TITLE: Small Fries
AUTHORS: Kel
RATING: PG-13
CATEGORY: Casefile
SPOILERS: VS9 and “Small Potatoes”
ARCHIVE: Two weeks exclusively on VS10, then
Gossamer and Ephemeral. Others are fine, just let us
know.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully and Skinner belong to
Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox. No copyright infringement
intended.
SUMMARY: Progeny of Eddie van Blundt…

Small Fries

by Kel

Martinsburg Elementary School

Martinsburg, West Virginia

Recess was just long enough for a good round of hide-and-seek or

kickball, but today Michael didn’t have time for games. He was

going to the secret clubhouse for a meeting of the Butt Club.

Michael was a first-grader in the Martinsburg Elementary School,

a public school that was recognized as a paragon of excellence.

Principal Burnside said that at every assembly, and while

Michael wasn’t sure what it meant, he knew it had something to

do with why he had to wear a jacket and tie every day.

Michael liked first grade way better than kindergarten, and it

was all because of Mrs. Cooper. She was the best teacher he’d

ever had and probably the best teacher in the whole world. The

bad thing was that she was in big trouble, and it was all because

of the Butt Club.

Mrs. Burnside said that the first grade class was disruptive and

unruly. The art teacher said they were rude and the music

teacher called them fresh and bratty. Mrs. Burnside said

they reflected badly upon their parents, their community,

and especially Mrs. Cooper. Everyone hated them, except

Mrs. Cooper.

Maybe it wasn’t just the Butt Club and their tricks.

Maybe it was the Greavy twins. They played tricks too. Like when

Andrew told the lunch lady he never got any chocolate pudding,

and then really it was Dylan who didn’t get any, ’cause Andrew got two.

Or it could have been Gabrielle Nelligan’s fault. She dressed

like the other girls, with a blue skirt and a white shirt, but

her hair was funny. Two braids wrapped up into meatballs on top of her

head. She had a big mouth that made grown-ups angry.

The bell sounded for recess, and the children marched from the the

stuffy building into the sunshine of the schoolyard. At the sound of

the second bell, the line scattered. In a six-year-old’s display of

nonchalance, Michael strolled hurriedly to the far end of the yard.

Matthew and Christopher were heading there too, tossing a ball

back and forth to disguise their purpose. Joshua must have

beaten them all. He was probably already inside the clubhouse.

Once all four boys were in the shed, their meeting began.

“I think Mrs. Cooper’s in trouble,” Michael said. “She got called to

the principal’s office again.”

“But she’s so nice,” Joshua protested. “Tons nicer than Mrs.

Pandermarck.”

Mrs. Pandermarck was the school’s irritable kindergarten teacher.

“You’re the one keeps getting her in trouble,” Christopher said.

“Making faces in gym class.”

“You and Matthew were making faces in music,” Joshua said.

“Making fun of the music teacher.”

Michael shuffled guiltily, He’d seen what Matthew and Christopher had

done and he’d joined in. It was so funny, how the music

teacher stared and gaped and then shook his head as if that would

fix what he’d seen with his eyes.

“No more making faces!” Michael ordered the others. “Cause what

if they fire Mrs. Cooper and we get another crabbypants like Miss

Pandermarck to be our teacher?”

“You think it’s us getting Mrs. Cooper in trouble? Cause we’re always

good in her class,” Joshua said.

“You know what Mrs. Burnside said. We are disruptive and unruly,”

Michael said. “It makes Mrs. Cooper look bad.”

There was a tiny metalic groan from the hinges of the shed door.

“Hey, somebody’s out there!” cried Matthew. “A spy!”

“Must be Erica Carlyle!” Christopher whispered.

If there was one kid in the first grade who wasn’t disruptive and

unruly, it was Erica Carlyle. Erica was perfect.

The creaky door swung open a few inches. Michael was relieved to see

that it wasn’t Erica, who was the biggest snitch in the world. It was

Gabrielle. She was weird, but she knew how to keep her mouth

shut when she wanted to.

“This is a private meeting,” Michael said. “Members only, and no

girls!”

“You’re not the boss of me,” Gabrielle protested.

“This is our club, and you’re not invited,” Christopher said.

“I know all about your club,” Gabrielle announced. “If you don’t

let me join I’m tellin’.”

“She don’t know nothing,” Matthew opined. “And she can’t join because

it’s a special club.”

“I’m just as special as you are,” Gabrielle sniffed. “Wanna see?”

To the shock of Michael and the other boys, Gabrielle turned around,

flounced up her skirt, and pulled down her panties.

Christopher was breathing in little gasps, trying not to cry. Joshua

was whimpering. Michael was surprised he was able to speak at all.

“You can put down your skirt,” he said.

“Then I’m in the club?” Gabrielle asked.

“Yeah,” said Christopher. “Just cover up your butt.”

Gabrielle pulled her panties back into place, keeping her back to the

boys as she rearranged her clothing. When she turned around, she

had a big smile.

“Now you boys gotta show me yours,” she announced. “You gotta prove

that you’re special too.”

Michael wondered how she knew that rule. She must be a pretty

good spy after all. He really didn’t like showing his butt even

to the other boys, but rules were rules. He was lucky, because

his belt was Velcro. He opened it easily while Matthew, Joshua,

and Christopher were still struggling with their buckles.

“You ready?” he asked. He didn’t want to be the only one with

his pants down. The others nodded. Together, they turned around,

bent over, and lowered their pants.

“Pick up your shirt a little,” Gabrielle said. Michael wasn’t sure if

she meant him, but he tugged up his shirt tail.

“Well, okay then,” Gabrielle said, but before Michael and the

other boys could pull up their pants, there was a distinctly

adult voice coming from the doorway.

“Boys, fix your pants,” Mrs.Cooper ordered them reproachfully.

Big, big trouble, thought Michael. Probably the worst trouble any kid

had ever been in ever. And then it got worse. There was another

grown-up with Mrs. Cooper

“This is beyond anything I even imagined!” Principal

Burnside shrieked. “Mrs. Cooper, you’re fired!”

= = = = =

ACT I

Residence of Mr. and Mrs. Curtis Cooper

Martinsburg, West Virginia

“My wife is a good teacher. She taught six years in Hatboro and

you can check with them,” Curtis said.

Scully hadn’t recognized the name when Curtis Cooper called, but now

that she saw him she remembered his face. Of course the

deputy uniform helped too.

“Why did you switch schools, Mrs. Cooper?” Mulder asked.

“I moved to Martinsburg when we got married. I hated to leave my old

school, but the commute was too much,” Jessica said.

“They had it in for her from the beginning,” Curtis said. “Always

treated her like an outsider.”

Jessica shrugged a little, as if to downplay her husband’s assessment.

“Principal Burnside favors the conservative, traditional approach, and

my experience was in a progressive environment,” she explained.

“Is that why you were fired?” Scully asked. She noticed

Jessica flinch at the word “fired.”

“They gave her the first grade. The worst kids in the whole school,”

Curtis said.

“They are not!” Jessica protested.

“Well, the principal calls them ‘disruptive and unruly,’ but I have a

feeling there’s more to it than that,” he asserted.

“Are they disruptive, Mrs. Cooper?” Mulder asked.

“They’re imaginative. They’re playful,” she answered.

“They play doctor in the equipment shed,” Curtis added.

“Is that why you called the FBI?” She turned from her husband to the

two agents. “Are you some special sex-crimes division?”

“Nothing like that, honey. These agents were here in town when all

that crazy stuff was going on. Before we met,” he said.

“We specialize in crazy stuff,” Mulder explained. “Eddie Van Blundht

was one of our more memorable cases. Wouldn’t you agree, Agent Scully?”

“By all reports, Eddie has been a model prisoner,” Agent Scully said

after a long silence.

Jessica recognized the name. Her husband had told her about a large,

dangerous prisoner who had ambushed him and knocked him out.

“There were five of those monkey babies,” Curtis said.

“They’d be about six years old now,” said Scully. “Were any of

those children in your class, Mrs. Cooper?”

The two agents leaned forward, eyes fixed on her face as they

waited for her answer, but Jessica was too offended to reply.

“Monkey babies?” Jessica repeated. “You call them monkey babies?”

Mulder exchanged glances with Scully, and then he rephrased

the question.

“Were any of the children in your class born with caudal

appendages?” he asked.

“I don’t have access to the children’s medical records,”

Jessica answered.

“Let’s see… Nelligan? Or Nieman? Scully, do you remember any

of the other names?” Mulder asked. He rubbed his hands together

impatiently.

“Agent Mulder, there is only one first grade class. Of course

I taught Gabrielle Nelligan and Michael Nieman,” she said.

“Did you notice anything different about those children?” Scully

asked quietly.

“I notice something different about every child, because every

child is different,” Jessica insisted. “I only wish that the

Martinsburg Elementary School could respect and accept those

differences.”

Curtis patted his wife’s hand.

“My wife’s never seen them do anything out of the ordinary. But

if you listen to the other teachers, you’ll hear a lot of complaints

about ‘making faces,'” he said.

“Making faces!” Jessica repeated. “As if that’s a crime.”

= = = = =

“Six-year old shapeshifters. That would be wild,” Mulder said.

His driving was impeccable, but when they had to slow for traffic or

stop for a light, he would tap his fingers on the wheel or

shift around in the seat. After all these years he still lit up

at the chance to encounter some truly beyond-the-pale phenomenon.

“Six-year-old shapeshifters would present gargantuan ethical and

medical dilemmas,” Scully replied.

“Party pooper,” he snorted.

“Seriously, Mulder. I recommended medication to control Eddie Van

Blundht, but he’s a convicted criminal,” she said. “The use of

drugs to control behavior in children is controversial at best.”

“You might even call it a hot potato.” He raised his

eyebrows, inviting her to appreciate his joke. “But your point

is well taken. How do you keep the Tater Tots out of trouble?”

“I’m still hoping these are ordinary children,” she said.

“Making faces, Scully. Sound familiar?” Mulder asked.

They parked by the school, and Scully was taken aback by the sight of

the children at play.

“Is this a public school or an MBA program?” Mulder asked.

“Some studies show that a conservative dress code can enhance learning

and improve behavior,” Scully said.

“It would appear that it also enforces traditional

gender-stereoptypes,” Mulder observed.

There was a distinct separation of the sexes, as Mulder had noted.

Little girls in pleated skirts skipped rope or hopscotched, while boys

in shirtsleeves and ties played catch or basketball.

“There’s nothing like a skirt to keep you off the jungle gym,” Scully

said.

Mulder sucked in a big, noisy breath and looked her over up and down.

“Hm,” he said.

“Stop it right now,” she said. How had her innocent comment triggered

Mulder’s libido? She didn’t want to think about it because it

might do the same for hers.

“I stopped,” he assured her, but he was chewing on his lip and she

wasn’t convinced.

“Quick–why are we here?” she quizzed him. They were about to

interview the principal of the Martinsburg School, and Scully didn’t

want Mulder gazing out the window imagining God knows what about the

playground equipment.

“Six years ago five babies were born, all fathered by a man with the

ability to transform himself, in appearance and voice, into someone

else. We want to ascertain if the children have some of that same

ability,” Mulder said in a monotone.

“Very good,” Scully said, although his languid drone didn’t

sound quite as focused as she would have liked.

“Scully,” Mulder asked dreamily, “what about the swings?”

= = = = =

Mrs. Cooper was gone and Miss Panasci took over. Usually she taught

art, even though she could hardly see, and health, even

though everyone knew she smoked cigarettes. She wasn’t as

interesting as Mrs. Cooper, but she wasn’t mean or anything.

Michael thought she was probably tired. She was an old lady,

even older than Mrs. Cooper, and she wasn’t used to teaching the same

kids all day long.

The whole class missed Mrs. Cooper. Christopher was the one

who thought of a way they could get her to come back.

“If we’re real bad, the principal will see that it wasn’t

Mrs. Cooper’s fault,” he said. “We just have to be more bad than

we were before.”

Miss Panasci didn’t seem to care if you talked during lessons, as long

as you weren’t too noisy. It was coming up on the time for K

through 3 recess, but the storage shed was always locked these

days. If the club was going to form a plan, they’d have to do it

in the classroom.

“I don’t want to show my butt no more,” Joshua said. “If I ever

do that again, Mom says I can forget about Disney World.”

Michael didn’t want to show his butt again either, but that would be

hard to top, if they were proving how bad they could be.

“We’ll make faces,” said Christopher. “When Mrs. Burnside comes into

the classroom, we’ll all be Joshua.”

“Why me?” Joshua asked.

“I think cause you don’t make faces as good as the rest of

us,” Matthew explained.

“You just have to practice more,” Michael said kindly.

“I know what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna bust up Mrs. Burnside’s car,”

Gabrielle declared.

“Wow,” said Joshua.

“Won’t you get a whoopin’?” asked Matthew.

Matthew was always talking about getting a whoopin’. Once Michael had

asked him what it was, and Matthew didn’t know. Just that it was

something you wouldn’t want to get.

“Nuh-uh I’m not gonna get a whoopin’,” Gabrielle said confidently.

“Cause everyone’s gonna see that it was Erica Carlyle who did it.”

Erica Carlyle, the most perfect kid in the whole school. She

never wore pants, not even on weekends, and she could write her

name in script and play the piano.

Matthew started laughing, that cartoon laugh of his that sounded like,

“A-yuck-a-yuck-a-yuck.” The other boys were quiet, almost solemn.

Everything they’d done before was kid stuff. Imitating the music

teacher, playing quadruplets, making faces. They gazed in

admiration at the the only girl in the club, and the newest member.

“Awesome,” said Christopher.

= = = = =

The main office of the Martinsburg School was a bustling place, and

Principal Burnside was a busy woman. One of the harried secretaries

assured Scully she would inform Mrs. Burnside that the FBI wished

a few minutes of her valuable time. Scully waited on a wooden

bench while Mulder paced and explored, reading the names on the

mail slots and the postings on the bulletin boards.

A nervous boy with downcast eyes joined Scully on the bench, then a

little girl with trembling lips. Adults arrived as well,

some anxious, some angry. A tallish woman in a blue cardigan

emerged from a side office and nodded brusquely at one of the

men on the bench. He seemed to gulp before obeying the summons.

“Was that Mrs. Burnside?” Scully asked the child next to her.

He nodded without looking up. Mulder finished perusing the notices

and made his way over to the bench.

“Hey, what are you in for?” he asked the two young miscreants

sympathetically.

“I can’t find my library book,” the boy answered in a guilty whisper.

“That’s rough,” Mulder said, turning his attention to the girl.

“Mrs. Pandermarck said I was talking, but I wasn’t talking,” she said,

sniffling a little. “Melanie was talking. I was only answering.”

“I see,” said Mulder.

Mrs. Burnside emerged from her office, followed by the man she’d

summoned inside minutes before. As he shuffled away she pointed

at the little library felon to Scully’s left.

“Good luck,” Mulder said pleasantly. The boy rose to meet his

fate, and Mulder took his place on the bench.

“Mrs. Burnside runs a tight ship,” Scully commented.

“I can’t wait to mess with her head,” said Mulder.

Scully knew she should try to discourage him, but she liked the idea

herself. She’d expected the principal to be an old battle-ax, but Mrs.

Burnside was a young battle-ax. Her dress and demeanor seemed to

suggest that she was a woman of high, rigid standards who

was constantly offended by the flawed, chaotic world around her.

The bookless boy looked unharmed when Mrs. Burnside dismissed him, and

the kindergarten girl survived her meeting as well.

Mrs. Burnside stood in her doorway, surveying the people who

awaited her attention. She crooked a finger at Mulder and he smiled

jauntily.

Scully was prepared to let Mulder take the lead in the

interview. He’d probably start with some open-ended questions

before focusing in on the Van Blundht children. Or maybe he’d

ask about the problems that led to Mrs. Cooper’s dismissal. She

never really knew with Mulder.

“I haven’t seen you here before,” Mrs. Burnside said.

“It’s nice to finally meet you,” said Mulder. Scully smiled politely.

“You must be Erica’s parents,” Mrs. Burnside said.

“How do you know that?” asked Mulder pleasantly.

The principal had gone out on a limb, and Mulder had decided to saw

it off. Scully could have ended the deception, but instead she let

it continue.

Mrs. Burnside smiled. Not a warm smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“Just an educated guess, Mr. Carlyle,” she said. “Your daughter has

apparently inherited your poise and grooming.” She included Scully in

her approving nod.

“I’m sure Erica would make any parent proud,” said Mulder.

“I can also guess the purpose of your visit,” Mrs. Burnside said.

“You’re concerned about discipline problems in the classroom.”

“We’re disturbed by some of the stories we hear about the

first grade,” Mulder said.

He practically winked at Scully. =See, I’m telling the truth now.=

“Obviously I’m not at liberty to discuss other children, but I

can offer you some general reassurance. On further investigation,

an incident that at first seemed to signal precocious sexual activity

turned out to be something different,” Mrs. Burnside said.

“How can you be so sure?” asked Scully.

Mulder gave her a tiny nod, welcoming her active participation.

Mrs. Burnside pursed her lips.

“Suppose a group of children were comparing appendix scars. You

wouldn’t consider that to be sexual, would you?” she asked.

“Appendix scars? Really? All five children?” Mulder asked.

“It’s a hypothetical example, Mr. Carlyle. I can’t comment any

further,” Mrs. Burnside said.

“We had other concerns about the first grade class,” Mulder said.

He’s pushing it, Scully thought. Unless they’d lucked out and little

Erica happened to be a first-grader, Mrs. Burnside was going to become

suspicious.

“Of course your daughter’s conduct has always been exemplary.

She’s an inspiration to the other children,” the principal said.

“I’m sure the rest of the class will fall into step, now that

they have a good teacher.”

“Mrs. Burnside, the sad fact is that the behavior of the first grade

class has only deteriorated since the removal of Mrs. Cooper,” Mulder

said accusingly.

“With time and patience, every child in the class will be as

mature and well-mannered as your daughter,” the principal promised.

At that moment the office door burst open. Mrs. Burnside whipped her

head around to confront the offending intruder.

“What’s the meaning of this, Miss Panasci?” she demanded.

“S-s-orry,” Miss Panasci stammered.

This was the teacher who had inherited the first grade class when Mrs.

Cooper was fired, Scully remembered. She looked like some 1950’s

ideal of the school marm, except for her nicotine-stained

fingers.

“Well?” Mrs. Burnside asked.

“Erica Carlyle took a baseball bat to your car, Principal

Burnside. She cracked your windshield!” Miss Panasci exclaimed.

“Miss Panasci! Erica’s mother and father are right here. Do you

honestly expect them to believe that Erica would ever do such

a thing?” Mrs. Burnside asked.

“But I saw her. Half the school saw her,” Miss Panasci protested. A

bratty little voice behind her confirmed the misdeed.

“I did it all right!”

“Erica Carlyle, get in here!” Mrs. Burnside ordered.

Now what, Scully wondered as the child flounced into the room.

The little girl was dressed in the obligatory blue skirt and white

blouse, although both had seen better days. Her scuffed sneakers were

untied. She didn’t quite fit the portrait of perfection that Mrs.

Burnside had painted.

“I want you to look your parents in the eye and tell them why you did

it,” Mrs. Burnside commanded.

Scully decided to wait until Erica protested that these strangers were

not her parents. Then she would take out her credentials and

claim that the principal had somehow misunderstood.

The kid, however, seemed unaware of the deception. She folded

her arms across her chest and addressed herself to Scully and Mulder.

“Mommy, Daddy… I won’t be good no more until Mrs. Cooper

comes back,” she announced.

“Child, your grammar!” Mrs. Burnside groaned, as if the

double negative was as appalling as the vandalism.

“Oh… I won’t talk good no more neither,” said the girl.

“We’re taking you home, young lady,” Mulder announced.

Scully’s jaw dropped. She looked at him and mouthed the word, “What?”

“That would be best,” Mrs. Burnside agreed.

Mulder and Scully walked out of the building with their new daughter

skipping along between them. A couple of teachers were standing

by Mrs. Burnside’s car, studying the cracked windshield.

“Yeah, it was me!” the girl shouted gleefully to them.

The Lariat rental was parked a few rows away. The child slipped into

the back seat without protest. Scully closed the door for her, then

took the passenger seat in front.

“We’re taking you home, Gabrielle,” Mulder said.

Scully held her breath for a second. Mulder wasn’t =always= right.

“But Daddy, I’m Erica!” she answered. Mulder looked at her

reproachfully.

“You’re not Erica,” he said firmly.

“Oh yeah? Well, I bet you ain’t Erica’s daddy neither,” Gabrielle

retorted.

“We’re federal agents,” Scully said, wondering if Gabrielle had

any idea what that meant.

“Aw, fudge,” said Gabrielle. Her long blond hair turned into

twin buns, and her features softened and changed as well. “I wanted

to see where Erica lives.”

= = = = =

end 1/3

ACT II

Residence of Amanda Nelligan

The Nelligans lived in a shabby neighborhood of tired little bungalows

and run-down shops. A convenience store on the corner boasted of “Hot

Lotto” and cold beer.

“You can drop me off here,” Gabrielle offered helpfully as

Mulder parked in front of her house.

“That’s okay,” Mulder said. “We want to talk to your mom.”

“I don’t want you to get in trouble,” Gabrielle said.

“You don’t want =us= to get in trouble?” Scully asked. She’d

been around children enough that she was prepared for some

twisted kid-logic, but at the same time she was feeling rather guilty.

“I’m gonna have to tell on you if you come inside,” Gabrielle warned

them earnestly. “‘Bout how you tricked me into getting in your car.”

“That was very wrong of us,” Scully said soberly. She glared

at Mulder, because even by his free-wheeling standards they

were playing with fire. Mostly she was angry at herself, because she

knew better.

“Yeah, very wrong,” Mulder agreed dryly. “I think the best thing

is if we all go inside and confess about the bad things we’ve done.”

Gabrielle looked beseechingly at Scully.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Scully said. “We’ll all work this out together.”

Gabrielle led Mulder and Scully around to the side of her house. She

looked over her shoulder a few times to show them how pitiful and cute

she was, but when that didn’t work she broke into a run.

Gabrielle always used the side entrance, which opened into

the kitchen. Her mother, meanwhile, was occupied in another room….

….The Nelligans’ den was full of second-hand furniture, but it

was cozy and comfortable. Amanda slid the videocassette into

the player and sat down on the couch.

“This is from Gabrielle’s first birthday,” she told the roguishly

dashing man who sat beside her.

“She sure is cute,” he said, reaching his arm around

Amanda’s shoulder, pulling her closer.

“I can’t believe you want to watch my home movies. Most people

would be bored to death,” Amanda said.

“I like children,” he said. “When are you going to let me meet your

daughter, anyway?”

Amanda pulled away a few inches.

“You have to understand, Jack. All these years it’s been just me and

Gabrielle. I don’t know how she’ll feel about sharing me with

somebody,” she said.

“She’ll be fine, once she gets to know me,” Jack said, giving Amanda

that look that always made her melt. “Trust me.”

Jack stretched and casually placed his arm over the back of the

couch. Amanda leaned against him a little stiffly, but then something

startled her, and she pulled away.

“There’s someone at the door,” she said.

“Probably a salesman,” Jack said. “Ignore him.”

“No, Jack, the side door. It must be Gabrielle,” she said.

“You said she doesn’t get home until three,” he protested.

Amanda seemed to hold her breath, and in the quiet they could clearly

hear the squeak of a door, and then a child’s voice:

“Mommy, I’m home….”

….The first thing Scully noticed when she followed Gabrielle

and Mulder into the kitchen was the R2D2 cookie jar. She wondered

if it beeped and whistled when you lifted the lid.

She heard Amanda’s flustered voice from another room:

“Just a minute, honey. Wait in the kitchen.”

Amanda wasn’t expecting her daughter home this early, Scully remembered.

“Oh my God,” she whispered to Mulder. “She’s not alone.”

“You still have time to get away,” Gabrielle informed them craftily.

“You’re scary, kid,” Mulder answered, and Gabrielle glared.

“Mommy, I’m hungry!” she called out in a sing-song.

“Nobody’s trying to get you into trouble,” Scully assured her. “You

have a gift, Gabrielle, but you mustn’t use it to hurt other people.”

Gabrielle stuck out her tongue.

“Mommy, I came home in a car with two strangers!” she shrieked.

“You what?” Amanda shrieked back.

“We’re cops,” Mulder said. “It’s okay to get in the car with us.”

Scully found herself siding with Gabrielle on this one. They were

strangers and they’d tricked her.

“Don’t be alarmed, Ms. Nelligan. We’re from the FBI,” she

shouted with more self-assurance than she felt.

“You might remember us. Agents Mulder and Scully,” Mulder called.

Gabrielle was frustrated and furious. Her little shoulders

hunched and her breath huffed out through her nose.

“Mommy!” she bellowed.

“I’m coming,” Amanda answered, and a second later there she was.

Amanda hadn’t changed at all in six years, Scully thought. She didn’t

look any older than the day she told them that Luke Skywalker was the

father of her baby.

“What’s going on?” Amanda demanded as Gabrielle wrapped herself around

her mother’s legs.

“They fooled me, Mommy. They made me get into their car,” Gabrielle

said. Tears welled in her eyes and she started to sniffle.

“Why are you here?” Amanda asked. “Is this something about…

E-D-D-I-E?”

“It might be,” Scully confirmed.

“Isn’t he in prison?” Amanda asked. “For what he did to… his

victims?”

“He’s been transferred to a halfway house, but he’s still under close

supervision,” Scully said.

“This doesn’t involve him directly,” Mulder added.

“Mommy, the strangers are scaring me,” Gabrielle whimpered.

“It’s all right, baby. I won’t let anyone hurt you,” Amanda promised.

“Ask your daughter what happened in school today,” Scully suggested.

Amanda looked at the two agents with a mix of hostility and suspicion,

and then kneeled down so that she was eye-level with Gabrielle.

“Tell me what happened in school today,” she said.

Gabrielle’s lips quivered.

“Everyone saw Erica Carlyle cracking the glass on Mrs. Burnside’s car,

but =they= say I did it,” she said in a hurt little voice.

Amanda swallowed hard and gave her daughter a squeeze before she stood

up.

“I see what’s going on,” she said, glaring at Mulder and Scully.

“Gabrielle, I want you to go to your room so the grown-ups can talk.”

“Can’t I go to the den to watch TV?” Gabrielle asked.

“No! Just go to your room for now, okay, honey?” Amanda said.

Gabrielle scuffed off to her room with only a backward glance or

two for dramatic effect.

“Maybe you ought to sit down,” Scully said.

“I don’t need to sit down because you’re leaving,” Amanda retorted.

“Unless you got a warrant or something.”

“We have to talk about this,” Scully insisted.

“Talk about what? The way you single out me and my kid because

she’s poor and illegitimate plus her father’s a convict?” Amanda

asked angrily.

“You know that’s not it,” Mulder said.

“I want you out of my house,” Amanda said. “I want you to leave

my daughter and me alone.”

“You’re trying to protect her, but you can’t do it by hiding from

the truth,” Mulder said, taking a step forward.

Mulder had the tendency to use his height and muscle as an unspoken

threat, pushing himself into people’s space to make them back down.

Sometimes it worked, and sometimes it didn’t.

“Maybe you didn’t hear me right,” said Amanda staunchly.

Scully put a hand on Mulder’s arm, and he broke off the confrontation.

“You must know your daughter is special,” he said, already turning

toward the door. “You must have seen it.”

“You’re real big shots, coming around to try to scare us,”

Amanda said. “Why don’t you just drive across the railroad tracks

and try telling the rich folks that their children are freaks?”

“Gabrielle is not a freak. She has a gift,” Scully said.

“Those are real pretty words,” Amanda said. “Close the door on

your way out.”

….Meanwhile, back in the den, the man called Jack was asking himself

why Mulder and Scully had to turn up again just when everything was

going so well.

“Oh, crap,” he said.

= = = = =

“We need to talk to Mrs. Burnside again,” Mulder said. “She’ll

be more objective.”

They were sitting in the car outside Amanda’s house. People actually

seemed to walk in this neighborhood, Scully noticed.

“It might be difficult to win her over,” he said.

Very difficult, Scully thought, since they’d have to begin by

apologizing for their pointless deception. What had they gained by

telling the principal they were the parents of one of the first-graders?

“Perhaps she already suspects about those children,” Mulder

continued. He started the engine.

Eddie Van Blundht had fathered five children, Scully thought,

and Amanda Nelligan was the only parent they’d contacted so far.

A single mother struggling to make ends meet. No wonder she was

defensive. Furthermore, Scully was sure there was someone else in

the house at the time, someone that Amanda wanted to keep hidden.

“I’ll ask the principal if I can speak to the class. I’ll

appeal to the children’s sense of fair play,” Mulder said. “I’m good

with kids.”

Maybe Scully would drop him off at the school while she paid a

visit to one of the other families. Or maybe she’d stay right

here and try again with Amanda.

“I just want to wait a few more minutes,” Mulder said, leaning

back in his seat. “Let’s see what Amanda does next.”

They waited in silence. Scully found herself irrationally curious

about the secret guest. She remained convinced that Amanda

had company.

“Scully,” Mulder said, jerking his head toward the house. A man was

walking from the side door toward the street.

“Knew it,” said Scully. Maybe Amanda’s friend would confront them and

repeat her demand to leave her alone.

He was a seriously fine-looking man, Scully noticed. He

headed straight to their car, but instead of rapping on the glass

he gave them a long, smug look and then strolled away.

“Kind of flamboyant for these parts, don’t you think?” Mulder asked.

He wore black trousers and a plain white shirt, but Mulder was right.

There was something larger than life about him.

“It’s Harrison Ford!” Scully proclaimed.

“I think you’re off by a couple of decades,” Mulder answered casually.

“Mulder!” she complained. It was rare for him to be so obtuse. She

opened the door and got out of the car, but he just sat there.

“Scully, you got a thing for Harrison Ford?” he asked.

“Harrison” was walking purposefully, and Scully had to hustle to

close the distance. Damned if he didn’t turn and wink at her

before he slipped into the corner convenience store.

By that time Mulder’s synapses were back up to speed. He practically

shoved Scully off the sidewalk as he ran past her.

“Han Solo!” he explained unnecessarily.

“Back door, Mulder. I’ll cover the front,” she called after him. She

thought she saw him nod that he’d heard her.

= = = = =

“Sorry, Scully. He got away,” Eddie said.

Mulder’s face, Mulder’s body, but Scully wasn’t fooled. For

one thing, she’d seen Mulder slip out the back door as soon as she

caught up with Eddie.

“Who got away, Mulder?” she asked, reaching for his hand.

“That guy we were following. That good-looking guy,” Eddie said. He

let her take his hand, but he gave her a surprised, questioning look.

“Where’s your tie?” she asked as she led him out of the store.

“I, uh, took it off,” he explained. “Anyway, I think we’re all done

here.”

“You said we’d talk to Amanda again,” Scully said. “Let’s go, Mulder.”

He stopped in his tracks until she gave his hand a tug.

“We really don’t need to bother that poor woman any more,” Eddie said.

“We’ll just go in to tell her we’re leaving town,” Scully said.

Eddie looked very uneasy, but he was still walking with her.

When they reached Amanda’s house, Scully held back a step, waiting

to see if Eddie would head for the side door. When he remained

motionless at her side, she made her own decision and headed for

the front entrance.

“You wait here,” Eddie suggested. “I’ll go in and tell her myself.”

Scully rang the doorbell. Amanda opened the door with a startled frown.

“You again,” she said.

“Just wanted to say that you’re off the hook,” Eddie explained.

“May we come in?” Scully asked, pushing the door open and

dragging Eddie along with her.

“I thought I was off the hook,” Amanda said.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Eddie. “That fellow, Jack, took care of everything.”

“All right then,” said Amanda. “He told me he would.”

The room held a sofa, a chair, and a loveseat. Scully

maneuvered Eddie to the loveseat because it was next to the

old-fashioned radiator.

“Jack’s quite a guy,” Eddie said as he sat down.

“Isn’t he?” Amanda asked enthusiastically. “He treats me like

a queen, and he doesn’t mind I have a little girl.”

“Where is Gabrielle?” Scully asked.

“I sent her next door,” Amanda said. “Mrs. Doran lets her help on

baking day.”

Good, thought Scully. She really didn’t want Gabrielle around for this.

“So, you really like Jack,” Eddie commented.

“Of course she likes him, Mulder,” Scully explained. “He’s very

handsome.”

“That’s not the only reason,” Amanda protested.

“He’s a snappy dresser, too,” Scully said. “In fact, Mulder,

I believe you’re wearing his clothes.”

Amanda’s eyes widened as she looked him over.

“Where is he? What did you do to Jack?” she demanded.

Eddie’s eyes bugged out too as he looked to Scully for help. Scully

decided she could wait no longer. She slapped the handcuffs on

him, one end around his wrist and the other through the radiator.

“Jack is right here in this room,” Scully announced.

“Scully, what are you doing?” Eddie stammered.

“You son of a bitch,” Amanda said. “I don’t believe this.” She stood

over him, shaking with anger.

“Scully? Please?” Eddie asked, rattling the cuffs as if she might be

unaware of his predicament.

“Lies. All I get from you is lies!” Amanda screamed.

Eddie let his features soften and shift until he was once again the

dashing captain of the Millennium Falcon.

“You don’t understand, Amanda,” he said. “Every time I start to make

something of myself, the FBI comes along and screws me up.”

“I must be the stupidest woman on earth,” Amanda wailed.

“At least he didn’t claim he was Han Solo,” Scully tried to console

her.

“I don’t know why I didn’t recognize him,” Amanda said. “I

just wanted so bad to believe.”

“He can be very charming,” Scully said, remembering an evening

six years ago.

“Amanda, everything I told you was the truth,” Eddie said.

“Don’t you even talk to me about the truth! Not while you’re

sitting on my sofa being someone you’re not!” Amanda yelled.

“I want to treat you like a queen,” Eddie said. “I want to be

a father to my daughter.”

“You leave her out of this,” Amanda said. Her voice was shaking and

Scully thought she might start to cry. “I don’t want my daughter

growing up around a con man.”

Eddie looked stricken, and suddenly he looked like Eddie.

“I didn’t mean to con you, Amanda. I just wanted you to give me a

chance,” he said.

“But you never gave me a chance,” Amanda said. “You can’t use

tricks to make someone like you, Eddie. It doesn’t work that way.”

= = = = =

The Martinsburg Elementary School

The first grade was watching “The Food Pyramid” for the second

time that afternoon, and Miss Panasci was sitting by her desk with

her hand on her head, rocking back and forth.

=Potatoes are an excellent source of fiber, vitamin C, and

niacin! A small potato, baked or boiled, equals one serving

from the vegegable group.=

“I gotta go to the bathroom!” Christopher blurted.

Even a kindergartener knew you were supposed to say, “Please may

I leave the room.” Miss Panasci didn’t bother to correct him,

though, just waved him to the door.

“Miss Panasci, me too,” Michael said. “I gotta leave the room real

bad.”

There was only one boy’s bathroom pass, so Michael had to carry

the one for the girls’ bathroom, but that was the least of

his problems. Gabrielle had never come back from recess, which made

sense. She was probably still being Erica, maybe busy

getting hollered at.

The big question was, Where was the real Erica?

Kids had all kinds of stories about that, but Michael didn’t know

what to believe.

The Greavy twins, Andrew and Dylan, were telling everyone that they’d

locked Erica in the Art room again. The Art room was where the kids

went for recess when it was raining out, so it had lots of neat

stuff to play with. Most kids would be happy to be locked in

there, but Erica didn’t like to have fun.

“Do you think we should let her out now?” Dylan had asked Andrew.

“No, dummyhead, cause she got out herself. Didn’t you hear how she

busted up Mrs. Burnside’s car?” Andrew had rolled his eyes

because his brother was so clueless.

“She didn’t either, and you’re a dummyhead,” Dylan replied.

The most disturbing story was about what happened next. Some

kids said that two grown-ups took Erica away in a car. Not her

mom and dad, because her dad was fat and her mom had black hair

and glasses. These were strangers.

Michael knew that strangers sometimes stole children.

His mind was clouded with worry as he walked down the corridor with

Christopher, but he kept silent. Finally, behind the closed door

of the bathroom, he dared to speak.

“Did strangers really take away Gabrielle?” he asked.

“I saw them,” Christopher confirmed. “But maybe they weren’t the bad

kind.”

“What do you mean? Strangers are bad,” Michael reminded him.

“There’s, um… you know, like police and ice-cream men,” Christopher

said. He leaned down to tie his shoe.

Michael nodded wisely.

“Yeah, helpers. Maybe they were taking her to millary school,” he

suggested.

“Millary school,” said Christopher. “What’s that?” He was

still working on his shoelace. He had one real good loop, but

the rest was just a long string.

“Bad kids’ school,” Michael explained. “Like on Malcolm-in-the-Middle.”

“That’s smart kids’ school,” Christopher said. He twisted the

loop and the string together and stuffed them into his shoe.

“No, where Francis the boy went,” Michael said.

Michael had an Aunt Frances, and it made him feel funny that

Malcolm’s brother had the same name.

“Oh, that,” said Christopher. “The real Erica would like millary

school.”

“And Gabrielle would like if Dylan and Andrew locked her in the Art

room,” Michael giggled.

“Wouldn’t it be neat if you could be locked in there all night? That

would be so cool,” said Christopher.

The Art room had clay, paint, crayons, toys, and even a

puppet theater. There was a VCR with real tapes, not just “The

Food Pyramid” and “Metric Mania!”

“Super-cool. But someone gotta let Erica out,” said Michael.

They walked back to the classroom, where a new shock awaited them.

Miss Panasci was gone, the video wasn’t playing any more, and there

was a man in the front of the room.

There was a clue on the blackboard.

“Special Guest: Mr. Mulder.”

Michael tried to sound it out. If the vowels said their names, the

Special Guest was Mr. Mule-deer.

Funny name!

Mr. Mule-deer was talking about right and wrong, and how everyone made

mistakes and the important thing was to try your best. He was talking

about responsibility and telling the truth.

It didn’t sound that different from a lot of things grown-ups

said, and Michael was at a loss to understand why the kids were

acting so frightened. Then Christopher grabbed his arm,

clutching so hard that it hurt.

“That’s the stranger who took Gabrielle,” Christopher whispered. “The

millary-school man!”

“Should we run?” Michael asked, but it was too late. The man had seen

them.

“Come on in, boys,” he said.

They slunk back to their seats, and the millary-school man went

on with what he was saying.

“Everyone likes to play make-believe, and there’s nothing wrong with

that,” he said. “Playing make-believe is fun because no one is

really trying to trick anyone else.”

Michael looked over to Erica’s seat, forgetting for the moment

that she was missing. Erica was in the habit of raising her

hand after pronouncements like this in order to voice her agreement.

“When we use tricks to deceive our friends, we damage their trust in

us,” the man said. “How many of you feel that it’s important for

friends to be able to trust one another?”

The millary-school man was as boring as the food pyramid, but Michael,

along with most of the class, raised his hand.

“Mr. Mulder? What if a person de-, uh, deceived his friend, and he’s

real sorry now?”

The question came from Dylan. Andrew was shaking his head wildly,

gesturing his twin to be quiet.

Mul-der, Michael realized. Not Mule-deer.

The millary-school man seemed to consider the question carefully.

He was looking at the twins funny, but Michael had seen grown-ups do

that before. Special Guests, like the ecology lady or

the bicycle-safety man, would sometimes do a little double-take when

they realized that Andrew and Dylan looked the same.

“Understanding that you’ve done something wrong is the first step

in making it right,” said Mr. Mulder. He was staring hard,

and Michael could see the twins really starting to squirm.

“It wasn’t me,” Dylan said. “It was him.”

“You did it first,” Andrew protested.

“That’s okay,” the millary man assured them. “Why don’t we go

out in the hall and have a little talk?”

Michael was terrified, but he was angry, too. The millary

man was talking about tricks and trust, but all the while he

was looking for kids to take away in his car.

Andrew looked at Dylan, and Dylan looked at Andrew, and for once they

were in perfect agreement.

“Run!” they both screamed.

Mr. Mulder was too near the front door, so they both raced for

the door at the rear of the classroom. The man ran after them,

but Joshua stood up and shoved his desk into the aisle. For a

minute it looked as if the man would leap right over it, but he

didn’t jump high enough and he landed on his face on the floor.

“Stop him!” Joshua yelled, and Michael jumped on the man’s back. Mr.

Mulder was strong and tricky, and he managed to toss Michael aside and

make it out the door.

“After him!” Michael commanded, and the class obeyed.

If only the twins would split up, at least one of them would have a

chance, Michael thought, but they ran together down the hall and to

the staircase.

By the time Michael reached the staircase, Mr. Mulder was halfway down.

“Hey, look at me!” Michael shouted. He turned himself into Dylan, who

was somehow a little easier to do than Andrew. “I’m here!”

The man looked up and stopped in his tracks.

“Come and get me,” Michael called, but after a second’s

hesitation, the man continued down the stairs and then Michael

ran after him.

“Split up!” he yelled, hoping the twins would hear him.

“They’re going to save Erica,” Christopher shouted from the middle of

the mob.

It was the right thing to do, but the wrong time to do it. Also,

Michael didn’t think they’d have time to pop open the big

padlock before the millary man snatched them and dragged them

away.

The whole mob arrived at the locked door, and while the twins

tapped and jiggled the padlock a bunch of kids piled on top of

the millary man. They had him on the ground when the lock

sprang open, and Michael heard Andrew yelling for Erica to come on out.

Erica took her time leaving the room, taking her little lady-girl

steps. And she was drinking a juice-box. Michael didn’t know

they had juice boxes in there too.

Mr. Mulder was back on his feet, but before he could grab the twins,

Joshua and Matthew swarmed at him, with the other kids behind them.

“Lock him up!” Christopher yelled.

“Not again,” Mr. Mulder complained, but the swarm advanced,

bumping and pushing. They shoved Mr. Mulder through the door,

pulled it closed, and refastened the lock.

Matthew let out a yelp as the door pinched his finger, but he

managed to yank it free. Nobody else was hurt.

“Now what do we do?” asked Christopher.

Somehow everyone was looking at Michael, as if he knew what

they should do next.

“Let’s go back to the classroom,” he said.

They could hear pounding and yelling from inside the Art room, but

as they walked away, it got quieter and quieter.

= = = = =

ACT III

Residence of Amanda Nelligan

Scully phoned Deputy Cooper for a favor, and he said he’d be happy to

take Eddie over to the county lock-up for safe-keeping.

Eddie, still hand-cuffed to Amanda’s radiator, was resigned but

resentful.

“What’s the charge?” he challenged her.

“I’d advise you to accept voluntary confinement while we figure out

what to do with you, but if you prefer, the charge is impersonating an

officer of the law.” Scully left him to weigh his options while

she joined Amanda in the kitchen.

“Agent Scully, are you planning to tell the school about

Gabrielle?” she asked.

“Even if I don’t tell them, it’s just a matter of time until they

learn,” Scully pointed out.

“They’ll throw her out of school,” Amanda said. “Those rich boys

stand a chance, but not my kid.”

“It isn’t easy raising a child on your own,” Scully observed, taking a

seat at the kitchen table.

Amanda shrugged.

“I’ve had help. My neighbor is great about babysitting and Dr. Pugh

kind of keeps an eye on us,” she said.

“Dr. Alton Pugh? The obstetrician?” Scully asked in surprise.

“He’s ‘semi-retired’ now.” Amanda used her fingers to indicate the

quotation marks. “He doesn’t deliver babies any more, but he has

a special laser beam that’ll take away your varicose veins right

there in his office. If you’ve got any, that is.”

Amanda sounded so enthusiastic that Scully was loathe to

disappoint her, but she shook her head apologetically.

Amanda filled a tea kettle with water and placed it on the stove.

“Dr. Pugh says he feel responsible. Not that anyone blames him

for what Eddie did, or what the kids can do,” she said.

Mulder was right, Scully thought. Deputy Cooper was right.

Eddie’s children were all shapeshifters.

“How long have you known?” she asked.

“Matthew was doing Teletubbies before his first birthday. The others

didn’t have it real bad until this year,” Amanda answered.

“Did you really think you could keep it a secret?” Scully asked.

“Dr. Pugh thought we could,” Amanda said. “He thought he could help.”

“What could he do?” Scully asked.

“He’s president of the school board,” Amanda explained. “He

thought the kids needed a strict school to keep them in

line, someplace with a lot of rules and standards. Otherwise we might

have to use drugs on them.”

“It would be better for the children if you could avoid medications,”

Scully agreed.

“Dr. Pugh brought in that loony Mrs. Burnside to run the

school. Guess that didn’t work out very well,” she said. “Do

you want some tea?”

Amanda dropped tea bags into a couple of mugs and filled them with hot

water.

“You know, Amanda, I think Dr. Pugh was on the right track. The

children will need education and self-discipline,” Scully said. “What

they don’t need is secrecy.”

“We just want our kids to grow up normal and get treated

normal,” Amanda said. “If you spill the secret, it’s all over for us.”

“Your secret won’t keep, Amanda. You must realize that,” she said.

Scully picked up her mug. For a few minutes, she and Amanda sat and

sipped, saying nothing.

Finally Amanda set down her tea and stood up.

“Maybe it would be better if we were the ones who told the

school,” she said. “I’ll call Mrs. Neiman, see what she thinks.”

= = = = =

end 2/3

Small Fries

(3/3)

= = = = =

Martinsburg Elementary School

Mulder leaned back in the little chair, ignoring its ominous groans.

There wasn’t a single full-size chair in the room. He shook the

sunflower seed bag into his open hand, but it was empty, so he

tossed it onto the table.

His jacket hung over the back of another little chair, and he

reached in the pocket and pulled out his cell phone. The display

was still blank, and it remained blank no matter how many times

he pushed the button. He tried every button and then every key, but

when none of his maneuvers brought it to life, and he shoved

the useless thing back in his jacket.

Resigned and bored, Mulder returned his attention to the TV.

=No one hits like Gaston, Matches wits like Gaston, In a

spitting match nobody spits like Gaston….=

“Scully never told me her brother was in this movie,” he mused

out loud. Then he licked his salty fingers and reached for another

juice box.

= = = = =

It was rare for anyone to stand up to Mrs. Burnside, and she

didn’t like it.

“I cannot allow shapeshifters in this school,” she repeated

staunchly to the parents assembled in her office.

“This is a public school and you must provide every child with an

education,” Michael’s mother replied, and the other parents nodded in

agreement.

“And don’t call my daughter a shapeshifter,” added Amanda Nelligan.

Scully didn’t have to say a word. The parents were more than

capable of arguing their case. At first the principal had refused

to believe that a child could transform into another person, but

then Gabrielle had made herself into a perfect miniature of

Miss Panasci, complete with yellowed fingers and smoker’s cough.

“Your children will be best served by home tutoring,” Mrs. Burnside

asserted. “You can’t expect us to endure the antics of five little

chameleons.”

“Lady, you’re asking for it,” said Matthew’s father.

“Miss Panasci resigned today,” Mrs. Burnside said. “Where will I

find a teacher willing to put up with this level of disruption?”

“Mrs. Cooper might still be available,” Scully volunteered.

“Let’s add that to our demands,” said Joshua’s mother. “We want Mrs.

Cooper back.”

The parents broke into applause.

“You know, these kids couldn’t be getting everybody so rattled if you

didn’t make them dress alike,” Amanda said. “You’re making it way

too easy for them to trick you.”

“That’s right,” said Matthew’s mother. “Beyond that, I am sick

to tears of ironing those white shirts.”

“Me too,” said Michael’s mother. “And replacing all those lost ties.”

“This is America!” announced Christopher’s father. “It’s bad enough

when grown-ups have to wear a tie.”

“Are you challenging the dress code?” Mrs. Burnside asked in amazement.

“You bet your sweet ass we are,” said Michael’s father, and his

wife led the others in applause.

“See you at the next school board meeting,” said Christopher’s father.

“I think you’ll be surprised how many of the parents have had

enough of your rules.”

Scully felt hopeful that the people of Martinsburg would find

their own way to deal with the special children. She thought

about slipping out of the meeting to watch how Mulder was

entertaining the six-year-olds, because he really was good with

kids. But it was almost three o’clock and she decided to wait.

= = = = =

Gabrielle Nelligan was the star of the day.

First she’d turned herself into Erica and busted up a car. Then she’d

gone home early from school, and it wasn’t even her fault because the

strangers tricked her. That was a big surprise for Mom!

