TEBORI - An X-Files Novel
by Brandon D. Ray
(publius@avalon.net)


===========
Headers & Notes
===========


BEGUN:  August 8, 1999
FINISHED:  October 10, 1999


==========


DISTRIBUTION:  Anyone is fine, as long as these headers remain intact.  But
please let me know where, so I can visit.  If you want a nice clean copy all
in one piece, email me and I'll send it to you.  You are more than welcome to
link to the copy at my site -- although, again, please let me know that you're
doing it.


FEEDBACK:  I live for it.  Is that pathetic, or what?


==========


SUMMARY:  In the aftermath of the Gibson Praise case, the X-Files have been
turned over to Spender and Fowley, and Mulder and Scully's relationship is
close to its nadir.  Scully is sent to Iowa to assist in tracking down a
serial killer -- but she may have more at stake in the case than either she or
Mulder realize.


CATEGORIES: X-File (MOTW), Romance, Angst


KEYWORDS:  MulderAngst.  ScullyAngst.  Profiler!Mulder.  MSR


SPOILER STATEMENT:  Anything up through "The Beginning" (including the movie)
is fair game.


TIMELINE:  This story occurs early in Season 6.  The Prologue occurs shortly
after the events of "Fight the Future", while the main body of the story
begins within a few days after the last scene in "The Beginning".


RATING:  PG-13, for the most part.  Chapter 13 is rated NC-17, but it can
probably be skipped without missing too much of what's going on.


CONTENT STATEMENT:  Explicit sex (chapter 13 only).  Bad language, including
the "f" word.  Allusions to some rather horrible crimes, but nothing too icky
happens on-stage, so to speak.


==========


THANKS AND CREDITS:


To Livia Balaban, Narida Law, Lisa, Louise Marin, Vickie Moseley, Brynna
Owens, Paulette, Lena Quinn, Nonie Rider, Robbie, Sara the First, Shannon,
Sharon & Trixie, for brainstorming & beta and all that good stuff.


Special thanks to Paulette, Shannon & Sharon for help with researching various
aspects of this story.


Most especially, thanks to Shannon, who originally conceived of the idea which
finally led to this story, and who offered it to me one evening when I was
whining that I wanted to write a casefile, but couldn't come up with anything
I really liked.


And of course ... any shortcomings in this story are my own responsibility,
and not those of the many wonderful ladies who devoted so much time and effort
to helping me put it together.


==========


DISCLAIMER:  Hmm.  Nope.  Not mine.  Never will be.


==========


AUTHORS' NOTE:  I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV.  The medical and
pharmaceutical information used in this story was gleaned from the Internet by
an educated layperson -- namely, me.  Errors are inadvertent; hopefully those
who know more about this topic than I do will find my use of these elements to
be plausible.


==========END NOTES==========



===========
Prologue
===========


Iowa City, IA
Residence of Angela D'Amato
Tuesday, September 15, 1998
4:36 p.m.


The first thing Jason noticed was the smell of flowers.


Pausing just inside the doorway of the darkened apartment, he inhaled deeply.
The scent was familiar, but he couldn't quite place it.  Jason knew he should
switch on the light, but for a moment he resisted the urge and just stood
there in the gloom.


There was another odor here, he realized, a far less pleasant one that was
almost but not quite concealed by the floral smell:  rotten meat.  Great, he
thought.  She must have unplugged the refrigerator before she bolted.


"Jason?"


He started slightly at the sound of his partner's voice.  "Sorry, Denise," he
replied, taking another step inside and reaching for the switch.  A soft
click, and the room was abruptly flooded with light.  He squinted briefly as
his eyes adjusted to the sudden brightness, and then he looked around.


Normal.  Everything looked completely normal.  Sofa, television, a desk in one
corner with a computer sitting on it.  A couple of armchairs.  A breakfast bar
separating the living room from the kitchen area, and a short hallway leading
towards the back, presumably giving access to the bedroom and the bath.
Everything was neat as a pin; Jason felt almost as if they'd stepped into a
photograph from Modern Living.


Behind him he heard Denise checking in with the dispatcher, and he glanced
over his shoulder at her.  She was standing just across the threshold now, one
hand resting lightly on her nightstick while the other slipped the microphone
back on its clip on her belt.  Behind her the building superintendent still
stood in the hallway, the ring of master keys clutched in his fist, a worried
look on his face.


Well, the man had reason to worry, Jason reflected cynically.  His tenant,
Angela D'Amato, had not been seen or heard from in nearly a week.  The last
person to see her was the assistant manager at the pizza place where she
worked, and Jason's guess was that Domino's would be looking for a new driver
-- and that the manager of the apartment building would be looking for a new
tenant.


"The computer's still here," Denise commented, her voice intruding on Jason's
thoughts.  "So's the television."  He glanced down at his partner and nodded
slowly as the significance of that observation penetrated.


"What's that mean?" the superintendent asked.


"Rent deadbeats usually take their valuables with them," Jason replied.  He
inhaled again, once more noting the smell of flowers mixed with rotting meat
-- and now the possible implications of that odor sent a chill down his spine.


Jason shrugged in resignation.  There was no way to avoid it, if that's what
had happened, and they may as well get it over with.  He sighed, then gestured
for the superintendent to stay in the hall before turning to lead his partner
into the apartment.


It took less than thirty seconds to confirm that the kitchen and bathroom were
empty, and before he was really ready Jason found himself standing in front of
the closed door that obviously led to the bedroom.  Denise stood at his elbow,
her hand now resting not on her nightstick but on her service weapon.  The
mingled smells of flowers -- chrysanthemums, he suddenly realized -- and
rotten meat were now almost overpowering.  He had more than an inkling of what
lay behind this door, and already he felt the bile rising in his throat.


"Buck up, partner," he heard Denise murmur.  He glanced down at her one more
time, to see that she was looking up at him, the cool professionalism of her
expression betrayed by the spark of distress in her eyes.  "We can do this,"
she went on firmly.  "Just another welfare check."


Which was a lie, and they both knew it.  This was not an elderly woman whose
heart had finally stopped beating while she slept.  This was a college girl in
her early 20s, with her whole life ahead of her -- and if she was lying dead
in the bedroom of this apartment, it was almost certainly not due to natural
causes.


Jason hesitated just another moment, then nodded slightly and turned his
attention back to the door.  He reached out and turned the handle and the door
swung open, and the two partners stepped across the threshold together.


==========END PROLOGUE==========


===========
Chapter One
===========


Washington, DC
FBI Headquarters
Tuesday, September 29, 1998
10:02 a.m.


Mulder was bored.


Of all the emotions he might have expected after losing the X-Files again,
boredom was not among them.  Rage, depression, disbelief, shock -- all of
these he might have anticipated.  But not boredom.


To be fair, this was not a completely unprecedented reaction.  Mulder had also
been bored the last time the X-Files were taken away, and he well remembered
the mind-numbing ennui of transcribing wiretap recordings -- along with all
the other tedious chores that had been foisted on him.


Yeah, but that was different, he reminded himself.  Back then, the Files had
actually been closed, and Mulder hadn't had to sit up here on the third floor,
knowing that down in the basement other people -- one of whom was clearly
hostile to the very idea of the X-Files -- were meddling with work that he had
come to think of as his personal property.


Shit.


To make matters worse, he hadn't seen Scully all morning.  She had arrived
ahead of him, which wasn't all that unusual, but aside from her cell phone and
a now-cold cup of coffee sitting on her desk in the third floor bullpen,
there'd been no sign of her.


For that matter, he hadn't seen much of her since the conclusion of the Gibson
Praise case, three days earlier.  He knew she was upset with him -- that was
pretty obvious from their final discussion of the case -- but he hadn't
expected her to cut him off quite so completely.  The last few days she'd
barely spoken to him during working hours, and had begged off entirely from
any after hours social contact.  


So yeah, he thought.  She's pissed.


Of course, he wasn't entirely pleased with her, either.  At first he'd
actually welcomed a few days to himself, hoping that a small break from Scully
might give him a chance to regroup and collect his thoughts, and try to figure
out how he felt about everything that had transpired in the past month.  From
the unexpected reappearance of Diana, to the burning of the X-Files, to
Scully's second abduction and his own bout of despair, Mulder had gone over it
all in his mind, looking for some clue as to how to get things back on track.


And then there had been the biggest problem, of course:  the status of his
personal relationship with Scully.  


After their return from Antarctica they had become lovers.  Mulder still
wasn't quite sure how that had come about, but he hadn't questioned what at
the time seemed to be a logical progression.  They hadn't actually made love
that often -- only four times in all -- and they hadn't discussed the future
at all.  But Mulder had nevertheless taken comfort at the heightened degree of
intimacy, and Scully seemed happy with the new arrangement, as well.  She'd
been more open to him; more accepting.


But then they were taken off the X-Files, and Gibson Praise resurfaced.  And
before Mulder knew it he and Scully were glaring at each other from opposite
sides of an office arguing over, of all things, trust.


All of these matters had been occupying his mind the past few days, and in all
honesty he had to admit that his own self-absorption was probably contributing
to the wall of silence that now stood between him and his partner.
Unfortunately, none of that introspection seemed to be getting him anywhere,
and Mulder was starting to get a little sick of his own company.  


He'd tried the usual diversions:  shooting hoops, running, watching
television, visiting the Gunmen.  But nothing seemed to help; none of it would
allow him to escape the gray, barren landscape he was now inhabiting.


With a sigh of resignation he pulled the next folder off the stack on his desk
and opened it.  He rapidly skimmed the cover sheet, and groaned in near-silent
protest.


Another fucking funeral.  Some mafia boss had died, and per the Bureau's SOP
the funeral had been placed under surveillance.  Mulder was now faced with the
joyful task of matching the faces in the surveillance photographs against the
database of known mob figures, so the agents in the Organized Crime Section
could get a better idea of how the syndicate was structured, and where the
power really lay.


Valuable work, he supposed.  Important, even necessary work.  But it was also
mindnumbing and repetitious.  And it was all because of that asshole Kersh.


Kersh.  Mulder turned the name over in his mind with distaste.  He was still
trying to decide whether the new A.D. was actually evil, or simply the dull,
unimaginative bureaucrat he appeared on the surface to be.  Either way, Mulder
was rapidly coming to hate him.  The man seemed to take a special delight in
finding just this sort of dead end assignment for his new charges.  It was
already bad enough that Mulder was starting to miss Skinner.  Out of the
frying pan and into the fire ....


The sound of a drawer opening and closing drew him from his reverie, and he
glanced up from the folder to see Scully standing next to her desk, loading
files into her briefcase and studiously not looking at him.  He sat in silence
for a moment, waiting to see if she would acknowledge his presence, but at
last she simply closed the briefcase, lifted it from her desk and turned to
leave.


Mulder couldn't stop himself; he rose to his feet.


"Scully?"


The way things had been lately, he half-expected her to just keep going, but
then she stopped, and her shoulders drooped slightly.  For a few seconds she
just stood there, her back to him.  Finally, she turned to face him.  But
still she did not speak.


"Going somewhere?" Mulder asked.  He took a few steps towards her, stopping
just before entering her personal space.  Previously he had often felt that he
and Scully existed in their own private little world, but since their return
from Arizona it seemed that he had been pushed not just out of her bed, but
out of their personal bubble as well.  Needless to say, he didn't like that,
but so far he hadn't been able to find his way back inside.


"I ... I have an assignment," she said at last.  "I have to go."  She paused,
and for an instant Mulder thought he saw a flicker of ... something ... in her
eyes.  An apology?  But for what?  "I have to go," she repeated.  "I ... I'll
call you."


She hesitated for another moment, as if she were waiting for him to say
something.  Finally she just nodded slightly, and turned and walked away.


#          #          #


Near Dulles International Airport
Westbound on Virginia State Highway 267
12:41 p.m.


Scully shifted uncomfortably in the passenger seat of Mulder's car, and
wondered for at least the fifth time what had possessed her to call and ask
him for a ride to the airport.


She had realized before she even left the Hoover Building to pack that she was
going to be pressed for time.  Because of the short notice the only available
flights that afternoon with connections to Iowa were out of Dulles rather than
National, and the ticket Kersh handed her at the end of the meeting was for a
1:35 p.m. departure.  


All of which left her with little time to make her preparations and get to the
airport -- not to mention the fact that she didn't really want to leave her
car at Dulles, when she would in all likelihood be returning through National.
So before she even reached her apartment she had pulled out her cell phone and
called Mulder, almost on instinct.  


She needed to talk to him before she left, anyway, she'd told herself, and
she'd breathed a sigh of relief when he'd readily agreed to drop her at the
airport.  She hadn't been sure *what* his mood would be, after the way she'd
walked out of the bullpen so abruptly that morning.


Of course, the conversation she wanted to have on the drive out into the
Virginia countryside wasn't materializing.  Scully wasn't quite sure why she'd
expected it to magically appear like that.  They hadn't spoken about anything
consequential since the end of the Gibson Praise case -- hell, they'd barely
spoken at all -- and she was becoming more than a little frustrated by the
silence.  


Scully felt that she'd made her own concerns clear during that final
discussion they'd had, and she was now waiting for Mulder to pick up the
thread again, so they could settle -- whatever it was they were going to
settle.  Their partnership.  Their friendship.  Their ... relationship,
whatever *that* word meant in this context.  But he seemed intent on
maintaining his silence, and his distance, and with each passing day she grew
more afraid for the future.


"So what's the assignment?"


Scully started slightly, and turned to look at her partner.  Most of his
attention was on the road, but as she watched he snuck a quick glance at her,
as if to gauge her reaction to his question.


Well, what was her reaction?  Disappointment, of course -- disappointment that
all he was interested in was the case.  Could he really have no inkling at all
about what was upsetting her?  Surely he knew that she *was* upset.  Not even
Mulder could be *that* obtuse.  She shook her head and sighed, and pushed the
thought away.


"it's a serial killing," she said, keeping her tone even and professional.
That's right, she reassured herself.  We're just discussing the case.  Just
like old times.  We'll just discuss the case, and everything will be fine.
*We'll* be fine.  


"In Iowa," she continued.  "Three victims so far, and the locals don't seem to
have any leads to speak of.  The Omaha Field Office became involved after the
second body was found, but they haven't made much progress either."


"So naturally they had to call all the way to Washington for another
pathologist, right?"


Scully felt a quick flare of anger -- an emotion which had been coming far too
easily and far too often when she was in contact with her partner lately.
Somehow she managed to bite back a sharp reply, and answered, "I don't know,
Mulder.  The reason for my assignment was not explained to me."


"Did you ask?"


This time she couldn't help herself.  "No, I didn't," she said sharply.  "In
case you haven't noticed, at this moment you and I are standing on the edge of
a cliff, and I am trying very hard not to do or say anything that will make
them decide to push us over.  Is that okay with you?"


Mulder was silent for a moment.  Finally, he shrugged.  "So what have they
got?"


Scully sighed again.  "Not very much," she replied, forcing herself to drop
back into her professional persona.  "As I said, there have been three
victims.  Each of them was found in her home -- "


"All women?"


She nodded.  "Right.  All women; ages from 21 to 39.  Nothing else in common
that's been identified so far -- not even race.  Two white, one Asian.  They
don't seem to have known each other, nor did they have any friends or
acquaintances in common.  At least, none have been discovered so far."


Mulder nodded thoughtfully, clearly immersed in the details of the case -- and
Scully wondered for perhaps the thousandth time in their partnership how he
could switch tracks so quickly and easily.  "So how does he do it?" he asked.


"He skins them," she said flatly.


If she'd been expecting Mulder to be shocked or surprised, she was
disappointed.  He simply nodded again, the thoughtful look still on his face.
"Mutilation," he stated.  Not a question; an observation.  "That's not
uncommon, of course.  You remember -- well, never mind."


"Pfaster," she said, suppressing the twinge of revulsion -- and fear -- which
she still felt whenever she thought of that night.  "But this is much worse,
Mulder."  She hesitated, then went on, "According to the file Kersh reviewed
with me, it looks as if he does it while the victim is still alive."


This time Mulder's eyebrows shot up in surprise.  "Jesus," he murmured.  "That
must be some trick.  Does he tie them down, or what?"


Scully shook her head.  "Impossible to say.  He *skins* them, Mulder.
*Completely.*  There's nothing left but bare muscle and bone.  No way to look
for bruises or rope burns or anything."


"How do they know the victims were still alive when it was done?"


Again she shook her head.  "I don't know.  I haven't had time to study the
pathologist's report in detail; Kersh and I just went over the executive
summary."


"Okay."  A slight smile touched his lips.  "You wouldn't happen to need any
help on this one, would you?"


Scully hesitated, trying to figure out what to say.  As was often the case
with Mulder, she knew he was asking a slightly different question than the one
he appeared to be asking.  He was trying, in his own idiosyncratic way, to ask
for reassurance.  The problem was that this time she just wasn't up to it.
And sitting here saying nothing was only making matters worse.


"I don't know, Mulder," she answered at last, surprised at the tone of
bitterness in her own voice -- although whether that bitterness was directed
at her partner or at the Bureau's powers-that-be she wasn't quite sure.  "As
you've already pointed out, it isn't really clear they even need me."  She
forced herself to look at him, but he was staring resolutely at the highway in
front of them, his face an expressionless mask.  She wanted to add something;
she wanted to offer him *some* sort of support, even if she couldn't bring
herself to say what he really wanted to hear.  


But she just couldn't, and after a moment she looked away, and then it was
quiet in the car.


==========END CHAPTER ONE==========


===========
Chapter Two
===========


Cedar Rapids, IA
Eastern Iowa Regional Airport
Tuesday, September 29, 1998
4:38 p.m., Central Daylight Time


"Agent Scully?"


Scully turned at hearing her name, to see a woman in business clothes standing
a few feet away.  The woman was about her own age, the agent estimated, and
perhaps six inches taller than Scully herself.  The other's face was a calm,
professional mask with which Scully was quite familiar -- she saw it in her
own mirror every morning.


"I'm Dana Scully," she confirmed, extending her hand.  "And you must be ...."
Her voice trailed off as she realized with embarrassment that she hadn't been
told the name of the person who would be meeting her at the airport.


The other woman hesitated a fraction of a second, then reached out and gave
Scully's hand a brief, impersonal shake.  "Detective Oliver, ICPD," she
replied crisply.  The handshake ended,  and the detective turned abruptly to
lead the way through the crowded terminal.  Scully had to hurry to catch up.


"It really wasn't necessary for you to drive up here to meet me," she said as
she fell in step with Detective Oliver.  "I need to rent a car anyway, and --"


"It's no trouble, Agent Scully," the other woman replied, cutting her off.
"And your transportation has been arranged."  


Oliver continued to stride purposefully forward, her face still cool and
professional, but Scully thought she heard just a hint of resentment in the
woman's voice.  Something was upsetting her, and from the detective's body
language and complete lack of facial expression Scully had the uneasy sense
that her own presence had something to do with it.


Wonderful, she thought sourly.  Just what I need; a temperamental taxi driver.


Immediately she berated herself for the thought.  Whatever was bothering this
woman, she certainly was not to blame for Scully's own bad temper, and she
didn't deserve to have invective thrown at her -- even if Scully hadn't
actually said it aloud.  It wasn't Oliver's fault that Scully was furious with
her partner.


She shook her head and sighed as she hurried along.  She was almost certain
Mulder had believed she was brushing him off when she told him she didn't know
why she'd drawn this assignment.  His unspoken accusation had hung between
them after she'd turned aside his final, oblique request for reassurance, and
when at last they arrived at the airport he had simply pulled up in front of
the terminal and let her out, then driven off without another word.


In the past -- even a week earlier -- she would have taken it for granted that
he would come inside and wait with her until her flight was called.  That was
just the sort of thing they did for each other, with no planning or discussion
needed.  But not now.  Not since the Gibson Praise case.


And in fact, Scully had to admit that there was a certain amount of truth to
the charge.  She *had* been pushing Mulder away since their return from
Arizona.  But that was necessary, she reminded herself.  It was justified.
Things had been moving so quickly since the X-Files were burned, and more than
anything else she needed for it all just to slow down.


Even before Gibson's reappearance, Scully had realized she was suffering from
emotional vertigo, and she'd been looking for a way -- some way, any way -- to
introduce a bit more deliberation into their personal relationship.  She
didn't want to stop what was happening; she didn't wanted to give up what she
and Mulder had gained, and go back to being just friends and partners.  But
she wanted to slow things down, at least for awhile.  She wanted to take
smaller steps.


Then had come the OPR hearing, and she and Mulder were taken off the X-Files.
*Both* of them had been reassigned, she reminded herself; both of them had
been disciplined and humiliated.  But Mulder was acting as if it were a
personal affront to him alone, and even seemed to feel it was partly Scully's
fault.  Then there had been the trip to Arizona, and Mulder's apparently
unlimited willingness to trust Diana Fowley --


"Agent Scully?"


Scully shook herself, and returned to the present.  Glancing around quickly,
she realized that Detective Oliver had led her to baggage claim and was now
standing by the luggage carousel, waiting with poorly concealed impatience.


"Sorry," the agent murmured, stepping forward to grab her suitcase.  "I was
... thinking about something."


For a moment Scully thought the other woman was going to speak, and she was
suprised to find a part of herself actually hoping that Oliver would say
something -- anything.  Even a rebuke or a putdown would be better than this
sullen silence -- a silence which at least superficially was already beginning
to remind Scully of the state of her relationship with Mulder.  But then
Oliver simply shook her head slightly and turned to lead the way out of the
terminal.


The silence continued as the two women headed out of the terminal to Oliver's
car.  There was a nip of fall in the air, and Scully suppressed a shiver as
she walked.  A few moments later they were on the highway, heading south.  


For the first few minutes Scully sat quietly in the passenger seat watching
the scenery go by.  On top of everything else that had happened in the past
few weeks, she really didn't need to cope with a local cop with an attitude,
she decided.  God willing, this would turn out to be just a ride from the
airport, and Scully wouldn't be expected to interact with Oliver on an
extended basis, because she wasn't sure she had the patience for it at this
point.


Still, she did need to get a little bit of information -- logistical details
about where she was staying and how the investigation had progressed in the
past twenty-four hours, if nothing else.  No doubt she would be briefed in
detail later on, but Scully always believed in doing as much advance
preparation as possible -- and perhaps talking to the detective would help her
focus on the case, and get her mind off other things.  She sighed, and turned
in her seat to face Oliver.


"So what's the latest?" she asked.


The other woman glanced briefly at her, then looked back at the highway.
"Haven't you read the file?"


Scully gritted her teeth, and forced herself to relax and suppress another
sigh.  "Yes, I've read the file," she replied.  "I just wanted to get the
local perspective.  Seeing it on paper, or even hearing it in a formal
briefing, isn't the same as talking to someone who's actually working the
case."


Oliver shrugged.  "Who says I'm working the case?" she asked, an unmistakable
tone of bitterness in her voice.  Before Scully could answer, Oliver shook her
head.  "Never mind.  Yeah, I'm working it.  I'm on the task force, anyway.
Why don't you tell me what you got out of the file, and I'll try to fill in
whatever's missing."


"Okay," Scully said with a nod.  She paused for a few seconds to collect her
thoughts, then began ticking off points on her fingers.  "First, there have
been three victims.  All women.  All in their 20s or 30s.  None of them were
married or had regular boyfriends, and all of them lived alone.  No known
association or contact between them, other than that the killer selected them.
No common interests, habits, or any of the other usual criteria."


She paused, and Oliver glanced at her, and nodded for her to continue.


"Means," Scully went on.  "The women were skinned, apparently by hand.  This
conclusion is supported by nicks and cuts in the muscles and other underlying
tissues.  The generally poor condition of the remains indicates that the job
was done by a person who is not experienced in this sort of work.  In other
words, he isn't a surgeon, or a hunter, or anything like that."


"He's getting better, though," Oliver commented.  "The last body ... the docs
say it was a much neater job."


Scully nodded.  "It is also believed that the skins were removed while the
victims were still alive.  This is inferred from the large amount of blood
loss, as well as the spray pattern found whenever a major vessel was severed.
Cause of death in each case is listed as shock and hypovolemia.  As a
consequence of living alone, each woman was apparently missing for several
days before anyone noticed, or became sufficiently concerned to do anything
about it.  This has made establishing a precise time of death problematic.


"Each body was found in the victim's own home," Scully went on, continuing to
tick off points on her fingers.  "Each was in her own bed, with heaps of white
chrysanthemums covering the body.  A porcelain urn holding ashes and partially
burned fragments of the victim's skin was found in each bedroom.  It is
believed that the ashes are all that is left of the rest of the skin.


"Finally, judging from the amount of blood which soaked into the mattresses,
plus the lack of any blood or other fluid or tissue anywhere else in any of
the homes, it has been concluded that the crime was actually committed as the
victim lay in her bed.  How she was made to lie still while this procedure was
carried out is not yet understood."


Oliver was already nodding.  "Not too bad," she said grudgingly.  "You really
have done your homework."  She was quiet for a moment.  Then:  "Only a couple
of things you haven't mentioned.  First, the flowers -- the chrysanthemums --
were found in layers.  The ones on the bottom seemed to be several days old,
while the ones on top were much fresher."


Scully frowned.  "That wasn't in the report.  Are you saying the killer came
back to put fresh flowers on the bodies?"


The other woman shrugged.  "I'm not saying anything; I'm just reporting what
was found.  And yes, we did question the neighbors in each case, and no, no
one saw any strangers coming or going with sacks of flowers over their
shoulders.  The current thinking is that the killer stayed in the home for
awhile after he was done."


"For several days?" Scully asked.  "That sounds like a high-risk thing to do.
The chances of getting caught --"


"That's what they're saying," Oliver said, cutting her off.  She glanced
briefly at Scully.  "That's what *your* people are saying.  Aren't you some
hotshot profiler?  That's who the scuttlebutt said was coming."


Scully blinked, then shook her head.  "No, actually -- I'm a pathologist.  My
partner ...." She let her voice trail off; no use going into *that*.


Oliver's eyebrows shot up, and she glanced over at Scully again.  "A
pathologist?"  She shrugged and looked back at the highway.  "Okay.  I guess
the scuttlebutt was wrong.  So why *are* you here, Agent Scully?  We do have
pathologists out here on the prairie."


Scully wondered briefly if perhaps the Bureau had made an error.  It certainly
would make a lot more sense for the local authorities or the Omaha SAC to have
requested a profiler.  Could someone in D.C. have somehow gotten their wires
crossed, and sent Scully by mistake?  She and Mulder were new to Kersh's
division.  Maybe he thought he was sending the profiler rather than the
pathologist.


Maybe this whole assignment was a mistake.


She shook her head.  No use trying to parse out what had happened in
Washington until she found out what the Omaha SAC actually had in mind.  In
the meantime, this was her assignment, and whether it was a mistake or not she
had to take it seriously.  She turned to face Oliver again.


"To stay on the site for several days after the killing was done -- that seems
risky," Scully repeated.


"Yes it does," Oliver replied with a shrug, apparently accepting Scully's
attempt to put the conversation back on track.  "But that's the working
theory, and none of the alternatives look real good, either.  We're all
fumbling around in the dark anyway; nothing like this has ever happened around
here, and the guy in charge of your Omaha office doesn't seem all that
clueful, either.  We were all kind of hoping you'd be able to straighten him
out."


Scully sighed.  The woman apparently wasn't going to let the subject of her
own qualifications drop.  "I really don't know why I was sent," she said,
wincing slightly even as the words were leaving her mouth.  "I was called into
my supervisor's office this morning and was handed the file and a plane
ticket."  She shrugged helplessly.  "So here I am."


"So you don't know what you're doing either," Oliver replied.  "That's fine.
You'll fit right in."


Scully couldn't think of anything to say to that, so she didn't even try.  The
rest of the ride passed in silence.


==========END CHAPTER TWO==========


===========
Chapter Three
===========


Iowa City, IA
Residence of Doris Pennington
Tuesday, September 29, 1998
8:01 p.m.


Scully stood to one side as Oliver tried to open the front door of Doris
Pennington's mobile home.  "We've had trouble with this damned door every time
we've been out here," the detective muttered as she jiggled the key in the
lock.  "You have to get it just right ...."


The two women had arrived at the Iowa City Civic Center, which housed among
other things the local police department, at a little after 5:30, to find the
evening task force briefing already in full swing.  The man conducting the
meeting, Special Agent Conyers, had paused in his presentation just long
enough for Scully and Oliver to find seats at the back of the room before he
resumed speaking.


The meeting had run until well after seven, which in Scully's estimation was
at least an hour longer than necessary.  The bottom line was that there had
been no new developments since the morning briefing -- in fact, there had been
no new developments since the third victim was found, early the previous day.


When the briefing finally ended, Scully approached Conyers and started to
introduce herself -- only to be cut off in mid-sentence, as Conyers handed her
three sets of keys and ordered her and Oliver to go over the crime scenes
together.  Then he had left.


Scully's attention was brought back to the present as the door to the mobile
home abruptly popped open.  Oliver stumbled forward at the sudden lack of
resistance, and after the briefest of pauses Scully followed her across the
threshold.


She found herself standing in a small, neat living room -- well, as neat as
any room could look after having been searched by a team of police
investigators, Scully reflected.  Most things appeared to be more or less in
place, so far as an outsider could tell:  books still on their shelves, CDs
neatly racked, an afghan carefully folded and draped over the back of the
sofa.  


But there was also an air of disorder to the place, a feeling with which
Scully was well-acquainted from countless visits to crime scenes over the
years.  The door to the coat closet was standing open, and a hanger had been
left lying on the floor.  The shade on one of the two floor lamps was tilted
almost forty-five degrees.  And everywhere she looked there was a dusting of
fine black powder where technicians had attempted to lift fingerprints.


"I'm still not sure how much good this is going to do," Oliver said, breaking
the silence at last as Scully moved slowly about the room, trying to get a
feel for the surroundings.  "The victims' homes have all been gone over three
times:  once by our investigators, once by the state DCI, and once by your
people from Omaha.  I seriously doubt that there's anything of interest left
to find."


Scully glanced over at Oliver and nodded.  "You're probably right," she said.
"But that doesn't excuse *us* from doing a thorough job."  Oliver made a small
sound in response, but Scully couldn't tell whether it was agreement or
dissent.


In truth, Scully was feeling both tired and irritable.  She'd been awake now
for going on fifteen hours, and she'd spent a good part of that time
traveling, which always wore her out.  It had been a struggle for her to
remain attentive during the briefing, and she'd been looking forward to
finding a motel, taking a long bath and just going to bed.  But Conyers'
instructions were explicit, and Scully knew she and Oliver would be doing well
to finish with the three sites by midnight.


There was nothing in the living room, Scully decided, forcing herself to
concentrate on the case.  Doris Pennington, she recalled, had been a 39
year-old clerk-typist for the University of Iowa.  Divorced, with no children.
The ex-husband lived in California and had quickly been ruled out as a
suspect.  


Doris had had no boyfriends, so far as the investigators had been able to
discover -- in fact, she had apparently had no really close friends of any
kind.  She had lived quietly by herself in the mobile home park, and had gone
to work each day, using very little sick leave or vacation time.  Occasionally
she went out for dinner or to a movie -- always alone.


And last Wednesday or Thursday, somebody had decided to murder her.


Scully sighed and shook her head, and moved out of the living room and into
the kitchen.  She was distantly aware of Oliver following her, but she kept
most of her attention focused on the room she had just entered.


It seemed to be in the same state as the living room:  neat, clean and
everything in its place, allowing for the after-effects of the police search.
An overhead cabinet door stood open, and Scully craned her neck to look inside
-- to find nothing there but a small stack of dinner plates and salad bowls.
She closed the cabinet, then shrugged and checked the other three, finding
only canned goods, kitchen supplies and cooking utensils.  Just as she'd
expected.


The dishwasher was empty, she discovered a moment later.  Scully briefly
considered whether that was a clue of some sort, but quickly decided that it
was not.  There were no dishes stacked on the counter or in the sink, so an
empty dishwasher probably just meant that the victim had run a load of dishes
and then unloaded them and put them away before she was killed.  A
coincidence.


"That's another of the reasons they think the killer stayed here for awhile,"
Oliver commented.  Scully looked around in surprise.  The detective continued,
"It was the same all three places.  All the dishes were washed and put away.
The carpets had been freshly vacuumed, and the trash had been taken out.
Trash pickup here is on Monday, but Pennington was killed on Wednesday or
Thursday of last week.  There should have been at least two days of garbage
accumulated."  She nodded at an empty waste receptacle.  "But there was
nothing."


Scully thought about that for a moment.  "Was he destroying evidence?" she
mused.


"That's one interpretation," Oliver agreed.  "The obvious alternative is that
he took it with him.  But there's no way to tell for sure."


"The body was found yesterday, right?" Scully asked.  The detective nodded in
agreement.  "So had the trash already been picked up when it was found?"


Oliver shook her head.  "No.  But that wasn't any help, because the residents
of the trailer park take their garbage to dumpsters at the end of each block,
and a truck comes by and empties the dumpsters once a week.  By the time we
realized what had happened here, it was too late and the truck was gone."  She
shrugged.  "I suppose someone could go out and dig through the landfill, but
so far Special Agent Conyers doesn't seem to have thought of that.  And to be
honest, I didn't want to suggest it, because he'd probably send me to do it."


"Is the landfill close by?"


"No."  Again the detective shook her head.  "It's a private contractor, and
they use one up by Dubuque."  Scully realized she must have looked puzzled,
because Oliver added, "That's about ninety miles from here."


Scully nodded.  "It sounds like that ought to be followed up," she said.


"Yeah, I guess so," Oliver responded.  "But Conyers -- he's not the brightest
bulb on the tree, if you know what I mean, and he doesn't take kindly to
suggestions from peons on the local force."  The detective abruptly stopped
talking, and from the expression on her face it was obvious that she wished
she'd stopped a moment sooner.


Scully forced a slight smile.  "I know the type," she said.  "And don't worry
about it.  The Bureau has its share of bad apples, just like any other
organization."  She thought about the situation for a moment, then added,
"What about her mail?"


Oliver nodded with seeming approval; it seemed to Scully that the detective
was loosening up a bit as the evening progressed and they had a chance to get
to know each other.


"The mail had been brought in, too," Oliver confirmed.  "At least, there was
nothing in her mailbox until the afternoon delivery, and there was a fairly
big pile of it on the kitchen table.  Carefully sorted I might add --
magazines and catalogues in one pile, junk mail in another, personal stuff and
bills in the third.  The same as at the other two sites."  Before Scully could
ask, she added, "It was all taken downtown and inventoried.  You can check the
lists tomorrow if you want to.  But so far no one seems to think there's
anything there."


"Nothing in common with the other victims?"


"Only routine junk mail," the detective replied.  "Advertising circulars and
the like.  One of the other victims had a checking account at the same credit
union Pennington used, and there was a bank statement both in her pile and in
Pennington's.  But other than that -- no."


Scully nodded, then stepped past Oliver and pulled open the refrigerator door.
Nothing unusual here, she thought.  A few eggs; some bacon.  A half gallon of
milk and some orange juice.  Most of a pound of hamburger that didn't look
like it was good anymore.  Butter ....


