This Thing of Darkness 
ByTara Avery 
tamarie@interchange.ubc.ca 
  
Rating: Let's give it an R, shall we?  Violence and all. 
Category: X, S, A, WIP 
Keywords: M/S UST, Case, X-File, Profiler!Mulder, M/S Angst 
Spoilers: Takes place after "Millennium," assuming none of the 
rest of season seven has or will occur. 
Summary: It was supposed to be a simple investigation of a serial 
killer... until the mind of the killer was made known.  Mulder 
struggles against truths and lies in the mind of a murderer, 
while Scully fights against shadows and conspiracies for the 
sanity of her partner. 
Distribution: Wherever you want, as long as the WIP stays 
together.  Hey, let me know, too, so I can visit your site! 
Disclaimer: Characters recognizable from the show belong, of 
course, to Chris Carter, Fox, 1013, etc.  No profit is being 
made, more's the pity, and no infringement is intended. 
Feedback: Works in Progress are fueled by feedback, don't you 
know?  In other words, yes, please :) 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Prologue 
In Memoriam 
In a gilded theatre suddenly empty 
Of all but the faces 
The faces faces faces faces 
-- Ted Hughes "Blood and Innocence" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Dana Scully's Apartment 
February 8, 2000 
2:37 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
More than anything, I remember the way you looked the last time I 
saw you.  I was sitting quietly on the couch, white terry robe 
thrown hastily over satin pajamas.  It was some ungodly hour of 
the late-night-early-morning.  I thought, at first, that you were 
drunk, but you weren't.  You were standing in my darkened living 
room, silhouetted against the black backdrop of a snowy sky, 
backlit by yellow streetlights, holding the curtains back with 
one hand.  You were more paranoid than usual, but I shrugged it 
off.  I'm good at that.  Practise makes perfect.  It was very 
late.  I've forgotten your exact words, but I remember that you 
talked of shadows and ghosts and the end of the world, and that I 
laughed at you. 
I knew it wasn't a laughing matter, but still I laughed.  I was 
worried; a little frightened.  Sometimes laughter is the only way 
of breaking a silence.  Sometimes it's the only way to break the 
tension left by the truth.  Mine was the uncomfortable laughter 
that sounds hollow as soon as it leaves the larynx; the kind of 
laughter that sounds dead, even to the person laughing.  The kind 
of laughter you want to bite back and choke on, as soon as the 
sound of it reaches your own ears. 
I knew something was wrong, but I thought -- perhaps foolishly -- 
that it was workload, post-Christmas blues, the Seasonal 
Affective Disorder that torments so many people in the long 
stretch between Christmas and the spring thaw, or some 
combination of the three.  I thought you might be ruminating on 
the upcoming anniversary of the El Rico disaster.  There were any 
number of excuses for your behaviour, but I guessed all of them 
wrong. 
I remember that your hair was standing up, messy and childish, 
but beautiful.  I couldn't see your eyes; they were focused on 
the gently falling snow, on cars speeding foolishly down icy 
streets.  Your clothes were rumpled, your jaw unshaven ... always 
sure signs that something has been plaguing you.  The lines of 
your body were stiff, tense, I might have said frightened even, 
if I hadn't known you better. 
But I thought I knew you better. 
Apparently I thought wrong. 
That was nearly a week ago, Mulder.  No word, no sign, nothing. 
Your late-night wake-up call was nearly a week ago, and I want to 
know where you are. 
Where are you? 
* 
She put the pen down; or, rather, the pen dropped out of numb 
fingers.  The small clatter the writing utensil made as it hit 
the smooth table top was gathered into the surrounding darkness 
with very little effort.  She hardly noticed that she wasn't 
writing anymore. 
She put her hands up to her face and wept. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Chapter One 
Cupio Credere 
We didn't find her -- she found us. 
She sniffed us out.  The Fate she carried 
Sniffed us out 
And assembled us, inert ingredients 
For its experiment.  The Fable she carried 
Requisitioned you and me and her, 
Puppets for its performance 
-- Ted Hughes "Dreamers" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
FBI Headquarters, X-Files Division 
January 4, 2000 
9:08 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
"You're late, Scully.  Long weekend?" 
Scully looked up at her partner, already seated, with a handful 
of case files on his desk, and offered a little smile in return 
for his.  "I didn't run into any more of the living dead, if 
that's what you mean.  How's your arm?" 
He shrugged his way past the question about his hurt arm and 
latched onto her comment about the living dead.  "Well, three 
days have passed and Dana Scully still admits she spent New 
Year's Eve with the living dead!  C'mon tell me, Scully -- New 
Year's resolution?  Cupio credere?" 
She raised an eyebrow half-heartedly.  "Cupio credere?" 
"Latin for I want to believe.'" 
A laugh escaped her before she could bite down on it.  "Yeah, 
Mulder.  I want to believe' is my New Year's Resolution.  It's 
right up there with make it to the gym three times a week,' 
call my mom more than once a month' and improve my shooting 
range scores.'" 
"What, 99% accuracy isn't good enough?" 
She studiously ignored his comment.  "But in answer to your 
question... no, I haven't found any scientific explanation for 
what we saw on New Year's Eve.  For now the best I can do is New 
Year's Eve 1999: Night of the Living Dead." 
"But was it better than getting wasted with the Lone Gunmen and 
waking up with a three-day hangover?" 
"Not that I would have spent my New Year's Eve in such company, 
but... perhaps.  I've seen Frohike drunk, and I could live 
happily never seeing the sight again.  A drunken Byers, though -- 
that might have made the evening worthwhile." 
Mulder's smile was quickly replaced by a shadowed look of 
concern.  "I didn't -- I didn't even ask you if you had other 
plans.  Surely there was some other way you had planned to ring 
in the new millennium.  I hope you didn't let some ridiculously 
overpriced ticket go to waste." 
Scully shook her head a little at the millennium comment and took 
off her trenchcoat.  "You know, Mulder, I didn't have anything 
planned.  My mom was still in San Diego, or we'd probably have 
watched the countdown in front of the TV with mugs of cocoa 
instead of champagne.  I've never been a big fan of New Year's 
Eve, and I have to admit that I am completely disgusted by the 
sheer insanity the year 2000 excited.  The thought of buying a 
five-hundred-dollar dress, a two-hundred-dollar ticket to some 
dinner and dance, and kissing drunken strangers at midnight was 
less than appealing." 
Mulder listened to her intently, his head tilted, resting on the 
hand of his unwounded arm.  She was pleased to see that he was 
still wearing the sling, no matter how obnoxious it was. 
"So at least I wasn't a drunken stranger, right?" 
"Right, Mulder."  Scully sighed deeply, unwilling to continue 
their conversation in that particular direction.  "So, what kind 
of spooky cases have piled up since Christmas?  Rampant Grinches 
or marauding ghosts of Christmas Present, Past and Future?" 
Mulder grinned, apparently unfazed by her obvious change of 
subject.  "Nothing so interesting.  The Whos down in Whoville 
report a very merry Christmas replete with roast beast, and 
houses  -- at least according to my sources -- remained staunchly 
ghost-free." 
Scully raised her eyebrows with in an expression of mock surprise 
and proceeded to pour herself a cup of coffee. 
"We do, however, have a meeting with Skinner."  Mulder glanced 
down at his watch and made a clucking noise. 
"When?" 
"Two minutes ago.  C'mon, Scully.  The coffee will be there when 
we get back." 
Scully frowned and took a rebellious slurp of coffee, burning her 
tongue in the process.  By the time she had choked on her own 
yelp of pain, and put the mug down, Mulder was already out the 
door and halfway up the first flight of stairs. 
"Elevator," Scully grimaced, sucking on the tip of her burned 
tongue. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Much to Scully's disappointment, the meeting with Skinner was 
only a debriefing concerning their New Year's antics, and not the 
assignment of a new case.  In spite of Mulder's wounded arm, she 
found herself wanting to be back in the field, investigating, 
doing what she was good at.  The tail end of 1999 had been rather 
slow in the X-Files division.  First, Mulder was recovering from 
his head... injury.  Then, when Mulder's head was back to its 
arguably normal state, there was a sad lack of cases.  Although 
she knew she would never admit it to him, New Year's Eve had 
been... fun?  interesting?  not sitting on her ass in her lonely 
apartment drinking champagne by herself? 
"Agent Scully?"  Skinner's stern voice brought her back to 
herself, and she was embarrassed to note that both Skinner and 
Mulder were watching her with mirrored expressions equal parts 
concern and amusement. 
Scully opened her mouth, but nothing came out. 
"Agent Scully," Mulder began, a smile in his words but not on his 
face, "hasn't had her coffee this morning, sir." 
"Mulder." She kept her voice cool, but groaned inwardly.  Her 
need for morning caffeine was something of an office joke.  "I'm 
sorry, sir.  I'm fine.  My thoughts were elsewhere.  Was there 
something you wanted to ask me?" 
Skinner's look was oddly sympathetic. "I was only asking about 
your vacation, Agent Scully.  I trust you're both rested and 
ready to get back to work."  He glanced at Mulder's arm in its 
sling.  "Well, mostly." 
"Do you have a case for us, sir?"  She fought to keep the 
overwhelming excitement out of her voice. 
"Not at this time, Agent Scully, although I still have a few 
files to review this morning that may be of interest to you.  In 
the meantime, however, there is plenty of paperwork yet to be 
turned in from the X-Files division.  The expense reports from 
your trip to southern California have yet to be turned in." 
Scully shot a sideways glance at Mulder, who only shrugged his 
unwounded shoulder.  "I'll make sure Agent Mulder gets right on 
that," she snapped, a little more cruelly than she had intended. 
The feeling of being an underpaid babysitter sat heavily on her. 
Scully remained silent until she and Mulder were safely hidden in 
te elevator and away from prying ears. "I thought you had turned 
in that expense report before Christmas." 
"I thought I had, too."  He smiled half-heartedly.  "I'll have to 
dictate."  He gestured with his wounded writing arm, and she had 
an urge to punch him.  Right on the suffering forearm.  She 
refrained by sheer force of will alone. 
"I'm not your secretary, Mulder." 
The smile disappeared from his face.  "I didn't meant to imply 
that you were." 
"Sure.  You know, Mulder--" 
The sound of the phone from the office as the elevator doors 
opened ended the tense strain of their conversation.  Scully 
stopped mid-sentence and  stepped aside to avoid being barrelled 
over by Mulder.   He ran for the office and answered the phone 
with a curt repetition of his surname.  Her sigh, and the sigh of 
unspoken words, were lost in the echoing dimness of the corridor. 
Hearing the growing excitement in Mulder's tone, although she 
couldn't hear his exact words, she decided to get coffee 
upstairs.  Suddenly the prospect of a case was less than 
appealing. 
With visions of ghosts and grinches dancing through her head, she 
pressed the elevator button and waited. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
It was nearly noon before Scully re-entered the basement office. 
Agent Donnell had ambushed her (before she reached the coffee 
machine, of course) with questions about the believability of a 
medical report.  One question had led into fifteen others, and 
eleven o'clock had rolled around before Scully took her first sip 
of tepid, bitter coffee.  It tasted like heaven. 
The return to the office should have then taken only a few 
minutes, but Skinner had stopped her to ask some additional 
questions about an autopsy that had crossed his desk shortly 
after the meeting earlier, and would she be so kind as to give 
the report a going over?  She agreed, grabbing the folder with 
one hand, and nodding in the direction of the elevator. 
"What happened to you?" 
Scully shrugged, coffee in one hand, file folder in the other. 
"Agent Donnell, Skinner, coffee machine." 
Mulder's look was unreadable. 
"Anything interesting happen while I was gone?  Who was on the 
phone?" 
A shrug.  "An Agent Marshall from Violent Crimes.  She -- 
reluctantly -- wanted my opinion about a serial killer they're 
trying to catch.  I told her to come down and run through it with 
me, although I didn't promise to help."  He gestured toward the 
file she was carrying.  "I don't suppose that's a case for us." 
"No -- Skinner wanted me to look over the autopsy notes, to check 
for inconsistency or error.  I'm not sure why he wanted me in 
particular.  Maybe because we don't have anything much for 
workload right now.  It's strange that he wouldn't have mentioned 
Agent Marshall's request for aid at the meeting this morning, 
though." 
"I think it's less than a formal request.  I don't think they 
want me on the team -- nothing official.  The profilers on the 
case are having a difficult time nabbing the guy.  When in doubt, 
call on Spooky Mulder." 
Scully flipped open the file folder she carried and frowned. 
"Did Agent Marshall mention anything about the particulars of the 
case?" 
"Apparently the Unidentified Subject has killed four times that 
they know of.  Two women, and two young girls.  Why?" 
"Mulder, this report is from Violent Crimes -- the autopsy of the 
latest victim in the same case, I think."  The frown deepened. 
She moved to stand behind Mulder, dropping the open file on his 
desk.  She leaned over his shoulder to point out Agent Marshall's 
name in the list of agents working on the case.  "Mulder, why 
would we be approached separately in regards to the same case? 
Why wouldn't Skinner have mentioned this to us this morning? 
Cases like this don't develop in two hours." 
There was a polite knock on the open door, but if the newcomer 
had heard any of their conversation, she gave no sign.  She 
carried a file folder similar to Scully's in one hand. 
"Can we help you?" Mulder asked, before Scully could open her 
mouth. 
"Agent Mulder.  Agent Scully."  The woman's gaze drifted from one 
face to the other.  Scully found herself immediately under the 
scrutiny of one woman comparing herself to another -- the dread 
fate of femininity.  The woman's gaze was analytical, precise -- 
exactly what Scully imagined her own must look like.  Except -- 
the eyes.  The woman had cold eyes, sharp, like blue-green ice. 
Scully could not imagine her own eyes so frozen. 
Mulder raised his eyebrows.  "And you are?" 
"Special Agent Eloise Marshall.  I spoke with you earlier.  I 
work with Violent Crimes."  She spoke with a clipped 
professionalism Scully recognized intimately.  Scully wondered if 
Mulder was picking up on it. 
Of course.  His tone turned the slightest bit caustic, imbued 
with a sarcasm Scully heard, but that she doubted Eloise Marshall 
would recognize.  "New recruit?  I don't recall your face." 
"I graduated top of my class at Quantico in 1996.  I've been with 
Violent Crimes in various capacities since 1997, Agent Mulder. 
So, yes, I'm after your time." 
The double entendre of her words made Scully raise an eyebrow. 
Perhaps the younger woman understood more than Scully gave her 
credit for.  Scully admired her, actually, in spite of the cold 
glare and the obvious discomfort.  Agent Marshall had, in her own 
way, sealed off her femininity as securely as Scully herself. 
Marshall had learned young -- Scully had still been soft, gentle, 
more forgiving when she was as young.  They were two girls daring 
to play on the boys' jungle-gym.  Only, instead of being the 
natural allies they perhaps ought to have been, they straightened 
their shoulder-pad armoured shoulders and pretended like they 
were two acknowledged bullies meeting each other for the first 
time.  Fighting for respect.  Fighting for territory. 
Scully liked Agent Marshall.  The taller woman's dark hair was 
pulled back in a harsh chignon, rather than the coiffed helmet 
Scully preferred for herself, but the intent and the effect were 
the same.  Marshall's make-up was immaculate, but not showy; her 
suit well-cut, but not pretentiously designer.  Scully could tell 
several things about the woman from this cursory examination: 
Marshall walked the line, played the game, and absolutely *hated* 
the fact that she was risking career and reputation by asking for 
the help of Mr. and Mrs. Spooky Mulder. 
Scully liked her.  Yes, she did.  She wondered, too, what kind of 
conclusions Marshall was drawing about *her*.  Scully wondered if 
they were correct.  What could be speculated about the new Donna 
Karan suit, the obviously expensive shoes?  What about the 
position she and Mulder had been in when Marshall knocked? 
Precarious at best to prying eyes.  The thought was amusing, 
comforting.  There were some conclusions that ought not be jumped 
to.  Let her try to understand, Scully thought, let her attempt 
to profile.  If she and Mulder hadn't been successful in 
profiling their relationship over the course of nearly seven 
years, she doubted a self-assured upstart was going to be 
successful. 
Scully decided to take over the questioning, before Mulder 
frightened Marshall away with his teasing condescension.  "We 
have got the latest autopsy report here, Agent Marshall, but if 
you'd like to give us some background..." 
A flicker of astonishment hovered in the woman's eyes at the 
mention of the report, but she covered it well.  "Yes.  As I 
informed Agent Mulder earlier, the UNSUB has four victims that we 
are aware of: all female, but that is where the similarity ends. 
Two were children.  All victims are unrelated.  The first victim, 
aged seven, was killed here in DC three months ago; the second, 
aged 32, killed in DC as well.  That was about the time the case 
was handed to the FBI.  There were... disturbing similarities 
between the two deaths, and the local police feared serial 
tendencies.  Correctly, it seems.  The third victim, aged 28, 
killed a month ago in Seattle--" 
"Seattle?"  The word leapt from Scully's lips before she was able 
to stop it.  "A jump from DC to Seattle and you believe this is 
the same man?" 
"For reasons that will become apparent, Agent Scully."  The 
padded shoulders straightened haughtily, having believed a point 
gained.  "The fourth victim, as you will have noticed in the 
report, was also killed in Washington state.  Female, aged nine, 
Tacoma." 
"I received the report only minutes before you entered, Agent 
Marshall.  My partner and I have not had time to digest it at our 
leisure."  Scully watched the woman's reaction with a sense of 
guilt-tinged satisfaction.  Marshall really hadn't known the 
autopsy file had been given to them. 
"The UNSUB," the younger woman continued, undaunted, "has a ... 
ritual he follows precisely with each murder."  Scully's 
proximity to Mulder allowed her to feel the sudden clench of his 
muscles; tension hunched his shoulders and he peered at the Agent 
carefully, weighing each word.  All humour was gone, drained out 
of him by the attention necessary to retain each and every detail 
the woman in front of him was about to speak.  Scully had seen it 
before -- and it frightened her.  She resisted the urge to smooth 
out the clenched muscles of her partner's shoulders. 
Agent Marshall continued as if Mulder's change had gone 
unnoticed.  "If serial killers were called gentle, this man would 
be.  He anesthetizes his victims, sedates them so they will feel 
no pain.  We think he prefers to kill the victims within the 
comfort of their own homes, but it is not a compulsion.  The 
older women were found in their homes, with no sign of violent 
struggle, but the children were discovered in motel rooms rented 
to a Mr. V. Frank -- presumably because killing the children at 
home would have been impossible with parents around." 
"The ritual?" Mulder prodded.  The teasing cruelty was gone, 
vanished along with any sense of humour, replaced by the taut 
excitement of a man about to delve into the psyche of a 
psychopath. 
"Anaesthetic, sedation and then one precise cut to the carotid 
artery.  He lets them bleed to death, catching and disposing of 
as much of the blood as possible.  He likes to keep things neat. 
He drapes them in clean blankets, leaves a single light on, a 
glass of water with a twist of lemon at the bedside, along with 
three daisies in a vase.  Every crime scene mirrors the one 
before it, flawlessly -- whether in Washington, DC, or the 
Pacific Northwest." 
"What do you have on him?"  Mulder's eyes were piercing, 
frightening. 
Marshall paused, and the effect was the same as a chastised child 
looking at the ground, scuffing her toe into the carpet.  "We -- 
there has been some difficulty -- they've been checking up on 
various leads--" 
"But nothing has panned out?" 
"They have been looking for matches to the name V. Frank,' but 
as yet, very little has turned up." 
The muscle along Mulder's jaw jumped, and once again Scully 
barely refrained from attempting to calm him.  "V. Frank is a 
pseudonym, Agent Marshall," Mulder said quietly. 
"They figured as much -- that he wouldn't use his own name -- 
but--" 
"Victor Frankenstein, Agent Marshall.  Victor Frankenstein." 
"They--" Marshall stammered.  Scully marvelled at the loss of 
poise suffered by the younger agent, marvelled at and was 
disappointed by it.  "We didn't think of that, sir." 
The sir,' more than anything, betrayed that she had been 
defeated. 
Marshall continued, seeking to regain some of her ground.  "This 
man sees himself as a monster?  He sees that much about himself?" 
Mulder's hands clenched into fists, clenched and unclenched 
spasmodically.  "No."  The word was drawn out, the o' elongated. 
"The scientist.  The creator.  Frankenstein wasn't the monster, 
Agent Marshall, Frankenstein was the man *behind* the monster. 
The man who is hunted, hounded, and ultimately destroyed by the 
monster he created." 
"I -- I admit, I've never read the book." 
Mulder nodded, the information filed as inconsequential.  "I'm 
going to need a dossier, Agent Marshall.  I'm going to need 
everything you've got on this guy.  No holds barred, nothing held 
back." 
"Agent Mulder!" she protested.  "I don't have the authority to--" 
"I'll clear it with Assistant Director Skinner.  You wanted help 
and you'll get it.  I can catch this son of a bitch.  You and I 
both know it.  You'll give Agent Scully autopsy reports of all 
the victims.  I want you to get a notice out to every police 
department in the country -- this man has killed more than four 
times, and I want to know who, where, when.  I *will* find out 
why.  Just do it, Agent Marshall.  Don't waste your time grieving 
over this lost case.  There is no way that Violent Crimes should 
have been sitting on this for three months without figuring out 
that V. Frank was a pseudonym, for Christ's sake." 
"You are not taking me off this case, Agent Mulder!" Marshall 
protested indignantly, a child whose candy, whose hope for 
promotion, had been snatched out from under her nose.  Scully 
struggled to remember the poised professional that had entered 
the office less than an hour before.  "I have put in more man 
hours--" 
"And have come up with what?  Nothing!  No, Agent Marshall, I 
doubt Skinner will let me take you off the case... but we are 
*not* here for personal gain and glory.  We're here to catch a 
man who is killing innocent women.  Remember that.  And get me 
that dossier." 
She was dismissed.  It took her a few moments longer than it 
ought to have to understand that Mulder was going to say nothing 
more to her.  She turned on her heel and marched out, a good 
little soldier, defeated at her own game. 
Mulder turned his attention to the autopsy report, tapping his 
fingers against the desktop, popping sunflower seeds into his 
mouth without realizing he was doing so. 
Scully knew that, like it or not, X-File or not, they had found 
themselves a case. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
Chapter Two 
The Dead Bell 
I do not stir. 
The frost makes a flower, 
The dew makes a star, 
The dead bell, 
The dead bell. 
Somebody's done for. 
-- Sylvia Plath, "Death & Co." 
~*~*~*~*~ 
January 5, 2000 
10:24 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
"Did you go home at all?" 
Mulder glanced up at his partner, and then looked back down at 
the papers scattered on his desk.  "Uh, no.  No, Scully. I don't 
think I did." 
She looked at him disapprovingly, but said nothing further. 
"Scully, I really don't understand why this case has been run so 
poorly.  Agent Marshall's track record is competent.  Her solve 
rate is admirable.  This doesn't make sense.  Leads fizzled under 
their fingertips or were simply forgotten." 
Scully scooped several books off a chair, dropped them casually 
on Mulder's desk, and placed herself in the emptied chair.  She 
crossed her legs before asking, "What about the motels where the 
girls were killed?  Any ID?  Credit cards?" 
"We aren't nearly so lucky.  He paid cash, wore gloves, heavy 
scarf.  No one thought anything of it.  It's winter.  It was late 
at night.  The staff at the motels don't remember anything about 
him -- not even the color of his hair.  In Tacoma, the two clerks 
working when he checked in gave differing reports.  One thought 
he was dark, the other light.  The night-shift manager in DC 
hardly remembers the man at all.  The guy's a chameleon, Scully." 
"So we're looking for a nondescript male, of varying hair color, 
unknown age, who occasionally registers in motels under the name 
V. Frank.'" 
Mulder's mouth quirked into a half-smile.  "You make it sound so 
hopeless, Scully." 
Scully leaned over and pushed a folder across the desk, covering 
pictures of dead little girls.  Her sigh sounded strangely 
defeated.  "Three more bodies have turned up, Mulder.  All women, 
of course.  Two more children, and a 22-year-old student from 
Berkeley.  All found in motels.  The student lived in a dormitory 
that made killing her in her own home impossible.  She was killed 
after the victims in DC -- about two months ago.  A child was 
killed a week after that in Olympia, Washington.  And the third 
victim was killed a week before the Seattle death, in Lakewood, 
Washington." 
Mulder pulled a map out from beneath the clutter and began 
seeking out and marking the new places.  "Washington," he 
muttered.  "Why Berkeley, then?  Why DC?" 
"Mulder, this case is rapidly escalating into something well 
beyond our capabilities.  The man is leaving a trail of bodies 
behind him, and we aren't any closer to catching--" 
He raised his left hand, shushing her for a moment.  He ignored 
the slight arch of her eyebrow and continued,  "We *are* closer. 
There's a clue here, Scully.  There's a method to the madness. 
We can't underestimate this guy.  He's smart.  I know he's smart. 
I just have to count on the fact that he's aware of it as well. 
He might just stumble -- he might just make a mistake." 
"But you can't rely on that, Mulder." 
Mulder looked down at the back of his left hand, more dextrous 
now that the right was incapacitated.  He was forming a callous 
on the third finger.  Scully's hand reached into his line of 
vision and touched the back of the unwounded hand.  "We will 
catch this guy, Mulder, but we have to rely on some good 
old-fashioned investigating, too.  We can't count on a murderer 
who has already flawlessly killed seven victims to make a mistake 
on his eight.  Or ninth.  Or tenth.  He *is* smart.  And he's 
good at this." 
"I -- I know that, Scully.  I do.  But this--" he shuffled the 
pictures, found one of the seven-year-old, Melissa Cambie, and 
slid it across the desk.  "This has to be stopped." 
"But you, alone, are not responsible.  You have a team of 
competent FBI agents at your command.  Use them.  You won't be 
able to help anyone if you don't sleep or eat.  Right?" 
He scrubbed his hand through his hair and blinked twice, slowly. 
"You're right, Scully.  I know." 
"Go home.  Get some rest.  I'll make sure these new cases are 
followed up.  All three of these girls were killed in motels. 
Someone has to have seen something." 
Mulder nodded, suddenly exhausted.  He felt the weight of the 
world and the smiles of dead girls crowding in on his 
consciousness.  Scully squeezed his forearm, bringing him back to 
himself, the case, the office. 
"Go *home*," she repeated firmly. 
"I'm going." 
As he stood, Scully gasped.  "Mulder!" 
"What'd I do now?" 
"Look -- look at your arm!" 
He looked automatically at his left, saw it safe and sound, and 
turned his attention to the sling.  Blood, new blood, was seeping 
through bandages he remembered being white. 
He couldn't help smiling as clinical Dr. Scully took over, even 
though he knew she would have killed him for even *thinking* 
about smiling.  "Mulder, you'll help no one if this gets 
infected.  This is a mess!"  As she scurried to the first aid kit 
(if it could be called a kit.  He thought she had enough medical 
supplies on hand to perform heart surgery, if she needed to) he 
began pushing photographs and police reports into his satchel. 
Scully noticed.  "You're not taking any of that home with you, 
Mulder.  Sit down." 
He obeyed, because her eyes would brook no argument.  She began 
unwinding the bloody bandage with the gentle touch of the most 
compassionate doctor.  "You know, Scully.  I think you wasted 
your touch on pathology." 
She was startled, he could tell.  She turned her face away so her 
expression was hidden by the fall of her hair.  She was hiding 
from him, he knew.  She didn't want him to see her shaken.  "What 
do you mean by that?  Sick of me already?"  Her voice mirrored 
the gentleness of her touch.  "A surgeon or a pediatrician or 
whatever I *might* have been would have had no place on the 
X-Files, would she?  And I like it here.  Besides, I get enough 
practice changing your bandages, should I ever desire a change of 
profession." 
"Do you think you would?" 
"Change my profession?" 
"Yes.  Do you think you would?" 
"Who knows, Mulder?"  She clucked at the unsightly mess of his 
arm, and began cleaning the wounds.  He felt very little pain. 
"Maybe after we've saved the world, I'll put death behind me and 
take up the profession of healing." 
"That would be good.  That would be right, Scully." 
She finished up in silence, and then peered into his eyes.  "Are 
you all right to get home on your own?" 
"Taxi.  I can't drive properly with my arm like this." 
"All right then."  He heard her usual briskness tuck the 
gentleness away, and he was sad to see it go.  "I'd offer you a 
ride--" 
"But one of us should be here if Skinner calls in.  I know. 
Thanks for the thought, though." 
He was standing at the doorway, one arm of his coat hanging empty 
and limp, when Scully said softly, "Please, Mulder.  Just go 
home.  Rest.  Please.  For me?" 
He turned his head and smiled reassuringly.  He knew she wouldn't 
want him to answer, wouldn't want him to bring attention to her 
concern. 
"I'll see you tomorrow, Scully," he said, and left, smiling. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Mulder had come dangerously close to dozing in the cab on the way 
home, only to find the overwhelming desire to sleep disappeared 
the moment he locked his front door behind him.  He turned on the 
television, ordered a large pizza, the works, extra cheese -- it 
*is* lunchtime, he thought, grinning -- and seated himself firmly 
on the couch, determined not to get up until it was time to go to 
work again. 
For the first time ever, his couch was not comfortable.  He 
checked his email, and, finding nothing of interest there, 
retired back to the uncomfortable couch.  He had forgotten how 
mindless and insipid daytime television could be.  Jenny Jones 
was doing "She Thinks She's A Hottie but She's Nottie" make-overs 
(always interesting), Days of Our Lives was impossible to 
understand, and it was still several hours until he could expect 
to see anything resembling a mindless sitcom or a Tori Spelling 
made-for-TV masterpiece. 
It started to rain. 
Mulder didn't realize he'd fallen asleep until he woke up several 
hours later, a cold piece of pizza face down on his chest, and 
"3rd Rock From the Sun" blaring on the tv.  He wondered how he 
had managed to sleep through the tacky, forced laughter of the 
live studio audience.  He blinked in the twilight several times 
before he noticed that the incessant knocking was coming from his 
own door, rather than the television.  He stumbled off the couch 
and toward the door as the key turned. 
"Mulder?"  Scully glanced at him, look unreadable.  Her hair hung 
in damp curls around her face.  "What the hell happened to you?" 
He wanted to tell her that the her mascara was running, but 
didn't dare. 
He looked down at the disgusting pizza stain, imagined the sleepy 
eyes and hair sticking straight up, and found himself smiling. 
"I'm sick," he said, simply.  "I was resting." 
"Ah." 
She stood nervously on the threshold of his apartment until he 
asked, "What're you doing here?" 
She gave an almost inaudible sigh.  "We've got to get your stuff 
together, Mulder.  We've got a flight to Seattle leaving in three 
hours.  Agent Marshall is meeting us at the airport.  Skinner's 
orders." 
"Did you find something interesting?"  All sleepiness vanished; 
Mulder felt the adrenaline pumping almost immediately.  Even the 
thought of having to coach Marshall was not enough to dampen 
Mulder's spirits.  He moved toward the bedroom, and she followed 
him listlessly, limply, all her strength and vibrancy pounded out 
by the rain. 
She shook her head.  "Nothing *I* found, unfortunately.  There's 
been another death." 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Bellingham, Washington 
January 6, 2000 
9:18 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
News crews from Seattle were swarming as the Ford Taurus pulled 
into the parking lot of the motel.  Cameras were set up, and a 
smartly dressed man with slicked back hair separated himself from 
the pack and ran to meet them. 
"You're the agents from DC?" 
Mulder slammed the door shut, biting down on the anger that 
sparked immediately.  "Special Agent Fox Mulder.  This is my 
partner, Special Agent Dana Scully.  Special Agent Eloise 
Marshall.  You are?" 
"I'm Jim Garrett from KSTW.  On the record, Agent Mulder?" 
"No," Mulder growled, his voice hard.  He would have crossed his 
arms if the right hadn't been in a sling.  "Off the record.  I 
have nothing to say.  Now, if you'll pardon us, we've got work to 
do." 
The newsman's eyes hardened.  "Agent Mulder, we've been told that 
this is not the first murder of its kind. The public has a right 
to know if a killer is on the loose." 
Mulder moved into the anchorman's space, intimidating with stance 
and voice.  "This is not 'World's Deadliest Killers' on the Fox 
Network, Mr. Garrett.  It's not even 'The FBI's Most Wanted.' 
Off the record, the killer is going to react very poorly to media 
coverage.  He doesn't want to be the center of attention.  If you 
change that -- if you put him in the media spotlight -- you are 
increasing the risk of his killing more innocent people.  Neither 
of us wants that, now do we, Mr. Garrett?" 
"I'm not moving my crew." 
Scully moved to Mulder's side, faced the tall newsman without 
flinching and said, "We understand your commitment to the 
public's safety, Mr. Garrett.  We share that commitment.  You 
must, however, attempt to see our point of view here.  Several 
aspects of the case have been kept silent because we do not wish 
to have copycat killers surfacing.  Very little is known about 
the killer, by us, or by anyone.  Anything you broadcast will be 
conjecture, and may put the case and the agents working on it in 
uncomfortable positions." 
"I understand that, too," he said, his voice calm to the point of 
patronizing.  Mulder was annoyed even further.  Scully's face 
remained unreadable, but he knew she was seething on the inside. 
"But the truth can't rely on the comfort level of the FBI.  Maybe 
the report will highlight the case in a positive way, creating 
leads, suspects." 
"We have leads," Mulder snapped.  "You're the one standing in the 
way of them." 
"Mulder."  Scully's voice was a low warning he didn't heed. 
"We have got a murder to investigate."  He brushed past the 
newsman and moved toward the motel room.  He heard Scully tell 
Marshall to stay outside and make sure no camera crews were given 
access to the crime scene itself.  He turned when he heard the 
tell-tale clicking of Scully's heels at his side. 
"You shouldn't have overreacted back there, Mulder.  He won't 
hesitate in making you out to be the bad guy." 
"How is that different from any other time, Scully?"  Mulder 
shook his head, keeping his shoulders straight.  "Assholes like 
him only stir up a crowd, making them think that the FBI and the 
government are agencies to be feared rather than respected." 
"Come on, Mulder.  The FBI and the government perpetuate that 
myth right alongside the media.  The real problem with the media 
is that they are willing, eager even, to broadcast without 
knowing all the facts." 
"Making this death into a media circus will only get more people 
killed." 
"I don't disagree with you, Mulder." 
They flashed their badges at the doorway, and the attending 
police officer pulled back the yellow tape for them.  Mulder 
turned to the cop and asked, "How did the media find out about 
this?" 
The older man shrugged.  "Wasn't us, Agents.  We're trying to 
keep this as quiet as possible.  More media means more man hours, 
in the long run." 
Scully peered intently at his badge before asking, "Where are the 
agents from the Seattle Field Office, Officer Parks?  Have they 
arrived yet?" 
