Simon The Ripper’s Mental Musings

By Humbuggie

(c) 2003

san@sv-tales.com

Edited by Truthwebothknow1

A special thanks goes out to X-Phylia, with my utmost

thanks for (ab)using her scientific mind to get all the

complex details of this story in right order. I’m not a

scientist. Thank god for me that she is.

Written for Virtual Season 11, with a special thanks to the

team there that has created such a wonderful series. I’m

hoping that my efforts will contribute to the series’

continuing success.

Oh no, I see,

A spider web is tangled up with me,

And I lost my head,

The thought of all the stupid things I said,

Oh no what’s this?

A spider web, and I’m caught in the middle,

So I turned to run,

The thought of all the stupid things I’ve done

— Coldplay

Teaser

October 2003

Simon West liked to sing. No, he loved it. All the time. He

hummed at the office, even though the sound of music was

the furthest thing away from his ears. He chanted in the

car driving home, turning up the volume during Coldplay’s

Clocks, which he recited perfectly. He went wild on

Parachutes, too. At home, he was nuts on Dido. And when he

was in the shower, he preferred Sunday Bloody Sunday.

At school he was the boy you would always try to avoid in

the playgrounds. The one who was picked upon and teased

with his buckteeth, stupid grin and red hair above a

heavily freckled face. He was never cute, cuddly or even

slightly attractive: an awkward teen. He was off kilter.

Weird. Not the good weird, but the awkward type. Something

indefinable, something so strange, that it stirred in him a

pure hatred against women. What a miracle that he’d passed

all the psych tests to get his job; all forced upon him by

women. Women were everywhere: in the shops, the elevators,

the pharmacy, the office, the . . . well, everywhere!

A male teacher of his, one-day said: “Some people are

destined to become human

wallpaper. Just go with the flow, and you’ll be able to

live your life freely.”

Simon had taken that advice to heart; now he just sat back

and hated them all.

Today, Simon West no longer cared that women at the office

constantly took the piss out of him at work. Now he was

just the nerdy dude with the stupid Simpson’s-mug, who took

the four spoons of sugar in his coffee. The one who still

lived at his mother’s and liked her to make his lunch. In

fact, his mother was the only woman he didn’t hate. In the

end, he just learned quickly to become that unseen

wallpaper.

That night, on his way home from the office, Simon’s mind

had been made up. He had been researching all the details

for weeks online, imagining it all playing out inside his

rather large skull. He knew that he had all the equipment

now: the dark clothes, the gloves, the knife, the ropes and

“The Ultimate Guide to Ripping: A Full Companion for the

Future Serial Killer.” Lovely. He had also printed out all

the gruesome details he found described on a detailed,

known website, and also in books. He’d devoured every

single novel or reference book on Jack The Ripper; and last

week, he decided he would become him.

Jack The Ripper was his example, his god: the first serial

killer noted throughout history, becoming notorious through

his many gruesome acts and never caught. But Simon wanted

to get caught.

Perhaps he could commit one, two murders before anyone

would make the connection. Then, they would scream ‘murder’

and say that The Ripper had returned once more. At the turn

of the new millennium, someone needed to stir things up

sometimes. That someone was Simon West: Mister Ordinaire,

just like Jack The Ripper had once taken the innocence out

of London.

Simon scrubbed, shaved and dried while listening to

Radiohead’s OK Computer, and put on his black outfit.

Everything lay ready in the trunk of the car. Downstairs it

was quiet. His mother didn’t like to be disturbed after

eight, when she had cooked, cleaned and had dressed in her

satin nightgown that buttoned up to the top.

“I’m going out, mom,” he told her politely. “I’ll be back

in a few hours. Don’t worry about me.”

She didn’t respond verbally, but waved with her hand. He

locked the door from the outside and walked brusquely to

his car. His sedan waited for him. It was a run of the mill

trustworthy car, not an exciting one like most of his

colleagues drove. He left D.C. and headed for Baltimore. He

was a far cry from Victorian London, but he didn’t care.

There were plenty of alleys where he could find his whores

to kill. He had researched the areas well, and knew where

to go.

He pulled his car into an abandoned parking lot a few miles

outside of D.C. and walked over to the stolen RV he had

snatched three days ago. He’d replaced the license plates,

and paid some dude he knew to re-spray it black. It was

old, it stank strongly of dog piss but it suited the

purpose. He was in Baltimore in less than an hour.

He knew his way around quite well, having scanned the area

previously. He debated between Exeter Street, or Rhubarb

Road; deciding to pick out the latter. Plenty of working

girls hung out there, who would do anything for a dime. He

spotted groups of them on almost every corner, and a few

walking alone. He settled for the singletons.

He put on the Knicks’ cap that hid his thick red hair,

pulling it down low over his eyes. He cruised up beside a

woman dressed in black and red ass-freezer dress.

“A blow, baby?” she purred instantly, lingering

suspiciously near the RV.

“I’m looking for a girl named Mary Ann,” he whispered

hoarsely, and then felt totally ridiculous. Who in their

right mind would listen to this shit and not be put in mind

of a B-movie?

But the working girl smiled. “You’re in luck baby, I’m Mary

Ann.”

“No, you’re not. I need a Mary Ann. A real one.”

“I can be whoever you want, darling.” He watched her

chewing gum working back and forth through her teeth. In

his mind’s eye, he pretended to choke her, to shove that

gum as far down her gullet as possible, blocking off the

air in her windpipe and have her suffocate on it.

“I want someone named Mary or Ann, or both. Got it?” he

hissed menacingly.

She froze for a second or two, and waved out her hand

instinctively. “There’s an Ann standing right over there.

The blonde bimbo with the leather boots. But she doesn’t

blow as well as I do.”

“I’m sure she’ll die better,” he muttered under his breath

as he drove off, leaving the redhead dazzled. Before long,

he had reached the blonde and asked if her name was Ann.

“Yeah,” she replied broadly.

He was angry that her hair wasn’t the right color, but

hell, that didn’t matter. “Hop in.” He threw open the door

and allowed her inside.

“No way,” she said. “Around that corner there’s a small

motel. I’m not doing you in your car.”

“Get in then, I’ll drive you.”

She hesitated. He took off his cap. She relaxed. “You seem

okay.”

She stepped in gingerly and they drove around the corner,

not even that far from where her friends normally worked.

But instead of going inside the cheap, sleazy motel that

was a magnet for hookers and their customers, he parked the

car one block down.

“Do you know why you are going to die?” he asked in a

friendly, matter of fact manner.

She startled and went for the door. He grasped her wrist.

“Do you?”

“No,” she squealed.

“Because you’re a stupid bitch woman with a stupid name

like Mary Ann who can’t keep her legs closed, and just begs

to be killed in some equally stupid alley, slashed by a

Ripper knife. That’s why.” He ground out a sliver of anger

between clenched teeth.

“Are you stoned?” she asked as calmly as she could manage.

He smiled. “I’m high on life, baby.”

“I’m calling the cops!”

He laughed. “You do that.”

In a flash, he’d grasped her by the hair and pushed her

down hard, smashing her head against the filthy dashboard.

She was stunned instantly. He left the RV and dragged her

out from the passenger side, wearing his gloves. Strands of

her hair remained on his clothing. He pulled her to the

ground, and then onto the wet pavement glistening from the

night’s rain.

Then he worked swift and fast, summoning up the gory

details that he almost knew from the top of his head.

Within three minutes he was gone, leaving her carved-up

body for her friends to find. Blood flowed from underneath

her body, twisting like a dark serpent into the drains

beside her. The cuts were exactly as the real Jack would

have made them.

Simon West’s voice remained calm until he reached his own

car again. He had been careful not to leave a single trace

inside the RV, still wearing his gloves. The bloodied

clothing he had quickly replaced for another set. He would

wash everything and re-use them the next time.

His mother would be long asleep by the time he got home,

under the influence of her sedative, and leave him to his

grisly devices. He felt strangely calm and started humming

to himself without music. By the time he’d reached his own

car again, he was ready to sing.

The voice never trembled even slightly as it passed to

mimic Coldplay’s volume. He switched on A Rush Of Blood To

The Head and sang every word perfectly.

It was a rush indeed.

The following morning, Simon West left for the office as

usual, dressed in a decent gray suit, with shiny black

shoes and an old-fashioned, boring tie. He used his badge

to gain access to the building, to his department on the

first floor, and ultimately to his desk.

“You’re late,” his female boss snapped. “We’re already

running behind on all these case files. Assistant Director

Miles is not happy with us right now, you know. The VCU

needs to score quickly, and the backlog is not helping

matters. Where the hell is your analysis?”

He thought of killing her right there. Instead, his face

smiled bravely. “I’ll stay behind late today and make sure

he gets everything.”

“You’d better. It’s your fault entirely, Simon. You don’t

work fast enough. Your work is a mess.”

Simon stretched his back, switched on his computer, and

accessed the Bureau’s most sacred databases, before

glancing unhappily at the amount of paperwork piled on his

desk. He glanced at his watch, wondering how long it would

take before anyone would drop the file on his desk, and ask

him to start researching data. His file. His crime.

Now that would give him quite a kick.

Act I

“I see. I see … I see. I see Nachos. Hot dogs.

Basketball. The New York Knicks vs the Washington Wizards.

The MCI Center. I see … I see … I see us there. Sunday

night. Eight p.m. Two tickets.”

Dana Scully waited in barely contained amusement, until her

partner in every sense of the word, was finished hocus

pocusing before stepping into the basement office they’d

shared for so long. She never missed a beat while strolling

to the desk, placing her briefcase on top of it, and

crossing her arms over herself.

Mulder sat at his desk, a hand held over his eyes, and the

other over two tickets he’d no doubt paid a fortune for.

They were front row center court, right behind the visitors

bench, the most expensive seats he could lay hands on. He

opened his eyes. “Oh yes, that’s our future, baby.”

“I see us working on Sunday evening,” she retorted. “There

goes your prediction. Or did you get that from the

Stupendous Yappi?”

Mulder looked up in quasi-shock. “Working, Agent Scully? On

a Sunday? Besides, is Yappi still in business? Last time I

heard, he was living in Australia predicting the future of

Skippy the Kangaroo, after declaring to the world that Al

Gore would beat the crap out of Bush, Jr.”

“Yes, Agent Mulder. Working. And the last thing I heard is

that Yappi’s working in Caesar’s Palace, Vegas, where he

urges zillions of filthy-rich men and women to spend

millions of bucks on the slots; telling them erroneously

which one is going to pop at any second.”

“Oh please, no work, Scully. Not this weekend! Is this

coming from the woman who vowed a long time ago that her

weekends were sacred, and that no one in this world could

drag her into becoming a weekend working girl?”

“Don’t forget mentioning that I also said Easter and

Christmas should fall together.” Scully lingered around his

desk, before sitting on top of the two tickets, nearly

squashing her partner’s hand in the process. “I should add

that it’s not my idea to work, but unfortunately it needs

to be done. This weekend. I’m sorry about your tickets.”

“Okay, where’s the fire?”

“We’ve had that already. It’s AD Henry Miles.”

“The new guy in VCU? I heard he was a hard ass, but since

when does he get to order us around?” Mulder groaned, “Did

he get lost on the way to his office?

Or is he attempting to replace Skinner who’s enjoying a

peaceful weekend in the City of Angels?”

“Well, actually, Skinner did tell us he would replace him

during his absence.”

“Which means that we have to obey the New Big Bad Boss. I

know,” Mulder sighed. “Ah well. So, what does he want?”

“I’m guessing he’s shooting under Skinner’s feathers. He

wants an evaluation of all our cases of the last year,

going meticulously over all the details from A to Z. Even

though you have an eidetic memory, I don’t see how we can

pull this off in less than a day. We are lousy admins,

Mulder. We both put it off until the very last moment. This

place is a mess, too; the cabinet is sloppy, the dust

bunnies will start an uprising soon. The cleaning lady

hasn’t been here for ages.”

“Says who?” Mulder smiled.

Scully ran a finger in a slow line through the grot on top

of that filing cabinet, pursing her lips with a hint of

annoyance, and lifted her finger up, shoving it under

Mulder’s nose. “Says my finger. Anyhow, it’s Friday and he

waited until eight a.m. this morning, while I stood in the

elevator with him, to throw this at me. Perhaps he’s

psychic too, and remote-viewed the tickets lying around on

your desk.”

“Tough.” Mulder leaned backwards, almost losing his grip on

the chair, dangling between empty space and the desk.

“He’ll get everything that’s in my head and that’s it. If

he wants a complete evaluation he can go run it by that

analyst guy they have ensconced in dust on the first floor.

I’m sure he can stump up all the crappy details that AD

Miles gets off on. Remember him? The Freckle Dude. He knows

it all, and it’s right there in his computer, sitting next

to Miles’s office. I’m sure he’s got no plans for the

weekend.”

“Are you really going to tell him that?” Scully smiled.

“The Freckle Guy will get all the blame, while you’re

shouting out obscenities from your top notch seat in all

your juvenile glory?”

“If he doesn’t like it, he can serve my head on a platter,

after we’ve seen the game. Now, grab your coat, Agent

Scully and take a walk with me.”

“Where to?”

“Starbucks. I’m thirsty. Didn’t have my CafŽ LattŽ this

morning, as you well know.”

“Oh Mulder.”

“What?” He stopped at the door and turned towards her.

“It’s not like we’re swamped with work right now. I’m

actually thinking of reopening up the Titanic case to see

if they didn’t crash into a UFO instead of a boring

iceberg, so at least we can go do a little sea trip, and do

something useful for a change. Hell, I’ll even watch the

movie with you for the twenty-fifth time, while running

back and forth serving you peanuts and cola. Anything’s

better than opening the Weekly World News for the umpteenth

time, hoping that one of the fake anal probing stories is

not so fake after all. Do you know that an eighty-year-old

man claimed he was probed and prodded for the use of his

sperm, to create alien-human hybrids? He’s suing the mental

institution he’s lived in since 1986, because they forgot

to lock their doors at night.”

She laughed. “If you put it that way, I’m fairly certain

that there’s a reason why you’re suddenly so keen to check

out the new flavors at Starbuck’s. They have great

frappucino’s there by the way, and I wouldn’t mind trying

one.”

“Yes. Thank you God!” Mulder exclaimed, waving his hands in

the air. “Agent Scully finally saw The Light, and is no

longer sucking down tofu crappy thingies.”

The second he opened the door; he was halted by a man

trying to enter at the same time. An almost inaudible groan

came from Mulder’s mouth, when he realized that the one man

he didn’t really care for right now stood before them.

Assistant Director Henry Miles.

“Coffee, sir?” The agent asked, broadly smiling.

“You can have that at the VCU, Agent Mulder. From what I

hear, they have excellent hospital-taste blend that will

open up your sinuses for the next two days. Walk with me.

Now, if you please.”

Miles marched off around the corner, before the X-Files-

agents could utter another word. Mulder threw down his

coat, glared at his partner and exclaimed, “Dead man

walking!” before sashaying after the Assistant Director,

shaking his ass. Scully trembled with laughter, muffled

only with the back of her

hand when Miles turned suddenly, and threw them the most

poisonous glare he could muster from his sizable

repertoire. Where was Skinner when you needed him?

The VCU was buzzing with activity as it always was. Mulder

saw people chatting, talking, discussing, and laughing.

Here, the most gruesome cases in the world were handled.

People who were ten times worse than Hannibal The Cannibal

were being sought, taken down and readied for trial.

Laughter was natural in the bowels of the VCU: it was a

safety valve; their way of ridding themselves of the

anxieties one experienced on a daily basis.

There were a lot of new Special Agents there now, and

plenty of profilers, Mulder thought. The VCU had expanded

quite a bit after 09-11, when suddenly the world seemed to

be filled with more danger and serial killers than ever.

Some said that the New Millennium was actually the cause: a

lot of weirdos out there thought they were the new Jack The

Ripper, or Boston Strangler and wanted their five minutes

of fame. Jerry Springer didn’t cut it anymore. The only way

to get publicity now was by slaughtering and killing.

It had been a while since Mulder was asked to profile a

case at the VCU. They had been quite busy lately with their

own cases, which also involved a number of strange

killings. So why were they here now?

Miles ordered the two newcomers to sit down in the room

filled with FBI colleagues, and walked up front.

“Revenge,” Mulder hissed at his partner. “We probably

forgot to clean his toilet.”

Scully leaned relaxed into Mulder’s side, as they perched

sitting on the edge of a desk, before whispering back, “If

this has to do with your little trip to the Rock and Roll

Hall of Fame in Cleveland a few weeks ago, you know, the

one that you tried to reimburse through your expense

account, I swear I’m impounding your desk right here and

now, and throwing your name plate in the garbage. I told

you he wouldn’t go for the ‘Elvis was an alien’ angle.”

He smiled and turned to her. “If I were ever abducted by

aliens, I’m sure that’s the first thing you would do

anyhow. My name plate wouldn’t survive a fortnight.”

She showed him the broadest of grins, just as Miles turned

towards them and voiced coldly, “I hope the joke was funny,

Agent Scully because I can assure you that this case is

not. The details I’m about to tell you are not so humorous.

Keep that in mind when I show you the following photos. I

hope none of you had a large breakfast of bacon and eggs,

or any other cholesterol-laden junk you might chow down in

the local diner. This is not good for the appetite. You

have been warned.”

Before Mulder could quip, gruesome photos of four carved up

bodies were passed around the room, silencing the eight men

and women gathered there. Scully and Mulder, who were the

last to receive them, watched how their colleagues faces

became red and then pale, and how some balked and looked

away. A young woman, who obviously was brand new at the

VCU, rushed out of the room, taking deep breaths in an

attempt not to spew out in the hall. Miles ignored her.

“What is it?” Mulder asked as the photos were handed to

him. He too became very silent when the photos lingered in

his hands. He had seen a lot of gruesome stuff in his

lifetime, but this really took the cake. His eyes took in a

morass of flesh, blood, and the remains of other various

human tissues, as yet undermined. There was simply nothing

really that could easily explain the intent behind such a

vicious crime. This wasn’t done by a human, but by a

monster. He had seen such photos before: more blurry and

out of date, but definitely in the same manner.

“We’re not looking for Hannibal The Cannibal this time,” he

groaned as he handed Scully the photographs. “More like the

MO of Jack The Ripper.”

“Indeed.” Miles looked straight at his agent. “You hit it

on the nail, Agent Mulder. It seems that we might.”

“Sir?” Scully asked, swallowing back the disgust at seeing

such gruesome details.

Miles stretched his back and looked around the room.

“The agents I have in here are top notch, and the very ones

that I need to resolve this matter quickly and silently.

That’s why you are starting immediately; you will drop

everything else you’ve been working on. You will work on

this case non-stop, until we find the killer who butchered

the four women I’ve just shown you.”

Miles paced through the room; satisfied that he was

grabbing the attention he sought.

“The bodies you have just seen belonged to four working

girls in the Baltimore area. They have been noted as

professional hookers for at least four years. All of them

were sliced and diced over the past three nights, with

every subsequent act becoming more gruesome. Last night

there were two bodies discovered in the same area, only a

hundred feet from each other. None of these women have any

connection to each other, or to anyone else. Different

pimps, different areas, different features, different

names. Yet they were not taken randomly. They appear to

have been taken because of their names. Names that concur

with the prostitutes that Jack The Ripper killed in London

during the late 1800’s. The method of murder is also the

same. Since the case of Jack The Ripper has become quite

notorious over the years, all these details can be found in

abundance on the Internet and in books.”

“How did you make the connection, sir?”

“The killer made it for us,” Miles continued in stiff tone,

and then looked at Mulder. “Agent Mulder, I happen to know

that you studied the case of Jack The Ripper during your

time at Oxford. I am sure you could convey the particulars

of the story to your colleagues.”

Mulder stepped forward feeling as if he were back in

school, and had been asked to draw a mathematical

calculation on the board, slightly uncomfortable because it

was Miles’s scrutiny he was most under.

“I don’t recall all the details anymore, sir. I can give

you a summary.”

“Go ahead.”

“I believe the murders occurred sometime in the fall of the

year 1888. Jack The Ripper selected prostitutes from

Whitechapel, a London District, and murdered them in a very

vicious way. He was considered the very first serial

killer, and even though there are plenty of ideas of how

and why he did it, in the end it became clear that every

murder became more gruesome, as though his anger escalated.

They knew of at least five murders he actually committed,

but there were constant rumors of a total of eight or nine

murders. He left a message written in chalk on a door at

one point, which led people to believe he was a Freemason.

Since chalk was quite expensive in that time, the only ones

who would have afforded it were doctors, carpenters,

butchers or craftsmen.”

“Do you recall what that message was, Agent Mulder?”

I smiled and looked at him. “Of course I do: ‘The Juwes are

the men That Will Not Be Blamed for nothing’. Interestingly

enough, for an educated man, he miswrote the word ‘Juwes’.

The murders stopped after he almost totally decimated the

body of one young prostitute. He then disappeared. He also

sent letters to the police, taunting them to catch him, but

they never did. Oh and I personally believe it was the

doctor sir, even though I have seen the movie, From Hell,

where they claimed the killer was conspiratorially linked

to the royal family.”

“Very good, Agent Mulder,” Miles muttered with a wry grin

on his lips; taking a photo that had been tucked inside the

map he was holding. It was a photo of a sentence written in

chalk on a green, old door.

“The Juwes are the men That Will Not Be Blamed for

nothing,” he repeated aloud. “That’s our link, ladies and

gentlemen, the sign that our Ripper wanted to leave us.

We’ve got a copycat killer on our hands, and only one more

murder to go before he finishes his grisly spree, if he’s

true to Ripper form. If he is stopping, that is.”

Miles focused on the faces of his agents. “This man is

eager to get the slashings over and done with. In the real

Ripper-case, the killings happened over a period of nearly

two months. Our killer has killed four women in the past

three nights, and I’m fairly certain he’ll go for his fifth

victim tonight. This means that we only have this afternoon

to solve this matter. By tomorrow morning, it could all be

over.”

“With all due respect, sir,” an agent from the back asked.

“But why didn’t we know about this earlier?”

“The Baltimore police didn’t really seem to care much about

hookers being offed,” Miles retorted coldly. “Until it

turned out that the last victim was the estranged daughter

of one of their most famous surgeons. He has threatened to

inform the press over the lackadaisical police behavior,

and also slam Baltimore PD if they didn’t contact us. So

now their blood is on our hands, so to speak.”

“What did they do wrong, sir?” Scully asked curiously.

“It’s what they didn’t do: like sending samples of the

victims’ clothing to the labs, non-prioritized. It takes at

least a week then before the results to come back. I am

certain we can do much better than that.”

“Does that mean, sir, that we didn’t have that evaluation

on Monday?” Mulder suggested. Miles didn’t laugh.

“I want feedback on this quickly. The local press is

starting to catch on now that the rumor about the surgeon’s

daughter has made its way onto CNN, and they’re not happy

that the Baltimore P.D. has been treating this case as a

couple of unrelated murders. We need results, and we need

them fast. Agent Moore, you are in charge of this

investigation, because you’re the senior agent in VCU. I

want everyone to report to you. You in turn, will report to

me. Set up shop here and move quickly.”

Moore smiled in a self-assured, quite cocky way. He was an

agent with the mental agility of a goose, Mulder thought.

Of all the people in the VCU, why did Miles have to pick

him? Why not Kenny Andrews, who was a much better profiler?

It wasn’t even as if Moore had the brains to solve such a

case. Or was it because Miles knew Moore would never get

much press coverage?

“Agent Mulder, why are you still lingering about? I suggest

you take your partner and your awe-inspiring brain to the

morgue and get an idea of what these photos really look

like up close and personal. Since you’re the resident

Ripper-expert, I want you in the field. Let someone else do

the profiling. Hell, we’ve already got the MO/profile. Just

go to http://www.casebook.org and scan the information at hand.”

With that, the AD Miles disappeared down the hall to his

office and slammed the door, startling most of the agents

working on the floor.

Mulder’s eyes followed Miles, catching a glimpse of the

Freckle Guy who sat at his desk typing furiously away,

while a woman waved hand gestures over his head; obviously

shouting at him. The redheaded man didn’t even seem to

notice, stuck in his own world.

What was his name again? Mulder tried to remember,

concluding that he didn’t even know it. Ah well. He

shrugged and turned towards Scully. “It seems that the

slicing and dicing has already been done for you. But how

about we take a look?”

She pulled a face. “No frappucino’s today. You’d better

sell those tickets too. We’re never going to make it.”

“Wanna bet I can solve this case tonight, and we’ll still

make the tip-off?”

“You’re on, Mulder, for two frappucino’s.”

“You’ll choke on them, Scully. Your insides will freeze up

and you’ll have an ice cream tofutti frozen yogurt

headache.”

She smiled, and whispered for him alone to hear. “Who says

I’ll drink them?”

The morgue had always been an eerie place for Mulder, but

not so for his partner, who somehow always managed to get a

certain sparkle in her eyes, betraying her excitement. This

was her territory and he felt awkwardly out of place.

Give him psychic abilities any time. Or a profile to

create. Or Jack The Ripper. Even though he wouldn’t admit

it to anyone, he did know the whole case by heart,

including all the names of the victims. He had read at

least a dozen books on the subject, and knew all the

theories by heart. It was one of the reasons why he became

so intrigued in psychology in the first place. That, and

novels by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, whose Sherlock Holmes

made solving crimes seem so easy and inspiring.

Back in Oxford, he’d started to get acquainted with all the

details of the case, even jotting down his own notes and

theories. He had done the Ripper tour in London, and walked

through Whitechapel to get a feel for the place, as it

would have been a hundred years ago. Unfortunately the

streets were no suburbanized, and there was nothing left of

the old town, except a few churches and original pubs here

and there. He knew the Casebook website well, and had even

contributed theories to it. He had the special edition of

From Hell, and loved to theorize that Jack The Ripper had a

connection to the royal family; as suggested in both the

film and popular myth. He didn’t care much for the monarchy

anyhow.

The notion that there might be someone out there

copycatting The Ripper was more than exciting for Mulder.

In fact, were it not for the deadline, he would be looking

forward to going head to head with a Ripper-copycat.

Perhaps, if he were lucky, the killer might even be a

reincarnation! How cool would that be?

Mulder’s resolve lessened slightly, as his eyes took in the

remains of the washed bodies of the three victims. Good

thing he’d passed on that Starbucks Coffee. It probably

would have shot back up his throat. It really was gruesome.

No, more than that. It was horrific, disgusting and very

much an act of pure misogynistic hatred. Whoever did was

mentally deranged. Either that, or had a real hard on for

The Ripper.

“They were all slashed across the throat,” the coroner

started to explain. “But from there come the differences.

Entrails are missing. This victim is missing a nose. She -”

Mulder found himself swaying off, as the monotone voice of

the coroner droned on and on, with gory detail after gory

detail, of the final moments before the women all met their

deaths. Good thing The Ripper had thoughtfully slashed

their throats first, before committing his gruesome deeds,

he thought. One cannot imagine what it must have been like

to die in such a manner: alone and abandoned by the world

that lived and breathed only a few seconds away.

Mulder didn’t need to know all the details. He knew them,

as well as he knew the first names of the women who lay

here. He looked at their distraught, ghastly pale faces and

suddenly it struck him, that there was only one night and

one victim left. The clock was ticking.

“Scully, I’m going to head back to the office,” Mulder cut

in, interrupting the discussion. “I have to talk to Moore

about where to go from here.”

“How am I going to get back?” she asked, surprised.

“I’ll drop you off,” the coroner proposed. “I’m heading

there for a couple of meetings in an hour anyhow.”

“Oh. Okay.” She looked at her partner. “You go then. Don’t

go anywhere without me, okay?”

“Yes, boss.” He winked and left the coroner’s office

hastily. Outside, he gulped down a few deep breaths,

grateful for the fresh air that filled his lungs. His

stomach still felt queasy, but already he was gathering

thoughts and formulating ideas on what to do next.

“But lunch first,” he muttered under his breath, and

crossed the street to buy two, extra ketchup laden hotdogs

from the vendor.

Simon West was a man without nerves. He’d learned to forget

how to be nervous, while growing up being pestered by just

about anyone. He had taught himself not to show any

emotions.

Yet, the second he learned his file had opened at the FBI

he felt excitement grow inside of him. This was better than

sex! Not that he knew what sex was, of course. This was how

it felt to score a goal or touchdown, or have a number one

hit in the charts. It felt so good. Fabulous. Orgasmic.

His boss, Vera Thompson, threw a thin new file on his desk.

“I want you to look up all the data you can on Jack The

Ripper. File all the information under the name “John Doe

Ripper”. We need it now instead of tonight. Mandatory

overtime.”

“Yes.” His fingers lingered on the label stuck onto it.

John Doe, he thought. How he wished he could announce that

his name was Simon. Simon The Ripper. Now, didn’t that have

a cool ring to it? Oh, if only someone would figure it out.

He was growing tired of murdering, anyhow. Good thing

tonight was the last one, even though it would be the

hardest one of all. The original Jack really had his way

with that last hooker; almost turning her inside out. His

stomach clenched in anticipation. Ah well, he was used to

the blood already. In his mind, he was merely butchering

pigs and chickens, not humans.

If only they would find his little hint. He had hoped the

Feds would have been on the case two days ago. Stupid

Baltimore cops. Why had they dithered so long? Simon

started scanning the Net; stored and then printed out data

on The Ripper. He knew all the websites by heart.

He looked up again to find Fox Mulder standing at his desk.

With one startling gesture, Simon brought his index finger

to his mouth, nibbling on his fingernail; a habit he’d

nurtured fifteen years ago. Pieces of the nail stuck on his

tongue and in his mouth; he flushed a scarlet red.

“Do you mind if I take what you have already?” came the

agent’s friendly request.

Simon, for the first time face to face with the man he had

admired for so long, just nodded quietly. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks eh -”

“Simon. Simon West.”

“Thanks, Simon.” Mulder turned around and walked to the

conference room reserved for the agents working on the

case. Simon’s eyes followed him until he closed the glass

door. The data analyst sighed deeply. If only he would be

the one to find the little lead Simon had planted for them.

Mulder had one of the most astute minds in the FBI. It

couldn’t be that hard to catch him, now could it?

ACT II

“How many cops are guarding the area?” Moore asked his

partner, Lane, a feisty female, who looked more man than

woman. Mulder smiled because he knew Lane. A long time ago,

before Scully breezed into his office, rumor had it that

Blevins had earmarked either Lane or Scully for the job of

Mulder-Watch. Good thing they picked Scully. He couldn’t

possibly imagine himself working day and night with this

volatile creature.

“According to the Baltimore P.D.? Too many already.”

“They still don’t give a shit, do they?”

“If it hadn’t been for the surgeon, they would have passed

on this case. They see hookers every day. They feel this

guy is probably just doing them a favor by cleaning up the

city.”

Mulder smiled while continuing to scan the photos and

coroner’s report that had been e-mailed to them earlier. He

had the original Ripper’s coroner’s reports next to him, as

well as the original photographs that were printed out by

Simon The Freckle Guy.

“Something’s off,” he finally said after half an hour of

intense reading, startling most of the agents who were

working just as intently, on their share of the

information. Moore left his desk and walked over.

“What? What do you see?”

“The last victim has been killed differently. If he

followed the original Ripper MO, her body would have been

much more severely decimated than it is. He left it pretty

much intact, and I’m wondering why.”

Mulder looked up at Lane. “Didn’t the Baltimore cops say a

man almost caught him in the act?”

“Yeah, an eyewitness heard a scream, went to look and found

her dead.”

“Yet he still had to time to carve up bits and pieces of

her, but not everything. Interesting. Now tell me, if you

were a serial killer, Agent Lane, would you still take your

time slicing, when at any point in time you could be

disturbed by a sailor, or pimp?”

“I would get the hell out of there.”

“Quite interesting,” Mulder muttered. “Especially since the

Ripper liked

to cut his victim’s throats; severing the vocal cords in

one drag. Assuming he took his time to carve into her, how

could the victim have screamed without a voice?”

“So -?” Moore asked.

“Our guy left a chalk message on a door, and he didn’t

follow the full procedure on the Catherine-victim. That

means he wants us to believe he was nearly caught in the

act. In truth, I believe he might be leaving us a clue, and

perhaps that is, that he wanted to get caught.”

“If he wanted to get caught, he would have waited.”

Mulder smiled. “Agent Moore, the first thing you learn

while studying serial killers, is that most of them have an

unspoken urge that needs to be fulfilled. They almost dare

us to stop them. The duality is that they want to get

caught, but don’t want to. You know?”

“Agent Mulder, I’m sure your theory will amount to

something but -”

“All the other victims were killed in the exact same manner

as the original ones, Agent Moore. Meticulously up to the

smallest detail: the way the bodies were placed, the way

they were carved up, the entrails that were missing, …

everything. Only, in 1888 it was the third victim that was

left in one piece, because the Ripper got caught. The

theory was that he killed a second woman that same night to

satisfy his blood lust. But here, our Ripper was killing

his fourth victim, while the police had already found the

third. Yet, he left her in one piece too. Why would he do

that, if not to leave us a breadcrumb?”

“Aren’t you reading into details too far, Mulder?” Moore

smiled nervously.

“I don’t think so. I’m wondering – could I have that

description on the victim’s clothing again?”

“Leather skirt, black panties, high black heels, short top,

push-up bra,” Lane read out in detached monotone. “Just

enough to leave some skin covered.”

“And enough clothing to leave smudges or traces on the

leather. A fingerprint or DNA, perhaps. Wouldn’t that be

great? I mean, I know the clothing has already been

examined for prints, semen and all that, but we know that

we can do better. Do you know where it is?”

“At the coroner’s, I’m sure. He would have picked it up,

had the killer used his bare hands, Mulder,” Moore said.

“You’re looking for things that aren’t there.”

“It won’t be on the clothes then. Whatever trace he left of

himself, it must be on her body somewhere.”

Mulder grasped his cell phone and dialed Scully’s number.

“Hey, traitor,” she said, picking up.

“Hey, are you still at the coroner’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Could you do me a favor, and ask the coroner to go over

the last victim’s abdominal area again, to find any

possible residual tissue or semen from our perp?”

“Mulder, she was a hooker. I’m fairly certain there will be

DNA from more than one person on her body.”

“Do you?” he winked.

“But I should check the clothes, too. I have this hunch our

killer might have left behind a few clues there.”

“You’re right,” Mulder agreed. “Get on it.”

“Yes, Mr. Bossman.”

After Mulder hung up, he turned to find Simon West, staring

across at him from behind his desk. The redheaded man rose

up and walked slowly over to him. Mulder leaned back in

anticipation, as the other agent handed more printouts to

him.

“Is it true you’re looking for a Ripper copycat?” Simon

asked quietly.

“Yep.”

“Great. I mean, fascinating. If there’s anything I can do –

”

“How are you fixed in the coffee department?” Moore yelled

over his shoulder, then grinned broadly at his own stupid

joke.

Simon turned crimson, and left before Mulder could utter

another word. The agent stared at the other man’s slumped

walk, realizing who West reminded him of: Rain Man.

Minutes later, Mulder’s phone rang.

“You were right,” Scully spoke excitedly over the phone.

“We picked up enough tissue to get a DNA-sample, and should

have it analyzed within the next twenty-four hours.”

“We don’t have twenty-four hours, Scully. If our theory is

correct, he’ll be slicing before midnight. That’s in about

seven hours. You’re not giving me much of a window here. In

fact, if the analysis is that late, it will not help one

bit.”

“Mulder, have you got any idea how complicated it is to

perform a DNA-test? In normal circumstances, a person has

to wait two weeks to find out if he fathered a child. So be

glad they can rush this through in a day.”

“Yeah but we have a great, big and beautiful lab in the FBI

that can do this in a matter of hours. We need you to pull

some strings here, Scully. Your Quantico-colleagues will do

you a favor, right? I’m sure they can speed things up a

little bit.”

“Right,” she sighed. “I’ll head over there myself. So, what

are you going to do?”

“Me? I’m going clubbing.”

“Ha ha, very funny.”