"Try the freezer," Oliver suggested.


Scully glanced over her shoulder, then turned back to the refrigerator and
opened the freezer door ... and she felt her eyes widen in surprise.


Ice cream.  The freezer was completely full of ice cream.  Chocolate, vanilla,
strawberry ... Scully even saw a couple of cartons of rainbow sherbet.  She
raised an eyebrow, then shut the freezer and refrigerator doors and turned to
face the detective.


"I take it Ms. Pennington wasn't planning an ice cream social, so far as
you've been able to find out?"


Oliver actually smiled as she shook her head.  "Nope.  And before you ask --
and I know this is starting to sound like a broken record -- the other two
sites were the same.  Normal stuff in the cupboards and the fridge, but the
freezers were packed full of ice cream.  One of the victims had a deep freeze,
and *it* was full of ice cream, too."


Scully shook her head.  "That's ... strange," was the best she could come up
with.


"It is that," Oliver agreed.  She gestured back towards the rest of the house.
"Shall we take a look in the bedroom?"


Scully was unsurprised to find the bedroom in greater disarray than the rest
of the house.  First and most glaringly obvious, the mattress and box springs
were gone, presumably hauled away as evidence.  Whatever sheets and blankets
had been on the bed were also gone.  Two of bureau drawers were pulled half
open, and it was evident that someone -- or more likely several someones --
had hastily gone through the victim's clothes and other belongings.


"They find anything?" Scully asked, nodding at the bureau.


"Nothing out of the ordinary," Oliver said, shaking her head.  Her lips
quirked slightly.  "Unless you count the fact that every last item of clothing
she owned had been washed, neatly folded, and put away in the appropriate
drawer or closet."


Scully raised an eyebrow.  "And I suppose the other sites were the same way?"


"Yep."


A small sliver of something white caught Scully's eye, on the floor in the far
corner of the room.  She crossed to the spot in three quick steps, and knelt
down to examine it -- only to find that it was a flower petal.


"The cleanup crew must have missed that one," Oliver commented.  "It's from
the chrysanthemums.  They took two or three garbage bags stuffed full of
flowers out of here.  White chrysanthemums, obviously."


"They were all white?" Scully asked, still staring at the petal she held
between her thumb and forefinger.  She seemed to recall that there were
several different types of the flower. 


"Just white," Oliver confirmed.  "Just like all the other sites.  Presumably
the color is important, but so far nobody's been able to figure out why."


Scully knelt on the floor for just another moment, looking at the petal;
finally she dropped it back on the carpet and rose to her feet, shaking her
head.  "So let me see if I've got this straight," she said, ticking off points
on her fingers as she spoke.  "This guy -- the killer -- picked each of these
women for a reason or reasons unknown.  Presumptively, there's some common
factor linking the victims, but so far no one has found it."


"Sounds good so far, " Oliver commented.


Scully nodded.  "Then after each murder the killer proceeds to clean house --
literally.  He does the dishes, he washes, sorts and puts away clothes, he
vacuums the carpets.  Maybe he also dusts?"


Oliver shrugged.  "We haven't found any prints that couldn't be accounted
for," she replied.  "And no sets in common between even two of the sites, let
alone all three.  So either he dusts, or he wears gloves the entire time he's
here."


Scully nodded, and continued her summation.  "So maybe he dusts.  He brings in
the mail and sorts *that*.  And he brings in enough ice cream to fill the
freezer -- and in one case a deep freeze."  She shook her head in
exasperation.  "It almost sounds as if we're supposed to be looking for a
housekeeper."


"Believe me, they've thought of that," the detective said.  "I spent two days
last week going around to all the temp agencies and checking their records --
and now I guess I'll have to do it again and check on Pennington.  Victim
number two, Vanessa Haynes, hired Manpower to come in and clean her house --
she was the one with the deep freeze -- for a big party.  But that was almost
a year ago, and none of the temps who did the work even live in town anymore."


Scully felt her eyesbrows rising.  "Isn't that a bit unusual?  That they would
all move away so quickly?"


Oliver shook her head.  "This is a town of transients, Agent Scully," she
said.  "There are nearly 30,000 students on campus, and even the ones who stay
move around a lot, both their residences and their jobs.  So, no ... it's not
that unusual."


Scully nodded thoughtfully.  "Okay."  For just a moment, she thought about
what the detective had said.  Her own comment about looking for a housekeeper
hadn't really been serious, and after a moment -- longer than it would have
taken if she weren't so tired -- she dismissed it.  She was really out of her
element trying to profile the killer in any case.  If only Mulder were here
....


Scully pushed the thought away.  Mulder wasn't here, and this was her
assignment, not his.  If the task force needed assistance from a profiler, all
they had to do was contact  the Behaviorial Sciences Unit.  If they hadn't
already.  "Anything else to see before we move on to the next site?" she
asked.


Oliver shrugged.  "Just the bathroom."


There were no surprises there, of course.  The tub and sink had been scrubbed
until they shone, but there was no way of knowing whether that was the
killer's work or Doris Pennington's.  At least, not without interviewing
people who were familiar with the woman's housekeeping habits.  Scully made a
mental note to check the task force's interview notes, and see if that point
had been covered.  She didn't know what significance there would be if it
turned out this victim was a lousy housekeeper -- but at least it was
something to look into, and perhaps it would help her feel a little less
useless.  She still wasn't entirely sure why she was here.


Meanwhile, there were still the two other victims' homes to check before she
could go to bed.  Scully gave a weary sigh at the thought, then followed
Oliver back up the hall to the living room and out to the car.


==========END CHAPTER THREE==========


===========
Chapter Four
===========


Alexandria, VA
Thursday, October 1, 1998
5:14 a.m.


Running was not a sufficient distraction.


Mulder ran anyway.


A fine drizzle of rain misted down out of the sky, making the sidewalk beneath
his feet slippery and treacherous.  Streetlights glinted off the rain-slick
pavement, creating weird reflections in the early morning gloom.  The city was
just beginning to stir, and as he jogged through the streets of Alexandria
Mulder passed a gradually increasing number of early risers.


It was not yet dawn.


Mulder had left his apartment thirty minutes earlier, after finally giving up
hope of getting any sleep before going to work.  Now he ran through the
streets of the city, taking long, easy strides, pacing himself so as not to
get too winded.  And trying not to think too much.


And failing.


Two days, he thought, as he came to a corner and stood jogging in place for a
moment, waiting for the light to change.  Two days since he'd driven Scully to
the airport and she'd left for Iowa.  Two days without so much as a phone call
-- not even a message left on his desk at work or on his answering machine at
home.


Two days.


The light changed, and Mulder started across, disregarding the occasional
puddles of water.  The drizzle was now developing into a light rain, but
Mulder didn't care; his clothes were already soaked anyway, and his socks
squished with each step he took.


Thinking back, he wasn't sure what he'd expected when she'd called asking for
a ride to the airport.  Some reassurance, he supposed.  Some sign that the two
of them were still connected, even if it was only on a professional level.
Some kind of contact.


But she had cut him off.  She had left the Hoover Building essentially without
explanation, and even later, in the car, when he asked her point-blank about
her new assignment, she gave him only the sketchiest of details.


And she had completely refused his offer of help.


Mulder rounded another corner, and found himself running by a small park.  On
an impulse, he swung left, into the park.  The trees provided some shelter
against the rain, although the soggy, bare turf made running more difficult.
That was fine; that forced him to concentrate a little more to keep his
footing, which left that much less of his attention to focus on other things.


It still wasn't enough.


Scully's last comment during the drive to Dulles had cut him to the bone, and
the subsequent silence had been almost unendurable.  She'd sat quietly in her
seat, staring out the window, and when they finally arrived at the airport
Mulder had simply pulled up to the curb and watched as she climbed out of the
car without another word.


And he still didn't understand why he'd expected anything different.  He'd
spent the past two days trying to figure that out, and he wasn't getting
anywhere at all.


Having Kersh ragging on his ass wasn't helping matters, either, Mulder thought
morosely as he exited the far side of the park and turned back down the street
again.  The new A.D. seemed to have grown even more obnoxious and overbearing
since Scully left, which Mulder wouldn't have believed was possible.  But
apparently the man had only been getting started, and the past two days had
been pure, unadulterated hell.


The rain was now a steady downpour, matching Mulder's mood precisely.  He
slogged on down the sidewalk, aware in the back of his mind that he was
approaching his own apartment building, and knowing that soon he would have to
start getting ready for work.  


Another day with Kersh.


Another day without Scully.


Another day of shit.


As he approached his building Mulder slowed his pace a bit, in a
half-subconscious attempt to delay the inevitable.  He wasn't sure how many
more days he could do this, especially without Scully there to serve as a
buffer.  He'd thought things were bad when she'd been in the bullpen with him
and not speaking to him; but now things were much, much worse, and he didn't
know if he could take it any longer.


//I don't know if I want to do this alone... I don't even know if I can ...
//and if I quit now, they win.//


His own words echoed in his mind.  He'd said them to her last summer, just
before she was taken from him for the second time.  He'd meant them then, and
he'd felt as if his heart was being wrenched from his chest as he spoke them.
But since they'd been taken off the X-Files, and especially since they'd
returned from Arizona, Mulder had come to realize that it wasn't necessary for
Scully to be in Antarctica -- or even Iowa -- for him to feel alone and
abandoned.


He could be completely and thoroughly alone even when she was sitting at the
next desk.


Mulder crossed the street and approached the front door to his apartment
building.  It was nearly six; he was due in the office in a little over two
hours, and unlike Skinner, Kersh was a stickler for punctuality.  Mulder would
have to hurry if he wanted to be showered, shaved, dressed and at the Hoover
Building by eight o'clock.


He needed to go inside.  Now.


He had no real choice in the matter.


He passed by the entry.  He glanced briefly over his shoulder and saw the
building start to recede behind him.  He really should turn around and go
back.  He really should.


Mulder kept on running.


The rain continued to fall.


#          #          #


Muscatine, IA
Law Offices of Dhinu Srinivasan
2:38 p.m.


"Mr. Srinivasan will see you now."


Scully looked up from the notes she'd been reviewing, to see the
administrative assistant who'd greeted them a few minutes earlier standing in
the door to the inner office.  Detective Oliver was already rising to her
feet; Scully followed suit.


This was the second day of interviews -- "follow-up interviews", Special Agent
Conyers had called them.  Meaning that all of these people had already been
questioned by investigators at least once, and in some instances several
times.  Standard police procedure, of course:  perhaps one of the subjects
would remember some detail which had previously been overlooked.  But so far,
nothing new had come to light.


Scully also hadn't heard from Mulder since she'd left Washington, and that was
starting to concern her.  She'd halfway expected him to phone her that first
evening, just to check in and see how things were going.  When he hadn't
called, she'd told herself she should be relieved -- even grateful -- since it
presumably meant he was giving her space to breathe, and an opportunity to
concentrate on her assignment without interference or distractions.


But the next day was the same.  Scully had received several routine calls from
members of the task force, and one very brief one from her mother.  But there
was no word from Mulder, and as the third day of silence dragged on, she was
starting to become seriously worried.  She didn't know exactly what she was
worried about -- but silence from Mulder was never a good thing.


Scully shook her head and pushed the thoughts of her partner away.  She'd deal
with all that later; right now, she had a job to do.


As she followed Oliver into the room, Scully took a few seconds to study the
man they were here to see.  Dhinu Srinivasan was an attorney, and looked it.
He was a short, slender and dark-complexioned man in his early 30s.  He wore a
conservative dark suit over a light blue shirt, and Scully was willing to bet
that his shoes were freshly polished.  His grip when he shook her hand was
firm and professional.


"So.  How can I help you lovely ladies?" the attorney asked, once
introductions had been completed and they'd all taken seats.  "I assume this
has something to do with poor Vanessa?"


Scully felt Oliver stir slightly, presumably due to the form of address the
man had used.  Although this was only her second full day working with the
detective, Scully had already come to realize that at least part of the reason
Oliver seemed to have a chip on her shoulder had to do with her status as a
woman working in law enforcement.


She wasn't sure exactly what was at the root of the detective's problems, of
course -- although from her own experiences in the Bureau she could imagine a
number of possibilities.  But regardless of the cause, Scully thought, an
interview with a friend of a recent murder victim was not a good time for a
display of attitude.


Fortunately, Oliver didn't seem inclined to pursue the matter, and after a
short pause Scully began the questioning.  


"Mr. Srinivasan," she said, "I want to thank you, first of all, for agreeing
to see us on such short notice.  This is just a routine follow-up interview,
and we'll try to make it as brief as possible."


"That's quite all right, Agent Scully," the attorney replied.  "Anything I can
do to help catch the son of a bitch who did this -- well, I'm at your
disposal."


Scully nodded.  "I appreciate that, sir," she replied.  "And believe me, we
want to locate this suspect almost as much as you do."  She glanced down at
her notes, then back up at Srinivasan.  "So to start with, can you tell us
what your relationship was with Ms. Haynes?"


The man shrugged.  "Not much to tell, really.  Vanessa and I have known each
other since college.  We went out for awhile, and then we decided it wasn't
meant to be.  It was a mutual decision, though, and we stayed friends.  Still
went out to dinner occasionally, or the movies.  We just didn't call them
dates anymore."


Scully nodded, and dutifully noted the information on her pad -- and out of
the corner of her eye, she saw Oliver doing the same.  They would each return
to Iowa City this evening, Scully reflected, and each of them would type up
her own interview notes and write a report summarizing what she'd found.  By
the time they were done, she wondered if anyone would be able to tell which of
them had been responsible for each of the reports.


Oliver made a slight throat-clearing sound, and Scully realized that the other
two were looking at her expectantly.  Slightly embarrassed at having let her
thoughts get away from her, she glanced hurriedly down at her notes again, and
then back up at the attorney.


"How long ago was this, Mr. Srinivasan?" she asked.


"You mean how long since we were romantically involved?"  Scully nodded.  "Oh,
it's been awhile.  Four, five years.  We'd known each other in college, as I
said, but it was one of those deals where we each just kind of hung out with
the same crowd, you know what I mean?"


The lawyer gave a sad smile.  "We really had some great times," he went on,
very softly.  "And Vanessa was the sparkplug of the group.  I remember one
night --"


"Mr. Srinivasan, I don't think we need to go into that," Oliver interrupted --
and Scully winced.  Another thing she had learned after two days of doing
interviews with the detective was that although Oliver did  have a sharp mind
and seemed to be a keen judge of character, she was sadly  lacking in the
social skills which might have made the interviews easier.


Again she forced her attention back on the attorney.  "So," she said, trying
to give herself a few seconds to think.  "You've known Vanessa Haynes for
about ten years?"  Srinivasan nodded.  "And you went out for awhile a few
years ago, then stopped, but you continued to see each other socially from
time to time."


"That's right."


"When was the last time you saw her?"


"That would be Wednesday afternoon, the sixteenth," he replied promptly.  "Two
weeks ago.  We had lunch at the Hamburg Inn.  No big deal -- I was in Iowa
City to meet with a client, and I gave her a call."


Scully nodded, and scribbled a few words.  Then:  "Did there seem to be
anything out of the ordinary about your lunch date?"


"Out of the ordinary?"


"Did Ms. Haynes do or say or anything unsual?  Or give you any reason to think
she was upset about something?"


The attorney shrugged.  "Not that I recall.  It was just an ordinary lunch
date.  I was a little early; she was a little late.  We talked.  About nothing
in particular.  And then she left."  He shrugged again, and looked sad.  "The
next time I heard about her was the following Sunday evening.  A mutual friend
called to tell me about ... what had happened."


"Mr. Srinivasan, did Ms. Haynes like ice cream?" Oliver asked suddenly.


"Ice cream?"  Srinivasan's brow was furrowed in puzzlement -- and Scully felt
her own eyebrows shoot up in surprise.  The question wasn't completely off the
wall, she had to admit -- but thinking back over the notes she'd read from the
previous interviews, Scully couldn't recall that it had been asked before.
Everyone had just assumed the killer had brought the ice cream.  It was
logical; it made sense.  But they should have asked.


On the other hand, the freezers full of ice cream were one of the pieces of
information that was being withheld from the public.  Sometimes when there was
a detail about a case that was known only to the police and to the
perpetrator, it was helpful.  Srinivasan wasn't a suspect, but still ....


"I suppose Vanassa liked ice cream as much as the next person," the lawyer was
saying.  "Why do you ask?"


"Just routine questions, Mr. Srinivasan," the detective replied smoothly --
and just a bit impersonally, Scully thought.  One thing she'd quickly realized
was that Oliver was still a little rough around the edges.  The other woman
had managed to annoy or anger four of the six people she and Scully had
interviewed so far, and it looked like she was going for number five.


"So she liked ice cream," Oliver continued.  "But she wasn't fanatic about it.
Is that a fair statement?"


"I suppose so," the man replied.


"Did she have a favorite flavor?"


"Chocolate."  Srinivasan actually smiled slightly.  "Vanessa was very into
chocolate."


"Was Ms. Haynes planning a party?" the detective asked -- and again Scully had
to fight the urge to turn and stare at the other woman.  That was another
question which no one had thought -- or bothered -- to ask.  But it was also a
good one.


"Not as far as I know," the attorney replied.  "Vanessa wasn't much for giving
parties.  She gave one last December, when she got her MSW, but --"


"I thought you said she was the sparkplug," Oliver interrupted -- and Scully
winced again as a look of annoyance crossed Srinivasan's face.  This man was
*not* a suspect, she repeated in her mind, wishing that she could believe in
telepathy just long enough to get that one message through to the other woman.


"That was in college, Detective Oliver," the attorney replied stiffly.  "Ten
years ago.  People change."


But Oliver seemed to be unwilling to let it go.  "So there's no reason you
know of for Ms. Haynes to have had an unusually large amount of ice cream in
her home," she persisted.


"None."


For a moment there was silence in the room; apparently it was finally plain
even to Oliver that Srinivasan was fed up with this line of questioning.  Nor
could Scully blame him -- no matter how appropriate the questions had been,
they had not been presented very well.


She and Oliver were going to have to talk, Scully decided resignedly.  Things
couldn't go on like this.


At last Srinivasan gave a small, almost imperceptible sigh, and somehow that
seemed to break the tension.


The rest of the interview was unremarkable.


#          #          #


Near Muscatine, IA
Westbound on Iowa State Highway 22
3:20 p.m.


"That was an interesting question -- about the ice cream, I mean," Scully
commented as the two women headed back to Iowa City.


"I've been wanting to ask somebody that question for two weeks," Oliver
replied with a shrug, keeping her eyes focused on the highway.


Scully paused a moment to consider the detective's response.  Scully had been
reviewing the conversation with Srinivasan in her mind ever since they'd left
his office.  She was genuinely interested in the line of questions Oliver had
raised -- but she was also trying to find a good way to raise the subject of
the detective's manner of presentation.


With Mulder it would have been easy.  If it were Mulder sitting next to her in
the car, Scully would simply let him have it.  Then he would respond, and the
two of them would launch themselves into a spirited debate -- a debate which
might tak them pretty far afield, but which ultimately would resolve the
problem, and probably would leave them a little bit closer, as well.


But this wasn't Mulder, Scully reminded herself.


No matter how much part of her wanted it to be.


"I was just wondering," Scully went on, "why you didn't raise that question
with the task force.  Perhaps it could have been part of the first round of
questioning."


Oliver glanced over at her, then looked back at the highway.  "I think I told
you already," she replied.  "Conyers doesn't take kindly to comments from the
peanut gallery."  She paused, then shrugged again.  "Besides, the question got
asked, didn't it?  And answered."


"That true," Scully said.  "And I understand the value of testing the
hypothesis that the killer brought the ice cream to each of the homes.  But it
does seem to me that this value would have been enhanced if the task force
investigators had been asking that question from the outset.  We would have
had more data points."


"Too bad they didn't think of it," the other woman muttered.


Scully shook her head in exasperation.  Another time she might have pursued
the matter further, but today -- this week -- she just wasn't up to it.  And
so she fell silent, and turned to look out the window at the passing scenery.


==========END CHAPTER FOUR==========


===========
Chapter Five
===========


Near Columbus, OH
Westbound on Interstate 70
Friday, October 2, 1998
4:07 a.m.


Mulder pressed on into the darkness.


He hadn't planned this trip, but he knew his destination:  Scully.  


Not the Midwest; not Iowa.  Scully.


He'd finally come back from his run at a little after seven on Thursday
morning, and collapsed on his sofa in exhaustion, not even bothering to strip
off his clothes.  He thought about calling in sick, but he didn't wanted to
talk to Kersh -- he didn't want to speak to *anyone* at the Bureau, except for
Scully.  And the phone was so far away, and Mulder was so tired ....


When he'd awakened, the sun had set.  He had vague, dreamlike memories of the
phone ringing, not once, but several times.  But apparently not even the
possibility that Scully might be calling had been enough to rouse him -- and
when he checked his Caller I.D. he found that three calls had come in.


All of them were from Kersh.


None of them were from Scully.


He hadn't bothered to play back the messages, despite the angry red light
blinking on the answering machine.  Instead, he'd simply risen from the sofa,
showered, shaved and dressed.


He'd left his apartment and gotten in his car, and started driving.  Not
really knowing where he was going; knowing only that he needed to go.


Now he was passing Columbus, Ohio.


In ten more hours, he estimated, he'd reach Iowa City.


In ten more hours he'd be with Scully again -- and this time he wasn't going
to participate in building the wall of silence she seemed to want between
them.  


This time, they were going to talk, whether she liked it or not.


Ten more hours.


Mulder pressed down on the accelerator a little harder.


Perhaps he could do it in nine.


#          #          #


Washington, IA
Elm Grove Cemetery
2:14 p.m.


"I am the resurrection and the life, sayeth the Lord.  He that believeth in
me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth
in me, shall never die."


Scully stood at the back of the small group of Doris Pennington's mourners and
listened quietly, allowing the minister's words to wash around her.  They were
familiar words; comforting ones.  Not the service she was familiar with from
her own church, but the emotions were still there -- and of course, it was all
the same Bible.


"I know that my redeemer liveth," the minister continued, "and that he shall
stand at the latter day upon the earth.  And though this body be destroyed,
yet shall I see God, whom I shall see for myself, and mine eyes shall behold,
and not as a stranger."


Scully forced her attention away from the pastor, and let her gaze skim across
the people gathered around the gravesite.  She wasn't here to listen to the
service; she was here to look for a killer.


This was standard procedure, Agent Conyers had explained.  This pronouncement
had been delivered in the pompous, condescending manner which Scully had come
to recognize as Conyers' trademark, and it had taken all of her willpower not
to take his head off and hand it to him in response.


>From her time at the Academy, as well as her association with Mulder, Scully
>was already aware of the value of attending the funeral of a serial killer's
>victim.  In some instances the perpetrator's obsession with whatever it was
>which had led him to commit the crime caused him to attend the burial and
>memorial services.  When that happened, law enforcement agents were sometimes
>able to identify the killer, by looking for someone who seemed to be out of
>place, or who no one else at the funeral knew.


And so Scully and Oliver, along with a couple of other officers from the task
force posing as news photographers, had been dispatched to attend the most
recent victim's funeral.  Unfortunately, nothing seemed to be coming of it.
There were about thirty people in attendance, gathered together in the early
afternoon, but all of them looked as if they belonged there.


"Lord, let me know mine end, and the number of my days, that I may be
certified how long I have to live," the minister intoned, as Scully once again
scanned the faces of those present.  "Behold, thou hast made my days as it
were a span long, and mine age is even as nothing in respect of thee.  And
verily every man living is altogether vanity.".  


Scully and Oliver had been up late the night before, studying the photographs
and videotapes from the services held for the first two victims, hoping that
if a familiar face popped up at today's gathering they might be able to
recognize it.  But so far they weren't having any luck, and Scully was
starting to get frustrated.  Frustrated not just with this particular task,
but with the entire case and the way it was being managed.  Most particularly,
she was becoming disenchanted with her own role in the investigation.


She was apparently teamed with Oliver for the duration, to begin with.  This
had never been explicitly stated, but every assignment Conyers had given her
so far had included the detective.  And while the other woman was not the most
annoying person Scully had ever been required to work with, she was not the
most congenial, either.


None of which ought to matter, Scully reminded herself.  She was here to do a
job, not to socialize and make friends.  And while Oliver was abrasive and
somewhat unpredictable, there was no denying her intelligence or her
investigator's instinct.  She had made several significant contributions to
the tasks she and Scully had been given.


Her attitude, however, continued to be a problem, and there was no denying
*that*, either.  Beneath the cool professional image the detective strove to
project, there obviously lurked a bitter and unhappy woman -- which made it
something of a chore to have to work with her.  Scully's own mood and attitude
weren't very high, and Oliver's tendency towards cynicism and negativity were
making it harder for Scully to keep her own emotions under control.


Most importantly, of course, the other woman wasn't Mulder.


"For man walketh in a vain shadow, and disquieteth himself in vain; he heapeth
up riches, and cannot tell who shall gather them.  And now, Lord, what is my
hope?  Truly my hope is even in thee."


Mulder, of course, represented yet another problem, Scully reflected, her gaze
continuing to drift restlessly across the faces of the mourners.  When she'd
finally returned to her motel, late last night, she'd finally broken down and
tried to call him. Two days of silence was enough.   Scully still felt that
Mulder had some explaining to do -- hell, he had a *lot* of explaining to do,
and not only over personal issues.  But if she had to be the one to break the
ice, then so be it.


She had been disappointed -- but not surprised -- when all she reached was his
answering machine.  She'd briefly considered calling the Gunmen, but that
seemed a bit too much like a nagging wife checking up on her wayward husband.
He probably was with the boys, she'd decided, and maybe they were even having
a good time.  He'd return her call later, after he got home -- or possibly in
the morning.  And that would just have to do.


But now it was Friday afternoon, and he still hadn't called, and the worry
she'd felt the previous day during the interview with Srinivasan was
intensifying.  But there was nothing she could do, Scully reminded herself.
Mulder was most likely just sulking; he had a tendency to do that, and if that
was the case the only real "cure" was to wait it out, and let him come out of
it on his own.  She'd learned *that* lesson the hard way, over the years.  


She felt a twist in her stomach as she considered the possibility that he
hadn't come home at all last night -- she didn't want to think about that, and
what it implied about where he might have spent the night, or what he might
have been doing.  Unbidden, images of Mulder with another woman came to her
mind.  Scully couldn't see the other woman's face, but she knew who it was:
someone tall and slender, with longish dark hair and broad, almost masculine
shoulders ....


Scully pushed the thought away.  Mulder wouldn't do that to her, she told
herself firmly, giving a sharp shake of her head.  No matter what his other
failings, Fox Mulder was not a cheat -- although in her darker moments Scully
wasn't sure their personal relationship was well enough defined for her to
reasonably call it cheating if he *had* spent the night with another woman.


But he almost certainly hadn't, she reassured herself.  It was much more
likely he'd gone running off to pursue a tip from an informant.
Unfortunately, if that *was* what had happened, she wasn't going to be able to
go after him -- not this time.  She had a job to do, and she couldn't just
walk away from it.


No matter how tedious and unproductive her current assignment might seem.


"Deliver me from all mine offences, and make me not a rebuke unto the foolish.
When thou with rebukes dost chasten man for sin, thou makest his beauty to
consume away, like as it were a moth fretting a garment.  Every man therefore
is but vanity."


Scully sighed quetly, and forced her attention back to the task at hand -- but
still there was nothing there.  No mysterious strangers hanging around the
edges of the crowd; no one who didn't quite fit in; no one who looked like
anyone who'd been at the first two funerals.


Scully let her gaze drift to Oliver, who was over on the far side of the
crowd, perhaps thirty yards away.  The other woman was standing quietly, hands
clasped in front of her and carefully studying the mourners, just as Scully
had been doing a moment before.  She turned her head slightly, and Scully
caught the detective's eye and shrugged.


"Hear my prayer, O Lord, and with thine ears consider my calling.  Hold not
thy peace at my tears.  For I am a stranger with thee, and a sojourner, as all
my fathers were.  O spare me a little, that I may recover my strength before I
go hence and be no more seen."


Scully turned her gaze away from Oliver, and went back to studying the crowd.


#          #          #


Near Iowa City, IA
Northbound on U.S. Highway 218
4:59 p.m.


"Well *that* was a waste of time."


Scully turned away from watching the scenery go by to look at Oliver, and
sighed.  It had been a long day, and she really didn't need this.  She turned
back to look out the window again.


"I mean, really, Agent Scully," the detective persisted.  "Can you explain to
me what we've accomplished in the last three days?  What good it's done?"


Scully shrugged, and continued to gaze out the window.  "You were there when
Agent Conyers gave us those assignments," she replied, more sharply than she
had intended.  "If you had any questions, you should have addressed them to
him."


"Sorry."  Oliver's voice was low and bitter.  "I thought since you were more
experienced with this sort of thing you might be willing to enlighten me."


Scully sighed again.  "No, Detective Oliver, *I'm* sorry.  I shouldn't have
snapped.  I've been having a rough week, but there's no excuse for me to take
it out on you.  I'm sorry," she repeated.


Oliver was silent for just a moment.  Then:  "It's okay.  Why should you be
any different?"


Scully was sorely tempted just to let it drop, but her conscience wouldn't let
her.  Oliver had been annoying and abrasive, but she didn't deserve to be the
target of someone else's bad temper.


"Detective Oliver --"


"Amanda."


"I'm sorry?"


"Amanda," the detective repeated, a trace of bitterness still in her voice.
"It's my name.  Use it.  I get so fucking tired of being 'Detective Oliver'."
She hesitated, and added, "Sorry.  That was unnecessary."


Before Scully could respond to that, her cell phone shrilled.  She started,
then pulled it out of her pocket and hit the connect button.


"Scully."


"Agent Scully, this is Assistant Director Kersh."  Scully suppressed a sigh of
resignation.  The new A.D. went on, "I know you're busy with your assignment,
so I'll be brief.  Have you had any contact with Agent Mulder the past two
days?"


Scully hesitated, trying to decide how much to say.  She and Mulder were
already in hot water over their unauthorized trip to Arizona the previous
week, and she didn't want to make things worse by telling the A.D. of her
suspicions concerning Mulder's whereabouts.  On the other hand, she was trying
to get off on the right foot with Kersh, since that was probably their only
hope of getting the X-Files back.


"Agent Scully?"


"Sorry, sir," she said hastily.  "We're in traffic."  She glanced at Oliver,
and saw the other woman raise an eyebrow.  "And no, I haven't spoken with
Agent Mulder since I left Washington.  Is there a problem?"


"Agent Mulder has not reported for work the past two days," Kersh replied, his
voice flat and unemotional.  "Naturally, I've become concerned for his
welfare, and hoped that you might have heard from him."  There was a pause and
a rustling noise, as if papers were being shuffled.  "How's your assignment in
Iowa progressing?"


Scully glanced at Oliver again and shrugged, forgetting that her supervisor
couldn't see her.  "As well as can be expected, sir," she said.  "Agent
Conyers has asked me --"


"I've discussed the matter with Agent Conyers," Kersh said in a bored tone of
voice.  "Please be assured that I'm satisfied with your performance."  Another
pause, shorter than the one before.  "If you should hear anything from Agent
Mulder, you are directed to contact my office."  The connection was broken.


Scully sighed and shook her head as she switched off her cell phone and put it
away.  Well, at least Kersh had inadvertently confirmed that Mulder had gone
running off again.  Not that there was a damned thing she could do about it.


"Trouble?"


Scully glanced over at Oliver, who now was guiding the car through in-town
traffic on the way to Scully's motel.  "Some," she admitted.  "That was my
supervisor.  He had some ... questions for me."


Oliver nodded as she turned off the highway and into the motel parking lot.
"Damn suits'll get you every time."  She pulled to a halt in front of Scully's
door.  "Look, Agent Scully, about that other stuff --"


"It's okay," Scully said shortly.  "I'm fine."  She didn't want any more
controversy today.  She just wanted to get out of her work clothes and take a
long, hot bath before turning in.  But she also didn't want to leave the
detective feeling that she'd been cut off, and so she forced a smile on her
face.  "Really," she repeated.  "I'm okay.  I just need to get cleaned up and
lie down for a bit.  It's been a long day."


"It has been a long day," Oliver agreed in a neutral tone of voice.  She
hesitated, then added, "Look, why don't you go ahead and get cleaned up and
rest.  I'll go home and change, and I can be back in a couple of hours.  I'll
take you to dinner or something."  She gave a lopsided smile.  "I really would
like to talk about the case a little, maybe get some insights.  This ... this
is all pretty new to me."


Scully suppressed another sigh, and nodded.  So much for that bath and early
to bed -- but she already knew Oliver well enough to know how much it had cost
the detective to extend the offer, and she could not refuse.  "Sure," she
said.  "Two hours?"


"Two hours."  


Scully nodded one more time, then got out of the car and stepped over to her
door.  She turned and stood, watching, as Oliver maneuvered the car back out
onto the street.  Then she turned away and slipped the key into the lock.  The
door open easily, and Scully stepped inside -- and froze.


Fox Mulder was sitting crosslegged on one of the beds, studying a file.  As
she stood in the doorway staring at him, he looked up from the folder and
smiled.


==========END CHAPTER FIVE==========


===========
Chapter Six
===========


Iowa City, IA
The Heartland Inn
Friday, October 2, 1998
5:48 p.m.


Scully's first reaction to her partner's unexpected presence was relief --
relief that he was here, and safe, rather than having run off and gotten
himself in trouble as she had feared.


Her second reaction, following quickly on the heels of the first, was anger.


For a few seconds the two emotions warred within her, battling for ascendency
as she stood stock-still in the doorway.  On the one hand, she really was glad
to see him, and that part of her just wanted to throw her arms around him and
kiss him, despite the recent problems in their personal relationship.


But another part of her was absolutely livid -- furious that he had once again
left her guessing as to his whereabouts.  She'd been here three days now, and
--


"You didn't call me, either, Scully."


Scully jumped at the sound of her partner's voice, and forced her attention
back to the present.  He was still sitting on the bed, but the smile had faded
-- and now he seemed to be studying her face, trying to gauge her reaction to
his presence.


"I've been busy," she answered, more sharply than she had intended.  She
didn't like the feeling that she was so transparent that he could see right
through her and discern what she was thinking.  Sometimes, she admitted to
herself, that uncanny nonverbal communication was useful, even comforting --
but at the moment it was making her feel as if her privacy was being violated.


"I've been working," she continued.  "And actually, I did call.  I got your
answering machine.  And when I tried your cell phone I got the out of area
recording."


"I have it switched off," he admitted, a sheepish look on his face.  "I don't
want to talk to Kersh.  And I can see you've been working."  He gestured
briefly with the file folder which still sat on his lap.  "Looks like you've
been working pretty hard, in fact."


"Yes, I have."


An awkward silence followed, while Scully tried to decide what to say next.
She didn't for a minute believe that Mulder had driven halfway across the
country just to discuss her assignment with her -- yet that was where the
conversation stood, and Scully couldn't for the life of her figure out how
that had happened.


