TITLE: The Pattern
RATING: Strong language and adult themes
CLASSIFICATION: X A R
DATE: 14th May 2005 
TIMELINE: Pre-XF and S7 (with refs to S8)
ARCHIVE: Ephemeral, Gossamer - yes. Others please ask.
AUTHOR: Joann Humby - jhumby@lineone.net

LEGALLY:
We all know the score. The characters are not mine, never will be. 
They're owned by some combination of Fox, 1013 and CC.

WARNING:
Includes discussion of suicide, religion and other adult themes.
No other keywords given, sorry - they'd be spoilers for the story.

SUMMARY:
For Mulder, catching Monty Props the first time was hard. The 
second time it nearly killed him. Third time lucky? 

A mix of pre-XF and XF days. A story of Monty Props, Bill 
Patterson, Diana Fowley and Walter Skinner. And of course Mulder 
and Scully. A tale of two love affairs, two bosses and a series of 
murders.

With grateful thanks to all my betas - Ann and Sana who've had to 
listen to me moving slowly on this for months, Lisby and 
MaybeAmanda who helped push it to a conclusion, and Medusa, 
Vyper and Blue who provided fresh eyes at critical moments. 
What a team!


==========

1988

According to Monty Props' fantasy, he was the real deal. Part 
Charles Manson, part Svengali, part Rasputin. Pure charisma.

According to Mulder's profile, on the unknown subject who was 
seemingly the cause of at least seven deaths in the last two years, 
he was a sociopath. 

Either way, in 1988, Monty Props was right at the center of the 
ISU's "what the fuck" list and therefore of Mulder's universe.

The plastic crate on Mulder's desk looked like the signal for an 
office move. Only the yellow post-it note with the word "Links?" in 
Bill Patterson's fast scrawl gave the game away. Autopsy reports, 
eye-witness accounts, police interviews, impassioned pleas from 
family members suggesting that there was more to the deaths than 
met the eye.

The tattoo on the first victim found its mirror in the pages of the 
second victim's diary and the doodles on the third victim's suicide 
note. A cult perhaps? 

The family of the third victim had decided to publish her note, in 
the hopes of alerting other parents of impressionable adolescents, 
and maybe of finding out more about the symbols. Another family 
came forward, sent the diary of the second victim to the newspaper 
whose reporter forwarded it to the local PD. The Medical Examiner 
who'd autopsied the young man with the tattoo pulled the pattern 
into a second state and suggested it was a matter for the FBI.

A couple of days later Mulder had added two more names to the list 
of probable victims. By the next day the body count was at least 
seven.

At least seven. 

It was that "at least" that had given the case its nightmare 
significance and was the reason why a blitz attack had been ordered 
by Patterson. 

So now there were phone calls to make. Faxes to send. Newspaper 
archives to sort through. Patterson assigned three additional 
profilers to speed up the process, borrowed agents from other 
divisions to handle the routine material and filter it all down 
into something Mulder might eventually have enough hours in the day 
to read.

Another week of such action and the groundwork should be complete. 
The team would go back to their normal duties and whatever happened 
next would be up to Mulder.

At 7 p.m., Dave Hennessey, in his role as the voice of commonsense, 
called a timeout. Pizzas were ordered, fresh coffee brewed, and 
everyone met up at the table for an informal progress meeting and 
meal break.

Not that the rest of the world cared. The phone still rang. Worse 
than that, it still had to be answered.

Agent Karen Gardiner felt no guilt about playing to the sexual 
stereotype and pretending to be the secretary - not when it was in 
a good cause. And frankly, after a twelve-hour shift and with no 
sign of a let-up in the schedule, an undisturbed ten-minute break 
seemed like a very good cause. She was effective too, skilled in 
keeping the smirk out of her voice. "Diana Fowley?" she mouthed to 
the group of diners, waving her hand to show it was a question.

"Put her through to the kid; he could use a laugh."

Tired chuckles and raised eyebrows from the rest of the agents as 
Hennessey's theatrically loud whisper got the expected single 
finger response from Mulder. A good trick under the circumstances, 
given that he achieved the gesture without even raising his head 
and without any loss of control over the slice of pizza in his 
hand.

Gardiner returned to the call. "I'm sorry, Dr. Fowley, there's no 
one from the task force available to take your call at the moment. 
If you'd care to fax through your notes, I'll see they reach the 
right person."

"Fowley?" attempted Mulder, suddenly looking up and half-choking on 
a mouthful of pizza as he tried to swallow it fast enough to make 
himself heard.

"One moment," said Karen, putting the call on hold with the 
deftness of a true pro. She waved the handset at Mulder. "Yeah, you 
want to talk?"

He looked around for something to wipe his hands on but found the 
table disappointingly bare of napkins, did as good a job as he 
could with the autopsy report on which he'd been scribbling his 
notes.

"Gross," supplied Hennessey, "I hope that's Bill's copy."

Mulder shook his head. "Yours." He looked at Karen, "Can you put 
her through to my desk?" 

"Sure thing, boss!"

Fresh laughter rocked the table as he headed away. 

The kid was old enough to have a wife and kids of his own, a 
mortgage, a station wagon and a dog. What he actually had was the 
makings of an ulcer and a definite reputation. 

But it was Diana Fowley's reputation that had brought him to the 
phone. "Dr. Fowley. I'm Fox Mulder."

"Ah - 'Serial Killers and the Occult'."

Theirs was a specialized business, an awfully small world, but 
there were still protocols to follow and acknowledgements to 
deliver. "Psychosis, Brain Activity and Paranormal Phenomena," he 
said, acknowledging her thesis. Shared territories established and 
backgrounds drawn. They knew each other's work. They had nothing 
further to prove. "You want to talk about the suicides we're 
investigating?"

"No. But I think we should."

The kid smiled and tilted his chair a little further back.

-------------

2000

Skinner handed the photos to Mulder. Mulder thumbed through them 
quickly, scarcely even looking at them before passing them along to 
Scully, who was only slightly slower to send them back to their 
boss.

"I take it you've already seen the pictures," said Skinner.

Mulder nodded. "Someone in behavioral sent the file over."

"What do you think?"

"It's him - Monty Props."

"I know it's not an X-File."

"It is if it's Props. I talked to the prison warden this morning 
and he's still locked up."

Skinner nodded. "They would appreciate your input."

"We'll get right on it," confirmed Scully.

---------

The meeting with Monty Props in the prison interview room had been 
disturbing. At least to Mulder. He wondered if it had felt the same 
to Scully. He saved his questions until they were safely back on 
the freeway. "What did you think of him?"

"A little man with delusions of grandeur - putting a show on for us 
- living on past glory."

Yeah, he nodded, that was exactly it. She'd got it in one. 

The Props that Mulder had known might not have hit the front pages 
by inspiring a cult to a mass suicide, nor had he psyched up a 
cabal of followers to launch a high profile killing spree, but he'd 
had style, the power to subvert and destroy. "You've read the case 
notes. Didn't you find him," he paused, hunting for the right term 
before settling on, "disappointing?"

"Disappointing? He's a serial killer - I wasn't expecting Mother 
Teresa. What were you looking for?"

"Monty Props."

"Prison changes people."

Mulder nodded, wondering if that was all there was to it. "He's not 
the same man. His MO - to do what he did - it took power, 
discipline, insight. That man -"

"- is a good actor? He was a professional con man before he decided 
to be a guru. Maybe he's just found a different way to play you."

Maybe.

-----------

1988

There was no way he wanted to move, but his body insisted he take 
some kind of action. He lifted her arm, carefully shifting it from 
his chest and placing it on a pillow, smirking as he rolled away. 
After a week of sixteen-hour working days he had an excuse to be in 
bed at 10:30. Diana Fowley on the other hand only had him to blame.

On the down side, the morning was practically over and Patterson 
was going to kill him. Or not. Humiliate and torture - that was 
more Patterson's style. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes; it was 
still way too early to profile his boss.

Bathroom necessities dealt with, Mulder headed for the kitchen and 
found coffee and supplies. He decided not to wait for an invitation 
to get things under way. He might as well start making himself at 
home; he doubted after last night's performance she was going to be 
in any hurry to throw him out.

Diana had been a revelation. Inevitably, he'd profiled her from her 
published work - academic to the core despite her interest in the 
realms of the extreme possibility. Of course, she had to be. Being 
Spooky in the FBI was one thing; a good enough solve rate and 
they'd forgive anything. Being flaky, female, and hoping to get a 
tenured post at GWU was something else.

But the woman? Ah, she had something more. A little mischief in her 
eyes. A little fire in her soul. A spark that set her apart whether 
she was arguing about a killer's predilection for drug-induced 
transcendence or licking her lover's ear.

Looked like he'd finally got lucky and he really didn't know quite 
how to respond to the idea that this one might be something more 
than a one-night stand. One thing was sure though - he'd better 
wipe the stupid grin off his face before he saw Patterson.

---------

Despite his self-proclaimed good intentions, it wasn't easy to keep 
a secret in the ISU: a dozen of the country's finest profilers, 
trained in linguistic nuance and body language, constantly on 
alert. 

"The kid got laid!" announced Hennessey, his voice loud with mock 
horror and dismay.

Mulder considered it for an instant, shrugged. Turning up at the 
office at noon wasn't actually a triumph for discretion. Maybe he'd 
wanted to get caught? Might as well play to the audience then. Kept 
his voice sultry, his eyes going soft focus as if in sensual 
recall. "I've been getting a little professional help." 

Karen Gardiner shook her head, playing along. "You don't have to 
pay for it, Fox. Any time." A playful bat of the eyelashes got a 
smile in return. "Coffee's fresh," she added, pointing towards the 
pot on the shelf.

Bill Patterson put a damper on proceedings without even opening his 
mouth. A single crooked finger in Mulder's direction.

"Coffee, sir?" 

"Get in here." 

Mulder finished stirring his drink. The other agents nodded their 
condolences as he followed the boss into the office.

Patterson was growling before Mulder even closed the door. "What's 
this about?"

Mulder considered playing dumb but decided that his boss would 
probably see evasion as a sign of weakness. "I overslept. It's 
Sunday."

"Sunday! You think your killer cares about that?"

"Of course."

Momentarily puzzled, Patterson took a few seconds to catch on. It 
was obvious when he did: he looked like he was going to explode. 
The glib reminder of the quasi-religious overtones of the case had 
sneaked right under his defenses and Mulder struggled not to gloat. 
Patterson shook his head. "You wouldn't last five minutes in a 
field office."

Actually, the thought of being the anonymous rookie, griping about 
being sent out for the coffee and doughnuts again, was one of 
Mulder's more harmless fantasies. The realist in him knew he would 
hate it, but the man who woke up at four in the morning with 
another bullet point to add to a profile thought it sounded 
idyllic. Time to get the meeting back on track. 

"I've been talking with Dr. Fowley, the psychologist who suggested 
what the symbols on the third victim might mean."

"You discussed the case with her?"

But Mulder wasn't that easy to trip up. "Not yet, sir - I'd need 
your permission for that."
 
"I hope you learned something."

Did that thing about her having ticklish knees count?

----------

The slide projector was still on the dining table. The sight of it 
tickled her memory and Diana's lips twitched into a sheepish smile. 
How the hell did they get from a slide-show presentation on 
"Temporal Lobe Activity During Mediation" to a tumble of mindless 
pleasure in her bed in less than three hours?

Shaking her head, embarrassed, she put the files away and moved the 
wineglasses into the kitchen. 

Not at all what she'd expected, hence how unprepared she'd been 
when the charm offensive materialized. Or was she just deluding 
herself? Was he exactly the man she'd fantasized he might be? She'd 
seen his photo, read his work, felt slightly ashamed by her own 
fascination with a seemingly smart empathic man who routinely 
carried a gun. With her education, wasn't she supposed to have 
evolved beyond that kind of penis envy game?

It was as if he'd known just what to say. The questions about her 
work that would make her feel appreciated and valued - a mind as 
well as a body. Stretching now to unwind the tired muscles in her 
back, she could feel him still. 

Three hours though! Had he played her? 

By day a hunter, dancing through the minds of murderous sociopaths 
to tell you not only the who and the how, but also the why. By 
night, perhaps he was a predator of a different kind?

She sighed, ashamed by her ability to spoil the pleasure by 
analyzing the motivation. After all, she'd been there too - 
encouraging him every step of the way, maybe even leading him at 
times. Mutual, then. Thoughts of Mutually Assured Destruction came 
to mind.

But still, it occurred to her that they should have held their 
first meeting in the workplace - his office, or hers - and not in 
her apartment. And if time pressure meant he'd needed to combine 
the discussion with a meal, it should have been a working lunch and 
definitely not an informal dinner with wine and a slideshow that 
required the lights to be turned down low. And it shouldn't have 
been on a Saturday night with no pressure to take a taxi home. 

Damn - maybe it was her fault then.

-----------

2000

Scully hadn't changed out of her scrubs. Feet up on the autopsy 
table, head rocking back as she tried to work the kinks out of her 
shoulders. "I hadn't realized how many people he'd killed."

"It's hard to make a case stick when the victims kill themselves. 
Assisting a suicide sounds so innocent, benign even - as if he 
might have been doing them a favor."

Her voice shifted from exhausted to annoyed. "You think it sounds 
innocent?" 

Not that he could fault her for the anger. A healthy twenty two 
year old on the table. The rock and roll dream come true: the kid 
had died and left a good-looking corpse. Scully shifted position, 
staring at the ceiling, avoiding his eyes. He opted not to debate 
the ethics. "The prosecutors only brought the cases we thought we 
might win. If they'd been able to undermine us on one of the 
charges then the whole thing could have come tumbling down."

"It's incredible. A man talks twenty people into killing themselves 
and they take another fifteen people with them."

"And the ten who died in the house fire." The young mom's despair 
over the loss of her husband provided the backdrop to the tragedy - 
her, her parents, the three kids. She'd met Props three times. The 
agents and police officers who'd died with them had given Props his 
finest hour.

"You think there were more, don't you?"

"Maybe. There would have been if we hadn't stopped him."

She pushed herself upright again, her eyes focusing on the sheet 
that covered the body. "And now there are more."

-----------

Later that night, safely back in Mulder's Apartment, they'd entered 
the awkward phase. The point where the desire to be together was in 
almost perfect balance with the need to separate. It took two to 
tangle, but it only needed one to retreat. 

They'd been dancing around one another for years, a steady spiral 
of ever decreasing circles. But now the terrifying intimacy of 
Scully's desire for a child, and her wish that it be theirs, had 
changed the dynamic. When he'd fantasized about a "one day", he'd 
never imagined the day as being quite like this.

Strange passion of their gametes meeting in a test tube, when they 
themselves had scarcely even kissed.

As wild and impossible as their lives. The only thing that made it 
bearable for Mulder was his absolute conviction that when the time 
was right, they would be too.

The time would not be tonight.

It was the sudden stiffness in her posture that warned him, sent 
the room temperature plummeting by about ten degrees. 

She'd been reclining, legs resting on his couch as he slouched with 
his feet up on the coffee table. He'd been rewatching the video 
footage of interviews with Props; one hand a little too close to 
her feet to be coincidence, an offer she'd ignored. The fingers of 
his other hand circled the buttons on the remote. He felt the shift 
in her mood and watched, as with scarcely any change in her basic 
posture, she moved from relaxed to alert. 

"Scully?"

"The psychiatric evaluations on the victims." She'd been reading 
the original files, including all the notes that he'd made back 
when Props was still an unknown subject. Full of nightmare 
material, but no more so than on most of their cases. He tilted his 
head, asking for more information. "Agent Fowley," she finally 
said, shifting uncomfortably against the couch.

Ahh, the F word. First a shadow and now a ghost. An awkwardness 
that still hovered between them. Not surprising perhaps; there were 
things left unaddressed. He promised himself he would try to be 
honest. "She wasn't an agent back then. We're talking pre-Waco, 
before the Solar Temple suicides, before Ephesian. We had 
Jonesville as a reference. We had the Manson Family. But I needed 
someone who had some insight into how cults controlled their 
members."

"Isolation, sleep-deprivation, malnutrition."

"But our victims hadn't been removed from their homes. No one had 
heard some creepy guy waking them up every hour for five minutes 
chanting. But Diana had run EEGs on people who'd been pulled out of 
cults - a kind of before and after deprogramming thing."

Scully shook her head. "Brain waves?" 

"We thought if you could induce the 'cult' pattern without the cult 
infrastructure, then you could, almost literally, get away with 
murder."

"There's a lot of speculation in that sentence."

"Actually Patterson's word for it wasn't speculation."

---------

1988

Bill Patterson was almost purple, a worrying sign in a man known 
for his white knuckles and ice-cold delivery. "What is this 
bullshit, Mulder?"

Mulder really wasn't ready for this conversation, and couldn't 
believe that Hennessey had passed their casual morning coffee chat 
on to their boss without even warning him. He tried to recover a 
little ground. "The UNSUB's MO." The modus operandi of a highly 
sophisticated killer.

"Brainwashing?"

"The victims are intelligent, sensitive people - they fall out of 
the world. It's as if they're in a cult, but without the kind of 
group interaction that makes cults work." He almost made the 
mistake of smiling as he said it, recalling a moment the night 
before when he'd admitted to Diana that Patterson's profiling team 
had a lot of the textbook cult characteristics.

"And what the hell are Boston PD supposed to do with that?"

Now he remembered why he had that fantasy about getting an 
anonymous placement in some hick field office. Patterson was right, 
of course. Two weeks into the case and all Mulder had to show for 
his efforts was a steadily lengthening list of victims. "I can't 
give them anything useful yet. I need to know why the victims are 
listening to him."

"For God's sake, Mulder - listen to yourself! You're supposed to be 
chasing the man who's running the show, and all you're doing is 
thinking warm thoughts about his puppets. We need something for the 
police departments to get their teeth into. They're waiting."

Mulder didn't bother to argue. If Patterson didn't like what he was 
doing he could give the job to somebody else. Sure, if Patterson 
insisted, he could write them a profile today. Absolutely pro-forma 
and one hundred percent accurate. It would open with the words, 
"White, male," and it would be utterly useless. 

Patterson shook his head. "All I've got from you is a treatise on 
brain waves. What the hell is anyone supposed to do with that? How 
many more bodies do you need?"

A cheap shot and Mulder knew it, but then so did Bill, and Mulder 
knew that, too. 

Need someone to get inside the head of a master manipulator? Surely 
Bill was the ideal candidate. Mulder resisted the temptation to 
make the suggestion.

Patterson glared and prowled the office some more. "You've got to 
see them the way he does. Use his eyes. What's he getting out of 
this? Sex, power, control - where's the buzz?"

Mulder bowed his head, unconvinced. From his perspective, Patterson 
couldn't be more wrong. The victims had seen the killer and found 
him so special that they'd accepted a death sentence from him. Yet 
in the midst of it all, their families and friends had seen 
nothing, and that was a more distinctive marker than any number of 
platitudes about domination and alienation. 

The victims were visible, so they were the key. If they were 
puppets, then surely it was just a matter of following the strings? 
If they weren't puppets, then was there even a crime?   

======== 
End of Part 1   

=========

Hennessey was a good sounding board. He pressed; he cajoled; he 
laughed, but he never bullied or demeaned. Which, so far as Mulder 
was concerned, made him dangerous. The man was too damned easy to 
talk to.

The technique worked on hardened cons and nervous witnesses, and 
was just as effective on Fox Mulder. The fact that Hennessey had 
passed Mulder's only half-formed theory onto Patterson was 
infuriating, but it was also inevitable. Hennessey was a good Fed 
as well as a sensible man, and good little G-Men liked to keep 
their bosses in the loop.

"Don't look so pissed about it. I asked what you thought, because I 
wanted to know."

Mulder responded with a shake of the head and a frustrated, "And I 
told you what I thought, because I'm an idiot."

"Fuck that. You need help and you know it."

"I don't need Bill Patterson breathing fire at me every time I walk 
past his office."

"So take another route to the coffee machine."

Despite his irritation, Mulder laughed. Hennessy was just about old 
enough to be his father, but despite jokes about "the kid," 
Hennessey had never treated him as anything but an equal, right 
down to a level of healthy disrespect for his reputation as a 
rising star in the Bureau and an almost comic determination to slam 
him into the floor whenever they played basketball.

"Right," said Hennessey, acknowledging Mulder's change of mood. 
"Now can we get some work done? OK. Back to basics. Our UNSUB 
chooses the suggestible and makes a suggestion. How does he find 
them?"

"Counseling, lonely hearts clubs, prescription drugs, spiritual 
healing groups, magazine subscriptions - I don't know. I've got 
hundreds of possible markers but no solid common links." He pushed 
the checklist across the desk, shrugged as Hennessey shook his head 
in a gesture that said he'd take Mulder's word for it.

"Do they approach him?"

Mulder sighed, closing his eyes as he rocked back in his chair and 
tried to dislodge the cobwebs from the corners of his brain. "I 
think so. But I don't know why."

---------

The Hammond family was past the stage of disbelief. No longer 
caught up in the fantasy that if they could only wake up just right 
then Kate would be alive again. They'd moved on.

Mulder had trouble looking them in the eye.

Hennessey did most of the talking which gave his colleague the 
freedom to explore Kate's room in peace. Back home with a Masters 
degree under her belt, Kate had been looking for the big break that 
would turn her work for the local newspaper from a job into a 
career.

Lonely, too. Old friends now old enough to be married, kids of 
their own, houses and loans. New friends either hundreds of miles 
away, still in school and heading towards their doctorates, or 
scattered even further afield by the hunt for the right work. The 
man she'd once considered her de facto fiance lived on the west 
coast now and, after the first week of their separation, he hadn't 
even bothered to return her calls.

Mom said that, "Just before she did it," they thought she was 
looking happier, more settled, less frustrated by small town life. 
Dad thought that maybe she'd met someone, but couldn't suggest a 
who or a where.

Mulder had heard it all before. He'd interviewed the families of 
two of the other victims. Followed it up with visits to friends and 
colleagues. 

The problem was that nothing they said made the deaths any 
different from thousands of others. The "just when he seemed to be 
getting better" idea was a standard thread in suicides the world 
over. Depression so deep it could lead to death was frequently too 
debilitating to allow such a decisive act. The energy might only 
come once the exhaustion started to lift, perhaps even through 
drugs or therapy.

Yet there was a crime here. Not just in the moral sense, nor even 
simply in the eyes of God. There was the kind of crime that a 
Federal Agent could investigate and the courts could stop. Mulder 
was pretty sure about that.

Troubling though, to be so certain and yet to have no evidence. A 
few doodles in a diary. A pattern for a tattoo. 

And all drawn by the victims' own hands. Skilled artist or not, 
precision graphic or awkward scribble. All their own work.

He'd hoped for better from the tattooed kid, fantasized that the 
obvious answer might be the one that worked. But the man at the 
Body Art shop dug the man's sketch out of the file and shrugged, 
declaring it a customer original. With no links to the other 
victims and no off-notes to make Mulder's skin tingle as they 
spoke, the tattooist had slithered way back down the suspects' 
list.

Or at least he would have done if they'd had any other suspects.

Kate's room was just as frustrating as the discussion that he kept 
hearing snatches of. He returned to the living room to look through 
the shelves that housed more of Kate's books. The conversation made 
Mulder's ears burn. He knew Hennessey's questions before he asked 
them. He could give better replies than her parents did.

What a fucking mess.

"Kate would have never done this."

Mulder mentally added the words "to us" to the statement and tried 
not to sigh. The book titles were as eclectic as they were 
predictable and if it were not for the fact that the woman was 
trying to make a career in journalism then that might have given 
him something to dissect. As it was, there was little here to get 
his teeth into. Dogs and cats. Planes and boats. Wine and beer. 
Unless?

He interrupted the stilted conversation running in the background. 
"Who put the books on the shelves?"

His only reply was in the identical expressions of confusion on 
their faces.

He tried again. "Are they as Kate left them? Did you move them? 
Might someone else have moved them?"

Kate's mother walked across the room to join him. "I think they're 
as she left them. I may have picked up one or two, but mostly. Is 
it important?"

Important enough to take photos of? Yes.

Important enough to save somebody else's life? He had absolutely no 
idea.

"I'm not sure, Mrs. Hammond. Do you have any pictures of her room 
from when she was a child, or from when she was living away from 
home?"

The woman nodded, exhausted and lost, but curious despite it all. 
She headed to another set of shelves, pulling out photo albums and 
looking so fucking hopeful that Mulder had to bite his tongue to 
stop himself from screaming.

--------

2000

The look that Scully was giving him was of dark suspicion combined 
with tightly wound need. Mulder just wished she'd ask the damned 
question and get it over with.

Of course, it was no more possible for her to do that than it was 
for him to answer it of his own free will.

Tangential - that's how this worked. Like their relationship. Like 
their glances.

OK. He could handle it. The least he could do was say Diana's name 
out loud in the vague hope that maybe such familiarity could one 
day breed ease. The contempt was, of course, a done deal, and he 
wasn't going to reopen barely scabbed wounds just to fight about 
that.

"Diana was interested in brain activity, electroencephalograms, 
things like that. She was looking at whether the things we call 
psychotic delusions are the same things that other people call 
ghosts and manifestations -" 

Scully's sniff of dismay told him exactly what she thought of that. 
He could almost hear her reply - of course they're the same thing, 
you don't need an EEG to tell you that! Fine. Would she be quite so 
complacent about his next remark? 

"- including religious manifestations - visions and so on."

Had the heating failed? He glanced up at the thermostat and then 
back at Scully. He'd almost expected her to be crossing herself. 
Naturally, she wasn't. She was shaking her head. "Quackery," she 
said. "Poorly monitored EEG equipment to assess brain activity as a 
gimmick to sell so-called enlightenment machines and spiritual 
training courses. It was discredited. However many alpha waves are 
coming out, it means nothing about the spiritual state of what's 
going on inside."

Could he make it into a joke by asking her if she'd once bought a 
matching set of deep relaxation goggles and earphones, only to 
discover that Mozart and chocolate worked better? He decided 
against; Scully didn't look very receptive. "Diana was one of the 
debunkers."

Oh. Scully looked momentarily thrown by that and Mulder chose not 
to pursue the opportunity to gloat. He waited.

She finally shook her head. "Why did you ask for her help?"

"She was looking at euphoria. Feelings of well-being induced by 
drugs, meditation, religious frenzy. She'd been studying withdrawal 
symptoms in drug addicts and thought that the pattern might be the 
same in people leaving cults. Cold turkey."

"And was it?"

"It's a hard adjustment. The chemical side-effects might be missing 
but the anguish is the same. You take away something that was 
making them feel good and bring them back to reality. Some 
deprogramming regimes were so highly regimented that she felt they 
might be more like drug substitution, soft landings. Understandably 
so."

"Euphoria?" she said, skeptical but not dismissive.

"Joy. Higher brain function suppressed. Freedom."

"Freedom? In a cult?"

"Freedom from responsibility. A simpler world. You live to serve, 
not to question. And in return you get love and a sense of 
belonging."

"You sound envious."

He shrugged. "Who wouldn't be? It's a family. And it looks like a 
family that you chose, though actually it chose you. Which I guess 
is just as good, maybe better."

"A family that removes people from their real families and destroys 
their spirits, their wills, removes their freedom."

"A dysfunctional family." Caution forgotten, he plunged on. "You 
love your family; imagine being asked to go cold turkey tomorrow. 
Not just to stop seeing them, but to stop even thinking about 
them." She shook her head, preparing a riposte, but he didn't give 
her the chance. "Imagine how much harder it would be to be 
extracted from a world where you were immersed in them 24/7, where 
there were no other influences."

"And you're saying that Diana Fowley had some special insight into 
this?"

"She could look at the results of psychological testing and 
determine if the subject was susceptible to cult recruitment, and 
whether deprogramming had worked."

"So how was that supposed to help you catch Monty Props?"

It wasn't. 

--------

1988

They'd spent more than two hours at Kate Hammond's house and Mulder 
and Hennessey hadn't said a word to each other. Not a single query, 
not even a fleeting, "Did you have any questions, Agent Mulder?" 
They'd swapped looks occasionally, checked on each other's relative 
position, ready to watch backs and join forces should the need 
arise. But otherwise they left well enough alone, two men doing two 
jobs, complete faith that the other would intervene if he needed 
to.

While Mulder took pictures of the bookshelves in the living room 
and bedroom, Hennessey chatted with Mrs. Hammond, assuring her that 
just as soon as the Bureau had made the copies they needed, all of 
their photo albums would be returned, safe and sound.

"Do you have children?" she asked.

Hennessey nodded and that seemed to be all the guarantee she 
required.
 
When they finally got back into the Bureau car, Mulder immediately 
suggested a trip to the second victim's home.

"Why?"

"Because the first one's stuff has all been moved out."

Hennessey snorted. "That wasn't what I meant. Maybe I should spell 
it out for you. It's after six o'clock. We've got a two-hour drive 
back to DC. Why would I want to detour?"

"Gee. Maybe because it's your job?"

"And it'll still be there in the morning. I'll pick you up at 
seven." No room for argument in his tone and Mulder was astute 
enough not to try. There were other things he could do tonight. 

The tension in Hennessey's body eased a little and he settled back 
in his seat. He threw Mulder an opening, a consolation prize of 
sorts. "What's with all the photos? What caught your eye?"

"The way she'd placed the books."

"Keep going."

"Sorted by color and then by size."

"As opposed to?"

"Haphazard, by subject, Dewey decimal, something."

"It's as good a system as any." Hennessey paused, as if considering 
it. "Anyway, how do you order your books?"

Mulder shrugged. Hennessey was welcome to come round and take a 
crack at divining his filing system. "They were Kate's books but 
they weren't; they weren't personal. Hers were in her bedroom. 
These were work books, things she'd bought so that she could brush 
up on her general knowledge, so she wouldn't sound like a klutz 
when she went to the State Fair to interview a pumpkin growing 
champion."

"Pumpkin growing champion?"

"So none of the books would be very memorable to her, so you'd 
expect her to group them by functional type - easier to find things 
quickly."

Hennessey nodded. "You know, kid, you are weird."

Mulder didn't really pay much attention to Hennessey for the rest 
of the trip; too busy mulling over the questions he needed to deal 
with tomorrow. He studiously ignored his colleague's lousy tape 
collection and even his Barry White impression, suffered it all in 
silence,

Made car-ride-scratchy, barely legible notes on the new yellow pad. 
He could type them up as soon as he got in and fax them off to all 
the Bureau offices with suspected victims in their territories. A 
demand for better photos of bedrooms, bathroom cabinets, 
bookshelves, ornaments, insides of closets, and anywhere that an 
orderly mind might be at work. Plus a cautionary request to be sure 
to ask if everything was still exactly as the victim had left it.

It was only when Hennessey actually parked outside Diana Fowley's 
apartment and glared at him in some silent demand for action that 
Mulder noticed that they'd driven to the wrong part of town. Just 
because Hennessey had once dropped him off here didn't mean that 
he'd moved home. "Huh?" was the best he could come up with.

"You're having a night off."

"What?"

"Just get out of the fucking car. I'll pick you up at 7 in the 
morning. You've got a change of clothes in the trunk, right? Take 
them with you."

"She doesn't even know I'm coming."

"Jeez - couldn't you even wait until you got up there."

A momentary silence before the quietly building annoyance turned to 
embarrassed amusement. "Oh, fuck you, Hennessey."

"You're not my type. Get out of the damned car."

The shock tactics had worked. Mulder shook his head as he opened 
the door, stunned at what Hennessey had talked him into doing. He 
unloaded his overnight bag from the trunk and headed into the 
building. 

It was only once he was in the elevator that his brain started to 
focus again. He just hoped to God that Diana was going to be 
pleased to see him. He knew she was home; the lights were on. What 
if she was in the tub? What if she was working? Christ, what if 
there was another man in there with her?

He nearly turned around without even knocking. Only the prospect of 
being forced to go taxi hunting on such a miserably damp night and 
the possibility that Hennessey or Diana might catch him in the act 
dissuaded him.

Deep breath. He knocked on her door.

The smile that greeted him knocked him backwards. He didn't think 
he'd ever seen anyone quite so pleased to see him before. He 
experimented with a greeting. "Hi?" 

"I'm glad you came," she said, and didn't really understand it when 
Mulder burst out laughing.

-------

They'd been playing verbal table tennis for a while now; Diana 
supplying the coffee and the nibbles to keep the debate going as 
they pored over the pictures and reference books, categorizing and 
taking notes.

"Your problem is you view everything through FBI-tinted 
spectacles."

Mulder saw no problem with that. "And you think an excuse is the 
same as a reason."

"I see causal links."

"I see lack of control. Greed, selfishness, cruelty. A willingness 
to do unto others, things that they would never want done to them."

"But those things have been done to him."

"My cult leader has already killed himself?"

"Spiritually speaking, yes. Someone has destroyed that part of him 
that made him love life."

Mulder shrugged. "That narrows the suspects list to a few million 
then."

"Cynic."

"FBI-tinted," he said, toasting her with his half empty mug of 
coffee.

Fowley shook her head. "He's calling up visions. The symbols," she 
pointed at the rune-like constructions in the notes, "are used 
during meditation to connect with a higher plane. You focus on the 
intersection points and it transports you to some other place."

"Like watching TV?"

She ignored him. "The objective is to achieve a kind of out-of-body 
experience. The feeling experienced in deep meditation is said to 
be of the spirit freeing itself from the physical, rising above the 
everyday to achieve a sense of perfect clarity."

"And our victims are so horrified by what they see that they'd 
sooner die?"

"It would seem so."

"If showing someone the truth was an offence, we'd have to ban 
mirrors."

"And psychologists," she noted.

"But what if it wasn't the truth? A distorting mirror? Not the 
whole picture?"

"The good things edited out?"

"Hopes and possibilities erased?"

"Bleak."

"Bleak."

Fowley sighed and poured herself a glass of wine. "You shouldn't 
have put my name in that report. Patterson doesn't like me."

"He doesn't even know you."

"But he knows you."

"And thinks you're a bad influence on me?"

"You said it yourself - He's the guru; you're supposed to be his 
tame minion."

He nodded. "Sleep deprivation, malnutrition, controlled 
environment, praise/blame culture, isolation from external 
influences including family and friends."

"Ready for a little more de-programming?"

He smiled, sipping the wine from the glass she was holding to 
moisten his lips before plunging forward to share the taste with 
her.

---------

2000

Scully was replaying the slide show again and Mulder's annoyance 
was starting to flare into something worse. "I asked you not to do 
that."

She glared at him, then turned her attention back to the remote. 
"If it's bothering you so much then why don't you go for a walk?"

Simple geometrical patterns, similar but not identical. Hand drawn 
by the victims. Sharing a common root somewhere along the line, but 
not one they'd been able to link to any other images found in the 
victims' homes nor even to any of the more obvious occult and 
spiritualist writings. The three new ones looked like similarly bad 
imitations of the ones that had gone before.

It was only too familiar and it wasn't something he could fix by 
going for a walk. "They're dangerous." He closed his eyes as she 
forwarded to the next slide. "Not just to me. To anybody." Even to 
you, he wanted to say, but he didn't dare. The last thing he wanted 
was for her to take it as a challenge.

"They're just drawings," she said, as if he needed a reminder.

"Just drawings? Like the pictures of that artifact that put me in 
the hospital were just photocopies?" Ah, if she could only read his 
mind right now, it would save both of them a lot of headaches.

Her next words only made his headache worse. "That was never 
proven."

Enough. Game over, he decided, walking to the wall and pulling out 
the power cord.

"Mulder!"

So she was angry too. So what? Better angry than dead. The fact 
he'd been put through telepathic hell in response to a photocopy of 
God knows what wasn't good enough. Fine. Time to fight dirty. 
"Remember those experiments in Maryland - cable TV with a little 
added bonus action?" He remembered all right. He remembered staring 
down the barrel of Scully's gun while she hallucinated him into 
meetings with cancer man.

"But that was different."

"Why, because you could split it into the color components and 
display it on an oscilloscope? We have no more idea about the 
mechanism there, than we do about why these drawings led people to 
commit suicide."

"Then how do you know that the pictures made them do it?"

"Right. Cause and effect, or just a symptom? You're right: I 
couldn't prove it in court and I can't prove it now. But I'm not 
going to let you risk your life just so you can play guinea pig."

"I need to see those pictures."

"You've seen them."

"You can't stop me from doing my job."

Great. Just great. If that was how she wanted to play it. "I can 
stop it from being your job."

"You'd get me taken off the case?"

"In an instant."

There was a moment of stunned silence before she cracked. Quiet 
fury, more frightening than any explosion because it was a tone she 
reserved for him alone. "How dare you use our personal relationship 
against me."

"This has nothing to do with our relationship." Her look of 
disbelief just made him more determined. "Remember Frank Burst - 
remember Modell killing him because I couldn't get Frank to put the 
damned phone down? You know how often I got to listen to that call 
in my dreams? You think that was personal, too?"

"I think you had a hard time on the Props case."