"Yes, ma'am.  They're inside." 
Mulder and Scully nodded in sync and moved away from the open 
door.  Agents Marsdan and Wilson greeted them calmly.  "We 
weren't really expecting you until this afternoon," Wilson said. 
"I wanted to get here as quickly as possible," Mulder replied. 
"The sooner I can get an idea about how this guy works, the 
sooner we can catch him." 
Marsdan nodded.  "You'll want to see the crime scene.  It's -- 
well, it's a little different from those previous." 
"Different?"  Scully asked.  "In what ways?  Are you sure it's 
the same guy?" 
"We're pretty sure, Agent Scully."  Wilson moved toward the 
bedroom door and opened it carefully.  Yellow tape was strung up 
inside like streamers.  A white blanket covered the small form on 
the bed.  Mulder and Scully pulled out latex gloves, and moved 
toward it. 
"Photographers have been done for a long time.  They moved the 
blankets to photograph the body, but other than that, we've left 
everything untouched, as stipulated by headquarters." 
Scully pushed back the white blanket with and softly murmured, 
"Thank-you."  She gave a little gasp, which Mulder ignored.  He 
was engrossed by the scene spread out in front of him, fixing the 
details of the room into his memory.  The glass of water, with 
lemon, and the daisies were in the same places as the previous 
crime scene photographs had indicated. 
"You know," Mulder said abruptly, "Samantha never liked daisies. 
All the other girls did, but she thought they smelled funny." 
"Mulder?"  Scully's voice pulled him out of the pain, grounding 
him. 
"What's different about the body, Scully?  I heard you gasp. 
Something must have been different." 
She tilted her head, but didn't ask how he'd known.  "The cut is 
less clean.  There appear to be two or three shallower hesitation 
cuts.  There is a spray of blood from the cut into the neck -- 
blood he failed to catch.  She has a black eye." 
Mulder nodded.  "He's going to make a mistake, Scully." 
The two Seattle agents watched on, saying nothing. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Discarding his gloves, Mulder pushed open the door to the parking 
lot, and was greeted by the blinding glare of lights in his eyes. 
"Get the hell out of here!" he shouted, covering his eyes with 
his forearm.  "Garrett!"  Through the light, he saw Marshall and 
Garrett standing in much the same place they'd been earlier, near 
the Taurus, talking quietly.  When he finally caught Marshall's 
gaze, she looked away. 
"What the hell's going on here?" he growled, drawing close to the 
two.  "Marshall?" 
"Nothing," she said, sullenly.  "Look, Mulder, I told him to back 
off and he didn't listen.  Free speech.  What the hell am I 
supposed to do?  We can't all risk our careers by bellowing like 
madmen, waving our badges and guns." 
Mulder grabbed the younger woman's arm and pulled her a short 
distance away, out of the newsman's hearing.  "Are you trying to 
destroy this case, Marshall?  If you still think I *stole* this 
case from you, get over it.  We're working together on this--" 
"If we're working together, why do I get dragged around like a 
recalcitrant child while you and Agent Scully do the 
investigating?  My skills are wasted babysitting newsmen and 
sitting on my ass.  You're toting me around because Assistant 
Director Skinner told you to, but you're sure as hell not letting 
me work with you." 
"Marshall--" Mulder warned. 
"What?  What?  Look, Spooky, I know all about your rep and your 
solve rate, and your golden boy proficiency at profiling.  I also 
know you've pissed away your career -- and Agent Scully's -- by 
devoting yourself to the X-Files." 
"Maybe if you stopped behaving like a recalcitrant child, Agent 
Scully and I wouldn't find it necessary to treat you as one." 
Marshall opened her mouth, but no words came to her defense. 
"You may doubt me, but the fact remains that I am the senior 
agent here, and you answer to me.  For God's sake, concentrate on 
the case.  Any difficulties you have with me will be short-lived. 
You get to go home after this is all done, and you'll never have 
to see me again.  Think of it like that, if it'll help you get 
through the day." 
He turned away from her and walked away. 
She watched him go, hands clenched into fists at her sides. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Chapter Three 
Insomniac 
His head is a little interior of gray mirrors. 
Each gesture flees immediately down an alley 
Of diminishing perspectives, and its significance 
Drains like water out the hole at the far end. 
--Sylvia Plath, "Insomniac" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Best Western Hotel 
Bellingham, Washington 
January 6, 2000 
5:53PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
"Just in time for the six o'clock news, Scully.  Wanna bet we're 
the lead story?"  The sarcasm in his voice wasn't lost on either 
of them.  Scully shrugged out of her jacket and unbuttoned her 
blouse's top button before sitting cross-legged opposite Mulder 
on the bed.  "Where's Marshall?" 
Scully unpacked three boxes of Chinese food, paper plates, 
chopsticks for herself and a fork for Mulder.  She laid them all 
carefully on the blanket in the space between them before 
answering, "In her room?  Out for dinner?  How should I know, 
Mulder?" 
"I thought you might know.  That's all.  You didn't get that 
vegetable crap again, did you?" he asked, only half-teasing. 
Scully raised an eyebrow.  "Beef and broccoli?  Yes, I did, 
Mulder.  It has meat in it." 
"One skinny piece of beef does not constitute 'meat,' Scully." 
"Well, I got sweet and sour pork, just for you."  She danced the 
container over to him with a smile.  "And I checked -- not one 
but *two* cubes of pineapple in there." 
"You hit the jackpot, Scully," he intoned dryly.  "Oh, look. 
Here we go." 
They turned their attention to the television.  "Now, a story 
close to home.  Jim Garrett is in Bellingham, with more details 
on the recent murders in the Seattle area.  Jim?" 
Garrett nodded, poised.  "Although the investigation has been 
shut down for the day, we've got footage from earlier." 
Mulder groaned at the images on the screen.  There he was, 
exiting the motel, left arm thrown across his face, bellowing. 
Garrett had muted the sound but the tone if not the content of 
Mulder's comments was unmistakable.  Garrett's voice spoke over 
the images.  "... Several FBI agents are on the scene. 
Authorities have not been forthcoming with many details about the 
case, but we have learned that the victim is a little girl, age 
seven or eight, who was last seen leaving school three days ago." 
Scully sighed, and Jim Garrett passed the story back to the 
anchors at home.  They promised to keep the viewers updated with 
any new developments, and moved on to happier things. 
"Goddamnit," Mulder swore softly.  "They shouldn't have said 
anything about the victim.  How'd they find out?  Marshall?" 
"Mulder."  Scully's brow creased.  "Mulder, that you don't like 
her is obvious, but your reasons why are less clear.  She's 
young, maybe a little inexperienced; she's got an attitude. 
She's learning.  And I think she would do a good job, if you'd 
let her." 
"I don't trust her, Scully.  There's too much we don't know--" 
"Have you bothered to ask?"  She shook her head a little and 
started heaping fried rice and beef and broccoli onto her plate. 
"Think about it, Mulder.  You're shutting her down without giving 
her a chance." 
"I think she talked to Garrett." 
"You're telling me you have never once let something slip to the 
media that you regretted later?  Your behavior on camera today, 
for example?" 
They ate in silence for several moments, before Scully added, 
more gently, "Ask her about Garrett, Mulder.  Don't interrogate, 
just ask.  We have to work with her.  It will be easier to do 
that if the two of you aren't barking at each other every time 
you turn around.  You said it to her yourself, Mulder.  It's not 
about gain and glory, it's about catching a killer." 
Mulder closed his eyes, leaned back against the headboard, and 
took a deep breath.  The air smelled slightly stale, as though it 
had been recycled a few too many times.  He could smell the faint 
scent of Scully's perfume, mixed with the Chinese food and stale 
air.  "She's all pins and needles, Scully." 
He felt Scully's weight shift on the bed, as though she was 
turning to face him.  He cracked one eye open and saw amusement 
on her face.  "*Who* is?  Come on, Mulder.  She's not the only 
one who is a little prickly, here." 
"I never *said* I was prickle free."  He opened both eyes and 
smiled slightly.  "I can't promise to be her best friend, but 
I'll try to give her a fair hearing from now on." 
Scully popped a piece of broccoli into her mouth and nodded. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Best Western Hotel 
Bellingham, Washington 
January 10, 2000 
12:38 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
"Yes, sir.  No.  The autopsy showed some physical bruising 
inconsistent with the other reports.  There were hesitation cuts 
as well.  I think the girl may have struggled a bit more at the 
scene, perhaps causing the UNSUB to lose his temper.  Yes, sir. 
Yes.  Agent Mulder thinks... Mulder thinks the killer is reacting 
to unwanted attention, losing his poise, and hurting the victims 
more than he would normally.  Yes, sir, I'll keep you informed." 
Scully clicked the phone shut and raised her eyebrow at her 
partner. 
"Nothing?" 
"We've been here four days, Mulder.  I think we've exhausted 
whatever leads we might have had." 
Mulder shook his head.  "There's something here, Scully." 
"And that would be?" 
"A clue.  I don't know.  What did Skinner have to say?" 
"The media's been harassing him for details about the case.  He's 
managed to keep the number of deaths and other details out of the 
press, but he's not sure how much longer he can continue to do 
so.  The Justice Department wants an explanation." 
"The Justice Department just wants the guy caught, Scully.  They 
want someone to blame, and currently that someone is us, for not 
being quick enough." 
Scully rolled her neck until it cracked.  "True enough." 
Mulder turned his attention back to the papers.  His right arm 
was down from its sling, but still too weak to write with. 
"Are you making any progress with the profile, Mulder?" 
He tapped the end of his pencil against the desk and pursed his 
lips.  "Not too much, no.  He's moving north.  The Berkeley 
murder, and the murders in DC, are still confusing, but since 
entering Washington state there has been definite northward 
movement--" 
The door burst open at that moment, admitting a flushed Agent 
Marshall.  Her hair was loose from its usual chignon, which gave 
her face a younger cast.  Mulder opened his mouth to chastise her 
for her abrupt entrance, but Scully gave him a hard look, and 
Marshall herself said, "They've got a physical description.  A 
woman in Los Angeles saw the story on the news and remembered 
that she had stayed in the same motel on that night." 
"You've got details?" Mulder asked, leaning forward. 
Marshall nodded, "She was up late, and walked to the vending 
machine at about 2 am.  This is about the same time the UNSUB 
brought Karen Umberton to the motel.  She thought it was just a 
father with his sleeping daughter over his shoulder, but she 
recognized the girl from the photograph shown on television.  She 
says the man was about six feet tall, dark hair sort of spiked. 
She didn't get much of a look at his face, unfortunately.  He was 
wearing a Gore-Tex ski coat, she said, with ski tags hanging from 
the jacket.  She said she remembered that especially, because she 
had just come back from a ski trip herself." 
"I don't suppose she knew where the ski tags came from?" Scully 
asked, shrugging back into her jacket.  She felt strangely naked 
under Marshall's excited gaze. 
"That's the really incredible thing -- she did!  She recognized 
the tags because they were the same as the ones she had herself. 
Same style and color, even though she couldn't see the name of 
the resort.  Whistler, she said, famous ski resort up near 
Vancouver, British Columbia.  She said she was about to say 
something to him about his good taste in ski hills, but he shut 
the door just then." 
Mulder's eyes held the slightest shine of fever.  "Have you got a 
transcript?  Get her working on a composite."  He paused, glanced 
in Scully's direction, then looked back at Marshall.  "Good 
work." 
Marshall smiled at the compliment.  She handed Mulder a few 
sheets of paper, stapled neatly in the corner.  "These are my 
notes.  I've got Agent Marsden working on the transcript of the 
phone conversation.  Wilson took the new information down to the 
motel in the hopes that someone there would remember the man, now 
that more information is available." 
Mulder nodded slowly, his mind obviously on the papers in his 
hand.  He flashed Marshall and Scully an encompassing grin. 
"Yes," he said, "this is very good.  Northward movement. 
Dark-haired man, tall.  Children.  Women.  Frankenstein. 
Something important there."  Mulder nodded again, reveling in 
connections still understood by him alone. 
Marshall and Scully shared a glance. 
A phone rang.  All three of the agents reached for their cells, 
but Marshall was the first to draw.  "Marshall," she said, her 
voice still light.  Her face began to fall three seconds into the 
conversation.  "Yes, sir... oh!"  Her eyebrows drew together, 
knit by pain.  "Yes, thank you.  She's all right?  Are you sure? 
She's allergic to Penicillin -- make sure they know that.  I'll 
be there.  Yes, I'm sure they will.  Thank you, sir."  She hung 
up and stared at the piece of plastic and wires, as though she 
didn't know what it was, or how it worked. 
"Agent Marshall?"  Scully called softly.  When the woman didn't 
answer she said, "Eloise?" 
Marshall looked up, eyes confused.  "My sister was in a car 
accident.  They're not sure what the damage is yet.  The 
Assistant Director has already arranged for a ticket home.  I 
really want to stay and follow up on this case -- but... I'm her 
only family.  I've got to go." 
Scully nodded, laying a steadying hand on the younger agent's 
arm.  "We'll be okay, Marshall.  You've done a good job."  Scully 
offered her a small smile.  "Get back to us when you can.  Keep 
us posted." 
Mulder didn't look up as the young woman left the room, defeat in 
every step.  He was engrossed by the words spread out before him. 
He was engrossed by what the words meant. 
The sound of his voice stopped Scully as she started to close the 
door.  "Hey, Scully.  Do me a favor?  I need some time alone. 
I'm close to this guy -- really close.  You can handle this new 
stuff, can't you?" 
"Things starting to make sense in that head of yours?" 
Mulder smiled, unfocused and distant.  "Something like that. 
Yeah.  Something like that." 
"Don't forget to eat, Mulder.  Or sleep." 
His smile widened, and his eyes met hers.  "Yes, Dr. Scully." 
"Don't you forget it." 
The door clicked shut behind her.  Mulder didn't hear her go. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Best Western Hotel 
January 12, 2000 
3:48 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Mulder sat in the dark, phone unplugged, television off.  He 
wanted nothing to distract him; nothing to lull his imagination 
or his intelligence into complacency.  He needed nothing on the 
outside -- a world was unfolding in his brain.  His left hand 
jerked across the yellow legal pad, scratching half-mad words in 
a nearly illegible facsimile of handwriting.  Pictures flashed 
into his mind; flashed and fled. 
A young man -- no, old! -- no -- a middle-aged man with a young 
face and old eyes.  His hair is dark.  Dark and short -- but not 
too short.  It's hard to see anything about his eyes except that 
they are old.  They look on the world with understanding, but 
without comprehension.  He sees the world differently through 
those eyes.  He sees suffering where there is none.  He reminds 
Mulder of Schnauz: the man who saw howlers.  This is a key.  A 
key.  A clue.  But this man is no uneducated construction 
worker -- no.  No.  This man is educated to a fault -- Harvard, 
Stanford, Cambridge, Oxford -- which?  It is one of these.  This 
man sees too much, through the watery, half-unreal gaze of an 
academic. 
Mulder latched onto the idea of academia.  Frankenstein. 
This man no longer works with other academics -- he is not a 
professor or a teacher -- he sees himself in a world apart from 
others.  A lone dog.  Raging against injustice. 
The thought caused Mulder to pause, nearly shattering the 
productive state of his mind.  'Killer hates injustice' sprung 
from the fountain point of his pen.  Navy ink smeared like blood. 
'Killer, killer, killer.  Injustice.  Rage.  Calm.  Academic. 
Killer.  What?  Why?' 
Mulder closed his eyes, but the pictures were gone.  The man was 
gone.  The motive was elusive.  The why was the difficult part -- 
and also the part that might allow Mulder to stop him from 
killing again.  Mulder refused to let himself think about the 
probability of the man's killing again.  Time was running out. 
Mulder squeezed his hand around the pen until his bones hurt. 
The motive ought to have been *clear* by now. 
Mulder stood and began to pace, without noticing his 
surroundings.  More little girls would be dying.  More little 
girls would be taken away, never to be seen again.  They were all 
little Samanthas in his head, or little Emilys.  The demons in 
Mulder's mind took the form of little girls, little dreams.  Step 
away, a voice in the back of his head warned, step away, Fox. 
Making *this* personal won't stop those little girls from being 
dead -- and it won't stop others from dying. 
Mulder shook his head.  It rained a lot in the Pacific Northwest. 
He could hear drops of water pounding in the windows.  The air 
smelled like stale boxes of food, and of rain. 
"Shit!" he said aloud, more to break the silence than anything. 
"Why won't the pieces fall into place?  Goddamnit!"  He shivered 
involuntarily. 
He knew the killer carried some overwhelming guilt.  The perfect 
repetition of the death ritual seemed more like an appeal for 
forgiveness.  Mulder hadn't yet figured out who the appeal was 
directed to, but the behavior was not a simple case of obsessive 
compulsive disorder.  The flowers, the water -- even the lemon 
had meaning just beyond his understanding.  The guilt, though, 
was not the motive. 
What, then, if not guilt? 
Vengeance.  Idealism.  Injustice. 
"Mulder!" he shouted at the top of his lungs, rattling the shaky 
overhead light.  "Get out of your own fucking head!" 
Guilt.  Dead children.  Idealism.  One man alone against the 
world. 
'Martyr', he scribbled on the legal pad, followed by 'Sacrifice?' 
There was something not quite right about that one, too.  He 
wasn't killing women as sacrifices, oh no.  Sacrifice was the 
easy answer, not necessarily the correct one. 
Mulder clenched his fists and lay down on the bed, facing the 
ceiling.  Scully would be making her daily check-up in a few 
hours.  She would glance at him casually, asking without asking. 
She would know that he hadn't slept.  She would tell him 
everything was still okay, that they were making progress with 
the composite, that Agent Marshall was still in DC.  She would 
try to soothe away all the lines, without realizing that the 
lines were what kept him going. 
He closed his eyes and fell asleep without thinking about it. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
It's a small room.  Too small, in fact.  He has to slouch so his 
head doesn't hit the ceiling.  He wonders when his arms and legs 
will get so big that he'll have to stick them outside windows and 
doors, like Alice in Wonderland. 
There are neither windows nor doors.  And it's a very small room. 
He turns around, looking for an exit he already knows doesn't 
exist.  Instead of a door he sees a bed, three daisies, water on 
the bedside table.  There is a form on the bed, covered in 
blankets, as he knew there would be.  He moves forward as though 
through water, achingly slow.  He wants nothing to do with the 
body on the bed, and yet he is drawn to it. 
The fabric of the sheet is soft under his fingers.  He caresses 
the satiny edge, presses the fabric between his fingers, and 
tries to stop his hand from pulling the sheet back.  His hand 
doesn't listen. 
Two little girls under the blankets, cuddled together like 
sisters.  Their lips are blue.  One is light and one is dark. 
The light one looks up, and he sees that her neck is cut.  Her 
skin is dull, as though she has been dead for quite some time. 
"You're taking too long," she says, and frowns. 
The dark one moves as soon as the light one speaks.  "She's 
right.  You're killing us.  You're letting us die." 
"This is all your fault," the light one intones. 
"This is all your fault," the dark one repeats. 
"You didn't save us then and you won't save us now."  They say 
this in unison, and he covers his ears, trying to block out the 
sound.  Their eyes still watch him, accusing.  He pushes away 
from the bed violently, knocking over the bedside table.  Water 
and daisies and lemon crash to the floor in a spray of glass. 
"What have you done?" The light one breathes. 
"The monsters will come for us now." 
"There's no such thing as monsters!" he yells, in the voice of a 
twelve-year-old. 
The room erupts in a shower of blood and he hears little girls 
screaming. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
January 12, 2000 
7:23 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
"Mulder?  Mulder!" 
He gulped in a huge mouthful of air and nearly choked.  "What the 
hell are you doing, Scully?" 
"I should be asking you that question, Mulder.  You were 
screaming." 
He shook his head, as though denying the possibility.  "Scully, I 
need to be left alone.  I can't be distracted." 
Scully crossed her arms over her chest, immovable.  "Mulder." 
Mulder rose to his feet, attempting to intimidate by sheer size 
alone.  Scully stood her ground.  "I need to be left *alone*!" he 
repeated firmly. 
"No, Mulder.  You're not eating, you're not sleeping.  You've 
become a recluse, and there's nothing to show for it.  We've 
exhausted the leads here.  We're back in DC tomorrow." 
"Fuck that!"  He clenched his hand into a fist, and looked around 
wildly, searching for something to hit, to break. 
Scully took a step back, hands dropping to her sides, limp. 
"I'm in the middle of a profile, Scully.  Leave me the hell 
alone!  I don't mess around when you're in an autopsy bay, do I? 
I expect the same professional courtesy here!" 
"Mulder, this behavior--" 
"Let me do my job!" 
"Mulder--" 
Little girl light, little girl dark.  It's all your fault. 
"Get out, Scully.  I'll let you know when I'm done."  He waved in 
the general direction of the door, and Scully stiffened. 
"I'm not--" 
"The *hell* you're not!" 
Her eyes hardened.  She turned on a heel, back impossibly 
straight, saying nothing until she reached the door.  "Our flight 
is at noon."  He turned his back on her.  She shut the door a 
little harder than necessary. 
Little girls.  Light dark.  Fault, guilt, flowers on the floor. 
The motive had to be hiding right in front of his eyes. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
Chapter Four 
To A Child 
Dance there upon the shore; 
What need have you to care 
For wind or water's roar? 
-- WB Yeats, "To A Child Dancing in the Wind" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Bethesda Naval Hospital 
January 11, 2000 
2:02 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Not for the first time in her life, Eloise Marshall wondered just 
how two children with the same parents could look so different. 
She and her sister shared very little other than a last name. 
As Eloise reached down to brush the tousled blonde hair back from 
her sister's eyes, Jacqueline Marshall's eyes fluttered open, and 
a soft smile formed.  "Fooled you, didn't I?  I've been waiting 
up."  Jacqueline gave a little sigh and the smile widened.  "What 
took you so long?" 
"Flight got delayed.  Fog in Seattle, surprise, surprise.   How 
are you, Jackie?  Really?" 
The younger woman flinched at the nickname, and wrinkled her 
nose, but the smile didn't falter.  "I'm *fine*.  You shouldn't 
have come back -- I caught a news report.  You should be out 
there fighting crime, Lise." 
"They didn't know how bad your injuries would be, and... they 
wanted family here.  The other agents will be fine without me for 
a few days." 
"Days!  I'll be out of here tomorrow!" 
Eloise grinned down at her sister.  "You're not leaving here 
without my express permission, young lady, so you might as well 
get comfortable." 
A deeper sigh.  "So.  How's it going with the FBI's very own 
freak show?  That's how you put it, wasn't it?  Although, I have 
it on good authority that Agent Fox Mulder is hot." 
Eloise rolled her eyes.  "I did *not* call them the FBI's 
personal freak show, little missy.  Stop putting words into my 
mouth -- you'll get me in trouble.  Agent Mulder is, I'll grant, 
far from hard on the eyes, but... well, Jackie, he's weird."  She 
shrugged, hands spread wide, and laughed.  "There's no getting 
around it.  No aliens, yet, but you can just tell all the agents 
are holding their breath, waiting for the 'a' word to come out. 
Besides, even if he wasn't so damn weird, I think there's 
*something* between him and his partner.  It's like ... they've 
got a little club and no one else is allowed to play.  Including 
me." 
"Sex?" 
"Jacqueline Marshall!" 
"You were thinking it, Lise." 
Eloise made a face and laughed again.  "I'm not sure.  Although, 
I looked in his window the other night as I was walking past, 
and--" 
"Eloise Marshall!" Jacqueline teased, matching and mocking her 
sister's earlier tone. 
"I wasn't *spying*.  Just peeking.  Anyway.  There they were, all 
snuggled up on the bed eating Chinese food and grinning at each 
other." 
Jacqueline nodded.  "Definitely sex." 
"If you hadn't been in a car accident, I'd smack you, you 
insolent creature."  Eloise frowned briefly and her voice turned 
serious.  "Honestly though, Jackie.  Are you going to be okay?" 
"Concussion.  I lost consciousness at the scene, which is why 
everyone was scared.  A lot of blood, too, but all superficial. 
Really.  Nothing broken, nothing that a few stitches won't fix." 
Jacqueline reached out and squeezed her sister's arm when Eloise 
still looked unconvinced.  "They shouldn't have brought you back, 
Lise.  I know how it can disrupt a case." 
Eloise shrugged.  "Forget about it, Jackie.  You're more 
important than this.  How did the accident happen?" 
"Stupid, really.  I was waiting at a light, nosed into the 
intersection, and the guy coming the opposite way didn't stop for 
the red light.  He just didn't stop.  Slammed right into me with 
his big, fat SUV." 
"I know how much you love SUVs." 
Jacqueline grinned. "I've got one more reason, now.  I attempted 
to turn the car to deflect most of the damage I could see coming 
my way, and while I saved my life, I'm afraid my little Beetle 
will never be the same." 
"You could have been killed." 
Jacqueline's mouth smiled, but her eyes didn't.  "Maybe.  But 
there's too much left for me to do, Lise.  Twenty-three is too 
young to die.  Now, what do you say to ending this depressing 
conversation and talking about something new?  Gossip, maybe? 
You could tell me about your case and I could solve it for you?" 
Eloise smiled and pushed her depressing thoughts into the pit of 
her stomach.  "Sure, Jackie, everything that's not top secret 
confidential.  Are *you* still thinking of the FBI?  You're old 
enough now." 
"Ahh, but being the lackey of a Pentagon no-name is just *so* 
fulfilling, Lise.  Why would I want to leave that behind? 
Besides, I keep hoping to be recruited by some secret government 
agency.  Can't you picture me head-to-toe in black leather with a 
big gun?" 
"That was 'The Matrix,' Jacqueline, not life with the Secret 
Service." 
"Details, details."  The blonde woman nodded, and snuggled down 
into the crisp hospital bedding.  "Now, Lise, you give *me* some 
details." 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Bellisfair Mall 
Bellingham, Washington 
January 15, 2000 
12:36 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
He had always been a watcher -- and that was part of the problem. 
It wasn't until adulthood, after growing up, being the in the 
spotlight, being the chosen one, that he realized he had always 
been the watcher.  He watched his own successes from a distance, 
strangely indifferent.  He watched the path his life was taking 
as though he had no say in it.  He watched until he was sick of 
himself. 
Taking action never completely banished the watcher in him.  He 
sipped the lukewarm coffee, grimaced, but never took his eyes off 
the little family whose children were arguing over french fries. 
"Shut *up*, Suzie!  You ate yours already!"  He placed the boy at 
about ten -- just the age when younger siblings became hassles 
instead of friends. 
Suzie looked up at her brother with big eyes and her bottom lip 
quivered.  He thought she couldn't be older than six.  She had 
carefully constructed blonde ponytails, tied up with pink 
ribbons.  The ribbons matched her dress.  "Can I have one, Tommy? 
Please?" 
"No!"   He smacked her hand as she reached across the table to 
steal a french fry, and she began to cry.  It was a soft sound at 
first, hardly loud enough to be noticed.  Two big tears trickled 
down her face to drip off her tiny, dimpled chin.  "Da-ad.  Tell 
Suzie to leave me alone." 
The father was a large man, with big hands and a stern face.  The 
mother rolled her eyes and focused on the dry salad in front of 
her.  She was trying to lose the weight that had stuck after 
Suzie, the watcher knew.  He could always tell women who were on 
perpetual diets.  They had cranky dispositions and treated 
everything except their salads with a veiled contempt.  They were 
always hungry. 
Suzie looked up at her father, attempting the same big-eyed look 
that had failed with her brother.  The father was not fooled. 
"Leave your brother's food alone, Suzie, and eat your hamburger." 
"I don't like it.  There's no cheese." 
"Suzanne," the mother said tightly, her lips straight and hard, 
"you don't need cheese.  Processed cheese isn't good for you." 
"But I *like* it.  It tastes good." 
"Cheese is for fatties," the brother teased. 
The watcher took another sip of his coffee.  The last traces of 
warmth were escaping the drink rapidly. 
"I just like it," Suzie said, too quietly for the watcher to 
hear.  It didn't matter, really.  He was good at reading lips. 
"Not another word out of you, young lady," the words rumbled out 
of the father's chest, dark and frightening.  "I've had enough of 
this.  This is a treat.  Eat your hamburger or you'll get a good 
spanking." 
The watcher's hands closed around the Styrofoam so tightly that 
the material broke, sending coffee all over the table and his 
hands.  He barely felt it.  Suzie looked up and saw coffee 
spilling everywhere. 
"That man spilled his coffee," she said, pointing.  The mother 
frowned, obviously taking in the nice suit, the nice shoes, the 
nice face, and not understanding them.  He knew she thought that 
nice people shouldn't spill coffee in public places. 
"It's okay, Suzanne.  It was an accident." 
"Does it hurt?" Suzie asked, projecting her voice and rising in 
her chair. 
"No," he answered, voice calm.  "It was almost cold." 
"Suzanne!"  The mother's voice was sharp, quick, like a whip. 
"Suzanne Marie.  Do not talk to strangers."  The father grabbed 
his daughter's hands yanking her down into her seat.  She began 
to cry again, but louder this time, the heart-rending wail of a 
surprised victim. 
The mother, obviously embarrassed, lowered her face and began 
muttering, in low tones, words that made her daughter cry harder. 
A few other people in the food court began to look over.  The 
watcher could feel the eyes upon him.  He didn't need to turn to 
know that there were others watching him.  He mopped up the 
coffee with dry paper napkins. 
The father grasped his daughter's face with his hand, and turned 
her to face him a little roughly.  Tom remained calm, but 
flinched away from his angry father, even though he was not the 
one at the receiving end.  "Shut the fuck up, Suzanne!" 
Suzanne's eyes widened, and her mouth would have formed an 'o' of 
terror and surprise if her face had not been held so firmly. 
The watcher stood, brushed down the wrinkles in his suit, and 
moved toward the table.  "I'm sorry to have caused this," he 
said, his voice strong.  He kept his hands at his sides by sheer 
force of will alone.  Just as he moved to walk away, he added, 
"You should not use those words on your children.  Don't you know 
how it hurts them?  You would never want your children hurt by 
others, I'm sure, and yet you hurt them yourself.  You can let 
her go now.  She's learned her lesson the hard way, and she will 
be scared of you forever.  It's okay, Suzanne Marie."  He looked 
at Tom, who ducked his head. 
"Who the hell do you think you are--?" the father began, letting 
his daughter go, half-rising out of his chair.  His grip had left 
marks that faded from white to red on the little girl's cheeks. 
Suzie looked up at the watcher with eyes so big and dark they 
looked nearly black.  He knew she wanted to say thank-you, but 
that she was afraid.  He gave her a baby smile, and she returned 
it. 
"Get away from my family, you asshole!" 
Other people were watching now, openly. 
Mall security would arrive any moment. 
The watcher shook his head, said nothing, and walked away. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
The X-Files Office 
Washington, DC 
January 17, 2000 
4:30 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Scully entered the office as though she was walking on eggshells, 
hoping Mulder wouldn't notice.  Her partner, however, was sitting 
back in his chair with his feet on the desk, watching her every 
move carefully. 
"Where've you been all day, Scully?" 
Scully sighed.  "Talking to Agent Marshall." 
"For the whole day?  Aren't you two just the perfect picture of 
bosom buddies?  You guys gonna have a slumber party?  Do 
makeovers?" 
"Mulder.  She is an agent working on this case." 
"Scu-lly," he deliberately mocked her tone, in nasal sing-song 
falsetto.  "There is no case." 
"If you want to be self-defeating, Mulder, it's up to you.  But 
I'm not joining you this time.  We lost him in Bellingham, but 
we've made progress.  If you want to sit here in the basement and 
pout because this isn't like Monty Props, you can do that, too. 
Just remember you're not doing anyone -- including yourself -- 
any good by it." 
"Thanks for the vote of confidence, Scully." 
Scully glanced at the ceiling and sighed again.  "I'm just 
telling you the truth, Mulder." 
"If that's the truth, I can live without it." 
Exasperated, she turned on her heel and nearly ran into Skinner's 
secretary, who had just exited the elevator.  "Agent Scully," she 
said in clipped tones.  "The Assistant Director needs to see you 
and Agent Mulder right away." 
Scully raised an eyebrow.  "It's almost five o'clock." 
Kimberly nodded.  "I know.  It's important." 
"Mul--" 
Mulder brushed past the two of them, coat flung over his arm.  "I 
was already gone." 
Rage sparked and Scully reached out to grab his left arm.  "We're 
going to see Skinner, Mulder.  If you think I'm going to cover 
your ass after this behavior you've got another thing coming." 
They followed Kimberly back to Skinner's office and waited while 
she informed the Assistant Director of their presence.  He 
ordered them in immediately.  Scully took the chair next to 
Marshall, who was already present, eyes focused on the folded 
hands in her lap. 
"There's been another death," Skinner said abruptly, after the 
door had  closed behind his secretary.  "Sumas, Washington." 
"Sumas, sir?" Scully asked, when it appeared neither of her 
colleagues were planning on opening their mouths. 
"Yes, Agent Scully.  We've got an international situation in 
progress.  Sumas is on the Canada-USA border, very small, 
certainly not accustomed to the press action it's receiving." 
"You think this is V. Frank, too?" 
"Crime scene reports indicate his involvement."  Skinner folded 
his hands and looked at each of them before continuing, "The 
victim is a six-year-old Canadian girl.  Her parents claim she 
wandered away in a Bellingham shopping mall.  This was on the 
fifteenth.  The body was found this morning.  The family, of 
course, is outraged, and Canadian authorities are, rightfully, 
demanding justice.  You three are going back out to Washington 
state, and I don't want to see your faces back in this room until 
you've got some answers for me." 
Mulder smiled, and Scully wanted to wipe the expression from his 
face.  It was a smile twisted inward -- a hurting smile.  "Yes, 
sir," he said, with no emotion in his voice.  "We're on our way. 
Daylight's burning, as they say." 
He walked out of the room without being dismissed. 
Scully watched the door close, then said hesitantly, "He's -- 
it's really bothering him... the difficulty he's having with the 
profile."  She cringed to hear her own words. 
Skinner looked at her, but she couldn't see his eyes behind the 
glare on his glasses.  "I understand the subject matter of the 
case must be difficult for both of you, but if you feel, at any 
time, that Agent Mulder's behavior is less than professional, I 
want you to get him out of there." 
Scully inhaled deeply, held the breath for a moment, and exhaled 
again.  "Yes, sir." 
"Dismissed, then, Agents.  You've got work to do." 
The women nodded in unison and rose. 
"Agent Scully?" he called, when she had reached the door. 
"Protecting his back is part of your job, but covering his ass 
isn't." 
She nodded again, tersely.  "I know that, sir." 
Mulder was waiting in the office anteroom, ignoring Kimberly. 
"Thought you said you weren't going to cover my ass in there, 
Scully?" 
