Inferno - The Collector's Edition
by Pellinor
<Pellinor@astolat.demon.co.uk>



RATING: PG
CLASSIFICATION: XA

DISCLAIMER: Not mine, and all that

SUMMARY: Mulder gets drawn into a web of guilt and revenge 
that could rob him of his sanity, even his life. Both Scully 
and Mulder _think_ they know what they are dealing with, but 
the truth is something neither of them have ever expected.

*****

October 14th 1990 
 
The hunters came for him as soon as it was dark, and this 
time they had no intention of letting him escape. At 
first no more than a distant malevolence whispering at 
the fringes of his consciousness, they crept inexorably 
closer .... closer.... 
 
He lay unmoving on the dirty stone floor, eavesdropping 
on their determination, feeling their approach. He 
supposed he should try to escape from the path of their 
deadly intent but his limbs didn't want to move. 
 
"Soon," he told himself, as his mouth opened in a huge 
yawn. "Soon. Just a minute more to rest." 
 
And all the while they came closer, their minds full of 
hatred.... 
 
There was no need to move yet, not just yet, but even so 
he opened his eyes, planning to scan his retreat, but his 
eyes opened to a wall of darkness. The last remnants of 
the setting sun had been strangled by the black fingers 
of night, and the moon had yet to rise in the cloudless 
sky. But although he couldn't see, he could still hear, 
and feel. Small sounds, eerie in the echoing ruin, 
announced that other hunters were about their deadly 
pursuits. The barely perceptible pad of a cat's paws, 
stalking in dark corners. The anguished squeal of a rat, 
its vain hopes of escape mocked by the gaping fangs of 
death. The flicker of an owl's wings as it disturbed the 
thick dust in the forsaken building. He wondered if 
_they_ could sense the swelling wave of menace that came 
with guns to overwhelm him. 
 
They were close now .... too close. 
 
It was time to move. 
 
Sitting up, he stretched languorously, and then climbed 
to his feet. His every move was slow and considered, as 
if it was an effort to force life into his weary limbs. 
He didn't look like a man who was being hunted with guns, 
and he smiled, amused by the incongruity of his 
appearance. Then the smile turned into a silent chuckle 
as he gleefully anticipated the reaction of his hunters 
when they found he'd eluded them again. 
 
Picking up his heavy bag he strolled, still smiling, 
towards the small back exit. His eyes were now adapted to 
the dark and he could see the twisted shadows cast by 
meagre piles of crates against the broken windows. There 
were none to impede his path, for he had cleared them 
earlier, anticipating the need for escape, although the 
effort had caused his back and limbs to ache and his head 
to throb with weariness. 
 
But he was alert now, and confident. 
 
The hunters were confident too, their hope and hatred 
battering his senses, making him laugh again at their 
futility. They'd been confident that other night too, 
secure in their force of numbers and their advantage of 
surprise. Their leader had already been basking in the 
warmth of anticipated praise from his superiors even as 
he'd marshalled his men for the attack. Had it not been 
for the fact that they were hunting _him_, he would 
almost have pitied them as he'd sensed their vain efforts 
to creep through the night on silent feet, not daring to 
switch their torches on for fear of giving him warning. 
They were good, he had to admit - better than he was at 
the wearisome tasks of physical exertion and careful 
planning. They would have caught their prey, had they 
been hunting anyone but him - had they been hunting an 
ordinary man. 
 
But they had not been hunting an ordinary man - they had 
been hunting him, a man against whom their proudly 
realised surprise attack had been impotent. _His_ mind 
was never hampered by the dark which had inhibited 
_their_ actions, and he'd been able to locate their 
hiding places and anticipate their plans. Firmly 
expecting to surprise their unsuspecting prey, but 
preferring safety in numbers, they hadn't thought to 
cover a small back exit. Wise to all their thoughts and 
tactics, he'd barely needed to think to pick out a safe 
escape route, and had laughed from a distance as they'd 
finally burst in, in a blaze of light and a clamour of 
shouting. He'd only wished he could have been close 
enough to feel their frustration. 
 
He chuckled quietly at the memory as he strolled towards 
the small opening at the back of the warehouse, preparing 
to dash their futile hopes. But at the same time he 
sighed with the weariness of the whole thing. Although he 
knew he would always be able to elude his enemies, he did 
wish they would leave him alone, recognising that they 
could never get the better of him. At times he just 
longed for rest.... 
 
"Stop that!" he chided himself, silently. He glanced down 
at the bag on his shoulder, smiling. With these sort of 
rewards, he could put up with the inconvenience of having 
to live on the run, especially as they had no hope of 
catching him .... No hope.... 
 
But then suddenly he froze, sensing something that made 
his smile die on his lips and an instant panic course 
through his veins. His escape was blocked by a wall of 
the hunters' minds. They were outside the back door, 
their guns trained on the exit, their eyes alert for any 
movement. 
 
He cursed them violently for deceiving him. When he had 
sensed their approach he hadn't bothered to probe further 
than was easy, contenting himself with the surface 
thoughts that announced their presence. Confident that 
they were ignorant of his true nature, he'd assumed that 
they would reproduce their former tactics, appropriate 
for hunting the sort of man they thought he was. But this 
time they had split their forces. 
 
His advantage gone, he madly ran from window to window in 
a growing panic, heedless of the sound of his feet which 
resounded like hammer blows in the echoing building. No 
exit was uncovered. They were everywhere. Their resolve 
pressed in on him from every window as they moved 
inexorably closer. For the first time in his life he 
cursed his gift. For the first time it hadn't brought him 
knowledge that he could use to his advantage. Instead it 
brought him the certain knowledge that he was doomed. 
 
There was no escape. 
 
The horrified pounding of his heart throbbed in his head 
and threatened to crush his thoughts. He knew he was 
close to losing all control, his mind overwhelmed by the 
encircling malevolence which was tightening on him like a 
noose. He consciously tried to calm himself, forcing 
himself to take deep and measured breaths and to set up 
barriers to the hatred which surrounded him. 
 
For a moment he was tempted to go down fighting and 
finally use the gun which he had carried for so long, but 
he knew that it would be futile. He had sensed their 
resolution and knew that they wouldn't hesitate to kill 
him if he resisted. Unable to avoid capture, his best 
hope was to resign himself to his fate and to be taken 
placidly. He would be a model prisoner, and in time he 
would be free - free to resume his activities, but 
tempered with the wisdom of experience and with his 
skills honed by years of practice. Then, after endless 
imprisoned evenings devoted to developing his abilities, 
he would be truly invincible. 
 
He didn't have long to wait. They burst in from all sides 
at once, with a wild confusion of shouting and a dazzling 
barrage of light from a dozen torches. Fully calm now, he 
smiled wryly at their embarrassment when they saw that 
such a spectacular display was wasted on a solitary man 
who sat cross-legged in the middle of a deserted 
warehouse, his gun lying idle some twenty paces away. He 
didn't resist as they hauled him to his feet and he 
didn't resist as they clasped handcuffs on his wrists and 
read him his rights. 
 
But although he showed no signs of outward resistance his 
mind was busy probing the minds of his captors. It was as 
he'd suspected. The fair-haired young agent who had led 
the attack knew about his powers and had planned the 
attack accordingly. Indeed, he was horrified to learn, 
his entire behaviour had been correctly anticipated, as 
if they were acting on information from someone who knew 
him well. He had been betrayed. He'd seen the size of the 
reward being offered by the last bank he'd robbed - a 
pitiful fraction of the amount he'd taken but enough 
still to tempt anyone to betray a friend. He had few 
friends, and fewer still knew what he was, but one of 
these people, lured by the promise of cash, must have 
betrayed his secret to the FBI. 
 
His heart filled with a burning desire for revenge so 
intense that he had to struggle to keep his face set in 
the calm mask of unresisting resignation. Exerting 
energies that he preferred not to use, he probed deeper 
into the minds of the men who led him away. He learnt 
much of their triumphs, hopes and fears and much of their 
plans for the rest of the evening, but then, amongst all 
the irrelevancies of their thoughts, he stumbled on the 
name of the man who had betrayed him. 
 
And as Matthew Lewis was hustled into the back of the 
waiting car and began the journey that was to lead to a 
10 year prison sentence, the seed of a terrible hatred 
was planted in his mind - a hatred that grew like a 
cancer until it obliterated all other thoughts. He lived 
for nothing but his obsession with revenge. 
 
Nothing else mattered. 
 
********** 
 
November 8th 1995 
 
Three nights ago, Kevin Briggs had watched a woman die. 
 
It had been dark then, dark and cold. The silver glow of 
the half moon had lost its struggle against the billowing 
clouds that fought to overwhelm it, and night had reigned 
in the park, extinguishing life and hope. And as for the 
cold - it had been the sort of cold that would have 
turned living breath into a cloud of diamonds wisping to 
the sky. Living breath .... Breath .... 
 
But by then she had been scarcely breathing at all. Her 
last weak breaths had no more form than a chimerical mist 
issuing from her tormented lips. Too much of her blood 
had been shed on the frozen earth beneath her body, 
nourishing the roots of the tree whose bare branches 
reached to the sky like accusing fingers. She hadn't 
struggled. A lifetime before, when she had been plucked 
from her cosy life, she had kicked and fought and 
screamed, determined to escape the grip of impending 
death and to draw blood for her blood. But now the 
eternal hours of torment had drained her, and she had 
only seen death as a friend that offered release from her 
suffering. Her only regret had been that it hadn't come 
sooner. 
 
Her murderer had watched her dying thoughts reflected on 
her face and smiled at her pain. Then he'd turned and 
left her to die alone 
 
And Kevin Briggs had watched in horror, like a distant 
observer yet simultaneously there, seeing through her 
pain. His mind had spiralled out of his control, assailed 
by thoughts and feelings that weren't his own, but which 
had left him dazed and shaking. 
 
Even now, three days after her death, he could find no 
respite from the guilt and horror that tormented him like 
a physical pain. It was a nightmare with no morning. The 
initial experience was always the worst - a blind and 
quaking terror as he was forced to observe torment, and 
the heart-breaking sense of futility that he could not 
stop their suffering. Then for days afterwards he had 
flash-backs - memories he could only escape when a fresh 
and more immediate horror came to supplant them. And it 
always did. 
 
But this time had been the worst yet. The image of death 
was burnt into his eyes and his soul like a brand, and 
everything he looked at seemed to writhe with the stink 
of putrefaction. He'd poured himself a whisky in a vain 
attempt to drown to demons of disgust and despair, but 
the drink had seemed to reflect her eyes, accusing and 
agonised. 
 
"No!" There was a crash as the glass fell out of his hand 
and shattered into a thousand deadly shards. 
 
"No!" he screamed again, as his hands flew to his head, 
desperately massaging the agonised temples as if he could 
drive away the terrors about to possess him. "Not again! 
Leave me alone!" 
 
Warm blood trickled from his bare foot as a sliver of 
broken glass sliced through the succulent ball of flesh 
beneath his big toe and the alcohol sneaked into the 
wound like a needle of agony, but the physical pain was 
as nothing to the mental torment which screeched in his 
head. Weakened by grief and self-loathing, his own 
consciousness could provide little defence against the 
kaleidoscope of images and impressions which drowned it. 
His puny resistance was flattened like a flower in a 
hurricane and he could do nothing but whimper in horror 
as his mind was assailed by another's terrible emotions. 
 
Seconds, or years, later, when he became fully aware of 
himself again, he was outside, shivering uncontrollably 
from the rain and the horror. He vaguely remembered 
struggling with shoes, but his clumsy fingers had been 
unable to focus on the task of tying the laces, so he had 
run out of the house without them. For the first time he 
was aware of the pain in his feet, as countless cuts and 
bruises attested to the distance he had travelled in his 
abstraction. The rain-drenched mud had washed the blood 
away and saved him from worse injury, but now soaked 
through the lacerations, threatening to infect his blood 
as his mind had been infected. 
 
His eyes were shut. Every time he hoped vainly that it 
had not happened - that it had been no more than an 
incorporeal terror of the night that wakes a sleeper in a 
blind terror but is blown away like dew by the first 
light of the morning. But it never was.... 
 
"It's not true, it's not true, it's not true" he repeated 
like a mantra over and over to himself in his mind, 
willing himself to believe that he could change what had 
happened by the force of his denial. Several minutes 
passed as he stood with his eyes shut, the rain beating 
down on his head, his shoulders shaking beneath the thin 
jacket that was their only shelter against the elements. 
Cold fear was all around him, pressing against his 
eyelids, taunting him with the pictures of the terror 
which he'd always known was there to greet him, even as 
he'd wanted to believe that it was not. Slowly he forced 
his eyes open, and saw nothing but blood and death. 
 
Blood and death.... 
 
An anguished cry tore itself out of his hoarse throat, 
but there were none living to hear it. Tears pouring down 
his face, he turned and fled from the carnage towards the 
lights of the sleeping streets, where warm families knew 
of no horror like this. Guilt tore at his soul. He didn't 
stop until he reached his comfortless home, where he 
plunged his hands and feet in water, scouring and 
scrubbing to remove all trace of the death that polluted 
them. 
 
Would that the guilt and memory could be erased so 
easily.... 
 
But now he knew that _they_ would stay with him for ever, 
twining round his soul like a fungus, sucking the life 
out of him. The drugs would provide no relief this time. 
Dragging himself to his bed he lay down and screamed. 
 
He knew the horror would return. 
 
********** 
 
November 11th 1995 
 
"Obviously you don't know the difference between courage 
and foolhardiness." The dark-skinned man took a step 
forward, menace in his eyes. There were a dozen armed men 
behind him, under his command. "Always it is the brave 
ones who have to die." 
 
Suddenly something flew through the air and a loud crack 
cut off the man's words with the abruptness of a gunshot. 
 
Glancing round guiltily, Scully uncurled herself from the 
couch and darted across the room to retrieve the 
miraculously-intact remote. She was embarrassed at her 
uncharacteristic outburst, even though there was no-one 
to see but a strange-looking Klingon who continued to 
mouth threats, oblivious to the fact that the mute button 
had somehow been pressed as the remote hit the wall. 
 
"And I think my godson's immature!" Scully muttered, as 
she carefully placed the remote on the coffee table, 
adjusting its position several times until she was 
satisfied that it looked as if it had been negligently 
laid aside by some calm and rational person who had 
merely found nothing interesting on television. She 
glanced at the television again, then reached out and 
cruelly curtailed the silent but no doubt stirring speech 
Captain Kirk was currently inflicting on the Organians. 
 
That done, she turned to her book and attempted for the 
third time to read beyond the first page, but the words 
didn't want to stick in her mind. Suddenly furious with 
the book for failing to engage her interest, she slammed 
it shut, stopping herself just in time to save it from 
suffering the same fate as had befallen the remote. 
Instead, she put it down on the table with exaggerated 
care, stood up, and proceeded to pace around her 
apartment, sighing. 
 
It was ten thirty on a Saturday morning, and Dana Scully 
was bored. 
 
She had started showing the symptoms days ago, although 
she hadn't admitted as much to herself. After all, she 
was on vacation, and, as she was so fond of telling 
Mulder, she at least had enough of a life to be able to 
enjoy her leisure time, even if her partner lived only 
for his work. Two weeks ago she had been luxuriating in 
the prospect of long days without murders and autopsies, 
and long nights of sleep uninterrupted at unearthly hours 
by phone calls announcing her partner's latest weird 
theory. Beth, a close College friend who had settled out 
West, had invited her stay for two weeks while her 
husband was away on a business trip, and Scully had 
welcomed the chance to step back into the main stream of 
ordinary life. 
 
The two friends had sat up late that first evening, 
drinking more wine than was good for them, exchanging 
anecdotes, confidences and memories. For a while Scully 
had felt like a student again as she'd giggled and 
gossiped, but then she'd paused mid-sentence, tears 
suddenly welling in her eyes, longing that she could be 
as carefree as she'd been at twenty. Good at her studies, 
secure in her happy family, she hadn't known what 
suffering was. Then, her sleep had only been disturbed by 
worries that she might get a B rather than an A on her 
next assignment, or that the guy she fancied might not 
smile at her next time he passed. With Beth looking on in 
concerned confusion, Scully had wept for the loss of her 
innocence. 
 
The next morning she'd tried to forget it, putting it 
down to the effect of too much wine, and had tried very 
hard to enjoy the next few days. It shouldn't have been 
difficult. Beth was the perfect hostess, and the two of 
them had seen all the sights, lunched in expensive 
restaurants, and visited Beth's local friends, whose 
warmth towards Scully couldn't be faulted. When the boys 
came back from school, Scully had helped them with their 
homework and played games with them. The boys were 
perfect too, and had shown no sign of ill-temper when 
Scully had beaten them at Monopoly. When they'd gone to 
bed, she and Beth had talked for hours over a drink, 
indulging themselves with chocolates and romantic movies, 
interrupted only by the nightly phone call from Beth's 
handsome and considerate husband. 
 
It should have been an ideal vacation, but the very 
perfection was what had bothered Scully. She wouldn't 
have minded so much if it hadn't all been so perfect. 
Every aspect of Beth's life had seemed to be taunting 
Scully. "You could have had this life too," she'd kept 
thinking, as she'd heard Beth accept another party 
invitation from one of her legion of friends, or when the 
boys had came back from school brimming over with news of 
how well they were doing. 
 
Scully had started to curse the day she had ever met 
Mulder. Every little thing about Beth's life had 
tormented her with visions of the happiness she had 
sacrificed by choosing to stay with the X-Files. One 
evening, after too much wine, she had poured the whole 
story out to Beth. Although she'd been sober enough not 
jeopardise their friendship by telling Beth the exact 
details of what she and Mulder investigated, the alcohol 
had still exerted enough of an effect for her to see the 
past years clearly, as she thought, for the first time. 
 
"It's all Mulder's fault," she'd complained. "Whenever I 
even as much as contemplated leaving he'd look at me, all 
vulnerable and hurt. He'd assure me that wanted me to be 
safe and happy, that he didn't want me to jeopardise my 
career by working with him. But then he'd go off and do 
something stupid and I knew he'd be lost without someone 
to look after him and keep him in line. Even when we were 
split up he came to me. "Don't risk your career by 
helping me" he'd say, before telling me all about some 
problem he had. I couldn't refuse to help him then, could 
I?" 
 
Beth, looking way out of her depth, hadn't answered, but 
Scully had continued, regardless. Suddenly it seemed to 
most important thing in the world to express a resentment 
she'd never before realised she felt. "He's an expert at 
emotional blackmail. And now he's ruined my life.... Can 
you imagine what it's like when every noise at the window 
could be a kidnapper or assassin? .... Or every phone 
call could bring the news that Mulder's gotten himself 
killed without any thought about what it'd do to me?" 
 
She'd thought she was merely angry, but there had been 
tears in her eyes by now. "Even if I resigned tomorrow I 
could never have a life like yours," she cried, staring 
wildly at the elegant house, the family photographs in 
the wall, the flowered curtains which covered windows 
that no kidnapper or killer had ever climbed through. 
"I've seen too much, suffered too much, to be able to 
live a normal life." 
 
She'd regretted what she'd said the next morning, and 
immediately realised the injustice of her complaints. 
Even though the X-Files _had_ caused her suffering and 
changed her forever, she'd stayed with them out of 
choice, she knew, and she'd been unfair to blame Mulder 
for her decision. 
 
Feeling remorse at her outburst, she'd begun to view 
Beth's life with different eyes. The perfect family 
didn't seem so great after the twelfth game of Monopoly 
in under a week. The perfect husband lost his charm when 
she found out that he called every night simply to check 
that Beth wasn't going out, for he disapproved of wives 
going out without their husbands just as he disapproved 
of married women having jobs. The perfect friends began 
to seem suffocating, with their endless impromptu visits 
in which they dissected the minutiae of their neighbours' 
lives. Every day was the same - cosy and secure but 
stultifying to the intellect after the constant 
concentration required in the FBI. 
 
By the end of her ten-day stay, Scully was longing to get 
home. After a few days of Beth's life she'd been weeping 
that the X-Files had ruined her chances of enjoying such 
an existence. After ten days of Beth's life, she'd 
realised that, even without the X-Files, she wasn't cut 
out for cosy domesticity. 
 
She had returned on Thursday, anxious to get back to work 
but too proud to contact Mulder and admit it. She'd 
teased him mercilessly before she'd left, telling him 
gloatingly how she'd think of him knee-deep in overdue 
paperwork while she was enjoying herself on vacation. If 
he saw any hint that she'd not enjoyed herself he'd be 
equally merciless in his revenge. 
 
She'd called him the night she'd returned but he'd seemed 
distracted when he'd answered, and a little guilty, as if 
she'd disturbed him in the watching of one of those 
videos he swore he never watched. "I mustn't keep you 
from enjoying yourself, Scully," he'd said, before 
hanging up on their all-too-brief conversation, leaving 
Scully wishing he didn't always sound so serious when she 
knew he must be teasing. She'd lain awake in bed, half- 
expecting him to call like he so often did, but the phone 
was silent. It had remained silent all of yesterday too, 
as she'd desperately tried to think of all the things she 
used to do with her leisure time but failed to find 
anything that could take her mind off her desire to 
return to work. 
 
It was twelve o'clock now. Two more days to get through 
before Monday morning. 45 hours. 2760 minutes. She 
carried on pacing. 2759 minutes. She stopped and put on 
her shoes, then paced over to her car keys. It wouldn't 
do any harm just to visit the office, just for a minute. 
She knew Mulder would be there, even though it was 
Saturday. She'd tell him she just wanted to find out what 
case they'd be investigating on Monday, just so she could 
look the files over, to be prepared - just as a favour to 
Mulder, not because she was bored - not that she'd given 
the X-Files a second thought while she was off enjoying 
herself, of course. 
 
She smiled as she drove to work, relieved that she'd 
stopped kidding herself that she hadn't missed Mulder. 
She was looking forward to the next case, eager to resume 
the old working relationship they had together. The break 
had done her good in ways she hadn't expected, forcing 
her to rethink her attitude to Mulder and the X-Files. 
Her outburst at Beth's hadn't come out of the blue, she 
realised. For months she'd been subconsciously resenting 
the X-Files for taking over her life and bringing such 
pain, and she'd taken this resentment out on Mulder - not 
explicitly, by fighting with him, but insidiously, by 
sniping at his enthusiasms and by making sure he went by 
the book in situations where, until recently, she would 
only have made a token resistance to his unconventional 
methods. As her contemporaries married, had children or 
been promoted, she'd felt that life was passing her by, 
and had blamed Mulder. But now, having seen an 
alternative to her own life, she realised that she'd have 
it no other way. She'd made her choice long ago. 
 
********** 
 
Mulder didn't look up when Scully walked into the 
basement office. He had his back to her, bending over a 
sheaf of papers on the desk. 
 
"Hey, Mulder!" said Scully, lightly. "You been stuck with 
this paperwork the whole time I was off enjoying myself?" 
She stressed the last two words, deliberately setting 
herself up for some Mulder-humour. Precisely what 
Scully's "enjoyment" would consist of had been the source 
of much teasing before her departure. 
 
The anticipated response failed to materialise. "What are 
you doing here, Scully?" he said, still not looking at 
her. "I thought you were off till Monday." 
 
"Oh, I am. But I thought of you wading through paperwork 
and dragged myself from my "enjoyment" to come and help." 
 
Mulder was looking intently at the papers in his hand. 
"Don't bother, Scully. I don't want to ruin the last 
weekend of your vacation, just like I've...." The words 
trailed into a whisper and Scully couldn't catch them. 
 
Scully mentally kicked herself for teasing Mulder without 
checking out his mood first. She was about to reassure 
him that he wasn't ruining anything for her, when she 
caught sight of one of the papers on his desk. A paper he 
tried to conceal but which couldn't be hidden from her 
keen glance. A paper covered with figures that looked 
suspiciously like flight details. 
 
Mulder, it appeared, had been about to fly off without 
her, and, no doubt, without telling her either. 
 
"Mulder! Where are you going? Is it a case?" Her voice 
rose with irritation. Although she'd been unable to get 
much out of him when she'd called on Thursday, she had at 
least managed to get him to promise not to leave town on 
a case without telling her. 
 
Mulder grunted non-committally, but said nothing. He 
still wouldn't look at her. 
 
"So, what is it then?" She decided to take his silence as 
a no. "Where are you going?" Suddenly she caught her 
breath in concern, remembering how some of Mulder's most 
abrupt disappearances in the past has often been 
connected to some family crisis. "Are you going home? Is 
something wrong with your mother, or...." She tailed off, 
not wanting to mention Samantha when he was in this mood. 
 
"No. Not home." He didn't elaborate. 
 
"Well, what is it? It _is_ a case?" 
 
He nodded, reluctantly. 
 
Scully was suddenly furious, all her fond imaginings 
about her happy reunion with Mulder proved suddenly 
false. "Mulder! You promised not to go away on a case 
until I came back - at least, not unless it was urgent 
and not without discussing it with me first." 
 
He was silent, offering no defence. 
 
"You weren't going to tell me, were you?" she shouted. 
"What was it to be this time? A letter? A melodramatic e- 
mail like Alaska? Or weren't you going to bother telling 
me at all? Just let me work it out when I came in on 
Monday and couldn't find you." There was still no 
response so she grabbed his chair, swinging him round to 
face her. "Damn you, Mulder! Talk to me!" 
 
For the first time since she'd entered the room Scully 
was able to see Mulder's face, and her anger faded as 
suddenly as it had come. Mulder looked terrible. He 
looked as if he hadn't slept for a week, his eyes circled 
with dark shadows and full of defeat. He wouldn't hold 
her gaze. Scully reached out and touched him gently on 
the arm, silently offering comfort for whatever it was 
that was troubling him, but he flinched, barely 
perceptibility, at her touch. She removed her hand. 
 
"Mulder, what's the matter?" she said, quietly. She 
wasn't surprised when he gave no response. It was never 
an easy task to persuade Mulder to talk about his 
feelings. "This case ..... is it to do with Samantha?" 
 
Mulder shook his head. 
 
She tried another tack. "Have you been working on a tough 
case while I was away?" 
 
"A case. Not a tough one. Nothing disturbing." She didn't 
think he was lying, but he was being so monosyllabic that 
it was difficult to tell. 
 
"This case you're going on, Mulder - what's it about?" 
 
"A serial killer. Possibly some sort of possession." His 
voice was dull and lifeless. 
 
Scully tried to keep her voice steady, but Mulder was 
trying her patience. "Mulder," she sighed, with 
exaggerated control. "Why don't you want me to go on this 
case? What aren't you telling me?" 
 
"Nothing, Scully. Nothing ..... just .... I don't want 
you to get hurt, Scully. You've been hurt so much. " 
There was feeling in his voice at last, but that feeling 
was despair. 
 
Scully touched Mulder again on the arm, ignoring his 
flinching. "Mulder, why should I get hurt on this case 
rather than any others?" 
 
"He kills women." 
 
Scully sighed. "Mulder, lots of serial killers kill 
women. That's not stopped us investigating in the past. 
Why should this one be any different?" 
 
Mulder was silent. 
 
"So, when you were assigned to this case were you 
specifically told to go alone?" Mulder reluctantly shook 
his head. "So I take it I'm invited too." She picked up 
Mulder's bag from the floor. "Come on. There's just time 
to go to my apartment to pack before the flight departs. 
I'll book a ticket from home." 
 
"But, Scully, your vacation...." 
 
"I'll happily give up my last two days of vacation, 
Mulder," said Scully, regretting the words "give up" even 
as she said them. Mulder didn't need any more excuses for 
guilt right now. She decided that the time for honesty 
had come. "I didn't really enjoy it anyway. I wanted to 
be back at work." 
 
And she really did want to be back at work, even though 
this case was clearly not going to be the happy reunion 
she'd fondly imagined in the car. Evidently, she hadn't 
been the only one doing some serious thinking during her 
absence. But while _she_ felt that she'd managed to sort 
her life out, Mulder's thoughts had clearly reached a 
less happy conclusion. One look at his tormented eyes 
were enough to warn her that the next few days could be 
extremely difficult. 
 
********** 
 
Scully hadn't been aware of how tightly she'd been 
gripping the seat until she relaxed her fingers and felt 
the dull ache of tension in her muscles. She smiled wryly 
at the thought that she should still stiffen at take-off 
and landing, even after all the hundreds of flights she'd 
had to undertake in the course of her work. Mulder, whose 
keen eyes didn't usually miss any movement of hers that 
he could use as ammunition to tease her with, was silent, 
lost in thought. Even so, Scully was hopeful that her 
earlier forebodings would prove unfounded. Although he 
wasn't yet his normal self, Mulder's mood had lightened 
considerably since they'd boarded the plane. He seemed to 
have left the worst of his grim mood back in the office 
and his depression eased with every mile they put between 
themselves and Washington. 
 
Scully wanted to ask about the case, but was anxious not 
to disturb the precarious balance of Mulder's mood by 
asking the wrong questions and inadvertently sending him 
back into the depression he was working his way out of. 
Instead she sat silently, attempting to read the book 
she'd brought from home, but her eyes kept on shutting to 
allow her thoughts to run free without distractions from 
her senses. 
 
"It gets better, you know". Mulder's sudden comment made 
her jump and she looked at him quizzically. 
 
"The book," he explained. Her face showed no 
comprehension so he continued. "You've had it open at the 
first page for 12 minutes now. Not his best work, I 
agree, but you might enjoy it more if you read it with 
your eyes open." 
 
He was smiling at her - a smile that didn't quite reach 
the eyes, but a smile nonetheless. She knew his weak joke 
was meant as a peace offering - a signal that he'd worked 
through whatever it was that was bothering him and was 
now ready to talk. She put the book down and turned to 
face him. The flight was far from full, and there was 
empty seats next to them, enabling them to talk about the 
case without fear of being overheard. 
 
"OK, Mulder, what's this case about?" 
 
"Two murders within a week in Ridgewood, Maine." He had 
no files, no notes, but still Scully prepared herself for 
a barrage of facts. Why he didn't just give her the 
details to read, she didn't know, rather than telling her 
everything himself, reciting it from his memory. She'd 
still have to read it all later, anyway, to find the 
little details he'd neglected to tell her - details that 
didn't fit with his current theory. 
 
"The first body was found on Monday, dumped in a 
children's play park," Mulder went on, his face 
unreadable. "She was a teacher, 26 years old, called 
Christine Denning. She'd been killed by multiple stab 
wounds, but also seemed to have been beaten or cut with a 
number of other instruments." He took a deep breath, 
causing Scully to suspect that maybe it _was_ the case 
that had been disturbing him, but when he continued his 
voice was calm, betraying no emotion. "The second body 
was found early on Thursday morning, also beaten and 
stabbed, although her injuries were less extensive. She 
was a teenager, Jennie Lawrence, who was grabbed while 
walking in the woods with her boyfriend, and found a mile 
away several hours later. Her boyfriend is still in a 
coma, having been hit on the back of the head." 
 
He paused, but Scully knew there must be more. "So far, 
that's nothing out of the ordinary," she said, to prompt 
him to continue. 
 
"There were certain .... peculiar .... aspects about the 
case that had the local police calling for help." 
 
"Peculiar aspects?" Scully wished Mulder would tell a 
case outright without forcing her to prompt all the time. 
She suspected he did it deliberately, so he could trump 
all her tentative conclusions with some startling 
evidence he always kept to last. 
 
"In each case, someone called the police, telling them 
where to find the body." 
 
"A chance witness, scared of revealing their name?" 
Scully knew Mulder would refute her theory with more 
evidence he'd not yet told her, but decided to play her 
part properly by suggesting hypotheses Mulder could then 
demolish. She also knew that it would be just like Mulder 
to leap straight for an exotic explanation without 
considering such simple possibilities, so it was always a 
good idea to remind him of the obvious. 
 
"If it was a chance witness, then he's very unlucky. 
Voice analysis shows that it was the same person each 
time. And that same person called again last night to say 
that the murderer had taken someone else, just _before_ a 
Mr John Benton reported that his wife, Ellie, had gone 
missing." 
 
"It could be the murderer himself, toying with the police 
somehow. You know .... like serial killers sometimes 
leaving their calling card on the victim, as if to gloat 
of their power and taunt the police with their failure to 
find them." 
 
"That's what I suspected at first. The caller spoke as if 
he was there when the women died, and said he had their 
blood on his hands." He paused, but his tone of voice 
suggested there was a "but" coming, so Scully didn't 
comment. "But then I heard the actual recordings of the 
calls," Mulder continued, "and it just doesn't fit. He 
wasn't gloating. He was almost incoherent with horror at 
the murders. If he is the murderer, he is a great actor." 
 
"What about a friend or family member, who is horrified 
by the murders but daren't turn the murderer in? That 
would explain the feelings of guilt, if he knew he could 
have stopped the killings by going to the police." 
 
Mulder was silent, evidently not convinced. Scully took a 
deep breath. "Okay, Mulder. You have a theory. What is 
it?" 
 
"I think it's some sort of possession." Scully remembered 
now that he'd said as much earlier in the office, but 
she'd been too worried about him then to make anything of 
it. "I think that our caller _is_ the murderer, but in a 
physical sense only, with his body controlled by someone 
else - an evil spirit.... someone capable of mind control 
.... whatever. He retains enough awareness to see what 
his body is doing, but isn't strong enough to stop it, 
which is why he feels guilt. I haven't seen all the 
details yet, but I hope that when we get there I'll find 
more evidence about what sort of consciousness is 
possessing him." 
 
"Hold on, Mulder," said Scully. "You're the psychologist, 
remember. Don't people say that historical reports of so- 
called "possessions" are probably cases of split 
personality? If, and I mean if, you're right and this 
caller is really the murderer, he's probably mentally 
ill, suffering from a split personality. One of them does 
the murders, and the other feels the horror and guilt. 
That's why he doesn't tell the police his identity - 
because they can't punish the perpetrator without him 
being punished too." 
 
"Come on, Scully." Mulder sounded impatient. "That sort 
of thing doesn't happen outside Jekyll and Hyde. There 
have only been a handful of properly-documented cases of 
people switching frequently between two personalities 
like that." 
 
"That's a whole handful more than the properly-documented 
cases of possession," countered Scully, piqued by his 
tone. 
 
They stared at each other, both firm in their opposing 
views. Then Mulder smiled suddenly, as if accepting her 
point. "We'll never agree, will we Scully?" he said, 
ruefully. 
 
There was a short but companionable silence. Mulder broke 
it first. "Actually," he said sheepishly. "That split 
personality theory of yours .... that's what the police 
think too. Either that, or that he's acting under the 
influence of drugs or something that make him violent one 
minute and regretful in the sober light of morning." He 
shrugged. "Anyway, we'll find out more when we talk to 
the other agents." 
 
"Other agents? You mean, we're not alone on this?" Scully 
was taken by surprise. The sort of cases that appealed to 
Mulder were seldom the sort of cases that anyone else in 
the Bureau found worthy of their attention. 
 
"No. The local police, who've never dealt with a serial 
killer before, decided they were way out of their depth 
and called for help from the regional office straight 
away. Then the local team, deducing, as you did, that 
they were dealing with a seriously disturbed mind, 
decided that _they_ were way out of their depth and 
called for a psychologist straight away." 
 
"So they asked for you! That's strange. Why would they 
want you?" As soon as she'd spoken, Scully regretted the 
tactless phrasing of this question, fearing it might push 
him back into his depression, but Mulder acknowledged it 
with a wry smile. Considering his reputation, it was a 
fair enough comment. 
 
"There's a young agent on the case, a Jim Gardiner. I 
worked with him on a case a few years back - his first 
case since leaving the Academy. All the other agents were 
making jokes about me when they thought I couldn't hear, 
you know how it is...." Scully _did_ know. She still 
remembered with shame how she'd once called Tom Colton a 
friend. "Anyway," Mulder continued, "Gardiner followed me 
like a puppy. He had no imagination of his own but agreed 
with everything I said." He gave a quick laugh. "I even 
made up nonsense no sane person could believe and he was 
nodding like his head would fall off. It nearly drove me 
crazy. I was never so pleased to see the back of anyone 
in my life.... And then he contacted me yesterday, asking 
for my help. He spoke as if his sole aim these last few 
years has been to find an X-File for me." 
 
"So he thought there was something paranormal about the 
case too? He can't be that lacking in imagination." 
 
"Hmm, that's a point." Mulder smiled. "Maybe he's 
brighter than I thought. Anyway, he convinced the agent- 
in-charge that this was an aspect that needed 
investigating. The case had caught the public 
imagination, with righteous citizens already denouncing 
the police for failing to stop the killer. Gardiner 
pointed out that it would look bad if any possible lead, 
however unconventional, was left unpursued. His boss had 
already decided that they needed a psychologist, and was 
persuaded to kill two birds with one stone, as it were, 
by calling me in. God knows how Gardiner managed to 
persuade him. He's not an easy man to convince." 
 
"I take it you know him too." said Scully 
 
"Yes." Mulder's tone expressed dislike more clearly than 
words could have. "His name is Richard Newman. I met him 
the same time I met Gardiner." 
 
"But he's not a fan of your work?" 
 
"No." 
 
Mulder fell silent, leaving Scully to reflect on his 
unfortunate habit of making enemies wherever he went. It 
certainly complicated investigations, and Mulder's 
investigations tended to be complicated enough without 
needing any further problems. 
 
********** 
 
"Mulder, could you pull over, please?" 
 
It was late afternoon and Mulder was driving their rented 
car through the Maine countryside as the shadows from the 
setting sun lengthened around them. 
 
"Why? What's the matter?" he asked, looking at Scully in 
concern. "Are you okay ?" 
 
"Yes, I'm fine. It's just .... I want to talk to you." 
 
"You can talk to me now." Mulder carried on driving. 
 
"No, I want to see your face." 
 
"Can it wait? I want to be there before it's fully dark - 
maybe get out and see one of the crime scenes." 
 
"No, Mulder. This is serious. Please stop as soon as you 
can." 
 
Mulder pulled over as soon as a convenient lay-by 
presented itself. "Scully, what's wrong?" he asked, as 
soon as he'd stopped the engine. "Are you okay ?" He 
looked at her in concern, reaching out to touch the back 
of her hand as it lay beside her on the seat. 
 
"_I'm_ okay ," said Scully, stressing the personal 
pronoun. 
 
"And I'm okay too," said Mulder, "so that's okay." 
 
"Mulder! Stop it! This is serious." She looked at him 
earnestly. 
 
Mulder flinched at her gaze, glancing in the mirror with 
exaggerated anxiety. "I _knew_ I should have put the blue 
tie on. I'm sorry. I'll change it as soon as we get to 
the hotel." 
 
"Mulder!" She would have been angry, but she caught the 
note of desperation in his forced levity. "Look, Mulder." 
She paused for a while, wondering how to express her 
concerns without pushing too much and driving him away. 
"You needn't tell me if you don't want to, but .... well, 
something was obviously wrong earlier, in the office. By 
the look of you something's been wrong for days. You 
looked awful." 
 
"You sure know how to flatter a man, Scully." 
 
"Mulder!" Annoyance was beginning to replace concern. 
 
"Sorry, Scully." He looked genuinely contrite and Scully 
forgave him. She knew he was only joking because that was 
his way of dealing with painful emotions. _One_ of his 
ways. She'd rather have his grim jokes than his 
depression. 
 
She continued. "You needn't tell me what was bothering 
you if you'd prefer not to, but what I need to know is 
..... Mulder, what I mean is .... is it sorted out now?" 
 
"Yes," said Mulder, his expression serious now. "I think 
so." 
 
There was a short silence. Mulder broke it at last, in a 
surprisingly hesitant voice. "Scully, did you mean it 
when you said you didn't enjoy your vacation?" 
 
"In a way. I enjoyed the break. I had some great times, 
did some enjoyable things. But at the same time I'm glad 
to be back at work." 
 
"Glad to be back with the X-Files?" Mulder sounded 
incredulous. 
 
Scully suddenly understood. "Is that what the problem 
was? Did you think I wasn't coming back? That I'd leave 
you to fight your enemies alone?" 
 
Mulder looked ashamed and gave a barely perceptible nod. 
Scully reached out and touched his arm, smiling at him to 
continue. Mulder snatched his arm away, refusing to meet 
her eyes. He started to speak, his voice full of self- 
reproach. "I didn't want you to leave. But that's just 
selfish. If you can snatch a little happiness back from 
the .... the ruins I've made of your last few years, I 
should be happy for you. I've no right to want you to 
stay if you'd rather be elsewhere." 
 
"Mulder, I don't want to be elsewhere." 
 
"You did, before you left. All that joking you did, about 
how much you were looking forward to your first real 
break since you met me, about how you've not had a life 
since working on the X-Files. I know it wasn't just a 
joke. You meant it." 
 
Scully was about to protest that this wasn't true - that 
she had never wished herself out of the X-Files - but 
then she remembered her outburst at Beth's. It was true. 
Before her vacation she'd often indulged in idealised 
fantasies about what her life would have been like if she 
hadn't worked with Mulder - status at work, a sister 
still alive, time to go on dates, feeling safe in her own 
home. She'd begun to subconsciously blame Mulder for 
ensuring that these dreams could now never be a reality. 
But now she'd had time to think she realised that, while 
the painful past couldn't be changed, the X-Files were 
what she wanted for her future. 
 
Mulder, seeing her hesitation, had looked away. Scully 
reached over and pulled at his shoulder, turning him to 
face her. "Yes, I _did_ sometimes wish I was out of the 
X- 
Files. But I've had time to think, and I've sorted out my 
priorities. I _do_ want to work with you. It's my own 
choice." 
 
"But I've brought you such pain." It was a cry of pure 
anguish. 
 
"No, Mulder. _You_ haven't brought me any pain. Not you. 
You've fought the men who've hurt me. You've saved my 
life more times than you've ever hurt me." 
 
"But They only hurt you because you were working on the 
X- 
Files." 
 
"Yes, I _have_ been hurt. I can't pretend not to regret 
that. I'd give anything to get Melissa back, to have my 
missing time back, but I can't. I can't change the past. 
It's happened now and no amount of regret can change 
that. But I can at least try to find out why these things 
have happened. Remember, Mulder, I'm looking for my 
answers now as well as yours." 
 
Mulder was silent, so Scully continued. "It hasn't just 
brought pain, Mulder. We've had good times, too. Think of 
the number of lives we've saved - people who would have 
died without us. How many safe jobs could bring that 
satisfaction? And then there's the intellectual 
challenge. My friend, Beth - the one I stayed with - she 
has a degree in physics but spends her days thinking of 
recipes and gossiping with the neighbours." 
 
Mulder was still silent, but he didn't flinch this time 
when she touched his arm, and his face looked less 
troubled. Scully tried one more attempt to get through to 
him. "Mulder, you've got to believe me. This is my 
choice. You're not responsible for anything that happens 
to me. Damn it, Mulder! I like working with you." 
 
"Scully? There's something else I want to say." Mulder 
broke his silence at last. 
 
"What?" Scully's heart sank, wondering what Mulder had 
managed to find to feel guilty about now. She thought 
she'd covered all his problem areas. Oh God, no! Not 
Samantha as well! She prepared herself to offer more 
comfort. She'd complained enough in the past when Mulder 
excluded her from his worries, so she could hardly be 
unsupportive now he'd decided to let her in. 
 
"How much did they pay you?" 
 
"What?" 
 
"The Bureau. For that excellent advert you just did on 
their behalf - saving lives, intellectual challenge, 
finding answers to problems. I hope they paid you enough 
to buy me dinner tonight at the hotel." 
 
Suddenly they were both smiling. There was still a shadow 
behind Mulder's smile, but Scully suddenly realised that 
their old friendly banter would banish the shadow as much 
as would an earnest heart-to-heart. 
 
"Mulder! When I said I liked working with you ....well, 
keep that up and I may just change my mind." She 
pretended to cuff him on the head. 
 
"Hey! You can't do that! You're a doctor." 
 
"You behave or you just might be a patient." 
 
"Are you threatening me?" 
 
Scully pulled a face, but then turned suddenly serious. 
"Mulder, you will talk to me next time you're depressed, 
won't you? Talking about it helped just now, didn't it?" 
 
Mulder nodded. "Yes, it helped. Thank you, Scully." 
 
They resumed their journey. It was now nearly dark and it 
had started to rain. 
 
"You did pack your torch, didn't you, Scully?" 
 
"Mulder! Of course I packed my torch. Would I come on a 
case with you without a torch?" She realised suddenly 
what he was suggesting. "No, Mulder. No. I am still 
officially on vacation and I am _not_ going to prowling 
though the woods at night in the rain. No way." 
 
"Aw, Scully!" Mulder whined in a little boy voice. "You 
said you liked working with me, whatever the 
consequences." 
 
"That's it! I resign!" 
 
"Just a little prowl? Please, Scully. Pleeeeese." 
 
"No." She tried to keep her face stern, but failed 
dismally. 
 
********** 
 
Scully stared balefully at her hairbrush as she slammed 
it down on the bedside table. It hadn't been far from the 
car to the hotel, but the rain was so heavy that even 
such a short distance had been enough to make her usually 
sleek hair frizzy. She grimaced at her reflection in the 
mirror, wishing she'd had time for a shower before she 
had to meet the other agents on the case. She always 
liked to look her best when meeting male agents - not in 
a sexy way, to attract them, but in a professional way, 
reasoning that they'd be more likely to respect her if 
she looked smart and well-groomed. Even in the 90s she 
knew that many male agents tended to doubt a woman's 
competence on a tough case. First impressions could make 
all the difference between being judged as a non-entity 
or as a colleague. 
 
"Scully, are you ready?" 
 
Scully jumped up to unlock her side of the connecting 
door between their rooms. The hotel was half empty so it 
had been no problem getting her a room next to the one 
Mulder had already booked. She smiled as she saw Mulder. 
Evidently thinking on the same lines as she had, he'd put 
on his most conservative suit and tie and combed his hair 
into a standard FBI-issue hair style. She was glad to see 
it wasn't only women who expected to be judged by their 
appearance. 
 
"You seem anxious to impress this Agent Newman," said 
Scully, as Mulder glanced at his watch with concern. 
"It's not like you to care about making a good 
impression." She smiled as she thought of the trail of 
outraged sheriffs and offended superiors that Mulder had 
left in his wake in the course of his career. 
 
"Agent Newman and I .... Well, I don't like him and he 
doesn't like me. I expect he only agreed to have me on 
this case because Gardiner went on and on and it was the 
only way to get him off his back. And I'm sure he's 
regretting it already. He wants me to make a mistake so 
he can have an excuse to get rid of me. So, I'm doing 
everything by-the-book." He looked at her with a smile. 
"At least, when he's watching." 
 
"So you won't be telling him his murderer is possessed?" 
 
"Possessed? Scully! How can you suggest such a thing? 
Don't say you're one of those crazy people who believe in 
the paranormal." Mulder's tone was all outraged 
innocence. 
 
Scully hit him. 
 
********** 
 
She would have had time for a shower after all, Scully 
reflected ruefully as they sat in the hotel bar. The curt 
note they'd been given upon arrival at the hotel had told 
them to meet the other agents at 7.30, but the few other 
customers were clearly not FBI. 
 
Scully drummed her fingers with impatience, but Mulder 
saw the irony of the situation. "The first time in my 
life I go to such an effort to turn up smart and on time 
to impress a superior officer, he's late and can't 
appreciate my efforts. It's the story of my life - I 
can't do anything right." Scully thought he was joking, 
but couldn't be sure. Mulder's dark humour could hide a 
multitude of unpleasant emotions. 
 
"Agent Mulder!" A young man in his late twenties rushed 
into the bar, looking considerably less well-groomed than 
Mulder or Scully. His light hair looked as if it had been 
hastily dried with a towel, and the front of his shirt 
was wet, as if he'd been out in the rain in the sort of 
low-buttoned trench coat that was much smarter than it 
was practical. 
 
Mulder opened his mouth to introduce the newcomer, but 
was cut off before he was able to say a word. 
 
"Agent Mulder!" repeated the man who could only be Agent 
Gardiner. "It's great to see you again! The others will 
be down soon. They're still getting ready in their rooms. 
We've been out all day, searching for the missing woman. 
No luck yet, though, and we can't do much now it's dark." 
His voice became more sombre for a while but soon 
regained its former enthusiasm. "I came straight down to 
talk to you before the others are ready. They're not 
willing to believe in things they don't understand. I 
knew as soon as I saw it that this case was paranormal, 
but they ....." He paused, looking concerned that he'd 
been about to criticise his colleagues. "Don't get me 
wrong," he continued quickly. "They're competent agents. 
It's just that they have no imagination. I thought it was 
obvious that this was an X-File. What do you think, 
Mulder? It is possession, isn't it?" 
 
Mulder shrugged. "It could be possession. But there are 
other possibilities too. Until I know all the details I'm 
not going to jump to conclusions." Scully smiled. As far 
as she was concerned Mulder was usually to first to jump 
to conclusions without examining the evidence first. 
 
"But you do think it's paranormal?" Gardiner's voice was 
worried. 
 
"I want to examine the more plausible explanations first 
before I turn to a paranormal explanation," said Mulder, 
"but I can't pronounce on _any_ explanation until I know 
more details." 
 
Gardiner's face fell and Scully felt sorry for him. It 
was one thing for Mulder to play devil's advocate with 
her, crushing all her sceptical objections with ever 
wilder theories, half of which he didn't even believe 
himself. Although she was frequently infuriated with him, 
she understood the game they were playing and could 
return as good as she got, desperately playing the 
sceptic even when Mulder's theories contained some sense. 
But Gardiner didn't understand the game and looked like a 
little boy whose best friend has turned against him. 
 
Kicking Mulder under the table, she hastened to assure 
Gardiner. "Don't believe him, Agent Gardiner," she said, 
knowing she was right about his name even though they'd 
not been introduced. "Mulder has a strange sense of 
humour. He was just teasing you. He told me on the way 
here that he definitely thinks we're dealing with some 
sort of possession." 
 
"He does, does he?" said a gruff voice from behind her. 
Turning, she saw that a group of men had entered the 
room, all dressed in conventional suits and dull ties, 
and therefore obviously FBI. The one who'd spoken, a 
gruff-looking man of around fifty, was looking at Mulder 
with distaste. She assumed he was Agent Newman - an 
assumption confirmed by the round of introductions which 
followed. Remembering what Mulder had said about wanting 
to impress Newman, she flashed a quick glance of apology 
at him, but he wasn't looking. 
 
The atmosphere was strained as they moved over to the 
restaurant. Mulder glanced at Scully, clearly signalling 
that he wanted to sit next to her, but she considered 
this would be unsociable and made no attempt to stay 
close to him as they chose their seats. Instead, she 
found herself sitting next to Gardiner, who had looked at 
her with open gratitude ever since she'd explained 
Mulder's belief in his theory. He talked endlessly 
throughout the meal, his voice too quiet to be intended 
for the table at large. Anxious not to be impolite, 
Scully was forced to listen to his observations about his 
home town, Star Trek, his neighbours, his family and his 
favourite movies, nodding her head and contributing her 
own comments at appropriate places. All the time, she was 
desperately trying to catch Mulder's eye, but he was at 
the end of the table, next to Newman. From what she could 
hear of their conversation, Newman spent the whole meal 
telling Mulder in no uncertain terms how much he 
regretted having him on the case, and how he'd better get 
on with the profile as soon as possible so they wouldn't 
have to work with each other any longer than necessary. 
 
Mulder excused himself as soon as the meal was over, 
saying that he wanted to examine all the files on the 
case as soon as possible. One of the other agents, 
Martinez, was sent to Newman's room to get them. 
 
"Coming, Scully?" asked Mulder, as he stood up to leave. 
He barely glanced at her, and she assumed he was angry 
about having to endure a whole meal of constant 
criticism. She suddenly realised how it must have looked 
to him. She'd ruined his chances of impressing Newman, 
and then abandoned him to Newman's tender mercies 
throughout the meal. 
 
Anxious to apologise, Scully was about to follow, but 
caught sight of the glance that passed between Martinez 
and O'Brien, another agent on the case. It was a glance 
she'd seen many times on other agent's faces - a glance 
that told her that, if she went with Mulder now, they 
would entertain themselves after she'd gone with all 
sorts of lewd suggestions about what she and Mulder were 
really getting up to. It also occurred to her that if she 
stayed she could try to salvage some of the damage she'd 
unwittingly done to Mulder's standing with Newman. 
 
"I'll stay," she said. 
 
********** 
 
"Mulder, it's me. Can I come in?" 
 
Scully had endured nearly an hour downstairs after Mulder 
had left, but had to admit that she'd made little 
progress. Gardiner was undeterred in his loquacity, and 
she had been hard pressed to break away from him to talk 
to Newman. Newman had been unfriendly, evidently assuming 
that any friend of Mulder's was barely worth talking to. 
However, he'd thawed a little as she talked to him. She'd 
gone out of her way to ingratiate herself with him. She'd 
agreed with everything he said, however much she wanted 
to disagree, praised his progress on the case, and tried 
to convince him that she'd only been joking when she'd 
said Mulder believed in possession. If nothing else had 
been gained, at least he'd gone away convinced that at 
least one of the X-Files team had some sense. It wasn't 
quite what she'd intended, but it was a start. If he 
respected her, she could perhaps persuade him to give 
Mulder another chance. 
 
Mulder didn't look up when Scully came in. He was 
sprawled on the bed, surrounded by files, studying them 
intently. 
 
"Are you okay , Mulder?" 
 
Mulder looked up. "This is really interesting, Scully. 
Look at this." 
 
Scully made no move to look at the proffered file. "I'm 
sorry about what happened down there - about what I said 
when Newman arrived. I know how important it was to you 
to make a good impression." 
 
Mulder shrugged. "It doesn't matter. It wouldn't have 
worked anyway. You just broke the ice - so I didn't have 
to bother being on my best behaviour all evening. It was 
a relief not to have to pretend. How long do you think 
I'd have been able to keep up that sceptical, by-the-book 
pose?" 
 
Scully was grateful for his attempt to lessen her guilt, 
but she knew how important it had been to get Newman's 
approval. Although she hoped their conversation in the 
car had brought Mulder out of his depression, she knew 
that his emotions were still precariously balanced. Right 
now the last thing he needed was criticism from someone 
like Newman. 
 
"When you left the table I thought you were mad at me," 
she said. 
 
"No. Sorry." Mulder sounded vague, but it wasn't the 
frightening vagueness she'd heard earlier that day when 
he was deep in depression. Instead, it was a vagueness 
she'd heard many times before, whenever anything 
attempted to distract him from a case he was interested 
in. "I really did want to look at these files," Mulder 
continued, confirming her diagnosis of his mood. "Newman 
wants me to do a profile as soon as possible, but I can't 
do that unless I know all the details. But now I've seen 
them ....." 
 
"You think it's possession," Scully said, dully. The 
excitement in his eyes had already told her what to 
expect, dashing her hopes of an easy resolution of the 
tension with Newman. Now Mulder had decided on the 
possession theory it would take all her skills of 
diplomacy to make the case tolerable. 
 
Mulder opened his mouth to assail her with countless 
facts and explanations, but she held up a hand to stop 
him. "Mulder, right now all I want is a shower. I can't 
face your ideas until I feel clean." 
 
********** 
 
Scully took a deep breath and knocked on the connecting 
door to Mulder's room, setting her face in the "Mulder, 
you can not be serious" look she adopted whenever he was 
carried away by his theories. She'd enjoyed a long and 
leisurely shower, revelling in the feeling of being clean 
and warm. Knowing Mulder, it wouldn't be long before 
she'd be cold, wet and muddy, drowning in a swamp of 
crazy theories. 
 
There was no answer. 
 
Scully bit her lip with concern, scared that Mulder had 
pulled one of his disappearing tricks. Many a time he'd 
rushed off without warning, investigating on a whim. He 
didn't usually leave her behind deliberately, but when he 
got intrigued by something nothing else mattered to him. 
He probably forgot she existed, just as he seemed to 
forget his own safety. 
 
She knocked again, reluctant to open the door uninvited. 
Although they never locked the door between their rooms, 
they always waited for permission before entering. Scully 
knew that Mulder would never walk in on her unless she 
was ready. She'd often wondered how many other women 
would get undressed knowing there was only an unlocked 
door between herself and a man she wasn't involved with. 
 
When there was still no answer, she pushed the door open 
and crept in, calling his name to alert him to her 
presence. Her heart was beating fast. She wondered what 
she feared most - finding Mulder gone or finding him in 
the middle of undressing. Suddenly she stopped dead in 
her tracks. She'd never expected the sight which now 
greeted her eyes. 
 
Mulder was lying on the bed - fast asleep. 
 
Scully tiptoed over to his side and gently removed the 
files which still surrounded him. Then she went over to 
the closet and took out a spare blanket and covered him 
with it. It was a cold night, and she didn't want him to 
wake up later, feeling cold. She lingered for a while by 
his bedside, looking down at him as he slept. She'd seen 
Mulder looking angry, excited, intrigued, teasing and 
concerned. She'd seen him looking sad or in pain many 
more times than she'd have liked. But she'd seldom seen 
him looking so peaceful. Lying asleep, his eyes shut and 
his muscles relaxed, he looked untroubled by the 
suffering which so often haunted him when he was awake. 
She reached out a hand to stroke his hair, tousled by the 
pillow, but drew back, scared that she'd wake him. She 
knew he'd scarcely slept in the last week, troubled as he 
had been with guilt and self-doubt. Seeing him so soundly 
asleep she knew that these demons had been laid to rest, 
at least for the moment. She wasn't so naive as to 
believe they would never return. 
 
Feeling strangely reluctant to go back to her empty room, 
Scully sat down in Mulder's chair and started to read the 
files. 
 
********** 
 
November 12th 1995 
 
Mulder felt safe. During the night, roused to half- 
wakefulness by a some sneaking worry that insinuated 
itself into his dreams, he had suddenly felt that Scully 
was near him and would keep him safe. Comforted by this 
thought, although the small part of himself that was 
awake knew it must be a dream, he had rolled over, calm 
sleep reclaiming him until morning. 
 
It was only when he woke up and found himself covered by 
a blanket that he knew that it hadn't been a dream. 
Scully had looked after him at night, and now she was 
near him still. Small sounds of her presence reached his 
ears through the half-open connecting door - the squeak 
of her closet door .... her footsteps across the room 
.... a snatch of a song hummed under her breath and then 
suddenly cut off with a guilty start. He lay still, 
listening to Scully in the darkness, pulling the blanket 
closer around his body. Her song brought a smile to his 
lips. Scully seldom sang - and never when she thought 
anyone would hear her. Recently, she hadn't been singing 
at all, her music smothered by the grief she'd had to 
bear over the past months. Eloquent as she had been in 
her reassurances in the car the previous day, her song 
spoke clearer than words. The concerns about Scully's 
happiness that had threatened to overwhelm him in her 
absence were gradually being laid to rest by her 
presence. 
 
Her footsteps sounded across the room, and stopped 
outside the door. "Mulder?" Her voice was quiet. She 
obviously expected him to be asleep for she tiptoed in, 
without allowing time for a reply. 
 