“Seriously. Since ‘Field Marshall’ Miles wants me as a

field agent on this, I am going to the area myself to check

out some bars. There might still be a remote possibility

our John is killing off the competition, even though I

don’t think so. I’ll probably be home late tonight,

darling.”

“Mulder, you’re not going by yourself, are you?”

“Of course not. I’ve got Agent Moore to keep me company

even though he looks more like a Fed than most of those

stereotypes on Die Hard. Plus, he isn’t as gorgeous as you

are. I’m telling you, this guy has F.B.I. written all over

him. I’d be better off alone.”

“Don’t you dare do that, Mulder, I’ll go with you.”

“Nah. We’ll need you as a decoy later on to play Mary

Kelly.”

“Who?”

“The last victim. She was a redhead too, did you know

that?”

“Funny, Mulder. I’ll talk to you later.”

Mulder smiled as he pocketed his phone, and then looked in

shock at Moore for a second as something hit him. The agent

lived only a block down from the office, and had gone back

and forth to change for their night out. And there he

stood: dressed in the most overtly, flashy colors ever. He

looked like a Hawaiian pimp. The shirt screamed

‘Undercover’ all over it.

“Oh.my.god.” Mulder couldn’t help but muffle his laughter

at the sight of the cowboy boots, and greasy slicked black

hair combed back on his head.

“What?” Moore asked innocently. “Don’t I look okay?”

“Moore, how long as it been since you’ve been in a bar?”

“Hmm, about fifteen years.”

“And before that, you mirrored yourself on Magnum P.I.? You

even have Tom Selleck’s chest hair? Jeez, the only thing

missing is the mustache.”

“Actually, I have a fake one -”

“Save it, Moore. Come with me, I’ll help you out.” Mulder

got up and patted his colleague on the back. “I’ll

transform you into a sexually obsessed forty-something in

no time.”

As the other agents shared instructions on their duties for

the following hours from Moore, Mulder caught Simon West

hanging around his desk looking quite bored. He didn’t know

what it was about West that somehow made him feel sorry for

the man. Was it because he really was the garbage bin of

the office? Because no one seemed to give him a break? He

didn’t know.

Yet West seemed to be the type of guy that actually

belonged in a sleazy bar, seated on a stool while some

bimbo danced around a pole for a buck or two. With him,

they would definitely look undercover.

“How’s Miles on lending out people?” Mulder asked, turning

to Moore. “I’d like to take The Freckle Guy as our third

man.”

“Who? West?? Mulder, he’s a first class loser. He’ll do

nothing!”

“Indeed, that’s what I’m looking for. He’ll fit right into

those bars we are going to visit. Better than you faking it

as Magnum P.I. and ready for the karaoke club.”

“Miles will never allow this.”

“He’s not here right now, right?”

“No, he’s in a meeting with the new Deputy Director.”

“Goodie.” Mulder walked over to West and tapped on the

desk. West looked up in sheer awe, surprised that once

again he was called upon.

“How about a night on the town in Baltimore?”

West suddenly smiled broadly, revealing a set of perfect

white teeth. “I love Baltimore! But can I call my mother

first and tell her I’ll be late?”

Moore groaned loudly.

With Simon West sitting quietly as a little boy in the back

of the car staring outside, Mulder started a conversation

with Moore, who seemed to admit there was a slight issue

between the agents.

“I know what you’re thinking, Mulder,” he said. “You don’t

think I can handle this case.”

“I don’t care either way, Moore. To be honest, I’m just

here to do a job, and then on to the MCI Center to catch

the game.”

“Yes, you do care. You’re like a kid on a playground. You

feel right at home in this kind of world. Is that because

you’re dealing with monsters every day?”

“The human psyche is a monster, Agent Moore. It doesn’t

matter if you chase human weirdoes or whatever. In the end,

it all boils down to one thing: everything happens for a

reason. Find that reason, and you find your killer.”

“Does a creep like that need a reason to murder?”

“They never do. They act on their instincts.”

From the rear came a sound. Simon opened his mouth and

caught Mulder’s glare in the rearview mirror. He cleared

his throat, and stretched his back a bit. “Don’t you think,

Agent Mulder, that someone can kill just to get rid of some

desires, but for no particular reason at all?”

Mulder smiled sympathetically. “They all do that, West.

Every single one of them. We humans are a veritable

cornucopia of desires and urges. It’s just the question of

if you act upon them.”

“And what if that man doesn’t know how to stop anymore?”

“Then he will be stopped, one way or another. That’s where

law enforcement is vital.”

Mulder never took any of his colleagues home, save for

Scully and Skinner, but he wasn’t about to let the Hawaiian

Shirt Agent become the cause of any them getting hurt. So

the two agents followed Mulder into his apartment, the two

of them looking around curiously. Moore, because he’d

always wondered if Spooky Mulder was actually a freak that

kept alien fetuses on his dresser; and West because he

wanted to know how his favorite agent lived.

They were both disappointed.

“Your apartment looks normal. Boring even,” Moore

complained. “This sucks, Mulder.”

“Sorry.” Mulder disappeared into the bedroom, and returned

with two sets of clothing. One pair would fit Moore

perfectly, albeit a bit small around the waist, but West

would drown in them.

West changed in Mulder’s bathroom, taking his time to nose

around for special things while biting his fingernails. No

female stuff here, nothing out of the ordinary. Just

shaving gear, soap and all the necessities of life. What a

drag.

He bit his thumbnail, and dropped small pieces of it on the

tiles; not even aware of what he was doing. His mother had

tried to break him out of the habit, but even as an adult

he couldn’t shake it off. He did it everywhere, even in the

stolen car that waited for him outside the D.C. area.

Simon West felt troubled. He knew he had to kill tonight,

but how he was going to do that, when he was undercover

with his idol and another agent? Should he just go with the

flow and play it by ear? Perhaps he should ask Mulder to

come join the party. He was certain that Mulder must have

the murderous streak in him too. You had to be a little

crazy if you were a field agent/profiler. It was almost a

requirement to get in the heads of perps. Perhaps Mulder

would even be in awe that he, Simon West, had fooled them

all. Just wait and see, he thought as he hummed The

Scientist.

When he walked outside, he looked like a regular guy. Clad

in jeans with rolled up pants, a sweater with rolled up

sleeves and his hair combed neatly, he was ready to go.

Moore actually looked human again, too. Mulder looked suave

dressed in jeans, dark sweater and leather jacket.

“All right, boys,” Mulder smiled broadly. “Let’s go catch

us some fish.”

The night before, Simon West had made himself a case file

that he kept at home on his computer. He had started to

gather information on Fox Mulder ages ago, but had never

done anything with it. The frustration had struck when he

realized that after three days of murdering, no one at the

FBI seemed eager to take on the case. During one very long

restless hour, he had thought he would never get Mulder’s

attention.

But in the morning, when he learned about the fresh cases

at hand being probed, he knew he was in luck. They were

interested and alarmed now. And yes, soon enough Mulder

showed up. Simon had instinctively known that Miles would

drag Mulder into it.

Simon couldn’t even explain why he liked Mulder so much. It

probably had something to do with the fact that he lived a

very mysterious professional life in that basement office.

West had seen cases pass by his desk that were about

aliens, government cover-ups, freaky people, monsters, and

misfits of science; just about running the gamut of

everything imaginable.

The case that really caught his interest was Luther Lee

Boggs, the serial killer who claimed he was psychic. From

then on, whenever he could, during the dreary working hours

he maintained, West would study cases of the X files agents

had solved or not solved.

He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to step

into Mulder’s shoes, facing danger every day of his life.

It would sure as hell take the edge off the boredom and

dreariness he felt right now.

Perhaps that’s why I do what I do? West pondered as he

jumped into the backseat of Mulder’s car. To kill the

boredom. So far, he hadn’t really found another reason.

Should there be one then? Perhaps not.

They arrived in Baltimore around seven p.m., after stopping

at a deli to pick up sandwiches, ice tea and coffee.

“So what now?” Moore asked, as soon as Mulder parked the

car outside The Inn, a dreary old place that looked like it

belonged in old London. “Are you going to stand around

outside, and look for working girls who are named Mary?”

Mulder glanced in the rearview mirror. “West, what do you

think?”

“I’d go inside that bar, and check to see if there are any

pimps who have girls named Mary, and get them off the

streets. And then see if they have noticed anything odd.”

“And why do we not ask that as FBI-agents?”

“They’d pack up their bags and go. They won’t talk.”

“West, are you sure you’ve never been out in the field

before?” Mulder asked grinning.

“Actually, I have -” Simon stopped, knowing he would be

giving out too much information. He didn’t want Mulder to

know the truth about his reasons for wanting to work as a

data analyst.

It was too late. Moore laughed loudly. “Yeah, he fucked up

his first case, didn’t you know? That’s why Miles has

banished him to the office permanently. He killed his own

partner, the sucker.”

Simon knew when he was being toyed with and when he didn’t

like it. He felt his face Contract, his cheeks turn red and

his entire beings thrum with anger. This was exactly what

he’d been trying to avoid for so long, the reason why he

became Simon The Ripper in the first place. He needed to

release pent up steam. He needed to show that he could do

it.

He clenched his fists, and chewed on his lip until it bled.

And he would have rushed forward in that anger, for the

first time in his life forgetting his exterior meek

appearance, when Mulder suddenly spoke in a harsh, angry

tone towards Moore.

“Don’t ever call anyone a sucker for getting hurt, okay? Do

you want to lose your partner?”

“No, but -”

“Do you?”

“No!”

“Then have respect for your colleague, and don’t ever treat

him like garbage again, okay?”

“Geez Mulder, get off your high horse.”

“I’m sure you mean ‘Spooky Mulder’.”

“Whatever,” Moore shrugged, throwing his sandwich on the

ground. “I’m going inside. You can follow in ten minutes.”

“Don’t do anything stupid like blowing your cover,” Mulder

hissed after Moore rammed the door shut. “Sucker.”

Suddenly Simon did something he hadn’t done in ages. He

laughed. He could feel it starting deeply from his insides,

becoming harder and harder until a flood of mirth rushed

through him, until he heaved with escaping laughter. He

could not recall having laughed this loudly before. Ever.

And when he looked into the mirror, he discovered that

Mulder was laughing too. In fact, he was roaring along with

him, instead of at him, like most people did.

“Here,” the agent said. “Have a seed.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” Simon replied, spitting out the piece

of fingernail stuck inside his mouth. “Thanks.”

“Gross, West.”

“I know. Call it a bad habit.”

Mulder just smiled and chewed on a seed, wondering what

Moore was up to inside the bar.

“So, what happened to your partner?”

Simon raised an eyebrow. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Sure you do. You were eager enough to come when I invited

you along. Now spill, while you look around for anything

out of the ordinary, like guys trying to lure girls

outside, that sort of thing.”

“My partner and I were supposed to backup a couple of other

field agents, who were going after a bank robber at his

apartment. We walked in and he started shooting at us. We

ducked away, inside the apartment. I ran, Agent Mulder. I

ran into the bathroom and shut the door, while they kept on

shooting back. He was hidden behind the couch that stood in

front of the bathroom door, right there. All I had to do

was open the door and shoot him at point blank range. But I

panicked, uh… chickened out. I fired three times through

the door. I heard shouts. When I opened the door, I saw

that Larry was dead as a doornail. I had accidentally shot

him through the door. After that, they laughed at me.

Everyone thought it was a great joke. Horrible really. Just

awful. Agent West shot his

partner and peed his pants. Funny, isn’t it? Since then,

the closest I’ve come to a case is by putting the data into

the system.”

“Well, just don’t shoot me,” Mulder smiled as they walked

to the bar door.

The next one to enter the bar was Simon. He insisted on it.

Mulder watched him leave as he grasped the cell phone to

call his partner.

“Thanks for making this case quite boring, Agent Mulder.”

“You’re welcome. What’s new?”

“Nothing yet. Results first thing in the morning. Did you

get hurt yet?”

“Oh thank you.”

“Come on, I’m waiting for a call from either Miles, or a

hospital to tell me you got kicked in the balls for asking

pimps too many questions, when they want to protect their

goodies. Where are you?”

“The Inn. Nice place for a pimp-gathering, don’t you

think?”

“Very nice. Are you alone?”

“No, I’ve got colleagues here.”

“Have fun with the ladies, Mulder.”

“Do I sense a bit of jealousy there?”

“Oh no. I’m happily discussing boring science crap with my

colleagues. You see what you made me say? Since I’ve met

you, I’ve come to frown on science now and then.”

“Must be my good influence.”

“Har har. Get back to me soon, Mulder. Okay? And stay in

one piece.”

“I’ll try. I know a great overnight store where they sell

grapes though.”

“Night, Mulder!”

Mulder laughed as he hung up his cell phone and left the

car.

“Rock ‘n’ Roll, baby,” he muttered underneath his breath,

when he opened the door for what was obviously a working

girl, who smiled at him broadly underneath fake lashes that

looked like huge spiders – and walked inside the barrier of

noise that was the bar.

Simon West didn’t even wink when Mulder stepped into the

bar, and quickly scanned the area. Moore sat in the back,

talking to a bulky African American who roared with

laughter every time the agent said something. A blonde sat

on his lap rubbing her tush on his leg.

“He feels right at home,” Mulder groaned, walking over to

the bar where West sat. Simon wondered what he had to do

now, but he shouldn’t have. Mulder leaned a bit into him

and whispered, “Anything weird yet?”

“At least four pimps. Look at the guy to my right.”

Mulder leaned forward to order a drink from the bar,

catching a good glimpse of the man sitting next to West. He

was tall and draped with at least four gold necklaces like

Mr. T on ‘The A team.’

“Now that’s got money written all over it,” Mulder said.

Mulder then looked caually around the bar, spotting a

couple of men clad in dark clothing. The bar was thick with

cigarette smoke. Only a few looked up. In the back a couple

of pimps were fighting; more notable by their fancy

clothing and golden attire.

“Talk about clichŽs,” Simon smiled.

“Martini,” Mulder ordered.

The bartender pulled up an eyebrow.

“Shaken, not stirred?”

“Do I look like James Bond to you?”

“When I’m drunk, probably.”

“Just the Martini.”

“This feels cool, being undercover,” Simon whispered too

loudly for Mulder’s liking. The agents both bristled

inwardly, when the bartender placed his drink before him at

the exact same time.

“Oh. I’m a fucking things up, aren’t I?” Simon cringed

quietly.

“Just shut up and let me do my thing, Simon. You carry your

piece.”

“Unfortunately, yes,” Simon sighed. “Not that I’m that keen

on it. I mean I shouldn’t be allowed to carry a gun at all,

should I?”

Mulder looked aside. “You are still a Fed, Simon. Everyone

makes mistakes. Just keep it ready but don’t do anything,

okay? Just follow my lead when I need you.”

With that, Mulder left Simon seated on his stool and

wandered through the bar looking for working girls who

might be willing to talk to him. He knew that in order to

do that, he’d have to get past their employers.

He stopped at a table in the far corner, where four girls

were chatting loudly with someone who was obviously a pimp,

and his bodyguard. Nearby at a table, sat three

transvestites: three bulky men were dressed up like

gorgeous women. And they were gorgeous, Mulder discovered

in awe. With their slim shoulders, and long legs they could

easily have been walking down the catwalk, pretending they

were female models. But as soon as they opened their

mouths, a dark male voice came out and gave them away.

Ouch, Mulder though. Such a shame.

He sat down without asking, but was immediately seized by

the shoulder, by the bodyguard who grumbled, “Get lost.”

Mulder didn’t miss a beat. “I’m sure your boss would like

to help me preserve his women. Wouldn’t he?” The bodyguard

stared at him for more seconds than were comfortable to

Mulder. This was a big no nonsense guy.

With that, the pimp waved with his hand, and allowed Mulder

to sit. The agent slipped into a chair. “You a cop?”

“No, I’m a man with business interests, just like you.

Rumor has it that there’s a new Jack The Ripper out there

slashing women. I’m looking for him. I want to protect my

interests, if you know what I mean.” He winked

conspiratorially.

“You don’t look like a pimp.”

“I prefer not to think of myself that way. I’m a

businessman.”

“New in town, hey? So, are you going to steal my

territory?” The pimp flashed his teeth dangerously.

“No. I just want to find out if this Ripper guy is going to

kill off my girls.”

“I don’t care what he does. He hasn’t touched any of my

ladies yet. But you look like the sort of low life guy who

would love to step onto my turf and fleece my money. I

don’t like that. I think you deserve a warning.”

Uh oh, Mulder thought wearily. “I don’t care about your

territory. Gotta go.”

Before he could move an inch, he was grabbed by two bulky

transvestites who dragged him backwards. From the corner of

his eye he saw how Moore was still talking animatedly to

another pimp, and the girl sitting on top of him. West did

see it. He stepped up from his stool, but didn’t move an

inch.

Before he knew what was happening, Mulder was dragged

outside into the cold air.

“Hey, we can talk about this, right?” the agent asked,

ready to take the first punch. “I’m sure you are nice girls

and all but -”

Before he could even react, his right arm was twisted

firmly up behind his back. So firm indeed, that it knocked

the wind out of him. Two strong sets of hands grabbed it.

Suddenly, Mulder realized what they were going to do.

“Hey, stop it!” he shouted. “Don’t – !”

A sickening pop came from his shoulder as the ball joint

neatly separated from the socket. Mulder screamed in pure

anguish and agony, feeling the shoulder muscles try

unsuccessfully to self-repair the damage. He had been there

before, when they busted up his little finger a long time

ago. The pain was so acute it nearly sent him off into

oblivion.

Through a haze of red hurt, he saw the doors open, and

people rushing outside, but no one helped him. He couldn’t

see West or Moore. Then the punches followed, sending

explosions of pain through his ribs. By now they had him on

the ground kicking him, and kept on kicking him. He was

fairly certain they kicked him in the balls too; it sure

felt like it.

“The kneecap too?” one of the ‘girls’ asked.

“No, that’s enough. Let him walk back to the dirt he came

from.”

By the time they kicked him on the side of the head, he was

too far-gone to notice, still clutching his dislocated

shoulder, his arm plastered protectively against his chest.

Then he heard shouts, but he wasn’t capable of doing

anything but groaning, and stayed down for the count on the

cold concrete only a few feet away from his own car.

Eventually, the hurt became a non-stop thunder inside his

head, and strobes of pain hit his entire body in waves.

“Sucker.” The group split up and left him alone writhing on

the tarmac, in the first trickles of rain. He hardly felt

the numbing pain going through his shoulder and ribs,

wondering instead how to pick himself up and get help.

Until out of the darkness, a body stepped forward and a

hand reached for him. He opened his eyes and saw Simon

West.

“Come on,” he said. “I’ll take you to hospital.”

“Where’s Moore?” Mulder groaned.

“He’s dead.”

Act III

“So this is what it’s like to be field agent, is it?” Simon

asked, staring in awe at Mulder’s beaten and bruised body

while they jacketed his chest up with bandages to protect

the cracked ribs. His right arm was already in a sling

strapped around behind his back. The dislocation had been

reduced upon his arrival at the ER and fortunately didn’t

require surgery. Just a couple of weeks of rest and

healing.

“Yep. Some sight, hey?” The agent winced, gingerly wiggling

the fingers visible beyond the blue cotton sling. “Not

exactly what you were expecting, is it?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps you’ve got some babe on the side

who finds it very interesting that you’re a Special Agent.”

First silence, then Mulder muttered painfully: “In my

dreams.”

“So eh, what now?”

“Now? Now I go home, get some rest, good. …Ouch…pain

meds and forget about our Ripper until tomorrow.”

“So you’re not going to bite into the investigation and

move forward? I thought you’d be pissed at everyone and the

world. And what about Moore? He’s dead, you know. Shouldn’t

you be out investigating his death?”

“No. Someone else can pick up those pieces. Besides, Moore

died of a gunshot wound during a bar fight. Not exactly the

most glamorous way to go, you know. I’ve given my statement

of what happened. Not much else I can do tonight like

this.”

“But don’t you feel guilty?”

West knew he’d struck a painful chord when Mulder winced

loudly. “Of course I do. I dragged his ass in that joint,

didn’t I? What’s the use of going back there and dredging

it all up? I can’t handle that, Simon. I’ve been stuck on

guilt trips all my life. Moore knew what he was doing. His

death was a shitty exit, but I cannot focus on that right

now. I’m still hazy on the details that led up to this. I

was having a few problems with breathing at the time,

getting used as a punch bag. There are still seven agents

working on the case and I guarantee you that by now Miles

will be itching to haul my ass anyhow. Plus, I am not

exactly in good shape here, Simon. I mean, look at me. Let

someone else pick up the pieces for once.”

“Then what about The Ripper? He’ll kill again tonight! You

have to stop him, Mulder.”

“I’m not of any help to anyone right now, am I? I’ve got a

bump on my head the size of New York, a dislocated shoulder

and several cracked ribs. Should I even talk about my nuts

here? Brings a whole new meaning to the phrase: blue balls!

No, let Miles handle it before he fires my ass. He didn’t

need me in the first place. Finding The Ripper is just

plain old police work. He can comb the area with a

toothbrush for all I care. I won’t be there tonight. Geez!

Be careful with that, will you? You’re kind of hurting the

hell out of me here.”

That last part was directed to the nurse and doctor still

strapping up his ribs.

“You shouldn’t give up like this, Agent Mulder!” West

exclaimed frantically, knowing he was losing Mulder’s

interest quickly. “This is still extraordinary, you know.

You are still looking for a serial killer. Let me help save

your career. I could help you with all the data. I know all

the cases by heart. Your lovely partner could help too.

She’s on her way, isn’t she? You could have your killer by

tomorrow, just like you wanted. This shouldn’t have been

for nothing.”

Mulder was about to retort, only to be stopped by Scully

breezing into his treatment room. Even though she obviously

tried to keep her cool, he could tell she was quite

distraught.

“I told you, didn’t I?” she sighed, gently touching his

chest where it was not taped. He winced at the coolness of

her fingers, and then at the look that Simon gave the two

of them. Scully’s fingers lingered there a bit too long.

“Oh, you are -” West stopped and turned his usual crimson

red. “Never mind. I’ll wait outside.” They watched him as

he shuffled off in an embarrassed gait.

The door closed quietly. Scully carefully embraced her

battered partner, who groaned in agony. Somehow she almost

got stuck between the tape and his chest, managing to catch

his sore arm in the process.

“Oh sorry. How bad is it?” She directed that question to

the doctor.

“Two cracked ribs, a dislocation, now reduced. That is,

shoulder separation in human language, Agent Mulder. A raft

of bruises just about everywhere, it could have been

worse.”

“Don’t forget the bruised ego,” Mulder completed. “Two

‘girls’ took me down, Scully. Of course they were guys

dressed like girls, but still. Could you see Ru Paul

winning a fight over you? It was like something out ‘Too

Wong fu’.”

“You’ll live. Now tell me, Mulder. What in god’s name

possessed you to take Simon West out there? Are you crazy?

Miles is going through the roof! You should have told him.”

“He was busy sucking up to the big bosses. I thought it was

quite a good idea really. Somehow West seemed to belong in

the part. He didn’t fall out of place for undercover. That

was me, unfortunately.”

“Busy asking too many questions?”

“At least they believed I was a pimp.”

“You should be very proud of that. Now tell me, what the

hell happened to Moore?”

“I don’t know. One moment he was inside the bar talking,

and probably asking questions. The next, West told me he

had been stabbed to death. It was weird, Scully. I didn’t

have time to ask questions. I was out of it after getting

my ass kicked. West shoved me in the car and called for

backup. By that time, the bar had emptied. So tell me, did

they find a body yet?”

“Moore is in the morgue, Mulder.”

“No, not him. A hooker’s.”

“Not yet.”

Mulder sighed. “Just take me home, Scully. It’s no use. I’m

fading fast here.”

She sat at the side of the bed and stared at her partner.

The doctor finished up. “Going home is probably out of the

question for the night. You should be under observation at

least for the next 12 hours or so. You might want to stay

here and rest a bit. We’ll give you nice painkillers.”

“As tempting as the offer is, I must decline. I just want

to go home.”

“It’s your choice, Agent Mulder. Let me just remind you

that you have to watch those ribs for the next few weeks.

They are quite near to your internal organs. If you got

into another bar fight again, you might damage something

more severely. Okay?”

“Yes, sir,” Mulder replied meekly. Then the doctor and

nurse disappeared and left them alone. Scully pulled that

face she normally made when she didn’t believe her ears.

“Mulder, what are you up to?”

“Moi? Nothing! I just want to go home, Scully.”

“That doesn’t sound like you. In fact, it’s so unlike you

that I’m almost suspicious. You have a plan, right? You’re

going back to find your killer. You’ll end up getting into

another situation and get even more hurt.”

“Scully, why is it that you believe I have danger written

all over me? I’m not interested. Miles didn’t need us in

the first place. He didn’t need a profiler, just a stupid

agent who would get someone killed. I’m fairly certain he’s

writing his report to the Director on me as we speak. So

why should I even bother?”

“Mulder, it wasn’t your fault. Okay? You actually made the

right choice throwing yourself into the field like that. We

had a deadline. We had to do something. It was a good idea

at the time. It just backfired, that’s all. Happens all the

time. Since when did that stop you?”

Somber faced and in pain, he stared at her, eyes shouting

defeat. “I’m…”

“Stop that nonsense right now, and get your ass back in

gear. I’ll be your eyes and ears. Hell, I’ll dress up like

a bimbo, and become Mary Kelly the Second; how’s that?”

“Are you going to wear a flimsy little black leather skirt

then? Shake your tush?” He asked with a familiar leer

breaking through the pain on his face.

“Of course.”

“And loads of make-up?”

“I’ll even ruin my hairdo. Satisfied? Now let’s get out of

here, and get you to the office. It’s early evening yet. We

might find a way to catch him before the morning. At least

we can try to stop him from slaughtering a fifth victim,

and disappearing into back into the woodwork. I’m not eager

to let you go back to the office, Mulder, but I know you’ve

got your mind set to it. I’ll be your twenty-four medical

staff from now on.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mulder eased himself off the bed carefully,

aided by his partner; grinning broadly yet painfully. “Have

I ever told you that ‘angry Scully’ is quite a turn on?”

“Have I ever told you that a man clad only in boxers,

carrying his business to the left, with a strapped up chest

is a real kick too?” She smirked, one finger straying to

stroke his bandage.

“Oh please. You sound like a groupie.”

“I am your groupie, Mulder, and don’t you forget it. Here,

I’ll help you get dressed.”

Scully leaned down to help Mulder step into his jeans. When

her face came eye to eye with the bulge in his boxers, he

groaned and laughed. “Scully, are you coming on to me?”

“Not now, Mulder. Think ice cool frappucinos.”

Outside Simon West was still waiting. Nervously chewing on

every single nail that still he still had left. His face

was distraught. “Please don’t give up,” he started

immediately when he saw the two agents: Mulder looked quite

pale and in pain, Scully’s arm around his back, eager to

help.

“Don’t worry, I’m back. Now, you said you could help me

with that data, right? Let’s drive back to the office, and

go over everything again. Perhaps there’s a way of

establishing a profile. I created one out of my own

curiosity on Jack The Ripper a long time ago. Maybe I can

come up with one on this man with a similar MO.”

“Would it help if I told you that the DNA tests will be

ready in about an hour?” Scully asked, grinning proudly.

He turned to her with a leer. “If we weren’t in a hospital

right now and I didn’t feel like I’d gone ten rounds with

Tyson, I’d take you right here, right now.”

“Mulder…”

“Oh, I forgot. Sorry, Simon.”

“‘S’Okay,” the Freckle Guy smiled. “I’m happy to see there

is at long last, someone who treats me as if I’m here.”

“Simon, why do you put yourself down like that?” Scully

asked as they walked to the elevator.

“Because I’m wallpaper, Agent Scully. I don’t exist. I’m a

grey appearance. Nobody cares about me, and I don’t care

about anyone. That’s my life. Dreary, isn’t it? It’s always

been like that.” Simon suddenly stopped, realizing he was

confessing how he felt for the very first time in his life.

“I guess I don’t matter,” he finally added.

Both agents stared at him. Then Mulder suddenly realized

that West was right. During all the years he’d worked for

the Bureau, Simon had been there, sitting in his corner

near the Assistant Director’s office, dutifully typing away

at the data, which every Special Agent used for research

and information. They all received input from West, but

they didn’t even care where it came from. He could have

been a computer. Press Enter to print.

Mulder had seldom met anyone before who could blend in with

the furniture the way Simon West did. Then why had he lured

West along into this adventure? Because he had sensed that

West was a very lonely man, eagerly looking for some

excitement in his life. Because somehow, he’d finally and

suddenly connected with this man, who seemed all too happy

to be dragged into a mess made by his peers; because Simon

was a man with no past, no present and no future. Because

he could even blend into a bar filled with pimps and

scumbags, and no one cared he was there. Invisible in plain

sight.

So . . . odd.

The three agents drove back to the office in silence.

Mulder and Scully could not know how much Simon The Ripper

suddenly felt at ease in this strange situation. They were

looking for him, and all he had to do was go with the flow.

He could help them track down himself. He could only hope

that the DNA he’d left lying around at crime scenes, was

evidence enough with which to find him. His fingerprints

were stored within the FBI’s databanks with links to the

NCIC.

And then he could only pray they would stop him before he

had to return to Baltimore and finish the job.

Simon The Ripper didn’t want to kill anymore. He’d got what

he wanted: Mulder’s attention. But the urgency inside him

told him he had to finish what he had started. And then

what? Strange, he hadn’t thought that far ahead yet. He

would take the punishment the way it came. No matter what

it was.

Find me, Mulder, he prayed in silence. And explain to me

why I am what I am.

ACT IV

“Mulder!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Miles’s booming voice filled the room as soon as the agents

walked in.

“Here we go,” Mulder whispered to his partner as he

straightened his back, causing flashes of pain through his

body. He felt like crap. His arm and shoulder ached

severely in the sling. The stabbing pains in his chest

prevented him from taking deep breaths, and he had the

mother of all headaches that would have send anyone into

oblivion.

But the really cool drugs that the doctor gave him before

leaving the hospital were starting to kick in nicely.

Mulder heard how his own voice started to slur and felt

strangely happy. The pain would soon subside to just a

nagging ache.

“I love drugs,” he muttered underneath his breath as he

wiggled his way to Miles’s office.

Then he plonked himself down in the leather seat that stood

behind the desk, squirming to find the right position. But

somehow, it didn’t work. He just couldn’t get the right

seating height. “Yjou’ve got a lovely chjair,” he muttered

incoherently when Miles turned his back on him; waiting

impatiently for the others to come in.

He got up and moved behind the desk, throwing himself back

into the big brown expensive leather chair. “Whjy don’t I

hjave a chjair like this?” he whimpered as he started

wiggling back and forth. The chair squeaked in unison with

his movements, alarming Miles.

“Mulder, what the hell are you doing in my chair? Get your

ass out of there and get Scully in here! And the other one

– the Freckle dude – what’s his name again? North or

something?”

“West, sir. East, South, North, West.”

“Don’t be funny, Mulder, or I’ll hand your ass over to my

superiors. Move out of that chair, now!”

Very loudly Mulder started pumping up the seat height,

using his left arm and hand with all the might it had.

“Hjeight njot gjood enjough. Captain Kjirk to the rescjue,

sjir!” he giggled inanely, still bouncing up and down.

Miles sighed and gave up, taking the seat opposite his

desk. Every time Mulder inquisitively grabbed something

from the desk, Miles leaned forward and snatched it out of

his fingers. Mulder couldn’t care less anymore about the

consequences of his actions. Who would when the best

painkillers available to mankind made him giddy with overt

goofiness?

“Mulder, are you sick?”

“No, sjir,” he slurred as he picked idly at the ink blotter

in front of him.

“You look like shit.”

“You alwjays djo, sjir.”

Miles first turned pale, and then bloodred. Oh god Mulder,

Scully cursed underneath her breath. Stop talking.

But Mulder was on a roll. “Isj thjat a njew sjuit sjir?

Thje coljour sjuits you.”

“Moore is dead, Agent Mulder. Have you got anything to say

for yourself?”

Mulder smiled and closed his eyes, leaning happily

backwards. “I shjot the shjeriff, but I djidn’t shjoot thje

djeputy.”

“Agent Scully, what the hell is wrong with your partner?”

“It’s njot – erm, I mean – not his fault, sir. He’s in

severe pain and the doctor gave him heavy medication.”

“So why is he not in the hospital then?”

“Agent Mulder insisted on solving the case, sir. Since our

copycat is still walking about, he wanted to give the best

of himself to aid in the search.”

“Thanks to Agent Mulder, the Ripper will not show his face

tonight. The entire Baltimore area is covered with cops and

Feds.”

“At ljeast wje’ll hjave sjome tjime ljeft to booglie

thjen,” Mulder bounced precariously in his seat.

“Shut up, Agent Mulder. Or better yet, tell me why you

dragged a bleeping data analyst from his desk job, and put

him out in the field with no experience at all!”

“Sir, if I may -” Simon whispered from his seat, but his

words fell on Miles’s deaf ears.

“If yjou wjould stjop trjeating thjat mjan ljike a kjid,

hje wjould djo a ljot mjore than plus a pren,” Mulder

garbled. “Sjimon djeserves bjetter.” Mulder suddenly seemed

to realize that a trickle of drool had escaped his mouth,

and lifted his right arm to try and wipe it off, only to

realize it was strapped to his chest and no use to him.

“Djamn it,” the agent whispered loud enough for everyone to

hear. “I cjan’t ewen jopen my fly. Hjow am I gjoing to

wjipe my assj?”

Miles at least had the decency to ignore that remark.

“Well, next time you drag your colleagues out into the line

of fire, you’d better ask me first, Agent Mulder. Or I

swear I’ll kick you out faster than the speed of light. Now

what are you going to do next?”

“Agent Mjulder – pardon me, Mulder – is going to try and

set up a profile now, sir. Based on the gathered data we

have, we might determine who’s been committing these

heinous acts, while we still have time. We’re also waiting

for further DNA results and will compare them with known

criminals in the database.”

“Go to work then. And Agent Mulder, please don’t drool on

my chair in future. It’s hard to get the stains out. Go

drool on your own.”

“Yjes sjir.”

Mulder somehow managed to swing himself up and out of the

chair, and sprung into salute mode. “Gjoing boldly tjo the

fjinal frontjier, Captjain Miles!” and waddled towards the

door, stopping, momentarily confused.

“Hey, wje’re baldly gjoing now. Here’s Skinman.”

Walter Skinner stood agape in the doorway, staring at the

spectacle of his doped up agent. Ignoring Mulder, he turned

to Scully. “Is he on medication again?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh brother.”

Mulder pushed himself past his boss, and wobbled drunkenly

back into the hallway.

“I’m njot sjacked!” he exclaimed for the remainder of the

crowded VCU to hear, giggling away to himself. Then,

suddenly loosing his equilibrium, he slid straight into

Skinner’s arms and drooled on the A.D.’s suit.

“I love you, Scully, I do.” he slurred, before slithering

bonelessly into a drug-induced stupor.

“Are you sure he’s okay? He looks like shit,” Miles

remarked in amazement.

“Oh, that’s normal. He can’t stand his medication. This

stuff makes him as wiggy as all get out.” That was Scully.

“And this man’s going create a profile tonight? I don’t

think so. Get him home and out of our way.” Miles again.

“No, he stays.”

“Grrrrrrroan.”

From the couch in Miles’s office came the unmistakable

moaning of a man waking up from a medicated stupor, and

back into his world of pain. As much as the medication

affected Mulder, it also wore off quite quickly.

“Mulder, it’s me,” his partner soothed, as soon as he

managed to open one eye.

“Yes, I know,” he retorted, trying to turn on his uninjured

side, only to realize he was stuck between Scully and the

seat. ” Ouch. Oh brother.”

“You drooled again. Here, try to sit up. You okay?”

“Oh no. Err, I’m okay. What happened?”

“You did a little dance, made a little love and went down

tonight. Oh yeah, and Miles is having his chair cleaned.

Your spittle was all over the place.”

“Huh?”

“Well okay, skip that little love bit. You’ve got another

bump but you’ll live. Here, drink some water. We need you.