She clenched her teeth and said nothing. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
Chapter Five 
Stilled 
                     But then I sat, stilled. 
Unable to fathom what stilled you 
As I looked at you, as I am stilled 
Permanently now, permanently 
Bending so briefly over your open coffin. 
-- Ted Hughes "The Blue Flannel Suit" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
January 17, 2000 
9:03 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Scully sighed and closed the book, dropping it onto her lap. 
Helen Fielding, while funny, just wasn't what she needed at the 
moment.  The in-flight movie was something she'd seen once and 
hated, and whose title she had completely forgotten.  Mulder, on 
the other side of the aisle, watched it mindlessly.  She could 
tell by the lack of fucus in his eyes that the movie was the last 
thing on his mind. 
Marshall, with the coveted window-seat, stared down into the sea 
of little lights that was the Midwest.  Just as Scully opened her 
mouth Marshall asked, without looking up, "Is it a good book?" 
Scully shut her mouth. 
"It's one of those books that I've been meaning to read," 
Marshall explained.  "My sister read it last month and raved 
about it for a while.  It's sitting on my bedside table at home." 
"It's... funny," Scully said.  "Not great literature, but funny." 
She looked down at the copy of "Bridget Jones' Diary" sitting on 
her lap and resisted the urge to sigh again.  When it appeared 
that Marshall was going to say nothing more, Scully asked, "How 
is your sister doing?" 
Marshall shook her head slightly.  "There was a scare the day 
after I brought her home -- the thirteenth.  She wouldn't wake 
up.  I called the paramedics, of course.  She had slipped into a 
coma.  She woke up the next day as if nothing had happened. 
Jackie's funny that way.  She can be sick to the point of dying 
and she'd never let you in on it.  It's all a big joke to her. 
That's why I had to go home after the accident.  She'd have 
convinced some poor sap at the hospital to let her go before she 
should have been." 
Scully shot a sideways glance at Mulder, who was still pretending 
to watch the movie.  "I know the feeling.  At least she didn't 
sneak out on her own." 
Marshall smiled weakly.  "That sounds like the voice of 
experience.  I wouldn't put it past her, though." 
The women remained silent for several minutes before Scully spoke 
again.  "He's not so bad, Marshall.  You've probably heard all 
the rumors, and you know about 'Spooky' Mulder losing his sister. 
Cases like this ... cases with little girls get under his skin." 
"But he's good at what he does.  I know.  I did my research, 
Agent Scully."  She paused, and glanced at the ceiling before 
continuing in a quiet voice, "What the Assistant Director said 
back there ... why do you do it?  Why do you cover for him when 
he's the one pushing the wrong buttons and getting into trouble? 
Getting both of you into trouble?" 
"We're partners," Scully offered.  "We've been working together 
for almost seven years, Marshall.  We're good friends.  He covers 
me and I cover him."  Scully looked past Marshall's head, out 
into the darkness.  "We're partners," she repeated softly. 
Marshall looked down at her hands.  "Agent Scully?" 
Scully wondered where the sad wistfulness in Marshall's voice was 
coming from.  "Yes?" 
"Why did you join the FBI?" 
Scully tilted her head, considering for a moment, before 
answering, "I thought it was where I could make the most 
difference." 
"You never worked with Violent Crimes, did you?" 
"No.  I taught at Quantico before being assigned to the X-Files." 
Marshall rubbed her forehead with her fingertips before 
continuing, "I thought I could make a difference, too.  Working 
with Violent Crimes changed that.  You see... you see so many 
horrible things." 
Scully's voice was low, serious.  "I've seen my share of horrible 
things, Eloise.  It makes you stronger, or it breaks you." 
A muscle in Marshall's jaw twitched.  "I know," she said firmly. 
"I know that, too." 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Sumas, Washington 
January 18, 2000 
8:25 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
If the scene in Bellingham had been a zoo, Mulder forgot about it 
the moment he stepped out of the car in Sumas.  Several news vans 
were parked haphazardly in the motel's parking lot and on the 
street.  He recognized KSTW's van, and Jim Garrett had the 
audacity to wave.  CNN had a van.  Vancouver Television had a 
van.  Mulder closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and silently 
promised his partner that he would behave. 
A throng of press reporters surrounded them as local police tried 
unsuccessfully to keep them at bay.  "Agents!" one man shouted. 
"What do you have to say about this?  This is an international 
incident!" 
Mulder swore the man's "about" sounded distinctly Canadian. 
"We have nothing to say at this time," Scully called back. 
Mulder could tell she wanted to put her hand on his arm -- to 
steady him, or to hold him back?  He wondered.  "The FBI will 
issue a press report once we have investigated the matter 
further." 
The agents pushed forward.  There was pandemonium.  Two police 
officers cleared a path through the crowd, leading the agents 
into the motel.  The room was strangely silent compared to the 
cacophony outside -- a tiny island of calm.  Wilson and Marsdan 
nodded their greetings. 
"How long has it been like that out there?" Marshall asked. 
Wilson shrugged.  "It was almost that bad when we arrived last 
night.  The police found the body yesterday after an anonymous 
call was made.  I guess the press descended on this place like 
the wrath of God within hours." 
"I want a tape of the voice," Mulder said quietly. 
"We've already got it.  It's in Bellingham, being analyzed, but 
I'll have it sent to you as soon as they're finished." 
Mulder nodded.  He moved toward the bed without saying anything. 
He felt Scully's presence at his side, and was surprised when she 
reached down to pull back the blanket before he could. 
"My God," she breathed. 
The girl under the blankets was young and very small.  Her little 
face was marked by a bruise that looked like fingers.  Her hair 
was tied up in uneven blonde pigtails; the ribbon from the left 
pigtail was missing.  Mulder squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, 
then opened them again quickly, afraid that Scully would see him 
and start to worry. 
These are just facts, he told himself.  Just take them all in, 
one by one.  Try not to let them add up into a little girl. 
She was wearing a blood-stained white nightgown that was too big 
for her.  The ruffle at the bottom fell far past her feet.  The 
cut in her neck was deep. 
Scully pointed with one gloved finger at the neck, "Similar 
hesitation cuts.  The final cut, though... God, Mulder, it's 
vicious.  He severed half her neck in the process.  The blood 
loss... I don't know if he even bothered to try and clean up 
after this one." 
"What's her name?" Mulder asked no one in particular. 
Marsdan flipped through a little black book filled with notes and 
answered, "Suzanne Caulfield.  Age six.  Parents Robert and 
Melissa Caulfield, from Chilliwack, British Columbia." 
"Siblings?" 
"Older brother, Thomas.  He's ten." 
Scully turned her head, glancing at Mulder, "What does it matter, 
Mul--" 
"It matters.  They were visiting Bellingham?" 
"Shopping.  After-Christmas sales." 
"Don't they have any idea what the Canadian dollar is worth?" 
Mulder asked dryly, not really expecting an answer.  "This is one 
shopping trip I bet they wished they'd never taken.  Agent Scully 
and I are going to interview them after she autopsies the body." 
"They've already told us what happened--" 
Mulder smiled coldly.  "No doubt.  I just want to talk to them 
myself.  Are they staying in Bellingham?" 
Marsdan nodded.  "Sumas doesn't have a large selection of motels, 
you'll notice." 
The three daisies were limp, in a motel-issue glass and not 
enough water.  There was no lemon in the glass of water. 
"Mulder -- look at this!"  Scully handed him a small piece of 
paper. 
"Where was this?" 
"In her fist." 
Mulder unfolded the piece of paper gently, and gazed at it for 
several long minutes.  He shook his head and passed it back to 
Scully. 
"'The little children suffer'?"  Her eyes widened, and he watched 
the blood drain out of her face.  "What the hell is going on 
here?" 
"Not 'The little children suffer', Scully.  Check out the way 
it's written.  Have you read much e.e. cummings?" 
"He wasn't my favorite poet, no." 
Mulder took a deep breath and explained, "He played with syntax 
and line structure.  The difficulty in reading cummings' poetry 
is figuring out the pattern of the sentences." 
Scully tilted her head.  "This is a line from an e.e. cummings 
poem, then?" 
"No, not at all."  Mulder took the paper back from her and 
pointed, "See the brackets?  This is a classic cummings type 
clue -- 'the little children)(Suffer' should actually be read 
'Suffer the little children.'" 
Scully's frown deepened, and a crease formed between her brows. 
"'Suffer the little children to come unto me and forbid them not: 
for of such is the kingdom of God.'  It's the Gospel according to 
Mark, 10:14." 
Mulder nodded decisively.  "I'd like you to do the autopsy as 
soon as possible.  We should talk to the Caulfields today." 
They looked down at the little girl again.  She seemed so small 
and sad and broken on the bed, like an abandoned doll. 
"It's maddening, isn't it, Scully?  That he just manages to slip 
away every time?"  He glanced over his shoulder at the other 
agents and lowered his voice.  "I feel like I could just reach 
out and grab him sometimes.  I feel like he's right around the 
corner, and that I keep looking just a moment too late." 
Scully looked up at him, concern in her eyes.  "We're doing 
everything we can, Mulder." 
"Are we, though?  Are we doing *everything* we possibly could?  I 
don't think we are.  I think if we were, we'd have caught him by 
now." 
Mulder reached down and flipped the blanket back, covering the 
tragic remains.  "Do you think she even liked daisies, Scully?" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
"Agent Mulder?  Mulder!" 
Mulder half-turned.  "Marshall.  Something on your mind?" 
"Yes," she said firmly.  "I want to go with you and Agent Scully 
when you interview the family today." 
"I think the two of us can handle it, Marshall." 
Marshall gave a brief nod and continued, "I understand.  I 
just -- I think you and I have the same gut reaction here, Agent 
Mulder.  This crime feels different.  There's something going on 
that we don't know about." 
Mulder shrugged.  "Suit yourself.  We'll talk to them after 
dinner.  Scully's going down to Bellingham with the body to do 
the autopsy.  We'll meet her at our motel there." 
Marshall fell back a step, startled that Mulder had given in to 
her request so easily, but recovered herself quickly.  "Thanks." 
"Could you handle something for me?  Could you take the composite 
around to the front desk, see if there's any recognition?  Try 
not to get side-tracked by the press.  The story is sensational 
now -- every six o'clock news program wants something new to 
report, fact or not." 
Mulder turned away again, opened the car door and was lowering 
himself into the vehicle when Marshall added, "We're close to the 
son of a bitch now, aren't we?"  She shook her head and tightened 
her hand around the handle of her briefcase. 
"As close as we've been," Mulder agreed, shutting the door and 
starting the engine. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Holiday Inn 
Bellingham, Washington 
January 18, 2000 
6:34 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Marshall sat to the left and behind Mulder and Scully, facing the 
Caulfield family.  The mother was wound up tight as a spring, her 
hands clenched in the fabric of her black skirt.  Her face was 
white under the blonde fringe of her bangs; her lips were drawn 
into a hard, straight line.  The father sat beside his wife, 
protective and menacing at the same time.  One of his heavy hands 
rested on her thigh, the other lay flat on his own. 
They looked uncomfortable, which was, of course, no surprise. 
The way the father kept glancing back and forth between his wife 
and his son, however, was just odd. 
The son's appearance was the most startling of them all.  He 
looked small and shrunken in the too-big black suit.  He kept his 
eyes on his knees.  The one time he had looked up and met her 
eyes, he had seemed absolutely terrified. 
Marshall could see the boy's resemblance to the little corpse 
they had found on the bed.  He reminded her uncomfortably of her 
own sister, with his dark eyes and light hair.  She could almost 
see Jacqueline's face hiding in front of her. 
"I'm Agent Mulder, and this is my partner Agent Scully.  And this 
is Agent Marshall.  You've spoken to Agents Marsdan and Wilson, I 
gather." 
"Yes," the father -- Robert Caulfield, she corrected -- said 
quietly.  "We've told them everything we could think of, Agent 
Mulder.  Would you mind telling me why this interview is 
necessary?  You're disrupting my family." 
"I'm sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Caulfield, but if we're 
going to find the man who killed your daughter, we're going to 
need all the information we can get." 
Robert Caulfield bowed his head. 
"Did you notice anything suspicious the day Suzanne was taken, 
Mr. Caulfield?  I suspect that the killer chooses his victims 
specifically.  Suzanne's death was not a random act." 
Mrs. Caulfield dabbed at her eyes with a lacy handkerchief. 
"As I told the police *and* the other FBI agents, we didn't 
notice anything out of the ordinary.  It was a completely normal 
day -- Melissa was buying some new clothes for the children.  Tom 
and Suzanne were spending the twenty-five dollars their 
grandmother sent them for Christmas." 
"Just out of curiosity -- why come down to the States?" 
"The kids' grandmother lives in Los Angeles.  She sends them 
American cash.  Even since the dollar went to hell, we've kept 
the tradition of coming down here so they could spend the cash." 
Mulder nodded and scribbled something down in his notebook. 
Marshall wondered what he could possibly have found to write 
down. 
"So there was no one out of the ordinary?  Nothing you can 
recall?" 
"No!" Melissa Caulfield snapped, a little too quickly.  Marshall 
saw Agent Scully's eyebrow raise in the way that meant she didn't 
believe a word. 
Tom glanced up again, for the first time since Mulder had started 
speaking.  His eyes still looked scared, but there was 
determination there as well. 
"You're a Special Agent, right?" the little boy asked, his voice 
filled with awe. 
"Yeah," Mulder agreed.  "We all are." 
"Do you have guns?" 
Mulder nodded. 
"Is it like in movies?  Do you find bombs and stuff?" 
Mulder grimaced, and Marshall remembered that the two agents 
sitting in front of her had been at the heart of the Dallas 
bombing. 
"I've found bombs before, but it's not very much like the 
movies."  Mulder smiled for the kid's benefit.  "We've got to 
fill out more paperwork than you ever see in the movies, that's 
for sure." 
"Is it cool, though?" 
"That's enough, Thomas," his mother admonished.  Her fingers 
fidgeted in her lap. 
"It's pretty cool," Mulder said. 
"It must be nice.  To save people and stuff."  The meaning of the 
boy's words was unmistakable.  Marshall felt her chest constrict 
for a moment.  Agent Scully's eyes looked damp.  Mulder remained 
frighteningly calm. 
"It's not your fault about your sister," Mulder explained, his 
voice soft and filled with more emotion than Marshall had ever 
heard before. 
She remembered Chad Tyler's voice raised in mocking laughter. 
"You want to be a profiler, Lise?  You want to be a profiler and 
you've never heard of Spooky Mulder?"  She remembered asking, 
"Why Spooky?"  And Chad answering, so condescendingly, "Because 
he's brilliant, makes connections no one else sees -- and he's 
weird as hell.  Thinks his sister was abducted by aliens when he 
was twelve.  Never got over it, they say.  Always thought it was 
his fault." 
She shook her head and tried to refocus on Mulder's conversation 
with Thomas Caulfield. 
"Thomas," his mother repeated, in the same sharp tone of voice, 
"Agent Mulder isn't talking to you.  Sit still.  Let your father 
answer the questions." 
Tom slouched back in his chair and frowned at his hands.  "What 
about the guy with the coffee?" he mumbled in the general 
direction of his lap. 
Mulder perked up immediately, and Scully's pen hung poised over 
her notebook, ready to capture anything relevant. 
Marshall just listened. 
Robert and Melissa Caulfield looked stricken.  Melissa's white 
handkerchief dropped into her lap, unnoticed. 
"Who was the man with the coffee, Tom?"  It was Scully who asked 
the question, her voice low and friendly.  Her tone made sure 
that Tom knew the question was for him, and him alone.  Tom 
looked up at her as though he hadn't even realized she was there. 
"Just some guy in the food court.  Suzie and I were--" a haunted 
look hung in the child's eyes before he continued, quieter, "--we 
were fighting over french fries.  This guy spilled his coffee, 
and Suzie pointed him out.  I think she asked if he was hurt -- 
Mom, do you remember?" 
Melissa nodded curtly.  "She asked if it hurt." 
"Things got -- weird.  Suzie started crying, and Dad--" The boy 
stopped mid-sentence, turned eyes full of terror on his father, 
and said nothing more. 
"Tom," Scully said gently, "we need to know the rest.  It might 
help us find the man who killed your sister." 
"Dad -- got -- mad.  He grabbed Suzie's face real hard and told 
her to sit down and be quiet.  He told her to--" 
"Thomas!" his mother yelped. 
Tom would not be stopped.  He glared at his parents before 
continuing, "He told her to shut the fuck up.  He swore at her 
like that.  The guy with the coffee came over and told Dad to 
back off.  He was really pissed off -- but all quiet, you know. 
Quiet mad instead of loud mad.  He said that words hurt, and that 
kids don't ever forget that.  He told Suzie everything was okay, 
and then he walked away."  Tom's sudden bravado fled, and he 
stared wildly at the agents, afraid to turn and look at his angry 
father. 
"You didn't bother telling the authorities this?" Scully probed, 
directing the question to Robert. 
"I didn't want them to think I was hurting my kids.  I love my 
kids.  You can't even spank a kid these days without fifteen help 
groups jumping down your throat." 
"Your daughter had substantial bruising on her face, Mr. 
Caulfield," Scully explained patiently.  Marshall could sense her 
restrained frustration.  "You have to understand that not giving 
me -- as an agent, and as the pathologist who performed your 
daughter's autopsy -- all the available details could compromise 
the investigation.  You are not on trial here, sir, but your 
motives can be called into question." 
"*My* motives?"  His voice sounded choked.  "You've got to be 
kidding. This is my own baby girl we're talking about here!" 
"You're not under suspicion, Mr. Caulfield," Scully assured him. 
She wrote something in her notebook without lowering her gaze. 
A few uncomfortable moments passed.  The agents waited for the 
family to speak, while Robert Caulfield glared back at them, 
immovable. 
Mulder broke the silence by softly asking the boy another 
question.  "Tom?  Do you remember anything about the man?" 
"He was wearing a suit," the little boy offered, looking askance 
at his parents again.  "He had short hair, kind of like yours. 
He was like -- he -- you could tell he really didn't like what 
Dad said to Suzie." 
They asked a few other perfunctory questions -- what the family's 
further plans were, when they'd be heading home, what number they 
could be reached at in Chilliwack. 
The agents were almost back to the car when Tom ran out after 
them.  He tugged frantically on Mulder's arm and said, "Agent 
Mulder, there's something else I wanted to tell you.  I didn't 
want my mom and dad to hear it, though."  The boy took a deep 
breath, and Mulder crouched down a bit, so they were at eye 
level. 
"When we ... when we couldn't find Suzie at the mall, the first 
thing I thought was that the coffee man had taken her.  He, like, 
really seemed to care about her.  Nobody else ever stands up to 
my dad.  For a minute I was happy for her -- for getting away.  I 
thought she'd be happier with someone who loved her more.  I -- I 
don't think the guy with the coffee is the bad guy, Agent Mulder. 
He just wanted to protect her.  He wouldn't kill her.  He just... 
really wanted to protect her." 
Mulder squeezed the child's shoulders.  "You did a good job, 
Tom." 
The kid smiled.  "Thanks."  He paused thoughtfully.  "Do you 
think I could be an FBI Special Agent someday?" 
"When you're twenty-three, we'll see about it," Mulder said, 
neglecting to mention that Thomas Caulfield was not an American 
citizen. 
"Thanks," the little boy repeated.  "I should go back before my 
dad gets mad." 
Scully bent down a little and asked, "Does your dad get mad 
often, Tom?"  When he nodded she handed him a card.  "If your dad 
ever gets mad at you, and makes you feel hurt or uncomfortable, 
give me a call, Tom.  My name is Dana.  See, it's written there 
on the card.  I'll make sure someone's there who can stand up to 
your dad, okay?" 
Tom nodded, eyes wide.  Scully ruffled his hair, and Marshall 
wondered again who these people were -- so stern one moment, so 
tender the next. 
Then the moment was over.  Tom waved and darted back into the 
motel.  Mulder and Scully stood, shared a glance with each other 
but not with her, and the three of them got into the car and 
drove away in silence. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
Chapter Six 
Constriction 
And we, too, had a relationship-- 
Tight wires between us, 
Pegs too deep to uproot, and a mind like a ring 
Sliding shut on some quick thing, 
The constriction is killing me also. 
--Sylvia Plath, "The Rabbit Catcher" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Best Western 
Bellingham, Washington 
January 18, 2000 
10:13 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Mulder flopped onto the bed and the springs protested loudly. 
"Starting to feel like home, isn't it, Scully?" 
Scully sighed and moved to leave.  "I'll see you in the morning, 
Mulder." 
Mulder sat up and raised his eyebrows.  "You're going to bed 
already?" 
"Mulder, I don't think--" She gave him a hard look and continued, 
"-- I don't think I'm very good company tonight." 
"Why?  Something I said?" 
She sighed.  "You could say that.  Why were you so hostile with 
the Caulfields?  You alienated them before we even began." 
Mulder shrugged and leaned back against the headboard.  "I knew 
it wasn't V. Frank who left the bruises on Suzanne, Scully." 
"Oh, really?" she snapped, folding her arms over her chest.  "And 
you didn't bother telling me this?" 
"I wasn't positive, Scully, and I know how much you disapprove of 
not having all the facts.  Thomas Caulfield was right.  The 
killer was protecting the girl." 
Scully raised an eyebrow.  "You really think it was this 
mysterious guy with the coffee?" 
Mulder nodded. 
"And *why* is that?" 
"The care and the precision of the killer all makes sense.  These 
are not hate crimes, really.  These are not random acts of 
violence.  He's not hurting them for the sake of hurting them. 
For of such is the kingdom of God, Scully." 
She clenched her teeth.  "Mulder, I'm not even convinced that 
this killer is the same guy we've been looking for." 
Mulder pulled himself off the bed and began to pace, his brow 
furrowed.  Scully continued, "The violence of the murder; the 
state of the room; calling the authorities?  These do not 
indicate the same killer.  There are huge inconsistencies--" 
"It's the same killer, Scully." 
She shook her head.  "I think you're wrong, Mulder.  This is the 
work of a copycat -- someone who has been watching too many news 
stories." 
"I disagree.  The news didn't mention the flowers or the water." 
"People have sources!" Scully's voice was sharp.  "You are so 
wrapped up in this thing that you can't even see the truth when 
it's looking you in the eyes, Mulder!" 
"Do you want to know the truth?" Mulder shouted down at her, not 
trusting himself to get too close.  Scully gazed up at him with 
an open challenge in her eyes.  "The truth is that the son of a 
bitch *knows*, Scully!  He knows I'm trying to find him -- trying 
to get into his head.  It's not some fucking joke, Scully!  The 
case has gone high profile, just like I knew it would.  He sees 
himself on the television and hates it.  He's sick of seeing 
himself!  You wanna know why he nearly severed that girl's head? 
He was afraid of being caught.  He knows he doesn't have as much 
time to be precise.  He's sick of people on his tail." 
"Mulder."  Her voice was calm, a futile attempt to soothe his 
agitation.  "Mulder, this is not Modell.  This is a sick man who 
needs to be stopped -- and you've got the ability to stop him. 
His head is not your head, Mulder.  He is not you.  You are not 
him." 
Mulder pressed the heels of his hands to his temples.  "I 
*know*," he said, grimacing.  "I *know* that, Scully." 
She stepped closer and laid her hands over his.  Her skin felt 
blissfully cool against his own.  "Mulder, it's okay.  It's all 
right." 
"It's not," he said softly, pulling away from her hands.  "It's 
not okay.  It's not a copycat killer, Scully." 
She didn't believe him; he could see it in her eyes. 
They remained silent for several moments, neither daring to look 
at the other.  "Mulder," she finally said, "that little boy today 
is not you.  Just like the little, dead, blonde girl is not 
Emily."  Scully closed her eyes, and when she looked at him 
again, they were clear.  "This is a hard case, Mulder.  For both 
of us.  I know it can't be pretty inside the killer's head--" 
He turned his face away, hiding from her.  She followed him, 
forced him to look into her eyes.  "Listen to me, Mulder. 
Driving yourself to the edge isn't going to change anything." 
She touched the back of his hand lightly.  "Step away from it." 
Mulder nodded. 
"We're taking over in Sumas, tomorrow.  We've got a list of 
people to interview.  Get some sleep, Mulder.  The day starts 
bright and early."  She squeezed his hand for an instant and 
moved quickly toward the door. 
"I'll be okay, Scully," he called after her.  She smiled and shut 
the door. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
10:40 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
He knew he shouldn't be there, but he couldn't stop himself. 
There was something intriguing here -- something his curiosity 
wanted to understand.  He watched as the woman shut the door 
carefully behind her.  As the lock clicked, she pressed her back 
and the palms of her hands against the door and closed her eyes. 
She was upset, he could see, even at a distance.  He watched her 
take several deep breaths -- in ... out ... in ... out -- before 
wiping at her eyes angrily. 
He wondered what it was that had made her upset.  This was a 
woman independent of others -- this was no starving waif who 
plucked at a salad in order to feel she had control of her life. 
He couldn't imagine her hiding from anything.  Her eyes, even 
from a distance, brooked no argument.  She was a woman used to 
giving orders, and used to having those orders followed to the 
letter.  She carried herself like a general in high heels.  He 
didn't have long to watch her, though, for she turned on her heel 
and clicked rapidly toward her own room. 
When her door had shut and the parking lot was quiet, he crept 
closer.  He watched through the open curtains as the man within 
paced back and forth, a spring of nervous energy.  He saw his own 
pain reflected back at him, as though the man inside were a 
mirror.  He knew the man within was an FBI agent, and this both 
amused and startled him.  The FBI agent never looked up. 
Occasionally the agent would mutter under his breath, but the 
angle didn't allow the watcher to read the words on his lips. 
He wanted to know what it was the drove this man; what pushed the 
agent into the state of anxiety he watched now.  It went beyond 
the stress of the job or the heat of the moment, he was sure.  He 
watched a man who looked as though tension was his natural state 
of being. 
He heard footsteps behind him and he pretended he was looking for 
a room number. 
"Can I help you?" 
It was the second woman -- he had seen the three of them get out 
of a car earlier.  He drew a piece of paper out of his pocket, 
pretended he was looking at a number, and looked up at her.  "I'm 
looking for room 26." 
She smiled, but her eyes were hard.  She was strange, this one. 
She kept to herself -- he hadn't had time to watch her.  He 
thought she was more bark than bite.  "That's on the other side," 
she said. 
He looked at her for a moment, sensing that anything longer than 
a moment would be noted and remarked upon.  "Thanks," he said. 
It wasn't until he walked away that he remembered his foolish 
call to the police, and the fact that the agents would hear a 
recording of his voice. 
It was time to go home. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Washington, DC 
January 24, 2000 
~*~*~*~*~ 
"You've had a call?" 
"Yes, sir." 
"And?" 
"Things are going according to plan.  There were setbacks, but 
I've taken care of them." 
"Setbacks?  Of what sort?" 
"Evidence that shouldn't have been disclosed.  They heard the 
tape of the voice.  They got too close." 
"That's unacceptable.  This must be dragged out for it to work as 
I've planned." 
"I understand, sir.  They were fed some false information and 
everything is back on track." 
"You're certain of it?" 
"Absolutely." 
There was a long moment of silence. 
"Go on, then.  You'll inform me if anything changes." 
It wasn't a question, and they both knew it. 
The door shut.  He pressed the end of his cigarette into the 
ashtray and pulled an unopened pack of Morley's out of his coat 
pocket.  He savored the first drag of the cigarette.  It was 
ironic, he thought, that something so potentially deadly could 
fill him with such satisfaction. 
He shared a conspiratorial smile with the photo on his desk. 
The faces in the photo smiled back.  They didn't know any better. 
There was no serpent in their Eden.  Yet. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Bellingham, Washington 
January 26, 2000 
10:12 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Scully kicked her shoes off violently, without giving a damn 
where they landed.  The clingy, detestable nylons followed.  She 
certainly didn't care if she ever saw *those* again.  She was 
beginning to think that if she ever saw a pair of pantyhose again 
it would be too soon. 
She threw herself onto her bed and glared at the ceiling.  They'd 
been in Bellingham so long that she was forgetting what it was 
like to sleep in a bed that was comfortable, in a room that 
didn't smell like motel-disinfectant and starched sheets. 
"Circles," she said to the ceiling.  Circles, circles, circles. 
She was sick to death of dealing with protocol and bureaucracy. 
She was sick of working with the police, the RCMP, even the other 
FBI agents assigned to the case. 
She admitted, if only to herself, that she was sick of Marshall, 
and sicker still of Mulder. 
She wanted to go home. 
There was a firm knock on the door that would not be ignored, 
just as she was nodding off.  She shook the sleep off, staggered 
to the door and peered at the intruder with bleary eyes.  She was 
tired of being woken at all hours of the night.  Didn't anyone 
else need to sleep? 
"What the hell are you doing here, Marshall?"  There was no anger 
in her voice; only resignation. 
"Pyjamas have got to be more comfortable than a suit." 
Scully pulled herself up and grimaced.  "Other than that?" 
"Agent Mulder." 
Scully took a deep breath, preparing herself for the onslaught. 
"What about him?" 
"When we left DC the Assistant Director told you to keep an eye 
on him.  To take him off the case if he began acting 
unprofessionally." 
"The point, Marshall?" 
"Don't you think it's obvious?" 
Scully wondered if the younger woman meant to sound as cruel as 
she did.  She put it down to long days with few results and 
raised her eyebrows. 
Marshall continued, "He's almost violent, for God's sake!" 
"Mulder's not violent," Scully disagreed.  "He's preoccupied.  If 
that makes him imperfect company, well, that's something we have 
to deal with on our own.  His behavior isn't threatening anyone 
or compromising the success of the case." 
Marshall looked about a heartbeat away from throwing her hands 
into the air and storming out.  "Maybe you see his behavior as 
normal, but the rest of us do *not*.  Anyone who talks to him is 
lucky to walk away alive!  I notice even *you* are not immune 
from his--his--irrationality!" 
Scully wanted to go home. 
"Agent Mulder is irritable, yes.  Show me one other person 
working this case right now who *isn't*.  This dragging in 
circles is hard on everyone, Marshall."  She was sick of being 
the calm one, too.  Marshall and Mulder fought like cats in a 
sack until she broke it up.  Marshall had insights about the 
profile that Mulder thought were garbage; Mulder's ideas seemed 
far-fetched and unreal to Marshall.  Scully met Marshall's gaze 
and said, "For good or ill we're all here, Marshall.  Something 
has to break soon ... even if it means another death."  Scully 
rubbed her temples.  She had a headache, damn it.  She wanted to 
go back to sleep.  "I hope it doesn't come to that." 
The younger woman clenched her teeth and her eyes narrowed.  "Are 
you thinking about this rationally?  Are you positive you're not 
confusing issues and covering for your partner, even though he's 
behaving irrationally?" 
"Look," Scully said coldly.  "I understand your point of view, 
Marshall.  There's nothing I can do about it right now." 
"You could--" 
"Mulder's behavior is not out of character.  Not with all things 
considered." 
"I disagree--" 
"I'm going back to bed, Marshall.  I advise you to do the same." 
Marshall lifted her chin stubbornly.  "Don't think I won't go 
over your head if I deem it necessary, Dana." 
Scully looked at the younger woman and slowly raised an eyebrow. 
"You do what you think is right, Marshall." 
Marshall's look was unreadable as Scully turned away.  The door 
closed without the other woman offering any further comment. 
Scully put her hand up to her forehead and took several long 
breaths.  Tomorrow.  Tomorrow she would deal with Marshall and 
Mulder and everything.  Tomorrow. 
She wanted to go home. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
Chapter Seven 
Teacup 
... those who wanted protection for a new home 
Used to bury, under the new threshold, 
A sinless child. 
-- Ted Hughes, "Fidelity" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
January 27, 2000 
7:15 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Scully woke reluctantly when her cell phone began to trill next 
to her ear.  In her dream she had been home, in her own bed 
again, and she didn't want to open her eyes only to see the 
despised hotel room again.  Groaning, she fumbled for the phone. 
"Scully," she said softly, still half-asleep. 
"Agent?" 
Scully opened her eyes and sat up in bed the moment she 
registered Skinner's voice. 
She cleared her throat as quietly as she could.  "Yes, sir?" 
"You've got a flight at noon, Agent Scully.  There's been another 
death -- here in DC." 
"You're kidding!" she blurted before she could stop herself. 
"I'm afraid not.  You, Mulder, and Marshall had better come up 
with some answers before you show up in my office today." 
"Are you absolutely certain it's the same killer, sir?  I believe 
Agent Mulder's profile specified that V. Frank would not be going 
back to DC." 
"And has Mulder figured out why the killer was in DC to begin 
with?  Agent Mulder's profile has been unsuccessful so far, Agent 
Scully, and this last death proves that Mulder has made a further 
mistake.  Like I said -- there are questions that need to be 
answered." 
"We'll be on the flight, sir." 
Skinner's voice was unforgiving.  "You'll report with Agents 
Mulder and Marshall as soon as you return to the city." 
"Yes, sir." 
The other line went dead, and Scully stared down at her phone for 
several moments, unmoving.  Home, she told herself.  This isn't 
what I meant. 
Finally, she pulled herself off the bed and went through the 
motions of getting herself ready. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Scully found Marshall and Mulder sitting silently over cups of 
coffee.  Neither was looking at the other, and they didn't appear 
to have been involved in any sort of conversation before she 
entered.  At least they weren't arguing, or circling each other 
like rabid dogs about to scrap. 
"We've got a flight in four hours," Scully said, breaking the 
silence. 
Mulder looked up, eyes dark.  "What?" 
Marshall only shook her head. 
"Skinner called.  There's been another death -- back in 
Washington." 
It was Mulder's turn to shake his head.  "You're kidding.  You've 
got to be kidding.  I don't know what the hell is going on, but 
it's not Frank, Scully.  He doesn't need to go back to DC.  He's 
finished there." 
"We're expected back today, Mulder.  No arguments.  You need a 
break anyway." 
She caught the shift in Marshall's expression on the edge of her 
peripheral vision.  Scully thought the other woman was about to 
speak, but Scully cut her off.  "Tie up your loose ends.  I want 
to make sure the autopsy reports are in order.  Marshall, could 
you call the families; let them know we'll be in DC if anything 
else comes up." 
Marshall nodded and made no further attempt to speak her mind. 
When the younger agent had left, Scully poured herself a mug of 
coffee and sat opposite her partner.  Mulder had said nothing 
since his initial outburst.  "You're not okay with this, are you, 
Mulder?" 
He looked up at her as though he didn't know who she was. 
Recognition flashed behind his eyes and he shook his head. 
"Scully, did Marshall tell you to take me off the case?" 
She took a sip of coffee, watching equal parts amusement, 
annoyance and uncertainty play on his face.  "Do you think she 
should have?" 