Mulder smiled at her, still too tired to track down the 
right words for a greeting. Scully started when she saw 
he was awake, but then she smiled and came over to the 
side of his bed, asking him how he'd slept. 
 
Mulder's mind, still slow from sleep, wrestled with the 
unusual situation. Scully was never up before him. She 
used to joke how he'd already run half the length of the 
state and read twenty X-files before she got up, even 
though she'd had a reputation at College as an early 
riser. It suddenly crossed his mind that something must 
be wrong. 
 
"What's the matter, Scully?" he asked, sharply. He was 
suddenly fully awake. "What's happened? Why are you up so 
early?" 
 
Scully laughed. "What's the matter, Mulder?" She echoed 
his words, her voice grave with mock-concern. "Why are 
you in bed so late?" 
 
Mulder rolled over and groped for his travel clock, 
struggling to focus in the semi-darkness. It was 9 
o'clock, although the thick velvet curtains made the room 
as dark as early dawn. He looked at Scully in surprise, 
suddenly noticing for the first time that she had her 
shoes and coat on. 
 
"Where are you going?" he asked. 
 
"To the hospital." 
 
Mulder threw off the blanket and was out of bed in one 
quick movement, grabbing Scully by the shoulders and 
looking intensely into her eyes. "What's the matter?" he 
asked her, in a sudden panic, reproaching himself for his 
selfishness. While he'd been lying in bed, taking comfort 
from the fact that Scully had been looking after him, 
he'd neglected to look after her. 
 
Scully smiled at his concern. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just 
going to talk to Steve Rogers, the boyfriend of the 
second victim. His doctor just called to say he was 
asking to speak to us." Mulder continued to grip her 
shoulders, struggling to control his breathing, and 
Scully's smile suddenly faded. "I'm sorry, Mulder. I 
didn't mean to worry you." She looked at him with 
concern, evidently disturbed by the strength of his 
reaction. 
 
Mulder took a step back, rubbing a hand over his 
forehead, suddenly ashamed by his over-reaction. He shook 
his head, struggling to banish the image that flashed up 
before his eyes when Scully mentioned "hospital" - an 
image of Scully, tiny and vulnerable in a hospital bed 
and barely recognisable under a mass of tubes, dying 
because of him. He took a deep breath, forcing his mind 
back to present. 
 
"Have they found the missing woman yet?" he asked. 
 
"No, but our caller made contact again last night. He 
said the body has been thrown out with the garbage, but 
he didn't say where." 
 
"That's strange." Mulder's mind was fully on the case 
now. "Why wouldn't he know where she was? It doesn't fit, 
Scully." 
 
He rushed across to the files, anxious to reassess the 
evidence in light of this new information, but Scully 
interrupted him. "I've got to go, Mulder." 
 
Mulder looked at the files, then at Scully, and made up 
his mind quickly. "I'm coming too," he said, reaching for 
his shoes. He suddenly realised that Scully had been 
planning to go out without waking him up, and he froze, 
staring at her reproachfully. "Why didn't you wake me?" 
he asked, unable to keep the irritation from his voice. 
 
"You needed the sleep, Mulder. I know how little sleep 
you've had recently." Scully showed no signs of remorse. 
"I was going to leave a note," she added, waving a piece 
of paper. 
 
Mulder opened his mouth to object, but stopped himself in 
time. It was true that he'd needed sleep. Never a good 
sleeper even at the best of times, he'd found it 
virtually impossible to sleep while Scully had been away. 
If he was honest with himself, he had to admit that he'd 
have acted exactly the same as Scully had, had the 
situation been reversed. No, he thought, with a sudden 
stab of guilt. Had the situation been reversed he'd 
probably not even have left a note. 
 
He smiled, silently apologising for his irritation, and 
hastened to get ready to accompany Scully to the 
hospital. 
 
"You shouldn't skip breakfast," said Scully, in her best 
doctorly tones, but her eyes belied her tone of voice. 
She looked glad that he was coming with her. 
 
********** 
 
Mulder shifted uncomfortably, aware of the man's 
resentful eyes boring into him. He desperately tried to 
move out of the way, but any movement earned him a stern 
glare from Newman. Newman had stopped them as they were 
about to leave, calling them back into the foyer to join 
the rest of the team as he briefed them for their day's 
campaign. "Be careful! We don't know who's listening," he 
warned them, as he proceeded to brief them in a voice 
scarcely above a whisper. The other agents were forced to 
huddle in close just to hear their instructions. As 
Newman, with a supreme lack of consideration for others, 
insisted on standing right next to the door, the small 
knot of agents caused a major obstruction in the cramped 
foyer. Mulder was jammed up against the reception desk, 
barely inches away from a newly arrived guest who was 
clearly furious at having to give his personal details 
with a stranger at his elbow. Mulder tried to catch his 
eye to smile an apology, but the man's attention had been 
recalled by the receptionist. He turned the smile on 
Scully instead, but she was staring at Newman with rapt 
attention on her face, seemingly gripped by his every 
word. 
 
Mulder let his thoughts wander as Newman's voice droned 
on and on. Suddenly the sound of his name recalled him to 
the present, and he listened while Newman explained that 
he and Scully were going to the hospital while the others 
searched for the body. Mulder scowled. He'd known this 
already. They could have been half way there if Newman 
hadn't recalled them to tell them the obvious. Next to 
him Scully was nodding eagerly, accepting their 
instructions like a starry-eyed novice. Seeing Newman 
smile as he caught her eye, Mulder suddenly realised what 
game Scully was playing and was filled with gratitude. He 
looked straight at Newman, whose smile was instantly 
replaced by a look of cold disdain. Scully was clearly 
fighting a lost cause. 
 
********** 
 
Mulder couldn't suppress a shiver as they entered the 
hospital. The image of Scully on the point of death still 
hovered at the fringes of his consciousness and every 
hospital smell and sound brought with it unwelcome 
memories. Scully strode ahead, unaffected by the 
atmosphere. She seemed to positively thrive on the smell 
of antiseptic and drugs. Sometimes doctors didn't seem 
quite natural. 
 
Scully always seemed to know her way through any hospital 
as if by instinct, and she effortlessly tracked down the 
boy's doctor. 
 
"I'm not happy with this." The doctor looked at them 
coldly as Scully introduced herself and Mulder. "He's 
suffered a serious head injury, as you know, and has lost 
his girlfriend in the most traumatic of circumstances. 
The last thing he needs right now is to be interrogated. 
Can't you people leave him alone?" 
 
"Dr Rhodes," said Scully, undeterred by her hostility. 
"Why did you call us this morning?" From her tone of 
voice it was obvious she already knew the answer. 
 
"Because Steve wanted me to," admitted the doctor, 
grudgingly. "But as his doctor I have a better idea than 
he has of what's good for him. It would have been better 
had I ignored his request." Her tone was arrogant, though 
Mulder realised she was simply speaking out of concern 
for her patient. 
 
"Dr Rhodes," said Mulder, seeing that Scully, irritated 
by the doctor's attitude, was about to deliver a sharp 
reply. "We'll be careful. We're here to help him. We 
certainly don't suspect him of any crime. The boy's been 
through a terrible ordeal - waking from a coma to find 
that his girlfriend's been murdered. Nothing can bring 
her back, but by talking to us he might be able to help 
us find the murderer - to save someone else's life. I 
think that's probably the only comfort he has in this 
situation." 
 
Dr Rhodes nodded grudgingly, recognising the truth of 
Mulder's words and soothed by his placatory tone, and led 
them down the corridor. "Don't get your hopes up," she 
said, quietly, pausing at the door of Steve's room. "He 
can't remember anything." 
 
She opened the door, signalling to them to stay back 
until she'd prepared Steve for their entry. "Steve?" she 
said, quietly. Mulder saw Scully's expression soften as 
she heard the doctor's evident concern. "Agents Mulder 
and Scully from the FBI are here to talk to you. Do you 
want to see them?" They couldn't hear the boy's response, 
but Dr Rhodes returned to the door and beckoned them in. 
 
Steve Rogers looked much older than his sixteen years, 
his face ravaged with grief. He looked up sharply when 
they came in, wincing as he moved his head. Scully sat 
down beside his bed, her face full of concern, and gasped 
suddenly when Steve reached out and grabbed her wrist. 
"Have you caught him yet?" he asked, his eyes dark with 
intent. Scully shook her head sadly and his head fell 
back on the pillow, his eyes closing with despair. 
 
Mulder and Scully looked at each other, unsure how to 
proceed. While they needed every bit of information they 
could yet, they were mindful of Dr Rhodes, who watched 
her patient like a hawk, ready to eject them if they 
caused him any more distress. 
 
Scully broke the silence first, speaking in her most 
soothing voice. "We're doing everything we can to catch 
him. I know it's very upsetting to talk about it, but 
anything you can remember, however unimportant it seems 
to you right now, might help us find him." 
 
Steve looked at her in anguish. "I can't help you!" he 
shouted, his eyes wild. "I can't remember anything. The 
last thing I remember I was picking Jennie up from her 
house. She'd just had her hair cut, and looked so 
beautiful ..... I never told her how beautiful she was." 
He was crying now. Dr Rhodes took a step forward, as if 
to escort them from the room, but Steve took a deep 
breath and carried on, struggling to keep his voice calm. 
 
"It was cold - we weren't going far. They said it was 
going to rain soon. Everyone thought we were crazy to go 
for walks at winter, but she loves...." he paused again, 
then continued. "She loved being outside. She wasn't like 
some of the other girls, only concerned about how they 
looked. "Will you bring her back by eleven?" her Dad 
said, as we left. I got on well with her parents. They 
trusted me to look after her. But I didn't. I lost her! 
They trusted me and I let him kill her...." His voice 
trailed off, choked by sobs, but suddenly he sat up 
again, and shouted hoarsely. "Why didn't he kill me 
instead? Why her?" Tears were pouring down his face now. 
Scully's face was white as he gripped her wrists, staring 
into her face with tormented eyes as he shouted his 
questions. 
 
"It's not your fault," said Scully, firmly, as Dr Rhodes 
rushed to the other side of the bed. 
 
"How do you know?" Steve shouted, his voice harsh with 
accusation. "You don't know what happened out there. What 
if I was too scared to defend her? What if we'd argued 
and I left her out there in the dark? What if another 
girl dies because I can't remember the murderer's face? 
You don't know anything. How can you say it's not my 
fault?" 
 
Mulder could feel Scully's eyes on him, silently 
imploring him to join in and help her comfort the 
tormented boy. He struggled to find the right words - any 
words - but Scully's face was swimming in front of his 
eyes. "It's all my fault! I didn't look after her!" The 
boy's words rang through his mind, but the boy on the bed 
was no longer Steve, and the missing girl no longer 
Jennie. Mulder shook his head, struggling to banish the 
familiar images from his mind - images he'd spent half 
his life longing to remember and the rest of the time 
wishing he could forget. "You lost someone too," said a 
treacherous little voice in his mind, as Steve's grief 
surrounded him. "You betrayed a parent's trust too," it 
said, as Steve cried for the grief of Jennie's parents. 
"It was all your fault," it shouted, as Mulder was forced 
yet again to watch, paralysed, as another body in another 
room lifted slowly into the air and disappeared. "It was 
all my fault!" The words were shouted, although Mulder 
didn't think he had opened his mouth. He opened his eyes, 
dragging himself back to the present, desperately trying 
to keep his mind focused on the scene in front of him, 
where Scully and Dr Rhodes desperately tried to soothe 
the boy who was now incoherent with grief. 
 
Slowly the boy's breathing returned to normal, and he 
looked at Scully, making a visible effort to pull himself 
together. "I'm sorry," he said, wearily. "I don't know 
why I asked you to come here. Everybody else has been so 
careful - scared to talk about it in case it upsets me." 
He laughed, mirthlessly. "As if talking about it could 
upset me any more. I think about it all the time. I 
suppose I hoped that ..... that if someone asked the 
right questions, somehow it would all come flooding back 
.... I guess I was wrong." 
 
"It's very common for people who've received severe head 
injuries to forget what happened immediately before the 
incident," said Scully. "Most of the amnesia usually 
fades in time." 
 
"I want to remember," said Steve. "Since I woke up, I've 
spent every second trying to force my memory to come 
back. But I'm scared, too. I'm scared of what .... 
horrors my memory might be hiding." 
 
Scully nodded in sympathy, not offering any comfort, her 
eyes lowered. Mulder knew that she felt the same about 
the gaps in her own memory - desperate to find out what 
had happened to her in her missing time, but at the same 
time sure that remembering would bring nothing but pain. 
He could barely suppress a shudder as he saw again the 
picture of Scully dying in hospital after her 
reappearance. He tried to force the image away, but 
instead Scully seemed to move, opening her pain-drenched 
eyes and staring at him accusingly. "This was your fault 
too," her eyes told him, and he could only nod in 
agreement as she slipped away from him, dying with his 
name on her lips. 
 
"Mulder!" 
 
Mulder rubbed his hand over his eyes, wiping away the 
image of Scully's reproachful eyes. She was still staring 
at him when he opened his eyes again, but her look was 
full of concern. She was still in a hospital room, but it 
was Steve's, not hers, and she was standing next to him, 
touching his sleeve. 
 
"Mulder, Dr Rhodes thinks it's time we left." Scully 
didn't let go of his sleeve and half-dragged him out of 
the room. "Are you okay?" she asked, as soon as they were 
out of earshot. 
 
Mulder nodded absently, but didn't say anything. Scully 
respected his silence until they were outside the 
hospital when she caught him by the arm and turned him to 
face her. 
 
"Look, Mulder," she said. "If you don't want to talk 
about it, that's fine. But it doesn't take a psychic to 
work out what you were thinking back there." 
 
Mulder said nothing, and Scully heaved a sigh. "Mulder, I 
don't want to push, but this concerns me too - and 
affects the case. Have you any idea what you looked like 
back there?" Mulder said nothing, and Scully carried on 
relentlessly. "You didn't hear me when I spoke to you. 
You looked like you were going to faint - either that or 
start crying. You know what that boy has gone through. 
The only thing that gives him any hope is the fact that 
we're doing all we can to track the killer. He needs to 
know that we are competent and in control. I can only 
hope that he was too overwhelmed by his own feelings to 
notice what you were doing." 
 
She sounded exasperated, but her voice suddenly softened 
when he made no attempt to defend himself. "Mulder," she 
said, reaching out and touching his arm. "Do you want to 
talk about it again?" 
 
Mulder nodded, remembering the relief he'd felt the 
previous day when Scully had forced him to talk, and 
desperately sought the right words to explain what he'd 
felt in the hospital. But he couldn't find the words. 
"Again," he thought suddenly, playing back Scully's last 
words. "Again." The word sounded in his head like a 
hammer blow. In a sudden flash of inspiration he fancied 
he saw right into her mind. "Not again!" she was 
thinking, impatiently. "Will he ever stop going on about 
his sister all the time? It all happened years ago. Why 
doesn't he just pull himself together and get on with his 
life." 
 
He recognised the truth of her complaints. Not a day went 
by without him thinking about Samantha. Whenever they 
investigated a case involving a missing girl he saw his 
sister, the dagger of guilt stabbing deeper as he relived 
the past again and again. He'd never thought before how 
predictable he was - how boring it must be to Scully. 
"She's heard it all before. She doesn't want to know." 
The thought bought tears to his eyes and made his breath 
catch in his throat. He shook his head, rejecting her 
help without a smile, and said nothing. 
 
He saw the hurt in Scully's eyes as she turned away, and 
he was suddenly filled with guilt for thinking ill of 
her. He knew Scully would never turn her back on him when 
he needed her. He knew she sincerely wanted to help - 
wanted to share his grief about his sister yet again, 
even though it was a wound that she could never hope to 
heal. And now he'd hurt her by rejecting her offers of 
help. He tried to speak - to undo the harm he'd done by 
his thoughts - but she had her back to him now. "She 
doesn't want to know." The thought came back, more 
insistent than before. "No! That's not true!" he told 
himself, but even as he knew it was false, part of his 
mind was sure that it was true. 
 
His hand, half outstretched to touch Scully's shoulder, 
fell back, and the words wouldn't come. 
 
They walked to the car in silence. 
 
********** 
 
Scully swore, hitting the steering wheel with her fist in 
a sudden outburst of fury. Some people just shouldn't be 
on the road, she thought, glaring her hatred at the back 
of the blue car which cruised along in front, oblivious 
to her malevolent thoughts. It had badly cut her up while 
overtaking, but, once past, had dramatically slowed its 
pace, driving stolidly in the middle of the road. 
Suddenly convinced that it was now blocking her 
deliberately, Scully reached out to give a furious blast 
on the horn, but she stopped her hand just in time. 
Probably just some tourist enjoying a leisurely Sunday, 
she told herself, recognising the injustice of her anger. 
She sent a silent apology to the innocent victim of her 
displaced frustration and glanced sideways at her 
passenger. He had been silent since they left the 
hospital, and was still turned away from her, immobile 
except for the compulsive clenching and unclenching of 
his hands in his lap. 
 
"Mulder!" She wanted to appeal to him - to reach over and 
shake him until he confided in her - but pride stopped 
her, and his name merely echoed silently in her mind. Not 
that he'd have answered her if she _had_ spoken, she 
thought, bitterly. Tears pricked her eyes at the memory 
of their conversation outside the hospital - if it could 
be called a conversation at all, considering that Mulder 
hadn't found a single word to say to her. She'd offered 
him help, sincerely wanting to share the burden of the 
old grief that wouldn't leave him, but he'd rejected her. 
That in itself was nothing new. Mulder was never one to 
talk about his problems, preferring to brood over them in 
solitary torment, letting no-one else close enough to 
share them. But after yesterday .... Yesterday he'd 
shared more than she'd ever hoped, and even he had 
admitted that talking to her had helped. But this morning 
it had all been forgotten. He'd been so curt, merely 
turning away without a word of explanation - not even the 
"I'm fine, Scully," which was his normal reply to her 
anxious enquiries - an answer which, although she never 
believed it, at least acknowledged her concern. 
 
It hadn't been easy for her in the hospital either, she 
thought, bitterly. Beneath her sleeves her wrists still 
throbbed with the intensity of Steve's grip, and she 
could still see the grief-stricken eyes which had bored 
into her soul, fierce with self-accusation. Interviewing 
people bereaved by violent crime was never pleasant, but 
the naked intensity of the boy's suffering had affected 
her deeply. She'd had to fight to keep her voice steady - 
to provide reassurances where she knew there were none. 
 
But then she'd glanced up and seen Mulder. His face was 
grey, his eyes glittering with unshed tears, his mind 
seemingly oblivious to her presence. As she'd watched 
he'd seemed to sway on his feet, his mouth opening 
slightly as if he was about to speak. Then Steve shouted 
again, forcing her attention back to the patient, but her 
mind was racing - what to do if Mulder collapsed - if he 
cried out - if he didn't respond when addressed. So far 
Dr Rhodes's attention was focused on her patient, and 
Steve was oblivious to anything but his own grief, but 
even they would notice if Mulder went any further. She'd 
focused all her strength - talked the boy into some 
semblance of calm - distracted attention from Mulder's 
behaviour - finally dragged him out of the room like a 
puppy on a leash. But it had left her exhausted. 
 
She drove into the hotel parking lot and stopped the 
engine, relaxing back into the seat with a sigh. The blue 
car had pulled in before her, the driver smiling at her 
as he walked towards the hotel, and she managed a wan 
smile in return. 
 
Mulder made no attempt to open the door. Scully looked at 
him again, her resentment evaporating. He'd turned his 
face towards her now, although his eyes didn't see her, 
and she was suddenly struck by how young he looked - like 
a hurt little boy. Like the hurt little boy who'd lost 
his sister every day in his mind for over twenty years. 
She was filled with remorse for resenting his grief. 
Although it was so predictable, so oft-repeated, she knew 
it was as intense for him now as it had ever been. Of 
course, she'd always known how important his sister's 
loss was to him - how pivotal it was to everything that 
made him what he was. She could never forget that 
Okobogee case. He'd frightened her with his intensity 
then. "I've been living with it every day of my life," 
he'd told her, but she hadn't really fully understood 
until that terrible night on the bridge. Terrified, 
shaking, cowering in the car, she'd suddenly realised 
that nothing she'd gone through could equal the torment 
she'd seen in his eyes after his sister - the woman he 
believed to be his sister - had plunged to her death. 
 
"Mulder." Her voice was gentle as she touched him on the 
shoulder, overwhelmed by the memory of what he'd suffered 
to rescue her then. 
 
He looked at her, his eyes really seeing her, his body 
moving closer to her touch. "Scully." His voice cracked, 
tears threatening to choke his words. "Scully, I......" 
 
The harsh ringing of the phone interrupted his words, 
making Scully shout in sudden frustration as she reached 
into her coat for the offending object. 
 
"Yes!" she snapped, furious at whoever it was who'd 
interrupted Mulder's attempt to confide in her. 
 
"Agent Scully?" The caller sounded doubtful, evidently 
taken aback by her tone. 
 
Scully took a deep breath, forcing the anger down. There 
was nothing to be gained by taking it out on some 
unwitting caller. "Yes," she said, with exaggerated calm. 
 
"This is Agent Newman." She'd given him her number over 
breakfast. "Have you finished with that kid yet?" Scully 
bridled, remembering Steve's grief, annoyed at hearing 
him described as "that kid", but kept the irritation from 
her voice, remembering in time that she mustn't offend 
Newman, for Mulder's sake. 
 
"Yes sir," she replied, in her best respectful tone. 
"We've just come back to the hotel. Mulder's going to 
start on his profile." Mulder was in no state to do 
anything of the kind, but Scully was certainly not going 
to mention this fact to Newman. 
 
"They've found the woman." Newman's tone made it clear 
that she was dead. "Can you get there straight away?" 
 
"Yes, sir. Do you want Mulder too?" She hoped Mulder 
could be spared the sight of the murdered woman, but even 
as she asked she knew she was hoping in vain. Even 
Newman, with his intense dislike of Mulder, had to admit 
that he was needed at the scene. Careful study of the 
crime scene often gave Mulder his best insights into the 
mind of a killer. 
 
Scully waited until Newman had given directions to the 
crime scene, then put the phone away, turning to face 
Mulder. He was looking into the distance again, and she 
had to call his name twice before he would look at her. 
 
"Mulder," she said, when she was sure she had his 
attention. "Newman wants us." She implored him with his 
eyes to pull himself together, not daring to be so blunt 
as to say as much in words. 
 
Mulder made a visible effort to focus. "Newman?" he 
asked, looking confused. Scully doubted that he'd even 
been aware of her phone call. She wondered what he'd been 
thinking - what thoughts had been so overwhelming as to 
swamp his normally keen senses. She'd never seen him so 
absent before. Normally he missed nothing. 
 
Scully quickly told him the content of Newman's call. 
Mulder kept his eyes on her all the time, his brow 
furrowed with concentration. But at least he asked 
questions, and remembered facts from the files he'd read 
the previous night. 
 
He continued to speak about the case throughout the short 
journey, scarcely pausing for breath and never letting 
Scully get a word in. Normally she'd have been irritated, 
but she recognised it for what it was - a desperate 
attempt to keep his mind on the case in hand. He seemed 
to be shaking off the cloud that had lowered over him 
ever since the hospital, but Scully knew, with a dreadful 
certainty, that it was only a lull in the storm. 
 
********** 
 
Scully stopped dead in her tracks, shutting her eyes 
while she took a deep breath to steady herself. Despite 
the numerous murder scenes she'd attended over the years, 
her initial reaction was still as strong as ever, 
although she had learned to cover it with a mask of 
unruffled professionalism. The young police officer who 
hovered protectively over the scene, his face clenched 
with emotion, would have seen no more than a momentary 
flicker on the composure of her face. 
 
There was something she found particularly disturbing 
about this particular murder. True, she had seen bodies 
in a far worse condition than Ellie Benton's. The woman's 
body, though marred by numerous cuts and bruises, was 
relatively intact and her face was unscarred. But it was 
the manner of its disposal that quickened Scully's 
breathing and made her fists clench in mingled horror and 
anger. The anonymous caller had been right. The woman had 
been thrown out as garbage - her half-naked body smeared 
with the detritus of other people's lives. Perhaps it was 
irrational to be so bothered by it - the simple fact of 
murder being of such enormity that what happened to the 
remains afterwards should perhaps pale into 
insignificance. It was naive to expect a murderer to show 
any respect to a person after death when he'd shown them 
no respect in life. But to treat her like garbage.... The 
sight made Scully's skin crawl with disgust. 
 
She stood still, eyes riveted on the scene, as the 
swelling mass of people rushed round in a frenzy of 
activity, taking photographs and cordoning off the area 
round the body. The woman had been dumped in a small yard 
behind a clinic, and had been found barely half an hour 
previously by a doctor making an unscheduled visit to a 
building that would otherwise have been empty until 
Monday. The main search party had been out of town at the 
time, so Mulder and Scully, alerted by Newman as soon as 
he'd received the news, had been among the first to 
arrive at the scene. 
 
"I hope he burns in Hell for this!" Scully started at the 
vehement exclamation. Caught up in her horror of the 
scene, she'd been unaware of the approach of the man who 
now stood at the shoulder. Newman made no effort to hide 
his emotion. Disgust and hatred were written all over his 
face. 
 
The young officer, his face still ashen, looked up in 
surprise, clearly unused to see such a reaction from an 
obviously seasoned federal agent. 
 
"No," said Newman, sadly, seeing his expression. "You 
never get used to it. You mustn't get used to it. Lose 
your revulsion and you lose your edge - your 
determination to do everything in your power to bring 
such a monster to justice - to save other people from 
.... from _this_." Scully was surprised by this 
confession, realising she'd underestimated Newman when 
she'd judged him merely by his hostility to Mulder. He 
was basically a good agent, uncomplicated and gruffly 
honest - too gruffly honest for Mulder's good. 
 
Her attention distracted from the body by Newman's 
interruption, Scully felt a sudden wave of worry. Mulder. 
How was Mulder taking this? If she'd found it disturbing, 
there was no saying what it might be doing to Mulder, 
given his present mood. So wrapped up had she been in her 
own reactions to the scene that she'd not given a thought 
to what Mulder might be going through - had made no move 
to offer the support that he might need. She turned 
round, quickly scanning the now-crowded yard. She 
couldn't see Mulder at first, but then a large officer 
moved to one side and there he was, deep in earnest 
conversation with the doctor who'd discovered the body. 
His brow was furrowed, his knuckles white, but he was 
focused on the scene, not lost on some terrible 
reflection. He looked up suddenly, meeting her gaze, and 
his eyes flashed the faintest of smiles. Scully expelled 
a great breath, feeling the tension rush out of her body, 
relaxing muscles she only now realised she'd been holding 
in aching tension. 
 
Scully resisted the urge to go over to Mulder - to 
exchange the unspoken mutual support with which they 
could always provide each other. In a strange way, she 
felt that Ellie Benton needed her as much as Mulder did. 
She was filled with an intense reluctance to abandon the 
poor half-naked woman to the impersonal gaze of the 
police and agents who milled all over the scene, 
measuring, photographing and taking samples. Newman 
seemed to share her feeling for he also hovered over the 
body, pacing impatiently as the police took their time. 
Scully knew that, despite appearances, his impatience 
derived merely from a deep distaste for allowing the 
woman to stay in such a disrespectful position. 
 
"Agent Scully?" Newman's voice held no trace of the scorn 
which filled it when he spoke to Mulder. "I understand 
you're a pathologist?" Scully nodded, knowing what he was 
going to request. She'd have requested the autopsy 
herself, had Newman not spoken first, having resolved to 
do anything she could to find the person who could treat 
human life like garbage - who could inflict such grief as 
she'd seen in the hospital. 
 
After the body had been moved, Scully walked over to 
Mulder's side. "I'm going back," she told him, gesturing 
back to the ambulance onto which Ellie's body was being 
loaded. 
 
Mulder was slow to react, but his eyes weren't absent 
this time but focused above her head, gazing intently at 
something behind her. It was humanly impossible to resist 
turning round to see what he was looking at, and she 
noticed for the first time how many cars had gathered - 
passers-by hoping for a nice grisly murder to brighten up 
their Sunday morning. She grimaced, her face mirroring 
Mulder's expression, wondering how people could 
voluntarily look at violent death and even derive a 
horrified pleasure from the spectacle. 
 
When she turned back, Mulder was looking at her, waiting 
for her to speak. "I don't know how long I'll be," she 
told him. "You know how long it can take to get through 
the formalities on these things." 
 
Mulder nodded his comprehension. "I'll stay here," he 
said. "See if I can find anything useful." He looked at 
her and his eyes alert and no longer drowning in some 
terrible introspection. "I'm okay, Scully," he said, 
answering her unspoken question. "I'll call you." 
 
Scully didn't think he was lying, but couldn't stop 
herself glancing back anxiously as the ambulance drew 
away from the scene. She caught just a glimpse of him 
before he disappeared out of site, heading for the place 
the body had been found. She couldn't see his face, but 
his step was firm, which she took as a good sign. But she 
was painfully aware of what had happened last time she'd 
dared to hope that everything would be fine. 
 
********** 
 
"What is it, Mulder?" 
 
Mulder could have cheerfully throttled Gardiner, whose 
resemblance to a doting puppy was undimmed by his three 
years' experience in the FBI. As if some invisible 
trainer had ordered "heel!", Gardiner had trotted along 
in Mulder's wake ever since Scully and Newman had left, 
asking constant questions. Mulder felt he only had to 
breathe a little more audibly than normal for Gardiner to 
look at him, eyes shining, expecting to receive news of a 
break-through. Mulder supposed he should be touched by 
the man's manifest admiration - a rare thing indeed to be 
found amongst Mulder's peers - but he was beginning to 
find it exceedingly irritating. He was almost tempted to 
make up some evidence, and use it to support some 
untenable theory, just to see if there was any limit to 
his disciple's blind faith in him. 
 
"Sir! We've already looked there!" There was only a small 
police presence left on the scene now, but the declining 
numbers only served to increase the territorialism of the 
officers who remained. Mulder's thorough re-examination 
of the whole scene was ruffling feathers, with one 
officer in particular bridling at what he perceived as 
Mulder's implicit imputation of incompetence. 
 
Mulder, with long experience of the petty jealousies that 
could arise in law enforcement, ignored the objection, 
but Gardiner leapt to his defence. "He's very good," he 
said, in a confiding whisper. "He knows you've done all 
you should, but he's not like the rest of us - he looks 
at things differently. He's solved lots of cases that no- 
one else could make anything of by conventional ways of 
thinking." 
 
Mulder was amused by the hushed reverence of Gardiner's 
tone, but the officer seemed mollified. Mulder had to 
give Gardiner credit where it was due. He certainly had a 
more constructive attitude to local law enforcement than 
Mulder had. Mulder freely admitted that his own single- 
mindedness when on a case was to blame for many an 
outbreak of tension with the local police. He kept on 
resolving to be more tactful, but when engrossed on a 
case all his good intentions were always forgotten. 
 
He crouched down and let his eyes wander across the yard, 
deliberately not focusing, subordinating sense to thought 
and inspiration. Just out of sight cars passed on the 
busy road, some of them still slowing in hope of a 
snatched glance of something newsworthy. Mulder tried to 
shut out their ever-present roar, but then checked 
himself, willingly absorbing their noise, his mind 
chasing a new chain of thought. He jumped up and grabbed 
the officer he'd so nearly offended, subjecting him to a 
torrent of questions which he answered confidently. Yes, 
there was considerable traffic on the road, even at 
night. Yes, there was an automatic security light at the 
entrance to the clinic. Yes, there was a security video 
covering the entrance to the yard - that was being 
studied even now back at headquarters - a tedious task 
but one that would very likely show them their murderer, 
who'd slipped up when he'd overlooked the discreet 
camera. No - this after a few minutes' investigation, and 
with considerably less confidence in his tone - the 
camera didn't cover all the place where the body had been 
found. No, this part of the yard wasn't illuminated and 
was invisible from the road. 
 
Mulder scanned the yard, seeking an alternative entry. 
Most of the yard, usually used as a parking lot, was 
beside the clinic, but a small strip continued behind the 
clinic, unlit and unused, except for dumping and storage. 
It was here that the body had been left - a place 
inaccessible except through the car park - unless one was 
prepared to push through a six-foot high thorny hedge, 
which provided the boundary of the yard. It was upon this 
hedge that Mulder focused his attention, scanning its 
whole length until he saw what he was looking for. As 
always, the world narrowed until he saw nothing but the 
thing he'd seen, his attention never leaving it for a 
second as he walked across the yard, oblivious to 
Gardiner's questions. 
 
It was a gap. No, hardly a gap - more an area where the 
hedge just wasn't quite right. Careful not to step too 
close for fear of disturbing footprints, Mulder could see 
that branches were bent and broken, as if someone had 
pushed their way through. Although the branches had 
sprung back into their former positions, they no longer 
appeared quite natural. Mulder crouched down, scooping up 
the hem of his long coat to keep it from the mud. The 
ground was still thick with last night's rain - 
glistening like chocolate in the watery sun which 
struggled through the massing clouds. For a moment it 
seemed to Mulder as if it was glistening with blood, but 
that was probably only in his imagination. He moved along 
the hedge and pushed his way through, shielding his face 
with his arms, his body protected by his thick winter 
coat. The hedge was reluctant to let him through, but 
when he persisted it proved less of a barrier than it had 
looked, allowing him to reach the other side unscathed. 
 
Beyond the hedge was a park, although it was scarcely 
worthy of being called by that name. It was little more 
than an uncultivated area of wasteland behind the back of 
houses and offices, and was empty, even on Sunday 
afternoon, apart from a few dejected dog owners trudging 
through the mud with their exuberant pets. A hard 
concrete path, just wide enough for a car, ran around the 
perimeter of the park - a surface upon which a car would 
leave no permanent tracks, even in rain. 
 
Anxious not to disturb the scene more than was necessary, 
Mulder retraced his steps, once again engaging the thorns 
in battle. They met with more success this time, and he 
nearly fell when a persistent thorn grabbed hold of his 
coat, jerking him off balance and causing his feet the 
slip on the mud. He flailed his arms, trying to recover, 
and managed to stay on his feet, although only by 
grabbing hard onto a very thorny branch which dug into 
his right palm, drawing blood and making him gasp with 
the sudden pain. 
 
Gardiner was hovering on the other side, awaiting 
instructions, but Mulder looked down at his injured hand 
and was suddenly unable to find the words. Blood welled 
up from the gash, and a drop snaked its way across his 
palm and fell to the ground, mingling with the moist mud, 
joining the great puddles of blood which were pulsing 
from the ground as from a gigantic severed artery. 
 
He turned in horror to the yard, but everything was 
suffused with blood - everyone was drowning in it, their 
eyes wide with accusation. 
 
Ellie's tortured eyes screamed the loudest of all. "You 
let me die!" she cried, raising her death-withered hands 
and pointing at him, blood pouring from her fingers. "You 
slept when you could have saved me!" Mulder stared at his 
hands, but they too were smeared with the blood that 
covered everything. "How much innocent blood is on your 
hands?" she continued, relentlessly. "How much more will 
there be?" 
 
And then there was his father, dead, and his hands were 
drenched with his father's blood. "I didn't kill my 
father," he'd told Scully, but his blood was on his 
hands, and her voice rang in his ears, accusingly. "Had 
you been arguing?" He'd denied it, but she'd seen the 
blood on his hands. "He must have done it in cold blood 
then," she'd thought, so she'd taken his gun away, and 
left him alone with the blood. 
 
He could feel her still, shaking his arm, her eyes full 
of reproach. "Mulder!" He couldn't face her eyes, but she 
wouldn't stop shaking him, calling his name with a voice 
unrecognisable with emotion. "Scully," he said, at last, 
forcing his eyes open, but she wasn't there. 
 
Gardiner's face was taut with concern as he shook 
Mulder's arm, looking anxiously round the yard for help. 
There was no blood, except the trickle which snaked down 
Mulder's wrist from his cut palm, staining his cuff. 
 
Mulder blinked, and took a deep breath, his eyes dazzled 
by the sudden return to reality. "I'm okay. I just .... 
just ...." Suddenly inspired, he found his excuse just in 
time. "I just felt dizzy for a moment. I missed 
breakfast." He looked at his watch as he said this. It 
was just past 2 o'clock, but he wasn't hungry. 
 
Scully wouldn't have been convinced, but Gardiner looked 
relieved to be offered an explanation he could 
understand. "You go and get some food," he urged. "I'll 
take over here." He suddenly faltered, and added, in a 
less confident tone. "Er.. what do you want me to do?" 
 
"That's where he brought her through," said Mulder, 
pointing to the gap in the hedge, although he avoided 
looking at the place too closely in case he saw more than 
mud on the ground. "Get it checked for prints, hair....." 
He couldn't bring himself to say the word "blood" but 
Gardiner knew what to look for, and set about the task 
with alacrity, looking relieved to be back on familiar 
territory. 
 
Confident that everything was under control, Mulder 
returned to the car. The curious passers-by had given up 
on seeing anything interesting and had all left - the 
last one pulling away just as Mulder shut the door behind 
him. Once out of sight of Gardiner, Mulder allowed his 
rigid control to relax and sat awhile, his head in his 
hands, wondering what he should do. "You've finally lost 
it." The thought pounded in his head, over and over, like 
a heart-beat. "You're insane." "No!" he cried, silently. 
"It's memories. Just memories. Nothing to worry about." 
But the thought carried little conviction. 
 
Scully. He wanted - no, he needed - to talk to Scully. 
He'd wanted to talk to her earlier on that terrible 
journey from the hospital. Drowning in a sea of memories, 
he'd dragged himself up, focusing on Scully's presence as 
the anchor that could keep him from drifting away again. 
But then he'd seen the look on her face - a look of 
resentment, even of anger. Knowing that her anger was 
directed at him, he'd turned away, scared to say the 
first word. The silence in the car had pressed down on 
him, stifling his hopes and plunging him into a morass of 
depression, but silence was infinitely preferable to 
hearing the words of Scully's anger. "You're weak. You 
can't run away from the truth." The words had filled his 
mind and he'd known it was true - known that he fully 
deserved Scully's hatred and that no reproach of hers 
could equal the self-reproach that already tormented him. 
But he'd been too cowardly to say anything, scared that 
any word from him would unleash a torrent of reproach - 
reproach he couldn't bear to listen to because he knew he 
deserved it. 
 
Then her face had softened and she'd turned to him and 
he'd known in an instant that he'd been wrong - that 
Scully didn't hate him, even though he deserved it. He'd 
nearly told her everything then, but her phone had rung 
and they'd been called to the crime scene. And then 
suddenly it hadn't mattered so much. The memories had 
become a distant shadow that had still hovered at the 
fringes of his consciousness but had receded further with 
every minute, driven out when he put his mind to the 
case. He hadn't even had to fight them. He'd even begun 
to think he didn't deserve them. 
 
But now they were back - the ghosts of memory which 
expunged the present and incessantly whispered their 
treacherous messages. He knew that his one hope was to 
talk to Scully before they overwhelmed him. He was 
driving aimlessly now, his mind wandering down the 
shadowed pathways of memory, his body performing the 
motions of driving as if on auto-pilot. He was suddenly 
aware that he'd left town, unconsciously heading out into 
the woods where he could be alone with his thoughts. 
Making an effort to focus on the road, he resolved to 
turn round at the next opportunity. He'd find Scully and 
talk to her, then everything would be all right and he 
could concentrate on the case with an uncluttered mind. 
"It will be okay. Everything will be okay." He repeated 
it like a prayer, desperately wanting to believe. 
 
Just as soon as he reached Scully.... 
 
Scully was in the middle of an autopsy, swathed in an 
overall too big for her, her eyes dark with 
concentration. Suddenly aware of his presence she looked 
up, frowning with annoyance. "What are you doing here?" 
Her voice was harsh. "I'm busy. _One_ of us has got to do 
some work on this case." She turned back to the body, 
ignoring him. 
 
"What are _you_ doing to catch him, Mulder?" Mulder 
looked round, eyes wild, trying to find out who had 
spoken. Perhaps it was his conscience. "What are _you_ 
doing to catch the man who did this." The body was 
glaring at him from the autopsy slab, her eyes mirroring 
Scully's reproach, her voice relentless. 
 
And then Scully joined in, advancing on him, bloody 
scalpel in hand. "You want to talk?" She reached out a 
hand, her voice soft and soothing, and he started to nod, 
accepting her offer of help. "You want to talk?" She was 
shouting now, her voice full of incredulous contempt, the 
scalpel glittering in her outstretched hand. "Damn it, 
Mulder! This is more important than your petty problems. 
A woman's dead, and you only want to talk about yourself. 
You're so selfish!" 
 
Then Ellie curled up and wept, tears of blood trickling 
down her face. "They'll never find him now," she cried, 
and couldn't be comforted. "Look what you've done now!" 
Scully yelled, her eyes sparkling with hate as she 
screamed at him to get out. 
 
Chilled by her hatred, Mulder clamped his hands over his 
ears, desperately trying to shut out the sound, but he 
could still hear the scream. It was positively inhuman 
now, obliterating the sight of Scully's hatred, dragging 
him back to the present - to a present which was full of 
the sound of a blaring horn and the terrifying sight of a 
truck bearing down on him. Desperately grabbing the 
wheel, Mulder wrenched it around, missing a head-on 
collision by a second as he swerved out of the centre of 
the road, then wrestling with the wheel with all his 
strength as the car suddenly skidded out of control, 
heading straight for the trees. 
 
It seemed like hours before the car finally stopped, 
leaving Mulder gasping for the breath that had been 
forced out of him when he was thrown against the safety 
belt. Deeply shaken, he reached up with a trembling hand, 
gingerly rubbing his throbbing head. He'd no idea what 
he'd hit it on during the desperate struggle to avoid a 
crash when his senses were overwhelmed by a maelstrom of 
confused impressions. A small trickle of blood snaked 
into his left eye. He didn't wipe it away. 
 
A blast of a horn reminded him that he was still blocking 
the road, but he didn't know what to do. He knew he 
wasn't safe to drive. Overwhelmed by terrible images, 
he'd wandered into the middle of the narrow road, 
allowing the truck no space to pass on either side. He'd 
been lucky to escape with his life, and if it happened 
again he might not be so lucky. Starting up the engine, 
he limped the car into the next lay-by and pulled in. 
"Just for a few minutes. Just until I calm down," he 
resolved, and then, still too shaken to put up any 
resistance, he shut his eyes and surrendered to the 
darkness. 
 
********** 
 
Dana Scully washed the autopsy stench off her hands, 
wishing it was so easy to remove it from her mind. Then, 
bending down, she scooped water up in her cupped hands 
and let it trickle down her face, not caring of it 
removed her make-up and turned the ends of her hair into 
rats' tails. She shut her eyes, savouring the cold 
cleanliness of the water, but knowing that it could do 
little to erase the memories of the autopsy she'd just 
finished. No death was pleasant, but from what she'd just 
discovered Ellie Benton's had been truly horrific. 
Scully's hand had trembled as she'd held her scalpel, 
reluctant to subject the poor woman to any further 
mutilation, wanting only to cover her wounds and lay her 
to rest. The sight of the cold surgical instrument 
cutting through the ill-treated flesh would haunt her for 
a long time. 
 
She glanced at her watch. It was only 4.30, though the 
autopsy had seemed interminable. Ridgewood's morgue 
facilities were generous and apparently not much in 
demand, so they had been able to schedule the autopsy 
without delay. She wondered what Mulder was doing. She'd 
half-hoped that he'd exhaust the potentials of the crime 
scene and come and join her at the autopsy. He didn't 
like the things - who would? - but had often been at her 
side during autopsies in the past - sometimes out of 
impatience to get information about some case that had 
aroused his enthusiasm, but sometimes, she suspected, to 
provide quiet support to her at a particularly traumatic 
death. 
 
She considered calling him - even went as far as to half- 
dial his number - but then thought better of it. It still 
rankled slightly that he'd withdrawn from her outside the 
hospital, curtly rejecting her offers of help. Although 
she was filled with concern about his well-being, she 
didn't want to push and risk driving him away. He'd said 
he'd call her. If she called first he might just see as 
over-protectiveness and respond with anger. She knew she 
was probably misjudging him, but Mulder had been so 
unpredictable these last two days that she didn't dare 
risk it. After all, Gardiner was very likely glued to 
Mulder's side, and would have called her if anything had 
gone wrong. 
 
Sighing, she set to work on her report, silently willing 
the phone to ring, but it remained stubbornly silent. 
 
********** 
 
Mulder opened his eyes to darkness. 
 
The heavy shadow of trees lay over the car, cutting out 
the little light that still remained in the deep dusk of 
a winter evening. For hours, he'd floundered in a dark 
swamp of memories and even more terrible imaginings, 
which had tried to pull him down into the depths from 
which he wouldn't return. This time there had been no 
Scully or Gardiner - not even a deadly truck bearing down 
on him - to drag him back to reality, and he might have 
given in entirely had it not been for the insidious cold 
of the winter's evening which penetrated him to the bone, 
rousing him to awareness of reality. 
 
But now the ghosts had left him again, leaving behind 
nothing but a dull depression which chilled him more than 
the biting air. He refused to switch on the heater, 
feeling that only physical discomfort could keep him 
anchored in the present. He turned on the light for the 
same reason, hoping to keep his senses alert, but then 
caught sight of himself in the mirror and plunged himself 
willingly into darkness again, filled with self-loathing. 
 
He had no idea how long he'd been there, but he knew that 
it had been far too long. Scully would be worried. With a 
sudden pang he remembered he'd said he'd call her, and 
knew he'd let her down yet again. He suddenly longed to 
hear her voice, even if it was full of justified anger 
with him for letting him down, but when he tried to use 
his phone he discovered it was dead. Thinking back into 
the darkness of the past week, he couldn't remember the 
last time he'd recharged its batteries. Throwing it down 
on the passenger seat, he started the engine, pulling out 
past another car which had arrived in the lay-by at some 
point during his stay. He'd not been aware of its 
arrival. The driver appeared to be asleep. Mulder could 
only hope that _his_ dreams were peaceful. 
 
He drove back into town, realising belatedly that he had 
no idea where he'd driven that afternoon. As he cruised 
the streets, searching for landmarks, he suddenly 
recognised the crime scene. Without planning to, he 
stopped the car and got out, his presence activating the 
security light so that he flinched from the sudden glare. 
 
And then he was suddenly fully alert, his hand 
unconsciously reaching for his gun. Something else had 
been roused by the sudden light. It had been nothing but 
the merest flicker of movement in his peripheral vision, 
and a whisper of sounds so faint that it might not have 
been there at all, but the meaning was unmistakable. 
There was somebody else there - somebody who didn't want 
to be discovered. 
 
Mulder silently whipped out his gun, creeping forward 
stealthily, cursing the security light that deprived him 
of cover. His every sense was aware that a serial killer 
could be just yards aware. He'd never had much faith in 
the old maxim "a murderer always returns to the scene of 
the crime", but then he'd been proved wrong over Tooms. 
He half-smiled at the memory of that case - of Scully 
openly supporting him over her old friend who'd laughed 
at him, knowing that she could be harming her promotion 
prospects by doing so. He'd forgotten he had any happy 
memories. But then the memory was suddenly not so happy 
as he remembered again what Scully had suffered as a 
result of that decision. He shook his head to clear his 
thoughts, aware that any lapse of concentration could 
cost him his life. 
 
He supposed he should have called for back-up. Scully had 
told him again and again, but when an idea took him he 
just forgot. It was too late now. He couldn't turn round 
and expose his back to whoever was waiting around the 
corner. Even as he reached the limit of the illuminated 
area he knew he was making a mistake - was walking into a 
situation where every advantage was on the enemy's side. 
He was suddenly aware that a little part of him was glad 
of this, hoping only that the murderer would kill him 
quickly. Beating that thought down, he took a deep breath 
to steady himself, then swung around the corner, finger 
poised on the trigger as he shouted his presence. 
 
A pair of eyes glittered at him in the darkness as a 
gunshot rang out in the enclosed yard. 
 
********** 
 
It was ten to six - only three minutes later than it had 
been last time she looked at the clock. The minute hand 
seemed to be positively crawling around, as if aware of 
her gaze, but there was still no word from Mulder. Scully 
was in her hotel room, writing up her own autopsy report 
and studying the reports on the other two victims, but 
she was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate 
on the work. 
 
A sudden knock at the door made her heart pound with 
sudden hope. "Come in!" she called, confident that it was 
Mulder. It was all she could do to stop her smile fading 
when the door opened to reveal Gardiner. 
 
"Where's Mulder?" he asked. "Here are the preliminary 
results of the examinations he asked for." He gestured to 
a folder proudly clutched in her hands. 
 
Scully tried to hide her unease. "I don't know. I thought 
he was with you." 
 
Gardiner shook his head. "I haven't seen him since two 
o'clock. He went off to get some lunch. He wasn't feeling 
too good." 
 
Without waiting for him to finish his sentence, Scully 
threw herself across the room, grabbing her phone and 
dialling his familiar number. "Come on, Mulder. Answer!" 
she urged him even before she'd finished dialling, but 
his phone was not responding. She hoped this just meant 
he'd forgotten to recharge the batteries. She preferred 
not to contemplate any other explanation. 
 
Gardiner was looking at her in concern, not understanding 
her worry. Scully was suddenly aware that, to his eyes, 
she was probably over-reacting. "He'll be okay," Gardiner 
reassured her. "We'd have heard if there had been any 
road accidents." 
 
Scully took a deep breath, knowing that he would never 
understand the terrible fear that gripped her whenever 
Mulder was late. No-one who hadn't lived through the 
sorts of dangers they'd encountered over the last two 
years could hope to understand the ever-present terror 
that every parting could be the final one. 
 
She forced herself to be calm, more for her own sake than 
for his. "He's probably just found something interesting 
and lost track of time." She tried to sound convinced. 
She knew this was the most likely explanation. 
 
Gardiner looked puzzled, as if still baffled by her 
recent near-panic. "Does he do this often?" he asked. 
 
Scully couldn't help but laugh, although it was a grim 
laugh, with no real humour in it. "Does he do this 
often?" She could have kept him busy listening for hours 
if she told him about all the times Mulder did a 
disappearing trick. Instead she just said "Yes," in a 
grim voice, leaving him to wonder. 
 
There was nothing Scully could do but wait. 
 
********** 
 
The flash from the gun filled the dark corner of the yard 
with a sudden light, illuminating the streak of fur which 
shot across the yard and disappeared under the thorn 
hedge. The cat had been undeterred by the crime scene 
tape which still cordoned off the hedge, though it had 
found few pickings amongst the garbage tonight, as much 
of it had been removed by the FBI and local police for 
examination. Mulder cursed out loud, furious at himself 
for shooting without thought, startled into sudden panic 
by the cat's eyes. He was glad he'd missed, though of 
course his faulty aim didn't say much for what his 
survival chances would have been had the eyes really 
belonged to the murderer. He listened intently, sure that 
the gunshot would bring the police, tensing when he heard 
the sound of a car stop nearby, but no-one came. 
 
He stayed still awhile, trying to get into the feel of 
the place, concentrating on the mind of the murderer. 
Despite what he'd seen of Ellie Benton's murder and of 
Steve Roger's grief, he couldn't bring himself to feel 
hatred for the killer. When he'd been capable of rational 
thought, he'd wondered several times over the last few 
days why he was so sure that the killer was possessed. 
Possession was a term so resonant of horror movies and 
medieval superstition that he still felt suspicious of 
the word, despite his experiences with the Calusari. 
 
Now he was at the crime scene he felt no doubt, but also 
knew, with a terrible certainty, that he was more 
culpable than the blameless murderer. 
 
"_He_ can't help it. He tries to stop it. But what's 
_your_ excuse for hurting people? What are you doing to 
stop it?" 
 
He sank to the ground, knowing that there was no escape 
from the relentless questions which hammered in his mind. 
"Not again!" he cried, as he passed his hand over his 
eyes. "Leave me alone!" 
 
But the ghosts wouldn't leave him alone. They showed him 
Scully dying, Samantha hurting, Scully worried. Scully 
worried! Even now he was hurting her, and he couldn't 
stop. "Who causes the most pain? Him or you?" He knew 
there was no doubt about the answer - an answer which 
made him want to retreat into the darkest corner of the 
yard and never emerge. 
 
********** 
 
Scully gave in to her panic at seven o'clock. 
 
She'd struggled to keep her mind on the case, telling 
herself Mulder would walk in any minute, but she was too 
haunted by the horrible images prompted by her autopsy 
report. Every word she wrote brought with it pictures of 
wounds on an agonised body - but that body was no longer 
Ellie's but Mulder's. Blinking, she struggled to focus on 
the screen of her laptop, but tears pricked the back of 
her eyes as she gave into terrible imaginings of Mulder 
in the hands of that monster. 
 
Rushing out of the door, she ran to Newman's room, not 
caring if she looked hysterical, and told him she was 
going out to search for Mulder. Mulder had the car, so 
she was dependent on the loan of another agent's. She was 
all for calling Skinner before she left, to report Mulder 
missing, but Newman took her by the shoulders, looking 
steadily into her face until she calmed herself. 
 
"Agent Scully." Newman's voice was calm and slow, as if 
he was talking to a child. At any other time Scully would 
have resented his tone as patronising, but right now calm 
reassurance was what she most needed. "Don't call anyone. 
For one thing, it's Sunday evening and no-one will be 
there." Scully had lost all recollection of time. Nothing 
else mattered but her worry. "Second, there's not much 
Washington can do right now even if Mulder is missing. 
And thirdly, you'll be very embarrassed when you have to 
call again later and say he's just wandered in." Scully 
appreciated the use of the word "when." Newman, despite 
his dislike of Mulder, was handling the situation well. 
 
Seeing that Scully's worry was sincere, Newman offered to 
search himself, urging Scully to stay in the hotel to 
meet Mulder when - "when", again - he returned. "I don't 
trust myself not to hurt him when he wanders in as if 
nothing's happened," he said, by way of an explanation. 
Scully knew he was just humouring her - would just drive 
around a few streets in a perfunctory fashion - but, 
lacking a car, had to accept his plan. Gardiner also 
volunteered to search, and Scully smiled her thanks, 
knowing he'd scour the streets all night, if necessary. 
 
Biting her lip with concern, Scully paced up and down 
Mulder's room, waiting. 
 
********** 
 
Lost in a sea of dark thoughts, Mulder never heard the 
heavy footsteps approaching him - didn't know anything 
until a hand roughly grabbed his shoulder, pulling him 
abruptly into the present. Turning, he found himself 
looking into a pair of eyes that glittered with hatred, 
even through the dark shadows of the yard. 
 
"Agent Mulder!" Newman's voice was harsh. "What the hell 
do you think you're doing?" 
 
Mulder made no reply, unable to explain himself to Newman 
- unable even to explain to himself. 
 
"Are you hurt?" Newman's voice held little real anxiety. 
Mulder managed to shake his head. 
 
"Then just what are you doing here? What have you been 
doing all day? Have you written your profile?" Newman was 
almost shouting, his fingers still digging into Mulder's 
shoulders, but his face was changing, his words drowned 
out by other shouted accusations. "Do you have the tape?" 
He'd hit Skinner for that question. He hadn't known why. 
"You are way out of line, Agent Mulder." The weight of 
authority coming down on him whenever he penetrated 
behind their facade of lies. "The X-Files are closed 
down." They'd always wanted to do it. They still wanted 
to. Older men in superior office - they were always the 
ones out to get him. Men like Newman.... 
 
"Fight him, Mulder." That wasn't a memory, but he could 
still feel the satisfying thump as his fist hit Skinner's 
jaw. "Fight him." "You're becoming a player." A grating 
voice, with a smoke-induced edge - and eyes that looked 
at him in contempt because they knew he'd not have the 
nerve to shoot. "You show them, Mulder! Do it!" 
 
"No!" Mulder shouted, lashing out at Newman's arm, 
forcing it from his shoulder. 
 
The treacherous memories vanished and he was alone with 
Newman in the yard. 
 
Newman raised his arm, swinging his fist towards Mulder's 
face with a look of fury, but suddenly stopped before the 
blow had landed. His hands fell to his sides, his fists 
clenching and unclenching. "There's nothing I'd like more 
than to hit you for that, Mulder," he hissed at last, 
"but I know what Agent Scully would be upset if you got 
hurt, and she doesn't deserve that." 
 
There was a short silence, broken by Newman. "So, are you 
going to tell me what you've been doing?" he sounded like 
a stern teacher faced with the class delinquent. "Have 
you done _anything_ to help on this case? Did you ever 
stop to think that Agent Scully would worry about you? 
God knows why. You don't deserve her." 
 
Mulder was torn between conflicting emotions. He knew the 
truth of Newman's last words. He'd upset Scully. He 
didn't deserve her. He knew these thoughts well by now. 
But at the same time he resented Newman's accusations, 
remembering how he'd seemed to personify all that was 
oppressive and positively dangerous about senior 
officers. 
 
Resentment won. "I was working!" He was aware that he 
sounded like a petulant school boy. "I need to feel the 
atmosphere of the crime scene before I can write a 
profile." It sounded like a lame excuse even as he 
uttered it. 
 
Newman sighed, turning away. "I won't waste my breath 
arguing with you, Mulder. Save your excuses for Agent 
Scully. She's been so worried about you, and you couldn't 
even call her." He turned back, face blazing with sudden 
anger, a finger pointing accusingly. "You're despicable!" 
 
Mulder saw a sudden picture of Scully, her face drawn 
with worry, choking back tears as she paced up and down 
his hotel room, and he could only agree. It took all his 
control to fight back tears himself as he silently 
followed Newman to the car. 
 
********** 
 
Hearing footsteps in the corridor, Scully rushed to the 
door and flung it open. Newman had called several minutes 
earlier to say he'd found Mulder. He'd assured her that 
he was all right, but his voice was grim and she knew 
there was something he was keeping from her. 
 
"Mulder, are you okay?" she asked before he'd even 
stepped onto the threshold. 
 
Newman interrupted, harshly. "He's okay. I found him at 
the crime scene, not even working. There's no excuse at 
all for his behaviour." 
 
"Thank you, Agent Newman." Scully was all politeness, but 
she was desperate for him to go - to leave her alone with 
Mulder so they could talk. 
 
"Well?" she demanded, when Newman had left. "Is it true? 
Do you have any excuse?" 
 
Mulder looked at the ground. Scully took his silence as 
meaning that he could indeed think of no defence. 
 
"Damn you, Mulder!" she shouted, suddenly furious. "I've 
been terrified that something had happened to you. I 
thought you'd had an accident - or that you'd been taken 
by the killer." Her voice cracked a little, shaken again 
by the images she'd seen of Mulder on the autopsy slab, 
wounded with Ellie's wounds. "Do you ever think of me?" 
The memory of what she'd feared only made her more angry. 
"Why do you do it, Mulder? Why? It happens every time." 
She laughed, harshly "Oh, if I'm very lucky I might get 
some melodramatic little e-mail like when you went to 
Alaska, but you don't usually bother with even that, do 
you? Do you even care about my feelings?" 
 
