms, in his head, in his arm. God, what was wrong with his arm, that pain. Then a shadow standing over him, a syringe, then a cold, hot burning sensation in his arm and falling, a buzzing in the head and a falling. And a quiet world, where waves lapped on the shore and nothing could be done. Dana Scully spoke quietly with the young Doctor who'd given him the shot, was it just her or were Doctors getting younger? "Was that necessary? It's not as if he was going anywhere." "It's only Valium, Miss Scully. It'll give him time to recover, to relax, he's exhausted. We won't use anything more powerful during the day unless he's in danger. But he needs the rest if he's going to be strong enough to come to terms with this." Scully bit back her reaction. It still looked like a preemptive strike to her. But she'd already spoken to the other staff. Heard how he'd arrived, unconscious through loss of blood and in shock. Then waking up screaming, trying to get out of bed. Even that weak, still wired high enough to produce a surge of energy that could frighten his care-givers. They had subdued him, overpowered him easily enough. Restrained him as he argued, as he demanded. Produced syringes of liquid compliance, pushed him under. He was still awake. Maybe that was the word for it. She moved closer. "Mulder?" He tried to focus his eyes on her face or at least, lock onto the source of the noise. Found that both actions were beyond him. He swallowed and tried to form words, but none came. "It's okay, Mulder. You don't need to talk, not yet, you're going to be all right but you need to get some rest. They're just trying to make sure you get some rest." His brain tried to surface through the murky water. Then he got it, remembered how to talk. "He got me. But he let me go. I called..." His words tailed off. "Why didn't you call me? I'd have helped." She tried to keep the hurt out of her voice but she was having a tough time. "Called 911." "Why didn't you call me before you did this. Why?" "You don't understand. He attacked me. I... I don't understand why he let me survive. But he did." "I understand." She said softly. And she did. Of course she did. A nightmare so real, he'd acted it out. Then he heard it, the cotton wool in his head thinned out for just long enough for him to hear it. That calm in her voice. That dispassionate, professional bedside manner. He fought back against it. "Scully. I didn't do this. I wouldn't do this." "Mulder. Just get some rest. We'll talk later." Her quietly solid impersonal tones terrified him, even through the haze he fought against it. Pulled uselessly on the restraints, desperately trying to sit up, to talk to her on equal terms. "I didn't do this. I did not try and kill myself. If I'd tried I would have succeeded." Of course, she could believe that. Not an attempt absolutely intended to succeed. He carried a gun, two guns. He even carried a scalpel to take newspaper cuttings, scrapings at scenes of crime, an occupational nicety. A utility knife was messy, painful, but not a hundred percent guarantee of death. Called 911 himself. A cry for help. Let fate and EMT response times and the DC traffic choose whether he would live or die. The same professional caring tone. "Rest, Mulder. You'll damage the stitches by pulling like that." "How can I? Someone's trying to kill me." "The stitches." A firmer warning in her voice. He was flying high now, adrenaline winning the battle against the tranquilizers. "Fuck the stitches. You want to talk about a few stitches when someone's trying to kill me?" "Forty stitches." She said grimly and then surveyed the panel and pressed the button for assistance. It took less than a minute for the fresh injection of sedative to kick in. He collapsed deep into the bed, body and brain falling out of the real world. "You don't understand." Final words, before the world disappeared. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Scully had kept herself busy. She kept up on the Richmond case, worked on tests and fresh forensic evidence. Tidied the papers and assorted mess at Mulder's apartment. Arranged for cleaners to deal with the blood stains on the carpets and furniture. A couple of days had passed since the incident and she steeled herself for yet another hospital visit. He would probably be awake. She tried to think of a good way to delay the trip until he was asleep. But that would be wrong. She was never that weak. She arrived at his room, got an encouraging nod from the nurse watching the monitor screens and went in. She wished she hadn't. His arms were still in restraints. The auxiliary was feeding him his meal. Dana hastily tried to excuse herself. She wasn't quick enough. He tensed, twisted his head away from the auxiliary. "Don't go." "I'll be back in a minute. After you've eaten." "I don't want to eat anything more." He turned to the staff member, who spotted his distress but chose not to fight it. She'd let him have that much freedom. She'd write it down on the file. She nodded her head and walked out of the room. Scully stood in the doorway, unwilling to approach. Mulder closed his eyes and turned away from her, giving her breathing space. She hesitated and took another deep breath, then walked forward to sit beside the bed. She cleared her throat. "I've sorted out some things at your apartment." He looked around at her, suddenly expectant. "Did you find anything?" She groaned a little. He was still claiming to be attacked then. She'd hoped that by now...no matter. She would tell him the truth. "Nothing you weren't really expecting. There was a lot of blood, the knife was still there, no signs the door had been forced, some furniture disturbed. Nothing that couldn't have been done by you stumbling or by the EMT crew." He nodded and closed his eyes again. "What about the wound pattern? Maybe we can get something from that. Making this length and depth of cut with a utility knife on yourself is really hard. Making it with the left hand on the right arm is just about impossible. You should be able to tell from the angles." She felt like screaming, but she tried to keep her voice calm. "You were in too much need of emergency help. They didn't have time to take any pictures. There was no need." Because you don't have to study suicide attempts from high definition images, she finished silently. "Scully." Quiet despair in his voice. "If I was asking you these questions about a stranger lying in this bed, you'd help me investigate. But because it's me..." She stood up. "That's just it. It's not a stranger. It's you, the man I watched fall apart for weeks." And didn't do anything about, she added to herself. This was going to be a slow and painful recovery for both of them. But they would recover. She was determined about that. No lies between them, no platitudes, no more. * * * * * * * * * It had taken days in the hospital, days since the incident that had brought him here, days to come to this point. He closed his eyes as the bitterness raced through, fighting to hold the reaction back, to maintain the pretense. Apathy. First of all, real drug-induced apathy. Now, feigned-for-his- audience's-benefit apathy. Quiet. Had to stay quiet. Shouting and getting angry hadn't helped. As he studied it with the grim detachment of isolation he understood now that it had stood no chance of helping. The reactions had been suppressed with another shot of something stronger 'to make the pain go away Mr. Mulder' before he hurt himself. It hadn't seemed foolish at the time, but then his brain had been full of terror and drunk on their drugs. Not easy to think straight. Pleading hadn't helped. Such desperation in his tone, people had sensed a panic attack building and chosen to anticipate. So now he kept still, stayed quiet, kept below the defenses. Took the Valium like a good boy. Neglected to mention how little impact the dosage was having. They'd removed the restraints. But he had to stay in bed. A choice, sit up or lie down. And don't disturb the IV. He looked bitterly at the tube. He was eating and drinking now, feeding himself now they'd removed the restraints. The IV was a convenience for blasting him full of whatever drug they wanted in him next. A case conference scheduled. And he'd been making such good progress. If he'd just admit that he'd attempted suicide. If he would just stop making claims about some mystery attacker. So much easier. Might not even need further in-patient treatment. Voluntary committal. So much easier. The Doctors and Scully all agreed. Best if he just came out and told the truth. Scully told him brightly about preparing his apartment for his return home. Told him not to worry about the Bureau. Just get well. Then think about work. He unclenched his fist before he tore the stitches again. Whatever it took. Whatever he needed to do to get out of here. He would do it. Present himself as others wanted him to be. Lie if he had to. Be invisible. Fly under the radar. * * * * * * * * * The Richmond case was up there on Quantico's list of high profile work. Spooky's much anticipated, yet still (when it finally happened) unexpected, breakdown was top of the gossip charts. Either way, Dana Scully found being the center of attention not at all to her liking. She could really do without the sympathetic glances and those coy, evaluating on-the-fly appraisals of her mental and emotional condition. Carlson, the ISU profiler working the case, was sitting across the table from her ready to review the forensic and autopsy data. He was more honest than most. He looked her straight in the eye when he spoke and asked her the question most others were too spineless to ask. "How's Mulder? And how are you?" She answered with customary platitudes, but then noticed something in his eyes. She looked harder at Carlson. Was he actually upset? "Did you know Mulder?" She bit her lip. She'd used the past tense. She let herself off the hook for the slip-up. There was always going to be a before the suicide attempt and an after the attempt line drawn in her view of Mulder now. The Agent nodded. "Sure. Well, as much as he let people know him. I rode shotgun for him on a few cases when he was in ISU. I thought he was indestructible." Scully suddenly realized that she wanted to talk to someone about Mulder. A stranger but not a stranger like the Bureau counselors they kept trying to send her to. A stranger who knew Mulder, who liked him, was upset about him. Not someone who avoided talking about him, avoided talking like the way they avoided taking about someone who'd died. So, she made Carlson talk. He seemed hesitant at first, then relaxed as he started to tell her about his dealings with her partner way back before the X-Files. "Like watching the Energizer bunny.... didn't sleep until he fell over....didn't eat unless he could hold the food in his hand while he was driving... would just fade out on you while you were talking to him....then he'd make something out of nothing, close the case and while you were still packing your dirty laundry he'd be looking like he'd just walked off some designer catwalk and cracking jokes... " She listened as Carlson talked, hearing the words and reminding herself of cases. Jack's death had hit Mulder hard. Understandably so; he felt responsible. But there had been other deaths, other losses, other guilt trips he'd launched himself on. She thought of his chase for a gargoyle called Bill Patterson. Just working. Just the way he worked. She thought of what Mulder had told her of ISU, about nightmares and blackouts, because 'it was the job, nothing more'. What if it was the job? What if there was just the smallest possibility that he was telling the truth this time? He would have no way to prove it. Only she would. * * * * * * * * * Dana Scully couldn't believe the sight that greeted her when she arrived at the hospital. Scully talked to the most senior of the Doctors. She'd had to switch off her 'friend of the patient' manner to do it and insisted that the consultant talk to Dr. Scully, FBI Special Agent. The junior staff member she'd been dealing with all week quaked at the change, withdrew and led her to their chief. She cringed at her own behavior, but she needed someone with more authority. Their boss, Dr. Allen, hadn't even been around when her partner had flipped from passive, almost submissive patient into angry, paranoid FBI agent. Violent, too. He'd tried to get away, run from the room. When he couldn't force the door, he'd gone to the window, tearing at the bars. The video camera had the frenzy recorded for posterity. The nurse on suicide watch had spotted the activity in room 3 as soon as he left the bed. The team had been there within a couple of minutes. She watched the film, saw the blood on his hands where he'd pulled away from the IV. Blood on his arm where the stitches had torn, again. On his fingers where he'd wrenched off a fingernail as he tried to get to the window. Scully looked through the observation window. The blood was gone now, all cleaned up. New bandages. Fresh bruises on face and hands from a futile battle with four auxiliaries. Dr. Allen pointed out the chain of events. Mulder waking up anxious, drinking water. Fidgeting. Violent rocking movements, twisting in the bed, wringing his hands. Startled, tear-filled eyes. Then that panic, sheer blind panic, that threw him out of bed into a frenzy that sent him careering into the wall even before he attempted to get through the door. Scully watched, feeling weak tremors run through her knees and set her hands shaking. She watched the auxiliaries overpower him, restraints not just on his wrists now, but on his chest and ankles as well. Watched the contents of the syringe knock the fight out of him. Dr. Allen was businesslike but gentle. "I understand how it must seem. Yesterday, everyone was hopeful. But he was still denying that he'd tried to kill himself. I don't doubt that he's an intelligent man and I'm told that he has psychological training. It can be a dangerous thing at times like this. He understood what we wanted, so he tried to give it us. So we dropped our guard, removed the restraints, reduced the drugs. He couldn't keep it up, it was costing him too much to keep it in. In the end it was like watching the valve on a pressure cooker blow." Scully nodded, unconvinced. It wasn't right. That loss of control. So extreme. So much terror. It didn't gel. Somehow, she didn't want to believe. She chose her words carefully. "Dr. Allen. I'd like to discuss the medication. I'm concerned that the event may have been a reaction to one of the drugs." "A reaction?" The Doctor sighed and picked up the chart, there had been no contra indications. "Well, you're welcome to look. But basically he's been on that combination of tranquilizers and sleeping pills for several days. The dosage was being tapered off. I'm sorry." Scully stopped herself from rocking from foot to foot. Forced herself to sit still, calm, confident. "I'd like to have a sample of his blood analyzed. I have some concerns." "Concerns?" "Sir. I appreciate that this is an unusual request but I feel I must insist. If there is any possibility, however remote, that he was drugged, that a crime has been committed while Agent Mulder was under hospital supervision I'm sure you'd want to know." Dr. Allen nodded. "Of course." He paused. "Don't get your hopes up, Agent Scully." "I won't. Thank you, Sir." She photocopied the chart documenting Mulder's prescribed drugs, thanked the nurse for the blood sample she took and walked away, saying a silent goodbye to her unconscious partner. Scully didn't even know what she was doing. Was she empathizing so much with her partner that she would leap to this conclusion? Was she so desperate to believe that Mulder hadn't lost his mind that she was ignoring her objectivity? If the FBI lab couldn't find anything, there was nothing to be found. But if they found something, then it wasn't so hard to imagine that he'd been attacked in his own apartment. Scully wondered what she hoped. * * * * * * * * * Mulder recoiled as the door was unlocked. He felt awake, as awake as he'd been in days. But a cold dread built in his stomach as he heard the door open. A visitor or a nurse arriving now. Could the next dose of something to shut him up be far behind? Not for the first time, he closed his eyes and willed himself to do nothing. Scully entered. He recognized her walk and her scent. Scully was the most frightening visitor of all. He kept his eyes shut. Her voice, soft spoken, that same bedside manner but today there was something else, too. He tried to focus on her almost nervous tone and opened his eyes. "Mulder. Are you awake?" He didn't reply but she saw his eyes open. Her voice fluttered. "Keep still for a minute, I want to get the straps off you but I don't want to hurt you." He heard the words but didn't understand them. Then he felt the restraints disappear from his wrists. He looked at her, too nervous to ask what was happening. Dana Scully was trying to keep calm. "I've just gotten the blood tests back. Someone drugged you yesterday. An hallucinogen, a very powerful one. Someone will come and remove the IV." As if on cue the nurse arrived. Scully looked like she wanted to say more, but she just turned and left. The nurse made short work of the IV tap and catheters and medical paraphernalia that littered the room. Mulder had still not said anything, scared that any words might break the spell. Dana Scully returned to his side as soon as the nurse left. "Skinner's going to come over. We should be able to get the investigation going right away." Mulder tried to reply but it took several attempts before any words arrived. "I want to shower and get dressed before I see him." "You'll need help. You've still got a lot of drugs in your system and you've been in bed for a week. You could get dizzy and fall." It was starting to make sense, he was starting to understand. A bundle of raw nerves now, his voice rose sharply. "Then I'll get dizzy and fall." He heard the anguished tone in his words, corrected himself, softened his voice. "Please, could you find my clothes?" "But the Doctor will want to see you, you aren't formally discharged yet." Still softly spoken, tightly controlled. "Scully, this isn't a good time for a lecture." She nodded her head, accepting the inevitable and went looking for clothes while he moved very slowly and unsteadily to find the shower. Half an hour later and he was ready to talk. Clean and shampooed and shaved and back in his own clothes. These were the clothes that Scully had brought in optimistic anticipation from his apartment, days ago, during a frenzy of 'trying to do something' activity, days ago when she had no reason for optimism. Scully watched him now. Mulder noted her stare and guessed what she was seeing. Pale skin, dark marks under the shiny, unfocused eyes. Bruised hands from puncture wounds and from strong hands pinning him down to fasten the restraints. The bottom edge of a bandage on his scarred right arm visible at the cuff of the shirt. The finger that had lost a nail covered over. He carefully questioned Scully on the blood test results and tried to pay attention to the replies. In a way the answers didn't matter; they were just symptoms. He was the only one who could explain the disease that would identify the killer, identify his attacker. They believed him now and that was all that really counted. Now he could go after