And then Mom had called up other parents, and they all went to

school to yell at Mrs. Burnside. Gabrielle missed most of that,

unfortunately. After she showed Mrs. Burnside how well she could

make faces, they made her wait outside on the bench while

the grown-ups talked in the office.

Then Mom told her to go back to class. Gabrielle didn’t even mind,

because she had so much news to share.

“Hey, everybody, I’m back!” she called, marching into the room like a

triumphant general.

The class was very quiet, and the VCR was on. “The Food Pyramid.”

Usually they had to watch that when Miss Panasci had a headache, but

Miss Panasci wasn’t even in the room.

“You missed all the fun!” Andrew told her. “Erica Carlyle destroyed

the principal’s car! She almost went to millary school, only she

‘scaped!”

“Quiet,” Michael reminded everyone. Michael thought he was in

charge of the world.

“That wasn’t Erica,” Gabrielle protested. “It was me.”

“Everybody saw me,” Erica boasted.

Usually the kids groaned when Erica said something, but now they were

nodding and agreeing with her. It was kind of disgusting.

“Guys, Erica doesn’t do stuff like that,” Gabrielle reminded them.

“People saw her,” Christopher said pointedly. “They =saw= her.”

Gabrielle remembered about their secret.

“Well, you wanna know what I heard in the office?” she asked. “Miss

Panasci quit!”

“Really?” Michael asked.

“I ain’t a liar!” she shot back. For the star of the day, she

wasn’t getting a lot of respect.

“She has been gone a long time,” Michael conceded.

“You don’t have any grown-up at all?” Gabrielle asked, looking around

the room.

“We had a stranger, but we locked him in the Art room,” Matthew

said.

Gabrielle was mad she’d missed that.

“Shut up!” said Christopher. “Unless you want to be the one to

let him out.”

“And then you’ll get a whoopin’ *and* go to millary school,” Joshua

said.

“We have to let him out some time,” Michael said.

“Maybe you should have thought of that before you put him in there,”

Christopher said sharply.

“You put him in there too,” Michael insisted.

“Guys,” said Gabrielle. “They’ll let him out next time we have

to stay inside for recess.”

“Yeah, soon as it rains,” Christopher said. “Good thinking,

Gabrielle.”

She smiled proudly.

“All right!” Michael conceded. “Let’s just stay quiet, okay? It’s

almost three o’clock.”

Gabrielle took her regular seat.

“The Food Pyramid” was near the end, where the perky lady told

them how much they’d learned.

=Instead of greasy french fries, try a baked potato! Butter is

loaded with fat, so use a squeeze of lemon juice or splash of vinegar!

Delicious!=

= = = = =

Mulder had three choices.

He could pull the fire alarm. There would be bells and sirens and

firetrucks and huge embarrassment, but he would be free.

He could blast his way out. With the hasp and the padlock on the

outside where he couldn’t see them, he’d have to shoot off the

hinges. It would work, but it would be noisy, destructive,

and potentially dangerous. He’d have to wait until the building

was empty.

Or he could just hang out. Scully would find him sooner or later.

The video on the TV rolled into its closing credits, and Mulder was

surprised at how much he’d enjoyed it. Stiffly he lumbered up

from his miniature chair.

Scully had seen “Babe” dozens of times, thanks to her nephews. It

was a cute movie, but Mulder decided that once was enough.

“That’ll do, pig, that’ll do,” he said as he hit the “rewind” button.

= = = = =

Mulder’s vanishing act was annoying, but at least today Scully

had no worries about his safety.

She’d loitered by the principal’s office, expecting him to make an

appearance after school was dismissed. When that didn’t happen she’d

tried his cell phone and finally walked over to the

classroom. Mulder’s name was still on the blackboard, but the

room was abandoned.

She phoned Curtis Cooper.

“I haven’t heard from Agent Mulder all day, but I’m glad you called.

What do you want us to do about Eddie?” the deputy asked.

“Good question,” she said.

“If he’s not back at the halfway house by supper, he’ll lose his

privileges,” Cooper reminded her. “Maybe that’s not a bad thing.”

“Maybe not,” Scully agreed.

Some people seemed to think Eddie Van Blundht was a lovable scamp,

but Scully didn’t see him that way. He’d used his sensitivity

and his unique physiology to steal intimacy, and she could not easily

overlook his crimes.

“Someone who can do what he does shouldn’t be walking around loose,”

Cooper said.

“I hope you’re wrong,” Scully said, but she wasn’t thinking about Eddie.

“I’ll leave it to you, Agent Scully. The next bus to New Cumberland

leaves at four-thirty,” Cooper said.

“I’d like to drive him back myself,” she decided. “That is, if

you can lend me a car.”

The Lariat was parked by the school. It would serve Mulder right

if he came back from wherever he was and found it missing, but

Scully didn’t have the keys.

Deputy Cooper took a few minutes to make the arrangements. He had a

patrolman swing by the school to drive Scully back to

headquarters, and there he had an unmarked vehicle waiting and

the prisoner ready for transport.

Somehow the blousy white shirt and the fitted black trousers

that looked so dashing on young Harrison Ford looked silly on

Eddie Van Blundht.

Scully let him sit in the front seat, after some quick consideration.

She wagered that Eddie had too much to lose by trying a

direct physical assault.

“I guess you’re going to rat me out to the prison board,” Eddie said.

He seemed incapable of understanding that he was not the

injured party, Scully thought.

“Rat you out?” she asked.

“You know. Tell ’em,” he said.

“Oh. As in, tell them that you continue to use your shapeshifting in

order to deceive women? Yes, I believe I will report that,” she said.

Eddie nodded. Scully felt his eyes on her as he studied

her, pondering the best way to win her over.

“I can respect that,” he said earnestly.

“Thank goodness. I was worried,” said Scully.

Eddie seemed hurt by her sarcasm.

“You know, all over the counry there are guys trying to blow

up bridges and pump up the stock market. Why are you so interested

in me?” he asked.

“Yeah, what did you ever do?” Scully asked even more sarcastically.

“Okay, Agent Scully, what did I do that was so terrible? All I

did was try to give a woman everything she wanted,” he said.

If it was just about Eddie, Scully wouldn’t have cared so much.

She had to prove to herself that the ability to transform was not

part-and-parcel with lack of character.

She decided to try something totally unorthodox.

“You know, Eddie, you have a point,” she said.

He seemed surprised but he quickly readjusted.

“I just want to make people happy,” he said. “Especially Amanda.”

“I can see that. What woman wouldn’t be delighted to have a handsome

boyfriend who took an interest in her child?” she asked.

“Don’t forget, that little girl is my child too,” he said.

Arguably, the four little boys were also his children, but Scully was

grateful that Eddie wasn’t taking that view.

“You’re just trying to make a family,” she said.

“Uh-huh. You know why women enjoy my company?” Eddie asked.

Unfortunately, Scully knew exactly why women enjoyed his company.

She vowed not to show her discomfort.

“Why?” she asked blankly.

“Because I listen to them. When I’m with a woman, she has my full

attention,” he said.

Scully nodded thoughtfully.

“I give you a lot of credit for that,” she said.

“That’s why I know I could make Amanda happy. Don’t you think she

deserves that?” he asked.

“She’s been so lonely,” Scully said. “She thinks about you a lot.”

May God forgive me, she thought.

“Really? What did she say about me?” Eddie asked eagerly.

“Oh, just that she was hoping there was a way you could be part of her

life. And Gabrielle’s,” Scully said.

“I’ve been hoping the same thing,” Eddie said. “I’ll be eligible for

full parole in six months.”

“I hope my report won’t hurt your chances,” Scully said, promising

herself she’d make early Mass on Sunday.

“It would be a shame if your report ruined things for Amanda,”

he said.

Scully turned to him and patted his arm.

“She was asking when I thought you’d be able to move in with her,”

she said.

His jaw dropped, and Scully saw tears in his eyes.

“That’s all I’ve been thinking about,” he said.

“That would be exactly what you want,” she said.

“My dream come true,” he whispered.

Eddie looked so goofy and vulnerable that it was hard for Scully

to do what she had to do next. She counted silently to ten and then

she made her move.

“Keep dreaming, Eddie. It’s all a lie,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” he asked with a nervous laugh.

“Amanda doesn’t want you around because she doesn’t trust you. Her

biggest fear for Gabrielle is that she’ll turn out like you,” she said.

“But everything you said before…?” His question ended in a grunt as

the truth hit him.

“Lies, Eddie. Every word,” she said.

His lip curled with disgust.

“What the hell’s the matter with you?” he asked angrily.

“What did I do?” she asked.

“You lied to me, you–” He caught himself and started again in a more

controlled tone. “You lied to me, Agent Scully.”

“I gave you everything you wanted,” she countered. “I was listening,

Eddie. You had my full attention.”

She knew she had hurt him, but she didn’t know if she had made her

point. In any event, he would have plenty of time to think about it.

Eddie Van Blundht had demonstrated that he wasn’t ready to return to

society.

His face was turned toward his window. He said one word, but he

said it quietly and she let it pass.

= = = = =

Nieman residence

Michael’s room was over the garage, so he woke up when Mom and Dad got

home. He slipped from his room to the top of the staircase, where he

could hear Mom thanking Aunt Frances for babysitting on such short

notice.

“Not a problem. That was one meeting you couldn’t miss,” Aunt Frances

said before she left.

Mom usually went to the school board meetings with some of

her friends, so Michael had known something big was up when his

dad went along. It wasn’t an ordinary meeting. It an emergency

executive session.

Michael hoped it was something about getting Mrs. Cooper

back. Earlier he’d heard Mom on the phone with Uncle Alton, and

she’d told him how much everyone missed her.

Mom and Dad were talking quietly downstairs, and about the only word

Michael could catch was his own name. They didn’t seem to be

angry, but they sounded very serious. Then there was a long

pause, and then his mother’s voice, a little louder but still

not angry.

“Michael?” she called.

He felt apprehensive as he climbed down the stairs.

“I woke up from the garage door,” he explained.

“It’s all right,” said Dad. “We want to talk to you.”

Oh-oh, Michael thought. Dad pointed to the couch, and Michael sat.

“You remember when we told you not to make faces at school,” Dad said.

Michael nodded guiltily.

“Why do you think we told you that?” Mom asked.

“Cause it’s bad,” he answered in a voice barely over a whisper.

“No,” Dad said. “It isn’t bad.”

“It’s not =necessarily= bad,” Mom added.

“It’s only bad when you use it to do something bad,” Dad said.

“Really?” Michael asked.

“It’s bad when you change your face to trick someone or get someone

else in trouble,” Mom said.

“It isn’t bad if you’re just playing, or just showing people what

you can do,” Dad said.

Michael couldn’t have been more surprised. Even Mom was looking

at Dad funny.

“Most people can’t do what you do, son. That makes you

different,” Dad continued. “But it’s okay to be different.”

Grown-ups said that a lot, but Michael knew it wasn’t entirely

true. It was okay to have different color skin or use a

wheelchair, but it wasn’t okay if you talked funny or wet your pants.

“When it’s so easy to trick people, you have to work extra hard to

be truthful and fair,” Dad said.

“It’s a big responsibility,” Mom added.

Like Spiderman, Michael thought. With great power comes great

responsibility.

“I just want you to know we’re proud of you,” Dad said. “You’re

a good person, Michael.”

Michael felt confused, especially because Mom looked like she

was about to cry. He also felt terribly guilty.

“I did something bad at school today,” he said. Mom and Dad

both looked scared, and Michael hurried to reassure them. “But

I didn’t show my butt.”

Mom and Dad started laughing, which made Michael feel better

and safer. When they stopped laughing, he told them.

“I locked up a stranger in the Art room.”

= = = = =

Martinsburg Elementary School

Mulder had drunk all the grape and cranberry juice boxes, and only the

syrupy orange ones were left.

He should probably slow down on the fluids anyway, he decided, or

long before morning he’d be choosing between the garbage can and

the water fountain.

His jacket was still over a chair, joined now by his tie, but Mulder

himself was sitting on the floor.

He hummed along with the music from the VCR, but most of his attention

was directed to a massive construction project.

Mulder had discovered that the Mighty Mega Garage set could interlock

with the Mighty Mega Car-wash, and now he was working to tie in the

Mighty Mega Freightyard and the Mighty Mega Speedway.

= = = = =

Martinsburg Sheriff’s Department

Deputy Cooper was near the end of his shift when Scully met him

back at headquarters. She helped herself to a chair by his desk.

“Any word from Agent Mulder?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

“Nope,” Cooper answered. “How did it go with Eddie?”

“He’s been transferred back to the reformatory, but they’re

letting him keep his job,” Scully said.

Cooper shook his head.

“A guy like that shouldn’t be on work release,” he said.

She pulled a plastic band from her pocket to show him.

“He’ll be under much closer scrutiny now. They fitted him with a

security device,” she said.

Cooper snorted.

“They should have had one on him in the first place,” he said.

Scully examined the band, flicking at the straps. She’d had

no earthly reason to take it…. just the vague idea that

Mulder needed something like that.

“I think your wife has a good chance of getting her old job back,” she

said.

“Yup. The school board made her an offer at the meeting tonight,” he

said.

“That was fast,” Scully commented. Nothing in Washington

ever happened that quickly.

“I don’t feel real good about her going back to those monkey babies,”

Cooper said. “I think they’re trouble waiting to happen.”

Scully hoped the kids didn’t have to face too many people with Curtis

Cooper’s attitude, but she didn’t try to argue with him. If his wife

hadn’t brought him around, Scully knew she wouldn’t have much luck.

“They have that potential,” she conceded.

Cooper had begun to clear his desk, slipping loose papers into folders

and stacking up the large ledgers.

“I’ll be shoving off in a few minutes. Need a lift?” he asked.

“I’ll try Mulder once more,” she said.

Mulder remained unavailable, and Scully was torn between her

intellectual certainty that he was all right and her anxiety and anger

over his unexplained absence.

She keyed in Amanda Nelligan’s number.

“Have you heard from Agent Mulder, by any chance?” she asked.

Fortunately Amanda didn’t ask for an explanation, but she had no

information to offer.

“I suppose Gabrielle’s in bed by now,” Scully said.

“Yes she is, Agent Scully, but I can’t see where she’d have

anything to tell you either,” Amanda said.

“You’re probably right,” Scully replied. “I thought Mulder might have

mentioned where he was going when he spoke to her class this afternoon.”

“Agent Mulder wasn’t there when Gabrielle got back to her classroom,”

Amanda related. “The kids were all alone until school let out at

three.”

= = = = =

Mulder had to admit it was strangely exhilarating to be locked up

with nothing to do but play. His empty stomach and full bladder were

nagging him for relief, but there was so much left to do. He

decided he could hold out a little longer.

The jars of poster paint caught his eye. Just one painting, and then

he’d shoot his way out.

He carried his tiny chair over to an easel, selected three

brushes, and chose his paint. Big rolls of butcher paper hung from

a rack. Mulder pulled out about a yard, and as he raised the end

so that he could tear the paper against the serrated edge, he saw

something behind the rack. At a distance it was completely hidden

by the rolls of paper, but from this close it was staring up at him.

A puny, child-sized, paint-stained sink, with little blue palm

prints on the faucets and a gray halo around the drain. A

beautiful little sink.

“Thank you, God,” Mulder uttered reverently.

He rolled the rack out of the way and utilized the sink with

a profound sense of gratitude and contentment. After he’d washed

his hands, he sprinkled in some scouring powder and gave it a good

rinse.

The night was young, his bladder appeased, and nothing stood

between him and his creativity. He sat down on the chair, rolled

up his sleeves, and started to paint. He was as happy as Frohike

at a nudist camp, except for one little thing. He was starving.

= = = = =

EPILOGUE

“Maybe I was wrong about those kids,” said Deputy Cooper said,

his eyes fixed on the road ahead. “That little Michael must have

some kind of conscience to come clean about what he did.”

Scully was feeling considerably less charitable about Michael and his

classmates. The deputy was driving like an old man, and she was ready

to snap.

“Would you mind using the siren?” she asked curtly. “My

partner happens to be trapped in a deserted building.”

“Ma’am, he’s locked in the playroom is all. I was thinking he

might be kind of embarrassed if we draw a lot of attention to the

situation,” Cooper said.

Scully hadn’t thought of that. Martinsburg was the kind of small town

where people would ask about the siren.

At last they arrived at the school. The deputy parked the

prowler next to the Lariat car, and Scully began to turn her anger

on herself.

Some partner. Driving halfway across the state to play mind-games

with a convicted rapist while her partner was held prisoner by

the Village of the Damned.

“Where is this so-called Art room?” she barked at Cooper as

he unlocked the door to the school.

“In the basement,” he said.

Like a dungeon, Scully thought, but she stifled her response and

followed him down the stairs.

Even after Cooper flipped on the lights, the hallway was shadowy and

creepy.

Poor Mulder, Scully thought as she walked down the hall.

He’d probably shouted himself hoarse and pounded his fists against the

door until his knuckles bled.

Scully thought of all the situations he’d weathered, all the ordeals

he’d endured, and this one didn’t seem that bad.

But there was another possibility. All those past experiences

would be dancing through Mulder’s head, haunting him. What if

she found him cowering in a corner, overcome by anxiety?

The padlock was huge and heavy, but not very sophisticated. No wonder

the kids had been able to poke at it until it opened. Scully’s pick

unlocked it in less than a second.

She turned to Cooper.

“I want to go in alone,” she said, still imagining that Mulder

might be whimpering on the floor.

“‘Course,” the deputy agreed easily. “He’ll feel like enough of

a fool without me around. Just remember to bring back the keys.”

As Cooper walked away, Scully opened the door slowly.

“Mulder,” she called. “Don’t be afraid, Mulder. It’s me, Scully.”

“Scully, what took you so long?” Mulder called cheerfully.

Scully’s relief escaped in a sound between a gasp and a sob.

She could see him on the far side of the room, folded into a little

chair, and he waved to her before turning back to… painting.

Mulder was painting a picture.

She almost tripped over a sprawling toy city that covered much of the

floor, and she was surprised that the strict principal didn’t

insist on the children putting away their toys.

Mulder was chewing on something as he painted, and the cluster

of empty juice boxes on the floor told her it was a straw.

The painting looked finished, but Mulder was adding little dabs

and flourishes, squinting as he worked.

His finished paintings lay across the table, the wet paint still shiny.

She expected aliens and spaceships but found not a one.

The theme of the day was food. A steaming pizza pie with one slice

gone. An ice-cream sundae. A bagel–or was it a doughnut?

His work in progress was a gigantic cheeseburger.

Not bad, either. The man had talent.

“Hey, Rembrandt,” she said, leaning down to flick a stray shell

from his hair. “Want to go get something to eat?”

“Okay, Scully, if you’re sure it’s really me,” he said, laying

his brush on the ledge of the easel and rising from the chair.

“Aren’t you going to clean up?” she asked.

Mulder looked around the room.

“Wasn’t planning on it,” he said.

“Then let’s get going,” Scully said. She took the picture from the

easel, holding it carefully by the corners.

“You’re going to check for fingerprints,” Mulder teased. “You really

aren’t sure who I am, are you?”

“I’m sure, Mulder,” she said.

“Then why?” he asked. As they walked, he cleared a path for her with

his foot. Occasionally he had to bend down to move something aside.

“I want it for my refrigerator. I didn’t know you could paint,” she

said.

“Maybe I can’t. Maybe it’s Eddie who can paint,” Mulder goaded her.

Carefully Scully placed the painting on a desktop and turned to him.

“I know it’s you, Mulder. I know you so much better than I did six

years ago. I know how you talk, how you smell.”

She reached for him, and if he’d had any notion of disguising his

identity, he blew his cover by leaning toward her in an

automatic response.

She kissed his full lips, once so elusive and now so familiar.

“I know how you taste,” she sighed, gazing up at him.

Mulder didn’t release his embrace but gathered her closer.

“How I feel?” he murmured into her neck.

“Mm,” Scully agreed, but then she forced herself to pull away. They

were professionals. They were FBI agents. They were closing a case.

“Besides,” she said crisply, retrieving the painting and holding it

up to him. “Pickles aren’t gray.”

=end=

Kachina

By Martin Ross

Rating: R for language, graphic language

Spoilers: Travelers, The Unnatural, Desperatus (S17), and the series Medium

Summary: Science and spiritualism clash in the suburban Southwest as Mulder, Scully, and the father of the X-Files investigate a Halloween night haunting and a phantom with an insatiable hunger.

Disclaimer: As always, Mulder and Scully owe their existence to Chris Carter. The fictional version of Alison Dubois and Lee Scanlon are the inspiration of Glenn Gordon Caron.

Village Palms

Gilbert, Arizona

6:56 p.m.

October 31

“Dude who lived here, he was some kinda mad scientist, like Doc Ock or The Lizard,” the Amazing Spiderman began. His pre-adolescent voice was tinged with the reverence that had been encoded into tale spinners from the time of the shamans through Poe, Shelley, Lovecraft, Bradbury, King, Abrams.

No campfires or roaring hearths here — the Villa Palms HOA had banned fire pits, bonfires, or even use of rocket-style fireworks since ’92, and the snowbirds had flocked here to get away from hearths and snowplows and black ice. The squeals and peals of childish laughter invaded the somber Halloween night.

But Spiderman had all that was required of a crackling good ghost story: a tapestry of vague accounts and half-truths, and a susceptible victim.

“You’re fulla shit,” the Mighty Thor sneered. Maybe not the perfect victim, but as good as one might expect in this age of CGI zombies and teen vampires and Al Qaeda.

Spiderman breathed loudly through his nose holes — his folks had popped for the cheap dollar store knockoff. “My Dad told me. Dude worked for some big drug company in Phoenix but got his ass canned for some secret experiment or something. This was his grandpa’s place, and he moved in after the old guy cracked. Then the scientist guy had like this freak accident, and HE died. Then the strange shit started happening. People started seeing weird lights, hearing creepy noises. And then the ghost showed up.”

Thor frowned, or at least appeared to under his Marvel-licensed mask. “So this was the scientist guy, or the old dude, the grandpa?”

“Jeez, I dunno,” Spiderman squeaked. Then he rallied. “Prolly the old guy. Prolly killed the scientist guy out of revenge or some shit.”

“You suck at this, Dude,” Thor informed his web-slinging friend. “My Uncle Ramon told me the same crap and I almost pissed myself. You suck. Plus, we been here for 20 minutes, and I want some blood sugar, dude.”

The Amazing Spiderman, AKA mild-mannered fifth-grader Troy Brackman, ripped his mask away and wiped the accumulated sweat from his brow. “What-ever, Dude. Prolly all BS, anyway.”

Thor, a failing math scholar known to the mortals as Eric Valdez, popped to his feet, grabbing the 100 percent recyclable Fine Foods tote bag his mom had supplied for the evening’s swag. Troy sighed, disgusted by his unimaginative, candy-grubbing colleague, and trudged down the bougainvillea-lined sidewalk after him.

Then, out of some atavistic impulse, he turned slowly back to 127, stared into the black window embedded in the mauve stucco.

“What were you doing, Dude?” Eric demanded as his friend emerged stiff-legged from the darkness, mask back in place.

“You’re right, it’s BS,” Troy mumbled. “C’mon. Let’s score some munchies. Move.”

“What’s your damage?” Eric mumbled back, catching only the merest hint of urine-soaked lycra-polyester as his friend brushed past.

***

The shadow flitted among the pines of the incongruously named Village Palms, staying well beyond the visual orbit of the clustered children and fussing parents.

It seldom strayed beyond 127 between feedings. Something within screamed the dangers of venturing forth like this, but another voice, primeval, demanding, voracious, was louder.

It had to be fed.

**

The battered hunter pushed through his pain up the grassy slope, his long white coat flapping at his sides. Dark glasses obscured his eyes, though she knew, somehow, that they were filled with fear and determination.

As The Hunter limped onto the flat, wide mesa, he spotted his prey. It was a shadow, at first, hovering and darting at its fresh kill. The bulky carcass on the smooth, lined stone flopped in a chilling rigor; a white cross lie nearby, spattered with its owner’s blood.

The Hunter drew his weapon – a thin, tubular spear that shone even in the gray twilight of the mesa. The creature perceived the presence of danger and lit on the hard ground. It’s slitted eyes were soulless but sentient. It’s ebony proboscis twitched, the Hunter thought, in a sort of predatory amusement. It was garbed in ceremonial raiments, and a feather fluttered on the windless plain.

It regarded The Hunter with what may have been pity or fury, both, or neither.

“It is my nature,” the creature cried.

Alison Dubois jumped, the legal text flopping to the living room rug, adrenalin coursing familiarly through her veins. Her disoriented eyes instinctively sought Joe. Then she remembered. Alison gathered her class notes with a sigh, stacked them neatly on the coffee table, fumbled for her Diet Pepsi.

“When’s dinner?”

Alison grinned sheepishly up at Bridgette. “How long was I out?”

Her daughter smiled crookedly. “Not long, but you’ve been studying so hard and I could tell you were, uh, busy. I didn’t want to wake you. Was it a bad one?”

“On a scale of one to 10?” Alison teased. Her features darkened momentarily as she placed a palm on the cushion beside her.

Bridgette plopped onto the opposite cushion. “OK, spill. Then let’s get dinner on the road.”

**

While Arthur Dales had taken his FBI “retirement” earlier than most, The Job had profoundly influenced — some might say shattered — both his world view and belief system.

Christmas thus meant little beyond unruly consumerist mobs and Jimmy Stewart (Arthur enjoyed It’s a Wonderful Life as an entertaining if somewhat mawkish treatise on multiversal existence). Easter meant fewer Sunday crowds at Denny’s — a mixed blessing for the nomadic Dales, who regarded the chain as a cultural touchstone wherever he set down temporary roots. Thanksgiving offered a rare opportunity for overindulgence and secular communion — if he happened at that point to be in D.C. and Fox and Dana were free in or New Mexico with his brother, the other Arthur Dales, who was always free.

But Halloween? That was altogether another story — a story that demanded to be shared with a stiff Scotch rather than smores and cocoa. Dales had peeped behind too many curtains, ventured into too many locked and shuttered rooms, gazed into too many tortured and alien souls. Arthur Dales was not a superstitious man, but the very notion of merchandising monstrosity, selling the supernatural at everyday discount prices, seemed, well, foolhardy at best and severely delusional at the very least. Like texting and driving without headlights.

Further, it was only 6:30, and Dales already had encountered five Romneys and an equal number of Obamas — a sight all the more chilling to the politically jaded ex-fed. Jaded, reclusive, agnostic, perhaps, but Arthur Dales was no partisan misanthropist: He’d distributed an equal number of Snickers to each Republican, Democrat, superhero, faux-Kardashian, and phantasm that darkened his door.

Rudolf Llargas’ door, that is. The ex-agent and the cultural anthropologist had consulted over a possible case of Albanian vampirism back in ’51; the two had revived their acquaintance at a San Diego Barnes and Noble, where Llargas was hawking his latest book on shamanism among modern tribal clusters. Llargas had settled just outside Phoenix in affluent Gilbert (the 2008 recession and a lucrative gig consulting with the Syfy network had been kind to Rudy), and the 93-year-old scientist was seeking a reliable house sitter while he trolled for Inuit spirits in British Canada. Dales was ready to ditch his drafty trailer for a few months, and the prospect of poring over Llargas’ dense library was merely the icing atop a full fridge and Dish Network.

“And who might you be?” the redheaded octogenarian beamed as he proffered a handful of chocolate, caramel, and peanuts toward the diminutive politico on his arched stoop.

“Mmph,” Romneystiltskin shrugged as he adjusted his rubber mask. “Dunno. I asked Mom to let me be Ironman, but Daddy said this was more, more original. Whatever that means. I don’t even know who I am.”

“A not uncommon human condition,” Dales mused. The boy stood mutely, and the ex-agent apologetically dumped a half-dozen Snickers into his waiting bag. What we selfishly and unthinkingly inflict on our young, Dales reflected as the dejected Halloweener slouched down his walk.

The shrieks broke Dales contemplation, and his FBI reflexes immediately kicked in. Grabbing an aboriginal talking stick from a stand by the front door, he rushed toward the source of the terrified shouts, near the communal trash and recycling bins. A knot of children were clustered on the lawn of the currently vacant 158, some sobbing, others attempting to calm or console them, a few gathered in a tight circle around what appeared to be a Viking.

“What on Earth happened here?” Dales breathed, reaching for his cell phone even as he nudged the trick-or-treaters away from the victim. Or body, he amended with a familiar chill.

“It was him, it,” a teen voice stammered. The boy wore a red-and-blue bodysuit criss-crossed with webs. “It attacked them, the kids. We tried to stop him, it, whatever, and it grabbed Eric.”

Dales checked the fallen Eric’s pulse. Weak but there. He punched 9-1-1 into the phone as adults approached from several directions.

“Yes, we have an assault victim here at the Village Palms in Gilbert,” Dales told the dispatcher. “Near the corner of Saguaro and Sands. There may be some traumatized kids here, too. I will.” The old man pocketed the phone. “You said it?”

Spiderman blinked as he realized Dales was addressing him. “Yeah, yeah. Is he gonna be OK?”

“I certainly hope so. Who attacked your friend? Who attacked the children?”

The boy, Troy, glanced about, suddenly self-conscious. He kneeled next to Dales and leaned in.

“The ghost,” Troy whispered. “The one in 127.”

“It must’ve been those punks,” a harsh voice rasped as Dales processed Troy’s statement. It was Hank, the authoritarian president of the HOA — just what the situation needed. Hank viewed Dales with suspicion. He had investigated evicting him under Rudy’s lease agreement but could find no statute forbidding free houseguests. Hank also was no fan of cultural diversity, and Dales cut him off.

“I think it’s a bit early to reach any conclusions,” the ex-agent cautioned. “The police should be here any minute.”

“Who’d mug a bunch of kids?” Hank bellowed.

“Mug?” Dales frowned.

“Yeah, Artie. Look around.”

Dales scanned the lawn. Disney princesses peered dismally into empty bags; empty plastic pumpkins and ripped paper sacks littered the landscape.

“Stealing candy from children,” Hank rumbled. “Now I seen it all.”

Dales fumbled the phone from his pants and dialed a pre-programmed number.

**

The sheriff’s detective was a former Phoenix cop named Scanlon — a burly, tieless bull in a cheap blazer who strangely enough zeroed in on Dales.

“You know none of the kids claim to have seen their attacker, right?” Scanlon said as Dales handed him a cup of black coffee. Scanlon remained standing amid Rudy’s cluttered talismen, totems, and texts. “You were the first on the scene last night. You didn’t see anybody, I take it, or you would’ve told the officers.”

“I arrived unfortunately too late,” Dales lamented from the kitchenette, squirting honey into his green tea.

“Your neighbor, Hank Brewer, he says you’re a very outspoken individual.”

Dales smirked. “Oh, I doubt seriously those were his words.”

Scanlon grinned. “He said you were a know-it-all, an overeducated blowhard.”

“Well,” Dales shrugged, settling into his armchair.

“Yeah, that was my take on Mr. Brewer, too. Here’s the thing, Mr. Dales. Folks get along pretty well out here, but there are the occasional cultural and economic frictions. Your Mr. Brewer is fairly shall we say riled about this situation, and I don’t want to see another Trayvon Martin scenario develop if he mobilizes the neighborhood watch. The sooner I can clear this case, the better for everyone.

“Now, what strikes me as curious is that for an opinionated man such as yourself, you’ve been a little shy on opinions about last night’s attack. I did a little research on you, and I could use your perspective, Agent Dales. What’re you holding back?”

Dales sighed, sipped his tea. “Heard any good local ghost stories lately?”

Scanlon settled on the arm of Rudy’s leather couch. That was all. Dales, for once surprised, set his cup on a Smithsonian coaster, and told the tale of the late Peter Crews, the strange disappearance of his father, Frederic Crews, and the unusual occurrences associated with Unit 127.

“And you think there may be something to this?” Scanlon grunted simply as Dales concluded with the events of Oct. 31, 2012.

“Detective, I have no idea. Last night’s mishap may have been no more than an opportunistic crime or a despicable act of violence. But at the risk of sounding like a feeble old fool, I’ve seen too many inexplicable things in this life to discount any avenue of investigation, no matter how improbable.” Dales took a breath. “In fact, last night, I contacted a dear old friend at the Bureau who specializes in just these sorts of things.”

Lee Scanlon smiled. “Agent Mulder called me this morning — he and his partner are supposed to get into Sky Harbor at 1:30. We worked a case a few years back — like you put it, one of those sorts of things. See, I have a dear friend, too — one who likes a good ghost story. I’ll look into this 127 thing, even though there’s a wrinkle there, too. You watch much reality TV, Mr. Dales?”

“I’ve never found much reality on TV,” Dales apologized. “I do enjoy 30 Rock.”

“Well, Unit 127’s about to be a star. Ever heard of Phantom Flip? It’s on FanTC, the sci-fi network. They find a haunted house or hotel, do some rehab, roust whatever evil spirits are there or figure out how to market ’em, and help the owner unload the place. Yeah, I know. But Pete Crews’ sister, realtor from LA, sold the producers on looking at Unit 127. Your buddy Brewer hates the idea, but the HOA board outvoted him, probably to piss him off.”

Dales was warmed by the notion.

Unit 127

Village Palms

Gilbert, Arizona

2:23 p.m.

“Yeah, yeah,” Seth Moritz nodded eagerly, peering about the darkened interior of Unit 127. His girth cast odd shadows in the light of a trio of studio floods set up by the Phantom Flip crew — his eyes glowed red on the monitors behind the camera. “I am definitely picking up something here.”

The paranormal investigator, who normally scouted the locations before the color consultants, carpenters, and exorcists were brought in, paused before the mission-style entertainment center and indicated the room’s sole decorative touch — a small, primitive-looking figure dressed in leathers and feathers.

“The kokopelli is an important spiritual totem for many Southwest Indian tribes,” he explained for the at-home audience. “They represent the natural and supernatural spirits that pervade Native American culture. I’m getting a really strong sensation here…”

“Yeah, I’m getting that too,” a dry voice interrupted. “But your cameras are blocking the way to the toilet.”

“Alright, CUT!!” the show’s director hollered. The nose-ringed troll turned on the suited couple behind him — no doubt a couple of lost Mormon bible-thumpers. “This is a hot set, asshole. Can’t you read?”

“I’m a Harvard grad and an FBI agent, so I can both spell and explain Schrodinger’s Cat in the original Pig Latin,” Fox Mulder boasted, stepping over a tangle of coaxial cables. His petite redhead companion rolled her eyes and flashed Bureau ID.

“Special Agents Dana Scully and Fox Mulder,” she purred. “We’re investigating an attack that occurred in this neighborhood last night, and we have reason to believe this unit might be involved.”

“Kachina,” Mulder blurted.

“Gesundheit?” Moritz smirked. “You got a problem, Chief? Non-believer, right?”

“If only,” Scully sighed.

“A kokopelli is a fertility deity and a trickster god, which explains half the baby mamas at WalMart. What you’re holding there is a kachina, a spirit being venerated by the Hopi and other Southwest Pueblo cultures. There are more than 400 different ones, each personifying a different animal, plant, entity, location, or idea, and each conveying its own power over nature or the cosmos. A kokopelli is one type of kachina. From the feathers and beak, what you got there is some kind of bird spirit. Let’s test my hypothesis — hold it over your head.”

“What do you want from us?” the director hissed.

“Veracity, respect for ancient cultures and folkways, and I know I could go for a Dr. Pepper,” Mulder replied. “In the absence of that, I really just need to know if any of your crew was over here last night? A trick-or-treater saw something moving inside the house, right before the attack.”

“It wasn’t the boy who wound up in the hospital, was it?” Moritz inquired, his snark now replaced by what appeared to be genuine concern. “Is the kid OK?”

“Eric Valdez. He’s stable,” Scully reported. They’d dropped in on the still-shaken, battered, but coherent Valdez straight from the airport.

“He sustained some very unusual injuries,” Mulder added, drawing a glare from his partner. “Extensive ecchymosis — severe subcutaneous bruising — over most of his upper body. It looks like something–”

“Someone,” Scully amended.

“– applied intense, vigorous pressure to the boy.”

“Shiatsu with intent,” a cameraman chortled.

“Shut the fuck up,” Moritz snapped. “What are you saying here, Agent?”

“Just because you don’t know a kachina from a hole in a butte doesn’t mean you haven’t had some experience with paranormal phenomena,” Mulder said. “I read your first couple of books — not entirely lame. You ever heard of anything like this?”

Moritz eyed the agent for a moment, seemingly waiting for Ashton Kutcher to jump from behind a couch. “Well, it sounds like some kind of poltergeist event. We had a case in Rhode Island, a teacher who reported being bitten, pinched, and struck from behind by some invisible force. Turned out about three months after the shoot that he’d been molesting students for more than 20 years, one a junior high kid who’d killed himself. That might explain last night.”

“Explain what?” the director demanded, now more intrigued than peeved.

“Ghosts normally are associated with a place, often the place where they died,” Mulder related. “Poltergeists are troubled spirits associated with a specific person. If this house is haunted, it would be unusual for the ghost to have attacked those kids nearly a half-block away. On the other hand, why would a poltergeist have attacked a small child or even one of the two teenagers who tried to intervene? Where’s the karma, dude?

“Of course, children are often present or the target in poltergeist attacks — William Roll at the University of West Georgia suggested poltergeist phenomena might actually be a result of unconscious psychokinesis by the kids themselves. I’ll check to see if any of the victims had any kind of neurological symptoms or epilepsy.” Mulder paused, pondered. “You ever heard of a poltergeist with a sweet tooth, Moritz?”

“The stolen candy? The cop, Scanlon, told me before telling me to get lost. Poltergeists manipulate objects, damage them. But steal them? That’s a new one.”

“You know,” the director drawled, “this whole Halloween poltergeist thing is a lot cooler than this haunted condo shit. Agent, how would you like to do a guest shot?”

Mulder perked. “Absolutely and unequivocally not,” Scully stated. “We need to look around. Would you and your crew mind taking five or whatever it is you do?”

The director started to cite his rights under the Constitution and the FCC, but Moritz cut him off. “Fish tacos and mescal on me, everybody,” the ghosthunter offered, clapping an arm over the director’s narrow shoulders. “Mulder, if I can help, you know where to find me.”

“Who you gonna call?” Mulder called after his new buddy.

Scully flipped on the overhead fixture and surveyed the bungalow. A spartan home for father-and-son bachelors, furnished on a corporate researcher’s salary and with a corporate researcher’s flair. Modern American IKEA, a flatscreen of a somewhat obscure but outstanding make, a lack of any real personal presence beyond the lonely kachina.

The bedroom beyond made the living/dining room seem like Snoop’s crib by comparison: A double bed was crammed against the outside wall along with an IKEA bedside stand and a Walmart lamp. The rest of the space was open, empty, rugless. Mulder made a mental note.

The kitchen fridge was empty, powered down presumably by the sister. The cupboards were equally bare, except for a space next to the oven, where a few dozen bottles of Aquafina were lined up with mathematical precision. Mulder hefted a bottle.

“Seal’s broken on all these bottles, but they’re all full,” he observed. “This place has been empty for seven months, and no dust on any of these bottles.” Mulder examined the beverage, then kneeled before the open pantry. “Or refilled.”

“Mulder,” Scully warned as her partner unscrewed the cap and put the bottle to his lips. “Why don’t we let the lab analyze those, rather than relying on your fine palate?”

“Oh, yeah,” he nodded.

Superstition Parkway Hampton Inn

Mesa, Arizona

6:30 p.m.

“Ready?” Mulder called.

“If you mean dinner, give me a few,” Scully said. “If you mean that pre-meal coitus you suggested on the way here, absolutely not.”

Mulder sighed, glanced into the bathroom. “Yoicks. No hurry.”

Scully offered an unpleasant suggestion as to how Mulder might occupy his wait. “You still think Crews’ death might’ve been suicide?”

Her partner fell back onto the bedspread, then hastily kicked off his shoes. “A guardrail on Highway 101 might’ve seemed his best option. Crews had been canned by Biodigm just a few months before, and he had an elderly, mentally incapacitated father to care for. I’m sure that couldn’t have been easy, given his economics and the family dynamic.”

“You going to give me some of that Grade A profiling you’re supposed to be so good at?”

Mulder returned Scully’s earlier recommendation. “Frederic Crews was something of the Audubon of the latter 20^th Century — major environmentalist in the ‘60s, before Al Gore was cool. Catalogued every bird and mammal in the Southwest. Not a Greenpeace radical or anything, but he used to pop up from time to time on PBS or the evening news, warning about the impending death of the planet, Man’s reckless fascination with technology. It seemed curious his son would be working for Biodigm – Big Technology.”

“Sons rebel against their fathers,” Scully noted. “Or so I’ve heard. Maybe Crews was new-generation green, wanted to save the planet through Science.”

“Peter Crews worked for Biodigm’s consumer products division – sports drinks and retail nutraceuticals. Or did. He crashed his Honda a few months after losing his job, and his dad disappeared by the time the cops could come looking for him. Ironic considering Frederic’s health seemed to be on the upswing – neighbors said he’d taken to biking around the subdivision, even doing a few laps in the community pool.”

Scully emerged from the bathroom in T-shirt and jeans. “So we’ve got a highway fatality or vehicular suicide, a mentally impaired old man who probably just wandered off to die in the desert, the theft of what, maybe 50 pounds of Reese’s Pieces and Twizzlers. I could be wrong, but does this really rise to the occasion of a federal investigation?”

Mulder sat up. “I couldn’t just tell Arthur no.”

“Try again, Mulder.” Scully plucked her purse from the hotel desk. “It was the children. After what happened last year in Detroit, that little girl Kisha…”

Mulder grinned, shook his head, and set off in search of his loafers. “All this amateur psychoanalysis is making me hungry. Let’s roll.”

“Yeah,” Scully muttered. “Let’s roll.”

Unit 127

Village Palms

Gilbert, Arizona

8:54 p.m.

Moritz had begged off mas margaritas with Riis and the crew – he’d frankly begun to tire of the whole hip, cynical, soul-calloused bunch. Besides, he had something more important to pursue tonight than ratings, a fan base, or some suntanned Arizona tail.

The FBI guy had gotten him thinking, and over the lunch break, he’d surfed the Crewses, father and son. Peter’s accident wasn’t hard to locate in the Phoenix Sun archives, and the scientist’s bio was still up on a long-forgotten page for a long-forgotten conference on a best-forgotten topic. Then, out of injured vestigial pride, Moritz had hit a few dozen Native American and Southwest art gallery sites. On one of the Hopi sites, he’d struck gold.

The ghost hunter scanned the darkened neighborhood as he slipped the spare key into the door of Unit 27, though he had unconditional permission to enter the premises. He felt furtive and fearful and more excited than he had since abandoning research and authorship for the fleeting glories of cable TV. If his hypothesis were true, this would blow the hinges off Agent Mulder’s mind.

Moritz bypassed the light switch and trained his mag beam about the spare Crews living room. It landed on a bizarre figure with slitted eyes, a long needlelike proboscis, a feathered headdress, and a leather breechcloth. He moved rapidly across the tiled floor and stared down at the kachina, heart banging in his chest.

Then he caught it. It sounded at first like an appliance or the AC kicking on, but the whirring persisted.

And drew closer. And generated a breeze as a shadow blurred past Moritz’ left ear.

The mag light clattered on the floor, revealing a rapidly moving shadow play on the wall behind the couch. Moritz rasped in nervous relief – a moth, a bird or bat flying past the window. He glanced up at the closed blinds. And back at the spotlight above the leather sofa. The shadow theater had stopped, along with the whirring.

And then, it had him. The room blurred and whirled and jolted before his eyes as he felt bones and ligaments, tendons, and organs tortured and torn.

“Yooooooooouuuuuuuu,” it hissed, as though through an industrial fan. “Whooooareyouwhadoyouwannnnnnnfrommmmeeeee—”

It ended abruptly as Moritz dropped to the tiles, head cracking and lolling unnaturally on the bag of glass that was now his neck. The whirring resumed and retreated; a door slammed.

And in his lucid dying moments, Moritz dragged his broken body toward the only light in the room – a reflection of the patio window on a television screen…

**

“Perp broke his neck and several bones besides, probably some internal damage, too,” Scanlon whistled as the assistant ME zipped Moritz into a body bag. Scully eyed Mulder, who looked on guiltily. “Wouldn’t beat yourself, Agent. Guy’s curiosity just got the best of him.”

“I underestimated him,” Mulder admitted. “He knew there was something here –- the real thing.”

“Probably a real squatter,” Scanlon grunted as he rose to his feet. “It happens a lot out here. The snowbirds blow in and out from the Midwest, Canada, wherever, leave these places unattended for months. Sometimes, a yard guy, some dude they picked up at the Loews to put in some new counters makes himself a spare key for a rainy day. Could be your friend and his crew disrupted somebody’s illicit domestic bliss.”

“With this kind of violence?” Scully said. “You saw the bruising, the condition of his clothes.”

Scanlon shrugged. “I know, I know — the homicidal drifter’s kind of a cliché. But outside the movies, how many poltergeists you ever encountered that would do a job like this on a guy?” The cop grinned crookedly. “Jesus, this is becoming like old home week.”

“I’m beginning to think this wasn’t a supernatural encounter at all,” Mulder said, surprising Scully. “There’s something human but not quite human about all this. I don’t suppose Moritz managed to pick up any trace?”

“When they process him,” Scanlon promised. “He did try to fight back, unsuccessfully I might add. Billings? Hand me the doll.”

A rotund tech tossed a large evidence bag across the room. Scanlon snagged it, displayed its contents to Mulder. The agent studied the kachina that had occupied Peter Crews’ entertainment center.

“Moritz grabbed it during the struggle, tried to beat his attacker,” Scanlon suggested. For the sake of the milling forensic crew, he did not mention Alison Dubois’ identification via smartphone of the kachina as the predatory demon/spirit of her recent dreams and Moritz as the kachina’s meat.

For years, Dubois had worked for Manny at the DA’s office as an unofficial, and then official, psychic consultant. She’d helped Lee clear dozens of homicides and missing person cases, and the unassuming housewife had gradually broken through his tough, agnostic shell. Alison had retired from law enforcement following the death of her husband, Joe, to study law with some support and financial aid from her former boss.

Then she’d called out of the blue following the 10 o’clock news account of Moritz’ death. Moritz had been a minor celeb, and she immediately recognized his file portrait. The meaning Hunter and the Kachina remained a mystery – if only Alison dreamed along more linear lines…

“Nope,” Mulder grunted, waking Lee from his meditations. “The figure’s intact – no damage or blood. I think Moritz grabbed the kachina after the fight, after the killer fled. This isn’t a weapon, Scanlon. I think it’s a clue. And you’re wrong about beating myself up. It’s my fault he died.”

**

“That’s ludicrous, Fox,” Arthur Dales protested, placing a plate of Oreos before the agents. Scully snatched a cookie while continuing to scan the huge volume on the patio table.

“I taunted Moritz about his cultural knowledge, not realizing he actually cared about what he did,” Mulder murmured. “He must have researched kachinas to make sure he was accurate, and probably to see if there might be any supernatural connection between it and the ‘haunting.’ I could have told him kachinas were gifts, educational gifts, not supernatural talismans or spiritual icons. But he managed to ID Crews’ figure, and it has something to do with this case. Moritz wanted to leave me a clue – a dying clue – that would point to his killer. I guess I taught him.”

“Less recrimination,” Scully admonished sharply through a mouthful of crumbs, “and more reading. Mr. Dales’ landlord must have a dozen books just on kachinas.”

Chastened, Mulder dug in, poring over plates filled with exotic, outrageous, and occasionally fearsome figures. As he toiled, an insectile buzzing dopplered nearby, and Mulder swatted the air. The buzzing intensified, and he ducked.

“Relax, Fox,” Dales chuckled. “It’s one of our more common urban neighbors, at least at this time of year.” His ginger-haired head jerked toward a long cylinder handing above the patio rail. The transparent tube was a quarter filled with what resembled cherry Kool-Aid and glued to a broad, red plastic base. The base flared into four appendages, and above one a tiny bird hovered. It appeared to be a sausage-like creature with a long, needle-like beak, but then Mulder made out a pair of wings vibrating in a gray blur against the sun.

“They’re a beloved part of the ecosystem here – almost everyone has a feeder,” Dales informed him. “Which reminds me – sugar water’s getting low.” The aged agent creaked to his feet. “Can I get you two something more to wet your beaks?”