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.  "Don't try the 
psycho-babble on me, Scully, answering questions with questions. 
That's my tactic.  I just wanted to know."  As he drummed the 
fingers of his right hand against the tabletop she noticed that 
his arm was almost completely healed and that he could move it 
freely.  It surprised her that she hadn't noticed the change 
earlier. 
"She did." 
"She came to me, first.  I told her to mind her business and 
leave me alone -- which she didn't appreciate, let me tell you. 
She's got nerve."  Mulder chuckled under his breath.  "She's not 
entirely wrong, I suppose.  My behavior must seem weird to her." 
He glanced up at his partner and grinned.  "Spooky, even." 
Scully saw what he didn't want her to see.  She knew he was 
looking for affirmation, for forgiveness.  She took a deep 
breath.  "I told her everything was okay, Mulder." 
His face softened and his posture lost a fraction of its 
ever-present tension.  "I thought you would.  She listens to you. 
Respects you, I think." 
Scully shrugged.  "You haven't been yourself, Mulder." 
"I know that."  He swirled the dregs of his coffee around the 
bottom of his mug and avoided looking at her.  Mulder's voice was 
soft when he continued, "I'll be okay when this is all over." 
"What if it doesn't end, Mulder?" 
Her partner jerked his head up, startled like a deer caught in 
headlights.  "It'll end." 
"One way or another?  We're on loan, remember, Mulder?  We've got 
X-Files we've been ignoring for over a month.  For several 
months, if you take into account the time you've spent healing. 
It's not unheard of for killers or drug dealers or con artists or 
even the FBI's Most Wanted to remain at large.  We're not an 
infallible agency." 
Mulder closed his eyes. 
"Mulder--" 
"Hey, Scully," he said, without opening his eyes.  "Would it be 
too much trouble if we continued this conversation later?  I've 
got to pack and stuff." 
She covered his left hand gently with her own.  "Sure, Mulder. 
Whenever you want.  I'll see you at the airport, okay?" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Sea-Tac Airport 
Washington 
11:01 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Scully glanced over her shoulder, scanning the crowd for anyone 
who resembled her partner.  Marshall sat in one of the 
uncomfortable airport chairs and filed her nails, studiously 
ignoring the older woman. 
"He could be lost," Marshall finally offered, after Scully had 
jumped out of her chair for the third time in five minutes. 
"It's not like he doesn't know where we're going!" Scully 
snapped, clenching her hands into fists.  "Why isn't his phone 
on?" 
Marshall looked up at her with an annoyingly calm expression in 
her eyes.  "Why don't you go ask someone if he left a message. 
Maybe he's caught in traffic." 
"That doesn't explain why he would have turned his phone off. 
Mulder rarely turns his phone off.  His phone is like a siamese 
twin.  Joined at the hand."  Scully paced and resisted the urge 
to punch something.  A mother who was frantically trying to keep 
her three kids in line glared at Scully when she invaded their 
space. 
"Just go check," Marshall said.  "The plane leaves soon." 
"I *know* when the plane leaves!" 
Marshall shook her head and Scully marched off to find someone 
who looked as if they might have a clue. 
After being redirected three times, Scully finally found an 
information desk with a competent-looking young man punching in 
numbers and keeping the masses at bay. 
"Can I help you?" he asked, smiling sincerely. 
"I'm not sure.  I'm wondering if a man named Fox Mulder could 
have called?  Left a message?  I'm Special Agent Dana Scully with 
the FBI and he's my partner.  We're supposed to catch a flight in 
a few minutes." 
The young man smiled again, and rifled through a pile of papers. 
"You're sure he's supposed to be on your flight?" 
"To Washington, DC, yes." 
"And you're Dana Scully?" 
Scully nodded and showed him her ID.  She could feel the eyes of 
the line-up behind her boring into her back.  The clerk pushed an 
envelope across the desk.  "Here you go." 
The paper was addressed to "Special Agent Dana Scully or Special 
Agent Eloise Marshall." 
Inside a note read: 'Scully, hey.  I'll catch up.  M.' 
Overhead a pleasant voice enunciated the last call for Scully's 
flight.  Crunching the paper in her hands, she nodded at the 
clerk and ran toward her gate. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Dana Scully's Apartment 
January 28, 2000 
2:11 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
This day could not possibly get any worse, Scully thought as she 
slammed the door behind her.  She glanced down at her watch and 
cursed herself under her breath for shutting the door so loudly. 
Getting herself evicted would be a charming end to an already 
charming day. 
The meeting with Skinner had lasted several hours and had 
involved interrogation like Scully had never before witnessed. 
For the three-hundredth time that day she wondered why it was -- 
and what force of the universe hated her so much -- that she had 
to be held accountable for the mistakes, disappearances and bad 
behaviors of Fox William Mulder. 
With knots in her stomach she wondered where the hell her partner 
was. 
She also wondered if the combination of his antics and Marshall's 
ringing condemnation would be enough to make her lose her job. 
On the other hand, she mused, losing her job just might come as a 
welcome relief at this point. 
Scully toed off her heels and tore a run in her last remaining 
pair of pantyhose.  She was too tired to curse, but not tired 
enough to sleep.  Ridding herself of her ruined pantyhose and her 
jacket, she made her way into the kitchen to fix herself a cup of 
peppermint tea. 
She made the mistake of checking the answering machine on the 
way. 
"Hey, Scully, it's me.  Skinner mad?  Marshall bitching?  Sorry 
about that.  I'll get back to you in a couple of days.  I had to 
follow a lead.  Probably won't have my cell on.  Later." 
One broken teacup and a superficial burn on her hand later, 
Scully finally sank down onto her couch and sipped her tea.  She 
made a mental note to contact the airline tomorrow after 
performing the autopsy on the latest victim.  Perhaps they would 
know where Mulder had gone, or if he had left the Pacific 
Northwest at all.  She couldn't help thinking that he wouldn't 
have bothered with the note at Sea-Tac, though, if he hadn't 
still been there. 
"What the hell is going on?" she whispered into her teacup. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
9:15 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
For the second time in as many days, Scully woke to the sound of 
her telephone ringing.  She grabbed the phone, thinking it might 
be Mulder, and snapped, "Scully." 
"Agent Scully, this is Amy Paris at the coroner's office.  We 
were wondering when we could expect you." 
Scully looked at her clock, and found the red digits blinking 
back at her.  "I'm -- I'm sorry," she finally managed.  "My power 
went out here.  I'll be there in an hour at the latest." 
Traffic, of course, begged to differ.  It wasn't until nearly 
noon that she stood in the autopsy bay, clad in pale mint scrubs, 
pulling her hair back into a tiny ponytail.  The room was cold 
and empty except for the body under the sheet in front of her. 
Scully was intensely aware of the throbbing of her left hand from 
the burn the night before.  She hadn't kept it in cold water long 
enough.  The figure on the autopsy table was small.  Taking a 
deep breath, she pulled back the stiff sheet. 
Tears filled her eyes before she could stop them. 
The little girl was not more than three or four years old, with 
strawberry blonde hair and wide-open blue eyes.  Her face was 
cherubic, round and sweet, with rosebud lips.  Scully dropped the 
sheet and shook her head angrily.  "Now is not the time," she 
told herself.  "Now is not the time for this." 
When she pulled the sheet up again, the same little body looked 
back at her.  The big eyes seemed full of pain, of hope, of fear. 
Scully wanted to pull the girl to her chest, to rock her to sleep 
and keep her warm. 
But this little girl was already asleep.  She was past being warm 
ever again. 
Scully dropped the sheet again and strode to the door.  "Amy!" 
The young assistant looked up from her paperwork.  "Yes?  Is 
there a problem, Agent Scully?" 
"Yes -- no.  No, but I'd like to see the charts on this girl. 
What's her name?" 
Amy gave Scully a look of concern and rifled through the files 
scattered on the desk.  When she found the right one, she rose 
and passed it into Scully's gloved hands. 
"I'm sorry," Amy said, "I thought you had already seen the 
charts.  We did send a copy over to your Assistant Director 
yesterday." 
"An oversight," Scully stated, her voice weak.  She was absorbed 
in the material in her hands.  "She's a Jane Doe?  Haven't they 
found her parents?" 
Amy shrugged.  "I wouldn't know, Agent.  You'll have to talk to 
the police if you want more information.  What's there is all 
that we were given." 
Scully lifted the first sheet of paper and began sorting through 
the crime scene photographs.  "This is unbelievable!" 
"Agent?" 
Scully shook her head.  "Thanks, Amy." 
Closing the bay doors behind her, Scully stood over the body once 
more.  A feeling of dizziness swept over her and she put out a 
hand to steady herself.  Unreal.  This was fucking unbelievable. 
A Jane Doe body matching the physical description of her dead 
daughter.  Something was not right.  Something was not right, and 
she was going to find out what the hell was going on, come hell 
or high water. 
Scully lifted her scalpel and tried not to think of Emily. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
January 29, 2000 
11:12 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Scully woke, not to the sound of her telephone, but to the sound 
of her doorbell ringing.  She pulled herself off the couch -- I 
fell asleep on the couch? -- and straightened her clothes before 
pulling the door open. 
Marshall stood in the hallway, clothing, hair and makeup 
immaculate. 
"Again," she said with a smile, "I must insist that pyjamas are 
more comfortable than suits." 
"How is your sister?" Scully asked, blinking off sleep. 
"Almost one hundred percent better, thanks.  She actually took my 
advice and stayed in bed this time.  Can I come in?" 
Scully pulled the door back and gestured the other agent inside. 
"What brings you here?" 
"Other than the fact that your cell was off and that you weren't 
answering your home phone?  I thought I'd lost you and Agent 
Mulder both, to tell you the truth."  Marshall paused, noticing 
the crime scene photographs scattered on the coffee table and the 
living room floor.  "Will you accept an apology?  My behavior has 
been abominable, especially toward you.  The Assistant Director 
holds you accountable for Agent Mulder's actions, and you 
certainly don't need me riding your ass, too." 
Scully raised her eyebrows.  "Thank you." 
"I talked to the police yesterday.  From what they had to say, I 
have my doubts that this killer is the same man.  They played a 
tape of the man's voice -- same deal as Sumas, calling in the 
murder -- and while it sounded similar, it didn't sound like the 
same man.  Honestly, it sounded like a reasonably drawn 
facsimile." 
"Coffee?" Scully offered. 
"Please." 
"My autopsy findings were similar," Scully called from the 
kitchen.  "Close enough that any anomalies might have been 
overlooked.  The crime scene photos are second rate, too, which 
doesn't make sense, considering the high profile of the case." 
Minutes of silence passed, while Scully waited for the coffee and 
Marshall examined photographs.  Finally Marshall asked, "You 
think it's a copycat?" 
Scully moved back into the living room, carrying two mugs of 
coffee.  "No," she said, seating herself opposite Marshall.  She 
passed the other agent her coffee and watched her carefully. 
Once bitten twice shy, apologies or not.  "No," she repeated.  "I 
think it's a setup." 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
Chapter Eight 
One Might Say Love 
By bestowing largesse, honor, 
One might say love.  At any rate, I now walk 
Wary (for it could happen 
Even in this dull, ruinous landscape); skeptical 
Yet politic; ignorant 
-- Sylvia Plath, "Black Rook in Rainy Weather" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
X-Files Office 
January 31, 2000 
7:18 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Scully slammed the receiver down into its cradle so hard that the 
desk and the phone both protested by creaking.  There were times 
when she wondered why she bothered with the name, rank and badge 
number routine at all.  She might as well call up the Washington 
Police Department, put on her best drawl and say, "Hi, my name is 
Shadow Peaks.  I'm a porn star looking for some information on a 
case..."  Maybe then the cops would give her half a minute of 
their time. 
More than three days and no word from Mulder. 
Scully pushed her feelings of anxiety away and tried not to think 
of the sheer amount of mischief her partner could possibly get 
into in three days.  She breathed deeply before picking up the 
phone once more.  "Hello.  This is Special Agent Dana Scully with 
the Federal Bureau of Investigation, badge number -- no, ma'am, 
this has nothing to do with the airline in question.  I'm looking 
for information you might have in your database.  Yes, ma'am. 
No, this isn't an undercover investigation.  I believe my partner 
may have taken a flight out of Sea-Tac on the twenty-seventh. 
Yes.  Fox Mulder.  Nothing?  Can you try ... can you try V. 
Frank?  No?"  Scully tapped her pen against the desktop and 
searched her brain.  She had a feeling Mulder wouldn't travel 
under any of his usual aliases.  "What about Frank Victor?" 
"Yes, Ma'am.  A Frank Victor left Sea-Tac on United Airlines 
flight 2217 at 12:10 PM on January 27." 
"He was going to?" 
"San Francisco, ma'am." 
"Thank you."  Scully breathed, with real relief.  She hung up 
more gently this time, and closed her eyes.  San Francisco. 
Berkeley.  She had no doubt that Berkeley was where Mulder was 
headed.  Lead. 
Why choose the name Frank Victor? 
Scully didn't want to know the answer.  The basement office felt 
unused -- worse, even, than when Fowley and Spender had made it 
their residence.  It was no longer physically empty, of course. 
The same ever-present clutter was flung haphazardly about: 
misplaced files, empty coffee mugs, an abandoned UFO magazine. 
There were deceptive signs of life, but there was also emptiness. 
Scully put her head down on Mulder's desk.  There was no one 
home, here.  No one home and no one coming home any time soon. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Dana Scully's Apartment 
February 1, 2000 
11:13 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
"All right, then.  No, I haven't heard from him.  I'll talk to 
you tomorrow, Marshall.  Yeah." 
Scully clicked the receiver down and rested her aching feet on 
the coffee table.  She hadn't told the other agent that she knew 
where Mulder was.  She hadn't told Skinner, either, and it was 
starting to feel like a dirty secret.  They had, of course, made 
no progress whatsoever on the DC case.  Avenues of investigation 
were sealed before their eyes.  Possible witnesses knew nothing. 
No one could verify a physical description. 
Scully felt like a rat chasing its own tail in a circular maze. 
Circles and circles and circles. 
To keep herself from falling asleep on the couch for the third 
night in a row, Scully made herself a cup of tea and took it into 
her bedroom.  The room seemed as unused and unfriendly as the 
X-Files office.  It was painfully ironic that the refuge she 
dreamed of while in Seattle seemed denied her now.  Things were 
too regular here -- candles waiting to be lit here, a half-read 
book there -- and her life felt anything but normal.  She was 
beginning to feel that mutants, garbage monsters and government 
conspiracies might be a welcome relief from the endless darkness 
of a serial killer's mind. 
It seemed hard to believe that it was just a month ago that she 
had been fighting zombies and rescuing her insane partner once 
again.  Was it only a month ago?  She pressed her fingers into 
her eye sockets until the pain reminded her not to feel tragic. 
A month in the long run is nothing, she told herself.  I've been 
in quarantine that long, haven't I? 
She remembered the feel of Mulder's lips against her own.  It had 
felt like promise then -- a promise she had been afraid of; a 
promise she hadn't been completely ready to answer. 
She wanted to answer it now. 
It was on nights like this one, when she was lonely and a little 
bit afraid, that she replayed the last thirty seconds of 1999 in 
her head.  It was grainy, black and white, like an old Hollywood 
movie.  Her memories were never recalled with pristine clarity, 
which, in her line of work, she sometimes found to be more of a 
relief than a fault.  She rarely envied Mulder's eidetic memory. 
There were plenty of things she never wanted to relive over and 
over again. 
She wondered what he remembered when he thought of New Year's 
Eve.  Probably everything.  The thing that stood out most clearly 
in her own mind was not the gentle pressure of his lips against 
hers; her lips against his.  It was not the tender expression in 
his eyes that she wanted to keep framed in her psyche forever. 
It was not even the promise or the innuendo or the perfection of 
that single moment, trapped endlessly in silent movie bliss. 
No.  What she remembered most clearly was that as Mulder's arm 
circled her shoulders, she did not return the gesture by putting 
her arm around his waist. 
And she hated that they had never spoken of it.  The New Year's 
Eve Incident was added to the Summer of '98 Hallway Incident and 
the Bermuda Triangle Incident.  Incidents never to be spoken of 
again.  Unmentionable upon pain of death, in fact. 
Scully shook her head and downed the rest of her cooled tea.  Now 
was not the time for thoughts like that, either. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
February 2, 2000 
3:12 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
The sound of a key in her lock woke her immediately.  Two people 
had copies of her key and Scully sincerely doubted her mother 
would be making a three a.m. wake-up call.  She threw the covers 
back and shrugged into her terry robe. 
"Mulder?" she called softly.  When there was no answer, she 
pushed her gun into one of the voluminous pockets of her robe. 
"Mulder?  Is that you?" 
She moved slowly into the living room and saw her partner 
standing there, silhouetted against the window.  One hand held 
back the curtain, while the other scrubbed through his hair.  It 
was snowing outside, flakes falling lazily from the black sky. 
"Mulder?" 
He kept his eyes on the road, watching with mindless energy as 
cars slid in the unfamiliar weather.  His hair stood up in messy 
tufts and a day's worth of stubble roughened his cheeks.  He 
looked thinner, she thought, his clothes hanging on his slender 
frame, and she was afraid. 
"I haven't been drinking, Scully, if that's what you're afraid 
of," he finally said, never taking his eyes from the snow and the 
soft yellow light of the streetlight. 
"What the hell are you doing here, Mulder?" 
"I missed you," he said wryly, in a way that hurt them both. 
"You went to Berkeley." 
"I did.  You're a smart girl, Scully.  Didn't really think I'd be 
able to pull the wool over your eyes.  Thanks for not chasing 
after me, guns blazing." 
"I thought about it."  She sat down on the couch and kept her 
hands in her lap because she didn't know what else to do with 
them.  "You wanna tell me what you found there?" 
"Was it worth ditching you, you mean?" 
"I thought we weren't going to answer questions with questions." 
Mulder's laughter came out like a bark, hard and unpleasant. 
"No, Scully.  I said that I didn't want *you* to answer questions 
with questions.  I never said anything about myself." 
She laughed bitterly.  It was a hurt sound, a dead sound.  She 
wanted to choke it back as soon as the sound of it reached her 
own ears.  "I'm tired, Mulder.  You wanna get to the point?" 
He turned his face toward her, and she could see the acid in his 
smile even through the shadows.  "*You're* tired?  I haven't 
slept for almost seventy-two hours.  You don't have time for 
tired, Scully.  It's the end of the fucking world." 
Scully stiffened and reached for the back of her neck.  "What's 
that supposed to mean?" 
Mulder shook his head and jerked the curtain shut violently.  The 
room was suddenly dark.  Scully didn't even think of turning on a 
light.  "It's not colonization, oh, no.  We don't need to be 
conquered by aliens.  What the hell would aliens want with us, 
anyway?  I mean *really*?  We're a planet full of murderers and 
liars and hired thugs.  Everybody's working for someone else, 
here, Scully.  Some of us are honest about it -- look at Alex 
Krycek, for example.  He may be a lying rat bastard, but at least 
he knows it.  At least he doesn't deny it.  He doesn't really 
pretend that he's anything else." 
"I think you're being a little hard on the planet, Mulder.  And a 
little easy on Alex Krycek." 
"Am I?"  He began pacing, his shoulders stiff.  "I'm not, really. 
What am I except a hired thug given license to kill by a corrupt 
government?  I know the government is corrupt, and here I am 
waving a badge and a gun and shooting and killing, all in the 
name of the U.S. of A.  What gives me the right?" 
Scully clenched her fists, even though Mulder wasn't looking at 
her, and wouldn't have been able to see it in the dark anyway. 
"Laws exist for a reason, Mulder, and we uphold those laws.  We 
keep people safe.  We aren't murderers." 
"I am," he said softly, sadly.  "I am a murderer.  I've been 
filling government agendas for years.  I'm the villain here, 
Scully." 
"Mulder.  You're not thinking about this clearly." 
He turned on her, angry like a lit match. "Don't fucking tell me 
how I think!  You don't know anything about it!"  Scully cringed 
back, unnaturally afraid of Mulder despite herself. 
This is my best friend, she told herself.  This is my partner. 
"Okay," she acceded.  "Tell me what you're thinking, then." 
Mulder shook his head.  "It's the end of the world.  We live in a 
place so violent, so animalistic, so cruel.  No, not even 
animalistic, Scully.  How many animals kill their own kind with 
vicious intent?  Not many, I think.  Not many."  His voice 
sounded thick with tears, but she couldn't see his face to tell 
if he was crying.  "We live in a world where fathers hurt their 
children, Scully.  Doesn't that seem sick to you?  Wrong?  We 
live in a world where the men with power take innocent women and 
steal their babies.  We live in a world where these women are no 
better than lab rats."  He crept closer and sunk to his knees in 
front of her.  He placed a tender hand on her stomach, and she 
flinched.  "You ask me what kind of world it is that we live in? 
It's a horrible world.  It's full of monsters.  We're all 
monsters in one way or another." 
"Mulder," she whispered, running her fingers through his hair. 
"You're taking this too personally." 
He looked up at her then, for the first time.  His eyes were 
swollen with tears.  Wet tracks marred his face.  "No," he said, 
his voice full of shadows.  "I'm not taking it personally enough. 
Don't you understand anything?  I'm a *monster*." 
"I'm a monster, Mulder?" 
Her partner let out a choked sob, and it was the most pained and 
painful sound Scully had ever heard.  Mulder pressed his face 
into her thigh, clutching the fabric of her robe.  She continued 
stroking his hair as he sobbed into her leg. 
Who are you, Mulder?  What the hell is going on here? 
"You're not," he finally said, voice muffled by terry cloth and 
tears.  "You're a victim." 
"I'm not a victim, Mulder.  I can take care of myself.  I'm 
strong." 
"No!" he cried.  "If you could take care of yourself you'd never 
have been taken away -- never!  Not by Duane Barry or Donnie 
Pfaster or Gerry Schnauz or Arens and the Chaco people who nearly 
cut your head off!  God, Scully, can't you see?  Can't you?" 
She resisted the urge to shake him.  Giving his anger credence 
would only complicate the situation further.  She had to bring 
him back to himself; to stop the mad tirade of his words. 
He reached up and touched the side of her face tenderly.  "You're 
not a monster, Scully.  Never you.  You're one of the ones who 
needs to be protected.  You need to be safe." 
She shook her head.  "You're wrong, Mulder.  About this you're 
wrong." 
He smiled weakly at her and jumped to his feet, a six-foot ball 
of nervous energy. 
"Are you going to tell me what's going on here, Mulder?" 
He balled his hands into fists.  "You don't know what the hell 
you're talking about, Scully.  There's so much violence in this 
world.  You're fucking innocent." 
The anger in his voice startled her.  All trace of his tears were 
gone, burned off by simmering rage. 
"Mulder, I don't understand.  Help me to understand." 
"Fuck you, Scully!" he shouted, turning on her.  "Of course you 
don't understand!  You've never fucking understood!" 
She rose to her feet, facing him.  He stood stiff and still, 
quaking with rage she couldn't comprehend.  She wanted to match 
that rage.  She wanted to pound on him with her fists until he 
stopped putting words into her mouth and thoughts into her head. 
Instead she offered a simple "I'm trying." 
He lunged for her, pinning her arms to the sides of her body, 
rendering the gun in her pocket useless.  "You're carrying a 
*gun*?"  His voice was low, dangerous. 
"You didn't answer when I called you," she explained, trying not 
to panic, trying to keep her voice calm.  "People have invaded my 
apartment before, Mulder." 
"You're carrying a gun to protect yourself from *me*?"  His arms 
squeezed her tighter.  Her legs were awkwardly pressed between 
him and the couch, preventing anything resembling a good kick. 
She tried to use the force of her own weight against his right 
side, counting on some residual pain from his injury, but if he 
was hurt or weak he showed no sign of it. 
"No, Mulder," she breathed.  "I trust you." 
"You're carrying a gun, goddamnit!" 
She pulled back as far as she could and gazed up into his face. 
"This is insane, Mulder." 
"It's not!" he said, shaking her.  Her head snapped back and she 
took as deep a breath as his grip would allow.  "You don't 
understand, Scully." 
"You keep saying that, but I don't know what it is that I'm 
supposed to be understanding, Mulder." 
His eyes met hers and she saw hurt there.  "Don't you?"  He bent 
forward and pressed his lips to hers, seeking roughly.  Scully 
attempted to twist her head away, but Mulder was adamant.  She 
squeezed her eyes shut until her eyeballs hurt and shook her 
head.  Mulder pulled back finally and her lips felt bruised, full 
of broken blood vessels, swollen.  "I love you, Scully." 
Tears fell from her eyes, unnoticed.  "You're hurting me, 
Mulder," she rasped, chest tight. 
There was a fevered brightness heightened by the tears in his 
eyes as he pushed her away, down onto the couch.  "You see?" he 
said in a tiny voice.  "You just don't understand.  Perhaps you 
never have.  Fuck you, Scully." 
He turned away from her and she scrambled to her feet.  "Don't 
you do this, Fox Mulder!  I'm not a fucking weapon you can use 
against yourself when you want to be hurt!  I will not play this 
game!  You're not a bloody martyr!" 
"I'm not," he agreed, standing on the threshold of her apartment. 
"And you're not a sacrifice." 
The door swung shut more softly that she would have expected, but 
she felt no desire to go after him.  To go after him now would 
only let him think he was right to martyr himself.  It would give 
him purpose.  She slid bonelessly onto the couch and hugged a 
pillow to her churning stomach.  "Damn it," she murmured. 
"Goddamnit, Mulder." 
She wept into the pillow because there was nothing else to be 
done. 
Everything would have to be fixed in the morning. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
  
Chapter Nine 
Tabula Rasa 
In his cage of ether, his cage of stars. 
He'd had so many wars! 
The white gape of his mind was the real Tabula Rasa. 
-- Sylvia Plath, "Lyonnesse" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Scully's Apartment 
February 2, 2000 
6:35 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Scully didn't really start to feel nervous until the phone rang 
off the hook not only at Mulder's apartment, but at the X-Files 
office as well.  When she attempted his cell, she heard the 
familiar "the cellular customer you are trying to reach is 
currently unavailable" spiel. 
She tried the home-work-cellular routine three times before 
giving up. 
He's on his way to work, she rationalized.  His phone's 
recharging.  He forgot it on the bedside table.  He's on his way 
to explain everything to Skinner. 
Even as she thought it, she knew that the chances of seeing her 
partner at work today were very slim indeed.  The man who had 
stood in her home not three hours earlier had not been the Fox 
Mulder she knew and loved.  His eyes had been full of shadows and 
fears and things Scully couldn't understand.  Everything about 
him had been ... not Mulder.  She shook her head, trying to rid 
herself of the unpleasant thoughts taking up residence there. 
Even though it was the last thing she wanted to think about, the 
juxtaposition of the two kisses -- New Year's and the night 
before --tortured her.  There was nothing tender or loving about 
the last night.  There was nothing she wanted to wrap up and 
treasure forever.  The thought of being pressed painfully in the 
circle of Mulder's arms choking for air made her want to throw 
up.  It was not Mulder.  He had never acted that way toward her 
before -- no matter how desperate things had been -- and she 
didn't want to think about it. 
But she had to.  The fact was that her partner had accosted her 
in her own home, held her against her will and kissed her with a 
mouth full of pain. 
And she had done nothing to stop him. 
Scully scrutinized herself in the mirror on her dresser.  She had 
not bothered to try and sleep again, and the lack of rest showed 
in the pinched lines and dark circles around her eyes.  The bulge 
of her gun still pressed through the fabric of her robe's pocket. 
She lifted the portable phone to her ear once more, pressing the 
speed dial as she did so.  After three rings she heard the tinny 
sound of Mulder's answering machine: "This is Fox Mulder.  I'm 
not here, leave a message." 
She hung up without saying anything. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Skinner's Office 
8:53 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
"There's something you wanted to see me about, Agent?"  Skinner 
looked up from the papers on his desk and removed his glasses. 
Scully took a deep breath and declined the seat he gestured 
toward.  She looked at the floor because she didn't want to see 
what was in Skinner's eyes.  She was afraid it would be the same 
darkness she had seen in her partner's. 
"Last night, at around three o'clock in the morning, Agent Mulder 
visited my home.  I was sleeping at the time, but he let himself 
in using the key I had given him in case of emergencies.  When I 
confronted him, he showed ... highly uncharacteristic behavior, 
even for him."  She peered curiously at her boss, but his face 
remained impassive.  "Agent Mulder left some time later, in a 
state of agitation, but I didn't follow him.  This morning I 
called his home, the office and his cellular with no success." 
She shook her head and turned to face Skinner squarely. 
"May I ask why you chose to let him go?" 
Scully felt her face turn several unflattering shades of pink. 
"Agent Mulder was violent, sir." 
"And this wasn't excuse enough in favor of chasing him down?" 
Scully licked her bottom lip nervously before continuing, "Sir, 
Agent Mulder was violent toward *me*." 
Skinner folded his hands in front of him and looked at her 
carefully.  She couldn't see anything in his eyes except calm, 
and perhaps a little confusion.  She held her hands still in an 
attempt not to fidget.  Her arms hurt where Mulder had pressed 
her the night before.  Under her suit and her long-sleeved 
turtleneck, purple bruises lay. 
"You didn't call the police?" 
"No, sir."  Her brow furrowed.  She swallowed a mouthful of air 
past a constricted throat.  "I didn't think of it, sir." 
"Scully," he said, his voice dropping into a softer tone.  "I 
think you want me to tell you how disappointed I am, but looking 
at you standing here I can only be worried.  Your behavior is ... 
less than characteristic." 
She pinched the bridge of her nose and nodded.  "I know that, 
too, sir." 
"The problem with Mulder," Skinner mused, half to himself, "is 
that he does so well if you leave him alone.  Unconventional 
methods and theories aside, he's got a brilliant mind -- he draws 
conclusions that no one else can deduce--" 
"He jumps to the end product without taking all the steps to get 
there.  But he's still correct," Scully interjected.  "Only this 
time -- this time something has gone terribly wrong, sir." 
Skinner nodded. 
Scully wished she hadn't caught the sudden glimmer of unfamiliar 
emotion that flashed in his eyes.  "You," she began haltingly, 
searching for words.  "You -- don't know anything about this, do 
you, sir?  The fact remains that the case was handed to us under 
a very bizarre set of circumstances.  I don't want to believe 
that--" 
"Agent," Skinner soothed, his eyes unreadable once again. 
"You're distraught.  And you're jumping to conclusions that are 
not necessarily as correct as Mulder's." 
She remembered herself standing in a hallway, facing this man, 
hating him.  She remembered hating him.  She remembered saying, 
"You're both liars!" and turning away, turning her back.  She had 
said, essentially, that she no longer wanted to be a part of 
plots and plans.  "You're both liars" had meant, simultaneously, 
"Don't try and manipulate me anymore" and "Leave him alone." 
It was funny how things like that could be remembered at the 
oddest times.  Scully peered at her boss carefully, shielding the 
flash of memory from his watchful eyes.  She felt a surge of that 
same hatred, that same passion. 
She regretted telling Skinner anything. 
"If you say Mulder was violent, I'll have an APB sent out on him. 
We'll get him back, Scully.  Hopefully unharmed." 
She nodded curtly.  "I'll be making inquiries of my own as well." 
"Don't let your performance in the V. Frank case falter because 
of it, Agent." 
"Yes, sir."  She inclined her head stiffly and let herself out of 
Skinner's office.  She could feel his eyes on her back as the 
door closed behind her. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Fox Mulder's Apartment 
5:56 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Scully let herself in and stood on the threshold of her partner's 
home, strangely uneasy.  The lights were turned off and the 
television stood silent.  There was no doubt in her mind that her 
partner was elsewhere, but still ... 
The soft glow from the fish tank finally pulled her in.  The 
neighbor Mulder had roped into fish duty had failed miserably; 
three bloated fishes floated at the top of the tank.  The sight 
made Scully want to cry. 
She didn't, of course. 
Flipping on the lights, Scully sucked in a huge gulp of air and 
stared.  Papers, broken glass, and torn fabric littered the 
floor.  The place looked as though it had been burglarized, 
although there was no sign of forced entry.  The computer monitor 
lay face down on the floor, obviously broken.  The back of the 
couch was sliced cleanly and stuffing oozed out. 
Scully moved toward the kitchen slowly, drawing her weapon.  The 
kitchen's state matched that of the living room -- Mulder's few 
dishes had been thrown haphazardly about, shattered, and a 
spilled carton of filled the air with the sickly smell of rotten 
milk.  She closed her eyes, imagining that the devastation around 
her must be part of some insane dream.  The sour milk and broken 
plates met her eyes when she opened them again. 
"Mulder," she whispered, "what the hell is going on?" 
The sight in the bedroom was what filled her with terror.  The 
bed was made neatly.  On the bedside table stood a glass of water 
with a twist of lemon and a vase with three daisies.  The bedroom 
window stood open, slightly, letting in a cold breeze.  Snow was 
piled on the windowsill.  Scully stalked over the table, picked 
up the glass of water, and hurled it at the wall.  A smear of 
water trickled down the wall, indifferent.  She tore the covers 
off the bed and threw them to the floor.  She snatched the 
daisies out of their vase and shook them roughly. 
"She doesn't even *like* daisies, Mulder!" she shouted, voice 
hoarse.  "She doesn't even like them." 
She didn't realize she was crying until the sob rattled out of 
her chest and her vision blurred. 
Scully sank to the floor amidst the scattered blankets and the 
broken flowers, disbelieving. 
There was a lot of work to be done. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
11:31 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Unable to handle the bedroom, Scully pulled up a blanket on 
Mulder's wounded couch.  She had cleaned the apartment as 
thoroughly as she could without touching the bedroom.  The room 
with the daisies and the lemon was off-limits.  She couldn't face 
the idea that she might just as easily have found a corpse in 
that bed. 
Piled on the coffee table was a collection of papers she had 
found scattered throughout the room.  As best as she could 
decipher they were Mulder's notes on the killer -- the notes he 
had been basing his profile on.  The majority of them were nearly 
unreadable, scratched onto the paper by Mulder's left hand.  Some 
of the later markings were clearer, having been written after his 
arm had healed. 
Her stomach grumbled unhappily, but she had found nothing in the 
kitchen and she was too tired to bother ordering in. 
The gentle light of the now-empty fish tank soothed her. 
In the morning she would start to track her partner down.  So 
help her God. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
February 3, 2000 
8:34 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Scully jumped when Mulder's phone rang.  She debated whether or 
not she should answer before deciding in favor of it. 
Skinner's voice greeted her.  "Am I to understand by your 
presence at his apartment that you've found your partner, Agent 
Scully?" 
"No, sir.  I came over to see if he'd left any clue behind him, 
but I found nothing." 
"And you're not coming in to work today?" 
