Title: Out of the Cold Author: Vickie Moseley Finished: April 25, 1999 Summary: It's 1991. Fox Mulder has been a profiler under Bill Patterson for over a year and a half. He's facing one of his hardest cases, and a nasty cold. Both of them are about to get a lot worse. Category: X A MT (no Scully) Rating: R for language, violence (no sex--sorry ;) Archive: Yes Disclaimer: If I owned them, this would be the NEXT X Files book But since I don't, no copyright infringement on 10-13, Fox or anyone else is intended. But if you are looking for authors, I'm looking for work Started a long time ago in a galaxy far, far away. Finished March, 1999. Author's notes: This is my longest work, to date. I started it as a simple little story, Mulder with a cold. I wanted to venture back into the heady days of Bill Patterson, Reggie Purdue and Jerry LaMana. I wanted to know Fox Mulder before the X Files, before Scully, even before he decided his sister was abducted by aliens. And yes, even before he ran across a *itch named Diana :) The following is what came of that wish. It took a great deal of time, and a lot of simmering on the back burner. I am not a doctor, so please forgive any medical inaccuracies you find. I have had pneumonia, and have nursed someone with pneumonia, so I'm not a total novice in that regard. As for the mental institution near the end, I need to thank a lot of people who have forged that trail before me. Not the least of which is the wonderful writer, Amperage, whose work 'the Sacrifice' was one of the first 'long' works I read. Also, Goo and Amp's excellent efforts in Oklahoma, which gave us one view of the young Fox Mulder, must be mentioned here. JoAnn Humly gave us a glimpse of Mulder at the Academy, her work blazed this trail also. Dedication: No work that's 25 parts long can exist without a lot of beta readers. Some of my beta readers have seen this work languishing for months (even years) at a time. These hardy souls deserve far more than just a thank you in my author's notes, but here it is. Thanks (in alpha order) to Amanda, Brandon, Kathy, Kristina, Sally, Susan & Ten. Each and every one of you are in here somewhere. You'll know you when you see you :) Posting notes: For the sake of readers who like to read a story from start to finish, this story will be posted complete on MulderTorture Anonymous and my own website listed below. For all mail lists (MTA, XFC, and any others it might appear on), it will be posted 5 parts per day. It's a 25 part story (not counting the disclaimer, which is part 00) Thanks for your indulgence :) Feedback is appreciated, greatly! vmoseley@fgi.net Vickie Come visit my web page, brought to you by the fabulous Shirley Smiley! http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dimension/5821/index.html Now featuring 'Out of the Cold': "Bill Patterson stood in the door way, looking to Mulder just like one of God's avenging angels. His thinning hair and dark rimmed glasses lead to the confusing image that this man was a scholar, a teacher. Mulder alone knew the truth. This man was the Marquis de Sade, with a badge and gun." Out of the Cold, part one, by Vickie Moseley Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimer in part 00 part one of twenty-five January 30, 1991 Fox Mulder was cold. Freezing cold. He shivered. Snow was falling all around him and he was at the top of a very large hill, much taller than any he'd ever seen before on Martha's Vineyard, his home. The little sled he was holding looked flimsy in the face of the evergreens towering below him at the base of the hill. "C'mon, Fox. Ya gonna ride that thing or not?" He heard a shrill taunt through the frigid air. It was his sister, Samantha, and when he narrowed his eyes and squinted, he could see her standing at the bottom of the hill, waiting for him. He waved at her impatiently. "Be quiet, Sam. I'm finding the good path down," he yelled in return. He hefted the sled, a red and brown flexible flyer that was getting too small for him, but would make it through the season. Before him the snow spread out like a blanket of white cotton. There were bumps and dips in the blanket, and he knew that any one of them might be a tree stump or a rock. He'd been tossed off enough sleds to avoid making the same mistake again. Finally, he set the sled down on the snow beneath him, steadying it before lying down on it on his stomach. He used his hands and arms to push the sled back and forth, setting the runners in the six inches of fresh powder. He closed his eyes and gave a final push off. He was flying! Straight down the hill, or rather the mountain, from where he was lying prostrate in the little wood and steel sled, he plunged at a dizzying rate of speed. He'd never been this fast on a sled, never felt like the ground under him had fallen away and he was suspended over the snow, rocketing toward the bottom. He laughed, and the sound left him before it reached his ears. He could feel the snow sting his face as it flew up, trying to dodge the runners of the sled. Tiny icy shards, whipping at his eyes, bringing tears of joy. This was sledding! He was so intent on the freedom of flight that he completely ignored the warning screams of his sister. He was so enjoying the feel of the snow on his cheeks that he didn't open his eyes to see the giant blue spruce towering above him. He didn't know he'd hit the tree till he was jarred smack against it. Mulder jerked up off the cheap motel desk like his back was on a tight spring. Sweat was pouring down his face, his whole body shaking with the force of the dream/memory. "You all right, Mulder?" came a voice behind him. Jerry LaMana walked over to his friend, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Mulder? You OK, man? You were sleeping, I thought you needed a few winks. Musta been some nightmare, huh?" Mulder swallowed past the boulder in his throat. He wanted to wave his friend off, tell him he was fine, but his voice box wasn't cooperating. In the end, he shrugged, struggled to get his breathing under control and decided maybe it was a good time to hit the bathroom. Standing at the sink, his legs still wobbly, he splashed water on his face. It was the most realistic reenactment of his fateful meeting with the big blue spruce on his grandmother's homestead that he could remember. He'd had the dream before, several times since he'd actually lived through the events, but only when he was having fever dreams. It had become a portent of illness and he was not at all happy to see it again. He'd been fighting a cold for weeks. First the sniffles, then the scratchy throat had hit about three days ago. It all started back at Quantico and had dogged him all the way to Chicago and now to the lonely motel in Minot, North Dakota. The winter in DC had been cold and wet and he'd gotten tired of just swimming some laps in the pool. His legs wanted to run, and so he'd gone out a couple of times in the rain. He knew that wouldn't cause a cold--he'd told his mother that a thousand times as a teenager. But it didn't stop his coming down with one just to spite him, either. Running had been his only escape, of late. The year and a half that he'd been working with Bill Patterson's elite Investigative Support Unit had provided him with much intellectual stimulation, and exactly six weekends off. He'd accumulated enough compensatory time to retire at the ripe old age of 40 and there was no end in sight. At this point, a cold, or worse yet, the flu, was NOT an option. To make matters worse, Mulder didn't even have the luxury of being miserable by himself. He had to hide his poor health from his partner. Mulder grabbed one of the thin white squares of terry cloth off the rack next to the mirror and wet it, then rubbed it over his face. He drew in a breath and fought the urge to cough back at his reflection. Finally, he shrugged and walked back into the bedroom. "I was working on that," he said, noticing his partner staring at the yellow legal pad he'd left on the desk. "Ready to show it to Patterson?" LaMana asked, dropping the pad to the desk top. Mulder shook his head. "Not yet. You're back quick. Find anything at the library?" Jerry sighed and dropped soundlessly to the bed. "Nothing useful. Mulder, I know we keep finding matches from various motels at the crime scene, but I don't know that it means it's where this guy came from. Maybe it's just a sick joke, or his way of covering his trail." "Maybe, Jer, but I can't shake the feeling that he's baiting us--trying to draw us in," Mulder replied with a slow shake of his head. For three weeks they had been working on this case. No one had suspected it to be a serial killing until a detective in Norfolk called his old college roommate, who happened to be a detective in Philadelphia. A murder had happened, young man, butchered and mutilated. Amazingly enough, a murder matching that description had occurred in Philadelphia recently, as well. In both cases, a book of matches was found in the pocket of the suit coat. Nothing unusual, except neither man smoked. When the third murder of similar circumstances was discovered in Chicago, Bill Patterson's Investigative Support Unit at the FBI had been called in. As Patterson's duly appointed 'best and brightest', Fox Mulder had been tapped to write the profile. Usually, Mulder didn't have to go into the field. He was given file folders containing police reports, crime scene photos, autopsies, and from those patchwork pieces, Mulder would follow the steps of the killer to determine what made the guy think, what were his motivations, what kind of a person he really was. And in the end, Mulder could give his fellow field agents a description that even the murderer's own mother would be hard pressed to equal--or deny. In this case, however, the murders were coming at an alarming pace. One every four days, and the trail of bodies was being left across the continent. Norfolk to Philadelphia to Chicago to Minot. Why the hell can't this bastard like warm climates, Mulder cursed to himself as he picked up the legal pad again. "Did you have lunch, yet?" Jerry asked casually, noting the contents of the wastepaper basket. Wadded up yellow paper couldn't hide completely the half consumed bag of chips and empty Nestea can. "Yes, mother," Mulder replied, not looking up. "You know, Bill thinks you're not eating on purpose," Jerry said, picking up the remote and clicking on the television. "Bill can eat my shorts," Mulder retorted, not tearing his gaze away from his writing. "Could you turn that down, please," he added, slightly irritated at the disturbance. There was a knock at the door and both men stared at each other. Finally, Jerry broke his gaze and got up to answer it. Bill Patterson stood in the door way, looking to Mulder just like one of God's avenging angels. His thinning hair and dark rimmed glasses lead to the confusing image that this man was a scholar, a teacher. Mulder alone knew the truth. This man was the Marquis de Sade, with a badge and gun. "We need that profile, Mulder," Patterson growled low, not bothering with formalities such as saying hello. "I'm about finished, Bill. Just putting on the final touches," Mulder said evenly, looking the older man directly in the eyes. Jerry, Mulder could see just at the edge of his vision, was all but cowering on the opposite side of the room. "Let me see what you've got," Patterson spat out with a frown. Mulder sighed, picked up the legal pad and handed it to his superior. He resisted the urge to read over the other man's shoulder, instead took the opportunity to scrutinize the piles of frozen slush in the motel parking lot out the window. "This doesn't tell me squat, Mulder," Patterson said, throwing the pad down on the desk. Mulder knew better than to flinch under Patterson's gaze. He stared back, calm, collected. "I told you it wasn't finished, Bill. Give me tonight--I'll have it in the morning." Patterson looked like he was about to object when the phone rang from the table between the twin double beds. Jerry was closest, so he took the call. "We don't have until tomorrow. There's been another one." Union Pacific Railyards Billings, Montana Jan 30, 1991 4:15 pm Temp. minus 3 degrees The car tires slid on the icy patch at the entrance to the yards. Mulder looked to the horizon, marveling at the towering peaks completely engulfed in snow. It was difficult to make out even tree lines on the mountainside. Finally, the tires found traction and the rental car jerked back into forward motion. Icy winds threatened to tear the car door right out of his hand. Mulder glanced over at Jerry, who was wrapping his woolen muffler more firmly over his face. The frozen wind clawed deep in Mulder's lungs, and for a moment, he considered asking his friend if he had a spare muffler somewhere in his bags. A shouted greeting from a uniformed Montana state trooper banished the thought. "The body's over here." The victim, identified by his driver's license, was one James Edward Nelson of Billings. The police were in the process of notifying the family. Because of their proximity in Minot, and with the aid of a chartered jet, the FBI team had made it to the scene before the coroner had removed the body. It would be the first time Mulder had been to a crime scene that was relatively intact since he'd been brought on the case. Mulder slowed his pace as he followed along behind Jerry and the state trooper. It wasn't any squeamishness on his part. He was looking around, taking in the surroundings. Trying to see it first from the eyes of the victim, then from the eyes of the killer. As he walked, he absently pulled on latex gloves, so as not to disturb any prints that might be found at the site. So far, the killer had been fastidious, leaving nothing incriminating behind but the matchbooks, which contained no prints. Even so, Mulder was hoping this time, the killer might have left them a surprise. "Oh, sweet Jesus," Jerry hissed just under his breath. Mulder let his gaze skim over to the victim. Mutilated. That's what all the reports said. The black and white photos of the victims did little to portray the gruesomeness of the crime. Blood was smeared everywhere, covering the body, obliterating a once immaculate white shirt. Fingers removed, chopped off with a surgical precision and all before death, according to the autopsies. Eyes gouged, jaw almost pulled from the skull. Mulder closed his eyes for a moment, but the image wouldn't leave. He drew in a deep breath, but the cold air caused a fit of coughing, rather than clearing his mind. When he raised his head, he could see the worried look on LaMana's face. "You OK, man?" Jerry whispered, stepping around the body to be close enough to his partner to be heard over the wind and the sounds of the railyard. Mulder swallowed, wished he could take another deep breath, but thought better of it. "I'm fine, Jer. Just the cold," he assured his friend. The uniformed officer was standing at a distance, but stepped forward. "The ME's wagon is here. They want to move the body." It was a request for direction. Mulder nodded. "Tell 'em to go ahead," he said, fighting another cough. Now that he'd let one of the little coughs out, other bigger ones were quick on its heels. Jerry was quick on Mulder's heels, too. "That cough sounds bad, Mulderman. You need to get out of this wind." "LaMana, the last person who got to boss me around like that had the added benefit of being my wet nurse," Mulder shot back, not bothering to look at his friend. "I'm OK. I want to check this place out a little first, then we'll find a motel nearby." Jerry threw up his hands in defeat and walked away, but stayed well within glaring range. Mulder ignored him, and everyone else. He was in observation mode, all senses focused on finding the details that might lead him to some answers. The ground was hard, frozen, and had been for some time. It would be impossible to find good tire tracks on the mud and ice. The snow that remained in that particular area was slush turned to ice as well. Mulder crouched down and stared at the ice crusted slush. "I need photos over here," he called to anyone who might listen. Within a heartbeat, a plain clothed officer with a camera was beside him, flashing pictures of areas as Mulder pointed them out. When the officer had finished, Mulder gave him a tired smile and a hasty 'Thanks', then turned back to his examination. His mind was going a mile a minute. It looked as if there had been two cars there recently. Two cars. Either the killer wasn't working alone, or it confirmed something Mulder already suspected--the killer lured his victims to the site and killed them there. But there hadn't been a volume of blood at the other sites. Here, blood was everywhere. Could the killer have changed his ways? Could it be that this murder was done by someone other than the killer they were tracking? Mulder's head ached at that thought. If this wasn't their man, they were wasting precious time. If it was a copy cat, they were really in trouble. But the press had very few of the details of the other cases. The only possibility for a copy cat might be that they were somehow connected with the police. Mulder shook his head to clear that thought. Sometimes the mind tried too hard to reach a conclusion. That wasn't it, he knew it. He wanted to see the autopsy results, but that would be hours. For the meantime, all he had was the railyard, and while it was fresh, he had to make use of it. He went back to his search. An hour and a half later, his exhaustion and the jet lag finally caught up with him. He slipped on a patch of ice and went down on his right knee. Jerry was next to him in a second, helping him up. Mulder was so tired, it was everything he could do to get to his feet, even with assistance. "Mulder, I won't take 'no' for an answer. It's time to go. You've got this place committed to memory now, give it a rest," Jerry chided with a good touch of compassion. "Make sure they call me when the autopsy's done," Mulder told one of the uniforms and gave him a business card before allowing Jerry to guide him toward a squad car which would take them to a motel. Stay and Save Motel Billings, Montana Jan 30, 9:00 pm Mulder could hear voices, but couldn't manage to get his eyes open enough to acknowledge them. He could identify the first voice easy enough--it was Jerry. The second voice was lower, but he could finally place it, too. Bill Patterson, checking up on him. "I heard he collapsed at the scene," Patterson's voice sounded almost concerned for the young agent. "I don't think he collapsed, Bill," Jerry objected. "It was icy as hell out there. He slipped and I helped him up." "Then why did you bring him back here? And why is he asleep?" Bill was a pit bull when he was on the trail of something. He could sense that someone was hiding something, no matter how innocent it might be. "He's got a cold, Bill. Good enough for you?" Jerry barked angrily, than lowered his voice. "For God's sakes, Bill, the guy hasn't had any time off in months. He's got a goddamn cold and he's worn out. Let him sleep tonight. He'll be fine in the morning." There was silence for several heartbeats, then Mulder heard the door creak. "Are you bunking here," Patterson's voice sounded somewhat relieved. "I guess I don't have a choice. Who ever heard of a Shriner's convention in Billings?" Jerry shot back with a chuckle. "Just as well, you can keep an eye on him. I can't afford to lose him on this case, LaMana. Make sure he takes care of himself." A direct order, but Mulder wondered sleepily how they'd bring charges against Jerry if he failed to obey it. The door shut and the room grew quiet again. Mulder let sleep pull him back down into it's blanket, and stayed there for the rest of the night. end of part one Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part two of twenty-five January 31, 1991 3:35 am Jerry was usually a sound sleeper, which helped a lot when it came to rooming with Mulder. He never knew that more often than not, Mulder would awaken sometime during the night and turn on the television to banish the nightmares that came in his sleep. Mulder never told his friend about his nightmares, and Jerry never suspected anything was wrong. So it was a big surprise to both of them when Mulder started screaming as if the dogs of hell were chasing him. Jerry shot out of bed like a rocket, grabbing for his service revolver sitting next to the bed. Mulder kept screaming for a good three minutes, running out of breath and choking and coughing. Finally, when Jerry figured out they weren't under attack by an army of psychopathic killers, he grabbed Mulder's arms and tried to break him out of the dream. Mulder's skin was on fire. For the first time since arriving in Billings, Jerry started to fear that his friend might really be sick. "Mulder. Hey, Mulder. Come on, guy. Snap out of it," he conjoled. After several seconds, which seemed like an eternity to Jerry, Mulder seemed to gain an awareness of his surroundings. He looked Jerry in the eyes and seemed confused. "LaMana, get the hell out of my bed," he growled, and a cough punctuated his words. Slowly, he shoved Jerry aside, and stumbled into the bathroom. "You have a fever," Jerry informed him upon his return. Mulder promptly shot his friend a middle finger salute. "Fever this," he replied and crawled back into bed. "You had a nightmare," Jerry said, not quite sure where he wanted the conversation to go, but needing to say something. "I figured that out," Mulder said, pulling the blankets up tightly under his chin. He felt miserable. A solid dose of adrenaline pumping in his veins was doing battle with his aching chest and rubbery muscles. Not to mention, he felt like he was cold beyond his wildest nightmares. "Turn the fucking heat up. It's a fucking freezer in here," he growled. It was the only thing he could think of that might help him feel better. Jerry sat there for another moment, then reluctantly went over to turn on the heater by the window. "You should see a doctor, Mulder. Patterson said I needed to make sure you took care of yourself." "Do you get extra pay for 'babysitting duty?" Mulder sneered and shivered. "LaMana, I've got a cold. It's a virus. What the hell is a doctor gonna do? And what do we do if he says I need to go home? That would go over real well with Mother Bill, wouldn't it?" "He'll be more pissed if you keel over in the middle of a crime scene," Jerry pointed out. "I didn't keel over. I slipped on the ice," Mulder said firmly. "Mulder. Look, if you're sick . . ." "Jerry, I promise, if I am really sick, I will go to the doctor. But in the meantime, I want to sleep, so if you don't mind . . ." "OK, Mulder. But if you need me . . ." "Go to sleep, Jerry. The night I 'need' you, we're both in big trouble," Mulder chuckled and the room settled down into silence again. It took a few minutes, but the discussion with Jerry had given his body time to calm down. Mulder fell asleep almost fast enough to miss hearing Jerry's snoring. Six am came awfully early. Fox Mulder rolled over, his whole body aching. He coughed and something came from his lungs and burned in his throat, threatening to choke off his air. He rushed to the bathroom, spitting out some truly vile looking greenish sputum into the toilet. "Shit," he muttered, leaning against the sink. He didn't think looking in the mirror was going to improve his outlook on the day, and he was right. He looked like death warmed over. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, giving him the look of a raccoon. His eyes held a glassy look, too, and the image in the mirror shimmered on its own, making him wonder whether it was his sight or its surface that was the problem. The outer room was unbearably hot. He tugged at the tee shirt he'd slept in, pulling it off and tossing it in the vicinity of his suitcase. He needed to take a shower, but standing had become an activity too strenuous to contemplate, so he simply fell face first onto his rumpled bed and fell into a deep sleep. Jerry had groggily opened his eyes when Mulder had slammed the bathroom door shut. Now, with his partner doing a 'dead man's float' on the other bed, Jerry dragged himself and a clean suit into the bathroom to shower and change. He'd already decided that their first stop, regardless of objections, was to the nearest doctor/emergency room/prompt care medical clinic. And he was more than willing to use his weapon to back up his intent. Mulder hadn't moved a muscle when Jerry stepped out of the bathroom, fully dressed for the day. Jerry walked over to the bed, and tugged at Mulder's size 12 feet. "Throw some clothes on," he ordered. "We're gonna find a doctor." More than anything, Mulder wanted to tell Jerry to have explicit sexual favors with himself, but he knew it had gone beyond that. Jerry got serious about precious little, but when he did, there weren't many ways to stop him. Mulder tried, anyway. "Will you let me eat first?" he whined. "What do you want to eat?" Jerry asked, not quite as sternly as his earlier command, but still firm in his intentions. "We can stop along the way." "Hot tea, with lemon," Mulder requested, struggling to a sitting position and pulling on the dress pants he'd left hanging over the desk chair back. "And a goodly shot of Jack Daniels." Jerry grinned. "Well, at least you aren't at death's door," he shot back. "You're still requesting brand names," he added, and helped Mulder locate a shirt, his socks and shoes. "C'mon. If you're fast, we might get you back before 'Mother Bill' finds out." Billings Memorial Medical Center January 31, 1991 8:30 am "You have a nasty case of bronchitis, Agent Mulder. We'll send this specimen to the lab, but I'm betting that you've developed a secondary infection in the lungs already. I'm prescribing an antibiotic, you must take all of it, and an expectorant. You will cough, but it will be a productive cough, it will bring the infection up and out of the lungs." Mulder winced at the description and fought back the urge to throw up on the doctor's shoes. The doctor didn't seem to notice and continued. "I want you to drink 8 to 10 glasses of water a day, and it wouldn't hurt to take as many hot showers as you can tolerate. The humidity will open the airways and moisten the lining of the lungs. Plus you'll feel a heck of a lot better. And, of course, bed rest until the fever is gone," the doctor said with a knowing smile. "That will probably be no more than four or five days. When you get home, check with your own doctor before going back to work. Oh, and any over the counter pain reliever for the fever and aches." The man smiled that patented 'doctor' smile at the agent and handed him two prescription slips. "We have a pharmacy here in the hospital. They can fill those while you wait." Without further notice, he turned and left the cubicle. Jerry was just finishing up a five year old Sports Illustrated. "Hey, what did the doctor say?" he asked cheerfully. "I have a cold," Mulder lied. "He gave me a prescription for a cough syrup that should help me with this cough. Other than that, he said to get enough sleep at night and I'll be fine." All the time Mulder was talking, Jerry noted that he wouldn't look him in the eye. "That so?" Jerry asked, instantly suspicious. "Mulder, you aren't shittin' me, are you?" he finally inquired, making sure he had a good look at Mulder's eyes when he replied. "Jer, honest, I'm fine," he said and waved a white prescription slip in front of him. "The pharmacy is right up there. I'll go get this filled and you can go bring the car around. That way I won't be out in the cold that long," he reasoned. Jerry looked like he didn't want to buy that, but couldn't figure out what was amiss, so went to get the car. Mulder heaved a sigh of relief and went off to fill the scripts. "Got everything," Jerry sneered sarcastically as Mulder finally got in the car. While he was standing at the counter, waiting for the pharmacist to fill the prescriptions, he'd noticed displays for Tylenol and cough suppressant that guaranteed to stop a cough. It sounded good to Mulder, so he'd picked up bottles of those, as well. "If you're gonna 'mother hen' me, LaMana, you better not complain when I _do_ get medical attention," Mulder growled. He stuffed the antibiotic in his overcoat pocket, then put the pain reliever and cough formulas in his suit coat pocket. "Let's roll," he said to Jerry, who pointed that car back to the motel. Billings Police station 10:35 am Patterson was waiting for them when they arrived. "You better have a good excuse . . ." Jerry cut him off. "I took him to a doctor this morning," he explained. Patterson stared holes in both of them for a moment. "OK, don't keep me in suspense. What did he tell you?" "I have a cold," Mulder said flatly. "I have stuff for it," he added, pulling out the expectorant from his pockets to show the older man. Patterson leaned over to read the pharmacy label, then narrowed his gaze at Mulder. "Make sure you take that stuff," Patterson growled. "And watch it next time you walk on ice." "Duly noted," Mulder grumbled. "Did the autopsy reports come back?" Patterson nodded and handed a file to Mulder. "I got them about three this morning. From the looks of it, the victim was killed at the scene. But the knife strokes and the rest of the damage appears to be done by our guy," he noted. Mulder was reading and nodding. "No prints off the body?" "No. The ME figures gloves were used." "Toxicology?" Mulder asked, flipping through the pages of the report. "Normal levels on everything. No drugs, if that's your question," Bill replied. "That doesn't make sense," Mulder said to himself. "What, that there were no drugs?" Jerry asked. "No, that the victim just stood there and let someone kill him--there are no signs of a struggle, either." "Blow to the head?" Jerry suggested. "No sign of it," Mulder said, skimming the file again. "Maybe the first cut was fatal," Bill chimed in. "Not according to the ME. Victim bled to death. That takes time, especially in below freezing weather. The body bleeds more slowly in the cold," he explained, pacing the room. A coughing fit snuck up on him and almost brought him to his knees. When he could straighten again, both Bill and Jerry were staring intently at him, not moving. "Sorry about that," he said, and reached into his suit coat. He opened the expectorant and took a big swig. "You're driving for the rest of the day," he informed Jerry. "Maybe you should stay here and rest," Patterson interjected. Mulder was instantly suspicious. Patterson was _never_ 'nice' to any of his agents, unless he had something up his sleeve. Mulder didn't really want a plane ticket home and the shit work he'd be saddled with if he was removed from the case for illness. "Nope, Bill. I got things to do, people to see. Newspapers to read," Mulder said with a lopsided grin. "There is a library in beautiful downtown Billings, I assume?" "Probably," Jerry said, pulling the phone book out of the bedside dresser. "Yeah, here's the address. You want to go to the library?" "Yep, gonna catch up on my reading," Mulder informed them and grabbed his coat as he headed out the door. "Keep an eye on him," Bill warned. "I don't think this is just a cold anymore." "Neither do I," Jerry admitted and followed his friend to the car. Billings Public Library 4:35 pm The expectorant, Mulder quickly discovered, did not help his cough. It made him cough more, which was the last thing his stomach muscles wanted. An hour after taking it, he pulled out the cough suppressant and took a good swig from that bottle. Half an hour later, he found himself in the bathroom, tossing up both substances and the Egg McMuffin he'd snagged on the way to the library, but he felt better. His stomach finally settled and he wasn't coughing so much. He went to the periodicals section and got to work looking through back issues of the local newspapers. By late afternoon, he was wearing out. Mulder sat back, took his glasses off and rolled his shoulders. He'd been searching for hours, but he had a sizable stack of xeroxed pages next to his microfiche reader. Jerry was snoozing in the chair across from him and Mulder woke him up with a short kick of his chair. "Whaa!" Jerry startled, then glared at his partner. "I'm done. We can go back to the motel," Mulder said, getting up and pulling on his suit jacket. "Did you need to take anymore cough stuff," Jerry noted. He'd been keeping track of the time, alerting Mulder every four hours when he needed another dose. Mulder had figured out his earlier mistake and had been sticking with the suppressant for the rest of the afternoon. "Not till 5," Mulder reminded him. "Want to grab a pizza? I saw a familiar red roof about a block from the motel." "Works for me--but none of that anchovies crap. I want pizza, not seafood," Jerry growled. "Philistine," Mulder shot back and purposefully let the door close in Jerry's face. Jerry caught the door and shot Mulder a glare. "You must be feeling better," he commented dryly. "A little. The Tylenol and the cough formula are doing the job. I'll be fine in a couple of days," Mulder assured him. Of course, he wasn't about to tell Jerry about the headache that was threatening to split his skull in two. Mulder had convinced himself about 2 in the afternoon that it was from staring at the fiche reader, and drinking the two cups of coffee at lunch. Now he was hoping some food might deaden the pain. He was also praying his stomach would agree with the plan. They ordered a large supreme, with no mention of anchovies, and iced tea for Mulder, diet Pepsi for Jerry. A waitress seated them at a booth and Mulder pulled out the stack of copies he'd made at the library. "What were you looking for today? And did you find it?" Jerry asked, trying to get his mind off the long wait for the pizza. "I didn't know what I was looking for, but I found something interesting." Mulder tossed one of the pages he'd copied over to his friend. "These are the entertainment pages," Jerry said, not bothering to hide his confusion. "I know. Check this entry." Mulder reached over and circled an article with his still unwrapped straw. "An illusionist? So?" Jerry shrugged and handed the paper back to Mulder. "A specific illusionist. He was pretty well known, actually. He even finished in the finals on 'Star Search'," Mulder grinned. "Mulder, what exactly is in that cough syrup?" Jerry asked derisively. "Jerry, look at this. I found a couple of papers which detailed the guy's entire tour. The Great Stephano," Mulder said, handing over more pages. Jerry read the pages, then looked at the date line. "Mulder, these papers are from _last_ year," he pointed out. He looked up to notice the pizza had arrived and Mulder had already beat him to the first slice. "I know," Mulder said, happily munching on a piece of pizza. "Eeow! That's hot. Watch the cheese," he warned his friend. "So if this guy was touring a year ago, why are you interested?" Jerry asked, putting the papers down to grab his own slice before Mulder got the ones with all the cheese. "Because, he traveled the exact same route as our killer," Mulder stated calmly. "But he did it a year ago," Jerry repeated. "Unless you think this guy's the killer," he said, his eyes glowing with anticipation. "Would be a bit hard," Mulder said with a grin. "Poor Stephano was murdered--in Denver. The one year anniversary of that killing is a month and a half from today," he added, shaking a flourish of romano cheese on his second slice. "And they haven't found the killer." "So if he didn't do it? Mulder, I'm confused," Jerry stated. "Jerry, he didn't commit these murders," Mulder said patiently, as if to a child. "But someone who knows him did. I'm thinking it might be the same person who killed him." "How did he die?" Jerry asked, shifting through papers. "Stabbing, in the parking lot of the airport. Not the dramatics of our more recent murders, but that was the first murder, it's been refined with time," Mulder shrugged and grabbed a third slice of pie. "Hey, I wanted that one!" Jerry objected. "You makin' up for lost time or something?" "Nah, I think this cough syrup is making me hungry," Mulder smiled sheepishly. He was famished, he hadn't eaten anything all day, at least any thing that had stayed with him. "So are you going to write this theory up and give it to Bill?" Jerry asked, nabbing another piece before Mulder got it. "And make him think his death threats work? Never," Mulder smiled. "No, so far it's just a theory. I would be stupid to give it to Bill. I need more to go on. But it's a place to start. And if nothing else, it gives us more cities to notify." "Notify how? Tell every male in each city between the ages of 20 and 42 to stay away from abandoned warehouses and railyards? You don't think that's gonna cause a panic?" "Probably," he admitted darkly. "Well, we have three days, then, to find this guy and bring him in. I guess we better get on it," Mulder said, wiping his mouth and finishing off his tea. Stay and Save Motel 12:15 pm "You think the killer is somehow connected to this illusionist?" Bill said slowly, brow furrowed in concentration or anger, Mulder could never be sure which. Mulder nodded. "And the matchbooks, they're all from motels where Stephano, whose real name is Stephen Paige, appeared as a lounge act. They track his tour route perfectly," Mulder said evenly, not dropping his gaze from the older man. To blink would have been a sign of weakness and he'd never allow that to happen. "Did he have any family? Maybe this is revenge run amok?" Patterson suggested. "I thought of that," Mulder agreed. "Unfortunately, the only family Paige had was an elderly aunt who is residing in a nursing home in Springfield, Illinois. He was orphaned at a young age and his aunt raised him. I thought I might fly back that way and talk to her." "Where is the killer likely to hit next?" Bill asked, shifting papers to find the tour route listing again. "He hits Oregon. Portland, to be exact, before coming back this way for a stop in Reno." "I'll alert those cities. But we can't put out any APBs until we have more to go on--like a description," added with a sour look. "I know. I don't like this any better than you do, Bill. We know where he's going to be, but not who he is or what he looks like. It's frustrating as hell," Mulder growled. Bill glanced at his watch. "It's close to one am. You won't be able to get a flight . . ." "I'm booked on a flight to St. Louis at 7:15 this morning. Two and a half hours there, then it's an hour connecting flight to Springfield," Mulder said, picking up his papers and stacking them neatly to fit in his briefcase. He grabbed his over coat to place by the door and his hand brushed the paper bag that held the prescriptions from the pharmacy, still untouched. As if contact with the bag had triggered it, his lungs began to burn and he felt very tired. "Look, Bill, 5:45 is gonna come awful early." Bill took the hint and got up from his chair. "When will you be back?" "I have a flight out of St. Louis at 8:30 tonight. I figured I would catch up with you in Portland," Mulder said, going to open the door for his boss. "Call me if you find anything," Patterson ordered and for once, Mulder decided it was too serious a matter to respond with a snappy retort. "I will," he replied and closed the door. Jerry had been sitting quietly through the whole discourse with Bill. "You really think an old lady in Illinois is going to lead us to the killer?" Jerry asked sincerely. It wasn't that Jerry didn't _believe_ that Mulder could know these things, it was just so damned confusing to Jerry. The leaps of logic, the instinctual insights, the whole 'Spooky' persona was a little too much for Jerry. Jerry saw Mulder as a smart guy, a good agent, and a friend. As for his pseudo-psychic ability to read a killer's mind, Jerry would just as soon not think about it. But that was an area where they both agreed. Mulder would just as soon not think about it, either. "I'm pretty sure, Jer. Pretty sure." "I'll drive you to the airport," Jerry offered. Mulder smiled over at his friend. "You don't have to," Mulder said with a shake of his head. "Jerry, I don't know how to tell you, man, but you could use some 'beauty sleep'," he teased. "Har Har," Jerry sneered, but gave Mulder the once over. "You shouldn't be driving with that cough stuff and as tired as you're gonna be." Mulder thought for a moment, and had to admit Jerry was right. "OK, Mom, you can drive me to the airport. But when you try to kiss me goodbye . . ." "YUCK! Don't make me puke!" Jerry exclaimed and headed off to the bathroom. He came out a minute later and crawled under the covers. "I'm taking my shower now, save time in the morning," Mulder told him and stepped into the warm bathroom. He turned on the water full blast and sat down on the toilet seat. For some reason, he was dizzy. He drew in a deep breath, thinking the steam would offer some assistance, but he couldn't get more than a small gulp of air. More than anything he wanted to cough but the suppressant was doing its job. Mulder thought about taking the expectorant, but remembered how that had ended and thought better of it. There was another alternative, though. The prescription of antibiotics was still out in the bedroom. He'd take a couple, just to make up for lost time. Sneaking the door open, he moved over to his briefcase as quietly as possible, hoping Jerry had already fallen asleep. He need not have worried, Jerry was dead to the world. Mulder grabbed the bag of medicine and went back into the bathroom. He popped two of the antibiotics and chased them with a half a glass of water. Hopefully, he thought, the antibiotics would knock out what ever was causing him such shortness of breath. He stepped into the shower and let the steam enter his lungs as much as it could and the hot water pound at the aches in his muscles. Half an hour later, feeling almost human, he toweled off and crawled into bed, immediately getting started on his 3 and a half hour nap. end of part two Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part 3 of 25 Elm Cliffs Retirement Center Springfield, Illinois February 1, 1991 1:20 pm The ride on the plane almost killed him. The pressure from the cabin felt like it was imploding his chest, and it was now almost impossible to take a deep breath. Mulder discovered too late that he'd left the antibiotics on the bathroom sink at the motel after taking one when he woke up. He thought about calling Jerry to ask him to pack them before he left for Oregon, but the flight was late and he almost missed his connection to Springfield. Elm Cliffs was so named because it rested on Elm Street, in the middle of the city. It was a nice retirement home, clean and well cared for. He could see Pink Henderson in the sun room, sitting next to the picture window and watching a bird feeder with two cardinals doing a mating dance. "Mrs. Henderson. I'm Fox Mulder, with the FBI. I asked to speak with you?" Mulder said, holding out his hand in greeting. Pink looked him up and down. "Nice, tall, boy, aren't you?" she asked. "Have a seat. Can't tolerate having boys towerin' over me," she said with a coy smile. "Mrs. Henderson, I'm here trying to find out more about Stephen Paige, your nephew." "Poor Stevie," Mrs. Henderson said softly, shaking her head. "He was such a good boy. I raised him, you know. Raised him from the time he was just a little snip of a thing. My sister, she ran off and married that no account husband of hers and when he got hisself killed in that car wreck, well she just took off one day. We never did hear a word from her. Jus' up and disappeared. So I wasn't going to let that sweet boy go to no orphanage! I mean, he was my own flesh and blood. My own John Andrew and I, we never had children and with him dying in the war--well, Stevie was all I had. He took good care of me, he did. Good care of me." Her eyes took on a far away look and she twisted the handkerchief in her hands. "Did you have any idea who might have killed your nephew, Mrs. Henderson?" She came out of her thoughts and stared at him. "No," she said, shaking her head thoughtfully. "I can't say I did. 