TITLE:  Seeds Of Synchronicity
AUTHOR:  mountainphile
RATING:  NC-17 in some chapters
CATEGORY:  MSR, X-File
FEEDBACK:  mountainphile@yahoo.com
URL:  http://www.geocities.com/mountainphile

DISTRIBUTION:  I'm honored to be archived; ask and you shall
receive, because I like to visit.  Please link to the story
as it's presented on my website.

UNIVERSE:  Turning back the clock, imagine Season 7 ending
at "Je Souhaite" and continuing on without the events of
"Requiem" into a less-concocted Season 8.  No abduction, no
pregnancy, no contradictory time lines or events.  Just
Scully and Mulder, definitely *more* than friends, in their
pursuit of the truth on the X-Files.

DESCRIPTION:  Six years after the events of "Aubrey," Scully
and Mulder revisit the Missouri town to confront old demons
and lay new ones to rest.

SPOILERS:  Anything goes from seasons 1 through 7, with a
special focus on "Aubrey."  Continuity errors and
conflicting dates abound in the latter part of Season 2, the
worst of which I urge the reader to ignore along with me as
I spin my tale. :)

DISCLAIMER:  As frustrating as it is, all things XF *still*
belong to Chris Carter, FOX, and 1013 Productions.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:  To the gracious ladies of Musea for their
enthusiasm.  To Mish for her pointy WIP/beta-stick and for
giving me the final push; to Audrey Roget for kick-ass beta
and unflagging encouragement; to Forte for the occasional
eagle-eye.  And thanks to all the faithful stalkers who
wanted a piece of the action over those long months of
WIPing with me.


************
Chapter 1
************

Northwestern Missouri
November 1, 2000
4:58 p.m.

Another balloon explodes with an ear-splitting pop, children
shriek, and in the kitchen Natalie Warner jumps.

"Oh, *God*," she groans, drawing the name of deity from her
mouth as she would a strand of played-out chewing gum.
"That's got to be the *fourth* one in fifteen minutes!  Can
you *imagine* what their teacher goes through every day?
You couldn't *pay* me enough to teach kindergarten, you
really couldn't, Gwen..."

Her new neighbor snickers and licks a red-nailed finger
sticky from the chocolate ice cream she scoops into Chinette
dishes.  "Be glad you have only Shawna -- and that birthdays
come once a year."

"Tell me about it.  And the *nerve* of her to be born just
after Halloween... she wanted all her friends to come to
this party in their *costumes*, can you believe it?  But I
put my foot down about that.  And, get this... I actually
told Greg, right there in the delivery room after she was
born" -- lowering her voice further -- "that it was either a
vasectomy for him or the funny farm for me.  Thank *God* he
bought it."

"Nat!  You never told me that Greg --"

"Yes, munchkin?  Whatcha need?"  Natalie swings sideways and
kneels before a curly-haired five year-old, resplendent in
her peach voile party dress.  The child turns around.

"Mrs. Warner, can you tie me?"

"No problem, Babe," she says, looping the two lengths of
satin ribbon into a quick bow and rolling her eyes at Gwen.
The little girl scoots back to the living room, a scene of
riotous color and high-decibeled merriment, and Natalie
frowns.  "I wonder how she gets her hair to curl like that?
Those Shirley Temple banana-curl things?"

"How does who?"

"Alice.  That's Kari, her youngest granddaughter *and*
Shawna's current best friend."

"I dunno, ask her.  You're the one who's supposed to know
everything about everybody.  That's what you said when we
moved in next door."

"Hah!  Gwen, you just wouldn't *believe* the dirt and
factoids I've accumulated over the years..."

Another pop, screams, and the sound of galloping feet
reverberate from the next room.

"Speaking of Alice," says Gwen, "I think we ought to bail
her out pretty soon.  She's in there alone with a dozen
starving kids, holding down the fort."

"She can handle it.  She *thrives* on it; she's a
grandmother five times over, for God's sake.  *I'm* the one
who's about to go postal here.  Damn, I'm *dying* for a
smoke..."

"Natalie!"  A woman shouts above the din.  "Shawna wants to
know when you're bringing in the cake."

"Tell her to hold her horses!"  The two women quickly gather
up trays of ice cream, paper plates, plastic utensils, cups.
"And napkins," adds Natalie.  "Grab the whole damn package,
Gwen, we'll need every last one."

She edges her fingers under the glass plate, admiring the
huge orange and chocolate-frosted confection, and hefts the
cake with effort.  "Shit, this must weight five pounds," she
gasps.  "No wonder the bakery charges an arm and a leg..."

"Take it on out and I'll get the rest," says Gwen
reassuringly.  Alone for a brief quiet minute, she shakes
her head and finishes stacking and lifting the other tray.
Some women, she thinks, just aren't cut out to be mothers.
But that Natalie is *such* a riot --

Hoping to circumvent the swirl of young bodies, Gwen takes
an alternate route to the living room, through the Warner's
tiled entryway.  There her eyes pass over the massive front
door, its sides framed by expensive beveled glass inserts,
and she sighs with envy.  At the same time, she spots a
kindergarten-sized shadow cowering outside behind the glass.

"Nat?  I think you've got another one out here," she calls.

"You're *kidding* me, right?"  Natalie hustles past, peeks,
and groans.  "Oh, God, and it's a boy.  I don't remember
inviting any *boys*.  Shawna must have done it behind my
back."

She opens the front door, cool air gusting within, the
children's muffled, merry voices tumbling out onto the
landing. The shadow takes a scuffling step backward.  Like a
small potted shrub he lingers just outside the front door,
blue jacket zipped to his chin.  He clutches a gift, the
flowered paper crackling between his reddened hands, the
crimped, glossy bow trembling in the November breeze.

"Let's see... you're Benjie, aren't you?  From way down the
street?"

Hesitating, the little boy nods, then keeps his head dipped,
chin tucked to his chest.  His brown hair ruffles in the
wind like fur on a puppy's back, his whole demeanor shrunken
into painful shyness.

"You're late, Tiger," she admonishes him lightly, guiding
him over the threshold.  "But just in time for the cake and
ice cream.  Where's your Mom?  Did she bring you over?"

He shakes his head.

"She lets you walk all that way by yourself?  God, she's
braver than *I* am."  The boy, divested of his jacket,
allows himself to be steered towards the living room.
"Shawna, come over here, please."

Shawna bounces out of the crowd of classmates, exquisite, a
miniature of her mother's blonde curls and tart sassiness.
She gives an aggrieved sigh, hand on hip, and swaggers
toward the two women with her eyes narrowed.  When she
notices the latecomer, her step slows and both eyes widen.
"Benjie!"  She glances nervously at her mother.  "You
came..."

Blanching, head lowered, the boy extends the brightly
wrapped package towards the girl.  "'S for you," he says in
a rough, husky whisper, and all the room quiets, every child
hushed and attentive.  Taking a curious, collective breath,
they gawk at the boy.

He raises his head just a bit, enough to reveal the chapped
redness of his face and chin.  His eyes are soft and watery;
long, dark lashes, like twin paintbrushes, sweep his cheeks.

At her daughter's lag, Natalie galvanizes the party into
action.  "Well, thank him for the present and let's get the
ball rolling," she says with exaggerated eagerness.  "The
ice cream'll melt in no time.  Shawna, get him a chair.
Alice, please be a doll and cut the cake... small pieces,
okay?"

Muted complaints reach their ears.  "Noooo, not next to
*me*... Shawn-na!"  "Yuck! Boys are so icky."  "*He's*
icky..."

Alice, as planned, leads a rendition of the traditional
"Happy Birthday" song, but with the children's loud
participation the last notes climb toward shrill dissonance.
Shawna blows out the candles and cheers erupt.

"You know, you can't blame them," murmurs Gwen
apologetically.  "A group of little girls all having fun
together -- and then a boy shows up."

Twirling a short blonde curl with long-nailed fingers,
Natalie shrugs.  Every age, every class has its goat and
she's thankful that Shawna is among the popular, pretty
group, just as she had been.  Appearance is everything, she
learned long ago -- good looks, charm, the right
connections, charisma.  Thank God Greg maintained enough of
his youthful attractiveness, yet not so much as to burden
her with worry lest another woman make a play for him.  *He*
should be the one worrying more about *her* needs, damn it,
staying away so much on business lately...

The girls on either side of the little boy lean away, giving
him a wide berth as though for a leper.  He waits with good
manners and fortitude until Alice serves him, then watches
the others before he takes a bite of the cake and ice cream,
chewing slowly, carefully.

Gwen seems perplexed.  "Now, who's he again?"

"Keep your voice down.  That's Janine Tillman's little guy.
They must live at *least* four blocks away.  I hardly ever
see him around, to tell you the truth."

"Janine, whose husband's on the force in Aubrey?  Isn't she
kind of old to be having kids?"

"You don't know the half of it -- he's *not* hers."

"What?"

"Well, he's *his*, but not hers..." She grinds to a stop at
Gwen's puzzled expression.  "I guess I can't expect you to
know *that* story.  God, I wouldn't take her place in a
million years, I swear!  Wait 'til the kids leave and I'll
tell you the whole mess.  I thought just about *everybody*
knew."

"Does Alice?"

"*Please* don't say *anything* to Alice, okay?  She's sweet,
but old-fashioned.  Really touchy about gossip."

"Uh... sure."

Alice's voice swells at that exact moment.  Animated, a
picture-perfect grandmother with her silvery hair bobbing,
she tries to cajole the squirming children into another game
while they laugh and gorge.

"I know!"  She gushes, overly effusive, and Natalie grimaces
in distaste.  "Since this is Shawna's sixth birthday and on
birthdays you give and get presents -- all of you think of
the one thing you'd love to have the most.  Your favorite
wish.  Anybody want to go first?  Shawna?"

"A trip to Disneyland," says the girl promptly, wrinkling
her nose in her mother's direction.

"Very nice, dear!  Who's next?"

"I want a big, big swimming pool with a high dive!"  This
from Alice's own granddaughter, and she smiles at her with
warm indulgence.

The children pick up the spirit of the game, each
suggestion, each dream more elaborate and impossible than
the next.  "A candy store!"  "A pet polar bear!"  Tinkling
laughter.  "My very own credit card!"

"Shit, they learn fast," whispers Natalie to Gwen.

"How about you, young man?  What special thing would *you*
most want to have?"

Startled, the boy drops his plastic fork onto the tablecloth
and blinks in disbelief as all eyes swing his way.  His face
grows redder, more scalded, and he stares down into his
plate.

"Come on, Benjie," encourages one of the more gracious
little girls, and they all snatch up the chant, some even
banging on the table in their childish enthusiasm.  "Tell us
what *you* want!  Come on!  Tell us!"

He has no choice except to comply.  As the room waits and
watches, he sucks in a small lower lip, chewing in an agony
of bashfulness before taking a short breath to speak.
Raising his head, he gazes at the sea of expectant faces and
opens his mouth.

"I want --" He falters, indecision darkening his features.

"Yes, dear?  Hurry up, tell us what you want," urges Alice,
smiling.

The boy's gaze, locking with that of the older woman,
hardens in sudden malice.  He blurts out in his distinctive,
husky voice, "A sister.  I want a *little* sister."

A pall of confusion settles over the group and the children
fidget from nervous tension, not comprehending the reason or
what has transpired before them.  Alice, nonplussed, looks
over to the two younger women when the boy picks up his
fork, ducks his head, and resumes eating.

"Good *God*," hisses Natalie, rubbing the gooseflesh on her
arms with a vengeance and turning away.  "The little creep."

"What, Nat?  What?"  Gwen presses, but her friend shakes her
head and, chilled for once to silence, walks quickly back
into the kitchen.

************

Georgetown/Washington DC
November 3, 2000
8:16 a.m.

Autumn colors lay in the same wizened piles along the
curbside of Scully's neighborhood.  Pausing on the walkway,
she throws back her head to sniff the morning air and clear
her head, hearing the cornflake crunch of leaves underfoot
on the way to her car.  Early November.  The same earthy,
smoky smells, the exact same time of year she was returned
comatose following her abduction six years before.

She reappeared harboring two ignominious secrets.  One was
infertility.  Second, she was a new mother, though at the
time she was in ignorance of both these contradictory
truths.  It would be three more years before she learned of
Emily's existence and matching date of birth according to
the certificate issued in San Diego County.

November 2, 1994.  A red-letter day in the life of Dana
Scully.  What synchronous irony, what mockery of fate that
she would resurface in a hospital, unconscious and stripped
of her ova, the same day her biological child was reputedly
born.  What gross manipulation of cellular structure had
taken place, what unnatural acceleration in rate of growth
had occurred to develop a child so quickly?  Or had viable
ova been somehow, somewhere, taken from her body at an even
earlier date than the August abduction by Duane Barry?

There's little she can believe with any sense of surety.
Even Mulder, a human clearinghouse for unorthodox theory,
flounders for answers.  After so many years they still face
the same surreal, dubitable questions...

Shake it off, she orders herself ruthlessly, thrusting the
fall of red hair from her brow into a smooth curve behind
her ear.  The day has passed, thank God, and it's time to
move forward --

Steering into the flow of early morning traffic, she wonders
why so much celebration unfolds in the human realm this time
of year.  Days shorten after the autumn equinox and the
world rejoices in its bounty.  Harvest time.  Thanksgiving.
Cold and snowfall.  Religious holidays of joy and
commemoration:  gratitude, faith, blessing, birth.  Hope and
promise.

For some, it's a time for new beginnings and the resumption
of routine, when children make the yearly, migratory trek
back to school.  For others it's a first step on the
scholastic treadmill.  Glowing with the excitement of new
clothes and books, hungry for friendship and knowledge, they
slide from summer's carefree play into fall's stricter
academia.

Outside her car window a school bus blusters to a stop, then
turns the corner out of sight, yellow-orange, windows frosty
with morning condensation.  It reminds Scully of a ripe
autumn pumpkin, large and pregnant with purpose, bulging
with precious cargo.

This should have been Emily's first year in school.

She takes a shuddering breath and blinks once, twice, hands
choking the wheel.  She's still marking time; potent
reminders like a child's lunchbox and the scent of leafsmoke
overpower her better judgment.  It's intriguing to her that
she's more affected by the day of her daughter's birth than
she is by the time of her death.  Every birthday should be a
celebratory event, an occasion for joy and thankfulness, not
a time for bitterness or to mourn years spent in ignorance.

In another day or so, she'll have recovered enough to put it
behind her again, of that much she's certain -- emotionally
resilient, committed to her job, and in control for the next
twelve months, with the passing of this annual crisis.

Mulder is the only other person who knows of her secret
sorrow.

Though she divulged nothing to him on that first November
anniversary in 1998, she knew he sensed something amiss.
Playing by her rules, unobtrusive, he asked no questions,
but his actions spoke volumes about comfort and caring.
Masked as an excuse to avoid Kersh's endless and mind-
numbing background checks, he surprised her at lunch with an
ice cream cone and a walk in the park.

1999 was the year he survived near-fatal brain surgery at
the hands of the Smoking Man.  His first foray outdoors,
after attending Diana Fowley's funeral, fell on November 2.
He asked Scully to accompany him for a 'constitutional' and
stopped to purchase a rosebud, which he tucked into the
buttonhole of her coat.  Then, engulfing her hand in his
large, warm one, they ambled the cool autumn streets, leaves
and raw emotions swirling in tandem at their feet.  Grateful
that fate had spared Mulder's life, touched by his
undemanding thoughtfulness, she cracked the door open
between them.  Like light bleeding over a threshold, she
shared a small part of why this date and time of year still
marked her so deeply.

This year, last night, he stayed with her.

It's not by any means the first time.  Months earlier, in
the spring, they finally became lovers and forever altered
the boundaries between them.  They prefer to keep it
confidential.  For now sex is a delectable, yet still
intermittent treat -- they find themselves alternating
between prudence and gusto as they partake of this new
repast to which they're now entitled.

With no expectation for anything more, he stayed to offer
comfort and companionship.  He held her close against him on
the couch while they watched TV, stroking her hair,
whispering silly commentary, massaging her back muscles to
induce slumber.  As the weary hours passed and she moved
from couch to bed, still restless, Mulder grew resolute and
proposed a solution.

Unorthodox, of course.  She needed persuasion, brought by
feather-light kisses and murmured reassurances.  Gazing up
at him in the semi-darkness, she finally allowed him to peel
away her doubts and proprieties along with her pajamas.  He
eased his head down and prepared her for sleep, sweetly and
gently, with his mouth.

Now, rejuvenated in the light of a new morning, she stands
wedged between other late-coming agents in the Hoover's
elevator, a rosy glow on her cheeks.  Coat draping her arm
and chic in her dark suit, badge in place on her lapel,
service weapon holstered, she ponders the implications of
this secret life she shares with her partner and the
sporadic complaints of her faux-biological clock.  Despite
the melancholy, her nerve endings tingle as she clips down
the hall toward the familiar sanctuary of the office they
share.

Mulder straddles a corner of his desk, his arm extended in
the act of replacing the phone in its cradle.  He swivels
toward her, concern and expectancy evident in his face as he
stands.

"Sorry.  Traffic held me up," she explains, masking a coy
smile and slow flush behind her sweep of hair.  He waits;
with measured reluctance she looks up and their gazes fuse.
"You left early."

"Before dawn.  You okay?"

"Yes... I, um, slept like a rock, actually," she admits and
he chuckles with appreciation, his eyes twinkling at the
news.

"So my little antidote for insomnia worked."

"Like a charm.  You had doubts?"

His grin grows wider by the second and he steps closer,
catching the shaft of early morning sun that sneaks through
the window above him.  It casts a hazel gleam of affection
into his eyes, accentuates the thickness of his dark hair
and stirs her body afresh.  His lips form a teasing curl,
the same lips that just a few hours ago were --

"Not a one," he murmurs.

"The important thing is I managed to get in a few hours'
sleep before work, thanks to your... antidote.  And since
today *is* another day, I guess life goes on..." she
continues philosophically, turning to hang up her coat.  If
only she had a cup of hot coffee to sip, the day could bode
well after all.

"You might want to hold on to that," he advises, arresting
her movement, "as well as the positive outlook."

Scully's eyebrow arches, her lips part in anticipation of
disclosure.  "Meaning?"

"I just received a phone call from a Lieutenant Brian
Tillman of the Aubrey, Missouri police department.  What can
you remember about him?"

She leans into a thoughtful tilt, brain cells harkening back
to mid-November 1994.  It's one of the many cases from their
first few years together that she can recollect with unusual
clarity because of the overwhelming human pathos involved.
The mutilated bodies of new victims and the scored bones of
older ones that came to light -- all found their way into
her capable hands and were crucial in pinpointing important
details of the crimes, though not the perpetrator. It took
Mulder's intuitive mind to focus on Detective B.J. Morrow,
Tillman's preferred partner and paramour, nailing her as the
killer.

Lieutenant Brian Tillman.  She remembers him as an abrasive,
bull-headed, condescending man, who allowed his personal
loyalties and fears to blind him to the truth throughout the
investigation.  Impatient, thin mustache, heavy on the
cologne.

Aloud she says, "1994.  He was a married detective who got
his associate pregnant.  She, quite remarkably, was the
granddaughter of serial killer Harry Cokely and was
eventually committed to a women's prison hospital after
murdering several people, including Cokely.  She slashed the
victims and carved "sister" into their chests, imitating the
original attacks in 1942."

She sighs and shifts her coat to the other arm, considering
it needless to remind Mulder that he had experienced B.J.'s
razor held against his own throat.  "So, what was the reason
for his call?"

"He's... "  Mulder hesitates, rubbing a thumb along his
lower lip.  Already she can sense his mind collating the
small bits of information he gleaned during the phone call.
"Let's say that there is no joy in Aubrey, Scully, when you
think you're right on top of your game, clipping out base
hits smooth as glass -- and the ball suddenly falls foul.
You're in danger of striking out before you realize it."

She puffs out her lips in annoyance, plunks her coat onto
his desk, and crosses her arms.  "No baseball analogies
before my morning coffee, Mulder.  Give it to me straight."

"The ball being his kid..."

"The baby?  I remember that he'd planned to petition the
courts to adopt, but I never followed what actually
transpired after B.J. was put on suicide watch during her
last trimester."  She'd been occupied with other matters
that year, bizarre cases and experiences which, looking
back, she's still unable to explain to her satisfaction.
And she'd almost lost Mulder again...

"She gave birth, he adopted.  His wife went along with it,
but needed convincing."

"Not surprising," she mutters dryly.  "And B.J.?"

"Still incarcerated at Shamrock Women's Prison.  However,
she hasn't been considered a high security risk for several
years.  Must be one of the lucky ones."  His smirk is barely
discernible.  "Shamrock.  Lucky..."

She ignores the weak attempt at humor.  "Does she have any
contact with Tillman or the child now?"

"Unknown, but doubtful.  I plan to take our files and any
other pertinent information about the 1994 case.  Might be
good reading on the flight to Missouri," he adds, looking
toward the cabinet and then at his watch.

"How soon do we leave?"

"That's something I want to talk to you about."

Facing him, she feels his hand encompass her shoulder, heavy
with his concern.  She can read the hesitancy in his mind,
senses his heart when he says, "It's your call, Scully.  Do
what you feel is best for *you* right now --"

"I will.  I do," she insists quietly, her understanding in
perfect sync.  Her gaze brushes his, then slips away,
shielded and evasive.  She licks her lips, an unconscious
gesture that betrays her edginess.

"Because, this case may encroach upon some areas --"

"Mulder... I'll be fine."

It's her usual stoic avowal, tinged with impatience, but she
knows he recognizes the bravado.  After spending last night
with her and helping her to weather this year's emotional
memory-storm, she can understand why he's unconvinced.

"Really.  You'll have to trust me on this."  She grasps his
hand in her smaller one, giving it a playful squeeze, and
peers up.  "Besides, you'll be there, too..."

"I'll be there," he agrees.  He returns the pressure to her
hand, sharing a pointed look before releasing her.  "I also
know your insights and presence would be invaluable.
Tillman respects your judgment; he asked for you
specifically."

"Then I'm surprised as much as I'm honored.  Can you give me
a hint of the problem in Aubrey?"

"There's been another slashing attack, reminiscent of the
1994 case.  Happened yesterday morning, and this time the
woman is alive and able to provide information on a possible
lead."

She's reminded that not all of Cokely's victims died -- as a
young woman old Linda Thibodeaux was raped and disfigured,
secretly bearing a child by Cokely, which she put up for
adoption.  That same baby grew up to become Raymond Morrow,
the father of B.J.

"Leading to whom, I wonder?"

Mulder's eyes cloud and he yanks out a drawer from the
cabinet with a tooth-grinding scrape before diving in with
both hands.  "The base hit that suddenly went foul.  Right
now, Scully, the only feasible suspect appears to be
Tillman's five year-old son..."

************
End of Chapter 1


************
Chapter 2
************

Wentworth, Nebraska
November 3, 2000
2:35 p.m.

She's hungry more than she is thirsty, which surprises her.
A person can live much longer without food than water, but
she can't discount the growling spasms in her stomach any
more than she can ignore her paranoia and the wild thumping
of her heart.

Another day and the stalemate continues unabated, bitter and
relentless as the prairie autumn outside her window.  All
she wanted was one phone call, just one simple connection to
put her mind at rest.  But no -- she's pacing her room like
a caged lioness, like a zoo animal driven stir crazy in
captivity.  Back and forth, to and fro, from dresser to bed,
from barred window to bolted door.  Linoleum glued to the
floor, no carpet; they're afraid she might peel up a corner
and fish out a tack.

No trust, no privilege, no believing.

Now she suspects they want to sedate her, and she can't
allow that.

She'd have been smarter to play along and pretend from the
outset.  Refusing the meds was a mistake; she'd slapped them
to the floor in fear and fury and watched the pills skitter,
the tiny paper cup of water splash and collapse.  Couldn't
they see?  Didn't they *know* what was at stake?

Why can't they believe her?  Years ago, when they first
locked her away, there was someone who did.

Oh, God -- the dreams, the visions.  What made them return
again after so long?  She felt that first wave of dread two
evenings ago when she began refusing meals, terrified the
staff would lace her food and water with chemicals that
could put her at their mercy.  "I know how it works," she
warned them savagely.  "I know how you people operate, what
you can do.  I was a police officer, remember... I *know* --
"

And she was, she reminds herself, dissolving to tears again.
She was a damn good cop, like her father was before her,
even after she'd fumbled and made some unwise personal
decisions.  But, it was so special at first... *he* made her
feel special and loved.  Brian.  Dinners and candles and
secret meetings together.  Sharing a bed and the sex he
couldn't get with any regularity at home, or so he claimed.
The affair was covert and no one, not even Joe Darnell, his
oldest friend at the station, had any idea in the beginning.
The closeness lasted until his wife became suspicious and
drew him away.

After that, his behavior turned unpredictable.  He'd seem
protective one minute, and then would hold her at arms'
length, especially when he learned of her pregnancy -- and
after she reconsidered aborting the baby.  What happened to
the love she thought they'd shared?  The Cokely
investigation shot it all to hell.  Everything, gone...

And the dreams... they kept coming, like they are again.
Horrible dreams of fear and helplessness.  Evil dreams of
mutilation and blood and death.

Thank God she's locked away, unable to act on the urges and
vicious pictures swirling through her mind.  So who, she
wonders with revulsion, will be the unwitting pawn to this
phantasm that somehow originated with Harry Cokely over
fifty years before and continues into the present day?

Who'll end up taking the blame this time?  Pray to God, not
the boy!

No, don't cry, can't cry.  She wipes her eyes, amazed at the
profusion in light of her refusal to eat or drink.  It uses
up her body's moisture reserves and she has no realistic
estimate of when she can slake her thirst.  No need to use
the commode in over twelve hours, except to yank off toilet
paper for her nose.  She rocks on the edge of her bed, arms
wrapped at her stomach when the spasms strike again.  God,
why now?  Why now after six years...?

On the door, a heavy metallic rap.  She hears the soft click
and buzzing feedback from the hidden microphone.

"You want to share with me what's going on in there?"

"Dr. Reinholdt?"

"That's right.  From what they're telling me, you've been
causing some concern for the last day or two, B.J.  What's
wrong?"

An adrenaline surge of desperation heaves her forward from
the bed.  Catapulted, sweating, she presses her forehead to
the thick metal door.  It's cold against the heat of her
urgency, calming her so she can speak with coherence.  "I
need to make a phone call, doctor.  Please!  I need to talk
to Brian Tillman right away."

"You know the rules same as I do.  By court order and terms
of your incarceration, no contact with Lieutenant Tillman or
his family unless he takes the initiative first."  The
doctor's voice sounds engaging, congenial.  "I see on the
reports that you haven't taken your medication in three
days.  Care to tell me why?"

She grinds her teeth in frustration.  More tears leak and
she swipes at them with the edge of her palm.  "I can't risk
it, that's why.  I'm afraid they'll give me drugs to put me
under and I -- I have to be awake.  I have to stay alert."

"The dreams again?"

"Yes, dreams... but, it's more than that."

"Tell me about the *more*, B.J."

The tone is cloying, manipulative, but she has no choice.
No choice and no power for the prisoner-patient.  Suck it up
and tell him what he wants to know, that's all she can do.
Calming herself, she runs a shaky hand through her short
sandy hair.  "It started about dinner time... three days
ago."

"Let's see... that would be Wednesday?  First day of
November?"

"Yes, yes!  Something was wrong.  Almost as if something
horrible had woken up... from a deep sleep..." She pauses,
breathing hard.  What she's saying sounds ridiculous, but
every word stabs her heart with a new and ominous fear.

"You know, you've been doing so well for years."

"I know. I am still, please believe me."

"But you refused your meds and dinner.  Now I see you're on
a self-imposed hunger strike?"

"I can't take the risk of being sedated.  I need to be
alert, because something might happen... and I -- I think
something has, but I'm not sure what."

Silence hangs heavy around her, like the thick walls and
reinforced windows of the prison.  How far out on this limb
dare she creep before it breaks under the weight of her
folly?  She feels something else, like a band constricting
her chest, so tight and so familiar around her lungs and
heart that she panics from breathlessness.

The mothering instinct.  It, too, has awakened, re-energized
after years of dormancy.

"And, doctor...?"

"Yes, B.J.?"

She whispers the precarious words into the seam between door
and jamb.  "I'm -- I'm afraid for my little boy."

Silence on the other side of the door, then murmurs and
retreating footsteps.  The footfalls return and she waits,
trembling.

"All right, B.J.  I'm coming into your room now.  I have an
orderly with me and a lunch tray, which I'll expect you to
finish in front of me.  No tricks.  You know the Shamrock
rules.  Do we have a deal?"

"I can't --"

"Then it looks like we have a problem.  Lack of cooperation
is a problem, even when it stems from unaccountable dreams
and premonitions that force you to deviate from routine..."

Dreams and premonitions.  The doctor's voice fades, sinks to
a dull, insignificant murmur as B.J.'s ears roar and
another, familiar voice from the past takes precedence.  A
voice of belief and trust and hope.

("Have you ever, um... have you ever had any clairvoyant
experiences?  Premonitions, visions, precognitive dreams...
things like that?")

"Doctor -- If I can't get a message to Brian, can you call
someone else for me?"

"That will depend."

"I need to talk to the FBI agent who handled my case in '94.
His name is Fox Mulder.  He had a partner named Dana Scully.
Special agents Mulder and Scully in Washington, DC.  Look in
my files, please, and tell them I need to speak with them as
soon as possible.  Tell them it's urgent!"

"B.J., you may have forfeited privileges by your little
stunt, I hope you realize that --"

Her mouth feels parchment-dry, her throat ready to rip in
shreds as she sobs into her hands, big wrenching sobs that
can be heard on the other side of the door.  Oh God, oh God!
So much at stake and no one willing to believe or help.  The
sobs turn into a keening wail when the door swings open and
Doctor Reinholt and his aide step within the sparsely-
furnished room.

"Will you do it?"  A gasping plea...

"Now, just relax.  Settle yourself down."

"Doctor, tell them, please tell them --" Her eyes widen and
roll in terror, red and veined from grief and lack of sleep.
Oh God!  One last try before it's too late and she either
hyperventilates or feels the needle's jab --

"Please!"  Her voice rises to a crescendo.  "Tell Agent
Mulder that I think it's happening again --!"

************

Aubrey, Missouri
November 3, 2000
6:07 p.m.

Not many men in law enforcement have an affair go sour --
and then discover their partner/lover has both a checkered
genetic history and a penchant for murder.

Mulder heard fear over the phone when speaking with Brian
Tillman.  He sensed it on the plane while he thumbed his way
through pages of the six year-old file, noting the
desperation and disbelief that had marked the man's first
reaction.  Though the Lieutenant had been a bastard to work
with and his foot-dragging hampered the investigation's
progress, Mulder had to admit that the guy came by it
honestly.

Partner.  He kneads the steering wheel of the rented Corolla
and glances toward the passenger seat beside him, dragging
his gaze down the familiar length of Scully, from sleek red
hair to leather-shod toes.  It's getting to be serious dusk
and she's switched on the overhead light to browse through
the sheaf of files again.  Each page of field report, one
grisly photo after the other, she tabs with a manicured nail
in order to bring herself up to speed.  She'd slept most of
the way on the plane.

Lover.  His gaze lingers a moment on the concavity in her
lap below the seat belt and on the soft swells of her
breasts.  Masked under her navy-blue suit, they tremble with
the car's vibration.  It reminds him of the new changes he's
come to savor in their relationship: satiny skin molded into
his hands in the dark, the shimmer of her body over his,
breasts bobbing against his face like soft, velvety fruit as
she thrusts herself downward.  They should be doing it far
more often, given how pleasurable, explosive, and satisfying
it is to make love with her.

The sun vanishes, drawing the last purple ray of daylight
into the rolling Missouri horizon.  He thinks about what
happened at Scully's apartment last night.  Her red-eyed
insomnia.  The burden she carries within her like a malarial
fever.  Brave, yet fragile.  Clinging to the stiff veneer
she shows the world, yet granting him entry.  It baffles him
that one solitary day she never experienced personally
should have such a lasting effect on her.

He wonders if she understood why he did what he did -- or
whether she'll ever comprehend his true intent.  It went
beyond sex, beyond physical closeness or desire.  No matter.
His reasons are above reproach and he feels a righteous
peace for suggesting such a thing... and would do it again
without hesitation.

"Mulder..." She'd hedged, eyelids heavy, drooping like the
soft, roomy pajamas she wore last night.  "This won't make
me forget --" And she turned toward him with something less
than acquiescence, as if pleading first for enlightenment
before accepting his solace.

"That's not why I want to do it, Scully."

When she shook her head to object, he stilled its movement
with both hands and kissed her gently.  "Listen... you're
precious to me," he whispered, his lips punctuating each
word over her mouth.  "Every part of you is precious.  This
is my gift."

His persistence won out.  His desire to ease the ache from
her heart and give her relief as no one else could,
transcended whatever propriety stood in his way.  Soon she
began nodding in time to his kisses and lay slack, resigned
yet expectant, while he unbuttoned her pajama top with slow,
soothing fingers and slipped the bottoms down her legs and
from her feet.  She received his touches as she would the
preparations for a sponge bath, head back and lips parted,
watching him cat-like in the semi-darkness.

Her eyelashes flickered as he dipped his head and began to
suckle at her breasts.  Pulling reluctant pink nipples to
firm points in his mouth, like a child nursing, he
alternately sucked and teased them with his tongue until her
breath caught.  The feelings he awoke washed over her; he
felt her arms move and her fingernails graze through the
hair on the back of his head.  She sighed, legs trembling,
when he slipped downward to root softly, reverently at the
juncture between her legs.

He loves this place, where his ears press into her warm
inner thighs.  The rich scent and heat of her, the tickle of
her downy pubic fur on his nose and cheeks, the feel of her
tender slit yielding under his mouth.  The intoxicating
taste of her folds and fluids, sweet wet layers pulsing
around his face and lips.  He worked his tongue slowly into
her depths, paying homage to this sacred place of love and
fertilization, of birth and fetal passage.  Her vagina,
denied its reproductive function, was still a thing to be
honored and cherished and respectfully nurtured.

It mattered, she mattered, and he wanted her to believe and
gain strength from that truth.

When he moved to her clitoris, lingering, his mouth
lavishing over it in gentle sucking circles, her knees rose
higher and he felt her arousal peak.  She arched and tensed
beneath him, surging with the force of orgasm until tears
darkened her lashes and she fell back, exhausted, onto the
pillow.  Sleep came soon after, like he knew it would, with
Scully curled small and motionless on the bed, against him.

Yes, he'll do it again next year, in the same way and for
the same reasons, if circumstances demand it.  For her sake,
he hopes they don't.

Scully sighs under her breath, not quite a whimper, and
shifts in her seat.  The sound and movement snap him back to
the present and he looks at her again.  It's dinnertime and
his groin twinges; memories of last night's selfless
generosity remind him that he's hungry in more ways than
one.

"You say something?"

"I'm curious," she murmurs, clearing her throat and tapping
the manila folder, "whether the woman who was attacked
yesterday was bludgeoned first.  That seems to be the MO in
all the murders, even dating back to 1942.  And if that's
the case, I find it unlikely that a young child could have
the strength or necessary height to execute such an attack."

"Yeah.  Wheaties and spinach don't pack that kind of punch
in real life."

"Spinach?"

"Popeye the Sailor Man," he says, an obliging look on his
face.  "Or maybe nowadays it's Power Rangers --"

"Jesus, Mulder... a little more helpful insight would be
appreciated."  Frowning, she shuts the file and clicks off
the light, looking out toward the approaching lights of the
place called Aubrey, Missouri.  "I just find it baffling
that a little boy would even be considered a suspect.  After
we meet with Tillman, I want to interview this woman as soon
as possible."

"That may depend on whether visiting hours at the hospital
in Aubrey have emerged from the Dark Ages after six years."

In the deepening shadow of the car's interior, he hears a
rustle of clothing and feels Scully's thumb ease along the
skin of his neck, tracing an invisible line above the ridge
of his collar.  "No scar," she whispers.  "I think *you*
were one of the lucky ones."

Lucky doesn't begin to describe what he remembers of that
night.  It happened in harsh images of black and white, in
slow motion -- cold-cocked from behind, slammed against
Harry Cokely's foul-smelling mess of a carpet.  Then the
press of a blade, the sting and itch as it rocked against
his neck, etching a seam of blood into his flesh.  The
abject helplessness he felt.  The horror of turning his head
and gazing into eyes of pure madness, those of Detective
B.J. Morrow.

Scully's touch is fleeting, like a butterfly's airy wing,
and she returns her hand to her lap while he navigates the
traffic toward Aubrey's downtown.  Damn it, she's too fast -
- he wanted to crane his head to the sidde and kiss that
warm, fragrant thumb.

Instead he reaches over to cover her hand with his, giving
it a slow squeeze, feeling her gaze shift downward as he
caresses the delicate bones of her knuckles, her slim
fingers, her palm.  Even after years of partnership he's
beginning to comprehend her in more subtle ways than before.
He knows without seeing that she watches his fingertips
undulate over and slip between hers at this place of
handholding on her thigh.  As though she needs to be aware
of what's happening to her, around her.

His cautious, beautiful Scully.  Shit, he's got a one-track
mind...

As much as he wants answers in this new investigation, he
hopes the meeting with Tillman moves quickly and the
hospital stays closed to all visitors other than family
tonight.  He wants their two motel rooms to be side-by-side,
conveniently adjoined.  He hopes despite her inner sadness
and the long day of travel, that Scully's somehow in the
mood... or at least open to a certain degree of reciprocity.

"Horny, Mulder?"

He startles in the darkness, feeling busted, like a boy
caught down-blousing.  His fingers halt their seductive
teasing.  "What makes you say that?"

"What you're doing leaves little to the imagination."

"That transparent, huh?"

She chuckles and looks out the window toward the twinkling
neon lights, squeezing him back and lacing her smaller
fingers deftly through his.

************

Hi-ho-Silver, Mulder muses, making a cursory visual sweep of
the Old West kitsch permeating his surroundings.

He sits with Scully in a booth at the Conestoga Grill,
across the red-checked tablecloth from Lieutenant Brian
Tillman.  Long ago on another case, he once told her that a
person's eyes were like windows to their soul.  If Tillman's
guarded, haunted look is any indication, then the man must
exist in a day-to-day living hell.

He's taller than Mulder remembers, worry lines framing his
eyes.  A dapper-looking man with a gentle demeanor who tries
to schmooze the locals; he gives a small-town lawman's wave
to the waitress when they enter.  Years ago he seemed strict
and exacting within his department, curt, surly, somewhat
impatient.  Tonight in the public eye, he acts like a well-
behaved prisoner, walking on the thinnest eggshells of
penitence and fear.

The Grill, famous locally for its hamburgers and root beer,
flanks the Conestoga Motel where they'd made reservations.
At Tillman's suggestion they meet in a far corner, out of
earshot of the truckers at the counter and a few small
families up front.  The overhead lights are bright, the air
warm and heavy with grease and dinnertime bustle.

"Let's get this straight," Brian Tillman says quietly,
"right off the bat -- I want my wife left out of this
investigation as much as humanly possible.  You both got
that?"

Scully opens her mouth, then closes it into a soft pucker,
giving Mulder opportunity to reply.  Tired, he wonders?  Or
an intuitive feeling that Tillman would respond more
positively to another man?  While neither of them harbors
any fondness for him, Mulder feels a sense of pity for a man
whose family life and self-respect lay exposed for his
entire town to read, like a newspaper blown ragged through
the streets.

Tillman notices her deference and his burning eyes seek
Mulder's, trying to communicate the extent of his concern
without further elucidation.

"We can't go into this with our hands tied and hope to
conduct a credible investigation or find the truth," parries
Mulder with wry honesty.  "As for sensitive issues, it's a
little late to be stressing over the dirty underwear already
out on the line, isn't it?"

"The press's fault -- and the gossipers in this town," snaps
Tillman under his breath.  "They had a picnic here six years
ago, because of the nature of the case and those involved.
You might've gone back to our nation's capitol with another
notch on your belts, but for those of us left here to carry
on with our lives..."

He hesitates, choosing his words with obvious care, and
halts at the waitress's arrival.  Thick, glass mugs of root
beer hit the table before them.

"None for me, thanks," says Scully to the girl, who gives
her a quizzical, backward glance.  Tillman waits until
they're alone before picking up the thread of conversation.

"Janine, my wife, had a rough time dealing with the fact of
my... indiscretion, without it being flapped all over town
and then shaken in her face.  And that was only the
beginning."

"The reason you don't live in Aubrey proper?" -- Scully's
query.

"Yes, one reason.  Don't get me wrong.  I appreciate your
quick response and your reputation as investigators.  I
don't know anyone else more qualified to handle a situation
like this, given your familiarity with the case history.
But --" His gaze rakes them with a certain pleading
intensity.  "I know what happened last time: give you two
free rein and you're poking into someone's personal business
with a stick, stirring up more trouble than necessary."

"Sometimes, lieutenant, a stick comes in handy when there's
evidence to be dug out.  Remember back to 1994 -- The truth
can get buried pretty deep."

"D'you think I don't dwell on that every day of my life,
Agent Mulder?"

Mulder glances at his partner, catches her furtive, warning
look.  He can only guess what inner maelstrom must drive
such a man to eventual, emotional shipwreck.  Scully leans
toward Tillman, her soothing tone calibrated to gain his
cooperation.

"Lieutenant, we're here to help -- you, your wife, your
son... and to find the truth behind the attack that occurred
yesterday.  You have our assurance that every person
involved in this case will be handled with respect and
discretion."

Nodding, the man takes a shaky breath, every ounce of pride
and willpower brought to bear as he straightens in his seat.
He places his palms flat on the table as though to gain
equilibrium, gripping the cloth edge and squaring his jaw.
Seeing the waitress approach with her order pad in hand, he
warns her off with a shake of his head.

"At the same time," Mulder murmurs, "you have to trust us
enough to be willing to go out on a limb or two.  You'll
need to tell us what you know, and I'm guessing some of that
won't be easy."

"I don't need an investigator to tell me that."

"Then," agrees Mulder, "we know where we stand.  So, for
starters... how much information did the newspapers actually
manage to get in '94?"

"A little bit of everything -- you name it.  A real
smorgasbord."  Tillman gives a small, bitter laugh.  "Harry
Cokely's criminal history.   My affair.  Details of the
crime scenes.  That half-assed rigmarole about a 'bad seed,'
when B.J.'s biological connection to Cokely was whispered
all over town --"

"Yet, in spite of the rumor-mill, you took in the baby when
he was born," Scully reminds him, with some gentleness.
"That shows courage and integrity."

"I -- yes...  I had no other option.  Janine and I were
childless and able to provide a good home.  I'd always
wanted a son..." He presses stiff fingers into his thinning
hair, as if to quiet the demons within his head.

Mulder leans forward against the table.  "Your son's name
is... "

"Benjamin.  I call him Benjie."

"For a man so concerned about his wife's feelings and
reactions, somebody's been getting stiffed in the
sensitivity department," points out Mulder with somber
frankness.  "You could have called the boy anything from
Alvin to Leonard to Zeke.  Yet he gets a name that's a
guaranteed daily reminder of your... *indiscretion*, if you
will."

Tillman deflects Mulder's stare.  "It's my father's name.
In my family everyone's name began with a 'B.' And before he
died I promised him that if I ever had a son, he'd be
christened after his grandfather.  I make no apology for
honoring my father's memory, Agent Mulder."

"Fair enough.  I wonder, though, if your wife feels the same
irrefutable sense of family loyalty."

Red-faced, Tillman moves to stand, reconsiders, and sinks
back into his seat.  "I *knew* you'd start right in when you
got the chance."

"Relax, Lieutenant... just testing the water.  I'd rather
hear why your son Benjie would even be considered a suspect
in this incident."

The new tack dilutes the man's indignation and he pauses to
take a quick, cooling sip of his root beer.  "First glass is
complimentary," he says in afterthought to Scully, wiping
the foam from his mustache with the side of a forefinger.
"It's a Grill trademark."

"I see."  Her quiet brevity draws a smile from Mulder.

"Nothing's official."  Tillman peers across the table from
under lowered brows, making his point.  "About my boy, I
mean.  Just the prevailing opinion of the tongues that wag
in this town.  To tell you the truth, the first call I made
yesterday was to Shamrock... to make sure that B.J. was
still there and accounted for.  And she is, so it looks like
we've got a copycat on our hands."

"Or an outright liar," says Mulder.  "The victim could be
faking the whole incident as a ploy to get back at you or
your family in some twisted way."

Tillman shakes his head.  "No, not Viola.  She's a fixture
around here -- been driving the bus for nearly twenty years
and really loves those kids.  A maiden lady.  She was
kneeling in front of the bus at the school's garage early
yesterday morning, cleaning off the headlights, when
something smacked her in the side of the head."

Mulder gives his partner a miniscule nudge.

"She was disoriented, she said, scared out of her wits.
Screamed for help when she heard --" He swallows.  "Well...
she heard a strange, husky voice say 'You're to blame this
time, little sister.'  Then, she was slashed several times."

"Where?"

Mulder sees a chill run through Tillman's body, knowing his
personal involvement with the perpetrator in the previous
attacks.  "Upper chest.  Face.  Forearm.  Another driver
heard the screaming and called 911 on his cell.  No weapon
was found at the scene.  No footprints, with the ground
frozen rock-hard like it is in the mornings.  And no
visitors tonight," he adds, noting Mulder's sudden
restlessness.

"Why's that?"

"Viola's out like a light, Agent Mulder, I already checked.
This whole incident really did a number on her.  Visiting
hours start at 8:30 tomorrow morning, if you want to try
then."

"I'm still unclear about why your son's name was pulled into
this --"

A cell phone twitters and Tillman rises to answer, turning a
shoulder for privacy.  Finished, he remains standing to
indicate the meeting's conclusion.  "Sorry, folks, but duty
calls.  We'll have to continue this discussion another
time."

"Tomorrow," says Scully, "we'd like to speak with Benjie."

Mulder watches the man's almost painful reluctance; he
closes his eyes, rubs his temple, and then nods to the
inevitable.

"Come by the house after you're done at the hospital.  It's
Saturday, but we're keeping him close to home for the time
being."  He pauses.  "He's kind of a shy kid, doesn't say
much.  No use subjecting him to all the hype and talk."

Stalling, he taps the table with nervous fingers, then balls
them into a fist.  Mulder notes how Tillman's eyes wander
before seeking out Scully's, as if with need and purpose.

"You know... for as long as I can remember, school kids have
taken the rap for being cruel to one another, Agent Scully.
But I've found that some of the adults in Aubrey have never
grown up in that regard.  It's... well, it's unsettling as
hell," he ends, jerking his coat forward onto his shoulders
before nodding at both agents in blunt farewell.

************
End of Chapter 2


************
Chapter 3
************

Aubrey Regional Elementary School
November 3, 2000
8:25 p.m.

He promises her dinner and instead she gets excuses and a
schoolyard crime scene.  Peeved, Scully tells him as much.

"Bus lot," Mulder corrects, sinking into an easy crouch and
fanning the flashlight's beam across the blacktop and into
hard-packed gravel.  "Kids play in schoolyards."

"That sounded suspiciously like 'bull-shit', Mulder."

She hears him chuckle deep in his throat and watches the
light dance along the grilled fronts of the buses that sit
parked with military precision at one end of the school
property.  "Projecting your own thoughts, Scully?"

"It doesn't take a psychic," she mutters.  Her breath hangs
like cotton in the dark night air and she stands to one
side, tracking Mulder's progress down the row by his tinker
bell beam and gusts of exhalation.  Nothing remains for his
trouble.  The swaths of orange police tape are gone; the
crime scene is picked, powdered, and wiped clean, left
pristine as a winter campsite.

No moon tonight.  She casts around while she waits, looking
for other landmarks in the blackness, and spots the top of a
distant swing set in the schoolyard.  Schoolyard,
playground, whatever.  It isn't often she feels like an
intruder, out-of-place, but tonight she's not one of the
privileged, being neither parent nor staff in a microcosm
where children learn and play and spend most of their
daylight hours.

Frosty air bites her ankles and she shifts restless feet,
hunching inward against the chill.  "You know, it's much
colder this time."

"Uh-huh."

"When we were here last, Aubrey was unseasonably warm.  The
ground still hadn't frozen; B.J. was able to unearth
Chaney's bones from the field with her bare hands.
Remember?"

"I remember her piss-poor excuse for an alibi about taking a
short cut through a field where she saw a dog.  And Tillman
backing her up and watching us like a hawk.  It was a dodge,
Scully.  Just like tonight."

She remembers Mulder's blatant sarcasm when they accepted
the case in 1994.  ("I'd like to know why this policewoman
would suddenly drive her car into a field the size of Rhode
Island and for no rhyme or reason dig up the bones of a man
who's been missing for fifty years.  I mean, unless there
was a neon sign saying 'Dig here'--")

"You think the phone call was staged?"

"I think, with luck, he skated this time.  I think he's
running scared and doesn't know who he can trust."

"Still, he called our office this morning --"

"Because he's backed into a corner.  He needs help and we're
the only logical choice.  That doesn't mean he's gonna make
this a picnic for us."

"So only the date changes," she murmurs to the emptiness
around her.  It's late, but not late enough; too little time
has passed since last night.  She feels the squeeze of loss
closing in on her heart again and thrusts it away.  Shutting
her eyes to the murky orange of the buses lined before her,
she turns and crosses over the hard-frozen gravel of the
parking area toward the school.

She's confronted by the kindergarten wing, dimly lit with
security beams, windows still adorned with the motley paper
shapes of pumpkins, ghosts, and witches.  Halloween
leftovers.  Children's art.

No, she can't allow her mind to wander there.  Not now, not
after her feint at the office earlier this morning, when
Mulder questioned the wisdom of her direct involvement in
this case.  She understands his concern, but resents the
inference.

Yet, drawn as a moth to light before the mismatched rows of
construction paper faces, she wonders how Emily's little
pumpkin would have looked.  Snaggle-toothed with triangle
eyes, perhaps... carried home to be scotch-taped in the
living room window for passers-by to enjoy or stuck high
onto the refrigerator...

"Hey, Scully --"

Wheeling around, she watches him emerge as though through a
dark rippling filter and masks a furtive dab at one eye.

"-- I bet you didn't know that Al Capone's business card
said he was a used furniture dealer."

Long years of interpreting his off-the-wall logic and
patterns of deduction prime her for an answer.  Bowing her
head to salvage her thoughts, she quickly sifts through the
little bit of information they'd gleaned from Brian Tillman
earlier at the Grill.

Mulder crunches to her side, puffing clouds into the air.
She tugs her coat tighter and lifts her chin toward him.
"Let me guess -- by the same token, you think Viola Whatever-
Her-Last-Name-Is could be something much more sinister than
a sweet, unmarried, Aubrey, Missouri school bus driver?"

He grins.  "It bears checking into."

"We can determine that after speaking with her tomorrow
morning.  But no one would willingly subject herself to a
painful, brutal attack like this -- or self-inflict such
wounds.  I think it's more likely that your hunch is
skewed."

"Maybe.  Maybe not."

"We're better off focusing on the Tillman household.
Connections.  Someone close to them -- and to Viola -- with
a personal vendetta."

His heavy overcoat brushes her shoulder and he sounds like a
squirrel in the stillness, cracking sunflower seeds with his
molars.  Turning aside while he spits a husk, she senses the
unmistakable, relentless presence of Mulder-radar.  "Sounds
reasonable, I guess.  So... how're *you* feelin' tonight?"

"My feet are cold," she replies with emphasis, "and I'm
hungry."

"Seed?"

"No, thank you --" She bites back the words "for the
thousandth time" and huffs an impatient, breathy cloud into
the air.

"Then, what're we doin' out here, anyway?  I say we get the
hell out of this God-forsaken bus lot, Scully, and go have
dinner some place where it's warm."

She has a sudden flashback to a rooftop in Dallas -- heat,
sweat, exasperation.  Without acknowledging his attempt at
levity, she picks her way through the darkness toward the
Corolla.

************

A half hour later they're hunkered in his motel room, opened
boxes of cashew chicken, egg rolls, and pork-fried rice
decorating the coffee table like short, winged luminaries.
Mulder flicks a sticky grain from the file balanced on his
thigh, careful to preserve the yellowed pages while he
simultaneously reads and inhales his plate of Chinese
carryout.

"Take me back to the '40's for a day... I think I'd be in my
element working alongside Sam Chaney," he ruminates.
"Ledbetter, too, but Chaney... he's the Man, Scully.
Legendary within the FBI as the one who shaped criminal
profiling in its infancy and theorized about the motivations
and origins of serial killers --"

"He recorded everything.  His partner didn't."

"Well, yeah..."

"Maybe some of that legendary theory came from Ledbetter."

He halts, then resumes chewing.  "That's possible."

"I've read the files, too," she reminds him.

Her face is lowered into shadow, hair bronzy in the
lamplight, only the pale point of her chin visible.  Mulder
watches how she picks at her food, finally dropping the
paper plate and chopsticks into the bag they've designated
for trash.

"That bad, huh?"

"No..."  She startles at his question.  "It's not.  I'm just
full."

"I didn't mean the food."

Succinctly, she wipes her fingers with a napkin. "I did."

He backs off for the present, not eager to antagonize.
Though he's already wolfed his portion, he warms to the
leftovers, knowing there's no refrigeration at their
disposal.  Feeling like a billy goat, he plows ravenously
through each container and scrapes it clean, then calculates
how much food was heaped on Scully's plate before she tossed
it away.

"The Imperial Dragon deserves another visit this week," he
proclaims, leaning back and stifling a burp with the back of
his hand.

She nods, disinterested, and rubs an arm.

"Warm enough?"

"I'm fine, Mulder."

Quick, monosyllabic replies are about all she's offered
since their cruise through downtown Aubrey in search of
dinner and welcome heat.  He blew it big time by seizing the
earliest opportunity to fart around and examine a crime
scene that he knew was already clean, cold, and wrapped.  On
this particular night, that should have come second after
appeasing his partner's hunger and uncharacteristic
emotional fragility.

He grabs the Styrofoam cup of hot jasmine tea and takes a
hefty gulp.

"Caffeine," she observes dryly, "will keep you up."

"I'm counting on it."

She averts her face, rising from the couch for clean-up
duty.  With a pang he realizes that she's allowed the potent
innuendo to fall flat between them, unrecognized or ignored.
So much for reciprocity.

He's hopeful that yesterday's open door will encourage her
to speak up on her own.  But Scully's still Scully, her
private life and secret thoughts surrounded by a wall as
high and thick as the Washington Monument.  Last night, on
that particular anniversary date, she was soft and aching
and approachable; she wanted him and had come to expect his
comfort and company in order to weather that yearly storm.

Tonight, her pattern is altered.  With the actual date past,
she has her bruised, wavering pride and self-respect to
protect, even from him.  They're in the field on a case, so
he can expect her to be rigid as whalebone where weakness is
concerned and striving to focus on the details and
progression of the investigation.  She's his partner;
reliable, professional, loyal, intelligent -- and
overflowing with so much denial right now it makes his head
swim.

"Here," she says, pointing to the bulging, folded bag of
trash and picking up her shoes.  "You can take it out.  If
you don't mind, I'm going to bed."

"Just like that."  It's an observation, not a question, and
he has to tamp down his rising annoyance.

The words catch her at the connecting door to her room.  She
pivots slightly on her heel, a mere suggestion of a turn, to
look in his direction.  Back ramrod straight, her mouth is
set into a tight purse.

Tension crackles the air like the fortune cookie he crunched
down minutes earlier.  "Is that a problem, Mulder?"

"It doesn't need to be."

"I'm not guessing at riddles or playing games, so speak
plainly.  And with alacrity," she adds, pushing the door
open into her darkened room and crossing to the window.  Her
shoes hit the floor with a light thud; he can feel her
impatience begin to dissipate in this nest, the safer haven
of her own territory.

"Just like that, Scully... you shut me out so soon after
letting me in."

Following her in, he notes that the lamp stays off, only
shards of outside neon piercing the blinds and heavy motel
drapery.  With her head erect, she crosses her arms; he
spots a prismatic smear of wetness under her eye and notes
how her chest expands with effort under the navy blue
jacket.

"Look... this may not always work the way either of us
anticipates," she hedges.  "If that's the case tonight, then
I'm sorry."

"I'll accept that."

He won't pretend he hadn't wanted something carnal back from
her.  That her touch to his face and squeeze to his hand in
the darkened car hadn't stoked his growling libido, and that
her teasing choice of words hadn't held promise of bedtime
pleasures.

Still, he doesn't intend to be a selfish asshole about it;
he can take care of his own needs with a practiced hand and
suspects she'd have no tolerance for bullishness anyway.
Sex is just a small part of what he expects from her now;
it's typical for Scully to steer the focus away from the
real problem seething beneath the surface.  Her inner pain
and loss, her grief for Emily, her --

"I saw a school bus today," she says softly.

His thoughts interrupted, he's caught unprepared, surprised.
The plaintive undercurrent in her voice draws him toward her
like a magnet to iron.  "You saw lots of them tonight, too,"
he counters.

"No.  This morning, I meant, coming to work."  She clears
her throat against the rising tears, blinking out toward the
brightly lit parking lot.  "Just down the street from my
apartment building.  It reminded me, that's all."

After such an admission it's safe for him to intrude
further.  Coming behind her, his palms cup both her
shoulders, the span so narrow between his hands that he
marvels every time he touches her like this.  A smaller,
more fragile bone structure, yet with the muscular curvature
of the uniquely feminine form.  Like satin plush over steel,
Scully's form.

His strong thumbs caress her backbone and shoulder blades
through the suit jacket, the same soothing strokes she
absorbed last night like liniment.  She begins to relax into
his touch and he takes the liberty of combing the hair away
from her ear with one hand, smoothing his fingers over the
pale silky skin at the side of her neck.

"I can understand," he murmurs, letting his eyes close and
his nose brush against her hair, taking in her fragrance.

"Mulder... she would've started kindergarten this fall."

He receives this anguished revelation with care and calm,
taking it for the gift it is, like a precious and fragile
egg.  Her arms remain tucked around her waist, but he's
pleased that she trusts enough to lean back against him for
support.  "You're sure?"

"Of course.  With a November birthday, she would have been
past the cut-off date for fall registration last year."

"You would know."  Against his chest, he feels the catch in
her breathing, a deep strangled swallow.  Shit -- he's said
something asinine and now she's fighting for control.  "What
is it?"

"That's the irony," she whispers angrily.  "For so many
years I *didn't* know, I knew nothing, even about myself.
Sometimes we came so close without knowing.  And then --"
She shakes her head and rubs her arms again, as though
kneading away a chill.  "Never mind... I'm sorry I brought
it up."

He can read the signals of dismissal.  Remembering her
strict rules of engagement, he knows she's finished with
weakness for the present and needs to recoup and move on, to
be left alone in the backwash of her pain.

Lingering a moment in the tense silence, he has a sentiment
of his own to express before fading away to his room for the
night.

"Listen to me."  He dips his head towards hers, his mouth
sweeping the ivory ear he exposed to the air moments ago.
"I want to share the burden of this with you... and not just
once a year.  Think about it.  Please."  Without waiting for
a response, he presses a kiss to her temple and steps back
into the doorway.