"Why don't you come on in and shut the door?" Mulder said softly.  "We need to
talk."


Scully swallowed, then sighed and nodded, and did as he suggested.  She busied
herself for a few moments by putting away her briefcase, hanging up her suit
jacket and slipping out of her shoes, while she tried to put her thoughts in
order.


This was what she'd been wanting, she reminded herself.  Some sort of gesture
from Mulder; some sign that he was ready to work on the problems caused by his
recent behavior.  Of course, she might have hoped for a more normal time,
place and manner for him to raise these issues -- but Mulder very rarely did
anything in a manner which most people would consider normal.  And in any
case, she'd be a fool not to respond to his overture, now that he'd finally
made it.


She took a deep breath and turned back to face her partner, to find that he'd
scooted up on the bed and was now leaning back against the headboard.  He had
also, she noted, left a space next to himself that was just large enough for
her to sit in -- and he was gazing at her with a hopeful look on his face.


Shit.


"Mulder ...." she began ... but then her voice trailed off as she couldn't
find the words.


"It's okay, Scully," her partner said after a few more seconds of silence --
but there was a flicker of disappointment in his eyes.  "Just ... just find a
place to sit, and we'll talk a bit."  His voice faltered, and he paused
briefly for a moment before adding, "If that's okay?"


Scully hesitated, then nodded slightly and sighed, and walked over and sat
down on the end of the bed he was sitting on.  And once again, silence
descended on the room.


Why did it have to be so difficult?  Scully shook her head in silent
frustration.  She had known this man for more than five years, and she had
never been so close to anyone in her life.  They had shared so much pain and
heartache; they had done and said and overcome so much.  Why did it have to be
like this?


Why couldn't they ever *talk* to each other?


"Looks like an interesting case."  


Mulder's voice once again invaded her thoughts, and she looked over at him to
see that he had the file folder open on his lap and was studying it.  Scully
felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.  Not the case.  Not again.
She was sick to death of the case, and even if she had been interested in it,
that wasn't what she wanted to talk to Mulder about.  Not now, anyway.  She
opened her mouth to protest, to try to deflect the conversation.  But Mulder
had already resumed speaking.


"You know," her partner said, speaking more rapidly than usual, "what really
interests me about all this is how much the UNSUB seems to *care* about his
victims.  You spotted that, didn't you?"


"Mulder," Scully said firmly, "I don't want to talk about the case."


"I mean, look at this," he said, going on as if he hadn't heard her and
gesturing again with the file.  "He lays the bodies out as if for a memorial
service.  He covers them with flowers.  He does the dishes.  He does the
laundry.  He vacuums.  The ice cream fits in, too; I just haven't quite
figured out how as yet.  But it's definitely part of --"


"Mulder!"


Her partner fell silent, and dropped the file on his lap.  For a moment he
just sat there, looking at her; finally, he carefuly closed the folder and set
it aside.


"Sorry, Scully," he said quietly.  "I guess ... I guess I'm a little nervous.
We *do* need to talk, but I don't know where to begin.  Or how."


Scully sighed again.  It always came back to this.  Neither one of them seemed
to be capable of starting -- much less sustaining -- a really important
conversation.  Not lately, at any rate.  There was a time when they had seemed
to communicate so very well, but then she had been diagnosed with cancer, and
everything had changed ....


Still, they had to start somewhere.


"Mulder," she said quietly, "why didn't you call me?  Before driving out here,
I mean."


Mulder hesistated, then shrugged.  "I could say I didn't think of it.  But the
truth of the matter is that I was afraid if I did call, you'd tell me not to
come."


Scully couldn't help but smile a little at the comment.  "You could be right
at that," she murmured.  Part of her still wanted to be mad at him, but she
was rapidly finding that she just couldn't manage it -- and it suddenly
occurred to her that this was quite possibly the first time in their five
years together that he had actually run *towards* her in a moment of crisis
instead of away from her.


Surely that counted for something.


"You could at least have let me know," she continued, trying her best to
project concern rather than the hostility that seemed to come so easily these
days.  "I was worried about you.  And then Kersh called, looking for you, and
I felt like a complete idiot because I didn't know where you were."


Mulder smiled slightly, tentatively.  "You should have told him it wasn't your
day to watch me."  The smile faded again and he reached out and took her hand
loosely in his.  "Scully ... I'm sorry.  I should have called.  But ... I
honestly didn't think of it until I was more than halfway here.  And then,
well ...."  His voice trailed off, and he looked away -- and then he looked
back, and his voice firmed up.


"Scully, I've missed you.  And not just since you left D.C.  I don't
understand what's come between us this past week.  I mean ... I think I know
what some of the, the points of contention are, but I don't understand *why*."  


He took a deep breath, then continued.  "Look, I don't know what you did or
did not see when we were in Antarctica.  I thought I knew; I thought we were
on the same page, but I guess I was wrong, and I can accept that.


"But what I can't accept," he went on, his tone shaking slightly, "was the way
you hung me out to dry in front of the review panel."  Scully felt her eyes
widening in surprise, and she stirred slightly, intending to interrupt ... but
Mulder shook his head sharply.  


"You knew what I was going to say, Scully," he said.  There was a note of
pleading in his voice, now, but it was overlaid with anger -- and the
analytical part of her mind informed her that Mulder was also have trouble
sorting out his emotions.  


"You knew *exactly* what I was going to say," he repeated, "and you knew that
you didn't agree.  But you let me walk into that room and crawl out on a limb,
and then you sawed it off behind me without so much as a single word of
warning.  And when I asked you about it afterwards all you could say was that
you had hoped it wouldn't come up?  Scully --" and now the pain was apparent
in his eyes "-- I don't understand.  How could you do that to me?"


For a moment Scully stared at her partner in disbelief.  This wasn't what he
was here for, was it?  He hadn't actually driven all that distance just to
accuse *her*, had he?  Abruptly all the anger she had suppressed a few minutes
earlier came boiling back up ...


"How could *I* have done that to *you*?" she replied incredulously.  "Mulder,
it may have escaped your notice, but we have *both* been reassigned.  Not just
you -- *both* of us.  And it didn't happen because of anything *I* did -- it
happened because you shot off your mouth once too often in front of the wrong
people.  That's why it happened, Mulder.  That's why they took our work away
from us."


"I shot off my mouth?"  Now Mulder was staring back at her with a look of
stunned confusion, which Scully imagined must mirror her own expression of a
moment before.  There was something important there, she thought; something
she was missing.  But before she had a chance to examine the thought, her
partner had resumed speaking.


"Scully," he said, clearly struggling now to keep his voice calm and level.
"That's not the way it was at all."  He was shaking his head as he spoke.  "I
was just reporting what I'd seen -- what I thought *we* had seen.  Apparently
I was wrong about that, and that's ... well, it's not fine.  But it's nothing
new.  But Scully, you should at least have warned me.  We're supposed to be
partners, and--"


"Partners?" she snapped, cutting him off as the fury grew within her.  "Is
that what we're supposed to be, Mulder?  Partners?"  She took a deep breath
and tried to steady herself.  "Is that why you left me sitting there in the
car while you went running off with Diana Fowley?"  Scully found herself
fighting back tears of frustration.  She would not break down over this; she
simply would not.  "Was that an act of partnership, Mulder?"


"It seemed like a logical division of labor," her partner replied, the pain
and confusion on his face deepening.  "You're a doctor, and I thought --"


"No, Mulder, you didn't think!" Scully said, interrupting him yet again.  Back
in one dark corner of her mind, she was appalled at her own conduct.  Each
outburst seemed worse than the last, and it was plain from the expression on
Mulder's face that he wasn't understanding any of it.  She wasn't getting
through to him, and she should stop and regroup.  Try to regain control.


But she couldn't.  She just couldn't.


"You didn't think, Mulder," she repeated, her own voice sounding far more calm
and collected than she actually felt.  "I am a pathologist, as you well know."
He tried to interrupt, but she raised her voice and hurried on.  "That boy
needed a neurosurgeon, or at the very least a physician with experience in
emergency medicine.  Even a paramedic could probably have done more for him
than I could -- and Agent Fowley was just as capable of dialing 911 as I was."


Scully took another deep breath as she struggled once again to regain control.
This was not the way this conversation was supposed to go.  They weren't
supposed to be yelling at each other; they were supposed to be talking, and
trying to work things out.  They were supposed to be ....


Partners.


Scully realized that her eyes had drifted shut; now she forced them open
again, and found herself looking down at her hand, still joined with Mulder's.
During the argument, their fingers had become intertwined -- and Scully was
suddenly struck by the irony of that.  Even as the two of them had been
fighting, and pushing each other away, their hands had held fast, and kept
them from pulling too far apart.  It was as if, deep down, each of them
realized that the other was the only available anchor.


"Hey, Scully?"


Upon hearing her partner's voice Scully looked up again, to find that he was
still looking at her.  The unhappiness was still present on his face and in
his eyes -- but now she also saw a tenderness and caring which had been absent
the last time she looked.  Or maybe it hadn't been absent, she admitted to
herself.  Perhaps those warmer feelings had been there all along, and she just
hadn't seen them.


Silence once again blanketed the room -- but this time it was not an awkward
silence.  This time, it seemed warm and friendly.  And for just a moment,
Scully closed her eyes and tried not to think.  The feel of Mulder's hand and
the soft sound of his breathing comforted and calmed her, renewing her
confidence.  They could do this.  Whatever it was that stood between them,
they *could* overcome it.


"Seems like we both have some issues to work through," Mulder said at last,
his voice bringing her back to the present again.  She opened her eyes to see
that once more he wore a slight, hesitant smile.


Scully forced a small smile of her own.  "Sounds like it," she agreed.


Her partner gave her hand one more squeeze, then finally let go and started to
climb off the bed.  "Tell you what," he said.  "Let's go get some Chinese.  I
don't know about you, but I haven't eaten much today, and I'm starved."


Scully was about to agree, finding additional comfort and security at the
thought of going through the familiar ritual.  She was in the field with
Mulder; of course they would have take out.  For the first time since arriving
in Iowa, she felt as if something was going the way it was supposed to go.


And then she remembered.  Oliver.  Shit.


She glanced at the clock and saw that it was nearly 6:30.  A little over an
hour and the detective would be here, expecting to go to dinner and perhaps
mend a few fences in the process.  Those fences desperately needed mending,
too; it was why Scully had agreed to go in the first place.  But it wasn't
what she wanted to be doing, she suddenly realized.


She wanted to spend the evening with Mulder.


"Scully?  Is something wrong?"


Scully shook her head and sighed reluctantly.  Work had to come first.  It
wasn't as if her dispute with Mulder was new.  It would keep, and they could
address at least some of it in the morning.  Or perhaps even later tonight,
when she got back.


"Mulder," she said, "I can't.  I'm sorry.  I've already got plans."


A brief flicker of something that was not quite disappointment passed across
her partner's face -- and suddenly Scully realized what that must have sounded
like.  She climbed off the bed and went to him, where he stood by the bureau.


"No, Mulder," she said, briefly touching the back of his hand as she spoke.
"Nothing like that.  This is just work.  The detective I'm working with wanted
to have dinner and try to talk a few things out."  She forced another smile.
"She and I have had a few rough spots of our own."


"That's hard to believe, Scully," her partner murmured, once again catching
her hand with his.  "That you would have trouble getting along, I mean."  He
gave a lopsided grin.  "You're usually the one who has to bail me out when my
mouth gets me in trouble."


Scully was actually able to laugh at that.  "Well, you know what they say,
Mulder," she replied.  "It's always the quiet ones."  On an impulse, she went
up on her toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek, and he let go of her hand
and took her into a brief, gentle embrace.  As she returned the hug, she
whispered a promise:  "We'll work it out, Mulder."


But as she slipped out Mulder's arms and turned away, she wasn't sure whether
she was trying to reassure her partner, or herself.


#          #          #


Iowa City, IA
8:38 p.m.


Mulder rounded a bend in the highway and breathed a sigh of relief as the
motel came in sight.  He'd been pretty certain he was heading the right
direction, but it always took him a little while to get oriented when he came
to a strange town.  Now he was sure.


After Scully left for dinner, he'd stretched out on one of the beds and tried
to rest.  He hadn't slept, really, in more than 24 hours, not counting a
couple of catnaps while he was on the road.  Now that he had some peace and
quiet, plus the reassurance that Scully hadn't given up on either him or their
partnership, he had expected exhaustion to kick in, but it hadn't happened.
And so finally he got up again and went for a run.


To his immense gratification and relief, unlike two mornings ago in
Alexandria, this time the exercise seemed to be having its desired effect.
The rhythmic pounding of feet on pavement and the smooth, regular pull of
muscle and tendon as he ran was easing him almost into a trance.  He would
have no trouble getting to sleep now.


As he slowed to a walk for the last fifty feet he allowed himself briefly to
consider the situation.  He was shocked beyond words to find that Scully was
still dwelling on the incident in Arizona.  He'd known at the time that she
was upset, of course; she had confronted him about it after their return to
D.C.


He'd thought she was over that, though.


Apparently he was wrong.


He pushed the door to Scully's room open and glanced in the direction of the
clock -- and immediately his eye was caught by the red message light, flashing
rapidly in the gloom.  He moved instinctively towards the phone, but just as
he put his hand on the receiver he remembered:  this wasn't his room.


It wasn't his assignment.


The message was probably for Scully, probably concerned the case, and most
assuredly was not for him.  He shook his head and turned away, heading for the
shower.


Twenty minutes later he emerged, feeling considerably better, and definitely
more rested and relaxed.  He located his suitcase where he'd left it, in a
corner of the room where he'd hoped it would be out of the way, and found a
fresh pair of boxers and pulled them on before sprawling out on one of the
beds.  Then he turned his head to look at the clock, in hopes of estimating
when Scully might be back.


The red message light was still blinking.  If anything, it seemed to him that
it was flashing faster than before.  Could there have been another call while
he was in the shower?  It still was probably for Scully, and almost certainly
concerned the case -- but it might be something important, if they'd called
again that recently.  


Of course, if they were trying to reach Scully, they could call her cell
phone, couldn't they?


He wondered if Scully would want him playing back her messages, considering
the current precarious state of their relationship.


He wondered who he was trying to kid.  He was going to play them back; he
might just as well get on with it.


With a sigh and a shake of the head he reached out and grabbed the receiver
off the cradle.  He studied the instructions on the phone for just a moment,
then punched in the necessary code.  And in another second, he was rewarded
with the sound of his partner's voice.


"Mulder, it's me.  There's been another death."


==========END CHAPTER SIX==========


===========
Chapter Seven
===========


Iowa City, IA
Residence of Marjorie Adamson
Friday, October 2, 1998
9:51 p.m.


There was a certain sameness to crime scenes, Mulder reflected, as he pulled
his car to a halt at the end of the block.  Night or day, city or country,
good neighborhoods or bad -- some things just didn't change.


This was a good neighborhood, he noted, as he walked up the sidewalk towards
the cluster of people and official vehicles gathered in front of one of the
houses.  It was a comfortable, tree-shaded street, lined with two- and
three-story homes with neatly kept lawns.  The houses were freshly painted,
and the shingles and trim were in good repair.  It was a place of restrained
opulence, like an idealized version of upwardly-mobile1950s suburbia. Quiet.
Undisturbed.  Innocent.


But now that quiet innocence had been shattered.  Two patrol cars sat in the
driveway of one of those homes, their emergency lights strobing furiously, and
a third car and an ambulance were parked at the curb.  The yellow crime scene
tape was already in place, and a small crowd of onlookers was gathered behind
it.


As Mulder turned up the front walk a uniformed officer moved to intercept him,
but a quick flash of his badge caused the other man to give way.  Another
moment, and Mulder was inside.


The interior of the house displayed the same understated elegance as the
outside.  Polished hardwood floors were covered by a thick, dark blue throw
rug.  The furnishings were conservative and refined, and looked as if they
would be slightly uncomfortable -- as if they had been intended more for show
than for actual use.   An antique grandfather clock stood along one wall of
the entry hallway, its pendulum swinging hypnotically.


And of course, the place was full of cops.


Mulder stepped on through the entry hall and into the living room.  A few of
those present gave him puzzled looks, but then turned away -- apparently the
fact that he had passed the gauntlet outside was enough to justify his
presence, even if they didn't know who he was.  And so he turned his attention
away from the others and glanced around the room.


>From long practice he subtracted the other people and their equipment from
>the scene, and tried to imagine the room as it had been a few hours before.
>Another throw rug, this one gray, covered most of the floor.  An overstuffed
>sofa stood against one wall, with a matched pair of flanking end tables.  A
>fireplace occupied much of the opposite wall, with a poker and other tools
>neatly racked next to it.  Everything was clean, neat and apparently in its
>proper place.


It was a cold, formal room, Mulder decided, intended for the eye of the
visitor.  Outsiders were admitted to this chamber, and were entertained here.
But the owners of the house did not live in this room.


One of the end tables had what appeared to be a small stack of letters and
magazines on it, and after a brief pause Mulder moved in that direction,
taking a pair of latex gloves from his suit pocket and pulling them on.  Black
powder was everywhere, indicating that the fingerprint techs had already been
here.  He glanced around and spotted a uniformed officer.


"Are the photographers through in here?" he asked.


"Yes sir," the younger man replied after the briefest of hesitations.
"They're working the dining room and kitchen now."  The expression on the
officer's face said he didn't know who Mulder was, but wasn't quite sure if he
should challenge him.


"I'm with the Bureau," Mulder said in answer to the silent question.  Then he
turned away to examine the pile of papers on the end table.


As he had thought, it was mail -- presumably the victim's mail.  All of it was
addressed to "Marjorie Adamson", and there seemed to be several days' worth.
A handful of what appeared to be personal letters, a couple of bills and four
magazines.  The letters and bills were unlikely to provide any useful leads,
Mulder knew -- this was not a crime perpetrated by a jealous lover or a
disgruntled employee or business partner.  But there was something about the
magazines; something unusual ....


He dropped the smaller items back on the end table and stood quietly for a
moment, looking thoughtfully at the periodicals he still held in his hand.
Two of them were upscale travel magazines; the third was the current issue of
"The New Yorker".  The fourth was something called "The Illustrated Person",
and was apparently about body art and piercing.  


Mulder frowned.  "The Illustrated Person" seemed to him to be out of place.
Not so much because was it an unusual subject matter, but because it was
printed on rough newsprint, and the layout and design were primitive -- even a
bit sloppy.  The few illustrations were either crudely done by hand, or grainy
reproductions of photographs -- photocopied rather than scanned, by the look
of them.  


Marjorie Adamson, whoever she was -- or had been -- wouldn't subscribe to this
sort of publication.  If she did receive a body art magazine, he thought, it
would be slick, polished and expensive, like the rest of her house.  It
wouldn't look like something produced in a hurry by someone who didn't really
know what he was doing -- and it wouldn't be left lying out in a room clearly
intended to receive visitors.  It would be kept in a more private part of the
house, away from prying eyes.


But she didn't subscribe to it, he realized, as he turned the periodical over
in his hand.  There was no mailing label, although there was a place on the
back which was clearly intended to receive one.  So had she just picked it up
somewhere, and brought it home and left it lying on the end table in her
living room?  It didn't seem at all likely.


Mulder started leafing through "The Illustrated Person".  He wasn't sure what
he was looking for, but his investigator's instinct told him something was
here, something worth finding.  The magazine seemed to be more advertising
than actual copy, which didn't surprise him, given what he'd already deduced
of its nature.  The ads were for various goods and services of the underground
culture:  herbal remedies, books on astrology and alternative medicine, and of
course lots of classified and personal ads.


And one of the personals had been circled in heavy, black ink.


     Serpent slithering
     Silent through the autumn heat
     In the tall, dry grass


     -Tebori


Mulder stood looking at the ad for a moment, trying to decide what it meant.
The words were plain enough, but in the context of the magazine's personals
section he wasn't sure what they were supposed to mean.  Was the ad intended
for Marjorie Adamson?  If so, that would explain why she had a copy --
although Mulder still didn't think she would have left it laying out for
visitors to see --


"Mulder?  What are you doing here?"


Mulder looked up to see his partner standing three feet in front of him, an
expression of surprise and concern on her face -- and looking more closely
Mulder also noticed a tinge of anger, reminding him that he wasn't really
supposed to be here.  But he quickly pushed those niggling doubts aside.


"Look at this, Scully," he said, stepping over into her personal space and
holding the magazine open for her examination.  "I found it in the victim's
pile of mail, and --"


"Mulder!" she said sharply.  She lowered her voice, apparently so as not to be
overheard, and Mulder had to move a little closer and dip his head in order to
hear her.  "When I left that message I didn't intend for you to come over
here.  I just wanted to tell you I'd be late."


Mulder felt as if the walls were abruptly closing in on him.  She couldn't be
pushing him away; not again.  Struggling to keep the note of desperation from
his voice:  "But Scully --"


"I'm serious, Mulder," she interrupted, still keeping her voice very low.
"This isn't your assignment."  She stopped and swallowed.  "Look, I'm not
trying to get rid of you; I -- I'm glad you came.  To Iowa, I mean, not here.
What you said back at the motel -- well, I've missed you, too."  She shook her
head, and went on, "But you can't be here, Mulder.  Kersh probably already has
you down as AWOL, and if he hears you've involved yourself in this case you'll
be in even more trouble."


Mulder felt his lips quirking, but before he could respond, his partner
continued, "This is serious, Mulder!  We have lost the X-Files, and the only
way we're ever going to get them back is to follow the rules and do as we're
told."  She moved a little closer, and Mulder barely remembered where they
were in time to restrain himself from reaching out to touch her.  "This is
hard for me, too, okay?" she said, even more softly than before.  "I don't
like working without you.  I suppose in the great scheme of things it's good
for me, but I don't like it."  


There was a lengthy silence while Mulder tried to process what Scully had just
said.  He couldn't fault her logic; in his heart he knew she was right.  But
somehow that didn't make it seem any less like a rejection.  Finally, he said,
"Scully, do you want me to leave?"


She looked at him for a long moment; at last, she sighed and shook her head.
"I think it would be better if you went back to D.C., yes," she said.  "It's
part of the toeing the line thing."


"Sucking up to Kersh, you mean," he said bitterly.


She shrugged.  "Call it what you will.  But whatever you call it, I think it
would be better."  She hesitated, and looked down, breaking eye contact.  "But
no.  I don't want you to leave.  I *am* glad you're here.  I haven't felt
right being in the field without you."  


She looked back up at him, and her voice firmed up.  "But you have got to
leave the crime scene, Mulder.  Special Agent Conyers hasn't shown up yet, but
it's only a matter of time before they track him down.  So can you at least do
that much for me?  Go back to the motel, and try to get some rest?  I'll
probably be out very late, but we'll talk some more in the morning.  I
promise."  She smiled slightly.  "I'll even let you spin out one your crazy
theories about the case, okay?"


Somehow, Mulder managed to match her smile.  "Only one?"


Scully actually laughed.  "Even I have my limits, Mulder."  She glanced
quickly around the room, then briefly touched the back of his hand.  "Now get
going.  Please?  Before it's too late?"


Mulder hesitated for just a moment, then nodded slightly.  "Okay," he said,
his lips quirking slightly once again.  "But I'm only doing it because you're
right."  That won him another little smile in return, and before he could stop
himself he had reached up and lightly and briefly traced the outline of her
lips with his forefinger.


Instantly, her smile vanished, and her gaze once again flicked around the
room.  "Mulder --"


"Sorry, Scully," he replied quietly, letting his hand drop back to his side.
"I'll see you back at the motel."  And he handed her the magazine and turned
and walked away.


#          #          #


10:23 p.m.


"You don't have to put up with that shit, you know."


Scully jumped at the sound of Oliver's voice, and tore her gaze away from
Mulder's retreating back to see the detective standing a few feet away, an
angry look on her face.


"Excuse me?" Scully replied.  She was still slightly dazed from her
conversation with her partner.  The things she'd said to him were all true --
but a lot of them were feelings she'd been holding back, and she wasn't sure
why they had chosen this particular moment to come bubbling out.


"That guy," Oliver replied, jerking her head at the now-empty doorway leading
into the front hall.  "I saw what he was doing to you.  You don't have to put
up with that."


"Put up with ...." Scully let her voice trail off as it gradually dawned on
her what the detective was talking about.  She shook her head.  "No," she
said.  "No, you don't understand.  That was my ...." Again she let her voice
trail off, this time in frustration as she realized there wasn't any good way
to explain the situation.  "You don't understand," she repeated.


"Oh, I think I understand, all right," the detective replied sharply.  "And I
guess it's your decision to make, Agent Scully.  Just remember that your
silence affects all the rest of us in the long run."  


"Detective Oliver --"


The other woman shook her head angrily.  "Forget it," she said bitterly.  "I
shouldn't have said anything.  Anyway, I came out here to tell you the
photographers are done in the bedroom.  So if you want to see it with your own
eyes, now's the time."


The two women stood looking at each other for a moment or two, while Scully
tried to decide what to do.  Part of her wanted to explain what had happened;
she wanted Oliver to understand that Mulder hadn't been harrassing her, and
that she wasn't an enabler -- if that was, in fact, what the detective
thought.


But it was too complicated, Scully told herself.  And besides, it really was
none of Oliver's business.  And so after just another moment she nodded, and
allowed Oliver to lead her out of the room.


==========END CHAPTER SEVEN==========


===========
Chapter Eight
===========


Iowa City Civic Center
Saturday, October 3, 1998
11:49 a.m.


"Agent Scully, may I have a word with you?"


Scully sighed in resignation and stopped on her way out of the conference room
at the sound of Agent Conyers' voice.  The morning briefing had dragged on
interminably, and she was already late to meet Mulder for lunch.  In
retrospect, she knew she should have expected the meeting to run long --
Conyers seemed to love the sound of his own voice, and with a new murder to
discuss there actually was a legitimate reason for things to take a little
longer.  


But three hours?


She sighed again, and turned back to face the task force leader.  "Yes, Agent
Conyers?"


He stood looking at her for a moment, and Scully stared right back at him.
Conyers was tall and burly, with a blond crew cut and hard, masculine
features.  He looked, in fact, very much like the stereotypical FBI Agent, and
he had the deep, serious voice to go with his appearance.  


He also reminded Scully of Jack Willis, and she was somewhat bemused at being
confronted by the fact that she had once been attracted to this sort of man.
Of course, Jack had been intelligent and sensitive, once you got past his
public persona; Conyers seemed to have neither of those qualities.


"Agent Scully," Conyers said at last, "I am told that you were seen at the
crime scene last night, conversing with a man no one else seemed to know.  May
I inquire as to his identity?"


Shit.  She knew she was going to have to face this question, but she didn't
have a really good explanation for Mulder's presence at the crime scene.  She
realized now that the message she left for him at the motel the night before
hadn't been as clear as she might have wished, and that she'd failed to take
into account Mulder's innate curiousity and urge to meddle.  Now she was going
to have to deal with it, and --


"Agent Scully!"  Conyers said sharply.  "Answer the question.  Who were you
speaking to last night?"


Scully sighed.  "It was Special Agent Fox Mulder," she said.  "He's my partner
at the Bureau, and he had just arrived in Iowa --"


"I'm aware of your ... history ... with Agent Mulder," Conyers interrupted.
"But he is not assigned to this task force.  Can you explain his presence at
the crime scene last night?"


"Sir, it was a misunderstanding," Scully replied calmly.  She knew Conyers was
trying to get her goat, and she was determined not to let that happen.  "I had
left a message informing Agent Mulder of the situation, so that he would know
why I was late.  Unfortunately, he thought I was asking him to assist, when
that was not my intention.  As soon as I saw him at the crime scene, I asked
him to leave."


"Did you admit him to the crime scene, Agent Scully?"


"No, I did not."


"Why did you not inform me of this infraction of regulations?" Conyers
persisted.


"Sir, Agent Mulder's presence did not in any way impede the investigation, and
he did not disturb or remove any evidence."  Scully suppressed the urge to
wince as she remembered the magazine Mulder had been handling when she
approached him -- but surely that was of no importance.  She had immediately
put the magazine back on the end table with the others, and Mulder had been
wearing gloves, in any case.  She continued, "It was my judgment that the
technical violation of *protocol* did not warrant making a report, since we
all had more important matters to deal with."


Conyers' eyes flashed briefly at her stress on the word "protocol", and for a
moment he seemed to consider her statement while looking idly down at the
papers on the table in front of him.  Finally, he turned his gaze back up to
Scully.  "Agent Scully, are you aware that Assistant Director Kersh has been
trying to locate Agent Mulder for the past two days?"


Scully nodded.  "I have spoken with A.D. Kersh," she said, keeping her tone
noncommittal.


"So have I," Conyers replied, his tone flat and expressionless.  "Have you
informed the Assistant Director of Agent Mulder's presence in Iowa?"


Scully hesitated, not sure what to say.  The fact was that she had not called
Kersh, and although this disobedience bothered her conscience only slightly,
she was not prepared to discuss the matter with anyone -- certainly not with
Conyers.  


At last, she said, "Sir, other than his inadvertent attendance at the crime
scene last night, Agent Mulder's presence in Iowa is in no way relevant to the
work of the task force."  Before Conyers could respond, she looked him right
in the eye, and added, "And the substance of any conversations I may have with
my supervisor are of no concern to you."


Conyers looked back at her coldly for a moment, and Scully realized that he
was trying to decide how much further to push her.  Finally, he simply nodded,
and said, "Very well, Agent Scully.  You are dismissed."


Without another word, Scully turned and put her hand on the doornknob -- and
Conyers added, "Please be advised that I will be making my own report to
Assistant Director Kersh.  Including the subtance of *this* conversation."


Scully pulled the door open and left the room.


#            #          #


Iowa City, IA
Downtown Pedestrian Mall
12:02 p.m.


Scully was still doing a slow boil a few minutes later when she reached the
center of the pedestrian mall, where she was supposed to meet Mulder for
lunch.  She wasn't quite sure who she was most angry with -- Conyers, Kersh,
Mulder -- or herself.  But she'd had a short night and a miserable morning,
and she knew that if she wasn't careful she was going to wind up yelling at
someone.


Mostly she was mad at herself, she decided, as she scanned the passing crowd,
looking for her partner.  She really should have left a clearer message; she
*knew* better than to leave temptation dangling in front of Mulder like that.
And if she had spoken more plainly, and he had simply stayed away, none of the
rest of it would have happened.


Scully sighed, and tried to push the thoughts away.  What was done was done,
and she really didn't want to spend her lunch break -- which was probably the
only free time she'd have today to spend with Mulder -- fuming about things
that couldn't be changed.


She'd been only mildly surprised to find Mulder asleep in the other bed when
she finally got back to her room last night, long after midnight.  A small
part of her had been alarmed at the discovery, but she'd been tired, and
hadn't seen any point in waking him up and kicking him out.  He wasn't on per
diem, after all; he was paying for this trip out of pocket.  Surely they could
sleep in the same room without causing any problems.


In the morning when she'd awakened, he was gone -- but his bag was still
there, leaving Scully to conclude he must have gone for a run.  She puttered
around as long as she dared, getting ready for the morning briefing, and even
kept Oliver waiting for a few minutes without explanation, hoping that Mulder
would come back in time to have breakfast with her.  But in the end he had
not, and finally she'd left a note suggesting they meet for lunch, and gone
off to the briefing.


So now here she was, in the place she'd suggested, but more than an hour late.
And Mulder, of course, had either come and gone already, or was even later
than she was.


And then she saw him.


He was about fifty feet away, his back to her and his hands in his pockets,
watching a small group of children clambering about on a piece of playground
equipment.  He was standing perfectly still.


For a moment Scully also stood still, watching her partner as he watched the
children at play.  He seemed to be entirely absorbed by the scene before him,
and she couldn't help wondering why it had  drawn his attention so.  Was it
reminding him of Samantha?  Or of Emily?  Or was he thinking of something
completely different, with the playground activity simply serving as a
backdrop for his thoughts?


And she realized that she didn't know *what* Mulder was thinking about.  This
was a subject -- a part of life -- which the two of them didn't talk about
very often.


Children.


Family.


Normal life.


Well, there were some good reasons they never talked about it, Scully thought,
surprised at the bitterness of her own thoughts as she finally started walking
towards her partner.  She and Mulder were most likely never going to have any
of those things.  The bastards they were fighting had done everything in their
power to batter and bruise the two agents, and had nearly broken their spirits
in the process.


Sometimes it seemed to Scully that their enemies wouldn't be satisifed until
nothing was left at all.  Nothing but two angry, bitter people, each of them
too hurt and wounded to stand alone, but also too fearful and distrusting to
reach out to each other for support.


And fuck them all anyway, she thought angrily, lengthening her stride as she
came closer to Mulder.  And fuck Kersh and Conyers and even Skinner, and all
the other petty bureaucrats who helped make her life and Mulder's rougher than
they had to be.  She and Mulder needed each other, and in a moment of crystal
clarity Scully was determined not to let anything stand in their way.


She came to a halt a couple of feet from her partner, and for a few seconds
she studied his face in profile.  He was still watching the children, but
Scully knew that he was aware of her presence.  He was *always* aware of her
presence.


Just as she was always aware of his.


On an impulse, Scully stepped around in front of her partner and leaned in
slightly against him.  She saw a flicker of surprise start to appear on his
face -- and then she wrapped an arm around his neck and went up on her toes
and kissed him.


Their lips had barely touched when Scully began to feel a warm wave of calm
and contentment spreading through her.  She had missed this; God, she had
missed it.  Had it really been only a little over a week since the last time
they kissed?  Suddenly it seemed like an eternity.  If only they could stay
like this, she thought.  If only the rest of the world would just go away and
leave them alone.  If only they could be allowed some time for themselves and
each other, they could work out all their problems; Scully was sure of it.


If only ....


Finally, with great reluctance, Scully ended the kiss.  She drew back from her
partner and looked up and studied his face.  He seemed solemn, and slightly
puzzled.


"That was for the future," she told him quietly.  "Because we are going to
have a future, Mulder.  And God help anybody who tries to prevent it."  She
continued to study his face, waiting ... until finally he nodded slightly,
showing his understanding -- and, she hoped, his agreement.  Scully smiled.


"Come on," she said at last, taking his hand decisively in her own.  "I'm
starved, and you owe me lunch."


==========END CHAPTER EIGHT==========


===========
Chapter Nine
===========


Iowa City, IA
The India Cafe
Saturday, October 3, 1998
12:33 p.m.


"So why don't you want to tell me about the case?"


Scully looked up from her tandoori chicken and glanced across the table at her
partner.  His own food had barely been touched, and he was looking right back
at her -- and Scully had the impression he'd been watching her for some little
while.


"Mulder, you're food's gonna get cold," she replied, gesturing with her fork
at his plate.


Her partner shook his head.  "Come on, Scully," he said.  "You've been putting
me off ever since I got here.  Since Tuesday, really.  I don't want to
interfere; I just want to know what's going on.  See if maybe I can help."