Scully took a deep breath and said firmly, "No, sir.  I'm afraid 
I won't be in until after the weekend." 
"Is that so?" 
"Yes, sir." 
"What about--" 
"The Frank case will do fine without me, sir.  There is nothing 
there that needs to be done by me specifically."  The acid in her 
tone was undeniable.  "There are no bodies to autopsy, I trust, 
unless of course one has mysteriously turned up since last night. 
No?  I didn't think so.  By tomorrow, maybe.  Until then, 
Marshall is perfectly capable of handling whatever else might 
come up on her own." 
Skinner's voice was hard, even through the tinny phone 
connection.  "Watch your tone, Scully." 
"With all due respect, sir, no.  I don't know what's going on 
here, but I won't let you or anyone else distract me from the 
truth.  I am tired of being led around by the nose."  She clicked 
the phone into its cradle and stared at it for several moments, 
as though she expected Skinner to call back and take a strip out 
of her hide.  People didn't just hang up on the Assistant 
Director. The phone remained silent. 
Finally, she turned to the papers she had collected the night 
before.  There were answers there, she knew.  She only had to 
figure them out. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
Chapter Ten 
Smoking Gun 
Till your real target 
Hid behind me.  Your Daddy, 
The god with the smoking gun.  For a long time 
Vague as mist, I did not even know 
I had been hit. 
-- Ted Hughes, "The Shot" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Skinner's Office 
February 7, 2000 
9:15 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Scully suspected that Kimberly had never really liked her.  As 
she stood outside Skinner's office, shifting her weight from one 
foot to the other, trying to look disinterested, Kimberly watched 
her openly, with a tiny smile. 
"He'll call you in when he's ready, Agent Scully.  You might as 
well have a seat.  I think he's in the middle of a conference 
call." 
Scully glared at the woman as though she had said something 
offensive and remained on her feet. 
"It's not easy for any of us," Kimberly said, her face and voice 
unreadable. 
"What do you mean?" Scully asked. 
Kimberly only shrugged and went back to the piles of work heaped 
on her desk.  Scully sank down into the couch and crossed her 
ankles, focusing on a blank spot on the wall opposite her. 
It felt like three years had passed by the time Kimberly finally 
said, "The Assistant Director will see you now, Agent Scully." 
Scully stood, brushed imaginary dust off her suit, and 
straightened her shoulders. 
"Good luck," Kimberly whispered, without looking up. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
9:45 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Skinner watched his agent enter, shut the door quietly and turn 
around to face him.  There was determination written all over her 
face -- determination and something close to despair. 
"Sir," she said by way of greeting. 
"Agent," he replied, neither of them offering an inch. 
Skinner broke first.  "Are you well, Agent Scully?" 
Scully looked confused.  "As well as can be expected, sir." 
She looked weak, Skinner thought.  Her suit jacket hung on her -- 
she looked as though she'd lost five pounds, which, on her small 
frame, was considerable.  Her fingers trembled. 
"Sir, there's no point in hedging here.  I need a favor.  I need 
you to do something for me, no questions asked.  I suspect -- 
sir, I -- I need you to set up a meeting for me." 
Skinner felt his heart skip a beat.  He saw Mulder standing in 
front of him, begging for help, begging for Scully's life. 
"There's something going down here, sir, and I'm not going to 
rest until I figure out what it is.  I found papers in Mulder's 
home.  At first I believed they were papers relating to the Frank 
killer, but the more I puzzled over them, the more I realized 
Mulder had been profiling himself.  He wrote about being a golden 
boy hailed as a genius by everyone except those he wanted to 
impress.  He wrote about his father, his sister.  I'm afraid, 
sir, that Mulder saw himself and the killer as one entity." 
"You're not--" Skinner swallowed painfully.  "You're not 
suggesting that Mulder is the killer?" 
"Not at all, sir.  But I think Mulder's profile was irrevocably 
altered by the similarities he perceived between himself and the 
killer." 
"And the reason you need a meeting?  And with whom?" 
Scully crossed her arms firmly over her chest and looked him 
straight in the eyes.  He found her gaze unnerving and was the 
first to break the stare.  "When we were led to believe that the 
killer had murdered another victim in DC, I was shocked.  When I 
performed the autopsy on the victim, I knew there was something 
very, very wrong.  This case has been bizarre from the outset, 
sir, and as much as I'd like to believe you had nothing to do 
with it, your behavior in the past leads me to think otherwise. 
I think this case is a set-up.  I want a meeting to prove it." 
"With whom?" Skinner repeated slowly, already knowing the answer. 
"Spender.  The Cigarette Smoking Man.  Whatever alias it is you 
know him as." 
Skinner's eyes widened.  "You don't know what you're asking, 
Dana." 
"I think I do, sir." 
"What reason do you have to believe *he* would have anything to 
do with this?" 
"He has answers." 
"He deals in lies!" 
Scully's eyes narrowed as she looked at him.  Her posture was 
still set stubbornly -- he could feel himself shrinking under the 
sheer determination in her stance.  "There is no other way, sir." 
Skinner shook his head.  "Your partner once asked me for a 
similar favor and I will tell you what I told him: there is no 
way to deal with the devil, Dana.  He'll ask for your soul -- 
he'll promise you everything -- and you'll give it to him.  You 
and Mulder are the same that way.  I can't be a party to it." 
The agent bristled with barely controlled rage.  "This is 
non-negotiable! I need that meeting!" 
"You're on your own, Agent."  Skinner closed his eyes, resigned. 
He couldn't bear to see the desperation in Scully's eyes.  "I 
can't help you." 
"You can," she hissed.  "You just *won't*." 
"Scully," he said softly, when he heard her heels leaving.  "You 
don't understand.  Take it from someone who has faced the devil 
more than once -- you don't want anything from him.  All his 
fruit is poisoned, Scully.  Nothing comes without a price." 
"My partner is missing!" she shouted, fury unleashed.  "He's out 
there somewhere and he's completely insane!  I *need* to find 
him!" 
"Find another way, Agent.  Find another way." 
She slammed the door shut and it squeaked on its hinges.  Skinner 
put his head into his hands and closed his eyes.  "Damn it, 
Scully, you don't know what you're asking." 
The phone rang. 
Skinner's voice was air-tight and professional when he answered, 
"Skinner." 
"The enigmatic Dana Scully wants a meeting does she?" 
"You son of a bitch," Skinner breathed, but it was too late.  The 
line was dead, and he knew Scully was lost to him. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Dana Scully's Apartment 
5:30 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Her apartment felt empty, un-lived-in.  She watered the dry 
plants mindlessly.  Small tasks kept her from going completely 
mad.  Small tasks kept her from thinking of her partner or of her 
fruitless meeting with Skinner.  Small tasks kept her from 
remembering that her partner had been missing for almost a week. 
She was surprised when the doorbell rang.  She was even more 
surprised hen she saw that it wasn't Skinner on the other side of 
her peephole. 
She pulled her gun and stood to the side as she opened the door. 
"I've got a gun trained on you.  Don't make any sudden moves or 
I'll blow your head off, Krycek.  Don't try anything." 
Krycek walked in slowly with his hands over his head and a wry 
smile on his lips.  "Is this any way to treat someone who has 
something you need, Scully?  I mean, really.  Your hospitality 
needs some fine tuning." 
"You're lucky I'm listening to you at all."  She pressed the 
nozzle of her gun into the base of his neck.  "There is nothing 
you have that I want, you son of a bitch.  What the hell are you 
doing here?" 
"Is that so?  I must have been mistaken then.  I was positive I 
heard you say you wanted a meeting with Spender, Sr.  That's how 
you know him, isn't it?  The smoking man." 
She shoved the gun against him harder, but his smile only 
widened.  "What do you know about that?  *How* do you know?" 
"Scully," he said calmly.  "Does it really matter how I know?  I 
can set up that meeting for you.  I can take you to him right 
now, if you like." 
"Why?  Why are you doing this?" 
"There's no love lost between Mulder and I, true.  But ... this 
is playing dirty, Scully.  What they're doing to him?  It's just 
dirty.  Cutting open his head and pulling apart his brain? 
That's all in the line of duty.  But this?"  Krycek shook his 
head and Scully resisted the urge to punch the self-satisfied 
look right off his face. 
"I don't trust you," she hissed. 
"Have I asked you to?" 
"What do you want from me, Krycek?  You don't work for free." 
"The satisfaction of causing no small annoyance to my 
sometime-employer?" he quipped.  "Or do you want the bullshit 
rigmarole of how important Fox Mulder is to the Project?  Take it 
or leave it.  I don't need anything from you.  Maybe I just like 
you, hmm?" 
"Shut up!" Scully shouted, shaking his shoulder.  "Don't talk in 
fucking circles!" 
Krycek stood silent. 
"I could kill you, you rat bastard!  I could pull this trigger 
and I wouldn't even feel sorry about it!  I should kill you, for 
God's sake!" she continued, while her prisoner watched her with 
an unreadable expression in his eyes.  He inclined his head 
slightly, as though she had made a valid point. 
"But I *need* that meeting.  I just won't play any of your games 
getting there.  And I don't want you to think I'm going to trust 
you for a minute, Krycek." 
"Can I put my hands down now?" 
"No," Scully snapped.  "I'm taking your weapons."  She kept her 
gun leveled at his groin as she frisked his legs.  She pulled a 
knife out of one boot and a handgun out of the other.  The gun at 
his waist and a second knife joined the pile at her feet.  "Is 
that everything?" 
"If you don't count my explosive cufflinks." 
She glared at him coldly. 
"Yes, Agent Scully.  That's everything." 
"Put your hands down then.  Keep them where I can see them. 
You're driving -- I'll have a gun in my jacket pointed at you the 
entire time.  If I think, even for one moment--" 
"You'll have no second thoughts about pulling the trigger.  And 
I've seen you shoot, remember, so I have no doubt you'll hit your 
target.  We're taking your car?" 
She nodded sharply, pushing his weapons into the briefcase she 
had discarded by the front door earlier.  "I told you I don't 
trust you.  Come on." 
~*~*~*~*~ 
The Reflecting Pool 
Washington, DC 
6:15 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
She recognized him by the ever-present glow at his fingertips 
before she was even close enough to see his face.  He stood with 
his back to her, cigarette jutting from his fingers like a 
scepter.  Shadows made his face appear even craggier than usual 
and his dark trench was drawn tight against him to ward away the 
chill. 
He turned when her boots no longer crunched through the snow. 
She kept herself a short distance away from him, finger firmly on 
the trigger of the gun in her pocket. 
"Agent Scully," he said, his voice emerging in a puff of smoke 
that was only half because of the cold.  Before she had a chance 
to respond he took another long drag on his cigarette, tossed the 
butt to the ground, and stepped on it.  The snow hissed where the 
heat had melted it. 
She said nothing, eyes hard.  Krycek stood at her side, 
momentarily forgotten. 
Finally Spender broke the silence with a hoarse bark of laughter. 
"To what do I owe the honor?" 
Scully continued her silent survey. 
Spender pulled out his pack of cigarettes, shrugged when she 
declined his offer, and shook one into his gloved hand.  He lit 
it and took a drag before continuing, "Am I mistaken in believing 
you are the one responsible for this meeting, Agent Scully?"  He 
took half a step toward her.  "This doesn't have anything to do 
with the mysterious Frank case you've been working on, does it? 
Because I can assure you I know nothing about it, except for what 
I've heard on news reports." 
"Where's Mulder?"  Her voice was like ice, matching the chill in 
her eyes. 
"I don't have any idea.  Is the boy missing?" 
She blinked, lids dropping down and up slowly.  The finger on the 
trigger itched.  She felt the rage beginning to boil in her 
chest. 
Beside her Krycek shifted his weight from one foot to the other. 
"The last body in DC.  She looked like Emily.  Did you set that 
up?" 
Spender inclined his head slightly.  "Not entirely my idea." 
"I thought you didn't know anything about the case." 
His smoke-stained smile cracked the darkness.  "I lied." 
Scully ground her teeth together in frustration.  "You 
black-lunged son of a bitch."  She had thought the words would 
come out as a shout, but instead they hung like little daggers in 
the space between them.  He took another step closer and she 
straightened her shoulders stubbornly.  "You knew about this 
case, didn't you?  You set Mulder up, knowing that he can't turn 
these cases down.  You *know* he can't stand seeing little girls 
hurt!  What did you want?  To see him crack, break open, die?  It 
wasn't enough to saw open his head and leave him?  Do you need to 
see him completely shattered?" 
"Agent Scully."  The voice was calm.  Damnably calm.  Just once 
she wanted to see him completely ruffled.  "What possible reason 
would I have to see Agent Mulder harmed in such a way?  I've 
protected him from harm more times than I can say.  I intervene 
for him.  I look out for the boy."  He stepped forward and 
touched the back of her neck before she could jerk away. 
Spender's touch was poisonous but she couldn't force herself away 
from it.  He looked directly into her eyes as he said, "I watch 
out for both of you, Dana." 
  
She swallowed the desire to vomit.  Her cheeks burned with 
embarrassment and hatred.  If this helped her to find Mulder ... 
"More lies," she finally managed to curse. 
Spender drew his hand away, trailing his fingers a moment too 
long on her vulnerable skin.  "Perhaps," he soothed.  "And 
perhaps not.  Do you want to take your chances?  Are you a 
betting woman, Agent Scully?" 
"Not when I know the cards are already stacked," she growled, 
backing away from him and nearly hitting Krycek in the process. 
"I'm not the one you should be looking to blame.  I consented to 
this meeting because I would like you to know that I had nothing 
to do with the disappearance of your partner.  I'm afraid Fox 
chose to run away all on his own.  He wasn't kidnaped -- by 
myself, or by any others I know of." 
"So that's it?" Scully protested.  "That's all?  There's nothing 
you can do?" 
Spender shrugged, bringing his cigarette to his lips.  "There's 
nothing to be done, my dear." 
She hung her head, looking down into the sludgy brown snow at her 
feet. 
"Alex will show you back to your car.  I'm truly sorry there was 
nothing more I could do for you.  It's not every day I have the 
chance to work with Dana Scully, after all." 
She looked up into his shadowed face, eyes stinging.  "I don't 
believe you." 
His smile was hideous in its attempt to be kind. 
She turned away, Krycek at her side.  He remained silent until 
they were almost back at the car.  "Scully," he whispered 
hoarsely. 
She tilted her head to look at him carefully.  He reached forward 
with his good hand and folded a piece of paper into her numb 
fingers.  "You couldn't have paid his price anyway.  When it 
comes down to it, neither could've Mulder.  You can't accept 
anything from that man and still maintain your integrity." 
"And from you?"  She closed her fingers tightly around the paper 
and looked him in the eyes. 
Krycek smiled briefly.  "Atoning for past sins?  Hell, I don't 
know, Scully.  Like I said before -- maybe I just like you." 
Her brow furrowed but she said nothing.  He turned and began to 
walk away when she opened her car door. 
"Krycek," she called out.  He turned and chuckled when she dumped 
his weapons into the snow.  "I will pull the trigger if you ever 
show up in my apartment again." 
She waited until he had disappeared before she looked at the 
paper crumpled in her hand. 
She recognized it immediately. 
It was Marshall's home phone number. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Eloise Marshall's Apartment 
Alexandria, Virginia 
8:24 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Eloise jumped when she heard the loud pounding at the front door. 
She nearly dropped the pot of spaghetti she was pouring into the 
colander, splashing herself with scalding water in the process. 
She hissed under her breath at the pain and dried her hands off 
as she moved toward the door. 
A peek through the peephole revealed an irate Dana Scully. 
Eloise opened the door slowly.  "Agent Scully," she said by way 
of greeting.  "What can I do for you?" 
Scully shoved a crumpled slip of paper at Eloise's nose.  "Is 
this your phone number?" 
Eloise moved her head back until she could see the numbers 
clearly.  "Of course it is." 
"Mind if I come in?" 
Eloise pulled back the door and waved her dishrag toward the 
couch.  "Make yourself at home.  Can I ask what you're doing 
here, though?  And why the phone number?" 
"Is this your sister?"  Scully pointed at a picture on the end 
table, completely avoiding Eloise's question. 
Eloise nodded.  Scully crossed her arms over her chest, and 
Eloise noticed how thin she looked; how desperate.  The shorter 
woman's hair hung limp around her narrow face, and her manicure 
was chipped.  The woman standing before her was nothing like the 
composed, confident agent Eloise had met in the basement nearly a 
month earlier. 
Eloise was suddenly thankful that she had not yet been assigned a 
permanent partner. 
"Agent Scully?" 
Scully's eyes hardened.  "I was given that phone number by an 
informant.  What do you really know about the Frank case, 
Marshall?  What do you know about the whereabouts of Agent 
Mulder?" 
"What?" Eloise protested.  "You think *I* had something to do 
with all of this?  I'm as stumped as you are!  And I have no idea 
where your partner might have disappeared to!  Are you implying 
that *I* have attempted to compromise the case?" 
"How about deliberately misleading other agents working on the 
case?" Scully snapped.  "How about fabricating stories concerning 
the killer?  You constantly picked fights with Mulder.  You 
complained about his behavior, wouldn't let him do his job 
properly, and made him doubt his own ability.  Compromise the 
case?  This is all becoming clear to me, Marshall." 
"You are not thinking about this clearly, Dana.  I have no reason 
to lie to you--" 
"None that I *know* of!" 
Eloise took an involuntary step backward.  This is not the Dana 
Scully I know, she thought.  Where is her rationality?  Where is 
the scientist? 
"I don't have proof of your loyalties yet, Marshall -- but when I 
do ..." she left the sentence hanging and Eloise stared at her, 
open-mouthed. 
"You won't find any proof," Eloise retorted, "because I haven't 
done anything to harm you or this case!" 
Scully brushed past her, toward the door.  She turned at the 
threshold and growled, "If you have had *anything* to do with the 
disappearance of my partner, so help me God ..." 
Eloise said nothing, and stared at the door for a long time after 
the other woman had left.  The spaghetti no longer seemed half as 
appetizing at it had fifteen minutes earlier. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Dana Scully's Apartment 
February 8, 2000 
3:01 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
She was tired of crying. 
Dana Scully was not a weeper.  She didn't cry over everything 
that happened to make her upset or a little sad.  Dana Scully was 
strong.  Dana Scully was a paragon of strength, a pillar, a 
tower. 
Dana Scully didn't cry. 
Even so, her eyes were sore now from shedding too many tears. 
Her pen and her diary were pushed to one side of the kitchen 
table, forgotten.  'Where are you?' she had written.  'I want to 
know where you are.' 
She had eaten a pint of Ben and Jerry's when she returned from 
Marshall's apartment because she had realized, all of a sudden, 
that she was starving and that she hadn't eaten in nearly four 
days.  Her behavior toward Marshall tormented her.  It had, in 
retrospect, been atrocious, although she had thought herself 
brave at the time.  The confusion in Marshall's eyes had thrown 
her. 
She realized she was on the brink of insanity, and for some 
reason the thought didn't disturb her as much as it ought to 
have. 
She couldn't believe she'd actually spoken with Spender.  The 
memory of it made her skin crawl, and she wanted to take another 
shower.  Her hair still smelled like cigarette smoke, although 
she'd scrubbed her scalp for twenty minutes before she ate the 
Ben and Jerry's.  She felt somehow tainted. 
Dana Scully does not cry, she thought, even as traitor tears 
dripped from her chin. 
She rose from the table slowly and moved to the sink.  The sound 
of scalding water filling the stainless-steel basin kept her from 
noticing the sound of a key in her front door. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
Chapter Eleven 
The Things We Do 
This is a dark house, very big. 
I made it myself, 
Cell by call from a quiet corner, 
Chewing at the gray paper, 
Oozing the glue drops, 
Whistling, wiggling my ears, 
Thinking of something else. 
-- Sylvia Plath, "Poem for a Birthday" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Dana Scully's Apartment 
February 8, 2000 
3:17 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
He waited outside, ear pressed to the door, until he heard the 
sound of the dishwater running and he knew it was a safe as ever. 
He eased the oiled key into the lock and slid the bolt back as 
slowly and quietly as he could.  Pushing the door open a 
fraction, he squeezed his body inside the darkened room.  The 
only light was in the kitchen. 
He thought he heard Scully crying.  He glanced quickly toward the 
kitchen and saw her standing at the sink, surrounded in billows 
of steam, eyes closed, shoulders shaking.  She didn't even appear 
to be washing any dishes. 
Rather than causing any regret to surface, the sight only made 
him more confident.  He slipped into the shadows of the living 
room and waited. 
Her home smelled like flowers.  It was something he noticed every 
time he was over.  He wondered if it was one of those Glade 
Plug-In things -- he'd thought briefly about getting one of those 
himself, once.  He had sniffed all the packages in the store but 
hadn't found any that smelled like Scully's place.  He knew hers 
couldn't be the smell of real flowers, though.  She wasn't home 
enough to enjoy real flowers. 
He'd always liked Scully's place.  His own place was so dingy, 
dark -- he remembered being embarrassed the first time he'd let 
Scully in.  It was a bachelor's apartment where hers was ... hers 
was a home.  A little happy home for one, complete with a 
fireplace, a claw-footed bath tub and the eternal smell of 
flowers.  He did regret everything he had ever done that had 
pulled her away from her home and kept her from the security she 
deserved. 
The sound of running water stopped. 
Her face was beautiful when she turned -- sad, but beautiful. 
There was such pain in her eyes, such loneliness.  Her pajamas 
hung loose from her shoulders; the shimmering of the silk was the 
only life she seemed to possess.  She stopped at the table and 
picked up the book he assumed was her diary. 
Things will be so much better soon, he thought. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
3:25 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
She turned the water off and stood above the sink, hands stinging 
from the hot water.  Her fingers were wrinkled like prunes; 
sensitive.  Her eyes burned where tears had fallen. 
Something was not right. 
She turned her head, searching the shadows behind her and finding 
nothing.  Something felt unnatural.  Her chest tightened 
imperceptibly and she saw her gun in her mind's eye, sitting on 
her dresser beside her favorite brush and her new perfume.  She 
took a few cautious steps forward and picked up her diary.  She 
used the moment to take a more careful look at the room around 
her.  Nothing seemed amiss.  Everything was in its proper place. 
There was no brooding man standing at her window, hair ruffled 
and eyes haunted, raving about the end of the world.  The 
curtains hung perfectly, moved only by the slight breath of air 
given off by the heater. 
Still, something was not right. 
It was almost too late when she noticed: the lock on the door had 
been turned.  The door was unlocked.  She whirled suddenly, 
dropping into a defensive stance. 
"Mulder?" she called, willing her voice to be strong.  She had 
been too weak last time -- she would not let him catch her 
unawares once again. 
There was no answer. 
"Mulder?  I know you're in here!  You left the fucking door 
open!" 
Nothing. 
Her eyes scanned the darkness, compulsively searching for any 
shift of movement, any anomaly.  The room was full of shadows. 
She could feel the adrenaline kicking in and her heart began to 
pound.  Why didn't I leave a light on, for God's sake?  What the 
hell was I thinking? 
She couldn't risk taking a step forward.  The table was at her 
back now; she was pretty sure the kitchen with its single 
comforting light was still safe ground.  She wished she didn't 
have so much furniture in her living room.  She knew he could be 
hiding behind the chair or the sofa; she knew he might even be 
waiting in her room, or in the bathroom.  She squeezed her eyes 
shut for the half-second it took to regain her composure. 
Now is not the time to panic, Dana, she thought firmly.  "Mulder! 
What the hell is going on here?  I'll listen if you try and 
explain it.  I'll give you the benefit of the doubt.  Come on, 
Mulder.  This is insane!" 
Nothing. 
She wanted to scream.  She could feel the tickle of sound itching 
at the back of her throat, begging to be freed.  She remembered 
standing in her mother's house, accusing Mulder, shaking, her gun 
poised, her finger on the trigger, and she suddenly realized how 
her partner must have felt at that instant.  It was difficult to 
remain calm and collected in the face of utter irrationality. 
"Mulder," she whispered, more for herself than for him, "why are 
you doing this to me?" 
She definitely wished she had her gun.  She wanted the cool, 
heavy, secure weight of it in her hands.  She knew she was 
capable -- more than that.  Scully knew she could hold her own in 
a fight, but she also knew that Mulder was bigger than she was, 
and that he would be armed.  She took a deep breath.  He could 
have his gun ready now, waiting for her first move.  Her fingers 
twitched, frustrated. 
Scully inched away from the table, pausing when she had moved 
about a foot, listening for any tell-tale sound: breathing, the 
click of a trigger, the shuffling of a foot.  Swallowing past the 
knot in her throat she surveyed her apartment and tried to figure 
out the safest route from Point A -- kitchen table -- to Point 
B -- gun. 
She just hoped he wasn't standing at Point B waiting for her, 
both guns in hand. 
With one last frantic gaze around her, Scully released all the 
coiled energy in her body and pushed herself toward her bedroom. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
He saw the muscles tense a moment before she flew into action. 
He couldn't understand why she was so terrified.  He'd frightened 
her before, he knew that.  He'd still been trying to figure 
everything out when he had been here last.  He'd been trying to 
make her understand something he didn't fully understand himself. 
Things were different now.  Why couldn't she see that things were 
different? 
He knew she was running for her gun. 
He rose from his crouch behind the sofa and ran to position 
himself in front of her. 
"Mulder."  He could tell she was panicked.  Her voice had the 
tight edge of tamped fear. 
"Scully," he replied softly.  "You don't have to be afraid." 
"Why didn't you answer me before?" 
"I thought you might overreact." 
"Why didn't you bother knocking on the door, if you didn't want 
me to overreact?  Why bother hiding?"  She shifted her weight 
from one foot to the other, her eyes looking past him toward the 
hallway he blocked. 
"Scully," he moved forward, extending his hands as though to 
place them on her shoulders. 
She pulled herself away from his hands and ran toward the door. 
It took Mulder a half-second to realize what she had done.  He 
followed her quickly.  She threw open the door and he slammed her 
into the doorframe, arms snaking securely around her waist.  She 
twisted herself fiercely in his grip, simultaneously lashing out 
with her feet and attempting to grip the doorframe with her 
hands.  Her feet tangled in his and they both sprawled backward 
on the floor, dangerously close to the coffee table. 
She took advantage of his loosened grip by digging an elbow 
painfully into his gut.  His grip loosened, but he didn't 
completely release her.  She stretched her hand above her head, 
searching for something, anything.  Her fingers closed around the 
crystal candy dish her mother had given her for Christmas.  Red 
and green M&Ms scattered everywhere as she brought the dish to 
the closest approximation of where she thought Mulder's head must 
be.  He grunted at the contact but maintained and tightened his 
hold. 
"Let me go!" she screamed, still attempting to twist away from 
him. 
He squeezed her sharply and she gasped.  She kicked out again, 
but he was prepared for it.  He pushed her face first to the 
ground and flipped her, pinning her body with his and her arms 
above her head with his hands. 
Her eyes were large and terrified.  When he opened his mouth to 
speak, she screamed again. 
"Don't make me hurt you," he said. 
She tried to spit at him, failing miserably.  Her chest heaved. 
Mulder smiled at her.  He was dimly aware of the blood matting 
his hair, dripping lazily from the gash on his head.  He could 
feel the warmth of it on his cheeks like tears. 
"See what you did?  God, Scully.  I'm not trying to hurt you. 
I'm trying to save you." 
"From what?" she shouted, shifting her hips and her legs in a 
futile attempt to regain some mobility. 
"From everything," he replied.  "Preparations have to be made, 
Scully.  There are things that must be done.  I love you, Scully. 
You can rest soon." 
"Stop saying that," she hissed.  "If you loved me you wouldn't 
hurt me.  You wouldn't be doing any of this." 
He leaned down and looked into her eyes.  "I know you don't 
understand any of this now, but that's okay.  You'll understand 
soon enough.  Everything'll be okay, Scully.  I love you.  I'll 
always take care of you." 
"I don't want you to take care of me," she growled.  "I want to 
take care of myself.  We're partners, Mulder." 
He shook his head.  Blood dripped.  "You of all people, Scully. 
After everything they've done to you ... after everything that's 
happened ... you deserve peace.  You deserve rest.  You deserve 
so much more than this." 
"What are you talking about?  What are you saying?  Mulder?" 
He bent at the waist, bringing his face close to hers.  She could 
smell his blood; he could smell her fear.  "You don't have to be 
afraid, Scully." 
"I *am* afraid, Mulder."  She gazed up at him earnestly searching 
his face. 
"Don't be," he mouthed, bringing his lips to hers. 
She whimpered under the pressure of his mouth, and as much as he 
tried to deceive himself he could hear no pleasure in the sound. 
His grip on her hands loosened the fraction she required to 
wrench her arms down between them, jabbing her elbows up and into 
his chest.  She drove the air out of his lungs and he pulled back 
slightly, gasping for elusive breath.  He was still seated firmly 
on her legs, but she took the moment of increased freedom to try 
and free his gun from the holster. 
He latched back onto her wrists, still trying unsuccessfully to 
take a full breath, and pulled the hand holding the gun away. 
His cheeks were flushed and his eyes narrowed.  He pounded her 
fist against the floor until she dropped the weapon from numb 
fingers. 
"That was the fucking wrong thing to do, Scully," he finally 
wheezed.  He brought his head down toward hers again and then 
brought it down sharply, head-butting her.  Her eyes widened, 
surprised, before her body went limp.  He could tell she wasn't 
completely out cold, so he dropped her wrists and cradled her 
head between his hands.  He brought the back of her head to the 
floor with a sickening thud.  Her face was smeared with his 
blood; she looked too pale.  Her head dropped to the side when he 
let go of it and her eyes closed weakly.  He brushed a 
blood-matted lock of hair back from her forehead tenderly. 
He flipped her over again, disturbed by the wobbly movement of 
her neck and the smear of blood snaking through her hair.  He 
hoped he hadn't broken her neck.  He tied her hands and feet 
firmly, and gagged her in case she woke screaming. 
"If only you had just come peacefully, Scully," he whispered, 
leaving her on the floor so he could shut the front door.  He 
peeked into the hall to see if anyone had noticed, but the floor 
remained silent.  All the doors were closed -- locked -- safe. 
Then hers shut, too, and the world went on sleeping. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
Chapter Twelve 
The Heart of This Flower 
or if your wish be to close me,i and 
my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, 
as when the heart of this flower imagines 
the snow carefully everywhere descending; 
-- e.e. cummings, "somewhere i have never travelled" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
J. Edgar Hoover Building 
Washington, DC 
February 9, 2000 
8:24 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Eloise paced back and forth in front of her desk, debating with 
herself.  On one hand she felt guilty -- she didn't want to run 
to the Assistant Director with every qualm or misgiving she felt. 
On the other, there was a serious problem with two FBI Agents -- 
Mulder and Scully or not -- disappearing without a trace. 
When she finally straightened her shoulders and moved to walk 
toward the Assistant Director's office, she was surprised to see 
him at the door, and was annoyed with herself for not noticing 
his arrival. 
"I wasn't expecting you, sir." 
He wasted no time getting to the point.  "Have you seen or been 
contacted by Agents Mulder or Scully in the last forty-eight 
hours?" 
Eloise paused before confessing, "Agent Scully visited my home 
Monday night, sir, but I haven't spoken with her since then." 
His face remained stern and unyielding, but she could see 
something like hope dying behind his eyes.  "What time was that, 
Agent Marshall?" 
She didn't like the tone of his question.  "I believe around 
8:30, sir." 
"And you spent the rest of the evening there?  With your sister? 
Alone?" 
She crossed her arms and replied, "I was there for the rest of 
the evening, but I was alone.  My sister was working late.  Is 
there a problem, Assistant Director Skinner?  Something you think 
I should know?" 
"Agent Scully is missing.  She is answering neither her home 
phone nor her cell.  She failed to arrive at a mandatory meeting 
this morning.  Agent Scully does not skip meetings if she can 
help it." 
"And you think I have something to do with this?"  She was not 
able to keep all of the acid out of her voice, and Skinner fixed 
her with a gaze that said he didn't approve. 
"You are the last person to have any account of her, Agent." 
"I was on my way to your office to tell you much the same thing, 
sir.  Agent Scully's behavior was uncharacteristic the evening 
she visited me.  She mentioned some kind of informant.  I don't 
suppose you have any idea what she might have been talking about, 
sir?" 
"Uncharacteristic?" 
"She accused me of compromising the case.  She had no proof 
except that some mysterious informant had given her my phone 
number.  She wanted to know if I had anything to do with the 
disappearance of Agent Mulder."  When Skinner looked unconvinced 
she continued sharply, "Which, incidentally, I do *not*." 
"Of course not, Agent." 
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, waiting for 
anything further.  When it appeared the Assistant Director had 
nothing more to say, she continued, "Has anyone been to Agent 
Scully's home, sir?  Is her car there?  Is it possible she was in 
an accident between my home and hers?" 
"I would have been informed if she'd been hurt," Skinner snapped, 
too quickly.  Eloise took a step back, pressing the back of her 
thighs into the front of her desk.  "I have not yet looked at her 
apartment.  I was planning on sending a couple of agents over 
there shortly.  I'd like the apartment combed over for any trace 
evidence." 
"May I volunteer, sir?" 
Eloise watched as doubt and fear played behind his eyes.  When he 
looked at her squarely there was no trace of either emotion. 
"You'll take Agent Currie with you." 
She shook her head.  "Sir, no disrespect intended, but I think I 
can handle this on my own.  This ought to be kept under wraps, if 
there's to be any hope of salvaging either Agent Mulder or Agent 
Scully's reputation.  Agent Currie can't keep his mouth shut, and 
he has no background with the current case." 
"You think this is somehow related to the Frank case?" 
Eloise stopped, peered at the Assistant Director and continued in 
a quieter voice, "At this point I have no other explanation, sir. 
Agent Mulder's reputation precedes him, but this?  Let me get a 
look at Scully's house -- maybe she left some clue, some hint of 
where she's gone.  If I can't find anything, you can bring other 
agents in at your discretion." 
Skinner's fingers clenched at his sides, but he gave no other 
outward sign of being upset or frustrated.  "I'll trust you on 
this, Marshall.  See that you don't disappear, too."  He turned 
away from her, but paused in the doorway.  "Marshall?  Did Scully 
mention any details about the informant she met?" 
She didn't know whether to be surprised or not that Skinner was 
giving credence to the informant story.  "No, sir.  Just waved 
around a little slip of paper with my phone number written on 
it." 
Skinner nodded and let himself out, saying nothing further. 
Eloise wished she had some frame of reference she could use to 
decipher the look of suffering on the Assistant Director's face. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Dana Scully's Apartment 
9:45 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Eloise stood on the threshold of Dana Scully's apartment, afraid 
to open the door.  She had knocked three times and called 
Scully's name, to no avail.  Although Eloise would have been the 
first in line to discount any theories of supernatural 
involvement or alien abduction, there was something unfamiliar 
and menacing about her current surroundings. 
