Title: Uninvited
Author: Timmy
Classification: MT, H/C
Rating: NC-17 (violence, language)
Disclaimers: All characters from the series belong to CC, 1013 and Fox 
Network. The rest of the characters are mine as well as my vivid 
imagination.
Author's note: though a child plays a role in this piece, this is *no* 
story about child abuse!
Spoilers: up to the 4th season, but nothing specific
Sumary: After a narrow escape an injured Mulder finds an almost secure 
hiding place.

Many thanks to Cindy for beta-reading and converting my 
German-English into readable American-English! I learned a lot that 
way.

Comments of any kind (send no flames - I have an extinguisher), 
please, to: Timmy2020@gmx.de <mailto:Timmy2020@gmx.de> I thrive on 
feedback!

Uninvited
by Timmy


Somewhere west of Des Moines, Iowa
March 22nd

Dark. Some place dark. Darkness around. In him. Flashbacks. He 
remembered a shock, which drove all air out of his lungs. Then 
nothing. Sand. A bike. Snorting of a horse. A wheelbarrow and a 
bucket. Somehow he must have gotten out of the car. He remembered 
putting his car into gear as all hell had broken loose behind him. His 
sight was dim, blurred. Slowly he made his way to what he had seen 
earlier - a house. What a heavenly sight in this cold and frightful 
night. He climbed, more crawled up the four stairs to the porch. No 
lights were on, no sound. No barking from a dog or whatever. He wanted 
to knock, make himself heard, find out if somebody were home, was 
living here at all. He couldn't reach the door. Unconscious he 
collapsed.

Sarah reached for the light on the bedside table. She didn't exactly 
know what woke her up, but she had been in too much trouble for almost 
three years now that she could not happily ignore any noise around the 
house and fall back to sleep without checking. She slipped from under 
the covers, put on her slippers on and grabbed her baseball bat. 
Whatever made that noise, now the house was utterly silent. Not even a 
wolf howled - as they usually did on these clear nights. She peered 
through a slit in the closed drapes. Nothing. Her gaze wandered over 
the roof of the barn to the left from the house, then further to the 
gates. No fence was attached. The gate was a relic, older than the 
building itself, and always open. So the sight of a silver sedan 
half-crashed into one of the posts looked almost ridiculous. 
Especially with the lights still on.

"What is it, mommy?"

The sleepy voice of her daughter made Sarah turn and smile - just a 
little bit, the usual assuring smile for a 7-year old child who 
couldn't understand what made her mother jump up in the middle of the 
night.

"I don't know, Roberta," she said calmly. "I'll go down and check, and 
you go back to sleep. You gotta go to school tomorrow. Get up early." 
With the bat still in hand, she bent down, gave her daughter a kiss on 
the cheek and hushed her back to her room. "Stay there, okay? I'll 
come looking in a minute."

"'kay." Drowsily Roberta went back to bed, drew the covers up to her 
nose and the little stuffed tiger closer to her small chest. She 
wouldn't sleep until mom came back and made sure that everything was 
all right. She could easily remember the last time mom had said 'she 
just wanted to check'. The next moment she had come running, grabbing 
her and the blanket and ran for the car.

Sarah waited, until Roberta closed the door behind her. God, how she 
loved that kid. Every time she saw her, her heart jumped for joy that 
she had that little baby girl. She'd do everything to keep her safe. 
From whoever wanted to harm her. With that she took a deep breath, 
readying herself for the confrontation with probably nothing, gripped 
the bat tighter and went downstairs into the small living room. Again 
she checked through the windows, then from the kitchen. Wasn't there 
something unusual on the porch? Her heart beat faster, and her palms 
were sweaty when she opened the door. In the dim moonlight she saw a 
man lying on the wooden porch. He didn't move. 'Charles had played 
pranks before,' she thought with a wry smile, 'but this hits the 
roof.' Carefully she opened the outer door. Still no movement. She saw 
the man's dark, short-cropped hair, his outstretched hands and the 
dark blue suit, covered with dust and straw. 'Spit-shined shoes,' her 
mind unintentionally remarked. 'If Charles is behind that, he's gotten 
to the top.' Carefully she crouched, still ready to hit the man if he 
tried to touch her. Out here, far west of Des Moines, strange things 
could happen all the time, and she wouldn't die because of 
carelessness. Not with Roberta upstairs expecting her mother to tell 
her everything's all right. Sarah held the bat in her right hand. It 
was too heavy to swing it one-handed, but she had to check the man's 
pulse. With her left hand she took his wrist, put her index and middle 
finger on the soft spot on the inner wrist. His pulse was noticeable 
and steady, although his hand was cold. So why had he collapsed? She 
strained her eyes for a closer look. Touched his forehead. When she 
looked at her fingertips, there was fresh blood. Sarah put the bat 
behind her inside the doors. That man was down and out for the moment.

"Mommy?"

Sarah looked back.

"Didn't I tell you to wait?"

"Yes." Roberta avoided her mother's stare. "But I..."

Roberta almost smiled when looking at her daughter in her pink pajamas 
and bare feet.

"All right. Get me a flashlight, please."

Roberta was all too willing to oblige. She put the little tiger on a 
shelf and ran back the short way to the cupboard. Ten seconds later 
she lit the scene on the porch.

"Who's he?" Roberta whispered.

"I dunno. But we can't leave him here. What would the neighbors 
think?" Roberta giggled to the fact that there were no neighbors for 
miles and miles, and Sarah was grateful for it. The sight of a 
stranger, an *unconscious* stranger, she corrected herself, was enough 
to scare her daughter. "I think he hit his head when his car crashed."

"His car *crashed*?" Roberta repeated in a high pitched tone that 
meant 'How could anyone be so stupid to crash the only post there is?'

"Yes. He's bleeding from a head wound. We'll take him inside and see 
what we can do." Sarah raised her eyebrows. "So, Roberta Jenkins, 
would you be so kind as to move your little butt out of the way, open 
the guest room door and gimme a hand?"

"In a sec!" Roberta shot from the porch, left the flashlight behind 
and ran to the adjacent room. It was small - as most of the rooms were 
- but it had a queen sized bed, a closet, bedside table and lamp and 
some old books on a shelf. The room had been furnished before they 
both had moved in and was seldom in use, but Sarah kept it clean, so 
Roberta only had to fold back the covers, switch on the light, and 
shut the draperies. Somehow she knew this would be right. When she 
reached the porch again, the concerned lines on her mother's face had 
deepened. She had half-turned the man and looked at his middle. "Bad 
news?" Roberta whispered. Sarah nodded. This was more trouble than she 
needed right now. She had been happy for half a year with an 
undisturbed life, but this would go to shreds with this man's 
appearance. "Bad as Bonzo?" Roberta added referring to a dog that had 
once bitten her.

"Worse," Sarah answered. She flinched at the frightful look on 
Roberta's face. 'I shouldn't have said that,' she thought 
remorsefully, but it was the truth, and didn't everybody say, you 
should tell your children the truth, even unpleasant ones? "Come on, 
let's move him inside." Roberta swallowed, bit her lip, but went to 
the feet of the man when ordered to. He was heavy by all means, and 
the distance from the porch to the spare bedroom was long and 
exhausting. She wondered why he didn't even stir at the motion of his 
body and thought he was dead, but her mom reassured her that pain 
could do that. He was unconscious and might remain in this state for 
quite a while. Roberta remembered that the dog bite nearly made her 
puke and that everything seemed like it was swimming in front of her 
eyes. She had felt dizzy just looking at the raw flesh and the blood 
oozing out. Now she took a glimpse at the waist of the man. And his 
left leg. The pants were ripped open on the thigh and dark blood could 
be seen. But it was not a cut from a knife. She knew that. She had cut 
herself when cutting peppers. But that was back when she was five. Now 
that didn't happen anymore. Girls her age knew how to cut and handle a 
knife or a pair of scissors. A butcher's knife. She saw herself with a 
shining knife in hand defending herself against attacking cucumbers 
and peppers and tomatoes.

"'kay. Careful now." Roberta snapped out of her musing when she heard 
her mom's voice. They had reached the bedside. Both women were 
sweating, and Sarah hoped to God they hadn't taken in a traitor, who'd 
sell her out to her husband the moment he regained consciousness. "Put 
down his feet. Slowly. I'll get him on the bed." Roberta did as she 
was told and watched her mother moves the man's heavy weight onto the 
blankets. First his upper body, then the long legs. On his belt 
Roberta saw something, a device she had seen before, but she couldn't 
tell what it was. It was made of leather, that was clear. Sarah let 
out her breath, and, for a second, put one hand to her hip, the other 
on Roberta's small shoulder. Though her daughter was considered tall, 
slender and strong she always thought of her as fragile - in body and 
mind. And it was her task as a mother to give that girl the chance to 
develop real strength over the next few years. But that would mean no 
more escapes, school changes and new cities. She briefly pressed her 
daughter's shoulder, let go. "I'll get hot water and my first aid kit. 
Would you mind taking off his shoes while I do this?"

Roberta had never felt so needed, so proud, and so afraid at the same 
time. She nodded, put away her fear in a far corner of her mind and 
loosened the shoe-laces while Sarah left the room. The wounds looked 
ugly, and she wondered if an animal could have done this. A rip 
through the thin cloth of the pants was one thing, but the same 
through a suit jacket, dress shirt and T-shirt, which she could see at 
the collar, was another story. Roberta carefully put down the shoes 
and struggled with the socks - 'Quite stinky - like a skunk,' she 
thought - then she found the ankle holster with a gun attached to it. 
Frightened she stepped back, almost bumped into her mother.

"Hey, watch it!" 

"He's gotta gun." Roberta pointed to his pants, shivering. "Down 
there."

Frowning Sarah put down her bowl of boiled water, some pieces of cloth 
she had boiled in it, and the rather big bag with bandages and 
medicine. She had learned a long time ago that when living in a rural 
area with no doctor around you need to have more in your house than 
Tylenol.

"Okay." She took the weapon and the holster and stowed it away in a 
drawer of the closet. "All right, we deal with that later. Roberta, 
are you okay?" Her daughter nodded and came back, but her face was 
pale as the moon. Sarah gave her a look of approval and concern. "This 
might get ugly," she said in her calm voice. "If you wanna leave, it's 
okay. Maybe get some sleep? I'll be here if you need me."

"I wanna know who he is," she said, and was set aback by her own 
boldness. "I mean... how he got here and... where he came from. Don't 
you think..."