Tonight he'd like nothing more than to hold her close and
massage away her misery, even if it means simply having her
near him on the bed.  He frets about the impossible
standards and hard choices she makes for herself, the
unforgiving lens through which she views her own
vulnerability.  Alone in the shadows, she gazes out the
window with brimming eyes -- brave, forlorn, stalwart in her
self-imposed isolation.  He aches, knowing that solitude is
all too often her chosen companion and lover.

"We talk to the Tillman boy in the morning," he reminds her,
changing subject, "after the hospital.  You're the pro,
dealing with kids.  You make them feel comfortable enough to
trust us.  That part of the show's yours."

A fresh tear glistens on her cheek and she looks down,
turning from the window to prepare for bed, nudging her
shoes away with one nylon-covered foot.

"Try to get some rest, okay?"

She nods.

"Hey, Scully... bet you didn't know that it takes the
average person just seven minutes to fall asleep."

He gets a watery smile for his whispered assurance.  "Thank
you," she says, and he hears gratitude and love choke her
voice, surging over its banks in the short, unobstructed
span between them.

*********

Tillman residence
November 3
10:45 p.m.

The house is silent, but neither peaceful nor serene.  Brian
Tillman hangs his overcoat in the downstairs closet, and
then climbs the steps on weary feet to halt on the second
floor landing.

To his left is the master bedroom.  The door stands ajar,
blackness within, alerting him that his wife is still awake
somewhere else in the house.  Waiting up?  He doubts it:
years ago that might have been likely, but not for a very
long time and no longer by her choice.  He knows her habits.

He has his own ritual as well and strives to keep it
private.  Born of love and lust, it's steeped in guilt so
deep it threatens to scar his conscience and crush his
spirit.  To the right lays his son's bedroom, Janine's
former sewing room, and he steps within to make his silent,
almost nightly visit.

He's done this since his boy was a baby.  Once he overheard
two women discussing their fears concerning their newborns -
- SIDS and accidental injury among the ddangers mentioned --
and shared how they peeked into the cribs while their tiny
children slept in order to monitor breathing and well-being.
He felt shame that his motivation sprang from baser, more
selfish roots than the altruistic protectiveness displayed
by the young mothers.

The callous truth is that Benjie is as close as he'll ever
come to regaining B.J.

He enters on a thief's quiet feet.  It's a boy's room in
scent and appearance, much like the one he remembers from
his own childhood.  A dinosaur nightlight glows greenly near
the baseboard where dirty clothes lay mounded next to
scuffed sneakers and a handful of Lego bricks.  More than
once he's mildly wondered about the dearth of decoration on
the walls and how few toys or picture books are evident.
But his son, he reminds himself, is an outdoors, rough-and-
tumble kid at heart.

He approaches the bed.  Under cover of darkness the boy's
features display a beauty that resembles his mother's before
her descent into psychotic madness and prison.  Tillman can
see echoes of her heart-shaped face, broad forehead, the
delicate arch of brow, and the long, soft fan of brown
lashes on the cheeks of their child...

"Daddy?"

That which he dreads and avoids has occurred: the boy wakes
and opens his eyes.

"Yeah... it's me, Buddy-boy," he whispers, kneeling by the
bed with sudden attentiveness.  "Aren't you asleep yet?"

The child shakes his head, blanket tucked to his chin.  He
struggles to focus up at his father, eyes huge and limpid --
like hers.  The eyes do it, Tillman realizes over the
pounding in his chest.  They twist his heart with thoughts
of B.J. every time he sees them like this.

"You feelin' okay?"

"Yes."

"Benj, d'you remember what we talked about earlier?"

The eyes wait.

"Well, a nice man and lady will be here tomorrow morning to
ask you some questions."

The boy shakes his head again.

"It'll be okay, Champ.  Daddy's staying home and will be
right here with you."

Benjie gives a tiny shrug beneath his blanket and blinks
wetly under his father's scrutiny.  He's afraid, Tillman
sees, but won't speak up, won't tell what he fears or why.
Just shyness and insecurity, his kindergarten teacher has
maintained, which all kids go through at some point in
their young lives, leaving it behind as they mature and find
their place among their peers.  If only it were that cut and
dried and simple...

Fox Mulder and his Goddamn, meddling stick --

He doesn't want to deal with tomorrow's meeting and what
could be uncovered.  He shrinks from the possible
implications that his son is in any way connected to the
slashing attack on Viola.  No, there's no way in hell -- he
refuses to give credence to the lame-brained theory that
genetic abnormality or criminal tendencies can be passed
from one generation to the next, like hair color or creative
talent, from mother to son.  He'll never believe in this
outrageous 'bad seed' crap...

As much as Benjie might resemble his mother, he's a Tillman,
too, dammit.

After reassuring his son and bidding him go to sleep,
Tillman backs out of the room and shuts the door.  He finds
his wife downstairs in the small room off the kitchen.  It
was the porch before they enclosed it with insulating walls
and added more traditional window casings, when Benjie first
came to live in their home.  Now it's Janine's sewing room,
except she's not sewing and the lights are off.  Behind
them, the kitchen glows weakly.

"I spoke with the FBI tonight," he says, unable to read her
expression in the darkness.  "The same two agents as before,
Mulder and Scully.  They'll --"

"They're still partners?  After how many years?"  She gives
a bitter laugh and swirls the contents of her glass before
taking a drink.  "You can't tell me *they* don't have
something going on between them.  It comes with the
territory."

"Stop it, Janine.  You've never even met them."

He knows that alcohol is the culprit responsible for her
vindictive slights.  He knows that tomorrow, with official
business pending, she'll be cooperative for him and the
authorities.  Pleasant and polite, she'll invite them into
her home, resuming her 'policeman's wife' persona, the role
of good hostess and mother.  God... he hopes.

"D'you think I'm *stupid*?  It's inevitable, Bri.  Pass the
three-year mark and they're all down there at the station,
fucking like --" Her laugh becomes a rasping cough that
echoes in waves through the shadows and she takes another
belt to ease it.

"That's enough."  He makes a grab for her glass and she
jerks it away.  Her quickness surprises him.  "How many is
that?"

"What do you care?"

"I *care*, dammit..."

Ignoring his plea, she pushes her way past him into the
kitchen's yellow light.  She halts to deposit her empty
tumbler into the sink with the scraping rasp of glass on
stainless steel that makes his skin crawl, and turns away.

"They'll be over to talk with him sometime tomorrow
morning," he persists.

"With Benjamin?"  Her look is one of amused incredulity.
"As if *that'll* do any good.  They might as well interview
the wall or the microwave for all the information they'll
get from him."

He's helpless in his pain, choking and furious in the
fruitless defense of his son.  There was a time earlier in
their marriage when love was fresh and fumbling between them
and they talked from the heart.  Before she slowly drew
away, hardening in front of his eyes, and her disposition
and spirit lost their bloom.  Before shattering
disappointments and poorly chosen salve on both sides built
a wedge of emotional scar tissue that now seems impossible
to excise.

"You know, you could make things a lot more pleasant --"

"Brian, go to hell," she spits, flicking off the overhead
light.  He times the creaks of her footfalls on the stairs
until he hears her reach their bedroom.  A pause on the
landing, and then the door shuts behind her with a distant
snick.

Left alone in the darkness, Tillman leans for support
against the kitchen counter.  He covers his face, weeping
the angry, wrenching tears of a man overcome by remorse and
fearful of certain shipwreck.

************
End of Chapter 3


************
Chapter 4
************

Warner residence
November 4, 2000
7:50 a.m.

"Gwen?  You alone?"

A lazy Saturday morning and Natalie Warner scuffs through
her kitchen, face unmade, blonde hair askew.  Her lips
caress the receiver as she talks, phone wedged between her
ear and shoulder like a plastic growth.  Cereal bowls and
packages litter the polished granite counter top.  She
manhandles a mug and coffee carafe while her half-finished
cigarette tumbles between them into the sink.

Multi-tasking is *such* a bitch, she fumes to herself.

"Yeah, Greg finally got home late last night.  What did you
say?"  She snickers.  "Well, for *you* maybe.  Over here,
the whole show from start to finish takes less than five
minutes tops."  She peers into the sink with exasperation.
"No, he just took off with Shawna for her jazz class and
then he'll be at the office --" She retrieves the damp
blackened nub, grimaces, and flips it into the trash.
"Hell, no.  He'll drive her starting on Monday.  D'you think
I'm putting her on that bus while all *this* is going on?
You've *got* to be kidding!"

Dandling the opened box of Sara Lee coffee cake, she
reconsiders and takes a hefty drag from a freshly lit
cigarette instead.  The morning is hers; she curls up in her
robe on the cushioned bench of the breakfast nook, nursing
both coffee and tobacco, happy in her solitude.  Though the
weather seems bitterly cold and overcast, her mind warms to
a bright, new prospect.  A titillating possibility.

"Anyway, I won't hold you up -- I just called to tell you I
saw that *same* guy again last night.  You know... the one I
told you about?  From the FBI?"  She hugs her knees tighter.
"Yeah, the *same* one as six years ago, if you can believe
it.  God, Gwen, he looks good enough to eat with a spoon!"

She tilts her head back against the windowpane and closes
her eyes.  It *had* to be the same man sitting in the Grill
last night, with his tall, dark lines and good looks, those
sexy eyes and that movie-star mouth.  Coat slung over the
back of his chair so she could see his broad expanse of back
and shoulder and how his lips moved when he spoke to
Lieutenant Tillman.  The last time he appeared in Aubrey she
was post-partum and sallow, with a mewling, puking baby in
her arms.  But now...now, things are very different and she
never, *ever* forgets a hunk...

"I *never* forget a hunk like that, Gwen.  Wait'll I show
him to you.  He looks even better than he did before."  Her
body feels the steadily rising heat of her fantasy and she
rubs her thighs together.  Shit, she's actually getting wet
thinking about this man, and *that's* a rare occurrence
these days.

"What?  Well, I could go over and offer some insider's
information.  It *was* Shawna's party, damn it.  I think he
must be staying at the Conestoga... yeah, that *would* be
cozy, wouldn't it?  Or, I could invite him over here while
Greg's at work and share lots of juicy tidbits."

She guffaws into her mug, then swipes brown droplets of
coffee from its glass side with her tongue.  "You think I
should *show* and not *tell*?"

Pausing to listen further, her face sinks back into the well-
worn lines of a studied frown.  She takes a sharp drag and
then exhales into the receiver with a hiss of resentment and
a swirl of gray smoke.

"Yeah, she was there, too.  Like a goddamn tick... the
little bitch.  I'm pretty sure -- uh-huh, I assume they're
just partners.  No rings on either of 'em, that *I* could
see.  But I plan to keep my eye on him, Gwen.  You can
*count* on that.  Nobody'd better get in my way."

************

Memorial Hospital
November 4, 2000
8:31 a.m.

Mulder falls into step behind his partner as they navigate
stark white corridors toward the patient wing.  It's not the
risk of contagion or the antiseptic smell he hates the most.
Rather, he's unsettled by the bedside manner, the delicate
stance and dicey interaction one is forced to assume with
the sick and severely injured.  Not his cup of tea.

Their hospital interrogation routine, unspoken and natural
after years of shared assignments, entails Scully preparing
the way for their questioning.  He finds it easier to defer
when they step into the austere, clinical confines of her
world of medicine.  They've been here all too often over
seven years' time, experiencing both sides of the bedrail,
but being a medical doctor gives her an edge over him on the
floor.

She has a gift, especially with children.  She's female,
easier on the eyes, and much less intimidating than he is.
From the patient's perspective, she's every child's mother,
every woman's daughter or sister.  Every man's daughter,
sister, wife, or more often and accurately, dream lover.
Enough authority projects from her voice to make the patient
realize their visit means business, while maintaining an
atmosphere of calm trust.

The proffered FBI credential, he admits, is nothing to
sneeze at either.

His expertise, in counterpoint to Scully's bedside knack,
lies within the catacombs of the mind.  As an investigative
profiler, he also has a gift for people, but not with the
same grade of refinement or comforting presence.
Behavioral, psychological, genetic, paranormal,
supernatural.  Call it weird and he's at the head of the
line.  Label it unexplained and he knows the questions to
ask, though they defy all convention.  He can map psychoses,
sense spirits, formulate parallels from the most bizarre,
disjointed and unconnected pieces of evidence.  Only now,
after years of dubious forbearance, has Scully finally given
his postulating the credence it deserves.

Well... maybe a fraction of the time he feels that elusive
glow of vindication.

"Viola Rains?"

Scully's rare, wide smile precedes him into the room to the
woman's bed.  With his partner running interference he can
focus on other details that vie for his attention -- the
heavy bandages on the victim's face and chest, her IV drip,
the row of flower arrangements and bouquets that line the
wall, the nursing staff and visitors that pass her door.
His gaze shifts; no rings on her fingers, another thick
dressing on the right forearm, a stack of homemade get-well
cards on her lap decorated with the rainbow-colored,
crayoned scribbles of children.

"Ms. Rains, I'm Agent Scully and this is Agent Mulder.
We're from the FBI and we'd like to ask you a few
questions."

"Oh, he said you'd be coming."  Viola's words slur.  Mulder
sees that the bandage covers her left cheek, hinders the
edge of her mouth, and is anchored to her chin.  "Lieutenant
Tillman did.  Please, sit down and call me Viola."

If all patients were this amiable and cooperative he'd have
no aversion to bedside interviews.  Most intriguing, he
feels a cleansing sense of honesty and kindliness radiate
from this swaddled woman, as well as a touch of fear.

They could be sitting in her living room, he thinks, pulling
chairs forward for himself and Scully.  Weather-beaten skin
and crow's feet put her upwards into her sixties, he
estimates.  Short, curly hair, more gray than brown.  She
makes a tiny effort to sit straighter, gives up, and smiles
wearily at them.

"First time in a hospital bed for me," she explains.  "It's
a sad disappointment, I tell you.  No one ever let on these
damn things are about as comfortable as lawn furniture."

"I can help you with that..." Scully stands and manipulates
the controls with familiar ease.  The bed's head elevates
upward and forward a few inches until Viola nods and groans
in relief.

"My, you've got the touch.  Doesn't she?"  She quirks a
twinkling blue eye at Mulder and he allows himself a small
grin, reluctant to be baited by this stranger no matter how
innocent the teasing.

"I'm glad to see you're in good spirits," he begins,
"because the questions we're here to ask aren't the most
pleasant."

"Oh, I know, I know.  You want to know about... what
happened the other morning."

"And whether it's possible you recognized who did this to
you," adds Scully.

The woman hesitates to speak until they assure her of
confidentiality and shut the door.  Her story, told with
well-chosen words and through brimming eyes is an echo of
Brian Tillman's terse summary last night, though Mulder
senses no collusion.  On her knees by the bus, struck in the
head, slashed while she tried to defend herself from the
attacker, she heard a husky, eerie voice that froze her
blood.

"No," she confesses, "I have no idea who could've done it,
but I refuse to believe the little Tillman boy is in any way
responsible."

The two agents exchange looks.  "I'd like to know who's
spreading that rumor," presses Mulder.  "If you have any
idea, that is."

"I know several possible sources, but I doubt that would be
helpful to you or serve any purpose.  There are big mouths
and hard opinions here in Aubrey, and the sadness of it is
that the little children learn to imitate their elders.  Let
me tell you two something..."

Viola beckons them closer with her good hand, waiting until
their chairs almost touch the edge of her bed.  She shoots a
glance toward the door before speaking to them in a whisper.

"I've been driving that school bus for a long time and have
seen more than a generation of kids ride and grow.  They
absorb everything, like sponges.  When the killings happened
back in '94, you can bet the kids talked about it, too.
Repeated what they'd heard from their parents or what they
saw on TV and read in the paper."

She pauses, her eyes watery and reminiscent, as she ponders
what to say next.  "Lordy... they knew all the details about
poor Detective Morrow and the Lieutenant.  About the murders
and the Cokely history.  I remember they'd even play-act how
everything must've happened, right there on the bus.  Traded
parts and took bows while the rest of the kids hooted and
hollered.  That's when I started putting my foot down."

"How?"  Mulder, mesmerized by the woman's tale, still
detects no falseness or chicanery.

"I got mean and tough, that's how.  If they don't learn
respect at home, they'd better learn it somewhere.  I made
'em stay in their seats and talk quietly.  No name-calling.
No hurtful gossip.  Any one of 'em gave me backtalk, I
reported it to the principal.  I didn't care if they were
the poorest kids in town or the richest -- no respecter of
persons, that was Ol' Viola Pours."

"Excuse me?"  Scully raises her brows, requesting
explanation.  Mulder smirks.

"That's the name they gave me after I got tough.  All the
kids on my route learn it from the older ones at the start
of the new school year.  And getting back to the kids..."
Viola lowers her voice to a fearful, conspiratorial whisper.
"It breaks my heart to see how bad upbringing shows so
early.  I have one group on my bus -- little, tiny girls,
the sweetest looking things -- who dish out the worst sort
of meanness imaginable.  They just humiliate that poor boy
to death."

"Benjie Tillman, you mean?"

"Yes, Ma'am.  Reminds me of little Forrest Gump the way no
one lets him sit with 'em.  Kindergarteners!  They started
in teasing him so unmercifully the other day I stopped the
bus at the corner of Hopkins and Vine and gave 'em a talking-
to that made their ears go red.  Set a few of 'em crying,
too."

"What was the teasing about?"

"Oh, one of the tiniest ringleaders was having her birthday
party that afternoon and they flaunted it in front of the
boy in a terrible way.  Said awful things to him right in
front of everybody.  I said I'd report 'em, but didn't have
the chance, because, well --" She strokes the bandage on her
face and sighs.

"Viola, I want to revisit something you mentioned a few
moments ago," says Mulder.  "What did you mean when you said
the boy reminds you of Forrest Gump?  Is he in any way
mentally deficient?"

"Oh, my, no..."  Her eyes narrow and she peers up at him
intently.  "You haven't met him yet, I take it."

"Not yet.  We're going over to the Tillman home shortly."

"Then, I'll not say a word and you can go by your own
instincts and impressions."

"Do you feel that's important?"

"I do," she insists.

He and Scully exchange brief looks.  "Do you have any
connection to Benjie Tillman other than the bus route?"

"Wha-at?"

"I get the impression you're looking out for him," notes
Mulder.  "And it's obvious that you're afraid of
something... or someone."

She shakes her head, tears returning, and closes her eyes
for a moment.  "Please... if this had happened to you,
wouldn't you be afraid?"

This time Scully leans forward to capture the older woman's
attention.  "I'd like to know why anyone would suspect
Benjie capable of harming you in this way?"

Viola gives a tiny, painful grunt.  "Oh... maybe family
history.  You'll notice some things about him today, I'm
sure.  And..." She hesitates before adding, "because the
boy's a roamer."

"A roamer?"

"An early bird who roams all over town and moves like a
shadow.  Not safe for a child that young to wander
everywhere unsupervised.  It's worrisome."

"Your concern is understandable."

"There's... one more thing."

At Viola's beckon they lean closer.  Trepidation furrows her
features under the bandage and she appears more frightened
than before as she licks trembling lips and then bites them
hard.  Scully puts a comforting hand over the woman's.  "Go
ahead.  If you know anything more that could help further
this investigation, please tell us."

"I -- I was told that he said something at the birthday
party.  It scared some of the grown-ups silly.  Those of 'em
who knew his background, anyway."

"He was invited after all?"  Mulder's voice, low and
surprised, pulls her gaze toward him.

"It appears so, but I'm not sure.  He was there with all
those little girls, that I do know."

"What did he say?"

"Well... the children were asked what special thing they'd
want in all the world.  And he told 'em -- straight up and
with a very strange look -- that he wanted a little sister.
A little *sister*," she repeats, stressing the significance
of the word and swallowing her tears.

"That kind of puts a familial spin on things," blurts
Mulder, feeling his hairline prickle and at once drawn to
the mystery.

"Like Forrest Gump, that's *all* I have to say about that,
sir.  You two look like good, caring people.  Just keep your
eyes and ears open at that house, that's all I ask --"

"Vio-la?"

A dark-haired woman, 30-ish, wearing the pink smock of a
hospital aide has opened the door and waits with a fistful
of what looks to Mulder like handmade envelopes.  Confronted
by their little huddle, she hesitates before moving forward.

"Sorry to interrupt your visit, but I'm supposed to give
these to you.  More cards from school.  Looks like second or
third grade by the writing."

"Why, thank you, Gwen," murmurs Viola, recovering with a
sniff and patting her lap.  "Just put 'em right here with
the others and I'll get to 'em as soon as I take a little
rest.  These are two agents from the FBI called in to talk
to me.  And this is Gwen, who I hear has been a *wonderful*
helper at a birthday party this week, and who brings me mail
and 7-Up when I need it."

"Just on Fridays and Saturdays," the woman named Gwen
amends, reddening when Mulder gets to his feet and offers
her his hand.  "Except for the party part."  Scully nods,
intending to follow suit, but stops when a burly nurse
sweeps into the room without warning.

"I'll have to ask everybody to come back later," the woman
announces, giving the room and its occupants a territorial
glare.  She steps to the opposite side of the bed to snare
Viola's wrist.  "Time to check your dressings, dear, and
then you need to take a break.  You looked like you were
feeling better, but now your pulse rate's up."

"She's right as the rain," says Mulder, sneaking a wink of
thanks in the direction of the bed and pulling the chairs
back into place.  Viola gives a weary smile through her
bandage and returns his gesture.  With a jerk of the nurse's
hand she's hidden from view by the blue curtain that hangs
from a circular track above her bed.

In the hallway he nabs Gwen before she can hustle off to
perform more errands of mercy.  "Can we talk to you a
minute?  I'm Special Agent Mulder, this is Agent Scully."

She colors and rubs shy hands together over the smock, then
buries them into the pockets at the bottom edge.  "I -- I,
um, suppose so.  For a minute.  I don't know anything about
Viola's accident; I doubt I can help you."

Mulder glances at the hospital I.D. that hangs from the
smock's pink bodice.  Gwen DiAngelo, Memorial Hospital,
Volunteer.  She's distressed enough to begin moving from
foot to foot; chuckling inwardly, he's reminded of a little
girl who desperately needs to use the bathroom.

"I'm curious about what goes on at kid's parties nowadays.
Do they still play pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey?  Sing 'Happy
Birthday'?  Blow out candles?"

"Yes, to all that.  Actually, this was the first
kindergarten party I ever helped with.  Viola was just being
kind."

"Whose party was it?"

"Shawna Warner's.  She turned six on Wednesday."

"A big party?"

"It seemed awfully big to me; twelve girls... and one boy."

Mulder savors the information.  "Wow.  That's hardly fair
representation."  He grins first at Scully and then at Gwen.
"So, who was the lucky little guy?"

"Um... Benjie Tillman."  She flushes under his inspection,
looking apprehensively down the hall.  "Listen, you really
should speak with Shawna's mother -- Natalie Warner -- if
you have any more questions about it.  I -- I need to get
back to work."

"No problem.  Nice meeting you, Gwen."

The woman scurries off to her tasks and they stand together,
mulling over the assorted information garnered in the last
half-hour.  Glancing at Scully, he's struck by her pensive
expression.  Two familiar ridges perch over her right
eyebrow, the ones that appear when she feels either strong
suspicion or doubt.  "What's wrong?"

"Viola's protecting someone, Mulder, or looking after that
person's interests.  But who?"

"And it sounds to me like our boy Benjie crashed the party,
turning it from twelve to an unlucky thirteen."

She gives him a pointed look.  "Her perspective is different
from Tillman's, I noticed.  So is her wording.  I need to
check something..."

He follows her to the nurses' station, where she shows her
badge and requests the visitation sheet for Viola.  After
skimming, she beckons him closer and lowers her voice.
"Mulder, she has a restricted visitation list.  Not just
anyone can waltz in here to see her.  And look at this --"

Leaning over her shoulder, he scans the page to where she
rests the end of her polished nail: above their names and
below Lieutenant Brian Tillman's are the words "Linda
Thibodeaux."  Her visits stand recorded for both days
previous.

"Son-of-a-gun," murmurs Mulder.  "Apparently it *is* only
the date that changes."

"You heard me say that?"

He nods, holding her gaze.  "Mrs. Thibodeaux is still the
biological grandmother of B.J. Morrow, as well as --"

"Benjie Tillman's great-grandmother," she finishes.

"Exactly.  I think we owe her a reunion visit."

************

Tillman residence
November 4, 2000
10:45 a.m.

After years of conducting successful interviews with
children Scully assumes the meeting with Benjie Tillman will
be nothing more than routine.

She rues the fact that this case in Aubrey so closely nips
the heels of her yearly wallow in grief; too much
contemplation still makes her weepy.  However, she can't
afford weakness, knowing that a young boy's possible
vindication awaits her and Mulder inside the Tillman home
this morning.

Being the adult, she has an authoritarian edge that commands
a child's youthful respect.  With her own biological need to
nurture comes the heady sense of leading these young ones to
safety through the minefields of interview and intimidation.
She represents goodness and motherhood.  She gains their
trust, as Mulder attests so vigorously.

Emily was the turning point.

Before her, children were winsome little beings Scully
encountered on occasion, whose pleasurable existence she
took for granted, expecting to eventually have her own
offspring one day.  But with the loss of her fertility and
the subsequent discovery of the child called Emily Sim --
holding the soft, little body of a daughter she'd never
known existed, calming her fears, protecting her, sharing
bits of conversation and coloring book, wiping away her
tears, feeling her pain and need, loving her -- she came to
value children in a new and much deeper way.

She feels rested this morning, after an uneventful night's
sleep.  Mulder's sensitivity continues to be a source of
wonder; her appreciation overflows.  Coming into his room
behind him while he fussed with his tie, she slipped her
arms around his midriff, clasping his muscled body in a
tight, wordless embrace of apology and thanks.

"Whoa, cowgirl..." he drawled huskily, stopping to cover and
squeeze her hands with his, where they pressed his dress
shirt against his stomach.  "Keep this up and we hang out
the 'do not disturb' sign pronto."

"Later," she promised.  "Tonight."

She craned her head upward and to the side to catch his
mouth in a short, hard kiss before gathering her coat and
small leather briefcase for their meeting with Viola Rains.
He'd ambled behind her to the car, whistling "Home On the
Range" in a liquid off-key warble.

They discover that Lieutenant Tillman and his family live in
a residential neighborhood called Sterling, just outside of
Aubrey.  The house is a white two-story with dark green
shutters and a small yard.  Flowerbeds frozen and beaten
down to dirt, attractive front porch, a gap-toothed, rock-
hard pumpkin standing sentry at the door.  Mulder grins and
nudges it in the mouth with the toe of his shoe.

The Lieutenant answers their knock.  His manner seems
guarded and his face sags around the edges, as though he's
short on sleep.  He tries to be accommodating and even-
tempered, she guesses, for the sake of his child.

"Since my wife can't join us this morning, let's make this
short and sweet," he instructs.  "Where?"

"A place where Benjie will feel the most comfortable.  His
bedroom?"

"Out of the question."

"Here will be fine, then," says Scully, slipping off her
coat and eyeballing the modest living room and its
furniture.  "Since there's no coffee table in the way, I'll
sit on the couch and we can begin."

Tillman nods and beckons toward the doorway behind him.
"Come here, Benjie."

A wiry little boy emerges from the kitchen, his height
average for a kindergartener, with a thick cap of brown
hair.  Heeling next to his father's thigh, he reminds Scully
of a fearful and obedient puppy.  His hands stay glued into
the pockets of his gray sweatshirt and he inches forward
beside Tillman who whispers down encouragements.

Throwing Mulder a quick glance, she watches the boy's
approach.  She's seen it numerous times in orphanages and
children's shelters -- the hangdog look, the shuffling gait
of a child too timid to react normally to the stimuli around
him.  That the boy won't look up, even in his own home and
with a parent so near gives her a sense of foreboding.
Tillman steers him to the couch and, with hands on both
shoulders, angles him so he stands in front of Scully's
knees.

"Hello, Benjie," she says gently.

"Son, say hello to Agent Scully," prods Tillman, to no
avail.

"Sweetie, everything is going to be all right.  Look at me,
okay?"

The boy raises his head.

Her first stunned thought is that he's suffered burns in an
accident.  His skin is red and flaky, raw from irritation.
What should be young and baby-smooth is rough and scabbed.
Gazing at him with thinly disguised shock, she's struck by
memories of Harry Cokely's complexion, of B.J.'s ammonia-
blistered face on that last horrific night when she was
taken into custody six years before.  Is this heredity?  A
genetic characteristic run riot, barreling like wildfire
through the DNA of several generations to overtake an
innocent child with its cruelty?

Swallowing, she fights to keep pity at bay and reinforces an
iron hand of control over her emotions.  She looks into the
boy's eyes, eyes that are large and fringed by long lashes
that tremble with wetness and fear.  B.J. Morrow's eyes.  My
God... why is this happening?  And what can he be so afraid
of?

"Benjie, you can call me Dana.  I'm here to help you, just
like Agent Mulder is."  To reassure the boy, she glances
across the room to where Mulder stands chin in hand, his
face a solemn mask.  He responds to her cue with a grin and
a nod to the child.

"Can I see your hand, please, sweetie?"

He bites his lip and extracts one reddened paw from his
sweatshirt pocket.  Like his face, the skin is raw, flaky,
weeping in the bends and creases of his wrist and fingers.

Scully's sensibilities cringe, knowing what perpetual
discomfort this boy must be suffering from his skin's
inflammation, not to mention the reaction he attracts from
others.  The ostracism and teasing on the bus, no one
wanting him near them.  A life of pain and loneliness and
ridicule for one so young.  Inexcusable.

When she attempts to take his hand, the boy jerks it back.

"Does that hurt you?"  My God, she thinks, it has to itch
like crazy, but --

Chin on chest, he shakes his head, lashes wet.

"Lieutenant Tillman?"  She swivels her head up toward him,
where he shadows his boy's back, and tries to keep the anger
from her voice, modulated so as not to frighten the child
needlessly.  "Have you had Benjie's condition diagnosed?
I'm no dermatologist, but I am a medical doctor, and what I
see here on your son looks like an acute case of atopic
dermatitis, commonly known as pediatric eczema.  With
medication it's easily treatable."

"It's..." He stumbles over his words.  "It's not usually
this severe.  Maybe the stress of the last few days... I
don't know."

Scully stares and waits.

"Yes, he's been to the pediatrician," Tillman growls,
flushing.  "Lots of times.  Janine handles the doctor's
appointments and takes care of our family's medical needs.
You have to believe me when I tell you that it's just gotten
this bad in the last day or so.  Isn't that right, Buddy?"

"The scabbing tells a different story," Scully says evenly,
glaring a hole through Tillman.  "We'll speak of this in
greater detail later.  Because right now, in the time we
have..." She focuses back on the boy and gentles her face
and tone, "I have a few questions I want to ask you, Benjie.
Is that okay with you?"

He shakes his head and takes a step back.

Tillman looks mortified, but keeps silent.  No amount of
soothing speech or cajoling on Scully's part can make this
child acquiesce.  He won't sit down, look at her, answer,
allow her to touch him.  In effect, he wants no part of her
and she feels the beginnings of fresh, sharp disappointment
and failure well up in her heart.

This is *her* forte, the place where she shines.  It was so
with Emily, with all the other children she's befriended and
interviewed through the years.  They sensed her compassion,
felt the tender mother-love within her, and they responded.

But not this hurting little boy.  Something keeps Benjie
Tillman from stepping into the circle of her trust and
caring.  She knows what needs to happen now, despite this
galling blow to her confidence and coming at a time of such
personal vulnerability.  But the situation must be salvaged,
so she follows through like the professional she is, turning
to the best resource at her disposal.

"Mulder, I need you over here, please."

He's by her side in the time it takes for her to rise from
the couch.  "You're sure?"

She whispers back, "There's no other option right now -- so,
yes, go ahead."

They exchange lightning-quick glances and she catches the
flash of regret and compassion in his eyes.  It's a small
comfort, but she's grateful for his empathy and willingness
to pinch-hit.

Mulder sits before the boy, knees parted wide, and Scully
moves to take his place on the sideline of this peculiar,
puzzling tableau.

************
End of Chapter 4


************
Chapter 5
************

Tillman residence
November 4, 2000
10:53 a.m.

Boys thrive on secrecy and Benjie Tillman, Mulder believes,
is no exception to that basic tenet of childhood.

Private, hidden places or forbidden things to which no one
else is privy.  The location of forts and hideouts, secret
knowledge about where to find the coolest agates and fool's
gold and bird's nests.  The best climbing trees and berry
bushes.  Which deep culvert can sustain the farthest
exploration and still seem safe.  Neighborhood windows that
remain open and illuminated, food for a small boy's nascent
fantasies after dark.

Secrets mature with age and intensify by degree, being
shaped by the child's environment, his character, his unique
socialization and genetic inheritance.  At what point in
time and from what type of instigation or trauma, Mulder
wonders, would a truly "bad seed" first manifest itself?

In spite of his probable innocence, this sullen little boy
exhibits too many red flag indicators for Mulder to
comfortably ignore.

Snips and snails and puppy dogs' tails.  It always struck
him as unfair that Mother Goose gave such a bad rep to
little boys, as opposed to a little girl's sugar and spice.
He thinks of his partner, raised Catholic in the home of a
respected naval officer, sandwiched between two rough-and-
tumble brothers, and isn't surprised she's become such a
valuable and scrappy player.

Right now he sees that she's positioned herself to the far
side of the couch by the wall, where she can observe
proceedings and lend a hand if needed.  Dedicated and
resilient -- that's his Scully.  Usurped by cruelly
unforeseen rejection, her expression is rigid and unreadable
to all others; only her eyes, softly hooded and very blue,
betray any sense of injury, which she internalizes as a
matter of course.

That, he'll tend to later.

He focuses again on Benjie Tillman, the subject of their
interview.  What kind of day-to-day home life does this
child lead, considering his unsavory lineage, his
appearance, and his furtive habits?  Pint-sized keeper of
secrets or budding psychopath?  Child of woe or one of wary
self-defense?

The child stands with head still ducked, unaware of his
father's frustrated gnashing and reddened face.  Mulder
motions up to Tillman and requests a chair of any kind, and
quickly.  With something to occupy him, the man will be less
of a hindrance as the interrogation of his son resumes.

His father helping, the boy scoots his small behind up and
into a kitchen chair positioned before the agent.

"Lieutenant," prompts Scully with smooth, but pointed
insinuation before Tillman can reoccupy his station behind
the boy, "I think it's better if you join me over here."

Mulder feels a swell of gratitude for her watchful eye and
the awareness that Tillman's towering presence may
intimidate the child to silence and therefore frustrate the
questioning.  Unsure whether she's asking or ordering, the
Lieutenant pats his son on the arm, then concedes with
reluctance and takes his place next to Scully near the wall.

Meanwhile, Mulder tries a new approach at breaking the ice.
With the slow, mesmerizing movements of a snake charmer he
removes his suit jacket, unbuttons his cuffs, and rolls each
sleeve up a forearm.  He knows, in an instant, that he's
seized the little boy's attention, so continues on with his
unhurried, deliberate clothing adjustments by loosening his
tie, running a finger under his watchband, and then leaning
forward on his thighs, hands held in a loose clasp between
his knees.

"Much better," he chuckles softly, "but I'll do everybody a
favor and keep my shoes on.  Think that's a good idea?"

The joke is lost on the boy, though Tillman makes a small
derisive grunt.

"It's just you and me now, Benjie," Mulder begins.  "I'd
like to talk to you for a little bit."

No response.

"You can call me by my first name, if you want.  It's Fox."
He makes a face.  "Fox is a pretty weird name for a grown
man, huh?"

The boy blinks and gives a half-shrug.  One side of his
mouth moves into a faint curl.

"What I'll do is ask you some questions, okay?  You answer
them as truthfully as you can.  I just want you to know
that, if the questions are too hard or make you
uncomfortable, you can answer by nodding or shaking your
head.  How's that sound?"

The boy pauses and then nods.

"Let's start with some easy stuff.  Like, what's your name?"

Do his ears deceive him?  Startled, he peers at the boy's
tilted face and sees his lips move.  A low, hoarse voice,
one that is common or appropriate to few children, whispers
the name "Benjie Tillman."

"O-kay," encourages Mulder with quiet enthusiasm.  "What
grade are you in this year?"

Another pause and he hears the raspy word, "Kindergarten."

"Tell me what you like best about kindergarten, Benjie."

The boy begins to thaw, his head bobbing higher.  Dangling
sneakers swing and bump gently together as he thinks, while
his hands still nestle deep in his sweatshirt pockets,
burrowing beneath the fabric like two small animals.  "I
draw pictures."  His diction is sharp, despite the unusual
huskiness.  "Mrs. Vanderbeck has Legos.  Sometimes I build
things."

"That's great.  D'you have any pictures here at home that I
could see?"

Benjie shakes his head and his body tightens perceptibly.

"Well, that's too bad," muses Mulder.  "Maybe you can draw
one for me now... how about it?"

Another shake, so Mulder moves on, posing other
straightforward questions intended to disarm the boy and
gain his trust.  He chances a fleeting look toward Scully
and catches the glitter of emotion in her eyes, which she
tries to conceal by angling her head against the curved
swaths of her hair.  Tillman, standing at attention close
beside her, seems pacified enough under the circumstances.

Too bad I'm about to blow it all to hell in a hand basket,
Mulder thinks ruefully.

He has the sensation of being bubbled up together with this
little boy, just the two of them alone on a separate and
intangible plane of existence.  The room and its other
occupants are of no consequence right now.  Looking across
at the chapped reddened face he senses a perplexing depth of
fear, power, and confusion emanating from within the child
and decides to risk a gentle, figurative poke.

"Tell me, Benjie," he says.  "Do you like riding the bus?"

He hears a restive huff from Tillman, but waits patiently
for the child's hesitant reply.  "No."

"Why not?"  When Benjie holds back, Mulder leans toward him
and touches his small knee with a forefinger.  "Don't think
about anybody else right now.  Remember, it's just you and
me.  We're loose and comfortable here, right?"

He pats the jacket next to him and twirls a few fingers
through the gap between his tie's knot and his collar.  As
predicted, the boy's cautious eyes track his movements; the
small hands in the sweatshirt pockets cease their incessant
burrowing.

"So... what don't you like about the bus ride?"

"The kids are mean."

"All?  Or just some?"

Benjie shrugs.

"How does that make you feel?"

"Bad."

"D'you ever feel mad, too?"

"Yeah."

"*Real* mad?"

"Agent Mulder!"  Tillman's warning snaps through the room
like a whiplash and the boy jerks, more a startle reflex
than one that's been honed over time or born of fear.  As
though irked by the interference, he turns his head toward
his father, allowing Mulder to glimpse his secret smoldering
glare.  He seems somehow older than his five years; his eyes
are moist, yet burn with a curious heat that softens and
cools as he turns his countenance back to Mulder.

The agent and the boy weigh one another in the ensuing
silence.

"My guess is you don't really need to ride the bus anyway,
do you?  I bet you get around just fine without it."

"What the hell does that mean?"  Tillman takes a step
forward but is prevented from any real progress by Scully's
shoulder and body, placed quickly and conveniently in his
path.

"I have a feeling you know your way all over this town.  Am
I right?"

The boy considers, blinks, and gives a nod.

"Did you walk to the birthday party, too?"

"Yes."

"*What* party is that?"  Tillman fumes and Scully smothers
his perturbation with a sudden, furious whisper of her own.

Tuning out the sideline scuffle, Mulder continues his
careful questioning of the boy.  "Who invited you?"

"Shawna.  The kids laughed, but she said I could come."

"Did you bring her a present?"

"Yeah."

The previous tension has dissipated and Mulder smiles,
picturing the meticulous preparations of this lonely and
ingenious child.  "Way to go, Benjie!  Whadja bring her?"

"Legos."  His voice lowers to a whisper only Mulder can
hear.  "The new ones Daddy bought for me.  I wrapped them
up."

"You must be a pretty smart kid to know how to wrap a
present.  Even I have trouble with that sometimes.  Bow and
tape and everything?"

The boy manages a shy smirk and nods.

"Where'd you get the wrapping paper?"

"In Jan --" He stops, shooting a look at his father before
amending his answer.  "In Mommy's sewing room."

"So," Mulder says, noting the slip, "you wrapped the
present.  You went to the party.  Then, when it was over,
you walked home.  All alone in the dark?"

"Yes."

"You're not afraid of the dark, are you, Benjie?"

A head shake.

"It's dark early in the morning, too.  Did you get up early
the next morning?  Maybe go outside?"

A shrug.

"Did you walk to the school in the dark?"

"That's enough, Agent Mulder!"  Tillman barks, this time
grabbing Scully by both shoulders and steering her out of
his path.  "You're *way* out of line, here --"

"Did you see anything at the school, Benjie?  In the dark?
By the buses?"

The boy's eyes re-ignite with the same subtle, fiery blaze
as he returns Mulder's stare.

"What did you say at the party to make people so scared?
What was it, Benjie?"

He feels like a babbling idiot, like a loose cannon shooting
off his mouth before his supply of ammo is severed.  A
desperate man, grasping at empty seconds, like handfuls of
dirt that crumble under his fingers and slip away forever.
The interview may halt at any moment with no conceivable
chance to pick up the thread later and this young boy's
future could either bend or break under the weight of
evidence gathered here today.

That reality incites him further.  "When they asked what
special thing you wanted, what did you say?  What did you
want?"

"That's *enough*, I said, Goddamn it!"

"Tillman, let the boy answer!"

To his right, Scully covers her forehead with a pale hand.

"Tell your father, Benjie," says Mulder, half-rising from
the couch in his urgency.  "Tell your father what you told
everybody at the party..."

Striding quickly, Tillman scoops his son from the chair and
carries him to the middle of the room, distancing himself
from the two agents.  Visibly shaken, he stands the boy on
the rug and then kneels before him, grasping the small
shoulders with his two large hands, his face stark and
pleading.  "Champ, you don't have to say anything to him.
You don't have to answer for anything."

Benjie Tillman snuffles, dabs at his eye with chapped
fingers, but remains otherwise solemn and composed.

"Lieutenant, are you at all interested in knowing what he
said and why people are talking?"

"Shut up, Agent!"

"Daddy..."

Both men halt the aggressive posturing, cease their loud
intonations, and stare at the boy as one.  He shrugs and
sticks out his lower lip, wiping again at his eyes.  "I said
'sister'.  'Little sister'."

"What?"  Tillman fastens Benjie with a look of incredulity,
which metamorphoses into horror as his mind struggles to
process the awful inference.  He shakes his head, refusing
to accept the evidence and implication that Mulder's
questions have uncovered.  "Why, son?"

Benjie shrugs and wipes.

"Are you that lonely?  Do you really want a little sister or
brother?"

The boy shakes his head.

"Come on, Benj... help me out here."

Hearing the anguished panic in this man's voice, Mulder
feels a wave of overwhelming pity for him.  So out-of-touch,
clueless about his own child's physical needs and
psychological proclivities.  So torn by his past sins and
present trespasses that he fails to see what fruit has been
ripening under his nose for five long years, what
extraordinary mysteries lie flourishing like poppies under
his own roof.

"I said it," the boy rasps, his voice eerie and raw in the
quiet of the room.  Strangely matter-of-fact, almost
prideful as he confronts his father's bleak bewilderment.
"I scared them, Daddy."

"For the love of God, son -- why?  Why say something like
that?"

The child's large eyes fill and he shakes his head,
reverting just as quickly into a small, confused five-year
old, who has no clue, no comprehension about how anything
this complicated and fearsome could have set up camp around
him.

Mulder grabs for his jacket and slings it with distaste over
his shoulder as he stands and looks at his partner.

"Maybe he's sick of taking the blame for something that's
ultimately not his fault," he mutters for no one's benefit
except his own -- yet loud enough for every adult present to
grasp the abysmal intimation.

************

Memorial Hospital
November 4, 2000
11:39 a.m.

Gwen DiAngelo slumps against the wall in the visitor's
waiting area.  Her lunch break isn't due for another forty
minutes, but she feels driven to stop and connect with
Natalie lest news of the chance encounter this morning with
the FBI agent precedes her.

Nat's assessment is right on target, of course -- the man
*is* handsome in an unusual way, tall and intense with his
hazel eyes and brown hair.  She can see why her neighbor
makes such a drooling fuss over him, but feels a nagging
sense of guilt that she's actually helped to encourage those
thoughts of lust and infidelity.

But that's the way it is when she's with Natalie Warner.
Nat's such a hoot to be around, with her colorful,
outrageous mouth, her designer home and clothes, her gossip,
and the manipulative, off-hand way in which she makes Gwen
feel privileged to be her friend.

It was flattering when she and Tony first moved to Aubrey
last summer, because she'd anticipated a period of lonely
solitude before she made real friends.  Happily, she hadn't
long to wait.  Within days she'd been courted by
grandmotherly Alice Marshall, head of the volunteer program
at Memorial Hospital, who'd introduced Gwen to several other
nice ladies through that organization.

And when the neighbors came to call, first at her door was
Natalie Warner with a luscious tiramisu and compliments
galore on Gwen's make-up and hairstyle.  It wasn't a couples
thing this time, the way it was in so many other places she
and Tony had lived.  Nat seemed genuinely happy for her
friendship alone and welcomed Gwen's presence into her
pampered, oddball existence.

It all boils down to compromise and how far she'll go.
Already she regrets the randy suggestions she made this
morning in order to stay in Natalie's good graces.

Each time she leaves that unsettled house next door, Gwen
finds herself abandoning much of the inappropriate baggage
it requires to remain close friends with Natalie.  It's not
who Gwendolyn DiAngelo really is.  The lewd talk, the
flagrant, irreverent digs at spousal virility or lack of
interest, impatience and discontent over raising a spoiled
brat like Shawna.  These things drop away like scales
whenever she walks back into her own unpretentious yard and
house, when she greets her hardworking husband whom she
loves beyond measure and would never for a moment betray.

She feels shame, as well, about the way the little Tillman
boy was belittled at the birthday party, and wonders how a
grown, adult woman could bring herself to be so outspoken
and critical about an innocent child's heritage.

I've still got the dregs of a conscience, she thinks
ruefully, tapping the phone against her chin.  Thank God and
Tony for that.

As for the FBI agent... after that chance meeting with him and 
his partner in Viola's room and then in the hall
afterward, Gwen knows that Natalie's vacuous hopes are
doomed to failure.  He's an attractive man, but professional
and as poised as any gentleman.  She's seen his wink and
parting comment to Viola, has experienced his firm handshake
and charming demeanor.

And walking undetected down the hall a few minutes after,
she noticed him standing with his female partner near the
nurses' station.  She watched how his palm hovered, grazed,
and then rested against the curve of her lower back while
they spoke together in whispers.  When he leaned over her
shoulder to look at something she held, his tender glance
and the secret, possessive smile he gave the pretty red-
haired woman was a dead giveaway.  At least it seemed so to
Gwen.

Rings notwithstanding, if she's ever seen a *couple* from
afar, they are definitely one.

Sucking in air, she dials Natalie's number and steels
herself for the pick-up.

************

Tillman residence
November 4, 2000
11:45 a.m.

After the Corolla peels away from the curb in front of his
house, after he hastily zips up his son's winter jacket and
sends him out to play in the yard, Brian Tillman takes the
steps to the second floor in leaps of two at a time.

He's livid from betrayal and shame, had felt like a raging
fool in front of the two agents.  Brian Tillman, a laughing-
stock, caught with his pants down and his household in
disarray.  The indignity of the last hour and the secrets
revealed during Mulder's interview with Benjie would be moot
and incidental if Janine had only held up her end of the
parenting deal.  If she'd felt up to the challenge this
morning and not left him holding the bag alone.

Benjie's skin.  His wandering.  The birthday party.  God, a
fucking party at the Warner's, of all places...

He feels scorching anger flare into blame, and like a hot
potato, needs to toss it away quickly, at someone.  At
Janine.

She's no longer lumped under the covers of their bed the way
she was when he slipped downstairs to prepare Saturday
breakfast earlier.  Instead, her perfume hangs thick as
bacon grease in the air of their bedroom.  Framed within the
doorway, he stands with chest heaving and mouth agape, his
eyes darting from made-up bed to packed suitcase to the open
door of the master bath where his wife finishes a quiet,
modified toilette.

"I'm going to my sister's for a few days, in case you're at
all interested," she says, fastening an earring in front of
the mirror.

Only her puffy, reddened eyes hint at any degree of former
distress or residual signs of substance abuse.  Her
movements are quick and precise, her tone almost lilting as
she snaps shut the lid of a cosmetic case and sets it next
to the other piece of luggage on the floor.

She's made up her face and dressed smartly, as though for
work, in slacks and an embroidered wool sweater.  Watching
her fasten a gold chain behind her neck, he feels a certain
panicked outrage at the audacious selfishness of her timing.

"What the hell --" His hands grip the jamb like twin vises.
"I need you *here*!  I have responsibilities to this town.
I've got a murder investigation underway, Janine, and an
important job I just can't abandon --"

"Well, don't we all," she throws back, her voice taunting.
"Brian, my mornings are busy.  I *won't* be pinned to this
house because you feel your son can't handle kindergarten
right now."

*Our* son, *our* son, he wants to emphasize, but can't bring
himself to say the words aloud.  "Goddamn it, it's to
protect him!  Don't forget that!"

"Then, it looks like you'll have to find someone else to
watch him while you're at the station investigating, won't
you?"

"And you'd better be prepared to speak with the FBI, too,"
he snarls back.  "They'll want answers to some important
questions."

"Such as?"

"Such as, where you were when Benjie was walking himself to
and from a birthday party in the dark a few nights ago.  Did
you even *know* about that?"

"Will wonders never cease?  So that's why my wrapping
supplies were stuffed back into a heap.  I thought maybe
something celebratory was going on down at the station and
you were in too much of a hurry -- "

"Janine!"

Her eyes connect with his in the shiny reflective surface of
the mirror.  "No, I was unaware that Benjamin actually had a
scheduled affair to attend.  He told me nothing.  What
else?"

"The fact that he doesn't get adequate supervision at home."

She shrugs and dabs at the lipstick near a corner of her
mouth.  "He's antsy and very much Daddy's little boy.  And
sometimes he makes me uncomfortable, to tell you the truth.
I can't keep my eyes on him every minute."

"I see you manage to find your way to the liquor cabinet
just fine."

Her movements freeze for a moment before she gives herself a
final once-over in the glass and straightens up.

He almost gnashes his teeth at her cool indifference.

"His skin, Janine -- you haven't been taking care of it.  My
God, I got my first really good look at it today and
couldn't believe how bad --" Breaking off, his throat
constricts and he knows his eyes glisten with tears of
empathy and disillusionment.  "The boy's in pain.  They
could call that parental neglect and child abuse -- and do a
whole separate investigation on that alone."

"If it comes to that, then you'll know where to find me."
The look in her eyes, deep and chilling, paired with her
light-hearted tone catches him off-guard.  "Remember... we
didn't get to where we are now on *my* one tank of gas.
Remember that, Brian."

Stunned, he backs into the hall when she lifts the two cases
with ease and heads for the bedroom door.  "Garbage goes out
on Tuesday morning," she tosses over her shoulder at the
head of the stairs.  "Don't forget."

"You're making a big mistake by walking out that door!"

Her step slows momentarily.  "Oh, I'll be back," she assures
him, and a second later continues on her way down to the
first floor and a separate agenda.

************

Aubrey, MO
November 4, 2000
12:00 noon

"Just *what* were you doing back there, Mulder?  If you were
going after Tillman's goat, then you did a bang-up job of
alienating him and putting our investigation in jeopardy.
And if you were trying to help Benjie get in touch with his
feelings and 'inner child' in a very public, very
compromising session, then I'd have to say you were right on
the mark."

"Mad at me?"  His words and their tone hover at opposite
ends of the spectrum; he speaks in a colorless monotone.

He's at the wheel, splitting sunflower seeds with a
vengeance, venting.  The car screeches to a halt at each
stop sign, then revs forward with a lurch that makes
Scully's head wobble and her hair feather over her cheeks.
Soon, she prays, they'll be clear of residential areas with
stops or lights at every corner and jet onto an unencumbered
highway that skirts town.

"That's irrelevant.  What matters is that you betrayed that
little boy's confidence with impunity and without
permission."

"It was necessary.  You could label it a betrayal, but I
don't.  Somehow, in some way, I touched that kid, Scully.
He responded."

"As did his father --"

"-- who needs to get his shit together where his son is
concerned."

"That's putting it compassionately," she murmurs, the
sarcasm in her voice thickened from the emotional swelling
in her throat and another snap of her head as he jams on the
brake yet again.

"That's the only fucking way I know *how* to put it when I
see crap like that."  He whacks the dashboard with his fist
and guns the engine.  "Goddamn it --"

Yes, she understands, having been witness to the same sad
tragedy.  Her initial and crushing disappointment at the
beginning of the interview has taken a back seat to what
unfolded before her during Mulder's questioning.  Eyes
stony, she turns her head toward the passenger window,
knowing that for the present he's too tightly wound, too
violated and outraged in spirit to accept even a small pat
or squeeze of concurrence from her.

"Where are we going now?"

"We should make a visit to Linda Thibodeaux's home in
Edmond, see what her connection is to Viola Rains.  Then
maybe take a run back down to the Aubrey police station.  It
might be awkward for Tillman, if he's there, but I'm willing
to bet that Joe Darnell and others can bring us up to speed
and maybe shed some new light on this case.  Then, we should
--"

"Edmond's over the Missouri state line, in Nebraska," she
observes.  "That's a lot of dashing around for one
afternoon, though I suppose you'll undoubtedly feel better
after running us both ragged and giving me whiplash."
Sighing, she looks over to where his hands strangle the
wheel.  "You know, Mulder, I once read that a dragonfly's
entire lifespan is only twenty-four hours long."

He chuffs.  "Talk about one-night stands..."

"It's a documented fact.  You, by way of contrast, have
unlimited time and resources at your disposal, without the
driving necessity to cram everything into one twelve-hour
day in order to expend your pent-up feelings of anger and
frustration.  Especially since you may be up for part of the
night as well."

She feels his inquiring glance graze her face and
reciprocates with an arch in her brow.

"So, getting back to the subject of today's itinerary, where
to after the station?"

"Back to the motel.  I want to talk this case through, to
get some perspective.  We're on a roll here, Scully, and I
need you to brainstorm with me."

"All right.  But, since breakfast was just a caffeine
afterthought, is lunch to be a consideration anytime soon?"

"Do buffalo shit on the prairie?"

His spirits are obviously lifting.  She tilts her head
toward him, noticing his still-loosened tie knot lobbing
against the front of his shirt, and without thinking reaches
out to fondle it in reminder.  "No, Mulder... not for close
to one hundred years.  Not unless you know of a small,
protected private herd in these parts."

"Details..." His thigh pressing the steering wheel, he uses
both hands to yank his tie back into alignment, then
captures her left hand with his groping right.  The warm
contact of his skin, his stroking fingers, is patently
reassuring; her heart feels comforted after the awful
tension that immersed them at the Tillman home.

"You know," he muses, "in retrospect... maybe I could've
gained a few extra minutes with Benjie if I'd gone the whole
hog and taken off the shoes, too.  You think?"

She presses her lips into a coy smile.  "The shoes come off
later.  For me."

************
End of Chapter 5


************
Chapter 6
************

Aubrey, MO
November 4, 2000
1:30 p.m.

After a comfort lunch following the Tillman interview,
Mulder urges that they hit the road for Edmond, Nebraska.

"Call first," Scully insists, calculating from memory the
distance to Linda Thibodeaux's house.  Bleak miles of
frozen, empty fields, tufted here and there by stands of
leafless trees.  An occasional community, a house or two,
farms, rivers, then rolling, open land again as far as the
eye can see.

Mulder makes the call, gets an answering machine, and hangs
up.  "The hospital," he says, winking at Scully in triumph
as he punches the numbers.  Conversation is abrupt, but
decisive; he steers the Corolla onto the highway and heads
northwest.

"Are you going to make me guess?"

He grins.  "They told me Mrs. Thibodeaux spent most of the
morning with Viola Rains, then indicated she was on her way
home.  I wager our reunion visit isn't long in coming."

"We'll see."

A familiar landmark on the edge of town is the decrepit
Motel Black, still in business, though now a much darker,
shabbier version of its former nefarious glory.

"Wonder if they change the sheets between customers," Mulder
quips.  The Motel Black was the place where it all began six
years before: Lieutenant Brian Tillman ran late for a
rendezvous with his pregnant lover, Detective B.J. Morrow,
and bizarre visions assailed her in the darkness.  She was
drawn to the field beside the motel, kneeling and digging
with her hands until Agent Sam Chaney's long-missing bones
came inexplicably to light.

Today, the same field stretches away cold and undisturbed
toward the metal legs of electrical transformers.

"Well, I have no real complaints about the Conestoga,"
returns Scully.  "I think it's better than the place we
stayed in the first time around."

"In my opinion, anywhere's better, now that our personal
dynamics have... well, melded."  He draws out the 'm' sound
and enunciates each syllable, quirking a lascivious eyebrow.

She graces the passing countryside with a non-committal
smile.  "You mean, now that we've thrown caution to the wind
and actually have sex, Mulder?  Pleasuring one another in a
variety of pretty satisfying ways?  Is *that* what you mean
by 'melded'?"

"Ah... yeah, that about nails it."  His expression hovers
between injured and amused.  "*Pretty satisfying* is the
best descriptive you can come up with?"

"Mmm, 'Exceptional', then."

"Better..."

Linda Thibodeaux is a no-show, though she's acquired a
bristly beast of a guard dog since the last time they
visited in 1994.  Mulder beats a hasty retreat out the gate
and back to the car, the animal rounding the house in
pursuit and then snarling at them through the fence.  They
wait a long, unfulfilled hour and a half at the end of her
driveway before heading back to Aubrey.

There's little more to be gleaned so late on a Saturday at
the Aubrey Police station other than the renewal of a few
old acquaintances.  The station house has been refurbished
in the intervening years.  Tillman is nowhere in sight, but
Joe Darnell, now a detective of standing among his fellow
officers and a valued assistant, greets them warmly and
introduces them around.

"Been some changes, mostly for the better," Darnell admits,
giving each agent another firm handshake on the way out,
"but it's sure good to have both of you back.  The Kansas
City field office would have been more than happy to
dispatch a few agents, but the Lieutenant insisted on
calling you two instead.  He appreciates your cooperation
more than you realize."

"I'll have to take your word on that," says Mulder.  "Let us
know if anything new surfaces."

Since parking is tight around the Conestoga, he drops Scully
off before rounding the lot.  Maid service, she notes
appreciatively, has visited both their rooms with clean
bedding and towels.  Peeking through the connecting door at
Mulder's neatened bedspread, she sees the phone light
blinking near his bed like a beacon.

He unlocks his door a minute later, stripping off his coat
and loosening his tie as he enters.  "Message for you," she
says, nodding toward the phone, then retreats to use her
bathroom and freshen up.  By the time she reappears in the
doorway, Mulder's hung up the phone.  Sitting on the edge of
his bed, he sports a pleased, though bemused expression.

"What is it?"

"Call it a stroke of luck, forwarded from D.C.  Shamrock
Women's Prison wants me to talk to B.J. ASAP."

She frowns.  "That's strange.  Would it have anything to do
with Tillman's contact a few days ago?"

"No, I think it's something more involved than that.  Just a
feeling," he adds.  "I told them where I was and that I'd
head over first thing tomorrow morning."