Mulder did not respond. Instead, he flipped back through his book, glanced back at the syrup-sipping bird, and then tapped excitedly at a color plate that dominated the center spread of Rudy’s text. Dales’ knee popped as he leaned over Mulder’s shoulder.

“I will be good and thoroughly damned,” stated the father of the X-Files.

Biodigm Technologies

Chandler, Arizona

2:35 p.m.

“Hummingbirds,” Craig Van Alston echoed, a tight, sardonic grin on his thin lips. His gray eyes didn’t join in the joke, and Mulder grinned back. The young CEO’s mock amusement faded.

“Two for flinching,” Mulder murmured. “I take it from your attempt to lighten the mood that hummingbirds are a sensitive issue around Biodigm. But I find them wicked awesome, so we’ll indulge me for a few minutes.

“Hummingbirds are among the smallest of our feathered bros -– the bee hummingbird is only five centimeters from beak to tail feathers. They can hover in mid-air by rapidly flapping their wings 12–80 times per second, and their the only bird that can fly backwards. Thanks to their high metabolism, they can fly at speeds up to 35 mph. To conserve energy while they sleep or when food’s scarce, they can go into a hibernation-like state where their metabolic rate is one-fifteenth of their normal rate.

“Birds generally have the lowest genome size of any vertebrate — about half as much genetic yumminess as us. Larger genomes mean larger cells, and that means lousy gas exchange and more sluggish metabolism. Birds need mega-super metabolism to fly, and hummingbirds? Fuhgeddaboutit. How am I doing so far?”

“I’m beginning to regain my sense of mental superiority,” Van Alston purred. “But you’ve got the general gist of it.”

Mulder fist-pumped. Scully sighed. Mulder shrugged. “And smaller genomes mean easier gene-mapping. And once you have the map, you unlock the secrets of gene expression — how to turn on one trait and turn off another. Genetic engineers have looked at fish species for potential cold tolerance in crops. My guess is, you guys wanted to unlock the secrets of mega-super metabolism. My paranoid brain immediately went to genetically enhanced super soldiers, but I guess miracle weight loss is probably more plausible and profitable.”

“You no doubt tracked down our federal permit request,” Van Alston breathed.

“Hummingbirds are protected under the Migratory Bird Treaty Act, which forbids their capture or possession. EPA and Fish and Wildlife turned Biodigm down flat. So you put one of your offshore research teams on the job. Greenpeace caught wind of it, so Project Hummer (Scully winced) became part of the Internet record. Was that why you shut it down?”

Van Alston glared briefly at Mulder, then collapsed back into his chair. “It was a stupid idea all along. The Dominican team recommended termination one month in. We moved on.”

“But Crews didn’t,” Mulder ventured. “Did he? Your permit app was five years ago. The Greenpeace protest was four. Crews kept working on the project from home, right? What happened? Materials start disappearing from your labs?”

Van Alston nodded. “Small stuff. Plus, Crews started slacking, lost his focus on primary projects. I knew his father was ill, and I offered him paid leave to address the problem. He became agitated, said everything was fine.”

“He needed your resources. There was something else, though, right?”

Van Alston glanced out his window, toward the mountains. “I went to his house out in Gilbert, to talk to him personally. He obviously wanted to be rid of me quickly, but as his supervisor, he felt obliged to offer me some coffee. And while Crews was in the kitchen, I heard it coming from behind the closed bedroom door. At first, I thought it was electronic, but you live out here long enough, you recognize it instantly. The idiot had a hummingbird — scratch that, it had to be a dozen or more hummingbirds. In his house.

“Can you imagine the fallout? One of our primary researchers experimenting with protected wildlife after being expressly prohibited by the Feds? Jesus, the greens would crucify us in the media. EPA would fine us into oblivion. Crews could’ve brought us all down. I played dumb, then fired his ass a week later, pleading poor performance. Which, fortunately, was all too true.”

“At which point, Crews became a free agent,” Mulder supplied. “But that is isn’t the full story, is it, Mr. Van Alston? Crews took a little something on his way out the door, didn’t he? And you didn’t see fit to report it to the CDC or Homeland Security.”

“My God,” Scully gasped. “Of course. Crews didn’t have the at-home lab resources or funding necessary for gene transfer. He’d have had to use old-school technology. Recombinant DNA. Biological vectors.” She turned to Mulder. “Crews needed a carrier that could easily encode new genes and transfer them into a foreign organism.” Scully swiveled, horrified, back to Van Alston. “You let him just walk out of here with a virus?”

“It slipped through before we could cancel Crews’ clearances,” Van Alston sputtered. “We suspect he’d taken it weeks before, as an insurance policy. Besides, it was a proprietary, benign virus — we’d disabled its ability to replicate within an outside organism. There was never any public health threat.”

“Knew there had to be an explanation,” Mulder smiled. “Once Crews had his little accident a few months later, you saw no need to sully his memory. Or to expose Biodigm’s big giant security breach and subsequent violation of, oh, say, about a million jillion federal statutes.”

Van Alston began to speak, then gulped like a fish seeking oxygenated water.

“Well-stated,” Mulder nodded. “I’d have probably never caught on if Crews hadn’t had a spark of sentiment under all that scientific detachment.” He turned to Scully. “That hummingbird kachina in Crews’ apartment? It wasn’t about faith or cultural enrichment or home décor. It was about hope.”

**

“What are we dealing with here?” Scully demanded as Mulder unlocked the rental. “Do we need to get the CDC in on this?”

“Naw,” Mulder drawled as he scanned the scrub surrounding the suburban business park. “The experiment died with Peter Crews, but it was a success. The virus did its job.” He climbed inside the sedan; Scully jerked open the passenger door.

“And what job was that?”

Mulder held up a finger as he thumb-dialed on his iPhone screen. “Yeah, Lee? You get anything back on those bottles from the Crews kitchen? Uh, huh, what I thought. What? No, later. Hows about you and the guys go trick-or- treating with us tonight? Kevlar’s optional but probably advised. No, don’t know yet — gotta make a few calls. I will. Think you can make it? Great, great.”

“Wanna let me into the loop, Mulder?” Scully murmured as he ended the call.

Mulder started the engine. “I need a Yellow Pages and some green tea. Know anybody in town who can help us?”

Uncle Jeff’s Storage

Mesa, Arizona

3:23 p.m.

“All I’m sayin’ is, the owner decides to sue or call the ACLU or somethin’, I’m puttin’ it on you,” the day manager growled, jamming his master key into the padlock of Locker 555. Mulder suspected this was not Uncle Jeff.

“We’ll fully indemnify you against liability,” Scully pledged, nudging her sunglasses over her head. Mulder grunted as he lifted the bay door, gripping his sidearm tightly. He entered cautiously, then yanked a small-gauge chain dangling from the locker’s low ceiling.

“Christ,” the manager gasped. “Crews was buildin’ his own goddamn landfill.”

The locker was filed with bottles and cans of every description – depleted energy drinks, dead soldier sodas of every brand and flavor, juice boxes and jugs, and, Mulder observed with a note of nausea, a few dozen empties bearing the image of the newer, more politically correct Aunt Jemima. He nodded triumphantly.

“I’ll bet we check the local minimarts and groceries, we find out shoplifting’s at an all-time high,” Mulder told Scully. “After Scanlon told me about the 10 or 20 gallons of special sugar water in the Crewses’ pantry, I figured this was what we’d find.”

Beyond the sea of detritus, he could make out 12-packs, 24-packs, shrink-wrapped cases. And beyond that, a bench filled with Pyrex, ampules, and related paraphernalia.

“This isn’t a dumpster,” the manager squeaked, tugging a cellphone from his jeans. “I gotta call Jeff.”

“Put it away,” Scully ordered. “What is this, Mulder?”

“Survival,” her partner marveled.

**

“See that?” Mulder suddenly exclaimed, tapping the monitor.

Scully and the manager leaned in together. They’d grown bleary examining the last week’s security videos amid the subtle scents of pizza and cannabis residue, but now both felt the exhilaration of the hunt.

“Madre mio,” the manager whispered.

“My God,” Scully echoed.

Mulder grinned. “I thought it was a technical glitch at first – the camera covers the corridor but not this bay itself. Then I saw the shadows shift as the locker door opened.”

Scully squinted in an attempt to bring some sense to the shape now frozen before the storage bay. “Mulder, please tell me that’s not a ghost.”

“Better,” Mulder breathed.

Uncle Jeff’s Storage

Mesa, Arizona

9:10 p.m.

“Ready for story time?” Mulder inquired. The battery-operated lantern cast his face in a macabre glow, and Arthur Dales felt a childlike spark of exhilaration.

“Always,” Dales grinned. Scully silently sipped her thermos cup of green tea as they nestled among the moving blankets that had been installed in the vacant locker.

“It’s a story of a son’s love for his father — a father who was like a god to him. A god of science.”

It was a story familiar to both Scully and Dales, and even if Mulder did not consciously see its relevance, the agent and the old man exchanged a fleeting glance.

“Frederic Crews devoted his life to observing and documenting nature’s wonders. Peter grew up wanting to know what made them tick. As Frederic’s health deteriorated, as his systems began to falter and his bones grew brittle, Peter’s quest became personal.

“Then the hummingbird project fell into his lap, like a gift. Biodigm wanted a hot new consumer line, but Peter soon saw a way to jump start his father’s life. If he could boost Frederic’s metabolism, he might slow the oxidation of age, speed his father’s regeneration and revitalization.

“Peter probably hoped to steer the company toward his theoretical therapy, but then, Biodigm and EPA pulled the plug. He watched as his miracle — his dad’s miracle — got shipped out of the country. Peter couldn’t follow his dream — he had an ailing father to see to. Then, to his horror, Biodigm pulled the plug again, this time on the whole project.

“So he did what he had to — Peter rebooted his research. He had an ample supply of genetic stock flitting around his backdoor, and Frederic was probably delighted to see his son take an interest in Nature beyond the cellular level.”

Mulder was silent for a moment.

“Then, the project became an obsession. Frederic was fading fast, and Peter’s actual work started slipping. Hank may have started snooping around, Frederic might’ve started asking questions. Maybe Peter just didn’t want to risk playing with exotic viruses around the neighbor folk. He rented the storage unit next door to continue his work in privacy.

“Who knows how Peter managed to give his dad the gene treatments. Probably convinced him they were conventional meds. But they started working — Frederic began feeling peppier, stronger as the new DNA blended into his chromosomal wiring. He started biking, hiking, rediscovering the world his old body had been forced to leave behind.”

“Do you think so?” Dales prodded gently.

Mulder shook his head. “It’s what I’d like to believe. Frederic Crews was well into a state of full-blown dementia by the time Biodigm fired Peter. Frederic’s doctor confirmed it, and the day Van Alston visited Crews, he heard him on the patio, muttering of all things about hummingbird migratory and mating habits.

“Rather than reenergizing or revitalizing his father, I think Peter’s therapy eventually pushed him into a fresh new hellish existence of mindless energy, mental and emotional chaos, a never-ending hunger that couldn’t be satisfied. Like a hummingbird flitting perpetually from feeder to flower to feeder, doomed to burning out without a constant infusion of sugar and carbohydrates.”

“Then Crews dies, and he’s left to survive on his own,” Scully murmured. “What a nightmare.”

“Peter had stockpiled enough sugar water and soda for a few weeks, but the money was running low and I think Frederic sensed something was wrong.”

“Peter had realized what he’d done, what he’d done to his father,” Dales said hollowly. “What he’d created.”

“Lee got back to me on the contents of those bottles in Crews’ kitchen. Water laced with high fructose corn syrup and enough insecticide to kill every palmetto bug on the block. Peter was determined to correct his mistake, to end his father’s misery.

“But he hadn’t counted on the unintended side effects of his home-style genetic engineering. Frederic not only metabolized the equivalent of a few pounds of sugar each day — his system rapidly metabolized and eliminated the poisons he drank by the gallon. But I suspect he knew what his son had tried to do. Peter would have been smarter merely to cut off Frederic’s sugar supply — the old man would have quickly crashed and simply shut down.

“That may actually have been what Peter Crews had in mind when he drove to his death. He was headed toward the mountains, maybe the desert. Or maybe that guardrail was the plan all along.”

Scully inhaled sharply. “Frederic was in the car. Peter was going to kill him.”

“Or leave him to die in the wilderness. Peter loved his father, but he was a coward. He couldn’t bear to let Nature take its own course or allow his father to simply…end. He’d created a monster, but he couldn’t simply destroy it. And that was his fatal, final mistake.

“Frederic had become a mindless, probably soulless machine, focused solely on survival. My guess is he commandeered his son’s car and steered it into that guardrail. Peter died quickly, but Frederic’s superpowered metabolism buffered the shock, helped him shake off any immediate pain. He left Peter on the highway and just went home.”

“Forty miles?” Scully demanded. Then it dawned. “The heightened metabolism wasn’t all Crews transferred to his father. Frederic’s homing instinct led him back to Village Palms.”

“Where he’s been ‘nesting’ ever since,” Dales shuddered. “Venturing out at night to get his fix.”

“Haunting the neighborhood, until Moritz and his people invaded the nest,” Mulder smiled grimly. “Halloween was simply too tempting for Frederic — truckloads of sugar, no minimart or supermarket cameras, like taking, well, you know where I’m going. Eric Valdez got in the way of Frederic’s food supply and almost died for it.”

“And poor Moritz failed to realize just whose nest he was invading,” Dales shook his head.

Silence fell over the trio, broken only as Mulder’s radio crackled.

“We got movement,” Lee Scanlon reported briskly. Knowing how easily Frederic Crews could evade video detection, Scanlon had salted the storage facility with a battery of motion sensors. The old man was onsite.

Mulder peered at the video feed on his laptop. Crews’ locker was the next one over, and the deserted bays flickered under the agent’s watch.

“The eagle has landed,” he finally signaled, entranced by the ghostly figure that entered the frame and gelled quickly before Locker 555. Frederic Crews was a wraith, a virtual skeleton draped in dollar store rags no doubt lifted on one of his nocturnal hunts. The corrugated metal locker door slid up and then down as Crews blurred and disappeared. Mulder and Scully snapped up their automatic weapons.

“He’s in,” Mulder growled into his mike as he wrenched the bay door open. A dozen tactical officers emerged from a dozen lockers along the graveled aisle, taking aim simultaneously at the gate to Locker 555. Scanlon nodded as Mulder dropped to his knees and snapped a fresh padlock in place. The agent stood and waved vigorously toward the shadows to the east.

A diesel engine coughed into life, and a pair of high-beams illuminated the armed cadre. Scanlon, Scully, and Mulder backed away as the pallet-laden forklift trundled into view. The gate to 555 jerked repeatedly, and the metal vibrated as the creature inside realized his plight.

The forklift lurched to a halt before 554, reversed and turned in an arc. It moved forward, and the stacked pallets slammed into place, effectively sealing 555.

“What do we do now?” Dales had materialized at Mulder’s elbow.

“See that vent on the roof?” Scanlon shouted over the dying forklift engine. “We pump enough gas in there to put our canary to sleep for the next two days.”

“Presuming that works,” Scully stated flatly. She paused. “What IS that?”

The muffled whir became a high-frequency buzz, punctuated by the impact of flesh and bone on galvanized steel, cinder blocks, and concrete. Frederick Crews began to shriek and warble — except it wasn’t warbling. Mulder could make out lengthy torrents of obscenity and insanity.

“I hear the caged bird sing,” Arthur Dales paraphrased Maya Angelou. “God help us all.”

Dos Saguaro Cafe

Gilbert, Arizona

Two days later

Scully reappeared at the table. When the call came in from University of Phoenix Hospital, she’d quietly slipped away so as not to break the mood of their pre-flight lunch. As the last of the platters was being cleared and the chip basket was reduced to wicker and tortilla dust, Arthur Dales concluded his tale of General Douglas MacArthur and a Filipino curse. Mulder was rapt, and Alison Dubois nearly did a spit-take at the punchline.

The trio fell silent as their solemn fourth reached the table.

“Frederic Crews was declared at 1:07 p.m. today after suffering a third major cardiac episode,” Scully announced. Alison glanced into her tea; Dales nodded thoughtfully. “The M.E. won’t complete the post-mortem until at least tonight, but the head attending suggests Crews had experienced extensive internal damages and organ shutdown as a result of his heightened metabolism and advanced age. Skinner, of course, has ordered all blood and tissue samples sealed and shipped to Quantico.”

Mulder had listened mutely, a curious half-smile on his face. “Just two days in ‘captivity.’ Crews Senior – the old Crews Senior — might have appreciated the irony.”

“A shame Crews Junior wouldn’t have,” Dales lamented, leaning back into the shade provided by one of the two towering cacti that framed the restaurant patio. “Would I appear in the slightest insensitive if I felt a tinge disappointed in being deprived of my ghost story?”

“Moritz would understand.” Mulder hefted his horchata. “To our intrepid ghost hunter and his sacrifice in the name of discovery.”

Dales clinked glasses heartily, then raised his for a followup toast. “To the tellers of uncanny tales, the keepers of unknown histories, those who love a ripping good story and those who weave – and sometimes embroider – them.” The old man winked.

Alison, who’d fallen silent, now beamed and lifted her tea. “Hear, hear.”

**

Alison made her departure with hugs and best wishes and a vague excuse about Marie and the optometrist. Seeing Mulder and Scully again had revived memories of the traumatic events involving the young man Adam, but it also had resurrected good memories — of her conversations on the mind and soul with Mulder, of the ties she’d woven over the years working with Lee and District Attorney Devalos and the other good people who sought only justice and/or the truth, even when they were divergent roads. She could feel Joe’s approving presence and the assurance of an eventual reunion of their souls.

The day’s heat felt good on Alison’s palms as she took the wheel, and she paused before slipping the key into the SUV’s ignition.

“He’s out of pain now,” Alison told the middle-aged man in her passenger’s seat.

“The pain I inflicted on him,” Peter Crews observed calmly. “And on that boy and Moritz. I know. And he knows he wasn’t to blame, that he couldn’t control the impulses I coded into him.”

“You shouldn’t be too rough on yourself, either,” Alison advised despite the consequences of Crews’ misguided actions. “It’s impossible sometimes to let go, to just accept and move on alone. Believe me, I know.”

Crews smiled. “I know. Now.”

Alison nodded, turned the key, and glanced to find the scientist gone. She crimped the wheel.

“If you only knew, Mr. Dales,” Alison sighed with a secretive grin. “If you only knew.”

*end

TITLE: Justice, Interrupted

AUTHORS: Dawn Zemke and Sally Bahnsen

EMAIL: sunrise@lightfirst.com

bahnsen@optusnet.com.au

RATING: PG

CATAGORY: X

KEYWORDS: Casefile, MSR

SPOILERS: Through VS9; Justice, Interrupted Part 1

ARCHIVE: Two weeks exclusively on VS10, then Gossamer

and Ephemeral. Others are fine, just let us know.

DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully and Skinner belong to

Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox. No copyright infringement

intended.

SUMMARY: How far will one man go to see justice served?

FEEDBACK: Gratefully accepted.

AUTHORS’ NOTES: Many thanks to Michelle, dtg, and Vickie

for insightful beta, and to Suzanne for both beta and

medical expertise.

Justice Interrupted — Part 2

By Dawn Zemke and Sally Bahnsen

~~~~~~~~~

TEASER

~~~~~~~~~

Hegel Place

3:17 a.m.

The idiot up in 42 was at it again.

Helen Rezek tugged the pillow off her head, flopped onto her back,

and glared at the ceiling. Heavy footfalls–what was he wearing,

ski boots?–interspersed with sporadic thumps and thuds. No

basketball yet, but it sounded like he was just warming up.

Why me? She asked herself. Fifty apartments in this building and I

get stuck living under Mr. Insomnia. Why doesn’t he just move in

with Red permanently and put us all out of our misery?

Okay, so he was good looking. She and Carmen had bumped into

him at the mailboxes a few times, and even bathed in sweat the

man was gorgeous. Carmen was particularly fond of the cropped

off blue tee shirt that displayed his abs to rock-hard perfection. She

had stared at 42–Mulder, his name was–with a come hither look

of such unbridled lust that Helen had wished she could sink

through the floor. Subtlety was not one of Carmen’s strong suits.

So, yeah, he was easy on the eyes. But he was still a pain in the

ass. And the insomnia was the least of it. Gunshots, break-ins, dead

bodies–to hear Mrs. Leibowitz talk, he’d been dead himself. More

than once! He wasn’t pretty enough to outweigh all that. Hell,

George Clooney wasn’t pretty enough to outweigh all that.

Another thud, this one so loud she nearly jumped out of her skin.

Muttering all the things under her breath that she’d never have

courage to say to his face, Helen slid out of bed, added a pair of

faded gray sweats to the ratty tee shirt she was wearing, and

stomped out to the elevator.

The sharp crack of her knuckles against the wood felt good–so

good she had to rein in the impulse to let loose and pound. At first

she received no answer, though the thumping and thudding

abruptly ceased. Helen gritted her teeth and knocked again, more

insistently. Too late, Buster. You’re gonna get an earful.

The door finally swung open several inches to reveal a darkened

interior, and Helen sucked in a deep breath, ready to release two

years worth of frustration…

Except even in the poor lighting she could sense the face was all

wrong–thinning blond hair, nose too small, and that lower lip…

Best not to go there. She took hold of herself with a firm reminder

that she was pissed.

“I want to speak to Mr. Mulder.”

“He’s not home.”

Helen stopped the closing door with her foot, a little surprised by

her own audacity, and matched the man’s glare. “Then where is he?

And who the hell are you?”

For just an instant she thought she saw the bland expression on the

man’s face flicker, as if something dark and dangerous kindled in

the depths of his eyes. She jerked her foot from the doorway and

took a quick step back, but his voice remained matter of fact.

“He’s out of town. I’m a friend. He…asked me to take care of his

fish.”

“Last time I checked, feeding fish didn’t require you to throw

things.” Shaking off her unease, Helen craned her neck to peer

over his shoulder. “It’s three in the morning, you know? Some of

us would like to sleep.”

The man drew farther back into the shadows and inched the door

closer to the jamb, effectively blocking her view of the apartment.

“Sorry. It won’t happen again.”

The apology was flat and insincere. Helen stared into the cold blue

eyes and decided it was enough.

“Make sure it doesn’t, or next time I’ll go straight to the landlord.

Your friend won’t be too happy if you get him kicked out of his

own apartment.” Her attempt to bluster came out more like a

whine.

He shut the door without reply, a fact for which she found herself

profoundly grateful. She walked back to the elevator, arms clasped

against her body in an effort to ward off a sudden chill that tingled

between her shoulder blades.

“Taking care of his fish,” she huffed under her breath, stabbing the

button and shuffling inside. “Why should I be surprised?”

What did surprise her was the feeling she couldn’t shake–the deep

relief of someone who has narrowly avoided a head-on collision or

just missed plunging over the side of a cliff. It was ridiculous,

really, to let one of Mr. Mulder’s oddball friends unnerve her so.

She let herself back into her apartment, engaging the deadbolt.

After a brief pause, she slid the chain lock into place.

Despite the silence from above, it was more than two hours before

she found her way back to sleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~

ACT I

~~~~~~~~~~~

Location Unknown

4:17 a.m.

His head felt like a bowling ball–too large and heavy for his neck.

Mulder struggled to crack sticky eyelids, two thoughts cutting

through the muzziness in his brain.

What hit me–a sledgehammer?

and

My mouth tastes like a tofutti rice dreamsicle.

His attempt to rub the sleep from bleary eyes was cut short by a

sharp tug and the bite of metal. Surprise drove away the last of the

cobwebs. He snapped his head right, then left, teeth gritted and

cuffs rattling until the ice of logic cooled his rage from a boil to a

simmer. Tamping down the initial panic, he drew in a deep lungful

of air and slowly panned the room with forced objectivity.

The faint glow from a single lamp provided the only illumination.

Across the room a Jacuzzi burbled, a bottle of wine perched in a

silver ice bucket on the edge. The waterbed beneath him was king-

sized, the sheets lavender silk. Mirrors on the ceiling, the walls, the

headboard–all reflected the stunned disbelief on his haggard face.

He jerked the handcuffs against the steel rings conveniently built

into the headboard and groaned, head falling back on the pillow

with a thud.

“Oh God. Please tell me this is just a kinky dream.”

The trail of blood down the side of his neck, drying to rusty brown

on his collar, was hardly reassuring.

By a combination of wriggling and scooting, Mulder managed to

sit up. A quick inventory revealed that he’d been divested of cell

phone and gun, and that the handcuffs binding him to the bed were

his own. McNally had even removed his belt and shoes.

“Hey! Can anybody hear me? I’m a federal agent and I need help!

Somebody? Help!”

He called out until his voice disintegrated to a rasp and the drums

in his head turned from easy listening to heavy metal. No

windows, and the louder he yelled, the more the walls seemed to

swallow his cries.

“Soundproofed.” He bared his teeth at his own reflection. “Loosens

up those pesky inhibitions.”

Ten minutes of trying to separate the restraining rings from the

headboard achieved nothing but abraded wrists. Though his

headache had subsided, the still-healing muscles in his chest

throbbed, and a simple case of dry mouth had turned to real thirst.

Searching for a more comfortable position, Mulder froze when the

door abruptly swung open and Kyle McNally slipped inside.

His eyes fastened onto Mulder, sharply assessing, as he shut the

door and engaged both the deadbolt and chain lock. One hand on

the weapon at his side, he approached the bed, his wariness easing

to a smile once he confirmed Mulder was still securely bound.

“Glad to see you’re awake. We can get down to business.”

“I’ll admit I’ve had this fantasy plenty of times, McNally, but you

were never the one that walked through that door. Sorry to

disappoint.”

The smile slid off Kyle’s lips and his eyes went flat and cold.

“You’re a real funny guy, Agent Mulder. The only problem is, I

don’t feel much like laughing right now. I spent the last hour

searching that dump you call an apartment for something that

belongs to me, and I’m a little short on patience.”

Mulder shrugged. “My partner always says I’m the only one who

could understand my own filing system. Maybe if you told me

what you were looking for…”

“You know what I’m looking for. I don’t know how you got your

hands on it, but I sure as hell don’t intend to let you show it to the

police.”

“I would’ve pegged you as a smart guy, McNally. ASAC in the

Violent Crimes section, a profiler. It was risky to cheat on your

wife, but just plain stupid to take pictures.”

McNally drew his gun and placed the barrel against Mulder’s head.

“Where is it? Tell me now or I pull the trigger.”

“Pull the trigger and you’ll never know–until the cops show up on

your doorstep to arrest you for her murder.” Mulder kept his voice

soft and steady, though he could feel his pulse hammering against

the cool steel at his temple.

Kyle didn’t remove the gun, but his demeanor did an about face.

“Look, I don’t want to hurt you. Fair exchange: You give me all

your copies of the email and I’ll let you go.”

“Such a deal.”

“Looks to me like it’s the best you’ve got.”

The headache was back. He suddenly felt dizzy, disoriented. “How

do I know you’ll keep your word?”

“You’ll just have to trust me.”

Someone was tugging him, pulling him aside. Mulder tucked his

chin to his chest, eyes slipping shut.

“Well?” Kyle prodded him with the gun.

“Trust you, huh? No problem. We all know you can be trusted,

don’t we, paisan’?”

Kyle gasped and stumbled backward a step, the gun dangling from

his hand. The eyes staring back at him were now black as coal.

“Th…that’s impossible, you’re…”

“You’re going to pay for what you did, buddy. To me, to Monica.

I’m gonna make sure of it.”

“Shut up.”

“You’re no better than the monsters we hunted; just another cold-

blooded killer. Remember how you usta talk about Patterson? You

said he was the lowest form of life–a nutcase who turned on his

own. Well, look in the mirror, Goombah. You got ol’ Billy boy

beat.”

“I said SHUT UP!” Kyle backhanded him, the muzzle of the gun

catching Mulder across the cheekbone and rocking his head back

against the headboard with a sharp crack.

Mulder’s eyes slammed shut, an involuntary cry of pain wrenched

from his lips. One hand reflexively rose to soothe his rapidly

bruising cheek but the cuffs prevented it. Hazel eyes cracked open

to glare at Kyle.

“So much for trust.”

McNally had the gun pointed at his head again, but he couldn’t

mask the tremor in his hand. “I don’t know what kind of headgame

you’re trying to play, but it won’t work. You’ll tell me where that

file is or you’ll die chained to that bed.”

He holstered the weapon and walked to the door. “It’s your choice.

Think it over.”

Mulder didn’t want to ask; couldn’t stop himself. “I think better

when I’ve had a glass of water.”

Kyle smiled, but his eyes were steel. “A little thirst won’t kill you,

Agent Mulder. Yet.”

Georgetown

5:42 a.m.

“This is Fox Mulder; I’m not home. Leave a message and I’ll get

back to you.”

The telephone receiver smacked into the cradle with a loud crack.

“Damn it, Mulder! Why won’t you pick up?”

Hands tucked under her arms and top teeth tugging on her bottom

lip, Scully paced the length of her apartment. Two calls last night,

another five this morning, and all had been met with the voice

recording from his answering machine.

Fear gnawed at her stomach like a persistent rodent, last night’s

anger at being ditched long forgotten. She should have known

better. Should have predicted how he would react to her concerns.

She hadn’t planned on telling him about the counselor until they

were home where she could explain it to him calmly, in the right

context.

She huffed loudly. The best laid plans and all that…

Scully paced towards the phone again, her hand automatically

reaching for the receiver before she pulled it away and tucked it

back under her arm.

Well into the early hours of the morning, she had tossed and

turned, wrestling in her mind with everything Mulder had said to

her. And no matter how hard logic argued in favor of PTSD, or

worse yet, brain damage, when she’d taken time to objectively sift

through all the facts, Mulder’s reasoning made a weird kind of

sense.

Perhaps it had been easier for her to believe he’d suffered some

kind of mental breakdown due to his near death experience. It sure

as hell beat the alternative: A disgruntled ghost determined to use

her partner as a means to right a perceived wrong? At least

medical science offered her a concrete path to a cure. But now…

She wasn’t so sure.

Everything Mulder had said to her last night… In the cold hard

light of day it didn’t seem quite so improbable. What if he was

right? While her mind had been busily rejecting each outlandish

claim he threw at her, in her heart she had known that what he was

suggesting was more than mere coincidence. How could he know

so much about Sal DeAngelo? And his wife?

Easy answers eluded her. And the truth was frightening. But the

image of Mulder’s stricken face when she’d suggested he had lost

his grip on reality frightened her more. And that, at least, was

something she could fix.

Finding herself back by the phone, Scully snatched up the receiver

and punched the redial button, her fingers nervously tapping

against her leg as the connection was made. On the sixth ring the

answering machine picked up. This time she waited for the beep

and left a message.

“Mulder, it’s me. I’m coming over.”

Weapon holstered and ID tucked into her pants pocket, Scully

snagged her jacket from the coat tree, her cell phone and keys from

the sideboard and headed out the door.

Alexandria

6:32 a.m.

Morning rush hour and badly placed road construction combined

to stretch Scully’s already taut nerves to almost breaking point. By

the time she’d reached Mulder’s apartment, she’d given the car horn

a heavy workout and left a trail of bird-wielding motorists in her

wake.

Relieved to find a parking space in front of Mulder’s building,

Scully made a quick inventory of the other vehicles lining the

street. There was no sign of his car.

She ran lightly up the steps leading to the entrance and pulled hard

on the glass door. A young woman, dressed in sweat pants, long

sleeved tee shirt and running shoes stumbled out, her fingers still

wrapped around the handle.

Scully muttered a hasty, “Sorry,” and slid past the woman.

“Oh. It’s you.”

“Excuse me?” Scully half turned, her attention still focused on

getting to the elevator.

“If you’re here to feed his fish,” the woman flicked her eyes

skyward, “you’re too late.”

“I’m sorry, you are…?”

“The poor sap that ended up in the apartment beneath your

boyfriend.”

Scully shook her head, mouth opening and closing, but unable to

come up with an appropriate response.

The young woman cast Scully a disparaging glare, “Look, I’ve got

to go or I’ll be late for work.” With a quick swivel she turned, her

short, brown ponytail swinging in time to her footfalls as she

jogged down the steps.

Curiosity held Scully momentarily in place before urgency

overrode her confusion and she continued towards the elevator.

Three sharp raps on his door, followed by a succession of heavy

pounding, failed to produce any sign of life from within Mulder’s

apartment.

Her fingers jittery and clumsy, it took Scully three attempts before

she found the right key and inserted it into the lock.

“Mulder? Are you there?” Scully pushed with her hip. The door

swung open and she stepped inside.

What greeted her sent the hairs on the back of her neck standing on

end and her hand reaching for her weapon. Disengaging the

safety, Scully wrapped her fingers firmly around the grip, only

marginally comforted by the weight of it nestled against her palm.

Mulder’s coat rack lay across the floor, an upturned chair behind

the door.

Moving cautiously, she made her way into the living room,

weapon held securely in both hands, barrel aimed towards the

ceiling.

Silence, heavy and ominous filled the apartment. Her own

breathing sounded unnaturally loud in the stillness.

“Mulder?”

Nothing.

She stepped around a large painting lying on the floor, the frame

splintered and the glass cracked. The fish tank, undamaged and

long devoid of any marine life, gurgled quietly on its shelf–a

deceptive illusion of normality.

The living room looked as if a hurricane had swept though it.

But she’d seen similar destruction before. Years ago, when Mulder

had been searching for a well-hidden bug. At the time Scully had

been surprised by his ability to turn his own apartment into an

admirable impression of a garbage dump. While somewhat taken

aback, she’d kept her surprise in check, reassured by the fact that

he appeared rational and all in one piece.

She wondered if what she was witnessing now was the result of his

frustration. Because he thought she was more willing to believe he

was crazy than accept his theory. …You’d rather believe I’ve lost

my marbles than open yourself to the possibilities.

Is that how he’d interpreted her concern?

Oh, Mulder. How could I have gotten it so wrong?

A quick search of his bedroom and bathroom came up empty.

Scully holstered her weapon and surveyed the devastation around

her with a critical eye.

His coffee table, upside down, was pushed up against the couch.

Most of what usually sat on his desk was now strewn beneath.

Drawers were open and teetering on the edge of their cavities, the

contents spilling onto the floor.

Nearly all of Mulder’s books and CDs had been dumped from their

shelves, piled in an untidy heap beside the couch. Ornaments and

photos, some intact, others smashed to bits, lay in a scattered mess

around the room.

One photo in particular caught her eye. The familiar face of a

dark-haired girl sitting on a tire-swing smiled up at Scully through

a spider web of cracks. The early stirrings of alarm were beginning

to escalate into full-blown panic as Scully scooped up the picture.

Even at his worst, she knew Mulder could never bring himself to

ruin this treasured memory of his sister.

She stood quietly in the middle of the living room, letting her mind

process the situation. What had happened here?

She turned in a slow circle, seeking anything that might offer a

clue.

The soft hum of his computer caught her attention. The hard drive

was running, the monitor blank, yet an orange light just above the

power button indicated it was switched on.

Maybe he’d left her a message.

She moved to his desk and jiggled the mouse. The screen burst to

life and Scully’s heart leapt to her throat.

“ACCESS DENIED,” blinked back at her.

Why would Mulder be denied access to his own computer?

Slowly, the pieces began to fall into place, and the picture they

formed made Scully’s blood run cold. Biting down on her bottom

lip and willing her hands to comply, she typed in the correct

password and gained immediate access. No message from Mulder

and no clue as to who or why someone might have been trying to

hack into his computer.

She drew small comfort from the fact that Mulder had probably not

been home when the intruder broke in. If he had, she felt sure he

would have been forced to type in the correct password.

But that still didn’t explain where he was and why someone would

want to search his apartment.

His words from the previous night came back at her. … Feeling

that I’m not myself. …An injustice to correct…I’ve gone over the

case file…If Sal knew they convicted the wrong man…

The wrong man.

If Mulder was correct, then that left the real murderer still at large.

And if he was on to Mulder…

Then she needed help.

Scully pulled her cell phone from her pocket and punched in

Skinner’s number. Long seconds stretched an eternity before her

boss finally picked up.

“Skinner.”

“Sir, it’s Scully. I’m at Mulder’s apartment.” She took a steadying

breath, surprised at the tremor in her voice.

“Agent Scully? Is there a problem?”

“I think so, sir. Mulder’s apartment has been ransacked. There’s

no sign of him or his car.”

She could almost hear Skinner’s jaw grinding as he processed what

she’d told him.

“What are you saying? Do you think he did it?”

“The thought crossed my mind, until I discovered that someone

attempted to log onto Mulder’s computer–and failed. I know he

was upset after I suggested he speak to a counselor, but… there’s

something more going on here, sir. I’m worried about him.”

“Okay, Scully, I’m in the car now. I’ll call ahead to the Bureau to

arrange for a forensics team, and ask the local PD to put out an

APB on his car. I should be there in…about thirty minutes.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Scully pocketed her cell phone, wondering if she should have told

Skinner about Mulder’s theory. But she was still having her own

difficulties coming to terms with it. She’d wait, and tell him in

person.

Desperate to find Mulder, but mindful of the fact that she now

stood in the midst of a crime scene, Scully decided on a

compromise. A quick trip to the car provided her with a pair of

latex gloves, which she donned before carefully sifting through

some of the papers spread across the floor.

Twenty minutes of fruitless searching failed to supply her with any

new information on Mulder’s whereabouts.

Scully sat on the couch, head cradled in her hands and mind

grappling with everything that had happened in the last 24 hours.

She didn’t hear her boss enter the apartment.

“Agent Scully.”

“Sir.” Scully stood, stripping the latex glove from her right hand.

She watched Skinner’s gaze roam across the room, taking in the

destruction, before homing in on her face.

“Forensics should be right behind me. Have you found anything to

indicate where Mulder may have gone?”

“No. Unfortunately, it’s going to take some time to sift through this

mess. Whoever tossed the apartment was thorough.”

Skinner nodded and his eyes cut over to the window. A small

muscle above his cheekbone jittered and he grated his next words

through clenched teeth.

“What the hell is going on, Scully? Last night Mulder broke into a

dead agent’s home and scared the hell out of his wife. Now this.

Did he confide in you when you spoke to him at the police station?

Do you have any idea what he’s gotten himself into?” He tipped his

head toward Mulder’s overturned coffee table. “This would seem to

negate the post-traumatic stress theory.”

Voices drifted down the hallway, followed momentarily by several

agents bearing forensic gear. “Don’t have to ask if we’re in the right

place, ” a dark-haired agent smirked as he set down a box. “How

many times have we been here now?”

Skinner’s eyes narrowed and his voice turned dangerously soft.

“One of our own is missing, Agent. I suggest you cut the bullshit

and concentrate on gathering evidence.”

The reprimand had the desired affect. Scully watched with a

combination of amusement and satisfaction as all three moved

swiftly into professional mode, donning gloves, snapping open

cases and labeling plastic bags. Skinner’s hand on her elbow drew

her toward Mulder’s bedroom, out of earshot.

“Level with me, Scully.”

“I’m not sure where to start.” She laid one finger beneath her nose

and took a deep breath. “Mulder’s been…preoccupied by a serial

murder case involving the death of a woman named Monica

Mitchell. It’s a closed case–solved by the VCS about six months

ago. He believes they convicted the wrong man.”

Skinner folded his arms. “A VCS case? Is that why…?”

“Sal DeAngelo was the profiler on record.”

“Didn’t he know DeAngelo is dead?”

“Oh, he knew.” Scully poked her tongue into her cheek as she

chose her next words. “Sir, Sal DeAngelo died the same night

Mulder was shot. In fact according to Mulder, the incidents

occurred simultaneously.”

Skinner huffed. He strode several steps down the hall, spun on his

heel and returned to Scully. “I’m not sure I’m reading you, Scully.

What does Agent DeAngelo’s untimely death and a closed murder

case have to do with the fact that Mulder is missing?”

“Mulder is convinced that Sal DeAngelo was murdered because

he’d discovered the identity of the man who really killed Monica

Mitchell. He believes his spirit and Agent DeAngelo’s

became…linked during his near death experience, and that

he’s…channeling Agent DeAngelo.”

“Channeling?”

“For lack of a better term.” Scully shook her head. “Look, I know

how it sounds. But even I have to admit that Mulder has been

experiencing something not explainable by conventional methods.

Sir, from what I can tell, he’s been dreaming the last moments of

Agent DeAngelo’s life. In detail.”

“Scully, last night you were willing to put this down to stress. Are

you saying you believe him?”

Scully met his gaze squarely. “I’m saying Mulder deserves the

benefit of our doubt. Putting aside the more…paranormal aspects of

his theory, we both know there’s no better profiler. If he says the

courts convicted the wrong man…”

Skinner ran one hand along his jaw. “Then the real killer is still out

there somewhere.”

Scully’s throat tightened. “Or maybe closer to home.” She forced

the unwanted emotion back into its box, well aware of Skinner’s

scrutiny. “I need to speak to Vickie DeAngelo. Mulder may have

stumbled upon evidence when he was there last night. Something

that could give us a clue as to where he is now.”

Skinner looked at the bustle of activity in Mulder’s living room,

then jerked his head toward the door. “Go. I’ll oversee Forensics

and stay in touch with the police. Report back to me when you

have something.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll…”

“Excuse me.”

Scully and Skinner looked up to see the dark-haired agent hovering

near the entryway.

“There’s a woman here who says she might know something about

Agent Mulder’s disappearance.”

Frowning, Scully strode toward the front door. Standing just inside

was a young woman dressed in a smartly tailored navy suit, her

chin-length dark hair cut in a smooth bob. It took a moment for

Scully to recognize her potential witness.

“You live on the third floor. I bumped into you earlier this

morning.”

The woman nodded, hands fidgeting. “That’s right. My name is

Helen–Helen Rezek. My apartment is right under this one.”

“You have information regarding Agent Mulder?”

“I think so.”

Scully stepped closer, every muscle in her body on alert. “Did you

see something that might help us determine his whereabouts?”

“Yes. Um, that is, no. Not exactly.” Helen’s eyes darted between

Scully and Skinner. “I mean, I saw something, but I’m not sure it’s

relevant.”

“Why don’t you let us be the judge of that?”

“Sure. It’s just–I wouldn’t have thought twice about what happened

if I hadn’t seen all the cars out front this morning and heard the

commotion. I mean, he’s not exactly a model neighbor. He’s got a

lot of weird friends always coming and going–” She darted a

glance at Scully and flushed. “–and I hear him knocking around at

all hours of the night. Not the kind of guy you want living over

your head. Except he’s been really quiet lately, and I thought

maybe he was turning over a new leaf. Which is why I got so

pissed last night.”

Scully clung to her patience. “Last night?”

“This morning, really. Two a.m. and I hear all this godawful

thumping and banging coming from your friend’s apartment. It got

loud enough to wake the dead. So I got dressed and came up to tell

him off.” Helen frowned. “Except he wasn’t here.”

“He wasn’t?”

“Not according to his friend. He said Agent Mulder was out of

town, and that he was taking care of his fish.” She looked at the

wreckage with a mixture of fascination and disgust. “Guess that’s

not all he was doing.”

Scully and Skinner exchanged a long look. “I’ll take care of it.”

Skinner gestured toward the hallway. “Go ahead.”

“Thank you.” She impulsively laid one hand on his arm, then

jerked it back, heat rising to her cheeks.

As she squeezed past Helen Rezek and started down the hallway

she heard Skinner speak in what Mulder called his “take no

prisoners” voice.

“You’ve been extremely helpful, Ms. Rezek, but I’m afraid I have

to ask you to bear with us for a bit longer. I’m going to get a sketch

artist over here and…”

The Atlantis

Bungalow 26C

8:23 a.m.

He didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until he woke up, arms pricking

with invisible pins and needles and tongue glued to the roof of his

mouth. Staring blearily at the less than flattering reflection above

his head, he tried vainly to moisten dry lips.

“Suppose room service…’s out of the question.”

It came out little more than a froggy croak, and he grimaced at the

effect on his throat. He levered himself up to peer at the red LED

display of the alarm clock on the nightstand.

8:23. AM or PM? In the windowless, soundproofed motel room

time had a disconcerting ebb and flow. He didn’t think he’d lost an

entire day–had he?

Judging by McNally’s demeanor, he doubted he’d been left alone

and unmolested for more than a few hours. In fact, he was certain

that McNally would only put up with him playing the strong silent

type for so long before deciding a quick bullet to the head was the

easiest solution.

He was isolated, helpless, in the hands of a man who had already

killed his best friend with less provocation. Scully liked to tease

him about having more lives than a cat, but he was hard pressed to

see a way out this time.

Scully. A crystal clear image imprinted itself in his mind–the

carefully neutral expression she’d maintained as he’d driven away

from the police station. He’d hurt her.

If those are my last words, I can do better.

He squeezed his eyes tightly shut, praying to a God he’d tried not

to believe in and never allowed himself to trust.

Please, let me do better.

Anger bubbled up, and he jerked hard on the cuffs, heedless of

already abraded wrists. Something, a slight give in the left, caught

his attention. With some pretzel-like twisting he was able to

examine the metal ring more closely. One of the four screws

bolting the faster to the headboard had begun to loosen–no doubt

weakened by countless acrobatic feats Mulder refused to

contemplate.

One screw out of four. It was an outside chance, and even if he

managed to loosen them all, it still left his right arm locked to the

bed. Still, an outside chance was better than no chance, and any

action was preferable to lying there passively, like a lamb awaiting

slaughter.

Mulder gritted his teeth, grasped the chain, and began methodically

wiggling the cuff against the ring. And tried hard not to watch the

ticking clock.