Jack Caulfield's killer. A killer who had decided to play a game of cat and mouse. Skinner could scarcely believe what he was hearing. A tightly argued profile on a killer who Mulder believed was escalating, a killer out of control. Yet the escalation had taken the most bizarre turn of all. According to Mulder the UNSUB was escalating not by increasing the rate of killing or the frenzy of attacks but by selecting a new kind of target and taking it slow. And now, by keeping his victim alive. * * * * * * * * * Mulder sat up in the hospital bed. He remembered lying down in here, wanting a few minutes to steady himself, regain his balance, to let his stomach recover from the violent contractions that had sent him choking into the bathroom. He remembered that he'd decided to lie down for a few minutes and now, according to his watch, three hours had passed. He analyzed his situation. No restraints, no IV's, no watchers, all good signs. Scully's wake-up call and the meeting with Skinner hadn't just been fever dreams then. Fully clothed, another good sign, it suggested he was going to be formally discharged. No one had wanted to turn him back into a patient. Scully must have fought off the staff to let him lie on the bed with his clothes on. He smiled at that. Scully fighting for him, again. His head was still swimming. A grim mix of drugged drunkenness and hangover and nausea was still in control of his body. It would be a day or two before all the crap was out of his system. The sleep had helped. Scully was smiling when she came through the door. "Back in the land of the living?" "Yes, yes." He waved his arms in acknowledgment. "I know. You told me so. You said I'd get dizzy if I moved around too fast, too soon." She nodded and smiled again, then sobered up sharply, speaking almost nervously unsure what his reaction would be. "The Agents Skinner sent are here to see you. Lannighan and Krensky from VCS." "Good name for a music hall act." Mulder winced, he'd told Skinner he wanted to handle the case himself. Skinner had refused. Inevitable under the circumstances, but frustrating, agonizing. And worse still, he wasn't even ready to talk to the investigating team. Three in one -- victim, sole witness, profiler. None of the alter egos was in a position to give evidence. He looked gloomily at his bruised hands, the bandages and the band aids and decided he'd rather not shake hands. He'd do the interview, no choice. If he was investigating he'd want the witness fresh. No choice. Wouldn't do them any good though. He knew both Agents. He'd worked with Krensky. Decent and hard working, certainly. Inspired and intuitive, no. Mulder admired Skinner's selections, admired it in an abstract disconnected sort of way. Safe pairs of hands. No history of battles with Spooky but not part of the fan club, the favor-swapping circle. Good choices. Mulder looked around the room and decided he'd rather be interviewed on less emotionally-charged territory. They moved to neutral ground, a quiet bay in the hospital cafeteria, Mulder carefully trying to control the agenda by warning them that he remembered very little and that it would be better to try tomorrow when the drugs had cleared from his system. He was rewarded with wry 'come on Mulder, you know the score' smiles. They were asking all the right questions, as was to be expected from safe pairs of hands. Mulder tried and failed to give the right answers. Even the simplest question seemed to lead to a set of agendas Mulder couldn't afford to discuss. "Why wasn't the door bolted or chained?" "I took a sleeping pill and forgot to do it." "You're the most paranoid man I know, you wouldn't forget." Krensky was right, Mulder knew it and winced at the statement. Well it's like this. Agent Scully was watching over me like my baby sitter and she waited until I was too out of it to walk to the door before leaving. "I had a visitor, I fell asleep." "The visitor's name?" "Agent Scully. And you can knock off the look. We were working late." "Right." A raised eyebrow. "Fuck off." Krensky moved back to business, strictly the facts. "You didn't hear your attacker come in." "I was asleep, I'd taken a pill." "From what I remember of you in ISU, one pill wouldn't have kept you down." Mulder shrugged. "I'm not one of Patterson's junkies any more. I've lost my tolerance. And I'm not as young as I used to be." Krensky nodded and offered an encouraging smile. "Not as wired, either. Even so, you were with Patterson the day before. Agent Scully said you were distressed by the meeting." "When did she say that?" "Here, the morning you were brought in." Mulder studied the floor. "Not distressed enough to imagine being attacked or to find and take an hallucinogen five days later in here." "Hey man. I'm not saying that. Just asking, was it only one pill?" "I had a headache that was frying me, I was taking Tylenol. I had muscle cramps, I took a relaxant. I took a sleeping pill. Take my word for it. I was out of it." Mulder acknowledged the expressions of the two Agents. The FBI patented, 'well that's all very interesting but there's nothing we can do with what you've told us', look. Mulder shrugged. "I know there's nothing useful. If I knew anything useful I'd tell you." Krensky sighed. "We'll start inquiries at your apartment, ask neighbors and stuff, you know the routine. If you remember anything, a stalker, someone who's made threats. Yeah, well you know what we need." "You need to start here, at the hospital. No one at the complex will remember him. But we might get him on the hospital security footage. They've got cameras all around the place." The Agents nodded and left. Mulder looked at Scully for the first time in quite a while. "Well, that went well. Interesting reading for Skinner in the morning." She frowned. * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder tried to keep the tremor out of his movements as he walked up the steps to his apartment. Eyes downcast, he forced his hands to unclench, to search his pockets for keys. Dana Scully moved forward, her spare keys in hand. Mulder flinched, twitched away from her offer to help, then sighed deeply and stood back to let her through. He could find his own keys later. He avoided making eye contact with the two neighbors as they passed in the hall. How much did they know of what had gone on? Enough to have seen the ambulance, the police, the cleaning firm. Someone would have asked the visitors what had happened and been told about the attempted suicide in 42, another page in the diary of Mulder-provoked nightmares in the building. Maybe he really should move to some new place, spread a little joy somewhere else in the city. Scully stood at the opposite side of the elevator. He recognized her action, her attempt to minimize the intrusion. It wasn't working. He'd spent days of being hovered over, monitored, watched. He needed to be alone. His stomach was churning, his mouth felt dry. He'd told her in the car that she didn't need to come in but she'd insisted. In a way he understood. He knew it had to be done. There had been an attempt on his life, a safe house had been suggested. Guards had been offered and rejected. He'd look after himself. Now he knew he was in danger. He knew how to look after himself. Now he wasn't restrained in a hospital bed or blasted full of drugs. He'd look after himself. He stood in silence, trying to will Dana Scully to read his thoughts, to understand his need to be alone. He was concentrating now, thinking hard about the apartment and what he would see. He remembered the blood. Not easy to forget the blood. It was burned into his memory. There probably wasn't as much blood as he remembered. If there had been, he probably wouldn't have been alive when he got to hospital. But it didn't take a lot of blood to stain a lot of things. Scully had called in a cleaning firm, specialists in the management of scenes of violence. Cleaning up after murders, accidents, suicides. He'd almost cried when he heard that. No chance to investigate the crime scene. The crime had been washed away in a sea of disinfectant. He hadn't cried, he couldn't, he dared not. Another reason to be alone. He opened the door and stood for a moment in the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust to the light and to take in the scene. The room swept into his consciousness with a painful surge. The rug had gone, presumably damaged beyond repair. More startling was what else was missing. The sterile gap it had left behind and the emergency room smell that hung over the place. Scully breathed in sharply, suddenly aware that she hadn't prepared him for this. She hadn't prepared herself for this. She was too excited just to get him home. She'd already started to forget those frantic hours after she'd first seen Mulder in the hospital, the hours when she'd moved like a whirlwind to do anything, anything to keep herself busy, keep her thoughts away from her partner lying sedated in a hospital bed. She had some talking to do. She slipped past him and told him that she would fix some coffee. Mulder slammed the door and leaned back against it. He dropped the suitcase unceremoniously to the floor and kicked it out of the way. He toured the apartment, opening windows and doors. It smelled of hospitals, of phenol and chlorine and the sickening scent of artificial wilderness. Patchouli oil, supposed to mask the acrid antiseptic smells but just adding one more level of pungency. Patchouli, he hated fucking patchouli. His eyes searched the room. It looked wrong. It smelled wrong. Where was everything? His files, videos, photos, books, missing things. He finally made his way to the kitchen door and supplied the one word question. "So?" Scully turned to try and face him but found it too hard to look into his eyes so she studied the floor. "Jack's videos and files are at my place. The other files are either there or in the office." Mulder nodded. His voice a model of control. "Thank you. I'll get them tomorrow. Now, I'd really like to have the place to myself." "Please. Please let me help you. Let me get you some food. You don't have to be alone." Mulder's voice took on an icy edge. "I do have to be alone." "What are you going to do?" "Nothing." "Please. I know you're upset." He took one deep breath, then another, then another. What did she want from him? Then he sensed it. She was waiting for the anger. She wanted to hear him lash out. She thought she deserved it. How did it come to this? He hesitated. She wants the truth, okay, a sample then. One last chance, he kept his voice soft. "Go home Scully. I need to be alone. Thank you for getting me out of the hospital." "I have to know you'll be okay." Mulder tensed, then relaxed, giving in to it. Okay. She could have what she wanted. She could have a glimpse of the way it felt. His voice was steady, definite, soft, absolutely insistent. "Let me explain my plans for my big night. I'm going to take a shower. Several in fact, until I can't smell hospitals in my hair. I'm going to drink coffee and iced tea and anything else that contains caffeine. I'm going to eat some food that actually tastes like food. I'm going to slump on my couch in front of the TV until I fall asleep from tiredness or boredom. I'm going to go to the bathroom without an attendant, without any video cameras. Then in the morning I'll get up and go to work to get the files and ignore the stares and try and act like I belong there." He paused. "Okay? Is that angry enough for you? Like I'm in touch with my feelings? It would be better if we spoke tomorrow." She nodded, picked up her jacket and walked out of the apartment. He locked the door and closed his eyes. * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder and Scully sat quietly as Skinner prowled the office. Skinner's discomfort was obvious. Mulder was disturbingly calm, reactions firmly battened down, concentrating hard on not making mistakes. Scully felt like the fifth wheel. Skinner had started the discussion by suggesting Mulder take a vacation, then suggesting a request for medical leave would be favorably received and then having had the offers rejected Skinner had suspended him pending a full psychological and physical evaluation. Mulder had sat through it all, politely insistent that such steps were unnecessary. The lack of emotion in Mulder's voice apparently enraged Skinner all the more. Mulder watched Skinner, casually recording the phrasing, the nervous gestures, understanding Skinner's interpretation of the events. He thought back to Jack's funeral and Skinner's worried looks, even back then. When Skinner had been told of the attempted suicide he'd believed it, one hundred percent. Even today, Skinner still believed it, maybe not absolutely literally, but close enough. Skinner had read Lannighan and Krensky's reports, heard Mulder's taped interview. Days ago he'd heard from Scully that Mulder had failed to help Jack Caulfield when it mattered. Skinner could see that Mulder was on a dangerous track and he was determined that he would not make the same mistake Mulder had. Yes, Mulder understood Skinner. Skinner watched Mulder now, waiting for the speech for the defense. Mulder opened smoothly, pointing out that the posting of an indefinite suspension would lead to him having to surrender his gun, in effect leaving him defenseless. Skinner stopped pacing, suddenly looking confused as if he'd forgotten that his Agent actually had been attacked. Had he forgotten or did he still not quite believe it? Mulder paused to let Skinner catch up with his thoughts, then he moved on again. Mulder was the key witness on the assault. He was also the best-placed analyst to consider Jack's theory of a serial killer. Most significantly, the X-Files partners were the only team with a proven track record on this kind of multi-stranded case. Skinner stared at Scully. Scully looked back, a cool direct gaze. "Agent Mulder's absolutely right, Sir. Lannighan and Krensky are good Agents but this looks like a case that may need a history and insight that they don't possess." Skinner took a deep breath and sat back down. They negotiated the suspension down to three days, assuming that Mulder would no longer show any residue of the drugs used on him beyond that time. The insistence on psychological and medical evaluation remained in place along with a requirement for gun re-certification because of the damage to his arm. Mulder had frowned at that. Going by the throbbing in his hand, that wasn't going to be an easy requirement to meet. Nonetheless, he knew he was in no position to argue. Mulder could discuss his theories on the cases that Jack Caulfield had been looking at with ISU. Skinner would take Carl Wiggins' advice on follow up activity. Lannighan and Krensky would run the investigation into the assault on Mulder but would allow Mulder and Scully full access to all information obtained. Compromises, as it had to be. Compromises, with loop holes for Mulder to escape through. Skinner dismissed Mulder but kept Scully in the office. "Agent Scully. I understand your support for Agent Mulder, but you mustn't let your judgment be influenced by erroneous ideas of loyalty. Mulder needs help and we need to see he gets it." "I am trying to help him, Sir. Someone attacked him and we need to capture that person." "I'm not saying I don't believe the story about the drugs at the hospital. But even if it's true...you know more than anyone that Mulder has enemies. And not all of them are in jail. They could have seen the same deterioration that we did. Took it as an opportunity. It doesn't make Mulder's own problems less serious, it makes them more dangerous." Scully breathed in sharply. "I misjudged Mulder, my misjudgment led to humiliating treatment for him and left him exposed to another assault. I will not let him down again." They argued without making progress. Eventually, Scully asked if the interview was concluded and Skinner confirmed that it was. She left the office, eyes still flaming with anger and frustration, and studied the corridor, Mulder was nowhere to be seen. Skinner's administrative assistant told her that Mulder had gone for a walk outside. Scully found him sitting on a park bench watching the rainbows in the fountain, apparently hypnotized by the flashes of light and dark, the white noise of the water. She sat next to him, touching his unbandaged arm to get his attention. "Don't tell me you got suspended, too?" She shook her head. "A day's mandatory personal leave." He smiled. "Well, if it's got feathers like a duck, waddles like a duck, quacks like a duck, you're going to need some pretty good evidence if you wanna disprove the duck theory." She surveyed the water. He frowned, suddenly serious, flexed his fingers painfully in front of him. "Scully. I need to get in this guy's head. Thing is, I'm almost invisible now. Only you could see me. I need you to stay visible. Promise me, you won't become invisible too." She stared at the water and nodded. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "This is Fox Mulder, leave a message..." Scully slammed the phone down before the beep indicating Mulder's machine was recording had a chance to sound. She knew his response already. Anger. Irritation that would leave her furious that she'd decided to call in the first place. He'd then counter by eventually regretting what would be, in reality, a very natural reaction. The scenario took a heartbeat to imagine; a millisecond later she had slammed the phone so hard her palm stung. The hang up would register when Mulder played his messages and maybe that would be enough. He'd know she cared without it being overbearing. He could call back if he needed or wanted to do so. She hoped. Mulder needed space, not too much, not too little. Enough to feel like he could deal with this, independently, in his own way yet not feel alone. It made a plausible theory and was the only way she had been able to successfully fight the urge to spend the night camped in the parking lot of Mulder's apartment complex. Mulder didn't need to know how terrified she was on his behalf, or be aware she was winding through the hours with the sinking feeling that she might be making the wrong call in supporting him. Scully was more than a little disturbed by her part in the humiliation he'd endured at the hospital. Coming to terms with a mistake that went against the "do no harm" portion of her oath was proving extremely difficult. She'd done harm through lack of prompt action and proper assessment. Happened to clinical docs all the time, but not to her. Never to Dana Katherine Scully, the powerhouse who graduated fourth in a med school class of two hundred. When was she ever going to learn not to doubt her partner? When he stops giving you plenty of reasons to do so, shouted the damnably insightful inner voice. One minute she was sure of the path she had chosen and the next just as certain she was amiss in her assessment of the situation. Worry was eating her alive. Was it really safe for him to have his gun? If attacked a second time, could Mulder pull the trigger or fire with any semblance of accuracy? Would he take down an innocent civilian, leaving the Bureau ripe for a lawsuit and his conscience in shreds? Scenarios played one right after the other with dizzying array of less than desirable outcomes. Scully was walking a tightrope, one greased by this unseen foe so expertly she could feel herself slipping. The balance between Mulder, her job and her own sense of propriety had rarely been more precarious. She should be used to that by now, she supposed. Familiarity was supposed to breed tolerance. Maybe, but instead she hated the unknown with a ferocity that was new to her experience. The lack of structure and clear-cut answers pissed her off. Science produced reasons with a logic that took the bite out of fear and made the unknown manageable, safe. Many aspects of the human psyche, far more than she would ever admit to Mulder, terrified her. Scully could project herself only so far into the darker regions of aberrant behaviors and thought processes that Mulder seemed to explore with the ready grasp of a kindred spirit. She'd agreed the previous day to meet Mulder for lunch at their favorite deli. Very public, very brazen on their parts. Safety in being bold, or so he had insisted when she'd protested the idea. Scully had come to appreciate his cunning on more than one level. Mulder was keeping her at arms length by engineering a meeting at Killian's, a location where each would play a part with neither able to over analyze the other. At least not overtly. Social amenities would push the darkness aside for a few minutes by reminding them of an existence where malice was not the order of the day. A place where adults and an occasional child laughed; where relationships meandered on their courses, secure in the belief the sun would rise on the morrow. Behaving, more or less, like typical members of the lunch rush might actually lull them into thinking it was true. A few minutes of peace. Maybe. Who knew? She wasn't sure anymore. Mulder certainly had no answers for her. Or for himself. At least not the ones they needed most -- an idea of how they would positively identify the UNSUB. Scully couldn't push aside the images of the last few days. Yesterday, after the meeting with Skinner, Mulder appeared exhausted. Vulnerable. Too little time had passed for pharmaceutical aftereffects to fade. Worst of all, an air of defeat had been sickeningly evident, if only for a moment or two. True to his style, even washed out and drained, he was fighting again in no time, processing experiences that would send most agents willingly into mandatory leave. Somehow when he stumbled, Mulder righted himself quickly. He managed to go on, stubbornly working the angles to make sense of the latest mess in his life. Lame humor was Mulder's hallmark, indicating he was mounted, ready to charge up the hill and counting on her to make the journey with him. If she could do it again. If she was willing. What worried her was the soul beneath the dark circles. Behind the weary smile was a new pain she couldn't soothe. Deep within, that damn voice kept insisting she was seeing what she wanted to see, taunting that Mulder had indeed tried to ease his suffering permanently. Had he lied? Was a suicide attempt the probable truth rather than a mere possibility she repeatedly shoved into the distant recesses of her mind? The lab results were evidence of a sort, but still, the idea of an UNSUB walking into a hospital and assaulting a patient as closely monitored as Mulder had been was a stretch. Was she being as blind toward him as he had been years ago toward Jack Caulfield, repeating history by missing signs that any first-year resident should spot? Mulder's own words replayed immediately...'If I tried I would have succeeded.' The truth validated by that memory made her ache. Mulder was right; he would have done the job with the identical skill and precision with which he developed a profile or maintained his top ranking on the firing range. "Why Mulder?" Scully raged, furious at the smugly silent universe. Why always Mulder? For once, she wished they could savor a taste of boredom. An easy case. One where the pieces fit, where they did their jobs, filled out dull reports in triplicate, went home and concluded their day with mundane tasks. Like dusting. Reading a novel. Washing the car. Yelling at the neighbors to turn down their stereo. A chance to feel like their jobs were under their control instead of the other way around. She feared those days were forever lost. By-the-book-Dana was on mandatory "personal" leave and not the slightest bit mortified by having her knuckles rapped, yet again. Her father would not be pleased. Truth be told, Mulder had scared her yesterday. He was afraid of being invisible. Mulder, the invincible, the man willing to barge in where proverbial angels feared to tread, was afraid. Even having repeated his words over a hundred times with a multitude of interpretations, she didn't have the foggiest what the fuck he was talking about. Invisible? How could he become invisible? How could she? What did he mean when he'd said only she could see him now? What was he trying to make her understand? She was sure their assailant was mocking their mutual inability to pinpoint his crafty elusiveness. "Their" assailant. Mulder would smile at how she'd taken up the banner. The two musketeers, what hurts one hurts both. Fight together and win, loose mutual resolve and both would suffer the consequences. Nice philosophy and imminently workable when both saw the same enemy. Did this UNSUB exist? God, she hoped the perp didn't evaporate, turning out to be nothing save Mulder ingeniously rationalizing truths about Jack and himself he was unwilling to face. She kept coming back to the same issue, over and over, like an old victrola with the needle stuck on a particular track. Denial had the power to kill him, though in a far more subtle manner, as readily as miscalculations should the UNSUB prove real. Shit. Evidence. Use the evidence. Quickly she grabbed a notepad and jotted the highlights of what they did know, hoping that subject headings might flush a heretofore hidden insight into the open. She read the list over twice. Then again. Added a forgotten item and reviewed it one last time. Ifs and buts laced through the meager facts, vague possibilities, but it took Spooky Mulder to make sense of this level of information and he had no handle on it. None at all. Ridiculous to assume she could be better than the master himself. Cold hard proof was the only hope either of them had in putting this puzzle together and it was the one thing they lacked. Abruptly Scully took the pen and threw it across the room. Smiling through the frustration was past. She'd put up a bold front for Skinner and for Mulder. But it was an act. A pathetic facade. She'd rarely felt so lost, so unsure of what to do. This was fast becoming another example of the job hitting too close to home, becoming way too personal. Scully found herself wondering for the umpteenth time this year if she was cut out for this life of uncertainty and continual assault. She'd been so sure their first year as partners, diving into bed exhausted, but proud of what she was doing with and in her job. She had no longer cared if her family repeatedly questioned her wisdom in accepting the X Files. But now, pain was heaping yet higher onto the pyre upon which she had flung the bitter memories of Missy's loss and her own multiple traumas. Witnessing Mulder tormented yet again. God. Was it even worth it anymore? Give her a body; something concrete she could see, touch, and assess with her mind. A puzzle that her training and own innate intelligence could solve and whose secrets were discernible within the relative safety of an autopsy bay. Where she did not have to watch those she cared about fall prey to their own decency or be abused by a system she believed in but which proved to be horribly flawed nonetheless. This clever someone seemed able to squash victims without a moment's warning. Invisible. Shit. She felt herself shudder involuntarily. Help me, Mulder, help me understand. Speak my language. Suddenly it hit her that she was going through a mild anxiety reaction. Utterly selfish and thinking of no one but herself at a time when Mulder needed her focused and there for him, perhaps more than at any period during their years together. Normal psychologically, she admitted reluctantly, but she'd have to be normal later. Mulder was in trouble. She realized how likely it was there might be no way to reach him this time. That she didn't have what it would take to follow him past her comfort zone into his patently unique way of looking at the world. Scully made it down the front steps of the building when she stopped abruptly, heading back toward her apartment. She couldn't recall flipping the deadbolt. Sure enough she had, but there was no memory of having done so. She was still on automatic and the danger of being preoccupied was obvious. One partner in such a state was tolerable, barely, but both--dangerous to the extreme. If it was like this for her, what must Mulder be going through? She was almost afraid to consider the possibilities. Hopefully her imagination was far worse than reality. Scully glanced down at her watch; another twenty minutes and she'd know. * * * * * * * * * * * * "You didn't think I'd show." Mulder commented matter-of-factly after sliding into the booth. "I ordered for you. And yes, it crossed my mind I'd probably need a doggie bag." Scully scanned her partner with a practiced eye. Almost twenty hours had passed since she'd seen him last, hours that meant drugs were clearing out of his system and bringing back his clarity. He approached the booth with purposeful strides, not the unsteady gait she'd noted as they walked to his apartment. Still, it would be going too far to say she liked what she saw. Mulder had been through hell and even someone who barely knew him could read it in his face. Scully wasn't sure she looked markedly better after another night fighting wars beneath the sheets. "I was in the shower when you called." "Who says I called?" she commented with a levity she didn't feel. Minutes later a waitress appeared weighed down by two triple-decker clubs, matching bowls of soup, a glass of tea for him, coffee for her. Mulder cocked an eyebrow and smiled, a genuine one that seemed to light the lunchroom. "A true believer. Nice you have faith, Agent Scully." "I counted on your not wanting to cook." Or eat another frozen dinner neatly labeled by Jack's hand. She didn't have to say that one aloud; Mulder had winced at the mere mention of cooking. Scully grew serious as her eyes darted around the room, attempting to analyze motivations behind every Armani suit in sight. Could HE be among them? "Are you sure it's wise for us to be here?" "It's as safe as any place for now. He's made his point; he's proven he can take me when and wherever he chooses." The cold, clinical tones with which Mulder described his fate gave her pause, as if he was resigned to being a victim. Again. Had something happened during the few hours they had been apart? "Did you get any sleep?" Scully inquired as she quietly continued assessing her partner. The circles under his eyes were shades darker than they had been just yesterday. Mulder looked like shit behind his reading glasses. He rarely wore them in public; the lenses accentuated his exhaustion by slightly magnifying the white sclera, each of which was crisscrossed with multitudes of tiny red veins. Eyestrain. He'd obviously spent the night reliving Jack's files. She'd lost the argument about keeping them safely out of reach in her apartment. "Sleep is highly overrated." Mulder grabbed a mouthful of sandwich and closed his eyes, absently rubbing both temples with his fingertips as he chewed. The headache was back with a vengeance. He didn't really mind; pain assured him he was alive. Mulder shifted in his seat and reached for the Nestea, determined to ignore Scully's stare. Scully wasn't surprised to notice Mulder's hands tremble as he guided the glass carefully to his mouth. She bit her lip, knowing better than to comment. Ignoring the obvious between them was a fact of partnership they knew well. Low-level denial was automatic, barely causing a ripple of acknowledgment by either of them anymore. 'Doctor mode' was not what he needed or would accept from her. He rarely did. She knew Mulder would refuse simple aspirin until the remaining drugs were out of his system. He was as unfit for duty as she'd seem him in a while, yet work was the most suitable healing option she could suggest. The case gave him a focus and kept the demons at bay. Her eyes were boring into his hair, willing him to look up and meet her gaze. When tired hazel orbs finally locked onto her own, she could have sworn he'd aged. "Scully, it's important we both realize one thing about all of this." She suppressed her own impatience, letting Mulder pace the conversation. It helped her forget she had nothing to offer in the way of solutions. Besides, she wasn't sure he was ready to hear about the calls she'd had from both Wiggins and Skinner. "We may never understand this entirely. The ante in this game is high and the powers that be are damned selective about who has a chance in hell of a win." What was he talking about now? Couldn't he just say it? Did she have to play codetalker? Scully felt the knots grow in the pit of her stomach; Mulder had that look on his face. The look wasn't new and typically signaled emerging fever, insights or both. She hoped it was fever. Abnormal body temperature was a predictable biological response with a logic she understood; insights often remained a mystery to everyone but Mulder himself. Somewhere in that mind she found as irritating as it was exciting, something was happening. As if Mulder read her thoughts, a smile began to slowly inch across his face. Mulder was in his element, making leaps she couldn't hope to follow. He'd clue her in when he was ready. "My God," he breathed after what seemed an eternity. "Patterson knows more about this guy than he ever let on." "What do you mean?" she asked with calm, even tones designed to telegraph support she didn't feel. Patterson again? This is not at all what she'd anticipated. Jesus. Let that bastard rot in his cell away from your life, Mulder! Scully held her true feelings in check, aware she had to play the cool professional he expected or Mulder would shut her out. If he did that, he was lost. "Bill knows who he is." Mulder offered the bombshell with absolute certainty, oblivious to the absurdity such an accusation mirrored. "Based on what?" Mulder changed positions, getting more comfortable, the way he always did when digging in to paint a picture of a reality burning in his mind. He took a sip of tea and waited. "Tell me you're not suggesting that Patterson obstructed justice because he had some agenda with this asshole?" Scully found herself wondering if her partner was having a flashback of some sort. Sure, the idea was illogical based on Mulder's behavior but it was easier to swallow than the ludicrous notion that Patterson was intimately involved. "Mulder, please, Patterson may be sick now but he was a fine agent for a long, long..." Mulder brushed her doubts aside without a moment of consideration and began again with barely controlled excitement. "Scully, think about it. You want to create a new unit but the brass thinks you're nuts. They tell you your methods are worthless. You know better. You're creative, innovative. You have connections because you've been around awhile. In your day, you've done a lot of interagency stuff -- law enforcement and intelligence both. D.C. is filled with little men, all wanting their own brand of glory." "Mulder, I..." Mulder's brow furrowed immediately, responding to her interruption with uncharacteristic irritation. Scully held her tongue yet again and let him continue. He was on fire, proselytizing like an evangelist staging his act for the faithful. "You engineer a few cases, just to prove a point. And prove it you do. Faster than you ever hoped. You live the truth that to understand the painter you dabble in their art. You get what you want, so does the person who agreed to the deal. You do it again, and again. Eventually it gets a little out of hand. You're concerned, but you look the other way as long as your own aren't directly involved. You have a reputation and a department to protect. You've made a difference, assholes are behind bars because of the compromises you've made to prove your work mattered. You sleep most nights. You have an unstated agreement of sorts, you're nervous about it, but you hope for the best. You're sure you can take care of the problem if it ever gets out of hand. After all, you have power, position and influence. Things calm down and all seems status quo as far as you can see. Life is busy and the years drone on." "This might make for an interesting novel but I can't see this really happening in our profession!" "Why not? Passionate people take chances all the time!" Most play by the rules so their professions are secure, my friend. Most want the futures they work so hard to engineer. "Give me a break, the majority of professions are regulated like hell." "In theory, maybe. Remember the Australian MD who was so pissed by colleagues scoffing at his theory about bacteria causing ulcers that he infected himself to prove the point!?" Scully stared at her partner wordlessly. "Do you?" he demanded. Mulder had barely gotten the words out when he noticed heads whipping toward them from all directions. Scully's eyes betrayed anger and embarrassment. Shit, had he been shouting? Breathe deep, bud, she doesn't have to be here. "Sorry," he offered, somewhat contritely, "but dammit, Scully, professionals put themselves in jeopardy ALL the time." He was deadly earnest and like it or not, he was partially right. Innovation and risk taking often went hand in hand. She nodded, dug her fingernails into her palm and encouraged him to continue. "Okay, say an agent comes into the picture who for some reason begins to pick up on cases that beg to be noticed." "Jack Caulfield." "Check these out." Mulder pulled a small pack of Day Runner logs out of his pocket and tossed them across the table. Another leap? Scully felt herself struggling to keep up. She reached over to retrieve the worn leather cases. Nothing special, cheap pocket Day Runners you could buy at any Office Depot. Five bucks tops. "I don't..." "See the post-its? I've got the entries marked." She read a date, an adjacent symbol in handwriting she didn't recognize. The earth didn't shake. No angels sang. Far from providing her the means to instantly substantiate veritas for her partner, she felt a 'so what' reaction. Scully rarely cared about being able to feed Mulder's need to be understood. It mattered this time, much was riding on his not feeling alone. And she couldn't lie even to give him the peace he craved. "Where did you get these?" "Some from Jack's house. Some from the office." "Jack's?" "No, Bill's." What? Bill's? Shit, he really believed Patterson was intimately involved. "Don't you see, Scully? No one saw these entries as significant. Jack Caulfield did. Something sent him into Patterson's files after Patterson had...gone. I think I've found a link but I need more time to be sure." "Mulder, I'm sorry. I don't see a connection." "Phone calls made by Patterson in each of these books match dates on at least three of the series of victims. The symbol identifying the caller matches." "You're saying the symbol is our UNSUB?" "I'd say it's more than highly likely. Back to Patterson's chronology. His department is going nuts. More work