"Yes, honey, you're right, but first let me take care of his wounds, 
okay? Then I'll try to find out who he is." Roberta didn't move. "You 
decided to stay?" A nod. "If you're gonna puke, use the bucket." She 
pointed to the corner of the room, and Roberta carried it closer to 
the bed. Sarah half smiled, then turned to her unknown and uninvited 
guest. He hadn't moved yet. 'And he won't, if I don't get this done.' 
She removed his jacket, cut open his shirts to peel them off, and 
carefully took his pants off. 'Whatever hit him, he was lucky to get 
away alive.' The wound on his left side, right above the hip bone was 
almost four inches long. 'No knife, no biting,' she thought when she 
cleaned it. 'And no adhesive bandages will close this.' She cleaned 
the wound on his thigh, too, and sighed inwardly. Once - and it seemed 
a lifetime ago - she had to stitch her husband after he got into a 
fight with other workers on the road. He hated doctors even if they 
were female, so she had been confronted with a two inch long knife 
wound in his upper arm. 'You can sew, so do it!' he had ordered, and 
she, unwillingly, had obeyed. 'Now here we go again.' She took the 
needle and the thread and watched her hands tremble for a moment. She 
didn't invite this. She'd have preferred a doctor, but the telephone 
didn't work, and the nearest doctor was sixty miles away. And that 
wasn't sure. As she knew this doctor, she'd have preferred to treat 
horses herself. 'Calm down,' she ordered herself. 'Do what has to be 
done.'

When she finished sewing and bandaging both wounds, she realized how 
awfully calm Roberta had been during that time. She gave her a weary 
and tired look. Her daughter tried a smile.

"Didn't puke," she said pointing to the empty bucket.

"Good girl." The situation could be messy, but Roberta always made her 
heart light. Sarah washed her hands. "I'll see to his head, okay? 
Could you get him a glass of water? - When he wakes up," she answered 
Roberta's puzzled look, "he'll be thirsty."

"Yep." Roberta was up and away, and Sarah checked the head wound, but 
it was the least to worry about. The man's forehead was heating up, 
though. She couldn't tell how old the wounds were, or where he had 
come from, driving to get away from the enemy who did this to him, but 
she knew that an infection was likely, even with the appropriate 
treatment. She rose, stretched her stiffened back and dug her hands 
into the man's jacket pockets. A wallet. No, two of them. Keys. Some 
coins. And a bill for a rental car from Des Moines. She flipped open 
the wallets and was startled. 'FBI. Fox Mulder.' 'A man named Fox - 
now, if that isn't the joke of the day!' "Who is he?" Roberta asked, 
and put down the glass on the bedside table.

"An FBI agent. His name's Fox Mulder."

"That's why he has gun." Roberta sighed, and Sarah smiled.

"Relieved?"

"He's a good guy."

The confidence of her daughter deepened her smile. Seven years old the 
girl didn't know that not everybody was good because of his uniform or 
his badge. Roberta's father could have made up a story in order to get 
the FBI to search for them both. He had a vivid imagination, and he 
wouldn't stop looking for his family, which had - in his opinion - 
abandoned him. 'My, my, and he was such a loving and caring and... all 
the way a pain in the ass,' she mused bitterly. Yes, he would find a 
way, even if she hid in a rabbit hole with her daughter.

"We'll find that out when he's awake." Sarah looked at her watch. 
Since she had found the agent on her porch, two hours had passed. She 
was bone-tired, but sure at the same time, she wouldn't be able to 
sleep. "Go to bed, honey, there is still some time left to sleep."

"What if he wakes up?"

"I'll take care of him."

"You're gonna stay here?"

"Got a problem with that?"

"Then I'll stay here, too."

"Fair enough. Get your blankets down here." She hadn't finished the 
sentence, and Roberta was already out of the room.

When she returned Sarah instructed her to wait while she tried to get 
the rental car into the barn. It was unlikely that anyone would show 
up here - 'Hey, *he* showed up, so why couldn't others do that, too?' 
- but she wanted to be sure everything was done to keep her place 
quiet and safe. Roberta nodded and settled down on the floor. Sarah 
got the tiger for her and ran to the car. The motor was working, but 
it didn't run smoothly. She drove slowly to the barn, opened both 
doors and parked the car inside. Her hands came off the steering wheel 
bloody, and she wiped them with a handkerchief. After killing the 
engine she took a look around if there were any other indications as 
to why the FBI agent had come to her place. She found his cell phone, 
which wasn't working, gas bills, a map of the area with marked spots, 
and, bending over to the passenger seat, she could smell a woman's 
perfume. Nothing extravagant, just a pleasant aroma. She could recall 
times when she had used perfume, too, but she quickly shut the memory 
off and got out of the car, closed the barn doors and hurried back to 
her daughter and the stranger. Roberta had fallen asleep, and Sarah 
settled on an armchair she'd brought in from the living room.


Two days earlier
Des Moines, Iowa, on the way west

Mulder put the car in gear and glanced at his partner. He knew he had 
done it again, and Scully rewarded him with her 'I know you talked me 
in, now *you* tell me, what the heck am I doing here?' look. He sighed 
and concentrated on the road again. Three murders with an unknown 
weapon - at least not known to the specialists dealing with the case - 
had made him curious. And due to the fact that it wasn't the time of 
year for UFO sightings he had decided to help his colleagues in Des 
Moines with his and his partner's opinion. They had happily agreed, 
which should have made him cautious, but he had been so eager to leave 
his dull apartment that any distraction was acceptable. 

"Is there anything more to it than the fact of an unknown murder 
weapon?" Scully asked with a challenging look.

"All three victims were passing through to the west. No residents from 
this area. Whoever killed them knew it."

"Any religious implications?" She flipped through the pictures of the 
three dead women, but couldn't find anything more than she had already 
seen when regarding them before.

"They were *torn open*, Scully, like a stuffed toy to see what's 
inside. As if the murderer wasn't satisfied by the killing, but..."

"But needed to see whom he killed." She looked up at him, seeing him 
nod. "To make sure it was a man, a real human being, he killed." 

"Yes. Not a ghost or..." He glanced at her. "...a ghoul, a zombie, 
a..."

"I get the picture." She stowed away the file. "So - where are we 
going?"

"The locations where the victims were found." He handed her the map 
where he had crossed the spots. "It was pure luck that they were found 
at all."

Scully glanced over the reports.

"The time of death indicates that the murderer didn't take them in 
for... dealing with them first, but killed them right away. The 
question is, where. It is clear that they were not killed where they 
were found." Mulder nodded. "There isn't much around here but farms 
and gas stations."

"Grocery shops, diners, bakeries, even a Motel Six," he corrected with 
a smirk, which she returned. "And if the press isn't here first we 
even might get a room." He loved her for the look she shot at him. "Or 
two." He tried to control his expression, but had to look outside his 
window not to laugh. 

They spent the afternoon at the crime scene, talked to the local 
sheriff and finally made their way to town, got two rooms at the motel 
and, relieved of their luggage, went to the diner. The woman at the 
counter only needed one look to know that 'foreigners' had arrived in 
town. The gossip would jump travel over the next days, but she smiled, 
led them to a table and handed them menus. Scully blew air over her 
forehead and went for a salad with chicken, while Mulder couldn't 
decide between hamburger and fries and ham and eggs, so he ordered 
both, which made the waitress and his partner look at him as if he'd 
asked for alien eggs - cooked, not broiled.

"Does the word 'cholesterol' mean anything to you?" Scully asked when 
the meals were served.

"I have a doctor in my circle of friends, so I learn more than I 
sometimes want to know."

"Which means this is such a time."

"Exactly." He ate heartily, ordered three mugs of coffee and was the 
subject of table talk by the time they both left the diner. Scully 
opened the top button of her pants and belched. 

"Sorry. Must have been too much."

"Didn't look like you ate enough to get satisfied," Mulder gave back, 
smiling and tapping his rounded belly. "I'm fine." Scully simply 
looked at him disbelieving. "I was starved."

"You practically have fries coming out of your ears." She put the key 
in the lock to her motel room. "Good night, Mulder."

"Good night, Scully. Sweet salad dreams." He entered his own room and 
closed the door. He was tired. Tomorrow they'd check all the local 
farms and ask some questions the police maybe hadn't thought to ask.


March 22nd

Mulder knocked on Scully's door. Normally he was the one who slept 
late, now he was worried. She reacted to his second set of knocks and 
opened the door still in her dressing gown.

"What's wrong?" Mulder asked, concerned.

"Something was... wrong with the food yesterday."

"Oh..."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, fine. And you? Should I take you to a hospital?"

"No. I just have an upset stomach. Nothing more. I'd prefer to stay in 
bed for the day. That okay with you?"

"Sure. Sure, no problem. Can I get you something?"

"Some tea would be nice."

He got her hot tea from the diner and asked the waitress if there had 
been other cases of upset stomachs around. She gave him a puzzled look 
which meant she knew nothing, and he left before she could start an 
apology. 

Scully settled in bed with the tea and persuaded him to go.

"Ask the sheriff to accompany you," she told him before he left. But 
the sheriff was not in, and Mulder didn't want to wait. He looked at 
the map and drove to the first farm on the list.


Sarah's place
March 23rd

Sarah hadn't slept much, only dozed for a few minutes. She woke up 
Roberta to get her ready for school. 

"Did he wake up?" Roberta asked, looking at Mulder still lying on his 
back with closed eyes.

"No, honey, he didn't." Sarah tousled her daughter's hair. "But that's 
expected. He's been through a lot."

"But he will wake up, right?"

"Sure." Sarah wasn't that sure. The man's fever had risen, and she 
didn't know if he might have a concussion from the crash of the car.

"I'll tell the bus driver to hurry home this afternoon," Roberta 
decided still unwilling to leave the room.

"Go now, please, wash yourself. I'll fix you some breakfast." They 
both went in different directions. Sarah headed for the kitchen, set 
up water for coffee and put a bowl and cornflakes on the table. They 
had no luxury in this house, but they didn't need it. When safety 
comes first, you don't look for fancy furniture. And they hadn't much 
money either. Sarah customed draperies and altered clothes for a store 
in the nearest town, but she didn't make a fortune out of that job. 
The only thing new was a combined CD und tape player which stood on 
the kitchen shelf. She loved music, especially by John Denver (her 
husband hadn't shared this love), so it was a natural she turned on 
one of the CDs she had brought from her long-gone home. John Denver's 
wonderful voice filled the air, singing about sunshine on his 
shoulders, and for the first time since midnight Sarah relaxed a 
little. Even more when Roberta came jumping down the stairs, almost 
forgetting that they had a guest - not by free will, but a guest 
nevertheless - and sat herself at the table. She had dressed in her 
school clothes, combed her shoulder-length brown hair and put two 
barrettes on the sides to keep it from falling into her small face.

"You did your homework?" Sarah asked, trying to keep things as normal 
as possible for Roberta's sake.

Roberta nodded, pouring milk to her cornflakes and adding sugar to 
sweeten a bowl of lemons. Sarah sat down with her mug of hot coffee, 
warming her hands on it.