Mulder was still silent, but his silence only served to 
increase her anger. "Don't you have anything to say for 
yourself? God, Mulder, I deserve an explanation. You owe 
me that at least." 
 
He looked at her now, his eyes full of misery, but she 
was relentless. "Oh, I see. You're going to tell me that 
you were sad." She put as much contempt as she could 
muster into that word. "That you needed to go off and 
....and....sulk." She knew she was being unfair, but felt 
compelled to carry on - to make him suffer in return for 
putting her through such worry. "Well, let me tell you, 
Mulder.... I feel sad too sometimes. This morning in the 
hospital .... You weren't the only one who found that 
boy's grief disturbing. Don't kid yourself that you were 
the only one affected. I'd have liked to have been able 
to withdraw like you - to shut my mind to him and retreat 
into a safe little dream world - but I didn't. And do you 
know why I didn't? Because, unlike you, I care about my 
responsibilities. That boy needed me, so I put his 
feelings before my own." 
 
She paused for breath, but Mulder offered no defence, so 
she continued. "Sometimes you're so damn selfish, Mulder. 
You want it both ways - to retreat from tough cases like 
this morning because you feel sad, but at the same time 
you reject me when I try to help you. You really upset me 
this morning, when you wouldn't talk to me. I don't 
suppose you even noticed I was upset." 
 
She ran out of words, and stood in silence, taking deep 
breaths, and then suddenly her anger faded as quickly as 
it had come. "Mulder, I'm sorry," she said, suddenly 
contrite. "I didn't mean it. It's just that .... ," she 
broke off as tears came unbidden into her eyes. "It's 
just that I was so worried, and then when you came in and 
had no excuse...." She tailed off, letting the sentence 
hang, unable to explain quite what had caused her to lose 
her temper with him more devastatingly than ever before. 
"Look, Mulder, it's been a tough day. I'm sorry." 
 
She looked at him properly for the first time, suddenly 
noticing that he was shivering with cold. There was a 
small trickle of dried blood above his left eye, and he 
was holding his right hand stiffly around a gash in the 
palm. "My God, Mulder. You're hurt." She was all concern 
now, reaching out to pull him over to the bed where she 
could sit him down and be able to examine him without 
standing on tiptoes. 
 
Mulder flinched at her touch, a hoarse cry escaping his 
lips. "No!" It was the first word he'd spoken since he'd 
arrived. 
 
"Mulder, it's okay. I won't bite." She smiled, trying to 
restore something of their old easy relationship, but he 
retreated from her. "Come on, Mulder, I only want to look 
at those cuts. Though I'll never understand how you 
manage to hurt wherever we go." She smiled again, though 
his reaction worried her. 
 
"No!" he cried again. "Scully, you don't understand! I 
don't deserve this. It _is_ all my fault." And with that 
he disappeared into his room, shutting the connecting 
door. Before she could recover from her surprise enough 
to follow him, she heard the key turn in the lock. 
 
"Mulder!" She ran to the door, desperately rattling the 
handle. "Mulder! Let me in! Please! We need to talk about 
this!" 
 
There was no reply. 
 
"Mulder!" She called again and again, but the door 
remained stubbornly closed. Her cries grew louder and 
louder until she was suddenly furious again, hammering at 
the door until her fist throbbed with pain. "Mulder! Let 
me in, damn you! Let me in, or I'll .... I'll .... I'll 
shoot my way through. And then.... and then.... I'll 
shoot you too! I've done it before, remember." Even as 
she made these threats, she realised how ridiculous she 
sounded, and her anger faded, leaving only worry. 
 
"Mulder!" Her voice was much quieter now. "Mulder, please 
let me in. We need to talk. I won't shout at you, I 
promise." She put her ear to the door, desperate to heat 
the sound of approaching footsteps, but there was 
nothing. 
 
"Mulder!" She tried again, feeling her voice catch as 
tears of frustration welled in her eyes. Then she was 
silent, her ear pressed against the door, listening for 
any sound. She could hear nothing. She almost wished she 
could hear sobbing, or shouting, or the sound of breaking 
ornaments - anything would be better than the utter 
silence which emanated from Mulder's room. 
 
Eventually she had to resign herself to the fact that he 
wasn't going to come. "Mulder!" she called, gently, "I'll 
be here, if you want to talk to me. I'm not going 
anywhere." And with that she crossed the room and threw 
herself down on the bed with a sigh. 
 
After a while, she got up and retrieved the notes from 
the autopsies of the three murder victims, and opened a 
file up at random. An hour later she was still staring at 
the same page, having failed to take in a single word she 
was seeing. The page was upside-down. She hadn't noticed. 
 
********** 
 
November 13th, 1995 
 
Scully's eyelids felt like lead and her limbs rebelled 
when she ordered them to move. A thin line of light from 
a crack in the curtains fell across her face, telling her 
that it was morning. At last. She doubted if she'd been 
asleep at all, with worrying all night. The worry still 
sat heavy on her chest, though her mind, fogged by 
drowsiness, couldn't remember what it was she was worried 
about. She bit her lip with concentration, struggling to 
remember, as she forced her body out of bed, stretching 
her tired muscles, and rubbing her tired eyes to 
acclimatise them to being awake. 
 
Mulder! The memory hit her like a physical blow. She'd 
lain awake most of the night, consumed with worry about 
him, praying that every creak of a floor board, every 
noise of a cooling pipe, every sound of people in the 
corridor, was him coming to her room. But he never came, 
and she lay awake, staring into the darkness, seeing in 
her imagination Mulder depressed, Mulder ill, Mulder hurt 
- even Mulder dead. 
 
But now there was something different. With a sudden 
burst of hope she realised that the connecting door was 
slightly open. Tiredness forgotten, she ran across the 
room, forgetting even to knock in her eagerness to open 
the door and reassure herself that Mulder was all right. 
"Mulder, are you....?" But then the words died on her 
lips at the sight that greeted her in his room. 
 
He wasn't there. 
 
His bed looked unslept in, and there were files 
everywhere, spread out on every available surface. There 
were notes on the current case, and old X-Files on 
alleged cases of possession, which he'd obviously brought 
with him in anticipation of the case. There were pages of 
notes scribbled in his own writing, and his laptop was 
out, suggesting he'd also been typing up notes as well. 
He'd even managed to get his hands on her autopsy report, 
which he'd neatly annotated in pencil. Her resentment was 
not eased in the slightest by the fact that this was just 
her draft copy. 
 
Scully stamped in frustration, although the effect of a 
raging Fury was somewhat lessened by the sudden yawn 
which overtook her. The yawn served only to increase her 
bitterness. She'd lost a whole night's sleep, desperately 
worried that he was paralysed by the same intense 
emotions she'd seen at the hospital, when all the while 
he'd been working on the case as if nothing was wrong. 
And he didn't even bother to tell her he was okay. He'd 
refused to open the door for her, but had no problems 
with opening the door to get the autopsy notes. He must 
have seen then that she was sleepless with worry, but 
hadn't spoken to her. A little voice in the back of her 
mind reminded her that she'd obviously been asleep after 
all, if she hadn't noticed him come in, but she ignored 
that thought, refusing to let it lessen her resentment. 
 
Feeling suddenly territorial, she reclaimed her autopsy 
notes and stomped back to her room, feeling an immense 
sense of satisfaction as she locked the connecting door 
and threw the key into the bin. She knew she was being 
petty, but she still revelled in the clunk the key made 
as it vanished into obscurity. 
 
As she went for a shower, she longed for Mulder to return 
from wherever he'd gone to. Let him see what it was like 
to be locked out, she thought, relishing the thought of 
him confidently trying the door, sure that she'd always 
be there for him to call on when he needed her. Or to 
ignore when he so chose, she added, bitterly. She wished 
she could see his face when he realised she'd locked him 
out. Serve him right. The number of times he'd ditched 
her, shut her out, withdrawn from her, and every time 
she'd been there for him when he decided he needed her 
again. But not this time. 
 
To her immense disappointment, he didn't return, denying 
her the chance to ignore him. 
 
********** 
 
Mulder wasn't in the breakfast room, so Scully was 
deprived of another chance to ignore him. She was only 
stopped from scowling by the happy smile of greeting 
which she received from Gardiner, the only other agent 
who'd yet emerged for breakfast. Forcing a smile in 
return, she took her place next to him, the appetising 
smell of his breakfast reminding her that she'd forgotten 
to eat in the confusion of the previous evening. 
 
She'd barely finished ordering her breakfast when 
Gardiner started talking. "Has Mulder had any more ideas 
about the case yet?" he asked, his voice overflowing with 
enthusiasm. 
 
"How should I know." Scully's voice was bitter. "He 
doesn't tell me anything." 
 
Gardiner flinched from her bitterness, and was profuse in 
his apologies for annoying her. Regretting the fact that 
she'd taken her annoyance out on an innocent bystander, 
Scully hastened to reassure him. "I'm sorry. It's not you 
I'm annoyed at. It's Mulder." She didn't like revealing 
her resentment to a stranger, but felt she owed him an 
explanation after snapping at him. 
 
"Don't you like working with him?" Gardiner sounded 
incredulous. 
 
Scully was tempted to say that she didn't, but her 
conscience wouldn't let her. She knew she that would be 
untrue - speaking out a temporary anger which didn't 
reflect her true feelings. Instead, she shrugged non- 
commitally. 
 
"You know," said Gardiner, shyly. "I worked with Mulder 
on my first case. Since then I've always wanted to be 
like him." 
 
Scully couldn't suppress a scornful laugh. "Be like 
Mulder?" she exclaimed. Aware of Gardiner's enquiring 
gaze, she moderated her voice and attempted to explain. 
"Mulder's the despair of everyone who knows him. He has 
no career prospects, no life outside work, most people in 
the Bureau laugh at him, and he's nearly managed to get 
himself killed countless times. How can you want to be 
like him?" 
 
Gardiner looked defensive. "Yes, I know all that. I know 
his life isn't happy, but he keeps on going. He just goes 
straight for what he knows is right, despite the 
obstacles that are in the way. He's not afraid to risk 
his career, even his life, for what he believes. _That's_ 
what I admire. It's a strength of purpose I wish I had." 
 
Scully reflected on his words, struck by the strangeness 
of the situation. It had so often been the other way 
round - her defending Mulder to yet another of his 
enemies - but here was a stranger who understood Mulder 
better than she did right now, blinded as she was by a 
resentment she now admitted was undeserved. 
 
She nodded, smiling ruefully at Gardiner. "Yes, you're 
right. Thank you." Gardiner looked puzzled at her 
apology, but Scully didn't explain how his words had 
helped diffuse her anger, and probably prevented the day 
from degenerating into a painful mess of shouting and 
recrimination. "But that's enough of Mulder. I need 
lighter conversation while I eat my breakfast." 
 
To her surprise, she enjoyed the ensuing conversation. 
That first night he'd annoyed her with his loquacity, but 
that was just because her attention had been elsewhere 
and she hadn't contributed anything herself to the 
conversation. Now that they were both engaged in the 
conversation, it flowed easily, and she found that they 
had several common interests. They were deep in 
discussion over the merits of a favourite book, when 
Scully was suddenly aware that Gardiner was looked past 
her towards the door. 
 
"There's Mulder," he said, and she turned in time to see 
Mulder turning away from the room and heading out again. 
 
"Excuse me," she said, as she pushed her chair away from 
the table and ran out of the room, smiling an apology to 
the astonished waiter. 
 
She caught up with him half way up the stairs, His hair 
was damp from the shower, and his cheeks were slightly 
flushed from jogging in the biting morning air. He 
stopped when she called his name, but didn't turn. 
 
"Mulder," she kept her voice deliberately calm. "Please 
come to breakfast." 
 
"I saw you there, with Gardiner. You were laughing." She 
didn't know what point he was trying to make. There was 
no sound of accusation in his voice. 
 
Scully forced a carefree laugh. "So? We'd like you to 
join us." 
 
"I can't make you laugh." His voice was emotionless. She 
couldn't see his face. 
 
Scully ran up a few stairs so she was able to look him in 
the eye. He returned her gaze, and she sighed with 
relief. Although he was still depressed - his words had 
told her that - there was no sign of the terrifying state 
he'd been in the previous day. "Mulder, I'm sorry about 
those things I said yesterday. I wasn't fair." 
 
"No, it was my fault. I'm sorry I was late. I'm sorry I 
wouldn't talk to you afterwards. It was all my fault." 
Scully didn't like his tone of voice, which suggested 
that he was already finding another cause of guilt to 
torment himself with. 
 
"Look, Mulder. It was just a misunderstanding, right? We 
were both a bit to blame, but there's no point feeling 
bad about it. Can we just forget it and be friends?" 
 
Mulder nodded, touching her gently on the shoulder. 
"Thank you, Scully," he said. There was a faint flicker 
on his face that may have been a smile. 
 
He set off towards the breakfast room, but Scully stopped 
him, well aware that their brief conversation had only 
temporarily papered over the cracks. "If you want to talk 
about anything, I'm always here, Mulder. When you're 
ready." 
 
Mulder acknowledged her with a barely perceptible nod. "I 
know, Scully," he said, as they entered the room and 
walked over the join Gardiner at the table. 
 
"Have you had any new ideas, Mulder?" Gardiner asked, 
before they'd even sat down. Scully sighed. She'd hoped 
for a non-controversial topic of conversation that 
wouldn't place any strain upon their recently restored 
relationship. She should have known that Gardiner's 
enthusiasm would be unchecked. 
 
The waiter came over for Mulder's order, so he was unable 
to reply immediately, but Scully was relieved to see that 
his eyes shone with enthusiasm. She supposed it could be 
prompted by the thought of a large fried breakfast - 
after all, she doubted that he'd eaten at all the 
previous day - but she suspected that it was because of 
the case. She'd seen this look many a time before. 
 
Deciding that the case was a safe topic of conversation, 
she quickly joined in. "Yes, Mulder. We've been here for 
a day and a half and I haven't even heard the details of 
your theory yet. Normally you can't wait to try and shock 
me with your latest weird ideas." She hoped he was up to 
a little gentle teasing, and was relieved to get a smile. 
 
Mulder didn't reply for a while, so she prompted him, 
deliberately exaggerating her usual sceptical expression. 
"Possession?" she said, investing her voice with as much 
incredulity as she could muster. It was difficult to 
oppose him when she knew he was still upset about their 
fight, but she knew that if she tried to spare his 
feelings by agreeing with everything he said, he'd be 
offended, suspecting, rightly, that he was being 
humoured. He enjoyed countering her arguments, and she 
hoped his depression would lift a little if he had some 
wild theory to argue passionately for. 
 
Mulder rose to the challenge. "Why are you still so 
sceptical, Scully? We've both seen cases of possession. 
How do you explain that school in New Hampshire, that one 
with Mrs Paddock? You saw that man - he was about to kill 
us then something took him over and he had to turn the 
gun on himself and his friends. You said yourself that it 
looked like something was controlling him." Scully 
noticed that Gardiner was listening with eyes wide and 
mouth agape. "And then there was Colonel Belt," Mulder 
continued "trying to sabotage the shuttle at the same 
time as desperately trying to save it. His actions are 
inexplicable unless you accept he was possessed by 
something - whether an entity from space or something 
else. We've seen it with our own eyes, Scully. It 
exists." 
 
"I know you believe it, Mulder, but why do you believe 
that _this_ case is possession?" 
 
"It was the same as Colonel Belt - it looked as if the 
murderer was both committing the murders and trying to 
stop them, just like the Colonel with the shuttle 
sabotage. You must admit that no-one else has been able 
to come up with a satisfactory explanation of those 
calls. Possession seemed to fit." 
 
Scully was about to reply when she noticed the tense 
Mulder was using. "Seemed?" she said, suddenly 
suspicious. "Seemed? You mean, you don't believe it any 
more?" 
 
"No, I don't think it is possession." Gardiner looked 
crushed, but Scully was relieved. She hoped this meant 
he'd accepted that there was nothing paranormal in this 
case and would settle down to produce an uncontraversial 
profile that even Newman would accept. 
 
"It doesn't seem right," Mulder continued. "When you said 
that the caller didn't know where the body was 
yesterday..... why shouldn't he know if he'd been there?" 
 
Gardiner and Scully objected simultaneously. "Maybe he 
did know but didn't say." This was Scully's objection, 
while Gardiner said, "Maybe he was only there in body not 
in spirit, so didn't know." 
 
Mulder dismissed both their objections. "He knew where 
the bodies were the other two times, and he told us too. 
No, we need another explanation for this." He took a deep 
breath before continuing, looking guiltily at Scully. 
"And then there were your autopsy results." Scully was 
pleased that he looked a little sheepish at mentioning 
them. 
 
Scully interrupted, aware that Gardiner hadn't been told 
what she'd discovered. He'd still been at the crime scene 
when she'd summarised her findings to Newman and the 
other agents. "Although she was killed at the scene, the 
woman had been methodically tortured over about two 
days," she said, trying to suppress a shudder as she 
remembered what she'd seen. "It was no frenzied attack. I 
won't go into details, but it was carefully thought out. 
The first victim looks like having suffered the same, 
though the autopsy wasn't done very thoroughly. She was 
covered with stab wounds, so the cause of death was 
obvious - they didn't bother examining too closely. The 
second victim.... she was killed quickly, so we decided 
yesterday that the killer was possibly interrupted." She 
turned to Mulder, realising that he was probably unaware 
of this fact. "Newman's putting out an appeal in the 
local papers and television this morning. It's possible 
that someone surprised the killer without even being 
aware of it." 
 
Mulder had been nodding while Scully summarised her 
findings. "Methodical, that's what you said. Of course, 
possessed people can be methodical - that sabotage on the 
shuttle was methodical. But it doesn't seem right. If it 
was a frenzied attack then I'd say that the murderer - 
or, rather, the physical form used by the murderer - was 
possessed for that short time. But two days .... not that 
there's a time limit on the period a body can be 
possessed, of course .... but he called us during those 
two days. If he could escape from the thing that was 
possessing him enough to call us, why didn't he let her 
go? It just doesn't fit." 
 
Scully smiled. "So, you're actually accepting that a case 
_isn't_ paranormal. That's a first!" 
 
"Actually, Scully, I think it's telepathy." Scully 
sometimes wondered if Mulder was deliberately 
provocative. No, she _knew_ he was sometimes deliberately 
provocative. 
 
"Telepathy," she said, with a sigh. "All right, then, 
Mulder, tell us why." Her voice was weary, but Gardiner 
was leaning forward, his chin in his hands and his eyes 
shining. 
 
"I think our caller has telepathic powers and is somehow 
seeing the murders - that's how he can tell visual things 
like where the bodies are. That last one - he could tell 
us her body was with the garbage because that's what he'd 
seen, but he couldn't tell us exactly where because he 
didn't recognise the place." 
 
Scully kept her expression sceptical, and Mulder 
continued, more earnestly. "Come on, Scully - you know 
there have been lots of cases where the police have used 
psychics in criminal investigations. This isn't such a 
radical theory." 
 
Scully had to agree that, as Mulder's theories went, it 
was one of the least exotic, but she was painfully aware 
that Newman wouldn't see it this way. Anxious to ease the 
confrontation that was inevitable if Mulder pushed his 
theory, she resolved to give him no encouragement. 
"Mulder," she sighed, "you had no real grounds for your 
original theory, and now, for no good reason, you've 
changed it to another one equally lacking in supporting 
evidence. I know you believe it, but it's just a hunch - 
a feeling." 
 
"Yes, it is a feeling, but I know it's right. It's not a 
theory I've just thought up on the spur of the moment. I 
was working all night on it. I've really thought about it 
and it all fits." He gesticulated with his knife as he 
spoke, causing Scully to flinch involuntarily as the 
blade flashed closer to her face than she was happy with. 
Mulder didn't appear to notice. "Our caller's seeing the 
murders. I don't know why. He might have some connection 
to the murderer, but I think it's more likely he's seeing 
through the eyes of the victims - perhaps their suffering 
is so intense that it's transmitted to anyone sensitive 
enough to receive it." He paused, noticing her hostile 
expression. "Why are you so opposed to this, Scully?" 
 
Scully was tempted to tell him emphatically that 
telepathy didn't exist, but couldn't bring herself to 
make such a categorical statement. Although still 
sceptical about anything that smacked of the paranormal, 
she'd seen enough in her years with Mulder to make her 
reluctant to assert that such things definitely _didn't_ 
exist. Instead, she searched for another objection to his 
theory. "But the caller says the murders are his fault. 
Why should he feel guilty if he's no more than a long- 
distance witness?" 
 
"Of course he feels guilty. He's a witness to a murder, 
and witnesses are often tormented by guilt - by feelings 
that if they'd acted differently they could have saved 
the victim's life. And he's seen not just one murder but 
three. At least three. " Mulder's voice was suddenly 
filled with emotion, a look of horrified realisation on 
his face. "If he can see these murders, how many more has 
he seen in his life? How much suffering has he 
experienced? Imagine what it's like to feel the suffering 
of a whole town, but to be powerless to stop it....? No 
wonder he speaks as if he killed them himself. He saw 
them die, but couldn't help them .... How can he live 
like that - with his mind taken over by other people's 
pain which reaches in and blocks out any other feeling - 
a constant reminder of his guilt that he can't stop them 
..... How can he live like that?" 
 
Mulder's fingers were white as he clenched the knife, and 
his eyes were clouded with some dark emotion. Scully 
quickly reached over and prised the knife from his grip, 
laying it down on his plate. He started at her touch, 
recalled from some troubled train of thought. "Sorry," he 
said, absently, gesturing towards the knife. 
 
Scully was distinctly unhappy with the course of the 
conversation. He didn't know what had started Mulder off 
this time, but the look on his face as he'd talked about 
his hypothetical telepath had warned her to take a firm 
grip on the conversation. "Look, Mulder, we're here to 
find the murderer. Even you believe that the murderer is 
an ordinary human with no special powers. Now, we have 
medical reports, samples from the crime scene currently 
being examined, and possible witnesses. Can't you just 
concentrate in these, and forget your theory about 
telepathic powers. After all, it won't help find the 
murderer." 
 
"Why are you so against this Scully?" Mulder was almost 
shouting. "Why are you opposing me on everything ." 
 
Scully sighed, aware that she hadn't handled the 
situation very well. "Mulder," she started, her voice 
quiet with exaggerated patience. "It's not that I'm 
opposed to you, it's just that......" 
 
"Good morning, Agent Scully, Gardiner." Newman sat down 
next to Scully, smiling his greeting, although a curt nod 
was all the acknowledgement he made of Mulder's presence. 
Scully silently cursed, annoyed that her explanation to 
Mulder had been cut short. She tried to catch his eye, to 
communicate that she wasn't opposing him, but he didn't 
look at her. 
 
"Has he done his profile yet?" Newman gestured towards 
Mulder, although his question was directed to Scully. 
Scully glanced anxiously at Mulder to see how he reacted 
to being ignored, but he was lost in thought, apparently 
unaware of the slight. He'd picked up the knife again, 
absently running his finger up and down the blade. 
 
"He's working on it." Scully tried to make her voice 
express a confidence she didn't feel. "I expect he'll 
have something written up for you this morning. He was 
working all night on it, weren't you, Mulder?" She kicked 
him under the table to catch his attention, gaining a 
vague and far from convincing grunt of agreement. 
 
"Yes, he was just telling us his latest ideas. He 
thinks....." Gardiner broke off suddenly as he too 
received a firm kick. Luckily Newman had no inclination 
to hear about Mulder's ideas and didn't press Gardiner 
for more information. 
 
"Good. Get started then." Newman have Mulder a pointed 
look, but he didn't move. Scully's eyes kept on moving to 
the knife blade with a horrified fascination, expecting 
any minute to see him draw blood. 
 
"Have there been any developments?" Gardiner gave Scully 
a quick glance as he asked this, and she assumed that 
even he had picked up on the tense atmosphere and was 
attempting to change the subject. 
 
"Possibly," said Newman. "Although we're still waiting 
for the lab to send back the analysis of the trace 
evidence you collected yesterday. That was good work, 
Gardiner. I didn't get chance to tell you yesterday." 
 
"But, Sir," Gardiner protested, "That wasn't me...." 
Scully shook her head, and Gardiner subsided, much to 
Scully's relief. She didn't want to draw Newman's 
attention back to Mulder. It would only provoke him 
further if he spoke to Mulder and got no reply, and 
Mulder's expression was such that she knew he was unaware 
of his surroundings. 
 
"Please tell us more, sir." She knew sounded hopelessly 
gushing, but was desperate to keep Newman's attention 
distracted while she desperately kicked Mulder under the 
table to try and recall him to the present. 
 
"We may have a witness," Newman declared. "That appeal 
for witnesses went out in this morning, and a man called 
in a few minutes ago. He says he was walking his dog the 
night Jennie Lawrence was killed, and thinks he saw 
someone behaving suspiciously. I'm sending Martinez and 
O'Brien to talk to him just as soon as they have their 
breakfast." He gestured towards the two agents who'd just 
arrived and sat down at the next table. 
 
"I've had my breakfast," said Gardiner. "Would you like 
me to go instead?" 
 
Newman nodded his agreement. "Okay. You go with him, 
Agent Scully. Unless you need more time to work on those 
medical reports?" 
 
Scully was tempted to say that she needed to stay, 
anxious not to leave Mulder alone with whatever it was 
that was bothering him, but honesty compelled her to 
admit that she had no plans for the morning. "Is that 
okay, Mulder?" she asked, loudly. Mulder suddenly looked 
up, blinking, as if he was struggling to focus on the 
scene before him, and gave a confused nod. Scully doubted 
he knew what he was agreeing to. 
 
Newman handed her the witness's address as she stood up 
and prepared to leave with Gardiner. "When you've 
finished, we might have that profile at last," he said, 
with a hostile glare at Mulder. 
 
To Scully's surprise, Mulder suddenly stood up, dropping 
the knife in his haste. "I'll do it now, sir," he 
snapped, and hurried away from the table, frowning with 
anger. At the next table Martinez and O'Brien exchanged 
glances, commenting with amusement about the 
eccentricities of the notorious "Spooky". Ignoring them, 
Scully could only stare in amazement as Mulder stormed 
out of the room, heedless of the resentful glare he 
received from a fellow guest who was forced to swerve to 
avoid a collision in the narrow doorway. 
 
"Are you coming, Agent Scully?" Scully sighed as she 
joined Gardiner and headed to the car, trying to 
concentrate on the case, but she couldn't stop worrying 
about Mulder. She had tried to convince herself that he 
was simply depressed - that the events of the past two 
years were finally taking their toll - but she was 
beginning to fear it was something more - something that 
was too big for her to handle. Mulder needed more help 
than she could give. 
 
********** 
 
Matthew Lewis had watched her as she'd passed him, her 
face solemn even though she was surrounded by her 
companions. One of them had cracked a joke and the others 
had laughed, but her eyes had been unsmiling, clouded 
with worry. Soon they would be troubled with emotions yet 
darker. She was pretty, he noticed, with blue eyes and 
that beautiful hair. It was pity she had to suffer for 
something that was nothing to do with her, but as soon as 
he'd seen her he'd known that she was the one. She would 
be the instrument of the final stage of his plan. 
 
He smiled as he contemplated his revenge. Everything had 
proceeded according to plan - no, better still - 
everything had exceeded his expectations. His parole 
officer was under the happy misapprehension that he was 
behaving himself - she wouldn't even miss him for several 
days. And his enemy ......! He could barely smother a 
gleeful chuckle as he thought of his enemy, of the state 
of his mind. He felt he couldn't take much more, but he 
was going to have to. He'd been doomed the moment he took 
Matthew Lewis on as an enemy, all those years ago, for 
who could stand a chance against someone with powers like 
his? He'd been strong before, of course, but nothing like 
now. Some good had come out of those terrible years in 
prison, he reflected, remembering how he'd used the time 
to develop his new powers - powers he was using to get 
his revenge. 
 
He'd take her first, and then launch his final assault. 
He'd kill him, of course, when all else was finished, but 
that could wait. Why give him the quick release of death 
when he could torment him with a living hell? Why simply 
kill his body when he could destroy his mind first? 
 
His hand clenched his knife with anticipation, imagining 
it slicing into the flesh, hearing the cries for mercy - 
cries he wouldn't heed. He preferred not to dwell on 
_her_ terror. She would just be the means to an end. But 
it could wait. Why rush it, when the anticipation of the 
final victory was so exciting? He wondered if he would 
ever be able to kill him, when he could have so much fun 
tormenting him when he was alive. 
 
********** 
 
Kevin Briggs lay amongst the tangled sheets, reluctant to 
open his eyes to another day. 
 
At first it had been better during the day, when his eyes 
could see enough reality to drown out the terrible 
pictures in his mind. But now he'd seen so much death and 
suffering that their image was permanently etched in his 
memory, driving out reality, turning daylight into the 
horrors of a waking nightmare. 
 
He wanted to scream, but his voice was hoarse, drained by 
days and nights of torment. There had been three so far. 
Only a week, and three dead already. Not a second went by 
without him praying that there would be no more, but he 
knew it was a vain hope. He didn't think his sanity could 
take much more, but knew he couldn't run away. He owed it 
to the women to stay and share their suffering, as long 
as there was any chance that he could help them. But 
there was more to come. With a terrible certainty, he 
knew that the worst was yet to come. 
 
********** 
 
Dana Scully sighed as she shuffled her papers on her lap, 
scanning them again and again in the hope that they'd 
relent and yield some useful information. To her intense 
frustration, they remained stubbornly useless. Five hours 
- nearer six, if you counted the time they took over 
lunch, discussing the case all the while - and she and 
Gardiner had failed to come up with a single lead. The 
initial witness had been promising, giving a vague 
description of a man he'd seen in the woods at around the 
time Jennie had been killed. But it had all fallen down 
when he revealed that this man had been running towards 
the place the body was found, approaching from the east, 
and certainly not dragging an unconscious girl. Jennie 
had been taken from her car about a mile to the west of 
the place the body was found, so, although they'd taken 
the description down and would pursue it, they doubted 
that anything would come of it. 
 
After that, they'd been on a frustrating trail of dead 
ends. Newman kept on calling them as potential witnesses 
came forward, sending them to interview the most 
promising, but nothing useful came from their interviews. 
The other agents had spent the morning talking to the 
friends of the victims, trying to establish some sort of 
link between them, whether any of them had mentioned 
being followed, or any of them had any enemies, but 
they'd also drawn a blank. It looked as if the women had 
just been the unfortunate victims of a random killer. 
 
The only promising news had come when Newman had called 
the say that the lab reports had arrived, with the 
analysis of the samples Gardiner had taken at the crime 
scene. Most of the hair and blood on the thorns was Ellie 
Benton's, suggesting that the killer had used her as a 
shield to push his way through the vicious hedge, but 
they had found a short brown hair that belonged to 
someone else. While this was of little use when it came 
to tracking down the suspect, it could prove invaluable 
in confirming they had the right man when they managed to 
find a suspect. If they managed to find a suspect. Scully 
tried to be hopeful, but it had been a frustrating day. 
 
While she'd been thinking, they'd arrived back at the 
hotel without her noticing. Gardiner came round and 
opened the door for her, smiling at her as he gave her an 
arm to help her out. He was quite cute when he smiled, 
she realised, although too like an over-enthusiastic 
puppy dog for her taste. She didn't want to take his 
proffered arm, but forced herself to suppress her 
resentment. She knew he was just being polite and it was 
unfair to assume he was patronising her, treating her 
like an incapable woman. 
 
Her first thought was of Mulder. She'd called him 
earlier, unable to cope any longer with worrying about 
what had happened after he'd stormed out after breakfast, 
and he'd told her he was working on the profile. His 
voice was expressionless, giving away nothing about the 
true state of his feelings, but she had been forced to 
accept what he said and get on with the work she'd been 
assigned. He'd only be angry if she was over-protective 
and had pestered him, refusing to believe him. If he was 
lying, it was because he didn't want her to know the 
truth, and she knew him well enough to know that she had 
to respect that. 
 
Her pace unconsciously quickened as she headed up the 
stairs towards Mulder's room, raising her hand to knock. 
 
Suddenly Mulder's door burst open and Newman came rushing 
out, his face red with anger. "Sir?" Scully asked, as she 
stepped out of his way. "What's the matter?" 
 
"Ask that partner of yours," he snapped over his 
shoulder, as he stamped down the corridor. Scully and 
Gardiner looked at each other as the heavy footsteps 
sounded into the distance, suddenly terminated by the 
slam of a door. 
 
"Mulder?" Scully knocked at Mulder's door, pushing it 
open when she heard a faint grunt of acknowledgement. 
Gardiner followed, oblivious to her silent pleas for him 
to disappear. Judging from Newman's reaction, she feared 
Mulder was in one of his unresponsive moods, and didn't 
want a virtual stranger to witness his turbulent 
emotional state. 
 
Mulder was sitting at his desk, staring at the computer. 
He looked up as she entered, his eyes weary but focused. 
The concern she'd felt quickly evaporated as she realised 
that Mulder had been fully aware of his actions when he'd 
done whatever it was that had annoyed Newman. 
 
"Newman didn't like my profile." Mulder answered the 
unspoken question she'd asked with her eyes. 
 
Without a word, Scully walked over and read over his 
shoulder. "He sees other people's pain," she read. "Maybe 
their happiness too, but that's drowned out by the pain. 
There's more pain in the world. Pain. Suffering. Guilt. 
Grief. He sees them all - experiences them for other 
people. He can find no peace anywhere. He travels the 
country, trying to find somewhere to settle that's free 
of pain, but he can't escape it. He never knows 
happiness." 
 
Scully gripped the back of Mulder's chair as she read, 
horrified by what she was seeing, but unable to stop 
reading. "He came here for peace - a small town, low 
crime rate. Maybe he lives out in the country, a few 
miles from town - anything to escape the pain. But that's 
not far enough to escape the pain of murder. He sees them 
all - he feels their torture as if it's his own - he 
feels the knife that kills them - he sees them die. But 
he can't stop them. He can only watch in horror. And so 
he does the only thing he can think of to help them - he 
calls us, hoping that we can stop the horror, but we've 
let him down - we've let them down." 
 
A gasp from Mulder distracted Scully from her reading. 
She hadn't been aware that her hand had moved from the 
back of the chair and was now tightly gripping Mulder's 
shoulder, her fingers digging deep into his flesh. She 
relaxed her grip, taking a deep breath to try and calm 
herself. There was more on the screen - much more - but a 
quick scan told her it was more of the same. She didn't 
read it. 
 
"Mulder!" She tried to keep her voice calm but she 
couldn't disguise the anger she felt. "Why have you 
written this? How can you do this? Are you going out of 
your way to provoke Newman? This isn't a profile - this 
is insane ramblings about the mind of a man who doesn't 
even exist." 
 
"Yes he does, Scully." Mulder's voice was surprisingly 
calm. "He exists, and he's the key. Who can be a better 
witness than a man who's actually experienced the 
murders? If we find him - if we win his trust by showing 
we understand him - then we've found our murderer." 
 
Scully sighed, throwing her hands up in exasperation. 
"Mulder, right now I've had enough. I'm going after 
Newman. God knows how I'm going to get you out of this 
one." She knew she sounded harsher than she intended. 
Although she didn't agree with Mulder's basic premise, 
she had to admit his subsequent reasoning was sound. But 
for him to tell all this to Newman....! Sometimes Mulder 
was so tactless she just wanted to hit him. He didn't 
seem to care who he offended, leaving her the arduous 
task of smoothing ruffled feathers and making excuses for 
him. From the look on Newman's face, she had a hard task 
ahead of her, and was bitterly angry at Mulder was 
putting her in this situation. 
 
Without another word, she turned and walked out of the 
room. 
 
********** 
 
"Hey, that's really ....er.... impressive." Mulder 
started at the sound of Gardiner's voice, suddenly 
recalled from the reverie he'd fallen into after Scully's 
abrupt departure. Forcing himself to take his eyes off 
the closed door, he turned and looked at Gardiner. The 
younger agent had finished reading the profile, but his 
eyes were confused. He opened his mouth as if to speak, 
but Mulder was suddenly reluctant to discuss his 
controversial profile and silenced him with a glare. 
Staring at the screen without properly seeing it, he 
pointedly ignored Gardiner, hoping he'd take the hint and 
go away. 
 
Gardiner remained stubbornly still. "Agent Mulder?" His 
voice was tentative, startlingly different from the tone 
of awed eagerness that he usually when addressing Mulder. 
Mulder made what he hoped was a discouraging sound, but 
Gardiner wasn't deterred. "Agent Mulder? Can I talk about 
..... about Agent Scully?" He sounded extremely shy as he 
mentioned her name. Taking a deep breath, he continued, 
his face red. "I spoke to her at breakfast. I think we 
got on well." He looked pleased with himself, even 
through the evident embarrassment. "I was wondering .... 
well .... would you .....? I mean, do you mind?" 
 
Mulder was listening properly now. "Do I mind what?" he 
asked. 
 
"Do you mind that I spoke to .... to Dana this morning?" 
He blushed even deeper as he spoke her name. "I mean, 
would you mind if I .... well, if I ask her if I can 
speak to her again .... I mean, over dinner or 
something?" He took a deep breath, looking relieved that 
he'd finished. 
 
Mulder froze as he realised what Gardiner was asking. He 
wanted to ask Scully on a date. "No!" he cried, silently, 
full of horror at the thought of Scully starting a 
relationship with someone else - of the difference it 
would make to his own life. Scully was always there for 
him. He could call at all hours of the night and she'd be 
there on the other end of the phone, ready to drop 
everything to pursue a case. He could turn up on her 
doorstep - he even had a key - without warning, and she'd 
be there, ready to help him. She'd even let him spend the 
night in her bed, that terrible time when his father had 
been killed, with no jealous boyfriend who could 
misinterpret the situation. 
 
Nothing would be the same if she had a lover. He couldn't 
call at night in case he was interrupting something. He 
certainly couldn't expect her to give up her weekends any 
more. He'd no longer be first in her thoughts, but merely 
a partner - important during work hours but forgotten 
outside work. 
 
"Unlike you, Mulder, I want a life." The memory spoke as 
clearly as if Scully had been in the same room, stabbing 
him with a terrible realisation of how selfish he was 
being. She'd been on a date then, two years ago, and he'd 
stopped her, calling her at the restaurant to drag her 
off to chase that beastwoman. She'd never said how much 
she'd resented him for ruining her date, but he could see 
the anger in her eyes. It was strange he'd not noticed it 
at the time, because it was so clear in the memory. He'd 
been blind to her feelings then. How many other times had 
he unknowingly done to same? 
 
Maybe sometimes she _had_ been with a man when he'd 
called her, selfishly assuming that she'd have nothing to 
do but join him on a case. How many potential romances 
had he ruined by assuming that Scully was like him in 
desiring no life outside work? He'd assumed she was 
willingly putting her personal life on hold to pursue the 
X-Files. Now he was suddenly certain that he had forced 
her into the situation. He was amazed she'd put up with 
his selfishness for so long. 
 
"Agent Mulder?" Gardiner touched Mulder's arm, a worried 
expression on his face. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said 
anything." 
 
"No, you shouldn't have." Mulder's self-reproach made him 
harsh. "If you want to take Scully to dinner, you should 
ask her. It's not right for us to make decisions for her 
as if she has no say in the matter." A little voice in 
his head relentlessly reminded him that this was 
precisely what he'd been doing to her for two years. 
 
Observing Gardiner's crestfallen expression, Mulder 
softened. His harsh tone had been intended more for 
himself than for Gardiner, prompted by thoughts of his 
own behaviour rather than by Gardiner's question. "I'm 
sorry," he said, forcing a smile before hastily changing 
the subject. "Now, tell me what you found out this 
morning?" 
 
Gardiner looked relieved to be back on firm ground, but 
his explanations were quickly cut short when the door 
opened and Scully came in, her face grim. 
 
"I'm sorry, Agent Gardiner," she said. "I want to talk to 
Mulder alone." 
 
Mulder couldn't meet her eyes, knowing he'd find nothing 
but hostility there. He suddenly knew she'd been with 
Newman, working with his enemy to get him off the case, 
even to ruin his career. He wondered how many other cases 
she'd secretly undermined him on, and was suddenly sure 
that she'd _always_ opposed him. 
 
He'd seen through her once, the day after his father 
died. "You've been against me from the start, making your 
little notes!" He'd confronted her and she hadn't even 
denied it. It had all been so clear then. He wondered why 
he'd forgotten, afterwards. For a few days he'd 
understood the truth - that _everyone_ was his enemy. 
He'd hit Skinner for it, but had never been strong enough 
to attack Scully. Although she opposed him, he needed 
her. And then she'd taken him away, and worked her 
treacherous lies on him, and he'd believed that she was 
on his side. God! Even after she'd shot him he'd still 
believed her. She was as much an enemy as Cancer Man - 
worse, even, for she hid her hostility with a mask of 
friendship and support. 
 
"I don't need to listen to you!" he shouted, as soon as 
Gardiner was gone. "I know what you're going to say. Go 
back to your friends and carry on plotting against me!" 
 
Scully flinched, her eyes full of hurt, and Mulder 
suddenly knew he'd misjudged her. Scully wasn't a 
heartless enemy - how could he have thought such a thing? 
He knew she'd tried to win his trust, had been prepared 
to sacrifice anything for him. "I'd never put my career 
on the line for anyone but you," she'd said, and she'd 
done it, again and again, lying to Skinner, passing him 
information when the X-Files were closed down, chasing 
him to Puerto Rico. She'd nearly lost her job after New 
Mexico, because of him.... 
 
"But she shot you. She took your gun. She made you go 
alone to that boxcar. She left without waiting to find 
you." And there was Scully's face, full of anger. "You're 
on your own on this one, Mulder....." 
 
"No! She was trying to help you. She nearly lost her job. 
She _did_ lose her sister. All because of you." He saw 
her again, uttering the same words, but this time her 
voice was gentle, her face full of regret and apology. 
 
He bit his lip, hard enough to draw blood, torn between 
the insistent memories that warred in his mind, knowing 
they couldn't both be true. He didn't know which to 
believe. Neither offered any comfort. 
 
"Mulder, what's wrong?" Scully's voice was weary and 
Mulder knew that he'd been wrong to shout at her. She'd 
_tried_ to help him. She'd risked her career and her life 
to help him and he'd repaid her with pain and suffering. 
The fact that she was working with Newman to undermine 
him was no more than he deserved. 
 
"I'm sorry, Scully." He had to struggle to get the words 
out above the confusion memories that filled his mind. 
"I'm sorry. You have every right to oppose me." 
 
Scully sighed. She seemed to be working hard to control 
her temper. "I'm not opposing you." She spoke slowly, as 
if repeating a lesson to a child. "I'm trying to help 
you. Newman was threatening to do all he could to end 
your career. I only went after him to try and make 
excuses for you." 
 
Mulder resented her tone. "I don't need your help. I'm 
not a child. I can look after myself." 
 
Scully laughed, mirthlessly. "I've never met anyone less 
capable of looking after themselves, Mulder." She shook 
her head, ruefully. "Anyway, carry on that way you're 
going and you'll be beyond my help. Newman was all for 
making a formal complaint about you. I talked him out of 
it .... this time." 
 
"Carry on the way I'm going?" Mulder was genuinely 
surprised. "I'm not working this case any differently 
from normal." He knew full well that this wasn't true, 
but he hoped that Scully was ignorant of the internal 
torment that had nearly paralysed him these past few 
days. 
 
"No, you're not." Scully sighed again. "That's the 
problem. You're acting just the same as you always do. I 
really thought there was hope this time. That first night 
- for the first time you seemed to know the meaning of 
the word "tact" - all that talk of moderating your 
theories so as not to offend Newman." Her voice softened 
suddenly. "Look, I know it was my fault that it didn't 
work, and I'm sorry for that, but after that you just 
gave up trying. You've made no attempt to fit in with 
him. You must have known what his reaction would be when 
he read that so-called profile, yet you still wrote it. 
It wouldn't have cost you anything to profile the 
murderer for Newman and then pursue your telepathy angle 
without telling him." 
 
"But, Scully. The "telepathy angle" is the key to it all. 
You can't expect me to ignore it." 
 
"No, I don't expect you to ignore it, but there are times 
to keep quiet about your theories. You're your own worst 
enemy, Mulder. You just speak your mind to everyone, no 
matter how hostile they'll be, and then leave me to pick 
up the pieces. Just think of that Tooms case. He'd never 
have been released if you'd just kept quiet, but you had 
to tell them theories that you knew they'd never believe 
until they thought Tooms was positively sane compared 
with you." 
 
"It was the truth, Scully." 
 
Scully shook her head with exasperation. "Mulder! You and 
your "truth"! Haven't you learned yet that there's a time 
to be less than honest with the truth?" 
 
"You sound like Cancer Man." Mulder's voice was dull. He 
felt drained of emotion. 
 
"Oh, Mulder." Scully sighed, reaching out to touch his 
arm. "It's just that you make it so difficult for 
yourself. And for me." 
 
They were both silent awhile, lost in their own thoughts. 
At last Scully broke the silence. "Mulder, I'm .... I'm 
worried about you." 
 
Mulder was taken of guard, unsure how to react. "I'm 
okay," he mumbled, at last, knowing it was a lie. 
 
"Mulder." Scully sounded tentative. "Do you think you 
should talk to someone?" 
 
"Talk to someone?" Mulder knew what she meant but was 
stalling for time, desperately trying to think of 
excuses. 
 
"These last few days, you've been ..... strange. These 
mood swings - just now you were furious at me one minute, 
then you suddenly looked so sad and guilty, and all 
without me saying a word to provoke the change. And it's 
been worse. This morning you were fine, talking about the 
case, when suddenly you seemed to switch off for no 
reason. You barely noticed when I kicked you." She 
paused, reaching for him again. "I'm sorry I have to talk 
like this, but this isn't normal. I mean," she added 
hastily, "it's not normal for you. I've never seen you 
like this before, and it worries me." 
 
"Don't worry. I'll be okay." Mulder tried to sound 
convincing, but certainly failed to convince himself. He 
knew she was right. Looking back on his thoughts of the 
past hour, he knew he'd been frighteningly inconsistent, 
firmly believing one thing one minute and the opposite 
the next. But at the time, it had all seemed so 
convincing, even ideas which flatly contradicted what 
he'd been certain was true just minutes before. 
 
Scully's doubt was evident on her face, so he sought out 
more words of reassurance. "I know you won't believe if I 
say everything's fine, but it _is_ getting better. When I 
concentrate on the case it's not too bad." This was true. 
He'd been untroubled all night, his mind focused on the 
case and completely free from the unwelcome memories that 
had invaded his thoughts the previous day. "I'm working 
on it, Scully. I'll be okay." 
 
Scully was plainly not convinced, but he knew she 
wouldn't push him against his will. "I can't make you 
talk to someone if you don't want to, but don't forget 
_I'm_ here too. If you change your mind and want to talk, 
I'm here for you." 
 
"I know you are, Scully. Thank you." But he wouldn't 
confide in her - not yet. At its worst, over the last few 
days, he'd been scared he was losing his mind. Whatever 
happened, he didn't want Scully to know that. "You can't 
hide it much longer. Soon everyone will know." He tried 
to suppress the little voice in the back of his mind, but 
it refused to die, keeping up its treacherous reminders 
until he wanted to scream at it to leave him alone. 
 
The ringing of Scully's phone shattered the silence, 
penetrating Mulder's thoughts and killing the voice at 
last. 
 
"That was Newman," Scully said, when she'd finished her 
short conversation. "Our caller's been in contact again. 
He says there's been another one - a little girl." 
 
********** 
 
Scully was overwhelmed by a sense of her own impotence, 
knowing it was beyond her powers to provide the comfort 
they so desperately needed. She desperately searched for 
the right words, but even as she did so she knew it was 
in vain, that no words could help ease the pain. She 
longed to be able to reach out and assure them that 
everything would be okay, but deep down she knew that 
their worst fears would almost certainly be realised. She 
could only hope they wouldn't be exceeded by some horror 
beyond their wildest imagining. 
 
With shame, she remembered the relief she'd felt less 
than an hour previously, when the terrible wait had been 
finally over. All the agents had felt the strain of those 
few hours. Although Mulder hadn't been there, the 
relationship between the other agents had soon 
degenerated into fractious bickering. Gardiner had been 
very attentive, trying to keep her spirits up with 
inconsequential chatter, but she'd only been irritated. 
She'd borne it for as long as she could, reluctant to 
hurt his feelings, but had finally snapped and curtly 
told him to be quiet, preferring to wait in silence. 
 
The two hours had seemed like an eternity. They'd all 
tried to work, staring at files and sporadically 
discussing the case, but everyone had more than half 
their attention on the phone, willing it to ring. They 
knew that somewhere nearby a girl was suffering, and they 
were powerless to do anything to help her until someone 
missed her enough to call the police. It was doubtful 
they could do much to help her even then, but at least 
they'd have a name, and some sort of starting point. 
 
And then the call had come, rousing them to an instant 
activity. A Mr and Mrs Williams, unable to bear the worry 
any longer, had called the police to report that their 
ten year old daughter, Sophie, was over two hours late 
returning from school. As Scully had rushed to the car 
the only emotion she had felt was relief - relief that 
the long wait was over and she could now do something 
positive rather than passively awaiting events. But now, 
looking at the grief-lined faces of Sophie's parents, she 
was filled with shame for her initial reaction. 
 
"That murderer's got her, hasn't he." It wasn't a 
question. Mrs Williams's voice was strangely calm, 
although Scully knew it was taking all her strength not 
to break down. 
 
Scully was at a loss for an answer. Although she was 
desperate to offer comfort, she knew it was wrong to 
offer false hopes. "We don't know that," she said, after 
too long a pause. "She's only been gone a few hours." 
 
"Don't lie to us!" Mr Williams was shouting, tears 
pouring down his face. Scully was about to speak, but Mr 
Williams spoke again, his voice calmer now he'd taken a 
few deep breaths. "Look," he said, making a visible 
struggle to keep his voice even, "We know you believe he 
has her. Why else are you here? A few years back a 
friend's son went missing all night, sleeping out in the 
woods as a dare. His parents called the police but they 
refused to do anything at first, saying he'd probably 
return of his own accord. But now the same thing's 
happened to us, and we get the FBI round straight away. 
We're not stupid. We know what you're thinking." 
 
Scully realised the time had come to be honest. "Yes, we 
_are_ investigating the possibility that she'd been taken 
by the killer you've heard about, but that doesn't mean 
that she _has_ been taken by him. We wouldn't be doing 
our job properly if we didn't explore every possibility, 
even if it turns out to be false." 
 
"I'm sorry to ask you this, but it's got to be said." 
Gardiner broke the short silence, his voice apologetic. 
"Has there been any trouble at home - any cause for her 
to run away?" 
 
Mr Williams was about to shout in outrage, but his wife 
squeezed his hand to check his outburst. "No," she said, 
sadly. "She was a quiet child, but always seemed happy." 
Scully didn't like her use of the past tense, implying 
that she'd given up hope already. "She _was_ worried this 
morning - something about a test she'd forgotten about. 
She was always top of her class and was terrified at the 
thought of failing. But that was this morning. Her 
friends say she _did_ go to school, and seemed relieved 
after the test saying it had gone well. She wouldn't have 
run away. She's never been as much as five minutes late 
for anything in her life." Mrs William's control was 
beginning to break, silent tears trickling down her 
cheeks. Her husband had long since surrendered to his 
grief, and was audibly sobbing. 
 
"We'll do all we can, Mrs Williams." Scully reached 
across and touched her arm. "The police department is 
already putting together a search party, and our 
colleagues are talking to her friends. We should soon be 
able to reconstruct her last known movements." 
 
"You will tell us if there are any developments, even if 
it's bad news?" Mrs Williams grabbed Scully's 
outstretched arm, leaning forward to look at her 
earnestly. "Whatever time it is, we'll be waiting. We 
need to know what's happened to her. Anything - even bad 
news - is better than not knowing." 
 
Scully assured her that they'd be kept informed, and then 
she and Gardiner took their leave. As they pulled the 
door shut behind them, she could hear the sobs which 
announced that Mrs Williams had finally allowed her 
control to break. Shutting the door, she left them alone 
with their grief. 
 
"I want to stay here for a minute," she said, when they 
reached the car. "I need to think." 
 
Gardiner was obligingly silent, leaving Scully alone with 
her thoughts. There was just enough light in the car the 
illuminate the picture she'd been given of the missing 
girl - a picture that would no doubt be staring out of 
front page of tomorrow's newspapers. She hoped the 
headline above the picture wouldn't read "murdered". 
Sophie appeared to be looking straight at her, blue eyes 
meeting blue, urging her to save her from the terrible 
suffering she was about to undergo - was probably already 
undergoing. Scully shivered as she remembered her 
discoveries on the autopsy slab, imagining this golden- 
haired girl suffering the tortures that she'd seen. Three 
dead already and they had few leads - nothing that 
engendered optimism about their chances of preventing a 
fourth. And the fourth was worst of all. All violent 
death was horrific, but she had no words to express her 
disgust at someone who could torture a little girl. 
 
At least Mulder had been spared it. Even amidst her 
horrified contemplation of the crime she could take 
comfort in that. She knew Mulder always saw his sister in 
any missing girl, and the parent's emotions would have 
been painfully close to home. She was never far from his 
thoughts, living in his memory every day, but something 
like this always brought the full force of his emotions 
crashing back. It was bad enough at the best of times, 
but in his current mood she didn't know if he could have 
coped. "Anything - even bad news - is better than not 
knowing," Mrs Williams had said, but Mulder had lived 
with not knowing for over twenty years. She knew it never 
got better. If anything, it had grown worse - the recent 
discoveries he'd made only posing more questions than 
they'd answered. She knew he never forgot, but she was 
grateful he'd been spared such a painful reminder. She 
had no doubt that it would have been even worse for him 
than the interview with Steve Rogers the previous day. 
And that had nearly overwhelmed him. 
 
But Mulder hadn't come. As soon as he'd heard of the 
anonymous call he'd been adamant that he needed to be 
there to talk to the caller if he made contact again. 
"I'm the only one who understands him," he'd said, as 
he'd picked up his coat and marched to the door. "I've 
got to be there next time he calls. He's our key." She'd 
been all determination, no trace of the darkly absent 
mood he'd been in just minutes earlier. Nothing could 
talk him out of it, and he'd asked - no, demanded - to be 
allowed to stay at the police station, where he could be 
called to the phone at a moment's notice. It was a grim 
determination she'd seen in him many times before, 
although he normally reserved it for UFO cases. She 
wasn't sure whether it was a new development in his 
worrying moodiness, or a sign that he was heading back to 
normal. She hoped the latter, but knew that recently 
nothing she'd hoped for had come true. 
 
Her thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of her 
phone. 
 
"Agent Scully? It's Agent Martinez. I think we're onto 
something here, but we need your help. Could you come 
over?" 
 
********** 
 
"Thanks for coming so fast." Scully was surprised when 
the door of the neat suburban house was opened by Agent 
Martinez. "Come in - they're expecting you." 
 
Scully allowed herself to be directed into a tidy living 
room, although she refused to take a seat, feeling very 
much an intruder in someone else's house. To her 
surprise, Martinez immediately left and went to join his 
partner whom she'd noticed sitting in a car outside the 
house. The engine immediately started up and the car 
drove away. Feeling strangely alone and uneasy, Scully 
wandered over to the window and peeped out of the 
curtains, reassured to see that Gardiner was still there. 
Dropping the curtain, she let her eyes wander over the 
room, taking in the numerous photos, all of which showed 
the same girl, occasionally with a woman who was 
presumably her mother. There had been similar photographs 
at the Williams' house, she recalled with a pang of 
sadness. 
 
Just as Scully was wondering how long she should wait, 
steps sounded on the stairs and the woman from the 
photographs came in, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. 
"Agent Scully? I'm sorry you had to come over." Scully 
hastened to assure her that it had been no trouble. It 
had only been a five minute drive. "It's Jo, my daughter. 
She's Sophie's best friend, and she told me she saw 
Sophie talking to a strange man after school today. But 
that's all she'll say. She refused to talk to your 
colleagues at all when they asked her to describe him, 
but just cried and shrank away from them. Ever since her 
father...." She suddenly broke off with a gasp, as if 
stopping herself from saying too much. "She's never happy 
with men," she continued at last. "I thought she might 
confide more in a woman." 
 
Promising to be gentle, Scully followed her upstairs and 
into the girl's bedroom. Jo was curled up on the bed, 
clutching a stuffed lion. Her face wasn't visible. 
 
"Jo," her mother began. "This is Agent Scully...." 
 
"Go away! I don't want to talk to you!" Scully dodged as 
the lion flew across the room, hurled with all the force 
of childish grief. 
 
"I'm here to help." Picking up the lion, Scully crossed 
the room and sat down on the bed. "But I can't do that 
unless you talk to me." 
 
"If I talk to you it makes it true." The words were 
barely audible, muttered into the pillow. Scully sat 
patiently, waiting for the sobs to subside, absently 
playing with the lion's mane. 
 
"I know why you're here," Jo said at last. "You think 
she's .... she's....all chopped up like the boys said 
those ladies were." Scully could well imagine the gory 
speculations which local children, full of horrified 
fascination, had no doubt indulged in. "If I talk to you 
it makes it true." 
 
Scully tried to express a confidence she didn't feel. "If 
you talk to me, tell me what you saw, it might help us 
find her." As she spoke she held out the lion. At last, 
Jo took it, looking at Scully for the first time. 
 
"I saw her with a man." She spoke in a quick monotone, as 
if she felt that if she spoke fast enough the words would 
not be true. "He was talking to her outside school, then 
she went off with him." 
 
"Did you see where they went?" 
 
"No. It was crowded. I only saw them for a moment." 
 
"What did he look like?" 
 
"White .... tall .... quite old .... er .... brown hair." 
She suddenly started crying again. "I can't remember! I 
don't know!" 
 
"You've done very well. What you've said has been very 
helpful." Scully hastened to reassure the crying girl, 
although the description offered little to go on. To a 
ten-year-old, any man would seem "tall" and "quite old". 
She hoped the girl wouldn't have to face an identity 
parade if they found a suspect. 
 
Jo was incoherent with grief once more, so Scully took 
her leave, realising that it would be unwise to push for 
information, although she left a note of her number in 
case Jo remembered anything else useful. Once in the car, 
she leant her head back on the head rest with a sigh, 
feeling drained by all the intense grief she'd been 
exposed to. Realising that Gardiner was looking at her in 
concern, she forced the emotions down, struggling to show 
an appearance of professional detachment. 
 
"What shall we do now?" Gardiner asked, when she'd told 
him the results of the interview. 
 
"Tell Newman," said Scully, reaching for her phone, 
although she knew that he would have no easy answers. 
Unless any of Sophie's other friends had more to add, 
they could do little but wait. They'd go public on the 
report of the strange man, appealing for witnesses who'd 
seen someone answering his description, but until they 
got any response they were working blind, without any 
real leads to go on. 
 