'Course, I never liked that little whore who hung on him. Excuse my language, but that's what she was. A whore. Hung on him, wanted to spend his money . . ." "Could you tell me her name, Mrs. Henderson?" Mulder asked gently. "Oh, let me think. I never liked her much, hoped she'd get the hint and find some other patsy. What was that name? Now I remember! It was Crown. Abigail Crown. He called her Gail all the time. She was a fine one," Mrs. Henderson sneered. "Called herself his assistant. HUH! The only thing she wanted to assist him in was separating himself from his money! No account, two bit hussy!" "Mrs. Henderson, where does Abigail Crown live now? Do you know what happened to her?" The old woman narrowed her gaze to a glare. "I know what didn't happen to her. She didn't git killed like Stevie! She's probably shacked up with some poor sot in Colorado. That's where Stevie met up with her, after he did so well on the TV show. As far as I'm concerned, I hope to never lay eyes on her again!" "Thank you, Mrs. Henderson. You've been very helpful." Mulder had a nice long wait in the Springfield airport waiting for his flight to St. Louis, so he put in a call to Bill. "Her name is Abigail Crown. Last known residence is Colorado--wish I could be more specific," Mulder related over the phone. "I'll get someone on it, Mulder. How are you holding up?" Bill asked. The concern in his voice almost threw Mulder off track for a moment. Then he remembered. Bill needed him. Without Mulder, there was no one to do the magic that made Bill look so good to the higher ups. Can't have a prize race horse go down with the colic, Mulder thought angrily to himself. "I'm fine, Bill," he answered, stifling the burning urge to cough. "I'll be getting in about 10:45 your time." "LaMana will be at the airport to pick you up," Bill promised. "Why don't you see if you can't get some rest." "Yeah, Bill. Good idea," Mulder said and hung up the phone quickly so he could cough again. It left him hurting from his throat to his stomach and his knees didn't want to carry him to the nearby lounge, but he forced himself over there anyway. He was hungry, but he didn't feel up to walking all the 50 feet down the concourse to the little bar, so instead, he used his coat as a pillow and leaned back in the chair. In seconds, he was sound asleep. "Sir. Sir. Your plane is boarding, sir. You have to wake up." The gentle voice that greeted him was matched by an equally pretty face, but the airlines services rep didn't look as impressed by Mulder's appearance. "Sir, are you feeling all right?" she asked anxiously. "Should I call a doctor?" Mulder started to open his mouth to object, but a spasm of coughing reduced him to a gasping lump in his chair. The young woman looked alarmed and started off toward her desk. Mulder had to reach out fast to grab her sleeve and stop her. "No, I'm fine," he rasped. "Really. I have to make this flight so I can catch a plane to Oregon. It's just a cold, really," he pleaded. "It sure doesn't look like a cold," the woman replied, eyeing him critically. "My brother's a nurse at the ER and he tells me all the time about people walking around thinking they're fine, then keeling over with pneumonia. Just like Kermit the Frog," she added woefully. "Kermit--?" Mulder repeated, gathering himself and his briefcase. "You know, that Henson guy. He thought it was just a cold, too. Three days later, they're burying him! You should get to a doctor as soon as you can, sir," she told him. "I will, I promise," he pledged. "Just as soon as I get to Oregon." The plane landed in St. Louis, just as a winter storm hit, coming out of the Rockies like a freight train. The airport was socked in with winds gusting up to 55 miles per hour and zero visibility. Mulder felt like he was going to collapse as he stood with a dozen or so other would be passengers around the ticket booth. "I'm awfully sorry," the service representative for the airlines was saying. "We'd put you up in local motels, if we could. As it is, they aren't even letting the shuttle buses on the highway. We'll try to accommodate everyone here in the terminal with pillows and blankets, but that's the best we can do in this storm." Mulder glanced at his watch and realized Jerry would have to be notified. He stormed over to the cluster of pay phones, waited an indeterminate eternity to get to the head of the line. Jerry had already called the airport and been informed of the storm delaying departures. He told Mulder he'd keep calling with the flight number and would be there to get him in the morning. Mulder hung up the phone and the suppressant stopped working at almost the exact same moment. He was hit with a coughing fit that threatened to knock him to his knees. The bent over, coughing harder and harder, certain he'd pass out, but he didn't. When he finally was able to straighten up, several people were giving him worried looks. He ignored them all. It felt like all air left his lungs. Mulder swayed, but made it over to a bank of lounge chairs and sank down into them. The fever was back, and with it the chills. He huddled in his coat and shook. The same services rep who'd given them the bad news came over eventually with a pillow and a blanket. After giving Mulder a good look, he handed the agent two blankets and then moved on to the next person. Sitting up was uncomfortable, so he tried to stretch out on the floor. That was an immediate mistake, as he found that lying flat on his back or even on his side made it impossible to breathe. He pulled himself back up into the chair he'd just vacated. "Sir, are you all right?" asked a young woman who was also trying to settle in for the night in the chairs just across from him. Mulder was really getting tired of everyone taking such interest in his health. "I'm fine," he growled, then saw the hurt expression on her face and felt like a heel on top of his other woes. "I've got this cold," he told her apologetically. Her face brightened immediately. "Oh, I have some medicine for that," she said happily, getting up to dig around in her carry on bag. She handed him a triangularly shaped bottle. "This stuff will knock you out," she confided, then glanced around them at the general chaos they were in. "But that might be a good thing, considering where we get to spend the night," she added with a wink. He looked a little concerned. He wasn't used to taking medicine from strangers. But a couple of words on the label caught his eyes. The stuff claimed to help with aches, pains, coughs, and . . . yes, thank the heavens, fevers! He resisted the urge to snatch the bottle from her hands. "Uh, thanks, I appreciate it." He looked quizzically at the little plastic cup that fit on the lid and squinted at the markings on the side. "You're pretty tall. I'd just take two of those capfuls, if I were you," his new friend answered his unasked question. He grinned over at her and poured himself one capful, then tossed it back. The stuff was awful! It tasted worse than any medicine he could remember and burned all the way down. He looked over to find his new friend stifling a giggle. "Go on, you don't want to wake up in an hour feeling worse, do you?" she encouraged. "No, I don't," he agreed and slammed back a second capful. That one wasn't so bad, the first having blazed the trail down to his stomach already. After swallowing, he suddenly got worried. "That stuff isn't a narcotic, is it?" he asked nervously. The last thing he needed to was to show up in front of Patterson, stoned out of his head. She smiled and shook her head. "Nah, it's over the counter. But it works. You'll sleep like the dead," she assured him. "Sounds good to me," he told her. In minutes, he was feeling very drowsy. In less than half an hour's time, he was sound asleep, sitting up in the chair. St. Louis Lambert Airport February 2, 1991 10:15 am The flight attendant woke him up the next morning and was nice enough to make sure he made it to his next gate. The four hour flight to Oregon was almost enough to render him unconscious. A fit of coughing hit just as they were making their descent, so he was saved the embarrassment of becoming the Rip Van Winkle of United Airlines. Jerry was standing at the gate, looking slightly annoyed. "Did you forget something?" he asked sarcastically as he handed Mulder the prescription bottle of antibiotics. "You _said_ it was a 'cold'," Jerry's tirade of righteous indignation was cut off when he got a good look at his friend. "Shit, Mulder, you look like death warmed over!" "I think I have to agree with that assessment," Mulder said, punctuating each word with a few well placed coughs. "Jer, just get me to the motel, please," he begged. Jerry half carried his friend to the car and loaded him in the passenger seat. "Mulder, are you sure I shouldn't take you to the hospital. You're lookin' bad, big guy." "I forgot my medicine, Jer. I'll take one now, and get some sleep, I should be fine later, I swear. Just take me to the motel." Mulder could tell Jerry was deciding how much resistance he had in him. "Please, Jerry. Don't do this to me. Just take me to the motel and let me sleep." Jerry didn't say a word, just started the car and pulled out of the parking garage. He kept glancing over at his friend, eyes narrowed, regarding him coolly. Finally he broke the silence. "You start taking the medicine," he said firmly. It was an order, not a request. "Absolutely. I feel like shit," Mulder admitted. "And you go to sleep, as soon as we get some food in you," Jerry continued, ignoring Mulder's agreement for the moment. "Sounds like a great plan. How about Chinese? But can we eat in the room?" Mulder asked, trying to be conciliatory. Jerry wasn't ready for a reconciliation. He continued on with his tirade, ignoring the flushed man beside him. "And if I get my ass reamed out because Patterson finds out you're worse, I'm hanging you out to dry. I'll tell him you left the medicine behind on purpose, I tried to stop you but you wouldn't listen," LaMana finished, glaringly daring his friend to object. "I'll build my own gallows," Mulder said with a half-baked grin. Jerry turned his attention back to the road. "OK, no hospital for now. But if you wake me up moanin' and coughin' up stuff and shit, you're ass is in the nearest one I can find and I'll stick you with the needles _myself_!" "I always pegged you for a sadist, Jer, I just never had proof," Mulder grinned evilly for a second, but soon dropped his head back on the headrest and dozed until they got back to the motel. They decided to 'dine' in Mulder's room. The Mu Shu Pork was a little hard to swallow, but the wonton soup went down fine. Mulder ate his container and begged some of Jerry's, remembering the Snicker's bar that had served as dinner the night before. After lunch, Jerry imposed his orders. He promised Mulder he'd wake him up before dinner and they could discuss the case then. Mulder wanted to put up a fight, but really didn't have the strength. He took one of the antibiotics under Jerry's hawk-like stare, and then Jerry left for the police station and Mulder crawled into bed. Mulder didn't remember his head hitting the pillow, but he remembered LaMana shaking the life out of him much later. "Mulder, damn it all, wake up!" "M 'wake," he mumbled and tried to focus on the alarm clock next to the bed. It read 10:35 pm. "That can't be the time," he said emphatically, shaking his head in denial. "It is if you're in Portland," Jerry said dryly. "You were out of it, Mulder. I thought I was gonna have to do CPR." Mulder shot him a glare. "Don't even go there," he warned. He sat up stiffly on the bed and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Jerry grinned and handed Mulder a styrofoam bowl, it's contents steaming. "Chicken noodle soup. The coffee shop across the street from the station makes it. Pretty good, too, I had some for lunch." Mulder sniffed at it. The heady aroma of chicken broth and just a touch of garlic on the steam instantly opened up all the clogged sinuses in his head, and even seemed to be melting the cement block in his chest. "Thanks, Jer. I owe you one," Mulder sighed contentedly and grabbed the offered bowl and spoon. "I'll put it on your tab," Jerry shot back, then sat at the desk and watched his friend wolf down the soup. Satisfied that his friend was not going to starve or dehydrate, LaMana turned his focus to the reports sitting in his briefcase. "We got some more info on that Crown woman. She was his 'assistant', you know, helped him in the show," Jerry said, passing a set of faxed papers to Mulder. "She was appearing as a headliner until a couple of months ago. Her own hypnotist act." Mulder looked up from the paper, lowered his face to look over the rim of his glasses. "Did you say hypnotist?" he asked. Jerry gave him a shrug. "Yeah. Why?" "Oh, nothing," Mulder said, making a mental note. "So where is she now?" "Good question. She took a powder. Her landlady hasn't seen her in almost two months." "The time span of the murders," Mulder muttered. "She left all her stuff, but she took out a post office box. Her mail's been picked up, regular as clockwork," Jerry continued. "Where? In what city?" Mulder asked excitedly. "Denver," Jerry replied. "You think it's her?" he asked, incredulous. "Mulder, I have her description here. She's 5 foot nothing, weighs 90 pounds! These were big guys she brought down." "Where is Bill?" Mulder demanded, grabbing the report and heading for the door. "Room 315, down the hall," Jerry said, trailing his partner. "He was beat, he was up all last night goin' over stuff with the locals." Bill Patterson wasn't asleep, but he wasn't exactly expecting two of his agents. After some quiet pounding on the door, he let them in, tieing his robe around him. "Mulder, I heard you were asleep," he said, staring holes in LaMana. Mulder turned to stare at Jerry, too. "I told him you didn't get much sleep last night, at the airport," Jerry explained. "Oh, yeah, thanks," he said, struggling to find the logic there. He turned his attention to Bill. "I just woke up," Mulder explained. "We need to put out an APB on this woman." He handed Patterson the report on Gail Crown. "Give me a reason," Bill said, putting on his glasses and reading the report. "She knew Steve Paige. She has been to every one of the motels that we've located matchbooks for so far and I believe she has a motive," Mulder said, sitting down on the edge of the bureau. "A motive?" Bill looked up from his reading. "Yes. I think she killed Steve Paige and now she's going back and killing men she knew back then. They might have been men she met, men she had brief affairs with." "Are you saying that a, what, a 5 foot tall woman lured these men to remote locations and killed them without them putting up any resistance?" Bill sputtered. "Yes," Mulder said, only now beginning to see the leap this conclusion required. Patterson ran a hand over his thinning hair. "Mulder, look. We haven't established that Stephen Paige is in anyway connected to this case. This is beyond even your usual 'spookyness', don't you think?" "Bill, there is a link. And Abigail Crown disappeared at about the same time as the murders began. I bet if we looked hard enough we could backtrack and find her trail during those months, we'd find that she was in the same city as each of the murders, during the time the murders occurred." Mulder said, his voice trailing off into coughs. Patterson shot a glare to LaMana, who quickly held up his hands. "He's taking medicine for it, Bill." "I think the medicine is affecting his mind," Bill snorted derisively. Then he turned his level gaze on Mulder. "Are you willing to stake your career on this? Because if we spend time and resources tracking this woman and it turns up a bust . . ." "I'm flipping burgers at McDonalds, yeah, Bill, I know," Mulder said seriously. "And I'll be your crew chief," Bill said sarcastically. "OK, I'll get someone on this immediately." He glanced at the clock. It was almost midnight in Oregon, DC was four hours ahead. "Somebody on grave yard is gonna love you, Mulder," he smirked again. "Now, you two go back to your rooms. We won't hear anything for a several hours. Might as well make the most of it. Get some more sleep." "I'm not arguing, Bill," Mulder vowed and he and Jerry left the room. He shouldn't have been tired, he'd just slept all day. But by the time he laid his head down on the pillow, Mulder was already beginning his journey into dreamland. Jerry frowned, then returned to his own room next door. Jerry wasn't used to a Mulder who actually fell asleep before he did. And he didn't like the sounds his friend had been making all evening, either. There were sticky sounding rattles coming from Mulder's chest when he coughed and a telltale wheeze every time he took a breath. But his friend did look a little better since he'd eaten the soup, and he seemed to be all right at the moment. Too late, Jerry remembered the medicine bottle in his pocket. He'd made sure Mulder had taken the pill when he'd gotten to the room from the airport, but that had been around noon. Jerry read the label. Mulder was supposed to be taking the pills four times a day. By Jerry's count, that put him way behind schedule. Jerry thought about waking Mulder up to make him take it. Mulder had looked dead to the world as he said goodnight. And that was a very unnatural state for Mulder. Jerry decided to let 'sleeping dogs lie' for the night, and just make certain Mulder didn't miss the morning dose. He watched his friend from the doorway, then closed the door and went on to his room next door to get some much needed sleep. February 3, 1991 7:00 am There was just a trace of faint, winter sunlight creeping around the dark curtains when Jerry thought he heard water running. Sure enough, when Jerry went into his bathroom he could hear water running next door, Mulder was in the shower. Jerry went back out to the bedroom and stared at the clock--it was 7:03. He showered, dressed and went next door. Jerry knocked loudly on the door. A moment later, Mulder opened the door, still toweling off his hair. "I forgot to leave a wake up call," Jerry said. "I woke up on my own. I was going to wake you in a bit. You looked beat last night," Mulder offered. Jerry shrugged, then remembered the pills. He reached in his pocket for the bottle, shaking out a pill as he came back over to where Mulder was standing in his boxers digging through his suit bag. "Here, take this. You forgot last night," Jerry said, trying not to sound like he was making an accusation. "Oh, yeah, I did. But I don't want to take it on an empty stomach. I'll just toss it up if I do that," Mulder said, not bothering to take the medicine out of his friend's hand. Jerry looked around the room until he spied the sacks from the take out lunch the day before. He smiled triumphantly as he retrieved a package of two almond cookies. "Here, I'll get you water to wash it all down," he grinned from ear to ear. "No wonder you don't get any dates, LaMana, if this is your idea of 'Breakfast' in the morning," Mulder grumbled, but took the cookies and pill, consuming them all and drinking a full glass of water. "Happy?" "No, but at least Patterson can't accuse me of not trying," Jerry said. "I forgot my briefcase, I'll be right back." Once Jerry was out of the room, Mulder collapsed on the bed. He was exhausted and keeping up a good front for LaMana took more out of him than he'd expected. He dreaded keeping up the facade for Patterson, who wasn't as easy to divert. He'd come awake around 5:30am with a wicked bout of coughing that left him weak. His lungs burned with each breath of air. Somewhere in the foggy recesses of his mind, he remembered the doctor telling him that hot showers would open up his air passages, so he'd crawled into the bathroom and turned the water on full hot. He'd sat there for almost an hour before he felt he had the strength to stand under the spray and clean off. But he knew that if he didn't face the world standing, Bill would use his considerable force to put him on a plane back to DC. There was something about this case that clawed at his mind. He knew he was on the right track, he just didn't know if he was on the right train. Steve Paige was the key, of that he was certain. There was too much evidence pointing his way. If Mulder let his imagination run wild, he could almost envision a scenario where Steve Paige had come back from the dead to avenge himself of his girlfriend's transgressions. A pretty neat trick, if it was remotely possible. But the disappearance of the girlfriend had left him no alternative than to believe that she was the murderer. He wasn't comfortable with that. She was a tiny woman, by the picture he'd seen in the file. The MEs had all agreed that it took considerable strength to kill these men. He didn't think she was capable of that--but there weren't a lot of other answers. The important thing was to find her and question her. It was also possible that she was on the run, that she knew whoever was committing the murders and didn't want them to find her. Mulder got up from the bed and the room spun around him. Big mistake, he chided himself. Got up too fast. He sat back down, then decided that maybe laying down would be the better option. In the bathroom, he could just make out Jerry singing off key in the shower. Sounded like the Police. Maybe Genesis. With Jerry's voice, it was hard to tell. Mulder closed his eyes for just a second and fell fast asleep. His feet were running. His legs, thighs, hips, spine, all reacted to the pounding of the pavement, the pumping of muscles, the throbbing of blood through his veins. It felt wonderful. He'd hit the high, his favorite part of any run, when the aches in his calves and back faded into a dim memory and his vision went slightly unfocused. When he could look down and see the pavement speeding past him and wonder at the marvelous machinery of his body that could work in such perfect rhythm. Air was whistling through his nose, puffing out his mouth. He could feel it as it invaded his chest, cold at first, then warmed by his body he would expel it out into the atmosphere, sucking in more air to continue the cycle. It was a wondrous rush, each breath, and the endorphins were singing in his veins. He felt if he just spread his arms a little out to the sides, he could fly. When Jerry peeked in to look at his friend, Mulder was soundly asleep, arms spread out at his sides, a faint smile on his face. Jerry smiled in return, closed the door and went on to the station. end of part three Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part four of twenty-five FBI Regional Office Portland, Oregon February 2, 1991 4:43 pm Jerry LaMana sipped at the now stale cup of coffee and stared out at the blinding rain. A winter storm had come up the coast, bringing near freezing temperatures and rain. There were predictions for dropping temperatures and then sleet turning to snow before the night was out. Just perfect, LaMana thought. Tonight was the night their murderer was due to strike again. The NCIC data base, all shining, new and improved, provided some details that helped in their game of cat and mouse. Mulder had been right, Gail Crown was surprisingly simple to track. She had been in all of the cities at the time of each murder, giving Patterson just enough information and evidence to arrange for an All Points Bulletin. With some further checking, using Stephen Paige's credit card accounts, it was discovered what hotel the Great Stephano had appeared in Portland, and the city police and FBI had the place under strict surveillance, with Crown's picture circulated in the general area as a suspect in a murder investigation. The trap was set. Now they waited for the mouse to take the bait. At lunchtime, Jerry had run back to the motel, found Mulder had finally crawled under the covers, still dressed for the day, but was still sound asleep. Feeling just a touch self-conscious and praying his friend wouldn't wake up and catch him in the act, Jerry felt Mulder's forehead and found it too warm for the liking. Remembering the pill bottle again, Jerry got a fresh glass of water and placed it on the bedside dresser, next to the pills, hoping Mulder would see both when he woke up and looked at the clock. A scribbled note was set beside the water glass, detailing the game plan for the day and the number of the Regional Office. Feeling he'd done everything he could, Jerry quietly left Mulder to his dreams. "What time is it?" Bill growled from the doorway. "Almost 5," Jerry said without leaving his view of the storm. "Have you heard from Mulder, yet?" Patterson asked, coming to stand next to LaMana. "Shit, only a woman would kill a guy on a night like this," he muttered. "It's getting nasty. And no, I haven't heard from Mulder. I was just about to call," Jerry said, reaching for the phone. He dialed the number and listened to it ring. Four times. Six times. Eight times. Patterson looked over from his own inspection of the storm. "No answer?" "Maybe he's in the bathroom," Jerry offered. "How high was his fever when you left?" "Jeez, Bill, I didn't take his temperature! I just felt his head and it felt a little too warm," Jerry retorted, his cheeks flushing. He had a horrible feeling that he never should have left his friend alone. Bill took the phone out of LaMana's hand. "Here, we'll call the desk, have them go check on him. He might have fallen, or he might have a higher fever. Our kids always ran up temps when the sun went down," Bill explained, more for his own reassurance than for LaMana. Someone at the desk picked up. "Yes, this is Special Agent William Patterson. We have an agent who is ill, he's in room 255. We just tried to call him and we're not getting an answer. I was wondering if someone could go check on him for us or if you've seen him in the coffee shop." Bill listened to the answer and then went white. "How long ago was that, do you think? Uh huh. And was it storming there when you saw him?" Bill's features were tensing and he was straining hard to control his anger. "And you didn't think it was just a bit unusual for a man to go out jogging in the middle of an ice storm dressed for a business meeting and without any kind of coat or jacket?" he demanded. "Has he come back? . . . You're sure he's not come back. Thank you, you've been most helpful," Bill intoned sarcastically. He switch hooked the receiver and waited for another line to pick up. While he was waiting, he placed his hand over the receiver and glared at LaMana. "Mulder went jogging, in his suit pants and dress shoes. He left the lobby about an hour ago. The grill girl saw him about three blocks from the motel when she was on her way to work. He hasn't shown up back at the room yet." He waited in silence then cursed under his breath. "I hate those fucking cell phone recordings. He must have left his cell phone in the room," he growled, then hit the switch hook again and punched the numbers on the phone hard enough to do some damage to the plastic. By the look on his face, the other line connected and Bill turned his attention to the phone. "Yes, this is Special Agent Bill Patterson, I need to speak to Chief Wilison, please. . . . Andy, Bill Patterson. Look, I've got a sick agent out jogging . . . yeah, on a night like this. We're at the . . . oh, good you know the place. Yeah, could you send a squad car out to look for him. Name of Mulder. Six foot, slender, dark hair, thin face. He'll stick out, he's wearing a white button down shirt and tie and dress trousers with wing tips. . . . Well, like I said, he was staying behind because he's sick, I think he's operating under a high fever. Yeah, I'm heading out now, do you still have my cellular number? Yeah, that's it. Thanks, Andy. I owe you one." "Now we're looking for a killer _and_ Mulder," Patterson huffed and headed out the door with LaMana close on his heels. Docks along the Columbia River 6:35 pm Mulder was more than out of breath. He seriously thought he would never be able to get a breath again. He sucked in the air but it stopped somewhere in his throat, not reaching down into his oxygen starved lungs. He was dizzy and weak and freezing cold. And he had no idea where in the hell he was. He'd been dreaming. In the dream, he's been running and it felt so good. But the dream changed and he was no longer running for enjoyment, he was chasing someone. The killer. Abigail Crown appeared in his dream, just steps ahead of him. She would turn a corner and he'd race to catch up with her, before he lost her trail completely. She led him all the way from the safety of the neighborhood surrounding his motel to the docks by the river, over a mile away. Then she had disappeared, right before his eyes. If he could breathe, he'd try to find her. As it was, he started coughing again, tasting something thick and strong, like blood in his mouth and he dropped to the ground. His last conscious thought was that he had to get warm. Sometime later, Patterson's voice was booming somewhere above him, demanding to know where the ambulance was. Mulder tried to open his eyes, but nothing on his body seemed to want to work right. He could feel the weight of something covering him, but it did nothing for the cold dampness that chilled his skin. "Mulder, can you hear me?" It was Jerry, sounding cold, wet and worried. Mulder wanted more than anything to answer his friend, but his throat was occupied sucking the small amount of air into his lungs. "He's delirious, LaMana." Patterson again, sounding disgusted and frustrated. "God damn it to Hell! Where is that damned ambulance?" "Coroner's wagon just arrived." Mulder couldn't place that voice, but what they said definitely got his attention. Was he dead? Then why had Jerry asked if he could hear him? And why was Bill so concerned about where the ambulance was? "So it looks like a murder/suicide?" Another voice, different than that last. "Damn it, Bill. How did your man know how to find them?" "I don't know," Bill said gruffly. A siren cut off his words. "Thank God in heaven, it's about time!" Everything went gray for a while, and when Mulder realized where he was, he was lying on his back, with a mask over his face. His chest and legs were covered with warm, dry blankets and he could feel a pressure across him. Web belting, no doubt to keep him stable on the gurney. There was something taped to his left hand, something felt warm in his veins of that arm. "Where are you taking him? We'll follow behind you." It was Bill again. This time, probably due to the increased oxygen in his bloodstream, Mulder's eyes actually obeyed his command to open. He blinked at the rain and snow falling on his lashes. It was too hard to keep them open, so he let his eyes close again. "Memorial. It's just up the road about five miles. Keep on this road here and you can't miss it. Do you have his medical information?" "It's on file at the Bureau." "We're gonna need a history. Can you get it for us? Next of kin should be notified immediately, too. We might need sign off." "I'll handle that." Silence as he was slid into the vehicle. "How is he? Will he be OK?" Bill I never knew you cared, Mulder mused bitterly. "We need to get him in, sir. They'll know more at the hospital." The slamming of the doors cut off further discussion with Bill. Portland Memorial Medical Center February 3, 1991 9:00 pm Jerry was cold, but it wasn't the temperature. He sat in one of the institutional plastic and tubular metal chairs in the waiting room, staring at the television screen. He had no idea what was on. It could have been the weather channel for all he cared. He just didn't want to keep staring at the door that led to the exam and treatment rooms. Mulder had been back there for almost three hours. A nurse had come out not long after they'd arrived to ask about Mulder's general condition, when he began feeling sick, was he on any medication, did Jerry know of any allergies. Jerry had told her about the antibiotics, and that Mulder had been taking cough medicine. She seemed awfully concerned to find out whether it was expectorant or suppressant, but Jerry couldn't remember. Finally, the nurse asked if the Mulders had been notified about their son, but Jerry didn't know that either. That was Bill's department and he hadn't returned. Jerry looked at his watch again and wondered if Bill was ever coming back. As if on cue, Bill walked into the waiting lounge. He looked totally exhausted. He slumped down in the chair next to Jerry. "Did you get hold of the Mulders?" Jerry asked anxiously. "Yeah, finally. I had a hard time, his mother moved not too long ago and Mulder forgot to update the file. But I finally spoke with them both." Bill leaned forward, removed his glasses and ran a hand over his eyes. "And I got the Bureau to fax his medical records." "Are his folks coming out?" Jerry asked, somehow relieved to hear that at least they knew of their son's condition. "His mom is on the next flight out. Weather is shitty out east, too. But his dad can't come tonight, apparently. He wanted us to fly Mulder home." "I don't think the doctors will allow that," Jerry murmured. "They won't. His doctor said his condition is too tenuous and he would only evac if it was a medical emergency." "Then you talked to the doctor?" Jerry replied, a little jealous that Bill was more informed than he was. "Yeah, for a minute. They're running tests but from the x ray it's definitely double pneumonia. Probably bacterial, which I guess is bad. Once they finish the tests, they're moving him up to Intensive Care." Bill sat back, it tired him just to think about it. "Will they let us see him up there?" "I don't know, LaMana. Probably not, we're not immediate family. Maybe they'll give us a minute before they move him, I just don't know." The two men fell silent, each with their own thoughts and prayers. "Bill, he knew," Jerry stated, breaking the stillness. "Knew what? About Crown and where she'd take her next victim?" Bill asked gruffly and stood up to pace. "He did the profile, he climbed into her head, he followed the leads." "But there weren't any leads to the docks. And we had nothing. We were staked out at the hotel, we were miles off," Jerry pointed out. "What do you want me to say, LaMana? That it's 'spooky'? The son of a bitch could be dying! Hell of a lot of good being spooky did him this time!" Bill roared. The door that Jerry had not wanted to look at opened, and a blue clad nurse waved at them to get their attention. "Gentlemen. Would you care to see Mr. Mulder for a moment?" Bill glanced over at Jerry and suddenly Jerry knew why the older man had shouted. Bill was scared. He knew how close Mulder was to dying and it scared him. Jerry felt the same, but knew that he wanted to see his friend, fear or no fear. "Yes, we would," Jerry answered for them both. Silently, Bill followed Jerry and the nurse into the exam area. Mulder had never been this cold. Not that his memory was that good at the moment, but he'd never felt this bad, never wanted to be totally senseless as much as he did right then. And the cold was not leaving, no matter how many blankets the nice nurses piled on him. Taura was the nicest. She was young and pretty and if he lived through this, he was going to get her number and see if he could have her baby. When he first came around and had been so cold, she'd been the one to figure out his whimpers and cover him with a blanket fresh from a warmer. It had helped, for a while. But the chills came back. Taura couldn't get him any warmer, but she stood by him, and talked to him and it made him feel a little less scared, a little less lonely. But not less cold. His eyes would open and close of their own accord, and he would try to focus every once in a while. He opened them one time and Bill was standing beside him, leaning over, talking to him. Bill told him that his mother was on the way. In a while Bill was replaced with Jerry, telling him that everyone hoped he was feeling better soon. Mulder hoped soon came real quick because at that moment, he just hoped he'd be unconscious again. Bill and Jerry left and he was moving, but he couldn't make his throat work to ask where he was being taken. He'd just have to wait and see. He'd faded out waiting for the elevator, now he was very much awake as he was shifted from the gurney to the bed. Try as they might to be gentle, an IV line was pulled, and Mulder himself began coughing, a dry hacking that seemed to last forever and accomplished nothing more than to leave him gasping for breath, weak and hurting. He was more than happy when everyone decided they were satisfied with his transition and left him the hell alone. But he really didn't want to be alone. He just wanted people to stop touching him. His skin hurt, it felt fragile, like the next needle prick or monitor pad would shatter it into a million pieces. His eyes were burning like fires had been lit in them. He didn't even want to contemplate the pain in his chest every time he breathed. "Mr. Mulder?" Had to be a nurse, the voice was too polite to be a doctor. When he didn't answer, it came again. "Mr. Mulder?" He managed to get control of his eyelids and opened his eyes to slits against the harsh lights of the room. "I'm Jan, I'm your nurse. I know you're hurting right now, but the doctor has ordered some medicine for the chest pain and to help bring the fever down. It's going to make you sleepy, but you probably won't mind that either." He couldn't make out much of her face, but he could hear her smile and it was beautiful. Suddenly, he felt the same warmth he'd felt before when Taura had put the blanket from the warmer on him. Now he'd have to figure out how to have Jan's baby, too, he mused groggily. "That should help with the chills, until this takes effect." He could feel something cold move through the IV line, but at least it didn't hurt. He sighed in relief. "I'm putting the call button right here." He felt a cold thing, round and hard in his right hand. "But I'll be checking on you and I can hear you out there if you need me. Just go to sleep. When you wake up, I'll bet your family will be here." His only thought, as he drifted off, was how in the world had they found Samantha and why hadn't they told him sooner? end of part four Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part five of twenty-five He was back on the hill top, snow all around him. The sled was cold, even through his woolen mittens. He sniffled, wiping his nose on the back of his sleeve. "Don't do it, Fox." It sounded like she was standing right beside him. He looked around and found his little sister, shivering in the cold. She was wearing her heavy winter coat, her hair sticking out from under her knit hat. Her gloved hands were shoved in her pockets for warmth. "Don't, Fox. It's too dangerous." He looked at her and frowned. "What are you talkin' about, Sam? It's a hill, I gotta slide down it," he said, scoffing at her concern. "You're just chicken. You don't have to do it, just watch." "I'm not chicken," the little girl protested, eyes narrowed. "I don't want you to get hurt!" "I won't get hurt, Sam. I promise," he vowed, setting the sled down on the ground, running it back and forth to free up a path through the powdered snow. The minute the sled caught in the snow and he began hurtling down the hill, he knew he wasn't going to keep his promise. ***** Portland Memorial Medical Center February 5, 1991 5:03 pm " . . . Saaaaam . . . Saaaaaammmm," he moaned over and over. Someone was touching his forehead, brushing the damp hair off his face. "Shhh, baby boy. Shhhh. I'm here, Fox. I'm here." He knew that voice. It meant comfort once. He hadn't heard it used that way in a very long time. "Just sleep, baby boy. Just sleep," the voice murmured until he finally caught hold of it in his memory. "Mom?" he rasped, coughing again, but this time something came up from his lungs and filled his throat. He was laying on his side and a hand was patting firmly on his back. The patting was hurting the skin and the muscles underneath, but it was loosening the stuff in his chest and made his lungs feel better. "Yes, Sweetheart," his mother crooned close to his ear. "I'm here, Fox." She continued to pat on his back until the coughing spasm passed and he could spit something vile into the bowl she held to his mouth. He fell weakly back on the pillows. " . . .how'd I . . . get . . . home," he managed to get out before another couple of coughs left him gasping for breath. "You aren't home, baby boy. I'm here, in Oregon. You're in the hospital. Remember? You're sick, you have pneumonia." " . . . is Dad . . . here?" He had forced his eyes open and was looking at the frown on his mother's face. When she realized he was staring at her, she plastered a fake smile on her lips. "He sends his love, Sweetheart. He couldn't get away right now. But when you come home, you'll have to spend some time recuperating. I'm sure you can see him then." His chest still ached with each breath and he couldn't imagine a time when he would feel well enough to fly all the way home. "Doesn't . . . matter," he mumbled with disinterest. "Would you like a little water?" his mother asked, searching for a safer subject. He nodded and she brought the straw up to his lips so he could take a few swallows. "Better?" she asked and smiled when he nodded. "You gave me quite a scare, young man," she scolded. "I've always wanted to get back to the Pacific Northwest, but I haven't had much time this trip for sightseeing." "Sorry," he said weakly, but he knew she was teasing him by the twinkle in her eyes. She picked up a cloth that was laying on the tray table and wiped his forehead and cheeks. "That's all right. I'm getting to spend time with you. Wish you were feeling better, so we could both enjoy this," she added with regret. "Me too," he answered. "Mom, I'm so cold." "I know Sweetheart, but that's from the fever. You have the chills. We have to get the fever down. The medicine gets it down during the day but once the sun sets, it spikes back up again. I told your doctor you've always done that. They don't like to listen to mothers, as a rule. Medical schools can teach you a lot, but not as much as taking care of your own sick children." "How long . . . have you been here," he asked, fighting the fatigue that dragged at his mind. "Two days. You were here the first night by yourself. I got here early yesterday morning. Last night was pretty bad. You spiked a high fever and they had to use a cooling blanket to get it down. Today was a little better, you've slept for a long time. It's evening now and your fever is up again." A thought brushed his mind and he tugged at it to bring it into focus. "The case?" he asked. "Bill, has he been here?" "Agent Patterson? Yes, he's been by a couple of times. And that nice Agent LaMana. They can't come in, only immediate family is allowed on this ward. But I stepped outside to speak with them. They've been very worried about you." "Mom, did they say . . . about the case?" Mulder asked again and had to force the last words out around a spasm of coughing. "I don't want you to worry about that case, Fox," his mother said sternly. "From what the newspapers say, it's over. That woman killed that man and then killed herself. I just thank God she didn't turn that knife on you before she committed suicide. As sick as you were when they found you . . ." " . . . she didn't commit suicide," he muttered sleepily, but his words fell on deaf ears. "She would have killed you before you could have called out. None of that matters, baby. What matters is that you rest and let the medicine work. We'll talk about all of that when you're better." ***** February 7, 1991 12:02 am Mulder could see the woman, Abigail Crown, just standing near the crates and boxes on the dock. She was tiny, even though he expected her to be short, he never expected her to be so slight. A puff of wind would blow her into the water. He halfway expected to see that happen, since the rain and wind were coming down with gale force, almost parallel to the ground. He was struggling to keep standing himself. The body of a man was on the ground, motionless, blood mixing with the rain and streaming in pink trails down to the dock. Mulder looked to the woman, searching her hands for a weapon. But there was none. Abigail started to scream. Mulder started toward her but the wind and the rain and now sleet were blinding him. He wiped at his eyes and she now seemed further away. A shadow was engulfing her and she was screaming again and again and finally she fell, landing boneless on top of the body already laying on the dock. He fought the wind to reach her . ". . .not suicide . ." he cried out and lunged forward. "Hold him!" a voice responded. Mulder fought all the harder against the hands holding him down. "Get a bandage on that hand. Pulled the IV right out," a very disgruntled voice growled. "I didn't know what to do--I thought it was a seizure," another voice complained. "Probably was," the first voice said. "Get the blanket again. Basal's 104.9. He's nuclear." "Doctor, Mrs. Mulder is very concerned. She wants to know when she can come back in?" A third voice. How many people were in the room, Mulder wondered in a fog. "When we get him settled," came the terse reply. "Mr. Mulder, please, no one is going to hurt you. You are safe," the first voice said, trying to sound reassuring and calm. "You have to lie still so we can reinsert the IV. That's how we're giving you the medicine to get you better. Please, let us help you." " . . . mommmmm," Mulder responded and started fighting again, but more weakly now. He was struggling for breath as much as he was struggling against the hands and it was sapping his reserves. "Get his mother in here, Susan. Maybe that will calm him," said the first voice firmly. In seconds, he heard her. "I'm here, baby. I'm here," she whispered, stroking his cheek. "He's so hot," she said out loud. "I know, Mrs. Mulder. We're trying to get that down, believe me." There was a rustling and he felt the blankets being pulled down, leaving just the sheet. Mulder shivered against the coolness and then moaned aloud as something colder was placed on top of him. "He hates that blanket," his mother said in disgust. "Do you really need to use it?" "I'm afraid we do, Mrs. Mulder. It's the only way to bring the temp down," the second voice said sympathetically. Mulder tried to fight the blanket, kicking his legs to dislodge it, but it had been tucked at the edges of the bed and wouldn't budge. He sobbed in frustration. " . . . moommmm, help . . . me," he cried out again. Mulder's eyes were closed and he couldn't see her face, but he could hear the tears in her voice. He'd spent his adolescence listening to her tears. "I can't, baby boy. I can't. You need to keep it on. I'm sorry." "Mrs. Mulder, I think we need to sedate him," voice number one, coming in just above a whisper. "I'd rather not. He hates to be sedated. Please, if we can avoid that . . ." "Mrs. Mulder, he's fighting us. It's only causing him to grow weaker at this point. His blood pressure is rising, there is the very real danger of stroke. We _need_ to sedate him," the first voice said tersely. "If you think it's necessary," his mother answered, reluctantly. "I think it is." More cold filled his veins and he cried out again. Then his mother was there, caressing his cheek, placing kisses on his forehead. Murmuring how much she loved him and just wanted him to feel better. Wanted him to get well. It was like a lullaby and drew him into sleep. ***** Portland Regional Office of the FBI February 7, 1991 9:35 am "Was that the hospital?" Jerry asked, handing Bill a cup of coffee. "Yeah, well, it was his mother," Bill replied, taking a drink. "How's he doing?" Jerry asked, hating the fact that they were still banned from seeing Mulder. He knew his partner was in Intensive Care and that he was 'holding his own', but it had been three days since they'd found him half frozen on the Portland docks, just a dozen feet from two dead bodies. Bill took another drink of coffee and scratched his head. "He's still critical. His mother says he spikes a high fever every night. Last night he had some really bad fever dreams. Kept yelling something about the case." "Yelling?" Jerry asked, not bothering to hide his worry. "LaMana," Bill said patiently. "His fever is spiking. He went into convulsions last night. He's just dreaming about whatever is there in his head. Of course, he'd dream about the case, it was the last thing he was working on when he got sick. There's no big mystery here." "Why did Mrs. Mulder call, then? Just to give us a progress report?" Jerry prodded. "No," Bill admitted. "The doctor feels that if we came up to see Mulder, just for a few minutes, it might bring some closure for him. To him, this case is still wide open. He was practically comatose when we found him. If we convince him that the case is closed, the bad person committed suicide, there have been no further deaths, maybe he'll stop thinking of it and calm down." Jerry was nodding. "I see. We just tell him that it's done and over with, except for the paperwork. Is that it?" "That's the plan. Maybe if they can get him calmed down, he can begin to get better. But Mrs. Mulder did say they were dealing with a resistant form of pneumonia. Apparently he caused himself a lot of trouble by just taking a couple doses of the antibiotics. It might have been better for him not to take any at all." "How so?" Jerry asked. "When he took a couple, it killed off some of the germs, but not the hardy ones. They took over. Now they can't get them killed off, or at least that's the way she explained it." "Bill, is Mulder going to get better?" Jerry asked point blank. Bill shrugged. "I don't know. I hope so. I'd sure hate to lose him," Bill said. end of part five Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part six of twenty-five Portland Memorial Medical Center February 7, 1991 1:15 pm Mulder's fever was down to manageable levels, hovering at one hundred, but the sun was high in the sky. He could go without the cooling blanket during the day, and that alone made his disposition better. Since he usually slept most of the daytime, his mother took frequent naps herself, so that she could sit with him during the night, when he was worse. Both of them, mother and son, were dozing when Bill and Jerry came to visit. "Maybe you shouldn't wake him," Bill muttered to the nurse as she led them into the room. "Oh, it's all right. He's been expecting you. The doctor told him this morning that you'd be allowed to visit for a little while. He was very anxious to talk to you," the nurse informed them with a smile. She was no more than twenty-five, very pretty, and Jerry almost envied Mulder if that was who was taking care of him. "Fox? Fox? You have visitors," she called softly. Slowly, Mulder dragged his eyes open. He struggled in the bed and the nurse helped him by raising the head a bit and adjusting his pillows. He was no longer wearing a full oxygen mask, but a nasal cannula was still feeding him oxygen. He had an IV in his right hand, drips from two bags mingling in the line. His left hand was bandaged. Monitor pads were strung like Lilliputian restraints to the machines on the far side of the bed. A small blue clothespin looking device was attached to the finger of his right hand. Mulder smiled at Jerry, nodded to Bill. "Hi, guys," he said. His voice was rough and not very loud. He breathed deeply after just saying two words. "How are they treating you?" Jerry asked. "Not bad," Mulder replied. "Nice view," he said with what could almost pass for a leer. "I could see that," Jerry grinned and looked out the glass window where the nurse was writing in a chart at the desk. Bill shifted nervously. "You're missing out on the paperwork, you know," he said affably. "What happened?" Mulder asked, sitting up straighter. Jerry noted with alarm that one of the monitors started to creep up into higher numbers and glanced back through the window toward nurses station. Mulder followed his gaze. "It's OK, LaMana. I'm fine," Mulder assured him tiredly. "Tell me about the docks, Bill." "I don't know what you saw, Mulder. When we got there it was all over. The victim's name was George Drake. He'd been a night manager at the hotel where Paige and Crown were a lounge act. He was dead from loss of blood, just like the others. And Crown must have known she was caught and slit her wrists," Bill said simply. "She was murdered," Mulder insisted. "Did you see that?" Bill demanded, annoyed. "Yes. No. I don't know if I saw it or not, but it's true, Bill. She didn't kill herself," Mulder insisted, more emphatically. Jerry watched the one monitor climb higher on the number range. "How, Mulder? How could you have seen that? You were semi-conscious when we found you. You weren't coherent or responsive. How did you see anything?" Bill asked, lowering his tone as if speaking to a third grader who didn't want to eat his lunch. Mulder's eyes flashed. His breathing became rapid and shallow, his lips turning pale. "Look, Bill. I can't tell you more than I know. But I saw . . . a shadow. It . . . attacked her. She was frightened!" "Mulder, she was frightened because you stumbled onto them. She knew she'd been caught, that she was going to jail. She killed herself, saved the taxpayers a bundle. We should all be happy with a job well done." "It's not over, Bill. It's going to continue," Mulder said breathlessly and through gritted teeth. A shrill cry issued from the monitor Jerry had been watching and Mrs. Mulder nearly jumped from her chair. "Fox?" she cried out, then noticed the other two men. "Mr. Patterson, I presume. What is going on here?" Before Bill could answer, the pretty, young nurse was in the room. "I'm sorry, but I'll have to ask you to leave. Mr. Mulder has to remain calm. Your presence is endangering his health. Perhaps you can come back another time, when he's feeling better," she said firmly, standing to the side of the doorway in clear indication of their direction. "We'll call later, Mrs. Mulder. I'm sorry if we upset him," Bill said, looking suitably contrite. "I'll have to talk to the doctor, Mr. Patterson. But I don't think our experiment was successful," Mrs. Mulder said dryly. "Good day," she dismissed them both. Jerry cringed as the door shut behind them, but Bill just looked stoically on and shook his head. Then he turned and started to walk toward the elevators. The two men were silent all the way to the car. Jerry was frowning most of the way, going over what his friend had said. "You know, Reno is the next city. And tonight . . ." "LaMana, give it a rest. Mulder is out of his head with a fever. He was hallucinating on the docks. We couldn't even call him as a witness if there had been a trial, he's not credible. We'll clean up the details of the report, shouldn't take more than a couple of days, and then we'd better be getting back to DC." "Without Mulder," Jerry stated, then turned his head to look out the car window. "Without Mulder," Bill agreed sadly. "He'll be out for a couple of months, at least. I've seen it happen. Burnout, physically and mentally. Some guys never come back." "Mulder's not like that," Jerry snapped. "He'll come back." The car was silent for a few miles. "Are you going to check with Reno?" Jerry asked finally. Bill shook his head and gave Jerry a sarcastic glare. "Sure, why not? I'll just call them up and say, gee, you know that big press release we sent out because we were certain we'd caught the 'Motel Murderer'? Well, it looks like we were wrong. We're issuing an All Points on a 'shadow'. Yeah, I like that, LaMana. Tell you what, I like it so much, I'm gonna let _you_ call DC and tell them that's why we decided to spend a few nights in Reno, looking for a possible victim." Jerry met Bill's glare with one of his own, but then turned his head and was quiet for the rest of the ride. Portland Memorial Hospital February 9, 1991 3:06 am Mulder shivered in the darkness. His body was shaking so hard it was difficult to take a breath. Something icy was being dragged across his body. The aftermath felt like fire. Everywhere it touched, he first froze and then burned. It hurt his skin, the cold caused his muscles to clench. The muscles in his back were cramping, twisting him and he couldn't relax them, he couldn't even move. Mulder was in the most horrendous torture and he couldn't remember what he'd done to deserve it. He could hear his mother. Her voice was soft, gentle. She seemed oddly calm, considering she was witness to the anguish he was engulfed in. He wondered vaguely if she were a party to it. Was this her revenge at him for losing Samantha? He had always known of his father's anger toward him, but he'd always thought that his mother felt only sorrow and love for her only remaining child. Could he have been so wrong? Was she the torturer most cruel, leading him to believe he was loved when she could later sit by and watch him calmly delivered into the throes of agony? He couldn't believe that. He called out her name, hoping that she would understand his pain and end it. But all he got in return was more cold, more fire. Now the cold was smothering him, only his face and head escaping it. They, whoever they were who were making him their sadistic plaything, figured out that there was an oasis and put a stop to it. The cold was being dragged across his face, down his neck. He wanted to scream, but didn't have the air to force his voice out of his lungs. Something was pressing down on him and breathing was almost impossible. Mulder wanted to struggle, didn't want to give in without a fight. He wanted to open his eyes and face his tormentors, see if his mother was trying to put a stop to the agony. But his eyelids had been fused shut, again by persons unknown to him. The same ones who were now trying to pry his mouth open, trying to choke him with objects in his mouth, down his throat. Something cold and smooth, but hard and sharp on the edges. It was being forced deeper down his throat and he fought hard against it. He gagged and coughed, but the thing would not be dislodged. He sobbed against it, tried to call for his mother again, but knew his cries would go unheeded. "Is this really necessary?" Mrs. Mulder pleaded. She was at her wits end, but it looked like the night was far from over. Her son's fever had soared with the coming of night, and no amount of antipyretics seemed to be able to bring it down to allowable levels. His lungs, still terribly congested, had begun to weaken due to the stress. The doctor's now feared that his heart might sustain damage, along with his mind. They were forced to take drastic measures to deal with the situation. The doctor had exercised extreme patience when he explained the intubation would help her son breathe and would allow him to rest. But she'd been terrified as she sat and watched them fight with Fox to bring the oxygen to his lungs. He was not just sick anymore. He was wrestling with death. Morning was her only hope. With dawn, he might be better. The fever would go back into its lair and leave him alone to sleep. But for now, sunrise was still over three hours away. The doctor broke through her thoughts. "Mrs. Mulder, I'm sorry, but yes, I feel it is necessary. Your son is on the verge of respiratory failure. We are taking the burden off his lungs by intubating him. It's only for a while. And if he would just relax and accept it, stop fighting it so hard, he would feel better, too. He could sleep. Right now, more than anything we can do, he needs rest, Mrs. Mulder," the doctor repeated tiredly. The doctor and Mrs. Mulder had been through one argument already during the evening, over the use of sedatives. The older woman had allowed their use once, but no more than that. The doctor still didn't understand why the woman was so adamant that her son not be given a sedative to calm him during his struggles. She kept referring to a childhood trauma, a time when he'd been heavily sedated and for a rather lengthy period of time. But that was in the past, and his patient needed rest. Rest he wasn't getting at the moment. "Please, let me do that," Teena Mulder begged the nurse who was dutifully wiping an dampened cloth over Mulder's face. The nurse hesitated, she'd been witness to the last blow up between doctor and mother. Finally, after a reluctant nod from the doctor, she moved out of the way and handed the cloth over to the older woman. Without breaking the slow gentle stride the nurse had set, his mother took up the task, but in addition, she stroked his face opposite where the cloth was touching. "It's all right, baby boy. What say we count the stars? Can you see them, Fox? Just outside the window? See the big dipper, and Orion? Can you find his belt and his dagger. And the rabbit and the lion and his hunting dogs?" "Remember how you wanted a belt like Orion's for your birthday?" she murmured. "And see if we can find the twins. Are they there? I can find the North Star. See how bright it is. If we look real hard maybe we can see the Northern Lights. Remember, Fox, you told me once that they were like lasers in the sky." At first Mulder didn't want to listen, but gradually her voice cut through to his mind and he began to relax. Feeling her hand on his face brought back a thousand memories of times when he was small and his mother lulled him to sleep at night. His perfect recall could reach back to his toddler days. He'd been wrong before. She wasn't the tormentor. She was here to help. She was his mother and she loved him. She'd stay by him, protect him. With her there to watch over him, he could slip into the darkness and escape all the pain for a while. His struggles tapered off and finally ended. Now that he wasn't fighting the tube in his throat, the machine caught up to his shallow breathing and deepened it for him, bringing oxygen to cells beginning to perish from starvation. The blue tinge that had colored his lips began to change to a very pale pink--a much welcomed improvement. Even his heart rate slowed and settled to a comfortable 60 beats a minute, his blood pressure 120 over 90 and holding steady. The doctor put his hand on the old woman's shoulder. "Good work, Mrs. Mulder," he whispered in her ear. He waited quietly, watching his patient be drawn down into sleep. He left them alone for several minutes, making necessary phone calls on other patients. But half and hour later, he was back in Mulder's room. "I hate to interrupt, Mrs. Mulder, but I think we need to talk," he finally spoke when he was assured that the patient was still asleep. Hesitantly, she looked at the doctor, then finally nodded. She followed him into the hall. There was fire in her eyes when they stepped outside the room. "Why isn't he better? He's been here for days now, and he's only getting worse. What are you doing for him?" she demanded and accused. "Mrs. Mulder, as I explained earlier, your son is suffering from a resistant form of pneumonia. We have him on a course of very strong and effective antibiotics, but it is going to take some time. What has me concerned is his mental state. He fights all treatment. Even during the day when he's alert, he seems to want to ignore stated orders. He's still concerned with work and what is happening there. I understand his position is important, but he is sick and his only concern should be getting better. Maybe if your husband was here . . ." "My ex-husband is on his way ," Mrs. Mulder spat out through gritted teeth. "But believe me, William will not be a help in this matter. In fact, I'm certain his presence will only upset Fox all the more." "Then we must sedate him. I know you don't agree, but until he rests, we will continue to have these episodes," the doctor said forcefully. "I don't know if you realize the gravity of the situation tonight, Mrs. Mulder. If he had gone into respiratory arrest, cardiac failure would have been right on its heels. And in his current weakened condition, I am quite certain he would not have survived resuscitation." His words were cruel and meant as a warning, but his eyes were sad and pleading. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath, something her son could not imitate now. The doctor didn't need to try and frighten her, she was terrified already. She knew her son's life was in the balance. What good would it do to win a small battle only to lose the war? At this point, the only thing that mattered to her was her son's continued survival. Finally, she nodded slowly. "I give my permission," she said, and without another word, walked back into the room and took up her vigil. The night nurse came in with the sedative, but since the patient was still sleeping, she made her checks and left without administering it. Mulder slept on and his mother, feeling the effects of several days and nights without any real rest herself, fell sound asleep in the high backed chair next to his bed. February 9, 1991 7:55 am Jerry LaMana felt hurried and guilty as he ran through the lobby of the hospital and to the bank of elevators. He glanced at his watch again, noting that if he could work it right, he could still make the 9:30 flight to Atlanta. It had been an eventful evening, all the way around. He'd called the hospital, wanting more to find out how his friend was doing than to impart any information on his own. But the nurse at the desk said that Mrs. Mulder was not available and gave him the standard 'Mr. Mulder is resting' line that he'd gotten for the last five days. He didn't want to head home without saying goodbye, and maybe to give Mulder a heads up on things in DC. The minute he stepped off the elevator on the floor housing the ICU, he knew something was amiss. An older man, his face lined with deep creases was standing at the nurses desk. There was something about him that looked familiar, the way he leaned against the desk--it hit Jerry that this man looked a lot like Mulder. As Jerry walked up to the desk, he overheard the man speaking. "I said I want the name of the best neurologist in this city, no, in this state. And I want it now!" "Mr. Mulder, as we told your wife, Dr. Westholm is one of the best neurologists on the Pacific Coast. He called to say that he'll be here about 8:30. If you would just take a seat in the waiting lounge . . ." "I did not fly all the way across country to sit in a waiting room. I'll be in with my son," the older man growled. "Only one person is allowed in his room at a time, Mr. Mulder. I'm sorry, but that is hospital policy." "To hell with policy, I'm going in there now!" With a stern look to Jerry for no discernable reason other than he was standing there, Bill Mulder marched off toward the patient rooms. The nurse blew out an exasperated breath and shook her head. Then, noticing Jerry still standing there, she looked toward him and narrowed her eyes. "Can I help you?" she asked, and he was almost afraid to give her an affirmative answer. "I wondered if I could see Fox Mulder?" His demeanor must have seemed suitably contrite, because the nurse's glare softened. "I'm sorry, unless you're immediate family . . ." "I'm . . . I'm his partner. We work together," Jerry explained. "I have to leave today, I really wanted to say goodbye." The nurse chewed her lip for a moment. "He can't have visitors at the moment. I'm sorry. But if you wait a moment, maybe I can see if his mother will come out and see you." In minutes, Mrs. Mulder came out, looking worn and haggard. It was apparent that she'd fallen asleep and hadn't had a chance to freshen up. She regarded Jerry coolly. "Mr. LaMana, is there something you wanted?" "Mrs. Mulder, I'm sorry to disturb you. I wanted to say goodbye to Mulder, ah, Fox. Is he awake?" Jerry took in the sad look in the older woman's eyes and felt his own stomach drop. There was a distinct crack in her icy veneer as she lead him over to some chairs. After they were both seated, she took a moment to collect her thoughts. "Mr. LaMana, Fox is in a coma. He lost consciousness earlier this morning. He can't have visitors right now, just his father and I." Jerry felt cold all over. "I thought . . . I mean, I'd hoped . . ." "The doctors can't explain it at the moment. It seems connected to the fever, but now the fever seems to be coming under control. They're bringing in a neurologist to determine if there might have been some brain damage from the fever." "Mrs. Mulder, I . . . I don't know what to say," Jerry stammered. "Is there anything I can do?" "Not that I can think of, no," Mrs. Mulder said with a sad smile and a shake of her head. "We're just getting through this one day at a time right now. Once he wakes up, and he's recovered sufficiently to be moved, he'll be coming home for a while," she said optimistically. "He'll see you at the office when he's better and I'm sure he'll call as soon as he can," she added. Jerry looked guiltily out the window. "I won't be in Quantico, Mrs. Mulder. I just got word late yesterday afternoon. I've been transferred to Atlanta." "Oh, I see," she replied cryptically. "Well, I'm sure you're quite excited." "I wanted to tell him in person, you see," Jerry tried to explain. "He knew I was being looked at for that position, and so it won't be a complete surprise. I've enjoyed working with your son, Mrs. Mulder. He's an incredible agent. I know he'll go far. He just needs to take care of himself a little better." Jerry was rambling, but didn't know how to stop. "Would you like to say 'goodbye' in person?" Mrs. Mulder was just barely holding on to her composure at that point. Jerry wasn't sure which answer would cause her to lose her balance. "I'd like to tell him that I'll see him next time I'm in DC," Jerry said carefully. "If you think the doctors will allow it." That seemed to relieve the older woman and she nodded. "I think we can arrange it," she said and motioned for him to sit down and wait for her to return. end of part six Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part seven of twenty-five Jerry stood at the edge of the bed, frowning. He'd known Mulder almost 3 years, they had gone through the Academy together. Never, in all that time, had he seen him less than the 'mega-star', less than the best and the brightest. Now, looking down on him as he lay in the bed, Jerry saw something few people ever saw. He saw a kid, just in his twenties, younger than Jerry himself. He saw someone weak and vulnerable and just barely holding on. Jerry shuddered and fought to remain calm. Mulder was a good guy, they were basically friends, but Jerry knew so little about him. Oh, he knew that his folks lived somewhere near Boston, that Mulder had grown up on Martha's Vineyard. That he'd gone to Oxford on a full ride and had been recruited by Patterson for the Behavioral Sciences Unit before the ink was dry on his degree. He'd watched him graduate at the top of their class, beating scores in both academics and in physical conditioning. He watched him rise to the top of the heap that was Behavioral Sciences, and in record time. But beyond that, Mulder was a locked door, a secret cabinet. Jerry knew little of his friend's life outside the office. Didn't know if he was seeing anyone. Had only been to his apartment a handful of times, and those were to go over a case or a file. Jerry wished he knew more, wished he knew enough to help his friend out of the horrible place he was in. To help him find his way back. Jerry glanced at the clock and realized he didn't have much time. The doctor had agreed to this visit only if he kept it short, five minutes, tops. He'd already wasted 4 of those minutes standing just in the doorway, staring. He didn't want to waste anymore. He walked on tiptoe over to the bed. Gently, he reached over and touched Mulder's hand. He purposefully avoided touching the tape from the IV, which meant he really only got brief contact with one long finger. "Mulder?" he spoke hesitantly, his voice above a whisper. "Mulder, it's Jer." LaMana swallowed. What did you say to a friend who seemed to be slipping away? He took a deep breath and started again. "I, uh, I just wanted to come by and let you know I'm leaving today." Why did it hurt so much to tell him this? Jerry had been wanting the Atlanta spot for as long as he could remember. Mulder knew that, he had encouraged him to go for it. So why was it so hard to tell Mulder that he was leaving? Could it be that Jerry was afraid he was saying goodbye for the last time? "I got some good news," Jerry said in a rush. "I got the Atlanta position. Yeah, I know, about time, huh?" Now that he'd said that much the rest was a little easier. "I leave this morning, start tomorrow. I'll be living out of a suitcase for a week or two, then I'll be back to Virginia and pack. You'll probably be at your Mom's by then. Let her spoil you for a while," he said, letting a chuckle escape. "I just wanted to tell you that, well, it's been an honor to work with you, Mulder. A real honor. And we'll be working together again, I just know it. So you take care of yourself, huh? And next time, take the damned medicine, Mulder. It'll save everybody a whole lot of grief." Jerry startled at the sound of tapping on glass behind him. The nurse was standing just on the other side of the window, motioning to her watch. "I gotta go, here, man, they're tossing me out. But you get better soon, OK? And I'll call you, as soon as I can. Just get better." Jerry stood there for a moment, then turned and walked out, feeling lower then he'd ever felt in his life. February 11, 1991 time unknown Just on the edges of consciousness, he listened. He couldn't move, the _thing_ was still down his throat, but it had been there so long it didn't irritate and gag him anymore. He wondered idly if he'd spend the rest of his life lying in a bed with a tube down his throat. Then he begged every deity he could think of not to let that happen. He could sense someone in the room. Not his mother. There was no soothing hand on his forehead or his arm. Just the feeling that someone was looking at him, watching him from a very short distance. He heard a throat being cleared and recognition came to him slowly, like on the wisp of a cloud. His father was there. "Fox." Mulder couldn't remember the last time his father had called him by his first name. It was usually 'son' and more than often said with a sneer to the voice that cut like a knife. But this time, when his father said his name, it sounded like nothing he could remember hearing before. His father sounded sad. Lonely, almost. "Fox, they say you might be able to hear us," his father said, the sadness not leaving his voice. "I hope you can, son. I hope you can." A sigh. Deep and filled with emotion. Mulder was growing tired waiting for the words he felt would come eventually. The words of anger, the words of demanding. Telling him what he had to do, what he'd done that had messed everything up once again. "Fox. Please listen, son. I want you to get well, son. Please. For your mother. She's so very, very worried, Fox. She's sat here by your side for over six days now. She hasn't slept except for an hour or two here and there. I've had to force her down to the cafeteria or she'd never eat. She's there now." Silence. A scratching sound, a chair moving across a floor just enough to mar the polished surface. Then he felt it. The rough stubble of his father's day old bearded chin as the older man placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. "Please. Fox. For your mother. For me. Please, come back to us." He wanted to. More than anything he wanted to give his father this. But the darkness caught him in its web and dragged him down again. February 13, 1991 time unknown "I don't care how you do it, William, I just want him _out_!" Mulder had been hearing the voices around him for some time, but none of them made sense to him until his mother's voice broke through the fog that clouded his awareness. She was angry, and from the sounds of it, his father was the receiving party to her wrath. "I don't know what you expect me to do, T," his father's voice replied, sounding tired and frustrated. "You got him that job, get him another one!" His mother's voice again, righteous indignation tinting her words. "I've told you, I only 'suggested' the Bureau look at him. I didn't 'get him the job'," his father protested. "He got it on his own and he's kept it the same way. He's damned good at what he does, T, and if you can't see that . . ." "It's killing him," she sobbed. "It's killing him," she repeated, softer and softer until all Mulder could hear were her shuddering breaths and deep intakes of air. "I still don't know what I can do," his father answered one last time, this time his voice cracking with emotions no longer controlled. A long time later, more sounds came through the haze. "His lungs are improving, Mrs. Mulder. He's been doing well since we removed the respirator. All things considered, he should be waking up soon." It was a male's voice, not his father's. Someone in authority. A doctor? "Can't you give him something, something that will make him wake up?" his mother's voice demanded. If it was good news she was hearing, she didn't seem willing to be grateful. "No, Mrs. Mulder. I'm sorry," the man replied. He sounded tired, like he'd given this answer before, several times too many. Mulder could hear his mother's sigh as the door squeaked open and then clicked shut. Feeling was returning with the awareness of sound. He could feel the sheets covering him, could feel the thin plastic tube bringing oxygen to his nose. He was dimly aware for the first time that he could breathe. His chest still hurt, but at least he was taking in air and on his own. No tube down his throat. That alone was time for rejoicing. His body was cool, except for one place. His arm. A small area of his arm felt warm. Not just warm, it felt safe, too. After some concentration, he realized his mother was holding his arm. It gave him the courage to try and open his eyes. She wasn't looking at him when he opened his eyes. He got the luxury and pain of seeing her clearly. His mother looked so much older than he remembered her. Not the beautiful woman who stood on the beach, watching with trepidation as his ten year old self went farther into the surf. Her hair had more than a little gray in it, but she'd taken time, usually to ensure it was in place. Now, it looked like she hadn't come in close contact with a comb more than once or twice in the last week. And her face was drawn with wrinkles he'd never seen before. Whatever had happened, he'd put her through hell. His own mother. He remembered waking up in a hospital once before and finding her crying next to his bed. He's been a child at the time, but before that day was over, he'd grown into a sullen young man. He had grown under the weight of responsibility and guilt. His actions or lack of them, had caused his family great pain. He'd vowed never to do that, never to let that happen. Never to be the cause of his mother's tears. And now he had, once again. The guilt almost crushed him. And then she turned her head just a fraction and her eyes caught his face. Suddenly, the lines erased as she broke into a smile. Instantly, twenty years were erased from her face by that smile. It was the smile she'd always given him when he'd done something she approved of, something that pleased her, something that touched her heart. A smile that showed how much love she had for him, no matter what he did. "Sweetheart," she crooned. "You're awake." He couldn't answer, he had no voice. The tube had left his throat raw and aching. All he could do was smile faintly, nod and accept her embrace, her tears. Office of Dr. James V. Sullivan Head of Psychiatry, Portland Memorial Hospital February 18, 1991 10:13 am James Sullivan looked across the desk at the two people waiting for him to begin. The woman, concern lining her face, especially around her eyes, held a hopeful expression, almost as if anything Jim would tell her would bring her peace of mind. The man sitting next to her, however, seemed to display a sense of distrust and disapproval. "I've looked over your son's records, and I've spoken with him. I understand that there is some concern that his 'obsession' with his work is impeding his recovery from this current bout of pneumonia," Jim stated evenly, trying for that bedside manner that always put his patients at ease. "He got the pneumonia because he was obsessed with the case to begin with. So obsessed that he didn't see how sick he was becoming," Mr. Mulder interrupted tersely. His ex-wife shot him a glare and he slunk back into his seat. "His work is very important to him, that I will grant you. But I don't know that it's just an 'obsession' with his work that is driving him at this point," Jim said diplomatically as he could. "Your son told me that he's undergone regression hypnosis, were you aware of that?" Two pair of surprised eyes greeted that statement. Jim hastened to continue. "He told me I could reveal that information to you. But he wouldn't go into any details of what the sessions produced, if any memories were recovered." Jim settled back, a little uncomfortable with the obvious lack of communication in this 'family'. "I believe that your son is trying to deal with a great many things right now: his work, which is obviously very important to him and some event in his childhood that he is seeking to remember." "Why can't he just leave it alone," Mr. Mulder growled. That comment earned him another glare from his ex-wife. "Like you did?" she returned in kind. "If any monsters are on the loose in his head, William, I know who their creator is," she added angrily. "Mr. and Mrs. Mulder," Jim interrupted. "We're discussing your son, and his treatment," he reminded them. That got their attention. "I have discussed this with his medical doctor, Dr. Hannig, and we feel that it would be safe to take Fox back east at this time. He is not well enough to return to DC by himself, or to return to work. He'll need several more weeks to regain his strength, to rebuild his lung capacity. It's going to be a frustrating time for him. And quite frankly, he needs to confront his, shall we call them 'monsters'. Someplace safe." "He'll come home with me," his mother answered quickly. "You were never that good at dealing with him when he was sick, T. Maybe he should come home with me." "Dr. Sullivan just said he needed to be someplace 'safe', Bill," she replied evenly. "I don't see how your place fits that description." "Maybe we should be looking at an intermediary placement, a nursing facility of some sort," Jim interjected. "Tension is the last thing he needs right now." Mrs. Mulder squared her shoulders. "There won't be any tension. I want him home, where I can take care of him. If he seems to be having problems, we'll discuss an alternate placement at that time. Right now, I don't think he wants to go to another hospital, or 'nursing facility'. I think he's had enough of these places for a long time." Jim Sullivan shrugged. "That was pretty much his assessment, as well." He handed Mrs. Mulder a slip of paper. "I took the liberty of contacting an old med school friend of mine. He has a psychiatric practice in Boston, and he'd be happy to see Fox and continue with the work we've started here. And I'll be available by phone, if the need arises." He stood and offered his hand, first to Mrs. Mulder and then to Mr. Mulder. "Your son is a brilliant young man. I read the reports in the paper. He was instrumental in capturing a killer. His work saves lives. You have a lot to be proud of." The couple looked at each other grimly, and left the room without another word. end of part seven JFK International Airport New York February 20, 1991 3:00 pm He was exhausted, but he didn't want his mother to see that. It was everything he could do to remain upright at the curb of the airport terminal. Mulder tried to stand up straight, but his shoulders wanted to hunch over, curling in on his rib cage. It still hurt to breathe, still hurt to cough. The coughs were more or less confined to the mornings now, or whenever he did something strenuous. Like walking off an airplane and waiting for his mother to bring the car around. He fought valiantly to stifle the coughs that were tickling his throat. If he let one through, the rest would follow on its heels and his mother would drive him straight to the nearest hospital instead of to her house. Mulder wasn't thrilled about the final destination of this trip, either. It wasn't that he didn't want to see his mother's new house in Greenwich, CT. He couldn't have cared less where she lived. It was that he really didn't want to spend two weeks or better being hovered over by his mother. He had pleaded his case fairly effectively, he thought. He pointed out that he was a grown man, had been on his own for almost ten years. He had a small apartment, he could get anywhere in it in less than 20 steps. And it was _his_, he was comfortable there. He hadn't stepped foot in his mother's new home since she'd moved there six months before. He'd feel awkward, like a stranger. All arguments had fallen on deaf ears. Even his doctors in Washington, upon reading his hospital file, had conspired against him to make sure Mulder ended up in his mother's care. He couldn't be left alone, his medication needed to be monitored and his breathing exercises were essential if he was to regain his full lung capacity. In essence, no one trusted him to take care of himself, and everyone concerned made it clear that the source of that mistrust was his own attitude while he was hospitalized. His mother had even used the dreaded 'you made your bed, now lie in it' statement that he could remember from a vicious bout with mono in high school. In the end, he hadn't even been allowed to make his own travel arrangements, and the FBI made it quite clear that until all his doctors signed off on his return to duty, he wasn't to set foot in the building. No longer just tired, he was becoming disheartened. It was more than he could handle, being sick _and_ staying with his mother. It wasn't that long ago that he was the caretaker, the one to make sure she took her medicine, ate three meals a day, even helped her wash and dress herself in the mornings. To have her return those favors now to him only served to embarrass him. He'd gotten beyond needing her long before he left for Oxford. But everyone was telling him he needed her now. He was getting dizzy again. Breathe, he ordered his lungs, and reluctantly they complied, but not before the black spots marred his vision. Just as he was starting to sway, his mother drove up to the curb, and hurried around to open his door. A maternal gesture, she guided his elbow as he sat down. "I'm not an invalid, Mom," he reminded her dryly. "I didn't say you were, dear," she shot back. "But it would have been more embarrassing for you to fall flat on your backside there on the sidewalk, now, wouldn't it?" She drove off toward the interstate. He was surprised when she didn't mention his dizziness. "I went through some of the boxes I brought from the other house. I'm pretty sure some of your old clothes should still fit. At least until we can go shopping," she commented, attempting to make small talk. He stared glumly out the window. "And I can move the little TV into your room. I was thinking about getting a VCR for that one, in case I wanted to record a show while I was watching a movie or something. Would you like that?" He tore his gaze away from the passing snowy landscape to give her a pained look. "Mom, when can I go home?" he asked, desperately trying to keep the whine out of his voice. "You're going home right now, sweetheart," she answered with a bright smile. "No, Mom. _My_ home. DC. When do I get to go home and go back to work?" "When the doctor feels you can be alone, sweetheart," she replied cheerfully. She shook her head at him, giving him an affectionate pat on the arm. "It won't be that bad. I promise not to hover too much. I just have to agree with the doctors on this, Fox. You need to recuperate, and you would never follow their orders if left on your own. Remember how you got to this position in the first place," she pointed out evenly. He closed his eyes with a sigh. "Wake me in three to four weeks," he muttered, and with little effort, fell asleep for the rest of the ride. She woke him with a gentle shake of his shoulders. "I'll get your bags, sweetheart. Please go unlock the door for me," she requested and handed him the key. He wanted more than anything to protest, to get his own damned bags and have her hold the door, but his body wasn't in the mood to agree. He was stiff and sore and more tired than he could ever remember being and not being asleep. Reluctantly, he shuffled up the sidewalk and unlocked the door to the little bungalow. It was dark inside the house, the sun almost gone behind the horizon and the leafless trees. He fumbled on the wall for a light switch and found it just as his mother entered with their bags on her shoulders. "Go on in the living room, dear and put your feet up," she directed. "I'm going to put these away and then I'll start some dinner. I have some beef stew in the cabinet I can heat up. Would you like that?" She'd never been much of a cook, even when he was little, and he had to smile at her definition of 'home cooked meal', stew from a can. But he was just hungry enough for it to sound good to him. "That's great, Mom. I'll see what's on the news." After settling into a comfortable position on the couch, he clicked on the TV and closed his eyes briefly through the few commercials. Mulder couldn't see at first, it was dark in the room. A smell permeated the air, the smell of mildew. A light flashed across the wall--headlights from a passing car outside the window. The brightness burned itself on his retinas, but allowed him to get a better look at the room around him. It was an old flat--long abandoned. The single window was curtainless and the panes of glass streaked with years of dirt and grime. He could see piles of rags in the corners, probably left there by the apartment's most recent inhabitants--a family of rats. Mulder shuddered at the thought, and felt the bile rise in the back of his throat. There were parts to his job that he still had trouble dealing with. A scraping sound pulled his attention away from the rat's nest. Something was being dragged across the floor in the room next to the one he was standing in. He moved carefully toward the door that separated the two rooms, feeling his hip for his gun, hefting the weight of it in his hand before going too close to the opening. His eyes had finally adjusted to the dimness provided by the distant street lamps outside. He could make out shapes, shadows. Mostly shadows. Another flash of a headlight beam and he could make out the body. Lying on the floor, a dark puddle spreading from both hands. He could see the shadow hovering over the body, it seemed malevolent, sinister, evil. He recoiled from the shadow, but couldn't pull his eyes from it. As he watched, riveted to his position not five feet from the door, the body on the floor gasped its last breath. The shadow engulfed it, seemed to draw strength from it. It took on an intelligence that Mulder could sense, could feel. And without any warning, it turned on Mulder and moved rapidly toward him . . . "Fox! Fox, wake up! It's a dream, sweetheart. Just a dream!" His mother was practically holding him in her lap, shaking him vigorously, both arms surrounding his shoulders. He tried unsuccessfully to draw in a breath, but no air would enter his lungs. He panicked and flailed out of her arms, still gasping for oxygen. "I'm calling the hospital," his mother announced, her own voice carrying a panicky edge. "You need an ambulance." At her words, the dam broke and fresh sweet air flooded his lungs. His ribs expanded painfully as he sucked in great gulps of it, with each breath his dizziness faded. Finally, he was able to grab his mother's arm. "Don't," he gasped out, still concentrating more on bringing oxygen into his body than on getting words out. She hesitated, still holding the receiver of the phone. "I want to call the doctor, then. At the very least. You couldn't breathe, Fox." She stated the obvious to him as if she were providing new insight into his condition. "Nightmare," he replied, struggling to calm down and take in normal breaths. Now that the dizziness had passed, he was afraid he might bring it back with a bout of hyperventilation. "I'm OK, Mom. Really," he assured her. She sat down beside him, he leaned back, dropping his head to the back of couch. She reached over and brushed damp locks from his forehead. "I was only in the kitchen a few minutes." "Sorry," he answered. "Fox, you barely had time to fall asleep. That was too fast for a nightmare," she told him grimly. "I fall asleep at the drop of a hat, Mom. It doesn't take me long to get to REM sleep," he shrugged, still not looking at her. "I think the medicine has something to do with it." "Then we'll see the doctor in the morning and have him change the medicine," she said firmly. "We can't have more of these kinds of episodes," she added with a fierce glare, as if her will alone could prevent them. "I'll go see him tomorrow, Mom, I promise," he vowed. He'd play along, go see the doctor, take all the shit they handed him whether pills, inhalers or shots, and grin through it all. At some point, everyone would get tired of bossing him around and they'd leave him be to go back to his own world. It happened when he was a kid, it would surely happen again. His mother's interest in him had never had a long shelf life. He figured she was good for about another two weeks, tops. At the end of that time, she'd help him pack his stuff, kiss him on the forehead and tell him to call her when he got back to his place. And that's the last he'd hear from her until his birthday, or next major Hallmark Holiday. Two weeks was a relatively small price to pay, all things considered. Mulder Residence Greenwich, CT February 21, 1991 12:03 pm It was noon the next day by the time they had finished with the doctor and gone to the pharmacy. Mulder was so tired he didn't think he could walk all the way from the driveway to the front door and into his bedroom. His bedroom, the spare room that his mother had decorated straight out of _Better Homes and Gardens_. It didn't even have his books from college. They had been stored away in crates in the attic. The only memento left over from his childhood room was a framed picture of himself and Sam, and even the frame was new to match the new decor. But it was a place to sleep, and that was what he seemed to be doing constantly. He woke up about three, hungry and cranky. He had only been at his mother's house for a day and already he was bored out of his mind. The rules his doctor had laid out were particularly annoying. Twice a day, he had to practice taking deep breaths which was an exercise in futility since it only produced a fit of coughing. His mother was supposed to 'help' by pounding on his back, which succeeded in bringing up some foul substance from his lungs. If he lived through that ordeal, he was then ordered to take two puffs from his inhaler and then could do no more than sit in a chair because it made him dizzy. If he hadn't fallen asleep again, he could eat, try to read until the words swam on the pages or watch some mindless drivel on television. His mother had decided they needed some more food in the house and left him to watch a movie she had rented for him. The minute she was out the door, his hand was on the phone. Not wanting to worry her, or cause her to incur a large phone bill, he used his own calling card to place a call to Washington DC. Reggie Purdue answered his own phone, an attribute that Mulder had always admired. He smiled at the terse greeting. "Purdue. Make it short, I'm busy." "I doubt that, Reggie. The new Baseball Digest isn't out for two weeks," Mulder replied with a chuckle. "My god, Mulder! Is that you? I was just passing the hat for your funeral bouquet," Reggie shot back over the phone lines. "The reports of my recent demise are greatly exaggerated," Mulder pined back. "How are you, really?" Reggie asked, concern in his tone. "Patterson was saying that you might not come back from this." "Patterson should be so lucky," Mulder retorted. "I'm doing much better, thanks. As a matter of fact, I was sitting here doing some thinking." "Why does that statement strike terror in my heart?" "Reggie, give me a break," Mulder moaned pathetically. "I was curious what happened with that last case I was on." "So call Patterson. I'm sure Bill would love to answer any and all questions," Reggie said evenly. "We both know better, Reg. Bill and I never saw eye to eye on a lot of stuff, but on this one, I think we're definitely at odds." "Mulder, that case was closed in Portland. Why are you interested in it now?" "Reggie, c'mon. I'm not going off the deep end here, I'm just curious." "Mulder, you haven't answered my question. Why do you care?" That was the bad thing about his relationship with Reggie Purdue. From the time Mulder had stepped foot in the ASAC's office, Purdue had been able to read him like a book. One of the only people Mulder had even known who could, or even cared to try. Mulder was quiet for several seconds. He could hear his friend frowning over the line. "I've had dreams, Reggie," he admitted softly. "Dreams," Reggie repeated. "Yeah. Something happened on that dock, Reg. I don't think that Abigail Crown was the killer. I think she was another victim. And I'm pretty sure that the killer is still out there, or somewhere, and that they are going to strike again." It was Reggie's turn to be quiet. "All this on the basis of a dream?" he finally asked. "Well, more than one." "And how high was your fever when you experienced these dreams?" "I wasn't hallucinating, Reggie. I was thinking about the case and it came to me. It's happened before, you know that," Mulder said testily. "And sometimes, those 'dreams' panned out and sometimes they _didn't_," Reggie responded with a sigh. "Mulder, you're still on medical leave. You shouldn't be worrying about this case. You should be resting." "Ever tried 'resting' for two weeks, Reggie," Mulder growled. "Yeah, it was the first definition of hell in my adult life, but I survived, and so will you. Mulder, go find a good movie on the tube, put your feet up and get better. You can look into all this when you're back to work." "Reggie, please. This won't take long. I just want to know if there were any suspicious deaths reported in Reno, Nevada about four days after I was found on the docks. How hard can that be?" "Suspicious as in how? Get specific, Mulder. And you're gonna owe me big time for this," Reggie answered gruffly. "Suicides. Specifically a suicide that happened in an abandoned apartment building. Probably a six flat or something like that. C'mon, Reggie, how hard could it be to answer that?" "Well, if it's so damned easy, why aren't you calling the Reno Police and asking them directly?" Reggie sneered. "Ah, hell, I'll do it. But on one condition," he said firmly. "Name your price. Orioles Season opener, sky box at JFK for a Skins game . . ." "You humble me with your connections, Mulder. No, it's much simpler than that. Well, maybe not for you. I want you to R-E-S-T! Got that. I want you to go lie down and sleep and get better so you can get back here and do your own damned leg work. And that's an order." "Message received, loud and clear. I'm going down for my nap right now, Unc'a Reggie," Mulder said lightly. The day was looking up, if Reggie had agreed to help him. "You do that. I'll call you tomorrow, let you know what I found out." "Thanks, Reg. I won't forget this one, really." "Don't worry, Mulder. I won't let you forget," Reggie assured him and disconnected that line. Mulder yawned, the fatigue settling over him again like a blanket. He dragged himself into his room and fell into bed. He was still sleeping when his mother returned and started dinner. end of part eight Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 Part nine of twenty-five Mulder Residence February 22, 1991 10:14 am His mother woke him up a little after ten the next morning. "There's a phone call for you. Mr. Purdue. I can tell him you're still sleeping--" "No, thanks, Mom. I want to take this," Mulder said, hurriedly wiping the sleep from his eyes. The usual morning coughing fit didn't last as long as it had the day before, for which he was eternally grateful. He'd eaten breakfast at 8 but was back asleep by 9. Sleep seemed to be the most strenuous activity he could handle lately. He finally made his way into the living room and to the phone. "Reggie, what've you got for me?" he asked without greeting. "Mulder, are you sitting down?" Reggie asked. "Always," came the short reply. "There was a suicide. A David Markem. The body was found in some old tenement houses that were due for demolition last week. The bomb crew were doing a walk through and found him." "How long had he been dead?" Mulder asked, his chest growing tight with the realization his dream had played out. "They said not that long, maybe three days. That would put the death on the 13. A little past the date in your dream." "Doesn't matter, so the killer took a little time, laid low after almost getting caught," Mulder muttered to himself. "Markham, he worked for the Sands, didn't he?" Mulder asked, closing his eyes and leaning heavily against the sofa, fear building in his mind and body. "Night clerk. Ten years," Reggie answered. "No previous signs of depression," Mulder stated. "Not according to the Manager at the Sands. Said he was on cloud nine recently--was engaged to an heiress or something." "He didn't commit suicide, Reggie--" "Mulder, look. You asked, I found. But the bride to be didn't think it was suicide, either. She ordered an autopsy. He slit his own wrists--" "How?" "A folding Buck knife," Reggie answered with a tired sigh. "Prints on the knife?" Mulder demanded. "Just his own. It was his knife, apparently she'd given him a set of camping stuff for an engagement gift. His initials were on the knife handle." "That doesn't prove he killed himself," Mulder objected. "Mulder, in every state in the union, yes it does. The Coroner's inquest was Monday--they ruled the death self-inflicted. What the hell do you want, a signed confession?" "He didn't leave a note, did he?" "And you know, Mr. Psychologist from Oxford, that not everyone leaves a note," Reggie snapped back. "Marrying an heiress, no history of depression and the guy ends up dead in an abandoned building scheduled for demolition--yeah, Reggie, you're right. Suicide, plain and simple," Mulder hissed, sarcasm dripping off his words. "This one stinks, Reg," he added, his voice rough and low. A cough, completely out of nowhere, shook him to the core. There was silence on the line as Reggie waited patiently for Mulder to finish. "Reg? I'm OK," Mulder said, clearing the last of the cough from his throat. "Were there at least pictures taken? For the inquest? Maybe I can use them to get Bill to take another look." "There's nothing you can do about it, cowboy," Reggie said gently. "You're sick, and Patterson isn't going to give it the time of day. Put it aside." "There are going to be more deaths, Reggie. I thought our jobs were to prevent that kind of thing," Mulder said tersely. His chest felt tight, making it hard to catch his breath. His eyes were burning and it wasn't from a fever. Suddenly, he was so very tired of being sick, but beyond that, he was just very tired. He hated being so helpless. "Mulder, let it go. You shouldn't be worrying about this shit. You almost died, goddamnit! Would you give it a rest?!" Reggie all but shouted over the phone. He lowered his tone immediately. "I'm sorry, man. I'm just . . . you had me worried, OK? Don't let it drag you under, Mulder. You're too good for that. Maybe it's time to walk away from it." "Away from what? The job? You know I can't do that, Reggie--" "Maybe you just need to get out from under Patterson. The man's a slave driver. You aren't the first agent to end up hospitalized on his watch, and I dare say you won't be the last. He chews people up and spits them out. I'm not telling you to leave the Bureau, just get out from under William the Terrible. Just think about it, OK? That's all I ask. You're in a position to go wherever you want. Take it and run with it." "Yeah, right. Where would I go? Where would they let me go?" Mulder grumbled. "They're passing around the Props monograph to the kids at the Academy. That has to be worth something," Reggie offered. "Big deal," Mulder sighed. "I did that two years ago. Do the words 'what have you done for me lately' mean anything to you, Reggie?" "Look, I'm just asking you to think about it. Who knows, you might find someplace you'd _like_ to be," Reggie said, in an obvious attempt to get his friend off the other end of the line. "Hey, I gotta go, man. Take care of yourself. And remember, Mulder . . ." "Rest. Yeah, Reggie, I remember," Mulder sighed. "Thanks for looking into this for me." "No problem. I'll see you when you get back. We'll catch a game on the tube or something. Just take care of yourself, and that's an order," Reggie said with mock gruffness. Mulder smiled wearily. "Yes, sir." He hung up the phone and crawled into his room where he promptly fell asleep. 