Title: Cold Hands, Warm Heart

Authors: I Want To Believe (a round robin)

(Beduini, Char Chaffin, Lisa W, Leslie Sholly,

Kimberly, Regina, Lara Means, SueBee, Marty,

Laurie D. Haynes, Paige Caldwell)

Archiving: VS8 gets it exclusively for two weeks,

so after that, just ask us. Gossamer, Ephemeral,

IWTB, Clinique, Xemplary and these authors’

personal pages are fine.

Email: iwtbxf@yahoo.com

Rating: PG-13

Category: X, A, MSR

Note: Special thanks to Andrea for the idea and scientific

info, to Dlynn for editing several chapters, and to the rest

of the I Want To Believe List for putting up with our insanity.

Summary: Someone is murdering people in Philadelphia and

mutilating the bodies, which are left frozen solid at a popular

tourist attraction — only no one seems to have seen the killer.

Mulder and Scully are called in to investigate the grisly case

before time runs out.

(Beduini)

Prologue

Hoover Building

Washington, D.C.

April 16, 2001

7:05 a.m.

The basement was cold.

She understood why — heat rises, and the basement

being…well, the basement…the term central heating

didn’t apply. Not that it seemed to matter to Mulder. He

was always warm. More than that, he generated heat.

Sometimes she could feel the warmth coming off of his skin

just by standing next to him.

Shivering, she stepped out of the elevator and walked the

short corridor toward Mulder’s office. She could see the

lights were off, even though the door was partially open.

It was early, but Mulder usually arrived early and always

locked his door, so she had every reason to believe that he

was already in. Rapping lightly with her knuckles, she

pushed the door open and stepped inside, her shoulders

slumping and her face falling with disappointment as her

hands dropped to her sides.

“Slides?” she said, nearly whining.

At the sound of her knock he’d looked up expectantly, a

soft smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Mulder

stood near his desk, his jacket off and his sleeves rolled

up to the elbow, despite the chilly temperature of his

office. The slide projector was pointed at the small

screen on the near wall, and he held the remote in one

hand, flashing quickly through the images to find the one

he wanted.

“Hey, Scully, pull up a chair,” he greeted her, ignoring

the whine in her voice as he reached over and pulled out

the armchair opposite his desk, positioning it to face the

screen.

She shivered and sat down in the offered chair while he

flashed through the remaining slides, shifting his weight

impatiently on his feet. He was excited about this case,

that much was obvious. When he found the image he wanted,

he stopped. Then, stepping forward, he placed his palms on

the back of her chair and leaned toward her.

She could feel the heat and electricity emanating from

him, and it felt great in contrast to the chill of his tomb

of an office. She leaned back against the chair, hoping to

receive a little more of his natural warmth through the

thin wool of her gray suit jacket. Her hands were like ice,

so she slid them between her thighs and the seat, feeling

the cold seep through the wool and rayon lining of her suit

pants.

“Rick Ramee, age 35,” Mulder started, his voice low and

surprisingly close to her right ear, making her squirm

slightly. His breath was hot on her neck, but she ignored

it as she looked at the image on the screen. Smiling back

at her was a young Afro-American male wearing a business

suit.

Mulder continued, “Husband, father of two. Resident of a

small, up and coming middle class suburb of Philadelphia,

reported missing by his wife after he didn’t come home from

work one night.” Still clutching the remote, Mulder

forwarded to the next slide, revealing the body of Rick

Ramee, bloodied, his face frozen in a death mask of horror.

Ramee’s arms lay crossed over his chest, and there were two

bloody stumps where his hands should have been. “Rick’s

body was found on display three days later, nearly frozen

at the foot of the clock tower in the town square.”

“Sans hands,” Scully commented.

“Sans hands,” Mulder confirmed. “The clock, reputed to be

one of the most reliable timepieces on this side of the

Atlantic, had stopped at precisely 2:04 a.m. Post mortem

exams of Mr. Ramee estimate his time of death at around…”

“2:04 a.m.” Scully supplied.

Mulder grinned briefly at her quick response and flipped

to the next slide. A Caucasian woman’s blurry image filled

the screen. “Rhonda Lewis, housewife, age 42.” He flipped

to the next slide to reveal Rhonda Lewis in a similar death

pose as Rick Ramee, her hands also severed. “Same place,

same scenario, two days later. This time, the clock stopped

at 5:16 a.m.”

Scully drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. Mulder

imagined he could almost hear the gears turning inside her

head as she processed the information. She already knew

where this was going, he was sure.

“Any witnesses?” she asked.

“Not a one.”

“Cause of death?”

He paused briefly. “You tell me.”

She turned her head to look at him. “There hasn’t been a

full autopsy conducted yet?”

He raised his eyebrows in a gesture he’d picked up from

her, and she closed her eyes with a soft grunt, her

shoulders slumping once again. Two autopsies to look

forward to and she hadn’t even had her second cup of coffee

yet.

“There’s more.” Mulder flipped to the next slide.

“Yippee.”

Mulder pressed his lips together at her lack of enthusiasm

and continued. “Tina Rodriguez, age 23, found early

yesterday morning.” The slide showed a young Hispanic

woman, her body posed in the same position as the other

two. “4:32 a.m.”

Mulder straightened and put the remote down on top of his

desk, robbing Scully of his comforting warmth. Walking over

to the door, he flipped on the over head lights, then

returned to the slide projector, switching it off.

“The Philadelphia P.D. has agreed to let us work with

them, given the…unusual…nature of the deaths.”

Scully stood and faced him, crossing her arms in front of

her chest and tucking her hands between her body and her

upper arms with a shiver. “I’m sure you’ve already got a

theory.”

He grinned. “Oh, I have lots of theories.” He looked at

her, noticing her discomfort. “You cold?”

She nodded and stepped forward, wrapping her icy hands

around his bare forearm, causing him to yelp with surprise.

“Jesus! At least give me a little warning if you’re gonna

do that.” He took her hands between his larger, warmer

palms and rubbed them vigorously, looking down at her with

amused affection. “Don’t tell me you forgot your gloves

again.”

“They’re in the pockets of my overcoat,” she replied with

a soft hum. She enjoyed the increase in tactility that had

slowly infused their partnership, knowing that he was

enjoying it just as much, if not more. Who knew that

kissing one’s partner at the stroke of midnight before the

new millennium would lead to so many more small, indulgent

pleasures?

“Am I to believe that the Philadelphia County Coroner has

an autopsy bay waiting with my name on it?” Scully looked

up at him as he stopped rubbing her hands and held them,

one of hers in each one of his, their fingers curling and

linking together.

“I told them you’d be there by ten. I’ve already

requisitioned the car, and the Philly P.D. has faxed over

their reports from the crime scenes. You can read them on

the way.”

He gave her hands a gentle squeeze and released them,

leaning over to grab his suit jacket off of the back of his

desk chair. Off his desk, he picked up a manila file with

an “X” on the cover, handing it to her before walking over

to the coat tree by the door. Then, shrugging on his heavy

wool overcoat, he said, “Get your coat and meet me

downstairs in ten.”

He offered her a grin and stepped out the door, calling

from the hallway, “Shut the door on your way out. And

don’t forget your gloves!”

************************

(by Char Chaffin)

Hands… damn. Why did it have to be hands? Of all the

pieces and parts of the human body, Scully had always

admired the human hand. Hands were the most tactile of the

outer extremities, with more nerve endings and amazing

musculature, given their relative size in comparison to

other body parts. Ladling out doses of tenderness and

violence in equal measure, capable of both those extremes

of physical retaliation within a split second of each

other… the human hand was a beautiful thing. She found

herself examining her own hands as she slowly buttoned her

overcoat, stepping to the mirror to adjust her scarf and

digging through pockets to find her gloves.

Scully had small, compact hands; the overall slender look

of them was aided by the professional manicure she always

kept up to date. Clear polish on the nails, no rings.

Simple and elegant, strong when needed and gentle by

choice. If she had ever wished for more, she supposed it

would have been a wish for longer fingers, so that her

childhood piano lessons would not have been so agonizing.

Standard octaves were hard to reach on a keyboard, with

small fingers. Scully shook her head; it was better not to

waste time dwelling on her past when there was a present to

worry about. She tugged on gloves as she locked the office

behind her, hoping Mulder had remembered to grab his keys.

As she walked to the elevators, Scully thought about the

slides she’d seen. In her mind she pictured the first one,

the Professional Suit with a wife and children. The look of

abject horror on his face was as if the final visual

filling his stricken gaze went beyond anything his

imagination could have conjured. Mentally, she ticked off

the overall scene: The crossed arms over the chest; a

classic death-pose… or was it? Whomever or whatever took

Rick Ramee’s hands – had they taken them while he was still

alive? Was his final rictus a direct result of seeing his

own hands severed, or were those appendages a trophy of

some sort, garnered from his body mere moment after his

death?

She leaned against the elevator wall as she pondered,

still rubbing her own hands together to stave off the chill

she felt beneath her wool gloves. The possibility that she

and Mulder were facing another fetishist was not lost on

her; it was the first thing that had come to mind as Mulder

had flipped through the slides. Scully shuddered and found

her mind wandering in directions best left un-wandered.

Pfaster… they could be facing another nut-bird such as

Donnie Pfaster; another fetishist could be walking the

streets of DC on the lookout for what he or she would

consider a nice pair of hands.

She shuddered again as she stepped off the elevator and

onto the floor, which housed the motor pool. She glanced

around until she spotted Mulder leaning against a

nondescript blue sedan. Her gaze settled on him, noting

the casual posture and thinking for at least the twentieth

time that week how beautiful the man was – and how utterly

unaware of his own appeal. Today he wore her personal

favorite, a charcoal gray suit which blended nicely with

his moss-green dress shirt. The color played up the green

flecks in his eyes, and even his ridiculous, wildly zig-

zagged tie couldn’t detract from the overall elegance of

her partner.

She walked toward the car, dreading the upcoming autopsy

even as she felt the familiar, albeit unwelcome, tingle

which usually signaled her inner excitement at beginning

another case. And she decided she’d rather scrub public

lavatories with her bare hands, rather than let him know

that excitement.

Mulder caught Scully’s approach and grinned at her as she

rounded the side of the car; his smile widened even more

when she tossed him a withered, “What, no Ford, Mulder?” He

chuckled and got in, buckling himself up and checking to

see if she’d done the same, before throwing a retort right

back at her.

“Baseball, hot dogs, and apple pie, Scully… have some

respect for this classy Chevy, okay? It still has working

headlights.” He flashed the brights three times before

backing out of the slot and inching his way through the

narrow rows of parked cars.

Scully made herself comfortable and tried not to think of

the ‘thrill’ of performing several autopsies in a row. Her

neck would be killing her when it was all over, and she’d

reek of any number of funky excretions. She could hardly

wait. Mulder maneuvered the car through mid-morning

traffic, avoiding spots of black ice on the street, the

soft jazz station he’d chosen providing a soothing

background for the easy silence between them. It was

nice… this silence was actually nice. Too many times

they’d driven along Constitution Avenue in tight, miserable

silences, with a gulf of heated, unsaid words boiling in

the air around their heads.

Thankfully, those days seemed to be over; they had found a

new understanding these past few months and had grown so

much closer. Out of the corner of her eye, Scully glanced

at her partner; Mulder’s entire concentration was centered

on driving safely over the slick roads. Both his hands

gripped the steering wheel, at the proper ten to two

o’clock positioning –

Hands….

She stared at his hands. They were strong and tanned, with

elegantly-shaped fingers and neatly-trimmed nails. She’d

felt those hands cup themselves around her face, so

gently… had seen them pound a perpetrator to the floor

when he tried to escape arrest. Extremes, again…

Mulder’s hands were the perfect example.

And Scully loved his hands.

“What is it, Scully? What are you thinking; what’s going

on behind those baby blues, hmmm?” Mulder’s voice, low and

commanding over the soft jazz, broke her out of her almost-

hypnotized state, and she jumped a little, before returning

his quizzical look with blushing pink cheeks.

She opened her mouth to prevaricate and instead found her

fingers reaching out to trace the light dusting of hair

along the back of his right hand as it rested on the wheel.

Mulder raised a curious eyebrow, but lifted the hand and

twined their fingers together. Scully felt the warmth of it

engulfing her cold fingers, felt that same heat move all

the way up her arm. She shook her head as she replied.

“Hands, Mulder … I was thinking about hands. I was

thinking, ‘Why hands?’ What would make somebody take

somebody else’s hands — although, maybe the answer is as

plain as the hand in front of my face.” Mulder stopped at

a red light and took the opportunity to study the pensive,

slightly worried look on her face. He thought a moment,

then spoke softly.

“Are we talking fetish here, Scully? I thought of that,

too. In what context I’m still not sure … but if that’s

what you can’t help but wonder, then I’m right there with

you, Partner. I’m not saying there isn’t something

distinctly x-Filish here, you understand. But maybe the

place we find ourselves beginning the search –once the

autopsy is over — has less to do with ritual and more to

do with a fetishist.” He stroked a thumb over her

knuckles, noting the worry crinkle still in place between

her eyes. He tugged on her fingers a little, making her

meet his eyes again.

“What else, Scully? That little frown tells me there’s

more.” Scully nodded and her sigh was heavy in the small

confines of the car.

“I just … well, I love your hands, Mulder. Your hands

are a comfort to me, sometimes. I just …” She trailed

off, feeling suddenly very silly and irrational.

Mulder smiled at her sweetly and let go of her hand, just

long enough to send all five of his fingers in a gentle

sweep over her cheek and down her jaw line to her

collarbone, where he caressed her soft skin reassuringly,

before he attempted to set her worries to rest.

“Scully… nobody’s going to get my hands. I promise you –

– no one’s going to hurt me.”

**************

(by Lisa W)

ACT I

Philadelphia City Hall

5:12 p.m., April 16

If Mulder didn’t hurry, she was going to hurt him –badly.

It was amazing how fast an affectionate mood could vanish

when left standing in the cold. Scully shivered as a

frigid wind swept through the courtyard below the clock

tower. When she glanced at her watch, she wasn’t surprised

to see the minute hand start yet another revolution around

the dial. Where was he? It was dark, and the last of city

hall’s bureaucrats had huddled in their coats and dashed to

the parking lot. One by one she had watched them go as they

impatiently pushed aside anyone who stood in their path.

They were ready to go home after a long day at work. She

couldn’t blame them. Her day had been long as well, but it

wasn’t over. It wouldn’t be over until Mulder showed

up…so where was he?

Almost immediately after they had arrived at the morgue,

Mulder had begun looking uncomfortable. His discomfort

wasn’t because autopsies made him nervous. It was due to

the fact that when surrounded by the tools of science, he

had nothing particularly useful to do and so began acting

like a chain smoker who had lost his cigarettes. He didn’t

know what to do with his hands.

Mulder not knowing what to do with his hands often lead to

his sticking them in places they did not belong. If

something perplexed or intrigued him, he appeared compelled

to reach out and touch it. Scully liked to think that was

one reason he so frequently touched her.

Before she could snap on a pair of latex gloves, Mulder

had managed to poke his fingers into at least three medical

instruments he shouldn’t have touched. He must have felt

her glaring at him because he gave a shrug and a smile

that, while not quite apologetic, had managed to mollify

her until he turned to leave. Scully had asked where he was

going, but Mulder had only waved his hand in her general

direction and said, “Research.”

Eight hours later Mulder had called asking her to meet him

at the City Hall clock tower. Scully glanced at her

watch…again. If Mulder didn’t arrive in the next ten

minutes she would…Well, Scully wasn’t sure exactly what

she would do, but she would be extremely grouchy while

doing it. She was good at being grouchy.

An icy wind whipped her trench coat around her, forcing

Scully to shove her hands into her pockets and stamp her

feet to ward off the cold. Maybe she’d cut Mulder’s

deadline to five minutes.

“What’s the verdict?” Mulder asked.

She turned to face him. “Half an hour ago the clock tower

was an attractive historic site. Now it’s a very tall

stack of stone.”

“I meant the autopsy.”

“Autopsies. There were three of them, Mulder. Three.”

He looked up at the clock tower, an elaborately ornamented

limestone structure which dominated the somewhat plain

Neoclassical building below it. “Looks like you finished up

in record time.”

“The cause of death wasn’t much of a mystery.”

He glanced in her direction. “Exsanguination,” Scully

explained. “They bled to death.”

When his gaze lingered on her, Scully felt her irritation

fall away only to be replaced by a vague sense of horror at

the details her autopsies had revealed. “Given the amount

of adrenaline in their systems I would say they were alive

when their hands were severed. In fact, they were probably

conscious.”

Mulder grimaced. “So we’re not talking about a death

fetishist.”

“Not as far as the death aspect is concerned. The hands

were taken first. Death was just the natural result.”

“So the obsession is with the hands.”

“And the horror.” Scully walked around Mulder, her heels

clicking against the cobblestone paving of the courtyard

which stood in the center of the municipal complex. “There

must be some sort of punishment or revenge motivation to

this. The killer made the victims suffer.”

Mulder grimaced. “A sadist.” A shadow seemed to fall

across his already dark gaze as an element of sadness

entered his expression. It never failed to amaze Scully

that as much as Mulder had seen, as many horrors he had

witnessed, Mulder never became inured to them. He had never

allowed himself to become cold or cynical. He still cared.

“Scully, you’re shivering,” he observed. “Maybe we should

go inside.”