"Yep, did it. It wasn't much. Did it right away, don't you remember?" 
Big brown eyes looked at Sarah, and she was flooded with love. 

"Right, honey. What's up for today?"

"Math, reading - I can do that, y'know. I'm best at it. Though the 
others had a head start, Miss Calveney said I'm really good."

"You work hard at it." She took a sip of coffee, put down the mug 
again. Her hands were still cold. The illusion of normalcy was 
tarnished by the presence of a stranger just a room away. "And, 
Roberta?" She waited for her daughter's full attention. "Not a word to 
anybody about the FBI agent. You got that?" Roberta nodded solemnly, 
crunching on the next spoonful of cornflakes. "I mean it. He's sick. 
He can't go anywhere, and I don't want anybody to think..." She 
stopped. Roberta raised her eyebrows - a perfect copy of her mother's 
gesture when expecting a further explanation. "Just don't tell 
anybody. Not a teacher and not your friends. And come straight home 
when school's over, okay?"

"Sure. You think, Mr. Mulder will be up then?"

"I don't know. Maybe." She gave her a feeble smile. "I'm no doctor, 
y'know."

"Just an *assistant*," Roberta stressed, and Sarah asked where she had 
gotten that from. "Saw it on TV. They said when there's no real 
doctors available assistants help, too. Somehow." She shrugged. She 
knew that her mother did it right. She had always helped her when she 
scratched her knees or cut herself with a knife (a lifetime ago), so 
she'd know what to do with that Mr. Mulder.

Roberta finished her breakfast, brushed her teeth and got her 
backpack.

"I'll take you to the bus," Sarah decided, put on her boots and drove 
her amazed daughter the half mile where the bus waited to take her to 
school. Relieved she drove her truck back to park it behind the house, 
and then checked on the agent. She was worried shitless he might die 
here. Right now her situation was a mess, but she could deal with it. 
She had had worse. But if the FBI man died here, police would show up, 
ask questions, put her name on file, and maybe even worse. She gritted 
her teeth, swallowed and pressed the tears back. She had done what had 
to be done, but that didn't mean she was happy with it. Automatically 
she put a hand on his forehead again, checked his pulse. Fever was 
high and had to be dealt with. Sighing she got a bowl of cold water 
and some cloths to use as compresses around his calves. It might help 
a little, but his long period of unconsciousness indicated that more 
damage was done than she could see. With the compresses done she 
changed bandages. Last night she hadn't given much thought to anything 
else but fixing the wounds. Now she wondered what kind of weapon 
caused the wounds' rough edges. 'A saw?' She dropped that one. Who'd 
wait for someone to saw him in the side and leg before deciding to do 
something about it? 'A sharp instrument, but not meant for cutting,' 
she thought. And since he was a trained officer, he must have been 
taken by surprise. Still - one wound could be explained that way, but 
two? Had he been unable to get away? Draw his gun? Sarah glanced at 
the drawer. Where had his other weapon gone? The holster was attached 
to the belt of his pants, as well as a pair of handcuffs in a small, 
round leather case. He was armed. Yet had been hit twice. Sarah 
frowned. How powerful must his enemy have been to make him flee? She 
shook her head. Worrying about it was a waste of time. She changed the 
compresses and went back to the kitchen. John Denver was still singing 
- 'Wild Montana Skies', a duet with Emmylou Harris - and she took deep 
breaths. Somehow she would deal with this. 

If he survived.


March 22nd
Bell's farm

Mulder exited the sedan, and squinted against the bright sun. Again he 
had forgotten to bring his sunglasses. With more force than needed he 
slammed the door shut and walked to the big barn where he had seen 
something move.

"Hello? Someone there?" he shouted. Three men with long forks in their 
big hands emerged from the shadow of the barn. They met halfway. "My 
name's Mulder. I'm with the FBI." He flipped open his badge. The men 
didn't react, just looked at him with cold eyes. Their faces were 
tanned and wrinkled from constant outdoor life. They had broad 
shoulders and intimidating features, and they carried heavy
tools in the pockets of their work pants and hayforks in their fists.
"There were three murders near here. Three dead bodies were discovered 
four days ago. Do you know anything about it? Have you seen anything 
or heard rumors?" He put his wallet back into the inside pocket of his 
jacket, damning himself for wearing a suit. Jeans and T-Shirt would 
have been a better choice.

One man spat on the ground.

"No, sir, ain't seen nothin'." Then he fell silent again. The others 
didn't even bother to open their mouths. From their appearance, Mulder 
thought they had to be one family.

"What's your name, sir?"

"Bell. I'm Raymond, these are my brothers Hank and Joe."

"All right, Mr. Bell. Is there anyone else living here that I might 
question?"

"Nope."

Mulder glanced over the man's shoulder and spotted movement at the 
curtain of a window.

"You sure?" No answer. "Well, if that curtain over there is any 
indication, there *is* someone else inside the house." He didn't want 
to sound impatient, but he did.

The man in the middle of the three answered, "Only my wife and kids. 
And they're none of your business."

"I'm a federal agent, sir, and I want to talk to everybody who lives 
here."
The men remained standing in front of him like a wall. "I don't want 
to ask you again to let me pass." Mulder was tall enough to meet the 
eyes of the men in front of him, and, reluctantly, they let him pass. 
"Thank you."

The men breathed down his neck, and only put their hayforks down when 
the went inside the house. A woman in her mid-forties looked up, and 
two children of two, maybe three years of age, withdrew behind her 
long, spot-stained skirt, putting their thumbs in their mouths.

"Excuse me, m'am, I'm Fox Mulder with the FBI. I'd like to ask you a 
few questions about three murders that occurred near here."

She looked at him, puzzled, then at the men behind Mulder to get 
assurance.

"So?" she asked in a low, husky voice. She closed the top button of 
her blouse as if to hide herself from Mulder. It was the agent's term 
to be puzzled.

"No more than 'so'? Three people are dead, m'am, and I'm investigating 
the circumstances of their murders. I would like to know if you've 
seen any strangers around here during the last two months." He turned 
to face the men. "Any piece of information might be helpful." But he 
knew from their faces that he'd have to stumble over the information 
to get it. "M'am? What about you?"

"No, I... I don't go out much. I have the kids, y'know." She bent down 
to pull one of the children into her arms and lift him. Promptly the 
other started whining. "I'm here mostly. Do the housework." She 
avoided Mulder's stare again. He made her nervous. He knew it. He 
didn't need to be a profiler to see that she knew something that might 
be worth telling, but she didn't dare to speak.

"Mrs. Bell, the murderer is still on the loose. We don't know when 
he'll kill again. Or whom he might kill. This is serious. If you have 
information that could lead to this person, you must tell me." He 
glanced over his shoulder. With three watch dogs, she wouldn't even 
tell him the recipe for baked potatoes. He cursed silently.
This was a hard nut to crack. And he didn't have Scully to back him up 
on this.


March 23rd
Sarah's place

Mulder fought his way back to consciousness as if through thick 
molasse. There was movement around him, someone moving him, touching 
him. Coldness at his calves and ankles. A feeling of wetness, too. 
Then it changed, and he got warm again. But the pain rose at the same 
time. He wanted to wake up, to snap out of this state of dreams and 
illusions, but the nearer he got to the surface, the more pain welled 
up from his waist and leg, not to mention his brain, which seemed to 
be on fire as well. He felt soft linen under his fingers, knowing the 
surface was only inches away. He tried to swallow, to open his eyes. 
Damn, how could his lids be so heavy?

Sarah changed the linens. The agent was sweating and shaking with 
fever. She had medicine to get his temperature down, but he'd have to 
be awake to take it. So she had to wait, keep him warm and be around 
to notice the slightest change in his condition. The cold compresses 
had helped, and both of the wounds she had stitched had stopped 
bleeding, which was encouraging. But he still wasn't out of the woods. 
She pulled the dirty blankets into a heap and covered Mulder with 
fresh ones, added a cover and pulled it high to his chest. When 
turning away to carry the laundry to the kitchen, she heard him make a 
feeble sound. She stopped and waited at the bedside.

"Mr. Mulder? Can you hear me?" She took his hand in hers. Long, 
slender fingers so unlike her husbands', who had always done hard 
labor to earn money. This man probably never touched anything heavier 
than a pen or a computer keyboard. "Please, press my hand if you can 
hear me."

Mulder heard the voice, but it wasn't Scully's. So where...? He slowly 
understood that the voice wanted him to make sure he heard her. He 
gently pressed the hand that held his. He tried to swallow again, but 
his throat was too dry. 'Open your eyes,' he ordered himself. 'Just 
open them! Then asked for water, and something to help the pain.'

Sarah was so relieved she blinked tears away.

"You're doing fine, Mr. Mulder, just go on. You almost made it."

He tried to follow her demand. He didn't know how long he had been out 
cold, but being able to see the scenery would be a change for the 
better in any case. Mulder slowly opened his eyes, took in the late 
morning light, and tried to focus, which was like nailing fog to the 
wall. He couldn't make out more than the rough outline of a person 
standing beside him, talking to him. Above all, the pain in his 
midsection and left leg demanded his attention.

"I'm so glad to have you back, Mr. Mulder," Sarah said, and it took a 
load off her heart. She pressed his hand again, then let go, pushed a 
strand of brown hair behind her ear. "You think, you can drink 
something?" He wasn't able to answer, but she'd try anyway. But the 
glass was hard to handle. She hurried for a straw, put it in the 
glass, then lifted Mulder's head to slip a second pillow under it. He 
gasped from the pain it caused at his waist. Sarah noticed, but would 
deal with it later. She held the glass for him, so that he felt the 
straw touch his lips. "Try it." He sipped some water and finally 
swallowed. The first time was painful, but it got easier. Deliberately 
he sucked in more water, until she took the glass away. His stomach 
rumbled, but he couldn't think about eating. He let out a deep breath.

"Okay, now, relax." Sarah put the glass down on the bedside table. 
"How're you feeling?"

He parted his lips to answer, but no words came out. He was dizzy, and 
the pain took a strong hold of him. Sarah frowned and held two fingers 
in front of his face.

"How many fingers do you see?"

Mulder swallowed again, blinked. Slowly he held up two fingers on his 
right hand. His head seemed to slowly prepare itself for explosion. He 
could already see yellow dots swimming in and out of focus.

"Fine. Now follow my fingers with your eyes." He did, and Sarah 
nodded. "Okay. You better lie still, Mr. Mulder. As I see it, you 
might have a concussion. I'm no doctor, so I can't tell for sure. You 
hit your head when the car crashed at the post of the gate. Do you 
remember anything about that?" He closed his eyes and opened them 
again, waved his hand. 'Some of it.' "Good, so you didn't lose your 
memory - or not all of it. Fine."

"Pain," he murmured, begging her with his look.