Something happened while you dreamt your little dreams.

I’ve got some shocking news.”

“Skinner’s back with a vengeance?”

“Well no. You actually passed out in Agent Lane’s arms,

calling her Skinner, and then Scully. Skinner’s not here,

Mulder. You dreamt about him, that’s all. Is there

anything, I should know about the two of you?”

“Funny, Scully. Very funny. Now tell me what you found.”

“First of all, I forgot to tell you that we’ve found DNA on

both the Catherine-body, and the woman that died before

her, Elizabeth. The lab examined both of them. And get

this: they are two different types of DNA!”

“So?” Mulder grumbled. “You said so yourself: they could

have been with any number of guys at any time.”

“Mulder, you don’t get it. One of the DNA samples belongs

to a man… and the other to a woman!”

“Huh?”

“Yeah, huh. Exactly!”

“A lesbian hooker maybe?”

“Yeah right. Mulder, there’s more. The DNA test shows that

there is a definitely close blood relationship between both

subjects.”

“Like in a brother and a sister? We’re looking for a duo?”

“Most likely.”

“Oh joy.” Mulder downed a cup of water, only to suddenly

find Simon West staring at him in total shock. The man

became as pale as a sheet, and suddenly had to lean on

Miles’s desk. Nah, he had to have imagined that. Mulder

shook his head to clear the cobwebs.

“Did I really call him Captain Miles?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Crap.”

“Don’t worry about that now. There’s more. When Moore was

killed, the knife was missing. The killer took it with him.

But get this: the coroner is a hundred percent certain that

the same knife was also used in the slayings. Moore was

killed by the Ripper, Mulder. Your theory was right. He was

in that bar, probably searching for a new victim.”

“But a new victim hasn’t been found yet.”

“No, everyone’s on the lookout for any possible missing

working girl. Only, there are so many runaways working the

streets, that she could be long dead; lying in some alley

without even being reported missing.”

“No, Miles was right. The Ripper would not be stupid enough

to kill her with so many cops and Feds crawling over the

area. The red light area is small in Baltimore, and he

would want to kill her right there, where he took all the

others. I think we may have some time left.”

“Simon is running a data analyses on the DNA, comparing it

right now.”

Mulder felt his mind come back to his senses, and shook off

the last bit of confusion. The drugs had worn off and the

pain was back with a vengeance, but anything was better

than calling Miles ‘Captain.’ With utter embarrassment, the

agent spotted the VCU-members muffling their snickering as

he walked in.

“Where are we so far?” Mulder asked, ignoring the wry grins

and tittering. “Can I help?”

The profilers gathered in the room groaned and moaned

because the night passed

quickly, and they were no further ahead. All they had so

far was the possibility of a Bonnie & Clyde type of duo,

which went out killing people ˆ la Jack The Ripper. That

was if the female DNA actually even belonged to the

killers.

“It must have been,” Mulder surmised. “The first two bodies

didn’t have a trace on them. However this time, the killers

deliberately touched the bare skin of their victims, and

they left a hint for us that we can use to look for them.

So what gives?”

“What if the female DNA belonged to one of the hookers

finding the body?” Lane asked.

“No. Two men, who didn’t touch her, found her. Can’t be.

Autopsy showed she was washed and scrubbed everywhere – and

I do mean everywhere – so she probably didn’t do a John

before she was killed. Of course women could have touched

her but even so, I’d like to think we’re talking dual

killers here.”

That in itself, Mulder found very odd. “We’re obviously

looking for someone with

misogynic tendencies.”

“Excuse me?”

“Someone with a profound hatred of women. I established

that in my previous profile on Jack The Ripper that he was

a misogynistic. No one in their right mind would do this.

The man carving into the bodies, mutilating them in such a

fashion, is most likely to suffer from this mental

disorder.”

“So a woman can’t have this disorder?”

“I don’t know. I guess that in the case of a woman with

something like this, we would just call her a psycho

bitch,” Mulder grinned. “I’m not excluding the possibility

that the killer was a pimp and one of his working girls.

The people in that bar seemed to belong to that profession

anyway. There was a girl sitting on Moore’s lap, and he was

talking to a big bulky African-American.”

“Most serial killers are white.”

“Play that funky music, White Boy.” Mulder groaned and

rubbed his eyes with his left arm. He felt useless and

awkward without the use of his trigger arm. He’d dislocated

his shoulder before but this time it hurt like hell. What

if he could never fire a weapon again? Nah, the doctor said

it would mend perfectly.

Suddenly Simon, who’d been sitting quietly behind his desk

sifting through the DNA data, stood up and looked at his

peers. “Why are you so sure it’s two people doing this?

It’s not possible. I mean; it doesn’t make any sense. I . .

.”

The room became quiet as everyone stared at Simon.

“A maso-whatever you called it wouldn’t be using another

woman to kill women, would he? That doesn’t fit his

profile. It must be a mistake.”

“He’s right,” Mulder agreed after an awkward silence.

“Unless of course his sister is the only woman he doesn’t

hate. I’m going with Simon’s theory. We’re looking for one

man. Lane, did the police find anyone who was in that bar?”

“Nada.”

“Okay, then I’ll go scan the database for all the pimps

we’ve arrested in that area lately. I’ll never forget the

face of that dude busting me up.”

Mulder winced painfully as he moved to a computer next to

Simon’s, and opened the massive database that held the

arresting records, and photographs of every criminal in the

state. “Here we go,” he sighed, as he started searching his

way through it on the lookout for the ladies’ man that had

beat him up.

Fifteen minutes and a hundred photos later, Mulder found

his guy.

“Got him and an address,” he exclaimed in triumph. “Let’s

see if he’s still not willing to talk, shall we?”

It was past four a.m. by the time Michael “Mighty Mike”

Chandler sat firmly ensconced in the Bureau’s bowels. He

was not allowed to have a cup of coffee, but Mulder and

Scully were at their sixth cup in the past three hours.

Mulder’s aches and pains seemed to worsen considerably as

his body started to stiffen up.

“I knew you were a cop,” Mike grinned broadly, taking in

Mulder’s pale bruised features. “You couldn’t hide it for

the life of you.”

“That’s funny because I’m a Federal Agent. Don’t insult

me.”

“Whatever.” Mike shrugged.

“So, did you have fun killing my colleague?”

“Excuse me?”

“You were there, Mike. You killed Agent Moore with a single

stab wound. You’re the copycat Ripper, aren’t you? Might as

well admit it because I’ve got witnesses.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Mulder banged loudly on the table with his good hand. “Is

it? I can put you at the scene. You beat me up. You decided

to punish the other FBI-agent in the room too, didn’t you?

Forgetting that the knife you used would link you to the

killings.”

“I didn’t kill anyone! What, do you think I’m stupid?”

“You look stupid. You assaulted a federal officer. That

makes you stupid. So, what’s it going to be, Michael? Are

you going to help us, or should I drag your ass in front of

a judge and lock you up until trial? The D.A. is eager to

get his hands on you. You can help yourself here. Men like

pimps in prison, did you know that? They know you love to

play pet.”

“Okay, okay.” Michael shuddered. “I’ll cooperate. On one

condition: you don’t charge me for assault on you either.”

Mulder smiled. “Hmmm. Let me think. Okay I thought about

it. No deal.”

“Okay okay. Just cut me a deal then. A punishment of some

sort. Whatever. No hard time. Okay?”

“We’ll see what we can do. Now, you know who killed those

women, don’t you?”

“All I know is that it’s not someone from our crowd. It’s

an outsider. Several of our women have seen him. I can tell

you what make of car he drives, and what clothes he wears.”

“What about his face?”

“They see so many faces. I’m having a hard time protecting

them as it is, without an asshole driving around

slaughtering them. They are all scared shitless. The

Baltimore cops did shit to help them, you know. Nothing.

They didn’t care.”

“Well, we do care,” Scully cut in with sincerity. “And we

are going to stop this. So tell us all you know.”

After ten minutes they had all the details on the RV,

including a partial license plate number.

“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Scully smiled as she rushed

over to Simon to run the latest info through the database.

And Simon? He just smiled. He felt itchy inside. It had

been a long night, and he was glad he wasn’t out there

slaying his last victim. Let them find me. Let them find

me. Let them find me.

The RV was found abandoned in a supermarket parking lot

outside of Baltimore. The vehicle had been reported missing

by its elderly owner, who obviously didn’t have anything to

do with the murders. It was towed to the nearest lab around

seven in the morning.

Scully lay restless with her head down on her desk at the

VCU, red rings underneath her eyes, and very tired. Mulder

slumped exhausted next to her.

“I told you you should have sold those tickets,” she

mumbled. “Even if we still make it, I’ll be dead as a

doornail.”

“We’re nearly there, Scully. I can feel it in my bones.”

The agent stretched his back, jarring his aching ribs in

the process. “Oh god. I wish I were somewhere on an exotic

beach right now being pampered by hula-girls.”

“Hula Mulder. And moi?”

“You can have hula-boys, Scully.”

“Oh. Okay then. What now?”

“Now we wait for the lab results to see if they find any

fingerprints, more DNA samples and lovely little thingies

that we can use to establish our killer. Simon, stop eating

your fingernails. It’s annoying.”

Simon West looked up and flushed. “Sorry, Agent Mulder.”

“Go home and get some rest.”

“I prefer to stay here.”

“It’s the weekend. Don’t you have anything to do on a

Saturday?”

“Except taking a shower? No.”

Mulder’s interest was peaked. “Simon, don’t you have a

life? I mean you must have something to do. Somewhere to

go. Do you have a wife, a girlfriend or anyone who can keep

you company?”

“No one, nada, zip. It’s just me and my mom.”

“Your mother must miss you.”

“She doesn’t care about me.” Simon couldn’t prevent his

voice becoming bitter. “It’s just me, that’s all. I don’t

like women. Never have.”

“Oh? Why not?”

“They laugh and tease you, and tell you you’re too

insignificant. Make you feel too small for this world. They

don’t see you, treat you like wallpaper, and choose someone

else all the time.”

Simon abruptly stood up, the blood in his veins alive with

the anger he’d kept under control for so long. He was

tired, weary, and suddenly sick of hanging around the

office in a futile attempt to deny his goals. He had to go

out now and kill. It had felt so good to kill those women,

to put his knife into them, and run it through their skin

and muscles. Yeah, he had to feel that again.

“He needs a good lay,” Scully muttered from her seat.

“You know what?” he said. “I have to go. I’ve been here for

too long already. You’re right, Agent Mulder. I do need a

life.”

“That a boy. Go out and have fun. And thanks for your help,

Simon. We appreciate it. We’ll keep an eye on the rest of

the results.”

“Goodbye, Agent Mulder. And thank you for . . . well, for

all of this.”

Before Mulder could say another word, Simon was already

rushing towards the elevators.

Scully groaned, and turned her face to her partner. “Do you

really like this guy, Mulder? He’s just downright weird.”

“Yep. I know. And yes, I kinda like him.” The agent stood

up, stretched his back again, and almost passed out as a

tremendous pain shot through his chest. “Oh god, I really

should stop doing this. I’ll be busting a kidney soon.”

“Then sit down and get some rest. You look like hell.”

“I love you too, Scully. When are we going to hear from the

lab?”

“Anytime soon,” Scully said as she stared at Agent Lane

snoring at her desk. Most of the agents had fallen asleep

as they waited for more information to come in. The two of

them were the only ones remaining awake.

“I hate Miles,” Mulder mumbled. “Ten to one he’s sleeping

in his own warm soft bed right now.”

“How do you know?”

“Scully, shuddup. Hey my phone is ringing. Yeah Mulder.

Okay, yes. Okay, what? Huh? Okay. Thanks! Bye.”

Scully forced herself to pretend to be interested, as

Mulder looked at her and became suddenly very pale.

“What?”

“They found stuff in the truck. Fingernails. They’re

comparing it now to the DNA.”

“Fingernails? Cut off?”

“No, bitten off. Oh my god.”

“What? Mulder, what is it?”

She followed her partner as he rushed to Simon’s desk, and

watched him pull up the database that held all fingerprints

and DNA on every Federal Agent in the Bureau.

“Damn it, I can’t open it. Does anyone have the password of

this database?”

“It’s private. No one can access that but the A.D.’s and

D.D.’s,” Agent Lane yawned sleepily from her chair.

“Get Miles on the phone, and ask him for the database pass,

Scully.”

“Mulder, why in god’s name? Do you think it’s someone

here?”

He turned to her, breathing heavily with pain and

disbelief, and whispered, “It’s Simon.”

“What??”

“He always bites his fingernails. He doesn’t like women.

He’s a loner. My spooky sense is almost shouting. It’s

him.”

“He wouldn’t.”

“What do serial killers crave for, Scully? Satisfaction

they cannot get in any normal way. Simon left us deliberate

clues, I’m sure. He wants us to stop him. That’s why we

found the DNA. That’s why he reacted so oddly at times. The

killer wants to be caught. Geez, I’m so dumb I didn’t see

this before!”

“I’ll get Miles here,” she spoke, “but you are seeing

ghosts, Mulder.”

“I hope I am, Scully. I really do.”

Miles was not a happy trooper when he strolled into the

office, and opened the FBI’s most sacred database for his

agents. He was quite familiar with data analyses as it was

one of his jobs to ensure that all data was utilized

properly.

“Simon West, huh?” he growled. “The Freckle guy sitting at

his desk all day looking dead? Come on, Mulder. That’s a

stretch even for your questionable machinations.”

“Sir, he saw himself as wallpaper all the time. The most

important thing a killer does is to blend in with the

crowd. That’s what he did. It’s him.”

“If that’s the case, you had your killer underneath your

nose all the time. Too bad, Mulder.”

“If that’s the case, he could be out there right now

looking for his next victim. He left in a hurry, sir.”

“You’d better find him then. Because it looks like you’re

right.”

“Oh god,” Scully muttered as she stared at the proof in

front of her on the computer screen. “Mulder, that can’t

be.”

“It is. Simon’s our guy. He’s the one.”

“Much more than that, Scully. I think he’s an X-File. He

doesn’t have a sister, yet that DNA says he does.”

“Then let’s find out the truth.”

Mrs. West was a skinny, frumpy old woman who didn’t seem

too happy about the intrusion in her house.

“Simon?” she asked. “Not here. Didn’t see him since last

night.”

“Do you know of places where he might hang out?” Scully

asked wearily. “Bars, friends…”

“Friends? Simon?” The woman laughed loudly. “He hasn’t had

a single friend in his entire life. He’s a loser, ma’am.

Nothing more, nothing less. He shouldn’t have existed, you

know. I should have gotten rid of him from the start. He’s

a nothing, just like his daddy.”

“He is a man with talents, Mrs. West. It’s a shame you

never figured that out.”

“Talents? Hah.”

“Do you have other children, Mrs. West? Did Simon have a

sister?”

“No.”

“Are you certain?”

“I know how many kids I popped. I just had Simon and that

crybaby was more than enough. I never had any other.”

“Thank god for the kids,” Scully hissed under her breath,

pissed off at the woman’s indifference to her own son.

“Excuse me?” Mrs. West stood up, instantly becoming a tad

taller than Scully. “Do you know what it’s like to have a

son that’s worth zip? If you ever have kids, I hope you’ll

have a stupid one so you can know what it’s like.”

“With a mother like you it’s a miracle he even made it this

far,” Scully retorted. “Come on, Mulder, let’s get out of

here.”

“No, I’d like to see Simon’s room first. Perhaps there are

more clues there.”

“Get the hell out of my house,” Mrs. West replied coldly.

“You’re not going anywhere.”

“Yes, we are. Or do you want to be arrested for co-

conspiracy? I can get a warrant in an hour.”

“Go upstairs then and leave me the hell alone.” Mrs. West

returned to her television set and couch, acting as if they

didn’t exist. Scully stuck out her tongue, before following

Mulder upstairs.

“Jeez, women like that piss me off,” she hissed, staring at

Mulder’s amused expression. “There are so many people out

there who ache for kids, and she treats her own like dirt.

Nice woman.”

“Ah well, let her be. Here, let’s take a look.”

The bedroom was a representation of the dreary life that

Simon West had always lead. On the walls, hung posters of

long lost glories like Jane Fonda and Farrah Fawcett.

“Oh yuck. Charlie’s Angels. The series. Poor guy.” Scully

looked around realizing the room hadn’t changed for at

least twenty years.

“He really must be desperate. Look! Knight Rider!”

“Mulder, we’ve concluded that Simon West is a poor excuse

of a man, but where is he now? He killed those women, and

the clock is running to stop him before he does it again.

Where do we go?”

“He’ll be in Baltimore, Scully. I’m fairly certain of that.

I just don’t understand why he doesn’t have a sister. They

must have screwed up at the lab.”

“They don’t do that.” Scully sighed. “I can’t explain it

either, Mulder. We need to find Simon, maybe see if he can

tell us. I’m just hoping that the others might catch him

before he does anything wrong. Every unit out there knows

to look for him.”

“Look at this.” Mulder pointed at a notepad and pen lying

on the desk near the window. Simon had jotted, scribbled

and drawn dozens of words on several pages. “This is old,”

Mulder said. “Look what he wrote over every page.”

“I hate women. I hate women. But I love mother. I hate

women.”

“Okay, so now we know he hates women,” Mulder said. “And

that’s not getting us

anywhere.”

“Mulder, I remember something I’ve heard throughout my

science classes. If this is true, then Simon West is

extraordinary after all. I cannot imagine though that he

would be -”

“Scully, what?”

“Do you know what chimaera people are?”

“Erm. No?”

“Sometimes nature plays freakish jokes on us, as you know.

I read this article not so long ago about a boy that was

born a couple of years ago, whose blood contained two

different sets of genetic material. During the gestation of

twin siblings, one of the embryos is somehow absorbed by

the other, resulting in a fetus with two different sets of

genetic material. That is called chimaerism. This boy that

I read about, some of his cells carried female DNA, while

others carried male DNA.”

“Are you saying that’s what Simon West is?”

“What if he doesn’t have any siblings like his mother said?

What if the lab didn’t screw up? Where did the female DNA

come from? The pattern in both samples clearly indicate a

close relationship between them, like that of siblings. Do

you have another explanation?”

“So what does this mean?” Mulder asked. “He’s both male and

female?”

“It could explain why he feels so out of place.”

“What exactly is wrong with him then?”

“From what I’ve heard, he might have two different types of

blood, but that’s not always the case. That would happen if

he had a non-identical twin during his development. We

would have to run tests on him to determine that. Mind you,

Mulder, chimaeric people are very rare. I’m just guessing

here.”

“In that case, let’s find him quickly and see if your

theory’s right.”

She smiled. “You want to go back to The Inn, don’t you?”

“Fancy dressing up like a hooker?”

“That won’t work. They’ll know by now you’re a Fed. I’ll

watch your back instead.”

“Too bad.”

The Inn was crowded again. After Moore’s body had been

removed the previous night, and the cops had combed the

place, the crowd had slowly returned. It was nearly nine

a.m. on a Saturday morning, but no one seemed to care. Most

were eating breakfast and looked as if they had been there

pulling an all-nighter.

Most of them probably had.

The place fell silent when Mulder and Scully walked in.

Mulder still wearing last night’s clothing, complete with

bloodstains and looking worse for wear. He was looking more

and more pale, Scully thought, starting to get worried

about his exhaustion. He belonged in a hospital bed, but

she knew Mulder wouldn’t give up now that they were chasing

Simon.

The bartender was the same guy too. Mulder walked over to

him. “The guy I was with last night. The freckled one. Has

he been in here?”

“Yeah, an hour ago. He left with a girl.”

” Shit! Where?”

“How should I know?”

“Did they talk about a room, or a house or something like

that?”

“She has a room on Exeter. Don’t know the number.”

“Think harder.”

“She belongs to him.” A shrug to the right, and the bulky

African-American Mulder had seen the previous night glared

in their direction. The two ‘girls’ were by his side.

“Uh oh,” Mulder grinned, “Scully, get ready for a

catfight.”

“Is that them?”

“Yep.”

“Leave it up to me.”

The two agents walked to the other side of the room.

Scully’s Antarctic glare froze the two transvestites in

their tracks. She dug out her badge and flashed it in their

faces.

“Which of you two sweet girls hurt my partner?”

They shrugged, starting to look worried. Scully pursed her

lips nastily.

“If I see you make one wrong move, if you even breathe

wrong, I’ll make sure you’re a permanent transvestite.

How’s that?”

“Bitch,” one of the two muttered, before they walked away,

shooting Mulder a wry look.

The agent sat down next to the bulky man. “Your girl

wandered off with our guy. Where is she?”

“He’s a Fed. He said so. Why should I tell you?”

“Because this Fed is also a murderer. He’ll slash her until

you’ll find bits and pieces of her all around the town.

Where are they?”

“Exeter, 10. Apartment 4. That’s her joint.” Mulder was

already running.

“Let’s go, Scully.”

Mulder called for backup as they drove to Exeter Street,

where they had once captured

Eugene Victor Tooms. “This calls for a trip down memory

lane, hey Scully?”

She smiled. “Why is it that we always end up chasing

freaks?”

“Perhaps we’re the freaks.”

“You don’t seem to be growing any extras on your body

though.”

“You should check harder, Scully. Tonight, maybe.”

“Let’s find Simon first, but I’ll keep you to your

promise.”

The apartment building was a dreadful, damp and dark place.

Mulder pushed all the buttons, except the one for Apartment

number four. Finally a man came outside, leaving the door

open for him. The agents rushed up the stairs; guns aloft

and ready for use. Mulder carried his with his left hand,

since his trigger arm was of no use. At number four, they

stopped.

Scully pounded hard on the door.

“Simon, open up!” Mulder yelled. “We know you’re in there.

Now get your ass out of there and leave the girl alone.”

No answer.

Scully pounded one more time before trying the doorknob.

One turn, and they found themselves inside the apartment.

On the couch lay the body of a blonde hooker. Blood trailed

sickeningly across her face and torso, but she was still

alive. Her hands were taped in front of her and blood ran

in a stream down her legs too.

“She’s alive,” Scully said softly. “Where is he?”

The girl didn’t respond, trembling in shock. She was still

young, couldn’t have been older than twenty.

“Simon!” Mulder scoured through the living room and checked

the kitchen and bedroom. Then he remembered what Simon had

said once about his partner, and carefully advanced on the

bathroom.

“Simon, it’s no use. Come out of there and talk to us. We

know it’s you, Simon.”

“Took you long enough!” Simon shouted from the bathroom.

“And here I was thinking you would catch me within the

hour.”

“It doesn’t work like that, Simon. Fieldwork is long and

hard. Why don’t you put your gun on the floor and show your

face. We don’t want to kill you.”

“Simon,” Scully called out after she’d lead the girl

outside to wait for paramedics, and who now sat trembling

on the floor. “We know why you feel so strange. We think we

know what is causing it. We want to take you to the

hospital for a couple of tests. We can work all this out.”

Silence.

“Simon?”

The door clicked open. Scully raised her gun and aimed it

at Simon. Mulder held his gun up too, swaying the thing in

the wrong direction. He couldn’t fire if his life depended

on it, he knew.

Simon had tears running down his cheeks. He was the epitome

of the image he’d procured over the past few years: the

loser who sat in the corner of the room and played

wallflower, while all the others were going about life and

enjoying themselves.

“Simon, it’s over,” Mulder spoke friendly. “Now, why don’t

you come with us and we’ll take care of you.”

“It was the fingernails, wasn’t it?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Not the DNA?”

“We never imagined it was a Federal Agent doing the

killing. We had no reason to go look there.”

Simon sighed. “All I wanted was someone to pay attention to

me. That’s all. For once in my life, I wanted to be

someone. Is that so much to ask?”

“You definitely got noticed this time around. I’m sure

you’ll end up in the history books as one of Baltimore’s

most vicious killers.”

“But they’ll remember me as Simon The Ripper, won’t they?

Not as an original serial killer.”

“Yes. For that, you shouldn’t have copycatted the most

notorious serial killer of all time.”

“Oh drat.” Simon sighed. “I don’t have inspiration, you

know. I was a boring kid who couldn’t even read a book

properly. I couldn’t imagine what the characters were

really like. I just read and it meant nothing to me.”

“You killed Moore.”

“Oh yeah. Not so difficult in the confusion. Everyone was

running outside to see the fight with you and the girls. He

kind of just ran into the knife. I always kept that on me,

underneath my pants. No one saw it, so why not? I don’t

like it when they laugh in my face. My partner, too. He

hated being stuck with me. Well, I solved that problem. But

you guys really fucked up, didn’t you? With that female DNA

and all that. Such nonsense. I don’t even have a sister.”

“We know that, Simon,” Scully countered evenly.

“Ah well.” Simon shrugged, lifting his gun and aiming it at

Mulder. “I guess we say goodbye here then.”

“Are you going to shoot me, Simon?”

“No, I’m waiting for Agent Scully to shoot me, because I’m

threatening you.”

“She won’t shoot you.”

“Someone has to. I don’t want to end up being the prison’s

wallpaper. Just let me die and get it over with.”

“Unfortunately it doesn’t work that way.”

“Then I’ll shoot myself.”

“Will you, Simon?”

“Sure.”

Simon’s movement changed and he cocked the gun to his head.

“It’s over in a flash.”

Mulder moved forward.

“Stay put, Agent Mulder.”

“Simon, you’re not a bad person.”

“I’m a fucking serial killer!” His eyes bulged

disturbingly.

“No, you’re not.”

“Oh come on Mulder. Stop trying to save me. I put this on

myself. I’m not the type of lanky, cute FBI-agent that you

are. I don’t get the women’s attention, and I don’t have a

beautiful partner in the sack every night. That’s not me.

You have everything, but I have nothing. We’re not two of a

kind. You don’t have to try and convince me otherwise. I am

just me, stupid little Simon West who leads nobody’s life.

That’s me, and that’s final.”

“Okay then.” Mulder sighed wearily, and turned around,

winking at Scully. “Go ahead and shoot yourself then. I’m

sure it will all be wrapped up very neatly in a casefile

that will end up gathering dust in the basement. I mean,

everyone will want to hide the fact that you – an FBI-agent

– killed four and a half women, right? Not to mention your

colleagues. You’re right, Simon. They will want to treat

you like the nobody that you are. Good for them. I guess

that’s the fate that you deserve.”

“Wha -?” Simon opened his mouth to protest. “I thought you

were different!”

Mulder shrugged. “I guess I’m not. Because of you, I

sustained two cracked ribs and a separated shoulder. I’m

not happy about that, Simon. I’m actually quite pissed. It

fucking hurts. I should be happy that you’re going to kill

yourself. It’ll be a neat little ending to this tale. You

don’t deserve a better fate than that.”

Simon lowered his gun and dropped it on the floor. “Take me

in then, and let me do my story. I want everyone to hear

it!”

Mulder turned. “Of course you do. Come on, Simon.”

Scully sighed in relief, lowering her gun as she approached

Simon. Mulder held him with his left hand. “Turn around,

Simon. We’ll have to handcuff you, and bring you in like

the criminal that you are.”

He smiled. “I’ll get a huge trial, right? They’ll all pay

attention.”

“But you’ll still end up locked in a small, two by two cell

down the end of the hall,” Scully intoned. “That’s how it

works.”

Simon paled. “You can get me help, right? Treatment?

Anything? A doctor? An audience?”

Mulder shook his head while Scully dug out her handcuffs.

“No promises, Simon. You butchered six people.”

Simon West felt the bubble burst. He could actually tell

that it was all going to hell. This was not how it was

supposed to end. He was supposed to get press attention, to

get all the fear that Jack The Ripper created upon the

world. He had to be notorious, feared.

‘SIMON WEST IS THE NEW RIPPER’

‘SIMON WEST IS A BAD, BAD MAN’

‘SIMON WEST: FEAR HIM!’

The second Scully clicked one cuff around his left wrist,

Simon’s anger burst. He pushed her away with one huge shove

of his hand, kicking her body against the bathroom door

where it smacked into the wood frame. She stayed down for

the count.

That same unexpected shove shook Mulder’s grip on him. The

agent fell backwards but didn’t fall. Simon hurled himself

on top of Mulder, pushing him onto the ground. The agent

cried out in pure animal agony as his torso collided

against the tiles. The sling and bandage that protected his

right arm couldn’t prevent it from hurting like hell. It

smacked against the hard surface.

“Fuck,” Mulder muttered underneath his breath, for one

moment begging for the painkillers that had helped him

before.

The next second, he found himself staring into the barrel

Simon’s gun. “So, how am I going to get the attention I

deserve, Agent Mulder? Or better yet: what do I have to do

for it?”

“You had your chance, Simon,” Mulder groaned underneath

him. “Now get the hell off me.”

“If that is all that’s left for me, I might as well kill my

idol too, right? I’m sure you’ll get a memento in the

Bureau’s building somewhere. And perhaps it will read

‘Killed by his colleague in the line of duty’. Maybe

they’ll even name me. I’ll be notorious.”

A smash over the head with a heavy glass ashtray stopped

Simon West’s reign of terror. Without giving so much as a

kick, the murderous agent fell forward, on top of Mulder’s

banged up ribs.

“How’s that for notoriety?” Scully grumbled angrily,

dropping the ashtray to the ground.

“Scully, very funny one-liner, but could you please get him

the hell off my chest!!! I’m kind of choking here,” Mulder

spluttered from underneath West’s unconscious form.

“Oh, sorry Mulder.”

“And while you’re at it, could you please call an

ambulance? I think I might have damaged a kidney; maybe a

lung. And I think he screwed my other arm too.”

Epilogue

“How’s that, honey?”

“Oooh, I love it when you call me honey, Scully. It doesn’t

suit you, but I’ll take it as it comes. Sweet as honey.

Milk and toast and honey.”

“Shut up, Mulder and enjoy the game,” Scully smiled,

feeding him the last bit of hotdog she had smuggled into

the hospital.

It was a funny sight really to watch her partner perched

upright in his hospital bed. His right arm was plastered to

his chest by an even bigger sling after the abuse he’d

caused the already damaged muscles and ligaments.

His left forearm and wrist were bandaged, thanks to a

sprain caused by Simon falling on top of him. His torso was

still strapped in bandages for the ribs knocked around at

the time of arrest. Fortunately he hadn’t damaged any

internal organs even though he’d come close.

“Rest, rest, rest, rest,” the doctor had insisted before

filling up his IV with the good stuff. “We’ll keep you

here, at least for the weekend.”

Nestled in his bed that Saturday evening, Mulder had

droopily replied, “Djoctor Jjackson ljooks ljike Skjinner.

I mjiss jour bjoss.”

The Knicks tickets were sold after all, to Agent Lane and

her girlfriend.

“Now, if I’d had Agent Lane as partner, I would have had

wet dreams all day,” Mulder retorted when he found out

about her preferences.

“Oh thanks,” Scully had replied. “Good to know I don’t turn

you on.”

“Would you mind turning on the television instead?”

Sunday morning Scully came back with the results of the lab

research. “I was right about West,” she exclaimed in

triumph. “He’s a chimaera, and strangely enough that is

going to help him. His lawyer told me they are filing to

have him submitted to a hospital for further voluntarily

testing and research. He’ll probably wind up in a mental

institution for the rest of his life.”

“Hopefully he’ll have the time of his life being the

subject of many tests,” Mulder replied. “After all, he

wanted the attention, didn’t he?”

Sunday evening, Mulder had been quite depressed, trapped in

his bed. Everything itched and ached; felt hurt and sore.

“I could have been at the ballgame, Scully,” he’d whined

over the phone. “Now I’ve got itchy and scratchy all over

the place.”

“Poor fuddy duddy. I’ll come and keep you company, okay?”

As soon as she opened the door, the scent of delicious

greasy hotdogs swayed in his direction. And she strode in

wearing a Knicks cap and T-shirt. In her hands, she also

had a bag of popcorn, a large Coke and extra cap.

“Let’s go to the ballgame,” she chanted and ended up

feeding him two hotdogs. The bits of mustard that ended up

on the sides of his lips, she licked up with a grin on her

face.

“Scully, you are the best. I’ll never dream of Agent Lane

again.”

“You’d better. Now move your ass and make some room.”

Before the game was even half an hour further, Scully

suddenly looked up. Mulder was fast asleep, with a goofy

grin on his face, and the cap slipped over his eyes. She

smiled, pulled up the blankets before turning down the

volume a bit, and snuggled deeper underneath his left arm.

Within two minutes, she too had fallen asleep, happily

admitting that she really found all sports quite boring.

Give her chimaerical people any day.

In his newfound situation, Simon West happily submitted

freely to all tests. They prodded and poked him, and asked

him zillions of indiscrete questions.

And he liked every moment of it. He’d found his niche.

End

TITLE: Gratias

AUTHOR: Starfleetofficer1

CATEGORY: Casefile, holiday, Sk

RATING: PG-13

DISCLAIMER: The X-Files belongs to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions.

SUMMARY: When Skinner meets up with his adopted son Andrew for a Thanksgiving gathering at Maggie Scully’s house, a dark presence intrudes on their holiday.

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DULLES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT

WASHINGTON, DC

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 2012

1602

“We landed. I’m gonna head down to Baggage Claim. Where are you?”

“In the garage, parking. I’ll meet you by the Departure/Arrival screen at the bottom of the escalator in Baggage Claim.”

“Okay, see you then. Love you, Walter.”

“Love you too, Andrew. Bye.”

Twenty-three-year-old Andrew Madden dropped the smartphone back into his front pocket and hoisted his duffel bag a little higher on his shoulder as he maneuvered through the crowd at Dulles International Airport. He had been slightly disappointed to hear that Mulder and Scully were both gone on a case, but was delighted that Mrs. Scully had heard of his impending arrival and had baked chocolate chip cookies.

The recent college grad had been earning money for Seminary for the past year by working as a meteorological field reporter. Using his Bachelor’s degree in computer science, he implemented storm-tracking software in tornado and hurricane hot spots around America, and then tracked the results to help communities prepare for disasters. It was part of a private initiative spearheaded by a wealthy entrepreneur who had a passion for disaster preparedness. The entrepreneur’s company was based out of Dallas, TX, but also had an office in New York City. Andrew had traveled around the country for much of the past year, but he and Skinner kept in close contact through Facebook and the phone, and met up whenever their travel schedules corresponded.

Andrew hoped to enter Catholic Seminary next year, when he would have amassed the savings necessary. He loved his current work, but knew that God was calling him to something more. His journal entries featured pages of academic speculation on Scriptural meaning and interpretation, on philosophy, on the nature of the universe and God’s direction thereof. His degree in religious studies had broadened his academic horizons and launched his interest in doctrinal origins. The resulting dissertations he wrote almost nightly in his journal were, combined, probably good enough to be published in a theological journal. So he knew that while the entrepreneur’s disaster preparedness efforts were noble and a wonderful way for him to minister to people, that neither computer science nor meteorological studies were his future.

The young man quickly descended the airport stairs, bypassing the traffic on the escalator, and intercepted Walter directly in front of the Departure/Arrival screen. The two men embraced. “I’ve missed you,” Walter said simply.

“It’s been too long,” Andrew agreed, and then pulled away. “I’ve particularly missed Mrs. Scully’s cooking.”

Walter laughed. “That’s the only reason you came home, isn’t it?”

It was a funny thing to say, Andrew thought. Home. Where was home? Certainly, with Walter, but could he call Washington D.C. home? Was the place itself home?

Walter seemed to catch Andrew’s introspectiveness and he nodded his head toward the exit. They began walking to the parking garage. “Is everything okay?”

“Everything’s fine,” Andrew said, and smiled.

They loaded his bag into the hatch of the small SUV and climbed into the front. Walter handed Andrew a cookie, and said, “A preview of Mrs. Scully’s latest batch.”

The young man beamed. “Nice!” He took the cookie eagerly, and reclined his seat. He was the picture of relaxation as they pulled out of the garage.

“So how’s work?” The two men asked simultaneously, and then laughed. Walter shook his head. “It’s fine at the Bureau. The case Mulder and Scully are on should wrap up within a few days, and they might even make it back in time for turkey tomorrow.”

“Great, that sounds good. Work on my end is good too. I’ve got to be in Kentucky next week, probably for about a week or two.”