"Not as hard a time as the people who died."


=========
END of Part 2

=========
   
1988

The latest victim had been born just a few days before Mulder. 
According to colleagues he'd been riding high. Praise, promotion, 
pay raises and plenty of them. Seven years with the NYPD and a man 
tipped to go far.  

Until the day he put his carefully maintained Glock 9mm in his 
mouth and pulled the trigger.

Mulder had expected resistance from the locals. Federal 
interference would normally be seen as an insult. For once though, 
a stronger force was at play. The instinctive desire to close ranks 
and lock out the intruders faded as soon as Mulder started to 
speak.

Friends and fellow cops alike were pleased to hear that the Bureau 
considered Detective Paul Jennings a victim, not just another 
tragic suicide. Absolved from failure to spot the danger signs, 
they were free to talk.

"He had an attitude, you know?" they said, in various ways and with 
differing degrees of comfort. "Not cruel, not arrogant, just sure 
of himself. Rightly, most of the time."

Would Mulder's colleagues say the same of him?

"Escalation?" asked Hennessey as soon as the agents were alone in 
the borrowed office.

A valid point. Was choosing a cop as a victim a mark of the 
killer's rising sophistication or a mark of his lack of control? 
Maybe it was just boring old coincidence? Perhaps the killer didn't 
even care?

Mulder waved a hand to signal that he didn't know. "I think we need 
to know more about Jennings."

"You mean apart from him being a workaholic caffeine addict with a 
chip on his shoulder and no life?"

Mulder reloaded the coffee maker and rested his feet on the desk. 
It was going to be a long night. "That's why he's so good for us. I 
bet we can build a diary for the past month just based on his 
timesheets and expense claims."

The paperwork pile grew as admin staff sought out the relevant 
files and a steady procession of officers made their way into the 
office to talk.

Six hours later, they relocated operations to a motel. Mulder 
turned his collar up to keep the icy bite away as they covered the 
short distance from the car. No leaves on the trees and the first 
glimmers of silver frosting the branches. 

The rooms themselves were only a little warmer and both men kept 
their coats and gloves on as they waited for the inadequate heaters 
to make an impact. Being realists, they ordered a couple of pizzas 
and Hennessey used the delay to check out his own room and grab a 
shower.

By the time he rejoined Mulder, the room was definitely getting 
warmer and the dead detective's day planner was already starting to 
look pretty detailed. 

"Seventy hour weeks," noted Mulder.

"Lazy bastard," agreed Hennessey.

By midnight there weren't many gaps left. Mulder was tapping his 
finger restlessly against the table. "There's hardly room for him 
to breathe in there. I don't see where he'd even meet the guy, 
unless it was while he was working. We're going to need more 
details on the cases he was handling." He started to dig through 
one of the piles of paper.

Hennessey groaned and Mulder offered to make another pot of coffee.

"Don't you have a bed to go to, kid?"

"You ever heard that story about the pot and the kettle?"

"Did the pot slip the kettle some sleeping pills and tie him to the 
mattress?"

"Only in the X-rated version."

"I'm going." Hennessey rose, stretched, yawned, grabbed his coat 
off the back of the chair. "Have fun." He paused in the motel room 
doorway. "Did you eat anything tonight?"

"Good night, mom."

It was a relief when Hennessey left. So much so that Mulder almost 
went running after him to get him back in here. Relieved was not 
how he needed to feel. He frowned at the discarded pizza in the 
trash and ignored the rumble in his stomach.

Cult 101. Private time is dangerous, gives new recruits too much 
space to think. 

Maybe he could call Diana; she'd stop him thinking. The smirk was 
automatic: his brain summarizing an entire imaginary conversation 
and its undignified yet satisfying conclusion in an instant. 
Missing her already. 

Disgusted with himself and more than a little resentful, he picked 
up the phone and dialed his boss's home number. What he needed 
right now was a carefully delivered blow to his self-esteem and a 
midnight assault from Bill Patterson should cover the bases nicely.

---------

2000

Scully was driving and Mulder had to concentrate to stop his foot 
from stamping on the imaginary brake on the floor ahead of him. He 
shouldn't have let her drive when she was so angry.

He smiled, despite the danger that she might catch him at it. He 
probably only gave her the chance to drive when she got angry. When 
he'd do anything to get one less mark against him on her scorecard. 

She'd walked out after he'd abruptly terminated her slideshow. When 
he called her cell phone a couple of hours later, he was relieved 
that she'd replied, fantasized that he might have been forgiven. No 
such luck. Not that he needed forgiveness - he was right and she 
knew it, but there was no way that either of them was going to 
mention it.

Baltimore PD had called this one in, responding to the general 
alert that the Bureau had sent out the week before. Suicide plus 
pictograms? Secure the scene and walk away. The man had died during 
the night. His mother called 911 at 10 a.m. to report that she 
couldn't rouse him, and that she knew he was willing to be roused 
because today was the day when he was going to pick her up at the 
home and take her to visit his father's grave.

The black and white patrol car the dispatcher sent round found a 
neighbor with a key.

The suicide note was illustrated with a boldly geometrical pattern 
that could have been a highly stylized bird or perhaps a bat - 
difficult to tell from a fax. Either way, the image that got sent 
through to Fox Mulder's office was part of the same family as those 
in Scully's slideshow.

"You never found the master image that you say these things derive 
from?"

Mulder tried not to react to her tone, but he was no better at 
being treated like an amateur, than she was at being told that 
sometimes his job was to protect her. He tried to keep the reaction 
out of his voice. "Just lots of instances - no master image. At 
least nothing explicit."

"Yet you're saying that he was using some kind of self-destructing 
Magic Eye puzzle to send subliminal messages to his victims. That 
the meetings and phone calls with the victims were redundant?"

"The meetings and phone calls got us the conviction." Mulder 
paused, reconsidering. "No, actually they just got us to trial. 
What got us the conviction was Props. He freaked everybody in the 
courtroom out. He couldn't turn off the show even for long enough 
to let his attorneys dig holes in our case."

"Two counts of murder?"

"We couldn't nail him on the straight suicides. But we had a couple 
of murder suicides where we could demonstrate the personal 
connection to Props, and we managed to get the jury to buy the idea 
that he'd catalyzed the killings. Ordered them, even."

"Like Charles Manson."

"Same principle. And like Manson he couldn't resist showing off in 
court."

"And that's why you don't think it's Props doing the killings now?"

He shrugged. It just didn't feel like Props. Maybe getting to the 
latest victim while the scene was still fresh would give them what 
they needed to be sure.

The suburb was bland. Mulder corrected the analysis back to normal, 
conventional, comfortable.

Anonymous.

A flash of a badge and they were past the rookie cop standing guard 
at the door. The detective who'd called Mulder was waiting for them 
inside, acknowledged them with a, "Bureau?"

Scully handled the formal introductions, leaving Mulder a couple of 
minutes to acclimatize to the scene. He was grateful for that, 
liked his first impressions to be his alone. No filters, and no 
well-intentioned blinkers being offered just to save him from 
wasting his time.

Birthday cards on the bookshelf. A dangerous time of year. A shiver 
of a reaction at that - thought of Christmas and Thanksgiving - 
reflective times. "He lived alone?" he asked.

"Wife left him last year. Fortieth birthday was on Monday."

Mulder nodded, heading off to explore the rest of the house.

"Bedroom, top of the stairs, first right," shouted the detective.

Mulder looked into the room, saw the body. The man had gone to 
sleep.

He scanned the scene again. Saw nothing more.

No great tussle over life and death. Not even an empty bottle of 
pills left messily on the bedside table to mark the event. He just 
went to sleep.

Pajama bottoms, a tee shirt and a plastic bag.

Mulder sniffed the air. Warm - he'd chosen comfort over economy. 
Better shift the body soon. 

Neat and tidy. 

Too neat and tidy for a man living alone? Mulder shrugged. 
Stereotypes weren't always wrong; he'd have to ask the ex-wife.

Bathroom cabinet then. Prozac, Advil, low dose aspirin - a heart 
condition maybe. Not the best combination he'd ever seen - Scully 
was bound to have something to say about that - but normal. Mundane 
really. Could be any forty something feeling a little under par, 
hoping for a little magic. Anonymous - like the house.

Towels stacked so sweetly. Blue then white, blue then white, blue 
then white - smallest ones on top.

He returned to the bedroom, opening the closet, saw nothing of 
interest.

When he turned, Scully and the detective were standing in the 
doorway. She looked at him as if asking for permission. He nodded, 
inviting them in.

Mulder looked at the detective. "Do you have the note?"

The man handed him a plastic bag with a single sheet of paper 
inside. "My choice. Be happy."

Mulder shook his head. Uncomfortable recognition, not disbelief.

"We've got to talk to his mother, his ex, friends, co-workers. 
Anyone who might have visited the house. Laundry service. Maid. 
Anything like that."

The detective stared at him. "You're saying that this isn't a 
suicide?"

"He didn't act alone."

The body was unlikely to tell them much, except that the man had 
researched death. Fatal overdose achieved quickly and with minimal 
pain. No chance of intervention. No risk of waking up to discover 
that death would still come, albeit more slowly and painfully than 
he'd planned. A glance in the trash filled in the blanks. Neat and 
tidy. Without the note, without the empty drug bottles, without the 
plastic bag, without the photo of wife and son hugged to his chest 
it would be easy to read the scene as natural.

The detective was staring at him and Mulder could only guess that 
he'd asked him a question. Mulder shifted his attention to Scully 
as she moved swiftly and efficiently through all those checks on 
the body that might be termed just-in-case. If the question was 
important, the man would repeat it.

"He seems like a good candidate for it - medication, birthday, 
divorce. How do you know it wasn't a choice?"

"It was a choice. But not his. He was taking action." Scully and 
the detective were both staring at him now. "The Prozac."

"Which means he was depressed."

"Sure - him and tens of millions of other people. But they didn't 
kill themselves last night. It fits the pattern." He paused, looked 
at the bat bird thing on the note again. "We need to know where he 
got that stuff," he waved vaguely towards the empty bottles, "and 
how he chose that combination."

Had he said the temperature was comfortable? He was boiling up in 
here. Time to go and get some air.

-----------

Spooky.

She loathed the term. Yet it was a match. Draped over his body as 
easily as a shroud, fitting him better than the expensive wool of 
those designer suits he wore. Drenching him more thoroughly than 
the falling rain.

Scully opened the umbrella and walked towards the car.

Leaning against the hood, he watched her approach in silence.

She tried to include him in the shade of the umbrella but he just 
shrugged away, standing a little taller and making his intentions 
clear. 

"Get in the car," she said.

"You've got the keys."

Oh, she'd driven here, hadn't she? She put her hand in her pocket 
and pressed the button to unlock the doors. She wasn't surprised 
when he didn't move. She brushed past him to open the driver's 
door, offering him the keys in the vague hope that it might rouse 
him into action. 

Ignoring the suggestion he walked round to the passenger side, but 
still made no move to get in. Determined to end the farce, she 
reached over and opened his door, strapped herself into her seat 
and started the engine.

"Mulder," she said, more insistent now.

Silent, he loaded himself into the car. Painful. Mechanical. As if 
every inch of movement was a conscious effort.

She felt like screaming, enough with the fucking melodrama, Mulder, 
just tell me what the hell's happening. This case was poison and 
she was damned if she was going to let it poison them. How had that 
stupid little scribble killed anyone? Yet Mulder had looked at it 
as if it was carrying plague.

Perhaps it was. A plague on both their houses! 

Now who was being melodramatic?

She'd planned to drive back to Quantico. The body wouldn't be there 
for another couple of hours but that wasn't a problem. There were 
plenty of other things to do to fill in the time, like chat to a 
couple of the guys in Behavioral maybe. Wasn't one of them supposed 
to be an authority on cults, pagan and religious imagery, things 
like that? Mulder might not rate him, but maybe he had contacts who 
knew more? 

Chuck was away, grubbing around in some tombs in Turkey apparently, 
and Mulder had shown no interest in drawing in anyone else. He'd 
even had the nerve to look offended when she'd suggested calling in 
a real expert to explain those symbols. 

Oh God. A tingle of laughter that was closer to hysteria started to 
build, somewhere low in her chest, threatening to escape and that 
would never do. Maybe he'd like to call in a "real" expert to 
autopsy the next dead body they found? 

This was not good. 

The Fowley factor at work? Crazy messed up hormones? She retraced 
her steps. Partners and friends, and oh so close to being something 
else. Circling each other, looking for a way to move forward 
without losing what they had.

Then she'd read those notes in the file citing Fowley's work and 
offering suggestions on the interpretation of the symbols. Words 
that had come from Fowley's lips.

A slideshow. It took a lot to make Mulder scared, but he was scared 
of those pictures. So what had she done? Blasted them onto the 
wall, six feet high and all in perfect technicolor. Run through 
them not once but twice, and going for a third.

Why? As punishment? As a way to prove herself tougher, stronger, 
more professional? And what had she actually done? Freaked him out 
enough to make him pull the plug, first on the slides and now on 
her.

But the sorry wouldn't come without the but and she knew that any 
buts would just infuriate him more. 

A clean slate then. They'd been through worse. No please or thank-
you or sorry required. Just an unspoken agreement to discard the 
past and start again. She could do that. 

"Does it look like the work of Monty Props?"

He looked at her, his hair still dripping, blotchy cheeks where the 
cold and wet had met the heat of the car. "Like. But not the same."

Like those patterns then.

---------

1988

Detective Paul Jennings was honest, ambitious and one of the good 
guys. Boundless energy and a demeanor that could piss off 
colleagues by its political savvy and its blatant disregard for the 
same. They shook their heads as they described the way he seemed to 
be able to weasel his way under defenses and get results. 

A scent of envy in the air as people talked about him, an emotion 
that oscillated between hate and admiration, but that had now 
become pity. No one actually gloated about his death, though some 
wondered if they'd seen it coming. Don't rockets always burn out?

Hennessey's hand on Mulder's shoulder shook him back to reality. 
The police captain across the desk was looking at him with a mix of 
amusement and disgust. Not much time for the FBI and even less for 
prodigy profilers. 

The captain spoke very slowly as if addressing a rather dull child. 
"I - asked - you - why - the - fuck - you - think - this - is - a - 
murder."

"Why not? Didn't you want to kill him?"

Hennessey snorted, but swiftly brought himself back under control, 
turning to glare at Mulder as he did. 

The police boss looked like he was going to explode. "Get out." 

Five minutes later they were standing on the station house steps. 
"Patterson's going to have you gutted," announced Hennessey.

Mulder shrugged. "I don't see what you've got to be pleased about. 
You're supposed to be my babysitter."

"Forget Patterson - I'll kill you myself."

It wasn't going to be a problem. They had enough data. More than 
enough actually. Too damned much if truth be told. Jennings was an 
open book, or could be, if Mulder allowed him to be. 

Did he really want to empathize with a suicidal cop? Like he had an 
option in the matter. "We need to visit his parents."

"Can't you even pretend to feel bad about fucking up?" 

Mulder stared for a moment as if considering Hennessey's question, 
finally coming up with a, "Hmmm, no."

"Asshole."

--------

Paul Jennings' parents looked at Mulder as if they'd seen a ghost. 
Hennessey had raised eyebrows at his choice of a leather jacket, 
rather too like the one their detective son had been wearing the 
night he died, but despite shaking his head to register his 
complaint Hennessey had said nothing. Mulder had been grateful for 
that, the truth was bad enough without him drawing attention to it.

Mulder was gentle in his questioning, provoking watery smiles as 
well as tears as they spoke proudly about their son - his life, his 
loves, his job. Life, love, job - inexorably linked. Too inexorably 
for his fiancee, who'd walked out six months before. "She just 
couldn't share him with the job, you know?" asked Mrs. Jennings. 
She'd been a cop's wife for thirty years and knew all about 
sharing.

Mulder nodded. "It's a tough life."

Paul's father intervened, needing to explain that Paul was tough 
enough, even though the evidence was running against. "He was 
tough. I didn't make him join the department. I thought, when he 
went to college, that he'd decided he wanted something else." He 
smiled then, despite the red eyes. "Join the Bureau maybe!" And his 
mouth quivered, shaky breaths and more almost tears sniffed away.

Mulder pretended he hadn't noticed, played it light. "I wouldn't 
wish the Bureau on anyone. Can you tell me about his friends? How 
he spent his free time?"

Paul's mom was too shaky, memories too near the surface, so his dad 
replied. "Sports mostly, I guess. Basketball, baseball - nothing 
organized. Just when he could."

"Do you know where, who he played with?"

"You think one of them?" The disbelief was obvious.

"No. This was someone new in your son's life. But they may have 
seen something."

Mrs. Jennings swallowed down her tears, just far enough to ask, 
"You don't think he killed himself?"

Dancing with words? Yes, Mrs. Jennings, your son shot himself and 
made a proper job of it. Made dead certain. No, I don't think he 
chose to die. Someone chose him. "I think his death may be linked 
to others that we're investigating."

Another hour and they were back on the road again. Hennessey 
shaking his head. "Just when I think I've understood how big an 
asshole you are, you go and do a thing like that."

This time, Mulder was driving. He kept his eyes locked on the road 
ahead. "Meaning?"

"The leather jacket. I should have stopped you there and then. Then 
you mess with your hair. Ten minutes in and you put on those damned 
glasses. And then, just when I think you can't get any more screwed 
up, you start fucking around with your accent."

"I spent a lot of time in New York."

"Shove it."

"If the jacket had made them uncomfortable, I'd have taken it off."

"They're not suspects who you're trying to throw off balance, 
they're the grieving parents. Victims."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"Shit." Hennessey rubbed his head, as if trying to erase the 
memory. "So now what? You go and fuck with his basketball buddies 
instead?"

Mulder shrugged. Maybe a pickup game or two.

----------

2000

Skinner looked up from the report on his desk. Split decisions from 
the X-Files agents were no surprise, but usually they agreed on one 
thing - what to do next. Scully had proposed a strategy: move Props 
to a new location and control his access to the outside world. 
Mulder hadn't actually rejected the idea but didn't seem to 
consider it particularly relevant.

The AD kept his question open. "You think Props could be doing it 
again? From his prison cell."

Scully replied. "Given the MO in the original case it's possible, 
even from inside jail. Ten years of good conduct - they must find 
the restrictions on his use of the telephone and on mail difficult 
to understand and he does have some computer access. I suspect 
another prisoner may be acting as a go-between, but it could even 
be a guard."

"Agent Mulder?"

"It's possible. But highly unlikely. Props isn't the man he was. 
There was an energy about him - something - that isn't there 
anymore."

"Or that he's learned to hide?" said Skinner.

"I doubt it. He was too proud to hide."

"It's been a long time since you last saw him."

"Not long enough."

Something they could all agree on. A shudder of discomfort in his 
gut and Skinner's misgivings grew. Had Mulder told Scully the whole 
story? They seemed to share so much, but history still appeared to 
have this habit of biting them both on the ass. He'd been brooding 
over it the night before, looking through the files, revisiting 
memories from a decade ago and finding that some of them were still 
painfully raw.

Despite his uncertainty, Skinner decided to keep Scully behind 
after the meeting. On another day Mulder's reaction to that might 
have made him smile - dismayed, through possessive, to curious, and 
then back to professionally indifferent. All achieved in a matter 
of seconds.

Scully, on the other hand, had moved directly to high alert and was 
watching him closely. So closely that, once Mulder left the room, 
Skinner felt obliged to mop a finger over his eyebrow and take a 
sip of water before he started talking. "How much has Mulder told 
you about the Monty Props case?"

"I've seen the files. I know his thoughts on Props." She paused, 
her eyes taking on a colder, more penetrating hue. "But that's not 
what you're asking me, is it?"

"Not really. No." Where to begin? This was Mulder's story to tell, 
but would he tell it? Probably not. OK. Just enough so that she 
could decide what more she needed to hear. "Mulder and Patterson - 
it wasn't just an intellectual clash. Patterson liked to push 
Mulder's buttons. This case pushed Mulder's buttons."

"It was Mulder's profile that got Props."

"And got Mulder committed."

A sharp movement of her head and Skinner knew for certain that this 
was news to her. "On what basis?" she finally asked.

"Suicidal." 

"It's not in his file."

"I just think you should be aware of it."

"Are you saying that he's in danger?"

There was a challenge in her eyes as she spoke and Skinner flinched 
at the sudden recall. John Lee Roche - he'd asked her to play 
watchdog then. The Pincus case - his instructions had placed Mulder 
in restraints - she'd had to go in with her gun blazing to rescue 
him. Mulder confined to another bed, hearing voices, brain on 
overload - she'd traveled across the world looking for the magic 
recipe. When it came right down to it, Scully never could actually 
believe the worst.

He stuck to the point. "I'm saying you should know." This was 
tough. Hard-ass boss he could do - order Mulder off for his own 
good, tell Scully that she was his enforcer and he expected her to 
deliver compliance. Life would be easier. But he knew that Mulder 
couldn't comply and that Scully wouldn't enforce. "Scully. Whatever 
you need, I'll help."

A single tense nod and she was ready to leave.



======= 
END of Part 3   

=========
   

If the knowledge was a Tug-of-War then she was the rope. 

The same fears and hesitations that had kept them apart for years 
were rising inside her again. Mulder and Fowley. Mulder and Props. 
Mulder and suicide.

A partner. A friend. A lover? The dilemma clear. Easy to be one, 
hard to be all three.

Now Skinner had ordered her into another role. Guard? Doctor? Spy? 
Whatever she chose to call it, it came out the same. Mulder was 
apparently at psychological risk and Scully was supposed to be his 
protector. 

She'd called him when she got home. A pre-emptive strike. Fobbed 
him off with words like laundry and bath and tired. He'd teased, 
asked if she needed help with all those bubbles. 

Guard, doctor, spy? How many fantasies did those characters appear 
in? Yet she couldn't imagine a bigger turn-off. She struggled to 
keep it light, wriggled out of the conversation by claiming that 
someone had just arrived at her door.

She needed time to think.

Suicidal? Why wasn't she surprised? 

Because she'd seen him there. Cutting things too fine. Taking too 
many risks. Getting holes drilled in his head. Close to breaking 
point when her cancer had looked too hard to beat. 

Tomorrow? Tomorrow his partner would see him in the office and, if 
necessary, Dr. Scully would be waiting in the wings.

Scully's frustration with her partner was matched only by her 
frustration with herself. She couldn't be jealous of a dead woman. 
She couldn't be angry with Mulder for something that had happened 
before they'd even met.

Except.

Except Mulder hadn't told her about Fowley - the then of her and 
the now of her - and he hadn't told her about being placed on 
suicide watch the first time he chased Props. Past or not, these 
were the things that had made and shaped him and she was entitled 
to know. Wasn't she?

Perhaps not the gory details of his - her thoughts skipped over all 
the various possibilities before settling on the word - 
relationship. 

No. Damn it, she wanted the details too. How long had it taken her 
to become his lover? How long did they stay together? Was she good 
to him? Was he good to her? Did he look at her as if she was the 
center of the universe? Did she worry about it ending in anguished 
words and painful looks before it had even begun?

Why did she leave?

And why had Mulder trusted her when she came back?

She'd called him Fox. Stupid little trivial meaningless detail. 
Fluttering around her head just outside swatting distance, just 
inside her line of sight. Whispering in her ear when she least 
expected it. She swiped away an angry tear from the corner of her 
eye.

Enough.

That was all lover crap. Tomorrow she would be his partner.

---------

Next Morning - X-Files Office

When Scully arrived at work, Mulder was already in a meeting with 
Skinner. By the time he returned, Scully had her speech all lined 
up.

He preempted her words with a single look. "You need to see this," 
he said, pushing a manila file into her hand and practically 
bolting from the office as soon as she took it.

Her body, not so convinced by the word partner as her brain had 
been, tried to follow him. She didn't allow it, just pressed her 
hands against the edge of the desk and forced herself to sit 
quietly in the chair. He'd given her this. It was her duty to 
accept the challenge.

The folder was thin, a note on its cover announced it as a sealed 
file for authorized eyes only and threatened dire consequences to 
anyone who might copy its contents or divulge them in any way. 

Hospital records, names, dates, times and locations. A few brief 
notes on follow-up interviews conducted by a psychiatrist working 
for the Bureau.

On the admission paper - Bill Patterson's name, the words "Actively 
suicidal", and the serial number of Mulder's freshly confiscated 
gun.

On the discharge paper - a reference to Dr. Diana Fowley, who'd 
spoken for him at the competency hearing.

----------

To describe Mulder as furious was to miss the point. He was way 
past furious and coming out the other side into ice-cold 
indifferent.

He'd been angry when he'd seen Skinner of course, though at least 
the AD had done him the courtesy of openly admitting what he'd said 
to Scully the day before. Scully, on the other hand, hadn't told 
him what was bugging her when they'd spoken later that night. Would 
she have ever decided to talk to him about it or was it just going 
to be something else to add to the scorecard?

Would he have ever told her about it of his own free will? Not if 
he could have helped it. Yet why not? She knew him better than 
anyone ever had. Wasn't she entitled to know this? 

He considered it. Opted for a no. However, it was a moot point now. 
She knew the raw facts. If she thought it was relevant to the case, 
then she could ask him for more details. 

And if she thought it was relevant to them, then she was just plain 
wrong.

A few laps of the track and his mood was starting to soften. She'd 
have read the file by now. They would talk about it like two 
adults. A nagging little voice whispered the name Diana Fowley in 
his ear and he told it to shut the fuck up.

Another nagging voice appeared at his side, this one more difficult 
to ignore. Assistant Director Walter Skinner. Mulder turned his 
head to acknowledge the intruder. "Fancy meeting you here, sir."

"I like to take a lunchtime run when I can."

Mulder glanced down at his watch. He'd been out here for nearly two 
hours. He'd pay for this tomorrow. They jogged on together, Mulder 
resisting the urge to sprint away. He was OK now, besides which his 
body probably didn't have a sprint left in it, which would have 
just pissed him off even more. "You needn't have come," Mulder 
finally said.

"I came to apologize."

"She needed to know."

"Which was why I told her."

They ran on in silence. Just a couple of laps. Just enough that 
they could wind down together and walk away. 

Fifteen minutes later, showered and back into suits and ties they 
were sitting in the cafeteria undoing whatever benefit they might 
have received from the exercise. Or at least Mulder was. "Salad 
instead of fries?" Mulder shook his head, looking at his boss's 
plate as if it was sacrilege to put any kind of vegetation so close 
to a burger.

"You've got salad."

"And fries," Mulder insisted. He waved at the tomatoes. "Just 
window-dressing. Force of habit," he said, thinking of Scully's 
clucks of disapproval at his eating patterns. He glanced around the 
room again and the other agents who'd been watching the Spooky and 
Skinner Show quickly ducked their heads and looked away. "Jesus," 
he mumbled. And this was without the contents of that file being 
made public. 

Skinner offered him another opening. "I don't know the whole story 
myself." 

But Mulder only nodded.

---------

1988

Hennessey was marginally cooler now. Perhaps soothed by the brief 
pit-stop for coffee during which Mulder had taken the opportunity 
to comb his hair into its standard parting and then ruffle it up 
into its usual state of slight disarray. He'd changed his tie as 
well, though that would have had its downside as well as its upside 
with Hennessey.

"It's OK, Mulder. You don't have to try so hard. I wasn't planning 
on telling Patterson."

Mulder shrugged, his fingers tapping restlessly on the steering 
wheel, not bothering to defend himself and opting not to offer 
conciliatory lies about understanding now that the senior agent was 
right after all.

"Besides," said Hennessey, "He'd probably give you a medal for it. 
So - next stop - the gym?"

"Yeah." It was almost redundant really; he knew exactly what Paul 
Jennings' friends were going to say. But knowledge and evidence 
were different things and Hennessey deserved to hear it for 
himself.

"What do you think they'll say?"

Mulder smiled. And they called him Spooky. "I don't think they've 
seen him down there for at least three weeks."

"And this would indicate?"

Depression? Apathy? Avoidance? That he'd joined his own cult and 
was adopting all the methods required to brainwash himself? "It'll 
tell us how long ago this thing started."

If the other man was pissed by the non-answer then he didn't show 
it. Hennessey slumped back into silence, doggedly thumbing through 
the sketches, photos and notes, looking for the hundredth time at 
the peculiar graphics and their odd geometry. 

The origin of the images remained a mystery. They'd bounced them 
off a dozen scholars, sent a team of rookie agents to work in 
libraries scouring through books covering everything from Persian 
rugs, through soup labels, to totem poles and Inca masonry. 

The thought amused Mulder a little. Some of the "rookies" had been 
with Bureau longer than he had. 

Even so, he could summarize their results in four words: close but 
no cigar. 

They were like lots of things. But they weren't anything. 

Mulder didn't like looking at them. Something off about them. Like 
sniffing the fish that would have been great to eat yesterday and 
is certainly going in the trash tomorrow. And like the fish, he'd 
pushed the images back into cold storage, despite the fact that 
rationally he knew that the action couldn't possibly improve the 
situation.

Diana had suggested they might be used to help tune a mind for 
meditation, which at first seemed wrong to Mulder - shifting the 
psyche to look outside itself rather than to seek the inner depth. 
But no, Diana had insisted that everything from the Buddha in the 
temple to the singsong rosaries of the Catholic Church had the same 
job to do. Sweeping out the everyday in favor of a different place.

He'd started to think of them as the swinging watch in the 
hypnotist's hand, but even that hadn't told him anything about the 
hypnotist.

Maybe the images were maps? Signposts on a path to inner peace or, 
in this instance, needless death.

He tried that one again. Needless was a value judgment and had no 
place in the analysis he was trying to do here. Everything met a 
need, and everything had a reason. It might not make sense to 
anyone except the perpetrators, but it made sense to them.

Patterson was going to love that. He'd started to describe the 
victims as the perpetrators. Well, they were. They weren't empty 
vessels being acted on. He'd have to get back to that later.

OK. The images then. He didn't get them at all. He glanced down at 
the photo in Hennessey's hand and saw the victim's tattoo, but felt 
no particular recognition beyond the fact of it. They just weren't 
hacking it for him. But then neither did temple Buddhas nor 
Catholic rosaries. Maybe he just didn't have the right spiritual 
wiring in his head to understand it?

He turned towards Hennessey. One eye on the traffic, one eye on the 
man. "Do you believe in God?"

"Of course."

Of course. 

Mulder shifted his attention back to the road.

--------

Diana handed him an iced tea and a banana as soon as he walked 
through her front door.

The effect, he noted, was quite surreal, and he couldn't help but 
wonder if she was going to pull out a magic wand and turn his tie 
into a bunch of flowers. A ta-da would make a lot of sense right 
now.

"I heard your car pull up," she said.

Which explained everything. "Hmmm." He smiled.

She laughed. "Every time you get here, you're thirsty as hell and 
ravenously hungry and I end up feeding you the good wine and the 
cheese sandwiches."

"And?"

"And tonight I'm in the mood for Italian and they do deliver, but 
it takes them at least an hour."

He sighed, mock horrified. "You mean you're not going to go in the 
kitchen and rustle something amazing up?"

"I did. You're holding it."

There was something comforting about being with her like this. 
Something that the vaguely mid-European sounding psychology sound 
track, that supplied a running commentary on his thoughts, 
identified as belonging. 

Normal, he corrected, slightly ashamed of the insight. He loved 
that she made him feel normal and that might not be love but it was 
a fine approximation. He'd grown up on punk love. Fucked his way 
through No More Heroes more than once, which was probably why he'd 
finished up at Oxford.  
 
Did he believe in anything? He'd been asking himself that all day.

"What would you die for?" he asked.

She'd only just finished phoning the order through to the great 
Italian place that would deliver "eventually" but she recovered 
from the shock of the question surprisingly well. "I don't know. I 
don't think anyone knows for sure until they're in that position."

"Could someone make you do it? Kill yourself."

"I guess under torture, perhaps. Something. I don't know."

"And under hypnosis?"

Back on safe ground, her voice became more clinical in its 
certainty. "Hypnosis doesn't really work that way. Suggestible 
isn't the same as empty. But you know all this." 

He did and that's why he was having such a hard time with this 
case. How the hell did this guy make them do it? Mulder had read up 
on Jonestown, played games of compare and contrast with martyred 
saints, the cliffs at Masada, soldiers who'd died heroes' deaths on 
suicide missions. Examples he had in abundance, but nothing that 
seemed to apply.

When he looked up again, Diana was staring at him. She smiled. "I 
asked you why you joined the FBI."

"Not to die."

"Yet the risk is there."

"The risk's there when you cross the road."

"But this risk is one you choose to take, for other people. Why do 
you do it?"

Read too many Sherlock Holmes stories as a kid? Blind faith that it 
could never happen to him? To make him feel better about himself? 
He shrugged. "Because I can?" 

But that still didn't explain what the victims were getting out of 
it. 

----------
2000

Hit and run.

He'd handed her the files and bolted, and she hadn't even had time 
to get angry. Fortunately he'd stayed away for so long that her 
anger was already starting to subside when he walked through the 
door.

Even so, Scully didn't wait for Mulder to sit down. "Why did you 
run?"

He looked at her, momentarily confused. "It clears my head."

The reply was as incongruous and out of place as the sight of his 
crisp designer suit versus the hastily knotted tie, the red cheeks 
and the windblown hair. She did the math. "You went running?"

"With Skinner," he said carefully, as if this was an interrogation 
and he was anxious to get his alibi in place.

"Let's start this conversation over."

"Do we have to?"

Her lips curved upwards, not quite able to maintain the image of 
angry restraint that she'd deemed appropriate. "Are you OK?"

"Apart from the blisters? Which have got nothing to do with 
Skinner, by the way."

"I read the file," she said. He nodded, so she carried on talking. 
"How did you manage to keep it off your record?"

"You read that I got discharged."

"Even so."

"Even so - once is a freak mistake, second time's a pattern, third 
time's a room with no view?" He shrugged. "Friends," he said, and 
she could hear the ironic twist to the word. "More out of spite 
against Patterson than faith in me, I think." 

"And Diana Fowley?"

"Trusted me."

His one in five billion? She shivered at the thought, tried not to 
feel betrayed. 

She picked up the pieces of the puzzle again, opted to play 
partner. "How does it impact the case?"

"It means I'm still the best man for the job."

"Because you tried to kill yourself?"

"Because I didn't." He switched his attention to the other file on 
Scully's desk - the toxicology report on the latest victim. "Does 
it confirm what we found in the trash?"

Instead of being annoyed that he'd changed the subject, she felt 
momentarily grateful. She needed processing time too. "The suicide 
cocktail, as you described it? Yes, it's what we were expecting."

"Have they had any luck chasing down whoever helped him?"

"It seems he sometimes did a little moonlighting - night security."

Mulder guessed what was coming next. "At a pharmacy?"

"Mail order. Did his last shift ten days ago. Someone from VCS is 
looking at computers he had access to, to see if he was researching 
the drugs. Agent Felden is up there doing preliminary interviews 
with the man's friends and family. He's on the lookout for contacts 
with pharmacology or medical knowledge."

Mulder nodded. "We should go back there tomorrow. I want to search 
the house again, his desk at work, his mom's room in that 
residential home, anywhere he may have spent time in the past 
month. I need to talk with his ex-wife." 

His body language told her he was getting ready to make another 
exit. He was leaving at 3 having spent most of the day playing 
hooky on the FBI's favorite running track? "You're going?" she 
asked.

He nodded, already turning towards the door. He paused briefly. 
"You coming over tonight?" 

She didn't want to. Didn't see who she could be if she went over to 
his apartment like that. Said, "Yes," and let him go.



====== 
END of Part 4

=========

1988

It had been nearly a month since Detective Paul Jennings last 
showed up at the gym. Not that anyone had been too concerned. 

"It wasn't like he played for a team."

"He said he was busy."

"I saw him at the station house; he said he'd be back next week."

Looking back, there were danger signs, or so the skeptics said. 
And they were right but the signs were so faint that Mulder wasn't 
sure if they were real or just the product of orderly minds that 
liked to find information in random noise. In any case, they were 
all grateful that the FBI had arrived to grant them absolution and 
warn them of a serial killer who destroyed by stealth. 

Jennings was always in a hurry. Uncomfortable if you tried to slow 
him down. Unwilling to talk about anything but The Job. Always 
capital letters for The Job, Mulder noted.

Not difficult to relate to that.

---------

Bill Patterson was not prone to temper tantrums. Anger would have 
made his aim unsteady, his scalpel less accurate. 

"Another body," he said, a whisper, a scream in Mulder's ears.

Sitting up straight, eyes carefully focused on his boss, Mulder 
said nothing. Excusable to make a mistake in response to a direct 
question. Foolish to slip up if silence was a satisfactory reply.

"Nothing to say, Agent Mulder?"

"Nothing to add to my report."

"Do you like working here, Mulder?"

No?

A flutter of emotion crossed Bill's features. He turned briefly 
towards Hennessey, gesturing with a movement of his head that the 
other agent was to leave immediately. Patterson shifted his eyes 
back to Mulder.