Scully hesitated, and found herself biting her lip.  She really had been
putting him off; the problem was that she didn't understand why.  He was her
partner; her best friend.  There was no reason why she shouldn't discuss the
investigation with him, and he really might be able to offer some useful
insights.


Scully took another bite of her chicken while she thought about it.  She was
acutely aware of Mulder sitting quietly on the other side of the table,
continuing to watch her, waiting for her answer.  She wished she could
understand why it was making her so uncomfortable, and why she felt so much as
if she were being put on the spot.


She shook her head in annoyance, and swallowed the mouthful of chicken.
"Okay," she said.  "You've read the files, right?"  


Her partner nodded.  "Yes.  But I don't know what you've been thinking about
that you haven't put in writing.  And of course, I don't know what was found
at the site last night."


Scully nodded, and took a sip of her coffee.  She'd been running on too little
sleep since before the trip to Arizona, and she'd found herself upping her
caffeine intake as a result.  "Marjorie Adamson," she said.  "Fifty year old
widow.  Lived alone.  Her husband died three years ago in a car accident --
his vehicle went off the road and hit a concrete bridge support, head on.
He'd been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer two weeks earlier, which
unfortunately had already metastasized pretty widely by the time he went in
for treatment."


"Suicide?" Mulder asked.


Scully nodded, and found herself warming to the subject, falling back into the
comfortable, familiar pattern of discussion.  "Probably, but no one was able
to prove it, and the insurance company eventually paid the claim."


"Go on."


"Mrs. Adamson has lived alone since her husband's death," Scully continued.
"She seems to have had a pretty normal social life:  church functions,
community theater, that sort of thing.  She occasionally took a class at the
University.  Nothing out of the ordinary has surfaced, at least so far.  Of
course, we've only been looking for twelve hours or so, and it's possible that
an extended background check will turn something up."


"But not likely," Mulder commented.


Scully looked him in the eye, and shrugged.  "No.  Not likely."


"What about the site?" her partner asked.  "Anything there?"


Scully nodded, and took another bite of chicken, taking a moment to chew and
swallow before she responded.  "There've been a few variances.  We're not sure
whether any of it will be important, but we're hopeful."


"What sort of variances?"


"Mostly the cleanup.  It wasn't as thorough this time.  Some of the rooms
didn't seem to have been vacuumed.  The dishwasher had been loaded, but it
hadn't been run, apparently because the victim was out of detergent."  She
shrugged.  "We found a yellow flower petal, which didn't match any of the
plants in the house, and didn't match the flowers piled on the body.  It's
probably a dead end, but it's being FedExed to the crime lab in D.C.  A few
more latent prints than at the other sites.  Like I said, not much."


Mulder sat quietly for a moment or two, seemingly lost in thought, and Scully
could almost hear the wheels turning in his head.  Finally:  "The place wasn't
as tidied up as the others.  That's interesting.  I wonder why?"


"Maybe he just got sloppy," Scully offered.  "At least, that seemed to be the
prevailing theory at the morning briefing."


Mulder shook his head.  "No.  Serial killers don't get sloppy."  He raised his
hand before she could protest.  "Oh, they make mistakes, certainly.  If they
didn't, we'd never catch them.  And they aren't automatons.  But everything
they do, they do for a reason, and they're usually pretty inflexible once they
get into a pattern."  He paused, and once again seemed to be thinking.  "I
wonder if he just ran out of time.  Have they established a time of death?"


Scully shook her head.  "Not yet."  She glanced at her watch, and saw that it
was nearly one o'clock.  "The post should be done soon, and we'll have the
preliminary report an hour or two after that.  Right now, though, all we've
got is that the victim was last seen on Wednesday afternoon.  The body was
found yesterday early evening, just before I called you."


"Who found it?"


"Mrs. Adamson's daughter.  She lives in West Branch, about twenty miles from
here, and had been trying to call her mother for a couple of days.  She
finally got worried enough to drive over and check."


"A couple of days," Mulder murmured.  "So probably Wednesday evening."


"Probably," Scully agreed.  "As I said, we'll know more in an hour or two."


Her partner fell silent while he digested this information, and once again
Scully waited patiently.  She knew from long experience not to interrupt when
he went into this mode.  He was holding his body perfectly still, and his gaze
appeared to be directed at something far, far away -- something only he could
see.  At last, his eyes seemed to focus again, and he looked back across the
table at her.


"Did the victim have a tattoo?"


Scully blinked.  Where had *that* come from?  "A tattoo?  I have no idea.  Why
do you ask?"


"That magazine," Mulder explained.  "You remember?  'The Illustrated Person'?
I was starting to show it to you last night?"


Scully felt herself flushing slightly.  Of course she remembered the magazine,
but she hadn't given him a chance to show her whatever it was he'd found, and
after he left she'd become so involved in other parts of the investigation
that she never got back to it.  "What about it?"


"There was a personal ad in it that someone had circled.  I wondered if it
might have been intended for the victim."  He closed his eyes for a moment,
then opened them again and recited, "'Serpent slithering / Silent through the
autumn heat / In the tall, dry grass.'  And it was signed 'Tebori'."


"A haiku?"  Scully shook her head.  "I don't get it.  What's the
significance?"


"It's not the haiku, as such," Mulder replied.  "It's the forum.  'The
Illustrated Person' is a body art magazine -- and not a high class one,
either.  But it was there in this respectable, upper middle class home, in a
place where visitors might see it, and it had a personal ad that had attracted
someone's attention.  Which suggests --"


"There's nothing wrong with body art, Mulder," Scully said, more sharply than
she had intended.  She felt herself flushing again, and she shifted slightly
in her chair.  She knew Mulder hadn't meant those comments the way they
sounded, but they still annoyed her.  "It's perfectly respectable," she added,
a tinge of sarcasm in her voice.  "It happens to the nicest people sometimes."


For a moment her partner was silent, while the tension seemed to build between
them, like a living thing.  Finally, Mulder said, very quietly, "Sorry,
Scully.  I didn't mean it that way.  I simply meant that particular magazine
was out of place in that particular house.  I didn't intend to bring up ...
well, I didn't intend to upset you."


For a moment or two he sat quietly, watching her, apparently waiting for a
response, but Scully simply couldn't think of anything to say.  Finally he
sighed.  "Anyway, I thought there might be something there.  The victims are
being skinned, and, well ...." 


His voice trailed off, and again there was silence.  In contrast to the warm,
comfortable feelings which she'd had on the mall, Scully now felt as if the
walls were closing in on her.  Something about the turn the conversation had
taken was making her acutely uncomfortable, and she needed to get out of here;
she needed to get away from Mulder, at least for the moment.  She glanced at
her watch, and then back up at her partner.


"Mulder, " she said, "I'm sorry, but I've got to go.  I'm supposed to meet
Detective Oliver so we can plan our activities for the rest of the day."


He nodded slowly.  "Okay," he said.  "More interviews?"


"Yeah," she replied.  "They've divided up the list of Marjorie Adamson's
friends and acquaintances.  I'll probably be out late again.  I'm sorry."  She
picked up her suit jacket from where she'd draped it over the back of her
chair, and shrugged into it.  And then for a moment she simply stood there,
looking at her partner.


She wanted to kiss him again.  She wanted to recapture the feelings she'd had
when she kissed him on the mall, and push away the unpleasantness that had
suddenly reappeared between them.  She wanted to reassure him, and herself,
that everything really was going to be okay.


But for some reason she couldn't.  Scully didn't understand why, but somehow
kissing Mulder right now seemed like a really bad idea.  Finally, she just
said, "I'll take care of the check, since I'm on per diem."  


Scully started to turn away, but then she stopped and sighed.  There was one
other thing she had to tell him, and she couldn't just walk off and leave it
unsaid.  She turned back to face her partner.  "Oh, Mulder?  I had a
conversation with Special Agent Conyers this morning.  He's aware that you're
in Iowa, and he knows that Kersh is looking for you.  You'd probably better
call in."


Scully stood quietly for just a moment longer, looking at Mulder, waiting for
some sort of response, but nothing seemed to be forthcoming.  And at last she
shrugged slightly, and turned and walked away.


#          #          #


Iowa City, IA
Electric Head Tattoo
1:12 p.m.


Mulder paused for a moment before going inside, and glanced around at his
surroundings.  The sign at street level had called this "The Hall Mall", but
it was really just the renovated second floor of an old office building.  Not
very renovated at that, he thought -- the floorboards creaked when he walked,
and the walls looked as if they hadn't been painted in years.


The Hall Mall boasted half a dozen shops in all, and all of them were
alternative culture sorts of places:  an occult bookstore, a barely-disguised
head shop ... and a tattoo parlor.  Mulder had spotted the place earlier,
while he was waiting on the pedestrian mall for Scully to arrive, and had made
a mental note to visit, in hopes they might be able to provide some
information about 'The Illustrated Person'.


Mulder realized that he was stalling, and after just a moment of puzzling he
realized why:  it was the damned tattoo.


Scully's tattoo.


Shit.


Mulder angrily shook his head, and tried to push the thoughts away.  He knew
he'd screwed up by his choice of words when he spoke to Scully about this
issue over lunch, but that was all it had been -- poor phrasing.


Unfortunately, just as the discussion had clearly brought back unpleasant
memories for her, it had also dredged up a few things that Mulder preferred
not to dwell on.  He didn't like remembering that week; there really was
nothing good or cheerful there for him.  And right now he just didn't have the
time.


With a sigh of frustration he pushed the door open and stepped into the shop.


The interior of the Electric Head was surprisingly well cared for.  Mulder had
never been in such an establishment before, and carried in his head the
stereotype of tattoo parlors as being dark, seedy places -- and the
photographs he'd seen of the one in Philadelphia, where Scully had been
tattooed, had done nothing to make him revise that impression.


But this place was different.  It was clean, orderly and well-lit, and put
Mulder more in mind of a hair salon than of a bordello.


"May I help you?"


Mulder glanced over at the reception desk.  An attractive young woman, perhaps
23 or 24, stood behind the counter.  She was neatly but casually dressed, with
long brown hair and a friendly smile.  Each ear appeared to have been pierced
at least three times, as well as her nose -- and looking a little closer,
Mulder realized that she had a small tattoo of a flower on her left cheek.


Before Mulder could say anything, she went on, "I'm Alexa.  Greg is out of the
shop for the afternoon, unfortunately.  He's the actual artist, and you'd need
to talk to him about an appointment.  But you're more than welcome to browse
through our design books, if you're looking for an idea."


Mulder found himself warming to the young woman, and he returned her smile as
he moved up to the counter.  "Actually, Alexa, I'm afraid I'm not here as a
customer."  He drew out his badge and showed it to her.  "My name is Fox
Mulder, and I'd like to ask you a few questions."


He saw her eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and her face took on a guarded look.
"FBI?" she said.  "Uh, sure.  That is ... what's this all about?"


"It has nothing to do with you or the shop," he assured her as he put his
badge away.  "I'm working on a case, and I'm following up on some leads.  It
won't take very long, and your name won't be mentioned in my report."


"The skin freak," she said flatly.  "There was another one last night; I read
about it in the paper.  And they said there were some Feds in town to work on
it."


Mulder nodded.  "That's right," he replied.  "We're trying to catch the guy
before he hurts anyone else, and I need to ask you a few questions."


"Anything," she said, the wariness of a few seconds earlier apparently
completely forgotten.  "I'll tell you how I lost my virginity, if it'll help
you catch that motherfucker."


Mulder laughed.  "That won't be necessary," he replied, and Alexa smiled in
response.  "I'm just trying to find someone who can tell me about a magazine
called 'The Illustrated Person'."


Alexa's eyebrows shot up in apparent surprise.  "The IP?" she said.  "Sure.
We publish it.  What do you want to know?"


Mulder felt his own eyebrows moving up his forehead.  "You publish it?" he
said.  "Here?"


"Yeah."  She pointed to a small stack of magazines sitting on the end of the
counter.  "That's what's left of last week's run."  Mulder picked one up, and
recognized it as the same edition he'd seen in Marjorie Adamson's home the
night before.  Alexa went on, "We put out two hundred and fifty of them every
Monday.  About half of them go to subscribers, the rest get distributed to
local businesses as promotions.  Greg does it all himself."  She shrugged.
"Kind of a sloppy job, but he's not real good with computers.  And he won't
let anyone help him."


Mulder leafed through the magazine until he came to the personals, and let his
finger skim down the column until he found the ad that had been circled in
Marjorie Adamson's copy.  "Do you know anything about this?" he asked.


Alexa glanced at it, and nodded.  "Sure," she responded.  "The Tebori ads.
They've been running for about a month now.  Sometimes different, sometimes
the same.  What about them?"


Mulder shook his head noncommittally.  "Nothing much, really.  One of the
victims seems to have been a subscriber, and we're following up on it."


"Sounds like you're grasping at straws,"  the young woman commented.  She
glanced back down at the ad, then back up at Mulder.  "I don't know how much I
can really tell you.  I've never seen the guy who places those ads; they come
in by mail, with a twenty dollar bill to cover the cost.  Which is actually a
little more than necessary."


"Do you still have the original of this ad, or the envelope?" the agent asked. 


Alexa shook her head.  "No.  Greg doesn't keep any of that stuff.  As soon as
he types it into the computer, he pitches it."


"Do you remember anything about the original?"


The receptionist frowned, then shook her head again.  "Not really.  The Tebori
ads are always typed out on a plain three by five card.  The outside of the
envelope just says, 'Attention: IP', with the shop's address on it.  No name
or anything, and he always pays in cash."


Mulder thought about that for a moment.  Probably there would be nothing
gained even if the original still existed, but he was still frustrated at the
near miss.  He asked, "You said these ads have been running for a month.  Do
you have any back issues I could look at?"


"Now *that* I can help you with," Alexa replied.  She bent down behind the
counter, and a moment later reappeared with a medium sized cardboard box.  "We
always hang on to a few copies of each issue; sometimes one of our regulars
comes in looking for one.  I presume you're just interested in the ones with
the Tebori ads?"


Mulder nodded, and waited patiently while she rooted through the haphazard
collection of magazines.  Finally, she pulled out three, and handed them over.
"There you go."


Mulder took the three magazines and glanced at them briefly.  In addition to
the one he'd found at Marjorie Adamson's, there was one for each of the
previous three weeks, the oldest being dated September 7.  He separated that
one from the others, and turned to the personals ... and immediately found
what he was looking for.


     Green frog,
     Is your body also
     freshly painted?


     -Tebori


"Find it?"  


Mulder looked up to see Alexa watching him.  He nodded.


"What do you think it means?" the young woman persisted.


Mulder hesitated, then shook his head.  "Too soon to say," he replied
cautiously.  He quickly looked through the other two magazines, and found
personal ads from 'Tebori' in each of them.  The first of the poems was about
a slug, while the other was the same as the one which had been found at
Marjorie Adamson's.  


Mulder shook his head in puzzlement.  That didn't make sense.  Why would the
first three poems be different, but the fourth be a repeat?  He looked up at
Alexa.


"Alexa," he said, "have you received an ad for the next edition?"


She nodded.  "Yeah.  It was in today's mail.  But Greg took all the IP stuff
with him when he left."  She glanced up at the clock.  "The printer's deadline
isn't until tomorrow morning, but Greg's a little lazy, at least with that
stuff.  He'll probably be up half the night struggling and swearing over it."


"Is there any way I can get in touch with him?" Mulder asked.


This time Alexa shook her head.  "No.  When he takes off to work on the IP, I
don't know where he goes.  Just him and the copy and his laptop.  He claims he
can't get any work done with people around.  I know he doesn't go home; I've
tried calling him there a couple of times when a customer had a question."


Mulder shook his own head in frustration; events seemed to be conspiring
against him this afternoon.  "Did you see the new ad?" he asked.


"No.  I knew what it was, and I just handed it over to Greg."


Mulder sighed in resignation.  Apparently this was as far as the trail was
going to lead, at least for the moment.  He pulled out one of his business
cards and handed it to Alexa.  "Okay," he said.  "You've been very helpful,
but I really need to talk to your boss as soon as possible.  When's the next
time you expect to see him?"


The young woman shrugged.  "Probably tomorrow.  We're not going to be open,
but I have to come in and work on inventory and the books for awhile in the
morning.  He said he might be around."


Mulder nodded.  "Okay," he repeated.  "Can you make sure he gets my card?  And
tell him not to dial the first number -- that's my office in Washington.  Tell
him to call my cell phone.  Anytime of the day or night.  It could be very
important."


"I'll tell him," Alexa replied.  "I'm sorry I couldn't be more help."  She
hesitated.  "Do you think the guy placing the ads is the skin freak?"


Mulder shook his head.  "I don't know," he said.  "I'm just ... following up
on some leads."


==========END CHAPTER NINE==========


===========
Chapter Ten
===========


Near Kalona, IA
Southbound on Iowa State Highway 1
Saturday, October 3, 1998
1:48 p.m.


"So where were you at lunch?"


Scully looked away from the highway just long enough to glance over at Oliver,
who was sitting in the passenger seat for once and allowing Scully to drive.
The detective was looking back at her, a neutral expression on her face.  The
two women had lunched together every day since Scully's arrival, and Scully
suddenly realized that she hadn't told Oliver she had other plans today.  


"I had a lunch date," Scully explained.  "I'm sorry; I should have said
something."


Out of the corner of her eye she saw the detective nod slightly.  "That's
okay," the other woman replied, in a tone that said it wasn't *quite* okay.
"We might have been able to hit the road a little sooner if we'd worked out a
plan over lunch.  But I managed."  She was silent for a moment, then added,
"It was that guy, wasn't it?  From last night?"


Scully sighed, and nodded.  "It was," she said.  "He's my partner from the
Bureau, and he just got into town last night."  She stopped and tried to think
of what else to say.  She really didn't want to get into this with Oliver --
especially since her "lunch date" with Mulder had ended on a sour note.


"You know, you really gotta watch that stuff," the detective commented -- and
Scully was surprised at the softness of her tone.  She glanced away from the
highway for a moment, and saw that Oliver was now looking out the window, and
seemed to be gazing at something far off in the distance.  "I mean, I know I
was out of line last night, but ...."  She shook her head and looked back at
Scully.  "You let those guys inside, and they just keep on taking until
there's nothing left."


Oliver fell silent again, and Scully was sorely tempted just to let the
subject drop.  She had enough problems of her own, she thought, and she didn't
have the time or energy to deal with someone else's.  


At the same time, she didn't want to leave Oliver with a bad impression of
Mulder.  No matter how many issues needed to be worked out between the two of
them, he was still her partner, her friend and, she hoped, her lover, and she
wasn't really willing to sit by and let outsiders -- people who didn't know
him -- tear him down.  Scully sighed again, and shook her head.


"It's not like that," she said quietly.  "It's not like that at all.  Mulder
and I ... well, we've been working together for a long time, and --"


"You've been working together for a long time," Oliver mimicked, her voice
suddenly full of anger and bitterness.  "And he's said all these wonderful
things, about how essential you are, and how he can't imagine working with
anyone but you, and all that crap."  She paused, and took a deep breath.
"Well take it from someone who knows, Agent Scully.  These kinds of things
never work out in the woman's favor; you're riding for a fall."


Something inside Scully finally snapped.  She'd been on edge ever since she
and Mulder had returned from Arizona, and she'd been putting up with this
woman's attitude problems since Tuesday, and this intrusion into her personal
life was the final straw.  She opened her mouth for a sharp retort, but before
she could get a word out, her cell phone rang.


Scully grunted in frustration, and fumbled in her jacket pocket for the phone,
keeping her other hand on the wheel.  Finally, she had it open in her hand,
and punched the connect button with her thumb just before it could ring for
the third time.


"Scully."


"Agent Scully, this is Special Agent Wu," came a smooth feminine voice.  Wu
was Conyers' deputy, and was just about the only member of the task force from
whom Scully had sensed any positive feelings.  "I hope I'm not interrupting
anything important?"


Scully shook her head.  "No, that's fine.  We're just about to arrive in
Kalona for our first interview.  Something come up?"


"Nothing major," Wu replied.  "We just got an add-on for your interview list.
Got a pencil handy?"


"Just a sec," Scully said.  "I'm driving.  I'll let you talk to Oliver."  She
handed the phone over, and said, "Add-on."


Oliver took the phone without comment, and exchanged a few words with Wu.  She
then drew a small notebook from her pocket and scribbled in it for a moment,
before ending the call and handing the phone back to Scully.


"Well?" Scully asked.


Oliver shrugged.  "Nothing major," she said, echoing Wu's choice of words.
"As you said, an add-on.  Guy up in Riverside; his name came back on the
preliminary report on the latent prints from last night.  Probably turn out to
be Adamson's plumber or something."


"Where's Riverside?" Scully asked, slowing the car as they finally reached the
outskirts of Kalona.


"Just south of town," Oliver replied.  "South of Iowa City, I mean.  Ten miles
or so.  We've already got a pretty full plate for today; I figure we'll just
add this one to the list for tomorrow.  That okay?"  


Scully nodded, concentrating for a moment on steering past a horse and buggy.
Kalona had a large Amish population, she rememberd, from the sketchy
background she'd been given on the area the day after she'd arrived.  "What
was the guy's name?" she asked, not really caring about the answer, but trying
to make conversation.  Oliver's anger of a few minutes before seemed to have
evaporated, and Scully wanted to reestablish a little professional contact.


Out of the corner of her eye she saw the detective flip her notebook open
again.  "Farrier," she said.  "Alexander Farrier.  No priors; they pulled the
I.D. off his military service record."  She closed her notebook again and put
it away.  "Like I said:  probably a plumber."


#          #          #


Iowa City, IA
The Heartland Inn
10:01 p.m.


Mulder lay on his back in Scully's motel room, staring at the ceiling.  He'd
been there for quite some time.


After leaving the Electric Head, he'd walked around the downtown area for
awhile, trying to get a feel for the city.  This was part of his orientation
process, a habit carried over from his profiling days.  By absorbing the
character and ambience of a town, he seemed better able to fill in the
background as he tried to build a picture of the UNSUB in his mind.


He realized that he'd fallen back into profiling mode.  He hadn't used those
skills much since leaving the VCU -- just intermittently, when a particular
situation called for it, and usually when Scully was in trouble.  But the old
ways of thinking came back to him surprisingly easily, and before long he
found himself sinking down into the darkness.


Unfortunately, the excursion hadn't netted him much.  He was still sure that
the case had something to do with tattoos, and obviously the UNSUB's pattern
of cleaning the victim's home was important as well.  But he hadn't been able
to make any real connections; he needed more information, and at the moment he
was cut off from his usual sources.


All except for Scully, of course.


Which was why he was just lying here, waiting for her to come back.  He knew
he'd been pushing things by visiting the Electric Head, and he'd only done
that much because it didn't sound as if anyone else was going to do it.  And
now here he was, back at the motel.  He'd gone through all the files and notes
Scully had accumulated since her arrival, but nothing had leapt out at him,
and now he was just waiting.


At last he heard a key in the lock.  The sun had long since set, but Mulder
hadn't bothered to turn on the lights.  And so when the door opened, he felt
rather than saw her move into the room.


"Mulder?  Are you awake?"


Her voice was barely audible.


"Yeah, Scully.  Over here.  Don't turn on the light."  For some reason the
darkness seemed appropriate.


There was a short pause.  Then:  "Okay."  There was another moment of silence,
interrupted only by brief rustlings and soft bumps, which Mulder interpreted
as Scully getting out of her suit jacket and shoes and putting away her
briefcase.  A few seconds later, a shadowy form moved over between the beds
and sat down on the edge of the other bed, across from where Mulder was lying.
And for a few minutes the two of them sat together in silence.


"So," Mulder finally said, when it became apparent that his partner was not
going to start the conversation.  "How did it go today?"


Scully's shadowy form shrugged.  "Okay, I guess.  Pretty routine."  She
sighed.  "We did five interviews in six hours, with four more to do tomorrow.
So far, nobody seems to know anything useful.  And then we spent another two
hours writing up our notes.  All of which is going to go into a file somewhere
and probably never be read by anyone."


Mulder chuckled softly.  "You better watch that stuff, Scully.  You're
starting to sound like me."


Scully laughed in return, and Mulder felt his breathing coming a little easier
at this first evidence of her underlying mood.  "Tell me about it," she
replied.  There was another brief pause.  Then:  "Mulder, I'm sorry.  About
this afternoon at lunch, I mean.  I knew you didn't mean ... what it sounded
like you meant.  I'm sorry."  He saw a bit of movement, and realized she was
shaking her head.  "I've just been on edge, lately.  So much has happened ..."


Her voice trailed off, and for a moment the two of them were quiet again.
Mulder wasn't quite sure how to respond.  He knew how much it must have cost
her to say those words; his partner was self-contained almost to a fault.  For
her to have offered even that much ....


On an impulse, he reached out a hand in her direction, and whispered, "Come
here, Scully."


"Mulder, I don't know --"


"It's okay," he said quickly, upon hearing the reticence in her voice, trying
to keep the tension out of his tone.  "I'm not going to ravish you."  He
forced a slight chuckle.  "Well, not unless you want me to."  He forced
himself to be serious again.  "I just want to hold you.  Talk to you."


For a moment, he thought she was going to refuse, but then she rose up off the
other bed and stepped across to his, and a few seconds later she was snuggling
down next to him and slipping her arms around his waist.  Mulder cupped his
hand behind her head and drew it down to his chest, and for a few minutes they
simply lay there, holding each other and breathing softly.


This was what Mulder really lived for.  These few, quiet moments, when he and
Scully were alone together, Mulder was almost able to forget that the rest of
the world existed.  He was almost able to forget about Samantha, about his
quest for the truth which had now become Scully's, as well -- even the threat
of impending Colonization seemed to recede a bit when they were in each
other's arms.  


It didn't entirely go away, of course.  Nothing was quite that good a
soporific, and Mulder didn't really want one.  Those other things were also
important, and he would be loathe to simply let them slip away.  And tonight,
of course, he and Scully had other issues they needed to address, as well --
personal issues.  But for a few minutes, at least, he could take comfort in
her warm embrace, even as she was taking comfort in his.


"I thought we were going to talk," Scully said at last.  Her voice seemed more
relaxed than when she'd first come in.  She also sounded a bit drowsy,
reminding Mulder that her day had been even longer and more taxing than his
own.


"We are," he said, bending down to briefly kiss the top of her head.  "But I'd
like to suggest something a little different, if that's okay."  She nodded
silently against his chest, and he continued, "Can you hear my heart, Scully?
Can you hear it beating?"


She nodded again.  "Yes."  Her voice was soft and muffled against his shirt.


"That's me you're listening to," he said, very softly.  "And that's also the
part of me that most wants to listen to you."  He swallowed, and took the
plunge.  This could very well turn out to be still another painful,
destructive conversation, but somehow they had to work through all of this.
And so he said, "Tell me what's wrong, Scully; tell me what's bothering you.
I know you think I should already understand it, but I don't.  And until I do
understand, I won't be able to fix it."  


He lowered his voice still further, and finished, "Talk to my heart, Scully."


==========END CHAPTER TEN==========


===========
Chapter Eleven
===========


Iowa City, IA
Bruegger's Bagel Bakery
Sunday, October 4, 1998
7:11 a.m.


Scully sat patiently at the table, watching her partner as he stood at the
counter, waiting for their order to be filled.


What a difference a couple of days could make, she thought.  On Friday
afternoon she had been nearly as pessimistic as she'd ever been about the
status of her partnership with Mulder.  She hadn't been anywhere near ready to
give up on it -- but she hadn't been at all sure that *he* had the strength
left to fight and save what they'd built together.


Then he'd shown up at the motel, and things had started to get gradually
better.  There'd been a couple of rough spots, but the simple fact that he had
run *to* her rather than *away* from her told Scully all she really needed to
know.  


And last night he'd really opened up.  They both had.  Lying there, wrapped in
his embrace with the lights out, Scully had for the first time since Arizona
felt completely comfortable talking to Mulder.  Just talking -- telling him
about the things that had been bothering her, and listening to his worries and
concerns as well.


//You asking me to make a choice?//


//I'm asking you to trust my judgment.  To trust me.//


Mulder's question, and her response, spoken at the end of the Gibson Praise
case, echoed in Scully's head.  Neither of them had referred directly to that
conversation last night; the wounds were still too fresh and raw.
Nevertheless, their words had hovered around them, seeming almost to beg for
resolution.


//You have to understand, Scully,// Mulder had said the night before.  //Diana
//was my partner, too.  Before I even knew you.  She was with me in the
//beginning, and she supported me when nobody else would.  I can't just walk
//away from that.//


God, it hurt to hear him say those things.  It had been all Scully could do to
hold back the tears and keep her voice calm and level.  Even now, part of her
wanted to push him away, and run as far and as fast as she could.  But she had
stayed, and listened, and tried to understand.


//Sometimes you seem so stubborn.//  Another of Mulder's grievances from last
//night came floating back to haunt her.  His arms were tight around her at
//that point, as if he was afraid she might bolt -- and that fact alone spoke
//volumes about his feelings.  //Sometimes it seems as if nothing will
//persuade you, as if no evidence will ever be good enough.  I don't mind
//having to work to prove what I believe is true, but sometimes it seems as if
//you have the deck stacked against me.  Diana, at least, believes what she
//sees with her own eyes.//


Was it really that bad?  Last night the emotional pain had been too strong for
Scully to consider the matter.  The shock of being directly compared to
Fowley, and coming off second best in Mulder's eyes, seared her heart.  But
this morning the ache had receded slightly, and Scully tried resolutely to put
herself into her partner's head, and see her relationship with him from his
point of view.  


And yes, it really was that bad.


>From his point of view.


Which was not, of course, the only point of view, Scully reminded herself.
She had her own wounds to tend to, and not all of them were self-inflicted --
nor was Agent Fowley someone deserving of the trust Mulder insisted on putting
in her.  Scully now understood the reasons for that trust -- but that did not
mean she condoned it, and it did nothing to ameliorate the hurt she felt each
time she considered the place the other woman had once held in Mulder's life
-- and in his heart. 


"Is this seat taken?"


Scully smiled at the old, familiar line, and she looked up to see Mulder
standing next to the table, a tray full of bagels and coffee cups in his
hands, and a slight smile of his own on his face.  She hadn't seen him smile
like that in a long time.  Years.


"Yes, it is," she said softly.  "I'm saving it for someone."


It wasn't often that Scully had her partner at a loss for words, and she found
herself laughing at the expression of surprise on his face.  "Close your mouth
and sit down, Mulder," she said, in tones of amused affection.  "The coffee's
getting cold."


She waited in silence as Mulder distributed the coffee and bagels and took his
seat across the table from her.  Before he had a chance to say anything, she
continued, "So.  Why don't you tell me what you've found so far?"


Mulder's eyebrows shot up in obvious surprise, and Scully laughed again.
"Come on, Mulder.  You really think I'd believe you just went back to the
motel and watched TV until I got back last night?"


Mulder smiled ruefully and shook his head.  "No, I guess not," he said.  He
hesitated, and added, "You sure you want to get into this, though?"


Scully immediately sobered, and nodded.  "I'm sure," she said quietly.  It was
a fair question, considering her reaction yesterday when he'd tried to tell
her about his theory.  She reached across the table to give his hand a quick
squeeze.  "We have to fix this part, too, Mulder," she added.  "We have to fix
*all* of it."


Her partner nodded slowly, and took a sip of his coffee, apparently
considering her words -- and Scully felt a sudden rush of guilt.  Had she
really been so hard on him that he wasn't sure he could trust her with his
ideas?  She was suddenly anxious, unsure of his response, but she resisted the
urge to prod him a little.  Mulder was going to have to make this decision for
himself.


Finally, he nodded again.  "Okay," he said, matching her quiet, serious tone
of voice.  "Here's what I've got."


Mulder proceeded to sketch an outline of his activities from the day before.
As Scully had suspected, after the somewhat abrupt end of their lunch date
yesterday, he had attempted to follow up on his belief that the killings were
in some way related to body art, and had visited a local tattoo parlor in
hopes of obtaining further information about the magazine he'd found at
Marjorie Adamson's home.


"And I hit paydirt," he said, his natural enthusiasm for the chase apparently
overriding his earlier reticence -- and Scully found herself getting caught up
in the old, familiar pattern, as she started preparing her rebuttal even
before he had finished his initial argument.  "The owner of the Electric Head
turns out also to be the publisher of 'The Illustrated Person'.  The
receptionist or assistant or whatever she was showed me some back issues.
Care to guess what was in them?"


Scully suppressed a smile.  "Since you put it that way, I won't even try."


Mulder leaned forward slightly, as if in emphasis.  "Each of the past four
issues contained a personal ad of the same type.  A poem, signed by 'Tebori'."


Scully hesitated, then shrugged.  "I guess I don't get it," she replied.  "Why
is that significant?"


"Don't you see, Scully?" her partner asked.  His face now wore the intense,
insistent expression that meant he was in full investigative mode.  "This is a
body art magazine, and the victims are being skinned, and at least one of the
poems has already been linked to one of the victims -- to Marjorie Adamson."  


He paused for just a moment, apparently trying to remember, then he recited:
"'Green frog / Is your body also / freshly painted?'  That was the first one,
in the issue of the magazine dated two days before Angela D'Amato disappeared.
The next issue had another poem, this time about a slug:  'A large slug slides
/ slowly, glistening over / abandoned armor'."


"That was the second one?"  Scully frowned thoughtfully.  There was something
familiar here, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what it was.


"Yeah, the second one," Mulder confirmed, nodding.  "Again, this one hit the
streets just before Vanessa Haynes was reported missing.  Then the third one
-- you've already heard that one.  It's the one I told you about yesterday."


Scully felt her frown deepen.  "I thought that was from *this* week," she
objected.  That fragment of a memory -- if that's what it was -- was still
niggling at her.  Something from her childhood -- and somehow her father was
involved.  Dammit!  What was it?


"That's right, it was," Mulder said, apparently oblivious to her attempt at
concentration.  "But the same poem was also run the *previous* week -- the
issue that came out right before Vanessa Harnes was killed.  And they were all
signed by the same person:  'Tebori'."


Scully blinked in surprise, momentarily diverted from pursuing the other
matter.  "Mulder, that's not a name.  That's a Japanese word."  


Her partner raised an eyebrow, and Scully hastened to explain, "My father was
stationed in Yokahama for awhile when I was a kid.  Mom and Dad made us learn
a little bit about the culture whenever we were overseas, although I've
forgotten most of it.  But for some reason, that word stuck with me."  She
shrugged, suddenly feeling the same discomfort that had come over her at lunch
the day before.  She really didn't want to get into this --


"What does it mean?"


Scully was unsure she wanted to answer that question.  Still, now that Mulder
knew where to look, it wouldn't take him long to find it on his own.  And she
couldn't very well lie to him, in any case -- not even by omission.  She
shrugged again.


"'Tebori' refers to the traditional Japanese art of tattoo," she said.   "As
distinct from the modern forms, which as you probably know are done with
semi-automated equipment."  Scully suppressed a brief, intense memory of her
own tattooing, the better part of two years before.  "The literal
translation," she concluded, "is 'carved by hand'."