As they crossed the courtyard, Scully was all too aware of

his hand resting on the small of her back. His palm

pressing against her as his fingertips curled into the

slight indentation on her spine was a familiar and welcome

gesture. She liked it. She enjoyed the way his warmth

seeped into her, taking the edge off the cold.

Pushing aside the yellow tape blocking the clock tower’s

entrance, Mulder opened the door. Scully eyed the tape

with an arched brow.

“Construction tape,” Mulder explained. “There’s

renovation work being done on the tower, and the Philly

P.D. decided to leave it rather than replace it with police

tape.”

“Did they also leave the door open?”

“No.” Mulder smiled. “This afternoon I discovered the

night guard — a very interesting man by the name Bill

Hodges — is quite the b-ball fan.”

“So the two of you struck up an immediate friendship?”

Scully asked with a touch of disbelief.

“He agreed to leave the door unlocked for a few extra

hours.”

“Was he as generous with the killer?”

“It’s a construction site, Scully. Security has a way of

becoming lax with workmen coming and going at all hours.”

Accepting this explanation, Scully entered the cavernous

stairwell. There was something almost Baroque about the

staircase despite the fact the brochure described the clock

tower’s architecture being in the French Empire

style…which only served to remind Scully that while

waiting for Mulder, she had time to read the brochure five

times.

“Mulder, where were you all afternoon?” she asked.

“I spoke with Rick Ramee’s wife. Standard questions. Did

he have any enemies? Had anything strange happened lately?”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing that would lead anyone to believe someone wanted

him dead. The same goes for Rhonda Lewis.”

“What about Tina Rodriguez?”

He shook his head. “Up until three weeks ago she lived

with her boyfriend in Houston. When I spoke to him, he was

in the process of making plans to fly back to Texas. As far

as I can tell there’s no connection between the three

victims.”

“Except their deaths.”

He paused in the open center of the stairwell and looked

at the richly detailed, deeply coffered ceiling seven

stories above before his gaze traveled down to inspect the

black and white tiled floor. “This is where the bodies

were found.”

Scully frowned. “I thought you said the victims were

frozen.”

“They were.”

“In a room with central heating?”

Mulder knelt to examine the floor. His hand splayed out

against the tile as his fingers slowly traced the grooves

between the checkerboard pattern. “How porous is marble?”

“Too porous not to have evidence of three bloody murders.”

“So they were killed elsewhere and brought here.”

“After they were quick frozen.” At Mulder’s questioning

look, she elaborated. “Rick Ramee’s time of death was

estimated at roughly 2 a.m., and according to the police

report, his body was found just after three. Given the way

he died, Ramee had to have been frozen after his death.

“That makes sense. He couldn’t exactly bleed to death if

his blood was ice.”

Scully nodded. “And with his body mass being as large as

it was the freezing process should have taken several

hours.”

Mulder stood. “So he was quick frozen and transported

here. Why?”

“Why cut off his hands? There are more efficient ways to

cause someone to bleed to death.”

“This wasn’t about blood.” Mulder’s quietly thoughtful

voice signaled he was trying to understand the mind of a

killer. He crossed the room and began climbing the stairs.

“Why hands, Scully? Why a clock tower?”

She had the feeling that he was only thinking out loud.

“Hands of time?” she conjectured.

He looked doubtful. “A serial killer into puns?”

“You have another theory?”

“Not yet, though I think you were onto something when you

said the killings were about punishment. Not only did the

victims die in horror, but the killer also preserved their

expressions in ice so that anyone seeing their bodies would

know the horror as well.”

Scully frowned as she gazed upward. “Mulder, does this

look familiar to you?”

He followed her line of sight. “Columns, arches, stairs —

what’s not familiar?”

She shook her head as she tried to wrestle her thoughts

into some sort of order. “I…A few weeks ago I went to

the Kreeger Museum for the Escher exhibit. There was an

etching there that sort of reminds me of this stairwell

with the way steps and arches turn back on themselves until

you’re dizzy.”

“Relativity,” he announced.

She raised an eyebrow.

He explained, “I aced art history in college. There was

this brunette art student who … never mind. It’s not

important. You’re right, though.” He tilted his head to

the side. “If you look at this at the right angle it might

remind you of that etching.” He paused. “Relativity is

also Einstein’s theory about time.”

She eyed him cautiously. “To be exact, General Relativity

explains the way time, space, and gravity are connected.”

“The clock stopped at the time of each death.”

“Mulder…”

He glanced at her and smiled.

She crossed her arms. “You’ve made some quantum leap of

logic, haven’t you?”

“Why do people say that like it’s a bad thing? Quantum

deals with infinitely small changes.”

“Quantum mechanics has to do with sub-atomic particles.

Quantum leap means a sudden, significant change.” She

stopped abruptly. “Why are we talking about this? This has

nothing — I repeat, nothing — to do with the theory of

relativity. I simply pointed out that this stairwell has a

few elements similar to a drawing I saw a few weeks ago.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

She continued following him up the stairs. “Mulder,

clocks stop for many reasons.”

“I know that.”

“They measure time. They aren’t time itself.”

“I know that, too.”

A cold draft swept over her, and Scully pulled her coat

more tightly around herself. As Mulder waited for her to

catch up to him, she could see him mentally rubbing his

hands together.

“Tell me, Scully, how did our murderer have time to freeze

a corpse solid, transport it to a public place, and arrange

it in a ritualistic pose without being seen and without

leaving any tangible evidence?”

“He was very efficient.”

“Or he had all the time in the world.”

She shook her head. “Look, I may not know how he did it,

but I do know he did not stop time. Time cannot be

stopped.”

Mulder pushed open the doors to the observation deck. A

frigid blast of wind hit her as she followed him outside.

“What you’re proposing is impossible,” Scully insisted.

“I haven’t proposed anything.”

“Good. Then let me explain there is no possible way,

either normal or paranormal, to stop time. If time stops,

the universe ceases to exist. It’s that simple.”

“If you say so.”

“And it’s not that ‘faster than the eye can see’ thing

either. I still haven’t wrapped my mind around the concept

of rebellious teens existing like subliminal messages.”

Scully thought she heard Mulder chuckle as he placed his

hands on the observation deck’s handrail. Looking down

from their perch she noted that frosty fog obscured the

courtyard from view and that her breath made wispy ghosts

in the night air.

“Not to stop you when you’re on a roll. But, Scully, I

actually agree with you. I don’t think there is anything

paranormal about these killings.”

She blinked. “No mutant capable of controlling time? No

monsters?”

“Oh, there’s a monster involved.” His troubled gaze met

hers. “But the worst monsters always seem to be human.”

Mulder opened the door leading to the inner workings of

the clock, and Scully silently followed him into the

darkness.

************

(by Leslie Sholly)

Mulder poked around in the machinery inside the clock for

several minutes, while Scully’s hands grew icy and her nose

began to run. Finally, she could stand the wait no longer.

“Mulder! If there was anything here to find, don’t you

think the Philly P.D. would have found it by now? *I’m*

going to be quick frozen shortly if I don’t get inside

where it’s warm.”

“Sorry, Scully,” her partner said contritely. “How about I

take you out for a sandwich and some coffee? That’ll warm

you up.”

Scully realized she was not just exhausted and cold, but

hungry as well. And though she secretly wished Mulder

would choose something other than food to warm her up, she

wasn’t going to refuse his offer. “‘Kay,” she agreed.

Shivering, Scully followed Mulder back into the stairwell

and began to descend the staircase. Mulder, who had not

spent the past nine hours on his feet, practically skipped

down the stairs. In her hurry to keep up, Scully slipped.

For a sudden, sickening moment, she teetered on the edge of

the step, knowing with certainty that she was about to

plunge down the steep flight to the bottom. But at her gasp

of alarm, Mulder turned around, leaped up the steps that

separated them, and caught her before she could fall.

“Those shoes are going to be the death of you one day,” he

said disapprovingly. “What price vanity?” But he

tightened his grip on her, pulling her close into an

embrace. Scully, who had been shaking both from cold and

adrenalin, relaxed into his arms, suddenly warmer than she

had been all day. She relished the feeling of his left

hand holding her firmly while his right softly stroked her

hair.

Hands again.

She sighed.

“You okay, Scully?”

“I’m fine, Mulder. Really. Thanks for catching me.”

“Any time.”

Holding hands, they descended the rest of the way.

*************

6:25 p.m.

Sam’s Diner

Philadelphia

The coffee at the diner Mulder had chosen wasn’t

Starbucks, but it was hot and fresh and warmed Scully

delightfully. As the caffeine began to kick in, she began

to feel more like herself. “You can talk about the case

now, Mulder,” she said.

“What?” Mulder looked innocent.

“I know you’ve been waiting for me to warm up and wake up,

and I appreciate it. I feel much better now, so let me

hear some more wild theories.” She softened her words with

a smile.

“Well, what’s your explanation for the stopped clock, then?”

“I would guess it’s part of the killer’s ritual. He stops

the clock himself after he arranges the body.”

“And exactly how does he avoid detection while

transporting a frozen body and arranging it in a public

place?”

“All the murders have taken place in the middle of the

night, Mulder. He’s careful, and he’s lucky.”

“You’re forgetting that the clock reflects the time of

death, not the time he plants the bodies. The last victim

died at or around 5:16 a.m. He had to quick freeze her,

transport and arrange the body, do his trick with the

clock, and escape pretty quickly to avoid sunrise, when

he’d no longer be able to count on darkness for cover.”

“Look, Mulder, I don’t know *how* he does it. And the fact

is, we don’t really need to know *how*. Wouldn’t it make

more sense to think about *why*? Won’t thinking about his

motivation tell you more about who the murderer might be,

and how we can find him and stop him before he does this

again?”

“You’re right, Scully,” Mulder admitted, taking a sip of

his coffee. “I reserve the right to consider extreme

possibilities, of course, but if we go back to the boring

but useful questions of motive and opportunity, we may be

able to get more of a picture of the guy who’s doing this.

So what do we know about this guy?”

“He’s able to carry frozen bodies, and he was able to

subdue his victims through physical force, so we can guess

he’s a fairly strong man.”

Mulder nodded approvingly.

“He’s someone who has access to quick freezing equipment —

that should be something we can check out.”

“Good point. We should also consider the last known

whereabouts of the victims. That might help us pinpoint

his location further. Presumably since we haven’t found

any connection among the victims, we can conjecture that he

picked them because they were readily available to him.”

“Do you think we should assume so quickly that this is

random, Mulder? Maybe we just haven’t thought of the right

connection yet. Could there have been something…

special… about their hands?” Scully’s thoughts were

turning again, much against her will, to Donnie Pfaster and

his fascination with fingers in need of a nice manicure.

“I don’t know, Scully. That’s a question we can ask the

families — maybe see if they have any pictures that might

shed some light on that issue.” Mulder rose from the

table. “It’s getting late, Scully, and we don’t even have

a motel yet. I want to get us checked in somewhere and

then see what I can do about coming up with a profile of

the UNSUB. We’ll get an early start tomorrow.”

*************

ACT II

Motel 8

Philadelphia

6:30 a.m., April 17

Mulder let Scully choose the motel, so it was clean and

the bed wasn’t lumpy. After a relaxing warm bath, Scully

fell asleep easily, worn out from long hours of slicing and

dicing. But even in sleep she was unable to stop thinking

about the case. Her dreams were full of clock faces and

hands.

Toward daybreak her dreams turned to Mulder — not an

infrequent occurrence by any means. She dreamed of Mulder’s

hands, always his hands, strong yet gentle as they stroked

her hair. Lightly, they caressed her jaw line, touched her

lips intimately, before beginning to move lower . . .

Scully moaned happily in her sleep, her dream-body on fire

from Mulder’s touch.

But suddenly, she felt the hands no longer. She was

Aching, untouched, bereft. Now Mulder was speaking, saying

in a plaintive, childlike way, “I don’t know where they

went, Scully. I don’t know what happened to them.” Then he

held up his arms to show her bleeding stumps. “Can you get

them back for me, Scully?” he asked.

“They’re in my freezer, girly-girl,” Donnie Pfaster

announced. “Come on over and let me do your nails and I’ll

let you have them.”

The dream was so terrible that it woke Scully up. She sat

bolt upright in bed, breathing deeply and trying to still

the insistent pounding of her heart. “Only a dream, only a

dream,” she repeated over and over.

She was still saying this when she heard a gentle tapping

at the door that connected her room to Mulder’s. “Scully?”

he called.

“What’s wrong, Mulder?”

He opened the door and stuck his head in. “We’ve got to

go, Scully. I’ve just received a call from the P.D.

There’s been another killing.”

Scully took a deep breath to calm herself, as she tried to

shake off the horror of her dream. “Same M.O.?” she asked

in disbelief. “Aren’t they watching that clock tower?”

“There’s been a guard on duty since 8 p.m.,” Mulder told

her. “He didn’t see a thing until he discovered the body

this morning.”

“Who is the victim?” Scully asked.

“She didn’t have I.D. like the others. They haven’t been

able to identify her yet — the body was only discovered

half an hour ago.”

Something in Mulder’s voice made Scully turn icy cold

inside. “What aren’t you telling me, Mulder?” she asked

him.

“She… the victim was a little girl.”

**************** (by Kimberly)

2:35 p.m., April 17

A little girl.

Scully had grown accustomed to the many different masks

that death wore. She had to be, death was her livelihood.

What she couldn’t get used to — what she couldn’t shake —

was the chill that ran down her spine each time she saw a

small figure under the white autopsy sheet.

It was worse than death. It was innocence lost. Just as

the others, the victim had bled to death. Although the labs

weren’t back yet, Scully hoped that the child, at least,

wasn’t conscious for the ordeal that resulted in her death.

Scully tried to work out the kinks in her neck as she

scrubbed her hands at the steel basin, cleaning away

phantom blood from under her fingernails.

Lost in thought, she didn’t hear Mulder approach from

behind.

“Scully?”

“I’m almost done, Mulder,” she said softly.

He was tempted to ask if she was all right, but he already

knew the answer to that question. It was most assuredly not

“fine.” Even from his vantage point he could see her hands

moving fast and furious over each other, with the hard

bristled brush in between.

“Scully, if you keep that up, you’ll rub your hands raw.”

His solicitous tone only garnished a frustrated shake of

her head, but she dropped the brush and rinsed her hands.

Scully dried off her hands. “Do you have a name yet?”

“No. From what they can piece together, she was

homeless.” Again, his tone was soft, knowing the victim’s

profile simply added insult to injury.

Her eyes fell closed for a moment. She let out a heavy

sigh. “Homeless?”

Mulder nodded and chewed the inside of his lip for a

moment. “From what I understand the homeless population is

fairly moderate. The boys in blue didn’t appear too

shocked at the idea, just a little unsettled that no one

reported her missing.”

“But, Mulder, she can’t be more than eight years old;

there has to be someone out there looking for her.”

Scully’s voice took on the quiet rage that was bubbling up

inside of her. “Any belongings?”

“Yeah, but I haven’t had a chance to go through them yet.”

“Give me five minutes to change, and I’ll meet you

upstairs.” She turned away, and her tender hands quickly

grabbed her bag.

The clock ticked loudly in the quiet room as Scully

quickly stripped away the blood-sodden scrubs. Mulder

glanced at his watch as soon as he heard the soft snick of

heels on linoleum. Like clockwork, Scully rounded the

corner with 45 seconds to spare.

As soon as she reached his side, he placed his hand in

between her shoulder blades, guiding her into the small

room that the local police department offered.

Scully surveyed the pitiful pile on the center of the

table. It consisted of one battered Barbie backpack, a pair

of mismatched mittens, and a small wool blanket.

“This is it?” she asked incredulously.

“We should be damn lucky we even got this. They found it

in a trash can two blocks from the tower.”

She nodded in agreement and gingerly approached the

backpack. “I take it these came up clean?”

“As a whistle. Dusted and the only thing they found was a

partial from what looked like the child, but they couldn’t

come up with a match.”

Scully yanked the zipper open, pulling it down to obscure

Barbie’s plastic smile. The first thing she noted was the

omission of the one thing she expected –clothing. Instead

it held a box of colored pencils, worn to the nub, and a

battered sketch pad. She flipped the cover back, hoping

that the child would have written her name there, something

she had always done.

Unfortunately, the book was blank. However, the image on

the opposite page stilled her finger tips altogether.

“Scully, what is it?”

Scully said nothing as she turned the book around to show

him the page.

Although the vibrancy of the colors were lost on him, he

was nonetheless amazed. It was a perfect rendition of the

clock tower, except the trees were in bloom, and not barren

with the current winter frost.

He flipped through the pages to find portraits as well as

impressive landscapes staring back at him. They were

exquisite renderings — for anyone of any age.

“This is…” Mulder’s voice trailed off.

“Unbelievable.”

Scully was awestruck at the thought of such talent coming

out of such tiny hands — the victim’s hands. Mentally she

flipped through the profiles of the previous victims in her

head, coming up blank.

“Mulder, the other victims. Did they have any

‘abilities’?”

“Could you be more specific, Scully?”

She cocked her head to the side in thought. “I mean, when

you interviewed the families, did they mention any hobbies?

Any special talents?”

Mulder paused. “I remember reading that before she called

the police, Rick Ramee’s wife had called a local jazz club

where he played the saxophone on occasion.”

“The others?”

“Nothing I can remember — but I think it’s time we find

out.”

**************

3:15 p.m. April 17

(by Regina)

The car eased over to the side of the street and stopped

in front of a small brick building. Pulling the key out of

the ignition, Mulder slowly gave into the inevitable pull

of gravity. His head clunked against the steering wheel —

hard. He accepted the pain as a welcome diversion.