Hennessey accepted Mulder's slight nod in his direction as 
approval and headed out of the room as unobtrusively as he could.

"I asked you a question," reminded Bill.

"Did you expect an answer?"

"This section represents the cream of forensic psychology. The men 
in it are the envy of the whole Bureau. There are agents who'd go 
down on their knees to get your job. Men with more experience. 
Better qualifications. The right attitude. Do you know why you're 
here?"

Some awful crime he'd committed in a previous life maybe? "Because 
of my solve rate?"

There was something oddly freeing about making Patterson react, 
finding the man's hot buttons and pushing them like this. It would 
be expensive of course, Mulder didn't doubt that. Bill would 
undoubtedly return the favor and do it with claws sharpened by 
years of experience and an intimate knowledge of Mulder's 
personnel file.

"Have you ever felt suicidal, Mulder?" A soft purr of a pause. 
"Ever danced with death?" Patterson's voice dropped even lower. 
"Ever think of seeing your sister again?" 

The silence rippled. Electric. Patterson rose, prowling now and 
the hairs on the back of Mulder's neck stood up as the man swooped 
in close. "Tell me about it," he said. "That's an order," he 
added.

The fact that Patterson felt obliged to make the order explicit 
felt like a triumph to Mulder. Enough of a victory to make him 
feel generous. Sure, he could answer the question. Why not? It 
wasn't optional after all. He could either answer now while he was 
on top of the game or he could wait until later, when Bill had 
kicked him to ground. Thought of suicide? "Of course I did."

"Did, Mulder?"

"Do, Bill."

"Then you know what you've got to do to keep up your solve rate."

Of course he did.

----------

A five-mile run hadn't even taken the edge off it. A prolonged 
soak in the shower hadn't made him feel clean. He ignored the 
flashing light on the answering machine and let it pick up another 
call from Diana. According to Patterson, Diana Fowley was part of 
the problem. From Mulder's perspective, she was part of the 
solution, and that was why he couldn't talk to her right now.

Before you look for an answer, you've got to know the question.

It was clear to Mulder that the question was: why die? Get that 
and he'd know why the victims had been chosen. From knowing why, 
it would be just one more step to knowing who was doing the 
killing.

The victim profile was a minefield of assumptions. The lone and 
the lonely, but only because other people said so. Retrospective 
diagnoses in most cases. Something missing in their lives? Them 
and how many million others? Generalities he had in abundance. 
Specifics were what he lacked.

Different races. Different sexes. Different ages.

Their jobs ranging from the not bad to the positively good. He 
referred back to the statistics for suicides, looked at job 
security, longevity, and absenteeism as predictors. They were 
outside the bell curve, on the plus side of the equation. 
Depression tended to destroy employment even before it destroyed 
the life - the factors trading off one another for sure. But 
still, these people didn't seem to be having those kinds of 
problems.

Another hint that whatever had taken them down had taken them 
fast.

"Meditation," he mumbled, closing his eyes. Why had he been 
avoiding it? The common factor was clear to anyone with half a 
mind, or at least to anyone willing to look. Inscribed on one of 
the victim's arms as a tattoo. Scribbled on notepads. Decorating 
diaries.

He sifted through the photos again, picked up a pencil and started 
to draw.

----------

2000

The apartment had been Mulder's choice. Scully could run away if 
she needed to. If he'd gone to her place and things went badly 
then he wouldn't have known how to walk out. Outstaying his 
welcome was a habit, but then so was hiding in a corner to lick 
his wounds. Well, tonight he wasn't going to do either; they'd 
play this however Scully chose.

She sniffed the air as she entered.

"Chili," he said. "Frohike's secret formula. Be very afraid."

She headed directly into the kitchen, removed lids from pans to 
examine the contents.

"You want some latex?" he asked, dipping his hand into his pocket 
as if he had the gloves already waiting.

"Later," she said, and he knew that she'd done it just to make him 
smile.

Eat first or talk first? And where to begin? With Monty Props? 
Diana Fowley? Fox Mulder? Ah, there's the rub.

"It's ready," she announced, as if her single sweep with a wooden 
spoon had transformed the situation.

Bemused, he took over ladle duty. "I'll serve." He suspected that 
a dish like this with all those onions, tomatoes and things was 
positively healthy, but she'd probably demand the label from the 
jar as evidence if he made any such claim.

Despite its relatively wholesome contents, it tasted OK. Better 
than OK actually, which surprised him a little. On a night like 
this, wasn't everything supposed to taste like cardboard and dust?

"That was good," she said, sounding just as surprised.

Her choice, he reminded himself. Wishing they could quit while 
they were ahead, knowing that they couldn't. If he told her 
everything, she wouldn't like what he had to say. If he didn't, 
he'd feel like a liar. Her choice then.

She was watching him. Cat to his mouse. The claws remained 
sheathed. Her words were not the ones he'd expected. "If it's not 
Monty Props who's orchestrating the deaths, then who are we 
looking for?"

He nodded, adjusting fast to being a profiler not a target. 
"That's the problem. Props was a con man. A real talent. Seductive 
and brilliant. He did it all. Started out passing stolen checks, 
moved on into bank fraud. Real estate cons. He graduated to become 
a fake preacher; faith healer; spiritual counselor. The reason we 
couldn't find a link between the victims was because he kept 
switching roles."

"Connected only by his bank accounts."

"Not even that. At least, not in any obvious way. He'd mastered 
identity theft early in his career. Knew how to steal a name and 
how not to be noticed."

"But money was the motivation?"

"For Props. At least initially. But it became a game. He was never 
greedy with the ones he killed. Nothing in a will. No heavy hits 
on a bank account. A few living expenses maybe. But he saved the 
real money making scams for live victims."

"Two kinds of prey."

"Two kinds of predator. The people he killed - he said he was 
freeing them. The others, the ones he robbed - he said they were 
greedy, undeserving, needed to be humbled."

"And our new UNSUB?"

"We need to keep open minds."

She nodded, eyebrows raised in mild amusement. "You mean we still 
don't have a profile."

"Am I that transparent?"

-----------

1988

Ever since Bill Patterson called her, Diana Fowley had been trying 
to get hold of Mulder. Six messages on his answering machine. No 
reaction from his pager. 

When the time came for her to leave to go to Quantico, she still 
had no clue as to why she'd been summoned there or how Mulder 
would want her to play the meeting. She wasn't even sure if he'd 
want her to go. 

But the appointed time was approaching fast and she was stuck with 
it, ready or not. She'd aimed for academic and business-like, but 
even her clothes were giving her away. She glanced down at her 
most demure suit and the smart sensible shoes and shook her head. 
What exactly was it that she'd prepared herself for - a job 
interview?

Presumably Patterson was going to warn her to stay away from 
Mulder. Arrogant bastard.

Patterson greeted her as soon as she entered the ISU offices. He 
checked her over quickly, and apparently deemed her acceptable. At 
least acceptable enough to get admission into the inner office. 
"Dr. Fowley. It's a pleasure."

The feeling wasn't quite mutual. Her defenses were up, and not 
solely because of Mulder's descriptions of his boss. This was 
Patterson's territory. His agenda. His eyes piercing her barriers. 
"It's good to meet you, Dr. Patterson. I've heard so much about 
you."

"Bill," he suggested.

"Diana," she replied.

"I'd like to hear your opinions on these murders that Fox is 
looking at."

Fox? That surprised her. Hadn't he told her that Fox was a 
millstone growing up and a joke at work - that they all called him 
Mulder. That Fox was a bedroom word for a cozy curled up sort of a 
night or a wakeup call sort of a morning? "I'm sure Mulder's 
already briefed you."

"I'd still like to hear your opinion." 

"Of course." She took a deep breath, hoping that she sounded like 
a credible witness not a mystic flake or the resident of an ivory 
tower. "I believe you're dealing with a highly skilled 
manipulator. I think he teaches people a mediation technique that 
reduces their ability to cope with life. I think they lose 
themselves in it. That life and death becomes his choice and not 
theirs."

"Why does he do it?"

"Because he can?"

"You sound envious."

What? 

Patterson was staring at her now, a lightly amused sneer dancing 
on his lips, excitement in his eyes. She should have anticipated 
this. He was the Behavioral guru after all. Skilled manipulator. 
Gets under your skin. Breaks down your defenses. She could almost 
hear Mulder's laughter in her ears; he would have warned her about 
this.

Diana straightened up a little. "Perhaps I am envious."

He leaned forward in his seat. "Of what?"

"I'm a researcher. An experimenter. I monitor. I try to stimulate 
particular responses."

"Whereas this man doesn't just try to stimulate a response - he 
gets it. He gets something so big you don't need EEGs and 
electrodes to measure it. Wouldn't you like to do the same?"

"Force people to kill themselves?"

"Of course not. That takes a particular kind of pathology. But 
let's say it was something else - another response you were able 
to provoke. What if you could stop people from killing?"

"There's no basis for thinking that anyone can do that."

"Yet our entire criminal justice system is predicated around the 
idea. Punishment and rehabilitation as twin arms of the law. 
Besides - up until this case - had you ever thought that it was 
possible to kill like this? Wouldn't it be better for everyone if 
we could stop rapists, wife-beaters and murderers from 
reoffending, and guarantee that society would be safe even 
after their release? Wouldn't you love to be able to do that?"

"There is such a thing as free will," she said. Defensive, angry 
to be under attack by hypothetical questions, particularly ones 
with such ethically treacherous answers.

"Free will for killers versus the lives of innocent? Not much of a 
bargain. You think that makes your morals superior to Mulder's?"

What? Of course not. "No. He's doing an important job."

"And if he succeeds, he'll lock up the perpetrator for the rest of 
his life. Or maybe we'll get a conviction in a state with the 
death penalty. Or perhaps we'll get really lucky and the dumb 
bastard will try to shoot it out with the arresting officers and 
we'll save the expense of a trial. You think that respects free 
will? You think Mulder respects free will for murderers and 
rapists?"

"I don't know what you're trying to prove here."

"That you're just squeamish about getting your hands dirty. That 
your ethics are just an excuse for inaction."

"Why did you really get me to come down here?"

"To tell you not to get in Mulder's way."

"I'm not."

"Good. I wouldn't want you to get hurt."

What the hell was that supposed to mean? Patterson didn't give her 
the chance to ask, immediately shifting the subject to her 
research work and its implications. 

Off-balance and uncomfortable, it was a relief to be back on 
familiar ground. She gratefully accepted the opportunity to talk 
from a position of intellectual strength.

An hour later Patterson suggested that if she was interested in 
applying for a job with the Bureau then he'd be happy to put in a 
good word for her.

----------

The scribbles were piling up thick and fast which bothered Mulder 
a lot. Why hadn't he found trash cans full of discarded drawings 
in the victims' homes? 

Yet, despite their best efforts, the investigators hadn't found 
more than a handful of iterations. Fresh every day? The old ones 
carefully discarded to make way for the new and improved?

He dug through the pile and found the tattooed victim's file. The 
sketch he'd handed to the tattooist, three weeks before his death. 
The tattoo itself - as close to a clone of the image as the tattoo 
artist could deliver given the vagaries of flesh and color 
matching. The image scribbled on the yellow post-it note that had 
been found after the man's death. Different.

Nothing dramatic. The form had remained the same. The big eyes of 
the creature that might have been a bird, or a bat, or a griffin, 
or a gargoyle, or whatever pattern the brain might choose to 
impose on an exercise in style and symmetry.

Certainly it was not a real animal. 

Images side by side, Mulder looked for the differences. Three fast 
lines defining the eyebrow ridge rather than two heavier ones. A 
star at the center of the left pupil rather than a swirl. A 
something, a freshness perhaps, a surety of touch that made the 
final image drawn somehow more potent than what had gone before. 
As if the creature had come to life - escaped from the flat plane 
of the page to find three-dimensional life.

Had that been the reason why the man had asked for the tattoo? An 
attempt to create a living image. Had he been disappointed that it 
was such a good copy of the original?

The basketball bounced against the wall again, monotonous rhythm, 
empty noise. What did it mean?

In a case full of patterns, where the hell was a pattern when you 
wanted one? He'd checked phone records, bank accounts, hobbies, 
magazine subscriptions, vacations and work histories. Gone back to 
childhood, drawn loose grids connecting parents, families and 
friends. Found coincidence and statistical probability guilty on 
all charges and seen nothing to tie the victims together.

Thought of that movie, Manhunter. Patterson's festive gift to his 
profilers last Christmas had been a trip to a private screening. 
Smirked at the idea of discovering that the missing link was the 
photographic shop that had handled all their home movies. 

He looked at the geography again. The timelines. Considered junior 
reporter Kate Hammond and Detective Paul Jennings. Added the 
graphics next to the victims on his charts to see if there was a 
pattern there. Were they getting more complex? Simpler? 

He liked Jennings' drawing best.

Maniacal grin at that idea. What did liking have to do with 
anything?

Did they like what they were drawing? Did they practice and 
practice discarding every false start along the way? In pursuit of 
perfection. Not the perfection of a draughtsman or an artist. 
Something else. Something about the intersection of lines, the 
size of the eyes, the texture of the wings?

He dug into the desk drawer, extracted a set of compasses and a 
protractor, set to work on measurements. Numerology? Had he 
checked birthdays and birthday cards? What about horoscopes? 

Ridiculous - to be overwhelmed like this and clutching at straws. 
What the hell was wrong with him?

He sipped at the glass of milk, disgusted to find that it had been 
sitting on his desk for so long that the milk left a ring on the 
glass and a sour taste in his mouth. 

When all else fails start writing.

The PC bounced to life; the c:\ was welcome and familiar, a 
comfort in the confusion of the strange drawings that lined the 
room. The word processor looked reassuringly confident. The FBI 
profile header information in the blank template document gave him 
something solid and tangible to play with. Boxes to fill in; 
datestamps, names, places, paragraph headings just inviting him to 
write. 

OK. That was more like it.

---------

2000

Nothing had been talked over. Nothing had been fixed. They'd done 
what that they'd always done as partners and put the past on hold 
in favor of cracking the case. 

They'd done what they did as friends. A friendship built on 
respect as Maggie Scully had once described it, and they respected 
each other's boundaries. They spent so much time together, more 
time than most married couples - privacy was a gift and a tradable 
commodity. This was going to cost him; Mulder knew it. 

It was costing them both.

So many traps all around them as they danced. Nothing carefree 
about having to stare at your feet every time you made a move. 
Minefields and no-go zones. Scully's monthly cycles, the hormones 
and trips to the clinic for extra injections that were imposing 
this strange new rhythm on their lives. Another thing they didn't 
talk about. 

If you don't talk about it, it's not real.

And people used to ask him why he'd never gone into practice as a 
psychologist.

Still, they would have to talk about Diana. It was the only way to 
break the spell. He just wished he could think of a way of doing 
it without hurting Scully more.

When Skinner called Mulder up to his office for a pre-meeting 
meeting the AD looked almost apologetic. "We've run out of time. 
The case is attracting press interest. The Bureau's under 
pressure."

Mulder shrugged. "You're forming a task force to handle it."

"You and Agent Scully can return to your normal duties."

"I want to stay on the case."

"There could be a lot of history dredged up."

"Whether I'm there or not."

"And Agent Scully?"

Mulder nodded, acknowledging Skinner's offer and grateful for it, 
even as he rejected it. "I'm not ashamed of what I did."

Skinner sat back, looking momentarily thrown by Mulder's words. 
"There's no reason why you should be." He hesitated, looking 
straight past Mulder for a moment before focusing again. "I'm sure 
the team will benefit from your experience."

Mulder watched his boss, puzzling over the show of nerves. "You're 
more embarrassed than I am."

"I won't mention your hospitalization to them. It's not really 
relevant."

"You mean my emergency committal for psychiatric evaluation? 
You're right. It isn't relevant."

"If you were in trouble, you'd tell someone, wouldn't you? Scully. 
Me. You'd get help."

Fucking hell shit. Skinner didn't trust him. He should have seen 
this coming. 

After Pincus, it had been Skinner who'd dialed 911 and had him 
strapped into a nice quiet hospital bed for the night. After that 
relic showed up, triggering some kind of mind-reading act and 
sending his brain into a tailspin, it had been Skinner who'd 
signed off on all the medical insurance forms that followed. 

Mulder's words came out in a rush, tinged red with anger, bright 
with disbelief. "You know what, sir, I wasn't in trouble then, and 
I'm in less trouble than anyone on this case now. Worry about 
them."


====== 
END of Part 5


=========
1988

Bill Patterson had his chair adjusted to its highest position and 
Mulder had to admit it was working. Sitting here, facing him across 
the desk, Mulder was feeling about as low as they come.

Hennessey looked harassed, uncomfortable, as if he'd sooner 
be anywhere rather than here in Bill Patterson's office. He wouldn't 
meet Mulder's eyes and that bothered Mulder more than anything.

"Three weeks. Three weeks - and you give me this?" Patterson turned 
the profile face down on the desk as if the mere sight of it was an 
insult. "I could have given the case to a classroom full of rookies, 
if this was what I was waiting for. Agent Hennessey, do you have 
anything to add to Agent Mulder's profile?"

Hennessey looked like he was waiting for the ground to swallow him 
up.

Patterson tried again. "Agent Hennessey, do you think Agent Mulder's 
assessment is correct and complete?"

"No."

"Then you're preparing your own behavioral profile for the UNSUB?"

"Yes."

"Good. Then you're dismissed."

Hennessey got up quickly, ignoring Mulder's mumbled "Dave?" as he 
walked out of the room.

Just Patterson and Mulder now and the agent almost flinched as 
Patterson rose from his chair and came to sit in the seat recently 
vacated by Hennessey. "A con man?" Patterson said, as if the profile 
was some kind of bad joke on Mulder's part.

"A con man," agreed Mulder. Well aware that by all the usual 
criteria he was himself one of those rookies who Patterson claimed 
could have come up with the same profile in a fraction of the time.

"High IQ. Over thirty. White collar crime - bank, insurance, real 
estate fraud. Very successful. Been interviewed numerous times by 
law enforcement officers but never convicted and probably not even 
charged. Multiple identities, homes, bank accounts. Disciplined and 
imaginative."

Mulder nodded, ignoring the sarcasm in Patterson's tone. The profile 
was accurate. After three weeks looking for the link between the 
victims Mulder had concluded that the link was the killer and that, 
as he'd never seen the same unknown phone number or heard about the 
same mysterious stranger twice, it was a fair bet that he'd been 
many different people. "And a psychopath," added Mulder, seeing that 
his boss was waiting for some kind of verbal response.

"Why is he killing them?"

"The ultimate rush. Money wasn't doing it for him anymore."

"Multiple identities?"

"Generally he'll live alone. Though he may have told his neighbors 
that it's just a temporary thing - job-related move - wife joining 
him later. There may even be a wife, though she'll only know one, or 
at most two, of his identities."

"Which gets us nowhere. He could be anybody - unostentatious, quiet, 
polite, well-groomed."

Drives a late model sedan, added Mulder, though he was smart enough 
not to say it out loud, suddenly amused and trying not to let 
Patterson see it. Sure, the profile sucked. But it was right. Their 
Unknown Subject was like a giant reflecting mirror ball - no two 
people would see the same man.

"Mulder," snapped Patterson, aware that he'd lost the agent's 
attention. "I asked you - how do we find him?"

"He'll always approach them in the same way. He'll have a routine 
that works. I'm thinking that he meets them at something like a 
trade show or an exhibition. Somewhere busy, where they'll be off 
their guard. Conversation starts on one subject, five minutes later 
he's getting the story of their lives and choosing his targets."

Patterson shook his head, disappointed, tight-lipped. "The art. 
Where's the art? I thought that maybe there was a spark of something 
better in you. That you understood what needs to be done. I don't 
need to hear that someone's painting a picture; I want you to show 
me the artist."

Mulder sat very still, incapable of arguing, but refusing to make 
himself an easier target.

"You're off the case," announced Patterson, standing up suddenly and 
looming over Mulder's chair. Mulder didn't bother to look up. 
"There's a job in San Diego. Somebody cutting up prostitutes, except 
he made a mistake and took the niece of a Federal Judge. They want 
to look like they're doing something. You'll fit right in."

Fuck you, sir.

----------

San Diego felt like a vacation and not just because of the weather 
or the fact that he'd been able to sneak away for the occasional 
stroll along the beach. The profile had taken a couple of hours. The 
strategy had been agreed without so much as a territorial dispute 
between the Police Department and the Bureau. It was the PD's show 
and Mulder was a welcome consultant, an analyst assisting the 
preparation of a shortlist of suspects, and ultimately he would be 
the secret weapon during the interviews.

Which left him plenty of time to sketch bat-like things on the backs 
of envelopes and scrape griffins into the sand. Puzzled over it, 
played with wing shapes and symmetry, studied tangents and 
intersections, sought out depth and life in the eyes of the things. 
Dark magic in the images. He knew it, but still couldn't feel the 
pull. 

He'd chatted to Diana a couple of times, split the call between 
murmured words about empty beds and flippant commentary on Bill 
Patterson's parentage.

The call that bothered him had been the one he'd made to Hennessey. 
So Patterson had asked him to prepare a press release? Time to go 
pro-active. Remind people of those strange drawings. Ask again if 
anyone had seen their like before. 

Mulder called Patterson from his hotel room. "I don't think we 
should be publishing the sketches, sir."

"If we don't then we're allowing people under this guy's thrall to 
die."

"I don't think anyone already under his control will come forward."

"Then it'll give their families the chance to intervene."

"I don't think so. I think we may do more harm than good. I've been 
reviewing the files."

"Really. I thought I told you that you were off the case. I was 
under the impression that we haven't made any arrests in San Diego."

"Detective Paul Jennings, the New York victim - he may not have even 
met the killer. He wasn't working the case but he did ask for a copy 
of the autopsy report on the tattooed victim. I think he may have 
just started obsessing over the deaths from there, studying the 
images. The timing's right. He stopped going to the gym. Looking at 
his car usage, his mileages went down."

"Meaning?"

"I think he used to go driving when he wanted to think, but you 
can't draw and drive at the same time."

"So why did we only find a couple of examples of those things in his 
house?"

"He destroyed any that weren't perfect."

"Do you realize how ridiculous this sounds?"

"Yes."

"Then do your job, and I'll do mine."

"Sir," he said, but it was too late, Patterson had already hung up 
the phone. 

----------

2000

There was an edge to the meeting, a cold snap between Mulder and 
Skinner that made the other agents uncomfortable. Like party guests 
trying not to witness the warring marriage concealed below the 
polite veneer. 

Scully frowned, feeling as if she was supposed to referee. A 
rulebook and a clearly marked playing field might have helped. 

Mulder's rendition of the behavioral profile was delivered without a 
pause for breath or any opportunity for debate. 

Neil Felden, the current cream of the Violent Crimes crop, saw 
straight through it. "You're saying that the killer could be just 
about anyone. And the victims could also be just about anyone."

Mulder smiled, which bothered Scully more than she liked to admit. 
It seemed to bother Skinner too; he tensed, as if preparing to warn 
Felden off. 

But Mulder only nodded. "Don't look behind the curtain," he said. 
"Statistically, the killer's male. Certainly, the killer's very 
sophisticated. He understands police procedures, which is why we're 
coming up blank on the background checks, and he knows the Props 
case inside out."

Felden returned the smile. "So we should arrest you?"

Skinner cleared his throat, dragging the meeting's attention back to 
the whiteboard with a wave of his hand. "I suggest we move on to 
discussing where we go from here. Agent Felden, if you'd write up 
the actions."

----------

1988

Conversations with Patterson, Fowley and Hennessey had just taken 
him round in circles. Except whereas before he'd felt merely 
concerned, now he was starting to feel panic-stricken. Patterson had 
put a continent between him and the action, and it was setting his 
alarm bells ringing.

The bottom line was Patterson didn't want to know. Mulder had made 
it official, confirmed his disapproval of Patterson's plan to 
publish the sketches in writing. He wasn't surprised that Patterson 
didn't care.

Fine. Well he cared; he cared enough to risk his career over it. 
Patterson wasn't going to forgive him for this, but that was OK, 
because if he was right and he ignored it then he would never 
forgive himself. The next memo he wrote to Patterson was firmer, 
possibilities replaced by probabilities, likelihoods replaced by 
certainties, and it was copied to Patterson's boss.

San Diego PD were a blessed relief from the ISU. Maybe he'd get a 
job out here. 

They sent a patrol car to collect him from the motel, which would 
normally annoy him, but today it felt right. Today it got him 
through overcrowded Christmas shopping streets and meant that he 
didn't need to go hunting for a parking spot.

The detective leading the case greeted him as an honored guest. "It 
worked," he said, succinct and to the point. "Coffee?" he added, 
pointing towards the tray that one of the younger officers had just 
brought in.

Mulder smiled, nonplussed by the generosity, and apologized for 
failing to bring the doughnuts.

"At least you didn't bring your posse."

"Sorry?"

"Fibbies show up, all you get is an attitude and a team of twenty 
who think the locals are for walking on. You showed up alone, did 
your job, and kept out of our way."

Ah. Something else for Patterson to lay into him about when he got 
home. Apart from a cursory phone call to the local office on 
arrival, he hadn't been in contact with the Bureau. Apart from a 
profile that had taken a couple of hours to write and present, and 
fielding the occasional enquiry from the local PD, he'd basically 
ignored the reason he'd been sent out here. Patterson was going to 
kill him. Rightly so. 

Mulder nodded, nervous and ashamed, and suddenly feeling very much 
like the kid. "So what have you got for me?"

"You said with the right incentives, we might get this guy to 
confess. Are you ready?"

Oh fuck. He was about 2600 miles away from ready, but he didn't dare 
let it sound that way. Smiling, faking it for the assembled cops. 
"You start the interview. I'll watch. Butt in if I need to." 

He'd given them a three-block radius around one of the crime scenes 
as the likely home of the killer. Suggested a military background 
and a fascination with knives and memorabilia. The only freaky thing 
he'd put in the profile was the observation that it was unlikely 
that the man had been arrested before, but even that came from the 
mundane observation that he was certainly a local resident, and that 
the usual suspects had all been rounded up by the PD long before 
Mulder had received the case.

The detective had asked about that. "From clean record to killer?" 

Mulder had just shaken his head and told them that their man had 
been careful, but he'd never been clean. 

If they'd doubted the diagnosis initially then they didn't when they 
went back to the files and started to reinterview all those 
witnesses and contacts who they'd discounted the first time around. 
One of them was now sitting in the small interrogation room on the 
other side of the mirror.

An hour later, flimsy alibis and weak memories safely on tape for 
the record. The suspect still sounded oddly confident, having 
cheerfully turned down a lawyer in favor of bravado. "You seem 
pretty sharp," he said, smiling at the detectives across the desk, 
"How come you haven't caught this scumbag?" 

That was Mulder's cue to intervene. He picked up three examples from 
the suspect's knife collection, all already booked into evidence, 
all neatly labeled in their plastic bags. The man hadn't hesitated 
to offer them for forensic analysis; he'd just asked for a promise 
that they'd come back to him unharmed. It was a safe bet that they 
hadn't found the murder weapon yet.

Mulder walked into the room. He handed the senior detective a note: 
He wants to tell you about the knives. A brief nod as a reply and 
Mulder left again still carrying his selection of weapons.

"Who's he?"

"Some Fed - says he wants to send those three back to DC - see if 
there's any trace evidence."

"Those knives?" the man said, obviously amused.

"He's some kind of forensics hotshot, thinks those might be the best 
match to the wounds."

"Right!"

The detective acknowledged the mocking tone. "I figure he just 
picked up the three baddest looking mothers. He sends them a 
hundred, and his bosses'll know he's a waste of time."

"He's just scared of them, so he doesn't see. Never used one in his 
life."

"You know better, right? Army?"

"Special Ops."

Mulder smiled. If he'd written the script himself, it couldn't have 
gone better.

Half an hour later, with a tape full of details of the victims' 
wounds and the weapons that had caused them, that the man couldn't 
possibly know unless he'd inflicted them himself, Mulder was hit by 
a revelation.

A soft case. He was here because it was a soft case, not because the 
FBI needed to show the flag. If this was PR then the twenty man team 
with the attitude would be in here, sending out the locals to do the 
scut work and leaving shoe prints on the furniture. 

And he wasn't here because it was too offbeat for the locals to 
handle. Had they really needed his help, his contribution could just 
as easily have been made by phone or fax.

He was here because Patterson wanted him out of town. Patterson 
wanted him alone. Stripped of the support systems. No Hennessey. No 
Fowley. Not even the danger of intervention by the Bureau itself. 
Out of sight, he was supposed to go out of his mind.

Bastard.

Patterson had sent him here to die or at least to get a better 
profile on the suicide killings. Same fucking difference. He knew 
exactly what Bill had meant about studying the art. He was supposed 
to be suicidal by now.

Bastard.

Was Patterson planning on swooping in and rescuing him at the vital 
moment? Or wouldn't he even bother to do that. Provided Mulder sent 
in the right profile would Patterson even care?

Christ. It was tempting to stay out here. Spend a few days catching 
up on some midwinter rays. Maybe he'd even call into the field 
office and see if they needed a spare pair of hands? The PD probably 
had a couple of cold cases on file, if he asked them nicely.

"Agent Mulder."

"Detective Scott."

"I said we've got what we need. Unless you've got any questions for 
him?"

Mulder shook his head. His name wouldn't even appear on the arrest 
report - an invisible week's work. "I'll leave you to it."

"It's been a pleasure. Anytime you're in town..."

"You're welcome."

------

2000

Skinner had joined Mulder and Scully on the second trip to the 
prison, curious to see if he could spot the changes that Mulder had 
described. He'd led the team that had recaptured Props in 1991, 
three years after the original arrest. The first time his path had 
crossed Mulder's.

Mulder had finished up in the hospital that time as well.

Mulder handled the introductions. "You remember Assistant Director 
Skinner?"

"Assistant Director?" Props smiled and went into his show. "It's an 
honor. I thought Fox didn't respect me any more. I underestimated 
you, Fox."

"The AD just wanted to see how far downhill you'd rolled."

"And here was me thinking I had something you wanted."

Skinner stepped in. "Do you?"

"Maybe."

Skinner kept his tone dismissive. "You think you're Hannibal Lecter 
and get to set the terms?"

"Hey, all I know is somebody's been drawing my pictures again. Was 
it you, Fox?"

Mulder nodded. "Yeah, don't you know - the more murders, the better 
the overtime. Who's feeding them the pictures, Monty?"

"What's in it for me?"

Mulder smiled. "The warm glow of controlling whether people live or 
die? You must have missed that feeling."

"Is that why you do it?"

"You don't know anything." Mulder turned and headed for the door. 
Both Skinner and Scully looked at him, asking for guidance, the 
briefest of glances told them that he was expecting them to remain.

"So," mused Props, "Spooky's running away again?"

"Agent Mulder thinks you've had your fifteen minutes of fame."

"And if he's wrong? What's in it for me?"

"Prove to me you've got something worth having, then we'll talk."

"Fair enough. How about a show of good faith. Let's say I give you 
the name of the next victim?"

Skinner waved for him to carry on talking.

------

Mulder had watched the rest of the discussion on a video monitor in 
the comfort of the warden's outer office. By the time Skinner and 
Scully finished the interview and joined him, he was leaning back 
against the wall, head effectively supporting a good slice of his 
body weight. He waited in silence as Skinner swapped notes with 
Scully on how to follow up the information that Props had offered.

Scully pulled him into the debate. "Mulder?" 

"He's playing."

"And the name he gave us?"

"Hasn't even met the killer we're chasing." Mulder sighed. "Though 
we still need to check her out. She's obviously linked to Props."

Which made Scully's next question inevitable. "So do we check her 
out or does somebody else go - Agent Felden maybe?"

"Props won't accept anyone below Assistant Director level now."

"Then we'd better get it over with," said Skinner.

Mulder nodded. "I'll get the background check rolling. See who else 
Props has been talking to."

Skinner was thrown by that. "You aren't coming?"

"I can do more from here."

Scully frowned, trying to read him. "You think we're wasting our 
time on this?"

"That's not what I said."

"Just that it would be a waste of your time?"

Still resting against the wall, Mulder stared up at the ceiling. 
What the hell was he supposed to tell them? That Spooky wasn't just 
a nickname, it was a fact?

Skinner broke the spell. "Agent Scully and I will handle it. Agent 
Mulder, if you find anything on the woman you'll call us."

------------

1988

It would be laughable if it weren't quite so sick. Patterson had 
sent him to San Diego to get suicidal and Mulder had turned it into 
a vacation. 

Congratulations, Bill. 

Mulder toasted the thought with the airplane coffee, trying hard to 
stop the fever of activity in his brain from finding further 
expression in his body language. The passenger in the neighboring 
seat was already nervous enough, though Mulder had been careful to 
skim through only the least graphic of the photos and forensics 
notes in the file. 

Still, a plane was no place for a wild animal and Mulder was 
struggling to play it cool. 

He'd rehearsed the confrontation with his boss so often now that 
every time he closed his eyes it played again. There ought to be 
some pleasure in having dodged Patterson's bullet, in knowing that 
this time he hadn't lived up to the man's profile of him. 

Yet the pleasure wouldn't come, which just made Mulder angrier. He 
could visualize the look of disappointment in Patterson's eyes. To 
make matters worse, he had no way to back up the allegation. A 
delighted police department had expressed its gratitude to the 
Bureau for their support in capturing a killer. In fact, it was a 
safe bet he would be getting a commendation for his week's work - a 
shining example of inter-agency cooperation. Except Mulder knew that 
the case was just the icing and that he'd been sent out there to 
bake a completely different kind of cake.

Bastard. The pencil in his fingers snapped and the passenger in the 
next seat jumped as if he'd been shot.  

The stewardess appeared as if by magic at Mulder's side. "Is 
something wrong, sir?"

"May I borrow a pencil?"

His neighbor flinched and Mulder wanted to tell him that if he was 
going to launch an attack he wouldn't need a freshly sharpened 
pencil as a weapon. So many ways to die. Like you wouldn't believe. 
Actually the man was wearing the same kind of wire-rimmed glasses as 
Bill Patterson did, which was just asking for trouble.

Mulder smiled as the stewardess handed him a pen and moved quickly 
to start filling in a fresh set of answers in the already completed 
crossword puzzle. This time ignoring the clues and focusing on 
getting as many federal crimes as possible to fit into the grid. 
Maybe if he did a good enough job he could sell it to the staff 
magazine?

It was a hell of a long flight.

Wisely, given that it was past midnight when Mulder got back to DC, 
Patterson had switched his home phone over to the answering machine. 
No matter - it would keep. Fury this hot didn't just dissipate 
overnight.

The computer welcomed him. The first two memos he'd sent to 
Patterson had been sharply worded, but the revised profile and 
victimology were now so clear in Mulder's head that he was 
absolutely determined to hammer the point home. The words flowed 
easily.

-------

Next morning in the offices of the ISU Patterson was quiet, very 
quiet, and very, very angry. 

It wasn't so much the contents of the new profile that Mulder had 
prepared, as the fact that it had also been copied to Patterson's 
boss and to Reggie Purdue the Special Agent in Charge of the suicide 
killings case.

"We keep disagreements to ourselves. We show a united front to 
outsiders. It's hard enough to get the work taken seriously without 
you undermining my authority by attacking a fellow profiler."

"I'm disagreeing with a strategy proposal - I'm not attacking 
anyone."

"Nice distinction. How do you think it looks to the Assistant 
Director, to the Deputy Director, because I can guarantee this'll go 
higher? There's no way we can keep this quiet."

"Why would I want it kept quiet?"

"Families protect one another."

"I think you must have misread my personal file, sir."

"I read it. It's why I've always made allowances for you. Glossed 
over your errors, ignored your attitude. I've been wrong. You need 
help, professional help."

"What? You're going to order me into counseling?"

"We're past that. The Bureau counselors help people who are willing 
to help themselves. I'm thinking a formal psych consult would be a 
good thing."

Mulder almost laughed, but didn't, hysteria already too close to 
boiling over. He'd never thought Patterson could do something quite 
that petty. "I disagree with you, so you threaten to haul me up in 
front of a shrink?"

"Problems with authority. Unresolved issues with your childhood. 
Convenient memory gaps surrounding traumatic events. Homicidal 
thoughts. Suicidal tendencies." Patterson pulled a tape machine from 
his desk, smiled as revelation dawned on Mulder's face. "Paranoid 
reactions."

True enough. The paranoia was kicking in full force now. Mulder 
digging deep to remember all the conversations in this office that 
Bill Patterson had so cheerfully encouraged and which no one else 
was ever supposed to hear. 

His brain paraphrased the discussions for him, stacked the odds 
against being able to explain them away in a psychiatrist's office. 
All the role plays and the angry debates as Patterson urged him to 
dig deep to conjure up the things that could drive a man to kill, 
the encouragement to look for the darkness within to understand the 
darkness without.

Have you ever felt suicidal, Mulder? 