"I know." She hesitated. "I've got morphine, but, as I said, I'm no 
doctor, so I better start this on a small dose, okay? I don't wanna 
knock you out." Her smile failed to reach her eyes. She didn't tell 
him that her husband had stolen it from a hospital, and he didn't ask. 
Sarah filled a syringe and gave him the injection. "If this doesn't 
take effect in ten minutes, I'll do it again." She put away the 
syringe, letting her breath out she had held the whole time. 'A 
physician's assistant,' Roberta had called her. If so, she had a lot 
to learn.

"Where...?"

"This is my place. You collapsed on my porch yesterday night. That 
means you were unconscious for about eight hours." He swallowed and 
closed his eyes again. She couldn't tell if he did so just to take in 
the information or... "Mr. Mulder?" He didn't reply. She quickly 
checked his pulse, but it was okay, and his breathing was normal. He 
was sound asleep.


March 22nd
Bell's farm

Mulder braced himself for a fight, putting the wall behind him before 
he asked his next question.

"Mrs. Bell, what did you see? What happened here?"

"As I said..."

"No, not as you said. I know that you're hiding something from me!" He 
let his voice rise, making the men behind him grumble and the woman 
tremble. She held the child more tightly to her bosom.

"I don't think you..."

Mulder took a step forward. This was too close to call. Either the men 
showed him the door or he was allowed to stay due to his reputation as 
a man of the law. He could feel the oldest man breathe behind him, but 
he went untouched.

"Mrs. Bell, do you want a murderer in your neighborhood? On your 
property? In your house? We don't know why he kills or how he finds 
his victims. He could break into your house tonight. Do you want 
that?"

Mrs. Bell swallowed hard, made eyecontact with Mr. Bell multiplied by 
three, then decided.

"Y'know, it's not right to say something about a neighbor..." Her 
voice trailed off. Mulder waited. He knew instinctively that he 
shouldn't step any closer or the men would throw him out before he got 
an answer. Mrs. Bell looked down at the child hanging at her skirt. 
"I... the boys... I was out with the boys and heard a cry." Mr. Bell 
the Eldest snorted, but didn't object. "It was... well, y'know it 
could've been an animal. In pain. Terrible pain. - Sure could've been 
an animal, but it sounded like a woman."

"Where was that, and when?"

"Three weeks ago. Over at Harper's farm... I think."

He glanced at her.

"You think - or you know?"

"It was in that direction," she nodded, "But, y'see, the wind and..." 
She made a gesture with her free hand that indicated she couldn't be 
any more specific.

"Anything else? Unusual behavior by Mr. Harper or his workers?"

"He keeps pretty much to himself."

"No workers on that farm?"

"Yes, workers, but they don't come to the house. He has a foreman, who 
takes care of that. - They only work for him because he pays more than 
the others," she added with a touch of resentment.

"So no-one sees much of Mr. Harper himself." Mrs. Bell nodded. Now he 
had a direction to go. "Thank you, Mrs. Bell. Why didn't you tell the 
sheriff, when he came here?"

"The sheriff? He hasn't been here. Not since Christmas."

Mulder glanced at the three Mr. Bells. He understood why no sheriff 
ever tried to cross the threshold of this house.


March 23rd
Sarah's place

Mulder felt like he was swimming, light on one side, but drawn deeper 
in, where breathing became impossible. He'd wake up or drown. Startled 
he woke up, raised his head, sucking in air. The feeling of swimming 
was replaced by that of spinning round and round as on a carousel. His 
stomach turned, and he knew he was going to throw up before he could 
call to anyone. He leaned over the side of the bed. A bucket was 
there, but too far away for him to reach it in time. He vomited on the 
rug beside the bed. Although there was nothing but water in his 
stomach, it felt like forever before he could lie back. Out of the 
corner of his eye he saw a movement at the door. Someone was watching 
him.

Roberta had entered the house asking if Mr. Mulder was awake, and 
Sarah had been glad to answer that he had been awake for a couple of 
minutes, but now slept. Roberta had then left her backpack in the 
living room and walked into the guest room, while Sarah was preparing 
lunch in the kitchen. Now she came running back.

"He's... he's awake," she blurted out, "but just... just puked on the 
rug!"

Sarah dropped the potato she had been peeling, left behind John 
Denver's 'Country Roads', and headed for the guest room. 'What a 
mess,' she thought, but at the same time she knew she should have put 
the bucket close enough to avoid the disaster.

"Sorry," the agent said hoarsely, then saw the girl standing in the 
doorway. He felt self-conscious, and closed his eyes again. 
"Really..."

"It's all right," Sarah quickly reassured him. "It'll just take a 
minute to clean up." She caught her daughter still staring at the 
stranger. "Get me a bucket of water and a mop. On the double!"

Roberta grinned at the order and hurried to get what her mother 
needed. Anyway it was better to get away from the stink. What a mess! 
Her mother had removed the wet rug by the time she returned, and then 
effectively cleaned the wood under it. Done, she washed her hands and 
the bucket in the bathroom, and placed the bucket near the head of the 
bed.

"I made you some tea," she told Mulder. "You should try to drink a 
little," she insisted when he looked at her remorsefully. "I don't 
mind, really. My guess wasn't that bad after all." The smile was 
small, but this time it reached her eyes. "Though I wished I was 
wrong."

"Who...?"

"I'm Sarah. And that girl pretending to be the shyest kitten on earth 
is my daughter, Roberta." She gestured at Roberta to come closer, but 
the girl firmly shook her head. Sarah cocked an eyebrow. "Now she *is* 
the shyest kitten." She smiled, then turned back to her guest. "I'll 
get your tea." She patted Roberta's shoulder and left the child 
watching the agent.

Roberta had been looking forward to the moment when this Mr. Mulder 
would wake up. She thought he'd be grateful for what they'd done for 
him and he'd protect them both against the strange man that claimed to 
be her father. And what had happened? He'd puked on the floor the 
moment she came to look at him! She was disgusted - in a way. Sure she 
knew - for mom had told her - that some people puked when they were 
sick, but... those were *other* people. She shook her head in 
disbelief. FBI agents on TV never puked or got hurt. They were tough. 
Mom had forbidden her to watch such shows, but she had been so 
curious! And it couldn't be that bad for her if it was aired in the 
afternoon. They wouldn't show them if they were bad for kids. At least 
she thought that was true.

The FBI man was moaning, clenching his teeth, his fists. She saw the 
muscles on his arms tense, and the sweat on his forehead. He breathed 
heavily, and she thought she'd better tell mom.

She met her mom in the living room.

"He's..." Roberta was lacking the word. "Well, sweaty."

"I'll see to it." Sarah thought about what these events would do to 
her daughter. At the moment even the most stupid stalker wouldn't 
disclose his intentions. Would she lose the rest of her trust she had 
in mankind if this man turned out to be evil? She passed Roberta on 
the threshold, smiling, although the circumstances weren't funny. 
Mulder was retching again, and when he leaned back, he looked as pale 
as the linen he lay on. "You look like the pain has returned." Mulder 
nodded, and Sarah filled another syringe with Morphine. The injection 
settled the agent down after a few minutes. "I'd call an ambulance for 
you, but I've got no phone. I mean, it's not working. The Phone 
Company said..."

"My phone. I've got a cell phone." He turned to focus on her face. "In 
the jacket..."

"No, it was in your car. You dropped it. But it isn't working. No 
service around here." Sarah saw his hopes sink. "I'm sorry. Why did 
you come here? There's nothin' here for miles."

"Escape." He shivered.

"Yeah." The look on Mulder's face made her shiver, too.


March 22nd
Harper's farm, late afternoon

"Hello? Anybody here?" Mulder rested his hands on his hips and waited. 
How could two farms looked exactly alike? Or was he too much of a city 
boy? He loosened his tie, checked the cell phone - still no service - 
and put it back in his outer pocket. "Hello?" 'What a coincidence, Mr. 
Harper goes shopping in Des Moines just when I'm trying to find a 
needle in a haystack.' He sighed. He didn't want to waste time driving 
from farm to farm, asking if anyone had heard anything. What Mrs. Bell 
had said was the best clue he'd gotten. And now he had to decide 
between driving back all the way to the police station to ask the 
squad to search the Harper farm because of a woman's claim, or to 
continue on alone and search for Harper on his own. He chose the 
latter. Why make a fuss, when there's nothing to be done about it?

Mulder knocked on the door of the main house, but no-one answered. He 
entered, shouting his name and that he was an FBI agent, but only 
silence came back. It didn't take long for him to search the entire 
house. It looked like Mrs. Bell was right - Mr. Harper lived alone. No 
women's clothes or men's clothing in sizes other than a real tall man 
of sizeable girth. And probably this man was just out on his tractor 
and having a good time. Maybe make a woman cry in excitement. Mulder 
left, shut the door and headed for the barn which was about fifty feet 
away. He stomped into the shadows of the big hay barn. If anybody 
worked here, they must have heard his car arrive and his shouting. So 
he didn't expect anyone.

That was a mistake.

The attack came out of nowhere. He only saw a shadow and two hooks 
coming at him, startling him. Mulder evaded, pulled his gun from his 
holster, but was too late to aim. He dodged a second time, frightened 
by the sight of the huge man going after him. Gritted teeth and 
grunting. And these incredible hooks. No time to yell, no time to 
argue. He had no breath left to defend himself with words. He was 
driven back by the attacker's fury. Swung his pistol and fired. Hit 
the man's shoulder. The man didn't seem to notice it.

"Shit!" He fired again, missing his opponent's cheek by an inch. 
"Shit! Damnit!" He fell backwards over a bale of hay, and the hook 
caught his left thigh. He screamed in pain, rolled over his shoulder 
and neck. Blood was oozing from the wound. The attacker swung his 
weapons again, growling words Mulder didn't understand; he thought 
they might be Latin. 'He's so fast!' The assailant hit him with that 
incredible hook, that extended the man's clenched fist by six inches, 
in the side. Mulder doubled over, screaming in agony. He brought his 
weapon up the moment Harper raised the hooks to strike him down. He 
fired and hit the mark. Fired again. Harper stood for a moment, 
stopped his grunting, stopped every movement, then his knees gave way 
under him, and he crashed to the ground, two holes in his chest. The 
hooks fell to each side, clanking on the floor. Harper's eyes remained 
open and his outstretched arms indicated that he was a man who waited 
to be taken to heaven.

Mulder gasped for air, swallowed, closed his eyes to regain control of 
his breathing. His hands trembled so violently he almost dropped his 
gun. He needed a minute to climb to his feet, check his wounds. He was 
losing blood and would bleed dry if he didn't get to a hospital. His 
hands were already bloodstained and slippery. He staggered out of the 
barn, and saw the sun was setting. His car waited fifty feet away, but 
it might as well have been fifty miles. Mulder holstered his weapon 
and slowly made his way toward the car, he swayed, stumbled, caught 
himself and when he finally reached the car, he heard a howling that 
made his blood freeze. He half-turned and saw a man, much younger than 
Harper, run from the barn. 