Mulder sat in silence for a long moment, simply sitting there and looking at
her.  Finally, he repeated, "'Carved by hand?'"  Scully nodded, willing
herself not to say anything.  "And it refers to the art of tattoo?"  She
nodded again, still maintaining her own silence.  "And you still think this is
all a coincidence?"


Scully sighed in exasperation.  "Yes, I do."  Before her partner could
interrupt, she went on, "What else could it be, Mulder?  Other than Marjorie
Adamson, there is no connection between any of these women and the ads you've
found.  And we have no evidence -- none -- that any of these women had tattoos
in the first place."


"No one's asked about that," he pointed out.  "No one's been looking for it."


"That's true," Scully admitted.  And again there was a moment of silence.
There was still something she wasn't quite getting; some connection she wasn't
quite able to make.  It involved those poems, and she was reasonably sure it
had something to do with her father's tour in Japan, as well.  Scully shook
her head and sighed; it just wasn't coming to her.


"Okay," she said at last.  "I'll try to check on that for you."  Mulder's face
lit up, and she raised one hand.  "When I have time, Mulder.  Which may not be
until tomorrow, or even Tuesday.  Oliver and I still have a lot of interviews
we're responsible for."


"I could --"


"No!"  Scully reached across the table and touched the back of his hand,
trying to remove the sting from the rebuke.  "Sorry," she said, much more
quietly.  "I didn't mean to be that sharp.  But it really isn't a good idea,
Mulder.  You're already in hot water with Assistant Director Kersh; don't make
it any worse than it already is."  She wanted to ask him if he'd called in,
but decided that was just a little too much like a mother checking on an
errant child.  "Please?"


Mulder hesitated just a fraction of a second, then he took her hand in his and
gently squeezed it.  "Okay," he replied.  "Okay.  I won't make any phone
calls."  He squeezed her hand again, then let it go.  "Honest Injun."


Scully smiled.  "Thanks," she said.  "I really think it's for the best.  And I
will check for you; I promise."  She really didn't need this, she thought.
She was already getting more than enough of these sorts of mind-numbing
assignments from Conyers.  But all she was promising was that she'd make a few
phone calls, she reminded herself.  And at least this way she could make sure
her partner's theory was carefully checked and thoroughly disposed of -- and
maybe it would keep Mulder from getting into even more trouble than he already
was in.  


Scully shook her head, and realized she'd been woolgathering.  She glanced
briefly at her watch, and saw that it was almost eight.  "And unfortunately,"
she said, "the morning briefing is in less than ten minutes.  I'd better get
going."


Scully rose to her feet, and Mulder did likewise.  For a moment, neither of
them spoke or moved.  At last, Mulder reached out and hesitantly laid his hand
on her shoulder ... and Scully smiled, and stepped forward into his embrace.


For the first few seconds the kiss was warm and affectionate, but completely
chaste.  Scully felt a warm wave of contentment spreading rapidly through her
-- a feeling even more intense and consuming than that which she'd experienced
the previous day when she'd kissed him on the pedestrian mall.  


She felt her partner's arms tightening around her, drawing her nearer, and she
cooperated, pressing her body again his and barely suppressing a moan of
happiness.  She allowed her lips to part, and then his mouth opened too, and
for a brief instant Scully was in heaven ....


Finally, she ended the kiss, but for just another moment she stayed in
Mulder's arms.  She was distantly aware that some of the other customers in
the bagel shop were looking at them a bit askance, and she found herself
blushing as she gently but firmly disentangled herself from his embrace.


"Sorry," she murmured -- to her partner, not to the other patrons.  "That
wasn't a very good idea."  Seeing the look on his face, she hastened to add,
"I mean, it wasn't a very well chosen place."


Mulder's expression became one of relief, and he chuckled softly.  "Possibly
not," he admitted, reaching out to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear.
"Although if you'd kissed me like that back at the motel, we might not have
made it to breakfast at all."


Scully laughed and shook her head.  "I dunno, Mulder," she replied, still
feeling slightly giddy from the aftereffects of the kiss.  "You know what I'm
like when I don't get my morning coffee.  That might not have been a very good
idea at all."  She went up on her toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek.
"Maybe when I get back tonight," she whispered in his ear.  "If I'm not too
tired, okay?"


And it occurred to Scully, as she grabbed her briefcase and turned and headed
for the door, that she'd just been arguing with her partner about the case
again.


But this time, despite the aggravation that inevitably went with the territory
when she worked with Mulder, she'd been having fun.


==========END CHAPTER ELEVEN==========


===========
Chapter Twelve
===========


Iowa City, IA
The Electric Head Tattoo
Sunday, October 4, 1998
8:12 a.m.


The lights were on at the Electric Head, but the "Closed" sign was hanging on
the door, and Mulder had to knock three times before Alexa finally answered
the door.


"Fox Mulder," Mulder said, flipping his badge at her.  "You remember ... from
yesterday?  Sorry to bother you again, but I --"


"Oh, that's okay," she said cheerfully, stepping to one side to allow him to
enter.  She shut the door behind him, then moved back over to the reception
counter, which was covered with ledgers, shipping invoices, and other assorted
paperwork.  "As you can see, I'm up to my elbows in this crap," she went on,
waving at the mass of papers.  She turned to face Mulder again.  "So did Greg
get in touch with you?"


Mulder felt his eyebrows shoot up in surprise.  "No.  Was he supposed to have
called?"


Alexa looked a little puzzled.  "Yeah.  He actually stopped by yesterday
afternoon, not too long after you were here.  I was surprised to see him, but
he said he'd forgotten something.  I gave him your card, and he said he was
going to call you."


Mulder shook his head.  "He didn't."


"That's not like him," Alexa said.  She shook her head apologetically.
"Sorry."


"Look, Alexa, I really need to talk to him," Mulder said.  "Is there any way I
can reach him this morning?  Can you give me his home number?"


Alexa shrugged.  "I can give it to you," she replied.  "But it's not going to
do you any good.  He came by early last night to tell me he'd actually put the
IP to bed early, and was going out of town for the rest of the weekend.  He
didn't say where."


Mulder swore.  "When do you expect him back?"


"Not until Tuesday morning, probably," the young woman said.  "We're closed
Mondays."  She shrugged again.  "Sorry.  I know this is important, but I
couldn't even begin to tell you where to look."


Mulder sighed in frustration.  "That's okay," he said.  He glanced idly around
the shop, and then back at Alexa.  "Look, is there any chance he left his
materials here?  The original copy, I mean?"


"There's a chance," Alexa said.  "He did have that folder with him when he was
here, but I didn't notice whether it was full or empty.  And as I told you
yesterday, he usually throws that stuff out as soon as he's done with it.
Which is bad, because a couple of times we've had complaints from advertisers
that he didn't run an ad the way they wanted it.  But he's not good with
paperwork," she added, nodding at the pile of papers on the reception counter.
"Which is why I do the inventory and the books."  


"Are you absolutely sure?" Mulder persisted.  "Because you're right; this
really is important.  A look at the latest Tebori ad could be  very helpful to
the investigation."


The young woman shrugged yet again.  "I suppose I could look in back, just in
case."  Without waiting for a response, she turned and left the room.


Alexa had not been gone long before Mulder started getting restless.  He tried
to squelch the feeling, but knew from long experience that fighting his own
impatience would be an uphill battle.  And before very long, he was wandering
around the room.


It looked very much like the waiting room in a doctor's office, right down to
the uncomfortable-looking straight chairs and the haphazard pile of magazines
stacked on an end table.  A waist-high counter running two thirds of the width
of the room served as the reception desk, and in addition to the piles of
papers and ledgers which he had noticed sitting on it earlier, there was also
a small stack of loose-leaf binders.


Mulder moved over to the end of the counter and picked up the top binder.
There were four binders in all, each handsomely and colorfully decorated,
apparently by hand, and labelled in elegant calligraphy.  The one in his hand
was entitled "Military".


For lack of anything better to do, he began leafing through the binder, and
was unsurprised to find that it consisted of a collection of sketches of such
things as stylized military insignia, naval vessels, jet planes and the like.
The artwork was competent, but to Mulder's admittedly uneducated eye appeared
to be nothing special -- nor were any of the designs particularly
eye-catching.  And after just a moment he closed the book, and reached for the
one labelled "Animals".


The designs in this book were somewhat more interesting, Mulder had to admit.
He'd never cared much for body art, and after Scully's excursion to
Philadelphia he'd become even more negative on the subject.  But these
sketches were really quite good, and showed considerable thought and
originality.


As he turned the pages, Mulder noticed that some of the animals depicted were
actually mythological.  There was a gryphon, several styles of unicorns, a
representation of Quetzlcoatl, the feathered serpent ....


And an Oroborous.


Mulder stopped when he came to that picture, and looked a little closer,
trying to suppress all the negative feelings and images that were suddenly
clamoring for attention.  It was really quite an attractive design, he
grudgingly admitted.  There were apparently two versions available:  one done
in blue and green, with silver highlights, and the other in red, orange and
yellow.


"That's Greg's latest.  Pretty good, huh?"


Mulder looked around sharply, to see Alexa standing a couple of feet to one
side.  He carefully closed the book, and said, "Yes, it is.  I, uh, I have a
friend who has one very much like it."


The young woman laughed.  "Well don't tell Greg; he's terribly proud of that
design, and he'll be crushed if he finds out that someone else thought of it
first."  She moved past Mulder, and stepped behind the counter.  "He came back
from lunch last Wednesday, and said it just came to him, all at once -- and
then he was up half the night getting it down on paper.  It's quite popular,
too; a number of people have commented on it, and we've actually placed two of
them already."


Alexa stopped speaking for a moment as she straightened the stack of binders,
then looked back up at Mulder.  "Anyway," she went on, "I looked around back
there, and I didn't find anything.  I'm sorry."  She smiled ruefully, and
added, "The IP will be available tomorrow morning.  We'll be closed, but you
should be able to pick up a copy at Prairie Lights -- that's a bookstore, over
on Dubuque Street.  They open at 10 a.m."


Mulder sighed in resignation.  "I guess that'll have to do," he said.


#          #          #


Riverside, IA
Residence of Alexander Farrier
8:19 p.m.


Scully sat quietly on the sofa in Alexander Farrier's living room.  To outward
appearances, as she knew from long practice and experience, she appeared to be
calm and at ease.  The cool, self-assured FBI agent, killing a few minutes
while she waited for her interview subject to return from whatever chore he
had been engaged in when she arrived.  The consummate professional.


The truth, however, was another matter.  Inside, Scully felt tired and
distracted and frustrated.  It had been a long, apparently unproductive day.
The series of interviews she and Oliver had planned was taking far longer than
they had expected, and was yielding little in the way of useful information.  


No one they'd spoken to seemed to know anything that advanced their
understanding of the case.  As far as they'd been able to determine, Marjorie
Adamson had had no enemies, she had exhibited no strange behavior, and she had
nothing in common with any of the other victims, aside from her gender and her
city of residence.


Scully and Oliver had finally split up in late afternoon, after it became
clear that they weren't going to be able to finish their interview list if
they stayed together.  It was not good police procedure, but when Oliver had
suggested taking the step, Scully had jumped at the chance to get away from
the detective and her attitude for a few hours.


But it wasn't really helping.  Scully's own attitude continued to be poor.
She recognized the importance of the work she was doing, but that didn't stop
it from seeming like a tedious waste of time.


The real problems were that it wasn't an X-File -- and that she wasn't working
with Mulder.


Scully rose from the sofa, trying to push such thoughts from her mind.  She
wasn't here for her own convenience, she reminded herself.  She was here to
help put a stop to a series of murders.  She had to stay focused on that;
lives could depend on it, and she had to do her very best, for the sake of
saving those lives.


Alexander Farrier's living room appeared to be completely unremarkable.  The
overstuffed sofa Scully had been sitting on was flanked by a recliner and an
old wooden rocking chair; a low coffee table completed the ensemble.  The
furniture didn't actually match, but it looked as if it had been carefully
selected so as to present an overall pleasing effect.


Scully sighed, and moved restlessly across the room.  A three shelf bookcase,
apparently handmade, stood against one wall, and she stopped in front of it to
examine the titles.  Farrier, it seemed, had an interest in art, especially
art from the Far East.  There were also a few books on Oriental philosophy and
history.


A small stack of papers sat on top of the bookcase.  At first Scully thought
they were letters or bills, but upon looking closer, she realized they were
sketches, done in colored pencil.  On an impulse, she picked them up and
started leafing through them.  Most were of animals, and although they were
primitive in style, there was nevertheless something compelling about them.  A
snail, a toad.  A couple of different snakes ...


Scully paused in her examination of the sketches and thought for a moment.
There was something familiar about the sketches, but she couldn't quite place
it.  She stood still for a moment, trying to concentrate -- and then she had
it.  The poems Mulder had recited at breakfast.  That was it.  There had been
one about a toad, one about a slug, and one about a snake.  Of course, the
middle drawing in this set was a snail, but Mulder would probably think that
was close enough.  


The drawings also seemed to be tied, somehow, to the memory she'd been trying
to dredge up that morning.  She hadn't really thought about it since leaving
Mulder at the bagel shop, but now the niggling feeling that she was missing
something was back again.  It was so damned frustrating.  Scully shook her
head, and turned to the next sketch --


An Oroborous.


Scully stopped in surprise when she came to that one.  At first glance, the
drawing appeared remarkably similar to the design of her tattoo.  It seemed to
be about the same size and was in the same style -- the colors were even a
fairly close match, including the bright red which had originally attracted
her attention in the tattoo parlor in Philadelphia.


Looking a little closer, though, she started noticing several small
differences.  The pattern of scales on this drawing was different, for one
thing, and the body of the snake seemed to undulate slightly.  This rendering
also seemed to be more menacing than the one on her lower back, although she
couldn't quite put her finger on why that was so.


"I've recently become rather interested in the Oroborous."  Scully turned, the
drawing still in her hand, to see that Farrier had returned, and was standing
a few feet away, almost directly behind her.  She felt an itchy sensation at
the base of her spine, and somehow had the impression he'd been watching her
for some time.  And his gaze was so intense ... almost as if her were looking
inside her ....


"It's quite fascinating, actually," Farrier said, moving forward and taking
the sketch from her hand.  He was tall and had dark brown hair, with light
gray eyes.  Scully remembered from the sketchy report she and Oliver had
received that he was 28 years old, but his features had an ageless quality
that would have made it difficult to guess his years if the information had
not been provided.


"This isn't my usual area of interest," the man continued, stepping forward to
stand next to Scully and nodding down at the bookcase.  "As you can see, my
principal attraction is to the Far East.  But something about this --" he
gestured with the sketch "-- has diverted me."  He looked away from the books,
and directed his gaze at Scully.  "Do you understand the symbolism of the
Oroborous, Agent Scully?"


Without quite knowing why, Scully found herself feeling distinctly
uncomfortable, but she couldn't seem to find the words to redirect the
conversation.  This wasn't why she was here, she reminded herself.  She was
supposed to be asking Farrier why his fingerprints had been found in Marjorie
Adamson's home.  But somehow he had seized the initiative, and taken control
of the subject matter.  His gaze and his voice were both unusually compelling
--


"It represents eternity," Farrier said after a brief pause, apparently
interpreting her silence as permission to continue.  "Especially eternal life.
It dates back to the ancient Near East -- the Greeks, the Persians, the
Egyptians."  He took a step closer, and Scully had to fight the urge to back
away.  "Of course, from time to time that meaning has been corrupted or
misunderstood, but --"


"Mr. Farrier," Scully said firmly, finally finding her voice and stepping
decisively away from the man.  "I, uh, I want to thank you for taking the time
to talk to me this evening."  She reached the sofa and turned to face Farrier,
to see that he was still standing by the bookcase, watching her intently -- so
intently that Scully once again had the impression that he was somehow peering
*inside* her.


"That's quite all right, Agent Scully," the man replied calmly, finally moving
away from the bookcase.  He stopped when he came to the old wooden rocker, and
gestured for Scully to sit down before taking a seat himself.  "And how may I
assist the FBI this evening?"


He was still looking at her -- staring, really, she realized -- and it was
starting to annoy her.  She shifted slightly in her seat, and replied, "As I
mentioned on the phone, I'm investigating the recent series of murders in the
local area.  I'm sure you read about them in the paper or have seen reports on
--"


"I don't pay much attention to the news, Agent Scully," Farrier interrupted.
"At least, not as a general rule.  I find the media to be very ...
superficial.  They seldom seem to get to the heart of the matter.  But I have
heard of these crimes, of course."  He shook his head.  "Such terrible
tragedies."


Scully nodded.  "Yes, they are," she agreed, suppressing a sigh.  She really
did feel compassion for the victims and their families, of course, but along
with everything else, she was growing weary of the obligatory expressions of
sympathy.  "The one I'm particularly looking into at the moment is the death
of Marjorie Adamson."  


She paused to see if there would be a reaction, but there was none.  Farrier
was sitting perched on the edge of his seat, looking at her with an expression
of curious attentiveness -- about like a child waiting for the teacher to ask
a question.  After a few seconds of silence, she went on, "Were you acquainted
with Marjorie Adamson, Mr. Farrier?"


That got a reaction, but it wasn't the one she was expecting.  Farrier's
eyebrows shot up in surprise, and he shook his head.  "No, Agent Scully.  I've
never met the woman."  His brow furrowed slightly.  "Is that why you're here?
Were you under the impression that I knew that poor lady?"


Scully hesitated then nodded.  "Yes.  We have some evidence that seemed to
indicate that."


"May I inquire as to the nature of that evidence?" Farrier asked, a little
diffidently.


Scully hesitated again, and this time she shook her head.  "I'm sorry, Mr.
Farrier, but right now that information is confidential."  She tried to make
her voice as reassuring as she could.  "I'm sure you understand; at this stage
of an investigation, we try to keep as much to ourselves as we can."  


Farrier nodded.  "I guess I can see that," he replied.  "But it does leave me
at something of a loss."  He spread his hands.  "I can't refute something if I
don't know what it is.  All I can do is repeat that I did not know this woman.
Marjorie Adamson."


The two of them sat in silence for a moment or two, while Scully tried to
decide how to proceed.  She had a number of followup questions, but they all
depended on Farrier having acknowledged an acquaintence with the dead woman.
She could think of a number of reasons why the man might want to conceal such
an assocation -- anything from a clandestine love affair to an estrangement
which now might seem to cast suspicion on him.  


But there really wasn't any way to pursue those issues, unless she wanted to
start treating Farrier like a suspect rather than a witness, which was a step
she really didn't care to take on the spur of the moment -- especially at the
end of a long day, when she was tired and her feet hurt.  Better to cut her
losses, talk the matter over with Oliver -- and maybe Mulder -- and come back
another day when she was better prepared.


A few minutes later she was in her car and headed back to Iowa City.


==========END CHAPTER TWELVE==========


===========
Chapter Thirteen
===========


Iowa City, IA
The Heartland Inn
Sunday, October 4, 1998
11:02 p.m.


The lights in her motel room were out when Scully finally got back from the
last interview.  She had met with two more people after finishing with
Farrier, and then spent another hour at the Civic Center dealing with
paperwork.  The reports still weren't done, but she had reached the point
where she was too tired to go any further.


Mulder appeared to be asleep, and Scully sighed softly in frustration.  She'd
actually been looking forward to seeing him -- she had, in fact, gotten
through the final interview partly by reminding herself that she'd get to
spend some time with him when she was finished.  She was really too tired to
follow through on the semi-promise she'd made that morning at breakfast, but
it would have been nice just to cuddle in his arms and talk for awhile.


Scully sighed again, and made her way carefully across the darkened room to
the bathroom, grabbing her pajamas off the bureau as she went by.  Once
inside, she closed the door and turned on the light.  And for a moment she
just stood there, looking at herself in the mirror.


God, she was exhausted -- and seeing her reflection staring back at her really
drove the point home.  She'd been getting by on too little sleep for too many
days, and it was finally catching up with her.  There were bags under her eyes
that no amount of foundation would conceal, and her hair -- well, the less
said about her hair, the better. 


Scully shrugged out of her suit jacket and hung it carefully on the hook on
the back of the door.  She then went to work on the buttons of her blouse,
swearing softly as her fingers refused to cooperate.  At last she was
successful, and she slipped out of the blouse.  Her bra and slacks followed a
moment later.


She hesitated then, and glanced with longing at the bathtub.  A long, hot soak
would be so relaxing right now -- but she just couldn't afford the time.
Conyers had moved up tomorrow's morning briefing to 6:30, and Scully would
have to be up and getting ready no later than five.  All of which meant that
she was already going to be short of sleep, and she simply couldn't spare any
time for a bath.


No Mulder, no bath, and not enough sleep, she thought grumpily.  Events seemed
to be conspiring against her this evening to deprive her of the rest and
comfort that she wanted.  Well, she'd just have to manage, she decided.  It
wasn't as if this was even close to the worst that had ever happened to her.
And she turned away from the bathtub and reached for her pajamas.


She paused in mid-reach as she caught sight of one of Mulder's t-shirts, lying
crumpled up on the back corner of the washstand.  She hesitated just an
instant, then picked up the t-shirt and brought it to her nose and sniffed.


It smelled good.  It smelled of Mulder's sweat, and his cologne, and it
reminded Scully vividly of the handful of times they had made love, back
before the Gibson Praise case in Arizona had come between them.  She missed
the closeness they had been building, and she knew Mulder did, too.  The last
two days they had made a lot of progress, and it had all been possible because
both of them wanted to get back to where they had been.  But they still had a
long way to go.


She suddenly wondered if Mulder would mind if she wore his shirt to bed.  It
wouldn't be the same as snuggling into his arms, but at least it would be
something.  Back when she was dating Jack Willis she had enjoyed wearing his
clothes whenever they spent a night together; it had always made her feel warm
and happy, and a little special.  And Jack had seemed to like seeing her that
way ....


Scully smiled and slipped the shirt on over her head.  Mulder wouldn't object
to this; she was just sorry that he wasn't awake to see her wearing it.  She
shook her head slightly in regret, then turned her attention to brushing her
teeth.


A few minutes later, she clicked off the light and stepped back into the main
room.  Pausing for a moment to allow her eyes to readjust to the dark, she
moved over to stand between the two beds, and simply stood there, looking down
at her partner.


He was really a lovely man, she thought.  Scully rarely permitted herself the
luxury of looking at Mulder this way, but he truly was beautiful.  And seeing
him asleep like this, with his face calm and relaxed, and free of worry -- to
see him like this was a gift beyond price.


She knelt down next to the bed, trying to get a better look at her partner's
face.  His eyelids were flickering slightly, telling her that he was dreaming.
So many times his dreams were bad; she had heard him crying in his sleep on
countless occasions over the years, and sometimes he'd sounded so raw and
plaintive she'd thought her heart would break.  But tonight, it seemed, he was
at peace.


Scully sighed softly.  She needed to get some rest, too.  It was almost 11:30,
and morning was going to come far too soon for her taste.  And so she leaned
forward and planted a soft goodnight kiss on Mulder's forehead.


His eyes fluttered open.  "Scully?"  His voice was thick with sleep.


"Shh," she whispered.  "I just got back.  Didn't mean to wake you.  Go back to
sleep."


He smiled drowsily, and something in his eyes made her heart beat a little
faster.  "I don't want to sleep, now that you're here," he replied, his voice
sounding a little stronger.


Scully chuckled softly, and gently stroked his hair.  "Neither do I," she
admitted.  "But it's very late, and I have to get up early.  And we both need
to rest."  It suddenly occurred to her that, as far as she knew, Mulder never
had gotten around to calling Kersh -- but then she pushed the unhappy thought
away.  Time enough for that in the morning.


"Sleep with me, Scully."  She turned her attention back to her partner, and
saw that he had scooted over a bit and now was holding the covers up in an
obvious invitation.


She shook her head.  "I said I'm tired, Mulder," she said with a smile, trying
her damnedest to project warmth and affection rather than rejection.  He was
so sensitive and insecure --


"Sleep with me," her partner insisted, wearing a slight smile of his own.
"Just sleep.  That's all I meant.  That's all I'm asking."


Scully thought about that for a few seconds.  She and Mulder had made love a
few times in the past month, but they had never actually spent the night
together.  Each time it had seemed like a pragmatic decision:  on three
occasions it had been a work night, and on the fourth Scully had wanted to go
to early Mass the next day.  


But in retrospect, she couldn't help wondering if the two of them hadn't been
avoiding a deeper form of intimacy.  Even last night, she had eventually
gotten out of Mulder's bed and gone to sleep in her own.  She'd been putting
some distance between them, she realized -- both emotional and physical.  And
Mulder had let her do it.


To hell with that.


"Okay," she said simply.  Mulder's eyebrows raised slightly, but then his
smile broadened, and he moved over a little farther as Scully slid into bed
next to him.


For a minute or two after she got settled, Scully just lay there on her back,
her head resting on the pillow, staring at the ceiling.  This was decidedly
odd, she thought.  Oh, she had slept in the same bed with a man before,
although not for many years.  But this was the first time, so far as she could
recall, that she had gotten in bed with a man with the sole intention of going
to sleep, and it was giving her a strange, almost domestic feeling.


Unfortunately, that didn't seem to be enough to allow her to drop off -- and
the more she tried to relax, the more the events of the day kept intruding on
her thoughts.  The interview with Alexander Farrier had bothered her more than
she had first realized, and now the episode was beginning to gnaw at her --


"You look tense, Scully."


Scully started at the sound of her partner's voice, then got control of
herself and turned on her side to face him.  He had his head propped on his
hand, and wore a gentle smile on his face.  Just seeing him like that, his
features still softened by sleep and all of his attention focused on her,
helped her relax a bit.  And after another moment, she was able to return his
smile.


"Sorry," she said.  "I guess I'm a little nervous."


He nodded, and replied, very softly and solemnly, "I understand.  I'm not
always an easy guy to be around."


Scully shook her head, and moved a little closer to him, until their bodies
were almost touching.  "That's not it," she said.  "I'm not nervous about
*you*.  It's just ...."  She hesitated, not sure how much she ought to tell
him -- which was ridiculous, she realized.  This was her partner lying next to
her.  She didn't need to keep things from him; half the problems they'd been
having were due to one or the other of them holding back.


*More* than half their problems ....


"Want to tell me about it?" Mulder prompted.


"Yeah," she replied at last.  Again Mulder's eyebrows moved up in apparent
surprise, and Scully couldn't help but smile.  If she'd known it was this easy
to please him, she would have done it long ago.  She went on, "It's just that
... it's been a long five days.  Long hours, short of sleep -- all the usual
stuff.  You know?"


Mulder nodded.  Scully continued, "And tonight I had an interview -- Oliver
and I had split up, because we were running behind -- and the guy was just, I
dunno.  He bothered me.  Very intense.  And --" she swallowed; this was the
hard part "-- it almost seemed as if he knew things about me.  It was very
unnerving."


Mulder's eyebrows knitted in apparent concern.  "What do you mean?"


She sighed and shook her head.  Reviewing her conversation with Farrier in her
mind, Scully suddenly wasn't sure this was such a good idea after all.  Her
tattoo, and the events surrounding it, was one subject she and Mulder had
*never* talked about -- not since the day she got back from Philadelphia.
Finally, she just said, "I don't know; nothing specific, I guess.  I think it
must just be stress."


Mulder was quiet for a minute, and from the expression on his face it was
clear he didn't entirely believe her.  At last, though, he simply shrugged,
and asked, "Are you sure?"


And there it was; the real challenge.  Scully knew she should pick it up and
tell him what was really bothering her, but she just wasn't up to it.  It had
been such a long, day, and she was so tired --


"It's okay, Scully," her partner said, very softly.  "We don't have to talk
about it now, if you don't feel like it."  He slipped his arms around her
waist, and drew her in close.  "Just relax," he whispered.  "Close your eyes,
and relax."


Scully closed her eyes and laid her head down on his shoulder, and tried to do
as he'd suggested.  His body against hers was warm and friendly, and his arms
around her made her feel grounded and secure.  Any minute now, she should be
dropping off to sleep -- she really was exhausted.  Any minute now ....


"You really are tense, aren't you?"


Scully sighed and opened her eyes, to see Mulder looking at her from a few
inches away.  "I guess I am," she admitted, and reluctantly started to
disentangle herself from his embrace.  "I don't want to, but I'd probably
better move.  I have to be up at five."


She felt her partner's arms tighten around her.  "Just a sec, Scully," he
said.  "Maybe there's a way we can deal with this."


After a brief hesitation, Scully allowed Mulder to draw her back down on the
bed.  She really didn't want to be away from him, and she truly was tired.
Perhaps if she just gave it a few more minutes ....


"That's it."  Her partner's voice was warm and soft, and his breath tickled
her ear.  "Close your eyes, Scully," he went on.  "Close your eyes, and lie as
still as you can.  Leave the driving to me."


Scully did as she was told, and after a moment she felt Mulder's fingers start
to gently touch and caress her face.  She sighed slightly, and leaned into his
touch.  "That feels nice," she murmured.


"Shh," Mulder whispered.  "No talking."  His hands continued to gently stroke
her face, moving across her forehead, tracing the outline of her nose and
eyes.  His fingertips passed across her lips, and she smiled.


"You really have a beautiful face, Scully," he said softly.  "Did you know
that?"  Scully felt herself blushing as her partner continued to speak, while
his hands continued to move across her features.  "I could sit and look at
your face for hours," he went on.  "I would never get tired of looking at it.
It's the first thing I noticed about you, all those years ago:  how strong and
intelligent and sensitive your face was.  Is.  Especially how intelligent.
You're so smart you scare me sometimes."


He stopped speaking for a moment, and the fingers of one hand moved back to
tangle in her hair, while the other slipped behind her to cup the back of her
head, the fingers gently massaging her scalp.  "Your hair was the next thing I
noticed," he said after a moment.  "It's so fine and soft.  I didn't get to
touch it very often, especially in the early years, but I loved it right from
the beginning.  And I always knew it would feel like this."


Scully felt a slight tug on her scalp, and then heard Mulder inhaling deeply,
and realized that he was sniffing at a lock of her hair.  Somehow the
knowledge caused a shiver to run down her spine, and she shifted her position
slightly, bringing her hip into contact with his.  And all the while, his
fingers continued to stroke and massage her scalp.  Scully sighed.


At last his fingers left her scalp, and slid down past her ears to stroke and
caress her neck.  Automatically, she tilted her head, exposing more skin for
his attention.  Mulder chuckled, and she felt him shift slightly on the bed
... and then something warm and moist lightly touched the base of her neck.


"Mmmm," Scully breathed, as the contact was repeated.  Already she felt a warm
tingle beginning in her abdomen and between her thighs.  "I thought you were
trying to help me relax."


"I am," Mulder assured her, continuing to stroke the side of her neck with his
fingers.  He planted another soft kiss just beneath her ear, then ran his
tongue down her neck to where it joined her shoulder.  "Just let it happen,
Scully.  Let me give this to you.  You don't have to do anything."


Again he pressed his lips against the side of her neck, flicking her skin
lightly with the tip of his tongue as he did so.  His hand left her neck and
skimmed down her body, lightly brushing the side of her breast through the
thin material of the t-shirt as it did so, and finally coming to rest on the
swell of her hip.


She briefly considered asking him to stop.  She was so tired, and she had
another short night and no doubt a long day to look forward to.  But it just
felt too good, and she couldn't bring herself to say the words -- not with his
thumb lightly tracing the ridge of her hipbone, and his lips and tongue
continuing to explore the dips and curves of her neck.


Not when they'd both worked so hard to get back to this point.


"I used to look at you all the time, Scully," Mulder said after a moment.  His
hand was now slowly stroking the outside of her thigh, while his words were
whispered against the base of her neck.  "I know you caught me sometimes, but
much more often, you didn't."  


His hand crept lower, and at last found the hem of the shirt, just above her
knee.  Scully shivered as Mulder's fingers finally touched her bare flesh, and
again she moved a little closer to him, parting her legs slightly as she did
so.  The warm tingling between her thighs was growing stronger, and it was all
she could do not to climb on top of her partner and start grinding her body
against his.


"Easy, Scully," her partner whispered in her ear as his hand traced slow,
random patterns on her inner thigh, just above the knee.  "Take it nice and
easy.  Nice and slow."  His hand moved gradually upward, his fingertips
brushing lightly against her skin as he bent his head to nibble on her
earlobe.


Scully gasped as Mulder's fingers touched the fabric of her panties, and she
abruptly reached out and wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to pull his
body closer.  She needed more contact ....


Mulder chuckled again, and nuzzled his nose in her hair -- and this time she
could feel it as well as hear it when he inhaled deeply.  And his fingers
continued their slow, erotic dance.


Scully could no longer remain completely passive.  She turned her head and
parted her lips ... and an instant later was rewarded by the featherlight
touch of Mulder's mouth against her own.  She moaned softly as his tongue
caressed her upper lip, and then her lower, and she opened her mouth wider to
admit him.  It was so good; it was so perfect.  It was just what she needed
....


At last, Mulder's hand slipped under the elastic of her panties, and Scully
broke the kiss and gasped as his fingers began to explore her most intimate
place.  She tightened her arms around his neck, and arched her hips against
his hand, trying to increase the pressure, wanting greater friction and more
contact.  


She heard someone moaning, and realized that it was her own voice.  Mulder's
fingers seemed to be everywhere, sliding through her folds, caressing her and
touching her and stroking her.  She turned her head again, seeking his mouth,
and was rewarded with another deep, erotic kiss, Mulder's tongue slipping into
her mouth at the same instant that two of his fingers were entering her core.


Scully's hips bucked frantically as Mulder began to pump his fingers into her
in earnest.  She was close, so close, and somehow he seemed to know it.  She
rotated her hips, trying to help him find the perfect spot --


There!  Oh, God!  That was it!  That was perfect!  She heard the words echoing
in her ears and in her head, and realized that she was no longer kissing
Mulder -- she was talking to him, babbling really, a steady stream of
semi-coherent words and parts of words.  She was so close; so very, very
close, and then her partner's thumb lightly stroked the tight bundle of nerves
at her very center --


Some unmeasured eternity later, Scully felt herself gradually settling back to
earth.  Mulder's arms were wrapped securely around her, and his body was
pressed gently but firmly against her.  His voice was in her ear, and she
realized he must have been talking her through it, grounding her, holding on
to her and giving her an anchor.  She recalled fragments of the things he had
said, here and there, but most important was just the sound of his voice, low
and rich and full of promise, saying her name over and over and over:


"Scully ... Scully ... Scully ... Scully ...."


Scully slept.


==========END CHAPTER THIRTEEN==========


===========
Chapter Fourteen
===========


Iowa City Civic Center
Monday, October 5, 1998
6:18 a.m.


Five hours of sleep was not enough, Scully thought grumpily, as she walked
down the hallway towards the conference room where the morning briefing would
be held.  Not when she had already been working long hours, and no doubt had
another long day ahead of her.  She had gotten by on less when she was in med
school, and during her residency -- but she wasn't 25 anymore.


Thank God for Mulder, though; if it weren't for him, she would've been in even
worse shape than she was.  Somehow, last night he had known just what she
needed, and had stepped in and given it to her.  