Have you ever thought about killing the man who took your sister? 

Did you ever wonder if your memory loss might be masking your own 
guilt?

Do you hate your father?

Of course...

"I never knew you were that petty, Bill."

"This isn't about me. This is about protecting the division. I fall: 
we all fall. And people will die without us. I can't let you destroy 
the respect that's taken years to build."

He had to get out of here. Get out of here now, before Patterson 
managed to get something else on record that Mulder would regret. He 
kept his voice cool. "If one disagreement can destroy it, maybe it's 
not worth protecting." 

"Tell that to the next set of parents who finds their kid's been 
taken in the night. The next big brother who loses his sister."

Enough. He stood up, smoothed the sleeves of his jacket and headed 
for the door. 

Patterson's voice rose a notch as he attempted to reassert control 
over the situation, or perhaps just looking for another entry in his 
tape collection. "Where the hell are you going, Agent?"

"I'm going to talk to Dave." Mulder slammed the door behind him as 
he left the room.



=============
END of Part 6


=========


He looked around the office but Dave Hennessey was nowhere to be 
seen. It was still early but it wasn't that early. Everyone else 
was at their desks. Was Dave out doing interviews or something? He 
glanced up at the day planner but saw nothing to account for the 
man's absence. The chart was an imperfect method but usually a good 
place to start.

Swallowing hard, ignoring the uncomfortable looks on the faces of 
the other profilers, he headed to Karen Gardiner's desk. "Do you 
know where Dave is?"

She shrugged. "I was expecting him in by now. Team meeting at 9. I 
guess something came up. Are you OK, Mulder?"

"When did you last talk to him? Who would have seen him last?"

"Yesterday. Is this about your latest memo on the suicide killer? 
It's a bit late to consult him now, isn't it?"

"I need to see him."

"He's not here!" she said, sounding increasingly exasperated.

Mulder turned to face the other agents. "Does anyone know where 
Dave Hennessey is?"

Blank looks and murmurs about Dave only being a few minutes late 
followed. Mulder picked up the phone; got no reply from Hennessey's 
home. No one over in VCU had seen him either. Reggie Purdue, the 
SAC, assumed that he would be at the ISU team meeting. After all, 
that was what he'd said would be his first job for today. Purdue 
was expecting to see Dave at about midday, but promised Mulder that 
if he showed up earlier then he'd let him know.

The other profilers went into their meeting. Patterson stood at the 
door waiting for Mulder to join them but the agent headed to the 
elevators instead. 

There was nothing, absolutely nothing, wrong. Mulder knew that. He 
repeated the statement as the elevator carried him up out of the 
bowels of the Quantico building and towards daylight. Where the 
hell was he going to go now?

Panic - raw and bloody, burning like acid in his throat, making his 
breathing fail.

A security officer stepped forward, checked his badge so he could 
address him by name. "Agent Mulder, everything OK? Do you need 
medical assistance? Sit down a minute?"

"No, I've got to..."

"Give it a minute. I'll get you some water."

As soon as the guard left his side he was out through the door and 
though he hadn't realized where he was going until he reached his 
car suddenly he knew exactly what he had to do.

He scrambled back through his memory, finally recalling Hennessey's 
address, or at least his apartment block - they'd stopped off there 
one night to pick up a missing file. Why hadn't Hennessey's wife 
protested about him arriving home that late and going straight back 
out again?

Oh God, had they split up? Hennessey had had a wife, kids as well, 
talked about them having a swing in the yard. Talked about a lot of 
things that didn't seem to match the apartment block that Mulder 
had seen him go into. 

So Hennessey had been alone then? Mulder in San Diego. Was that why 
Bill had sent him away? No wonder Patterson had looked so shocked 
when Mulder suggested that the soft case was supposed to drive him 
over the edge. What if it was Hennessey who was Bill's pick? What 
if Hennessey was the man deemed best suited to seeing the art?

Christ. What if Mulder's return bearing memos and arguments had 
twisted the knife a little deeper into Hennessey's gut. "Don't you 
dare die, Dave. Don't you fucking dare."

On Patterson's orders the Quantico guards stopped him at the gate.

Ten furious minutes later and some kid from the VCU was driving Fox 
Mulder and Karen Gardiner to the scene of a car accident.

"They got the driver out but they weren't hopeful," said the 
traffic cop who was supervising the scene, and who took pity on the 
distraught looking Feds, despite them being Feds.

Mulder looked at the driver's seat. The way the steering wheel had 
bent under impact. The fold in the metalwork where the tree had 
stopped the car in an instant.

"We'll be checking out the car of course. Tampering, mechanical 
failure. Unless you want your people to do that. But." The man 
shrugged.

Mulder tried to phrase it as carefully as he could. "You think this 
is driver error?"

"Straight road, good weather, single vehicle accident, no skid 
marks. Heart attack maybe?"

Maybe.

"There's some paperwork in the car," the cop added, "Bureau stuff. 
I've got to bag it and book it in, but if you want to take a look 
first. He waved vaguely at the car.

Mulder stepped forward, knowing exactly what he was going to see. 
Blood. On the passenger's seat, a manila folder, FBI logo and 
casefile number - the suicide killer's art in glorious technicolor 
and tidy black and white. Blood. A postcard sized note fixed on the 
dashboard - a freehand drawing of a bat or maybe a bird. Blood.

"I need a copy of that sketch. As soon as possible." He handed the 
cop a business card.

"I'll get them to fax it through."

"Thanks, Officer," Mulder checked the badge, "Officer Denton. 
Thanks."

The hospital doctors were surprised that Hennessey had made it as 
far as their doors. Head, chest and spinal injuries. The fractured 
femurs and other damage was hardly worth mentioning in the 
circumstances. 

If he made it through surgery. If he ever regained consciousness. 
If he ever breathed for himself again. If he ever did those things 
then maybe, Mulder shivered, the sick feeling all-pervasive now, 
maybe Hennessey would wonder why he hadn't followed Detective Paul 
Jennings example and shot himself. 

Karen was crying. Mulder was too numb even to do that.

He vaguely recognized Hennessey's wife, or was it his ex-wife? 
Anyway he'd seen her before, a smiling face by the basketball court 
a couple of years back. "Mrs. Hennessey? I'm Fox Mulder. I work 
with your husband."

She nodded, almost tumbling into his arms and Mulder held her as 
her head sank down against his chest. The two of them locked 
together in an awkward embrace, waiting it out in silence, rocking 
slightly, leaving Mulder not quite sure if she was leaning on him 
or if he was leaning on her.

The lull lasted for a couple of minutes before another man arrived 
to take charge of Dave's ex. Mulder knew it for certain then, if 
not yet an ex, then she would be soon. One way or another.

He'd have to check the insurance policies. Maybe they didn't pay 
out against suicide? That would explain the car crash.

It explained nothing.

Why did you do it, Dave? What the hell were you thinking? Why 
didn't you call me, you stupid bastard?

Did you solve the case, Dave?

Do you know who did this to you?

You could have left me a fucking note!

The wall was reassuringly solid, the blood decorating Mulder's 
knuckles satisfyingly red. 

Karen was holding his hand now. Dave's wife looked scared. Her 
boyfriend looked like he was getting ready to throw his body into 
battle to protect her.

"It should have been Patterson," Mulder said conversationally to 
Karen as the ER doctor checked his fingers for damage. "It wasn't 
the wall's fault," he added, in case anybody misunderstood what 
should have been Bill Patterson.

"Nothing broken, that I can see," said the doctor. "We'll do an 
X-Ray as a precaution. You'll need to be careful with the stitches. 
There'll be swelling, stiffness; there's a risk of infection." The 
list of dos and don'ts soon passed Mulder's interest threshold.

Karen tried to smile. "Lucky it's not your gun hand, Mulder."

Yeah, how lucky can you get?

----------

Mulder quickly tracked down Officer Denton, who'd been supervising 
the accident site. He passed them directly back to the FBI. "Your 
people showed up about ten minutes after you two left. Took 
everything - car, evidence bags, the lot, back to Quantico."

Of course they had. Not only was Hennessey one of their men, he was 
also the latest victim of a serial killer. Sudden recall of the 
whole damned mess. He should have made that call and secured the 
scene himself. What the hell had he been thinking?

Karen, too.

Patterson was going to have a field day with this. 

He remembered the kid from VCU who'd driven them out there and who 
they'd left behind. Mulder had grabbed the car-keys from him and 
headed to the hospital with Karen joining him seconds later.

The kid! Christ, the man was older than he was. Where the hell had 
he picked up this crap? But still, this had nothing to do with age, 
everything to do with innocence. The innocent had quit accountancy 
for this.

The kid had asked them what to do. 

And Karen had told him to, "Call it in."

Ah, Karen had done her duty then. Figured. One screw up from the 
ISU was bad enough.

When they got back to Quantico, Mulder wasn't surprised that he was 
refused access to the shattered car. He was even less surprised 
that they refused to copy Hennessey's files and documents for him. 
"Patterson's orders."

Bastard.

He tried to sound reasonable and professional when he finally 
caught up with his boss, back in the ISU offices. "May I see the 
items removed from Agent Hennessey's car?"

"Why?"

"They may be pertinent to the case he was working on."

"The case he was working on. You were taken off that case over a 
week ago."

"I'd like to return to the case."

"Put an agent with self-admitted psychological problems on a case 
involving the attempted suicide of a colleague? I don't think that 
would be very appropriate. Need I remind you, you failed to attend 
today's team meeting. I was going to put you on light duties."

"Don't do this, Bill."

"But in the light of your walk-out this morning, I've decided that 
administrative leave pending your psychiatric evaluation will be 
more appropriate. I've made my recommendation to the Assistant 
Director."

Mulder's reply was slow, the words barely audible. "You arrogant 
bastard."

"In the circumstances, I don't think I can ignore such open 
insubordination, Agent Mulder. Abusive language to a superior 
officer qualifies as misconduct, sufficient for me to order your 
immediate suspension from duty pending an appearance before OPR. I 
think the stress of this situation has been too much for you. I'd 
like your badge and your weapon."

"I hope the tape's running. You fucking arrogant bastard. 
Hennessey's one breath away from dying and you want to play games 
with me? Who's your next victim, Bill? Which asshole are you going 
to sucker into it next?"

"Go home, Agent Mulder. Before you say something else that you'll 
regret. Go home, before I ask for that psych evaluation to be done 
on an in-patient basis."

---------

He'd found Hennessey's keys at the hospital. Though found perhaps 
wasn't quite the right word.

Just because he'd popped the contents of Dave's suit pockets into a 
plastic bag and labeled them, it didn't make it right. Even if he 
wasn't suspended, he couldn't legitimately do this. But sometimes 
what he couldn't do was exactly what he had to do.

The apartment was tidy, better than tidy actually. But then that 
might just be the way Hennessey liked it. Clear desk at night, no 
candy wrappers under the car seats - Dave was a neat kind of a guy.

The books on the shelves were just books.

The clothes in the closet were just clothes.

The canned stuff in the kitchen made Mulder smile. Angry rather 
than amused. Gotcha, he observed, seeing patterns in the anarchy. 
Beans next to peaches and that made no sense unless you liked 
disorder, in which case you weren't Dave Hennessey, or unless you 
liked the way the gold label looked next to the green.

So what else had Dave left for him?

He started up the computer, found the past couple of day's files 
and slid them onto a floppy disk without even thinking about it.

He'd almost made it out of the apartment when Reggie Purdue arrived 
with Bill Patterson right behind him.

"You got something for us, Agent Mulder?" questioned Purdue.

Mulder handed him the things he'd taken from Hennessey's pockets at 
the hospital, all still safely inside the carefully labeled 
evidence bag. He started to walk away.

"Breaking and entry?" said Patterson.

"I had a key."

"You mean you had Hennessey's keys?"

Mulder shook his head, pointed at the keys in the bag, dug into his 
own coat to reveal the spare he'd had cut on the way over to 
Hennessey's apartment, and which he'd then carefully added to his 
own key-ring. Hennessey would play along with it if he ever woke 
up. It was in a good cause after all.

Purdue looked at him in amused disbelief. 

Patterson looked almost proud.

--------

It was Reggie Purdue who called Mulder and demanded to know what 
the hell he was supposed to do now.

Which struck Mulder as kind of frightening. The SAC had turned to 
the kid who'd been suspended and who was only roaming the streets 
because Patterson hadn't yet completely given up hope that he was 
going to go crawling back to him on his hands and knees and beg for 
forgiveness. Purdue didn't actually know him at all. 

"I've read the profile, Mulder. The one you wrote. You think we 
should stay away from the press?"

"We keep the pictures and sketches out of the papers. We go public 
with the profile of the conman, the idea he might be working trade 
shows, fairs and so on. We talk about the drawings, like they might 
be some kind of a logo - nothing more."

"And how do we tell them he makes people commit suicide?"

"We don't. We talk about the fraud angle. We talk about people 
being driven to suicide as the only way out. The readers will 
invent the rest of the story."

"And what are you going to do?"

Mulder shrugged, because he didn't really have a plan beyond 
staying alive.

---------

2000

It was a relief to leave Mulder behind at the prison searching 
through records of Props' time behind bars. Which surprised Scully 
almost as much as it disturbed her. There had been safety in their 
status quo. Change was frightening, years worth of patterns to 
forget. As if her desire for a child had upset the balance and now, 
center of gravity still uncertain, they needed to learn how to be 
partners again.

A little time apart was a chance to catch her breath and such a 
relief that, with Skinner driving, she'd fallen asleep practically 
as soon as she strapped herself into the passenger seat. She woke 
up confused and more than a little embarrassed. 

Skinner shrugged her off. "You haven't missed anything."

She glanced up at the road markers. Thirty miles closer to the 
witness but otherwise nothing had changed. At least another hour 
until they arrived at their destination.

They might as well start swapping notes, but first there was that 
other matter. "Has Mulder called?"

"No. You want to try him?"

Inevitably, she only got his voicemail. "Could we -" she started, 
not quite sure what she was going to ask for.

"You want to stop for coffee. Call the prison?"

Thirty minutes and two cups later, they still hadn't tracked him 
down. 

"You're worried?" questioned Skinner, pushing past Scully's 
silence. "About whether we're heading into a trap?"

Scully shook her head; the gesture escaping her before she'd 
spotted the trap in Skinner's words. It wasn't their safety that 
she was worried about and Skinner knew it. "Mulder wouldn't send us 
into danger."

"But he would get us out of the way?"

She didn't need to answer the question. She should have known, had 
known, really. If the job had been for real then he'd have insisted 
on coming along. He'd known it was a hoax. He'd actually told them 
so back at the jail and all that had done was add to effectiveness 
of the con trick. The reason he hadn't sent another agent to see 
the woman was because he'd wanted to get her out of the way and 
that trick wouldn't have worked if Skinner hadn't fallen for it 
too.

Perfect plan.

"We need to get back," she said.

Uncomfortable allies. United in frustration as they drove. They 
started to swap notes, but found little to get their teeth into.

Certainly nothing that offered many clues as to why Mulder was 
playing his cards quite so close to his chest.

Skinner gave her what he could. "After Hennessey, the senior 
profiler on the case, got injured, things get a little confused. 
Mulder reacted badly. Patterson suspended him."

"He carried on working the case unofficially?"

"And the SAC, Reggie Purdue, ran with the profile that Mulder had 
written."

Scully hesitated, wanting to push for more, wondering if she could 
do it without making it sound like it mattered. "Which ultimately 
led them to Props."

"But not before Mulder was committed. Patterson found him with a 
gun in his hand." 

She knew this, but raw facts weren't enough. Did Skinner know more? 
"At Diana Fowley's apartment?"

"Apparently she was working for Bill Patterson."

Oh.

---------

1988

Diana Fowley hadn't really expected Mulder to call every night from 
San Diego. It wasn't that kind of relationship - not yet. It 
certainly wasn't the kind in which she could call him while he was 
working out of town, not even to ask whether she should take 
Patterson up on the offer of a little freelance work.

Patterson pushed. "How do a few scribbles destroy the will to live? 
Tell me that and I'll buy the rest of your agenda."

She tried to keep it professional. "My agenda?"

"Your hypothesis then - that certain psychoses are driven by 
external forces, not by internal ones."

"Let's be honest here. I'm saying that some psychoses aren't 
psychoses at all. They're sane responses to triggers we don't 
understand - things that we now call paranormal, or 
extraterrestrial - things we used to explain with religion and 
witchcraft."

"And you think that by investigating the anomalies you may find 
those susceptible to temptation and inoculate them in some way - to 
protect them from these evil influences?"

"Worried I'll put you out of a job?"

Patterson laughed and Diana went home with something to prove.

Rigging the experiment was simple enough. Dangerous work for a 
guinea pig but not for someone who understood the risks.

There were distinct differences between fear, euphoria and 
relaxation. Tangible things, measurable in the patterns of an EEG. 
Quantifiable in terms of blood pressure, pulse rate, skin 
conductivity and respiration patterns. To Diana, it added up; it 
told a story.

State of the art monitoring and that most basic of safety nets, the 
watchdog, would be her guides. She planned it out. Every hour she 
would rouse herself from the meditation, check all vital signs, 
record her feelings. If she dipped too far, then she would stop. If 
she failed to respond to the watchdog, it would call a work 
colleague to deliver a pre-recorded message asking for help.

She focused on the sketch she'd drawn freehand from memory. Her 
version of the creature. All about the lines and intersections, 
she'd told Mulder. So easy to fall into its eyes. So easy to get 
lost in the swirls of its wings.

When Mulder called her from San Diego, she was feeling good. Better 
than good actually. So good that she didn't spoil it by mentioning 
Patterson's offer of research funding. So good that they chatted 
about warm days, sandy beaches and good food, and scarcely 
mentioned death at all.

Home now, back in DC, he called her again. Bad timing. She was 
getting closer. The first images hadn't worked. Not well enough. 
But the latest one, she could feel the pull of it. Even the 
machines could see it. 

Quantifiable and verifiable.

Joy.

------------

She sounded so happy. So pleased to hear his voice and so fucking 
happy. Too happy for him to bring her down by actually answering 
the question when she asked him how he was feeling.

Far too happy for him to beg her to let him visit, even if he 
didn't want to be alone tonight.

He looked down at his hand, remembered why it hurt so much.

Why everything hurt so much. 

Couldn't believe that Dave would have done a thing like that. No 
one could believe it. They'd have had no problem believing it if 
Mulder had done it, of course. 

Suicidal tendencies.

Like hell. Patterson was going to kill him. Wreck his career. Send 
in some shrink to mess with his head. Push a couple more profilers 
to crash their cars into trees. And then Mulder was going to walk 
into Patterson's office, shoot the bastard through the head and 
bring down the wrath of the entire fucking FBI.



=========
END of Part 7

=========


Hennessey was a mess. Mulder shivered at the understatement. 
Hennessey was practically invisible under the bandages, the 
monitors, the respirator and the IV lines. 

Having lied his way past the ICU staff, Mulder slumped into the 
visitor's chair again. Strictly five minutes. He sighed. There was 
no way they'd believed the lie. Dave looked nothing like Mulder's 
uncle. He looked over the body again - Dave didn't look like 
anybody's uncle. The nurses wanted to believe him though, and that 
was what mattered. They wanted to think that someone cared enough 
to be here.

Unfair. Hennessey's marriage, Mulder now knew, had been over for a 
while before the actual break-up occurred. Hennessey had been in 
that apartment for nearly a year and so far as Mulder could tell, 
he'd said nothing to anyone at the Bureau. Just a change of address 
in his personnel record.

His ex had spent hours at the hospital the night before. She'd 
probably pop in again tomorrow, and this was no place for a couple 
of kids to come to see their dad.

Why hadn't he seen this coming? 

Some fucking profiler he was. He'd driven around with Hennessey for 
weeks and spotted nothing. Wasn't even looking. Too caught up in 
himself, in the case, in Diana - no room for a man crying for help.

Victim of a serial killer, he reminded himself, even though it felt 
like passing the buck. Did that make this attempted murder? 

-------

Diana hadn't answered her phone the last couple of times he'd 
called. 

They hadn't seen her in her office, though that wasn't any big deal 
because she wasn't actually scheduled to do any teaching today. She 
hadn't been in the lab since she picked up a couple of things from 
there a few days ago. 

Nothing to report. Her colleagues would make lousy witnesses.

Though actually, right now, he'd make a lousy investigator. 
Analytical skills having fallen into a black hole somewhere between 
his anger at Patterson and the way his focus kept failing just 
short of anything useful. He'd tried looking at the sketches. 
Really tried. He'd tried drawing them in pencil, charcoal and ink, 
but nothing gelled. 

Unsurprising really - if these were meditation aids then being able 
to sit still for a more than a minute was probably an essential 
element of their charm.

Which was why, despite the lack of an invitation and even though 
she might very well be out for the evening, he found himself 
standing uninvited on Diana Fowley's doorstep again.

He could hear something inside, a buzz of music or something. Not 
loud, but distinct enough not to be just his imagination. She was 
in there, so why wasn't she opening her door?

A hundred and one excellent reasons running the gamut from bath 
time to boyfriend and not a one of them that could calm his nerves 
for more than a few seconds. Minutes had passed and he'd knocked 
loudly enough to drag a couple of her neighbors to their doors.

"Have you seen her?" he said, a little louder than was strictly 
necessary.

"You're the FBI agent, aren't you?" said one of them. When he 
nodded, the woman started talking again. "She's in there. The music 
changes," she added, by way of explanation. "But I haven't seen her 
in a couple of days."

The concierge arrived.

"Do you have a key?"

Encouraged by a wave of a badge and the neighbor who seemed to know 
Mulder, the man obliged, letting them both in and then backing 
quietly out of the room when he saw Diana sitting naked and cross-
legged on the floor. 

"It's OK. Thanks," said Mulder, blocking access to her neighbor and 
pulling the door behind him.

"Diana?"

He moved to kneel in front of her. "Diana. Talk to me."

She was smiling but she said nothing, looked straight through him 
as if he wasn't there. 

A tangle of wires connecting her head to the monitors. In front of 
her, a neatly drawn creature on crisp white paper. By her right 
hand side a notebook with only a datestamp written at the top of 
the page and a tape machine still set to record even though the 
tape had run out long ago. 

It was the knife, the gun and the pills that bothered him more.

"Diana," he said, reaching for her, finding her body unresponsive 
to his touch.

Where was she? What the hell had made her do this? Had she taken 
any of those pills?

Priorities, he reminded himself. Priorities. Clear the immediate 
danger, then call 911.

She flinched slightly as he pulled the gun and the knife away, 
looked briefly puzzled as he took the bottle of pills from her 
side.

He quickly wrapped the knife in a handkerchief, emptied the gun, 
and put the pills in his pocket.

"Oh," she said, and he saw the glitter of tears in her eyes and the 
gentlest of smiles on her lips.

"Diana?"

"I wish you could feel like this, Fox. I can show you now. Sit down 
with me."

He started to pick up the phone. 

"I can explain," she said, smiling, opening her arms to welcome 
him.

He stepped towards her hoping that she was coming out of her 
trance, but halted at her next remark. "It's about being 
transformed."

Which only served to switch the adrenaline rush from panic to fury. 
His mind flicked through images of Hennessey in the hospital bed. 
Anger kicked his reaction into overload. All thoughts of soothing 
her into a response vanished. Was she really hearing him, seeing 
him at all?

Shock tactics now. 

He lifted the gun to his head, flashed on images of Detective Paul 
Jennings and the missing parts of his skull. 

"Amateurs," he said, "do this." He held the gun to the side of his 
ear. "Trouble is, a bit of a wobble on the grip, or a flinch at the 
vital moment and they can end up alive for hours, for years even. 
It takes a pro to do it right. Did I show you the pictures of Paul 
Jennings?"

Seconds ticked by as he repeated his demand for her attention. It 
seemed almost as if it was working, as though she was starting to 
look at him now, really look. Her smile was fading. Her tears were 
starting to fall faster.

OK. Nearly there, the shock tactics were working. "This way," he 
insisted, bringing the gun into position, "even if you hesitate, 
it's hard to miss."

Lips cold against the metal, he watched her as her eyes tried to 
focus on him, as her expression changed slowly from euphoric, first 
to curious and finally to alarmed.

"Put the gun down, Mulder."

Stunned, he turned to face Bill Patterson, lowering the gun 
immediately and relaxing his grip on it as soon as he realized who 
had entered the room. "She needs help. I was just about to call 
911."

"Just put down the weapon and we can talk."

Mulder placed it carefully on the desk, and stared at the Sig Sauer 
in Bill Patterson's hand. "Maybe you could do the same thing, sir."

Patterson shook his head. "I can't do that." He shouted to someone 
in the hallway. "Call 911. Tell them I've got a psychiatric 
emergency. Potentially dangerous. Tell them that he's under the 
control of a Federal agent and poses no immediate risk." He turned 
his attention back to Mulder. "Don't make me shoot you." He threw a 
set of cuffs towards Mulder. "Put them on. I've told them that 
you're under control. We don't need a SWAT team in here."

Trapped, beyond the ability to argue and with no desire to take a 
bullet over a stupid mistake, Mulder did as he was ordered.

Diana ran into the bedroom.

----------

2000

When they finally tracked him down, Mulder was almost exactly where 
they'd left him almost two hours earlier. Except now he was the one 
talking with Props and it was Scully and Skinner who were the ones 
leaning on the walls of the prison warden's outer office.

"We've got the video running," the guard said brightly. "Just like 
he asked."

The he in question, they knew, was Mulder. "How long have they been 
in there?"

"Props asked for him about two minutes after you two left. He's got 
to have had someone tell him you'd gone."

"But he knew Agent Mulder was still here?"

"Oh yeah, he knew all right."

"Did Agent Mulder ask for anything - apart from the video?"

The guard shrugged, only half listening to them, still fascinated 
by the scene on the video monitor. "Coffee - it's cold and in paper 
cups," he waved at the screen, "but he said it was better than 
nothing. And just - don't disturb him."

Scully was practically pawing the ground and that last order nearly 
caused detonation. "Not even to take our phone calls?"

"Sorry, ma'am, he was pretty definite about that. And the Warden 
said to give him full cooperation."

"Do you know what they've been talking about?"

"That's the strange thing," said the guard, shaking his head. 
"They've talked about basketball, pumpkin-growing, the weather, 
just stuff - they haven't really talked about anything."

Skinner frowned, looking at Scully with a question in his eyes. 

They couldn't just go barging in. She knew that. "Could you turn 
the sound up please?"

The guard looked up at her, suddenly remembering his manners. "Oh, 
sure thing. I'll call down for some coffee if you like."

"No, thank you, I'm fine."

The Mulder on the video monitor sounded like he was trying not to 
laugh. "You're full of it, Monty."

"The world's full of cats and dogs. Dogs - whatever you do, however 
badly you treat them - they keeping coming back for more. It's 
imprinted on them, to just keep taking it. You can't really respect 
a dog."

"I thought every dog has its day?"

"And I was supposed to be yours, wasn't I? Admit it, Fox, I've 
hospitalized you twice and still you come back for more."

"Yet you're the one they keep chained up."

Props laughed, raised his manacled hands in mocking salute. "You've 
been such a good boy, I'm going to paint you a picture." He drew 
back his head, pulling forward suddenly to spit on the table. "Good 
dog," he said admiringly, apparently congratulating Mulder on his 
refusal to back away from the mess. The prisoner's fingers skimmed 
quickly across the table top, scribbling something with the 
moisture. "You got that?"

Mulder nodded and Props ran a fast hand across the surface, 
smearing away the pattern.

Mulder pressed the button on the side of the table, causing a 
buzzer to go off if in the monitoring room. He glanced up towards 
the camera. "Guard! Interview's over."

"I'll be seeing you then," said Props.

"Don't hold your breath."

"Hey, you're going - just like that? Where's the gratitude? Where's 
the love?"

"I'll send you a bundt cake."

Mulder wasn't surprised that Scully and Skinner were waiting for 
him when he got out. He was just grateful that they waited until he 
had the video recording in his hand and they were back in the car 
before the interrogation began.

Skinner kicked it off. "Is there any point in visiting the woman 
that Props gave us?"

"I'll go tomorrow."

"It doesn't need an Assistant Director now?"

Ouch. "She'll be happy to kick the dog instead. She's one of Props' 
exes, bigamous of course. She's remarried, which is why I didn't 
recognize the name."

"Her involvement in the current case?"

"Zero - so far, I think. Her new husband was abusive; she's 
divorcing him. Probably still loves Props. She probably blames me 
for taking him away. But she may know something about the original 
MO, something that I don't know."

"And when were you going to tell us about this?"

"I didn't know, not until I started talking to Props."

"And you just guessed that he wanted to talk to you alone?"

"When I left the interview, one of the guards was surprised; he 
said Props had been talking about me."

"And you didn't think you should tell us that?"

"I had to see him alone."

"So you sent us on a wild goose chase?"

"I told you it was a hoax."

"Don't even start on that track."

"I didn't have a choice."

"Nor do I. You're suspended."

Mulder nodded, unsurprised, accepting the inevitability, even 
though it felt like a kick in the teeth.

---------

1988 

The hospital psychiatrist brought in a colleague to handle the 
second session. A man specialized in treating law enforcement 
officers and victims of PTSD.

"Guilt's a powerful motivator."

"So is saving lives."

"And you're saying that's why you work for the FBI?"

"No. I work for the FBI because I enjoy it. Saving lives makes me 
feel good - it adds to the rewards."

"You're very calm about all this. Much calmer than I would be. I've 
got your files, Mr. Mulder. I've got statements from your superior 
officers. I've got a witness who saw you with your gun in your 
mouth."

"Not my gun and it wasn't loaded."

Blinking, the doctor checked the file again. "And the pills and the 
knife were Miss Fowley's as well?"

Calm about it? There was nothing calm about the way he was feeling. 
Paralyzing fear and hyperactive alarm poised in perfect equilibrium 
wasn't the same as calm. "Dr. Fowley's."

"Tell me how you felt when you saw her there. With those things - 
the gun, the knife, the pills."

"Sick?"

"And your first thought?"

"That there was no way she could move fast enough to stop me from 
taking the gun and the knife, and that the pills could wait until 
I'd safely dealt with the other two."

"See - there you are again - so calm. I'm impressed. I'd have been 
panicking." 

"Then maybe you wouldn't enjoy working for the Bureau."

"I see you now, sitting here, all calm. Telling me about this calm 
person who disarmed Dr. Fowley." The doctor paused, leaning forward 
a little in his chair and lowering his voice so Mulder had to 
strain to hear him. "And I'm asking myself, why did the FBI suspend 
you? Why was your boss so worried that he'd already referred you 
for evaluation? Why did the guards at Quantico feel the need to 
detain you? The ICU nurses looking after Mr. Hennessey say that you 
were in tears, making up ridiculous stories about wanting to visit 
your uncle. One of them saw you the night before, getting your hand 
stitched up in the ER."

"A friend of mine tried to kill himself. I was upset."

"The accident report says it was a car crash. And from where I'm 
sitting, the alarm bells were ringing before it, and they kept on 
ringing afterwards."

The balance - fight or flight versus paralysis - was too delicate 
to analyze now. A flutter of tired wings, shifting one feather at a 
time. Mulder pressed back, as carefully as he could. "The fact is, 
to keep me here, you've got to prove that I'm a danger to myself or 
others."

"You think that's unimaginable?"

"I don't think you care what I think."

"Then why would I be talking to you?"

Because you're a fucking sadist? "I'd like to see Dr. Fowley."

"I'm afraid that's not possible."

"Is she OK?"

"We're here to talk about you."

"Is she OK?"

"She's fine."

"Why can't she see me?"

"I believe you saw Mrs. Gardiner yesterday."

"Karen? What about it?"

"The only things you discussed with her related to a case which you 
were removed from almost two weeks ago. A case that brought you 
into close contact with numerous suicide victims. It's not wise for 
someone in your condition to - "

And the calm overbalanced for an instant into the manic, allowing a 
tiny cluster of words to come tumbling out. "Someone in my 
condition!"

"If Dr. Fowley were to come here, what would you talk with her 
about?"

Oh Jesus. Mulder closed his eyes, willing himself back to 
nothingness.

"Mr. Mulder?"

"If she came, I'd ask her about pay scales in the private sector."

------

On judgment day, Diana came. Dr. Fowley, a researcher in 
neuropsychology at GWU, outlined the experiment she was running and 
explained Agent Mulder's critical role in the trial, as both an 
input to the system and as a watchdog in the event of problems.

What Bill Patterson had witnessed was the next logical stage in 
their work.

It was just sheer bad luck that the timing had gone so 
catastrophically wrong.

Even to Mulder, it sounded weak.

Fortunately, Mulder was already on the way to being a hero, which 
meant that the Bureau wanted him out. 

Reggie Purdue had taken Mulder's profile and run. Three days in and 
they'd already had a breakthrough - a nervous sounding realtor who 
thought she'd seen the same man at two property auctions in two 
towns, two hundred miles apart, except the first time he was a 
competitor and the second time he was arranging finance.

They were close and they knew it.

And everyone in VCU knew it, and the Assistant Director knew it, 
and Bill Patterson knew it.

And suddenly Mulder's presence at Quantico wasn't an embarrassment 
but his absence was. Strings were pulled and not only was he home, 
with no recommendation for further monitoring, but the suspension 
had turned into a month's vacation. And no one was ever going to 
talk about it again, on penalty of disciplinary action.




==========
=========


2000

It wasn't the first time Scully had seen her partner get suspended. 
It wasn't even the first time she'd agreed with the decision.

It was just that they had been here before and it had always been 
the wrong call.

Mulder said little on the way back from the prison, slid seamlessly 
into silence as Skinner drove them on a white-knuckle ride back to 
DC. 

She was glad of that, least said soonest mended. The situation was 
already impossible. In any case, every argument she could imagine 
them having always delivered the same outcome - Skinner stopping 
the car and Mulder walking home. Or maybe Skinner wouldn't even 
bother to stop. Presumably Mulder had had the same premonition.

The etiquette was unclear. In the car with her partner and best 
friend, and their boss who, in a moment of righteous fury, had 
rightly suspended him. Did Miss Manners have a fix for this?

She followed her partner's lead, kept her silence and simply caught 
Mulder's eye with a brief look that said that they would talk 
later. 

Skinner resolved the remaining complication by dropping Mulder at 
his apartment and announcing that he would take Agent Scully back 
to the Hoover Building to discuss the reassignment of roles.

Two hours later and Scully was knocking on Mulder's door.

"No chili?" she asked.

"Damn. I was just psyching myself up for my new life as a kept man 
and I blow it at the first hurdle."

"I'm sure you've other talents."

He nodded, a half smile before getting back to business. "Did you 
get the video tape?"

"I made a copy. No problem. I think Skinner's feeling bad about the 
suspension without trial."

"If it's any help, I feel bad about sending you off to see Props' 
ex."

She didn't respond, unwilling to get into the argument. "Do you 
still want to see her tomorrow?"

"I need to understand how those scribbles kill people. I never 
really pegged the MO, or the victimology. I profiled Props based on 
what he wasn't, not on what he was. I couldn't pin down why some 
people were at risk and others weren't. This new one, unless I can 
get a handle on him fast, he'll kill as many people as Props before 
we even get close to finding a pattern."

She looked at him, nodding slightly, her lips widening until her 
expression became a softly amused smile.

"What?"

"Most people would think that as you're suspended, you might need 
to take a backseat on the investigation."

He shrugged.

They ordered pizza and planned their campaign. Mulder fast-
forwarded to what he recalled as the key moments of his interview 
with Props. Side by side on the couch they drank coffee, argued 
over the nuances and enjoyed the contact.

She kept her voice professionally mild even when she finally 
changed the subject. "Skinner said that Diana Fowley worked for 
Patterson."

He let his hand rest on her shoulder, admiring her courage. "I 
effectively introduced them. He liked her." He ignored the way that 
Scully flinched, and was grateful that she bit down her instinctive 
response to his remark. Talking was hard; an argument would be 
hell. "After the Props case, he helped her to get funding for her 
research. In San Francisco," he added, not quite disguising the 
amusement in his voice. If Scully could be courageous then so could 
he. "About as far away from me as he could manage."

"But you still left the ISU?"

"Reggie was willing to take me off Patterson's hands. He wasn't in 
a position to say no."

"And you and Diana?"

"It suited us. A couple of thousand miles apart. We did Christmas, 
Thanksgiving, high days and holidays. She was a workaholic. I was a 
workaholic. We could act like it was some big tragedy that we were 
apart - but it wasn't. It stops people talking. It stops people 
from looking at you like you're a loser."

"Sounds sad."

"It shouldn't. It worked. It was what it was."

"Do you miss her?"

"At Thanksgiving, you mean? Nah, she wasn't that good a cook." He 
looked down at his partner, surprised that she hadn't pulled away 
from his touch. His fingers dancing lightly over her collarbone 
now. "I don't know what happened to her, and I don't know why she 
died, except that maybe it was my fault. I've got to live with 
that, but I haven't missed her in a very long time."