"Fortuitous for them."  She sits down near him and crosses
her legs, acutely conscious that the invitation was
exclusively Mulder's.  "I suppose I could follow up on a few
contacts here on my own.  We need to speak with Natalie
Warner, whose daughter allegedly invited Benjie to the
birthday party.  And maybe I can catch Linda Thibodeaux
unawares at the hospital."

"You don't need to knock yourself out in my absence.  Here's
your chance to be a secret slug, Scully.  Saw a few extra
logs.  Grab a late brunch from across the street."

"I can plan my own day, thank you."

"Just wanna be sure you'll be okay while I'm --"

She stares at him, eyes widening in shocked comprehension.
"Oh, for God's sake," she hisses under her breath.  Rankled
to the core, she jerks upright, but feels his lightning hand
snag her wrist.

"Stay," he says in a firmer tone, holding on until she sits
again with stubborn reluctance.  He shifts closer, their
thighs nearly touching, his hand claiming hers.  "And drop
the damn defensive posturing.  Remember our conversation the
morning we flew out here... and what's been riding you
ragged since Thursday.  Trust me... at any other time I
wouldn't dream of monitoring your involvement; it's enough
that we watch each other's back.  Scully, you know that."

"I..." She looks away, jaw tense and squared.  "I know
that."  Shame colors her cheeks at the blatant reference to
her personal foible and it's conjunction with the case;
Mulder's argument is reasonably worded despite its sting.
"You're right.  At any rate, I can probably avoid charging
another rental by calling Joe Darnell down at the station
tomorrow morning.  Someone should be willing to give me a
lift around town."

"I don't doubt it."

They sit together on his bed in prickly silence, hands
clasped, until the smallest shreds of offense stirred up
between them settle like dust motes in sunlight.  Closing
her eyes, she regrets her vehement reaction to logical,
thoughtful concern from a partner and friend, in the field,
and under unusual circumstances.  During the day her demons
hide so well, giving her a false sense of confidence, only
to reappear as night approaches.

It should pass soon.  God, it better, she prays.

She feels a squeeze on her hand, glances at him, and
realizes with some chagrin that he's been watching her face
the whole time.  "What?"

"Nothing."

"Well, we need to get to work before it gets any later," she
states with a mixture of renewed vigor and healthy denial.
"The brainstorming you wanted to do, remember?"

He has that tender look in his eyes, as though he wants to
kiss her, but the last thing she needs right now is to feel
placated.  To deter such a move, she puts distance between
them and re-crosses her legs.  Mulder smirks and settles
back toward the head of his bed, one long leg bent, the
other draped to the carpet.

"Okay, then, let's get it on... I want impressions, Scully.
Impressions of Benjie Tillman from the interview this
morning and the physical traits that could connect him to
this crime."

"Such as his voice?  Viola heard a raspy voice, similar to
what happened in '94."

"Exactly.  Very unusual in a 5-year old.  It reminded me of
that little blonde kid in the movie 'Kindergarten Cop' whose
father was the drug dealer perp.  The Schwartenegger flick,
where he goes undercover as a teacher --?"

She shrugs.  "A guy movie in disguise.  Must've missed it."

"Every time the kid spoke his lines it made me want to clear
my throat.  Low and gritty, phlegmy, harsh... like Bengie's.
What medical reasons could account for that?"

Scully considers a moment.  "A pediatric otolaryngologist
would be the one to give the most accurate conjecture, but I
would tend to agree it isn't natural to a child his age or
attributable to a motor speech disorder."

"Go on."

"Generally, laryngeal abnormalities are caused by simple
vocal abuse -- shouting, coughing, excessive chatter,
forcing the vocal cords into making sounds they're not meant
to for a prolonged period.  Over time, the vocal folds
become inflamed, eventually causing a form of chronic
laryngitis or worse."

Mulder yanks off his tie, undoes his collar button, and
searches his suit pocket for seeds.  "I wouldn't call Benjie
Tillman the loudest kid on the planet, would you?"

"Not even close... but consider this: volume isn't always
the culprit.  Maybe he was never permitted to be loud at
home.  When children speak at inappropriate pitches, most
often the very *low* ones tax the vocal cords just as
harshly."

"Is it reversible?"

"Usually, but it takes work.  A patient speech therapist can
help the child to identify and thus, over time, eliminate or
modify the destructive vocal behaviors."

He cracks and munches several seeds before replying.  "So...
Benjie being a shy, quiet kid... what type of environment
would encourage such inappropriate lower pitches, if that's
the cause?  Tillman's a busy man in the public eye who's
spent the last six years extricating himself from a sticky
mess -- and Benjie is the direct result.  His wife, he
claims, has had a rough time dealing with the whole thing."

"She, who couldn't join us this morning," points out Scully.
"I would assume she's the primary caregiver when Tillman
isn't around.  The mother by default.  We just don't know
those details yet."

Remembering Benjie's red-scoured skin and his obvious
discomfort, his cowed demeanor and weepy eyes, she feels a
slow burn of anger for a woman who would be so negligent in
her responsibility for a child, however suspect his origins
and unwanted his presence in her life.

"Could she be doing something to aggravate the condition?"
Mulder wonders aloud.

"I don't think so.  That would suggest MSBP --"

"Munchausen Syndrome By Proxy," he says, nodding for her to
elaborate.

"Yes, when a mother deliberately and repeatedly injures or
sickens her child in order to gain a continuous stream of
comfort and attention for herself.  That's not happening
here, Mulder.  Quite the opposite, in fact, in light of her
desire to be left alone.  This looks more like an outright
case of child neglect."

"And more appropriate for the Department of Social Services,
than the FBI," he finishes.

She rubs the tension lines from her forehead, in her mind
picturing the boy's eyes: large, heavily-lashed, so watery
he dabbed at them from time to time.  For some reason this
image disturbs her more than his neglected skin.  Emotions
bottled up as though with a cork, yet leaking under stress
despite inordinate self-control for one so young.  Like a
pressure cooker ready to burst --

"Mulder, speaking of movies..."

"Uh-uh.  'Steel Magnolias' is a monumental see-once, in my
book."

"No, just a minute...  When I was a little girl, I remember
joining my father in the midst of an old, black and white
WWII movie he was watching.  Some of it took place overseas,
maybe France or Italy, and involved a U.S. military couple
who ended up adopting a war orphan, a little girl."

"And they all lived happily ever after?"

"Only after an unusual catharsis in the middle of the film.
They'd almost decided against adoption, because the girl had
a strange, obsessive habit no one could account for: she
kept dabbing at her eyes.  The cathartic moment came when
the couple urged her to tell them what caused it.  And she
began to sniffle very softly --"

The vividness and raw emotion of the scene revisited makes
her pause and swallow.  Mulder leans forward from his
pillow, but she waves him back.

"Anyway, the girl started crying in stages... whimpering,
which turned to noisier weeping and then to outright, open-
mouthed sobbing.  Apparently she felt she was in a place
safe enough -- and with people understanding enough -- in
order to vent her true grief.  The terrors of war, the loss
of her family, the fear of abandonment all came pouring out
after being denied for so long."

"Denied because of the overwhelming fear of even more brutal
and continued rejection if she dared to show what lurked
within... Shit, Scully --"

"Hmmm?"

He springs from the bed and begins a slow meander in front
of her, hands thrust into his pockets.  "Your old black and
white classic just might have uncovered the key that can
make sense of some of the strange behaviors we observed
today."

************

Their brainstorming accelerates into hours, running the
restricted gamut of environmental factors that could create
or nurture psychopathic tendencies in children.

Mulder points out that well over half of all known
psychopathic individuals have lost a parent in childhood or
have been adopted.  "That in itself provides a breeding-
ground for tremendous family dysfunction," he muses.  "You
get single parent homes, re-marriage and/or subsequent
divorce, estrangement, rejection, latch-key situations,
possible negligence, not to mention the emotional trauma of
losing the original parent or parents."

"Is Benjie even aware that Janine Tillman isn't his
biological mother?"

"That's something we should find out.  But the fact remains
that he came innocently enough into a home situation that
had all the potential for instability and damage."

"True.  A love child separated from his mother, salvaged to
be raised by his father and the father's already resentful
wife.  Which brings up another important factor --
deprivation of love.  Emotionally detached or absent
parents."

"I see Tillman as often absent, but he seems plenty invested
and protective," says Mulder, remembering the man's remarks
in the restaurant and how he hovered hawk-like throughout
the interview, even squelching it when it felt the questions
to be inappropriate for Benjie.  "I think he really loves
his son."

"Commonly, it's the absentee father who's detached, but
suppose in Benjie's particular situation it's the mother?"

"The classic evil step-mother?"

"Mulder, I'm serious.  It stands to reason that Janine
Tillman, if she *is* the caregiver, would have complete
power and control over what that child hears, does, and how
he behaves and reacts all through his pre-school formative
years.  On a daily basis and behind closed doors.  A child
often doesn't make his real neighborhood debut into the
public until starting school."

"Okay," he says, ticking off on one finger, "the neglected
skin.  Then, the voice disorder, possibly aggravated over
time from inordinate amounts of stress on a young kid forced
into a painful, restrictive situation."

He glances at his partner, who sits at solemn attention.

A second finger, then a third.  "The eye-wiping.  The
whipped puppy appearance.  Like the girl in your movie, he
has no choice but to endure in silence -- or face rejection
and/or recrimination too overwhelming for his young psyche
to handle. That could also account for his wandering off."

Scully stands and stretches slightly forward, hands at her
lower back, then walks to the window.  When she pulls the
curtain aside, he sees darkness outside; the Grill's dinner
crowd noise, drifting over from the opposite side of the
building, has already begun to thin.  Neon lights flicker,
casting a multi-colored glow over her face and hair,
accentuating the weariness in her eyes.

"That's summation enough for me," she murmurs, letting the
curtain drop back into place.  "It's getting late and I'm
losing steam."

"Something we still haven't fully explored yet, Scully, is
Benjie's own genetic inheritance from B.J.... that came
ultimately from Harry Cokely.  Remember, someone warped
stabbed that woman and said those same words."

Her sigh sounds heavy with discouragement.

"I suspect," he continues, "that Benjie knows or feels
something he can't talk about without fearing rejection and
ostracism.  Or can't express it without releasing a fiend in
the process.  Maybe he saw something too horrifying to
relate.  If that's the case, the kid may be up the creek
without a paddle."

"Then we need to find one for him...or do the paddling
ourselves," she says, rubbing her eyes.  "However, I can't
even go there now -- everything we've already covered has
depressed me enough for one day."

"So we bag it.  Hey... it's Miller time."

That gets him a grudging laugh and another stretch.
Watching her fluid movements, his former tenderness revives
and his body wakes to the inimitable sensations evoked by
her nearness.  Love, protectiveness, desire.  He moves
closer, hoping to convey his thoughts.  "C'mere," he urges.
"I think *I* need a hug right about now."

Scully responds with willing affection, arms wrapped around
his sides, hands pressed flat against his back.  His
answering embrace swallows her.  They share a long, tight
hug of support, a slow rock from side to side that drives
away some of the unpleasant ambiance created during their
hours of discussing unsavory aspects of the case.

Hungry for her fragrance, he plows through her hair with his
nose, eyes closed, breathing her in.  "D'you want any
dinner?"

"No... What I really want is to put it all from my mind.
Give it a rest."  Her forehead rubs against his shirt, skims
his chin.  "I need to forget *everything* for awhile."

"We could work up an appetite," he suggests in an off-hand
way.  "Explore our options.  See if you've really got the
touch."

She lifts her face to him, smiling, and his response is
immediate; he seals her lips with his, wide and soft and
searching in a deep and languid exploration of mouths that
leaves them both gasping for air.

"Time to lose the shoes," she says in breathy huffs, drawing
slowly back from his embrace to toe off her own clunky heels
and peel away the dark knee-highs.

He follows suit, shucking jacket and tie, shoes and socks.
His body thrums with anticipation.

Her hands never fail to tantalize him, sifting along his
sides on a seductive journey down to the front of his pants
where he hardens almost instantly under her curving palms
and talented fingers.  "You," she maintains softly, "have
been more than patient under the circumstances.  As for my
touch, you already know how --"

From her room, the phone rings, loud and insistent in the
stillness.

"Oh, fuck..." she mutters.

"Hold that thought," he encourages her, feeling bereft and
suddenly weary as she disappears through the adjoining door.
He can hear her portion of a subdued conversation, sees her
mouth "Tillman" and hold up an index finger in apology
toward him while pacing back and forth over the carpet.

"Try an antihistamine lotion, like Benadryl.  It's available
at any supermarket and should give him some relief from the
itching.  Or a hydrocortisone-based cream.  You won't be
able to get anything greater than one-percent steroid over
the counter.  No, it's just a very mild steroid preparation,
perfectly safe..."

Scully's ambling takes her in and out of his line of vision,
and he sinks onto the armchair, yawning with lassitude while
he waits.  Through heavy eyelids he sees her run a hand
through her hair, fanning its redness through her fingers.
The cord stretches tight, then relaxes when she pivots, back
and forth, making him dizzy.

"... a lukewarm bath, minimal soap.  Nothing that would
potentially irritate, like a brand that's heavily-scented.
Keep his skin as moist as you can.  Yes.  But be careful he
isn't too warm, because..."

Closing his eyes to her drone, he melts back into the
cushions.  His dick still throbs in his pants, aches for her
touch.  He cups his crotch gently, circling with his thumb
and encouraging the heavy tingle in his balls.  Ummm,
yeah... a few firm strokes up the shaft and around the
underside keep it revived.  The contours feel warm and
familiar in his palm, comforting to hold and tease with a
lazy thumb and forefinger while he waits for Scully's
imminent return.

Vaguely he wonders about Tillman's call.  From the
conversation drifting in, it seems her medical expertise is
being tapped.  The kid's skin.  A crying shame, but at least
the jerk's following through by asking for advice.  A dab of
humility goes a long way toward redemption... maybe.  But,
fuck, why now?  Lousy timing, Tillman, you thoughtless
bastard...

"Mulder."

He focuses up at Scully standing over him and realizes he's
still clutching his almost flaccid member.  Exhaling, he
releases himself to grab the hand she offers and looks up at
her imploringly.  "Tell me I don't need to be embarrassed."

"Never," she murmurs.  "Sorry that took so long."

Sitting upright, he notices she's dimmed the lights.  Her
jacket is gone and the white shirt hangs un-tucked and
unbuttoned; her lace-covered breasts quiver before his face
and he leans against them in sleepy satisfaction, rubbing
his nose between their softness, dragging his lips over a
filmy, taut nipple.  His erection returns, stiff and
throbbing.

"God, Scully... I need you... need this."

"I made you a promise this morning."  Like an undersea echo,
her voice is muted, tender and husky through the cushions of
her breasts.  The embrace tightens and her hot breath sweeps
his ear, lips caressing its whorls.  "So, come on, cowboy.
Let's see how well you can ride."

"I prefer bareback ridin', ma'am," he drawls, lurching
forward to his feet.

They gaze at one another, lips parted in mutual arousal,
shedding shirts in the soft lamplight.  His pulse quickens
at the sight her naked arms and shoulders, the mesmerizing
hollows of throat and collarbone, the sway and shadowed
slope of breasts reserved for him alone.  He swims in a
primal, testosterone-infused sea and hopes to drown in it
tonight.

Towering over her, he pulls her to himself, feels how slight
and plush and sexy she is against the hungry angles of his
body.  Her hair a silken scarf over his nose, her velvety
neck under his lips, tempting him lower.  Her slacks fall
between them, releasing like incense the rich, intimate
fragrance of the Scully he craves.  His narcotic of choice,
that deep cleft into which he loves to burrow, to lose
himself...

He feels her hands fumble low, tugging his clothing until
his ass and legs lay bare and exposed to the cooler air of
the room.  Kick the damn pants away...  God, the warm clutch
of her fingers around his bobbing flesh, pumping and
squeezing with knowledge and urgency.  He almost staggers
now, loving how well she reads him -- his rapacity and need,
the immediacy of his appetite.

He peers down past the ruffled waves of her hair to glimpse
sweeping lashes, flushed cheeks, and lips that plump with
longing for him.  Not now, not this time...  Her nipples are
crushed strawberries against the white lace of her bra; to
forestall her crouch he dips low and sucks one hard through
fabric, toying it with his tongue until she moans.  He skims
the panties down her legs and off one foot, sinking several
fingers deep into her vagina, amazed as always at her inner
heat and the wet suppleness he finds.

"How?"  He rumbles, already knowing what he wants.

"You choose."

His hands grip her smooth bottom-cheeks.  Lifting her up, he
spreads her before him, using brute strength and the wide
back edge of the chair to support her weight.  Her feet and
heels arch, anchored around the muscles of his braced legs.
With a squeeze to her hips and a groan he slides into the
slick sheath between her thighs, belly-to-belly now,
shuddering at the incredible tightness that envelopes him
once again.

"Love you..."

"Me, too --" She breaks off, rendered breathless by his
first piston-like thrusts and makes a soft sound,
reminiscent of a sob, arms clutching his neck and shoulders.

"Okay?"

"Oh, God, yes..."

Trusting the veracity of her words, he pounds with abandon,
coming quickly in a paroxysm of blinding, knee-buckling
pleasure.

************

Her turn comes soon after, but not before she's had time to
lie in his arms and ponder the unthinkable.

This case and the child preys on her mind.  Dangerous
thoughts at this time of year, especially after sex.  Mulder
stretches like a spent lion beside her, potent and virile in
his masculinity.  She, the empty, barren vessel tucked close
under his arm...

Ever the survivor, she'd picked up the damaged pieces of her
life after her abduction and continued on with her work,
hers and Mulder's.  For years she's given the best, truest
part of herself to her chosen path within the FBI --
pathology, the autopsy bay, and in the field at Mulder's
side, dealing alone and by stealth with the aftermath of her
sterility and all its implications...

Yet, the knowledge haunts her that somewhere, at a
prescribed past moment in time, a stranger's latex-gloved
hand had dipped a pipette into the vial containing the
stolen diamonds that were her ova.  At some point after
conception -- and she refuses to even consider the
questionable medium for paternity involved -- the embryo
that was to become her daughter Emily was implanted into the
womb of an aged, invalid host.

How long was gestation?  Weeks?  Months?  How many more of
her precious eggs have been used, altered, exploited,
scattered like common roe for the taking?

Dangerous thoughts to ponder.  Blame it on emotional flux,
the case, this same unendurable time of year --

Suddenly, Mulder's hand cradles her cheek, pulling her face
toward his on the pillow.  "You were awfully accommodating,"
he whispers into her ear, nipping its narrow edge, crouching
leonine over her.  "Sorry for being such a cave man."

"'S okay.  I owed you."

"You owe me nothing, Scully.  I made that clear years ago."

His words evoke memories... after the cornfields and bee
domes, after the review board broke them apart... teetering
outside his apartment between fuzzy separation and a dark
conspiracy... his anguished plea to preserve their
partnership, and now --

"This..." Her fingers brush over the wiry hair on his chest.
"This is different.  New game, new rules..." Sighing, she
knows her words sound cliched and inane in the warm heady
space they inhabit on the bed.

"No, no games."  His eyes so close, commanding her gaze, he
the only one alive who knows her best.  "Just reality.  The
truth."

"Which is...?"

"That we love one other, no matter what."

Her eyes fill to overflowing, his face rippling in gray-
green myopic waves until she blinks.  As usual she hates
waffling under her own damnable insecurities and for having
doubted the motivations that dwell in this man's heart.  He
kisses her with lips knowing and tender, and in classic
Eskimo-fashion rubs his nose the length of hers and back
again.

"No matter what," he repeats, and the next kiss is deeper
and longer, tasting of tears.

Finally unhooking the lace bra, he draws its damp web from
her body and tosses it away.  With gentle thumbs he wipes
the incriminating wetness from beneath her eyes and
breathes, "Only good thoughts now... promise?"

Beneath the caress of his mouth and the pressure of his
fingertips there's no room for a little girl's long-ago
misery, no room for a would-be mother's helpless violation
and loss.  Just the repetitive, melting rhythm of lips and
tongue, the swirl of his smooth, buttery fingers and the
stunning spread and blossom of pleasure that drives her ever
higher toward a white-hot light.

A blessed light and surety of love that fills her heart and
plunges to ignite between her thighs like the sweetest of
all wildfires.

************
End of Chapter 6


************
Chapter 7
************

Conestoga Motel
November 5, 2000
6:24 a.m.

Only within the last few months has morning sex gained
prominence on Scully's list of secret, favorite things.

There's something about Mulder's unabashed winsomeness and
the stale, mingled scent of their bodies at dawn that
satisfies both the romantic and the realist in her.  His
sandpaper jaws scratch, yet his cowlick makes her smile.
His dreamy-eyed attentions in the gentle light of morning
challenge her libido.  He's hungry, adventurous, orally-
fixated, playful, generous, and unconditional in his
affection.

He leaves for Shamrock Women's Prison about ten minutes
after her last orgasm.  Dressed warmly for the outdoors, the
edges of his hair still shower-damp, he leans over the bed
so she can cradle his face for a farewell kiss.

"You taste good," she murmurs, mouthwash flavoring her
tongue, the fragrance of aftershave and clean Mulder sharp
in her nostrils.

"So do you," he counters, and when she feels his hand sneak
beneath the sheet to stroke across the dewy tuft between her
legs, she doesn't disallow his words.  "Sleep in, Scully,
and I'll call you later.  The sign's on the doorknob to warn
the big, bad maids away for while."

How could she have known that this perpetually unorthodox
and often exasperating man would fill such a place in her
life?

************

By seven forty-five, restlessness drives her to the shower.
She's never been able to dally while work waits, despite
Mulder's parting wishes.  When her hair is blown dry she
phones the police station and asks for Detective Darnell, to
request either a lift downtown or use of a squad car.

"Sure thing, Agent Scully," he says, after hearing her
predicament.  "No use padding your expense report any more'n
you have to.  Give me about five minutes, I'll be over; you
can drop me off and the car's yours."

Remembering back six years, she assessed Darnell as being an
earnest, though lackluster individual.  He was, and still
is, Tillman's right-hand man -- dependable, solid, and good
as his word.  He might also be the best source of insight
into the dynamics of the Tillman household.

When he drives up to her room at the Conestoga, she's ready
and waiting outside in a dark pants suit, gloves, and winter
coat.  Sliding into the passenger seat before he can do
anything chivalrous, she smiles and thanks him for his
trouble.  "I appreciate the loaner, Detective.  Nothing new
pertaining to the case?"

"Not so far.  The Lieutenant's kept close to home since
yesterday morning."  He checks his mirrors before pulling
out onto the street, then shoots her a look.  "Must've been
one humdinger of an interview."

"It was... revealing," she confesses, her return glance
wary.  "In light of the shadow of suspicion over Benjie,
Agent Mulder and I felt it was necessary to speak with him
ourselves.  My only regret is that Mrs. Tillman wasn't there
as well."  She pauses.  "Would you have any idea why she
absented herself?"

Darnell chews the inside of his cheek as he drives the few
miles to the police station.  She senses his reticence as he
gauges how much line he can throw out before hanging himself
or betraying his boss's confidentiality.  "You know, that's
a touchy subject, Agent Scully."

"I don't doubt it."

"At the same time, I don't want you to misjudge -- draw the
wrong conclusions about the Lieutenant."

She shifts sideways in the seat and gives Darnell her full
attention.  "Understood, Detective."

With purpose he guides the car into the station parking lot,
selects a space some distance from the building, and shuts
off the ignition.  Noticing her posture, he faces her as
much as the steering wheel permits.

"He -- he never got over her.  B.J., I mean," he begins.
Then, shaking his head in chagrin, he sputters and tenders
an apologetic smirk.  "Nah, that's a pretty lousy way to
start things off."

"So, start over," she says, smiling to ease his tension.
"How long have you known the Tillmans?"

"Well, I was a rookie cop when I came on back in '88 and the
Lieutenant took me under his wing.  He's a real good man to
work with.  The job and law enforcement is pretty much his
life.  He said that Janine understood that when they
married, but," he shrugs, "I guess having a perception and
then really knowing something first-hand are two different
things."

Tell me about it, she thinks, considering the past seven
years to be a thorough baptism into the bizarre.  One
massive, eye-opening learning experience, thanks to her
partner with the nickname of Spooky and the myriad of
monsters, murderers, and conspiracies they've tracked and
uncovered as a team.

She nods with understanding and he resumes his thread.
"Everybody has faults.  And the Lieutenant always had a bit
of a... well, an appreciative eye, if you get my drift.  As
far as I know, he only looked, never touched 'til B.J.  Now,
*that* put stress on the marriage.  Except, his wife had her
own set of problems to deal with."

"Can you elaborate?"

He stalls, sizing her up with a cautious eye, then exhales
with a puff of resignation.  "Depression.  Some kind of bi-
polar thing.  He knew all about it when they married, he
said, but I could tell whenever things got bad.  He'd show
up out of the blue at my apartment to watch late night TV
and just hang out, not saying much.  Like I'm the guy to
hang with, a dull schmuck like me," he adds with a chuckle
of disparagement.

Scully offers a small sympathetic grin.  "What else?"

"Miscarriages.  A couple of 'em, I think, early on.  Maybe
they stopped trying after that, I'm not sure.  But she'd
already been drinking for quite awhile."

The scenario from hell.  She closes her eyes for a moment,
imagining the overwhelming resentment, anger, and bitterness
already rampant in the home when the little love child
christened Benjamin made his first unwelcome appearance.

"As for *where* she might be... he said she went to her
sister's for a breather.  She does that when things get too
intense.  Even if he's left holding the bag, like he is
now."

"Meaning?"

"No one to watch the boy," explains Darnell.  "But he
checked in early this morning to say he's found a sitter and
that he'll be in later today to get caught up."  He gives
the front seat a small pat with his hand and grunts.  "So, I
guess that's about it, Agent Scully.  For now, anyway..."

"Just one more question before you go," she ventures.  "Has
anyone spoken with Mrs. Linda Thibodeaux since Viola was
attacked?"

He gnaws his lips while thinking.  "The Lieutenant's seen
her at the hospital.  I tell you, we're all relieved Viola
scared off her attacker before she was --" He runs a hand
though his hair, shaking his head as if to free himself from
dark memories.  "I -- I won't ever forget the amount of
blood and what was done to those poor women.  And then to
find out the killer was B.J. herself... a fellow cop..."

His shudder brings to Scully's mind the cadre of startling
villains she and Mulder have unveiled and encountered during
their sojourn together, many of them from within the Bureau
itself.  Infamous turncoats with whom they'd at one time
either worked or given their trust.  Bill Patterson from the
ISU, Alex Krycek, within their own small department...

"I know it's a hard thing to stomach." Her voice softens and
she waits, examining his face until he finally makes eye
contact.  "But, I think that if Lieutenant Tillman can
handle the details of this case, considering his former
level of involvement -- so can the rest of us.  Agreed?"

************

She'd have better luck tracking Bigfoot or Elvis, Scully
thinks after a stop at Memorial Hospital yields no trace of
Linda Thibodeaux.  Undeterred, she proceeds toward her next
contact, which is a healthy jog down the street from the
Tillman home in Sterling.  It's an even more daunting trip
for a five-year old child.  She imagines Benjie, birthday
gift under his arm, braving cold weather and dusky shadows
as he scampers up the sidewalk alone, heart pounding.

Her destination is an attractive bi-level home on Laramie
Street with a sloping front lawn and thick, expensive
glasswork around the entrance.  She rings the bell, stepping
back as a woman's figure manifests behind the glass and
pulls the door ajar.

"Natalie Warner?"

The woman screws a face that would be otherwise pleasing
into a frown.  Her blue-gray eyes narrow with suspicion.  On
the thin side, short blonde hair, well-dressed, a good half-
head taller than Scully.  "Yeah, that's me.  If you're here
to solicit, don't bother."

"I'm Special Agent Dana Scully from the FBI."  From inside
her coat lapel, she flashes her badge.  "As you may know,
we're investigating the attack that was made on Viola Rains.
I need some information relating to your daughter's recent
birthday party."

"You gotta be kidding me --" Perplexed, the woman looks past
Scully, tracking the street in both directions and scanning
the individual cars parked along the curb.  Coming up empty,
she unleashes another grimace and hugs herself against the
cold, as though the low temperature is Scully's fault as
well.  "What the hell --"

"Excuse me, is there a problem here?"

"Your partner's AWOL."

"My partner is occupied elsewhere, Mrs. Warner."  Scully
angles her head and arches a brow in slight annoyance.  "May
I please come in for a few minutes?"

Natalie hesitates, as though weighing her options, then
stands aside with an impatient huff.  "Just make it quick,
okay?"

"That will depend entirely upon you."

The house is lovely inside, designer-chic and color-
coordinated, though the smell of stale cigarette permeates
the air.  A shame, Scully thinks, eying the plush opulence
of the furniture in the nearby living room, the thick
carpet, and other appointments.  Her reluctant hostess goes
no further than the entryway, where they stand facing one
another.

"There are rumors, Mrs. Warner, that Benjie Tillman said or
did something at the party which has fueled public
speculation about his alleged involvement in the attack on
Ms. Rains.  Would you happen to know what provoked this
gossip?  And why?"

Scully takes out a small notepad and pen as the woman's arms
cross and her fingers begin tapping a nervous staccato beat.
Natalie Warner is no Joe Darnell; her lips go tight as a
sealed pistachio before she makes her belated reply.

"Is this some kind of official interrogation?  It was a
freakin' *birthday* party, for cryin' out loud!"

"Why was Benjie Tillman the only boy invited?"

"There weren't supposed to *be* any boys.  Shawna, my
daughter, went behind my back at school and told him he
could come."

"Then, I'd like the names and addresses of all the children
who attended, please.  In case we need to speak with them
individually about their observations, you understand."

"Well, screw that," says Natalie, startled into taking a
step backward.  "She took the Goddamn invitations to school
and gave 'em out there.  *I* don't know where the hell all
those kids live."

"The adults who were present?"  Scully's patience is wearing
thin as November ice at the woman's deliberate and
unnecessary lack of cooperation.

Yanking a pack of cigarettes from her sweater pocket,
Natalie shakes one out and jams it brutally between her
lips.  "Me, of course.  Alice Marshall and..." She lights
up, takes a heavy draw, "... my neighbor, Gwen."

"Addresses?"

"They're all right there in the telephone book, Agent...
Scul-ly..." The name drips with condescension.

It's been a long time since she's felt this furious at what
should be a simple recounting of information from a witness.
Right now she'd take inordinate pleasure in backhanding this
bitch of an Aubrey, Missouri housewife right against the
expensive wall mirror behind her.

Instead she pockets her notepad and glowers up at the
woman's stubborn smugness.  "Listen to me.  We can make this
as easy or as difficult as you'd like, Mrs. Warner.  I know
for a fact that the Aubrey police station, at this very
moment, has stacks of telephone books for *your* use, if you
really want to go that route."

Natalie reciprocates with a glare of her own.  "You're
shittin' me, right?"

"Wrong," says Scully evenly, "but feel free to test me."

Natalie squints her eyes and sucks in a lungful of cigarette
smoke.  She holds it for interminable moments before
exhaling in Scully's general direction.

"Have it your way, then."  Pivoting on her heel toward a
shadowed hallway that disappears into the depths of the
house, she raises her voice.  "Shawn-na!  Can you hear me?
Get your little butt out here right *now*!"

************

Shamrock Women's Prison
November 5, 2000
10:45 a.m.

One jail smells no different than another, whether it houses
women or men, Mulder concludes.  Each carries the same
oppressive, institutional stamp, the same dismal air of
hopelessness, confusion, anger, and evil.

Klaus Reinholdt, B.J.'s doctor, is shocked to silence after
Mulder divulges details of the mystery that's replaying
itself in Aubrey.  He agrees that Mulder should be the one
to tell his patient that her recent dreams and visions have
some validity, or -- in Mulder's words -- a basis in truth.
After a short overview of her treatment, sedation, and
paranoia, he's directed to a small conference room where
B.J. Morrow awaits him.

She isn't much the worse for wear, considering what six
years of incarceration, the loss of her child, and three
murders under her belt could do to a person.

Her hair is shorter, accentuating the angularity of her chin
and the slight jut of her thin lower lip.  Glancing down the
pale celery-green prison garb he notices that her ankles
remain shackled together.  Cheap sneakers with velcro
closures.  She clutches the table edge with white-knuckled
hands, eyes glistening up to him through scattered bangs
with the same look, the same intensity he saw the previous
day in Benjie Tillman's gaze.

"Oh, my God, you're finally here..." she gasps, reaching
across the table while he slides his lanky body into the
chair at the other side.  A guard stationed nearby motions
for B.J. to sit further back and she complies.

"It *has* been a long time -- and I wish it was under better
circumstances," he says with a reassuring smile.  "Your
doctor called me yesterday and requested that I come talk to
you."

"I'm so grateful -- Washington is a very long way to come
for a talk, Agent Mulder."

Taking a deep, preparatory breath, he glances at the
hovering guard before diverting his attention to her face.
"Please relax and listen to what I'm about to tell you.  I
just drove over here from Aubrey this morning --"

"Oh, God -- oh, God!"  Her hands jerk as though singed by
fire.  She covers her mouth, her eyes burning into his.
"It's started, hasn't it?  Something's gone wrong..."

"B.J., listen to me.  Now.  Please!"

She stares back, stricken and disoriented before blinking
and swallowing her panic in one large shuddering gulp.  "All
right.  I'm -- I'm okay now, Agent Mulder."

"You sure?  I know you've been under sedation for a few days
before your doctor discontinued the shots, but please try to
comprehend what I'm saying to you."

B.J. nods.

"There was an attack this past week in Aubrey and the woman
*is* recovering.  I believe this attack is somehow, in some
way, related to your case in '94.  Agent Scully and myself,
working with Lieutenant Tillman and the Aubrey police
department, are doing everything we can to find the person
responsible before another incident occurs."

"Brian called you in," she says in toneless wonder.  "No one
else would have made the connection.  Except me, of
course..." Her eyes focus suddenly and seize Mulder's.  "Is
my son safe?  Is he all right?"

"Absolutely.  I spoke with him yesterday."

"Oh, thank God!  I could sense that something was wrong when
I started seeing things again.  Those awful dreams, like
before.  Blood everywhere.  And the word 'sister'..." Her
hand settles over her chest, where she bears the self-
inflicted scars of the same word.  "When did this attack
take place?"

"Early Thursday, the morning of November the second."

"Not the night before?"  Her blue eyes widen in surprise.
"Because that's when it started, the dreams and feelings --
along with the mothering instinct.  I've been beside
myself."

Mulder listens in rapt silence while this tortured woman
shares the events of the past week from her perspective.
The hazy presence that manifested itself on Wednesday
evening, the dreams and feelings from which she seems to
have little respite.  Her fear for her child, as
overwhelming waves of mother-worry inundate her with a force
just as powerful and consuming.  Her ineffectual hunger
strike and the soporific effect of the drugs administered to
curb her suddenly erratic behavior.  Her request to have
Mulder contacted.

"They stopped giving me sedatives yesterday.  After the
doctor called you, I suppose.  So, Agent Mulder... you, who
saw what other people missed so many years ago.  What do you
think is hounding me now?"

He gives a tight smile.  "I'm not sure.  But, I have a
theory."

"What is it?"  Fear saturates her voice.

"Some kind of demon, possibly," he whispers after a few
moments of thought.  "An evil force that's affected your
biological family tree by genetic means, beginning with
Harry Cokely.  It manifested itself in you through genetic
transference only when you became pregnant and then it
appeared to die off when he did.  But we both know that's
not the case."

"No," she answers, lip trembling.  "But who is it now?"

"You're the only child of Raymond Morrow?"

"Yes, there were no other children, just me.  No
philandering."  She blushes at the obvious contradiction
posed by her own experience.  "My parents and I were close,
especially my mother -- I would have known, or suspected, at
the very least."

"So, barring any possibility that Cokely began a second,
concurrent family tree through another source, the
biological lineage is straightforward: Cokely to Raymond
Morrow to you... to your son.  It makes me think that you
and Benjie can be aware of the presence of this 'power'
without it actually gaining control.  In the Christian realm
individuals claim they can be 'oppressed' by a demon without
being actually 'possessed' by it."

"That sounds plausible," B.J. muses.  "Six years ago I must
have been 'possessed' and used like a host or puppet by this
-- force.  But, what I've experienced thhis week *is* more
like an oppression or awareness of the evil without being
manipulated to do its bidding."

"Some legacy old Harry Cokely left behind.  Except it
backfired with you, B.J.  Remember, the visions you had --
and shared with us -- helped to find the bodies of two FBI
agents missing since 1942.  Chaney and Ledbetter, partners
who were murdered by Cokely.  You unearthed their bones with
your own hands, exposing the truth in spite of your
psychosis."

"But the price was so high.  Too high."  Her eyes flicker
and moisten with the pain of regret.  "I mutilated myself.
I terrorized and killed innocent people and thought I was
dreaming.  I would have killed you, too, that night, if
Cokely hadn't died at that very moment and stopped me."

The manner of Cokely's death, at the razor-held hand of his
own biological granddaughter, seems to Mulder like an
equitable recompense for the evil he created and caused to
proliferate.

"In his case, justice was served," he murmurs.

"Agent Mulder, do you think my son is being affected the
same way I am?"

"I think that could be possible, B.J., though I don't know
for certain," he says with gentle honesty.

"Then he's a target!  My God, he's not locked up the way I
am.  He's out there free, a little child, like a sitting
duck --"

Leaning across the table, he seeks to calm and comfort
without getting too close.  He sends an appeasing wave
toward the guard before resting his hand over hers,
pressuring her to silence and self-control with his firm
grasp.  "Lieutenant Tillman is being watchful of him.  Agent
Scully and I both saw him yesterday.  I think the risk is
minimal.  But, we have another, more difficult equation to
consider right now."

Her face threatens to crumble at the inexorable truth, but
she sits straighter in her chair, resolute in her
helplessness.

"I know what you're going to say -- if it's not me... and I
pray it's not my little boy... then, who *is* responsible
for the latest attack?  And, since we're the only biological
descendents alive -- *how* can it be happening?"

************

DiAngelo residence
November 5, 2000
6:35 p.m.

Gwen DiAngelo stands at the stove, reflecting on the
incredibly crappy day she's just had, for a Sunday.

Natalie isn't speaking to her.  Not since she shared over
the phone yesterday about running into the handsome FBI
agent at the hospital, about shaking his hand, and the
biggest flub -- pointing out his obvious affection for his
partner.  Not even this morning, when she called again and
tried to smooth things over.  "No fucking way," Natalie had
fumed.  "What the hell do *you* know, Gwen, huh?  Go screw
yourself with the rest of the losers!"

Then Alice.  Certainly there are others who can take Gwen's
place on the volunteer schedule this coming week, seeing
she's doing Lieutenant Tillman a favor by babysitting his
little boy on such short notice.  Well, it's not exactly a
favor... he's clear that he intends to pay her for her
trouble, something the hours spent at Memorial don't
provide.  Though she knows Alice values her for the rapport
she's developed with the staff and patients, she wasn't
prepared for her cool, clipped tone of disapproval.  But
Alice Marshall is old; old people like the planned, even
keel, not surprises that rock their boats and make them
scramble.

Who else can she possibly piss off this late in the day?

Streetlights shimmer at the curb.  Too bad Tony's been
called out on a Sunday to troubleshoot a company software
problem.  Still, it does give her more time to let the
spaghetti sauce simmer long and slow, the way his little
Italian mother had taught her.  The way he likes it.

And Benjie Tillman's been good as gold, nothing like the
misfit Natalie described at the party.  Thank God for his
long attention span.  Until now he's been content to play
quietly on the living room rug with those Lego building toys
he brought.  Different colored blocks of interlocking
plastic, with little wheels and assemblies for making cars
and trucks, even windshields and white doorframes that
hinge, for houses.  Tiny people, too.  Cute.  She wonders
whether Tony had a set of those when he was a boy...

She stops stirring the sauce to help Benjie on with his
coat, hat, and mittens, so he can play in the yard on the
old rusty swing set the former owners left behind.  Some day
she may have a child of her own who would use it.  Until
then, this chap-faced little boy is welcome as long as it
doesn't get too cold or dark outide.  The Lieutenant should
be around to pick him up within an hour anyway.

"Be careful... and stay in the yard, okay?"  Mute, he nods.
She flicks on the porch light and closes the glass sliding
door to the frigid air, watching him streak into the dusky
grayness toward the narrow sliding board.

Another few minutes of stirring and she lays down the spoon,
strolling into the darkening living room.  Better to have
things neat and ready for both Benjie Tillman's departure
and Tony's return.  She kneels on the rug to scoop the toys
into their box, drawn to examine a few of the more
remarkable, intricate pieces that catch her eye.  Amazing,
what they make for kids these days.  Car grills with little-
bitty headlights.  Miniature fence posts.  Transparent
plastic blocks for --

The blow to the back of her head stuns Gwen, knocks her
helplessly to her side.  Gasping in pain and terror she
tries to scream, but is silenced by yet another vicious,
agonizing strike to the same spot.  She sees nothing but
blackness, can only gurgle through a paralyzing haze of
nausea, fear, and inconceivable pain.

Somewhere, a voice hovers -- harsh and horrible, ebbing wave-
like in and out of her consciousness.  "It's *your* turn to
take the blame now... little sister..."

With a final blow, the blackness claims her.

************
End of Chapter 7


************
Chapter 8
************

Gainesville, Nebraska
November 5, 2000
7:02 p.m.

Nothing's left of the two-story farmhouse except a broken,
blackened skeleton.  An old burn, by the look of it, and
Mulder doesn't give a rat's ass whether the cause was
lightning or arson.  It just seems fitting to find Harry
Cokely's last home and place of decease in a state of
scorched, hellish ruin.

The wind blows bitter from the northwest, whipping his loose
coat like a tarpaulin around his body, rifling his hair down
to the scalp.  Wide, lonely reaches of prairie sprawl in
every direction, crosscut by dirt roads and leafless trees,
rangeland and cold austerity.  Today he's seen enough
rolling, empty miles to last a lifetime, and feels a
peaceful satisfaction when the sky dims to purple-gray and
the horizon line fades.

He's on a roundabout journey to rejoin Scully in Aubrey,
where he can bask in her warmth and feel whole again in her
stabilizing presence.  After a day spent in the dank belly
of a psychiatric prison hospital second-guessing paranormal
powers with an ex-cop-turned-murderess, he finds himself
drawn to the grounding and constancy he knows awaits him
with his partner.

Sniffing the back of his fingers, he can still smell her
musk, a stark reminder of their recent intimacy.  His groin
stirs to the accompanying rumble in his stomach.  Melded.
He likes the sound of that word, as it relates to Scully and
smiles into the wind, recalling her explicit rejoinder
yesterday morning in the car.

A vibrating chirp from his cell phone makes him jump.
Fishing it out of his coat pocket, he shoves it next to his
mouth.  "Mulder."

"It's me," she says, not at all warm or welcoming.  "Mulder,
where are you?"

"Sorry I didn't call.  I'm out here on the lone prairie,
where the coyotes howl and the wind blows free... right next
to what's left of Harry Cokely's former domicile.
Somebody's torched it big time, Scully.  I'm talking frozen
charcoal."

"You need to get back here right away."  Her low, urgent
tone raises his radar.  "There's been a murder."

His curse is smothered by a sudden gust to which he turns
his back.  "Who?"

"Gwen DiAngelo.  Her husband came home about ten minutes ago
and found her.  I'm here with Darnell and the coroner right
now.  17 Laramie Street, Sterling.  Down the road from
Tillman's."

Wincing, he climbs into the car, gut clenched into a knot.
"Where is Tillman?"

"Out looking for Benjie.  Gwen was babysitting him today at
her house, an arrangement they made last night.  When the
husband came home, Benjie was missing."

"Shit!  The MO --?"

"So far, a probable match with '94.  Only the date changes,
Mulder."

************

DiAngelo residence
November 5, 2000
7:49 p.m.

Mulder locates the house not by the address Scully gave him,
but by the blazing, twirling lights of squad car and
electric bulb.  A crowd peppers the lawn and sidewalk
outside, neighbors bundled in coats and hats to whisper and
gawk behind the tight orange tape that keeps them at bay.
It looks like a cold weather street party gone awry and
number 17 is lit up like a jack-o-lantern.

There's no need to flash his badge.  Several officers
recognize him from his Saturday visit out to the station and
wave him in.  The acrid stench of burned food hits him in
the face despite the opened door and night air that chills
the rooms to near outdoor temperatures.

Horrific, he thinks, and unimaginable how someone could
invade the secure haven of a kind woman like Gwen DiAngelo
with intent to murder her while she babysat for a child.
The body's not long removed, but underneath the taped
outline blood remains, quantities of it black and tacky in
the dense pile of the rug.  Mulder stops for a moment to
puzzle over the heap of colored plastic pieces, some
splattered with gore, while others lay strewn across the
carpet like shards of confetti.

He locates Scully in the kitchen, busy supervising the
collection of evidence.  Still wearing her coat and latex
gloves, she bends to confer with Darnell who crouches over
the linoleum.  The detective peers beyond her forefinger at
something on the floor that's caught her eye.

"Got here as quick as I could," Mulder says, his glance
panning from the bustle of officers dusting for prints and
salvaging evidence to the scorched pot of food on the stove
and the open sliding door.  "I'm surprised you didn't go
with the body."

Scully straightens and motions him into a corner of the
living room, out of earshot of the other detectives.

"I gave it a cursory examination before it was bagged; the
MO seems consistent with what happened to the previous
victims, as far as I can tell before an autopsy.
Bludgeoned, slashed, the word 'sister' gashed into her
chest.  It's like turning back the clock six years, Mulder."

"That still doesn't explain why you're here," he persists.

"My prerogative.  With Tillman gone after Benjie, I felt it
more important to stay here and keep an eye on things."  She
lowers her voice and he bends closer to hear, his nose
almost touching her hair.  "Darnell's in charge in Tillman's
absence... but this whole thing has made him a little
squeamish -- the viciousness of the attack and quantity of
blood.  I wanted to stay nearby for the time being."

"It happens to the best of us," he says, impressed by her
unobtrusive tact and sensitivity.

"That's what I told him.  And we just noticed something else
in the kitchen, Mulder.  A blood track.  I hate to say this,
but it looks like a partial of a child's sneaker.  An exit
print."

He curses under his breath and returns her stare, forehead
creasing at the significance of her words.  From the kitchen
they hear the trilling of a cell phone and then Joe
Darnell's shout.  "Agent Scully!  The Lieutenant's found
Benjie back at their house.  Pretty shaken up, but he seems
all right."

"I'll go," says Mulder quickly, cupping her elbow for the
briefest moment and looking again into her face.  From the
intense blue of her eyes and the impatient way she purses
the corner of her mouth he knows Scully's in a quandary --
torn between remaining with the queasy detective at the
crime scene and supervising the proper collection of
evidence, or accompanying her partner to examine the
traumatized child-suspect down the street.  "When I need
you, I'll call without fail.  Will that redeem me for being
incommunicado earlier?"

She gives him a level gaze, eyebrows cocked, and without
another word turns back toward the kitchen and the business
at hand.  An Aubrey cop, seeing she's no longer detained,
sidles over to show her something and ask a question.  After
giving the room one last visual sweep, Mulder ducks out the
front door into the night.

************

When the call came in from 17 Laramie, Tillman felt pure
terror.

His first thought was for Benjie's welfare and there were no
quick answers.  Anthony DiAngelo had been understandably
hysterical, making the almost incoherent call from a corner
of his bedroom after coming home and finding his wife's
mutilated body.  He'd also phoned a personal friend.
Tillman, first at the scene, was mere minutes ahead of
another stunned young man who came in to usher Tony away
from the tragedy.  Questioned about Benjie, the bereaved
husband could only sob and shake his head.

So Brian Tillman did what any father would do when faced
with such an emergency.  He panicked and followed his gut
reaction, but buried it all under the guise of prudent
delegation.  After a frantic search of the house and his son
still nowhere to be found on the premises, Tillman
instructed a dazed Darnell to continue with the crime scene
investigation until Agent Scully's arrival.  Then, he'd
struck out on foot alone.

The sliding back door was found ajar, spilling cold air into
the kitchen.  He bounded into the yard with his flashlight,
whipping the beam from one end of the small, unfenced area
to the other.  Swing set.  Shed.  Rocks and the ever-present
woodpile.  No sign of his child huddled and hiding in fear.

Kidnapped?  No, he felt in his bones that Benjie had simply
fled in terror from the scene.  He was fast as the dickens
for a kid his age and fairly coordinated.  All-boy.  Benjie
would escape and elude a pursuer with the instinctive
agility of the very young and very frightened.

("My guess is you don't really need to ride the bus anyway,
do you?  I bet you get around just fine without it.  I have
a feeling you know your way all over this town...")

Unaccountably, Fox Mulder's words drift into his mind as he
continues his sprint through the darkness from yard to
sidewalk in a frenzied, zigzagged search down the street.
During yesterday's interview he'd wanted to call all bets
off and send the nosey agent packing.  Now, he frets over
the fact that Mulder knew and sensed such things about his
boy -- things that he, his own father, never bothered to
notice or acknowledge before.

I've let too much slide, he anguishes, alternating between
consuming fear and deep regret as he searches and runs.  His
son.  His wife.  The inability to let go of the past...

His hands feel clammy inside the leather gloves and his
boots slip on frozen clumps; his pulse races ten miles ahead
of him.  The last thing he needs right now is to have a
heart attack in the middle of the neighborhood after dark.
Sincere in effort, but ineffectual in the end.  Failing his
boy miserably...

His throat feels raw as burned flesh, the air grating down
his laboring throat and through his taxed airways.  Blowing
clouds into the air, he stops on the dark sidewalk to get
his bearings, looking back to see how many blocks he's come,
how many different yards he's searched, and then ahead to
calculate how much further to go.  Almost there.  He wonders
how long it takes Benjie on the fly.

His house stands in relief, a pale silhouette in moonlight.
Empty lots frame either side, something that pleased Janine
no end when the last phase of construction stopped well back
from their property.  He bounds up the front steps and
shoves the front door wide.

Darkness inside.  He flicks switches, calling his son's
name, and takes the stairs in two heartbeats.  Benjie's room
is empty, but he checks the closet and glares under the bed.
He works the house, snapping on lights, muttering to
himself, calling out in his frenzy.  Dashing back
downstairs, his ankle tweaks hard on the bottom step and he
curses his age and his body's limitations.

Nothing downstairs.  Moving methodically through the rooms,
he ends up in the kitchen, where Janine's empty glasses
still stud the sink bottom, then out to the sewing room.  He
slaps the porch light on and bursts like a wild man into the
dimly-lit back yard.

"Benjie!"

His shout echoes into the night, bouncing from back fence to
nearby tree line.  In his haste he trips by the woodpile and
his shin slams against the overflow from the cords he'd
stacked last month.  The pain grabs him, makes him bend at
the waist and grimace.  Goddamn, that hurts like hell!  He's
done a number on his leg, but needs to keep moving. Can't
stop until he finds --

"Daddy..." The voice, tiny and quavering, jerks Tillman's
head around.  Close, but where?

"Benj?"

"Daddy!"

"Oh God, son!"  Behind the small shed he finds the shaken,
folded ball of fear that is his child, tucked so compactly
into the tight, black space as to be unnoticeable.  Taking
great, gasping breaths of the cold air, Tillman gathers the
chilled, trembling boy into his arms and carries him.  He
limps back toward the house with a final surge of adrenaline
before it fades altogether and renders both of them helpless
to the mercy of the outdoors.

************

Mulder's phone call is a welcome reprieve not only from the
messy and depressing work at the crime scene, but because
Scully's mind has been playing hooky down the street for the
last ten minutes.

She checks on Darnell and he seems settled, more in control
of his gorge and responses.  With a thank-you and a grateful
smile, he tells her to go where she's needed before he
returns to the grueling task at hand.  Another officer
offers to drop her off down the street.

Few dim lights illuminate the Tillman home.  She knocks and
calls out, opening the door to follow the sound of Mulder's
answering shout.  In the kitchen Benjie sits on the counter,
jacketed, small legs dangling.  Brian Tillman hovers next to
his boy, protective and glowering, while Mulder sets down a
half-filled glass of water that the boy has just refused.

"How is he?"

Before they can respond, she gently elbows the father aside
in order to examine the child and assess his condition.  A
state of psychic shock would be expected, though she doesn't
find the extreme clamminess or pallor of skin one usually
sees in such cases.  Benjie's eyes are wide and wet, but he
seems amenable to her careful though hurried examination and
sits quietly.  She realizes with a start that this is the
first time the boy has allowed her to touch him.

"He was out back," Mulder explains.  "Wedged so tight behind
the shed the Lieutenant almost needed a pry bar to pop him
out.  One heck of a resilient kid."

While she works with Benjie, whispering questions to him
about his physical condition, she notices Tillman's sharp
glance toward her partner and feels for the first time the
tension that crackles between the two men.  Knowing Mulder,
he's jumped right in with both feet to question this child
about events at the DiAngelo house.  And having learned a
bit more about Brian Tillman, he probably reacted with
vehemence and denial, wanting to shield his son from
intrusion.

"Benjie, you're gonna be fine," she says in a calm,
reassuring voice, tilting her head up to make eye contact
with the child on the counter.  "In just a few minutes your
daddy can put you to bed or let you lay down on the couch.
It's important that you stay quiet for awhile and rest,
okay?"

The little boy nods and she urges him to sip from the glass
of water.  He blinks, wipes at his eye, and when he
acquiesces she feels a swell of satisfaction.

"Have you questioned him?"  She turns to both men, eyes
flicking back and forth.

Mulder answers first.  "Not much forthcoming yet."

"Now's not the time," Tillman hisses.

"Now's the *best* time," Mulder counters heatedly, "while
it's still fresh in his mind."

She faces Tillman, hoping to bring down the man's guard with
reason and a softer tone.  "Now *is* the best time,
Lieutenant, as hard as it may be to accept.  Physically,
Benjie appears to be fine.  Emotionally, sharing what he's
seen might even be cathartic for him.  And what he tells us
tonight could be crucial in pinpointing whoever's
responsible for what's happened."

The distraught man rubs a hand over his face and mustache,
apparently torn between his sworn obligations as police
lieutenant, yet remaining the anxious father, concerned for
his only child's well being.  In light of the confidential
information she's gained this morning from Darnell, she
senses the depth of indecision that torments Tillman in the
silence that follows.

"We're only after the truth... and please believe me, we
won't ride roughshod over your son in order to get it," she
assures him, looking from Tillman to Mulder and back again.

"All right," he mutters to Scully, as if expecting her to
resume the questioning herself.  "But go easy."

She steps back from Benjie, toward his father, so her
partner can have unrestricted access to the child.  Once
more she goes by instinct, trust, and the supposition that
Mulder might have a better angle on the situation, since
he's spoken at length to B.J. Morrow only hours before.
Never mind that Tillman's set to protest again -- Mulder's
already taken up position and faces the boy like he did the
previous morning.

"Pretty rough day, huh?"  He pats Benjie's knee and gets a
shaky nod.  "I'm gonna ask you a few more questions and I
want you to answer them the best you can.  Like we did
before, all right?"

With awe and some emotion Scully watches the unique
connection that slowly forms between Mulder and this strange
little boy in the quiet kitchen, their eyes locked, their
breathing almost synchronized.

"Benjie," he says with quiet gravity, "As much as I hate to,
I *have* to ask this question first... did you in any way
hurt Mrs. DiAngelo?"

The boy's eyes go big with fear, but he responds with a
slow, negative shake of the head.

"All right, good.  Then, tell me... did you see someone else
hurting her?"

Benjie's eyes, still wide, flicker toward the kitchen window
and Scully, following his glance, sympathizes with his
childish paranoia -- fear of being overheard and pursued by
whoever committed the horrible act he no doubt witnessed.
Expected and understandable.  "It's okay, sweetie," she
soothes, "no one can hear you except us."

He swallows, then nods his answer.

Mulder leans forward.  "Is it somebody you know?  Somebody
you recognize from town?"

A shake.

"Did you see a face?"

Another negative shake.

Mulder's voice hushes.  "Okay, no face.  Nobody you know
from around here.  So, tell me the truth, Benjie... is it
someone, or some*thing*, you've seen before?  Maybe by the
buses at school?"

"For the love of God!"  Tillman rages beside them, but
becomes immediately silent when they behold the boy's
undeniable and hesitant nod of assent.

"Did it speak to you?"

She shoots a warning look to her partner, wanting to rein
him in.  But when Benjie replies with an almost
indistinguishable, yet audible, "Yes," her skin prickles
into gooseflesh.

"Out loud?  With words?  Or just in your mind?"

The boy's composure weakens.  He begins to crumble before
them like a sandcastle at shoreline, wiping his eyes
obsessively, lower lip extending in a prelude to full-blown
tears.  He peers back at the agent and gives a pathetic
shrug.

"Mulder, I think that's enough for one night," Scully says
hurriedly, stepping to the child when he covers his face
with the sleeves of his winter jacket.  She reaches up to
touch his head, ruffling the thick brown locks with
comforting fingers.  Patting the boy's knee in thanks,
Mulder capitulates, as though sensing the uneasy direction
she's preparing to steer them before their departure.

Words are one thing, actions another.  And what she's about
to require of the boy may rupture any trust they've gained
this evening with both father and son.  Undeterred in her
duty, she brings her hand down to the small dangling ankle.

"Lieutenant, does Benjie have another pair of sneakers?
Something he can wear as a backup?"

"I guess so.  Why?"

Just the sight of the large evidence bag as it leaves her
coat pocket is enough to rattle Tillman's cage.  "Christ,
Agent Scully!  You heard what the boy said.  He had nothing
to do with it, dammit!"

"Because of certain evidence at the scene, it's necessary to
follow through and cover all our bases.  This is routine.
I'm sure you can understand and cooperate with us on this."

She unlaces the sneakers and eases them from the boy's feet,
feeling ruthless and criminal when his little clenched and
sock-clad toes are exposed.  Dropping the shoes into the
bag, she notes blood and a tear on the lower part of
Tillman's pant leg.  "Excuse me, Lieutenant -- are you
injured?"

"I --" Caught off-guard he glances down at the damage, and
then shifts to test his weight on it.  The resulting grimace
tells Scully all she needs to know.  "I tripped in the yard,
looking for Benjie... fell against the woodpile..."

"Can I treat it for you?  I'm a medical doctor, remember."

Coloring in embarrassment, he refuses and turns toward the
boy's soft, urgent cry.

Coat hanging loose, Mulder approaches from behind her.  He
dangles one of Benjie's discarded mittens by a thumb and
forefinger.  "Got another one handy, Scully?"

"Um, yes..." She fumbles in her pocket, opens a smaller bag
for the stain-tipped mitten.  A dark smear, blood-like and
sinister.  Again she feels a chill.

"Just hold on a minute, before you try to build a case
here," Tillman interrupts, torn from what his son is
whispering to him.  "That's probably from me, when I carried
him into the house --"

"We'll find out soon enough," says Mulder grimly.

What is the boy asking his father?  Scully tunes in to the
muted, tearful conversation, hears Tillman murmur, "Don't
worry about it... we can always buy some more, Buddy-boy.
Isn't that right?"