She would never have been able to ask him for that; not even if their
relationship were on more stable ground.  The same internal censors that kept
her from talking about her emotions also made it difficult -- usually
impossible -- for Scully to express her sexual needs.  Even with Jack Willis,
her one long-term lover, she had found herself accepting whatever he chose to
offer -- and the frustration that had caused for both of them had contributed
greatly to their eventual breakup.


Scully sighed, and shook her head.  That wasn't going to happen this time --
not if she had anything to say about it.  Somehow, she was going to find a way
to get past the wall of reserve she had built around herself.  Mulder deserved
better than that; they both did.


She sighed again, and pushed those thoughts away.  She was going to have to
deal with that -- they both were -- along with a long list of other problems
that still lay unresolved in their relationship.  But now was not the time.
Right now, she had a job to do.


Scully pulled open the door to the conference room and stepped inside.  About
half a dozen people were already there, including Detective Oliver, who was
sitting about half-way down the long table, a styrofoam cup of coffee in front
of her.  Scully nodded to her slightly, then moved over to the coffee machine
to draw her own cup before taking her seat next to the detective.


"Morning," Oliver said briefly, and again Scully simply nodded.  Her
relationship with the other woman had been a little strained ever since the
detective's outburst in the car on Saturday afternoon.  More strained than
usual, Scully amended, as she took her first sip of coffee and began skimming
the printed agenda.


"Two and a half pages," Oliver commented, as Scully reached the bottom of the
first sheet.  "I'm guessing at least ninety minutes.  And you're gonna *love*
what they've cooked up for the two of us to do today."


Scully glanced at Oliver and raised an eyebrow, then looked back to the agenda
and turned to the last page, where the day's assignments were usually listed.
She let her gaze slide down the lines of text until she found her name and
Oliver's -- and her eyebrows rose even higher.


"Flower shops?" she asked, looking back up at the detective.


"Yep."  The other woman nodded.  "And not the chrysanthemum angle -- they've
already got that covered.


"Then why?"


The detective seemed to be enjoying Scully's confusion.  "Late last night,"
she explained with deliberation, "the preliminary report on that yellow flower
petal came back.  You remember?  The one that was found at Marjorie Adamson's
place on Friday night?"  


Scully nodded, and Oliver continued, "Well it turns out to be from gelsemium
sempervirens -- that's yellow jasmine to those of us who are botanically
challenged.  And it doesn't grow around here -- it likes a warmer climate.  So
...."  The detective's voice trailed off, and she shrugged.


"So we get to go around to all the florists in town, and see if anybody
suspicious-looking has bought any yellow jasmine recently," Scully finished,
struggling to keep the tone of disbelief out of her voice.


"That's right," the detective replied.  "Cedar Rapids, too."  She shrugged
again.  "It turns out that yellow jasmine is the source of a drug called
gelsemium, which is a potent painkiller -- you grind up the roots and make
soup, or some such.  The thinking this morning is that maybe the killer uses
it to pacify his victims.  Supposedly it has a bitter taste, so it'd probably
have to be mixed with something sweet, at least for the initial dose."  Oliver
took a sip of her coffee and winced.  "Can't be any worse than this shit,
though," she added.


Scully nodded, and took another sip of her own coffee.  It really was pretty
bad, but she desperately needed the caffeine.  She took one more sip, then
went back to reading the agenda.


#          #          #


Iowa City, IA
7:21 a.m.


As Mulder rounded the last corner on his way back to the Heartland Inn, he
checked his watch:  four miles in just over thirty minutes.  Not a bad time,
and he wasn't even really winded.  Today was shaping up to be a good day.


Of course, last night had been a good night.  Mulder had been disappointed --
but not surprised -- when Scully failed to return at a reasonable hour.  But
when she finally did arrive, he'd been delighted by her willingness to crawl
into bed with him -- and he'd been profoundly awed when she allowed him to
give her the release she so obviously needed.  He'd recognized her acceptance
of his attention as a sign of trust, and a promise that things would continue
to get better.


A small part of him had, of course, been wistfully hopeful that Scully might
become sufficiently aroused to make love to him -- but he hadn't really
expected it, and it hadn't happened.  She had fallen asleep almost before he
withdrew his hand from her body -- and somewhat to his surprise, he found
himself following her into slumber a few minutes later, despite the
frustration of his own unrelieved physical desire.  And for once he had slept
well, and hadn't had any nightmares.


So, yeah -- it had been a good night.


Mulder slowed to a walk as he closed to within fifty yards of the motel.  His
muscles felt warm and loose, and his stride was free and easy.  In fact, his
entire body seemed vigorous and alive, as if his physical being had
experienced some sort of renewal in the past 36 hours, even as his spirit was
being resurrected.  


Well, maybe it had.


As Mulder was reaching for his keycard, he heard the phone start ringing
inside the room.  He hastily jammed the card into the slot and worked the
handle; a moment later he was scooping up the receiver and flopping down on
the unused bed.  Probably it was Scully, calling to let him know whether she'd
be free for lunch ....


"Mulder."


There was a moment of silence at the other end; then a man's voice spoke.
"Agent Mulder?  This is Assistant Director Kersh."


Shit.


"I must say I'm not entirely surprised to find you answering this number," the
A.D. went on, after a brief pause.  "I presume that Agent Scully has made you
aware of my previous inquiries as to your whereabouts."


Mulder gritted his teeth at the man's condescending tone, but simply said,
"Yes, sir."


There was another silence, longer than the last, while Kersh apparently
considered his alternatives.  Or maybe he wasn't considering, Mulder thought.
The son of a bitch probably already knew exactly what he was going to do, and
just wanted to leave Mulder hanging in limbo for a minute --


"Agent Mulder," Kersh said suddenly, "I assume that your absence from the
Hoover Building on Thursday and Friday was due to having suddenly become
involved in professional activities, and that these activities precluded a
more timely report to my office."


"Sir --"


"This is the only reason I can think of why you would have failed to contact
me sooner, Agent Mulder," Kersh said sharply.  "The alternative is that you
have been AWOL since Thursday morning.  If that's the case, I would have no
choice but to forward the matter to the OPR for their consideration."  Kersh
paused, and Mulder resisted the urge to tell him what the OPR could do with
their consideration.  "You do remember that you're on probation, don't you,
Agent Mulder?"


"Yes, sir."


"Very well," the A.D. said calmly.  "In order that I may be properly updated
on your professional activities, I am directing you to submit a written report
to my office, detailing your actions since last Thursday morning."  Mulder
could almost hear Kersh looking at his watch.  "I believe it is now 7:31 in
Iowa; I will inform Special Agent in Charge Conyers to expect you in 29
minutes."


"Conyers?"  Mulder's jaw dropped.  "Why --"


"Agent Conyers will provide you with working space and the necessary
materials," Kersh continued implacably, as if he hadn't heard the
interruption.  "I will expect your narrative on my desk no later than three
p.m., East coast time.  You will then report back to Agent Conyers for further
assignment.  Is all of that clear, Agent Mulder?"


Mulder clenched his jaw, but he managed to grind out, "Yes.  Sir."


"Very well, Agent Mulder.  That will be all, then."  And the connection was
broken.


#          #          #


Iowa City Civic Center
5:49 p.m.


"Someone said I'd find you here."


Mulder winced at hearing his partner's voice.  He'd known since he'd hung up
the phone with Kersh that morning that it was inevitable she'd find out -- and
that she'd track him down once she knew.  But he hadn't been looking forward
to facing her.  He didn't expect to enjoy the recriminations that were almost
certain to ensue.


"Mulder?"  


He heard Scully take a couple of tentative-sounding steps closer, and bent his
head over the file he was working on.  Go away, Scully, he thought.  You don't
want to be around me right now.  Not after what Kersh and Conyers have done.
I'm in no mood to be around anyone I care about.


"Mulder ... " He heard her take a few more steps.  "Mulder, it's just me."


Keeping his eyes resolutely on the file he was pretending to read, Mulder
said, "Better keep your distance, Scully.  I've got cooties."  He risked a
glance over his shoulder, and saw that she was standing about five feet behind
him, a look of confusion on her face.  "Also," he added, looking back at the
file, and not even trying to hide the anger in his voice, "you're standing in
Conyers' spot."


"What do you mean?"


"Every hour on the hour," Mulder said, in short, clipped tones, "He comes in
here, stands right where you're standing, and watches me.  Doesn't say a word.
After a few minutes, he goes away."


Scully was silent for a few seconds -- and then he heard her footsteps again,
coming nearer still.  He closed his eyes, and in his imagination he could see
the expression of pity on her face.  The footsteps stopped, but he could still
see her.  She was lifting her hand, reaching out to touch him --


"Don't," he said, very softly.


There was another moment of silence.  Then:  "Okay."  A second or two later,
she went on, "Mulder, what's wrong?  What are you doing here?"


Mulder shrugged.  Apparently there was no escaping this -- he was going to
have to talk to her about it.  "Kersh finally got hold of me this morning," he
said.  "This is my punishment."


"Kersh thinks assigning you to the task force is punishment?"  Now there was
amusement in her voice.  "He doesn't know you very well, does he?"


"I'm not assigned to the task force!" Mulder snapped.  "I've been assigned to
act as Conyers' personal asswipe."  He stopped, and struggled to regain
control.  A half a dozen additional angry comments flashed through his mind,
but somehow he managed to suppress them.  


Scully sighed.  "Mulder."  He could almost hear her shaking her head.  "If you
just would have called Kersh and asked for a few days off before you headed
out here ...."  


"Yeah, you're probably right," he said grimly, deliberately misinterpreting
her statement.  "You probably would have been better off if I'd just stayed
away."


"That's not what I meant," she said quietly.  "And you know it."  After a
moment she went on, "Look, I've just got a few loose ends to tie up, and then
I'm done for the day.  And I have to type up my notes from today, but that can
wait.  Why don't you and I go grab something to eat?"


"I'm afraid Agent Mulder won't be able to make it."  Mulder closed his eyes in
despair at hearing Agent Conyers' voice coming from the direction of the
doorway, followed immediately by the sound of heavy footsteps approaching.  A
second or two later, a new pile of folders was deposited on the desk in front
of him.


"As you seem to have discovered, Agent Mulder," the SAC went on, "the teams
have started returning from the field for the day.  These are the notes of
those who have checked in so far.  I'll expect to find them typed and on my
desk when I come in tomorrow.  Oh six hundred."


"But those are clerical duties!"  That was Scully objecting, and Mulder
clenched his fists, willing her to just shut up and stay out of it.  He'd
already tangled with Conyers several times today, and had learned the hard way
that pushing the man only made him worse.  But she was still talking:  "You
can't possibly --"


"Agent Scully!"  Conyers' voice was sharp and peremptory.  "I appreciate your
concern for your ... partner's professional perquisites.  However, in this
instance I have deemed it desirable to have the transcriptions prepared by an
experienced field agent.  Fortunately, Agent Mulder has been made available to
the task force by Assistant Director Kersh."


"But --"


"Just leave it, Scully," Mulder said sharply.  "it's not worth it, and nothing
you can say or do is going to change anything."


"Mulder, I --"


"I said leave it!" he snapped.  "Just ... get the hell out, Scully, and leave
me alone.  I've got work to do."  He grimly turned his attention back to the
open file in front of him, and made a show of trying to concentrate.


"That sounds like excellent advice, Agent Scully."  Mulder could hear the
smirk in Agent Conyers' voice.  "I suggest you take it."


There was yet another period of silence, broken only by the rustling of paper
as Mulder idly turned the pages of the file he was supposed to be reviewing.
At last, Scully spoke, very softly.  "Mulder?  Are you sure that's what you
want?  Could I at least bring you something to eat?"


"No," he said curtly.  He knew he was hurting her by his behavior, and deep
inside it was tearing him up, but he just couldn't face her right now, and he
couldn't seem to find any other way to get her to leave.


"Okay."  Pause.  "I guess I'll see you later, then."  He heard her start to
walk towards the door and in another moment she was gone.


After awhile, Conyers left, too.


==========END CHAPTER FOURTEEN==========


===========
Chapter Fifteen
===========


Iowa City, IA
The Heartland Inn
Monday, October 5, 1998
10:59 p.m.


Scully sat cross-legged on one of the beds in her motel room, staring at the
flickering images on the TV screen.  She wasn't really watching, though.  Her
thoughts were far away.


She'd been surprised, of course, to find her partner down at the Civic Center
when she and Oliver returned from their rounds of the area's flower shops.
She'd known it was only a matter of time before Kersh tracked Mulder down and
took action against him -- but she had expected that action to be in the form
of an order to return to Washington immediately, followed by some sort of
disciplinary measures.  What those disciplinary measures might be, she hadn't
attempted to guess, since she didn't yet know Kersh very well.


But she hadn't expected the new A.D. to resort to public humiliation as a way
of getting his point across.  It was obvious to her that Conyers must have
received specific instructions on how to deal with Mulder -- otherwise he
would have been assigned to duties more appropriate to his rank and abilities.
Mulder was right about one thing, she thought grimly.  This was clearly a
punishment detail.


Another thing she hadn't expected was Mulder's response to her.  Scully had
anticipated that her partner would be angry, and had braced herself to endure
a stream of invective aimed at both Kersh and Conyers.  She'd been working
with Mulder for more than five years, after all, and she'd known even before
she discovered the nature of his "assignment" that he would be in a difficult
mood.


But she had not been prepared for the anger and bitterness her partner had
directed at *her*.  Of course, even as he was pushing her away, she knew that
it was his temper speaking.  None of this was her fault, and she and Mulder
both knew it.  But that hadn't kept his words from hurting, and it had taken
all of Scully's self-control not to lash out at him in return.


Scully sighed, and shook her head.  She was sick and tired of the damned
emotional rollercoaster she and Mulder had been on for the past several weeks.
She knew that the depression that had fallen over her since leaving the Civic
Center wasn't Mulder's fault -- anymore than she was to blame for his upset.
The culprits in her case were stress and exhaustion.  Unfortunately, just as
she had been a convenient target for his anger earlier in the evening, his
behavior was the most obvious outlet for her own bad feelings now.


Maybe it was just as well that she was getting a little downtime to herself.


Except now she heard Mulder's key in the lock, so apparently her solitude was
ending.  She gave another sigh and clicked off the television, then turned to
watch the door.  After another second it swung open, and Mulder stepped into
the room.


For a moment he just stood there, looking at her -- and Scully looked right
back at him.  He looked tired, she thought.  Tired and hurt and angry.  No
surprises there, of course.  The only question was how much of that was going
to be vented at her -- and how much she would be able to take.


"I thought you'd be asleep by now," he said at last, not moving from his spot
by the door.


"I thought about it," she replied.  "But I wanted to see you, so I waited up."
The words were out of her mouth before she'd really thought about them, but
she realized they were true.  Despite all the negative feelings their
encounter at the Civic Center had brought to the surface, she *had* wanted to
see him.  She'd missed him, and she didn't function very well without him.


Mulder was already shaking his head.  "You shouldn't have, Scully.  You need
your rest."  He smirked slightly.  "I can't always be there to lend a helping
hand, you know."


Scully knew he was trying to make her angry, but she also knew that he didn't
really mean it, and somehow she managed to suppress the urge to say something
biting in return.  After a moment of silence Mulder shrugged, and moved over
to flop down on his back on the other bed.  And then he just lay there for a
minute or two, staring at the ceiling.


Finally, he said, "So I take it from typing your notes that you didn't have
time to check the victims' tattoo status?"


Scully shook her head.  "No," she said.  "I didn't ... get around to it."  She
had had all evening, of course, and they both knew it -- but after the
not-quite-argument at the Civic Center, she hadn't really felt like it.  There
was nothing there, anyway; she was sure of *that* much, at least.


"I see."  There was no tone or inflection in his voice.


"Dammit, Mulder," she snapped, struggling to keep her own voice under control.
"I've been working sixteen-hour days for the past week.  Tonight was my first
night off since I got here, and I didn't really feel like spending it chasing
down some blind alley just because you --"


"Blind alley?"  Mulder sat up abruptly and turned to look at her.  "Blind
alley?"  He started ticking off points on his fingers.  "We have victims who
are being skinned alive, with no leads whatsoever.  We have personal ads
appearing in a body art magazine shortly before each one was killed.  We have
a copy of that magazine actually found in one of the victims' homes, with one
of the ads circled in magic marker.  And you think this is a blind alley?  A
coincidence?"


Something inside Scully snapped, and she found herself shouting right back at
her partner -- even while a small corner of her mind was screaming in protest
at her own behavior.  "Yes, Mulder," she said.  "That's exactly what it is:  a
coincidence.  We have no evidence -- none -- that any of these women had
tattoos, and --"


"We might have that evidence, if you'd made the phone calls you promised to
make!"


"I do not report to you, Agent Mulder!" she replied sharply.  "I have other
duties and responsibilities -- *official* duties and responsibilities -- which
have been occupying my time and taking all my energy."  She took a deep
breath, then let it out, and continued, "And furthermore, even if those women
*did* all have tattoos, I don't see what connection there could possibly be --
nor is there any way the killer could have known about it if they *did* have
tattoos."


Mulder tried to interupt, but Scully pressed onward.  "We do have photographs
of these women," she reminded him.  "Photos we got from their friends and
families.  And not one of them -- not *one* -- had any visible marks on their
skin."


"Not on their *exposed* skin, anyway," Mulder began.  "It's possible that --"


Scully was now in full cry.  "Oh, yes," she said.  "Maybe they all had tattoos
under their clothes, where nobody could see them -- except for the killer, of
course.  *He* ...."


"Bathing suits," Mulder interjected.  "Doctors' exam rooms, locker rooms --"


"Oh, no, Mulder," she objected, sarcasm dripping from every word.  Deep
inside, a part of her was still screaming, begging her to stop, but she
couldn't -- she just had to keep going.  "That wouldn't do at all," she
continued.  "The killer has x-ray vision, right?  So he can see through
people's clothes, just like the ads in the backs of comic books.  Isn't that
how he does it?"


"It's not impossible," her partner grated out, clearly struggling to maintain
his self-control.  "There are plenty of cases documented in the X-Files of
people with paranormal abilities allowing them to see -- or in some other way
sense -- things which are normally hidden from the rest of us.  You should
know that better than anyone."


Scully felt her eyes narrowing.  "What's that supposed to mean?"


Mulder hesitated for just an instant -- and then something in his eyes seemed
to harden, and Scully felt something tremble inside her, as he said, quietly
and distinctly, "Ed Jerse."


Silence descended on the room, and for a pair of minutes Scully sat perfectly
still.  The sudden quiet, after their extended mutual outburst, was almost
surreal, she thought distantly.  If only it could stay this way; if only time
could simply stop, and thus forestall the explosion she knew was about to
occur.


But the seconds were racing onwards, and even as she was thinking that, her
mouth was opening, and she heard her own voice saying, with cold precision, "I
wondered how long it would take you to get around to that."  She suddenly felt
very, very tired, and infinitely sad.


"Get around to what?" her partner asked, equally coldly.


"Oh, get off it, Mulder," she said wearily.  She no longer had the strength
for this -- but she didn't have the strength to stop, either.  The
conversation was just going to keep on going, until it finally rolled over
both of them and crushed them.  "Did you really think I hadn't noticed?  Did
you honestly think it had escaped my attention that there was one spot on my
body that you just can't bear to touch?  *Especially* since we've started
sleeping together?  Jesus Christ, Mulder!  How stupid do you think I am?"


"Scully, you're not being reasonable," her partner replied.  His voice was
calm -- but there was an undercurrent of pain, she noted with distant
satisfaction.  This was hurting him as much as it was hurting her.  Good.


"*I'm* not being reasonable?" she said.  "Me?  Mulder, *you're* the one who
has an issue here -- not me.  It's just a two inch patch of skin, and it's
perfectly clean.  It doesn't have some horrible infection; the ink is even
dry."


"Scully --"


"Why won't you touch it, Mulder?" she persisted, ignoring his attempt to
interupt.  "What's the problem here?  There *is* a problem, isn't there?  Or
are *you* the one who is now pleading coincidence?  Is that what it is?  A
coincidence?"  She shook her head.  "I don't think I'm the one with the
problem."


Mulder was staring at her, unblinking, and now the pain was plain on his face.
Scully felt a twinge of guilt, but quickly suppressed it.  He was the one who
started this; she was just responding, and trying to put an end to it.


"You have no idea what you're getting into here, Scully," her partner said at
last.  "No idea at all."  He paused, and seemed to be collecting his thoughts
for a moment.  And when he finally did speak, his voice was cold, and low, and
very, very distant.


"When I read the police report on the Jerse case," he said, "it was like
having my guts ripped out with a dull knife.  They didn't cover the ... issue
... that I really cared about, of course -- it wasn't relevant to their
investigation, and apparently neither you nor Jerse volunteered the
information.  But reading between the lines, I could tell what they thought
had happened."


Mulder paused again for a moment -- and Scully abruptly felt a touch of
anxiety creeping in.  This wasn't what was supposed to be happening.  He was
supposed to be yelling at her; he was supposed to be lashing out.  That would
have felt pretty good, she thought -- making him lose control.  It would have
confirmed her position, and given her the upper hand --


"Then you filed your own report," he continued.  "And it was complete -- to a
point.  You related everything that was directly germane to the case -- both
the investigation I'd asked you to pursue, and the situation with Jerse and
the tattoo parlor.  But, like the local cops, you evaded the one area that I
was most concerned with, and I decided that I'd just have to live with that.
Not knowing, I mean.  It was none of my business, after all.  You're a grown
woman, and I had no claim on you."  


He stopped, and looked at her speculatively, and added, "That is right, isn't
it Scully?  We meant nothing to each other at that point, beyond being work
partners."  Despite herself, Scully winced at the mix of hurt and sarcasm in
his voice.  


"There was no special relationship," he went on, his voice calm and apparently
unconcerned.  "Certainly nothing beyond a casual, platonic friendship, right?
So I had no legitimate reason even to be interested in what happened in
Jerse's apartment between -- " he paused for just a second, and seemed to be
concentrating "-- 11:45 p.m., the night you closed the case, and 8:15 the next
morning.  Right?"


"That's right," she managed to force out.  "You had no interest in the
matter."


Mulder nodded grimly, and with more than a little sadness in his voice, he
continued, "That's what I thought, too.  And so I did my best to put the
matter out of my mind, and tried not to think about it.  And I mostly
succeeded.  Mostly."


Again he looked at her speculatively, and Scully had to suppress a shiver as
she realized that everything he had just said was really leading up to
something else.  Something worse.


"But do you want to know what really hurt, Scully?" he said at last.  "Do you
have any idea?"  He paused yet again, and actually seemed to be waiting for a
response.  


This was her chance, Scully suddenly realized.  Right now, she could say no --
she could tell him she didn't want to know.  Then the conversation would end,
and they could both retreat behind their respective walls and tend to their
wounds.  But even as she considered the possibility, Scully found herself
nodding, giving him permission to continue.


"It was the lies, Scully," he said coldly.  "It was the god damned fucking
lies."


Her response was automatic.  "Lies?  Mulder I don't know what --"


"Cut the crap, Scully," he snapped.  "How stupid do you think *I* am?"  His
voice took on a high, sing-songy quality.  "'Not everything is about you,
Mulder.'  Six words, Scully.  Six fucking words, and to the best of my
knowledge and belief, it's the only time you've *ever* directly lied to me."


"Mulder, I --"


"It fucking well *was* about me!" he barked.  "Everything you did that week
was about me, and our partnership and friendship."  He started ticking off
points on his fingers.  "You went to Philadelphia in the first place because I
goaded you into doing it.  You investigated the case because you wanted to
prove I was wrong and rub my nose in it.  And when the case was over, and I
had the unmitigated gall to call and ask how you were doing, you made a date
with some sleazeball and spent the night at his apartment, doing god knows
what."


Mulder paused for breath, and continued, "And of course, after it was all over
and the dust had settled, you made sure I had just enough information to keep
me guessing, and no more.  You wanted to hurt me, Scully," he accused, finally
climbing off the bed and walking slowly towards her.  "You wanted to get back
at me for the hurt I'd caused you.  Well congratulations.  It worked."


He stood there for a moment looking down at her, and the pain was so evident
on his face and in his eyes that Scully thought her heart might break.  She
wanted to comfort him; she wanted to reach out and touch him; she wanted to do
something -- *anything* -- to make him stop looking at her that way.


But she just couldn't find the strength, and after another moment, Mulder
shrugged and turned and walked away.


He closed the door quietly behind him.


#          #          #


Iowa City, IA
Tuesday, October 6, 1998
12:24 a.m.


Mulder sat on a bench in a small park fronting on the Iowa River, not far from
the motel.  He'd been here for nearly an hour, ever since he'd stormed out of
Scully's motel room.  For most of that hour he'd been sitting almost perfectly
still, watching the water flow by a few feet in front of him.  Very
occasionally, he shifted position.


He hadn't intended for the conversation to go in the direction it had taken.
He'd promised himself long ago that he would never mention the Jerse case to
Scully, or attempt to cross-examine her about what had happened.  It was clear
to him the day they both returned to the office after the case was officially
closed that she had been badly hurt, and that she held him responsible for at
least some of it.  So he had kept his own pain to himself, and tried not to
inflict it on her.


Now he had failed.  And he hadn't merely failed -- he had crashed and burned
in the most spectacular manner imaginable.  He had dredged up all that old
anguish and despair and heartache at the worst possible moment, and he'd
literally thrown it in his partner's face.  And so now here he sat, all alone,
feeling sorry not for her -- but for himself.


He was such a bastard.


"I didn't do it."


Mulder looked up in surprise at the sound of his partner's voice.  He hadn't
heard her approach, but now here she was, standing about five feet in front of
him, a grim look on her face.


"I didn't do it," she repeated after a moment.  "I didn't sleep with him.  I
didn't even *want* to sleep with him."  She paused again, and nodded at the
bench.  "May I sit down?"


"Sure."


Scully took a seat on the bench next to him, her hip not quite touching his.
For a minute or two she just sat there, looking out at the river, and Mulder
simply watched her, giving her plenty of space and time to think.  At last,
she began to speak.


"I did not fuck Ed Jerse," she said flatly, looking straight ahead.  "As I
said in my report, and in my statement to the police, I met him by chance in
that damned tattoo parlor.  He came on to me a little, but I wasn't
interested, and I brushed him off.  Then you called, and made me even madder
than I had been ... so I called him."


She paused, and finally glanced over at Mulder -- and even though neither of
them had moved, Mulder felt as if a vast chasm had suddenly opened up between
them.  Just one little misstep, and they would both fall in ....


"We wound up in this grubby little biker bar," Scully continued, looking back
at the river.  "And we sat there, getting drunk and talking."  She shrugged.
"Actually, I did most of the talking, and Jerse pretended to listen.  He
really just wanted to get into my pants, and we both knew it, but we played
the little game anyway.  I had no intention of letting him get what he wanted,
of course."  And she shrugged again.


"So we talked," she went on.  "*I* talked.  Lies, mostly."  She glanced at
Mulder briefly and obliquely.  "I told a lot of lies that week.  You want to
know the details?"


Mulder shook his head; Scully nodded, and looked back at the river.


"By the time we left the bar," she went on, "I'd already realized what a
stupid, self-destructive thing I was doing.  Unfortunately, I was so drunk and
stubborn that I couldn't stop myself.  So I went and got that fucking tattoo,
and then we went back to Jerse's place.  And of course, he made a pass at me,
which had been his plan all along."  


Scully shrugged again.  "I can't really blame him; I'd been leading him on all
evening, and he probably thought he had it made."  Her lips quirked.  "I
always swore I'd never be a slut or a tease.  At least I'm still batting
.500."  She laughed mirthlessly.


"Anyway," she said, "he kissed me.  And I let it go on for about three or four
seconds.  Don't ask me why, because I didn't want it.  Then I pushed him away,
and started to leave -- and the son of a bitch began to cry."


Her shoulders slumped and her eyes closed.  "So I didn't leave. I stayed, and
Jerse cried at me.  About his wife, and his job, and I forget what else.
Eventually he fell asleep on the sofa, and by that point I was so fucking
exhausted I crawled into his bed and went to sleep myself.  In the morning
when I woke up he had gone out to get stuff for breakfast, so I felt I had to
stay until he got back, and then those two cops showed up .... and you already
know the rest."


At last she stopped, but still she didn't turn to face him.  Finally, Mulder
said, "Thank you, Scully."


She looked over at him then, curiously.  "For what?  Telling you what you
wanted to hear?"


He looked back at her, steadily, unblinking.  "Is that what you were doing?"


Scully hesitated, then sighed and shook her head.  "No.  I was telling you
what really happened.  I was telling you the truth."


Mulder nodded.  "That's what I thought.  That's what I was thanking you for."


Scully nodded slightly in return.  "You're welcome," she said quietly.  "It's
something I should have done a long time ago."  She tilted her head back so
that it rested on the back of the bench.  "God, I'm tired."


"I know," he said.  "And I'm sorry.  I didn't mean for tonight to be like
this.  I'm sorry," he repeated.


Scully shrugged.  "It's all right.  If we'd talked about it at the time ...."
Her voice trailed off, and she was quiet again for a for so long that he was
beginning to wonder if she'd fallen asleep right there on the bench.  She
really was tired.  And he was such an asshole.  Finally, without moving, she
said,  "Mulder, I need to get some sleep."  She opened her eyes and turned her
head to look at him.  "Are you coming?"


He hesitated, then shook his head.  "Not quite yet," he said.  "I .... I still
have some thinking to do.  But I'll be along in awhile."


Scully nodded, and forced a smile.  "Okay," she said.  "I'll hold you to
that."  Then she climbed to her feet and walked away.


==========END CHAPTER FIFTEEN==========


===========
Chapter Sixteen
===========


Iowa City Civic Center
Tuesday, October 6, 1998
8:22 a.m.


"Agent Scully?"


For just an instant, Scully was tempted to ignore Oliver.  The door to the
outside was tantalizingly close -- less than three feet in front of her.  She
could simply pretend not to have heard, and in a few more steps she'd be free.


But even as she considered it, she heard the other woman's footsteps rapidly
approaching, and she sighed in resignation and turned to face the detective.


"I'm glad I caught you," Oliver said, as she came to a stop directly in front
of Scully.  "I know we aren't actually teamed today, but I thought maybe we
could find a corner somewhere together?  Just for a little company while we do
our paperwork?"


Scully hesitated.  On the one hand, she didn't want to make her relationship
with Oliver any worse than it already was.  She might be getting a reprieve
today, but she knew that in all likelihood she and the detective would be
working together again tomorrow.  Conyers didn't seem to like to change his
team assignments.


On the other hand, this was the first time since her arrival in Iowa that
Scully hadn't been paired with the woman, and she was looking forward to
having a little time to herself.  All she had to do today was review
photographs from the victims' funerals -- work that had already been done by
someone else, so once again Scully would be doing followup.  But at least she
wouldn't have to put up with Oliver's attitude while she was doing it.


She also wanted to try to get hold of Mulder, and she didn't really care to
have an audience for what promised to be yet another tense conversation.  He
never had come back to the room last night, despite her clear invitation that
he do so.  She had sat up until almost two a.m., waiting for him, before she
finally gave up and went to bed -- the upshot of which was that she had gotten
only a little over three hours of sleep, and was once again exhausted and
irritable, and in no mood to suffer fools gladly.


"I don't think so," Scully said, shaking her head.  She suppressed a wince as
she saw Oliver's professional mask falling neatly into place.  "I had a short
night, and I'm afraid it would be too much of a distraction."  She forced a
smile, and before she could second guess herself, she added, "But we could
possibly have lunch together, if you like.  I'm just going to spend the day at
Bruegger's going over these photos; why don't you drop by around one o'clock
or so?"


The detective nodded coolly.  "Sure.  I'll be looking forward to it -- if
you're sure it's not too much of an imposition."


Scully sighed, and shook her head.  She'd tried; it wasn't her fault if Oliver
was incapable of gracefully accepting a well-intended offer of a compromise.
And without another word, she turned away and headed for the door.


#          #          #


Iowa City, IA
The Heartland Inn
8:42 a.m.


Scully was gone by the time Mulder returned to the motel.


This was no surprise, of course.  She would've had to leave no later than 6:15
if she wanted to be on time for the morning briefing.  Mulder had, in fact,
stayed away longer than he'd really wanted to, specifically because he wasn't
ready to face his partner yet.


He'd sat on the bench for another half hour after she left the night before,
trying to make sense of the argument they'd had.  His thoughts and emotions
were all tangled together, and adding Scully's words and obvious distress to
the mix had only contributed to his confusion.  In the end, the only
conclusion he'd reached was that they'd just hurt each other once again, and
for no good reason.


At last, Mulder had gotten up from the bench and headed back to the motel,
determined to try to make amends if Scully was still up, or at least get some
sleep if she was not.  But as he approached the Heartland, he'd found himself
growing uneasy, even fearful.  At first he didn't understand where those
feelings were coming from, but as he walked across the parking lot towards
Scully's room, it came to him.


He was afraid of his partner.


Which made no sense at all.  It was true that he had hurt her, and hurt her
badly, but she had been just as hard on him -- and Scully was certainly honest
enough to acknowledge that, at least to herself.  On top of that, her last
words, before she went back to the motel, had been to inquire if he was coming
with her -- hell, reading between the lines, she'd been *asking* him to come
with her.


But no matter how compelling the logic had seemed, Mulder hadn't been able to
make himself believe it.  And so without breaking stride he stepped on past
her door, and kept on going, into the night.


But now here he was, at last, sprawled out on the same bed he'd lain on the
night before, when he and Scully had had the first half of their disastrous
talk.  The other bed had obviously been slept in, and Mulder had been tempted
to lie down on that one, if only so he could feel a little closer to Scully.
But his anxiety -- or something -- had not permitted that.  Just as it had not
permitted him to read the note she had left taped to the television screen.


God, he was tired.  He was so fucking tired.  He was supposed to have reported
to Conyers, of course, at eight o'clock, but between his physical exhaustion,
and the aftereffects of the last night's emotional firestorm, he just didn't
have it in him.  He supposed there would be consequences for his failure to
show up, but right now that seemed very far away and unimportant.  


Within minutes, he had fallen fast asleep.


#          #          #


Iowa City, IA
Bruegger's Bagel Bakery
9:58 a.m.


Scully took another sip of coffee, and tried to concentrate on the stack of
photographs in front of her.  She'd been here for an hour and a half, now, but
she was only halfway through the photos from Angela D'Amato's funeral.  At
this rate, she'd never be done in time for the evening briefing.


Exhaustion was partly to blame.  She'd been operating on too little sleep for
almost a week now, and she couldn't go on much longer.  Her body simply
wouldn't tolerate it.


Scully glanced at her watch, and sighed.  The other issue, of course, was the
question of Mulder's whereabouts.  Surely he had returned to the motel by now
-- but if he had, why hadn't he called her?  The note she'd left had been as
conciliatory as she could make it, without actually conceding any points, and
she was gradually becoming alarmed at his failure to respond.  