-------------

1988

Bill Patterson, according to Mulder, knew where all the bodies were 
buried. Which was why Patterson had been able to introduce Diana 
Fowley to the people holding the purse strings on some of the best 
research funding in the country.

The tired frown seemed out of place in the circumstances. "But, 
it's in California," she said, a little embarrassed by the whining 
sound in the words. 

Mulder tried to joke her out of it. "You did geography too?"

"It's - "

"An amazing opportunity. I know. Two years funding and no strings 
attached."

"Christ, you sound like Patterson."

He threw a hand to his chest. "Ouch."

"Come here," she said, holding her arms wide. "You're telling me 
I've got to do this. That if I don't, I'll always wonder what I 
could have achieved."

"You're the shrink, you tell me," he drew her closer, nuzzling at 
her ear. "It's only two years."

"And they have planes."

"And phones, and faxes, and email."

--------

The cold hard facts were pretty clear on the matter. They'd known 
one another for only a couple of months. Intense for sure, but 
intense partly because of a tough case and a very personal set of 
outcomes that had left Mulder hospitalized and Diana reeling.

She wasn't the kind of woman to dwell on missed opportunities or 
romanticize over maybes. Two professionals, a shared sense of 
wonder at the world, a belief that an individual could make a 
difference. It might not be hearts and flowers, but it was good and 
it was real. It was them.

It was still them even when they were a continent apart. Mulder was 
enjoying life in the field, out from under Patterson's thumb. 
Reggie Purdue gave him room to maneuver and Mulder relished it. At 
least, that was what she got from the voice on the phone, the man 
who couldn't come to visit on her birthday because he was working 
down in Georgia, but who talked some loon from the San Francisco 
Bureau office into dropping by her lab with a bunch of helium 
balloons that he wanted analyzed for potential as alien mental 
energy transponders.

It wasn't that it was easy to be apart, but sometimes it was 
shamefully good not to have to justify why a midnight session in 
the lab was worth a half-share of a warm bed. She suspected that he 
was grateful too.

Sometimes though, when the loneliness got too much or something in 
his tone of voice admitted that a case had hit too hard, she wished 
she could be there.

Other times, as she sat amongst the EEGs and the taped interviews 
with people who swore that they'd traveled faster than the speed of 
light or been guided by the voice of God, she knew that she was 
exactly where she needed to be.

Akin to temporal lobe epilepsy. Flashing lights, ominous feelings, 
ill-defined shapes, a sense of violation and fear, a feeling of 
euphoria and peace. She was touching something powerful. Many of 
those she interviewed had lost their jobs or even their families 
over this. Others had lost their minds. Yet there was also a 
strange fellowship amongst some of them, as if the shared 
experience, rejected as impossible by the majority, made them look 
to each other for care.

Unfortunately that also made the research tough. How much of what 
they said came from their own recollections? How much came from 
rationalization and reinterpretation in the light of other people's 
experiences? How much came straight out of the movies?

The ideal test subjects were untutored. Which drove her to go 
further, push closer to the source, looking at newspaper articles, 
police reports, psychiatric admissions. Fresh minds and unpolluted 
memories were at a premium.

Mulder was a couple of thousand miles away, but they were still 
tuned into the same wavelengths. Swapped faxes of press cuttings 
about lights in the sky. Emailed one another about things that go 
bump in the night. 

She flew back to DC as soon as she heard that he'd been 
hospitalized. Restrained and babbling, said the harassed police 
detective she'd spoken with. One professional to another. She said 
she was a shrink and he'd heard only the doctor in her name. She 
didn't bother to correct the assumption, just asked the right 
questions at the appropriate moments

By the time she arrived in town he was ready to be released. The 
hospital doctor had no desire to hold him. The Bureau, on the other 
hand, was rather nervous about whether he was fit to return to 
work.

In truth, once she heard the background, she was nervous too. 
According to Mulder everything had been business as usual until 
he'd walked into the warehouse. The chemical residues they found in 
his bloodstream mapped to no known poison, but they were still 
enough to give her a case to argue.

"We may not be able to pinpoint exactly what kind of hallucinogen 
he ingested, but it's very clear that that's what happened," she 
said, offering no scope for debate. Reggie Purdue and the other 
Bureau bosses looked relieved. The Bureau appointed psychiatrist 
didn't seem eager to fight. 

After an afternoon of hearings and argument, the FBI records were 
amended to state unequivocally that Mulder had been hospitalized by 
a chemical poisoning incident, not as a result of a psychotic break 
with reality.

"I thought I saw aliens," he told her, sounding faintly ashamed, 
having saved it all up for when they were finally alone and he felt 
safe again.

"You're joking. You're not?" For the briefest instant the words 
"test subject" came to mind before she batted them away. He knew 
too much about the literature, understood the theories and the test 
procedures too well. He was far too familiar with the recorded 
accounts. Definitely not a virgin. "What did they look like?" she 
asked, friend to friend.

"Blurry, gray, skinny."

She studied him over the top of her spectacles. "And what were they 
wearing?"

"Suspenders, thigh boots," he said, laughing a little, just enough 
that she was sure that it was really him and that he would be OK. 
"I, on the other hand, was stark naked."

"No wonder they kept you restrained in that hospital bed."

Another laugh. "Why, Diana. You're kinkier than I ever imagined. 
Thanksgiving then - you can be the turkey."

She'd flown home a couple of days later, wondering at the kind of 
bad luck that dogged him and the kind of cases that kept pushing 
him into the firing line.

It was enough and sometimes it was too much. Particularly when she 
knew his thoughts had drifted back to his family again. 

She hadn't met his mom. Hadn't even thought about it until he'd 
talked about Thanksgiving as if it was obvious that they would be 
together. His father sounded like plenty of others she'd met, 
absent in body, absent in soul. Actually his family life sounded a 
lot like hers, though of course it had that added poisonous twist 
in its tail.

A missing sister? A dead sister? No wonder he'd studied psychology. 
No wonder he'd ended up in the FBI. Fascinated by mystery and the 
surprise result. Did he really imagine he could find her? After all 
these years?

When he finally opted for regression hypnotherapy, it came as no 
surprise to her. She was a little peeved of course that he hadn't 
told her what he was up to until it was already a fait accompli. 
She could have saved him the money.

"The literature isn't conclusive. There are strong indications and 
contra-indications," she said, trying to sound as non-judgmental as 
she could manage. 

"Just say it. If I'm losing it, just tell me," he'd replied.

She led him through explanations of sleep paralysis, and of strange 
visions and paranoid thoughts induced by the brain's electrical 
misfires when coupled to the right kind of stimulation. But 
curiosity fed excitement and new ideas came thick and fast, for 
both of them. Without really planning it, she was becoming an 
expert on alien abduction experiences - remembered and 
manufactured.

Which was why, a year or so later, when a man called Charles 
Spender came to her lab offering her the chance to return to DC, it 
seemed as if everything was coming together.

--------
1991

When Special Agent Diana Fowley walked into the basement office for 
the first time, Mulder threw confetti. At any rate he threw the 
output of the paper shredder in her general direction.

She wasn't impressed. "Shouldn't you carry me over the threshold or 
something?" 

"Hell no. Didn't they teach you anything about approaching new 
situations at Quantico? You keep your gun arm free. You've got a 
lot to learn, kid."

It amazed her that Spender had been able to keep such an outrageous 
promise. He'd told her that if she could get through the FBI 
training then he could guarantee that she would be assigned to work 
with Mulder, and not get sent out to some backwater field office on 
the other side of the country.

Back in the same city at last, they bonded again around 
misdiagnosed mental patients and prisoners in secure psychiatric 
wards. They teased back at the colleagues who said romance was 
dead.

It wasn't difficult to keep the other strand of her work away from 
him. In fact from her perspective she wasn't really hiding 
anything, just looking at it from a different angle. Inevitable 
really, his insights were flavored by years of looking at the 
consequences of crime and by a knowledge of myth and mystery. Hers 
were tempered by images of misfiring neurons and electrolyte 
imbalance.

Two lenses applied to the same task, overlapping as required, 
broadening the picture when necessary. 

Recovered memories and abductees. It was easy for her to fulfill 
her side of the deal. The X-Files was the natural home of UFO 
sightings and odd experiences and the interviews she could gather 
would be fresh and the backgrounds well documented because of it. 
She was onto something, and the more data she collected the better. 
Tantalizingly close to understanding the rules that made some 
memories trustworthy and others not. A glance at a monitor that 
could deliver an insight that no current lie detector could even 
begin to approach.

Yet, he couldn't be told the whole story of just what her research 
was revealing - not yet. The methods were at best experimental and 
at worst, actually destructive. Hidden memories could be 
overwritten by imagined ones in a way that might make it impossible 
ever to tell the difference between the real and the fabricated. 

Fox needed his memories, and one day she would give them back to 
him - but only if she could do it with full confidence in the 
results. He'd talked to enough quacks.

The X-Files were a goldmine for them both. Down here, away from the 
watchful eyes of Blevins and the rest of the Bureau brass they 
could indulge themselves. Telekinesis, telepathy and precognition. 
Mulder asked, "But, what if?" and she looked at ways to examine the 
possibilities. 

They even cracked a few cases. Murders where the trail had gone 
cold. Disappearances that had never supplied a body. They looked 
for magic and when they found it, they used it and gave the Bureau 
just enough tangible results to keep them open. And when they found 
new bodies in shallow graves, Diana held Mulder's hand while the 
technicians checked dental records and the MEs examined the 
skeletons for evidence of a collarbone fractured years before.

------

They were in Chicago when news of Monty Props' escape came through.

Fowley took the call, shivered at the recollection of the man, and 
wondered if this was another thing that she should keep from her 
partner. The fantasy vanished from her thoughts as quickly as it 
had come. Mulder had to be told. But his eyes fluttered with pain 
when she told him and she wished that she could take the words 
back.

"I'll get the next flight," he said, rapidly regaining his cool.

"You're going to DC?" 

"They don't know what they're dealing with. How did he get out?"

"He was in the hospital - minor surgery, but not something they 
could deal with in the prison. His guard committed suicide, but 
released him from his restraints first."

Mulder nodded, pulling out clothes to load them into his suitcase.

She started to follow his lead, but he caught her hand and shook 
his head. "No. You stay here. Carry on the investigation."

She tried to argue. "But I know the Props case, too. I was there."

"Yeah, I remember. That's why you stay here."

---------

The next day, Mulder was back in DC and feeling like a complete 
asshole. Nobody wanted him on the case. Friends, colleagues and 
bosses, if they agreed on nothing else, they agreed on that. In 
fact, on closer analysis, even he agreed.

There was fear in the case and he hated being afraid. "Fear of the 
unknown," he remarked to Hennessey. Hennessey didn't reply. Dave 
Hennessey hadn't replied to any questions in the past three years. 
Apart from breathing and swallowing, Dave didn't do very much at 
all these days. 

"Spooky's afraid of the dark, Dave. Imagine that." Mulder couldn't 
imagine it. He'd drawn the creatures; he'd hummed the mantras and 
focused on the intersections, and nothing had happened. Nothing. 
Not so much as a blinding flash of light or even a coup de grace of 
guilt.

Diana didn't remember much, recalled Mulder's intervention in her 
trance as if he'd been an actor in her dream and Bill Patterson's 
sudden arrival in the room as a devastating wake-up call. They 
didn't talk about it again.

So much left unspoken, so much that was unresolved about the case. 
Back in 88, they'd arrested Props on the strength of Mulder's 
profile. Trade shows, exhibitions, fairs and property sales - not 
much there that smacked of the spiritual. Mulder had speculated 
that maybe that was part of their killer's charm, bringing the 
extraordinary into the world of the mundane. Maybe his victims were 
unguarded and unprepared. 

Certainly the people who died were not the same people who signed 
over checks to him during demonstrations of spiritual healing. Nor 
were they the ones who swooned as he showed that in the right state 
of mind even hot coals weren't a problem for naked feet.

The first time Mulder met Props was at the trial. Clean bill of 
health from the Bureau shrinks or not, Purdue and Patterson had 
been careful to keep him out of harm's way. 

"It's not as if I haven't got a conscience, Dave. Christ - you've 
got your own page in there. I can replay every fuck-up I've ever 
made. Well, not every fuck-up. Did you know there's a black hole in 
the middle of my memory? Patterson knew - used to call it the heart 
of the darkness. I hated him, you know. I'm over it now. I'd crawl 
into his office on my hands and knees if I thought it would get me 
back on the case. Trouble is, the old bastard would probably just 
send me to San Diego again."

Props' houses contained evidence of his success as a con artist. 
His belongings were deceptively simple and unostentatious but the 
quality was good and the value high. 

Amongst the books on his shelves there were discussions of 
meditation, anthologies of curses and charms, para-scientific 
studies of voodoo and suggestion, but nothing that contained 
anything quite like those drawings. Nothing that explained the 
hidden power of the hasty scribbles and careful graphics that 
marked every death. Which meant that despite having caught Props 
once and having received all the plaudits and praise, Mulder still 
felt as if he knew nothing.

He watched Dave's eyes, hoping for a miracle, a flicker of 
something. Saw nothing. "How did Patterson know it was you? How did 
he know that you were the one who'd see the trick? Didn't know 
enough though, did he? Didn't know you'd cracked it? I think that's 
why he went to see Diana that night. He knew she must be close. He 
didn't want to miss the trick again."

The optimist in Mulder, the bit that believed that people were 
basically good, wanted to believe that Bill had gone to her out of 
concern for her safety. But the bit that sucked the good from the 
world and discarded it as pretence, the heart of the darkness, that 
part of Mulder knew that Patterson just wanted a better handle on 
the killer.

Understandably so. 

"The profile I wrote caught him, but it was a one-shot deal. It 
doesn't explain how we catch him now. It won't stop him from 
killing again."

It hadn't even stopped the man from breaking out of jail.

"What have you got that I haven't got, Dave?"

---------

Reggie Purdue was marginally more communicative than Dave 
Hennessey, at least over the phone. "You know that I shouldn't even 
be talking to you?"

"Despite the fact I'm the best man for the job?"

"I've got my orders."

"I'm not even suspended," Mulder argued.

"You're not YET suspended!" Purdue breathed out heavily, an amused 
snort. "So, you got another profile for me? You planning on going 
toe to toe with Patterson again?"

"No new profile. Not yet. He's staying with a woman, someone he 
already knew, and he's in a city he knows, east coast. With his 
picture in the news, a city's the best way for him to hide."

"He hasn't run?"

"Unfinished business. He's got money still stashed away. We didn't 
trace it all and he's not the type to have spirited it off overseas 
- too confident for that. In any case he'll want the one that got 
away."

"The one that got away?"

"Somebody he'd primed for death, but who didn't die. He always had 
at least one victim rolling into his trap - but I kept watching the 
suicides for a couple of months after his capture and nothing lined 
up with the Props MO."

"Hennessey?"

"No. No, I don't think so. Though it might not be a bad idea to 
have surveillance on him and on Diana - just in case Props wants to 
do a house call. But I think they were different; Props didn't try 
to trap them; they trapped themselves."

"So who?"

"Props was very good at what he was doing - the thing that undid 
the programming must have been very powerful."

"An accident, illness, some kind of intervention - family, friends, 
co-workers?"

"Too coincidental. I think it'll relate directly to Props' capture. 
It made the victim too busy, too tired, too angry, too something. 
It broke the pattern."

"But not a coincidence?"

"Something changed the outcome. Props got caught; Dave got hurt; I 
got hospitalized. Somebody got changed by that - a lawyer got too 
busy, a reporter started chasing a Pulitzer, an ER nurse decided to 
quit her job. I don't know. It doesn't help much, does it?"

"Damned if I know, Mulder. Look - I'll keep you in the loop. I'll 
get people looking back over the files on the last couple of those 
shows he went to before we put him away - see if someone fits your 
picture. We're already working through anyone who's been in contact 
with him in prison. I'll copy you on whatever comes in."

--------

Section Chief Blevins ordered Mulder back to Chicago, but only 
after giving him a long lecture about abandoning his duties, abuse 
of Bureau resources, and on the gross professional misconduct of 
leaving a novice FBI agent to fend for herself.

The irony was that Blevins had turned down Mulder's request for the 
Chicago case twice before and had only given in on the third 
occasion from sheer frustration at Mulder's constant nagging. The 
deaths they were looking into in Illinois were ten years old. They 
could wait until Props was locked up again.

"Agent Mulder. Bank Fraud is looking for extra assistance with a 
transnational money laundering case being run out of Alaska. Do you 
really want to test me on this?"

Chicago wasn't very far away, just a few hours and plenty of 
flights. It would do. It would have to. Blevins was already 
throwing around phrases like, "Concerned for your health," and, 
"Disturbed by your obsession with a matter that's already being 
handled by the Marshals Service."

When he got back to Chicago, Diana was glad to see him. She greeted 
him with a soft kiss and a warm bed. "I'm sorry," she said, "but 
you must have known. They've got to be careful. Hennessey - you - 
Props hurt people."

"Hennessey - me - people? But not you?"

"I don't know what to say. When you burst into my apartment I felt 
great - I certainly didn't feel suicidal."

"And the gun, the knife, the pills - they were just party favors?"

"Set dressing."

A soft bed wasn't enough, nor was the heat of her hand on his 
belly, or her warm breath against his ear. "For God's sake, Diana. 
You were in a fucking trance. I had a gun in my mouth and you still 
didn't come out of it." He was out of the bed and prowling now, too 
much energy in too small a space. He shook his head. "I'm going for 
a run."

=========


END of Part 9

=========



The next day, Mulder held out until 5 o'clock before calling Reggie 
Purdue's number. Nothing - not a fax, a phone call, or even an 
email. He'd even checked in with the field office, just in case 
they'd sent it there rather than to the motel.

Reggie sounded apologetic. "It's out of my hands."

"I thought we had this discussion yesterday."

"Yeah, and somebody heard about it, and now I'm off the case as 
well."

"They can't do that."

"They've done it."

"Damn it, Reggie - you've got to fight this."

"No, I don't, and to tell the truth, I don't want to."

Reggie sounded tired, exhausted even, and as Mulder replayed the 
words he couldn't believe that he hadn't heard it before. "Are you 
OK?"

"Mulder. You've got your own life now. You're doing the work that 
you want to do. You've got a woman at your side. Don't screw it up. 
Cherish what you've got."

He'd had this conversation before. Late night, a case just closed, 
sitting in a hotel bar. Purdue had told him to count his blessings 
and shared whiskey-soaked stories of the thriller he was planning 
to write and how since his wife died of cancer he'd learned to 
appreciate small miracles. "Oh hell, Reggie."

"Anyway, even if I wanted to, I couldn't do it."

"Sure. I understand." Though he didn't understand. Never had 
understood why bad things happened to good people. There was 
probably something he should say now, but whatever the words were, 
they didn't come. He floundered, looking for something that was 
better than silence.

Purdue took mercy on him. "Walter Skinner's running the show."

"The new AD?"

"Officially he takes AD Prentice's place at the end of the month. I 
guess he figures that it'll be a chance to get to know his way 
around the Hoover Building again. He's been in LA for a couple of 
years."

"So I should go hassle him." He tried to make it sound like a joke 
but then the reality overwhelmed him again. "Reggie."

"Yeah. Take care, man."

"You too."

And when Diana put her arms around him he was grateful, and 
terrified, and so fucking angry that if Monty Props and Bill 
Patterson were to walk into the room right now his only problem 
would be working out which one to kill first.

---------

2000

Props' ex-wife, or whatever she was, had been primed to expect 
them. Scully puzzled over the naming conventions. What was the 
right way to describe a woman who'd married a Paul Summerton only 
to discover that she was the third bigamous wife of a man called 
Monty Props? A victim? A dupe?

Whatever. The woman smiled warmly at their arrival, welcoming them 
as if their presence was a cause for celebration as well as a 
chance to set the record straight. "You came," she said, sounding 
delighted. She took their coats and ushered them into the living 
room.

Every available surface was decorated with pictures of Props and as 
for the walls, off their stunned expressions, she was quick to 
explain. "He painted them for me. Isn't that adorable? So much 
talent."

Scully shuddered a little, taking in the sickly sweet 
sentimentality in each image and suddenly feeling a little queasy. 

Mulder took the lead. "They're remarkable, Mrs. Props."

She smiled, overjoyed by his use of her chosen title. "Thank you. I 
really don't know why you came. I don't think you want to hear what 
I've got to tell you."

"I can assure you that we do."

"You think he's a killer."

"What is he, Mrs. Props?"

"A healer," she said, smiling beatifically.

They danced around the subject, reminiscing of simpler times and 
happier days and Scully felt her gut clench as she watched her 
partner dive head first into the woman's delusions - challenging 
nothing, looking eager to hear more. Her hand drifted to her 
pocket, content to find the pack of Tylenol in its usual place. He 
was going to need it. Maybe they both were.

"He's been punished for offering forgiveness. That's all he ever 
gave them."

Mulder nodded and Scully tensed, sensing the change in mood. "But 
he didn't forgive you?" he said, whisper soft.

"Oh - he forgave me. He forgave me years ago. But I've never been 
able to forgive myself." She sighed, stared up at them as if she 
was performing some kind of examination of their souls. She locked 
on Mulder again. "You understand that."

Mulder agreed.

Scully, the goose pimples in her arms tingling as the silence 
stretched, took over. "Mrs. Props. Are you aware that the deaths 
have started again?"

The woman smiled. Cheerful agreement. 

Scully fought to keep the shudder out of her voice. "Do you know 
anything about the deaths?"

"Only what you know, Miss Scully."

"I'm sorry?"

"You know the power of forgiveness. Do you remember your first 
confession? First real one - first one you took because you wanted 
to, not because you were told to - do you remember the bliss?"

Scully frowned, tried to blink the reaction away.

The ex-almost-wife smiled again. "You do. I can see it in your 
eyes. He'll never know." She tilted her head towards Mulder. "But 
we know. We've always known."

--------

The car ride home was long, stretched by uncomfortable silence and 
even more uncomfortable words.

Mulder did most of the talking. "I don't think she's got any more 
idea about who's doing the killing than we have. It's just wishful 
thing."

"Wishful thinking?"

"She wants forgiveness - what she thinks Props gave his victims. 
She thinks that's what the new killer is offering, too. She'll try 
and seek him out."

"So Props was telling the truth: she is the next victim?"

"She's primed for the job. Props can't help her himself, so she'll 
try to find the killer. Whether she's got any real insight on that, 
I doubt."

"You don't think she knows him?"

"No. But she may know how to find him or he may know how to find 
her. It might be worth keeping her under surveillance."

"As bait?" Her voice rose in disgust. "She needs help. She's sick. 
You heard her back there. The things she said. She's created an 
elaborate fantasy around Props."

"Not a fantasy. The truth as she sees it."

And that wasn't just another word for fantasy? "You bought it 
didn't you? All that talk about forgiveness and absolution?"

"It doesn't matter what I bought. What matters is what the victims 
bought, and that's the best explanation I've heard for it. I've 
heard it before and missed the point. Missed it by a mile. I 
thought they died because the pain got too much."

"And they didn't?"

"No, no. I got half-way there - the cult thing. The victims felt 
good. Everyone told me that - friends, families, co-workers - but I 
ignored them. I just thought it was guilt talking or that the 
victims had been faking it to get more room to act. But it was 
real. Diana told me the same thing. I thought the problems came 
when they suddenly got cut off from the bliss - but they didn't, 
they just went higher and higher."

"And died of happiness?"

"You know what they died of. Guns, knives, pills, fire. But they 
did it well - they were ready to go. The only one who got it wrong 
was Dave Hennessey and that was probably because he was too busy to 
think it through."

Skinner agreed to meet them at Mulder's apartment. Scully's 
suggestion that Props' wife had given them new insight pushed more 
buttons than she'd anticipated. "I thought Mulder said the woman 
had nothing to do with the current case."

"He changed his mind."

Skinner's mumbled expletive almost made her laugh, a mirror image 
of her own first reaction. She just hoped that she'd managed a 
better job of hiding it.

---------

1991

Bill Patterson was the same bastard he'd always been.

Mulder glared at the motel room phone, disgusted, and let his old 
boss get it all off his chest before responding. "Yeah, I love you 
too, Bill. The thing is, I know who Props is chasing, the one that 
got away. It's the first witness we got - the woman realtor. I 
never met her myself, but I was reviewing the files - the original 
interviews - she was newly widowed. Giving evidence to us - it 
shook her up - broke her out of the programming - she couldn't 
meditate anymore."

He paused, waited long seconds for a reply that never came. 
Patterson had already hung up.

Cut off from Bureau resources, he decided to get the Lone Gunman to 
help out. Embarrassing, asking them to tell him what the FBI and 
the US Marshals service were doing, but safer than trying to find 
out by any other route.

It was becoming painfully clear that Diana was part of his personal 
mental health police, officially or not. She watched him like a 
hawk, congratulating him when he focused on the case they were 
actually supposed to be investigating for more than two minutes at 
a stretch.

Welcome to your strait jacket, Agent Mulder.

"I know you're worried," he told her.

"Because you aren't. You're worried about everyone except yourself. 
Let them do it, Fox. It's their job."

"They don't understand what they're dealing with."

"And you do?"

"Better than them."

-------

When Frohike called him on his cellphone the following day Mulder 
was up to his neck in microfiche. Carefully plodding his way 
through every newspaper report he could get hold of from three 
years earlier despite the fact that the Wall Street Journal was 
unlikely to offer him the kind of break he needed. At any rate, all 
pretence that he was working on his assigned duties had been 
abandoned. Only his body was in Chicago.

Melvin sounded angry. "I thought this was supposed to be 
important!"

It threw Mulder for a moment. Of course it was important. Why the 
hell would Frohike think otherwise? Even so, he tried to soothe, 
but was too eager to hear the news and too seasick from the 
browsing to make a decent job of an apology. "It is. Have you got 
something for me?"

Frohike quickly informed him that he had exactly the same news that 
he'd had four hours earlier, when Diana promised that she'd get her 
showering partner to call the Gunmen back the instant he came out 
of the bathroom. Phone in hand, Mulder wandered out onto the 
library steps, sniffed at the cold fresh air, flinched at the 
bright sunlight that stung his eyes. Sudden ugly recollection of 
asking Diana who'd called, and of getting no real reply. "I didn't 
get the message."

Frohike calmed a little, clucking in disgust at the missed 
communication. "They're looking for someone in Maine. That witness 
you told Patterson about, the realtor, she's vacationing with her 
family."

"Thanks."

He was on the next flight out, but that still left him hours 
behind.

Mark Walsh, the ASAC running the operation for the field office, 
was a surprise. Better than a surprise, he was a freak result - a 
man who not only remembered Mulder's success in the ISU but who 
still respected it. "I heard they'd sent you off to chase ET? 
Somebody got a grudge against you, Agent Mulder?"

"Lots of them, sir." He knew better than to argue, particularly 
when he was looking for unthinking cooperation. "What's happening?"

"Wild goose chase I'm afraid. I got your phone call - the warning - 
so I told the agents to bring her out of the house for a chat. She 
was fine with it, cooperative."

"Where are they now?"

"She invited them in for coffee. Patterson wanted us to look out 
for those sketches the victims drew. They're checking the place 
over and interviewing the rest of the family."

Doing a thorough job, because Spooky and Patterson had asked the 
ASAC for a little extra attention. Oh, hell. "How many of them are 
in there?"

"Two agents, two local police as backup. What can I say, Mulder; 
you made me nervous."

"We've got to get everybody out of that house, now. This is perfect 
for Props. It'll be his finest hour."

"What are you saying?"

"Please?"

"Aw, fuck." Walsh pushed the buttons on the phone. "No reply. Let's 
go."

The house was already on fire when they arrived. Mulder burned his 
hands trying to get in through the front door.

--------

Skinner was grateful for the tersely worded analysis provided by 
the injured profiler. Ex-profiler, he reminded himself. Butting in 
on a case, a case he'd already been told wasn't his.

How the hell was he supposed to discipline an agent for caring too 
much?

Still, those half dozen bullet points that Fox Mulder had dictated 
to Diana Fowley were more useful than anything that Patterson and 
the ISU or the rest of the task force had supplied since the 
incident in Maine. The incident? He baulked at the euphemism. The 
disaster that had left ten people dead.

Follow the money.

And look for the place where Props had met the realtor again, and 
had thus set in motion the chain of events that led to her killing 
herself, her three children, her parents, two FBI agents and two 
police officers. New MO, it said in Mulder's notes. Props had 
restarted the clock.

It worked. The victim's diary gave them Boston. The bank staff gave 
them what they could.

Props was back in prison before Mulder was back at work.

--------

A few hours in an ER bed had been followed by a painful and 
humiliating few days. At home, but with both hands carefully 
dressed and basically useless.

Diana fed him, a game that was only fun if it wasn't a necessity. 
Drinking coffee through a straw was better than not drinking coffee 
at all. The bathroom was a logistical nightmare.

It gave him time to think and that was always a pain in the ass.

Ten people dead because he'd been too slow.

Ten people dead because Monty Props had willed it so.

Ten people dead because Spooky couldn't be trusted even by the 
people who knew him best.

Spreading the blame didn't lighten the load. 

Frohike brought him a hat fitted with beer can holders and all the 
necessary plumbing to get himself smashed. 

Mulder spoke softly, as if he didn't want to hear the words 
himself. "I don't know what to do." 

Frohike tried to joke him out of it. "You suck it up through the 
open end of the straw."

Mulder smiled. "Just suck it up?"

"It's not your fault. They wouldn't listen."

"And whose fault was that? I'm not some rookie kid. I should have 
been able to make them listen. I've caught this asshole once and 
they still ignored me."

"We didn't."

"No. You didn't." He paused, thinking about the implications of 
that. Sat back in his chair, ignoring the insistent itch of his 
carefully bandaged hands. "Thanks."

Alone with his thoughts again - clarity stung.

ASAC Mark Walsh had believed him and it hadn't helped, just 
guaranteed that more officers had been sent and that they'd spent 
longer in the house.

Reggie had tried to help but wasn't in any position to follow 
through.

Even Bill Patterson, despite the stony reception he'd given him 
over the phone, had accepted his words and seen that they were put 
into action.

And the new AD, Walter Skinner, who didn't know him at all, had 
used his notes to capture Props.

He hadn't been ignored. 

Just not quite trusted. Not enough. Not when it mattered.

And while mostly he could live with that, which was a good thing as 
he didn't actually get a choice in the matter, there was one thing 
he couldn't live with at all.

Even though the timing sucked. 

Useless hands. Couldn't even get the top off the bottle of 
painkillers. 

Diana brought Chinese home with her and Mulder sat back on the 
couch ashamed of his indecision. If he told her before she fed him 
then it might be days before he could get anyone to supply him with 
something so tasty again. The Gunmen would deliver, but the thought 
of Langly spoon-feeding him was enough to ruin his appetite.

Principled but hungry, or sated but ashamed?

"Diana. We need to talk."

She returned from the kitchen, carrying plates and cutlery, having 
abandoned her coat somewhere along the way. "After we've eaten. I'm 
starved; you must be, too. Did Melvin come over?"

Absolved, and with a clear conscience, he settled back and enjoyed 
the food. Tried to anyway.

After she cleared the plates away she brought him some freshly 
brewed coffee and another straw. 

"OK," she said at last. "I know you're finding this hard. But it's 
only for a few more days. When they re-dress your hands tomorrow, 
they'll be reducing the bandages. You should be a bit more mobile."

"Who did you talk to about the Props case?" He already knew the 
answer; he'd had Frohike grab her call listing.

Surprised by his tone, she hesitated over the reply; spoke slowly, 
as if sensing that they'd reached some kind of fork in the road. 
"Blevins called me, so did Bill Patterson."

"What did you tell them?"

"The truth. That you were working on the Props case, against 
orders. Patterson said you'd been to see Hennessey; I agreed with 
him that you probably still felt guilty about what happened to 
Dave."

"And that I was at risk?"

"He asked me if he was going to be signing committal forms again. I 
told him that I had your back."

Not exactly a rousing vote of confidence. "I'm going to submit a 
request, a transfer for you - away from the X-Files. It won't hurt 
your record. They'll find you a great job."

"Fox. Don't do this. I know you're upset. God knows - I understand 
why you're upset. But you've got to know, I was only trying to 
protect you."

"Ten people died. And I was never in any danger!" Sudden agony 
burst over the top of the painkiller-induced haze. He glanced down 
at his hands, trying to relax his muscles and feeling a little 
stupid even though he still meant every word he'd just said. "I'm 
better off alone. I can't work with a partner who doesn't trust 
me."

"I trust you. Never think I don't trust you. But - I love you too - 
and I can't bear the thought of you getting hurt. I can't let that 
happen." She moved carefully, avoiding his damaged hands, looking 
deep into his eyes. Soft kiss of a familiar lover, reassuring as 
well as sensual. "I love you, Fox."

"I know. I know you do. I guess that's it then - I can't have a 
partner who loves me."



=========


END of Part 10

=========


2000

Back in Skinner's office, Mulder made a vague attempt to sound 
contrite but couldn't quite pull it off. "I'm sorry about what 
happened at the prison. I could see that Props wanted to get me 
alone. It was the only thing I could come up with."

"We could have waited in the monitoring room."

"He was waiting for word that you'd left the grounds. In any case 
Props isn't the man he was, but he might still have had a few 
tricks up his sleeve." 

"Tricks that you'd see through but we wouldn't?"

"All I knew and all I know for sure now is that I'm immune. 
Everyone else who's spent any time studying those drawings, 
meditating, either died or came within a hair's breadth. There was 
a detective in New York - he killed himself. Dave Hennessey tried 
to, Diana Fowley would have."

Disbelief in Skinner's tone, lacing his response with a hard 
sarcastic edge. "And you're immune?"

Even the attempt to sound contrite vanished then. "Yes. And if you 
think that makes me a suitable case for psychiatric help then 
you're probably right, but not for the reasons you're imagining."

"Really. You can read minds again, Mulder?"

This was a mistake. Involving other people was always a fucking 
mistake.

Scully broke the silence. "Mulder knows Props better than anyone; 
he deserves a hearing."

The expression on Skinner's face left no doubt about the kind of 
hearing that he was considering. "Is this why you substituted the 
drawings and photographs in my copy of the casefile: the one you 
knew would get copied for the other members of the task force?"

"I couldn't take the risk. Someone might have looked at them."

"Which is the reason why they should be in there! But you disagreed 
- deliberately hid evidence from your colleagues. And from me."

Scully tried to make sense of the situation. "Mulder?"

He turned to face her. "You saw the real things. But you started 
playing with them, doing slideshows. I couldn't let it go any 
further. Because that's what a good agent would do - they'd try to 
understand."

Skinner's anger was fading now, or at least his control was 
growing. His voice became more measured, less abrasive. "Why didn't 
you tell me your theory - get my support - rather than making me 
look like a fool? Neil Felden knew you'd substituted the photos; he 
saw the originals over in the ISU."

Oh, hell. "If I'd told you that no one except me could study the 
pictures - because anyone else was in danger - it would have 
sounded like a challenge. That I was claiming to be special - 
tougher, saner. You'd have had something to prove. I couldn't let 
that happen."

"A challenge?"

"Isn't it? Isn't that what you're hearing now? Don't you want to go 
back home and start looking at those things? Drawing your own 
versions? Scully does. She only stopped because I got scared and 
she didn't want to upset me. The idea that she might actually be in 
danger didn't even cross her mind." 

Scully snapped at that. "You didn't tell me your theory. You gave 
me nothing to go on, apart from the fact that you didn't like 
them." 

He looked at her, faintly ashamed of having talked about her as if 
she wasn't there, but utterly unapologetic about the content. 
"Because there was nothing to go on. I told you they were 
dangerous."

"You didn't tell me you thought you were immune!"

"Because you still think it's a challenge - an insult to your 
strength. If it helps, I think maybe Patterson was immune as well. 
I can't believe he didn't try. You see the company I keep? I'd 
better talk to Felden, before he does anything stupid."

"Felden? You think he's in danger now. The way Hennessey was?"

"It was a dumb mistake. I forgot that the pictures were routed 
through the ISU. I can't believe I did that."

Skinner snorted, as if there was a whole list of things he couldn't 
believe. But his voice was more controlled now, curiosity 
displacing the anger. "You said there *was* nothing to go on - do 
you have something to go on now?"

"The MO - why some people get away. Props only ever chose good 
candidates, the most susceptible. They had to be willing to learn, 
and to spend hours meditating. They had to be looking for answers; 
otherwise we'd have found more people coming forward who Props had 
approached but who'd never followed it through. And they had to 
believe that there was something better than being alive. They 
didn't die of despair. They died looking forward to a better life."

"Like those cult suicides, Ephesian's followers at Apison?"

"Murder/suicides at Apison. The same mechanism at work."

"They died because they believed they would go to heaven?"