than anyone can manage. No one notices when an agent gets sidetracked with a hobby. Jack starts trying to add two and two. The equation doesn't wash but the UNSUB is good. Eventually, he gets wind of the interest and pays the agent a little visit. But he doesn't kill him." "He would have if you hadn't shown up." "Would he? I'm not sure about that. I think he'd have called 911; he'd have stepped in before it was too late. Just like with me, he was there to make a point. Business mixed with pleasure. The UNSUB makes a decision, sets his strategy and with one action, essentially kills two birds with one tailpipe." "Jack and Bill or Jack and you?" "Good question, Agent Scully. Probably all of us. At that exact point in time, the day Jack sniffed carbon monoxide in his garage, none of us had a clue about the other's role in the drama. I was there by accident that night, and came in handy. Jack became a hobby; the UNSUB knew Jack, his habits and his friends. I'm sure he knew me and quickly figured the odds on how to make any scenario work to his advantage. This guy plans for the long haul, he's patient." "Mulder..." He continued, cutting her off like a man desperate to be heard. "Years later our UNSUB returns to complete the job. Why? Motivated by what? Jack's continuing interest in the case? Jack Caulfield was no more or less insightful than he'd been in the past. The Bureau mainstream had never zeroed in on this guy nor had local law enforcement. Jack wasn't close to breaking a thing that would have put this guy in jeopardy. No official investigation was about to be launched...where was the threat?" "Look, I know you see something significant here but I don't follow this, dammit!" "This guy is a pro, right? He's played it safe by being invisible. He enjoyed that status; it got him what he wanted and needed. Something changed. How could he have known what Jack was up to? How could he have known Jack was digging in earnest? Was it something in our UNSUB, a shift in his psychological make up or something more mundane?" "Like?" "Like changes related to a particular point in time." Scully sighed. This conversation was giving her a headache. "I think our UNSUB spooked for a very simple reason, he thought someone might reveal something he had felt quite secure in the past. Something he didn't want known." "Information that had been secure but no longer was?" "Right." "Why? This guy is illusive to the point of being impossible to identify. He gets where he needs to go with incredible ease based on your theories. And for decades, no less." "This UNSUB is extraordinary, Scully. He's got a quality about him that I've not seen before, an elusiveness that makes him one of the deadliest we've seen. I'm beginning to sense what that quality might be. Make that MUST be." "I know you need me to meet you halfway on this but I can't. The hits this man has supposedly made, the access requires resources that are not available to most people. He'd need contacts, limitless financial support, and people willing to help him keep his tracks covered." "That's just it, Scully." Now was the time to drop the final bomb. "This guy has the resources, all of them. It's probable he held a position of authority at an agency." Scully shot Mulder a look of consternation so severe he wasn't sure she was hearing him. Could he blame her? Even with all she'd seen, the establishment represented order and justice until proven otherwise. She could see the corruption when she had to but it was never a path she took willingly. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Scully? He's one of us. A Fed. Career man, probably put in his twenty counting coup along with his regular assignments. Freelancing is fairly new, he likes it. The job has always had purpose. Not satisfying his inner needs alone, but fulfilling a higher purpose. For the good of the country, at least in his mind." Scully shook her head. None of it added up. She had listened to preposterous before. Many times before. She'd seen living proof of same but this conspiratorial clap-trap was bull. This time Mulder could offer the math until he was blue in the face but the sum didn't equal the parts. She had to admit the worst part was seeing how badly Mulder needed to believe it. Mulder had a brilliant mind but the reasoning was flawed. He needed her to take the journey in his world and confirm its truth. God knows she'd tried but the journey went nowhere. The only truth was that Mulder was in trouble and needed help. Change the subject, get some distance. "Wiggins called me early this morning." Mulder pursed his lips and shot her a one eyebrow 'go ahead.' "Skinner ordered them to run data from Jack's cases through the BSSBI. He pulled a profile." "Have you heard anything I've said?" She continued, ignoring him this time. "The profile paints a radically different type of man from the one you are trying to get me to accept. Skinner wants a meeting at three this afternoon to plan our strategy. Lannighan and Krensky will be there." Mulder sat silently, his expression blank. Scully waited, expecting him to demand details about the profile. Instead his eyes took on a deep resignation, one she wasn't sure she'd ever witnessed. He seemed to be withdrawing. Was this the invisibility he'd begged her not to allow? "I'm going to find our waitress. We can take this food over to my place and talk more there." Without responding, Mulder watched Scully plunge into the lunch crowd. He'd have to do this one alone. Fine, he'd expected as much. Preferred it actually. He had no right to drag her down into the places she feared. This one was going to be ugly. Mulder reached into his back pocket, pulled a twenty out of his wallet and threw it on the table. An accurate profile demanded tangential thinking with someone capable of understanding the complex nuances this guy sported. No fucking machine could peg this asshole. Mulder knew where to start; at the point the UNSUB had begun to take an active interest in Jack. Hopefully he could get a flight out. He needed to retrace that time, see the scenes again, figure out what he'd missed or find what had never been noticed. He also needed more of Patterson's files, the ones tagged 'personal' and stored in one of the fireproof vaults. Danny could help with that one. There were days of work ahead. The fact he basically felt like crap and was beyond exhaustion was too damn bad. Wiggins and his fucking machine would get him killed if he waited on protocol. Scully returned to their booth a few minutes later, Styrofoam boxes in hand. "Mulder?" A middle-aged woman who had been seated at an adjacent table quietly eating her lunch rose and walked over. "He's gone. If you'll pardon my saying so, it's for the best, honey. What an asshole." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The small, cramped handwriting in Bill Patterson's Day Runner was making Mulder go blind. He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his head against the neck rest and feeling the thrum of the 747 engines. An hour till Cleveland. What was Mulder expecting to find there? Did he honestly think clues from over ten years ago would still be in evidence? "Would you like a drink, Sir?" Startled, Mulder opened his eyes. A flight attendant, her face slightly shadowed by worry, stood next to his seat. Mulder didn't even want to think about what he looked like right now. He was probably scaring the poor thing half to death. He'd made a beeline for the airport after once again ditching his partner, and hadn't had time to change. "Orange juice?" Mulder rasped. Shit, now he sounded like hell, too. The flight attendant handed Mulder the world's tiniest plastic cup of orange juice and he gulped it down in one swallow, leaning his head against the head rest again. Christ, he really felt like shit. He forced himself to look at the Day Runners. Bill Patterson was such a suspicious bastard that every entry was in code. Not just phone numbers and names, but dates and notes as well. And it was the notes Mulder was focusing on. Bill had written in the margins of almost every page and deciphering any of it was slow going. But Mulder had been successful in deciphering one entry. The one that said "UNSUB Cleveland - H. and J. Intercepted from M. Out of control." Mulder was fairly certain the "M" stood for Mulder. Intercepted...intercepted...Mulder started from the idea that the "J" stood for Jack. The UNSUB had been in Cleveland, had already started on Jack...intercepted...Jack had intercepted something from Mulder. Mulder sat bolt upright as it hit him. Out of control...the UNSUB was out of control and Patterson had...Patterson had what? Did Mulder really believe Bill had handed him this UNSUB to catch? Wouldn't Mulder have been suspicious of something that blatant? In his mind, Mulder saw Jack cheerfully taking some of his consulting files. He did it all the time. He'd skim a few off the top whenever he wanted a favor. Would Bill have been nefarious enough to slip some of the UNSUB's work, the files that couldn't be traced at all to himself, into Mulder's unauthorized consulting work? Mulder felt sick. So, regardless of what Scully thought, Mulder WAS involved. He was always involved, whether he wanted to be or not. His own superior sense of guilt involved him. He'd handed Jack Caulfield his death warrant. He knew Jack wouldn't blame him, but he should. Why wouldn't people just blame him? It was a lot easier. That he could handle. That he could deal with. This form of fake compassion that he'd gotten in the hospital and from people who thought he'd tried to kill himself just didn't wash. And he was dangerously close to feeling the same way about Scully. Sure, she'd gotten him out, but she hadn't believed him at first, either, and he wasn't convinced she believed him now. And he'd been so clear with her. Don't let me become invisible, he'd told her. But she didn't understand. She couldn't, just like Mulder couldn't when it had happened to Jack. He couldn't think of anything worse than this UNSUB's M.O. Make somebody Not Be. Erase them from the consciousness of others so that when something heinous happened, those who used to be so intuitive would just shake their heads in sorrow. I never thought he'd do it. He was always so strong, so well-adjusted. For Mulder, though, it was the exact opposite. Hey, Spooky, what fucking took you so long? He'd done it before, but he hadn't been able to get his hands on anything sharp enough. He remembered stabbing at himself with a butter knife, screaming and crying at the pain, reveling in the blood...but in the end it hadn't been enough. They'd found him, shortly afterwards. And they'd been so angry... "...I don't know...just hold him down...I'll try again...sir? Mr. Mulder? Can you hear me?" The voices ping-ponged through Mulder's head and he opened his eyes, watching in fascination as the faces swam in front of him. What the hell had happened? An extremely strong male flight attendant was leaving bruises on Mulder's wrists as he pinned Mulder down in his seat. Mulder's throat went dry. Oh shit. What had he remembered? It wasn't real. It was like the closet...it wasn't real. But it seemed so real. Are you sure it wasn't? The female flight attendant was speaking again. "Do you need a doctor, Mr. Mulder? Are you all right?" You have to answer her, Mulder told himself severely. You have to, or they'll call Scully and this time nobody will believe you, not even Scully. "I'm an FBI agent," he said in a small but smooth voice. "I've been working on a murder case..." Mulder's voice trailed off. There was no way she was buying this. And he was so tired...he looked at her and saw her gaze riveted to the bulky file folder Mulder had managed to knock off the seat beside him when he'd apparently gone ballistic. What HAD happened? Mulder desperately wanted to ask her, but her gaze was horrified. The other attendant was still holding Mulder down. "I think I'm okay now," Mulder said quietly. The young man nodded, then let go. Mulder massaged his wrists for a moment, then began scooping up the photos of the Cleveland victims. He shoved them back into the folder. The flight attendant was still staring. She blinked, and looked at Mulder. "I'll bring you some water," she whispered before fleeing. Mulder wanted to scream. What the hell was going on with him? Where were these memories coming from? Why were they so real? He'd never tried to kill himself. He hadn't hidden in his closet when Samantha had been taken. He hadn't. He wouldn't. His father didn't kill himself. None of this was real. Was this how Jack had felt? * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The tiny clapboard house was stifling with the heat. That, combined with the lined face of a man who had suffered more than most would in their lifetimes, made Mulder sick to his stomach. Gordon Twining stood in the middle of his own living room, looking like a stranger in his own house, in his own life. Mulder took a sip of the lukewarm water and tried not to gag. He desperately needed to get out of here, but he also desperately needed to talk to the father of Sheila Twining, the second victim. The first staged victim, Mulder thought, from somewhere. He shook his head to clear it. Twining finally took a seat and slouched forward in a ratty armchair, looking defeatedly at the floor. He would answer Mulder's questions, but they wouldn't help. Gordon Twining's life had died the day his daughter had been found. "I knew, you know," Twining said in his soft survivor's voice. Mulder glanced up. Twining averted his gaze, staring out the window into the backyard, where a swing set still stood. God, after all these years. Mulder tried the water again, then just gave up. After all these years, and you still look for your sister. What kind of fucking sense does THAT make? Mulder jumped, but Twining was still talking. "I was at work...at the mill. I hadda stop right in the middle and go home, 'cause I knew she was dead. I knew Sheila. - I knew I wouldn't be seeing her anymore." At any other time, Mulder would have quizzed Twining about this kind of precognition but now, given all he'd either remembered or manufactured, Mulder was terribly, desperately afraid of Knowing. He couldn't Know. How could Twining live with it? Mulder took a firm grip on his emotions. Play profiler, you asshole, he told himself severely. Goddammit, Mulder, ask the right questions. Mulder remembered the first time he'd talked to a victim, and it hadn't been as a profiler. He'd been at Oxford. Clinicals. He'd fucking hated clinicals. He didn't want to make nice and supportive with shattered souls. He wanted to find the fuckers who made them that way. Too many of them reminded him of his mother, of how she'd dissolved throughout the rest of Mulder's so-called childhood. The lower-class British mother of three in front of him had fallen to the floor in a puddle of tears. Mulder used what he'd learned, tried to anyway, before finally being shoved out of the way by a much more compassionate classmate. The strange thing was, in his heart, Mulder felt for the woman so strongly that he was completely unable to help her. It paralyzed him. It also made him able to solve the unsolvable. Fortunately for him, the woman's histrionics continued so that Mulder could take the beginnings of one of his attacks into the washroom. And now, staring at the cracked visage of Gordon Twining, Mulder felt the twinges of empathy once more. His nerve endings danced with the feeling of it all. Mulder rotated his neck and tried to think. Sheila Twining had been strangled. Sheila Twining had been unlucky to be a cute little innocent blond girl. "I just don't know what you hope to accomplish, Agent Mulder," Gordon Twining said helplessly, echoing Mulder's thoughts. Mulder smiled at him. "I'm...looking for someone, Mr. Twining," he replied. Twining still looked confused. Then he didn't. Then he looked furious. "That creep's still out there, isn't he? The one that got Sheila. Jesus Christ. Vic Jackson didn't kill him. He killed the wrong guy. All this time...I thought justice had actually been served because Vic took that sick...creature...out..." Twining choked up and what life he had left seemed to whoosh out of him. The twinges made Mulder gasp. Flash. Sheila Twining, smiling, the sunlight glinting off her hair...flash...screaming, twisting, those strong hands around her neck...flash...the first one, meant to die...flash...four more...flashflashflashflash...nononono...more screaming, terrified little girls...different hands, choking and strangling and...cutting... Cutting... "Agent Mulder?" Mulder looked at Twining. "Are you okay?" Not trusting his voice, Mulder nodded. The drowned girl...done by a lake, near the farm Raymond Forster's aunt had owned. God, Forster fit the profile so well...too well, Mulder thought. Like one of those textbook cases they used to solve at the Academy. Everything perfect, right down the line. But those cases were manufactured exercises. This wasn't. Was it? Okay, Mulder, go with this...the drowned girl. The lake. Forster's lake. "Do you know the Lake Ridge area?" Mulder asked quietly. Startled by the segue, Twining nodded. "Fish for blue gill and sunnies up there." "All year round?" Twining shrugged. "Pretty much. Damned fish are like cockroaches. No limit on 'em. Why?" "It's a private lake?" "Yeah...Adele Forster owns the land, lets anyone come on and fish. No hunting, but fishing's fine. Good lake for fishing." Jesus. "So there's an access road," Mulder said flatly. Twining stopped in mid- nod and stared at Mulder. "What are you getting at?" Mulder couldn't tell him, wouldn't tell him that not only was the murderer of his little girl still out there, but he wasn't even the UNSUB Mulder was looking for. * * * * * * * * * The lake was well-known and convenient. Mulder got the same story from everyone he talked to. He visited the mother of the third girl, Erica Meyers, but he'd had to excuse himself halfway through the interview. He kept flashing on her dead daughter's bright face. They were so quick to pin it on Forster...and then, when the last girl had turned up...she'd been viciously assaulted and eviscerated. Cut. He'd cut her, and he'd taken the knife with him to the scene. He'd meant to do it. He'd wanted to. But he'd also needed to. Sexual sadism...with something else. The UNSUB who had killed Tina Mathers and then started killing to cover up that crime hadn't liked it. He'd needed it, but he hadn't liked it. He'd personalized those little girls into being him. He was trash; he threw them in the trash. He sexually assaulted them, but he didn't mutilate them. Raymond Forster had known Tina Mathers. But goddammit, how many other men in the general area fit the profile and knew the girl? Mulder felt sick. The killer wasn't Raymond Forster, but they'd known that eventually. What Mulder hadn't discovered until now, however, was how thoroughly Jack's UNSUB had set Forster up. Why hadn't he just set up the real killer? Because then Victor Jackson would have killed the real killer, and that wouldn't have driven Jack to the brink of insanity. Jack thought his UNSUB was tormenting him by committing more murders in Cleveland. But he wasn't. He didn't. He cut the last little girl to ribbons, but whoever the real killer was, was still out there. He'd probably been picked up for something else, which was why the murders had stopped and