Rainbow colors flung across the carpet, splattered with
blood at the crime scene.  Lego blocks.  Her heart sinks.
Benjie's favorite toy, now bagged as evidence and lost to
the child when he most needs familiar pleasures in order to
provide comfort and stability after a trauma like this.

In the back of her mind she hears Mulder advising Tillman to
remain at home for the time being, to insure his son's
safety.  He'll be able to monitor the investigation and do
deskwork until his wife's return or the perpetrator is taken
into custody.  Besides, they need to speak with Mrs. Tillman
as soon as possible...

As Mulder speaks, she focuses dream-like on the boy, still
sitting on the hard unforgiving edge of the kitchen
countertop.  She's struck by the resiliency and amazing
fortitude of young children in the face of danger and the
world's inexplicable harshness toward them.  Nothing
prepares her for the transformation she sees when she
focuses on Benjie's tight, stoic expression.  Pained, brave,
so solemn and forbearing...

... sweaty little forehead, baby-fine hair crimped and wet
around flushed cheeks.  Blue eyes bright with fever
confronting Scully with the sudden hurt of betrayal.
("Mommy said no more tests.")

A fragile objection, born of pain and the bewilderment that
threatens to overpower her again... Scully's own sinking
heart upon seeing fear resurrect in the young eyes.  Wanting
to spare her this suffering, hoping to ease that which must
yet be endured in the vain effort to save this one precious
life.

Voice slow and steady, Dana... so she won't sense your
disquiet.  My -- can you even say it without breaking down?
-- *child*... ("We just want you to get better.  That's what
the tests are for.")  My own little sweetheart.  Oh, God --

She jumps at the squeeze to her elbow and the room revolves
and coalesces back into the normal sight and gentle sound of
Brian Tillman murmuring to his son in the yellow light of
their kitchen.  Mulder's at her side, his eyes deep and
questioning, scanning her face when her chin jerks up toward
him.  "You okay?"

"Of course."  She looks down at the bags she grips in one
hand, the plastic edges creased tightly in her knotted
fingers.  Still he stands close, unconvinced, and she fights
to keep a flush from tingeing her cheeks.  "I'm fine,
Mulder.  Let's get this to Darnell right away," she says far
too brusquely.  "Are we done here?"

The question, she realizes, only reflects how out-of-touch
she's been for the last thirty seconds.  With smooth aplomb
he steps one more time toward Tillman to give their
farewells and parting words.  Mulder, her partner in so many
ways.  Watching her back, covering now for her unpredictable
and public snowballing into personal pain.  Protecting her.
He must know, must sense what just transpired...

No wonder she loves this man so much.

************

Edmond, Nebraska
November 5, 2000
8:32 p.m.

The wind surges, hitting the side of the house in angry
gusts.  Moving through the upstairs, she can hear windows
rattle in their frames and old beams creak like the aching
bones of the elderly, like hers.  Methodically she checks
each closet, locks and curtains each window against the
thickening darkness outside, moving from bedrooms to
bathroom to attic opening until the sound of the gusts and
moans becomes unbearable.

The landing on the way downstairs has once again become a
fearful place.  She hurries past as quickly as her ailing
joints can take her.  Too many unpleasant memories inhabit
its narrow space, which force her to envision the horrors of
the past and the sins that surfaced later, like the long-
buried bones of those two FBI agents.

On the first floor her deceased husband's radio alternates
from static hiss to clarity and back again.  The police
channel.  It's the only thing she listens to and why she
keeps the radio at all.  Her early-warning system for peace
of mind.  An alarm, keeping tabs on what's happening
elsewhere before it can happen to her, like the tragedy
tonight.

After peeking through a window at the rear of the house, she
opens the back door and calls the dog, Chief, who
materializes with an obedient whine and pokes his dark
muzzle toward her.  He trundles within for the night, back
fur waffled and wind-blown, while she locks and bars the
door.

Chief heels closely on her round of the downstairs rooms to
seal windows and draw curtains.  Emergency candle, matches,
and flashlight in place on the coffee table.  Mug of hot
coffee at her fingertips.  Finally satisfied, she listens
for a full minute before hunkering down on the old sofa that
hugs a windowless wall and faces both the bolted front door
and the TV toward the side.

She'll watch it with the lights low and the sound muted, the
dog curled on the floor near her feet.  She heaves a thick
comforting afghan over her lap and feels for the handle of
the old revolver hidden beneath its folds.

It's doubtful she'll sleep at all, not after hearing about
the DiAngelo murder on the police band frequency.  No
details given, but she feels in her bones that it's all part
and parcel with what happened to poor Viola -- and to others
six years ago.  Why else would the names Mulder and Scully
be mentioned in the crossway chatter?

And dear, dear Lord, she laments -- this awful blowing of
the wind sure doesn't help matters.  And though the few
neighbors she has are close, they're still too far away if
something unexpected and terrible should actually happen.

It's going to be a very, very long night.

************
End of Chapter 8


************
Chapter 9
************

Memorial Hospital
November 5, 2000
8:35 p.m.

She and Mulder part ways after leaving Tillman's house,
intent on separate spheres of involvement.  She knows he
wants to sniff around at the crime scene with Darnell and
crew, but first she needs him to ferry her to the morgue at
Memorial Hospital.

At the coroner's suggestion she uses a back entrance, glad
to avoid the brighter, more public lobby and emergency room
areas and immediately changes to scrubs.  Though her
objective is to examine someone newly dead -- never a
pleasant task -- it's vaguely reassuring to step back from
the melodrama of the case into the familiar confines of
stainless-steel, refrigeration, and the autonomy she knows
so well.

Hic locus est ubi mori gaudet succurre vitae.  "This is the
place where death rejoices to teach those who live."  The
paradoxical words are meant to be a sobering dictum for new
students of pathology at Quantico.  She reflects how they
long ago lured her from the field of medicine and fueled her
dream to embrace a higher, nobler purpose in life.

A lofty premise, she thinks, but hardly accurate or
equitable.  Death, the great equalizer, demands anonymity
and the suppression of what Scully has come to regard as
one's innate "personhood."  Death steals identity, personal
dignity.  With the spirit and soul gone, the corporeal shell
is left behind for the forensic pathologist's purpose -- to
delve within, to solve the mysteries of suspicious and
untimely demise.

Already she's begun to assume the disassociation necessary
when dealing with the dead.  Names mean little; a toe tag is
usually all that's required to confirm she has the correct
corpse on the chilled table top.  Tonight, however, the body
is too fresh, too warm; she doesn't relish performing this
brief, external examination on the victim known as Gwen
DiAngelo.

The coroner who requested Scully's input stands at her side,
a grim, though willing assistant.  They don latex and face
shields and she turns on a small tape recorder.  Unzipping
the bag, she begins her signature monotone.  Blood samples,
fingernail scrapings, clothing damage, and pattern of
wounding.  Together they work quickly taking photos,
harvesting external fluids, hair, fibers, and other evidence
for immediate testing at the lab.  Several small pieces of
plastic, yellow and blue, lay clotted in the woman's hair
and cranial wound.

"Never seen anything like that before," says the coroner
heavily, not the same man who handled the earlier victims
six years before and therefore new to the horrors of this
case.

She nods for him to salvage and bag Benjie's ill-fated
little toys.  "Did you know this woman?"

He leans against the edge of the table, bare elbows stiff
and locked, before replying.  "Saw her quite a few times
here at the hospital when I was passing through.  Gwen was
one of Alice's little volunteers, very kind to everyone.  I
hope you and your partner get the bastard who did this...
that's all I've got to say."

They remove shoes and clothing from the lower body.  Then,
following routine procedure, she takes vaginal and rectal
swabs and examines the genitalia for signs of injury or
forced penetration.  Nothing she sees is inconsistent within
the parameters of a normal, if not energetic sex life.  Her
findings raise the question of what an examination of her
own vagina would reveal under close scrutiny, considering
the workout she's received during the last few days with
Mulder.  Scratch that... there are some things better left
out of the equation entirely.

Full autopsy is to take place the following morning, after
attendants have stripped, weighed, washed, and x-rayed the
body.  Done for the time being, she cleanses her hands and
forearms, changes clothing, and fishes her cell from a coat
pocket.

"Mulder, it's me.  I've just finished here.  Wanna pick me
up?"

"Did that last night," he murmurs back, not missing a beat,
"and it was pretty outstanding, as I recall."

"You'd better be alone," she scolds in a whisper, turning to
flash a look around the room.  The coroner, mercifully, is
no longer there to witness her falter and flush.  She can
hear Mulder's chuckle over the cell phone, knowing he
relishes her discomfiture.

"One is still the loneliest number.  Just couldn't help
myself," he says in mock apology.  "Seriously, are you
hungry?"

"I could eat, I suppose... as long as you're not set on
greaseburgers and root beer."

"Hey."  He pauses.  "Hear that, Scully?"

"What?"

"The Imperial Dragon is calling to us.  If they're still
serving, I think we oughta swing by for a succulent taste of
the Orient.  Besides, I get a big kick out of eating my food
with sticks.  How about you?"

Smiling into the phone, she tells him to haul his ass over
to the hospital, pronto.

************

Tillman residence
November 5, 2000
9:20 p.m.

After tonight he could use a stiff belt, Brian Tillman
decides, helping his freshly-bathed son into pajamas.

But he won't, for Benjie's sake.  The last thing the boy
needs to see is his father caving to the same vice that
weakened his mother's judgment.  Or more accurately, his
step-mother's, and one who's resented her role for five long
years.

There was no answer at her sister's house when he called,
and the fact disturbs him.

But it pleases him that Benjie's skin has improved.  The
regimen that Agent Scully provided over the phone is the
ticket -- warm bath, medicated lotion, soft cotton clothing.
Janine could have been doing those same simple things.  He
blames himself for not monitoring the situation more
closely, for putting his son's fate and special health needs
into the hands of an ambivalent guardian.  His wife's.

Has he really abdicated responsibility?  He assumed when
Benjie came into their home that Janine would become the
mirror image of his mother's sterling example.  All women
possess that innate mothering instinct, don't they?  God,
he'd taken so much for granted!  They'd always planned for
children, so he found it hard to sympathize with Janine's
initial resentment in raising a baby that wasn't her own.
And each time he checked whether she was continuing her
medication, she became more defensive and closed off to him.

He wonders how things would be now, if B.J. hadn't been so
severely affected and driven to homicide.  It's doubtful she
would have agreed to his knee-jerk solution of abortion,
choosing to transfer to another city and department and
carry the baby to term.  As it was, he took a leave of
absence to wait out the investigation that ensued those
months following Benjie's birth.  Thankfully the courts
approved both his request to adopt the offspring of a known
felon -- his own child -- and his reinstatement on the
force.

He settles his exhausted boy onto the couch, covering him
with a blanket, and looks into the small, sleeping face.
Her eyes, her mouth and chin.  More and more he misses B.J.
and what she brought to him.

Reflecting back on those months before everything hit the
proverbial shitter he knows he fed her insecurities by
pulling back when things at home worsened.  B.J. was
headstrong and determined, but needy.  Zeroing in on him
with her wide accusing eyes.  Taking him to task, holding
him accountable.  Even so, she overlooked so much that was
wrong in his life, granting him a haven for respite and
sexual release.

Good God, how long has it been since he's taken a woman the
way he used to take B.J.?  Surely not with Janine -- even
when they had sex it was quick and unsatisfactory.  A chore,
on her part.  Now, nothing for over a year.  It could drive
a man elsewhere...

He envies those men who consistently share the love and
willing body of a woman who respects and wants to please
them.  It makes him ponder Janine's drunken assessment of
the two FBI agents, wondering if there's any truth to the
speculation.

If so, they're damn good at hiding it.  But the probability
exists... working closely as partners for seven years,
sharing a dangerous job and often traveling on assignment in
the field.  A smart, attractive woman like Agent Scully.  A
man like Mulder.  He can perceive the vibes now, having once
been in a similar place himself.  Lucky dog.

So, how often and where?  Right across town at the motel, he
assumes.  And how?  Naked positioning, not logistics.  He's
always been good at mentally disrobing a woman, peeking
beneath the clothes, even if it's all in his head.  Mental
voyeurism.  Musing on the secret charms that lie hidden.

Yes, he could imagine it, if he tried.  He could warm to the
vision of a woman like Agent Dana Scully.  But now's not the
time or place, not with tonight's damnable turn of events
and his little boy suddenly thrown into harm's way.

He glances toward Benjie, reaches for the phone, and punches
the number of his sister-in-law again.

************

Imperial Dragon Restaurant
November 5, 2000
10:17 p.m.

Mulder has madness, mutator genes, and murder on the brain
when they enter the restaurant and find that dinner is still
being served on a limited basis.  The blessed warmth inside
and soft, colored lighting in shades of blue and saffron
soothe his spirit to say nothing of the fragrances wafting
from every direction.  His stomach rumbles in earnest.

He can tell Scully approves by her faint expression of
surprise and the energetic pace she sets as they're led to
their table.  "I waited out in the car when you ordered the
food the other night," she says to him from over her
shoulder.  "I had no idea --"

"Yeah.  Can I pick 'em or what?"

With cushioned and brocaded upholstery chairs, their table
commands a corner spot, yet allows them to view the rest of
the dining area with ease.  A few other patrons are eating,
talking quietly at the miniature bar, or placing late
orders.  All are adults at this hour.  Several still lounge
at the front, waiting for carry-out.

"No more Peking duck," apologizes the waiter, his smile all
teeth as he lights a small candle in the center of their
table.  "Too late.  You order, I tell you if we can make."
He looks down at Scully.

"A cup of miso soup and a California roll, please?"

"Very good!  You?"

Mulder jerks his head down at the menu, flipping it over.
Ah, Japanese on the back.  He hadn't known, but leave it to
Scully to ferret that in the blink of an eye.  Returning to
the first page, he taps a finger on his entree of choice.
"Sesame chicken, fried rice, and an eggroll."

"Oh, yes!  Thank you very much."

"Every bit of your order is fried or deep-fat fried," she
teases, glancing leisurely at their surroundings when the
waiter disappears.

"And you never really know for sure what they stick into
those sushi rolls," he retorts.

"Touche.  But I don't want to spar with you right now,
Mulder."  She sighs gently and leans back into her seat,
angling her head into a comfortable tilt in order to focus
on him.  He's glad this place is conducive to relaxation and
quieter talk.  She seems to welcome it as much as he does
after the tragic events of the evening.

"Lovers, not fighters..." he croons.

She deflects his bait with practiced ease.  "We should catch
up on what's happened earlier.  Tell me about your trip out
to Shamrock -- I noticed you didn't let Tillman know who you
spent the day with."

"He had his hands full tonight.  I wasn't about to screw
with his head any more than I did."

"So, how's B.J.?"

He's not sure how to answer her question satisfactorily.
How can he describe what's happening with B.J. Morrow?
"Still sharp and cooperative," he begins.  "Apparently she
has special insight into what's happening, and was already
aware of the paranormal elements of her case that are
unfolding here now."

"You're saying she had a premonition?"

"Make that plural, since Wednesday night around dinner time.
Demanded first to talk to Tillman, which was vetoed for
obvious reasons, then to me.  She went on a hunger strike to
avoid sedation and managed to hold out for almost three days
before the doctor relented and put in a call to our office."

Scully sits straighter, her brow furrowed.  "What kind of
premonitions?"

He waits while their server delivers hot tea, pours them
each a cup of the jasmine-scented liquid, and then fades
away.

"Dreams and an overwhelming sense of evil, like a presence,"
he continues, voice lowered.  "Visions of blood and death.
Her first thought was for Benjie, that he might be in
danger... or susceptible to the evil that's mentally
assaulting her.  We traced the family tree back from Cokely
and came up empty.  Cokely and Raymond Morrow are dead,
B.J.'s not going anywhere --"

"So that leaves Benjie," she says flatly.  "A confused
little boy."

"A boy who may be affected by the same supernatural source
that his mother is.  You heard what he said tonight, Scully.
Something spoke to him at the DiAngelo home, as well as at a
previous time.  When Viola was attacked, I'm betting.
Something drew him there.  Maybe that same force was lurking
in the house tonight, when Gwen was murdered."

Scully takes a slow sip of her tea, warming her hands around
the white porcelain.  "That's an awful lot of 'somethings'
and 'maybes.'  We need more tangible, substantive evidence.
Definitive leads.  Unfortunately, everything we *do* have is
incriminating to Benjie Tillman in some way."

"Such as?"

Her thumbs caress the rim of her teacup.  "Mulder, I just
examined the body of a woman who's been dead for a mere few
hours.  Massive skull fracture; I'm guessing from a blunt
object delivering multiple blows.  The word 'Sister' slashed
into the chest, but unlike victims in previous years, not
deep enough to abrade the underlying skeletal structure.
And no rape."

"Similar MO to '94, then, but not '42, when Cokely was
responsible.  So we're looking at a woman, possibly, as the
perp.  Like B.J."

"Perhaps.  Or -- as much as I despise suggesting it -- a
child."

"How many kindergarteners can even spell, let alone write
the word 'Sister'?"

"Circumstantial evidence gains credibility when there's
nothing else with which to compare it.  You know that.  Both
women, Viola and now Gwen, were probably kneeling at the
time of their attack, child-high.  Taken off-guard,
frightened.  And considering the manner and level of damage
inflicted... hard, forensic data is rarely misleading."

"You don't really believe he's culpable," he breathes.

Scully slumps back against the seat, preparatory to their
food's arrival.  He watches as she rubs her temples with
weary fingers.  "No, I don't... and I truly don't want to,
Mulder.  Everything within me screams foul at such a
conjecture."

************

Conestoga Motel
November 6, 2000
3:06 a.m.

He's been fading in and out of consciousness for hours, more
awake than asleep.

By agreement there had been no after-dinner sex, with both
of them dog-tired and preoccupied after the late meal.
They'd showered, kissed, and sought separate beds.  He lifts
one eyelid to the clock on his nightstand and curses
inwardly.  Then, something -- a noise or sense of presence -
- draws him toward complete lucidity and he focuses on the
source.

Sitting in the armchair between bed and window is a twilight
pixie, the satin of her bathrobe catching a glint of parking
lot neon from between the curtains.  It tints an unruly lock
of her hair blood-red, lending pathos to the disquiet he
already feels emanating from within her.

Catlike, his eyes quickly adjust to the darkness.  "I'm
awake," he says.

He's guessed the real reasons for Scully's visit at this
hour.  She's restless and unsettled, like he is.  The
murder.  The boy.  All the unknowns that elude them.  And
the underlying factor in her case, Emily...

She looks toward him for a long minute.  "Not surprising,"
she murmurs.  He can almost distinguish the beginnings of a
tiny smile by her tone.  "I must say, the TV being off threw
me.  I suppose the remote's right there under your pillow."

"Uh-uh."  His finger pushes the black plastic object a few
safe, honest inches away and he hears her sigh.

"It's funny... with you gone today I had quite a bit of time
on my hands and actually thought about going to mass.  If I
had known what was about to transpire this evening, I would
have lit a candle."  She tucks her chin, hair wreathing her
face.  "You think that's a superstitious waste of time, I
know."

"Not if it's important to you."  He pauses, struck by the
realization that everything important to Scully is likewise
precious to him.  "You gonna sit over there all night by
yourself?"

"Probably not... my feet are starting to get cold."

"It's plenty warm in here for both of us.  I promise to be
good."  He lifts the edge of the covers with a flourish to
show off his tee-shirt and boxers.  "Underwear, see?"

She gives an approving chuckle and moves to the edge of his
bed.  "After that display of sacrificial self-restraint, how
can I refuse?"

Slipping off her bathrobe she slides in beside him, and he
turns to welcome her with arms, legs, and scooping hands.
"You can't.  And your feet would be ice by morning.  Shit,
Scully..." Capturing one between his warm muscular calves,
he blows out an exaggerated exhalation.  Her body trembles
with what he hopes is another small laugh.

Loose pajama top.  No bottoms except for panties, he
discovers.  His open palm encompasses one firm ass-cheek and
squeezes.  Impishly his fingers tease, testing the silky
slope of fabric down the cleft toward her vulva, brushing a
few wayward curls that peek from either side.  Her hips jerk
from the tickle.

"Your idea of self-restraint, Mulder?"

"Just checking the lay of the land."

"Right... Though this could become habit-forming," she
mumbles, her breath stirring the sparse hair below his
throat.

"What could?"

"Sharing a bed.  Having sex so often."

He remembers his thoughts in the car on their drive to
Aubrey, when he mused about their sporadic lovemaking.
Wanting her breasts, her body, hoping for more opportunity
and frequency.  Well, here she is in his arms again, pliable
and not entirely loath to the prospect.

Still, he acknowledges there are things far more important
right now than his spiking libido.  Self-restraint should
take the upper hand, for Scully's sake.

It strikes him that she's usually a steady sleeper.  He also
remembers his words to her their first night at the motel,
when she rebuffed his hopeful advances, choosing solitude
instead.  ("Listen to me... I want to share the burden of
this with you... and not just once a year.  Think about it.
Please.")

Slowly she exposed more of her secret heartache, allowing
him to give her comfort by the window.  Letting him in to
witness the pain she felt that night for her lost child.
It's the real reason she's out wandering these dark rooms in
the empty hours past midnight.

The closer she moves and conforms her body to his, absorbing
his heat, the more he feels the barrier dropping between
them.  He's saddened by her pain, yet welcomes this rare
approachability that's become a feature of her yearly
sojourns into nostalgia.  He wants her to know she's being
emotionally honest, not weak.  It's a long shot, but he's
compelled to take it --

"Tell me..."

"Tell you what?"  Her voice a questioning hum at the crook
of his neck.

Feeling on the edge of a crumbling precipice, he closes his
eyes and whispers, "How do you like to remember her?"

She knows whom he means.  Her breathing hitches and then
slows, her heart pounding against his chest in the hush that
follows.

"Emily."  He says the name with gentle, confident assertion,
as it should be said.  How often over the years has he
spoken the name "Samantha" aloud, no matter how much pain it
caused him at the time?  Yet, he's never been plagued, like
his partner is, by a certain season or period of time during
which the mere mention or any simple reminder is enough to
cause heartache and withdrawal.  He swears this case in
Aubrey has intensified the effect on her.

"Scully, hear me out.  That she existed is a fact undeniable
and her memory is precious.  Please don't disavow it... or
her, because of the grief you're feeling now."

Her muscles tense and bunch against him, her fist like a
death grip on his shirt, then slowly unclenching when she
recovers enough to camouflage her reaction.

"What's your favorite memory of her?  The moment that stands
out more clearly than any other?"  One palm cups her jaw,
thumb brushing her cheek, while his other hand keeps up a
gentle massage up and down her back.  "Tell me..."

The moments lengthen in the dark room, and he counts her
pulse beats, radiating through his fingers from the velvety
warmth of her neck.  She swallows several times and he
curses himself for being a bumbling, intrusive fool.  He's
neither priest nor shrink, though her emotional well-being
has always been central in his exploration of their
deepening friendship.  He hopes he hasn't irreparably
damaged the door she cracks open with such provisional
hesitancy, a little wider each year...

"Oh, God, Mulder..."

The words are no more than a puff in the air under his chin.
His grateful lips find her forehead, encouraging more of the
same.  "Talk to me."

"The children's home... in San Diego.  We --" She swallows.

"Go on..."

"We spent time together.  And talked, just a little.  She
was sweet, so quiet and serious."

"I remember that."  The startling similarities he saw
between Scully and the somber child that day so long ago
spring to life with crystal clarity.  Their hair and eye
color, the methodical thoroughness and controlled demeanor
of the pint-sized foundling.  Even at that young age, Emily
was so precise in staying within the lines.  So like his
Scully.

"Her coloring book was important business, Mulder."

An echo of his own thoughts.  He chuckles and kisses her
forehead again, letting his nose rest against her lemony-
scented hair.  "And I walked in and did my best, knock-your-
socks-off Mr. Potato-head impression," he laments, "and she
looked at me like I'd hopped right off the ship from Mars.
D'you know how humbling that was to the ego?"

He can't tell if her huff is a chuckle or a sob.  Another
silence, after which she whispers, "She liked you.  She told
me that later, in the hospital."

"Really?" Unaccountably, his heart soars and he blinks at
the surprising wetness in his eyes.  If Emily's adoption had
been approved, if she had survived beyond her three short
years, he was the closest thing to a father Scully could
have provided for her.  And he'd have been willing, no doubt
there, though the subject had never been broached.

"Yes, really."

"Thanks for telling me that," he says, genuinely touched.
Shifting her weight in his arms, he pulls away in an effort
to make eye contact in the dimness.  Through the shadows he
thinks he perceives a glint of light, a glassy ripple near
his face.  Tears?  His thumb tries to read her cheek.
"Hey... are you okay?"

She nods into his curling hand.

"Tell me what I can do."

"You can hand me a tissue, please," she says in a watery
whisper.

"I don't mind you crying on me."

"Mulder, it's for my nose."

Reaching blindly, he whisks a wad of Kleenex from the
nightstand.  After a huff and a dab, she tucks it away
somewhere beneath the blanket and sighs.

"Thank you."  Her moist breath trembles on his chin, moving
upward, closer.  "I love you," she murmurs, and he feels her
parted lips plucking at the corner of his mouth, softly
seeking entrance.

"Believe me, the feeling's mutual."

With a heartfelt groan, he succumbs to the gentle push of
her tongue between his lips.  Sweet and salty, now a
familiar and daily indulgence, it's sufficient for the
moment.  Their kiss is tender, mutually comforting, languid
with love.  He enfolds her to himself again in the darkness,
holding her body so close that they breathe as one.

************
End of Chapter 9


************
Chapter 10
************

DiAngelo residence
November 6, 2000
11:18 a.m.

Mulder squints into the wind and thanks his lucky stars that
no snow has hit Aubrey yet this November.  The locals think
it's unusual, but he's more inclined to call it fortuitous
than strange.  Snow would cover up necessary evidence and
murder weapons still elude them.

By the same token, snow would also display footprints and
tracks of entry and escape.

He puffs clouds into the arctic-cold air, poking around the
DiAngelo's less-than-manicured back yard in the overcast and
gray light of late Monday morning.  All effort at
landscaping and visual appeal seems to have been directed
toward the front of the house.  Here in the back, he steps
over rocks, frozen weeds, and old garden areas that have
outgrown their railroad tie borders.  A swing stirs and
squeaks its rusty chains, prodded by the breeze.

He squats and casts back toward the kitchen sliding door,
mottled with bi-chromatic powder, then eyeballs the route a
fleeing child might have taken in the dark.  No fencing in
the back or on the side leading down the street to
Tillman's.  A tall one, meant as a privacy barrier, blocks
the impressive house sitting on the right side of the yard.

Darnell and some of his people are working inside, snapping
additional evidence photos and giving the rooms a more
thorough sweep.  Mulder has, in the meantime, taken great
pains to extricate himself from the group.  With his partner
commandeering their Corolla for her morning autopsy at the
hospital, he was forced to carpool with the serious, but
unimaginative detective.  A good man, Mulder decides, but
one who gives new meaning to the expression, "Dead on your
feet."  Scully's patience here last night is still a source
of amazement to him.

*She* amazes him.  After very little sleep and their
emotional, whispered tete-a-tete in the early morning hours,
she was up at dawn.  Methodical, intent on her impending
autopsy, she let him lounge on her bed to watch her get
dressed.  Delectable curves and graceful movements of leg,
arm, and torso.  Short brushes through her hair, a flurry of
light make-up.  Her kiss on her way out was soft and
precise, so as not to mar her lipstick.  Impeccable Scully.

He thinks back to the phone call that came from Shamrock
Women's Prison after she'd gone.  B.J.'s doctor, Reinholdt,
reported she'd had several more disturbing visions of death.
Mulder corroborated that the dreams were rooted in reality
and explained about last night's murder.  He also obtained
Reinholdt's permission to speak with B.J. by telephone, if
the need should ever arise during the investigation.

"What the hell is it you think's out here?"

Craning, he spots a head peeking over the privacy fence.  A
blonde woman, hair swirling, swathed in a cinnamon-colored
parka.  Myopia and cold wind in his eyes blur her features,
so he stands, smiles, and moves closer.

The coat is buttery suede and in high fashion.  The woman,
however, seems pinched and predatory, despite the seductive
smirk on her face.  Granted, it's cold and windy out, but he
can recognize good looks that are rapidly heading south.
She raises a hand and sucks the end of a cigarette.

"Beats me," he says, "though you sound like a person who
might have something to share."

Smiling, she blows smoke.  "Insider's information.  I got
it, if you want it, Agent..."

"Mulder."  Unwise to divulge his more-than-unique first name
under these circumstances, he decides.

"Yeah.  Agent Mulder... I'm a very cooperative lady when the
right person comes calling."

"Glad to hear it."

He wants to laugh, seeing through the transparently obvious
trap she's setting.  Scully was right on the money about
this woman.  "Teeth and claws, I kid you not, Mulder.  Watch
your jewels," she'd warned him with arched brow, while they
ate dinner last night.

"Well, come on over, we'll talk," he parries to the blonde,
who's already lighting up another smoke.

"I can not *believe* you want me to come into that yard!"
She looks at him like he's sprouted two heads.  "I mean,
gimme a Goddamn break here!  I get the creeps just living
next *door* to this place now!"  Her eyes dart toward the
back entrance, then away, as though the murder was still in
visible progress through the glass.

"So, you'd be much more comfortable sharing in the privacy
of your own home?  Is that what I'm hearing?"

Her demeanor and tone alter magically.  "You hear pretty
well," she purrs.

"What about you?  Did you hear anything last night?  See
anything suspicious going on?"

She looks irritated at his sudden deviation.  "Uh, no... but
I have *plenty* of other important information.  Believe
me."  She jerks her head back toward her house, eyes never
leaving his.  "And there aren't any distractions right now,
with everyone else at work and at school."

"You make it so easy," he smiles.  "Why don't you go on back
inside where it's warm and prepare your thoughts, um..."

"Natalie.  Natalie Warner," she supplies, showing the teeth
Scully cautioned him about.  Tossing a sultry, parting look
over her shoulder, she disappears.  He hears a door slide in
its track and then click shut.

Shit, this is better than a sit-com.  He may actually bust a
gut before it's all over --

Darnell, the perfect sacrifice, opens the back door with
gloved hands, looking for him.  After hearing the same,
repetitive spiel about the progress made inside, Mulder
tells him he has to meet Scully and suggests that the
detective go next door to obtain a statement from the
neighbor, who seems eager to talk about the case.

"You never know what might be revealed," he adds, enjoying
the double-cross, and Darnell nods in sage agreement.  He
gives his coat pocket a slap as though searching for his
notepad as he heads toward the end of the fence.

Watching him go, Mulder feels no guilt.  Somebody's got to
check it out and it might as well be Darnell.  After
Scully's special consideration for the man's squeamishness
last night, he's of the opinion that Darnell owes them big
time anyway.  Maybe he'll acquire some valuable information
during his unexpected visit to the other side before he gets
thrown out on his ear.

Then, again, who knows?  Darnell may just get lucky.

He punches Scully's number on his cell phone and begins
walking with purpose around the side of the house toward the
front.  "Hey.  How'd the autopsy go?"

"Fine, routine.  By the way, I ran into Linda Thibodeaux at
the hospital afterward.  Viola is being discharged today and
plans to stay with her in Edmond until she's back on her
feet."

"She want to talk anytime soon?"

"We've been invited up this afternoon, in fact.  She seemed
willing, but wants it kept quiet."

By now the front yard offers sanctuary and he steps within
the hedgerow that lines the porch area, glancing backward
toward the Warner house.  "Hey... I, uh, could use a ride
pretty quick.  Where are you?"

"I'm --" She fumbles on the other end, enough to bring up
his radar.  "I'm just down the street, getting into the
car."

"Tillman's?  Why?"

"To show him some photos... and to keep him abreast of
what's going on."

He frowns, blinking into the wind.  "That's Darnell's job."

"I was under the impression that he's busy over there with
you, Mulder."

Something about their exchange disturbs him, but he can't
put a finger on it.  The wind gusts again, and he hunches
forward to escape the brunt.  Under the shadowed overhang of
the shrubs sweeping the ground behind him, something catches
his eye.

"Mulder?"

He crouches now, pawing with one hand at iced debris and old
growth in order to get a look.  What he sees is a stone,
about the size of a medium orange.  No big deal, since there
are plenty of rocks strewn around the back yard and
hedgerows, except this one is dark with what looks to be
dried blood and wisps of hair.  He digs in his pocket for an
evidence bag and peers down the street in the direction of
his partner's approach.

"Better get over here, Scully.  If I'm not mistaken, I've
just found one of the murder weapons used on Gwen DiAngelo."

************

Tillman residence
November 6, 2000
11:38 a.m.

Scully has the tenuous feeling she's skating on thin ice.
That her judgment, tact, and sense of what's appropriate are
skewed just enough this morning to lure her to a place of
compromise, which could crack beneath the weight of her good
intentions.

She's gotten used to seeing this in Mulder, when he's
salivating after some paranormal carrot, chasing it down the
first rabbit trail that sends him come-on vibes and the
promise of new discovery.  But not rational, level-headed,
scientific-minded Dana Scully.  She'd sooner err on the side
of cool detachment than cross the line into a reckless
breach of protocol.

Her heart gets her into trouble.  Right now it's sensitive
and empathetic, affected by past grief and this present case
in Aubrey.  Her vision of Emily last night at the Tillman
home still shakes her confidence.  Thank God for Mulder's
unequivocal support and love, his insight into her psyche
that's evolved over years of close association and trust.

She reflects back to a few hours previous, the tender
interlude spent huddled with him in his bed.  They'd
discussed difficult things -- rather, he'd drawn them from
her with patience, wisdom, and caring.  He, of anyone, can
understand her deepest, most personal pain.

She didn't plan to stop at Brian Tillman's house after her
morning autopsy, any more than she made special arrangements
to bump into Linda Thibodeaux in the hospital hallway.
Things just occur naturally sometimes, as though
foreordained, pre-destined.  They evolve and happen, like
her whimsical trip to the local variety store after leaving
the hospital.

Tillman answers her knock, his eyes conveying relief more
than surprise when he welcomes her into the entryway.

"Not even one day and already I feel like I'm under house
arrest with my hands tied behind my back," he jokes badly,
offering to take her coat and brief case.  She demurs and
smiles toward the kitchen door where Benjie stands, his jaws
working, large eyes woeful.

"Hi, sweetie," she says softly, and the boy hides his mouth
behind a bashful forearm.

"Early lunch," says Tillman by way of explanation for his
son's lack of social graces, "or call it a late breakfast.
He doesn't seem to care that his Dad's not Mr. Mom."

"As I recall from the movie, Mr. Mom was unconventional and
innovative, but still very adept at getting things done."
She pauses, conscious she's just vaguely described her
partner.  "And I'm sure you'll do just fine, Lieutenant.
How's the leg today?"

Glancing down, he shrugs it off.  "Nothing serious.  Just a
scrape."

"Have you been able to contact your wife yet?"

He shakes his head grimly, and she's reminded of Benjie in
the quick, side to side movement.  "I've called several
times, but there's no answer at her sister's house."
Looking down at her, he seems to grow suddenly pensive.
"So, what brings you over here, Agent Scully?"

Her evasive glance takes in his old jeans and socked feet,
the flannel shirt that hangs loose on his frame.  A man
dressed for home and comfort, rather than work.  Not the
side of Tillman she cares to see, and she's not about to be
compromised.  The boy, she notices, stands motionless in the
doorway, watching with flickering eyes and listening to
every word.

"I have some questions I'd like to ask you about the case,"
she says, lowering her voice, "plus I have evidence photos
with me.  It's probably better that Benjie doesn't
overhear."

Tillman slaps his hands together in a sudden display of
enthusiasm as he heads toward his son, hustling him back
into the kitchen.  Scully exhales slowly and seats herself
on the couch.  She hears the clink of plate against glass, a
scrape of chair legs on the linoleum, and the hushed command
of father to son that he stay put and finish his food.  Such
private exposure to the domestic inner workings of this
household makes her feel intrusive, uneasy.

"Coffee?" He returns to the living room, licking something
from the edge of his finger as he sits down beside her.

"No, thank you."

"Jelly," he explains, bringing his hands together in a clasp
over his parted knees.  The comment reminds her of their
reunion meeting at the Conestoga Grill, when Tillman offered
a somewhat belated, though brief clarification about the
dripping, unwanted mug of root beer that was slammed on the
table before her.

Instead of replying, she opens a large manila envelope,
handing several glossy photographs to him while she proceeds
to describe them in a soft voice.  "I thought you'd want to
be updated on what was found last night.  This morning's
autopsy only confirmed what we already suspected: the same
MO as in '94.  The word carved into the chest, though with
much shallower cuts this time.  No bone damage, except for a
massive skull fracture toward the back, which exposed a
large portion of the brain and probably caused death before
mutilation commenced."

She glances at Tillman and sees that his jaw is squared, his
lips drawn into a pucker, which accentuates the short
bristles of his mustache.  He ponders the photos with hooded
eyes, looking at each one for long moments before handing
them back.

"There was no rape, so it's similar to the case that
involved B.J.," she continues, sheaving the pictures.  "But
we've just been made aware of something else.  If you
remember back to '94, the word "Sister" was smeared on the
wall with the victim's blood in all instances except
Cokely's.  There is a hint of that same thing at the
DiAngelo home, but so indistinctly rendered on the living
room wall that at first it was overlooked as simple blood
spatter."

"Do you have a picture of it?"

"No, not with me.  But I'll ask Detective Darnell to get one
to you, if you want to examine it here, at home... to tell
us what you think."

He nods and his glance lingers over her face.  "I appreciate
you wanting to keep me in the loop, Agent Scully."

"I do have a few, more personal questions to ask,
Lieutenant.  I hope you won't mind."

He opens his hands, palms up, and gives his head an
ambivalent shake.  "Ask away."

"Have you had any communication with Mrs. Linda Thibodeaux
since 1994, official or otherwise?"

The question, posed so unexpectedly, unsettles Tillman
enough that he straightens in annoyance.  "I don't see how
that's relevant.  Where are you taking this?"

"Nowhere, except to underscore the fact that Linda
Thibodeaux has a unique connection to your son... that of
being his great-grandmother through B.J.  Because of that
connection and its possible significance to this case, I
think it's a reasonable question to ask."

He gets to his feet, hands hanging clenched at his sides, as
he gazes toward the kitchen door.

"No.  I've shied away from any contact.  Partly because of
Janine and the gossip that would result, partly because it
would dredge up too many unpleasant memories.  And she
hasn't gone out of her way, either, I noticed."  He faces
Scully who stands up, sensing the interview is ended and her
presence no longer welcome.

"I understand," she says shortly, slipping the folder back
into her brief case.

"Listen to me, I'm not angry at you -- or Agent Mulder, for
doing your jobs.  It's nothing personal," he insists.  "This
whole case has been a nightmare revisited.  It's...
exhausting."

Scully nods in sympathy and buttons her coat.  "May I say
good-bye to Benjie, Lieutenant?  I..." She hesitates,
feeling awkward and foolish, now that the moment has come.
"I have something I'd like to give to him."

Perplexed, Tillman gestures her forward and follows her to
the kitchen.  At the table sits the little boy, slowly
decimating the center of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,
like any young child would.  He sets it down, grape jelly
painting the corner of his mouth red-purple, and stares at
Scully's approach.

Embarrassed by the exaggerated solemnity of the moment, she
clears her throat and pulls a package from her brief case,
placing it on the table before the boy.  "This is for you,
Benjie.  So you have something fun to do, okay?"

The boy is speechless, big eyes shining from the new,
cellophane-wrapped box of Legos to Scully and back again.
Tillman leans forward also, his face expressing wonder, then
gratitude.

This is not what I should be doing, she scolds herself,
touching the boy's head and turning on her heel toward the
front door.  Tillman's pleased and tender reaction is also
mildly disturbing to her.  Bad move, Dana, to feel so
personally involved that you bring the house down with a
simple, well-chosen gift.  She doesn't know what Mulder
would think about her stepping over the line in this way.
Hopefully, he would understand and let it go.

She swears she can hear the ice cracking around her... Good
intentions be damned.

At the front door she feels Tillman's hand on her arm,
halting her quick escape.  "That was... very thoughtful of
you.  I don't know what else to say --"

"Then, don't say anything, please.  I just knew how attached
he was to the toy and how much it bothered him to lose it."
The corners of her lips feel strained and tight as she
shoves emotional distance between herself and Tillman.  His
hand releases her arm and she turns to go --

Low on her coat, a gentle persistent tug.  Glancing down she
looks into the soulful eyes of Benjie Tillman, glittering
with unshed tears.  He wipes at the corner of one gently and
his pink lower lip trembles.  "Thank you," he says in a
gruff, heartfelt whisper, dabbing again.

Maligned step-child or boy murderer?  Innocent or guilty?
It's all Scully can do to extricate herself from the house
before her own tears begin to surface, seeking escape.

Thank you, God, she prays when the cell phone rings at the
car and she can funnel all her attention on that...

************

Thibodeaux residence, Edmond
November 6, 2000
1:20 p.m.

Mulder's a little more than just disappointed.  For some
reason Scully doesn't exhibit his same level of appreciation
for the nifty double-cross on Darnell earlier this morning.
Her weak chuckle dies early and she fusses with her
paperwork or stares out the window on the drive up to
Edmond.

"I thought the autopsy was routine," he quips, fishing for a
rationale and mangling sunflower seeds between his teeth.
Driving headlong into the wind, he's conscious of her
unaccountable preoccupation and malaise.

"It was."

He decides not to press it, if she's headed into another
monosyllabic funk.  Something's rocked her boat, but there
are too many variables that could factor in and he wants
both of them focused when they get to Thibodeaux's.  So
while he gives the car gas, cracks seeds, and ponders the
intricacy of the case, Scully sits at his side immersed in
her own secret silence.

This time the black, snarling beast is chained and staked
toward the side of the house, barking up a storm.  Mulder
feels his balls relax as he and Scully pass through the
gate toward their waiting hostess.

"That's Chief," Linda Thibodeaux says, after greeting them,
"and his bark is far worse than his bite.  He's one of the
few protectors I have now.  But he really wouldn't hurt a
soul unless I'm in distress."

He grins at her, not unfamiliar with alpha tendencies.
"Thanks, but I'd still rather not to test your theory."

The woman hasn't changed in six years' time, from her short
white hair and blue eyes to her expression of painful
determination, made all the more tragic by the jagged scar
that disfigures one cheek.  Harry Cokely's legacy.  Mulder
remembers seeing a picture taken weeks before the incident,
showing a pretty young woman in a 40's 'do.  He looks at her
now, trying hard to detect any similarity to B.J.'s
features.

She leads them through the neat, spare house to the kitchen.
Blue flowers and country decor dot the wallpaper.  His nose
twitches to faint, homey fragrances of spice, fruit, and
fresh coffee brewing.  As they sit, Linda points back toward
the living room area.  "I settled Viola in the bedroom
downstairs here.  She's asleep.  It's my room, really, with
a bathroom close by.  Steps would be too much for her."

"How is it that you two are friends?"

The woman takes her time before answering Mulder's question,
placing cups on saucers and gathering a few teaspoons.  "I
suppose misery loves company, Agent Mulder.  Viola's father
passed on about the same time you two were here last.  After
Detective Morrow's attack on me, I was a nervous wreck and
could barely eat or sleep for fear.  My neighbor Ro --
that's short for Rosemary," she explains, pouring the
coffee, "knew Viola and introduced us.  I've got a good ten
years on both of 'em.  Well, long story short, we clicked
like sisters and she came to stay with me through the worst
of it.  Now it's my turn."

"I'm sure you never anticipated a replay of the same crime,
the same kind of assault on your friend, with Harry Cokely
dead for so many years," he adds.

"Oh, Lord, no!  How something so terrible can be repeated
again, that's beyond me.  And who could it be?  It's a
nightmare for everybody, especially those of us who live
alone or where it's less populated.  I actually fear for my
life now that this fiend is afoot."  She slumps at the
table, grasping her cup between wrinkled hands that tremble.

Scully reaches over to squeeze the older woman's hand with
her own sympathetic fingers.  It dawns on Mulder that the
two woman share a special bond.  He remembers now that Linda
was left in Scully's care during the case of '94, while he
went out in search of B.J.  His partner brought her to the
police station in Aubrey to report the attack, effectively
blowing the lid off of Tillman's complacent denial.

"Who are these other women?"  Scully questions her with
gentleness.

"Oh, Viola, of course.  Ro and Alice Marshall from the
hospital.  Even some of the nurses who work there.  The
check-out ladies at the grocery store have said the same
thing, Agent Scully."

"Did you know Gwen DiAngelo?"

"Just as an aide who helped Viola.  Such a horrible, unfair
way for a person to go..."

"Do you know someone by the name of Natalie Warner?"

At his question, both women turn their heads toward Mulder,
and Linda shakes hers in disgust.  "One of the biggest
mouths there is in Aubrey," she says, venom in her voice.
"Milksop husband and a brat for a child.  Knows everything
and anything, especially if it's hurtful.  The woman's a
hellkite, plain and simple."

"Apt word," comments Scully, throwing a look to Mulder.

He tucks the point away for later, more private discussion
and attempts to explain the reason for his question to Linda
Thibodeaux.  "I'm trying to establish a common thread or
causal connection among those people we've encountered
during this case.  Some of these connections are obvious,
like your biological ties to B.J. and her son Benjie.
Others are not so clear cut."

Linda's eyes glisten and she blinks at the mention of the
child's name, so he pursues that tack.  "I want you to know
that I visited with B.J. Morrow yesterday, at the prison
hospital.  She's worried about her son's safety in light of
the new attacks here."

"She's a mother," Linda whispers.  "Of course she'd sense
something like that.  It's instinctual.  And as much as I
despise what that fiendish man did to me so long ago, I
truly regret that I never had the joy of raising my own
child or appreciating my granddaughter.  So I feel a special
kind of protectiveness for that little boy."

He doesn't want to risk looking at Scully, to see the effect
these words have on her.  Later, he thinks... later when
they've both had time to mull over the conversation and he
sees how she fares.

It surprises him, therefore, to hear her pose the next
question to Linda.  "Can we safely conjecture, because
you're Benjie Tillman's great-grandmother and concerned
about his welfare, that you've enlisted Viola's help in
looking out for him -- using her as your eyes on the bus and
in Aubrey?"

"It's true," she says, dabbing now with her napkin.  "We
both cringe to see how he's treated by the children.  And
there are other signs, like his skin, his sad little face.
For years we wondered how he was faring.  I don't know Mrs.
Tillman as a person... but I think a woman can take better
care of a child than *she* seems to.  Pardon me for being
overly critical."

"Have you ever approached Lieutenant Tillman about your
concerns?"

Linda shakes her head vigorously.  "No, never.  He seems a
very proud, private man.  I don't think he'd take it well,
coming from me.  I imagine *she* wouldn't, and then I'd fear
for the boy.  You never know how some people will react."

"That's true," says Mulder, scooting his chair closer to the
table.  "Let me deviate for second and ask another, slightly
unrelated question: are you the one who set fire to Harry
Cokely's house in Gainesville?"

He's aware of Scully's startled expression without looking
toward her, but Linda Thibodeaux doesn't blink an eye as she
returns his stare.  Despite years of hardship, fear, and
trauma she displays strength of will and a sense of
vengeance he finds admirable.  The woman has spunk -- and
he's convinced she must have passed these same valuable
survivor's traits on to B.J.... and now to Benjie.

"Yes, that was me."  Her voice is hushed as her eyes become
vacant, dredging past memories.  "I went alone shortly after
he died and never told a living soul about it."

"Why?"

She shakes her head.  "Why did I do it?  Agent Mulder, after
all the harm and heartache that evil man caused me, I took
pleasure in burning the pigsty he called a home.  I wanted
to destroy all evidence of his existence on this earth."

Scully moves closer to the tormented woman, clasping her
hand once more and re-directing her gaze.  They contemplate
one another in the quiet kitchen, the older and the younger
-- two women robbed of their children, ssharing similar pain
and experiences that Linda Thibodeaux could not even fathom
or imagine.

"It's possible to obliterate something inanimate, like a
house," Scully points out, her voice low and measured, "but
Benjie Tillman, as a flesh and blood child, is also living
evidence of Cokely's existence --"

"Oh, come, Agent Scully!  I know the difference.  That
little child didn't ask to come into the world in the manner
he did any more than my --" She falters, swallowing, "than
my own unfortunate son who I gave up for adoption.  But what
choice did I have back then -- a child born from rape?  From
a murderer like that?"

Mulder slides back from the table, not wanting to intrude
upon this intensely personal exchange, but Linda Thibodeaux
is quick to notice his intention.  She seizes his hand, both
partners now held fast by her grasping fingers.  Her mouth
works silently for long moments, eyes swimming with tears of
desperation before she's able to speak in a heavy whisper.

"I'm so afraid... for myself and now Viola.  The evil that
came from this man *must* be cut off before anyone else gets
hurt or dies.  Promise me you'll do everything and anything
you can to stop it.  Please..."

************
End of Chapter 10


************
Chapter 11
************

Conestoga Motel
November 6, 2000
8:12 p.m.

This time Mulder is the partner with no appetite.

Hungry for substance and theory rather than burgers and
fries, he's a man on a mission.  All the way home from
Edmond he stewed over what was revealed at Linda
Thibodeaux's and the impasse that taunts them in this case.
His foot tapped the gas pedal in time to an inner beat only
he could fathom or follow.

Now he's pounding willy-nilly down the rabbit trail,
something he's done for years.  She knows it's how he thinks
best, after countless hours, countless cases observing this
behavior.  Fluctuations of intensity.  Engrossed in thought
one minute, then flicking the TV in his room from station to
station the next.  As always, she's expected to keep pace
with his long strides and unbelievably high hurdles of
logic, to put rationality on hold and hang on for the ride.

"Scully, what would happen if a train suddenly jumped its
own tracks?"

When he's not silent and meditative he's driving her crazy
with disjointed, unrelated questions thrown out like fly
balls to confound and challenge her thinking.  She feels
more like the scrabbling outfielder run ragged during a
practice session than a fellow contender.  But ever the
sport she plays his game, catching with her usual smooth
poise, drawing from a well-used cache of thoughtful, honest
responses.

"Logically?  I suppose it would derail and wreck, Mulder.
Why?"

"Or..." He savors his words, his eyes glowing green-gold and
glued to the screen of the muted TV, "suppose it was somehow
able to find an alternate route.  A new groove.  Another way
to continue on its journey."

She gives voice to her disbelief with an impatient huff.
"Even the 'little engine that could' had its limitations.
The Cannonball Express, with Casey Jones at the throttle,
couldn't defy gravity or the laws of physics..."

Shaking his head, he snaps the off button on the remote and
tosses it onto the coffee table with a thud of dismissal.
"I was thinking about Chaney and Ledbetter... Something
Chaney wrote down in his journal, in reference to the
psychopathic mind: 'One must wonder how these monsters are
created.  Did their home life mold them into creatures that
must maim and kill, or are they demons from birth?'"

"I'll admit he was perceptive for the times."

"High praise coming from a charter member of the Tim
Ledbetter fan club."

His sarcastic taunt, a by-product of their first abrasive
exchange in Aubrey, infuriates her to the point of
defensiveness.  "That's a low blow -- I have nothing but
respect for Chaney.  He broke ground in a very unforgiving
field that, back then, was denigrated by the law enforcement
community in general."

"Why, thank you, Dr. Scully."

It's just like Mulder to esteem her scowl and raised middle
finger.  Such spirit invigorates him when he's on the chase
and, understanding that, she decides to bridle her
indignation for the good of this impromptu brainstorming
session.

"I was going to elucidate," she points out, "that the
psychological and scientific communities in the early '40's
were also less than sympathetic toward the perpetrators of
such heinous crimes as well as the men who sought to solve
them.  Especially with psychopathology still in its
infancy."

He nods, encouraged by her participation.  "The term wasn't
even a part of psychiatric nomenclature until the early
1950s.  Chaney derived most of his theories from a man named
Hervey Cleckly, who published a landmark book called 'The
Mask of Insanity' in 1941.  Hot off the presses,
revolutionary, and a wealth of information for an agent who
was hell-bent on investigating so-called 'stranger killings'
in his spare time.  Good thing Chaney and Ledbetter were
fast readers."

Curiosity piqued, she toes off her shoes to curl up on
Mulder's small couch, tucking her legs.  "What made
Cleckly's approach so distinctive?"

"Ah, so kind of you to ask..."

Warming to his subject and her apparent interest, he claims
the cushion next to hers, tossing away the puffy pillow and
crowding her feet.  She watches him loosen his tie as he
sits back, his long legs stretched out over the carpet.

"He was the first to develop sixteen distinct criteria for
clinical assessment of so-called 'moral insanity.'  In
essence it was early cataloguing or profiling, using
descriptors like 'manipulative,' 'self-centered,' and
'lacking in empathy' in order to focus on the specific
behavioral manifestations that characterized these
offenders."

"Except now," she adds, "the focus is on APD or Antisocial
Personality Disorder, which has slowly broadened its field
to include genetic inheritance, environment, physiological
imbalances, temporal lobe injury, the body's own
neurochemistry --"

He leers at her.  "You trying to turn me on?"

"Be serious, Mulder.  Our culture, to a certain extent,
still resists blaming the body for psychotic abnormality,
rather than more thoroughly pursuing that avenue.
Physiology, the environment, and comportment are all
interconnected.  Thus, it's believed that a child with
inherited criminal traits can still be nurtured, through
good parenting, toward acceptable social behaviors."

"Doesn't sound like anyone we know..."

His sarcastic allusion to the Tillman child clouds her
thoughts; she settles her chin into a palm, conscious of a
heavy weight when she sees regret in Mulder's face.  He
reaches down to massage her toes with a reassuring hand.

"Hey, forget I said that.  Shake it off for now, Scully.
Let's go back to Chaney's quote about demons from birth."

"The bad seed scenario?"

"Yeah.  You're the classic movie buff," he says, twisting
toward her on the cushion.  "Just for grins, give me a quick
synopsis of the film that helped shape popular thought and
layman's theory in the 1950's."

She closes her eyes for a moment, summoning recollections of
one memorable shore leave from childhood.  Dimmed living
room lamps, her father's accommodating arm and whispered
narrative, and the soft, silvery black and white flicker
from their old TV in San Diego.

"The story revolved around an eight year-old girl, blonde
and pig-tailed.  Impossibly sweet on the outside, she was
actually a manipulative and cold-hearted killer.  She
dispatched -- most foully, by the way -- a landlady, a young
schoolmate, the handyman, and had her own mother's murder
planned before the movie ends."

Mulder raises his brows, impressed.

"It seems that the little girl's mother was adopted as a
toddler.  While investigating her roots the woman discovered
she was, in actuality, the biological offspring of a
psychotic murderess who exhibited no conscience or respect
for human life."

"Did justice prevail?  With the little girl, I mean," he
prompts.

"Well, she was zapped by a lightning bolt in the movie's
final scene, while going to retrieve a prize she had killed
for.  A very biblical and just retribution.  See it
sometime, Mulder, you'd appreciate the allegory."

He grins.  "I'd rather watch you tell it."

The words bring shy warmth to her cheeks, self-consciousness
making her fight to keep her thoughts aligned.  "So... in
essence, the young girl had inherited this 'bad seed' from
her grandmother and was perpetuating the same gross
iniquities."

"And hence the spread of the false, though widely-accepted
theory that a 'bad seed' will skip a generation -- like
twinning.  Gotta love the power of Hollywood."

"My one close encounter with Hollywood," she states with
quiet emphasis, "was enough to last a lifetime, thank you."

"Agreed."

"So, why bring up the subject of the bad seed again?"

The movie industry has nothing on her simple question, which
galvanizes Mulder from his comfortable perch on the couch to
resume a well-worn path over the carpet.  She watches as he
paces, navy blue suit coat flapping open and askew, tie
swaying in a small arc when he makes his turns.

"Psychopaths.  Let's think about this... Are they demons
from birth, as Chaney posits, or..."

"Or what?"

He gives a melodramatic spin on his heel and stares at her,
eyes green and cat-like.  "Or can the demon be directed by
other means?  Can it pick its target?  Let's think beyond
genetics and blood relatives, here.  I'm talking about the
hypothetical train jumping its track, Scully.  Something so
uniquely paranormal that it would appear impossible and
therefore go undetected and circumvent normal investigative
procedure."

"My God, Mulder..." She wants to throw in the towel after
this declaration and decides to rub her temple instead.
"You call *that* a respectable hunch?  A cogent leap of
logic?"

"I call it a fucking rational probability when all the
other, usual theories have come up dead or empty.  Stay with
me on this."

She straightens up on the soft cushion of the couch,
crossing her legs at the ankles and spreading her hands
expansively over her lap.  "Okay, Sherlock, I'm all ears.
Give it to me with both barrels."

Circling, he pulls up a chair to face her and sits down,
thighs apart and tensed as though he's prepared to spring to
his feet again.

"We've both run into empathetic transference, which B.J.
experienced here six years ago.  Now, the biological,
genetic lineage from Harry Cokely goes nowhere, except to
Benjie Tillman.  Like you, I doubt he possesses the physical
stamina necessary to carry out these attacks.  I think the
real killer has taken pains to throw suspicion on the boy,
but is still controlled -- as B.J. and Benjie are affected -
- by the re-awakened demonic power that  lusts to kill.
Remember Bill Patterson from ISU and the demon-spirit of the
gargoyle that jumped straight to him from John Mostow?"

She gives a somber nod.  "But why now?  What triggered it
again here in Aubrey?"

"Good question.  And one we may not understand until we can
focus on who the real killer is.  Which in the meantime,
leaves our boy Benjie in a world of hurt."

"Do you have any ideas?"

Still rapt in contemplation, he takes her hands in his,
running his thumbs meditatively over the fine bones on the
backs.  He traces the network of thin veins as though each
slow pass of his thumb will guide him closer to unraveling
the mystery.  Large and warm, compelling, his hands rest on
top of her thighs; she allows him to use her flesh to guide
his thoughts.  A far cry from the old days...

"No," he confesses, "but I'm convinced we've been diverted
by false assumptions.  We're stymied.  We need to regroup
and come up with something else before there's another
attack."

"Or before Skinner decides to shorten our leash and haul us
back to D.C."

"Exactly.  So, instead of following the killer's trail and
second-guessing his motivations... I think it would make
better sense to turn the spotlight back onto the victims
themselves."

She finds herself reacting with irritation, pulling her
hands away.  "Mulder, I realize victimology is a field of
study that's just recently getting the respect it deserves
as a science, but how would you even proceed?"

"By finding the common thread, like I told Linda Thibodeaux.
We need the single denominator, the one synchronous element
that can pull this all together... and bingo--"

"What?"

"We have the killer nailed."

"Too simplistic," she demurs, shaking her head.

"No, too easily overlooked, too easily dismissed."
Clutching her hands, he brings them up to press against his
lips.  Staring over them, his gaze penetrates hers with
sheer, focused determination.  "It's time for extreme
possibilities, Scully, because the usual methods have
crapped out on us again.  And let's face it -- because time
is getting short."

************

Tillman residence
November 6, 2000
8:45 p.m.

"No word yet?"

Tillman shakes his head, standing.  He snicks off the TV
with a finger, wipes his mustache, and then stacks the limp
and dirtied paper plates and Styrofoam boxes that litter an
end table.