He ran fast. 

Straight in Mulder's direction. The sight of the man's unyielding rage 
made Mulder shift into automatic to save his life. Disregarding his 
pain, he opened the car door and slipped behind the wheel, put the key 
into the ignition and turned it. The motor sprang to life. Mulder put 
the car in gear, backed up, pulled his gun at the same time, but the 
man was faster, reaching in through the open door and knocking it out 
of his hands. The car was rolling. Mulder didn't care, as long as it 
was away from this screaming lunatic.

"You killed him! You killed him!" the man shrieked. At the same time 
he grabbed Mulder's collar with both hands, tried to pull him out of 
the car. Mulder fought with one hand, steering with the other. His 
injuries had weakened him, and he knew he would be dead meat if he 
couldn't get away at once. He was choking, couldn't see clearly 
anymore.

"You bastard! You're the devil! You killed him!" the man shouted.

Mulder shifted gears, floored the gas pedal and headed for the road, 
ignoring the possibility of oncoming traffic. The maniac continued to 
wrestle with him as Mulder wrestled with the car, trying to control 
the rolling. Pain. Throbbing pain, sinking him to unconsciousness. He 
couldn't get away fast enough. Lost contact with the gas pedal. And 
still the man's vicious hands squeezed his windpipe. No air! He 
couldn't breathe! And couldn't get rid of the attacker. He searched 
with his left hand for the switch to close the window. Flashes 
exploded before his eyes. No time! Faster, go faster! He squinted, 
tried to focus on the road, kept his right hand on the wheel. Pushed 
the gas pedal down again.

The maniac was spitting at him, and removed one hand to grab the 
wheel. The attacker found himself squeezed by the glass of the rising 
window.

"You're gonna die, bastard! I'll kill ya!"

Mulder fought to get the man's hand off the wheel. The window was up 
as far as it could go, squeezing the man's arm. The attacker lost his 
grip on Mulder's collar, then the wheel. Screaming he fell away.

In the mirror Mulder saw the man hit the blacktop. He coughed, 
desperately sucking in air. His vision was blurred, but maybe it was 
his surroundings - fields of corn for miles and miles. No 
distractions. And it was getting dark. Still driving at top speed, he 
wasn't able to read the road signs. He drove on, hoping to reach a 
town sooner or later. He felt the blood oozing out his body and with 
it, all his body heat. Numbly he fumbled for his cell phone. Shit! 
Still no service. He threw the phone into the passenger seat. 

'Fuck it! Fuck this whole damn place!'


March 22nd
Motel Six, in the evening

When Mulder didn't show up for dinner, Scully called the sheriff from 
the motel office. The sheriff didn't know what Mulder had been up to, 
and to Scully's explanation that he wanted to visit the farms, the 
sheriff answered it could take days to visit them all and - that was 
the quintessence - find someone to speak to. 

"They work outdoors. Sometimes they don't come in over night. It's 
been dry for five days in a row. They sleep where they work, Agent 
Scully. But don't worry, he'll show up tomorrow."

But she hadn't been convinced. The problem was that she had no rental 
car available. Reluctantly she decided to wait till morning to order 
the sheriff to search for her partner.


March 23rd
Sarah's place

John Denver made another entrance with his old guitar, singing about 
his lovely wife Annie. Sarah quickly hit the 'next' button. That was 
the only song she couldn't hear. She always thought about the 
wonderfully expressed feelings John Denver had put down in that very 
song. So much love, so much affection. She once had thought that she'd 
have these feelings for Charles and he for her. But she was deceived, 
trapped in a marriage that made her kiss his boot and strictly obey 
his orders. Which would have been tolerable for an amount of time, but 
it wasn't enough for him. He started abusing her. When she decided to 
leave him she found out she was pregnant - and stayed. And he vowed to 
love her and the child as well, and for two years everything went 
normal - she thought. She didn't find out his secret life until a 
former friend told her about it. Told her how he beat whores black and 
blue. First she didn't believe. Second she was shocked. Third she 
thought about her baby and what would become of her daughter if she 
ran away. So she stayed, kept her eyes shut to her husband's strange 
bedpartners, and hoped it would end sooner or later. That he would 
lose interest in beating and raping. 'How stupid can a woman be?' she 
mused bitterly while John Denver went on with the 'Cowboy and the 
Lady'. Naturally he only satisfied his appetite until he couldn't hold 
it any longer and came after Sarah again. Roberta was almost four at 
that time and could understand that her mom didn't always fall down 
stairs or ladders, and that she was hushed out when her parents had an 
argument. Sarah packed her and Roberta's stuff the night Charles 
slapped her daughter in the face. It was no hard blow, not even left a 
mark, but Sarah knew it was the end of the line. The last call to get 
away or Roberta would undergo the same brutality she had suffered from 
for so long. They were on the run for some weeks. Sarah decided that 
the only one who could keep Roberta safe was her mother alone. They 
moved various times from town to town, but Charles always found them 
somehow. He followed her leads as sure as a dog out for the hunt. And 
she evaded in even more isolated places. Until they came here. Iowa. 
Sarah smirked. She had never thought of living in rural Iowa. She had 
dreamt of Boston at least, make it into the upper class by designing 
draperies. Open up her own store maybe. All gone.

Resigned she took another cup of warm tea to her strange guest.

Roberta stood on watch like a guard, but was unwilling to get any 
closer. Sarah eyed her.

"You're fine there?" A nod. "'kay." She turned to Mulder again. He 
looked still pale, but had been awake for a longer period of time now. 
"Want the tea first or me to change the bandages?"

"Couldn't you skip that part with the bandages?" he asked looking up 
pleadingly.

"I'm hard as nails on this, Mr. Mulder." She put the cup down.

"Call me Mulder."

Sarah frowned,

"That's what I thought I do."

"No 'Mister' before it."

"Okay, then, Mulder without a Mister," she announced pulling back the 
covers, "I'll change the bandages and you try not to jump out of the 
window." He swallowed and braced himself so obviously she laughed. 
"Sorry." She bit her lip. "But..." She shrugged and prepared new 
bandages and gauze on the bedside table.

"No, it's okay, Sarah. Just tell me when I can unclench my teeth." The 
Morphine helped, but he still could feel too much to be fine when 
Sarah took off the bandage around his waist and checked the wound.

"A little deeper and more to the middle and you'd have sung in high 
tunes," she murmured taking off the gauze.

Mulder swallowed and risked a look.

"If this was to comfort me, it didn't work." He moaned and let his 
head rest on the pillow again.

"No, no consolation. I just want you to get this real. You could've 
been killed by - whoever. And I'm no doctor. You should be in a 
hospital, but there's none. So..."

"You stitched the wounds?" he asked and pressed his lips shut when she 
applied the new bandage.

"Who else? Would you've preferred to bleed to death?" she snapped 
before thinking.

"No." Another moan before she finished at his waist. "I want to live." 
He gasped and looked at her with new admiration. "Quite a job for 
someone who says he doesn't know..."

"Didn't say I didn't know, but I'm no doc, that's it." Sarah retained 
her temper and took the second bandage off. 

"What's your profession?" he asked to keep his mind from the pain to 
come. His waist hurt enough to make him sick.

"I..." She hesitated what to tell him. Could she trust him, or would 
he only wait to fall into her back the moment he could leave the 
house?

"You don't have to...au!"

"Sorry." Sarah hadn't concentrated, and he had to take the blame. More 
careful she unwrapped his thigh. The gash still looked awful, and 
Mulder hardly glimpsed at it. He had seen ugly wounds - but never on 
himself. He hoped he could hold back the urgency to throw up until she 
would have finished her work. "I make draperies," she explained 
applying new gauze and putting the new bandage on tightly. "I mean, I 
sew them for customers. Sometimes a coat or a suit, too. - Nothing 
that expensive you wear." She glanced at him. "I earn a living out of 
it. I sew pretty well." Sarah frowned to Mulder's dead earnest face.

"I hope so."

She blushed the same moment. No witty comment on this. She was taken 
aback until she saw his weak smile.

"No, Mulder, no more jokes like this on me, okay?"

"Promised." He felt the room turning around again. "Do you know how 
long a concussion takes to go away? From..." He turned in time, and 
Sarah made Roberta leave to room to give the agent some privacy in his 
misery. -

"Don't you have homework to do?" she asked her in the living room.

"Shouldn't he be more grateful than..." She pointed with her chin to 
the door.

"No, honey, he is grateful. Didn't you hear him? He wants to live. And 
we both were chosen by God to help him. Now, be a good girl and do 
your homework. Did you say a word to anyone about Mr. Mulder?"

"Just *Mulder*," Roberta corrected her. "Why not Fox?"

Sarah shrugged.

"Maybe there are hunters in his town, and every time someone called 
his name the whole pack of hounds went after him." Roberta took the 
explanation as truth given by her mother, and Sarah didn't smile to 
mark it as a joke. She didn't smile until she reached the kitchen to 
change the CD.

"So *did* you say anything?" she repeated when she returned. Roberta 
already sat at the table near the window and had her books beside her.

"No," she said half-turning. "I sealed my lips." She made a gesture as 
if a zipper was drawn shut.

"Fine." 'I hope so,' she added in her thoughts. If not the trouble 
would jump to the next scale.


March 23rd
Sheriff's office

"There're all farms on this map, m'am. Where do you want us to start?"

"Can we call them?" Scully asked hopefully, but the sheriff weighed 
his bully head.

"Most of 'em have no phone or it isn't working. The Company promised 
to deal with it, but... maybe in two weeks."

"So we have to search all farms personally." She wetted her lips. "All 
right, groups of two in a car. How many people have you got out here 
at the moment?"

"It's a small town, m'am," the sheriff said not all too 
apologetically. "When you need the cavalry, call your people. I still 
think he's fine and rests on a farm."

"I want to make sure," she said sternly.

"'kay." The sheriff raised his stubby fingers in defense. "We gonna 
waste our time, your time, and he's having a fine time in the 
haystack. But as you wish..." He shook his head and told his men what 
to do.


March 23rd
Sarah's place

"Can I have pancakes with blueberry jam for dinner?" Roberta asked her 
mother in the kitchen. "I will do all my homework. Promise. And I'm so 
hungry."

Sarah thought it was not the best time to teach her daughter a lesson 
about the difference between breakfast and dinner, so she nodded.

"Okay, but the blueberry jam's in the basement. Can you handle getting 
it alone?"

"Sure." Roberta went back to the living room. "I can do the batter, 
too!" she shouted before taking the rug away that covered the hatch. 
It was heavy, and she struggled to pull it open.