~~~~~~~~~

ACT II

~~~~~~~~~

The DeAngelo Residence

8:23 a.m.

Scully pressed the doorbell and stepped back, adjusting her suit

jacket with a sharp tug. Around her the neighborhood hummed

with early morning activity: chattering children wound their way

along the sidewalks toward school, a frazzled man juggled a cup of

coffee and briefcase as he attempted to open his car door, a

garbage truck rattled and clanked its way from curb to curb.

By contrast, the home before her was still, silent. Drapes remained

drawn against the bright sunlight and a paper sat untouched on the

front porch. Scully had just raised her hand, intending to ring the

bell a second time, when she heard soft footsteps and the door

cracked open to reveal a pair of wounded brown eyes.

“Agent Scully?”

Scully held up her ID and allowed Vickie DeAngelo to scrutinize it

and her face. After a moment the door swung wide and Vickie

motioned her inside.

“Come in. Can I offer you a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, thank you. It’s been a long morning, I’m afraid.”

She followed Vickie down the hallway to the kitchen and took a

seat at the small wooden table. Vickie, clad in faded jeans and a

pale blue sweater, poured coffee into two mugs and set one on the

table. Scully couldn’t help noticing how the clothing hung on the

woman’s slight frame.

“Cream? Sugar?”

Scully shook her head, sipping the steaming liquid. “Black is good.

Nothing to dilute the caffeine.”

Vickie smiled as she added a healthy dollop of cream to her own

cup. “I’m afraid I find coffee completely unpalatable without this.

Sal always said…” She broke off with a look of such intense

sadness that Scully had to look away. Vickie cleared her throat and

continued. “He used to say I didn’t like coffee–I liked cream with

coffee flavoring.”

“I’m sorry. You must miss him very much.”

Vickie sat down, swiveling the cup between her palms but not

drinking. “A piece of me is gone forever. It’s not easy learning to

function with a chunk of your soul missing.” The small line

between her brows deepened. “Which is why your partner upset

me so badly yesterday.”

“I’m sorry. Please believe me when I say that Agent Mulder never

intended to hurt you.”

“I just hope you find him so he gets the help he needs. I was a

cop’s wife, Agent Scully; I know the toll that kind of stress can

take.”

Scully opened her mouth to protest; thought better of it. “Mrs.

DeAngelo…

“Vickie.”

“Vickie. As I said on the phone, I need to know more about what

Agent Mulder may have been doing while he was here yesterday.

I’d like you to tell me, in detail, exactly what happened.”

Vickie brought the mug to her lips and blew gently on the hot

liquid, only to set the cup back down, untouched. “When I came

home from the store yesterday, there was a strange car in the

driveway. I looked around outside the house, but didn’t see anyone,

so I just went ahead and pulled into the garage. Some of the teens

around here aren’t too discriminating about whose driveway they

use to park their cars. I didn’t think too much about it.

“I came into the house and started putting away the groceries I’d

bought. And then I heard a noise.”

“A noise?”

Vickie nodded. “From upstairs. A…a kind of a crash, like

something had fallen over.”

“What did you do?”

“I didn’t want to panic, I mean, it could’ve been anything. The cat

is always jumping up on the furniture, knocking things over.”

Vickie licked her lips. “I walked into the living room and called up

the stairs.” She chuffed, blushing. “Something stupid, like ‘who’s

there?’ As if a burglar’s going to answer.”

“What happened then?”

“Someone–your partner–answered. Scared the hell outta me. But

that wasn’t the worst part. It was the WAY he answered me that

had me ready to scream.” She shoved aside the cup and laced

trembling fingers together.

“What did he say?”

“He said…” She drew in a long breath, visibly shaken. “He said,

‘It’s just me, sweetheart.'”

It felt like a punch to the gut, but Scully kept her face carefully

neutral. “Go on.”

“It knocked me for a loop. I…I was scared, confused, I didn’t know

what was going on. And he just kept talking to me like I was the

crazy one and he was trying to calm me down, sounding just

like…” A violent shake of her head and she popped up from her

chair. The coffee from her mug found its way into the sink,

followed by hot water and soap.

Scully stood and moved to her side. “Sounded like who, Vickie?”

“You’ll think I’m as nutty as your partner.”

“Try me.”

She stopped fiddling with the dishes and pressed the back of one

sudsy hand to her lips. “I was married to the man for nearly fifteen

years. I know the sound of his voice as intimately as I know my

own name, and…” Dark, haunted eyes searched Scully’s face.

“Agent Scully, I would’ve sworn it was Sal talking to me. The

tone, the accent–he even called me ‘cara mia’ the way Sal did.

How…how could that be?” She laughed, a bitter, jagged sound.

“Maybe I am as nutty as your partner.”

“Vickie… I can’t explain what happened last night. I’m not sure

anyone could. What I can tell you is that Agent Mulder has been

experiencing a…connection to your husband. A connection that has

to do with a case Sal profiled.”

Curiosity drove some of the anguish from Vickie’s eyes. “A case?

Is that why he was in Sal’s office?”

Scully concealed her surprise. “Most likely. Is that where he was

when you found him?”

Vickie nodded. “Sal did all his Bureau work up there. It was his

territory, and after getting a peek at some of the casefiles he

worked on I was only too happy to stay out.” She frowned. “What

case was Agent Mulder interested in?”

“The murder of a woman named Monica Mitchell.”

Vickie grimaced. “Oh my God. Not that one. First Sal couldn’t let

go of it and now your partner?”

“What do you mean ‘Sal couldn’t let go of it’?”

“Just what I said. The case was closed. The killer was caught, tried,

and sentenced. But for some reason, Sal couldn’t seem to move on.

He kept saying something wasn’t right, that the pieces just didn’t

fit. It had started to become an obsession. Even Kyle was worried

about him.”

“Kyle?”

“Kyle McNally. He was Sal’s closest friend, worked with him at

Quantico.”

Scully nodded–the name was vaguely familiar. “Vickie, would

you mind showing me Sal’s office?”

Vickie dried her hands on a dishtowel, teeth gnawing her lip. “I

guess not. You must realize there aren’t any files up there anymore.

Kyle came and took them all back to Quantico after…”

“I know. I’d just like to take a quick look around. Maybe it will

give me an idea as to what Agent Mulder was doing here.”

A moment’s hesitation before Vickie nodded. “Sure. I suppose

there’s no harm in that. Follow me.”

Scully stood in the center of the study, trying to see through

Mulder’s eyes. She ran a finger along the psychology and

criminology texts, studied the diplomas. Something perched on the

edge of the desk caught her eye and she crossed the room to pick it

up.

“What’s this?”

A mangled photo of four men, frame bent and glass missing.

Vickie reluctantly left her spot in the doorway and took the picture

from her hands. “That’s Sal, Kyle, and two of their friends from

work.” Her index finger caressed the face of a dark-haired man

with olive skin and a beaming grin. “I found it after the police

hauled off your partner yesterday. He must have knocked it onto

the floor when he was using the computer–there was broken glass

everywhere.”

“Agent Mulder was on this computer?”

The sharp edge to Scully’s voice pulled Vickie’s attention from the

photo. “Not only was he on the computer, he logged into Sal’s

email. I can’t imagine how he figured out the password.”

“Would you show me?”

Vickie pressed her lips into a thin line. “Look, I appreciate you

wanting to find your partner, but that’s Sal’s private email and your

partner already…”

“Please.”

A deep sigh but Vickie sat down, grumbling as she booted up the

computer. “I don’t know what you think you’re going to find. Kyle

volunteered to check things over last night, and he said it all

looked fine.” She stood and motioned for Scully to take the chair.

Scully clicked her way through the various folders that contained

bits of profiles, reference data, and personal notes. She opened

Sal’s email and scanned through the entries without noting

anything unusual. She was about to shut the window when

something caught her eye.

“Vickie, would you have deleted any of these emails?”

“Deleted? Are you kidding? I can still barely bring myself to dust

in here. Like I said, Kyle came and took all the file folders away,

but otherwise this office is just like Sal left it.” She leaned over

Scully’s shoulder to stare at the screen. “Why?”

Scully pointed to the received dates. “There’s a significant gap

here. It’s as if a week or two of emails is missing or was deleted.”

“Maybe Sal did it.”

“Maybe.”

Scully stared at the screen, the creeping feeling at the back of her

neck screaming that those missing emails were more than just a

coincidence. That they just might hold the key to Monica

Mitchell’s killer, and Mulder’s location.

There was one sure way to find out. But the woman hovering at her

back wasn’t going to like it.

“Vickie, I’m afraid I’m going to have to take this computer with

me…”

The DeAngelo Residence

9:14 a.m.

Scully loaded Sal’s hard drive onto the back seat of the car.

Turning briefly toward the house before shutting the car door, she

caught a glimpse of Vickie watching her through the window, face

tense and arms folded tightly across her chest. Scully’s initial

suggestion that she take the computer had been met with an

emphatic “NO!” and it had taken some persuasive arguing before

Vickie had reluctantly agreed to part with it.

Scully settled herself into the driver’s seat and started the ignition,

hoping she could make good on her promise to have the computer

back in Vickie’s possession by the next evening. Now all she

needed to do was retrieve the missing emails. And she knew just

the guys for the job.

Turning out of the quiet suburban street, Scully joined the stream

of traffic heading back to DC. When she reached a straight stretch

of road she pulled her cell phone from her pocket and hit 4 on the

speed dial. Balancing the phone between ear and shoulder she

waited for someone to pick up.

“Lone Gunmen.”

“Frohike, it’s Scully.”

“Ah, the delectable Agent Scully. What can I do for you this fine

day?”

“Unfortunately it’s not so fine. I need your help.”

Scully could almost see the smile slip from his face and the quick

squaring of his shoulders.

“Mulder?”

“You could say that.” Scully heaved a sigh, and ran her tongue

over dry lips, “It’s a long story, Frohike, but he’s missing. And I

may have a piece of evidence in my possession that will shed some

light on his whereabouts. A hard drive, actually.”

“What can we do?”

She smiled to herself. No questions, no second-guessing. Straight

down to business, just as she’d hoped.

“I need you to meet me at the Hoover. I think there’s a block of

emails that have been deleted. A few days, maybe a week’s worth.

I need you to recover them. Mulder’s safety may depend on it.”

“Hey, you know us, Scully. Our kung fu is the best.”

“I’m counting on it.”

She hit end and had the phone halfway to her pocket when it trilled

in her hand.

“Scully.”

“It’s Skinner. Where are you?”

“I’m heading back to the Bureau with Sal DeAngelo’s computer.

Apparently…

“Scully. We’ve had a report on Mulder’s car.”

She swallowed around the lump in her throat and forced her voice

to remain steady.

“Sir, is he…?”

“I don’t know. The details are sketchy. A patrolman spotted the car

on a routine check and called it in.”

“Where?”

“Rock Creek Park. I’m headed there now. Do you know it?”

“Yes. Thank you, sir. I’m on my way.”

Scully dropped her cell on the seat beside her and pushed the gas a

little harder. What the hell had Mulder been doing at Rock Creek

Park?

Rock Creek Park

9:56 a.m.

Scully eased her foot off the gas. Tiny stones crunched under the

tires and pinged against the undercarriage as she made her way

along the narrow gravel road. It wasn’t hard to find the right place.

Red and blue lights from a police vehicle telegraphed the location

as effectively as a neon sign.

When she rounded the bend, Mulder’s blue Taurus came into view.

Seeing his car surrounded by law enforcement officers and

forensic specialists sent her stomach plummeting and created an

ache so deep in her chest it momentarily robbed her of breath.

Yellow crime scene tape cordoned off a long rectangular area

surrounding the vehicle–a sight she was all too familiar with in

relation to Mulder.

Scully pulled the car into a vacant space. She sat, engine still

running, hands locked firmly around the steering wheel and eyes

glued to the action ahead of her. She wasn’t sure she could face

this again. Not after everything else they’d just been through. It

was too soon.

A sudden onslaught of emotion constricted her throat, her breath

hitching around a small sob. She pressed the palms of both hands

to her eyes, physically holding the sting of unwelcome tears at bay

while at the same time wishing she had the luxury of simply

surrendering to them.

Mulder had to be running out of chances. He couldn’t continue to

tempt fate and expect to walk away. Somewhere along the line his

luck was bound to run out.

Willing uncooperative limbs to move, Scully pushed her door open

and climbed out of the car. She took a deep breath, straightened her

jacket, and walked toward the crowd of investigators.

“Agent Scully.”

A firm hand on her arm halted her progress.

“Sir…” She swallowed, and then forced her mouth to ask the

question she wasn’t sure she wanted him to answer. “Is…Agent

Mulder…?”

“No, Scully. There’s no sign of him.”

Relief weakened her knees and she felt herself sway. Skinner

steadied her. “Easy does it, Scully.”

“Sir…I…”

“Come and sit down.” His large hand grasping her elbow and

guiding her away from the car was so Mulder-like she wanted to

cry. Instead, she concentrated on putting one foot in front of the

other and convincing herself there was still hope of getting Mulder

back. Alive.

Skinner led her to a park bench. She eyed him from beneath a

loose strand of hair before stubbornly pushing it behind her ear.

“I’m fine, sir.”

“Sit down, Agent Scully.” Lips pursed into a tight line of defiance,

already self-conscious over her display of emotion, Scully perched

on the edge, refusing to give the impression she intended to stay.

Skinner dropped down beside her, leaning forward and propping

an elbow on each knee. He clasped his hands and fixed his eyes on

the patch of dirt between his feet.

“Sir, what have they found?”

“The crime scene boys have done a preliminary search of the

vehicle. Nothing appears out of the ordinary. However…” Skinner

cast a quick look in Scully’s direction and sat up straight. “We have

found bloodstains on the ground about 30 feet from the car.”

Scully kept her face impassive, although she was sure the

pounding in her chest could be heard in the next county.

“We’re sending a sample to the lab for analysis.” Skinner paused

and met Scully’s gaze, his voice losing some of its official edge.

“We’ll find him, Scully.”

Scully laid the back of her hand over her mouth, stilling the quiver

in her bottom lip. Not now. Not here.

“They also found faint tire tracks near the blood. They’re not in

great shape but we’re making a cast. It’s the best we’ve got at the

moment.”

“Actually, no, it’s not, sir. I’ve got Sal DeAngelo’s hard drive in

my car.”

Skinner looked startled. “How did you…? No, don’t tell me.”

“When Mulder paid his little visit to the DeAngelo residence

yesterday, Vickie found him at her husband’s computer. I checked

it over. I’m not certain, but some of Agent DeAngelo’s emails may

have been deleted. I have a strong feeling they are connected to

Mulder’s disappearance.”

Skinner nodded, stroking the line of his jaw with his finger. “We

can get it to the lab and have…”

“Sir…I’d rather keep this part off the record. If what I suspect is

true, Mulder may be the person responsible for deleting those files.

He would never destroy evidence without a good reason, but then,

he hasn’t exactly been himself lately. I just think it would be better

to keep our cards close to our chest for now.”

Skinner tipped his head to the side, eyes narrowing, “What do you

have in mind, Scully?”

“The Lone Gunmen. I’ve arranged for them to meet me at the

Hoover.”

Skinner raised an eyebrow. “You’re having them go to the

Hoover? ”

“I know, sir, but I didn’t feel comfortable keeping such a key piece

of evidence outside normal channels. I know their methods can be

a bit…unorthodox, but if anyone can recover those missing emails,

they can. And we’re running out of time. They can work in the X-

Files office; that way the hard drive is still in our custody.”

A brief hesitation, but Skinner nodded. “You’re right to see that the

computer doesn’t leave our sight. It could affect the credibility of

any evidence we might recover, when it comes time to prosecute

our killer. ” He grimaced. “Just keep an eye on them.”

“I will.” A sudden thought occurred to Scully. “When they

searched Mulder’s car, did they find the Mitchell case file?”

“No. As far as I know they’ve found nothing except for a few

personal items. Why?”

Scully chewed the inside of her cheek before continuing. “Mulder

told me he’d been reading the Mitchell file. He even offered to

show it to me last night, which means he had it in his possession. I

haven’t seen it at my place, so it should have been in his apartment

or with him when he came here.” She surprised Skinner by

swearing softly. “Without that file we’re working blind.”

Skinner nodded slowly. “I think it’s about time we spoke to

someone who was on the case with DeAngelo.”

“Sir, if you’ve no objections, I’d like to contact Kyle McNally. He

was the agent in charge and a close friend of Sal DeAngelo. I want

to speak to the man convicted of Monica’s murder, and Agent

McNally will be able to provide me with his name and where he’s

been incarcerated.”

“Go ahead, Scully. Forensics is almost finished with the car and

then…”

“There’s one problem. The boys should be on their way to the

Bureau. The hard drive is still our best lead. They need to begin

working on it as soon as possible.”

Skinner worked his jaw, gaze traveling between Scully and the

activity surrounding Mulder’s car. He sighed. “Give the computer

to me. I’ll babysit the three stooges.” A slight twist to his mouth

took the sting out of his words. “And you can go speak to

McNally.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Violent Crimes Unit

11:01 a.m.

“Hey, McNally! You coming to the game tonight?” Corey

Peterson leaned back in his chair. Index finger hooked into the

knot of his tie, he yanked it down to reveal the top button of his

shirt. With practiced dexterity he popped the button with thumb

and forefinger and let out a quick sigh of relief.

“Hey! Earth to McNally.”

Kyle McNally stared intently at his computer monitor, eyes fixed

on the image of flying windows leaping toward him. But his

thoughts had turned inward. His mind’s eye viewed an

unwelcome slideshow of a once beautiful woman covered in blood.

Of a man, caught in the glare of headlights, face twisted in

confusion, then frozen in horror.

“Hey!” A firm slap on his shoulder sent Kyle to his feet, hands

clutching the shirt of the man standing before him. It took a

moment for the bewildered face only inches from his own to

register as that of Agent Peterson.

He released him immediately.

Shock sent Corey Peterson reeling backward. Mischief replaced

by confusion, he dusted off his shirt and massaged the area where

fisted knuckles had dug into soft flesh.

McNally ran a trembling hand through his hair. “Jeezus, Peterson,

what are you trying to do, give me a heart attack?”

Peterson eyed him suspiciously, “You okay, Kyle?”

McNally scrubbed at his face. When he answered an underlying

irritation coated his words. “Yeah, I’m okay. What is it with

everyone around here and their sudden interest in my health?”

“You gotta admit, McNally, you haven’t exactly been yourself

lately. Is there something you want to get off your chest?”

A sudden stab of panic turned his blood to ice. He stared at

Peterson, eyes narrowed, “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Peterson dropped his voice an octave. “Hey, it was tough on you

when Sal died. Hell, it was tough on all of us. I know it bugs the

hell out of you that we haven’t been able to catch the creep who did

it. And…” Peterson paused, choosing his words carefully. “I saw

the memo this morning.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Peterson? What memo?”

“You haven’t heard?”

“Heard what?”

“About the new profiler.”

“New…?”

“McNally! Pick up the phone!”

Both men turned to see an older, disgruntled agent seated across

the room, one hand cupping the mouthpiece of his handset, the

other signaling for McNally to take the call.

Giving Peterson an irritated glare, Kyle turned back to his desk and

scooped up the receiver.

“This is Kyle McNally.”

“Agent McNally, I’m Special Agent Dana Scully. I work in the

Hoover. We haven’t actually met, but I think you may be able to

help me with a case my partner was looking into.”

An unpleasant tingle ran up McNally’s spine. He turned to Corey,

still lingering at his side, and pressed one hand over the phone.

“Private call. Give me some space, will you?”

Peterson held his gaze for a second before returning to his own

desk, brows pulled into a tight frown, muttering to himself about

‘only trying to help.’

Kyle pitched his voice smooth and friendly. “Agent Scully, what

can I do for you?”

“My partner, Agent Mulder, is missing, and I think his

disappearance may be connected to a case you worked with Sal

DeAngelo. It involved the murder of a woman, Monica Mitchell.”

Kyle fought to keep his tone neutral, “Yes, I know the one you’re

referring to. We caught the killer. He’s already stood trial and been

found guilty.”

“Where is he currently being held?”

He ground his teeth together–there was no way to withhold such

information without further raising her suspicions. “Maryland

Correctional Adjustment Center. But I don’t see how that…”

“We have reason to believe you may have convicted the wrong

man. Agent Mulder…”

“Agent Scully, I know all about Agent Mulder. I got a frantic call

from my best friend’s widow after she found him, uninvited, in her

home. I suggest…”

“With all due respect, Agent McNally, from what Vickie

DeAngelo has told me, her husband held the same concerns as

Agent Mulder. She told me that he couldn’t put the case to rest,

said there were certain things that just didn’t add up. He

believed…”

“Sal was under a lot of stress. He thought he saw something that

wasn’t there. Trust me, we got the right guy. We had hard physical

evidence–his prints were on the murder weapon and Monica’s

blood was all over his clothes. This is a cold-blooded killer, Agent

Scully, responsible not only for Monica Mitchell’s death, but four

other young women, as well. A jury found him guilty, and now

he’s going to die for his crimes.”

“You didn’t share Agent DeAngelo’s doubts?”

“Look, Agent Scully, Sal was my friend. He was an excellent

profiler, but he had an obsessive streak a mile wide. This wasn’t

the first time he couldn’t let a case go.” Kyle dabbed at a drop of

sweat sliding down the side of his jaw. “I’m sorry your partner is

missing. I’m not sure what he’s told you, but after the way he was

acting yesterday…”

“Thank you for your candor, Agent McNally, but I need to check

some things out for myself. Please give me the name of the man

who was convicted.”

Hand slick with perspiration, Kyle locked his fingers in a firm grip

around the telephone receiver. His jaw ached with the effort of

maintaining control. Reluctantly, he supplied Scully with Gary

Jansen’s name.

The erratic clatter of fingers tapping on keyboards and the friendly

buzz of bullpen banter came to a brief lull as Kyle slammed the

receiver back in its cradle. He gave the trashcan a satisfying kick

and ran a trembling hand through sweat-dampened hair.

“Damn it!”

McNally swiped at his coat, draped over the back of his chair,

cursing loudly when it snagged around the backrest. With an extra

tug he pulled the coat free and snatched his briefcase from beside

the desk.

“Hey, McNally! Where you going?” Peterson rose halfway to his

feet.

“I’m taking some personal time.” Without looking back, Kyle

strode purposefully toward the exit.

~~~~~~~~~~

ACT III

~~~~~~~~~~

Maryland Correctional Adjustment Center

1:19 p.m.

Scully handed over her weapon, squaring her shoulders as she

waited for the bars to slide open. Clad in a bright orange coverall,

Gary Jansen sullenly watched her step into the cell.

“Just my luck. First beautiful woman I see in longer than I can

remember, and she’s a Fed.”

Scully folded her arms and raised an eyebrow. “Special Agent

Dana Scully. How did you know I was FBI?”

Jansen snorted. “I’ve talked to enough of you to last a lifetime.

Eventually you all start looking alike.” He shifted on his bunk so

his back was propped against the wall. “What do you want?”

Scully took a half step closer. “I’d like to ask you a few questions

about Monica Mitchell.”

Dark eyes narrowed. “Look, you’ve got me right where you wanted

me. Why the hell can’t you leave me alone? No one believes a

word I say anyway.”

“What if I were to tell you I have reason to believe you did not kill

Monica?”

Something–hope?–flickered in Jansen’s eyes before they went flat

and hostile. “Yeah? Well it’s too bad you weren’t around when it

counted, lady. In case you haven’t noticed, the jury already made

their decision.”

Scully bit the inside of her cheek, struggling to remain calm,

professional. “Mr. Jansen, someone very, very close to me may be

in the hands of the real killer. Now I realize you don’t know me,

and have little cause to trust me. On the other hand, you have

nothing to lose by talking to me. And possibly everything to gain.”

She submitted to his scrutiny for several long minutes before he

nodded. “All right. Go ahead.”

Relief left her feeling weak-kneed, but she forged ahead. “What

really happened the night Monica Mitchell died?”

Jansen dry washed his face with both hands, then let his head drop

back against the wall with a thump. “Somewhere around eight

o’clock that night I drove to Monica’s house. She hadn’t been

returning my calls, so I’d decided to just show up on her doorstep.”

“My understanding is that you’d broken up nearly a year previous.

Why were you trying to see her? Were you hoping to rekindle the

relationship?”

Gary snorted. “Hardly. She owed me money, nearly five hundred

bucks. She kept promising she’d pay me back and I’d let it slide for

months. Then the brakes on my car went out and I needed the

cash.”

“So you drove over without calling first. What happened when you

got there?”

“I rang the bell, pounded on the door–no answer. I started to get

pissed off because I was pretty certain she was there. Her car was

in the driveway and when I walked around the house I could see

lights and hear music playing.” He paused and grimaced. “Okay,

here comes the stupid part.

“I still had a key to her place. Don’t ask me why–I’d been in

another relationship for months and I certainly had no intention of

ever using it. I was just so damn tired of Monica giving me the

runaround and there it was, hanging on my keychain.”

“So you let yourself into the house,” Scully murmured.

Jansen began rhythmically tapping his head against the cinderblock

wall. “Ever notice how you can justify practically anything when

you feel like you’re getting screwed? I told myself it wasn’t

breaking and entering because, after all, she’d given me the key.

And besides, I was entitled to that money. If I gave Monica a little

scare in the process, it was no more than she deserved.” His lips

twisted into a bitter smile. “If she could see me now. Too bad she’ll

never know she got the last laugh.”

He sucked in a long shaky breath. “She was face down on the

floor, halfway between the living room and the kitchen. “I… at first

it was like my brain couldn’t understand what my eyes were

seeing. I thought she must’ve hurt herself or something–how’s that

for dense? I ran over and scooped her up in my arms, tried to get

her to wake up, t…to breathe. There was so much blood.”

Scully observed Jansen carefully during his speech. She was

interested to note that despite his earlier bravado he appeared

deeply affected by the memories. Increased respiration, the slight

stutter, the nervous movements of head and hands. If Jansen was

faking, he was one hell of an actor.

“You said you tried to get her to breathe. Was she still alive?”

“No.” Jansen spit out the word, sharp and cold. “When I turned her

over, her eyes were wide open. And the knife…there was a knife

sticking out of her belly. That was when I realized just what I’d

stumbled onto. And how it was going to look when the cops

showed up.”

“So you panicked and ran.”

“Damn straight, I did! I never belonged in that apartment in the

first place, and now I had her blood all over me.”

“And your prints on the knife.”

“I tried to wipe them off. Guess I was too rattled to do a good

enough job.” His lip curled. “Shoulda just left it in her. That’s what

I get for being sentimental.” But the pain in his eyes belied the

brutality of his words.

“I’d say that’s what you get for fleeing a crime scene. You might

not be here right now if you’d faced up to what happened.”

“Yeah, right. You’ve gotta admit, Agent Scully, I was the perfect

patsy. It’s a story as old as time–the ex-lover becomes insanely

jealous over the guy who replaced him. Hell, Monica and I were

never shy about fighting in public, before or after we split. There

was no shortage of witnesses to that at the trial.” He sat forward,

cradling his head in his hands. “Bad enough when I thought I was

taking the rap for Monica’s murder. But when they dragged out

those other dead women…”

Scully didn’t respond for a moment, replaying Jansen’s words.

“Gary, are you saying Monica was involved with someone?”

A nasty laugh. “Agent Scully, Monica was always involved with

someone. She wasn’t the type to let the sheets get cold, if you know

what I mean.”

“Do you know if the police checked him out?”

Jansen’s head popped up. “As a suspect? No, I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“Because they already had their man.” The sneer faded and he

sighed. “Anyway, Monica was seeing the guy on the down low. He

was married.”

A spark of hope flared, warming the cold inside her. Somehow

Scully knew instinctively that this was it. This is what she’d come

for.

“She told you about him?”

“She liked to rub my nose in it now and then. See, Monica was an

ambitious little lady and I never really measured up to her

standards. I was good enough for a screw and a few laughs, but she

dropped me like a hot potato when Mr. Wonderful came along.”

Tamping down her excitement was excruciating, but Scully kept

her features bland. “What did she tell you about him?”

“Nothing specific. That he had a hotshot job and was climbing his

way up the ladder. That he’d tell his wife he was going out of town

on business and then sneak off to some sleazy motel with Monica.”

He rolled his eyes. “And that he was gonna get a divorce so he

could marry her.”

“You didn’t believe that last part?”

Jansen shrugged. “I guess it’s possible. I learned a long time ago

not to underestimate Monica. She might’ve looked like Barbie on

the outside, but on the inside…”

“What?”

His lips curved. “On the inside, she was Xena. Nothing stood

between her and what she wanted. Not for long.”

Except this time, Scully thought. This time, she met her match.

“Thank you for talking to me, Mr. Jansen,” she said aloud. “You’ve

been very helpful.”

“Is that it?” He sprang to his feet, though he was careful not to

approach her. “That’s all? What about me? If you believe I didn’t

kill Monica, what are you going to do to get me out of here?”

Scully signaled the guard to open the cell. “I’m going to find the

man who did.”

For the first time, Jansen’s composure broke. “Please, hurry.

There’s not much time.”

I know, she wanted to scream. Instead she walked briskly past the

whistles and catcalls and tried not to wonder if she was already too

late.

The Atlantis

Bungalow 26C

3:06 p.m.

“Damn it!”

Mulder collapsed against the mattress, sweat trickling down his

temples to darken the satin sheets. His head ached, his shoulder

burned, and the inside of his mouth had turned to sandpaper.

Nearly seven hours of focused effort had earned him a bruised

wrist, bloody fingertips, and the three screws squirreled carefully

under the pillow. All for naught, unfortunately, due to the one

stubborn holdout that refused to budge. The steel ring holding the

left handcuff jiggled and spun but refused to pull free.

Mulder’s eyes fluttered closed and he drifted, exhaustion

temporarily overcoming fear. Not awake, not fully asleep, images

flickered through his mind, jumbled and hazy.

Soft, strong hands moving over the tight muscles in his shoulders

and chest, first soothing, then arousing. Reaching up to tangle his

fingers in hair like red silk, pulling her down, lips brushing, then

clashing. Breathless laughter: Mulder, this is supposed to be

therapy. Silencing her with another kiss: It’s working, I feel better

already…

…I feel better already, Scully. Why should I have to sit around for

another three weeks before…? Blue eyes radiate anger and tears

while her hand traces still tender flesh. Damn it, Mulder, for once

in your life can’t you exercise a little self-preservation? This time

you weren’t poised on the edge of the abyss–you were in freefall.

Her voice breaks and suddenly only anger remains, like a knife to

his heart. Don’t you get it? For three minutes I lost you…

…I’ve lost you. Blue eyes shimmer, darken. Short copper tresses

lengthen to a cascade of long black curls. She drops to her knees,

heedless of the cold, muddy ground and traces a name etched into

stone. I told you to call the damn tow truck. If you’d listened to me

the first time, this never would’ve happened. If I’d gotten there five

minutes sooner… Sobs wrack her slender shoulders and she

presses her cheek to the icy granite. Oh, God, Sal, I’m sorry. Five

minutes and I’ve lost you forever…

He groans, struggling to reach past an impenetrable barrier.

Vickie. Cara mia…

“…Vickie. So sorry.”

“Stop it!”

Pain exploded along Mulder’s jaw, wrenching him to full

consciousness. He blinked, struggling to think past the buzzing in

his ears and the taste of copper on his tongue. Kyle stood over him,

fist upraised, his face nearly purple with anger.

“Hi, honey. How was your day?” His rapidly swelling lip

contributed an unintended but effective lisp.

“I want you to tell me where the disk is–now–or I’m going to

show you just how tired I am of your little Twilight Zone act.”

“I’ve heard dehydration causes memory loss.”

They glared at each other in Mexican standoff fashion for several

long minutes before Kyle stalked into the bathroom, cursing under

his breath. Mulder heard the crackle of cellophane wrapping and

then the blessed patter of water on plastic. He propped himself up

on his elbows, remembering the loosened cuff when it rattled.

Darting a quick look at the bathroom, he carefully shifted his body

to conceal the loosened bracket.

Kyle returned, water in hand, but simply stood beside the bed.

Mulder struggled unsuccessfully to conceal how desperately he

wanted the contents of the cup. He instinctively ran his tongue over

cracked lips, though his mouth was too dry to provide any real

relief.

“Maybe you should decide how badly you want this.” Kyle waved

the water in front of his face.

“I could say the same about the disk.”

Kyle gritted his teeth, grabbed Mulder by the hair, and thrust the

cup to his lips. Mulder gulped down two delicious mouthfuls

before the water was swiftly withdrawn. He pressed his lips tightly

together to hold back a whimper of frustration.

“That’s enough for now.”

Mulder pulled his lips into his mouth, sucking every drop of

moisture from them. “You’re a real prince.”

“Give me the location of the disk and you can have all the water

you can drink.”

“Last I heard, dead men don’t need much.”

He saw the fist coming this time, but couldn’t move fast enough to

dodge it. Mulder’s head rocked back and warmth gushed from his

nose.

“I’m tired of the smart mouth, too. You’d better come clean or…”

Kyle’s voice faded as the white noise in his head grew louder and

his vision swam in and out of focus. This time he clearly felt

himself shoved gently aside as another presence took over.

“Managgia! You really think he’s gonna give up the only thing

keeping him alive? If so, you’re stupid as well as crazy, paisan’.”

Kyle stumbled back a step, eyes huge. “I told you to stop that.”

“You’re the one who needs to stop. How far you gonna take this?

You cut up your girl, pinned it on an innocent man, ran down your

best friend like a dog in the street. Now you’re ready to kill this

poor schmuck? When’s it gonna end, Goombah?”

Kyle dropped the cup; clapped his hands over his ears. “Shut up,

SHUT UP!” He lowered his hands and stabbed one finger at

Mulder’s chest. “You’re dead, paisan’. I watched them bury you. So

you can stop spouting this bullshit, because I’m not buying it.”

The eyes regarding him darkened to black. “You watched ’em put

me in the ground, all right. And you were right there to comfort

Vickie when she was ready to follow me. How’d it feel, huh?

Holding my wife in your arms, knowing you’re responsible?” His

voice rose in an eerie imitation of Kyle’s. “We’re here for you,

Vickie. Anything you need, day or night, you just call.”

Kyle’s face went chalk white and he swayed on his feet. “That’s

imposs… How could you…?”

His lips stretched into a bloody grin. “Because I was there, you

bastard. I was there.”

Kyle turned and fled.

The X-Files Office

3:14 p.m.

Their bickering was driving her nuts.

“Are you about finished with that?”

“Keep your pants on, Hickey. I’m going as fast as I can.”

“Which is exactly why you should’ve let me do it.”

“Like you’d be any faster.”

“My mother would be faster.”

“Oh yeah? Well, your mother is…”

“Gentlemen, this isn’t helping Mulder. Frohike, move over a

minute.”

“Ow! Watch it, that’s my foot!”

Scully shoved back her chair, stood, and strode out of the office,

the staccato tap of her heels barely registering above the raised

voices. She stabbed the elevator button with her thumb, folded her

arms, and tucked chin to chest as she listened to the car rumble

down the shaft.

She’d been going over her notes, trying to fit the pieces she’d

gleaned from Vickie and Gary into some sort of cogent whole. One

that would somehow point her in the direction of the killer–and

Mulder. Her head throbbed from too much caffeine and too little

sleep, and her body felt like a tightly coiled spring. One more

minute cooped up with the poster triplets for annoying computer

geeks and she wouldn’t be responsible for her own actions.

The elevator doors slid open and she nearly collided with Skinner,

who was studying a piece of paper in his hand. Scully took three

quick steps backward, allowing the AD to exit the car.

“Excuse me, sir, I was just…” She shook off her surprise. “Is there

something new on the case?”

“Ted just dropped off the composite put together by Mulder’s

neighbor. I thought you’d like to see it before we start distributing

copies.”

Scully accepted the proffered sketch, a frown creasing her pale

brow as she scrutinized the bland features. “Nothing particularly

striking. Didn’t the guy have any distinguishing features–a mole,

freckles, something?”

Skinner cupped the back of his neck, massaging the flesh with a

grimace. “Ted said it took her a long time. She claims it was pretty

dark in the apartment and he only opened the door a crack, so she

couldn’t see much.”

She started to hand the sketch back to Skinner; hesitated, her frown

deepening. “Still… There’s something about him, about the eyes,

that seems almost…familiar.”

Skinner ducked his head to better see her face. “Funny you should

mention the eyes. According to Ted, that was the one feature she

was completely sure of. She said they ‘gave her the creeps.'”

Scully studied the face a moment longer, then returned the paper to

Skinner with a shake of her head. “It’s not going to be much help,

I’m afraid. That could be anyone of a hundred guys–a thousand.

We need something concrete, damn it, we’re chasing shadows.”

Skinner’s eyebrow lifted at the slip. “How did things go with

Jansen? Did you learn anything new?”

“Only that Monica Mitchell was an ambitious woman who knew

exactly what she wanted. And that she was involved with a married

man.”

“You think he could be the killer?”

Scully pursed her lips. “I think maybe Monica wouldn’t take ‘no’

for an answer.”

“Then we need to concentrate our efforts on finding out just who

this mystery man is.” Skinner thrust his chin toward the office

door. “Have they had any success?”

“Getting on my nerves, yes; with the computer, nothing yet.”

The acid tone brought Skinner’s eyes back to her face. “Scully,

we’re doing everything possible to find Mulder. It’s been less than

twenty-four hours, you can’t expect…”

“With all due respect, sir, if the man in Mulder’s apartment found

what he was looking for, Mulder may already be dead. If by some

chance, however, he left empty handed, Mulder’s only hope may

be for us to find it first. Whatever ‘it’ is.” She glared up at him,

anger her only shield against the deeper emotion she refused to

reveal. “I can expect, sir, and I do.”

Before Skinner could respond, Byers barreled out of the office. He

pulled up short when he saw Scully and Skinner.

“We’ve found something. I think this is it.”

Scully darted a quick glance at the AD before following Byers into

the office. Langly and Frohike, clustered in front of the computer,

parted like the Red Sea when they saw Skinner on Scully’s heels.

“It’s an email with an attached photo, nearly a year old,” Frohike

explained as Scully skimmed the writing on the screen. “Looks like

it came into the guy’s work computer and he forwarded it to this

one.”

…wonder how the lovely Mrs. Kyle McNally would feel…

Scully’s sharp intake of air drew four pair of eyes. She gripped the

edge of the table, knees turned to jelly. “Oh my god.”

Alarmed by the uncharacteristic behavior, Skinner grasped her

elbow. “What is it, Agent?”

“Scroll down to the photo.” She forced the words past numb lips,

the sound of her own heartbeat deafening.

There was a brief power struggle as both Frohike and Langly went

for the mouse. With a low growl of impatience, Skinner batted

away their hands and took control of the device himself. He gave a

cursory glance at the photo before returning his gaze to the more

troubling sight of Scully’s chalk white face.

“Scully, what is it?”

“Let me see that sketch again.”

Skinner handed her the drawing, grinding his teeth as he waited her

out. She studied the drawing, then the photo, finally holding the

piece of paper beside the monitor. The resemblance between the

two was obvious.

“I’d say we found our killer.” Skinner frowned, reaching out to take

the sketch from her trembling fingers. “Let’s get a copy of that

photo, start running it…”

“I know who it is, sir. And I’m guessing you do, too.”

Her soft words had the impact of a scream. Skinner broke off,

expression blank with surprise. “What?”

“I saw that face just this morning in a photo on Sal DeAngelo’s

desk. And I spoke to the man not more than four hours ago when I

called for information on Gary Jansen. Sir, that’s Kyle McNally.”

Skinner’s incomprehension faded to disbelief. “McNally? Isn’t he a

profiler in the BSU?”

Scully nodded, some of the color returning to her cheeks as anger

replaced shock. “Profiler, ASAC, Sal DeAngelo’s best friend.” A

pause. “Monica Mitchell’s killer.”

“And Mulder’s kidnapper.” Skinner strode over to Mulder’s desk

and picked up the phone.

Scully turned back to the screen. “Jansen said they’d sneak off to a

motel. That must be where this photo was taken.”

“Either that or the dude has the kind of bedroom most guys just

dream about–” Langly grunted as Byers elbowed him in the ribs.

“Is there anything else we can do to help, Agent Scully?”

“I’ll need a copy of this file on a disk. Maybe with a little

enhancement we’ll be able to pick up a detail that can tell us where

this place is.”

“Your wish is our command.” The response was delivered without

the usual leer, communicating Frohike’s worry more clearly than

words.

Scully forced a smile, ashamed by her earlier impatience. “Thanks.

You three have been an enormous help.”

“You know we’d do anything for you and Mulder.” Byers glanced

a bit nervously at Skinner, who was barking into the phone. “If you

don’t mind, we’re going to keep looking. Just in case there’s

something more.”

“Of course. Take all the time you need.”

Skinner hung up the phone. The clenched jaw and stiff shoulders

told Scully all she needed to know.

“He’s not there now, is he?”

“He left around noon–hasn’t been back. No one seems to know

where he is or how to get in touch with him. I can try calling his

wife, but…”

“I doubt he’s got Mulder stashed in the basement.” Scully stared at

the disk Frohike placed into her hand. “I don’t know how Sal

DeAngelo came into possession of this email, but it may be the

only thing that’s kept Mulder alive. And our only hope for finding

him that way.”

Skinner gestured toward the door. “Then I suggest, Agent, that you

get started.”

~~~~~~~~~~~

ACT IV

~~~~~~~~~~~

The Atlantis

4:19 p.m.

The exquisite torment of thirst, the sensation that his mouth had

somehow become one with the Gobi Desert, had been completely

eclipsed by this new misery. Mulder blinked back sweat that

persistently dripped into his right eye and tried to concentrate on

the gradually loosening handcuff rather than his screaming

bladder.

“Good thing…I never had that…cup of coffee.” He ground the

words through gritted teeth as he worked the bracket back and

forth. “Something to be said…for dehydration.”

His eyes sought out the clock and he tugged harder, grimacing at

the bright sparks of pain in his wrist. McNally had been gone over

an hour. The little voice in his head–the one he ignored all too

frequently–whispered that it was now or never. McNally was

nearly out of patience, and Mulder was nearly out of time.

“Some mess you got me into, paisan’. Set up the chess board–I got

a feeling we’ll be meeting face to face real soon.”

The intruder that had somehow taken up residence in his soul

remained silent, and yet… Mulder could feel him there, grief and

anger simmering on a low boil. He shivered, torn between dread

and empathy, and rattled both handcuffs.

“Should see me now, Scully. You thought…I was crazy…when I

dreamed about him.” He punctuated each pause with a vicious

yank on the chains. “Now I’m actually…talking to him.”

A grinding scrape of metal on metal and the final screw flew

through the air, landing on the carpet with a barely audible plop.

Mulder lifted his newly-freed arm and watched a trickle of blood

run from wrist to elbow, momentarily mesmerized.

Shaking off the shock-induced stupor, he sat up, only to groan in

frustration. Focused on removing the loose bracket, it had never

occurred to him that the phone was on the left side of the large bed.

Even with his wrist no longer tethered to the headboard, his

fingertips barely brushed the corner of the nightstand. Mulder

lunged against the right cuff, nearly pulling his shoulder from its

socket, to no avail. His lifeline to Scully perched cheerily on the

table, oblivious to his curses.

Mulder slumped back onto the mattress and glared at his reflection.

Hours of tedious, agonizing work and what did he have to show for

his pain? No means to call for help, no weapon… The only object

within reach was the empty cup, and the damn thing was made of

plastic.

“What’s up with that?” he growled at himself in the overhead

mirror. “Silk sheets on the bed and they can’t afford real glass…”

He watched a slow, cunning smile spread across the face of the

man in the mirror.

Mulder scooted onto his knees and turned toward the mirrored

headboard. Grasping firmly the bracket that now dangled from the

left handcuff, he brought it sharply against the glass with as much

force as he could muster. There was a crunch like breaking

eggshells, and several hairline cracks radiated out from the point of

impact. Clamping his lower lip between his teeth, Mulder raised

the bracket and smashed it against the mirror again. This time the

glass shattered, several shards popping out to land on the pillow.

Mulder picked up the largest, sharp as a knife and tapered to a

wicked point. No match for a gun, but maybe he could make sure

McNally had some ‘splainin’ to do back at the bullpen–and get in a

few licks for the man he’d failed. He tucked the other pieces of

glass beneath the pillow.

“Bring it on.”

Mulder flung himself onto his back, pressing the broken bracket

back into the headboard as best he could.

And waited.

Hoover Building

4:31 p.m.

“There. What is that?” One manicured fingernail pointed at a white

patch on the purple sheets.

“Looks like a towel. Hang on.”

Rob Eddings, the irreverent whiz kid of photographic evidence,

zoomed in on the object. Several clicks of the mouse, and Scully

and Skinner could clearly see a white towel draped across the end

of the bed.

Skinner leaned closer, adjusting his glasses. “See the gold near the

top? Looks like some kind of emblem.”

“Probably a logo for the hotel.” Eagerness seeped into Scully’s

voice. “Can you clean it up enough to read it?”

“Patience, grasshopper. I’m trying.”

Scully realized she was breathing down the Edding’s neck; stepped

back a pace, flushing when she felt Skinner’s gaze. “I know you

are, Rob.”

“There…we…go.” More clicks and the gold lettering on the towel

sharpened. Rob frowned. “That’s about as clear as she’s gonna get,

I’m afraid.”

“Looks like an A.” Scully traced the letter, careful not to touch the

screen. “Here’s the point. And this is the cross bar.”

“Except there’s something running diagonally through it. It almost

looks like a fork.” Skinner looked down at Eddings. “We’ll need a

printout of this.”

“Gotcha covered.” Eddings reached over, pulled the photo off the

printer and handed it to Scully. “Hope it helps you find Agent

Mulder.”

“So do I.” Scully smiled at the young agent. “Thanks, Rob. Hope

we didn’t cause you any trouble, jumping the line like this.”

Eddings chuckled. “No problem. I’ll just blame it on the AD.”

Skinner gave him a quelling look that appeared to go completely

unnoticed. Not for the first time Scully reflected that Eddings and

Mulder were two branches off the same tree.

“I’m going to start searching for hotels online,” she told Skinner as

they stepped into the elevator. “If we proceed from the assumption

that the name begins with the letter A, and factor in

the…peculiarities of room design and clientele, we should be able

to narrow the field to a manageable number.”

“The DC police have put out an APB on Kyle McNally and I’ve

got some of our own people looking for him, as well. If he

surfaces, we’ll be waiting.”

Scully stared at the floor indicator light as it tracked their descent.

“I’m afraid I tipped him off when I called about Jansen. He knows

I’ve connected Mulder’s disappearance to the Mitchell case.”

“You had no way of knowing one of our own would be the killer.”

Skinner shook his head. “His own wife hasn’t got a clue. She told

me he’s been sent out of town on a case. Asked if she could pass a

message to him when he calls home.”

The elevator lumbered to a halt and the doors opened. Skinner cast

a final intent look at Scully’s face before stepping out. “I’m going

to check in with the boys in blue. Keep me apprised of the

situation.”

“I will.”

The doors began to roll shut but Skinner stopped them with an

outflung arm. “Scully, if not for your sound investigative

technique, we wouldn’t have that photo. Whatever happens…you’ve

done everything you could for Mulder.”

She tipped her chin up and coolly met his concerned gaze. “I

respectfully disagree, sir. I haven’t found him–yet.”

She held on to the illusion of confidence until Skinner removed his

arm and allowed the doors to close. Sagging against the back wall,

Scully pressed trembling fingers to her lips.

“When I bail you out of this one I expect some serious groveling,

Mulder. Don’t you dare deprive me of the pleasure.”

She’d regained her composure by the time the elevator reached the

basement. The Gunmen were still huddled around DeAngelo’s

computer, though Frohike and Langly apparently had put aside

their squabbling. Scully sank into her chair with a sigh and booted

up her computer.

“Find anything new?”

Langly glanced up from the screen, poking at his glasses with one

long finger. “Only that the dude bookmarked some righteous porn

sites.”

“Terrific,” Scully muttered.

She’d pulled up Google and was beginning a search when Frohike

wandered over. He lifted the photo and squinted at it.

“Well, what do ya know? The guy was playing nookie with her at

The Atlantis, huh? At least he has good taste.”

She was concentrating so hard it took Scully a moment to process

his words. Her head snapped up. “You recognize that logo?”

Frohike snorted as if the very question insulted his intelligence.

“Of course I do. It’s The Atlantis. Classiest no-tell motel there is.

Way I hear it, they cater to all appetites. If you can’t find it there, it

doesn’t exist.”

“You’re certain?”

By this time Byers and Langly had picked up on the exchange and

come over to stare at the picture in their friend’s hand.

“He’s right. See? This object across the ‘A’ is a trident. That’s the

Atlantis’s trademark.” Byers flushed at Scully’s raised eyebrow.

“Um–so I’ve heard.”

“How far is it?”

A brief, silent consultation before Frohike spoke up. “It’s in

Hagerstown, about an hour from here. I can draw you a map.”

Scully stood and snatched up the phone. “Do it.”

The Atlantis

6:12 p.m.

He’d have sworn he was too wired to sleep, but his body had other

ideas. A puff of cool air carrying the faint scent of fall leaves and

fireplaces brought Mulder out of a light doze. He winced when his

fingers closed reflexively around the glass shard, nearly piercing

the skin. Leaning up on his elbows, he scooted back toward the

headboard, attempting to shield the broken bracket with his body

as much as possible.

McNally pocketed his keys but remained standing just inside the

door. In the muted light the glitter of his eyes gave Mulder the

distinct impression he was being examined like a particularly

interesting bug. A fifty-pound weight settled on his chest, and a

tingling sensation began at the back of his neck, shooting down his

spine. He pressed his thumb against the glass shard, the bright

spike of pain driving back panic until he could breathe again. He

batted his eyes.

“See anything you like?”

The wisecrack seemed to pull McNally from a daze. His lip curled.

“You know, I always heard you were a pain in the ass, Mulder.

The stories don’t do you justice.”

“You obviously haven’t been talking to the right people.”

Kyle didn’t reply, but he stepped close to the bed. His right hand

drifted to the small of his back and touched something tucked into

the waistband of his slacks.

Mulder futilely attempted to wet dry lips. “You know, it’d be in

your best interest to let me use the little agent’s room. Otherwise

I’m afraid at least one of us is going to regret it.”

“I don’t think that will be necessary.”

Damn. I hate it when I’m right.

Mulder kept his expression neutral. “If you really want that disk…”

“It’s too late for that now. Your partner’s poking her nose around,

asking all the right questions. It’s only a matter of time before she

figures things out.”

“Then turn yourself in. This doesn’t have to end badly.”

Kyle chuffed a bitter little laugh. “I killed my best friend, Agent

Mulder. It already has.”

“Is that regret I hear, McNally?”

For the first time something like remorse flickered in Kyle’s eyes.

“I didn’t want to kill him, he left me no choice. Sal was a good

friend, but he never would’ve kept his mouth shut.” The emotion

vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “This is all Monica’s fault.

That cheap little hustler got exactly what she deserved.”

“Of course, cheating on your wife is hardly the moral high

ground.”

That stare again. Flat. Assessing. “How do you do it?”

It wasn’t the reaction he’d expected. Mulder eyed Kyle warily.

“What?”

“Sound like…him. I can understand where you came up with the

idea. I’ve heard about the stuff you and your partner investigate–

aliens and Bigfoot and crazy shit like that. What I don’t understand

is how you knew those things about him. About…what happened.”

Mulder sensed it–the slow burn of anger and betrayal. He tried to

push back, determined to remain in control, but it was like trying to

stem a tidal wave with a bucket. “You mean how it felt to be

blinded by headlights and to hear the sound of your bones

breaking? Or what it was like watch your best friend drive away

while you choked to death on your own blood?”

Kyle recoiled, face a sickly gray. “That doesn’t mean a damn thing.

Your partner’s a pathologist. You could easily have picked up that

information from the police report, or the autopsy.”

And suddenly, Mulder found he owned the anger as completely as

the tortured soul of his unwelcome guest. As one they turned on

Kyle, zeroing in for the proverbial kill.

“How about this, paisan’? You took your foot off the gas for a split

second before you ran me down.” A nasty, jeering laugh. “You

were almost too chickenshit to go through with it.”

Face twisted by rage, McNally snatched a Bureau-issue Sig from

his waistband and leveled it at Mulder’s head. “I’m going to shut

you up, once and for all.”

“Do it like a man this time, you bastard. Tuck it right under my

chin and look me in the eye when you pull the trigger.”

“With pleasure.”

Kyle propped one knee on the mattress and bent over. With one

quick motion Mulder rolled toward him, swinging his left arm in a

wide arc. The heavy steel bracket dangling from the handcuff

caught Kyle across the cheekbone, splitting skin. He yelped,

swaying as blood sprayed from the wound. The gun slipped from

his fingers, falling to the mattress with a soft thump, and he

tumbled on top of Mulder.

McNally’s weight drove the air from Mulder’s lungs and pinned his

left arm to his chest. He dug his heels into the mattress and bucked

his hips, attempting to throw Kyle off so he could use the chunk of

glass. Kyle rammed an elbow into Mulder’s chest, fingers

scrabbling for the dropped Sig. The blow, though lacking in real

force, connected with still healing muscles and tissue. Mulder

screamed and nearly lost his grip on the glass, vision graying

around the edges and an insistent hammering in his head.

Their struggle had knocked the gun halfway across the slippery

sheets. Kyle, sensing his advantage, planted one hand over

Mulder’s heart. He raised up, forcing Mulder’s chest to support the

full weight of his upper body, while he reached for the weapon.

“Get ready, paisan’. I’m gonna send you back to hell where you

belong.” He leaned across the mattress, legs shifting slightly to

maintain his balance.

With a howl of rage and pain, Mulder brought up his knee squarely

between McNally’s now parted legs. Kyle shrieked, rolling onto his

side in a fetal curl. With superhuman effort, Mulder scrambled

onto his knees, respiration reduced to sobbing gasps for air. He

knocked the gun off the bed and pressed the razor sharp piece of

mirror into Kyle’s throat. Kyle groaned, then gasped as blood

oozed from the edges.

“Time for you to join me, you son of a bitch. Let’s see how you

like it on this side.”

The pounding in his head became a single, deafening bang. Scully

and Skinner blew through the door with a gust of cold air.

“Federal Agents. Freeze!” Guns leveled, they stared at the tableau

before them.

“It’s okay, Mulder. We’ve got things under control. Let him go and

step back.”

Despite his giddy sensation of relief, Mulder wondered at her

careful, soothing tone. He blinked at a stinging drop of sweat,

reflecting that he must look pretty bad for Scully to use her

“victim” voice.

“Put it down, Mulder.”

His fingers wouldn’t move–in fact, they pressed the shard more

firmly into flesh. Beneath him, Kyle whimpered again and more

blood trickled down to darken the sheets. Mulder gaped at his own

hand, willing the digits to obey. Stunned, then frightened when

they defied him.

“Don’t do this.” He said it aloud, not caring how it sounded. Scully

and Skinner already thought he was crazy. Might as well go for

broke. “It’s over.”

“Mulder…” She trailed off when Mulder lifted huge eyes to her

face, pleading. Skinner remained silent, watchful.

Mulder closed his eyes, mentally following the connection, his

voice soft and reassuring. “He’ll pay for what he did, and Gary

Jansen will walk out of prison a free man. Justice has been served,

Sal. You can let go.”

A bewildering jumble of emotion rose up within him–regret,

sorrow, release. It flooded his soul like an enormous wave,

breaking over him, washing through him.

And was gone.

Mulder dropped the makeshift knife and moved back against the

headboard. He pressed one hand to his chest, shivering as he

watched his boss efficiently take McNally into custody.

“You all right?” Skinner’s inquiry was as business-like as his

Miranda recitation.

“Yeah.” He looked up at Scully. “I’m okay.”

She unlocked the remaining cuff, fingers discretely massaging torn

flesh, eyes communicating everything Skinner’s presence

restrained. A feather-light touch to his bruised cheek and the lump

on the back of his head, then a raised brow. “You’ll still need to see

a doctor.” A pause. “But I think we can dispense with the

psychiatrist.”

So he wasn’t the only one with regrets. One corner of Mulder’s

mouth turned up. “Deal.”

The adrenaline rush ebbed and he was suddenly aware of a need

more pressing than any of his other aches and pains. “Uh, Scully. I

do have a bit of a problem. In fact, I’d call it an emergency.”

She snapped to attention. “What’s wrong, Mulder? Is it your chest?

Your head?”

“Uh-uh.” He lurched to his feet, barely resisting the urge to dance.

“My bladder. If I don’t make it to the bathroom in about ten

seconds I’m going to contaminate a crime scene.”

Scully folded her arms as he staggered past her. “Damn it, Mulder,

that’s not funny. You had me really worried.”

“Brings a whole new meaning to the term ‘pissing you off,’ huh,

Scully?” He flashed her an impudent grin as he shut the door.

She sighed and shook her head. Mulder’s irreverent sense of humor

had apparently survived intact–and so had he.

Thank God.