"Unless that telepath's contacted Mulder....." said 
Gardiner, hopefully, after Scully had finished her brief 
call. 
 
Scully silenced him with a look. 
 
********** 
 
November 14th 1995 
 
Someone was shaking him. He was in a safe place, and 
someone was shaking him, trying to drag him away. He 
didn't want to be dragged away. He couldn't remember the 
other place but he knew he'd been unhappy there - that 
he'd be unhappy there still. He tried to sink yet deeper 
into the safe place, hoping that the person would give 
up, but the shaking grew more insistent. He could hear 
noises too - a phone ringing, people talking, footsteps 
which came closer then passed by. And a voice close to 
his ear, calling his name, making the safe place fade 
away into oblivion. 
 
"Mulder?" It was Scully, her voice gentle, though her 
hand was firm as she steadily shook his shoulder. "I'm 
sorry to wake you, but you're in the way." 
 
Blinking to dispel the last vestiges of sleep, Mulder 
looked up, trying to remember where he was, taking in the 
unfamiliar office, the desk he was slumped on, the police 
officers busy at work around him. 
 
"I've been asleep!" He was fully awake now, and angry 
with himself. "I was going to stay awake. I might have 
missed him!" He couldn't remember being tired. As the 
hours of night had turned into early morning, he'd been 
filled with energy, his mind rejoicing in being free from 
the dark thoughts that had been assailing it just hours 
earlier. He didn't know why they were gone, but their 
absence had left him suddenly inspired with ideas on how 
to proceed on the case. He knew he'd been awake at four, 
for he'd looked up at the clock then, pausing in his 
writing to stretch his tired muscles. It was now nine 
o'clock. 
 
Scully looked worried. "Don't push yourself too hard. You 
need the sleep. I know you got no sleep at all the 
previous night." Thinking back, he realised this was 
true. At the time he'd been too busy working to notice. 
"Anyway, I've asked. He didn't call." She smiled 
suddenly. "And after the way you spoke to them yesterday, 
they'd certainly have woken you if he _had_ called." 
 
He flinched with shame at the memory of how he'd behaved 
yesterday, storming into the police incident room, 
insisting that he was the only one capable of dealing 
with the anonymous caller. He couldn't remember why he'd 
been so sure. Now, the initial euphoria of being in 
control of his own thoughts having worn off, he wasn't 
sure of anything. 
 
"What did you find last night?" he asked, in an attempt 
to distract himself from the memory. 
 
"Nothing." Scully shook her head, distress evident in her 
eyes and her frown. "Nothing since I was here last 
night." She'd already told him the results of her 
interviews with the parents and Jo. "We've put an appeal 
out for witnesses and can only hope that someone comes 
forward. Apart from that..... well, we're searching the 
neighbourhood, hoping to stumble on the place he's 
keeping her, but we're searching blind. He covers his 
tracks well." 
 
She looked weary. He wondered how much of the night she'd 
spent in fruitless searching, or else lying awake, her 
head ringing with the parents' cries of grief, or, worse, 
with imagining Sophie's cries of agony. He shuddered at 
the thought of her tormented by such imaginings. She'd 
had the worst of the case, performing an autopsy and 
facing the inconsolable grief of Sophie's parents, while 
he'd just sat in his room wallowing in his own thoughts, 
too weak to fight. She had more cause to break down than 
he did, but she was strong, refusing to let her own 
feelings interfere with her effectiveness on a case. She 
put him to shame 
 
"What have _you_ got?" Scully was peering over his 
shoulder, attempting to decipher the scrawled pages that 
had issued from his pen during those hours of 
inspiration. 
 
Mulder tried to drag his thoughts back to the case, 
attempting to recover the enthusiasm he'd felt before 
falling asleep. "Ideas on how to track down the 
telepathic caller," he said, at last. 
 
Scully sighed, scepticism manifest on her face. Mulder 
made no attempt to argue with her, offering no defence in 
the face of her evident disbelief. He could no longer 
summon up any real enthusiasm for his ideas, although 
they had seemed so promising last night. 
 
"Let's hear them." Scully's voice was resigned, but she 
still prompted him a second time when he failed to 
respond at first. 
 
"He's new in the area, otherwise he'd have made contact 
before, last time he saw a violent crime. He probably 
came from an area with a high crime rate, trying to find 
peace away from people. For the same reason he probably 
lives in the country, some way out of town. He can 
recognise the park and the woods by sight, but can't 
identify the clinic where Ellie Benton was found. He 
might have a criminal record - something that makes him 
scared to trust us if he came forward with his story." 
 
His voice was dull. He was merely paraphrasing what he'd 
written the previous night, without feeling any of the 
enthusiasm he'd felt then. Full of hope because his dark 
thoughts had lifted, he'd really believed that he could 
solve the case - that his ideas could even save a girl's 
life. Now he knew he'd been wrong. Wrong to think he 
could do anything worthwhile in the case. Wrong to hope 
he could be happy. Wrong to think he deserved to be 
happy. 
 
Scully nodded, although her expression was strained. 
"That makes sense, if - _if_ - your basic premise is 
correct. But ...." Her voice faltered, as if she was 
reluctant to continue. 
 
"But?" he prompted. 
 
"I'm sorry to sound like Newman, but have you profiled 
our serial killer yet - not some "telepath" who's 
watching the killer, but the killer himself?" She didn't 
look him in the eyes, as if scared of how he'd react, and 
she sighed when his silence gave her all the answer she 
needed. 
 
Mulder was saved from having to reply by the sudden 
entrance of Gardiner. "I missed you at breakfast," he 
said, with a bright smile at Scully. 
 
Remembering Gardiner's expressed interest in Scully, 
Mulder attempted to gauge Scully's reaction to him, but 
he couldn't see her face. Yesterday the merest suggestion 
that Scully was interested in Gardiner had brought an 
overwhelming array of painful thoughts and images. These 
had left him now, at least for a while, but in their 
place had left nothing but a great emptiness. It didn't 
seem to matter any more. As long as _she_ was happy.... 
 
"What have you got, Mulder?" That question again, but 
Gardiner this time. Unable to summon up the energy to 
repeat his worthless ideas, Mulder looked beseechingly at 
Scully, who came to his rescue. As she relayed his ideas 
to Gardiner, Mulder let his eyes wander across the room. 
Someone was on the phone, scribbling down notes on a pad, 
her eyes full of enthusiasm. A lead, perhaps, but even 
this left him unmoved. He felt as if the overpowering 
emotions of the last few days had driven out all his 
normal feelings, leaving nothing but the certainty that 
he was not free yet. 
 
"What is it?" Scully was suddenly alert as she turned to 
face the woman who'd taken the call. She was now standing 
up, holding her pad up in triumph. 
 
"We've found him!" 
 
********** 
 
Scully reached for her gun, anxious to feel its 
reassuring presence at her side, smiling a little when 
she suddenly realised this was the third time in the last 
minute that she'd performed this particular nervous 
gesture. And in that whole minute no-one had come to the 
door. She reached out and knocked again, louder this 
time, her heart pounding with anticipation of what might 
be about to happen. The frosted glass in the front door 
revealed little of the house's interior, but every second 
that passed made her more certain that it contained 
death. The overgrown garden, the peeling paintwork, the 
looming forms of boxes just visible through the windows - 
everything suggested a perfect hideout for a murderer to 
take his victim. Even the weather was adding to the 
atmosphere, producing a dark bank of clouds which welled 
up from the north, making the mid-morning light as grey 
as late dusk. 
 
She and Gardiner had wasted no time, visiting the girl as 
soon as the call had come in. It was another girl from 
the same school as Sophie, although not one of her close 
friends. She'd been ignorant of Sophie's disappearance, 
hearing the news only when she reached the school, where 
no-one could talk of anything else. Hearing about the 
mysterious man that Jo had seen, she'd suddenly broken 
out in hysterical screams, claiming that there were dead 
bodies next door to her and that the killer would come 
for her next. It had been a while before her teacher 
could get the whole story out of her, but as soon as he 
had he'd called the police, for she too had seen Sophie 
going off with a man. Unlike Jo, however, she could 
identify him, saying he'd just moved in to the empty 
house next door to her family. She'd been calmer by the 
time Scully and Gardiner arrived, admitting enough doubt 
for them to feel it inadvisable to raid the house in 
force, but there was still enough evidence for Scully to 
feel that they could well be knocking on the door of a 
serial killer. 
 
"Should we break the door down?" Gardiner looked nervous. 
 
"Not yet." Scully wondered how Gardiner had lasted so 
long in the Bureau. He actually had more years of 
experience as a field agent than she did, but was 
constantly seeking her approval before doing anything. 
She could only assume that he was competent enough when 
not dazzled by working with the X-Files team. Either that 
or the Bureau's recruitment policies left a lot to be 
desired. 
 
She raised her hand to knock one more time, the other 
hand reaching for the gun. This time it wasn't a nervous 
gesture. She kept her hand on the weapon, ready to draw 
it at a moment's notice. 
 
"No answer." She made up her mind at last, turning to 
Gardiner to give him his instructions. If he wanted her 
to take the lead then she would. Better than standing on 
the doorstep all day while a killer laughed at them from 
inside. "Call for back-up! We'll go in." If Mulder had 
been there, she thought, he'd probably have been in long 
ago, no thought of back-up. He'd have found the killer, 
too, although would doubtless have been knocked 
unconscious in the process. 
 
Suddenly the door opened. It took all Scully's self- 
control not to pull out her gun there and then. She 
didn't think her heart could pound any faster, but when 
she saw the person at the door, she was sure that it 
speeded up even more from the shock. In all her dark 
imaginings of what the house contained, she had never 
expected this. 
 
"Do you want my Daddy? He's in the shower." 
 
The "killer" she'd nearly threatened at gun point was a 
little girl of no more than seven. 
 
********** 
 
"I guess we're back where we started - with nothing." 
Scully sighed, shutting her eyes as she leant back on the 
head-rest. 
 
The man they'd visited _had_ been the man seen with 
Sophie, but he'd only stopped her to ask for directions 
to the principal's office. It had been hard to explain so 
she walked with him a little way, taking him to within 
sight of the office, then had left him. That was all he'd 
seen of her. He'd known nothing of her disappearance, not 
having set up an order for the local newspaper and being 
too busy unpacking to watch the television. He'd have 
come forward straight away had he known, he assured them, 
although he'd spoken to her so little that he couldn't 
say for sure that it had been Sophie he'd spoken to, 
although, of course, if there were witnesses then it must 
have been. He was very busy making the new home 
habitable, but he'd be more than willing to drop 
everything and join the search for the poor girl. He felt 
some responsibility, being possibly the last person to 
see her alive. Apart from the murderer, of course, and 
he'd do everything he could to help apprehend him. 
 
"Shouldn't he still be a suspect?" Gardiner refused to 
let it drop. "He _is_ new the area, and the murders only 
started a week ago. All those big crates and boxes he's 
been carrying into the house .....perfect places to hide 
a body." 
 
Scully shook her head. A call to the school principal 
confirmed that he had indeed had an appointment with her 
after school the previous afternoon, and had stayed with 
her for half an hour, by which time Sophie was already 
five minutes late. Instead it looked more and more as if 
Sophie had indeed been taken by an unknown man, but not 
until she was nearly home. Newman had called and said 
that several witnesses thought they'd seen her at various 
stages of her journey. Martinez and O'Brien were on their 
way to interview a woman who thought she saw her heading 
for an area of waste ground commonly used by children as 
a short cut. In good weather it would have been crowded, 
but in the winter most children were taken to school by 
car. 
 
Even then Gardiner wasn't subdued. "Maybe Mulder's come 
up with something," he said, eagerly. 
 
Scully preferred not to think about that. 
 
********** 
 
"What have you got?" Newman's voice was gruff as he 
crossed the room in a few angry paces. 
 
Mulder, sitting behind the desk he'd appropriated in the 
police station, made no response, staring down at the 
notes in front of him. Scully, who'd been leaning on the 
back of the chair when Newman entered, suddenly doubted 
that Mulder was actually seeing the notes - if indeed he 
was even aware of his surroundings. As soon as they'd 
returned from their fruitless morning, Gardiner had 
seized upon Mulder's ideas for tracking down the alleged 
"telepath", enthusiastically planning out their afternoon 
of chasing the leads. Scully, playing her usual sceptic's 
role in the face of such enthusiasm, hadn't noticed how 
little Mulder was contributing to the conversation. 
Looking back, she couldn't recall him saying a word. 
 
Newman repeated his question, louder this time, recalling 
Scully to the present, but Gardiner got in first. 
"Mulder's got some great ideas for tracking down the 
tel.... er... the caller." At least the man had _some_ 
tact. 
 
"I don't want to hear about the caller!" Newman shouted. 
"I want to hear about the killer! Have you done your 
profile yet?" 
 
Everyone in the room turned round, roused by the shout, 
but Mulder made no response. Newman took his silence as a 
no. 
 
"Damn you, Mulder! Three days you've been here, and still 
done nothing. I was right about you all along. I only 
agreed to ask you here because Gardiner begged me, and 
because, as he kept on telling me, you once had a good 
record for being able to catch monsters like this. I want 
to solve this case - that's my top priority - so I was 
prepared to give you another chance - to put aside my 
dislike of you because Gardiner believed you were the 
best hope of solving this thing without any further 
deaths. But there have been more deaths. One - probably 
two." 
 
Mulder started. Recalled from whatever dark reverie he'd 
been in, his attention was certainly on Newman now. He 
offered no defence. Newman continued, relentlessly. 
 
"I don't know if you could have prevented them. I believe 
in good old-fashioned police work - in hard work, 
searching the area, talking to witnesses. I don't know 
about psychology. I don't know if a psychological profile 
could have stopped all this. Perhaps not." He leant 
across the desk, his face only inches from Mulder's, an 
angry finger stabbing at his chest. "But if there's even 
the smallest chance that a profile might help, then it is 
your duty to produce one - it _was_ your duty to produce 
one. That's what you're here for. Everyone else has done 
all they can to track him down, and what have you done? 
Moped around God knows where, sat in your room, sat here 
doing nothing. If I find out there was anything you could 
have done that would have prevented these deaths - 
_anything_- then I'll hold you personally responsible." 
 
Mulder remained silent, though Scully could tell from his 
rapid breathing that he was hearing everything that was 
said. Worse, was believing it. 
 
"It's all a game to you, isn't it?" Newman shouted. "A 
game. Trying out your crazy ideas, seeing how far you can 
go with them. But these are real people you're playing 
with here - real people who are suffering because you'd 
rather use this case - use them - to test your latest 
theory. Just because the killer doesn't fit into one of 
your paranormal theories you can't be bothered to profile 
him. But you can't pick and choose on a case like this, 
pursuing only things that suit your interests. It is our 
duty to do whatever we can to solve this, however boring, 
or uncomfortable, or disturbing it might be. There are 
lives at stake, and you don't give a damn. Three women 
dead. Three families devastated. A young girl probably 
being tortured to death even as you do nothing. Real 
people, Mulder. Not dry theories on a piece of paper. 
People." 
 
Scully knew she should stop this - should have stopped it 
before it went this far - but Newman's words held her 
gripped by a horrified fascination. Gardiner was rigid, 
mouth open with shock. She couldn't see Mulder's face. 
 
Newman straightened up, anger fading from his face. To 
her surprise, Scully saw tears shining in his eyes. "Can 
you even begin to imagine what it's like for that poor 
girl - for her family?" His voice was still reproachful, 
but was quieter now, full of sadness. "I've just talked 
to them. Their lives have been devastated. Could you look 
_them_ in the eye and explain why you haven't done your 
profile? They've lost their daughter - a ten year old 
girl. Can you imagine what they're going through?" He 
paused for a moment, showing visible emotion. "Well, _I_ 
care. Even if you don't, _I_ care about finding the man 
who's got their little girl. And if you want a career to 
go back to when this is over, I suggest you get on with 
that profile. Now." And with that he turned and walked 
out of the room, slamming the door behind him. 
 
Scully let out the breath she hadn't known she'd been 
holding, suddenly aware that she'd been gripping Mulder's 
shoulder. When she relaxed her grip he slumped forward, 
resting his head in his hands. He was still silent. 
Everyone else in the room had heard the scene - they 
couldn't help but hear it - and looked embarrassed, 
trying not to stare openly. Scully still felt stunned, 
overwhelmed by the force of Newman's resentment, his 
words still echoing in her ears: "can you imagine what 
they're going through?" She gasped as the implication hit 
her, realising suddenly why Mulder was reacting the way 
he was. She cursed herself for not seeing it earlier, and 
for her failure to anticipate Newman's attack. She could 
have prevented the scene. She only hoped that she could 
prevent another. 
 
"Mulder? I'll be back soon." She doubted he'd heard her, 
but there was no time to get through to him. She was 
anxious to catch Newman before he left. 
 
Newman was just down the corridor, standing at a window, 
obviously still wrestling with his emotions. Scully had 
been angry with him for his attack on Mulder, but the 
sight of him reminded her that she had no right. Newman 
genuinely wanted to solve the case, genuinely felt 
intensely for the victims and their families. As far as 
he was concerned, Mulder was jeopardising the case and 
deserved to be rebuked. 
 
"Agent Newman?" Scully kept her voice low. "Please don't 
be too hard on Mulder." 
 
Newman snorted. "He deserved everything I said." 
 
Scully hesitated before replying. Much of what she knew 
about Mulder's childhood had been told to her in 
confidence and she didn't want to break that to anyone, 
least of all to someone who disliked him as much as 
Newman did. But at the same time she though it important, 
in the circumstances, that Newman knew. She was prepared 
to do anything to prevent another scene like the one 
she'd just witnessed. "No he didn't," she said, at last. 
"That bit about him not understanding what the girl's 
family are going through - you weren't to know, but he 
_does_ know exactly what they're going through. His 
sister disappeared when she was eight, and was never 
found. Because he was baby-sitting at the time he blamed 
himself - still blames himself. He's never got over it." 
 
"I'm sorry. I didn't know." Newman looked sincerely 
sorry. "But that doesn't alter the fact that he's 
deliberately obstructing this case." 
 
"No he's not!" It came out as an angry protestation, 
forcing Scully into a quick apology. "Sorry," she 
continued, voice deliberately calm. "He's not doing it 
deliberately. He's not normally like this, but he's under 
a lot of stress at the moment. To be honest, I'm very 
worried about him." She hadn't intended to reveal 
Mulder's problems, but couldn't leave Newman thinking 
Mulder was deliberately obstructing a murder 
investigation. 
 
Newman sighed, his expression softening. "Look, I don't 
like Mulder, I admit that. But I'm not a total monster. 
If Mulder's suffering from stress then he has my full 
sympathy. But if that's so he shouldn't be on the case. 
If he's having emotional problems that are interfering 
with his work, then he shouldn't be working. It's as 
simple as that. He should take sick leave, have a 
vacation, talk to a therapist, resign from the Bureau - 
anything but jeopardise an investigation by working on it 
when incapable of giving it his full attention." 
 
Scully was about to argue, but suddenly realised that 
Newman was absolutely right. "Yes, I know," she said. 
"I'll talk to him - try to persuade him to get help." 
 
_That_ would be no easy task, she thought, as she walked 
back to the incident room, pausing at the door as she 
steeled herself to face what was inside. 
 
********** 
 
"I hold you personally responsible." He wondered who had 
said that. He thought he'd heard it very recently, but 
the voice was his father's, and he was dead. "Can you 
imagine what they're going through?" 
 
"Yes!" he wanted to shout. "Of course I know." He'd put 
his parents through the same grief all that time ago, and 
then more recently still. "Do you know what this will do 
to your mother?" He'd cried then, knowing it was all his 
fault, but his father had been remorseless. He'd deserved 
it. He'd lost her twice. "But the second one wasn't...." 
A little voice in his mind, ruthlessly suppressed. "She 
might have been. You lost her anyway. You didn't protect 
any of them." 
 
And then it was all there. Stratego. A bright light. A 
bridge. Ice. "Where is she?" he'd asked, again and again. 
No answer. "You're making a big mistake." He couldn't 
even do _that_ right. Always out of reach, floating away 
from his every move. Calling for him. Shaking his 
shoulder..... 
 
"Mulder? Mulder! It's me." Why didn't she call him Fox? 
 
"Mulder? Please talk to me." She was very small now, far 
off in the bright light, nearly gone. "Samantha!" he 
shouted, reaching for her. And someone was there, warm 
beneath his grip. 
 
Scully. 
 
Her face was full of concern. "I'm okay, Scully." He 
forced the words out, but they sounded less real in his 
head than the voices of his memories. 
 
Scully shook her head, sadly. "I don't think you are, 
Mulder. You've got to talk to someone." 
 
"I'm not crazy, Scully." The voices had gone now. 
 
Scully sighed. "You must realise how strange your 
behaviour has been recently. All these mood swings and 
these periods completely unresponsive. Don't you think 
you'd be better taking some time off, just to get some 
rest?" 
 
"No!" Mulder knew suddenly that he couldn't stop working 
- that work was the only thing keeping him sane. Lose his 
work and he'd lose his focus in life - lose all chance of 
keeping the terrible memories at bay. "I'm coping, 
Scully. It's only memories." He struggled for an 
explanation. "When you were away I had some time to 
think, and to brood on the past. I just need a little 
more time, but I'll forget them." 
 
Scully looked weary. "Mulder, you know that's not true. I 
know you - you've lived with these memories every day of 
your life. You'll never forget, not without help. But you 
can get help." She looked at him, earnestly. "I'd support 
you. Skinner would give you time off if you needed it, 
but you could still do unofficial research on the X-Files 
if you feel you need to work. Don't be ashamed to admit 
you need help." 
 
He'd been about to nod, accepting the truth of her words, 
already feeling the relief that came with handing over a 
problem to someone else rather than tackling at alone. 
But then.... "she wants you to forget." That voice again, 
drowning out reason. "No!" he shouted, out loud, noticing 
Scully flinch. "No! I don't need help. I mustn't forget. 
I need to remember what I've done." He saw the hurt in 
her eyes, and was filled with guilt that he'd caused her 
pain once more. Just like he'd hurt everyone else. 
 
"Leave me alone, Scully." He made his tone brusque, 
driving her away. She could only be happy away from him. 
"I'll do that profile now." 
 
Scully opened her mouth to protest, but thought better of 
it. She reached out to touch his arm but he made himself 
flinch away. He couldn't let her get close enough to get 
hurt. "Go away. I'm trying to work," he snapped, but the 
look on her face was enough to bring the voices back. 
 
Drowning in memories, he didn't even notice when Scully 
left. 
 
********** 
 
She should have stayed. She knew that now - now that it 
was too late. Sitting next to Gardiner in the car, coming 
back from an afternoon of fruitless investigation, the 
case was the last thing that Scully was thinking of. 
 
She'd been forced to put Mulder from her mind for hours, 
focusing all her attention on interviewing witnesses. By 
combining the various statements they'd been able to get 
a clear picture of when and where Sophie disappeared, but 
as yet no-one had reported seeing anyone acting 
suspiciously in the area. The other agents and the local 
police, joined by a large band of civilian volunteers, 
had searched waste ground, woodlands, deserted buildings 
- anywhere that might hide a criminal, or a body - but 
they had merely scratched the surface of possible places. 
It seemed increasingly likely that Sophie would be found 
dead, if she was found at all. It was not something that 
Scully liked to dwell on. 
 
But putting the case from her mind and thinking about 
Mulder offered no comfort either. When he'd shouted at 
her to leave she'd been so angry, so hurt, that she had 
stormed out, slamming the door, determined to teach him a 
lesson by staying away for hours, ignoring his calls. But 
even as she did it she knew she was being unfair - that 
Mulder was only driving her away because he was too upset 
to talk. She knew she should have stayed - should have 
persisted in offering comfort until eventually he'd open 
up to her. She knew that something was disturbing him 
deeply, and she really felt for him, but at the same time 
she was hurt and angry when he excluded her, rejecting 
her offers of help. Now, looking back at it, she knew she 
should have suppressed the anger, letting him know that 
she'd be there for him as he dealt with his problems in 
his own way, even if that wasn't the way she'd have 
preferred. But at the time it was always so difficult not 
to feel angry that even after all this time he still 
didn't trust her enough to tell her what was worrying 
him. 
 
"Agent Scully .... er.... Dana?" Gardiner's voice broke 
into her thoughts. "Can I ask you something?" 
 
"What?" Scully snapped, her voice expressing her 
annoyance at the distraction. 
 
"Oh, nothing. It doesn't matter." Gardiner's face fell, 
and Scully was full of remorse. 
 
"I'm sorry," she said, forcing a smile. It was unfair to 
take out on Gardiner all her frustrations about Mulder. 
"You took me by surprise. I was just thinking about 
Mulder - about that scene earlier." 
 
For once, Gardiner didn't launch into the enthusiastic 
praise that he normally expressed whenever anyone 
mentioned Mulder's name. Instead he looked grave. 
"Er....About Mulder..... Are you and he ....er....?" 
 
He looked so bashful that Scully wasn't offended by the 
question. "No." She almost laughed. "It's nothing like 
that. We're just...." She paused, unsure how to explain 
the relationship she had with Mulder. "We're partners," 
she said simply. 
 
Gardiner looked relieved. "Agent Scully ?... I mean, 
Dana?" He took a deep breath, blushing furiously. "Please 
could I ask you to dinner?" 
 
Scully was stunned. It was the last thing she'd expected, 
and she was at a loss for an answer. In the past when a 
man had asked her on a date she'd at least anticipated 
his interest and considered her reply. But Gardiner 
....She'd never thought about Gardiner in that way at 
all, never contemplated a relationship with him. She 
needed time - time to think about him as a possible date 
rather than as a naive young agent who'd spent the case 
by her side, in Mulder's place. Dinner was no commitment, 
she knew. She could say yes - go to one meal with him and 
then go their separate ways if it didn't work out. But 
Gardiner's face, shy and hopeful, told her that it would 
be unfair to say yes unless she was serious. 
 
"Ask me again when the case is over," she said, at last. 
"I couldn't enjoy myself until this is finished." 
Although she said it as an excuse to postpone her 
decision, she realised it was true. 
 
But when the case was over she'd have to decide. She had 
to admit that she was flattered that someone was 
interested. She'd almost forgotten what it felt like to 
know that a man found her attractive and wanted to spend 
some time with her. Of course, Mulder always wanted to 
spend time with her, normally at unearthly hours of the 
night, but he wanted her for distinctly unromantic 
pursuits. Mulder didn't count. He didn't seem to notice 
she was a woman. Of course, she conceded, she was 
normally glad of that, aware that too many male agents 
judged a female agent by their sex rather than by their 
achievements. But, still, it was good for the ego to be 
admired every now and then - admired for appearance and 
character as well as for skill in tracking down some 
psychopath. And if anyone was going to admire her, 
Gardiner was a good enough choice, being well-meaning and 
genial. He was quite good-looking too, with a round face, 
curly fair hair and a ready smile. It wasn't the type she 
normally found attractive but he was pleasant enough. 
 
She almost turned to him and said yes there and then, but 
stopped herself just in time, aware that she was reacting 
simply to the pleasure of being noticed by someone - 
anyone. Gardiner was pleasant, and was interested, but it 
ended there. She'd lived perfectly well for two years 
without a date, and wasn't so desperate that she should 
accept the first unobjectionable man who came along, as 
if she wasn't capable of having a life without a man. 
 
The X-Files hardly allowed room for romance, anyway. It 
wasn't just the time. The X-Files - and Mulder - took up 
so much of her thoughts that there was little left over 
for a relationship. Although she sometimes longed for an 
ordinary life-style, she wasn't sure if she wanted to 
reduce her emotional connection to the X-Files. Certainly 
not to Mulder. Right now he needed her to be there for 
him, not away starting a relationship with someone else. 
 
She sighed as she realised that her thoughts had 
travelled back to Mulder again. He needed her there for 
him - she'd just told herself that - but he made it so 
difficult for her to support him. If he hadn't done that 
profile, she feared he was beyond anyone's help. If he 
wasn't already. 
 
********** 
 
"Mulder?" Newman was speaking through gritted teeth, his 
eyes not reflecting the forced apology he was trying to 
express. "I'm sorry about earlier. Scully's told me some 
things, and I know _some_ of the things I said were 
undeserved." He paused a little, shrugging ruefully. "I 
guess this case is getting to me more than I thought. I 
just get furious at the thought of anyone not pulling 
their weight." 
 
"I deserved it all." Mulder's voice sounded strange in 
his own ears, accustomed as he'd become to the voices of 
thoughts and memories which hammered on his senses more 
insistently than reality. 
 
Newman's grunt suggested that he fully agreed. Mulder 
knew he'd only been pushed into apologising by Scully and 
he was grateful, although he knew she was wrong to defend 
him - that his actions were always indefensible. 
 
"I suppose it's better than nothing." Newman broke the 
short silence, looking down at the rough notes he held in 
his hands. It wasn't a properly written profile, but the 
disjointed notes and ideas contained all Mulder's 
thoughts on the killer. "I only wish you could have 
bothered to do this earlier. It wasn't difficult." 
 
But it had been difficult - so difficult that Mulder felt 
totally drained from the effort. Writing the profile had 
suddenly seemed the most important thing in the world, 
but the memories just wouldn't leave him alone, assailing 
him with images more insistent than any he'd seen 
before.... 
 
"Write the profile. Please help me!" It had been Sophie's 
face, but the voice had been Samantha's, shouting so 
loudly that he could find no room in his mind for 
anything else. "Hurry up. Write it now. It's nearly too 
late!" The bright light had nearly swallowed her now, as 
blood had dripped from Sophie's wounds. 
 
Desperate to help, he'd tried to think of the case, tried 
to analyse the killer's actions, but the pleading cries 
had drowned out everything else. "I'm trying!" he'd cried 
with all his mind. "Leave me alone and let me think!" 
 
And then his thoughts had cleared and he'd known he would 
be able to write the profile, but even as he relaxed her 
voice had sounded from a long way away. "You told me to 
leave you alone. You don't love me any more...." 
 
Her voice had expressed more grief than he'd ever heard, 
but he knew he mustn't give in. "You're not real. You're 
not real." He'd repeated it over and over, summoning up 
all his strength to keep the thoughts at bay. 
 
It had sometimes worked. Sometimes he'd produced a line 
before his resistance crumbled. Sometimes he'd only 
managed a few words, regaining control sometime later to 
find he'd not left enough to enable him to recover the 
thread of the thought. Once, with an effort that left 
sweat pouring down his face, he'd managed a paragraph. 
 
If it had been anything other than a serial killer's 
profile it would have been easier, but he'd felt as if he 
was clearing his mind of one horror to dwell on another - 
forcing out the terrible images that tormented him in 
order to contemplate the mind of someone who revelled in 
torturing people. 
 
Every detail of the case had prompted a fresh attack. 
 
"He gets pleasure out of other people's suffering", he'd 
written, full of repugnance for the killer. But 
then....."you're not so different." The voice of his 
conscience, always there, whispering. "Who causes more 
pain - him or you?" "It's a game for you," Newman had 
said, and his conscience had remorselessly shown him the 
people who'd suffered while he played games for his own 
pleasure. Scully. Deep Throat. Melissa. His father. 
 
"He's attacking our social mores by killing the innocent 
and respectable." But even as he'd written the words 
they'd been blurred by his own tears. "_They_ were 
innocent too." Scully, Melissa, Samantha - especially 
Samantha. "You spared the guilty." Cancer Man. He'd 
lowered his gun then and left him unharmed, knowing that 
Cancer Man was less guilty than he was himself. "You 
wanted revenge. You wanted to punish the guilty. Then you 
should have turned the gun on yourself." 
 
Now the memories and the tormenting conscience had left 
him for a while, and he didn't have to fight for control 
of his own mind. He felt no relief. He remembered what 
they'd told him and believed it. When the thoughts came 
as the vivid bursts of images they could be dismissed as 
insane delusions, but when they came coherently in his 
conscious mind he knew they were all true. He'd rather be 
insane than guilty of everything they'd shown him. 
 
********** 
 
Seething with impatience, Scully wondered how Gardiner 
could turn the simple task of getting out of the car into 
such a major operation, anxiously straightening his tie 
in the mirror and smoothing out every crease from the 
coat he'd retrieved from the back seat. When he started 
flicking through all the notes he'd made on the 
afternoon's interviews, attentively sorting them into 
order, she gave up, leaving him with only a muttered 
explanation and heading alone into the police station. 
 
Her heart was pounding, and it was all she could do to 
keep herself from breaking into a run, although at the 
same time part of her was full of trepidation, anxious 
for any sort of delay which could keep her from the 
confrontation which she feared might ensue. She knew 
matters had come to a head, and was painfully aware that 
if Mulder had still failed to produce a profile Newman 
wouldn't hesitate to put in an official complaint. Given 
Mulder's past record, she feared that this could herald 
the end of his career. It was one thing for Skinner to 
intervene on Mulder's behalf when the complaint issued 
from the shadowy forces whose influence he resented 
almost as much as Mulder did, but this was something 
different. Skinner could turn a blind eye to Mulder 
breaking the rules when he was fighting enemies who had 
no qualms about breaking the law themselves, but he'd 
consider this sort of dereliction of duty in a criminal 
investigation unforgivable. The only hope was to plead a 
temporary breakdown caused by job-induced stress, but 
even this would look bad on his record - if his record 
could possibly look worse than it no doubt did already. 
 
Outside the incident room she paused a while, straining 
to catch the hum of conversation which drifted through 
the closed door. Although she couldn't make out any 
words, she could distinguish Newman's voice, and supposed 
it was a good sign that he wasn't shouting. 
 
Before reaching for the handle, she struggled to calm her 
breathing, suddenly aware of how stressed she must 
appear. Mulder needed to see her calm and in control if 
she was ever going to convince him to open up to her and 
trust her with his problems. He wouldn't want to burden 
her with his own problems if he knew how bothered she was 
by his behaviour. Instead he'd likely add her stress to 
the long list of things he could feel guilty about. She 
was painfully aware that she'd singularly failed to keep 
her cool over the last few days, handling Mulder's 
depression badly. 
 
"Are you okay, Agent Sc.... er.... Dana?" Wrapped up in 
her own worries, Scully hadn't heard Gardiner 
approaching, his footsteps muffled by the drab 
institutional carpet. She blushed at being caught 
listening at doors like a little girl. She only hoped she 
wasn't blushing as much as Gardiner did every time he 
used her name. He was looking concerned and embarrassed, 
and was clutching a briefcase full of the notes which 
he'd evidently sorted to his own satisfaction at last. 
 
Smiling her reassurance, Scully opened the door, 
forestalling Gardiner who was reaching for the handle, 
preparing to play the gentleman. 
 
".... So we can stake out here .... and here .... er .... 
and here's another one." A tight knot of agents and 
police was gathered around a chart on the wall, sticking 
little pointers in at various locations. Their voices 
were full of the eagerness of a promising new lead. 
Scully fervently hoped this lead had been provided by 
Mulder's profile. He wasn't part of the group, but was 
over by the window, staring out at the rain-sodden 
streets. He didn't turn round when she came in. 
 
"Oh, hello, Agent Scully, Gardiner." Newman turned round, 
a sincere smile on his lips. He seemed to bear no grudge 
over Scully's criticism of the way he was dealing with 
Mulder. She hoped this meant he recognised that he'd been 
wrong, but knew it more likely that Newman had just 
agreed to differ with her when it came to Mulder. This 
suspicion was confirmed when he gestured towards Mulder, 
his expression darkening. "He's done that profile, at 
last. If you can call it a profile." His voice expressed 
no approbation. 
 
Scully took the proffered document, skimming though it 
quickly as the other agents continued to discuss tactics. 
"He's got a grudge against society," she read. "He's 
attacking our social mores by killing the innocent and 
respectable - undermining everything society holds 
sacred. He's killed a teacher and a doctor - caring 
professions who have a special place in society - and 
what better way to shock society than to torture and kill 
a child? And then there's more. Not only does he kill the 
innocent, but he also defiles the places associated with 
them. Clearly he keeps his victims elsewhere, but before 
killing them he transports them to a specially chosen 
place which he can symbolically defile by killing them 
there. The teacher is killed at a children's play area in 
the park. The doctor is killed next to a clinic...." 
 
"Right. Let's go!" Their campaign sorted out, everyone 
began to collect their things in preparation for their 
departure. Scully speeded up her reading. 
 
"He gets pleasure out of other people's suffering and 
pain, but he's not just attacking them, he's attacking 
society. He feels society has let his down. He was 
probably abused as a child but for whatever reason 
received no help. Consequently he feels that society - in 
particular teachers and doctors - failed him. He attacks 
symbols of the people who let him down, and also children 
who represent the life he didn't have. A child from a 
happy home. A teenager in a loving relationship - a thing 
he's never had himself. Society had given him nothing, 
and he wants his revenge." 
 
There was more of the same, which she skimmed quickly, 
heading for the conclusions at the end. "By past 
precedent we can deduce that he'll kill Sophie Williams 
in an appropriate place. Probably a school, though he 
won't be so obvious as to chose the one she attended. 
Possibly a church." Sophie's father was a prominent local 
preacher. "It will be tonight or tomorrow night, probably 
very late. We should stake out as many possible sites as 
we can." 
 
She found herself nodding in agreement as she read. 
Although it wasn't written as a formal profile its 
conclusions seemed sound enough. She wondered why no-one 
had noticed how appropriate the crime scene locations 
were. It occurred to her that Mulder wasn't the only one 
who'd neglected his duty to the case. Assuming that 
profiling was Mulder's job, no-one had bothered to think 
about the killer's motives, ignoring any part of the 
investigation which was properly the job of a profiler. 
Had anyone bothered to think, they'd have no doubt 
noticed the connection days ago. 
 
Aware that several people had already left, she quickly 
leafed back through the pages, looking at Mulder's 
description of the suspect which she'd skimmed over 
earlier. "We're looking for a young man, probably early 
twenties, not more than half a dozen years out of school. 
From evidence at the scene of Ellie Benton's murder we 
know he's got brown hair. He lives alone, or at least is 
alone at the moment, without a job, and possibly has a 
minor criminal record. He's had a few years of adult 
life, watching his contemporaries find work and 
relationships, while failing to find them himself. He's 
begun to realise his upbringing means he never has any 
chance of being an accepted member of society, and the 
resentment has been building up until finally he's 
cracked, launching his offensive on the society that 
first failed to protect him and then rejected him. We 
must approach him with extreme caution. Law enforcement 
is another pillar of the society he hates, and he would 
not hesitate to kill." 
 
"Damn you, Mulder! I thought you'd seen sense at last." 
Hearing Newman's shout, Scully dropped the profile in 
alarm. Newman was standing behind Mulder, his face livid. 
"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" he shouted, jerking 
roughly on Mulder's shoulder, turning him round. 
 
Scully caught her breath at the sight of Mulder's face, 
the relief she'd briefly felt when she found he'd done 
the profile rushing out of her in an instant. He looked 
utterly exhausted, almost on the point of collapse. If 
she hadn't known that he'd spent the afternoon sitting at 
a desk, she'd have deduced that he'd been enduring some 
immense physical exertion that took every ounce of his 
energy. 
 
"He won't come with us," Newman offered by way of 
explanation for his anger. "If he's right we need to 
stake out dozens of places. We need every man we can get, 
and he won't help." 
 
His voice was rising again, leading Scully to fear 
another torrent of accusation that she feared would push 
Mulder over the edge, if he wasn't there already. "Let me 
handle this," she said, anxious to protect Mulder from 
Newman's anger. Although she kept her voice placatory she 
looked firmly at Newman, relaxing her gaze only when he 
got the message and crossed to the other side of the 
room, granting them some privacy although he kept a keen 
eye on them. 
 
"Mulder," Scully whispered urgently, anxious not to be 
overheard. By now half the police department had no doubt 
heard the content of Newman's tirade, and she didn't want 
to any more of Mulder's problems to become common 
knowledge. If he was having a breakdown it was bad enough 
without it becoming a spectator sport. 
 
He looked at her when she spoke his name. She'd feared he 
was lost in some dark reverie, unaware of his 
surroundings, but he was focused on her presence, even 
though he looked exhausted. 
 
"Why won't you go with them?" She was careful to keep her 
voice level. "I've just read your profile. It's good. If 
you understand how this man works you'd be useful out 
there with them." 
 
"I need to stay here." The words came out as if simply 
speaking required a greater effort than he really had the 
energy for. "I must be here if the caller makes contact." 
 
Scully couldn't suppress a sigh. When she'd read the 
profile she'd assumed Mulder had given up on his fixation 
on his telepathic caller. "If he does, they'll talk to 
him." She gestured at the officers stationed next to the 
phones, ready to take any call related to the case. 
"Finding the killer's the most important thing, and they 
could really use your knowledge there." 
 
"_This_ is more important, Scully." Mulder's voice was 
firmer now, the urgency he obviously felt over-riding his 
still-evident exhaustion. "The caller's our best way to 
find the killer. Those other things I wrote - they're 
just extra ideas, not much chance of working. But the 
caller's the key. I understand him." He grabbed her arm, 
looking earnestly into her eyes. "I don't know why I know 
this, but I do. I understand the man. If I talk to him I 
might be able to persuade him to help." 
 
He was staring at her intensely, looking almost like the 
old Fox Mulder, obsessively fixed on pursuing a case 
beyond all reason. But then he sighed, weariness 
suffusing his face again. "Don't ask me why, Scully," he 
said quietly. "But this is important to me. More 
important than anything. For the first time in my life I 
want to do the right thing." These last words came out as 
a quiet mumble, probably not intended for her ears at 
all, and the implications filled her with horror. She'd 
always known he felt guilty about certain things in his 
life, but had no idea it had become this bad. 
 
"Mulder." She reached for his hand, sympathy outweighing 
any anger she might have felt for his constant 
provocation of Newman. Any credit he might have gained by 
writing the profile would be wiped out by this refusal to 
leave the phone. She searched for words of comfort, but 
didn't know where to start. 
 
"Agent Mulder!" An urgent call interrupted her attempts 
at comfort, jerking Mulder into an instant alertness. 
"It's him!" 
 
Newman made a cry, stepping across the room as if to stop 
Mulder taking the phone, but Mulder was too fast for him, 
moving with a pace that belied his exhausted appearance. 
 
Scully strained to hear, but the voice at the other end 
of the line was too quiet. Newman was desperately 
signalling instructions to trace the call, although the 
practised officers were already carrying out the 
necessary procedures. "Keep him talking!" he mouthed to 
Mulder, but Mulder didn't appear to notice, his attention 
thoroughly focused on the anonymous person at the other 
end of the line. 
 
"Listen! I know it's not you!" he said, urgently. There 
was a brief pause, in which the caller obviously 
objected. "No! It's _not_ you. You're just a witness. If 
you come forward, I promise you no-one will accuse you." 
Newman gasped, his face reddening with fury, only just 
preventing himself from crying out. "Where is it?" Mulder 
was talking again. "Is it a school? A church?" Another 
pause, as the caller answered. "As soon as you _do_ know, 
call us. I know it's difficult to think when you see 
things, but you must call us. I'll be here. Ask for Agent 
Mulder." 
 
After a short pause, Mulder put the phone down. "He's 
gone," he said, unnecessarily. "He said she'll be killed 
tonight." 
 
There was an explosion of voices. "Damn! A few seconds 
more and we'd have got him!" That from a police officer 
whose name Scully didn't know, but his words were cut out 
by a bellow of anger from Newman who rounded on Mulder, 
fists clenched as if he wanted nothing as much as to beat 
Mulder to a pulp. 
 
"My God, Mulder!" he shouted. "How could you do that? 
That was probably our killer, calling to taunt us with 
our inability to find him, and what do you do? You 
promise him he'll not be charged, and then you go and 
tell him the places where we'll be waiting for him. "Is 
it a school? A church?" Well, thanks to you it won't be 
either now, and our one advantage gone." 
 
"It's not the killer." Mulder was stubborn, showing no 
sign of remorse. 
 
Newman took a deep breath, speaking through gritted 
teeth, struggling to contain his anger. "I won't waste my 
breath on this any more. You're not worth it." He reached 
for his coat. "Unlike you, I want to catch this killer, 
although you've probably just ruined any chance of 
getting that girl out alive. Every second I spend telling 
you what I think of you is a second less spent on this 
case, so I'm going out there to look for him." He paused 
at the door. "Don't even think of coming with us. You 
stay here and wait for your caller - this killer you're 
doing everything you can to help. Just don't come out on 
the streets with us. No-one wants you there. No-one wants 
your kind of "help" You poison everything you touch." And 
with that parting shot, he slammed the door behind him. 
 
"Mulder, I'll go and talk to him," Scully said hastily, 
"Calm him down." She knew it was a hopeless task even as 
she said it, but felt it had to be done. 
 
"Sir," she said, running next to him as he strode to his 
car, so he couldn't accuse her of delaying him. "With all 
due respect, sir, I don't think it was Mulder's fault the 
caller didn't hang round long enough for us to trace 
him." That was true. Had Newman taken the call, he'd have 
doubtless accused the caller of murder and forced him to 
hang up even quicker than Mulder had. 
 
Newman stopped. "Agent Scully. I respect you as an agent, 
but frankly I've had it up to here with your constant 
attempts to defend Mulder. I'll welcome your help in our 
search, but just leave Mulder out of it." 
 
Scully refused to be daunted. "But, Sir. We don't know 
the caller is the killer. Mulder might be right." 
 
Newman laughed incredulously. "Right that he's a 
telepathic witness?" He shook his head. "No, I know we 
don't know who he is, but it's most likely that he's the 
killer, taunting us with our ignorance. For a while I 
thought we might be dealing with some sort of split 
personality, but Mulder's profile makes no mention of 
that." He smiled, mirthlessly. "I'm not so unreasonable 
as you think. I admit that his profile makes sense. It's 
probably the one thing he's done right on this case, even 
though it was days late. I'm still going to stake out 
schools and churches. If the killer's playing games, 
calling us to give us clues so he can enjoy outwitting 
us, he might rise to the challenge. If he knows we're on 
to him it might make it all the more exciting for him to 
kill her unseen under our very noses. We might still 
salvage something from the damage Mulder's done." He held 
up his hand, forestalling her objection. "Don't waste 
your breath, Agent Scully. You won't alter my opinion of 
him." 
 
Scully sighed, ruefully. "I guess I should have learnt 
that by now." She knew Newman was basically a good man, 
who genuinely cared about the victims and families and 
wanted to help them. His priority was to solve the case, 
and he had nothing but contempt for people who obstructed 
it. She was well aware that Mulder's behaviour, to 
someone who didn't know him as she did, seemed 
obstructive in the extreme. 
 
"I'll come and join the team," she said. "But I want to 
talk to Mulder first." 
 
Newman nodded. "What I said earlier .... I was wrong. I 
_do_ respect you for your attempts to defend Mulder. 
You're loyal, and that's a quality no partner should be 
without. Of course," he added, as he climbed into his 
car. "I don't think he deserves your loyalty, but that's 
not the point. I only hope he appreciates you." 
 
It was a hope Scully fervently repeated as she turned and 
walked sadly back into the building. If only Mulder could 
bring himself to trust her enough to tell her what was 
worrying him. She couldn't force him, but his refusal to 
talk was stretching her patience to the limits. Part of 
her wanted to take him in her arms, comforting him like a 
mother would a distressed child, assuring him that 
everything would be okay. But at the same time part of 
her wanted to shake him, shouting her hurt at the way he 
was excluding her. She didn't know how much longer she 
could hold things together. 
 
********** 
 
November 15th 1995 
 
Mulder no longer noticed the ringing of the phone. At 
first, long dark hours ago, he'd been jerked into 
alertness every time it started its insistent tone, 
hoping desperately that each call would be the 
breakthrough, the stab of disappointment becoming harder 
to bear with each false alarm. He didn't know how he 
could cope with another disappointment, so he reacted by 
filtering out all outside noises, attempting to lose 
himself in his own thoughts. He was rational now, 
unassailed by the paralysing memories that had so often 
rendered him unaware of his surroundings, even of 
himself. He almost wished they'd return and take him away 
from having to confront the reality of his own failure. 
 
He'd really hoped he could make a difference. He knew 
that nothing could wipe out his past failures, but, like 
a drowning man offered a lifebelt, he clutched at this 
one hope that he could in same way redeem himself. It 
couldn't bring Samantha back but he still felt that his 
own guilt could be lessened if he could take this chance 
to save another girl who needed him. So often in the past 
he'd let people down, causing them to suffer, even to 
die. Everything Newman had said was true. By reflecting 
on his past mistakes he'd been about to fail another 
innocent, selfishly wallowing in his own misery when he 
should have been ignoring his own feelings and 
concentrating on the case. The past couldn't be changed, 
but he could still influence the future. He'd been so 
convinced that he understood the caller and could get 
through to him and, by persuading him to share his 
knowledge, could prevent any further deaths. This hope 
had been the only thing keeping him going, and with every 
second that passed it became less likely that it would be 
fulfilled. 
 
The clock ticked remorselessly. It was nearly 2 o'clock 
now, the wet wintry streets devoid of traffic, no stars 
shining in the sky. Too late. Far too late. In the 
previous cases the caller had reported the whereabouts of 
the body at round about midnight, never later than 
quarter past. Nearly two hours late now. Mulder knew with 
a dreadful certainty that Newman was right. He'd said the 
wrong thing to the caller, and somewhere nearby, 
somewhere no-one had thought of looking, a girl lay dead 
because of him. He was no longer certain that the caller 
wasn't the murderer. He wondered why he'd ever been 
certain of anything, why he'd ever been so presumptuous 
as to assume he could do anything right. 
 
Beneath him the sodden streets seemed strangely peaceful, 
silver puddles twitching as raindrops disturbed their 
smooth surface, water trickling off the shiny tops of the 
parked cars. He leant further forward into the window, 
resting his forehead on the glass, staring at the cold 
ground as his thoughts drifted. Behind him the phone 
rang, but he didn't hear it. 
 
"Agent Mulder!" The urgency of the shout penetrated his 
thoughts, forcing him to turn round to see who had called 
him. Seeing a police officer holding the phone towards 
him, he was filled with dread, knowing that it was bad 
news at last. They'd found the body. He'd failed. 
 
His feet were rooted to the spot. Although he knew what 
he'd hear, he didn't think he could face actually hearing 
the words. It might be Scully, her voice full of pain at 
the suffering she'd witnessed. He hoped it was Newman. 
Unlike poor misguided Scully, Newman wouldn't spare him 
and would assail him with reproaches he richly deserved. 
 
"Agent Mulder! It's the anonymous caller! He's asked for 
you by name!" 
 
His certainties vanished, replaced by a rising hope he 
knew he shouldn't feel. "This is Agent Mulder," he said, 
grabbing the phone. 
 
There was silence. No, not silence, for although there 
were no words there were sounds - the pounding noise of 
rain at a public phone - choking sobs of someone in 
torment. 
 
"What can you see? Where is it?" Mulder had to ask 
several times before the caller could produce a coherent 
answer. 
 
"The Catholic church out on Jackson Street." The words 
sounded as if they had to forced out with immense effort, 
and were followed by an inarticulate howl of pain. "It's 
terrible! We _must_ stop him!" 
 
"Don't go there...." Mulder began, but there was no-one 
there to hear him. 
 
Without hesitating a second, he dialled Scully's number, 
all his doubts forgotten in the urgency of the situation. 
More than a girl's life was at stake in this case. 
 
"Come on Scully, answer!" he urged, silently, as the 
ringing seemed to go on for an eternity. 
 
And at last she did. "Er.... Scully." She sounded more 
than half-asleep. She'd presumably been resting between 
her shifts on the stakeouts. Mulder had no time to 
apologise for getting her out of bed. 
 
"Scully! I know where it is! We've got to get there now!" 
 
Scully's voice was business-like, roused to instant 
wakefulness by the urgency of the situation. She didn't 
waste time by asking for more details. "I've got the car. 
I'll come and pick you up." He could hear her throwing 
open drawers, struggling hastily into her clothes. "Call 
Newman and tell him. He can probably get there before 
us." 
 
Mulder had to obey, recognising that she was right, but 
he didn't relish the idea of Newman arriving first at the 
scene. He feared the caller was heading for the scene, 
drawn by the strange connection he had to the victims, 
and knew Newman would assume he was the killer. 
 
"It's Mulder," he said, as Newman answered, speaking fast 
to forestall any hostile comment. "The caller's just made 
contact. He says it's the Catholic church on Jackson 
Road." 
 
"But can we trust him?" Newman spoke as to a respected 
fellow agent, no trace of the usual hostility. Mulder 
supposed he was too good an agent to let personal 
antagonisms interfere at the potentially crucial part of 
a case. Better than he was in this respect, certainly. 
"It might be a trap. Or else a distraction to lure us 
away from the real place." 
 
"I know it's real," Mulder insisted. "I know you'll never 
believe me, but you can't afford to take any chances. 
There's too much at stake." 
 
"You're right." Newman spat the words out as if they 
burnt his mouth. "I'll take some men over there." 
 
"Wait...." Mulder began, anxious to warn Newman about the 
caller's probable presence, but Newman was gone. He 
supposed he could call back, but knew it was probably a 
hopeless case anyway. Newman still believed the caller 
was the murderer. As he stood in the road, watching the 
approach of Scully's car, he could only hope that Jackson 
Street, wherever it was, was a shorter journey for them 
than it was for Newman and his men. 
 
********** 
 
"Mulder! Come back!" Mulder ignored Scully's impatient 
cry, wrenching open the car door before she was any where 
near stopping. He landed awkwardly, stumbling on an 
uneven patch in the wet road, but he didn't stop to nurse 
the sudden stab of pain which erupted in his ankle. 
 
A second's delay could make all the difference. Although 
they'd arrived at the scene quickly, with Mulder urging 
Scully on to ever more flagrant breaches of the speed 
restrictions, as soon as they'd turned into the road it 
had been all too obvious that Newman and his party had 
arrived first. The church was surrounded by cars, each 
one silent and still, their occupants already swallowed 
up in the building's interior. 
 
Scully had urged caution, pointing out that it was unwise 
to rush into such a delicate situation without 
establishing whether their help was needed. An ill-judged 
entrance, she's argued, could do more harm than good. 
Normally Mulder would have agreed, but this time he'd 
barely listened to Scully's arguments, unbuckling his 
seatbelt even as she was speaking. 
 
All his thoughts had been focused on the scene inside, 
and it had been unbearable to consider waiting impotently 
outside while Newman handled the situation. He'd known 
he'd neglected his duty earlier in the case. He could 
still repeat every one of Newman's accusations and he'd 
known he richly deserved them. The least he could do was 
to be there at the finish. He'd have been unable to 
forgive himself if he'd missed this too. 
 
Stabs of pain shot up from his ankle at every step but he 
barely noticed them. Nothing else mattered but the 
slender hope that he could prevent a needless death. 
 
"Sir! I must ask you to stay back!" A hand grabbed 
roughly at his shoulder, arresting his desperate eruption 
into the cavernous interior of the church. The voice was 
respectable, a hushed whisper that barely reached 
Mulder's ears, but the grip was firm. When Mulder tried 
to break free, another hand shot out, grabbing him firmly 
by the wrist. 
 
"Let me go!" Mulder kept his voice low, catching the 
officer's desperate signal for him to be silent. 
 
The grip tightened, but suddenly Mulder didn't want to 
struggle any more. He stood as if frozen, eyes riveted on 
the scene that was before him. 
 
The first thing he saw was blood. Lots of blood. There 
were drops even at his feet, and a smeared trail led from 
the door along the wide aisle between the rows of seats. 
On Sundays church goers would fill these seats, their 
mouths expressing praise and their hearts full of 
charity. Now the empty seats only looked at death. For 
there before the altar rail, where countless worshippers 
had drunk the wine which they believed became the blood 
of Christ, there was a rich pool of real blood, 
glistening darkly in the beams of torchlight which sliced 
the dark shadows of the building like so many knives. 
 
And there, in the heart of the bloody puddle, was a body. 
She was undoubtedly dead, but only recently so, for blood 
still trickled from the gaping wound in her throat, 
though slowly now. She had little blood left to shed. 
Mulder felt the horror like a physical pain in every part 
of his body. "She's dead! I've failed her!" The self- 
accusation beat at his brain like a hail of hammer blows. 
He was dimly aware of shouting in the building - 
peremptory orders in a voice that was familiar - but the 
words couldn't penetrate his guilt. He'd failed, and she 
was dead. If only he'd done the profile earlier. If only 
he'd been strong enough to put the case before his own 
emotions. If only.... 
 
But the results of his failures were there before his 
eyes. Yet another little girl who'd never grow up. More 
parents who'd never know peace again. He knew how 
_they'd_ feel. He'd seen it in his own mother. It had 
been his fault then too. 
 
"I said freeze!" Newman's voice barked out the command, 
the hatred echoing amongst the saints and angels which 
looked down serenely on the scene of carnage. This time 
Mulder heard his words. 
 
Like an insect impaled on a pin, a man was caught in the 
intersecting beams of the torches, half a dozen guns 
levelled at his body. His hands were smeared with blood, 
and he was clutching the back of a seat for support, his 
eyes glazed over with horror. Mulder knew he was lost in 
some terrible memory of the agony that this place had 
just seen - a vision which expunged reality and made him 
unaware of the danger he was in. He doubted that the man 
even heard the orders that were yelled at him or saw the 
guns which could kill him at any second. As Mulder 
watched, the man lifted a shaky hand, passing it over his 
eyes as if to drive out the lingering vision. His hand 
left a bloody trail across his forehead. 
 
Newman's finger tightened on the trigger. 
 
"No!" Mulder put all his strength into the shout. 
Gardiner turned round, his aim wavering, but the other 
guns never faltered in their deadly aim. 
 
"Mulder! No!" An urgent whisper from Scully who'd crept 
up behind him, but again he ignored her. Although he'd 
failed to save Sophie, he was determined to save an 
innocent man from being shot down like a common criminal. 
He didn't stop to think that he might be wrong - that the 
man with blood on his hands might be the murderer after 
all. 
 
"No!" he shouted again, wrestling with the firm grip that 
still held him close to the door, powerless to move. The 
urgency made him violent and he exerted all his strength, 
stabbing with his elbows and kicking with his feet. There 
was a grunt of pain and the grip relaxed, allowing him to 
pull himself free. 
 
"Don't shoot! It's the wrong man!" Hands brushed his 
ankles, but he was moving fast, evading the flailing arms 
of the felled guard who'd tried to trip him up. 
 
"Mulder!" Newman didn't turn, but his voice was terrible. 
"Go away now! You're jeopardising this arrest!" 
 
The man blinked, roused by the commotion. His eyes darted 
around, a look of wonder on his face as if he was taking 
in the scene for the first time. Ignoring the guns, he 
began to move, taking a faltering step towards the door. 
 
"This is your last warning! Freeze or we shoot!" 
 
There was no time to be lost. The man showed no signs of 
reacting, moving like a sleep-walker through the pool of 
blood. Newman had half-pulled the trigger already, the 
other officers waiting for his order, all equally ready 
to shoot. 
 