1:30 pm Mulder was sitting up on his bed, a yellow legal pad he'd grabbed out of the 'this and that' drawer in the kitchen propped on his knees. The pencil in his hand flew over the paper, unintelligible scribbles stretching out across the page. He was deep in thought when his mother appeared at the door of his room. "Sweetheart, you're awake! You missed lunch and it's time for your medicine. Should I bring in a tray for you? Or would you rather try sitting at the kitchen table?" She was rather relieved that he'd seemed to have slept after his phone call. Maybe he actually was resting, she hoped. But then, she looked down at the bed. Noticing the already torn pages scattered on the bedspread, she frowned. "What are you doing?" "A profile," he muttered, not bothering to look up or answer her previous question concerning lunch. She chewed on her lip and picked up a page. Only his mother, and the one typist in the Bureau who was versed in cryptography, could have gleaned intelligent sentences from the chicken scratches on the paper. After reading the page, she dropped it back to the bed and started gathering them into a neat pile. "Fox, you must stop this," she said, keeping her voice even. That brought his eyes up to meet hers. "Mom, I'm in bed. I'm resting. How is this any more strenuous than watching Oprah?" "Do you really want me to get out a blood pressure cuff?" she demanded. "Doctor Sullivan said . . ." "Doctor Sullivan got his degree in Psychiatry from Sears Correspondence School," Mulder snapped. "He doesn't know shit from shinola." "Fox William Mulder! That is enough! Put all of this away immediately and I don't want to hear another word about it!" His mother didn't get mad often, usually choosing to ignore confrontation rather than engage in it, but she was angry now. He blinked at her. He sat in silence, just looking at her, but not making a move to put down either the pencil or paper. He had to reason with her, but his first response was to match fire with fire. "Mom, I'm 29 years old. You can't boss me around." The minute he said the words he realized what a mistake they were. Childish, even to his own ears, he could just imagine what they would invoke in his mother. She glared back at him, picked up the papers and tore them in half. "No more. And if you continue to defy me, I'll have you admitted to a hospital. One that can deal with this obsession you have," she growled, turning to leave the room with the torn papers still in her hands. "Mom. Stop." His voice was no longer contentious, it was pleading. She turned around slowly, her face still taut with anger, but her eyes softening at the sound of his words. "Please," he continued and she took in a deep breath, then stood next to the bed with her arms crossed. "What, Fox?" she asked calmly. "Mom, sit down, please. Just hear me out." She stood for a minute more, just to make him realize that she could just as easily ignore this request, but finally she lowered herself to the edge of the bed. "So, talk," she commanded. It was his turn to take a breath. His thoughts were jumbled and he reached for the right ones, whatever would make her understand. "Mom, I have reason to believe there is a killer on the loose and I'm the only one who can stop it." She bit her lip, but kept her expression blank. "And what leads you to this conclusion?" she asked evenly. He winced. She had no idea what he did at his job. As a matter of fact, he'd spent much of his time in her presence making sure she never found out. If she knew the horrors he put himself through on a daily basis in the name of saving lives, she would have locked him up years ago. "It's a deductive reasoning process, Mom." That sounded more logical than 'I've had dreams'. He could be honest with Reggie, Reggie understood, but his mother would see it as another sign of instability and want to correct it. "You talked to that Mr. Purdue this morning. Is that what brought all this on?" When he first woke up after having talked to Reggie, he'd felt strong again, capable. Now, this fight with his mother was sapping every ounce of strength he'd savored. "Reggie had some information. I correctly predicted another murder. I asked him to look into it for me." Mulder sagged against the padded headboard, he didn't want to go through all this, he just wanted to get back to writing it out, putting the pieces together. He really felt he was close this time but so much of the puzzle was hidden from view. His mother shook her head slowly. "Fox, this is exactly what Dr. Sullivan warned us about. That you would come up with any wild idea to get back to work." She took his hand, removed the pencil and then just held it in her lap. "Baby boy, I almost lost you. Do you understand what that did to me?" Tears were glistening on her lashes and the sight of them made the tightness return to his chest. "Please, Mom. I don't want to hurt you, but can't you see? I _have_ to do this." "An obsession. That's what an obsession is. Don't you think I understand? You're not the only one with a college education, Fox!" she exclaimed, her eyes flashing again. "It's not like that, Mom. It's not an obsession," he objected. "You can't let it be, not even long enough to rest and recover from a life threatening illness. You fall asleep thinking of it, you wake up thinking of it. You have nightmares about it and don't tell me you don't, because you cry out in your sleep. That is an obsession, Fox. Plain and simple. Don't you dare try and deny that to me," she growled, low and threatening. Tears were forming in his eyes now, but not out of fear, out of frustration. "How can I make you understand?" he cried, wiping at his eyes angrily. He looked up at the sound of her shuddering breath and saw the look of anguish on her face, the pain in her eyes. It struck him once again. How could he do this to her, he berated himself. His heart broke, he was always bringing her pain. "I'm sorry, Mom," he said, reaching out to pull her into an embrace. "I'm sorry. I won't do it anymore. I'm sorry," he murmured. He sagged against her then, completely spent, her arms were the only things holding him up. He was so tired. Too tired to fight anymore. She could sense this and responded immediately. Gently, she scooted down the bed, lowering him to a recline against the pillows. Then she pulled away, but not before she brushed his forehead with a kiss. "It's all right, Fox. It's all right. You take a nap. When you wake up, you'll feel better and then we can have lunch. We'll talk about this later. Right now, you get some sleep." She sat there a few minutes more, rubbing his chest as he fell asleep. Sadly, she tiptoed from the room and went into the living room. She didn't need to look for the business card, it was sitting in her address book by the phone. She glanced at the number written in neat script and dialed it, then waited for the connection. A young woman's voice came over the line. "Dr. Franklin's office, may I help you?" She drew in a deep breath, then forged ahead. "Yes, I was referred to Dr. Franklin by Dr. James Sullivan in Portland. It's about my son. I'd like to make an appointment." end of part nine Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part ten of twenty-five Office of Dr. Lawrence Franklin February 24, 1991 9:14 am It had taken every trick in the book to get Mulder to the appointment. His mother had tried to reason with him at first, but eventually went the gamut through anger, humiliation and finally, that old stand-by, tears. In the end, she was pretty certain she'd just worn him down to a point where he would have agreed to anything just to shut her up, but that really didn't matter. As far as she was concerned, her job was to get him to the doctor's. After that, it was up to the doctor to get him the rest of the way. Mulder was sitting, or more accurately, was slumped in a chair in the corner of the waiting room. He had picked up a magazine, Sports Illustrated, but hadn't bothered to open the cover. Every nuance of body language was directed at letting his mother, and anyone else who looked at him, know exactly how little he expected of this visit and how much he didn't want to be there in the first place. Every two minutes, he would check his watch and emit a just audible growl of frustration. "It's not like you have anywhere else to be," Mrs. Mulder said pointedly after the fifth time he'd gone through that particular display of impatience. "I'm missing 'Sally' and 'Oprah'," he grumbled. "You told me you don't like the talk shows. Too many freaks," she said absently thumbing her way through a three year old Better Homes and Gardens. "Yeah, too close to home, I guess," he shot back and began ripping through the SI on his lap, not even really looking at the pages. She shook her head in disgust. "Behave," she ordered, her voice in a whisper only he could hear. "I promise I won't throw a tantrum, Mother," he said through a fake smile. "I'm good at this game, you should have remembered that," he added before turning his attention to a picture of Denis Rodman. That brought a sigh to her lips. "I'm doing this for your own good," she told him, putting her magazine down and reaching for his hand. He pulled his arm away before she could get a good grip. "I've heard that one for 18 years, Mom. It's getting old." Luckily, the nurse called his name before they had a chance to venture into another lengthy discussion Dr. Franklin was a tall, athletic man, early forties and no sign of gray in his jet black hair. He had a pleasant smile and welcomed Mulder at the door to his office. "Come in, Fox. Make yourself comfortable." Mulder cringed at the sound of his given name. It brought back too many old memories, all of them bad. The times he had to sit in psychologists offices, psychiatrists offices, after Samantha had been taken. Everyone assumed that since he possessed an eidetic memory he knew what had happened that night. Even he believed that somewhere in his mind details of her captors were locked and he had only to access that place within himself to find her. The time after Sam's abduction had been surreal for him. He woke up from a catatonic coma and into a nightmare where his parents didn't talk to him or each other, and no one seemed to know what had happened to his sister. For years, night terrors plagued him, but they never provided any clues, any answers. In the last few years, his dreams had taken a dark turn, with images he didn't understand. Thinking it might finally be the memories of that night coming to his consciousness, he'd felt the need to seek professional help. But the regression hypnosis he'd undergone had left him with more questions than answers. Some of the questions frightened him worse than the dreams and he was powerless to move forward. He stopped seeing his hypnotherapist six months back. Basically, Mulder had been through it all at one time or another. From his own treatment, as a child and more recently, and even in college when he'd undergone therapy as part of his course work in psychology. He wasn't expecting anything out of his sessions with Franklin, other than getting his mother off his back. "Your mother called to make the appointment today," Dr. Franklin stated, breaking Mulder out of his thoughts. "I can only assume that you agreed with it." Mulder blew out a breath and stared out the window. "She thinks it will help," he stated casually. "And you don't?" Dr. Franklin probed. Mulder smiled. And this guy was supposed to be 'good'? Mulder had been down this road so many times, it wasn't even funny anymore. "I don't think I've been exhibiting behavior that necessitates professional involvement," he smiled back at the doctor. Franklin took a moment to glance through his notes. "Masters in Psychology from . . . Oxford University! Quite impressive, Fox," he said and flashed a smile. "I had to settle for Yale." "Hey, we all do what we have to, right?" Mulder shot back, the smile now looking a little dangerous around the edges. "So, it's obvious that you don't want to be here, and that you know enough of the field to play mind games till the two of us are past retirement age, so let's cut the crap, huh?" Franklin said evenly. "Why is your mother worried about you? I don't get the impression that she's exhibiting Munchausen by Proxy. I think she truly thinks something is wrong. And if you are under the impression that psychologists never need help, I'd be more than happy to contact your old professors in England and have a word with them." Mulder drew in a breath, but not too deep as to cause a cough. "She thinks I'm obsessing over a case that I was working on before I came down with pneumonia," Mulder said with a sigh. "I had some more insights into the case and made a few calls. All this around several naps and I haven't left the house except to go to the doctor. Basically, my mother is trying to control what I think, and it's because I scared the crap out of her." "You were in a coma for some time," Franklin noted. "At one point, your prognosis was not very good." "My illness was life threatening, I won't deny that." "I also note that you didn't seek medical attention when you first became ill and even after seeing a doctor, you chose to ignore his instructions." "I was on a case. A murder case. Lives were at stake. It's what I do. I stop killers. Get inside their heads." "A behavioral profiler, I've heard of them. Read some of the journal articles," Franklin interjected. Mulder snorted. "Bet that was fun reading," he commented. "I got the medication for my cold, I just kept forgetting to take it. And as for staying in bed--when was the last time _you_ canceled all your appointments for a week and stayed home to get over a bad cold?" Mulder accused. Franklin had the good grace to nod with slight embarrassment. "You've got me there. I hate being sick." "Well, I screwed up and got _really_ sick. Since I was released from the hospital, I've been a very good boy. I couldn't be bad if I wanted to. Mom counts my pills in the morning and again at night. So, I was sick to death of daytime TV and I had some ideas about a case that the Bureau thinks is closed, but I don't think so. And for that, Mom drags me to a shrink. No offense, but I think we are wasting each other's time. At least you're getting paid for it, but you could be helping someone who really needs you." "Let me be the judge of that," Franklin said with a grin. "Tell me about this case. As much as you can, of course." Mulder was getting frustrated. He didn't want to go into the details of the case, even when the other person was sworn to uphold patient confidentiality. "Look, all told, seven people have died, six men and one woman. There are about four more in line, if my analysis is correct. They are dying at a rate of one every four to five days. While I sit here, playing whose university's dick is longer, the killer is already planning his next attack. And the really bad part is, I can tell what city it will happen in, the approximate location, and the time, but I can't tell who is the victim or who is the killer. And this guy is good. It will look like a suicide." "Can't the medical examiner tell the difference?" Franklin asked, suddenly interested. "No, this guy is good, I tell you. I see him as a shadow . . . a cloud. I can't get a picture in my head of the killer." "You've seen him. How? In dreams?" Franklin's eyes had narrowed considerably. He was eager now. "Yeah, dreams. Nightmares. Waking visions." Mulder stopped and crossed his arms to warm himself from a sudden chill. He could tell just by looking at Franklin that the little psych wheels were turning in the wrong direction. "Look, you ever hear of a guy named Monty Props?" Franklin chewed on his bottom lip. "Serial killer. Murdered secretaries and mutilated the bodies. Yeah, I heard of him." "I caught him. My profile, and later my monograph, lead to his arrest and conviction and ultimately, his execution by the state of New York." Franklin swallowed. "Don't those people in your profession have to see a counselor on a regular basis?" Mulder laughed this time. "Yeah, each other. Or if we're really pressed for time, we just look in the mirror. Get serious! They're afraid someone might 'cure' us. Especially those of us who are good at what we do. If we weren't twisted, we couldn't do this." "You're comfortable being 'twisted'." It wasn't a question, it was a statement. Mulder thought long and hard before answering. "I've learned to live with it." Franklin nodded, then grew silent for a moment. Mulder could see him trying to come up with some middle ground they could work from. "This case, the one that's still open, will anyone listen to you? I mean, aren't they going to discount your analysis because of your recent illness?" Mulder shrugged. "Maybe. Some of them will. The ones who know me, they'll listen. This isn't the first time a case has been closed until I found it. I doubt it will be the last. And even if they don't listen to me, maybe some one will. Maybe I can identify the next victim before the killer gets to him. Maybe I can save a life." Franklin absently chewed on the end of his pen, then self-consciously stopped himself. "Let's do this. If you will agree to come see me, on a twice weekly basis, I'll tell your mother that you should be allowed some time each day to work on this case. You will have to abide by whatever restraints your medical doctor puts on you, but I dare say if you continue to rest adequately and take all your prescribed medication, that could be as much as three or four hours a day." Mulder frowned. Three or four hours? On a case, he frequently worked 18 to 22 hours. At the rate of three or four hours, he'd have the case solved sometime around his 40th birthday. "And if I say no? I really don't want to be 'cured'. It could be bad for my career," he commented with a lop-sided grin to soften the steel in his voice. Franklin matched Mulder's grin with one of his own. "I have no intentions of 'curing' you, Fox. I simply think you might do better with a 'smooth veneer' over that 'twisted interior'." Mulder thought about that for a while. He looked around the room, looked hard at Franklin. The man was truly interested in the case. Probably as close as the poor sot would ever come to living 'True Crime' and not just watching it on television. Besides, Mulder assured himself, if the topics got to close too the bone, diversion was always available as a defensive measure. He was good at this game. And if it kept his mother at bay, it might be worth it. "Well then, if I'm going to be seeing you again, you have to do me a favor," Mulder said, getting up from his seat. Franklin waved him on. "Don't call me Fox. I work on a last name only basis." "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me," Franklin replied with a grin and watched Mulder leave the room. Mulder sat in the waiting room, finally interested enough to read the ancient sports magazine, while his mother talked to Dr. Franklin. After twenty minutes, she came into the room, wiping her eyes, but smiling at him. "Ready to go?" she asked brightly. He nodded, putting the magazine aside. He got up slowly, his ribs still ached and it was too easy to get dizzy if he rose too quickly. He pulled on his parka and started for the door. "I'll be right out, dear. I just want to set up your next appointment," his mother said with a tone that was far too chipper for Mulder's mood. He shuffled out to the car and unlocked the passenger side door. The doctor had said that he shouldn't drive for at least another week, possibly longer if the dizzy spells remained. Lack of oxygen to the brain could do that, and his lungs weren't drawing in enough O2 for his size at the moment. He lowered himself into the freezing car and reached over to insert the keys, starting the engine and creating a whirlwind of cold air right at his face. Damned New England winters. The air burned as it entered his lungs and forced more dry coughs out of him. In desperation, he put his hands over his nose and mouth to warm the air before he breathed it in. It helped a little. His mother arrived at her door just as the air from the car heater was starting to hint at warmth. She sat down, checked the mirrors and pulled out of the parking lot. "So, what did you two chat about?" Mulder asked, trying to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. Tried, but didn't succeed. "Oh, this and that. I guess I might have over-reacted a little. Dr. Franklin said that there's no harm in you doing a little desk work--as long as you rest when you're told and take you medicine," she emphasized the last part, for his benefit alone. "I've been resting, Mom. That's all I've been doing," he sighed and decided to stare out the window at the white and gray and black landscape. "Well, I've got a little lap pad that I use sometimes for my crossword puzzles. You can use that. And I think I have some more legal pads. I just don't want you to overdo, Fox. I know you think this is all very essential, but your health comes first," she said sternly. "Yes, Mom," he said, hiding a victorious smile as he turned his face again toward the window. "And we're going to have to get more food in you. You are skin and bones, Fox William. Skin and bones." "Whatever you say, Mom," he replied calmly. It didn't matter, whatever his mother forced him to do. His mind was already back on the case. end of part ten Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part eleven of twenty-five Mulder Residence Greenwich, CT 4:25 pm The jingling of the phone woke him out of a sound sleep on the living room sofa. Mulder cleared his throat, thankful he didn't have to cough this time, and reached for the receiver. His mother had beat him to it. " . . . asleep, Mr. Purdue. I'll have him call you tomorrow . . ." "I've got it, Mom, thanks," Mulder interrupted and then waited until his mother put down the phone in the living room before addressing his friend. "Reggie, did you hear back from Reno?" Mulder could hear his old friend sigh. "Yes, Mulder, I did. I'm sorry, but no one found a matchbook." "Did they send someone back to go over the site again?" Mulder asked anxiously. "Mulder, this wasn't considered a crime scene, remember? The building was scheduled for demolition and as soon as the Coroner's inquest was returned with a suicide verdict, the building came down. I'm sorry." "How about Tahoe?" Mulder asked, still not discouraged. "Nothing, Mulder. Nothing was found." Mulder felt the cold pang of disappointment, but was not completely desolate. "That's OK, Reggie. It just would have given me some physical evidence of the next site. I have the tour dates in my head. I wish they had included the actual motels and hotels Paige appeared at and not just the cities." "Mulder, ah, Bill Patterson called me this morning," Reggie said quietly. Mulder could tell he didn't want to talk about it, but felt he had no choice. "What did ole Bill want, Reg?" "He found out you are still working on this. Mulder, keep in mind, Patterson's ego is about as big as the Pacific and just as deep. He's not happy that you won't let this thing go." "So? Patterson and I have never really gotten along. Big deal," Mulder scoffed. "He went over our heads this time. All the way to the AD level. Ever hear of Walter Skinner?" Mulder thought for a moment. "He was in the New York regional office, wasn't he? ASAC, I think." "That's the one. He got bumped to AD. Jumped over Blevins to do it. Fair haired boy, apparently. Anyway, the orders came down from his office. No one is to help you with this one. No one." Now Mulder did feel desolate. "Reggie, I'm stranded here," he wailed. "What the hell can I do from a goddammed bed?!" "Recover from your illness and get back to work," Reggie said gently. "I'm sorry, man. I'll help if I can, but I can't make any more 'official' phone calls or call for technical assistance in anyway. It's out of my hands." There was silence on the phone until Reggie spoke again. "You really can't let this one go, can you?" he asked softly. "No, I can't," Mulder said firmly. "I always suspected you were part pit bull. I just thought it was that nose," Reggie chuckled. "Thanks, Reggie. Want to wait till I'm on the floor laughing so you can kick me when I'm down?" Mulder shot back. "Sorry man. Hey, remember Danny? In Research." Something in the way Reggie said it made Mulder certain this was not just a change of subject. "Sure. We used to play basketball at lunch." "Well, he asked about you. You might consider giving him a call. For old times sakes." Reggie's voice was full of underlying intent. "Thanks, Reg. I just might do that." Mulder remembered Danny more for his lay ups than for any expertise in research, but was more than happy to find a sympathetic ear. After talking for a few minutes, he got down to the matter at hand. "I just wish I could find the names of the motels where Paige and Crown stayed during their tour dates. Patterson had it, but I have to tell you, by that time, I was pretty much out of the loop." "I heard you almost croaked on him, Mulder. That would have really pissed the old man off," Danny said with a laugh. "Nah, I think I pissed him off more when I lived," Mulder said in perfect deadpan. "Do you think you could find those locations for me?" "Let me work on it. You know, there was a general bulletin put out that none of us are to talk to you," Danny said quietly, so as not to be overheard. "But that doesn't mean I can't clean up my files, right?" "That's my read on it, Danny. And thanks. I'll figure out some way to repay you." "I've got my eye on that sky box you're always promising my colleagues," Danny replied. "I'll get back to you." "Thanks. Oh, and Danny, if my mom answers and tells you I'm asleep, have her wake me." "Geez, what a life," Danny muttered in disgust and disconnected the line. Mulder Residence March 4, 1991 9:30 am Danny was true to his word and called a little after nine on Monday morning. Mulder had just finished his breakfast, finally convincing his mother that he could sit at the kitchen table and eat. She had been clucking at the sink since he'd walked in, muttering little phrases like 'needs more rest' and 'has to eat more'. He'd done his best to ignore her and choke down as much of the oatmeal as his stomach would let him. Danny's call was like the bell at the end of a very hard round of boxing. "OK, Mulder, here's what I have. Five more cities. After Reno, Paige appeared at the Majestic in Tahoe. Two nights, four performances. Then he hit the big time--sort of. A little casino in Las Vegas--the Paramount. Three nights. A stint in Sacramento, just two nights in the Capital City. After that they went to Carson City, Nevada and appeared at the Mountain View. The tour ended in Denver at the Airport Holiday Inn." "Danny, you're a god send. Can I have your baby?" Mulder teased. "No, but you can get me tickets to the season opener for the Orioles. I hear you have connections," Danny said sarcastically. "Actually, I do," Mulder said with a sly smile. "Thanks, Danny. I might have need of your expertise again." "I'm here, Mulder. Just holler." Mulder retreated to the bedroom and the lap pad. At some point, he considered asking his mother if she could get a desk moved into the room, but it wouldn't fit with all the little 'touches' she'd put in the room already. Not to mention that she wouldn't stand for him _sitting_ at a desk. He was pushing the limit to sit up in bed. She hadn't always been so smothering, he tried to convince himself. But the period after Samantha's disappearance had turned her into a quintessential smother-er. He remembered waking up in the hospital, his mother sitting by his bed, just as she had in Portland. For three days she refused to answer his questions about his sister. She wouldn't tell him anything, and kept the doctors and the police, even his own father at bay. Finally, when the doctors assured her that she was harming her son more by not telling him about his sister, she allowed them to tell what was known of the night of November 27, 1973. When the young Fox Mulder had become hysterical at the news that his sister was missing, she had refused to allow the doctors to sedate him and instead, had sat by his side, in the narrow hospital bed, cradling him like a baby as he sobbed himself to sleep. Mulder realized that he'd made her fragile then. She was afraid that she would lose him, too, and she knew that she couldn't survive that. He was the last chance, but by clinging so hard, neither of them had a chance to find happiness in each other. He sighed, and went back to work. He was getting a clearer picture now. Abigail tended to go for men who were working the night shift. It was easier to slip away from Steve at night, find a quiet closet or empty room and have her trysts. She didn't seem to be looking for more than sex, at least that was how Mulder viewed it. A release. Something that Paige couldn't give her, or maybe something she lacked in herself. He stopped himself. Crown might not be the killer, but she definitely played a part. She was the reason these men were being killed. She was the marker, the one who identified the victims. By profiling Crown, and maybe the previous victims, he might be able to figure out the next likely target in Las Vegas. He glanced at his watch and moaned. The murder in Tahoe would have already happened. Atlanta Regional Office of the FBI March 4, 1991 11:15 am "Agent LaMana, there's a call for you on line three. A Stephen King," the receptionist said in her soft Southern accent. Jerry looked at her quizzically, waiting for the punch line, but when none was forthcoming, he picked up the phone. "Agent LaMana." "So, find any hot women in the Peach State, LaMana?" came the voice that put a smile on Jerry's face. "More than you ever could," he shot back. "God, Mulder, how are you?" "Very tired of my mother's attempts to fatten me up. Aside from that, I'm feeling better." "Hey, I'm sorry I haven't called," Jerry apologized sincerely. "I got down here and they've been running my ass off. I did talk to DC a couple of times, and they told me that you were home with your mom now." "Yeah, I'm being the perfect little patient here, Jer. Hey, I have a favor to ask. Remember the case from Portland?" Jerry felt his stomach drop out from under him. "Yeah," he answered hesitantly. "What about it?" "Jerry, remember when you and Patterson came to see me in the hospital?" Mulder prodded gently. Jerry snorted. "I might not have a photographic memory, like you, Mr. Polaroid, but I think I can remember past two weeks ago," he huffed. "Don't get your panties in a twist, Jer. I'm just trying to set this up. I'm certain we didn't catch the killer. I know that Abigail Crown didn't kill those men." Jerry was silent on his end of the line, trying desperately to think of anything to say that might dissuade his friend. "Jer, you still with me?" Mulder asked, concerned. "Mulder, look. That case is closed. Stapled shut. Why are you doing this?" Jerry asked, hating the whine in his voice. "Jerry, there have been more murders. Two of them, I'm certain. There was one on Saturday night," Mulder hissed, losing his temper for a moment before reigning it in. "Please, Jer, as a favor. I don't ask many, you know that. Could you please make some 'quiet' inquiries?" "What kind of inquiries?" Jerry moaned. "Look at suicides that happened in the last 48 hours. Particularly any male staff members at the Majestic Hotel in Lake Tahoe. Would be a clerical position, probably night desk clerk or something. And call me back." "Majestic, Tahoe. So what am I doing here, calling to see if somebody didn't show for work?" "That would be a place to start. And call the morgue, the guy might still be there, if they've found him," Mulder said, thinking aloud. "I'm on it. And Mulder, how are you, really? I mean you sound great on the phone, big improvement over the last time I talked to you, but . . ." "I'm doing better, Jerry. Really. I'm not quite ready to go back to work, yet. Even I'll admit that one. But I'm feeling better every day. There might be something to this 'rest and recuperation' crap the doctors are handing me." That brought a smile to Jerry's face. "I know how much that took for you to say that, Mulder," he said seriously. "And I won't breathe a word of it to anyone," he added with a small chuckle. "Make sure you don't," Mulder warned in an amused tone. "Jerry, this means a lot." "Well, I can't promise how much I can help after this, but this, I can do." Mulder put the phone down and stared at the papers on the bed. He needed a list of employees at the motels in question. He needed some way of contacting them and warning them to the possible threat to their lives, but he didn't want to start a panic. And it was clear that he would have no official backing in such a warning. The frustration, coupled with a nice dose of eye strain, was giving him a headache. Slowly, he pulled himself off the bed and headed into the kitchen. "Lunch is almost ready," his mother said as she breezed from the stove to the sink. He could smell the pot of chicken rice soup, his favorite from childhood, bubbling on the stove. "I ran out and got some deli meats for sandwiches. And believe it or not, I was able to get my hands on a tomato! Didn't even have to mortgage the house, either," she said with a grin as she turned to look at her son. The grin faded and was replaced by a concerned frown. "Fox, you don't look well. Sit down, Sweetheart." Mulder rubbed his temples and obeyed her command. "I've just got a little headache, Mom. I need some aspirin and I'll be fine." "No aspirin on an empty stomach. Maybe you should go back and lie down. I can bring your tray . . ." "Mom! I don't want to lie down! I'm sick of lying down, damn it!" he yelled and immediately regretted it as the bass drum in his head increased the tempo. "Ouch," he winced. She was at his side instantly. "I'm sorry, Fox. I didn't mean to upset you," she murmured, standing next to him and rubbing his temples in slow gentle circles. Mulder would never have admitted it, but it did seem to help. "No, Mom, I'm sorry. I over-reacted. It's just so hard to do anything from a phone. And it's so frustrating, not being able to get to any files or anything." He stopped short, realizing this discussion would only lead into a field of emotional landmines. He was surprised when she didn't take her customary side of the argument. "Maybe you just need a break for a few hours," she suggested. "Clear your head. You know, you've been cooped up here for the better part of a week, only going out to the doctors. Why don't we eat lunch, you can take some aspirin and maybe take a short nap. Then I'll see what's on at the movies. We can take in a late matinee before supper. If you're feeling up to it, we might even have dinner out tonight. How does that sound?" He looked at her in amazement. Quickly, he thought about whether or not Jerry would call. Chances were good that he wouldn't find anything out immediately, it would take some checking. The offer of a movie was enticing, but getting out of the house was absolutely too good to pass up. His mother was offering him something he really could use, a night out, a chance to relax. He didn't want to reject the offer. "That sounds wonderful, Mom. I think I'd really like that," he said, giving her an open smile. "Now, how about some of that soup?" After much debate, mother and son settled on seeing the new movie 'City Slickers' starring Billy Crystal and then going to a local seafood restaurant that his mother claimed was as good as any on the Vineyard. They were both in good spirits as they waited for their salads to be served. "Fox, I wanted to talk to you about something," his mother said, nervously unwrapping a cracker package. Mulder fought to repress a frown. It sounded like the evening might have been a set up. "What about, Mom," he said evenly. "Your job," she replied and then hastened to cut of his objections. "Fox, Sweetheart, hear me out, please. I'm not going to nag you. I know you love your work, I can see how important it is to you. But Fox, I would be lying if I didn't say it scares me. I mean, I've been watching you these last few days and when you're working, Sweetheart . . . you get so intense. Sometimes you don't even hear me when I'm talking to you, just a couple of feet away." "I'm sorry, Mom. I know I get wrapped up in things. But it's really not that bad," he interjected. "Fox. You have been on your own for a long time. Longer than I would have liked. You were taking care of yourself from the time you were in high school. Lord knows I wasn't in any condition to take care of you," she sighed guiltily and took a swallow from her iced tea. "But be that as it may, you aren't taking care of yourself now." "Mom . . ." "Fox. I know you were on an important case. Mr. Patterson told me that you were the only one to correctly predict the killer's moves. That they would never have found her if it had not been for you. But Fox, I think it's too much. I think you've done this profiling long enough. I think it's too hard on you." She pursed her lips and idly toyed with her knife and spoon. Mulder wanted to deny everything she'd said, but a part of him realized the truth of her words. In the beginning, it had been exciting. He'd been the bright, young star. People fell all over themselves to get his opinions. Then, after a while, only Patterson was there, demanding, driving, pushing him farther than he felt comfortable going. It became a routine. He'd finish one profile only to begin the next. Sometimes he worked on more than one at a time. The nightmares surprised him. He'd had nightmares all his life. Many featured his sister, crying, calling out to him. Those nightmares were without form, substance. He was in a fog and couldn't see but could hear her, shouting his name over and over again. The nightmares brought on by work were different and more frightening, if that were possible. He could see himself as the killer. He saw himself as the victims. Each and everyone of the those torturous dreams had ended in his own screaming death. It was the stress of the job, he knew it. But there was nothing he could do about it. "Mom, I'm sorry you're worried. But it's all right. I just have to do a better job dealing with the stress," Mulder said lightly, happy that the waitress had brought their salads and now they could turn their attention to food. "I've heard your crying at night, Fox," she said. It was somewhere between a confession and an accusation. "I've gone in to check on you and your face is streaked with tears and you're clutching your pillow as if it's some sort of life line. That isn't normal." "It's stress, Mom. Plain and simple. I'm seeing Dr. Franklin, aren't I?" he deflected. "I want you to consider another job." She held up her hand as he shook his head vehemently. "Fox, listen to me. You don't have to leave the Bureau. I'm not a complete fool, I know there are more divisions than Behavioral Sciences, and even there, more sections than the one you are in. I want you to consider asking for a transfer. I think you've put in your time, it's time to think of your health. Mental and physical." What could he say? If he said nothing, she'd continue. His only option was to agree. "I'll give it some thought, Mom." At her open disbelief he firmly added "I promise." end of part eleven Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net part twelve of twenty-five March 5, 1991 It was late morning by the time Mulder opened his eyes. He couldn't remember where he was for a moment, but the frilly lace curtains on the windows and the chintz throw pillows on the floor which matched the bedspread quickly gave him all the information he needed. Then, there was the knock on the door. "Fox? Honey, are you awake yet? You have to get up, Sweetheart. You have a doctor's appointment at 1 and the respirator therapist at 2:30. Get up, you have to shower, then eat some lunch." He rolled over and groaned when he saw the time on the alarm. 11:15? How in the world had he slept that long? "Be right there, Mom," Mulder answered absently, and rolled out of bed. A few coughs, but nothing the warm spray of the shower wouldn't fix, he was certain. Still, he was amazed that he could have slept for 12 straight hours. That was more sleep than he often got in a week. But he had to admit, if only to the mirror, that he felt better after it, stronger. Then he remembered which doctor's appointment he had. Franklin again. The biweekly appointments were already getting annoying. He shaved quickly, showered and dressed. His mother was busy in the kitchen when he joined her. "Here, Sweetheart," she said as she placed his sandwich in front of him. He looked up at her in surprise and she simply smiled and winked at him. "It's not my birthday. Or I really slept a long time," he said derisively. She gave him a superior smirk. "No, it's not your birthday. Fox, can't I make my favorite son his favorite sandwich without him becoming all suspicious?" "First, I'm your _only_ son, Mom. Second, you never make me tuna fish because it makes _you_ gag, and third, . . . there is no third. That's more than enough to make me suspicious," he said, but picked up the sandwich and took a healthy bite. "Well, even if I had a dozen sons, you would be my favorite," she told him, ruffling his hair as she sat down across from him. He noticed she was having turkey breast instead of tuna. He frowned for a moment, but decided it wasn't worth the effort to pursue the matter. "Never look a gift horse in the mouth," he muttered and finished off the sandwich in contented silence. He picked up his plate and took it to the sink. "Did I get any calls this morning, Mom?" She appeared to think on that for a moment. "No, none that I recall. I got a call from the bridge club. I told them that I wouldn't be able to join them today. I forgot all about them. We've been getting together on the last Tuesday of the month now for I don't know how long. Well, since I got here, I guess. The woman two doors down is the 'organizer' and we take turns being hostess." She prattled on and he smiled, but something in the one sided conversation bothered him. He helped her with the dishes, even though she tried twice to shoo him away. He was feeling better after the long sleep and even a little edgy. Mulder would have given his right arm for his running shoes. It struck him that he really didn't know what had become of his clothes from Portland. He'd left his bags in the motel room. His gun and badge were somewhere. A cold feeling of dread shot through his gut at the thought that some maid at the motel was now in possession of his sidearm and FBI identification. No, Patterson or Jerry would have made sure to secure it before leaving the motel. Still, without them, he felt sort of lost. "Are you ready, Fox? What are you doing?" his mother demanded as she stood with hands on hips, surveying the mess he'd made of the contents of the hall closet. "Mom? What happened to my stuff from Portland? My luggage, my shoes, . . . my gun?" He was pulling boxes out in an effort to look into the corners of the closet. "Fox, I sent the luggage back to DC. It's at your office, I suspect. Mr. Patterson packed up the room at the motel personally. If you have any questions, you can call him when we get back. Now, if we don't get moving, we'll be late for the appointment. I think it's starting to snow, and that gets just dreadful on the interstate." Franklin again met Mulder at the door, shaking his hand warmly. "How's the case?" "You're only taking me on as a patient so you can 'ghostwrite' a crime novel, aren't you?" Mulder teased as he made his way over to the leather couch along the wall of the office. Franklin snorted and brought his steno pad and pen over to the matching leather wing chair across from the couch. "You know that's not only illegal, it's unethical. Not to mention, I couldn't write fiction if my life depended on it. My sexual fantasies are pretty boring by their standards." Mulder smiled broadly. "And how does that make you feel, Dr. Franklin? A little inadequacy rearing it's ugly head?" "Down, Oxford. You're paying me to analyze _you_, not the other way around. Now, let's talk about your dreams." "From the Freudian perspective or the Jung approach of archetypes," Mulder said through a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. "Ah, it's going to be one of _those_ sessions," Franklin sighed. "Mulder, I thought we had an understanding," he said wearily, rubbing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Mulder frowned. "How is this going to 'smooth my veneer', as we agreed to be doing?" "OK, let's back up a bit. Let's not talk about your dreams just yet. Let's just talk about your sleep patterns. When do you typically go to bed at night? Do you sleep through the whole night, or do you wake up before morning?" Mulder snorted. "First, let's define 'typical'. I don't have a lot of what you might call 'typical' nights." "You tell me. You set the parameters," Franklin encouraged. "OK, if I'm just in the office and I've only got one profile, or maybe just helping on another, I sleep about six hours a night. Go to bed around midnight or one, wake about 6 or 6:30 and go for a run." "What about 'bad nights'?" Franklin prodded. "Bad nights, I sleep for maybe an hour or two, tops. Night terrors, on occasions. Nightmares, pretty frequently, but I don't remember much about them." "When you say 'night terrors', what do you mean?" "I wake up in the middle of a panic attack. Hyperventilation is a given. If I have more than one night of those in a row, I keep a lunch sack on the nightstand, so I can keep from passing out." Franklin frowned at that. "Have you ever passed out?" Mulder shrugged. "A couple of times. Not for long. And I'm all right when I come around. Unconsciousness is a wonderful 'reset button' for the body. It's like shutting down your computer and then rebooting. When I come to, I'm breathing normally. And I never remember what the terrors were about, but then, that's typical of night terrors in general." "Pretty rough way to wake up," Franklin noted. "I'd like to avoid them, but that's not possible. They just come and I have no control over them," Mulder said casually. "Have you had any since you've been out of the hospital?" "Since I've been at Mom's? No, I haven't." "Ever had them before. When you were in college, maybe?" "No, not that I recall. They're a pretty recent phenomenon." "In other words, you haven't had any since you've been away from work and you didn't have them before you started with the FBI?" Mulder narrowed his gaze. "Smoothing the veneer does not include switching job titles, Dr. Franklin," he said in a low, warning voice. "Maybe, maybe not, but let's look at this a moment. You said before you've had nightmares all your life. Have you had night terrors all your life, too?" He sat there, saying nothing for several seconds. Absently, Mulder reached up and pulled on his lower lip. "No, not the terrors. Not even after Sam . . ." "So this is somehow connected to your work. Don't you think?" Mulder shook his head. "I won't leave my job. It's a shit job, but . . . it's important to me." "It's something you succeed at. You're doing things no one else can do, isn't that right?" Mulder's eyes flashed red for a split second. "Don't patronize me, Franklin. I hate that!" Franklin looked surprised. "Mulder, I mean what I'm saying. You make it possible for people like me to sleep at night. You catch the bad guys. But that takes its toll, after a while. I just want to help you." He looked down at the pad of paper on his lap. "I did a little research, Mulder. Called an old friend from college. Most agents don't stay profilers for that long. They move up the ranks fairly quickly. Especially the good ones. Like you." He watched Mulder's expression, but it seemed to tell him nothing. "Maybe it's time to move along." There, Franklin had said it. Echoing the words he'd been hearing from his mother, even Reggie Purdue. The words that kept running through his head as he fell asleep at night. For a moment, Mulder wanted to take the bait. It would be so simple to agree, to let himself be guided away from Bill, away from VCS, away from the terror that stalked him in the night. But his dreams, just a few nights ago, called out to him. He couldn't walk away. He had a job to do and he'd better get to it. "Thanks, Doc. But I think I'm as smooth as I'm ever going to get." He stared at Franklin, waiting for an answer. "You're going to fight any attempts to help you, aren't you?" Franklin said, folding his hands into his lap and leaning back in the chair. The doctor seemed to sense that the trust was broken, they'd have to work very hard to rebuild it. If it were ever there to begin with. "I intend to fight any attempts to control my life that don't originate with me," Mulder said flatly. "You can't continue like you have been, Mulder. It's eating you alive. The terrors will grow worse. Next time, it won't be pneumonia. You're on the road to a complete breakdown. I don't want to read of your suicide in the obituaries." "You won't," Mulder said confidently. I'll make sure of it, he added to himself. "Then, I guess all I can do is wish you 'good luck'. If you need me, I'll still be here." "Thanks, Dr. Franklin. Have a good life," Mulder said lightly and shook the man's hand before walking out into the lobby. Teena Mulder looked up from her magazine as her son came toward her. "We just need to set up your next appointment," she said, gathering her purse and coat. "No, we don't, Mom," Mulder said, helping her on with her coat and then putting his own on. She stood rigidly still for a moment. "Why?" It wasn't a question as much as a demand for information. "Because I'm cured," Mulder said lightly and headed out to the car. He was seated in the passenger's seat when his mother got in and started the car. "We can find another doctor. I know they're doing wonderful things with those new drugs . . ." "Mom, it won't work. And I won't stand for being drugged for the rest of my life. Just leave it alone." He sighed deeply, fought the little cough that threatened to sneak past his Adam's Apple and stared out on the snow covered parkway. "I've been good, Mom. I've rested, I've done everything you've asked. But it's my life. It's been my life for a very long time. You can't live it for me and I can't let you try." She was silent for a long time. Finally, he heard a distinct sniffle coming from her direction. "Aw, shit, Mom, don't start with the tears," he pleaded. "I suppose I deserve this," she said, not bothering to disguise the melodramatic tone to her voice. "I wasn't there when you needed a mother. How can I expect you to turn to me now?" Mulder winced and shook his head. "Mom, it's not like that and you know it." "Oh, do I? You almost died, Fox William. And how did I find out? I was called in the middle of the night, by a man I've never even heard of, who turns out to be your boss of almost two years. I had no idea who Bill Patterson was, Fox! And then, he's telling me that you're in Intensive Care, that you've collapsed on a case and that the doctors need to speak with me and he'll get an agent to drive me to the airport. It was too much, Fox, it was simply too much!" She was crying now, tears running down her cheek and ruining her foundation and mascara. "Mom," Mulder said sadly. "Please. I'm sorry. I never meant to make you worry." "Well, it's a little too late to worry about that, Mister, now isn't it?" Teena snapped angrily. "About three weeks and a coma too late." "Mom, please. If you'd just listen . . ." "We don't have time to discuss this. You're already late for your appointment with the respiratory therapist." All further discussion ceased and an icy silence invaded the car. Mulder tried to think of anything to say that would defuse the situation, but knew it was beyond salvage. Maybe later, but for now, he'd just have to endure her silent fury. His breathing treatments were never fun. Breathing in moistened air through a tube that reminded him just a little too much of the ones he'd had to use at the hospital. Feeling the drugs being absorbed by his lungs and then, the odd sensation when those same drugs hit his brain. By the time he'd gone through the regular rotation with the therapist, he was reeling from the drugs and in serious pain in his chest. The therapist smiled at him as she helped him to the door. "A heating pad, set on low, should help with the pain. And take some tylenol, that will help you, too. Call your doctor if you have trouble falling asleep. And see you next week." "Not if I see you first," Mulder muttered as he walked out to find his mother in the waiting room. She pulled on her own coat and headed for the car without waiting to see if he was coming. Slowly, he shuffled out to the parking lot, wincing when the cold air hit his lungs. "God, I just love being home," he mumbled sarcastically before he opened the door and lowered himself painfully into the car. They didn't speak for the entire ride home. end of part twelve Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part thirteen of twenty-five He stooped over to touch the body. The young man had a look of surprise on his face. The fingers were clenched and, as the first to lose any blood, had gone cold. But at the neck the body still held some warmth. No pulse, but some warmth. Mulder cursed softly. He'd been too late. Too late to save this young man. Just like he'd been too late to save Abigail Crown and David Markham. Just like he'd been too slow to save Samantha. Samantha? Flashes of the regression memory played across his mind, reflected on the gray wall paper of the abandoned apartment in time to the lights from the passing cars. Samantha. Crying, screaming his name. The house, shaking, pictures dancing on the walls, a clock on the mantel falls face down. A gun gripped in his hands, but there's no where to point it. Light, blinding light coming through the window . . . He realizes the light is coming from outside the apartment. He starts to walk toward the window to see its source but as he moves, he hears a sound coming up behind him. He turns to find the source of the sound and sees the shadow. Even in the darkness he can make out its shape, its almost formless boundaries. It moves over the victim as if stepping around a muddy spot on the sidewalk. Gracefully, it moves toward him and he's mesmerized. Powerless to move, but fascinated to find out what is there, what is in the shadow. In a heartbeat that lasts hours, days, the shadow engulfs him. Suddenly, all the fear, the anguish, the terror and the pain slams into him like a wrecking ball into a crumbling brick structure and he's down on his knees, fighting for breath. The razor gleams in his right hand and he stares at it, confused at its sudden appearance. The shadow is controlling his every movement now. He can feel its iron grip on his wrist as it forces his hand steadily to its destination. A quick but deep swipe against the tender skin of his left forearm. His screams woke him. He sat straight up in bed, shaking, unable to pull in a full breath. It takes minutes to calm his racing heart. To finally look around him and figure out that he's in his mother's house, in the guest room, that it's morning, early. When did he fall asleep? He remembered coming back after the appointment with the respiratory therapist and being too exhausted to move. Too tired to sit in the frigid silence that was his mother's presence. She was angry that he'd stopped the sessions with Franklin. She'd given him the cold shoulder all the way back to the house. Sleep had seemed a far more favorable option than giving her the opportunity to tire of the silent treatment and begin berating him for his decision. Or what she would undoubtedly call his reckless actions. He'd gone to bed a little after 5 and had once again slept through the night. All this sleep had to be counting for something, his mind wandered lazily as he stretched muscles still taut from his dream. At least he wasn't in a panic attack. Just an everyday common, run of the mill nightmare. Which the back of his mind knew to be more significant than he was emotionally ready to admit. But right at that moment, the phone was ringing off the hook in the living room. He scrambled to get it, somewhat surprised that he'd managed to change into pajamas when he'd closed himself off in his room the night before. By the time he caught the phone, the answering machine was picking up. "I'm here, hold on a minute," he said gruffly and took a second to figure out what to push to turn the damned machine off. Giving up in disgust, he heard his voice echo as it was recorded, but ignored it and answered again. "Mulder residence." "Geez, Mulder, I thought you'd had a relapse or something!" Jerry LaMana exclaimed. "I've been trying to get you for two days! You too good to return your phone messages now?" Mulder was at first dumbfounded, then slowly enraged. His mother . . . "Sorry, Jer. Must have been a communications breakdown," he said through gritted teeth. "What have you got for me?" "You wanted me to check into any suspicious deaths in Tahoe over the weekend, right?" "Jer, my lungs are bad, not my brain. I know what I wanted. Now, what did you find?" "Night manager. Kevin Alvarez. Thirty-three years old, divorced, father of two. Died of blood loss in a building undergoing renovations about a mile from the Majestic." "It wasn't suicide," Mulder stated firmly. "He left a note, Mulder." That stopped him, for a moment. "Found at the scene?" He didn't breathe for the time it took Jerry to answer. "No, not at the scene. It was found at his apartment. In a desk drawer." "Jerry, that could have been written months ago. OK, so the guy was depressed. I still think . . ." "Mulder, would you stop and listen to yourself for a minute? You are trying to convince me that a guy all the way across