~~~~~~~~~~

Epilogue

~~~~~~~~~~

Hoover Building

Two days later

Skinner closed the file folder and leaned back in his chair. “I’ve

read your report, Agent Mulder. You must admit your account of

the events is more than a bit…unorthodox.”

Mulder shrugged. “I’ve given you the truth. How you choose to

interpret it is completely up to you.”

“Is it true that Agent McNally has admitted culpability for the

murder of Monica Mitchell?” Scully asked.

Skinner nodded. “And of Agent DeAngelo, as well. We have a

signed confession.” Skinner gave Mulder a shrewd look.

“According to the DC cops, he was eager to cooperate, even

waived his right to have an attorney present. They said he seemed

anxious, kept muttering some nonsense about burying the dead.”

Mulder’s face revealed nothing. “And Gary Jansen?”

“Should be released within the next 24 hours, if he hasn’t been

already. He owes you his life, Mulder.”

The hint of a grin tugged at the corners of Mulder’s mouth but his

expression was wistful. “Not me.”

Skinner glanced uneasily at Scully, then forged ahead. “At any

rate, McNally’s confession omits our need for the email that cost

Agent DeAngelo’s life–and nearly yours, as well.”

All traces of the smile vanished. “I believe that’s called irony, sir.”

Scully turned from Skinner to her partner. “That reminds me,

Mulder. Where did you put the floppy disk McNally was after? He

certainly tore up your apartment looking for it.”

He smirked. “I subscribe to the ‘hide in plain sight’ rule, Scully. I

labeled it and put it with all my other disks.”

Both eyebrows soared. “You labeled it? As what?”

The smirk became a grin. “Porn.”

She rolled her eyes and turned back to Skinner. “Is that all, sir?”

“I’d say that’s more than enough, Agent Scully,” Skinner replied

dryly.

As they stood up he reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a

piece of paper. “By the way, you might be interested to know that

the owner of The Atlantis was quite upset when he learned a

murderer had used his establishment to hold a federal agent

hostage. He doesn’t want his reputation tarnished by the negative

publicity.”

“Some reputation,” Scully muttered.

“Be that as it may, he insisted on giving me this certificate for two

complementary nights in one of the deluxe Jacuzzi suites.”

Mulder snickered. “Walter, you dog! Who’s the lucky lady?”

Skinner slowly stood and walked around his desk, face unreadable.

Scully glared at Mulder. “Sir, I’m sure Agent Mulder intended no

disrespect…” She trailed off when she realized Skinner’s expression

was smug, not angry.

“Actually I thought I’d pass it along to you two. I’m sure you’ll

figure out what to do with it. There’s a three day weekend coming

up soon, isn’t there?” He pressed the coupon into Mulder’s hand

with a cheery shark’s grin.

Mulder stared blankly at the coupon while Scully’s cheeks flushed

and she searched futilely for an appropriate response. As if

oblivious to their discomfiture, Skinner sauntered back to his desk,

sat down, and began reading from a file folder. He glanced up at

them over the top of his glasses.

“That’s all, Agents. Dismissed.”

It wasn’t until they were alone in the elevator that Scully found her

voice. “Well. I guess that’s his way of telling us he knows. How do

you suppose he found out?”

Mulder shrugged. “Does it matter? Cat was bound to squirm out of

the bag sooner or later.”

She scowled at him, hands propped on hips. “You’re awfully calm

about this! Aren’t you the least bit concerned that our boss now

knows we’ve both been playing doctor?”

Mulder shrugged, never taking his eyes from the certificate his

hands. “Nah. Skinner doesn’t care, Scully. As long as we aren’t

playing tonsil hockey or doing the naked pretzel in the office, he’ll

look the other way. Right now we’ve got something far more

important to worry about.”

“Really? And what would that be?”

He waved the certificate in front of her nose, a kid with a new toy.

“How soon can we use this?”

TITLE: Justice, Interrupted

AUTHORS: Dawn Zemke and Sally Bahnsen

EMAIL: bahnsen@alphalink.com.au

sunrise@avenew.com

RATING: PG

CATAGORY: X

KEYWORDS: Casefile, MSR

SPOILERS: VS9

ARCHIVE: Two weeks exclusively on VS9, then Gossamer

and Ephemeral. Others are fine, just let us know.

DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully and Skinner belong to

Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox. No copyright infringement

intended.

SUMMARY: How far will one man go to see justice served?

FEEDBACK: Gratefully accepted.

AUTHORS’ NOTES: Many thanks to Michelle, dtg, and Vickie

for insightful beta, and to Suzanne for both beta and

medical expertise.

Justice, Interrupted — Part 1

By Dawn Zemke and Sally Bahnsen

TEASER:

Behavioral Science Unit

Quantico

12:04 a.m.

“Gee, McNally, this letter from your mom is so sweet. It’s got me

feeling all warm and fuzzy inside.”

Sal DeAngelo ducked his head to hide a grin, watching from the

corner of his eye as Kyle McNally flipped Corey Peterson the bird.

With no major cases pending, most people had headed home hours

earlier and an unnatural quiet had descended on the bullpen.

Peterson’s smartass remarks were a welcome diversion.

“Damn computer virus.” McNally dropped into his chair and began

shutting down his computer, stabbing buttons and cursing under

his breath. “I’m still not certain who got pieces of what files. It

sent my mother a chunk of the profile I was working on. And I won’t

even go into the photos it sent Father Callahan.”

Sal clicked his tongue against his teeth, grinning. “Have you been

collecting dirty pictures from that sleazy Web site again? Shame

on you, ASAC McNally.”

“I seem to recall a few tasteless bookmarks in your collection,

Saint DeAngelo.”

“I got no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t know what I’m tawking about, huh?” Kyle mimicked his

‘Brooklynese’ with sarcastic accuracy. “Why doesn’t that surprise

me?” He sighed, running his fingers through thinning blond hair.

“What are you still doing here, anyway? Please don’t tell me you’re

obsessing over the Mitchell murder again.”

“All right, I won’t tell you.”

“Saaaal.” Kyle stalked over to Sal’s desk and plucked the manila

folder from the blotter, closing it and tucking it under his arm.

“Gary Jansen is a serial murderer. He killed Monica Mitchell and

four other women in cold blood. He’s been tried, convicted, and

sentenced. Justice has been served–let it go.”

“Didn’t anything about this case bother you? Weren’t there any

pieces that just didn’t fit?”

“No.”

“Then tell me why the guy broke in through the window when he

could’ve come through the front door? Monica knew him; she’d

dated Gary for nearly eight months.”

“She also owed him money. Considering the threats he made in a

couple of those letters we found, I doubt he’d have gotten a warm

reception if he showed up on her doorstep.”

“Okay, what about the simple fact that they’d previously been

involved in a long-term relationship? He picked all the other

victims outta a hat, strangers right off the street.”

“Key word–previously. Gary and Monica had been split up for

nearly a year. You know as well as I do that it’s not unheard of for

a guy like that to hit someone he already knows.”

“The first time, maybe, or even the second, when he’s learning his

craft. But Gary had successfully whacked four other women,

paisan’. He’d gotten good at it. Why would he risk gettin’ caught by

playin’ in his own backyard?”

“He was pissed at her? Come on, Sal, how many times have we

caught an UNSUB because he just plain screwed up? You know

half of them subconsciously want to be caught.”

“He didn’t act like he wanted to be caught when he kept insisting

he was innocent.” Sal’s eyes turned distant, haunted. “Or when he

broke down in front of the judge and bawled like a baby.”

“What did you expect–he’d just been handed a death sentence.

Face the facts, Sal. We pulled several of Gary’s fingerprints off

the murder weapon. We found a shirt covered with Monica’s blood

stuffed into the back of his closet. The mode and execution of her

death match that of the other women–the signature is nearly

identical. And he was unable to produce a credible alibi for any of

the nights in question. A jury of his peers found him guilty. Why

can’t you accept that?”

Sal ran a hand over his face, then propped his chin on his fist.

“Because I looked into his eyes when he said he didn’t do it. And I

believe him.”

Kyle stared at him a moment, then turned away, shaking his head.

“I give up. I have to take a piss, then I’m out of here. If you’re

smart, you’ll do the same.”

“I just have to go through my email. I’m about a week behind.” He

opened his inbox, smirked. “Hey, McNally! Looks like I may be

the lucky recipient of one of your dirty pictures.”

Kyle flashed him the same finger he’d given Peterson and ambled

down the hall to the bathroom. Still chuckling, Sal opened the

email and began to read.

And the smile froze on his lips.

“If you think you can just dump me like yesterday’s trash, you’d

better think again. I’m not a whore and I don’t intend to be treated

like one. I wonder how the lovely Mrs. Kyle McNally would feel

about her husband if she knew he was screwing around? Maybe

she’d like a copy of this?”

And beneath the text, a photo of Monica Mitchell clad in a red

teddy, snuggled in Kyle McNally’s arms.

“All right, go ahead. Let me have it.”

Sal nearly jumped out of his skin. He quickly clicked on a different

email and pasted on a smile. “What a let down. It was a piece of

the Whitecotten profile.”

Kyle returned to his desk and began slipping files into his

briefcase. “You always have had rotten luck.”

Sal struggled not to squirm under McNally’s smile, which suddenly

felt sharp and cold. With trembling fingers, he forwarded the email

to his home computer and closed his inbox. “Think I’ll take your

advice and go home. Vickie’s had about enough of my late nights.”

“Good idea. But you’d better return the Carmichael file to records

on your way out. You know how they get.”

“Yeah. Good idea.” Sal logged off and gathered his own briefcase

with unsteady hands. “See you tomorrow.”

“I’ll be here.”

Kyle waited until Sal had disappeared into the elevator before

moving to his chair, logging onto his computer, and opening the

inbox. Being named ASAC had its advantages–including a master

password to all the profilers’ computers. He stared at the

incriminating email for a long moment, face expressionless.

In three minutes the file had been erased and he was headed for the

parking garage.

Thanks to a well-placed puncture, Sal’s tire went flat on a dark

stretch of road only ten minutes from his home. Intent on replacing

it, at first he didn’t see Kyle’s truck bearing down on him. By the

time he did, it was too late.

The growl of an engine, a blinding flash of light…

There were no witnesses.

Georgetown Medical

12:44 a.m.

The emergency room doors imploded, shattering the fragile peace

of what had been a slow night in the ER. Two EMTs, faces set in

grim concentration, shepherded a gurney bearing a man whose

gray-white skin contrasted sharply with the vivid crimson staining

his clothing and their own. On their heels, her expression a blank

mask of shock, a copper-haired woman trailed the procession,

speechless amid the volley of shouted information and instructions.

“Forty-one-year-old male GSW. Sucking chest wound,

right quadrant. BP 40 over palp; pulse 130 and thready.

Respiration rapid and labored.”

“Cyanotic, no breath sounds on the right. He’s on O2 at 8 liters

by mask, two IVs running D5LR wide open.”

Doctors and nurses flooded the trauma room, taking over as the

EMTs deposited their charge and got out of the way. Lost in the

flurry of activity, the woman hovered just inside the doorway,

fingers pressed to her lips.

“Get the lab on the horn, I need type and cross match for at least

six units, stat; a full blood work-up. And get a portable

chest x-ray in here.” The doctor in charge, a woman with streaks of

silver in her dark, close-cropped hair, barked orders like a drill

sergeant. “He needs a chest tube. Jackson?”

“I’m on it.”

“I’m not getting a pulse–we’re losing him.”

“Code blue! Connie, get her out of here.”

She resisted the nurse’s iron grip on her elbow, protest falling from

her lips without conscious thought. “I’m Special Agent Dana

Scully with the FBI, that man is my partner.” And as a final trump

card, “I’m a medical doctor.”

The nurse, a stout black woman with a kind face, hustled her

toward the waiting area. “Not here you aren’t, honey. You sit right

over there–someone will be with you shortly.” She was gone

before Scully could open her mouth to argue.

Scully stood beside a plastic chair, its backrest cracked and pitted,

for several long minutes before her legs folded and she dropped

heavily into it. The trembling began in her hands, spreading

quickly up her arms and down her legs until she shivered

uncontrollably. She felt oddly removed from her surroundings, as

though she were viewing them from the end of a long, dark tunnel.

Her only tethers to reality were the warm stickiness of Mulder’s

blood painting her hands and shirt and the terrifying barrier of the

trauma room doors.

“Agent Scully?”

Skinner’s voice jolted her out of her daze and onto her feet. She

watched his eyes catalogue her bloodstained clothing, saw the

flicker of dismay before they went studiously neutral.

“I came as soon as I heard. How is he?”

“He took a bullet to…to the chest at close range. Massive blood

loss…they won’t let me…his heart stopped.”

“Scully, sit down.”

Skinner guided her to the chair and promptly disappeared–or so it

seemed. She couldn’t drag her eyes from the trauma room doors to

look for him. He was back a moment later with a blanket and a cup

of coffee.

“Drink some of this.”

The blanket, draped across her shoulders, warmed her; the coffee,

sweet and milky, eased the shakes. She sipped it slowly, one eye

always on the motionless doors shielding Mulder from view.

“Scully, what happened?”

Her tongue felt clumsy, sluggish. “Didn’t they tell you?”

“Let’s just say I’ve heard conflicting reports. No one wants to

assume the blame for this one.”

Fury melted away the fog. “There is no conflict, sir. Agent

Glassman failed to properly secure the suspect. He broke loose,

grabbed Agent Glassman’s weapon, and opened fire. Mulder never

saw it coming.” Her voice broke but she tipped her chin up, eyes

dry.

“Agent Glassman is inexperienced. Some feel his partner should

have…”

“Agent Glassman is a fool. Even the greenest rookie should know

better than to…”

The trauma room doors burst open, discharging a rapidly moving

gurney surrounded by ER personnel and equipment. Scully had

thrust the coffee cup into Skinner’s hands and was across the

hallway before he could blink, squeezing between a doctor and a

nurse to reach Mulder’s side.

“How is he? Is he stable?”

“We’re taking him up to surgery.” The doctor, a young Asian man

who looked fresh out of residency, held the elevator doors while

Mulder was wheeled inside. Scully caught a brief glimpse of his

pale, still face before the doors began to close. “Dr. Stanton will

answer all your questions.”

She stared stupidly at the elevator for a moment, then turned on her

heel, nearly colliding with Skinner and the dark-haired doctor who

had been spouting orders in the trauma room.

“Agent Scully? I’m Dr. Alice Stanton; I treated your partner.”

Scully squared her shoulders and accepted the doctor’s outstretched

hand. “Dr. Stanton. This is Assistant Director Skinner, our

supervisor. What is Agent Mulder’s condition?”

Dr. Stanton gestured toward the waiting area. “Let’s sit down.”

When they had each claimed an equally uncomfortable chair, she

steepled her fingers and continued. “The bullet passed through the

right side of Agent Mulder’s chest, causing a dangerous condition

known as a hemopneumothorax.”

She paused and cocked an eyebrow at Scully. “Did I hear you say

you’re a medical doctor?”

“My specialty is pathology, but I’m quite familiar with the term.”

“I’m not,” Skinner inserted dryly. “What exactly is a hemo–?”

“Hemopneumothorax. To put it simply, when the bullet passed

through Agent Mulder it allowed air to be drawn into the chest

cavity, destroying the negative pressure that allows the lungs to

automatically expand and inflate. This trapped air, as well as the

internal bleeding, not only caused Agent Mulder’s right lung to

collapse, but his heart to stop beating.”

“But you got him back.” Scully’s voice trembled.

Skinner cast a sharp, assessing glance at her.

“Yes. However, he was down for nearly three minutes before we

did. I won’t lie to you, Agent Scully. It was a very close call.” Dr.

Stanton massaged the back of her neck. “We put in a chest tube

and got him stable enough to send him upstairs. They’ll repair the

tissue damage, debride the wound, suture the chest tube in place…”

“Dr. Stanton, what is Agent Mulder’s condition–really?”

“If you’re asking whether he’s out of danger, I’d have to say no. But

he’s young and strong–obviously a fighter. If he can make it

through the surgery and avoid any serious post-op infections… I

think he has an excellent chance.”

Scully pressed the back of her hand to her lips, her tightly closed

eyes unable to disguise the sparkle on her lashes. She drew a slow,

calming breath, then mustered a weak smile.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. If I were you, I’d grab a cup of coffee from the

cafeteria before you head upstairs. You’re in for a long wait.”

Scully nodded, watching the doctor walk toward the nurses’

station. She could feel Skinner’s eyes on her, evaluating the

uncharacteristic display of emotion, and tried to shore up her

defenses.

“Thank you for coming down here, sir, but you really don’t need to

stay. I’ll be fine.”

Skinner took the hint. He stood, looking down at her briefly before

speaking. “I know you will, Scully. And so will he.” He started to

walk away, hesitated. “If you need anything…”

“I will.”

She held on until he was gone–just. The tears–a mixture of fear,

anger, and relief–left her feeling both utterly spent and strangely at

peace. She shed her bloody trenchcoat, washed her face, and

collected a coffee before heading upstairs.

Mulder was alive. For now, it was enough.

************

ACT I

************

Georgetown

Five weeks later

2:36 a.m.

He crouches beside the crippled car, cursing under his breath at

the last, stubborn lug nut that refuses to give. The wrench clangs

against the asphalt and he pops sore fingers into his mouth in a

vain attempt to soothe them. A gust of wind stirs the branches of

the large oak tree and a wisp of cloud veils the sliver of moon,

turning poor visibility worse.

He eyes the wrench distastefully; pulls out his cell phone instead.

“Vickie? You were right, cara mia, I should’ve called a tow

truck…Okay, okay–no need to rub it in. Just come get me and I’ll

call someone from the house…You be careful, too. The road is

tricky in the dark…Yeah, I’ll be the good looking guy by the dead

Mazda.”

He chuckles quietly as he pockets the phone, warmed by the sound

of her voice. She’s someone he can count on, now more than ever.

He closes his eyes, gut twisting, an image of betrayal burned on his

retinas.

How could you? he asks the moon, the sky. Why would you?

He snatches up the wrench, throwing his entire body weight behind

the motion of his arms. The nut wiggles, then slowly begins to turn.

Elated, it takes him a moment to register the light splashing across

his back and spilling onto the ground around him. He glances over

his shoulder at the approaching vehicle, frowning when its engine

kicks up from a hum to a roar.

Dropping the wrench, he stands, one hand shading his eyes against

the glare. The car is moving much faster than the posted limit–not

unusual for this deserted stretch of road. He steps back, well onto

the road’s shoulder.

His mouth literally drops open with shock when he recognizes the

approaching vehicle. How many times has he ridden shotgun in

that truck, out for a beer after work or to celebrate the successful

close of a case? His feet unconsciously drift several steps forward,

his hand lifting in an automatic wave.

Until the truck veers sharply to the right, homing in on him like a

beacon. Too late, he understands, but his feet won’t cooperate,

tangling together in his panicked flight from the blinding lights…

“NOOOO!”

“Mulder. Mulder, wake up.”

Hands–one cupping the back of his neck, the other stroking up and

down his left arm. Mulder blinked, sweat stinging his eyes and

trickling between his shoulder blades, his gaze darting around the

darkened bedroom. He was unable to suppress a shudder when the

bright glow of a streetlight momentarily brought his fading dream

back into sharp relief.

“I’m all right.”

“Sure you are. That’s why your heart is banging like the drums in

that band Langly loves.”

He deliberately slowed his breathing and mustered a smirk. “An

unavoidable side effect of sharing a bed with a beautiful woman.”

Her hand slid down his arm and gently pried the sheet from his

clenched fist, her fingers twining with his. “Nice try. Want to tell

me about it?”

“You asking me to talk dirty to you, Scully?”

“Mulder.”

He flopped onto his back, drawing her down and tucking her head

beneath his chin. “No. I do not want to talk about it.”

“Do you realize how long it’s been since you slept through the

night? Mulder, if you’re not comfortable sharing this with me, then

maybe someone at the Bureau, in the EAP…”

He made a disgusted sound, something between a groan and a

snort. “Thanks, but no thanks. Scully, I’m a chronic insomniac and

I’ve been coping with nightmares since I was a kid. There’s no need

to make a mountain out of a molehill.”

“This is different, and you know it. It’s the same dream every night,

and it began after the shooting.” Scully propped her head on one

hand, tracing the puckered red scar beneath his right nipple with

her index finger. “Mulder, your heart stopped. You were…dead for

nearly three minutes before they managed to get you back. It’s not

unusual, in the face of that kind of trauma…”

“The only trauma I’m experiencing right now is the fear that I’ll die

from terminal boredom before they let me come back to work.”

When she simply stared at him, a small line of disapproval marring

her pale forehead, he sighed. “Scully, you worry too much. You

know, all things considered, I think I’m the one who got off easy

this time. I just lay there and bled–you had to watch.”

“That’s not funny.” But the rebuke was soft, and her voice

wavered.

Mulder reached up and threaded his fingers into her hair, his thumb

brushing back and forth across her cheek. “I know. I’m only

saying… I’m all right, Scully. You think I’m still experiencing

aftershocks from that night, but maybe you’re the one who needs to

let go.”

Scully covered the hand cradling her face, eyes over-bright.

“There’ve been so many close calls over the years… I don’t want to

consider how often I’ve watched your life hang by a thread. But it’s

different now. Harder.”

“Harder? Because we’re…together?”

A barely perceptible nod, teeth worrying her lip. “Not because it

hurts more. But because I can’t…compartmentalize the pain.”

Though his eyes revealed only empathy, one corner of Mulder’s

mouth twitched. The small line between Scully’s brows deepened.

“You think that’s funny? Mulder, I practically fell to pieces in front

of Skinner! If he didn’t suspect anything before, he sure as hell

should now.”

“I don’t think it’s funny. I think–I know you went through hell that

night, Scully. It’s just… I personally have never been very good at

what you call ‘compartmentalizing.’ If we follow your logic,

Skinner would have been convinced we were doing it like bunnies

as far back as your abduction.”

It worked. She struggled to hold onto outrage for a moment, lips

quivering, until a giggle slipped past her defenses. Ducking her

head, face buried in his neck, she snickered helplessly.

“Oh, God. I’m remembering all the times I told him I’d cover your

back. Gives the term a whole new meaning, don’t you th–”

A giggling Scully was both rare and irresistible. Mulder silenced

her laughter with a long kiss, then touched his forehead to hers. He

pitched his voice low, husky. “Speaking of doing it like bunnies…”

Scully shivered when his lips grazed her neck. “I have to be at

work in five hours, Mulder.”

“No problem.” His teeth found the spot just behind her left ear, the

one that turned her into a puddle of goo. “What I’ve got in mind

won’t take nearly that long…”

Georgetown

Next day

1:32 p.m.

“You know, SCREW you! We’re done!” Words spat out in a fit of

anger.

“Okay. Let’s meet her.” With one arm thrown wide in a gesture of

showmanship, the talk show host introduced his next guest.

A loud round of applause, cheering, and whistling as “she” turned

out to be a “he.”

“Heeey, howya doin’, Jairry? Hi, Jairry. Listen. Jairry,

I’m here to let you know that Chuck is not gonna be wit’ her no

more. He’s comin’ home with ME, child.”

“JERRY! JERRY! JERRY!”

Click.

Mulder tossed the remote onto the coffee table, lips curling in

disgust. If he had to sit through one more minute of daytime

television, he would not be held responsible for his actions.

Flopping against the back of the couch, he scrubbed at his face,

hands scraping roughly along his unshaven jaw. He lifted his right

arm and took a sniff, wincing as he imagined Scully’s reaction

when she came home from work to find him still sitting there,

unwashed and brain-dead.

He leaned forward, both arms resting on his knees, and cast a

guilty eye around the living room. Not only did he smell like a

pig, he was living like one too. Sighing heavily, Mulder pushed

himself to his feet, swaying slightly when the sudden change in

position sent the blood rushing straight from his head to his feet.

For five weeks he’d done nothing more strenuous than dress and

feed himself–oh, and suffer through those torture sessions

disguised as physical therapy–yet he felt as if he’d just run a

marathon. The less he did, the less he felt like doing. If he didn’t

snap out of it soon, no amount of arguing, cajoling or sweet-talking

on his part would stop Scully from packing him off to a Bureau

counselor quicker than you could say “psychoanalysis.”

Guarding the right side of his chest with his left hand, Mulder drew

in a deep breath and it out slowly. He shuffled toward the

bedroom, collecting his carelessly discarded sweatshirt from the

back of the couch, his sneakers from under the coffee table, and the

latest issue of “Eye Spy”–courtesy of Langly–from where it had

fallen down beside the couch. On his way back, he gathered up

several items of crockery and glassware that were currently

decorating Scully’s apartment like cheap china ornaments.

Depositing the dirty cups and plates into the sink, Mulder padded

out of the kitchen and headed for the bathroom.

He studied his face in the mirror, smearing shaving cream over his

jaw and cheeks. Still pale, he’d yet to regain the weight lost

following surgery and an extended hospital stay. It had been close

this time. He knew that. When first released from the hospital,

he’d wondered if he’d ever get back to feeling normal again.

Weakness had consumed him from head to toe, so crippling he’d

had to depend on Scully for even his most basic needs in those first

few days of freedom.

Now that he was up and about again, he desperately wanted to

work. To forget range-of-motion exercises and sink his teeth into

an X-File. All attempts to bypass Scully’s Nazi-like supervision,

however, had been thwarted by his physical therapist, who had

steadfastly refused to sign the forms allowing him to regain field

agent status. During his last session, she’d grudgingly agreed that

he could resume limited desk duty in a week. Not until he could

prove without doubt that he was pain-free and had regained his

prior strength and stamina would he be allowed in the field.

Mulder skillfully worked the razor through a mask of shaving

cream, leaving a path of baby-smooth skin in its wake. The

instinct of performing a task by rote took over. He let his mind

wander as he gazed vacantly into the mirror, watching his face

shift and shimmer out of focus, colors blending together, his

features morphing like reflections in a funhouse mirror. Until, for a

second, the man looking back at him ceased to resemble himself.

“What the…?”

His hand jerked, the razor slicing skin as it slipped through his

fingers. Spinning as if in slow motion, it hit the basin with a loud

clatter, splattering little globules of shaving cream on the tiles and

floor. Mulder thrust his chin forward, fingers pressed over the now

bleeding cut, stopping mere inches from the glass. No sign of the

stranger who had momentarily taken his place. Heart thumping in

his chest, he reached out a trembling hand and tentatively ran his

index finger over the mirror. Cool. Smooth. Normal. No bumps,

wrinkles, or cracks. Nothing to account for what he’d just seen.

Huffing quietly to himself, but still eyeing the mirror suspiciously,

he figured that maybe Scully was right. Maybe the nightmares

were getting to him.

He shook his head, attempting to clear the image stubbornly

imprinted on his mind–a dark-haired man with olive skin and

intense black eyes staring back at him. He was quite certain the

man was no one he knew, yet…disquietingly familiar.

Picking up the razor, Mulder finished his shave with quick, well-

practiced strokes. He rinsed the blade, left it on the sink, and

ambled over to the shower, peeling off his sweat-stained undershirt

as he went.

Once under the spray, Mulder leaned against the tile, one hand

held protectively across his chest to cover healing, still-sensitive

skin. He focused his mind on how good the hot water felt beating

down on tired, tight muscles and effectively shoved the stranger

from his thoughts.

After donning jeans and a clean sweatshirt, he pulled on his

sneakers and tied the laces. He needed to get out for awhile. Clear

his head. Being cooped up in the apartment was making him stir-

crazy–no wonder he was seeing things. Maybe he’d go to the

grocery store, buy something for dinner. He smiled to himself as

images of Scully walking through the door to a home-cooked meal

flashed through his mind. Scooping up his car keys with one hand

and grabbing his leather jacket from the coat tree with the other, he

headed out the door.

Mulder pulled the car into the stream of traffic, mentally ticking

off possible dinner menus. The first time he’d made dinner for

them both, Scully had been convinced he’d paid someone else to

cook it. He had carefully explained to her that just because he

chose not to cook didn’t mean he was incapable, feigning

indignation when she’d demanded to see evidence of his endeavor.

And why should he have expected anything less? Scully practically

wore the motto “seeing is believing” tattooed on her forehead.

He laughed quietly as he recalled her reaction to the mountain of

saucepans and dishes precariously stacked in and around the

kitchen sink. Standing by his refrigerator, cheeks pink, her mouth

opened and closed as she struggled to form an apology. After that

night, she’d never doubted his culinary prowess again.

Mulder stopped at an intersection, left turn signal blinking

insistently. He watched the flow of cars, vans, and trucks without

really seeing them, fingers lightly tapping the steering wheel to the

beat of the Rolling Stones while he waited for the light to change.

When red turned to green, giving him the all clear, Mulder gently

depressed the gas pedal and the car eased forward. A brightly-

colored blur; the high-pitched screech of tires. Mulder slammed

on the brakes, narrowly missing the small yellow convertible that

swerved, then plowed on through the intersection. A group of

rowdy teenagers waved their hands in the air and whooped in

delight as they ran the red light.

Heart hammering in his chest, Mulder ran trembling fingers

through his hair. Squealing tires. Bright lights. The roar of an

engine. A truck bearing down… Hazel eyes grew wide, then

narrowed. Pupils dilated, leaving just a tiny ring of green at the

edges.

Mulder stared ahead, unblinking, face bland yet strangely focused.

Oblivious to the horns blaring behind him.

With steady, controlled hands, he gripped the steering wheel,

flicking the indicator off with one finger. Taking a deep breath, he

pressed the gas pedal and the car lurched forward. Instead of

making the left turn that would take him to the Qwick Mart,

however, he drove straight ahead toward Connecticut Avenue,

following the signs to Route 185 just outside the city limits.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

ACT II

~~~~~~~~~~~~

4424 Eagle Court

Chevy Chase MD

4:13 p.m.

Suburbia yawned out before him, conservative and predictable.

Condominiums and townhouses stood tall and uniform along a

quiet, tree-lined street. Leaves fluttered gently into the gutter.

They rolled and danced along the sidewalk, covering lawns and

flowerbeds with a layer of brown and gold.

On any other day, he might have appreciated the subtle beauty, the

warm, secure feeling of living in a close-knit neighborhood.

Invitations to barbecues and summer picnics; children running

barefoot and laughing; kicking soccer balls and shooting hoops.

But not today. Not here.

His stomach twisted, tight and painful, lips pressing into a thin,

hard line. How could he have been so blind? Why? The question

hounded him, but there was no logical answer. The man had been

his friend, his paisano. Was he really such a poor judge of

character?

Welcomed into his home, they had shared pasta and beer, laughed

together as they retold anecdotes about their fellow agents.

Entertained each other with stories of miraculous solve rates and

exaggerated acts of heroism where they were always the stars.

He hadn’t wanted to believe it. Felt sure there must be another

explanation. But now, there was no denying the truth.

Reaffirming his resolve to set things right, he pushed the car faster,

no longer idly contemplating life in the suburbs and a friendship he

now knew to be a lie. Ignoring the buildings around him, he

steered the car down a familiar side street, toward a house he had

come to know like the back of his hand.

The car coasted to a stop beside the curb.

Across from an unfamiliar building.

In the middle of an unfamiliar neighborhood.

Mulder leaned his head back against the headrest, pushing the

heels of both hands into tired, burning eyes. His head pounded as

he tried to think through the situation. Where the hell was he?

And more to the point, how did he get here?

Swiveling his head to the right, brow creased in confusion, he

stared at the two-story duplex outside the window. A strong feeling

of deja vu sent tingling fingers of ice running over his body. He

shivered. The building seemed familiar somehow, but the feelings

it stirred up left a queasy sense of foreboding in his stomach.

Deciding that offense was the best form of defense, Mulder tugged

on the handle and shouldered the car door open. He stood on the

pavement, hand shielding his eyes from the mid-afternoon sun. A

short, cement path bridged the distance between sidewalk and front

door. A white rattan chair sat on a small porch to the left of the

door, and a pot bearing the remains of a dry, shriveled geranium

stood to the right.

He sidestepped a tired-looking “For Sale” sign embedded in the

front yard, the tiny thatch of weeds huddled close to its wooden

post bearing witness that the house had been on the market for

some time.

Wiping a small cobweb from the doorbell, he firmly pressed the

button, ears tuned for the sound of approaching footsteps. But,

other than the bell’s hollow chime, there was silence. Already

formulating his next plan of action, Mulder rapped loudly on the

wooden door, just to be certain the house was empty.

A few minutes later, puffing slightly from the effort of climbing

the side fence, Mulder stood at the kitchen window, hands framing

his face as he pressed his nose against the dusty pane of glass. A

small gap in the curtains revealed empty shelves and counters,

devoid of the usual paraphernalia that would normally accompany

a thriving household. By craning his neck slightly to the left,

Mulder was able to get a limited view of the living room. Stark

and empty. No furniture anywhere to be seen.

He puffed a small sigh of relief. There was time to take a good

look around without fear of discovery. A tall, wood fence on the

eastern side of the unit sheltered him from nosy neighbors.

As he made his way around back, he found only chain-link fencing

between the house and its attached neighbor. Muttering quietly

under his breath about lack of privacy, he decided to go for broke.

Taking a quick glance over the fence, he strode confidently up to

the back door and jiggled the knob.

Locked. Well, what had he expected?

Stepping back he peered up at the second story windows. All

shuttered against the world with tightly drawn curtains.

About ready to admit defeat, Mulder hesitated, then dropped to his

haunches when a quick flicker of yellow drew his attention.

Caught amongst a tangle of overgrown dandelions was a ten-inch

length of plastic, flapping uselessly in the gentle breeze. Mulder

immediately recognized it for what it was.

A torn strip of yellow and black tape, used for cordoning off crime

scenes.

Dread pierced him and bile rose in his throat. He pursed his lips

together and swallowed hard, fighting back the inexplicable

nausea.

Pulling the errant piece of thin plastic free, Mulder rolled it up and

shoved it into his pocket. He wasn’t even sure why; just had a

feeling it was important.

“Excuse me?”

Mulder shot to his feet and spun around, feeling like a teenager

caught soaping windows. A young woman stood at the chain-link

fence, brown hair caught into a ponytail and a baby propped on her

hip.

“Can I help you–sir?” The last was an afterthought, dripping with

suspicion.

Mulder crossed the yard, rubbing his palms against his jeans to

remove the grit. He pasted on his most winsome smile and

extended his hand.

“Hello. I’m…” For an instant it was as if his brain locked, and he

fumbled awkwardly for his own name. “…Fox Mulder.”

She studied the hand, then his face with narrowed eyes. “Well, Mr.

Mulder, I can’t help wondering why you’ve been prowling around

that house like a cat sizing up its next meal.”

He chuffed softly, abruptly conscious of his worn blue jeans and

leather jacket. “It’s not the way it might appear. I’m an FBI agent.”

She shifted the squirming baby to the other hip, one eyebrow

executing an amazing Scully imitation. “Well, at least you’re

creative. I have to admit, I’ve never heard THAT one before.”

Mulder opened his mouth to protest; settled for producing his ID

instead. She leaned in close, eyes darting between the picture and

his face, then nodded.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said, in a tone that was anything but.

“After all the goings on over the past year, I’ve learned you can’t be

too careful–just too trusting.”

“Perfectly understandable, Ms…”

“Gilmore. Wendy Gilmore. Do you mind telling my why you’re

here? I mean, I just assumed once they convicted Monica’s killer

we wouldn’t be seeing the police anymore. The house has been on

the market for nearly three months.”

“Well…you’re correct, actually. I was just…ah…checking that we’d

cleared the scene. Good thing I did.” Mulder pulled the piece of

yellow crime tape from his pocket. “Not exactly the best

advertisement for selling a house.”

“At this point I’d be willing to try anything.” Wendy pried the end

of her ponytail from the baby’s fist. “It’s been kind of eerie seeing

the place stand empty. Just another reminder of Monica’s death.”

She frowned. “I don’t remember seeing you when the other agents

questioned me.”

“I came late to the party.” Mulder pressed on when her eyes

darkened at the flip choice of words. “I really don’t know much

about the case. You said she was murdered?”

Wendy clutched the baby closer to her breast, brushing her lips

across his downy head. “She was stabbed–with her own kitchen

knife. How creepy is that?” She swallowed hard. “She didn’t

deserve to die that way. She had everything going for her–beauty,

brains…”

“Sounds like you thought highly of her.”

Wendy huffed, amused. “Agent Mulder, I love my family. But

lately the highlight of my day is sharing a dinner of Hamburger

Helper with my husband. Sometimes I even get to sit down.” As if

to illustrate her point, the baby emitted a throaty whine and kicked

his chubby legs.

“Monica Mitchell had a high-paying job, an exciting social life,

and a body that most of us can only dream of. Let’s just say I got a

vicarious thrill listening to her talk.”

Mulder’s smile felt forced. A vague, intangible disquiet had taken

root somewhere in his chest from the moment Wendy began

discussing her neighbor’s murder. An extension of the overall

“wrongness” he’d felt since inexplicably finding himself at a crime

scene instead of the grocery store.

“At least they caught the guy who did it,” he said, glancing over

his shoulder when a sudden gust of wind rattled a shutter. “It may

be too late for your neighbor, but he won’t be able to hurt anyone

else.”

Wendy’s gaze turned distant and she slowly shook her head. “I

suppose. It’s just…I never would have thought him capable of such

a thing, you know?”

“Excuse me?”

“Monica’s ex. I met the guy, talked to him several times, and he

seemed real nice. Not that I’m naïve enough to think he’d have the

word “killer” tattooed on his forehead, but I guess I thought I was a

better judge of character.”

“Her ex-husband was the killer?”

It was more a verbal expression of his surprise than a question, and

Mulder momentarily forgot his audience. Wendy’s eyes clouded

with suspicion and her voice cooled ten degrees.

“Not husband. Boyfriend. And he didn’t just kill Monica; there

were four other women, too. For someone who’s supposedly

involved in the case, you sure don’t know much. Don’t they work

with you new guys–bring you up to speed?”

“I’m kind of an independent, ‘hands on’ learner.”

She squinted at him as if gauging his sincerity. “What happened to

that other agent–the one who asked me all the questions? You

should talk to him.” When Mulder hesitated, searching for a

response, she continued impatiently. “You know–the Italian guy.

Sam…no, Sal. He said his name was Sal something.”

She removed her hair from the baby’s fist yet again, this time

provoking an ear-splitting wail. Struggling to retain her grip on the

now wriggling, flailing child, she moved away from the fence.

“I have to go. Jack needs a bottle and my husband should be home

any minute. But I guess you’ll be leaving now anyway, won’t you,

Agent Mulder?”

Mulder’s lips twitched at the less than subtle message beneath the

innocent question. “Yes, I will. Thank you for your time, Ms.

Gilmore. You’ve been very helpful.”

She backed toward the house with a shake of her head. “If you

don’t mind me saying so, Agent Mulder, you really ought to do

your homework next time you get a new case. They’re never going

to trust you with a real investigation if you don’t know what’s

going on.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

Mulder watched her until she disappeared into the house, then

walked slowly back to his car. He slid behind the wheel and

plugged the key into the ignition, yet made no attempt to start the

engine. Instead he stared at the vacant house, thinking about

Monica Mitchell and wondering why the death of a stranger left

him feeling so unsettled and confused. He scrubbed at the

throbbing behind his right eye, abruptly exhausted.

Still eyeing the house, he turned the key. With a sigh, he grasped

the gear shift, nearly groaning aloud when his gaze caught the

LED display on the dash.

5:34.

Scully would be home by now, wondering where he’d gone, why

her apartment looked like a landfill, and what was for dinner.

He was a dead man.

Putting the car into drive and Monica Mitchell out of his mind, he

hit the gas and headed home.

Georgetown

5:32 p.m.

“Mulder?”

Scully nudged the door shut and slipped her keys back into her

pocket. Shadows bathed the apartment and the television stood

mute. She moved quietly down the hallway to the bedroom, half

expecting to find him draped across the mattress, asleep. Despite

his incessant moaning and groaning about returning to work,

Mulder had yet to regain his stamina. The legendary insomniac

was now known to nod off before 9:00, and often napped during

the day.

The nightmares weren’t helping.

She paused in the doorway to the bedroom, a frown creasing her

brow. Empty. He’d obviously gone out–but where? He’d known

she would be home early tonight, had made several lewd

suggestions regarding an “appetizer” before dinner. She was a bit

embarrassed to realize just how eagerly she’d anticipated the

possibilities on the drive home.

Sighing, she put away her briefcase and changed into jeans and an

oversized sweatshirt. Shoving the sleeves to her elbows, she then

made a circuit through the apartment, collecting dirty glasses and

sunflower seed husks. Once in the kitchen, she added her findings

to those already in the sink, filled it with hot, soapy water and left

everything to soak while she raided the cupboards for dinner fare.

After several minutes both her temper and her patience had run

out, and she phoned for a pizza. Vegetarian, extra mushrooms.

That’d teach him.

She curled up on the couch with a trashy romance novel in a

hopeless attempt to soothe herself. Instead, her gaze constantly

wandered to the clock and the restless tingle in her stomach

intensified.

It was ridiculous to worry about him–absurd. He was a grown

man, perfectly able to take care of himself. The surgical scar had

faded from angry red to pale pink, injured tissues and muscle

successfully knitted together. The pain, once crippling in its

intensity, had faded to an occasional twinge, though he’d formed

the unconscious habit of guarding the right side of his chest with

one hand. And even if he’d yet to recover his optimal weight and

muscle tone, he’d come a long way from those first weeks after the

shooting, when all his clothes seemed a size too large and his jeans

rode low on bony hips.

Mulder was right–she had to let go of her own fears regarding this

brush with death. But it was so much easier said than done. She

vividly recalled his first day home from the hospital, when simply

getting him to the bathroom had been a major ordeal. Forced to

accept her support while he relieved himself, he’d wept from the

pain and embarrassment, too weak to control his emotions. She’d

tucked him into her bed and held him until he slept, murmuring

over and over that he was alive and she loved him. That everything

else was incidental to those truths.

Realizing she’d read the same paragraph three times, Scully

checked the clock. 6:09. If he wasn’t home in twenty minutes…

Footsteps, the jingle of keys, and the door swung slowly open.

Mulder slipped in, saw her on the couch, and managed a weak

smile.

“Hey, Scully. You did get home early. Reading, huh? Is that a

good book?”

She bit the inside of her cheek, too irritated to let him see her

amusement. Everything about Mulder screamed guilt–from the

hunched shoulders and babbled greeting to his complete failure to

harass her about her choice of reading material. It was pitiful,

really. She ought to be kind and go easy on him.