“You didn’t mention that on the phone,” Walter said, and maneuvered his way around traffic.

“It was sort of a last-minute thing. I got the notice on my phone, actually.”

Walter rolled his eyes.

“What?” Andrew asked.

“It seems to me like you’re being used.”

“This is the job,” Andrew defended his employer. “And I knew that going in. It’s only for another year, anyway. Then I’ll be in one place, safe and sound, and you won’t have to worry about me.”

“I’m not—“ Walter stopped himself, and shook his head. “We’ve had this conversation before.”

Andrew smiled slightly. “We have.” He polished off the cookie. “Let’s change the subject—got any more cookies?”

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SKINNER HOUSEHOLD

ALEXANDRIA, VA

WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 21, 2012

1920

After dinner, the two men retired to separate areas of the house, Skinner to check his work email, and Andrew to change into a long-sleeved t-shirt and pair of plaid pajama pants and relax in front of the television—something he hadn’t done in quite a while, as he didn’t have television in his Dallas apartment.

“Vacation is a wonderful thing,” Skinner said as he came down the stairs and saw his son sprawled on the couch like a teenager, his Bible and journal askew on the coffee table and the television turned on the Hallmark channel. “Sappy prime time specials, eh?”

“Nothing else is worth watching,” Andrew commented. “When did our society get so depraved?”

Walter laughed ironically. “I think it was depraved when you showed up. And you just started noticing.” He grabbed a beer from the kitchen and asked, “Do you want anything?”

“Nah, I’m good,” the young man said.

Walter knew Andrew didn’t drink, but he also knew that his adopted son grossly understated his needs. He brought him a bottle of water, and tossed it into the space between the coffee table and the couch. Andrew smiled in gratitude. As Walter relaxed into the lounge chair next to the couch and glanced at the Hallmark special, Andrew said suddenly, “Hey, Walter, for the past three years I’ve been writing these doctrinal theses in my journals, and I was wondering if you’d like to take a look at them.”

The assistant director’s eyebrows went up, and he leaned forward. “Sure, I’d be happy to.” He took the journal from Andrew’s outstretched arm, and asked, “Mind if I ask the topic? Or is it just general theology?”

“Everything I’ve noticed about the Bible and history. You might want to use the Bible while you read—I refer to a lot of passages without enclosing them in the text.”

Walter paged through the handwritten journal, and glanced up, impressed at the intellectual giant who lay on the couch before him.

Hours later, the travel-weary, hard-working young man was fast asleep and the assistant director was still reading the details of his son’s deep theological conscience. Andrew had delved into the events surrounding the Council at Nicene, studied Constantine’s person, provided an incredibly lively commentary on Pope John Paul II’s writings, answered questions of faith that Walter himself had pondered at times, and asked questions so far out of the FBI leader’s grasp that he sat gaping at the page.

This all would have been impressive by itself, but on the latter pages were thoughts that disturbed Walter, and made him want to wake Andrew and demand answers. Predictions of massive hardship, of war, of hunger…where was he getting this from? Most concerning of all was the most recent of the dismal writings, in which Andrew stated events pointed to a presence of evil gathering in their midst. To what was he referring? Had someone threatened him?

Walter began an introspective study himself, only now shifting from his mentality of a concerned father to that of an assistant director in the FBI. Andrew’s behavior had been slightly off since meeting him in the airport. He seemed quieter than normal, perhaps more tired, but perhaps he was depressed. The lack of face-to-face contact with his friends and family in the past year had been rough, and Walter worried that it had taken a toll on his son.

He resolved to speak with him about it in the morning. But for now, the assistant director stood and grabbed the blanket off the back of the couch. He silently draped it over his son, kissed the young man’s forehead, and closed his eyes in a brief prayer of thanks before retreating to his bedroom upstairs.

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MAGGIE SCULLY’S HOME

BALTIMORE, MD

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 2012

1200

“Just got the call from Fox—they’re at the airport and they’ll be here in about two hours,” Maggie said from the threshold of the kitchen and family room.

Two small children, about four and six, ran past her, screaming all the way. Eight-year-old Claire looked at Maggie and the children with an exasperated expression. “PLEASE! I’m TRYING to listen to the parade!” she exclaimed. “Santa will be on any MINUTE!”

Matt, on the couch with his PSVITA, blasted enemies in Call of Duty: Black Ops (in preparation for his impending receipt of Black Ops II for Christmas) with Andrew for an audience, looking over his shoulder. Walter seemed to be the only one paying attention. “That’s great, Maggie. Thanks.”

Tara walked in at that moment, just as Santa’s sleigh float rolled in on the 40” LCD TV. “HE’S HERE! HE’S HERE!” Claire’s shrill cry interrupted Tara’s sentence before it could even escape her lips, and the four and six-year-old stopped their game of tag to gaze at the television in awe.

After the excitement passed, Tara stated, “Bonnie will be over in ten minutes to get Lisa and Joe. Matt—please turn the game off and help me get the kids’ things ready.”

“I can do that, Tara,” Maggie said without hesitation.

“No—Maggie, you’ve been on your feet all morning in the kitchen. Please relax. Let Matt take some responsibility and do what he said he would do this morning,” the fourteen-year-old’s mother replied with a pointed glance at Matt, who paused the game and looked up sheepishly.

“Sorry,” he offered, and stood up. “Lisa, Joe, time to pack up your stuff and go home. C’mon, guys. Get your toys together,” he tried to round up the troops despite their protest. Claire watched the credits to the parade roll on the screen and then lost interest in the event altogether, now that Santa was gone. “I’ll help too,” she offered.

With Matt, Claire, and the young children gone from the room, and Maggie retreating back into the kitchen to pack up snacks for the kids, only Walter, Tara, and Andrew were left. “Mrs. Scully is really nice to have offered her home to those kids,” Andrew commented, and plucked a freshly baked cookie off of the tray on the coffee table.

“She is that,” Walter agreed. “I suppose Bonnie was able to find a place to stay?”

“She’s going to go to her mother’s house. Her uncle is coming to stay with them. He’s a police officer—hopefully they’ll be safe there,” Tara commented.

Bonnie, a friend of Tara’s, had recently escaped with the children from an abusive husband. Walter frowned in concern. “It’s probably the first place he’ll look. They’d be better off going to a shelter.” Tara shook her head, and was about to reply, but Walter held up his hand. “I know she doesn’t trust shelters.”

Andrew looked relatively concerned over this situation, but didn’t comment further. He watched as the dog show started, and said, “This is probably the most innocent network TV day of the year. Not that I’ve watched much TV lately…”

Tara glanced absently at the television and nodded.

Two hours later, Mulder and Scully arrived. In good cheer despite their recent airport struggles, the agents were pleased to be with family and relaxed in the family room, engaging in casual conversation with Tara and Skinner.

When the bird was still a few hours from being fully cooked, Andrew sat up from his reclined position on the couch and looked uncomfortable.

Just then, Tara’s cell phone rang. Scully’s sister-in-law stood up and left the room to take the call, but the conversation had fallen silent, and Andrew’s body language seemed to set the anxious mood. Mulder even stood and crossed his arms in concern, glancing in Tara’s direction.

“Calm down,” they heard, and then when Scully heard “police,” she charged over to where Tara was. “What’s wrong?”

Tara simply held up a finger. “Where are you now?”

There was a pause, and now everyone was standing, and the television had been muted. Maggie exited the kitchen, untying her apron as she entered the family room. “What’s going on?” the grandmother asked.

“Not sure yet,” Mulder stated quietly, slightly confused at the entire thing. “Did something happen while we were gone?”

“No,” Maggie started, and then Walter cut in. “One of Tara’s friends is dealing with a domestic dispute.”

“Bonnie, you need to call the police. This is a dangerous situation.” A brief pause followed her statement, and then Tara said forcefully, “No. Bonnie—“ there was another pause, and Claire asked, “What’s wrong with Mrs. Hauser?” Matt shushed her. “Then at least let me send some friends.” A brief pause followed, and then she said, “Okay. We’re coming. Stay where you are.”

As soon as the smartphone came away from Tara’s ear, she was assaulted with the inquisitive stares of everyone in the room. “Bonnie is at her mother’s house. Her mother isn’t home. The car is gone from the garage. The door was unlocked, and her uncle hasn’t shown up yet. Neither of them is answering the phone.”

Andrew seemed to stiffen at the news, and Walter was keenly aware that this case was affecting his son.

“Was there any sign of a struggle?” Mulder asked.

Tara shook her head. “They’ve been there waiting at least two hours—if they had noticed anything, they would have left.”

“Let’s get over there, then,” Walter made the decision. “If you give me the address I’ll take Mulder and Scully and we’ll wait until there’s enough time elapsed to file a missing persons report. Meanwhile we’ll start investigating—there’s definitely something amiss when two people who said they would be there are independently missing.”

The agents both nodded, and Maggie looked rather despondent that her houseguests would have to leave.

Andrew moved toward his adoptive father. “I’ll go with you.” Walter immediately shook his head, but the young man was persistent. “I need to go with you. I’ll be fine with the three of you protecting us. I’m serious, Walter. I need to go with you.”

There was silence in the room, almost as if Andrew’s proclamation had changed the very nature of the situation from an unfortunate, potentially dangerous domestic dispute to an event of larger proportions. Mulder glanced at Scully, who did not look back, but instead kept her eyes on Andrew.

Finally, Walter nodded once, and the small crowd of agents accompanied the twenty-three-year-old who led the way out the door. “Tara, you stay here,” Mulder ordered, and there was no argument. He closed the door on his way out.

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HOME OF EMMA HODGINS

GEORGETOWN, DC

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 2012

1400

Mulder and Scully had driven independently, and pulled up to the small Georgetown home not too far from their own townhouse. As Andrew got out of the passenger side of Skinner’s car in front of them, Mulder glanced at his long-time partner and confidant. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“I do too,” Scully admitted, and looked at the small house, with perfectly trimmed hedges and newly-painted shutters.

“And I think he knows what’s about to happen,” Mulder nodded toward Andrew, who was behind Skinner as they approached the front door.

“Andrew? But…” Scully cut short her own protest at this theory, as she herself had witnessed Andrew’s miraculous abilities.

“Let’s go,” Mulder got out of the car, and waited until Scully had done the same before he trotted to the front door to catch up with Skinner.

The four of them rang the doorbell and were greeted by a nervous Bonnie Hauser. “Thank you for coming. Is Tara here?”

“We advised Tara to stay behind,” Skinner said, and extended his hand. “I’m Walter Skinner. I work for the FBI—these are some of my colleagues. Fox Mulder, Dana Scully—Tara’s sister-in-law. And this is my son, Andrew. We’re here to make you feel more comfortable.”

Bonnie nodded, and struggled to find words. “I don’t…my mother was supposed to…her car is gone, so she obviously went somewhere….but Uncle Hank, he should’ve come…he never called, and he won’t answer…”

“We understand,” Mulder said, and closed the door behind him. He locked it in one fluid motion, and asked, “Mrs. Hauser, where are the children?”

“They’re…I told them to hide. Do you think we should leave? We shouldn’t stay here, should we? ‘Cause, if he comes…”

Scully placed a comforting hand on Bonnie’s shoulder. “We’re going to protect you here. This is what we do. Why don’t you go to where the children are hiding and stay there. You know this house better than we do. If you hear something going on, stay where you are. Don’t come out until one of us says it’s okay.”

Bonnie nodded rapidly, tears beginning to form in her eyes. Then she ran away, retreating to some hiding place within the house. They heard an interior door shut with finality. Skinner looked out through the front blinds and then let them snap shut. “I recommend we split up.”

“Scully and I will take the back door in the living room area,” Mulder suggested.

Skinner agreed with a curt nod. “I’ll take the front door and Andrew, I want you to go upstairs and be our eyes. If you see someone coming from the upstairs front room window, yell down.”

Andrew nodded, knowing not to argue with his father about this. There was no way he would be allowed to stay downstairs.

The plan was set. The situation itself, though suspicious, did not warrant calling in reinforcements. There were no signs of forced entry or a struggle. The disappearance of family members for such a short time did not meet the requirements to file a missing persons report. The failure to answer a cell phone did not constitute an emergency. But put together, the circumstances were highly suspicious. And perhaps more telling than anything was Andrew’s reaction to the case. They knew better than to ignore such instincts.

XXX

Hours passed. The sun set behind the line of trees across the street, and Mulder sighed at the lack of action. They had spent their time trying to track Emma and Hank Hodgins’ whereabouts, but had come up empty. “We’re going to end up declaring these people missing before Hauser shows up,” Mulder stated.

Scully had done some research on Louis Hauser. He had been dishonorably discharged from the US Marine Corps after striking a senior officer. It got worse from there. Ten years ago he had gone to prison for a year for assault of a coworker. He had resumed his job as a professional mover upon exiting prison, but three years later had another run-in with the law after exhibiting violence during a union strike. Five years ago, he was the prime suspect in a bank robbery investigation, but was never charged with anything. Though his life since then had been relatively quiet, he had also spent the vast majority of it out of country, in Russia, supposedly visiting his mother.

“I’m thinking he’s a Russian mobster,” Mulder said, only half-serious.

“I’m going to call one of my friends,” Skinner said from near the front door, taking his cell phone out of his pocket. “He’ll bring us some reinforcements and possibly relieve us for the evening.”

After Skinner’s phone conversation, there was relatively little discussion between the agents. Scully took a breath as if to say something, but suddenly Andrew’s voice cut through the air from upstairs. “They’re coming,” he called. “Four or five, I think, in an Expedition. Pulling into the driveway. They see our cars.”

“Get under the bed, Andrew. Keep your head down. Stay quiet!” Skinner barked up the stairs, and resumed his post at the front door. Mulder took cover with Scully in the living room. Skinner could see through the angle of the blinds that there were multiple men, and that they were splitting up. “Got at least two headed for you,” he called in a low tone.

“Understood,” Scully said quietly.

They were expecting these thugs to kick in the doors and begin shooting, but apparently they had come better prepared than that. They no doubt had seen the government plates on the cars parked in the driveway and knew they were dealing with law enforcement. And yet, they still approached boldly. The windows shattered, and smoke grenades were tossed in. Then the doors were kicked in.

As soon as gunfire erupted, Andrew called the police from upstairs. “9-1-1, What is your emergency?”

Andrew gave the address. “There’s gunfire,” he stated clearly. “There are four intruders. “ Then he froze. He saw feet from under the bed, and realized that in the commotion downstairs, one of the men had broken free and was searching the house for Bonnie and the children.

“Are you hurt, Sir?” the operator asked, but Andrew didn’t answer. “Sir?” Andrew ended the call as silently as he could, but the light from the screen coming away from his face alerted the intruder to his presence.

“Who are you?” a gruff voice demanded, and squatted down to pull Andrew violently from under the bed. The man was much bigger than the twenty-three-year-old. He smelled of alcohol but his voice was clear—he was not drunk. His buzz cut and attire were both very military, but his demeanor was anything but. “I said who are you?” He threw Andrew down by the young man’s shirt and pointed a 9 mil at his head.

Andrew drew in a sharp breath. “Andrew Madden,” he answered, too softly to be heard over the gunfire.

“What are you doing in this house?!” the man yelled.

“Helping some friends,” he said, his near-paralyzed vocal cords unable to make his voice loud enough.

“Where are you hiding them?!” The man screamed, and charged toward Andrew again, obviously only now getting to the question he truly cared about.

Andrew backed into the corner of the bedroom, next to the antique dresser and vanity. There was a cord running from an old lamp into an outlet near his hand, and he formed a plan instantly. He would pull the cord and the lamp would come crashing down onto the man’s head. Hopefully. It was a long shot, and his panicked brain wasn’t providing him with any other options.

He yanked on the cord, and simultaneously noticed that next to the lamp were small statues of St. Jude, St. Anthony, and the Blessed Mother. They seemed to capture his eyes and hold them, because he found himself utterly unable to look away, even as the lamp missed and the giant man charged toward him.

XXX

Downstairs, Skinner shot one intruder, but the other had evaded his sight in the smoke. Mulder’s first shot at the man who charged through the back door was a miss, and now there were three intruders hiding in the house, unaccounted for. The fire alarm was now going off and the agents all hoped that would mean the police would be there soon.

It was clear the intruders meant business and had some sort of training. They fired from one location and promptly moved to another. Skinner was now behind the cover of the refrigerator in the kitchen, in front of the pantry door. It was dark and impossible to see anything. He worried about hitting Mulder or Scully if they had moved to evade these men.

He saw movement, and fired. Something shattered—probably a lamp or a figurine—but no one dropped. And now his location was discovered, and he had to move. He quickly migrated across the kitchen, behind the small island that divided the kitchen area from the dining area. Making his way in a squatting position along the kitchen floor, he looked around the corner of the island and spotted a gun in someone’s hand, behind the stairs.

He heard a shot and a thud, and prayed it wasn’t one of his agents. They were hopefully down to two intruders.

Suddenly and inexplicably, the lights came on in the living room and behind the stairs, perfectly illuminating through the smoke the silhouette of his target. Skinner fired, and the man dropped. Another shot from the living room told him the same situation had occurred there, and then he heard Mulder’s voice. “All clear.”

He breathed out, and the lights were off again.

“Walter!” a faint cry could be heard, and he scrambled up, darting up the stairs so quickly that he nearly lost his footing. He spun the corner and saw the man pointing the gun at his son. He would have fired, but Andrew cried, “Wait!” the young man inched his way out of range of the gunman, who immediately spun upon hearing noises around him. Not wanting to give away his weakness, he said nothing and blinked rapidly, desperately trying to clear his vision.

But it was clear to Skinner that the gunman couldn’t see anything, and the assistant director put his finger to his lips as he silently made his way out of range of the man’s gun and then cold-cocked him on the back of the head, knocking him out.

It was over. It was as if time stood still in the house. Andrew slowly got to his feet and stumbled into his father’s arms, embracing him tightly.

“Thank you, Andrew,” Skinner whispered.

Andrew briefly pulled away and looked at his father with confusion.

“The lights,” the assistant director explained. “The lights, downstairs. That was you?”

Recognition flashed in the young man’s face, but he was silent, embracing his father again. He stared at the statues behind them. “It wasn’t me,” he stated simply. “It was God.”

XXX

SKINNER HOUSEHOLD

ALEXANDRIA, VA

THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 22, 2012

2140

Walter came through the front door and kicked it closed behind him, placing his briefcase on the chair next to the threshold and slipping his coat off. He turned around when he heard footsteps, and saw Andrew standing in the arch that led to the family room.

“Everything’s wrapped up for tonight,” he told his son.

“Do we have any kind of idea what the guy’s motivation was?”

Walter nodded, and hesitated briefly. This was still technically an open case and it would be wrong to disclose details to Andrew and put him at risk. At the same time, he felt his son deserved to know, and it would be in the news soon enough anyway. “Emma Hodgins was murdered at a shopping mall early this morning. Her ID was taken so it took the authorities some time to identify her. Hank Hodgins had jurisdiction in the area and showed up to the crime scene, and there was a shooting. He was killed before he could identify his sister-in-law’s body.”

“The entire thing was planned. That jackass targeted his wife’s only living family when he found out she was leaving and then planned to go finish her and his children off, too. How evil can a person possibly be?”

Walter was surprised. Andrew never swore, and his voice sounded genuinely angry. “It does seem to be a disproportionate response. But if the trial goes well, he’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.”

“That won’t stop the next person…” Andrew said in a low tone, and turned and walked back into the family room.

The assistant director threw the deadbolt on the front door and then followed his son. He thought about what had happened to Hauser. The hospital reported that he was completely blinded by cataracts, which looked like they had been growing for some time. How he saw to even get into the house, let alone find Andrew under the bed, was a mystery. What was also a mystery was that Hauser insisted he had not had the cataracts that morning.

Skinner leaned against the couch and glanced at the Bible and journal on the coffee table. He wondered if the events had shaken his son’s beliefs. “I’m sorry your stay hasn’t been pleasant.”

Andrew looked up from his folded hands. “Walter, I’m not upset because my stay hasn’t been pleasant. I’m upset because this is a symptom of a larger problem.”

Walter frowned. “You let me read your journal last night, and I was really impressed with your work…but the last few entries—“

“I started realizing what was about to happen about a year ago. But this past month the feelings have been really strong. Something is telling me that disaster is coming, and that it’s a threat not from without, like a terrorist attack or a war, but from within.”

The young man’s father gazed at his son with concerned eyes. Andrew continued.

“I think whatever is about to happen has to do with you. And the fact that all of this happened to Tara’s friend, I don’t think this is an accident that it’s this close to our circle of family and friends.”

The assistant director was silent for a moment, and the two men stared at each other. Finally, Walter spoke. “What do you think we should do?”

“Pray,” the young man answered instantly. “And be prepared.”

Walter nodded his agreement. Then he added, “And be thankful.”

“Be thankful for what?” Andrew asked.

This must truly be a terrible thing coming, for you to ask me that question, his father couldn’t help but think. “That we have each other to get through it. And that God is guiding us.”

The young man nodded introspectively, and Walter came around the couch and knelt by Andrew’s chair. “We will overcome.”

It was as if a lightbulb went off, and Andrew’s eyes were opened. Walter could actually see the despondent and disturbed mood lifting, and the light flicker in his son’s eyes. The 23-year-old smiled. “Thank you, Walter.” The two men embraced.

TITLE: Love Letters

AUTHOR: TCS1121

FEEDBACK: tcs1121@hotmail.com

HOMEPAGE: http://www.angelfire.com/scifi2/xfilesfanfic/ff.html

RATING: R

CLASSIFICATION: X, Angst

KEYWORDS: MSR, Case File

DISCLAIMER: 1013 and FOX own all of the X-

Files characters.

No money changes hands.

ARCHIVE: As you wish.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: “Love Letters” was written for the IMTP

Virtual Season 11—with pleasure and gratitude.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~

SPECIAL THANKS:

To my sister Vanessa, for her journalistic expertise.

To Laura S: My friend and favorite first reader.

To Mori: Beta extraordinaire. Patient, kind and smart.

And a special thanks to KEstabrook: Comma queen

and insightful reader and beta. Karen makes me feel

like I can really do this.

Thank you, Little Sis, Laura, Mori and KEss.

~~*~~*~~*~~*~~~

SUMMARY: Some things are supposed to happen.

Xxxxxxx Teaser xxxxxxX

Leola moved her pen across the paper, scratching out the

six most important words she would ever write.

Her hands shook more with each passing year, and her eyesight

all but failed after the sun set, but Leola finished writing, patted

the stray wisps of gray back behind her ear, and opened a fresh

envelope.

She underlined one word, just to make sure, then placed her

neatly folded note alongside a tattered, yellowed newspaper

article. This would be the final one. The tears pooling in her

eyes finally fell, trickling down the deep lines of her sunken

cheeks.

She looked skyward, and smiled; then touched her index finger

to her forehead, chest, left shoulder, and right.

After taping the envelope closed, she turned it over and wrote

the last words:

To Agent Fox Mulder

Xxxxxxx ACT ONE xxxxxxX

X-Files Office

Hoover Building Basement

Washington, DC

Monday Morning, 5:00 am; the 8th of the month

*~~*~~*

Mulder unlocked his office door. He didn’t need to see the key

to know that it would fit, or check his watch; he knew it was

early.

Slamming the door harder than he needed to, he walked to his

desk, threw his coat over the back of the chair, and set the

Starbucks cup down. He rubbed his eyes and looked over the

debris covering his desk. On the top of an open magazine was a

crisp, white envelope. Written across the front, in shaky blue

cursive letters, were the words:

To Agent Fox Mulder

He flipped it over and peeled back the tape. After a couple of

minutes, he picked up the phone.

“Hey, Scully?” He spoke to her answering machine. “I know it’s

early, but can you get into the office?”

“Mulder?” Scully’s sleepy voice came through the handset.

“What time is it? Why are you at the office already?”

“I’m at the office, because I can’t sleep well when I’m all alone.”

He tried to sound playful, but the caffeine hadn’t kicked in yet.

Through the receiver, he heard Scully’s deep sigh.

“Sorry,” he said. “Look, can you come in early this morning?”

A pause, then a yawn. “Mmm Hmm. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, but there’s something I need you to take a look at,

and the earlier the better.”

“I’ll be right there. Make sure you caffeinate me.”

They’d had a fight—well, not exactly. Last night, passionate

words had been exchanged regarding their separate living

arrangements. It was more accurate to say that Mulder had

thrown some words. To say that they had exchanged words

suggested that he and Scully had actually had a conversation.

The crux of the matter was: Mulder became lonelier and lonelier

on the nights he spent away from her. But Scully liked looking

forward to their nights together. She enjoyed waiting for him.

The anticipation made her feel like a teen-ager. “Well, like an

old teen-ager,” she’d smiled and said.

In a bit of a huff, he’d left her early. Unfortunately, his dramatic

exit had left him pissed off, aroused and unsatisfied. Even

after using time-honored techniques, he remained pissed off and

unsatisfied. And now, on top of it all, he was exhausted.

“What is wrong with me?” he asked the poster hanging behind

his chair. “How can I possibly miss her so much after all these

years?” It was his turn to sigh. “And, doesn’t she miss me, too?”

A little after six, Scully opened the door.

“Hey.” Her eyes sparkled as she walked in.

“Hey. Sorry about the early hour. Sorry about everything.” He

pointed to a fresh Starbucks cup.

She smiled and sipped. “Mmm. Starbucks French Roast,

Grande. You’re forgiven.” She sipped again and sat. “What

have I just forgiven you for?”

He hiked his hip up onto the corner of his desk, and looked at

her.

“You’ve just forgiven me for being an ass last night, and for the

ass I’ll make of myself tonight.”

“Oh, okay,” she said, agreeably, then looked up. “I’m looking

forward to that ass tonight.” She sipped again. “I thought you

were apologizing for getting me in here at six in the morning.”

“That too. You know, we could save gas if we car pool.” He

winked at her.

She shook her head good-naturedly. “I think there are rules

about that.”

“Just say the word, and I’ll break ’em.” God, he hoped that

hadn’t come out sounding pathetic. He continued quickly,

“Actually, other than wanting to see you first thing in the

morning, the reason I called is this.”

He handed her the envelope. “What do you think?”

“When did you get this?” Scully put her coffee down, read the

front, and carefully lifted the back flap.

“It was on the desk this morning. Nothing else was touched, as

far as I could tell. But…” He gestured at the mess on his desk.

She took out the first enclosure, and unfolded a white piece of

unlined paper.

“The handwriting on the envelope and on the note look the

same,” Scully said, and then read aloud: ‘This was supposed to

happen.'” She looked up at Mulder. “What was supposed to

happen? This?”

She picked up the other item.

“That,” he said, “is a newspaper article cut from the Washington

Post Review. But it’s dated the ninth.”

“Today’s the eighth.”

“I know. And look at the condition of the article. The paper’s

yellow and crumbling.”

“Yeah, it is.” Scully cocked her head, and read aloud, “Interstate

Closed for Ice Cream Cleanup

LAUREL, Md–A tanker truck hauling 8,500 gallons of specialty

ice cream overturned on southbound I 95 during the morning

rush hour yesterday.

A Toyota Celica, driven by Richard Marino, 24, veered in front

of the tanker, two miles past exit 33, south of Laurel, forcing it

off the road, where it overturned. No one was hurt.

Six thousand gallons of Dippin’ Dots ice cream dislodged from

the cargo and coated the roadway, closing the interstate and

halting traffic for several hours.

The remaining 2,500 gallons melted inside the damaged tanker,

spilling around the accident site and making removal of the

vehicle difficult.

It is not known what caused Marino to suddenly cut in front of

the driver of the tanker, Donald Hudson, 56. The accident is

under investigation.”

She paused. “Dippin’ Dots?”

“Yeah, it’s that pelleted ice cream they sell at stadiums and

theme parks.”

“Oh, right. The kind that looks like colored beads.” She briefly

re-read the article, and handed it back. “Why would someone

send you this?”

Mulder shrugged, and clicked on an old transistor radio. He

fiddled with the knobs until WBAL hissed through the small

speaker.

“So, Scully, when would you say the morning rush hour starts?”

“Well, the Metro charges rush hour rates from 5:30 to 9:30 on

weekday mornings. So I guess…” She looked at her watch.

“…that the morning rush is going on right now.”

“Well then, let’s settle down by the radio and wait for the news.”

He turned down the volume. “In the meantime, what does this

letter say to you?”

She looked at it, held it up to the light, and sniffed it. “The ink

looks like a gel pen or roller ball, and not faded or smudged. It

was written recently. The writer must not want us looking for

DNA evidence, hence, the tape on the back. The handwriting is

careful and deliberate, but a little shaky. Maybe the writer is

nervous or has an intention tremor. The writer is right handed.”

“And a woman,” Mulder added.

“Yes, probably,” she agreed.

“A woman who didn’t put an address on the front of the

envelope, but got it to me anyway.”

“Maybe she works here? Night cleaning crew?”

He shrugged again. “Maybe.”

“Or possibly a friend or relative of someone who works here.

Someone who has access to your office.”

He took the article. “Possibly.”

“Stop that. Or it could be that someone is just yanking your

chain.”

“Could be.” He nodded, crumbling a corner of the newspaper

between his thumb and forefinger. “My chain’s been yanked

before.”

He held his thumb up with the powdered newspaper clinging to

it. “How long does it take for newsprint to disintegrate?”

She paused to think. “Well, it depends, I guess. On whether it

was out in the sun, or if it had gotten wet, and how acidic the

paper was to begin with. It’s very easy to distress newsprint, and

that can be done relatively quickly.”

“I wonder if carbon dating would tell us anything.” He pondered

the newspaper dust on his finger.

“I don’t think carbon dating would work on something this

current, due to the amount of Carbon-14 and fossil fuel residue

in the air. Besides, it’s a trick, Mulder. Some woman wanted

your attention, and what better way to get it, than by placing a

mysterious envelope on your desk?”

He looked at her, and grinned mischievously. “A mystery

women, huh? Now that sounds interesting…” His voice faded,

and he raised his head. He got up, and turned the radio’s knob to

the right.

“…closed southbound. Traffic is being re-routed to Route 1

south, or I 295 south. It’s a mess out there, so stay away from I

95 both directions.

“Again, this just in: I 95 is closed just south of Laurel. A tractor-

trailer overturned, spilling its cargo all over the roadway. I’m

not sure what it was hauling—-hold on. What? Really? Well,

we’ve just got word that this stretch of I 95 is covered with

thousands and thousands of miniature ice cream balls…”

Mulder snapped it off, looked over his shoulder at Scully and

said softly, “Dippin’ Dots.”

“Dippin’ Dots,” she agreed. “Wow! I wonder how she

orchestrated it.” Scully picked up the fading newspaper article.

“Her timing was perfect.”

“Orchestrated it? You think the mystery woman had something

to do with the ice cream truck?”

“Well, maybe not the accident itself, but she obviously knew

about it before it happened.” She pointed to the newspaper

article. “I’m not accusing her of anything criminal; I’m saying

she might have heard somebody say something about causing an

accident. But it must have been planned in advance, otherwise,

how she could have gotten this newspaper article made up so

quickly? You’ve got to hand it to her.”

He stared at her.

“What Mulder? What’s your explanation?”

“I don’t have one yet. But, yes, she obviously did know

something in advance. What I don’t know is why would anyone

go to the trouble of making a newspaper article look like it’s at

least forty years old, and then sneak it onto my desk? If she

were trying to get my attention, why?” He tapped his chest.

“Why would she tell me?”

“It’s not always about you, Mulder.”

He raised his hands “Oh, here we go.” He stood looking down

at her. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know what I’m talking about,” she answered evenly. “Not

everything is a deep conspiracy revolving around you. This is

just a prank, a ploy to suck you into something. Let it go for

now.”

“You’re actually considering that this newspaper article, and this

cryptic note…” He picked up the paper and read: “‘This was

supposed to happen.’ is just a practical joke

invented by a woman who wants to get my attention? Well,

guess what? She’s got it.”

“I still haven’t heard any of your theories,” she said stonily. “But

I have heard a little of your paranoia.”

“Maybe, then, we should investigate this, Agent Scully.” He

gritted his teeth. “After all, this is a federal agent’s office, and

someone broke into it, leaving information about a crash on an

interstate highway that turned out to be accurate.”

“Fine. Fine.” She stood. “You want to play it like this? I’ll

investigate. I’ll go and get some in-depth information on this

truck accident.”

“Good. I’ll talk to the cleaning crew.” He took the handwritten

note, and stuffed it into the envelope. Then he held out his hand.

As Scully handed him the article, he said, “I’m spending the

night here. I will start a profile on her, and maybe ask the night

cleaning crew a few questions.”

“You don’t have to spend the night here.”

“Yes, I think I do.” He shrugged and turned away from her,

pretending to be engrossed in the newspaper article. Finally the

door opened and closed behind him, leaving him alone.

XxxxxxX

X-Files Office

Hoover Building Basement

Washington, DC

Wednesday Afternoon, 4:30pm; the 10th of the month

*~~*~~*

Tired.

He was tired. With two nights of almost no sleep, and two days of

almost no Scully, he was truly exhausted. Polite, stilted phone calls

between partners reporting no progress were all the contact he’d

had with her.

He’d gotten no information from the cleaning crews, nor formed

any insights about the author of the note. All that Scully had

discovered was that, in fact, thousands of gallons of Dippin’ Dots

ice cream had melted all over the highway. And over the phone,

she certainly hadn’t sounded like a sex-starved, teen-aged she-

devil, aching in anticipation for him.

Of course, he hadn’t exactly come across as the suave G-man

who couldn’t wait to make his redheaded lover wail in ecstasy

with a well-placed wave of his hand.

Mulder spun his chair around. “What is wrong with me?” he

asked the poster on the wall again. “I’m gonna call her, and I’m

gonna be nice this time.”

He swiveled back, picked up the Dippin’ Dots article, and

shoved it in the top drawer, along with the envelope it came in.

He folded his arms across the top of the desk, and dropped his

head down on them.

‘A shower would be nice, too,’ he thought, as his eyes drifted

shut. ‘I’ll go home, take a shower, buy some coffee, call Scully—

gonna be nice this time…’

Something tickled his cheek. He opened his eyes and focused

on the watch strapped to the wrist beneath his chin.

A little after five o’clock. He registered that he’d napped for

about a half an hour.

Scratching his cheek, he discovered the tip of an envelope

brushing against it. Blinking blearily, he sat up and read:

To Agent Fox Mulder.

~*~~*~

“A half an hour, Scully. That’s all.” He looked sheepish, then

said, “I wanted to get the gloves on and dust it before I opened it,

but I was still waking up.” He shrugged. “We can let the

fingerprint guys go over it, but I probably smeared mine all over

the place.”

“That’s okay, Mulder,” she said, gently. “I guess you haven’t

been sleeping well. Neither have I.” Scully smiled softly, and

reached her hand out.

He took it, and brushed his lips over her knuckles. “Are there

rules against this, too?”

“Probably. I’ll look it up…later.” She whispered.

He gazed tiredly into her eyes.

“I’ll look this up, too,” she said, as she leaned in and kissed him.

“Now, let’s see what your mystery lady has to say.”

“My mystery lady?” He grinned, liking the sound of it.

Like the first arrival, there were two enclosures. One had the

words: “This was supposed to happen.” Written in the same

shaky letters as before. The second enclosure was another

crumbling, yellowed news article.

“This article was cut from The New Post-Standard Review

newspaper of Syracuse, New York,” Mulder said. “And the

article is dated the 12th. Today is Wednesday the 10th. This is

from next Friday’s newspaper.”

Scully read aloud:

“‘Teen Mauled by Black Bears’

____________________________

Doctors unable to save boy’s leg

____________________________

By LeeAnne Matthews

Standard Review Staff Writer

A 19-year-old man is in critical condition after being mauled by

black bears early Thursday morning, after he jumped the fence,

breaking into the Max Hanson-Louise Griffin-Hanson

Zoological Park in Syracuse.

Daniel Purdy of Syracuse, suffered head injuries and multiple

bite injuries to the torso and both legs, inflicted by two black

bears housed in the bear pit exhibit.