A few more thumps later and feeling completely self-

satisfied, he stepped onto the wind-blown street. A beat-up

hatchback passed dangerously close to the open car door,

whipping Mulder’s coat into a frenzy. The angry motorist

beeped, gestured and shouted mutely inside his closed car.

“Have a nice day!” Mulder called out with false gaiety as

he made his way to the entrance of the darkened

establishment. Pulling his coat straight, he checked his

watch — 4 p.m. The bar would scarcely be populated, if he

was lucky. If he was unlucky, it would be closed.

It looked like his luck wasn’t going to change — he

pushed at the door, fruitlessly. Heaving his weight against

the heavy, wooden barrier, he nearly tumbled into the dark

hallway when a strong hand opened it from the inside.

Narrowly missing the man who opened the door, Mulder

careened into the dimly lit bar.

“Can I ‘elp ya?” A thick Irish brogue filtered through the

darkness.

Maybe his luck was changing. Mulder caught his balance and

reached for his ID. The barman tensed when the agent

reached into his inner pocket.

“I’m just getting my ID.” Mulder produced it with a

practiced flourish. “We’re here investigating a series of

homicides.”

The stout gentleman relaxed and moved over to the bar,

satisfied that the tall stranger wasn’t a threat. Picking

up a worn towel, he started to wipe at the long bar’s

sparkling surface.

“You’re here about Ricky, aren’t ya?” Chucking the towel

over his shoulder, he gave an exasperated sigh.

“Mr. Ramee, yes.” Mulder eased his tall frame onto a

wobbly stool. “What can you tell me about him?”

The man ambled behind the bar, picking up items and wiping

them down. Hefting a large bottle of Jack Daniel’s, he

looked over at the agent. “I’ve already talked to the

police. Am I under suspicion, or something?”

Mulder shook his head vigorously. “Not that I know of,

sir. I just want to exhaust all possible avenues of

investigation.”

“S’alright.” He clunked the bottle down on the bar in

front of Mulder and leaned in. “I’ll let you in on a lil’

secret.”

His body pulled in by the promise of covert information,

Mulder hunkered down next to the man. “Go ahead.”

“Let me tell ya,” he said, softly. “Rick was the best sax

player this side of the Atlantic. The man should have been

a pro. But he wanted a family life. You know when you’re a

musician and you’re on the road, things happen.” The man

shook his salt-and-pepper head. “Things happen in your own

backyard, as this proves.”

“So he had a talent?” Mulder asked, his voice even.

“That boy had more than talent,” the barman replied. He

took a deep breath. “That man had a gift. His hands could

move mountains with melody.” Leaning his chin in his

crooked hand, he met Mulder’s gaze. “My people, the Irish,

we believe that people with the special gift of music are

touched. Touched by the merciful hand of God.”

************

4:35 p.m., April 17

Scully stood on the corner as the wind moved around her,

teasing her coat open and chilling her skirted legs. She

spotted Mulder’s car in the far lane of traffic and waved

him over. Cutting off a small car, he darted over to the

curb and stopped short as the slighted driver honked and

gestured futilely. She grabbed the handle and wrenched the

door open.

Plopping down inside, she looked at Mulder with a bemused

grin. “Mulder, you’re not supposed to inspire road rage on

the job.”

Easing the car back into traffic, Mulder craned his head

out of the partially opened window. “Did you see that car,

Scully?”

She clicked her seatbelt into place. “No, why?”

“It’s probably nothing,” he replied. “I just seem to be

attracting a lot of enraged drivers.”

Scully cocked her head to the side. “What are you talking

about?”

“Nothing.” His voice was distracted. “How was the Lewis

interview?”

“Oh, you’ll love this.” She flipped open her notepad.

“Rhonda Lewis was an accomplished architect. She won an

award for her redesign of one of the city’s major

attractions. Unfortunately, she was killed before the

renovations could begin.”

“Which attraction?” Mulder’s voice took on a piqued

curiosity. A yellow light flashed and he smoothly braked

the car.

Scully snapped her book shut. “The clock tower.”

(by Lara Means)

Mulder pulled a questionable and probably illegal u-turn,

earning them more honked horns, shaken fists and rude

gestures. Scully’s fingers held the dashboard in a death-

grip until they were headed in the opposite direction, then

she tossed a look at her partner.

His answering glance was all innocence. “What?”

Scully just shook her head with a sigh. “I assume we’re

going back to the clock tower.”

“Is there a manager or curator or somebody in charge there

we haven’t talked to?”

She dug through the pockets of her overcoat to find the

copy of the brochure she’d grabbed during their last visit

yesterday. “Um… the only contact listed is Claire

Bellingham, Public Relations.”

Mulder grimaced. “I hate PR people. They only tell you

what they want you to know.”

“Come on, Mulder,” Scully teased, “you know you can charm

information out of anybody.” She reached out her hand to

him, turning her palm up. “Just be sure to save some of

that charm for me.”

He smiled and took her hand, jumping slightly at the

contact. “Your hands are like ice, Scully.”

“Sorry. The gloves aren’t helping much.”

“Maybe I’ll get you a new pair for your birthday.”

She quirked an eyebrow at him. “You’re remembering my

birthday next year?”

“I remember your birthday every year.”

“We’ve been working together for more than seven years,

Mulder, and I can only recall two birthday presents — one

of which was quite late.”

“It’s the thought that counts, Scully.” Mulder gave her a

sly grin. “Didn’t you enjoy my last present? I know I did.”

Scully smiled, remembering the feel of her partner’s arms

wrapped around her that clear, late spring night. His warm

breath on her neck, his soft lips at her ear. The gentle

pressure of his hand at her hip as he pulled her body to

his. She knew he’d enjoyed her present — she could feel it

in his burgeoning arousal pressed against her backside.

She glanced at their hands, still joined on the seat

between them, and gave his a squeeze. “Yes, Mulder. I

enjoyed your gift very much.”

************

4:57 p.m.

Clock Tower Administrative Offices

They arrived at the clock tower shortly before five to

find the door to the administrative offices locked. A sign

there proclaimed office hours from 8:30 a.m. to 4:30 p.m.

They resigned themselves to coming back tomorrow, but

Mulder wanted to have another look around the clock’s inner

workings.

“How do you propose we get in there, Mulder?” Her partner

did an elaborate show of hands, like a magician doing a

trick, and produced a key. Scully smiled in spite of

herself. “Is this how you got that from your b-ball buddy,

Mr. Hodges? Sleight of hand?”

“While the hand *is* quicker than the eye, Scully, no.” He

shot her a big grin and a little wink. “I charmed it out of

him.”

Scully hid her own grin behind a shake of her head as

Mulder explained, “There are two guards on duty, they can

see us on the security monitors, and they know who we are.

Bill said it’d just be easier to give us a key.” Although

it was getting dark and the temperature was dropping,

Scully acquiesced, and they made their way up the stairs.

As Mulder examined the gears and pulleys, Scully kept her

hands shoved into her pockets and shifted from foot to foot

in an effort to keep warm. The wind whipped around her

legs, and she found herself desperately wishing she’d worn

slacks.

“Mulder, I’ve been thinking about the victims.”

“What about them?” echoed his voice from somewhere within

the metal.

“The bodies were all frozen after death, then placed

inside the clock tower building and discovered within an

hour or two after that.”

“Right…”

Scully exhaled, saw her breath vaporize in front of her

face, then licked her chapped lips. “I may have made a

mistake in estimating time of death.

Mulder’s head emerged from slightly below her, and he

climbed the short ladder up to the landing where she stood.

“Scully, you don’t make mistakes. Not about this stuff.”

“Nevertheless…” she mumbled, feeling as if she’d let him

down. He joined her and she stared at his shoes as she

spoke. “I think I may have been unduly influenced by the

preliminary reports. By what they *said* was the time of

death, based on when the clock was stopped.”

She felt Mulder’s fingers under her chin as he tilted her

face up to meet his. “Why are you doubting yourself now?”

“Forensic Pathology 101 — a body cools at approximately

one and a half degrees per hour, *if* the external

conditions are stable. A body decomposes more rapidly in

warm temperatures, less rapidly when it’s cold. That’s why

they’re kept refrigerated in the morgue, to forestall

decomposition.”

“So it’s been cold. That would throw off time of death by,

what, a few hours?”

Scully shook her head. “The indoor air temperatures

recorded when the bodies were discovered tend to support

the original estimates, but…” She took a deep breath and

steeled herself, then looked up into his eyes. “Mulder,

these bodies were frozen post-mortem, then placed inside a

heated building, where they would partially thaw before

being discovered. Since we don’t know the bodies’

temperatures when they were placed here, an accurate

estimate of time of death is almost impossible under these

conditions. You said the first victim, Ramee, was found

three days after his wife reported him missing — he

could’ve been killed that first night and kept frozen until

the murderer placed the body here.”

Mulder nodded slightly and moved away from her, chewing

absently on his lower lip as he frequently did when the

wheels were turning. He reminded her of the inner workings

of this clock in that way – the gears of his mind working

to puzzle out a solution. He turned back to his partner,

thoughtful, then spoke.

“And just because the clock was stopped at 2:04, that

doesn’t mean the body was dumped then, does it?” Mulder

looked into the clock works and glanced at what appeared to

be a control panel on the far side of the tower. “It’s the

middle of the night, right? The body could’ve been dumped

any time after the building was locked up, the clock

stopped, and the hands reset to 2:04.”

Scully gave her partner a tiny smile. She loved watching

his mind at work. “That sounds plausible.” He returned the

smile as hers faded. “Does this mean we’re back to square

one?”

Mulder shook his head, returning to stand in front of her,

close to her. “I think it means we’re on the right track.”

A gust of wind blasted through the tower, and Scully

shivered — although her reaction wasn’t entirely caused by

the wind. “Still cold?” he asked, and she nodded. He gave

her a seductive little grin and opened his overcoat. “Let’s

see what we can do about that.”

She slipped her arms around him, giggling silently at his

gasp when her hands touched his back. “Definitely gloves

for your birthday,” he murmured as she snuggled against his

chest. Mulder wrapped both his arms and his coat around

her, shielding her small body from the cold.

They stood there together, dimly registering the setting

sun and the passage of time. Scully listened to his heart

beating, strong and steady. She ran her hands up and down

his back, enjoying the feel of his smooth, toned muscles.

Mulder’s arms tightened around her, and one hand snaked up

to bury itself in her windblown hair. She tilted her head

back to look at him, and he smiled.

“Better?”

“Much,” she whispered, returning his smile. He stared into

her eyes for a long moment, then watched as they drifted

shut when he leaned in close. Another shiver ran through

her as his lips touched just the corner of her mouth…

But they both froze at the sound of a shotgun being pumped

behind them.

ACT III

(by SueBee)

Scully barely had time to register the sensation of

Mulder’s lips brushing against her mouth, when she heard

the pumping click of the shotgun.

They both froze, their faces barely an inch apart. In a

matter of seconds, clear gazes locked, decisions were made,

and promises were put on hold.

The comforting warmth that had infused them and enveloped

them, vanished in the icy wind when they drew apart.

Slowly, they turned toward the intrusive sound.

A large, hulking man stood before them. Scully had

guessed he was at least three inches taller than Mulder,

and layers of winter clothing did nothing to hide his

muscularity. A dark, cotton knit mask covered his face. The

hood allowed for some anonymity, but something in his eyes

appeared strangely familiar.

He pointed the shotgun at them and volleyed his aim back

and forth between Mulder and Scully. The beginning of a

smile quirked his lips as he drawled, “It looks like I get

to kill two love birds with one stone.”

Scully chanced a sideways look at Mulder. If her partner

was anxious, he was hiding it very well.

Mulder raised his hands, palm up.

“Hey, we knew the clock tower was closed, but if we’d

known security was this tight in Philly, we would have been

happy to come back tomorrow.”

Scully stared at the genuine beauty of Mulder’s elegant

fingers when they extended in a placating gesture. Her

viewpoint then shifted to the gunman’s hands. They were

encased in black leather, but she could make out the

partial flattening of one of his gloves. It was what she

had feared. Someone imperfect was seeking and slicing away

perfection in others. He was missing three fingers from his

right hand.

At that moment Scully felt oddly territorial and fiercely

protective. She wanted Mulder to put his hands away.

Almost as an offering, Scully raised her own hands to get

the assailant’s attention.

“Look, sir, this is just a misunderstanding. We’re Agents

Mulder and Scully from the FBI. If you’ll just let me pull

out my ID…”

She went for her identification before the gunman stopped

her.

“I know who you are, Dr. Scully. I hear you solve the

unsolvable, all with a few instruments and those delicate

little hands of yours.”

Scully felt the chill begin in her fingertips and race

down her hands. The sensation locked itself in a frozen

knot in her stomach.

Mulder looked carefully at Scully and back to the gunman,

whose eyes had shifted no higher than her raised hands. In

an effort to get the man to stop staring at her, Mulder

stated, “Well, we’re at a disadvantage here. You know us,

but I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure of an

introduction.”

The knot in Scully’s stomach took another twist when she

heard, “Excuse my manners. You can just call me ‘Father

Time.'”

(by Marty)

Apparently satisfied with the impression he’d made with

his introduction, time stood still as Mulder and Scully

stood before the intruder contemplating their next move.

Mulder watched the man’s eyes for any hint that he’d make a

move toward him or Scully. When he did, Mulder was going to

lunge for the man’s mid-section and knock the shotgun from

his grasp. It was risky, but he knew Scully would take the

opportunity to pull her gun to subdue their suspect and

take him into custody.

They didn’t get the chance. The man looked from Scully’s

hands to Mulder’s eyes, gesturing with the barrel of the

shotgun for the handsome agent to step back against the

inside wall and away from his female counterpart. A

commotion of voices and footsteps grew loud as two unarmed

security guards burst up out of the stairwell and onto the

landing.

Father Time whirled to face the intrusion and fired,

sending a close range blast of buckshot into the chest and

stomach of one of the guards, and sending the shooter

reeling from the backfire against the public barrier just

next to the clock’s rim.

Mulder lunged at him, but missed grabbing his legs as the

burly man jumped the railing and hefted himself up through

the open colonnade and onto the face of the building.

Mulder scrambled to his feet in pursuit and climbed through

the opening onto the narrow stone ledge, heedless of the

fact that one misstep would drop him over 100 feet to the

ground below.

Scully rushed to the colonnade, wedging herself between

the railing and the base of the columns enabling her to

grab her partner by the shoulders while he steadied himself

and turned to face her.

Their rapid breathing vaporized between them and mingled

as they stood so close, face to face. Scully didn’t want to

let go, but she did, because they both knew the job came

first. “He’s headed for the roof. Take care of the guard.

I’ll be back,” Mulder assured his partner and he let go.

“I’ll call for backup.” Scully’s voice was all business,

but her eyes couldn’t hide her worry. As she pulled her

cell phone from her pocket and dialed 911, she watched

Mulder begin to inch his way across the ledge and across

the face of the clock. The hooded man was nowhere in sight.

Mulder followed, quickly fading into the darkness.

The second security guard came up behind the agent just as

she finished the call. “Bill’s dead! He’s got a hole clear

through him. We rushed up right when we saw you two on the

security cameras, and now Bill’s dead!”

“There’s an ambulance on the way. I’m sorry about your

friend. Did you see the gunman come up the stairs, also?”

“Naw, we only saw you two and came running, but the

cameras probably caught the killer. He’ll be on the tape.

He must have gone up the stairs when we were leaving the

office.” The guard was still obviously shaken, but Scully

had more to do than settle his jitters. Confirming that

there was nothing she could do for the man on the floor,

Scully told the guard to wait with the body for the

paramedics and rushed back to the ledge to check on Mulder.

“MULDER!”

She grabbed the columns on either side of her and used

them as leverage to hop almost high enough to go out the

opening. Another try would do it.

“Scully!” She whirled around to find an exhausted Mulder,

dropping back into the tower from another opening on the

far side of the clock.

“Where’d he go?” Her voice was high and thin when she ran

over to her partner and steadied him by the arm as he

caught his breath.

Mulder threw his arm around her for support, weighing down

her little frame. “I don’t know,” he panted. “I only saw

one way to get up to the roof, but I never saw him. There

must have been another way.”

“Maybe one of the back-up units will see something on the

street.” She grabbed Mulder’s hands and noted the cuts and

abrasions he got while climbing along the outside of the

tower. “We’ve got to get these looked at. The paramedics

are on the way. Mulder, your hands are frozen!”

The worry in her voice was obvious only to him, and as he

turned to stand on his own, he couldn’t help smirking at

her even though he was tired and winded. “Cold hands, warm

heart, Scully.”

He knew she knew he had caught her like a deer caught in

the headlights. She gazed up at him — to his warm hazel

eyes and beautiful full lips, feeling the urge to touch

them, but instead dropped his hands, thankfully turning her

attention to the paramedics coming up the stairs. This was

not the time or the place to be having this conversation.

Following the paramedics down the stairs with the dead

security guard, both agents worried about the threat Father

Time had made against them. Mulder was sure the killer was

going to focus his next threat on Scully. Scully was sure

the man would come after Mulder. The drive back to their

motel that night was uncomfortably silent.

***********

(by Laurie Haynes)

Somewhere in suburban Philadelphia

Father Time slammed the door of his house behind him. He

was breathing heavily from his narrow escape. He pulled off

his gloves and rubbed the three stumps that were all that

were left of the fingers of his right hand.