Quick as thought, Mulder ran forward, pushing his way 
through the circle of gunmen. He was dimly aware of hands 
that tried to stop him but he shook them off, all his 
attention focused on the blood-stained man in front of 
him. Stepping on the trail of blood, he slipped, his 
damaged ankle responding with a fresh burst of pain. He 
flailed, trying to keep his balance, forcing himself to 
cover the last few feet that stood between him and the 
man. There were shouts and movements behind him, but he 
didn't listen to them. Nothing else mattered but getting 
to the man, protecting him from the fatal bullet. 
 
Then the resounding crack of a gunshot drove out all 
other sounds, and the world was filled with a flash of 
fire. Mulder crashed into the man, wrapping his arms 
round his waist and pushing him to the floor, but they 
hit the ground too late. The bullet had done its work 
well, and fresh blood welled out to mingle with Sophie's 
blood on the floor. 
 
"Mulder!" Scully's voice sounded as if from a great 
distance, but Mulder scarcely heard her. All he could see 
was blood. 
 
********** 
 
"Mulder! You could have been killed!" Scully was furious, 
and was determined to tell Mulder in no uncertain terms 
what she thought of his behaviour. 
 
They were standing outside the church, pressed up against 
the side of the building to avoid the rain. Flashing 
lights from the police cars and ambulance cast unearthly 
shadows on the wet street, flickering like some hellish 
nightmare. Mulder looked hellish himself, still streaked 
with blood. At least she knew now it wasn't his own. When 
he'd fallen, clasped around the murderer, there had been 
so much blood that she hadn't known who had been hit. 
She'd scarcely dared approach the scene, dreading that 
she'd find him hurt, or dead. Her relief at finding out 
he was unharmed was tempered only by a sudden fury at him 
for putting himself into this situation - for putting her 
through the worry she'd just experienced. 
 
Mulder didn't answer, his eyes fixed on the ambulance. 
The man they'd arrested was being carried in by 
paramedics, closely guarded by two police officers. 
Newman was smiling triumphantly. 
 
"You could have been killed!" Scully repeated. She'd 
overheard Newman say exactly the same thing, adding 
grimly that it was a pity he hadn't been. "What were you 
thinking of?" 
 
"I had to do it." Mulder still didn't look at her. "No- 
one would listen." 
 
Scully lost her temper. "Can you blame them?" she 
shouted. "The things you say - the crazy ideas you come 
up with.... no wonder no-one listens to you. After all 
you've done to antagonise Newman, did you really expect 
him to stop in the middle of an arrest just because you 
tell him to? If so, you're more stupid than I thought." 
She paced violently up and down as she spoke. "Anyway," 
she continued, "you shouldn't have gone in in the first 
place. We didn't know the girl was dead. It could have 
been a delicate hostage situation which you could have 
unbalanced. She could have caused her to be killed. If 
you'd even thought of _her_, instead of wanting to score 
points off Newman by getting there first.... Just because 
it was _you_ that insisted on waiting for the caller and 
_you_ who took the message, you couldn't bear to leave 
the arrest to Newman. Perhaps he was right about you 
after all." 
 
"They've got the wrong man." Mulder spoke with a quiet 
determination. 
 
His calm response fanned Scully's anger. She'd wanted him 
to shout - to get angry so they could vent their feelings 
on a proper fight. "My God, Mulder! How can you say that? 
He was caught red-handed - literally. There was blood all 
over him. He even fits your profile, as far as age and 
appearance go. Of course he's the right man." 
 
"He's the wrong man, " Mulder repeated. He looked her in 
the eye for the first time. Meeting his gaze, Scully 
found her anger fading. The dark shadows under his eyes 
reminded her of how much he'd suffered in the last few 
days. He'd been almost his old self in the last hour - 
certainly no sign of the terrifying unresponsiveness 
she'd witnessed earlier - and she'd completely forgotten 
how precarious his emotional state was. Anger certainly 
wouldn't help, especially since she knew well that her 
anger was a simple reaction to the worry she'd felt when 
she'd seen Mulder fall. 
 
She sighed, struggling to suppress her anger. "Well, even 
if he was the wrong man, you shouldn't have gone in like 
that. You could have been killed." Mulder had looked away 
again, his eyes following the departing ambulance. Scully 
reached for his hand, squeezing it comfortingly. 
"Mulder," she said, softly, "I know you're having a 
difficult time right now, and that it sometimes gets so 
bad that you think you wouldn't mind very much if you 
_did_ get killed, but please believe me when I say that 
_I'd_ mind. I'd mind very much." 
 
Mulder squeezed her hand gently in return, but he didn't 
face her. She thought she saw a tear trickling down his 
face but it might have been the rain. Several times she 
thought he was about to speak, but he was silent. Much as 
she longed to, she knew better than to force him. 
 
There was a short silence. Eventually Scully broke it. 
"Shall we go back to the hotel?" The crime scene seemed 
well under control, and she knew Mulder had scarcely 
slept in the last few days. She also knew she very 
probably had an autopsy to face the next morning, and was 
anxious to get some rest before facing that particular 
horror. 
 
"No!" Mulder's voice was urgent. "They've got the wrong 
man. I've got to talk to him." 
 
Scully's heart sank. She should have remembered that for 
Mulder the case was far from finished. 
 
"You can't" She decided not to take issue with Mulder's 
belief that they'd arrested the wrong man, sticking to 
more practical objections. "He's hurt. The doctors won't 
let any one see him for several hours at least." 
 
"Then I'll wait. I've got to see him. The real killer's 
still out there, and he's our only hope of finding him 
before he strikes again." 
 
His tone of voice was all too familiar. Scully knew from 
bitter experience that nothing would be gained by 
arguing. 
 
After dropping Mulder off at the hospital, Scully drove 
to the hotel alone, her heart heavy. The case was as good 
as over, and she feared Mulder's refusal to accept it 
derived less from any real evidence than from a desperate 
attempt to find a distraction from his own worries. She 
dreaded his reaction when he finally had to admit he'd 
been wrong. She couldn't help fearing that the worst was 
yet to come. 
 
********** 
 
"You have no right to throw me out!" Newman was furious, 
shouting at the doctor before he was fully out of the 
hospital room. In the early morning light he looked 
crumpled and unshaven, but his eyes were blazing. 
 
The doctor was undeterred. "I have every right. That man 
is under my care. You were distressing him with your 
questions, and in his condition that could be dangerous." 
 
"Distressing him?" Newman's voice was harsh with 
contempt. "What about the distress _he's_ caused? He's a 
murderer. He's got no rights." 
 
"Everyone's got rights, even a murderer." The doctor was 
getting angry now, although he didn't raise his voice. 
"And you must remember he's not even been charged yet, 
let alone found guilty." 
 
"He's guilty all right. He was caught red handed." 
 
"That's as maybe. But even if he is, he has the right to 
remain silent. You can't force him to talk, certainly not 
here. I treat all my patients the same, whoever they are, 
and I won't have you upsetting them." 
 
"He's not even badly hurt. You said yourself it was only 
a minor injury. He's hiding behind it, pretending to 
worse hurt than he is, so he can get out of answering 
questions until he's thought of what lies he can tell us. 
You know as well as I do that it was all an act - all 
those agonised little groans that he gave whenever I 
asked him anything about what he's done. Over an hour I 
was with him and he scarcely said a coherent word, but if 
he'd wanted to he could have been as lucid as you or I. 
He's probably laughing at you right now for falling for 
his play-acting. Why should a murderer have the right to 
laugh about the suffering he's caused when parents 
haven't got the right to find out what happened to their 
little girl?" He pointed an angry finger at the doctor's 
chest. "You people make me sick - always going on about 
the right of the criminal, never about the rights of the 
victim." 
 
He made as if to enter the room again but the doctor 
barred the way. "Agent Newman," he said firmly. "When 
he's discharged from hospital you can talk to him all you 
like, but right now he's under my care, and I forbid you 
from entering that room again." 
 
They stared at each other for what seemed like a long 
time, the tension almost palpable. The guard, who'd 
looked embarrassed during the whole exchange, swallowed 
anxiously, obviously wondering if he should call for 
help. He shot a desperate look of appeal at Mulder, but 
Mulder didn't stand up. He knew it would only exacerbate 
the situation if he intervened. 
 
"Look," said the doctor at last. "I'm just doing my job. 
I'm not trying to interfere with the course of justice 
here. _If_ - and it's not been proved yet - _if_ that 
man's a killer then I want him brought to justice as much 
as you do....." Newman interrupted him with a derisive 
grunt, but the doctor was undeterred. "But," he 
continued, "you have to admit that you weren't getting 
any answers from him anyway. Even if I hadn't stopped the 
interview you'd probably have learnt nothing from him. I 
just didn't feel your approach was appropriate in the 
situation." 
 
Newman snorted, but said nothing. 
 
"I don't know why you're so angry." The doctor looked 
genuinely puzzled. "After all, he _did_ offer to talk. 
Why don't you send for the agent he asked for, then you 
can get an interview without endangering my patient." 
 
The doctor was smiling, looking confident that this was a 
mutually satisfactory solution, but Newman responded with 
a sudden fury. "Send for _him_?" He gestured violently 
towards Mulder. Mulder hadn't thought Newman had noticed 
him, so intent had he looked upon facing up to the 
doctor. 
 
Mulder stood up and walked over to Newman's side, but 
Newman moved in front of him, blocking the door. "No 
wonder he wants to talk to _him_." He was speaking as if 
Mulder wasn't there. "After all, Mulder did his damnedest 
to ruin his arrest and let him get away. He probably 
thinks he's on his side." 
 
Mulder didn't try to defend himself, realising there was 
no point, but the doctor had no such qualms. "Agent 
Newman," he said firmly. "You claim you want to bring 
this man to justice, but it seems to me that you're 
putting your own feelings before your case. You want your 
man to talk. Well, he said he _would_ talk - to Agent 
Mulder. So, are you going to move away from that door, or 
shall I call security to have you removed?" 
 
There was nothing Newman could do but back down, and he 
stepped back, his face red with fury. 
 
"Mulder!" Newman sounded as if he could barely get the 
words out past his anger. "Don't expect to have a job to 
go back to when you get out of that room. As soon as I 
can, I'm calling your superior and telling him about your 
behaviour. You've gone too far now. You're finished!" 
 
Mulder closed the door behind him, shutting out Newman's 
threats. He knew Newman was right to hate him, and richly 
deserved to lose his job for his conduct on the case. 
Whenever he thought of Sophie's body, killed because he'd 
neglected his duty, he knew he couldn't continue in the 
FBI. He couldn't contemplate life without his work, but 
that was all the more reason to go. The more it cost him, 
the more fitting a punishment it was. But it wasn't just 
to punish himself that he would resign. It was his duty, 
too. As an agent he had the power of life and death over 
the people who needed his help, and he couldn't ever let 
himself be relied on like this again. Whenever anyone had 
relied on him he'd let them down. 
 
The man in the bed had his eyes shut, his face turned 
away. Mulder stood awhile, looking down at him. His chart 
declared him to be Kevin Briggs, aged 26, but he looked 
twenty years older, his face gaunt and deeply scored with 
suffering. Seeing him properly for the first time, Mulder 
was convinced that on this, if on nothing else, he had 
been right. This man wasn't a killer. 
 
Mulder cleared his throat, unsure what to say. Kevin 
Briggs turned his head, his eyes screwed up as if the 
light dazzled him. Mulder wondered what dark pictures 
he'd been seeing in his mind. 
 
"You said it wasn't my fault, but it was." Briggs spoke 
at last, his voice listless. 
 
"No it wasn't!" Mulder leant forward, looking intently 
into the man's eyes, horrified by the guilt he saw there. 
He wondered what sort of suffering could so distort a 
man's way of thinking that he blamed himself for things 
that were completely beyond his control. 
 
"I saw them die. I knew where they were. I could have 
stopped them. If only I'd been stronger..... if only I 
hadn't tried to resist....." His voice trailed out, 
swallowed up by sobs. 
 
"No! You did all you could. You mustn't blame yourself 
for something you couldn't change. _You_ didn't kill 
them. That's no-one's fault but the killer's" But even as 
Mulder spoke he knew he was lying. The murderer was not 
the only one with blood on his hands. Although he'd 
washed his hands and face, specks of Sophie's blood still 
stained his sleeves. It was warm in the hospital but he'd 
kept his jacket on so he could see them and remember his 
guilt. 
 
"Agent Newman thinks it's my fault." 
 
"Agent Newman doesn't know anything. Not about you, 
anyway. He's only got circumstantial evidence. We've got 
samples from one of the crime scenes. As soon as the 
tests come back we'll have proof it wasn't you. You won't 
even get charged." 
 
"You said you understood, but you don't! You're worse 
than Agent Newman. He doesn't understand me, but at least 
he knows I'm guilty." Briggs was shouting, his face 
twisted with grief. He tried to sit up but gasped 
suddenly, sweat beading on his forehead. He fell back on 
the pillow and lay still. 
 
Mulder glanced anxiously at the door, wondering whether 
he should call the doctor, but slowly Briggs' breathing 
steadied and his face grew calmer, although still far 
from peaceful. Mulder doubted if it could ever be that. 
 
"For how long have you seen these pictures?" Mulder asked 
at last, breaking the long silence. 
 
Briggs opened his eyes with a start, clearly surprised 
that Mulder knew. "All my life," he answered, simply. He 
paused, then took a deep breath, clearly deciding to tell 
Mulder the whole story. "Oh, it wasn't too bad at first. 
I only saw them occasionally, and then only from people 
very close. I had a happy family, so even when I saw 
things they weren't usually bad. Perhaps I was even 
happier than most children, for I shared my parents' love 
in a way normal people can never hope to." He was almost 
smiling as he recounted the memory. 
 
"But then things changed." He wasn't smiling now. "I 
reached puberty. My body started changing and I guess my 
.... er... "gift" started changing too. And that's when 
the "gift" started to seem more like a curse. I started 
seeing things more and more often, and from people all 
over town." He grabbed Mulder's arm, looking into his 
eyes. "You wouldn't believe how much pain there is behind 
the closed doors of a "respectable" neighbourhood." 
 
Mulder couldn't meet his gaze. _His_ family had been 
"respectable" too.... 
 
"Unhappy marriages, child abuse, suicide - I saw them 
all." Briggs made no sign of noticing Mulder's reaction. 
"Oh, I saw pleasure too, but not as much. Pain is so much 
more intense than pleasure - it transmits a stronger 
signal. And, anyway, I only _saw_ pleasure. I didn't 
_feel_ it. I felt like some sort of pervert, invading 
people's privacy." 
 
"Couldn't you shut it out?" 
 
"No! Don't you think I haven't tried? I'd give anything 
to be able to shut them out, but I can't. At first I 
couldn't control them at all. Now I can fight some of 
them, if I really try to focus my mind on something else. 
Usually I just drug myself into forgetfulness and hide 
where they can't reach me. But even there most of them 
get through, and those the worst of them." 
 
"Can you deliberately make them come?" It took all of 
Mulder's concentration to keep asking questions. All he 
wanted to do was to weep with sympathy for the tormented 
man before him, horrified by this glance into an 
existence spent a prey to other people's feelings. 
 
"I know what you're thinking. If I could make them come I 
could seek out the murderer right now and tell you where 
he is. I've tried. Of course I've tried." Tears were 
running freely down his cheeks. "I can't!" he sobbed. "I 
can't control them. I can't deliberately read anyone's 
mind. The pictures come when they choose to. I don't 
control them - they control me." 
 
"What do you see?" Mulder forced himself to keep on 
asking questions, trying to keep control of the 
situation, though he wasn't sure how much more he could 
bear to hear. 
 
"Pictures. Never words. It's like a silent movie. I see 
the pictures that are in someone else's mind. Sometimes 
it's what they're actually seeing with their eyes. 
Sometimes it's images in their memory or imagination. The 
mind's eye can sometimes be stronger than reality." 
Mulder knew this was true, although it was hours since 
he'd been overwhelmed by the images of his own memory. He 
wondered when they'd return, knowing he'd not escaped 
them forever. 
 
Briggs took a shuddering breath. "But it wouldn't be too 
bad if it was just pictures. It's feelings too. Like the 
music they put with silent movies - you know, violins 
with romantic bits, menacing music when something 
frightening's about to happen. You can't hear what people 
are saying, but the music tells you their mood. It's like 
that. I can't read people's verbalised thoughts, but I 
know what feelings go with the pictures. I share those 
feelings, yet somehow it seems I feel them twice as 
strong as they should be. Sometimes it's a real physical 
pain." 
 
He paused, trying to regain control of his voice. Mulder 
was silent, waiting for him to compose himself. Briggs 
cleared his throat, then continued. "When it's really 
bad, like this last week, then I lose track of who I am." 
That girl in the field the other day - I can't remember 
how I got there at all." He was speaking fast, obviously 
trying not to think about the scenes he was describing. 
"One minute I was at home. The next thing I remember I 
was outside looking down at her body. I don't know how I 
got there. I guess I saw through her eyes and recognised 
the place, and without knowing it was drawn there. Last 
night was the same, but when the pictures started coming 
I remembered what you'd said on the phone. I fought as 
hard as I could, and managed to break free for a minute. 
That's when I called you. But after that it's all a 
blank." 
 
Briggs was staring at nothing, lost in memory. Mulder 
could find no words to comfort him. 
 
"I've never told anyone before," Briggs said, suddenly. 
"I didn't think anyone would understand. No-one has 
before. Not even my parents. Once this all started, I 
started getting in trouble at school. Of course I did. 
How could I concentrate on lessons when I was sharing all 
the unhappiness that there is in any school? I tried to 
tell my parents the truth but they were furious, saying I 
was insulting their intelligence by expecting them to 
believe such a stupid excuse. And then things went from 
bad to worse. I left school with no qualifications. I had 
no friends, certainly no girlfriends. Everyone thought I 
was weird, because I kept on blanking out in the middle 
of conversations. I did get a job once, but that only 
lasted a few days. The boss caught me "slacking" - I was 
sharing the grief of a couple whose baby had died, and 
forgot where I was - and dismissed me without a 
reference." 
 
He looked at Mulder and smiled mirthlessly. "I came here 
to escape, can you believe that? I wanted escape, and I 
ended up with four murders. My parents were killed in a 
road accident as few years ago and I inherited some 
money, so I bought a place right out on the edge of town, 
with no close neighbours. I thought if I was away from 
people I'd be free. I thought I didn't need people." 
 
His smile was sincere now, though his face was still 
lined with grief. "I guess I was wrong. I _do_ need 
people. I know it's not changed anything, but it does 
feel better now I've talked about it. I don't know why I 
talked to you, a stranger, when I've never been able to 
talk to anyone else. I guess it's because I knew you'd 
believe me - that you'd understand. I don't know how I 
knew." He leant forward suddenly, grabbing Mulder's 
wrist. "Do you see things too? Is that it?" 
 
Mulder shook his head. "No, I don't see things like you 
do. I only see my own memories, not other people's." And 
even those had nearly overwhelmed him. How weak he was 
compared with Briggs, who'd seen thousands of memories 
and still lived. 
 
Briggs relaxed back on the pillow, though he kept his 
hand on Mulder's wrist. "Thank you for listening," he 
said, with fervour. "I've been carrying this around for 
so long, it feels like a weight off my mind to share the 
burden with someone." 
 
Mulder tried to smile, but he couldn't. He knew he was 
being unforgivably selfish, but he wondered how he'd cope 
with the burden of someone else's problems on top of 
everything else. 
 
And, of course, the killer was still out there, and they 
had no leads. 
 
********** 
 
Despite her lack of sleep, Scully had woken early, a 
heavy sense of dread in her stomach. Although she had 
performed hundreds of autopsies in her career, she could 
still sometimes find them disturbing. Sophie's looked 
like being one of the worst yet, both for the manner of 
her death and for her youth. 
 
Scully had felt no appetite for breakfast. The man at the 
next table had piled his plate high with bacon and 
sausages, and Scully had been unable to keep her eyes off 
his plate, watching with horrified fascination as the 
knife sliced into the flesh, her mind full of images of 
Sophie's tortured body cut open on the autopsy slab. The 
man had caught her gaze and she'd attempted to make 
conversation, embarrassed at being caught staring, but 
he'd cut her off, saying he had an important project 
nearing completion and needed to be left undisturbed to 
think about it. So Scully had been left alone with her 
thoughts, barely touching her own breakfast. When 
Gardiner had appeared she'd known she wasn't in the mood 
for his endless chatter so had made her excuses and left, 
heading for the morgue in the hope she could get the 
autopsy over with quickly. 
 
She had been disappointed. There was no autopsy bay 
available until late afternoon, and Sophie's autopsy had 
been booked for four o'clock. Eight hours away. Desperate 
for something to do to distract herself, she'd called 
Mulder, but he'd still been at the hospital, still 
waiting to talk to the suspect. Eventually she'd tagged 
along with Martinez and O'Brien, who'd been ordered to 
search the suspect's house, looking for evidence. It had 
seemed like just the sort of tedious, routine work that 
she needed if she was to keep her mind off the impending 
autopsy. 
 
Now, driving back from Kevin Briggs' house after a 
fruitless morning, she admitted she'd been wrong. It had 
been tedious work, but it had also been deeply 
frustrating. They'd searched the house all over, several 
times, but hadn't found anything that could link Briggs 
to the crimes. They'd found evidence of drug taking, and 
copious amounts of alcohol, but no evidence of murder. 
True, there had been a few blood stains, but Scully had 
found shards of glass in the bin, some of them marked 
with blood, and had assumed Briggs had cut himself on the 
broken tumbler. Still, she'd taken samples and intended 
to run tests on the blood, although she doubted it would 
belong to any the victims. It certainly looked as if 
Briggs hadn't kept his victims at home. But then the man 
didn't even appear to have a car, making it difficult to 
see how he could have carried his victims anywhere else. 
 
Scully sighed. It looked as if Mulder was right, and they 
hadn't yet caught their killer. She wondered why she'd 
been so adamant that they _had_ caught the right one. 
Although she didn't believe many of Mulder's wilder 
theories, when he was as sure of something as he had been 
the previous night she usually gave his arguments careful 
consideration. After all, he'd been right more times than 
she cared to admit. She supposed she'd wanted Briggs to 
be the right man so much that she'd shut her mind to any 
objections. The sight of Sophie's body was terrible 
anyway, but it would have been unbearable without the 
consolation that at least the perpetrator of the atrocity 
had been apprehended. 
 
She gasped suddenly. "Unbearable!" She nearly spoke 
aloud. It _would_ be unbearable if the killer was still 
out there. Briggs had to be the right man - he just _had_ 
to be. She was missing something. She didn't know what. 
She didn't even know why she was so sure. All she knew 
was a sudden overwhelming feeling that she'd missed 
something in the house. Something important. Something 
that would prove beyond all doubt that Briggs was guilty, 
and get him put away where he couldn't hurt anyone else. 
Then at least Sophie's death wouldn't have been 
completely in vain. 
 
The feeling was so strong that it wiped out all other 
thoughts. Convinced that the whole case depended on her 
going back to the house right now, she turned suddenly, 
earning an angry blast from a driver who had to swerve 
out of the way. Shaken back into awareness, she briefly 
considered calling Mulder and telling him where she was 
going, but a sudden picture of him came into her mind. He 
was laughing scathingly. "He's the wrong man, Scully, I 
keep on telling you. Don't bother going back there, 
because you won't find anything." And there he was again, 
later, his eyes full of admiration and apology. "You were 
right, Scully. He was the right man after all. We'd never 
have found out if you hadn't gone back." 
 
"No!" she said, aloud, amused by the vividness of her 
imagination. It had almost been as if Mulder had been 
speaking to her out loud. "I won't tell him," she 
thought. "Let him wonder where _I've_ gone for a change. 
I'll teach him he's not the only one to have wild hunches 
which turn out right." She smiled at herself in the 
mirror. "After all," she added, "there's no need to call. 
It's not as if there's any danger." 
 
********** 
 
Matthew Lewis couldn't stop smiling when he thought about 
his plan. It was all going so well - better than he'd 
ever hoped. All those murders.... all that blood.... 
Perfect! And that little girl - she'd been the best yet - 
better than he could have hoped for. She was so .... 
appropriate. He knew he shouldn't really think of their 
suffering in these terms, but there was a greater plan to 
consider. They'd just been there at the right time, so he 
had used them, and to what effect! Anyway, they were dead 
now so he couldn't do anything to hurt _them_, not any 
more. 
 
But he could still hurt _him_. He knew what had happened 
this morning - knew who he'd talked to. Of course he 
knew. He hadn't interfered - not then. Let him think it 
was all over. Let him begin to hope that he could be 
free. But it wasn't over. The worst was yet to come. 
 
He'd seen her several days ago and known she was the one. 
It hadn't been time, then. There was still the matter of 
the little girl. _She'd_ been too good an opportunity to 
miss. But now she was dead, and it was time to move on. 
Time for the final stage. 
 
She was close now. It had all been so easy. Like a fool, 
she'd fallen straight into the trap, taking the bait as 
soon as it had been presented. Just a few minutes now. 
He'd take her, and then..... then he'd give a few lessons 
on what it _really_ was to suffer. 
 
********** 
 
Scully considered ignoring it, but the phone's ringing 
continued to jangle on her nerves, demanding attention. 
With a sigh, she pulled the phone from her pocket, 
annoyed at the interruption. The interruption - from 
what? She paused suddenly, looking again at the house in 
front of her. Now she was here it didn't feel promising. 
She'd searched it thoroughly before and found nothing. 
She wondered why she'd seen so sure it would be different 
this time, but even as she wondered she knew the answer - 
knew that she'd been clutching at straws, so desperate 
was she to know the killer was behind bars. The phone had 
recalled her to reality. She probably wouldn't go in 
after all. 
 
"Hello?" She leant against the side of the car as she 
spoke. 
 
"Agent Scully?" It was Skinner's voice. Scully braced 
herself for trouble. 
 
Skinner didn't wait for an answer. "I've just had Agent 
Newman on the phone, complaining about Agent Mulder. He 
says he jeopardised an arrest - nearly let a suspect go. 
Is this true?" 
 
Scully paused before answering. She knew she had to tread 
very carefully. "I don't think he did, sir," she said, at 
last. "At least, there was no danger of the man escaping. 
He just didn't want Newman to shoot him." 
 
"Shoot him? Why? Was he resisting arrest?" 
 
Again, Scully had to consider well before replying. 
Although she was anxious to defend Mulder, she didn't 
want to say anything that would get Newman in trouble. "I 
don't think so," she said, carefully. "But I can see why 
Newman thought he might be." 
 
"But Mulder thought he wasn't?" 
 
"Mulder thought - Mulder thinks - we've got the wrong 
man." 
 
"Do _you_ think it's the wrong man?" 
 
"No!" Scully exclaimed before she could stop herself, but 
even as she spoke she realised she wasn't so sure any 
more. Just a few minutes ago it had been so clear. "I 
mean, I don't know.... I don't think so." 
 
"Hmm." Skinner was evidently digesting the information, 
trying to come to a decision. 
 
"Are you going to call us back to Washington, sir?" She 
couldn't keep the hope from her voice. Although it would 
be a pity if Mulder was dragged home in disgrace, she 
hoped she'd have a better chance of persuading him to get 
help if they weren't currently working on a case. 
 
"No." Skinner didn't appear to have noticed her tone. "If 
Mulder thinks it's the wrong man, then I'm sure he has 
his reasons, though probably not reasons you or I would 
agree with." He laughed, wryly. "But, although some of 
Mulder's reasoning is more than a little .... unusual, I 
have to admit that he often comes up with answers to 
cases that no-one else could make anything of. So, _I'm_ 
not going to be the one who pulls Mulder off this case, 
just because of a difference of opinion with another 
agent. After all, Mulder could well be right, and I want 
you both to stay until it comes clear one way or the 
other." 
 
He paused, before continuing in a sterner tone. "You keep 
him out of trouble, Scully. I don't want this happening 
again. I'm getting tired of having to field complaints 
from people Mulder has irritated. If he and Newman don't 
get on - and it's clear that they don't - they should be 
able to sort it out without running to me like children. 
That Newman - he left me five messages this morning, 
while I was in a meeting. I've got more important things 
to do than sort out squabbles." 
 
"Sorry, sir. I'll try and make sure it doesn't happen 
again." Though it probably would, she thought. Mulder was 
incapable of keeping out of trouble. 
 
She took a deep breath. "Sir? Can I talk to you about 
Mulder? There's something else." She hadn't wanted to 
discuss Mulder's problems, feeling it an invasion of his 
privacy, but she now felt she had no choice. Mulder had 
been lucky - very lucky - in that Newman's complaint had 
caught Skinner in a rare moment of charity towards his 
most troublesome agent. It was unlikely to happen again. 
It was better if Skinner knew what had been happening. If 
he forced Mulder to take some leave and see a therapist - 
well, Mulder wouldn't be pleased with her, but it was 
better than him losing his job because of an official 
complaint. 
 
Skinner didn't answer. She could hear a door opening in 
the distance, and muffled voices talking. 
 
"Sir?" She tried not to sound impatient. 
 
He spoke at last, sounding rushed. "I'm sorry. 
Something's come up. I've got to go." 
 
"But, sir....!" There was a click as the connection was 
severed. 
 
Scully cursed in frustration. She'd hoped Skinner would 
take matters in hand, relieving her of the responsibility 
of deciding what to do about Mulder. She suspected she 
should have told Skinner days ago. For his own good as 
well as the good of the case, Mulder should have been 
sent home as soon as the problems started. But she hadn't 
wanted to admit that things had grown so bad, carrying on 
as if there was nothing wrong, perhaps even hoping that, 
by ignoring it, she could persuade the situation to go 
away of its own accord. She was being as unrealistic as 
Mulder. 
 
And the case offered little hope either. She glanced 
again at Kevin Brigg's house, debating whether to go in 
and search it again. There wouldn't be anything there - 
at least, nothing important. It would be a waste of time 
to go back. It was stupid to kid herself that she'd find 
something. If she went back she'd only have to suffer the 
cruel dashing of false hopes. 
 
But then.... Well, she was here after all. It would do no 
harm to go in and have a quick look. They _might_ have 
missed something earlier. She knew how easy it was 
sometimes to overlook the blatantly obvious, simply 
because it was _so_ obvious that the mind didn't bother 
processing it. She'd never know unless she looked. 
 
It was decided. Putting her phone back in her pocket, 
Scully set off up the short path to the front door and 
let herself in. 
 
Once she was in, she knew she'd been right. She could 
feel it again. There _was_ something here - something 
important that she had to find. She didn't know what. She 
didn't even know why she was so certain. She could only 
assume that she'd seen something last time - something 
that her subconscious had remembered even though her 
conscious mind hadn't noticed its significance. She 
harried her memory, trying to get it to release its 
secrets, but it provided no clues. She could only hope 
that when she got to the right place it would jump out at 
her. 
 
"The kitchen!" It came to her as clearly as if someone 
had spoken out loud. How could she have forgotten? It was 
so clear now. 
 
Full of excitement, she ran down the narrow passageway, 
heading for the cramped and gloomy kitchen. A dense tree 
outside the window blocked out much of the light, 
shrouding everything in deep gloom. 
 
Scully's heart was pounding in anticipation. It was here, 
she just knew it. The major breakthrough, and it was just 
waiting for her to find it. She smiled, thinking of what 
was about to happen, thinking of what she would discover. 
 
She was still smiling when an arm swung out of the 
darkness behind the door. A pan crashed down on her head, 
driving her to the floor, driving all thoughts from her 
mind. 
 
The darkness folded over her and she lay still. 
 
********** 
 
"No!" It was an inhuman cry of pure terror, slicing the 
sterile atmosphere of the hospital room like a scalpel. 
 
Mulder's eyes snapped open, his mind wrenched back into 
the present by the tortured cries coming from the man in 
the bed before him. 
 
"What is it?" He leant forward, reaching for Briggs' arm, 
looking intently into his face, but he already knew the 
answer. The case still had fresh horrors to offer. 
 
For two hours, Mulder had shared the man's tormented 
existence. Once Briggs had decided to trust him the whole 
story had come pouring out - a whole lifetime of 
suffering that he'd had to deal with alone. Although his 
memories had frequently been swallowed up by tears, 
Brigg's face had visibly relaxed as he'd shared the 
burden of his suffering. It had been a cathartic 
experience to talk about it at last - cathartic for him, 
at least. Mulder had listened, knowing it was his duty to 
help. Briggs had needed him, and he couldn't let _him_ 
down the same way he'd failed everyone else. For the 
first time, he would do the right thing, whatever the 
cost to himself. 
 
But the cost had been high. Hearing of a lifetime of 
unimaginable suffering, the only escape had been into the 
unreality of his own mind, but the guilt and memories 
he'd found there had offered no real hiding place. He'd 
been trapped between the nightmares of the mind and the 
nightmares of reality, unable to find for himself any of 
the hope what he'd been able to provide for Briggs. 
 
And now, reality was taking a new and more terrible turn. 
He didn't know if he could take any more reality. 
 
"No!" Briggs showed no signs of being aware of Mulder's 
presence, staring at a horror that was far from the 
hospital room. "Leave me alone! Why should I live like 
this?" 
 
Mulder leant over, grabbing Briggs by the shoulders. 
"What is it? Has he got someone else?" His heart was 
pounding with dread. 
 
He distantly heard the door open, and squeak of soft 
shoes crossing the floor. Someone spoke, but he didn't 
hear what they said. All his attention was focused on the 
man in the bed. 
 
"Let go of me! Don't hurt me! I don't want to die!" 
Briggs' face was a terrible mask of terror, his arms 
flailing around in a desperate attempt to escape. Mulder 
narrowly escaped a claw-like slash in the eyes, but it 
wasn't Mulder that Briggs was trying to hurt. He was deep 
in another's mind, seeing through their eyes, consumed by 
their fear. 
 
Someone grabbed him shoulder, weakly trying to pull him 
away, but he shook them off. "Please! Get the doctor!" It 
was a nervous female voice, close behind him. The sound 
of running feet faded down the corridor. Mulder was aware 
of all this only dimly, like a dream. The world had 
narrowed. No-one really existed but Briggs, and, through 
him, the person who was torturing him with their 
thoughts. 
 
"Look at him! Can you see his face?" Mulder was using all 
his strength now, gripping Briggs' wrists to keep them 
still. Blood was seeping through the bandage high on 
Briggs' side where the wound had been reopened by his 
struggles. The nurse stopped trying to drag Mulder off, 
moving round the bed to tend to Briggs' injury. 
 
"No!" Mulder didn't know if Briggs was answering his 
question or still lost in the nightmare of the killer's 
new victim. The nurse, who'd been about to touch him, 
jumped back at the cry, obviously thinking he was talking 
to her. She glanced nervously at the door but no-one else 
came. 
 
"No!" Briggs jerked suddenly, wrenching his hands from 
Mulder's grip with a cry of pain. Mulder instinctively 
raised his hands to protect from the blows he knew would 
come, but there was no need. Briggs lifted his hands and 
clutched at his temple, his face twisted with pain. "No! 
Leave me alone! Get out of my mind!" He shut his eyes, 
squeezing them shut until his face screwed up with the 
effort. "I don't want to see this!" 
 
The nurse bit her lip. She was very young, and way out of 
her depth. 
 
"No!" Mulder grabbed Briggs' wrists again, prising them 
from his face. "Don't fight it! I know it hurts, but you 
_must_ stay with it." Briggs whimpered, trying to pull 
away, but Mulder was relentless. "Look! You have to look! 
What does he look like? Where is he?" 
 
His breathing was almost as fast as Briggs' and he could 
feel sweat beading on his forehead. The killer had taken 
another victim and would kill her like the others unless 
he could get through to Briggs and persuade him to 
surrender to the nightmare long enough to extract some 
clues. All he wanted to do was run away and hide from the 
horror, but he had to keep going. He had to find the 
strength for two now, giving Briggs the will to keep 
going. If he failed, yet another innocent would die. 
 
Someone was shouting in his ear, but he ignored them. 
Then strong hands reached out, prising his fingers away 
from Briggs' wrists. He was roughly dragged away from the 
bed, but then Briggs cried out again, and the doctor had 
to leave Mulder and hurry to Briggs' side. He turned to 
the nurse, saying something about drugs, and she hurried 
out. 
 
He had no idea how long it went on. Briggs struggled, at 
times fighting the killer through the eyes of his victim, 
at times fighting the visions themselves. Whenever this 
happened, Mulder pushed him back with words, urging him 
not to fight her suffering. Each time it was harder to 
get the words out. Seeing Briggs' tormented face, Mulder 
knew that _he_ was inflicting as much pain as the killer 
was. The fact that it was necessary made it no less 
terrible. 
 
It finished just as he knew he couldn't take any more. 
There was more movement behind him, and the sound of 
several pairs of feet. He felt himself grabbed with the 
strength that allowed no resistance, and was dragged 
towards the door. Although he knew this meant he'd 
failed, it was a relief not to have to fight any more. 
He'd never have been able to forgive himself if _he'd_ 
been the one to give up the struggle. At least this way 
someone else had taken the decision out of his hands. 
 
"I know that place!" Briggs' exclamation came just as he 
reached the door. 
 
"Where is it?" He hadn't thought he could feel hope 
again. 
 
Briggs was silent, taking huge shuddering breaths. His 
eyes were open, darting round the room as if surprised by 
his surroundings. Mulder knew he was back in the hospital 
again, but this time didn't try to send him away. He said 
nothing, offering no resistance to the security guard. He 
knew if he spoke he'd be hustled away even further and 
the chance would be missed. 
 
"I saw it," Briggs said at last. His voice was hoarse. 
"He's got another one. He'd hurt her already. She was 
unconscious but woke up when he dragged her out of his 
car. She tried to escape but he's got her inside." 
 
He spoke slowly, as if he had to force each word out past 
the visions that were still more real than reality. 
Mulder really didn't want to hear this, but knew he had 
to. 
 
"But I know the place." Briggs smiled with sudden hope. 
"I know where she is!" The smile was incongruous on his 
ravaged face. His eyes sought out Mulder's across the 
room, and he pushed away the solicitous attentions of the 
doctors. 
 
"Where?" Mulder took a step forward. He hadn't been aware 
that his hand had been unconsciously reaching for his 
gun, until the guard reached out and stopped it. 
 
He'd been given another chance to redeem himself. He only 
hoped he wouldn't go wrong on this one as well. 
 
********** 
 
"For the last time, Mulder - get out of my way!" The tone 
of Newman's voice spoke eloquently of the likely 
consequences of non-compliance. 
 
Mulder didn't move. "But you don't understand......" 
 
"Oh, I understand all right." He imbued the word 
"understand" with a bitter sarcasm. "I understand how 
you've obstructed this case from the beginning. I 
understand how we nearly lost Briggs last night because 
of you. I understand that this is just one more of your 
sick attempts to twist other people's suffering to your 
own particular interests. What I don't understand is how 
you have the nerve to stand here with this ridiculous 
story when a little girl is dead because of...." 
 
"No!" he shouted, drowning out Newman's final word. He 
couldn't listen to any more. There was no time for guilt. 
Not yet. 
 
"No!" he repeated, forcing to control his emotions. 
"There's no time for this. The killer's got someone 
else." 
 
"The killer's under arrest - no thanks to you." 
 
"Briggs isn't the killer!" 
 
Newman sighed angrily. "I won't waste my breath arguing 
with you, Mulder. Now, will you let me past?" He looked 
at Mulder with hatred. Clearly only pride was stopping 
him from bodily pushing his way past. 
 
Mulder tried to look conciliatory. He _had_ to get 
support on this. He needed transport - Scully had their 
rented car - and the job required a whole team of agents. 
Although he'd not normally think twice before going alone 
into a dangerous situation, there was more than his own 
life at stake this time. 
 
"Look, " he said, keeping his voice low, although he 
wanted to shout with the urgency of the situation. 
"You've _got_ to support me on this. If there's even the 
slightest chance that I'm right - that Briggs isn't the 
right man - then you have to follow up a lead like this. 
You can't take the risk. Imagine what people would say if 
the killer _is_ out there, and you do nothing. Imagine 
what you'd feel if someone dies because you do nothing." 
His voice cracked as he spoke. He knew what _that_ felt 
like. He cleared his throat before continuing. "You've 
got no choice!" he said, taking a step forward until he 
was eye to eye with Newman, and very close. 
 
"Are you threatening me, Agent Mulder?" Newman's voice 
was taut with menace. He didn't step back, although they 
were too close now to be comfortable. 
 
"No!" Mulder protested. He hadn't meant it to sound like 
a threat. He searched his mind for something - anything - 
that could get through to Newman. "Look, I promise you'll 
have no more trouble with me, not after this. If you 
support me on this and I'm wrong, then you can do what 
you like with me. Put in a formal complaint if you like - 
I won't defend myself." How could he? No-one could defend 
the indefensible. "Do it if I'm right as well, if you 
want to. Whatever you like. But please support me on 
this." 
 
He meant every word. Nothing mattered any more. Nothing, 
except undoing some of the damage he'd already done. He'd 
failed to profile the killer in time, and now he had 
someone else in his clutches. With every word he spoke, 
he could see the blade descend, see the quick flash as it 
sliced into her flesh, adding fresh torments because he 
was too slow. He should have gone alone, ignoring Newman 
when he stopped him to ask where he was going. Like a 
fool he'd poured out the whole story, asking for backup. 
He should have known that his own behaviour had ruined 
all chances of Newman's support. There would be no rescue 
attempt - no hostage negotiation. All because of him. She 
had no chance now. 
 
Newman was silent, his face unreadable. Mulder blinked, 
tears pricking his eyes, despair in his heart. Newman 
wouldn't provide help. The woman would die. 
 
He took a step back, lowering the arm he'd stretched out 
to block Newman's path. He'd go himself, though. _She'd_ 
die anyway. This way, at least he might too. 
 
"Okay. It's a deal." Newman's voice penetrated his 
thoughts, making him draw a quick breath in surprise. 
"I'll go with you, and then you resign when we find 
there's nothing there." He smiled, triumphantly. "That 
fool Skinner can't argue with _that_ - can't accuse me of 
being petty if you hand in your resignation yourself." 
 
Newman turned and headed to the door. "Come on!" he said, 
impatiently. "You said yourself there was no time to 
lose." He rubbed his hands together, chuckling with 
anticipation. "I can't wait!" 
 
"What about the rest of the team?" 
 
"Oh no, that wasn't in the deal. I'm going with you 
because I don't want you going off alone and harassing 
some innocent member of the public just because you think 
their house is sheltering a killer." The house Briggs had 
seen was in a respectable suburban neighbourhood. "But 
I'm not wasting anyone else's time on this." His voice 
brooked no argument. 
 
Mulder knew this was the best he was likely to get and 
remained silent. 
 
Nothing more was said as they walked to Newman's car. 
Mulder briefly considered calling Scully and asking her 
to come along, but he thought better of it. She had an 
autopsy to do. She'd hadn't called all morning, so had 
presumably still not finished. He wouldn't call her from 
one scene of death to face another. _She_ didn't deserve 
that. 
 
 As Mulder opened the car door, he glanced at Newman's 
face, receiving a hostile glare in return. 
 
It was so much more appropriate this way, he realised - 
better than if Scully had been there. It was entirely 
fitting that the last job of his career should be in the 
company of a man who despised him. He deserved no less. 
 
********** 
 
"See? I told you so!" Newman's face was triumphant as he 
gestured towards the house that Briggs had identified. 
"Doesn't look like the house of our killer - or have you 
forgotten your own profile already? After all, you put 
little enough effort into it." 
 
Certainly, there was nothing about the respectable- 
looking suburban house to suggest the horrors that Mulder 
still believed were hidden within. The mailbox announced 
it to be the abode of a Dr and Mrs Hansen, and everything 
about the exterior suggested moneyed civility. But it was 
certainly the house Briggs had described. Unlike the 
other houses in the area, it had a tower in one corner, 
incongruously added some time in the past by an 
enterprising householder. Looking at it now, Mulder 
remembered what Briggs had said. Unimaginable suffering 
could hide behind the most respectable of facades. 
 
Mulder was afraid to move. He'd spent the journey in an 
agony of impatience, willing Newman to hurry, sure that 
every second could make the difference between life and 
death. But now they were here he was full of dread, 
suddenly certain that they had come too late. It was too 
much to hope for a happy ending, not when _he_ was 
involved. Just like last time, they'd let the killer slip 
through their fingers, and would find only the lifeless 
body of his victim. If only he hadn't been so slow 
convincing Newman.... 
 
Newman had no such doubts. While Mulder was steeling 
himself to face the bloody outcome of his own failure, 
Newman strode up the drive with as little stealth as a 
door-to-door salesman. As he neared the door he raised 
his hand, ready to ring the bell. 
 
"No!" Mulder noticed just in time, running up the drive 
with all the speed he could muster. His ankle still hurt 
a little, but he ignored it. "No!" He kept his voice down 
to an urgent whisper, grabbing Newman's arm just a 
fraction too late. The sound of a bell echoed in the dark 
interior of the house. 
 
Newman shook him off, his face dark with fury. 
 
"We should have been more careful," Mulder explained, in 
a whisper. "We shouldn't have told him we were here. He's 
got a hostage in there." Although he felt certain she was 
dead, he knew they had to act as if she was still alive, 
just in case. 
 
Newman glared his contempt, but said nothing. He turned 
his attention back to the door, awaiting an answer. 
 
No-one came. 
 
Newman rang again, but he was already turning to go, 
clearly not expecting anyone to come. 
 
"You can't just go!" Mulder intercepted Newman half way 
down the drive, grabbing his arm again. "We haven't 
looked properly yet. Someone might be dying in there!" He 
wanted to shout, but forced his voice down to a whisper. 
He couldn't shake off the feeling that the killer was 
inside, watching them. 
 
"I said I'd come. I've come. Now it's time for your side 
of the bargain." Newman spoke at his normal pitch. 
 
Mulder felt like screaming with frustration. "Our 
bargain? _You've_ not kept to that. You've come, yes, but 
you've not treated this with any seriousness. On far 
smaller leads than this, standard practice would be to 
take a team in, cautiously, doing everything possible to 
secure the victim's life. No-one would ever just go up 
and ring the doorbell, and then go away just because the 
killer doesn't come to the door and give himself up." His 
hands were sticky with emotion. "I know you don't 
believe, but I thought you cared enough about saving 
lives not to take any chances on this." 
 
"I've heard enough, Agent Mulder. I'm going back now." 
Newman made no response to Mulder's accusations, and 
began to walk down the drive. 
 
Mulder was about to argue, to accuse Newman of 
endangering a life, but he stopped himself just in time. 
He knew it was his fault. If he hadn't earned Newman's 
hatred by neglecting his duty earlier in the case then 
Newman would have treated the situation more seriously. 
Like the boy who cried wolf, he couldn't expect anyone to 
listen to him now, not after letting them down so often 
in the past. 
 
Mulder made no attempt to follow. "I'm going in there 
myself." 
 
Newman stopped mid-stride, wheeling around to face him. 
"If you do that, you're finished." He grabbed Mulder's 
arm, trying to pull him away from the house. "You'll be 
up against criminal charges." 
 
"You say I'm finished already." Mulder shook off Newman's 
grip. He glanced nervously at the house again, convinced 
that the killer was in there laughing at the sight of his 
potential captors brawling just yards away from his 
victim. 
 
"Are you looking for Dr and Mrs Hansen?" Startled by the 
interruption, Mulder and Newman both froze for a moment. 
Newman soon collected himself, rapidly straightening his 
suit and tie, a polite smile on his face. 
 
An old lady was standing a few feet away from them, 
wrapped up against the cold in a long red coat and a 
furry hat that had probably been the height of fashion 
several decades ago. Two be-ribboned Pekinese dogs fussed 
around her ankles. 
 
"You won't find them," she continued, unprompted. 
"They've gone to Europe for three weeks - went two weeks 
ago. They're probably in ....er....let's see... it was 
Venice first, then Paris, then ....er.... yes! They'll be 
in London by now, and then....." 
 
"Thank you, ma'am." Newman smiled politely, but was 
edging down the drive, trying to make an escape. She 
looked like the sort of person who talk for hours if 
given the slightest provocation. 
 
"Is their son in?" Mulder asked suddenly, interrupting an 
account of the Hansens' itinerary. Newman looked at him 
sharply. 
 
"_Her_ son," the old lady corrected. "Yes, he's here. I 
heard his car come in about half an hour ago." 
 
Mulder gasped in mingled hope and dread. It had just been 
a stab in the dark - a hunch. He hadn't expected to be 
right. 
 
"_He_ won't come to the door," the old lady continued, 
her scarlet mouth twisting in disapproval. She lowered 
her voice, leaning forward as if imparting a secret, 
although her eyes shone with salacious enjoyment. "He 
spends all hours in bed, or out God knows where. His poor 
mother just doesn't know what to do with him, but better 
have him here than living out on the streets, or back in 
prison. The poor woman! And after what she went through 
with her first husband...." 
 
It was enough. The killer _was_ there, and he knew they 
had come for him. It was too late for surprise now. 
Ignoring Newman's cry, Mulder turned and ran round the 
side of the house. 
 
There was a car there, still radiating the warmth of a 
recent journey. It had been carefully manoeuvred so the 
back door was right up against a side door of the house. 
That, as well as a dense hedge of overhanging evergreens, 
shielded the car from the prying eyes of neighbours as 
well as passers-by on the road. Mulder realised with a 
shiver that _anything_ could be unloaded from this car, 
even in broad daylight, and no-one would notice. But the 
tower - the distinctive tower that meant that Briggs 
could recognise the house - that was still visible on 
this side, casting a dark shadow over the back of the 
car, ready to catch the eye of the poor woman who'd been 
dragged out to face her worst nightmares. 
 
And then there was the blood. Not much, but enough. A 
delicate smear on the ground, trailing between the car 
and the house. A larger pool, still wet, soaking into the 
grey carpet beneath the back seat of the car. There were 
a few hairs, too, caught in the crack at the bottom of 
the car door - a rich chestnut colour, a bit darker than 
Scully's, although he couldn't see properly in the deep 
shadow cast by the building. He shivered again, feeling 
the chill of that shadow. That house had cast the shadow 
of death over so many people now. 
 
He stepped towards the side door, silently trying the 
handle, not surprised to find it was locked. He 
hesitated, unsure how to proceed. As he'd told Newman, it 
was unwise to burst in without proper support, but at the 
same time every second counted. He was desperate to 
rescue her, but at the same time sure she was dead, and 
afraid to find out. 
 
He wasn't given time to come to a decision. 
 
Suddenly, the sound of a bell echoed through the 
building, an insistent ringing that went on and on 
relentlessly. But Mulder had no time to feel relief about 
Newman's evident change of heart, for the ringing was 
drowned out by another sound - a sound that chilled him 
to the very marrow. 
 
It was a scream. 
 
It was muffled at first, as if a cruel hand was trying to 
suppress it, but it suddenly broke free of all restraint, 
sustaining a blood-curdling note for several seconds 
before fading away into nothingness. 
 
A gun sounded from the front of the house, and the sound 
of repeated hammering. Mulder supposed Newman was trying 
to break the door down, and knew that he should do the 
same, but he couldn't move, so transfixed was he by the 
horror of the scream. 
 
Then there was the sound of feet and a key fumbled in the 
lock just inches in front of him. It was the killer, he 
knew that. _She_ was dead, and now he was coming for him. 
He deserved it. He wouldn't fight. 
 
The door opened and a man rushed out, his face wild. 
Seeing Mulder, he reached out a strong arm, grabbing him 
by the throat, raising a knife above his head. 
 
To Mulder, it all seemed to be happening in slow motion. 
The knife was hanging there, death reflecting in its cold 
steel blade. It seemed to take an eternity to descend. 
Mulder leant forward, awaiting the fatal blow. 
 
There was blood on the blade, and on the hand that 
wielded it. 
 
Blood. _Her_ blood. _Their_ blood. "No!" Mulder suddenly 
knew he'd got it all wrong. The blood was on the killer's 
hands, not his. Whatever his own failings, _this_ was the 
man who'd killed them, and he owed it to them to capture 
him. His own death would be futile if their killer 
escaped to kill again. There would be time to face his 
own guilt later. 
 
"No!" He was struggling to breathe now, but desperation 
gave him strength. He grabbed for his assailant's wrist, 
deflecting the blow just as it was about to descend. He 
felt the knife brush the sleeve of his coat, and felt the 
killer waver, thrown off balance. He grabbed that 
advantage, bringing up his knee hard into the killer's 
groin, making him bend double, howling with pain. Feeling 
his own strength weaken, he kicked again and again, 
floundering desperately now, but he managed to make 
contact. There was a clatter as the knife fell to the 
ground, and the grip upon his throat loosened, allowing 
him to take great gasps of air. 
 
Sirens sounded in the distance, but Mulder gave them no 
thought. This was his fight, and for now nothing else 
existed but the man in front of him. The killer's eyes 
were darting around frantically, a look of terror on his 
face. He flailed out wildly, but there was no thought 
behind his blows. Mulder was in control now, and he knew 
it. "Not so brave when you're facing someone who can 
fight back, are you?" he shouted, wrestling the killer 
face-down to the ground. 
 
"Okay! Okay! You've won!" The killer stopped hitting out, 
his voice full of defeat, but he still squirmed, refusing 
to lie still. He was right up against the car now. 
"You're hurting me!" he complained, when Mulder shouted 
at him to be still, but Mulder didn't move, sitting 
astride the killer to keep him down. 
 
When the killer eventually lay still, Mulder dared risk 
letting go his grip upon his wrists, reaching into his 
pocket with his right hand to get his handcuffs. Just as 
his hand closed on them, the killer darted out a quick 
hand, reaching under the car. Mulder had forgotten about 
the discarded knife and had been unaware that the 
killer's wriggling had moved him inexorably to where he 
could make a grab for the weapon. With a sudden movement, 
the killer turned himself over, clutching the knife in 
his hands. 
 
There was no time to think. Mulder just hurled himself 
down on the hand, expecting any second to feel the knife 
bury itself into his chest. There was a cry, though for a 
moment he didn't know who had uttered it. And then there 
was the killer, clutching his wrist in agony, the knife 
once more discarded on the ground. Mulder wasted no time 
wondering how this had happened. Ignoring the killer's 
pain, he forced his wrists into the handcuffs. 
 
The killer cried out as the cuff closed tightly on his 
injured wrist. Mulder was suddenly furious. "Oh, it 
hurts, does it?" he shouted. "Well, that's not half as 
much as you hurt those women - that little girl." He 
reached for the knife, holding it at the killer's throat. 
"Shall I show you how _they_ felt?" He pressed the blade 
against the skin, watching the look of terror in the 
killer's eyes. He longed to kill him, longed to avenge 
the pain of the victims. He even hoped that with the 
killer dead he'd be free of whatever it was that had 
haunted him during the case. But he couldn't do it. He 
couldn't. That wasn't the answer. Terrible as this man's 
deeds were, he couldn't make him a scapegoat for his own 
failings. 
 
With a stifled sob, he let the knife drop, hearing the 
clatter as if hit the gravel. There was another noise in 
the gravel too. Running feet, crunching up the drive. 
Voices. Screeching tyres. Sirens. 
 
With a sigh, Mulder stood up, handing over responsibility 
for the killer to the police officers who now milled over 
the scene. He felt strangely empty now, the adrenaline 
that had sustained him through the fight now drained 
away. As if in a dream, he walked into the house through 
the still-open side door, drawn by some terrible 
compulsion. He knew what he'd see. He knew it would be 
horrible. But he had to see it. He thought he'd prepared 
himself for it. 
 
But when he got there it was worse than he'd ever feared. 
 
********** 
 
His gun was on the table beside the bed. 
 
Mulder lay on the bed in his hotel room, the curtains 
shut in an attempt to exclude all light. It wasn't 
enough. He could still see. Even when he shut his eyes he 
could still see. It was as if her terror-stricken face 
was burnt into his retina. There was no escape. 
Unless.... 
 
His gun was on the table, only inches away. 
 
He'd thought he'd been without hope before. He'd been 
wrong. However bad it had been, he'd been sustained by 
that little glimmer of hope - the hope that he could 
catch the killer - that he could prevent further deaths. 
It had kept him awake for two nights, waiting for Briggs 
to call. It had led him to rush into the church, 
desperate to find out what Briggs knew of the killer. It 
had led him to the house that morning, even at the cost 
of his career. It had kept him going, kept him from 
giving in, even when the memories were at their worst. 
But now it had gone. There was nothing to look for in the 
future. Nothing.... 
 
Only inches. So close. 
 
There was so much guilt. Briggs, in torment in his 
hospital bed, blaming himself for pulling away too soon 
from the previous visions, for not seeing the house 
earlier. Newman, even Newman, white-faced with shock, 
standing over the still-warm body, reproaching himself 
for not taking Mulder seriously, for ringing the doorbell 
that last time, making the killer cut her throat in 
sudden panic. He'd not mentioned a word about Mulder's 
resignation, his customary hostility dulled by remorse. 
He'd do it, anyway. He couldn't stay in his job now. But 
resignation wasn't the only way out.... 
 
It would be so easy. It couldn't be as painful as 
this.... 
 
"No!" He pulled his hand back, suddenly horrified by what 
he'd been considering. That wasn't the answer either. 
What had Scully said the previous night, an eternity ago? 
He'd hurt her, worried her, made her angry but still 
she'd taken his hand, telling him how much she'd mind if 
he died. He couldn't do that to her, not after everything 
else he'd done to hurt her. His mother, too. They seldom 
spoke, but she'd cried with joy when he'd come back from 
New Mexico, alive. Though why she'd care he couldn't 
guess. 
 
He lay back, tears freely pouring down his cheeks. He 
didn't attempt to stop them. If _that_ road wasn't open 
to him, what could he do? 
 
Scully. He couldn't keep her out of his mind. So many 
times she'd offered to talk and he'd rejected her, not 
wanting her to know his problems - not wanting even to 
admit that he had problems. But he couldn't deny it any 
longer. He'd nearly picked up his gun, and if he had he'd 
have pulled the trigger without a second thought. He 
wondered why he'd been so opposed to talking to Scully. 
He supposed he felt she'd lose respect for him if she saw 
him break down. Now, that all seemed so unimportant. It 
didn't matter if she lost respect for him, if she 
mothered him, treated him like a child in need of help, 
even had him committed. Anything. As long as he was 
getting help. He couldn't imagine anything worse than 
this. 
 
He reached for his phone, his hand shaking. He didn't 
know what he'd say. "Scully, help me. I need to talk." 
But she might be busy, and he didn't want to put pressure 
on her. "Scully?" He'd try to sound casual, though she'd 
probably notice the shake in his voice. "Could you come 
over when you're free?" And then he could wait in the 
dark, secure in the knowledge that she was on the way, 
even if she couldn't come immediately. "Scully, help me 
....please, help me.... I need you.... I can't carry on." 
He was whispering under his breath, rocking backward and 
forward as he sat on the edge of the bed. He hadn't 
dialled her number yet, his hands were shaking so much. 
 