why Jack's UNSUB had had to frame Forster. He implicated Forster by killing one when Forster clearly didn't have an alibi. He was invisible and he enjoyed his not-being. He flaunted it. Had he done that to Mulder? Had he fucked with the Boston case? Mulder's hands started to tremble. They'd had copycats in Boston...this couldn't have been happening ten years ago. It just couldn't. Not to Mulder. But it had happened with Jack, hadn't it? If you believe this shit, some fucking psycho UNSUB came back, ten years later, and murdered Jack Caulfield the same way he'd tried and failed to kill him before. What had changed? Why now? Why now...what had changed...Bill Patterson had changed. Stunned, Mulder looked down at the Day Runners in his hands. The answer was in there. The answer wasn't in Cleveland, or Boston, or D.C. It was in the crumpled pages of Bill Patterson's Day Runner. And it was up to Mulder to become invisible enough for the UNSUB to show himself. * * * * * * * * * Scully wouldn't blink. She didn't know why, but she felt it would signify weakness. Finally, Assistant Director Skinner sighed and removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose. "As far as the Bureau's concerned, Agent Mulder's still on leave. He has the right to go anywhere he wants." Scully hadn't wanted to do this, but she had no other recourse. Mulder had disappeared from the restaurant. As soon as Scully had found him gone she'd raced at breakneck speed to his apartment, but he'd never shown up. He'd vanished. And he'd begged her not to let him...Scully shook off the bright image of an unconscious Mulder lying in the gutter, his wrists slit for good this time. He'd told her he hadn't done it. He'd promised. What the fuck was wrong with her, believing him like that? "Do you think he's...unstable?" Skinner was still trying to draw her out. Scully sighed. "Sir, I don't know. He's still obsessing over Jack Caulfield's suicide..." Skinner leaned forward and gazed at her. Scully shifted in her chair. "What do you want me to do, Agent Scully?" he asked softly. What DID she want him to do? Think like an FBI agent, Dana. Go on. Tell him. Mulder can take care of himself. Can't he? "Given that Agent Mulder is considered still on leave, Sir, and given that I no longer am...I wondered what I should be doing." Skinner looked taken aback. Good. He should. Scully quelled the feelings of resentment but some of the bitterness still remained in her voice. "Am I or am I not a member of the X-Files division, Sir?" Scully asked evenly. "You're looking for an assignment." Scully nodded. You bet I'm looking for an assignment, she thought. It's either that or sit at home and worry about Mulder. And those days are over. This was it. "I've actually been considering something, Sir, and I wanted your opinion on it. And your recommendation, if you'll give it." Skinner raised an eyebrow and nodded. Scully took a deep breath. "I've been thinking about applying to the Academy Program." Nothing she could have said would have surprised Skinner more, she thought. He actually looked dumbfounded. Goddammit, what was so ridiculous about it? "Sir?" she asked, rather contemptuously. He didn't miss her tone. "Sorry, Agent Scully, I'm just...surprised. This seems rather sudden." Scully shrugged awkwardly. She supposed it did. It had become a conscious thought rather suddenly, too. "I've been thinking about it for awhile." "So you want to leave the X-Files." There it was, all out in the open. Scully didn't know what to say. It sounded like the height of betrayal because what Skinner was really asking was, Do you want to leave Mulder? The X-Files and Mulder were inextricable. The X-Files and Scully, well... "The way I understood it, Sir, was that it was an assignment. Nothing more." "Nothing more," Skinner echoed, still surprised. Skinner stood and began his slow pacing around the office, the pacing that meant he needed to try and figure out where his agent was coming from and where she really wanted to go. Fuck you, Scully thought. You're not my therapist. Skinner turned to look at her. "I was under the impression that the work meant something to you, Agent Scully." Scully stiffened. "All of the work I've ever done has meant something to me," she said icily, suddenly so uncomfortable at being Mulder's shadow that she couldn't stand it. "I want to make a difference, Sir, for me, not for Mulder. I want to advance in my own work." It didn't sound as good as it had when Scully had rehearsed it earlier. Here, it sounded jealous and petty. Jesus Christ, she wasn't jealous of Mulder, was she? But she knew a part of her was. Somewhere deep inside, she resented Mulder's passion and dedication to his cause. Oh, she had dedication, but it came more from a sense of duty and honor than passion. She'd liked what she'd seen in the ISU. She'd been welcomed as Dr. Dana Scully, Special Agent. Not as Mrs. Spooky, basement dweller. It may not mean much to Mulder, but it meant something to Scully. But alongside her resentment lived her sense of loyalty. "It's an application to the program, Sir. Even if I am accepted, I would still continue working. I just...I need something, Sir. Something like -" Scully stopped as she saw the look on Skinner's face. God. He thought she was trying to emulate Mulder! If it hadn't been so offensive, she would have laughed. Scully rose. "I'm sorry I took up so much of your time, Sir," she said stiffly, turning to go. "Agent Scully." She stopped, still coldly furious. "If that's what you want, it would be foolish of me to deny your request, and to deny the ISU your skills. I'll draw up a letter of recommendation and send it over to Carl Wiggins." Scully turned slowly. Skinner looked sincere...and apologetic. She nodded. "Thank you, Sir," she said softly. "And Agent Scully...if you hear from Mulder..." Skinner left the request unanswered, as did Scully. She nodded again and left, closing the door quietly behind her. * * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder tried to ignore the seedy motel walls closing in on him. He focused on the grainy television images. Jack had taped practically every hour of CNN news, going back ten years. Watching all of it was an impossible task. What Mulder finally decided to do was to focus in on any oddities, anything that would be out of character in the huge pile of tapes. What Mulder needed to do was to become Jack. Jack was the victim here, and after that long, stuffy lecture Mulder had given Scully about the importance of victimology, he'd gone and ignored his own advice. What he was still consciously ignoring, though, was himself as victim. He may be too close to Jack to do his memory much good but he was definitely too close to himself. He was so close to himself, in fact, that the strange waking nightmares he'd been having about his childhood seemed too much like memories for his own good. What if they were memories? What if the base of life experience that Mulder had built his life and career upon was faulty? He determinedly aimed the remote at the TV, hoping to block out the horrid thoughts in his wandering mind with Jack's tapes. "...kill them. I have to. It's not a decision." "It's your job." Long hesitation. "It...was...my job..." Mulder jerked awake and paused the image on the screen. He'd been watching the program for what seemed like hours but he hadn't been paying any attention, finally drifting off at some point. He stared at the flickering image of the silhouette of a man's face. It was an interview. Mulder sat up straighter, then grabbed for Jack's videotape log and flipped through it. It was a CNN round-table discussion from the early days of CNN and, it seemed, the early days of profiling. Mulder remembered Robert Ressler's live TV interviews with Ed Kemper and John Wayne Gacy. This seemed to be something along those lines. What the hell was it called? Assassins. It took Mulder's breath away. He leaned forward and rewound the tape. It was all there. All of it. His profile. Jack's profile. Their killer. But Mulder had no idea who it was. * * * * * * * * * Langly swiveled around in his chair, expertly picking up the receiver with one hand and punching the "record" button on the tape recorder with the other. "Lone Gunmen." Langly frowned as he heard the hesitation on the line. That raspy breathing... "Mulder? That you?" Nothing. Langly hesitated, then reached out and flicked off the recorder. "Tape's off." "Thanks," came the quiet reply. "What's up, Mulder?" Langly tried to act casual. He was bad at it. Mulder caught it. "Before you delve, I'm fine. I need a question answered." "You told Scully where you are?" Langly asked, immediately regretting the question. Now Mulder knew Scully had talked to them. Days ago, but she'd come to Langly, Byers and Frohike, eyes shaded with worry. No, they hadn't heard from him. Sure, they'd let her know if he contacted them. Yes, they promised. Fuck. They'd promised. "I haven't told Scully." Mulder sounded so tired, so drained...when Frohike blundered into the room, Langly threw up the hand of caution. Accustomed to sneaking around, Frohike quietly popped the tab on a Coke and sat down in the non-squeaky chair, picking up a pair of headphones. "Are you sure you're okay, Mulder? She's -" Langly caught himself. Damn. Mulder almost laughed, then coughed. Frohike winced and shook his head, then reached out and turned on the recorder again. Just in case. "She's worried. I know. When you call her to tell her I made contact, like you must've promised her you would, just let her know I'm fine, and that I'm making headway." Frohike rolled his eyes and grabbed the phone from Langly. "Don't take that tone with us, Mulder. Just to prove how trustworthy we are, we've withheld one intriguing tidbit of information from the lovely Agent Scully." "What?" Mulder asked tiredly. Frohike hesitated, then sighed. "You flipped out on a flight, didn't you?" Silence. Frohike and Langly exchanged glances. Not good. Langly raised an eyebrow that said 'you went too far'. Frohike glared at him. "Mulder, look. From what I can tell, Scully has every right to be worried about you." "I did not try to kill myself," Mulder said flatly. "I just want a fucking favor. I don't need you to play counselor with me, Frohike. If you're not going to help, if you're going to believe what everyone tells you, why don't you let me know right now so I can go back to being invisible. Okay?" Frohike slowly took the receiver down and covered it with his hand. He looked grimly at Langly. "Call Scully," he murmured. Langly nodded and hopped-to. Frohike put the receiver back to his ear. "What do you need, Mulder?" "I'm looking at a CNN broadcast from around eighty-six or so. I don't have the date. It's some kind of forum with professional assassins." "Shit!" Frohike almost shouted. He sat up. "God, Mulder. Where'd you get that? I've been trying to get my hands on that forever." "It doesn't matter where I got it. I need to know who they were." Frohike shot a glance at Langly, who was murmuring into the phone. "Nobody knows, Mulder. After it aired there was some talk about it being a hoax, but there wasn't enough proof." "It's not a hoax." "How do you know?" A long silence. Frohike gripped the receiver tightly. "Mulder? You there?" Frohike could only hear the crackling static of the phone. Finally, Mulder sighed. "I need to know who they were." "Okay, Mulder, but how do you know -" "Because I've got a half-finished fifty-page profile of one of them, that's how," Mulder said angrily. Oh holy mother of God, Frohike thought. Mulder's in it again. "Okay, it's not a hoax. Fine. I'll do what I can, Mulder, but I don't think -" "E-mail me if you find anything." Click. Frohike stared at the dead receiver, then looked at Langly. "Did you get a hold of Scully?" Langly shook his head. "She's not answering her cel. Left a message at home, didn't want to leave one on Mulder's machine at the office." Frohike nodded. "I would have made that mistake." "Frohike, you have made that mistake. How's Mulder?" Frohike leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "Bad, Langly. Real bad." * * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Shit." Scully replayed the message from Langly one more time. Just when I'm getting my ducks in a row, she thought. Goddammit. She fingered the plain brown envelope that had arrived with a thump shortly after she'd gotten home. Obviously from the Lone Gunmen, obviously a tape of some sort. An audio tape. She slipped it into the machine. Mulder. Oh God. The Gunmen were still in the clear on the loyalty front, albeit rather craftily. They hadn't actually told Scully anything. Scully would have to figure out where Mulder was on her own. If she even wanted to. Did she? His exhausted voice floated through the speakers. "Because I've got a half-finished fifty-page profile of one of them, that's how." Jesus God. This was bad. Mulder sounded as deeply involved as he had during the Mostow mess, only this time, he'd been immersed a lot longer and the case had become a lot more personal. Had it become so personal that he HAD tried to kill himself? You know he didn't, Scully told herself severely. You know that. No...what you know is that someone gave him some kind of an hallucinogen in the hospital that made him flip out. That's what you know. You do NOT know if he tried to commit suicide or not. And hell, by running off like this, he was committing suicide anyway. Career suicide, if he didn't get back by Monday. He'd also missed two mandatory "watch your butt, Mulder" appointments with a Bureau therapist. That alone was big trouble. But this...Scully listened helplessly to the tape. No. No matter how resentful she was, no matter how pissed off, there was absolutely no way she could abandon Mulder now. Well, if not now, Dana, when? There will be another crisis. And another. Mulder will always walk that tightrope and someone (i.e., you) will always have to be there to catch him when he inevitably falls. But wasn't that drive and passion what intrigued her about Mulder anyway? Was that what she was jealous of? Mulder didn't seem scared in the least, and the thought of having to track him down, to think like him and Jack Caulfield in order to do it, scared the holy shit out of her. This was not a job. It was an adventure. Scully smiled ruefully. Oh, but it was a job. And according to the Bureau, she was still Mulder's partner. She was still not only assigned to the X-Files division, but while Mulder was on mandatory leave, she was in charge. Yes sir, she was in charge. She looked at the thick pile of Academy Program forms in front of her. She was going to apply; but she couldn't neglect her current assignment. Scully reached into her briefcase and withdrew Mulder's sketchy preliminary profile on the UNSUB. She realized that it didn't matter whether or not she believed him right now. What mattered, as Mulder had drilled into her, was the victimology. And right now, Mulder was the victim. Scully went to work. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * He could hear the screaming. The gray man was coming for him. He had to leave. Quickly. But he couldn't move. He was stricken, paralyzed. Numb. Invisible. He no longer mattered. And the gray man knew it, savoring the moment. You may as well kill yourself, you know, the gray man said. You're worthless as you are now. At least if you die, you become a curiosity. He watched as the gray man handed him the knife. The gray man smiled an amused little smile, knowing he'd won. There were no secrets here, just the possibilities. Extreme possibilities, the gray man said. He took the knife and pointed it at his skin. Slicing. Prick. The blood followed the sharp pain... Mulder whacked his head on the headboard as he sat up. "Goddammit!" That really hurt. He winced and got to his feet, lurching towards the bathroom door. Shakily, he filled a glass with water and downed it. He bent down and splashed water on his face, freezing as he saw the fresh pink scar on his wrist. The bile rose in his throat and he sat down on the edge of the tub, trying to stop from shaking. He was having a panic attack, and he hadn't had one in almost ten years. He'd had them a lot after Samantha but as time wore on they became less and less frequent, until one or two a year became the norm. After he left ISU, they stopped altogether. His teeth started chattering. Goddammit, this was a bad one. He ought to get away from all of this porcelain. Mulder had to crawl out of the bathroom and the effort spent him. He ended up by the foot of the bed, breathing in shag-rug dust from God knows how many eons ago. Just close your eyes, Mulder, and it'll stop eventually. They always feel like they go on forever, but you know they don't. Just close your eyes. The gray man can help you with this, you know. You shouldn't resist him. Mulder shoved the beginnings of that thought to the lower recesses of his mind. The anxiety swelled in him, consuming him. His overloaded nerve endings prickled. Make it stop make it stop make it stop...it kept growing and simple anxiety gave way to pure, unbridled panic. Thoughts darted through his mind unbidden. Images assaulted him with such ferocity that he gave up trying to identify them. Just let it happen, Mulder. The gray man... Fuck this. Something was wrong. It was getting worse, not better. It was going to kill him. Call Scully. She can help. The gray man grabbed him. Mulder tried raising his head but the panic wouldn't let him. He couldn't do anything. * * * * * * * * * Cleveland, Boston or Indianapolis. That's where Mulder had to be. Scully stared in frustration at the two thick folders. Cleveland at the beginning of the spectrum, Indy at the end, Boston in the middle. But judging by Mulder's haphazard notes, he wasn't too enamored of the Indy idea. But why not? That didn't make any sense. If Mulder thought the killer had started going after him in Indiana, why wouldn't it be of more interest to him, since it was more recent and the chances of finding something greater? Either Scully could give up, or she could try and get over this hump. If you want to work in the ISU, Dana, this is kid's stuff and you'd better have your shit together. Nobody's going to be holding your hand. You won't get the prompting Mulder gives you when he's already figured out the motive and means but wants you to figure it out on your own. This is life and death. This is your big test. But Scully needed help. She needed a consult. Wiggins? Too busy. She didn't know any of the other profilers. That familiar feeling of helplessness rose in her again and she tried squelching it, tried hard. But it persisted. And suddenly, Scully knew what she had to do. * * * * * * * * * He can't hurt me, Scully thought. Oh, but he could. Bill Patterson looked innocuous enough but even Scully could see that it was practiced. He must get a big kick out of lulling people into a false sense of security before diving for their jugulars. That must've been how he kept Mulder so off-balance when he was profiling. My God, wasn't the job hard enough without the additional pressures of Bill Patterson? "Either you should say something, Agent Scully, or you should leave. They won't let you just stand there and stare at me all day." Shit. He already had the upper hand. Scully lifted her chin and looked at him. "Let's cut the bullshit," she said, surprised at the smoothness in her voice. "You