Nachos and buffalo wings from The Grill.  Bachelor fare.
Nice of Darnell to stop over with food and two cold Fat
Tires after Benjie went down to sleep, but now his stomach
feels like popping its top, even without the beer factor.
He tries -- and fails -- to stifle a rousing burp.

"Nothing," he says, patting his stomach, "and it makes me
damn uncomfortable.  I'd at least expect her sister to be
home.  Someone in the family."

"Maybe she joined them on a trip.  You never know."

"That's the trouble... I never know."

Darnell shrugs on his coat and stands in awkward silence,
digging into his pockets.  A small car made from multi-
colored Lego blocks catches his eye and he gestures toward
it with an elbow.  "The boy doing okay?"

"Yeah," Tillman replies grudgingly, "even though he's been
through hell.  He still won't talk about it."

"Except to Mulder," he could add, but doesn't.  He battles
too much shame and pride to admit that Fox Mulder touches
something in his child that he, as a father, hasn't been
able to reach in six years of close contact.  Hasn't
bothered, or wanted to, until now...

Despite Benjie's exposure to trauma and murder, Tillman has
to admit that the boy has changed since Janine's departure.
Could it be because he's away from school and no longer
dealing with the stress of bus rides and peer pressure?
Even today he seemed more relaxed, looser, more like a
normal kid.  Most surprising was the way he came forward of
his own accord this morning to thank Agent Scully for her
gift.  A shy, backward boy like Benjie...

"Listen, Joe," he says to Darnell, "I want you to know I
really appreciate the way you've handled things these last
couple of days, especially with me tied up here after the
murder.  Go on home and let the rest of the gang take over.
You deserve a break."

Rather than looking pleased, the other man wears an odd
expression of discomfort that almost resembles guilt.  He
turns at the door and hesitates before replying.

"Gotta be straight with you, Brian.  I had mucho help.  If
it wasn't for Agent Scully, well... let's just say this
DiAngelo case wouldn't be nearly as clean or by-the-book;
she's something else to work with.  I'm glad she's back for
this.  Agent Mulder, too."

He feels a sense of loss when Darnell leaves, grief so sharp
he slumps into a chair, the cleaning up forgotten.  He could
almost cry, faced with the bleakness of another long night
alone.  Uncertainty for the future hangs over him like a
black cloud of judgment and he rubs his face hard with both
hands.  He longs for companionship and simplicity.  He longs
for B.J. and what he used to have with Janine.

Most of all, he sorely misses the unconditional closeness
and acceptance of another human being.  The tender comfort
that only a loving woman can give a man.

************

Conestoga Motel
November 6, 2000
9:20 p.m.

It's late and time *is* getting short.  He's just about
convinced Scully that they should sleep on this new theory
of his.  That wild, thumping sex and then a good night's
rest would do wonders for both of them.

Dinner?  What the hell -- he can forego food if she can.
Besides, her body provides him with enough of a sensual
banquet that he can barely wait to dig in and make a pig of
himself.  No manners, just pure appetite.

On his knees before the couch, boxing her in with his arms,
he breathes into the fragrant curve of her neck and
shoulder.  He notes how her thighs have parted and straddle
his sides little by little, her breasts nudging his chest.
She's tender and compliant, so he's convinced Scully must
need this too.  Last night was all angst and cuddle for
them.  Comfort food.  Now he expects more, hoping to thrust
his way inside to plumb her soft depths again.  To close his
eyes and let his dick be the ultimate guide.

"Hey," he murmurs, sliding his lips to her earlobe for a
languorous suck, "bet you didn't know that every year 11,000
Americans injure themselves while trying out bizarre sexual
positions."

She chuckles and he's not sure whether it's from the tickle
at her ear or his unconventional seduction talk.

"I'm not into bizarre right now, Mulder.  I get enough
'bizarre' from the job, let alone wanting it in my bed."

"Is that so?"  Testing her receptivity, he slides his hands
from behind her back and repositions them at the inner
creases of her thighs, fingertips brushing inward, over her
clothing, to the sweet spot that hides between her legs.
"Z'at feel good?  Not too bizarre for you?"

"Mmmm... you know it does... is.  Isn't."  She shudders and
grasps his head, claiming a kiss with her own searching
lips.  Her fingers do a slow dance through the hair at the
back of his neck, while her hips grow loose and promising
against him.

"How about this?"  His voice sounds drunk, slurred and husky
from want.  With both hands he plucks at her crotch seam,
seeking out the contours of her hidden folds, teasing her
clit with slow and synchronized thumb strokes.  "Vulval
massage is supposed to be the new foreplay.  It's all the
rage."

"The *new* --" That gets him a gurgling belly laugh and an
answering grind of her hips.  "On whose authority, Mulder?"

He revels in her utter sensuality, her open-mouthed mirth
and acceptance.  Desire pulls him down to the peaks of her
breasts.  He loves the way her chest heaves against his
face, the way her nipples harden and pout just beneath the
thin layers of fabric.  This close, he can breathe in the
distinctive scent emanating from the garden between her
thighs.  Scully's arousal, sweet and so good.  He wants to
lower his mouth to her dark, rosy furrows and graze himself
silly.

"Secret sources," he whispers.  "It's worth a try... see
what all the fuss is about..."

The ring of his phone cleaves his passion as effectively as
Lorena Bobbitt's knife.  He curses and lumbers to his feet,
grabbing for the receiver.  Already his balls clench in
protest; he grabs them, too, for good measure.

"Mulder," he answers, his throat dry.  The fruits of his
efforts slowly evaporate while he's busy absorbing the
message on the phone.  Her high color fading, Scully sits
up, smoky eyes on his.  "Understood, Lieutenant, we're right
on it."  He replaces the phone, bleak of face and blue-
balled.

"Tillman?"

"Yeah.  Intruder across town.  In light of the case, he
thought we should check it out first hand."

It occurs to him that this is the second time a call from
Tillman has played havoc with his love life.  Curving a hand
over his aching manhood, he sees with dismay that Scully has
become all business and hustle, donning her winter coat and
snagging her weapon.

"Later," she assures him, giving his cupped hand a gentle,
knowing pat as she heads for the door.  His stomach rumbles
while he slings on his own gun; hoping she's good for it, he
follows her lead.

************

Few streetlights or homes dot this rural road.  The house in
question rims the south edge of town, bordering woods on one
side, open prairie on the other.  It looks all the same,
however, when he and Scully churn up the driveway in the
windy darkness of late evening.

Gus and Essie Nieslanick, retired farmers.  Their neat, out-
dated kitchen has the same homey smell as Linda
Thibodeaux's.  Mulder can understand their paranoia, with
murder practically in their back yard and the infernal wind
blowing weird tunes around the house.  The husband, he
notes, has a shotgun handy on the counter, resting right
next to the cookie jar.  Mulder smiles at the incongruity.

"It's registered, if that's what you're wonderin' about,"
the codger says gruffly.  "Hunting and home protection."

"Glad to hear it.  NRA?"

"No other way to go, Sonny.  What about you?"

Scully's well-timed interruption prevents him from either
lying his head off or raising the geezer's hackles.  He
watches how the old couple gravitates toward her, drawn to
her womanhood and sympathetic, but commanding tone like bees
to honey.  Just minutes ago he, too, was buzzing around her
hive, hoping to savor her sweetness in more intimate ways.
Giving himself a surreptitious scratch under his coat, he
wonders how Scully fares on that level.  All he can see of
her short figure is windblown red hair and dark coat.

"Somebody's been trespassin', pokin' around with a
flashlight.  Saw 'em out the bathroom window.  And at this
ungodly hour," the old man rants.  "*Damn* inconsiderate, if
you want my opinion."

Mulder can't disagree with Gus Nieslanick's sentiments.  He
opts to go out and check the shed area, while Scully and two
others from the Aubrey police department arrange to sweep
the attached garage and outside perimeter.

It's also ungodly cold out, despite the lack of snow in the
forecast.  His breath looks like cotton and he wishes for
something to warm his ears in the freezing night air.
Scully's hot limber thighs could be squeezing them right
now, if not for Tillman's phone call.  But, never being much
of a hat man, he flaps his collar higher and makes the best
of it.

He locates a ramshackle shed-turned-garage on the edge of
the woods, one end hinged to open.  A score of old license
plates hang along the side, nailed into place like makeshift
quilting blocks.  Entering, he finds the shed home to
various tools and an older model of car, a well-kept beater.
No electric light or heat.  Nothing seems to be amiss, but
he plays his flashlight's beam over the vehicle, scuffed
workbench, and other piles of assorted junk before leaving.

The huge door barely shuts when a blow from behind cracks
against his skull.  He wheels and collides with a tree
trunk, stars flashing before him, empty air meeting his wild
grasps for purchase.

On his face in cold leaves and gravel, he hears phantom
footsteps scuffle and fade into the surrounding blackness.
Shit, he's no better than a green recruit caught with his
pants down.  He rolls to his side and tries to sit up, but
flops back onto the ground, helpless and nearly cataleptic,
bleeding into his eyes from his tree-hugging encounter.

How long he's down for the count remains a mystery, but at
some point in time he hears Scully's cry.  Her skillful
hands read his face, head, and neck, then work to staunch
his wound and wipe away the sticky mess with tissues from
her coat pocket.  She calls out to their counterparts that
an agent is down, ordering them with a voice of authority to
fan out and check the surrounding woods and other
residences.

"My God, Mulder," she murmurs, leaning toward him when the
others leap to obey.  "Who did this?  What did you see?"

"Every constellation known to man, and then some."  With her
help, he sits up and groans in pain.  She shines the
flashlight to the back of his head, pointblank into his
eyes, and gives a worried sigh.

"You'll need stitches front and back.  You may also have a
concussion, so let's get you to the hospital.  Can you walk,
or should I call for an ambulance?"

"No... shit, no ambulance.  My attacker took off into the
woods..." In the distance he hears a dog's incessant
barking, reminiscent of Linda Thibodeaux's rangy beast.
Someone crunches behind him, treading heavily on gravel.
"Who --?"

Hands other than Scully's, large bearish mitts, hoist him
upright to his feet.  Turning on wobbly knees, he comes face-
to-face with Gus Nieslanick and his shotgun.  "It's okay,
Sonny.  The other cops went up to check on the Marshalls.
They live right up the way.  That's their dog makin' all the
ruckus."

The name strikes a familiar ring... where has he heard it?
Scully supplies him with the answer when she says, "We've
heard of Alice Marshall, who organizes the hospital
volunteers.  Same family?"

"Yup.  Her son Steve, his wife, and the five kids.  Plus a
nice little grandma apartment right there for Alice.  Dog
doesn't usually bark unless provoked, though.  Essie!"  He
hollers toward the house.  "Get on the horn and call over to
Marshall's, see if everything's okay."

Mulder stumbles along between Gus's grizzled muscle and
Scully's shorter, slighter frame.  The journey seems endless
when he spots the Corolla parked at the side of the house.
Almost there, he needs to rest again, to lay down his poor
splitting head... He feels his knees buckle, his eyesight
swim as they gain on the car.

"Yeah," Gus comments, sounding muted and far away. "Alice is
an old friend of ours.  Heart like gold and sure dotes on
those grandkids.  We loan out the old car back there in the
shed when she has a need to drive anywhere.  Good thing the
bastard that nailed you didn't steal it, or..."

"Or what?"  He eases into the passenger side and lolls on
the headrest toward the man's voice, not willing to accept
that he feels the urgent need to vomit.

"Why, I'd have had to exercise my right to bear arms,
wouldn't I?  Home protection.  My God-given privilege as an
American citizen."

Holding the wad of tissue to his forehead wound, Mulder
breathes back a reply.  He flinches when his partner shuts
the doors, thanks the farmer for his help, and starts the
ignition.  All sounds, all movement seems amplified and
overwhelming, then foggy to his brain as he wavers toward
unconsciousness and back again.  Preoccupied with the
business of driving, Scully asks him what he'd said to Gus.

"Ummm... 'Fucking-A', I think... or was it 'Semper Fi'?"

She snorts, a comforting sound that makes him smile through
the pain, nausea, and jostle over the unpaved road.  He
knows his weak attempt at humor and brave front can't fool
Scully when she's in full-blown rescue mode.  And now he can
kiss good-bye the mind-blowing sex he had planned for later
tonight...

The car accelerates and spits gravel from its rear tires,
proof of her apprehension and urgent rush to get him to
Memorial Hospital.

************
End of Chapter 11


************
Chapter 12
************

Tillman residence
November 6, 2000
11:50 p.m.

Sounds penetrate his light slumber, teasing him awake.  He
stirs and they skitter like mice to hide in the dark corners
of his consciousness.  Unidentifiable, yet familiar and
unsettling.  Janine must be home, Tillman thinks, sprawled
on his back across the living room couch, forearms shading
his eyes.  About Goddamn time, too...

His mind lurches awake in the dimness.  Creak of the stairs,
the floorboards.  A nearby rustle of clothing.  Opening one
bleary eye he peeks, hoping to catch her mid-sneak and drive
the nail of guilt deep into his prodigal spouse.

Instead, Benjie's diminutive body comes into focus.

"Hi, Champ."  Though surprised by the boy's unexpected
presence and close proximity, he whispers so as not to scare
him.  "You okay?  Do you need a drink of water?"

The child drifts past him toward the kitchen, oblivious.
Sleepwalking.  He doesn't do that, never has.  Nightmares,
yes -- even the ones they call 'night terrors' that make him
shake and sweat.  But never these slow, controlled, robotic
movements that make him appear caught in some sort of alien
tractor beam.

"Benj?"

He jerks upright when he sees that his son walks fully
clothed, coat stuffed under his arm, tufts of bed hair
sticking up like antennae.  On his feet are the old grass-
stained sneakers with Velcro closures he'd worn all summer.
At the kitchen door he turns and vanishes with purpose,
ghostly and silent.

Sudden fear smothers all other sentiment and makes Tillman
harsh in his reaction.  Mulder's words return to haunt him
with their weird claims of Benjie's crafty prowess in the
dark, of his son's familiarity with the nooks and crannies
of Aubrey.  That he responds to invisible messages sent by
an unknown force.  Ridiculous, yet --

"All right... stop right there!"

Leaping to his stocking feet, he strides to the kitchen and
catches the boy at the back door, yanking the small hand
from the doorknob and spinning him around like a top on the
slippery linoleum.

Blankness.  Benjie's expression has the eerie vacuity of a
zoo animal held captive too long or of a classic horror film
zombie.  Tillman examines his glazed eyes, the set jaw of
his child, now so foreign and threatening that he seems
almost a stranger.  His flesh crawls when the boy suddenly
growls and struggles against him.  Small wiry muscles are no
match for his stronger adult grasp on the celery-stick arms
and shoulders.

The boy strains, his eyes bulging and wet, then collapses
with a cry at his father's feet.

"My God --" Bending, Tillman scoops up Benjie's feather-
light form and carries him into the living room, gaining the
couch with the boy slung limp as a fish across his lap.  The
child blinks and stirs.

"Daddy?"

"Yeah, Daddy's here, Benj..." He hugs his son to his chest,
rocking him against a heart that pounds from rapid-fire
beats.  "Tell me what happened."

With his father's help the child sits upright.  Again the
moist lower lip distends and trembles, stubborn and pink.
Benjie shakes his head, blue eyes swimming with fear and
confusion before the tears spill and he begins to wipe at
his face.

************

On route to Aubrey Memorial Hospital
November 7, 2000
12:03 a.m.

It could prove to be a very long night.

The brain, Scully knows, is essentially a precious, fragile
yolk within the skull's firm shell.  Protected, yet helpless
against whatever concussive forces slam against its prison,
jarring it within its womb.  During the race to the hospital
she mentally examines every contingency, every possible
avenue Mulder's injury could take.

It's been a short year since his recovery from the Smoking
Man's hack surgery, so the direst of prognoses come rushing
through her mind like a flood of debris.  Subdural hematoma.
Brain damage with resultant, progressive motor impairment.
Neurological disorders.  Migraine headaches, vision
problems.

Then again, maybe nothing.  He's been struck on the head
many times before, as she has, and been fine.

Halfway there he groans for her to pull over, falling out
the car door in his haste to retch along the curb.  Dry
heaves, because they've had no dinner, and both painful to
watch and overhear.  Her throat tightens in empathy, her
chest and diaphragm constricting in vicarious tension with
each spasm from his crouched form.

She notices a bright blood smear on the plastic headrest.
Digging through the glove compartment she finds a few more
tissues for his mouth and gashed head, helps him back in,
and continues on toward the hospital.  Vomiting, indicative
of a grade two or three concussion.  Yet he claims no memory
loss, insisting he can recollect all details of the attack
and what preceded it.

This ability, if true, would be atypical.

In the clinical atmosphere of Aubrey Memorial, Mulder turns
irritable and pugnacious, another symptom of head injury.
She presses for him to get a CT scan, which he refuses, as
well as the recommended MRI.  His stubbornness in front of
medical personnel is an old story and still cause for
embarrassment, worry, and frustration.  The emergency room
physician, looking from one adamant agent to the other,
finally orders his lanky patient to sit down and shut his
mouth so he can sew up the damage without delay.

Her cell phone trills just as the local anesthetic is
administered to Mulder's second wound.  Holding up a
forefinger, she moves toward the door for a breather and
presses the button.  "Dana Scully."

"Agent Scully?"  It's Tillman, his breathing ragged, voice
tight from anxiety.  "Sorry to use this number, but there
was no answer at your motel room.  I need to talk to you."

"What about, Lieutenant?"

"Benjie.  He's..." He breaks off and she hears him speaking
to the child in muted, calming tones.  "Something's wrong,"
he resumes.  "He's been in some kind of trance.  Got up and
dressed himself and was going outside when I caught up to
him."

Dear God... Another cumbersome weight for her to undertake,
another burden to bear.  She hasn't dared to admit it until
now, but because of the late hour and the hospital setting,
thoughts of Emily have slowly begun to percolate to the
surface again.  Everything bleeds of children tonight or of
loved ones in distress.

She closes her eyes in weariness, phone imprinting the side
of her cheek.  "Is he cognizant now?"

"Yeah, he's doing better.  Kind of restless and upset.  I'd
like you to check him out as soon as possible -- to see if
this is connected to something Agent Mulder said the other
night.  I don't believe in any of that hogwash, but..."

... But, you never know, she finishes in her mind.  Join the
club, Lieutenant Tillman.  She opens her eyes and spots
Mulder's patented glower from across the ER.  He's already
guessed the caller.

"Listen," she says, "As much as I hate to disappoint you,
it'll have to wait until morning.  I'm at the hospital with
Agent Mulder now.  He was injured by an unknown assailant
when we were checking out the intruder call-in across town."

"Bad?"

"No, superficial... but a head wound nonetheless.  There's
nothing to connect it with previous attacks other than the
fact that he was bludgeoned from behind.  And because of a
probable concussion I need to keep him under observation
tonight."

Tillman doesn't reply to this admission; she resents that
she's made to feel compromised, as though edging a moral
line of demarcation.  As if this disclosure suggests a more
personal investment than simple partnership...

"I trust that's amenable to you," she finishes.

"All right," he concurs.  "Tell him I'm sorry it happened.
And please come by as soon as you can in the morning.  I'd
really appreciate it, Agent Scully."

Mulder's pupils seem dilated to owlish proportions despite
the bright lights.  Lying down on an examining table, he
sweeps out a hand toward her when she returns, then squares
his jaw when the doctor begins serious stitching.  His eyes,
however, continue to track her face like radar.

"Everything's fine," she fibs, downplaying Tillman's call.
"We'll discuss it when you're done here."  Their fingers
touch, tips twining briefly, and then separate.  Still in
medical mode, she crosses her arms and edges toward the head
of the table to oversee the doctor's handiwork at close
quarters.

Three small stitches to the front, four to the back.
Awaiting the okay for release, they sit together in a small
area near the ER, surrounded by framed prints of flower
bouquets and pastel-colored English gardens.  Rather than
projecting a peaceful aura in a place of pain and fearful
uncertainty, it has the opposite effect on Mulder.  He
rifles through a pile of dog-eared magazines in
perturbation, his elbow brushing hers as he flips pages and
discards one periodical after another.

"So, why should he want *you* -- when I was the one who
opened my big mouth to the kid?"  His words are quiet, but
blustering.  "I put those thoughts, those suggestions, into
Benjie's head."

"I can't answer that," she says quickly.  Mulder can stay
ignorant about her impromptu gift to the boy; in truth,
she'd prefer that the subject sink like a stone, never to
resurface.  "But the fact still remains, you're injured and
I'm not.  *I* won't have the mother of all headaches
tomorrow morning, like you will.  It just makes sense."

"How'd he get your cell number?"

It's another question she can't readily answer without a few
dicey moments of introspection.  "From Darnell, I would
imagine.  I remember giving it to him the night of the
DiAngelo murder, when I left the crime scene to join you
over at Tillman's."

He grunts, unconvinced, and flips aside an older issue of
Farm Journal magazine.  This caveman routine of Mulder's --
she's not used to the possessiveness he displays tonight,
the accountability he demands.  She decides to chalk it up
to lack of food, exhaustion, and the beaning he took behind
Nieslanick's shed.  It lays a rebellious bruise on her
spirit, another burden she must shoulder at a time when her
patience wears thin as the white gauze covering his
stitches.

Head injury or no, he seems aware of her unease.  "You're my
doctor, Scully," he mutters, dabbing his forehead with a
grimace, pulling for her attention.  "My partner.  You watch
my back, know all my quirks... like Goethe says..."

His rambling prompts a quizzical, indulgent smile and she
shoots him a look.  "Goethe, Mulder?  The German poet?"

"'Certain flaws are necessary for the whole.  It would seem
strange if old friends lacked certain quirks,'" he quotes
slowly.  "Intriguing that he was a scientist as well as a
poet..."

Beneath the red, swollen abrasion and the cottony bandage on
his forehead, his eyes are tired and pleading, gray circles
beneath.  It cements her decision to resume care for him
back at the motel.

"You're right on all counts," she says, glancing from his
face to her watch and squeezing his hand.  "Let's get the
hell out of here, Mulder.  It's time for me to take you
home."

************

Conestoga Motel
November 7, 2000
1:28 a.m.

Scully knows the drill.  Never permit someone with a
concussion to sleep for long periods of time.  Wake him,
check his pupils, ask questions.  See if nausea persists
beyond the first few hours after injury.  Monitor his
responses, equilibrium, and speech.

Mulder still shows mild signs of dizziness, his footsteps
slow and shuffling.  Some of it she attributes to plain
weariness from the late hour and adrenaline letdown, but she
knows the hard blows have had their effect as well.  Parking
the car close to their rooms, she helps him out and steers
him across the dark asphalt to her door.

"Whoa, cowgirl... you must think I'm easy," he jokes, arm
draped heavily across her shoulder.  "What do you have in
mind?"

"Not what you're hoping," she says, the dryness evident in
her voice.

Walking with careful steps and her assistance, he sits down
on the edge of her bed while she clicks on the bedside lamp
and helps him off with the coat.  The wash of golden light
lends a comforting glow.  Tidiness rules, thanks to
housekeeping.  Fresh bedding and towels, the faint scent of
furniture polish and bathroom cleaner make the place homey
and acceptable in Scully's mind.  Now she can channel all
her effort toward monitoring Mulder.

"Something wrong with my room?"  He sounds puzzled and looks
toward the connecting door.

"No.  But any calls from the department will probably come
to my phone tonight.  I want to make things as easy as
possible on myself, since I don't anticipate getting much
sleep anyway."

"So... we're sleeping together."

Both his anticipatory tone and impish smile nudge her brow
to an arch.  "Essentially.  I need to keep an eye on you and
your quirks.  It won't be a picnic, Mulder."  She drapes
their coats over an armchair, hers lapping his.  "I have to
wake you up throughout the entire night and you're going to
hate me for it."

Chuckling, he leans between his knees with the intention of
untying his shoes, but the effort required elicits a deep
groan and grimace.  He tries a second time, with the same
result.

"Here, let me do that."

She dispenses with her own shoes first, then kneels on the
carpet to attend to his needs.  Ignoring the submissiveness
of the posture, it strikes her that she's doing Mulder an
especially intimate favor right now.  One at a time she
peels the socks down his ankles and heels to reveal feet
well-shaped and handsome for a man.  Thinly-veiled emotion
makes her appreciative and magnanimous; her fingers, in
tandem, knead his long, warm toes for another minute,
inching up the smooth skin of his arches to finish.

Above her head he moans in contentment, eyes reduced to mere
slits.  "Shit, Scully... I bet vulval massage doesn't hold a
candle to that."

"Shows how much you know," she says, busy with his rumpled
socks and footwear.

"Just joking.  I know exactly what you like.  Intimate
details... and the night's still young."

"Unfortunately, you're right about that."  Gaining her feet,
she's about to step away when his arms enfold her in a
spontaneous, affectionate hug.  Her breasts press and
flatten against his throat and shoulder as she finds herself
sighing over his head.  Blinking back fatigue and a bristle
of impatience, she relents long enough to absorb the warmth
and closeness he offers.  The soothing, familiar weight of
his hands settle over her hips, trail across her back.

"Scully, I'll be okay," he whispers and her eyes flutter
shut in response, startled by how well he reads her thoughts
and fears.  It disturbs her that walls weaken and tumble
down between them now without her conscious awareness.
Perhaps she's being stretched in far too many directions
this week, feeling the stress more than she should.  At
least Mulder has eluded danger once again... or so time will
tell after tonight.

Returning the hug, she nods and pulls back, her emotions
cloaked once she gains physical distance.  She urges him to
stand as well.  "You should use the bathroom first, so you
can get settled.  Will you need any help in there?"

"With what?"

His open-ended question catches her unprepared, brings color
to her face.  "With... I don't know.  You seem unsteady on
your feet..."

"I doubt it's affected my aim."

He's in rare form, for a casualty; invading her space as of
old, he stands close, grinning down at her in order to
prolong the discomfiture while he peruses her face.  She
can't suppress a reluctant smirk and wills her blush away as
she returns his stare.

"Maybe I should try for a shower," he muses, turning away to
clutch at the doorjamb.

"Tub bath only," she says, countermanding.  "And you're on
your own there."

"Then, forget it.  Um, 'scuse me a minute."  He scuffles
forward to station himself in front of the toilet, lifts the
lid, and pushes the door almost shut at the last second
before relieving himself.  The over-familiarity of this
close encounter, while not the norm, seems acceptable under
the circumstances.  Especially for two people who have come
to know one another's bodies as well as they have in recent
months.

"Jee-SUS, I've had to do that for hours," he laments, more
to himself than for her benefit.

"Well, you should've said something at the hospital."

"Right... and have one of those male nurses escort me in and
stand at my elbow?  Fuck that."

"You could be a much better patient, Mulder."

He snorts behind the door, preoccupied with who knows what.
"I've been *too* patient with the interruptions around
here," he points out.  She hears a blast of water scour her
sink, then the muted rattle of her toiletries being
manhandled.  "I'm gonna kick Tillman's ass, though, if he
calls again tonight.  Mark my words."

"What did you expect?  We *are* on a case.  Hey..." She
slaps the door in warning.  "Don't you dare think of using
my toothbrush... I'll go get yours.  Do you need anything
else from your room?"

"Nothing comes to mind."

Opening the connecting door, she flicks on a light and
checks his bedside phone on the fly.  No messages, a good
thing.  Despite the work of the housekeeping staff, she can
still catch his scent in the closed air of the room.  His
brown leather travel case gapes next to the sink, bulging
with manly supplies.  Zipping it shut, she returns to her
room and passes it through the gap he's left in the bathroom
door.

While he's occupied she has time to undress... and to think.
Not about sad, unchangeable things, she reminds herself.
Far too dangerous right now.  This case, this town, this
time of year -- all accentuate the feelings of grief and
loss that still plague her at night.

Mulder knows.  Reflecting on that in spite of herself, she
strips off her pants and straightens to unbutton the white
work blouse, then to shed her bra.  He's taken it with such
serious intensity, this self-appointed mission to care for
her each autumn when she sinks into the quicksand of her
crisis.  Though his concern stays constant year-to-year, his
methods have evolved and kept pace with the changes in their
physical relationship.

On the anniversary date of Emily's birth they've graduated
from ice cream cones to walks to... well, overt sexual
contact in keeping with their recent status as lovers.  This
year, when he shared his 'antidote' for insomnia, she
couldn't think of one other man who would have done such a
thing for her.  Only Mulder, showing his heart in his hazel
eyes, his devotion manifest in the tender, unique attentions
he lavishes on her in the bedroom.

Mulder, who dares to speak aloud of her long-lost child with
dignity, forthrightness, and honest affection.  Mulder, who
professes an unconditional love for her.

("We love one another no matter what... no matter what.")

Without conscious thought she slips on her silky pajama top
and bathrobe, pulling the sash tight just as he opens the
bathroom door.  Dark, damp hair toward the back of his head
bristles up like a punk rooster's comb; alone, he's been
checking out the damage.

"How are you feeling?"

"Considering I sport an uncanny resemblance to Frankenstein,
not too bad."

He stops her progress toward the bathroom with a hand to her
waist.  "I'll be out in just a minute," she assures him,
turning away.  "Get some sleep while you can.  I meant it
when I said I'd be waking you like clockwork."

When she emerges later he's an indistinguishable, motionless
lump under her blankets.  How different it used to be in the
not-so-distant past, when they'd retire to separate rooms
and spheres of existence.  Thinking private thoughts,
hauling with them the emotional baggage that had accumulated
over time.  Thankfully, the personal limits they imposed
through force of habit had become outworn and ludicrous.

And the walls that kept them apart, she knew, were mostly of
her own making.  Thank God he's patient.  Mulder isn't the
only one in their partnership with abundant quirks.

His respiration seems soft and steady when she sets an alarm
clock and slips into bed, supposing him to be asleep.
Instead, strong arms snake out to seize her under the
covers.  He's a tangle of warm, naked, sinewy limbs and
masculine spice.  A combination both perilous and
stimulating as his hands roam everywhere at once, exploring
her minimal attire and the curves and slopes of her body.

"Looky what we have here," he murmurs.

Nibbling her ear the way he did earlier, he makes her squirm
and titter.  His hands cup and trace her breasts, her belly,
the tender vee of her panties.  With his front spooned up
against her ass, she can feel the semi-hard evidence of his
arousal.  He strokes against her with intent and
persistence, as though honing himself in preparation,
sending excitement through her body.

"No boxers tonight, Mulder?"

"Don't fault me for being an opportunist when the woman I
love creeps into my bed."

"Correction... this is *my* bed."

"Semantics."

"No, plain fact."  With a gasp and twitch she pinches her
eyes shut.  Deliberate fingers have now invaded her panties
from behind, burrowing under the elastic to slip between the
moist, sensitive lips of her sex.  They prompt a surge of
pleasure so strong she parts her legs and arches her spine,
driving them deeper.

"God, you're wet," he whispers into her ear, fingers slow
and steady, like his breathing.

"I'm supposed to be taking care of you... remember?"

"I'm all for you taking care of me.  I wanna experience the
Big Bang first-hand, Scully."

Her medical books, training, and experience mentioned
nothing about the irrepressible horniness of the male of the
species.  The old adage persists that a man, while on his
sickbed -- or even deathbed -- will still want sex.  Tonight
she's seeing him through a new lens, this man she calls
friend and lover.  She finds it strangely exhilarating,
primal, and freeing.

She strips off her panties, along with hesitation and better
judgment.  Her patient is awake, cogent, articulate in the
extreme, and reacting in a normal manner to sexual stimuli.
His burgeoning erection is testimony to that.  The
realization dawns that she can give him, not what she thinks
he should have during this night of observation, but what he
truly needs.  Even better: what he wants, what he craves.
She's not merely Mulder's concerned partner and emergency
caregiver, but also his lover.

His loyal discernment has granted her space to grieve, to
wrangle with him and volley opinions, no matter how
contradictory and disheartening.  He's lent her his
shoulder, run interference when she stumbled, watched her
back.  He's urged her to confront the demons that haunt her,
calling upon the trust they share as a springboard toward
healing.

All the more reason to please him now.

Inspired, she sheds her top, twisting behind her to push
against the bare knob of his hipbone, pressing him to his
back on the mattress.  The change of position and attitude
permits her to take control of the seduction.  She straddles
him, knees thrown wide to accommodate his legs, the proud
curve of his penis a thing of beauty in the swathe of light
from the bathroom.  Her tongue flutters over the broad head,
hands and lips playing him in skillful accompaniment until
he groans in an agony of pleasure.

His appetite has long been his undoing.  In their work he
has the tenacity of a bloodhound, the mind of a genius, the
passion of a zealot.  In bed he's aggressive, unstoppable,
and so hell-bent on satisfying her needs that he often
forfeits the benefits of allowing her to grasp the reins.

"Scul-ly --"

Desire peaking, he tries to shift her aside with hips and
legs, one hand squeezing her shoulder.  She shoves it away,
undeterred, bending to the task at hand.

Using her mouth she brings him headlong to the precipice
before spreading her thighs above him and engulfing his cock
inch by sweet, slow inch until she rides him with grace and
impunity.  Soon he's biting his lips in time to her thrusts;
long hands reach up to mold and knead her breasts in a
synchronous rhythm as she rocks them both inexorably toward
orgasm.

************
End of Chapter 12


************
Chapter 13
************

Tillman residence
November 7, 2000
10:15 a.m.

Scully holds up a manicured forefinger, drawing it back and
forth before the child's bemused face.

"Keep your eyes on it, sweetie," she instructs, and Benjie
obliges.  His blue, watery gaze tries to match the
hypnotizing movement of her finger and his lower lip tucks
back in safely under the upper.

Following Mulder's example, she prepares the way for
progress with these small games and pseudo-medical exercises
that bamboozle both father and son.  Both are cooperative.
Tillman, attired less casually than a few mornings ago, has
his eye directed more to her than to his boy.  Benjie, on
the other hand, must consider this to be just another
enigmatic task required by an adult authority figure in his
life.

She's pulled up a chair and installed the boy on the couch
cushions, his legs dangling, Legos piled into his lap like a
security blanket fragmented to pieces.  Symbolic.  Breakfast
hangs heavy in the warm air around them: bacon, eggs, and
toast, she guesses by the odors, prepared by Mr. Mom
himself.

It's exactly what Mulder ordered at the Grill this morning
when he woke up bright-eyed and ready to wrestle the world.
She wasn't quite so perky, feeling the effects of little
sleep and several vigorous couplings in close succession.
Not that she's complaining, by any means...

Vulval massage the new foreplay?  Oh my, yes -- she won't
press for where Mulder got his information, but the proof is
certainly in the pleasure.  Thank God for a man who's not
afraid to do a little gratuitous research on his own.

Research is what occupies him now at the Aubrey police
station.  Focusing on the victims in each case, he feels
compelled to wade back through the files and find the missed
threads, the hidden common denominator that might link the
victims and shed light on the newest of killers.

Tillman, with reluctance, departs the living room to answer
a personal phone call.  Rather than waiting to question this
child under his father's critical eye, she decides to take
advantage of his brief, though not unwelcome absence.

"Benjie," she begins with lowered voice, "what do you
remember about last night?  Can you tell me?"

The boy considers the colorful clump of Lego blocks heaped
in his lap and shrugs.

"What are you making now?"

"A house."

It's evident he doesn't want to share about his newest
project, so she moves on to more important matters.  "You
dressed yourself last night, didn't you?"

He nods, his gaze climbing up to her face.  "After Daddy
fell asleep.  He didn't hear me 'til I went downstairs."

These longer sentences are music to her ears, making her
smile encouragement.  "Who told you to get dressed... to go
outside?"

"*It* did."

She swallows at his frankness, preparing to enter these dark
unknown waters without Mulder's navigational aid.  "Who is
*it*?  Does *it* have a name?"

"I don't think so."  Benjie's husky voice lowers and he
fiddles with the blocks in his lap.  "It talks to me, but I
don't hear anything.  I just... know."

"Well, it sounds to me like you also obey.  What would
happen if you didn't do what it said?  If you decided to say
no to it?"

Fear shines in the boy's eyes and his lip trembles.  "I
can't.  It's too scary.  And mean.  It would do things to --
"

She leans closer, her hand touching the child's arm in a
reassuring caress.  "To what?"

"To hurt people."

"You mean, like Viola, the bus driver?  And Mrs. DiAngelo?"

He nods, eyes swimming in a sea of such fearful apprehension
that he lifts a hand to wipe them.  He blinks and the cause
is lost in the profusion of tears that course down his
reddened cheeks.

"What's the matter, sweetie?  What are you so afraid of?"

"It hurts..."

The boy's shy fingers touch the back of her hand.  In spite
of herself, she feels a chill run through her body when she
strains to hear his next whispered words.

"It hurts people who are nice to me."

************

Aubrey police station
November 7, 2000
10:47 a.m.

"Coffee, Agent Mulder?"

He swivels his head a bit too quickly in order to see who
holds the steaming carafe.  Pain stabs between his eyes and
he wrinkles his forehead at the same time as smiling his
acceptance.

"Uh, sure.  Thanks."

The woman officer hands him a disposable cardboard cup of
the hot liquid, to which he gives a ginger sip.  Black and
acrid, it's just the ticket to get him through the morning
and the profusion of file folders that mound the desk before
him.  "This should qualify as a legitimate food group," he
cracks, lofting the cup in gratitude.

"Around here it does.  Say, that must've been some conk on
the head," she pursues, eyeballing his stitches, fore and
aft.

"Rang my bell but good."

Smiling, she retreats back into the long and spacious
station house, which seems to be the nerve center of the
department.  Still divided into the cubicles he remembers
from six years ago, the place seems fresher, more efficient.
A modest complement of detectives and cops man the desks,
answering telephones.  Their constant buzz makes him
appreciate the quieter, adjacent room he occupies for
research purposes.

The buzz ceases for a moment, prompting him to peer out the
opened door with curiosity.  It's Scully, back early from
her appointment with Benjie Tillman.  Mulder notes the heads
that turn, the looks that follow in her wake and feels a
burst of pride, since every cop in the place knows her
official connection to him.

Their private connection, however, remains another matter
and is nobody's damn business.

He watches.  His partner's hair, soft and penny-bright, bobs
as she walks between the cubicles, brushing the collar of
her dark wool coat.  Her cheeks bloom, touched by the
outside morning cold.  Lips full and glossy, she smiles back
with uneasy civility toward the few, more obvious cops who
grin like clowns and shift in their seats to follow her
progress.

"Some catwalk, huh?"

Scully smirks at his greeting and removes her coat, sliding
into the seat opposite.  "Almost makes me homesick for our
basement office," she says, "where isolation is the norm and
visitors stop by out of desperation or necessity only."

"You make it sound like we work out of a cell somewhere in
Tunguska."

Her brow arches and he concedes the sentiment.  "So," she
sighs, "how's the head now?"

"Twinges.  But I'm staving off that mother of all headaches
you predicted by downing more of the good stuff."  He lifts
his cup to prove his point.

"You had a gallon of it at breakfast, Mulder."

"See? Must be working."

"As well as your plumbing?"

He grins and sips, not about to reveal how many trips he's
taken to the john in the last hour.  "How goes it with
Benjie?  You're back a lot sooner than I expected."

It isn't his imagination that she appears troubled and
slightly distant.  Forehead wrinkled in thought, she
hesitates long enough for him to assume a tragic turn of
events and set down the half-filled cup next to the file
folders.

"No, he's fine," she qualifies, noticing his reaction.
"Motor and spatial skills normal, hand-to-eye coordination
checks out.  Normal appetite.  Playing with toys and holding
his own.  But he's still a tired, fearful little boy
carrying a big burden."

"Did he talk to you?"

She focuses on her hand, rubbing the back of it while she
speaks.  "Tillman stepped out of the room for a phone call
and I used that time to question Benjie about last night...
about what motivated him and what he felt or knew of this
*it* he refers to."

"So, that's how he identifies this force that controls him?"

"He pretty much reiterated what he said to you the other
night.  *It* tells him what to do and he 'knows' without
actually hearing an audible voice.  It sounds like he's a
pawn in a game of chess, moved from a distance by an
invisible master."

"Similar to what B.J. is experiencing also, except she's
merely subject to torment because of her location, while the
boy --"

"Is young, free, and reachable.  To be honest, I'm not yet
ready to hop on this demon force bandwagon you've got
rolling.  There could be other causes, Mulder --
psychological and physiological, which may have a lot to do
with his other symptoms and what's happened to him over the
past week."

Disheartened, he sets the cup down and leans back in his
chair.

"It still doesn't explain why we have one woman dead and
another who's injured.  Think about it, Scully... the boy
doesn't have the strength to perform the murders himself.
The real killer, through supernatural or paranormal means,
summons the boy so he'll be present during the attack and
subsequent murders.  Why?  To throw suspicion on him, to
have him partake, in some sick way, in the events that are
unfolding again.  This killer, this force, is on the same
kind of rampage that occurred in '94 and in the early '40's,
and Harry Cokely's direct descendents through Linda
Thibodeaux are major players."

Scully sits quietly, her hands clasped, avoiding his gaze.

"Ever heard of the term 'Synchronicity'?"

She gives an impatient sigh.  "I could venture to give my
understanding of it, but I'd rather you simply tell me your
version and save me the time and energy involved."

"Carl Jung originally coined the term.  In its simplest form
it's a meaningful coincidence of two or more events, where
something other than the probability of chance is involved.
A synchronistic event occurs when we recognize that two or
more causally unrelated events resemble each other and catch
our attention, Scully."

"So, we go from Goethe to Jung... If you mean this
succession of slash murders that seems to recur over time
and involves individuals with a unique point of connection -
-"

Energized now, he sits forward, pushing the folders to the
side.

"It goes much deeper than that.  Synchronicity is associated
with a profound activation of energy deep in the psyche, as
if the formation of patterns within the unconscious mind is
accompanied by physical patterns in the outer world.
Synchronicities are therefore often associated with periods
of transformation; for example, births, deaths, falling in
love, psychotherapy, intense creative work, and even a
change of profession."

He pauses, allowing the words to sink in.  "It's no accident
that, when Benjie Tillman was forced to confront the outside
world by starting school this fall, this episode in his life
became a catalyst for latent psychic forces and his own
synchronistic involvement in the chain of events that has
unfolded."

There are other synchronistic events he's aware of, but
won't mention now for fear of alienating his friend and
partner.  The recurring grief caused by her little girl's
unforeseen birth.  The eerie alignment between this dead
child's would-be admittance to school the same year as an
emotionally-bruised little boy in Aubrey, Missouri.

So much seems correlated, yet he dares not mention it.  Not
yet, and not to Scully.

Her mouth wears that pinched, pouty look of doubt he
recognizes and she ponders the back of her hand again.
"Jung doesn't come close to being the final authority here,
Mulder.  In any case, since his pat little theory can't
explain who the killer is, I think you were right to want to
take another look at the victims."

"How so?"

"Something Benjie said to me this morning.  He's afraid to
disobey the impulse that controls him, like leaving the
house last night, because he says *it* will react
vindictively.  He says it hurts the people who are nice to
him."

He stifles an ironic grunt because once again Scully, with
poise and well-timed deflection, has pulled a rabbit out of
her hat at the crucial moment.

"Okay... so we'll put Jungian metaphysics on hold and take a
look at Viola Rains first," he concedes.  "All we've gained
from speaking with her at the hospital is that she was
Benjie's one-time defender on the bus."

"More than that... she seemed to look out for him as well.
By Linda Thibodeaux's own admission, Viola served as her
eyes in keeping tabs on her great-grandchild.  Who else
would even know about that?"

"I don't know," he admits.  "But what about Gwen DiAngelo?
She was just his babysitter for an afternoon when Janine
Tillman went MIA.  Hardly a threatening crime or key
involvement."

Scully is about to reply when Joe Darnell disrupts the
gentle buzz of the station by sauntering in and waving to a
few of his associates.  He bends into a cubicle, nods, and
heads straightway toward the small room where the two
partners sit talking.

"They told me you were taking a break today," Mulder
comments, dragging his chair to the side and looking up.

"Agents," Darnell says in greeting, to which Scully gives a
quick nod.  "Yes, I am, for a change.  But I got a call from
the lab that some of the results were back.  Figured you'd
like to check it out, too," he adds, holding forth a large
yellow envelope.

Scully accepts it first, pulling out a page.  She peruses it
with a frown, then passes it on to Mulder.  The results are
what he expected all along: the blood found on Benjie
Tillman's mitten belongs undeniably to Gwen DiAngelo.  The
print taken from her kitchen floor shortly after the murder
is an exact match to the sole of Benjie's new school
sneakers.  No surprises.

"Proves nothing, except that the boy was there," he says,
flipping the worthless report onto the desk.  "Is that the
best we can come up with?"

"So far.  Still waiting on the tox screen and autopsy
results.  As for fingerprints at the scene --" Darnell
shrugs.  "The killer must've either wiped everything down or
worn gloves."

"What about fibers, hair samples?"  Scully asks the
question, her brow still knit.

"Nothing yet.  The woman kept a clean house and had no pets.
Not many visitors, either, considering she's lived there
just over three months.  No family visits and few friends to
speak of."

The last comment brings a grin to Mulder's face; Darnell
didn't just pull that observation out of his ass.  "Did the
neighbor next door give you some insider's information we
should know about, Detective?"

Scully looks from one man to the other.  "Which neighbor is
that?"

"Uh... a woman named Natalie Warner," Darnell explains after
a moment's hesitation.  "Agent Mulder, here, was kind enough
to arrange an interview with her the other day.  By the way,
Agent..." He steps back, flashing a smirk of his own.
"How's the head?"

Mulder holds up a triumphant thumb, then adds a forefinger
and aims his imaginary gun at the detective.  Darnell, for
all his weak stomach, is an okay guy.  He can take a joke
and retains a sense of humor over the incident, something
lacking in Tillman.  His partner, he notes, has caught on to
the neighbor's identity and opts to not pursue the obscure
exchange.

"Well, I'm out of here," says Darnell, turning toward the
door.  Pausing a moment, he rocks back on his heel and
smiles down into Scully's somber face.  "And I just wanted
to tell you, Agent Scully... I think it's an awesome thing,
what you did for Benjie Tillman, knowing how important those
blocks are to him.  The kid's in seventh heaven now.  I know
the Lieutenant was really impressed by your thoughtfulness
and generosity.  Very nice of you."

************

She wants to take Darnell by the ears and shake him
senseless.

Instead she woodenly smiles her thanks and watches him go.
Sitting under Mulder's silent, brooding stare, the polite
acknowledgment on her face disintegrates like melting ice.
She feels like the clock has turned itself back to a time in
the not too distant past when she disappeared on a
fruitless, foolhardy mission that yielded nothing except
wasted days and strained emotions between them.

She nods when he tells her they're taking a break outside.

"It's cold," she observes, wrapping her coat shut as they
head for the car.  Swift, long-legged strides are intended
to make her jog in order to keep up.

"And about to get a lot colder."

His smoldering anger contradicts the words; the door on the
driver's side bangs shut.  How much of this reaction is
attributable to his head wound, she's not certain, but she
hasn't seen Mulder this perturbed at her in a long time.
Neither does she know where they're headed until he revs the
car up the highway toward their motel.

Back at the Conestoga, he navigates through the usual
lunchtime bustle and parks the car.  Silence reigns, brittle
as glass.  When she exits, he hooks a hand around her upper
arm, steering her toward the door of his room.  One-handed
he unlocks it, pushes it open forcefully, then slams it
behind them.

She can hear his heavy breathing, the aggravation pouring
off him in waves.  His back looks broad and square,
invulnerable.  When he whirls around, the onslaught feels
like a slap in the face.

"What should we call this, Scully -- the FBI's personal
touch?  Customer service?  So now we're going out and buying
little presents for suspects?  Where the hell on the expense
report do we record that?"

Having no witty answer and outraged by his confrontational
stance, she stays quiet.  He snorts with impatience and
begins to pace between the bed and the bathroom.

"Christ, where to begin... think of the possibilities we let
slip by for so many years.  Maybe a dating service for Eddie
Van Blundht... and liver pate for Eugene Tooms, right?  You
remember Peetie, the Appalachian witchdoctor?  Probably
should have gotten him a doll for a get-well gift after you
plugged him.  Or, how about a carton of Morleys for the
Cancer Man -- great for those long road trips through
Pennsylvania --"

"Stop it, Mulder!"

She was defensive before, but now she's furious.  Her fists
clench at the sarcastic bullshit he snatches from the air
and throws at her feet, her eyes sparking under low, angry
brows.

"Did you even consider the wisdom behind what you were
doing?"

Hands and arms thrown wide, gesticulating, she holds her
own.  "At this point, I don't care whether it was a wise
move or not.  That toy restored some semblance of normalcy
and security to a frightened little boy's life.  I made the
decision and did it.  It's done.  And as much as you
disapprove, I'm very glad I made that choice."

"I'm not passing judgment on what you *chose* to do --"

"Oh, no?  Then why the fucking third degree?"

"You pissed me off, that's why.  You hid something important
from me.  Again.  I thought we'd made better progress than
that.  Whatever the hell happened to honesty, Scully, to
trusting each other?"

At the stark disappointment in his voice, her throat goes
tight and dry.  Before reacting, she should have remembered
that roots grow deep over time, as do scars from past
wounds.  She swallows and the sound is audible in the dim,
curtained room.

"There are consequences for everything we do on a case, for
good or ill.  You know that as well as I do," he grouses,
quieter than before.  "After what Benjie shared with you
this morning, you might have made yourself a target.  Do you
understand what that means?  But, hey..." He flips his hand.
"It's done, like you said."

It still irks her that Mulder's reaction is too extreme, too
over-the-top to be palatable.  "Thank you.  But now you hear
*me* out -- I'm not about to walk on eggshells or have you
monitor my every move.  I know you're concerned about how
I'm holding up through this case -- but in spite of what you
might think, I'm okay."  Dignity ruffled, she turns away and
crosses her arms, the sting of his accusations lingering on.
"So... what else is there?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, come on!  There's got to be more bothering you than my
compulsion to please a small child and then not telling you
about it.  What is it?"  She faces him, mentally groping.
"Tillman?"

The random guess hits home like an arrow through a chink in
armor.  He's stunned into silence by the accuracy of her
potshot, head frozen toward the side.  She's right on the
first try, and the fact sends shock waves straight to her
heart.

"Mulder..."

He gives a dismissive shake of his head, unwilling to
acknowledge the truth so quickly and openly.  Concern and
respect for his ego prompts her to step closer and reach for
his hand.  To connect, to show him that she of all people
can empathize.  Thankfully he responds by circling her wrist
with fingers that are tender, yet possessive.

"He appreciates having you near him. Too much," he asserts
by way of lame explanation.  "You may not see it, but I do."

"He's probably not the first in seven long years of case
work... and it means nothing, of course.  You saw the cops
over at the station.  Are you really feeling that bothered
by something that would never be reciprocated?"

"I'm not immune where you're concerned.  Especially now,
since we've become..."

Yes, she understands what intimacy brings, the strong
emotion it generates in the heart of a soul mate.  Closer,
deeper, more protective.  Studying their clasped hands,
aware of the utter honesty and gravity Mulder exudes,
something swells within her chest.  Ever the healing
comforter, she draws him into an embrace, wrapping her arms
around his body in a reassuring hug of solidarity.

His response nearly squeezes the breath from her.

"I love *you*, Mulder," she whispers against his beating
heart, "and we're both going to be fine."

************

Thibodeaux residence
November 7, 2000
6:08 p.m.

The light over the front porch is a welcome sight.

Linda Thibodeaux grips the steering wheel with gnarled
hands, puttering quietly up the unpaved driveway toward her
backyard.  The wind has returned in force, lashing naked
saplings against the house, casting spider web patterns over
the charcoal-gray of the sky.  With darkness falling hard
and another long night close on its heels, she's grateful
for Viola's company and the added measure of protection she
brings with her presence.

Last night the wind blew and the radio crackled with
disheartening news: an intruder alert in Aubrey, an FBI
agent attacked, struck down.  It was Agent Mulder, she
discovered, sitting glued to the speaker while Viola slept.
When a surreptitious call to the hospital verified that his
condition was not considered serious, she breathed a sigh of
thanksgiving.

She loops the plastic grocery bag handles over her forearms
and enters through the back door.  Funny that Chief isn't
here to lick her hands or bark a greeting.  But, he gets on
so well with Viola and the two of them must be busy inside
by the TV.

The back porch seems dusk-dim and no lights illuminate the
dark interior rooms or hallways.  Is Viola napping?
Strangely, she feels compelled to leave them off and her
heart pounds with swift, heavy beats as she tiptoes through
the familiar spaces she knows like the back of her hand.  No
sounds except for the infernal moaning of the breezes, the
thwack of tree branches, the sound of --

What can it be?  Grunting.  Laborious grunts and wheezes
from the direction of the living room, wet choking noises.
She stifles a terrified cry, yet moves ever forward on
shuffling feet, drawn toward the unknown tableau that awaits
her.

Chief lies motionless, prostrate near the front door.  A
furry heap on the floor, head askew in a dark pool.

With a desperate sob Linda grabs onto the doorjamb to keep
from collapsing.  Hampered by shock and numbing fear, she
sinks slowly to the carpet, her mind unable to accept the
reality of the surreal scene, processing it only in stark
snapshot images.

A dark form across the room.

It was that way fifty-five years before, when she chose one
fateful evening to stay home.  Thinking herself alone in the
warm comfort of her room, preparing for bed.  Hearing the
wicked chuckle from behind the door, watching in horror as
Harry Cokely emerged, eyes gleaming... The rough hand
slapped over her mouth, the other ripping her blouse apart,
the rape... The flash of the razor --

She sees a figure cloaked in black hunched over a body on
the floor.  Sweatpants and flowered blouse.  Oh, dear
Lord... Viola!  Up and down robotic movements of arms, the
meaty thunk of metal through flesh and bone.  Wet black
stain spread like ink over the rug, spreading still.
Coppery smell of blood.  Dark flecks of it on the wall,
smeared in jagged script, splashing the furniture.  Up and
down, back and forth, in a hideous cacophony of movement
that draws her to the brink of terror as memories of
agonizing pain wash over her.

When she falls, the figure stops, looks up.  It turns toward
her, razor wet and shiny in the murky light.

With distance narrowed, black clothes become nothing more
than plastic trash bags, hugely limp, holes cut for head and
arms.  Dark plastic also bonnets the figure's head, latex
shields the hands.  Approaching her, it lifts its chin...

"NO!"

Pain constricts her chest and shoulders, her heart seizes up
and trembles, shearing her breath into short, struggling
gasps.  She can't breathe, can't move except to fumble the
old revolver out of her coat pocket as the specter opens its
mouth and brays a hideous laugh.

"NO!  Please don't do this!  Not you --!"  Linda's aim
wobbles, hands bobbing under the leaden weight of the gun
and her failing heart.

Husky, low, she hears a taunting singsong reply.

"Someone's got to take the blame... no one ever gets away.
And *you've* already played the game... haven't you, little
sister?"

"STOP!"

Tears blur her vision and with a last desperate clench she
pulls back on the trigger.  The shot echoes through the
night, the last thing she hears before sinking into the deep
blackness that sweeps her under.

************
End of Chapter 13


************
Chapter 14
************

Memorial Hospital
November 7, 2000
8:04 p.m.

Scully removes a weary hand from her forehead, glancing
toward the woman on the bed.  They're alone for a brief
moment, she and Linda Thibodeaux.  The doctor and nursing
staff have just completed another beehive swarm over their
patient, checking her vitals and stability.  Tubes and
machines prolong the woman's life with long, slow artificial
wheezes as she lays unconscious.

She's waiting for Viola's bagged body to arrive at the
morgue, to administer the same external examination she did
on the hapless Gwen DiAngelo a few days earlier.  Mulder
opted to stay on at the crime scene in Edmond with the
coroner and investigative crew.  He was adamant that Scully
accompany Linda to the hospital, to protect and insure the
survival of their only living witness to the killer.

She's irked with herself for allowing this ultimate betrayal
to happen.

Instead of harboring a sense of hope and optimism, she feels
deflated, flat-out disappointed for her inability to protect
these women from their nemesis.  She's frustrated by the
circumstances in Aubrey that lure her from the main
objective, which is solving this case.  For being
emotionally divided during this time of yearly remembrance.
For weakness and over-sentimentality.  For craving her
partner's touch.

She's also grateful Mulder isn't here in the room to see
this.  If she can spare him a painful rerun, then she will.

The resemblance between Linda Thibodeaux and Teena Mulder is
peculiarly striking from this angle, in the anemic light
filtering above the bed.  Short white hair floats on the
pillow.  Hands lay atop the white blanket, blue-veined and
wrinkled.  Tubes are taped into her mouth, providing airway
and life-giving oxygen.  It's difficult enough that Scully
must face down phantoms from the past, without Mulder being
subjected to another tragic deja vu from his.

Her cell phone vibrates in her pocket.  With one parting
look and a nod to the nurse at the door, she goes to a
waiting area to take the call.  "Scully."

"Any change?"

Mulder sounds anxious and preoccupied, the hum of crime
scene activity garbled in the background.  Though too late
for Viola Rains to benefir, they're both fully aware that
Linda holds the key to the killer's identity and that it's
crucial she regain consciousness before someone else is
victimized.

"No... no changes.  We've determined it's ischemic stroke,
with a possible heart attack.  She's stable enough after the
CT and MRI, but not yet out of the woods."

"The golden hour?"

"You're thinking of traumatic injury.  With stroke, three
hours is the delineated time.  When blood flow to the brain
is interrupted, some brain cells die immediately, while
others remain at risk for death.  These damaged cells can
linger in a compromised state for several hours.  That's why
timing and onset of treatment is so crucial."

"Like it was for my mother."

She closes her eyes at these words, focusing on the matter-
of-factness in his voice.  Without even being present, he
knows and can envision.  The sensations of those dark days
following Teena Mulder's collapse come rushing back -- the
adrenaline, danger, and waiting.  Mulder's inability to
bring the healing hands of Jeremiah Smith to his mother's
bedside.  The sobs of defeat that wracked his tall, bent
body, the weight of his head on her shoulder.  Clutching
hands that grasped her across the back after viewing his
parent lying comatose...

"Yes," she allows, waiting to see whether he carries the
observation into full-blown reminiscence.

"Tough old birds, Scully.  Both of 'em."

His succinct evaluation makes her sigh into the phone; it's
true this elderly woman had the grit to squeeze off a
desperate shot from a revolver before stroke claimed her
tonight.  Mrs. Mulder, likewise, possessed unique strength
of will that befitted her time of trial.  Mulder, however,
overlooks the most salient detail of all -- that his
mother's sudden recovery days later went far beyond the norm
for medical science and smacked incredibly of the
miraculous.

She chooses to steer him further away from the painful
subject.  "Is the body on its way?"

"Just left for the morgue.  And you know what?  That mother
of all headaches caught up to me about a half hour ago.  I'm
gonna take off in a minute and let Aubrey's Finest finish up
here.  Darnell's already called Tillman to keep him apprised
of the situation."

"That's good..."

She detects no hidden malice in his voice, no hint of
control.  "He did say that Benjie tried to leave again.  A
regular little back-door man.  Same scenario as last night."

"Are you suggesting again that his attempts to leave the
house are connected to the killer's?  Paralleling his
movements?"