He took several deep breaths, forcing himself to calm 
down, rubbing his face to wipe away the tears. "It's just 
for a minute," he told himself. "Just a minute, just till 
I talk to Scully. Stay in control for that, ask her 
calmly to come over, and then...." And then there'd be no 
need for control. Scully would be on the way. 
 
She didn't answer. She was probably at an autopsy, and he 
nearly broke down again at the thought that there was now 
_another_ body for her to examine, because of him. 
 
She wasn't there. 
 
He was alone..... 
 
Suddenly his call was answered. 
 
"Scully?" He tried to keep his voice calm, digging his 
fingers into his palms. 
 
"Agent Scully is .... er .... a bit tied up at the 
moment." It was a man's voice, laughing. 
 
"Where's Scully?" Mulder nearly dropped the phone with 
panic. 
 
"I can't tell you that, Agent Mulder. I can't have your 
friends - I mean, your colleagues - coming and rescuing 
her before I've finished." 
 
"What have you done to her?" Mulder shouted. He balled 
his fists, longing to smash them into the face of the man 
who'd hurt Scully. Though _he'd_ hurt Scully too.... 
 
"Nothing .... yet. She's okay. A bit sore on the back of 
the head, but okay. She's no good as a hostage if she's 
dead." 
 
"What do you want?" Whatever it was, he'd make sure it 
was given. 
 
"You." 
 
Mulder was shocked into silence. "Me?" he managed, at 
last, his voice confused. 
 
"Yes, you." He sighed. "My God, Mulder, you're so slow. 
To think they all said you were so clever. 
 
Mulder didn't ask why. That didn't matter, yet. All that 
mattered was getting Scully back. "What do you want me to 
do?" 
 
"Leave your gun. Turn right out of the hotel and walk to 
the end of the road, to the small park. Then call me 
again and I'll give you the next bit. You're not getting 
it all at once." 
 
Mulder nodded his agreement. There was nothing else he 
could do. 
 
"Good. I'm glad you're being sensible." Although he 
hadn't spoken, the man assumed Mulder's assent. 
 
"You _will_ let Scully go if I come?" Mulder wanted to 
make absolutely sure of that. It never crossed his mind 
to worry about what Scully's kidnapper had planned for 
_him_. 
 
"Yes. As long as you do what I say. It's you I want." 
 
Mulder picked up his gun. It was cold and he'd be wearing 
a long coat. No-one would notice if he took his gun, and 
with any luck he could use it, force Scully's release if 
the caller seemed like breaking his word. 
 
"Put it down!" He dropped the gun with a guilty start. 
"If you break our bargain - if you tell _anyone_ about 
this - then Scully dies." Mulder wondered how he could be 
so confident. "Ah, but I can afford to be confident," the 
caller continued. "I hold all the cards here. You can't 
risk disbelieving me, not if you want Scully to live. If 
you break our bargain, I'll know. If you even as much as 
think about it, I'll know. You can't escape me, Mulder. 
I'm always with you." 
 
As Mulder clutched the now silent phone, he knew that 
this was the last voice he'd ever hear. There was another 
way out after all. 
 
********** 
 
Death was so close now. He was standing outside the row 
of derelict apartments, alone in the street yet not 
alone. It was late afternoon, the deepening gloom 
lowering upon the street like a funeral pall. Soon it 
_would_ be a funeral pall. 
 
He was so close now. Scully's kidnapper had stopped using 
the phone several blocks back. He had other ways of 
communication. He was with him now, too. Mulder could 
feel him, knew that he had no secrets. He wondered if 
he'd ever find out the identity of his murderer, but it 
didn't really matter. It had to someone, sooner or later. 
If not him, then someone else, some other time. Perhaps 
it would even be by his own hand. This way was better. If 
he could save Scully then at last he'd done something 
worthwhile. _This_ was a cause worth dying for - not like 
those self-indulgent crusades he'd risked his life on 
before, trying to expose the "crimes" of people who were 
less guilty than he was. 
 
"Over here!" The voice in his mind directed him to the 
third door in the street. It was still painted red, 
although the paint was chipped and stained. 
 
He pushed open the door, blinking at the sudden darkness 
inside. All the windows had been boarded up, but he could 
just make out that he was in the entrance hall of an 
apartment block, facing a flight of solid stone steps. 
 
Now he was here he felt strangely calm. He knew it was 
because he'd stopped fighting - stopped trying to return 
to what he once thought was "normal". The decision had 
been made for him, and there was nothing more he could 
do. At the very end, he knew what he was doing, and knew 
that it was right. There was no need to fight any more. 
 
"Stop! Put your hands up!" The voice came from nowhere 
and everywhere, but he could just make out the barrel of 
a gun pointing at his head from a deeply shadowed corner. 
 
He put his hands up, shutting his eyes and awaiting 
death. 
 
It didn't come. Instead came the sound of feet crossing 
the floor, the steps sounding unnaturally loud in the 
resonant interior of the deserted building. The sound of 
feet. Just one pair of feet. Scully wasn't there. 
 
"Where's Scully?" Mulder suddenly shouted, lowering his 
arms. He couldn't believe what he'd been about to do - 
calmly facing death as if that was the only thing that 
mattered. Once he was dead, there was no guarantee that 
his killer would keep his word and release Scully. 
 
He backed away towards the door. "Let her go first. 
Please let her go. Please." His voice cracked as the myth 
that had sustained him just minutes ago crumbled into 
pieces. It _wasn't_ all under control. He still needed to 
fight. "You can kill me afterwards, but please let me see 
that she'll be okay." He was panicking now, his mind full 
of images of Scully injured, Scully dead. He took a step 
forward, blindly reaching for the man, ready to fall on 
his knees and beg if that would ensure Scully's safety. 
 
"Keep back!" The man's voice was peremptory although 
there was a waver in it, just the merest hint that he 
wasn't entirely in control either. "Stay still!" He was 
edging back himself, taking small steps in the direction 
of the stairs. 
 
"Is she up there?" Mulder shouted. "Let me see her! Let 
her go!" He started to run, all control gone, thinking 
only of making sure Scully was all right. 
 
He never even completed his first step. There was an ear- 
splitting explosion, and the room was filled with a flash 
of light which shone white, and then red, and then faded 
to blackness. 
 
********** 
 
Time had no meaning here. Scully had no idea how long 
she'd been in the darkness, restrained by handcuffs that 
didn't begin to yield to her desperate struggles. It had 
probably been only a matter of hours, but every second 
dragged on as an interminable nightmare of uncertainty. 
 
No light penetrated the windowless cellar, but her other 
senses more than compensated for her lack of vision. 
She'd grown used to the dank smell of decay, but the 
sounds still tormented her. She started at every scuffle, 
knowing it was probably mice but at the same time filled 
with fear that it might be the sound of her captor 
returning. She heard him in every sound, felt him with 
every touch. There were spiders there, and insects - 
creatures that crawled across her skin like the silken 
caress of a man with death in his touch. 
 
She felt the uncertainty worst of all. She didn't know 
where she was, or who had taken her. She remembered 
entering the kitchen of Briggs' house, and wondered now 
at the elation she'd felt then, when she'd been so 
certain that she was about to make a major breakthrough 
in the case. After that everything was sketchy - vague 
impressions of being bundled into a car, of travelling 
along face-down on the back seat, of her head hurting. By 
the time she'd recovered full consciousness she was here, 
a prisoner in the cellar of what smelt like a long- 
deserted building. It smelt like 66 Exeter Street, she 
thought, remembering the chill of evil and death that 
hung over that place. At first the smell had choked her, 
tormenting her with insistent fancies of death. Was it 
blood she could smell? Was it the death agonies of Sophie 
Williams and the others? Was this the smell of her own 
death? And then she'd struggled, pulling at the cuffs 
until she could feel the warm trickle of blood on her 
hands, shouting till she was hoarse, calling her unknown 
captor to tell her what he planned to do with her. 
 
But no-one had come. No captor. No help. No-one knew 
where she was. No-one would find her. And so she'd sank 
back, exhausted, awaiting her fate. 
 
And now someone _was_ coming. There was a sound. It was 
faint at first - a thud thud of measured footsteps 
somewhere above her. But then it came closer and grew 
louder, and as it came down the stairs the smell seemed 
to return - the stench of decay surrounding her with a 
fresh intensity, mocking her, tormenting her. "Soon 
you'll be nothing but rotten flesh", each footstep seemed 
to taunt her, the smell pounding with every sound. And 
then she could hear breathing - long choking breaths that 
reeked with the stench of putrefaction, getting louder 
and louder until they filled her whole head. 
 
"No!" She hadn't intended to beg for mercy, but the 
scream was ripped out of her by pure terror as the door 
suddenly burst open, dazzling her with the sudden bright 
light. A dark figure was silhouetted in the doorway. As 
she cowered in the corner, it began to walk towards her. 
 
She screamed again, but her assailant continued his 
relentless approach, crouching down and reaching out for 
her. She couldn't see his face but could feel the murder 
in his eyes and in his touch, and knew with despair that 
she would die without knowing why. 
 
********** 
 
"Damn it, Gardiner! Stop evading my questions!" 
 
Gardiner looked hurt at her tone. "But, Dana.... You 
shouldn't worry about these things, not yet. You've been 
though a terrible ordeal." 
 
"Yes! I have!" Scully was furious now. "_I've_ been 
through a terrible ordeal. Me, not everyone else. Haven't 
I got the right to know about what happened? Since I was 
found, everyone's been asking questions. The police, 
taking statements, asking me to search my mind for any 
clues as to my captor's identity." She shook her head in 
outrage. "The way they went on you'd have thought I was 
deliberately being uncooperative by not knowing anything. 
They seemed to by trying to make me feel guilty." 
 
"I'm sure they weren't...." Gardiner began, but Scully 
cut him off. 
 
"And then those doctors at the hospital, treating me like 
a child. Is my vision disturbed? Am I nauseous? 
Questions, questions. Everyone's expecting answers from 
me, but no-one answers _my_ questions. But as you say it 
was _my_ ordeal. Surely I have the best right of anyone 
to receive answers? Can't you realise that the worst 
thing of all is the not knowing?" 
 
She paused for breath, suddenly noticing Gardiner's hurt 
look. She sighed, trying to keep the anger from her 
voice. "Is there something you're not telling me about 
what happened? Do you know something about who took me?" 
 
"No!" Gardiner shook his head fervently. "I've told you 
all we know. We didn't know you were missing - everyone 
thought you'd gone straight to the morgue after leaving 
Briggs' house with O'Brien and Martinez. Then the police 
got a call saying they should go to the cellar of 1 
Arthur Street. So they did, cautiously, not knowing what 
to find...." 
 
"And found me," Scully finished the sentence for him. She 
looked across at him, studying his face for signs of 
deceit. "Are you sure that's all? It seems strange. You 
mean there was no ransom demand? No signs of anyone 
running away when the police came?" 
 
Gardiner shook his head. He looked as if he'd be a poor 
liar, and Scully had to believe he was telling the truth. 
 
"Why would anyone do that? It makes no sense," she 
wondered, aloud. "Why go to all the effort to take me 
half way across town, just to leave me and then tell the 
police where I was, assuming it was him that made the 
call? I mean, he didn't tell anyone he had me, so wasn't 
after a ransom. He didn't harm me, so wasn't after..." 
She preferred not to finish that thought. 
 
"I know," said Gardiner, taking a hand from the wheel and 
touching her nervously on the arm. "I know it's strange, 
but we'll find out. Don't worry." 
 
"I hope so," Scully said fervently. It was the 
uncertainty that was the hardest to bear, her imagination 
tormenting her with terrible "what ifs". "You know," she 
said suddenly, twisting her hands on her lap. "I thought 
I was going to die." She was surprised to find herself 
confiding in Gardiner, but was anxious to compensate for 
shouting at him earlier. "I thought I'd been caught by 
the same man who killed those women - that he'd do those 
terrible things I saw in their autopsies." She shrugged, 
unable to look at him. "And when that police officer came 
in - I thought it was him, coming to kill me. Oh, I know 
the killer's already been caught, but ... well, Mulder 
always said it was the wrong man." 
 
Gardiner gasped. Turning to face him, Scully could see 
the guilt written all over his face. 
 
"What is it?" she demanded. "What aren't you telling me?" 
 
Gardiner was silent, his face twisted in an agony of 
indecision. 
 
"Is it Mulder?" Scully asked, in sudden panic. "Is 
something wrong with Mulder?" She'd wondered all along 
where Mulder was, expecting him to turn up every moment 
since she'd been found. But Gardiner had come instead, 
and she'd refrained from asking about Mulder, anxious not 
to make Gardiner feel he was only second best. 
 
"No! Mulder's okay." Gardiner sounded as if he was 
telling the truth. "At least, as far as I know, he is. 
I've not seen him since just after....." He stopped 
suddenly, biting his lip as a blush suffused his face. 
 
"Since what?" Scully demanded, her voice leaving no room 
for argument. "Look, I'll find out, anyway, so you may as 
well tell me." 
 
Gardiner sighed. "Briggs wasn't the right man. But don't 
worry," he added, hastily. "We've got the right man now." 
 
"How?" 
 
"Briggs led us to him. Or rather he led Mulder to him. 
The official line is that Briggs was an accomplice, but 
no-one's been able to get anything on him yet. But I 
agree with Mulder. I think Briggs is psychic." 
 
Scully tried to laugh. "I don't suppose Newman's very 
happy to hear that." 
 
Gardiner flinched, looking away guiltily. 
 
"What else aren't you telling me?" Scully asked, wearily. 
Then she gasped suddenly as the realisation hit her. "Why 
didn't you want to tell me that? It's not bad news that 
the killer's been caught. Why should you want to protect 
me from it, unless... There was another one, wasn't 
there? He killed someone else." 
 
Gardiner nodded slowly. He didn't meet her gaze. 
 
Scully leaned back on the headrest, shutting her eyes in 
silent shock. They'd arrived back at the hotel now, but 
she was in no mood to get out of the car. Another death. 
She'd been five hours in that cellar, her mind tormented 
with terrifying imaginings of what her captor might do to 
her. For her, that's all it was. Just imaginings. But for 
some other woman, the nightmare had become a reality. She 
felt her fear as if was her own, as indeed it had been 
her own just a short while ago. But with it was guilt. 
Two women taken. Why should she have been the one to 
survive? 
 
Gardiner released his seat belt, turning to face her. He 
took a deep breath, as if resolving to tell her 
everything. "Newman's taken it really badly," he said. 
"He blames himself. Mulder warned him what would happen 
but he didn't believe him. He thinks if he'd been more 
careful she'd still be alive." 
 
"Well, at least Mulder won't blame himself on this one, 
then," Scully thought, with some relief, then immediately 
felt guilty for thinking that way, shocked that she could 
see anything good in a situation in which a woman had 
died. It was just that, in light of what had happened to 
her that day, she knew she couldn't handle any more of 
Mulder's guilt. 
 
She struggled to pull her mind away from her own 
feelings, knowing that she shouldn't think of such 
things, not now. She still had a duty to the case. She 
owed as much to the woman who'd died - a woman who'd died 
when she'd lived. 
 
"The autopsy!" she cried, suddenly. "I was supposed to do 
the autopsy this afternoon. And now there's another one 
too. I must go and do them." She turned and looked 
earnestly at Gardiner. "Please take me there." 
 
Gardiner made no move to start the car. "No! You can't 
even contemplate doing an autopsy now, not after what 
you've been though. You mustn't think of such things." 
 
Scully was suddenly furious. "You mustn't think of such 
things!" she repeated. "Who are you to tell me what I 
should think about? As you said, this was _my_ ordeal, 
and it should be up to me what I think about and what I 
do. Stop treating me like a child! I'm perfectly capable 
of deciding for myself what I should do, and I don't need 
you to protect me." Gardiner shrank back in shock, but 
Scully was too far gone to stop now. "Just leave me 
alone! I just want to return to normal. Nothing happened. 
I wasn't even hurt. I'm okay!" 
 
She reached for the door, shaking with anger. "Dana!" 
Gardiner reached across the car, grabbing her arm. 
"You're not okay. I just want to help." 
 
"Get off me!" she screamed, shaking him off. An elderly 
couple getting out of a nearby car glanced 
disapprovingly, commenting audibly about how young people 
didn't know how to behave in public. "I'm okay!" she 
shouted, slamming the door behind her. "Just leave me 
alone! I can look after myself!" 
 
She could hear Gardiner calling her, following her as she 
ran into the hotel, forcing the elderly couple to swerve 
out of the way. Ignoring him, she slammed the door of her 
hotel room and threw herself on the bed. She thought she 
was angry, but as she pounded the pillows to get rid of 
her fury she found that her body was shaking with sobs. 
 
********** 
 
Someone was knocking at the door. 
 
"Who is it?" Scully asked, warily. The sobs had been 
exhausted a long time ago, and she was lying on the bed, 
staring at the ceiling. She'd put the television on 
without sound, but with the brightness turned way up, and 
had put all the lights on. She'd even gone into Mulder's 
room and brought in his bedside lamp, plugging it in next 
to her own. After the cellar, she didn't want any corners 
of the room to be left in darkness. 
 
"My name is Sandra Hellman. I'm a trained counsellor. 
Would you like to talk?" She had a pleasant voice that 
invited trust, but Scully wasn't sure she was quite ready 
to trust, not yet. 
 
"I don't need to talk." Scully walked across to the door 
but didn't open it yet. 
 
There was a pause. "Do you really believe that?" said the 
counsellor at last, her voice quiet. 
 
Scully reflected. She'd been to a counsellor before, when 
a case had got too much for her. It had been hard to 
swallow her pride enough to admit she needed help, but it 
_had_ helped. 
 
Reaching out, she unlocked the door, then turned and 
walked away, sitting on the bed with her back to the 
door. She heard someone come in, soft-soled shoes 
crossing the floor, and felt the bed move as someone sat 
down. 
 
"Why have you come, Ms Hellman?" She didn't look round, 
keeping her voice unfriendly. 
 
"Call me Sandra," said the counsellor. She made no 
response to Scully' tone of voice. "I work with the 
police. It's normal to offer counselling in situations 
like this." 
 
"I don't need help!" Scully shouted. "You should be 
helping the family of that woman who died this morning. 
I've seen what that man does to his victims. _They_ need 
help, not me." 
 
"Why are you resisting this so much?" Scully felt the bed 
move as Sandra leant forward towards her, but she still 
didn't look round. "There's nothing to be ashamed of 
about needing someone to talk to." 
 
"I know. But I shouldn't need someone to talk to. Nothing 
happened to me. There were two of us taken today, and 
_she_ died. Why should I be feeling bad when I was 
unharmed? It .... it seems to trivialise what _she_ went 
through." 
 
"No it doesn't," Sandra said, earnestly. "You were 
unharmed, yes, but at the time you didn't know you'd get 
out safely, did you? You went through all the same 
feelings, all the same fears, as you'd have gone through 
even if the outcome had been different. It's those 
feelings that you need to talk about, that you need to 
address before you can come to terms with your 
experience." 
 
"I need to talk about," Scully quoted. "I need to 
address. How can you say what I need to do? You're as bad 
as Gardiner." She looked up suddenly, realisation 
dawning. "It's Gardiner, isn't it? He called you in. And 
after I told him to leave me alone!" 
 
Sandra didn't attempt to deny it. "He's worried about 
you. He's only trying to help. Why are you so angry that 
he's concerned?" 
 
"I'm angry because .... because .... he's treating me 
like a child. I've been through situations like this 
before and I coped then without people like him telling 
me what to do. What does he know about what I can cope 
with?" 
 
"He didn't know. But he was genuinely trying. You know, 
after a traumatic event it's often nearly as difficult 
for friends and family as it is for the person affected. 
They want to help but they don't know the right way to 
behave. Sometimes it's helpful just to tell people right 
at the start how you want them to behave." 
 
"Mulder knew, that last time. I'd been kidnapped and 
nearly killed by a .... a human monster who had a fetish 
about my hair. Mulder knew how to treat me. He was there 
for me when I needed him, but didn't push." 
 
"Is Mulder your partner?" Scully nodded, and Sandra 
continued. "Agent Gardiner isn't your partner. He doesn't 
know you very well, but he was doing his best." 
 
Scully turned away again. She knew she was being unfair, 
but she couldn't get rid of the anger. 
 
"Are you angry with Agent Gardiner for not being Mulder?" 
 
"No! Yes!" Scully looked up in sudden realisation. "I 
suppose I'm angry with him for not being Mulder, but most 
of all I'm angry with Mulder for not being here at all. 
At least Gardiner bothers about me. Mulder hasn't even 
noticed I'm gone. It's over six hours now since I was 
taken and he hasn't thought about me once." 
 
"You don't know that," Sandra said, calmly. 
 
"Oh yes I do." Scully's voice was bitter. "He's my 
partner. I know him. He's always calling me at all hours. 
As soon as he thinks something he's on the phone telling 
me all about it, even if I don't want to hear. If he'd 
thought of me today he'd have called me, and if he'd 
called me he wouldn't have got an answer, since I was in 
that cellar. And if that happened he'd worry, and send 
out search parties for me." Sandra opened her mouth, but 
Scully didn't let her speak. "Oh yes, he'd have worried. 
We've been through enough danger in the past that he'd 
always assume the worst. But this time he's obviously not 
thought about me all day." 
 
"He's probably been busy on the case you've been working 
on. After all, no-one had any cause to worry about you. 
Gardiner says they all thought you were working on an 
autopsy. Mulder probably didn't want to disturb you." 
 
"No!" Scully objected. "You don't understand. He probably 
wasn't busy. That's the worst thing about it. These last 
few days, he's had real problems. I think he was only 
getting though it at all because he was convinced 
everyone was following a wrong trail on the case. But now 
they've got the right man - well, I don't know how he'll 
have taken it. He's probably not here right now because 
he's off walking around town, overwhelmed with 
depression." She was crying now, angry with Mulder and 
with herself. "I shouldn't be angry with him, but I am." 
 
"Why?" Sandra touched her hand, her voice calm. 
 
"Because he won't talk to me," Scully admitted. "Oh, I 
know it's a terrible thing to think, but I wish he'd just 
pull himself together. But of course, at the same time I 
know he's not doing it deliberately. But he keeps it all 
to himself. He just broods over it all, and it gets worse 
and worse. He won't share it with me, and that really 
hurts. It's as if he doesn't trust me. I know his 
feelings are his own affair, but it does affect me too. 
It hurts me when he rejects my help. And now, because he 
wants to be alone, he's not here for me when _I_ need 
help. He'll go off for hours and come back when he's 
ready - he always does - but he doesn't seem to realise 
that I'm affected too - that I might worry about him, or 
that I might need him even if he doesn't need me." 
 
"Is this what makes you most angry - that he won't talk 
to you about his feelings? That he prefers to tackle them 
alone?" 
 
"Yes. I know I shouldn't feel like this, but we're 
supposed to be partners. We've gone through so much 
together. It's as if he doesn't trust me enough to share 
things with me." 
 
"Do you remember that a few minutes ago _you_ were 
refusing to talk, saying that your feelings were no-one's 
business but your own and you should handle them in your 
own way? And then how you said how good Mulder had been 
that last time, when he didn't push you to talk if you 
didn't want to?" Scully gave a guilty start and Sandra 
squeezed her hand, speaking in a kind tone. "Look, I'm 
not telling you this to make you feel guilty. It's just 
that you've got so much anger inside you, and it's 
getting in the way of your own healing. You need to get 
rid of that anger before you can address your own 
feelings about what happened to you today." 
 
"I _have_ talked about my feelings," Scully said, 
defensively, although she recognised the truth of 
Sandra's words. 
 
"No you haven't. Not much. You've talked about Gardiner, 
about Mulder." She smiled. "You've talked about your 
feelings about talking about your feelings. But you 
haven't spoken about what happened to you today." 
 
Scully sighed, all anger gone. "I.... I don't think I'm 
ready for that yet. I'm sorry. But you _have_ helped. I 
was wrong to be angry. I guess my experience _has_ 
aroused more feelings than I wanted to deal with, and the 
easiest outlet for them was anger. I've no idea who took 
me, so can't take my anger out on him, so it was easiest 
to take it out on other people." She smiled, regretfully. 
"Poor Gardiner. It's just that I hate not being in 
control. That was the worst thing about this afternoon - 
being helpless. I thought I was going to die, and there 
was nothing I could do about it. But then Gardiner acted 
as if I was helpless all over again." She sighed. "I know 
he thought he was acting for the best. Could you 
apologise to him for me? I don't think I'm ready to see 
him yet. I need some time alone, to think about things. 
Could you go now, please." 
 
Sandra stood up, but her eyes were full of doubt. 
 
"I'm okay!" Scully said, quickly, but then realised there 
was no point trying to lie. "No, I'm not okay. But I'm 
dealing with it." 
 
Sandra looked at the television, and at the two bedside 
lights, and her eyes were full of doubt. "Here's my 
number. Call me when you feel ready to talk," she said. 
walking towards the door. 
 
And then Scully was left alone with her thoughts. 
 
********** 
 
When he remembered, the realisation was more painful even 
than agonising throbbing in his head, which had until now 
driven out all coherent thought. 
 
"Scully! Where's Scully?" It was a weak croak, but he 
couldn't manage anything more. He didn't know if anyone 
was there to hear him. 
 
"You're awake." 
 
The voice came from behind him. He tried to turn round 
but the slightest movement made his head explode in 
agony. It had been like that earlier, too, unknown hours 
ago. He'd drifted to some semblance of consciousness only 
to find himself in darkness still, but this was a 
darkness that cramped his legs and filled his ears with 
an inhuman droning. Now he knew he must have been in a 
car, but then he'd been too hurt to think. Confused by 
his surroundings, he'd tried to move, only to be thrown 
back into unconsciousness by the pain in his head. And 
then he'd drifted between one dark place and another 
until he was unable to tell which was which, except that 
in one there was no pain, and no need to think. 
 
He wasn't in a car now, but lying on his side on a wooden 
floor. Deep shadows fell across the room, cast by some 
light source behind him, and it was very cold. 
 
"You made me shoot you," the voice continued, 
reproachfully. "You could have been killed. I don't want 
to kill you - not yet." 
 
He could hear movement, and the shadows danced as the 
light was picked up. Footsteps thudded in time with the 
heart beat that still pounded in his head, and a pair of 
feet came into view. 
 
"What have you done with Scully?" Mulder asked. He knew 
his voice sounded pleading, but he didn't care. 
 
There was no answer. The man crouched down, putting the 
lamp on the floor near Mulder's face. Ignoring what the 
light did to the pain in his head, Mulder stared up at 
the man's face, trying to read Scully's fate in his eyes. 
He saw a young man, fair-haired and handsome, probably 
still in his twenties, although his face was aged by deep 
lines of hate. He looked vaguely familiar, although he 
couldn't think enough to place the memory. 
 
"What have you done to Scully?" he asked again, his voice 
cracking now. Ignoring the pain in his head he tried to 
sit up, tried to reach for the man who'd captured her, 
maybe hurt her. But he couldn't move his hands. Metal 
rattled on metal as the handcuffs shifted, straining 
tautly but remaining secure. 
 
"There's no point struggling," the man said, as Mulder 
sank back, exhausted. "I told you - you can't escape me." 
 
"Where's Scully?" He blinked, trying to clear the blood 
that still partly obscured his vision. "Just tell me 
where she is..... Please." He bit his lip, trying to 
stifle a sob. 
 
And then he got his answer. 
 
"She's dead." 
 
He couldn't speak. Blood pounded in his head, his 
forehead throbbing with every pulse, but this was an 
agony far greater than the physical pain. This time, it 
wasn't blood that blurred his vision. 
 
"No!" he sobbed, at last. He couldn't make out the man's 
face through the mists that swam in front of his eyes, 
but he could hear his laughter. 
 
"No!" he repeated, but this time it was a cry of anger - 
anger at a man who could kill - who could kill Scully - 
and still laugh. "Why did you kill her? She's not done 
anything to you!" He struggled to sit up, anger wrestling 
with grief. He felt an overwhelming desire to take the 
man's throat in his hands and choke the life out of him, 
like he had so nearly done to Duane Barry, but he 
couldn't move. "How could you do that? What sort of a man 
are you?" 
 
The man leant forward, his face twisted with hate. There 
was no sign of laughter now. "How dare you reproach me?" 
he shouted, his voice making Mulder's head erupt in a 
fresh burst of agony. "How dare you - _you_ of all people 
- ask me that? What sort of man am I? How can you ask 
that? You made me what I am!" 
 
"That's not true! I've never seen you before!" But even 
as he said it, he remembered. The first morning of the 
case.... Newman briefing them in the foyer of the hotel, 
forcing them to obstruct the other guests.... A man, 
standing at reception, his eyes blazing with anger.... 
 
"Not that!" The man laughed scornfully. "I'm Matthew 
Lewis. Remember!" 
 
"I don't know you," Mulder said. Although everything else 
had fallen apart, he was still sure of his own memory. 
 
Lewis stared at him for a while and then his eyes seemed 
to lose their focus. He bit his lip, staring intently at 
nothing, his brow furrowed with concentration. 
 
"_You_ killed her," Mulder continued, struggling to 
suppress the memory of those hate-filled eyes. Lewis gave 
no sign of hearing, but Mulder continued to accuse him, 
shouting as loudly as the pain in his head would let him. 
"You can't evade the responsibility, and pass it off on 
me. _This_ wasn't my fault." His voice cracked. He knew 
he was speaking as much to convince himself as to accuse 
the other man. 
 
And then the tears flowed freely, washing the anger away. 
Scully was dead. That was all that mattered. She was 
dead, and no amount of anger could bring her back The 
enormity of her loss was more important than any petty 
squabbling about blame. 
 
"Why?" he said, at last, his voice almost drowned by 
grief. "Why did you kill her?" 
 
Lewis looked up suddenly, his eyes regaining their focus. 
"You really don't know!" he exclaimed, incredulously. 
Each word was louder than the last, until he was 
shouting. "You don't remember!" 
 
Suddenly he leant forward, grabbing Mulder's shoulders 
and pushing him roughly until he was lying on his back. 
Mulder felt a stab of pain as his hands were crushed 
against the hard wooden floor, the handcuffs digging into 
his wrists. "You don't remember!" Lewis shouted again, 
leaning over so his face was only inches above Mulder's, 
his eyes dark with hate. "You ruined my life and you 
don't even remember!" 
 
Then he jerked his hands, shaking Mulder's shoulders with 
fury so that his head thumped against the floor and 
Lewis's face disappeared in an explosion of pain. But as 
the blackness swallowed him up, he could hear the man's 
voice: "I'll show you - I'll show you what you did to 
me." 
 
And then it was still dark, but another place entirely. 
He was being hunted. They were coming to get him, 
although he'd done nothing to deserve their hatred. But, 
although they were cruel, he felt confident, his 
confidence investing the dark warehouse with a warm 
feeling of security. It was safe here, for he knew how 
their minds worked, knew that they'd come the same way 
they'd come last time, and the time before. It was all so 
easy. There was never any need to plan, or to waste his 
energy in tiresome efforts to put them off the scent. Let 
them come. He had plenty of time to get away. 
 
But then, he suddenly felt real fear. It wasn't supposed 
to happen like this...... They were everywhere. They had 
guns in their hands and murder in their hearts. There was 
no escape. They would get him and his life would be over. 
The darkness deepened and pulsed with despair.... 
 
Despair.... 
 
Scully was dead. 
 
"No!" Mulder shouted, pulling away from the memories that 
weren't his. "This is nothing to do with me. I won't 
watch!" 
 
Scully was dead. 
 
"Yes you will." The voice was like steel, the hands still 
pushing down on his shoulders. "You've got no choice." 
 
"No!" Mulder cried, inside his mind. "I won't watch." He 
struggled for a memory to hold on to. "Scully's dead.... 
Scully.... Sc...." 
 
Then she drifted from him, and he was back in the 
warehouse, but it was no longer dark. The moon was 
shining, and the place was warm. He could have been at 
home here. It was a safe place that didn't know death. A 
cat purred in the distance, and he could hear the gentle 
scuffle of a mouse foraging for food. He could be safe 
here, but the hunters wouldn't leave him in peace. 
 
They were there now, the threat that emanated from their 
minds turning the warehouse into a place of deathly 
menace. They had guns, and as they burst in through the 
doors and windows they pointed their guns at his head, 
shouting obscenities at him. He cowered on the floor, 
offering no resistance, but they wrestled him to the 
ground. Their jackets said "FBI" in large white letters 
on the back, but their faces were twisted like wild 
animals. They kicked him and beat him and dragged him 
across the floor, leaving a trail of his own blood that 
glistened in the light of their torches. But even though 
he was so ill-treated he was still able to see into the 
minds of his captors. He read hatred in some. In others 
he saw indifference. That was much worse - to know that 
his capture was but a chore to these men - a few minutes 
work, instantly forgotten. But then he looked into the 
mind of the leader, a fair-haired man with a face 
scarcely human, so twisted was it with menace. And there 
he saw.... 
 
"Look at him!" Lewis hissed into his ear. "Look at him - 
you know him." 
 
And Mulder looked at that face, seeing through the mask 
of hate imposed by Lewis' memory, and he remembered.... 
 
"Hey, Mulder!" A difficult case had just been wrapped up 
and he'd been relaxing over a cup of coffee in the FBI 
cafeteria. It was before the X-Files, but he'd already 
gained enough of a reputation to be drinking alone. But 
now someone was sitting down next to him, slapping him on 
the back in hearty greeting. 
 
"Ed!" He'd smiled, putting down his coffee. "How've you 
been?" They'd been friends in the Academy, but their 
careers had taken different paths and they'd seldom seen 
each other since then. They'd met in the corridors 
sometimes, making vague promises to meet up one evening, 
but nothing had ever come of it. Even then, he'd been 
reluctant to trust anyone enough to call them a friend. 
 
Ed had frowned. "I'm on a tough case." He'd launched 
straight into the details with an eagerness that had told 
Mulder that this had been the real reason for their 
meeting. "A bank robber. He takes incredible risks, 
bursting into heavily guarded banks, but so far he's been 
very lucky. The first bank, he got there when they had a 
computer failure. The second one, he challenged some poor 
girl on her first day at work. She panicked and forgot 
about the alarm. The third one, he was half way through 
loading his bag when someone in a back room saw him and 
was about to call the police. There was no way he could 
have seen this, but still he decided to leave just then, 
without taking all the money." He'd shaken his head 
grimly. "But his luck will run out soon. One day he'll 
find a bank that's ready for him, and then people might 
die. There's no way he'd take such risks - going alone 
into well guarded banks - unless he was prepared to use 
his gun. It's incredible that no-one's been hurt yet." 
 
"Have you any leads?" Mulder had asked. 
 
"Yes. Lots of them. That's the really weird part. It's as 
if he doesn't bother to cover his tracks. We've twice now 
found the place he's hiding, but when we've got there 
he's gone. It's as if he's known we were coming, but of 
course he couldn't have." He'd sighed, taking a sip from 
his coffee. "I'm leading a party tonight. We think we've 
found him again, and are going in as soon as it's dark. 
It's the first raid I've led. I really want to do well." 
And then he'd looked down at his cup, not meeting 
Mulder's eyes. "If you have time, could you look over the 
case with me - see if I've missed anything." 
 
"Me?" Mulder had asked. "Of course I will, but why ask 
me?" He'd scarcely seen the man in two years. 
 
Ed had looked embarrassed. "I keep on hearing about you. 
It's Mulder this, Mulder that. Everyone's talking about 
you. But I've been the same time in the Bureau and I've 
not done anything to distinguish myself..... This is my 
big chance." 
 
"It was you!" Mulder said, looking at Lewis. He had no 
trouble breaking free from the memory this time. 
 
"Go on," urged Lewis. "Remember!" 
 
The memory of Scully's death still haunted him, but now 
he wanted to remember. He owed it to Scully to find out 
the reason behind her death. Shutting his eyes, he looked 
back over the years until he was there again, back in 
that time before Scully, before the X-Files.... 
 
His coffee had been cold when he'd finished reading the 
files, but his head had been full of ideas. "What if he 
isn't just lucky?" he'd asked, aloud. "What if he knows?" 
 
"You mean, he's got an accomplice inside the bank?" 
Mulder had been talking to himself, forgetting that Ed 
was still there, but Ed's voice had brought him back to 
the present. 
 
"No." He'd looked at Ed, although he'd not expected him 
to believe him. "I mean, you said yourself that he's been 
extraordinarily lucky. It's as if he knows just the right 
time to do anything, whether rob a bank, or run away when 
you come to arrest him. It's as if he can read people's 
minds." 
 
Ed had laughed, but the laugh petered out when he'd seen 
that Mulder was serious. 
 
"It all fits," Mulder had continued. He hadn't bothered 
to explain the details of his theory. No-one usually 
believed this sort of thing, and, anyway, he'd known that 
Ed was only really interested in ideas about how to 
conduct the impending raid. "Look," he'd said, "How did 
you do those last two raids?" 
 
"We went in as a group, relying on surprise. Then we 
burst in, knowing that if he tried to shoot anyone 
everyone else would have him covered. He's too dangerous 
for any other method." 
 
"That would work with most people, but not him," Mulder 
had said. "He's no ordinary man. If you want to catch him 
you should make sure that all his escapes are covered. 
Don't worry as much about the surprise. Just put one man 
on every door, at every window, at anything that could be 
an escape route. Then, even if he does know you're 
coming, it won't give him any advantage." 
 
"But that would mean spreading ourselves too thinly," Ed 
had objected. He hadn't commented on the mind-reading 
theory. "He's armed, and dangerous. We've got to go in in 
a group, and overwhelm him with force." 
 
"I don't think he _is_ dangerous," Mulder had said. "He's 
never used his gun, not even to wound someone. You said 
he never covers his tracks. It doesn't look as if he's a 
very good criminal. He seems too lazy to bother hiding 
properly, and I don't think he's prepared to shoot. I 
think he can read people's minds, and relies on that to 
get him out of trouble. If that fails him, he'll be left 
with nothing. He won't have a fall-back option for 
escaping, and he won't shoot." 
 
Ed had looked doubtful. "I don't know about...." 
 
"Look," Mulder had urged. "You don't have to believe me. 
But you've tried you method twice now and it hasn't 
worked. Why not give it a try? You don't have to tell 
anyone you're doing it because I suggested it - or what I 
said about your man. Just say it's a change of tactic - 
that you're trying it because the last two raids didn't 
work." 
 
Ed had looked doubtful, but he had returned the next day, 
full of gratitude. He'd done what Mulder had suggested, 
and the man had been caught. He hadn't put up any 
resistance. No-one had been hurt..... 
 
"No!" Lewis shouted. "That's not true. I didn't put up 
any resistance, but someone _was_ hurt. They hurt me. 
They couldn't catch me by playing fair, so they 
cheated.... You made them cheat. I knew how their minds 
worked - I knew the rules of the game. But then you 
cheated. You changed the rules!" 
 
"I didn't...." Mulder started, but then he found himself 
pushed back into the dark place - a dark place now 
slashed with the cruel beams of many torches. He tried to 
resist, but the pressure was too strong. "No! Give me 
back my own mind!" he cried, silently, but Lewis was 
unrelenting. 
 
There were dozens of them now - dozens of hunters, baying 
like wolves for his blood. But then he saw into their 
leader's mind, and he knew that none of these men were 
responsible for tricking him of his freedom. That was 
someone else, someone who had so little interest in his 
fate that he hadn't even come that night. "Mulder was 
right." He could sense gratitude coming from the leader 
of the party. "We wouldn't have caught him if it wasn't 
for Mulder." 
 
And with the thought came memory. A conversation over 
coffee.... Mulder smiling as he planned his fate. "I 
don't think he's dangerous.... He won't shoot." And then 
he'd smiled again, his mouth twisting with casual 
cruelty. "Cover every exit. Don't leave him any hope. 
Hunt him down without mercy. Hunt him, then hurt him." 
He'd sipped his coffee, calmly plotting another man's 
fate, revelling in the pain it would cause him... 
 
"It wasn't like that!" Mulder wrenched free again, 
chasing his own memories. They had been so clear just a 
moment ago, but now they had been invaded. He didn't 
think he'd smiled like that, didn't think he'd urged that 
Lewis be hunted down without mercy, was almost sure he 
hadn't spoken about hurting. But then, he'd just seen 
himself do just that. These pictures were clearer than 
what he'd thought was his real memory. "It wasn't like 
that?" he repeated, but now his voice was full of doubt. 
 
"That was _my_ life you were talking about." Lewis's 
voice came from a great distance, fighting through a sea 
of memories. Darkness .... hunters..... hate.... smiling 
over coffee .... Scul.... 
 
"No!" Lewis shook him again, forcing that thought from 
his head. "You won't think anything unless I want you 
to." 
 
And then the darkness exploded into light. A bright 
building, shiny metal and new carpets, no shadows 
anywhere. A bank. He was excited, mostly confident, but a 
little nervous. His hand shook slightly on the gun. "Hand 
over the money!" he'd said, pointing the gun at the girl. 
She couldn't have been more than eighteen, and he could 
read her thoughts. He knew she wouldn't call for help. 
She'd been scared then, but only a little, only for a few 
seconds. There'd be no lasting damage. After he'd gone 
she would recover. He hadn't hurt anyone. No-one. 
 
"You knew that!" Lewis wrenched him back to the present. 
"I saw it in your memory. You knew I wouldn't hurt 
anyone, but you still planned to hunt me down without 
mercy. Why did you do that?" 
 
Mulder couldn't find any words. He wasn't sure if he 
could think his own thoughts any more. 
 
"It meant so little to you," Lewis continued. "Just a few 
minutes over coffee, then it was forgotten. You think 
your memory's so good, but I was so unimportant that you 
couldn't even remember me. I was just a coffee break to 
you, but to me.... to me it was my whole life." 
 
He pushed again, and Mulder found himself in prison, once 
more in the dark. It was night, and he was alone. 
Completely alone. His family refused to see him - because 
of _him_. He had no freedom - because of _him_. His gift 
was now a curse - because of _him_. By his gift, his 
horizons had always been unbounded. All his life he'd 
seen things, felt things, experienced things that were 
not of his own mind. But now - and that was the worst of 
all - there was nothing but misery surrounding him. A 
thousand minds all leaden with the lack of freedom. He 
could shut them out, of course, but that left him with 
something still worse - being alone on his own mind. He 
didn't think he could bear the loneliness. 
 
"Being in prison is like being dead." Lewis's voice spoke 
though the memory. "You killed me." 
 
And then the memory lifted, but Mulder was still in 
prison, still alone. 
 
Scully was dead. 
 
"You understand why she died now." Lewis's voice was 
tired. He'd moved back, leaning against the wall, his 
eyes shut. 
 
"You .... killed.... her." It was difficult to think 
enough to get the words out. 
 
Lewis sighed, wearily. "After all I've showed you, you 
still don't understand." 
 
Mulder tried to shake his head but it hurt too much. He 
knew now why Lewis hated him, but why Scully - why kill 
Scully? She had nothing to do with it. 
 
"Mulder," Lewis turned his head to look at him. "It 
wasn't my fault. It was you. _You_ killed Scully." 
 
********** 
 
Gardiner was shifting from one foot to the other, 
nervousness written all over his face. "I'm sorry," he 
began, as Scully opened the door, his voice full of 
awkward remorse. 
 
"No!" Scully forced a smile. "_I'm_ sorry. I shouldn't 
have shouted at you like that." She invited him in, 
shutting the door behind him. "Please, sit down." She 
gestured to a chair as she picked up the remote from 
beside the bed and turned the television off. It had been 
showing some sixties science fiction show, all bright 
colours and garish metal, and the sudden blank screen 
made that corner of the room darken noticeably. 
 
"I'm sorry," Gardiner said again, twisting his hands. He 
hadn't noticed her offer of the chair and was perched 
awkwardly on the edge of the bed, his body partly 
obscuring the light from the bedside lamps. 
 
"Stop apologising!" Scully snapped, but instantly 
recollected herself. The sudden darkening of the room was 
making her tense. She sighed. "Look, you did nothing 
wrong. You were only trying to help me, I know that. You 
weren't to know that...." She swallowed against the lump 
that was threatening to grow in her throat and obstruct 
her words. "You weren't to know that ... that I _need_ to 
know everything that's happened, even things you think 
might upset me. I need to know. Nothing can be as bad as 
not knowing." 
 
Gardiner nodded. He kept his arms stiffly at his side, as 
if he wanted to reach our and comfort her but didn't know 
how to do it without upsetting her. 
 
"Right now," she continued, pacing up and down the room. 
"Right now I _need_ to think about what happened to 
me.... Oh, not in the way that counsellor meant - not 
about my feelings, at least not yet. I mean, I need to 
think about the facts - look for clues, follow up 
theories, join in any investigation there is into my .... 
my disappearance." 
 
She stopped, reluctant to say it all. She didn't want 
Gardiner to know that if she stopped trying to make sense 
of it, stopped treating it like one more case that needed 
solving, then the feelings of fear that she'd felt in 
that cellar might overwhelm her. 
 
Gardiner looked up. He opened his mouth as if to speak, 
but then stopped, biting his lip anxiously. Scully hoped 
she hadn't frightened him into perpetual silence by her 
earlier outburst. 
 
"I've been thinking," she said brightly, anxious to steer 
the conversation onto a slightly safer topic. "What if 
there _was_ something there at Briggs' house, something 
that would incriminate him, and link him to the murders?" 
 
"But we've found nothing, nothing apart from the calls he 
made, and you know what Mulder thinks about those," 
Gardiner objected. He'd clearly found his tongue now they 
were no longer talking about feelings. "And that man we 
caught this morning - he was definitely the one." He 
shuddered, suddenly. "You should have seen the inside of 
that house...." His voice trailed off as he started 
guiltily and looked away. 
 
"I know," Scully said, abruptly. She knew Gardiner was 
protecting her again, but this was no time to think about 
_that_ horror. "But I did feel something." She paused, 
wondering how she could explain it to him. "Have you ever 
felt certain that there's something important you've got 
to do, but you can't remember what?" Gardiner nodded. "It 
was like that," she continued, "but even stronger than 
normal. There _was_ something there - something obvious 
that we'd missed." She stopped her pacing, turning to 
face him. "Now, what if Briggs had an accomplice, and 
this accomplice went back to remove this evidence, 
whatever it was. Then I came in and surprised him, so he 
had to get me out of the way - somewhere far off where 
no- 
one would think of looking - long enough for him to 
remove it and get it far away. And then, when he was 
safe, he called the police so I'd be found safely." 
 
Gardiner nodded, but Scully could tell that he was only 
pretending to agree because he didn't want to oppose her. 
Now that she'd explained it, she wasn't convinced either, 
but she shook off her doubts. It had all seemed so 
plausible, earlier, and even now she was determined to 
cling to it, reluctant to abandon all semblance of an 
explanation for what had happened to her. 
 
Gardiner cleared his throat, opening his mouth as if to 
speak but then changed his mind. 
 
"What is it?" Scully leant forward. It was happening 
again. "What have you found out? Tell me!" 
 
Gardiner reached into his pocket and pulled out a 
cellular phone, handing it over to Scully without a word. 
 
"My phone!" Scully grabbed it, holding it protectively. 
Now Mulder would be able to get through to her when he 
called. _If_ he called, she thought with sudden 
bitterness. "Where did you find it?" She shook her head 
to drive away the seeds of anger which threatened to 
burst forth anew whenever she thought of Mulder's 
absence. As she'd established with Sandra, it was wrong 
for her to feel angry. 
 
"The same street we found you," Gardiner said. "But a 
different building - number 3 Arthur Street, this was." 
 
He looked at her, taking a deep breath. "We found 
something else too." 
 
Something in his tone of voice made her gasp. "What?" She 
hardly dared hear the answer. 
 
"Blood." 
 
"Blood?" Her mind was racing. She wondered why Gardiner 
had tried to protect her from this. 
 
"Yes," said Gardiner. "A pool of blood, smears of blood 
leading to the door, and a bullet embedded in the wall." 
 
"Blood," Scully repeated. She tried to assimilate this 
new discovery with her theory. "Well, I might still be 
right. It might have happened as I said, but there was 
another accomplice who wanted to betray the whole thing, 
so the man who took me shot him .... Or maybe, this new 
man shot the one who'd taken me, and it was _him_ who 
called the police.... Or...." 
 
Her voice tailed off. She knew as well as anyone that 
serial killers usually worked alone, and here she was 
suggesting at least three accomplices for the killer they 
had in custody - Briggs, her captor and another. She 
sighed, her theory crumbling into dust. She felt 
strangely bereft, and knew that she'd clung to her theory 
because any explanation, however flawed, was better than 
no explanation. Now she was back with nothing, and the 
unknown could be worst of all. 
 
At last, Gardiner plucked up the courage to reach out for 
her. He touched her sleeve gently. "Well," he said, 
comfortingly. "We've taken lots of prints. We should know 
more in the morning." 
 
Scully smiled wanly and turned away. She knew this was 
the best she was likely to get, but it offered little 
hope for the long dark night ahead of her. She wished 
Mulder was there. His unorthodox outlook was just what 
she needed on a case like this, and, even if he didn't 
find the truth himself, she'd always found him useful as 
a sounding board. Just verbalising her own ideas, and 
having to justify them in the face of his comments, had 
always helped her come to her own conclusions. It was why 
they worked so well as a team, she realised now. Although 
they often disagreed, often followed totally different 
lines of enquiry on a case, they helped each other 
towards the solution. 
 
She sighed, picking up the remote and turning on the 
television, suddenly anxious for its reassuring presence, 
even though the sound was still off. She heard Gardiner 
stand up and head towards the door, but, preoccupied with 
her thoughts, she didn't turn to say goodbye until it was 
too late. 
 
On screen, the implausibly dressed hero was about to be 
attacked by a horde of giant reptiles. Idly, she switched 
channels, not caring about his fate. 
 
Outside, it was raining, the wind lashing against the 
windows. It was after nine o'clock, and steps sounded in 
the corridor as other guests went about their evening 
business. 
 
She lay back on the bed, shutting her eyes. She could 
still see the light red through her eye lids. 
 
"Oh, Mulder - where are you?" she asked, silently. 
 
********** 
 
"Are you broken already?" Lewis's face swam into focus, 
his voice penetrating the darkness. 
 
Mulder said nothing. The light hurt his head and he hated 
the voice for dragging him back to consciousness. 
 
"You haven't asked me why," Lewis continued. His hair 
shone like a halo as he leant in front of the lamp, 
throwing his face into deep shadow. "You haven't even 
thought it." He shook his head. "I tell you that _you_ 
killed your partner, and you don't even wonder how that 
can be true! Are you broken so much that you don't even 
care?" 
 
Mulder shut his eyes. There had been no need to ask for 
an explanation. He knew it already. He _had_ killed 
Scully, as sure as if he'd pulled the trigger himself. As 
soon as Lewis had said it, he'd realised how blind he'd 
been, trying to blame Lewis alone for something that was 
his own fault. If it hadn't been for him, she'd never 
have been captured in the first place. Even then, Lewis 
had promised not to hurt her, as long as Mulder did what 
he was told. But he hadn't done what he was told. He'd 
panicked, rushing for the stairs in a vain attempt to 
rescue her, and so she had died. It was all his fault. 
There was no way it could be anyone else's. 
 
Lewis sighed. "It's a shame you feel like that already." 
He smiled in mock sympathy. "I'm so sorry. You see, I had 
hoped that you'd put up a fight - that you wouldn't 
accept it was all your fault. Then I could have had the 
fun of breaking you over the next few days - of breaking 
you as you so nearly did to me. I wanted you to feel the 
despair that I felt in prison, and then I would kill 
you." 
 
He stood up, and Mulder could hear the thud of his feet 
as he walked away. Somewhere a drawer opened, and there 
was the sound of metal clashing against metal. 
 
"But now," Lewis continued, his voice raised so it would 
carry over the noise he was making, "you've taken the fun 
out of it." He shut the drawer and crossed the room, 
crouching next to Mulder again. His right hand was behind 
his back. "Where's the fun in breaking you if you're 
broken already?" 
 
There was a short silence. The question hung in the air, 
but no-one answered it. At last Lewis sighed. "It's my 
fault, I suppose," he said. "I should have done this 
several days ago. I let it go too far. It's just that 
case you were on .... it offered so many opportunities to 
torment you with. I had to exploit it - it was just too 
tempting not to. But now I've already pushed you so far 
that there's nothing else I can do. I might have to kill 
you now." 
 
He pulled out the knife he'd been concealing behind his 
back. It was a long carving knife with a serrated edge. 
His knuckles looked white as they clutched the handle. 
Mulder could see his own face reflected in the blade, 
although it kept on flashing out of view as the knife 
shook. 
 
"I might have to kill you...." Lewis repeated. He leant 
forward, his breathing rapid in Mulder's ears. His left 
hand reached out towards Mulder's throat as his right 
hand clenched and unclenched on the handle of the knife. 
He bit his lip. If Mulder had wanted to he could have 
kicked and struggled and made him drop the knife, but 
there was no point. 
 
"Unless...." Lewis smiled suddenly, lowering the blade. 
He leant back, his breathing suddenly quieter. "Maybe I'm 
wrong. Maybe I can make you...." 
 
Mulder's eyes were still fixed on the knife. He was 
scarcely listening to Lewis's words, certainly not 
thinking about them. 
 
"I understand now," Lewis said, suddenly, his voice full 
of relief. "I know why you didn't say anything when I 
told you that you'd killed Scully." 
 
Mulder stared at him. His head was pounding again, a drum 
beat that threatened to drown out Lewis's words. Clouds 
of darkness hovered at the fringes of his vision, 
threatening to take him. 
 
"It's because it's nothing new, isn't it?" Lewis 
continued. "After all, it's happened before - that you've 
killed people who care about you." 
 
"What?" He was suddenly fully focused on Lewis, the dark 
clouds dispelled. 
 
"Your father.... your sister," Lewis said, casually. He 
was staring into the distance, not looking at Mulder. 
 
"My sister?" Mulder hadn't thought it could get any 
worse. "I didn't kill her!" 
 
Lewis laughed. He nodded, but didn't say anything. 
 
"Why do you say that?" Mulder knew he was losing control 
but it didn't matter. "Why do you say I killed her?..... 
I didn't kill her!.... I didn't look after her and it was 
my fault she was taken .... I know it was my fault.... 
But I didn't kill her! She isn't dead!" 
 
"You don't know that." Lewis was remorseless. "You don't 
know what happened." 
 
"Neither do you. You can't say I killed her. I didn't 
kill her!" 
 
"Ah, but you forget that I can see into your mind. I can 
see things not even you can remember." 
 
"No!" Even now, even despite everything, Mulder retained 
enough thought to doubt. "You can't do that. You can't 
see things that aren't there .... can you?" Desperation 
was creeping into his voice. 
 
Lewis smiled. 
 
"What did you see?" He still didn't think he believed it, 
but he had to know. 
 
"I saw...." He paused, smiling again. "No, I think I'll 
let you worry about that one. I won't tell you - not 
yet." He picked up the knife and stood up. Mulder 
couldn't see his face. 
 
"You're lying! You can't see anything! I didn't kill 
her!" But even as he said it he knew it was untrue. He 
_had_ killed Samantha, although not in the way that Lewis 
suggested. "I'm your sister, Fox. You have to trust me." 
And there was a woman, her long brown hair slightly 
curly, standing on a bridge at night, her eyes trusting. 
"I'm in danger, Fox," she'd said and he'd promised to 
protect her, but she had died just like the others. "Was 
this your decision?" his father had asked, and it had 
been. She hadn't been his sister, he knew that now, but 
at the time he'd truly believed it, but even so had let 
her die. "It should have been you!" The voice came from 
the river, gasping out its last breaths before being 
claimed by the freezing water, reproaching him in death. 
 
"Why didn't they take me?" he shouted, silently, knowing 
he would get no answer. He was deep underground now - 
another dark place. But this time there were files - 
files full of names. _His_ name was there, although hers 
had been written over it. It should have been him. He 
knew suddenly that his father _had_ chosen to keep 
Samantha, knowing already what sort of person his son 
was. But They never played by the rules, and had taken 
the child he'd chosen to keep. "It should have been me!" 
He didn't know if he'd spoken aloud this time. And then 
he saw a sudden vision of a world in which it _had_ been 
him who'd been taken. Scully alive, happy, respected. His 
parents still together. Melissa alive. Deep Throat alive. 
Samantha. 
 
And then the pictures went and he was back in a room 
where the light hurt his head. His vision was unclouded 
now, but he could see nothing but bare boards where the 
knife had been. 
 
He shut his eyes, trying to force the darkness to come 
and take him, but he could still see the light. 
 
Not far away, someone laughed. 
 
********** 
 
November 16th 1995 
 
His gun was on the table by the bed. Scully felt her eyes 
irresistibly drawn towards it as she lay curled up on 
Mulder's bed, her mind troubled by the implications of 
its presence. 
 
She'd first noticed it just after midnight, hidden in a 
fold of the bedclothes. Then, it had been a relief. "He's 
not suicidal, then." That had been her first thought, 
although she'd felt almost guilty for thinking it. 
Depressed as Mulder had been lately, she had no reason to 
assume he was suicidal. Even at the worst of times over 
the last few years he'd shown no signs of ever 
considering taking his own life. Still, it had been a 
relief to see that he had left his gun. Clearly, he 
hadn't been going into any danger. She'd considered the 
possibility that someone had contacted him - one of his 
mysterious sources sending him off on some fresh mystery. 
There was enough precedent for that - many occasions that 
he'd gone without a word, chasing some UFO sighting or 
other. But not this time. He wouldn't do that without his 
gun. 
 
And so worry had quickly followed relief. If he hadn't 
gone following a lead, and hadn't taken his gun, where 
had he gone? Quite apart from the fact that he was 
completely against regulations by leaving his gun 
unattended where any member of the hotel staff could take 
it, it was most unlike Mulder not to be prepared for any 
eventuality. She knew he could have gone to a bar, could 
have found a pretty girl and gone home with her. It was 
entirely possible that he could be using drink or women 
as a last ditch effort to take his mind off his problems. 
Indeed, when she'd finally called the police some time 
after one o'clock they'd almost laughed at her, 
suggesting that if a young single man was out all night 
then there was no doubt at all about what he was doing. 
Of course it was possible, she knew that. But if that was 
so, why was his phone dead when she called him? 
 
As she looked at the gun again she couldn't help thinking 
that, even if Mulder hadn't expected any danger, he was 
unprotected should any dangerous situation arise. 
 
It was three o'clock now, and still no sign of him. She 
was alone. Alone with her worries about Mulder. Alone 
with the memories of her own ordeal - memories that would 
not keep away even though she tried to drive them out 
with light. 
 
She rolled onto her back, biting her lip to stifle the 
sobs that threatened to engulf her. She wished she could 
sleep, but she couldn't bear to leave the light. 
 