know why I'm here." Patterson shifted and grinned. "Not specifically, but I'll assume it has something to do with Mulder. He IS trouble, isn't he?" Scully chose to ignore that. "He's working a case -" "Right. Trying to figure out who killed Jack Caulfield, when the answer's in your pathology report." Scully paused, then shook her head. Ignore these little barbs. Just ignore them. Don't let yourself get drawn in. Don't let him profile you. Don't identify with him, Dana. He can't hurt you. He can't. You can let yourself be hurt, though. Remember that. "My report doesn't matter. What does matter is what you goaded Mulder into doing, and why." Patterson nodded approvingly. "He's getting close, isn't he? He's tuned you out, maybe run off. He tried to give you a peek inside but you didn't want it. You didn't believe him. That's okay; most people don't believe him. He's used to going it alone." Scully leaned forward, hands on the table in front of her. "It doesn't matter if I believe him," she said with quiet menace. Patterson looked slightly taken aback and Scully felt triumphant. So far so good. She wasn't getting sucked in. "What does matter is where he's gone." Patterson relaxed and leaned back. Scully hid a frown. That wasn't the right question. Patterson was no longer disconcerted. He was back in his comfort zone, which was...what? Profiling? No...not profiling. Manipulating. Convincing. Whatever he said next was crucial to understand, and she would have to do that on the fly. "Why?" Great. "Mulder's not himself right now. He's getting into the mind of this killer." Patterson watched her closely. Scully did her best poker face. "What killer? There is no killer." Scully was flabbergasted. "When we were here before -" Patterson casually waved a dismissive hand. "No matter how hard he tries to resist, I can always manipulate the hell out of him. It's easy. Mulder sees killers in every crevasse. He's always been like that. It's hard for him to trust, you know. He doesn't even trust himself. And don't fool yourself, Scully. He doesn't trust you, either." In the blink of an eye, Patterson had her. Scully stared at him in stunned disbelief, her mind working furiously. The truth was, although Mulder DID trust her, the obsession that he became during one of these cases did not. That was a huge difference. That was the only thing that mattered. And no matter what anyone said, Mulder didn't chase ghosts. His wacky and scary intuition wouldn't let him. His intuition was honest and...trustworthy. Scully glared at Patterson. "Nice try. I thought you'd help me like you helped Mulder. For sport. But I see that isn't to be the case." Scully stood up and turned to go. As she turned, she caught a glimpse of Patterson's face. It stopped her cold. He wanted to tell her something so bad she could feel it. But he neutralized his expression when he saw her looking at him. But Scully had seen The Truth. "You are involved," she breathed. "Mulder was right. What the fuck did you do, Patterson? Was it worth it?" Patterson wasn't stupid. Protesting wouldn't get him anywhere. Scully could see that reflected in his face. Suddenly, it was amazing what she could see and process. The tables had turned. She had him now. And he knew it. "I won't tell you where Mulder is because I don't know. I'm not a mind reader. But I will tell you what you're doing wrong." He stopped and waited and Scully knew what he waited for. He'd absolved Mulder earlier; now he wanted the same treatment. All of this was an elaborate way for him to deflect the awesome fact that he WAS involved, that there WAS a killer and that he not only knew about it, but set the whole thing up. Jesus Christ. "Tell me." Patterson watched her. She nodded briefly and his eyes cleared. He smiled his cold ,wolfish smile. "I see you understand me." "I don't give a fuck what you did because Mulder's going to catch this asshole -" "I sincerely hope so." Scully tried not to glare. Fucking Patterson, goading Mulder into tracking this psycho... "How long ago had you planned this?" Scully asked, suddenly absolutely terrified. She knew. Oh God, she knew. It was so clear. "Mulder was supposed to catch him to begin with, wasn't he? What went wrong? How did Jack Caulfield get involved?" Patterson snorted. "Fucking Jack Caulfield. I told them. I TOLD them, no more consulting. But Mulder was always doing it and I liked the irony of tucking the case in with his other extra-curricular activities. But that goddam Caulfield was always poking his head in, such a bleeding heart, trying to keep Mulder from overloading himself." "So Jack Caulfield accidentally got a hold of the file you wanted Mulder to profile," Scully breathed. Patterson didn't answer and Scully knew she'd gotten it right. She wanted to rip him into tiny pieces, and he knew it. "How are you trying to find him, Scully?" Scully narrowed her eyes at him but he wasn't going to give her anything else. "By getting into his head. Looking at his notes. Trying to figure out where he would go." "Normally, kid's stuff. But this is a bit on the complex side. I'm sure you'd agree. Tell me, Agent Scully, where is Agent Mulder now?" Scully started to tell him that's what she needed to know, but she quickly caught the meaning. "He's in the killer's head," she replied. Patterson shook his head gravely. "You read his profile?" Scully nodded. "What there is of it. It's not finished, at least the copy I have isn't finished." "You're operating under the assumption that Mulder is the victim here." "Well, thanks to you, isn't he?" Scully couldn't keep the contempt out of her voice, but it didn't phase Patterson. "Sure he is. Lots of victims, right? But is that what Mulder thinks?" Scully frowned, certain that Patterson was just leading her around by the nose. But something in there made sense...where WAS Mulder? He saw himself as a victim, but all this time, he'd been trying to figure out why Jack Caulfield would kill himself...he'd been so immersed in the victimology that - Where had Mulder postulated that Jack Caulfield had picked up his killer? Cleveland. Without a word to Patterson, Scully turned on her heel and left the room. * * * * * * * * * * * * * The frantic pounding woke him and for a minute he thought it was the pounding in his skull, but it wasn't. Muffled shouting that he couldn't make out. Mulder opened his eyes and blinked at the brightness of the day. He was still on the floor and every muscle in his body ached. Who was knocking at the door? He tried to move but it was so much safer here... The jangling rattle of keys, then the snick-click of one being inserted into the lock. No, not keys...he heard the whomp of the lockpick and closed his eyes. The muscles in his back kinked as he tried to bury his face in the carpet. He heard the door creak open. "Mulder?" Scully. Scared. Of course. He couldn't move his head at all. He closed his eyes so tightly he saw spots. Block it out. Invisible. Gone. "Mulder?" Closer now. She'd seen him, she was tentative. He felt her feather-light touch on his shoulder and it sent sparks of pain through him. "Mulder, open your eyes," she said softly, soothingly. He didn't. He felt her indecision, then her touch went to his throat as she checked for a pulse. He heard the click of the phone receiver being picked up and the high-pitched beeps as she dialed. He opened his eyes. "Don't." She held the phone up to her ear and stared at him. He tried to snake out a hand and take it away from her, but he still couldn't move. "Please," he said softly, grimly. Scully hesitated, then put the phone down. "What happened to you? What's wrong, Mulder?" she asked quietly. What isn't, he thought. But what was wrong? He was paralyzed by his fear. His fear of what? The memories, the visions, whatever the hell they were called. "I wanted you to leave me alone," he replied. Scully frowned and he could see the worry but also something else...impatience. He didn't blame her. He was a bit impatient himself. "No you didn't. Not really. Who was in here, Mulder?" The panic hit him again, like a freezing cold bucket of water. Who was in here....someone was in here. Jesus God...no...Scully pulled a blanket down off the bed and covered him with it as his teeth started chattering. "Mulder, who did this to you?" she asked, urgency in her voice. No no nononono... "I don't..." he couldn't get the words out. Scully watched him for a moment, then got to her feet. He heard her go into the bathroom, heard the hiss of the tap and the sound of a glass being filled. Scully's careful steps moved towards him again. She kneeled and put her other hand behind his head. "Sit up a bit," she said. He couldn't. His muscles clenched even tighter and he groaned. Goddammit...something was wrong...he should've known. Scully held his head up and shook two pills out of a tiny bottle. He swallowed them with water and tried not to gag. He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the spasms. Why did he hurt so much? "Do you know what happened?" Scully asked. Mulder gritted his teeth. Goddammit. It hurt. "No," he gasped. Scully nodded and helped him lie down again. "Just try to relax," she said. "I'm going to try and move you to the bed in a few minutes. Is that okay?" "I can't move..." "I know. You'll be able to in a minute." Scully sat next to him, feeling his pulse every few minutes. Finally, the pain ebbed a bit and Mulder's world began to feel distorted. He heard Scully talking to him and he heard himself replying. Sparks shot through him as she slung his arm over her shoulders and hauled him to his feet. His shoulders screamed. He wondered if he'd screamed. The bed was a big improvement over the floor. It was hard for him to straighten out...everything was so knotted up...Scully put pillows under his head and kept talking to him until he couldn't hear her anymore... * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Scully watched Mulder sleep. He hadn't moved in over six hours. A good sign. She must've given him enough Flexiril. Too much, maybe, but his own prescription. He'd probably be pissed when he woke up. Any other occasion like this and Scully would have socked him away in the nearest psych ward but...not this time. Scully surveyed the trashed room, the scratches on the door frame, the shattered mirror, the blood. The cuts on Mulder's face, his right eye nearly swelled shut. The bruises. All the bruises. And the knife. She carefully bagged it, then went about documenting the crime scene. At least, she thought it was a crime scene. Mulder had no blood on his hands, so he hadn't shattered the mirror and it had been done with a fist. The knife...that was worrisome. Mulder had a long, deep gash down his right side. Scully shuddered. She still wasn't over the sight of her bloody partner practically comatose in the middle of the room. She plugged in the coffee maker she'd had the foresight to bring and began making her notes. The thing was, the thought that Mulder had gone nuts had never entered her mind and given the fact that she'd only come after him because she had thought he'd...do something, this was indeed amazing. She believed him. Now, if only he could tell her what had happened. She figured that to be highly unlikely. She turned as she heard Mulder groan. Shit, he shouldn't be awake yet. Scully got up and carefully sat down next to him. He wasn't awake. Hopefully he wasn't dreaming, either, because that had been incredibly bad news of late. His pulse was slow but steady, but his skin was a little clammy. Scully pulled the blankets up...and froze. There, on his left arm...something she'd missed when she'd examined him earlier. The unmistakable bruising of a needle-mark. Oh shit. Scully's mind raced. Oh, Goddammit. She'd given him forty milligrams of Flexiril. An elephant dose on any other occasion. What else had he been given? She should call an ambulance, get him to a hospital as soon as possible. Shouldn't she? Scully debated. He seemed stable; he wasn't in any distress. Yet. He desperately didn't want to go. Whatever he HAD been given, it had been administered quite a while before she'd gotten there. He'd been seen at the restaurant two nights ago, at around nine. Then he'd gone to his room. She'd arrived at ten this morning. Thirty-seven hours. The drug had made him pass out, but it had also made him able to fight back. Ferociously, by the looks of things. An hallucinogen? That would figure. Actually, so would heroin...but she didn't think that was it. The heroin was a sign for Mulder and Jack Caulfield; not FOR them. They were special. The killer killed the others only to goad his true targets. He'd already apparently given Mulder an hallucinogen. Had he been in here? Scully's scalp prickled as she looked around the room. Mulder's UNSUB had come in here and tried to kill him. Scully got to her feet and opened the door, stepping outside. As she had remembered, Mulder's room was at the end of the complex, well away from the manager's office. The parking lot was deserted. Lots of vacancies. Anything could have happened in here and nobody would have known. But why hadn't the UNSUB killed him? He certainly could have; he'd had all night. He'd been able to drug Mulder, to render him unconscious. Was it really that important that Mulder kill himself? Was it just important that it looked like suicide? Was this another attempt to discredit Mulder, and the real damage would come later? Had he counted on Scully? Obviously not; Mulder would have lain on the floor until he'd been able to get up, whether Scully had arrived or not. Or until he'd died. Scully shook her head. That didn't track. She hadn't even known he'd been given anything so she hadn't taken any measures against overdose. So it wasn't the drug. Scully's gaze was drawn once more to the knife. The knife. The wound on Mulder's side. Had it been crucial that the killer have Mulder try and take his own life? Had he failed? Had he become so enraged that he'd beaten the hell out of Mulder? Had Mulder fought back? Scully couldn't imagine a killer so single-minded that he would walk away from his prey. What if Mulder remembered him? But Mulder hadn't remembered anything from the hospital, and Jack Caulfield hadn't remembered anything, either. How did he do it? Scully looked around at the trashed room once more. Not just trashed by a struggle, she realized. The killer was looking for something. But Mulder had brought so much that it would be impossible for Scully to figure out what the killer had been looking for. Scully hunted around for Mulder's laptop. The screen had been kicked in. Hoping against hope, Scully searched for the computer's case and found it underneath the bed. She pulled it out and opened it, sighing in relief. Mulder had brought the zip drive. Hopefully, he'd also had the foresight to back up his files. He had. Scully surfed through his Word files and found his profile. His very, very long profile. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * He still ached. Mulder opened his eyes, almost afraid of what he would see. The mirror. Shattered. Bloody. He stared at it blankly. What the hell had happened? "Mulder? You awake?" Scully. He dimly remembered Scully...he tried to sit up but the pain in his side stopped him. He gasped and coughed. His ribs were killing him. A shadow passed over him and he jerked his head back. Scully, concerned. She tried to smile. She looked tired. How long had she been here? "Don't try to get up," she said in that even doctor-tone of hers. He wouldn't even attempt it. He sank his head back onto the pillow and tried to breathe again. What had happened to him? Had he been in an accident of some kind? Had he - No. He felt Scully's hand on his forehead, then her fingers pressed against his neck. "Mulder..." she said softly. He opened his eyes again. The light hurt. Scully got up and closed the curtains. She brought two pillows with her. "Just lie still. I'm going to prop your head up." He shut his eyes again, wondering if he'd ever felt this miserable before. He decided he hadn't. He shifted his shoulders as Scully settled the pillows behind him and the pain in his ribs made him hiss. Scully stopped and looked at him. "You okay?" He thought about nodding, but decided that would probably start a whole new wave of pain. "Yeah," he managed to squeeze out. Scully disappeared into the bathroom, reappearing with a glass of water. She shook out a tiny white pill and handed it to him. He looked at it dubiously. "Codeine," she said. Ah. codeine. That sounded promising. He washed it down with a sip of water. Scully motioned at him with the glass. "Drink all of it. You need the fluids." Mulder grimaced and Scully's mouth quirked. "It's Arrowhead, not tap water." Read my mind, Mulder thought. He downed the water. Scully gave him more. He felt slightly less dead. Scully set the empty glass on the end table and just stared at him. Guilty? Accusatory? Frightened? He couldn't tell. Suddenly, he just wanted to cry. He had no idea what had happened to him. He didn't remember where he was, what he was doing, how Scully had gotten wherever he was. Reading Scully was too much work right now. What did she want from him? "It's okay, Mulder," she said softly, her voice filled with compassion. "You're okay now." That just made it worse. Mulder coughed again, trying to hold in his emotions. His ribs protested. "Dammit..." he whispered helplessly. Scully watched him for a moment, then he saw doctor-mode come over her. He hated doctor-mode, especially when he was in the condition to need it. "You've got three or four cracked ribs, in addition to the knife wound on your right side." Stunned, Mulder raised the blankets. A knife wound. A long knife wound. Jesus Christ. He looked back at Scully, eyes filled with uncertainty. "Did I -" Scully shook her head with conviction. "No. You couldn't have. I have the knife..." Scully got to her feet and grabbed the bagged knife. She held it up. Mulder's brow furrowed. "I've never seen that before," he said. Scully nodded. "According to your profile, the UNSUB you're chasing carried a knife similar to this one to the scene of Carly Hanlon's murder." Mulder stared at the knife. "He left it there." "Yes." Mulder held out a hand. Scully hesitated, then handed him the knife. He felt it through the plastic, hefted it in his hand. It felt foreign. "He got the heroin idea from Cleveland, so I would be able to link Cleveland with Indianapolis. But I couldn't," Mulder said sadly, handing the knife back to Scully. "You did, Mulder. In your profile." Mulder reached up and touched his swollen eye. He winced. "Not soon enough. I thought I was chasing him, but it was the other way around. He led me here, right here, to this room." Mulder tried to sit up but his muscles spasmed. "Jesus -" he gasped. Scully reached for him. "Take it easy, Mulder..." The pain intensified. Mulder saw spots behind his eyes. Flash. The gray man punched him and he fell, choking. Flash. The gray man kicked him, over and over, furious. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. But he wouldn't. Flash. The gray man smashing the mirror, incensed, then turning and punching Mulder, throwing him against the bed. His muscles protesting, seizing again. The panic engulfing him. Flash. The knife glinted in the lamplight as the gray man forced it into his hand, cutting him. Mulder opened his eyes and looked at the shallow cuts on his right hand. Flash. Nothing. "...at me, Mulder. Come on, stay with me. Look at me. Good. Focus." Still gasping, Mulder looked at Scully. She had a hand on either side of his face, keeping him still. "Breathe with me, Mulder. Slowly. Deep breaths. Come on..." He followed her example and the panic subsided. His muscles relaxed. "Don't stop. Breathe deeper. That's it..." They breathed for a few more minutes, then Scully filled the glass again and made him drink. "You're really dehydrated," she said. "That's one of the reasons your muscles are seizing on you." "What're the others?" he asked, his voice dry and cracked. Scully wouldn't answer him. He wasn't sure he wanted to know. After he'd had three glasses of water, she helped him lie back down again. "Do you feel up to answering some questions?" she asked quietly, in her soft, interrogator's voice. "I don't know if I can." He heard the quaver in his voice, saw the uncertainty pass through her gaze. She smiled comfortingly at him. "It's okay, but I need you to try. All right?" "Sure." Scully started with the simple questions; for that he was grateful. The "comfort zone" questions. The shit he would ask traumatized victims. Terrific. He told her what had happened since he'd ditched her in the restaurant (he must really be in a bad way; she hadn't even reamed him for that). He told her about talking to the victims' families, watching the tapes, the discovery of the UNSUB. His profile. Scully frowned. "What is it?" he asked. She turned and surveyed the room, then looked at him again. "Mulder...which tape is that?" Oh God. Mulder felt the dread grow in him. "It's not labeled. None of them are. It's a number...fifty-two? Fifty-two." Scully got up and spent an eternity searching for number fifty-two. He knew she wouldn't find it. He's taken it. The gray man had taken the evidence. A bolt of fear shot through Mulder. The Day Runners, the ones he hadn't even examined yet. Oh no. Jesus, no. Before he knew what he was doing, Mulder slid out of bed and began looking for the Day Runners. Small, black, innocuous appointment books. Please. Scully turned, her eyes wide with alarm. "Mulder...!" He ignored her and tore through the room. He ignored the pain that grew behind his eyes, the throbbing of his ribs, the sticky wetness staining his T-shirt. They weren't here. He'd taken everything. Scully grabbed his arm but he shook her off. "Mulder, you're bleeding again. Please, stop. Tell me what you're looking for. I'll find it. Mulder..." His knees gave out and he wanted to kill himself. He couldn't even take care of himself anymore. He was helpless, worthless. They were right. He DID ask to be hit. All the time. The belt hit him across the face, raising welts. The buckle thwapped across his forehead and he knew he'd have a scar. Mulder let the memory run its course as he wrapped his arms around his injured ribs. Scully reached him and pulled his arms away from his ribs. "Let me look, Mulder." The pain exploded behind his eyes. "Goddammit!" he screamed. "He got away...he's invisible again...he got away..." "Mulder..." He felt Scully help him to his feet. She'd probably call 911 this time. Hell, HE would. He couldn't stop screaming. He was so angry. He'd been close, or so he'd thought. But the gray man was always one step ahead of him, just like Patterson had always been. Just like they all were. His screaming turned into choking sobs. The pain was so bad. "Mulder, try and relax. I can't give you anything else right now. Relax..." He tried, but he kept flashing. On his scar. On the blood. On Jack's dead face. Mulder opened his eyes and tried to ignore the pain. Scully's face swam into view. Now she really looked worried. "Mulder, hold still for a minute, okay? Just hold still..." She checked his ribs and applied a fresh bandage. Then she pulled out her small flashlight and shined it in his eyes. That did wonders for his headache. She clicked off the flashlight and looked at him. "If you don't calm down, Mulder, you're going to hurt yourself. Just calm down. I know you've got a headache; you have a concussion." Terrific. She hadn't told him about THAT before. "Mulder..." He tried to calm down. He tried to focus on her again, to block out the room. But HE was in the room. He was always there. "I can't stay in here..." he managed to say. Scully frowned. Then awareness dawned. "Oh, Mulder..." Scully turned and saw a connecting door. She looked back at him. "I'll see if the room next door is available, okay? Will that be okay?" He nodded. Yeah, that would be fine. Scully got to her feet, apparently to go do that now. "Wait..." She stopped. Mulder looked at the scar on his arm, then frowned. Something was wrong. He could feel Scully's anxiety and he glanced at her. "I remember him being in here now," he said quietly. Scully nodded, letting him talk. "I don't know how he got in. I don't know...I don't remember anything much...but he was so angry..." "Why?" she asked quietly. "Because he gave me the knife. But I wouldn't do it, Scully. He wanted me to do it. But I wouldn't." Scully sat back down again and watched him closely. "Did you do it the first time?" she asked. Mulder shook his head. "I don't know..." he said, frustrated. He glanced at her. "Do you think I did?" Scully sighed. "Mulder, I don't know." "I could have, you know," Mulder said softly. "I had that knife before...in my hand..." "Which knife?" Mulder continued without thinking. He was out of his head now, circling, moving in for the kill. Searching. "Mostow's knife..." He heard Scully's involuntary gasp and he looked at her, his eyes hooded. "He knew about Mostow," Mulder said. Scully's eyes were wide as she stared at him. "He made me...he made me go deeper. That's how he got Jack. He made Jack go so deep that he just sat in his car, welcoming death." Mulder fingered his scar. "But I called 911." He could tell that Scully wasn't sure about this and he couldn't blame her. He would tell her everything. He'd tried, before, but she hadn't listened to him, hadn't been ready. But she'd tracked him down this time. She was ready. He wouldn't hold anything back. "I did what he wanted, but I didn't try to kill myself. I made enough noise so he would have to leave. Go back to his apartment." "Mulder, what -" "He moved into my building. I remembered him from the hallway. He moved across the street from Jack. The surveillance and the staging were as important as the act of killing, or of goading into killing." "So when he found out you'd survived, he tried to kill you in the hospital?" Mulder shook his head. "No, not kill me...subdue me. Ruin me. But it didn't work. So he lured me here." Mulder took a deep breath and looked at Scully. She seemed...halfway accepting. "The gray man...he was angrier this time, more determined. I was having a dream, about a knife...he was goading me into doing it and I did, I pricked myself...and then I woke up." "Was he there, Mulder? Is that when he drugged you?" "Had to be. But I don't remember seeing him...he grabbed me, later...if I had killed myself, he would have been happy. But that wasn't why he was here." "He was here to steal the incriminating information from you, wasn't he? Patterson's notes and the tape," Scully said. Mulder nodded sadly. "He's invisible again..." "Mulder, why did you call him the gray man?" Mulder frowned. "I don't know...that's what he looked like..." "Looked like? Or seemed like?" "I don't know..." He felt helpless again. Scully put a soothing hand on his arm, then got to her feet. "You've got a fever," she said, returning with more water. Mulder grimaced. "Is it any wonder?" She smiled slightly. He could see how much he'd unnerved her with his bouts of hysteria. "Mulder, you're going to need antibiotics for the cuts. You may need stitches. And you need a doctor to look at your other injuries." "Can't it wait?" Scully hesitated and Mulder could see that she was in doctor-mode again. "Scully, please. At least until I can walk on my own. I don't want to go to the hospital. Please." Because they'll keep you there and slap restraints on you, Scully thought. "Okay, but you have to eat something." "Fair enough." "Do you want to move to the other room, if it's available?" Mulder shuddered and glanced around. He nodded. "Is it okay if I go find some food? Will you be all right here alone?" He felt a flash of panic. He didn't want to stay here alone. He squelched it, though, and nodded. Scully saw through him. "I'll have something delivered. At least try and rest for a few minutes while I make the arrangements. Okay?" "Okay. Scully...is my notebook around?" Scully hunted around and Mulder tried to quell the panic again. All of his recent notes were in that notebook. Luckily, she found it on the dresser, the only thing not obliterated by the killer's rampage. He took it gratefully. "Mulder, there's blood on it," she said. He shrugged. "It's probably mine." She didn't answer. "That's a joke." "Ha ha." Scully picked up the phone, then looked at him. "Mulder, it's going to be okay. It is." "We can't find him, Scully. He has to find us." Scully looked grim. "We'll see about that." * * * * * * * * * * * * Mulder seemed to relax once she'd gotten him moved into the other room. He was still in a lot of pain but he was more lucid and wasn't as prone to the quick flashes of panic. Scully had torn the other room apart but hadn't found the Day Runners. Mulder was right. They were gone, along with Jack's book of video listings. Dammit. Now they wouldn't even know what was on the tapes. Mulder, with his amazing memory, was trying to reconstruct the tape. She wished he'd just go to sleep. His fever hadn't gotten any worse, but it hadn't gotten any better. The good news was that none of his cuts appeared to be infected just yet and his ribs, although painful, weren't causing him the kind of distress that would have Scully racing for the nearest phone. She wasn't very thrilled with the glassy, unfocused look in his eyes, though. Mulder had been droning on about the videotape for the past half hour and Scully wished he'd shut up so she could get some food into him. "Scully." Great. Breakthrough number five hundred and three. Scully tried to look interested and tried wafting the rich aroma of vegetable soup his way. "There was a word...a strange word that he used..." Of course, only Mulder would remember that. "What word?" Mulder furrowed his brow, trying to remember. "I was drifting off, but it struck me funny and for some reason, I thought CIA..." That got Scully's attention. "Earlier, you said you thought he worked for the government, but you thought he was an FBI agent." "He's an assassin...the CIA is more likely. Agents in the field pick up all sorts of foreign terms, slang sometimes. He was talking about his family, I think. Ibben?" Scully sat down next to him, resisting the urge to check his forehead again. His face was flushed with fever. Dammit. It WAS getting worse. "Ibn. Means 'son of'." Mulder looked impressed. Scully grinned at him. "What language? Arabic?" Scully nodded. "Yeah. Bint is 'daughter of'. Does this guy have a family, Mulder?" Mulder shrugged, his mind elsewhere. He reached out for his notepad. Scully looked down at it. She was used to Mulder's notepads; usually, they consisted of nothing other than doodlings, but just try and take one away from him. You'd think you were killing him. Mulder insisted they helped him think, helped him solidify his thoughts. He flipped through the notebook, then paused and held it out to Scully. "Oh my God..." "He was holding it. I tried to get it away from him. He said he'd give it back, then he hit me. And he did give it back; he staged it so I'd know it was important. So I'd know he'd left me a message. Look." Scully could already see. The page was spattered with blood. But... "It's a pattern..." Mulder nodded. "It's a word." "What word?" "How should I know? You're the expert on Arabic." Scully grimaced. "I'm no expert, Mulder. I don't know how to read it, for God's sake." Mulder looked at the page again, his brow furrowing. Scully plugged in her laptop. "I'll go online and see if I can find it." Mulder didn't answer her. He kept staring at the page, then he reached out a hand and gently traced the letters. He leaned back and closed his eyes. Scully dialed into the Internet. "I need the notebook, Mulder," she said, eyes on the screen. Nothing. She turned. "Mulder?" * * * * * * * * * They were running. She kept falling and he had to pick her up, to keep her on her feet. They had to go. But she was so tired. He could hear the pounding feet behind him. He could feel death coming for them. She fell again and he had no recourse but to take out the knife and - Mulder sat up, immediately regretting it. "Hey! You okay?" Scully asked anxiously. Mulder's ribs protested. He swallowed and nodded, then laid back against the pillows, trying to reconstruct the dream. Scully felt his forehead. "Your fever's getting worse," she said grimly. He didn't want to know what that meant. "Can you try some soup?" Soup sounded disgusting, but he nodded. "Did you find that word?" he asked. Scully sighed. "It's slow going. I have to match these symbols up and the killer wasn't exactly careful with them." "So it could be anything." "It could." Dammit. Scully sat down on the edge of the bed. She opened a Styrofoam container of soup. Mulder stared at it bleakly. How long had it been since he'd eaten anything? He'd been unconscious on the floor for a day and a half, so...about that long. He took the spoon out of Scully's hand and took a sip of soup, trying not to gag. That didn't get by Scully. "Are you nauseous?" she asked quietly. He hesitated, then nodded. Scully took the soup away from him. "We'll try it later." Thank God. Mulder picked up his notebook again, looking not at the bloody letters but at the page. Ruminations on the killer from early on. Way early on, right after Mulder had started the investigation. What if...Mulder tried to reconstruct the passages. '...typical dysfunctional family, brutal father, distant and unloving mother...a plea for attention, then he just got punished...so he took it the other way...he became invisible and his homicidal tendencies could have started in childhood, since they're so finely honed later...he could have had siblings who were more loved than he was...he made them invisible too..." Invisible. Mulder glanced at Scully, who was once again staring at the computer screen. "Scully, how do you say 'invisible' in Arabic?" Startled, she glanced at him, then began typing. She waited for a minute and Mulder thought about the inciting incident for the UNSUB. Had he been that close that early? "Lammtarra," Scully said. Mulder handed her the notebook. Scully raised an eyebrow, then glanced from the bloody letters to the screen. She looked at Mulder in amazement. "My God..." she breathed. Mulder took the notebook back. "He must've had time to look through this. I remember trying to get it back from him, then he hit me. I don't remember anything after that, so I must've been unconscious. He chose the page, Scully, chose this passage." "How?" "I imagine he was still looking for incriminating evidence. He was already incensed because he couldn't make me do what he wanted me to do, so he was in that mindset. He found a truth in here, Scully, and it nearly sent him over the edge." Scully glanced at the notes, then at Mulder. "So you were right about his family?" Mulder shrugged with some effort. "Partly, I'd imagine. I think the word that got him was 'invisible'. I think there was an inciting incident in his life that had something to do with his descent into anonymity. Judging by the fact that he felt compelled to write the word, in blood, over this passage...he became invisible when he was a kid." "Is it his blood, Mulder?" Scully asked. Mulder could hear how hard it was for her to ask that question. Mulder glanced at her. She was pale, but she was staying with him. For a moment he wondered why, then he shook off the thought. "Blood was spilled...I think so." "So this inciting incident had to do with...blood?" Mulder looked at her again, surprised. It hadn't occurred to him. She grinned at his amazement. "I've been doing some reading," she explained. "I guess so," Mulder replied. He leaned back and closed his eyes, tried to reconstruct what he thought he had. "Okay. Lammtarra relates to him. He wrote it in his blood. Part of him is incensed at me for figuring him out, part of him is grateful. He's been doing this for years. He has terrific survival instincts, but a part of him wants to be caught. He wants it to be over. The vendetta..." Where had that come from? Scully helped him. "You said you thought he was a former CIA agent. Wouldn't that put him outside of your serial killer bell curve, if he'd been an agent but left or was kicked out -" "Or was reassigned," Mulder said grimly. "Jesus..." Scully whispered. "You think he was a killer for the government?" "Makes sense, doesn't it? He's good at his job. You have to give him that. If he was a contract killer before he started his own business of killing, he could still fit in the 25-35 age range, no problem. And looking at all of this...if even a portion of my notes on his childhood are true, he fits the profile perfectly. He's just the kind of person who would lock Jack Caulfield into a car and watch him die, then hang around and listen in as his friends talked about his suicide." Mulder's head was pounding and he knew he should stop for awhile, try to get some sleep, but he was on a roll. Besides, he didn't want to have any of those dreams. Not now. Mulder opened his eyes as he heard Scully get to her feet. She looked disturbed. "What is it?" he asked quietly. "You think he listened to people?" Scully asked. Mulder nodded. "It makes sense. Part of his invisibility kick is to hear the reactions of..." Mulder's voice trailed off and as he looked at Scully, he found his expression mirrored in hers. Scully turned and opened the connecting door to Mulder's old room. She returned about ten minutes later, a small electronic device between her thumb and forefinger. Mulder paled. Oh God. He had heard everything. What had he said in there? Had the killer hoped to hear the coroner pronounce him dead, or was he happy enough with hearing Mulder screaming and his partner trying desperately to calm him down? Mulder's mind raced as he tried to remember what had happened in the other room. But it had been so long ago...hadn't it? He heard the scritch of the motel room door and saw Scully flick the offending mechanism out into the parking lot. She slammed the door so hard the lamps rattled. Scully looked supremely pissed. "You should have saved it," Mulder said mildly. Scully just glared at him. "What do we do now, Mulder? How do we catch him?" Mulder shifted, trying to get away from his now-intense headache. "We can't do anything yet. I've got more work to do. I have to figure out what the inciting incident in his childhood was." "Mulder, that's impossible! You've profiled before without such detailed information." Mulder glanced at her. "Yeah, but never someone like this...I just get the impression, Scully, that it's the most important even in his life, so important that it's ruled him. It changed him, changed what he was and made him into this kind of person." Mulder put a palm up to his eyes. The headache was blinding him now and he couldn't hide it from Scully anymore, much as he would