"That's fine with me," Sarah answered from the kitchen. Her clean 
kitchen would be a mess, but she loved watching Roberta prepare meals. 
She thought her little girl was intelligent and practical. 'Every mom 
thinks that,' she thought smiling. She heard the hatch to the cellar 
drop open and went to check. Roberta had already climbed down the 
ladder. That's why Sarah had rented this house in the first place: 
unlike most houses, it had a basement to stow preserves and old 
clothes, but - even better - it had an exit to the back side of the 
house, near the stable. She remembered that Roberta and her friend 
Debbie had used that exit to get to the two horses Sarah had taken 
into care. She had almost gone insane searching for them, although she 
understood that an early morning among the corn must have been heaven 
for the two little girls. "You okay?" she asked now.

"Yep." Roberta returned to the ladder with a glass of jam in her hand. 
"You let me do the batter, okay?" She climbed up again.

"Sure. I'll do the dishes afterwards."

"Great." Roberta ran to the kitchen, the glass firmly pressed against 
her chest, but stopped short on the threshold. "What about Mulder? 
Will he...?" She grimaced, remembering the way he'd retched earlier.

"Don't think he would care for pancakes right now, honey." Sarah 
closed the hatch and pulled the rug over it.

"But what will he eat then?"

Sarah sighed. That exactly was the point. She didn't know what to give 
him. He needed fluids the most, and he should be in a hospital... She 
shook her head. He was in her responsibility. Heaving a sigh she 
realized Roberta was still standing at the kitchen door with the jam 
inher hands.

"I'll..."

"You'll take care of him, I know." Roberta smiled and nodded. Her 
confidence was a fountain of hope for Sarah. She followed her daughter 
into the kitchen.

Watching Roberta measure the ingredients for her pancakes, Sarah 
prepared a broth for the agent. She knew it might be a waste of time, 
but she'd give it a try anyway. Roberta placed the first spoonful of 
batter into the pan, and Sarah could see pure delight on her small 
face. A year ago Sarah had strictly kept her away from the hot stove, 
now she could lean back and watch Roberta with pride. With all the 
misfortune they had had, she was thankful for how normal Roberta 
behaved. 'Children adapt so easily' she mused. 'And I have many 
reasons to be thankful.' The first pancake slid from the pan onto the 
plate. Roberta took the next spoonful, watched it bake, while she 
nibbled on the first one. Sarah hoped there would be more peaceful 
evenings like this one.

When the baking was done, Sarah took the big mug with the broth to the 
spare bedroom. Mulder had slept, and the blanket under him looked like 
he had wrestled a tiger in his sleep. He opened his eyes. They were 
full of fear. Sarah pitied him for the memory of the attack. He would 
carry this heavy weight for quite a while.

"I brought you some broth. You think you could give it a try?" Mulder 
wetted his lips. He was hungry, yes, thirsty, too, but the mere 
thought of eating caused him uneasiness. "I don't want to push this, 
but... I have no possibility to feed you intravenously, and you have 
to..."

"Sure." Mulder looked up at her standing there with the mug in both 
hands. "I'm really grateful for everything you've done for me. Without 
you..."

"Well, you had to wreck your car to get my attention." She added a 
straw to the mug and held it for him. "When will your colleagues start 
searching for you?"

"What time is it?"

"Past six."

"They've already started," he said, knowing Scully and her way of 
driving people to what she wanted them to do. " They should be here in 
a few hours." He wanted to sound convincing, but failed. He could read 
Sarah's face.

"Where did you start out from yesterday?"

"Over at the farms. I was investigating."

"Alone? Don't FBI agents always work with backup?"

"My partner got sick, and I didn't want to wait." He took the last sip 
and leaned back. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." She placed the mug on the table, biting her lip. 
"Could it be that... that, whoever did this to you, might come here?"

"No." He met her eyes. She was demanding the truth. "One is dead for 
sure, the other... might be dead, but if not, he's injured and won't 
follow me. Not any more."

"'kay." She scratched her forehead. "Looks like I need to change the 
linens."

"I'm fine." She gave him a 'Yeah, right, and I'm Bette Davis' look, 
shook her head. Roberta waited at the door, eyeing the agent as best 
as possible from her position. "I'll get some fresh sheets. Roberta, 
have you finished eating already?"

"Sure. Cleaned my plate, too. Not the pan. 't was too hot."

"Good girl." Sarah left the room, Roberta stayed.

Mulder looked ruefully at the girl. What did she think when her mother 
found him on her porch - bleeding? And acting the way he had when he 
woke? He tried to smile, but he had little experience with children. 
Scully would have been perfect in this situation, knowing exactly how 
to talk to the girl, what to do. She sensed the feelings of a child 
and react accordingly.

"Come here, please," he said softly.

Roberta swallowed, didn't know what to do. He was a good guy, all 
right, but a stranger as well. And mom hadn't said anything like 
'Don't go near him' or 'It's all right to be at his bedside.' She knew 
that men could be cruel. She remembered the way her father had hurt 
her mom, and though mom didn't talk about him, that didn't mean she 
had forgotten about the bruises and gashes. Roberta shifted nervously 
from one foot to the other.

"Promise not to puke on me?"

Mulder would have laughed if it didn't hurt so much.

"I'll let you know before I do so you can get away in time."

"'kay." Roberta stuffed her hands into the pockets of her jeans and 
stood at his bedside, waiting. And able to jump back any time. 

"I wanted to thank you, too, for taking me in last night."

"Neighbors would've spoken ill of us," she answered with all 
seriousness she could muster.

"The neighbors? Thought there's nobody else around here, right?"

"That was a joke, Mulder." Her tone made clear that she thought he was 
a brick short of a full load. 'And my reputation as a wise ass is 
going down the drain,' he sighed inwardly, but nodded.

"Sure. But now that you mention it - is your father around here? Does 
he work on one of the farms?"

"No." She didn't meet his eyes, and when he didn't press the subject, 
she looked up again, asking, "Did they really chase you at home?"

Again he didn't understand what she was thinking.

"Chase me?" Some people had chased him in the past, but at home?

Roberta cocked an eyebrow, and Mulder saw the resemblance to her 
mother.

"For being called 'Fox'," she explained impatiently. "That's why you 
made everyone call you Mulder, right?"

"Ah, Roberta..." Sarah had entered with a load of linens, hardly able 
to 
retain a giggle. "Could you gimme a hand with this?"

Roberta repeated, "Right?", taking a blanket from her mother's hands.

"Sure... you're right," Mulder answered and locked eyes with Sarah, 
who 
was short of laughing herself silly. Now he understood and curled his 
lips. There'd be a time for pay back. But right now he had enough to 
deal with himself, giving the little help he could while Sarah changed 
the sheets and pillow cases. Roberta volunteered to carry the soiled 
laundry. Watching her, Sarah realized how much work she had to do.

"I'm sorry, Mr... Mulder. Just Mulder." Again she could hardly remain 
earnest. She expected him to have a witty retort, but their 
conversation was interrupted when she heard a car drive through the 
always open gate. Hurriedly she took a look and braced herself. "We're 
in trouble," she murmured.

"Not my partner?"

"No. My husband's coming."

"Deep trouble?"

"Try to breathe."

"My gun..."

"I put it away." She shot him a look. "Nobody's shooting anybody in my 
place." She ran out of the room, shut the door, and sent Roberta down 
into the basement. The girl looked at her frightened.

"Mommy..."

"Stay put until I get you out. I mean it!" And with a heavy heart she 
added, "If you don't hear from me in thirty minutes, slip out the back 
entrance and take the horse. Take Lizzy. Ride to the next farm and 
wait there, okay?"

"To Marten's?" Roberta got a nod from her mom, then she quickly 
descended the stairs, and Sarah closed the hatch in time to cover it 
with the rug, before Charles knocked on the front door. Sarah's heart 
was beating so fast she could hear it in her ears. She wiped her damp 
palms on her skirt and opened the door. Charles would not have been 
Charles without the worn out brown leather stetson, three days' beard, 
earring, broad shoulders covered by a checkered cotton shirt, and 
jeans that needed mending. And he was wearing working boots, which 
meant he had been working somewhere nearby. He smelt like a week of 
sweating.

"My, my, my love, gone so far away?" His voice sounded slick, and she 
wondered how she could ever have loved this man so much that she would 
marry him. It was for his body, she knew, not his wits. He was big. 
Strongly built. She loved that on a man. Back then. In another life.

"You got business around here?" she asked.

"*Your* business." He let himself in, took his hat off and glanced 
around. "Nice place, darling. Did the draperies yourself?"

"Cut to the chase, Charles, I don't want you around here. So - spare 
me any compliments or whatever else is on your mind. Just leave me 
alone." She crossed her arms. Her throat was dry, and she was afraid. 
Her last encounter with her husband had ended with two bruised rips 
and a narrow escape. "Please," she added, though she knew he wouldn't 
leave.

"Oh, still the same old music. What do you like about this castrated 
goat? Ain't there nothin' you like about me?" She didn't reply, and he 
stood in the middle of the living room. "Where's Robby?"

"She is staying with a friend overnight."

Charles nodded, pursed his lips. "How convenient. She does this 
often?"

"From time to time, yes." And it wasn't a lie after all. If Roberta 
heard her now - she stopped that thought. Roberta would hear more than 
a lie from her mother tonight, if she didn't run first.

"Know how I found you?" He didn't wait for an answer. "It's not you I 
found, it's my beloved little daughter." He smiled at her. "You 
haven't changed names, y'know. I just had to ask a few people." He 
beamed with pleasure. "Won't you offer me something to drink?"

"No. I want you to leave."

He side-stepped her and went into the kitchen. "No dice. But that's 
all right, I'll help myself."

Sarah closed her eyes for a moment. She had to remain calm, talk him 
out of here, make herself as uninteresting as possible. She feared 
he'd want to stay overnight to wait for Roberta to come home. And she 
didn't want to think of what he would do to them both, if he lost his 
temper.

"There's blood on the porch," Charles said in a casual tone. He held a 
glass of coke and raised it to her.

"It's from my nose. When thinking of you I hit my head against the 
post to get rid of the memory." 

He took a sip of coke, smacked his lips and nodded as if to say, 
'Yeah, right, that's what I expected.'

"You never really learned to appreciate me, Sarah. I never stopped 
loving you, you know. And I want us to be a family again. Without you 
always running away from me." He put the glass down on the kitchen 
table, and closed the gap between him and his wife. "I do love you, 
Sarah, and I'll always find you. So, don't you think it's better you 
stop running away?" He was very close now. She could smell the coke on 
his lips, the sweat and the smoke from his cigarettes. "Make me happy, 
Sarah. You know how." He tried to kiss her.