the country, who was recently divorced, known to be depressed, had left a note telling his kids goodbye, did not commit suicide, but was murdered. If somebody else in the whole damned section came to you with that theory, tell me that you wouldn't spit in their eye and laugh in their face?" "Jerry, you have to understand. I'll bet my last dollar that the reason Kevin Alvarez was 'recently divorced' is because his wife found out he has been cheating on her. And just as certainly, that Abigail Crown was one of his 'little side trips' away from his marriage contract." "I don't think there's gonna be a record of that, big guy," Jerry said quietly. "Jerry . . ." Mulder thought hard, tried to find something that would persuade his friend. "It's . . ." "Your 'spidey sense' again, right," Jerry said tiredly. "Basically, yeah, Jer," Mulder said, trying to suppress a grin. "Jerry, you know . . ." "I learned a long time ago not to question the power of the Force, Luke. Just beware of the 'dark side'," Jerry said ominously. "Yes, oh, Jedi Master," Mulder said in mock seriousness. "So, how are you gonna play this? I mean, I really hope you don't plan on going out to Tahoe and trying to convince the local yokels that their suicide was a murder." Mulder sighed. "No. I think that would just get me a padded motel suite. I'll just have to be where the next one is supposed to happen." "I don't think I have to point out that if the killer keeps to his schedule, that means tonight," Jerry said with discomfort. "I know that, too. And Vegas is such a quiet, little town," Mulder joked to hide his own discomfort. "If you need anything else . . ." "My gun, my badge," Mulder rattled off. "Bill took those back to DC, I'm almost certain. Probably locked up in his office. He had me box up your clothes and I shipped 'em to your landlady. She said she'd keep them at her place until you got home." "Then I guess my next stop is Hegal Place. Then on to Vegas. And I better get a move on," Mulder replied. "Hey, before you take off, how . . . how are you, really, Mulder? I mean, you're OK to take all this on, right? Because if you aren't up to this, I'd really be pissed if I helped you kill yourself, man." Mulder had to smile. It was the second time someone had concluded that he was suicidal in as many days. Their concern touched him, even if it was misplaced. "Jerry, I'm fine. Much better. Almost good as new. And besides, if I have to spend one more day cooped up in that pastel prison I've been forced to sleep in, I really might decide to do myself serious harm." "Just watch your back on this one, Big Guy. You know Patterson on a tear. You screw this up and you might find yourself doing Cub Scout meetings out of the Office of Public Information for the rest of your life," Jerry warned. "Don't give me nightmares, LaMana," Mulder shuddered in mock fear. "Take care, Jerry. I'll be in touch." He was putting his one small bag by the door when his mother arrived back home. "What are you doing?" she asked sternly. "Where were you, Mom?" he asked, trying to divert her attention. She glared at him, then took off her coat to hang it in the hall closet. "I had an appointment with my lawyer," she said haughtily. "Writing me out of the will?" Mulder dead panned. She spun on him, her eyes flashing, her entire look now turned completely serious, dangerous, even. "I was starting guardianship papers. I'm seeing a judge for a temporary commitment hearing this afternoon at one." His jaw dropped. "Mom," he said in disbelief and fear. "You have left me no options, Fox. I talked to Dr. Franklin again last night, after you collapsed." "I didn't collapse, Mom!" he interrupted. "I was exhausted, I went to bed. You were giving me the silent treatment and so I just went to bed . . ." She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "I asked him what my options were. I must admit, he did think this was a little drastic. But he was very up front with me. He said the moment he tried to move you in a direction that would help you, you ran for the door." Mulder shook his head, backed toward the wall. "It wasn't like that, Mom. I was never out of control. All my actions were well thought out and rational . . ." "Fox! I am only doing my job! My job as your mother. I have a responsibility to protect you, even if I'm protecting you from yourself," she said tersely. "If you fight me on this, you'll lose. I'll give the judge the records from before . . ." His stomach was a knot, his head reeling. His chest was tight, he couldn't breathe. Don't panic, he warned himself. Don't you dare pass out on her. "Mom, that was seventeen years ago. He won't care about that. I've passed psych exams at the FBI on several occasions. That's old news, Mom. Don't drag that up," he pleaded. A horn sounded outside the house. Mulder glanced out the door and realized it was the taxi he'd called. "Mom, I gotta go," he said grabbing his bag and backing toward the door. "Fox, I will not permit you to leave!" she shouted and stamped her foot. "Mom, that worked great when I was ten. Right now, I'm afraid it's just pissing us both off. I'll call later." "Where are you going? Fox, I want an answer! Where are you going?" she demanded, loudly, following him out to the curb. He got in the cab, tossed an apologetic look to the cabbie and gave him the destination. His mother was pounding on the window now, tears streaming down her face. The cabbie turned in his seat. "Messy divorce?" "Not exactly. Titanium apron strings," Mulder shrugged. The cabbie shook his head. "Can't take off with her poundin' on the door. I'll knock her on her ass if I do." Mulder sighed and rolled down the window. Teena Mulder was in near hysterics, screaming a mantra over and over. "Where are you going Just tell me where. Where are you going?" Neighbors were coming out front doors and staring from porches. "Home, Mom. I'm going home." She fell back as if slapped, but it was enough to allow the cab to move. Mulder wiped silently at his face, and forced himself not to glance at her image in the rear view mirror. He arrived at the airport with about 30 minutes to spare. The confrontation with his mother had left him with a decided buzz, wired on adrenaline. Fight or flight, he mused silent, he'd basically done both. But as the minutes stretched out, he knew that things were only going to get worse, possibly much worse, if he didn't get some assistance. When he decided who he could trust to help him, the selection surprised him. He went to the nearest pay phone and dialed a vaguely familiar number. "Bill Mulder." Apprehension, regret for making the call, and indecision all warred in Mulder's mind as he stood silently, holding the receiver up to his ear. "Is any one there?" He had to act. He just hoped that he was taking the right action. "Dad? Umm, it's Fox." "Fox? How are you feeling, son?" The concern in his father's voice confused him for a moment. His father had come to visit him once after he'd awakened from the coma in Portland, and that was to say goodbye. He had made no attempt to call him during the long days when his son was with his ex-wife. It sounded strange that he was interested in his son's welfare now. "I'm fine, Dad. Much better. Hey, um, I really need a favor." Mulder winced, he sounded like a seventeen year old asking to use the car to take his date to the prom. If only it were that simple. "What do you need, Fox?" The tone, which had been almost light, now darkened. Mulder tensed at the change, but forged ahead. "Mom is, uh, well, she's sort of . . . she's gone off the deep end, Dad," Mulder blurted out abruptly. "Her lawyer called me just a little while ago. Apparently she showed up at his office this morning and wanted to start commitment proceedings on your behalf." Mulder half-laughed at that. On his behalf. Yeah, right, he mused silently. "Dad, I'm not crazy." "I know. The lawyer called because he was afraid that you might decide to fight this action and would undoubtedly enlist my aid. I have to say, Fox, I saw this coming." Mulder's stomach dropped and his heart clenched. He knew it had been a slim chance that his father would see things his way. He almost missed the next words said to him over the phone line. "I told Dr. Sullivan that your mother had never been that good at dealing with you when you were ill. I wanted you to come home with me, but your mother wouldn't hear of it." Mulder swallowed around the dissolving lump in his throat. "What did you just say, Dad?" "I said I wanted to bring you home, here, to the Vineyard. But your mother insisted that you come with her. I figured that somewhere along the line she'd get a fool notion in her head. I just was a bit surprised when she actually took legal action." "What can I do?" Mulder almost whined. He hated this, he was pitting his parents against each other. Something else he didn't miss from his adolescence. "I've contacted John Harrison. You remember John, he's my lawyer. You met him the summer before you left for Oxford. Anyway, he's going to file an objection to the petition. He's going to need your approval, but he would like to have the FBI provide the court with your most recent evaluations. You are driven, no one is going to argue that. But with the types of commendations in your file, I don't think a seasoned judge will be willing to call you incompetent and incapable of making your own decisions. More than likely this will be chalked up to an overprotective mother. Now, I'll give you John's number, call him as soon as you can. He'll need you to contact the FBI to release the files he'll need." Mulder licked once dry lips and smiled into the phone as his father rattled off Harrison office phone number. "Dad, I don't know how to thank you," he said with a relieved sigh. "Think nothing of it, son. Your mother still regrets that she was, well, not as aware as she could have been while you were growing up. You're a grown man, now. You make your own decisions. She knows that, you just worried her and now she's not thinking straight. I'll call her myself later, see if I can't settle her down. Now, are you going back to DC?" Even as grateful as he felt, Mulder still couldn't get over the feeling that he shouldn't reveal too much to his father. The man had done about faces on him in the past, it would be the end of the line if he decided to betray him now. So Mulder answered with the abridged version. "Yeah, Dad. I'm going home. I'm gonna take it easy for a while, till my doctor OK's my return to active duty. I just . . ." "I understand, son. And, for the record, she means well," Bill Mulder said in an unusual display of honesty with his son. "Take care." "Yeah, Dad. You too." The plane was boarding as he hung up. He'd use a sky phone to call Harrison. He'd call EAP at the Bureau from his apartment. It would be a little out of the way, but if they needed him to sign any release forms, he could accomplish that on the way to National. He just hoped he'd get to Las Vegas before it was too late. end of part thirteen March 6, 1991 His apartment was cold. The landlady had apparently turned the heat down in his absence. He noted that the fish tank was devoid of life or even death. Another burial at sea, no doubt. When he got back from Vegas, or where ever, he'd have to remember to change the water and get more fish. It didn't take long to pack a bag. Basically he just changed the clothes out of his two suiter and put in fresh. His shaving bag was well equipped. He did condescend to pack his medications, he was nearing the last of the antibiotics, but he still needed the expectorant at times. He frowned when he discovered the mostly full bottle of antibiotics that he'd shoved in the bottom of the suitcase. If only he'd remembered to take the damned pills weeks ago, none of this would have happened. But then, that was the story of his life. If his parents hadn't left him in charge just a month after his twelfth birthday, his sister would have never been taken from their home. If he'd been a better son, had figured out how to hold it all together, his parents never would have divorced. So much of the tragedy that had happened in his life had just one source, himself. But such thoughts only served to drag him down, tire him out. He was getting tired, he had to admit to himself. He'd napped on the two hour ride down the coast. Now, he fully expected to nap his way out to Vegas. Digging into a trust his grandparents had left him, he went for broke and got a first class ticket. That would ensure his comfort, as well as a little more attention from the flight attendants in case he fell asleep and didn't make it off the plane at his destination. Fortunately, he didn't have to go to the Bureau. He had not relished going all the way out to Quantico and he really didn't want to trek down to the Hoover just to sign a release form. EAP was happy to make his record available to his lawyer and the court. As luck would have it, they didn't ask why it was necessary and that suited Mulder just fine. By 3:15, he was on his way to National and on to Nevada. As he'd expected, the flight attendant woke him up upon landing. Paramount Hotel and Casino The Strip Las Vegas, Nevada March 6, 1991, 5:35 pm Mulder stood in a long line of hotel patrons, waiting for their turn at the desk. The two women at the counter looked harried and frustrated. Occasionally, one or the other would go to the back and then come back out shaking their head. It took Mulder a full twenty minutes to get to the front of the line, and the people behind him were already discussing making alternative arrangements for their lodging. "Got a real backlog tonight," Mulder said casually as he handed over his Mastercard and filled out the address form. "We're short handed," sighed the desk clerk, a bleached blonde with fingernails almost longer than her eyelashes, which were more than long enough. "Oh, too bad. Somebody call in sick?" Mulder asked innocently. "The flu is hitting hard back east." "I have no idea," she blew out a whiff of breath to knock the dried and frizzled hair out of her eyes. "It's our night manager. He's never missed a day in his _life_. The man is obsessive. He even calls if there's an accident on the expressway that might make him a couple of minutes late." She snapped a piece of gum that had appeared in her mouth magically. "Don't have a clue what's gotten into him. We've tried his house. He doesn't have a cell phone." She rambled on autopilot, all the while taking Mulder's card and making the charge transaction. "Just sign here, please. The health club is open from 7 am to 11 pm, restaurant, coffee shop, and of course, the casino are open twenty-four hours a day. Oh, and if you show your room card to the bar tender, your first drink is on the house. Enjoy your stay at the Paramount," she fake smiled at him. "Um, Tracey," Mulder read off her polished gold plastic name tag, "I have one question. This is my first trip west and I'm a little, well, let's just say, cautious. I got mugged driving through the wrong part of Savannah, Georgia one time and that taught me a lesson. Do you have a map of the city, and could you sort of point out the places I should avoid? I get lost fairly easily and if I have an idea of where _not_ to go, I'll feel a little better." He gave her his best 'I'm cute and you know it' smile and a wink. She sighed and looked at the line that was growing geometrically behind him. Finally, it must have been the wink that got her. "Sure," she said easily and dug in a drawer of the counter. "Here's the city. This is the Strip. Anywhere along here is _completely_ safe, there are cops all over the place and private security guards at all the casinos. You never have to worry, no matter what time it is." "But there must be some, well, older section of town. Someplace that I should avoid at all costs?" Mulder prodded. Behind him, several people were voicing their frustration at the delay, loudly. Tracey looked at him, about ready to give him the heave ho. Finally, she stooped over, her ample cleavage brushing the top of the counter. "OK, now don't tell a soul I told you. I could get in real trouble if the management found out. We're not supposed to paint that kind of a picture of 'our fair city' if you know what I mean. But over here, where they're tearing down a couple of the older casinos, there's a lot of abandoned buildings. I hear that a lot of homeless people, bums, mostly, have taken up residence there. We can't get rid of 'em, I guess. They come for the winter and never leave. I wouldn't be caught _dead_ in that area." She stood up and smiled. "Now, if you have any further questions, Mr. Mulder, you can give us a call after you get to your room," she said, and turned her attention to the next person in line. Mulder did have one more question, but fortunately for him, it was answered by looking at a black and gold plaque on the wall next to the counter. The night manager's name was Allen Vespers. It was time to call in some help. "Danny, old buddy o' mine," Mulder said cheerfully into the phone. "What did you do to deserve graveyard duty?" "I'm doing a favor for a friend, Mulder. How're you doing? Mommy still tucking you in at night? Oh, hey, isn't it past your bedtime?" the researcher chuckled into the phone. "Sore subject, Danny. Hey, I need you to look up a name for me. I just need to know the usual, address, priors, and how long he's been employed at the Paramount. Allen Vespers. And was he always on night shift?" "Shouldn't take me that long. Do you want me to call you at the number you gave me before?" "No, call my cell," Mulder hurried to tell him. He'd blessed his landlady's sainted little heart when he discovered his cell phone, plugged into its charger on his desk at his apartment. After giving Danny the number, Mulder sat down with the map. He was glad he'd decided to rent a car at the airport. Taking a taxi to the area in question, and being dropped off with no possible means of escape seemed rather unwise to him. Not to mention deadly. He blew out a breath when he realized he was going in to a crime scene with no gun, no backup and no authorization or jurisdiction to speak of. Vigilante style. He didn't even have his ID to bail himself out if he got caught with a dead body and no witnesses. But he couldn't sit in his hotel room and do nothing. He had traveled all this way to take action, and action was exactly what he was going to take. Site of the old 'Golden Nugget Casino' Las Vegas 7:35 pm It was still warm outside. Warm enough to make him think it must be summer. And yet it was dark, as dark as midnight with a hundred billion stars overhead, if one averted their gaze from the glaring neon beacons of 'the Strip'. Here, Las Vegas from another age called. Bugsy Siegal and 'the boys' wandered as wraiths around the hollow shells of once royal temples built to worship the gods of pleasure. The desk clerk had warned him that 'bums' frequented the place, but he saw none as he broke through a desert rotted wood door and made his way into the building. The place looked empty, void of all life. Like the desert, which twinkled in the distance like a jewel in the night. The main room of the casino looked like a tomb. Large, laden with dust and sand from the broken windows that were once the front of the building. He almost expected to find a tumbleweed rolling across the rotting carpet. That thought brought a hysterical laugh to his lips, but he fought it down. The main casino wasn't the place he was looking for, anyway. There had to be rooms, apartments. He wandered toward the back of the open hall and found a bank of elevators and next to them, a set of stairs closed off by a heavy wooden door. The beam of his flashlight bounced off the walls for the stairway, making monsters and ghosts out of the peeling wallpaper which hung in strips and threatened to take form which would reach out and grab him. He shook his head. Normally, he wasn't that easy to scare. Then again, normally, he had the full faith and might of the Federal Bureau of Investigation backing him up on his efforts. He had men in flak jackets with weapons worthy of an Armageddon just waiting for his word, his signal to come in and level any danger he might encounter. Maybe his mother was right. Maybe he had gone off the deep end and sunk like a rock. Maybe he was being too reckless. He'd almost decided to go back down, get in his car and drive to the nearest casino where he'd blow a week's pay at some blackjack table then call it a night. But as his foot stepped off the last step, a dark foreboding slammed into him. It was almost tangible. He could taste it, smell it, feel it. It felt like fear, death, anger and incredible agony all rolled up into one. No way was he turning back now. He swallowed hard then looked around for something he could use to defend himself. A piece of molding, heavy wood, like teak or mahogany was lying on the floor near his feet. He picked it up, swung it around him like a good piece of lathed ash with a bone finish and deemed it worthy of a fight. He wished he'd brought a stronger flashlight. One of the new ones that he'd seen a couple of the field agents carry. But he hefted his trusty hardware store special and danced it around the corridor. There were doors on either side. Most of them open. He glanced in them as he walked by slowly. None of them called out to him. The door at the end seemed to stand in invitation. "Why is it always the _last_ door in the hall?" he muttered to himself, more to dispel the fear in his gut than to try and reason an answer. His breath was coming in short, staccato pants. He wondered how much of it was because he didn't use his inhaler or if he could attribute all of it to the terror that wouldn't let his neck muscles relax. He wasn't even sure which reason would be the more comforting. He was steps away from the door when he absently reached to the back of his belt for his gun and cursed softly to remember that it wasn't there. Gripping the molding-turned-ball bat one handed and over his shoulder, he moved as silently as possible up to the door. He shined the flashlight into the room, finding what had once been a sitting room of a small suite. Cautiously, he moved the rest of the way into the room. Instantly, he felt transported into his dream. Same tattered and faded wallpaper, same rat's nests scattered over the hardwood floor. From a distance, the Strip blared its shining presence into the room. A beam of light cut through the night and invaded the windows, eerily illuminating the room for a second, no more. He realized that it was one of the lights from the airport just outside the city. He turned slowly toward the door he knew to be just off to the left. Cold dread was pounding in his veins. More than anything he wanted to walk into that room beyond the door and find it empty, with rat leavings on the floor and nothing else. It was a fleeting hope and he knew that it was futile. As he crept toward the room, he saw the pool of liquid that spread out from an unseen area behind the door. It was dark, like sweet red wine. He clenched his eyes shut. Again, he hoped that it was the last refuge of an aging gambler, a bottle of Lambrusco dropped from senseless fingers after the wino had finally passed out. He stooped, but stopped himself from touching the liquid. Upon closer inspection, he knew it wasn't wine or even paint. It was blood. He swung the door out of the way, and shined his light upon the body. Allen Vespers. His name tag identified him even if Mulder hadn't already figured it out. Dead. Wrists sliced deeply, up the arm to ensure that the blood didn't clot and the wound close before the task was completed. Mulder fought his stomach as it rolled and threatened to overcome his efforts at detachment. He'd seen death before. He'd even been the first at a crime scene before. He'd never been this close to saving a life before. If only he'd gotten an earlier flight . . . He was pondering his own inadequacies when a foul wind blew past him and slammed the door shut, jarring the casing. He started at the sound, loud as a gunshot and even closer to his ear. Remembering his trusty piece of wood, he shoved his flashlight in his mouth and took the weapon in a two handed batter's stance. He let himself consider how ridiculous he probably looked, holding the flashlight in his mouth with a stupid piece of wood for protection, but just then, the wind blew up again and slammed his body against the door, hard. The wind, if that's what it was, seemed to have form, substance. And more than enough power to over come a man basically not long from a sickbed. Mulder stamped down on the panic that almost caused him to lose any control and struggled against the door and the wind pinning him. Something was enclosing his throat, pressing on his larynx and cutting off precious air. He was gasping for breath, struggling with a reserve of strength he didn't know or hope to have. A light cut through the darkened room, a car's light from somewhere nearby. The wind, the form, dropped back as if burned and Mulder collapsed to the floor, unconscious. 8:07 pm "EMT's on the way, Dave," a voice spoke in the darkness. "How about the ME's wagon?" came another voice, deeper, more authoritative. "Yup. Should be here soon." Silence for a moment, then a cleared throat shattered the quiet. "Whaddya figure happened. He 'off' the guy?" "I don't know. I doubt it. There was someone else here. He's got ligature marks on his throat. Possible that whoever killed this guy went after that one, too. But then, this guy looks like a textbook poster boy for a suicide. And the razor is still in his hand." "Coulda been planted there," supplied the first voice. "Yeah, I guess. We won't know till we get forensics up here, dust the place for prints. And the ME might be able to tell us more. Hey, that guy breathing at all?" Mulder felt something at his neck, two fingers pressed against his throat. "Yeah, he's got a pulse, too. Breathin' don't sound too good, but he's still alive." "Maybe he can tell us something. Hey, I hear the ambulance. Go down and show the way up." Mulder wanted to open his eyes, find out who the hell was interrupting his sleep and how they got into his room, but the darkness decided to whisk him away for a little while longer. end of part fourteen Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part fifteen of twenty-five St. Martin de Porres Medical Center Las Vegas, Nevada March 7, 1991 1:45 am The sheets were the first clue. They were stiff and smelled of bleach and something indescribable, but that could only be found in a hospital. The fact that he was lying between such sheets, with one of those uncomfortable little tubes in his nose clued him to the idea that something bad had happened again. He was just about to go back to sleep and worry about it in the morning when he heard a voice calling his name. "Mr. Mulder? Fox Mulder? Wake up, Mr. Mulder. It's all right, you're safe. You're in a hospital." The voice sounded real nice, but Mulder wanted to inform it that he never considered hospitals to be _safe_ places and certainly not when he got there without his knowledge or permission. All that seemed like too much work, so he just appeased the voice by opening his eyes. And stared right into the face of a nun. He blinked and forced his mind to work on this riddle. Did the fact that a nun woke him up mean he was dead, or just in a really bad way? The good sister seemed to understand his confusion and gave him a comforting smile. "I'm Sister Elise. I'm the floor nurse. You're at St. Martin's Hospital. You've caused us quite a bit of concern, young man. But the doctor has assured us that you are really much better than you looked when you came in." Mulder struggled to sit up in the bed and Sr. Elise raised the head of the bed to accommodate him. He swallowed and winced, she quickly handed him a cup of water and a straw. "How . . . did I get here?" he asked after a couple of good sips of the water. He felt so dry, like the moisture was being sucked out of his body by the desert air. But he was in air conditioning or so he assumed. "You were found at the scene of a suicide tonight. There was no one else there, just a poor man who'd taken his own life . . ." "No, sister, you don't understand. I have to talk to the police," Mulder rushed to explain and paid for it when his lungs balked at his movement and started closing up on him. He started to cough and Sr. Elise waited him out. "Well, we'll have to ask the doctor if you're OK to have visitors, but yes, the detectives who brought you in are still waiting to speak with you." Mulder nodded and leaned back on the pillows. Sr. Elise stepped out into the hall and was followed back in by a young man in scrubs. "Ah, Mr. Mulder. My mystery for the evening. I must say, you had me a bit concerned until one of the ER nurses found your father's business card in your wallet. I spoke with your father. He filled me in on your illness and the hotel was kind enough to look for your medication so we didn't do you any further damage." "You knew where I was staying?" Mulder asked, his forehead furrowed and hurting. "You had the receipt in your wallet, along with your room card key. Since your father was certain you were on medication for the pneumonia, we needed to find out what you were still taking and quickly. Don't worry, hotel security entered the room and made sure everything was left exactly where they found it. All part of the service here in LV," he smiled broadly. "Now, about visitors. There are a couple of LVPD detectives outside who insist on speaking with you. Are you up for that or would you rather I told them to come back in the morning?" "You're keeping me until morning?" Mulder tried not to whine. "I'm afraid so. You were unconscious for several hours, you were having difficulty breathing in the ambulance and upon arrival. You're larynx is bruised and generally, you're in need of some serious sleep. You give a new meaning to the words 'jet lag', Mr. Mulder. You need to rest, and let us monitor you for a while. Your father said that if you tried to override my orders, I was to contact him and he'd be in contact with a Mr. Harrison to 'change directions', I believe were his exact words. Now, what will it be, talk to the police now or in the morning?" "Now. I think now would be fine. They've been waiting this long, I don't want them to have to come back in the morning," he assured the doctor. Two men entered, making a point to show their badges as they stood respectfully at the end of the bed. "Agent Mulder, welcome to Las Vegas," said the first, who Mulder recognized as the second voice he'd heard at the old casino. "You've got me at a disadvantage, guys," Mulder said tiredly. "Sorry, I'm Detective Bob Tanner and this is Detective Larry Carpenter. We found you tonight at the old Gold Nugget. We'd just like to ask you a few questions." "Go ahead." Mulder leaned back in his pillows and willed his head to stop pounding. "First and foremost, could you tell us how you managed to be on the second floor of an abandoned building with a dead body?" Bob asked, flipping open his notebook. "And for the record, we've been in contact with the FBI in Washington. According to your superior, you're on medical leave." "That's right, I am," Mulder said evenly. "To answer your question, I . . . I had a hunch." "A hunch?" Nelson asked, licking his lips. "A hunch that you'd find . . . what?" "A murderer," Mulder said, not dropping his gaze from the older man's face. He could see the look of disbelief as it spread across Nelson's features. "According to the ME, Allen Vespers died of blood loss from self-inflicted wounds to both wrists. He wasn't murdered. Now, want to give me the real reason you were there?" "The murderer wants it to appear to be a suicide," Mulder sighed with exasperation. "And this isn't the first time it's killed. As a matter of fact, there have been at least four people killed in the same manner." Nelson and Carpenter exchanged looks. "We spoke with your supervisor, an Agent Patterson. Pulled him out of bed, actually. He seemed to think that you might be working under a, well, misconception about a case he claims was solved. You believe the killer is still at large. Is that what this is about?" Mulder nodded, chewing on his upper lip. "Agent Patterson thinks Abigail Crown, the second victim in Oregon, was the killer we'd been searching for. In reality, I believe she was being stalked by the real killer. And now that she's dead, the killer is still out there, still committing murder." "Agent Mulder, you were 'attacked' at the scene. You have marks on your throat and your larynx was bruised. Did the killer attack you?" Carpenter asked, speaking up for the first time since entering the room. "I believe so," Mulder said with a nod of his head. "Can you give us a description?" Nelson asked, putting pen to notebook again. Mulder sat there for a moment. This would be the hard part. He knew that the 'assailant' was not like anything he'd ever seen. He also doubted that the two detectives standing before him had enough imagination between the two of them to follow any description he would give them. "I didn't see my attacker," he said quietly. That much was true, there'd been nothing to see. Everything had been feeling, not sight. "Caught you by surprise?" Nelson asked. "But do you have any idea of height, did he weigh more, was he stronger than you?" "I've been sick, it wouldn't take much to be stronger than me at the moment," Mulder said with a lopsided grin. "No, I'm sorry, I can't give you a description. But I can tell you this, it won't kill again in Las Vegas." Nelson cocked his head at the use of the pronoun 'it', but didn't pursue it. Instead, he blew out a breath. "Well, that's _real_ reassuring," he said dryly. "So we have an apparent suicide which you think is a murder, an assailant with no description, and you were at the scene of the crime before police arrived." "If I can ask, how did you arrive? I mean, have you been patrolling that area regularly?" Mulder asked. "A patrol car spotted your rental in the parking lot. They were on their way to one of the casinos at the time, so they called dispatch and we came out to check on it. Heard some shuffling upstairs and went up to take a look. When we walked in, you were unconscious about five feet from Vesper's body. I gotta tell you, at first, you were the prime suspect," Nelson said, and in the sub text as much as told Mulder that he still might be a suspect. "What changed your minds?" "ME reported that Vespers had been dead at least three hours. And, as we found out by checking you out, you were in the air at that time. We have you pretty much accounted for the entire evening. Of course," Nelson said with a fake smile, "those things are always up for grabs." He flipped his book closed and tucked it in his jacket pocket. "Let us know before you leave town, won't you?" "Absolutely," Mulder said agreeably. The last thing he needed was being accused of a murder on top of everything else going on. "Well, you look beat and the doc said we only got ten minutes, so we'll let you get some rest. Call us if you remember anything, especially about the assailant," Nelson said with a smile. The three men shook hands. Nelson and Carpenter left and Mulder tried to find a comfortable spot on the stiff sheets so he could finally fall asleep. But as tired as he was, sleep would not come. He laid there in the darkened room, thinking back on the events of the night. In his dream, it had been a shadow which attacked him. In reality, he didn't see anything, just felt the wind and then the ghostly hands on his throat. And the dead body at his feet. If he'd been faster, he might have prevented Vespers' death. The man had died while he was still en route, on an airplane, fast asleep. He might as well have stayed in DC. He sighed heavily. Four days. That's how much time he had to get to Sacramento, canvass the Capitol City Hotel and figure out who was likely to be the next victim. He profiled dangerous individuals for a living, how hard could it be to pick out a guy who liked a 'little on the side'? So far Abigail seemed to go after guys who were in long standing relationships. Or completely losers. He might even find himself on her target list. His left arm found it's way over his eyes, and he struggled to keep his breathing even, to relax and find sleep. There was no way he was going to be able to function in Sacramento if he was totally wiped out. And after this encounter, he knew he'd need all the strength he could muster. With that thought, he finally allowed sleep to sneak up and take him. St. Martin de Porres Medical Center March 7, 1991 10:15 am When he'd fallen asleep, he slept for a long time. Not even the nurses' comings and goings had managed to rouse him. It was his stomach that woke him up. Lazily, he yawned and stretched. He'd been in the hospital so much lately, he was more comfortable there than he'd been in his motel room. Looking around, he found the bathroom, cleaned himself up a bit and was crawling back into bed when the nurse entered. "Mr. Mulder! Finally decided to join us, did you? Good morning," she said cheerfully. "I'm Terrie, your nurse. You slept through breakfast, but I think I can scrounge up some cereal and milk, if you're interested?" "Very interested," Mulder replied around the thermometer in his mouth. When she removed the offending object and he had a chance to swallow, he winced and remembered why he was there. "And coffee? I need something hot for this throat." "Decaf, and it's a deal," she said with a wink. "Oh, your father called about a half an hour ago. We told him you were sleeping. He wanted to make sure that you called him sometime this morning." He thought about putting it off, he really wasn't ready for an 'I can't believe you do these things' speech from his father. But that would only delay the inevitable, and as long as he was in a hospital bed, he could feign exhaustion and keep the conversation short. He glanced over to the phone by his bedside. "Can I make a calling card call from this phone?" Terrie nodded happily. "Dial 0 to get the switchboard and they can help you make the call. I'll go see about that coffee and some cereal." Mulder dialed and waited. After a couple of rings, his father's voice echoed over the line. "Bill Mulder." "Dad, it's me, Fox. Look, I'm really sorry . . ." "Fox. Do you have any idea how disturbed I was to find out you were not in Washington last night? Not to mention getting a phone call at midnight telling me you'd been brought into an Emergency Room in Las Vegas, unconscious? What in heaven's name possessed you to go to Las Vegas to begin with? It's a good thing the hospital contacted me and not your mother. You'd be in seven point restraint right now if she had any idea of what you've done!" "Dad, look, I'm sorry. I know I should have mentioned to you that I was going out of town . . ." "Fox, this is very serious business with your mother and her lawyer. She is quite convinced that you are acting irrationally. Now, how do you propose you build a decent defense when you run off and not tell anyone, then end up in the hospital? What is so important in Nevada that it couldn't have waited a couple of days until this matter was settled?" his father demanded. "Dad, I said I was sorry. And it was important for me to come out here. Dad, there was another murder. Last night. A night manager at the Paramount Hotel. He was killed in an old abandoned casino scheduled to be demolished soon. I found the body, Dad. I was too late. If I'd gotten here just three hours earlier, the same three hours I wasted in DC getting things arranged with EAP," he said through clenched teeth, "that man would still be alive." Bill Mulder drew in a deep breath, or maybe had just lit up another cigarette, his son was never certain which. "How did he die?" "Razor to both wrists." "That sounds like a suicide, son. It sure doesn't sound like murder." Mulder rubbed his forehead wearily. He was going to go through this same argument until he had some kind of proof, some kind of physical evidence. "Dad, please, listen to me. That is the killer's MO. He, she, it makes it look like a suicide. But it isn't. Certain men are being targeted. I know the criteria, but I don't know which men match that criteria. I'm close, Dad, I'm so fucking close." He held back a sob. Why was it his father could always reduce him to tears, just like he did so often as a teenager. "Well, that's for the FBI to worry about, Fox. Right now, you have much greater worries. Your mother's lawyer had scheduled a hearing for day after tomorrow. You have to appear so that the judge can make a preliminary decision." "Dad, I can't come home, yet. I have to be in Sacramento," Mulder rasped into the phone. His voice, already traumatized by the night before, was almost gone. "Son, if you fail to show up at that hearing, the judge will issue a warrant. It doesn't matter that you are being judged incompetent, they will hunt you down and bring you back. And Harrison will more than likely walk away from this matter as soon as possible. You'll be making their case for them, don't you understand that?" his father growled. "I thought you were going to talk to her, Dad. Make her see reason?" Mulder rasped, tired of the fight, tired of his life, just wanting to crawl in a hole and not come out again. "Son, I haven't been able to hold a civil discussion with your mother for seventeen years. And when you're concerned, we often come to blows. You know that. She's still angry that I encouraged you to apply to Oxford. And she's never forgiven me for not stopping your application to the FBI." Mulder the younger had frequently wondered about that, as well. His father had been anything but encouraging when young Fox had come home the first summer after classes to announce his decision to enter the school of psychology. But when the FBI had come knocking, a week before graduation, Bill Mulder had been all smiles, or as close as he'd come in a dozen years. It confused his son then and it was continuing to confuse him now. "Dad, there has to be something you can do. I thought Harrison was filing an objection." "That's what the preliminary hearing is about, son. And that's why it is vitally important that you be there. Do _not_ screw this up, Fox. It very well could mean your freedom." Mulder closed his eyes, wishing for the unconsciousness that had blanketed him the night before. Unfortunately, it didn't come. "I'll be there, Dad. I'll figure out a way, and I'll be there. Have Harrison call my cell phone with the time and place and I'll show up, looking as sane as possible," he added with a deep sigh. "Just keep up appearances, Fox. That's all that's required." And with that, but no further inquiry on his health, his father hung up the phone. end of part fifteen Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part sixteen of twenty-five NOTE: In 1991, Weber was the Director of the FBI and Barr was the Attorney General under Pres. George Bush. You'll be quizzed on that information later St. Martin de Porres Medical Center March 7, 1991 His doctor was by just before noon, and cut him loose. But not until after he promised to stay away from abandoned buildings, avoid smoky casinos, and spend the rest of his stay on a lounge chair next to the hotel pool, with plenty of sun block. Mulder kept his fingers of his left hand crossed as he shook the good doctor's hand and received his release from St. Martin's. When he got back to the hotel, he started throwing clothes in the suitcase with one hand and dialing his cell phone with the other. Danny answered on the second ring. "Hey, buddy, it's a ghost from your past," Mulder said lightly into the phone as he zipped up his suit bag. "Shit! I hope this line isn't traced," came the not so welcoming reply. "Damnit, Mulder, I could get my ass canned for just talking to you right now!" "Why? What happened?" Mulder asked, dropping the bag by the door, his full attention on the conversation. "Patterson is on the warpath, man! I don't know what the hell you did, but he's been in meetings all morning. Blevins, Skinner, hell, maybe even the Director and the AG himself. You are in a shit pile so deep, they're considering you for an archeological dig! Look, I can _not_ help you. At this point, I don't know anybody in the Bureau who can. Just get your ass back here and throw some water on this fire before you end up on the ten most wanted, got it?" "Got it," Mulder said, his stomach knotting as he disconnected the line. "Great. Just fucking great!" he fumed, picking up his bag and leaving the room. He pondered his situation on the plane ride home. If Danny had been that worried about what Patterson was doing, that meant Reggie was undoubtedly sitting with his hands tied as well. And because of their partnership, there were sure to be people watching Jerry LaMana. Mulder closed his eyes and tried to think. There had to be someone, someone outside the Bureau, who could help him on this one. When the thought finally came, he groaned. "Lone Gun Man," came the cheerful greeting over the phone line. Mulder had fretted over the decision to call in his three acquaintances the entire flight back east. But after all that internal debate, he realized he had no choice. That alone terrified him beyond all rational thought. "Langly, it's Mulder. Turn off the tape." "Aw, man, Mulder, can I just . . . I mean, Frohike just installed this really cool piece of . . . "Turn _off_ the tape, Ringo. _Now_!" "It's off, it's off. Shit, what has a bee in your bonnet?" "I need your help and you have no idea how much that scares me. I'm gonna be at your place in about 45 minutes." "Cool. Hey, we'll order pizza. We can eat and talk over your problem at the same time." Mulder couldn't stop the smile that tugged at his lips. As much as he hated to admit it, he really had come to like the nut cases he'd met almost two years before on a case in Baltimore. But he wasn't sure if even they could help him this time. Mulder didn't waste any time stopping by his apartment. Secretly, he worried that Patterson might have the place under surveillance and have some agents instructed to bring him to the Hoover Building once he made an appearance. So he picked up his car in the airport parking lot and drove directly to a seedy part of southeast DC known as Anacostia. The apartment building was a three flat and had seen better days when Civil War troops ringed the city. He made his way up the creaking and groaning staircase, dodging little pockets of mice nests littering the way. When he reached the third floor, he knocked loudly on the door. He stood patiently, staring at the cracked paint and listening to a dozen dead bolts being thrown. The door opened with an ear shattering squeal. A man several inches shorter than Mulder smiled at him immediately and dragged him into the room, then stuck his head out the doorway and looked right and left, for anyone who might have been watching. "Mulder, you beat Dominos!" the little man said happily, pounding Mulder on the back. "Hi, Frohike," Mulder said, holding back a grimace, his back was still pretty sore. Two other men entered the room, each with welcoming smiles. "Mulder, we'd heard through the grapevine that you've been sick," said the tall man with black rimmed glasses and a blond hair that hung past his shoulders. "You heard right, Langly. Pneumonia." "And you're back to work already?" inquired the other man who looked distinctly out of place, dressed in business attire and sporting a neatly trimmed beard and moustache. "Not really, Byers. I'm . . . uh, . . . looking into something. Unofficially." All three men exchanged glances, communicating silently. "You came to the right place," Frohike announced with a grin. "C'mon, have a seat. We got some brewskis here somewhere. Pizza would have been here already, but Snow White forgot you hate anchovies." "Hey, I forgot, already! Give it a rest, 'Melvin'," Langly growled, then turned his attention to pulling beers out of the refrigerator. Over pizza Mulder outlined, briefly, what he was investigating and why he needed his friends' help. "So, basically, you know this guy, killer, whatever, is gonna show up in Sacramento, kill somebody who works at the Capitol City Hotel and then vanish into thin air until they show up four days later and kill someone who works at some motel in Carson City? Why don't you just tell every guy at the Capitol City and the motel in Carson City to take a vacation, stay home, lock the doors?" "It's not that simple, Langly," Mulder replied, folding another piece of pizza in half and shoving a full third of it in his mouth. With the first bite, he thought he'd died and gone to heaven, it had been almost six weeks since he'd had pizza. "What's wrong with just tellin' 'em, Mulder?" Frohike prodded. Mulder chewed and swallowed, then wiped his mouth on a napkin. "I have no backing, guys. It just me, Spooky Fox Mulder, going in there and scaring law abiding citizens with a half baked theory dreamed up while I was operating under a high fever. The Bureau isn't going to back me, no police department in the country is going to listen to me, and with my Mom and her lawyer breathing down my neck . . ." He stopped abruptly, he didn't really want to go into the more private problems he was facing. Frohike picked up on his sudden change. "What's your mom got to do with this? And why does she have a lawyer involved?" he asked, eyes narrowed and glaring. Mulder picked at the rest of his slice of pizza. "I was staying with Mom when I got back from Oregon. The doctors didn't think I should stay by myself, I was in pretty bad shape." "I gotta tell ya, Mulder. You've looked a hellava lot better, man," Langly interrupted. He yelped when Frohike's foot connected with his knee under the table. "Well, he has!" Langly exclaimed defensively. "I may look like shit, but I look a hundred times better than I did, guys. Really, I'm OK. Scouts honor," Mulder assured them all. "But my Mom got it in her head that I'm . . . well, . . . obsessing over this case." "She hasn't spent much time around you since you joined the FBI, has she?" Frohike snorted. "Yeah, Mulder. You've turned obsessive-compulsive behavior into an art form, man," Langly chimed in. "Be that as it may, your mother has hired a lawyer to have you committed?" Byers asked, cutting the other two off with a way of his hand. "Basically," Mulder said, nodding sourly. "Shit. That sucks," Langly sighed. "The big one," Frohike agreed. "So what are you doing? I mean, you have to get that settled, Mulder. If she presses on with her action, you might end up in a padded cell and they are _really_ hard to get out of," Byers said seriously. "Besides, you weren't too happy the last time you were in five point restraints," he added softly. Mulder rubbed his eyes with one hand. "Don't remind me," he sighed heavily. "Look, I can deal with my mother. What I need from you guys is help on the case. Not much, just get me the names and addresses of all the men who worked night shift at the Capitol City Hotel one year ago today. So far the killer has only gone after men who are currently still employed at the various motels, but I don't want to overlook the obvious. And I need to know if any of them are in 'rocky' relationships. Or new relationships, since last year." "Oh, gee, Mulder, give us something hard," Langly sneered sarcastically. "How the hell are we gonna do that? You don't tend to find that information on the internet, you know!" "I can find it out," Frohike said cryptically. "How much time do we have?" Mulder wiped his hands on the napkin and finished the rest of his beer. "Two days. Exactly, if I'm going to have enough time to warn the guy." "What are you going to be doing?" Byers asked. "Keeping my ass out of a straight jacket," Mulder replied and left the three men to their own devices. Arlington, VA March 7, 1991 10:34 pm Mulder arrived at his apartment and started to put the key in the lock. The door pushed open effortlessly. He sighed, hoping he'd just forgotten to lock it in his haste to get to the airport the day before. "Fox, where have you been?" A single light in his living room cast shadows on the walls and the leather sofa where his father and another man sat watching him. "Dad." Mulder put his bags down by the door and shrugged out of his coat, hanging it on the coat tree in the hall. "Your landlady let us in. I knew what flight you took from Nevada. It arrived hours ago. Where have you been?" Mulder drew in a deep breath, filing away the fact that his father was keeping track of him. "I had to visit some friends. I left something at their place and I stopped by to get it on the way home." "I hope it was a reasonable explanation for your recent behavior, son," his father intoned. Mulder said nothing, just looked over at the other man. He looked familiar. "You must be Mr. Harrison. We spoke on the phone yesterday. Nice to see you again, sir," Mulder said politely, holding out his hand to the older man to shake. "Well, Bill, if he keeps up the front, we might just survive the hearing," Harrison grunted, but accepted the offered handshake. "You've been working hard at making my quota of billable hours this month, young man. Now, why don't you sit down and you and I can figure out how to get you out of this mess you've gotten yourself into." Mulder obeyed, choosing to sit in the armchair across from the sofa. "So, what's been going on? I thought you were filing an objection?" Harrison smiled ruefully. "Yes, and the court would have granted it immediately, except no one was able to locate you to answer any questions. Running off to Nevada without leaving word . . ." "Last time I checked, Mr. Harrison, I was an emancipated adult. I can go to Nevada, or Paris, France, if it suits me," Mulder interrupted. "Fox, that will be enough!" Bill growled from the doorway to the kitchen, where he'd gone to make coffee. Harrison's smile grew oily and he held up his hand. "That's all right, Bill. Let him get that out of his system here. I'll explain to him in a moment how that will not do him any favors tomorrow." "What's tomorrow?" Mulder asked, suddenly taking an interest in the discussion. "Tomorrow, you are to appear before Judge Crowder, a family court judge in Greenwich. She'll be presiding over the preliminary hearing." "I told you about that, Fox," his father said with a warning look to his eyes. "Oh, yeah, I remember," Mulder replied absently. So much was going on, he was starting to lose track of things, and that never happened to him. He brushed aside the panic rush he felt and looked at Harrison again. "So when is this hearing and how long will it take. I need to get out to California day after tomorrow." Harrison raised his eyes brows. "The hearing is set for 2:00. And why, may I ask, do you need to go out to California on the 9th?" "The annual FBI 'Orgy at Golden Gate Park'. I never miss it," Mulder said with complete lack of expression. "Oh, for god's sakes!" his father muttered angrily. "Fox, let me give you a little advice," Harrison said through a smile that looked more like a grimace. "You are in serious trouble at the moment. A good defense attorney can get a guilty man acquitted, but _nobody_ can save a man from a padded cell if that man insists on 'acting' crazy. Do you understand what I'm telling you? You can just forget California, forget anything else you might be planning. You are to remain here, in this apartment, or somewhere within walking distance, unless you are accompanied by myself or your father. Now, if you refuse to agree to that, let me know this moment, so I can inform the court I will not be handling this case." Mulder let out a deep breath. He felt that he was at the bottom of a deep well and the sides were caving in. He knew that he needed Harrison, his father was always saying the man was as good as they came. He also knew that if Harrison walked, so would his father, and more than likely come to some accord with his mother concerning the matter of his competency. With Patterson on the warpath, he'd get no further help from the Bureau, and they would probably agree to pay for his institutionalization based on a worker's comp claim of severe burnout. He was seriously screwed, no matter which way he turned. "I agree," he said solemnly. Then hoped it would all work out. This time, Harrison's smile appeared genuine. "Good, then. I'm staying at the Washington Hilton. There's a flight out to Greenwich at 11:30 tomorrow morning, at National. I'll meet you at United Express, gate 34. I'll have your ticket with me." The older man held out his hand and Mulder took it, shaking it firmly. "We'll get you out of this, son. Just watch your 'peas and cues' tomorrow, all right?" "Yes, sir," Mulder answered with a nod. His father left without a word. Mulder threw himself down on his couch and sighed. Somehow, his once ordered existence had been replaced by sheer chaos and he had no idea how to get his life back. The shadow of a blinking red light on the wall caused him to look around for a source. His answering machine was blinking, four messages. He dragged himself up to hit the play button, then sank back down on the couch. "Mulder, it's Bill Patterson. What the _fuck_ to you think you're doing? Call me, I'm at the office!" The next two were more of the same. Reggie, calling to warn him that Patterson was after his ass, and even Danny telling him to be sure and call the office as soon as possible. The fourth was Harrison, trying to set up a meeting for that afternoon to discuss the hearing. Mulder glanced at the clock on the desk. Eleven oh four. Patterson never left the office before midnight, unless he was out in the field. Mulder pulled himself up again, and hit three on his speed dial. "Patterson." "Bill, it's Mulder." "Well, the Ghost that Walks," Bill said sarcastically. "Where the fuck have you been, Mulder? No, don't answer that. Let _me_ tell _you_. You've been sticking your skinny ass where it doesn't belong, that's where you've been. I've got two detectives in Nevada ready to come out and be material witnesses in this little soap opera drama your mother is hosting. I got everyone from Blevins to Weber to Barr wanting to know why the hell I can't keep a tight lid on my agents, and I'm sitting here trying for the life of me to decide if you're worth all the bother. You know what I've decided, Mulder? You're not!" Bill bellowed on, not stopping for breath. "It killed another one, Bill," Mulder said softly, quietly into the phone. "You mean you correctly predicted another suicide, don't you, Mulder? You know, that doesn't speak very well of your own mental health," Bill sneered. "So what was it this time, a vision while you were on the crapper?" "Bill, listen to me, please," Mulder begged. "I know you don't think I have a clue here, but I've known what cities, known what hotels, this time I even correctly predicted the site. I'm narrowing in on this thing, Bill. I'll have it by the time it strikes in Sacramento." "Mulder, listen to yourself? 