A zoo security guard, Edward Levin, 56, was alerted to the

attack when he heard screams coming from inside the bear pit.

Levin fired his service revolver into the air, keeping the bears

away from Purdy until the paramedics arrived.

Doctors at North University Hospital, where Purdy was taken for

treatment, said that the injuries to his left leg were so severe that

it had to be amputated above the knee.

Purdy’s Blood Alcohol Level was .18, indicating that he had

been drinking heavily before managing to scale two security

fences, gaining entry to the black bear exhibit a little after

midnight.

‘The boy must have sneaked into the bear exhibit after the

night security guard made his rounds,’ said Raymond

O’Malley, the zoo’s director. [See Bear Attack, 5A]”

Scully stopped reading and looked up.

“He’s going to scale the walls tonight,” Mulder said. “And lose his leg

tomorrow.”

“Mulder, we don’t know that.”

“No, but my mystery woman does. She says it’s supposed to happen,

but I think we should try to stop him.”

“Mulder, no. Have you thought this through?”

“Yes. Maybe if we stop him, it won’t happen.” It made sense in Mulder’s

sleep-deprived mind.

“Stop him? How? By flying up to Syracuse and telling Daniel Purdy what

will happen if he leaves to go out drinking tonight? Or better yet, let’s

barricade him in his house until tomorrow morning. That’ll go over real

well.”

Mulder raised his voice, “So we should stand by and do nothing?”

“It’s a hoax! Someone had prior knowledge about a truck accident,

and now you think you have gospel proof that another accident will happen

tonight to some kid who breaks into a zoo? In Syracuse! Do you know

how crazy that sounds?”

“Why does it always come down to me sounding crazy?” He turned away.

“I’m not crazy. I’m trying to save a boy’s life—er—limb. How does that

make me crazy?” He was defensive and sounded irrational, even to himself.

“You’re tired. Things take on a different significance when you’re

exhausted.”

“I’m crazy and tired? What other diagnoses have you come up with for me,

Dr. Scully?”

“Go home, Mulder.” She grabbed her coat. “Go home, take a shower, and

get some sleep.”

She slammed the door.

Mulder stalked back and forth in front of the office door for a few minutes.

He stopped and threw himself into his chair.

“Shit. And I was gonna be nice this time.”

XxxxxxX

X-Files Office

Hoover Building Basement

Washington, DC

Wednesday Night, 10:30pm; the 10th of the month

*~~*~~*

“Hey Langly, it’s Mulder. Turn off the tape.”

After a few clicks: “It’s off, man. How’s it hangin’, dude?”

“To the left and down. Why, is your mother asking about me again?”

“Yeah, she thinks you’re a hottie. What’s up? Hold on…” After a couple of

clicks, Langly said, “You’re on speaker, man.”

“Okay guys, maybe nothing, maybe something. Is there a zoo in Syracuse,

called the Max Hanson–Louise Griffin-Hanson Zoological Park?” he asked,

reading from the newspaper article.

“Zoo animals, Mulder? You and Scully have a fight?” Frohike asked.

“Yeah, something like that.”

“Hold on, Mulder,” Frohike interrupted. “Ready? Set. Go!”

“Look up Daniel Purdy, nineteen years old, also from Syracuse, while

you’re at it.”

“Got it!” Byers shouted.

“Damn! I want a photo finish; I got it, too,” Langly said in the background.

“Too bad. That’s your three to my three. We’re even.” Byers raised his

voice. “What do you want to know about the zoo, Mulder?”

“Does it have a black bear exhibit?” Although by now, Mulder knew the

answer.

“Yes, with two black bears.”

Langly’s voice chimed in. “I have Daniel Purdy. He’s only a teenager, but

already he’s got a record of drunk driving.”

“Ok, fellas, thanks.” He hung up without good-byes.

XxxxxxxX

X-Files Office

Hoover Building Basement

Washington, DC

Friday afternoon, 3:30 pm; the 12th of the month

*~~*~~*

Scully sat silently. But at least she had come into the office

when he’d called her. Her “errands” regarding this case had kept

her away from the basement.

Errands, and the fact that she seemed too angry to even look at

him at the moment might have caused her to stay away.

Mulder was hot and cold at the same time, but determined to be

professional, understanding, compromising, or whatever she

wanted him to be. He just hoped to be able to figure it out. His

eyes blurred with fatigue, and choosing the right word

sometimes took him a moment.

“I had FedEx send this, same day air.” Mulder handed Scully a newspaper

and held up the original article. “And here is the one we got on Tuesday.

They’re identical.”

Scully scanned the front page of the newspaper FedExed from Syracuse.

“Teen Mauled by Black Bears” was right below the fold.

“Down to the font, Scully. These articles are the same. And so are these.”

He spread the Washington Post Review’s Dippin’ Dots ice cream mishap out on

his

desk, placed the yellowed article next to it, and ran a tired hand through his

hair.

She looked from one to the other. “Have you considered that maybe she saw

the copy before it was printed?” Her pale skin looked white under the

florescent lights, and vague purple half-moons appeared beneath her eyes.

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, and shook his head. “Are you tired of me?

Of what we do?” He opened his eyes. “Are you tired of us?”

She stared at him. “Why? Because I question you? Because I don’t know

where you’re going with this? Because I doubt that some woman has the

unearthly ability to send newspaper articles from the future?”

“No, because you doubt me. You’re not questioning me, Scully. You’re

mocking me.”

Scully pressed her lips together and looked at the wall over his shoulder.

“I’m not…” She cleared her throat. “I’m not mocking you. I don’t mean to

stomp on your theories, but you haven’t exactly been open to my ideas,

either. You’ve made up your mind and ignored everything I’ve suggested.”

She turned away. “And you’re not listening to me anymore. You haven’t been

for some time. I’m trying—-I’m trying to figure out why you stopped.”

Mulder opened his mouth, but no sound came.

She straightened. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, and I’m tired.” She tried to smile.

“At least you have a mystery woman keeping you company.”

He sighed. “I listen, Scully. I always listen. You can believe any crazy

thing you want about me, but don’t ever doubt that. Don’t ever doubt how

important you are to me: personally, professionally, in every way

imaginable. I told you once that I couldn’t do this alone. I know that more

than ever, now.” He walked around the desk and stood in front of her. “I’m

tired, too. And I’m sorry.”

He hesitated, and then gingerly cupped her cheek in his palm. She closed

her eyes and leaned into it. They were at work, and he knew without

looking it up, that this was already breaking the rules, so what the hell. He

gathered her into his arms.

“I’ve missed you.” He kissed the top of her head and tucked

it under his chin.

She wound her arms around his waist. “Me too.”

“And don’t worry. Dottie hasn’t been keeping me company. In all the nights

I’ve camped out here, I haven’t even caught a glimpse of her.”

“Dottie?”

Busted. His chest muffled her voice, but he’d heard her. Mulder bit his lip

and grimaced.

“I call the mystery woman Dottie, because of the Dippin’ Dots thing.”

She nodded, and he felt her smile. “Dottie the mystery lady.”

When she pulled back, Mulder noted her drooping eyelids and the slight

tremor to her fingers. She wasn’t kidding when she said she was tired.

Sitting in her usual chair, Scully said, “Okay, I’ll go along with this: A

woman, whom you call Dottie, has prior knowledge of an incident. She

somehow gets newspaper clippings before the incident occurs, and secretly

delivers them to your office. And while some lab work needs to be done on

them, the newspaper articles appear to match.” She trailed off. “I wonder

how she’s doing it.”

“You and me both.” He sat heavily on his side of the desk.

“So,” she continued, “if we suppose that Dottie does know that something is

going to happen, there’s a question we haven’t asked.”

“What’s that?”

“Why does she carefully write: ‘This was supposed to happen.’? If the

event chronicled by the newspaper article is supposed to happen, then

there’s nothing we can do about it. And if there’s nothing we can do about

it, why does she tell us in the first place?”

“I’ll ask her when I see her tonight.” He stifled a yawn.

“You’re staying here again? But…”

“The only way we’ll get any answers is by asking the lady who has the

answers.”

He tapped his pencil on a yellow legal pad lying on the desk. “I’m creating

a profile, and I want to see if I have her right. She’s young, probably of a

first or second-generation ethnic culture. Latina, African-American, or possibly

middle-eastern, but I’m leaning more towards Puerto Rican. She shakes

either because she’s nervous, or writing quickly, or both. Dottie’s either

involved in, or knows about something dangerous, and she’s trying to get

out of it. Or at least to get our attention so we can help her do something

about it.”

“How do you know she’s young?” Scully asked.

“She’s gotta be spry to get in and out of here—-while I’m here-—without me

seeing her.”

“And Puerto Rican?”

“Possibly,” he said. “Or another culture closely tied with religion. I’m

basing the nationality on the night staff I know we have working here, and

Dottie’s religious leanings, due to her desire to alert us to something bad.

She wants us to be aware that a wrong is about to take place, and while we

can’t stop the things that are supposed to happen, she feels that it’s her

mission to tell us about them anyway.”

He leaned on his elbows and stared at Scully across his desk. “Dottie said that

something was supposed to happen. Something that is supposed to happen

is something that is preordained. Only God can preordain events that hurt,

maim, and kill.”

“As well as save, heal, and cure,” she pointed out.

“True, but Dottie hasn’t mentioned any healing. Yet.”

Scully stood and sighed. “Try and stay awake tonight so you can ask

her, okay? Then you can come home to bed.”

“You can stay here with me if you want.” As he winked at her, the pencil

he’d been tapping the desktop with slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor.

“If you’re lonely I can make room for the both of us down here.” When he

leaned over to pick up the pencil, something under his desk caught his eye.

“Scully?”

“Yeah?”

“Shit.” He sat up and dropped an envelope on the desk.

Scully spun around and walked past his desk to the counter. Mulder put on

a pair of latex gloves, reached inside the desk drawer for a letter opener, and

carefully teased the envelope open.

Scully placed two brushes and a bottle of fingerprint powder on the desk.

Just before she dotted powder on the fiber brush, Mulder carefully unfolded

the pieces of paper. “Another: ‘This was supposed to happen.’ And another

article.” He read:

“In the Nation

From the Boulder Times and World News:

Flash Flood Kills Two

__

Mago Vista National Park, Colorado

Two experienced hikers were killed sometime Saturday, when a

flash flood, caused by a remote thunderstorm, sent a 9-foot wall

of water careening through a narrow ravine, ultimately filling it

with 30 feet of water, at Mago Vista National Park, Colorado.

Park authorities recovered the bodies of Emmanuel Harris, 29,

and Domingo Hayes, 28, both instructors at The Climbing

Academy in Boulder, from the murky water of El Quinto Lake,

in the far northern section of the park.

David Wright, of the National Park Service, was quoted as

saying: “The hikers were probably taken by surprise, as the

weather was sunny and dry at El Quinto Lake.”

Scully was silent.

“This is Friday afternoon. Two men are going to die sometime

tomorrow, Scully.”

She looked from the envelope she’d begun dusting, to Mulder’s

eyes. “Then you’d better book us a flight.”

Xxxxxx ACT TWO xxxxxX

The Climbing Academy

Boulder, Colorado

Saturday Afternoon, 4:55 pm; the 13th of the month

*~~*~~*

Mulder knocked hard on the door to the Climbing Academy.

“We’re closing!” A male voice inside shouted. “Come back

Monday!”

“FBI! Open up!”

“Mulder…” Scully warned.

“I bet it’ll work,” he said, frowning, as he pounded the glass door

with an open palm. “Invoking the sacred FBI acronym opens

doors all over the country.”

A young, muscular, blond man opened the door. He narrowed

his eyes at Mulder and asked, “FBI? Really?”

“Really,” Scully said, showing her identification. “I’m Agent

Scully; this is Agent Mulder. We’re looking for Emmanuel

Harris or Domingo Hayes.”

“They’re gone.” The man stepped aside, and the agents entered

The Climbing Academy. “They’ve been gone.”

Hung on the front walls, near the counter were boulderpads,

hammers, harnesses, and rope. Sunglasses, chalk bags, pitons,

helmets, carabiners, and various other forms of climbing gear

were in the display cases in the front of the store and lining the

side walls.

A schedule of rock climbing classes was posted with the dates,

times, and instructors. The classes looked evenly divided

between instructors Emmanuel Harris and Domingo Hayes.

The young man turned toward an open cash register.

Apparently, he had been counting and stacking bills, closing out

for the weekend. “Manny and Domingo left early. You won’t

find ’em, either.”

“Why won’t we find them? Where are they?” Mulder felt a

sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Do you have any way

of reaching them?”

“It’s very important that we speak to them; their lives may be in

danger, Mr…?” Scully said.

“Oh, sorry, Harris. Eli Harris. I’m Manny’s brother, and that’s

how I know you won’t find him.” He slammed the cash register

closed. “Domingo and big bro’ like to go out to those hard to

find cracks in the Earth and climb up ’em. They’re excellent

climbers, so I doubt that their lives are in danger.”

“If we told you that they’re climbing somewhere near El Quinto

lake, what would be the best ravine up there to explore?”

Mulder kept his voice professional and tried not to sweat.

Eli Harris wrote in a ledger as he spoke. “El Quinto is a huge

lake, and there’s a lot of good rock up there. I don’t know about

the best, but Raven’s Wing Pass and Milagro Azul are both good

climbs, and both in the northern part of the park near El Quinto.”

He looked up. “Oh, and Athapaskans Way is in that area, and

that one gives you a real nice workout. But, really, don’t worry

about them; they know what they’re doing. Look, FBI people,

I’ve got a date with Tandy O’Shea in ten minutes, so I’m

leaving.”

“One more thing,” Mulder said. “How would we get up to El

Quinto Lake?”

Harris snorted. “Hey, man. There’s only one way to get up to El

Quinto.” He looked from Mulder to Scully, and smiled. “You

gotta climb.”

XxxxxxX

“A helicopter, Scully. That’s what we need.” Mulder jogged

nervously down the main street, looking in the windows of the

various shops.

“Mulder,” she trailed behind him, “we can’t just rent a helicopter

and hire a pilot. We don’t even know where the climbers are.”

“Then give me an alternative.” Mulder stopped. He was tense.

“We only have a few hours of sunlight left. That ravine may

have already flooded, and those two men are in trouble.”

“It’s Saturday evening. Where are we going to find…?”

“Than give me an alternative!” He turned to her. “Stop telling

me what I can’t do, and tell me how to save them!”

She was silent for a moment. “You certainly are putting a lot of

faith in Dottie and her ability to predict the future.”

“That newspaper article is real, Scully, and you know it.”

“Do I? When I try to figure out a rational way that a woman

could get ahold of newspaper articles a day before they’re

published, you say I don’t have faith in you. You say you listen

to me, but your faith is so firmly bound up in the mystery

cleaning woman that you don’t want to hear what I’m saying.”

“This is not the time, Scully. After we save those hikers, maybe,

but not now.”

“And maybe we can’t save them. Maybe it *is* supposed to

happen. Just like Dottie said.”

“So you feel comfortable giving up on these young men, then?

Well, why don’t you just save yourself some time, and take a pen

and sign their names on their death certificates right now?” He

pointed his finger at her. “We’re as good as murderers if we

don’t try to save them. We both know they’re going to die if we

don’t find them.”

“If indeed the ravine does flood, I will not be responsible for

their deaths. And neither will you. You’re not God, Mulder;

you’re not even close. In fact, if the articles are true, you’re

putting us in the impossible position of trying to prevent the

unpreventable!”

“But you’re not trying! And because of that, neither one of them

will live to see thirty. How does that make you feel? It makes

me sick. So, go ahead, sit back and watch them drown.” He

whirled around, and stalked away. He was tired, angry, and

defeated.

He opened the door to their parked rental car, got in, and waited

for Scully to follow him. And waited.

Mulder opened his eyes. He was sprawled over the front seat of

the car. His sticky eyes and dry tongue told him he’d been

asleep for a long time. The tickets under the windshield wiper

told him exactly how long.

In his sleepy haze, he reasoned that Scully must have gone home

without him. He let himself out of the car, and stiffly walked a few

blocks to the newsstand. The headlines of the afternoon

edition of the Sunday Boulder Times and World News read:

Flash Flood Kills Two

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Baltimore Sun Times

Driver of stolen SUV plows into lunch crowd

at Fells Point

__ __ __

Catonsville man steals neighbor’s vehicle,

kills three, critically injures four at a sidewalk cafe

__ __ __

By Paul Arnett

sun times staff

Three people were killed and four were injured, including a four-

year-old boy, when a man

crashed a stolen SUV into a crowded outdoor restaurant

yesterday afternoon.

Ellen Peterson, 27, Harmon Lyle, 68, and his wife

Mary Lyle, 69, all of Baltimore, were

killed when Jason Miller, 31,

lost control of the 2001 Cadillac Escalade

he had stolen from his neighbor and drove it into a

group of diners at Le Cafe Rouge, on Thames Street in

Fells Point.

Jason Miller was arrested and taken into custody when the SUV

ran out of gas on Boston Street in Canton.

According to police, Miller had an argument

with his Catonsville neighbor, Bryan Bates, over a table saw

that Bates had allegedly failed to return. Miller reportedly

pushed Bates down, took his keys and drove off in the SUV.

The Maryland Department of Motor Vehicles has no record that

Miller ever obtained a driver’s license.

XxxxxxX

At a quarter to noon, Mulder left his car parked in an outdoor

metered lot and ran two blocks to Thames Street in Fells Point.

The newspaper said that the accident would happen during lunch,

so he wanted to be standing on the sidewalk in front of the bistro

waiting for the SUV to appear. He had planned on ordering all the

patrons to stay inside, safely away from the street. However, a

jackknifed tractor-trailer on the Baltimore beltway had screwed

up his plans to be there early.

He was checking his watch when

squealing tires, burning rubber, and terrified screams ripped

through the air.

“Shit!”

Mulder drew his weapon and ran to the northeast

corner of South Ann and Thames Street. Across the intersection,

the car thief plowed his stolen, black SUV up onto the crowded

sidewalk. Midday shoppers and workers on their lunch break,

enjoying the unusually mild weathe,r were all caught off guard.

“Move!” he screamed from the curb. “Everybody get back!”

The heavy vehicle jumped the curb, and its front bumper

snagged a young woman by her red hooded sweater.

‘Oh, God. That must be Ellen Peterson,’ he thought in horror.

He watched her arms fly up as the tires dragged her under. Her

long black hair caught so quickly in the front wheels, that she

was mangled before she could scream.

Mulder wiped the sweat from his eyes, brought his gun up, and

assumed a wide, two-fisted stance. But the SUV was moving

too fast to target.

The driver cut the wheel to his right, accelerated, and slammed

into a bewildered elderly couple sitting at a little outdoor table.

The impact threw them into the air, and they flopped to the

ground a half a block away from each other.

Harmon Lyle’s body landed and rolled, stopping six inches from

Mulder’s foot.

The vehicle skidded into the crowd once more before driving

away. In the eerie silence, Mulder stood gripping his weapon,

looking at the devastation.

Blood stained the sidewalks, dripped down the gutters, and ran

into the sewers. Body parts and human splatters covered the

storefront windows, and a piece of a red sweater clung to an

overturned bistro table. A little boy moaned.

Mulder wrapped his arms around his stomach, lowered his head,

and sobbed.

XxxxxX

He knocked politely. He was bone-tired, shell-shocked, and

depressed, but damn it, he was going to be nice this time. He

blinked, and realized that he had no idea what time it was.

Scully opened the door a crack. “Mulder, I don’t want…oh,

God.”

Calmly taking his arm, she led him inside. “What’s happened?

Are you all right?” She brushed his face with her cool hands, and

sifted her fingers through his hair.

‘I must look like death,’ he thought. ‘I’ve seen enough of it today.’

“Mulder, talk to me.”

“I couldn’t stop it, Scully.” He forced his mouth to move. “It

happened right in front of me, and there was nothing I could do.”

He tugged her hands away, and laced his fingers gently with

hers. “I’m so sorry. I’m sorry for the things I said in Colorado.

I’m sorry for the way I’ve been treating you since the first letter

arrived. I was wrong. I know now that there was never anything

we could have done to save the hikers or that boy’s leg. And

there was nothing I could have done to save those people today.”

“What people?”

He didn’t hear her. “The little boy died, too. The four year old.

But the article didn’t say that, because this was sent to press

before…” His voice caught. He reached into his jacket pocket

and handed her the envelope with the article from the Baltimore

Sun Times.

“Oh, Mulder,” she said softly, after reading the headlines. Her

white, silk nightgown swished against her ankles as she walked

him across the room. They sat together on the sofa.

“Don’t do this to yourself.” She touched his forehead with the

backs of her fingers.

“Am I crazy?” He closed his eyes and leaned his head back.

“Have I gone off the deep end this time thinking I’m so

important, and so powerful, that I can stop the unstoppable?” He

opened his eyes. “Are there some things that are just supposed

to happen no matter what?”

“You said it earlier, about things being preordained.” Scully

unbuttoned his top buttons and took off his tie. “Yes, I believe

we have free will, but I also believe that some things are meant

to be. I don’t know why you were told about these tragedies and

what the horrible reasoning was behind them. I know it’s not fair

to you.”

“Or to you. To us. God, I’m tired. I just want to sleep and

make it all go away.” He turned to her, blinking her into focus.

“Do you forgive me? Have I ruined it between us? God, I can be

such an ass…”

“Yes, you can be an ass, but it would take more than a few tense,

exhausted words to ruin things. We’ve been together a long

time, and I know you. I accept you.” She shrugged. “I love

you.”

He relaxed and whispered. “I love you, too.”

“But there are things we need to discuss. Things you need to

know.” She took his hand. The lights in the room were dim, but

she was clear, shining brightly in his tired eyes.

“I may doubt you from time to time, but I’ll never leave you on

your own. I believe that we can always work things out, so

never doubt where I’ll be in the end. I admire you for your

strengths and accept you with all your faults, just as you accept

me.” She kissed his cheek. “Some things are meant to be.”

He swallowed and held her hand to his chest. “There may be

times when I might not listen to you like I should, but I’ll always

need you with me, helping me.” He smiled shyly. “Even if I

don’t know it at the time.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “Every day, I am grateful that

you accept me as I am.” He kissed her cheek. “Every day, I’m

grateful that you are in my life.”

She scooted down, nuzzled her head against his chest, and

hugged her arms around his waist. His heartbeat slowed as he

relaxed into her embrace.

“But Scully, it’s not over yet.”

“Yes, it is. Throw them away, Mulder. If another envelope

comes, just toss it out.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.”

“Scully, I don’t think we were ever meant to do anything about

those events. I think we were just supposed to believe that they

were going to happen.”

“Ignore them, Mulder. Let what’s supposed to happen, happen

without you.”

He sighed, and straightened up. “Could you ignore this?”

He reached into his shirt pocket and unfolded a single, yellow,

newspaper clipping. “Maybe this one is for you, Scully; so that

you’ll believe. Maybe the letters won’t stop until we both do.”

He handed her the article. “I hope I’m wrong.”

__ __ __

The Capital-Gazette Newspaper

Annapolis, Maryland

Mother arrested for drowning

3 year-old in family bathtub

__ __ __

By Luz Rodriguez, Staff Writer

__ __ __

A 3 year-old Annapolis girl was killed Friday when her mother

held her underwater in a bathtub filled with hot water.

Police discovered Raven Thomas’s body at the bottom of the tub

when they arrived at the Annapolis apartment where T’avian

Randolph, 22, lived with her daughter Raven, 3, and son Jaquon

Brooks, 6 months. A neighbor heard screaming from Randolph’s

apartment and called the police to investigate.

According to the police report, after the officers discovered

Raven’s body, Ms. Randolph admitted that she had held her

daughter under the water, stating, “[Raven] don’t listen, and has

a real bad sass mouth-—she needed a real good lesson…”

Ms. Randolph was arrested and has submitted to drug testing.

Jaquon has been placed in protective custody. Charges are

pending against Ms. Randolph until the investigation is

completed.

__ __ __

“Oh God, no.” Scully’s hands shook as she finished reading.

“Not that.”

“I can’t pretend I didn’t read it,” Mulder said softly.

“And if this happens, and I believe, then what?” Scully’s eyes

were wide.

“I don’t know.” He stood. “But I do know that a little girl is

going to die tomorrow, and we won’t be able to save her.” He

handed her another piece of paper.

This was supposed to happen.

“We have to try,” she looked up.

He nodded and stepped away.

“Mulder?”

He turned his head.

“Stay with me?” Now she was focused on him. “Please?”

“Tonight, and for however long you want me. Don’t ever doubt

that, either.”

XxxxxxX

Annapolis Public Housing

333 Admiral Halsey Court

Apt. 5B

Annapolis, Maryland

Friday Morning, 1:30 AM

*~~*~~*

Mulder was determined to arrive at T’avian Randolph’s

apartment complex before sunrise, so they left Scully’s

Georgetown apartment right before midnight.

“The article said that the neighbor called the police after hearing

screaming coming from Randolph’s apartment,” Mulder said

from the passenger’s seat.

Scully took the East exit onto Route 50 and headed towards

Annapolis. She glanced over at him. “We’ll wait out in front

of the apartment, and at the first peep, we’ll go in. Maybe we

can stop this.”

In the early morning hours, there was little traffic. Annapolis is

only a little over thirty miles from Georgetown, as the crow flies,

so they made it to T’avian Randolph’s apartment in good time.

But what Mulder had failed to consider was that once the clock struck

twelve midnight, the day changed from Thursday to Friday.

The police car flashed bright blue and red in the early morning

darkness, and T’avian Randolph’s apartment was ablaze with

every light turned on inside.

Scully sat on the wet floor and sobbed silently as the coroner

removed Raven Thomas’s lifeless little body.

The little girl was fully clothed, and her thin, bare arms stuck out

from her oversized blue bib overalls. She was soaking wet, and

the sodden denim made her tiny body heavy. It was had been

difficult lifting her out of the bathtub.

The warm bath water had made the child’s body warm as Scully

tried vainly to breathe life back into her.

The girl’s mother staggered down the hall. Her arms were wet to

the shoulders, and her tattered gray sweatshirt dripped with each

step. She stomped on a coloring book left in the middle of the

floor and kicked the crayons. Little purple houses were drawn,

childlike, on the walls in crayon, and lopsided purple flowers

trailed up one of the doorframes.

“What did I tell you, Raven! You leave yo’ stuff out, you gonna

get it! You draw on the walls again, you gonna get it even

more!”

T’avian Randolph whirled around, “And you keep messin’ up the

whole goddam house!” She swayed when her bare foot kicked

at another crayon, and her cuffed wrists clinked as she bumped

against the wall. Two Annapolis police officers straightened the

impaired woman up, and walked her to the front door.

“And clean yo’ fuckin’ room!” T’avian stopped, and yelled into

the bathroom. “Jesus, Raven! Why do I have ta keep tellin’ you

that? I’m gonna hafta show you how to clean up again, ain’t I?

First yo’ room, then the walls. You little shit!”

The officers removed the woman, who was screaming at her

dead daughter. The coroner took the little body out.

Mulder pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes and rubbed.

Blinking to clear his vision, he slowly walked over to the

bathtub, where Scully stood staring down. Through the dusty

water, he saw a purple crayon lying on the bottom of the tub.

Xxxxxx ACT THREE xxxxxX

6:00 am; the 25th of the month

*~~*~~*

“It’s been seven days since the last letter.”

“Seven or eight? What day is it, anyway?”

“It’s Thursday, Mulder.”

“So seven days since the last letter, and six days since the last

death, right?”

“Yes, the letter came last Thursday, the eighteenth, and Raven

died early Friday morning, on the nineteenth. I thought you said

that you slept better over here.”

“I do.”

“You still sound pretty exhausted.”

“And you’re still pretty.” Mulder raised his face from Scully’s

chest, and looked up at her. “Do you think the letters have

stopped?”

“No.” She stretched her arms high over her head, and yawned.

“I don’t believe that a complicated system, created to send letters

and newspaper articles before the event occurs, was designed

merely to prove that it can be done.”

“Sometimes people climb mountains just because they’re there,”

Mulder mumbled, sinking his head back onto her chest.

“So?” she asked. “Do *you* think it’s over?”

He shook his head. “Nope.”

He pulled her head down for a quick kiss, and then pushed

himself up. Sitting on the edge of the heavily-quilted bed, he let

his bare legs hang down. “No, I don’t think it’s over. But what

you said about the complicated messaging system-—I don’t think

it was the messaging that they wanted us to be interested in.”

“What then?” Scully asked. “And who’s ‘they’?”

“I don’t know, and I don’t know.” He dry-washed his face. “The

only thing the events had in common was that they all

happened.” He looked over his shoulder at her. “Maybe that’s all

we’re supposed to know for now. We’ll have to wait for more

clues and see.”

“I hate waiting for clues,” she said. “Especially since the ones

we’ve been receiving are horrifying.”

He half turned on the bed. “You know what? I think they had to

be horrifying in order to attract our attention. After all, how

much effort would we have put into this if the news stories were all

as benign as the ice cream truck? The question is: why do we

even have to pay attention?”

Mulder tapped his fingers on the sheet. “Why does the sender

want us to believe that the events will happen?”

“And why does Dottie use the past tense: ‘This was supposed to

happen’ instead of ‘This is supposed to happen.’?” Scully shook

her head, and her hair fell away from her eyes. “A puzzle within

a puzzle. I just hope it’s over soon.”

“So do I,” he agreed.

“Well,” she stood, and stepped away from the bed, “I’m going to

shower, eat breakfast, and see if I can find somebody to car pool

with to work.”

“Wait.” Mulder hopped off the bed and rushed into the

bathroom.

“Mulder,” she said, exasperated.

A minute later, the shower came on. He opened the door, and

scented steam billowed out behind him.

“Ladies first.” Mulder gestured politely toward the open door.

“Oh, okay.” Scully smiled, and moved past him. “Thank you.”

“FBI guys, next,” he said softly. Smiling to himself, he stepped

out of his boxers, tossed them against the wall, and followed her

into the bathroom.

XxxxxxX

“This time,” Mulder said looking down at his desk “we were

both right. It’s not over.” He picked up the envelope and handed

it to her, not bothering with gloves this time. The prints they had

lifted didn’t match any on file.

“You want me to do the honors?” Scully asked.

“Please.”

She paused, and took a breath.

“Hmm. The writing on the front seems shakier on this one than

the others.” She peeled the tape off the back, and pulled out the

contents.

“Do you think that means something?” he asked, as she began

reading.

Scully’s eyebrows arched, and she pressed her lips together.

“What? What does it say?”

She handed him the article and the letter.

__ __ __

From the Washington Post Review

Gunman kills four students, hostage negotiator

__ __ __

Officer slain while negotiating release of students

__ __ __

Gunman commits suicide in gun battle with police

__ __ __

By Louis Malcolm Kane

washington post-review staff writer

__ __ __

A gunman opened fire and killed four children as they attended

morning mass in the chapel at the St. Francis Day Academy in

Northwest DC yesterday.

A hostage negotiator, sent in by DC police to secure the release

of the students, was also killed. His name has not been released.

Russell Ames, 42, of Rosslyn, VA, used a Glock .40-caliber

pistol to kill Sharon Fields, 7, Anthony Garelli, 9, Sean Murry,

11, and Vincent Russo, 11. Ames later turned the weapon on

himself after firing at police officers.

Ames was a custodian at the St. Francis Day Academy until last

week, when he was fired for too many work absences.

__ __ __

This was not supposed to happen.

__ __ __

Mulder was silent for a moment. “When is this going to

happen?”

“Today,” Scully whispered. “During morning chapel.”

Grabbing his jacket and looking at his watch, he said, “Let’s

go.”

XxxxxxX

St. Francis Day Academy

Northwest DC

Friday Morning

XxxxxxX

“If it’s not supposed to happen, it won’t,” she said from the

passenger’s seat.

“Scully, the only way it won’t happen is if we stop it. We’re

supposed to stop it from happening. This event—-the one that is

about to unfold—-is the whole point of all the letters—-of all the

newspaper articles. I’m right, I feel it.”

“The hostage negotiator gets killed,” Scully said, not looking at

him. “Is that part of the plan?”

Police cars circled the area.

“I don’t know.” He looked at her steadily. “But you know I

have to do this.”

“Mulder, it’s out of control.”

“It’s not,” he assured her. “We’re finally in control.”

“You don’t know that!”

“No,” he agreed. “I don’t know that, but I believe it.”

She finally looked at him. “I’m afraid for you.”

He nodded. “But this is what we’re supposed to do. You have to

guide me. You know how I think. You know what I need.”

“This time you have faith. You believe and I don’t.” She

smiled a watery smile. “That scares me, too.”

He smiled back, touching her cheek. He blinked, and then

reached into his pocket. “I just thought of a way to increase the

odds.”

He punched the speed dial and spoke into the handset, “Turn off

the tape, guys.”

Gunshots rang out from inside the chapel; Mulder thrust the cell

phone into Scully’s hand and bolted from the car. He held his

badge up as he ran to the sheriff’s vehicle. The policeman held

up his hand, acknowledging him as he approached.

“Sir, this isn’t an FBI matter…”

“It’s okay, officer. You have a hostage situation in there, don’t you?”

He pointed at the chapel.

“Yes, sir, but we have it under control. The negotiator is in

transit, and will arrive shortly.”

“Listen, officer. We don’t have time. The gunman’s already

beginning to unravel.”

Two more shots ricocheted within the building.

“I’m an experienced hostage negotiator. I need some ears so I

can get information from my partner…” He looked over at

Scully, who was standing next to the car, speaking frantically

into the cell phone. “We can’t wait for your guy; I gotta get in

there now.”

“He’s right. Let him go.” A husky officer arrived with an

earpiece and a wire, and handed them to Mulder.

He nodded his thanks, placed the earpiece receiver deep into his

ear, and slipped the thin transmitter into his breast pocket.

Scully touched his arm.

He turned to her. “I have to go in.”

“I know.” She clasped his fingers lightly. “I told you I accepted

your faults and admired your strengths. This-—what you’re

about to do–is one of your strengths.”

“I can’t do this without you.”

“You won’t. I’ll be here, and the guys are working on it right

now.”

The officer handed Scully the transmitter/receiver. She let go

Mulder’s fingers and stepped back, never breaking eye contact.

He swallowed and said, “I’m coming back, Scully.”

“I know you are.” She tried to smile. As she whispered into the

transmitter, her voice caught. “You damn well better because I’m

not done with you yet. Do you hear me?”

“Loud and clear.” He turned to the officers. “Let’s do this.”

XxxxxxX

“I’ll kill them! I swear to God, I will!”

The masked man grabbed the child’s hair and yanked the boy’s head

back. He pressed the muzzle of his gun into the child’s thin neck.

“Back off, man! Everybody, back off, or he dies! They all die!”

“Nobody has to die, Russell.” Mulder stepped out from the

shadows in the chapel, both hands raised and empty.

<“Keep him talking, Mulder. The guys have information

coming in for you.”>

“You’re in control of this, Ames,” he soothed. “I’m just here to

help you get out of here.”

“You know there’s no way out of this for me, don’t you?

As soon as I popped off that first round, it was over.”

“It’s not over, there’s always a way out. Let’s find the right way

out of this.”

“I didn’t mean to shoot! I didn’t! And now-—now look at it.”

Ames pulled the child around so Mulder could look into the

boy’s frightened eyes.

“Let him go. Let them all go.” Mulder’s hands stayed high, and

in plain sight. “Let them go home. Their moms and dads are

waiting for them.”

<“Mulder, he doesn’t care about the kids. He was abandoned by

his parents at a McDonald’s when he was five. Now listen to

me. He doesn’t care about the kids or their parents.”>

“I’m not going down for this, I’m not!” He swung the gun away

from the terrified child and waved it toward the other children

cowering in the front pew. “I didn’t do anything!” He tore off the

mask and fired a shot at the altar.

“Give me the gun, and we’ll talk! That’s all we’ll do, Russell.

Let them go, and we’ll talk.” Mulder took a shaky step forward.

“What do *you* know? You got a job, you got a life, I got

nothing.”

<“Things, Mulder. He only cares about things, not people.

Frohike said Ames is into a lot of debt from buying salvaged,

used, and vintage items.”