Mulder shrugged, nodding. "They thought there was something better 
than living - and they were happy to do it. They prepared for it. 
So wherever they thought they were going it must have looked 
great." Wasn't it obvious? Hindsight operating full force, there 
was no reason for him to doubt it.  

Scully puzzled over the implications, said the words as an 
experiment not a statement "Suicide is a sin."

"But these particular suicides were crimes. That's the other thing 
about the victims - they weren't typical. Most suicide attempts 
fail - the only failure here was Hennessey and he wasn't chosen by 
Props. At least half the people who commit suicide go to see a 
doctor or a priest in the month before their deaths - none of 
Props' victims did."

Skinner was frowning, rubbing at tired eyes as if this was one 
headache too many. "So what do we do now?"

"Get to Felden. Watch Props' ex-wife, just in case. Redo the victim 
analysis for the current cycle of deaths. I've missed something, 
something obvious. I got so hung up on the how, I forgot the why."

Skinner set the wheels in motion. Surveillance courtesy of the 
local office until backup arrived from DC. A wake-up call for Neil 
Felden and an early morning meeting for everyone, including the no 
longer suspended Mulder. Tomorrow they would restart the chase.

---------

Felden was smiling. "I'm told the case is atheists only now."

Scully replied first. "Not exactly, Agent Felden. We watch each 
other's backs; no one gets to play martyr."

"Except Mulder."

Mulder smiled back, only a little manic. "Jealous? Truth is, we're 
back to basics. No heroics, no psychic connections. We caught Props 
that way twice. We'll catch the new one the same way."

"You're convinced it isn't Props?"

"Props is tired. He's looking for forgiveness for himself, and he 
can't even pull that off. He can't even help his ex. But even so, 
this is all about Props. The ability this person's got; imposing 
his will like this - it's just strange, perverse, that he'd choose 
to do exactly the same thing with it that Props did. Why doesn't he 
want them to move onto his ranch where he can suck all the cash out 
of their bank accounts and start building himself a harem? Why 
isn't he sending out his tame zombies to do his bidding?"

Felden was almost laughing now. "His zombies."

"Tame zombies," insisted Mulder, equally amused. 

"We're talking voodoo and hexes aren't we? Mind control through 
suggestion."

"Kind of."

Felden shrugged. "And you're saying that the drawings, they set the 
game in motion, but he could divert it to get any result and he 
isn't deviating from Props' old plan of pushing them to suicide? So 
now what?"

"Somebody's copycatting Props. Somebody who wanted to make it 
obvious that it had started happening again. Maybe to pin the blame 
on Props. Maybe to draw us into the case."

"Us?"

"Me, the FBI, I don't know. But he wanted to be noticed. It took 
months before anyone noticed Props. We need to go back to the 
victimology on the latest deaths and start again. I don't think 
it's random - there's a connection."

"I did the background checks, Mulder."

"Do them again, Felden."

"Once again with feeling?"

"Got it in one."

Felden laughed.

Scully intervened, as if she couldn't quite compute what she was 
hearing and needed confirmation. "Are you OK with this, Agent 
Felden?"

"I spend my whole life being told to lighten up. Though not usually 
in those exact words you'll understand - it's usually got something 
to do with sticks and asses. This case, I get a phone call from 
Mulder at two in the morning telling me not to be so God damned 
happy. What's not to love?"

Mulder looked over at Scully, saw her close her eyes as she tried 
not to laugh. He smiled. "I have that effect on people." He paused 
for just long enough to let her open her eyes. "Certain people."

Felden cleared his throat, sitting up straight, all business. 
"Actually there was one thing I noticed. Latest victim, the one who 
took the pills, his mom reported it to the police?" He waited for 
their nods of recognition before moving on. "Same name as one of 
the guards at the prison they're holding Props."

"Same name?"

"But not related. I only picked it up by accident - reading the 
list of people who visited Props. The guard who signs them in gets 
listed alongside."

"Where does he live?"

"About a mile away from the victim." 

----------

Scully, convinced that they would soon be on the trail again, left 
Mulder debating the victimology with Felden. Skinner was still 
organizing the rest of the FBI forces and for a moment she couldn't 
help but wonder about the things she'd missed by working outside 
the mainstream. The teams of twenty that could be turned on and off 
like a switch.

In his natural habitat again, Skinner barked and the other agents 
wagged their tails. She settled back in her chair, content to read 
through a couple of incident reports from the surveillance on "Mrs. 
Props" and listen to her boss in action. 

A few minutes later the room was empty except for Scully and 
Skinner. He turned his attention to her. "What do you think?"

An open question, ambiguous in its demands, yet necessitating more 
than a one-word answer. She admired his style. "Mulder's talking to 
Felden. I think we're getting somewhere."

"Is Felden going to be OK?"

"I don't think we need to put him on suicide watch if that's what 
you mean. What about you?"

"Suicide watch?" he said, an almost smile on his lips as if he was 
finding Scully's suddenly buoyant mood contagious.  

"I was thinking more, this," she waved a hand to indicate the desk, 
the office, the trappings of power. "Mulder must be - " She paused, 
not quite sure how to phrase it without having it sound like a 
challenge or a joke.

" - an anomaly?" Skinner suggested, sinking back into his chair, 
looking grateful to be getting a moment's peace. "He's the first 
man I'd want on my side in a tight spot and about the last person 
I'd want on my team."

Scully could understand that. "Not a team player?"

"I've got hundreds of team players."

"Every pack needs a joker?"

"I'll tell him you said that."

She looked at him, comfortable for the moment, grateful to have an 
ally.

Skinner pushed himself to sit upright again, blinking the tiredness 
away. "Do you believe him - about why they killed themselves?"

The answer came to her so quickly that it almost took her by 
surprise. "Yes." 

--------

It was the prison warden himself who called Skinner to inform the 
FBI that Monty Props was dead. 

Skinner came within seconds of suspending Mulder again, possibly 
from the FBI but maybe just from the ceiling. All thoughts of 
relaxation or of a satisfactory conclusion to the case had vanished 
as the warden effectively accused the FBI of murdering their 
prisoner. 

The cynical idea that the man was only actually bothered by the 
paperwork didn't improve Skinner's mood. The FBI was going to be 
drowning in paper too; the prison warden's attitude guaranteed it. 
The call from Props' lawyers, now acting for another of his ex-
wives and his only child, confirmed it. Mulder was the only 
scapegoat in blaming distance.

Skinner went for the direct attack. "He killed himself less than 
forty eight hours after we visited. We were with him for thirty 
minutes. You were with him for more than two hours. The videos have 
been subpoenaed. Tell me there's nothing on those tapes that's 
going to come back and bite us, or rather you, on the ass?" 

Mulder surprised Skinner by failing to rise to the bait. 
Professional rather than apologetic, controlled rather than angry. 
"After my first visit to see him with Agent Scully, I suggested he 
be placed on suicide watch."

"And after your second visit?"

"My opinion hadn't changed."

Fucking hell shit. He should suspend him, just on principle, just 
to show it wasn't a game. Just in the interests of self-
preservation, to see if it knocked a couple of points off his blood 
pressure. "Not good enough. Did he give you any indication that he 
was going to do this?"

The professionally polite veneer was already starting to crack. A 
sharper edge to Mulder's tone when he replied. "You've seen the 
tapes."

"I saw you leading him on, encouraging his delusions."

"Delusions? You don't think Props killed those people?"

No, no, that wasn't he meant at all. Though admittedly, as he 
replayed his words, it sounded like that now. "You played him, 
talked about what he'd been, what he wasn't."

A momentary silence. A single slow nod of the head from Mulder. 
"You're saying I killed him."

Skinner sat back, surprised by his own anger and Mulder's 
passivity. Had he expected Mulder to put up more of a fight? Did he 
need Mulder to fight? Analysis would have to come later, and it 
would, and the guilt wouldn't be far behind. But this battle had 
gone too far not to come to a conclusion. They had to actually 
clear the air. Had Mulder turned the tables on the guru? Had he 
killed Props? "Did you?"

Mulder nodded, considering it. "Not intentionally."

"But?"

"You're right. Props decided to kill himself because he was 
unhappy. He didn't wait for forgiveness. He didn't go to a better 
place. He chose to die while there was still someone who loved 
him."

"His ex-wife?"

"And as she may be having problems of her own, he knew that he had 
to work fast. I guess I may have hammered the final few nails in 
the coffin."

"How?"

"I understood what he'd been. Everybody else - the guards, the 
prisoners, you and Scully - you only saw what he'd become. He 
wanted to go out on top, but he could never top what he did with 
that housefire - the family, the men who died. I was his last link 
to that. He had to die before I forgot about him."

"You knew he was going to kill himself?"

"I recommended he be placed on suicide watch. What was I supposed 
to do - move into his cell?"

The question sounded genuine rather than rhetorical, and Skinner 
tried to ignore the feeling that for some reason the conversation 
couldn't end until he'd drawn blood and that he was getting close 
to achieving his aim. "I appreciate your candor. Your attitude 
however -"

"- is insufficiently remorseful? You think I should mourn him?"

"Your attitude towards me, Agent Scully, your colleagues. I expect 
more from you."

That same slow nod. That same passive expression that made Skinner 
feel like knocking a reaction out of the man. "Are we done?" asked 
Mulder.

Were they? The AD frowned, suddenly uncomfortable with the 
discussion, stunned that he'd effectively told his subordinate 
that, so far as he was concerned, he'd executed Props. More than 
that - he hadn't merely said it: he'd meant it. "We're done."

---------

When Mulder returned to the briefing room it was deserted except 
for Scully and Felden.

Scully turned to face him. "I was going to ask you how it went with 
Skinner but I think I can guess."

Shrugging, Mulder discarded his jacket. "What have we got?"

Scully threw him a we'll talk later look and pushed a copy of the 
file towards him. "The third victim, the one I autopsied - nothing. 
No links to Props nor to the prison. Not even a similar name."

"The second one," said Felden, "looked more promising. She'd worked 
as a nurse at the hospital that Props escaped from. But the dates 
don't tie up. She didn't start there until a few months later. The 
first victim, the teenager, his family had only been in town for a 
couple of months, just moved up from Florida. In other words - 
nada."

Mulder shook his head. "Random?"

"Seems so," said Scully. "But you don't think so?"

"No. It's too much like Props, not to be about him."

"Or about you?" asked Felden. "You could be the link. You said it 
yourself - it could be somebody trying to tempt you in."

"By hitting random targets?"

"Not quite random. And it's working, isn't it?"

"But why? Who?"

"For Props? The ex-wife maybe? She'd have the motive and who'd be 
better placed to have learned the method?"

Scully frowned, not quite buying it, but not quite able to put her 
finger on why not. "We met her. She couldn't pull this off. She's 
too - weird."

Mulder smirked, a brief puff of laughter from his lips. "Weird?"

Eyebrows raised, she confirmed the diagnosis. "Weird."

"Yeah, she was." 

Felden pushed again. "But there's at least one more ex Mrs. Props 
and a daughter, and they're currently demanding an apology and 
compensation from the Bureau and the prison for Props' death."

"She'll be the same as the other one," Mulder said. 

"Because men keep marrying, or in this instance not marrying, the 
same woman?" quizzed Felden, sounding amused as well as curious. 
"Looking for their mother?" he added, tired of waiting for Mulder's 
reply, a little more challenge to his tone.

"Props was looking for silent partners and he was very good at 
sizing people up."

"I don't think this is getting us anywhere," said Scully. Both men 
turned to face her. She kept her focus on Mulder. "You say this is 
about Props, maybe even about the Bureau. But none of the dead have 
any real connection to the Bureau or to Props. It's so - " she 
raised a hand, looking for the word, "- cold?"

Mulder nodded. "It is." Frowning, he dug back through the files.

"What are you looking for?" she asked.

"How did Behavioral get the story of the latest killings so 
quickly? Who told them that someone who looked like Props was back 
in action?"

"The M.E. He did one of the original autopsies and recognized the 
symbol on the victim's hand."

"Right. New Haven," Mulder said, pointing in triumph at the page in 
the file. "Then the M.E. has to have moved home. There weren't any 
deaths there in the first wave." 

Scully nodded, encouraging him to keep going.

"Felden - I need the bio on the M.E. - how long's he been working 
there? And go back to the victims again. That nurse - had she done 
contract work at the hospital before taking a job there? Could she 
have been involved in Props' care? The kid who got killed - trace 
back his family, his parents are divorced, make sure he's as new to 
town as he seems. There's something there, something we're missing. 
If it's not in the files, then you've got to visit the families, 
the friends again. Dig deeper. Skinner'll assign you all the help 
you need."

Felden nodded. "And what'll you be doing?"

"We're going to interview the M.E. Phone us through whatever you 
get. We'll need it," he glanced at his watch, "before seven."

One look at Mulder's expression and Scully didn't even bother to 
ask if the trip up the coast could wait until morning, or indeed 
whether a call to the local office wouldn't give them the same 
information within the hour.



END of Part 11

=========


As it happened, they could have waited until morning. Arriving in 
town at a little before nine, the M.E. was not only long gone from 
his office but wasn't even within harassing distance of his 
voicemail. "Wedding anniversary," said the night attendant at the 
morgue. 

The journey to the motel was largely silent. Scully resisting the 
temptation to say: I told you so. Mulder resisting the urge to bait 
her into the words. 

Scully broke the silence. "What did Skinner say to you?"

During the drive out here they'd discussed it once, in passing, 
along with a list of a dozen other things that they needed to say 
to stay on top of the case. He'd glossed over his reply, kept it 
factual. Noted the accusing finger from the prison authorities and 
Skinner's fury. What he hadn't mentioned was the form the anger had 
taken. 

"He said I talked Props into killing himself. He asked me if it was 
deliberate."

"God. Mulder. Why would he say a thing like that? What did you say 
to him?"

"That it was unintentional."

"You let him get away with it? What the hell were you thinking? You 
didn't do anything to Props."

"I gave him an audience." The words sounded different when he said 
them out loud, triggered some new chain reaction of thoughts. 
Fingers tapping on the steering wheel, suddenly anxious to get to 
the motel and pull out the files again.

"You can't believe that you're responsible."

That was like asking the gun if it was responsible for the 
shooting. 

Check-in at the motel was mercifully quick. Dinner at the 
neighboring restaurant was edible and fast which, tonight at least, 
earned it a 5-star rating from Mulder. 

It was eleven when Scully appeared at his door wearing casual 
clothes and smelling of shower gel. "You're working?" she asked.

Shrugging, he stepped aside to let her into the room.

She stared at the drawings on the walls. Bats? Birds? Dragons? 
Devils? Images of death, he'd said. Don't look at them, he'd said. 
I'm immune, he'd said. "What are you doing?" she asked.

"Those," he said, waving a hand towards the cluster of 8x10 photos 
on one side of the bathroom door, "are from Props' victims. And 
these," he pointed to the smaller group on the other side of the 
door, "cover the latest deaths." From his vantage point on the bed 
he'd been able to look at both sets. "They're in chronological 
order, top to bottom, left to right."

"And?"

He slid back into his position on the bed, propped up against the 
pillows. "I'm looking for a pattern." Eyes racing, scanning, as if 
there was a game of tennis in play on the wall.

"Alone? After everything you said about the risks of fixating on 
the drawings?"

"They're just pictures to me. I don't see anything else. It's like 
those cable TV images in Maryland. It's like you not seeing 
anything in those photocopies of those stone tablets that we had."

"And what if the new set are different to the ones that Props 
drew?"

"That's what I'm trying to find out."

"And if they affect you in a way that the others didn't?"

"Then you're here."

He'd said it so simply, so unemotionally, and yet with such 
certainty that for a moment Scully didn't know whether to laugh or 
cry. She stuck to the facts. "I'm here, but not at your invitation. 
I only came over to borrow your phone charger."

He nodded, eyes still skimming the images. "There is a difference, 
you know." His fingers moved in the air as if preparing to rotate 
some invisible Rubik's cube. "I just don't know what it means."

Now what? Was she supposed to stand here and watch Mulder mumble 
his way to martyrdom and drag the gun from his hand just in the 
nick of time? Was she supposed to join him on the bed and stare at 
the wall? Or just join him?

"Mulder, why are you doing this?" she said finally.

"I told you."

"You also told me that you can't see anything."

He shrugged. "It's like one of those kid's games. Spot the 
differences. I can see the differences."

"But the differences don't make any difference to the outcome - the 
victim dies."

"Draws his own death warrant."

"And carries out the sentence," she added.

"What are you suggesting?"

"One of us needs to keep a clear head."

A brief huff of a sound from Mulder. "You're saying that should be 
me? That you should be..." he waved vaguely at the pictures on the 
wall.

"I trust you. You won't let me get hurt."

"No, no, I can't."

"It's happening, Mulder. I'm doing it. You either watch my back, or 
you don't. Your choice."

"You don't understand. I can't."

"I trust you to protect me. The same way you trusted Diana Fowley 
to protect you."

"It wasn't like that. Diana was the one in trouble - I stopped 
her."

Scully's thoughts raced back to the too thin file, the conversation 
that they still hadn't had. Diana had been the guinea pig? 
"Patterson found you with a gun to your head."

"Unloaded. I was trying to make her snap out of the trance."

"By putting a gun in your mouth? Who thinks like that?"

"Me?"

---------

Skinner heard the news that Mulder and Scully had headed for the 
coast from Agent Felden. Another burst of anger, not with their 
handling of the investigation, but because Felden had looked so 
surprised by their failure to keep the boss in the loop. It 
reminded him of the brief exchange he'd had with Scully about 
Mulder and teams. Still, Scully was supposed to be a team player; 
she could have left a message.

The flipside of course was that he was just grateful that they'd 
gone. He wasn't going to apologize to Mulder but nor did he think 
he was quite ready to look him in the eye. Maybe that was why there 
hadn't been any word from them. If Mulder had told Scully what had 
been said in the office regarding Props' death, perhaps she didn't 
want to be on her boss' team either?

The glass of scotch he'd been nursing had just enough burn to make 
it real. The photocopies of the drawings, the real ones this time, 
were strewn around the coffee table. He still hadn't forgiven 
Mulder for that little stunt either. Yet the stunts were as much 
part of the man as the passionate integrity.

What it boiled down to was simple: you made allowances for Mulder 
or you fired him. Procedure, jurisdiction and even commonsense fell 
by the wayside when Mulder rode into town.

Another sip of fire. How did Scully handle it? Not just the odd 
encounter with Mulder, that always seemed to end up with someone 
dead or hospitalized. Weeks of it, years of it even. Fighting the 
good fight and tilting at every windmill along the way.

When he first became a Marine, a fresh-faced kid stuck in a jungle 
a long way from home, being on the right side seemed easy. War had 
killed a lot of fantasies.

One good reason to let Mulder and Scully roam free. Somehow, 
despite the deaths and the hospitalizations, they still believed in 
all those wild ideals like truth and justice, right and wrong. And 
if he hadn't always been the boss he'd needed to be, or the man 
he'd wanted to be, then nor had he ever chosen to make his own life 
easy at their expense.

Was that enough? A bullet in the gut? A swarm of nanites squeezing 
the life out of his body? Warnings from friends and foes alike that 
by throwing his lot in with his agents he was throwing away his 
career?

It sounded good. This balance sheet. Good enough for any FBI 
bureaucrat to be proud of. 

Like his empty home. The place barely touched since he'd move into 
its fully furnished rooms and out of his wife's life. Of course, he 
hadn't been in her life that much before.

The apartment. Good enough for any lone professional living in the 
city.

Slumping a little in the chair, admiring the pale golden glow of 
the liquid in the glass, took comfort and warmth from the 
artificial fire as he studied the drawings on the table. The pencil 
in his hand dancing lightly across the page as the wings took 
shape.

-------

Clearing the air wasn't all it was cracked up to be. Scully now 
knew more about Mulder's relationship with Fowley. A six-week 
whirlwind from the moment he'd met her, to the moment she'd rescued 
him from the psychiatric ward. A month later, Fowley was living on 
the west coast and Mulder was out of the ISU.

Scully also understood a little more about the effects of the 
drawings, or at least the effect that they appeared to have on some 
people. Fowley had felt their pull, but Mulder had not.

There should have been some satisfaction in knowing more, but that 
wasn't how it felt. He'd given her precise answers to closed 
questions and made her feel like a voyeur for wanting to hear any 
of it. Strictly the facts, ma'am. 

Compounding her discomfort was the way he'd bullied her into a 
promise not to look at the drawings again that night. The dead had 
died of bliss, because they'd seen a better place on the other 
side? But it took weeks to work, even on the susceptible. How could 
one night make any difference at all?

Besides, what harm could a glimmer of bliss do when her mood was 
this dark?

She'd promised him. Why had she promised?

--------

Past 9 a.m. and Mulder still hadn't heard anything from the M.E. A 
promise from the receptionist that she'd get him to call just as 
soon as he arrived, and no, they didn't know when that would be. 
He'd cleared his pre-lunch schedule of appointments, just in case 
the night before turned into a very good morning.

Felden had filled them in on the man's background as best he could. 
The M.E. had taken a small pay raise and an ocean view for his 
young family, and skipped off to the coast a year ago. No 
melodrama, no skeletons in the closet, no shadows on his 
reputation. Just a change of address.

The rest of the background checks were delivering similarly bland 
results. As Mulder expected, the nurse who'd died had indeed been 
working at the hospital when Props escaped. But no one recalled 
anything special about her role in his treatment nor in his 
disappearance.

Scully was poring over the autopsy reports again, looking for 
inspiration in notes that refused to do more than stubbornly 
confirm that the dead had taken their own lives. She yawned, 
blinked her eyes a couple of times to clear her vision.

Unfortunately, Mulder spotted the movement and couldn't stop 
himself from responding. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"Did you?" 

He turned away, suddenly losing the will to fight. She was waiting 
for more, but more what? More picking at Diana Fowley inflicted 
wounds. More wild theories about whether some brains were wired for 
God and bliss, while others were just wired. More opportunities to 
become the prime audience for the killer's talents?

He spoke carefully, words in a minefield. "This is all about Props. 
At least, it starts with him and then it goes wrong. The victims 
weren't chosen by him, not even by an ally of his. He hits the 
wrong nurse at the hospital. Targets the wrong man with a name like 
a prison guard's. We see the wrong patterns in those drawings they 
make."

"One of the victims then? A family member?"

"Yes. Except the targeting is wrong - it's not revenge. Or if it 
is, it's not against Props. We're set up to be his audience. He 
needed us to see him, right from the start. Props got away with it 
for years. This guy, he wanted us to know."

"Which is why the first death took place on this particular M.E.'s 
turf?"

"I think we'll confirm that today."

"The M.E.'s not a suspect?"

"No. Unless there's a link we're missing. But I don't think so. 
Felden's no fool when it comes to reading a background check and 
the M.E.'s history's too complete, too straightforward to be hiding 
anything big."

"Records have been faked before. We don't even know for sure that 
it was the man's wedding anniversary last night."

Mulder grinned. "A conspiracy, Agent Scully?" He dug into the pile 
of computer printouts on the table and pulled out a copy of a page 
from a ten-year-old newspaper announcing the man's wedding. 
"There's thorough - "

"- and there's highly unlikely. So who?"

--------

Neil Felden was sitting eye to eye with Walter Skinner demanding 
extra resources to meet Mulder's latest request.

Skinner was practically growling. "I thought he wanted you to go 
deeper on the current victims?"

"He does, but Agent Mulder says that we need to go back to the 
Props case as well. Track down family members of those victims."

"Mulder thinks that's where we'll find the perp?"

"Yes, sir. But he doesn't know how deep we'll need to go. He's 
suggesting that we start with the ones where law enforcement might 
be seen as culpable and work outwards from there."

"Like the deaths after Props escaped in 91?"

"I guess so, sir. I believe you led the Bureau team that time?"

"We lost two agents and two police officers. And Mulder thinks that 
a relative - " Skinner's words trailed off. His hand shifted to rub 
his chin. "OK. Let's get the task force rolling on it. But lightly. 
This is going to be hard enough on those men's families. I expect 
discretion and tact."

"Yes, sir," agreed Felden.

A brief nod from Skinner and the agent was heading for the door.

Culpable? 

Such a gentle word for such an ugly thing.

--------

They returned to Mulder's room to pick up a couple of files and to 
give him the chance to pack. Scully's eyes immediately homed in on 
the photos fixed on the wall on either side of the bathroom door, 
and more particularly on the one now pinned in splendid isolation 
on the door itself.

"I don't recall seeing that one. Who drew it?"

"I did," Mulder said. Mild, as if it was of no consequence.

She didn't raise her voice, didn't complain about him breaking 
their deal, or at least what she'd thought had been their deal, 
just asked the question. A simple, sad, "Why?"

"Props drew it for me. You remember on the video. He spat on the 
table. That's what he drew. Close enough anyway. I drew it last 
night before we spoke. But I put it on the Props side of the door. 
I think I was wrong. I think it fits better with the new ones."

"Why?"

He paused, not quite sure how to move forward. "Do you know why?" 
he finally asked. "Can you see how different it is?"

She breathed out, took another carefully measured breath. "I think 
I can see it. If you let me. But you've got to trust me to do this. 
You've got to trust yourself - that you won't let me go too far."

"But what if you like what you see - what if it's bliss?"

She shook her head. "It won't be real."

"What if it's better?"

"Then you've got to trust me when I tell you that I want to stay 
alive. That I believe that we're together for a reason."

The case was making progress. What had he told Felden - no martyrs 
required. Yet one truth was undeniable: he wanted to know how the 
trick worked. Always had, always would. That was who he was. 

His partner wanted to do this, so what was stopping him? A nasty 
flutter of deja vu as the circle closed around him. Couldn't have a 
partner who loved him, but he was pretty sure he had one now. 
Couldn't love a partner, but he'd broken that rule a long time ago.

"Mulder," she said, a little sharply, dragging him back to 
attention. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Go ahead. Do it. I've got your back."

Her look of surprise was there and gone in an instant. Squaring her 
shoulders she walked towards the drawings on the wall and gathered 
them together, carefully maintaining the sequence in which Mulder 
had placed them, stretching high above her head to get the last 
couple of sheets. 

She took up position on the bed, sitting up, her feet curled neatly 
under her, the papers stacked on either side. She glanced up at 
him. "Mulder. Stop staring. It doesn't help. Go take a run or 
something."

No way. Frowning, he forced himself to compromise just enough to 
sit down at the desk and start up the computer. 

--------

She had nothing to say to him on their way to the M.E.'s office, 
making her feel self-conscious and awkward in the passenger seat as 
he begged for information without actually saying a word. 

Fair's, fair. She'd nagged him over Diana, over psychiatrists, over 
Props. He was infuriatingly persistent now.

"I had less than an hour," she ground out, "and your presence 
wasn't exactly conducive to relaxation and meditation."

He nodded, said nothing.

"I wish I had more. I need more time."

He nodded and kept his eyes on the road.

The M.E. welcomed them, acknowledged Scully with a slow handshake 
and an exclamation of pleasure at meeting her at last. "I've read 
your papers. I'm surprised we haven't met at any of the seminars," 
he said, encouraging her to add extra cream to her coffee. "I was 
at one over in Puerto Rico last month, great fun."

"It's difficult for me to set aside that kind of time away from my 
duties."

"Serial crime waits for no man, heh?"

Something like that. "You examined Mark Johnson?"

"That's right. Recognized the drawing on his hand immediately of 
course. Don't forget a thing like that in a hurry."

"Why's that?" 

"The first time I saw it was as a tattoo on a young man who'd 
committed suicide. A couple of weeks later I was talking to the FBI 
about a murderer. I was new to it then, only just qualified. It was 
the first time I'd seen an obvious cause of death turn out not to 
be the cause of death at all."

Scully nodded. "And this time - Mark Johnson. You did the autopsy 
yourself? Apart from the writing, it looked routine?"

"Not quite. The time of death was uncertain. There was no actual 
suicide note and he'd given his classmates no real indications of 
problems. Some retrospective worries but nothing more. A young man. 
We had to be sure that it was suicide. But with the body underwater 
in the bathtub overnight there wasn't much trace evidence."

"The writing on his hand?"

"In permanent marker. No one else had seen it before me. The body 
was in rigor. His fists were clenched. I opened his fingers."

"And you recognized it immediately?"

"Of course. Wouldn't you? It always stuck with me. That thing. I 
never could work out quite what it was."

"Anything else of note? Signs of a struggle? You say his fists were 
clenched."

"Nothing to indicate a third party. But there were things that 
struck me, not the kind of thing that finds its way into an 
official report. You know it yourself. He'd been crying for some 
time, his eyes, his nose - you could see the distress. So different 
from the first one."

"How so?"

"The man with the tattoo - he was smiling." The M.E. smiled, a 
knowing look towards Scully. "And yes, I know all the reasons why 
it can look that way. But still, that's what I remember."

Later, on the long drive back to DC, that was what Mulder 
remembered from the conversation, too. "Props' victim smiled," he 
said.

"As the M.E. said, it can happen. The body starts to dry out, the 
lips may pull back; the mouth may open. We interpret it as we 
want."

"The new victim, he didn't smile."

"It doesn't mean necessarily mean anything."

"But still, it's interesting."

----------

At first glance, the trip out to the coast had been, if not exactly 
fruitless, then certainly unnecessary. They'd learned nothing that 
couldn't have been gained from a simple phone call. Though it had 
ruled out, for Mulder at least, any residual idea that the M.E. 
might be involved.

They'd spoken to Skinner's secretary on their way back to DC. She'd 
told them that they were to report to his office as soon as they 
got in, at whatever time that might be.

Despite the explicit order Mulder had been tempted to drive 
straight home, but even before they hit the Beltway, Scully 
reminded him of their instructions. He really had nothing to say to 
Skinner and nothing he wanted to hear except for an answer to a 
question he would never ask - do you still think I killed Props? 

They arrived at Skinner's office a little before nine. No light 
coming from under the door and Mulder felt like taking that as a 
cue to walk straight back out again, but Scully knocked twice and 
Skinner responded immediately.

The AD was sitting at his desk in a small pool of light provided by 
the computer and a table lamp. Scully pointed towards the light 
switch to ask for permission to switch them on, but Skinner just 
shook his head.

"Do you have anything to report?"

Mulder remained silent. 

Scully took up the slack. "I think we've confirmed that the 
location, the victim, and the timing of the first death were chosen 
to increase the likelihood of the body being seen by an M.E. 
familiar with the Props case. Moreover, the fact that the symbol 
was written on the victim's hand rather than on paper could be 
significant. There's no guarantee that the M.E. would have seen a 
note."

"The killer wanted a witness?"

"I believe so."

"And what do you believe, Agent Mulder?"

Nothing? Didn't believe in a damned thing. Hadn't this case proven 
that? He'd thought that he believed in some overriding sense of 
right and wrong, but if he'd killed Props and felt no remorse, then 
what did that make him? "I agree with Agent Scully."

Skinner nodded, a single slow movement. "And meanwhile, you left 
Agent Felden to run the investigation and left me to guess where 
you'd gone. You're part of a team."

Skinner's too direct gaze left no doubt that the words were 
directed at Mulder, but it was Scully who replied. "We'll keep you 
better informed of our movements. Is that all, sir?"

"For now, Agent Scully."

Mulder was already half way to the door before Scully even got out 
of her chair.

They didn't speak until they were back in the car and heading out 
of the building.

"What was that about, Mulder? What the hell's wrong with you and 
Skinner?"

"I told you, he's just pissed with me. Sending you two off on that 
wild goose chase so I could talk to Props; Props committing 
suicide; the way I keep changing the instructions to Felden without 
warning him."

"You acted as if you were expecting it. What aren't you telling 
me?"

Maybe he should give her a list? "He thinks I encouraged Props to 
kill himself."

"So you said, but why?"

"Why does he think so or why did I do it?"

"Why would he even suggest it?"

"Because he's pissed with me."

When they arrived at her apartment, he carried his overnight bag 
inside as well as hers. She didn't notice what he'd done until he 
set them both down beside her couch. 

"I think I should stay here tonight."

A raised eyebrow, she looked as if she was preparing to argue. 

He held up his hand to ask her to listen to his explanation first. 
"I think you may want to keep on looking at those drawings. I need 
to be here."

"I'm tired. I'm not going to look at anything tonight."

"I still need to be here."

She nodded. "I'm taking a bath. Order some food," she said, 
sounding mildly annoyed as she vanished into the bathroom.

He slid gratefully onto the couch, relieved that she hadn't put up 
more of a fight. 

Thoughts flashed back twelve years to a picture of Diana sitting 
naked on her hearthrug. So very like the one in Scully's living 
room, not that he could tell her that of course. A gun, a knife and 
a bottle of pills; Diana had always seen all the angles, liked to 
keep her options open.

He bit his lip and called Neil Felden. "Just checking in. Sorry 
it's so late."

"You call this late?" Felden asked, laughing. "I thought you were 
supposed to be one of those 24/7 sort of profilers, Mulder."

"I hope the amusement's an act."

"Sure is. Tears of a clown - I've got it down pat. You want an 
update on those background checks? I'll give you what we've got, 
but there's not much. I'm not expecting anything new until they 
start digging deeper. So far it's just confirming what we'd already 
seen summarized."

They swapped notes on progress, such as it was. The call finished 
with a brisk reminder to Felden to stay away from meditation.

"The only thing I'm pondering is whether to go Thai or Chinese."

Which settled one thing for Mulder. He picked up the phone and 
ordered a pizza.

========


END of Part 12

=========


After the first mile, Mulder knew he shouldn't be doing this, but 
still he'd kept on moving, couldn't seem to stop himself. It was 
already past midnight when he set out on his run. He checked his 
watch; he'd been away for nearly half an hour. He needed to get 
back to her. She'd promised that she would go directly to sleep, 
but what kind of a promise was that? How the hell was anyone 
supposed to promise to sleep?

He didn't want her looking, didn't want her drawing, didn't want 
her thinking - and how was he supposed to stop her from thinking? 
How was she going to stop herself? That was who she was: always 
thinking.

He paused for an instant to get his bearings and realized how far 
he'd run. Should have stuck to doing laps of the block.

What about Scully - naked on the hearthrug. Now there was a 
fantasy. More fantastic than hormone injections and ovulation 
charts. When he thought of all the people he'd seen with kids, 
beautiful kids, incredible kids, loving kids and all the kids he'd 
seen broken by the people who should be protecting them, he knew it 
just wasn't right, wasn't fair that things should be so hard for 
Scully. For them.

Scully naked on the hearthrug. A gun, a knife and a bottle of 
pills. She wouldn't have a problem getting that right. No chance of 
a last minute reprieve if Scully was running the show. She'd know 
exactly where to cut, which cocktail to mix, how to pull the 
trigger.

"You can't stop me from doing my job."

He couldn't, could he? Not if she was his partner, his colleague. 
It came with the territory. People who dance on cliff edges 
shouldn't complain about heights. 

So why wasn't he back there with her, holding the rope?

Surely he hadn't run away just because she'd looked so angry with 
him tonight. Complaining about the cold and greasy pizza, even 
though it was her choice of topping and from her favorite delivery 
service. Complaining about him putting his feet on her coffee 
table. Complaining about his overnight bag blocking her route to 
the couch.

"Enough hovering, Mulder. I'm going to bed. Why don't you go for a 
run and burn it off?"

It sounded like such a good idea at the time. 

She had another doctor's appointment set for first thing tomorrow 
morning and another one scheduled for next week. Last chance they 
said. Assuming she was receptive. Receptive to having something of 
him inside her.

Christ. No wonder she was freaked out by it all. Between her 
hormones, this case, and Walter Skinner's anger, something had to 
give. 

What he hadn't really bargained for was the sense of helplessness. 
His contribution to Scully's new quest was, if not exactly 
unimportant, then certainly the stuff of smutty innuendo rather 
than great romance. The case was frustrating; the unknown a 
frightening thing rather than a challenge; he'd chased this same 
phantom before and seen nothing, while those around him died. And 
Skinner thought he was a killer.

Straightening as he realized that Scully's front door was finally 
in sight, he slowed down, took a few deep breaths in preparation.

The keys turned easily in their locks, which was good, because if 
they'd put up a fight he'd have probably been tempted to try and 
kick his way back inside.

The hearthrug was reassuringly empty. He smiled briefly, wondering 
if he would ever see her naked there and if he'd be able to cope 
with it if he did. Steeling himself against her likely response, he 
opened the door to her bedroom.

She wasn't asleep. Her eyes rose to meet his. She didn't seem 
surprised that he'd come barging in without so much as a warning 
knock. She didn't even look angry. He saw the book on her pillow 
and she lifted it so that he could read the title: "Harry Potter 
and the Sorcerer's Stone."

He smiled. 

"My godson wanted me to read it."

"Don't you get enough of that sort of thing at work?"

"Good thing about fiction - everything makes sense."

He nodded, suddenly embarrassed to be caught hovering again. "I 
should take a shower."

"You should."

Finally, his body obeyed his instructions to move and he left the 
room, pulling the door shut behind him. 

---------

Scully looked surprised that he'd stayed the night.

"I said I would."