As if.

“Where are they, Mulder?”

His face went blank. “What?”

“Where are the groceries? That’s why you’re late, isn’t it? Because

you were out getting groceries for the gourmet meal you’re going

to cook for me?”

The emotion that darkened his expressive features was strong,

brief, and not at all what she’d expected. Guilt, yes, but mixed with

confusion and something that looked like…fear.

“I’m sorry, Scully. I know it sounds lame, but I really did intend to

make you dinner. I just…I lost track of time.”

He moved toward her as he spoke, peeling off the leather jacket

and laying it on a chair. When his face hit the light from the

reading lamp she saw lines around his eyes and the corners of his

mouth–unmistakable signals of pain and fatigue.

It doused the remainder of her anger like a bucket of cold water.

She set aside the book and reached her hand toward him. “Mulder,

come here and sit down. Are you all right? Are you in pain?”

He came willingly, sinking into the cushions with a soft grunt, one

hand pressed to his chest. “I’m okay, it’s just a headache. I…I took

a drive and wound up going farther than I intended. I’m sorry if I

worried you.”

No impatience with her concern? No jibe to stop mothering him?

Scully frowned but said nothing, tugging him down until

his head rested in her lap, long legs stretched the length of the

couch. She gently massaged her fingers through his hair,

concentrating on the area around his temples. Mulder sighed like a

weary child and turned his face into the soft fabric of her

sweatshirt, one arm slipping around her waist.

“Sorry, Scully. Was gonna make dinner. Got sidetracked.”

Short, mumbled phrases and heavy eyelids. He was drifting off

already.

“You have to pace yourself, Mulder. No matter how good you feel,

you can’t go running around like nothing happened; you’ll only set

back your recovery.”

“Didn’t mean to. Went to the store. Don’t know how…how I got…”

The words trailed off into slow, deep breaths and he grew heavier

in her arms.

Scully continued to absent-mindedly thread her fingers through his

hair while she attempted to rationalize the tingling disquiet his

words provoked. After several minutes, when it appeared Mulder

was truly down for the count, she extracted herself from his

embrace and returned to the kitchen to wash dishes.

The sink emptied, the pizza man came and went, and Mulder slept

on. All hopes for romance relinquished, Scully had plopped two

slices of pizza on paper plates and was pouring drinks when the

first soft sounds of distress drifted in from the living room.

Another nightmare.

She braced her palms on the counter, fighting the rising tide of

frustration and weariness that threatened to overwhelm her. As

distressing as the chronic nightmares were for Mulder, they were

fast becoming hazardous to her own mental health. Reserves

depleted from five weeks spent nurturing the man back to health–

sometimes kicking and screaming–she found it increasingly

difficult to be cast in the roll of therapist as well as doctor, lover,

and occasional babysitter.

Another soft moan and the sound of thrashing limbs put her in

motion. Mulder was huddled in the corner of the couch, wide eyes

staring through her at whatever personal hell his mind had

conjured. He was muttering something, but so low and garbled she

could barely make it out.

“…my friend…trusted, I…no…NOOO! Vickie! Vickieeeee!”

The name ended in a sharp cry and he doubled over, one hand

pressed to his chest as he struggled for breath.

Scully sprinted the last few steps to the couch, heart pounding.

Mulder’s behavior–the hand clutching his chest, the frantic gasps

for air–was eerily reminiscent of the moments after the shooting.

She squeezed onto the cushions, facing him, and laid one hand on

his leg.

“Mulder. Mulder, are you all right? Talk to me.”

He lifted his head just enough for her to make out features

contorted in pain. “Hurts…can’t…can’t breathe…Vickie…help me.”

Vickie? Who the hell was Vickie?

Scully grasped his chin but was unable to make his glazed eyes

focus on her own. Stunned, for a moment all she could do was

watch him pant and shiver.

He was still asleep.

Breaking out of her daze, she cupped his face between both palms

and resorted to her rarely-used Skinner voice. “Mulder! Wake up,

you’re dreaming.”

His entire body jerked as if zapped with live current and he

blinked, eyes clear but confused. She watched, astonished, as his

respiration immediately dropped to normal and he slowly uncurled,

hands coming up to tug hers from his cheeks.

“Scully? What’s the matter? Where…?”

“You were having a nightmare. Do you remember?”

Comprehension, and for an instant his open, unguarded expression

revealed fear. Then his gaze slid away to the window and she

could practically hear the bricks sliding into place as the walls

came up.

“It’s pretty fuzzy.”

Something inside her snapped and she abruptly became furious.

She yanked her hands from his and stood, eyes like flint.

“Don’t you dare hold out on me. In case you haven’t noticed, this

isn’t just a partnership anymore, Mulder–it’s a relationship. That

bullet tore my life apart as surely as it did yours, and I’ll be damned

if I’m going to let you treat me as if I’ve somehow got less invested

in your recovery.”

“Scully, it’s not a big deal. I just…”

She’d turned her back and walked halfway across the room before

he called out, voice breaking, “If I don’t understand what the hell is

happening to me, how can I explain it to you?”

She turned; studied his face. Fear. Anger. Devastating

vulnerability.

“Who’s Vickie?”

His complete bewilderment could not have been feigned. “Vickie?

I don’t know a Vickie.”

Scully retraced her steps; sank down beside him on the couch.

“You called for her during your nightmare, Mulder. Begged her to

help you. You sounded terrified.”

“Scully, I don’t know anyone named Vickie. You’re the only one

I’d call for help.”

“What was the dream about?”

Shoulder companionably nestled into his side, she clearly felt him

stiffen. “Same thing it’s always about. My death.”

Shocked, she leaned forward to peer into his eyes. “You’re

dreaming about the shooting? Mulder, why haven’t you said

anything? You need to talk to someone, to…”

“Not the shooting.” His voice was biting.

“Then what?”

A long pause. “I’m on a deserted road, changing a tire. It’s dark.

I…I think…”

She took his hand, wriggling her warm fingers between his cool

ones. “Go on.”

“There’s bright lights…an engine. I think…I think I get hit by a car.”

Scully tightened her grip, considering. “It’s not as odd as it might

seem, Mulder. Gunshot or car, it still points back to extreme

trauma. Your mind has just chosen a different image to…”

“There’s more to it than that.”

“More? How?”

He chewed on his lip, shifting uneasily. “I’m… There’s this feeling

of anger, of betrayal. When the lights come, I…” He turned his face

to the window.

Scully waited. When he didn’t continue, she touched his cheek,

gently redirecting his gaze to her face. “When the lights come…?”

“I think…I think it’s someone I know.”

“You mean it’s deliberate?”

His gaze dropped to their joined hands, but she saw the admission

in his eyes.

“Mulder…”

“Scully, I already know what you’re going to say. You’re going to

tell me that these dreams are an extension of my feelings of

helplessness during the shooting. That I need to get some therapy,

talk to a shrink.”

“You’re very perceptive.”

“But it’s not that simple! I’m a psychologist; I know all about

repressed trauma, PTSD, and this isn’t it.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because in my dream I’m not even me!”

Silence. Mulder flushed, releasing her hand and standing up. “I’ve

got a killer headache. I’m going to get some aspirin.”

“Mulder, what did you mean, ‘I’m not even me’?”

He ran an unsteady hand down the side of his face, reasserting

control. “Nothing. I don’t know what I’m saying. Scully, I really

don’t want to talk about this any more. I’m going to find those

aspirin, and then we can have dinner. I smell pizza, don’t I?”

“Mulder…”

But he was gone, and a moment later she heard the bathroom door

close. Shutting him off from her as firmly and decisively as his

words.

~~~~~~~~~~~

ACT III

~~~~~~~~~~~

Quantico

10:02 a.m.

“Can I help you, sir?”

Mulder flipped his ID open and held it up for the guard to see.

“Special Agent Mulder. I’m here to collect some casefiles.”

“Yes, sir.” The man disappeared inside the guardhouse and

returned with a clipboard and a visitor’s pass. “Sign here.”

Mulder scrawled his signature and pinned the pass onto his jacket.

The guard checked to see if the signature on his ID matched the

one in front of him. Deciding all was in order, he raised the boom

gate and waved Mulder through. “Have a nice day.”

He drove toward the honey-colored building, its architecture more

akin to a five-star hotel than an academy that taught both green

recruits and seasoned agents how to catch serial killers, rapists and

kidnappers. Mulder ignored the various items of military

paraphernalia lining the road, his thoughts centered on his yet-to-

be-resolved argument with Scully. Strained silence and small talk

had dominated breakfast, a poor cover-up for the real issues being

sidestepped. He knew his refusal to discuss his dream both

hurt and angered her, yet couldn’t bring himself to bare his soul for

her analysis. As much as he loved Scully, there were times when

her strict rationalization drove him to distraction.

Not that he could blame her for jumping to the wrong conclusion.

Outwardly he was displaying all the classic symptoms of a man

experiencing the aftermath of extreme trauma. How could he

explain to her the details of what was going on inside his head

without reinforcing her suspicions? Vivid flashes of memory that

bore no relation to his life. Winding up at the scene of a crime with

no recollection of driving there. And his nightmares…Real enough

to make him believe he was reliving an actual trauma. But whose?

No, this was different. And if Scully needed proof, then he’d find

it. Starting with Monica Mitchell’s death.

Flapping against the lapel of his jacket with each footfall, the

visitor’s pass allowed Mulder hassle-free access to the BSU

bullpen. Computer keys clacking out an erratic beat, men and

women with faces too worn and haggard for the early hour sat

huddled together, poring over autopsy reports and crime scene

photos, lab data and eyewitness testimony. So engrossed in their

investigations, they failed to notice him weaving his way between

desks and white boards towards the elevator.

“Hey! Hey, Spookster! Is that you?”

Instinctively Mulder turned, cursing his reflexes when he saw the

smiling face of his one-time colleague, Joey Marcos, bearing down

on him like a shark scenting blood. The man, a good six inches

shorter than Mulder, approached with hand extended in greeting

and a bounce in his step that was far too carefree for a man in his

line of work.

“Hey, it is you, man. How ya doin’, Spooks?” Joey gripped

Mulder’s hand in both of his and shook it with exaggerated

enthusiasm.

“Joey. Long time no see.” Mulder discreetly wiped the lingering

clamminess from Joey’s palm along the leg of his pants.

“You got that right. What brings you to this neck of the woods?

Aren’t you supposed to be off chasing little green men or

something?” He whizzed his index finger through the air making

suitable UFO sound effects.

Mulder gave him a well-practiced look of long-suffering that

involved rolled eyes and incorporated Scully’s eyebrow.

The look he kept on standby for just this kind of remark.

Oblivious to his former co-worker’s silent rebuke, Joey continued

on, “Heard a rumor, Mulder. That you were down for the count.

Looking pretty damn good for a dead guy.”

“Yeah, well, you know what they say: ‘The reports of my death

have been greatly exaggerated.'”

“So, watcha doin’ back here?”

“Confined to desk duty. I’m stuck with grunt work at the moment.

Fetch this, bring that–at least till the doc declares me fit enough to

return to field agent status.”

“Bummer.”

“Hey, you might be able to help me, Joey. I’m looking for some

information on a recent murder victim. Monica Mitchell. She was

killed in her home. Lived in Chevy Chase.”

Marcos crossed his right arm over his chest, propped his left elbow

on his clasped hand and stroked his chin. “Monica. Mitchell. Help

me out, man, you know we’re working 40 or 50 cases at any given

time. I need more information–we don’t all have your mystical

powers of recall.”

“She was fourth in a string of serial murders, killed by her ex-

boyfriend. Stabbed. She…”

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Yeah, I got who you’re talkin’

about. The guy…damn, what was his name…what the hell was his

name…? Yeah, anyway, he swore he was innocent–find me a perp

who isn’t, right? The judge gave him the death penalty. ‘Course

he’s appealing, still swears he didn’t do it.” He gave a soft snort,

not really laughing. “Want to hear something funny–strange, I

mean? The agent who worked that case went and got himself

killed. A hit and run, no witnesses. Still…”

Joey’s voice droned on. Drowned out by the sound of an engine.

Headlights. Pain. Can’t breathe…

“Hey!” A firm hand gripped his shoulder, and Mulder jolted back

to the present. He blinked, eyes gradually focusing on Marcos’s

worried face.

“Spooks? You okay, man?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.” A sudden sense of urgency arced through

him, making his skin tingle and his heart race. Mulder checked his

watch. “Hey, listen Joey, I gotta go. AD Skinner’s breathing down

my neck for those files. Maybe…”

“The case is closed, Mulder. ‘Fraid you’re gonna have to go diving

deep to find ’em. Better you than me, man. I hate crawlin’ around

in that rathole.”

“I know what you mean. Still it beats the alternative.”

Joey raised his eyebrows.

“Wire tap.”

“Ooh, you got it. ‘Kay, Spooks, catchya later, man. Say hey to

your pretty partner for me.”

“I will.”

Mulder continued toward the elevator, berating himself for his

carelessness. Joey “The Mouth” Marcos. Of all the people to meet.

If Scully heard about his latest little jaunt, he’d be traveling on a

one way ticket to the hotel with the padded rooms. Wearing one of

those nice jackets with the long arms that tied in back.

Two quick shoves at the call button, then Mulder stood back,

waiting for the elevator to make its way up from the basement.

Preoccupied with his own thoughts, Mulder didn’t notice the agent

with thinning blond hair who had set aside his work in favor of

tracking Mulder’s progress through the bullpen. Or realize that the

same man had been unobtrusively listening to his conversation with

Joey.

A soft rumble, a ding of arrival, and the doors slid open to an

empty car. Mulder stepped inside, pressed the button marked “B,”

then stood against the back wall.

The elevator descended on well-oiled cables, the smooth, steady

ride an antithesis to the turmoil that writhed in Mulder’s stomach.

The deeper he traveled, the stronger the urgency thrummed

through his body.

Mulder stepped into the corridor and headed toward the vault

where closed cases were filed. His breath sounded unnaturally

loud in his own ears and his footfalls echoed along the empty hall.

When he reached the door he was looking for, he stopped with one

hand on the knob, heart hammering in his chest.

What the hell was wrong with him?

By sheer will alone, he pushed the feelings of disquiet aside and

entered the room. The air smelled musty and stale. Like the victims

in their graves, this was the final resting place for days, months or

sometimes years, of hard investigative work.

He wandered along the rows of cabinets, keen eyes scanning the

alphabetically labeled drawers until he reached the start of the ‘M’s.

All five rows of them. Within seconds he found the correct

drawer. He yanked it open and started flicking through names,

stopping when he hit the jackpot: “Mitchell, Monica.” With a little

patience and cross-referencing, he’d soon collected folders for the

four related murders, as well.

Balancing the Mitchell folder on top of the stack, Mulder rifled

through the contents, eyes skimming the various documents.

Autopsy reports, findings from the Coroner and the ME,

statements from potential witnesses–all were clipped together, an

envelope marked “crime scene photos” tucked underneath. As he

sifted through the papers, he checked names and signatures at the

top and bottom of each page.

All seemed routine and in order. What was he supposed to be

seeing?

Then, from amongst the thick wad of papers, a name jumped out at

him.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and gooseflesh ran

in tiny bumps along his arms.

Wendy Gilmore’s voice and puzzled expression played through his

mind.

What happened to that other agent, the one who asked me all the

questions? Said his name was Sal something…

And Joey, obviously shaken…

The agent working that case went and got himself killed.

Hit and run.

Mulder swallowed hard, fear like a physical presence peering over

his shoulder as he stared at the name in front of him. The agent of

record: Sal DeAngelo.

Weak-kneed, heart racing, Mulder flipped the folder shut. Then,

with very little thought for the consequences, he slipped the files

under his arm and left the vault. Moving catlike along the corridor,

he returned to the elevator and pushed the button. He watched the

floor indicator, willing it to move faster, foot tapping a nervous

patter on the ground and legs jiggling like a hyperactive toddler.

His uncanny run of luck continued when the elevator arrived, still

empty. Climbing aboard, Mulder licked dry lips with an equally

parched tongue. Sweat dribbled between his shoulder blades,

gluing cotton to skin.

The ride up seemed interminably longer than the one going down,

and the unconscious foot tapping resumed. When the doors finally

opened onto the BSU bullpen, Mulder tucked the files inside his

suitcoat, pasted on his best “butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-my-mouth”

smile, and strode purposefully towards the exit, making sure his

gaze didn’t waver from his destination.

He never noticed the blond man make his way casually to the exit.

Standing quietly in the shadow of an indoor plant, he watched

Mulder walk to his car and drive off.

Alexandria

11:46 a.m.

He moved through his apartment with all the finesse of a runaway

freight train. Keys hit the coffee table with a muted clank. Jacket

went flying across the living room in the general direction of the

couch, settling across the armrest and seat cushions. The soft thud

as his ID and wallet slipped from the inside pocket and landed on

the floor was completely overlooked in the frenzy of activity.

With a quick jab of his index finger, and a flick of a switch, both

computer and monitor whirred into life.

Now what? He stood by the computer desk and looked around the

apartment. The air smelled stale, musty. After nearly six weeks

since he’d spent a night here, it felt like a stranger’s place and not

his home. Cold and stark. But perfect for what he needed to do.

Mulder sat on his couch, feet propped on the coffee table and the

files resting on his bent knees. Paging quickly through the sheets

of paper he found what he was looking for.

The profile written by Sal DeAngelo. He stared at the name on the

page, ignoring the throbbing pain building behind his left eye.

Photos. Lab reports. Testimonies. Five violent deaths laid out in

excruciating detail. For nearly two hours, Mulder studied the

contents of each folder–comparing, contrasting. Looking for

something, anything to tell him why an unknown force seemed

determined to involve him in the death of a woman he’d never met.

As he moved back and forth between the profile and each case, he

found it.

A male, thirty-five to fifty, the profile stated. Highly intelligent,

yet lacking interpersonal skills. A loner, an ugly duckling with an

extreme hatred for the type of beautiful woman he’s certain will

never give him a second glance. He’s meticulous about the details

of each murder–from the type of victim to the execution. It’s all

about violating them–forced entry into the home, rape, even the

removal of valuable personal items as trophies. The depth and

proliferation of the stab wounds are indicative of the extreme fury

that drives him to kill.

Sal DeAngelo was obviously very good at what he did. His profile

fit the perpetrator of first four crimes like a glove, the details of

each scene so similar as to be nearly interchangeable. He’d painted

a vivid picture of an individual whose deep sense of inadequacy

and uncontrollable rage had compelled him to commit a series of

heinous crimes.

Monica Mitchell’s death, however, was not one of them. And

unless Mulder had completely lost his touch, Gary Jansen was no

serial murderer.

Far fewer stab wounds, their depth–except for the fatal strike

through her heart–shallow. Though a rape kit revealed she’d been

penetrated, there was no accompanying bruising or tearing.

Perhaps most telling of all, a thorough inventory had turned up no

missing valuables. Add to that the fact that she and Gary had a

prior, long-term relationship, that he’d been dating another woman

for nearly six months at the time of Monica’s murder…

“You convicted the wrong man. Gary Jansen is going to die for a

crime he never committed.” Mulder lifted a crime scene photo,

staring at the dark-haired man crouching over Monica Mitchell’s

body. “Is that what this is all about?”

Moving to his computer, Mulder wiggled the mouse and brought

the screen to light. He clicked on bookmarks and went straight to

“The Washington Post Online.” Following the links he surfed his

way to the archives, hesitating for a second before pulling up the

obituaries. He typed “Sal DeAngelo” into the search engine,

holding his breath as the computer sifted through files.

Bingo!

Oh God.

He sucked in a deep breath, a useless attempt to still the trembling

that wracked his body. “Salvatore DeAngelo, 42, died of injuries

sustained when he was struck by a car sometime during the early

morning hours on August 2, 2002.” Mulder read the sentence four

times, one hand pressed to his chest.

He’d been shot on August 2nd. While Sal DeAngelo had been busy

dying along a deserted road, he’d been lying in a hospital across

town, engaged in the same activity.

Skimming further through the listing, Mulder searched for more

details. “…an agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation…

survived by his wife, Victoria…”

Vickie.

The dream. Scully’s worried voice. Who’s Vickie? His confused

response. Vickie? I don’t know any Vickie.

Mulder buried his head in his hands, fingers massaging the

nagging pain in his temple. God, what was happening to him? He

needed to know. To find out everything about Sal.

He pushed himself back from the desk, opened a drawer, and

pulled out the phone book. He had a name, and a suburb. Within

minutes, he had an address.

Scooping his jacket off the couch and the keys from the table,

Mulder headed out the door.

***************

He felt strange. Disconnected. As if his body had staged a coup,

limbs functioning according to their own, private agenda. Mulder

tightened his fingers on the steering wheel, squinting against the

headache that pulsed just behind his eyes. He passed a dry cleaning

establishment, then a bank, skin tingling with an increasingly

powerful sensation of déjà vu. For a split second he could picture

himself fumbling to hold onto several clean suits in slippery plastic

bags that slithered out of his grasp to puddle on the concrete.

Could hear himself bantering with the teller at the drive-up

window, a young girl named Rose who teased him about his

accent.

Accent?

Mulder blinked, gave a sharp shake of his head. Where had that

come from? He tore his gaze from the buildings and focused on the

road, turning right, then left, and right again.

Ten minutes later he’d exchanged the bustling city atmosphere for

a quiet, nearly deserted stretch of road lined with mature trees. As

he rounded a curve, a particularly large tree caught his attention.

His foot slammed down onto the brake with such force the tires

squealed in protest. More screeching tires, and the driver directly

behind him leaned on his horn. Mulder pulled onto the shoulder,

oblivious to the shouted obscenities and upraised middle finger of

the irate driver who zoomed past.

He got out of the car, left it idling on the edge of the road as he

walked slowly toward the tree–an oak, long dead, its branches

twisted and devoid of leaves. His gaze dropped to the ground

beneath the tree, the dirt still bearing faint impressions of multiple

tire tracks. His heartbeat doubled and gooseflesh broke out on his

arms as the world narrowed to a pinprick of light and sound.

Night air, cooling the sweat on the back of his neck as he struggles

with the wrench in his hands.

Headlights–brilliant and blinding in the darkness.

Recognition, followed rapidly by disbelief.

Betrayal.

Terror.

Heart pounding, legs tangling, falling…

Bright agony.

He clutched his chest, legs crumpling until he was kneeling in the

dirt. His lungs burned like fire as he gasped and panted for air.

“Mister, are you all right? Do you need help?”

The voice cut through the haze and he abruptly realized both eyes

were clamped tightly shut. He cracked them open, turning his head

toward the road. A yellow Volkswagen Beetle hovered on the

shoulder about ten feet away. The driver, a young girl who could

not have been more than seventeen, was watching him uneasily.

“‘S okay. ‘M all right. Just…just tripped.” He pried one hand away

from his chest and waved her onward, forming his lips into what

he hoped was a convincing smile.

She hesitated only briefly before nodding. “Okay, then. If you’re

sure.” Her car was moving before she finished speaking, the relief

on her face painfully obvious.

The vise across his chest was loosening, his respiration easing. He

stood and dusted off his pants, frowning at the dark stains on his

knees. Vickie was gonna kill him.

He walked slowly back and climbed behind the wheel, carefully

maneuvering the car into the light flow of traffic. By the time he

pulled into the driveway his breathing had returned to normal, the

terror of his experience on the roadside fading, eclipsed by the

need to find his files.

He tried three different keys before conceding that he’d somehow

lost the one to the front door. Ringing the bell produced no result–

Vickie must be out shopping. Whistling softly he walked around to

the back porch, retrieved the spare key taped under the picnic

table, and let himself inside.

Drawn drapes left the living room heavily shadowed and silent

except for the hushed ticking of the mantle clock. He slipped off

his suitcoat and laid it over the back of a chair, one hand gliding

along the banister as he climbed to the second floor. Four steps

down the hallway and he paused in the bedroom doorway,

forehead creasing at the rumpled bed and scattered clothing. Not

like Vickie to leave a mess–she was normally almost anal in her

neatness.

Shrugging, he continued to the room kitty-corner from the

bedroom. His room. The study.

He dropped into the desk chair and flicked on the computer.

Lacing his fingers behind his neck, he swiveled, letting his gaze

wander as he waited for the machine to boot up. The bookcase,

shelves lined with texts on law, psychology, and forensics. His

doctorate in criminal psychology from Georgetown, framed and

hanging beside the letter of commendation received after his

successful resolution of the Berkshire kidnapping. His “lucky”

paperweight, the marble surface polished smooth by the many

hours spent in his hand as he worked through a profile.

He sat forward, frown returning as his gaze continued to pan across

the room. No empty coffee mugs, no soda cans, and not a single

article of shed clothing. Everything in its place, but neat as a pin.

Why had Vickie been cleaning in here? She normally referred to

the study as “your territory,” steadfastly refusing to tidy the area

for fear of disturbing vital paperwork.

And speaking of paperwork, what about all his files? He’d been

researching a couple of profiles, but the folders no longer rested in

their customary spot on the corner of his desk. Where would

Vickie have moved them, and why?

Resolving to question her later, he pulled a floppy disk from the

drawer and loaded it into the drive, then pulled up his email

account. The mechanical voice cheerfully told him what he already

knew–he had mail. All animation seeped from his features as he

opened his inbox and retrieved the email that had changed

everything.

I’m not a whore and I don’t intend to be treated like one. I wonder

how the lovely Mrs. Kyle McNally would feel about her husband if

she knew he was screwing around?

Bright red silk and long pale legs. Snuggled in the arms of a man

he’d have sworn he knew as well as himself.

He copied the file and stuffed the disk into his pocket. Reaching

for the mouse, he froze, hand stilled by another photo–this one

perched on the far edge of the desk. Taken more than a year

earlier, at Jack Kaminski’s retirement party. The BSU’s answer to

the rat pack–Corey Peterson, Steve Pendleton, himself…and Kyle

McNally. Arms around each other’s necks, drinks in hand,

mugging for the camera.

Rage tightened his muscles to knots, caused a flush to creep up his

neck and across his cheeks. He snatched up the photo, spun, and

flung it against the wall. The impact, a spectacular crash and

shower of broken glass, did little to diminish his fury.

The voice, small and trembling with fear, quenched it completely.

“Who…who’s there?”

Contrition immediately followed. “It’s just me, sweetheart. I’m

sorry, I…accidentally broke something.”

Dead silence.

“Vickie?”

“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” Higher pitched

now, wavering between fear and something that sounded like

anger.

He chuckled a little at the tough edge–his little wildcat. “It’s my

house, too–unless there’s somethin’ you want to tell me. I’m up in

my study.”

When she didn’t answer he heaved a sigh of frustration, got up, and

strode down the hallway to the top of the stairs. She stood rigidly

at the bottom, one hand clutching the railing in a white-knuckled

grip. Her dark eyes looked huge in a face paler and thinner than he

remembered. Even so, in a bright red sweater and short black skirt

she stole his breath.

“Whatsamatta with you? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

She squinted against the shadows, slowly shaking her head. “You

can’t…it’s not possible.” She tentatively climbed one step then two,

halting halfway up the flight.

“Who ARE you?”

He was starting to worry now. Had something terrible happened

while she was out, some kind of trauma? He started down the

steps, freezing when she drew back with a hiss.

“Vickie, cara mia, it’s me. It’s Sal. What’s wrong?”

Her hand darted to her mouth, unable to repress a strangled sob.

“Stop it! You’re not my husband, you can’t be Sal!”

The wild, hysterical tone to her voice provoked both sympathy and

irritation. He lunged down the steps between them and seized her

arm.

“You’re not making any sense. Why the hell can’t I be Sal?”

“Because Sal is dead, you bastard!” Her fists came up to beat on

his chest as she sobbed. “He’s dead and I buried him; I watched

them put him in the ground. Get out, get out! Why are you doing

this to me?”

She shoved him hard and fled down the stairs, her arm slipping

easily from his nerveless fingers. He sat down heavily, spinning

head cradled in his palms, vaguely registering the sound of weeping

and running feet. The headache, forgotten for a time, returned with

a vengeance. He dug the heels of his hands into his temples with a

soft moan.

After several minutes Mulder lifted his face to stare at his

surroundings. Where the hell was he? DeAngelo’s house? How had

he gotten here? He grasped the banister and hauled himself

upright, staggering down the steps. A voice carried from the back

of the house, a flood of words between hiccuping sobs. Speaking

to someone on the phone, from the sound of it. Alarmed, Mulder

let himself out the front door and walked quickly to his car.

He grasped the door handle and tugged, grimacing when the latch

refused to budge. Locked. Stealing a peek over his shoulder, he

reached into the front pocket of his pants.

No keys.

He patted himself down without success. Jiggled the door handle

and peered through the window, half expecting to see the ring

hanging from the ignition. Nothing.

A gust of wind set him shivering, and like a lightbulb snapping on

over his head, Mulder realized he was missing his suitcoat. He

glared at the house, feet shuffling, then jogged back and cracked

open the door. A cursory scan of the living room located his jacket

folded over the back of a chair. In a matter of seconds he’d

snatched it up, fished the keys from its pocket, and returned to the

car.

He heard the distant wail of a siren as he slid behind the wheel. His

hands were shaking so badly that when he tried to insert the key

into the ignition the whole ring tumbled to the floor. Cursing, he

ran his fingers over the mat, snagged the ring, and fumbled the

correct key into place.

He’d just shifted into reverse when the police car pulled up,

blocking the end of the driveway.

Mulder pressed his forehead to the steering wheel, stomach rolling.

He reached into his pocket for his ID, frowning when his fingers

encountered smooth plastic. What the…? He stared at the disk

until the sound of slamming car doors jolted him to action. He bent

and slipped it under the mat beneath his feet.

Then, squaring his shoulders, he opened the door and got out,

hands raised.

**************

ACT IV

**************

Hoover Building

4:39 p.m.

“Agent Scully?”

Scully turned from the filing cabinet, startled to see the Assistant

Director standing beside Mulder’s desk. She tugged the manila

folder from its slot and shut the drawer.

“Sir? Is there something I can do for you?”

“I’ve had a rather disturbing call from the Silver Springs PD. I was

hoping perhaps you could shed some light on the circumstances.”

Scully crossed the room and laid the folder on her desk, forehead

creased. “Silver Springs? We don’t have any cases pending under

that jurisdiction.”

“Nevertheless, this situation concerns you on a more…personal

level.”

At Scully’s folded arms and raised eyebrow, he continued. “I’ve

been asked to come down to the station. Earlier this afternoon, one

of their units responded to a breaking and entering call at a private

residence. The suspect was still on the premises when they arrived,

and was taken into custody without incident. He claimed to be an

FBI agent, but was unable to produce valid ID.” He paused,

watching her face. “Scully, it’s Mulder.”

Scully’s jaw literally dropped. “Mulder? Sir, that’s ridiculous, why

on earth would Mulder…?”

“The residence belongs to a Vickie DeAngelo.”

She blinked, abruptly lightheaded. “Vickie?”

“DeAngelo. Coincidentally, her husband used to be a profiler for

the BSU.” His eyes narrowed. “Or maybe not so coincidentally.

Scully, if you know something…”

Still reeling, she pasted on her poker face. “Sir, I am just as baffled

by this news as you are.”

“Then I suggest we go to the source. I’ll drive.”

She could do little more than nod and follow him out the door.

They drove in silence. Scully kept her eyes fixed on the road,

though peripherally she could see the little muscle twitching in her

boss’s jaw as he ground his teeth together. Her stomach churned

and she had to fold her hands in her lap to keep from fidgeting.

What’s going on in that head of yours, Mulder? Who is Vickie?

“Sir, you said Mrs. DeAngelo’s husband used to be a profiler. Is he

no longer with the Bureau?”

“He died a little over a month ago. Hit and run–they never caught

the driver.” Skinner studied her profile before turning his gaze

back to the road. “Scully, I was under the impression that Mulder

was recuperating well. He’s scheduled to return for light duty next

week. Is there something I need to know?”

Don’t ask me this.

“Physically he’s almost completely recovered. There’s some

lingering pain and weakness, but…”

“You and I both know the physical effects of being shot can be

only half the problem. Level with me, Scully.”

She stared at a passing minivan, a harried-looking woman at the

wheel, the back crowded with children. “There have been

some…symptoms of emotional trauma.”

“PTSD?”

“Nothing so severe. Nightmares, trouble sleeping…” She flushed.

Yes, Skinner had helped her settle Mulder into her apartment after

his release from the hospital–when he could barely walk across the

room without extreme pain and fatigue. Her partner’s need for 24-

hour nursing, however, had long since expired. “That’s what he

tells me, anyway.”

For just an instant she could have sworn amusement replaced the

concern in her boss’s eyes. Then he frowned, and she was certain

she’d imagined it.

“Has he talked to anyone?”

A pause. “No, sir.”

Skinner pulled the car into a parking space and shut off the engine.

Rather than open his door, he turned to face her.

“Scully, it’s non-negotiable. I don’t care if he sees someone from

the Bureau or a private psychologist on his own dime. He’s not

coming back to work until he’s been cleared, both physically AND

mentally.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I can tell him, if you’d like.”

“No, thank you anyway, sir. I think it might be better coming from

me.”

Skinner’s mouth twitched and he reached for the door handle. “No

doubt.”

******************

Mulder was seated at the table in a small interrogation room, head

cradled in his hands. He looked up, lifting his shackled wrists with

a smirk when Scully stepped inside and shut the door.

“Would you be shocked if I confessed this is a common fantasy of

mine?”

“I’m glad you find this humorous. Maybe if you’d been the one

riding with Skinner on the way over here you’d feel differently.”

Scully produced a key and unfastened the cuffs, her words clipped

and her movements brusque.

Mulder sat back, massaging the red marks encircling his wrists.

“They actually called Skinner? I was hoping…”

“Yes, Mulder, they called Skinner. They thought he’d like to know

that one of his agents was pulled in on a B&E. They were right.”

“Look, Scully, I’m sorry. I…”

“What the hell is going on, Mulder? Who is Vickie DeAngelo, and

what were you doing inside her house?”

His lips tightened and his eyes evaded hers, dropping to the

tabletop. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know what? You don’t know who Vickie is, or you

don’t know why you were in her house?”

“Either. Take your pick.”

His soft admission defused her anger. “Mulder, I’m worried about

you. You need…”

“Listen to me for a minute, Scully. Something’s going on;

something I’m having a difficult time understanding myself. It’s

related to the shooting, but it’s NOT what you think.”

Scully dropped into the chair opposite him with a sigh. “Go on.”

“For the past few weeks, I…I’ve been having some disturbing

visions.”

“The nightmares.”

“Yes. The same dream, over and over. Bright lights bearing down

on me…pain…and most of all, the feeling that I’m not myself.

That I’m seeing through someone else’s eyes.

“But that’s not all. The other day, when I was shaving, I looked in

the mirror and for a split second…Scully, I saw the face of a

stranger. A man I’ve never seen before in my life. Black hair. Dark

eyes.” He hesitated. “Italian.”

Scully laid one hand over his fingers as they drummed a staccato

beat on the oak tabletop. “Mulder…”

“Just hear me out. The past few days I’ve been getting impulses,

compulsions that I can’t explain. I’ve wound up in unfamiliar

situations and places, with no recollection how I got there. But

every time it’s served to involve me in a specific case–a homicide.

One of a string of serial murders investigated by our own BSU.

I’ve seen the files, Scully. The profiler’s name was Salvatore

DeAngelo.”

She stared at him, her chest tight and her heart pounding, as a

confusing jumble of words and images clicked into place.

The residence belongs to a Vickie DeAngelo.

There’s bright lights…an engine. I think…I think I get hit by a car.

Her husband used to be a profiler for the BSU…He died a little

over a month ago–hit and run.

She shook her head, her mouth speaking reason though her brain

shrieked that something was terribly wrong, that logic could not

explain away the facts that clicked neatly into place. “Mulder, I think

I see where you’re going with this, and…”

“Sal DeAngelo died sometime in the wee hours of the morning of

August 2nd, Scully. Sound familiar?” When she didn’t answer, her

face pale and set, he plowed on. “I was clinically dead for nearly

three minutes. What if Sal DeAngelo died at that same moment?

What if our souls somehow became linked, so that when I came

back I brought a piece of his along with me?”

“Why, Mulder?” Scully’s voice turned sharp, anger a means to

conceal her fear. “Setting aside the fact that your hypothesis

violates the most basic rules of nature, of life and death, WHY

would this Sal latch onto you like some kind of…of…spiritual

parasite?”

“Maybe because he died too soon. What if there was a greater

purpose to his life–a vital task to perform, an injustice to correct–

but he was interrupted before he could fulfill it?”

“Are you suggesting he picked you to do it for him?”

“Why not? Profiling requires a specific mindset, a way of thinking

outside the box. Maybe there was a…a kinship between us, even

though we’d never met. Something that convinced him I’d finish

what he started.”

“Why do I get the sense you’re going to tell me exactly what that

was?”

“I’ve gone over the casefile, Scully; I can show it to you. They

arrested, tried, and convicted a killer based on evidence gathered

from the last crime scene. Yet the crime itself contained some

major deviations from the four previous homicides, and the man

they arrested didn’t fit the accepted profile. If Sal knew they’d

convicted the wrong man, if he was killed before he could act on

that knowledge…”

Jack Willis. Luther Lee Boggs. Melissa Ephesian. Memories

bombarded her, tightening her chest and sending chills up and

down her spine. The “craziness” Mulder was spouting wasn’t

really so crazy, was it? Then an image of him in the ER, pale and

lifeless, blotted out all other recollections.

Three minutes without a heartbeat, without oxygen. From the

moment she’d heard those words, residual brain damage had

been her greatest fear. Physical injury coupled with the post-

traumatic stress…

“Stop it, Mulder! Please. Stop.”

The strength of her emotion cut off his words and stilled his feet.

“Scully?”

“Mulder, I think you’ve immersed yourself in a fantasy to keep from

facing a more plausible reality.”

He propped his hands on his hips. “All right, Scully. Enlighten me.

What reality is that?”

She walked over and took his face between her palms. “Occam’s

Razor, Mulder. The simplest theory is usually the correct one. You

suffered a terrible trauma, and your brain isn’t about to let you

proceed as if it never happened. You have to deal with it, Mulder.

You have to talk to someone.”

He stared at her, dumbfounded, then pulled away. “Scully, did you

hear a word I said? This has nothing to do with…”

“It could have everything to do with it! Mulder, I know you aren’t

going to like this, but the AD and I are in complete agreement–you

need to see a counselor. And I…I’m recommending you see a

medical doctor, as well. You could easily have suffered residual

damage from hypoxia while you were arresting. Your tests at the

time showed no adverse impact, but under the circumstances, I

think it would be wise…”

“Let me get this straight–you want me to see a shrink AND check

for brain damage? Why not just get Skinner and sign the

commitment papers now, Scully? You’ve done it before.”

His cruelty stole her breath. “That’s not fair.”

“The hell it’s not! The fact is you’d rather believe that I’ve lost my

marbles than open yourself to the possibilities.”

“Mulder…”

“Am I free to leave? Or am I going to be charged?”

She drew in a deep breath, released it slowly. “You can go. Mrs.

DeAngelo decided not to press charges–she was more upset than

angry. Skinner had someone get your car. It’s parked out front.”

“Fine.” Mulder yanked open the door.

“Mulder. Mulder, wait!”

He kept his back to her, shoulders rigid. “What now? Are you

going to tell me I’m too mentally impaired to safely operate a

motor vehicle?”

Scully winced at the sarcasm before her own temper flared. “Of

course not. It’s just…I rode down here in Skinner’s car. I was

hoping we could drive home together.”

Fingers tightened on the doorjamb, followed by a sharp shake of

his head. “If you mean your apartment, I don’t think so. I’m going

back to my place. I need some space.”

Though his words cut her deeply, Scully tipped her chin up.

“Fine.”

He disappeared into the noisy squadroom without a backward

glance. Scully bit down hard on her lip and blinked against the

sting of tears, wondering if she’d made the correct decision.

Bewildered by how things had so quickly spiraled out of control.

Alexandria

10:18 p.m.

She thought he was crazy.

Mulder paced back and forth across the small room, turning the

basketball in his hands. He squeezed his eyes shut, remembering a

hospital room and agony so overwhelming that for a time he’d been

convinced death would be preferable to life…

The lights blazed too brightly against his eyelids; the slightest

sounds a deafening cacophony. His chest felt as if it had been

smashed to bits and then reassembled by harsh, uncaring hands.

The machine breathed for him–the rhythm all wrong, too slow, too

deep–yet he could not muster the energy to protest. He wanted to

disappear, to retreat back to the darkness that erased the pain, but

gentle fingers moved across his brow, detaining him.

“I know it hurts, Mulder. I know how tempting it must be to let go.”

The voice wavered, broke, and the fingers vanished. He waited,

latching onto the phantom touch with all his strength.

“I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. And I know you can do this.

You hear me, Mulder?” Hands slipping something around his

neck, her warm, sweet breath against his skin. Lips brushed his

cheek. “You have the strength of my beliefs. You came back to me.

Please stay.”

When had she stopped believing?

Mulder tossed the ball onto his couch and sat down at the

computer. He plucked the floppy disk off the blotter, turning it

over and over in his hands. He had no recollection of acquiring the

disk, no clue what might be on it, and yet…

It was important. The key to what had been happening to him. He

felt it in the fluttering at the pit of his stomach, the pricking of his

fingertips. Gnawing on his lower lip, he popped the disk into the

drive and pulled up the directory. Blank save for a single file.

“Judas.”

Mulder grasped the mouse and double-clicked on the icon.

He read the text twice, stared at the picture for several minutes,

then read the text again.

I wonder how the lovely Mrs. Kyle McNally would feel about her

husband if she knew he was screwing around?

His gaze drifted to the original header.

From: kmcnally@fbi.gov

To: sdeangelo@fbi.gov

FWD: Better think again

K. McNally. Kyle McNally? Why did the name sound so familiar?

Mulder moved to the couch and began rummaging through the file

folders spread across the coffee table. He found what he was

looking for on the official copy of the profile. Submitted by Sal

DeAngelo to Kyle McNally, ASAC. He stood, profile in hand, and

returned to stare at the picture on the computer screen.

“So Kyle McNally, ASAC was getting a little on the side with you,

huh, Monica? Maybe threatening him wasn’t such a good idea.

Maybe it was the last mistake you ever made.”

He dropped back into the chair, scrubbing his palms over his face.

Say Kyle McNally had killed Monica Mitchell and made it look

like the work of a serial killer. Why would he send Sal a piece of

incriminating evidence like this email? Especially when, from all

appearances, he’d successfully pinned the murder on another man?

Had the guilt finally overwhelmed him? Or was it somehow just a

serendipitous mistake?

And what about Sal’s death? Was it really a tragic accident? Or one

murder calculated to cover another?

The phone rang and he scooped it up, half of his mind still working

the problem. “Mulder.”

“Is this Special Agent Fox Mulder?”

A man’s voice–unidentifiable. Mulder straightened, tucking the

receiver between shoulder and ear.

“Who wants to know?”

“My name is Kyle McNally, Agent Mulder. I’m an ASAC in the

Behavioral Science Unit at Quantico.”

Mind racing, Mulder kept his voice low and even. “I’m familiar

with it.”

A chuckle. “Yeah, I know. I’ve studied your cases. You were a

helluva profiler.”

“I’m sure you didn’t call me to reminisce about my glory days in

the BSU. What can I do for you, Agent McNally?”

“Sal DeAngelo was a good friend of mine, Agent Mulder. This

afternoon I received a very upsetting phone call from his wife,

Vickie. I’m sure you know what she had to say, and can understand

why I found her story so disturbing.”

“I’m a little disturbed myself, Agent McNally. I’ve been going over

Monica Mitchell’s casefile.”

A short pause. “That’s understandable; it was the last in a string of

terrible crimes. Though I must say, I’m at a loss as to why you’d be

going through our casefiles–especially one that was resolved

months ago.”

“After reading the file, I’ve my doubts about that resolution.”

“A judge and jury felt otherwise. You left the BSU years ago,

Agent Mulder. I think I have a right to know why the head of the

X-Files division is suddenly second-guessing our work.”

“I guess you could say I was doing a favor.”

“A favor? For whom?”

“Sal DeAngelo.”

Dead silence. When McNally spoke again his voice had gained an

edge.

“I think we need to talk, Agent Mulder. There are some things I

can tell you about that case, things you won’t get from the files.”

“I’m listening.”

Another laugh, this one with far less warmth. “Not over the phone.

If I’m going to do this, I need to see your face.”

“I’m assuming you have a meeting place in mind?”

“Are you familiar with Rock Creek Park?”

“I know it.”

“I’ll meet you there, by the main pavilion, at 11:30.”

“Tonight? Hold on a minute, I’m not sure…”

“Look, you’re the one dredging up old casefiles and terrorizing my

good friend’s wife. You want to know more about that case? We do

it now, tonight.”

Mulder hesitated, eyes wandering to the computer screen. “All

right. I’ll be there.”

“Good. And Agent Mulder? You’re the only one I’m willing to

discuss this with. Bring anyone else, and the deal’s off.” A dial tone

punctuated McNally’s warning.

Mulder glanced toward the clock. 10:30. Enough time to call

Scully and let her in on what was happening. He punched in the

first three numbers before his brain caught up with his fingers,

stilling them.

“Mulder, I think you’ve immersed yourself in a fantasy to keep from

facing a more plausible reality.”

Scully had made up her mind–it would take a significant

investment of time and patience to convince her otherwise.

Unfortunately, at the moment he was operating under a deficit of

both. This meeting was a chance not only to confront McNally, but

also to get a better handle on Sal DeAngelo. He couldn’t pass up

such a golden opportunity.

With physical pang of regret, Mulder replaced the phone on its

cradle.

Rock Creek Park

11:28 p.m.

“Agent Mulder?”

Mulder moved from the shadow of a large pillar into a pale shaft of

moonlight. He’d spent enough time studying the photo of McNally

to easily recognize his features, but was unprepared for the icy jolt

that shot up his spine upon confronting the man in person.

“I’m Kyle McNally.”

McNally extended his hand, flushing when Mulder chose not to

reciprocate, hands tucked into his jacket.

“You said you had information for me.”

“I just want to save you a lot of time and effort. If you talked to Sal

about this case, I think you probably got the wrong impression.”

Mulder raised an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Look, Agent Mulder…” McNally placed steepled fingers under

his chin, then tapped his lips. “I don’t know how well you knew

Sal, but he was a good friend of mine. He was an excellent agent,

and a damn fine profiler. I gotta tell you, though, he wasn’t exactly

himself those last few days before the accident.”

“How so?” The headache was back–not a gradual ache but a

sudden, intense throbbing.

“Something about the Mitchell murder just…set him off. He

fixated on it, couldn’t let it go.”

“That’s not atypical for a profiler, is it? I seem to recall eating,

sleeping, and breathing a few cases myself.”

“I understand what you’re saying, but this…this was different.”

McNally shook his head with a pitying expression. “Even after

we’d caught, tried, and convicted the killer, he couldn’t move on.

Kept poring over the file, looking for something we might have

missed. I was starting to really worry about him.”

Mulder tamped down the fierce anger bubbling up inside him. “As

I said, Agent McNally. I read the file, and I can understand Agent

DeAngelo’s concerns. Your convicted killer never fit the profile.

For that matter, the Mitchell crime scene held some significant

deviations from the previous murders.”

“Hardly significant when you’ve caught the killer with the victim’s

blood on his clothing,” McNally snorted.

He was too cool, confident. Time to shake things up. “Perhaps Sal

knew more than he let on. Maybe he’d found something, some

piece of evidence that would prove someone else killed Monica

Mitchell.”

The amusement froze on McNally’s face and he turned hooded

eyes to scrutinize Mulder. “That’s absurd. Agent Mulder, I’ve tried

to be a good sport, but I think I’ve reached my limit. You’ve been

sticking your nose in files that don’t concern you. And as if that

weren’t enough, you’ve badly frightened a good woman with your

bizarre behavior. That little stunt you pulled at her house today was

cruel and in bad taste. Now if you don’t drop this unauthorized

investigation immediately, I’ll be forced…”

Mulder gritted his teeth, feeling his temper slip between his

fingers. “It has been authorized–by the man who saw through the

web of lies and deceit. Agent DeAngelo…”

“Sal DeAngelo has no authority! He’s dead, and the case is closed.