"No, Charles, this time it's over." She pushed him away, trembling, 
fearful that he would take off his shirt and take her before he had 
dinner. "Please, I don't want this. Charles!" she shouted when he 
gripped her arm.

"Get real, Sarah, you're my wife, and I've my rights!"

"Rights!" She freed herself, stepped back. "I think you lost your 
rights long ago, got it?"

"You owe me, and you know it!" He followed her while she searched for 
a safe place to defend herself. She'd done this so often, she knew 
exactly that it would only prolong her suffering. "I love you, Sarah," 
he repeated, then stopped in his tracks. Looked at the pile of linens 
on the ground and saw the blood when he picked them up. "What's this?"

"Just a sheet."

Charles folded it out for a closer examination, then held it to his 
nose.

"Blood stains and... aftershave." He flexed his jaw muscles. "You got 
a 
guy here? You're *betraying* me?"

'Now I'm in deep shit and need a shovel to dig me out.' She didn't 
even think of reminding him that he had betrayed her for the longest 
time in their marriage. "No, I don't. Neighbors brought this over. I 
have to earn money, y'know."

Weak explanation, and he knew it. He dropped the blanket, nodded and 
decided with a quick look where to start searching.

"I'll find him. And he'll regret this!" He bolted for the door of the 
spare bedroom and not, as she had silently hoped, for the stairs. She 
ran after him, grabbed his forearm, made him stop. "Let go!" he 
growled.

"No, you stop right here! He has nothin' to do with this - with us." 
Of course she was no match for him, and he easily pushed her hand off 
and entered the room.

Charles took in the scene as if confronting the Devil himself. A man 
in his wife's bed. In his rising fury he ignored the fact that this 
was a *spare* bedroom. He gritted his teeth, breathed heavily, then 
quickly walked over. He would lock horns with this man right now and 
beat hell out of him.

"Get up, you bastard! Right now! You'll shit in your pants when I'm 
through with you!"

"He's sick!" Sarah protested, and Mulder added,

"It's not what it looks like. I had a car crash at the post..."

"I never saw no fucking car!" Charles grabbed Mulder's shoulders, 
pulled him roughly. The agent screamed in pain. Startled, Charles let 
go, drew back the cover, glanced at Sarah, who watched helplessly. 
"Your new lover - and beaten to a pulp?"

Sarah knew she should say something, but she was too upset to think.

"Anyone's an improvement, right, but he's not my lover," she stressed. 
"Now get away from him!"

"Ooh, ooh, so protective, little lady?" Charles wetted his lips, gave 
the agent a speculative look. 'I really don't need no more of this,' 
Mulder thought wearily, but said,

"She's telling the truth. I was investigating on the farms  and..."

"Investigating?" The word put fuel on the fire of Charles' fury. 
"You're a damn *cop*?" He was mad now, Sarah knew it, shook her head.

"It's the truth, Charles, so, please, get out of here!"

Charles ignored her, found the jacket and the pants, searched them and 
came up with the wallet, the case with handcuffs and the empty 
holster.

"FBI? What? *Fox* Mulder?" He mockingly stretched the 'au'. "So you 
are his 'moll' then? Fine. Really." He threw the wallet against the 
wall. "Where's the gun?" he asked the agent. Sarah hoped he wouldn't 
find the spare gun in the drawer.

"Lost it in the fight."

"Fight, hm? You'll think of it as heaven when I'm through with you." 
Mulder doubted that, but it was like the choice between a rock and a 
hard place. He was in pain, and it showed. Sarah looked at him 
worrying what would happen next. "Lost, hm?" Charles smacked his lips 
again, weighing the little leather case in his hand. "I'll take no 
chances, FBI." He took out the handcuffs.

"No, Charles, please, don't." By the way Charles looked at her, she 
instinctively knew that this was just the beginning of a frightful 
night. Listening to the way Mulder cried out in pain when he was 
handcuffed to the bedpost, she could only hope that her daughter stuck 
to the plan and ran away as soon as possible. She knew she wouldn't 
get away so lucky.



Roberta heard them talking upstairs, heard her mother's plea, and 
fearfully remembered their last encounter with her father. She sat in 
the darkness, not daring to light a flashlight, for it might be seen 
through the slits in the wood, and was biting her lips and her nails 
(she knew she shouldn't), thinking about the alternatives. She could 
wait longer and hope mom would get rid of Charles and come and get 
her, or, and this seemed more likely, she could follow her mom's 
instructions and get away. She didn't know the exact time, but to her 
it felt as if she had been waiting for hours already, rocking herself. 
It was true she had been on horseback alone in the fields, but this 
time it would be dark, and she worried she wouldn't find Marten's 
farm.

Another minute passed. Roberta sighed. The voices were further away 
now. Then she heard a scream. She rose. It hadn't been her mom; from 
experience she knew that voice in a million, so it had to be Mulder. 
She swallowed. If her so-called father was hurting the FBI agent, what 
would he do to her mom? Tears welled up and over her cheeks. Roberta 
sobbed silently. She had to do something. She didn't want her mom to 
be hurt. Not again.

Slowly and careful to avoid any sound, she opened the outer hatch and 
slipped out. The air was cool and dry, and so still a person could 
hear a mouse whisper. She rushed to the stable. The outer door was 
open, the inner one closed. She peered back, but was quite sure nobody 
could see her in the darkness.

"Hey, Lizzy," she spoke to the horse and opened the door. She couldn't 
handle the saddle, so she'd have to ride without it. She got the 
harness, though, and quickly put it on. "I know it's late, but we 
gotta go. You promise not to drop me, 'kay? I'll promise to be really 
light on your back." She led the horse out of the stable to the 
trough, which she used to climb up onto the horse's back. "Fine, I'm 
on. Do you know the way to Marten's farm? I hope I know it, too. You 
tell me when I'm wrong. Go." The mare was gentle and easily followed 
the commands. They took off over the field avoiding any lighted 
windows and escaping unnoticed.


March 23rd,
Harper's farm

Scully stood beside the body of Clint Harper, hands on her hips, 
worried expression on her face. Forensics was already on the scene, 
and she could have left, but the need to know what happened here a few 
hours ago kept her in the barn. The sheriff's men had found a severely 
injured man on the road half a mile away from the farm. They said it 
was the foreman, who had been working for Harper for more then ten 
years. They thought he had been the victim of a robbery, but finding 
the body of Mr. Harper on the grounds, and the evidence with it, 
changed this theory.

Forensics had already tested the blood. It could be Mulder's. At least 
it was his blood group. That was one point that made her sick with 
worry. The other was that he was missing. Blood was found in the barn 
and outside, then the traces of a car that had rapidly taken off. 
Footsteps beside it even while the car was moving, indicated that the 
man had tried to get into the car or get a hold of the driver. And 
Mulder's service pistol had been found near by.

She closed her eyes for a moment, praying that Mulder would be found - 
the sooner the better.


March 23rd,
Sarah's place

"Well, my little slut, I'd like some entertainment before dinner." 
Charles turned away from the handcuffed agent. Even if his weapon was 
here somewhere, he wouldn't be able to reach it. He grinned. "Oh, 
don't look at me like that. Hey, and don't look *through* me!" he 
added harshly and took the chin of his wife in his big right hand. 
"Look at *me*! He's nothin' more than a load of shit, and I'll smash 
him to pulp if you look at him again, got it?"

"Don't hurt him," Sarah managed to say as his grip tightened. She 
could see the predicament the agent was in, and she knew what would 
come if she didn't obey her husband. "I'll do what you say, but leave 
him alone."

"Oh, really, you're pleading for him? How sweet of you." Charles took 
his hand away, giving Mulder a mocking look. "She's such a lovely 
woman, don't ya think?" Gleeful, he bent over Mulder's face. "She's 
fucking good, right?"

Mulder felt the urge to do something, but he wasn't even able to 
focus. The strain on his arms extended to the stitched-up wound on his 
waist, and the only thing he tried was to stay conscious in spite of 
the pain.

"If you're her husband, you'd treat her like a lady," he pressed 
between gritted teeth.

"And you gonna teach me manners, hm?" Charles laughed. "'Tis not your 
fucking business anymore, jackass." He turned away. "Now, honey-bunny, 
let me see what you're wearin' under those clothes..."

Mulder clenched his fists. He hated his helplessness and the way Sarah 
was being deprived of her dignity as a woman. She was completely under 
her husband's control, unable to help herself. She wouldn't run. Not 
with her daughter in the house somewhere. He hadn't seen where Sarah 
had hidden her, but he hoped the place was safe. Now Mulder understood 
why Roberta hadn't said a word about her father. The experience must 
have been a torment of a lifetime to her.

He swallowed hard. Sarah had opened her skirt and dropped it on the 
floor. She wore no stockings, just pink panties. Charles' face was 
flushed with excitement. He probably thrived on holding her in the 
palm of his hand. She stared at the floor, bit her lips to hold back 
tears, and continued to take her clothes off. Mulder felt the slow 
burn of his anger. Anything he might say would likely make the 
situation worse -- for himself and for Sarah. But he had to try and 
divert Charles attention somehow.

"You know, Charles, she really is no longer yours. She's been mine for 
a long time." Though said softly, Charles' head spun around as if the 
words had hit him square in the face.

"Say that again, asshole!"

Sarah looked at Mulder in shock.

"I said, I took her long ago. As she said - anyone's an improvement." 
He tried to sound convincing; he didn't need to worry. Charles was 
eager to work his fists on the agent's face.

"No!" Sarah shouted.

"Run!" Mulder ordered her, squinting his eyes shut. His head would 
explode any second now. He wouldn't be able to do more. She had a 
chance to flee the house. She'd know where to hide. Know where to go. 
He'd heard the snorting of a horse. Maybe...

Charles' turned on his heels, shouting,

"You stay here, Sarah Jenkins, or I'll kill him for sure!" Sarah 
stopped on the threshold, crying, unable to turn back. She bit her 
lip, but couldn't avoid sobbing. "Turn 'round and come back in." 
Sarah's chin dropped to her chest. He had won. As always. There was 
nothing she could do. He'd do with her what he wanted. Until she was 
defeated and he was satisfied. And this time he'd do it with more glee 
because of the agent watching him, defeated.

Slowly she stepped closer again, risked a look at Mulder. His lower 
lip was bleeding, his eyes were closed, and she hoped for him he was 
out cold, and wouldn't hear or see what Charles did to her. She was so 
ashamed of herself standing there in her underwear, she wanted the 
Earth to open and swallow her.

"Now, now, don't behave like a frightened little rabbit, my precious 
baby, there's more to you than crying, right?" Sarah lifted her chin. 
Charles clenched and unclenched his fists. Hitting Mulder hadn't been 
more than a warm-up for him. She swallowed, knowing by the look on his 
face what he was thinking when he closed the small gap between them. 
She shivered, but she would take any punishment from her former 
husband as long as Roberta was safe. She hoped her girl had taken off 
by now. Even if her daughter spent the night outdoors it would be 
better than staying here. She wished she could be there, too.