"Benjie's a living barometer for the killer's impulses.
Similar to his mother B.J.  Which means that, by all
indications, it was supposed to have killed last night --
when I was attacked."

She lowers her voice and turns her shoulder as a nurse
passes, phone pressed to her ear.  "Why target you?"

"You're missing the point: it wasn't supposed to be me...
something in the killer's plan was foiled and he bagged it
for the night.  Viola was a chosen victim from the start,
the one who happened to get away.  The job just needed
finishing."

His ruthless honesty strikes a chilling chord; she rubs the
gooseflesh from her arms, reminded of her own emotional
trauma earlier this year.  She'd also become the prey of a
madman, stalked and held hostage for certain death like
Viola.  In one horrific slo-mo reaction she'd managed to
become judge, jury, and executioner when her finger pulled
the trigger of her weapon and she permanently erased the
monster Donnie Pfaster from existence.

("You're the one that got away...")

No -- she considers herself a survivor rather than an
escapee, but decides not to ponder it now.  That case was
closed a long time ago.

A nurse exits Linda's room, passing Scully and giving her a
sad smile and a shake of the head.  The bleakness of the
gesture rouses her protectiveness for her partner.

"Speaking of which, you should get some rest, Mulder.  The
coroner's already agreed to drop me off when we're done.
Don't forget, you suffered head trauma as well.  That
headache is your body telling you to slow down and take care
of itself."

"I'd much rather you take care of me later..."

Incorrigible, she decides.  His allusion to last night's
turnabout seduction infuses her with momentary warmth as
well as a prickle of embarrassment.  He responds with a
gentle snort, the sound strangely comforting to her soul in
the aftermath of the evening's bizarre events.

"I hope you're alone," she murmurs.

"Alone enough.  Hey, before I go... let me tell you about
the silver lining we found."

"What silver lining?"

"Another survivor, Scully: the dog made it.  Can you believe
that?  Old Chief was knocked out and a little cut up, but
someone hustled him over to the vet's and it turns out he'll
be okay after all."

Eyes watering, she breathes hard into the receiver and bites
her upper lip at this small, yet merciful gift.

************

Thibodeaux residence
November 7, 2000
8:15 p.m.

Time to blow this pop stand, Mulder decides.

He slips into the driver's seat, relieved to be out of the
whipping wind, the cold, and the violated home with its rank
smell of blood and death.  His head pounds like a trip
hammer.  Lapping the seat belt over his thighs, he's
startled by a disconcerting thump on his window.

Police lights flashing red and blue against the blackness
behind him, Darnell peers in, waiting as the glass lowers
from the top.  "Meet you back there in a bit," he says.
"The Grill, right?"

"You got it."

Joe Darnell has a bachelor's time and energy to expend
tonight and seems willing to have his stomach filled and his
brain picked.  The restaurant is a public place, better
suited for a spur-of-the-moment meeting than Mulder's room -
- Darnell's first choice -- where his peersonal involvement
with Scully may be somehow ascertained.  She's become
meticulous about not leaving such clues, but he's unwilling
at present to take the chance in Aubrey.

He ponders how he can associate bachelorhood with the
detective, but not with himself when in reality he occupies
that same solitary boat.  When did the subtle switch happen?
When he and Scully became lovers?  Or years before that,
when she evolved amorphously into his own concept and
tailored need for what comprises a significant 'other'?

She's the only one in the world he trusts without question.
And now -- an added plus -- they share the sex that for so
long eluded them.

That was another one of his quirks -- or a quirk they
perfected as partners in the office of the FBI's most
unwanted.  Nothing ever came easy or seemed mainstream about
the way he and Scully juggled the steady escalation of their
feelings for one another.  Respect and camaraderie overrode
that polite, initial chemistry back in '92.  Denial,
flirtation, and dancing around the issue of physical
involvement were the simplest ways to handle it later.

Remembering the solicitous attentions she bestowed upon him
last night, he admits they've come light years within a
short few months' time.

His cell phone rings while he meanders his way out of the
rural, small-town solitude of Edmond, pausing to check his
mirrors before gunning down the dark highway toward Aubrey.
Once glance at the number displayed raises his hackles and
prepares him for the inevitable confrontation.

"Fox Mulder here."

"Agent Mulder, this is Klaus Reinholdt, B.J. Morrow's
doctor.  I tried without success to contact you at your
motel, so was forced to use this backup number you gave to
me."

He finds himself delivering a wry huff into the receiver.
"What took you so long?  I was expecting some sort of
communication last night -- and it might have averted
another tragedy."

"What do you mean?"

"We aren't playing games here, Doctor.  I'm talking about
murder.  Another attack, which should have happened last
night, but instead was postponed until this evening.  If you
weren't such a slave to the system and so selfishly
protective of your reputation over your patient, a woman
could still be alive."

"Someone else has been murdered?"

The man's naive incredulity on top of a ratcheting headache
feeds Mulder's brusqueness and contempt.  "How many more
ways shall we say it before you put B.J. on the phone?"

"Please hold..."

Simmering with impatience he passes two slower-moving
vehicles on the black ribbon of highway.  The unexpected
irritation caused by Reinholdt makes his head pound.
Moments later B.J.'s voice fills his ear, tremulous with
anxiety and foreknowledge.

"Oh, God," she quavers, "I've wanted to talk to you for
days, because I've had more visions, Agent Mulder.  Then,
last night, they became clearer, more sinister... like it
was six years ago when everything began happening."

"Can you describe them for me?"

From his visit to Shamrock he can picture her sitting near
Reinholdt, both ankles chained, sneakered feet tucked under
the chair.  Shorn hair, prison-green uniform, long-lashed
eyes staring out with an otherworldly intensity as she
speaks.  Looking through a haze of internal images both
fearful and tortuous.

"It's... it's like seeing from someone else's perspective.
Seeing what they see, feeling what they feel.  I suppose it
must be the killer I sense, right?"

"That seems to be the prevailing trend.  Starting with last
night, what did you feel?"

"Restless, like I needed to go somewhere.  Like I was being
summoned or pulled against my will.  Full of evil
anticipation.  Hungry and desirous for something to happen,
but not sure what."

"Visions?"

"Yes..." She swallows and hesitates.  "I don't recognize the
place, but it was like an old garage or storage building.
Then lots of trees, as in a forest.  I remember feeling
anger and frustration so strong, I wanted to lash out at
someone.  Anyone."

Having been on the receiving end, Mulder's head tweaks in
phantom sympathy at the disclosure and he winces from the
pain boring between his eyes.  "Tell me about this evening.
What you felt and saw."

"Please, Agent Mulder... first tell me whether anything
awful has happened tonight.  I feel that someone must be
hurt -- or possibly dead."

"Right on both counts," he mutters, gunning around another
car in his haste.  "A woman was murdered tonight, same MO as
before, in the home of Linda Thibodeaux, who was taken to
the hospital after suffering a stroke.  But she managed to
get a shot off at the intruder first."

He hears nothing but muffled sobbing on the line for several
moments, then Reinholdt's calming tones.

"B.J., get a hold of yourself."  Mulder's voice snaps with
authority, and her sniffles decrease as he hears her put the
receiver to her mouth again.  "I need to know whether you
can identify the killer.  Are you able in any way to see
this person or sense who it is?"

He's edgy from pain and too wired to feel accommodating or
to tone down the bullishness of his interrogation.  It
matters only that the killing stop, so that lives will be
spared and this case can be irrevocably closed.  Then, he
and Scully can get out of Dodge for good.

"The killer wears something dark.  Black, I think," she
answers, voice soft and halting.  "Like I did, when I went
after Cokely and Mrs. Thibodeaux.  That's all I know.  And,
oh, God --!"  She staves off further sobbing with deep,
shuddering breaths, then continues.  "Wait!  An old-
fashioned razor, with a white handle.  They don't make them
like that anymore.  It's almost an antique; I get glimpses
of it.  And the horrible, horrible vindictiveness this
person feels --"

"Male or female?"

"I don't know!  Oh, Agent Mulder!  Please stop this person.
And please keep my Benjie safe.  And Brian..."

************

He's downed half his complimentary root beer by the time
Darnell enters the Grill and joins him at a dimly lit booth
far in the back near the bar.  Beside them, fluorescent beer
signs give off staccato flickers, like mosquitoes zapping
into bug lights.  The barkeeper ala busboy grins from behind
the counter and suggests they have a drink.

"Fat Tire for me," says Darnell, easing off his coat and
gloves.

Mulder grins and taps his forehead next to the obvious
stitches.  "If you have Tylenol hidden away somewhere, I'd
be one happy man."

Unsure if this order is acceptable protocol before an Aubrey
detective, the employee looks at Darnell, askance.  He nods
back.  "Sure, ease his pain and he might bring you some
business.  I would."

Transaction complete, Mulder decides instead on coffee,
waiting for the root beer-chased medication to kick in.
Savory, tempting odors of fried food lace the air around
them: onion rings, breaded mozzarella sticks, French fries.
His empty stomach groans.  Taking Darnell's lead, he opts
for what Scully, with disdain, has branded a 'greaseburger',
requesting plenty of mesquite-seasoned fries on the side.

"Sure you can handle it?"  Mulder wonders how red meat will
bear up against Darnell's squeamish stomach, but he's
ordered the burger dry, sans the house barbecue sauce.

"I've handled it since this place opened, so might as well
give it a shot tonight.  Hell of a thing to happen,"
grumbles the detective, swigging his beer from the cold
bottle and referencing the murder, "but fortunately I get to
leave it for the rest of 'em to untangle.  And for you and
Agent Scully."

"What a pal -- so, your mini-vacation's still active in
spite of the case?"

"Except for the few hours I put in tonight.  The
Lieutenant's good about not reneging on time off.  But, if
he needs a hand, well... I've got no problem with stepping
in.  I don't have anyone to go home to at night anyway.
Like some of you might."

Mulder bobs his head first in understanding, then with a
cold breeze of awareness.  No, it isn't his imagination when
the other man flicks an insinuating, pointed look toward
him, then away.  He takes another sip of coffee, mulling
over the implications while averting his eyes toward a tiny
TV screen behind the bar where two basketball players vie
for dominance under the net.

He hadn't expected Darnell to trawl so blatantly in another
man's pond, unless he's doing a reconnaissance favor for a
third party.  Tillman?  Guard raised, Mulder leans back and
eyes the detective point-blank.  "You know, only you can
remedy that."

"I suppose you're right.  So..." He taps the tablecloth with
nervous fingers and trains his gaze outside into the neon-
lit parking area.  "Where's might your Agent Scully be?
Still busy at the morgue?"

Mulder had already checked, rounding the buildings to see
whether the curtains in their motel rooms were dark or
softly back-lit.  It occurs to him that Darnell could have
done the same thing.  Scully hasn't returned from her
gruesome task at the hospital, so he feels no guilt about
chowing down without her.  Instead, he finds the suspicious
bend in table conversation interfering with his appetite and
seeks to put a chokehold on it.

"She's with the coroner," he replies flatly, "doing her job.
In the meantime -- and the real reason I suggested we talk -
- I was hoping you could supply me with  some information not
found in the files we looked through this afternoon."

"Sure, go for it."

"Two women, Kristy Carlisle and Verna Johnson, were both
attacked and murdered by Detective B.J. Morrow in November
of 1994.  Kristy in her apartment, Verna in the empty YMCA
pool.  Both women have personal stats in the files from that
year, but there's little or no information about their
families.  My question to you is, do either of these women
have any relatives still living here in Aubrey or in the
vicinity?"

Darnell frowns, tugging on his lower lip as he ponders.  The
food arrives, hot and steaming, and Mulder permits him to
take a ginger bite of his burger and swallow it before
giving an answer.

"Well... I seem to remember that Kristy Carlisle was a
single lady with no family from around here.  Moved to
Aubrey for a job, I think... not sure where she came from
originally."  He pauses and swallows.  "Had a boyfriend,
though, who was pretty devastated when she was... killed.
Don't know if he's still around."

"Could you find out?"

Shrugging, Darnell colors and picks at his food.  "Uh, I
guess I could do a little checking."

"What about Verna Johnson?"

"Now, Verna's another story.  A few years out of Aubrey High
School when she died, and she lived around here all her
life.  A true local."

"Family?  Siblings?"

"Yeah, mother and dad.  She had an autistic younger brother,
too, I think.  The surviving family must've moved away,
because I haven't heard any reference to them in quite a
while."

Darnell seems eager to attack his meal, so Mulder concedes
and joins in, relishing the hot meat juices and barbecue
sauce that gush from between the toasted halves of bun.
Fries lay haystacked on his plate, just crisp enough without
being scorched.  He shakes on the ketchup liberally, kid-
like, knowing Scully would view the whole performance with
amused tolerance and a lift of her brow.

He hands the bottle to Darnell, who shakes his head in
distaste.  "After what I saw tonight, forget it.  I've seen
enough blood to last me a lifetime.  Shit..." He sets down
his burger, composing his stomach before slowly taking up
the food again.

"Eventually you get acclimated.  It gets easier, trust me."

If his look is any indication, Darnell must consider him to
be either a certified nut case or a cold-hearted son-of-a-
bitch.  Maybe he's held that opinion right from the
beginning, knowing Mulder's reputation and eclectic history
from the X-Files.  And maybe he's just squirming after
taking that potshot into Mulder's private affairs.

"Anyway," the detective confides, his tone shifting in a
calculated change of subject, "the Lieutenant's gonna start
coming in for a bit during the day, to keep a closer eye on
the investigation.  Desk work, beginning tomorrow.  He wants
to be involved in the center of this thing, like he was in
'94.  That case just about ate him up, especially after
discovering that B.J. was the perp all along.  And then..."

Mulder snatches up the sentence.  "And then I waltzed in
from the FBI with my partner, to put two and two together.
ID-ing his girlfriend, solving the case, and revealing her
secret pregnancy.  Sore point with him?"

Darnell nods reluctantly.  "He needs your help in a bad way.
First of all, you have expertise in handling hard-to-solve
crimes and familiarity with the first case history.  But, he
also likes to be on top of things himself, not caught
looking like a fool.  And his, um... personal association
with B.J. didn't help matters."

Mulder doesn't reply to that observation.  If intimacy
between co-workers on the force in Aubrey seems to
precipitate its own brand of doom, he wants no part of it.
Another reason to wrap up this case and hightail it back to
DC.

"He thinks Benjie should be fine in his office for a few
hours each day, playing with the toys Agent Scully brought
him."

Scully's name again.  "No babysitter this time?"

"Nah, he's nervous about going that route again.  Can't
blame him.  And the kid's pretty easy --"

"When he's not out cruising town at night," Mulder points
out.

"Yeah... funny thing about that.  Brian's never known him to
sleepwalk before.  I guess he used to go out sometimes early
in the morning, before anyone else was up, but not this
weird zombie routine.  Bizarre."

"Good word for it.  Listen," he leans forward with a
conspiratorial air, pulling Darnell's attention away from
his plate.  "I'm dead serious about these details, because
it could shed needed light on the identity of the killer."

"You think it's a relative?"

"I'm willing of entertain any number of theories at this
point.  By the way... do you know anyone who happens to own
an antique, white-handled razor?"

"Uh... no.  Where'd you get that kind of lead?"

Cognizant of the other man's Achilles' heel and still irked
at his attempt to fish into personal territory, Mulder
decides that payback is appropriate.  He dips an end of his
French fry into the thick mound of ketchup, lifting the food
and watching with interest as the viscous, red blob drools
slowly down the length of potato to his fingers.  He waits
until Darnell seems mesmerized by the gory show, then pops
the fry into his mouth and chews.

"From a contact on the inside.  That's all I'll say right
now... but it always pays to go to an expert when you need
answers."

Realization dawns within Mulder like a light bulb clicking
to brightness.  Pulling out his wallet, he gets to his feet,
appetite assuaged for the time being, incentive kicking into
high gear.

Darnell, gulping, lays down his burger with a defeated sigh
and Mulder winks down at the detective's wan, sweaty face.

"Always go to someone in the know," he says sagely.
"Someone advertising a shitload of free insider's
information."

************

Conestoga Motel
November 7, 2000
12:09 a.m.

The parking lot is asleep and the air dense as deep-freeze
when Scully unlocks the door to her darkened room.

She exhales in relief.  This one place allows her to shake
off the horrific scales of what she's seen and expedited
this evening.  Her bedroom-away-from-home welcomes her back,
enticing her to burrow within its sanctuary and regroup.

She's surprised to find Mulder curled in her bed like he
belongs there, a beloved fixture.

Hogging the pillows, his body is wrapped cocoon-like in a
chrysalis of sheets, blankets, and bedspread.  He must've
waited hours for her return before succumbing to sleep.  It
would be purely criminal to rouse him and send him away now,
she admits.  Besides, she's getting used to sharing.

His hair bristles up against the shapeless pillows and she
leans onto the bed to see him more clearly through the
shadows.  Lips hovering over the sandpaper curve of his jaw
in thanksgiving and affection, she drinks in his scent.
It's what she truly needs right now -- the strong presence
of a lover, of a man in her life, a warm body in her bed.
Mulder's body.  Not necessarily to please or to obtain
pleasure at this moment in time, but to savor and cherish,
to absorb the comfort that emanates from his unconditional
nearness.

She yawns, open-mouthed, and shivers with cold.  So very
tired...

Clothing mounds on the floor as she sheds every stitch she
wears.  Too exhausted to do anything more, she crawls under
the sheets to where he curls fetus-like on his side.  His
body warms the bed like a hot brick, heating their nest.

"Hey, you're back."  His slurred syllables, mouthed in the
darkness.  No need for light in the aura he exudes, pulling
her inward.

She conforms to his naked sinewy contours, wrapping one leg
above his, one between, so her body molds against him under
the blanket.  His pubic hair tickles her belly, soft member
pulsing in welcome recognition.  "Not now..." she whispers.
"Go back to sleep."

He holds her close, obedient and content as though she were
a stuffed toy in his arms.  One hand wanders to stroke a
breast, while the other cups her head, rubbing through her
hair in dreamy circles.  Satisfied, he sighs and eases into
his low, signature snore.

"Love you," she breathes against his throat, thinking him
fully asleep.

But his arms and legs tighten, and she hears the soft hum of
reciprocation he offers, taking her into slumber with him.

************
End of Chapter 14


************
Chapter 15
************

Java Joe's, Aubrey
November 8, 2000
8:45 a.m.

"Think you're pretty damn smart, don't you?"

Mulder grins in response, pausing to sip his coffee and
dodge an accusation that he realizes is more compliment than
antagonistic jibe.

"Smart enough to avoid doing something stupid," he counters,
sending the volley back onto Natalie Warner's side of the
table.

When he made the call this morning, he gave her the option
of either coming down to the police station, or meeting him
at this local hangout.  It came as no surprise that she
chose coffee over cops, despite her paranoia about meeting
in the open and risking observation by other minions of
Aubrey's gossip network.

As for Mulder -- working people, officers, detectives, and
others would amble in and out of the coffee shop all
morning; the public aspect would protect him from any
machinations this woman might have lurking up her sleeve.
There was a time when he'd have no qualms about bleeding a
woman like Natalie Warner for information relating to a
case.  However, stung by her previous knee-jerk rudeness and
lack of basic cooperation, he broached the matter with his
partner before placing the call to Sterling.

The air around him in the shop seems warm and humid compared
to the November cold out in the street, while fragrances of
fresh-roasted, ground coffee and savory breads hot from the
oven caress his senses.  He remembers that Scully was like
this just a few short hours ago -- his own hot, soft, early
morning pastry that he nibbled and picked apart with a
combination of leisurely appetite and primal urgency.

He relishes their lovemaking in the indulgent blue hours
before sunrise.  She's moist and alive, disarmingly open to
suggestion, and so damn sexy he can't think straight.  After
the fireworks subside he likes to lie close and discuss
theory and the advancement of their case; in confidential
whispers he brings her up to speed on his progress while his
hands continue to roam her body's topography.

For him, it adds dimension to their intimacy.  And though
Scully must think it a poor excuse for post-coital pillow
talk, he considers his murmured updates to be both practical
and efficient.  For years propriety dictated how and where
they could discuss details of a case together.  Now those
boundaries have relaxed to the point of disappearing.  He
feels a certain vindication and freedom about talking shop
in bed with his partner-turned-lover.

Just this morning he briefed her on his conversation with
B.J., the Grill snack with Darnell last night, and his new
strategy for the day.  Drowsy-eyed and sated, tousled red
mane feathering both pillows, she agreed with his decision
to convene with her one truly aggravating contact in Aubrey.

"Teeth and claws," she reminded him in a whisper, her hand
disappearing beneath the sheet to stroke his thighs and
squeeze his balls in playful warning.  "Better watch 'em
good."

He remembers Scully's advice when Natalie first joins him at
a table in the far corner.  All nerves and bluster, she
summarily refuses the window seats he's pre-selected.  A
blast of expensive perfume and nicotine stifles other aromas
before dissipating to a level in which he can once more pick
out the distinctive bouquets of coffee, spice, and vanilla
sugar.

"Well at least you decided to wake up and *smell* the
Goddamn coffee," she retorts, scraping the ashtray toward
her side of the table.  "I don't usually bite.  Not too
hard, anyway."

"Glad to hear it."

"Your partner still pissed off at me?"

He eyes her, expression bland, tone succinct.  "You'll have
to ask her that."

Natalie wears the same buttery suede coat, the same pinched
squint of irritation that Scully described to him after her
own confrontation with this woman and which he observed
himself from over the fence.  When she exhales a cloud of
smoke between them he has the urge to cough, but decides
it's not the smartest move considering his ultimate purpose
here.

"Whatever," she says, cigarette bobbing at her lips.  "You
need information bad enough to talk to me, that's obvious.
And I'm the only person who's really in the know around
here."

"That's a pretty broad claim."

"Live in a place all your life and you tend to find out a
thing or two about people, *especially* if you put your mind
to it.  Insider's information.  I have my sources."

"Inquiring minds, and all that?"

She flashes him a knowing grin.  "You got it, Agent Mulder.
Dirt and factoids on the whole town and proud of it.  Just
what do you need to know?"

He sets down his cup, prepared to take Natalie's offer in
careful increments after first testing the waters.  Scaring
her away would defeat his purpose; taking every shred of
gossip from her mouth as gospel would be ludicrous.  He opts
to strike a conversational pose, lace his fingers, and look
into her face.

"I need to pick your brain a little bit," he commences.
"Your daughter's birthday party took place a week ago today,
on November 1, when Benjie Tillman put in an unexpected
appearance.  What happened at the party to set tongues
wagging all over town?"

From supposition and the scraps gleaned from Gwen DiAngelo
at the hospital, he and Scully have already reconstructed a
likely scenario.  It depicts an unpopular and emotionally
needy little pariah, invited on a whim and as a joke, and
who -- out of fear, social ineptness, or even coercion --
blurted out the worst possible thing at the most
inappropriate of times.

Squinting across the table, Natalie sizes up his proposal
before deciding it's safe to reply.

"That 'Little Sister' comment he made *really* took the
cake," she says after a moment's thought, oblivious to the
pun.  "Way over the top, if you ask me, considering his
family history and who he really is.  Totally creeped me
out.  Talk about skeletons in the closet -- that I *don't*
need in my own dining room!  Sheesh..."

"So, after Viola Rains was attacked the very next morning,
you conveniently insinuated that a five year-old child half
her height and a quarter of her weight was responsible --
and the word was out."

She exhales with a plume of impatience, feathers ruffled.
"I put two and two together, cause and effect.  So what?"

"It's absolute bullshit, that's what," he counters, mocking,
"and anyone with half a brain would know that."

"Listen, smart-ass --" Her cigarette butt, still smoldering,
nosedives into the ashtray and her voice hushes.  "It's no
weirder than all the other shit that's happened around here
over the years... starting with that Slash Killer in the
forties and ending up with what came out six years ago.
It's what brought *you* and your little partner here in the
first place.  A pregnant, wacko cop who started killing
people and terrorized the whole Goddamn town.  Now we've got
her kid, the *bad seed*, to deal with."

Her transparency seems vindictive and contemptible;
struggling to keep the scorn he feels from tainting his
voice, he waves away an irritating cloud of smoke and
murmurs, "You've got more than that.  I'd bet good money
that you know something about the two women who were
murdered here in 1994.  Are any of their families still
living in the area?"

Natalie shrugs and takes a sip of coffee.  "I might know
something... considering I had a passing acquaintance with
one of 'em."

"Which, Carlisle or Johnson?"

Mulder doesn't set out to impress her, but he sees he's
accomplished that on a grand scale.  She lights another
cigarette, crosses her legs, and stares back with cool
approval before replying.

"Okay, so give yourself a medal... you do your homework,
too.  You've probably got files out the whazoo on all this
crap at the FBI."

"I'll never tell," he grins.

"Johnson," she pursues, not missing another beat.  "Verna
Johnson was young, and she kept pretty much to herself.
Lived at home and worked for a while over at the Grill to
save for college.  That's where I usually ran into her.  The
parents wanted justice and demanded an investigation into
Lieutenant Tillman's involvement with Detective Morrow after
everything hit the fan.  Creeped out the whole town in the
end, knowing that a member of the force was a psycho
murderer.  And then he had the *nerve* to adopt their kid
and move in right down the Goddamn street from me."

He keeps her moving.  "Kristy Carlisle..."

"No family anywhere around here.  Funeral was elsewhere,
too, maybe Texas.  She was some kind of secretary for an ad
company that went under a few years ago.  Big hair.  Flashy
as the day was long.  *I* always suspected she turned
tricks."

"Boyfriend?"

"Yeah, one in particular, but he left town soon after she
died.  Except, when she was alive a whole crowd of horny
losers hung around her trailer like tomcats on the prowl.
Yessirree..." She chuckles and empties her cup, tongue
chasing the edge.  "Including that pathetic little cop you
fobbed off on me the other day.  *God*, can you believe it?"

Mulder isn't surprised to hear that Joe Darnell is a
lovelorn bachelor with an eye for the local talent.  He
decides to shelve that information for another time and
place.  "More coffee?"

"If you were talking Margaritas I might say yes," she says,
winking from within her comfort zone.  "Why d'you want to
know about them -- the Carlisle and Johnson families?"

He hedges.  "We're pursuing a theory, which I'm not at
liberty to talk about now."

"*We*... as in, you and your partner?"  She takes another
puff, eyes narrowed like a tigress and just as calculating.
"You might as well come clean with me, because I'll get the
lowdown eventually.  I suppose you two are a real pair...
partners in *every* sense of the word, am I right?"

"That's irrelevant and none of your business."

His terse reply draws a smirk.  "So *you* say.  Okay,
fine... I'll play along for now.  No skin off my nose.  But
take it from me, handsome... you won't learn diddly from
what happened here six years ago.  It wasn't the first time
that monster Cokely did his dirty work -- he'd killed here
before *and* left his mark, as old lady Thibodeaux could
show you."

"I don't suppose you read the morning papers yet?"

When she shakes her head, Mulder reaches behind him, snags a
copy of the local Aubrey rag, and shoves it across the
table.  The headline of Viola Rains' murder screams out from
the page in bold font.  Smaller print details the news
concerning Linda Thibodeaux's fight for survival.

The transformation in Natalie catches him unprepared.  She
shivers and closes her eyes, sucking in a lungful of her
cigarette smoke with bellows-like force.  "Shit... not
another one," she whispers.  "Aw, fuck..." Composing
herself, she exhales with a tiny cough, frowns, and then
points at Mulder with a long-nailed red talon.

"What?"

"Okay, sport, *this* is where I definitely bail; don't play
dumb with me.  If I'd known about this shit --" She flicks
an angry hand toward the newspaper, "I woulda thought twice
before coming here this morning.  I've got a reputation to
uphold."

"I don't doubt it."

"*And* a family to protect, Goddamn it."

Mulder hunches forward, forearms on the table in an effort
to forestall.  "Listen, I need to know more than 'diddly.' I
dare you to talk about the victims from 1942... if you even
have a clue about who they are," he taunts.

In his mind he reviews the files, page by page, pausing over
the names of the unfortunate deceased.  1942, the year that
agents Sam Chaney and Tim Ledbetter disappeared after
profiling the infamous Slash Killer.  Three young women were
raped and murdered by the same evil that has resurrected
itself here in the year 2000.  He and Scully have reviewed
the grisly, fifty-eight year-old crime scene photos --
glossy images of mutilated young women wearing dated
hairstyles, clothes dripping blood, the word "Sister" gouged
into their chests...

"Antonia Bradshaw," he says softly, eyes intent, "murdered
in early November of 1942..."

Natalie hand trembles; she puffs and returns his stare,
refusing the bait he dangles so enticingly.

"Kathy Eberhardt.  Laura Van Cleef," he intones with
solemnity, invoking the two remaining names on the ancient
list of Harry Cokely's recorded victims.

Her squint stays icy as the outdoors; he realizes now that
he should have saved his breath when Natalie Warner stubs
out her cigarette with crushing finality and stands.
Nothing comes easy or quickly, he thinks, especially when
your informant has a flair for the dramatic and a look so
piercing it could kill.

***********

Memorial Hospital
November 8, 2000
11:03 a.m.

Pausing at the large, thick-paned window on her journey from
the morgue to ICU, Scully notes that pilgrims have usurped
pumpkins at Aubrey Regional Elementary.

For the first time she's struck by the close proximity of
hospital to school, the kindergarten annex in particular.
Tiny black hats adorned with buckles float in the classroom
windows.  White-collared little men and women jockey for
dominance with the few Indians taped into their midst.  Time
plods on toward the next calendar holiday, one that Scully
doubts she's ready to embrace quite yet.

Thanksgiving Day remains a trial and mockery to her spirit,
arriving too quickly on the heels of her early November
anguish.  For two years running she's put on an obligatory
mask for her mother's table and then, at home and in
private, softens it with angry tears.  Once again Mulder
retains the honor of knowing the truth and diffusing her
pain.

Her fault, she knows, for holding the world -- and her
family -- at arm's length so much of the time.  Her reasons
remain her own.

She dares not try to guess which little pilgrim would be
Emily's, if Emily were alive to cut, paste, and color as do
these children.  Then, she surprises herself by wondering
about Benjie Tillman's prowess with construction paper and
paste.  Kept at home, this activity has been denied him,
another empty hole that primes the boy for ostracism and
rejection.

Life isn't fair for the victim, no matter how strange the
circumstances.

During the autopsy of Viola's corpse she was forced to
distance herself from the gruesomeness of the task at hand.
The blood and deeply sliced flesh didn't faze her, but
rather the inexpiable ferocity of the damage wrought upon a
person she'd spoken with just days before.  The body's
muscular constriction suggested extreme physiological and
emotional response.  From personal experience she could
imagine the terror this woman had endured before her
attacker closed in; the head wound was not massive like
Gwen's, delivered only to disable, not to kill.  Then, when
the razor descended, the indescribable agony --

"Agent Scully?"

She swivels her head toward a sympathetic nurse who has just
emerged from the ICU.  "Yes, what is it?"

"I just thought you'd want to know that there's been no
change in Mrs. Thibodeaux's condition."

"Thank you."

The nurse fades down the hall with purpose, thick soles
squeaking on sanitized linoleum.  Ever since Scully's visit
to the ER with Mulder the other evening, and after extensive
hours spent in the autopsy bay with the coroner, the medical
staff at Memorial seems to welcome her skill and calming
presence.  For that small bonus she's grateful.

She takes another long look through the window, gaze
sweeping the schoolyard, before she turns toward the
intensive care unit where Linda Thibodeaux struggles for a
hold on life.  Other footsteps echo through the hallway and
she notices elderly Alice Marshall approaching in her
volunteer pink.  Tall for an old woman, she bears a vase and
flowers, prickling Scully with alarm at the innocent, though
flagrant breech of policy.

When Alice reaches out to the heavy door, Scully feels
driven to speak out, her concern for the patients and
sterile conditions inside evidenced by the roadblock she's
forced to become here in the hall.  "I'm sorry, Mrs.
Marshall," she says, "but those aren't allowed in intensive
care."

The woman hesitates, then turns to face her with a sheepish
smile.  Looking down at Scully, her neck ripples with loose
skin, shoulders lightly rounded as she hugs the glass vase
and red carnations to her front.

"It's an extra," she whispers, white hair wreathing her
face.  "I was thinking the nurses might enjoy it at their
station.  Their work is so stressful here.  It doesn't hurt
to ask them, does it?"

Small wonder that Alice Marshall funnels much of her time
here toward the sick and hurting and is so appreciated by
all.  However touched Scully might be by this woman's
sensitive generosity, she's still deeply disturbed by her
forgetfulness of a vital and cardinal rule.

"I'm a medical doctor myself and can vouch for their
appreciation," she explains quickly, moving to forestall the
older woman, "but no -- flowers or outside gifts of any sort
aren't permitted in ICU.  I'm sorry."

"Well, that's certainly a pity.  Maybe someone over in
obstetrics will want it.  A mother grieving for her lost
child..."

The words, brutally apropos, blindside Scully with their
zing, but she's become more than adept at feint and
recovery.  Mentally regrouping, she takes this opportunity
to mask her discomfiture by extending her own sympathies.

"It must be hard for you, with the recent death of one of
your volunteers.  Gwen DiAngelo," she prompts, when the
woman looks perplexed.  "I spoke to her a few days ago, here
at Memorial.  She seemed like a lovely, caring person."

"Yes, she was... and they all seem that way, don't they?"

"What do you mean?"

Again Scully feels a peculiar unrest, a sense of uneasy
footing at the off-kilter exchange that unfolds outside of
ICU.  Tempted to blame it on her own emotional fragility and
suspicious nature, she wonders about Alice Marshall's
motivation this morning.  Duplicitous?  Or a simple slip
into forgetfulness, when good sense stumbles under the
weight of old age?

Alice watches her evenly from beneath drooping, wrinkled
lids.  "People here give of themselves, all for very
different reasons, young lady.  Others are helpless, waiting
to receive from those who do the giving.  Give and take...
come and go."  She averts her face with a sigh.  "Some hang
on to life, others... often don't."

"Have you heard about Viola Rains?  She, unfortunately,
didn't."

Scully hopes to strike a compassionate, apologetic chord
after hindering this woman's entrance to the ICU.  Knowing
Viola was a well-known presence in this town, she guesses
that the bus driver might have had contact with the Marshall
children or grandchildren over the years.

"I've heard.  I won't say I'm saddened."

Puzzlement and surprise must reflect on Scully's face,
because Alice shakes her head.  White hair trembling, her
mouth tightens; she tenses and moves to leave.  "Some call
her 'poor Viola', but I can't.  For a person in a place of
authority over young children, she overstepped her bounds
far too often."

"That could be, but --"

"No buts about it."  Alice fastens a blue eye on Scully.
"She deliberately and maliciously frightened my
granddaughter, Kari, and made her cry on that bus."

"I understand that a group of children was also subjecting
little Benjie Tillman to public ridicule during the same
incident.  Surely you don't condone that either."

The elderly woman blinks at Scully, as though attempting to
bring her into focus.  Then, hugging her vase of flowers and
without pursuing further conversation, she leaves the doors
of ICU and turns back the way she came.

************

Aubrey Police Station
November 8, 2000
11:20 a.m.

Not much is happening at midday.  A housewife caught
shoplifting, a trucker with a speeding infraction who
creates a small ruckus.  Phone calls and pre-lunch orders.
Mulder thinks the small-town pace is typical until he
observes a flurry of attentive reaction when Lieutenant
Brian Tillman exits his office to confer with several of his
detectives.

Tall and intense, he commands respect and wants action,
something Mulder remembers from his last visit during B.J's
tenure.  Tillman the hard-ass.  Joe Darnell may be his right-
hand man, but is no substitute for the steady, authoritative
beat the Lieutenant sets for his department.  Now it's
especially crucial, with a murder investigation unsolved and
the body count beginning to escalate.

He assumes that for Tillman to be here, Benjie must be
corralled somewhere in his office, out of sight.

"Coffee, Agent Mulder?"

He smiles back at the woman officer who served him the
previous day and raises a hand in polite refusal.  "Thanks,
but I'm afraid I'm all coffee-ed out right now.  I wouldn't
mind talking to the Lieutenant, though, when he has a moment
free."

Surely Tillman should be able to cough up some detail about
the 1942 victims.  If not, then he's back to square one,
armed and prepared to wheedle more gossip from Natalie
Warner.

The little desk in the side office awaits him, shielded from
internal view, but windowed to the gray outdoors.  This is
where he's been the most productive in terms of theorizing
over the case and the additional evidence available to them.
It's where he's had a brilliant breakthrough in logic
followed by an uncharacteristic breakdown in common sense.

He and Scully continue to iron out the wrinkles from
yesterday afternoon, after Darnell's bumbling faux pas.
He'd hijacked her back to the motel and blown his top at
what he considered questionable judgment on her part, not
the brightest of tactics at any time.  After reacting like a
jealous asshole he feels undeserving of her firm embrace or
whispered reassurances.  Nothing more was said about it
after their return to the station, but she'd leaned closer
to him than necessary several times in the course of their
research, her nearness a caress to his bruised ego.

Then came the second murder...

He's convinced more than ever that the key, the common
thread, snakes an insidious path back to a previous victim.
The image of the train jumping its tracks haunts him; he
broods over what defines the bizarre, what encompasses the
truly improbable.

Scully seemed unimpressed by Jung's theory of synchronicity,
but he wants to bend it to his will, like Hercules arcing
the rod of iron between his hands.  He wants to stretch this
hypothesis so far out of bounds it becomes a synchronous
psychological transference from the original perpetrator and
seed, Harry Cokely, to the relatives or sibling of one of
his victims.

Heeding this maverick desire, he finds himself challenging
the restrictions that delineate bloodline and essential
genetic inheritance.  The original evil, he now believes,
has in some way circumvented natural, universal order and
resurrected itself to continue unchecked.  Voracious, its
only purpose is to kill and consume.

If a sibling of a victim, then a sister?  And if a sister,
then whose sister... and why -- or how?

His cell phone trills, jogging him to attention, and he
welcomes the voice.  "Mulder, it's me.  Where are you?"

"I'm at the station, waiting for an audience with the King,"
he says.  "You done at the hospital?  Need a ride?"

A heavy pause tells him that Scully isn't amused by his
blatant reference to Tillman.  "I'll get a lift with the
coroner soon.  But I wanted you to know that the
veterinarian called the morgue a few minutes ago.  Last
night he found what could be considered evidence in the
dog's mouth during surgery.  Torn pieces of what look like
black plastic held fast behind the molars."

"Sounds like Chief took a real bite out of crime.  My kind
of dog, Scully."

She gives a long exhalation into the phone.  "I went ahead
and checked the ER and admittance records to see whether
anyone has been treated for dog bite within the last twelve
hours.  Unfortunately, no, but they'll keep an eye out...
and the evidence has been sent out to the lab for testing.
How was your interview?"

Glancing downward, he grins.  "I emerged intact, if I'm
catching your drift."

"I had no concerns whatsoever about that, trust me," she
says, voice wry.

"Then we can talk over lunch.  I have several things I want
to run by you, okay?"

Scully is amenable, as befits a partner.  He feels pride
within himself and gratitude toward her.  Unexpectedly, the
pointed insinuation made by Natalie Warner at the coffee
shop springs to mind.

("I suppose you two are a real pair.  Partners in *every*
sense of the word, am I right?")

You better fucking believe it, he affirms, pocketing the
phone when he notices that the door to Tillman's office
stands ajar.  While the Lieutenant remains occupied with a
group of detectives a few cubicles away, Mulder takes this
opportunity to wait on the threshold for his imminent
return.  Then, hearing a noise, he looks within.

Benjie Tillman sits cross-legged on the carpet, a rainbow of
brightly colored blocks peppering the floor around him.
Nearby, other supplies sit ready, designed to keep him
occupied and quiet while his father attends to business --
coloring books and crayons, small cans of PlayDoh, an
assortment of Hot Wheels cars.  The neck of Tillman's desk
lamp crooks toward the floor, illuminating the child and his
playthings in a circle of yellow light.

He looks up without warning and recognizes Mulder, relief
flooding his face.

"Hey, Benjie," Mulder says mildly.  Smiling, he enters the
office with quiet steps.  The boy's head, far below, tilts
up at an uncomfortable angle, so the agent crouches down,
knees splayed wide before the boy.  It occurs to Mulder that
this is the first time in days he's gotten such a close look
at the kid.

"Hi," comes the shy, anxious reply.

The child's cheeks are still reddened, but gone is the
rough, chapped rawness he and Scully first observed last
week.  Her recommendations must have been followed to a 'T'
after Tillman's call to her motel room.  Small hands and
fingers seem closer to healing as the boy looks down and
snaps the last plastic block into an identifiable homemade
structure.

"That's really good," Mulder says, surprised.  "Did you make
this yourself?"

Benjie nods and hands him the miniature house constructed
from white Lego bricks and roofing slabs that snap tight.
It has no windows or point of entry other than the tiny
green door and reminds Mulder of an over-sized Monopoly game
piece.  Assuming the boy is simply allowing him to examine
his creation, he tries to return it and meets refusal.  The
child shakes his brown head, lips tight.

"What, is this for me?"

"No," corrects Benjie, "it's for her."

"You mean Agent Scully?"

When the child nods, Mulder rotates the tiny building in his
fist to get a better look.  "Pretty good work, Benjie.  Did
your Daddy tell you to make this little present for Agent
Scully?"

He shakes his head, eyes furtive and flickering toward the
door to the office.  He says in a husky whisper, "It's not a
present.  It's a house."

"I can see that."

Benjie leans closer.  "It's for her to hide in."

Mulder plays along, prying the tiny door open and peeking
within with one eye.  "You know, Agent Scully's a small
lady, but she'd have a hard time fitting in here, don't you
think?"

The child's aggrieved expression puts Mulder to shame.  He
almost blushes and tries to salvage his dignity by ruffling
the boy's hair with one hand.  Too late he remembers that
little boys hate the patronization of that gesture.

"It's not funny," insists Benjie, who stares first at
Mulder, then at the door.  "It's real."

"You know, you're exactly right.  Sorry I joked about it."
He turns the tiny structure between his hands like a Rubik's
cube, feeling foolish all over again.  "I'll make sure she
gets this."

"Give it to her right away.  Please..."

"Why?"

Something in the boy's tone stops Mulder cold.  It suddenly
occurs to him that this gift he holds goes far beyond
childish foolishness and playtime.  He stares into the boy's
deep eyes and sees that they glitter with emotion as the
child tries to formulate a response.

In a jolt of revelation, Mulder comprehends that he hefts
more than just a simple toy in his palm.  He holds, instead,
a protective talisman.

"Benjie," he whispers, "did you tell Agent Scully that 'it'
hurts the people who are nice to you?"

The boy's eyes widen with fear; he swallows and nods.

"Has *she* been especially nice to you?"

Sniffing, the child wipes his eye with a sleeve and gives
another tentative nod of assent.

"Listen to me, Buddy, I have to know something..." His large
hand settles on the boy's thin arm encouragingly.  "I have
to know if you truly believe that Agent Scully needs this
little house right now -- in order to stay safe?"

The question, worded with such audible forthrightness,
brings the boy to full tears.  Mulder pats the narrow
shaking shoulders with one hand.  Kneeling on the carpet
beside the weeping boy, he feels like a supplicant waiting
for judgment.

It will be infinitely better for both of them if the kid can
pull himself together before Brian Tillman walks back
through the door to his office.

************
End of Chapter 15


************
Chapter 16
************

Village Inn, Aubrey
November 8, 2000
1:28 p.m.

"Tell me *your* theory," he murmurs, attempting to breech
Scully's guarded exterior.  Mulder-style, he stirs reaction
from her with an enigmatic spoon she can't evade, by pulling
for an opinion she's reluctant to formulate on demand.

Though they sit at a corner table, she feels this is still
too public a place for such shenanigans.  Mulder might think
differently, but Scully knows that her tender sensibilities
beg to recover and she regrets that he didn't turn the car
toward their motel if he had something secretive to discuss.
Instead, when the coroner finally delivered her to the
police station, Mulder blocked her entrance and led her back
to their rented Corolla.

There, he placed the tiny white house in her lap, watching
her reaction while steering them toward a new restaurant for
lunch.  In monotone he described a shortened version of what
took place between himself and the boy in Tillman's office.

She needs food right now, not his foolishness.  Time alone,
not a test in which she's expected to churn out a quick
answer for him on the spot.  "Think fast --" Something her
brothers used to shout while zipping her the rock-hard
baseball across the backyard.  "Heads up, Dana!"  And she
would learn to snag whatever they threw her way or suffer
the consequences.

"Tell me your theory..." What her partner is doing now,
expecting her to mentally scramble and react to his split-
second questioning.  This time she thinks risking a penalty
might be preferable to going after the ball.

After the waiter retreats with their order, Scully sets the
small Lego house to the side of her placemat, fingers
releasing it with slow, deliberate calm.

"This isn't a good time, trust me," she warns, fresh from
autopsy hell with her heart raw from awakened loss.  Sudden
snapshots of construction-paper turkeys careen through her
mind, then visions of soft, childish hands hard at work
fashioning them.  Even after leaving the hospital, those
opposing thoughts linger, making her edgy and vulnerable to
scrutiny.  Now this gift, so called...

"Time is short."

"So is my tolerance for this, Mulder."

She pauses after the deflection.  He doesn't come close to
understanding what the morning has brought her.  Then again,
true to form, neither has she chosen to share.

"This case has nothing to do with me," she emphasizes.  "Are
we clear on that?"

"There are elements of this case that jump right up and bite
you on the ass, Scully, whether you want to accept it or
not."

She indicates the toy flanking her placemat.  "Look... it's
all very sweet; a thank you gesture from a grateful little
boy.  No more, no less."  Suddenly thirsty, she takes a
careful sip of water before continuing.  "I can also
speculate where you're going with this."

"So, enlighten me."

His faint grin could be disarming, if she wasn't already
busy shielding her soft places from invisible darts.
"You're convinced it's some sort of sympathetic magic.  A
charm.  A fetish or talisman that can protect from evil or
bring about good.  I, however, find it highly unlikely that
a five year-old kindergartener in Aubrey, Missouri would
know to dabble in such questionable --"

"He doesn't.  Believe me."

She blinks.

"You might say he's doing someone a favor," Mulder explains
with the same maddening, mysterious obscurity.  "Like his
mother, I'm finding Benjie is far more sensitive to
underlying synchronous elements than I realized before.
Visions as well as reacting to the stimulus that the killer
--"

"Wait just a minute... time out," she says, holding up a
hand.  He stops, surprised.  "Do you realize what you're
doing, Mulder?  You're a classic example of someone falling
victim to apophenia."

With a tight smile he murmurs, "Sounds like a serious
affliction.  Better jog my memory..."

"Apophenia -- a spontaneous perception of connections... the
propensity to associate seemingly unrelated objects or ideas
in meaningful ways.  In extreme cases it demonstrates how
closely psychosis can be linked to creativity... apophenia
and creative genius among psychologists may even be seen as
two sides of the same coin."

"Do tell."

"My God, Mulder..." She warms to the subject, stalling the
inevitable showdown.  "Look at the proliferation of so-
called tests created by analysts... like the Rorschach test,
which is projective and totally open to conjecture.  Then,
there are the people who see child abuse or sexual innuendo
behind every emotional problem.  One analyst thought he had
support for the penis envy theory because more females than
males failed to return their pencils after a test."

That example garners a soft chuckle.  "If I make clever
repartee here about 'pencil-dicks', would you be offended?"

She ignores his wit.  "Another analyst wrote in a
prestigious journal that sidewalk cracks represent vaginas
and feet are penises -- and the old saw about not stepping
on cracks is actually a warning to stay away from the female
sex organ."

"Poor misguided fool."

"My point being, Mulder, that apophenia is considered a Type
I error that forces patterns of association where non exist
at all.  This could also explain the proliferation of
phenomena such as numerology, most forms of divination, and
a host of other experiences claimed to be paranormal and
supernatural.  Including your inference about this...
house."

He reaches out and picks up the tight square of block,
holding it between them as a focal point, like a third
unblinking eye.

"Christ, Scully... you can sling that psycho-jargon hash
with the best of 'em, yet after all you've seen, after
everything we've uncovered together, from global conspiracy
to..."

Hearing the familiar diatribe again she's tempted to roll
her eyes, but restrains the urge in light of the distinctive
acuity he sends out over the table.  Rotating the house in
his hands as though to stimulate his thoughts and words, he
murmurs, "Everything from regression hypnosis to the
existence of little green men to psychrometry..."

She arcs a brow questioningly and he pauses to explain.

"Harold Pilar's psychic expertise, used in conjunction with
the search for the La Pierre girl, his own missing son...
and Samantha.  Remember?"

"I remember refusing to accept his pseudo-science."

"Or fast-forward to Oral Peattie and the proven efficacy of
his backwoods brand of hoo-dooism -- and you can call it
bullshit, despite what you experienced?  Little Benjie
Tillman feels driven to build you a safe-house to protect
you from an evil he senses and to which he reacts like a
barometer, and you denigrate its worth.  Scully... what are
you so afraid of here?"

"I'm --" Her forehead crinkles in exasperation and her voice
plummets, taking on an edge.  "I'm not afraid.  I'm
relegating some of this questionable *bullshit*, as you call
it, to its proper perspective.  Nothing more.  We have a
difficult case to solve here and I refuse to let my personal-
-"

She stops to swallow down a ball of emotion that threatens
to choke her.  God, not here... The ice is cracking beneath
her, cold water lapping at her feet as she scrabbles with an
insane desperation to hold onto something safe and
recognizable, secure and tangible before she slips under.
Before she drowns in an angry sea of her own skepticism, co-
mingling with the truth she so frenetically disavows.

She reacted this way several nights ago, held close in
Mulder's protective arms, deep in the succor his bed and
body provided.  A whispered, conversational question about
her remembrances of Emily and she felt swallowed by loss,
compelled to bolt back to her own room.  Only when he
soothed her anguish and exposed her cowardice with the
patient devotion of a soul mate, did his true, unselfish
intentions emerge.

Her healing.  Her emotional well-being, for both their
sakes.  Considering his track record over seven years' time
she should be willing to trust his judgment now.

"I said I could handle this case," she whispers, cursing her
damp lashes, the warmth on her face, and the touch of color
she knows marks her cheeks and upper lip.  Shamed by such
naked emotion in a public place, she angles her face toward
the wall, chin tucked to collar.

"You also pointed out, in the next breath, that I'd be right
here with you," he adds.  "Nothing's changed about that."

"Thank you.  I'm relying on it more than you realize."  She
blinks slowly and risks a look at his face.

Unseen by other restaurant patrons, Mulder's hand slips
underneath the table to grasp her knee.  As in other times
of crisis, his deep concern is evidenced by some small,
furtive attempt to comfort.  His warm fingers splay, pulling
her back from the edge, centering her with his touch.

Poised between them on the table, the small white house with
the single green door stands sentinel.

His grip on her knee is now a bold caress, thumb circling
the patella, before he withdraws completely and both hands
appear on the edge of the table.

"Scully... I had something I needed to tell you.  That I
felt you should know."  He leans back into his seat, eyeing
her.  "Now I see it's not the right time.  And I'm not the
right person to share it."

A wave of fear flutters against her heart and she shoves it
away.  "What are you talking about?  The case?"

"Synchronous communication... squared," he says, the words
heavy with significance.

"Mulder, why are you being deliberately obtuse with me?"

He shakes his head, eyes holding hers, dark and intent with
unspoken thoughts as hot food suddenly descends between
them.  Their small table seems cluttered with plates,
condiments, and good smells.  Hunger battles concern; she
watches as Mulder hesitates, scrutinizing her over the meal.
Only when she nods her permission does he dig in with gusto.

As for her fragile appetite -- it's already vanished like a
daydream.  The grilled chicken Caesar salad she ordered does
nothing for her now except crowd the placemat and turn her
stomach into a knot as hard and inflexible as Benjie's
little plastic house.

************

Tillman residence
November 8, 2000
3:12 p.m.

His son looks drawn and tired this afternoon, even without
the added excuse of kindergarten classes or bus rides.
After carrying the limp child from car to house and
depositing him on the living room couch, Tillman backs away
to reassess the situation.

Try a babysitter again?  It irked him, he admits, finding
Agent Mulder in deep discussion with Benjie, crouched on the
carpet in his private office at the station.  Without
permission again, as though the vague connection between the
agent and the boy should grant him some sort of immunity.
Such flagrant disregard galls Tillman, as does the fact that
Fox Mulder takes pride in possessing a renegade mentality
that sidesteps the usual protocols during an investigation.

His partner, on the other hand, is indeed the more
approachable of the two.  Dana Scully, pathologist, doctor,
FBI agent.  Sharp, scientific-minded, a conservative and
circumspect balance to Mulder's maverick approach.  To his
knowledge unattached, though Tillman can see she follows the
beat of her partner's drum unswervingly, keeping pace with
his every step.  An investigative tag-team with impressive
expertise and an admirable solve percentage, considering the
type of cases they handle.  Tillman's done his share of
research, too.

But, she also possesses a woman's heart, evidenced by the
generous gift to Benjie the other morning.  That gesture
showed personal interest, a step away from 'by-the-book'
mindset.  A promising avenue he should explore in the very
near future, if she seems at all receptive... personal
involvement with Mulder be damned, and still debatable.

The ringing of the phone on the end table jogs him from his
musing, and he picks up quickly before Benjie rouses from
sleep.  "Tillman here."

"Brian?  This is Jen.  What's going on over there?"

His sister-in-law's high, curious voice feels like welcome
salve after days of unanswered messages and no
communication.  Jennifer, Janine's sister in Lincoln,
Nebraska, where the normal branch of his wife's small family
tree thrives.  The younger, well-adjusted daughter who
married a doctor, raised a handful of kids to young
adulthood, has made a home in the suburbs, and sits on the
library board.  Who has also provided a loving, temporary
refuge for her distressed older sister as the need has
arisen over the years.

"Jen, thanks for getting back to me.  You've been out of
town?"

"Since last week.  Dave had a geriatric seminar in Omaha, so
we all went along to do some shopping and check out colleges
for your senior nephew."

"Can you put her on?"

"Who, Brian?  Do you mean Janine?"  They both pause at the
stark incredulity in her voice.  "Why... she's not *here*.
That's what I wanted to explain right off.  Honestly, I
haven't seen her since she visited back on Labor Day, for
Dave's fiftieth birthday bash."

"*What*?"

"That's right.  We just came home to a dozen frantic
messages from you and I was worried sick.  How's Benjamin
handling things?"

He shoots a wary look toward his sleepy son, cross-legged on
the couch, half-sitting up.  His head droops against its
overstuffed arm, eyes closed in fatigue.  The heart-shaped
face and soft brow remind Tillman of the child's true
parentage.  Of B.J., with her secret smile and bone-hard
intensity.  Of her loss to them both and her faulty
bloodline coursing through their son's veins ...

Sudden despair makes him gruff.  "As well as can be
expected, with your sister AWOL for nearly a week now," he
growls into the phone.

"Oh, Jesus!  Oh, my God --" Her exclamations only serve to
rattle him more and he grits his teeth against the receiver.
"Listen, Brian, let me make a few calls.  She has
acquaintances up here.  Let me check around for you and I'll
call back as soon as I hear something.  Is that okay?"

"Okay," he responds automatically, numbed by the eerie
coincidence Janine's disappearance poses at such an
incriminating time in Aubrey.

"You don't sound good.  Brian, now I'm really worried.  I'll
call her old doctor, too, and see if he's heard from her.  I
think she contacted him once last year, or maybe it was the
year before."

It feels strangely comforting to hear his wife's true
situation discussed openly and with someone else familiar
with her erratic behavior, her addictions, her maladies and
mental lapses, her past disappearances.  He lets out a shaky
breath, rubs his face, and nods to the calming voice on the
other end.

His eyelashes feel damp and he rubs at one eye with the heel
of his hand.

"Thanks, Jen.  I appreciate any help you can give me in
locating her.  I'd -- I'd like to keep the police out of it,
though.  Keep it quiet."

Ironic, these words coming from his mouth, but his sister-in-
law knows the rules and has years of sympathetic experience
under her belt.

"Well, of course we will!  And, Brian?  This isn't the first
time we've had to do this and things turned out okay --
isn't that right?"

"Unfortunately, yes... you're right."

"Daddy?"

A small groggy voice swings his attention back to the couch.
"Gotta go, Jen.  Yeah.  Okay, and thanks for your help."

He replaces the telephone into its cradle, then moves
quickly to Benjie's side, cuddling the boy's small body next
to his.  Short, tight arms encircle him, surprising in their
strength, and he wonders at the sadness he sees in his
child's pleading eyes.  "I'm right here, Benj.  Say, you
look like you need more nap."

"Don't, Daddy," Benjie says in his raspy little voice,
before hiding his face.

"Don't what?"

"Try to find her," the boy whispers from underneath his
father's arm.

Tillman tries to keep things light, counting on the fact
that the child has been drowsing for the length of the call
and may not have overheard correct details.  "Find who,
Sharp-ears?"

"Janine."

He feels a cold chill grip his chest, then the budding
warmth of parental irritation at the disrespect he perceives
coming from the boy.  "That's 'Mommy' to you, son --"

"No, it's not."

In a surge of exasperation he scoops the child from the
cushions, standing him on unsteady sneakered feet to face
him.  Benjie's head shakes slowly, despite his father's
disapproval.  Tillman finds himself grasping the diminutive
shoulders with firm hands, his patience sorely tested.
"What kind of nonsense is this?"

"She doesn't let me," whimpers the child, blinking back the
tears that fill his eyes, making them appear larger, bluer,
even more limpid.

"Let you do what?"

"She..." Benjie wavers, pauses in an agony of apprehension,
and then plunges ahead.  "She makes me call her Janine, and
gets mad at me if I call her Mommy.  She says I'm not her
real little boy... only yours.  But when you come home..."
He sniffles, wipes at an eye, "I have to pretend... or she
gets mad again."

He stares at the boy, mute, aghast.

"She says not to tell you," continues Benjie, confessions
tumbling from his lips as a fat tear runs down his cheek,
"or she'll send me away to the crazy place."

"What crazy place?"

He shrugs and weeps fitfully.  "I don't know where it is.
But she says my real Mommy lives there --"

With a grimace and a groan of anguish Tillman hugs the child
to his chest, sickened by the awful duplicity that has
flourished for years in his own home.  His dream, his one
hope has been shattered -- that this child born of
infidelity would have a happy, well-adjusted life, far
removed from the unholy legacy he carries with him into the
future.

"My God, son... she told you that?  How long ago?"

The boy shrugs and snivels, unable to express length of time
when focusing back to such short-term beginnings.  A long
time, much too long a time, Tillman realizes, closing wet
eyes and clutching his sobbing, grieving child to his heart.

************

Darnell's apartment
November 8, 2000
4:38 p.m.

It's more bachelor pad than definitive babe lair in spite of
Mulder's predictions to the contrary, Scully decides as she
eyeballs Darnell's domain.

The apartment is modest and adequate for a single man not
given to extravagance or much entertaining.  An overstuffed,
upholstered couch with depressions in all the right places
that suggest it doubles often as a bed.  Mismatched lamps
and pillows in varying, uncoordinated colors.  She notices
Mulder's appreciative grin, the way he scans the magazine
piles, stacks of videotapes, the TV/VCR, sports posters, and
sparsely outfitted kitchen.

"Remind you of home?"  She murmurs the words under her
breath, hoping to gibe him.  His instant response, also
sotto voce and delivered with fingertips soft on her back,
warms her soul.