Now I’m warning you…”

Hands knotted in McNally’s jacket, he jerked the man forward until

their faces were nearly touching. “How could you do it? I trusted

you; you were like a brother to me.”

Kyle hung limply in his grip, face white. “S…what?”

He shook him, Kyle’s hands fluttering in protest. “You screwed us

both, didn’t you, paisan’? We thought we knew you, but we didn’t

have a clue. Which was harder–looking Monica in the face while

you cut her or running me down on the street like a dog?”

Kyle’s eyes nearly popped from his head. In an adrenaline-fueled

burst of strength he grasped Mulder’s shoulders, bringing a knee up

to connect squarely with his midsection. When Mulder doubled

over, clutching his stomach, Kyle stepped back and pulled his gun.

His voice shook, but his grip was steady.

“Hands up in the air.”

Mulder straightened slowly, arms laced across his gut. “It’s…it’s

over, McNally. You turn yourself in, you’ll buy yourself some

points.”

“Turn around. Put your hands on that picnic table and assume the

position.” When Mulder complied he frisked him, removing both

his service weapon and the gun from his ankle holster.

“I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but I’ve come way

too far to turn back now. We’re taking a little ride. Move.”

Mulder walked toward the parking lot, McNally at his side, the gun

pressed to his ribs. “You’re never going to pull this off. My

partner…”

“Shut up! One more word and I’ll end this here and now.”

The park, closed since dusk, was deserted. McNally marched

Mulder to a shiny new sedan and popped the trunk. He motioned

for Mulder to get inside, scowling when he remained motionless,

expression blank.

“What is it?”

“You got rid of it.”

“Got rid of what?”

Mulder turned slowly toward him, something in his eyes shifting

and changing until they looked nearly black in the dim light.

“The truck. Whatsamatta, paisan’? Couldn’t get the blood out?”

With a strangled cry, McNally lifted the gun in both hands and

brought the butt down on Mulder’s head. Mulder crumpled toward

the ground with a soft grunt, eyes fluttering shut. He was a dead

weight, limp and unresisting when Kyle shoved him into trunk and

locked it.

No one saw the sedan that pulled out of the parking lot and sped

off in a squeal of tires and spray of gravel.

To be continued in Justice, Interrupted Part 2

Title: The Firestorm

Author: The IMTP Producers

Rating: PG

Category: X

Keywords: Case file, MSR, M/S/Sk friendship

Spoilers: Fire, VS9

Archive: Two weeks exclusively on VS9, then

Ephemeral. Others, please contact any of the

producers for permission.

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully and Skinner belong to

Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox. For the moment.<g> No

copyright infringement intended.

Summary: “Where there’s smoke, there’s fire” takes on

a whole new meaning when Skinner joins Mulder and

Scully on a case.

Feedback: A note in the IMTP VS9 guestbook would be

greatly appreciated!

Authors’ Notes: This special producers’ offering is a

team effort written by Vickie Moseley, Susan Proto,

Sally Bahnsen, Theresa Filardo and dtg. Many thanks

to Dawn for her spot-on beta delivered at light

speed, and to Suzanne and Michelle for their timely

suggestions. If you have even half as much fun

reading this as we did putting it together, it will

be time well spent!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Firestorm by The IMTP Producers

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Teaser

Clifford Heights, IL

Early June, 2002

Kara Brooks looked around her newly painted bedroom

and sighed. She’d just been moved from the only home

she’d ever known, and Kara was still having trouble

reconciling herself to it. She tried to imagine what

it was going to look like once she’d unpacked all of

her belongings. The robin’s egg blue was a soothing

shade that coordinated perfectly with the bright,

royal blue carpet. Kara loved the feeling of her toes

sinking into its plush, deep pile. But no matter how

lovely it might be, it still wasn’t “home”.

She stood up and opened another cardboard box. She

couldn’t believe how many boxes were scattered around

the room. “When the heck did I get all this junk

anyway?” she asked herself aloud. When she finished

digging out the top layer of crumpled newspapers, she

discovered the box of stuffed animals that had always

graced her bed. Her mother used to joke that there

was barely enough room for Kara amidst all of her

“loveys”. She wondered if she should bother taking

them out of the box. After all, she was a teenager

now, and she wasn’t sure it was still cool to have a

bevy of stuffed animals lodging on her bed.

She heard a knock on her door. “Kara, are you

hungry?” It was her dad.

“No,” she replied. “Not right now. Maybe later.”

“Okay, well, we’re gonna call in for a pizza in a

little while, okay?”

“Sure, Dad. Sounds great.” She knew her tone said

otherwise. Her dad must have heard it, too, because

he opened the door.

“Kara, are you okay, hon?”

“Yeah, I’m good. Just a lot to do here, that’s all.”

“Well, Bonnie and I offered to help -”

“Dad, I know. But I gotta go through this stuff

myself and decide where I want it all, ya know?”

“Yes, but if you’re going to sit in your room all day

getting bummed out over having to unpack

everything…” he began, but stopped when he saw her

withdraw even more. “Okay, okay. I’ll leave you alone

for now. But when the pizza comes, I expect you to

join the family, understand?”

She nodded and watched him finally leave, closing the

door behind him.

“Family?” Kara muttered aloud to herself. She’d never

heard him refer to them as a family. Sure, her dad

had invited her to join him and Bonnie for a meal,

but never to join ‘the family’. “Oh, yeah… we’re a

family,” she whispered to herself.

Now the question was, did she believe it?

She returned her attention to the box of gray, furry

elephants; brown-spotted puppies and soft, multi-

striped snakes. She smiled at the small, gray seal

pup that her mom had bought for her at the aquarium

gift shop on their last vacation together. It had

always been one of her favorites; it held a good

memory for her.

But now she had to decide what to do with all of the

junk in these boxes.

“God! I don’t want to do this now!” she cried out in

frustration.

Being thirteen years old and figuring out stuff was

hard enough without adding a new house, new school,

new friends, and a new stepmother into the mix. In

all honesty, Kara liked the house. Her room was

bigger than the one she’d had at the old house. And

she did get to paint it whatever color she’d wanted.

And she knew school wasn’t going to pose a problem.

Sure she was a freshman at Clifford Heights High

School, but she was taking all advanced courses and

she was sure that she’d be able to keep up with her

studies. That had never been a problem, even when

she’d had to get through the time her mom was in the

hospital. When she was dying. She’d still managed to

ace all of her classes.

Friends. Well, that was a bit more of a cause for

concern. Kara had always been seen as an egghead and

therefore not cool to hang around with. She’d managed

to nurture one friendship with Anna Lynn Collins, who

was as big a nerd as Kara. The two girls hung out

together and got along well. Best of all, no one

bothered them, for which Kara was very grateful. It

wasn’t uncommon for those who were deemed uncool to

be bullied by certain cliques at her old school. She

hoped to avoid that at Clifford Heights.

Okay, then there was the matter of her stepmother. It

wasn’t that Bonnie was a bad person; she was actually

a very nice person and her dad was obviously very

much in love with her. But she wasn’t her momma, a

fact that had been heavy on her mind for the last

year, ever since Bonnie had come into their lives.

From the time her dad had started dating Bonnie to

the moment they’d said their “I Do’s” at St. Mary’s

Church, Kara could not escape the thought that Bonnie

might actually take her momma’s place. It was crazy;

Kara knew it was crazy because she loved her mom and

always would. But Kara liked Bonnie; she liked having

a woman to talk to about…women things. She was more

than grateful for Bonnie’s assistance when

‘womanhood’ had hit with a vengeance that first time.

Kara still blushed with embarrassment at the idea of

asking her dad to buy her “personal care” products.

And now they were in the new house, and Kara had to

decide which of the things from her old life to

include in her new one. Hard decisions for a

thirteen-year-old. She wished her momma were here

now.

She left the box of stuffed animals and moved to

another box. Not finding what she was looking for,

she opened yet another carton, and then another.

“There you are,” she said, relieved. Kara pulled out

the carefully-wrapped item, and removed the

newspaper wrapping. She looked at the silver photo

frame and breathed warm air onto it. She buffed it

with her cotton sleeve and smiled as she saw its

shine reappear. Kara set the framed photo of Lisa

Brooks on her nightstand. “Welcome to your new home,

Momma.”

Then Kara scrunched up the strewn, crumpled

newsprint and jammed it into the wastebasket. She

looked over at her mom’s photo and stared at it.

And stared at it.

And stared.

Downstairs, Kevin and Bonnie Brooks were in the midst

of a somewhat heated and sadly familiar discussion.

“Kevin, I think you’re overreacting.”

“You didn’t know her before. She was never like

this.”

“Like what? A thirteen-year-old girl who’s going

through enough physical and emotional changes to send

any normal human being into a straight jacket?”

retorted Bonnie.

“No! It’s just that she’s never been this withdrawn

before.”

“Kev, she’s got a lot to deal with. She’s never

exactly been Miss Popularity, has she?”

“No, but–”

Bonnie cut him off. “Listen to me. She’s a good kid.

C’mon, how ridiculous is this? I’m supposed to be the

evil stepmother complaining about the stepchild, not

defending her! What’s wrong with this picture,

Kevin?”

He had to smile at that. “Okay, maybe I am being a

worrywart over nothing. You know what? I’m starving.

Let’s call for that pizza now, okay?”

Bonnie nodded and dialed the number on the pizza-

shaped refrigerator magnet that had come in their

“welcome” kit. After calling in the order, she said,

“Why don’t you go up and let Kara know I’m gonna have

dinner whipped up in about twenty minutes.”

Kevin laughed. “Emeril, eat your heart out!” He

turned and started up the stairs to his daughter’s

bedroom.

Kara was gazing so intently at her mother’s

photograph that when her door opened and her father

called out to her, she nearly jumped out of her skin.

“Kara! What the hell are you doing?”

“What?” she asked, her voice filled with confusion.

“Jesus Christ, Kara! We just moved in for God’s

sake!”

“Daddy, what’s wrong?” she cried out as she saw him

rush over to the wastebasket.

The crumpled wads of newsprint were aflame in the

basket, sending glowing bits of paper floating lazily

to the carpet at her feet.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act I

J. Edgar Hoover Building

Washington, D.C.

Six months later

Monday, 4:40 p.m.

One minute, forty-five seconds from portal to portal.

Down the hall to the elevator, up three floors, then

twenty-three paces to the A.D.’s office door. How

many trips did it take to start earning frequent-ass-

chewing miles? And what did it say about him that he

had this level of detail in his head?

“Mulder? If you go in there with that look on your

face, you’ll guarantee us an extra ten minutes on the

carpet.”

The picture that popped into his head had nothing to

do with their boss’s floor covering. Visions of a

recent Saturday afternoon in front of Scully’s

fireplace and a well-earned complement of rug burns

put a grin on his face. “Nothing like a few extra

minutes on the carpet with the one you love.”

The elevator doors opened onto a small crowd of their

fellow agents, cutting off her snappy comeback, but

Mulder saw the smile before she turned her face away.

Kimberly looked up and smiled as they entered. “He’s

waiting for you. Go right in.”

Scully and Mulder exchanged glances. Kimberly’s

greeting was generally a pretty fair indication of

her boss’s mood. Whatever he’d called them up here

for, it wasn’t something he’d been ranting about to

his assistant. That could mean that the report Mulder

had turned in Friday afternoon, the one Scully had

been so concerned about, had made it past the first

hurdle.

Mulder leaned down and put his lips close to his

partner’s ear. “You owe me a buck.” He gave her an I-

told-you-so wink and turned to Skinner’s door,

pushing it open as he knocked.

“Come in, agents.” Skinner glanced up quickly, then

returned his attention to the folder in front of him.

Mulder tried to assess the A.D.’s mood. ‘Awkward’ was

as close as he could come, and his burst of optimism

took a sudden downturn. Scully apparently felt it,

too, judging by the look she gave him as they took

their seats.

The man wasted no time getting to the point. “I’ll be

accompanying you on this next case. Let’s just get

that out of the way so we can move on.” He folded his

hands and looked directly at Mulder.

His statement was greeted with stunned silence.

Mulder was actually at a loss for words. His partner

was not.

“Sir, may I ask why?”

Skinner pinched the bridge of his nose with two

fingers, then readjusted his glasses and refolded his

hands. “Expenditure validation was, I believe, the

term that was used. What it boils down to is that

your creative record-keeping has finally surpassed my

tap dancing ability.” He turned his focus to Mulder.

“It was either agree to accompany you on the next

case personally, or allow your favorite bean counter

to go in my place. Which would you have preferred?”

Mulder found his voice. “And what is this supposed to

accomplish? Teach us not to have that second snifter

of brandy after dinner? What the hell do they think

we’re doing out there?” He was leaning forward, both

hands clenched around the arms of his chair.

Scully touched his arm. “Mulder–”

“We already have our names in the roach motel hall of

fame. I’ve replaced three cell phones out of my own

pocket this year alone, not to mention the suits that

haven’t survived their first trip into the field. I

know I don’t need to tell you of all people that what

we do is a little outside the norm. So, what’s this

really about? Another lame–”

Skinner held up one hand and Mulder stopped. “It’s a

formality. Let’s not read anymore into it. I’ll

verify that your expenses are valid, and that will be

the end of it.” He opened the case file and pulled

out a stack of photographs. “A postal employee in

Clifford Heights, Illinois is recovering from burns

suffered when his backpack caught–”

Mulder heard Skinner stop in mid-sentence, but his

focus was elsewhere. The silent debate he was engaged

in with his partner required his full attention.

“Agents?”

Scully’s eyes flashed a parting shot and she turned

to face their boss. “Yes, sir?”

“If I could have your full attention?” The corner of

his mouth was twitching in what, on anyone else,

Mulder would have seen as a smirk.

“Yes, sir.” They answered in unison, and this time

the smirk almost got away from Skinner, but the stern

mask quickly returned.

“The victim was burned over sixty percent of his

body by what at first appeared to be a letter bomb.

He insists that his entire pack burst into flame as

he was leaving the last house on his route. Not just

the contents, the canvas bag as well.”

Scully reached for the photographs and began to leaf

through the stack. “Why couldn’t it still have been a

letter bomb of some kind?” She leaned to her right

and held the photographs so Mulder could see them.

“I can see why this would fall under Federal

jurisdiction, but why assign it to us? What makes it

an X file?” That was usually Scully’s line. He saw

her glance up at him, stifling the same smirk he’d

seen on Skinner a moment ago.

“The victim claims that the letters in his hand

ignited at the same time.”

Mulder looked up. “Spontaneous combustion with two

separate points of origin?”

“The initial forensic evidence would seem to bear him

out. There’s also the fact that the house he was

leaving when the incident occurred has had four

unexplained fires in the six months since the new

owners moved in. The only common factor in all of

these incidents, including the attack on the postal

employee, appears to be the owners’ thirteen-year-old

daughter, who seems to have been present each time.”

That got his attention. “Has the girl ever shown any

telekinetic ability before this?”

Scully dropped the photographs in her lap. “Who said

anything about telekinesis?”

“At the moment, it’s as plausible an explanation as

any. Unless you prefer spontaneous combustion?”

“Mulder, the evidence is inconclusive. That does not

automatically open the door to something paranormal.”

Skinner cleared his throat, and both agents turned to

face him. “We leave for Chicago tomorrow morning.

Clifford Heights is an hour’s drive south. I’ll pick

Scully up at 6:30. Mulder, we’ll be by for you at

7:00.”

Scully stood up and handed the photos back to him.

Mulder remained in his chair.

“Was there something you wanted to say, Agent

Mulder?”

“Sir, will this trip answer any questions regarding

the… legitimacy of our budget, or–”

“Or will I be tagging along on future assignments?”

Skinner’s jaw tightened, and Mulder could swear there

was another smirk in there somewhere. “Not if I can

help it.” He closed the folder and held it out to

Mulder. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

Scully opened the door and turned to wait for her

partner. Mulder tucked the folder under his arm and

followed her out, closing the door behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~~

The Brooks Household

Monday, 4:54 p.m.

Kara sat in the center of her bed, waggling her

number two pencil between her fingers. If she moved

her hand up and down at just the right speed, the

stiff yellow piece of wood and graphite would begin

to look rubbery. After about five minutes of zoning

out on the “flaccid” pencil, she finally dropped it

onto her open textbook. It bounced once, then settled

into the crack between the pages.

Word problems. It wasn’t that she disliked Math. It

was just that the problems never seemed to relate to

anything useful. She stared at the open page which

displayed a color photo of an Amtrak train zooming

across the great plains somewhere in America. It was

always a train, wasn’t it? Who cared if two trains

raced from New York to Boston? If anyone really

wanted to get somewhere sooner, they should have

taken an earlier train.

She sighed heavily and noticed a smell just on the

farthest edges of her perception. It was not quite

sweet, and it carried a hint of garlic and herbs

along with it. Mmm… food. Her tummy reacted with an

elongated creaking sound. She glanced down at her

assignment: five more problems to go. Kara wondered

if she had time to finish those before…

“Kara?”

Nope.

“Kara, dear, would you be able to take a break and

set the table for me?” Bonnie called from downstairs.

“Be right down!” she groaned, loathing the choice

between pointless story problems and chores. She

didn’t like her options.

It was nice, though, to be able to reclaim the role

of “daughter” again. At least she was no longer the

one juggling both homework and cooking until her

father came home from work. Bonnie seemed to be

getting into the Holly Homemaker thing. “Let’s see

how long it takes her to get tired of it,” Kara

thought darkly.

As she hopped off the last step and rounded the

corner into the kitchen, Kara was hit with the full

olfactory onslaught of Bonnie’s experimentations. She

gasped at the hanging sting of onion acid in the air.

She had to smirk as she let her mind return for the

briefest moment to her homework upstairs. If Bonnie

were to use three more vegetables and two more cubes

of tofu in her “Bonnie’s Special Veggie Surprise”,

how much more time would I have to spend in the

bathroom from all the fiber intake?

“What’s that, K?” Bonnie asked. Kara hadn’t realized

she was muttering under her breath.

“Oh, smells great, Bonnie. Um, what did you want me

to do first?”

Her stepmother turned from the sink, wet hands

cupping a dripping mound of soaked beans. She blew a

stray clump of curly brown hair from her forehead and

pointed her chin in the direction of the hutch. “Why

don’t you start by setting the table? I think we’ll

eat in the kitchen tonight.”

Kara strolled over to the china closet and found her

Dad’s Aztec-patterned dinnerware, the ones he had

bought especially for his weird culinary excursions.

When he was feeling brave, he used to invite Bonnie

over to try out Emeril’s “hot dish of the week.” The

plates were his special guest-ware, because he wanted

the “perfect canvas” to present his masterpiece. They

seemed fitting, seeing as how Bonnie was in an

experimental mood.

She grabbed three plates, some napkins and

silverware, then carried everything over to the

kitchen table.

Bonnie glanced over her shoulder as she piled the

beans onto a bed of green leaf lettuce. “Oh, no,

dear, use the everyday Corelle dishes. This is

nothing fancy we have to bother over.”

Kara bit back an urge to argue. Did she want her to

help or not? What difference did it make which dishes

they used? She held the plates a moment longer,

feeling a little defiant, almost setting the table

her way anyway. Instead, she pursed her lips and

said, “Fine,” and carried the Aztec guest-ware back

where she found it.

It was a funny thing, Kara realized. They had never

used the everyday plates before the wedding. Since

Bonnie had been living with them and had settled

herself into their lives, it felt weirdly intimate —

like telling someone what kind of deodorant you use.

People weren’t supposed to know stuff like that. And

guests weren’t supposed to see the everyday dishes.

Now Bonnie was telling her, in her own house, to use

them… just like it was any normal weekday evening –

– nothing special. She wasn’t sure, but when Kara

thought about it, she almost enjoyed that idea.

She found the white Corelle plates in the cabinet

next to the refrigerator, and was about to pull one

down, when her finger snagged on a rough spot, right

on the edge of the plate. She jerked her hand back

from the sharp pinch, pulling down the plate in the

process. It crashed to the floor and seemed to

explode in a hundred pieces all over the linoleum.

Bonnie gasped, and Kara flinched, expecting the usual

barrage of anger thrown in her direction. Instead,

her step-mom rushed over to her; agitated, yes, but

more concerned than anything. “Kara, are you all

right? Let me see.”

She presented her cut finger like a little girl. She

half expected Bonnie to kiss it, the way she was

hovering.

“I’ll be right back with a Band-Aid and some

antiseptic. Run it under some water to clean it out.”

Kara did as she was told, a little shaken just from

the noise of the crashing plate. She noticed one of

the larger pieces of debris — the one that actually

had the chip that cut her. She remembered that

accident as well. She’d been washing the dishes for

her *real* mom, helping her because she *wanted* to.

The little bump against the porcelain sink had

sounded like she broke the whole plate. Her mother

instantly began yelling at her for her clumsiness.

Kara knew she’d had a bad day at the doctor’s. That

was the reason she was helping. She tried to remind

herself while her mother unloaded on her that it was

the stress talking, but she’d finished the chore in

miserable silence.

And now, the plate had actually broken but Bonnie was

showing nothing but concern for her, like her mom

used to before she’d gotten so sick. Before Kara had

had to grow up too early and become the caregiver.

Before everything–

Her stepmother returned and nursed her wound. “You

OK? You know, it can happen to anyone. Let’s clean

this up before your father gets home.”

Bonnie grabbed a dustpan and they were both sweeping

up the tiny pieces when a whiff of something foul-

smelling wafted past their noses.

“My tofu!” Bonnie yelled in distress, and dropped the

dustpan, scattering the pieces again.

At the same moment, Kara heard the front door open

and her father called into the house, “I’m back!” As

she bent down toward the mess on the floor, she heard

him walk through the dining room.

“Whew! I must have just saved this! Funny, nothing

seems to be burned…” Bonnie mused, but got cut off

by a very angry sounding man.

“What the hell!”

Suddenly a flurry of motion swept through the

kitchen. Kara vaguely processed the image of her

father diving across the kitchen for the fire

extinguisher and flying back into the dining room.

Bonnie followed after him, and Kara heard her scream.

A smoky smell filled the air, and it definitely

wasn’t Bonnie’s bad cooking.

Kara felt dread sink into the pit of her stomach, for

she knew it was happening again. She slowly got up

and inched around the corner of the doorway to peer

into the dining room. White foam splattered the

floral wallpaper and covered a smoldering rectangular

object on the wall. Her father put down the red tank

and wiped at the wall, revealing a singed wooden

frame, and a very charred, slightly melted image

behind the cracked glass.

She knew that photograph well: her father in a brand

new blue suit, his hands resting on the shoulders of

his two “best girls.” One wore her white chiffon gown

and held a large bouquet of daisies. The other in her

first formal gown, powder blue with short sleeves.

Kara loved that dress.

She could see the image of his and Bonnie’s wedding

day with her eyes closed, which was the *only* way

she’d ever be able to see it now, for it was forever

stained with burn marks from the flames that her

father had just extinguished.

He turned toward her slowly. “Kara, I don’t know what

you’re trying to do here, but it’s got to stop now!”

“Kevin, she was with me the whole– ” Bonnie stopped

in mid-sentence. She glanced quickly at her

stepdaughter. Kara could see her processing the

information behind saddened eyes. She hadn’t been

with her the whole time. So, she was taking her

father’s side!

Kevin Brooks slapped his hand against his thigh in

frustration, wiping sticky foam over his suit-pants.

“Her bedroom, the videotapes. . . now this?”

Kara was jolted by the anger in his voice. She opened

her mouth once, then ran upstairs, slammed the door

shut, and flung herself onto the bed.

“It wasn’t me…” she whimpered into her pillow. She

stared blurry-eyed at her mother’s picture. “Momma, I

wish you were still here.”

~~~~~~~

Mulder’s Apartment

Monday, 10:35 p.m.

Mulder was attempting to stuff another pair of black

socks into the already straining-at-the-seams side

pocket of his two-suiter while juggling the phone

between his right shoulder and ear.

“I’m telling you, Scully, he made this whole thing

up,” he said with as much conviction as he could

muster while grunting at the uncooperative footwear.

“Why, Mulder? Why on earth would the man make up a

story like that? Besides, you know as well as I do

that Accounting has been on the warpath lately. I’m

surprised we haven’t been brought before the OPR on

some of your expense reports! So how can you say

Skinner is making this up? Do you think he’s just

bored behind that desk and wants to come out and

play?”

“I think he suspects something. I think he’s on to

us.”

There, it was out in the open. Mulder could

practically *feel* the little frown line forming

between her eyebrows.

“So why not just come out and ask?” she countered.

“Why all the game playing?”

“Because he wants to be sure,” Mulder shot back. At

that precise moment, the socks slipped into the

pocket and he was able to zip it shut. Another sign

that he was right about their boss and his sudden

interest in what went on out in the field. At least

to Mulder it was.

“I just think you’re being . . .”

“If you say ‘paranoid’ that’s TWO back rubs you owe

me,” he interjected before she could finish her

thought.

“I was going to say ‘overly concerned’,” she replied

dryly.

“Same thing. Two back rubs. Payable upon demand.”

“Sure, fine, whatever.” Her voice had the quality

that came from being strained through gritted teeth.

“I still think you’re making too much of this.”

“Then explain to me why I’m sleeping on my couch,

without my favorite ‘blanket’ and that same ‘blanket’

is going to be across town, sleeping in her awfully

big and cold bed tonight?”

“Because our boss is picking me up at 6:30 and you at

7:00,” she reminded him.

“I could have been out before he got there,” he shot

back.

Her snort was most unladylike. “Mulder, you have

never managed to wake up before 7:30 any time we’ve

slept together.”

“Face it, Scully. You’re thinking the same thing.

Skinner is going to be watching us like a hawk. We

have to be very careful.”

She sighed, and he knew she was about to change the

subject to something he wouldn’t like. “It’s fire,

Mulder,” she said quietly.

A shiver went down his spine. “I know.” He couldn’t

have said more if he’d tried.

“Are you OK with this? I mean, with Skinner there and

everything…”

“I managed to get Thor out of that building, Scully,”

he reminded her. It still caused a little pang in his

heart to think of the huge, loveable mutt, even if he

couldn’t recall all of their time together. Maybe

some memories were better left buried.

“When you found Thor, the fire was out, Mulder. This

time the fires seem to be ongoing. And spontaneous.

We won’t have any warning. I just don’t like the

thought of you–”

“If you’re there, I’ll be fine,” he said with more

confidence than he felt.

“I’ll be there, but Skinner will be, too. And he’ll

be watching,”

“See! You do think he’s up to something! You just

don’t want to admit it,” Mulder taunted.

“Whether he’s ‘up to something’ or not, we have to be

very careful. We’ve managed to keep this from him so

far, and I want it to stay that way.”

“I know, Scully. I know. I’ll promise to be on my

best behavior. I mean, how bad can it be? It’s not

like I have to room with the guy.”

She chuckled lightly into the phone. “He’d be asking

for another room the minute you started to snore,”

she teased.

“I do not snore!” he exclaimed, putting on his best

‘I’m offended’ voice.

“Yeah. Must be that other guy I sleep with,” she

teased.

“Scully, keep this up and I’m coming over…” They

both knew he was only half kidding.

“Sweet dreams, G-man. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Back at ya. Hey, and Scully?”

“Yes, Mulder?”

“If I do have to room with Skinner, would you shoot

me? I usually get private rooms in the hospital.”

“Good night, Mulder.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Act II

404 Millbrook Lane

Clifford Heights, IL

Tuesday, 12:20 p.m.

There were certain privileges that came with being an

Assistant Director in the FBI, Mulder knew. A big

office, a polished oak desk, a personal assistant

who could be summoned with the flick an intercom

switch.

And it apparently also included the power to

commandeer the front seat of a car and take over the

driving.

Sometimes protocol sucked, Mulder mused to himself

from his assigned spot in the back seat.

“Scully will be my navigator, Mulder,” Skinner had

announced. “It’s a documented fact that you couldn’t

navigate your way out of a paper bag.”

Squished into the tiny space behind his boss, long

legs alternately slung into the space behind Scully

and then back to his own side where his size-13 feet

were jammed underneath the seat in front. (It would

seem that being an Assistant Director didn’t extend

to having enough influence to obtain a bigger rental

car.) Mulder had even toyed with the idea of sticking

his toes up so they would form a hard lump underneath

his boss’s rear end, but he’d opted instead for the

more constructive activity of flipping through the

case file to familiarize himself with the police and

fire reports before they arrived at the Brooks’

residence.

Telekenisis. Mulder’s skin positively tingled with

the thought of pursuing such a possibility. It was

only the fact that Skinner was tagging along like a

bad impersonation of someone’s kid brother that had

thrown cold water on his excitement. Well, that and

the obvious problems inherent whenever Mulder and

fire came into close proximity. But he’d been okay

with that, knowing Scully would be at his side. *His*

side.

Currently ensconced in the Brooks living room, Mulder

glared silently at his boss.

It should have been him sitting beside Scully during

the long drive from Chicago, not Skinner. Just as it

should be him now, leaning back in the two-seater

couch, ankle crossed over knee and elbow brushing

against Scully’s as he conducted the interview. Not

Skinner! A.D. Skinner, the observer. Mr. “Its-just-a-

formality”.

If eyeballs were bullets, Skinner would be a dead

man.

Mulder forcibly reined in his hostility. No use

dwelling on what couldn’t be helped. Maybe if he just

ignored Skinner, pretended he wasn’t there, he might

be able to handle this unwanted invasion of his

investigative privacy without resorting to violence.

Sighing quietly to himself, Mulder sat up straight in

the chair and pulled a notebook and pen from his

pocket.

They had dispensed with the formalities earlier and

been led into a very comfortable living room

furnished in the American version of an English

country house: elegant dark oak tables, faux open

beam ceilings and floral print overstuffed furniture.

A large bowl of potpourri waged a futile battle to

hide the lingering smell of smoke and burnt timber

that hung in the air.

No matter how hard he tried not to stare, Mulder’s

gaze kept returning to the blackened hole in the wall

beside the dining room table. The affected area

looked as if an acetylene torch had been held against

it until the wallboard turned to charcoal. He

wondered what could have ignited that would allow the

damage to be so contained.

When Scully started to speak, Mulder turned his

attention back to the two people sitting diagonally

across from him. A man and woman who held their

bodies too rigid, whose strained expressions told him

that they would rather be doing anything else other

than sitting here talking to the FBI.

“Mr. Brooks, as my partner explained when we arrived,

we’re here investigating an incident that nearly

killed an employee of the U.S. Postal Service in your

front yard. Do you recall the incident?”

Kevin Brooks huffed a humorless laugh, “It’s not

something we’re likely to forget in a hurry. But as I

told the police, Bonnie and I were in the kitchen. We

had just sat down to lunch, so we really didn’t see

anything.” He leaned over and laid a reassuring hand

on his wife’s arm.

“Do you normally come home from work to eat lunch?”

Mulder asked, keeping his expression bland and non-

threatening.

“I work from home. My office is out back.”

“What do you do, Mr. Brooks?”

“I’m an electrical engineer.”

Mulder nodded thoughtfully, leaned back in his chair

and made a note in his book.

Scully picked up on Mulder’s cue and resumed her line

of questioning. “Did either of you hear anything?”

“Of course. The man was screaming for help not twenty

feet from our front door,” Kevin answered testily.

“What did you do?”

Kevin shrugged, “We went to see what the hell was

going on. When I opened the front door and saw that

man rolling on the ground with his clothes in flames,

I yelled out to Bonnie to call 911.”

“Did you do anything to help the victim?”

“I grabbed a blanket off the back of the couch and

tried to smother the flames.” Kevin’s brown eyes lost

focus, his expression dark and serious as his

thoughts seemed to turn inward, perhaps reliving the

horror of watching a man burning to death in front of

him.

“Mr. Brooks, where was your daughter at the time of

the incident?” Mulder asked.

Kevin Brooks snapped back to the present as if he had

been doused in icy water.

“What?” He couldn’t have sounded more outraged if

they’d asked him to consider selling his daughter

into the white slave trade.

“We have eye witness testimony that puts your

daughter at the scene just before the postal worker’s

bag ignited,” Mulder said, holding the man’s angry

gaze.

“What the hell has that got to do with anything? Just

what are you implying?”

Scully gave Mulder a look that told him she wondered

where he was going with this. When it became obvious

that he wasn’t going to answer the man’s question,

she said, “We’re interviewing all witnesses, Mr.

Brooks. We are not implying anything about your

daughter. If she is able to help…”

“Leave her out of this!” Kevin snapped.

Mulder saw Bonnie take her husband’s hand and entwine

her fingers with his, rubbing soothing circles over

the knuckles with her other hand. Scully was

watching, too, he noted. It was the same gesture she

often used to comfort him, and Mulder could see the

shared memories in her eyes. How at the end of the

day they would lay in each others arms, safe and

protected for a few short hours from a world that

sometimes felt as if all that existed in it were

unimaginable horrors. Mulder knew that his partner

wasn’t conscious of the angry look she was shooting

in Skinner’s direction. If it wasn’t for him, they

would be sharing a bed tonight as usual. She was as

upset about this as he was.

“Kara didn’t see anything. The police have already

questioned her. They’ve questioned us. *We* didn’t

see anything. I don’t understand why you’re here.

What do you want from us?” Bonnie turned pleading

eyes to her husband.

Mulder studied the couple for a second, trying to

make sense of the defensive stance they were taking.

He wondered what his boss was making of this and

glanced quickly at Skinner. He tried to gauge the

expression on his boss’s face, but the A.D. was

giving no indication of what was going on in his

head.

Scully spoke up again, her voice calm and soothing.

“Mrs. Brooks, we are simply trying to get to the

bottom of this. A man is in the hospital with burns

over sixty percent of his body. We need to find out

what caused this, and to do that we have to talk to

anyone who might have seen what happened.”

Breathing deeply, Bonnie Brooks nodded and gave

Kevin’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“I believe you’ve been the victims of several house

fires yourselves over the past few months.” Mulder

said, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward.

“Who told you that?” Kevin asked, slipping his hand

out from his wife’s grip and folding both arms across

his chest.

Scully flipped through her note pad, the pages

rustling loudly in the still room. “We have four

reports from the fire department documenting their

attendance at four separate fires here. The police

report also says that neighbors mentioned several

smaller outbreaks around the home. What do you think

is causing them, Mr. Brooks?”

Mulder didn’t miss the way Kevin dug his fingers into

the flesh of his upper arms, a small muscle twitching

along his jaw line. Nor did he miss the flash of fear

that sparked for just a second in Bonnie’s eyes.

“Mr. Brooks, can you think of anyone who might hold a

grudge against you, or your wife and daughter?” This

from Skinner.

Mulder had wondered when it would become too much for

Skinner to remain the silent observer.

“A grudge? You think someone is doing this

deliberately?” Kevin’s hostility receded a little,

genuine surprise coloring his words.

“It’s a possibility we need to consider,” Scully

said.

“What about your line of work?” Skinner asked, “Any

disgruntled clients, bad debts?”

One field trip in how many months and suddenly he

thinks he’s Magnum, PI. The A.D. was really starting

to get under Mulder’s skin. Not content to simply

take over the car, the driving, and his partner, now

the man was muscling in on his investigation. There’s

gotta be a way of ditching him, Mulder thought as he

stared daggers at his boss.

“No. No unhappy customers and no bad debtors.”

“Any problems with the neighbors?” Mulder asked,

determined to reel this investigation back into his

own lap.

“None. Mostly, we all keep to ourselves. We say hey

every now and then, and we talk about the weather,

but that’s about it.”

“Can you think of anyone that might want to hurt you,

Mrs. Brooks?” Scully asked.

“No, nobody. We’ve never had anything like this

happen before, it’s only since we moved here. The

first fire got started on the day we moved in. There

hadn’t been time to make enemies.”

“Is there a history of this happening with the

previous owners?” Scully asked.

“I wouldn’t think so. The house wasn’t in great shape

when we bought it, but there was no sign of fire

damage. We’ve pulled up carpets and put new ones

down, and painted the house inside and out. I’m sure

we would have seen *something*,” Bonnie answered.

Mulder scribbled in his notebook, then looked up and

asked, “How has your daughter settled into her new

neighborhood? Is there any possibility that these

fires might be directed at her?”

“Of course not. She’s thirteen, for God’s sake, what

the hell kind of a question is that?” Kevin’s eyes

burned and his nostrils flared as his anger started

to climb again.

Ignoring Kevin’s outburst, Mulder pressed on. “Any

problems at school? How are her grades?”

Kevin ran a hand over his face, sighing loudly before

answering. “Kara is a good kid. An ‘A’ student. When

her mother passed away nearly two years ago it was

really hard on her…”

“I…I’m sorry. Mrs. Brooks,” Mulder turned to

Bonnie, “you’re not Kara’s mother?”

Kevin answered for his wife, taking one of her hands

in both of his before doing so, “Bonnie and I married

seven months ago. When Lisa, Kara’s mom, died of

breast cancer, Kara took it pretty hard. It wasn’t

easy for either of us, but we got through it.

Together. Kara took on the role of homemaker. It

seemed to help her cope.” Kevin shook his head and

chuffed a soft laugh. “She would always make sure

there was a meal on the table at night, that I had

clean clothes to wear…she’s a good kid, Agent

Mulder. I can’t for the life of me imagine her making

enemies anywhere.”

“How did she react to you marrying again?”

“Kev, let me answer that.” Bonnie smiled at her

husband. “When Kev and I first started dating, I

could detect a note of resentment from her. But as

time went on and she realized I was in for the long

haul, she started to relax. We got along fine, we

*do* get along fine. I try to be there for her, and I

think she appreciates having another woman in the

house to talk to. I don’t try to take the place of

her mom; I couldn’t be what Lisa was to her, I know

that. We take one day at a time, and I really think

she is starting to accept me as part of the family.”

Scully asked, “Mr. Brooks, would you agree with

that?”

A slight hesitation, a quick lick of his lips, an

almost imperceptible twitch of his eyebrow, but

Mulder noted them all. “Kara likes Bonnie. We don’t

have anything to worry about there.”

“How do you account for the fact that Kara has been

the only one present at all the fires that have

broken out around your house?” Mulder asked, deciding

a change of tack was in order.

But before either of the Brooks could answer, there

was a soft popping sound followed by a hiss and a

crackle. A bright orange light ignited in Mulder’s

hand.

“Oh my God!” Scully and Skinner raced to where Mulder

was sitting. The A.D. began stamping his foot on the

flames as the small notebook Mulder had been holding

lay burning on the floor.

“Shit!” Mulder jumped to his feet, too, but his focus

was on his arm, frantically batting the flames

licking at the sleeve of his jacket.

“Here!” Bonnie helped Scully wrap a throw blanket

around Mulder’s hand and arm, effectively smothering

the flames.

“Get me some water, hurry.” Scully said to Bonnie,

not bothering with the niceties of “please and thank

you”.

“Mulder, sit down.” But Mulder had other ideas. He

stood, hunched over his injured left hand, cradling

it in his right and cursing softly.

“Sit, Mulder. Let me take a look.” A bucket appeared

at Scully’s side. She took it and carefully lowered

Mulder’s hand into the cool water over his hisses of

protest.

Mulder sat on the edge of the chair, right forearm

leaning on his knee and left hand submerged in the

bucket between his legs. His whole body felt as if

all its nerve endings were centered around his

burnt hand. It both throbbed and stung, intense heat

resonating from fingertips to wrist. The pain sent

his stomach into nauseous spasms.

“Agent Scully, is there anything I can do?” Skinner

was crouched beside her, eyebrows pulled into a tight

frown, voice strained with concern.

“Yes, help me remove his watch. Be careful of any

clothing that might be stuck to the skin. Don’t pull

on it if it is.”

Skinner gently pried Mulder’s watch loose, stifling a

gasp as a small strip of skin came away with it.

“Should I call 911?” Kevin Brooks asked, a slight

tremble to his voice.

“NO! No. It’s okay.” Mulder said, eyes darting

between Kevin and Scully.

But it was obvious he was anything but okay. His face

was pale, the features drawn and pinched, and his

lips were pressed so tightly together they almost

appeared bloodless. Scully reached up and pressed two

fingers to the pulse point in Mulder’s neck, frowning

at what she found.

“We need to get him to the Emergency Room.” Then

turning to the Brooks, who were helplessly looking

on, “Where’s the nearest hospital?”

“It’s Clifford County Medical Center. I’ll draw you a

map.” Kevin Brooks hurried off to find a pencil and

paper, obviously glad to have something constructive

to do.

“Bonnie, could you get me a clean sheet? An old one

will do. I need you to wet it with cold water. And I

need some ice in a plastic bag.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Bonnie’s apology followed

her out of the room as she left to find the sheet and

ice.

Scully turned back to Mulder, her expression deeply

concerned. He sat hunched forward in the chair, head

now propped on his right hand, teeth biting into the

fleshy area under his thumb.

Ignoring the fact that their boss was squatting right

beside her, Scully reached up and cupped Mulder’s

jaw. Gently stroking his cheek with her index finger.

“How are you holding up, partner?”

“‘m ‘kay.” But he couldn’t help a low groan as the

intense pain in his hand drove all pretense of being

“fine” right out of his head. “I think I need to get

out of here, Scully. I don’t feel so good.” Mulder

swallowed thickly as his stomach gave him a not-so-

gentle reminder that it wasn’t doing too well either.

“Here you go, Agent Scully.” Bonnie Brooks handed her

the wet sheet and a bag of ice.

“Thanks.”

Carefully, Scully pulled Mulder’s hand from the

bucket of water and wrapped it lightly in the cool,

wet sheet, wincing at the red, blistered skin

covering his fingers, palm and wrist. She laid the

bag of ice across the sheet.

Scully turned to Skinner, “Sir, can you help me get

him to the car?”

Skinner hooked his left arm under Mulder’s right and

helped him to his feet, stumbling slightly when

Mulder’s knees seemed to give a little. “Easy,

Mulder. I’ve got you.”

Scully supported his left arm, making sure the wet

sheet and ice didn’t slip and that his hand was

elevated above his heart.

“I’ll get the door.” Kevin went ahead of them, making

sure the path was clear.

Back in the living room, Bonnie stood alone. Arms

hugging her chest as she watched the three FBI agents

leave her home. Her eyes strayed to the ruined

notebook lying on the floor, reduced to nothing more

than a small pile of ash. She scanned the dining

room, eyes coming to rest on the blackened wall where

their wedding photo had hung. She thought of the

various other fires that had broken out around the

house during the past six months. “God, why is this

happening?” She pleaded quietly to herself.

Footsteps thundered down the stairs. A stifled sob,

then a blur of red and blue clothing whizzed through

the dining room and disappeared into the kitchen.

“Kara?” Bonnie called after her stepdaughter, but the

only answer she received was the creak of hinges and

the sound of the back door slamming shut.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Skinner had helped get Mulder out to the car, then

had stood back and watched while Scully helped her

partner situate himself in the front seat. He had

sensed their awkwardness; her need to touch him was

as obvious as his need to be touched. This was the

first opportunity they’d had to hold on to one

another legitimately in front of him. Helluv an

excuse, he thought to himself. The careful distance

the two of them continued to maintain in his presence

only reinforced his recent decision to have a talk

with them about their…situation.

After his agents drove off, the A.D. turned and

started to walk back to the house. A flash of color

drew his attention to a tree behind the house. There

was a tree house near the top, and he realized that

he’d just seen someone moving around in it.

Skinner moved to the large oak and called upward.

“Hello? Who’s up there?” He wasn’t surprised by the

lack of a response, but the idea of having to climb

up the somewhat rickety-looking ladder didn’t sit

well with him either.

“Kara? Is that you?” Once again, silence prevailed,

and Skinner played his trump card. “Kara, I know that

it’s you up there. If I have to, I’ll climb up to

speak with you, but I don’t know if your ladder is

going to hold me. So how about making it easy on the

old guy and come down here so we can chat?” He waited

a moment and added, “Honey, I just want to talk to

you. Please.”

The small, almost mousy-looking child peered out from

the treetop framework, and appeared to be debating

what to do next. Finally, as if deciding to face the

inevitable, she backed out of the doorway and climbed

down the ladder.

“Thank you, Kara, for coming down to speak with me.”

She remained mute, standing with her head down. “Do

you have any idea what’s going on?”

She shook her head without saying a word.

“Kara, I bet it’s pretty scary to have to move to a

new neighborhood after living all those years in your

old one. Probably a little frightening to have to

start a new school, too, I guess.” He waited for a

response, a small reaction at the very least, but got

nothing.

“Kara, I have to ask you– what’s going on? How come

there’s been all of these fires lately?”

At this the child looked up, and her eyes searched

his. Finally, she said, in a small, almost weary

voice, “I don’t know. I don’t know how they start or

why.”

“Is it possible, Kara, that you– ”

She cut him off immediately. “–No! I haven’t done

anything! It’s not my fault! It’s not– Oh, no!”

The young teenager’s eyes widened; fear evident all

over her face. Skinner’s eyes turned to what had

caught hers, and immediately jumped to his side as

heat and flames danced uncomfortably close to his

body.

“Jesus!” he yelled out, but once he was a safe

distance from the fire, he quickly ascertained the

situation.

A damned rose bush just burst into flames, he thought

incredulously.

He moved quickly to look for something to put the

fire out, and noticed a garden hose that lay near the

foundation of the building. He squeezed the trigger

nozzle, and was relieved to see water spout out. He

pulled the hose along with him and sprayed the bush,

effectively putting the fire out almost as quickly as

it had started.

Skinner took a deep breath and allowed his heart rate

to return to normal. Damnedest thing, he thought. At

that moment it dawned on him that he was standing out

there alone. “Kara? Where are you?” He received no

answer. “Damnedest thing.”

He looked up and once again perceived movement, only

this time it was by the back door. “Kara?” he called

out.

“Please don’t talk to my daughter without her

stepmother or me present, Mr. Skinner. You’ve upset

her greatly.” Kevin Brooks’ tone matched the stern

look on his face.

Skinner wondered, exactly when had Mr. Brooks

appeared at the back door?

~~~~~~~~~

Motel 6

Tuesday, 6:20 p.m.

After his aborted interview with the girl, Skinner

had attempted to get back on track with her father

and stepmother. The atmosphere had become decidedly

chilly and, although the Brooks grudgingly took him

through the house and described the fires they’d

experienced, it became abundantly clear that he had

worn out his welcome. He’d eventually decided that a

cooling off period was needed, and called a taxi to

take him back to wait for his agents. His cab pulled

up in front of the motel just in time to see Scully

kneeling next to the passenger side of the rental

car, talking softly with her partner. Skinner paid

his fare and moved quickly to join them. Scully

started to rise when she saw him, but he motioned for

her to stay where she was.

“You stay here and keep an eye on the patient,

Agent.” As he turned to go register their rooms, he

couldn’t help the small smile that found its way to

his face. This was not going to be easy on any of

them, he mused to himself, not easy at all.

“Hurts like hell, doesn’t it?” she asked, once

Skinner was out of earshot.

“You know, Scully, you’d make a helluv an FBI agent,

what with your astute powers of observation,” he

replied with obvious weariness. “I still can’t

believe this happened.”

“At least it’s not your right hand.”

“God, Scully, it really does hurt like hell. You sure

the doc said it wasn’t too serious?”

“Just have to watch for infection, that’s all. So as

soon as we get you settled, you’re going to take your

nice little pink pills and lay down and rest for a

while.” Her expression brooked no nonsense. “No

arguments, Mulder.”

“Okay. Right now, the idea of a nap actually sounds

pretty good.”

She murmured some sounds of sympathy but quieted as

she saw Skinner leave the front entrance of the

motel. “Well, now the fun really begins, doesn’t it?”

she mused aloud.

Skinner returned to the car and climbed into the

driver’s seat. He handed Scully a keycard, then put

the car into gear and drove them around the back. As

he pulled into the parking space, he remarked, “I got

us a first floor, Mulder. Scully, yours is the corner

unit.”

“Corner?” asked Scully.

“Us?” piped up Mulder.

“Agents, I’m traveling with you so I can make

recommendations regarding cost-cutting measures on

your trips. Did you honestly think I was going to get

us three separate rooms? Besides,” he muttered,

almost as an afterthought, “I figured Mulder would

need a nursemaid to watch for a fever or something.”

Once Scully found her voice, she said, “Let’s get our

things inside,” and she got out of the car. Skinner

popped the trunk, and she hauled out her and Mulder’s

bags.

“I can carry my bag, Scully.” She handed it to him.