'By the time _it_ strikes.' It's either a him or a her, Mulder. That's the first rule of profiling. You don't know squat if you know the gender! And for the rest of it, you've just been damned lucky!" "Look, Bill, I don't know that it has a gender," Mulder's words rushed out before he had a chance to think them through. "I mean, I, what I saw, or rather, what I felt . . ." "Mulder, I'm only going to tell you this one more time. If you continue to investigate this without authorization, I will have you arrested, do I make myself clear. And when your doctor decides you're able to return to work, you'll be facing a full psych workup from _our_ shrinks, Mulder. You'll be very lucky if they don't super glue you to a desk for the remainder of your time with the Bureau. Now, go back to recuperating and leave the police work to those capable of it. Is that clear?" Mulder closed his eyes, his jaw clenched in anger. "Clear as glass, sir." In a muttered voice he added "Kiss my ass, sir," and hung up the phone. end of part sixteen. Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part seventeen of twenty-five National Airport Washington, DC March 8, 1991 10:45 am Mr. Harrison had been true to his word, and was waiting at the gate for Mulder's arrival. Mulder had spent a sleepless night, tossing and turning on his couch in his apartment. Too many thoughts battled for attention in his mind to allow him to seek any rest. When the morning came, he was more tired than when he'd first laid down his head. Mulder had been at the airport in plenty of time. He struggled to focus his thoughts on the upcoming hearing. As a psychology student, he'd learned about competency hearings. Usually, they involved older individuals, or those suffering from mental illnesses so severe as to make them a danger to themselves or others. As an FBI agent, he'd been called before the court to testify as to the criminal psychoses of some of the people he had helped arrest. But this was the first time he would be sitting on the other side of the table. Harrison had wanted to discuss the proceeding on the plane. Mulder had tried to listen, but pretty much tuned Harrison out. For the most part, it would be a battle of lawyers, with his mother's lawyer calling upon statements by Franklin and even Sullivan in Oregon, and Harrison relying on Mulder's FBI evaluations as well as the various commendations from his jacket. Hopefully, the Federal Government would be all the backing he'd need. It wasn't a long flight, but Mulder felt himself nodding off. Finally, Harrison's droning voice as he read from Mulder's personnel jacket, lulled the agent to sleep. "Fox, we're landing," Harrison said firmly, shaking Mulder's shoulder. Mulder blinked awake, then yawned and stretched as much as the commuter craft would allow. "Sorry, I didn't get much sleep last night." "Well, I was hoping we could go over some of these items in your file," Harrison said testily. "But we have time before we're supposed to be at the courthouse. Let's get some lunch and find a quiet corner to talk." They ended up at Manero's, a restaurant not far from the courthouse. Mulder let his eyes wander over the menu, but settled for a cup of coffee. Harrison ordered a full meal consisting of a steak sandwich and a Greek salad with feta cheese. He looked guiltily over at Mulder when the food arrived. "You really should eat something," he scolded the younger man. "Do you charge extra for being concerned about my health?" Mulder snipped from behind his coffee cup. Harrison put down his fork and gave Mulder a hard look. "You don't like me very much. Should I be personally offended, or just offended for my profession?" Mulder dropped his eyes to the table. "I'm sorry. I'm used to being on the opposite side in this kind of case. I'm the guy trying to take the nut case off the street, either through commitment or imprisonment. Doesn't bother me which. Actually, it's almost harder to get out of an involuntary commitment than it is to get parole." "You're absolutely right. Which is why this hearing is so important. It's what I was trying to tell you last night," Harrison said, returning to his meal. "So, what were you going to do in California tomorrow? Before I talked some sense into you." Mulder looked out the window at the few people brave enough to battle the sudden nine inch snowfall that had blanketed New England during the night. "Oh, the usual. Take in the sights, prevent a murder. Catch a killer. Nothing spectacular." "Fox, can't you understand that you have to let this go?" Harrison sighed. "Look, I've known your father a very long time. We went through undergraduate together. I know him to be a passionate man, an unshakeable man. 'Pit bulls' they call them now. I see a lot of him in you, Fox. So I know what you're going through, at least I can understand it." "So if all I'm doing is acting like 'dear old dad', why is Mom so bent out of shape over what I'm doing?" Mulder asked, idly stirring more sugar into his coffee. Harrison thought about that for a moment. "Your mother divorced your father, Fox. I know that's obvious to you, but you may not realize that she has to distance herself from him in order to lead her own life. Traits she once admired enough to earn her respect have now become problems that earn her scorn. You're a psychologist, you know these things." "So she's pissed that I'm turning out like Dad, is that it?" Mulder said wearily, pushing back from the table. "I was a groomsman at their wedding. I was your father's attorney during the divorce. I'd have to say, yes, it does disturb your mother that you are displaying many of the same traits your father displayed in his youth. But I don't know that even she understands her motivations." "But you are going to try and convince the judge that it's just repressed anger at my father that is her motivation in this?" Mulder asked, crossing his arms in front of him. "I know it sounds harsh. But face it, Fox. We're playing for blood here. It's you or your mother. If Teena loses, she's out a couple hundred dollars. If you lose, you spend the rest of your active years trying to get out of a psychiatric placement. One of you is going to walk out of this the loser. I'm pretty sure which you would prefer. That's where I come in." "I think I'd rather be facing down a serial killer," Mulder said, standing. "I'm gonna go 'freshen up'. I'll catch you at the door." He tossed two dollars on the table to cover the cost of the coffee he hadn't touched. "Fox, this meal is on me," Harrison insisted and picked up the two dollars to return to the younger man. Mulder made no attempt to take the money. "I wouldn't want to add to Dad's bill," he said and headed back to the rest rooms. There were pay phones by the rest rooms. Mulder checked to make certain that Harrison had not followed him, then picked up one of the phones and dialed, using his credit card. "Lone Gun Man." Frohike was answering the phones. "Frohike, it's Mulder. Turn off . . ." "It's off, it's off. Hey, Mulder. Where ya been? I've been calling your apartment since 10 this morning." "I'm in Connecticut. That little business with my Mother is rearing it's ugly head." "Bummer," muttered the little man. "Well, I have some info for you. How you want it?" Mulder dug in his pocket and found his notebook and pen. "Talk to me," he told his friend. "OK, Sacramento must have a real affirmative action push going. Most of the night workers at the Cap City are women. But there were four men working there last year. Everette Biggs, James Curran, Andrew Riley, and David Deakins." "Details, Frohike," Mulder prodded. "Biggs is no longer employed at the Cap City. He retired last Nov. after 40 years of service to the hotel. James Curran took off time last year to go to San Francisco to attend the Gay Pride Parade." "Scratch both of them," Mulder said, more to himself than to his friend. "That leaves Riley and Deakins. Riley is 32 years old, married five years, but separated from his wife. Deakins is divorced, two years." "Bingo. Any other info on either?" "Riley is pretty straight arrow. He's never been late, never been reprimanded. Went to work out of the military. Was a Marine before coming to work as the night desk clerk eight years ago." "And Deakins?" "This is his third divorce. Has a line of creditors tailing him on a regular basis. Likes to bar hop before coming to work at midnight. Looking for the next ex-Mrs. Deakins, I would assume," Frohike said with a chuckle. "I think you have hit pay dirt, Frohike. Hey, I owe you a pizza," Mulder told him happily. "You owe me more than a pizza, Mulder, and I expect full payment." "Only one, Frohike. Any video in my extensive library, but only one," Mulder said with a grin in his voice. "I've had my eye on 'Delores Does DC' for a long time, now." "It's yours," Mulder assured him. "Now, go do your magic for Carson City." "Your wish is my command," Frohike said. "Oh, and good luck with your Mom." "Thanks. I hope I don't need it," Mulder said dryly. He hung up the phone actually feeling better than he had in days, weeks. He had a solid lead. Now, all he had to do was get through the hearing, make Harrison see reason and allow him to fly to Sacramento, and convince Deakins he was in danger. It was a stretch, but for the first time since seeing the dead body of Allen Vespers in the Golden Nugget, Mulder felt some small grain of hope growing in his heart. When he got to the door, Harrison had paid the check and was waiting. "Ready to go?" the older man asked. "As ready as I'll ever be," Mulder said, trying for a reassuring smile. For once, he succeeded. Harrison held the door open and they ventured out into the blistering wind and snow. New Haven County Courthouse Judges Chambers The nameplate on the desk said 'Judge B. Crowder'. Mulder had no idea what the 'B' stood for, but he was certain it wasn't Barbie. Judge Crowder was a no nonsense woman in her early forties, who looked like she could take Mulder and both the lawyers in a fist fight in a minute. Not large, by any means. Just . . . forceful. If the pictures on the credenza behind her desk were any indication, she'd learned much of her courtroom policies raising three rather handsome young men. Mulder took a moment to look at his own mother, but she refused to return the gaze. She was looking almost as worn as she had when he'd first come out of the coma in the hospital. A small kernel of guilt burned in his gut, but he ignored it. He tore his gaze away when the judge began speaking. "Gentlemen, Mrs. Mulder," Judge Crowder addressed them. "This, as you know, is an informal hearing. At this point, we're just trying to determine how far we want to take this action. Now, Mrs. Mulder, your lawyer, Mr. Griffin, has filed a motion for guardianship in the case of your emancipated son, Fox William Mulder. Do you wish to proceed with that action?" Mr. Griffin leaned over to whisper something into his mother's ear that Mulder could not hear. Still not looking over toward her son, who was sitting not more than two feet away from her, Teena Mulder nodded her head. "Yes, your Honor. I wish to proceed." Judge Crowder made a note on the pad of paper in front of her. "Mr. Mulder. I take it you wish to file an objection to this action?" Harrison started to lean over to advise him, but Mulder put his hand on the older man's shoulder to warn him off. "Yes, your Honor. I wish to object." "Very well. I have several statements in the file in front of me. I must say that much of what is said could be construed as contradictory. Not that it surprised me that much. It just makes it a bit difficult to sift through. Given that Mr. Mulder is currently on medical leave from his place of employment, I would like to have him evaluated by an independent psychologist. One without a vested interest in the outcome of this matter. Are you amenable to that Mr. Mulder." Mulder had been expecting as much. "Of course, your Honor." He'd gone toe to toe with some of the best psychologists on the East Coast. He wasn't intimidated when he was 12 and he wouldn't let them intimidate him at 29. "Mrs. Mulder, are you agreeable to this?" Teena hesitated a moment, then leaned over and spoke quietly with her lawyer. He nodded and she sat up. "Yes, your Honor. I agree." "Good. Well, let's get this over with as quickly as possible. Mr. Mulder, if you would report to Cresthaven Psychiatric Hospital here in Greenwich by 4 pm this afternoon. You will be there for 72 hours to undergo a full evaluation." Mulder's jaw dropped to his chest. "But your Honor! Today? And I thought it would be for an evaluation, not a full work up! I can't possibly agree to 72 hours," he cried. Judge Crowder regarded him coolly over her wire rimmed glasses. "You have a more pressing engagement, Mr. Mulder?" He was trapped. He looked over at Harrison, who was doing his best to not look smug and failing. His mother was staring at him with a look of fear . . . and something more. Pain? He wasn't sure. Griffin just looked pleased. Mulder was making his case for him. He forced himself to calm down. "Is this evaluation going to be considered voluntary or involuntary?" he asked the judge. "That, Mr. Mulder, is entirely up to you. Go willingly, as you have already agreed, and we'll make it voluntary. Kick up a fuss . . ." She didn't bother to elaborate. Mulder drew in a deep breath. "Not much of a choice, is it?" "I realize these are difficult times, Mr. Mulder. But I think I'm on fairly solid legal footing when I say the court, as well as your mother, only have your best interests at heart. I need an independent evaluation if I'm to judge the merits of your mother's petition. I think you want me to make an informed decision, do you not?" "Of course, your Honor," Mulder said contritely. For the first time, Judge Crowder smiled. "Good. Cresthaven will be expecting you. Bring clothes and toiletries. I'm setting the next hearing date for," she looked at her calendar, "the 16th of this month. At that time, I will be able to give you a decision. Thank you, both of you, for your behavior. I know this is hard on both of you." She stood and reached over the desk, shaking first Teena's hand and then Mulder's. "See you all on the 16th." Mulder stood and was the first out the door, followed quickly by his mother. "Fox, let me explain . . ." He spun on her, eyes wild with rage. "Not. Right. Now. Mother," he gritted out through clenched teeth. When the two lawyers joined them in the hall, he put on his best game face. "This isn't going to work, Mom," he said in a voice just above a whisper. "I should have seen this coming, but that's OK. I will beat this. Mark my words. I will beat this." With tears in her eyes, she looked up at her son. "I hope you do, Sweetheart. I sincerely hope you do." end part seventeen Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part eighteen of twenty-five Harrison caught up with him when he was already a block down the street, striding purposefully toward their rental car. Mulder spun on the older man, almost slipping on the icy pavement. "Did you know about this?" he demanded. Harrison shrugged. "I knew she'd expect an independent evaluation. I didn't expect three days, no. But then, Judge Crowder is an experienced Family Court judge. I don't think she'd put much stock in a 'slam, bamm, thank you ma'am' psych evaluation of a man who is an Oxford trained psychologist. She probably figures you'd brain screw any one she put up against you. This way, after a while, your defenses will be weakened and the truth will come out." "You think I'm crazy, too," Mulder spat out, eyes narrowed. "No, I'm just telling you how she's probably dealt with others in your situation. There are Harvard and Yale trained psychologists all over this area. Some of them, after time, can't handle the stress of their own lives. They break. She's had to deal with them and their families. I'm pretty sure that's why we're in her courtroom. Your mother's lawyer probably checked all this out before he walked in the door." "I thought you were supposed to check that all, too," Mulder sneered. Harrison took the snipe. "I did. But I couldn't foresee the time. And if you'll remember, you decided to sleep on the plane up here. We could have talked different scenarios at that time," Harrison said pointedly. "Besides, it's three days. They are not throwing away the key. Three days in a hospital that is one of the best in the East Coast, and said to have some of the most breathtaking grounds, as well as the best food you can find. Consider it a vacation!" Harrison said with a broad smile. Mulder glared at him. "Gee, why don't you just go and take my place. Sounds like _you_ could use a 'vacation'," he sneered. Harrison just shook his head, not returning fire. Finally Mulder looked at his watch. "Shit, it's almost three now. I don't have clothes . . ." Harrison held up a duffle bag. "Your mom's lawyer more than likely had a little inside information," he said. "She packed a bag for you." Mulder's eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "Whatever my father is paying you . . . it's too much." Cresthaven Hospital Rural Connecticut 3:55pm Mulder stared at the brick building at the end of the long driveway. It was enormous, and could easily have been a summer mansion for some rich New York railroad baron a century before. Smaller houses surrounded the larger structure, and he detected neatly painted white fencing off in the distance near a white building that could only be a stable. "Great place, huh? I know some very high rollers in Boston who 'check' themselves in once a year just to get away from the rat race. No outside phone calls allowed in the main complex. Better than the French Riveria," Harrison said affably. "I'm sure," Mulder replied dryly. In a moment, they were parked and Harrison took Mulder's bag, then ushered him toward the front door. The door, was white with a welcoming straw wreath of indeterminate season gracing it. It opened as they approached. "Mr. Harrison, Mr. Mulder," a young woman of about Mulder's age said cheerfully. "We've been expecting you." She waved them in and shut the door. Mulder heard an almost undetectable snick as a locking system engaged. Even velvet prisons had locks, he reminded himself. "I'm Helen Grayson, I'm the Director of Admitting here at Cresthaven. If you gentlemen would be so kind as to follow me, we can get the admitting paperwork out of the way and then get Mr. Mulder settled in for his stay." Mulder immediately began to wonder if his trust fund was being called upon to pay for this 'vacation' or if the tax payers were footing the bill. He hoped it was the latter. And as she cheerfully swayed before him, he decided that Helen would have been the first co-ed ripped to shreds in any of the Halloween movie series. He swallowed back a smart remark and followed her into a room just off the foyer. "We're rather informal, most of the time," Helen said with a smile as she showed them to seats in a well appointed office. "Basically, you'll have a private room with a private bath. Meals are taken in the dining room, unless you have orders from your doctor that allow you to eat in your room. There are televisions in each bedroom, but there's also a gathering place on each floor with a television, a stereo, and on the third floor south wing, there's a piano. Most of our patients spend their evenings in the gathering places." She handed Mulder a slick brochure. "This gives a picture of life here at Cresthaven. Since you'll be staying with us for more than 24 hours, please read the brochure, cover to cover, and then sign the little box at the bottom of the last page. It includes all the rules you need to know." "Rules?" Mulder asked, taking his eyes off the brochure to look up at Helen. "Well, like lights out. At 10:30, the nurse at the desk on each floor turns out the lights in all the patient rooms. The televisions are on the same switch, so that means no TV past 10:30. Sorry, if you're a late night news addict," she said with a shrug and a grin. "And breakfast at 7:30 is mandatory, unless your doctor OK's an exception." Mulder flinched at her comment about television after bedtime. He'd been using TV as his 'nightlight' since he was a kid. He couldn't imagine falling asleep without the TV, unless he was on the road, on a case and was near unconscious with exhaustion. He interrupted Helen. "Uh, Helen, I tend to sleep with the TV on. Have for a long time. Would it be possible . . ." "Oh, don't worry about that, Mr. Mulder. I'm sure your doctor can prescribe a sleep aid. You'll sleep like a baby. We want you fresh in the morning for when we begin the evaluation." Mulder's heart sank. That was not the answer he was hoping for. Helen didn't seem to notice the slump to his shoulders, and continued on. "Now, visits and phone calls. Of course, you are allowed contact with your immediate family and umm, Mr. Harrison. You'll only be here for three days, but if your mother or father wishes to visit, we can arrange for that during visiting hours, after dinner in the evening. And if they want to find out how you're doing, they can call the nurses' desk at any time during the day. There are no phones in the bedrooms, but all messages will be relayed to you, and of course, you can call Mr. Harrison at any time you feel there is a, uh, legal matter to be discussed. Ordinarily, the doctor decides if outside contact might impede recovery, so patients' phone calls are more restrictive. Of course, that's not a problem for you, since you're only here for evaluation." "Can I call out? Someone besides Mr. Harrison?" Mulder asked, growing rather concerned. Helen shook her head sadly. "Sorry. 'Fraid not. But you can give a message to your parents, and they can forward that message to anyone you wish." That tore it for Mulder. He couldn't receive or make phone calls except to people he didn't want to talk to. He had to eat in a dining hall filled with complete strangers. He couldn't watch television past 10:30. And already they were talking sleeping pills. He glanced at his watch and noted that he still had 71 and a half hours to go. He'd never make it. He'd be a suicide long before that time. "So, would you like to see your room?" Helen asked brightly. He didn't really want to, but Harrison was already answering for him. "Do you mind if I tag along? I promised his father I'd see that Fox was taken care of before I left." Helen scrunched up her forehead for a second. "Well, it's not really policy. But since Mr. Mulder is a voluntary patient, and only with us for a short time, I don't see any harm," she said with another dazzling smile. Mulder wasn't sure how much more of 'Helen' he could take, but the thought of getting somewhere by himself was suddenly very appealing. He followed Harrison and Helen out of the office. Now that he had a chance to look around, Mulder had to admit the hospital was spectacular. Unlike the inner city hospital in England where he'd done his own clinical work during college, this place definitely catered to the rich and insane. Polished mahogany stair railings reflected the diamond-bright crystal chandeliers. Rich draperies hung in the floor-to-ceiling windows. The foyer was painted a cool mint green with a darker green carpeting trailing up the stairs. "There's an elevator tucked in the back of the stairs, if you ever feel light headed or need a rest. The court sent your medical records ahead so we could be prepared. I understand you're still on medical leave for a nasty case of pneumonia," Helen said with almost genuine concern in her voice. "I'm over it for the most part," Mulder assured her. "Well, if you need to rest, just let me know. You're on the second floor, so we don't have far to go." At the second floor, Helen led them to the right, through a set of open double doors. "The rooms on this floor are considered 'open'. Those doors are never locked, although at night, they are closed, just for the noise of the night staff on the stairs. You'll have full privileges to roam the floor, go into the gathering area at the other end or down to the gym and weight room which are on the lower level. The pool is closed for the time being," she said apologetically. "We sprung a leak." "Must have been embarrassing," Mulder muttered and Harrison shot him a dirty look. "This is the nurses station," Helen said, either not hearing or choosing to ignore his comment. "Ruth, this is Mr. Mulder and his uh, friend, Mr. Harrison," Helen explained, indicating each man in turn. "Mr. Mulder, nice to meet you. I'm the evening nurse on this floor," said Ruth, who was an older woman, probably in her mid-fifties. She had an easy smile and Mulder relaxed a little in her presence. "You're in room 204, right down the hall. I'll go in and turn on the lights." The room was not spacious, by any means, but the furnishings were beautiful and probably expensive. Mulder didn't give a rat's ass about those things, but he was pretty sure the armoire that housed the TV was an antique. There was a single twin bed with a padded headboard, a nightstand with a small table lamp and a low chest of drawers. A Queen Anne chair, with a brocade floral seat was situated next to the chest. The bathroom sported a shower, but no tub, a sink and toilet, with inlaid ceramic tile on floor and walls. Thick, plush towels hung from a glass and gold plated towel rack and the sink had a basket of complimentary toiletries. Mulder did note a few 'exceptions' to the 'Ritz-Carlton' appointment of the room. The outlets were covered, and it would take considerable effort, not to mention tools, to uncover them. The shower had a shower curtain, no glass enclosure. The mirror, upon closer inspection, was highly polished metal, not glass. The windows were protected by very ornate grating, on the inside. Even the table lamp's cord was run through a conduit attached to the wall, with only six inches exposed. The door to the room locked from the outside. If not a velvet prison, at the very least, a velvet and chintz padded cell. Ruth had been pointing out the various controls for the television and the lights, as well as how to work the temperature in the shower. "It's a little tricky, but fiddle with it and you'll get it to a comfortable temp soon," she confided. Finally, she turned to Harrison. "Thank you for stopping by, Mr. Harrison. We'll take very good care of Fox," she said. It was obviously his cue to leave. Harrison looked a little surprised by the abrupt dismissal, but took it in stride. He extended his hand to Mulder. "Fox, it looks like you'll be in good hands. I'm available to pick you up in three days. We can talk more, then." Mulder stood, looking at Harrison's hand extended in the air and for a moment, seriously considered ignoring the gesture. In the end, manners won out and he accepted the parting handshake. Harrison smiled and left. Ruth stood in the hallway and watched him all the way to the stairs. When he was out of sight, she came back into the room, sighing in relief. "Lawyers," she shook her head in disgust. Mulder tried to bite back his grin, but didn't succeed. "Don't like sharks, huh?" he asked, with a wink of shared mischief. "They're great, if you've got a good one. He seems good enough," she said. "Now, let's get you settled. And I want to let you know what you're in for in the next three days." She pulled the chair over to the side of the bed and sat. Mulder took a seat on the bed while Ruth shuffled through some pages on her lap. "Tonight, it's pretty simple. Dinner is at 6:30 in the dining room. It's shrimp bisque, chicken paprikash, vegetable grill and, oh boy, cherries jubilee for dessert. If you prefer something lighter, there is always Cobb or Chef salad available." Mulder frowned. "Any chance of a pizza? A burger with fries?" Ruth's eyes twinkled as she smiled at him. "We have 'fifties' nights some weekends. Then we have burgers, fries, and milk shakes. Unfortunately, we just had one two weeks ago. Sorry." She gave him a sideways glance as she looked back at her notes. "Think you'll die if you have to go without grease for three days?" "I think that will be the least of my worries," Mulder dead panned. "Oh, now, don't be like that," Ruth chided pleasantly. "Before bedtime, though, we will be in to take some blood. Lab work they can run tonight so the doctor can have it tomorrow." "Lab work?" Mulder asked tensely. "Yes. The orders call for a full evaluation and examination. Just to rule out anything physiological. You'll have a CAT scan in the morning, too. Have you had one of those?" "Never had the pleasure," Mulder said dryly. "Oh, they're a cinch. You just lie there and look pretty for the camera. Takes pictures of your brain. Totally painless." "Better than using a sledge hammer and a chisel, I guess," Mulder said with a quirk of his eyebrows. Ruth giggled like a schoolgirl. "Oh, I'm going to have to watch out for you!" she said with a wink. "Anyway, tomorrow, after a light breakfast, you'll be meeting with Dr. Havaland. He's an MD. He'll do the physical examination. He has your hospital records and he'll probably ask you some questions about your illness. A lot of mental health problems stem from prolonged illness," Ruth added conversationally. Mulder gritted his teeth and bit back a reply. "After the physical, you'll be meeting Dr. Kuhn, one of our staff psychiatrists, for a private session. Then a break for lunch and an hour of free time. You might want to check out the gym, there are often pickup basketball games to be found. Then in the afternoon, you're scheduled for a group session . . ." "A group session? Excuse me, I thought I was here for evaluation. Group is for treatment," Mulder broke in. Ruth smiled indulgently. "That's right. You're a psychologist, aren't you? Well, yes, you are right, group is for treatment. But during your evaluation, the doctors would like to see how you react in a group setting. Don't worry. We don't turn you into 'trees' or anything. Actually, you are scheduled for a session that is mostly professional people with work related stresses. You might just get something out of it," she said reassuringly. "After that, there is another private session, followed by a rest. I'm afraid that's mandatory in your case. Dr. Havaland and Dr. Kuhn feel the day will be pretty long on you, especially with your recent illness. You'll be required to come back here. You don't have to take a nap, but we do ask you to stay in the room and try to rest. Then, it's dinner and finally, free time until lights out." "Day two and three will be based on what day one tells us. Most likely, at least a couple more private sessions with some testing, maybe another group session or two. More physical tests, if they are warranted. And then, at four o'clock on day three, your shark, er, I mean, lawyer, comes and takes you home." She folded her hands on the papers in her lap. "There you have it. Any questions?" "Just for the sake of argument," Mulder said, leaning back against the headboard. "What if I say . . . stick it. And decide to walk out that door?" He softened the words with a bright and winning smile. Ruth matched the smile with one of her own. "Well, it's fourteen miles back to town. It's currently 20 degrees with a wind chill reaching down to 2 below zero. And you would be on foot." She stood up, using her height advantage, though minimal, to it's full advantage. "And we have a court order to bring you back. Basically, we'd lock the door and you wouldn't be getting out in three days." "Message understood," he said stoically. He flashed her another smile, just to put her at ease. She responded immediately. "And you're much too smart to pull a dumb stunt like that," she said, and patted his leg lightly. "Besides, I'm willing to bet we can get you hooked on shrimp bisque. Our chef studied at the Cordon Bleu." She put the chair back in it's place next to the chest. "Dinner at six-thirty. And don't worry, it's informal," she added with a wink. "Thanks, Ruth," he said. He was grateful that she left the door open a crack. At that moment, he needed to feel just that much in control of his environment. Suddenly, it all began to hit home. He was in a psychiatric hospital. He couldn't leave. And if he didn't answer all the questions correctly, his entire life would change for the worse. He'd never felt so alone or so afraid in his adult life. end of part eighteen Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part nineteen of twenty-five Cresthaven Hospital March 8, 1991 6:55 am Mulder was shocked when he opened his eyes and found the late winter sun streaming in through the curtains. He'd actually slept through the night, and without the use of drugs. Dinner, socially at least, had been unremarkable. He'd tried to find a table to himself, but soon discovered privacy was not an option at Cresthaven. He ended up sharing a table with two stockbrokers from Boston, who spent the meal advising him on the best investments for his IRA account. When dinner was over, he'd 'retired' to his room to escape for a while in television land. He soon figured out that Cresthaven had a full range of cable channels, and though it was missing the Playboy Channel, he could exist on a steady diet of ESPN, SciFi, and the Comedy Channel, at least for a couple of evenings. He had dozed off before the official 'lights out'. Ruth had come in to make sure he was comfortable, had made him wake up long enough to change into pajamas and climb under the covers. By 10:35, he was sound asleep. The morning passed quickly. The physical exam was a breeze, he'd been spending so much time in hospitals and doctor's offices that he almost took over in a couple of places, just to speed things along. Dr. Havaland was an older gentleman with a rather gruff exterior, but to Mulder's relief, he didn't read him the riot act about 'doing too much, too soon'. In general, Havaland told him his lungs were still recovering and although Mulder might be feeling better, even almost back to normal, his lungs weren't that far along yet. He needed to rest, which meant lying down, sleeping if possible, for at least 8 hours every night and for a few hours during the day. Dr. Kuhn insisted that he call her Candice, and was not much older than Mulder himself. She was a psychiatrist trained in New York and at Harvard Med. She had a relaxed and easy manner, but Mulder was still tense during their session. She started with simple questions, many dealing with his relationship with his mother. Once, early on, she asked about the family and how they all interacted when he was a child and he abruptly tried to change the topic. She'd dropped the subject, but he had a feeling it would come up again in later sessions. Lunch was another gourmet meal. Even his meals at Oxford hadn't been as lavish. He felt almost guilty when he considered that the patients he'd visited as a student were getting 'gruel' compared to what he was eating. He'd learned at breakfast that if he sat with a table of three people, he wouldn't have to 'participate' quite as much in the conversation and the meal was more enjoyable. To his surprise, the group session wasn't as bad as he'd expected. He was in a group of professionals that most people would consider workaholics. They sympathized with his desire to get back to work after his illness, adding their own horror stories of 'not being in the office' when the business started to crumple. The group leader did attempt to point out that in each case, the impending disaster had been averted and frequently by others in the company, but Mulder knew in his case, that wasn't going to happen. No one else knew of or even believed that a killer was on the loose. After a second session with Candice, this time employing a couple of psychological tests that he'd used during his own time in clinical, he made his way back to his room and fell face first on the bed, exhausted. It was Ruth again who came in to wake him for dinner at 6:30. He was still pretty bleary eyed when he made his way to the dining room. Veal Parmesan with Italian green beans. He was pretty sure he'd heard of Linzer tarts, but he knew he'd never eaten one. He looked around for a vacant seat. Since he'd arrived a little late, the dining room was packed. After searching for a moment, his eyes fell on the only available seat. A small table, big enough for two, in the corner farthest from the door. A woman was already seated at the table, but holding his plate in one hand and dessert in the other, he made his way over before someone beat him to it. "Excuse me, is this seat taken?" he asked. The woman had been intently staring down at her plate while cutting her veal and looked startled at the sound of his voice. "Oh, uh, no. Please, be my guest," she smiled up at him, then motioned for him to have a seat. He settled into the chair, then reached across, extending his hand. "Fox Mulder," he said by way of introduction. She smiled and took his hand. "Colleen McNamara. Pleased to meet you . . . Fox?" He nodded and turned to his meal. "You just got here, didn't you?" Colleen asked, between bites. Mulder nodded. "I'm just here for . . ." Colleen held up her hand. "This isn't group, Fox," she laughed. "I'm not fishing for your neurosis. I just noticed I hadn't seen you before." "I'm only here for a couple of days," Mulder said, to finish his thought. As dinner progressed, the two ended up having a conversation. Mulder was pleased that Colleen wasn't going to try to sell him anything and didn't seem to want to psychoanalyze him. When dessert was finished, they walked down to the gathering place. "So you're a clinical psychologist," Mulder said, finding them a seat on a small sofa near the fireplace away from the crowd watching a sitcom on the television. "That must be interesting." "As compared to the FBI," Colleen laughed. "Well, let's just say it's something I love and I'm good at," she said, staring off into fire. "Married, a good job that you love, children," Mulder rattled off, then stopped. He was about to ask the obvious question. Why was she here? But stopped before making that mistake. Too late, Colleen's sad smile told him she'd followed his train of thought. "I have a great life. I just got a little lost in my work," she explained. "I worked with teens. Lately, in the last couple of years, I've been working more and more with teen suicide." She stopped talking and picked at the nap of the sofa. "We don't have to . . ." Mulder interrupted her thoughts. She smiled at him. "No. It's nice to talk to someone who's not getting paid to listen," she said lightly. "Well, unless you count the Federal Government. We're accused of always 'listening'," he returned and was rewarded with a shared laugh. "Since my work had little to do with serial killers, bank fraud, or overthrowing the government, I think I'm on safe ground," she said and settled back into the sofa. "You said you got lost in your work?" Mulder prodded. It struck a solid chord with him. A day of focusing on himself, his own needs was enough to make him stop and think of how much of his life was his work. "I got to where I couldn't turn it off. No matter how hard I tried. I thought it was because the work was so important, that I was needed, you know?" she turned to him, hoping for understanding. He nodded. He understood all to well. "But it started to devour me. I was working long hours, but then, everyone does. Even in my off hours, I was thinking about the kids I worked with. Here I have these really terrific kids of my own, and I spent every waking hour worrying about somebody elses' kids." She shook her head. "Not too long ago, I was walking in the mall with my daughter. We were supposed to be Christmas shopping. But as we passed cluster after cluster of teenagers, I kept looking at them. Not as kids having a good time, but as potential patients, possible suicides. You see, I've gotten pretty good. I can pick them out of a crowd. I can look at a girl who appears to be having a great time, and just by the way she turns her head, the way she answers a question, I can tell she's in trouble." "You're profiling them," Mulder said quietly. Colleen looked confused. "That's my job," he explained. "To look at the crime and determine what sick mind could do that. And then give the other agents enough of a description to pick that person out of a crowd. It's a gift, your ability to see the sick ones. You can help them." Colleen snorted and shook her head disdainfully. "No, Fox. That's the point. I couldn't _help_ all of them. And I had this feeling that the ones I helped weren't enough. I would see those kids in the mall and then I'd wait and wait for the article in the newspaper. And it would come. Not within days or even weeks, sometimes it took months, but there it would be 'Sophomore Girl found dead in her room', 'Senior boy shoots self in head'. And even though I didn't know their name, I'd never met them in my life, . . . I felt responsible." She turned to the fire again. "I just couldn't do it anymore. I couldn't be responsible for all the screwed up kids in the world." Mulder swallowed, not wanting to shatter the silence between them. He understood the weight of the responsibility Colleen spoke of. It was the same burden he carried on his shoulders. "But how . . . how do you stop?" he asked, his voice far away and small. She sat there for a while, not turning her head, just looking at the fire. He thought maybe she hadn't heard him. But after a long silence she touched his hand. "You just do. You have to. Or you lose yourself. And Fox, you never seem to find your way home when that happens. Just like those kids. They never found their way home." "I can't quit my job," he said woefully. "I didn't quit. I intend to change my focus. I need some distance, something that I won't get quite so tied up in. I have to. I certainly wasn't going to save any lives hiding in my room behind a locked door." She laughed at Mulder's questioning glance. "I did that. For three days. My husband finally took the door off the hinges. That's when he begged me to get help." "So what are you going to do? I mean, change your focus . . . how?" She drew in a deep breath, as if to steady herself. "I'm going start working in family counseling. Starting to work on the problem before it gets out of hand. I hope that will be enough of a change to allow me some distance. If not, I'll have to try something else. Maybe even marriage counseling," she said with a wink. "There's a big market in shrinks for brokers, if this place is any indication," Mulder said with an answering wink. She grimaced then smiled again. "I don't know that I could stand the boredom." One of the many people with a staffing badge walked over to them. "Colleen? Your family's downstairs in the foyer." She looked surprised, then a glance at her watch and she smiled a wide smile. She got up and took Mulder's hand in her own. "Well, Fox, you may not know it, but you've been a big help to me. I was beginning to think I couldn't do this, make this change, but talking to you tonight . . . I know I have to. Failure is not an option." "Well, then, best of luck," Mulder said confidently, shaking her hand firmly. "See ya around, Fox," she winked and turned, walking out of the room with the staffer. Mulder stood there for a moment, then slowly made his way back to his room. It was still early, only about 8 o'clock. He didn't bother with the television, just sat down on the bed and tried to figure out where his life was going, and why. After a few minutes of the quiet, he couldn't take it any longer. He got out of bed, changed into sweats and headed off to find the gym. Ruth had been accurate. There was a pickup game going on and he had no trouble finding a spot on the court. He had no idea who the other people were, didn't know names or backgrounds and didn't really want that information. They just played ball and played hard. It was the first time he'd really exercised in over a month. A couple of times he had to stop and catch his breath, and by the end of an hour, he was almost ready to go back to his room and find his inhaler. But he pushed passed the pain and kept going. The ball and Mulder joined on a plane of existence far away from the polished wood court. He didn't even notice when the others fell away from the game, heading for the showers and their rooms. Before long, it was only the sound of the ball hitting the wood, then his hands, then the rim or the net and hitting the wood again. Over and over and over and over and over and . . . He had no recollection of passing out. He didn't have any memory of hitting the floor with his left shoulder, hard enough to leave a bruise. He didn't remember one of the night staff coming in to turn off the lights and finding him on the floor, where he'd fallen. If asked what happened next, he