“That can’t be all.” Mulder raised his voice at Ames, but he

meant the words for Scully.

<“Trust me. The only thing he cares about is whatever he’s

restoring. Something antique. That’s what he’s spent all his

money on. Maybe all this time, too. Maybe that’s why he was

fired.”>

The little boy whimpered.

“Shut up!” Ames bore the barrel of the gun deep into the boy’s

chest and pushed his finger all the way into the trigger guard. “I

said shut the fuck up!”

<“A car! Mulder, he’s spent his life savings on a car!”>

“These kids are so young,” Mulder said quickly “And you want

to kill them before they even get to go to their first dance, their

first football game, before they get a chance to drive.”

<“A 1968 Nova. That’s what he’s been working on.”>

Mulder saw Ames soften.

“None of these kids are near old enough to take the wheel for the

first time. I mean, I learned to drive when I was fifteen.”

Mulder fumbled for a model of another muscle car. “On my

dad’s 1969 Pontiac GTO. You remember what that was like,

right?”

Ames let up on the trigger. The terrified child’s eyes were wide,

and staring at Mulder.

“Shit. Your dad let a kid drive a car like that?”

“Hell, my dad didn’t know.” Mulder’s mind raced, looking for

the right things to say to the hostage taker. “If he ever found out,

I’d have felt the business end of his belt—-didn’t matter if I was

five or fifteen.”

Mulder lowered his arms. “The old shit wouldn’t let me near his

car. I had to sneak it out of the garage when he wasn’t home.

Which was okay, since he wasn’t home for most of my life. My

mother was too drunk to care.”

“Hey, don’t talk about your parents that way,” Ames squinted at

Mulder, letting go of the boy’s hair without looking at him.

“They’re still your parents, and you don’t talk about them that

way.”

The little boy crawled into a pew.

<“Get him talking about his car, Mulder. He’s disintegrating.”>

“At least you fucking had parents, you fuck. What did you come

in here for? To be my friend? To talk about kids and cars, like I

don’t know what you’re doing?”

The gunman pulled the slide back and fed another round from

the magazine into the chamber of his Glock .40. He aimed

at the head of the hostage negotiator two feet away.

“Did you think I was crazy and stupid? You

stupid fuck!”

“Russell, you don’t want to kill me. You don’t want to kill

anyone.”

“Like hell I don’t! I got nothing to lose! Don’t you fucking tell

me what I want! You don’t know! You don’t know shit!” He

pulled the trigger.

Nothing.

“Fuck! Jammed! Fuck!”

Mulder lunged, but the terrified man swung the gun around, and

slammed Mulder’s temple with the butt end.

His head smacked the hardwood floor. His vision blurred. The

earpiece and lifeline to Scully popped out and rolled out of

reach.

Ames brought the gun up, snapped the slide, and checked the

chamber.

“You think you’re so goddammed smart!”

A child began crying.

“Shut up! SHUT UP!” Ames fired straight up. The bullet

lodged in the chapel’s old oaken beams.

“You think you can stop this! You think you have any idea…”

He stood over Mulder and aimed down.

‘No Kevlar today,’ Mulder thought surreally as he scrunched his

eyes shut, waiting for the impact.

With the barrel of his gun pointed dead on Mulder’s chest,

Russell Ames pulled the trigger,

“Scully, I’m so sorry,” Mulder whispered into the transmitter in

his pocket.

“Fuck!”

Another child cried. The Glock made soft clicking sounds, but

nothing else happened.

Ames slapped the slide back two more times, and dropped the

unspent rounds to the floor. Mulder placed his hand on the back

of the pew and slowly stood. The world spun for a moment.

Something warm and sticky dripped down the side of his neck, but he

made no move toward the gunman.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Ames chanted as he fed new rounds into

the magazine and let old ones fall out. Finally, he aimed the

gun at his own temple.

“Russell, it’s over,” Mulder said softly, holding his hand out.

“It’s not over until I say it is.” Ames placed the muzzle at the

side of his head.

“Listen to me, Russell.” Mulder walked slowly to the distraught

man.

“I’ll do it. I’ll do it.” Ames sobbed, his quivering finger firmly

on the trigger. He turned and looked at the burning candles on

the altar. “God, please help me do it.”

“Give me the gun so you can go home and rebuild your car.

That’s what you want, isn’t it? To get that Nova running? Not

doing this.” Mulder gestured widely with his arm.

Ames hiccoughed a sob. “They fired me, and I couldn’t afford it

any more. Nobody would help me fix her.”

He looked up at Mulder with tear-filled eyes. “I just wanted my

job back so I could fix the car. This is all wrong. I never meant

to take that first shot. I just wanted them to listen to me, and

give me my job back.” He dropped the gun. “This wasn’t

supposed to happen.”

The doors burst open, and the chapel filled with uniforms.

Children were whisked out to the waiting arms of their parents,

Russell Ames was escorted out in handcuffs, and Mulder’s back

was sore from so much patting.

When he emerged into the midmorning sunshine, Scully

wrapped her arms around him. “Thank God,” she

whispered. “Thank God.”

Swallowing hard, he said, “I’m going to have to break another rule.”

She touched the dried blood crusting on the side of his head, and

then reached up, cupping his face with her palms. “You’d better.”

He took her into his arms, tilted her head up, and kissed her

soundly. As he did, he could have sworn that he felt his back

being patted again.

“I was scared at first,” he whispered into her ear. “But then, I

wasn’t. Does that make sense?”

Scully nodded against him, then slipped her hand into his

jacket pocket and removed the receiver. “I heard it all.”

“What do you think?” he asked carefully.

She looked up with misty eyes. “Glocks don’t jam,” she said

simply. “And certainly not twice.”

Mulder nodded and smiled softly. “I can’t explain it, Scully.

Except to agree when they said, ‘This wasn’t supposed to

happen.'”

He hugged her close and tucked her head under his chin as she

trembled. Kissing the top of her head, he looked at the scene

around him.

Parents and children were tearfully reunited, while reporters

swarmed, asking questions. Police officers lit up victory

cigarettes, and newspaper photographers clicked away, taking

pictures of the chapel, the children, and the gunman. Yet they

mysteriously ignored the FBI partners embracing intimately.

Far across the street, a lone mother hugged her son. She was

crying; kissing his face and hair. The boy was Ames’s

frightened young hostage.

The young mother stood and smiled. Looking skyward, she

touched her forehead, her chest, her left shoulder, then her right.

And finally, she looked over at Mulder. “This was supposed to

happen,” she said, ruffling her son’s hair.

She was a block and a half away, but Mulder clearly heard what

the dark-haired, tear-stained, young woman had said.

XxxxxxX

Scully’s apartment

Sunday morning

XxxxxxX

“What do you think that was all about? I mean, in the realm of

the universe, what was the significance of saving those

children?” Scully stroked Mulder’s hair, carefully avoiding the

three little stitches on the side of his head.

“I don’t think it was for all those children, Scully.” He looked up

at her. “I think it was for just one.”

“What?” She was baffled.

“I don’t know why I think this, but I know I’m right.” He sat up

to face her. One of the quilts slipped to the floor. “I was wrong

about some of the things in Dottie’s profile.”

“Tell me,” she said. Her eyes glittered in the early morning light.

“I said that Dottie was young. I was wrong. She was, in fact, a

very, very old woman. Old enough to have saved those

newspaper clippings so long that they yellowed and turned

almost to dust.”

Scully shook her head, “Mulder, that’s imposs-—”

Mulder gently placed his finger on her lips. “Just listen, please.

It gets better.”

She smiled softly, and spoke around it, “Okay.”

“When she was a young woman, the worse thing that could

happen to anyone, happened to her. Her young son was

killed during morning mass, in a senseless shootout with a

distraught gunman.”

Scully’s eyes widened, but she didn’t speak.

“I was right when I said that she was religious. Dottie was more

than religious. She was a truly pious woman who, even though her

only child was slain when he was eleven, remained faithful to

God throughout her long lifetime. As her life was ending, God

must have said something like, ‘You are my beloved daughter,

and I have found favor in you because of your unwavering faith

in me. I will give back what you have loved most and lost.'”

Scully blinked before whispering, “You’re describing a miracle,

you know.”

“Yes, I know. One that included you and me.” He paused to

smile. “And the Lone Gunmen.”

“How…” She took a halting breath. “How did you come up with

this explanation?”

He looked into her eyes, kissed her cheek softly, and whispered,

“I’ve come to realize that there are more worlds than the one you

can hold in your hand.”

She gasped, and her eyes filled.

“See?” he said. “I’m learning.”

She swallowed a few times to get her tongue working.

“Are you all right?” he asked with a grin.

“Fine.” She brushed her eyes with her fingertips and put her

arms around his neck. “I’m fine.”

And to Mulder’s surprise and delight, she leaned into him and

kissed him with teen-aged passion.

Xxxxxx EPILOGUE xxxxxX

Leola closed the cover of the old scrapbook where several

yellowing newspaper articles remained stuck under the

clear, brittle sheets. She lovingly rubbed her fingers across the

raised letters on the front.

A Scrapbook of Current Events From Around the Country

By

Vincent Russo

Social Studies Project

Fall Semester, 2003

Sister Mary Elizabeth Malone’s

Fifth Grade Class

She glanced at the wall in front of her. Below a crucifix of the

Risen Lord hung another newspaper article. Yellowed as the

ones in the scrap book, but carefully matted and framed, placed

so that Christ looked down upon it with outstretched hands.

From the Washington Post Review—-Saturday edition:

__ __ __

Standoff with gunman at school ends peacefully

__ __ __

Hostage negotiator persuades gunman to surrender

__ __ __

Four children safely reunited with waiting parents

__ __ __

By Louis Malcolm Kane

washington Post-Review staff writer

On her desk, among stacks of paper and white envelopes, sat a framed

portrait of Vincent at his college graduation. Various pictures of

Vincent, his wife and children, and Leola’s great-grandchildren

graced the walls and shelves.

The sun had set, and she knew she had seen her last twilight. It

was dark now, but that was okay. She would awaken to a bright,

new light.

She took a last look around, patted the scrapbook cover, and

whispered to the pictures of her family surrounding her, “It’s all

right. Some things are supposed to happen.”

XxxxxxxxxX

END of Love Letters

By TCS1121

http://www.dippindots.com/

TITLE: PHOENIX RISING

Category: Casefile, MSR, AU in that this takes place

sometime after Season 7 assuming that Requiem and

anything after that never took place.

Rating: PG-13 for some gruesome crime scene details,

violence and a little hanky panky.

Spoilers: Non specific but I’m sure your memory will

be jogged along the way.

Archive: Exclusive to IMTP for two weeks then

anywhere, please just let me know.

Summary: Against the backdrop of a murder mystery

Mulder and Scully discover a new purpose for their work

and a new outlook for their future.

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully and the other characters of

THE X-FILES are not mine, I’m just borrowing them for

the purpose of my story. See further notes at the end.

Feedback: iluvxf@hotmail.com

“PHOENIX” a mythical bird who rose from its own ashes

to begin a new cycle of life; an emblem of immortality

or of reborn idealism or hope; a person or thing that

has been restored after suffering a calamity.

PHOENIX RISING

By: Traveler

Teaser

FBI REGIONAL FIELD OFFICE

CLEVELAND, OHIO

11:43PM

Mulder propped his head in his hands, raking his scalp

with his fingers in an attempt to wake himself up.

What the hell was he doing here anyway? Here at

Skinner’s request or warning depending on how you took

it. Mulder flashed back to the conversation in the

Assistant Director’s office two weeks ago.

“I could assign you this case, Mulder, but I won’t. I

know what a case like this does to you. I know how you

find yourself becoming a part of it.”

Skinner looked the agent right in the eyes.

“The assignment came from outside the Bureau and if it

wasn’t that Matt Wilcox was a dear friend of mine, one

of the few I still have, I wouldn’t even approach you

with this.”

Skinner was fighting a war within himself, Mulder could

see it and he’d appreciated the A.D.’s honesty.

“What about Agent Scully?”

Mulder knew what her plans were for the upcoming week

and he’d been determined not to jeopardize them.

Skinner had looked confused.

“I thought she was on her way out to San Diego for some

pathologist seminar. She told me she was giving a

lecture of some sort. She seemed really excited about

it. I hadn’t planned on her going with you if that’s

alright?”

“No, that’s fine. That’s why I asked. This is

something she has wanted to do for some time.”

He remembered breaking eye contact with the man,

looking down at his fingers, and doing a bit of

manicuring with his nails.

“Mulder.”

At the A.D.’s mention of his name he’d looked up.

“You don’t have to make a decision right now. Take the

files home, have Scully look them over with you.”

Skinner’s implication that Scully would be ‘home’ when

he got there to look over the files was not lost on

him. Skinner was well aware of their relationship and

though it was not against Bureau policy. He’d also known

the A.D. had not shared his knowledge with anyone else.

Their partnership was as strong as ever and that’s all

the Bureau needed to be concerned about. Or so he

thought.

“But you’re still concerned about the future of the X-

Files, am I right”?

Skinner had seemed a bit nervous. The conversation in

his office had begun with a discussion of where Mulder

thought the X-Files were headed. What was it that he

still hoped to accomplish with the division and

Skinner’s concern that Washington wouldn’t understand

the value of their work. Then the real issue was laid

on the table.

“I’m telling you this off the record, Agent Mulder. As

I’m sure you’re well aware, between the economy and

this mess in Iraq the president isn’t exactly winning

any popularity contests at the moment. Even with all

these appropriations, money is getting channeled from

all over to pay for the war. All I can tell you is that

there will likely be budget cuts on the way. Big ones.

The X-Files are a luxury that I don’t think the Bureau

can afford, unless something changes their mind.”

Mulder understood that implication.

“But this case doesn’t appear to be an X-File, sir.

From what you’ve told me they have a serial killer

loose in Cleveland and there’s public pressure on all

sections of law enforcement to do something about it.”

Skinner stood, effectively ending their conversation.

“Take the files home, Agent Mulder. Tell me what you

think.”

He’d gathered up the files the A.D. had placed before

him certain that he had read that implication and

nodded as he stood, making his way to the door.

2630 HEGAL PLACE

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

TWO WEEKS EARLIER

9:28P.M.

Mulder had been quiet all evening. Scully’s flight was

due to leave shortly after nine the following morning.

She was looking forward to the week away from D.C. but

not necessarily away from Mulder. Especially not now

considering this case that Skinner had offered him.

Mulder knew she’d been a member of this pathologist

organization for a long time and they had repeatedly

contacted her regarding a speaking engagement at their

annual convention and seminar. This year, with his

encouragement she had resolved to make it and had been

preparing her presentation with him as the audience for

some time. He’d been distracted that evening by the

case and the conversation with Skinner. As she’d

finished up, she had added a final comment to her

presentation.

“Don’t go.”

He hadn’t responded at first but then what she had said

sunk in.

“What?”

She’d smiled at his confusion.

“I said don’t go. Ask for some vacation time and come

out there with me.”

She had made him smile with her determination to keep

him out of Cleveland. He shook his head.

“No, you go. You planned to spend some time with Bill

and his family. I’m not too sure he’d appreciate me

tagging along.”

“I don’t care what my brother thinks. We’ve been

through that enough times.”

“I know, Scully. It’s okay. Besides, I still haven’t

made a decision yet.”

“Don’t lie to me, Mulder. Five deaths in a little over

a year and a half and all dismembered. You’re not

going to step away from this and we both know it.”

She was right, but he’d had enough of the gruesome

details of the case. He wouldn’t see her for at least

a week. He needed a memory to keep with him while she

was gone.

“How about some ice cream?”

“Your freezer has never seen ice cream, Mulder. How

did we end up over here anyway?”

He really wasn’t sure about the answer to that

question. He’d gone home right from work and being

unable to resist the files Skinner had given him, he

had opened them and begun to read. As the horror had

begun to sink in he’d called Scully for a break. She’d

wanted another chance to run her presentation by him

and stated she needed to go out. She suggested picking

up something to eat.

“You came over here if I remember correctly.”

She had, but only because something in his voice made

her uneasy. She really hadn’t expected to see him

until the following morning when he came to take her to

the airport.

“We can take a walk, up to the park, there’s that

little restaurant deli place that has homemade ice

cream.”

“It’s not exactly ice cream weather out there, Mulder.”

He stood, stretching stiff muscles and grabbed her hand

to pull her to her feet.

“Come on, toughen up, girl. The fresh air will do us

good.”

They’d walked to the deli and gotten ice cream. She

had been right, it wasn’t exactly ice cream weather but

they’d ended up in the park anyway despite the chilly

air.

She had sat on the stonewall that bordered the walkway

seductively licking that cone. He’d been leaning on

the wall next to her and had wolfed down what remained

of his own ice cream after he’d seen her shiver. He

had a really good idea how to warm her up. He’d turned

to her and parting her legs had stepped between them.

“Mulder, what are you doing?” she’d asked him in mock

seriousness.

“You seem a little cold, thought I could warm you up.”

There was mischief in his eyes that she was obviously

finding hard to resist. He’d taken what was left of

her cone from her hand. Tipped it towards her face and

touched her lips with it.

“Mulder?”

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

And he had. Touching her lips with his. When she’d

responded he’d deepened the kiss. Drawing her close

and wrapping her in an embrace. The photos from the

files Skinner had given him, those bizarre images of

death had suddenly come to him and he’d wanted nothing

more than to feel every inch of her warmth. When he’d

gotten a little too brave, inching his hands up under

her jacket and sweater she’d stopped him.

“We’re in a public park, Mulder,” she’d cautioned him,

well aware of his arousal.

“Nobody’s out walking at this hour, Scully.”

“We are.”

They’d walked back to his place and despite his best

intentions she had begged off and gone on home to

finish getting ready for her trip.

When he’d gone back up to his apartment he’d found an

envelope that had been slid under his door. What he’d

found inside had chilled him more than the weather.

Photographs of he and Scully and their sojourn in the

park less than an hour ago along with a note.

‘BE CAREFUL WHO YOU LOVE’

Act I

FBI REGIONAL FIELD OFFICE

CLEVELAND, OHIO

PRESENT DAY

Whether it had been a warning or not, he’d taken it as

such and so here he was, alone in Cleveland. Well, to

rephrase that, not exactly alone. When he’d arrived,

Wilcox had been more than friendly and accommodating.

He’d paired him with the agent assigned to the case

when the local police had come seeking help. A face

Mulder would have preferred to never see again, Peyton

Ritter.

Peyton had been ‘reassigned’ to the Cleveland field

office in 1999 after accidentally shooting Scully

during a case in New York. Mulder had wanted the guy

dismissed but it was Dana herself who had testified

that he was a valuable agent who needed a second

chance. So here he was in Cleveland, his second

chance, and here Mulder was trying to play nice.

Peyton had done all right for himself here and Mulder

had learned from him over a beer that he’d met someone

really nice and had gotten married. The couple’s first

child was due in three months.

Mulder could sense that Peyton was trying desperately

to make amends for his mistake several years ago but

the two of them were just not working well together. A

long week and another death later Mulder was no closer to

this killer than anybody else had been. But what he

had found in that week was beginning to lead him to

believe that Skinner had some sixth sense of his own.

Back in the 1930’s Cleveland had been the scene of one

of the most horrific murder cases of all time. Labeled

the ‘Torso Murders’, thirteen people were brutally

murdered and dismembered over the course of four years

beginning in 1934, all of them decapitated, most of

them while they were still alive. Despite the

involvement of then Safety Director and former federal

agent Eliot Ness, no suspect was identified and no one

was ever brought to trial. The murders had ended as

mysteriously as they had begun.

The killer had earned the nickname ‘The Mad Butcher of

Kingsbury Run’ because most of the victims had been

found in that area of Cleveland. Kingsbury Run was the

name given to a prehistoric riverbed that ran from just

south of the city through an industrial area known as

“The Flats”, along the Cuyahoga River. Back in the

1930’s it had been one of the most appalling ghettos in

the nation.

This new series of killings had started much the same

way as those back in the 30’s with the discovery of the

lower half of a woman’s torso washed ashore on a local

Lake Erie beach almost a year and a half ago. The body

had been treated with some sort of chemical

preservative that had turned the flesh red, tough and

leathery, almost like it had been tanned. The woman

was never identified.

Eight month’s later, a decapitated corpse of a white

male had been found in the Kingsbury Run area, naked,

drained of blood with rope burns around both wrists.

Fingerprints had identified him as twenty-eight-year

old William Hovel, a homeless man who had been arrested

several times for vagrancy. Also discovered nearby was

the decapitated and emasculated corpse of another man,

covered in the same preservative as the woman. This

body had apparently been dead for several weeks. He

had yet to be identified.

Four months later, parts of a woman’s body had been

found wrapped in newspaper and stuffed into bushel

baskets alongside a vacant building on Central Avenue.

The rest of the body with the exception of the head had

been discovered several days later in a nearby field.

Fingerprints had again allowed her to be identified as

Angie Hall a bar maid and prostitute.

Just two months ago, two boys had discovered the head of

a white male wrapped in a pair of trousers close to the

E. 55th Street bridge. Police had found the body the

next day but despite fingerprints and some distinctive

tattoos this man had yet to be identified either.

Despite long hours working on a profile of this latest

killer, Mulder found himself faced with yet another

victim when just three days ago a transient had

discovered the upper half of a man’s torso while trying

to hop a train in the flats. The victim had been dead

about two months. His head and a pile of bloody

clothing were found nearby. The search of a nearby

pond had also yielded the lower half of the torso and

parts of both legs.

In his examination of the paperwork from the original

murders, the cause of death in all cases had been

decapitation. The autopsy reports indicated a lack of

hesitation marks suggesting a strong, confident killer

familiar with human anatomy. The heads had been cut

off with one bold, clean stroke. All the victims had

died instantly.

What was so disturbing was that the files on all the

latest victims matched almost exactly those from the

1930’s; six victims so far and if the scenario

continued to play out, there would be seven more.

Someone was either playing an elaborate game or there

was more to the case than anyone else would believe.

Thoughts of Leonard Betts, Eugene Tooms and Mostow came

to mind. And with the ancient history of the riverbed

itself, something ‘prehistoric’ in nature was not

totally out of the question. All things Mulder really

didn’t want to think about.

Mulder had talked to Scully several times during the

past week, trying desperately to keep the

apprehension out of his voice. Her presentation had

gone well and she was enjoying her time with Bill and

his family. The brief conversations had brought him

back from the darkness and he had welcomed it.

His thoughts had also been with what Skinner had said.

If the Bureau was forced to cut the X-Files from the

budget, where did it leave them? He refused to go back

to profiling. He was so damn tired.

FBI REGIONAL FIELD OFFICE

CLEVELAND, OHIO

8:43AM

Scully made her way though the bullpen of the Cleveland

office. Cleveland’s FBI regional office was located in

an office tower at the corner of 9th and Lakeside,

probably the windiest corner in all of northeast Ohio.

She caught her reflection in the glass panels that

lined the hallway. Her hair was windblown and chaotic

and she suddenly wished she had ducked into the Ladies

Room before looking for Cleveland’s SAIC.

Changing her travel plans, she had caught a red-eye out

of San Diego. One connecting flight later she was

there. Her last conversation with Mulder had convinced

her that all was not going well. A brief conversation

with Skinner had confirmed that Wilcox was

worried about Mulder. She hated to admit it, but she’d

seen this coming.

“Agent Scully.”

She turned at the sound of her name to see a tall

gentleman with silvery hair approaching her.

“I’m Matt Wilcox, he said, extending his hand.

“Welcome to Cleveland.”

She accepted his greeting and returned the gesture.

Matt had a steady, reassuring gaze that reminded her of

Skinner.

“Thank you.”

Scully remembered their last trip to Cleveland in 1995.

She had been snubbed during the case by a chauvinistic

police detective who obviously had a real problem with

women of authority. Wilcox seemed like he would respect

her.

“We’re really glad to add your expertise to the case,

Agent Scully. Not that I don’t think our pathology

department is top notch, but I’m sure you know you have

a reputation for putting the most extreme evidence to

good use.

Scully wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not.

She wasn’t sure she was happy about having a

‘reputation’.

The AIC sensed her apprehension to his comment. “I

suppose you’re looking for Agent Mulder?”

“Yes, is he here?”

“We have him set up in the conference room at the end

of the hall,” he said as he motioned towards a long

hallway lined with private offices. “I expect you’ll

find him there.”

“Thank you, it was a pleasure to meet you.”

As she turned, Wilcox made one last parting comment.

“Agent Scully…”

“Yes?”

“You’re probably going to figure out that your

professional expertise is not the only reason we’re

glad to have you here.”

She nodded slightly, wondering what he was implying as

she headed off down the hallway in search of her

partner.

Shortly before reaching the partially opened door of

the conference room, the sound of her name again

stopped her in mid step. Hesitating only a brief

moment she turned around to find Peyton Ritter striding

down the hallway with a cup of steaming coffee in each

hand.

“I’d offer you one of these but they’re both for your

partner.”

Scully winced at the thought of Mulder living on

coffee.

Peyton nodded towards the conference room and Scully

pushed on the door allowing Peyton to enter the room

ahead of her. As she followed him in, the first thing

that assaulted her eyes was the wallpaper that now

decorated almost every inch of bare wall space. The

blinds had been drawn against the morning sun leaving

the room in a gloomy florescent haze.

Photocopies of old crime scene photos, grotesque images

of disembodied limbs and headless torsos were mixed

with the current photographs from the case, depicting

much the same scenes. Scattered throughout were photos

of men and women, the victims she assumed.

Peyton cleared his throat from behind her, drawing her

attention away from the grisly scenes. Turning to face

him, her eyes were drawn to Mulder, slumped across the

conference table sound asleep. His glasses, which she

hardly ever saw him in anymore, sat askew on his nose.

His hair was disheveled and he needed a shave. The

dress shirt he wore looked like he had slept in it for

several days.

“I guess he won’t be needing these,” Peyton said as he

set the coffee cups down on the table. “It’s good to

see you again, Agent Scully.”

Scully could tell Peyton was somewhat uneasy with the

partnership arrangements. The memory of their ill-

fated case in New York was still fresh.

She glared at Mulder. Now she understood what Wilcox

had been referring to, why he was glad she was here.

Damn it, after all these years, things hadn’t changed.

Peyton, sensing her need to talk to Mulder, moved away

from the table.

“I’ll be back in a little while,” he offered with a shy

smile and stepped from the room, leaving her alone with

Mulder.

As the door closed behind Peyton, Scully walked around

the table to stand behind her partner. A couple of

legal pads filled with almost illegible scrawl lay

under his folded arms. Reaching across him, she began

sifting through the case documents spread over the

table. Most of them were autopsy files from the 1930

murders. Mulder had numbered them with post-it-notes

in the order the victims had been found. Current crime

scene photos were also numbered to correspond with the

original victims. The murders were being committed in

exactly the same way and in exactly the same order.

Also mixed in were copies of newspaper articles from

the CLEVELAND PRESS and CLEVELAND NEWS, old police

reports and court records. Suddenly something caught

her eye, a novel, THE UNTOUCHABLES written in part by

Ness himself. Scully picked up the book and found

herself gazing at the likeness of Ness on the back

cover, a tall man, dressed in a neat suit. She smiled

inwardly at how much he reminded her of someone else.

Mulder stirred in his chair, his right hand coming up

to pull the glasses off his face. He pinched the bridge

of his nose.

Scully dropped the book back on the table and slowly

began to massage his shoulders. As she worked, she

could feel his tense muscles begin to relax.

“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he mumbled to

her, his head now resting on his crossed arms.

“I still can’t leave you alone for a minute, can I?”

He sat up then, tipping his head back to look up at her

with bloodshot eyes.

“Please tell me that’s fresh coffee I smell.”

“I was hoping you’d be more attracted to me,” she said

with a sigh, letting go of his shoulders.

He pushed the chair back, placing his hands on the

table and pushing himself to his feet. When he swayed

a little she reached to grab his arm.

“Mulder, you’re exhausted.”

The chagrined look he gave her told her he knew it and

he turned around to rest his ass against the table,

reaching for her and wrapping her in a warm embrace.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he mumbled into her shoulder.

“I don’t know what I’ve gotten myself into.”

She pushed him back, looking up to meet his eyes,

brushing her lips across his. His hand came up between

them and he placed his fingers against her lips pulling

away.

“I can’t tell you the last time I brushed my teeth,” he

admitted with just a little bit of embarrassment.

She could hear the defeat in his voice. Two weeks of

sifting though ancient documents had given him little

to go on. She was sure he had theories but she wasn’t

sure she wanted to hear them.

He looked down then at his scuffed shoes.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, Scully. I can’t

put the pieces together, not like I used to. It’s like

there’s something missing, the part of me that could do

this, that could put myself in this man’s mind isn’t

there anymore.”

He was serious and yet she couldn’t help but think that

was a good thing. That he couldn’t drive himself so

deep that he couldn’t get out. But she also realized

that this was important to him. That ‘spooky’ part of

him was something that legends were made of and even

though Mulder was not one to bask in the rewards of

commendations, she also knew that there was a certain

pride there and right now it was failing him.

He needed sleep and a good meal and someone to bounce

his theories off.

“Gather up whatever you need Mulder and let’s get out

of here.”

He nodded, turning back to the table he began to

collect the files and profiles he’d been working on.

There was a sudden rap on the door and Peyton shyly

stuck his head in the door.

“Mulder?”

Mulder looked up but didn’t stop what he was doing.

“Yeah, come on in.”

Peyton opened the door a little further but didn’t

enter. He glanced at Scully apologetically.

“I just heard they found another body.”

Mulder just stood there for an instant, not saying

anything. He straightened up and put his hands on his

hips and stared of at the wall of grisly photographs.

He felt Scully touch his right arm and he turned to

look at her with a weary expression.

“You got a car?”

She nodded.

Turning back to Ritter. “We’ll follow you.”

CONRAIL TRACKS UNDER THE 9th STREET BRIDGE

It looked like half the Cleveland Police Department was

in attendance as Mulder and Scully approached the crime

scene. Despite his suit coat and trench, a strange

chill that had little to do with the frigid air was

beginning to creep up on Mulder. He had the strange

sensation that he was being watched and not just by the

officers who gave a disapproving glance their way.

Several Conrail workers had discovered the torso of a

woman wrapped in a man’s jacket and then wrapped again

in a blanket. The legs and arms had also been

discovered wrapped in butcher paper and placed inside a

newly constructed wooden box. The head had been

wrapped in a similar manner. While searching for parts

of this body, police had also found the remains of

another victim nearby. The death toll had now reached

eight.

Scully had gone off to examine the box of remains;

Mulder stayed where he was, still possessed by that

strange chilling sensation. He looked up at the face

of the Federal Building, home of the FBI offices. This

site was in plain view of the office he had been

working in. Remembering the 1930 case files, it

occurred to him that Eliot Ness had been taunted in

much the same manner.

Though the police had tried to keep onlookers at bay,

both the media and a crowd of morbid spectators had

gathered around the site. He saw Scully step away from

Wilcox and the chief of police and head his way. He

continued to scan the crowd, determined that the cause

of his chill would be found there.

“Mulder?”

“Hmmm.”

He knew she was standing only a few feet from him,

her coat gathered around her to ward off the chilly

wind that blew up from the lake, but he still did not

acknowledge her. There was something here, he was sure

of it now. He could almost hear the voice of the

bastard taunting him.

“Mulder?”

Scully reached over to get his attention by grabbing

his arm. He still didn’t look at her, his attention

seemingly drawn to the many faces that moved about in

the crowd.

“Find anything?” he finally asked her.

“I believe that at least some of the body parts in that

box have been refrigerated, Mulder”

“Why would the killer do that?”

“To preserve them for some reason, or maybe they belong

to a different corpse. I’m not sure.”

“If I’d had the blinds open I might have seen something,

Scully.”

She was confused. He was carrying on this whole

conversation without once meeting her eyes.

“What are you talking about?”

He grabbed her shoulders and turned her around,

pointing up to the office tower directly at the top of

the 9th Street ramp.

“The FBI offices are right up there.”

She sighed. “Mulder you would have to have binoculars

to see this far.”

“Ness was taunted in the same way Scully.”

“What makes you think the killer is taunting you? This

all started long before you were brought on the case,

Mulder.”

“I don’t know. I just have this feeling that this all

has something to do with me, that someone here is

trying to get me to understand that.”

She watched as he continued to scan the crowd

throughout their conversation.

“What are you looking for?”

Suddenly she felt Mulder freeze, his hands digging

into her shoulders. When she looked up into his eyes

they were cold and unresponsive. He was beginning to

frighten her.

“Mulder? What is it?”

He didn’t answer her, moving away from her in the

direction of a group of people who had been standing in

the drizzle behind the police tape.

Mulder’s eyes came to rest on a tall man wearing a

Cleveland Indians baseball cap. He was older; probably

a good forty pounds heavier than Mulder with a scarred

face. The chill that had been present was now making

him shake, and yet, Mulder couldn’t help but think he

knew this man. There was something about his gaze that

looked very familiar. He made eye contact with the

man.

“Excuse me, sir?”

Mulder tried to get his attention but as soon as their

eyes met, the man stepped away and seemed to vanish into

the crowd of onlookers. Mulder couldn’t do anything, not

then and not there. Instead, he focused on making a

mental image of the man in the hope of later

identifying him.

Scully watched him from where he’d left her. He stood

with his back to her, his coat billowing in the strong

wind. He seemed transfixed on someone in the crowd but

he made no move to acknowledge whoever had garnered his

attention.

As the bodies were loaded into the coroner’s van the

police began to break up the crowd. Several media

persons were trying desperately to interview local law

enforcement about the discovery. It was time to go to

Mulder’s rescue.

Either he didn’t hear her approach or he ignored her.

When she touched his arm he jumped.

“Mulder, we need to get out of this weather. Come on,

the police can handle this. I’ve already asked to be

present at the autopsies.”

He turned and looked down are her.

“No, we need to go back to the Bureau I need to find a

sketch artist.”

“What?”

“I think I know who the killer is Scully.”

FBI REGIONAL FIELD OFFICE

CLEVELAND, OHIO

2:14PM

“He was wearing a baseball cap and his face was

disfigured, maybe burned. Yeah, that’s good. Age him

about 5 years.”

Mulder had been working with an agent from the local

office who was using a computer program designed to

create composite images of suspects using descriptions

from eyewitnesses, a sort of high tech sketch artist.

Together they had come up with the person Mulder

insisted he’d seen down at the crime scene. It was his

hope that the facial recognition software of the bureau

would be able to match this guy from the known felon

database.

He stood behind the agent, his hands on the back of the

chair and at this point, Scully was sure he was doing

that solely to support himself. She’d managed to get

him to eat half a sandwich and down a diet coke but she

had no idea what was keeping him going. The door

opened behind her and Wilcox stepped into the office.

“What’s going on? I hear Mulder ID’d our suspect?”

She touched Wilcox’s arm and led him back out into the

hall, closing the door behind them.

“He thinks he knows who the killer is. He told me he

saw him down at the crime scene.”

“And he didn’t think to mention this to anyone down

there at the time?” Wilcox replied somewhat irritated

with Mulder’s vagueness. “I don’t understand.”

Neither did she actually, but she wasn’t about to let

Wilcox or anyone else know that. Just then the door

opened behind her and she turned to see Mulder with a

photo in his hand. He met her eyes briefly and then

turned his attention to Wilcox.

“We need to run this through the NCIC database. See

if we can put a name with this face,” he said as he

handed Wilcox the photo.

“You believe this is our man? Based on what evidence?”

Wilcox was a little irritated with Mulder’s insistence.

Mulder was just as irritated, tired and short on

patience.

“Look, humor me okay.” He glanced at Scully with a

‘what did you tell him’ look and then back to Wilcox.

“I saw this guy down by the tracks, trying to blend in

with all the other onlookers. He looked right at me.

You know damn well that killers are often fascinated by

their own handiwork, he was right there getting a big

kick out of us stumbling around trying to figure out

his motive.”

“And just what would that motive be, Agent Mulder?”

“You find out who he is and I’ll figure out his

motive.”