Reaching for the doorknob, she stopped herself at the last 
moment.  The door didn't seem to have been broken or altered in 
any way, and if this was the point of entry, there was the 
possibility of lifting prints.  Snapping a latex glove onto her 
hand, she slipped her standard issue lockpick into the keyhole 
and opened the door, making as little contact with the doorknob's 
surface as possible. 
The unpleasant odor of stale blood assailed her nostrils as she 
let herself into the apartment.  Eloise fought down the familiar 
urge to vomit that accompanied every new crime scene.  She closed 
her eyes for the fraction of a second it took for her to remember 
that this was just her job; she was trained to handle situations 
like these.  She worked with Violent Crimes and was used to this. 
She never got used to this. 
She breathed a sigh of relief when no body greeted her opened 
eyes.  She quickly determined the source of the blood smell, 
however, when she saw the rusty stain on the floor, dark and 
definitely more than twenty-four hours old. 
She drew her gun, just to be on the safe side. 
She noticed at once the discarded crystal candy dish, smeared 
with blood, and the M&Ms littering the room.  There were signs of 
a scuffle -- the throw rug was crumpled and the coffee table was 
awry.  The sofa had been pushed back -- she could see scrape 
marks on the smooth finish of the floor. 
Gun held out in front of her like a talisman, Eloise turned 
toward the kitchen.  There were still dishes in the sink and a 
notebook lay discarded on the floor face down, pages bent.  Half 
a pot of tea stood on the counter, nearly black from having 
steeped so long. 
This was not the same home Eloise had visited just a week and a 
half earlier.  Even the air of the place felt ... violated. 
Unsafe. 
With some trepidation, Eloise made her way down the hall toward 
the bedroom.  The bedroom door was closed; she knocked without 
expecting or receiving any reply.  Again, she opened the door as 
gently as she could, hoping that she wasn't destroying 
fingerprint evidence as she did so. 
The hand holding the gun began to shake as she peered into the 
darkness of Scully's bedroom.  She reached up to hit the light 
switch with her left hand without taking her eyes off the bed. 
When the light flicked on she fought simultaneous urges to scream 
and cry.  This is my job, she told herself.  Walk away.  Call 
back-up.  Call the Assistant Director.  Don't cry, don't scream, 
don't pull back the covers.  For God's sake, Eloise, don't pull 
back the covers. 
Her peripheral vision noted the requisite elements to the scene: 
the glass of water on the bedside table, complete with twist of 
lemon.  Three daisies in a blown-glass vase, nodding sleepily. 
The bed was draped with white blankets.  A light had been left on 
in the bathroom, and the door left open a crack. 
She knew what she would find under the blankets, and still she 
was drawn to them.  She was surprised to see her hand shaking 
uncontrollably as she reached down.  Her face felt damp, but she 
couldn't feel the tears. 
She jerked the blanket back in one swift motion, stifling a gasp. 
Pillows molded into the vague shape of a human being greeted her 
confused and terrified gaze.  A note lay prominently on one of 
the pillows and she picked it up hesitantly.  In Fox Mulder's 
handwriting was scribbled: "or if your wish be to close me,i 
and/my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly,/as when the 
heart of this flower imagines/the snow carefully everywhere 
descending -- don't follow us, Marshall, for God's sake.  I know 
you'll want to follow us, but this doesn't concern you.  Let us 
be." 
She stared at the note for a long time before sinking to the 
ground beside the bed and covering her face with her hands. 
Tears leaked out between her fingers and she shook, trying to 
remember how she'd gotten here in the first place. 
The shaking lasted only a few minutes before she pulled the 
pieces of herself together and took a deep breath.  "There's a 
lot of work to be done," she whispered aloud, staring at the gun 
in her lap.  There were clues to be collected and evidence to be 
put together.  Depending on where Mulder was planning on taking 
his partner, there was only a finite amount of time to find them 
both. 
The bloodstain on the floor in the living room flashed behind her 
eyes like a neon reminder of what she'd find if she was too late. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
1:17 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Eloise flipped open her cell and answered "Marshall" without 
taking her eyes or her concentration off the pieces of paper 
spread out on Dana Scully's kitchen table. 
"Lise?" 
Eloise shook her head.  "Yeah?  Yes, sorry ... Jackie?" 
"Where are you?  I thought we were going to meet for lunch half 
an hour ago." 
Eloise ignored the annoyance evident in her sister's voice.  "I 
got held up, Jackie.  Sorry.  I probably won't be home for 
dinner, either." 
"I tried your office phone first -- where are you?" 
"On a case.  I'm not at liberty to talk about it right now, sis." 
There was a moment of dead silence before Jacqueline said cooly, 
"You always tell me at least the general gist of what's going on, 
Lise.  Does this have anything to do with the murders you've been 
working on?" 
"No," Eloise lied. 
"What then?  I thought agents pretty much stuck to one case at a 
time." 
Eloise sighed.  "Look, Jackie, no one else knows about any of 
this right now, and I can't talk about it.  Not even to you.  Not 
over the phone like this.  This has to stay top secret." 
"I can keep a secret, Eloise!  I work at the Pentagon." 
Jacqueline's voice was light, joking. 
"I know.  I know.  I'll talk to you about it later.  I've got to 
run now, okay, Jackie?  Sorry about lunch.  Bye."  Eloise clicked 
the END button even as her sister protested. 
She half expected the phone to ring again, but it didn't. 
The sheets spread out in front of her were covered in script. 
Most of it was Mulder's, as far as she could tell, but Scully had 
made additional notes in neat shorthand, deciphering her 
partner's chicken scratches.  Eloise was glad of it -- some of 
the earliest pages were completely unreadable without Scully's 
notes. 
Eloise had realized fairly quickly that the loss of Mulder's 
sanity had been recorded in his own handwriting.  What had 
started out as a simple profile had metastasized into full-blown 
paranoia and self-hatred.  The similarities between the killer 
and Mulder himself were evident even to Eloise, whose knowledge 
of Fox Mulder consisted solely of what she'd heard through the 
Bureau grapevine, and what she'd been able to read in his 
personnel file. 
From his notes, Mulder had thought there was some connection to a 
woman in V. Frank's family -- mother or sister, perhaps wife. 
Some critical event had changed Frank's way of thinking -- 
shattered his world view -- so drastically that he had snapped. 
And so had Fox Mulder. 
Working through the notes was like piecing together a jigsaw 
puzzle -- one of the ones Eloise remembered her grandmother 
doing. Pictures of cloudless skies or deep woods, where every 
piece seemed exactly identical to the next one. 
What touched Eloise however, was the way Scully had written to 
her partner in the margins.  'Oh, Mulder,' one said, 'don't you 
know you're stronger than all this?  He isn't you, Mulder, you 
aren't him.' 
Scully's diary lay open as well.  Eloise still felt a twinge of 
guilt when she looked over at it.  She had reached in and opened 
up the woman's secrets, but ... she had to know.  She had to 
understand the strange relationship between the FBI's strangest 
and yet most successful, most reliable duo. 
In her diary, Dana Scully was asking the questions Eloise 
Marshall wanted the answers to *now*.  'That was nearly a week 
ago, Mulder.  No word, no sign, nothing.  Your late-night wake-up 
call was nearly a week ago, and I want to know where you are. 
Where are you?' 
Eloise shook her head in an effort not to crack.  The case 
depended on her now.  Mulder and Scully depended on her now.  She 
squinted at the pages smeared with writing and tried to make 
sense of it all. 
Where did V. Frank end and Fox Mulder begin? 
~*~*~*~*~ 
5:15 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Her cell phone rang again and she answered it automatically, 
forgetting her earlier vow not to distract herself. 
"Marshall." 
"Agent Marshall?  Assistant Director Skinner.  Where are you, 
Agent?" 
"I'm still at Agent Scully's apartment, sir." 
"What did you find?" 
She cleared her throat before continuing, "Signs of a struggle -- 
some evidence that Agent Scully was taken forcibly from her home. 
Her car is still parked outside and no one from the building saw 
her leave." 
"No one saw the intruder enter?"  His voice was low.  She might 
have said sad, if it had been anyone else.  She chalked it up to 
cell phone interference. 
"No, sir.  One neighbor thought he heard something around three 
in the morning, but he said he ignored it.  He said there have 
been strange happenings in the apartment before.  Everyone here 
knows she's an FBI agent and they leave it at that.  None of 
their business to get involved with the goings on of the feds." 
"Do you need backup?" 
"No, sir," she replied firmly.  "At this point everything is very 
... convoluted.  There is definitely a tie to the V. Frank case." 
Skinner was silent.  She could hear him breathing deeply. 
Finally he said, "Do you ... is it your opinion that the same 
killer is behind the disappearances of my agents?" 
Eloise shook her head, even though she knew he couldn't see her. 
"No, sir.  In fact, I'm working through Agent Mulder's profile of 
the killer now, and I think some very significant mistakes were 
made--" 
Skinner interrupted her, "By Mulder?" 
"No, sir.  Not by Agent Mulder.  It has become fairly evident 
that the last murder in DC was a ploy to get us away from the 
Pacific Northwest -- or, I should say, to get Agent Scully away 
from there, and away from her partner.  I can see now why Agent 
Scully was so defensive, sir.  I certainly don't know everything 
about them, or about their work, but this case seems ... well, to 
be completely honest, sir, it seems as though it was tailor-made 
to drive them insane." 
"That's ridiculous, Marshall!" Skinner snapped, but his voice 
held a timbre of fear.  She wondered if he thought she was 
questioning his loyalty.  "They have dealt with murdered children 
before without these kinds of consequences..." 
"Perhaps, sir.  How often, though, is Agent Mulder required to 
profile a man whose background resembles his so closely?  How 
often is Agent Scully required to autopsy children who look like 
her dead daughter?" 
Skinner's voice lost the fear, taking on anger and muffled 
confusion instead.  "What the hell are you talking about?  Dead 
daughters?  Mulder has the same background as a killer?  What the 
hell is going on here, Marshall?" 
She took a deep breath before explaining, "Agent Mulder's 
original notes are here and Agent Scully has added to them.  I 
also have her diary ... where she spoke of the similarities 
between the last murder victim and her daughter, Emily."  Eloise 
had also been ... disturbed to read some of Agent Scully's 
misgivings and doubts about her.  When the line remained silent 
she prodded, "Sir?" 
"I was not aware of these developments, Agent.  If I had known--" 
"But you didn't know, sir.  I once told my sister that Agents 
Mulder and Scully have a little secret club where no one else is 
allowed to play.  You ... we can't feel left out, really.  We 
were never invited in." 
Rather than softening as she half-expected it to, his voice took 
on a military edge and he ordered, "Twenty-four hours, Marshall. 
If you're drawing blanks I'll pull out all the stops. 
Twenty-four hours.  I trust Mulder and Scully, but I can't 
protect them indefinitely.  Especially if they're in -- or 
causing -- serious trouble." 
"Yes, sir," she breathed.  The phone line went dead and she sat 
still for several moments, listening to empty air.  For Skinner 
to put his weight behind the search would certainly be the end of 
Mulder's career -- and perhaps Scully's as well.  Eloise only 
knew pieces, but what she knew terrified her. 
Outside the snow was carefully everywhere descending, and time 
was running out. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
Chapter Thirteen 
Moved By Fancies 
I am moved by fancies that are curled 
Around these images, and cling: 
The notion of some infinitely gentle 
Infinitely suffering thing. 
--TS Eliot, Preludes 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Unknown Place 
Unknown Time 
~*~*~*~*~ 
She woke to complete darkness.  After blinking several times, her 
eyes grew accustomed to the dim light.  Her head throbbed and 
felt like it was filled with cotton.  She winced as her neck was 
jostled by movement. 
Movement. 
She blinked again, straining her eyes in the shadows.  Her head 
was so sore.  She tried to swallow and found her mouth gagged. 
She made a noise deep in her throat, a sound of struggle and 
confusion.  Finally, her eyes focused on the lights on the 
dashboard.  The little green numbers of the clock were 
unreadable.  Her vision swam, and she fought to keep herself from 
passing out again. 
It took her a few minutes to remember how she had come to be 
here -- wherever *here* was.  She remembered fighting; the man 
who was and was not Mulder hovering above her, kissing her, 
crushing her head into the floorboards with the sheer power of 
his hands.  It was difficult to separate one pain from another. 
The dull ache snaked out from the back of her head and made it 
impossible for thoughts to form completely. 
A voice she recognized asked gently, "How're you doing, Scully?" 
Mulder's voice.  Rather than fear, a deep resignation suffused 
her.  She made a small noise and he reached over and loosened the 
gag, left hand firmly on the steering wheel. 
"I've felt better," she croaked. 
He nodded, eyes fixed on the road ahead of him.  "I'll get you 
some water at the next stop." 
She looked around her, but the road was barren, and her 
grogginess would have blurred any signs she might have seen.  She 
tried again, but couldn't make out the digits on the clock. 
"Where are we?" 
"You've been asleep for a long time." 
His voice was soft in the dark, almost apologetic.  Only the 
muffled memory of what he had done to her kept her from 
completely trusting him.  That and the fact that she had a 
blanket tucked tightly around her, her hands and feet were 
fastened behind her and her fingers felt numb. 
A strangled scream.  M&Ms.  The sickening crunch of head meeting 
floor. 
She took a deep breath, feeling claustrophobic in her bound 
state.  "How long have we been driving?" 
"A long time.  Almost a whole day." 
She tried to do the calculations, but she didn't know what 
direction they were headed and signs and landmarks were still 
hazy.  "Are you tired?" 
"No!" he snapped, suddenly angry.  He calmed himself, then 
explained, "I had a nap earlier.  I don't need much sleep." 
"We're not going to arrive wherever it is that you're driving if 
you fall asleep at the wheel and get us both killed." 
"Shut up, Scully.  Don't think I won't put the gag back. What do 
you think I'm going to do?  Get out and let you drive?  I'm sure 
as hell not that tired." 
She closed her eyes and pressed her forehead against the cool 
glass of the window.  The thrum of the engine was strangely 
soothing, even though her head was throbbing more painfully 
now -- and, she realized, her head was the least of her problems. 
"I have to go to the bathroom, Mulder." 
"That's too bad.  You'll have to wait." 
"For how long?  Where are we going?" 
He looked over and smiled -- and for a moment she didn't even 
recognize the man sitting next to her.  His teeth looked too 
sharp and white behind his lips.  "I can't very well tell you 
that, can I?" 
She opened her mouth slightly, feeling the air cool against her 
lips.  The feel of her own breath reminded her that she was still 
alive.  Her mind raced, thinking of alternatives, plans of 
escape, ways she might trick her partner.  The breath went in and 
out.  "Who are you?" she finally asked, unable to keep the 
incredulity out of her voice.  "What the hell have you done with 
Mulder?" 
He shook his head.  "I just had some time to think, Scully.  I 
know what I've got to do, now." 
"Is that what you were doing when you disappeared?  Thinking?  Is 
that what you were doing in Berkeley?" 
"I went to Berkeley to find out about the student who was killed 
by V. Frank.  His name's not really V. Frank, you know, Scully. 
It's Patrick.  Patrick Ainsley." 
"How do you know that?" 
"I met him.  I talked to him.  He's a smart man, Scully.  He's a 
good man." 
"A smart, good murderer, Mulder!  Why did he kill the student at 
Berkeley?  What did she ever do to him?  What's the connection?" 
He affected a hard-come-by patience and explained to her as 
though she were a child.  "He didn't want to hurt her, Scully. 
He wanted to save her from pain.  She was ... she was so much 
like his own little sister.  He just wanted to save her.  And he 
did." 
"What happened to Patrick Ainsley's sister?  Mulder?  What 
happened to his sister?" 
"She was murdered." 
"By whom?"  Her fingers felt completely dead, now.  She tried to 
wiggle them and couldn't.  She wondered just how long she'd been 
sitting in the same position, and whether or not she'd ever be 
able to move her hands again.  The thought was strangely 
terrifying, all things considered.  She could sit in a car and 
carry on a conversation with her apparently insane partner, but 
she was most afraid of never being able to use her fingers again. 
She almost laughed at the absurdity of it all, but she knew that 
if she laughed she would only start to cry, and that Mulder would 
win. 
"Their father.  Their father, the sick fuck."  He looked at her 
and she could see the madness in his eyes, blurry vision or not. 
"Mulder," she said softly.  "Mulder ... just because there are 
... Mulder he's not..." At a loss for words, she squeezed her 
eyes shut and breathed -- in, out, in, out. 
Mulder continued talking, either deaf to her entreaty, or 
ignoring it.  "I got to thinking ... what makes a man kill a 
woman?  Really.  Jealousy?  These didn't look like crimes of 
jealousy, or even of hate.  There wasn't a lot of hate.  I asked 
him -- I asked him -- I..."  His voice dropped and when he 
continued she could hear tears in his words.  "I asked him about 
the little girl from Chilliwack.  Suzanne Caulfield.  He said she 
was so lonely, so sad.  He said--" He ducked his head as though 
protecting himself from an unseen blow, and he let out a painful, 
constricted sob.  The car swerved a little before he could regain 
control.  "She's better off now, Scully.  They all are.  They 
were hurt and sad and they had been betrayed by the men that 
should have protected them, kept them safe." 
"Mulder," she breathed.  They sat in silence as he maneuvered the 
car down the road.  After several minutes she asked, "Is that 
where we're going?  To see him?" 
Mulder stared at the road in front of him.  If he'd heard her 
question he made no sign of it.  He fished a sunflower seed out 
of his pocket and brought it up to his mouth. 
That was when it hit her, in all its terrible finality.  This was 
not some Eddie van Blundht.  The man driving the car was no 
strange shape-shifting creature pretending to be Fox Mulder. 
This was the real thing.  *He* was the real thing. 
Mulder cracked the sunflower seed between his teeth after sucking 
the salt off the shell.  She watched with a sort of morbid 
fascination, saying nothing. 
"I didn't mean to scare you, Scully," Mulder finally said. 
"You did," she replied. 
"I know." 
She stared ahead, squirmed in her seat, and then sat still, 
trying to relieve the pressure in her bladder.  "Mulder, I really 
do have to go to the bathroom." 
He nodded.  "I know.  I don't know what to do about it, though, 
Scully." 
She paused.  "What if ... what if I promise to go peacefully? 
I'll do whatever you want.  What am I going to do, Mulder?  We 
both know who won the last time it came down to a test of 
strength.  I ... I trust you, Mulder." 
He looked over at her again and his eyes were wild, like those of 
a cornered animal.  "Scully, I can't be held responsible for what 
might happen if you try to run away.  I--" 
"I won't run away," she said calmly, trying to wiggle her fingers 
again.  Nothing.  "And if you want to keep me tied up, could you 
cuff my hands in the front?  I can't feel my fingers, Mulder. 
It's dangerous to keep a body in an immovable position for this 
many hours.  I couldn't run away even if I wanted to." 
"You could scream." 
"I won't," she vowed.  "Mulder, please." 
"You're a federal agent, Scully.  Of course you're thinking of 
ways to escape.  It's your job.  You just can't see that what I'm 
doing is for the best." 
"And what is it that you're doing, Mulder?  Other than kidnapping 
a federal agent?  I told you!  I can't even move, let alone run 
away.  I won't scream.  You're armed and I'm not.  You're the one 
with the power, Mulder.  I know what it's like to be a hostage. 
I won't misbehave." 
Her partner sighed deeply.  "If you try anything I won't stop 
again, Scully, and we're only halfway there." 
"I understand," she said softly. 
"There's a rest stop about ten miles ahead." 
She nodded and said nothing, listening to herself breathe in the 
dark. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Rest Stop on Interstate 90, South Dakota 
February 9, 2000 
5:04 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
He untied her arms first, because she asked him to.  Her 
shoulders protested the movement she demanded of them, sending a 
pain screaming through her nerves.  She bit her lip in an effort 
not to cry out.  He apologized softly, fingers trembling as they 
held the newly undone handcuffs.  He looked as though he didn't 
know what to do with himself.  He looked trapped between two 
worlds.  She focused all her attention on her watch.  5:04 a.m., 
she read  through the swimming blur of her impaired vision. 
Eastern Time. 
She squeezed her eyes shut in agony as blood rushed back into her 
abused arms.  Her fingers throbbed and pins and needles assaulted 
her.  A whimper escaped her clenched jaw and she tossed her head, 
ignoring it.  She fought the urge to pass out again.  Fainting 
was the worst possible thing now, she knew.  That she had a 
concussion was fairly evident -- but the persistent blurriness of 
her vision, her nausea and disorientation were signs that it was 
probably worse than even she was allowing for. 
She lowered her head as much as she could.  Mulder bent down and 
uncuffed her ankles, pausing to rub the chafed skin there.  He 
hovered, distracted and unsure on the edges of her peripheral 
vision. 
"Is the back of my head bleeding?" 
He made a strange noise in the back of his throat and then said, 
"Yes.  Is that ... is it bad?" 
She glanced up at him, keeping her head low.  "Blood is never a 
good thing, Mulder.  I'm in a lot of trouble if I'm bleeding 
internally.  How long has it been?" 
Mulder looked down at his watch.  "About twenty-five hours since 
we left DC." 
"Well, I'm not dead yet.  That's a good sign.  Mulder, I have to 
get to a doctor.  Head injuries are especially dangerous." 
He nodded sharply, obviously remembering the time he spent 
recovering from his own head injury.  "Not until we get there." 
"There?" 
Mulder chuckled wryly.  "The great white north, Scully.  Where 
else?" 
Scully raised her head a little too sharply.  Pain shot through 
her skull and she gasped.  She paused, breathing heavily, until 
the pain passed.  "We're going to Canada?  What the hell for?" 
Mulder shrugged.  "Do you have to go to the bathroom or what?" 
She rose unsteadily to her feet and put a hand out to brace 
herself on the car.  "I need your help," she said.  She wished it 
didn't sound so much like begging.  Her joints were centers of 
agony.  She moved her left foot toward Mulder, trying to maintain 
her balance.  He grabbed her arm as she tottered and began to 
fall. 
"C'mon, Scully," he breathed, hooking his arm under her 
shoulders, supporting her.  They hobbled toward the bathrooms, 
and Scully tried to rally her thoughts into some plan resembling 
escape. 
The bathroom was typical rest stop fare: cloudy mirrors, the 
scent of urine, creative tags sprayed across the walls in black. 
Scully let go of Mulder's arm and pushed herself into the nearest 
stall, willing herself not to vomit or faint.  She stared blindly 
at the cool grey paint, seeing the shadows in Mulder's eyes like 
an instant replay. 
He was waiting for her when she tried to make it to the sinks. 
He turned the cold water on, and they both watched, frozen in 
place, as the last traces of blood on her hands washed down the 
sink.  She touched the back of her head.  More blood.  That was 
washed down the drain, too. 
Mulder said nothing, looking at her sideways as though she was 
some strange supernatural phenomena he couldn't quite explain. 
She wished she could float away, like a ghost. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
5:24 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
He helped her back to the car, cuffed her ankles and hands in 
front, and gave her a chocolate bar that was warm and a bit 
melted from living in his coat pocket too long. 
"I'll be back in a minute," he said, locking the doors. 
She nodded.  When he turned his back, she scanned the car for 
anything that might be of use.  Nothing. 
His cell phone was sitting in the armrest compartment, little 
green light blinking like a beacon. 
She looked up, just in time to see Mulder disappear into the 
men's bathroom.  Suppressing the urge to laugh or burst into 
tears hysterically, she picked up the phone.  She knew Mulder 
would be back any minute, so she trusted her gut and pressed the 
speed dial. 
The phone on the other end rang. 
"This is Dana Scully.  I'm not home right now, please leave a 
message after the tone..." 
"To anyone who gets this message," she said breathlessly, "This 
is Special Agent Dana Scully.  It's 5:30 a.m. EST and we're at a 
rest stop on ... I-90, South Dakota, I think."  The men's room 
door opened.  "Killer, Patrick Ainsley," she whispered. 
"Canada."  She clicked the phone shut, tossed it back to its 
resting place and was innocently eating the chocolate bar by the 
time Mulder opened the car door. 
"Wunderbar," she said quietly.  "Good choice."  The peanut butter 
and chocolate tasted like sawdust in her mouth.  Her stomach 
tried to rebel, but she pushed the nausea away. 
He nodded, turning the key in the ignition. 
"Mulder," she warned, "wake me if I fall asleep.  I don't know 
how serious my condition is, but if I fall asleep I might not 
wake up again." 
"I will," he replied softly, and she wondered again who this 
strange, reasonable facsimile of Mulder was.  The real thing, a 
little voice murmured in the back of her skull.  The real, 
over-the-edge, fucked up thing.  And you're on the receiving end, 
Dana. 
Mulder, she pleaded silently, end this insanity. 
He pulled out of the parking lot and they drove. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
Chapter Fourteen 
Ice-Crawl 
I listened, as I sealed it up from myself 
(The twelve-hour ice-crawl ahead). 
I peered awhile, as through the keyhole, 
Into my darkened, hushed, safe casket 
From which (I did not know) 
I had already lost the treasure. 
-- Ted Hughes, "Robbing Myself" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Dana Scully's Apartment 
February 9, 2000 
10:11 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Eloise had nineteen hours left.  She was trying desperately not 
to start counting minutes.  Not yet, anyway.  When she hit ten 
hours she could start counting minutes, too. 
She blinked back her fatigue and attempted to focus on the notes 
again.  Something was wrong with the profile ...  she just 
couldn't place it. 
But she knew there was something missing. 
She pushed the chair back and stood, limbs heavy with the desire 
to sleep.  She moved to the kitchen and stared at the cabinets, 
wondering which one would contain tea, finally giving up and 
rooting through them, though it made her feel like a graverobber. 
Finally she found some and brewed a pot. 
The phone rang.  Eloise nearly dropped the hot pot, but managed 
to stop herself at the last minute.  It was Scully's phone, so 
she let it ring.  After four rings the answering machine clicked 
on and the tinny recorded voice of Dana Scully informed the 
caller that she wasn't home. 
"Dana, it's Mom.  I just wanted to check in, sweetheart, see how 
you're holding up.  Give me a call when you get in." 
Eloise stared at the phone, aghast.  Women who had been kidnapped 
should not get perfectly normal answering machine messages from 
their perfectly normal mothers. 
The light on the answering machine blinked twice. 
Funny, she hadn't noticed the first light before.  She tried to 
remember if the phone had rung earlier, but came up with nothing. 
She had similar difficulty attempting to recall whether or not 
she had even glanced at the machine before this point. 
Eloise set the teapot carefully on the table and pressed the 
button. 
She knew there was something wrong even before the voice began 
its breathless message.  The room seemed suddenly darker, and 
Eloise felt her heart begin to beat faster. 
"To anyone who gets this message."  Even though the recording was 
bad and the speaker sounded like she wasn't close to the 
receiver, Eloise recognized Scully's voice.  She sounded 
terrified.  She sounded sick.  "This is Special Agent Dana 
Scully.  It's 5:30 a.m. EST and we're at a rest stop on ... I-90, 
South Dakota, I think."  The next words sounded even more 
panicked, as though Scully had seen something she was afraid of. 
"Killer, Patrick Ainsley.  Canada." 
5:30 a.m. 
Seventeen hours ago. 
South Dakota. 
"Fuck," Eloise said aloud, as Scully's mom began her perfectly 
normal message once again. 
She picked up the phone and dialed.  "Danny, hi," she said, when 
the person on the other end picked up.  "This is Special Agent 
Eloise Marshall.  I need favors.  I need information.  I need it 
as fast as you can get it.  I've got a name, Patrick Ainsley, and 
I need to know everything about him.  He's about thirty-five to 
forty-five, and I'm pretty sure he was born here in DC.  Yeah. 
I'm leaving now and I'll be down there as soon as possible." 
She set the phone down, gathered Mulder's notes and Scully's 
diary, and dialed Skinner's office number as she shut and locked 
the apartment door behind her. 
Eighteen hours, thirty-eight minutes.  And counting. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Skinner's Office 
11:28 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
When she entered, he was sitting behind his desk, implacable, 
unruffled.  It might have been 11:30 in the morning, if the sky 
behind his head hadn't been so obviously dark. 
The look in his eyes was unreadable behind the lenses of his 
glasses.  "You have news, Agent?" 
She licked her lips, suddenly nervous.  "I think I know where 
he's taking her." 
"Where Agent Mulder is taking Scully you mean?"  The slip in 
dropping the 'Agent' before 'Scully' was not lost on her. 
"Yes," she said calmly.  "I've just received information that has 
been extremely helpful.  Scully had ... left a message on her own 
answering machine very early this morning.  They were in South 
Dakota." 
"You didn't notice the answering machine earlier?"  She knew he 
hadn't meant for it to come out as an accusation, but the effect 
was the same.  The uncomfortable feeling of having made an error 
sat on her heavily. 
"No, sir.  I did not." 
"South Dakota, agent?" 
"Agent Scully also related the name of the killer: Patrick 
Ainsley.  She said the word 'Canada'.  I've had the boys in 
information looking it up for me, and they discovered some very 
interesting facts.  Patrick Ainsley was born here in DC on 
October 13, 1960." 
"Mulder's birthday," Skinner interrupted. 
Eloise nodded.  "One of many interesting parallels, sir, let me 
assure you.  His father, Stanley, worked in the lower levels of 
federal government.  Patrick's sister, Rebecca, was born in 1964. 
Two years later, the mother was killed in a car accident. 
Stanley resigned and moved the children cross country -- to 
Olympia, Washington.  He continued working with the government, 
which is why he was easy enough to trace.  He's on file.  The 
family moved around in Washington state: Lakewood, Seattle, 
Tacoma, Bellingham.  Familiar places, don't you think?  Patrick 
Ainsley as V. Frank was retracing the steps his family took." 
"That doesn't tell me where my agents, are, Marshall." 
"No, sir, it doesn't.  Let me continue.  When the family settled 
in Tacoma, Ainsley went away to school.  Three guesses." 
"Oxford." 
Eloise nodded again.  "The ironic thing is that they probably 
took some of the same classes, sir.  They probably knew each 
other -- went out for a beer at the pub, two Americans in a 
foreign land.  Ainsley graduated top of his class in English, 
moved back to the States, and disappeared.  Honestly.  Right off 
the map." 
Skinner looked at her without saying anything.  All his questions 
were in his eyes. 
"This said, there appears to be an answer in Agent Mulder's 
profile.  Very early on he made the connection that V. Frank was 
moving north.  I never disagreed with that.  Agent Scully said 
the word 'Canada'.  North of Sumas is Vancouver, sir.  When V. 
Frank was identified by the woman from Los Angeles, she said he 
was wearing a ski jacket with a tag from the Whistler ski resort. 
I think Vancouver is where Patrick Ainsley is, and I think that's 
where Agent Mulder is headed." 
Skinner leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and his 
chin on his hands, watching her calmly.  "Vancouver." 
"Yes, sir.  Agent Mulder will be driving.  Agent Scully didn't 
leave her home peacefully; there's no way he could have forced 
her to board a plane." 
The Assistant Director nodded.  "You've done well, Agent 
Marshall." 
She didn't like the tone of his voice.  "Sir?" 
"Go home, Eloise.  Get some rest.  I'll take care of it from 
here." 
She didn't bother attempting to hide the incredulity she felt. 
"I'm sorry, sir?  Are you taking me off the case now?  After 
everything?" 
Skinner's eyes hardened.  He leaned back in his chair and fixed 
her with an impenetrable gaze.  "Please leave the notes and 
anything else you might have found.  I will place a commendation 
in your file, Agent Marshall.  Your work on this case has been 
above and beyond the call of duty." 
"You gave me twenty-four hours, sir!" 
"There is nothing more for you to do, Agent!"  He rose and she 
followed his example.  "You cannot simply hop on a flight and 
flash your badge and your gun in Vancouver.  This is 
international now.  I will contact the consulate in Ottawa and 
the Canadian authorities myself.  I'll put an end to this, Agent. 
There is no more reason for you to be involved." 
She clenched her hands into fists and straightened her shoulders, 
stubbornly looking her superior in the eye. 
"Don't ruin your career over this, Marshall," he warned.  "Or 
your life."  She felt her eyes sting as he gestured toward the 
door. 
She'd turned to go when he prompted, "The papers, Agent?" 
She reached into her briefcase and pulled out the pieces of paper 
covered in Mulder's script.  Scully's diary she left where it 
was.  She said nothing, dropping the papers into Skinner's 
outstretched hand.  When the door had shut firmly behind her, she 
leaned back against it, weary.  Defeated. 
She glanced at her watch.  There was still time.  She'd be damned 
if she let the bureaucrats win this one -- or cover it up. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Eloise Marshall's Apartment 
Alexandria, Virginia 
February 10, 2000 
12:12 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Eloise tugged the door open, cursing under her breath. 
Jacqueline looked up from the sofa in the living room and smiled. 
"Something wrong, Lise?" 
"Yes," Eloise stated, marching toward her bedroom.  Jacqueline 
followed closely and continued to smile as her sister began to 
throw clothing and toiletries into an overnight bag.  "I know 
where the killer is.  I know what happened, and Skinner took me 
off the case.  Something is going on here, and I need answers.  I 
need a favor, Jackie." 
"From me?  What could I possibly do to help?" 
"The man you work for at the Pentagon ... do you think he has a 
private airplane?" 
Jacqueline's laughter was incredulous.  "You're kidding me.  You 
think I can get you an airplane on a whim?  Eloise Marshall, 
you've lost your mind.  What exactly am I supposed to tell him 
it's for?  My big sister needs to catch a killer and the 
Assistant Director won't let her do it?" 
"Sounds fine to me."  Eloise looked up at her sister, eyes 
pleading.  "This is very important, Jackie." 
"It sounds like the Assistant Director has it all under control." 
"No," Eloise shook her head.  "No, not at all.  He's covering 
something up.  He's ... you don't understand!  He's got agents 
out there.  He's been sitting on his ass the whole time.  He's 
fucking in on it, Jackie.  Whatever's going on -- he knows about 
it." 
All trace of a smile disappeared from her sister's face. 
Jackie's voice was low and serious when she said, "To think we 
were joking about Fox Mulder's paranoia just a month ago.  You're 
scaring me, Eloise." 
Eloise squeezed her eyes shut and counted backward from five to 
calm herself.  "Jacqueline, if there is anything you can do to 
help, please do it.  I'm begging you.  I need to get to Vancouver 
before they do." 
"Vancouver?  Canada?  They?" 
Eloise shook her head again and didn't look her sister in the 
eyes. 
Jacqueline smiled again and shut the door behind her. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
12:25 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Jacqueline listened to her sister bustle around and curse for 
several minutes before picking up the phone and dialing the 
familiar number.  A man's voice answered after three rings. 
"Who is this?" 
"Jacqueline Marshall." 