"Are you OK? You slept? I thought you didn't like my couch."

He shrugged, wincing slightly as the muscles in his back confirmed 
that she was right. "I needed to be here."

"To supervise?" she said, a challenge in her eyes.

To support? He really didn't have an answer for her. Props had cost 
him a friend the first time around and a lover the second time. 
This new guy had the potential to cost him even more. "There are 
things we have to do alone and things we don't," he finally said.

She smiled, a smile of last resort and desperate hope. If it didn't 
take this time, then there might be no more chances. "Shall we go 
to the clinic?"

We. He'd needed to hear that, needed it more than he'd been willing 
to admit, even to himself.  

--------

When Mulder finally got to the Hoover Building, he'd already missed 
a meeting with Skinner and a team briefing attended by a dozen 
agents. Scully had booked a half-day's leave in advance and 
wouldn't be back until after lunch. Despite assuring her that he'd 
called the AD to tell him that he'd be late as well, Mulder had 
actually done no such thing. Felden had been designated as go-
between again.

The notes on the whiteboard in the temporarily deserted meeting 
room clued him into his status. The question marks against the 
actions were clearly intended to represent him; the ferocity with 
which they'd been written suggested that his boss wasn't planning 
on forgiving him just yet.

Skinner caught up with him soon enough, cornering him between the 
slide projector and the wall chart. "Nice of you to join us."

"I've been going back over the list of victims. The first victim 
was nineteen; the third was twenty-two. The first one needed good 
planning by the UNSUB. He was so determined to get the right M.E. 
that he controlled everything about the death. It implies that he 
was in close contact with the victim, probably within a few hours 
of the suicide. That's something that Props never did. The fact 
that we've got another young victim seems like too much of a 
coincidence."

"Meaning?"

"He either chose them deliberately from among people he knew, or 
else he targeted them and then befriended them. We may get 
something by digging deeper with their friends and contacts. I 
think he'll be around their age, someone who was a child when Props 
was killing."

"You didn't think this was worth sharing with the team?"

Fuck. Couldn't Skinner just let it go? So he was late, how often 
did that happen? How often had he been ordered to take days off? He 
could just tell Skinner the truth of course, or at least a suitably 
vague version of the truth, something like I took Scully to her 
doctor's appointment. 

The problem was that this was Skinner, and he was more than just a 
boss. He'd want to know what was wrong with Scully; he'd ask 
difficult questions about cancer and insurance and other things. 
This was too private, too personal, to open any doors for 
speculation. They didn't even talk about it to each other. 

"I'm going to see Felden now. It doesn't change the immediate 
priorities. They were already looking at Props' victims; it'll help 
focus the follow up."

"Focus? That's an interesting word. Exactly what are you focused 
on, Mulder?"

Scully's hormones? Memories of things that died years ago? Why my 
boss accused me of murder? "I'm going to look at what we've got on 
the agents who died." What the hell was Skinner looking for? An 
apology? Well, fuck that. The righteous indignation that had been 
steadily bubbling under, suddenly threatened to erupt into an 
explosion. "If you'll excuse me, sir."

To Mulder's relief Skinner didn't even try to stop him.

-----------

The basement office was dark except for the light from the slide 
projector. The graphic that Props had drawn in saliva on the prison 
table belonged with the new set of deaths. Of that, there was no 
doubt.

Mulder closed his eyes, let the images merge and mutate inside his 
head. 

When Diana died, she'd died for a choice, a string of choices. A 
choice to talk to him years ago, acting in innocence, regretted at 
leisure. When he rejected her for loving him, for caring, had he 
sealed her fate? Pushed her towards another seemingly innocent 
choice? Handed her over to cancer man? When she died, had she died 
because she loved him, had once loved him?

Not something he could explain to Scully. Yet why not?

Scully knew about the choices. If she'd known the path she was 
really on, would she have made the same ones? She was with a doctor 
right now trying to undo a consequence. 

If you could turn back time - what would you change? He couldn't 
even think where to start. He sure as hell wouldn't know where to 
stop. All those dead bodies. All those damaged souls. And what did 
he have to show for it? A cabinet full of evidence that no one took 
seriously, that even Scully found hard to believe.

Was that why Skinner's words had stung so much? Mulder hadn't 
killed Props; he was pretty sure about that. Props was just the 
next in line to die. The man had his own sketch, a death warrant of 
sorts, all drawn up. 

Yet Mulder had killed. Not just once or twice. Not just righteous 
kills with a badge and a gun and an immediate threat that it was 
his job to neutralize. He'd killed through tiredness and 
frustration - like the night he'd walked away from Duane Barry, 
despite knowing that the man was in danger. He'd killed through 
selective blindness - like the day Hennessey crashed his car on a 
straight, dry road. He'd killed through blinkered determination to 
crack a case - like when Lucy Householder died during a little 
girl's rescue. He'd killed Diana, because she loved him enough to 
die.

He heard the rattle of the door handle and quickly switched off the 
slide projector.

Scully hung up her jacket. "Why's it so dark in here?"

Because the lights are off? He flinched, sat up straight, pasted a 
smile on his face. "I was hiding out."

She looked at the slide projector on the desk. "Really?"

"What did the doctor say?" At her insistence, he'd left her to wait 
for the last couple of test results.

"Next week as planned."

He nodded, wondering if he should be pleased or scared, but feeling 
too numb for either.

Scully changed the subject. "I saw Skinner on the way in. You 
didn't call him to say that you'd be late, did you?"

"Felden passed my message on."

"Skinner thinks you're avoiding him. Wants to know what's wrong 
with you. He's concerned."

"Right."

"What were you looking at when I came in here?"

He threw the switch. Mulder's retread of Monty Props' last picture 
appeared on the wall. 

She didn't seen surprised. "I thought we were going to stay away 
from those images. No solo efforts? No heroics?"

"You have, haven't you - stayed away from them? Why?"

"You asked."

"It's not just that. You started looking, but even with me there, 
you stopped."

"Your presence isn't exactly conducive to meditation."

"But that's not why you stopped. How did you feel after you looked 
at the pictures? First impressions."

"I didn't feel anything."

"Of course you did. Confused, curious, frustrated. What?"

She shrugged. "All of the above."

"And?"

"And nothing. I didn't feel a call. I didn't see a light beckon 
me."

"That's the trouble. Confused, curious, frustrated. Those things 
usually make you push harder. But you didn't. Because there was 
something else."

"I - I don't know. Your misgivings made me nervous."

"Infectious hysteria?"

She snorted at that. "I don't know. I thought you wanted me to let 
them go?"

"I did. I do. But I still want to know how you felt about them. How 
you feel now, seeing this." He waved his hand towards the image on 
the wall.

"Sick? Guilty that I can't do more?"

"As if nothing you do can really make a difference?"

She nodded.

He switched off the slide projector, walked over to the door and 
turned on the lights, paused there as if standing made what he was 
about to say somehow more professional, less personal. "I think so, 
too. I knew the new drawings were different, but I didn't know how 
different. I thought I was just projecting the bad feelings, the 
guilt, from the Props case onto the images. But the more I look, 
the more convinced I am that this guy's not making them happy 
enough to die; he's making them too guilty to live."

Scully looked at him, a slow nod of her head, tension in her jaw, 
her lips quivering slightly as if in rehearsal. Finally, she turned 
away to stare at the screen on the wall, focused and unmoving, as 
if she could still see the image despite the fact that it wasn't 
there. The words came tumbling out. "The other night, after I 
looked at those drawings, I dreamed of Pfaster. Shooting him, over 
and over again. But sometimes, instead of the bullet hitting him, 
it killed you. And sometimes when I looked at his body on the 
floor, it was Melissa's."

He couldn't see her face as she spoke, but he could tell from the 
faint tremor in her voice how much the admission had cost. He moved 
to stand behind her, just barely touching, leaning down to let his 
chin press lightly up against her hair, wondering at all they'd 
been through, just to get to this point. "I've got your back, 
Scully. It's going to be OK." 

He waited her out, felt a little of the tension fade as her 
shoulders eased and her breathing edged slowly back towards normal. 
Closed his eyes against the thought - like there was anything 
normal about the life they shared, but still, it was a life; it was 
theirs.

Everything was going to be OK.

----------

Most of the tasks that needed to be done were invisible. If the 
agents doing the follow-ups were lucky, then the computers could do 
most of the work. A name and an address that mapped to a social 
security number, that pointed to a credit history, that created a 
cyber paper trail that told them who was living where, and why. If 
they were unlucky then they'd hit a computer blind spot and have to 
start making phone calls and following up on last known addresses.

The problem was time and the sheer number of man-hours involved in 
gathering together the data.

Mulder looked helplessly at the whiteboard. Spooky or not, even he 
couldn't just guess the missing links.

Scully was reviewing the story of the first victim's last weeks. 
"There's a cell phone number he called, to a prepaid phone. He sent 
a text message. The phone's switched off now."

"Can we find out who else called that cell phone? Its location when 
the calls were made? What numbers it called? Contents of the text 
message?"

"We got the text message from the victim's phone: AKBC2770. I've 
asked the phone company for the rest of it."

"AK what? What's that? Some new kind of text-speak I don't 
understand?"

She shrugged. "I think it's just what it sounds like. A code. A 
reference number." She wrote the message up on the board. 

The door to the meeting room opened and Felden and Skinner walked 
in. 

Mulder didn't bother with hellos, just pointed at the board. "Four 
letters, four digits. Any guesses what we might be looking at? It 
was sent as a text message by one of the vics."

Felden frowned. "Computer password? A request to buy a ringtone?"  

Mulder changed the subject. "So what else have we got?"

Skinner didn't look pleased and Mulder couldn't really blame him. 
He looked like he wanted to talk, but Mulder had no desire to 
listen. Mulder kept his focus on Felden and his questions specific. 
"OK. Let's start with the sixteen to twenty five year olds."

Felden pushed a cluster of papers across the table. "Nothing stands 
out. But we're still waiting on a lot of material. Some of the 
women have remarried and with name changes we're still chasing the 
children. The singles, we're following up to see if there was a 
partner. Some people dropped off the map for a while - lost their 
jobs, homes."

Mulder nodded. Sudden death tended to do that to people, ripples 
that continued for years.

Mulder thumbed through the pages. "What about Hennessey?"

A brief frown from Felden. "Agent Hennessey?"

"He was married. He had kids - has kids."

"I'm sorry, Mulder. I didn't even think of him. He wasn't on the 
list. I - fuck."

"Not your fault, Neil. I should have - " Should have done a lot, 
then and now. "I'll follow up on Hennessey. You keep on top of the 
rest of it."

"Sorry." Felden shrugged. "I just didn't - "

Mulder shook his head, exonerating him. "You didn't have any reason 
to."

Skinner finally intervened. "Agent Felden, you're doing a good job. 
I've got every confidence that you'll be able to handle the change 
in the briefing. Just make sure everyone on the team knows what's 
going on." He dismissed Felden with a nod of the head.

No avoiding it now, Mulder turned to face Skinner. 

Skinner took a deep breath before speaking. "You took your eye off 
the ball."

"Yes, sir."

"The whole point of you remaining on this case was so that you 
could act as a resource, knowing the history. You left Felden to do 
your job."

Mulder nodded. "Understood. I'll get back to work."

Skinner frowned, looked like he was waiting for more of a fight. 
Sounded disappointed when none came. "You're dismissed."

Mulder quickly turned on his heel and started to leave, but was 
stopped by a restraining hand from Scully. "Don't," he said to her, 
whispering the word.

She ignored the request, spoke directly to Skinner instead. "This 
isn't right, sir. It isn't fair. You were a link to that history as 
well. You knew about Agent Hennessey."

"Drop it, Scully," murmured Mulder. "Please," he added, hoping that 
the shock of the word would break through her anger.

It almost worked. She took a deep breath and fell silent.

Skinner was shaking his head again. The reply came out as a growl. 
"You think I don't know that, Agent Scully?"

--------

Scully wasn't at all pleased by the outcome. "I don't understand 
what's going on between you and Skinner. Him - attacking you, for 
no reason. You - backing down, as if you think you deserve it. It's 
not like him and it's not like you to just roll over. I've read the 
case files, too. I knew about Hennessey. Skinner knew about him. 
Even Felden knew the name. Why is it all about you?"

"It isn't. That's the point. I'm not in any danger."

"You don't know that. You've admitted it yourself. The MO is 
different. The drawings are different. The reaction they induce is 
different."

"Whatever I say to Skinner, or to Felden - I'll feel the same. But 
maybe..."

"Maybe they'll feel differently if you take the blame for 
everyone?" She sighed, a huff of a sound that could have been a 
snort of laughter in other times. "Let's get this background check 
underway."

=========


END of Part 13

=========



Everything about the check was hard. Hennessey hadn't died, so no 
trust fund for the kids had come out of the will. His parents had 
acted as next-of-kin at the hospital and on the admission papers at 
the nursing home where he'd spent the past twelve years. 

The divorce settlement, completed just a month or so before the car 
crash, had given his wife the house. She'd remarried a few months 
later, sold out, and moved to the west coast together with his 
sons, aged eight and eleven.

When the second marriage failed, she'd changed her name again and 
moved to Florida, but the miles hadn't been enough.

"She died six months ago," said Scully.

"Suicide?"

"Single vehicle accident. Over the limit for alcohol. Driver 
error."

"Let's get Felden and Skinner back in here."

-----

"Alan Knox Hennessey, Dave Hennessey's eldest child. He prefers to 
use his mom's maiden name." Mulder drew a ring around the AK on the 
whiteboard. "A graduate student at MIT - Brain and Cognitive 
Sciences Department." He ringed the BC. "Our New Haven vic was 
hoping to go to Harvard. He had family living in Boston, and he'd 
been spending time up there with them. That's where I believe he 
met Alan Knox. He may have volunteered to play guinea pig for a 
trial that Knox was running. That's what I think the text message 
was about."

Felden was nodding. "Do you want to get the locals to pick him up?"

"There's a problem. Alan's got a very high IQ. He's done courses in 
forensics. He's been very careful. Props, we hit with 
murder/suicide and we only got him on that because he was desperate 
to brag about it. Right now, all we've got are four suicides, no 
basis for an arrest and no reason to believe that Knox will want to 
confess."

"So what do we do?"

Mulder shook his head. "I don't know. What I don't want to do is 
put him on his guard."

"I know you said we can't go pro-active, can't start broadcasting 
those drawings, but there's got to be something we can do. Warn 
people off some way."

It was a good question, but no one had a good reply.

---------

When Scully suggested that they go back to his place for the 
evening, Mulder was relieved as well as surprised. The thought of 
another night on her couch was unappealing. 

It took them a while to come to any sort of conclusion. Scully was 
left with the problem of turning the rambling brainstorm session 
into something specific. "So in the press briefing we can use one 
of those sketches you drew - the fakes that that you put in 
Skinner's file?"

"They're close enough that anybody seeing them in the newspaper 
will make the connection, but I think they're too far off to be 
dangerous. Skinner only started having problems after Felden showed 
him the real images."

"We keep the briefing vague - describe it as a logo - don't mention 
meditation?"

And then we hope to God we've done more good than harm. He didn't 
say it. They couldn't really afford to think about the alternative. 
"It worked before, with Props. In fact, it probably helped annoy 
Props enough that it made him want to boast."

"Do you think this one, Alan Knox, might do the same thing?"

"Too young. Too bitter. He already thinks we're dumb and 
insensitive; this'll just confirm it."

"And you say that's a good thing?" she said, sounding a little 
bitter herself.

"If we're going to stop him, we've got to divert him from seeing 
everyone as targets."

"Into just seeing you?"

"I've got to be a challenge, but I can't look like a trap."

"Jesus, Mulder." She shook her head and her eyes lost a little of 
their cool focus, her breathing became just a little harsh, her 
shoulders hitching slightly as she struggled to bring it all under 
control. Pain in her voice and agony in her eyes and Mulder 
pretended that he couldn't see or hear any of it. 

There was no good side to this, no way to make it easy. The only 
positive thing he could do was to try to get it done fast. Ignoring 
the tension in her body, the way tired flesh mimicked stone and 
steel, he drew her against him on the couch. Holding her in place, 
listening to her breathing, her back resting against his chest. 
Waiting.

They rode it out in silence until finally she said, "Let's get on 
with it then."

Ashamed but resolute, he handed her the drawings and asked her to 
tell him what she saw, and how she felt. He pressed his fingers 
lightly against her shoulders as her thoughts drifted deeper into 
the patterns, and took breaths filtered by her soft red hair as he 
asked her to describe exactly which half-forgotten nightmares 
emerged as she sketched her own versions of the creatures on the 
clean white pad.

They sank into the horror story together, her thoughts folding in 
on the drawings and his mind locked onto her. 

A couple of hours later and exhaustion was mingling with the pain. 
It made Scully angry and Mulder was glad of it. Anger, he could 
handle, provided she kept it turned on him. 

If she turned it on herself then they were both dead.

The accusations, spoken and unspoken, should have stung, yet all he 
could feel was relief that she was willing to share the guilt and 
frustration rather than keep it to herself. 

Amidst the storm, the most damning words were slow, quiet, and 
bitter. "And now I'm trying - doctors, drugs - trying to pretend 
that it's OK. That I'm whole, that it would be more, but that what 
I've got is enough."

"This isn't real," he said, even though he knew it was.

"And I could handle that, thought I could, and then you hand me 
this. I've got to go back to that clinic tomorrow, knowing that 
you're planning to walk into a trap. When every inch of my training 
as a doctor and an agent says that I should be getting you pulled 
from the case. When every bit of my soul says that, whatever 
happens, I need you alive."

"We can do it, Scully. We can."

------------

Next Day - Skinner's office

The drawings had told him enough, Scully's dark musings had told 
him the rest. There was no euphoria in these images. No promise of 
a better place. No safe journey home. These drawings were about 
fear, loathing and self-hate. Chock full of guilt, brimming over 
into anger at the helplessness they induced. Above all, they were 
about convincing the victim that the world would be a better place 
without them in it.

Mulder took one side of the desk; Skinner took the other. Both men 
knowing on instinct that the more formal the discussion then the 
easier the words would be.

"Self loathing and guilt?" said Skinner.

"Did you feel something else?" asked Mulder. Skinner started to 
shake his head, as if he was preparing to argue, but Mulder jumped 
back in. "Don't assume what you're feeling now is normal or fair. 
It isn't."

"How do you know? How do you know that it isn't fair?"

"Because you've been looking at those drawings."

"I accused you of killing Props. I - "

"The drawings - "

"Don't make excuses for me."

"Don't play with this. This stuff's deadly. It doesn't respect 
people - good or bad, tough or not - none of that matters. Don't 
pretend looking at those things didn't hurt."

"What the hell are you suggesting? That I put myself on suicide 
watch?"

"I'm asking you to listen."

"Listen to you volunteer for a suicide mission?"

"I'm the only one who can do it and if I don't do it, I don't know 
how else we stop him."

"I can't let you do this alone."

"Then people will die and you really will have something to feel 
guilty over." 

---------

Guilt was corrosive. Debilitating and destructive.

Yet play it right, stir in a thin slither of anger, and it could 
become something else. It could be a driver. It was the driver that 
Mulder was hunting for now.

Dave Hennessey was sitting up and Mulder tried not to stare. The 
staff at the center had told him the score before he even walked in 
here. If they put him in the right seat, Dave could sit up with his 
eyes open and look blankly out of the window. If they pushed a 
spoon to his mouth, he could chew the food. Minimal function. Zero 
recognition. 

Mulder took the visitor's chair and placed it next to Hennessey's, 
took his mind off the image of Dave's dead eyes by joining him in 
looking out of the window to the lawns below. "I know it's been a 
long time. I needed to talk to you again. I need to tell you what 
went wrong - why I missed the signs." 

Slow deep breaths as he scanned the empty grass and studied the 
bare branches of the trees as they danced against the sky. "The 
fact is, you seemed OK to me. Christ, Dave - everyone seemed OK to 
me. You all looked so normal. I thought normal was happy. Some 
fucking behavioral genius, hey?

"You've got to understand; I wanted to believe it. I needed to. I 
hope they're right, the doctors and nurses; I hope you don't know 
what's happening. I hope you don't remember anything, except maybe 
being happy, maybe thinking you were making the right choice.

"I've got something to do now. Another job. It's not something I 
ever wanted to do, ever thought I'd have to do. But you'd 
understand it, why I've got to do it. I think. I hope."

Hennessey's hand was warm and still between Mulder's fingers. 
Mulder sat back in his chair and watched the grass grow.

-------

The main body of the task force had been closed down - 
unofficially, of course. Officially, they were still looking for an 
unknown subject. Unofficially the UNSUB was Alan Knox, but that 
information was available strictly on a need-to-know basis.

Not that the rumor mill didn't have enough other theories and 
possibilities to debate. Depending on who you listened to, Mulder 
had either been quietly dispatched to a private psychiatric clinic 
or he was now on an enforced vacation under the watchful eyes of 
his partner. Those who also knew that Assistant Director Skinner 
had temporarily relocated to the Boston office as part of some 
mysterious new management project liked to throw that into the brew 
as well.

Reality was simultaneously more fantastic and more mundane. Scully, 
Felden and Skinner were sharing a pleasantly spacious three-room 
suite while Mulder was holed up in a rather drab motel a five-
minute walk away.

"Look after each other," Mulder said as he left the suite, sounding 
just a little desperate and then moving quickly away, more than a 
little embarrassed by the admission of emotion.

Which was why Skinner, Scully and Felden were still sitting in 
awkward silence at the table minutes after Mulder left. 

Felden cracked first. "So how do we play this?"

Scully almost snorted at that. The real question was why were they 
playing this at all. Mulder had decided to go head to head with a 
serial killer and he'd placed them on suicide watch. She shook her 
head. Maybe Mulder had got it the right way round - they were all 
obviously suffering from some form of dementia.

Skinner proved his status as Assistant Director was deserved by 
keeping his response relevant. "We keep one eye on Mulder and one 
eye on each other, and nobody looks at those damned drawings."

--------

Getting a route into the campus had proven easier than Mulder 
anticipated. He'd been prepared to go as far down the friend of a 
friend route as it might take. As it happened he recognized an old 
associate of Diana Fowley's on the list of teaching staff and the 
circuit was complete in a single phone call.

Jenny Samuels had scarcely changed. On her way to being Professor 
Samuels now. Same mix of good jackets and bad jeans, same hair, 
maybe a couple more lines around the mouth and eyes but 
unmistakably her. 

"I heard about Diana," she said, by way of greeting.

He almost smiled. There were psychologists and then there were 
psychologists. 

"But you two broke up eons ago - right? Still, must have been a 
hell of a shock - or does sudden death come with the territory?"

"Jen - shut up."

She laughed.

"I'm not your research subject," he added, just in case she decided 
to try a different tack.

"You never were any fun. So who are you researching?"

He told her just enough of the truth to get the information he 
wanted.

When Samuels did the introduction, Alan Knox Hennessy looked 
delighted. "Agent Mulder."

"I knew your father," Mulder said as they shook hands, and felt 
Knox's fingers grow tense as the words struck home.

"He isn't dead."

"Of course," Mulder agreed, sounding conciliatory but not contrite. 
"I just meant we worked together once."

"They hospitalized you."

"They shouldn't have." Jen Samuels kept to her side of the deal and 
slipped away even though Mulder could tell that she was itching to 
stay. He'd have to thank her properly later. He kept his attention 
on Knox. Knox had done his homework well, but he didn't know it 
all. "They thought I was having problems; I wasn't." 

"Of course you weren't," Knox said, bitterness in the hissed words. 
"Problems are for wimps."

Mulder shrugged, half-smiling, sensing the anger rising in the 
young man's veins. OK. "Everybody's got problems. Some people get 
crushed by them. Others," Mulder offered him a brief smile, "get 
scholarships to MIT."

"What are you doing here, Agent Mulder?"

"I think you already know."

"Was it you who put that crap in the newspaper?" Off Mulder's shrug 
of acknowledgment, Knox added, "You people - you learn nothing."

"You think you can teach me a lesson?"

"Are you willing to learn?"

"I learned enough to shut Props down."

That earned a nod of approval, a tour of Knox's research area and a 
crash course in Knox's doctorate program. The more the young man 
spoke, the more enthusiastic he became, the easier it became for 
Mulder to be part of the scenery.

"The brain's an amazing thing. Nothing more than a bunch of 
circuits and a cloud of electricity. A machine. A complicated one, 
but a machine. Where's the magic in that? People want more."

Mulder shrugged. "They've got more. No two machines are the same."

"More alike than you like to think. You're a profiler. You want to 
believe that you're different to the people you profile."

"I am." 

Dave Hennessey's son frowned and just for a moment his expression 
of disapproval looked so like his dad's that Mulder almost winced. 
The young man shook his head, voice hardening again. "You forget - 
I know you - I've seen your record. All those dead bodies. You 
aren't going to tell me that you've never been grateful to see 
someone dead?"

"Maybe, if it stopped innocents from being killed by them."

"Nobody's innocent, Mr. Mulder."

"Yes, they are, Alan. Like Mark Johnson - wrong place, wrong time. 
Just a target who happened to live near the right M.E."

"He didn't die of innocence."

"What did he die of?"

Knox shrugged, a sharp snort of a laugh that rose and fell in an 
instant. "How would I know? Must have felt guilty about something 
though. Else why would he have killed himself?"

--------

Mulder had referred to it as the buddy system. Skinner, Scully and 
Felden hadn't shared his enthusiasm for the term nor the task.

Skinner was trying to remember why he'd agreed to this insanity. 
Guilt, he reminded himself, struck by the irony that not only were 
they all in danger because of it, but that they'd also agreed to 
Mulder's scheme as a result.

Even this arrangement, he studied the hotel suite with eyes both 
bored and tired, had been his own fault. A compromise ordered by an 
Assistant Director to protect an agent too willing to go it alone. 
Unfortunately the same AD had the misfortune to be subject to his 
own commonsense ruling: no one was going to go it alone. The 
trouble was that Skinner had lived on his own for long enough to 
see every out of place book or item of clothing as a challenge, and 
every cough as a personal insult.

He just hoped to God that they would be out of here soon.

At least they were able to get out of each other's hair for a few 
hours each day. Fortunately, the Special Agent In Charge at the 
Boston office was an old friend and confident enough not to be 
offended by a trio parachuting in from DC and making themselves at 
home, even though it didn't make a lot of sense. "I still don't 
understand why my boys can't handle this. They could cover Mulder 
without getting in his way."

"I appreciate the offer, but there's some history in play. I've got 
to be here. It just makes sense for me to bring the rest of the 
team."

"Whatever you need." The SAC waved his hands to suggest that he was 
happy to deliver.

The trouble was that all they really needed was the satisfaction of 
nailing Dave Hennessey's son for a crime that might not even sound 
like a crime if it actually went to court. What would also help 
would be the ability to switch off all stray thoughts about the 
case and those damned drawings. Of course, thinking about not 
thinking about something was asking for trouble. Equally obviously, 
it was hard to focus on other tasks when the shadow of this one 
loomed so large. 

Mulder was going to pay for this, which thought amused Skinner a 
little before the inevitable pang of guilt cut in. Mulder did have 
this habit of getting caught at the center of any passing storm. 
Which, if Skinner took it just a little bit too literally meant 
that maybe the secret of surviving was to stay close to him? He 
looked at his fellow storm dwellers. 

Felden and Scully were still deeply immersed in a mire of 
background checks, digging up every possible detail of Alan Knox 
Hennessey's life. Everything from his High School yearbook, through 
his research application, to the material he'd placed on his 
website. The other half of the equation, the attempt to link him 
more directly to his victims, was being handled by the agents in 
the various field offices.

Skinner tried to do a normal day's work, albeit without the 
advantage of his own office, his secretary, his battery of files at 
his fingertips, and without the steady stream of agents and 
meetings that normally gave the whole thing some kind of natural 
rhythm. The best thing they could hope for was a quick conclusion 
and no more deaths. 

Looking after each other was easier said than done. Neither he nor 
Scully took kindly to being told what to do. In any case being 
ordered to protect Scully struck him as rather insulting as well as 
redundant; of course he would. It was the idea that she had the 
same instruction that jarred. Throwing a stranger, albeit one as 
easygoing as Felden, into the mix, just made it worse.

It was one thing to be seen as Mulder's protector within the 
Bureau, quite another to be seen as taking instructions from the 
man. Hierarchical organizations tended to be rather strong on 
appearances, and Skinner, despite feeling a little embarrassed by 
the vanity of the idea, couldn't help wondering how this must look 
to Felden.

The sound of Scully's cell phone made all three of them jump.

"Scully," she said.

"You think?" she added a moment later.

"Right. I can see that."

Skinner's blood pressure rose as he listened to Scully's one-sided 
conversation. "Mulder," she mouthed to him, as if it wasn't already 
obvious from the way her voice had softened from the brisk 
professionalism of the "Scully" to a milder, more intimate tone. 
Much as he wanted to hear every syllable Mulder was saying, another 
part of him felt like a voyeur to be listening at all.

"We should have known. He told me. Damn it, Mulder. Don't -" 

A sudden soft snort of a breath that another day could have been 
mistaken for the beginnings of a chuckle. Skinner tried not to 
stare. Surrender. She was shaking her head, as close to smiling as 
he'd seen her since Mulder walked out on them a couple of nights 
before. The smile drifted away again and she was nodding, eyebrows 
high, jaw tense, mouth slightly open.

"OK. I've got it. Where will you be?"

"Why? What can you possibly hope to achieve?" A soft sigh. "Then - 
"

"Yeah, you too."

She ignored Skinner's outstretched hand and placed the phone back 
on the desk. "He hung up."

"What did he say?"

"He wants us to go down to New Haven. He says Knox seems a little 
agitated by Mark Johnson's death. He thinks that in his urgency to 
have the New Haven victim die before the M.E. went away to that 
conference, Knox may have rushed something."

"That maybe the vic wasn't ready to kill himself on schedule, so 
Knox used a more direct approach?" 

Scully nodded.

Could they get that lucky? Skinner swallowed hard, suddenly 
recognizing the rest of the equation. "He wants us to go down 
there. He's staying here?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"He says he gave Props his finest hour. He won't let Knox do the 
same."

"We can send other agents to New Haven."

She shook her head, mouth set tight as she struggled over her 
reply. "He wants me to go through the evidence myself. He doesn't 
want me to go alone."

Felden intervened. "And nobody else would believe the briefing. 
Sir, perhaps if you and Agent Scully go there. I could stay here, 
in case Agent Mulder needs backup."

"And who'll be watching your back, Agent Felden?"

"Anybody. Someone from this office? I haven't got a position or a 
reputation to protect."

Skinner felt almost relieved by that. "So you aren't claiming to be 
immune?"

"No, sir. In fact I'm pretty sure that I'm susceptible. I don't 
deny it. I could see the joy in those Props images. I can feel the 
guilt in the drawings that Knox's victims are producing. I talked 
it over with Mulder. I'm OK with it. No, actually, I'm glad about 
it."

Scully was watching him carefully, sounded softly curious now. 
"Glad?"

"I saw an angel when I was a kid. He led me out of a burning 
building. Of course, I've got no idea what I saw, I just know what 
I thought I saw - and that it worked. Mulder thinks if you can see 
the angels, you can see the pictures too."

"And you'd rather be able to see the angels."

The discussion, coming out of nowhere, had thrown Skinner off-
balance. Disturbed him enough that for the briefest instant he 
wanted to share a memory of Vietnam and survival against the odds. 
Then he remembered his position, his reputation. He studied Felden. 
"You told Mulder this?"

"He said he envied me."

---------

Alan Knox was an odd kind of monster. A bit of a nerd, a bit like 
someone you'd avoid at a party. Too much brain, not enough heart. 
Mulder closed his eyes, uncomfortable with the insight.

Such easy empathy did however save a lot of time. Knox wouldn't be 
confessing to anything, anytime soon. He was proud of what he'd 
done, happy to brag about it to the right audience, but he was 
enjoying it too much to bring it all to a premature end. So the 
boasting would be indirect and oblique. It was good enough for Knox 
that Mulder knew; he didn't need a fan club.

There was an outside chance of putting together enough 
circumstantial evidence for a trip to a friendly DA. Mulder had 
started out the meetings wired for sound. A vague hope that there 
might eventually be enough hints dropped that it could be forced to 
add up to something more. 

Knox was angry about the newspaper article and the fake sketch that 
had accompanied it. With the right incentives, he might be tempted 
to correct the drawing back to the real thing, thereby 
demonstrating a more intimate knowledge of the case than he ought 
to possess.

The trouble was, even if Knox did incriminate himself, a decent 
lawyer would soon sort it out for him. No jury was going to convict 
the son of a wounded FBI agent on such insubstantial evidence.

To be successful they needed something solid. Scully and New Haven 
- the mantra was making his head spin. Scully would be fine; 
Skinner and Felden wouldn't let anything happen - that one, less a 
mantra, more a prayer. 

Visiting Knox had intensified Mulder's discomfort. What had seemed 
already seemed urgent now looked as if might already be too late. 

Knox had done his research well, but he didn't know it all. Until 
this week, Knox had considered Mulder to be a victim, just as his 
father had been. Luckier of course, caught in the act of a suicide 
attempt, but a victim of Bureau indifference nonetheless. When 
Mulder told the man that he'd misread the files, and that he'd 
never been in danger, Knox had been forced to look at the record 
sheet again. Which meant that Fox Mulder was now identifiable as 
the man who should have seen Dave Hennessey's tragedy coming. 

Where once Knox had seen only an amorphous thing called the FBI, 
now he saw Mulder as its human face.

Knox was choosing his targets, ready to kill again and again until 
he was stopped. Mulder let the thoughts flow. Who would he choose? 
Sickening empathy of the knowledge that if he were Knox, he would 
now certainly be prioritizing Mulder's friends and colleagues. 

Perhaps he'd start with Skinner, another name on the Props case 
notes, or maybe Knox would skip past such direct involvement, maybe 
he'd like to see Mulder lose another partner? Mulder's return from 
his status as a ghost in the files into the more substantial form 
of someone who had really known Knox's father was as good as an 
invitation to open fire.

Enough.

Scully would crack the case.

Mulder would keep Knox occupied.

Everything would be fine.

=========


END of Part 14

=========

Knox's lab was a jungle of wires and screens.

"Just relax, Mr. Mulder," suggested Hennessey's son, smoothly 
adjusting the dentist chair to lean back to a near horizontal 
setting.

The sensation was a little too familiar for Mulder's liking. His 
mind flashing to memories of ketamine injections and holes being 
drilled in his head. Rationally, he knew he was in no danger here. 
People like Jenny Samuels knew that he was in the lab with Knox. 
Other graduate students were working only a few yards away. Knox 
was no fool and he didn't want to be caught.

There would be no holes drilled today.

Still, as Knox pulled the blackout curtains around the chair, it 
was a bad moment to be a profiler. Knox wasn't going to hurt him - 
right? Yet what sane man would take that kind of a gamble on the 
whims of a psychopath?

It made no sense to take this kind of a risk. Renowned arrogance or 
not, Mulder was scared. A leopard might not be able to change its 
spots, but sociopaths could certainly be chameleons; Props himself 
was perfect proof of that. The pathology is different; the man is 
different; Mulder kept reminding himself, not quite buying his own 
arguments.

"Just keep your eyes on the screen above your head," said Knox. 
"That's good," he added soothingly, not really sounding like a 
serial killer at all.

A stealth killer, Mulder noted. Props didn't like to be present for 
the kill and that was probably true of Knox as well. At any rate, 
so far, Knox hadn't really wanted to be present at the kill. Unless 
of course, Knox had a whole other cluster of deaths to his credit 
that they hadn't pegged him for yet. And, unless of course, he'd 
enjoyed the up close and personal experience of providing the New 
Haven victim with more than just a drawing, and was now eager to 
relive the memory.

Scully was going to kill him if he got out of here.

If he got out of here, then Scully wouldn't even need to know what 
he'd done. 

But why exactly had he volunteered to be a guinea pig? No good 
explanation for that. Not even for himself. He wasn't even wired 
now, couldn't risk it knowing that Knox would be attaching sensors 
to various locations on his body.

"Mr. Mulder. Please try to relax. Keep your eyes open. Just focus 
on the images. That's it. Just keep doing what you're doing."

Of course. How could he possibly say no to that?

----------

Another hotel suite. Another set of uncomfortable silences. This 
time in New Haven. 

More awkward even than their time in Boston and not just because 
Mulder was now hours rather than minutes away. Felden's presence, 
she now realized, had been a welcome reminder of their roles as 
professionals. It had allowed them to pretend that this was just 
another job.

Without a stranger to stand between them, defining the rules, it 
was just them, just her and Skinner. Worse still, Scully knew that 
she was not truly herself, her brain running in direct conflict 
with a body full of hormones that left her unsettled even if she 
managed to avoid thinking about the reasons for them.