He grabbed a glass from the cupboard and poured a shot of

bourbon which he drained in a gulp that burned all the way

down. He poured another and went to sit down in his living

room, surrounded by his beloved clocks that he had

collected over the years. It was approaching the top of the

hour and he loved to hear them chime or cuckoo the time.

The top of the hour came and every clock in the house that

was made to do so, announced the time. Father Time took a

sip of his whiskey and tears ran down his face. He picked

up his favorite, a small grandfather clock and stroked it

stiffly with his intact left hand.

“You’re not sounding so good, Little Grandfather. I’m so

sorry I can’t tune you like I should.”

The oilfield accident that had taken his right hand’s

three fingers when a liquid nitrogen valve burst open and

spewed into his gloves, had also caused nerve damage to the

left hand. No longer did he have the fine motor skills

necessary for working on his beautiful clocks.

It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t right. Those people bragged

about their gifts when they used to come to him to fix

their clocks or to buy antique clocks he had restored.

After his accident, he couldn’t bear the looks of pity and

the whispering behind his back.

And his former friends in the Philadelphia Clock Society

were the worst of all. They had banned him from helping the

engineers restore the clock in the tower. And after he had

helped raise the funds — and contributed no small amount

from his own paychecks — to fix it. Oh, sure, they claimed

it was just that they didn’t want him to get hurt around

that machinery, but he knew the truth. They didn’t want a

cripple around their precious clock. Just because he didn’t

have the motor skills anymore to work on it didn’t mean he

didn’t know that clock like his own home.

Everywhere he went, it was the same thing — people would

stare at his maimed hand.

He recalled the day his girlfriend Sherri had told him she

was leaving. It had been a rough day of physical therapy

and he had come home to find her packing her clothes.

“Where are you going?”

“Away. I’m sorry, but I can’t handle this anymore. And all

your creditors have been calling wanting money.”

He reached out and touched her arm to plead his case.

She shied back and shivered. “Don’t touch me! It creeps me

out when you do that!”

“Sherri, babe, don’t be this way. I’m still the same man.”

She shook her head. “I want a whole man, not a cripple,

and I want a man who makes good money — like you used to.”

Father Time brushed away his tears with the sleeve of his

shirt as he returned to the present. He’d show her. He’d

show them all. He’d already taken care of the three adults

who had been his customers. And the little girl — she’d

made him furious the way she would make a face every time

she saw his hand.

He got up to get another glass of whiskey from the

kitchen. Opening his freezer, he pulled out eight plastic

bags. He pulled the severed hands out and began stroking

them with his right hand. With his left, he unzipped his

pants and reached inside to take hold of himself.

Father Time moaned in delight as waves of pleasure moved

through him. When he was through, he cleaned himself up and

put the hands back in the freezer.

Eight hands. He needed four more, one for each numeral on

the clock. He was saving Sherri for last, so he had to

decide who would be next.

He remembered the redheaded FBI agent and her partner.

From reading about them in the paper, he knew she was a

doctor. She had the hands for it — small, beautiful and

nimble. Of course, he’d have to take out her partner, too,

but that would be a real pleasure. He went to his closet

and pulled out his Army surplus rifle with the infrared

scope. He’d had a gunsmith mount the scope, and told the

smith he wanted to use it for hunting deer. The rifle was

just one part of his small arsenal. He began to clean it

and adjust the sights.

**********************

(by Marty)

Motel 8

9:15 a.m., April 18

The next morning, Mulder knocked on Scully’s motel room

door, ready to go back to the clock tower and search in

daylight. The agents were meeting the clock tower’s

security chief and Detective Michaels, from the Philly

P.D., to go over the events surrounding Father Time’s

attack. When Scully answered her door, she had her cell

phone pressed to her ear.

“Okay, well, thanks, if you locate Mr. Malloy, would you

please have him call me right away at the number I gave

you?” She nodded. “Okay, um, thanks again.” Scully ended

the call. Her bright blue eyes sparkled as she repeated her

telephone conversation to Mulder.

“I’m trying to reach Steve Malloy, Tina Rodriguez’

boyfriend. He was supposed to be returning to Houston with

her body for her funeral; but according to his father, he

hasn’t left Philadelphia yet. I’m hoping he might tell us

what might have been special about Tina’s hands.”

Mulder matched her enthusiasm for the puzzle with his own.

“Father Time is stalking these victims, Scully, because

they all exhibit a particular gift that they can do with

their hands — Rick Ramee, because he played a mean

saxophone; Rhonda Lewis, because she was a talented

architect; and the little homeless girl, because she drew

beautiful pictures. I’m sure Tina’s boyfriend will confirm

she was gifted also.”

“But why them, Mulder? As far as we’ve been able to tell,

these people had no connection to one another at all.” The

furrow in Scully’s brow deepened as she struggled to make a

connection.

“Maybe the connection is with Father Time. Maybe they each

had something he lost, or something he wanted.” Mulder

paced the room, unconsciously touching Scully’s belongings,

one by one, until he returned to face her in the center of

the room.

“Did you notice his hands?” Mulder nodded he did and

waited listened for more. “It would seem fairly obvious

that a man missing three fingers might have a fixation for

the hands of other people — in this case, seemingly gifted

people.”

“Yeah, but it begs the question, Scully. What is he doing

with the hands he takes?” The agents paused while a dozen

morbid thoughts raced through their minds.

“I don’t know, but I’ve got a bad feeling we’re going to

find out soon enough.” Scully shrugged on her suit jacket

while Mulder handed her her coat.

“And it should be easy enough to find a man missing three

fingers from his right hand in this town. C’mon, are you

ready? We’ve got to get back to the clock tower.” Mulder

was already half way down the hall before Scully grabbed

her phone and her keys and locked the door behind her.

*************

The news media were already circling for their story when

Mulder and Scully drove up to the building at 9:30 am.

Mulder side-stepped a cameraman and reporter who tried to

block their way, while managing to flash his badge and lift

the police tape for Scully and him to pass under at the

same time. They met the head of security and the police

detective in the security office for a short debriefing.

The video tape from last night had turned up nothing. The

gunman wasn’t on the tape entering the door to the building

or on the stairs leading to the clock tower landing. He

didn’t appear on the tape until he was suddenly on the

observation deck holding a shotgun on Mulder and Scully. It

was as though he appeared out of thin air. When they

finished the meeting, the agents continued on alone up to

the clock tower observation deck.

There were no obvious clues. Other than the blood stains

left by the dead security guard, and some scattered

buckshot and powder residue near the body’s outline, there

appeared to be nothing else other than the usual dirt and

debris that typically collects on porches or balconies,

including some leaves and needles swept in by the wind from

the surrounding trees. Scully took out her flashlight and

walked into the darker recesses of the area, back to the

other side of the clock from where the guard was shot.

Mulder was anxious to get back out onto the ledge to see

if he could find the path the killer took when he

disappeared, but he was hesitant to leave Scully alone on

the observation deck. Not when he knew that Father Time

could appear out of nowhere.

In the darkest corner, Scully waved her flashlight over

the walls, the ceiling, and the floor. Finally, something

caught her eye, or rather the lack of something. The floor

along the back wall was surprisingly free of dust and

debris. Everywhere else Scully had searched, the floor was

stained with the residual effects of weather and the wear

and tear caused by tourists trampling over the area in high

volume. In this one area, however, it appeared to be

freshly cleaned.

Scully pensively paced along the wall, noting the size and

shape of the area that interested her. “Mulder, look at

this…” As Mulder approached, she swept the area with the

beam of her flashlight and pointed to the floor.

“What do you see?”

“It’s more like what I don’t see.” She indicated an arc

emanating from one side of the wall, extending toward the

center of the room, culminating on the other side of the

wall. “It’s like someone wiped away the dirt from this

center point here, with a large implement,” indicating the

exact center. “Yet there aren’t any marks on the floor that

would indicate that. It’s too clean.”

“Well, can you figure out what might have caused it?”

Mulder had all the faith in the world that she would. Once

she latched onto a puzzle, it was very rare that she didn’t

solve it.

Taking a small knife from her coat, Scully stooped to

scrape any material that might be on the floor into an

evidence bag. Mulder, recognizing that she was fully

concentrated on her task, returned to the colonnade and the

clock, looking for any clue that might indicate how the

gunman had gotten away.

Grasping one column, half determined to jump back out onto

the ledge, Mulder stilled when he heard the faintest sound,

a drip…hiss, very close by. He waited for the next, but

was more than surprised when a drop hit the cuff of his

shirt sleeve. He jerked his arm back in reflex and looked

at what had hit him. Then he touched it.

The pure revulsion he felt resonated in his voice with a

loud “Yeeeuch!”

“What did you find?” Scully approached her partner with a

wary eye, wanting to know if he had found anything

pertinent to the case, yet eager to keep her distance if it

was unpleasant.

“Pigeon shit.”

Scully was more than amused by the disgusted look on

Mulder’s face, but chose to not to make matters worse by

laughing while he attempted to fling the drippy white goo

from his hand. “You really have to start taking my advice

and stop putting your fingers into everything you find,

Mulder. One of these days it’s going to be something you

can’t shake off.” Years of experience with this man had

taught Scully to be prepared. She reached into her pocket

and produced a foil wrapped moist towelette left over from

the previous night’s Chinese dinner.

Quietly grateful that his partner was so good at second

guessing him, he accepted the offer and took the package

from her fingers. He looked down at her bemused face,

regarding her with affection while he cleaned his shirt

sleeve.

At that moment, the perpetrator — the offending pigeon,

and a few of his closest family members, flew out from the

clock works over Mulder’s head. The agents ducked, fearing

that the first splat wouldn’t be the last. When the

feathers cleared, they stood back up and realized where the

gunman might have gone — into the clock.

Mulder craned his neck around the clock’s rim, shining his

flashlight upwards to see from where the birds had come.

“There’s stuff up there, Scully.” Mulder stretched through

the colonnade to see more, but he couldn’t quite make

anything out. But there was definitely more up there than

just birds.

Scully grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him back

inside. “What do you think you’re doing? You aren’t going

to go back out there without some equipment. You won’t do

yourself or this investigation any good if you get yourself

killed.”

“I’ve got to find a way up there,” Mulder indicated the

higher reaches of the clock works. “Didn’t Detective

Michaels tell us that there was an assistant engineer on

the tower renovation project who worked with Rhonda Lewis

before her murder?”

“What are you going to do?” Scully clearly understood that

Mulder had a plan.

“I’m going to ask him to get me up there. I want to find

out what’s behind this clock.”

***********

About an hour later, Jack Adams, now the senior engineer

and architect on the clock tower restoration project, met

Mulder and Scully on the observation deck with a small,

portable scaffold. The two men were able to maneuver the

contraption next to the clock works at a height even with

the actual clock stem and climbed up to peer into the works

with a flashlight. The engineer stayed on the ground,

seemingly to chat up the pretty red haired agent.

“Rhonda was really gifted when it came to renovating and

preserving these old historical monuments, Miss Scully. Did

you know this tower dates from just after the Revolutionary

War? In fact, this clock was a gift from the people of

France to commemorate their independence from the French

king in 1789. It was one of the clocks from the Bastille.

You know, the place where they locked away all those

prisoners.”

The man rambled on while Scully watched Mulder poke deeper

into the recesses of the clock. “That’s an interesting

highlight in history, Mr. Adams, but …” Intently, Scully

shone her flashlight under Mulder’s shoulder to help light

the area.

“Oh yeah, you hear all sorts of these stories when you

work in these old buildings. Well, I could tell you

stories…”

“I’m sure you could, Mr. Adams, but…what is it, Mulder?”

Scully stepped forward trying to get a better look.

Mulder didn’t respond, but it was clear that he was

amazed. It wasn’t easy to amaze Mulder, but there it was —

the glint from a sharp angular blade, hidden behind the

gears and obviously not part of the clock. It was part of a

small guillotine jammed behind the clock gears and out of

the way of the moving parts. He reached in to tug at the

device, but it was wedged in tight.

“Hey, Jack, can you give me a hand here?” Mulder reached

down to help Jack Adams scale the scaffold and steadied him

as he climbed higher up to get a different angle of

approach. When Adams stuck his upper torso down into the

clock works to grab at the guillotine, he saw something

else.

“Mr. Mulder!” Mulder turned to look up at the engineer

just in time to see him pull a thick steel-mesh hose with a

heavy nozzle from atop the highest gear. Following the hose

with the beam from his flashlight, Mulder discovered that

the hose was connected to a very large silver cannister,

marked “Liquid Nitrogen,” which was also mounted high in

the clock behind the gears.

He turned his head to see Scully, who was anxious to learn

what he saw. He smiled thinly and shook his head in

astonishment. The puzzle pieces were falling into place. As

one more piece aligned itself in Mulder’s mind, he met

Scully’s eyes and said, “There’s liquid nitrogen up here,

Scully. Father Time has been bringing his victims right

here, to this tower, amputating their hands, allowing them

to bleed to death and flash freezing them here so he could

display them down in the foyer days later.” He thought for

a moment. “But why isn’t there any blood evidence? The

victims bled to death. Even if he was Mr. Clean, there

should be trace evidence from the victims.”

“Not necessarily.” Scully shone her flashlight back into

the corners of the observation deck as she returned to the

clean spot on the floor, thinking aloud. “One of the

properties of liquid nitrogen is that it doesn’t like to

stick to other elements. Instead, it pushes them away. That

would account for why the floor over here is so much

cleaner than the rest. If the killer was spraying the area –

– the victims — with liquid nitrogen, it would freeze the

human tissue, the blood, everything and blow the small

particles away. There’s enough wind up here to remove the

evidence in a few minute’s time. We might find some traces

on the ground surrounding the building, though.” She was

puzzled as she turned to face Mulder again. “But it would

take a lot of liquid nitrogen and prolonged exposure to

freeze a human body. A lot of it.”

“It’s a pretty big canister, Scully.” He felt he might

know the answer, but he wanted to hear her say it.

“No, there has to be another source somewhere, otherwise

how would he replenish his supply for each victim? We’ve

got to find the source. When we do, we might find the

killer.” The partners resolved on their next course of

action without speaking. Thanking Jack Adams for his

assistance, they made ready to leave the premises when

Scully’s cell phone chirped out a call.

It was Tina Rodriguez’ boyfriend calling. “Thank you for

returning my call, Mr. Malloy. I was hoping you could

answer one more question we have concerning Miss Rodriguez.

Uh huh… Did Tina have any hobbies or special skills where

she might be considered talented? Uh huh… That helps us

very much, sir. Yes. Thank you for your time.” She stopped

their progress down the stairs by touching Mulder’s arm and

stopping herself as she ended the call.

“I just found out what the third victim did that might

make her interesting to our killer, Mulder,” Scully said,

using a voice that sounded ever so proud that she made

another connection. Mulder’s face softened when he heard

that coy competitive lilt to her voice, secretly loving it

when she showed him hers after he showed her his.

“What’s that, Scully?”

“Tina was a concert pianist. Her boyfriend just told me

she was hired by the Philadelphia Symphony to be their new

soloist. He says she was quite gifted.” Scully turned and

continued on down the stairs with Mulder in tow.

Mulder followed his partner, considering the evidence.

“Gifted…It seems like this is one attribute you don’t

want to have in this case, Scully, to be gifted.”

*****************

Clock Tower

4:30 p.m., April 18

(by Laurie Haynes)

Scully stood beside Mulder as the forensic techs

meticulously went over the gear room, searching for any

evidence that might help catch the killer.

Mulder rubbed his chin in thought. “Well, there’s not any

kind of container here big enough to hold a person, so he

must have killed them elsewhere, frozen them in the

nitrogen and then brought them to the tower, where he

sprayed them again right before taking them to the foot of

the tower. That explains why we found no blood at the

scene.”

“But if the guillotine is the murder weapon, there should

be blood here.”

“Good point. Any thoughts on that?”

“Maybe it isn’t the murder weapon after all. Maybe it’s a

decoy to keep us from looking for another murder site.”

“Could be,” Mulder agreed. “You know, I’ve seen big tanker

trucks carrying liquid nitrogen. Surely, something that big

would be easy to spot.”

“Well, if you have an LN generator, you don’t need a big

tanker. A generator could easily fit in a room.”

“OK, then,” said Mulder. “We check out companies who have

sold such generators — or places that have them to produce

their own LN. One thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“How is he getting the bodies here without being detected?

The police have been watching the clock tower, but the

killer still gets by them.”

Scully drew her coat closer around her and shivered.

Mulder put his arm around her and drew her to him. “C’mon.

Let’s leave the techs to it and go to the motel and get

something hot to drink.”

“You buying? I’m freezing,”

Mulder chuckled lasciviously. “I’ll warm you up. First,

you can change into something more comfortable…”

Scully laughed and punched him on the arm. But she didn’t

draw away.

They walked like that to their car, never realizing that a

pair of eyes, out in the night, followed them.

******************

Motel 8

6 p.m. April 18

Both agents hit the showers after returning to the motel.

Scully luxuriated in the hot streaming water, shampooing

her hair and ridding herself of the memory of the odor of

the victims she had autopsied.

But nothing could wash away the memory in her head of the

little girl with the severed hands.

As Mulder showered, he turned the case over in his head.

Since the hands were severed and not left with the body, it

seemed likely that Father Time was a fetishist. From his

nickname and the site of the crime, it could easily be

inferred the man also had a thing for clocks. A clockmaker?

Or repairman? Mulder decided to have the police check the

local jewelers.