"How is everything?" 
"She knows.  She knows where they are." 
The man's voice sounded pleased.  "Well, then.  Where are they?" 
"Of all places -- Vancouver.  She didn't tell me anything more 
than that.  She wants me to ask you to borrow a plane." 
She cringed as the man laughed.  Even after two years of working 
as an aide, she still hated the sound of his laughter.  There was 
no joy in it.  "Does she?  By all means, then.  If she wants an 
airplane, she shall have it.  I imagine she wants to leave right 
away?" 
"Yes, sir." 
"I'll have everything ready for her.  Tell me, Jacqueline, what 
does she think she can do?" 
"I don't know." 
"You know what this means, don't you?" 
Jacqueline's voice dropped, "Of course ... of course I do, sir." 
"Chin up, my dear.  You knew it might come down to this."  He 
hung up the phone and she was left listening to dead air.  She 
didn't want to hang up.  She knew that the moment she clicked the 
phone down all the locks would click shut and everything would 
begin. 
She was still holding the receiver in her hand when her sister 
walked into the living room. 
Jacqueline set the receiver down gently, as though it might 
break.  She gave her sister an encouraging nod and a smile. 
Somewhere, in the dark, a plane engine roared. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Unmarked Airfield 
1:05 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Eloise didn't like him.  She didn't like either of them, 
actually, although it was the older man who really terrified her. 
He lit a cigarette as she approached, took a drag, and smiled at 
her through the smoke. 
"Eloise Marshall, I presume," he drawled. 
"Yes, sir," she said calmly, reminding herself that she needed 
this flight. 
"Your sister informs me you have need of a plane." 
"There aren't a lot of American Airlines flights departing at one 
o'clock in the morning.  Sir." 
He took another drag on his cigarette.  His smile was caustic and 
left her feeling violated.  "I'm quite fond of Canada myself. 
What takes you there?" 
Eloise looked over at her sister, but Jacqueline was staring at 
the ground, scuffing her toe in the dirt.  The second, younger 
man met her eyes and smiled coldly.  "Jackie didn't tell you?" 
"Not a word." 
"I have to catch a killer." 
The man nodded, flicking his cigarette.  Ashes fluttered to the 
ground.  "The RCMP can't take care of it?" 
Eloise closed her eyes and shook her head.  "It's important that 
I be there." 
"Obviously.  Well then.  Who am I to stand in the way of an agent 
with a mission?  My pilot will take you where you need to go. 
Come back safe and sound." 
Eloise felt her jaw drop a little.  Things weren't this easy. 
Mysterious smoking men in mysterious airfields didn't simply 
offer the use of their planes.  "Uh ... thank you.  I'm not sure 
how I can repay you--" 
"Don't think about it.  Catch the killer.  Isn't public safety 
payment enough?" 
She ducked her head a little and hoisted her overnight bag. 
As she moved to board the plane, he took another long drag on his 
cigarette, and breathed out a cloud of smoke.  "Give my regards 
to Fox Mulder, Agent Marshall." 
Eloise turned her head sharply.  "What--?" 
The man and her sister were already walking away, however, and 
neither answered.  With a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, 
Eloise and the second man boarded the plane.  They were airborne 
in a matter of minutes and, looking down through the darkness, 
she was absolutely certain there was no going back ... to any of 
this. 
The second man, sitting in the plush seat opposite her, smiled 
and said, "Name's Alex.  You have the feeling you're being led 
around by the nose, Eloise Marshall?" 
She pulled her attention away from the window and looked at him 
for the first time.  His eyes were piercing.  She felt as though 
he was peeling her skin away with a glance.  "I'm starting to 
feel that way, yes." 
"I don't know who you are, really, or how the hell you got 
involved with all of this, but you're in dangerous waters.  For 
example, I'm here to kill you.  As soon as we land in Vancouver." 
Her eyes widened but she said nothing.  He said it as though he 
was discussing what type of tea they would drink with breakfast. 
"I'm not *going* to kill you, but I'm supposed to.  If I don't do 
it, someone else will.  That's the way this game works."  He 
shrugged and wrestled open a package of honey-roasted peanuts. 
One arm, she noticed, was a very believable prosthetic. 
"What happened to your arm?" 
Alex laughed.  "Nosy, aren't you?  It was cut off.  In Russia. 
Long story." 
She nodded, resisting the urge to look out the window once again. 
"It's a long flight," he said.  "You should get some sleep." 
"I don't want to sleep," she replied. 
He nodded as though he understood her reasoning.  "Peanuts?" 
She nodded and he tossed her another bag.  It was going to be a 
long flight, indeed. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
Chapter Fifteen 
Orphans 
As my body sank into the folk-tale 
Where the wolves are singing in the forest 
For two babes, who have turned, in their sleep, 
Into orphans 
Beside the corpse of their mother. 
-- Ted Hughes, "Life After Death" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Vancouver International Airport 
Richmond, British Columbia 
February 10, 2000 
6:35 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Eloise woke with a startled intake of air as Alex reached over 
and buckled her seatbelt.  She didn't remember falling asleep. 
She hardly remembered anything at all.  In the instant after she 
woke her memories came flooding back, and she found herself 
looking down into her lap to keep herself from standing and 
screaming, or otherwise behaving in some ridiculous manner. 
"Didn't want you to hurt yourself during the landing," Alex 
quipped, looking past her out the window.  The lights on the 
airstrip marked a glowing path below them.  It was still dark, 
but the sky had the odd quality of near-sunrise: deep and blue 
and cloudless. 
"Why are you really here, Alex?" Eloise asked softly without 
raising her eyes from her lap.  She didn't particularly want to 
see his face when he answered.  "It's not to kill me.  If you 
were ordered to kill me, I think you'd do it." 
"Not to kill you, Eloise Marshall.  This is sightseeing for me, 
really." 
The plane began a gentle descent. 
"How are you planning on finding them?" 
"Them?" Eloise asked with feigned innocence, raising her eyes 
from her hands so she could smile at the man sitting across from 
her. 
"I think you and I both know that this killer is secondary. 
Although, how you plan to find *him* might be just as valid a 
question.  You know, there's a pretty damned good chance that if 
Scully couldn't find Mulder, you won't be able to find either of 
them.  Or the killer." 
"How do you know about that?"  She fought to keep the surprise 
and indignation from her voice, but they both knew she failed 
miserably. 
Alex gave her a half-smile, almost like an apology.  "It's my job 
to know.  Especially about them."  His eyes narrowed.  "You do 
not have any idea what you're dealing with, Eloise Marshall.  You 
do your job -- you save those agents and catch the killer, but do 
not try to understand this.  The second you think you understand 
what's going on, I really will have to kill you.  That's my job, 
too." 
She nodded.  "I believe you." 
He laughed suddenly and shook his head.  "Good for you." 
"Are ... are you here to kill them?" 
The laughter died down into a chuckle and his eyes sparkled 
green.  "Not quite." 
The wheels of the plane hit the runway and the plane bounced a 
little. 
"Do you know where they are?" 
He shrugged.  "Not a clue.  Good luck, though.  It's been a 
pleasure."  He undid his seatbelt and stretched languidly as the 
plane slowed to a stop.  "And don't forget what I said." 
She nodded again and rose.  She pulled her overnight bag down 
from the overhead compartment, and by the time she turned around 
again, Alex had disappeared. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Border Crossing 
Sumas, Washington 
February 10, 2000 
7:56 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
I could scream, she thought.  I could scream and end this whole 
charade now, one way or the other.  That's what border crossings 
are for -- to stop illegal activities. 
She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep.  Her head hurt.  She 
wanted to go to a doctor.  The Tylenol Mulder had purchased at 
the last gas station sat leaden in her stomach, providing no 
relief.  Her mouth felt like it was full of cotton.  She 
swallowed, but her throat remained painfully dry. 
"Where are you coming from, sir?" 
Scully could practically feel Mulder's smile radiating at the 
customs officer.  "We're from DC, believe it or not. 
Cross-country drive.  We're going to a conference in Vancouver." 
"Really?"  The woman said with some interest. 
"It's an international relations conference.  My sleepy partner 
and I are representatives from the Federal Bureau of 
Investigation." 
Scully tried not to cringe, tucked inside her blankets.  Scream, 
she told herself.  But her mouth remained firmly shut.  Cotton. 
Dry.  Why won't you scream? 
"And how long are you staying in the country?" 
"A week," Mulder replied confidently. 
"Are you bringing firearms?" 
"No, ma'am.  We're not here as law enforcement officers." 
She waved them through. 
Scully opened her eyes a moment later.  "I could have screamed 
back there, you know." 
"I'm glad you didn't, Scully.  I thought you trusted me."  Mulder 
sighed and turned onto the Trans-Canada highway toward Vancouver. 
"Two-lane highways, Scully." 
"I can see that," she snapped.  The countryside was still blurry, 
and the sunlight hurt her eyes.  She found it difficult to 
concentrate on anything for longer than a few moments.  "Aren't 
you tired?  You haven't slept in more than twenty-four hours, 
Mulder." 
"Neither have you." 
"It's entirely possible," she said, not bothering to keep the 
acid from her tone, "that if I sleep, I'll slip into a coma and 
die.  Is that really what you want, Mulder?" 
He shook his head. 
"I *need* to get to a doctor, Mulder." 
"I know, Scully," he said sadly.  "Just lie back and rest now. 
It'll all be okay soon." 
She clenched her teeth, looked out the window, and thought about 
how strange it was that it was February and there was no snow in 
Canada. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Vancouver, British Columbia 
8:30 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Her cell phone rang three times but she forced herself to ignore 
it.  Chances were that it was Skinner calling her to find out 
where she was and what she was doing.  She wondered if he would 
put everything together. 
"Of course he will," she said aloud, trying to find a radio 
station to drown out the sound of her phone.  She was tempted to 
just turn the phone off, but she knew that the moment she did so 
Skinner would add her description to the APB sent to the Canadian 
authorities.  If he hadn't already.  He had to have been pretty 
sure that she wouldn't just lie back and let everything happen 
all around her. 
She finally settled on a station playing top 40 pop hits.  The 
phone stopped ringing. 
She didn't know where to go.  She had managed to pick up a map 
from the car rental agency, but even having a map was rather 
pointless when there was no street to look up or name to hunt 
down.  She had studied the general layout of the city, but 
nothing had jumped out and said "Look for me here." 
"Where would he take her?" Eloise asked the radio announcer, who 
was busy telling her there were traffic backups on the Port Mann 
bridge, that there had been an accident at Twelfth and Broadway, 
and to watch for photo radar on Highway 1 eastbound.  She 
wondered if Mulder and Scully were even in the city yet. 
She wondered if she was even in the right city. 
Eloise slammed the brakes at yet *another* red light and swore at 
the car in front of her.  She needed to take some time out.  She 
glanced down at her map again and decided to find herself a hotel 
room downtown.  Central location -- and hopefully she'd be able 
to re-evaluate the situation. 
When the light turned green she bullied herself into the left 
lane and pressed the gas.  A teenager in a little red sportscar 
laid on his horn and flipped her the finger, but she ignored him 
and sped away. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Hotel Vancouver 
10:18 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
She woke with a start, biting back a scream.  She looked around 
and didn't know where she was.  Finally, Eloise remembered that 
she had checked herself into the hotel, ordered room service, and 
sat down to write out as much of Mulder's profile as she could 
recall.  She had throughly kicked herself mentally for not making 
copies before Skinner had taken the notes.  Tired and hungry, and 
no closer to discovering the whereabouts of either the missing 
agents or the killer, she had taken a long hot shower. 
Her hair was still damp, sticking up from being slept on.  She 
rubbed her eyes and swore when she looked over at the clock. 
10:21.  Shit.  How could I have fallen asleep?  She looked over 
at the remains of her room service meal and shook her head.  No 
one could have been watching her *that* closely. 
Could they? 
Eloise gathered up her papers and perched on the edge of her bed. 
On an impulse, she spread her map of Vancouver on the floor and 
looked at it carefully.  Two major universities. 
She remembered quite clearly a section of Mulder's notes that 
read: "This man no longer works with other academics -- he is not 
a professor or a teacher -- he sees himself in a world apart from 
others."  The idea had always seemed wrong to her.  Yes, the man 
was intellectual, and yes he was an academic, but he latched onto 
things.  He felt things deeply.  If he was an academic, he was an 
academic to the core. 
"He didn't want to be noticed," she breathed, tracing her fingers 
from one university to the other.  "Yes, he sees himself in a 
world apart from others.  He does work with other academics, 
though.  He fled the life he might have had in the United States, 
teaching at Harvard or Stanford or ... he didn't want to be the 
golden boy anymore.  He didn't want to be brilliant.  He didn't 
want to be Ivy League.  He wanted to hide.  Where better to hide 
than here?  Good schools ... good schools.  Not American 
schools."  She tapped her fingertip on the outline of the 
peninsula that housed the University Endowment Lands of the 
University of British Columbia.  "He's here.  And Mulder will be 
following him." 
She clapped her hands and grinned. 
There was a knock at the door. 
Eloise stood and smoothed back her hair, taking the time to tuck 
her gun into the back waistband of her jeans.  She peered through 
the peephole and pulled back, startled, when she saw the face on 
the other side. 
"Lise?  Are you in there?" 
Eloise opened the door slowly, but her sister pushed her way in, 
shaking.  Jacqueline gazed up at her sister with haunted eyes. 
"You have to help me, Lise," she breathed.  "They're looking for 
me.  They're going to kill me." 
"Who is?  What are you talking about?  Why are you here, Jackie? 
Did you follow me?" 
"I--" she looked over her shoulder and shut the open door 
quickly.  "I took a later flight.  I had to.  Spe--my boss.  My 
boss thinks I betrayed him." 
Eloise took a step backward, remembering her phone number written 
on the paper Scully had been given.  The phone number she shared 
with her little sister.  "Why would he think that?" 
"He thinks you're going to find these agents.  He doesn't want 
them found.  He doesn't want any of this discovered.  I was ... I 
was supposed to keep everything from being discovered.  Don't you 
see, Lise?  Don't you see anything at all?  We're both pawns! 
We're both pawns to my employer.  He's controlling everything." 
"One man can't control everything," Eloise stated firmly, willing 
her hands not to shake. 
"This man can.  God, Eloise!  You don't know anything!  We're in 
serious trouble.  He sent Krycek with you.  Alex Krycek!" 
Eloise couldn't keep the shock out of her voice.  "Alex *Krycek*? 
You have to be mistaken.  Alex Krycek is a former FBI agent, 
Jackie.  He -- Oh.  Oh my God." 
"He used to be partnered with Fox Mulder," Jackie supplied. 
Eloise nodded.  "He's ... considered armed and extremely 
dangerous.  Every rookie has heard at least some of the story." 
"Krycek is an assassin, Lise.  Plain and simple.  And we're his 
targets.  The Marshall sisters."  Jacqueline pinched the bridge 
of her nose and took a deep breath.  "We have to get the hell out 
of here.  They've probably got someone tracking me.  Hell, 
they've probably got someone tracking you, too." 
"Where are we going to go?  Who's to say there isn't a sniper 
waiting outside the hotel, Jackie?  How can I even trust you?" 
Eloise clenched her hands into fists and took another step away 
from her sister.  "You knew about this.  You knew about 
everything.  You lied to me!  You pretended!  You betrayed your 
own *sister!." 
Jacqueline shook her head, tears in her eyes.  Closing the space 
between them, she grabbed Eloise's arms and peered earnestly into 
her face.  "I thought I was protecting you, Lise.  I ... I staged 
that car accident so you would get pulled off the case.  I knew 
you'd come home to take care of me.  I ... I thought if there was 
a fake murder in DC you'd be thrown so far off track that you'd 
be safe.  I did everything I could to keep you safe, Lise!  I 
never wanted you to be a part of this ... never!  You're my 
sister ... you're my best friend.  You're the most important 
person in the world to me--" 
"Shut up!" Eloise snapped.  "Shut the hell up, Jacqueline!  What 
the hell is going on?  What the fucking hell is going on?"  She 
wrenched her arms out of her sister's grip and pulled her gun. 
"Are you lying to me?  Are you playing fucking games with me?" 
"No!" Jacqueline wailed.  Tears streamed down her face and she 
held her hands wide, in a gesture of supplication. 
"Shut up!"  Eloise shouted, training her gun on her sister more 
securely.  "What does he want with them?  Your boss?  Your 
employer?  Whoever the hell he is!  What does he want with them?" 
Jacqueline sank to her knees.  "I don't know, Lise.  He never 
told me that.  He organized it all.  He did it all.  Paid me 
well.  I don't know why.  I don't!  They--they--they have 
weaknesses.  He wanted them to know that they were not outside 
the law." 
"The law?" Eloise shouted.  "What does this have to do with any 
law?  This is insanity!  This is goddamned *murder*, Jackie!" 
"Who is murdering whom?  Who is doing the murdering?  Eloise, 
can't you see how clever this is?  He never has to take the blame 
for any of it.  If everything goes according to plan, Fox Mulder 
will do the murdering.  He'll get life -- he'll get worse.  He'll 
do my employer's dirty work for him, and he'll destroy himself in 
the process.  It's a perfect plan."  She shook her head and 
hunched over, wrapping her arms around herself tightly. 
"Everything has gone wrong, Eloise.  You got too close.  You 
learned too much.  Everything is ruined, now.  He's won.  My own 
sister has a gun pointed in my face." 
"I can't trust you, Jackie." 
"I know," Jacqueline whispered.  "Please, Lise.  Please put the 
gun down.  I'm scared.  This is what they want.  They want you to 
doubt me.  They've already won.  Pack a bag and let's get out of 
here.  Let's go." 
"Where?" 
"Somewhere?  Anywhere?  Away from here!" 
Eloise hesitated, but the anguish in her sister's body was 
persuasive.  Finally, she set the gun down on the bed and said, 
"The gun is right here.  I can grab it in a heartbeat.  Don't try 
anything." 
Jacqueline nodded. 
Eloise grabbed her overnight bag from the floor and tossed her 
dirty clothes into it. 
"I'm really sorry, Lise." 
"I ... I understand, Jackie.  I know you are." 
"No.  No, I'm really sorry." 
Eloise heard the shot, muffled by a silencer, a moment before the 
pain of it lanced through her gut.  She put her hands up to her 
abdomen and watched in stupid silence as red liquid spurted 
between her fingers.  Jacqueline darted toward the bed and 
grabbed the other gun before Eloise even realized what was going 
on. 
"That was stupid of me," Eloise murmured, without raising her 
eyes from the redness covering her sleep-wrinkled white blouse. 
"That was stupid of me, wasn't it?" 
"It couldn't happen any other way, Lise.  I -- you're not beyond 
the law, either." 
Eloise shuddered, falling against the bed.  She slid to the 
ground and closed her eyes.  Her sister stepped up to her and hit 
her over the head with the butt of her pistol.  Eloise fought the 
blackness, pretending to be unconscious, knowing that her life 
depended on it. 
Distantly, as though through water, she heard the door shut. 
When it felt like a million years had passed, Eloise opened her 
eyes.  Her hands were covered in blood, and a pool of red was 
starting to surround her. 
"Damn it," she hissed under her failing breath.  She pulled 
herself up inch by inch, fighting the looming darkness as she 
used the bed for leverage.  Nestled amongst her pillows was her 
abandoned cell phone.  She dialed Skinner's number with shaking, 
bloody fingers and listened to the ring.  She vaguely heard a 
voice answer, and she said, "UBC." 
"Marshall?  Is that you?  Where the hell are you?  Marshall?" 
"UBC," she said.  She coughed once, tasting blood, and hung up. 
She fainted as she dialed the number nine for 911. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
Chapter Sixteen 
Kiss of a Sunrise 
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea 
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown 
Till human voices wake us, and we drown. 
-- TS Eliot, "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Washington, DC 
February 11, 2000 
1:50 AM, EST 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Skinner jerked awake at the first ring of his phone.  Marshall, 
he thought immediately.  He picked up the receiver and grumbled 
his name, trying to keep the sleep out of his voice. 
"UBC," a weak voice on the other end of the line said. 
"Marshall?  Is that you?  Where the hell are you?  Marshall?" 
"UBC," she whispered, and the line went dead. 
Skinner stared at the phone in his hand and shook his head.  He 
was pretty sure it had been Marshall's voice, but something had 
definitely been wrong with her.  He had a pretty good feeling 
that she had gone to Vancouver against his express orders -- he 
hadn't really expected anything different from her, really. 
UBC. 
He shook his head, got out of bed and booted up his computer. 
When he had access to the Internet he looked up the letters 
"UBC." 
The University of British Columbia.  In Vancouver. 
Skinner bowed his head over the desk and breathed deeply.  "Go to 
hell, Krycek," he whispered.  "I won't keep silent about this any 
longer." 
He dressed quickly and put in a few calls to the right people. 
Ss he was leaving the house, he tried Marshall's cell again.  No 
answer.  "Just as well." 
The RCMP were on their way to UBC, and Skinner had a plane to 
catch. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Nitobe Memorial Gardens, UBC 
Vancouver, British Columbia 
February 10, 2000 
10:15 PM, PST 
~*~*~*~*~ 
He had pulled over and retied the gag sometime earlier.  Scully 
had found herself dozing off and catching herself before sleep 
could catch up to her.  Mulder appeared unfazed by his own lack 
of sleep. 
Even adrenaline had deserted her.  She watched her partner 
through heavy-lidded eyes.  It took moments longer to register 
thoughts and events in any meaningful way.  Her head hurt, her 
body hurt, she wanted to sleep, she wanted everything to be over. 
Whatever that meant. 
She wanted to wake up and find it was all a dream.  She 
remembered hating those kinds of stories when she was younger -- 
just as the little kid hero or heroine was getting to the good 
part, they woke up.  Even as a child, she had suspected some 
failure on the writer's part. 
She wanted one of those failures now. 
Instead, she watched as Mulder pulled the car into a darkened 
street end and jumped out of the car.  He seemed to have too much 
energy.  She wanted to borrow some of it, just long enough to 
protest or scream or make some kind of escape.  Thoughts of 
escape were coming fewer and farther apart, now.  A part of her 
had resigned itself to this strange capture, whatever the 
outcome. 
She wondered if anyone had even heard her phone message.  She 
wondered, as she had many times in retrospect, why she hadn't 
called Skinner or Marshall, or even 911.  She wondered what the 
hell Mulder was doing.  She could only see the blurry outline of 
his back, hunched over something. 
It wasn't until he came back to the car and hauled her outside, 
lifting her carefully in his arms and carrying her, that she 
realized he'd been opening a door.  A big wooden door.  A gate. 
She made a series of sounds that could be reasonably translated 
as "Where are we?" 
"It's a garden," he said softly.  It was dark inside.  He placed 
her on a little bench before heading back and closing the gates 
tightly.  The light from beyond the high wall was lost, and she 
found herself blinking in the sudden darkness.  There was nearly 
half a moon in the clear night sky, and as her eyes grew 
accustomed to the dim light it provided, she was able to make out 
some of the shapes around her. 
She heard the sound of tiny ripples in water, just as she made 
out the vague shape of a pool in the dark.  The moon reflected on 
it, ghostly and pale.  The world was full of bluish shadows and 
bare tree branches reaching for the sky.  The ground under her 
feet was mossy and surprisingly verdant. 
When Mulder returned to her side, he continued, "It's a Japanese 
garden, Scully.  The Japanese are famous for the calming effects 
of their gardens.  They're able to manipulate space in such a way 
that everything looks different, yet equally beautiful and 
thought-provoking, from every direction.  It's amazing.  You 
should see this place in the daytime.  I can only imagine how 
beautiful it must be when the cherry blossoms are out." 
She looked up at him, but his eyes were focused outward, away 
from her.  She followed his gaze to the pool.  "I was here 
during -- during the week I was away.  The second time.  I was 
here during lunch time, and there was this young couple sitting 
on the far knoll over there, eating lunch.  They were smiling at 
each other, sitting very close but not touching.  It was 
unseasonably warm, actually.  They were sitting on his jacket. 
They were laughing, Scully, and so at peace with everything 
around them.  They fit here.  I thought about you.  I thought 
about how you might fit here.  I thought about how little you 
laugh now." 
He looked down at her abruptly and there was such tenderness in 
his eyes that she found the back of her own eyes stinging.  "I 
thought about those first cases, where you flirted with me and I 
flirted with you and we laughed together ... you laughed then, 
Scully.  You don't laugh anymore." 
Scully heard the words but couldn't make sense of them.  She 
wanted to tell her partner to shut up, or at least to start 
making some kind of rational sense.  She moved her jaw around the 
gag and made a noise of dismay deep in her throat. 
He picked her up again and carried her to the mossy knoll he had 
been speaking of earlier.  They sat side by side on the damp 
grass.  Gently, he reached behind her head and untied the gag. 
"I am so sorry for hurting you, Scully.  Not just this--" his 
hand fluttered weakly behind her head, without touching the 
blood-matted hair.  "It had to have been me.  You were happy 
before me.  Weren't you?" 
"Mulder," she said softly, trying to buy herself time to figure 
out where the hell he was coming from, "this is ridiculous.  How 
many times do I have to tell you that I stay with you because I 
want to?  I could have asked for a transfer at any time.  Hell, I 
could have quit the FBI and gone back into medicine, if that was 
what I'd wanted." 
Mulder shook his head and looked down at his hands.  "You're 
wrong, Scully.  I would have followed you.  I would have dragged 
you back to me.  I couldn't live without you.  It was fortunate 
for both of us that you stayed, but if you had left I would have 
followed." 
Scully said nothing, looking at the reflection of the moon in the 
pool. 
Mulder jumped to his feet, pacing back and forth in front of her. 
She had to crane her neck painfully in order to see his face as 
he explained, "It was my quest that put you in the line of fire. 
It was my quest that made you a visible target.  Do you honestly 
think things wouldn't be different if you had never met me?  Your 
sister would be alive.  You wouldn't have been abducted, given 
cancer, injected with an alien virus, taken to the Antarctic. 
You'd still have your ova, Scully.  Maybe even have a life and a 
husband and kids, if you wanted them." 
"Those things aren't your fault, Mulder--" 
"What have I lost?  A sister twenty-five years ago?  My father, 
who by most accounts was corrupt and probably even deserved it? 
I have stood by and let the bad guys take you again and again, 
Scully.  I'm a fucked-up waste of a protector, let me tell you." 
He stopped pacing abruptly and looked her in the eyes, as though 
daring her to challenge him. 
"You are not my goddamned protector!" 
It was obviously not the answer he wanted to hear.  He began 
pacing again, hands clasped behind his back.  "Maybe not in any 
official capacity ... but we're partners, Scully.  We're supposed 
to watch each other.  And you have done that job admirably.  You 
have pulled my ass out of the fire over and over.  You've covered 
for me, saved me, even shot me when I might have made a huge 
mistake.  You've saved my career more times than I can count. 
How do I repay that?  I take your life away.  I try and 
assimilate you into Mulder's world.  I give you succinct titles: 
Friend, Partner, Agent, Doctor.  You are allowed to exist only in 
those capacities.  Anything else is shut out. 
"I'm a jealous man, Scully.  Ever since the moment you shook my 
hand and said you were looking forward to working with me, I've 
wanted you all for myself.  I have resented everyone in your life 
who had something of you I did not.  Even your family.  Even men 
like Jack Willis and Ed Jerse." 
He stopped in front of her.  "I wanted to possess you utterly." 
Scully looked up at her partner and was surprised to see tears 
rolling down his face.  "And now?" 
He sank to his knees beside her and gripped her hands in his. 
"Now I just want you to be at peace.  I don't want you to hurt 
anymore.  I don't want you to worry about me.  I just want to say 
I -- I'm sorry." 
"There's nothing to be sorry for, Mulder.  Why don't you unlock 
these cuffs, and then we can get out of here.  There should be a 
campus hospital with an emergency room.  Let's go."  She wiggled 
around until she was facing him. 
Mulder didn't look at her.  He closed his eyes slowly and let out 
a hitched sigh.  "No, Scully," he whispered.  "You've got it all 
wrong."  His hand was shaking as he reached over and gently 
touched the side of her face.  Tears still fell silently from his 
eyes.  "You're hurting, Scully." 
"I need to go to a hospital," she repeated.  Her skin burned 
where his fingers touched her. 
"Do you remember when you kissed my forehead in the hallway 
outside my apartment after ... the brain surgery?" he asked. 
When she nodded he continued, "That felt too right.  That felt 
like a promise.  Scully -- if I tell you something in all 
seriousness, will you promise not to say anything about it?" 
She nodded again, eyes wide. 
"I never wanted you to love me.  Loving me is a death sentence. 
I wanted you to trust me, to care about me even, but I never 
wanted you to love me.  When you kissed my forehead that day, I 
knew something irreversible had begun.  When I--" He shook his 
head, squeezing his eyes shut.  When he spoke again, the 
self-hatred in his voice was smothering. 
"When I kissed you on New Year's Eve, that was my promise to you. 
As soon as I made that promise, I knew, I knew ... I knew it was 
only a matter of time until they found you and they killed you -- 
to hurt me.  To shatter me into pieces that could never be fit 
together again.  I thought, at first, I could defy them.  I was 
selfish.  I was risking your life, Scully." 
She parted her lips and took a deep breath.  "Mulder," she said, 
echoing words that had been spoken long ago, "not everything is 
about you." 
He nodded, a half-smile on his lips.  "I know.  But this is." 
She bowed her head.  "Why are we here, Mulder?" 
He dropped her hands abruptly, clamping one hand over her mouth 
and the other around her upper body, jerking her to her feet. 
Her startled cry was muffled, and she breathed in through her 
nose as the fingers beneath her nose pressed harder. 
"We're here so you can finally be at peace." 
Frantic thoughts ran through her head.  She fought to move her 
arms, but he held her too tightly.  Her legs were bound and 
useless.  Terrified tears sprang to her eyes.  He half-dragged, 
half-carried her to the water's edge.  He paused at the shore 
before wading in up to his thighs, pulling her along with him. 
"What are you *doing*?" she shouted the moment he uncovered her 
mouth.  He shook his head and circled her upper arms with his 
grip.  She tried to struggle, but the cuffs were tight and her 
body sore.  She could feel unconsciousness and pain building in 
the back of her skull. 
She screamed and he pushed her head under the water.  He brought 
her up a moment later, sputtering. 
"I know you love water, Scully.  Just -- just let it carry you. 
It's better this way.  You'll never have to be in pain again. 
You'll never have to struggle or fight or cry.  You'll be at 
peace."  His voice was flat, emotionless.  She took a gasping 
breath and screamed. 
"No!"  She twisted her head violently as he pushed her under the 
water once again.  Scully held her breath, trying to rip herself 
away.  She could see the outline of Mulder's head, black against 
the lighter sky. 
She gulped in huge breaths of air when he pulled her out of the 
water once again.  "This is not you, Mulder.  Think about this! 
Think about what you're doing!  You're going to kill me!" 
"It's better that I do it now.  Do you really want to end up on 
the other side of Krycek's gun?  Do you want to live in fear, 
wondering when they might come for you?  I'm doing this for you, 
Scully." 
"You're a fucking liar, Mulder!  You're doing this for yourself!" 
She shuddered in the cold night air -- had it really seemed warm 
a few minutes ago? 
He dragged her in deeper, until the water was up to his chest. 
She had to fight to stay afloat, even with his arms holding her 
up.  "Are you going to leave me out here to drown, Mulder?  Is 
that your plan?  You're a fucking coward, Fox Mulder." 
He nodded, and a sob was torn from his throat. 
"This isn't you," she repeated.  "You are trapped inside the head 
of that stupid fucker who killed his own sister!  You're not him! 
You didn't kill your sister, Mulder, and you're not going to make 
things better by killing me.  You're not saving me.  You're 
killing me!" 
"No!"  He twisted his head away as though attempting to avoid her 
words.  "Shut up.  Shut up, shut up!  Shut up, Rebecca!" 
"I'm not Rebecca!  I'm Scully!  I'm Dana Scully, Mulder!"  Scully 
backtracked rapidly, trying to put pieces together.  "Is Rebecca 
Patrick's sister?  Mulder?  Mulder!" 
He plunged her under the water again, but she held her breath. 
Just as she was starting to see black starbursts against her 
eyelids, Mulder pulled her up again.  "Shut the fuck up," he 
hissed. 
"This isn't what I want," she whispered.  "This isn't going to 
help save me.  Fight it, Mulder.  His darkness is not yours." 
"No, Scully," Mulder said in an equally quiet voice.  "You're 
wrong.  It is." 
He dropped her. 
She sank immediately, even as she tried to move her bound arms 
and legs, trying desperately to break the surface of the water. 
She squeezed her eyes shut as the cold water assaulted her.  She 
couldn't remember which way was up.  Everything was dark. 
She remembered hearing that it was natural for one's life to 
flash before one's eyes right before death, but all her mind 
played for her was one memory. 
It was last summer.  Mulder had dragged her on a 
Sasquatch-hunting vacation, out in the middle of nowhere.  The 
only lodging had been little cabins on the lake.  She remembered 
waking very early the second morning they were there, leaving her 
bedroom, and walking outside.  She had walked down to the lake, 
to watch the sun rise.  Mulder was already there. 
He was lying on the dock in only his pajama bottoms, staring at 
the sky with a silly grin on his face.  The grin had widened when 
he saw her there.  She remembered thinking how beautiful he 
looked in the new sunshine -- so alive, so at rest and happy. 
She remembered the gentleness in his smile.  There had been no 
tension between them, nothing except a calm joy. 
They sat very close to each other -- close but not touching. 
Touching would have been too much.  She remembered looking over 
as he gazed upward -- she had counted his eyelashes and loved 
every one of them. 
They had been content. 
As the memory faded, the darkness closed in on her, but she 
hardly noticed it.  Instead, she felt the kiss of a sunrise on 
her face, promising to make all her worries fade, and she 
surrendered. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
Chapter Seventeen 
Euphemism 
I wasn't ready.  The white clouds rearing 
Aside were dragging me in four directions. 
I wasn't ready. 
I had no reverence. 
I thought I could deny the consequence-- 
But it was too late for that. 
-- Sylvia Plath, "Three Women" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Nitobe Memorial Gardens, UBC 
Vancouver, British Columbia 
February 10, 2000 
10:57 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Mulder waded back out of the pool, tripping on the stony bottom 
and sobbing.  He looked behind him once, saw bubbles and 
movement, and covered his face with his hands. 
He crawled onto the grassy hill and turned himself so that he was 
facing the pool again, laying on his stomach.  The bubbles were 
less visible, less frequent.  She was dying under there.  She was 
dying under there, and he had left her to it.  He had -- 
He shook his head, ridding himself of the doubts.  It was better 
this way.  It was safer.  No one would hurt her anymore.  No one 
could ever hurt her again.  He'd seen to that. 