“Drop your things off and then come to my… our–”

Mulder hesitated and looked at his superior with a

hint of disbelief, and then continued “–room so we

can discuss Skinner’s findings.” He then turned to

his boss when he realized that he was essentially

giving the orders. “Um, assuming that’s okay with

you, sir.”

“Mulder, this is still your case to run.” He gestured

to both of them. “I’m here as a third wheel, an

observer. But I do have something to discuss with you

regarding the Brooks family. I think it might be very

relevant to the investigation.”

“Very well, sir. I’ll be there momentarily.” Scully

then looked briefly at Mulder, and silently urged him

to “hang in there”. He nodded slightly in response,

and she left to drop her bag off and freshen up.

Mulder then followed Skinner to their room. He

wondered how in hell he was going to deal with being

roomies with his boss; it was certainly a far cry

from rooming with his partner. They entered the

small, somewhat antiquated room and dropped their

bags on their respective beds. Both men sighed at the

short length of the full-sized beds, resigned to the

necessity of keeping expenses in line for their

friends in Accounting.

Mulder tried to unzip his suit bag but was having

difficulty manipulating the zipper with only one

hand. As he became more and more frustrated with his

limitations, he began muttering under his breath.

“You got a problem, agent?” asked Skinner.

Mulder stopped momentarily and then looked at the

Assistant Director. He nodded and simply pointed to

his “problem”. Skinner nodded and quickly unzipped

the suit bag so Mulder could hang his extra suits up

in the closet. He then pulled out the underwear that

was at the bottom of the bag and placed them in a

drawer. The shaving kit bag was moved to the bathroom

vanity.

“How’s the hand, Mulder?” asked Skinner.

“Throbs a bit,” he answered honestly.

“You scheduled to take anything for it yet?”

Mulder checked his watch and shook his head. “Got

another hour or so before I’m due, unfortunately.

Don’t worry; I’ll survive.”

Skinner shook his head slightly and muttered

something about “having enough practice at it” when

he heard a knock at the door. He walked over and let

Scully into the room.

“Sorry I took so long. I had to call the front desk.

Our lovely accommodations include my very own petting

zoo,” she said irritably.

“Petting zoo?” both men echoed.

“There was a mouse in the bathroom. She and her

family will be removed while they find me another

room. They’re checking to see what’s available,” she

explained.

“Hard to believe that they have to ‘check’ what’s

available in this rat trap…um, no pun intended,”

commented Skinner. Mulder and Scully both smiled at

the remark; even Skinner broke into something akin to

a grin.

“Well, sir, why don’t you fill us in on your

information?” suggested Scully.

Skinner nodded. “Well, something rather odd happened

while you were at the ER,” he began, somewhat

hesitantly. He then filled them in on the incident,

doing his best not to color the facts with opinion.

The reaction was immediate.

“Are you all right, sir?” asked Scully, assuming her

physician’s demeanor.

“Yes, Scully, I’m fine.”

“Do you think the girl is somehow responsible?” she

asked.

“No,” replied Skinner quickly. “No, actually, I

don’t. She just looked too surprised for me to

believe that she actually had a hand in setting that

bush on fire.”

“But there’s precedent for just this type of

behavior, sir. Remember Cecil L’ively?” Scully began,

then noted Mulder’s slight shudder at the memory she

had just evoked. She touched his arm in gently. “I’m

sorry, Mulder.”

“It’s okay, Scully. But to be honest, I don’t think

it’s the same thing.”

“Mulder, she’s got to be the one setting the fires.

She’s always present,” Scully insisted.

“No, Scully, I don’t think it’s her,” interjected

Skinner.

“Then who?”

“The father. He’s an electrical engineer, people. And

he works at home. He very well may have a hand in

this. I’m not sure how, but the man’s background

suggests that he could have the expertise to rig up

some kind of incendiary device.”

“But why? I mean, I can understand a disturbed

teenager seeking the attention. She just lost her

mother and her father remarried, all within the last

two years. What possible reason could the father

have?”

“I suspect it goes back to the mother’s illness.

There would have been large medical bills to pay.

Since the man is self-employed, it’s possible that

his insurance was inadequate to meet all of those

bills.”

“He’s doing it for the insurance?” she asked. “I

don’t know, sir. I find it hard to believe that the

man would go to the trouble of selling his old house,

buying a new one, and then constantly setting fire to

it. It seems to me that’s an awful lot of effort for

comparatively little return.”

“He most likely sold the old house to help pay off

the medical bills. Their former house was apparently

a real showcase, Scully.”

Mulder was observing the exchange silently, but with

obvious interest.

“I’m reasonably certain that you have a theory, Agent

Mulder. Would you care to share it with us?” asked

Skinner.

Mulder looked a little surprised at being addressed

directly. “Sorry. To be honest, I don’t think it’s

either one of them.”

“Mulder? How can you say that?” asked Scully. “If

this isn’t a repeat of Cecil L’ively, I don’t know

what is.”

“I don’t think you can discount the father as a

possible suspect either,” offered Skinner.

“I understand what you’re both saying, and I haven’t

rejected anyone at this point. It’s just that it

doesn’t add up when I put either of those two into

the equation,” explained Mulder.

“So? Who do you think it is? Surely not the mother?”

asked Scully.

“Depends which one you mean, Scully.” Mulder watched

as two pairs of eyes rolled simultaneously, just as

he’d anticipated they would. “Let’s just wait and

see, okay?” he countered. “I think I’m ready for a

pain pill, and taking that catnap sounds like a

really good idea,” he announced with a yawn. The

trauma to his hand was catching up with him.

“I guess I should go see if they found me another

room… though I should really check your hand out to

make sure there’s no infection, Mulder.” She was

aiming for her cool, professional tone and not quite

making it.

“Why don’t *I* go and see if they’ve found you a room

Agent Scully? In the meantime, you can check

Mulder’s hand,” offered the AD.

“Oh, thank you, sir. That would make a lot of sense.

Thank you. Thank you very much,” she said, though she

realized it was probably one or two times too many.

Skinner looked at her with a curious expression,

shrugged his shoulders slightly, and left to go to

the front office. As soon as the door closed, Scully

immediately moved to Mulder’s side. “You know, this

is going to drive me crazy.”

“You? I’m the one who’s rooming with him, Scully.

Besides, you promised to shoot me if I had to room

with him, remember?” Mulder smiled and tried to

stifle a yawn, but he wasn’t successful.

“Doesn’t look like I’d be getting any tonight

anyway,” she said with a grin, but when she leaned in

to kiss him, she brushed against his injured hand.

“Damn,” he hissed.

“Oh, Mulder, I’m sorry. I’ll get you a pain pill.”

She rose, got the painkillers and some water. “Take a

nap. You’ll feel better when you wake up.” She

quickly planted a kiss upon his lips and was about to

get up when she felt herself grabbed and dragged down

on top of him.

“Mulder, your hand!”

“I’ve got my hand way over there, Scully,” he said,

indicating the protective posture he had assumed.

“And if Skinner walks in on us?”

“Well, then maybe he’ll realize we’d appreciate it if

he took the other room and left you in here with me,”

he retorted with a small chuckle.

“Oh, yeah. I’m sure that would be the first thing

Skinner would offer to do– after he drummed our

sorry asses out of the FBI, that is.”

“Well, at least I wouldn’t have to play ‘musical

roommates’ any longer,” proclaimed Mulder.

“Oh, stop whining and get some rest. If any one of

us is in the ballpark with respect to a possible

suspect, I have a feeling that means we’ll be paying

another visit to the Brooks’ home all too soon.”

~~~~~~~

The pale blue wall silhouetted Kara’s shadow as she

lay in bed, huddled under the multicolored afghan her

mother had made for her so long ago. It had been

knitted from all of the remnants of her past

projects, and it served as a reminder of all the

sweaters and blankets her mom made for her and her

dad. “Momma,” she murmured in her sleep. Tears ran

down the teenager’s cheeks as she dreamed of times

long passed.

Gentle fingers tried to wipe away evidence of sadness

on the child’s face without waking her, but Kara woke

up with a start. “Who’s there?” Kara looked around,

but saw no one. She felt her heart race at the

possibilities, and sat up straight in her bed.

“Please, if anyone is here, answer me!” She paused

momentarily and then called out, “Bonnie?”

Suddenly, a gust of wind swept through the room

accompanied by a brilliant flash of light. “Who’s

there? Please, who’s there?” she pleaded with a

trembling voice.

Kara felt a light probing touch on her face, the

tears that continued to fall seemingly absorbed by

something unseen. She thought she should feel afraid,

but the gentle touch was actually very soothing. Kara

closed her eyes and allowed herself to be washed in

the comfort of it, unlike anything she had

experienced since–

“Momma?” she whispered aloud.

Kara felt warmth pressing against her forehead…a

kiss.

“Momma, I miss you so much. I want to be with you,

Momma. Please, take me with you.”

Kara felt a sudden chill and she cried out, “Don’t

leave me! I’ll stay here, but don’t leave me yet!”

The chill was instantly replaced by a sweet warmth,

as if loving arms were embracing her. Kara nuzzled

into that warmth and fell peacefully asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Act III

Motel 6

Tuesday, 11:00 p.m.

“Agent, is that absolutely necessary?” Skinner lifted

his face from the pillow and waved in the general

direction of the television.

Mulder immediately muted the sound. “Sorry. It’s the

only way I can sleep. Do you want me to turn it off?”

Skinner rolled to his side and propped himself up on

one elbow. He gave Mulder a speculative look. “If you

can live without the sound, I can live with the

light.” He punched the pillow into shape, stretched

out on his stomach, and buried his face in the crook

of his arm. “Get some sleep.”

“Yes, sir.” Mulder settled back against the headboard

and tried, without much success, to find a position

for his hand that didn’t make it throb like a

toothache. As pathetic as it sounded, all he wanted

to do was sneak down to Scully’s room so she could

fuss over him. He pushed the thought away and

concentrated on the silent flickering screen.

An hour later, his erstwhile roommate was snoring

softly, and Mulder was ready to climb the walls. He

glanced balefully at the brown plastic bottle on the

nightstand. Childproof caps. He couldn’t get a pill

out if his life depended on it.

But Scully could open the bottle for him. What better

excuse for a trip down the hall? Except that it

wasn’t a hall, it was an outside walkway. And he

couldn’t get his shoes on without help, let alone tie

the laces. He considered the possibilities for all of

twenty seconds before climbing carefully out of bed.

He was almost to the door before he remembered the

pill bottle, and crept quietly back to get it. His

hand had just touched the doorknob for the second

time when Skinner’s voice froze him in his tracks.

“Where are you going?”

He felt like a teenager sneaking out of the house

after curfew. “I, um– I need some ice. For my hand.”

It was the best he could come up with on such short

notice.

Skinner sat up and squinted at him, then grabbed his

glasses from the nightstand and looked again. “You

won’t get much ice in that little bottle.”

When had the man developed this propensity for

smirking? It was beginning to get on his nerves. “Oh.

Right. Guess I was half asleep.” He headed for the

dresser and exchanged the pill bottle for the ice

bucket.

“You’re going outside in your bare feet?”

While Mulder was casting around for a suitable

response, Skinner reached for his shoes and began

putting them on. “I’ll get it.”

“No, no– that’s not necessary, I’ll just–”

“Sit down, Mulder. I said I’ll get it.” And with

that, he took the ice bucket and was gone.

*Great*

Skinner reappeared a few moments later with a full

load of ice. He put it down on the dresser, picked up

one of the unused pillows and stripped off the

pillowcase. “Can you take the bandages off yourself

or do you need some help?” He snagged the plastic

laundry bag from the closet and began to fill it with

ice.

“I’ll just hold the ice against it like this. It’ll

be fine.”

“You’ll get the bandages wet.”

For the next few minutes, Mulder sat in embarrassed

silence while his boss gently unwrapped his hand and

placed the makeshift ice pack against it.

“Do you want a pain pill?” Skinner jerked his head

toward the plastic bottle now on the dresser.

Ah, the damn bottle that started all this. “No, this

is fine. Really.” Oddly enough, the ice *was*

helping.

That earned him another speculative look. “If you

change your mind, wake me up. We’ll redo the bandage

in the morning.” He put his glasses back on the

nightstand and got back under the covers.

“Thank you, sir.” He was beginning to feel more than

a little ashamed of the dark thoughts he’d been

sending Skinner’s way all afternoon. “I’ll be fine.

Scully can put a new bandage on tomorrow.”

The A.D. raised his head and gave Mulder a look that

was once again too close to a smirk for comfort. “I’m

sure she can.” He rolled over with his back to his

‘patient’. “Good night, Mulder.”

“Good night, sir.” If he didn’t known better, he’d

have to wonder if the man might not be on to their

little secret. Yes, it was going to be an interesting

couple of days…

~~~~~

Wednesday, 8:40 a.m.

They were on their way back to Clifford County

Medical Center, this time to interview George

Bostleman, the injured mail carrier. The man’s

physician had refused their request to see him

yesterday, citing traumatic shock. The police

interview had done enough damage, he’d said. The

F.B.I. would have to wait until Bostleman was

stronger. Otherwise, they would have been here

yesterday rather than in the Brooks’ living room

getting Mulder’s hand barbequed.

Breakfast had consisted of burned coffee and stale

bagels with a strangely reticent Skinner. He’d

insisted that they handle the interview without him,

claiming to have a number of phone calls to return.

Scully had found his behavior very puzzling until

Mulder shared last night’s events with her after they

got in the car.

“Mulder, are you out of your mind?” She gave him a

look that said she’d already answered her own

question. “What were you thinking?”

“Obviously, I *wasn’t*.”

The contrition in his voice was sincere, and she

turned back to him with a much softer expression. “I

wanted to see you, too, Mulder. But it was a foolish

risk. That’s why we need to make a new rule–” at his

knowing grin, she continued, “–and *stick* to it

this time. No fraternizing in the field.” She pulled

into a parking space and shut off the engine.

“But look at the money we could save by just getting

one room.” Mulder added his patented eyebrow waggle,

and wisely prepared to duck.

She shot him a look. “Let’s stick to business for the

remainder of this trip, shall we?” But her eyes were

twinkling.

Mr. Bostleman was sitting propped in his hospital

bed, his blistered face, and arms glistening with

ointment. His attention was focused on the

television, and he didn’t look at his visitors until

Mulder spoke.

“Mr. Bostleman? I’m Special Agent Mulder with the

Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is my partner,

Special Agent Scully. We have a few questions, if you

feel up to it.”

“Oh, I’m up to it, all right. The cops in this town

seem to think I’m imagining things. I’m hoping for a

slightly more open mind from the Feds.”

Mulder glanced quickly at Scully . The corners of her

mouth twitched dangerously for an instant before

her cool, professional mask returned. “Yes, Mr.

Bostleman, I think you’ll find Agent Mulder in

particular to be quite open minded.” When she looked

back at Mulder, her eyes were positively dancing with

amusement.

“Uh, yes, Mr. Bostleman. What is it that the police

think you’re imagining?” Mulder shot back a look that

he hoped would convey just how amusing he thought

this all was. Scully’s expression remained impassive,

but the merriment in her eyes actually kicked up a

notch.

“Well, to start with: they don’t believe there’s

anything unusual going on in that house. Hell, any

fool in town can tell you these new people are very

strange.” At the “any fool in town” comment, the

postman made a sweeping gesture and winced as the

movement stretched the burned skin. “Their neighbors

told me that there have been a half-dozen unexplained

fires since the Brooks moved in.”

Scully called him on that one. “Our information makes

it four fires, Mr. Bostleman, not six.”

“Four, six, what’s the difference? Besides, they

haven’t called the fire department every time, if

that’s where you’re getting your *information*.” He

almost sneered the last word.

Buddy, you do *not* want to get into a verbal

fencing match with this woman, Mulder thought. “So,

what is it that you think is causing the fires?”

The man turned his attention back to Mulder. “I think

these people are in deep financial difficulty and

they’re making it look like there’s a poltergeist or

something in the house. Setting little fires so that

when the big one finally *happens*, they won’t be

under suspicion. They got a pretty large insurance

windfall coming if they torch the place, but only if

no one suspects them of arson.”

“What makes you think the Brooks are in financial

trouble?” Mulder had been resting his hand in his

overcoat pocket, but hanging down like that was

making it throb again. He quickly tucked it into his

jacket in a Napoleonic pose.

“Hey, what happened to your hand? Was it *another*

fire?” He gave Scully a triumphant glance before

eyeing Mulder carefully. “Did you get that in the

house?”

Mulder ignored the question. “I asked why you think

the Brooks have money problems.”

Bostleman shrugged as much as his injuries permitted.

“It’s not hard to figure out when you deliver them a

mitt-full of bills every day of the week. And not

just bills, *past due* bills. Lots of them, from

two hospitals and a shitload of credit card

companies, not to mention three or four collection

agencies. My sister-in-law, Ruthie, works at the

Publix supermarket. Said Mrs. Brooks was in there a

few weeks ago trying to charge her groceries with a

Visa Gold card. Not only got declined, but the credit

card company made Ruthie take the card away from

her.”

“That doesn’t necessarily add up to arson.”

“No, ma’am, it doesn’t. But there’s just an… *aura*

around that house. I can feel it whenever I’m there.”

Predictably, Mulder jumped in. “An aura? Is this

something you see, or just a general feeling?”

Scully shot him a *don’t go there* look. “Mr.

Bostleman, can you tell us what happened when you

were injured?”

“Not much to tell. I dropped off their day’s crop of

bills and picked up a couple of outgoing pieces.

Before I made it ten feet from the mailbox, every

piece of mail I had on me went up in flames. I

dropped the pack and ran, but the letters in my hands

set my coat on fire. By the time I got it off and

rolled on the ground, everything above my waist

looked like this.” He raised his arms slowly and

gestured at his torso and face.

“Was there anything unusual about the mail you picked

up from the Brooks?”

“No, ma’am. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just a few

letter-size envelopes. No wires, no suspicious white

powder. Nothing. The daughter was at the door to get

the mail from me. She handed me the outgoing mail and

shut the door. Didn’t even come out when I started

screaming my head off.”

“This *feeling* you said you had about the house.”

Two pairs of eyes turned to Mulder. “Can you describe

it?”

Another careful shrug. “Creepy. Like someone’s

standing behind you but you can’t turn around fast

enough to catch them there.”

Scully nodded and wrote a few lines in her notepad.

“Thank you, Mr. Bostleman. That’s all the questions I

have for now.” She looked over at Mulder. “Agent

Mulder?”

“Not at this time.” He placed a business card on

Bostleman’s tray table. “If you think of anything

else, call the number on the card.”

They were halfway out the door when Bostleman called

out, the strain of his injuries finally apparent in

his subdued voice. “I’ll give you the same advice I

gave the police: Believe me, don’t believe me–

that’s up to you. But watch yourself.” His burst of

adrenaline depleted, Bostleman closed his eyes and

sagged back against the pillows, asleep before his

visitors could respond.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Clifford Heights Police Station

Wednesday, 12:15 p.m.

Scully’s cell phone had rung as she and Mulder were

getting back into the car after their interview with

Mr. Bostleman. It was Skinner, wanting to rejoin the

party. He had made no progress trying to work from

his motel room and suggested they try the local

police department’s resources. The Chief of Police

had been more than accommodating, handing over his

own conference room, barely bigger than a supply

closet, but equipped with a fax machine and modem.

Scully glanced at her partner sitting next to her

when she heard the growl. Mulder’s famous stomach.

Better than an alarm clock when it came to

determining lunch time. But as she looked at his

unconcerned face, glasses perched on his nose, going

over the credit reports on Kevin Brooks, her ears

heard the sound again, coming from a different

direction. She looked across the small conference

room table and just caught the embarrassed look on

their boss’s face.

“Sorry,” Skinner mumbled.

Mulder was too engrossed to hear anything, but Scully

shot a quick look at the clock on the wall, noting it

was a quarter past 12. That made it an hour past

lunch to their East Coast appetites.

“Mulder, I think it’s time we feed the A.D.,” Scully

said calmly, but her eyes were sparkling with her

amusement.

“Hmm?” came the reply for her partner. He still

hadn’t bothered to look up. From the moment they had

arrived at the police station, Mulder had been buried

in every scrap of paper he could find about the

Brooks family and the other fires. He’d been calling,

faxing and downloading local newspaper accounts for

over two hours and even her stomach was starting to

protest a lack of real food.

“I’m hungry. Let’s stop this and get some lunch,” she

said slowly, as if trying to talk her partner off a

ledge.

He finally looked up, seemed confused that she’d

interrupted him. This time, he noticed when his

stomach made the now familiar sound.

“Let’s get some lunch,” he declared, as if he were

the first one to think of it.

“Great idea,” Skinner said dryly.

“Yeah, wish I’d thought of it,” Scully shot back,

smiling when her boss tried hard not to chuckle.

They walked out of the police station, which was

situated just off the main street of beautiful

downtown Clifford Heights, and headed for the car.

Mulder turned abruptly in the other direction.

“Where’s he . . .” Skinner started to ask, but Scully

was way ahead of him. She looked in the direction

Mulder was heading and groaned loudly.

“Mulder. No!” she cried out and ran after him,

catching up to him in just a few steps.

“Scully, it’s right here. We don’t have to drive;

we’ll be able to get back inside and get some work

done. We can even get the stuff to go and get back at

it,” he reasoned, not slowing his pace one bit.

“Mulder, I will not have greasy wrappers littering

the same table top I’m trying to write notes on,”

Scully shot back. Then she tried to touch his hand,

but remembered the bandages and let her arm drop to

her side. “Please. Can’t we try to find someplace–

*anyplace* else?”

“You rode through this one-horse town just like the

rest of us, Scully. There is no ‘anyplace else’ here.

Unless you want a stale sandwich from the same gas

station we got our stale bagels from this morning?”

By this time Skinner had caught up with them and even

figured out their destination. “Hey, look! They have

99-cent Whoppers!”

“And Two for Two fries,” Mulder pointed out

enthusiastically.

Scully looked for any chance of escape, but realized

she was doomed. “Sure, fine, whatever,” she sighed

and trod grudgingly toward Clifford Heights newest

eating establishment–a shiny new Burger King.

She watched in horror as Mulder ordered a Whopper and

two fries. Skinner ordered just one Whopper, but

added cheese. It appeared to be an unspoken agreement

between the two of them that they’d split the two

fries between them. It was her turn. “Grilled chicken

sandwich, no mayo, and a glass of water, please.”

The waitress, an older woman at least 70 if a day,

winked at her. “Keep that girlish figure, honey.

Their eyes start to wander before you know it.” The

older woman nodded in the direction of Mulder and

Skinner. “And you’re one lucky little lady with those

two!”

“Don’t I know it,” Scully said with less enthusiasm

than the comment would normally warrant.

By the time she sat down, after getting her water,

Mulder was struggling to figure out a way to pick up

his sandwich without the mayonnaise-slick tomato and

lettuce squirting out the bottom. He was just about

to get ketchup all over his bandage when she pulled

the sandwich away from him, dug her pocketknife out

of her purse, and cut the sandwich into more

manageable quarters. He smiled his thanks and went

back to eating.

“So, what have we got?” Skinner asked, breaking the

silence.

“This isn’t the first occurrence of unexplained fires

breaking out in Illinois,” Scully started, putting

her sandwich down and taking out her notebook.

“Alton, Illinois, late 1920s. A young girl’s family

was terrorized by unexplained fires that broke out

almost constantly. The girl was thirteen years old,

was emotionally disturbed by family accounts. When

she passed puberty, the fires stopped. No reason was

ever found.”

“I think I saw those movies,” Mulder said with a grin

as he popped a few more fries into his mouth.

“They’re heeeeere,” he mimicked.

Scully shot him a look. “We still don’t know all the

chemical changes a body goes through when it reaches

puberty, Mulder,” she chided. “I would think that was

the one explanation you’d jump at.”

“Close, Scully, but I really don’t think it’s like

the Alton case. In that case the girl had been

’emotionally disturbed’, as you put it, for years.

And the fires were usually small in nature, although

you are right; they were going on almost continually

during the year it happened. As a matter of fact, the

family started placing buckets of water every few

steps around the house to put them out as they broke

out. The fire department just threw up it’s hands

after a few months.”

“So why is this different?” Scully asked, sipping

from her water.

“It just doesn’t feel like it’s that easy,” Mulder

said with a shrug.

“I think I’m beginning to agree with you, Agent

Mulder,” Skinner said, with an almost surprised look

on his face.

“But sir, I thought you were going with the father

setting the arson fires, using his electrical skills

to set them off?” Scully turned to him with a raised

eyebrow.

“How could he have started Mulder’s notebook on

fire?” Skinner countered. “That’s been bothering me

since it happened. Kevin Brooks had no access to that

notebook. It was in Mulder’s pocket or in his hands

the entire time, and the analysis of the remains

showed no sign of accelerant.”

“But why not think it’s Kara, as Scully just

explained?” Mulder asked, holding back a grin. C’mon,

Walt, you can do it, he mentally encouraged.

Skinner was quiet for a moment, thinking. Finally he

looked over at Mulder. “Her eyes. I looked at that

little girl when the rose bush caught fire and there

was fear in her eyes. She didn’t know what started

that fire, and she was afraid of it.”

“It could still be puberty,” Scully countered.

“Remember what it was like as a teenager. Your body

betraying you at every turn. You wake up one morning

and your face is broken out, your hair won’t comb

right, your feet are too big and you stumble a lot,

your legs are suddenly too long for your body . . .”

“I feel like that every morning, Scully,” Mulder

interjected. She rewarded him with a smirk. “I think

you’re on to something, sir. I don’t think it was

Kara.”

“Then who?” Scully asked, sitting back and crossing

her arms, ready to duke it out, if necessary.

“Kara’s mom,” Mulder said, wiping some ketchup off

his tie one-handed.

“Bonnie?” Scully asked, her forehead knotted in

confusion.

“No, Lisa. Kara’s natural mother.”

“Back from the dead?” Scully asked with a smirk.

“Not everyone has all the loose threads tied up when

they die, Scully. We’ve seen this before, at an Air

Force Base not that far from here.”

“Mulder, that was a murder victim. And I’m still not

entirely convinced that the ghost of Rebecca Barnes

helped solve that case. Besides, there is no murder

here. Lisa Brooks died of cancer.”

“Maybe she still has issues,” Mulder said with a

shrug.

Skinner looked from one agent to the other. “Well, I

think until we have some way to prove that, we better

get back to checking out the evidence we can prove,”

he said, picking up his tray and carrying it to the

trash.

“What? No dessert?” Mulder whined, but picked up his

tray and followed suit.

~~~~~~~~~

The Brooks Household

Wednesday, 6:05 p.m.

“I really love this arrangement you made today in

school, K.,” Bonnie commented as she admired the pine

needle and orchid centerpiece.

Kara shook a colander full of fresh string beans

above the sink, and shut off the faucet. She tore off

two paper towels, brought everything over to the

table and sat next to her stepmother.

“Thanks. It was a Japanese flower-arrangement

workshop. We have workshops like that all week before

this weekend’s ‘International Picnic.'” The two began

taking string beans one by one from the colander,

snapping the ends off onto the paper towels and

tossing the results into a glass bowl.

“So what kind of food should we bring to the picnic?”

Bonnie asked, trying to jump-start a new project with

her stepdaughter. Perhaps taking more of an interest

in her social activities would bring them closer.

“Don’t want a hibachi,” the girl said with some

solemnity weighing her voice down.

“No fires, that’s for sure,” Bonnie said warily. “We

don’t want to have to bring buckets of water with us.

Unless you want to show off with a wet t-shirt

contest!”

The girl gasped and blushed bright red. “You! You,

wouldn’t…” then she saw that Bonnie’s face was beet

red as well, trying to hold back her giggles. The two

of them broke out into a laughing fit instantly. “I

have… nothing to show… for it anyway,” Kara

continued between deep breaths and laughter.

“Oh, you’ll get there,” Bonnie encouraged in a more

serious tone. “Don’t worry, you’re perfectly normal,

K. I didn’t start ‘blooming’ until I was seventeen.”

They resumed snapping the string beans, giggles

breaking out every so often.

“So, really, Kara. What should we bring for the

picnic? A new recipe?”

“Actually, we had to sign up for a country to

contribute to. There will be several tables there in

the field, something like food-stands for different

ethnic foods.”

“Did you choose Germany, for your Dad’s origin?”

“No, USA.”

“Well, that’s not very international…”

“No, but our family right now is from the US. I mean,

you, me and Dad,” she mumbled quietly, a little

embarrassed at revealing such a personal feeling

toward Bonnie. She really didn’t do that too often.

When she looked up from her pile of green pointy ends

she saw that Bonnie still had some tears from the

laughing fits, making her eyes glassy. Wait a

minute… that wasn’t the laughing doing that.

“That’s really nice to hear, Kara. I think it’s a

wonderful idea.”

Kara responded with a wide grin, and grabbed another

handful of beans.

Bonnie cleared her throat and shook her curly locks

slightly before she changed the subject back. “So,

you have anything in mind? We’re committed to

bringing something now, since you had to sign up.”

“I figured we could make something that reminds me of

home. Momma used to make this spicy fried chicken.”

Bonnie shifted slightly in her seat. “Is that

healthy?” she said, a little strained.

“C’mon, how often do we go to a picnic? Besides, we

always used to have that at big family events. I’m

sure Dad still has the recipe,” Kara prodded.

The older woman nodded her head.

It was quiet for a while as they finished up the

vegetables. Kara could feel a little creeping

sensation up her spine. There was suddenly some kind

of tension in the air. Had she said the wrong thing

by praising Momma’s recipe? But it was true; she did

feel like Bonnie was family. Even with all the

longing she had felt for her mother popping up here

and there. She couldn’t forget her, and she would

never stop loving her, but Bonnie really cared for

her, too. And she really liked the feeling of having

a mom again, in the flesh.

She thought back to that moment in her room when her

momma’s kiss and hug felt so real. She was so sure it

wasn’t a dream. But how could she tell? Dreams felt

real sometimes, and it did happen in her room, while

she was falling asleep.

It really wasn’t a choice she was making. She just

needed someone to talk to. Bonnie was taking that

role for her now. She had to tell her how she felt.

And the tension felt as if it were growing thicker

with every second she let pass by.

“Bonnie?” Kara gently began. Her stepmother looked up

at her, waiting for her to continue. “Do you think

it’s okay to call you something else? I mean,

‘Bonnie’ sounds like I’m talking to a friend, which

is okay…”

“I am your friend, K,” Bonnie responded, and put down

the last of her string beans to cover Kara’s hand.

“Yes, but…” Kara fought to keep her emotions in

check. “You’ve really, um, gone out of your way to

take care of me and… it’s not like I want to forget

her… EVER… but…” Bonnie’s grasp loosened a

little. Kara continued, “…I used to call her

‘Momma.’ I was thinking, maybe, if it’s okay with

you, that I could call you ‘Ma.’ You know, something

a little shorter.”

“Oh, Kara, of course you may!” Bonnie got up from her

seat and embraced her stepdaughter tightly. They both

held onto each other that way for a while. It was

comforting, it was warm and nice…

…And it was ruined when the orchid centerpiece on

the table suddenly burst into flame! Bonnie pushed

Kara away from the table and grabbed one of the fire

extinguishers they now kept in strategic places all

over the house.

The flames ate at the stems of the flowers, making

them seem to melt. Kara panicked as her mind began to

replay all of the fires she had seen in the last

months. It was like a slide show, flashing before her

eyes. So many of them… and all of them trying to

burn out symbols of the new life she and her father,

and now Bonnie, all shared together.

The tension in the room seemed to double. Kara was a

little surprised. She’d gone through so many

spontaneous fires lately that she was almost numb to

them. Sure, the initial shock was intense, but it

felt like there was something else — a lingering

spirit about the room…

A spirit…

Kara raced up to her room and slammed the door, the

sound of Bonnie calling after her muffled behind the

wood panel. She sat on her bed and waited. And

waited.

Anger and distress and sadness were building up

inside her — a jumble of emotions as she waited for

that presence to appear. And it did, but very

cautiously, like it was standing in the corner,

watching her.

“Momma.” the girl said with a quavering voice.

“Momma, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I still love you!

Please, Momma, let us be a family. I still love–”

her words cracked in her throat, tears inched down

her cheeks.

“Momma, please…”

*****

Act IV

Brooks Household, Kitchen

Wednesday, 6:28 p.m.

Bonnie unwrapped another disposable sponge and filled

the cleaning bucket with water. Dealing with the

foamy mess of a newly-extinguished fire had become

disturbingly routine.

She began by removing the remains of Kara’s Japanese

centerpiece, now nothing more than a melted plastic

pot with some sticks jutting out from the burnt foam

block.

As she started to wipe the mess off the table, she

heard the front door close. Kevin was home. She could

hear him pause in the entrance hall and curse under

his breath. He recognized the smell that accompanied

another combustible outbreak, as they all had learned

to do. Next she heard the keys in the glass bowl,

then the heavy, exhausted footsteps through the

dining room. She continued her work.

“I can’t believe this,” he grumbled in frustration.

“She’s doing it for attention, you know. That’s got

to be it!” His voice became louder as he went on.

“Kevin, just stop it!” Bonnie snapped, splashing the

soaked sponge into the cloudy water.

“I don’t know what to do anymore, Bonnie! I’ve been a

good father to her! This is just revenge for the fact

that we moved away. I have no other ideas!”

“Well, you can start by talking instead of yelling!”

“I AM NOT YELL – – ” Kevin gritted his teeth, then

lowered his voice. “One of these days someone is

going to get killed. There’s only one thing left to

do.” He went over to the wall-mounted phone in the

kitchen and began dialing.

“Who are you calling?”

“The FBI agents.”

“Kevin, your own daughter!?”

“She has to be stopped! I can’t do anything anymore.

She just won’t–”

A shrieking scream cut through their argument. It

stopped Kevin’s heart. He let the receiver drop and

it swung by its cord as the two parents raced to the

second floor.

An orange glow filled the staircase and smoke hid the

ceiling from view, as if a bad storm were brewing

inside the house. It was, and the heat of the storm

was centered around Kara’s bedroom door. Kevin pulled

the sleeve of his sweater around his fist and banged

on the door.

“Kara, open the door, baby! Kara, we have to get you

out of there!”

All they could hear was Kara hiccupping and sobbing

inside. Every few seconds a high-pitched squeal would

escape. Kevin banged on the door harder with

increasing urgency, but it was no use. The strength

of the door was otherworldly, and he could do nothing

to save his baby girl.

He coughed and shouted in frustration. Bonnie pulled

at his arm to get him downstairs, away from the

danger.

“We have to call for help or she’ll die in there!”

“No! I have to save her! I’m her father!”

“And now, I’m her mother. I’m calling for help.” She

left his side and ran down the stairs, covering her

mouth against the thickening smoke as she went.

When she got downstairs, the phone was still dangling

from its cord, and she heard a faint voice calling

from the receiver.

“Mr. and Mrs. Brooks? Kara? Hello? Can anyone hear

me? Hello. . .?”

Bonnie grabbed the phone, “Hello?”

“Mrs. Brooks, thank God!”

“Agent Scully, please hurry, there’s a fire! Bigger

than before and we can’t get to Kara! She’s trapped!”

“We’re already on our way.”

Bonnie hung up the phone. It probably wouldn’t matter

in a few minutes. She stumbled over to the staircase

again, crouching below the growing clouds of smoke.

She called up the stairs, into the obscurity, “Kevin!

We have to try from the outside! The agents are on

the way!”

It took a moment before her husband’s heavy footsteps

tramped down the stairs. He sought her hand and they

rushed out to the front yard together.

~~~~~~~

Wednesday, 6:40 p.m.

Clifford Heights wasn’t a particularly large town, so

the three agents arrived at the house in record time,

even managing to beat the volunteer fire department

to the scene. Skinner pulled haphazardly to the curb

and jumped out of the car.

Mulder had to reach awkwardly across his body with

his right hand in order to open the passenger door,

so Scully climbed quickly out of the front seat to

help him. Both agents then made a dash for the

Brooks’ front door.

Skinner was banging his fist urgently against the

wood. Just as Mulder and Scully joined him, Bonnie

Brooks opened the door, crying hysterically.

“She’s in her room. We can’t get her out! We can’t

get her out!”

“Where the hell is the fire department?” asked

Scully.

“We called; they said they’d get here as soon as they

could. Another emergency across town… Oh, God! Help

me, get her out, please!” she cried.

“Do you have a ladder?” Skinner had grabbed Bonnie

gently but firmly by the shoulders, speaking intently

into her face.

“We can’t get her out!” she cried again, oblivious to

the A.D.’s question.

“Mrs. Brooks! A ladder– do you have a ladder?” He

shook her slightly and her eyes snapped into focus.

“Ladder? Yes, yes, out back.” She brushed by Skinner

and rushed out to the backyard, pointing frantically

at the rickety treehouse ladder. “This is all we

have. Will it do?”

Skinner gave the ladder a swift appraisal and hoisted

it over his head. “Show me Kara’s window!” Whether

the thing would support him or not was a question

that would be answered soon enough.

Bonnie pointed to a window on the side of the house,

and Skinner sprinted for it with the panicked woman

right on his heels.

Meanwhile, Mulder and Scully had dashed into the

house, where they immediately heard Kevin Brooks’

screams coming from the second floor.

Scully spotted a fire extinguisher on the coffee

table to her left and grabbed it before heading up

the stairs with Mulder right behind her.

“Kara! Kara, please, sweetheart, open the door!

Daddy’s not angry! Please, just open the door!” They

found Kevin Brooks screaming desperately toward

Kara’s door as the flames danced around it, blocking

his path. Scully pointed the extinguisher nozzle and

sprayed the foamy white substance along the floor and

at the door, emptying the container in moments. The

fire raged on unabated.

“Is the door stuck? Is that why she’s not coming

out?” Scully shouted above the roar of the flames.

“I don’t know! A few minutes ago I was able to get

over to it, but I couldn’t turn the handle. It felt

like it was jammed or maybe locked. I don’t know! But

now I can’t get near it because the whole damn

hallway is on fire!” he cried out in frustration.

Brooks turned back towards the door and pleaded with

his daughter. “Kara, please, open the door!”

Scully turned to ask Mulder where the hell the fire

department was, but he was nowhere in sight. “Mulder!

Where are you?”

Their situation was all too similar to the L’ively

case, and she wondered for an instant if Mulder was

reliving the fear he’d felt that night. She could

only imagine what he must be feeling.

Then suddenly he reappeared, awkwardly hauling a

wastebasket filled with water that spilled over the

lip with every step. “Move away, Scully. Let me try

this.” His grip was precarious, trying to spare his

injured hand, but he managed to toss the contents

toward the bedroom door.

Miraculously, it made a path large enough for him to

pass through, which he quickly did before Scully or

Brooks could react. He pushed against the door once

with little success and then, bracing himself, plowed

his way through on the second try.

He was momentarily relieved to find the room filled

with smoke but free of flames, until he tried to take

a breath to call for the child and the acrid fumes

seared his throat. He choked and immediately got down

on his knees, balancing on his right hand. It was

impossible to crawl and cover his mouth at the same

time, so he opted for forward movement and tried to

take shallow breaths.

“Kara? Kara, it’s okay. Where are you?” Mulder called

out, trying to keep his voice as gentle as possible.

The smoke was overwhelming and blinding. He had to

find the child quickly, or they’d both be dead in

minutes.

Images of the hotel fire years ago flashed through

his mind as he crept through the choking darkness. He

hadn’t made it to the children that time, though the

arsonist had. And this was far worse than that night

had been.

“Kara, please, say something so I can figure out

where you are!” he called out again.

“Here,” she whimpered.

“Again, Kara. Where are you?”

“Here. I’m over here,” she cried out a little more

loudly, then began to cough helplessly.

Mulder crawled toward the sound of the child’s voice,

eyes streaming from the smoke. He could hear Scully

calling frantically from the hall, but he couldn’t

draw in enough air to make his voice carry that far.

He crawled around the end of the bed and bumped

directly into the girl crouched low on the floor.

“Kara! Grab onto my coat and stay low. We’re going to

get out of here. Do you know where the window is?” He

peered through the thick smoke, searching for the

light.

“I think it’s that way, but I can’t see!” She pointed

over his shoulder.

Mulder could now hear sirens in the distance but the

sound of shattering glass was even more welcomed, as

was the resulting draft, which made it easier to

breathe, but not to see.

“Kara! Kara, are you in there?” It was Skinner’s

voice, and Mulder crawled toward it, dragging Kara

with him.

“Sir! I’ve got her. We’re coming!”

Within a few feet, Mulder’s hand encountered broken

glass from the window and he turned to Kara. “Stand

up, Kara. We’re here.” They came slowly to their feet

and Mulder reached toward the draft with his right

hand. He stepped forward and felt a strong hand grasp

his.

“Okay, Kara, time to get you out of here,” Mulder

said to the child. “Here she is, sir.”

Skinner reached in and lifted the child up over the

small, jagged pieces of glass that remained in the

window frame. He began the slow descent, using one

hand to hold onto the ladder, and the other to

support Kara as she followed him down the ladder.

Mulder looked at the ladder and tried to figure out

how the hell he was going to manage this. His hand

was throbbing again, and he knew he’d need the

support of both his hands to get himself safely onto

the ladder. Once he got to the point where he could

start descending, he’d be okay. It was maneuvering

himself out of the window that gave him cause to

grimace.

“Well, here goes nothing,” he muttered to himself. He

pushed one leg out the window and began to turn. “Oh,

damn!” he cried out. He’d grabbed onto the ledge of

the window with both hands for support, and the pain

shot through the injured hand from the impact. At

that point he realized the damn thing was going to

hurt no matter what he did, so he gritted his teeth

and forced himself out the window and onto the

ladder. Once outside, he managed to descend without a

problem.

Once Mulder reached the ground, he turned to find the

area surrounded by volunteer firemen and a squad car.

Bonnie was standing, holding her stepdaughter, while

Kevin was speaking with a member of the local PD.

Skinner stood nearby as Kevin answered the questions

posed by the cop. Scully saw Mulder and rushed toward

him.

“Are you okay?” she asked anxiously.

“Yeah,” he replied and immediately began coughing

uncontrollably.

“Oh, yeah. You’re fine.” She gathered him in her arms

and began gently leading him toward the rescue

vehicles.

One of the EMTs met them and sat Mulder on the bed of

his rig. He placed an oxygen mask over Mulder’s face

and instructed him to take deep breaths. He felt

better almost immediately and tried to remove the

mask.

“Oh no you don’t, Mulder. Leave it on for a few

minutes, or you will find yourself making yet another

trip to the emergency room,” admonished Scully.

He nodded in response and then, rather than attempt

to speak through the mask, merely pointed toward the

Brooks family.

“Kara’s fine, Mulder, though she’s obviously upset.

But physically, she’s fine.”

Just as Scully gave Mulder her assessment of the

situation, as if on cue, Kara screamed loudly, “No,

please, let me go!” She twisted out of Bonnie’s

embrace and ran directly into the house, leaving her

stepmother frozen with shock.

Almost instantly the flames that had mere seconds ago

threatened to engulf the structure simply winked out,

leaving only puffs of smoke wafting from the doors

and windows. The firemen stared open-mouthed. A fire

that extinguished itself was completely impossible.

And so they stared.

Bonnie recovered almost immediately and ran after the

teenager. Kevin and Skinner both tried to stop her,

but Bonnie would have none of it. She escaped their

grasps and ran into the house. As she entered the

front door, she heard Kara coming down the stairs.

“Kara?”

“I’m sorry. I had to get it.”

“Get what, sweetheart?”

“My momma’s picture. I couldn’t leave it up there. I

had to get it.” She paused and looked around her, as

if just now realizing where she was. “Jeez…pretty

stupid of me, huh?” she asked breathlessly.

“No. Not stupid, Kara. Maybe a little impulsive, but

not stupid.” Bonnie reached out, and Kara tentatively

placed the silver-framed photo into her stepmother’s

hand. Bonnie used the hem of her tee-shirt to

carefully wipe the frame, polishing it to its former

gleam.

“It looks none the worse for the wear, does it?”

Bonnie asked as she handed it back to the teenager.

Kara agreed, and fingered the frame with tenderness.

“Maybe we should get ourselves back outside into the

fresh air. It’s a bit of a mess in here, isn’t it?”

Kara looked around her again, nodded, but then said,

“But it’ll be okay, won’t it Bonnie? We’ll be able to

come back and live here, right?”

Bonnie’s expression couldn’t hide the surprise at

hearing her stepdaughter’s words. “You want to come

back here?” she asked incredulously.

“Yeah. I like it here, Ma,” she replied shyly.

“I don’t understand…with all of this craziness

going on…” She hesitated.

“It wasn’t me; it was my momma. She was the one that

wasn’t sure. She was the one who thought I’d

forgotten her. But she does understand now. It’s

okay. She knows I really do love her, and that you

and Dad are both okay with that.” Kara finally

managed a small smile.

“Oh, Kara, it really is, you know. Neither your dad

nor I would ever want you to forget about her.”

Bonnie reached over to embrace Kara. “And you’re

right, kiddo, for a place that was up in flames just

a little while ago, it doesn’t look like it’s in too

bad shape. I think with a lot of elbow grease, this

place is going to become our home again.” The two of

them walked out the front door arm in arm.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Epilogue

Motel 6

Thursday, 9:12 a.m.

“Is this everything?” Scully dropped a stack of

shirts onto the bed next to Mulder’s open suitcase.

“Scully, you don’t have to do this. I can–” Then he

proceeded to prove otherwise by dropping the shaving

kit he had been balancing on his one good hand.

She flashed him an indulgent smile. “So I see. Would

you rather have Skinner pack for you?” Mulder winced

at the prospect, and Scully nodded in agreement.

“That’s what I thought.”

He retrieved the shaving kit from the floor and

placed it on the bed. “First aid in the middle of the

night and tying my shoes for me was weird enough. I

drew the line at zipping my pants, although he did

offer.”

Scully’s expression was priceless. Then she began to

giggle, which never failed to get Mulder going right

along with her. They were soon holding each other up,

tears running down faces crinkled with mirth.

“Agents?”

They hadn’t even heard the door open. Skinner was

back from checking them out of the motel. He stood

just inside the door with his hand on the knob,

seemingly frozen by the vision before him. The solemn

X-Files division, dissolving into mild hysterics.

They straightened up immediately.

“Yes, sir.” Scully found her voice first. “I was just

helping Mulder pack.” She sidestepped so he could see

the suitcase and clothing on the bed, then turned

back to complete her task.

Mulder busied himself with opening drawers and closet

doors, checking for anything left behind. Skinner

watched from the door.

“I can finish that for you, Agent Scully. Don’t you

have to pack your own things?”

Mulder wasn’t sure he could maintain a straight face,

so he carefully avoided meeting Scully’s eyes. She

shook her head, apparently feeling the same urge to

snicker that was tickling his own throat.

“It’s no trouble. I’ll just be another minute.” She

literally stuffed the last items into the case and

zipped it shut, with a little assistance from

Mulder’s good hand. “There.”

She seemed to be avoiding eye contact with Skinner,

too. “I’ll meet you at the car.” She nearly ran from

the room, leaving Mulder struggling to keep his

expression neutral.

Skinner stepped quickly out of the way to let her

pass. When she was out of earshot, he turned back to

Mulder. “I don’t suppose there’s any point in asking

what that was all about?”

Mulder could feel the flush in his face. “It was…

we were just–”

His boss held up one hand and shook his head. “That’s

okay. I’m sorry I asked,” but there was a glint of

amusement in his eyes.

In desperate need of a diversion, Mulder gestured

toward the pile of sooty gabardine in the corner. “I

don’t think this is quite what accounting had in mind

when they sent you out here, sir. I would have only

wrecked *one* suit.”

Skinner gave him a rueful smile. “They wanted me to

‘validate the expenditures’. I think I’ve done that.”

His expression sobered. “Mulder, is this the way it

always is? Leaving a case with so many questions

unanswered?”

“You don’t buy my theory?”

“That the fires were caused by Kara Brooks’ dead

mother? That there won’t be any more now because Kara

has convinced a ghost that she’s still loved? I guess

I’d have to say that I don’t accept that as the most

logical answer.”

Mulder smiled. “You sound just like someone else I

know.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” He picked up his

own packed suitcase and grabbed Mulder’s from the

bed.

“Sir, you don’t have to do that. I–”

“At ease, agent. You can get the door.” He shouldered

his way past Mulder and headed for the door. “And you

can write the expense report for this trip.”

“Two suits and a toasted notebook? Piece o’ cake.”

~~~

END