********** 
 
It looked different in the grey light of early dawn. 
Lewis was asleep, snoring gently, and didn't stir even 
when Mulder painfully rolled over, jangling the metal of 
the handcuffs. He could barely feel his hands now, but 
the cramped muscles in his arms and shoulders stabbed 
with pain in protest at the slightest movement. His head 
still throbbed but at least his mind was his own, for 
now. Seeing Lewis asleep, sprawled on a couch in the 
corner of the sparsely furnished wooden cabin, Mulder 
realised suddenly why the pictures had never come at 
night. But now he didn't need Lewis' pictures to remind 
him of what he'd done. 
 
Scully was dead. 
 
At least, that's what Lewis wanted him to believe.... 
 
He wasn't sure if he'd slept at all during the night, or 
if he'd been lost in some other darkness, but now it was 
dawn the doubts were creeping in. Lewis had said Scully 
was dead, but he'd also been adamant that he'd never 
liked to hurt anyone - no-one that mattered, anyway. What 
if he hadn't killed her? What if she was lying somewhere 
in the dark, alone, tied up, waiting for help that 
wouldn't come? What if he'd shot her, or stabbed her, and 
left her for dead, but she'd survived, bleeding and in 
pain, where no-one could save her? He couldn't bear to 
think of it, but knew he had to. 
 
It hadn't crossed his mind to try to escape before, but 
if there was just the slightest chance that she was alive 
and imprisoned somewhere then he had to try to get a 
message out. He didn't know where he was, couldn't hope 
to get himself rescued, but that didn't matter. But if he 
could tell people where Scully was.... At best, it would 
save her life. Even if she was already dead, it would 
give her mother a body to mourn over and bury properly. 
Otherwise it could be months before she was found, her 
mother never knowing what had happened to her. As Mulder 
knew too well, anything was better than not knowing. 
 
And then he saw it. Dim in the early morning light, on 
the wooden table which separated the main room from the 
kitchen, was a phone. His own cellphone. 
 
His heart started to beat fast. Careful to make as little 
noise as possible, he slowly forced himself to sit up. 
His head swam with the movement, but there was no time to 
give in to the pain. Blood pounded in his ears, but he 
could still hear Lewis' snores. Awkwardly, he moved his 
cramped legs, pushing himself first to his knees and then 
to his feet. Then suddenly room span like a maelstrom and 
he lurched to one side, unable to stay upright. 
Instinctively he tried to reach out a hand to support 
himself against the wall, but they were still held tight 
behind his back and he'd half slumped to the floor again 
before he was able to catch himself, his right shoulder 
slamming against the wall with a thump that made him 
glance over in horror, certain that Lewis must have been 
disturbed. 
 
Lewis stopped snoring. The couch creaked as he turned 
over, but he didn't sit up. He breathing changed rhythm 
but was still the slow deep breathing of sleep. 
 
Mulder shut his eyes, concentrating with all his strength 
on stopping his giddiness, on driving out the rushing 
noise that pulsed in his ears. After what seemed like an 
age, he was ready. He pushed himself away from the wall, 
carefully moving one foot in a faltering step. He'd only 
moved inches, but to his amazement he managed to stay 
upright. Slowly, he attempted another step. It was like 
walking in water - painfully slow, as if fighting against 
a strong current - and he was unable to see where he was 
going. The room wouldn't stop spinning enough for him to 
be able to focus on his feet. 
 
But somehow he made it. Just as he knew that no amount of 
will power would take him through another step, he 
reached the table. His phone was lying there, just inches 
away. If his hands hadn't been shackled behind his back 
he could have reached out and picked it up, contacting 
the outside world and bringing help to Scully. But he 
couldn't move his hands. 
 
There was no sound in the room but his own breathing and 
the blood rushing in his head. Nothing existed but the 
phone. He had to use it - _had_ to. Refusing to give up, 
he leant forward, twisting awkwardly, determined to use 
his elbows, his chin, his mouth - anything that would 
enable him to reach the phone and talk into it. 
 
But then suddenly the dawn light faltered and died. In 
the darkness which now surrounded him he heard rather 
than saw the phone crash to the floor, but that no longer 
mattered. It seemed as if he held a torch, its cruel 
light illuminating the darkness, revealing darting 
shadows as mice scurried out of his way. His steps echoed 
hollowly in the empty stairs, motes of dust flickering in 
the torch beam as he stepped where only mice had trodden 
for years. There were smells in the dark, too. Damp. 
Mould. Dead animals. And another one dead soon.... 
 
He reached out and pushed open a door, its hinges stiff 
with rust. His hands were no longer restrained behind 
him, and he appeared to be walking without faltering. And 
then he was in a cellar, and there were sounds here too, 
but new ones. Human sounds -whimpering, crying, desperate 
words which cried for mercy. Scully. She was frozen in 
the torch beam, her face a mask of terror. There was 
dried blood on her face, on the front of her beige suit. 
He suddenly found himself thinking that he'd never seen 
her in a suit quite like that before, although the colour 
was familiar, but immediately cursed himself for thinking 
such a trivial thought when Scully was about to die. For 
she was going to die, he knew that. And suddenly there 
was a gun in his hand, the torch now in his left hand, 
and he raised it and pointed it at her head and fired and 
fired until she was dead. When all was done, he couldn't 
even look down at her dead face, for she no longer had 
one. 
 
"I _did_ kill her!" Lewis took a step forward, his face 
only inches from Mulder's. His expression was one of 
fury. "Don't doubt me again!" 
 
And Mulder knew it was true - knew that he'd just seen 
the true manner of Scully's death. It was so vivid, no 
man could have made it up. It had been a tiny gleam of 
hope but now it too was gone. There was nothing left. 
 
"I never wanted to kill anyone," Lewis continued. "_You_ 
made me what I am. _You_ made me a killer." He raised his 
foot and brought it down hard on the phone, crushing it 
beyond hope of repair. "You thought I couldn't kill 
anyone." He wasn't looking at Mulder. He seemed to be 
speaking more to himself. "Well, I'll show you. I'll show 
you that I _can_ kill someone!.... I _can_!" 
 
Suddenly he jumped forward, hands around Mulder's throat, 
pushing him to the floor. Scarcely able to stand anyway, 
Mulder made no resistance, falling like a dead weight. He 
hit the floor heavily, his bound hands twisting awkwardly 
underneath him as he landed with all his weight on top of 
them, although the sudden fiery pain which erupted there 
was as nothing to the explosion of pain which he felt as 
his head hit the stone floor of the kitchen. It was 
almost enough to send him back into unconsciousness. 
Almost, but not quite. 
 
Lewis sat astride his body, one hand still pressed into 
his throat, pinning him to the ground. The other one 
reached above his head, groping on the kitchen work 
surface. Then there was a scraping noise as something was 
picked up, and Mulder knew that Lewis had a knife. 
 
"I _am_ going to kill you, this time," Lewis hissed 
through clenched teeth. He moved his right hand quickly, 
pressing the knife up against Mulder's throat before he 
could see the light reflect on the blade. The steel was 
cold against his neck. 
 
And then Lewis looked into Mulder's eyes, although his 
face was obscured by patches of mist that floated across 
Mulder's vision. Time slowed. Nothing existed but Lewis's 
eyes and the knife blade that still stayed unmoving, 
pressed into Mulder's throat. Nothing else mattered.... 
 
But then there was Scully. Scully dead without a face, 
her blood thick on the floor of the foul smelling cellar. 
Scully dead because of him. 
 
Mulder gasped at the memory, and tried to lean forward, 
tried to force his throat onto the cruel blade that still 
hovered so near, but refused to move close enough. He 
could feel the warm trickle down his neck as the serrated 
edge sliced through his skin. 
 
"No!" Lewis' voice was firm. "You die when _I_ want you 
to!" And he pushed down harder with his left hand, 
pushing up against Mulder's chin, forcing his head back 
against the floor. The movement jerked his other hand 
slightly, barely at all, but enough for Mulder to feel 
the blade move to one side, cutting further into the soft 
flesh of his throat. 
 
Lewis was breathing fast now, and the knife was shaking. 
At each tremor Mulder could feel fresh trickles of blood 
on his neck, but knew there was still not enough. He 
couldn't feel the pain of the cuts. His head was now 
throbbing with a pain that seemed to fill his whole body, 
obliterating any other hurt. 
 
"No!" Lewis cried, suddenly. He drew the knife back, 
although he still kept hold of Mulder's throat. With his 
fading vision, Mulder could see that the edge of the 
knife was stained red. "I don't want to kill you yet. Not 
yet." He smiled, although he was still breathing deeply. 
"Because then I'd have nothing to look forward to." 
 
And, leaving Mulder bleeding on the cold stone floor, he 
stood up and was swallowed up in the darkness. 
 
********** 
 
He had come back for her. This time there was no escape, 
although she cowered into the bed, trying to make the 
bedclothes swallow her up into invisibility. He had come 
back for her, and he would kill her. This time she would 
die in the light, for she could see it still even though 
her eyes were closed. But the light offered no protection 
from the man who was even now pounding on the door, death 
loud in every knock. 
 
"No!" she gasped, wrenching herself free from the waking 
dream. "It's not true. I'm safe." 
 
But the knocking continued. 
 
"Mulder?" It was Gardiner's voice. "Have you seen 
Da....er.. Scully? Concern was evident even through the 
closed door. 
 
Trying to stop herself shaking, Scully stood up, running 
her fingers through her tousled hair. She was still in 
Mulder's room, but there was still no sign of him, even 
though the light that snaked through a gap in the 
curtains proclaimed that it was morning. 
 
"Coming!" she called, trying to keep her voice calm. It 
suddenly occurred to her that she should perhaps have 
tiptoed through the connecting door and tried to pretend 
that she'd spent the night in her own bed, but it was too 
late now. 
 
"Dana? Are you okay?" Gardiner's solicitous questions 
greeted her as soon as she opened the door. "When I got 
no answer from your room, I thought....." His voice 
tailed off. He was anxiously peering over her shoulder, 
trying to see into the room. Scully suddenly realised 
what he must be thinking. 
 
"Mulder's missing," she said, abruptly, trying to keep 
the tremor from her voice. "He never came back last 
night." Even through her worry she could still feel 
embarrassment that Gardiner had discovered she'd spent 
the night in Mulder's room, waiting for his return. If - 
when, she hastily corrected herself - when Mulder 
returned she didn't want him to know how weak she'd been, 
worrying all night when he was probably off with a woman 
somewhere. At least, that was the belief she had to cling 
to. 
 
Gardiner shrugged. "He's probably just .... just.... " 
 
"What are those?" Scully pointed quickly at the sheets of 
paper Gardiner held in his hand. She hadn't wanted to 
hear Gardiner's suggestions. She'd gone through all the 
possibilities herself many times. 
 
Gardiner sighed with evident relief. "These... " He 
raised the papers, handing them over to her. "We've just 
got the results back from those finger prints. We've got 
a name for the man who took you.... and a picture." 
 
Her worry temporarily forgotten, Scully grabbed the 
papers, flicking through them, looking for the picture. 
As she'd lain in the dark cellar, the fact that she 
wouldn't see the face of her killer had somehow seemed 
the worst thing of all. 
 
"His name's Matthew Lewis," Gardiner went on. "A bank 
robber, but out on parole at the moment. It's strange, 
but he's got no record for kidnapping, or violence of any 
kind, and no known connections with this area." He 
touched her shoulder. "But we'll find him, don't worry. 
We've already started to trace his family and friends - 
then we'll check out anywhere he might be hiding. We'll 
find him." 
 
But Scully was scarcely listening. "I know that man," she 
said at last. The picture was shaking in her hands as she 
stared into his eyes. It was a poor quality scanned 
image, but the features were plain enough. "Don't you 
recognise him?" She pushed the picture into Gardiner's 
face, her voice more urgent that she'd intended. 
 
Gardiner shook his head. 
 
"He was here!" Scully almost shouted. "Here! He used to 
have breakfast at the next table to us every morning. 
I.... my God!.... I _spoke_ to him yesterday morning!" 
She shuddered. "He said he had an important project to 
complete, and he smiled - a menacing smile, though I 
didn't notice at the time." 
 
She paused, frowning. There was another memory too - 
something about a car.... "I remember now!" she exclaimed 
in horror. "He was following me, that first morning we 
were here." She tried to stop her hands shaking as she 
remembered. "We were coming back from the hospital and he 
was following me, real close. Then he overtook and 
blocked me all the way back to the hotel. All the way. 
And then, when he got out he .... he looked at me - right 
at me - and then he smiled .... but it wasn't a friendly 
smile. Just as if he was thinking even then about .... 
about what he wanted to do to me." 
 
It was her worst nightmare - Donnie Pfaster all over 
again. She knew now that this was nothing to do with the 
case - nothing to do with Briggs or the killer. This was 
something completely different. 
 
"My God!" She felt violated. "He was at the next table! 
He could hear everything we said. Everywhere we planned 
to go, he knew, and he followed. That's why he knew I was 
going to Briggs' house." She couldn't remember what she'd 
said at breakfast, but she supposed she must have 
mentioned it then. "But then I went with Martinez and 
O'Brien so he couldn't take me then, but he waited in 
case I went back, and I did. If I hadn't, he'd have tried 
again later, some other place. It was as if .... as if I 
had no secrets from him. He knew everything about me - 
where I was going, who I was with!" 
 
She knew she was beginning to sound hysterical, but the 
wounds inflicted by Donnie Pfaster were still raw. She'd 
wanted to know the truth, but this was worse than 
anything she'd imagined. Someone had seen her, followed 
her, and tried to kill her. At least... 
 
"Why didn't he hurt me?" she wondered, aloud. Gardiner 
just shook his head in bewilderment. He looked way out of 
his depth. "And that blood....?" There were still things 
that didn't make sense. 
 
"Look," she said, abruptly, trying to take control of her 
emotions. There was no time to follow those doubts. Find 
Lewis, and it would all come clear. "Give me half an 
hour. I'll shower and get changed and then I'll be 
ready." 
 
"What for?" Gardiner looked genuinely confused. Scully 
wondered again how he'd managed to meet the Bureau's 
entry requirements. 
 
"For looking for Lewis, of course," she snapped. "He 
followed me for days. I don't want him out there a second 
longer than necessary.... not if I can do anything to 
stop him." 
 
"But, you needn't worry about it." Gardiner found his 
tongue at last. "It's all under control." He looked up, 
noticing Scully's glare. "Oh .... sorry. Whatever you 
want." But his eyes were doubtful. 
 
"I've told you before," Scully said, emphatically. "I 
_need_ to be out there, doing something. I need to look 
for him." 
 
But Mulder was out there too, a little voice nagged in 
the back of her mind, and she wasn't out looking for him. 
 
"No!" She pushed that thought down. She'd spent enough of 
her time these last few years worrying about Mulder, 
trying to track him down when he did one of his 
disappearing tricks. But finding Lewis was important to 
_her_. She couldn't let it go. 
 
But that didn't keep the doubts at bay. 
 
********** 
 
He'd thought he was safe, cocooned by soft layers of 
darkness, but even there they could reach in and hurt 
him. He could feel it now - a cold wetness on his face 
that trickled down his neck, needling its way into his 
consciousness, reawakening the pain in his head and his 
hands. Something wet was passing over his face, its touch 
at once soothing and agonising as it probed the fiery 
centre of the pain in his head, high up on his temple, 
forcing him back to a place where the darkness offered no 
protection. 
 
Mulder opened his eyes. A cloth, once white but now 
stained pink with his own blood. A hand, holding the 
cloth. A hand, tending to his hurts. Scully! A heaviness 
clenched in his stomach at the very thought of her and he 
felt a sudden certainty that some terrible memory was 
lurking just out of reach, but he dismissed that at once 
as the lingering effects of some dark dream, for who else 
but Scully would be cleaning his wounds? He wondered what 
had happened, why he was hurt, why the ground was so hard 
beneath him. He couldn't quite focus yet, but when he 
could he'd see her face and read the answers in her 
expression. He hoped he hadn't gone off rashly by himself 
again and left her to pick up the pieces. He didn't think 
he could bear it if she looked reproachfully at him. 
 
The hand moved away suddenly. It had been in front of his 
eyes and he knew that now he should be able to see where 
he was, but although he blinked, trying to see properly, 
everything was too far away, floating dimly beyond the 
range of his vision. He still couldn't see her face. He 
could hear the cloth being washed and then wrung out, and 
knew she was just behind him, just out of view, but he 
didn't think he could turn his head to look - not yet. 
 
"Sc..." He was waking up now, finding his voice. 
"Scully?" 
 
There was a splash as she dropped the cloth back into the 
water, and she moved and leant over him, her face coming 
into view. But it wasn't her after all. 
 
And then he remembered, and pain in his head faded into 
insignificance. 
 
"You're alive!" Lewis said, though Mulder could barely 
think enough to hear him. "You've been out for hours. I 
was scared you were dead." He smiled quickly. "I don't 
want you to die until _I_ choose to kill you." 
 
"Kill me now!" Now it was important enough he could find 
the words easily. 
 
Lewis made no sign of hearing. "I'm in control now. Your 
whole life - and death - is in my hands now." He 
reinforced his words by running a finger along the deep 
gash on Mulder's forehead, tracing the path torn by the 
bullet, his touch burning like molten lead. "See?" he 
continued, jabbing with the finger for emphasis. "I can 
hurt you whenever I like and there's nothing you can do 
about it." He moved his hand away, the tip of his finger 
now stained red, and there was a splash as he dipped it 
in the bowl of water. "But I don't want you to die - not 
yet." 
 
"Why not?" Mulder was fully conscious now. "Why not kill 
me now? You said last night that...." 
 
"Oh yes, I know." Lewis stood up and walked away a few 
steps. There was a scraping sound as he picked something 
up from the work surface. Mulder hoped it was the knife. 
"I know I said there was no more fun to be had out of you 
alive, but I still don't want to kill you yet. I want 
more time .... I want time to savour the anticipation of 
killing you. I've waited for this for five years - that's 
too long to finish this quickly. I want it to be worth 
the wait." He crouched down again, smiling with 
anticipation. "And it will be." 
 
"It has been already. Kill me now!" Mulder urged. He was 
going to die anyway, but didn't think he could bear any 
longer in this amount of pain - a pain far worse than the 
physical. 
 
Lewis didn't reply. Instead, there was a hiss as he 
opened the can he was holding in his hands. "Drink this," 
he said, putting one hand behind Mulder's neck and 
raising his head. 
 
Mulder turned away. His head had been hurting so much 
that he hadn't noticed how dry his mouth was, but now the 
liquid was so close he suddenly realised that he was 
desperately, painfully, thirsty. But he didn't want 
anything that would make it better - anything that would 
drag him further away from the darkness where there was 
no pain. 
 
"Are you sure?" Lewis's voice was dripping with false 
concern. "I wouldn't want you to collapse with 
dehydration. After all, I know you often forgot to eat 
these last few days when you were .... distracted." 
 
He tipped the can, just enough for a small trickle to 
snake down Mulder's chin and needle its way into the cuts 
at his throat. Mulder clenched his teeth, refusing to 
accept the drink, although his whole mouth now felt raw 
with thirst. 
 
"Okay, have it your own way," Lewis said, lowering 
Mulder's head harshly to the floor. "I could force you, 
of course, but that would get messy." He shrugged, 
smiling. "And, anyway, it doesn't matter. I'll have 
killed you myself long before the dehydration does my job 
for me." 
 
"Kill me now." 
 
Lewis said nothing. Leaning back, he raised the can to 
his lips and drained it in one go. When he'd finished he 
wiped his mouth with a satisfied smile. 
 
"Kill me now," Mulder repeated, more urgently. 
 
"That was good." Lewis gestured to the empty can. 
"There's nothing like a drink to make you feel better on 
a long hard job." 
 
"Kill me now." Mulder felt a pricking in his eyes, and 
his voice was hoarse. He looked around but couldn't see 
the knife. 
 
Lewis yawned and stood up, stretching his limbs. "Muscles 
a bit stiff," he said, casually. "Comes from staying too 
long in the same position. You should try it." 
 
"Please!" He put all his strength into the shout, but 
even then his voice sounded strangely feeble in his ears. 
 
Lewis's feet echoed across the floor and there was a 
creak as he sat down on the couch. 
 
"Please!" Mulder could feel the tears trickling down his 
face. He struggled to roll over, but his crushed arms 
hurt too much to give him any leverage. Behind him, Lewis 
crunched noisily and the smell of chips set Mulder's 
mouth watering painfully. 
 
"Please!" His voice was fading now. He knew his pleas 
wouldn't be answered, but he had to try one last time. 
"Please! Kill me now!" 
 
********** 
 
"Please, turn the car round. I want to go back." Scully 
surprised even herself with the abruptness of her 
decision, but as soon as she said it she knew she was 
right. 
 
"Are you sure?" Gardiner looked at her in concern. She 
knew he'd wanted her to go back to the hotel all day, but 
he'd learnt not to say anything more about it, and she'd 
appreciated his consideration. 
 
"Yes," she said, firmly, staring out of the window at the 
lengthening shadows cast by the watery sun on the sodden 
earth. "There's no point in this. We're not getting 
anywhere." 
 
It was already after three, and if she was honest with 
herself she had to admit that the whole day had been 
futile. As Gardiner had said, the job could as well have 
been done by other agents, or indeed the police. She'd 
called Lewis' parents, who'd professed themselves 
horrified by what their son had done. They'd had no 
contact with him for years, they'd said, but were only 
too willing to help by suggesting friends he might take 
refuge with, although, as they'd said regretfully, he'd 
never had many friends. Although Scully had been 
desperate to fly out and interview them face to face, 
probing their expressions for evidence of lying, she'd 
been forced to admit that they'd sounded sincere, 
especially as the prison authorities had confirmed their 
story. The prison had also come up with some more 
suggestions, giving her names of people Lewis had 
associated with during his time at prison but who were 
now released. But neither line of enquiry had yielded 
more than a few names, and already more than half of them 
had been contacted and eliminated, either by Scully 
herself, or by local agents sent out at her request in 
the more distant locations. 
 
Scully had tried to stay optimistic, telling herself that 
the big breakthrough was just around the corner, refusing 
to consider the possibility that he might escape them 
entirely. That was an eventuality she'd address in time, 
if necessary, but it was too early to come to terms with 
it yet. For her own peace of mind, she'd needed to 
believe that he would be caught, and some explanation 
provided for her ordeal. 
 
Even now she could smile at one memory of the soul- 
destroying futility of the day. Skinner had proved most 
understanding. Strange how he was always so much more 
amenable when Mulder wasn't there, she thought, although 
the reminder of Mulder's absence soured the memory and 
made her chest ache with worry. 
 
She'd called Skinner that morning, explaining what had 
happened, asking for more time to pursue answers to what 
had happened to her, even though she knew that strictly 
speaking she would be deemed too close to the case to be 
allowed to investigate it. 
 
"Agent Scully," he'd replied, his voice gruff. "Haven't 
you still got several days work left on that serial 
killer case you've been on?" 
 
"No," she'd said, defensively. "He's been caught. Someone 
else has taken care of the autopsies, and the local 
agents are wrapping up the case." 
 
"Well, it sounds as if there's more than enough to keep 
you busy for several days, maybe even longer. I won't 
expect you back until next week, or even later." And then 
he'd coughed, and she'd realised what he was trying to 
do, and wondered who was in his office, listening. 
 
She'd been glad then that she hadn't told him Mulder was 
missing, although she'd never really been tempted. She 
didn't want to get Mulder into trouble for disappearing 
while on the job, if he'd simply gone out drinking and 
picking up women. The only way she could explain her 
concerns properly would be to tell Skinner about the way 
Mulder had been acting, implying she was scared he was a 
danger to himself, and that wasn't something she wanted 
to put on Mulder's record if she could help it. 
 
But she _was_ scared he was a danger to himself. She 
didn't really think he wanted to kill himself, but she 
remembered how he'd been acting, and was suddenly 
overwhelmed by a terrible vision of Mulder, desperate for 
help after a night of hellish despair, returning to the 
hotel and finding her gone. 
 
"Is this really what you want?" Gardiner asked again, 
anxiously. "I mean, after you said how important it was 
to you that you were out here looking.... And we're over 
half way there." One of the places suggested by Lewis' 
parents was a cabin in the mountains, only a few hours 
drive from Ridgewood. It was owned by the family, and 
would be empty at this time of year. As it was fairly 
close, Scully had decided to go there herself, rather 
than leaving it to one of the other agents. 
 
"I'll ask the police to check there, when they've 
finished the other places," Scully said, as Gardiner 
turned the car around. "But he's probably several states 
away by now .... if he's out there at all." She still 
remembered the blood they'd found, and knew it could well 
be Lewis's. "We're not getting anywhere on this. I just 
want to go back." 
 
She knew nothing had changed. She still couldn't rest 
easy until Lewis was caught, but this was no longer her 
priority. There was no point wasting her time in a 
fruitless search when every minute took her further away 
from Mulder, who might need her. 
 
********** 
 
"You don't even ask to die now." Lewis crouched down, 
grabbing Mulder's collar and stared into his eyes. "Why 
don't you ask me to kill you any more?" 
 
"You know," Mulder said, at last. There was no point 
explaining when Lewis could see his whole mind. 
 
"Oh, but it's much easier if you tell me." He shrugged, 
casually. "All that reading your mind .... well, it was 
all very useful when I couldn't get close enough to you, 
but it's so tiring. I don't like to do it if I can help 
it. It's so much easier face to face." Then he leant 
forward suddenly, the casual look gone from his face. 
"Talk to me!" he hissed. 
 
Mulder said nothing. Shutting his eyes, he tried to 
retreat from Lewis's stare, determined to retain some 
privacy in his thoughts. 
 
"Why won't you talk?" Lewis was relentless. "Is it 
because you find it humiliating to reveal the full extent 
of my victory? Do you feel that if you talk about your 
feelings I'll know how far I've destroyed you?" 
 
Humiliating? Mulder thought about it and realised that 
this _had_ been the reason he hadn't wanted to talk about 
the decision he'd come to. But now he realised that he 
was wrong to try to preserve this last shred of dignity. 
He didn't deserve it. 
 
"I .... I don't ask you any more .... I don't ask you to 
kill me," he started, slowly, "because .... because I 
_want_ you to. I want to die. I want you to kill me. I 
don't want to live another second like this, knowing what 
I've done to .... to Scully, to Samantha .... to 
everyone." 
 
His voice cracked as he spoke but he forced himself to 
keep going. It was difficult to talk about it, but he had 
to. It was a sort of penance. "But because I want to die 
- that's the reason I can't ask you to kill me. I was 
wrong earlier. I was only thinking of myself. I just 
wanted to go somewhere where there's no pain .... no 
guilt." He couldn't stifle a sob. "I still want that.... 
But that's why I shouldn't be allowed it." 
 
Lewis smiled, but looked away. 
 
"I don't deserve any choice in it," Mulder continued. 
"I've made people suffer. _They_ couldn't run away from 
what I did to them, so I shouldn't try to run away now. 
The harder it is, the more I have to bear it." He was 
talking to himself more than to Lewis now. He _had_ to 
remember this. The darkness was still too tempting. He 
knew he was being selfish, but he still hoped Lewis would 
kill him soon. 
 
"What if I decide to keep you alive for days .... weeks 
.... even longer?" Lewis asked. "You still wouldn't ask?" 
 
Mulder shook his head. He shut his eyes, trying to find 
for a second the comforting darkness that he'd now turned 
his back on. But instead of darkness he saw a bright 
light, cruel and cold. And there, imprisoned in the 
middle of the light, was a little girl, tied down to a 
table, screaming as grey-skinned creatures with hollow 
pits for eyes touched her and probed her and hurt her. 
Then she opened her tortured eyes and looked at him 
accusingly. "I've suffered twenty two years because of 
you," she said, her voice made indistinct by the things 
they had done to her mouth. "Suffering worse than you can 
ever dream of. Every second of that time I've longed for 
the escape of death, but it never comes." She grimaced as 
a spasm of agony passed through her fragile little body. 
"You sent me here," she gasped, when she could speak. 
"Why should you escape when I never will? How can you be 
so selfish as to even think of it?" Then she disappeared 
in a scream of agony. 
 
"No!" Mulder cried. "I don't deserve to die!" 
 
********** 
 
Before the first ring had died away, Scully had grabbed 
for the phone as if a second's delay could make the 
difference between life and death. But now she paused, 
her hand poised above the phone, suddenly terrified to 
move any closer. As long as she didn't answer, she could 
go on hoping that this time, after so many false alarms, 
it would be Mulder. 
 
The ringing continued. Six. Seven. Eight. Echoing shrilly 
in her head, filling her with dread. Eleven. Twelve. 
 
She took a deep breath. She had to face it. "Hello?" she 
said, trying to keep her voice level. "It won't be 
Mulder," she repeated over and over in her head, 
schooling herself to face yet another report of another 
dead-end in the search for Lewis. There had been so many 
of them now, but they no longer aroused in her any 
emotion but a crushing disappointment that yet again it 
hadn't been Mulder on the phone. 
 
"Agent Scully?" It was a male voice - not one she knew. 
 
"Yes!" she said, more impatiently than she'd intended. 
 
"This is Special Agent Ed McCarthy?" His intonation was 
questioning, as if he was prompting her memory, expecting 
her to have heard of him, but the name meant nothing to 
her. "I've just heard you're looking for Matthew Lewis?" 
Another question, but this one at least she could answer. 
 
"Do you know where he is?" she asked, urgently. 
 
"No ..... oh, sorry - I didn't mean to get your hopes up 
like that. No, it's just that I led the raid that caught 
him the first time, five years ago. I...." He sounded 
embarrassed, coughing to clear his throat. "I .... Well, 
it was the first team I led, and .... you know what it's 
like ... I felt a sort of territorial interest in him 
after that. I kept an eye on him in prison, visited him, 
followed his activities ... things like that." 
 
"And?" Scully wished he'd get to the point. 
 
"Nothing," he said, apologetically. "I don't know 
anything yet - anything that will help. It's just that 
.... well, it's not far from here to the prison he was 
in, and I thought I could go there and ask around - see 
if anyone can tell us anything that might help." 
 
"We've already asked the prison authorities. You needn't 
go to any trouble." 
 
"Oh, but I want to," he continued, earnestly. "The prison 
authorities don't have the time to follow this up 
properly, but I do. I've just finished a case. I want to 
help." He paused, clearing his throat again. "You see - I 
feel sort of responsible. I testified at his trial saying 
he wasn't a danger to anyone - that I didn't think he'd 
hurt anyone. No-one else thought that .....well, except 
.... oh, but you know about that. Anyway," he continued, 
before Scully could ask him what he meant. "I was partly 
responsible for him getting such a short sentence, so I 
want to do everything I can to stop him now if he's 
started hurting people." 
 
"Thank you." Scully was touched by his concern, but found 
herself strangely unmoved by this fresh gleam of hope in 
the search for her kidnapper. She knew now that this, 
like all the others, would probably come to nothing, and, 
even if it didn't, her concern for Mulder was now so 
great that nothing else really mattered, not now. 
 
"Dana? It's me!" A voice at the door disturbed her train 
of thought. She felt a sudden surge of warmth for 
Gardiner. Now he was aware of the depth of her worry 
about Mulder, he was announcing his presence before 
knocking, so as to avoid raising false hopes. 
 
"Hang on," she said to Agent McCarthy as she walked over 
and let Gardiner in. "It's the agent who arrested Lewis 
back in 1990," she mouthed, gesturing to the phone, and 
Gardiner, nodding his comprehension, took an unobtrusive 
station against the wall. She could tell by his face that 
he didn't have any news either. 
 
"Er...," she began, speaking at McCarthy again. She 
didn't know what to say. She knew she should be bursting 
with questions, desperate for any information that would 
help in the search. Even though she had given up hope, 
there were still people out there, searching on her 
behalf. "Er... how did you catch him, back then? Does he 
- did he - have any weaknesses you could use against 
him?" 
 
"Hasn't Mulder told you about that?" McCarthy sounded 
confused. 
 
"What?" Scully was all attention now, her heart racing. 
 
"I mean ..... You _are_ the Agent Scully who works with 
Mulder, aren't you?" 
 
"Was Mulder there? Was it Mulder who caught him?" 
Suddenly the situation had taken on a whole new and 
terrifying perspective. Scully had never forgotten John 
Barnett, and the deadly lengths he had been prepared to 
go to in order to get revenge on Mulder. 
 
"No!" McCarthy sounded surprised at the question. "Hasn't 
he told you? He wasn't even there." But before Scully 
could feel any relief that her sudden fears had been 
groundless, McCarthy explained. "But, still, it was 
thanks to Mulder that he was caught at all," he said, 
oblivious to the fact that his words were draining the 
blood from Scully's face. "I was stuck. I was desperate 
to get it right .... you know how it is. So I asked 
Mulder for his opinion. He looked over the case, just 
quickly, and came up with some suggestions. I did what he 
said, and we caught him. Of course," he continued, his 
voice apologetic, "everyone praised me for catching him, 
but I couldn't have done it without Mulder." 
 
"Does Lewis...." Scully could hardly speak, her voice 
choked with dread. "Does Lewis know this." 
 
"About Mulder? I don't think so.... I don't know. I 
suppose I might have mentioned it to someone, and there's 
a chance he might have overheard, but I don't think so." 
He laughed suddenly. "But, of course, Mulder thought he 
could read people's minds." 
 
"I .... I....." Scully could scarcely think enough to 
speak. "Thank you... I.... I've got to go." 
 
She could barely put the phone down for the shaking of 
her hands, and she could feel sobs welling up deep in her 
chest. She was dimly aware of hands reaching out for her 
shoulders and gently guiding her to a chair. Then 
footsteps sounded across the room, disappearing out of 
earshot and then back, and a glass of water was thrust 
into her trembling hands. 
 
"He's got him!" she exclaimed, when she could speak. A 
drop of water shook free from the glass and spilt onto 
her lap, sharp and cold through her skirt. 
 
"Who?" Gardiner crouched down in front of her, his face 
full of bewilderment and concern. 
 
"Mulder!" Scully shouted, annoyed that Gardiner didn't 
understand when it was all so horribly clear now. "Lewis 
has got Mulder!" 
 
Gardiner stroked the back of her hand soothingly. "You've 
had a difficult time these last two days. Don't you think 
you should get some rest?" 
 
"Don't patronise me!" Scully snatched her hand away as if 
it had been burnt. "It's obvious! How can you - how could 
I have been so blind?" She was angry at his denial of the 
obvious, but at the same time even more angry with 
herself for failing to see it earlier. "I've just heard - 
it's due to Mulder that Lewis was caught in the first 
place. That's what this was all about - revenge. Think 
about it ..... it explains everything. He was using me as 
bait, to get Mulder. That's why he didn't hurt me - why 
he called and told the police where I was. He'd got what 
he wanted then, and I was no longer useful." 
 
"But...." Gardiner glanced over his shoulder, as if 
searching for help he knew wouldn't come. 
 
"My God! How could I have been so selfish?" Scully 
continued, interrupting him. "It wasn't me he was 
following about - it was Mulder. I didn't even consider 
that. I was so selfish, so wrapped up in myself, that it 
didn't even occur to me that it wasn't me he was 
stalking.... But it was Mulder all the time." 
 
"No...." Gardiner trailed off. He plainly wanted to 
comfort her, but at the same time was terrified that he 
would offend her again. "So, you're saying that Lewis 
contacted Mulder and told him he was holding you?" Scully 
nodded, grimly, and Gardiner continued. "And then Mulder 
went to rescue you, and got captured himself?" he shook 
his head doubtfully as he spoke. 
 
"Yes!" Scully's voice was nearly swallowed up by tears. 
"It's obvious." She couldn't see why Gardiner was still 
looking so dubious. 
 
"But, it doesn't fit." Gardiner's voice was quiet. He was 
obviously torn between a desire to reassure her that her 
fears were groundless, and a deep reluctance to 
contradict anything she ever said. "He wouldn't go by 
himself, unarmed, without telling anyone where he was 
going. If he really wanted to rescue you he'd have told 
someone, made some plan to get you out some safer way. 
Lewis need never have known." 
 
"How dare you suggest Mulder didn't really want to rescue 
me!" Scully blazed. "Can't you see? He couldn't tell 
anyone because he believed Lewis could read his mind!" 
 
"But...." Gardiner was floundering now. "It's 
possible.... But there are lots of other plausible 
explanations." 
 
"Like what?" Scully snapped. "We couldn't come up with 
anything this morning, nothing that really made sense. 
This is right - I feel it." Her anger faded, drowned out 
by tears of self-reproach. "If only I hadn't been so 
selfish.... I should have realised ages ago." 
 
"Well, we're looking for Lewis anyway," Gardiner began, 
reassuringly. 
 
"He's probably dead now!" Scully interrupted, tears 
choking her words. 
 
"But he didn't hurt you," Gardiner pointed out, gently. 
"He could easily have hurt you, but he didn't. And he has 
no record of violence of any kind." 
 
Scully tried to believe it, but suddenly there was 
another memory, an icy fist of horror closing on her 
heart. "He _was_ hurt!" she exclaimed. "That blood you 
found.... " She buried her head in her hands, sobbing. 
"He was shot - hurt.... He was all alone with someone who 
was going to kill him.... There was no-one to help 
him..... His only hope was that I would be looking for 
him, and would find him in time - but I was too selfish 
to even notice he was in trouble.... And he was so 
depressed recently...." Her voice trailed off in despair. 
She realised she was talking as if he was already dead. 
 
Gardiner patted her shoulder, but said nothing. 
 
"I mustn't give up," she said, at last, taking a deep 
breath. "I've got to be strong, for his sake. He needs me 
to be strong, to look for him. I've got to believe he's 
still alive - I've got to.... " She was speaking to 
herself, forgetting Gardiner was in the room. "If I give 
up now I'll be failing him yet again. I've got to go out 
there looking for him." 
 
"What do you want to do?" Gardiner asked, hesitantly, 
reminding her of his presence. She wasn't sure whether to 
be grateful to him for letting her make the decisions or 
annoyed at the fact he wasn't taking control, strongly 
assuring her that everything was being taken care of. 
Although she needed to be out there, searching, part of 
her just wanted to curl up under the covers and cry, 
letting other people do the thinking. 
 
"The same as we were doing, only faster.... Talk to 
everyone again.... Get a bigger team out on it.... Get 
appeals out on television .... Oh, everything we normally 
do.... Oh my God!" She froze in horror as the realisation 
hit her. "That cabin! I must go back to that cabin. We 
were half way there and then I made us turn back! What if 
he was there all the time? ..... Mulder could have been 
there, needing me, and I turned my back on him!" 
 
"Don't think like that," Gardiner said, touching her arm. 
"There's no reason why he should be there. You're just 
thinking like that because we decided not to go there, 
but he could be anywhere by now.... " He checked himself 
with a gasp. "Oh, I mean .... I don't mean that we won't 
get him, because we will....." 
 
And Scully knew she had to cling to that hope. She could 
only pray that it wouldn't be too late. 
 
********** 
 
"You don't ask me anything." Lewis's voice was almost 
petulant. "It took me years to perfect this revenge and 
you don't even ask about it." 
 
He sighed, drumming his fingers. As the afternoon had 
dragged on into evening, Lewis had been getting 
increasingly restless. The more Mulder grew resigned to 
fate, the more Lewis began to exhibit signs of stress. 
 
"I'd have thought you'd have been interested, even now," 
Lewis continued. "I'd make an intriguing X-File - as 
intriguing as all those that have aroused your curiosity 
in the past and led you to endanger Scully's life 
investigating them." 
 
He paused, frowning in concentration. "You're not even 
thinking about it," he declared, incredulously. "You're 
not even wondering where we're going!" 
 
Mulder said nothing. It took all his concentration simply 
to sit upright in the car. 
 
"But, then, I shouldn't be surprised," Lewis continued, 
with a rueful shrug. "After all, I knew you had no fight 
left in you. That's why I took those cuffs off." 
 
Mulder's hands were free, lying limply in his lap. Now 
the circulation had returned, they throbbed in agony 
right up the arms to the shoulders, and one was slowly 
turning purple at the wrist, presumably broken when he'd 
fallen heavily onto it. Even if he'd had any desire to 
struggle, he doubted if he could have got much use out of 
either hand. He certainly wouldn't have been able to 
think fast enough, and his vision was badly blurred now, 
however much he blinked to clear it. 
 
But he could still sit up, if he really tried. He was 
sitting in the passenger seat, next to Lewis. As Lewis 
had explained, there was a chance - a very small chance - 
that the police were looking for them, and it would look 
less suspicious if Mulder was sitting in plain view. "And 
they'll hardly think you're being taken against your will 
if you're sitting there in the front seat and they can 
see you're not restrained in any way," he'd said, wiping 
away the trickle of blood that had seeped out of the 
poorly-closed wound on Mulder's forehead. 
 
He didn't know how long they'd been travelling, but he 
was still upright even though it had been long enough for 
the dying sun to fade into total darkness. Lewis had 
reached over and jabbed him in the ribs whenever he 
slumped too much, overcome by the mesmerising thrum of 
the engine which seemed to call him towards oblivion. 
"You don't want to be rescued, do you?" Lewis had hissed, 
knowing the answer. And so Mulder had sat up straight, 
although the effort was agony. He didn't want to be 
rescued. Although he knew he should be saved from death 
and forced to live with what he'd done, he couldn't bear 
the thought of well-meaning people who knew nothing 
trying to tell him he was wrong to feel such guilt. 
 
"Where are we going?" he asked at last. He didn't really 
care, but he needed Lewis to speak again - needed 
something to focus on to keep him conscious. 
 
"Home," said Lewis, with a smile. When he reached the 
next lay-by he pulled off the road, turning off the 
engine. "I'll show you." 
 
And suddenly Mulder felt himself running across the grass 
beneath a deep blue sky, past flowers more colourful and 
fragrant than any he'd seen before. He was crying at the 
pain in his knee, but at the same time felt safe, for 
_she_ was inside and she'd make things better. And then 
he was inside and gentle arms enveloped him and held him 
close. "What is it, honey?" Her voice was warm from 
baking. "Oh, poor thing! Have you cut your knee? Mom will 
look after it." She was fair and beautiful and dressed in 
pink, and just looking at her face filled with an immense 
sense of safety, although at the same time part of him 
was unmoved, realising that there was no safety for _him_ 
here. 
 
Then suddenly she was much smaller, smaller than him, and 
her fair hair was tinged with grey. "Don't forget, 
Matthew," she said, as she helped him pack his bags. 
"Whenever you need help ... If things don't go right 
..... Dad and I are always here for you. Don't be too 
proud to come back and ask for help." She smiled, almost 
shyly, although her eyes were grave. "Whatever happens, 
you're still our little boy. We'll always be here to help 
you sort things out." There was the fragrance of summer 
flowers in her words. 
 
"But she didn't!" Lewis shouted. There were tears in his 
eyes. "She didn't - because of you!" 
 
There was no flowers in the place he was now. It was 
dark, stark and grey and full of despair. But today there 
was hope, lighting the darkness like the first flower of 
spring. Soon he'd hear her voice and everything would be 
all right again. Boots resounded in the corridor and a 
key clanged in the lock, and then darkness descended on 
his soul. "You parents have said that they don't want you 
to contact them any more," the cold voice announced. He 
was too grief-stricken to probe the guard's mind and read 
the gloating relish that surely hid behind the 
emotionless voice. "No letters. No calls. Nothing," as 
the door slammed shut on his hopes, leaving him with 
nothing. 
 
"But it was all _your_ fault!" Lewis shouted. "They don't 
know that. I'll go home and show them .... you can tell 
them. Tell them it's all your fault. They'll believe 
you." He smiled, although there were tears in his eyes. 
"Then it'll all be like it was. They'll forgive me - 
they'll know there was nothing to forgive. She'll make 
everything better, like she used to." 
 
He cleared his throat, starting up the engine again. 
"This was the worst thing you did," he said. His voice 
was dull now, as if exhausted by emotion. He wasn't 
looking at Mulder at all, but was concentrating on 
adjusting the mirror. "You upset my Mom so much that she 
didn't want any reminders of how much it hurt. But I'll 
show her. I'll show her how much I care - how much I 
cared all along." He pulled out of the lay-by, and his 
words were nearly choked by the sudden noise of the 
engine. "I'll kill the person who caused her pain." He 
bit his lip and sighed. "Then everything will be all 
right." 
 
********** 
 
Scully knew there was news as soon as she saw the police 
officer's face, grimly illuminated by the car's 
headlights. 
 
"What is it?" she shouted, jumping from the car before it 
had fully stopped. "What have you found?" 
 
"Take a look," he said, after he'd inspected the ID which 
she'd pulled from her pocket with a shaking hand. 
 
Scully wasn't sure if she wanted to see, but knew she had 
to. Now that it had happened, she knew she'd never really 
expected to find anything here at all. Her obsession with 
the place derived more from the fact that they'd so 
nearly visited it hours before than from any real hope 
that they'd find anything. 
 
Her steps faltering with impatient reluctance, Scully 
slowly walked into the small cabin, needing to know the 
truth but terrified at what she might find. At least 
there were no bodies. She could see that at once, her 
worst fears laid to rest. 
 
"_Somebody's_ been here recently," the police officer 
explained, gesturing at an apple core, brown now but 
still intact. "And then there's this...." He pointed at 
the work surface in the small kitchen, and Scully's blood 
ran cold with horror. 
 
It was a knife, cruel and serrated. A knife designed for 
carving thick lumps of meat. A knife now stained with 
blood. 
 
"Probably used for cutting animal flesh," the police 
officer continued, oblivious to her reaction. Scully 
wondered how much he'd been told about the case. He 
didn't look as if he was being deliberately insensitive. 
"It is hunting season after all." 
 
But Scully knew with a terrible certainty that when they 
ran tests on the blood they'd find it was human. Mulder's 
blood. 
 
"And then we found this," the officer continued. He was 
pointing at the waste basket. "We left everything where 
it was until you came." 
 
Scully pulled a latex glove over her shaking hands, 
reaching in and pulling out a twisted and cracked 
cellphone. 
 
"It's Mulder's!" she croaked, barely able to speak. Now 
she had this proof she realised that she'd never really 
been certain, deep down, that Mulder _had_ been taken by 
Lewis. She'd feared it, certainly. She'd thought she'd 
known it. But now, seeing the confirmation, she realised 
she hadn't been prepared to have her fears proved true. 
 
Unable to stand, she sank down on the kitchen floor. From 
this level she could see the splashes of blood on the 
dark stone floor. She wondered if the despair she was 
feeling was anything like as great as the despair Mulder 
must have felt as he'd lain bleeding in the same place, 
just hours before. 
 
"I was right," she sobbed. This was one situation in 
which she'd have given anything to have been proved 
wrong. "He was here, and I turned my back on him. If only 
I'd carried on this afternoon I might have found him. 
It's all my fault!" 
 
"You weren't to know." The police officer had tactfully 
withdrawn and Gardiner had taken his place. "They might 
not have been here then. He probably just came here to 
spend the night and left this morning. Please don't blame 
yourself." 
 
"Oh, but it is my fault - all of it!" she cried. "If I 
hadn't been so stupid yesterday morning." Was it really 
yesterday? She'd been through a lifetime of emotion since 
then. "I shouldn't have gone back to Briggs' house on 
nothing more than a stupid hunch. And if I hadn't done 
that, Lewis couldn't have captured me, and then Mulder 
would be all right...." 
 
"It's not your fault." Gardiner took her hands and tried 
to lead her to the couch, but Scully refused to move from 
the floor. She felt closer to Mulder here. "If you're 
right and Lewis really wanted to get at Mulder, he'd have 
done it anyway. If not through you, then some other 
way...." 
 
"But I should have realised earlier!" Scully returned to 
the thing she found most distressing. "I should have 
known. When I've been in trouble Mulder had always known, 
and had come to help me. When I was missing even my 
mother gave up on me, but not Mulder. He did everything 
he could to get me back, and I know something of what it 
cost him.... But me - I wasn't there for him! I didn't 
even notice anything was wrong. My God! I was even angry 
with him for not being there after I was found 
yesterday." She wrapped her arms tightly round her knees, 
rocking to and fro in her grief. 
 
"Let's concentrate on finding him for now," Gardiner 
said, biting his lip. His own eyes were glistening at 
Scully's outpouring of guilt. "Worrying about who's to 
blame is no use to him now." 
 
"But he's probably dead now, because of me!" It was a cry 
of pure anguish. 
 
"He's not dead," Gardiner said, soothingly. "Look at that 
knife. There's not that much blood on it. Not enough to 
kill someone." 
 
"Maybe he was dead already," Scully sobbed. "Remember the 
blood you found yesterday." 
 
"But if he was dead already, why was Lewis .... I'm sorry 
to have to talk about this .... why was Lewis using the 
knife on him?" 
 
And then Scully remembered the autopsy she'd done on 
Ellie Benton, and the excruciating agony that a knife 
could inflict on someone still living. "Maybe he would be 
better dead." 
 
********** 
 
November 17th 1995 
 
She sighed, hastily drying her hands, nearly knocking 
over a full mug of coffee as she threw down the towel. 
"I'm coming!" she called, even though she knew that her 
voice wouldn't carry as far as the front door step. 
 
Alexandra Blake glanced anxiously at the clock as the 
knocking continued. Eight o'clock already, and the boys 
nowhere near ready for school. "Boys!" she called, as she 
passed the bottom of the stairs on her way to the door, 
"For the last time, hurry up!" Their voices sounded 
shrill in their bedrooms and she doubted if they'd heard 
her. Still, they always made it out in time in the end, 
despite her worries. 
 
Then she composed her face into a neutral expression, as 
she reached for the door, checking it was on the chain 
before she opened it. 
 
"Hello?" she said, smiling at the stranger on the door 
step. He was fairly young, at least half a dozen years 
younger than she was, and quite good-looking, although he 
looked unkempt and his eyes were troubled. 
 
"Oh ....er ...." He frowned with confusion. "Where are my 
.... where are Mr and Mrs Lewis?" 
 
"Oh, I am sorry," she said, smiling a sincere apology. 
"They moved away several years ago. We bought the house 
from them." 
 
The man's face fell, and all the life went out of his 
eyes. He reached out a hand, as if clutching at the wall 
for support, and his mouth opened and shut several times 
as if he wanted to speak but couldn't find the words. 
Observing his reaction, Alexandra nearly took the door 
off its chain, aware of how unfriendly she must look 
crushing a man's hopes through a crack in the door, but 
she decided against it. Although this man didn't look 
like a criminal, she didn't want to take any risks, not 
with the boys in the house. 
 
"Do you .... do you know where they've gone?" he asked, 
falteringly. 
 
"No, I'm sorry," she said, full of sympathy. She could 
have told him more, but didn't want to relate local 
gossip to a stranger. She hadn't thought about it for 
months, but now she remembered that first day in the 
house, a confused jumble of crates and boxes, when Mrs 
Gates, neighbour and inveterate gossip, had come round to 
welcome them to the area. "Those poor people!" she'd 
exclaimed, over a hastily unearthed cup of coffee. "They 
loved this house, but after that business with their 
son...." She'd paused, as if expecting them to ask for 
more details, but then continued, determined not to let 
their lack of interest interfere with her story. "He went 
to Washington and turned bad - robbing banks, threatening 
people with guns. It's a wonder he didn't kill anyone. It 
simply broke their hearts. Of course, no-one would dream 
of talking about it, but they still felt they couldn't 
live here where everyone knew their family's shame. They 
moved away to make a new start where no-one knew what had 
happened. The poor woman - she was crying as she left." 
 
"Are you all right?" she asked, suddenly, recalled from 
her memories by a pained gasp from the man on her door 
step. He looked close to collapse, his eyes focused 
intently on nothing. "Can I get you something? Water, or 
something?" She glanced anxiously at the chain again, 
debating whether to risk letting him in. 
 
"No .... no," he muttered. He was scarcely coherent, his 
voice lifeless. "I'll be okay.... I'll...." 
 
"Are you sure?" He looked exhausted, devoid of hope. 
 
"Yes.... I...." He smiled suddenly, although it was 
closer to a grimace, and spoke with a forced lightness 
that was belied by the expression in his eyes. "I'll just 
have to change my plans. It'll be okay." 
 
And then he turned and walked away. She heard a car door 
slam, although the dense hedge of evergreens shielded him 
from her anxious gaze. 
 
"Mom! Who was that?" Feet pounded down the stairs. She 
never ceased to marvel at the fact that feet so small 
could make so much noise. 
 
"There was another man in the car! We saw him out the 
window!" A six-year-old voice, shrill with gleeful 
relish. "He was dead!" 
 
"No he wasn't, stupid!" Eight-year-old Ben spoke with all 
the wisdom of an older brother. "He was just asleep." 
 
"But there was blood on his clothes - I saw it!" Little 
Ryan's lip was trembling and he stamped his foot. "I did! 
I did!" 
 
"That's enough, boys." She tried to look stern. "Ben, 
don't call your brother stupid. And, Ryan, that's enough 
of your gory imagination. I think I must let you watch 
too much unsuitable television." Then she smiled, 
reaching out and tickling them. "But if you don't hurry 
up and get ready...." 
 
"You'll turn into a monster and eat us and there'll be 
blood everywhere!" Ryan screamed, laughing with all the 
delights of a six-year-old imagination. 
 
"I despair of you sometimes," she said, fondly. "A dead 
man in the car - whatever next?" 
 
But then she thought of the stricken expression on the 
man's face, and wondered if she should have insisted on 
giving him the help she feared he so badly needed. 
 
********** 
 
During the endless torment of the sleepless night, Scully 
had learnt that nothing could be worse than the horrors 
which lurked in her imagination. Although she'd known 
that Lewis and Mulder were probably miles away by now, 
she'd insisted in checking into a hotel as near as 
possible to the cabin, refusing even to go back and get 
any clean clothes. As she'd argued to Gardiner, the 
chances were that Lewis had only stopped at the cabin as 
it was en route to wherever it was he was headed, so at 
least she was an hour or two closer to Mulder if she 
stayed. 
 
But there had been no news all night, only waking 
nightmares. 
 
It was after eight o'clock now, and the phone was 
ringing. 
 
"Hello?" she said, urgently, the phone slippery in her 
hand. Although the call might be announcing bad news, 
anything was better than not knowing. 
 
"Agent Scully? This is Agent McCarthy. I've just heard 
what's happened... I ... didn't know you needed to know 
about Lewis so urgently, or .... I'm sorry...." 
 
"Do you know something? Something that will help?" Scully 
was scrambling for a pen and paper, although she knew she 
mustn't really let herself hope. Although the 
organisation of the search had been taken out of her 
hands and given to a large and competent team, nothing at 
all had been found that gave any clues as to Mulder's 
whereabouts. 
 
"I went to the prison last night, after I spoke to you," 
McCarthy said. "I spoke to people who knew Lewis - not 
that there were many of them. No-one really liked him. 
They said he made them feel uneasy. Several people said 
they got very depressed when they were near him, 
remembering painful memories they thought they'd 
forgotten, and things like that. Not that they blamed 
him, of course, but they all said he used to look at them 
in a strange way when that happened, almost as if he was 
enjoying their pain...." 
 
"And?" Scully prompted, impatiently, wishing he'd get to 
the point. The fact that Lewis' fellow prisoners were 
depressed had nothing to do with the search for Mulder, 
and that was all that mattered. 
 
"Sorry," McCarthy said, quickly. "Well, I didn't think I 
was getting anywhere, but then someone remembered that 
Lewis had said he'd go back to his parents when he was 
released. They never contacted him in prison and he took 
that badly." 
 
Scully dropped the pen and paper with a sinking heart. 
"We've tried his parents. They've not seen him." 
 
"No, I know." McCarthy's voice rose with excitement. "But 
I spoke to the prison authorities again. They rechecked 
his file and they found out that his parents moved house 
shortly after he was imprisoned, and .... listen to this! 
.... they specifically asked that he wasn't told where 
they'd gone. As far as Lewis knows, his parents still 
live in North Carolina." 
 
"What's the address?" Scully's heart was pounding as she 
reached for the pen again. 
 
"Oh, I hope you don't mind.... As soon as I got in this 
morning, and found out what had happened, I called the 
local police. I called them before I called you. They're 
on their way round already. I gave them your number so 
they can tell you if they find anything." 
 
"I .... what .... er.... Thank you." Scully remembered to 
express her gratitude even though her mind was racing 
with mingled hope and anxiety. She knew it wasn't likely 
to come to anything, but it was the best lead they'd had 
since the previous night. 
 
"I .... I'm sorry. It was the least I could do. I should 
have told you earlier. I found this out last night, but 
it was quite late. I didn't want to call you on your 
cellphone in case you were asleep. I knew you'd gone 
through a lot. I called the hotel and left a message at 
reception, just in case, but .... I'm sorry .... I didn't 
know it was so important." 
 
"Of course it was important!" Scully shouted. "Even if 
Lewis hadn't got Mulder, it was still important for me to 
find him, to know I was safe from him, that he wasn't 
still out there, waiting. You should have told me as soon 
as you knew! If I find out that Lewis called there last 
night and went away again, because no-one knew to look 
for him...." She left the threat hanging, feeling guilty 
even as she said it. It wasn't McCarthy's fault, any more 
than it was Gardiner's fault. She was the one who should 
have noticed something was wrong earlier. If it was 
anyone's fault, apart from Lewis', it was hers. 
 
"I'm sorry," McCarthy said, again. "I didn't know.... If 
anything happens, I'll never forgive myself." 
 
"No, _I'm_ sorry," Scully forced herself to say, anxious 
to repair the damage she'd done, although she was 
desperate to get off the phone, knowing that the police 
might be trying to contact her with news. "I wasn't being 
fair. You didn't know. I should have told you. I .... I'm 
sorry. It's just that .... everything's so difficult at 
the moment." 
 
"I know." McCarthy's voice was understanding, although 
still tinged with guilt. "I'm sorry." He took a deep 
breath, speaking quickly. "I'll go now, let you contact 
the police. I hope you find him." And then there was a 
click as he hung up. 
 
Just seconds later, the phone rang again. 
 
********** 
 
"Get up!" An angry foot impacted heavily with Mulder's 
stomach, driving the breath from his lungs. As he lay 
gasping, trying to fight his way back through the pain, 
the foot landed again, even harder. 
 
"Get up!" Lewis shouted again, although his kicks gave 
Mulder no chance to obey. "We've got to get inside, 
quick! Someone might see us." He was staring round 
urgently, although there was no-one in sight. 
 
"Come on!" he hissed, and then, when Mulder was still 
unable to draw sufficient breath to do more than lie 
gasping on the ground, he bent over, pulling hard on 
Mulder's arms. "I'll help you," he said, although there 
was no concern in his impatient voice. 
 
This time, partially supported by Lewis, Mulder found he 
was just about able to stay on his feet, although Lewis 
immediately set off towards the door, walking at such a 
pace that several times Mulder nearly stumbled. He was 
saved from falling only by clutching tightly to Lewis's 
arm, the strength of his grip causing pain to shriek up 
his arm from his injured wrist. 
 