He sighed. In a city the size of Philadelphia, that would

take a while. He shut off the water and grabbed a towel,

drying himself, then wrapping it around his waist. Walking

out of the bathroom, he sat on the bed and picked up the

phone. Mulder first called the Philadelphia police

detective assigned to the case to ask him to check out area

jewelers and suppliers of liquid nitrogen and LN

generators. Though they hadn’t seen Father Time’s face, his

size and the lack of fingers were identifying marks in

themselves.

Mulder hung up, then dialed Scully’s room.”Dinner’s on me.

What do you want?”

“I’m tired of pizza. Is there a deli nearby that delivers?

I’d love a corned beef sandwich and a cup of soup.”

“Sounds good to me. Lemme call them. When you’re dressed,

come on over and we’ll talk about the case. I’ve got some

ideas I want to run by you.”

Mulder looked in the Yellow Pages and found a deli that

was open late and also delivered. He ordered a Philly steak

sandwich for himself, the corned beef for Scully and two

cups of the soup of the day.

Within 15 minutes, he heard a knock at the door and Scully

saying, “It’s me, Mulder.”

He opened the door and invited her in. She was dressed in

flannel pajamas and a heavy terrycloth robe. Mulder himself

had donned a clean sweatshirt and sweat pants.

“Food should be here pretty soon. I made coffee, want some?”

“Please.”

He poured two cups he’d made with the small coffee maker

provided by the motel. He handed one to Scully and she

wrapped both her hands around it.

“…so obviously, this guy gets off on clocks,” Mulder

concluded and told her about asking local police to check

out jewelers and liquid nitrogen suppliers.

“Not to mention, this specific clock,” Scully added.

“Right,” agreed Mulder. “What’s the deal with that?”

“We should probably check out any organizations connected

with the clock tower.”

Mulder nodded. “It seems pretty obvious, from the taking

of the hands, that Mr. Time is a fetishist. It’s likely he

gets a sexual thrill from the killings and/or the removal

of the hands.”

“Did you notice his fingers were missing on his right hand?”

“Yep. Got an APB out for a big guy with three fingers

missing. But it’s a large city.”

She sat down on the bed opposite the one he had been lying

on.

“Then there’s the angle of him going after gifted people,”

she said. “But how does he know they’re gifted unless he

somehow knows them? There’s got to be something else in

common.”

“Yeah, we’ll have to go around to each of the victims’

homes and try to identify anything in common.”

A knock came on the door.

“Must be our food,” Mulder said, grabbing up his wallet

from the bedside table where it sat beside his holstered

gun.

He first peeked through the curtains to make sure it was

the delivery boy, then opened the door.

“That’ll be $18.52,” said the boy.

“For sandwiches and soup?”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Plus the delivery fee.”

“Just pay him, Mulder, and shut that door! You’re letting

all the cold air in.”

“OK, OK,” he replied and gave the kid a $20 bill. “Keep

the change.”

The delivery boy pocketed the money and moved away from

the door to return to his car, parked over to the right of

the room.

Mulder fumbled with the bags, trying to shut the door.

As he did, he heard a loud crack of gunfire and almost

immediately felt something strike him in the shoulder —

hard — throwing him to the floor and leaving him

breathless.

“Mulder!” Scully cried and instinctively grabbed his gun

as she dove for the floor. There was a screech of tires and

somebody peeled out of the parking lot — whether it was

the delivery boy or the shooter, she didn’t know just then.

She crawled over to Mulder and slammed the door shut. With

her free hand, she felt for a pulse and found it —

thready, but there.

Scully grabbed a towel Mulder had thrown on the bed.

Wadding it up, she pressed it against the bullet wound in

his shoulder. Reaching her hand under him, she felt for an

exit wound and found it.

Mulder groaned as she applied pressure.

Someone began pounding on the door. “Hey, you guys all

right in there?”

It was the delivery boy.

She opened the door, grabbed him and pulled him down.

“The shooter could still be out there.”

The boy’s eyes widened and his face paled. “I didn’t think

about that. I figured that was him that took off out of

here.”

“Probably, but we don’t know for sure. Look, I’m an FBI

agent and this is my partner. He’s been shot. I want you to

call 911 and tell them ‘officer down’ and give them our

location. I’ve got to take care of Mulder.”

The boy did as instructed.

“Hang on, Mulder,” Scully whispered to him.

“Followed…us,” Mulder muttered.

“No shit, Sherlock. Now be quiet. An ambulance is on the

way and you’re going to be fine.”

Truth was, she was very concerned about the amount of

blood he was losing and only hoped an artery hadn’t been

hit.

“‘K, Scully. Scully?”

“Yes?”

“You … all right?”

“Fine, Mulder, I wasn’t the one that was shot.”

“Careful.”

She heard the sirens as the ambulance and the police

pulled up outside the motel room.

Within minutes, the EMTs had Mulder strapped to a

stretcher with an oxygen mask over his face and an IV

running to replace fluid volume. They started to roll him

out to the ambulance.

Mulder clumsily reached up and moved the oxygen mask.

“Scully!”

She was beside him in a moment. “I’m right here, Mulder,

I’m going with you.”

He reached out his hand to her and she took it in her own.

His skin was clammy and cold, not at all like the warmth he

normally radiated.

(by Paige Caldwell)

“Sorry, Miss,” one of the EMTs apologized as he detained

her from climbing into the back of the ambulance. “There’s

no room for passengers.”

“I’m not a passenger,” Scully replied in a determined

voice. “I’m a doctor. His doctor.”

“Do you always make house calls in your pajamas?” the EMT

asked, giving her a dubious look.

“Depends on the patient,” she responded evenly. “Look,

I’m packing more than just latex in my robe pocket. I’m a

federal agent and this man is my partner. If you won’t let

me treat him, then at least let me protect him.”

“I don’t know,” the EMT paused. “It’s against protocol.”

“Against protocol? That will suit him just fine,” she

commented, turning her attention to her partner who was now

writhing on the gurney. He was frantically tearing at the

straps, grappling with the other EMT who was trying to

restrain him.

“Mulder, what is it?” she tried to reach his outstretched

hand, not understanding why he was so agitated.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the flash of light

even before she heard the explosion of gunfire. The blast

shattered the windshield of the police car, the bullet

puncturing the larynx of the officer inside. He had been

on the radio, calling for back-up while the EMTs moved

Mulder towards the ambulance. None of them had seen the

killer return. No one, except Mulder, who was strapped on

a gurney gasping for breath.

“Scully,” he wheezed. “Get down…”

Dropping to her knees, Scully pressed up against the

bumper of the vehicle and reached inside her pocket for her

gun. Her eyes scanned the perimeter of the parking lot

for the sniper. She couldn’t see him. The only person in

her line of vision was the EMT, who suddenly held up his

hands.

“Don’t shoot me…” he cried.

Behind the door of the ambulance was the Father Time, his

gun leveled to blow a hole through the EMT’s chest. Through

the broken window, he spied Scully and waved her out with a

jerk of his rifle. When she hesitated, her hand still

clenched around the cold metal of her gun, the killer

snapped.

“Time’s up, Dr. Scully. Just lift those pretty, little

hands where I can see `em, nice and slow.”

Scully glanced at the EMT who resembled a deer caught in

headlights. He was petrified, unmoving, incapable of

dodging a bullet at close range. Forcing herself to stay

calm, she relaxed her grip on her gun and lifted her hand

from her pocket.

“You’re in complete control,” she told the killer,

carefully reciting the FBI’s script for hostage

negotiation. Now was the time for protocol, for complete

adherence to the Bureau’s modes and practices.

“Damn straight, I am,” Father Time retorted, “I choose the

moment rather than let it choose me.”

“You can also choose between life and death,” Scully

responded in a modulated tone. “One man is already dead.

Now, you can choose life. The man inside the ambulance is

in need of medical attention. Please let me help him.”

“Can you help this?” Father Time demanded, wriggling his

stumps of withered flesh before her eyes. “Dr. Scully,

have you been touched by the hand of God?

Scully cringed away from the man’s sordid breath, his

words summoning a face from her past. She no longer saw

Father Time, but Donnie Pfaster. No wonder her hands were

so cold. From the onset of this investigation, she had

felt the chill of her past. It wasn’t just a foreshadowing

of another monster or a similar pattern of atrocities. It

was the memory of her hands, frozen around her gun. It was

time standing still while her finger pulled the trigger,

again and again…

“Hand of God?” she said in a quivering voice. “No, not

this time.”

“Ten hands, Dr. Scully. I only need two more to complete

the numbers of the clock.”

“Ten?” she gasped.

“I’ve already made a little house call of my own, doctor.

You may have stolen my guillotine, but Sherri managed to

lend me a hand, anyway.”

Stunned, she listened to the killer continue.

“I only need two more to complete the numbers of the

clock. With each pair, I’ve collected talent and dexterity.

With Sherri’s hands, I’ve severed my past. With your

hands, I’ll be able to graft my future.”

“I wouldn’t count on it…” she commented, averting her

head from his whiskey-laden breath.

Father Time snickered, his gaze fixed on her trembling

hands. Scully felt a cold sweat break across her skin, far

more chilling than the frosty, night air. The expression

on his face suggested more than just the threat of a sudden

gun blast. He was visually measuring the span of her

fingers as if each severed digit promised him hours of

pleasure.

“Yeah, you’ll do just fine,” the killer murmured, licking

his lips with sadistic delight. Gun still pointed at the

EMT, he reached out and yanked Scully towards him. When

she opened her mouth to speak, he clamped his disfigured

hand over her mouth.

Scully fought for breath, trying not to gag at the putrid

smell of rifle grease mixed with semen. Bile was

regurgitating from her empty stomach, clogging her throat

and suffocating her reason. Over the stubs of gnarled

flesh, her eyes strained towards the ambulance. She could

see Mulder tearing out the IV line, his breath clouding the

oxygen mask with frantic white bursts.

Scully knew that Mulder would fight past shock and pain to

help her. His heart, in danger of arrhythmia, was trying

to jump-start his body into action. She needed to stop his

alarm before it stopped him. The warmth of his love would

not be spent in the few seconds of a desperate act.

She wouldn’t allow Father Time to choose Mulder’s moment,

any more than she would let Pfaster’s memory defeat her.

Instantly, her mind shifted gears. It was time to wind

down the fetishist with the fine motor skills of his

perversion. Parting her lips, she used the tip of her

tongue to trace a circular pattern into his palm. She knew

that the clockwise motion would stimulate more than just

his curiosity.

Just as she knew that her hands were cold for a reason.

When Father Time groaned with delight, Scully made her

move. She quickly slid her fingers into the pocket of her

robe. The chill of her skin reacted instantly with the

cold metal of her gun, freezing intent and aim in one

deadly movement. With one turn of her wrist, she shoved

her gun into the killer’s abdomen.

Without a blink of an eye, she fired.

At point-blank range, the impact of the bullet threw

Father Time backwards and propelled Scully forwards. Like

broken hands of a clock, each of them spun out of control

before toppling to the pavement. Landing on her back, she

turned to find the killer lying on what remained of his

stomach. Twisting his head around, his steely eyes met

hers’.

“Time’s up,” she whispered, stretching her arm out to

knock the rifle from his reach.

Father Time choked out a bloody laugh. Even in the last

minutes of life, he still thought he could choose the hour

of his death. Dipping his knuckle in his own blood, he

traced the outline of a clock. Placing his hands inside of

it, he murmured his last words.

“Only time will tell…”

In the distance, Scully swore she heard the chiming of the

tower clock before it halted abruptly. Glancing down at

her wrist watch, she realized that it, too, had stopped.

************

9:15 a.m., April 20

Two days later, Scully arrived at the hospital to find

Mulder’s nurse grumbling outside of his room.

“How’s the patient this morning?” she asked cautiously,

noting how the nurse’s hands were tightly clenched around

his chart.

“Same as usual,” the nurse responded. “A pain in my ass.”

“Yeah,” Scully nodded sympathetically. “Mind if I take a

peek at his chart? I know it’s against protocol, but…”

“Honey, for all I care you can take the chart, read the

chart and smack Mr. Mulder upside the head with the chart,”

the nurse exclaimed. “I’m washing my hands of him.”

“They were too cold, anyway!” Mulder yelled from inside

the room.

“See what I mean?” the nurse cried. “All I was trying to

do was give him a sponge bath.”

“Allow me…” Scully took the chart and waved it in the

air. “Maybe, I can lend you a hand and we’re not talking

about a sponge bath.”

Pushing open the door, Scully walked briskly into his room.

“What are you doing out of bed, Mulder?”

“Looking for my clothes,” he answered, paddling barefoot

over to the closet. “I’m being discharged this morning.”

“Says who?” she ridiculed.

“Says my personal physician,” Mulder responded, shooting

her a hopeful look. “C’mon, Scully. Time to put your

‘John Hancock’ on my discharge papers.”

“No,” she said firmly. “Only your surgeon will choose

that hour.”

“But, I’m freezing in this joint,” he whined, tugging his

suit jacket from the hanger. “Why is it that hospitals are

so damn cold?”

“Lots and lots of reasons,” Scully teased, readjusting the

tone of her voice to placate his petulant mood. Taking the

jacket from his hands, she folded it carefully over her arm

and continued, “Cold temperatures prevent germs.”

“Yeah, what else?” he retorted, grimacing with pain as he

reached up to yank his slacks from the shelf.

“Well, it’s rumored that some patients make their nurses a

little hot under the collar,” she said, confiscating them.

“Perhaps, Risk Management keeps the hospital cold for the

protection of the patients.”

“Anything else?” he asked stubbornly, trying not to groan

as he bent over to retrieve his shoes.

“Maybe, the cold will keep said patients in bed,” chuckled

Scully, arching her head to one side. “Rather than walking

around with their hospital gowns open in the back.”

Mulder twisted around and frowned.

“You could have mentioned this sooner, Scully.”

“And miss out on the view?” she snorted, grabbing his shoes.

“Care to help me out, Scully?” he countered. “I can’t

reach the laces.”

“My hands are full,” she replied, giving him a smug grin.

“But, I thought you came here to tie up loose ends,

Scully,” Mulder baited. “Or, was I just imagining our

earlier telephone conversation.”

“Only time will tell,” Scully said in a tantalizing voice.

Dropping both clothes and shoes on the chair, she ordered,

“Turn around, Mulder.”

“Don’t hurt me,” he cried in a fake whimper. “And, please

tell me that your hands aren’t still cold.”

“Does this feel cold?” she purred, slowly gliding her

hands up his back.

“No,” Mulder gasped. “It feels… you feel… warm …

wonderful….”

Scully laughed softly to herself. Slowly, she traced the

downward curve of his spine, pausing at each vertebrae to

apply pressure to conceal her true intent. With each sweep

of her fingers, she was hooking the ties of his hospital

gown.

“All done,” she announced, giving his ass a playful smack.

“What?” Mulder glanced around to find his hospital gown

completely tied. “How did you do that?”

Scully wiggled her fingers in front of his eyes.

“Gifted, remember?” she joked. “Now, be a good boy and

get back into bed.”

“Will you tuck me in?”

“You never give up, do you, Mulder?”

“Not when it comes to you,” he said, climbing back into

the hospital bed. As she drew the blanket up to his chest,

Mulder caught her hand and whispered, “I’d do anything for

you, Scully.”

“I know, Mulder,” she answered solemnly, sitting down on

the edge of his bed. “Which is why I had to stop Father

Time, myself.”

“You took an incredible chance, Scully. One second off

and you could have been killed.”

Scully turned her head and glanced out the window

thoughtfully.

“Maybe, time was finally on my side, Mulder,” she murmured.

After an uncomfortable silence, Mulder asked,

“So what happened at the coroner’s office? Were they able

to explained how Father Time arrived ‘sans hands’?”

“No, but they did find them,” she advised in a cryptic tone.

“Inside the clock tower?” he prompted gently.

Scully faced her partner and nodded.

“I don’t know if it was some type of malicious joke,” she

said. “Father Time gunned down a security guard and a

police officer. Maybe the ‘boys in blue’ decided to make a

memorial of their own.”

“Maybe…”

“Mulder,” Scully’s voice dropped an octave to sound out a

low warning.

“Don’t you find it odd that your watch stopped at exact

moment of Father Time’s death?” said Mulder.

“It must have been damaged when I fell,” she argued.

“What about the tower clock, Scully?” he asked. “Was that

damaged, too?”

“You’re not going to imply that Father Time had a

paranormal connection with the clock, are you?”

“Maybe time was his accomplice,” he suggested. “How else

would he be able to sneak the victim’s bodies by the guards

at the tower?”

“I don’t know,” Scully murmured. “I’m not sure I want to

know.”

For a minute, Mulder said nothing. He gazed down at her

hand, instantly noting how her fingers were trembling.

“I say we don’t give this creep another minute of our

time,” he concluded, massaging her palm with his thumb.

Scully closed her eyes and sighed.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“I know that Pfaster did a number on your head,” Mulder

relayed, reaching up to softly stroke her hair. “Don’t let

Mr. Freeze do the same thing.”

“I won’t, Mulder,” she nodded. “This time, I know my

heart was in the right place. It was with you.”

“Cold hands, warm heart, Scully?”

“And, even warmer lips,” she murmured, leaning over to

kiss him.