Once again she tried to focus on the stack of photographs, but it just wasn't
working.  She was too tired, and she had too much else on her mind.  She
needed a short change of pace -- something else to think about for a few
minutes.  Perhaps this would be a good time to make those phone calls Mulder
had been after her to make.  There wasn't going to be anything there, but at
least it would be a break from staring at those stupid photographs -- and
maybe she could dispose of her partner's tattoo theory, once and for all.


She pulled her cell phone from her jacket pocket, and started dialing.


#          #          #


The Heartland Inn
11:14 a.m.


Mulder awoke with a start, and for a moment he was disoriented.  But then he
recognized his surroundings, and relaxed.


He wasn't really surprised that he'd fallen asleep -- but having done so, he
was a bit bemused at having awakened so soon.  He did feel remarkably rested,
though, despite having had only a little more than two hours of sleep -- and
the cloud of depression that had been hovering over him since yesterday
morning seemed to have receded a bit, too.


Mulder yawned and stretched, and climbed slowly to his feet, stumbling
slightly in the process.  He wasn't completely refreshed -- he was still
feeling a bit sluggish, and needed to do something to get his blood moving
again.  A shower would be good for that -- but a run first would be even
better.  He was going to have to report in to Conyers, and he needed to have
his head about him for that.  


And on his way in he could stop in at the Electric Head and *finally* get a
copy of the damned magazine, too.  Conyers' fingerpainting exercises had kept
him penned up all day yesterday, and by the time he'd been allowed to leave,
the bookstore Alexa had mentioned had been closed.  But today he was going to
do that *first* -- and if that made him a few minutes later getting to the
Civic Center, Conyers would just have to deal.


#          #          #


Bruegger's Bagel Bakery
11:51 a.m.


Scully stepped out of the ladies room and pushed her way through the noontime
crowd.  She briefly considered going to the counter for something to eat, but
the line was just too long -- and Oliver would be here for lunch in a little
over an hour, in any case.  And so she made her way back to her table.


She sighed, and picked up her notebook.  She'd called seven people in the past
hour, while taking a few minutes to review photographs between calls -- and
much to her surprise, three of the four victims actually had had tattoos.  


This was, of course, going to make it that much harder to convince Mulder that
there was nothing to it.  She knew from long experience how tenacious he could
be, even without evidence -- and once he knew that there was any support for
his theory at all, he was going to become even more difficult to deal with --
no matter how illogical, or even irrational, the rest of his hypothesis might
be.


The only one of the four who apparently hadn't had a tattoo was Vanessa
Haynes, the second victim -- and Scully was sorely tempted just to let that
one rest.  She'd called the victim's mother and both her sisters, and all
three of them were positive that Vanessa had not had a tattoo.  And that
should be the end of it, Scully, thought -- because a clue wasn't a clue if it
didn't apply to all four cases.  Not in building a profile of a serial killer,
at any rate, which was what Mulder was trying to do.


Idly Scully let her gaze skim over the list she'd started.  One of the victims
-- Angela D'Amato, victim number one -- had had a tattoo of a frog; the other
two had had snakes.  There was something about that combination that bothered
her, but she was still so tired --


And then she remembered.  Those poems -- the ones Mulder had found in that
body art magazine.  There had been one about a frog, one about a slug, and one
about a snake.  Scully couldn't remember which poem Mulder had identified with
each victim -- she hadn't been taking his theory very seriously, and she'd had
other things on her mind.  But two of the three poems, at least, had
counterparts in the victims' tattoos.  It had to be a coincidence, though --
because Vanessa Haynes hadn't had a tattoo.


Had she?


Was it possible that she could have had a tattoo, and her family wouldn't know
about it?  Scully stopped to think for a moment.  Very few people knew about
her own tattoo, she realized.  No more than a dozen or so, in all -- Mulder,
Skinner, Jerse ... the guy who'd given it to her, of course.  The detective
from the Philadelphia PD who had taken her statement while she was still in
the hospital.  Some of the hospital staff.


But she hadn't told her mother or brothers, and if it hadn't been for Jerse's
attempt to kill her, Mulder and Skinner wouldn't know, either -- and neither
would the local police or the hospital staff.


Only she, Jerse and the tattoo artist would know.


Maybe Vanessa's family hadn't known about her tattoo, either.  But if that was
the case, who *would* know?  She couldn't just canvass every tattoo parlor in
the state, on the off chance that someone might remember one customer out of
hundreds.  


Absently, Scully reached out for her cup of coffee as she tried to think.  The
liquid sloshed a bit as she picked it up -- apparently someone had refilled it
while she was in the restroom.  Scully took a sip and winced slightly.  The
coffee was bitter -- more bitter than it usually was at Bruegger's.  She put
the cup down and added a little sugar, then picked it up again and took
another sip.


#          #          #


The Heartland Inn
12:29 p.m.


"Mr. Mulder?"


Mulder stopped on his way through the motel lobby and turned to face the desk
clerk.  She was short and blonde, and a little plump -- Tavia, that was her
name, he remembered.


"I'm sorry," she was saying, a friendly smile on her face.  "But the assistant
manager asked me to check with all of our guests, and try to find out who was
going to be staying on.  There's a home football game this weekend, and we're
trying to figure out how many rooms we're going to have available."


Mulder shrugged, still slightly winded from the run he'd just completed.  "I'm
not really sure," he said.  "A few more days, anyway.  Sorry I can't be more
helpful, but it's not really up to us."


"That's okay," Tavia said.  "I understand.  You and Ms. Scully -- you're the
FBI agents, right?"


"That's right."


"Well, I can promise you that no one's going to bump you.  We all want this
jerk caught, so that things can get back to normal."


Mulder forced a smile, and started to turn away.  His mood had improved from
where it had been even when he first woke up, but he still was in no mood for
casual chit-chat.


"Oh, Mr. Mulder?"  Mulder sighed.  Turning back to face Tavia again, he saw
that she was reaching under the counter for something.  "The mail came just a
little while ago, and there was something for your room."


Mulder felt his eyebrows rising, and stepped forward to take the item from
her.  It was a plain nine by twelve envelope, addressed to Scully, care of the
motel.  It had, he noticed, a local postmark.  


What the hell?


After only a brief hesitation, he slid his thumbnail under the flap and tore
the envelope open.  Whatever it was, it almost certainly wasn't anything
personal -- no one would be writing to Scully here.  Not her friends or
family, anyway.  He upended the envelope, and the contents came sliding out --


It was 'The Illustrated Person'.  


The current issue.


Numbly, he checked the envelope again -- and, yes, it really was addressed to
Scully.


Mulder shook his head, trying to deny it.  This couldn't be what it seemed to
be.  It was impossible.  Tavia was speaking again, but her words flowed around
him, unheeded, as he methodically paged through the magazine to the personals.  


And there it was, circled in black, just as it had been on Marjorie Adamson's
copy.  Just as he'd known it would be, from the moment he saw what was in the
envelope.


     Serpent wakes to birth of rhyme
     Grasps its tail to encompass time
     Teacher of the heart, it waits the day
     All comes true.


     -Tebori


==========END CHAPTER SIXTEEN==========


===========
Chapter Seventeen
===========


Iowa City, IA
Bruegger's Bagel Bakery
Tuesday, October 6, 1998
12:29 p.m.


Scully was having more and more trouble concentrating on her work.  The
exhaustion brought on by sleep deprivation and the emotional stress caused by
the problems she and Mulder were having were finally taking their toll.


She took another sip of coffee and forced herself to focus on the yellow legal
pad.  She had called three more of Vanessa Haynes' friends and relatives,
trying to confirm or deny whether the woman had had a tattoo.  Two of them had
said no, but she was still waiting to hear back from Dhinu Srinivasan, Haynes'
former lover.  If anyone knew whether she had had a tattoo, he would, Scully
reasoned.  


Unless she'd gotten it after she stopped sleeping with him, of course.


There was something there.  Scully wasn't sure when she had crossed the line,
and started believing in Mulder's theory, but she had.  All of her
professional instincts were screaming at her, and with each  passing minute
she only became more sure.  There was something there.


She let her gaze drift down the list of information she'd collected so far.
Angela D'Amato had had a frog tattoo.  Doris Pennington and Marjorie Adamson
had each had a snake.  The poems Mulder had found referred to a frog, a slug
and a snake -- and now Scully remembered that the snake poem was the one that
had been repeated, which meant that it had been addressed to Pennington and
Adamson, victims number three and four, respectively.


A frog, a slug and a snake.  Damn, but that was familiar.  The niggling
feeling of something important being forgotten or overlooked, which she'd
first experienced on Sunday morning while having breakfast with Mulder, was
back with a vengeance.  She drummed her fingers on the table in frustration.
If only she weren't so tired ....


And then suddenly she had it.  It wasn't a memory associated with her father,
as she'd thought on Sunday -- it was about her brother, Bill.  


Once, while her family was living in Yokahama, she and Charlie had been left
in Bill's custody while their parents went out for the evening.  To help pass
the time, Bill told them a story -- a story which he claimed was an old
Japanese myth, although Scully had never bothered to research it to find out.
She hadn't even thought about the story in years.  It had concerned three
wizards, she remembered.  And each of the wizards had a familiar:  a toad, a
slug and a snake.


Just like in the poems.


Scully paused for a minute, trying to remember more about the story.  She
couldn't come up with the plot, but after a moment she did remember the names
of the wizards, because she and Charlie had used them as villains in various
games of make-believe for several years after the incident.  She wasn't sure
what help the names were, but she scribbled them down on her pad anyway.


She stopped writing as a brief wave of dizziness passed over her.  She was
actually starting to feel a little ill, and she just couldn't afford that
right now.  Not when she finally seemed to be getting somewhere.  


And now there was something *else* bothering her -- some other connection --
and after a moment, she realized what it was.  Those pictures she had seen on
Sunday, at the home of one of the witnesses.  Farrier -- that was it.
Alexander Farrier.  He'd had a number of sketches sitting out when she'd
arrived:  a frog, a snail and a couple of different snakes.


A snail was sort of like a slug.  Wasn't it?  Snails were from the genus
Helix, but she couldn't remember where slugs fell.  It didn't matter, though,
she thought.  No matter what the technical classification, the two were close
enough in popular conception, so she added those items to her list, as well.


Another wave of dizziness hit her, and Scully shook her head, trying to clear
it.  It was getting so hard to think, but she had to do it.  Pieces were
falling into place, and she needed to stick with it.  She reached out for her
coffee cup, which was now nearly empty.  Her hand bumped against the cup, and
it started to tip over --


"Dammit!"


Scully jumped to her feet as the lukewarm liquid began to spread across the
table.  She hastily started to gather up her papers and photographs, rescuing
some and knocking others to the floor in the process.


As she knelt down to gather up the items that had fallen, one of the
photographs caught her eye.  She picked it up and tried to study it, but she
was still having trouble concentrating, and the picture didn't seem to want to
hold still.  Finally, she managed to focus.


It was Alexander Farrier.


She turned the photo over to look at the label, and confirmed what she already
knew to be true.  The picture had been taken at Doris Pennington's funeral --
the one she and Oliver had attended the previous Friday.


Scully rested back on her heels for a moment and tried to think.  She had
something here; she really had something.  She just needed to get it all
organized in her head, so she could make sense of it.  Absently, she reached
up on the table and grabbed a pen, and wrote Farrier's name on the photograph
while she considered the matter.


Four women had been murdered -- they had had been skinned.  At least three of
those women had had tattoos.


Poems had appeared in a body art magazine, apparently making reference to the
three tattoos that Scully knew about.


Alexander Farrier had attended the funeral of at least one of the victims, and
his fingerprints had been found in another victim's home.


Farrier had some sketches, which he had apparently drawn himself, which seemed
to correspond to the victims' tattoos.  He also had a sketch of an Oroborous,
but Scully pushed the troubling thought aside.  That much, at least, *had* to
be a coincidence.


It was enough, she realized.  Not enough for a conviction, or even for an
arrest, but enough to bring Farrier in for questioning, and begin a serious
investigation into his background and recent whereabouts and activities.


A third wave of dizziness hit her, and when it passed Scully realized that she
was sitting on the floor, although she couldn't remember how she'd gotten
there.  She remembered kneeling down to recover the papers and photographs,
but during that last dizzy spell she must have lost her balance.


She needed to get to her cell phone, she thought.  She had to call someone --
she had to call Mulder, and let him know what she'd found.  Her phone was in
her jacket pocket, and her jacket was draped over the back of her chair, which
was just out of reach.  Even as she thought about it, her phone started to
shrill -- someone was calling her.  She was going to have to get up.


Somehow, Scully managed to get back to her knees.  She stopped for a moment to
rest, then reached out and grabbed for the edge of the table -- but the
surface was slick from the coffee spill, and her fingers slipped off.  She
lost her balance, and she felt herself start to fall -- and then a hand
grasped her wrist.


Scully waited until the world stopped spinning; then she looked up and
squinted.  It suddenly seemed terribly bright in the room, and all she could
make out was the form of a man standing over her.  She couldn't discern his
features, but he was tall, with dark hair, and his grip on her wrist was firm
and soothing.


Mulder.  At last.


Thank God.


#          #          #


Iowa City Civic Center
12:49 p.m.


Mulder made it from the Heartland Inn to the Civic Center in less than twenty
minutes, despite the lunchtime traffic.  He parked his car illegally in front
of the building, and took the steps leading up to the entrance two at a time.  


He had tried calling Scully several times during the frantic drive across
town, but had received no answer.  That didn't mean much, of course.  She
might have left her phone in the car, or she might be driving in traffic, or
in some other way be too busy to answer.  As he half-ran down the hallway
towards the task force conference room, Mulder consoled himself with these
thoughts.  She was probably out in the field, he reminded himself.  She was
therefore almost certainly perfectly safe.  


She was perfectly safe, he repeated in his mind, almost as if it were a
mantra.  Scully was safe, and this time he wasn't going to be too late.


He burst through the half-open doorway and into the conference room, and
skidded to a halt.  At first he thought the room was empty, but then he saw
someone sitting at the far end of the table, looking up with a bemused
expression on her face.


It was Detective Oliver.  He had met her in passing the previous day, but he
hadn't paid much attention to her.  Mulder didn't know whether to be grateful
for her presence or not.  On the one hand, Scully's temporary partner would
almost certainly know where she was.  On the other, if Oliver was here, that
meant Scully was probably around somewhere, too, instead of being out in the
field with someone watching her back.


One way to find out.


"Where's Scully?" he demanded, not giving the woman a chance to do or say
anything by way of greeting.  "I need to find her."


The detective's eyes narrowed at his tone.  "Why?"


That was not the response Mulder had expected, and he didn't have an answer
ready.  "I just need to," he replied, allowing his voice to sharpen slightly.
"Where is she?"


Oliver looked at him for a moment in apparent calculation.  Then:  "She's not
here."


Mulder suppressed the urge to swear at the woman.  Scully, he reminded
himself.  He had to focus on Scully.  He took a calming breath, and said, "I
can see that.  But I need to find her.  I have something important to tell
her."


"Why don't you tell me?" Oliver replied coolly.  "I'll make sure she gets it."


"No," Mulder said automatically, shaking his head.  He was quickly coming to
dislike the detective.  "She needs to know now, and I have to tell her in
person."


Oliver's lips compressed and her eyes narrowed.  "You're all the same," she
muttered.  She rose from her seat and started gathering up the papers she'd
been working on.  "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a lunch date."


Something in the woman's tone alerted Mulder.  "It's with Scully, isn't it?"
he asked.


"Excuse me?"  Oliver looked up from stowing the papers in her briefcase, and
the expression on her face told him everything he needed to know.


"Your lunch date," he persisted.  "You're having lunch with Scully."


Oliver looked at him for a moment, then shrugged and went back to packing her
briefcase.  "What if I am?  It's no concern of --"


"DAMMIT!"  Something inside Mulder snapped, and he slammed his hand down on
the conference table.  "Don't fuck around with me, Oliver!  I think I've
actually, finally got a clue on what's going on with this case, and I have got
to find Scully!"


"Why Agent Scully?  Agent Conyers is --"


"Fuck Conyers," Mulder grated.  "I need to talk to Scully, and I need to do it
now.  I think she might be the UNSUB's next target."


Oliver's eyes widened, and Mulder knew he finally had her attention.  "Why do
you think that?" she asked.  "Why would he be interested in Agent Scully?"


"Because she's got a tattoo," he said.  Oliver gave him a blank look;
apparently Scully hadn't discussed Mulder's theory with her.  He decided to
lay all his cards on the table; he had to have Oliver's cooperation.


Choosing his words carefully, and trying to recapture his calm, he said, "I've
been developing some leads that indicate that the UNSUB targets women with
tattoos.  I don't know why, and I don't know how he decides which woman to
take.  But this morning I came across a key piece of evidence, something I'd
been pursuing for several days, and I am virtually certain that Scully is
going to be the next target."  He took a deep breath and let it out.  "So
please, one more time.  Where is she?"


For a handful of seconds Mulder's heart seemed to stop beating as Oliver
considered what he'd said.  Finally, apparently with great reluctance, she
nodded.  "She's at Bruegger's.  I was supposed to meet her there for lunch
five minutes ago."


#          #          #


Time and location uknown


She was riding in a car.  Of that much, Scully was certain.  The irregular
stops and starts, as well as the familiar rumble of the engine, made that part
of the diagnosis easy.


She wasn't quite as sure how she had gotten here, however.  She had a vague,
confused recollection of someone assisting her to her feet, and then of
walking unsteadily for a short distance with the other person's arm around her
waist, ready to catch her if she should fall.  But she wasn't sure where they
had gone, or exactly how long it had taken.


Mulder, she decided woozily.  It must have been Mulder.  No one else could
have been that gentle and caring.  No one else would have come for her when
she needed help.  She was his one in five billion, after all.


She made him a whole person.


There was something important in that thought, and for a moment Scully tried
to consider what it might be.  But it was too hard to think, and already the
sense of importance was slipping away.  And in another minute, it was gone.


Scully was distracted by a sudden sense of acceleration.  The stop-and-go
motions seemed to have ceased, which she found distantly pleasing, since she
was beginning to feel nauseous again.  They must be on the highway, she
reasoned.  That was good.  She and Mulder belonged on the highway together,
travelling from one town to the next, investigating strange and wonderful
things.  It was their destiny ....


==========END CHAPTER SEVENTEEN==========


===========
Chapter Eighteen
===========


Iowa City, IA
Bruegger's Bagel Bakery
Tuesday, October 6, 1998
1:14 p.m.


"These are definitely her things," Mulder said grimly, looking down at the
unoccupied table.  Scully's suit jacket was draped over the back of one of the
chairs, and her briefcase was leaning against the wall immediately behind the
chair.  There was an overturned coffee cup on the table, and a small puddle of
coffee was slowly dripping off one edge of the table and onto the floor.  A
disorderly heap of photographs and a yellow legal pad, lying on the floor near
the briefcase, completed the picture.


"Do you think there was a struggle?" Oliver asked, gesturing at the general
disarray before them.


"No," Mulder replied, shaking his head.  He waved his hand briefly to
encompass the room, where half a dozen people were quietly eating.  "I think
we would've attracted more attention by now if there'd been any kind of
disturbance in the past few minutes."


Oliver nodded in apparent acceptance of the point.  "I'm going to check the
ladies' room," she announced.  And she turned and hurried away.


Mulder nodded absently, then crouched down and picked up the yellow legal pad.
Three quarters of it was covered with Scully's familiar, meticulous
handwriting -- although it seemed to him that some of the notes towards the
bottom were a little sloppy, as if she'd been getting tired, or was in a
hurry.


At the top of the page the names of the four murder victims were printed in
block letters, apparently to serve as column headings:  Angela D'Amato,
Vanessa Haynes, Doris Pennington and Marjorie Adamson.  Beneath each name was
a list of one or two word entries, and down the left hand side of the paper
each row had also been labeled:  Tattoos, IP, Myth and Farrier.


Mulder frowned.  The first two rows were pretty self-explanatory.  Scully had
obviously finally made the phone calls she'd promised to make, and had
verified that each of the victims did, in fact, have a tattoo.  Well, three of
them did, anyway, he corrected himself.  The space on the first row under
"Vanessa Haynes" had been left blank.  But whether that was because Haynes had
no tattoo, or because Scully simply hadn't finished her survey yet, was
impossible to say.


Reading across on the second row, Mulder was unsurprised to find that each
victim's tattoo appeared to correspond with the poem that had been published
in 'The Illustrated Person' that particular week.  He'd pretty much worked
that part out in his head, and Scully's research notes were simply providing
the necessary confirmation.


But what about the third and fourth rows?  The one labeled "Myth" consisted of
three words -- or possibly proper names -- which were completely unfamiliar to
him.  The one labeled "Farrier" was another list of animals which essentially
corresponded to the tattoos -- except that under "Vanessa Haynes" was the word
"snail" rather than "slug".


"She's not there."


Mulder looked up to see Oliver standing over him.  He noted that her
professional mask had slipped a bit, and she was starting to look a little
tense.  "I didn't think she would be," he replied, and turned his attention
back to Scully's notes.


"What have you got?" the detective asked, kneeling down next to him.


Mulder suppressed the impulse to tell her to go fish.  This was about Scully,
he reminded himself, and he needed all the help he could get.  He briefly went
over the first two rows of entries, explaining their significance to the
detective.  "But I don't get the third and fourth rows," he admitted.
"'Myth'?"  He tried pronouncing the unfamiliar words.  "Jiraiya.  Tsunedahime.
Orochimaru."


"That sounds like Japanese," Oliver commented.


"Maybe," Mulder replied, giving the detective a quick glance, then looking
back at the pad.  "And what about this one at the bottom?  Who -- or what --
is 'Farrier'?"


"Alexander Farrier," the detective said promptly.  "One of our interview
subjects.  One of Agent Scully's subjects, actually.  She talked to him on
Sunday afternoon or evening -- the day we split up, because we'd fallen
behind."


"Sunday," Mulder murmured, trying to put it together in his head.  Sunday was
the day Scully had come back late, so very, very tired.  She'd said something
then ... something about one of the subjects she'd interviewed bothering her
in some way.  But when he'd tried to pursue the matter she'd pulled back, and
hadn't wanted to talk about it.


Could it have been Farrier?  Was *he* the one who had upset her?  If so, how?
And was that when she was targeted?


No, that didn't work.  'The Illustrated Person's' editorial deadline had been
more than 24 hours before that, and Alexa had told him on Saturday afternoon
that they already had the Tebori ad for that week.  So it had to have been
previous to that -- no later than Friday afternoon, since Alexa said that the
ads came by mail.


"What's this?"


Mulder glanced over at Oliver again, to see that the detective had picked up
one of the photographs from the pile on the floor, and was studying it.  He
leaned over slightly to look over her shoulder -- 


It was him.  The UNSUB.  Mulder felt the knowledge jolt through his system
like an electric shock.  It was an old, familiar feeling, something he hadn't
experienced much since his profiler days, but he still remembered it well, and
he knew better than to question it.  He didn't know how he knew -- but he
knew.


It was the UNSUB.


Mulder leaned a little closer, and was distantly aware of Oliver shifting
uncomfortably, putting a little distance between them.  There were several
people in the photograph, but his gaze was focused on the one in the
foreground.  It was a tall, dark-haired man in his mid- to late-20s.  He was
standing by himself in a cemetery, hands in his pockets, and a look of
terrible sorrow on his face.


The sorrow would be genuine, Mulder reflected.  The profile he'd been building
in his head made it abdundantly clear that the UNSUB in this case cared very
deeply about his victims, and regretted whatever it was that made it necessary
for him to kill them.  


"That was taken at Doris Pennington's funeral," Oliver commented, dragging
Mulder out of his ruminations.  "The one Agent Scully and I went to last
Friday."


"That must have been where he picked her up," Mulder said flatly, still
staring at the photograph.  It made sense, he thought.  If the UNSUB had
identified Scully as a victim on Friday afternoon, he would have just had time
to put together his new ad and mail it off so that it would arrive before the
editorial deadline on Saturday.  It fit.


He noticed that there was something written on the picture, but it was lightly
done, and the handwriting was difficult to read.  He took the photograph from
Oliver and tilted it in the light, trying to make out what it said.  It was
Scully's handwriting, he realized, but it was very sloppy -- much worse than
what was on the legal pad.  Finally he got a good angle on it, and was able to
read it.


Alexander Farrier.


Shit.  Scully had put it all together.  Looking at her notes, and now at the
photograph, it was clear that the pieces had been falling into place for her.
But now she was gone, and Mulder had a horrible feeling he knew why.  He even
thought he knew where.  If only he could be certain --


"Can I help you folks?"


Mulder looked up from the photograph, to see a waitress standing a few feet in
front of him.  He rose to his feet and flipped his badge at her.  Her eyes
were still widening in surprise as he said, "Fox Mulder, FBI.  The woman who
was sitting here -- my partner, Dana Scully -- do you know what happened to
her?"


The waitress glanced at the table, then back at Mulder.  "You mean the
redhead?"  Mulder nodded.  "She was there all morning, by herself.  Just
having coffee and working on some papers and stuff."


"Did you see her leave?"


The woman shook her head.  "She was a pay-as-you-go, so I wasn't paying too
much attention.  But a few minutes ago I did look over here, and there was
someone with her.  A man, kind of tall and dark.  I remember thinking I should
see if he needed something, but I was busy at the register.  And when I looked
back over here, they were both gone."  She shrugged.  "At first, I thought you
were him, if you see what I mean."


Mulder nodded, and held out the photograph of Farrier.  "Is this the man?" he
asked.


The waitress took the picture from him and studied it for a moment.  Finally,
she shrugged again.  "Could be.  I can't say for sure; I only saw him for a
second."  She handed the photograph back to Mulder.  "Is there something
wrong?  Who was that guy?"


Mulder's thoughts were in a whirl.  It really was him.  It really was Farrier,
and Farrier was the UNSUB, and he had taken Scully.  


And Scully had a tattoo.


Mulder headed for the door at a dead run.


#          #          #


Time and location unknown


Scully was vaguely aware that she'd been asleep.  The low rumble of the engine
and the thrumming of the tires on the pavement had combined with the steady,
gentle rocking of the car to allow her, finally, to drift off.


It was good to sleep, she thought drowsily.  She'd been so tired lately, and
she needed to rest.  Thank God for Mulder.  He always knew what she needed,
and he always tried to give it to her.  When she let him, anyway.  Which
wasn't nearly often enough.  She'd have to work on that.


She wondered how long she'd been asleep, and how long they'd been travelling.
She opened her eyes and tried to focus on the dashboard clock -- but it was
still so bright out, and it made her eyes water, so she closed them again.


She wondered if there was something the matter with her eyes.  She hadn't been
having any trouble with them earlier, but now she could barely stand to have
them open.  It almost felt as if they were dilated.  She considered that for a
moment, but then the thought slipped away.


She still wanted to know how long she'd been asleep; for some reason it seemed
to be important.  But if she couldn't open her eyes, she couldn't read the
clock.  It was as simple as that.


She should ask Mulder, she realized.  Mulder would know what time it was, and
he would know how long she'd been asleep.  She would ask him, and he would
tell her, and then she would know.  Somehow the knowledge made her feel very
warm and content, and made the actual answer seem much less important.  The
destination didn't really matter, she reflected.  The journey was what
counted.  It was important that they both have respect for the journey.


She was still thinking about that when she drifted back to sleep.


#          #          #


Iowa City, IA
Dubuque Street/Interstate 80 interchange
1:48 p.m.


"Where are we going?"


Mulder glanced briefly at Oliver, sitting next to him in the passenger seat,
then looked back at the road in front of him.  "D.C.," he said briefly, as he
powered the car up the on-ramp and onto the Interstate.


"You're kidding."  Mulder didn't have to see her face to know that the
detective was staring at him in disbelief.  "*Washington*, D.C.?  Why?"


"Well, probably not all the way," Mulder amended, striving to keep his voice
calm and level.  "At least, I hope we catch him before he gets there.  But
that's where he's taking Scully."  He maneuvered past a semi, then moved over
into the left lane and pressed down on the accelerator, until the needle
hovered around eighty.


He realized that Oliver hadn't said anything, and looked over to see that she
was looking at him doubtfully.  "He takes the women home," Mulder elaborated.
"To their own homes, their own beds.  He tries to make them as comfortable as
possible.  I still don't know why, but that part of the profile is
rock-solid."


Out of the corner of his eye he saw the detective shaking her head.  "So you
think he's going to drive a thousand miles, all the way to D.C., with Agent
Scully tied up in the trunk or something?"  Mulder suppressed a shudder at the
memory her comment evoked.  Oliver continued, "And he's going to do this just
so he can kill her in her own bed?  That doesn't make any sense at all!"


"It's more complicated than that," Mulder replied, a little more sharply than
he'd intended.  "And yes, I do think that's what he's doing.  You have to
understand, serial killers don't think the way most people do.  They have
their own logic, and their own way of looking at the world.  To Farrier,
making this trip doesn't just make sense; it's necessary.  It's an
imperative."


Mulder glanced over at Oliver yet again, and saw that she still didn't appear
to be convinced.  He shook his head angrily and looked back at the traffic.
This was for Scully, he reminded himself.  Everything was for Scully, and he
had to stay calm.


"Have you ever heard of Monty Props?" he asked.  He looked quickly at the
detective, and she nodded.  "John Lee Roche?  James Nelson Packard?"  Another
nod, and Mulder looked back at the highway.  "I did those profiles," he said.
"It's what I do, and I'm damned good at it.  I was right those times, and I
was right on a lot of other cases you've probably never heard of.  And I'm
right this time, too."


There was a long period of silence, and Mulder had to resist the urge to press
the woman harder.  He didn't absolutely have to have Oliver's cooperation, but
it would make the job considerably easier if he did.


Finally, she said, "Okay.  So he's heading for D.C."  She waved at the highway
in front of them.  "What do we do now?  Just chase along after him?"


"No," Mulder said, shaking his head and reaching into his jacket pocket.  He
pulled out his cell phone and tossed it to the detective.  "Time to call in
the clans."


Out of the corner of his eye he saw her nod again, and a few seconds later she
was speaking into the phone, her voice crisp and professional.


"This is Detective Sergeant Amanda Oliver," she said.  "ICPD badge number
1215.  Calling to report an officer in need of assistance, and a possible
hostage situation."  She paused for a moment, while the dispatcher apparently
said something, then continued, "The officer is Special Agent Dana Scully of
the FBI.  Female caucasian, about five-two, about one ten.  Auburn and blue.
She is being held under duress by a male suspect, possible I.D. Alexander
Farrier, of Riverside, Iowa ...."


Mulder listened for a pair of minutes as Oliver passed along the rest of the
information they'd developed.  Finally, she terminated the call, and handed
the phone back to him.


"And now we see if we can get something going on the other end," he commented,
and punched the speed dial for the Bureau's Officer of the Day.


"O.D."  The man's voice sounded bored, and a little sleepy.


"This is Special Agent Fox Mulder," Mulder said tersely.  He rattled off his
badge number and waited for a moment for the man to enter the information in
his computer.


"Agent Mulder," the O.D. said, "I have instructions that you are to contact
Assistant Director Kersh as soon as possible."


Mulder shook his head in annoyance.  "I don't have time for that right now,"
he said.  "I have a situation developing, and I need --"


"Agent Mulder," the other man cut in, "I am not authorized to receive any
messages from you at this time.  Please stay on the line while I connect you
with A.D. Kersh."


Mulder swore and hit the disconnect.


"Problems?"


Mulder shook his head again.  "Nothing I shouldn't have expected," he
muttered.  He punched another of his speed dials.


"Lone Gunman."


"Frohike, it's Mulder," he said.  "I need some information, and I need it
fast."


"Hang on."  Mulder waited for a moment, and heard a keyboard clicking at the
other end of the connection.  Finally:  "Okay.  Whatcha got going?"


"Scully's in trouble," Mulder said without preamble.  "I need a background
check on Alexander Farrier, of Riverside, Iowa."


"Can you tell me anything about the case?"  Frohike asked.  "It might help me
focus my search a bit."


Mulder nodded.  "You've heard of the multiple killings out in Iowa this past
month?"


"Yeah.  Is this connected?"


"I think Farrier's the UNSUB," Mulder replied.  "But I haven't been able to
prove it yet, and I don't know what's going to be important, so just dig up
everything you can.  Uh ... "  


Mulder dropped the phone in his lap and grabbed the steering wheel with both
hands as a motorcycle cut in front of him without warning.  A few seconds of
sharp braking, and he was in the clear.  He picked up the phone again.


"Anyway," he continued smoothly, "the one thing I'd like a priority on is what
sort of car Farrier owns.  The son of a bitch has got Scully, and they're
headed for D.C.  I'm in pursuit, eastbound on Interstate 80.  I need make,
model, license number -- anything you can get, and fast."


"I think I can get that for you right now," the little man said.  "Stay on the
line a minute."  It was actually closer to two minutes, and again Mulder heard
the keyboard clicking in the background.  Finally, Frohike spoke again.
"Okay, you ready?"


Mulder glanced at Oliver, and snapped, "Notebook."  A look of annoyance
crossed her face, but she reached into her jacket pocket and Mulder looked
back at the highway.  To Frohike:  "Go."


"Okay," the little man repeated.  "This is from the Iowa DOT.  Alexander
Farrier is the registered owner of a 1989 white Cavalier, Iowa plate number
064BKD.  He seems to have a clean driving record, other than a speeding ticket
issued in 1988."  Mulder repeated the information back for Oliver's benefit.
Then Frohike said, "Anything else you need before I close this window?"


"No," Mulder replied.  "That'll do for now.  Just get on the rest of it, and I
mean *everything*.  Credit history, police record, if he has one, military
record, again if any -- the works.  Oh ... and there is one more thing."  He
groped around on the seat until he found the yellow legal pad with Scully's
notes on it.  "I've got three words here, possibly proper names.  I don't know
what they mean or even if they're important, but they're on a notepad Scully
was working on.  Ready?"


"Shoot."


Mulder read off the three words, giving the spelling of each and keeping one
eye on the traffic as he did so.  He concluded, "As I said, I don't know if
they're important, but you'd better assume they are.  Try looking up
mythological references."  He glanced at Oliver, then back at the traffic, and
added.  "Japanese mythology, maybe."


"Okay.  Anything else?"


"Nothing I can think of," Mulder said.


"I'll get back to you as soon as I can."  And the connection was broken.


==========END CHAPTER EIGHTEEN==========


===========
Chapter Nineteen
===========


Time and location unknown


At first Scully wasn't sure what had awakened her.  She was still in the car;
of that she was certain.  The side of her face was pressed against the cool
glass of the window, and she could feel the seatbelt still gently but firmly
restraining her upper body.


But the car had stopped moving, she suddenly realized.  That was the
difference.  The low rumble of the engine had also ceased, so they evidently
weren't sitting at a stoplight, or backed up in heavy traffic; they were
actually parked somewhere.


Cautiously, Scully opened her eyes.  The unpleasant glare from earlier was
still present, but seemed to be a bit less severe than it had been before.  It
also seemed a little easier to think, although her thoughts were still slow,
sluggish and somewhat confused.