"Not any more... "

"Coffee?"  Darnell, somewhat awkward in his hosting skills,
points toward the open kitchen area.  "Got a pot here that's
about two, three hours old.  Or, there's Coke, water...
beer...?"

Mulder chances the coffee, while Scully settles for a glass
of tap water with ice.  Their visit isn't social to begin
with, but an attempt on Mulder's part to glean more
information about previous victims of the Slash Killer,
going all the way back to 1942.

What Joe Darnell knows remains to be seen, but Mulder senses
he's someone who can be trusted.

The early forties was Linda Thibodeaux's era and the time
during which Harry Cokely began his reign of terror in
Aubrey by murdering three young women.  Not many years
after, two government agents tracking the killer, Sam Chaney
and Tim Ledbetter, vanished from the face of the earth.  The
mystery surrounding their disappearances went unknown and
unexplored until 1994, when newly-pregnant Detective B.J.
Morrow began having dreams and visions which led her to each
man's grave and revealed they suffered the same fates as the
other slash victims -- and precipitated B.J.'s falling under
the influence of the murderous impulses stemming from her
biological grandfather, Cokely.

Mulder feels certain the answer lies in the past.  He
believes a supernatural connection exists between the
present killer and the earlier victims.  Whether a surviving
sibling or other relative, he's lifted the study of
victimology to new levels of understanding by suggesting
that the evil from Harry Cokely has "jumped its tracks" as a
means to inhabit someone other than a genetic, blood
relative.

"How?  Why?"  Darnell's questions are legitimate; Scully
would like to hear the answers as well.

"Dunno, yet," says Mulder, thoughtfully tapping knuckles
against his front teeth.  "That's why I need to know whether
any of the 1942 victims have surviving siblings still living
in Aubrey.  They'd be fifty-eight years older by now.  Easy
to chase down, if we know who they are... don't you think?"

Darnell chuckles at the joke, but Scully holds out little
hope for easy resolution.  The local gossip, Natalie Warner,
has washed her hands and distanced herself.  Linda
Thibodeaux remains comatose, clinging to life at Aubrey
Memorial.  Darnell, it turns out, knows some facts about the
1994 victims, which he shared with Mulder last night, but is
of little real help when looking earlier.

"We could try courthouse records," she ventures, putting new
energy into the discussion.  "Or maybe the nursing home has
information on some of the older residents."  She pauses.
"Even Lieutenant Tillman or others at the station might
remember something from the original case."

Mulder shakes his head, offering no eye contact.  "Scully,
we've combed those files.  You and me, hours spent in that
same station, in the same room, and nothing more has been
forthcoming."

Sitting here, listening to the two men banter and discuss
the obvious, she has a similar feeling of weary
hopelessness.

The water in her glass has grown tepid, though Mulder agrees
to a fresh pot of coffee.  She excuses herself to use the
bathroom, which is neat, fairly clean, and boasts a full-
length mirror on the door.  Returning, she finds her partner
and the detective still talking with the easy rapport of two
men who have become comfortable with one another after a
trial period.

Late afternoon melds into early evening and the skies
outside darken and purple.  Mulder lays theories out on the
table like an assortment of flea market oddities.  Darnell
nods, sips, and listens, clearly not as put-off as Scully
expected and certainly not with the knee-jerk disbelief of
her earlier days.

When the recent little acquisition from Benjie Tillman
enters the conversation, Scully jerks to attention,
wondering what Mulder hopes to accomplish by sharing such a
thing with Tillman's right hand man.  Already sensitive, she
finds the disclosure intrusive and vexing.  She wishes they
would leave this place.

Besides, the mysterious message that Mulder hinted at during
lunch still remains a source of anxiety for her.

Listening to his brief exposition on the power of charms and
talismans, she cringes when Darnell affirms from his own
experiences with a rabbit's foot key chain.  When he
mentions picking lucky numbers on the weekly Lotto, she
squirms and decides all good things must surely come to an
end.

"I suppose you want to see it, too, detective?  The Lego
house?  After that," she says, with a sharp look to Mulder,
"we'll be going."

Darnell's gaze flickers from one partner to the other and he
gives a tentative nod.  "Yeah, sure.  If it's what you say
it is, I'd definitely like a closer look at it.  That is, if
it's no trouble."

"None at all," she assures him, lying through her teeth
while she stands to don her wool coat.  Intending quickness,
she laps it around her body, rather than taking the time to
button up.  "It's out in the car; I'll be right back with
it."

Dusk blankets the town with a gray filter, streetlamps and
headlights popping awake like a camera's flashes.  As Scully
exits the row of apartments all seems quiet, cold, and
disheartening.  No sign of snow, though the wind sends out
warning gusts, lifting her hair and encircling her neck with
icy fingers that make her shiver as she clips across the
narrow driveway toward their car.

Her breath punctuates her inner thoughts with small puffs of
displeasure, cloud-like and huffy.  Why, the damn toy has
gotten more attention in the last few hours than --

Blinding light stabs her eyes, followed by the roar and
screech of a car's engine close upon her.  Having no time to
think, she reacts explosively, with a desperate adrenaline-
induced surge of professional training and survival
instinct.

She barely feels the numbing thud against her hip as she
lunges out of the car's path, rolling over and over like a
rag doll thrown across the rock-hard pavement.

************
End of Chapter 16


************
Chapter 17
************

Outside Darnell's apartment
November 8, 2000
6:32 p.m.

"I'm -- I'll... be fine..."

Headlights, like bright twin diamonds, inch through the dusk
on the distant highway, but no suspicious vehicle remains
evident.  Nothing moves now in the solitude of the parking
lot except tiny waves of reaction, tremors from deep within
Scully's scuffed body.  She fights for breath, lips apart.

Mulder reaches her side in a moment, but won't be placated
by automatic, knee-jerk assurances.  Hearing her panicked
shout he'd shot out the front door like a runaway
locomotive, heart in his mouth, hand on his gun.  Too often
she fakes coolness and control where none exists, shrugging
off distress as effortlessly as water from a duck's back.
Tonight, however, is not one of those times.

"Don't move," he orders gently, crouching beside her on the
balls of his feet, mindful of the cold pavement beneath her.

He tucks a hand under her shoulders, thinking it prudent to
test for injury first, but her avowals persist, expelled in
choking gasps.  Scrapes blossom across one temple, on her
chin, her hand, dark with suffused blood.

"Take it slow, keep breathing," he encourages, rubbing
circles between her shoulder blades.  "It'll come back."
Her respiration labors, forced out in shallow, agonized
wheezes, and looking into her reddened face, he wants to
take over and fill her lungs for her as she struggles to
inhale life-giving oxygen.  "Hospital?"

"No!  God... No --" Another airless pause and rasping gasp.
"I'll be... okay."  She worries her lip, eyes wide and
pleading.

"Did you see who did it?  Recognize the car --"

She shakes her head in frustration, straining to escape his
hand, and he understands that she wants to get up, to
compose herself and regain a semblance of dignity before
Darnell skirts the narrow parking area toward them.
Trusting her judgment, but fiercely protective, he helps her
to her feet.  She weaves and he holds her steady.

"Aw, man!  What the hell...?" Darnell has his weapon drawn,
eyes darting toward each end of the dim lot, then back to
Scully's bleeding face and heaving chest.  He wears a look
of bewilderment.  "You gonna be okay, Agent Scully?"

She nods, eyes shut, and Mulder leans closer to intervene.
"She never saw it coming," he explains.  "Bastard tried to
run her down."

"No I.D. on the driver, then, or any traceable license
plate.  D'you two want a quick ride to the hospital?  Agent
Scully?"

The unwelcome question ricochets into the night; he feels
Scully stiffen under his hands and shakes his head.

"Thanks, but not necessary.  I'm taking her back to the
motel to clean up.  No calls."

"But --"

"Read my lips, Darnell.  No calls whatsoever, or I kick your
kiester down to fish food.  You got that?"

The man, to his credit, nods and steps back, re-holstering
his weapon.  It doesn't take a genius to comprehend the
protective bond between the two partners, or the tender way
Mulder holds her close under his arm.  Scully expels a few
more harsh, sporadic gasps, her breath steadily returning to
normal.  She sags against him, head bowed, offering Darnell
an eclipsed view of her injuries.

"I'll check around here.  See if anybody witnessed or heard
anything.  Shoot -- guess my vacation's officially over."
He turns toward his apartment, sending them off with a grim
wave of dismissal.

************

"There's your proof, Mulder," she says, hiccupping softly
beside him.  "That ridiculous little house didn't do me a
bit of good."

He makes no reply as he drives with a knot in his stomach,
watching the way her head lolls against the back of her
seat, angled toward the window.  Her eyes pinch shut before
oncoming headlights, knuckles white against the black
expanse of her coat.  Brittle as crystal, she seems ready to
shatter and he vows to pick up every little piece, should it
happen tonight.

"Your room?  Or mine?"

"Mine," he hears her whisper.  "Be quick."

He's one step ahead of her, maneuvering the town's dark
streets with a lead foot and the finesse of an Indianapolis
500 racecar driver.  Swept along by another sense of
urgency, he's fighting to outdistance forces of
inevitability that surge behind them with tsunami power.

Since their earliest days together, progress toward intimacy
has been questionable, incremental, and veiled in platonic
mist.  Friendship bounced along the electric edge of
flirtation, lurching to one side of the fence and then back
again.  He admits they've both accumulated enough emotional
debris along this battlefront for the truth to fill a boxcar
each.

Maybe these elements were necessary in establishing new
candor between them.  An understanding, a point of ripe
acceptance.  They got honest and physical only months ago,
chipping away old layers of self-protection and uncertainty.
Significant other -- is that really what she is to him?  Or
something more fundamental and sublime, completing him as a
person like no one else in the world could?

But now the sands of denial threaten to drift back and
reclaim ground taken at such a price.  He swears he won't
allow this case or its effect on Scully to mar what they've
gained or halt the progress she's made toward her own
personal resolution.  Speeding against red lights and time,
he parks close as he can and helps her out, one arm hooked
around her as he unlocks the door to her room.

Darkness greets them, infused with the clean scents of maid
service and Scully's familiar, chosen brand of toiletry.
Easing her inside, he snicks on the shallow bedside light to
assess the true situation.

Trembling hands cover her face, her body tense and
threatening to fold in upon itself.  Respiration seems
normal now, but her nerves and muscles quake.  The external
toughness she usually displays is gone, victim to the inner
turmoil she's battling due to danger and her personal,
supernatural connections to this case.

Only he is privy to one unusual kernel of truth as it
pertains to his partner, and he safeguards that reality and
her compromised self-respect with jealous care.  He
considers that she should by rights have stayed back in
D.C., unscathed and unmolested, where her yearly mourning
would be completed by now.  Instead, she accompanied him to
Aubrey.

"Here... let me have a look," he suggests, persuasive.  She
shakes her head, face still hidden by a swathe of tousled
hair.  Her fingers unknowingly smear one welling contusion
along her temple.

"Mulder... just hold me for a minute."

Reaction chokes her voice, making it tight and breathy.  Her
slender form feels lost in his embrace, strands of red hair
sifting into his mouth and against his chin as he presses
her close.  He tries to still the shaking of her body,
rocking from side to side when she wraps her arms around
him.  Tries to smooth away the deep tremors, evidence of the
sobs she suppresses.  She's unyielding as concrete, still so
unforgiving of herself it makes his chest burn.

In mid-hug she straightens and pushes him away, finished
with weakness.

The clock, he feels, is spinning backward, to their first
tense night here -- Scully bathed in shadow before the
window, holding her tattered sensibilities like fragile
eggshells.  Solitary, allowing no more than superficial
touch.  Denying herself the full luxury of the comfort he's
hungering to give.

He won't let her force a repeat of that night.  Selfishly,
he won't relinquish progress gained during this last week
together.

"I'm not leaving," he informs her, stroking back the sticky
hair from her brow.  To justify his obstinacy he holds her
red-daubed fingers before her face.  "Yours.  And there's
more.  Tell me where it hurts and I'll check you out."

She wavers on a logjam of indecision, red-rimmed eyes locked
with his.  Then, acquiescing with a tiny nod, she glances
downward.  "My right hip..." she murmurs, forehead furrowed.
"This elbow..."

"Let's handle one pain at a time."

Accepting his help, she shrugs off the coat and blazer
before attending to the blouse, where her fingertips stumble
over the tiny buttons.  He replaces them with his own sure
hands, ticking quickly down the line over her breasts until
the garment parts under her numbed gaze.  He's attentive,
murmuring his support.  Moments later she stands before him
in bra and panties, wincing as he kneels to examine the
large magenta bruise that stains her hipbone.

"Hurt much?"

"I think I'll live," she whispers down to him.

"That's not what I asked."

But her bravado gives him a tingle of reassurance, a pungent
taste of the old Scully, and he feels her hand browse into
his hair, fingertips kneading his scalp.  Magical.  He
brushes a kiss over the contusion with whisper-soft lips,
heart swelling with relief.

"To make it all better," he explains when her watchful eyes
question.  "I guarantee it works every time."

Lingering over the silken skin, he wants to graze his way
six inches southeast and sink his nose into the wispy
fragrant nest there, to breathe in her essence.  But now's
not the time -- he quashes those thoughts as inappropriate
for the moment with a sigh.  She has another, more
precarious situation to prepare for tomorrow with the
Tillman boy.  She'll need her grit, her control, and every
ounce of faith she possesses.

"Ow," she says, dabbing the bleeding scuffs on her face with
a trembling hand.  "I think I need a mirror."

"You need to shower off," he corrects, standing to tower
over her.  "Then we'll deal with the damage we find.  Sound
like a plan?"

She nods and offers him her back.  Freed from restraint, her
breasts settle forward, nipples budding beneath her crossed
arms in the cooler air of the room.  Panties slip from hips
to knees; he works them down and off, then helps her remove
shoes and knee-highs before guiding her fully naked into the
bathroom.

They haven't done this nearly enough, he thinks in
retrospect.  The water thing -- economizing, showering
together.  A sad truth, when pre and post-coital water games
could promote closer bonding and a higher degree of erotic
play.  He's open to trying more of it in the near future.
Admittedly, until this case in Aubrey, most of their
lovemaking has either been in bed or on the couch, rarely
involving the sharing of water.

Standing outside the curtain with soaking shirtsleeves, he
slides a washcloth from the side of Scully's brow, down the
narrow slick curve of backbone to her rosy ass.  Using the
continuous comforting strokes of a masseuse, he washes away
tension and blood-smear.  Calm her, keep her strong, don't
lose ground.  Under the hiss of water and his even rhythm
she braces herself, palms flat against the tile, dripping
hair a shield to her face on either side.  Erotic as all
hell, he decides.

"Feel good?"

"Mmmm, yes," she mumbles through the torrent that soothes
both nerves and flesh.

"I'm also committed to doing the flip side, when you're
ready to turn around."

He catches a glimpse of a smile.  "So altruistic..."

"That's me, all the way."

Entranced, he bends further past the curtain, breath labored
in the thick steam.  As he hopes, she senses his closeness
and leans back against him to further drench his shirt.
Eyes slits against the beat of the shower, he kisses the
wet, warm skin in front of her ear, catching a glimpse of
soft vanilla breast and pert cherry nipple.  A hint of rust-
hued fuzz lower down in the mist turns his erection to such
baseball-bat stiffness that he bites his lip.

A hesitant angling of heads to one side and their mouths
meet and meld.  Her lips feel soft and tremulous under his,
yielding to accept his tongue briefly, though not offering
hers in return.  His hand halts in its journey up her ribs
when he realizes she's still tensed as wire, fighting to
recover from the sideswipe in the parking lot.  Shivering
despite the warmth of the shower, her eyes stay veiled and
he ends the kiss.

It's enough to know she's still with him -- that they
haven't lost precious ground.

"Where's your soap?"  He keeps his voice low, fingers light
on her waist as he looks behind him around the tiny steamed
room.

"Sink," she murmurs and bows forward again into the water,
against the supportive wall of the shower when he steps away
to hunt.

Only then does he hear hard pounding on her door.

Scully is oblivious to the intrusion, perceptions dulled by
the wet hair plastering her ears, shower noise, and jangled
nerves.  The sudden rapping perplexes him.  No calls, he'd
stipulated to Darnell back at the apartment building, under
threat of violence.  Does the man really think personal
visits are an acceptable alternative?

Propelled by anger, he takes quick strides to the front
door, yanking it open to do battle before Brian Tillman's
startled face.

He's the last person Mulder expects to see blocking Scully's
doorway.  Fists working open and shut, mouth zipper-tight
under his mustache, Tillman's skin seems bluish from neon
light and worry.  It appears the same thing must be shooting
through the Lieutenant's mind about Mulder.

"Where is she?  Is she all right?"

The two men eye one another across the threshold, both with
expressions of wary concentration.  Mulder chances a glance
toward the parked cars and sees no one else he recognizes,
then swings his attention back to Tillman's taut face.  An
unmoving obstacle in the doorway, he feels like a wolf
protecting his injured mate and warms to his preferential
alpha male position inside her motel room.

Possession, he remembers for some inane reason, is nine-
tenths of the law...

Stalemated, the two men gauge the other's advantage, each
feeding off the freezing, testosterone-laden air that pours
through the opened door.  "She'll be okay," he says slowly.
"Apparently the message didn't get through that she was to
be left undisturbed."

"I heard all that... but I had to check for myself.  Darnell
said she was injured by the hit-and-run.  Bleeding."  He
pauses, edgy, glowering at Mulder under tucked brows.  "She
should go to the hospital."

"That's her call, Tillman, and her right to refuse
treatment.  Need I remind you that she's a doctor?"

"And doctors make the world's worst patients."

Mulder smirks.  "I wouldn't suggest you tell *her* that..."

"Then, step aside, Agent, and let me talk to her -- she
should also make a formal statement to the police about what
happened --"

"I'll give you a statement," interjects Mulder, breathing
out plumes of condensation with dragon-like vehemence.  His
grip tightens on the door and jamb and his voice turns to
gravel.  "Leave her the hell alone.  In other words, get the
fuck out."

Shivering, aware that bone-chilling night air and his
sopping shirt work against him, he has no intention of
letting this Missouri interloper harass his partner in her
present condition.  Tillman, he notices, runs a calculating
eye over Mulder's sodden clothing and shirtsleeves, his damp
hair.  At the dripping washcloth he still clutches in one
hand.

The intrusive gaze flickers past him -- to the smooth
shadowed bedspread where his long thick coat smothers
Scully's.  To her clothing heaped on the carpet next to the
bed where she shed them, piece by piece.  Gauzy bra and
panties look like survivors adrift on a suggestive sea
toward the bathroom.

Such evidence she usually hides with meticulous care --
until tonight's emergency...

Muted shower-sounds penetrate the heavy alpha haze and
become simultaneously audible to both men.  Her voice,
plaintive and unmistakable in its urgency, calls out for
Mulder.  It occurs to him that he and Tillman have talked at
length about Scully and haven't once mentioned her by name.

"Get the picture, Lieutenant?"  Gooseflesh covers Mulder's
body, while outrage keeps him simmering.  "Next time, have
the balls to ask for information instead of delegating to
one of your people.  Darnell deserves better
consideration... and, in case you're wondering, he hasn't
acquired a taste for what amounts to low-class, horse-shit
snooping."

His teeth begin a light chatter; he squeezes the wet
washcloth to still them, wanting to tend to Scully's needs.

She'll have *his* balls in a sling when she knows what
transpired -- this brazen caveman facade he's adopted while
Brian Tillman gawks at the intimacies of their off-duty
private world.  Still, he feels justified in doing so,
satisfaction for truth outweighing this specific breach of
trust.

"Got it."  Tillman looks bleak, chagrined on both counts,
and nods once as though conceding defeat.  "Okay.  But, just
hear me out -- I still need to talk to both of you as soon
as possible.  Something else has happened tonight.  Personal
developments possibly related to the case."  He eases out a
breath.  "I'm serious about this."

"Is tomorrow morning soon enough?  We planned to stop by
anyway, to see your son."

Fear clouds the man's eyes.  He hesitates before nodding
again, rubbing his mustache with a nervous forefinger.
"Yeah, I guess it'll have to be..."

Another plea, more querulous, echoes from the bathroom,
drawing Mulder's attention back over his shoulder.

"Sounds like you're being paged.  Better take care of
business, agent."

"I will.  Tillman, wait --"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry about..." Mulder clears his throat, eyes direct.
"About the events that have affected you here over the
years.  Believe that."

Processing the implication in silence, Tillman jerks his hat
lower into the wind.  "Take good care of her," he orders
gruffly, turning on his heel and wading back through the
neon and darkness of the parking lot to his car.

************

Conestoga Motel
November 8, 2000
8:09 p.m.

"*What* possessed you?  Mulder?  Answer me."

"It was..."

"It was what?"  Her voice frosty, demanding, from the depths
of the bed.  The mere thought of Brian Tillman ogling her
discarded, day-old underwear is enough to set her off again.

"Must have been a guy thing," he finishes after a lengthy
pause, the weak explanation intended to clarify more than
conciliate.  Unflinching, he remains preoccupied with his
task, sitting shirtless beside her recumbent form.  As his
solemn gaze combs her face and shoulders for fresh bruises,
he insists on turning back the edge of the sheet to permit a
more thorough examination of her cleansed injuries.  She
pinches her eyes shut, steeling her body for the chill.

"No," she contradicts with heat, "it was a pissing contest -
- and in *my* room no less.  We'd agreed to keep personal
matters private, especially in the field.  *Jesus*,
Mulder..."

"Sounds like you're feeling a lot better.  Arm up."

She complies, shivers in the cold.  Her room still feels
like an icebox after the open door during Tillman's
unannounced visit, but Mulder's warm hands are calming on
the cucumber-smooth skin of her elbow.  Strong fingers worry
the joint, test the site of impact where she slammed
pavement through layers of winter clothing.

Fortunately she presents a less opposing and formidable
obstacle than most people, and her roll away from the car
was split-second automatic reflex.  Thank God for
adrenaline.  Thank God for rigorous, exacting training and a
thick coat.  Thank God her partner was close by and willing
to shield her from the prying eyes of strangers...

Except here, in her own motel room.  She shakes her head
slowly, exhaling with an exasperated hiss.  "You know, I'm
trying hard to view this philosophically."

"Hey... if you want to sleep solo for the duration, just say
the word.  I suppose I can handle being celibate for a few
more days.  All things considered," he says, probing a rib
like an examining physician and ignoring the goose-fleshed
breast beside it, "you were lucky tonight.  I'd take bruises
over broken bone any day."

His fingers play her sides, light and teasing, and slip to
her chest before she can make a response.  One step ahead,
he pauses, gently cradling each breast in the supportive,
elastic skin between thumb and forefinger.  His gaze draws
him in closer, like a moth to light.  Hot breath surrounds
one taut, cool point and she closes her eyes to the
inevitable, expecting to feel the moist warmth of his mouth
at any second.

He merely sighs over the waiting nipple and pulls the sheet
from her lower body to more closely inspect her bruised hip.

"You enjoy this, don't you, Mulder?"  She observes his
actions with wry surprise and renewed irritation, noting his
intensity and control at her expense.  He seems to relish
each subsequent inch of flesh, each new limb revealed to the
air, heightening her vulnerability.

"Playing doctor?  One of my favorite games since childhood,
Scully.  How'd you guess?"

"It's obvious.  Your self-restraint is also admirable, by
the way."

He winks at the sarcasm.  "Just staying professional here.
Proving I'm not the horny, opportunist bastard I seem, out
to pork you at every turn..."

"Mulder, I've never once thought that -- never."

Stung by his sudden self-deprecation, she reaches out to
touch him.  Not far from where his fingers rest, the springy
curls of her pubic hair sit at attention, auburn-fresh from
the shower.  A palpable reminder that time has brought a
dramatic shift in their partnership, that this man now owns
a share in her nakedness, an investment that bars all other
bidders.  His examination of her body extends far beyond
simple carnality and lust.

He proved that by his gift last week, on the night of her
yearly funk.  Though cloaked in the guise of a seductive sex
act, she understood his intent, the real message of the
comfort and pleasure he gave her that night.  All at once,
nothing else has relevance except this tender manifestation
of devotion.

"It's okay," she whispers.  The skin of his arm feels
familiar and warm under her hand, defusing her indignation.
"I'm sorry.  Just forget about it."

"To what are you referring?"

"Our unexpected visitor... Tillman, to be specific.  And
this bizarre machismo competition you have going with him
for my attentions, which is insulting and completely outside
the realm of reason.  *We* have the lasting relationship,
Mulder -- the bonding, the history, the connection.  You and
me -- and I love you without question.  How many more ways
can I say it?  *That* reality should supercede any
insecurity or threat you encounter here in Aubrey during
this investigation.  When it's done, then we go back home.
Together."

"To live happily ever after..."

She frowns up at him.  "Why are you smiling?"

"Your logical, pragmatic stance in all this, Scully.  It
brought to mind a quote by the famous Philadelphian, Ben
Franklin, whose insight, I suspect, must have come about
from personal experience."

"Tell me."

"He said, 'Hear Reason, or she'll *make* you feel her.'"

She scoffs aloud.  "Then you'd damn well better get your ass
into this bed with me."

Shedding his shoes and pants he climbs in beside her,
mattress bowing under his weight.  His smile remains, eyes
tender and amused in the dim light, lips pouted as he draws
close to plant a kiss.  "Thought I was the spy left out in
the cold," he murmurs as he zeroes in.  "You still like to
keep me guessing."

He lends her his warmth, the heat of his nakedness.  With
infinite care his hands and arms envelope her, not wishing
to cause further discomfort by rough handling, but hungry
for touch.  Gentleness gets her every time and he
understands that.  Their kiss is hesitant at first, then
grows hotter by increments, seething with arousal until it
erupts into flame.

His erection, hard and unyielding, shifts against her belly.
He responds to the heat of her groin with subtle, testing
pressure.  The press of turgid flesh against fresh bruise
proves too great a barrier to intimacy, and she's unable to
smother a cry of pain.

"Oh, shit," she pants, pulling her head aside for air,
"Mulder, I don't know if..."

"Yeah, but *I* should've.  Didn't mean to jump the gun like
that.  Must be another guy thing."  He sighs, repositions
his body, and tugs her head to rest against his shoulder.

"That may be, but I wanted it, too."

"Realistically, I think sleep's enough for tonight, after
your impressive tuck-and-roll," he concedes, nose buried in
her semi-damp hair.

"Mulder, I'm so sorry."

He shakes his head, nuzzling her like a puppy.  "Relax,
Scully.  You'll need all your energy tomorrow, since we're
speaking with Benjie first thing in the morning."

"You can't be any more specific?"

"Better if you hear it right from the pony's mouth."

"God," she breathes, closing wet eyes and sighing into his
neck.  "A copycat case with two corpses, the killer still
loose, and ... and now this."

"Like I said, one pain at a time.  And I'll be right beside
you."

He switches off the bedside lamp, plunging them into a
darkness tempered only by the pale light bleeding in from
the bathroom and the strip of parking lot glare between the
thick motel curtains.  This is her feng shui, her place of
perfect balance, in bed clasped in Mulder's muscled arms.
Never had she hoped to gain such comfort, such peace of mind
from sharing this intensely private place with another
person.

Only one thing needs to be rectified.

"Mulder," she broaches, "Seriously... I don't think I *can*
sleep right now."

Eyes closed for honest slumber, he kisses her forehead,
thumb stroking over her cheek, rhythmic and soothing.  With
no other response forthcoming, she raises a hand and glides
an inquisitive, purposeful finger over the pout of his lower
lip, browsing it back and forth.

"I think I may need a proven antidote for insomnia," she
whispers into his ear, "if I'm to get any decent rest
tonight."

His thumb halts its movement over her cheekbone; from deep
within his throat she hears the birth of a chuckle.  In
another moment he's up on his elbow, fully attentive and
grinning like an idiot through the shadows.  "You're kidding
me.  Right?"

"Is it like me to kid about such a thing?"

She's amazed at what a grain of encouragement accomplishes
when sex is on the line.  His hands seem instantly
omnipresent.  Willing thumbs brush her nipples to exquisite
tightness, palms and fingers knead her breasts with the most
delicate of caresses.  She feels him reach a hand low under
the sheet to softly comb at her mound.  While he plumbs her
mouth with his tongue, long fingers begin to stroke and
insinuate themselves over and between her sensitive nether
lips, making her tremble.

"And I'd never pass up the honor," he purrs, unceasing in
his worship of her body, her breasts.  Alternating kisses
with close eye contact, he finally shifts to a more
comfortable, conducive position between her parted thighs,
mindful of both her injury and her pleasure.

She watches him through a rippling film of tears.  Crouched
on knees and elbows, the moons of his muscled behind pale in
the dimness, Mulder smiles as he bends his head to her soft
thatch.  Leisurely he inhales its fragrance.

At the first wet, teasing touch she shivers, eases back onto
the pillow, and shuts her eyes...

************
End of Chapter 17


************
Chapter 18
************

Warner residence
November 9, 2000
7:28 a.m.

"You're mean!"

Natalie Warner takes a heavy, squinting draw from her second
cigarette of the morning.  She turns to face her angry
little daughter's accusation, crossing robed arms and
leaning back against the edge of the counter.

A petulant cloud of smoke prefaces her reply.  "So, tell me
something else that's new."

"I want Kari to come over and play today!"

"You see her the whole Goddamn day at school.  You play with
her at recess.  You sit next to each other for hours on end
talking about who knows what.  If you ask me, that's more
exposure than one person needs to Kari Marshall and her
bouncy curls, thank you very much."

"See?  You're just a rotten old meanie!"

"Deal with it, Miss Smarty-pants.  Look at the fiasco you
pulled on your birthday, for God's sake.  When things settle
down, *maybe* you can have her over sometime next week.  I
dunno yet."

"Dad-deee?"  Shawna's voice rises in outraged, squeaking
crescendo.

"Talk to your Mom about it," he puffs, breezing out of the
hallway and into the kitchen.  Briefcase in hand, fumbling a
necktie knot, he's a typical picture of self-absorbed male
abdication.

"Oh, crap!"  Shawna shouts, whirling.  Her foot kicks out,
planting a coltish stamp to the floor tile, her pint-sized
frustration at its peak.  "Why are parents so *mean*?
Kari's mom acts like you, too!  She says even her grandma's
mean now."

"News to me.  I thought Alice Marshall was God's gift to
whiney kids the world over."  Natalie turns on a bare foot
to flick ash into the sink, feeling her chest tighten with
uncertainty.  Then, referencing Shawna's last remark under
her breath, she mutters, "Well, well, well..."

Greg Warner overhears, pouring himself a hurried cup of
coffee while pulling on his coat.  He throws his wife an
ambivalent glance.  "Somebody getting twitchy over at
Marshall's in light of recent events?"

"Put a lid on it, Greg --" she hisses over her shoulder.
"At least wait until the kid's out of the room."

"The *kid*," pipes up Shawna from the doorway, with a look
of pure condescension and a hand glued to her hip, "is
leaving to *pee* right now, if you'd really like to know."

Sipping gingerly from the cup, he waits until his tiny
blonde daughter saunters up the hall, where she disappears
with a slam worthy of her mother.  Then he resumes, "Any
news from the grapevine?"

"That's none of your business, buster."

He scoffs while setting down the porcelain mug and brown
liquid sloshes onto the countertop already crowded with the
remnants of a non-nutritional breakfast.  "Well, admit it,
Nat.  The similarities between what's happening now and what
happened back then are getting under everybody's skin.  It's
in all the papers.  The closer someone was to the action,
the more they'd be feeling it."

Natalie grits her teeth before taking a furious pull on her
smoke.  She doesn't need Greg intruding unasked into her
private domain or poking into this hornet's nest for a lark.
Some secrets shouldn't be disturbed, or should at least be
treated with distance, timing, and respect.

And gorgeous though Agent Mulder might be, they'd all be
better off if the FBI man took his handsome ass out of town
-- his little red-headed bitch of a partner with him.

It's enough that the information she knows makes her squirm.
It takes a hell of a lot to make Natalie Warner squirm.  She
won't risk getting stung, even by accident.

"Just drop her off at school and get to work, will you?  And
shut the hell up -- the less said right now, the better."

"Famous last words..."

She glares at her husband as he plunders his coat pocket for
car keys, fury and fear making her seethe in silence.   Face
pinched like a sallow prune, she steps away to grind out her
cigarette in the ash-littered sink.

************

Tillman residence
November 9, 2000
8:15 a.m.

Mulder has seen this expression on Tillman's face before,
the afternoon of the raid on Harry Cokely's house.

The room was dimmed by curtains, licked by the bluish,
flickering waves from the TV.  It stank of old man, of too
many cigarettes, and from Mulder's vantage point on the rug,
the sour tang of unwashed socks.  B.J.'s razor snicked his
throat, her eyes wide as alien saucers in the gloom
overhead.  "Freeze!" Scully had ordered, her voice steel in
the dimness, SIG raised and cocked.  Flanking her, Tillman
also aimed his gun reflexively, but his face held the same
uncomprehending look of desperation.  Stunned, beseeching.

Six years later, a week into the resurrected case, and
nothing's changed.  The man comes by his haunted demeanor
honestly, Mulder surmises, and for good reason -- one more
woman in his life looms as a suspect in the most abhorrent
string of crimes the Aubrey police department has ever
encountered.

"Thanks.  Thanks for coming over.  Something else has
happened," Tillman rambles, an echo from the previous
evening.

By Mulder's estimation, the man rues his fool's mission, the
macho blustering out to the Conestoga Motel and to Scully
after Darnell's warning to stay away.  What did he hope to
accomplish during her time of weakness besides willful
seduction?  Instead, he was sent packing, the wind knocked
out of his sails after Scully's timely call from the shower
and the sight of that dripping washcloth...

Tillman knows now what they share off-duty.  Illogically,
Mulder feels in an even better position to bargain his own
agenda.

They're ushered toward the warm, coffee-scented kitchen,
past the chatter of morning cartoons and the overstuffed
sofa where Benjie sits cross-legged.  Curious, the boy
swivels and kneels to track their passage.  His eyes look
wide and luminous, like his mother's.  Both agents give him
a shy smile, a child who resembles Kilroy-in-miniature, nose
and hands peeking over the high back cushion.

The meeting takes place not at the kitchen table as Mulder
anticipated, but on mismatched chairs in the sewing room,
well out of the child's earshot.  Tillman seems quietly
agitated, awkward with the intimate knowledge he possesses.
His glance darts first to Mulder, then riffles over Scully's
face and hand, noting the reddened contusions that mar her
pale skin.  He clears his throat several times, hands
working, then reaches up to rub at his thin caterpillar of a
mustache.

Scully, Mulder observes, remains composed and self-
contained, wearing a mask of smooth professional distance.
Personal exposure to her hidden debilities makes him
appreciate all the more what a source of strength she is,
for him and for herself.  What she's capable of when the
situation demands a cool head and a team player.  She
softened for a moment upon seeing Benjie, but pulled the
mask firmly back into place before taking her chair with the
two men.  She sat down with ginger care, mindful of her many
bruises.  Inwardly, he assumes she must be reconciled to
what Tillman now knows about them.

Awakening this morning, Mulder assisted her into the
bathroom, her muscles stiffened like sun-scorched rawhide,
scrapes tight and stinging with each small movement.  After
downing multiple analgesics, the hot shower and his gentle
massage did the trick, especially when she insisted he join
her in the water.  He loves the resiliency of this woman and
her resolve to get back astride the proverbial horse after
taking a hit.  Her willingness to reciprocate pleasure in
spite of setback.  Her unique ability to turn his knees to
rubber with a flurry of well-timed, well-placed strokes to
his dick.

She's got the Catholic schoolgirl's knack for snake
handling, no doubt about it.

Tillman leaps to his feet to pull the door of the sewing
room nearly shut, disturbing Mulder's musings.  He knows
that when this meeting is concluded, Scully still faces the
matter of the boy and the toy house.  Another appointment,
on a more personal level, that he's pressing her to keep.
One pain at a time, he told her last night, checking over
her various injuries, willing each one to heal and disappear
with a kiss.

The sentiment still holds true, though the reality this
morning is much more imposing.

"So," he starts, "what have you got, Lieutenant?  You said
there were new developments related to the case."

In the hushed room he sits with Scully, watching this
tortured man knead the wrinkles from his forehead before he
shares a tale that holds little in the way of surprises for
Mulder.  They've already presupposed these basics.  Wife
missing, family clueless as to her whereabouts.  Skipped
medications, closet alcoholism.  Resentment toward his love
child, who has just come clean about the secret abuse he's
suffered since babyhood.  No surprises there.

Even so, when Tillman relates past conversation and whispers
the words 'crazy house' and 'real mommy,' Scully presses her
eyelids shut, giving a slow shake of her head.

"I hope you're not contemplating putting out an APB on your
wife," Mulder says, feeling out the Lieutenant's next move.
"Coincidence isn't motive enough the assume there's guilt.
Not in this case."

"It's damn incriminating to me," retorts Tillman.  The man
looks haggard from prolonged tension and lack of sleep.  He
rubs his eyes one more time until they water, then leans
forward to rest his mouth and mustache against hands that
clasp into a tight knot.  "I refused to believe the obvious
six years ago and look where it got me.  Shafted.
Compromised by someone I trusted.  Someone close to me --"

"Different set of circumstances," points out Mulder.  With
Darnell's reluctant help he's already given Janine Tillman's
family tree a cursory examination and found her clean.  "And
just so there aren't any misunderstandings or surprises
later, I want you to know that I've also been in touch with
B.J. through all this --"

"You *what*?"

"Mulder visited Shamrock last week," interjects Scully,
speaking for the first time, "besides having had numerous
phone conversations with B.J.  At her request and with her
doctor's permission, if that makes it more palatable for
you."

"She should have been left out of this entirely, Goddamn
it."

"She wouldn't be left out, Tillman," says Mulder.  "She's
affected by this thing, just like your son -- *her* son --
is.  But, unlike him, her present location keeps her from
directly acting on those impulses.  Benjie's free to respond
to the killer's movements.  You've seen it yourself -- he's
drawn like a mouse to the Pied Piper every time something's
about to go down."

The mention of his son's name disarms the man.  Covering his
face for a long moment, he sounds like a race-worn runner,
taking the information deep inside his body with labored
breaths.  Finally, he lifts imploring eyes to Mulder.
"Christ... what should I do?"

"You're already doing it.  Stick to that boy like glue,
especially at night... make sure he stays safe until we can
reasonably pinpoint the killer."

Tillman's scoff is bitter.  "And you're convinced it's not
my wife --"

"Agent Mulder has a working theory," offers Scully, "that
the killer most likely could be a relative of one of
Cokely's earlier victims."

Both men stare at her, Tillman with disbelief, Mulder with
satisfied surprise that she'd take the initiative to expose
this particular premise.  Whether she personally indulges in
his theory or not is moot.  That she displays it before
Tillman as a means to divert his misdirected accusation is
further evidence of trust and acceptance of her partner's
investigative techniques.  Sharing with Darnell, as he did,
is one thing.  Applying her own stamp of endorsement for
Tillman's edification is another.

"Earlier?  How early?"

"1942," she supplies succinctly.  "You remember the details
of the case.  Three young women killed, two federal agents,
Chaney and Ledbetter, missing."  She enumerates the list of
victims' names, to which the Lieutenant responds with
several puzzled shakes of his head.  "Do none of these names
ring a bell?"

"You've been around these parts a long time, I take it,"
adds Mulder, snatching up the thread.  "Every member or
descendant of the Bradshaw, Eberhardt, and Van Cleef
families could not have inexplicably vanished from the area
and public knowledge.  That seems unlikely to me.  Aubrey is
no black hole."

"I'm not aware of anyone off the top of my head.  That was
way before my time, Agent Mulder.  And something I didn't
feel the need to dwell on."

"Unacceptable," says Mulder, catching the glance of his
partner.  "The gossip-mongers have a clue, but nobody's
talking.  Their leader's taken the 'Fifth' the last time we
met."

"D'you mean the Warner woman?  She's responsible for
spreading the 'bad seed' crap about my boy all over town.
For making Janine's life a living hell --" Tillman pauses in
sudden confusion.  The probability that his wife transferred
her frustrated anger toward his son seems to stun him.  "Are
you implying that the bloodline theory isn't valid in this
case after all?  That you believe my son is innocent of
suspicion despite who his mother is and what she's done?"

"And his great-grandfather," adds Mulder.  "But, yes, that's
exactly what we're saying."

"Then, why does Benjie have these dreams?  Why is he under
the killer's control?"

Mulder glances at Tillman and smirks at the irony.  "Maybe
that's why this is called an X-File."

Conversation halts between the three, eddying into still,
shallow pools of thought.  At the lull, Mulder glances over
his shoulder toward the living room and the faint cartoon
chatter he hears.  Then he pivots back, eyes resting for a
gentle moment on the bruised and beautiful face of his
partner before boring next into Tillman's.

"I need to ask a big favor from you, Lieutenant..." he
begins.

************

With Mulder as her guide Scully moves on a pilgrimage of
healing, taking slow footsteps across a symbolic desert.
Purification-by-fire.  A journey toward the truth as she
perceives it.  Her truth -- elusive, painful, and private.

He would have her believe that the enigmatic child in the
next room harbors a special secret for her.

Together they enter the living room, his hand strong and
essential at her back, fortifying her on this walk into
another unknown.  She should be used to this, after years of
second-guessing his sixth sense and being witness to his
paranormal radar.  His unerring penchant for steering her
into dark, forbidding places where she'd rather not go.

And the boy... how many times has she approached him in the
last week?  Their relationship, such as it is, has evolved
from the clinical, official stance of agent and child-
suspect to something much more transcendent and compelling.
Her first instinct should be to turn her back on anything
but professional distance.  Before, she felt secure in her
bureaucratic integrity; now she feels taut as tightrope,
poised between Benjie and the esoteric secret he holds.

She marvels again at the change in this child, at what a
minimum of proper care has accomplished.

No longer is he the raw-skinned, seeping waif who shuffled
toward her across the carpet.  Eyes downcast, chin pressed
to his chest like a small, feral rabbit eager to bolt.  She
remembers the shock that seized her heart when he raised his
head that day of first meeting, the sting when he jerked
away from her touch.  Such shame, fear, and victimization
for one so young.

A homicide investigation is by no means a platform for
personal exorcism, yet Mulder has suggested there are
synchronous connections between this small boy and her early-
November angst.  Powers both psychological and supernatural
that surface as this drama draws to an inexorable head in
Aubrey.

"Hi, sweetie," she whispers to Benjie and slips with care
onto the love seat that sits angled opposite the couch.
She's aware of Mulder's hovering closeness beside her and
knows he's had previous communication with this child.  They
connect in subtle ways she hasn't realized until now.
Unaccountably, she feels left out of the integral loop they
share, man and boy.

"Hi."  Benjie blinks large troubled eyes and examines her
face, head tilted at an angle.  With his small brow furrowed
he accuses Mulder.  "You didn't give it to her."

"The house?  Yeah, I did.  Don't worry."

The boy pouts and looks at Scully.  "But you got hurt."

"Yes.  A little," she agrees sheepishly.  She dabs at her
forehead scrape with a finger, forcing a smile.  "But it's
nothing serious.  It looks much worse than it is."

He shakes his head.  "I bet it feels a *lot* worse than it
looks.  It's always like that."

"When you're hurt, you mean," she clarifies.

The distinctive rasp of Benjie's voice, coupled with a
small, sage nod brings wetness to her eyes.  Please, not
yet... they've said little more than two sentences to one
another and already she feels self-control sifting through
her fingers like so much sand.

...Sand, packed into the pint-sized coffin, mocking her
grief.  More evidence that Scully's life as an agent for the
FBI flaunts the status quo, that she's been an unsuitable
candidate all along for adopting a child, even though Emily
was a biological DNA near-match.  Her own flesh and blood,
as Mulder so vehemently explicated in her defense.

And there in the coffin, where a little girl's corpse should
have lain... adrift in the grains of sand, a golden sparkle,
the cross necklace she'd given to her daughter as a gift,
for safekeeping.  Another exercise in futility returning to
mock her...

"You know quite a bit about that, don't you?  About being
hurt," she whispers to Benjie.

He nods again.  "You do, too."

Startled, she glances sideways at Mulder who is leaning
toward them both, absorbing the exchange with the thirst of
a dry sponge.  Mouth set into a mirthless bow, his eyes
radiate tenderness and something deeply protective.  During
these tense, confrontational moments he's hard at work
monitoring what unfolds before him, watching her back.
"I'll be right beside you," he'd assured her.  It comes as
no surprise to feel the warm, sudden pressure of his hand
cloaking one of hers.

She swings back to the boy, surprise in her tone.  "Why do
you say that?  Did Agent Mulder say something to you?  Tell
you something --?"

"No," Mulder interrupts, head shaking in concert with the
boy's.  "Benjie shared something with me that concerns you.
It's the reason why he built that little safehouse in the
first place.  Not his idea at all."

"She asked me to do it," whispers the boy and the words feel
like a red-hot lance through Scully's chest.

"Who?  Who is *she*?"

Benjie fumbles at the intensity and tremor in her voice, his
eyes flicking to Mulder for reassurance.  Pacified, he
squirms and whispers, "I saw her in my dream.  It was
different from the other scary dreams I have.  She told me
to make it for you."

"Who?  A woman?"

The hope Scully clings to is that perhaps B.J., in some
absurd, supernatural fluke of communication, is speaking to
her son.  Her own belief system has undergone a unique
course of invasive surgery during her time with Mulder.  She
can accept the reality that message transmissions occur in
the most unscientific, convention-defying ways.  She
remembers her own brushes with the paranormal, the strange
sensory visions that woke her during the times when the
world-at-large believed Special Agent Fox Mulder was truly
dead.  Feelings of deja vu and psychic intuition.  Melissa's
clear, urgent voice on the other end of the phone line two
Christmases ago at Bill's home in San Diego.

"She was crying.  She said you needed a place to hide."
Benjie speaks in a well-enunciated murmur, almost with fear.
"It was her... the little girl."

"Oh, my God --"

Adrenalin spiking, she attempts to rise, a dizzying warmth
flushing over her cheeks and forehead.  Mulder's quick hand
prevents an escape.  He sidles closer, slipping an arm
around her back and side, pressing her uninjured hip more
firmly into his as though to glue her against him.  With
such close contact, he can no doubt feel her desperation,
the wild, panicked hammering of her heart.

"No!  Not this..." She practically hisses the words at
Mulder.

"Stay, Scully.  You need to hear it.  You have to be willing
to accept it, to believe."

She's heard many versions of that line before, sometimes
barked at her in frustration, other times pleading with her
in persuasive undertones.  How often in the past has a hard
line of frost edged his voice when he's convinced it's for
her benefit to see, experience, confront, believe?  Her knee-
jerk reaction to flee is the quickest route to deny what
she's hearing from this child's mouth, like the clean slice
of a scalpel pares away necrotic flesh.  Is it truth or
fabrication?  Does it hold up under scientific scrutiny?  Is
it dream or plausible message from beyond the grave?

Synchronous phenomenon... or pure coincidence?

Held tight in the crook of Mulder's arm, her determination
wavers, crumbles, and the room rocks before her.  "Keep
going, Benjie," prompts Mulder, more command than request.

The boy's eyes fill with tears and he shakes his head.

"Hey.  I'm serious about this."  Mulder's voice softens
markedly with new tact.  "Tell Agent Scully what you saw in
the dream.  Tell her what the little girl looked like."

Still Benjie hesitates and she feels Mulder's fingers
tighten on her ribcage.  Bending his head toward hers,
blocking her view of the child's face, his eyes smolder with
quiet fire.  Inescapable.

"Scully, let him know that it's okay to continue..."

His breath is moist and soothing on the skin of her
forehead.  She exhales with a shudder and closes her eyes at
the gentle compassion communicated in that near-touch.
Mulder's heart is strong and good; she clings to that
lifeline like she clung to his neck after Naciamento's
bizarre attack in his apartment, her shirt soaked with
blood, heart intact and thumping within her chest.

Another moment and she's freshly grounded, safe once again.
He leans slowly out of the way and she takes the next
faltering step.

"Sweetie, it's okay," she says, nodding to the solemn-faced
child.  "Really.  You can tell me exactly what you saw in
the dream."  Reaching out, her fingertips smooth his thick
hair in a gesture of motherly comfort.  "I want to know what
she looked like."

"But you'll cry..."

Control eludes her, but she makes a valiant grab for it.
She smiles at his forthright and childlike concern, dabbing
at a runaway tear that slips from one eye to prove his
point.  "I may... but that's okay.  How old was this little
girl in your dream?"

The boy considers before speaking, reluctant.  "Little.
Like she was in kindergarten.  She didn't tell me."  He
focuses inwardly and blinks.  "Kinda chubby cheeks and short
hair.  But not real short..."

"Like mine is?"

He considers and nods, looking her over.  "And not as red.
It was cut here --" When the boy moves a small, short finger
straight across his brows, it's all Scully can do to
maintain a modicum of control.  Once more she feels her
partner's gentle squeeze to her side.

"She wanted you to be safe, and she was crying," he repeats.

"Did she tell you her name?"

When Benjie shakes his head no, Mulder reaches out to give
the boy's shoulder a satisfied pat.  "Listen, that's okay...
I think Agent Scully already knows who it is.  Good job,
Benjie."

Scully nods agreement and with relief, aware that she's
survived yet another fire, another purging of her rawest,
deepest hurt.  Emily, the child who should never have
existed -- offering protection from beyond the grave, if
she's to accept the boy's dream at face value.  Truth or
fiction, she draws a pinch of consolation from this tense,
unsteady exchange.

Suddenly restless on his sofa seat, the child stares up at
Scully with large imploring eyes.  "But is it really true?"

She falters, glancing at Mulder and then back to the boy.
"Is what really true, sweetie?"

"She..." he pauses, squirming in unsettled chagrin, then
connects again, steeling himself to continue.  "The little
girl said that you were her mommy.  Her real mommy."

The world heaves and tumbles around her; she tries to hold
what's left of it together by covering her mouth with
shaking hands, and falls against the firm support of
Mulder's shoulder.  His low groan and quick, responsive hug
tells her that this, too, is news to him.  That the child
has revealed only snippets during their short dialogue at
the station office, saving the bombshell until now.

They're not alone in their confusion.  From somewhere behind
them comes a masculine grunt of surprise, but she's beyond
caring.

Benjie begins to weep as well, frightened by the adult
reaction before him, cheeks red and wet with crocodile
tears.  "Sh-she said... that you tried to help her," he
quavers.  "And now she wants to help you."  Stumbling to his
feet, he puts out a groping hand to Scully's knee.

She finds herself responding to the pleading, innocent touch
of this child.

They feel soft and babyish, these fingers curving into her
palm, swallowed by her desperate grasp.  Moist and trusting,
like Emily's little hand was during those grim, too-short,
dangerous days.  Her sweet, melon face appearing in a
ripple, surfacing from memory through a veil of tears.  Her
timid, serious smile, a grimace of pain.  Of fear, sweat,
and incomprehension.

Scully pulls at him, drawing the weeping child toward her.
Rocking to and fro in anguish, eyes squeezed tight, she
holds Benjie's wet cheek to hers for a few precious moments.

At her back, she feels Mulder's steadfast presence.  He
remains, as he said he would, to shield and protect her from
intrusion until she's ready to face the outside world again.

************
End of Chapter 18


************
Chapter 19
************

Aubrey, Missouri
November 9, 2000
9:12 a.m.

Scully accepts comfort like she eats desserts, infrequently
and in measured, self-indulgent bites.

Not an unusual behavior, considering her recent close
encounter with the supernatural at Tillman's home.  A dead
daughter -- Emily -- allegedly communicating to her through
the mouthpiece of a little boy, another child who's endured
a climate of living death for five long years.

Reeling inwardly, he tried his best to insulate her with his
body and protect her compromised dignity.  Even Benjie was
spooked by the emotional reaction he'd caused, prompting
Mulder to pat the the boy's round, tear-stained cheek as
they left the room.  A good kid.  No murderer, but with the
internal transceiver he possesses operative and a killer
still at large, he wasn't out of the woods yet.

Not by a long shot...

Tillman stood ashen-faced near the kitchen, alone on the
edge of the action.  He surprised Mulder by remaining
respectful of their space.  If he wondered about paternity
or the veracity of what he'd witnessed, he kept it to
himself and merely handed over their coats.  Two men, they
exchanged stiff, silent nods of concurrence before Mulder
steered Scully swiftly toward the entryway.  She wanted out,
though her body language felt stunted to him during those
frozen moments when she gripped his hand and moved ghost-
like at his side.  Hair shielding her face, head averted,
she trusted him to lead her to isolation.

No stranger to tragedy himself, Mulder knows his partner
better than she realizes.  He empathizes with her need to be
alone and to regroup after this supernatural, below-the-belt
hit.

The curb is as far as they get before she disengages from
him, like a sailboat torn away by riptide.

"Scully?"

She shakes her head.  Her breath heaves out clouds in the
cold morning air, snatched by the wind, as she grips the
passenger door handle and gives a yank.  Locked.  Eyes never
leaving her, he skirts the Corolla for the driver's side and
fumbles for the automatic lock on his key ring, mesmerized
by the hollowness he sees in her robotic, repetitive jerks.
From over the car she appears tiny and compact in her dark
blazer, coppery hair trembling from her efforts to escape
and disappear.

"Be open in a jiffy," he mumbles, fat-fingering the tiny
buttons in his distraction and haste.  "D'you want your
coat?"

Again she demurs with a shake, eyes closed tight, teeth
clenched.

"Here... let me --"

"Just open the fucking door, Mulder!"

Her order blisters the paint over the car's roof and he
feels her strident paranoia.  It's doubtful Tillman would
stoop to watch them now, from the dark-shuttered house.
Mulder tosses a glance over his shoulder, suspecting the man
sits huddled with his boy doing what protective dads usually
do.  Soothing the kid, supplying the simplest of lame-assed
guesstimates for what's just occurred in their living room.

Locks clack open and the car swallows her.  Chastened, he
climbs inside to shove their coats into the back seat, then
turns to evaluate her mettle, reaching out a hand.  "Scully,
listen --"

"Drive."

He bites his lip and obeys, making a smooth U-turn in the
bare, undeveloped cul-de-sac capping off the street beside
Tillman's house.  Destination unspecified, they pass
schools, the hospital, then stores and neighborhoods,
heading for the main drag through Aubrey.  Still Scully
stays silent.  Her nose and the curved skin above her lip
assume a gentler shade of pink as the super-charged moments
dissipate and she pulls the wounded edges of herself closed.

When they reach the town's perimeter, he squints in both
directions and steers the car left, out toward ranchland and
open prairie.  It reminds him that years before he ignored
the two most likely options and rocketed their car forward
into a hot Texas dusk.  Blazing his own billowy trail,
bushwhacking into the unknown.  Riding his personal hobby-
horse and dragging Scully with him.  A trouper to the end,
she hung on for the ride, neither of them cognizant of what
the next few days would mean for her -- for them both,
really -- in terms of sacrifice and repercussion.

Such personal phenomena affect them both deeply; six years
later they're still feeling the aftershocks from her first
abduction by Duane Barry.  Benjie's revelation is evidence
of that.

This morning at Tillman's she felt another hefty dose of his
impetuous thirst to search out the truth.  He'd opened a
veritable Pandora's box in good faith and fouled the air
instead of clearing it, at her expense.  Her urgency to put
some distance between herself and Aubrey is understandable.

The panorama before them is reminiscent of his boyhood home,
the way the countryside undulates around them like sea
swells near the shoreline he loved.  Little disturbs the
rhythmic sameness of this horizon, though clouds sink lower
and fuller, grayer than they've been all week.  Like
pregnant sheep, he's heard it expressed by someone, maybe
his mother.  Not Scully --

"Pull over."

He knows better than to query.  The moment he jerks the car
to the side of the road and kills the ignition, she turns
toward him.  This is the Scully he craves, the one who
soothes him in the midst of her pain, blesses him with her
closeness.  Arms wrap his neck, her face buried into his
shoulder.  With a deep sigh he reciprocates, strangely
comforted.

A hard ridge of Toyota console separates them, but it's her
good hip that meets it and their upper bodies cling.  She's
supple in his embrace, her arms wiry and insistent, but she
doesn't cry.  Instead, he senses new strength, new self-
containment in the unconscious kneading of her fingers at
his neck, the firm press of her cheek.  Her breasts feel
like small pillows against his ribs.

"What do you need?  Tell me and I'll do it," he whispers
fervently.  "Even if it means taking you back to DC."

Her moan of dissent opens his eyes.  She pulls away to look
up at him, one hand sliding down to grip his lapel.  "No,
out of the question.  That would be admitting defeat and we
have a job to do.  We have a case to finish here."

"Fuck the case right now --"

She shakes her head slowly and her eyes fill, searching him
as she's wont to do, heedless of the fresh tears that begin
a sketchy trail down the sides of her face.

"Mulder, listen to me... We do that and innocent people
continue to die.  That little boy back there will be no
better off than before."

"You're my first concern, Scully, before all others."

Yet undeniably, the curve of her cheek reminds him of the
weeping child he consoled short minutes ago and he's unable
to shake the image or spurn his sworn sense of duty.  Torn
between her welfare and their joint obligation, he takes her
wet skin into his palm, his thumb brushing away droplets
from the softness under her eye.

"I'll be fine," she reprises.  "We both will.  But, if all
these events are interrelated, as you theorize and
believe... if there's truly a synchronous connection between
events that have occurred in the past and what's happening
now, then I need to stay right here.  I need to be here, to
see this through to the end, through its cycle.  To its
natural resolution.  We owe that to everyone involved.  *I*
owe that to myself, Mulder."

"I'll support you either way."

"There's only one right choice.  We both know what it is."
Her forefinger grazes the pout of his lips; gratified, he
sees the beginnings of a weak smile when he puckers to kiss
it.  "My God, we're in such a rut," she whispers.  "We end
up going down the same road again and again..."

"Gluttons for punishment."

"Well... I was going to suggest something a little more
Jungian, actually."

"Bad karma?"

"Not even close, Mulder..."

After so many years they speak idiomatic versions of the
same language; her analogy implies case after case of
devoted partnership and subsequent bruised faith.  He feels
misty at the flinty resolve he sees in her gaze, a mixture
of fear, daring, trust, and Scully-bullishness that makes
him proud.  Impulsively he leans to kiss her cheek.

"Just don't forget... dreams are answers to questions we
haven't yet figured out how to ask."  At her puzzled look he
explains.  "It's something I said to B.J. six years ago...
and something you reiterated to me during the John Lee Roche
case, when I had visions of little dead girls.  When I was
convinced that one of those little heart cut-outs belonged
to Samantha.  Remember that?"

Her eyes glisten and she nods.  He takes the slim hand that
rests on his chest and kisses the backs of her fingers
leisurely, their gazes locked.

"Maybe this time you'll get the answers you're looking for,
too, by asking the right questions."

"Maybe I will," she concurs, but he hears a low note of
unbelief taint her agreeable overtone.

"Where's the house now?"

She reaches to the side for the glove box, snapping it open
to reveal the tiny white and green block structure tucked
within.  "I'll keep it with me in my coat pocket.  That
should be efficacious enough for anyone's purpose, don't you
think?"