The End

Title: Volatile

Author: Debra Longley

E-mail: d_a_longley@hotmail.com

Completed: Nov. 2000

Category: MulderTorture, M/S Angst, MSR, X-File

Rating: R for bad language and disturbing imagery

Spoilers: Very slight references to “Closure”, “Irresistible”,

“Orison”, “Duane Barry”, the cancer arc, VS8’s “Eyes of Texas”

and “Letters”

Summary: The agents are part of a law enforcement team

accompanying a convicted serial killer to the grave of one of his

victims, setting in motion his deadly plan of revenge.

Archive: IMTP for the first two weeks, then MTA, Xemplary,

EMXC, COX; any others please ask so that I may visit. 🙂

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, and Skinner belong to Chris Carter,

Ten Thirteen Productions, and Twentieth Century Fox Television.

They are used here without permission. No copyright infringement

is intended. (I had to do it. Doggett ain’t no Mulder.) Victor Dugas

and other unrecognizable characters belong to me.

Author’s Notes: This was written for I Made This! Productions as

one of the episodes of Virtual Season 8. IMTP can be found at

http://www.i-made-this.com/.

Locations are real, although I’ve taken some

liberties with them. No disrespect is intended.

Thanks: to the IMTP production staff, for permitting me to be a

part of such a wonderful project. To VS8’s writers and artists, for

inspiring me. To Dawn and Suzanne, my betas, bouquets of

gratitude for not letting me stray off the path. If I’ve tripped, it was

all *my* fault.

Feedback: Much appreciated. 🙂

~~~~~

Teaser

~~~~~

Catoctin Mountain Park

Thurmont, MD

five years ago

*Do as he says!* Her mind screamed. *Don’t go with him!* The

conflicting thoughts skyrocketed her fear. Frantic, she looked

around for a source of help, but her only witness was *him* and the

trees, dark and old, merely sentries to her suffering.

He forced her down on to the ground. When she struck the dirt, she

twisted, striving to get away from him, but he only tightened his

hold on her neck. She tried to bite him, but he seized her hair,

pulling her head away from his hand.

“You have a mind of your own. I like that.” Excited by her fight, he

pressed himself against her, his heavy, sweating weight settling

against her body, squeezing the breath from her lungs and turning

her stomach.

“Stop… please, you mustn’t,” she begged. She spit dirt from her

mouth.

“Shut up!” The knife pressed against the tender skin of her neck.

“I control things here — and, today, I choose to kill you.”

She froze then, too cowed to move. But, determination replaced her

terror. Was she just going to lie here and let him kill her?

Bucking, she twisted sideways, attempting to get him off of her. She

slammed her fists against his chest. Desperate, she grabbed his

hand, wrestling him for the knife. He dropped it, and she grabbed it,

cutting herself. Staring in horror at the blood — her blood —

panic raced through her. *Run! Scream!* But she was sluggish,

exhausted, and could only stare stupidly at the blood trickling down

her wrist. Breathless, no longer able to stand up, she crumpled.

Taking in small breaths, she attempted to regain some semblance of

normal breathing. Shouting for help, she heard him laugh. It was

elevated in pitch, the laugh of the devil’s altar boy. It was enough to

propel her to her hands and knees and crawl toward the path.

Catching her foot, he wrenched her to her back. Lifting the blade, it

sliced through her chest, puncturing her left lung. He made a second

thrust that passed clean through her heart.

Lastly, Victor Dugas drew the blade across her throat.

~~~~

Act I

~~~~

Maryland House of Correction Annex

Jessup, MD

Monday, March 26, 2001

Although he had made prior arrangements with Warden Peyton Roe

at the state’s maximum security complex, Mulder had decided to

contact the inmate, Victor Dugas, and request an interview, after

he and Scully had arrived. It had meant making the trip from the

Hoover Building to Jessup without the sureness of Dugas’

cooperation, but Mulder had been willing to take that chance.

Arriving unannounced would give Mulder the element of surprise,

and would be the surest way to ensure that Dugas hadn’t prepared

some sort of self-serving fiction.

The facility was only 26 miles from Washington, D.C. and the drive

had taken just forty-five minutes even though it had been raining

steadily much of the way. Mulder slowed and turned the Taurus

through the gate that provided an entrance through the perimeter

fence. The car lurched slightly as its right front tire hit a pothole.

Braking, he reached into an inside pocket of his trench coat,

pulling out a leather case. Lowering his window, he extended his

arm through it, showing his FBI credentials. The fingers of his

other hand tapped the steering wheel lightly. The guard stationed

at the gate house studied the badge, looking at the photo then at

Mulder, and, handing it back to him, waved him through the gate

without saying a word.

Pulling the car into a parking space in front of the administration

building, Mulder climbed out into the now soft drizzle, his legs stiff

from the time behind the wheel. Smelling the damp, he turned the

collar of his trench coat up before reaching for his briefcase on the

front seat. Cradling the case under his arm, he slammed his door,

striding toward the main entrance, trailing at Scully’s clicking heels.

Treading on pebbles lying on the shower-soaked steps, Mulder felt

himself sliding. Shifting his weight, he overcompensated, losing his

balance and going down on his right knee, his teeth clicking

together.

His back bent at an ungraceful angle, pain radiated from his kneecap to

his hip. The agent got to his feet, testing his knee gingerly. It

throbbed, but it bent the way it should and he was able to walk.

He brushed his pant leg off, which really did no good because it

was more damp than dirty. Hobbling up the steps, with each

footfall his embarrassment swelled. He hoped to hell Scully

wouldn’t say anything.

As he reached the heavy glass doors where Scully was waiting for

him, she asked, “Are you all right, Mulder?”

*Shit.* Nodding, he brushed past her, concentrating on hiding his

discomfort, and managing to straighten his leg.

Relinquishing their weapons inside Roe’s office, the two agents

signed a waiver stating that the complex was not answerable if

Dugas was to take them hostage. Having an FBI agent as a

hostage could be, obviously, an enormous bargaining chip for an

inmate, and they would not be bargained for.

Mulder and Scully were ushered into a room to wait Dugas’

appearance. A small metal table and three chairs stood in the

middle of the room. Scully could smell old cigarette smoke,

cleanser, and the fresh scent of Mulder’s soap.

The inmate was shepherded inside in a matter of minutes. Wearing

an unbuttoned work shirt over a white t-shirt, he was tall, razor-thin,

with dark hair and dark eyes over a long, sleek nose. His prison

haircut was beginning to grow out unevenly, reminding Scully of

Mulder’s own ruthlessly short razor-cut hair. Dugas may have been

considered by some people as handsome, if not for the scarring. His

face was pockmarked, with what might have been pox or acne scars.

But what marred his features most of all, and made him appear

sinister, were his intense, blue eyes. Right now, they were peering

out of a face that had the look of someone laughing at a tragedy.

“Why don’t you have a seat, Dugas?” Mulder said from the head

of the table, gesturing to the only vacant chair. Turning the folding

chair around and straddling it, Dugas lowered himself, his arms

resting on its back. His unbuttoned cuffs shifted from his forearms,

revealing a professional tattoo on the left that said “Beast”.

Mulder had removed his trench coat and dark suit jacket, draping

them neatly across the back of his chair. His crimson silk tie was

knotted perfectly under the collar of his smooth blue shirt. His

Italian-made shoes were spotless beneath his creased suit pants. The

badge, tucked over his belt, shone, reflecting light from the recessed

dome lights in the ceiling. His spit-and-polish appearance made him

look like the poster boy for the FBI.

Rolling up his sleeves, he gave a casual impression, but, feeling

oddly nervous, the hairs crawled on the nape of his neck. Plucking

Dugas’ file from his briefcase he set it on the table in front of them.

Leaving it closed, its contents were hidden.

Eyeing the file folder briefly, Dugas spoke. “Do you know how

you caught me?”

Mulder looked startled, not expecting the question, feeling the

surprise even before he recognized it.

“Do you know how you caught me?” Dugas repeated.

Calming his face into an indifferent mask, Mulder said, “We got

lucky.”

“You know everything about me or you wouldn’t have found me.

We’re *alike.*”

“You’re a sociopath, Dugas.”

“I’ve read all about you. It’s the way you think.”

“There’s been a lot of crap about the way I think.” Mulder glanced

at Scully. She was still huddled inside her trench coat, her face

moist from the rain. She did not speak or smile, but regarded him

with an even gaze. Seeing her eased the tension he felt and steadied

him.

Slipping his chair closer to Dugas, Mulder locked in eye contact,

his voice flat. “It was part of the challenge, part of the game, right,

Dugas? Snatch a beautiful woman from her own home, kill her,

then dispose of her body… minus her right thumb.”

Dugas grinned, tapping his right forefinger on his temple,

reinforcing his earlier point that the agent knew him intimately.

Mulder had profiled Victor Dugas, using his gift for seeing the

crimes both from Dugas’ and the victims’ points-of-view. He had

studied the police files, crime scene photographs, autopsy

protocols, and, finally, the trial transcripts. It was all in the file

folder laying in front of him. He would have no need to refer to it

as his memory was extraordinary.

Pulling her coat open at the neck, Scully said, “Don’t repudiate the

facts. You murdered six women brutally. Cause of death was

multiple stab wounds. You used a double-edged blade, sharpened

on both sides, then slit their throats. You hacked off their thumbs.

A jury found you guilty.”

“I don’t deny them. What do you want to know?”

“Why?”

Dugas stared at her for a moment. Reaching into his shirt pocket, he

pulled out a package of cigarettes and shook one loose. Placing it to

his lips, it defied gravity, dangling from his bottom lip as he struck a

match on the sole of his boot. He extinguished the flame with a

shake of his wrist, flinging it to the floor at his feet. He took a long,

slow drag, exhaling through his nose.

“It’s what I am,” Dugas replied finally.

“There are so many things to understand,” Scully said. “Will you

help me to understand?”

Dugas gestured to Mulder. The cigarette bouncing between his lips,

he answered, “He watches and figures out the people around him.

And long before he fingered me, I had been watching him. I had

him figured out from the first time I heard about him.” He took one

more puff, dropped the cigarette, and ground it to the floor with the

toe of his boot. “You’ve walked in my shoes, Mr. FBI You tell

her.”

“Hunting and killing was the most important thing.”

Bracing his feet on the floor, and placing his arms on the table and

leaning toward Mulder, a little too intimately for Mulder’s liking,

he confirmed, “It was my life.” Dugas grabbed the agent’s right wrist

abruptly with both hands. Gripping firmly, so that he couldn’t pull

away, he bit into Mulder’s right thumb.

As Mulder yelped, Dugas’ lips turned up with glee, stained with

Mulder’s blood. Uncurling his fingers, Dugas loosened his hold,

freeing him. Springing to his feet, sending the chair tumbling to

the floor, Mulder stared at his injured hand with a sort of puzzled

revulsion. Settling it against his chest, it was half-closed,

his fingers curled over the thumb defensively.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Infirmary

MHCX, Support Services Building

The nurse washed Mulder’s thumb with mild soap and warm

running water for several minutes before carefully assessing it for

penetration into the tendons. Dugas’ teeth marks were visible and

the surface of the skin was broken, but it was not bleeding severely,

nor, luckily, had the integrity of the tendons been compromised.

After applying a dressing and wrapping the thumb, she gave him a

broad-spectrum antibiotic to prevent infection.

Once he and Scully were in the hallway, Mulder rested his forearm

on the wall, leaning his forehead against it. She could sense his

withdrawal.

“It’s a good thing that you weren’t alone with him,” Scully

commented. She grasped his arm and squeezed gently.

Shifting toward her, his mouth worked as if he was chewing

inwardly words he might have said.

To end the silence which had gone on too long, she clasped

Mulder’s right hand, caressing the bandage gingerly with her own

thumb. Mulder could feel the soft material of her coat grazing the

back of his hand. Releasing him, she asked, not entirely about his

physical injury, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Mulder answered brusquely. Then he sighed. “No serious

damage. It hurts though.”

“I’m sure that was the general idea.” She paused for a moment,

then continued, her eyes sparkling impishly. “Everything occurs in

threes, Mulder. That’s two freak accidents for you.”

It worked like a charm. The muscles of Mulder’s mouth contracted

and he grinned with pleasure. He held out one hand, touching her

cheek lightly. “Why, Scully, I do believe I’ve turned you to the

Dark Side.” Slipping his arm around her and resting his hand on

her lower back, he guided her to the exit.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Assistant Director Walter Skinner’s Office

FBI Headquarters

Washington, D.C.

April 2, 2001

The blinds in the windows had been opened to let in the morning

sunlight. Mulder stood in front of the large window, his back to

Pennsylvania Avenue; a flag on the building across the street

whipped back and forth in the wind. The light behind him,

shadowing his face, his hands were in his pants pockets. Sensing

Scully’s disapproval, he turned his head toward her, glancing

across the spacious office, although it was impossible to see

anything of his expression.

“He’s fixed on you as a worthy adversary. You know it, Mulder,”

Scully said from her chair in front of the polished oak desk.

Mulder’s eyes were hidden from her but she knew he was looking

at her. Her body responded by leaning toward him, as if reacting to

a magnet’s pull, her hair falling forward to frame her eyes. She

wished she could see his face. Deciding on honesty, she said, “I

don’t want you up there with him no matter how many guards

accompany him.”

Stepping out of the shadow, his hands still shoved into his pants

pockets, his hazel eyes continued to scan her face, noting the faint

flush in her cheeks and the slightly angry eyes. There was something

exposed in his own eyes as if he was looking for some sort of sign

from her.

*Is he seeking my approval?* Scully turned to Skinner, leaning

back against the chair, her back rigid. “Mulder’s just recovered

from a stab wound. He nearly died. That is Dugas’ mode of

operating. But, you’ve already decided to stick Mulder’s neck out,

haven’t you, Sir?” she accused, gripping the arms of her chair.

The assistant director folded his hands and placed them on top of

the desk. Frowning, his brows were drawn together, as if he was

weighing that decision. His eyes narrowing behind his wire-rimmed

glasses, the balding man returned, “Agent Mulder, as always, makes

up his own mind.”

Scully continued to stare with displeasure, doubting that either

one of them, at the moment, possessed good judgment.

Walking across the carpet, his shoes sinking into its plushness,

Mulder settled into the vacant chair next to Scully, smelling the

familiar scent of her hair. “Dugas claims he’ll lead us to another

body, Scully, one we didn’t know about, in exchange for reducing

his death sentence to that of life imprisonment. The D.A. has

already agreed to the deal.”

*The district attorney is a horse’s ass,* Scully thought darkly.

“I can’t refuse this even if the man is a horse’s ass,” Mulder

echoed uncannily, shoving his fingers into his hair. “I’ve lived

it. Exhuming her will destroy what little hope that her family

has held on to, but they’ll have an end to an emotional

relationship that they’ve had with her. They’ll be free to move

on. I, of all people, know what that means.”

Something in his voice silenced any argument she might have

made and decided the issue. However, she couldn’t help but add,

“What if Dugas has something planned?”

“Undoubtedly, he does,” Mulder agreed.

Rising from his leather chair, Skinner slid his hip on to the

corner of the desk. Taking off his glasses, it made him appear

younger and friendlier. “If he’s expecting something specific

from you, disappoint him,” he suggested.

Mulder didn’t answer. He was envisioning Dugas’ victims:

fair-haired, blue-eyed, about Scully’s age.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Catoctin Mountain Park

Thurmont, MD

Wednesday, April 4, 2001

Catoctin Mountain ridge was located in central Maryland, and

extended over 37 miles. It was the site of Catoctin Mountain Park, a

forested national park where Dugas had claimed to have buried a

seventh victim.

Steering the Taurus past the closed Visitor Center, Mulder noted

that there were already several vehicles in the parking lot,

including a Maryland Department of Corrections van. Braking at

the end of the row and glancing behind him, over his shoulder, he

backed the Taurus deftly beside the van.

“Really, Mulder,” Scully said. “What purpose does this serve,

except to cater to Dugas and to put you, especially, in danger?”

“We’ve been over this, Scully,” Mulder answered, cutting the

engine, his hand resting on the keys. Pausing, his voice was soft.

“We both know we’re here for *her*. She doesn’t belong in this

place.”

Unbuckling her seatbelt, she sighed. “I know. I just — ”

” — wonder if he’s simply another con trying to save his ass?”

Mulder turned to look at her. Positioning his arm along the back

of the seat, behind her, his lined windbreaker was open, leaving his

neck exposed. It made him seem vulnerable. Scully felt a wave of

tenderness toward him.

“Why bury her?” she asked. “He didn’t inter any of the others.”

“I don’t know.” And, as so often occurred, he admitted to himself

that he’d had the same questions, but hadn’t been inclined to think

about them until she put them into words, right in front of him.

Reaching up with his index finger, Mulder touched her shoulder

briefly then withdrew his arm. “Coming?” he asked, with a hint of

impatience.

Scully knew that he was not really looking for an answer. Turning

away and staring out of the passenger window, she shook off a

vague sense of uneasiness before shifting her legs to get out of the

car.

Mulder opened his car door, slinging one arm over it. Propping his

foot on the frame, he looked over the area before shutting his door

and helping Scully retrieve their heavily-loaded backpacks from the

trunk. The agents followed the road into the park. The air smelled

different: of grass and earth, fresh and clean. Their boots crunching

in the gravel, every so often they disturbed a pebble, sending it

skimming across their path.

Although they were less than two feet apart, so close that she could

hear him breathing, Mulder was submerged noticeably inside his

own head. “What is it?” Scully asked.

“When did she realize that she was going to die? Did she make

one last desperate effort, knowing that there was no one — except

him — to hear her scream? Did she feel fear? Hopelessness?…

Alone?”