Slowly, her surroundings were coming into focus.  She was slumped over against
the door on the passenger side of the car; through the window, she could make
out gas pumps and a couple of other vehicles.  From the angle of the sunlight,
reflecting off the dark blue hood of the car, she judged it to be either
mid-morning or mid-afternoon, but the fog in her brain was still too thick for
her to ascertain which it was.


Turning her head slightly, she saw that the driver's seat was empty.  That was
strange.  Mulder should be there, shouldn't he?  He was the one .... he was
the one .... he was the one what?  She couldn't remember, and it didn't seem
important anymore, and the light was starting to bother her again ....


The sound of a car door slamming startled Scully back to wakefulness.  Her
eyes popped open, and the sudden glare made them water, so after a few seconds
she shut them again.  She was distantly aware that Mulder was back in the
driver's seat again, moving around and doing something, but she didn't seem to
have the energy to open her eyes again or turn her head.


She felt a hand on her shoulder.  "Dana.  Dana, wake up."


Scully frowned.  It was a man's voice, and it had to be Mulder.  But he didn't
call her Dana -- not very often, anyway.  Usually when he did, it was because
he needed her attention.  He needed her.  She would have to do something, no
matter how hard it was, because Mulder needed her.


She forced her eyes open again, and winced at the renewed glare.  Turning her
head once again, she saw Mulder sitting next to her.  She couldn't see the
expression on his face because of the light, but he was holding something in
his hand, offering it to her.


It was a cup, she realized.  He wanted her to drink something.


"Here, Dana," he said, in soothing, gentle tones.  "Just a bit of chamomile to
help you relax.  You've been so tense, lately.  You need to relax."


Automatically, she accepted the cup from Mulder's hand and took a sip.  It was
warm and strong, and very bitter, but she forced it down anyway.  Mulder
wanted her to have it, so she should drink it.  It would make him happy if she
drank it.  She took another sip, and again she closed her eyes.


The car abruptly moved forward, and Scully's hand shook.  She almost lost the
cup she was holding, but in hanging on to it managed to spill a little more
than half of the remaining liquid.


She glanced blearily over at Mulder, and saw that he was apparently so
absorbed in maneuvering the car that he hadn't noticed.  What he didn't know
wouldn't hurt him, she decided.  Besides, it wasn't very good tea.  She
quietly upended the cup, dumping the rest of it onto the floor, then laid her
head against the headrest and closed her eyes again.


#          #          #


Passing Knoxville, IL
Eastbound on Interstate 74
Tuesday, October 6, 1998
3:02 p.m.


"Are you absolutely sure about this?"


Mulder glanced over at Oliver, then looked back at the highway.  The detective
hadn't spoken for nearly an hour, and he'd been so focused on driving, and
watching for a white Cavalier, that he'd almost forgotten she was there.


"Agent Mulder!"


He realized he handn't answered her.  Now he shrugged slightly, and without
looking at the woman sitting next to him, he said, "Yes, I'm sure.  I told you
before, the profile --"


"Yeah, sure, the profile."  Oliver's voice was cool, distant and professional.
"The only thing is, we've been on the road for over an hour, and I haven't
seen any white Cavaliers."


"Neither have I," Mulder replied briefly.  "But it's up there ahead of us
somewhere.  Count on it."


"Maybe."  The detective was quiet for a moment.  Then, all in a rush:  "Or
maybe they never left Iowa City.  Maybe right now, at this moment, Agent
Scully is --"


"Shut up!"  Mulder hands clenched on the steering wheel as he tried to banish
the images Oliver's words had conjured up.  Finally, through gritted teeth:
"This profile is correct.  I've never been more sure of anything in my life."


"Fine," she snapped.  "And I suppose you're ready to stake your reputation on
it, too.  I just hope for Agent Scully's sake --"


Mulder's cell phone rang, and he scooped it off the seat and punched the
connect button in one smooth motion.  "Mulder."


"Mulder, it's Frohike.  Where are you?"  The little man's voice sounded tense,
but calm.


"Western Illinois," Mulder replied.  "We just passed Galesburg a few minutes
ago ... coming up on Peoria in about forty miles.  Why?"


"Shit."  Mulder heard keys clicking.  "You're going the wrong way, man."


"Fuck that," Mulder snapped.  "The son of a bitch is heading for D.C., and --"


"Just shut up for a minute and listen for once!" the little man interrupted
testily.  "I didn't mean it that way.  I mean you're on the wrong highway.
You just passed Galesburg, so you're on 74, right?"


"Right."


"Well, eighteen minutes ago, Alexander Farrier's credit card was used at a
truck stop in Princeton, Illinois.  That's on 80."


"Fuck!"  Mulder resisted the immediate urge to slam on the brakes.  Instead he
peered ahead, on down the highway, looking for the next exit ramp.  "Gimme a
route over to 80, Frohike," he said.  "We're coming up on mile marker ...
sixty one, it looks like."


"Slow down, pal."  The annoyance was gone from his friend's voice.  "I think
that'd be a mistake.  You'd just fall farther behind."


"But --"


"Wait a minute, Mulder -- just wait a minute.  I'm looking at a map over on
Yahoo."  There was a moment of silence.  Then:  "Look, if this guy is really
heading for D.C. --"


"He is."


"I believe you," Frohike assured him.  "But if he *is* heading that way, he's
gonna have to cross over to I-70 at some point, because 80 doesn't go to D.C.
-- it goes to New York.  And you're going to wind up on 70, too.  So if you
just stay on the highway you're on, eventually he'll come to you."


"Where?"


"I'm a programmer, not a mindreader."  Another pause.  "If I was doing it, I'd
take the Pennsylvania Turnpike -- that's I-76.  It looks like the shortest and
fastest route.  Does he know you're after him?"


"I doubt it," Mulder replied.


"Okay, then there's no reason for him not to take the direct route.  And 76
meets up with 70 just east of Pittsburgh ... so that should be your rendezvous
point."


"Shit," Mulder commented.  "That's gotta be at least five hundred miles."


"More like six hundred," the little man replied calmly.  "But it's your best
shot.  And that's my recommendation.  I've already hacked into the Illinois
State Police dispatch system and posted an alert.  Same for Indiana and Ohio.
So with any luck, the cops'll find him before he gets anywhere near that
interchange."


"They didn't find Duane Barry," Mulder said grimly.


"That's true," Frohike agreed, his voice still calm and even.  "But this time
we pretty much know where the son of a bitch is going, and we've got a lot
more lead time.  Now I've got some preliminary info on Farrier.  You ready for
it?"


Mulder nodded.  "Lay it on me."


"Okay.  This is in no particular order; I haven't had time to organize it.
And it's not complete, either."  This time Mulder heard papers rustling.
"I've got all the usual biographical crap.  Born 1971, went to school in
Washington, Iowa, and got average grades.  Six years in the Navy -- his MOS
was pharmacist's mate.  Now employed as a pharmacy tech at the University of
Iowa.  Never been married, and both parents are still living.  No criminal
record.  With me so far?"


"Yeah."  Mulder felt himself sinking into a familiar analytical haze as
Frohike's words continued to pour from the receiver.  "Go on."


"That's all I've got on Farrier, at least for the moment," Frohike said.  "But
I've also got some data on those three names you gave me."  The little man
paused, and Mulder suddenly had the feeling his friend was groping for the
right words.  Finally:  "Mulder, I have to ask you a question, and you have
got to be straight with me, because it could make a difference.  Is this
related to Scully's tattoo?"


Now it was Mulder's turn to be silent.  Frohike knew about the tattoo.
Somehow, some way, he knew about it.  Not that it was a secret, exactly, but
--


"Mulder!" Frohike said sharply.


Mulder shook his head angrily.  There wasn't time for this.  "Yes," he said,
surprised at the steadiness of his own voice.  "Yes, it concerns her tattoo.
All of the victims had tattoos.  That's part of the profile."


"That's what I thought."  The little man's voice was grim and unyielding.
"Anyway, those three names are indeed from Japanese mythology.  Jiraiya,
Tsunedahime and Orochimaru were three very powerful wizards who lived on Mt.
Togakushi.  They were evil wizards, natch, and they specialized in trying to
outdo each other in villainy."


"Frohike, does this have a point?"


"I'm coming to it," Frohike replied calmly.  "Each of the wizards had a
familiar:  a toad, a slug and a snake, respectively.  And --"


"Wait a minute," Mulder said.  "Those are the tattoos the victims had."  It
was all starting to come together in his head --


"There's more," Frohike went on.  "We know that Agent Scully has a tattoo of a
snake, which would be connection enough.  But hers -- it's not just any snake.
It's an Oroborous.  The whole never-ending cycle thing, right?  So get this:
as part of the legend, the familiars are locked into a cycle.  The snake eats
the toad, the toad eats the slug, the slug dissolves the snake.  And on and on
and on."


"Shit."


"Exactly."  Mulder could almost see his friend nodding wisely.  "Which might
explain why your boy didn't stop with three."


"It might at that," Mulder replied.  He thought a moment.  "Although he wasn't
following the cycle.  The snake just kept repeating, whereas if he was
following the legend, you'd think he'd go back and start over.  But maybe he
was looking for the perfect snake .... "  He allowed his voice to trail off.


"And then Agent Scully came along with an Oroborous," Frohike finished.  "And
Farrier saw a chance to complete his own cycle."


"Right."  Mulder was quiet for a moment.  Finally, he shook his head.  "Okay,
I'm going to have to let that percolate for a bit," he said.  "Got anything
else?"


"Not for now," the little man replied.  "Well, one thing I guess."  He paused,
and Mulder realized that his friend was about to make a pronouncement of some
sort.  And when Frohike did speak, his voice was very quiet.  "Scully just
needed to talk to someone, Mulder, and it pretty obviously wasn't going to be
you.  But I've never seen her tattoo.  There's only one man I know of who's
ever likely to have that privilege."


The connection was broken.


#          #          #


Time and location unknown


They were stopped again, at another gas station.  Scully wasn't sure how long
she'd been asleep, but judging from the crick in her neck and the fact that it
was now dark out, it must have been several hours.  She was still extremely
tired and languid, and her thoughts were slow and sluggish.  But at least now,
with the sun having gone down, it didn't hurt quite so much when she opened
her eyes.


Unfortunately, there wasn't anything of interest to look at.  A truck stop was
a truck stop was a truck stop, she philosophized sleepily.  She'd been to so
many of them in the past five years that she could write a book.  'All About
Truck Stops'.  That was a good title, she decided.  It would make a good book,
and maybe Mulder would help her write it.  He'd seen a lot of truck stops,
too, and the two of them really only at their best when they were working
together.


She wished he would come back from wherever he'd gone.  The driver's seat was
empty, just as it had been the last time she awoke, and Scully suddenly felt
very lost and alone.  Maybe she should just go back to sleep.  Then when she
woke up again, Mulder would be there beside her, where he was supposed to be.  


But she didn't want to sleep; she'd done enough sleeping.  She wanted to stay
awake and see Mulder.  Surely he'd be back soon.  He wouldn't leave her alone
like this -- not any longer than he had too, anyway.  If she could only stay
awake a few more minutes ....


And then suddenly he was there, as if by magic, sitting in the seat next to
her.  Scully realized she must have dozed off, despite her intentions, and she
silently berated herself for her lack of self-discipline.  


"Some more chamomile?"


Mulder's voice came to her out of the shadows, and looking down, she saw that
he was once again offering her a cup, presumably filled with that vile-tasting
tea.  Still, he meant well, she reminded herself, and he was her partner --
and Ahab would be angry if he heard that she had refused a common courtesy.
So she forced a smile, even though she wasn't sure if he could see her in the
darkness anymore than she could see him, and accepted the cup.  


She raised it to her lips and took a small sip, just in case this offering was
better than the last, but it was just as strong and bitter as before.  And so
she waited while Mulder started the engine and put the car in gear, and as
soon as she thought his attention was diverted, she dumped the contents of the
cup onto the floor.


Then Scully settled back into her seat and waited for sleep to overtake her
again.


==========END CHAPTER NINETEEN==========


===========
Chapter Twenty
===========


Richmond, IN
Tuesday, October 6, 1998
8:34 p.m., Eastern Daylight Time


"Dammit, Oliver, hurry up!"  


Mulder banged his fist impatiently on the door to the ladies' room.  They'd
been stopped here for nearly ten minutes, which was five minutes longer than
he'd planned.  And with each minute that passed, Farrier was a mile farther
east; a mile closer to the crucial interchange.


At last the door swung open, and the detective brushed by him on her way back
to the car, walking briskly, her cool, professional mask firmly in place.  Her
exit was so abrupt that Mulder had to run a few steps to catch up.


Oliver sat quietly on the passenger side as Mulder fastened his seat belt,
started the engine, and maneuvered the car out onto the street.  Finally, as
he was accelerating up the ramp to the Interstate once again, she spoke.


"You know, the two of you are a real piece of work."


"What?"  Mulder was only half paying attention, as he tried to cope with a
battered VW that didn't seem to want to let him merge onto the highway.


"You and Agent Scully," Oliver elaborated.  "I don't know what it is between
the two of you -- at first I thought you were just an asshole, and she was too
cowed to do anything about it."


"You got that half right, anyway," Mulder muttered.  He'd finally made it onto
the Interstate, and now he pressed down on the gas, resisting the urge to flip
off the driver of the VW as he went by.


"Yeah, I do," the detective agreed.  "But it's more complicated than that,
isn't it?"


Mulder shrugged.  "You tell me, Dr. Ruth."


Out of the corner of his eye he saw Oliver shaking her head.  "You don't have
to work so hard at it, you know," she said.  "Everyone already knows you're a
prick.  Everyone except for Agent Scully."


"Oh, she knows," he commented.  "Trust me on this one."


"No, she doesn't," the detective answered.  "She may pay lip service to the
idea, but she doesn't really believe it.  She doesn't know you for what you
are, not really.  Not the way I do.  And if you had any decency you'd just let
her walk away."


For a moment, Mulder struggled with the temptation to tell Oliver that he'd
tried -- that he'd done his level best to get Scully to leave, and at least
save herself.  


//You were right to want to quit,// he'd told her, only a few weeks before,
//when he was still fresh from the agony of nearly losing her yet again.
////You were right to want to leave me. You should get as far away from me as
//you can.  I'm not going to watch you die, Scully, because of some hollow
//personal cause of mine. Go be a doctor. Go be a doctor while you still
//can.//


She hadn't, of course.  He hadn't really expected her to, and in his heart, he
hadn't even wanted her to leave.  But the imp of the perverse had forced those
words from his lips, and he had then lived in purgatory for the few eternal
seconds before she voiced her refusal.


He realized that Oliver was watching him, waiting for some sort of a response,
but he didn't really have anything to say that she would understand.  No one
could understand -- not unless that person had been through the same crucible
that he and Scully had endured the past five years.  And then, of course,
there would be no need to ask the question, because both the inquiry and the
answer would already be understood.


Finally, he simply shrugged, and said, "If we quit now, they win."


#          #          #


Location unknown
11:58 p.m.


It wasn't Mulder.


The realization had come to Scully gradually, over the course of the past hour
or so.  She still didn't know who the driver was; it was too dark for her to
make out his features.  But it wasn't Mulder.  The shape of the head was
wrong, and the way he held the steering wheel, and even the little songs he
hummed to himself were songs Mulder would never hum.


He thought she was still asleep.  When she had first awakened, she hadn't
bothered to move, because although her thoughts were moving much more cleanly
and smoothly than they had been before, her body still felt limp and worn out,
as if she had been dragged through a wringer.  So she remained still and
quiet, and took the rare opportunity to watch and admire her partner without
his knowledge.


But it wasn't her partner.


Her first instinct was to challenge the man, to demand to know who he was,
where he was taking her, and why.  Her early life experience had taught her
the importance of being assertive, and her training at Quantico and her
experience as an FBI agent had reinforced that, drumming in the lesson that a
law enforcement officer must move quickly to establish dominance in any
uncertain situation.


Yet she had also learned the value of caution over the years, and before she
forced herself to stop and consider her circumstance before taking precipitous
action.


She was in a precarious position.  That was immediately evident from even the
most cursory review.  She was in a car, being driven somewhere by an unknown
person.  Suspect, she amended in her mind.  The driver of the car was already
guilty of kidnapping a federal officer -- and judging from the lethargy that
still pervaded her body, Scully suspected that she had also been drugged.


The suspect's reason for doing all this was also unknown, and that was another
handicap, Scully realized.  It meant that she didn't know how important it was
to him that she remain alive until the end of the trip -- nor did she know
what he intended to do with her once they reached their final destination.
Hell, she didn't even know what that destination might be, or how much longer
it would take to get there.


The aftereffects of whatever drug she had been given were still another
liability.  Her mind seemed to be clear and sharp, at last, but her body was
still lethargic, which would put her at a severe disadvantage if she had to
fight for her freedom.  And by shifting slightly in her seat, she was able to
determine that her primary weapon was not in its usual place, and that her
holdout was gone, as well.


She had very few options, Scully concluded grimly.  At the very least, she
would have to wait for the car to stop again, and hope that it was another gas
or restroom break, rather than the final destination.  At a truck stop or
service station there would be other people around, and perhaps she would have
an opportunity to signal for help.


Scully closed her eyes again, but this time she did not sleep.


#          #          #


Near Pittsburgh, PA
Junction of Interstates 70 & 76
Wednesday, October 7, 1998
1:28 a.m.


A pair of headlights flashed in the distance, dragging Mulder from the
semi-hypnotic state he'd fallen into.  Westbound, he thought.  Those
headlights were westbound, and therefore were of no interest.


They were stopped on the median strip just past the junction of Interstate 70
and Interstate 76, facing east, having arrived about thirty minutes earlier.
Frohike had assured him, based on the last use of Farrier's credit card, that
the other vehicle was following the predicted path, and could not possibly
have arrived yet.  But so far, there had been no sign of it.


"That makes three," Oliver commented quietly, as the twin beams resolved into
a red Toyota.  "Three heading west, and five heading east.  No white
Cavaliers."


Mulder nodded briefly, but said nothing.  He could count as well as she could,
and he had no desire to engage in idle chit-chat with the detective.  All he
wanted to do was watch for the white Cavelier.  All he wanted to do was watch
for Scully.


"How did Farrier know about Agent Scully's tattoo, anyway?" Oliver asked
abruptly.  "That's the one thing that bothers me about this whole thing.  Do
you suppose she and Farrier --"


"No!" Mulder said curtly.  "Scully's not like that."  He hesitated, not sure
how much he wanted to go into this with the detective.  While he was thinking
about it, another car went by, this one heading east -- a blue Mustang, Mulder
noted absently.  That made six.


"So how did he know?" Oliver persisted, her voice tinged with sarcasm.  "Since
we seem to have ruled out the possibility that Agent Scully might have wanted
to unwind, I mean, and might have gone looking for some company to do it
with."


"Scully's wouldn't do that," Mulder grated, fighting off the stab of pain the
woman's words were causing him.  "And if she did, she wouldn't do it with the
subject of an investigation.  She has better judgment than that, and more
self-control."


"Well you certainly seem to have her up on a pedestal, don't you?" the
detective murmured.  "Of course, I imagine the rules are different for
co-workers --"


Mulder slammed his hands down on the steering wheel.  "Dammit!  I don't need
this right now."  He turned to face her.  "You want to know how I think that
asshole knew about Scully's tattoo?  I think he was able to sense it.  I think
he has some sort of psychic ability that allows him to somehow see or hear a
tattoo, or in some other way just *know* that it's there.  There are plenty of
documented cases --"


Oliver started laughing.  "Oh, you have *got* to be kidding!" she said.
"Psychic abilities?  Why not x-ray vision, for Christ's sake!"


"You have no idea --" Mulder started -- and then chopped off short as his cell
phone shrilled.  He scooped it up and punched the connect button.  "Mulder."


"It's me."  Frohike's voice was higher than normal, and he was speaking very
quickly.  "Mulder, I think I've got something big.  And I think I know why the
highway patrol hasn't had any luck looking for a white Cavalier."


"Why?"  Mulder clutched the cell phone a little tighter.


"Man, I screwed up," Frohike said.  "I'm sorry.  It never occurred to me --"


"Frohike!" Mulder said sharply.  "Get to the point!"


"Okay, okay."  There was a very brief pause while the little man apparently
fought to get his breathing under control.  "Look," he said, "I just hacked
into the the University of Iowa's medical records.  And I discovered that
Farrier had a sister, and she died there last June.  Care to guess what the
cause of death was?"


Mulder suppressed the urge to swear at his friend, and simply said, "Tell me."


"Complications from hepatitis," the little man said succinctly.  "Hepatitis B
to be precise.  They never did find out where she caught it, but the only risk
factor anyone was able to identify --"


"Was a tattoo," Mulder said.  "Jesus.  He blamed his sister's death on a
tattoo."


"Sure sounds like it," Frohike agreed.


"And that's why he took such care with his victims," Mulder went on.  Suddenly
everything was falling into place, and he couldn't keep himself from reeling
it off to the only available audience.  


"He didn't want to hurt them," he went on.  "He didn't even want to make them
uncomfortable, and he certainly didn't want to kill them.  He was trying to
*save* them.  That explains the flowers, and the ceremonial urns used to hold
the ashes after the skin was burned."  He shook his head sharply.  "Christ --
it even explains the ice cream.  That was for the 'patient' to eat while she
was recovering -- like a little kid after a tonsillectomy."


"There's more," Frohike said grimly.  "And this is where I fucked up.
According to the ICPD's records, Farrier's car was impounded this afternoon,
presumably as a result of your 911 call.  But his sister also owned a car, of
course, and she was single, and the registration is still in her name --"


Mulder closed his eyes.  "What did she drive," he asked quietly.


"A '93 Mustang," the little man said.  "Dark blue."


Mulder dropped the cell phone, turned the key in the ignition, and slammed the
accelerator all the way to the floor.


#          #          #


Near Donegal, PA
Eastbound on Interstate 70/76
1:46 a.m.


Scully had a plan.  All she needed was an opportunity to carry it out.


She watched the driver of the car through slitted eyes, and carefully shifted
her foot until it once again bumped against the long, metal thermos she'd
found lying in the footwell.  The thermos from which her captor had presumably
been serving her cups of tea earlier in the trip.  The thermos which would be
her principle weapon when the time came.


The tea was probably the source of the drugs he'd been giving her.  Scully
didn't remember much about the early part of the journey, but she remembered
the tea.  It had been strong and bitter, and after she started dumping it out
of the cup instead of drinking it, her mind had started to clear.  So the tea
was almost certainly the culprit.


Strong and bitter, Scully thought to herself.  That was how the tea had
tasted, and that was also how Oliver had described the extract -- or whatever
it was -- of yellow jasmine.  Gelsemium; that was the name.  The detective had
characterized it as a painkiller, and theorized that the killer had used it to
pacify his victims.


Just as she herself had been pacified.


Which in turn allowed her to identify the man who had abducted her.


Scully's attention was drawn back to the present as she felt the car change
lanes and begin to decelerate.  She opened her eyes a little farther, and
turned her head enough to see that they were approaching an exit ramp.


The time had apparently come.


#          #          #


"That must be him."


Mulder nodded in acknowledgement of Oliver's comment.  She was pointing at the
tail lights of a car, perhaps a mile in front of them.  The blue Mustang had
been the last vehicle to go by, and there had been no interchanges or exits
since they started their pursuit.  By the process of elimination, those tail
lights almost certainly belonged to the vehicle they were looking for.


Now if only the cavalry would arrive, he thought grimly.  Frohike had posted
an alert to the Pennsylvania highway patrol, and Oliver had called 911 on the
cell phone -- but the dispatcher had informed her that the nearest trooper was
at least twenty minutes away.   


"He's signaling," Oliver said suddenly, and again Mulder nodded.  The car
ahead of them was signaling and changing lanes, and now Mulder saw an
interchange approaching.  Could they really be so lucky?  Was Farrier actually
pulling off the highway for a pit stop?


Perhaps he had simply spotted them, and was taking evasive action.


He tried to think back.  Frohike had reported the last apparent refueling stop
more than four hours ago, somewhere in central Ohio.  Call it two hundred and
fifty miles.  So it really was about time for another one.  For once, just
maybe, things were falling his way.  Now all they had to do was keep the
bastard in sight until the regular cops arrived -- or until there was an
opportunity to intervene on their own.


He tapped the brake gently, slowing the car so as to keep a good half mile
between himself and the suspect vehicle, and without signaling, he moved over
into the right lane and switched off his headlights.


#          #          #


It was time.  


They were parked once more under the bright lights of a truck stop.  A few
minutes ago, Farrier -- now that she'd seen him in the light, there was no
doubt as to his identity -- had left the car to pump gas, and now he was
walking towards the cashier's window.


She briefly considered just getting out of the car and trying to run.  But the
truck stop was in the middle of nowhere, and it was a long way even to the
cashier, and Scully still wasn't sure she could trust her legs that far.  So
she waited, the metal thermos resting lightly in her lap.


Finally, she saw Farrier turn away from the window and start back towards the
car.  As he walked up to the driver's side, she made a show of fumbling with
the lid on the thermos.  She was distantly aware of another car pulling into
the truck stop at high speed, and for just an instant she considered changing
her plan.  Perhaps the people in the car could help ....


But there was no time.  Already, Farrier was unlocking the driver's side door,
sliding into the seat and reaching for his seatbelt.  It was now or never.
Scully shrugged slightly, and went into her act.


"Want some tea," she mumbled as the man inserted the key into the ignition.
She struggled with the lid another moment, before finally thrusting it out
towards Farrier.  "Help me?"


"Sure, Dana.  Just a minute."  The man's voice was warm and gentle, and Scully
forced what she hoped was an appreciative smile at his words.  He popped the
top with one quick twist, and poured liquid into it.  Finally, he offered the
cup to her.


And it was time.  Scully reached out for the cup, deliberately misjudging the
distance and knocking it from his hand.  Hot tea went flying everywhere, and
the cup, as she had planned, wound up on the floor between Farrier's feet.


"Son of a bitch!"  For just an instant the man's voice was harsh and angry,
but he immediately settled down.  "Sorry, Dana," he said gently.  "Just a
moment."  He set the thermos on the seat between them and bent over to
retrieve the cup --


And Scully picked up the thermos and lifted it high, using all her strength to
smash it down against the back of his head.  For a moment he sat there,
perfectly still, and Scully was about to slug him again ... when suddenly he
slumped forward against the steering wheel.


And then she heard footsteps running towards her, and Mulder's voice, shouting
her name.


==========END CHAPTER TWENTY==========


===========
Epilogue
===========


Pittsburgh, PA
University of Pittsburgh Medical Center
Wednesday, October 7, 1998
4:02 p.m.


When Scully woke up, she was alone.


At first she had difficulty remembering what had happened.  She was in a
hospital room; that was obvious.  It was a private room, indicating that
someone was picking up the extra charges that entailed.  Judging from the
sunlight streaming in the window and the game show quietly babbling to itself
on the television, it was afternoon ....


Gradually, things started coming back to her.  She had made a breakthrough;
she had actually developed enough evidence to justify calling someone a
suspect.  She remembered sitting in the bagel shop as she put the pieces
together, one revelation following close on the heels of another.  Then Mulder
had arrived, and there was a long car ride ... and the slow realization that
it wasn't really Mulder ....


"Hey, Scully."


Scully turned her head, and couldn't keep a happy smile from spreading across
her face at seeing her partner standing in the doorway.  He held a styrofoam
cup in one hand, and some sort of sandwich in the other -- and he was smiling
right back at her.


"I'm sorry I wasn't here when you woke up," he said, stepping across the room
to click off the television.  He turned to face her and gestured with the hand
holding the sandwich.  "I just needed to get a little something to tide me
over."


"That's okay," she said.  She was still smiling at him; she couldn't seem to
stop herself.  Logically, she knew that all of the problems that had stood
between them twenty four hours ago were still there -- but God, she was glad
to see him.


"Your mother should be here in an hour or so," Mulder said, moving away from
the TV and settling down in the visitor's chair.  He set his drink and
sandwich on the tray table next to the bed, and continued, "I called her last
night, as soon as we got you to the E.R.  Do you remember any of that?"


Scully shook her head.  "A little.  Not much."


"You did it, Scully," he said, an unmistakable note of pride in his voice.
"You solved the case, and you whacked Farrier -- put him in the ICU.  Good
job."


Scully shook her head again, slowly.  "I don't know, Mulder," she said, her
smile slowly fading at last.  "It doesn't feel like a good job.  It feels more
like I just ... I don't know.  Stumbled into it.  You know?"


Mulder laughed a little.  "Isn't that the way about three quarters of our
cases go?" he asked.


"Yes, it is," she replied.  "But this is different, somehow.  The whole time I
was working this case, I felt incomplete.  As if part of me was missing."


Her partner nodded soberly.  "I know," he said softly.  "I've felt exactly the
same way.  Ever since Arizona."  Scully averted her eyes; that was still a
sore subject, and she wasn't sure she wanted to deal with it right now -- but
Mulder leaned forward, and lightly touched his fingers to her chin, drawing
her attention back to him.  "It's okay, Scully," he said.  "I'm not trying to
force anything."


"I know."  She paused for a moment, then continued, "But it shouldn't be like
that. Should it?  Shouldn't we be able to ... to work with whoever we're
assigned to work with?  The FBI isn't supposed to be a social club."


"That's true, Scully," he responded with a nod.  "Everything you've said is
true.  But at the same time, you and I are a team.  We're the best there is."
He smiled slightly.  "And neither of us really plays well with others; you
know that."  He sat back in his chair and crossed his legs.  "Speaking of
which -- Amanda Oliver was here a little while ago.  She said to tell you that
I'm an asshole."


Scully couldn't help but laugh at that.  "Well, she got that right, anyway."
She suddenly sobered, as a thought crystallized in her mind.  "She was a very
difficult person to get along with," she said softly.  "I don't like her very
much."


Mulder chuckled, and said, "What?  You finally found a partner who was even
harder to work with than I am?"


Scully smiled.  "Is that such an extreme possibility?"  She reached out and
briefly squeezed his hand, then let it go again.  "You know, she doesn't like
you very much."


Mulder hesitated, then shrugged.  "Actually," he said, "I'm under the
impression that she doesn't like me at all."


"That's probably true," Scully admitted.  "I think she must have had a bad
experience at some point.  Something she said ...."  Her voice trailed off as
she searched her memory.  It had been one of the times she and Oliver were
driving somewhere together.  They'd been talking about Mulder.  Something .... 


And then she had it.


"She seems to think you're taking advantage of me," Scully said.  She reached
out and took her partner's hand and gave it another squeeze.  "Which you're
not, by the way.  But something she said kind of stuck with me.  She said,
'Take it from someone who knows.'"  Scully shook her head, and added.  "I'm
not sure if that means what it seems to mean -- but it's all I've really got
to go on."  She shrugged.  "I don't suppose we'll ever know for sure."


Her partner nodded.  "You're probably right.  She seems like a very closed off
person.  Emotionally repressed."


"She is," Scully agreed.  "I think that's why she seems so ... familiar, in a
lot of ways."


"What do you mean?"


"She's me," Scully said simply.  She looked her partner in the eye, and
repeated, "She's me.  Not how I am, but how I could have been, if things were
only a little different.  Bitter, angry, repressed ... close-minded."  She
shook her head.  "And I don't like that person, Mulder.  I don't want to *be*
that person.  But sometimes ..."  Her voice trailed off again, and once more
she lowered her gaze.  "Sometimes I get the feeling that ... other people
think I'm like that."


"You mean me."


It wasn't quite a question, but she answered it anyway.  "Yes.  I mean you."


There was a long silence; at last, Scully forced herself to raise her head,
and look Mulder in the eye.  His face was a study of ... something.  An odd
mix of anxiety and compassion.  And finally, he spoke.


"Scully ..."  His voice trailed off and he shook his head.  "I'm sorry.  I'm
not sorry about the things I said -- I mean, I wasn't saying anything I didn't
think was true.  You *are* frustrating and stubborn sometimes.  You make me
crazy.  Sometimes."  


He reached out and took one of her hands in both of his.  "But I shouldn't
have said it the way I did, Scully, and I'm sorry about that.  I can't find
the words to tell you how sorry I am."  He smiled slightly.  "And I shouldn't
have compared you to Diana, either.  That was totally unfair -- to her."


Scully felt her eyebrows raising.  Mulder went on, "I mean it, Scully.  Diana
may be more ... open ... to paranormal phenomena, but ... but that's not what
I need."  His lips quirked.  "It may be what I think I want -- sometimes.  But
it's not what I need."  Suddenly, his face turned completely serious, and when
he spoke again, she could barely hear him.  "Scully, I need you to do
something for me."


Scully hesitated just an instant, then nodded.  "Okay.  What is it?"


"Turn on your side."


Scully felt her eyebrows rising again, and she was about to ask him why -- but
then she looked in his eyes, and something there told her not to.  So she
simply nodded again, and did as he had asked.


For a moment or two nothing happened, and Scully could feel herself starting
to tense up again.  Maybe she should have turned the other way, so she could
see him.  But something had told her he wanted her to face away --


Abruptly she felt something touch her hip.  Her body twitched slightly, but
somehow she managed to stay still.  She felt a gentle tugging, and realized
that Mulder must be undoing the ties on her hospital gown.  She wanted to
protest, or at least *say* something ... but again, she realized it would be
better to stay quiet.  There was a slight chill as her back was exposed to the
open air, and then something warm and slightly rough came to rest against her
lower back ....


Mulder's hand.


Scully felt a slight shock race up her spine at his touch.  It was comforting
and familiar, and yet it felt so very different -- as if they were new to each
other, and this was the very first time he had touched her.  And now his hand
was sliding, slowly, slowly, down and to the right ... and then it came to
rest, at last, on the Oroborous.


The small jolt of electricity Scully had experienced when he first touched her
was nothing compared to this.  She felt as if she were being lifted up, almost
transfigured, and a strange, exciting energy seemed abruptly to be flowing
between herself and her partner.  She had never felt anything like this
before, not even in the most intimate moments of lovemaking.  And now he was
speaking ....


"Of all the things you've said to me in the last few days," he said, as his
fingers began to trace the outline of her tattoo, in slow deliberate circles,
"I think this was the most shocking.  Not about you -- about me.  I swear to
you, Scully -- I wasn't consciously aware that I was avoiding this."  


He pressed down a little harder.  "But now that you've made me aware," her
partner continued, "I want to make sure you understand that there isn't any
part of you that I won't touch.  That there is no part of you that I refuse to
accept.  I want it all, Scully -- the good and the bad, the sweet and the
sour.  I know we've got a long way to go to get back to where we thought we
were.  But I want it all, and I won't settle for less."


"So do I," she whispered.  "I want it all, too."


"Forever," he insisted.  "It has to be everything, and it has to be forever."


"Forever," she agreed.


And Scully closed her eyes, and Mulder's fingers kept on rubbing, in slow,
intimate circles, tracing the outline of eternity.

==========THE END OF THE WHOLE STORY==========