Whatever you do, don't think of the elephant in the living room. 
Don't think about pregnancy, certainly don't think about what the 
hell you're going to do if it doesn't happen. Don't think about 
those drawings of guilt that Knox was pushing. Don't think about 
the perfect peace that Props had promised his victims. And 
definitely don't think about Mulder.

Her current priority was more prosaic, don't think of Skinner as a 
friend first and a boss second. Weepy confessions might find a 
solid shoulder to cry on right now, but that would be no 
consolation in the cold light of morning when she was Agent Scully 
and he was her Assistant Director again. 

Look after one another, but don't talk about anything more 
significant than the choice between Thai and Pizza. 

She thought back to Mulder, to a broken hearted confessional on his 
couch a few nights ago, to tears that fell too easily. To a morning 
after that saw him handle her like broken glass. It had been easier 
on the phone today, despite the nightmare of the subject matter. 
More like Agent Scully talking to her partner. She'd almost laughed 
when he'd asked her what she was wearing. Such a normal sounding 
tease, when there was nothing normal about what was going on 
between them.

"Scully?" Skinner said. "I put your luggage in there."

She saw the king-size bed and smiled at his gallantry. He'd taken 
the room with the alarmingly small twin beds. She didn't fight him 
on it. It would probably make him feel better and she would 
certainly appreciate the extra space on such a fidgety, restless 
night.

The room rate would raise eyebrows in accounting, but it would be 
an AD on the expense claim and that would make everything all 
right. She smiled at him. "Thai or pizza?" she said, heading for 
the phone.

-----------

It looked as if Knox's frustration at Mulder's seemingly willful 
blindness was making him twitchy. So twitchy that Mulder almost 
asked him how the hell anyone was supposed to act like a good 
little test subject with all that nervous energy bouncing around 
the room. Of course Scully had leveled much the same accusation at 
him the week before.

At any rate, Mulder was finding it hard to think, let alone 
meditate. Perhaps he should be grateful, given that the alternative 
on offer was the opportunity to wallow in past mistakes and explore 
his own personal blend of real and imagined guilt?

Jen Samuels popped in on the lab, clearly intrigued to see Mulder 
sitting there again, all wired up in the testing chair.

"Usually his subjects are in and out in fifteen minutes," she said. 
"How long have you been here?"

"Today? Six hours."

"Looking at this series of images the whole time?" 

"More or less."

She glanced at the readouts on the PC screen. "How are you 
feeling?"

"Bored."

"Figures," she said, smiling brightly as she left. She paused in 
the doorway to chat briefly with Knox before vanishing from sight.

Knox twiddled light levels and redrew images, demanded that Mulder 
cooperate in exercises designed to relax first the body and then 
the mind. 

"Maybe hypnosis would help," Knox mumbled, more to himself than to 
Mulder.

"Help what?"

"You don't seem very happy with your life."

"You want to make me happy?"

Knox looked puzzled, as if Mulder should already know. "People 
should know why they feel bad."

"What makes you feel bad?"

"I don't."

"Not even Mark Johnson's death?"

"I didn't even know him."

"Then doesn't that make it worse? That he had to die just to prove 
a point?"

"Everybody dies."

"Your dad didn't."

Knox frowned, anger and confusion in his eyes. "No, he didn't. He 
killed my mom instead."

"I thought they split up before he crashed the car?"

Obvious from the look in Alan's eyes that that was not quite how he 
remembered it. But then he'd only been eleven when Dave Hennessey's 
car hit that tree. He was entitled not to be too precise on the 
sequence of events. Had he still imagined that they would get 
together again? 

Mulder tried another attack. "You think she missed him that much?"

"Every couple of years, we'd move house."

"But she couldn't find what she was looking for?"

"She thought he was going to come home. No closure, you see. It 
took her twelve years. He's just taking a little longer."

"Do you feel bad because you couldn't save her?"

Knox glared down at him, tipped Mulder's chair back a little 
flatter. "Keep your eyes on the screen, Mr. Mulder. You know you 
really are a very unusual subject." He waved at one of the computer 
screens. "It's as if you're more relaxed when you're talking. 
Extraordinary. Maybe we can work with that. Perhaps you can tell me 
how you handled the loss of your father - a gunshot, wasn't it?"

----------

Mark Johnson's death by suicide had been treated mostly as a death 
by suicide. A brief note that spoke of guilt but didn't mention 
death; a couple of awkward conversations about the pressure of 
academic expectations; an empty bottle of pills at his side, and a 
diagnosis of death by drowning in the large bathtub of his parents' 
home. No signs of a struggle or incidental injury. Presumed to be 
unconscious when he'd slipped under the water. 

His parents had been on vacation. The maid had found him the next 
morning.

Without the drawing, sketched in indelible marker on the palm of 
his hand, there would have been nothing to suggest foul play. 
Without an autopsy performed by one of the few people who would 
recognize the sketch as something more than a doodle, the 
likelihood was that no one would suspect it now.

More than a month had passed and despite the follow-up that had 
been done by the police and then been repeated by local FBI agents, 
it was still fair to say that no one had dug deeply enough to make 
Skinner and Scully's visit a waste of effort. Still, there was no 
denying that in those weeks since the death, the chances were that 
most of the evidence had been destroyed. Even in the week that had 
passed since her last visit to New Haven, Scully knew that they'd 
probably lost more.

The night spent in water probably ruled out the body as a source of 
further information. Scully reviewed the autopsy report with the 
M.E. and saw only one thing worthy of note. "Pizza and lasagna," 
she told Skinner. "Both eaten a couple of hours before he died."

"Last meal - couldn't pick a favorite?"

"Or a shared meal?"

Skinner nodded. "Maybe they delivered to the house?"

Hours to track down just who had delivered, but they got there, a 
combination of phone records and dogged determination. However, 
even with that breakthrough, all they knew for sure was that there 
were two hungry people in the Johnson house that night. 

Camera footage from an ATM machine earlier that afternoon gave them 
the first real evidence that someone who looked like Alan Knox was 
spending time with Mark Johnson. They sent the tape back to 
Quantico in the hopes of better resolution and definite proof.

Scully called Mulder again that night, and got a tired voice coming 
down the line. "Great stuff. Stay on it. Knox is guilty about that 
one. I called Johnson an innocent and I'm sure that's how he sees 
him too."

"We're trying to push that time window back. If we can prove that 
Knox was still in the house when Johnson died."

If they could, then they would be well on the way to finding 
something that they could actually use. Assisted suicide at the 
very least, and with Johnson young and in good health, probably not 
much sympathy from the court for any helper. They needed more of 
course, needed something to put him away for longer, but with one 
case certain then the other cases might become easier to prove or a 
confession easier to obtain.

Next stop would be another crack at the house. Fingerprints on 
shampoo bottles maybe? Something missed on Johnson's computer 
perhaps?

-------------

Mulder kept Knox busy during the day. The scientist and the 
psychopath seemed to be equally fascinated by the lack of response 
from Mulder's brain.

"It's damaged," Knox said, mostly to himself. "It must be. Have you 
ever suffered from seizures?"

Mulder offered him a few carefully edited highlights of a history 
marked with brain trauma, both deliberate and incidental. 

"Usually epilepsy and seizures are an advantage," Knox mumbled, and 
didn't seem to get the joke when Mulder started laughing in 
response. "But you've got so many of the secondary symptoms of 
temporal lobe disturbance," he added, earnest and enthusiastic, 
looking just as surprised as if a lab rat had suddenly been blessed 
with the power of speech.

"Perhaps it needs a different precursor pattern, maybe one with 
more distortion," Knox had mused. "You say that you responded 
abnormally to some symbols drawn on a stone tablet. Could you draw 
them for me?"

Of course he could, but he didn't. No point tempting fate like 
that. Instead he offered variations on Knox's own favorite theme. 
Clones of the final artwork created by Johnson and Props and the 
other victims, vague renditions of the sketches produced by Scully, 
swirling lines, soft wings and bright eyes and new variants of 
patterns that Mulder's hands seem capable of sketching of their own 
accord, despite his brain's disinterest.

Knox watched him draw, anxious and eager. Studied representations 
of brain waves on the screen as Mulder's hand swept over the page, 
shaking his head in disappointment and disbelief.

"Am I spoiling your record?" asked Mulder.

"No, not at all. It's just - " Knox stared at the image on the 
screen, losing his focus for a moment.

"Perhaps I'm too hung up on this case I'm working on?"

Knox nodded, eyes still locked on the pattern. "Tell me about Monty 
Props."

-------

When Scully called Mulder that night she had a little more news; 
the Bureau's photo lab had improved the ATM images enough to place 
Alan Knox at the victim's side. "We've got some internet access 
from that night on Johnson's PC. I've got people looking at the 
hard drive to see if we can track where he went, in case one of 
Knox's passwords crops up. Something."

"That's good. Really good. I think Knox panicked and rushed Johnson 
into acting before the ME left town. It's not a clean remote 
control death like the others. I'm sure of it. The more I talk to 
Knox, the more certain I am. Something went wrong at the house."

To Scully's ears Mulder sounded relieved, but whereas before she'd 
heard tiredness in his tone, now she heard exhaustion. "Just how 
much time do you spend talking to Knox?"

"I've got to stay close." 

"Where are you now?" He didn't reply and she wasn't even surprised. 
She tried again. "Are you still watching him?"

"I can't let him get out of my sight."

"Jesus, Mulder. You've been with him all day and you're still out 
there now? You must be exhausted. You can't do this. You'll make a 
mistake. You'll get sloppy. I'm going to call Felden."

"Felden? Why would you call him? You mean he isn't down there with 
you?"

"No, he isn't. And I'm fine. So is Skinner. So don't fight me on 
this."

A momentary silence, then a single snort of a humorless laugh, real 
distress in his voice now. "I'd better go and check on Felden. How 
could you leave him alone?"

Oh fuck. "We didn't. Some of the locals are watching him. But I 
don't understand why he hasn't already intervened. He told Skinner 
that he'd been maintaining surveillance."

"He hasn't. I'd have noticed. The locals keep sniffing around. But 
no Felden."

When Scully tried to call him back all she reached was a 
disembodied voice telling her that the number was busy and offering 
her the chance to leave a message.

----------

Knox's car was still in the parking area and while Mulder couldn't 
rule out the possibility that Knox himself had slipped out through 
the back door, something told him that nothing of the sort had 
happened. Lights had come on and gone off in the apartment 
reflecting occupancy; bathroom, kitchen, bedroom and living room 
illuminated in random but plausible patterns.

A call to Felden's cell phone had yielded no results. A bitter 
argument with the desk clerk at Felden's hotel had eventually 
confirmed that Felden was not in his room and that he'd neither 
dined at the hotel nor used the room's phone since the evening 
before.

The SAC from the Boston office told Mulder what he already knew, 
that Felden had shrugged off the idea of a partner in favor of a 
request for rapid response in the event that he did call in for 
backup. All done with that knowing smile and that quietly 
confident, friendly demeanor that made even complete strangers feel 
safe in his presence.

"I think we may have a potential hostage situation."

The SAC groaned. "Think - may - potential? Don't fence with me, 
Mulder. You're telling me that Felden's been kidnapped?"

"I think he's in danger and that he isn't going to be able to get 
out of it alone."

"Aw, hell. Walter'll have me nailed to a tree for this. What do you 
need?"

"Backup, now, silent. Monitoring equipment. I need to know what's 
happening in that apartment. A HRT - but don't let them take over 
the op. I'll call Skinner for authority."

"I'll have people there in fifteen."

Actually the SAC had an unmarked Bureau car show up in less than 
five. Mulder acknowledged them with a wave as they cruised 
discreetly past and parked just around the corner. It wasn't the 
first time that he'd seen them. They'd sent people to check up on 
him a couple of times a day around the lab as well.

Why the hell hadn't he seen this coming? Because he'd imagined that 
Felden was safely tucked away with Scully and Skinner. Looking back 
though, they hadn't actually lied to him during their phone calls. 
He hadn't asked. They hadn't told.

Mulder had kept Knox busy during the day. 

Talking and drawing. Watching and dreaming. Getting nowhere fast.

Still, it seemed to have kept Knox busy and that was, after all, 
the whole point of the exercise. The trouble was, sooner or later 
each day, Knox went home.

Which had all led to the other kind of trouble. Felden, deprived of 
the chance to question Knox by day, had obviously entered the 
apartment and waited for the man's return tonight. 

At least Mulder thought so, assumed it on the basis of gut feeling 
and zero evidence. For all he really knew, Felden could have hopped 
on a ferry to Martha's Vineyard and might be enjoying a good 
lobster and a nicely chilled glass of chardonnay right now. But 
somehow he doubted it.

Whether the images were having an effect or not, the idle time he'd 
spent looking at them had certainly provoked some kind of a 
reaction in Mulder. He'd spent days wobbling an unsteady line 
between feeling guilty over specifics and a more generalized 
response. 

Having sketched mental lists of the ten worst things he'd ever done 
and been disturbed by how many of them included Scully on the 
victim list, he'd switched to drawing up lists of personal failures 
that didn't include Scully. Then the ones that didn't include 
Samantha either. Found no shortage of lists, no lack of bleak 
memories.

Sins of omission and commission.

Did Knox really think that he hadn't done it all before? Did Knox 
really imagine that he hadn't already explored the guilt a thousand 
times over? Rolling in it, using it as fuel and as a reminder of 
how easy it was to fuck things up? The road to hell was paved with 
good intentions and Mulder's conscience was marked with every well-
intentioned milestone and miserable turning point along the way.

Like today. Knox had spent hours drawing those damned sketches, 
offering them to Mulder and looking increasingly desperate with 
each one.

Mulder had pushed the point home. "I don't think Mark Johnson did 
anything wrong apart from live in the area covered by a particular 
pathologist. I don't even think there was anything in his profile 
to suggest that he wanted to die. Not of guilt. He was young; he'd 
really had no time to do anything worth dying for."

And Knox had looked hurt, biting at his lip and shaking a little. 
Ran away to cry it off, or scream it out in private somewhere. Came 
back with eyes stained red and another dozen sketches for Mulder to 
try.

Mulder walked to the street corner, just out of sight of the 
apartment's windows and waited for the Bureau to arrive in force. 

A few minutes later Mulder was sitting in a dark colored van and 
the SAC was handing him a headset. "There's a lot of distortion. 
Techs are trying to get better placement for the directional 
microphones, but it's better than nothing."

Which indeed it was. A lot of boom, a lot of crackle, a lot of 
background noise from plumbing and TV sets elsewhere in the 
building, but right at the heart of it all the sound of two men 
talking. "It's Knox and Felden," Mulder confirmed.

"Shit."

Yeah. "I'm going to call Knox. See if I can get him to come out. 
Keep everybody out of sight."

"You're going to try and trick him into coming out? You don't think 
he'll negotiate?"

Mulder shrugged, remembering what it was to be Spooky and suddenly 
knowing exactly what was going on in that apartment. "We've got two 
suicidal men up there. Both armed. Tricks are all I've got."

The phone call was brief but inevitable. Knox would be pleased to 
see Mulder, but wasn't going to leave the building to do it.

"You can't go in," said the SAC, who'd read the look in Mulder's 
eyes. "Walter, Assistant Director Skinner would never forgive me."

Time ticking away and nothing to do now except to wait and see 
which one died first. Hard to stay out here knowing that would 
guarantee that someone would die. Tried to think of Scully's words, 
"I believe that we're together for a reason," borrowed them, used 
them as a talisman. He nodded to the SAC, trying to look as 
reassuring as he could.

It worked, the SAC turned away to get a new report, returning an 
instant later. "They've sharpened up the sound feed. We've got a 
couple of our people in the apartment above."

"Let's go then," Mulder said, relieved to be finally able to take 
some action, fastening the tags on the body armor in anticipation 
of the surveillance operation moving to their new base.

"I've got the Hostage Rescue Team on hold. Whenever you say."

Suddenly unsure whether that was a good thing or not, Mulder 
nodded. "I appreciate the faith you've got in me, sir. But I'm not 
sure if I can trust my judgment."

"Then you'll have to trust mine. We prepare; we listen; we don't go 
in unless we know what we're going into."

And something, somewhere in the SAC's quiet words, or maybe just 
feeding on the glimmer of relief that the man was willing to 
shoulder some of the strain ignited a sudden spark of understanding 
in Mulder's brain. "Fuck. We've got to get the place cleared. Not 
just the agents. Everybody. We need to evacuate the building."

"Mulder?"

"Knox won't go quietly. Once he knows he's going; he'll want to go 
with a bang. He'll have rigged the apartment in anticipation."

Stealth turned in an instant to speed. Agents going floor to floor, 
persuading reluctant residents already curled up in front of their 
TVs into emergency measures and a silent evacuation. Instructions 
for desperate urgency running in direct contradiction with the need 
to avoid alerting Knox.

Mulder kept Knox busy on the phone, offered meandering confessions 
drawn from a long history of flawed choices and inept 
investigations. He closed his eyes for an instant and the SAC found 
time between barked instructions to the team to touch his shoulder 
and remind him that he wasn't alone.

With the buildings emptied and the civilians pushed back beyond the 
edge of the street, it was time for the three-ring circus to begin. 
Fire trucks hovering in silence on the street corners. Bomb 
disposal team in place. 

Mulder, sitting in the middle of it all, wondering if he could come 
up with a good enough excuse if he was just plain wrong. If Felden 
had everything under control. If Knox was just some geek who 
happened to fit the profile but who had never been responsible for 
the crime. All nonsense and fantasy of course: they couldn't get 
that lucky.

He recognized Scully's footsteps before he heard her voice. She 
smiled as he turned to face her. "You were quick," he said. He 
checked his watch and saw that hours had passed since their phone 
call. Ah, OK then. No miracle at play, just time slipping out of 
his hands.

"Felden's in there with him?" she asked.

He nodded. "You're just in time for the finale."


========
END of Part 15

=========


The SAC and Skinner were swapping notes. 

Mulder intervened, made careful eye contact with his boss. "May I 
have a word with you, sir?"

Frowning, Skinner followed Mulder away from the main group. Mulder 
got straight to the point. "I don't believe that either of us 
should be involved in the decision-making here."

"Little late for that isn't it? You've had the building cleared. 
You've got agents, the PD and the fire department waiting for your 
next word."

Mulder snorted at that, saw Scully watching them, and beckoned her 
to join the group. "Things are getting tense up there. I'm going to 
try to get Knox to let me talk to Felden. As soon as I do that, 
Knox will get suspicious. The whole thing may blow up in my face."

"We'll be right here," she said, and he wasn't sure quite how to 
handle that.

They returned to the SAC as a trio. The SAC seemed to note that 
Mulder was hanging back slightly, saw some significance in that. 
"You don't think we should storm the building?"

Wincing, Mulder acknowledged the words. A perp and an agent on 
their consciences, or a perp and maybe a dozen or more agents? He 
didn't like doing those kinds of equations, but forced himself to 
admit the truth of it. "I'm going to try to talk to Felden."

The SAC nodded. "Make it fast. It's getting bad in there." 

Mulder picked up the headset so that the others would be able to 
eavesdrop on the call.

"Alan. It's me, Mulder, again. I need to talk with Neil. Tell him 
he's got his phone switched off."

"Neil?" asked Knox, sounding surprised.

Keep it light. Keep it easy. Keep it sounding like it's no big 
deal. Like they hadn't got a small army waiting out here who were 
all just itching for action. "Neil Felden. He said he was going to 
drop round to see you tonight. I assume he's still there; he hasn't 
gone back to the hotel."

The next voice Mulder heard belonged to a decidedly drowsy Neil 
Felden. In fact it occurred to Mulder that both men sounded a 
little drowsy. He grabbed a piece of paper and wrote down the word 
"drugged?" and waved it towards his colleagues. "Neil. I need to 
see you - immediately."

"Don't think I can do that."

Scully scribbled something about an angel and pushed it in front of 
Mulder. Mulder nodded, grateful for the prompt. "I need to talk to 
you about the angels. You need to come out."

"You should come up," Felden said. "Alan sees the angels, too."

Mulder took a deep breath, replayed the sound of Felden's voice in 
his head, heard the same blurred, out-of-it tones as he'd heard in 
Diana's voice twelve years before and knew what he had to do. No 
time for finesse. "Can't do that, Neil. If I come in there then 
it'll be behind an armored shield and with a dozen other agents."

"Ah, you've got a team with you. I thought you might. It's OK, 
Mulder. One day you'll see."

"You've got to come out. You both have to come out. Now."

"I can't. It's over. I know that now. This is the only way it can 
end."

"No, we can work this out. But you've got to come out. Before 
anyone else dies."

"Goodbye, Mulder. I'm sorry. About everything." 

The line went dead.

"Damn it," grumbled Mulder, immediately hitting the button to dial 
again.

Long seconds later, someone in the apartment picked up the phone 
but said nothing.

Mulder tried to get a reaction. "We need to talk. Put down your 
weapons and come out here."

Alan Knox sounded tired, resigned. "You've got a SWAT team, haven't 
you?"

"Of course I do. With orders to fire. Let Neil go, Alan. There's no 
need for anyone else to die."

"You're so wrong."

The line went dead. Mulder hit the button to dial again.

A sudden barrage of rifle fire coming from at least three positions 
in the block opposite took out the apartment's windows. 

Mulder dropped the phone and ran. Two HRT agents wrestled him to 
his knees before he even reached the front door of the building. 
"Just wait it out, Agent Mulder," said the taller one who was now 
twisting Mulder's arm so high and hard up against his back that 
even the desire to fight was dissipating fast. 

"You got it," Mulder finally said, admitting defeat as the sound of 
another shot rang out; this time from somewhere inside the 
building.

"Good," said the tall guy, easing Mulder's arm down just far enough 
to cuff Mulder's wrist to his own. "Sorry, the SAC said you were my 
responsibility. You ready to go back over there?" he asked as he 
helped Mulder up onto his feet, nodding vaguely towards Scully and 
the others. Mulder looked at the group, noted that Scully and 
Skinner now had their own heavyweight guards.

"No," said Mulder. "I want to go upstairs."

"Soon as I get the all clear."

The clear signal came only a few seconds later, then the race was 
on. Mulder fuming at his captor to, "Move faster, damn it," as they 
attempted to run upstairs still coupled together by the chain. 

"It'd be faster if you let me get the fucking chain off."

And Mulder agreed that the man was probably right but couldn't 
force himself to stop.

Spun round the corner of the stairs, saw a couple of HRT agents in 
their helmets standing by one of the doorways, sprinted forward to 
look inside. Two bodies, two lots of blood.

The body by the window clearly dead. Holes in his head and chest 
and no way back.

The other man, in the center of the room, was still alive, could 
tell that from the way the blood was pulsing up through the hands 
of another agent who was leaning at this side, wearing full body 
armor and talking into his headset. Another one moved in to scoop 
the Bureau issue Smith and Wesson from close by the injured man's 
hand up into a plastic evidence bag.

"My partner's a doctor," said Mulder.

One of the other agents took off his helmet and turned to Mulder, 
pointing at the man at work on the body. "We've got it covered. 
He's EMT trained. We've got an ambulance crew on their way up the 
stairs."

The team worked fast, padded up the wound, set up an IV, had the 
victim on the stretcher and out of the door before Mulder had even 
got his breath back. 

Mulder didn't even notice the cuffs being removed. Heard his 
partner before he saw her.

"Shit," he mumbled, feeling the energy drain away so fast that he 
had to lean against the wall to steady himself.

"Knox is dead," she said. Though he already knew that. "Felden - we 
won't know until they get him onto the operating table. He's 
hanging in there."

--------

The next day, the SAC of the Boston office played the surveillance 
tape to the assembled group. The twenty gallons of gasoline in the 
apartment's kitchen were arranged in a crude copy of the incendiary 
that had destroyed a house and killed ten people, nine years 
before.

The audiotape made it very obvious just how close Knox was to 
lighting the fuse.

Mulder kept his head down for most of the replay, in particular for 
those parts when his own voice could be heard talking to Knox and 
Felden over the phone. A litany of confessions of his failures as 
an agent and as a man, and then the series of increasingly 
desperate pleas as he tried to force Knox and Felden to respond. 
Scully pressed her elbow against his and he quickly glanced at her, 
attempting to reassure her that he was OK.

"The marksmen had a standing order to open fire if Knox came to the 
window. It was our only chance to reach Agent Felden," the SAC 
said.

Skinner nodded. "He was carrying a weapon; he had the gasoline 
rigged to blow. There was an immediate threat. I don't think anyone 
will have a problem with the legitimacy of the shooting."

Statements from the agents involved had already been taken and a 
formal review would follow, but there was no desire for blood.

Alan Knox had Dave Hennessey's gun in his hand when he died and 
that seemed to sum the whole thing up. No more patterns to make 
sense of. Just an agent's kid gone mad with grief, ready to die and 
prepared to take at least one other FBI agent with him.

After the marksmen took Knox out, the others in the team didn't 
quite understand why Felden hadn't just walked away.

"Like he was in a trance," said one of the HRT agents who'd stormed 
the apartment a matter of seconds later.

"Gun in his mouth," said another. "If I'd been there a second 
before or a second later."

So many ifs and maybes.

---------------

By the time they got back to Alan Knox's lab it had been cleared. 
No computer backups, no hard copies of anything beyond the original 
research application. No Jenny Samuels either.

They asked about that AKBC2770 tag. "The 27 represents Jenny 
Samuels, but I've got no records of her supervising an experimental 
series number 70," said the computer technician responsible for the 
lab's archives.

"An offer she couldn't refuse," said an old colleague. "A lab in 
Europe. Her mom lives nearby. She jumped at it. Took personal leave 
immediately - her mother's been ill for a while apparently."

Scully didn't want to hear any more.

Mulder attempted to find the silver lining. "At least the drawings 
won't be showing up in next Sunday's New York Times as a meditation 
aid."

"At least."

Skinner wanted to continue the argument, and Mulder and Scully 
wished him luck with his attempts to get more from the research 
department's archives than they had done. Even the Gunmen believed 
the computer's audit trail when it said that the cupboard was bare. 
The PC's themselves had vanished overnight.

------

Felden was a mess but not a mess like Dave Hennessey had been. 
Apart from the dressing on his shoulder there were hardly any marks 
on Neil's body, just a solid mass of bandages shrouding his face.

Progress though, and that was what mattered. Not quite up to 
talking yet, but he'd graduated to writing scratchy words on an 
erasable board. They'd moved him down to a hospital in DC in 
celebration.

"Hi," said Mulder, grateful to see that Felden was not restrained, 
though he knew from his doctors that they were still handling him 
with care. "How's it going?" Redundant question, but mandatory in 
the circumstances. Felden was still a stranger, despite the 
peculiar bonds forged by this case.

Felden scribbled his reply on the board. "Hurts." 

Yeah, well a bullet through the jaw which had then traveled on to 
skim a chunk off the shoulder blade might be expected to have some 
repercussions. "Why'd you do it, Neil?"

Felden nodded, attempting a smile, just a glimmer of the charmer 
that Mulder had met a month before. It took him a while to compose 
a reply. "Why'd I miss? 6 HRT agents!"

"They did well."

Felden nodded.

"Why'd you ditch your back-up?"

"Thought I'd see it coming."

"But you can't just will yourself out of a delusion."

Felden nodded, the soft shroud of bandages emphasizing the slight 
gesture even against the white of the bed linen. "Like a drug."

"And just as addictive." Mulder closed his eyes briefly, ashamed. 
"Christ. I wish you'd told me. Nobody told me. I thought you were 
with them. I should have - "

Felden shook his head. "NO," he wrote.

"It's hard."

Another nod from Felden.

Mulder stretched back in the chair, unhappy that the focus was 
somehow on him rather than on the man in the hospital bed. He 
swiftly changed the subject to recuperation plans and hospital 
food. A few minutes of note swapping and it was time for Mulder to 
leave. One last question. "Is there anything you need?"

Felden took his time. "You, Skinner, Scully - I need you to be OK."

"You too, Neil. You too."

---------------

The FBI reviews were over. Congratulations to the team on 
delivering the least bad outcome, at least that was how Mulder 
phrased it to Scully.

She looked wrung out and so did Skinner. They stood up tall and 
walked stiff-backed, eyes forward. Other agents politely looked 
away as they approached. They'd lived to fight another day and the 
rumor mill was flying high on gossip and innuendo. Bad enough that 
an Assistant Director was out in the field, but for him to be out 
doing grunt work in New Haven when the UNSUB and the action was in 
Boston made it worse. 

An ex-FBI agent's son was dead and another agent was still in the 
hospital with self-inflicted gunshot wounds. It was a wild enough 
outcome even without further embellishment.

Rumors of the expense claims didn't help: an AD and a female agent 
sharing a suite in a nice hotel with an excellent ocean view and 24 
hour room service. Two and two made five and no one knew quite how 
to fit Mulder into the mix, though it was a safe bet that some of 
them had tried. 

Mulder ignored it all, feigned obliviousness because the 
alternative of seeing and hearing the remarks would only have made 
them worse. 

"It's over," said Skinner once they reached his office, his tone 
somewhere between a question and an order.

It was tempting to agree. 

A hard run, a long shower, a stiff drink, and a chance to sleep it 
off. Above all what Mulder wanted right now was the time and space 
to cry it all away. No witnesses. No need to fake confidence and 
control. A couple of days of self imposed solitary confinement and 
he would be ready to roll again. Faster than therapy, safer than 
drugs, cured 99% of all known aftermaths and kept the post-
traumatic demons happily at bay.

Mulder wanted it. Wanted it almost badly enough to lie. Almost. "I 
don't think it's ever over. All Knox did, and all Props did before 
him, was find a way to amplify some of his victims' own thoughts. A 
kind of positive feedback loop left running until one idea looked 
so big it squeezed out all the rest."

"And you don't think we're past that yet?"

"You tell me. Knox used guilt as the driver. What do you think?"

Skinner's hand rose to rub tiredly at the back of his neck. The 
lack of instant denial an acknowledgement of sorts. "And if we 
avoid looking at those images?" he finally said.

"It may be enough. But it's a hell of a maybe."

Scully spoke without looking up. "What do we do?"

"We can't trust our own consciences. We've got to trust each 
other."

"An anti-suicide pact?"

"Sure," said Mulder, "if we can make one and mean it. An agreement 
to keep talking at least. But I want more: I want a promise that 
whatever happens, now or later, you'll never use me as an excuse. 
Not my actions. Not your actions towards me."

Scully was staring at him, eyes burning. "Can you make the same 
promise to us?" 

Her words were soft but their intensity pierced every wall he had. 
Electricity in the air, Mulder tried to maintain the contact. "I 
want to."

Skinner was watching them, his jaw tight, his lips tense, as if the 
words were waiting in his throat but wouldn't leave.

Mulder shrugged, desperately needing that solitude he'd been 
promising himself, but forcing down the instinct to run away and 
hide. He focused his attention on his boss. "You thought I killed 
Props. I didn't."

"I should never have said - "

Mulder waved the protest away. "But I did kill Knox. I didn't know 
that was what I was doing. At least I didn't admit to it at the 
time, not consciously. But I made him look at those pictures. And I 
knew what would happen to him when he did."

Scully snapped out an impatient denial. "No."

Skinner agreed. "It was his weapon. It went off in his face."

Mulder shook his head. "No, you don't get it. I didn't know I was 
doing it because I didn't care. As long as we cracked the case, I 
didn't care about anything. I know what I am  - I may not like it, 
but I know. There was nothing you could have said or done that 
would have made me behave differently, or feel differently."

Mulder smiled, a brief bark of a laugh as he heard his own words 
and saw the flaw in an argument that effectively told his boss that 
he'd never been able to take an order as more than just another 
collection of words.

Skinner nodded, his expression softening a little as he did. "How 
the hell have you kept a job here for this long?"

"Good management, sir?"

The AD addressed the other half of his conscience equation. "And 
Neil Felden?"

"Wants the same promise. He doesn't want to be anyone's excuse."

--------------
 
That night in Mulder's apartment, sitting on the couch, the 
partners tested their boundaries again. Looking for some new 
equilibrium, trying to find the magic words that would make the 
puzzle pieces fit together.

"You asked me for a promise," said Scully. The voice of someone 
preparing to tread carefully in a minefield, but absolutely 
determined to make it to the other side. "Why would you think that 
I would ever use you as an excuse?"

Because you love me, he thought, though to say it would feel like 
too much of an intrusion into what little privacy she still had. 
Only slightly less invasive, he used her words against her. 
Fighting fair had never been one of his strong points. "Because 
when you dreamed of shooting Pfaster, your nightmare was of killing 
me. Because your soul said that you need me alive."

She sighed, nodding her head. "I guess you need that promise." She 
looked at him expectantly, anticipating that he'd reciprocate 
straight away.

He couldn't do it, not yet. "I used you; made you look at those 
drawings. I risked your life to get a better angle on Knox. After 
everything you've been through with me and despite all the things 
you're going through now because of our work. I still couldn't stop 
myself from hurting you again."

She shook her head. "You couldn't stop yourself from letting me do 
my job."

"Except it wasn't your job that I asked you to do: it was mine."

"You didn't have the equipment."

He looked at her, startled by the lightness of her tone. 

She smiled at him. "So just be glad that I could help."

Hesitant, he returned her smile. "Always," he said. There were more 
confessions to make but they could wait for another day. The words 
were there, waiting impatiently for their chance. The ghost of 
Diana to lay to rest. More warnings to deliver. He was never going 
to be a better man.

Don't die for me, Scully - he could say that and mean it. Live for 
me? That was too much to ask. The demand was there, hovering 
dangerously close to the surface at moments like this, but he was 
too greedy to spoil the now for the possibility of something more.

--------------

Mulder went to see Dave Hennessey. Dave didn't seem to mind.

"I killed him, Dave. I didn't load the gun and I didn't pull the 
trigger, but I killed him."

A daisy had invaded the grass on the lawn below. Perfect and brave. 
Its head held high. Foolhardy and naive.

"I've had the chance to kill before - people I wanted dead, people 
who no one would have grieved over. It wasn't the law that stopped 
me either; they were times when I could have done it and no one 
could have nailed me for it.

"So I don't know what went wrong. I want to blame the pictures. I 
want to blame the way the thrill of the chase disguised the moment 
of the kill. But in the end all I've got to blame is me - and Alan 
I guess. I don't like playing chicken. I'm too fucking stupid to 
look away. It's not brave; it's not a death wish. I just can't 
blink, in case I miss something. I can't pull out, because it would 
spoil the view."

The daisy danced in the sunlight and Mulder closed his eyes. "I'm 
sorry, Dave. I just thought you should hear it from me."

He went straight from the hospital to Scully's apartment. Still 
trying to think it through and still failing. He slumped back on 
her couch and slept it off instead. He woke up when she returned.

"Scully? I must have dozed off. I was waiting for you to get back." 
He looked at her, saw the sadness in her eyes. "It didn't take, did 
it?

"I guess it was too much to hope for."

No, it wasn't. How could it be too much? It was such a small wish, 
not fair that it hadn't been granted. He drew her into his arms, 
but couldn't find the words.

"It was my last chance," she said.

No such thing. "Never give up on a miracle."

Just because he couldn't see the angels didn't mean that he didn't 
believe in them. 

Both of them on the couch now, her body slumped against his. 
Contact, the only thing they could offer, so they gave each other 
that.

His words came out in hiccupped breaths, quiet and fierce. "A long 
time ago, I thought I understood, thought I knew what I needed from 
a partner."

She was silent, but her tears had tapered off. She was soft and 
warm in his arms as he struggled to explain. "I love you; I've 
loved you for a long time, but you know that. I was OK with it. 
Didn't see how it could be a problem. But I was never sure what I 
would do if you loved me. I thought if you loved me, you wouldn't 
trust me to do my job. The fear would stop you."

"You think that's what happened during the Knox case? That I was so 
worried about you, I hid things from you, missed the warning signs, 
and that that was why Felden got hurt?"

"No, I think I was so worried about you that I hid things to stop 
you from coming back to Cambridge. I played guinea pig for Knox."

Day after day on that dentist's couch in Knox's lab, looking at 
those damned pictures. It hadn't been surveillance; Mulder had 
allowed himself to become Knox's project. And when the images 
started to gnaw away at Knox as well, Mulder's most fervent wish 
had been that Scully wouldn't judge him for it, wouldn't see him as 
a killer too. 

He tried to explain. "Even if I'd known that Felden was there, I'd 
have kept him away - because if he'd seen what I was doing he might 
have told you. Whereas the local agents, they knew that I was just 
another job."

"Which was why you didn't try to shake them off?"

"I didn't want to die on a miscalculation."

"I tried, Mulder. Tried to be your partner."

"You were; you were everything. You are everything. Whatever you 
want from me. Whatever you'll take, it's yours. But I can't change. 
I don't change." 

"I don't need you to."

"I know. That's why we're here. Why we're together."

Her hand brushed lightly against his eyebrow and he leaned into the 
warmth. She smiled, soothing the worry lines from his jaw. "Does it 
bother you that you can't see the angels?"

He shook his head. "You can see them for me."




END