Wilcox grabbed the photo from Mulder and turned. “You

go lay down before you fall down. And you, Agent

Scully, make sure he does. I don’t want to see either

of you back here today!”

HAMPTON INN, CLEVELAND

ROOM 143

6:32PM

She’d gotten him to shower and lay down but she knew

he’d never sleep. He lay on his back in jeans and a

tee shirt, his arm over his eyes. She had checked into

a separate room on the same floor, if for no other

reason than to keep up appearances, and had changed into

more comfortable clothes herself. The sound of the

door closing brought the response she had figured it

would.

“Nothing from Ritter yet on my suspect?”

“Nothing. Mulder, if he’s not a known felon . . .”

“Yeah I know. Nothing’s going to come up.”

He raked his hands across his face and left them

covering it. Scully sat down on the bed beside him and

pulled his hands from his face.

“Roll over.”

He wiggled his eyebrows.

“What ya got in mind?”

Scully rolled her eyes.

“Just roll over.”

Mulder obeyed, rolling over on his stomach and sliding

his arms underneath the flat pillow. He turned his

head so he could see her out of the corner of his eye.

Her hands came to rest on his still too-tense

shoulders. Working the tight muscles there, his upper

arms and down his back. It felt incredibly good and

his mind drifted. Maybe it really wasn’t worth it

anymore. He thought about Skinner’s question, just

where was he going with the X-Files lately? Yes, he

and Scully had made a difference in many a case that

would have remained unsolved, but was the effort really

all that rewarding anymore? More than once in the past

few years as their relationship had deepened, Mulder had

found it hard to imagine them spending the rest of

their careers in that basement office. There had to be

something more than that.

“. . . you suppose the killer would resurrect a case of

some brutal murders from almost seventy years ago?”

Scully had been talking to him and he’d been elsewhere

the whole time.

“Are you asleep?”

“Hmm, no, just thinkin.”

His attempt to instigate a different type of

conversation went right over her head.

“You’ve already concluded that this killer is matching

the crimes of the 1930’s in correlation to those of

this case. No one was ever brought to justice for

those crimes. Perhaps this is someone who is a family

member of one of the victims and is trying to prove how

ineffective or inefficient police investigative

techniques are.”

Mulder thought about what she was saying and rolled

onto his back.

“What are you suggesting? That this killer could be

someone familiar with the original case, and by

reenacting the entire affair he wants to prove that law

enforcement is no better today than it was then?

That’s an interesting thought, Scully, but why wait 70

years?”

“There are a lot of people who believe the justice

system in this country is worse today than it was 70

years ago, Mulder.”

Sitting up, he reached over and grabbed a tablet out of

his briefcase. Scully wanted to scream.

“So, we need to find relatives of the original

victims.”

“Mulder, most of them were never identified. How can

you find relatives of people with no names?”

“We have some names Scully, we’ll start from there.”

He began to scribble names from memory on the tablet.

Edward Anderson, Florence Pollino, Mary Wallace, the

only identified victims of the 1930’s killings.

William Hovel and Angie Hall the two identified victims

of the latest spree.

“Has there been any identification on the remains found

today?”

“Mulder, I don’t know. I went back to the Bureau with

you remember? And then we came back here. We haven’t

heard from anyone since the coroner took the bodies.”

“Well, see what you can find out,” he said in an ordered

tone. And then began digging through the files.

“We need to find out if there’s any correlation between

the victims from the 1930 and now…relatives, friends,

damn, something just doesn’t make sense here! We’re

missing something!”

Scully reached out in an attempt to stop Mulder’s

ravaging of the mess he had created on the bed. He

jerked his arm away from her.

“Will you just go do what I asked you to do!”

He was like a man possessed, not by a demon but by the

need to succeed. She knew now that the only way to get

him back was to help him do that very thing. She got

up off the bed without saying a word, pausing for a

moment to look at his haggard appearance. Then ever so

gently, she stroked the side of his face and leaned in

to kiss him. He returned the kiss. As they broke

apart he whispered three words to made her realize that

no matter how far he let himself go she would always

bring him back.

“I love you.”

HAMPTON INN, CLEVELAND

ROOM 143

9:32PM

Mulder had spent the better part of an hour sifting

through the files from the 1930’s murders. It occurred

to him that the new killer had skipped several murders

in his reenactment of the original crimes. The victims

found today had corresponded to victims #11 and #12

from the original crime spree.

Was that done purposely? He still had this strange

thought that somehow this was all related to him. This

stepping up in the crimes, the man today, was it all

done to get his attention before more people died?

The original investigation had been the biggest police

investigation in Cleveland history. Two detectives

placed on the case, Peter Merylo and Martin Zelewski

had interviewed more than fifteen hundred people. By

the time the investigation ended more than five

thousand people had been interviewed by the police

department. Several suspects had been found, one even

arrested but that man had been found dead in his cell

shortly after “confessing” to the murder of Flo

Pollino.

Frank Dossman, was a bricklayer who had lived with Flo

Pollino for a while. Further investigation revealed he

was also acquainted with the other two identified

victims, Edward Anderson and Mary Wallace. An autopsy

after his death revealed six broken ribs, all of which

had been obtained while in police custody. Why had the

police thought this man was the torso killer? And why

had he obviously been killed?

Things just got more complicated as he read on. Male,

female, black, white; other than the three identified

victims relationship to Dossman there was no connection

between any of the other victims as far as Mulder could

see. The original killing spree had ended when Ness

had led a raid on the Kingsbury Run ghetto, burning it

to the ground. The biggest mystery of the case had

been a suspect Ness had interrogated for several weeks

in what was then The Cleveland Hotel. Claiming lack of

evidence and refusing to name the man, he had later let

the suspect go. Speculation was that the suspect was a

doctor from an influential family and had voluntarily

committed himself to a mental hospital to avoid arrest,

prosecution, and probably scandal. But the question

that still remained was why?

Mulder rubbed his blurry eyes. His head was pounding.

Leaning back against the pillows, he allowed himself to

drift.

The bar was dark. Weaving his way though the crowd, he

spotted a petite black woman who made eye contact with

him immediately. Her sultry smile was enticing and he

soon found himself buying her a drink. They left the

bar together, proceeded down a darkened street and

entered what appeared to be a train station. Several

minutes seemed to pass and he found himself standing on

the platform with the woman. The vision suddenly

changed then, darkened tunnels and the sound of his own

breathing as he carried the limp woman across deserted

tracks. Shots being fired, the wail of sirens . . .

Jolted from the dream by the sound of the phone, Mulder

found himself cold and shaking. He grabbed the phone

with a trembling hand.

“Mulder.”

Peyton’s voice came back to him.

“Got a call from the cops, your man was spotted coming

out of a bar on Prospect with a young black woman.”

“My man? What are you talking about?”

“The police put an APB out on that drawing you did. A

couple of guys in a cruiser think they spotted him.”

Mulder put the phone on his shoulder and rubbed his

arms in an attempt to warm himself. A black woman–the

woman in his dream. Mary Wallace, victim #8 had been

black.

A sense of urgency overcame him.

“Did they arrest him? Where is this guy?”

“They followed him as far as Tower City, but by the time

they got out of the car and went inside they’d lost

him.”

“Tower City?”

“Yeah, the old train terminal building on the square,

it’s a mall now.”

“We’ll meet you there.”

Mulder didn’t bother to change. Splashing some cold

water on his face and grabbing his gun and coat and

headed for Scully’s room.

HAMPTON INN, CLEVELAND

ROOM 146

Scully had yet to hear back from the Coroner’s office.

Her earlier call had yielded no new information on the

victims found on the tracks that morning. Her call to

Wilcox had not been met pleasantly either when she

began to describe Mulder’s theory and the information

he needed. Wilcox did assure her, however, that the

police department wasn’t taking anything for granted

and had issued an APB on the man in Mulder’s drawing.

She was shaken suddenly by pounding on her door.

“Scully, it’s me!”

Opening the door, she found Mulder standing there, his

open trench coat revealing the same jeans and tee shirt

he’d had on earlier. He didn’t wait for her to say

anything.

“Peyton called, the police spotted my guy. Let’s go.”

TOWER CITY CENTER

10:18PM

By the time they arrived on the scene, it was already

illuminated with the red and blue flashing lights of

multiple police vehicles. Showing their badges, they

entered the building. Mulder spotted Peyton talking to

the police chief, and when their eyes met, Peyton

headed in their direction.

“Hey.”

“Find them yet?”

“Them?”

“You said he was spotted with a black woman. He’s

gonna kill her, she’s victim #8.”

Both Peyton and Scully tried to keep up with Mulder as

he walked briskly through the terminal.

“What are you talking about? We already have eight

victims.”

“No! From the 1930 killings, Mary Wallace”

Peyton turned to Scully.

“What’s he talking about?”

Mulder stopped in frustration and Scully almost crashed

into him. He looked at Peyton.

“How do you get down to the train terminal?”

“The trains don’t run through here anymore. It’s only

used by the local transit authority.”

“I don’t give a damn who uses it. How do you get down

there?”

Scully couldn’t take much more of this.

“Mulder stop! Where are you going with this?”

He turned to her then, and with a pleading expression

begged her to believe him.

“I had a dream.”

She turned to Peyton.

“Follow me.”

REGIONAL TRANSIT AUTHORITY RAPID TRANSIT STATION

TOWER CITY CENTER

Mulder stood on the dimly lit platform. His breath was

coming out in puffs as he attempted to ascertain which

direction the man would have gone. Neither Scully nor

Peyton said a word. He walked slowly down the platform

to his left, Peyton following him. Scully stood by the

frozen escalator they had come down on.

“Call for backup.”

Peyton turned to Mulder who had pulled his gun.

“What?”

“They’re down here. I don’t have my phone, call for

backup.”

With some resignation, Peyton pulled his cell phone from

his coat pocket and began to request back up from the

local PD. The dampness was suddenly cut with a chilling

scream. He turned to look at Mulder who was walking

back toward Scully.

Another scream and Peyton was off, jumping down into

the well of the tracks and heading to his left at a

dead run. Mulder followed him, turning to catch Scully

as she jumped down behind him. It was hard running

between the gravel and ties of the railbed. Mulder was

torn between trying to catch up with Ritter and keeping

his eye on Scully so she wouldn’t get hurt.

Another sound up ahead of them, this time what sounded

like a gunshot.

“Ritter! Damn it!”

Nothing. Mulder came to a stop, pulling his flashlight

from his pocket. It didn’t help much in the dimly lit

tunnels that were suddenly giving him a feeling of deja

vu.

They both walked quietly now. It was damp and chilly

in the dark tunnel, the smell of old oil and decay

assaulting their nostrils. It was almost too quiet and

that cold chill Mulder had woken to from his dream was

back.

Suddenly, a shot ricocheted off the aging concrete

above them, sending shards of concrete in all

directions. Scully winced as one nicked her right

cheek. Mulder turned when he heard her gasp.

“You OK?”

“Yes, go. Where’s Ritter?”

“He’s up ahead of us somewhere. It’s so damn dark down

here.”

Mulder tried in vain to shine his flashlight further

into the murky tunnels. There were miles of railway

tunnels under the Terminal building. Built in the

1920’s the Terminal Tower had been the hub of rail

traffic. Now passenger lines were run through the new

Amtrak station on the lakefront. Most of these lines

were now abandoned.

Mulder, we should call for backup.”

“Ritter already did, but I don’t know where they are.

They’d never find us down here anyway.”

It was eerily quiet; the sound of their own breathing

and the mist generated by it, the only stimulation.

Somewhere up ahead of them they heard Ritters’s frantic

voice.

“FBI! Freeze!”

More shots.

Mulder was off in an instant, his flashlight flickering

off the damp walls. He stopped for an instant to listen

when he came to an intersection, Scully right on his

heels.

“Damn it Ritter, where are you?”

“Make a right at the intersection, I think I have him

trapped.”

Mulder turned to look at Scully, something akin to

regret passing across his face as she watched him

consider what to do next.

“Wait here.”

“Mulder, no.”

“He’s my partner here, Scully. Someone has to wait for

the backup.”

Before she could object he was off again, dimming the

flashlight.

With the flashlight off he was nearly blind in the

dark. The cold made his fingers stiff around the

grip of his weapon. His training told him this was a

foolish idea and yet all he could think of was Ritter

up ahead somewhere, alone. His was the foolish idea.

The gravel of the rail bed crunched under his feet. The

smell of dampness and things he’d rather not think

about assaulted his nose. Mulder tried to silence his

breathing. There was no sound from up ahead and he

hesitated to make his presence known. As he crossed

another set of tracks his pant leg caught on a piece of

raised rail, sending him to his knees, his weapon

clanking against the aged rail. Gravel and glass cut

through his trousers, digging into his knees. It was

all he could do not to curse out loud.

From up ahead he heard the scurry of feet in the

gravel, another shout from Ritter and then the flashing

of gunfire again. Scully yelled from behind him but he

was up in an instant turning the corner of the tunnel

and finding himself outdoors in the dimly lit rail

yard. Movement to his left drew his attention. He

turned to see a flash of gunfire again and a figure

jump across the track.

“FBI. Freeze.” A standard warning, but the figure

didn’t stop.

Mulder raised his weapon and fired center mass,

dropping the man instantly. The flash of a gunshot

again and then the pain of a bullet ripping through his

left arm, knocked him back.

Realization hit him. “Ritter!”

There was no answer from the darkness.

“Mulder!” Scully yelled from inside the tunnel, at the

point where Mulder had exited. She saw him getting to

his feet and stumbling forward towards an unknown

destination.

“Ritter!” he yelled desperately again. Silence, and a

terrible emptiness filled Mulder’s stomach. He already

knew what he would find and yet he fumbled the

flashlight from his pocket making himself an easy

target to the suspect, who was still somewhere up

ahead. He could see the flash of Scully’s light behind

him, but refused to acknowledge her presence. Blood

ran down his arm, but he could no longer feel the pain.

It was Scully who reached Peyton first. Mulder had no

idea how she had passed him, lost in a fog of pain and

denial. Blood soaked Peyton’s shirt and gurgled from

his mouth as she dropped to his side.

“Mulder,” she turned to look up at his stunned face.

“I need your help here!”

All Mulder could see was Jean and the baby she carried

and it made him sick.

“Damn it Mulder, help me!”

Finally dropping to his bloody knees beside her, she

grabbed his hands.

“Pressure, Mulder, I need pressure on the wound.”

“Officer down! We need paramedics now!” She yelled

into her cell. “I don’t know where we are!”

She heard a garbled response and looked down at Ritter

who was trying to tell her their location.

“Rail yard under the terminal,” Mulder finally

whispered to her.

Peyton gasped, blood trailing from his mouth, his eyes

glazing over as Mulder watched him fight for air. He’d

done this. Fired the same shot Ritter had fired

without looking when he’d shot Scully in a dingy New

York apartment. Scully had survived, Mulder was sure

he wasn’t going to be as lucky.

“CPR Mulder, CPR, come on, help me here!”

Scully tried desperately to breathe life back into

Peyton, keeping up with Mulder’s rhythm. Despite both

their efforts his eyes remained fixed and glassy. When

she found no pulse at his throat she reached to still

Mulder’s hands.

“Let him go,” she said softly, trying to get his

attention.

Mulder rocked back on his heels, a ghastly pallor

spreading across his face in the dim light. Scully

knew what he was thinking.

“It’s not your fault Mulder.”

He turned to face her, his eyes glaring at her in the

darkness. “That’s my bullet they’re going to dig out

of his chest, Scully. Don’t try and tell me it’s not

my fault.”

Scully became aware of the sound of footsteps moving

through the tunnels.

“Agent Ritter, Agent Mulder!” AIC Wilcox shouted.

Flashlights soon illuminated them, and in the light,

Scully could see Mulder’s clammy skin. His right hand

now tightly clutching at his left bicep. He trembled

and his breathing was fast and shallow. She traced his

arm down to his left hand and suddenly realized that

the blood running from under his coat sleeve was his.

“Mulder, you’re hurt.” She reached across Ritter’s

body in an attempt to see the damage, but he pulled

away from her. She grabbed his right arm trying to

keep him from moving, but he wrestled away from her and

staggered to his feet, moving off into the darkness as

the group of FBI and Cleveland Police officers made

their way to the scene.

Wilcox’s flashlight came to rest on Ritter’s body. He

said nothing at first, taking note of Scully’s bloody

hands, Mulder standing in the shadows.

“What happened here, Agent Scully?”

Scully met the AIC’s eyes. “Friendly fire sir. Agent

Ritter and Agent Mulder were in pursuit of our killer.

It appears Agent Ritter stepped into the path of a

bullet meant for our suspect.”

Wilcox sighed and looked over at Mulder who still stood

out of reach in the shadows.

“I shot him, sir,” came Mulder’s shaky voice from the

darkness.

“Agent Scully?”

“Agent Mulder needs medical attention sir, he’s also

been shot.” Scully glared at the AIC as she stepped

away from him, striding cautiously over to where Mulder

was standing.

She didn’t speak to him. He was standing but she was

unsure as to what was holding him up. His eyes

remained closed, his lower lip trembling. His right

hand remained in a death grip on his left arm, the

blood continued to trickle from his fingers. She

gently ran her hand down his right arm, his eyes

opened, but he refused to look at her.

“Paramedics are on their way. Please let me look at

you.”

He still refused to look at her, his gaze now falling

on Ritter’s body as one of the other agents gently

placed his coat over him. He said nothing.

She reached up to graze his cheek with her fingertips

and his eyes slowly met hers. His lip quivered and

then suddenly he was folding into her. Her arms came

around his shoulders to wrap him in an embrace,

cuddling his head against her shoulder.

Over his shoulder she could see the paramedics

approaching.

“It’s okay Mulder,” she said as she slowly stroked his

hair. “It’s gonna be okay.”

His knees then buckled and Scully followed him down as

he crumbled to the ground.

Act II

METROHEALTH MEDICAL CENTER

8:33AM

“Scully”

“Agent Scully,” Skinner’s concerned voice came back to

her across the phone line. “I’ve just gotten off the

phone with Wilcox. How is Agent Mulder?”

Scully sighed. She had no answer to that question.

“He’ll be fine sir, physically.”

Skinner could read her thoughts.

“Has he given a statement yet?”

“They have him sedated, sir. He’s very upset.”

There was silence on the line for what seemed to Scully

like an eternity. She brushed the hair from her face,

her hand trembling.

“Are you all right?”

She wanted to be, she needed to be, but in truth she

needed the valium as much as Mulder did.

“I’m fi—, yes sir, I’m all right.”

Skinner wanted to say something, wanted to let her know

he was as concerned as she was and that he was there

for her, but this public phone line was not the place

for that. He cleared his throat.

“As per bureau regulations, he’s been suspended with pay

pending a formal investigation and OPR hearing into the

shooting. You will probably be called to give a

statement, Agent Scully. Ballistics has already

identified the bullet as matching Mulder’s service

weapon. What can you tell me?”

Scully fumbled nervously with the phone cord. She

wanted to get back to Mulder instead of standing here

in this all too perfect waiting room.

“Very little, sir. I didn’t see what happened.”

“It would help if you had witnessed it.”

“Sir, I heard Mulder announce himself, order the

suspect to freeze. It was all just a matter of

unfortunate circumstances. It was very dark.”

“Has Mulder said anything to you?”

“He just keeps repeating that he killed him.”

“As soon as he’s released I expect you both back in

Washington.”

METROHEALTH MEDIAL CENTER

ROOM 319

Scully made her way back to Mulder’s room. What the

hell had happened down there? Mulder had been working

with Ritter on the case and then she’d showed up.

Maybe three really was a crowd. Skinner had informed

her over the phone that Wilcox had requested her

involvement in the case, stating that her expertise

would be welcomed. He also stated that he was

concerned about Mulder, his inability to build a

working profile was wearing him thin. She suddenly

realized that she had worn him even thinner by putting

him in the middle of a three-way partnership. Had that

really affected his judgment so seriously?

She found him dozing, his head thrown back against the

pillow. His left arm had been immobilized against his

chest; an IV line worked into the back of his right

hand made it hard for him to do anything himself. She

reached down, entwining her fingers with those of his

right hand; careful of the IV line, she gently leaned

over and kissed him.

“Awakened by a princess,” his eyes opened slowly

revealing his dilated pupils, a lopsided grin spread

across his face.

It made her feel good to see the resemblance of a

smile, until it vanished from his face all too quickly.

“How do you feel?” A stupid question she realized but

she didn’t know how else to start the conversation.

He looked down at their entwined fingers and pulled his

hand gently away from her.

“I,” he looked away and then back to his hand,

shaking his head slowly. “I don’t know how I feel,

Scully. Nothing’s been fitting into place since I got

here. I should have realized that the case was getting

away from me, I . . .”

His eyes squinted shut and Scully watched as his face

screwed into bitter anguish. His voice was filled with

remorse when he spoke again.

“A man shouldn’t be dead.”

She ran her fingers up his arm and he shivered.

“Mulder, you’ve been through a lot. Give yourself some

time to work this out.”

“No, no that’s not it.” He seemed angry now. “I, it’s

like I’m not thinking the way I used to on a case like

this anymore. I can’t put the pieces together.”

She sat down gently on the edge of his bed, feeling him

stiffen when she placed a gentle hand on his leg, their

eyes met.

“You have a lot on your mind right now. I know how you

must feel about Peyton. It was an accident. He made

the mistake of not responding when you identified

yourself.”

“I made the mistake, Scully. This isn’t the first time

this has happened.”

Suddenly he felt the need to reveal a truth to her.

One he’d been trying to deny to himself for months.

“It’s been happening to me ever since…look, I know it

shouldn’t make any difference, that you and I are in

this relationship now, but it does. I know you hate

this need I’ve always had to protect you, it’s worse

now. It’s affecting my judgment in so many ways

because I don’t want you to see it.

“Mulder . . .”

He raised his finger in an ‘I’m not finished’ motion.

“Back when I did this for a living, I didn’t have

another care in the world, and nobody gave a damn about

me. I could play Patterson’s game and become the

monster I was looking for and everything would fall

into place. That scares me now. Maybe if I just bang

my head against the wall, it will stir things up in

there and knock some sense into myself and I’ll be able

to think straight again. I won’t put people’s lives in

danger. I won’t put your life in danger.”

“Mulder,” Scully said with conviction. “We are not

putting each other’s lives in danger because of our

relationship.”

Breaking eye contact he looked down, shaking his head

slightly.

“I just keep thinking that if you hadn’t been down

there with us . . . I was more concerned for your safety

than I was his, three’s a crowd, Scully, especially in

this business.”

He wasn’t saying it, but she could read his logic and

it frightened her. He was thinking of quitting.

FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

WASHINGTON D.C.

3 DAYS LATER

Scully sat nervously on Skinner’s couch. She hadn’t

seen Mulder after his hearing. He’d left the building

without coming back to the basement office and that

worried her.

“Agent Scully, you can go in now,” Kim’s voice finally

registering in her brain.

Skinner looked up when she entered his office, the look

on his face telling her all she needed to know. He met

her eyes and sighed.

“Agent Scully, please have a seat,” he motioned with his

hand to the seat she always occupied. If felt somehow

very lonely with the adjoining seat empty beside her.

“Have you talked with Agent Mulder?”

She looked down at the brown envelope on her lap,

fiddling with a hangnail she had somehow missed.

“No sir, I haven’t seen him this morning.”

Skinner took off his glasses, playing with them, trying

to figure out how to put his thoughts into words. He

wished they were having this conversation in a more

private location. He finally looked up to meet her

eyes.

“He’s been asked to resign.”

Shock was the first thing to register in her mind and

then confusion.

“I don’t understand. Sir, he was cleared of any

wrongdoing. Ritter’s death was ruled accidental.”

Now she knew why he hadn’t come back to the office, and

she worried about where the hell he would go.

Skinner’s voice came back to her.

“They were going to fire him, Scully. He’d lose

everything, his pension, and benefits. I talked them

into asking him for his voluntary resignation. At

least it will appear that he left of his own accord.”

“It will appear that way to everyone but him, sir.

What did he say?”

A smirk came to Skinner’s face that she instantly

resented.

“You know Mulder, he said he’d think about it.”

“Sir,” Scully leaned forward handing him the brown

envelope she’d taken from Mulder’s apartment. “I think

he’s been set up. Maybe even blackmailed into taking

that assignment in Cleveland.”

Skinner took the envelope from her, looking at her with

a questioning expression.

“I gave him that assignment, Agent Scully.”

“I know that, sir, but he also told me that it was a

request from you personally, that AIC Wilcox is a

friend of yours. I know you’ve tried very hard to deny

any profiling requests from outside our department.”

She nodded towards the envelope Skinner held in his

hands.

Skinner opened the envelope, spilling the photos and

the note that came with them out onto his desk. His

eyes widened when he realized what he was looking at.

“Where did you get these?”

“Mulder found them shoved under his door the night of

your meeting. We’d gone out for ice cream, ended up in

the park. He just wanted my thoughts on what to do. I

think someone made the decision for him. That note was

referring to me. Maybe he was even threatened with the

X-Files.”

Skinner gathered the photos and placed them back in the

envelope.

“Scully, there’s something else you should know. I

threatened him with the X-Files.”

“Sir?”

“It’s not going to matter what Mulder decides. They’ve

also decided to close the X-Files. . . stating that the

necessity to downsize has left them no choice but to

eliminate unnecessary expenditures.”

Now she was angry.

“Is that what we are, unnecessary expenditures? How

convenient, get rid of Mulder and close the files.”

“Scully–I know how this sounds. The case I gave him,

I was just trying to make them see what a valuable

agent he is, how valuable you both are.”

“With a profiling case? Well, that worked really well.”

Scully found this all beyond comprehension. “Did they

give Mulder a time frame?”

Skinner sighed. “He has forty-eight hours to make his

decision.”

Scully stood without another word, turning away from

Skinner and making her way to the door.

“Scully?”

“Yes,” she replied with out turning around.

“This thing with Ritter. It’s eating him up, isn’t

it?”

Scully looked down at her feet. Mulder had gone back

to his own apartment when they’d returned to

Washington. She’d only seen him twice. Both times he

had been quiet and withdrawn. She couldn’t get him to

talk to her.

“Yes, it is.”

“You keep your eye on him.” She could hear the concern

in Skinner’s voice. Despite her misgivings, she knew

they had a friend in this man.

“I will, sir.”

2630 HEGAL PLACE

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

1:47 PM

Her second knock on his door had gone unanswered.

Awkwardly she pinned the bag from the deli against the

wall as she attempted to put the key into the lock

herself, hesitating only slightly at the thought of

what would keep him from answering. The doorknob

turned in her hand and Mulder swung the door open,

barely acknowledging her presence as he walked back

into the living room.

“What took you so long? I figured you would have

trailed me back here hours ago.”

She tried to ignore the disdain in his voice. She

would not let him get to her.

Bringing the bag into the room and setting it down on

the table, she took in his appearance. Mulder was

still dressed in his suit pants. His tie was gone and his

shirt unbuttoned to reveal his untucked tee shirt. He

wasn’t wearing any shoes. His face held an edge to it,

not anger, more like aggravated humiliation in letting

everything get to this point. Two empty beer bottles

sat on the table. The pain from his gunshot wound was

etched on his face.

“I brought us something to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Damn it, Mulder,” she said dumping the bag none too

gently onto the table. “Don’t start with me. I’m in

this as much as you are.”

“No, you’re not, this has nothing to do with you.”

Scully was stuck dumb.

“How can you say that to me?”

“You didn’t kill Peyton, I did.”

“You’re not a killer, Mulder, stop saying that.”

“How do you know that, Scully? How do you know I

didn’t pull that trigger out of some subconscious need

to justify what happened to you in New York? An eye

for an eye.”

Scully was furious now, what was going on here? She’d

never seen him react quite like this before and she was

certain that there was more to this whole thing than

just Mulder’s remorse over what had happened. He was,

however, talking to her and she was determined to get

to the bottom of this charade before the day was over.

“Mulder, please, just stop. Listen to what you’re

saying. I understand how you feel, it was a terrible

accident.”

She stepped closer to him but he backed off as she

extended her hand in a calming motion, afraid he would

flee. She sat down on the couch in an act of

frustration.

“Peyton’s death was ruled accidental by the Cleveland

PD, Mulder, you know that. No one believes there was

anything premeditated about it but you.”

He turned away from her, coming to stand in front of

his desk, refusing to look at her.

“You know, Scully,” Mulder said as he traced his fingers

across the front of his desk, gazing out through the

dusty blinds at the rain drizzling down the window.

“The guys in VCS, they used to talk about me. They

used to say that the reason I was so good at getting

inside the heads of these monsters was because inside

my head I was just like them.”

Scully could see that Mulder was miles away. Deep in

despair over what had transpired in Cleveland. She

needed desperately to bring him back.

“You’re not a killer, Mulder, not in the sense that

they are. Yes, you’ve killed before; it’s an

unfortunate part of the job. Why is this bothering you

so much?”

“And what ‘sense’ is that!”

He turned, glaring at her with tired eyes.

“Think about it, Scully. Think about all the serial

killers we’ve investigated, think about their

childhood, their background. What do you see? Me! I

fit the profile every time. Maybe those guys were

right.”

Scully met his eyes. Years ago, she might have been

inclined to believe him. His carelessness, his

arrogant and self-centered approach to their

investigations had more often than not led to an

unnecessary death. This man before her now was

different, and she realized with frightening clarity

that his self-doubt was eating him up.

“You don’t believe that.”

He broke eye contact, unable to meet her trusting eyes

and looked down at his feet.

“I don’t know what to believe.”

Scully’s hands on his arms made him shiver and he

raised his head to again meet her eyes.

“Mulder,” she said, reaching up to caress the side of

his face, running her fingers though his unruly hair.

“I’ll agree that the things that happened to you in

your childhood are factors that we find in the history

of many a killer, but you rose above that. You’re like

the phoenix rising from the ashes. You’ve become an

elegant and respectable man and I would never question

your righteousness.”

Mulder glanced away from her, chuckled softly in a

disgusted way.

“You’ve never given up on anything in your life,

Mulder. Even when I’ve tried my damnedest to prove you

wrong, you’ve never given up. Don’t give up now.

Don’t let this get to you. Don’t let them get to you.”

His eyes came back to hers.

“Don’t let them get to us.”

At her puzzled look he continued.

“You saw the note, Scully. ‘Be careful who you love.’

This quest of mine has caused me to loose everyone I’ve

ever loved. That was a warning. I won’t let it take

you away from me. Nothing, not even the truth is worth

that.”

Scully studied the man standing before her. In all

their years together he had never been able to protect

her. She’d been taken twice against her will, given an

incurable disease and been deprived of her ability to

bear children all in an attempt to make him give up his

quest. In the end she was only able to come to the

same realization that he seemed to have already come

to, it was time to end it.

“No.”

Mulder looked down at her puzzled.

“What?”

“Tell them no, you’re not going to resign.”

“Scully, it doesn’t make any difference. They’ll fire

me.”

“No–they won’t.”

Now he was really confused and he stepped away from

her, walking a few steps before turning again, rubbing

his arm as the ache came back.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“There’s still a killer loose in Cleveland. Your

identification of the suspect almost led to an arrest.

They know who they’re looking for now, Mulder. Skinner

won’t let you down. You haven’t lost your touch,

you’re just a little rusty.”

“Yeah, old and rusty, ” he mumbled stepping away from

her.

“You’re a classic, Mulder.”

She could see the pain on his face and realized that it

wasn’t just the mental pain that had drained all the

beauty from him. His arm was obviously bothering him.

Stepping up next to him again, she gently eased the

bandage away to be sure it was healing properly. To

her surprise he didn’t object.

“Where’s your sling?”

“I don’t know, where ever I left it I guess,” he said

making a sweeping motion of the messy apartment with

his right arm.

“You know your arm wouldn’t hurt as much if you wore

it.”

“Yes, doctor,” he said flopping down on the couch and

throwing his head back. He was exhausted.

Scully picked up the bag from the deli and made her way

to his kitchen. She was determined to get some food in

him.

A rapid pounding on his door startled them both. When

it happened again she looked out of the kitchen in time

to see Mulder, his left hand on the doorknob, his

Walther PPK in his right. He peered through his

peephole, sighed and then opened the door. Walter

Skinner stepped into the apartment.

“Sir?”

Scully watched as their boss sized up her partner.

“You look like hell, Mulder, how much have you had to

drink?”

Mulder didn’t answer, his eyes flashing to the empty

bottles on the table. Skinner followed his gaze and

then looked to Scully for confirmation.

“You’ve got more willpower than I do, I would have

drank the whole six-pack.”

Mulder had had enough of the pleasantries.

“You here to put the final nail in my coffin?”

Skinner watched his agent sway with exhaustion. He

looked again at Scully who still stood in the kitchen

doorway.

“Actually, I’m here to tell you you’re wanted back in

Cleveland.”

A sneer spread across Mulder’s face.

“I thought I was SUSPENDED.”

Skinner grabbed Mulder by the right bicep leading him

into the living room. Scully, uncertain of their boss’

intentions followed them.

“Listen,” he said, looking back and forth between the

both of them. “There’s something going on here, but

it’s not what you think, you’re being misled by the

enemy. As ugly as it may sound, Mulder, the only way

you’re going to defeat them is if you start using their

own tools against them. Do the things that even they

would be ashamed to do. It’s time you figured out that

the only way you’re gonna win this game is if you start

shooting back.”

Mulder yanked his arm from Skinner’s grasp. Stepping

away, Skinner could see that the comment had hurt him.

“Look, I’m sorry, that was a poor choice of words, but

it’s the truth.”

“Yes, it was,” Scully said from behind him.

Skinner turned his attention back to Mulder.

“Mulder, for as brilliant a man as you are, you’re

incredibly gullible. You’re so wrapped up in this

search for the truth of yours. This insatiable need

you have to prove the unbelievable and you can’t see

that your career and quite possibly your life are

being manipulated by the very people you work

for.”

Mulder wasn’t sure he wanted to hear that right then.

His head and his arm throbbed and that old couch behind

Skinner looked so damn inviting. He rubbed his hand

across his forehead.

“What are you talking about?”

“They were afraid of you, Mulder. You put a real scare

into the powers that be years ago when you started

digging into the X-files. You and I both know there

are things in those files that the average American has

no idea about, but they should. Alone, you were a

formable enemy and had they let you go, they knew you

would pursue things on your own, away from the

mainstream in a place they couldn’t control you. So

they found a way to control you,” Skinner finished,

turning to Scully.

“Dana was sent to spy on you or so you thought but I

think by now you both know that the plan worked better

than they could have ever imagined. They’ve spent ten

years trying to dissuade you by any means necessary,

Mulder. That message, those pictures, they’re exactly

what you believe them to be, a threat. They’re using

Scully against you, AGAIN and you, my friend, are

letting them.”

Mulder stood there, speechless for some time. In his

mind he knew what Skinner was telling him was true.

He’d suspected it himself for years but to hear his

boss confirm those suspicions made him ill. His eyes

met Scully’s.

Skinner dug into his coat pocket, withdrawing Mulder’s

service weapon and badge. He handed them to the agent

standing in front of him.

“Go back to Cleveland, Agent Mulder, solve the case.

Don’t let what happened with Eliot Ness happen to you.”

Mulder met Skinner’s gaze, he took the badge and weapon

from him hesitantly. Skinner stepped away. On his way

out the door, he touched Scully’s shoulder.

“Make sure he’s one hundred percent before he leaves

here.”

Act III

FBI REGIONAL FIELD OFFICE

CLEVELAND, OHIO

11:40 AM

Mulder wasn’t one hundred percent, but in the past

twenty-four hours Scully had gotten him to eat two

meals and he’d slept a good twelve hours. The effects

of the case were still evident on his face but at least

his clothes were clean and he was thinking clearly.

Wilcox had met them at the airport and, upon their

arrival at the bureau, had wasted no time

ushering them into his office.

“You’re probably wondering how you managed to get

called back on this case, Agent Mulder.”

Mulder put his hands on his hips.

“Considering that yesterday I was about to be shown the

door, yeah, I am a little curious.”