The words threatened to close her throat, hitting a little too close

to home. Victor Dugas. Donnie Pfaster. Ed Furlow — only several of

a long list of sadistic killers she and Mulder had come up against,

playing their little head games, making them their prey.

Was that Dugas’ intention?

Mulder had fallen silent, his thoughts interrupted by a twinge of

pain in his right knee. Since he had slipped several weeks ago, it

had flared up intermittently. *Damn, I feel old.*

They crossed an open field, backed by a forest of oak and pine.

A base camp had been set up and several tents had already been

pitched. The rest of the group were scattered nearby, including a

handcuffed Dugas, hemmed in on both sides by his guards — Jerry

Gray, a police detective, and his partner, Dean Connelly — Leah

Pearl, a newspaper reporter who had covered the story from the

beginning, and Marc Wooff, a crime scene videographer.

Staring knowingly at the agent, Dugas lifted his hands to his mouth,

his right thumb raised upright. Lowering his lips over the tip, he bit

down on it.

For a split second, Mulder experienced phantom pain in his own

thumb. Flexing his fingers, he chided himself, considering giving the

bastard a cheery wave to deflate his purpose. He decided that it

would make him no better than Dugas and might appear to the

others as if he was making light of their quest.

Wriggling free of his loaded backpack and dropping it to the

ground, Mulder bent his right knee casually, propping his hiking

boot against a large rock. His pant leg drawn upward a little, his

ankle holster protruded from under the material. The sight assured

him. He rubbed the offending body part with both hands. The ache

in his knee abated. Dressed entirely in black, he was not an easy

man to overlook. Wearing the windbreaker over a fleece jacket,

over a soft sweater and jeans, they hugged his thighs as he massaged

his knee.

Mulder tried to ignore the sensation of being watched. He looked

toward the inmate, expecting to see him staring at him again.

Christ, the man reminded him of a picture his grandmother had

had of the Mona Lisa. From its place on the wall, no matter where

he had stood, her eyes had followed him. It had been so unsettling,

he wouldn’t go to bed unless the picture had been tucked away, out

of sight. But Dugas was not the cause of his discomfort. Turning

to look behind him, he saw that Leah Pearl was watching him

intently. Her shoulder-length, caramel-colored hair was pulled

into a loose braid. She was clothed in bluejeans, a white turtleneck

sweater and a royal blue hooded sweatshirt. Mulder noticed that in

height, build and skin tone, the fortyish reporter resembled Scully.

Even her feelings, whatever they were, were not on display.

*Except for the failings of Spooky Mulder,* he recalled.

Victor Dugas had made headlines in Leah’s Daily Times Press,

along with her scathing narrative of the former FBI profiler, on

assignment with the Violent Crimes Section of Quantico’s

Investigative Support Unit. He had been helping local police identify

the murderer, as part of their Serial Killer Task Force.

Remarkable instincts, police had stated.

An exaggeration, she’d penned unequivocally after the fifth victim

had been discovered. The agent is nowhere near as good as he

thinks he is.

*He’s more guarded than I expected.* Smiling sweetly, Leah

stepped toward him, extending her hand. “I’m Leah Pearl. I don’t

believe we’ve ever met, Agent Mulder.”

Striding toward her over the rocky ground, Mulder slid his hand

into hers, his grip firm and warm. Topping her by almost a

foot, it was his presence rather than his size that made Leah feel

that, although he was standing still and looking at her in silence,

he was crowding into her space. Was she reacting this way just

because he still held on to her hand?

“Not formally,” he confirmed.

Although she had encountered men who were taller and more

heavily built than the lean agent, she felt smaller than she had

ever been aware of before. She was sure that she didn’t like it.

Compensating, she gripped his hand more tightly than she had

intended before pulling away.

“I’ve been wanting to meet you for a long time,” Leah continued.

Mulder regarded her thoughtfully. There was something about her

smile that made him wary. It was too… practiced. Her affability

was artificial, part of the job. “Thank you,” he replied politely.

He was intent and frowning at her, belying his words. “You don’t

believe me,” she said.

*Understatement,* Mulder thought.

“It’s the truth,” she insisted.

*Don’t give me any crap about the truth.* Instead, he voiced,

“The quicker we get started, the sooner we’ll find the grave site

and Dugas will be back where he belongs. That’s what’s important.”

Inclining his head toward her, he started walking with an easy stride,

picking up his backpack by the left strap and swinging it over his

right shoulder. “See you around,” he tossed back at the reporter as if

they had just had the friendliest of encounters.

Picturing herself calling her editor and telling him that Mr.

Tight lips had been less than cooperative, so that she’d failed to

do her job, the image was less than pleasant. Too bad the agent

wouldn’t take a flying leap off of one of the scenic overlooks.

~~~~~

Act II

~~~~~

“You’ve really got a way with the ladies.” Dugas voice was

low-key.

Mulder stopped abruptly. Dugas was eyeing him, laughing softly.

One of his guards, Jerry Gray, was ordering him to shut up. The

black detective had a wide, friendly face. He was huge, bearded,

a mammoth teddy bear. At the moment, he looked anything but

cuddly; he looked irritated.

Indicating Leah with a nod, Dugas leered, “She really fills out a shirt

and jeans. She reminds you of your partner.” His voice was

suddenly vicious. “She’s fucking her way to the top, has been right

from the get-go.” It intimated that Scully had behaved in a like

manner.

Although Mulder had a face of stone, he was about to say

something. Scully could see the words forming on his lips.

*Don’t give him what he wants, Mulder,* she entreated.

Leah was unable to ignore the insult. Never in her professional

career had anyone accused her of such a thing, at least not to her

face. “I never have and never will sleep with anyone to get a job,”

she huffed.

Dugas couldn’t leave it there. “She’s out for herself,” he snorted at

Mulder. “She counts you as a day’s work, a headline. It pisses you

off, doesn’t it?”

*It’s time to lay open a bit of truth, Dugas.* “It pissed *you*

off,” Mulder said. “Oh, not the attention — it gave you power, the

power to slit another throat — but there were so many

misstatements.”

Comprehension flashed across Scully’s face. She looked over at

Leah and saw shock, her mouth in an O as if she couldn’t believe

her ears. Scully was positive that the reporter hadn’t recognized

what Mulder had done. Most serial killers were good manipulators;

Dugas was no exception. Mulder had wrestled control from the

inmate. To Leah, however, it must have sounded merely impolite.

Now, the woman looked like she had just taken a bitter pill, and

didn’t like the aftertaste.

Not letting his expression reveal that he’d been taken aback, Dugas

acknowledged that he, who was used to being in control, was being

controlled. It was turning out to be a damn good night, the inmate

thought, reveling in the game. But, the man’s smarts wouldn’t be

enough. *Are you ready to die, FBI man?* His mouth turning into a

smile, the cheerfulness was not undone even when he was grabbed

roughly by Gray and wrenched purposely toward their tent.

Detective Dean Connelly came toward the agents and introduced

himself to Scully as Mulder’s former colleague on the task force,

and Gray’s partner. Slightly overweight from age, he had a

salt-and-pepper moustache, contrasting with his completely black

hair. He’d soused it with gel, but a stubborn lock had escaped,

hovering over his brow. Scully thought wistfully about the obstinate

hair that used to hang over Mulder’s forehead.

“Dean and Jerry,” Scully said, absorbing the combination of first

names with amusement. As a matter of fact, Connelly’s hair did

remind her of that of the crooner.

“We do a mean act at Christmas parties,” Connelly winked, used to

the association.

As Mulder turned to Scully, she noticed tiny beads of sweat

glistening on his forehead. Had Dugas affected him more than he

let on? “This is my better half, Dana Scully,” he presented.

“Well, that’s as plain as the nose on your face, Mulder.”

“That’s what I like about you, Connelly, you’re a laugh-a-minute.”

The detective grinned. “I only call ’em as I see ’em. We’re all set up.

Can I give you a hand putting up your tents?” he offered.

With his help, the work was done by dusk. Pulling aside his small

tent’s flap, Mulder fired his backpack inside before crawling through

the opening. Taking a look around, there was a gentle wind,

swelling then collapsing the sides, making the tent appear as if it was

breathing. Too restless to sit still, Mulder told himself that it was his

inherent desire to be active, not the juvenile goose bumps that had

nothing to do with the temperature. Unzipping his backpack, he

rummaged for a plastic bag of sunflower seeds, stuffing one

between his teeth before shoving a few into the right front pocket of

his jeans and edging himself, backside first, out of the tent.

Searching for Scully, he spotted her leaning against a white oak at

the far side of the field, alone, looking grim. He’d seen that look

before, in Skinner’s office. Crunching then expelling the seed’s husk,

his tongue sliding over his lips, licking away the salt, he headed

toward her. She looked in his direction, finding his eyes on her face.

“Walk with me, Scully?” he requested.

“I think we’ll be doing enough of that tomorrow, Mulder,” she

replied wryly. However, when he started to stroll away, she fell

immediately into step beside him.

They walked in companionable silence, broken only by the sound

of Mulder crunching another seed, until he seized her by the elbow

and drew her closer to him. “What scares you, Scully?” he asked

soberly.

He seemed so serious that she didn’t know quite how to answer.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason. I just want to know.”

The breeze caught her hair, blowing it across her face. Hesitating,

placing the strands back behind her ear, she confessed, “… You do.”

Putting his arms around her, Mulder hugged her. Relaxing,

releasing a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, Scully

squeezed him back. They held each other tightly, his face buried in

the scented softness of her hair. Raising his head, he looked down

into her face; she saw that he was smiling.

“Scully — ” he began, his voice husky.

Easing gently out of his arms, ending their embrace and halting

his words, she maintained bodily contact by clutching his hands.

Scully looked into his eyes, which seemed almost black with

longing. Her expression plaintive, she said, “I’m sorry, Mulder. This

really isn’t the time or the place.”

There was regret in her voice. Mulder realized that he couldn’t ask

for more than that. “It’s all right, Scully,” he assured her.

“We should go back,” she proposed, a long breath of lingering

disappointment paralleling the release of his hands. “You want a

hot chocolate? I’ve got a full thermos in my tent.”

Wanting to lighten the atmosphere, a slow smile lit his face.

Wiggling his eyebrows playfully, Mulder replied, “Watch it, Scully.

You’ll ruin my reputation.”

“Any time we find ourselves anywhere other than a stale tent, dingy

motel, or middle of a chilly forest surrounded by butchers and other

assorted strangers, Mulder… ” she returned, her voice tapering off.

It was a promise. Mulder thanked his lucky stars that he hadn’t yet

gotten to the hot chocolate, or he surely would have choked on it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Thursday, April 5, 2001

Hearing soft snoring from the other tents, Mulder moved restlessly

in his sleeping bag, finding finally a position that he liked. Preferring

the quiet, it wouldn’t be long until the sounds of stirring would

indicate that everyone was up and would soon be boiling water for

coffee and making breakfast. He thought intuitively that Dugas was

also lying awake, listening to every noise from inside his tent.

After a breakfast of hot oatmeal, fortified with dried fruits and

nuts, and coffee, the group, bearing their backpacks, crossed the

field and headed into the forest. Dugas had claimed that his victim

had been buried at least a five hour’s hike into the park. The

handcuffed inmate and Gray were followed by Mulder and Scully,

Leah and Marc Wooff, and Connelly, who was bringing up the rear.

Their loose, double-lined progress on the hiking trail was slow-

paced. Mulder believed that Dugas was moving intentionally slower

than a three-legged turtle. The inmate was at home here; he was

sure of it.

Wooff, video camera in hand, recorded the party as they made

their way on foot, inserting shots of Black-Eyed Susans. He was

in his mid-twenties, with overlong, thick carrot-red hair, looking

perpetually in need of combing. With his pointed chin and goatee,

he had reminded Mulder of a living version of Shaggy, the cartoon

spook hunter from Scooby Doo. Now that they were back in

fashion, he was even wearing bell-bottomed corduroy jeans.

Itching to move more quickly, Mulder increased his speed, putting

him closer to Dugas. Using the proximity to his own advantage, the

inmate leaned his head back. “It’s a real pisser, isn’t it?” he addressed

him. “You want to turn back, yet you feel you have to come along.”

“You don’t know what I want, Dugas,” Mulder replied, stepping

over a tree limb that had fallen on to the path. He tugged at the

straps on his shoulders, adjusting the weight of his backpack.

“Bullshit,” Dugas said matter-of-factly. “You’d give your left nut to

find her, Mulder.”

“Shut the hell up,” Gray growled, catching Dugas’ collar in his

fist and dragging him onward, “or I’ll bust your ass.”

His feet pulled out from under him, Dugas did an odd dance before

righting himself. Turning back to look at Mulder, his expression

was intent.

Leah saw Dugas’ eyes go to Mulder, triggering her reporter’s

curiosity. She was certain there was more going on here than a

simple trek to find a body.

“I hate this,” Scully stated.

“What?” Mulder asked, his voice subdued.

“This whole damn thing,” she added, lifting her chin, standing her

ground. Her weapon secreted in her shoulder holster, under her

ebony, hip-length padded jacket, only accentuated that it was a

gamble based on Dugas’ truthfulness.

“I’m man-enough to take a few taunts, Scully.” Mulder tried to

swallow, but his mouth was bone-dry, refuting his words.

Disquieted, there was nothing to account for it really, other than

instinct.

And his guts were agitated, mirroring his mood.

Diving into his backpack, he found a water bottle. Twisting the

cap from it, Mulder guzzled the liquid, the sound audible. It

didn’t alleviate his thirst. Holding it out to Scully, he offered,

“Want some water?”

“Thanks.” She took the bottle, sipping slowly. It was warm, so

she handed it back to him. Screwing the top back on it, he thrust

the bottle back into his backpack.

After hiking for three hours, they stopped for lunch, crowding

around a small fire, welcoming the warmth. Dugas resumed staring

at Mulder. The meal consisted of soup, with added crumbled

crackers, and more hot coffee, with plenty of sugar for energy.

Despite pushing on until noon, and all of the fresh air, Mulder

found that he didn’t have much of an appetite. He picked at his food,

the tin bowl on his lap, until he spied Scully’s concerned features,

and made more of an effort.

Before they got too comfortable, they limited their break to the time

it took to fix and ingest the meal. Tidying up the site under a dull

gray sky, amidst gusts of wind that promised rain, the party slipped

on waterproof ponchos before leaving the clearing and rejoining the

trail. A short time later, it began to rain. Her poncho reaching only

to her knees, Scully’s lower extremities were exposed. The shower

peppered her with water, the drops soaking through her winter

weight leggings until she was wet and miserable. Forcing herself into

a steady tempo, her eyes registered where her feet went, but her

mind was preoccupied by more than the uneven path or the passing

scenery.

Mulder. Turning to look at him, she frowned. His fingers were

kneading the back of his neck. He looked so tired, as miserable as

she was.

Sensing her scrutiny, he stopped and made a face. “I know, Scully. I

look like a drowned rat.” As soon as he spoke, a raindrop fell from a

limp strand of his hair and dribbled down one side of his face.

Scully paused at his side. “I don’t know how to put this delicately,

Mulder, but I think your poncho leaks.”

He laughed at the jest, and started to walk again. Soon, the urge to

relieve his bladder overcame his desire to keep moving. Abandoning

the trail, finding a level spot behind a tree, he called loudly, midst an

unmistakable splashing sound, “If you’re going to videotape this,

Wooff, better get it from several angles.”

*Is he always like this?* Leah wondered. *He takes some getting

used to.*

“I’ll pass, Mulder,” the young man responded, rolling his eyes.

“He doesn’t want to run out of tape,” Connelly retorted.

Unable to keep a straight face, Scully relaxed. Early in their

partnership, she had found his humor annoying, then funny. Now it

was familiar. It was one of his attractions. Steering her attention to

the day ahead, she wondered what they would find. Where was

Dugas leading them? Who was his victim?

Leah’s thoughts were also on the search for the grave. Turning to

Wooff, she asked, “How will he remember where she is?”

“Well, I can help with that,” Wooff answered. “I take pictures of

crime scenes, but I’m also a student — of forensic anthropology. My

day job led to my interest, actually. Being on a trip like this is a

dream come true.” Tempering his enthusiasm, he finished, “I don’t

mean to be insensitive; it’s my field.” Warily, he said, “I don’t want

you to write that I didn’t show proper respect for the dead.”

“You were telling me about identification of the burial site,” Leah

said quietly.

“Well, there would be clues. Essentially, Dugas created a

disturbance in nature. He dug a hole, filled it with a body —

fertilizer, if you like — and covered it up again.”

“He dug up existing vegetation and new plants would have to grow.”

“Exactly. They’d be a little shorter and more sparse than the

surrounding foliage. It’s likely that the grave itself would have

settled after he refilled it with dirt.”

“I see,” Leah said.

The rain fell for nearly an hour. They crossed a narrow, shallow

stream and, moving downhill, found themselves in a large field. It

gave Gray the creeps. He had heard once that a place took on the

personality of its occupants. This area felt cold, empty, and

unhappy.

Noting that Dugas was showing interest in the field, Mulder

demanded, “Do you recognize it?”

Dugas shrugged. “If you’d shut the fuck up, maybe I could orientate

myself. I haven’t been out here in five years.”

It was difficult to tell if he was lying or had forgotten. Mulder

suspected that he knew exactly where to find the grave.

Inspecting the field again, Dugas said, “She’s here.”

“We’ll set up camp,” Mulder ordered.

“*Here?*” Leah said with disbelief, wondering just how far away

from the team *she* rested.