"Sounds good to me.  I'd like to keep it out of the bed, so
I don't rack myself on the damn thing."

A watery smile, another shallow sigh.  "I'm ready to go
back, if you are," she says.

But first he feels an urgent tug on the back of his neck.
Her fingers tip his head forward so their mouths meet, lips
spreading soft and wide in mutual need.  Extending his
tongue over hers, absorbing her inner pulse, he tastes
strength, fortitude, and the minty receptivity of this woman
who has become his constant in life.

After a few intoxicating moments they seek air.  Mulder
draws back to open his eyes and sees that a thin layer of
white has covered the Corolla's windshield, like a fluffy
blanket drawn over the car.  Urgency shoots through him at
this new and long-expected development which could add yet
another dimension to their search for the killer in Aubrey.

"Back to old Lodi again, Scully," he mutters, facing front.
He flips on the wipers, casting the snow upward into little
swirling clouds that the wind snatches away.

************

Aubrey Police Station
November 9, 2000
11:04 a.m.

"Stick to the kid like glue," were Mulder's words to him
this morning.

Brian Tillman realized early that he has no choice except to
take Benjie with him to the station again if he's to get any
work done on the case.  This time he's packed extra kid food
in the lunch box, along with a blanket and quilt for naps.

The Legos are indispensable.  Tillman regards both the toy
and the small son who manipulates these blocks with newfound
awe and appreciation.  This sentiment extends to the FBI
agents as well -- to Mulder for sleuthing out and honing in
on the supernatural abilities Benjie seems to possess, and
to his partner for her ambiguous connection to his son by
means of the secret past she hides.  At least until this
morning...

A mother?  Can't be.  He's looked Dana Scully over with a
practiced and discerning eye, even down to the concave slope
of her belly in dress slacks.  Her nipped-in waist.  The
pleasing uplift of breast that accentuates her feminine
shape.  No, it's not the body of a woman who's ever swelled
out to childbirth proportions, as far as his judgment can
determine.

And if it's true, then is Mulder the child's father?  He's
protective as hell, sharing the bizarre experience with all
the emotion of a man personally involved in a big way.  The
kid must be dead, otherwise Benjie's contributions wouldn't
have had the impact they did.

He looks down at his son, playing with quiet oblivion on the
carpet.  Did his child truly envision something or someone
from 'the other side', relaying a message for a visionary
child?  Agent Scully's mystery child...?

He grits his teeth and rubs his mustache with a nervous
hand.  Nah, no way in hell is that a plausible
consideration.  The birth *or* the Goddamn psychic
connection bullshit --

"Hey, good to see you, boss."

Joe Darnell pokes his head into the office.  He smiles at
Benjie, who is busy constructing a tiny wagon, then enters
on ginger feet, swinging his attention back up to Tillman.
"Nothing to report except for a few fender-benders at the
main stoplights in town.  The snow took everybody by
surprise, I guess."

"You got that right.  Even my car complained."

"Any other news from the home front?  Calls from Janine --?"

Tillman replies brusquely in the negative, brushing him off,
so Darnell moves to leave.  At the last moment he halts in
the doorway.  "Just one other thing, Brian, and probably not
worth the mention, but..."

"But what?"

"Well, security over at the hospital called to say they've
had a problem lately with unauthorized personnel entering
the intensive care unit.  Happened again this morning and
really pissed them off, because this person knows better."

"Who was it?"

"The old volunteer coordinator, Alice Marshall.  They found
her hanging around by Linda Thibodeaux's room, just when the
woman's starting to show improvement.  Took her aside for a
talking-to, and then sent her home.  I think it's high time
they considered replacing her."

************

Aubrey Community Library
November 9, 2000
3:15 p.m.

Mulder had hoped they'd find a geriatric librarian blindly
wandering the stacks.  Someone of the same generation as
Cokely's first victims, who could have insight into what
happened to the families of the deceased.

To his dismay, no one at the library looks a day over
thirty.

Scully felt they'd have better luck at the courthouse, which
Mulder vetoed.  Now she's inclined to agree with him.  She's
dug so deep into researching the 'Aubrey Happenings' column
of the long-lived local newspaper -- tracking marriages,
graduations, hospitalizations, births, and deaths spanning
fifty years' time -- that she doesn't realize several hours
have passed and she's alone.

One squint-eyed peek through the microfilm viewing screen
and Mulder shook his head to wander off in search of
periodicals, reference files, genealogies, gray-haired
patrons, the men's room -- anything to keep from the tedious
task facing them.  With the attention span of an antsy
kindergartener, he ditched.  She sees he isn't the only one
not on task -- a group of children fresh from story hour
giggle and point out the window at the new snowfall.

Eyestrain sets off a hammer within her head.  Shifting each
buttock on the hard oaken seat, she pushes reading glasses
up her nose for the umpteenth time and knows the second
Mulder materializes at her elbow.  Now his shoes are clumped
with melting snow, soaking the flowered carpet, coat flecked
with confetti whiteness.

In deference to their location, she speaks under her breath.
"And where have *you* been off to, stranger?"

"Over to the courthouse."

She faces him, affronted not by the news alone, but by the
loudness of his voice, which draws immediate attention.
"Mulder, whisper!  And what happened to your assessment that
it was such a waste of our time?  Not worth the effort --"

"It isn't.  I went nowhere fast in ten minutes.  Compared to
the courthouse, we're sitting right smack dab in the middle
of the most happenin' place in Aubrey, Missouri, and that's
not saying much."

She huffs with impatience and looks away as his cell phone
chirps, drawing dirty looks from every quarter.  Murmuring
into the phone, he turns on the charm and winks to defuse a
few of the more irate patrons.  When he stands and hunches
over her shoulder, his voice stays hushed.

"That was Darnell.  Natalie Warner called the station and
says she wants to discuss terms, ASAP."

"*Terms*?  I'm sure she was specific about whom she expects
to show up."

"Yeah, well..." He shrugs apologetically.  "I asked him to
tag along and see if we can mend a fence while we're there.
Wanna come with, Scully?  Do some ass-kicking?  Catch an
early dinner after?"

"No, you go.  I want to finish here.  Hopefully, the names
Eberhardt, Bradshaw, and Van Cleef will show up somewhere."

"You okay?"

The question trips her.  Flooded with sudden warmth, she
nods.

"Sounds like you might be on to something."  He scans the
screen no more than a healthy ten seconds before giving a
soft grunt and grimace of disgust.  "I take that back.  But
I can hold off on food until you're finished here, or the
interview's over, whichever comes first.  Which also reminds
me..."

"Hmmm?"

He supports himself over her on the table, stiff-armed and
leaning closer to whisper into her ear.  "...Of last night's
entree du jour, served up at the Motel Conestoga.
Succulent.  My very favorite dish, in fact."

Breathy words stir a lock of hair and send shivers through
her body as she listens, forcing her to re-read the same
tiny, boring sentence three times.  Intending nonchalance,
she finds herself clearing her throat.  "Are you referring
to my nightcap, Mulder?"

"Exactly.  Tonight I may even take seconds... or thirds," he
purrs.  "Make a real pig of myself.  That is, if the menu
hasn't up and changed on me..."

The corner of her mouth twitches.  Knowing he observes every
minute reaction, she licks her lips seductively, though her
gaze never wavers from the microfilm viewing screen.  "Who
can say?  The menu *may* offer a more varied assortment,
depending on the whim and muscular flexibility of the chef."

No answer from Mulder except a chuckle and quick squeeze to
her hand at the edge of the desk.  Looking over her shoulder
seconds later, he's gone.

************

Aubrey, Missouri
November 9, 2000
4:12 p.m.

Streetlights shimmer awake in an early dusk brought by the
first snow of the season.  No clouds exist overhead, no
delineation between earth and sky.  A thick, white haze
billows over town, settling into drifts on the streets of
Aubrey.  Treacherous stuff and a whole city caught unawares.

The equally unexpected call from Tillman tests Scully's good
will more than the weather does.

Tillman's battery dead, he prefers not to wait for another
carpool opportunity at the station because of Benjie's
sleepiness.  A valid enough request, but she smells an
agenda.  It's the second time he's rung her cell phone this
week, though his tone of abject apology assuages her only a
little bit after the debacle in his living room this
morning.

Leaving the library, her headache persists, she's hungry,
and her battered body is beginning to wake and complain.
What she's tempted to do on this snowy night, instead of
joining her partner at the Warner residence, is go to her
motel room, take a few Tylenol, and hunker down in the warm
blankets of the bed.  They can decide together, when Mulder
returns for her later, how the evening should proceed from
that point on.

At the police station Tillman offers to drive, but Scully
has little tolerance for chivalry or posturing.  Wary for
the sake of her own dignity and privacy, she declines and
waits as he loads an armful of the day's provisions into the
back seat of the Corolla.  On the second trip out, he
carries the sleeping form of his young son, blinking into
the gusting snow, and she feels her throat tighten with
reluctant compassion for a man who finds himself relegated
so suddenly to the position of single father.

She hopes his new sense of perspective and awakened
responsibility haven't come too late for Benjie.

She hears the click of a seatbelt, the little reassuring
murmurs from father to son as he settles the child into the
back seat.  As expected, Tillman climbs into the front
beside her.  His strategy becomes clearer as he adjusts the
seat backward to accommodate his longer legs and laps the
belt over his coat.

"Thank you for going out of your way," he adds, watchful
when they enter afternoon traffic.  She senses that when
driving with a woman, he's always been the man behind the
wheel, the one in control.  Her refusal to hand over the
reins in the sudden snowfall must only increase his
apprehension.

And not without cause.  Working their way with care through
town, a mini-van skitters toward them across the center
line.  Scully swerves on hair-trigger reflexes to avoid the
collision, but as a result the Corolla floats sideways,
skimming a silken sea of white.

Unmoved, she goes with the skid, caressing the steering
wheel with consummate smoothness, with experienced hands,
like those of a lover.  At just the right moment she taps
the gas pedal, a magical touch, and guides the car back into
a trustworthy groove again.

Tillman exhales.  He casts the sleeping boy a swift glance,
and then smiles over at her with relief and approval, teeth
showing white in the dimness of the car.

"I'm impressed, Agent Scully.  Tell me, why does your
partner do all of the driving?"

"Why do false perceptions ultimately determine what one
accepts as truth?"

"O-kay."  Tillman rubs his mustache and ponders.  Her eyes
glued to the road, she can feel his gaze moving over her
with the slow, close heat of a lit candle.  "I'll accept
that point -- or rebuke, if that's really what you
intended."

Pursing her lips, she cocks her head and tries hard to erase
the memory of crumpled bikini underwear on public display by
her bed.  "Just take it as you see it, Lieutenant."

"No, I can't do that any more.  I've done it for too many
years and look where it's gotten me.  After what happened
this morning..."

"That was highly personal and none of your business."

Her voice is tight, clipped.  Tillman looks out into the
snow before focusing back to her.  "It involved my boy, so I
hold a differing opinion.  But I'm sorry," he says softly,
"for intruding.  Especially last night... I should have
known better than to come over to the motel.  Or pursue my
damn impulses, anyway..."

Her cheeks burn at this frank confession.  "You'd do better
to tell it to your priest than to me," she mutters, fielding
the ache of outrage, the sting of distant tears.

"I have none, Agent Scully.  And more accurately, I doubt
any would hear me out in light of my track record."  A
huffed exhalation, a nervous tap on the dashboard.  "That
applies not only to priests... but to women as well.  Which
is why I'm speaking to you now, because I may never have
this opportunity again."

Oh God, no, she prays, wanting to close her eyes, but not
daring it in the dangerous conditions that buffet the car.
If there's an alien ship lurking anywhere above the northern
hemisphere, she wants it to spirit her away now, every
molecule and atom she possesses.

"It's been hard for me to express certain things, but I like
to talk plainly.  With you I feel I can.  Please hear me out
this one time."

From the back seat comes a whimper, restless shifting of
limbs, then renewed sleep-sounds from the child.  "Suit
yourself, Lieutenant," she says with matter-of-fact brevity.
She tolerates the hair that falls in a wave over her right
eye because it separates them further.  Lay it on me, she
thinks, but do it fast or not at all.

"You have no idea how you've made me feel this week..." he
begins, voice low and shy, a characteristic she's not
observed in Tillman until this moment.  "Your attention to
my boy and the advice you gave me to ease his symptoms..."

She glances to him, sees he's talking to his hands, the
words extruding with painful effort.

"I'm a medical doctor," she reminds him.

"I know.  You're also a woman of compassion, unlike so many
of the others in my life.  That gift to Benjie --"

"-- has proven to be a blatant error in judgment on my
part."

"No.  It was decent and humane.  It was a good thing."  He
picks up his former thread and her insides cringe.  "And I
just want to express... well, I have to say how much I've
enjoyed working with you personally this week... being close
to you..."

Mulder's instincts have been right on target, she realizes
with a pang.  Righteous perceptivity fueled by jealous
machismo.  "He appreciates having you near him... too much,"
he'd told her, not long after berating her about the furtive
gift to Benjie.  Darts first, hugs after.  It seems so long
ago now, rather than just a few days.

"I..." Tillman hesitates on the edge, worrying his lip,
choosing his words.  "I wish... circumstances could have
been different between us.  That I could have known you at a
better time and in another place."

"Circumstances are what they are.  Irrefutable."  When did
she start sounding so much like Mulder?  That thought and
this conversation both pull her stomach into a knot.  "In
all honesty, Lieutenant -- other than the recent murders and
Benjie's dilemma, I would probably alter nothing that's
happened."

"Even after what I witnessed this morning?"

To this, Scully has no voice.  She blinks hard, turning her
head to negotiate a turn, grateful that this journey will
soon be over.  The events of the morning, the history behind
them, belong to herself and Mulder exclusively; no amount of
prying will permit her share anything more with this man who
sits beside her, opening his soul to her by degrees, despite
his honest query and confessions of the heart.

"Agent Scully... Dana..." he ventures.

"It's Scully," she says clearly, shooting him a look, "and
it had best stay that way, Lieutenant."

She brings the car to a full, careful stop in front of his
home, foot easing into the brake.  Snow flutters around
them, then soars on the driving wind.  Drifting
accumulations lay everywhere, banked against the curb, flung
across the obscured sidewalks, sifting darkly through the
straw-like autumn growth on the edge of Tillman's property.

For the space of several breaths they sit in tense silence,
watching the snowflakes dance.  Tillman breaks the
stalemate.

"I want you to know I intended no offense.  Just the truth,
as I see it."

In the back seat the boy stretches and gives a wide-mouthed
yawn like a baby bird.  He rubs his eyes and whimpers in
restless discontent.  "Daddy?"

"None taken," Scully replies.  Bleakness steals over her
spirit when the man twists around to attend to his child,
reaching over the seat to unsnap the belt gently from the
boy's waist.  That accomplished, he braves the driving snow
and wind, stepping out to the car's rear door to retrieve
him.

Benjie's arms and legs dangle, his body limp as a slumbering
puppy against his father's chest.

"Thank you, Agent Scully.  I appreciate the ride... as well
as those few minutes of your time," he adds, catching her
eye over the boy's lolling head and turning toward the dark-
windowed house.

Her face warms at her thoughtless hesitancy.  The least she
can do is help the man inside, easing the twin burdens of
sleeping child and unsure footing.  "Here, let me bring in
the rest.  You already have your hands full."

He nods wordless thanks and hefts the boy higher.  Taking
his time, he approaches his home, stamping snow on the
welcome mat as he enters, leaving the door ajar for her.
Outside, Scully wrestles with her own baggage, the least of
which is the tightly-rolled sleeping bag and the plastic
bags bulging with playthings and snack food.

Pressing the car door shut with her body, she gasps into the
wind -- the tiny house in her coat pocket gouges a tender
spot into her hip.  The pain feels sharp, but fleeting.  She
chooses to ignore it, following the shallow trail of
Tillman's footprints as the throb slowly fades from her
flesh.

No lights inside.  All is premature dusk and graphite-gray
dimness, curtains drawn against the precocious glare of the
lone streetlight.  Shadows play havoc with her perceptions
and still the dark lingers.  She stands motionless in the
entryway, waiting, clutching the ungainly armful of
provisions.

"Lieutenant Tillman?  Just tell me where I should put --"

She pitches forward in a starburst of agony, her cry
snuffed.  The very last thing Scully sees before losing
consciousness on the carpeted floor is Benjie Tillman's
face, mouth agape and eyes frozen in an expression of
unbelieving horror.

************
End of Chapter 19


************
Chapter 20
************

Warner residence
November 9, 2000
4:35 p.m.

Mulder's 'blue sense' hovers on yellow-alert.

It's dubbed 'blue' because of prevailing belief in law
enforcement that certain, exceptional cops possess an
intuition for danger akin to psychic power.  Scully has long
maintained that the phenomenon stems from mental acquisition
of evidence and the mind's ability to store such data until
a conclusion becomes clear enough to act upon.  Though he
gives lip service to her common sense approach, what else
can account for the amazing hunches he's owned through the
years that went beyond the obvious and the rational?  His
ability to sense and pinpoint what others don't?

Tonight at Natalie Warner's house he paces the kitchen on
itchy feet.  The accumulated evidence -- Benjie's nocturnal
restlessness, his supernatural connection to his mother B.J.
and to the killer, the attack on Scully at Darnell's
apartment, the gift of the small house and the startling
revelation behind it this morning -- all serve a conjoined
purpose in the dynamics of this case.  Something, he feels,
is about to coalesce, to unfold... and not knowing when or
where it will happen irks the hell out of him.

Natalie, it appears, has similar vibes.

"Way too creepy for me," she swears to the two men,
glowering and smoking from a kitchen chair in the corner.
"Too much weird shit happening all at once.  I figured it
was time to talk."

"'Discuss terms' is what you said on the phone," reminds
Darnell, flashing his own irritation.  "Explain what you
mean by that.  Are you requesting some sort of immunity?"

Natalie blinks.  "I haven't decided yet.  You got a problem
with that, detective?"

"No -- *I've* got a problem with that," growls Mulder,
turning on his heel to reply.  "If you want to talk to us,
fine, do it.  If not, then let me -- us -- make better use
of the time we still have."

"No need to get all testy on me, Agent Mulder.  We both know
where we stand."

Her self-assurance galls him.  He stifles a sarcastic guffaw
before grabbing another chair and dragging it to face her,
still standing.  "Listen," he accuses, "you string us along,
then back off, as though this is some kind of game for you.
In the coffee shop I asked specific questions, whether
relatives of Cokely's past victims were still living in this
area, and you chose to bail rather than talk."

"Fall-back position.  I needed to think."

"I call it cowardice."

He wishes Scully was present to witness how Natalie bristles
like a pea-hen.  If his partner wasn't already bogged down
at the library, scrolling through worthless, outdated
microfilm crap, he'd gladly give her another crack at this
Warner woman.

"Something must have served as a catalyst at your daughter's
birthday party," he persists, returning Natalie's glare.
"Until recently Benjie Tillman was virtually a legend here
in Aubrey.  His very existence was the stuff of cruel gossip
and supposition until he began kindergarten and interacted
with people other than his family.  Lo and behold, he was
invited to a classmate's birthday party."

"No crime committed; mistakes like that happen all the time,
buster.  I let the kid in, didn't I?"

"But Benjie isn't just any kid.  His first party experience
and, by your own admission, he 'creeped you out' with his
remarks.  What do you think prompted him to make that
'little sister' comment, Mrs. Warner?"

"How the hell should I know?"

Mulder pushes back from the chair in disgust, the legs
scraping linoleum.  His voice gains volume.  "Because
someone there picked up on it.  Fed off of it."  He glares
down at her.  "Someone *used* it that day."

"It was a kid's game, for Chrissake!  Alice got it started
to keep 'em in their seats while they ate their cake and ice
cream."

"And if we follow your original statement to police,"
pursues Darnell, "Alice Marshall was the only other adult
there besides Gwen DiAngelo -- right?"  He looks to Natalie
for confirmation, then turns to Mulder again with an
ambivalent shrug.  "That's a dead end right there; I mean, I
talked with her over at the hospital right after Viola Rains
was attacked.  She's a grandma, one of the most sincere
people you'd ever want to meet.  And, like Viola, she's been
a fixture around here for a heck of a long time."

************

Tillman residence
November 9, 2000
4:37 p.m.

She finally slips through the ice, but Scully is quietly
amazed that she doesn't fear drowning.

Turning her face to the light, the water feels warm as
summer sun, as a hot spring over her body.  She floats like
thistledown, fluid, a flame-haired Ophelia in the silvery
currents of water.

Light ripples above her... honey-golden, indescribably
brilliant.  The sound of a bell laps her ears -- no, it's
the voice of an angel.  A sweet, muffled child's voice,
calls out for her, slowly stroking her senses.  Teasing her
back to the surface.

("Mommy?  Mommy, please...")

She reaches toward the clear, echoing sound, her heart full,
tears mingled with the water in which she floats.  Above
her, crystalline edges of the ice hole beckon.

"I'm coming, sweetie!  Mommy's right here..."

("Hurry, Mommy, hurry!)

The little hand waving high.  Scully's fingers brush it,
grasp it, feel an answering tug and she drifts up toward the
surface and safety.  In her palm the child's fingers twitch
to escape, like slippery minnows.

("Let me go now.")

"Emily?"  Her stronger fingers quickly caress the smaller,
pudgy ones in a last chance effort to memorize and know
them.  To remember every soft, childish contour...

("Please, Mommy... you have to let me go...")

The tiny hand waves, disappears.  Gasping, Scully collides
with the surface, ice shattering in an explosion of light,
which cuts to thick darkness.  Nothing remains of the vision
except acute, stabbing pain in her head and a wet, warm
trickle down the side of her neck.

Coming to, she's huddled on her side in the gray-dark room,
knees bent, hands duct-taped together behind her back in a
posture so extreme it rivals yoga.  Stiffened muscles twitch
from strain and her chin and cheekbone burn against the
carpet, new contusions scoured over old ones.  Tasting the
metallic saltiness of blood, she knows tender membranes
within her mouth were torn when she was struck from behind
onto the floor.

Survival instinct surfacing, she takes quick inventory.  Her
ankles and lower legs are fused, held fast by the wide heavy
tape wound over the fabric of her slacks.  Nothing rests
over her face or mouth, thank God, so she takes
unrestricted, full breaths, as far as her bonds and lungs
will permit.

Her head -- scalp bleeding unchecked, split deeply enough,
she feels, to require many more stitches than Mulder.  It
strikes her with a sickening jolt that she's helplessly
immobilized, trussed like a sacrificial lamb.

The cloying smell of hot candle wax makes her gorge rise.
Flame flickers low beyond her truncated range of vision.  It
fuels flashback memories of Donnie Pfaster loose in her
apartment, hell-bent for revenge and the trophies he could
hack and harvest from ill-fated victims.  From her, the one
who got away.  Breaking into a cold sweat beneath her
blazer, she coaches herself to get a grip on reality, to
ease her wildly pounding heart and think with clarity.  To
regain control by smothering the electric surge of panic
that prickles through her body.

Yet Pfaster had not prevailed, for all his lurking and the
element of surprise he'd gained.  In cold, clean,
irrevocable execution, she'd dispatched the villain with her
own weapon.  Done, finis.  For the first time in less than a
year she savors full peace and justification for pulling
that trigger one cool, fateful night.  Roast in Hell, you
bastard.

Now she faces a different, unknown monster.

If only Mulder knew her whereabouts.  He'd already left for
Warner's from the library, carpooling with Darnell.  Too
occupied with his own agenda, he wouldn't feel the need to
check on her progress until later, when hunger would stir
him.  Maybe too much later.  Calming herself, her gaze roams
Tillman's living room, eyesight adjusting to floor-level
dimness.

Not far away she spots Benjie in profile, lower lip jutting
into a pout, backlit by a halo of candle glow, a star-child.
He kneels beside the prone, taped body of his father.
Unconscious, half of Tillman's face is smeared black with
either blood or shadow.  Innocent words he spoke in jest
last week meander through her mind and she shivers --
"Already I feel like I'm under house arrest with my hands
tied behind my back," he'd joked, never guessing the
prophetic resonance behind those simple words.

Of the three of them, only Benjie sits unbound, the small,
white house he'd built for her resting inexplicably beside
him on the carpet.  The toy, she knows, had been jammed deep
into her coat pocket; on an end table she spots the twin
bottom edges of her cell phone and service weapon,
confirming that she's been suitably searched and emptied by
her assailant.  The killer must have assumed the toy
belonged to the child.

"Ben-jie... can you hear me?"

Testing unknown waters, she calls to him under her breath.
Frightened and mesmerized, waiting, he seems in tune with an
invisible force that eludes her, that seems to control his
movements.  Waiting... for what?

"Are you all right, sweetie?  Benjie..."

Slowly he turns his head toward Scully and blinks in
helpless confusion and fear.  Like his, her eyes must appear
wild, pupils dilated in shadow and uncertainty, reflecting
the candle's light.  Before he can answer other movement
distracts him away from her.  She hears the soft wheeze, the
shuffling tread of yet another person in the velvety
duskiness near the kitchen.

Enthralled, she watches Alice Marshall, the volunteer
coordinator from Memorial Hospital loom into sight from the
shadows.  Her initial surge of hope for rescue shatters when
she perceives several large plastic bags in the woman's
hands.  Black plastic draped and custom-cut to fit over a
person's head.  With the same gentle, wheedling voice she
used in the hospital near ICU, the old woman dons one bag
over her head, smiles, and speaks.

"Well, well... now that everyone's present and accounted
for, I think it's time to resume our festivities.  Resurrect
the little party that was so rudely interrupted last week.
What do you say, boy?"

She dotters toward them in an obscene, grandmotherly gait,
gloating over the silent child, who on splayed knees scoots
crab-like, closer to his father's prone form.

"And two new faces join us.  The good Lieutenant, whom I
expected anyway, and..." she sighs contentedly,  "our guest
of honor from the FBI."  Craning her head, Scully feels the
woman's virulent gaze play over her.  "What a most pleasant
surprise to have *you* drop in, my dear.  Two birds caught
with one little stone..."

Alice cackles and crosses to the end table, lofting the rock
that served to disable both agent and officer.  "Just one,
see?  'Waste not, want not', as the old saying goes."

************

The snow is inches deeper and Natalie Warner remains a
holdout, testing the limits of Mulder's patience.  When his
cell phone rings, he excuses himself to the living room,
leaving her to Darnell's capable hands and persistence.
Glancing down at the number, he steels himself for what he
knows to be a call from Shamrock Women's Prison.  Dr.
Reinholdt offers apologies before turning the phone over to
his patient.

"Agent Mulder, you have to do something!  My son is in
danger!  That monster has Benjie, I know it!"

"Hey, take it easy, B.J.," he soothes, peering out the
window at the dusky snowfall.  "How can you be so certain?
What can you tell me?"

Wretched sobbing noises dissolve the conversation and
Reinholdt's voice returns.  Mulder's radar takes a decided
lurch toward red-alert and his pulse pounds after what he's
heard.  "You didn't say how long ago this started," he
demands of the doctor.

Only within the last fifteen minutes, Reinholdt explains,
has B.J. begun screaming about the danger to her son.  That
Agent Mulder should be warned, that the Evil which sprang
from Cokely was afoot again, thirsty to kill.

Ending the call, he heads back to the kitchen, motioning for
Darnell to follow him out.

"Not so fast --" Natalie eyes Mulder with the calculating
squint of a Siamese cat.  "I'm not finished here."

"Ask me if I care."

"Stop right there!"  She's on her feet, moving quickly to
block the doorway. "You can't go clomping over to Marshall's
unannounced; you'll scare everybody shitless and do way too
much damage."

The two men exchange looks, expecting explanation.

"I know something about Alice," continues Natalie
feverishly, "about her past.  But if I tell you, she can't
ever find out it came from me.  Got that?  Both of you?  She
hates gossip with damn good reason and if word gets out
about *my* connection here... that I opened my big mouth
about it, well... my reputation is toast.  It's like an
unwritten rule around here to respect her privacy about
this."

"Something like 'honor among thieves'?" Darnell scoffs.

Mulder's skin prickles.  "So, which one is she?  Van Cleef,
Eberhardt, or Bradshaw?"

"Shit -- you're really gonna make me come right out and blow
my cover?  All right, then, listen up..." She breathes hard,
her unease palpable, and the two men angle in toward her
like conspirators.

"Okay..." She rubs sweaty hands on the front of her designer
jeans in preparation.  "Alice married Owen Marshall and they
settled here in Aubrey, where she'd grown up.  After he died
she gave the house to her son, provided she could keep an
apartment for herself that was separate from the rest of the
family.  Hell, I would, too, with all those grandkids
swarming around --"

"The name, dammit!"

He watches as Natalie Warner salvages one last shred of
cockiness and control.  Crossing her arms, she stares back
at him with a bitter, spiteful squint.

"Eberhardt, Agent Mulder.  Alice Eberhardt.  Her younger
sister Kathy was killed right across town by that murdering
bastard Cokely in 1942."

************

"Go away!"

Benjie's tearful, frightened whisper reaches Scully's ears,
but Alice Marshall's hearing isn't as acute.  Sensing
disturbance, she frowns and cranes her neck, wrinkled and
saggy as a vulture's, her height formidable from their floor-
level perspective.

"Worried about the little agent?  Oh, I won't kill her just
yet," she cajoles the terrified child, feeding off his
horror.  She walks to where Scully lies bound on the carpet,
black plastic trailing like devil's plumes.  "Maybe I should
just hurt her a little bit, to show I'm serious when it
comes to assigning blame.  And accepting it --" The razor
slips from her pocket for their collective admiration, white-
handled, blade glinting in the shallow light.  "Give her a
little taste of what happens when you meddle in affairs that
aren't yours to meddle in."

In a move to protect the child before he can comprehend the
meaning of those words, Scully calls out to capture the
woman's attention, running interference.  "Please, Mrs.
Marshall... let the boy go."

"Don't you *dare* dictate to me!"  With viciousness and
surprising strength, the woman kicks out at Scully's side,
thick boot jarring her ribcage, knocking her breath away.
The resulting crunch and searing ache tell her that one rib,
possibly two, must have fractured from the heavy blow.
Rolling weakly on the carpet, as her bonds allow, she
muffles a deep groan so as not to fuel the child's fear.

"You remind me of *her*... small and oh-so-pretty, the
Favorite.  They treated her like a little queen of Sheba.
And I --"

More sharp, spiteful kicks, this time to Scully's abdomen
and bruised hip.  She internalizes the blows, absorbing the
onslaught until, in a final eruption of pain, a cry rips
from her throat.

"Don't you do that!"  Benjie's protest, an outraged yelp.
Alice whirls around toward him, her eyes glowing.

"You know what I'm talking about, don't you, boy?   The
cruel words that hurt you, that make you feel no better than
barnyard filth scraped off of Papa's shoe... lower than a
cockroach in the cellar."  She halts, eyes shining, head
raised to one side as she stares into a past no one else in
the room sees.  "That's where they put me sometimes, when I
was your age... in the cellar with the vermin.  *She* never
tried to stop them, oh, no.  Year after year... currying
favor from everyone at my expense.  But I made sure she paid
back her debt."

When Alice cackles and shuffles closer to the boy, Scully's
head snaps up from the floor.  "Stay away from him!" she
warns, gasping with the effort.  "He's done nothing to you!"

Amused laughter rings out through the darkened room.

"Nothing?  NOTHING?" The old woman stops and covers her
face; Scully hears muffled weeping.  The gnarled hands drop;
there are no tears, only madness and simmering rage.

"HE RECOGNIZED ME!  Do you call that *nothing*?  You stupid,
silly bitch!  You have no idea the power he has!  He saw me
at that party -- he knows what I did!"

"*Who* knows?"

Alice's eyes glitter crazily and she points an accusing
finger at the shaking, stalwart child.  "COKELY does!
Cokely knows my secret, and he's come back for me through
HIM!"

************

"Alice Marshall's not at home," reports Darnell, pocketing
his phone and turning up his collar when they reach the car.
Meringue drifts of white mound the hood and dust the frosted
windows.  Mulder climbs in the passenger side, waiting as
the detective clears the windshield with one hand before he
takes his seat behind the wheel of the squad car and turns
up the heater.  "Her son claims she went out earlier to
visit friends.  Now the snow has them worried."

"D'you believe that?"

"Steve Marshall has no reason to lie.  And it makes sense,
since she was sent home by hospital security today."

Mulder snaps to attention.  "Tell me..."

"They found her snooping around intensive care again and had
it up to here..." He drags a finger across his brow, "and
gave her the afternoon off.  Can't blame 'em, with Linda
Thibodeaux showing signs of improvement.  I mean, she's not
conscious or anything yet, but --"

"Does Scully know this?"

This disclosure brings to mind one recent, early morning
when he tugged his partner, soft and sated, back into his
arms and listened with affection to her whispered, post-
coital ramblings about paper cut-outs marking the passage of
time.  Her musing over ischemic stroke and the variables in
Linda's case made him yawn, but murmurs about the Marshall
woman's near-access to the ICU seemed peculiar enough to
raise a hazy red flag in his brain at the time.

Another piece of the puzzle drifting in, belated as the
snowfall, seeking connection...

Darnell shrugs in answer and the rear wheels momentarily
spin, the car lurching on the snowy pavement.  "I told the
Lieutenant earlier today.  Wouldn't surprise me if he's
already called her about it."

"Ask him."

Punching the station number with one hand, he speaks briefly
and hangs up.  "Switchboard says he left with Benjie a
little while ago.  Hitched a ride home with Agent Scully."

The words send a chill to Mulder's bones, as keen as the
bitter wind whipping snow into crazy swirls around the car.
Inner radar tells him all may not be well with his partner.

He punches Scully's cell number, waits, tries again.  His
stomach clenches to a hard knot and his hairline prickles
when she fails to pick up.

************

Alice ceases her affectations, one gnarled hand held to her
heart, the other pointing outward towards Benjie, who
neither cowers nor cries.  From her peripheral vision Scully
notices for the first time weak movement from Tillman.  How
long he's been conscious she can only presume to guess.

"Poor Detective Morrow," continues the old woman,
outstretched hand fluttering.  "No one realized until too
late how she was tormented.  And then *that* one appeared,
her seed!  HIS great-grandchild!  Adopted by this
philandering lieutenant and his sot of a wife.  I wondered
if the evil would be passed on, if it would ever stir in his
young blood... But he was too young, too weak for such foul
purposes... So the burden came to me, through the eyes of
this worthless pup!"

She stabs the air at the child, hand shaking in a palsy of
accusation.  Again seeking to divert Alice's attention away
from the boy, Scully scrabbles against the couch.  Each
movement sucks the breath from her lungs as she inches her
body into a semi-upright position.  Gritting her teeth, she
leans back and beckons to the woman, her mother's heart and
FBI training working concurrently.

"Tell *me*, not him," she baits, huffing from pain.
"Impress *me* and don't waste your time flaunting pitiful
secrets to a child who has no clue or interest in what
you're talking about."

Alice moves in a blur and too late Scully realizes how fine
a line exists between reason and folly.  Her head is jerked
back by the hair, throat taut and exposed.  Carefully the
woman removes the razor from her pocket and holds it out
before Scully's widened eyes.

"I'll certainly tell you, little sister, now that I've got
*you* back.  You didn't let me finish the job before, you
bad girl!"  Another yank, harder, and the tendons of her
neck strain tight, making it difficult to swallow,
presenting a smooth, sleek target.  "I waited so, so long
last night, but you escaped!  You're like Viola, like
Gwen... another one who tried to get away from me.  Another
who showed pity for that bad little seed over there."  She
grins maniacally into Scully's face.  "No one ever gets away
from *him*, little sister.  Not even me..."

The words freeze Scully's heart, flashes of Harry Cokely's
face mingled with those of Donnie Phaster's in one
nauseating, terrifying montage.  Her helpless, awkward
position intensifies the searing pain in her side whenever
she gasps for breath.

Alice sneers.  "Aren't you at all curious about my little
sin?  Why he came back to choose me for his dirty work after
so many years?  Well?"  Viciously she jerks Scully's hair by
the handful to punctuate each question, forcing a low
whimpered 'yes' and a glaze of tears.

"*I* was the Eberhardt that Cokely chose to kill so long
ago.  Pretty Kathy died at his hand, but it wasn't supposed
to be that way.  Oh, no..." she wheedles.  Her eyes glow
amber in the candlelight and she grins, teeth flashing like
the blade she holds.  "You see, he intended ME to be his
victim!  I knew he followed me, I watched him... how he
stalked me through the dark house, calling my name --" She
cackles, breath fetid in Scully's face.  "But I led him to a
decoy.  I gave him my sister instead!"

The horror of this declaration stuns Scully, neck taut and
corded, her eyes trained upward into the woman's gloating
face.  All Mulder's theories concerning empathetic
transference, of demonic possession, and the disassociative
behavior of a killer toward his victims come back to haunt
her as she stares into this visage of madness.  The train
jumping the track and finding an alternate means to continue
its journey of evil...

Realization numbs her, that the killer they seek inhabits
the aged body of this grandmother, a woman who's harbored a
secret of unspeakable evil for fifty-eight long years.

"You're claiming that you deliberately engineered your
sister's murder," she gasps loudly, praying Tillman can hear
and later corroborate this verbal confession.  "You provided
Cokely with a victim, your own sister... to escape him and
then put her out of your life."

"Very, very good, my dear!  Two more birds with one stone,
you see."

"But you didn't escape judgment," Scully wheezes, "because,
whatever power energized Cokely finally caught up with you -
-"

"And you won't escape blame either, little sister!"

The glittering edge of the razor descends, lopping two
buttons from her blouse, and then biting down into the
tender skin of Scully's exposed upper chest.  She cries out
in agony.  One inward cut and the blade remains, held in
place, waiting for what seems like an eternity in the
flickering candlelight.  Sharp, burning pain, the wet, slick
trickle of blood between her breasts.  Each inhalation she
takes swelling outward against the sharp metal that invades
her flesh --

"I'm a federal agent," she manages to gasp.

"Then you're in good company," sneers the woman. "Several
others of your ilk have tasted this before you."  With a
sudden growl, she alters the blade to make another short,
angular cut, forcing a second shrill, explosive cry from
Scully's throat.

"NO! Stop it!"

Benjie's squeal rings out, stilling the old woman's hand.
Through a rippling filter of tears and ineffable pain Scully
perceives that the boy has leapt to his feet, the tiny house
grasped in his hand like a white, geometric softball.
Emily's house.  His eyes blaze from a face too young and
angry, too red with outrage, his body quivering under a
force that feeds and taunts, but can't control him.

"You stop!  Don't you hurt her!"

Tillman lifts his head from the carpet, murmuring to the
child, his tone low and urgent.  As though in obedience to
instruction, the boy nods and takes a few tentative steps
forward.

"Sit down, you devil's whelp," Alice snarls, "or your turn
will come sooner than planned, I promise you that!"

Benjie Tillman stands his ground.  Shoving Scully to the
floor and clutching her razor, Alice turns toward the
trembling, wide-eyed child.  With every ounce of strength he
possesses, he hurls the little block house hard against
Alice's chest and throat.  It explodes like a snowball, a
tinkling array of fragmented white plastic that shocks the
old woman, rocking her backward and littering the floor
around her with its fallout.

In a miasma of pain and fear Scully watches the effect of
Benjie's pitch.  Anything to hinder this killer and further
delay her murderous agenda until help can arrive.  Please,
Mulder, come soon, she prays, dread flooding her senses.
Time passes in measurable pulses of life, pumping through
her veins, the seconds ticking by like the black and white
frames of a cultic horror film as she beholds the woman's
struggle.

"Think you can stop me, little seed?" Alice gasps.  Yet, she
fights to keep her balance, clutching the spot on her chest
and throat where the sharp edge of the missile has struck
its mark.  Lunatic anger seething, she kicks at the shards
of plastic that make her stumble and weave, muttering to
herself about the time wasted.  Minutes pass as she huffs
and recovers, the sheets of black plastic bag twisting
around her calves, hampering her progress back towards her
victim.

Scully sobs in entreaty as her head jerks back once more,
throat naked to the shining blade already stained with her
blood.  She sees no mercy in Alice's face, a mask of fury
and wild, lunatic triumph.  The razor floats high above her,
waiting to descend and end her life with one fatal slice.
After everything she's experienced, after flaunting danger
with a certain impunity, after eluding death for so many
years, to die like this... alone.

A sudden, splintering crash, and Mulder's voice shatters the
silence.

"Freeze!  Drop the weapon or I'll shoot!"

What happens next Scully observes in ragged snapshots,
through senses skewed by pain, terror, and adrenaline
overload.

Alice Marshall bellows back a furious challenge, fist
knotted in Scully's hair, tight against her scalp.  The
white-handled razor glints with a flash of bright mirror-
light before her eyes.  Benjie Tillman screams, a shot rings
out, then two -- and the hand grasping her hair convulses.
Her head is wrenched back, then released as she crumples
breathlessly to her side on the carpet.

And Mulder... she feels rather than sees him.  His arm
around her shoulders and neck, easing her toward him, both
ginger and frantic in his inspection.  One of his hands cups
her bleeding head, fingers wiping her face.  His strength,
his precious scent and presence stirs a whimper of relief
from her, when he lowers his mouth to her ear, whispering
her name with feverish urgency.

Oh, my God, safe... he came in time to save her, to save
them...

Moving her lips in silent response, she leans toward his
sheltering touch before slipping helplessly through the ice,
back under the blessed warmth of the water again.

************
End of Chapter 20


************
Chapter 21, Epilogue
************

Scully's apartment
November 22, 2000
6:35 p.m.

Thanksgiving Eve in Georgetown and the snow falls, fresh and
white.

Such a contrast to three weeks before when leafsmoke scented
the air with the crisp, pungent musk of autumn, when
crackling piles dotted the curbs near Scully's apartment in
colors of cinnamon, sage, and honey.  The National Weather
Service would have a viewing public believe it's a freak
storm front that has moved in from the Midwest just in time
for the holiday.

She knows better, preferring to explore her own conclusions
in the matter, though her thoughts eddy into pools that are
decidedly Mulderish in theory and content.  Because of his
eclectic interpretation of events her belief system has
taken yet another jar, another stretch further away from the
clinical realms of science.  But the fact remains that her
heart, along with her body, is slowly healing.

"The soul often communicates to us through synchronistic
events," Mulder insisted again last night, when they
whispered together in bed.  "It's the nature of the beast
that deep psychic patterns are formulated within each one of
us, struggling to reach the conscious level where they align
with physical patterns in the outer world until they reach a
peak --"

"So, in your opinion, did I reach my peak?"  Her question
was posed in innocent skepticism and soft shadow, not
referring to sex at all, though her fingers browsed the side
of his face in a teasing, familiar caress while they
conversed.

The corners of his eyes crinkled; he kissed the palm of the
hand that touched him, ignored the temptation to jest, and
continued with his point.

"I'm convinced that yours peaked when it reached a level of
consciousness strong enough to support a manifestation of
the inner pattern.  Your visions.  This case, the Lego
house.  The date and time alignments between Benjie Tillman
and your depression over Emily coinciding with the jump of
the killer's demon from Cokely's bloodline to fresh ground."

"Your theory seems surprisingly astute."

He nodded.  "The power couldn't function within the kid's
youth and innocence, so when opportunity came it leapt, like
the train off the tracks, to a riper victim who was more
deserving of possession.  Evil attracts evil, Scully.  By
accident it re-discovered its original, intended victim,
Alice Eberhardt Marshall, at a child's birthday party.  A
psychic reunion, if you will."

"She duped Cokely back in '42 and escaped for all those
years," she mused, letting her hand drop.  "Victimology in
reverse.  I still call that hideous recompense, Mulder."

"But consider that the poetic justice satisfied by such a
convergence... "

"...came with such a price," she finished, placing his hand
above her breasts on the warm skin of her upper chest, where
all the healing powers within her own body have been brought
to bear over the last two weeks.

Recuperation offers her abundant time in which to muse and
wander the apartment alone.  Other than Alice's confession,
she has only vague, brushstroke recollections of that
terrifying night in Aubrey.  Images of malice and darkness
mingle with Benjie Tillman's wiry little body and the
downward flash of a razor.  The silky pressure of Emily's
small hand and voice.  Sensations of deep pain and
suffocation, of despair... then merciful release.

Thank God a plastic surgeon was on call and at the Aubrey
Memorial ER within minutes of her arrival.  His fingers
sutured the chest cuts with gossamer thread and the
consummate skill of an artist.  Scarring, he promised
afterward, would now be negligible in that high-profile area
of the body, hard to detect unless someone with knowledge
sought it out purposely.

Mulder, she imagines, would have smiled at that observation,
though at the time she felt only simple gratitude for being
one of the luckier survivors.  Like Mulder had been, when
B.J. attacked him six years before.  Unlike Linda
Thibodeaux, who remains in the ICU, scarred and semi-
comatose.

They became separated during the flurry of treatment in the
ER.  X-rays were taken, her ribs taped, the deep scalp wound
closed and stitched.  Abraded skin was salved and covered
until she felt cocooned in gauze and hazy from sedative.

Awakening later and turning her cheek sideways in the
hospital bed, she met Mulder's Oxford shirt and the strong,
steady rise and fall of his breathing.  His blessed
closeness, his kiss to her forehead, nudged the floodgates
open.  Over the nurse's objection he would not be budged
while Scully leaned her face against him and wept slow,
heavy tears that darkened the front of his shirt.

Within twenty-four hours they were back on the plane to DC.

It takes four to six weeks for fractured ribs to become
stable, she knows.  Only two weeks into the imposed
sabbatical and she already chafes from inactivity, hence the
restive walks through the apartment for exercise and peace
of mind.  Fractures of the fifth and sixth vertebra and a
bruised lung are small prices to pay for her life, Mulder
reminds her.  Her mother stands in vigorous agreement.

Though unable to fully embrace her stitched, scuffed
daughter, Margaret Scully was solicitous.  She hovered,
eager to do mother-things, providing small comforts and a
homemade pot of soup.  When the first evening darkened,
however, she made no offer to stay the night and play
nursemaid.  Mulder's intent to remain was ironclad, evident
in the possessive, easy way he stood beside Scully's
bedside, monitoring her needs.  His suitcase, airline tags
dangling, camped just inside the bedroom door and he reached
out to stroke her hair with open affection when farewells
were said.

Their casual touching and all similar signs of intimacy
weren't lost on Margaret, Scully knew.  After kissing her
daughter's bruised cheek, she then bestowed a similar buss
to Mulder's sandpapered one before heading for the front
door.

"She'll get the best of TLC," Scully heard him assure her in
the hallway, all grave earnestness and calm possession, "so
don't worry about a thing."

"Call me, Fox, if you need me to come over," was the
straightforward reply.  Closing her eyes in exhaustion, she
sensed her mother's tacit acceptance of their new depth of
partnership.  And that despite the tumultuous, dangerous job
they shared, all would once again be well in Dana Scully's
life because of her partner's protective, loving presence
and care.

Home to recuperate, she faced a daunting therapeutic regimen
of breathing exercises to be performed several times daily.
Hold the pillow tight to the chest to supply pressure and
decrease pain, breath deeply to expand lung capacity and
prevent build up of fluid.  She knows the drill, the
consequences of shallow respiration; pneumonia is not an
option she wants to consider.

Mulder observed her from afar the first night.  She slouched
on the side of the bed in pajamas, bare feet placed apart
for balance, hugging a pillow close to her chest.  Deep,
deep breath, hard squeeze of the pillow, then the resulting
hurtful moan.  After her third time he clucked with
impatience and tossed the offending thing away, kneeling to
take its place in her arms and between her knees.

"Now, squeeze me," he'd instructed, so she dutifully
encircled his broad body with her arms and pressed him
tightly, stifling her small groans of hurt and
breathlessness into his neck and shoulder.  Loving him,
grateful for his closeness and selfless involvement in the
things that cause her pain.  "Partners in everything,
Scully," he'd murmured in explanation.

So much to heal, and they both profit...

Mulder has attended to their caseload and mandatory meetings
at the Hoover, continuing where they left off several weeks
ago.  During this quasi-leave-of-absence, she's also managed
to contribute by working from home to flesh out the final
report for the Aubrey case and add research addendums, but
little else.  Major cleaning and meal prep remains off-
limits.  As he's done since their return, Mulder should
arrive soon at the dinner hour, bringing food and his own
unique, companionable charm.

Restless and hungry now, she makes another round of her
apartment, a meandering journey through cool, quiet rooms,
pausing to take in the virgin snowfall through windowpanes
stenciled with frost.  In the bedroom she nudges the
thermostat higher and eases her sweater tighter around her
tender sides, conscious of a chill.  Streetlights flicker
awake at this hour, powdered by snow, and other neighborhood
families grouse safely in warmth and lamplight.

Scully knows the obvious: that each case she and Mulder
accept carries significant risk.  Each tragedy they endure
offers ripe opportunity for her to refine her equilibrium,
to redefine her sense of faith, or lose another necessary
part of it.  Looking back she sees that Mulder has always
been more attuned to the darker side of an X-File than she;
a profiler, he's been adept at sensing its manic surges in
behavior and reacts in time to dodge the worst of the
fallout.

She, on the other hand, has been known to stand evaluating
the ground that bucks beneath her feet, weighing belief
against a scientist's skepticism before the splintered
foundation threatens to disintegrate beneath her weight.
The evidence that has touched her so recently -- a little
boy's dreams, a tiny house made of block, the protective
gratitude from a dear child ascending from beyond the grave
-- must be reverently sorted and catalogued, but from them
Scully has gained a sense of resolution, acceptance, and
comfort.

Alice Marshall died at the scene on that dark, snowy night,
cut down by the second of Mulder's two bullets.  The first
was intended to disable, but the one that followed meant to
kill.  The demon within the old woman proved unstoppable,
despite a verbal warning and a neat, first shot to the
shoulder.

Suffering with his own severe head wound, Lieutenant Brian
Tillman was able to corroborate that Alice Marshall did
indeed confess her accessory role and guilt in the 1942
slaying of her sister Kathy at the hand of Harry Cokely.  He
had also coached his son to pitch the tiny block house like
a hardball at the old woman in order to protect a federal
agent by gaining valuable minutes until help could arrive.
According to news brought home by Mulder, his immediate
plans include an extended leave of absence, divorce
proceedings, psychological counseling for himself and his
son, and relocation away from Aubrey.

"He's a lonely man with a good heart," Scully murmured one
night soon afterward, drawing Mulder's eye.  "So much of his
life has been wasted on women who have given him only hurt
and disappointment.  They haven't been able to reciprocate
for a variety of reasons."

"Present company included?"

She frowned.  "A gratuitous question, Mulder... you know
that."

"But I still like to hear your answer," he said gravely,
reaching to take her hand in his.

Last week they learned that Janine Tillman surfaced in a
small city near Lincoln, Nebraska, where for over a year she
had rendezvoused with an off-again, on-again lover, a man
who shared a similar pattern of substance abuse.  Weary and
also ripe for divorce, she agreed to whatever was necessary
to expedite the proceedings.  Taking his lawyer's -- and his
young son's -- advice, Tillman reluctantly declined to
pursue allegations of child abuse and negligence, choosing
to break all ties rather than prosecute.

As for the elusive connection Scully shared with Benjie
Tillman during those two weeks, she wonders now whether his
new counselor will also be a recipient of toy houses and
whispered warnings.  She thinks not, if Mulder's theories
about synchronicity bear out and the vicious cycle has come
to an end for the boy.

"Jung claims synchronous events are often associated with
periods of intense transformation," he explained during one
of their whispered exchanges between the sheets.  "The
internal restructuring produces external resonances, as when
a burst of mental energy is propagated outward into the
physical world.  In this case, both yours and Benjie's
encountered one another within the same time frame and
space."

While not sold on this matter of colliding synchronicities,
it startles her to realize that she misses Benjie Tillman's
presence and endearing, childish attentions.  Hopefully the
boy's voice will one day lose its husky tightness, his skin
will attain full, healing clarity.  He'll flash wide boyish
smiles and laugh out loud at will, like a healthy,
expressive five-year old should.

Like Emily would have, if she'd lived.  Like she does now,
full-throated and tinkling happily in Scully's subconscious
thoughts and in her tumultuous, recurring dreams at night.
When Mulder shakes her awake and murmurs his concern, she
wipes a tear but feels better able to respond with honesty,
his arms a life jacket around her insecurities.  That they
talk about such things now, even under cover of darkness, is
evidence of further emotional healing and trust between
them.

Slowly the walls of self-imposed solitude are beginning to
tumble down...

Her circuitous journey brings her back to the kitchen.
Supplies for tomorrow's modest holiday meal wait on the
clean white countertops.  A package of dry, seasoned stuffing
mix, prepared dinner rolls, a can of whole-berry cranberry
sauce, at Mulder's insistence.  They've begged off attending
the annual Scully Thanksgiving dinner at Margaret's house
this year, preferring to remain at home together to aid in
Scully's recovery and to celebrate the gift of life.  Even
so, her mother insisted on dropping off a home-baked apple
pie and several decorative gourds, which Mulder has been
shaking with annoying frequency, impatient for the seeds to
dry and break free into a musical rattle.

Some things, Scully knows, profit through time and waiting.
Intercourse is one.  She draws in a deep lungful of air and
exhales carefully, brushing a wishful hand over her breasts.
Her nipples tighten at the stimuli and she sighs.

It may happen for them this evening, if her body permits
such tempting invasion.  The desire is alive and lusty, but
flesh and bone may still be less than cooperative for such a
purpose.  Mulder, as befitting a close friend and lover, has
been patient and inventive over these last few weeks, gentle
with hands, mouth, and tongue.  He reads her body and its
intricacies like a connoisseur.  The sexual seeds that
sprouted between them last spring, that reached their true
blossom in Aubrey, are just the first fruits, she realizes,
in this new depth of devotion they share.

Torn from her meditation, she hears Mulder's key in the lock
and turns to greet him.  He stamps into the entryway,
dislodging the last remnants of snow, then removes his shoes
before looming into the shallow light of her kitchen.  His
eyes seem dark and hesitant as he approaches, making no move
to touch her.  Shucking both his coat and a large bag that
smells deliciously of Chinese carry-out onto a chair, he
holds out a wide goldenrod-hued mailing envelope.

"This came to the office today," he says, searching her
face.

"What's in it?"

"It's addressed to Special Agent Dana Scully, so I figured
you should do the honors."

The envelope feels bulky between her hands.  Glancing at the
return address, she reads the name 'Tillman' and closes her
eyes briefly.  "Mulder..." she defers, head tilting.

"Scully, open it."

She's fearful, she admits to herself, not knowing whether
the message hails from father or son, and why now on the
cusp of a holiday?  But innate curiosity and the need to
ferret out truth no matter how difficult cancels out any
hesitation.  Taking a thin knife from the block on the
counter, she slits the end of the wide envelope, turns, and
lets the contents slip out onto the table before them.

Oh, dear God, she thinks, frozen where she stands.  No, it
can't be --

On the table rests a mound of construction paper in vibrant
autumn colors, creased to fit into the mailer.  Brown,
orange, yellow, red.  Another, with silvery foil pasted on a
black band, white collar, and another...  Tears rush to
blind her and she squeezes the bridge of her nose with one
hand, shielding her eyes from view.

Mulder is at her side in an instant, his hand gingerly
supportive across her sweater-covered back.  "What is it?
Pictures?"

She shakes her head.  "No, paper cut-outs.  They tape them
to the windows at the elementary school."  Benjie must be
safely back in attendance, sharing in the joys of childhood
art with his classmates, unafraid.  She senses it from the
bright colors and widened shapes, an expression of peace and
of well-being.

The tears reach her throat, thickening her words, and Mulder
brushes a quick kiss to her temple before attending to the
gifts laid out before them.

"Hey, Scully, check this out..." He opens the first one,
flattening it out on the table for her, working out the
creases.  The foil buckle gleams.  "A pilgrim boy with a
gun.  Not bad."  Reaching for the next one, she hears him
chuckle.  "Here's an Indian girl holding an ear of corn.  At
least I *think* it's supposed to be an ear of corn.  Looks a
little on the long, purple side..."

"Mulder..." she scolds, diverting him from questionable
territory with his observation.

More shuffling of bright paper and he urges her tighter
against him, caressing her hip with one hand.  "Here, you
unfold the last one."

"It's a turkey," she murmurs, dabbing an eye and then
extending both hands to fully reveal the traditional holiday
bird.  Pasted on, multi-colored spikes of construction paper
serve as a tail, the wattle wide and red beneath a yellow
beak.  The body... She swallows and blinks in recognition.
The bird's outline was made by tracing a child's fully-
opened hand, with the thumb being neck and head, the palm a
plump body, the fingers providing a base for tail feathers.

It's exactly what she's hungered for, these long weeks of
early November.  But who could have known?  A chill prickles
her arms with gooseflesh and her chin lifts toward him.
"Who are these really from, Mulder?"

He flips over the mailer.  "Tillman, it says.  So it's gotta
be Benjie.  I think the Lieutenant's hand is a whole lot
bigger than that, Scully."

"I realize Benjie made them.  But suppose he was guided by
someone else to do it?  What if... what if *she* asked him
to make these -- for me?"

"You think he could still be channeling Emily."

Honest to a fault, he says the name aloud in the stillness
of the kitchen.  She feels his hand curving over hers,
requesting eye contact in the tense web of silence.
"Scully, there are some truths we may never know.  I don't
think it matters *which* child you feel this came from.
Both are precious to you.  Either way, you're the designated
recipient and keeper of the gift."

His words make sense, but regret flutters in her chest,
stings her eyes.  As before, life boils down to a hard crust
of never knowing the true whys and wherefores of her
abduction and infertility, of things so achingly precious to
her soul.  Whether it's little Benjie Tillman who sent her
Thanksgiving cheer, or her own cherished, long-lost child,
she realizes the difference is negligible.  She's pondered
for some time what Emily's creative efforts might have
looked like, gracing the classroom window, or here at
home...

A sudden burst of gratitude fuels her impulsive need for
Mulder.  Reaching up, she pulls his mouth down to meet hers,
savoring his moistness and male scent, his responsiveness
and the sinuous stirring of his tongue against her palate.
Ever conscious of her injury, his hands rest splayed and
tender along her sides until the kiss ends with a soft,
mutual tug of lips.

He leans down to nuzzle her for one more moment, browsing 
her hair with renewed interest.  Clearing his throat, he 
takes in a long breath of her scent before he eases back, 
eyes soft from suppressed emotion.

"So, Scully... where you gonna hang 'em?"

"Over there, I think.  On the refrigerator."

"Tape or magnets?"

"Um..." She thinks quickly, swallows.  "Magnets.  I have
some in the junk drawer by the sink."  Turning away, she
says over her shoulder, "Don't wait around for me.  You can
get started on dinner if you want--"

But he's already gone, one loping step ahead, carrying the
heavy, white bag of food to the living room.  Lamps click
awake, the TV flares to life with bluish energy, and she
hears him rummaging through the paper bag, spreading out the
little boxes of wealth they'll soon share together over the
coffee table.

But it's so much more than that, Scully realizes, blinking
back tears of thankfulness and love.  He understands and
respects her need for privacy now.

So like Mulder, he's granting her this time alone in the
quiet glow of her kitchen.  These fragile, magical moments
in which to hang up her gifts and commune in solitude with
her children, before joining him for dinner.

************
End of Chapter 21, Epilogue
Seeds Of Synchronicity