“Seems our suspect, or at least we assume it was our

suspect, called in an anonymous tip to the local paper

and several local TV stations. He happened to mention

that he’d been identified by a certain FBI agent named

Fox Mulder as the probable suspect in these grisly

murders, but that the Bureau had removed him from the

case.”

Mulder turned to look at Scully.

“I don’t know how much you’ve garnered from the old

case files, but there was a lot of speculation that Mr.

Ness covered for the killer back in the 30’s. He

claimed he didn’t have enough evidence to arrest the

guy, but a lot of comments from others involved would

lead you to believe otherwise. There are still people

in this town who remember that investigation and they

don’t want the same thing to happen again.”

Mulder suddenly remember what Skinner had said last

night as he’d left his apartment, ‘Don’t let what

happened with Eliot Ness happen to you’. What had

happened? Much like himself Ness had been a crusader.

What would have caused a man who’d worked so hard to

solve the killing spree, suddenly become so vague about

his findings? Ness had run for public office without

success shortly after the case had ended. The killer

had vanished into the woodwork and Ness’ career had

never been the same. Scully’s voice brought Mulder out

of his funk.

“They didn’t get a trace on any of the calls?”

“Yeah, they did, they all came from pay phones, three

separate ones.”

They both turned to Mulder when he spoke.

“What else have you got on this guy? Anything?”

“Yeah, actually, Alicia Morgan is recovering nicely.

She was a big help with information but there’s one

little problem with what she’s been able to give us.

Her description of the suspect doesn’t quite match

yours. Let me get the file, then I gotta run, Ritter’s

funeral is this morning.”

As Wilcox stepped toward the door Mulder grabbed his

arm.

“Alicia Morgan?”

“She’s the woman he kidnapped from the bar that night.

He didn’t kill her, I thought you knew that.”

Did he? Mulder thought. Where had his head been the

past few days? The people, the victims in this mess

were slipping away from him. Ritter’s death was still

gnawing on him and he had to make that right.

“We’re coming with you.”

FBI REGIONAL FIELD OFFICE

CLEVELAND, OHIO

6:20PM

The conference room looked much the same as it had

several days ago. Scully had insisted on going out to

get them something to eat. At this point he almost

longed for the days when nobody cared if he ate or not.

He’d had a queasy feeling in his stomach ever since

returning from Ritter’s funeral. It had been hard,

extremely hard to face the family of the young agent

knowing that they all knew he was the man responsible

for his death. Despite the findings of the CPD, Mulder

did feel responsible. Their acceptance of his genuine

apology had moved him. Ritter’s father had spoken to

him briefly, stating that a law enforcement career was

much like joining the armed forces. Putting your life

on the line in the name of something you honestly

believed in. “Don’t let it eat at you, son,” he’d

said. “Good men like you are hard to find.”

But it was Jean herself who had really stunned him.

She’d embraced him, given him a fierce hug in the

funeral home and later, at the cemetery, she’d pulled him

off to the side and in a private conversation had told

him that Peyton had idolized him. How Ritter had spent

hours reading old case files and trying to come to the

conclusions Mulder had found. She wanted him to know

that despite what he may have heard over the years,

Peyton had told her that Mulder’s “spooky” reputation

had slowly been replaced by that of a man dedicated to

his passions.

“We all make mistakes, Agent Mulder,” she’d said. “We

wouldn’t be human if we didn’t. My mistake was in

believing nothing could happen to him. His was in

believing the Bureau would protect him. Don’t make that

mistake, Agent Mulder.”

Mulder rubbed the back of his neck and stretched his

arms out to relieve the tension across his shoulders.

Pain radiated up his arm from the wound and he almost

considered digging out the painkillers they’d given him

when he left the hospital. He needed Scully’s nimble

fingers to work their magic. More than that he needed

her here right now because he was suddenly beginning to

see a picture, the whole picture, and it wasn’t very

pretty.

He looked up at the click of the opening door. Scully

made her way into the room carrying several white

styrofoam containers. The sudden smell of food made

him nauseous.

Scully saw the look pass across his face. Taking in

the fact that he looked like he hadn’t moved from his

seat in the forty-five minutes she’d been gone, she was

fairly certain that getting any of it into him was a

lost cause. She set the food containers down on the

table and leaned on it, her other hand coming to rest

on her hip.

“What’s wrong?”

Mulder sat back with a sigh.

“Everything, I think. Sit down.”

She pulled a chair over and sat beside him. On the

table in front of him was a yellow tablet onto which

he’d made quite a list. Why hadn’t he used her laptop,

which still sat tightly closed on the table? He pushed

his list towards her.

“See what you think of this.”

Scully took the pad and began to read.

1- Where do I see the X-Files going? I don’t honestly

know. Do I care anymore?

2- Serial killer is reenacting a 1930’s killing

spree . . . looking for justice or looking to prove there

is no justice?

3- Frank Dossman, the only suspect arrested in the

1930’s was murdered . . . he knew the real killer

and would squeal?

4- 1930 crime spree ended when Ness raided the ghetto

and burned it to the ground . . . maybe this

is what the killer had wanted? (A pretty sick

way to clean up the city.)

5- Current suspect has jumped to victims 11 and

12 . . . he’s escalating the case for some reason?

6- Current suspect reveals himself to me . . . he wants me

to know who he is?

7- Ness claimed to have known the identity of the

killer but never revealed who it was . . . someone

influential in Cleveland society . . . was he

threatened?

8- Current suspect tipped off media re: my

suspension . . . he wants me on this case for a reason?

9- Ritter believed the Bureau would protect him . . . he

ends up dead . . . maybe he knew the killer?

10-Skinner asked me to work this case . . . to save the X-

Files or to save me?

11-I’m being used, we’ve been used . . . I won’t let it

happen to us anymore!

12-I will be careful who I love . . . I love you.

The final two points took her by surprise and she

looked up to find his eyes intent upon her face. He

hadn’t used the laptop because this list belonged only

to them. There was a determination in his expression

that she hadn’t seen in him for some time and the

implications of that determination frightened her.

“Mulder,” she began softly. “You think this has all

been a ruse? Eight people dead in someone’s attempt to

get you or us out of the Bureau? That’s sick.”

Mulder sat back in the hard chair.

“I think, Scully, that back in the 1930’s some very

influential people had control over law enforcement in

this city. This was the Depression. Almost a third of

the city lived in those hobo jungles down along the

river, or in others like it, those who didn’t were

terrified, they demanded results. Organized crime, the

mob, you name it. Cleveland was one of the most crime-

ridden cities in the country. People could be bought.”

“You think Ness was bought out?”

“I think he could have been ‘dissuaded’, yes.”

His use of the word Skinner had used back in the

apartment, was not lost on her.

“Like you.”

He looked away and then very softly answered her

unspoken question.

“Yeah, like me.”

“Mulder,” she said, reaching over to place her hand on

his arm.

“They’ve used you against me since the day we were

partnered Scully. Ness had a family. Who’s to say that

wasn’t used against him in the same way.”

Scully sighed, Mulder’s paranoia in full swing.

“All right, but at that time forensics were just coming

into use. Any evidence acquired using the techniques

of the time was shaky at best. There were no men like

you, no profilers to put the pieces together and paint

a portrait of the killer. The lack of solid leads, the

pressure from the media, public hysteria, it’s not hard

to see why Ness and his men had such a hard time

identifying a suspect.”

“But they DID have a suspect, Scully, several of them.

One very good one he let slip away. Don’t you get it?”

With frustration evident in her voice, she pulled her

hand away.

“What am I supposed to get?”

Mulder erupted from the chair, slamming his palms on

the table.

“Ness worked this case for years, Scully! They had so

much damn evidence they didn’t know where to put it

all. Do you know that there are almost no official

records in existence today on the case? It’s all gone,

conveniently lost. Doesn’t that sound familiar? What

I’ve been working with here are old coroner’s files,

newspaper clippings full of pulp fiction, and private

files from people who had worked the case.”

Mulder turned and stepped away from the table, coming

to stand in front of the white board that held most of

the current crime scene photos. He put his hands on his

hips.

“I wonder how long it will take for all this to

disappear? It’s been happening to us for years,

Scully. We work our asses off on a case and then all

the evidence disappears and the two of us have to

come up with some fictional accounting that makes sense

of what we spent the taxpayer’s dollars on. What it

comes down to is that nobody knows the truth of what

really happened because we have no proof of what you

and I both know to be true. We haven’t SOLVED

anything,” he finished with a sigh of resignation.

Scully sat there, staring at his back. What could she

say when everything he had just said was true?

“Mulder, maybe we need to stop thinking about what

happened in the 1930’s and concentrate on solving the

case in hand.”

He turned around then to face her.

“I don’t think we’re supposed to solve it, Scully.”

When he was met with nothing but her questioning

glance, he continued.

“Remember what Skinner said? That this is not what it

all appears to be? I’m not going to be used anymore to

perpetuate a lie, or flush out who ever the government

is looking for at the moment. I think we have an

opportunity here, Scully, someone is providing us with

an opportunity to bring this to the attention of the

public. There’s a press conference tomorrow morning, I

want–I need your approval to fire that first shot.”

Scully sat for a moment, assimilating all that he had

said. Did he honestly think the taxpayer’s would care

about a couple of public servants that felt they were

being duped by their superiors? Is that what he was

trying to say? There was no way she was about to let

him stand in front of a microphone and whine about not

being treated fairly. What the hell was he thinking?

She got up from the chair and approached him, watching

his expression change from hopeful to disappointed when

she finally found herself standing in front of him. He

met her eyes when she spoke.

“Mulder, you can’t stand in front of an army of

reporters and claim that you are not able do you job

properly when your superiors have other motives–which

you can’t prove. They don’t want to hear that. They

want to know what’s being done to catch this killer.”

He closed his eyes and stood for several minutes not

saying anything. She could tell he was valiantly

attempting to control his rage at her unwillingness to

go along with his request. When he opened them again

she saw not anger, but pain.

“I expected that. Somehow I expected that you’d still

deny everything, Scully. We’ve got to stop

letting them manipulate us. I will not risk our

relationship because of what others expect, insist or

allow us to do.”

He brushed past her, grabbing his jacket from the back

of the chair.

“Mulder? Where are you going?”

Ignoring her question, he reached for the doorknob and

opened the door to the hallway and his escape.

“Mulder — wait! I don’t deny . . .

BANG

JUSTICE CENTER MEDIA ROOM

9:10AM

The police chief had just finished briefing the media

on what information they had recently ascertained. The

drawing of the suspect Ms. Morgan had described had

been released to the media several days ago but so far

no leads as to the suspect’s identity had been

received. There had been no new victims. After

fording several questions on his own, he introduced the

representatives from the FBI.

“I’d like to introduce SAIC Wilcox from the Cleveland

Field Office, and Agents Mulder and Scully from the

Washington Bureau. They are here to bring you up to

speed on the Bureau’s findings.”

Scully hadn’t seen Mulder since he’d slammed the door

in her face the evening before. She had left him a

message that he’d promptly ignored. She did know what

he wanted so desperately to do. And he was right, it

had nothing to do with solving the case. She also

knew that with her or without her, he was about to

make it perfectly clear to those who had run their

lives for the past ten years that he — they, she thought to

herself, would no longer let that happen. Wilcox and

Mulder stepped up to the bank of microphones; Scully

remained just off to Mulder’s left. After explaining

the Bureau’s role in the investigation so far, Wilcox

opened the press conference.

“Agent Wilcox, I understand this suspect had been

identified prior to Ms. Morgan’s abduction?”

“No suspect has been identified, all we have is a

composite drawing of a man from her description.”

Another reporter shouted from the back of the room.

“Is this the same man in the drawing Agent Mulder gave

you almost a week ago?”

Wilcox glared at Mulder.

“The man in Agent Mulder’s drawing could not be linked

to the crimes at the time, there was no proof of his

allegation that this man was our suspect.”

Again the same reporter shouted from the back of the

room.

“I understand Agent Mulder jumps to a lot of

conclusions without proof.”

Mulder glanced in Scully’s direction, seeking her

approval one last time. She nodded and was pleased to

see his lips curl in a tentative smile.

“Agent Mulder is a qualified criminal profiler. Any

conclusions he comes to are based on his expertise as

an investigator.”

“But it’s my understanding that Agent Mulder doesn’t

work for VCS.”

“Excuse me — Sir?” Mulder stepped closer to the

microphone.

“You have every right to question my expertise in this

matter. Fact is, I haven’t been with VSC for over ten

years and yet Washington saw fit to send me here to try

and make sense out of something no one has any

intention of seeing brought to a close — at least not in

the near future.”

“Mulder? What are you doing?” Wilcox’ questioning

voice rang in his right ear.

Another reporter jumped in.

“Are you saying the Bureau doesn’t want this case

solved?”

Mulder again looked in Scully’s direction.

“I’m SUGGESTING that there are forces at work within

the government and the private sector for that matter,

of which the public is totally unaware. These groups

make it their job to hamper an investigation such as

this one and therefore make it impossible for me and

others in my position to find the truth.”

The man in the back of the room spoke again.

“Alien forces, Agent Mulder?”

Scully could see Mulder bristle at the comment. His

fingers gripping the podium so tightly the tips had

turned white.

“No, not alien forces, and you’ve obviously done some

investigating on your own. But if you continue to joke

about this, you’re only acting against me and all these

other fine law enforcement personnel. Look, when you —

you assume a position where you swear to uphold the law

and protect the public you expect to be allowed to do

your job to the best of your ability.”

“And you’re saying the Bureau doesn’t allow you to do

that?”

“Not the Bureau per-se, but certain factions that

perhaps have other agendas in mind.”

This had quickly become a conversation between the two

men. Most of the other reporters in the room seemed

quite content to listen in. Any questions regarding

the progress of the case had been forgotten.

“How far up are we talking about?”

“I’m not sure, the Justice Department, perhaps all the

way to the Attorney General.”

“You’re accusing the Attorney General of the United

States of complacency in a crime?”

“NO! I’m not ACCUSING anyone of anything. What I’m

trying to get you to understand is you need to take

that investigative imagination of yours and look beyond

the people in my position. We’re just pawns in this

game.”

With that Mulder turned from the podium and exited the

room, the sounds of his name and more questions being

shouted to his retreating back.

Scully found him a few minutes later, leaning against

the wall outside the conference room, his head thrown

back against the wall, his eyes tightly closed. She

approached him cautiously.

“Mulder?”

When he didn’t respond she stepped close to him,

sliding her right arm around his shoulder and placing

her left hand on the back of his neck, drawing his head

slowly towards her. She stretched up on her tiptoes to

give him a chaste kiss.

He responded then, more than she had anticipated.

Wrapping his arms around her, he kissed her back.

Gently at first, and then placing his hands on either

side of her ribcage, he spun her around so she was

against the wall. Lifting her so he didn’t have to

bend down to reach her, he deepened the kiss almost

desperately. His tongue played against her teeth.

This was so wrong. Here in the hallway and yet she

found she couldn’t stop herself from letting him in.

Their tongues danced back and forth, their breathing

becoming more irregular until the sound of someone

clearing their throat extremely loud made them stop.

Mulder broke the kiss. Slowly lowering her to the

floor as he tried to regain control of himself. The

palms of his hands came to rest against the wall on

either side of her head and she watched the desire in

his eyes disappear as his breathing became more

regular. He took a deep shuddering breath and turned

around to face Wilcox.

To Wilcox’ credit he made no comment about their little

sojourn in the hallway.

“You sure opened a can of worms out there, Agent

Mulder. I hope you’ve got proof to backup these claims

of yours, because the switchboard is already lighting

up like a Christmas tree and I can just imagine what’s

going on in Washington.”

“I don’t need proof, sir, Washington does. I just want

to be able to do my job. That’s all I’ve ever wanted,”

he finished, as he stepped away and headed off down the

hall.

FBI REGIONAL FIELD OFFICE

CLEVELAND, OHIO

7:35PM

Mulder sat staring at the two composite drawings. Who

was this man whose life he had lived for one dream-

filled moment? He hadn’t acted the part of a serial

killer. Nothing in those brief moments inside his head

had pointed to any inner rage or lust, no stressor that

had caused the man to embark on this spree of killings.

What he had felt instead was sport. And a man that

kills for sport is usually employed by someone else.

Eight people were dead, but Mulder no longer thought it

was the result of some psychopath reliving a case from

the 1930’s. Something even more sinister was going on

here.

This other man, the one he was certain he knew from

somewhere, stared at him with an eye of knowledge.

Knowledge that someone was using one of the most

gruesome murder cases in history as a backdrop to

destroy the X-Files and his career. Mulder was sure

this man was the informant who had tipped off the press.

Why? Why was this man lurking in the shadows of the case?

And why had Skinner, of all people, urged him to suddenly

expose an agency of men who had for years prevented him

from bringing to the attention of the public crimes in

which the government was almost certainly involved?

This wasn’t a can of worms; it was a box of snakes.

The ringing of his cell phone suddenly jolted him.

“Mulder.”

“Agent Mulder, I have some information that I think you

would find most interesting.”

“Who is this?”

Mulder thought he recognized the voice, but his tired

mind couldn’t place it with a face.

“I understand you’re being pulled off this case for

good. I think there are some things you should know

before you head home.”

Mulder squeezed the bridge of his nose with this thumb

and forefinger.

“All right, what do I need to know?”

“I want you, and you ALONE, to meet me, on the Eagle

Road bridge in about an hour.”

“A bit melodramatic, wouldn’t you say?”

“Makes it just that more intriguing,” and with that the

caller hung up.

Mulder punched the OFF button on his phone. Ness has

been one of the most high profile investigators of his

time. Working for the Treasury Department until he had

accepted the position as Safety Director for the city

of Cleveland. His biggest claim to fame had been his

investigation of then mob boss Al Capone. He and his

“Untouchables” had been the ones who had finally

brought the man down.

His intelligence, foresight and investigative

brilliance gave him the ability to lead and inspire

those around him. Under his direction, the Cleveland

police force became a model for the entire country.

When Ness left law enforcement in the 1940’s his career

began a downturn from which it never recovered.

Mulder reached over and picked up the copy of “The

Untouchables” he’d purchased not long after he’d begun

working the case. He flipped through the book to some

photos. Staring at the photo of Eliot Ness, Mulder

suddenly imagined he was looking at himself.

Scully had left the Cleveland office a little over an

hour after taking a call from A.D. Skinner.

Skinner had none too politely told them they were being

pulled off the case and that he expected them in his

office at 9:00AM the following morning. She’d gotten

them seats on the red-eye for later that evening and

had left to go pack their things and check out. Mulder

now fought the inner battle of whether or not to call

her and tell her where he was about to go.

“Scully.”

“Hey, it’s me.”

His voice sounded hesitant and she was instantly on

alert.

“Where are you, Mulder?”

“I’m still at the Bureau but I’ve got an errand to run,

maybe you’d like to come along?”

The conversation was cryptic but she could read between

the lines.

“You going to pick me up?”

“Yeah, give me 15.”

OUTSIDE HAMPTON INN CLEVELAND

Mulder was waiting at the curb when she exited the

hotel. She slid into the passenger seat and buckled

up.

“What kind of errand are we running?”

“I got a call, just before I called you. I’m certain

it’s the man I saw at the Conrail crime scene. This

may sound weird, but I keep thinking I know him but I

didn’t recognize the voice. He wants me to meet him on

the Eagle Road bridge. He said he has some

information…”

“Your informants always have information, Mulder,” she

interrupted him. “But it’s usually something that gets

you into more trouble.”

He looked away from her, staring out the front window

of the car at the rain that had begun to dampen the

windshield.

“You know, I got the impression that you were in on

this with me this morning at that conference. Was I

mistaken?”

She reached over and touched his arm.

“No, you were not mistaken, but you didn’t exactly fire

a warning shot Mulder, you launched a missile and I’m

afraid the destruction might be too extensive.”

She watched as a smile curved the corners of his mouth.

“Okay, this is gonna sound a bit melodramatic, but that

seems to be the way this guy wants to play it. I want

you on the floor in the back, out of sight. He told me

to come alone and I want him to think that I have. When

I’ve made contact with him, I’ll ring you once on the

phone. Call for back up. Whatever this guy has to

say, I want a chance to hear it before the wrath of

Cleveland converges on the site. I don’t believe this

guy is responsible for the murders, but I get the

impression that he knows who is.”

“Are you wearing a vest, Mulder?”

“What?”

“Please, Mulder, think about this, you’ve just made

allegations that the government and others might be

responsible for cover-ups. It wouldn’t be surprising

if someone out there wanted you dead. This is a Bureau

car, is there armor in the trunk?”

Mulder pulled the car into the underground garage for

the hotel and found a parking spot. To Scully’s

satisfaction there were indeed two kevlar vests in the

trunk of the car. Mulder grudgingly acknowledged her

request and in one swift move, removed his coat and

jacket to put the vest on over his dress shirt. Ten

minutes and $8.00 later they exited the garage and

headed for the flats.

CORNER OF SCRANTON AND GIRARD

WEST BANK, CUYAHOGA RIVER

8:22PM

Mulder parked the car on the dead-end side street and

got out. Scully was nestled securely on the floor in

the back seat. The rain had lessened to a chilly mist

as he crossed Scranton Road and headed towards Eagle

Avenue. There was very little light, but he thought he

could make out a figure leaning against the steel

girders. He reached into his coat pocket making sure

his cell phone was there. All he had to do was punch

#1 to reach Scully.

As he approached the man, he could see he was tall,

about Mulder’s height, dressed in a parka and wearing a

baseball cap.

“Agent Mulder.”

The voice, again he thought he recognized the tone but

it was laced with a hoarseness that made him unsure.

And then the man turned into what little light there

was and removed his cap. Mulder gasped in shock as

recognition set in. Michael Kritschgau, his face

disfigured with burn scars, extended a hand to him.

Mulder accepted his hand and as they shook he could

feel the scars on his hand as well.

“I came to explain to you what you’ve gotten yourself

involved in.”

“I’m not sure I understand.”

A light flickered across the bridge and both men froze.

Looking in the direction it had come from they both saw

a large ore freighter being pulled up the Cuyahoga

River towards them.

“This whole thing was a set up. Designed to get you

out of the Bureau for good. But someone else has

intervened and gotten you to do exactly what you’ve

just done, plant the seeds of deception in the minds of

an otherwise unsuspecting public.”

“Eight innocent people are dead, an agent was killed,

are you saying that this was all planned? That I was

used?”

“Did Skinner tell you where this case originated?”

Mulder thought for a moment.

“He said outside the Bureau. But he also told us that

it wasn’t what it seemed.”

“It never was. There’s no murderer here, Agent Mulder,

not this time, maybe not in Ness’s day either. You

can’t solve this case because there’s no case to solve.

You were meant to fail and once they had you out, your

career would take a dive just like Ness. The note you

got, the photos, that was all part of this. They know

how much she means to you.”

“Is she in danger? Who set me up?”

“That outside source, I’m sure.

A warning whistle cut the stillness and they could feel

the bridge moving underneath them. The freighter was

approaching and the bridge had begun its rise off the

river to allow it to pass.

“Answer me! What about the others, do you know who

they are?”

“They won’t hurt her or you, not now you’ve gone

public, Mulder. You’re going to become very high

profile in all of this. Your job with the X-Files will

no longer just revolve around explaining the

unexplained, you’re going to be called on to explain

WHY they are unexplained. You’ll become untouchable.

You’re on our side now.”

Suddenly a shot rang out, the bullet ricocheting off

the girder above their heads. Kritschgau bolted.

“Damn it Kritschgau! On whose side?”

Mulder reached into his pocket and hit the #1 on his

phone and then took off across the bridge after

Kritschgau.

Scully had her phone out and was fumbling 911 the

instant she heard the single ring of her phone.

Exiting the car, she tried to make out if the two men

were still on the bridge. She was almost at the foot

of the bridge before the call connected.

“911 operator.”

“This is Dana Scully with the FBI, my badge number is

JTT0331613, we need police back up! My partner and I

are in pursuit of a murder suspect. We’re on Scranton,

the Eagle Road bridge!”

She didn’t wait for any acknowledgement when she heard

the shots being fired.

“Mulder!” Damn him.

The streetlights were of little help and the rain had

picked up again in earnest. The sudden rumbling of

metal and the creaking of gears made her turn her

attention to the lift bridge as it began its rise from

the river. A huge ore freighter was making its way up

the Cuyahoga River from the ore docks, bound for the

lake and there was no way of stopping it.

Sirens blared in the distance, but she knew there was

little the police would be able to do once they

arrived. The bridge itself was now some 40 feet in the

air. Looking up she could see that Mulder and whomever

he had met were now trapped on the rising bridge. With

the freighter on the river there was no way the bridge

would come down until it had passed.

Mulder caught up with Kritschgau; there was nowhere

for either of them to go. He grabbed the man’s coat

and slammed him against the girders of the bridge.

“Damn it, did you set me up? Who are these other

people?”

Kritschgau wrestled with Mulder, pulling his hands from

his coat.

“You idiot, that’s not who’s shooting at us! The

people I’m talking about want what you want, Mulder,

what we both want, justice, the truth, and a way to

make the public understand what’s being done to them. I

can’t tell you, not yet but we’ve gotten you to open up

a pathway for ourselves and others like us, a way for

our voices to be heard”.

Mulder pulled his gun and stuck it in Kritschgau’s

face.

“Don’t give me any of this liberation psychobabble, I

want to know who’s behind this, who am I working for

now?”

Scully watched from below as the two men wrestled each

other against the railing of the bridge. Mulder’s long

coat was the only way she could identify who was who. It

looked as if his informant had him pinned against the

railing. She had no way of knowing who had been firing

at whom.

Cruisers pulled up and two officers got out running to

where Scully now stood, watching the drama unfold above

her.

“What the hell’s going on here?”

“My partner and I believe your suspect are on that

bridge.”

Both officers looked up, following Scully’s gaze to the

two figures now more than half way across the bridge

and still locked in a lethal embrace.

Just then, another car pulled up, this time a Bureau

issue followed closely by another cruiser. Wilcox

jumped from the Bureau car, the Chief of Police from

the other.

“What are you two doing down here, Agent Scully?”

Wilcox yelled over the noise of the rising bridge.

“Who’s up there?”

“Agent Mulder, sir, and I believe your suspect.”

The police chief jumped in.

“I’ve got a marksman….”

“No, they’re too close together, I won’t let you take

that chance.”

Scully was livid.

“It’s not your choice to make!”

More cars pulled up illuminating the dark streets in a

circus of red and blue. A few dozen officers now stood

and watched the struggle. The police marksman

approached with his rifle.

Mulder was slowly losing his edge. The wound to his

arm made him weak on that side and Kritschgau was a

strong man. He had wrestled him around and now had

Mulder pinned to the railing almost crushing the life

out of him, his gun also pinned between himself and the

railing.

“Mulder, listen to me! The X-Files are full of victims

just like you. While you’ve been spending years

looking for the unexplained cause of the crimes, these

people have all been left to wonder why there is no

justice for their loved ones. I want justice for my

son, Scully wants justice for her sister and you want

justice for her and your family. You’ve given us a way

to make the public see the hidden agendas. There are

people willing to testify to the validity of your

accusations. You’re not alone in this!”

“Why now?” Mulder gasped, trying to catch his breath.

“Because you now have something you want to live for.”

“And that would be?”

“A future, with the woman you love.”

‘Scully’ Mulder thought. Using his legs, Mulder

managed to turn himself in Kritschgau’s grasp. The

steel of the bridge digging into his side as he was now

wedged sideways working to free his gun hand.

“Stop it!” Kritschgau pushed him forward, his head

meeting the steel girder with enough force to make him

see stars. He gasped in pain, blood slowly beginning

to trickle down his forehead. He would not get free of

this man. They both leaned precariously over the

bridge railing. Through the driving rain, Mulder could

see the freighter now just a short distance from the

bridge.

“I can solve this case, you know who killed these

people! You want people to know the truth, help me

here!”

“I can’t! Damn it, can’t you see! I’m a dead man; my

ambiguity allows me to work in the shadows, just like

them. There is a bigger, more important picture here,

Mulder. Open your eyes!”

Suddenly they were both bathed in a brilliant light.

Sailors on the freighter below had turned their

searchlight on the bridge. Kritschgau jumped in

surprise, bringing his hand up to shield his face from

the sudden brightness.

Mulder saw his chance. Putting his feet up on the

first rung of the bridge’s railing, and using his back,

he pulled Kritschgau forward over his shoulders.

Wrapping his left arm around the back of his neck, he

jerked the man forward.

“Take the shot when you’ve got it.”

The police chief’s orders rang in her ears, but Scully

refused to look away from the drama on the bridge. The

gun discharged, making her jump.

Mulder felt Kritschgau’s body jerk, their weight shift.

Realizing what was about to happen, Mulder tried

desperately to stop their forward momentum, but

Kritscghau’s weight was too much for him in that

awkward position and together they began to tumble over

the railing into the water below.

Scully, standing on the west bank, could not keep the

scream from escaping her throat.

“No!”

She and the rest of the officers watched the two men

plummet some ninety feet into the chilly waters of the

Cuyahoga and disappear just ahead of the freighter.

No one said a word. The police chief looked over at his

marksman and then back to Scully whose hands now hid

her eyes.

The two men had hit the water together, Kritschgau

clinging to Mulder’s coat in a death grip. Mulder

struggled to free himself of the man and his wet coat

in the frigid churning water left by the wake of the

freighter. The impact had knocked the air from his

lungs, and as he finally surfaced he gasped painfully

to draw breath. Pulling the kevlar vest from his body,

he made his way in the blackness towards what he hoped

was the riverbank.

It seemed like an eternity for the freighter to pass.

The chief called for EMT’s and backup on the east side

of the river where the two men had entered the water.

The sailors had seen the event unfold in their

searchlight and now trained it on the river below as

the huge ship passed under the bridge. There was no

sign of either man in the dark and chilly water.

It would be a while before either the police patrol

boat or the Coast Guard would be at the scene.

Officers were now dispatched with flashlights to search

the banks on either side in hope of finding either man.

Time was of the essence; neither of them could survive

long in 40 something degree water.

Scully turned to the police chief.

“You’ve got to get me over there,” she said, pointing

to the other side of the river.

“Gotta wait for the bridge Ma’am . . . it’s the quickest

way.”

Quick was at least 20 minutes and when Scully arrived

on the east bank she was devastated to learn there was

still no sign of Mulder or the suspect.

“Get me a light!” she shouted. Determined to look

herself if that’s what it took.

Suddenly a yell came up from the riverbank, 200

yards downstream.

“I see something!” an officer shouted. “Get some more

light down here!”

Scully said a silent prayer and ran with the others

down to the water’s edge.

Drenched, bloody and cold, Mulder was pulled from the

river. He now lay wrapped in blankets in the back of

an ambulance. He was refusing to be removed from the scene

until the other man was also found.

“Mulder, you’re suffering from hypothermia, we need to

get you to a hospital.” Scully pleaded with him.

“No sign of him?”

He shook his head as if already knowing the answer.

The action caused his stomach to churn at the same

time. She was right, he needed a warm bed.

“I don’t know, Mulder, they’ll have a better chance of

finding something in the daylight.”

One of the EMT officers popped his head inside the

vehicle. “We’re rolling!”

Scully nodded.

“They’ll nev . . . never find him, Scully,” Mulder said

with chattering teeth.

Epilogue

BASEMENT OFFICE TWO WEEKS LATER

Scully walked into the office carrying a bakery bag and

two cups of real coffee. Mulder was already there and

looked like he had been for some time.

“Morning.”

Setting her parcels down, but not moving from where she

stood, she took a moment to admire the view in from of

her. Tie askew and his sleeves rolled up, Mulder sat

in front of the monitor on his desk hacking away at the

keyboard.

“I had no idea you were this eager to get back to work.

What are you working on?”

A wry grin crossed his lips.

“Finishing my report to Skinner. He wants us in his

office at 9.”

After being pulled from the river, Mulder had given a

statement to the Cleveland police that the man he had

encountered on the bridge was the same man he had seen

at the crime scene where victims number 7 and 8 had

been found, the man in his composite drawing. This was

not the killer, but Mulder was certain that he could

have given them information. In attempting to

apprehend the man, a struggle had ensued and they had

both ended up plunging into the river. Not exactly a

lie but a confabulation of the truth that he hoped

would protect this fragile alliance he now seemed to

have with whomever was behind Kritschgau. A group who

seemed like they would stop at nothing to expose the

corruption that now existed. No sign of the other man

had been found. To date there had been no new

victims.

The media on the other hand had been given a fabricated

story that read something to the effect that Mulder had

identified the man on the bridge as the suspect in the

Morgan kidnapping. In attempting to apprehend the

suspect on the bridge that night, the suspect had

perished in the plunge into the river. Mulder found it

hard to believe that the public had bought the story.

His own conscience nagged at him to set the record

straight. Kritschgau, however, was right. There was a

bigger picture here and once again Mulder found himself

using a lie to find the truth.

In response to Mulder’s allegations at the press

conference, the FBI, the Justice Department, local law

enforcement, state senators, state and local government

offices, municipal and county courts, several leading

pharmaceutical companies and a multitude of private

businesses had all been contacted by representatives of

the media and legal councils. The investigations would

take years and many of the answers would no doubt be

found in the X-Files themselves.

Scully came around the desk to stand next to Mulder.

Picking up the drawing of Alicia Morgan’s kidnapper.

“This is still bothering you isn’t it?”

Mulder sat back, picking at his trouser leg to remove

some invisible lint. He didn’t meet her eyes.

“There was a murderer there, Scully. The man was

working for someone. I could feel it. I just don’t know

if it was our usual ‘outside source’ or something even

more sinister. And yeah, that still bothers me.”

She leaned on the desk, crossing her arms.

“But you’re still not about to reveal the identity of

the man you met on the bridge? You know who he was;

it’s almost like letting a killer go free. What did he

tell you, Mulder?”

From somewhere in his memory those same words came back

to him. ‘Why would anyone let a killer go free?’ And

then Arthur Dales haunting reply. ‘In the hope

that . . . the crimes that were committed . . . might someday

be exposed.’

Mulder leaned forward and hit the PRINT button on the

keyboard. Several pages spit out of the printer behind

him. Pushing the chair back, he stood, grabbing the

pages and stuffing them into the back of the folder

containing his report. Grabbing his jacket off the

back of the chair he turned to Scully.

“He told me it’s time for the phoenix to take flight.”

THE END

AUTHORS NOTES: This story is fiction. The original

story of Kingsbury Run however is very real. Eliot

Ness, Peter Merylo and Martin Zelewiski were all real

people from Cleveland, Ohio, who back in the 1930’s

became involved in one of the greatest murder mysteries

of all time. To this day the case remains unsolved.

The names of the real victims have been changed. This

is in no means meant to be disrespectful. I just felt

uncomfortable using them in this fictional story. All

the other characters in my story are mine and any

resemblance to any real persons living or dead is

purely coincidental. Since I really don’t know that

much about FBI or police standards and practices I’ve

taken a lot of artistic license here for the purpose of

the story…just go along with it. If murder mysteries

fascinate you and you’d like more information on “The

Mad Butcher of Kingsbury Run” you can check out the

Cleveland Police Museum’s website at

http://www.clevelandpolicemuseum.org/torso.htm or check out

your local library or bookstore for “In the Wake of the

Butcher” by James Jessen Badal

As a footnote to the above, a recent story on the local

news indicates that the investigation into the murders

continues. With the advancement of DNA testing

investigators are hoping to use postcards that were

mailed to Eliot Ness several times during the case in

an effort to link them to a suspect. These postcards

are currently in the possession of the Western Reserve

Historical Society in Cleveland, Ohio who at present

are hesitant to release them because the testing

process will destroy them.

“The Untouchables” is a novel written by Eliot Ness and

Oscar Fraley. It’s also a feature film starting Kevin

Cosner, Sean Connery, Robert DeNiro and Andy Garcia and

worth a look. I think you’ll find Mr. Ness and Mr.

Mulder have a lot in common.

Today the area of Cleveland know as “The Flats” is

still a highly industrial area but it has also become

one of Cleveland’s better entertainment venues with

lots of restaurants and outdoor concert facilities.

Many of the beautiful bridges that span the Cuyahoga

River are lighted at night.