There were no more bubbles. 
The realization of it hit him full force, like a punch in the 
gut.  His partner, his friend -- his Scully -- was dead under 
there.  Her body would float up, bluish and pale.  He wondered if 
the big fat goldfish who lived in the pool would find her before 
someone else did.  No -- no -- he chased the thought away.  The 
groundskeeper would find her in the morning.  She would be 
bloated then already, he thought, hardly his Scully at all.  Her 
cells would all be crowded with water, saturated.  They would 
pull her out of the water and it would barely seem real at all. 
He would go back to work, no Scully there to keep him whole. 
'You can't do it without her,' his mind told him.  'Go get her 
back.' 
'It's selfish to want her back,' the little voice in the back of 
his head nagged.  'Just let her go, Fox.  Let her rest.' 
'But she's cold under there, he retorted.'  She's so cold.  'She 
can't breathe.' 
'She's already dead.  Let her go.  Get in the car and drive 
away.' 
'I want to go with her.' 
'Don't I?' 
His eyes snapped open and he stared stupidly at the pond's 
surface. "What the hell am I doing?  What -- Oh God, Scully. 
What have I done?"  He rose, ignoring the insidious voice in the 
back of his skull.  He hurled himself back into the water and 
half-waded, half-swam to the spot where he last remembered seeing 
the bubbles.  It wasn't too late -- it couldn't be too late. 
People could survive being in water for a long time.  Half an 
hour, in some cases..  Certainly longer than a couple of minutes. 
The water was cold.  It was cold. 
He peered into the water but saw only darkness.  Tears ran down 
his face, burning.  'What have I done?' became a mantra chanted 
over and over in his head.  He reached out blindly, stretching in 
all directions, feeling with his hands.  Finally, he ducked under 
himself, peering through the cold water, seeing only the 
murkiness his passage had wrought.  He reached out -- reached 
out -- and touched something soft.  Hair.  He grabbed a hold of 
it and pulled gently.  There was little resistance as he pulled 
Scully into his arms and out of the water. 
He dragged her back to the shore, her body heavy and lifeless. 
He laid her on the grass and looked into her face.  Nothing.  Her 
lips were blue, parted slightly.  Her skin was cold, but she 
didn't shiver. 
"Scully," he whispered.  "Scully ... Scully." 
He ran back to the car to get his cell phone.  He dialed 911 and 
waited impatiently for the operator. 
"This is Special Agent Fox Mulder, with the Federal Bureau of 
Investigation.  My partner -- I need an ambulance.  Send an 
ambulance to the Japanese gardens at UBC." 
"The ambulance is on its way, Mr. Mulder.  Could you please stay 
on the line--" 
"I have to go.  She's not breathing." 
He clicked the phone shut and ran back to his partner.  Her hair 
was stringy and her face even bluer than it had seemed before. 
He struggled to unlock the cuffs binding her hands and her feet, 
trying to rub life back into her limbs.  Finally, he began 
frantic CPR, his sobs making it hard to breathe.  'You have to 
stay calm for her,' he told himself.  'You're not doing her any 
good.  You're doing everything wrong.  You should have started 
breathing for her the moment you pulled her head out of the 
water.' 
He continued the CPR, but Scully remained unresponsive. 
He heard the wail of sirens in the distance. 
'You sorry son of a bitch,' the voice sneered.  'Now look what 
you've done.' 
~*~*~*~*~ 
11:09 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Time slowed to a crawl.  Red and blue shadows spun through the 
air.  When the paramedics pulled Mulder away from his partner, he 
lashed out, screaming without words.  One of the men patted him 
on that back, told him everything was going to be okay. 
Mulder heard the words as though they were filtered through 
water.  He didn't understand what the man was trying to say. 
Couldn't they see that Scully was dying, was dead? 
Someone draped a warm blanket over his shoulders.  He'd forgotten 
he was wet.  He shivered, suddenly cold. 
"Come on," another paramedic said.  "Let's get you inside the 
ambulance." 
"Scully," Mulder said weakly, looking over at the still body of 
his partner.  The paramedics worked on her furiously, but 
everything seemed too slow.  Mulder could practically see the 
remnants of life fleeing from her. 
"They're doing all they can.  Come on, it's better if you don't 
watch." 
Mulder looked up at the man with haunted eyes.  "She's my 
partner," he said. 
"They're trying very hard." 
"I need her to be okay.  I need -- I need her." 
The paramedic nodded.  "I know."  He paused.  "But she needs you 
to be okay, too." 
Mulder felt his body being turned toward the exit.  He wanted to 
resist, but he couldn't.  He was still underwater.  He was 
drowning.  Time moved on and Mulder fought to keep up. 
A cop approached them as they neared the ambulance.  "You're the 
Agent Mulder that made the call?" 
Mulder nodded.  He was tired all of a sudden.  Exhausted.  He 
didn't know where he was or what he was doing here. 
"What happened here, Agent Mulder?" 
Mulder stared at the police officer, uncomprehending. 
The paramedic said, "He's in severe shock, Officer.  His partner 
... they're trying to revive her." 
Mulder looked past the police officer, ignoring him as well as 
the paramedic.  The patrol car's spinning lights entranced him, 
and he remembered sitting with Scully watching the sunrise last 
summer when they'd gone on that ridiculous Sasquatch case.  He 
wondered if she had ever figured out that he just wanted to get 
her away from the office. 
Probably.  She was good at figuring those things out.  The 
sunrise had been so beautiful that morning -- the more beautiful 
because she had been sitting there smiling beside him. 
The cop tried to ask him another question. Mulder didn't 
understand why people kept talking to him.  He couldn't hear a 
damn thing they were saying. 
"You did a good job here," the paramedic was saying to him, "you 
did all the right things.  Don't blame yourself, man.  It's not 
your fault.  You did all the right things." 
Mulder closed his eyes.  The world kept on spinning without him. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Vancouver General Hospital 
February 11, 2000 
8:34 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Mulder opened his eyes slowly, getting used to the brightness. 
His eyes hurt.  He found himself confused by the whiteness, but 
soon the familiar and strangely reassuring clicks and whirs told 
him he was in a hospital.  He'd just open his eyes and Scully 
would be sitting beside him, half-furious and half-relieved 
because he'd gotten himself into yet another life-threatening 
situation, and yet somehow managed to survive. 
"Good to see you're awake, Agent.  It's been a while since we've 
talked, hasn't it?" 
Mulder turned his head and saw not Scully sitting beside him, but 
Skinner.  The Assistant Director looked up from the file he was 
perusing and frowned. 
Not Scully. 
"Where's Scully?" Mulder asked, choosing to ignore the obvious 
displeasure of his superior. 
"ICU.  She's alive, if that's what you mean." 
Mulder closed his eyes, relief surging though his body.  "What 
happened?  What happened to her?" 
"I was expecting you to answer that question, Mulder.  You called 
911 last night from the Japanese gardens at the University--" 
"University.  The killer," Mulder gasped, pushing himself into a 
seated position.  Skinner put out his hand and gently restrained 
Mulder from rising any further.  "Ainsley -- he's--" 
"In custody.  Agent Marshall appraised me of the situation." 
Mulder raised his eyebrows.  "Where is she?  Marshall, I mean." 
"Also in the ICU." 
"What?" 
"She suffered a very severe gunshot wound to the stomach.  No 
suspects, so far, and she hasn't regained consciousness.  Luckily 
one of the custodial staff at the hotel heard an argument in her 
room and called the police.  They arrived to find her almost 
dead." 
Mulder rubbed his eyes and shook his head.  "She was in 
Vancouver?" 
"Against my orders, yes." 
Mulder couldn't help but grin.  "Smart girl." 
Skinner's frown deepened.  "Agent Mulder, there are questions 
about your recent behavior that need to be asked.  And Agent 
Scully is far from out of the woods." 
"She's -- going to be all right, though, isn't she?" 
"They're not sure yet, to be honest.  She -- she was dead, 
Mulder.  Cardiac arrest.  It took them fifteen minutes to 
resuscitate her at the scene.  She may not ever recover one 
hundred percent.  There may be brain damage.  A lot depends on 
how long she remains unconscious now." 
"She's going to be okay," Mulder said firmly, clenching his hands 
into fists and nodding.  "She's always okay, sir." 
Mulder looked at the Assistant Director pleadingly, but Skinner 
only frowned.  "I need to know what happened last night, Agent." 
Mulder closed his eyes and said nothing. 
"Agent?" 
"One of your agents was almost killed last night, sir.  I need to 
talk to Patrick Ainsley." 
"You're not going anywhere, Mulder.  You've taken to disappearing 
without a trace, and I'm not going to let it happen again.  Not 
on my watch." 
Mulder's eyes snapped open and he glared at his boss.  "I'm not 
running away, sir.  I need to talk to Ainsley.  You can come. 
There's nothing wrong with me, is there?  Initial shock?  That's 
what they diagnosed, isn't it?"  Mulder pushed the blankets back 
and swung his legs over the side of the bed.  He fought a wave of 
dizziness as he rose to his feet, and might have fallen if 
Skinner hadn't steadied him. 
"On top of sleep deprivation and malnourishment.  They nearly had 
you on IV, Mulder.  What the hell happened to you?" 
"I -- got a little too caught up in the profile.  In the case." 
"Apparently.  Mulder, how did Scully get a third-grade 
concussion?" 
When Mulder said nothing, Skinner continued rigidly, "You're not 
going anywhere until I get some answers, Mulder, even if that 
means putting you in five-point restraints." 
Mulder lowered himself back to the bed, concentrating on his 
knees.  "Sir," he finally said, voice breaking, "I -- don't 
really remember what happened last night.  I -- I remember 
pulling her out of the water.  I remember the police and the 
paramedics all asking questions.  I thought she was dead, sir, 
and I ... wanted to go with her." 
"You're not going anywhere for now, Agent.  You may as well get 
comfortable." 
"I'm not allowed to see her, am I, sir?" 
"Not yet, Mulder.  Not yet." 
Mulder looked out the window, seeing sunshine, and wondered why 
nothing felt familiar. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
He knows it's a dream, and at the same time there is something 
tangible and fixed about the space he's standing in. 
It's an unfamiliar room.  He half expects to turn and see the 
little girls, light and dark, on a bed behind him.  Instead, he 
sees a man sitting at a desk, working diligently.  The man seems 
oblivious to his presence. 
"Hello." 
The man answers without looking up.  "Oh, it's you," he mutters. 
"Fucking coward." 
"What are you talking about?" 
When the man looks up, Mulder sucks in a deep breath.  The man 
sitting at the table looks a lot like him -- individual features 
are different, but the overall effect is the same.  "We went to 
school together.  At Oxford." 
"I know," Mulder breathes.  "You're Patrick Ainsley.  What are 
you doing here?  This is my dream." 
"We're sharing it," Patrick says.  "Just like we've shared a lot 
of things in the last little while.  You know she's dead now." 
"Scully?  She's not dead!  I ... rescued her." 
"After you tried to kill her.  Do you think your Assistant 
Director won't find out?  Do you think they won't haul your ass 
up in front of some committee or panel or jury?  You're one dumb 
fuck, Fox Mulder.  I never would have expected that from you.  I 
expected you, of anyone, to understand." 
"I can't live without her." 
Patrick laughs.  He laughs until tears stream down his face.  He 
laughs until Mulder feels like weeping.  "You think you can keep 
her *now*?  She is going to take one look at you and see the man 
who crushed her head into the floor, kidnapped her and tried to 
kill her.  She'll never look at you the same way again.  She'll 
leave you now, and instead of being safe, she'll be in constant 
danger. 
"They know they've still got you firmly by the nuts.  They'll 
kidnap her, tell you to jump and you'll ask how high.  It's that 
fucking simple.  You tried to kill her, you goddamned idiot!  And 
you got me arrested, too.  Thanks for that, by the way.  Can't 
you hear all the little girls screaming?  They're all hurting 
because of you. " 
Mulder puts his hands up to his eyes, covering them, covering 
himself.  "I'm not--" 
"The hell you're not." 
"I'm not you." 
"We have the same darkness inside us, Fox Mulder.  You just hid 
yours better.  You say you don't remember what happened ... do 
you want to see?  Do you want to remember?" 
Even as he shakes his head, the memories come flooding back. 
He's choking on the images, the water, the floor, hiding in 
Scully's apartment.  He is in the garden again, holding his 
partner's head under the water.  He is on the grass, trying to 
breathe life back into her water-clogged lungs.  He is sitting on 
the bed not knowing what to say to Skinner. 
He is a killer, at heart. 
"I'm not," he protests.  "I didn't want to kill her.  I wanted to 
protect her.  You told me I would be protecting her." 
Ainsley's eyes darken and he smiles sadly.  "We all have our 
euphemisms." 
Mulder turns away. 
"Where are you going?"  Ainsley's voice is frantic.  "You can't 
turn away!  You can't leave me here!  You have to stay!  You 
belong here with me!" 
Mulder looks over his shoulder and shakes his head.  "This is 
your prison, Patrick.  I won't share it." 
"What are you going to do?  Lie?  Hide?" 
"No."  His head bows.  "No, I know what I have to do." 
He closes his eyes, letting Ainsley's scream of rage fade as the 
dream room becomes nothing but empty space. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
Chapter Eighteen 
The Long Farewell 
This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine. 
-- William Shakespeare, "The Tempest" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Vancouver General Hospital 
February 14, 2000 
10:35 AM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Mulder remembered everything when he woke.  He opened his eyes, 
looked at the white ceilings and remembered every detail.  He 
reached over and pressed the call button. 
A cheerful nurse poked her head in the room and smiled.  Mulder 
did not smile back.  "You're awake, Mr. Mulder." 
"I need to see Assistant Director Skinner." 
"Well."  The cheerfulness in her voice faltered a little, 
dampened by the emotionless response from him.  "You're in luck 
then.  He's been waiting for you to wake up.  I'll send him in." 
Mulder said nothing.  When the door opened again, it admitted 
only Skinner.  He could hear the nurse clucking in the 
background. 
"Sir, I need to--" 
"Agent," Skinner interrupted.  "Patrick Ainsley is dead." 
"How?"  Mulder turned his head, abandoning his scrutiny of the 
ceiling. 
"It looks like foul play.  A man claiming to be his lawyer was 
granted a visiting permit.  Ainsley was found hung, but the 
so-called lawyer was already gone." 
Mulder swallowed.  "No suspects then." 
"They have a description of the lawyer, but they'll never catch 
him."  Skinner paused and pressed his lips together in a thin 
line.  "He had a prosthetic arm." 
Mulder nodded.  Of course.  Of course he did.  When he opened his 
mouth to speak, Skinner interrupted him again.  "Scully's awake." 
Mulder's eyes burned with unshed tears as relief surged through 
him. 
"She wants to see you." 
"You should have woken me." 
"I would have.  She told me to let you sleep.  You're out of here 
anyway, Mulder.  Doctor's orders are to sleep and eat.  You're 
off field duty until your DC doctor sees fit." 
I'm off field duty forever, he wanted to say.  I held my 
partner's head under the water.  "Sir--" 
"Go see Scully, Mulder."  Skinner walked to the door, pausing 
before he opened it.  He tipped his head back, then down to the 
right, speaking to the chair just to the right of the door. 
"More happened here than an old Oxford friend killing children, 
Mulder.  I'm sorry." 
"There's nothing *you* have to be sorry about, sir--" 
Skinner's shoulder sagged a little.  "Mulder, sometimes everyone 
finds their hands tied.  Sometimes we let it happen.  And 
sometimes we let it happen to others while we stand by watching. 
It's nothing to be proud of." 
"Sir?" 
"Get dressed, Agent.  Go see your partner.  As far as I'm 
concerned, this isn't a Bureau matter unless she decides it is. 
Whatever happens, you need to answer to her." 
"Has she -- has she spoken to you, sir?" 
"A little.  Enough." 
Mulder stared at the door for several moments after it closed 
behind the Assistant Director.  Finally, he tossed the blankets 
back and moved to the closet, where someone had kindly hung his 
cleaned suit.  Mulder closed his eyes and tried not to see 
everything he had done while last wearing the same suit.  He left 
the jacket and the tie on the bed, and rolled up his shirt 
sleeves in an effort to make the suit look less -- like itself. 
He had a feeling Scully would be sensitive to such details. 
He moved to the small, private washroom next, and was startled by 
the appearance of the man in the mirror.  The man was haggard, 
with dark circles under his eyes and cheekbones jutting out 
against too-pale skin.  He scrubbed his face with water and soap, 
trying to wash away everything hiding under his skin.  When he 
looked back into the mirror his face was red and damp, but 
nothing else had changed. 
He took his time wandering through the hospital.  It wasn't that 
he wanted to keep Scully waiting -- he was afraid of what he'd 
find when he saw her.  He paused outside the gift shop, startled 
by the white-edged red hearts reading "Be My Valentine" pasted on 
the windows.  He looked down at his watch.  Feb. 14.  Shaking his 
head, he walked inside and sniffed all the flowers carefully.  He 
decided against roses at the last minute, and chose a delicate 
mixed flower selection instead. 
The young girl behind the desk smiled at him.  "Would you like a 
card with those, sir?  They're free." 
"A card?" he asked, fishing his wallet out of his back pocket. 
"Yeah.  We've got some Valentine's Day ones, or the usual 'Get 
Well Soon' selection." 
Mulder shook his head as she said the words 'Get Well Soon.' 
"Can I see the Valentine's Day ones?" 
She took out three little cards and lay them on the counter 
between them.  One was pink with the words "Be My Valentine" in 
red.  The second was red with "To my love on Valentine's Day" 
written in black.  The last was plain white with the words "For 
You" written in red script at the top.  He chose the third one 
and scribbled, "Love, Mulder" underneath. 
"I hope she's all right," the girl murmured as she took his two 
twenty-dollar bills and gave him pathetically small change in 
return. 
He nodded.  "So do I." 
~*~*~*~*~ 
11:45 
~*~*~*~*~ 
When he opened the door, she had her head turned away from him, 
facing the window.  He placed the flowers on the bedside table 
and then stepped back, pressing himself against the closed door 
of her closet. 
"I wondered when you'd come," she said softly.  Her voice was 
hoarse and gravelly from not speaking.  She coughed a little, her 
eyes narrowing with the pain of it. 
"I needed to take a walk.  I -- was afraid.  How ... how are you 
feeling?"  The words sounded empty to his own ears; he knew they 
must sound worse to her.  As soon as he uttered them he wanted to 
take them back again, hide them. 
She turned her head to face him.  She looked as haggard and worn 
as he did.  Her eyes looked bruised.  "I've been better. 
Physically, I'm okay.  No complications, which is a lucky thing, 
considering how long it took to revive me.  They tell me it was 
touch and go during the first forty-eight hours.  That's the 
danger zone.  But I pulled through." 
Each word stung him, and he wondered how she could speak them so 
calmly.  Her eyes watched his carefully, noting each cringe, each 
painful flutter of his eyelids.  "I'm strong, Mulder." 
He nodded.  "Scully, I -- I'm --" 
"I know," she said.  Her eyes hardened.  He looked away first, 
unable to meet those hard eyes, and when he glanced up she was 
looking out the window again.  She had a nice view.  The city and 
the mountains were clearly visible, sparkling in the sunlight. 
"It's not enough this time, Mulder.  To be sorry." 
He nodded again, eye sockets burning with tears he would not -- 
could not! -- shed in front of this woman.  He told himself he 
hadn't been expecting anything different.  "Did you tell 
Skinner?" 
"I told Skinner all I'm going to tell him.  I don't particularly 
want you to be punished by Bureau standards, Mulder.  I know you. 
I know you'll punish yourself more severely than OPR ever could. 
That's part of the problem." 
He smiled a little, ignoring the lump in his throat that had been 
present since Skinner first told him Scully wanted to see him. 
"Skinner told me Ainsley was killed," Scully continued, 
apparently oblivious to the fact that he wasn't speaking.  "Most 
likely by Krycek.  I'm not surprised, really.  I -- I went so far 
as to ask Spender Sr. if he had his hand in this case." 
Mulder raised his eyebrows and sank into a chair, knees weak.  He 
stayed a careful distance away from his partner and scrutinized 
the delicate lines on the backs of his hands instead of looking 
at her.  He wondered what her eyes had looked like when she 
talked to the Cigarette-Smoking bastard.  "Why?" 
"They made me autopsy a girl who looked like Emily.  Really 
looked like Emily.  So much so that I couldn't stand to have a 
DNA test done, afraid of the results.  Too many coincidences, 
Mulder, even for an X-File.  I was -- I was desperate by that 
point.  I just wanted to find you.  This case--"   Her voice 
broke, and he looked up from his hands to see tears in her eyes. 
In a firmer voice she said, "This case was designed to destroy 
us, Mulder, and it might have succeeded." 
"We don't know what to say to each other," Mulder offered simply. 
Scully nodded. 
"Is there any hope?" 
She smiled slightly, as though remembering something sad.  "Is 
there?  Mulder ... I can't play second fiddle to your guilty 
conscience any more.  I can't be your martyr or your victim, your 
savior or your sidekick.  I am -- I am so tired, Mulder.  I can't 
hold you up anymore.  I don't want to.  I'm no longer strong 
enough ... for that." 
He watched her fingers twist in the sheets, so very delicate. 
His partner had very small hands.  He wondered why he'd never 
noticed it before.  Her fingers moved gracefully but 
distractedly, as though she wasn't aware they were moving at all. 
He was fascinated by it. 
Finally, he asked, "What are you going to do?" 
She shook her head.  "I -- I'm not going to tell you."  She 
looked at him suddenly, and he saw how much she wanted to. 
His voice was a whisper.  "What do you want me to do?" 
"I want you to leave me here, Mulder.  I want you to go home, go 
back to work, go back to your life and your basketball and your 
cheese steaks with the guys.  I don't want you to go back to 
calling me at midnight or showing up at my apartment at three in 
the morning.  I want you to pretend you don't know anyone named 
Dana Scully."  Her voice was low, directed more at the sheets she 
was balling up in her hands than at him.  When he met her eyes he 
saw seriousness there, and tears. 
He opened his mouth, but found he couldn't breathe.  His tears 
spilled over even as hers dried up.  Her fingers tightened in the 
sheets, knuckles strained and pale. 
"Scully, I can't do that--" he protested, as everything beautiful 
he had ever known shattered in his skull. 
"You can," she retorted.  "And you will.  I am so ... so sick of 
not knowing where you end and I begin." 
Mulder rose to his feet and covered his face with his hands. 
Scully said nothing, even though he knew she was watching his 
every move.  "I don't know what to do," he said, trying to keep 
the panic out of his voice. 
"Walk away, Mulder.  Stop blaming yourself for every mistake 
anyone has ever made." 
He stared down at her, uncomprehending. 
"I'm not -- I'm not doing this to hurt you," she said quietly, 
hands still clenched.  "I've never wanted to hurt you, Mulder, 
and I know, deep down, that you've never wanted to hurt me, 
either.  You walked around in Patrick Ainsley's head and I walked 
around in yours.  I know.  And I know we need to be apart." 
"Forever?"  He said the word as though it had been physically 
ripped from his throat.  He could almost taste blood. 
Scully closed her eyes, seemingly searching for the courage to 
say "Yes."  Not finding it, she opened her eyes.  "For a while." 
He looked at her face, carefully memorizing every detail -- even 
the ragged hair and hollow cheeks.  After several endless 
moments, he turned away and walked toward the door. 
The sound of sorrow in her voice stopped him, but he didn't turn 
to face her.  "You do see it, don't you, Mulder?  There's 
something that needs to be fixed in both of us, and I don't think 
we can fix it together.  Do you see?" 
He nodded.  "I won't say good-bye, Scully," he said softly, 
closing the door quietly behind himself.  He pressed his back 
into the cold wall next to the door and took deep, gasping 
breaths, trying not to collapse from the wild fear clawing at 
him.  When he felt reasonably calm, he peeked through the window 
and saw Scully with her back toward him,  shoulders shaking 
silently. 
He pressed his open palm against the window in farewell, but made 
no sound. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
3:36 PM 
~*~*~*~*~ 
He went back to the gift shop and bought purple tulips for 
Marshall.  A different girl was working; she didn't even bother 
to ask if he wanted one of the complimentary cards with his 
flower purchase.  He didn't press the point. 
Marshall was in rough shape, but she smiled a little when he 
knocked on the door and entered.  "I went off the vent 
yesterday," she informed him.  Her voice was thick with pain, but 
her little smile remained. 
"I'm sorry," he said weakly, leaving the vase of tulips on the 
bedside table. 
She nodded.  "Me, too."  Then, "How's Agent Scully?" 
"Doing better." 
"I'm glad." 
He nodded toward her covered wounds.  "What's the prognosis?" 
"Not good.  Missed the spine, luckily.  Looks like desk duty for 
me, though.  Or early retirement.  If I don't get kicked out the 
bureau and left on my ass altogether.  I didn't have permission 
to come here.  Way out of my jurisdiction." 
"You did good, Marshall."  He paused and looked into her pale 
face.  "You did well.  You're a good agent, and I'm sorry I 
didn't give you the benefit of the doubt earlier.  The concerns 
you raised about my ... sanity ... were valid ones.  I'm only 
sorry someone didn't listen to you sooner." 
The smile widened a little.  "I don't believe Spooky Mulder gives 
out compliments." 
Mulder couldn't help but return the smile.  "No, he does not. 
Not often, anyway.  Although I'm not sure what value a 
commendation from Spooky Mulder carries these days." 
"You'd be surprised." 
Her smile fell a little as she looked at the tulips. 
"Don't like purple?" 
"No, I do.  I -- I was just wondering if anyone ever found out 
why the killer left daisies at the crime scenes." 
Mulder nodded.  "When he was young, his little sister had a 
ritual.  She had to have water with lemon, daisies by the bed, 
and a light left on.  She thought that if all of these things 
were perfect, the monsters wouldn't come out to get her.  The 
monsters still came, though.  It was just something Ainsley never 
forgot." 
They both looked at the flowers, thinking infinitely different 
things. 
When Marshall spoke, her voice was tremulous.  "Agent Mulder, do 
you think I'll ever see my sister again?" 
He knew she didn't want him to lie.  "I ... I don't think so, 
Marshall.  People connected to that cigarette-smoking son of a 
bitch tend to go missing." 
Tears welled in Marshall's eyes.  "I thought as much."  She 
pulled her gaze away from the tulips and looked at Mulder 
squarely.  "I think I could forgive her, even after everything. 
She was my only family." 
Mulder looked down at his hands, unable to accept the 
implications and the truth of Marshall's words.  "I understand." 
"Are you going back to DC?" 
"Very soon.  I should go soon.  I'm meeting Skinner." 
She smiled again.  "Thank you again.  For -- the flowers.  For 
the flowers." 
Mulder reached down and squeezed her hand gently.  "You are a 
good agent, Eloise Marshall, and it was a pleasure working with 
you." 
She looked up at him and simply nodded. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
Washington, DC 
February 14, 2000 
6:01 PM, EST 
~*~*~*~*~ 
He shuffled the papers on his desk until he found the ones he was 
looking for.  He tapped the end of his pen against the blotter, 
hesitating before signing his name at the bottom of the sheets. 
Pushing the papers to the edge of the desk, he lit a cigarette 
and smiled at the man who opened the door without knocking. 
"I don't like doing that, you know." 
Spender smiled around the cigarette in his mouth.  "It had to be 
done." 
Krycek shook his head.  "I know that.  I know." 
"Did she suspect anything?" 
Krycek shook his head again.  "No.  I might not have hated it so 
much if she'd put up a fight.  Her sister is going to be all 
right, though.  I'm not taking care of that, too." 
"You don't have to.  She'll get paid retirement.  I'll add a 
little padding to the account.  The poor girl has suffered 
enough." 
"I really don't understand you," Krycek said.  He remained 
outwardly calm, but Spender knew the younger man well enough to 
hear the underlying tension and hatred in his voice.  "Is it all 
a big fucking game to you?  Mulder and Scully are still alive. 
The Marshall sister you were trying to kill is still alive.  I 
don't fucking understand it." 
"That's because it is all a game, Alex.  I'm playing for points, 
not to win." 
"Bullshit." 
Spender shrugged and tapped the ashes of his butt into the 
ever-present ashtray.  "Go home, Alex.  I'll see you in the 
morning." 
Krycek rose and glared down at the older man, as though 
contemplating how easy it would be to just reach over and 
throttle him.  His good hand clenched into a fist, but he did 
nothing. 
Spender smiled when the door closed.  He looked down once more at 
the papers on his desk. 
The page he had just signed was addressed to one of his 
higher-level contacts at the FBI -- one of the men sitting on the 
panel of the Office of Professional Review. 
'Don't bother with Fox Mulder,' Spender added to the bottom, in 
neat script.  'This is to stress that he is not to be held 
responsible for any of the actions he committed while abroad.  I 
want him left alone.' 
He initialed the addition, sealed the envelope, and leaned back 
in his chair.  He brought the cigarette to hips lips again, 
savoring the taste and smell, and smiled through the haze of 
smoke in his office. 
~*~*~*~*~ 
  
Epilogue 
One's Not Half Two 
losing through you what seemed myself,i find 
selves unimaginably mine;beyond 
sorrow's own joys and hoping's very fears 
yours is the light by which my spirit's born: 
yours is the darkness of my soul's return 
-- e.e. cummings, "silently if, out of not knowable" 
~*~*~*~*~ 
He didn't investigate things.  He decided that now was not the 
time to hide himself away in a basement full of monsters.  He 
chose not to go back to work until the end of March. 
While he was in self-imposed exile he cleaned his apartment -- 
filled the cracks and holes in his walls, bought new furniture, 
finally managed to get rid of the sticky masking tape remnants on 
his window.  He cooked elaborate dinners for one because he 
could.  He went for long runs -- played basketball -- swam -- but 
stopped before the good pain in his muscles became torture.  He 
went out with the Gunmen for cheese steaks.  He rented a cabin 
and spent a week alone in Maine.  He went to stupid movies by 
himself and laughed at all the silly jokes.  He visited his 
mother for a weekend and they talked about things without 
screaming or crying or pointing fingers at one another.  He left 
smiling. 
He missed Scully, but he never tried to find her.  He never asked 
Skinner what her plans were for coming back to work -- or if her 
plans included coming back to work at all.  He didn't call her or 
drive by her apartment to see if anyone was there.  On Sundays, 
he never sat in the coffee shop across from her church, hoping to 
catch a glimpse of her coming out of Mass. 
He thought about all these things, though.  He thought about her 
often, but not constantly.  He found he could think about her 
without aching over the loss of her.  Sometimes he would surprise 
himself by realizing he hadn't thought about her all day. 
When he finally went back to work, he didn't look for new cases. 
He organized the filing system, cleaned up his desk and completed 
all the missing field and expense reports Skinner had been asking 
about for months.  Skinner accepted them with a gruff "Thank you" 
and a glance that asked, "Are you okay?"  Mulder always nodded in 
return, because, surprisingly enough, he *was* okay. 
Winter slipped into spring when no one was looking. 
It wasn't until April that he saw her again. 
One morning, Mulder woke to find blossoms on the trees, and the 
air filled with the scent of growing things.  In the office, he 
opened all the little slits of windows near the ceiling and let 
the cool, fresh air drift in.  On his lunch break he bought a 
bunch of fragrant lilies from a street vendor and set them in a 
makeshift vase in the middle of his desk.  It made him smile to 
look at them. 
Mulder sat down behind the flowers and pulled out a file of cases 
Skinner had asked him to look over. 
He heard the door open. 
"Hello," he said, without looking up from the file.  "Can I help 
you?" 
"Mulder?" 
His eyes snapped up and saw only lilies.  He set the flowers to 
one side, almost tipping them in his haste, and looked at his 
partner.  She was standing just inside the door, wearing a new 
suit and a smile.  She had gained back the weight she'd lost -- 
the haggard cheeks and pale skin he remembered from the hospital 
in Vancouver were gone.  Her hair was a little longer and her 
complexion was brilliant -- she looked as though she'd spent some 
time in the sun. 
"Nice flowers," she said. 
He didn't know what to say.  He wanted to tell her about all the 
little things that had happened while she was away but it just 
didn't seem appropriate.  He wanted to tell her how much he'd 
missed her.  That didn't seem appropriate, either. 
"Thanks," he said, finally.  "I couldn't resist." 
She took in the room and her smile widened.  "You've done some 
housecleaning." 
"You should see my apartment." 
She let out a laugh -- a full-bodied, real one -- and he found 
himself grinning.  This is the real thing, he though.  This isn't 
going to go away when I pinch myself. 
Scully moved closer, setting her briefcase down.  Her eyes had 
become serious.  "Are you all right, Mulder?  Really?" 
He took a deep breath and nodded, equally serious.  "I am. 
Really." 
She sat down opposite him and folded her hands in her lap, saying 
nothing. 
"You, Scully?  How are you?  You look good." 
"I feel good."  She closed her mouth and then opened it again, as 
though she wanted to speak further.  He didn't press her.  "I 
missed you, Mulder." 
He nodded and met her eyes.  "I missed you, too." 
Silence. 
Finally, Mulder asked, "Are you staying?" 
Scully smiled.  "Of course.  On one condition." 
Mulder raised his eyebrows and was afraid to ask. 
She reached down into her briefcase and pulled out a strip of 
black plastic with "Special Agent Dana Scully, M.D." written in 
white.  "This goes on the door." 
Mulder grinned and took the nameplate from her.  His fingers 
brushed hers and she didn't jerk away.  He appreciated it for a 
few seconds, then handed it back.  "Why don't you do the honors?" 
She grinned back, and nodded. 
"Are you working on anything right now?" 
"No -- I took some time off," he explained.  "Didn't come back to 
work until last week, actually.  I did a lot of thinking.  Went 
to Maine.  Saw my mother.  It was good." 
"I'm glad.  I'm glad.  I hoped -- I hoped you'd spend some time 
alone."  She stood slowly, seemingly reluctant to break up the 
reunion.  "I should go see Skinner.  I haven't seen him yet to 
tell him I'm ready to resume my duties." 
She started to leave, but Mulder reached across the desk and 
tugged on her hand gently.  "Hey, Scully?" 
She looked down at him, eyes just a little less serious. 
"Can I take you out to dinner sometime?  To -- to talk?  Or 
something?" 
She raised an eyebrow and pursed her lips thoughtfully.  He 
wanted to kick himself for asking so soon until she replied, "Of 
course."  She dropped his hand, took a step toward the door. 
Then she pivoted on a heel and looked back.  "If sometime is 
today after work." 
Before Mulder could even form another thought, much less speak, 
she  left, quietly shutting the door. 
She turned around, reached up and stuck her nameplate exactly one 
inch below his. She paused to contemplate the twin pieces of 
identification.  Smiling to herself, she headed upstairs to 
inform Skinner that she was -- they were -- back.