would also draw a complete blank. Mulder did remember, however, waking up in a room that was not a carbon copy of a suite at a fancy hotel. The room he woke up in look suspiciously like the hospital rooms he'd recently occupied. He groaned, as he rolled on his side and tried to remember if all he'd experienced lately might actually have been an elaborate and very realistic fever dream. When he could focus on a face, it was Dr. Havaland staring back at him. He did not look happy. Without a word, the doctor did a quick exam, looking into his eyes with a penlight that caused Mulder to tear up, holding a stethoscope to his chest and sliding it under his back without bothering to warm the point of contact. Havaland then examined the shoulder, which was already sporting a nice array of discoloration. He moved the arm at the joint, listening intently for a moment. Last, he tucked a thermometer under Mulder's tongue and took his pulse while waiting the standard four minutes for an accurate reading. When Havaland pulled the thermometer out of Mulder's mouth, the young man couldn't stand the silence any longer. "Umm, Dr. Havaland? Where am I?" Havaland fixed him with an icy glare. "You're in our intermediate facility. It's where patients are brought who require a more medical setting." That made Mulder's stomach drop. He licked his lips. "What happened?" "You ran yourself into the ground. In short, you played basketball in the gym for over two hours and then collapsed from physical exhaustion. You were unconscious when you were found, which was last night. It's now almost 8 in the morning." Havaland moved to the bottom of the bed, picked up a metal chart and started making notes. "Your breathing was extremely labored. I started you on oxygen, which accounts for the nasal cannula you have," Havaland said not looking up. Mulder reached up a hand and touched the tube under his nose. It bothered him that he was so used to the feel of the thing that he hadn't even noticed it upon waking. "At first, I suspected concussion, but that wasn't the case. You will have a sore arm for a few days. Apparently, you fell rather hard on the left shoulder. I don't see any damage other than soft tissue. We took x-rays last night, as well as a CT scan." He put the chart back in the tray on the footboard and crossed his arms, then stared at Mulder. "Would you like to try and explain yourself, or do you want to plead the Fifth?" Mulder shrugged. "I . . . uh . . . sort of lost track?" he tried. Havaland didn't look pleased with that explanation. He forced his lips into a grim line. "Mr. Mulder. You are here for a psychiatric evaluation. I don't know if you were purposefully trying to do harm to yourself last night, or if you are so damned stupid as to push yourself when your body is telling you to stop. I re-read your medical records from Portland, and I got the impression you weren't the best patient under their care, either." "That said, you didn't succeed in doing anything permanent, _this_ time. But until you leave the premises, assuming you will be leaving tomorrow afternoon, you are forbidden to go near the gymnasium or the weight room, is that clear?" "Yes, sir," Mulder said contritely. "And I'm sorry if I caused any trouble, I just needed to . . . stretch," he added, figuring it couldn't hurt. From the look Havaland shot him, it didn't help that much, either. "Your meeting with Dr. Kuhn has been moved to after lunch. You can save your apologies, and excuses for her. I'm keeping you down here for the rest of the morning. I'll take a look at your oxygen levels after lunch and we'll see what we can do about the rest of the scheduled appointments." Mulder closed his eyes and decided it might be best to go back to sleep. end of part nineteen Cresthaven Hospital Intermediate Care Ward March 9, 1991 1:00 pm "Why did you stay in the gym after you felt lightheaded?" Candice had dropped her 'bubbly' persona for a rather hard nosed approach when she'd arrived just after his lunch tray had departed. Mulder sighed. He'd been asking himself the same question since he'd finally joined the waking world again around 11:15. He still didn't have an answer. "I don't know." Candice made a note on her pad and narrowed her eyes to mere slits. "Have you ever done this before?" He shook his head to try and deny it, but in reality, he knew he had. Several times. Most often when the case was long, the monster in his head wouldn't let him rest and when every time he closed his eyes he saw the faces of the dead, begging him to help them. He'd find a gym and shoot hoops, throw on his shoes and run for ten miles, swim more laps than an Olympic Gold Medalist in training. Anything to make the endorphins take over where the seratonin failed to reach. "You have done this before," she said flatly, making it a statement and an accusation. "Why do you do it?" "To make it go away," he sighed. "What? The pain? The job?" "The faces," he said quietly, not daring to look over at Candice any longer, just staring at his hands which were locked on his lap. "The faces on the bodies of the victims. I have to do something to get them out of my head." "Do you always push yourself until you pass out?" "No," he answered immediately. "No, just till I'm so tired, I have a hard time walking back to my room. By then, the exhaustion kicks in and I just drop. I usually sleep for three, maybe four hours. Then I can go back at it." "Have you ever told anyone about these . . . sessions?" "My supervisor knows about them, at least a couple of times. I don't do it every case. I don't need to do it every case," he hastened to explain. "Then why did you do it last night? Were you thinking about a case?" Mulder shook his head, again staring down at his hands, at the foot of the bed, anywhere but at the person interrogating him. "No, it wasn't a case." "Then what was it? What forced you into a corner so deep that you had to run yourself to collapse just to escape?" Finally, he looked up and met her eyes. "My life." Candice left after twenty minutes. She got tired of talking and not getting any responses. She told him she would be talking to his parents and even that didn't merit a comment. As she left, she made sure he understood that she would expect more cooperation during the next session or she would be forced to report his attitude to Judge Crowder. Havaland came and cut him loose from the nasal cannula about 2. They allowed him to go back up to his room shortly after that. He went to group, tried valiantly not to outdo the group leader, and basically succeeded. He was back in his room to watch TV until dinner. Once he arrived at the dining room, he looked around for Colleen, but couldn't find her. He thought about asking one of the staff, but decided he'd caused enough 'stress' for the management without getting nosy about the other patients. He was back in his room by 7:15. The Knicks game had just started its second quarter when Ruth arrived at his door. "You have a visitor," she said. He blinked. Only his parents were allowed to visit. If it was his mother, he didn't really want to talk to her. If it was his father . . . someone must have died. "Who?" "Your dad. He said he just wanted to see you for a moment or two. Down in the family room on the first floor." Mulder wasted no time following Ruth down the hall to the elevator. The family room was decorated in blues and grays. It had a fireplace with an ornate carved mantel. His father was standing at the fireplace, toying with a cigarette in his hands. "Dad?" Mulder asked hesitantly as he entered the room. "Fox," his father looked up, and Mulder could have sworn it was a smile that ran across his features. But that would have been impossible. "Dad, is something wrong?" His father looked surprised. "No, Fox. Nothing's wrong. Why should there be anything wrong?" Mulder shrugged. "Well, for starters, you're here." "I wanted to make sure you were being well treated. That they weren't . . ." His father's voice faltered and trailed off. "Electroshock therapy went out in the early 70's, Dad. Welcome to the wonderful world of therapeutic drugs," Mulder said dryly. Standing by the fire was just too warm, all of a sudden. He stepped over to one of the facing sofas and sat down. He was surprised when his father flicked his cigarette into the fire and came over to sit next to him on the sofa. Bill Mulder stared down at his hands, looking very uncomfortable for several long silent moments. "Dad?" "I spoke with your mother," Bill said quickly, as if it were as difficult to speak of the conversation as it had been to hold it. "It's a little late to call this off, Dad," Mulder said cautiously. "I wasn't calling her for that reason. Fox, I think she might be right." Mulder bit his lip. His father had been a weak ally at best, but he was the only one he had. "Dad, I'm not crazy," he said, trying for a calm he didn't feel. He felt sucker punched. He felt abandoned. "No, son. I know you're not crazy. I just agree with her. You have to get out of the Investigative Support Unit." When Mulder said nothing in response to that, his father continued. "I'm not suggesting that you leave the FBI. I would never suggest that. You are too good at what you do, son." Bill dropped his head at that admission of approval, but his son caught it right away and it frightened him. "Dad, what are you saying?" "Transfer out. Find somewhere else in the Bureau where your talents won't be wasted. You have some contacts, on the Hill. Matheson likes you, has since the Propps case. Use those, son. Use them . . . to save your life." Time seemed to stand still. It was the talk he always dreamed of having with his father, but it was happening when he was on the verge of insanity. He didn't know if he could appreciate it, coming as it did at one of the lowest points of his life. But, in the end, he grabbed on to what his father was saying and held on for all his was worth. "I've come to the same conclusion, Dad," he said softly. "Good. Tell them that," Bill said, nodding toward the door. "Let them know that you are changing jobs, going to do something different. I think that will make all these problems you're having. . . go away." Bill stood up to go. "There are some . . . files. I'm not sure where they're located any more. I could have taken you directly to them in the old building, but now . . . they could be anywhere. You'll know them when you see them. Lost cases. Unresolved, like . . . like Samantha's case. I think you would serve them well, son. I think it's where you belong." The words were dragged out of him, each one more painful than the last. Mulder almost missed the significance of the words in the agony of watching his father anguish them out. "Samantha's file is marked X, Dad," he said frowning. "I know." Bill Mulder walked over and picked up his coat, drawing it onto his shoulders. "Take care, son." He was gone before Mulder could tell him goodbye. Mulder sat down on the sofa, facing the fire. What the hell had that been all about, he wondered. After a while, he got up and made his way back up the stairs to his room. Sleep didn't want to come. He kept going over his father's visit in his mind. When Ruth came in to check on him at 11:30, he finally caved in and asked for the sleeping pill Havaland had prescribed upon his arrival. He grimaced as he took the hated tablet, but it worked and if Ruth came in later to make sure he was sleeping, Mulder was none the wiser. The shadow again. This time, in an alley. The air was damp, the broken cement forming pools for the water. A drizzling rain dripped off the window ledges and the metal grating of the fire escapes, sluiced off the lids of the green-gray metal dumpsters. He knew his role. Find the body. See the murder take place and stand helplessly by, a spectator but never more. But the alley appeared empty, void. Only the never living stood here, not the once living but now dead. The shadow moved in the distance, swirling as a dark cloud, dancing in the street light at the end of the alley. He started toward it, hoping to reach out and touch it, know it, understand it. In his mind, the shadow was just a metaphor. He knew the killer had substance, a body, a face. This was how he often saw the killers, the ones he called 'unsub' to those who demanded a name. He never told anyone that most of his leaps came to him just like this, in shadows and alleys and dark places where no light could ever reach. The shadow seemed to beckon him closer. He stepped in the puddles, his feet getting soaked and feeling the cold. He moved slowly, almost afraid that if he moved too quickly, the shadow would take flight. Like a frightened bird. But a bird of prey is much harder to frighten. When he was about 10 yards away, the swirling mists of the shadow changed. It darkened and folded, moving in on itself. He wondered if it was preparing to just vanish out of his sight. He moved closer now, faster, to see it before it disappeared. The shadow was condensing, growing smaller, like a geni going back in its bottle. It was so black that no light, not even the raindrops, were visible in its folds. So black as to be polished, like smooth obsidian. Polished like a mirror. And there, in that mirrored surface, he saw himself, staring. He looked haggard, even to his own eyes. But behind him there was another. A face. He leaned forward, trying to make out the face. A woman, care-worn and as haggard as he. Blond hair that hung in strands streaked with gray. Steel gray eyes that seemed to speak of unbearable sorrow and a horror that very few had ever seen. Her visage took his breath away. As he stared at her, memorizing her features, her image wavered and rippled. When it finally grew steady again, it was his own mother staring back at him. Mulder shot straight up in bed, panting. As soon as he could see the little room, the wooden armoire, the delicate pattern of the needlepoint on the chair cushion in the moonlight, he calmed down. His breathing slowed, he relaxed. Immediately, he flipped over, stomach down and buried his head underneath the pillow. "I am _not_ a Freudian, I am _not_ a Freudian," he chanted out loud, though the sound was muffled as it was captured between the mattress and the pillow. "Fox? Are you all right?" Ruth was standing in a sliver of light from the hallway. "Fox?" Mulder stuck his head up from under the pillow. "Nightmare, Ruth. Sorry if I woke anybody." "No, no, not at all. I just heard you speaking to someone, or maybe just to yourself. You had such a hard time getting to sleep, I thought maybe the pill didn't work after all." "Oh, it worked all right," Mulder said with disdain. "Worked well enough to give me nightmares." "Well, I'll make a note of that, and maybe Dr. Havaland will prescribe something different." "I won't need it, Ruth. I'll be home by tomorrow night," he said confidently. Ruth smiled but didn't respond. Instead, she changed the subject. "Do you think you can go back to sleep, now? If you want, I can sit by your bed for a while, just till you go back to sleep," she offered. He shook his head. "No need. But thanks. I think I can get back to sleep," he assured her. "Well, good night, then," she smiled at him and left, but didn't close the door completely. A pencil thin ray of light sliced across his bed. Not enough to bother him, but enough to brighten the room. He punched at the pillow a couple of times, and laid back down. The dream came back to him. If any of his classmates at Oxford had read the dream in a case study, they would have automatically diagnosed a severe mother complex. His mother was murdering his spirit. But Mulder had never subscribed to the easy way out in dreams. From his own experience, he knew he rarely dreamed of his own internal demons. Usually only demons of a more worldly nature came to him in dreams. No, he didn't think his mother was a killer. But the shadow now had a face. The face of a woman. Someone he'd never seen before, but had some connection to the killings. A mother? Could the face be someone's mother? But whose? He mentally ran his mind in circles for several minutes, but the sleeping pill really hadn't left his system. Without his consent, he was soon fast asleep. When morning arrived, he felt better than he had in weeks. His first meeting with Kuhn took an unexpected turn when he opened up and told her his concerns about his work and what it was doing to him. He agreed that the constant stress of profiling was taking its toll and that he now felt he would be more likely to survive if he walked away, before it killed him. Candice beamed from ear to ear. "Honestly, Fox, I think we'd have a hard time keeping you here. Your psychological tests point to some compulsive behaviors, but nothing out of the norm. Basically, you are a very driven individual. You take any task presented to you seriously and will go to any length to see it through. That can be a risk at times, as we saw night before last on the basketball court. But it's definitely not grounds for long-term hospitalization. There are many effective stress management techniques that I think would be of benefit to you. I would like to suggest a few, so that you can work on your problems after you leave us." "Later this afternoon, right?" Mulder interrupted, hoping his voice sounded less timid to Candice than it did to himself. Candice smiled. "Of course. At four o'clock." Mulder couldn't keep the smile off his face. Whatever else Candice had to say was lost in a mist of going back to the outside world. For Mulder knew that this was the test, this whole 72 hours. What Cresthaven staff reported to Judge Crowder would literally make him a free man. If they found no reason to keep him as a patient, the court would likewise not grant his mother's petition for guardianship. It meant untold damage between himself and his mother, he knew that. It meant that he would have to ensure that his mother no longer had the power to make decisions for him, any decisions. The minute he could get to a phone, he would change his records at the office. He could make Reggie Purdue his next of kin. Reggie and his wife were almost like family to him, anyway. But more than just dealing with the paperwork and the bullshit, Mulder wondered if he'd ever be able to trust his mother again. end of part twenty Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimer in part 00 part twenty-one of twenty-five Cresthaven Hospital March 10, 1991 4:01 pm Mulder paced the foyer, occasionally pulling back the lace curtains to peer out into the darkening sky. The clouds overhead were thick and heavy with snow, plus the wind had picked up just within the last few hours. He was working against the clock and he knew it. He'd been allowed to call the airlines after his final session with Candice. If he could convince Harrison to take him directly to the airport, he could still get a flight out to Sacramento that evening. He thought about just calling Deakins direct, then reconsidered. In all likelihood, the man would dismiss him as a crank and end up dead anyway. The only real way to put a stop to the killings was to go out there and be on the scene _before_ the victim was attacked. Mulder had thought about it for most of the afternoon. The more he thought about his dream of the night before, the more he wondered if he even knew exactly what he was dealing with. He remembered all too well what had happened in Las Vegas. He could still feel the hands, or whatever, around his throat, cutting off all air. But he also remembered that there was nothing there to see, there had been no 'unsub', no perpetrator, no one to pick out of a line up. It wasn't that he couldn't describe the face. There had been no face to describe! Which left him with a real problem. It would be impossible to put out any kind of bulletin when the killer had no corporal form. He almost giggled at that thought. Here he was, in a gold-plated nut house, devising a plan to catch a killer that appeared to be an apparition, a ghost. He wished he had time to do a little research on the subject. He was sure there must have been some information on the murderous paranormal somewhere. Patterson would have a cow at Mulder's new revised theory. He knew for a fact, had personal experience, that the evil they were hunting was not of a human nature. Or maybe just not human any more. That would most certainly get him another psych review, of that he had no doubt. But it wasn't that far off from things he'd read as a child, or even stories he'd heard from other agents. Sometimes, the normal, rational way of thinking just didn't give a complete picture. Sometimes, there was a need to look at all the possiblities, even the most extreme. He felt that was most definitely the case with the killer he was going after. But he was running out of time. As it was, he had just enough time to get on a plane and out to the scene of the crime. A crime that might very possibly take place before he even landed. That upset him, frustrated him. But Colleen's words echoed in his head. 'You can't save them all.' But maybe, just maybe, he could save the next one. There were still two more hotels left on the tour list. Sacramento Airport 8:15 pm PST The moment he got to New York's LaGuardia Airport, he knew he would be too late. No matter how fast they flew, no matter how much time they saved travelling west, beating the setting sun by three hours, he knew he would still be too late. He'd hoped his new found sense of self would curb the crushing feelings of responsiblity and guilt, but it didn't. He still felt like a failure. It burned in his gut and made him angry. It made him angry enough to want to punch something, take his frustration out on an inanimate object, or maybe even an animate one. Punch the lights out of the first guy to grab a cab out from under him or something like that. He was on the balls of his feet coming off the plane in Sacramento. He turned all the anger into a focus on the search. He started at the Capitol City. Sure enough, when he asked directly if Deakins had made it to work, the reply was an unconcerned 'no'. The woman at the desk wanted to know if Mulder was a bill collector. Apparently, Deakins was late on most of his bills and a sheriff 's deputy had been looking for him eariler over a couple of rubber checks. Mulder almost felt the need to take a number and wait in line to find the guy. But he also knew that only he would more than likely to find him. He thanked the woman and ventured out of the hotel. It was dark, cold, a wind had blown up and even his heavy winter-on-the-North-Atlantic coat didn't keep it at bay for long. But he closed his eyes, pictured the alley of his dream in his mind and started walking. He walked for over two hours. Mulder searched every alley in a one mile radius of the hotel and then expanded his search methodically, one block at a time. He was about ready to call the Gunmen and get Deakins' home address when he literally stumbled on a body lying half hidden under a dumpster. Mulder looked around, searching for a moment for the shadow, a wind, anything of the presence from before. There was nothing, just the late winter drizzle and the cold. The killer was long gone. He sighed in frustration. He didn't have to pull out the wallet to know it was Deakins. Wrists slashed, half congealed blood flowing slowly down the pale skin. The dead man's eyes were open and the look on his face was one of surprise. That was odd, in Mulder's mind. And evidence, he decided. People who commit suicide shouldn't be surprised at the results of their actions. A camera. He needed a camera. No, he needed to call the police. He ran to an all night drugstore he'd spotted around the corner and called out the troops. Sacramento Police Station March 11, 1991 1:30 am Detective Robert Anderson looked tired. He was a big man, stood 6' 3" in his stocking feet. Not a rookie, either, he'd spent 18 years on the force and he'd seen enough to know that some things just weren't what they appeared. He stood in the doorway of the small interrogation room and looked hard at his interviewee. A witness. A Fed. Should have been a piece of cake. So why was the guy making it so goddammed hard on him? "Agent Mulder," Anderson called, walking into the room and pulling up a chair at the table to sit down across from Mulder. "We still have a few questions." Mulder snorted. He just bet. Mulder called the police from the drugstore. A squad car had been sent out immediately. The two beat cops had taken one look at the body and called out a forensics team. In Sacramento, a dead body, even one with obvious suicide traits, was still a dead body and deserved to be investigated. Mulder had given the detective who arrived, Anderson, the full low down as he knew it. He didn't bother to hide or sugar-coat all the information he had. He told of the other deaths, of the 'suicides' that now trailed across the Rockies. He told exactly when each death happened. The only aspect he got stuck on was the description of the unsub. Anderson looked over at Mulder with a forced smile. "Gotta tell ya, I was sure surprised to find an FBI profiler standing over that body in the alley," he said affably. "I guess I thought my work was over, huh?" The sound he made was probably meant to be a chuckle but sounded much too painful to be caused by something humorous. "Detective, I'm sorry if I haven't been much help . . ." Mulder started to apologize. Anderson held up a hand and shook his head. "On the contrary. You found a body for us. We appreciate it when out of town guests patrol our streets," he said just barely hiding the sarcastic tone to his voice. "And especially when they find murder victims. The problem, you see, _my_ problem, is that all the evidence seems to be telling me that this is a suicide." Mulder just stared at the man. "But . . ." Anderson drew in a deep breath. "But . . . I got an FBI criminal profiler telling me there's a murderer on the prowl," he said in one breath, then stopped. Mulder waited. Anderson finally continued. "And my gut's telling me the Fed's right." Mulder tamped down the grin that wanted to break free on his face. He simply nodded. "So, when will he strike again?" "Four days," Mulder replied confidently. "But it won't be here." "Where?" Anderson pursued. "Carson City," Mulder replied. "Nevada." "Crossin' the state line. We should put up road blocks," Anderson said, taking out his notebook to jot down the information. "Won't help. I can't give you a description," Mulder said, chewing nervously on his lip. Anderson looked up, closing the notebook slowly and pursing his lips into a grim thin line. "What _do_ you know about the unsub, then? I mean, you do have a profile that you're working off, right?" Mulder drew in a deep breath. "I did. I had a profile, back a month ago. But I was wrong, way off. Then I got sick, pneumonia. I've been laid up for almost six weeks now." Anderson nodded. "So, you revised the profile, yet, or are you pulling this information out your ass?" It wasn't meant to be derogatory, Mulder could tell by the earnest expression on the older man's face. "Look, I know the connections." Mulder said, then explained quickly about Stephen Paige and Abigail Crowne, about the tour dates, the motels. How all the victims to date had been working nights at each of the motels and hotels on the tour. "That's how I know pretty much victim and city, and even when, but not who the killer is. I was close in Las Vegas, but . . ." He trailed off. "The guy got away," Anderson nodded, with a grim look. "You could say that. I was unconscious when they found me, with a bruised larynx where I was nearly strangled." Anderson sighed heavily, then scratched the brow above his left eye with his left forefinger. "That's all wonderful news, but my hands are tied. I can't get the jurisidiction to cross the border. _You_ guys are the ones to do that. Can you get help from back east?" Now it was Mulder's turn to sigh. "I'm officially on medical leave. And because these cases appear to be suicides, I'm not getting a lot of support for my theory," he said cautiously. Anderson nodded and chewed on his lip. "No doubt," he said dryly. "What do we do?" "Know anybody in Carson City who might listen to me?" Mulder asked hopefully. The detective thought for a moment, then broke into a smile. "I might. Old Army buddy of mine. We were in the reserves together. He's on the force over there. He might listen. Name of Steinhower." "I'll do some checking with some friends who were getting me the names of potential victims in Carson City." He looked at his watch. Two a.m. was fast approaching. "Maybe you better wait till morning to call your friend," Mulder said with a lopsided smile. "I want the guy to be in a _good_ mood when I talk to him." He found a motel at Anderson's urging and after a quick shower to warm himself from the rain, he called DC. "Lone Gun Men." It was Byers this time. The other two were probably still fighting over the cherrios box. "Byers, it's Mulder," he said quickly. "Wait a minute, Mulder. Let me turn off the tape." Mulder smiled. The guy was just too polite sometimes. "There . . . where have you been! We've been trying your apartment for three days. You called and asked Frohike to find the names of the men in Carson City and then you fell off the face of the planet. What gives?" "The hearing," Mulder answered succinctly. "I ended up in a psych hospital for 72 hours of evaluation." "But they let you out?" Byers exclaimed, then forced his tone to be calmer. "I mean, that's a good thing, right?" Mulder chuckled. "Yeah, that's a good thing. Guess I fooled 'em again, huh?" There was silence on the other line and then the bearded man must have finally understood the joke. "Hey, good one, Mulder. Well, anyway, let me get Frohike. He's got those names you wanted." "Fresh from the nuthouse, huh, Mulder?" Frohike teased. Byers had apparently filled him in on the way to the phone. "Still have the salt on me to prove it," Mulder returned. "So, what have you got for me." "Three names this time. It's a smaller place, or so I guess. But all three appear to be likely candidates," Frohike said with a warning tone. "Anyway, here goes. Jeffrey Bell, 29, desk clerk, never married, but had a live in girlfriend until last year about this time. Denver Nugget, 35, and yeah, that's an alias, a stage name. He was the piano player in the lounge, now he's the bartender. In between female engagements at the moment. Guess he sucked as a pianist _and_ other things. Ahem. And last by not least, Tim Blake, 25, had just been hired last year as a bartender. Now, he's the manager of the lounge. No steady girlfriend, but quite a few one night stands." "You're right, Frohike. Any one of them could be the next victim. I need to talk to all three of them." "Did the other guy . . . I mean, the one in Sacramento . . . did you get there in time?" Frohike asked hesitantly. "No," Mulder said bitterly. "Bummer," muttered the little man on the other end of the line. "Yeah," Mulder agreed. "But I might be able to work with the Carson City PD this time. There's a guy there who might listen to what I have to say." "Somebody to listen to _this_ story? Wow, you are coming up in the world," Frohike teased lightly. "If you need me to . . ." "For the Airport Holiday Inn," Mulder replied to finish the question for his friend. "Denver, if you will. I'll need that information for later, but I'm hoping we can clear this up before then." "You and me both. Hey, Mulder, they didn't just poke you, prod you and let you out. I'm familiar with the process. When does the judge make the final ruling on your mom's petition?" "The 16th," Mulder said grimly. "Five days. Not much time to get this case in the can," Frohike said outloud, reading Mulder's thoughts. "But, hey, you're the big G-man. You can handle it," Frohike said confidently. It brought a smile to Mulder's face that his friend was so sure of his abilities. "We'll see, Frohike. And thanks, for all your help." As wired as he was, Mulder's body quickly told him that he had to rest. He laid down on the bed and didn't open his eyes until the phone rang in his ear. "Agent Mulder, this is Det. Anderson. I called Ben Steinhower just a few minutes ago. It took some convincing, believe you me, but he's willing to meet with you." "How far a drive is it to Carson City?" Mulder asked, wiping the sleep from his eyes and staring at his watch, which he'd neglected to remove. It was half past 8 in the morning. "About 2 and a half hours, if you obey the speed limits. I can give you directions. Anyway, Ben said to meet him at the station house at one o'clock. He'll do what he can to help you." "Thank you, Det. Anderson. I really do appreciate all your help," Mulder told the older man. "Hey, just catch this creep. That's all the thanks I need," Anderson replied and said goodbye. Mulder let his body drop back to the bed for a moment. If it was only 2 and a half hours to Carson City, he had plenty of time. Time to take a shower, time to get some breakfast, with lots of grease and butter. Time to think. Now that he was away from Cresthaven, it was so easy to slip back into his old mindset. Find the killer, so he could go on to the next profile. Forget his promises to himself and his father, ignore that he'd almost died pursuing this suspect. Just get back to his life as he knew it. His father's words were haunting him. Samantha's file had an X. What the hell was that supposed to mean? He knew of the files that got put 'somewhere else'. Files that were unsolved. Some of them strange and unexplained. Some just trails so cold or witnesses so crazy that they would never be solved. That's the category that Sam's file fit in. He'd been 12 when his sister was taken from their home. He was alone, in charge. And by the time he'd woken from his catatonic state, the trail was cold, the clues and evidence lost to time. He was the only witness, but his testimony was unreliable, at best. After joining the FBI, he'd even learned that he'd been a suspect at one point, but that doctors and psychologists had assured the police that the young boy could not have murdered his sister and hidden her body. He simply hadn't been strong enough, nor did he exhibit homicidal tendencies. Such glowing endorsements would have served to build his confidence as a teenager had he known about it, he laughed bitterly to himself. He glanced down at his watch. He'd been laying around, wasting time for 20 minutes. Time to stop all the thinking and take some action. He hauled himself up off the bed and headed for the shower. end of part twenty-one Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part twenty-two of twenty-five Carson City, Nevada Police Station March 11, 1991 4:45 pm Mulder gulped his fourth cup of coffee and flipped to another page on the notebook in front of him. To his right, Ben Steinhower sat in a similar position, but on his fourth diet Coke. Before the two men sat a very nervous Timothy Blake. "I remember her, sort of. I mean, it was hard to ignore her. She wore these skimpy little crop tops and long pants that only came about to her belly button," he said, toying with a styrofoam cup. "But I didn't do anything about it. I mean, I didn't . . . well, she sort of hinted about maybe gettin' together, but, well, I just sort of thought that was all talk. I mean, they were sharing a room and all. And he was a good sized guy. I didn't want to cause any trouble, you know what I mean?" Mulder nodded. "Yeah, Tim, I know what you mean. So, in other words, you didn't have sex with Gail Crowne while she was at the hotel." Tim's eyes widened. "No sir! Absolutely not. Not once, never. No way." He glanced at the door. "So, do you think this guy is gonna kill Denny or Jeff?" Mulder regretted having to give so much information to the potential victims, but he wanted any information they could give him in return. He'd told Tim Blake the whole story in hopes of getting his full cooperation. Instead, he scared the poor kid nearly half to death. "I'm confident that we can avoid another murder," Mulder said firmly. "Your assistance has been invaluable, Tim. If the other two are as forthcoming as you've been, I'm sure we can get this matter settled without any further bloodshed." He flashed Tim one of his patented smiles and was pleased when the younger man relaxed visibly. "Good. Great. Can I go now?" Tim asked, a little more calmly. "Certainly. But if you have any other information that you think might help us, anything Gail might have said in your presence, or anything, please give me or Det. Steinhower a call here at the station." Mulder got up and shook the young man's hand, followed by Ben, who did the same. They both waited until Blake was out of the interrogation room before speaking. "We're screwed," Steinhower said in defeat. "Somebody is lying," Mulder said, shaking his head. They had already interviewed both Jeff Bell and Denver Nugget. Each man had denied ever meeting with Gail Crowne and both flatly denied having sex with her. "So what do you want to do? Put them all under surveillance?" Ben asked. Mulder chewed on his lip. The Carson City Police Department was small by anyone's standards. The kind of surveillance Steinhower was talking about could only be accomplished with the Bureau's assistance. "I'm hoping we scared them so they're afraid of their own shadows. But if it comes down to it, yeah, we might have to keep tabs on them." "If I had to pick the liar out of the crowd, I'd have to say that Nugget character," Ben said, flipping through his notes. "The guy couldn't keep a story straight with a ruler and a T-square." "I got the impression he thought he could handle anyone who came after him," Mulder said, nodding. "He's the one we should watch." "Fine with me. Guy's no good, from what I can see. We'll probably catch him holding up a convenience store or something," he grinned. "Hey, wanta grab some dinner? We got a little place here that serves a steak an' cheese, make you think you're in Philly." "Sounds great," Mulder said. Ben Steinhower was not a push over, Mulder had discovered when he'd arrived at the station. He'd had plenty of questions about the murders and how Mulder had arrived at his theory. But after two hours of intense interrogation, Ben had shoved his chair back and declared that he'd help Mulder in any way he could. They called the list Frohike had given Mulder and started interviewing the potential victims. But once that was over, there seemed nothing to do but wait. The two men sat back in their booth at the restaurant/bar about three blocks from the station. Mulder was nursing his first beer since his illness and Steinhower was already on his second. "Profiling. Man, that takes guts," Ben said, wiping his chin where steak sauce threatened to ruin his tie. "I've done it for a long time," Mulder replied. "At least, it sure seems a long time to me." "But this one sure doesn't sound like your run of the mill serial," Ben noted. "Not from what you describe attacked you in Vegas." Mulder shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "I know how it sounds," he started to explain. "Rein it in, son!" Ben laughed. "I'm not about to call you crazy. I've seen stuff in these mountains, ain't no way I'd ever put it down on a report. I gotta admire your balls, though. You seem hell bent on solving this thing. Even if it means getting laughed at . . . or worse. That's a trait we should be looking for, not ridiculing." Mulder took another pull on his beer. "What things have you seen, Ben?" he asked with a smile. The rest of the evening went by in a blur of food, drink and some of the best campfire-ghost stories Mulder had heard since he left Oxford to come back to the states. Stay N Save Motel Carson City, Nevada 8:45 pm Mulder unlocked his room and tossed the his keys on the low dresser. He didn't realize how tired he was until he had gotten in the car to drive back to the motel. Twice in the 10 block ride he'd almost fallen asleep at red lights. All the traveling across country was starting to wear him out. But he'd promised himself that he'd make one more phone call before he went to bed. "Dad, it's me. Fox." There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line worried him a little. "Dad. Is something wrong?" "Where are you, Fox? You aren't at home, I know that. I've been trying to reach you." "I'm in Nevada, Dad," he said, trying for a calm voice. His father had always been able to reduce him to a blubbering idiot; it appeared their recent alliance had not changed much of anything between them. "I thought you were going to stay at your apartment until this thing with your mother was settled." "Dad, . . ." He stopped. What could he say? He could lie and tell his father he was out in the mountains on a vacation. He could tell his father that he was skiing. But he'd never been able to lie to the man. Not once, in 29 years. "I'm working that case, Dad," he said dejectedly. "Fox, how can you be so irresponsible?" his father seethed. "Can't you see . . ." "Dad, Cresthaven gave me a clean bill of mental health. They couldn't keep me. Mom doesn't have a case against me. All I have to do is show up on the 16th and all this will go away." "I thought we'd agreed. I thought you'd decided to walk away from profiling," his father interrupted. "Dad, I have agreed. I am going to request a transfer, effective the minute I'm allowed back at work. It's just . . . Dad, what you said the other night struck a chord with me. About cases that were shoved aside. Dad, this is one of those cases! If I don't pursue it, if I don't try to find out what is happening . . . no one else will, Dad. It will end up where ever all those other cases end up." "In the basement," his father said in the barest of whispers. "Just do me a favor, son. Be very, very careful. If anything were to happen to you . . ." Mulder waited breathlessly for the next word, any indication of his father's feelings for him. ". . . It would kill your mother." And once again, two ships passed in the night, neither knowing the other was so close by. Mulder sighed. "I'll be careful, Dad." Sleep came quickly, but with it, so did the dreams. None of these were very long. Most were flashes, like watching a television screen and clicking the remote every four or five seconds. Flashes. A young man walking toward a car in a parking lot. Flash. The same young man, struggling with a larger man, the glint of a knife as it raised above their heads. Flash. A small woman, Abigail Crowne, eyes wide and frightened, but doing nothing to stop the two men as they struggled. Flash. Police swarming a crime scene. A body lying in a puddle of red, blood everywhere. Mulder groaned and rolled over in his sleep. The dreams were disturbing, but not enough to wake him. More flashes followed, each one a memory. Crime scene photos in black and white. Chalk outlines of dead bodies. The rail yard in Billings, the dock in Portland. The alley from the night before. Like a deck of cards being flipped to show a moving picture, the flashes sped up until they seemed to be a running video of the horrors of the case. The flashes slowed, no longer memories. He saw Tim Blake, walking toward a car parked on a deserted street. The shadow seemed to come up from under the car and surround the young man. Mulder saw Blake fall to the ground . . . And he woke up. He was still shaking. It took a moment to get a deep breath, but he was almost giddy with joy that he was able to get enough air into his lungs. He was sweating up a storm. Disgusted, he rolled out of bed and went into the bathroom, turning on the light. He looked like shit. Even he had to admit it. He didn't feel as bad as he had when he'd first gotten to his mother's, but he couldn't remember a time when he didn't feel half there, not completely himself. When was he going to feel _well_ again? After a quick shower, he went back and crawled back into bed. It was only 4 am and he knew better than to even think about taking a run. Maybe sometime in the next year, but not much sooner. He rolled over onto his side and stared at the clock on the nightstand. His dreams came back to him, but this time, he could slow them down, hold them and look at them like so many pictures in a photograph album. He started with the first one. He hadn't recognized the victim, but he'd recognized the airport in the background. It was the Denver Airport. There was talk of building a new one and already a heated argument over the expense. He knew ground was already broken for the new terminals and runways. Stephen Paige had been murdered in a parking lot at the Denver Airport. In the report, which he'd read briefly after coming back from Springfield to meet with Mrs. Henderson, Mulder had read Abigail Crowne's statement to the police. She claimed that she'd been at the motel, packing, when Stephen went over to the airport. Their car had developed engine trouble and he'd taken the shuttle over to one of the rental agencies to get a car that would take them on to Nappa Valley, their next stop. According to her statement, Abigail Crowne had fallen asleep waiting for his return, and had been awakened by the police, telling her that Stephen was dead. Now, Mulder knew that wasn't the case. At least, according to his dream, she'd been a witness. A witness who had done nothing to stop the killing. He tried to look harder, mentally, at her features from the dream. Had she seemed frightened? And for whom, the killer or the assailant. Had Abigail Crowne been involved with the murder of Stephen Paige, or had she just been too scared to move and then felt the guilt afterward? A cold chill ran down his back. Could anyone really know who was an accessory to murder and who was a second hand victim, except the person it happened to? The phone ringing broke his thoughts. "Mulder, sorry to wake you. Ben Steinhower here. There's been another one. Tim Blake." 17th Street Carson City, Nevada March 12, 1991 5:03 am Mulder shivered against the cold mountain wind that blew down the street and stirred up dried leaves on the pavement. The whole city seemed more dead than alive at this dark hour before dawn. Ben Steinhower was standing near a squad car with lights still flashing and waved him over. Steinhower handed him a paper cup of coffee. "You'll need this, if you stand out here too long," he assured Mulder. "Body's over here." Mulder walked over to where several officers, one with a camera, were huddled around something on the ground. As he approached, he saw the blood. But it wasn't coming from the wrists this time. "He was ripped up the middle. Stem to stern. If this is a suicide, I'll eat my shorts," Steinhower said grimly. Mulder closed his eyes. This was definitely not in the pattern. They had three days. The previous murders, at least since Gail Crowne had been killed, all appeared to be suicides, even though he knew they weren't. Was the killer, who or whatever it was, escalating? He licked his lips. "How soon till we get the autopsy back?" he asked, stooping to the ground to get a closer look. Pulling on a latex glove offered by Steinhower, he gently lifted the dead man's arm at the wrist, examining. Was that bruising around the wrist? His eyes flicked to Blake's throat. Could that be bruising around the neck, too, or was it just the pre-dawn shadows? "Once the ME takes him, should be two, maybe three hours. Our guy's good. Used to work for the state. Came here to retire." Mulder nodded, half hearing. There were definitely marks on the body besides the most obvious wound all the way down the torso. Maybe he was finally getting his break after all. Unless this death had nothing to do with the others. He let that thought flow over his brain a moment. There were so many differences. He shouldn't let the fact that the victim was one he'd already identified blind him to the obvious answer. That this crime was unrelated, chance, just a really rotten coincidence. "I think we need to talk to Bell and Nugget again," Mulder said, pulling himself up to stand next to Steinhower. "We might consider putting them both in protective custody." The older man nodded. "We'll pick 'em up, get 'em down to the station." Carson City Police Station 7:15 am Denver Nugget pulled on a cigarette nervously. "We all did her," he said simply, before Mulder had the chance to get seated at the table. "All of you? Was it rape?" he asked, his voice calm but his eyes flashing angrily at the two men on the other side of the table. Nugget laughed. "Hell, probably, but not us on her. More like her on us. And Blake, well, he wasn't really too willing till she started going down on him. Got in the mood real quick after that." "Why didn't you say something before?" Steinhower demanded. "It might have made a difference." "What difference? How could you have protected him? Any of us, for that matter?" Bell demanded, his eyes wild and terrified. "Besides, who would have thought . . ." "Gail called me about four months after that night," Nugget interrupted. "Said she was scared. She'd hooked up with a guy in Denver. Mean son of a bitch. She was running from him. Wanted to know if I could help her, hide her somewhere." All eyes turned to him. "I didn't bother asking for details. Figured she just got somebody who could give as good as she did and that's what scared her. But I didn't have anyplace to stash her, ya know. She didn't call me after that." Bell chewed on his lip. "She called me, too." He closed his eyes, trying to remember, or maybe trying to forget. "She told me Paige got murdered. Not that she really gave a damn, he was just her personal wallet. But whatever happened, she was scared to death." "A name. I need a name. Did she tell you who this guy, this son of a bitch, was?" Mulder demanded. Both men shook their heads in unison. Then Bell looked directly at Mulder. "But I got the impression that he worked at the place in Denver where they had a gig. That was Gail. She liked to pick up guys who were right nearby. Right under Steve's nose, if you know what I mean." That was all the information Mulder needed. end of part twenty-two Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part twenty-three of twenty-five Stay N Save Carson City, Nevada 11:00 am Mulder didn't even think twice when he got back to his motel room. He just dialed Reggie's number from memory. "Reggie Purdue," came the gravel voice on the other end of the line. "Reg, it's Mulder. It's the real thing, Reg. Not a suicide. Murder. And I have a good lead on the UNSUB. Can we finally get a little help out here?" Mulder hated the whining quality his voice had taken on, but if he had to beg for help, he was willing to do so. "Whoa, slow down a minute. OK, Mulder, since I'm not 'out there' where ever the hell you are right now, take a deep breath and tell me what the hell is going on." Mulder had to smile. Reggie was the perfect ASAC. Calm, rational to a fault. "OK, here it is. I've been tracking the . . . 