March 23rd,
Harper's farm

"Agent Scully?" She turned and faced the officer, who ran to her. 
"Agent Scully, sheriff's on the walkie talkie for you."

She took the radio from the man standing at the car.

"Got a frightened little girl o'er here at Marten's, Agent Scully. 
Thought we'd better check. She's from the Jenkins' house, and her 
mother sent her away because of trouble."

"What kind of trouble?" Scully feared that there was still a murderer 
on the loose.

"Didn't say. But she mentioned your partner - Mulder. Over at Jenkins. 
Said he was hurt pretty badly."

"How bad?"

"No idea. Mrs. Jenkins took care of him."

"How far away is the Jenkin's house?"

"Ask Mike, he'll get you there. It's no more than a forty minute drive 
from Harper's."

Scully thanked him and asked Mike to take her over and call for 
back-up. Whatever trouble that little girl had described, she would be 
prepared for it.


March 23rd,
Sarah's place

Charles grabbed Sarah's breasts, kneaded them. His breathing was close 
to her face. "You're a wonderful woman," he muttered, while he roughly 
kissed her neck and collarbone. Sarah stood still, bit her lip. This 
was just the beginning. Kissing, kneading... kissing again, but 
then... 
"Touch me," he ordered. Sarah hesitated. Charles kissed her mouth, 
forced his tongue inside. She didn't dare to retreat. Memories of what 
he had been done to her the last time they had met flooded her. More 
tears welled up. Charles bent back. "Come on, baby, touch me", he 
repeated hoarsly, leading her hand between his legs. Sarah swallowed, 
tried to free her hand. She couldn't do what he wanted. She felt 
already sick from his odor, and kisses, and the taste of cold smoke he 
had left in her mouth. Charles nostrils flared with anger. "I said 
'touch me'!" he shouted and hit her with his palm in the face. Tears 
of pain sprang into Sarah's eyes. She hid her face behind her hands. 
"You do what I say, got it? I am your husband, for God's sake!"

"You're no husband, Charles, you're a rapist!" Mulder shouted into 
Charles' back. "You never cared for her! I do!"

"Shut the fuck up!"

"Just look at you! You claim to love her, but you only beat her!" 
Mulder felt his heartbeat in his ears, and through the pain he was 
hardly able to see or hear what was happening, but he felt the urge to 
do something, to give Sarah a second chance. He knew his strength 
wouldn't last much longer. "How could anyone love a monster like you?"

"Monster? I'll show you what a monster can do to *you*!" Charles 
turned around, ready to finish what he had begun minutes ago.

"No!" Sarah clung to his right arm. "No, Charles, don't!" He shoved 
her off, headed towards the closet. "Please, Charles, leave him alone! 
You handcuffed him! He can't do anything! Please..."

"Shut up!" Charles pushed her back, but she remained on her feet. His 
face was flushed with anger when he opened the first drawer. "I'll 
find your gun, G-man! You better start reciting your last prayer!"

"No!" Sarah pushed the drawer shut, trapping the fingers of Charles' 
right hand. He screamed, freed himself, and pushed her back so hard 
she landed on her backside. But with the horrible pictures of Mulder 
and herself covered with blood she found the strength to get up again. 
Charles rummaged through the second drawer, throwing out towels and 
wash clothes. Sarah looked around for anything that could be used as a 
weapon when Charles took out the Smith & Wesson with apparent 
satisfaction. "Charles, don't!" She grabbed at the holster, tried to 
yank it out of his big hands. They struggled with each other. Sarah 
bit Charles' hand. He lost his grip, screaming,

"Stop it or I punch your lights out!"

Sarah didn't listen. She would stay the course to get this damned 
weapon away from her husband! Somehow. She had to. Or Charles would 
kill them both.

But her victory was short-lived. Charles grabbed her hair, pulled her 
down when she tried to break away. Sarah screamed in pain, but he held 
fast.

"You're not goin' nowhere, you slut!" He twisted her arm to get the 
weapon back, then shoved her against the closet. Dizzy, Sarah slid to 
the floor. Charles fumbled with the snap fastener to pull the pistol 
out. He had never handled a gun before, and he was too excited to hear 
anything else but his own breathing and the thin whining of his 
once-beloved Sarah. He brought the weapon out. Dropped the holster. 
Wetting his lips he locked eyes with Mulder. "No last words?"

Mulder had been swimming in and out of consciousness. He had heard 
Sarah scream, but hadn't seen her run away. He hoped she made it. He 
breathed heavily, tried to focus on Charles, but only saw the muzzle 
of his spare weapon aimed straight at his head. 'Hey, Scully, how are 
you gonna to get me out of this bit of trouble?'

Outside three police cars had stopped in front of the house.

Scully got out of the first car, and pulled out her gun, ready to aim 
it at anyone who made a false move. A second interrogation of Roberta 
Jenkins had made clear that the 'trouble' came from the father of the 
child, and that he was at the house now with Roberta's mother, Sarah. 
The sheriff had praised the girl for her courage to ride for help, but 
Scully had only listened with one ear, eager to get to her partner, 
who seemed to be in more serious trouble than being attacked by a 
rejected husband.

With two officers as back-up Scully entered the house through the main 
door. Following the muffled shouts she pointed to the door of the 
small room behind the living room. They positioned themselves at the 
door frames and entered on the agent's command with guns drawn.

"Freeze!" the officer shouted before seeing what was going on.

Charles swung around, aiming the pistol at Scully. Judging by the big 
man's grim face, she expected him to pull the trigger, so she shot 
first. The bullet hit his right shoulder, and he went down screaming, 
dropping his gun. Quickly one officer was at his side, kicking the gun 
away while Scully rushed to her partner.

"Mulder..." She changed the pistol for the keys and opened the 
handcuffs. "Mulder, do you hear me?" She gently put his arms down to 
his sides. Automatically, she checked his pulse. He moaned.

"Good to see you. Take the tour bus?" His voice was barely audible, 
but she was glad he was conscious.

"Yeah. Beautiful landscape." She looked over her shoulder to Charles, 
who was being helped up and accompanied outside. The second officer 
gave Sarah a hand. She was crying again, asking,

"What about Roberta? My little girl? Did you find my little girl?"

"Go... help her," Mulder urged his partner. She briefly pressed his 
fingers, then turned around to address the woman, not without first 
ordering a third policeman to call an ambulance.

"Yes, Roberta is safe," she said in her calm voice. "She's at the 
Marten's farm. She's fine."

"Thank God!" Sarah was crying with relief now. She fumbled with her 
blouse and skirt to put them on. "You're his partner?" she asked 
softly, tears still streaming down her cheeks. Scully nodded. She 
pitied the woman, but there was nothing she could do right now. And it 
seemed to her that the only relief and joy for this woman was her 
child. "It was you shooting?" Again Scully nodded. "Thank God. I.. 
tried to get the weapon away from him, but..." Sarah wiped her face 
and looked at Mulder with a feeble smile. "I... I took him in. He's... 
he was unconscious and... hurt. I couldn't call for help and..." She 
broke off with a helpless gesture.

"You did the right thing, Sarah. He could've died out there." Scully 
took Mulder's fingers in her hand. "Thank you for your help." Sarah 
nodded and left the room asking the officer to get her to her 
daughter. "Why are you always in trouble?" she asked Mulder softly, 
who wetted his lips for an answer.

"Someone has to be."


From Agent Scully's report to AD Skinner:

Foreman Brendan Tresgood reported to police that James Harper, his 
long-time employer, had been with  suffering from a mental disorder 
for more than five years, and had apparently stopped taking his 
medicine after his wife Myra  died two and a half years ago. Harper 
had begun to see 'servants from Hell', as he described them, who 
wanted to "get him" because he hadn't been able to save his own wife 
from dying of cancer. He began bullying every stranger who came to his 
house. Due to his strange behavior, Tresgood ordered all personnel to 
meet on the fields and not to get too close to the main house or barn. 
Tresgood managed to keep the neighbors away from his employer, too, 
but he wasn't able to prevent strangers from coming to the house while 
he was on the fields at work.

Further questioning revealed that Tresgood had disposed the bodies of 
the victims in order to help Mr. Harper. He regarded the older man as 
a kind of father who had always taken care of him, so he was willing 
to do anything to keep Mr. Harper out of prison.

An examination of the victims proved that they were killed by 
hay-hooks, which were common in Europe during the 19th century. Mr. 
Harper's house was decorated with old field gear, which he collected.

An examination of Harper's body and his medical records verified 
Tresgood's testimony. Mr. Harper's life expectancy had been diagnosed 
as less than a year.


One week later,
A hospital in Des Moines, Iowa

Roberta had butterflies in her stomach entering the hospital room, 
though she knew her mother was right behind her. Mom, the sheriff, and 
everyone else had praised her more than she had ever heard before 
about how brave she had been to ride in the darkness to get help for 
her mother. 'And for Mulder,' she had added, and they had laughed and 
applauded her. Now this feeling of delight had ebbed away. Her mom had 
been treated for her bruises, and her so-called father would be locked 
away for a long time. Mom had told her that they could now live where 
they wanted to, and Roberta had chosen to stay at this house in Iowa. 
Finally she had made friends with some girls at school, and she had 
two horses to ride. She wouldn't change that for a life in a city. She 
had been frightened just to enter Des Moines, but mom had told her 
that it was to pay Mulder a visit, a reason she could easily accept.

Sarah closed the door, smiling at her daughter's behavior as well as 
Mulder's sleeping face. 'Why do men always look so peaceful while 
sleeping?' she thought. In spite of the pain she was almost 
light-hearted. She was free in a way she had never hoped to be. All 
her trouble had blown away in one night. She bent to her daughter,

"Let him sleep, honey, we'll wait outside."

Mulder stirred, slowly waking up. Roberta raised her eyebrows and 
giggled happily.

"We stay," she whispered, and waited at the foot of the bed until 
Mulder opened his eyes.

"Hi." He ran a hand through his hair. "Hello, Roberta, bravest kid of 
the week." She giggled even more, and when gently pushed, stepped 
alongside the bed. "I promise not to puke," he assured her as she 
handed him the little present. "For me?" he asked stupidly. Roberta 
cocked an eyebrow and pursed her lips.

"No. For Fox." He unwrapped the gift. A small stuffed animal - a fox 
indeed - surfaced. Roberta quickly took her tiger out of her coat. 
"See? Now you have someone to watch over you just like I have Tigger 
to watch over me."

"Thanks, Roberta, that's a nice idea." And smiling at the little -- 
but nonetheless very brave -- girl, he thought about Scully, a little 
fox, and how these two fit together.


THE END