like to. He felt the bed shift as she sat down next to him. "How bad is it?" He heard her ask the question but he couldn't answer. He couldn't... Scully immediately felt for a pulse as Mulder passed out. Fast and erratic. Scully berated herself for not carting Mulder off to the hospital as soon as she'd found him. But he was always so good at deflecting her. A master, really, especially this time. She reached for the phone. No dial tone now. Figures. Mulder only chose the cheapest of motels. She got up and hunted through her bag for her cel phone. What the hell had she done with it? She saw Mulder's lying on top of his bag and dove for it. Fuck. The battery was dead. That figured, too. She sat down next to Mulder again. "Mulder," she said loudly. Nothing. His pulse was even faster, his pupils dilated. Please, just let this be a really bad migraine, she thought. Scully bit her lip. She could stay here and try and bring him around. She could drag him out to the car and take him to the hospital herself. She could go to the goddammed office and call from there. But she didn't want to leave him. But she had to. Scully bolted to her feet and raced out the door. It was literally pitch black outside. No lights at all. After this was over, Scully was going to give Mulder a nice long lecture about how they could actually afford better motels. This place was a shit-hole. A shit-hole with a locked office. "Dammit!" Wait. Had she left her phone in the car? Scully sprinted for her car. There was the phone, lying on the front seat. Scully took it out and prayed to the battery gods. Dial tone. Yes. She punched in 911. "911 emergency," the calm voice said. Just as Scully drew a breath to speak, something hit her hard from behind. She fell forward, whacking her head on the steering wheel. Dazed, she tried to reach for her gun, but her attacker was too strong. He hauled her out of the car and hit her across the face. As he subdued her, Scully could dimly hear the 911 operator. "911 emergency. Hello? Hello?" * * * * * * * * * * * * * "Open your eyes." The words floated into Mulder's consciousness, but he didn't care. He was fine where he was. "Open your goddam eyes. You're not in that much pain, goddammit." He felt a sharp sting and the pain traveled from one side of his head to another. Mulder gasped and blinked. The light ran screaming into his brain but the sight in front of him made him keep his eyes open. Scully, blood trickling down her forehead and a huge bruise on her left cheek, was handcuffed to the door knob. Mulder sat up. The gray man stood in the corner, his hulking body hidden by shadow. All Mulder could see were his evil eyes, the eyes which glinted at him. The headache fired again and Mulder winced. The gray man stepped out of the shadows and Mulder still wasn't sure if he could see the gray man or not. Like magic, though, the gray man became corporeal. Mulder heard Scully gasp. Staring at him now, Mulder recognized him from millions of dreams and nightmares. Somehow, this sick bastard had insinuated himself into Mulder's subconscious. Hadn't he? The gray man help out a gloved hand and a familiar-looking knife glinted at Mulder. Mulder shook his head. With two swift strides, the gray man crossed the room. He picked Mulder up and hurled him against the wall. The gray man knelt down and held the knife to Mulder's throat. "Do it," Mulder whispered. "Go ahead." For the first time, Mulder saw the gray man's face. He looked like G.I. Joe come to life. He had a thick, inexpressive face, those stone-cold eyes, and a scar on his forehead that made him look even more dangerous. A scar...Mulder felt the knife slice into his skin and he choked. The gray man held the knife there for a moment, then pulled it back. Mulder worked a hand up and felt blood at his throat. "It doesn't mean anything to me," the gray man said. "Why? Because nobody else will think it was suicide?" The gray man slugged Mulder hard and Mulder saw stars exploding. The gray man got to his feet. "Get up, you piece of shit," he growled. Fat chance, Mulder thought. Mulder was able to brace himself against the wall, but he wasn't really standing. Making the attempt, though, made Mulder realize how much the sick fuck had beaten the hell out of him before and now, instead of damning his brain for not remembering it, Mulder forgave his memory. The gray man must've pounded on him for quite awhile. "You won't do it." Mulder shook his head and looked at Scully. Aside from the blood and the bruise, she seemed okay. She was okay, because she was staring at Mulder in horror. The gray man saw Mulder look at his partner. He moved towards Scully and Mulder pushed himself away from the wall, almost toppling over onto the bed. He worked his way around the bed as the gray man knelt down next to Scully, grabbed her hair and pulled her head back. He put the knife to her throat. Mulder stumbled to his knees. "No!" The gray man looked back at him. "I will cut off her head. You will watch. And then I will torture and kill you." The stone-cold eyes were fixed on him. Do something, Mulder, do something...say something...do something... "It won't give you any pleasure," Mulder managed. "It will give me enough." And Mulder believed him. He shook his head, trying to forego the inevitable. But he knew he'd soon be holding the knife and slicing into his wrist, or his neck, or wherever the gray man wanted him to inflict the wound. And then the gray man would kill Scully and he'd make it look like Mulder had killed her and then killed himself. Yes, that would be enough. "Who was taken from you?" Mulder was as surprised as the gray man at hearing Scully's voice. The gray man glared at her. He let go of her and stood up, an eye on Mulder. "What did Patterson promise you?" Mulder asked. "What kind of a deal did he make with you? How far did it go until he just wanted you dead?" The gray man growled low in his throat and Mulder closed his eyes, feeling the sharp point of a boot in his side. The gray man kicked him again and again. Mulder figured that he could gauge the accuracy of his questions by the number of kicks to his ribs. "Leave him alone!" Scully shouted. Surprised, the gray man stopped kicking Mulder and turned back to Scully. Mulder lunged forward and grabbed the gray man's foot, throwing him off balance and toppling him. Before Mulder could even make a fist, the gray man kicked him in the head. * * * * * * * * * Scully twisted against the handcuffs. The huge man was killing Mulder. She had a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that he would accidentally kill Mulder anyway, regardless of whether or not he wanted Mulder to kill himself. Scully pulled as hard as she could on the handcuffs and surprisingly, felt a jolt. The doorknob of the cheap motel was loose. Scully gave a silent cheer for cheap motels and yanked on it again as Mulder went limp from another kick. The man got to his feet and Scully stopped pulling. Breathing heavily, he looked at Scully. "I'm not going to kill you yet, so don't worry." Right. "I have too much invested to stop now," he said. Scully frowned slightly. Why was he telling her this? Because she wasn't a part of it? Scully craned her neck and was relieved to see that Mulder was breathing. "He's not going to do it," Scully said. "You've tried three times now and you've failed every time." The man nodded and glanced back at Mulder. "It will be even more satisfying when he kills himself." Scully shuddered at the excited tone in the killer's voice. Jesus Christ. Why was he like this? "Why" Scully asked. "Why are you doing this?" The man shrugged. "Why does anyone do anything? Why do you chase people like me?" "But killing is -" "What, wrong? Killing is wrong? You've killed in the line of duty. I know you have. So has he. It's my job. And I love my job. I'm good at it. It defines me." That sounded like therapy talking, which made Scully even more terrified. "Your job doesn't define you. This does. Getting other people to kill themselves, then fading into the woodwork. Personalizing other people into being like you. That defines you." The man jerked, then turned and looked at her and Scully could see that she'd gotten it right. He raised a hand, then let it fall. He smiled grimly at her. "So smart," he said softly. "You're all so smart. Like him." The man stabbed a finger at Mulder. "He's so smart he had it all in front of him, but he didn't see it. And he won't. Not ever. Nobody will see it." Staring at her beaten, unconscious partner, Scully could believe that. * * * * * * * * * He was being hit again. And again. His scars had scars and he didn't even flinch. Go ahead, do your damage. Kill me. Thwapp, went the belt. Mulder's ribs were on fire. He slowly opened his eyes, but he didn't move. He could hear the gray man talking to Scully and he felt a wave of relief. She was still alive; she was trying to draw him out. He tried to listen but the roaring in his ears made it tough. He couldn't breathe and he could feel his ribs grinding together when he tried. He flashed on the dream and his hands trembled. What had happened to him? He shifted a little bit and then he could see Scully. Thankfully, the gray man's back was to him. With one arm wrapped around his ribs, Mulder sat up slightly. Good for Scully. She noticed, but her expression didn't change. Mulder could feel blood trickling down his face and from a cut at the corner of his mouth. So far, so good. Mulder sat up a little more. Big mistake. He started choking. The gray man heard and turned to him. "You're awake. Good." Mulder didn't think he could see any good in that. He ignored the gray man and tried to breathe. "Don't panic, Mulder." Scully's voice floated towards him. He tried to take slow breaths. He should be able to breathe; he hadn't punctured a lung or anything. He shut his eyes again. Okay. That was better. When he could finally breathe he opened his eyes and found himself staring into the gray man's face. Mulder jerked backwards, eyes fixed on the scar on the gray man's forehead. Oh my God... The gray man frowned and turned to Scully. "He's freaking out again, like he did in the hospital." Scully didn't answer and Mulder saw the furious look on her face. But the scar...Mulder reached up a hand and touched him own forehead. No scar. Then what had he been...? "Who did that to you?" Mulder asked. The gray man glared at him. "None of your fucking business." The gray man pulled Mulder to his feet, nearly yanking his arm out of its socket in the process. He dragged Mulder to the connecting door and handcuffed him to the doorknob. Mulder's whole being exploded. He tried to sit up so his arms weren't stretched so far over his head but he couldn't. He just lay there and tried not to die. He thought about the scar, about the strange memories he'd been having. About killing Samantha, about his father killing himself...about running...about being beaten...and he realized they weren't his memories at all. He'd been profiling this killer unconsciously, ever since he'd started his investigation into Jack's death. He'd had the answers there, in his notebook, in his mind. But he hadn't seen them. "She was the only one who cared about you and he killed her, didn't he?" Mulder asked, his voice coming in pants. The gray man looked at him, expressionless. Mulder shifted again, trying to take the weight off his injured ribs. "Who was she? Your sister? Your cousin? Your father hit you. He hit you both. But he hit her too hard one time and he killed her." Mulder choked as he flashed on his own father, angry, raising his hand. No...stay with it, Mulder. "He took her away from you," Mulder said in a soft voice. "He made you invisible. And you finished the job. You erased yourself, your past. But you couldn't erase everything. You couldn't erase the memories. You needed to act on those memories, to expunge them. To cleanse yourself. But it's never enough. Even the devotion to duty didn't help you. The killing didn't help you. The search -" Mulder couldn't finish. The gray man wouldn't have let him anyway. In a fit of rage, he threw himself at Mulder, kicking him viciously. Mulder felt some satisfaction in all of this. He wouldn't give the gray man the satisfaction of killing himself, and there was no way anyone would believe Mulder had killed Scully and killed himself, not with the condition he was in. Was the battle worth it, he wondered. He'd won the battle but lost the war. He could feel himself slipping into unconsciousness again, then he dimly heard a tremendous crunch and suddenly, the weight of the gray man had shifted off of him. Mulder shook his head to clear it and saw Scully trying to keep her advantage over the gray man. The gray man flung Scully against the far wall and turned to Mulder, his face red and mottled with rage. "You are going to die." Fortunately for Mulder, the gray man was single-minded in his quest. He uncuffed Mulder and found his knife. Once again, he put the knife to Mulder's throat. Mulder stared into his dark eyes. "Take it," the gray man growled. "Take it, and she lives." "I don't believe you." The gray man trembled. "We are alike. I can see it in your eyes. You spend your life looking for something that you lost. So do I. The difference is, I will find it. You won't. My sister is dead. Is yours?" Mulder stared at him, falling into those dark eyes. Take the knife. It's so simple, so easy...you'll know, then. You may see her. You may see your sister. Mulder's hand went out and he took the knife. The gray man smiled, coldly satisfied. Mulder gripped the handle, felt the sharp metal against his skin. Do it. You're worthless. You've failed. Give up. Mulder's hand trembled. Fuck you, Bill Mulder. Before the gray man could react, Mulder flipped the blade and drove the tip of it into the gray man's throat. The gray man jerked backwards, gagging. Mulder followed the thrust of the blade and toppled the gray man, jamming the knife through his throat. Blood sprayed, soaking Mulder, but he grimly kept at his task, pulling the knife out and stabbing him again. The gray man flailed as his blood gurgled in his throat. Mulder stabbed him again and let go on the knife. It quivered. The gray man gave a final gasp and went limp. Mulder watched him for a long moment, watched the dull eyes for any sign of life. But none came. The gray man was dead. Mulder half- expected him to dissolve but he didn't. He would never again be invisible. He had failed. Mulder crawled backwards, away from the corpse. He sat against the wall and started to shake. He needed to see if Scully was all right, but he couldn't stop shaking. His teeth chattered and he looked at the bed. A long way to go for a blanket. The gray man's blood was everywhere, all over the room and all over Mulder. He wondered if it was feasible for him to consider making it into the bathroom to wash the blood off. He needed to check on Scully. Come on, Mulder, get up, you asshole. He heard footsteps and he opened his eyes, frantic that the gray man had come back to life. But it was Scully. He felt a wave of relief. She was unsteady on her feet, but she was okay. And he could tell by her eyes that she'd seen it. She'd seen him stab the gray man to death. Scully pulled three blankets off the bed and wrapped them around him. She kneeled down next to him, immediately going into doctor-mode. She cleaned some of the blood off his face and examined him. "Oh, Mulder..." That wasn't good. His vision was blurry and he wondered if his concussion was worse. Could you have a concussion on top of another concussion? He didn't know. Scully was talking to him. He tried to pay attention. "...just for a second. Okay?" She put a hand on his forehead and made him look at her. "I'm going to the car for my cellphone, if he hasn't smashed it to bits. I'll be right back." "Okay," he whispered, huddling into the blankets. She smiled at him and got to her feet. He heard the door creak open and tried to ignore the body lying in front of him. Scully came back a second later, cellphone in hand. He could hear her calling an ambulance. He was going to the hospital and this time, there was nothing he could do about it. But at least he wouldn't have to face people not believing him. At least he wouldn't be invisible anymore. He gazed soberly at the body. Scully sat down next to him and held a glass to his lips. "Drink, Mulder." He did. Very slowly. He leaned his head against the wall. "I wonder what they told him, Scully," he said quietly. She looked surprised that he was talking. "What do you mean?" "About his sister. I wonder if he knew his dad had killed her, or if he just thought she had...disappeared." Scully pulled the blankets more securely around him. "I don't know, Mulder." He could hear the careful neutrality in her voice and he didn't blame her. She never knew what was going to set him off regarding Samantha. Hell, neither did he. Half the free world was leading him around by waving the memory of a little girl in front of him. He knew it, and he'd still follow that memory to the ends of the Earth. "I wonder if he found out what had happened to her, if that was the incident that incited him to kill. He did to other people what had been done to him. He made them invisible, then he killed them. The people closest to them believed they'd taken their own lives. He was trying to get back something he thought he'd had." "What was that?" "Happiness. Love. A family." Mulder heard Scully's sharp intake of breath. He glanced at her. "Do you think that's what I'm doing, Scully?" he asked quietly. Scully didn't look at him. "It doesn't matter what I think." Mulder looked away. "So you do think that..." Scully turned to him, made him look at her. "It doesn't matter. I'm not you. I don't know exactly why you do what you do, nor should I. Mulder, you're afraid of shadows here. You are not this man." "I could have been." "But you're not. There was never anything positive in his life. His life wasn't even built on lies. He saw the lie, Mulder. But it was his truth. He had no truth to uncover." "You don't know that." It was stifling in the room now. Mulder squirmed out of the blankets, suddenly roasting. Scully got up and came back with a wet washcloth . "Tilt your head back," she commanded. He did. She lay the washcloth on his forehead and continued talking. "Look, Mulder. What I do know is that you are not like him. What you are looking for is constructive, not destructive." Mulder sighed. "You don't know that, either." "What do you want me to say, Mulder?" she asked quietly. "I don't know," he said honestly. "I don't know. But it has to mean something when I can't dismiss these dreams I had as someone else's, when every image I get could be the truth. I don't know what the truth is anymore and I'm afraid that I might...become like him..." "That's not going to happen," Scully said firmly. "It won't, Mulder. The truth isn't something to fear. How often have you told me that? Look at what you did here. You went looking for Jack Caulfield's killer when nobody else even gave his death a second thought. The killer made him invisible and you changed that. You gave something to the memory of Jack Caulfield. You gave him truth, Mulder." Mulder looked at her, his eyes glistening. It sounded so wonderful when she said it, but he didn't know if it was worth it. He saw the conviction in her eyes, though, and at least for that moment, he wanted to believe. Q.E.D.