'deaths', for lack of a more specific word. I've been to Las Vegas, Sacramento, and now I'm in Carson City, Nevada. In Vegas, I was attacked . . ." "I heard about that. Patterson hit the roof when the LVPD called after they found you lying next to a stiff in an abandoned building. Mulder, you better watch yourself around Patterson. He's gonna make it a kill shot if he gets you in his sights," Reggie confided. "I don't care about Patterson right now, Reggie. He's out of the loop. But in both Vegas and Sacramento, well, it could have been a suicide. The killer made it look convincing. But not so here in Carson City!" "What do you have?" "Timothy Blake. Employed by the Mountain View Motel, where he's been working since a year ago. And the Mountain View was on the list of tour spots for Paige and Crown. He was killed early this morning. I'll have the autopsy report faxed to you as soon as I get it. He was split up the middle, Reggie. If this guy committed suicide, he watched _Shogun_ too many times." "What are the Carson City locals saying?" Reggie was always one to cover all the bases. "They're asking for our help. Denver is the next stop and it's over the border. For that matter, Sacramento would like our involvement, as well." "Been making friends along the way, have you, Mulder? Good, it's about time you quit pissin' off everybody you meet," Reggie teased with good nature. "Hey, you go out on your own, you adapt," Mulder shot back with a grin. "Seriously, Reggie, I have more. There were three possible victims here in Carson City. I talked to all of them. All three claimed they had met Abigail Crown, but none of them had touched her. Blake was probably my last pick, sort of a choir boy from our talk. But he was real nervous during the interview." "He was the one 'doing her'?" Reggie interrupted. "Turns out all three of them were doing her, Reg. At once." "Rape?" "No, that was my thought. Guess Gail just wanted to party-hearty as they say. But when Blake was murdered, we pulled the other two in for protective custody. They started talking. Apparently, Crown had contacted both of them about 8 months ago. Said she was scared. She'd gotten involved with someone and now she was running from them." "You think it's the UNSUB," Reggie said it out loud so Mulder didn't have to. "Yes. And I'm pretty sure that he is or was an employee of the Airport Holiday Inn in Denver." Reggie was silent for a moment. "According to Bill, you were spinning some long yarn about a ghost attacking you in that abandoned building," he said cautiously. Mulder licked his lip. "Reggie, I don't know what attacked me. I got a bruised larynx, that's all I know for certain." "So it wasn't a shadow that got you? Like the dream you were talking about when you called me from your mom's? Or what you told Patterson happened to Crown in Portland?" "Reggie, I just don't know!" Mulder said loudly in exasperation. "But I have a solid lead on a possible murder suspect. Reggie, this guy probably killed Stephen Paige. That's how all of this started in the first place. Whatever else you might believe of my story, that one part has checked out all along. All of this comes down to that murder in Denver a year ago." There was an uncomfortable silence on the other end of the line. "Reggie. You gonna help me or not?" Mulder asked bluntly. "Patterson wants you out of the Bureau," Reggie said in a whisper, as if there were others who might be listening in. "I want out from under Patterson," Mulder answered back calmly. "I'm gonna call some people, just as soon as this is over. I want out of ISU. Like you said, Reg. It's time to walk away. While I still can." He wasn't sure, but he thought he heard a deep sigh of relief on the other end of the line. "Well, that's the first intelligent thing to come out of your mouth in a long time, Mulder," Reggie said, his voice sounding more relaxed than it had during the entire conversation. "All right. Here's what I'll do. You get somebody from Carson City to call _me_, and I'll take the request up to Skinner himself. He's new, and I don't get the impression he's as taken by Patterson as any of the other AD's. He might make this thing work." It was Mulder's turn to sigh in relief. "Thanks, Reggie. You don't know what this means," he said honestly. "Yes, I do, Mulder. You just make sure you don't screw this up. And call those contacts on the Hill ASAP. You gonna need all the protection you can get when Bill gets wind of this." By three o'clock, Mulder had a complete list of employees. Of course, he still ended up calling Frohike, for his list, which came annotated with the male employees sex lives, in detail. Mulder really wondered where Frohike was getting his information, but was too afraid of offending the little man to ask. Denver FBI Regional Office March 12, 1991 5:15 pm Even though he was still 'officially' on medical leave, Reggie had managed to smooth the way for him. It felt good to be back in an office, surrounded by his own kind. It seemed that everyone in the Denver office had heard the stories going around about 'Spooky Mulder meeting Casper the Ghost' in an abandoned casino in Vegas. Most of the agents were tickled pink to take turns ribbing the 'hot shot' profiler from the ISU out east. Mulder ignored it all. He was just glad to be back. With a solid list of suspects, and a fresh off the fax machine autopsy report, a task force was assembled. The ME in Carson City ruled cause of death blood loss from a knife wound 18 inches long. A coroner's inquest ruled the death 'foul play' when the ME testified that the angle of the wound prevented it from being self-inflicted. In addition, a print was found on the crystal of Tim Blake's watch. A single thumb print that was being run through the NCIC date base. The Bureau list consisted of nine names. As was standard procedure, the list was being whittled down, one at a time while waiting for the print identification to come back. But Mulder was working on his own list, the one from Frohike. That list pointed to only one possible suspect. The other men employed at the Holiday Inn were either 'past their prime' as the shortest Lone Gun Man had put it, or weren't working there the year before. It came down to one man according to the fingerprint. James Nelson Packard, the same man Mulder had already identified. Aged 33, married once, ex-wife still had a restraining order on him. Had a list of priors starting at the ripe old age of 18. Juvenile records were sealed by the court, but rumor had it he'd started his crime career at the age of 14. Most of his rap sheet contained battery charges. It was uncertain how a man with such a record could have gained employment in a hotel, specifically the airport hotel. The simple answer was he was the bartender and bouncer in the lounge. He'd never been arrested for stealing, mostly just busting people's faces. It was obviously a flaw the management felt they could live with, since he'd never been reprimanded or arrested at his work place. Two agents were sent to arrest him at his home. Mulder was sitting in a conference room at the Denver Field Office when the call came in. James Nelson Packard was not at his apartment. He was now considered a fugitive and a full manhunt put in place. 1456 S. 34th Street Apartment C Denver, Colorado 6:35 pm Mulder pulled on his latex gloves as he walked into the apartment. The warrant for the search was taped to the door, just in case the occupant might decide to come back. The forensics team was dusting the place and searching through closets, under the ratty sofa, among the drawers in the kitchen. The weapon had not been discovered at the crime scene. Everyone was hopeful it would be discovered at the apartment, preferably, still with traces of the victim's blood, but everyone also knew that was a long shot. Mulder had held himself back from most of the festivities of searching. His eyes were busy, taking in the life of the man they were all searching for. A tumble down apartment on the wrong side of the tracks. Second hand furniture, way beyond the fashionable 'distressed' state. No books, but some magazines he recognized from his own hidden library. At least the man has good taste in porn, Mulder mused as he tossed one dog-eared issue back on the pile next to the stained and unmade bed. He looked around the bed. A torn and yellowed bed skirt hid the floor underneath. Mulder thought for a moment, looking at the dirty dishes stacked in various level surfaces, and could just imagine what lurked under the bed. No one else had bothered with the bedroom after searching the closet and the chest of drawers. Blowing out a deep breath, he knelt down next to the bed and unconsciously grimaced as he lifted the skirt. Even though his skin was protected he couldn't help but wonder at the grit and filth he was coming into contact with. He shone a flashlight under the bed. Aside from several years incubation of dust bunnies, only a lone, wooden cigar box sat undisturbed. Mulder instinctively gravitated toward the cigar box. He reached out and pulled it from under the bed. Taking it to the flat surface of the bed, he slowly opened the lid. First, he chewed on his lip. Then his face broke into a broad smile. As he reached out a tentative hand to lift up his prize for closer inspection, an all too familiar voice boomed from the doorway. "Jesus H. Christ, Mulder, can't you just stay the hell in your sick bed and give me a break!" yelled Bill Patterson. Mulder couldn't decide if he wanted to laugh or cry at that statement. He knew more berating was to follow, and relatively soon, so he stood up, grabbing a handful of the contents of the cigar box. He walked over to the older man, never breaking eye contact. Taking Bill's hand and positioning with the latexed palm up, Mulder deposited the items in his supervisor's hand. "Just a little present, Bill. From me . . . to you." Bill looked down and closed his eyes for a moment. In his hand was a bunch of match books. He recognized the names of the motels. "Told you she didn't do it," Mulder said in a whisper in the other agents ear. He then swept out into the other room, leaving Bill exactly where he stood. "Look, Mulder, you were the one who was so convinced it was the girl," Patterson roared as he followed the younger man into the front room. "No, Bill, I said she was involved. And in the hospital, I tried . . ." "In the hospital? Goddammit, Mulder, in the hospital you were almost a fucking vegetable!" Bill shouted, causing all the other agents to stop all conversation and stare at the two combatants for a moment, before resuming their work. Bill lowered his voice to a teeth clenched raspy whisper. "You were out of your head, Mulder. Fever dreams out the ass. I had no reason to believe you in the hospital." "And after? What about after I got out, Bill? I told you those men weren't suicides. You cut off all resources, you basically shut me down. What about then, huh, Bill?" Mulder hissed back, keeping a maniacal smile plastered on his face for the benefit of the onlookers. Bill's eyes narrowed. "You have been on medical leave, Agent Mulder," he said formally. "For that matter, you are _still_ on leave. You have not been cleared for work, and as such you should not even be here." "Oh, cut the fucking crap, Bill," Mulder spit out. "You're just pissed I was right and you chose to ignore me." He turned to walk away, but Bill caught his sleeve and whirled him around, then promptly landed Mulder on his ass with a vicious left hook. All activity stopped instantly. At least nine pairs of eyes stared in abject horror at the head of the Investigative Support Unit towering over his subordinate agent now sprawled out on the floor some two yards away. Mulder rubbed his jaw absently, breathing heavily. After a few seconds, he hauled himself to his feet, shaking off the offered hands of assistance that tugged at him. He walked over to Patterson, got right in his face. "Feel better, Bill?" he asked calmly. Patterson said nothing, just narrowed his glare. "Good. Because we have a killer to track." FBI Regional Office Denver, CO March 13, 1991 10:35 am Mulder sat hunched over the rap sheet containing Packard's life, where he'd been for most of the night and all of the morning. It wasn't that pretty, but at least it was giving him some information. Two agents had taken statements from Packard's landlord, his manager at the hotel and the neighbor who wasn't stoned out of his head at the apartments. His ex-wife had been cooperative, but had little contact with him over the last two years. So far, no other living relatives had been located. So far, no one really had given them much to go on. The picture Mulder was getting was of a very angry man. That much seemed almost cliche. The various assault and battery charges, the ex-wife's claims of abuse, even down to his job description, led Mulder to see a ticking bomb, just waiting to go off. But what had caused the explosion? What had detonated the bundle of dynamite and resulted in the deaths of nearly a dozen people? More importantly, where would a man like that hide? Once again, Mulder felt himself thinking of Abigail Crown. She was the last woman known to have been in contact with Packard. Mulder was certain now that Packard was the shadow he'd seen on the docks in Portland. Packard's mug shots showed a dark man, steely gray eyes peering out from under long black hair that rarely saw either a comb or a pair of scissors. A full, bushy beard hung to his chest. The man looked more like a grizzly bear than anything else. In the dark, he could very possibly be mistaken for a shadow. But that didn't explain what happened in Las Vegas, a little voice whispered in Mulder's mind. A man that big, with that much hair, wouldn't have been mistaken for the wind, the little voice taunted. Mulder brushed it aside ruthlessly. Thinking about the extremes of possibilities were not going to help him track the killer. Mulder picked up the cigar box again. Match books. The only real link they had to the other murders. He sorted through them, putting them in the order of each of the crimes. Until he found one that didn't fit. Zak's Mountain Campgrounds and Fishing Lodge. Mulder stared at the match book for several minutes. It was more than a long shot. It was a leap off a cliff. But as he held the match book in his hands, chewing on his bottom lip, he knew in his gut that Packard was there, just waiting for them. Office of the Special Agent in Charge Jeffrey Davis 11:03 am "How's the jaw, Agent Mulder?" Davis asked calmly, as Mulder took a seat in front of his desk. Davis had met with Mulder for less than a second the day before, and had handed the assignments out to the task force. Apparently, he kept better tabs on the activities in his office than Mulder had suspected. Mulder fought the urge to rub the bruise he knew had formed during the night. "It's fine, sir. That's not what I came to talk to you about." "You know, I would be happy to put Patterson on report. He had no business taking after you like that. It shouldn't be allowed to slip by. This is serious, Agent Mulder. And you have more than enough witnesses to substantiate any claim you might want to make." Mulder shook his head in frustration. "Sir, SIC Davis, I'm here because I have reason to believe I know where Packard may be hiding," he blurted out before the other man could interrupt. That got Davis attention. "Where?" "Zak's Mountain Campground and Fishing Lodge," Mulder said evenly, handing the match book over to Davis. Davis stared at the match book cover, squinting at the tiny lettering. "I know where this is located. About 20 miles west of here. It's pretty secluded territory." He handed the match book back to Mulder. "How did you come to the conclusion Packard is there, Agent?" Mulder winced internally. "This was in with the match books from the crime scenes. It was the only one that didn't fit." Then he waited. Davis nodded, motioned for Mulder to continue. "The witnesses we've interviewed haven't been very helpful, sir. The man was a loner. Save for a disastrous marriage that lasted less than two years, he's pretty much kept to himself, from what we've been able to determine." Mulder forced himself to breathe, ignoring the urgent desire to hold his breath while waiting for the other man to speak. Davis took his sweet time. He flipped through the file folder in front of him. He picked up a pencil and inspected it closely. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity to Mulder, he looked the younger agent square in the eye. "Guess it wouldn't hurt to go take a look," he said casually. Mulder felt the blood start rushing to his head. "No sir, it sure wouldn't hurt." end of part twenty-three Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part twenty-four of twenty-five Zak's Mountain Campground and Fishing Lodge March 13, 1991 1:21 pm In the end, Davis had sent Mulder and two other agents, Chuck Fraase and Dave Highland, to check out the Campgrounds. In the event that more men were needed, the whole task force, as well as the Denver Police HRT were in position to move at a moment's notice. It was decided to try and take Packard quietly, if the man was even where Mulder thought he would be. Zak was actually named Henry, having bought the campgrounds and lodge from his father-in-law some twenty years before. Henry Mullins. Henry was more than cooperative about who had been staying at the campgrounds and positively identified Packard's mug shot, although he noted that the man had cut his hair and shaved his beard recently. Henry also noted he'd not seen the man, but Packard was a hunter and kept his Jayco pull behind there 12 months out of the year. He then directed Mulder, Fraase and Highland to a lot number 53, where Packard's trailer was parked. The campground was built into the side of a mountain, with wooded lots. Each lot sat on the side of a trout stream which tumbled in a snakelike loop through the area. A graveled area was located close to the water with a fire pit and electric hook up, but farther back and higher up at each site was a place to pitch a tent. The trees and the deep undergrowth, even in the throes of late winter, made it difficult to get a good look around. Visibility in some sites was no more than ten or fifteen feet into the woods. After taking a look around, Mulder turned to Fraase and Highland and motioned for them to go around and try to get behind the trailer, sight unseen. He took the front approach. Breathing deeply, and grateful that he felt he could, he walked up to the door of the trailer, pulling out his badge. He rapped loudly on the side of the trailer. Inside, through the grimy window, he could see a small black and white television turned to a grainy daytime game show. Lights were on over the small sink. The smell of coffee permeated the air, fighting with the overwhelming smell of pine and the running stream. But Mulder could detect no life inside the trailer. He knocked again, more loudly, and this time added his voice. "James Packard, this is Special Agent Fox Mulder with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Open the door, please!" The 'please' was window dressing only, his tone of voice. firm and commanding, was anything but polite. Again, no answer. Mulder decided the warrant he had was all the invitation he needed. Mulder tried the knob and found it unlocked. Quietly, his gun drawn and held up out of range, he opened the door. The trailer looked no better kept than the apartment. But from the bowl of half eaten corn flakes and the plate of still warmed pork and beans on the table, it was obvious that someone had been in residence at sometime during the day. Mulder walked out of the trailer and called to the other two agents. Highland came at a trot, with Fraase right behind him. "I think there's a trail going up the mountainside, over that way," Highland gestured. Fraase pointed to a rusty and tangled fishing pole leaning against the trailer. "He might be trout fishing," he noted. "He's running from the cops and he's trout fishing?" Highland said in disbelief. "Can't live on beans and weinies forever," Mulder grinned. "Well you can, but not everyone has my tastes," he added and the other two groaned and shook their heads. "If he's in the woods, we better call back to Denver. We may need help," Highland suggested. "True, but he could take off in that time, too, and we'll have a devil of a time finding him in these woods," Fraase countered. "Here's what we do," Mulder offered. "Highland, go back to Henry's office and call out the troops. I don't know that we need everybody, but we probably need our guys and alert the others there may be a manhunt in the woods. Fraase, you and I take the trail and see if we can track him down." The two men nodded in agreement, Highland trotted down the lane to the campground office and Mulder and Fraase started off up the trail through the woods. Fraase took point, because he was born and raised in the mountains and understood how the little trails worked. Mulder was busy reminding his lungs that they could work, they'd been working all morning. About half way up a rather steep grade, Mulder realized his recent illness wasn't the only thing working against him. The air was thinner in the higher elevation, and what little oxygen was getting into his lungs wasn't enough. When his foot slipped under him and he slid down the grade a bit, Fraase finally stopped and looked down at him. "Mulder, you OK?" Fraase asked, finding his footing and coming back down the trail to help Mulder to his feet. Black spots were dancing before his eyes, but Mulder blinked them away. They didn't want to go, but his vision finally cleared. "I'm OK," he assured. "Just not used to the mountains." "Shit! I forgot! You've been sick," Fraase said, slapping his head. "We should've had you go back and call the office." Mulder shook his head angrily. The anger was directed at his own body, not at his companion, but Fraase had no way of knowing that. "I've tracked this bastard this far, I have no intentions of stopping now," he said through gritted teeth. Fraase looked concerned, but finally relented. "OK, but you take it easy. And if you need help, for God's sakes _say_ something, OK?" Mulder snorted. "I need help," he said flatly and nodded up the hill. He reached out his hand and Fraase grasped it strongly, pulling Mulder up the rest of the grade. At the top, both men looked around. The trail ended in a T that went left and right along the ridge. "Got a coin?" Fraase joked. "Which way to the stream?" Mulder asked, cocking his head to listen for the sound of running water. "To the left," he decided, answering himself. There was a smaller rivulet to cross, and Mulder pointed to a footprint at the very edge of the water. "He's been here, recently," Mulder whispered and Fraase nodded. The winter had been light and the spring had come early, but there was still a considerable amount of snow on the ground. Near the little stream, it was mostly slush and very slippery to walk. On the trail, there were patches of slush covered ice where the sun hadn't reached because of the trees. Mulder had taken point and found himself stepping cautiously to avoid falling on his ass. Fraase reached out once or twice and wore a continuously worried scowl, but didn't say a word. They reached a downward grade and could hear the trout stream tumbling over boulders and rocks. Mulder held up his hand to halt their progress and unclipped his weapon from his holster, silently thanking Davis for issuing him one before he left the office. Fraase followed suit. Mulder looked for a way down the incline. Down the stream, he could see Packard, casting his line out into the water. The man was knee deep in the near freezing water, insulated waders keeping out the numbing cold. Mulder frowned, remembering that he and Fraase were not similarly equipped. He didn't relish the idea of chasing Packard down by running across the trout stream. He wanted to take the larger man by surprise, if possible. Fraase tapped him on the shoulder. Just a few yards away, a smaller trail led down the ridge, but it was more secluded because of a bramble bush trailing down the mountainside. Mulder nodded and searched for another pathway in the other direction. They'd surround Packard and take him by surprise. Going down was easier than going up. In the dense brush, the snow hadn't melted and when Mulder was about two-thirds of the way down the hill, his feet hit a patch of ice. His right leg flew out from under him, the left leg sought for purchase and found some in the snow off the path, but it was too little too late. He ended up tumbling down the four feet left of the hill and landed in a less than dignified heap just a yard away from his intended captive. To say Packard was surprised was an understatement. The man dropped the fishing rod, stared in wild-eyed amazement at the well dressed pile of agent in front of him and turned tail to run the other direction. Running right into Agent Chuck Fraase as he did so. "Stop! Federal Agent! Put your hands in the air!" Fraase commanded. Mulder took the opportunity to pull himself up and was amazed to discover his gun still gripped in his right hand. He leveled it at Packard's back. The big man stood stock still for a moment, and all three men held their breath. Slowly, he raised his hands, his eyes still glued on Fraase. Fraase relaxed just a bit, and reached with his left hand for his handcuffs. He couldn't find them, and dropped his gaze over his shoulder to look for where they'd slid on his belt. It was all the chance Packard needed. He took two more steps backward, almost too tiny to notice and the whirled and took off like a shot, ramming Mulder right in the abdomen and pushing him into the icy water of the little stream. The stream was deeper than he'd first assumed, well over five feet deep and Mulder quickly sank to the bottom. The cold was such a shock to his system that it triggered an asthma attack the likes of which he'd never known. He struggled to get to the surface, struggled to move his arms and legs. Muffled by the water and his own terror, he heard two gun shots and then a moment later, strong arms yanked him out of the water and dragged him onto the bank of the stream. He lay crumbled on the cold frozen dirt and rocks of the bank, trying to bring air into his lungs. He blinked and saw Fraase, felt the other man patting him down, searching pockets of his jacket and pants. Finally coming up with his prize, Fraase pried open Mulder's mouth and almost shoved his inhaler down his throat. Mulder took it from there. He waited for Fraase to push the inhaler then drew in as much air as he could. It wasn't nearly a full breath, but it was enough. Another squirt from the inhaler and he began to feel the medicine reaching down into his chest. Slowly, taking forever it seemed, his lungs opened up and air rushed in to places that felt frozen. He gasped for breath and started to cough, not able to speak or even move from his spot. He could feel Fraase tugging his own coat around Mulder's body, a small effort, but one that was greatly appreciated. It seemed like hours passed, but it was only a few minutes. Finally, the coughing subsided and Mulder could speak, could look beyond his own dire condition and find out what had happened. "Packard," he gasped out. Questions had to be assumed, they just took too much trouble. "He won't be going anywhere," Fraase said dryly. He nodded to the body lying just a few feet up the stream. "Dead?" Mulder was beginning to wonder if he'd ever be working up to two word sentences, but at that moment it didn't seem to matter as much as figuring out what had just gone down. "No. I got him in the leg. Managed to cuff him before dragging your sorry ass out of the drink," he said with a wink. Serious shivering had taken hold and Mulder curled himself up under Fraase's overcoat. He looked at the other agent. Through chattering teeth, he had to ask. "How d-d-d-did you kn-n-now?" His gaze held on the inhaler still gripped in Fraase's right hand. Fraase looked down at his hand and then back up to Mulder's face. "My little brother has asthma. Our mom made him carry his inhaler with him everywhere. I recognized the noises you were making and figured I'd find an inhaler somewhere." He handed the little plastic tube back to Mulder. "Have you always had asthma, or just since you've been sick?" "F-f-f-first t-t-time," Mulder stuttered out. "Well, I wouldn't worry about it. That water is just above freezing. It probably would have thrown me into an asthma attack," he said lightly, trying to head off any possible fear or anxiety Mulder might be having. He need not have worried. Mulder was too cold to think past getting some warmth into his body. The troops arrived about ten minutes later. Blankets and more blankets were wrapped around Mulder until he began to feel like a mummy, but couldn't stop shivering from the cold. At Davis' insistence, and over his own objections, he was placed on a gurney and transported by ambulance to the nearest hospital. University of Colorado Medical Center March 13, 1991 4:45 pm "You don't look that bad," came a voice from the doorway. Mulder pulled open his eyes and hit the button to bring his bed into a sitting position. "I'm not, Chuck. I've just missed the taste of lime jello," Mulder shot back. "So, Davis says you're here for the night. Oh, and just in case you decide to escape, you should know, the place is crawling with agents and cops keeping an eye on Packard," Fraase said, pulling up a chair and sitting next to the bed. "I heard they got the bullet out and he's gonna be fine. I'm only here for observation," Mulder reminded his friend and himself. "Doctor said if I maintain my temp, I can leave tomorrow morning." "Any more asthma attacks?" Fraase asked, trying to make the question sound casual. Both men knew what a diagnosis of chronic asthma could do to an agent. "No, not at all," Mulder assured him. "It's like you said. The water was a shock and just sent me into one. The doctor seems to think it's left over from my pneumonia and should be a 'one time thing'. But I'm supposed to take it easy for the next month." "Well, judging from the case you just solved, you should get that much time in vacation," Fraase said with a smile. "Packard's not saying anything at the moment, but the case will be tight. He's been taking time off, working other shifts. He can't account for his whereabouts on any of the dates from the earlier murders. You did good, Mulder. The whole office was buzzing about it this afternoon." For a moment, neither man said anything. Then Mulder licked his lips. "Chuck, I don't think I managed to thank you back at the campgrounds . . ." Fraase held up his hand in protest. "Mulder, please, it's unnecessary. Besides, you're the one who led us to Packard. All I did was cuff him and fish you out of the stream," he said with a chuckle. "I gotta tell ya, you scared the shit out of me until I found that inhaler and you started breathing right again." "Both of us," Mulder agreed. Again, the silence descended. Something he'd been thinking of before he fell asleep came back to mind and Mulder looked over at Fraase. "Chuck, have they cataloged all those match books?" Fraase shrugged. "I suppose so. Why?" "I just realized. I saw match books from almost all of the murders. All except the most recent ones." "Which?" Fraase asked, suddenly interested. "Reno, Tahoe, Vegas, and Sacramento. I found the one from Carson City, though." Fraase turned that over in his mind a moment, then gave a one shoulder shrug. "Maybe they're somewhere else. We've got a team going over the RV. They might be there." Mulder nodded, chewing on his lip. "Yeah, probably." From the hallway came the sound of the meal cart making deliveries. "Hey, I think your lime jello is here," Fraase said with a grin. "Take it easy, Mulder. And if you need someone to pick you up tomorrow, just call the office. I'll come get you." "Thanks, Chuck. I might just do that." Mulder didn't realize how tired he was. He'd turned on the television and didn't even notice when the night nurse came in and turned it off, shutting off the night light and making her check of his vitals. The next thing he knew, it was morning and another food tray was sitting on his bedside table. Oatmeal. Not his favorite, by a long shot. Not even the three packets of sugar and half the 8 ounce carton of milk could make the substance palatable. The toast was cold, but edible. The coffee tasted wonderful, even for hospital sludge. He was attempting to pry the foil lid off the apple juice when there was a knock at the door. SIC Davis stood in the doorway. Mulder smiled and waved him in. "Hate to interrupt your breakfast," Davis said with a nod toward the tray. "Really, I think you're doing me a favor," Mulder replied dryly. "Nice of you to come by, sir, but they're letting me loose in a couple of hours." "So I heard. No, Mulder, this isn't a social call, although I did want to see how you were doing." Mulder wiped the toast crumbs from his mouth and sat up straighter. "What's the matter?" Davis drew in a breath and then looked at Mulder. "Packard committed suicide last night." "What?" Mulder said in shock. "How? He was in the secure ward. Sir, last night he was still just out of surgery!" "I know, I know," Davis said nodding emphatically in agreement. "No one can explain it. The nurse checked on him about 11, took his temp and gave him another shot of pain killer. When the nurse came in at 3, he'd slit both wrists. Bled to death." Mulder was shaking his head. "I don't understand it." "Mulder, he was nailed. We had him. It's not that unusual that a killer decides it's better to end it all then to go through a trial and end up on death row. It's happened before, you know that." "Sir, that's mostly in cases where there's been a crime of passion. These were cold blooded murders, sir. It doesn't make sense." Mulder was staring at the now congealed oatmeal and quickly put the lid back over the bowl. It was too disgusting to look at right then. "Well, I just wanted to let you know there won't be any interrogation of the suspect," Davis said, casually tapping on the bed rail. "Just a report to file and then this case is closed." "Yeah, right," Mulder said absently. His mind was a million miles away. Or actually, a month away, on a dock in Portland, Oregon. "So, Chuck said he'd be by to pick you up later. Just give him a call with they tell you a release time. If you don't mind, I'd like your report before you head back east. I want to get this cleaned up as soon as possible." "Of course," Mulder said, struggling to stay with the conversation while his mind was working overtime on something else. "Well, why don't you get some rest?" Davis said with concern. "I'll see you later, at the office." "Yes sir. Thanks for stopping by." Mulder didn't even hear the door click shut. end of part twenty-four Vickie Out of the Cold by Vickie Moseley vmoseley@fgi.net disclaimed in part 00 part twenty-five of twenty-five Denver Regional Office of the FBI March 14, 1991 5:45 pm Mulder rubbed his eyes, shutting them tightly against the glare of the yellow paper before him. There was a gap. Missing cases. It didn't make sense. With a little footwork, accomplished while he slept the day before, witnesses and gas purchases could link James Packard to each of the cities when murders had occurred. Match books further implicated him. A box of surgical gloves found at his RV at Zak's campgrounds accounted for the lack of fingerprints on any of the bodies, save Tim Blake's watch, which positively identified Packard. And Packard had a picture of Abigail Crown, in her 'assistant's costume' taped to the inside of his locker at the hotel. It all fit so nicely. Mulder had finally caught the killer. Except for the suicides. Reno, Tahoe, Las Vegas and Sacramento. In three of those cases, Packard's whereabouts were unknown. In one case, the death in Las Vegas, he was working at the Holiday Inn, and had more than enough witnesses to account for his whereabouts. Mulder thought back to his encounter with the wind. When he'd been in the hospital, with little to do but sleep and watch day time TV, he'd almost convinced himself that it _had_ been Packard. The feel of whatever had grabbed his throat, almost broken his neck with its force, could easily morph into hands the size of Packard's. It would have even made sense, since Packard had attacked him at the stream, knowing instinctively that Mulder had his number and his time was up. But with the evidence in front of him, it didn't fit again. Something else had killed those four men. Something else, something that didn't leave fingerprints, didn't leave match books and evidence behind. In desperation he went to see SIC Davis. Davis had listened intently to all Mulder had to say. Then, the older man just shrugged. "Mulder, what do you want me to say? From all appearances, those cases were really suicides. I don't think you have enough evidence to point to any other explanation. If the ME's thought they were suicides, we really don't have the time or the manpower to go digging into it. That's just not what the FBI does." Mulder sighed heavily and had nodded in polite understanding. But as he left the room, he couldn't help but wonder. Maybe it was time somebody started looking into cases that didn't fit. Maybe that's what his father had been hinting at. Maybe that's what he really wanted to do with his career. It niggled him all the way to the airport. In a flight of fancy, he booked his return home with a six hour layover in St. Louis. He caught a connecting flight to Springfield and went to see Pink Henderson. Pink was sitting in the sun room, looking out on the melting piles of snow. "Groundhog didn't see his shadow," she said with a quiet smile as Mulder walked over to stand next to her wheelchair. She turned to look at him and frowned. "You been sick, boy. You need some meat on those bones!" Mulder chuckled self consciously. "I'm gonna work on that the minute I get home, Mrs. Henderson." He sat down on the armchair next to her. "I came to tell you we caught the man who killed your nephew." The old woman nodded, her face breaking down into tears. She cried silently for a few moments, Mulder handing her his handkerchief. Finally, she regained some composure and looked over at the agent. "Thank you. Thank you. Maybe, now, I can sleep easier. I know Stevie's at rest." Mulder's own throat grew tight with emotion. "Mrs. Henderson. Do you have a picture of yourself as a, well, when you were younger. I mean, I know that sounds . . ." He was at a loss. The woman in his dream, the one who had stood in the alley where he found Deakins, had the same physical attributes that he could see in the wrinkled old woman before him. Maybe he was just picturing Mrs. Henderson at a younger age, sort of prodding him to continue in his search. Pink looked surprised for a moment, then smiled. "Why, yes, I do. If you wouldn't mind helping me back to my room, I'll show you." It wasn't very far down the hallway and Pink was pointing toward her door. Mulder pushed the wheelchair inside and had to smile. Stephen Paige had obviously sent his aunt postcards from each of the places he visited. She had postcards from all over the west and midwest tacked neatly in place on a three foot by four foot cork board above her bed. A set of small window boxes held thimbles Mulder had seen in gas stations, also from all over. A quick count told him there were well over a hundred thimbles in place. "Ah, here it is. My mama's old family album. There are some pictures in this one. Here I am. Oh, and here's one of me and Stevie's mother." Pink sighed and shook her head. "Where ever the hell she is," she muttered. Mulder took the book and sat down on the little visitor's chair. He glanced over the pictures on the page. He found the one Pink had pointed to, two girls, in their Sunday best, smiling for the camera. One girl, blond hair hanging in curls down to her shoulders, the other girl, dark haired with twin braids framing her cherub face. "Is this you?" he asked, pointing to the blond girl. "Oh, land's no," Pink exclaimed, chuckling at his mistake. "I woulda had to use a whole bottle of peroxide to get my hair blond! No, that's my sister. That's Stevie's mother." Suddenly, the pieces fell into place with a thud that Mulder was sure had to have been audible to everyone in the building. The woman of his dream had been a ghost. Stephen Paige's mother. It was she who had been involved in the suicides. It was even possible that her ghost had been the one to attack him in the Golden Nugget. It was incredible to him, but he could feel the rightness of the explanation down to his very toes. When he could finally get over his own shock, he looked kindly at the old woman sitting before him. "Mrs. Henderson, you know, it's possible that your sister didn't run away," he said, trying to break the news as gently as he could. The old woman's expression grew guarded and she shook her head. "I know what they tried to tell me. That she got killed. But that's a lie. A lie, I tell you. She was always a free spirit, never had time to do her chores or obey the rules. No, I know she's still out there. Havin' a good time, raisin' hell like she always did." She took the book from Mulder and put it back on its shelf by her bed. When she looked back at him, it was with eyes filled with pain. "At least one of us got to live the good life, didn't we?" she said. Mulder nodded and said nothing more. Dirksen Office Building Office of Sen. Richard Matheson March 15, 1991 11:30 am "I want to thank you for seeing me on such short notice, sir," Mulder said nervously as he took a seat in front of the Senator's massive oak desk. "Fox, it's always a pleasure. I understand you've been ill. How are you doing? Have you returned to work, yet?" Mulder licked his lips self consciously. "Um, yes sir, I was and I have. And that's basically what I came to talk to you about." The Senator raised his eyebrow and smiled, nodding at Mulder to continue. "Sir, some time ago we talked about some 'incidents' that had occurred in your home state." "Yes, I remember that well. I've had a number of constituents making claims of UFO sightings, even some going so far as to make the claim that they were abducted. I asked the Air Force to look into those claims and they turned me down flat. Informed me in no uncertain terms that Congress had considered Project Blue Book to be a waste of taxpayers' money and that Proxmire had even listed it in his Golden Fleece awards. In other words, they really rubbed my nose in it." "Yes, sir, I'm sure they did. I believe that those constituents had been interviewed by some of our agents locally. You said you knew what had happened to those files. Sir, Senator, I know that at the time, I sort of blew you off. I was in the middle of two profiles and I . . ." Matheson held up his hand. "You had your plate full, son, I understand that." "But that was no excuse, sir. Your office has been a great help to me on a number of occasions and I should have paid more attention to your request. I apologize." "Fox," Matheson grinned slyly. "Men only apologize when they're prepared to make amends. Are you telling me you want to look into those cases now?" Mulder stared at his locked hands on his lap, then looked up at Matheson. "Yes, sir, I am. And I would like to know if you can tell me where I can find those cases. I don't believe they're in the regular stacks." "They aren't. I've been told they're in the basement. In a couple of file cabinets that haven't seen the light of day since the new building was opened. I believe they're all marked with an 'X', to segregate them from the 'real' cases." Matheson pulled on his lip, staring at Mulder the whole time. "But I really don't think your superior, ah, Agent Patterson, isn't it, will be receptive to you taking on these case in addition to your current work load. This would be a full time job, Fox." Mulder was lost in thought and almost missed the last statement. The FBI had three sub-basements, all of them with storage rooms. It was still a needle in a haystack, but he was getting closer. Matheson's words started to sink in and Mulder realized the man was expecting a response. "I understand that, sir. And I'm more than willing to give it all I've got. If you'll help me get in a position to investigate them. On my own." Matheson's grin turned into a genuine smile. "Let's talk details, Fox." New Haven County Courthouse March 16, 1991 10:00 am "Well, thank you for all being so prompt. I believe we can get this hearing started on time and get on with our business. Now, I still have a petition for guardianship of the assets and responsibilities of Fox William Mulder, Christina Mulder petitioner. Is the petitioner still intent upon seeking guardianship?" Judge Crowder looked over her glasses at Mrs. Mulder, who sat wringing her handkerchief in her lap. "Your honor, my client wishes to vacate that petition," said Teena's lawyer. "She feels that pursuing this matter further would be futile, in light of the results of the independent evaluation." Teena said nothing, simply stared at her hands. Judge Crowder frowned, then shuffled through the papers in front of her. "Well, I believe that's the best course. The evaluation I have from Cresthaven made it clear that Mr. Mulder's actions and behavior are well within normal parameters. I'm afraid I would have been hard pressed to grant the petition on the basis of this independent evaluation." She put the papers back in the file folder and folded her hands atop them. "Mr. Mulder, I hereby vacate the petition. You are free to go." Mulder had been holding his breath all through the five minute proceeding and just then started to breathe again. He looked over at Harrison and held out his hand. Harrison broke into a broad smile and accepted the handshake. Then Mulder turned to look at his mother, and found she had already left the room. He thanked the judge for her indulgence and help, then Mulder raced out the door and into the hallway. He saw his mother's back as she started out the door into one of the first nice days of early spring. "Mom. Mom, wait up." She stopped, but refused to turn around. He caught up with her, and tugged at her sleeve. She still wouldn't look at him. "Mom, wait a minute," he said, not really knowing what he was hoping to say to her. Finally, she looked up at him. Her eyes were brimming with tears. "What, Fox? What do you want? You won, you get to go back to that job, even if it kills you. You win, your father wins. Just like always. And I just stand back and watch it all happen. Just like always." She pulled her sleeve out of grasp. He dropped his hand, confused. "What are you talking about, Mom? Dad didn't have anything to do with this. You're the one who wanted me sent to Cresthaven." She snorted and reached into her pocket for a tissue to wipe her eyes. "Yes, well, that was a futile attempt at best, wasn't it," she laughed bitterly. Mulder was growing more angry by the minute. "You'd rather I was locked up in a padded cell, Mom? Is that it? You think I'm crazy? What the hell do you want from me, Mom? What the hell do you want?" he yelled at the top of his voice. She took his anger and his screaming and stared back at him with an eternal calm. "I want to keep you alive," she said in a voice just above a whisper. "I just want to keep you alive." A dark car pulled up at the curb and a door opened. Her lawyer took her by the elbow and escorted her to the car, she got in and drove away. Mulder was left standing on the sidewalk. Harrison was suddenly at his side. "C'mon, Fox. I'll give you a drive to the airport." Mulder nodded, glancing at his watch. He had to be back in DC by 3 for a meeting with Section Chief Blevins. FBI Headquarters Sub-basement 2 March 20, 1991 8:15 am "It's a bit dusty," said the janitor, whose shirt pocket proclaimed him him to be 'Sonny'. "But we don't have much call for people traipsin' in and out. Now that you'll be down here, I'll make sure the wastebasket's emptied and tidy up a bit." He handed Mulder a key from his enormous key ring. "Here, you take this one. I can make another off the master." Mulder stepped into the room. Three of the four florescent bulbs burned weakly, the fourth one flicking from gray to bright white and back to gray again. "I'll get some more light bulbs, too," Sonny assured him. "I think I'll need a desk," Mulder said, trying to decide whether to be totally depressed or incredibly happy. In actuality, he was still in shock. Matheson had been as good as his word. Mulder understood through the grapevine that not just Matheson, but the whole Senate subcommittee with oversight for the FBI's appropriation had contacted the Director and the Attorney General, strongly suggesting that a new 'division' be opened to investigate various curious and unexplained happenings throughout the country. Although the Director had balked at first, word from the White House directed him to 'make the Appropriations Committee happy in any way he could'. That was all it took. No one within the Bureau had been happy with the turn of events. Blevins had been in a barely controlled rage the entire meeting when he informed Mulder of his 'new' assignment as well as his upgrade to Division Head. A division of one until such time as a suitable underling became available. Mulder figured that would be right after hell froze over, but he didn't mind. In fact, he liked working alone. Leaving ISU hadn't been smooth sailing, either. When Mulder had gone into the Quantico offices of the Investigative Support Unit, a few of his co-workers had wished him well on the new assignment. Some of them had turned away in snickers, but Mulder ignored them. Patterson had stood over his desk as he cleaned it out, waiting for Mulder to look up and notice him. "Mulder, about what happened in Denver," Patterson started. "Bill, it's over and forgotten. No more to be said," Mulder replied, tossing items hap-hazardly in a cardboard box. "On the contrary, Mulder. You're in a new position, now. I just want to make something absolutely clear between us." Mulder got up, staring the man in the eyes. "Yes, Bill." "You keep the hell out of my way, you hear me? You might have been a golden boy at one time, but you have successfully used up all your golden parachute in one jump, son. So you are walking on very thin ice right now. I'm betting my retirement that you're gonna fall through that ice and drown. Just you stay the hell away from me and my department and make sure you don't pull any of my men down the rabbit hole with you when you fall, got that?" He spun on his heel and stomped away. "Been reading that book of metaphors again, haven't you Bill?" Mulder mumbled to himself and finished packing. Now, Mulder stood in an empty office. Just him and two filled file cabinets. He chewed on his lip, wondering what the hell to do first. He heard a scraping sound behind him. It was Sonny, standing in the doorway with an ancient folding chair in his hands. "Couldn't find a desk, you'll have to requisition that. But I dug this out of the trash. Still got a little life in it. If you don't catch your pants on the tears in the metal, mind you." Then he dug in his pants pocket and brought out a almost empty spool of silver duct tape. "This could help that problem, though." Mulder grinned and accepted both. "Thanks, Sonny. I think I'm gonna name you my guardian angel." Sonny grinned in return. "Well, I'll leave you to it. Have a good one, hear?" Mulder nodded and watched the older man stroll down the hallway, avoiding the boxes stacked against the walls like he'd been 'running' the maze for years. He probably had, Mulder decided. He then turned back to his office. _His_ office. His name on the door. Special Agent Fox Mulder. What was he supposed to do now? Without a second thought, he pulled the rusty chair up within inches of the first file cabinet. He pulled off a piece of the duct tape and secured the edges before sitting down gingerly, testing it to see if it would truly hold his weight. When he was comfortable, he pulled open the bottom drawer, pulled out the first file, and started to read. The end. Vickie Come visit my web page, brought to you by the fabulous Shirley Smiley! http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Dimension/5821/index.html "When you start, you make certain choices, and those choices accumulate and create a number of [other] choices. The story starts to tell itself, and that's been very exciting in a way. There's so much that has come and been told that you are, in a way, a slave to the facts you've created, and it's a really fun way to tell stories. That's not to say it's simplified. In fact, it becomes complicated, but it all starts to make sense, and that's been a really wonderful thing." Quote from Chris Carter on development of The X Files