The door was already open - a welcoming gateway to death. 
For Lewis' behaviour since his short visit to his 
parents' house had left Mulder in no doubt that this was 
the last place he'd ever see on earth. Lewis had driven 
around aimlessly for a while, several times only narrowly 
avoiding a collision, before turning off the road 
suddenly and heading up a long drive. At the end was a 
house, far away from any neighbours, and completely 
empty, not just of people but of furniture. While Mulder 
had tried to clamber out of the car, a sudden burst of 
dizziness sending him crashing to the ground, he had 
heard the sound of breaking glass as Lewis had broken 
into the house. 
 
Everything was barren earth, grey sky, echoing emptiness. 
It was a fitting place to die, deserted by all humanity. 
No-one would come. No-one would drag him from the 
darkness this time. 
 
Ten to nine, according to Lewis' watch, peeping from his 
sleeve. His cuffs were splashed with blood. Strange he 
hadn't noticed it before, for now it was as if his eyes 
were riveted to it. Blood. Scully's life spurting onto 
his sleeves, his hands. But there was more blood on _his_ 
hands, where it belonged. 
 
Ten to nine. How much longer....? 
 
Then Lewis abruptly released his hold. Lost in his 
thoughts of death, Mulder had no time to brace himself to 
stand unsupported. He crumpled at the knees, falling 
heavily on his hands. The scarlet stab of agony from his 
broken wrist caused him to instinctively snatch it away, 
and so he rolled over to one side, cradling one hand with 
the other, clutched protectively against his chest, 
although he immediately cursed his weakness in trying to 
avoid the pain. It still wasn't enough - not as much as 
he deserved. 
 
Lewis' feet were only inches away from his face, and he 
knew he would be kicked again. He tensed his muscles, 
bracing himself for the attack. Although his mind knew it 
was only right that he was punished, his body wasn't as 
strong, screaming in his head that it was afraid, that it 
couldn't take much more, that it wanted to rest. However 
much he tried, he couldn't stop his body instinctively 
flinching from the blows. 
 
But the blows didn't come, not this time. The feet 
stepped over him, and steps sounded across the room, 
pacing heavily up and down the resonant floor. 
 
"It wasn't supposed to be like this!" Lewis cried. There 
was a loud thud as he slammed his fist into the wall, 
just visible on the fringes of Mulder's clouded vision. 
"It's not supposed to feel like this! It was... it was 
all supposed to end happily!" His voice was muffled as he 
buried his head in his hands. "Why's it all gone wrong?" 
These last words were barely audible, almost sobbed, but 
suddenly he raised his head, slamming his fist into the 
wall again. "Why's it all gone wrong?" he shouted, a wail 
of anger, or of pain. 
 
"Why are you looking at me?" he shouted, his face twisted 
in fury as he wheeled round to face Mulder. "Why are you 
looking like that?" He took a step forward, then another. 
"You think I'm weak? You think I can't go through with 
this?" He bent down, grabbing Mulder by the collar, 
twisting the fabric tightly in his fist. "But I am in 
control! I am!" His face was only inches away now. "I 
am!" 
 
The rest of the house disappeared into a dark obscurity, 
and the world narrowed until nothing existed but Lewis' 
face, staring into Mulder's, his eyes swimming with 
anger. He was breathing fast, rapid shallow breaths, and 
the veins stood out on his forehead. Time slowed. Nothing 
else mattered. Mulder hardly dared breathe for fear of 
breaking the spell. 
 
But Lewis broke it first. "I'll never find them now!" he 
sobbed, tears trickling down his face. "They left.... 
They left to get away from me ...." He seemed to have 
forgotten all about Mulder now, although his fist was 
still clutching his collar. "They'll never forgive me now 
.... I .... I don't know what to do...." Absently his 
thumb traced the lines of the cuts on Mulder's throat. 
"This was supposed to make me happy, but it ... when it 
started to .... " He left the sentences hanging. "I 
didn't know what to do .... but they .... but they were 
supposed to make it better ... But they've gone... 
they've gone!" 
 
"But I'm still in control!" he shouted, suddenly, dashing 
the tears from his eyes with his free hand. "I'm in 
control!" He let go of Mulder's collar and stood up. 
"It's still your fault! _Your_ fault it's all gone 
wrong... And you'll still suffer for it." He turned 
round, and took a step away from Mulder. "It's still your 
fault?" His voice seemed to be shaking. 
 
He seemed to sob again, but then the sob turned into a 
shout of anger. "It _is_ your fault! It _is_!" he cried, 
and, swinging round, his drove his foot again and again 
into Mulder's stomach until his whole world was filled 
with pain and he thought he'd never be able to breathe 
again. But it was not enough to drive him into the safe 
refuge of unconsciousness.... 
 
Dimly, through the red haze of pain that obscured his 
senses, Mulder heard Lewis speak. "I'll think of 
something!" he muttered, as he landed a heavy blow on 
Mulder's ribs. "Everything will be okay!" 
 
********** 
 
Alexandra had been unable to settle ever since the police 
had come, hours ago now, and the insistent knocking at 
her door provided a welcome distraction. Hastily clicking 
on "save", although the amount of work she'd done 
scarcely justified the precaution, she stood up and 
hurried to the door. 
 
It was only after she saw who was there that she realised 
the risk she'd taken. Although the police had told her 
little, they had implied that the man she'd spoken to was 
dangerous. He'd been to her house once. Who could say 
that he wouldn't return? And she was alone this time... 
 
"Mrs Blake? We're with the FBI." The man spoke before she 
could follow through this particular chain of thought. 
"Could we ask you a few questions about what happened 
this morning?" 
 
Remembering this time that it was always better to be 
careful, Alexandra scrutinised their proffered ID, 
satisfying herself that they were who they said they 
were, although the woman in particular looked very 
different from her picture. Although she was obviously 
trying to look rigidly professional in her stance, her 
clothes were creased, her hair unwashed and her eyes 
lined with deep dark circles. 
 
"What do you want to know?" she asked, as she showed them 
into her living room. "I've already told the police 
everything. I can't remember anything else." 
 
"You've got to," the woman began, earnestly. "You must 
have seen...." But then the man shot her a quick glance 
and she cut herself off, biting her lip. 
 
"Yes, we know," the man said, soothingly. "We know you've 
told them everything. You've been very helpful. Thanks to 
your information the police were able to set up road 
blocks within half an hour of his leaving here. We know 
he's still in the area." 
 
"So he's still here?" Alexandra felt her hands shaking. 
"Do you think he's coming back? Is that why you're here - 
because we're in danger?" She had a sudden terrifying 
picture of the boys, laughing as they walked home from 
school, unaware of the murderer who was stalking them. 
 
"No!" the woman - Agent Scully - said, almost shouting. 
Now it was her turn to flash a warning glance at her 
partner. Meeting her gaze, his shoulders suddenly 
slumped, and he looked abashed. "We're here because .... 
because...." She took a deep breath. "We know you told 
the police everything you thought was important, but we 
.... but I....." Her voice seemed to shake, but Alexandra 
assumed she was imagining it because when she continued 
speaking it was in a voice held under rigid control. 
"This case is important to me.... I need to hear it for 
myself...." 
 
Her eyes held a deep sadness and Alexandra wondered again 
what dark tragedy she had stumbled on when she'd opened 
the door that morning. Not just Agent Scully, but the man 
himself, for, despite what the police had said, her 
abiding memory of him was of a man haunted by misery. She 
wondered again whether the police had misunderstood the 
situation. 
 
"I really can't remember any more than I said this 
morning," she explained, looking only at Agent Scully, 
never at the man. She couldn't even remember his name. 
"He knocked on the door and asked for Mr and Mrs Lewis. I 
told him they'd moved away, and then .... then he looked 
devastated. I thought he was going to faint. He looked as 
if .... as if all his hopes has just been destroyed. I 
offered him a drink, but I was scared to let a stranger 
inside. That was right, wasn't it?...." Her voice was 
defensive. Despite what she'd been told, she still felt 
guilty at her failure to provide help, and needed 
reassurance that she'd done the right thing. But it was 
not forthcoming. Agent Scully was chewing her lip, 
staring into the distance, and the man's attention seemed 
to be completely taken up by looking anxiously at his 
partner. 
 
"You said earlier that your boys...." Agent Scully's 
voice faltered. She looked almost scared to ask. "You 
said that they saw someone in the car?" The question came 
out in a rush, as if she was afraid that if she delayed 
she'd lose her nerve and never ask at all. 
 
"Yes," Alexandra answered cautiously. From the rigid 
tension of Agent Scully's body she knew that this was the 
key to the whole thing. 
 
"Could they see ..... Was he all right?" She shut her 
eyes as she spoke, visibly bracing herself for the 
answer. 
 
Alexandra didn't know what to say. She hadn't told the 
police what Ryan claimed to have seen, dismissing it as 
the product of a lively imagination. She'd lost count of 
the number of times he'd gleefully announced that he'd 
seen a dead body, when of course he never had. Indeed, 
the police hadn't even asked, staying only long enough to 
determine that , yes, the man in their photograph was the 
man who'd come to her door, and, no, she hadn't seen 
where he'd gone. But this was different. Agent Scully 
seemed so much more involved in the case. Perhaps she 
ought to be told everything.... 
 
"I don't know. They couldn't see," she said, at last. She 
had no desire to break Agent Scully's heart on nothing 
more than a six-year-old's fantasies. But seeing her 
slump back against the chair as if deflated, she wasn't 
so sure she'd made the right decision. 
 
"Thank you," Agent Scully said, at last. "Thank you for 
your time." She looked bereft, as if the only thing 
keeping her going had been the hope that Alexandra would 
remember something else, something she hadn't told the 
police. 
 
"Er.... excuse me.... could I ask....?" Alexandra plucked 
up her courage and spoke just as the agents were rising 
to leave. "It's just that the police.... they didn't tell 
me anything..... " They stopped in the door, but didn't 
respond to her prompts, so she had to come right out with 
it, although she scarcely dared look at them for fear of 
a rebuff. "What's happening? Who was that man?" She still 
could hardly bring herself to believe she was dangerous. 
 
There was a moment's silence. She couldn't see Agent 
Scully's face, but she could see the hand which crept 
out, reaching for the support of the door frame. 
 
At last, the man turned round, glancing anxiously at his 
partner as if seeking her approval. "His name's Matthew 
Lewis," he explained. "He's the son of the people who 
used to live here." And then it all made sense - the 
memory of the criminal son - the reason he took it so 
badly when he was told they'd moved away. Although there 
were still some things unexplained.... 
 
And then a voice broke into her thoughts - a tight voice, 
shaking with unshed tears. "He's kidnapped my partner." 
Agent Scully still didn't turn round. Her knuckles were 
white on the door frame. "He's already hurt him, and he's 
going to kill him." 
 
********** 
 
"I thought this was what I wanted." Lewis' anger had long 
since burnt itself out and he was now slumped on the 
floor, leaning listlessly against the wall. "I thought 
this would make me happy." He shook his head regretfully 
as he spoke, his voice quiet as if he was talking more to 
himself than to Mulder. 
 
It was sunny now, a watery sunlight that was diffused by 
the haziness of so much recent rain, but it was still 
cold. Although the shards of glass sparkled in the sun, 
the broken window let in a biting blast of winter air 
that filled the abandoned house with a deadening aching 
chill. Mulder had no idea how long they'd been in the 
house - indeed, he scarcely cared any more. The passage 
of time was just one more thing from the outside world 
that had no real meaning any more. All the trappings of 
humanity had been stripped away. No food, no furniture, 
no telephone, no people. Nothing existed but Lewis, and 
the death that lay in his hands. 
 
".....you've done to me." Mulder's mind had wandered, 
lost in the dense fog that made seeing and listening so 
difficult, but the sudden intensity of Lewis's voice made 
him fight his way back to the light. "See what you've 
done ...... No, I want you to _feel_ it." And then the 
light faded again but this time into a hellish darkness 
of clanging doors and the echoing thud of boots and 
bitter hatred and despair - despair so great that every 
second dragged like a year of torment. But worst of all 
was an immense loneliness. There were no minds to look 
into here, for all the thoughts were deadened by 
imprisonment. For the first time in his life he was truly 
alone. Deserted by his parents - that was bad enough - 
but alone with his own thoughts as well when he'd never 
before had to spend as much as a few hours imprisoned in 
his own mind. 
 
But in the depths of the darkness was one hope - a hope 
that was the only thing keeping him from succumbing 
utterly to the despair - a hope that became the 
overwhelming aim of his life. Revenge. One day he would 
have revenge, and then he would be happy. He could do it 
too, for in the long hours alone he concentrated and he 
struggled and he worked harder than he ever had done in 
his life until he had developed new powers that made him 
invincible. For now not only could he read minds, but he 
could also transmit thoughts into people's minds - not 
enough to directly control their action, but powers of 
suggestion strong enough that he could effectively 
control them. Although he was in torment now, with these 
powers he would get revenge, and then he would be happy. 
He knew that with an absolute certainty. When he got 
revenge he would be happy. He would be happy...... 
 
"But I'm not ...... I'm not happy." Lewis' voice cut 
through the layers of darkness, and the despair in that 
lonely prison cell became an impenetrable morass of 
agony. "I'm ..... oh, I'm tired .... I'm so tired." His 
voice faded away, and the darkness suddenly disappeared, 
cut off abruptly as Lewis withdrew the memory, although 
the prison Mulder was now in was just as lonely and just 
as dark with despair. "I can't do this any more. Once it 
was worth the effort.... but now....." 
 
Lewis sighed, his voice thick with unshed tears. "I've 
kidded myself that I didn't want to kill you because I 
wanted to prolong the agony ..... or that I'd been too 
long anticipating this to let it finish too quickly. But 
I'll never ..... killing you won't make me happy." The 
tears started to flow now. "I've lived for this for so 
long. It was the only thing keeping me going..... I ..... 
I can't live without this to look forward to." He picked 
up the gun from the floor beside him, absently running 
his hand along the barrel. "I think I realised this 
yesterday, but didn't admit it to myself. That's why I 
wanted to see my parents ..... Everything was going 
wrong..... They'd make it better .... they always made it 
better." His finger moved towards the trigger but he 
didn't quite touch it. Mulder stared at it, as well as he 
could, willing the finger to pull the trigger, although 
the gun wasn't pointed at him. "But now they've gone.... 
I'll never find them .... There's no-one to put this 
right. No-one. I've.... I've got nothing left." 
 
He gestured with the gun as he spoke, sometimes pointing 
it at Mulder, sometimes at himself, but the finger stayed 
off the trigger. Suddenly he started, staring at the gun 
as if he'd only just noticed he was holding it. He 
grimaced and threw the gun away. It landed near the door, 
nearer Mulder than Lewis, but Mulder knew that, hurt and 
concussed as he was, he had no chance of reaching it 
without being stopped. Better not to try at all than to 
have death snatched away again. But it was so tempting, a 
ray of sunlight reflecting off its metal barrel. Although 
Mulder knew he mustn't try to finish things before their 
time, Lewis' talk was making him increasingly anxious 
that death wouldn't come at all, at least not at Lewis's 
hands. He couldn't bear the thought of having to live 
with what he'd done. 
 
"I don't really want it any more, now I've got it," Lewis 
continued, ruefully. "I thought it would make me happy, 
but the only happiness I was getting was of anticipation. 
Those first few days, last week .... I was happy then, in 
a way - happy because I knew that soon, when I'd killed 
you, I'd be even happier and my life would go right 
again.... But now.... I know now ..... it won't make me 
happy ..... I'll have nothing left to live for." He leant 
forward, staring intently at Mulder. "You know how I feel 
..... It's like you and your sister. You don't really 
want her to come back....." 
 
"I do!" Although Mulder meant it was an impassioned 
shout, it came out as a tiny croak, his voice almost 
vanished in the long hours of silence. 
 
"No you don't," Lewis continued, earnestly. "You've based 
your whole life around the search for her ..... what 
would you have to life for if she came back? You don't 
want her really. That's why you killed that woman you 
thought was your sister." 
 
"No!" Mulder hadn't thought Lewis could find anything new 
to hurt him with. "No! That's not true!" But then he 
remembered everything else that had happened, everything 
else he'd done to hurt people. Lewis had been right about 
those.... "It's not true?" He raised his head as far as 
he could, looking beseechingly at Lewis. 
 
"It's true," Lewis said, firmly. "Don't forget I can see 
deep into your mind. I can see things you don't even 
admit to yourself." 
 
Mulder shut his eyes. He hadn't thought it could get any 
worse, but now, at the end of everything, he had to face 
the realisation that the crusade he'd based his whole 
life on was worthless. He'd thought he'd made so little 
progress because They had blocked his work, but now he 
realised he'd always failed because he hadn't really 
wanted to succeed. And all the people that had suffered 
along the way, as he pursued a meaningless goal.... 
 
"No!" Lewis suddenly cried. "I can't do this, not now." 
He pulled himself to his feet, walking over to Mulder. 
"It's not true. I _can't_ see that. As far as I can see, 
you _do_ want your sister back, although, if that had 
happened, you might have felt the same as I do now. 
Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know." He reached out, shaking 
Mulder's shoulder. "Listen to me! It's not true. I 
shouldn't have said it. It just seemed the best way to 
get you to understand. I wanted you to know how I'm 
feeling - to know the full results of what you did back 
then when you so casually arranged my capture." He 
sighed, his voice turning inwards. "This was my one 
hope..... but now it offers no hope at all." 
 
"Why are you talking?" Mulder asked, suddenly. He'd heard 
what Lewis had just said, but knew it wasn't true. What 
he'd said before, _that_ was the truth. "Why are you 
telling me this? Why don't you just k....?" He broke off 
just in time, remembering his resolution not to ask any 
more. But with every second it was getting harder to 
endure the wait. 
 
"Because I want you to know how I feel," Lewis snapped. 
"I want you to know how you've ruined my life. All my 
misery ..... I want you to know it ..... I want you to 
feel it. I want you to know as you die that your death is 
completely meaningless. It won't make anything better. It 
won't even make me happy. It's just ..... nothing." 
 
"And Scully's." _This_ was the worst of all. Scully had 
died an innocent victim in a cause that no-one believed 
in any more. "Scully's death .... for nothing." 
 
Lewis looked away and cleared his throat, but said 
nothing. 
 
"But you will kill me?" Mulder tried to keep the hope 
from his voice. 
 
Lewis made no reply, standing up suddenly and walking to 
the door. There was a blast of icy wind as he went 
outside. Just as Mulder wondered if he was going to leave 
his alone to die slowly of the cold and starvation, Lewis 
re-appeared, carrying a can which he put down in the 
middle of the room. 
 
"They won't catch me," he said, firmly. "I won't go back 
to that place. If I can't be happy after killing you, 
then it's better ...... " He shut the door with a loud 
bang. "There is another way out after all." 
 
********** 
 
"Nothing!" Scully slammed the cellphone down on her lap. 
"All this time and they've found nothing! They can't even 
be trying!" 
 
Gardiner bit his lip, turning his face towards her, 
although his eyes were still on the road. "They're doing 
the best they can. Please don't get so upset. They'll 
find him." 
 
"Don't you patronise me!" Scully needed someone to shout 
at - needed to be angry. It was the only way to keep 
despair and grief from overwhelming her. "I'm not some 
child who needs humouring. I've got to face facts. They 
might not find him. They probably _won't_ find him, not 
after all this time. They've let him slip through their 
fingers." 
 
It had been as much as she could do not to shout as much 
to the sheriff when he called to give the latest update 
on the search, but, even though the anger threatened to 
choke her, deep down she realised that she was being 
unfair. As Gardiner said, they _were_ doing all they 
could. If it was anyone's fault it was hers, but that was 
something she would have to face afterwards. For now, she 
had to shut her mind to the guilt, keep herself in 
control and focused on the search. This was not the time 
to fall apart. 
 
Gardiner opened his mouth and then shut it again, clearly 
desperate to comfort her but not knowing how to do it. 
She wondered why he bothered trying. Couldn't he see that 
_nothing_ could comfort her - nothing apart from finding 
Mulder was okay? 
 
"How much have they searched?" he asked at last. 
 
"They've covered all the obvious hiding places in well 
over half the area now," Scully said, desperately trying 
to keep her voice steady, trying to relate the facts with 
professional detachment. "But, of course, it's too big an 
area for them to do a house-to-house search, and their 
road-blocks didn't cover the minor roads. There's no 
guarantee he's still in the area at all. He could be 
hundreds of miles away by now...." 
 
"I think he's probably still here." Gardiner's voice was 
tentative, as it always was when he was voicing an 
opinion. "That .... er ..... Mrs Blake we spoke to this 
morning ...... She said that Lewis looked ..... er ..... 
bereft when she said his parents had gone. She said he 
didn't seem to know what to do, where to go. I think 
...... I think he'd just hole up somewhere and wait for 
the end." 
 
"What do you mean?" Scully snapped, covering for the 
chill which ran through her at his words. "The end? Do 
you mean he's killed Mulder already?" She clenched her 
fists, suddenly furious at Gardiner for making her feel 
like this. "Don't say that!" she shouted. "He's not dead! 
He can't be dead! We'll get there in time! We've got to!" 
 
Gardiner flinched, his face full of pain, and Scully knew 
she'd been unreasonable again, but she couldn't bring 
herself to apologise. Her outburst had been addressed 
more to herself than to Gardiner. "He's not dead! He 
can't be!" she murmured, knowing that the alternative was 
just too horrible to contemplate. Whenever she thought 
she was certain he was dead, there was always this little 
hope there, whispering in the back of her mind, telling 
her that everything would be all right, that they'd get 
there in time, that Mulder would be okay. He had to be 
okay. He _had_ to. 
 
But as she stared unseeingly at the countryside, so 
serene and peaceful in the winter sun, she was far from 
convinced. 
 
********** 
 
"I can't keep on like this." Lewis' voice broke the long 
silence which had settled like dust upon the deserted 
house. "I was wrong." His voice was quiet, despairing. "I 
shouldn't have done this - any of this." 
 
Lewis stood up slowly, a cloud of dust sparkling in the 
sunlight, and walked over the Mulder, looking down at him 
sadly. He crouched down, his hand hovering tentatively 
over the gash in Mulder's forehead, a look of regret on 
his face. "I wish I could make it better," he said, 
shaking his head, "but I ..... but there isn't even any 
water here. I can't .... I don't know what to do ....." 
He touched Mulder quickly on the good hand, the one that 
didn't hurt quite so much. "I don't think it's too bad. 
They'll know what to do at the hospital." 
 
Mulder had barely been listening. All the attention he 
could muster had been focused on the can of gas that 
Lewis had brought in from the car, hoping with all his 
strength that death would come soon. But at last the 
implication of Lewis' words penetrated his thoughts, 
bringing him back to a reality he'd hoped he'd never had 
to face again. 
 
"But ..... but I thought you were going to kill me." His 
voice was shaking with anxiety. 
 
"I thought so too," Lewis said. "For five years I've 
thought of little else, but now ..... I can't - I can't 
do it." 
 
"No!" Mulder cried, terrified, his last chance of escape 
slipping away from him "Give me the gun! I'll do it!" He 
tentatively flexed his hand. Although it hurt, he thought 
it could still hold a gun. His vision was blurred but he 
wouldn't need to see in order to aim true this time. 
 
"No!" Lewis had tears on his cheeks. "I'm sorry I've done 
this to you. You don't deserve it." 
 
"I do!" Mulder said, vehemently. "How can you say that? 
You can see into my mind, my memories. You know what I've 
done!" Samantha screaming as grey-skinned creatures 
probed her body. His father, a broken man already, blood 
trickling from his mouth as he lay dying. Deep Throat. 
Melissa. The other Samantha. And Scully worst of all. 
Scully dead, her face shot away, her body accusing him of 
her misery and her death. 
 
"Even if that was true, it wouldn't be for me to punish 
you for them. Not like this...." Lewis shook his head. 
"Not at all." 
 
And then Mulder broke away from the memories and saw 
Lewis's face - the tears on his cheeks, the despair in 
his eyes. Another life ruined, because of him. 
 
"But you showed me!" Lewis, the innocent victim, hunted 
like an animal, beaten, lonely in the dark torment of 
prison, all hope extinguished by a few uncaring minutes 
of Mulder's time. This time, he didn't need Lewis's help 
to live in the memory. "I ruined _your_ life too. You 
should punish me for that." 
 
"No, I shouldn't." Lewis's voice was emphatic, although 
his eyes were full of pain. "It wasn't your fault - none 
of it. It's only here, right at the end, that I've seen 
it clearly. It was all my own fault." 
 
Mulder opened his mouth to protest, but Lewis silenced 
him. "Listen to me!" he hissed, urgently. "You've got to 
understand. It was all _my_ fault! I chose to do what I 
did..... All my life, I used my gift to get what I 
wanted. I just told myself that no-one got hurt - that I 
was just taking what was mine by right - a sort of reward 
because I had skills that no-one else had." He sighed. 
"But I was kidding myself. All my life ...... It was my 
own choice..... My fault." 
 
"But they beat you ..... the darkness ..... I....." 
Mulder struggled to get out of the memories of Lewis's 
arrest. The dark menace, the despair, the laughter - his 
own laughter as he callously plotted to ruin another's 
life. 
 
"There was no violence," Lewis said, sadly. "It ..... it 
wasn't like I showed you. I guess I'd even convinced 
myself that it was like that, but it wasn't. I .... I 
_needed_ to remember it like that. I had to think it was 
everyone else's fault, not mine. But no-one beat me. 
Everyone was just doing their job - even you. I deserved 
it. I _had_ hurt people - not physically, but physical 
hurt heals faster than the hurt I inflicted. I deserved 
to be caught." 
 
Mulder wanted to protest, but he couldn't find any words. 
Everything was falling apart again. 
 
"When I was caught," Lewis continued, "it was as if 
....." He tailed off, biting his lip in pain. "I.... I 
couldn't deal with it. I'd never had anything go wrong 
for me before. I'd always got everything I wanted. When 
it all collapsed, I ..... I could hardly bear to live. 
The loneliness, the failure, my parents disowning me. I 
couldn't bear it as it was. I definitely couldn't handle 
guilt as well. If I'd let myself believe that anything 
that had happened was my own fault, then ...... then it 
would have pushed me over the edge. I _needed_ someone to 
blame." 
 
"But it _was_ all my....." 
 
"No!" Lewis shouted. "For five years I believed that. 
I've built my whole life around thinking that, and 
planning revenge. Everything had gone wrong, but I 
convinced myself that it was your fault, and that I'd be 
happy when I'd got revenge. But now .... now I realise it 
was all based on a lie. I was living a lie. My whole life 
has been based on ...... nothing. On a lie. A cowardly 
lie because I couldn't face the fact that the only person 
to blame for my own unhappiness was myself." 
 
Lewis buried his face in his hand, his voice muffled. "I 
guess I began to realise the truth this morning, when I 
found out my parents blamed me. I thought ..... deep down 
I hadn't really believed that they'd meant to disown me. 
I thought maybe it was the prison guards being cruel, or 
a misunderstanding. I'd really expected them to be there 
for me, same as they'd always been. But when they 
weren't......" He lowered his hands, looking intently at 
Mulder. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have kicked you. I lost 
control. Everything was falling apart. I needed to 
convince myself that it would still be okay, that 
everything was still your fault, just as I'd always 
believed. I couldn't bear the thought of losing that - of 
losing the belief I've clung to for five years." 
 
"You're not going to kill me," Mulder said, dully. 
Although he'd heard all Lewis's words, this was the only 
thing that really mattered. The rest of it .... he knew 
that wasn't true, knew everything _was_ his fault, 
whatever Lewis might say now. "You're not going to kill 
me!" He'd resolved not to ask any more, but that was when 
he'd known death would come soon, anyway. But if Lewis 
didn't kill him he might have a whole eternal lifetime to 
live with the guilt. 
 
Lewis stared at him. "I'm sorry," he said, his voice 
cracking. "I'm so sorry. You don't deserve to die, but 
.... I've already done far worse to you already. I've 
only just realised quite how cruel I've been. Guilt - 
it's harder to cope with than physical pain. I ran away 
from guilt back then, but I've .... tortured you with 
guilt these last few weeks. You didn't deserve it." 
 
"I do!" Mulder cried. "All those thing I've done! 
Scully..... Samantha ...... All the suffering I caused. 
Like you were just saying, I shut my mind to what I'd 
done. I tried to blame other people. Like when Scully was 
missing, I ran round trying to find someone to punish, 
when it was my fault all along. And Samantha ..... I 
based my whole life on finding someone to blame for her 
disappearance, but it was all my fault....." The urgency 
of the situation was clearing his mind, making the words 
flow. He knew his life could depend on how clearly he 
argued the cause of his own guilt. "But the truth was all 
in my memory. I couldn't hide from it forever. Now I 
know....." 
 
"No!" Lewis leant over, grabbing Mulder's shoulders. 
"It's not true. None of it's true. All those memories you 
had - those pictures, the voices - _I_ put them there. 
They weren't true. You only thought them because I made 
you." 
 
"But they were true!" Mulder protested. "Everything. I 
know you made me remember them, but they were there all 
the time, there in my memory. I'd just shut my mind to 
the truth, remembering them wrongly. I .... I couldn't 
let myself remember how reproachful Scully looked when 
she woke up in hospital - how she told me it was all my 
fault - so I remembered her smiling. And when Dad died - 
I remembered him saying "forgive me" but I now know he 
said "I won't forgive you". And...." 
 
"It _was_ me, all of it!" Lewis was shouting now, his 
face red. "I just read your memories and changed them 
subtly, then I sent them back to you. I even enjoyed it, 
then, planning which "memory" was likely to be the most 
disturbing in every situation..... But it was wrong..... 
" He shook Mulder's shoulders. "Listen to me! Everything 
you felt - all the guilt - everything - I put it there. 
It's not true!" 
 
"Yes it is. Scully's dead." 
 
"No she's not. I......" 
 
"She is. I killed her." Nothing could take _that_ guilt 
from him. 
 
"She's not dead!" Lewis shouted. "I lied. I wanted to 
hurt you, so I told you she was dead, but she's alive. I 
even called the police and told them where she was." 
 
"Why are you doing this?" Mulder struggled to sit up, but 
Lewis's hands were still on his shoulders. "Why are you 
lying? Why are you telling me things aren't my fault when 
I know they are?" 
 
"Aren't you listening?" Lewis snapped. "I just told you. 
None of it's your fault. I just made you think that. I 
showed you Scully dying - but I made it up. It was all in 
my imagination. Just like all your "memories" that I 
showed you." 
 
"I just needed you to show me the truth. Why can't you 
understand? It's like you were just saying - like what 
you said you had done. I couldn't cope with the truth, 
with the guilt, so I shut my mind to it. You helped me 
remember, but that doesn't stop it being true." Mulder 
stopped struggling, slumping back on the floor, his eyes 
closed. "But now.... now you've helped me remember ..... 
I can see everything clearly now. I know how things 
really happened ....." 
 
And this time he didn't need any help from Lewis to see 
the truth. Blood-drenched memories full of guilt. A 
kaleidoscope of glimpses of the people he'd hurt, their 
faces twisted with pain, pointing accusing fingers at 
him. Scully covered in tubes in hospital, her mother 
crying with grief and hate as he'd approached the 
bedside..... 
 
"No! That's not true. It didn't happen like that!" An 
urgent voice, hands shaking his shoulders, but all from a 
great distance, not enough to drown the memories. 
 
Scully, pale and devastated, by the empty bed that had 
been her sister's. "She died because of you!" she'd 
hissed, through her tears, flinching away from him as he 
tried to offer comfort...... 
 
"Listen to me! It's not true! It's not your fault!" The 
voice was angry now. "Damn you! Listen to me!" 
 
His father, unable to bear being in the same room as him. 
"You've lost her again!" he'd shouted. "This will break 
you mother's heart." And the next time he saw him he was 
dead, accusing him with this last breath..... 
 
"It's not true! None of that happened!" And this time the 
hands shook his shoulders so violently that his head 
thumped against the floor and the darkness came a step 
closer, although this time it was a darkness full of 
memories which offered no comfort at all. 
 
And eventually the hands left his shoulders and the voice 
cracked into sobs. "It's too late. I realised the truth 
too late," Lewis sobbed. "You won't believe me, and ..... 
and it's too late to put it right..... I'm too tired." 
There was the sound of feet walking towards the window, 
distantly pounding through the memories of guilt and 
accusation. 
 
"They'll come for me soon," Lewis said, quietly. "It's 
too late." 
 
********** 
 
"So, what do you know about this guy, then?" Dan 
Rosenberg asked his partner as they cruised along the 
deserted road, looking for abandoned cars, deserted 
buildings, unexplained tracks - anything suspicious. 
 
"Matthew Lewis? I was at school with him," Steve replied, 
shaking his head. "He was strange." 
 
"How do you mean?" 
 
"Oh, he was kind of quiet - always in a dream world of 
his own. But when he came out of it - now, that was 
weird. He always seemed to get whatever he wanted." 
 
"You mean he was a bully?" 
 
"No!" Steve's voice was firm. "He never hurt anyone, as 
far as I knew. One of the few boys who was never in a 
fight. No, he wasn't a bully, except......hey! I've just 
remembered something else weird. When I was about 15 I 
was ...... well, you know what it's like when you're that 
age ...... I was dating two girls at once, and Matthew 
.... somehow Matthew found out - I don't know how - and 
threatened to tell unless I gave him money." 
 
"You mean he was a blackmailer?" 
 
"I suppose so. I never thought about it since. I broke up 
with both of them just after anyway, so never paid him. 
But he always had so many possessions. I wonder if he was 
blackmailing lots of people - or maybe stealing. I 
remember a few years back, when we all found out he'd 
been robbing banks - people did talk then, hint that he'd 
been stealing from other children when he was young. But 
of course, no-one would say anything. His parents were 
respectable people, big in the community, and they just 
adored their boy. They had big plans for him, everyone 
said." 
 
"But they say he'd a kidnapper, maybe a murderer." 
 
Steve shook his head, doubtfully. "Yeah, they say that. 
But you know what these Feds are like. Never there when 
you want them, but they as soon as they think one of 
their own is in danger they can't do enough - and make us 
all do their work for them as well. I reckon they've got 
it wrong. I don't think Matthew would killed anyone." He 
started to drive faster, not looking out of the window to 
check out everywhere they passed. 
 
"But we've got to assume he will, won't we?" Dan said, 
anxiously. He was new to the job, and still took his 
responsibilities seriously. "That's what we're here for - 
to protect people who are in danger, even if it might be 
a false alarm." 
 
Steve laughed. "You'll learn, kid. You'll......" 
 
"Slow down!" Dan called, urgently, peering out of the 
window. "I just saw..... Has anyone moved into the 
Davies's old place?" 
 
"I don't think so. Why?" 
 
"There are tracks on the drive, where the mud's still wet 
from last night's rain." Dan's voice rose with 
excitement. "It would be a good place to hide. Empty, 
miles away from anywhere......" 
 
"Let's check it out," said Steve, reversing the car 
quickly and turning into the long drive. 
 
Dan anxiously reached for his waist, checking that the 
gun was still there. He hoped he wouldn't have to use it. 
 
********** 
 
"They're coming!" Lewis jumped up, staring out of the 
window towards the dying sun. "I can feel them." 
 
He walked over the Mulder, a few firm steps. "This is the 
end. I know what to do now." He looked calm, no trace of 
his earlier despair and anger. "I know what I need to do. 
I've stopped struggling. It's better this way." 
 
He wasn't looking at Mulder, his eyes fixed on the can of 
gas. Mulder allowed himself to feel hope again - a hope 
Lewis' earlier words had nearly extinguished. He looked 
towards the burning sun, knowing it was the last time 
he'd see it before other burning flames claimed him. 
 
"Can you walk?" Lewis asked, with concern. "I'll 
help...." But Mulder was already struggling to his knees, 
ignoring the pain in his head, his hands, his ribs, his 
whole body. He couldn't have managed it for anything 
else, but this was worth one final effort. Though it 
hardly seemed necessary. The flames would consume the 
whole building soon enough. 
 
Lewis reached out his arms, helping Mulder to his feet, 
steadying him firmly when the giddiness made him sway, 
holding him still until his vision steadied enough for 
him to move. "Come on!" he urged. "They'll be here soon." 
 
Everything was blurred, and the blood pounded in Mulder's 
head, filling the house with floating patches of shadow. 
He couldn't see where he was going, concentrating only on 
putting one foot in front of the other, but then suddenly 
everything got brighter, although he hadn't heard an 
explosion, and couldn't feel the consuming heat of 
flickering flames. 
 
"There's no more time," Lewis's voice spoke close to his 
ear. "I'll put you down here. It's still too close, but 
there's no time. They'll be here soon." Mulder let his 
knees buckle, shutting his eyes, but Lewis took the 
weight, lowering him gently to the ground. "I'm so sorry 
for what I've done to you." Mulder wondered why he was 
speaking like this. Soon, nothing would matter any more. 
"I hope it's not too late for you - that you'll be able 
to recover." 
 
And then there was the sound of steps getting further 
away, and Mulder opened his eyes to see red and orange 
and burning, but it was still cold, bitterly cold, and 
there was wind on his face. He was outside, and the glow 
came from the setting sun. 
 
"No!" he shouted, struggling to get up again, realising 
what Lewis had done. It was his final revenge - cheating 
him of death right at the very end. "No! You promised!" 
 
Without Lewis's help he couldn't get to his feet, but he 
could pull himself up to his knees, although only one 
hand was able to take any weight, and even then it 
screamed in protest. 
 
A car sounded in the distance, though not as loud as the 
sound of his heart pounding in his head, but nothing 
mattered but getting to the door, getting inside the 
house again. 
 
Inch by inch, he edged his way forward. There was a 
roaring sound in his ears that might have been the sound 
of a blazing fire inside, and a red glare all around him 
- blood in his head, the sun on his back, and death in 
front of him. 
 
The heat hit him as he crawled across the threshold, but 
he didn't flinch. The house reeked of gas, and the whole 
far end of the room was ablaze, flames licking up to the 
ceiling. Through the flames he could see a figure, arms 
outstretched, dark against the burning, mouth open in a 
scream which was only dimly audible over the consuming 
roar of the fire's unquenchable appetite. 
 
Not far now. Not far. Mulder bit his lip with 
concentration, putting every last bit of strength into 
reaching the flames, willing them to rush forward and 
take him in case he collapsed just short of death. 
 
Then suddenly there was a sharp pain in his hand as he 
leant on a piece of glass from the shattered window. 
Although it was but a tiny hurt when his whole body was 
ablaze with pain, he instinctively snatched his hand 
back, losing his balance and falling heavily onto his 
side. 
 
The flames were still too far away, and there were shouts 
outside. 
 
"No!" he whimpered. He couldn't bear them to come and 
rescue him. He struggled to focus, trying to measure the 
distance he had to drag himself before he could die, but 
instead of the fire his gaze fell on something else. 
 
A gun. Lewis's gun, neglected where he'd thrown it a 
lifetime ago. He reached out, closing his hand round the 
weapon, revelling in the feel of it. There was another 
way out after all, if he didn't reach the fire in time. 
 
The fire crackled and came closer, the heat stroking his 
cheek, the smoke making him choke, although every cough 
was agony on his bruised ribs. 
 
Once he'd been terrified of fire, but now..... He'd 
longed for death, any method of death, but he knew now 
that fire was the only way to cleanse him of his guilt. 
As the flames crept closer he thought of that other time, 
as clear as if he was still there, forgetting for a while 
which fire was a memory and which was real. He'd been 
hurt then, too, hurt and alone with the dead - a hellish 
tomb of twisted bodies, forgotten in the dark. And 
someone wanted them to stay forgotten, for suddenly the 
world had exploded into light, searing heat chasing him 
along the dark passages dug by so many desperate dying 
creatures decades earlier. But then the fire had gone, 
and he was in a beautiful place, peaceful and free of 
pain. His father had been there, and Deep Throat. People 
who were dead, but they had spoken to him, and they had 
been kind, although he knew now what he had done to them. 
Blame didn't exist in that place, or guilt. He'd nearly 
stayed there forever, but they'd persuaded him to go back 
to the world. 
 
But now there was another fire, and this time he wouldn't 
go back. Through the fire was the only path to that 
place. There would be no pain, no guilt. And Scully would 
be there now..... 
 
"Scully!" he muttered, dragging himself on his elbows 
towards the fire, keeping a grip on the gun just in case. 
 
So close. Only a few feet to go. 
 
He could almost see Scully already, her face in the 
flickering patterns of the flames. She was smiling, and 
she reached out an eager arm of flame, beckoning him to 
join her. 
 
She was smiling still as the black smoke rolled above his 
head, and the flames reached out towards him. He didn't 
need to struggle any more. It had come for him. 
 
********** 
 
When Dan realised what was happening he didn't stop to 
think, but pulled open the car door and jumped out 
without waiting for Steve to stop. "I'll see if anyone's 
in there!" he cried. "Call the fire department!" They'd 
already called for backup as soon as they'd rounded a 
bend in the long track and seen the blue car outside the 
house where no car should be. 
 
"Dan! Come back! You can't go in there!" Steve called, 
but Dan ignored him, although flames and thick black 
smoke were billowing from the windows at the far end of 
the house and the air was acrid with the smell of gas. 
 
"There might be people in there! I've got to try!" Dan 
shouted, before his voice trailed off into a cough. He 
wasn't at the door yet, but already the smoke was thick 
and black. 
 
He crouched down, breathing the purer air below the worst 
of the smoke, preparing to plunge through the open door. 
Gasping a lung-full of relatively fresh air, he crawled 
in, blinking as the smoke and heat assailed his eyes. 
 
He couldn't see anything at first, his eyes reeling at 
the dazzling light, but then he saw something that made 
his heart freeze with horror. A quick glimpse of a human 
figure, on the far side of the flames, revealed as the 
fire danced to one side as it made its flickering 
progress across the room. A figure that had seemed to 
move. 
 
Although the heat made him flinch even from just next to 
the door, he took a step forward. Deep down he knew that 
the person didn't have a chance, but he couldn't leave 
them to die alone, without doing his best. He took 
another step, although the fire was only a few paces from 
the door now, and would soon consume the whole room. 
 
And then he heard a voice. "No!" some-one said. "Get 
back!" Blinking through the smoke, Dan could just make 
out another figure, much nearer this time, just on the 
fringes of the fire. It was kneeling, facing him, and 
when the smoke thinned for a second he could see that it 
was pointing a gun at him. 
 
"Are you crazy?" Dan asked, through his coughing. He 
tried to take another step, but the gun was still 
pointing at him. He thought he could hear screams coming 
from the other side of the room. "Someone's dying there! 
I've got to help him." 
 
"Get back!" The voice was more urgent now, although the 
gun seemed to shake. 
 
Dan reached for his own gun. "Let me through, or I'll 
shoot!" He knew his own voice was shaking, but the 
screams from the heart of the fire echoed in his head 
like a hellish torture. What sort of a person would stop 
him from trying to rescue someone who screamed like that? 
 
"Get back!" the voice said again, though weaker now. The 
flames were very close now. 
 
Dan pointed his gun. He hated himself for doing this, but 
he was given no choice. He'd hate himself more for not 
doing it, for ignoring the screams from the fire's 
centre. 
 
"Put the gun down or I'll shoot," he warned one last 
time. It only occurred to him much later that if the man 
had intended to shoot him he'd have pulled the trigger 
before he even got a chance to aim his own gun. At the 
time, unable to think clearly because of the heat and the 
smoke and the screams, he almost believed that if he shot 
this man with the gun, then the person who was screaming 
would be miraculously saved. 
 
His finger squeezed the trigger. 
 
As the bullet hit him in the chest, the man crumpled to 
the floor, the unfired gun still resting in his unmoving 
hand. 
 
In the heart of the fire, the screams stopped. 
 
********** 
 
He tried to struggle but he couldn't move, couldn't 
think, could barely breathe..... 
 
He'd thought he was dead, safe in the darkness, the pain 
of life burnt away by the flames. But there was still 
pain here, although he was in the darkness still, and 
strong hands were holding him, dragging him into the 
cruel cold, away from the flames. 
 
"No!" He wanted to speak, but he couldn't breathe enough 
to form the words. He struggled, fighting against the 
smoke in his lungs, and something else, a worse pain in 
his chest that smothered every breath he tried to take. 
He didn't need to breathe, but he needed to speak, to 
tell whoever it was to leave him alone, to let the fire 
take him. 
 
Then there was fresh air, cold on his face, biting in his 
lungs, and voices, distant in the darkness, snatches of 
voice that rose and fell, loud, soft, inaudible, 
swallowed up by the waves of a deeper darkness that kept 
on washing over him. ".....shoot him ...... screaming 
...... tried to get ..... couldn't ..... horrible" And 
another voice, further away: "....... not Matthew ...... 
ambulance ...... soon". 
 
He stopped trying to breathe, although it was too much 
effort to actively try not to. He knew his body would 
keep on trying, instinctively, but would give up soon. 
Already the voices were fading, although he could still 
feel someone touching his chest. "... bleeding....." The 
voice was a merest whisper through the thick darkness. 
"...... survive?....." 
 
The last thing he heard was the wail of sirens. He hoped 
they'd come too late. 
 
********** 
 
They were too late. Scully felt that with a terrible 
certainty as soon as she saw the flames, the dense black 
smoke, the grim weariness on the faces of the people 
already at the scene. 
 
"What happened?" she forced herself to ask. Although she 
knew it would be torture, she had to know everything she 
could about Mulder's death. Not knowing would be the 
worst of all. 
 
"I .... I ....." The man she'd addressed was barely 
looking at her, lost in some dark torment of his own. "I 
tried ..... I couldn't ...... He was right there, just 
the other side of the room. I .... I could hear him 
screaming ...... dying ...... right in front of me." 
There were pale streaks on his black-stained face, 
glistening wet in the flickering light of the inferno. 
"The other man ...... he had a gun ..... a gun! He tried 
to stop me saving him. Those terrible screams, but he 
wouldn't let me save him ...... He's dead!" 
 
It was all Scully could do not to scream herself. 
Although it was the answer she'd expected, nothing had 
prepared her for the onslaught of grief - of emptiness - 
that hit her as she heard these words. "No!" she cried, 
glaring at the man, desperate for someone to blame for 
tearing her life apart like this. "Why didn't you try 
harder? You should have ...... He can't be ..... Why?" 
She was beyond tears now, shouting at a world that let 
this happen. "Why?" 
 
Someone touched her arm, Gardiner's voice quiet in her 
ear. "Dana, I think you should come away..... " He was 
close, too close. No-one should get that close to her, 
not now, not ever again. Not if it led to feelings like 
this. Better to stay alone, trusting no-one, than to feel 
such pain of loss. 
 
"Get off me!" she hissed, shaking his hand away. "Just 
leave me alone!" She ran forward, feeling the searing 
heat on her skin, the choking smoke in her eyes. 
 
"Mulder!" she cried, a secret hope in the back of her 
mind whispering that they'd got it wrong, that he was 
still alive, that he would walk up to her, unscathed, 
some wry joke on his lips. He'd disappeared into fire 
before, her cries going unanswered in the lifeless 
desert, but he'd returned then, back from the dead. 
 
But this time there was nothing.... 
 
"Please, stand back!" A fire fighter, swathed in 
protective clothing, grabbed her arm, pulling her back 
from the brink of the conflagration, but she was already 
turning to go, turning back to face a new life of 
emptiness and grief. 
 
She closed her eyes, unable to watch any longer. "It's 
not supposed to be like this!" she cried, silently, 
remembering all those occasions when she'd feared Mulder 
was dead and been proved wrong. The terror she'd felt 
rushing into that hospital in Alaska. The relief she'd 
felt when she got his heart started again when everyone 
else had given up. "He'll be okay!" she'd said fiercely 
then, simply because the alternative was too horrible to 
contemplate. She'd arrived just in time, then, but now 
...... "Oh, Mulder, I was too late!" she said, silently, 
"I'm sorry!" Too late in noticing the depths of his 
depression. Too late in realising he'd been kidnapped. 
Too late now, right at the end, right at the end of 
everything. 
 
"My fault!" she whispered, her words drowned by the roar 
of flames. "It's my fault!" If only she hadn't been so 
stupid as to let herself be used by Lewis as a bait to 
catch Mulder..... If only she hadn't insisted on coming 
on this case in the first place, when Mulder had intended 
to go by himself ..... If only she'd been more supportive 
when Mulder was obviously so depressed, rather than being 
angry when he wouldn't talk about it ...... If only she 
hadn't been so wrapped up in finding the answers to her 
own kidnapping that she failed to realised that Mulder 
was in trouble ...... If only she hadn't turned back from 
that cabin when they were so close ...... If only...... 
If only...... 
 
A siren cut into her thoughts as yet another vehicle 
roared up the track and screeched to a halt in front of 
the building. Scully opened her eyes briefly, but, seeing 
it was an ambulance, shut them tightly, wincing with 
pain. An ambulance! What was the point? Mulder was dead. 
That was all that mattered. He was dead, and all an 
ambulance could do was ferry his unbearably burnt body to 
the morgue. How dare the ambulance mock her grief by 
coming here, pretending that it could do any good, that 
there was any hope? 
 
"Dana? ..... er...... I think you should come over here." 
Gardiner's face was white beneath the black smudges from 
the smoke. "He's ..... he's still alive." 
 
Lewis! She'd forgotten about Lewis. But now she 
remembered the police officer's words. A man with a gun. 
A man who stopped him from rescuing Mulder as he died in 
the heart of the flames. Lewis. 
 
"He's alive?" she asked, suddenly filled with hatred. 
What sort of a world was it where Lewis could survive and 
Mulder die? 
 
"Yes, but he's hurt. It's bad ...... I .... er ..... they 
don't know if he'll ......" Gardiner bit his lip, his 
eyes full of pain. She knew how hard it was for him, 
having to bring her the news that Mulder's killer still 
lived, and she recognised his sensitivity - his 
understanding of how much the news would hurt her. 
 
"I want to see him!" she said, suddenly. She hoped he was 
still conscious and able to see her hatred. She would 
look into his eyes and make him realise what he'd done 
and make sure he would die in torment. She would allow 
him no peace. She would follow him to hospital and would 
be there, wherever he looked, reproaching him and 
haunting him with what he'd done until he would long only 
for the escape of death. 
 
"He's just over there." Gardiner gestured towards a group 
of paramedics, a frenzied knot of activity half-obscured 
by the thick smoke which wrapped its tendrils around her 
vision. 
 
"I want to see him," she repeated, quieter now, 
recognising the futility of her plan of revenge. What did 
revenge matter, when Mulder was dead? Nothing would bring 
him back. But she still wanted to look into the eyes of 
his murderer, to see if she could read the truth of 
Mulder's death, even though the answer might be the worst 
torment of all. 
 
It was only a few dozen paces but it seemed like eternal 
miles. She found that she was shaking, her breath coming 
in nervous gasps, catching on the smoke that now covered 
the whole visible world. Soon she would see the man who'd 
taken Mulder away from her. Would she break down in 
tears, or would she erupt in anger? Would the sight of 
Mulder's murderer provide answers that would be essential 
in the healing process, or would his face haunt her 
dreams for the rest of her life? 
 
She was there now, trembling with trepidation. She shut 
her eyes, desperately trying to summon up her courage to 
look. Time slowed. She barely heard the voices of the 
paramedics, or Gardiner's supportive murmurs. 
 
"I've got to look, I've got to look!" she told herself, 
over and over, her eyes still squeezed tightly shut. 
 
Then she heard one of the paramedics speaking, the voice 
cutting through her thoughts. "That's all we can do here. 
Let's get ready to move him!" 
 
"I've got to look! It's now or never. It'll be too late." 
Her lips were moving, although she didn't speak the words 
out loud. Gardiner squeezed her hand. Although she wanted 
to flinch away from his touch she appreciated the support 
of something solid. 
 
At last, taking a deep breath, she opened her eyes. 
 
It was then, only then, that she started crying. 
 
********** 
 
He'd been so close, only a breath away. He'd even heard 
Scully's voice, calling his name through the darkness. 
She was there, waiting for him, but they wouldn't let him 
go to her. Why did they try to drag him back to life? Why 
wouldn't they leave him alone? 
 
There were more voices now, shouting in the distance, 
urgently talking nearer him, snapping instructions he 
couldn't think enough to understand. And then there was a 
bang of doors slamming shut, and everything started 
shaking, and he knew he was being taken away, away from 
the fire which could have saved him. He wanted to cry out 
with the horror of it all, but something was covering his 
mouth. 
 
He tried to move his hand, desperate to signal to them 
that he needed to be taken back, but there was something 
warm holding his hand, something living. 
 
"Can you hear me?" A voice from one place, the place of 
life, cut through the darkness. "Try not to go to sleep. 
Stay with us." But there was also Scully's voice, calling 
him by name. "Mulder, I'm here. Stay with me, please. 
Please don't go, just when I've found you again." And 
Scully was dead, so her voice must be in the other place, 
the dark place which, although it was the place of death, 
knew no pain. He knew now that he didn't need to go 
through the fire to get there. That place was right here, 
so close he could reach out and touch it. If he just 
concentrated hard enough he could go there...... 
 
"Come on!" The voice again. Not Scully's, but the voice 
from the life. "We need you to help us. Try ..... try to 
breathe. We're nearly there, then you can go to sleep. 
They'll look after you......" 
 
But Scully's voice was louder, urging him to stay with 
her, closer to him now than the other voice was. He'd 
killed her. He couldn't leave her now. 
 
"Hurry!" He could barely hear that other voice now. He'd 
nearly escaped fully into the darkness. "...... nearly 
there ...... lose him......" 
 
Someone seemed to be crying, but then that too faded into 
darkness. 
 
********** 
 
November 21st 1995 
 
"Did he wake up?" Scully was breathless as she flung the 
door open, speaking before she was fully into the room. 
 
Gardiner shook his head, and Scully sighed, a look of 
profound relief on her face. Shutting the door with 
exaggerated care, she walked silently across the room. 
Gardiner stood up as she approached, taking a step back. 
He knew he didn't really belong here. 
 
Scully leant anxiously over the bed, touching Mulder 
lightly, checking his pulse, his temperature, his 
breathing. Gardiner suddenly knew that nothing else 
mattered for her at that moment. If he'd spoken to her, 
she'd not have heard him. She'd probably even forgotten 
he was there. 
 
"Good night, Dana," he whispered, taking one last look at 
her back before turning round, preparing the leave the 
room. As he'd expected, she made no reply. But, although 
he'd expected it, her silence still hurt him. He knew how 
naive he'd been to hope she might be interested in him, 
but still...... 
 
He shut the door behind him, pulling it slowly so it 
would make no noise, but just as it was nearly closed 
someone grabbed the handle on the other side, pulling it 
open again. 
 
"I'm sorry," Scully said, smiling sincerely. "I didn't 
thank you." 
 
Gardiner shrugged, embarrassed. "That's okay. It was 
nothing." 
 
"No, really, I'm very grateful. You've sat with him for 
hours now, over the last few days, and I never told you 
why ....... " She glanced anxiously over her shoulder as 
she spoke, shifting her position so she had a clear view 
of Mulder. "You must have thought it really strange, why 
I wanted someone to be with him all the time, but you 
still did it." She wrenched her eyes away from Mulder's 
bed, looking straight at Gardiner for the first time. "It 
means a lot to me. Thank you." 
 
Gardiner shrugged again. He'd been happy to help, anxious 
to do anything that would put life back into Scully's 
face, and hope in her eyes. He'd never asked why. If 
Scully wanted his help, that was enough reason for him. 
 
"It's just ...... I don't want him to be alone," Scully 
continued, constantly glancing across at Mulder. "He's 
woken up several times now, and ....." She bit her lip, 
her eyes glistening. Gardiner wanted to reach out and 
enfold her in his arms, to comfort her as she cried on 
his shoulder, but he knew he mustn't. "When he woke up, 
he ...... he thought I was dead - that he'd killed me. He 
was so distressed I was afraid ......" She shuddered at 
the memory, not finishing the sentence. "Of course, I 
talked to him, told him I was here, that I was alive, but 
...... I don't think he really believes it yet. I don't 
want him to wake up and find I'm not there. Or, if he has 
to, because I can't be there all the time, I want someone 
to be there, someone he'll recognise, who can tell him 
where I've gone, and assure him I'm still alive." 
 
"Why does he think he's killed you?" Gardiner asked. 
 
"I don't know," Scully exclaimed, her voice full of 
distress. "He's not in a state to talk about what 
happened yet. God knows what that man did to him!" Her 
knuckles were white with tension. "It looks as if he told 
Mulder that I was dead and Mulder - of course Mulder 
would blame himself - he always does." Her eyes darkened 
with anger. "If I could get my hands on that ...... that 
monster! Burning was too good for him. Not content with 
torturing Mulder physically he had to do this to his mind 
too. And he was so depressed before all this started!" 
 
"But ..... he will get better, won't he?" Gardiner was 
almost scared to ask, so intense were Scully's emotions. 
 
Scully took a deep breath. "Physically, yes. He's out of 
danger now." She looked across at the bed again, her face 
grim. 
 
Gardiner stood silent, chewing his lip. He knew Scully 
hadn't told him everything, but he was scared to prompt 
her, scared of her anxious expression. 
 
"It's just that he ..... he doesn't seem to want to 
live." It was a sudden outburst of pain. "He doesn't seem 
to think he deserves it. It's not just thinking I'm dead. 
There's more to it than that - much more." She was 
breathing deeply, all her muscles clenched in a visible 
effort not to cry. 
 
Gardiner moved his hand, overwhelmed with the desire to 
comfort her, but let it fall again. 
 
Scully noticed the movement, guessing what was in his 
mind. "I'm sorry," she said, her face full of sympathy. 
"I'm sorry. I haven't been fair to you, right from the 
start. You deserved better." 
 
He opened his mouth to assure her that she had nothing to 
apologise for, but she held up a hand to stop him. "No, 
I've been unfair, all along. I shouted at you, I've taken 
out all my anxieties on you, I've taken advantage of 
you." She smiled, a sincere smile despite the worry that 
haunted her eyes. "But I couldn't have got through this 
last week without you. I want to thank you." She offered 
him her hand. "I hope you ......" 
 
Although she didn't finish the sentence he knew what she 
meant, but he knew what she was saying. She hoped that, 
one day, he'd find someone who _could_ return his 
affections, someone who could make him happy. He probably 
would, but right now, looking at Scully's face, feeling 
the sadness catch in the back of his throat, it seemed as 
if he'd never forget her. 
 
"And Mulder?" she asked, desperate to distract himself 
from that chain of thought. "What.....?" 
 
"He'll recover!" Scully said, fiercely. "It's going to 
take a while, but he'll recover. He must!" She had half 
turned her back on Gardiner, all her attention focused on 
Mulder, although, as Gardiner suddenly realised, she 
hadn't ever really stopped thinking about him, even as 
she'd been talking to him. "I'll be there for him, as 
long as it takes," she continued. "We'll get through 
this." 
 
Gardiner turned and walked slowly away, knowing that this 
time no voice would call him back. 
 
He shook his head sadly. "I hope you do," he murmured, 
although there was no longer anyone to hear him. 

END