After setting up their tents, the party paused for a short break,

nibbling on snacks of granola and hot chocolate to maintain their

energy.

Slipping on their backpacks and moving away from the tents, the tall

grass brushing against their legs, they traversed the field. Dugas

strode ahead, halting finally near some trees. Leah could see that a

small area was noticeably different from the surrounding growth,

just as Wooff had described.

Not allowing him to watch the disinterment from an intimate

distance, as Dugas had wanted, Gray moved the serial killer away. .

Treating the site as a crime scene, Wooff both videotaped and

photographed it. There was none of the banter that had gone on

before. She had been a person with a soul, someone’s daughter,

sister, or mother and her fate had been terrible.

Easing on latex gloves, working leisurely and carefully, Scully and

Mulder set up small stakes around the settled soil, indicating exactly

the position of the grave and where any remains may be found.

Scraping away the soil carefully, screening every shovelful, the

grave was uncovered at a painstaking pace. Mulder bagged some of

the dirt, labeling the evidence bags. Wooff continued to videotape.

Removing some small rocks, Mulder spotted green plastic. The rock

had split it open, the narrow tear revealing bone. “God damn it,” he

muttered, wiping mud from his fingers on to his pant leg. He was

looking at skeletonized remains. It was, clearly, the rib cage. Since

she had been there for years, there was little odor.

It was an unbelievable rush, to watch a body being discovered!

Especially, Dugas gloated silently, when *he’d* made those remains

out of a living human being. “I told you!” he called smugly.

Mulder thought with disgust that he’d probably looked like that

when he’d been wiping clean his knife. Inspecting the grave, he

spotted a corner of a second plastic bag, this one clear. Brushing

away the grime, there were several personal items inside, including

earrings, a bracelet watch, and a delicate silver chain with a tiny

cross. Moved, he traded glances with Scully.

Looking up at the reporter, Mulder told her, his voice taut with

compassion, “You may report that we found another victim, but

nothing more until we’re ready to release the information… Let’s get

on with it.”

Kneeling, with gloved hands, Connelly unfolded a body bag,

stretching it out over the ground.

“I’ll count one, two, three,” Mulder said. “When I say three, we’ll lift

her at the same time and lower her slowly into the body bag. That

should minimize any damage we might cause by shifting the bones.”

Connelly nodded, reaching for one end of the green plastic, and

gripping it securely with both hands. “I’m ready,” he told the agent.

“One.”

Leah stiffened, inhaling a quick breath. Looking at her pale face,

Scully took her by the arm, suggesting, “Let’s take a little walk.” The

two women headed away from the site.

Disappointed, Leah knew she had lost it. She should be acting more

like a reporter. The story always came first. Still not quite ready, she

stopped, looking back. Mulder and Connelly were kneeling at the

grave’s edge. Wooff was standing nearby, operating the video

camera. Gray was guarding Dugas. She heard Mulder say, “Two.”

Mulder’s eyes were drawn inexplicably to Dugas. With the grass

between them, their gazes met. Mulder thought, *He’s waiting for

something.*

The thought had barely materialized, Mulder’s blood running cold,

when he screamed, releasing his end of the plastic.

“NO! DON’T LIFT — ”

Bewildered, Connelly continued to pick up the skeleton. Adrenaline

kicking in, Mulder threw himself away from the hole.

“Move!” Scully ordered. When the other woman stood there,

without comprehension, the agent threw her arms around her. “Get

down!” she rephrased harshly, pushing the reporter down into the

tall grass face-first, shielding her with her own body.

A deafening blast erupted from the grave, echoing over and over

again, throughout the mountain ridge. In the babel, among piercing,

too-brief cries of pain, there were other sounds, too.

Loud gunshots.

~~~~~

Act III

~~~~~

The stillness was more horrific than the screams.

A strangled sound came from beneath her. Scully slid her hand over

Leah’s mouth. “Be quiet,” she hissed. When the other woman

nodded that she understood, Scully loosened her hold. Shifting into

a crouched position, she slipped her hand beneath her jacket, pulling

free the Sig Sauer from its holster. She tried to assimilate what had

happened. There was smoke, and the air stank of burned,

fragmented flesh and blood, stinging her eyes and nose. She tried

not to breathe it in. Dugas had rigged the grave with an explosive

device, and lifting the bones had been all that had been required to

detonate it.

Motionless, Mulder did not get up. Her lips parted, a cry trapped in

her throat. To add to her panic, Dugas was free, silhouetted in the

smoke, his right hand clutching Gray’s weapon. Extending his arm,

one handcuff dangling from his wrist, he aimed it at Mulder’s head.

There was little time to get into a stance or to even sight her gun.

Scully got a good two-handed grip, and, firing, blew a hole through

the inmate’s left thigh.

Staggering backward, losing his gun, the shock deflated the

ballooning, deep-felt joy he was feeling at the probability of bringing

off Mulder’s death. Sinking, making himself less of a target, Dugas

looked frantically for an escape. It was only a matter of seconds

before she would kill him with a second shot. Using Mulder’s body

as a shield, he holding it in front of him, he dragged it with him as

he backed up to the cover of the forest.

Scully moved ahead quickly, shouting “No!” Running, she skidded

in the carnage, falling to her hands and knees. All hope of finding

anyone alive was devastated. She saw the black hole that had been

the grave. Those who had been too close to the blast had been

blown into pieces. Scully saw Wooff’s dismembered foot, the sock

still inside his sneaker. Her observation took half a dozen heartbeats.

Scrambling to her feet, she pushed herself on, still faster than was

safe. Letting her feet find their own path, something made a

snapping sound beneath her left foot. She didn’t know if it was it a

bone fragment or a twig, but she didn’t stop to look. Coming across

the body of Gray, Scully found that he hadn’t been killed by the

bomb. The shots she had heard — it had been Dugas. Somehow, he

had seized the detective’s weapon, shot him in the head, then had

used it to separate the handcuffs, liberating himself.

Not daring to fire, not wanting her bullet to hit her partner, she

reacted just as Dugas had known she would. Dropping Mulder,

lifting his arms to the sky in a gesture of victory, he whooped.

Veering into the trees, he was gone.

The agent lay face-down, his arms outstretched, eerily reminiscent

of Dugas. Mulder had been so close, so close to the bomb. *He

can’t be alive,* Scully despaired. But why would Dugas need to

finish him off? In the same breath, she pleaded, *Please, God.*

Approaching the agents, sobbing and babbling, Leah stammered,

pressing a fist to her mouth, “I-Is he dead?”

Replacing her weapon, mindful that she may need it again, Scully

answered stubbornly, “No.” She knelt beside him and lowered her

fingers toward his neck. Stopping short of it, she was afraid to touch

him, afraid that she would find no pulse. Steeling herself, she placed

her shaking fingers on his carotid artery, squeezing her eyes shut,

battling tears.

Mulder was alive.

“Help me turn him over,” Scully said to the other woman. Working

together, they managed to roll Mulder on to his back. His clothes

were burned slightly and his hair had been singed on the ends. His

face was covered in blood and his right pant leg was blood-soaked.

Leah’s features were ashen. The sight of the blood, on top of

everything else, was not easy for her.

Leaning her cheek close to his mouth, Scully could feel his warm

breath on her skin. He had a pulse; he was breathing. *Mulder two,

Dugas zero,* she tallied insanely.

Addressing him several times with no response, she repeated,

“Mulder, can you hear me?”

He moaned, opening his eyes, but he didn’t answer.

She appeared to be saying something, but he wasn’t sure. Her voice

was competing with… *hurt*. He couldn’t understand what she

wanted from him. In the haze of pain, he didn’t much care. It was

easier to close his eyes. Something caught his upper arm, giving the

sleeve a gentle tug. He directed his eyes on her.

“Try to stay awake, Mulder!” When he continued to stare at her in

confusion, Scully asked, “Do you recognize me?” Holding her

breath, it was a long, agonizing moment. He was taking so long to

answer. She wondered if she would ever draw air into her lungs

again. “Damn it, Mulder!”

“Hurt,” he said groggily. “Hurt… Scul-ly.”

“Where do you feel the pain? Where are you hurt?”

“Hurt,” he repeated. She was leaning over him, worry lines etched

in her face. He had to do better. *Head… eye… * It was too hard to

focus. “Head,” he said simply.

Had he suffered trauma to the head? Was that why he was having

trouble understanding her, communicating with her? “I’m going to

look at your head for an injury. Tell me if I hurt you, okay?”

Moving her fingers over his skull, probing lightly through his hair,

she noticed that there was some bloody fluid drainage in his right

ear. He appeared to be able to hear her questions, ruling out a less

grave eardrum rupture, with its own set of considerations. A head

injury, however, even without a skull fracture, could be further

complicated by inside bleeding.

“What… hap-pened?”

There was a brief silence. Scully inhaled deeply. “You were caught

in an explosion. Do you remember?”

Hearing her draw in her breath, he saw that there was something

wrong with the expression on her face. “Explosion?” Mulder

echoed. He’d been leaning over the grave, then… The pain muddled

his thinking, distracting him from completing the image. He tried to

get up, to see what she was talking about. *Blood.* There was so

much on him. He had to be bleeding to death.

“Mulder, you should lie still,” Scully objected, putting out her hand

and resting it on his shoulder. She gave him a fleeting smile of

reassurance. “I’m right here. You’re safe. It’s going to be okay.”

His hasty change in position made him nauseated. Shaky and

breaking out into a sweat, he made a sound of distress. Bending his

knee, his face contorted with pain, the agent rolled clumsily on to

his left side. Hanging his head down, his stomach muscles heaving,

he made a violent retching sound.

Concern warring with sympathy, Scully put her hand on his back,

rubbing soothingly. Tensing, he made her think that he was going to

be ill again, but he turned and slackened into her, leaning heavily

against her.

Images inundating him, his Adam’s apple lifted then went down.

“Scully,” he cried softly. “There was no time… to draw my weapon.

Dead… they’re dead.” Horror-struck, he scrubbed at the blood on

his face and hands. “It’s not mine… not mine.” He didn’t want to

think who it had belonged to.

Her hands slid under his arms, pulling him tightly against her,

burying his face in her neck.

“I’m sorry,” Mulder murmured, a whisper of his breath alighting on

her throat.

“What for?”

“For bringing us up this damn mountain.”

Exasperated, not indulging him, she said, “You take far more

responsibility than you need to take. You blamed yourself for not

getting to my apartment when I was kidnaped, and you blamed

yourself for my cancer. Now, you’re blaming yourself for

something Dugas made happen. None of it was your fault.”

Put out, he said, “I studied psychology, Scully. I know… what

you’re trying to do.”

“And you need to try to forgive yourself,” she said gently. “Now, lie

down. I want to tend to your other injuries.”

Dugas needed a cigarette. After turning his pockets inside out, he

had surveyed the trail for discarded butts, obviously a waste of time,

but he had done it anyway. It hadn’t made the craving for nicotine

any less difficult knowing that his pack was back at the camp,

waiting for him.

Mulder would be there, with his partner and that bitch, the reporter.

The self-important federal agent had thought he had known

everything. Instead, it had been he, Victor, who’d been one step

ahead of them all. Idiots. Those who had been close to the bomb

were dead. Gray had been an easy kill. He’d been agitated; it had

been simple to take his gun away from him, and, putting a bullet

through his head, burst his left eyeball.

Wrapping a piece of his shirt around the wound on his leg, he pulled

tightly, making a knot. Now, the three of them were surrounded by

death… his handiwork. They wouldn’t know if he had run or would

return for them. Truthfully, he was torn between the two, but he

had a job to finish. He would begin with the reporter, slitting her

throat and watching her lies spill out of her in a stream of blood. He

would drag Mulder’s woman into the field, penetrate her with a real

man’s prick, then make her dig her own grave. He’d make Mr.

FBI watch.

Then he’d kill him.

Assigning Leah some tasks, Scully had asked her to fetch her first

aid kit then scoop dirt over the vomit. The other woman had been

glad to have something to do. Dragging Mulder a few feet away

from the mess, Scully complained facetiously, “Mulder, you weigh a

ton.”

Laying her palm on his forehead, he felt cool and clammy to her

touch. She ran her hands quickly and gently over his arms, legs, rib

cage, and spine. His right hand had been burned; luckily, it was

superficial and merely the top layer of the skin, the epidermis, had

been damaged. It was red and dry and slightly swollen. Since it

wasn’t possible to immerse his hand in cool water, Scully flooded

the burned area with water from a water bottle. It wasn’t as cold as

she would have liked, but it would help reduce the skin’s

temperature, preventing further damage, reduce the chance of

blistering, and ease his pain. She placed a pad of gauze over it,

securing it with a bandage.

Cutting the pant leg of his jeans open, she parted it cautiously from

his leg, revealing his gun still in its ankle holster. The amount of

swelling and bruising was extensive, and the wound had bled

profusely, but the lower leg bones didn’t appear broken. Applying a

sterile pad, Scully bandaged it. Blood seeped through quickly so she

placed another pad on top of the area and bandaged over it.

Mulder’s lower lip was indented where he’d bitten down as she’d

worked. How much pain was he in? “How’re you doing, partner?”

Scully asked.

“My eye…”

“Right or left?”

“Right.”

“What’s wrong? Is your vision impaired?”

“There’s something in it.”

“You may have some debris in there. Let me take a look. If it’s loose

and not on the cornea, I can remove it,” she told him. She couldn’t

see any floating particles. Careful not to press on his eye, she

examined his upper eyelid, grasping his eyelashes between her

thumb and index finger and drawing the lid away. “Nothing there.”

Scully repeated the procedure for his lower eyelid, drawing the lid

down and away from his eyeball. “Roll your eyes back,” she

instructed. Dirt was visible. She wiped it away with a clean tissue.

“Better?”

“Mmm.” He hesitated. “Dugas? You got him, Scully?”

Her eyes went to the forest. “He’s injured, but he’s still out there

somewhere.”

“We can’t stay here,” Mulder insisted. “We need to move.”

Scully shook her head negatively. “You have a head injury. And

what about your leg?”

“Dugas will be back. He thinks he can handle us. He can’t leave any

witnesses. And by the time help comes, they’ll never know where

he’s gone. Just make me a couple of walking sticks, Scully,”

he attempted to grin, “I’ll jog out.”

“It will soon be dark,” Leah interjected.

“The odds are with Dugas in the dark,” he added.

“I agree with you, Mulder. We can’t stay in this field, but we’ll move

to a tent. You and Leah can get some sleep. I’ll keep watch. We’ll

walk out in the morning.”

“He *can’t* walk out,” Leah argued.

Scully shot her a dirty look. Leah’s lips thinned, but she realized her

slip. Mulder couldn’t accept defeat and simply lie there, waiting for

the inmate to return. He had to try.

They all had to make the effort or become Dugas’ latest victims.

With Scully’s help, Mulder half-pushed, half-pulled himself to a

standing position, his arm slipped around her neck. He put weight

on his right leg gingerly. Pain shot up his lower leg to his knee. It

took his breath away and made him break out into a sweat. “This leg

is really getting it,” he bit out.

Leaning heavily on her, Mulder gritted his teeth, and said

unenthusiastically, “Let’s go before I pass out.” Moving beside him,

Leah took his other arm and pulled it over her shoulders. “Hey,” he

protested lightly, “Heroes always carry the damsel in distress, not

the other way around.”

You’re pretty enough to be a damsel,” Leah said, shocking him.

“Shall we pretend?”

Maneuvering Mulder slowly toward the tents, over the uneven

ground, he did not complain, but he panted with the exertion. Scully

tried to keep his attention away from the bloodshed by addressing

him, asking him about his condition. His face was haunted, and she

knew that she hadn’t been entirely successful.

They took frequent stops to rest, for Mulder’s sake. It was

painstaking. Had Dugas watched their exhausting effort?

Scully managed to get Mulder into a tent and on to a sleeping mat.

Once Leah was also inside, with their supplies, there wasn’t much

room to move around. Unrolling a sleeping bag, Scully put it over

him. He looked flushed, his jaw dusted with five o’clock shadow.

Even a slight loss of water could adversely affect his condition. “Are

you thirsty, Mulder? Do you want some water?”

“No,” he answered listlessly, his eyes half-closed. He’d held the pain

back until he made it to the tent, and, now, he just wanted to sleep.

“I’m tired… ”

“I know you are, but If you don’t drink it, I only have to carry it

tomorrow.” Scully held a bottle to his mouth. “Sip it slowly,” she

suggested. When she saw that he had managed to get down a

mouthful, she handed him a couple of acetaminophen. “Take these.

They’ll only help a little, but they’re better than nothing at all.”

Drained, he rested quietly. Elevating his feet with a backpack, Scully

put a second bag over top of him. It shouldn’t take him long to fall

asleep.

“Get under there with him,” Leah said. “I’ll take first watch and

wake you up in a few hours.” When Scully hesitated, she added,

“Go on. He needs you.”

Nodding gratefully, Scully slipped under the sleeping bag, putting

her gun within easy reach. Settling herself next to him, he felt cold.

He reached for her, hauling her hard against him. Feeling heat

creeping into his legs, heat given by Scully, Mulder mumbled,

“Better.” He fell asleep almost immediately, but he was restless and

unsettled.

In his arms, Scully didn’t allow herself the luxury of truly relaxing

and falling into a deep sleep. She doubted Dugas would try to return

at night, but, years of experience had taught her not to take any

chances. Dozing, she was alert enough to hear the bastard. If he

came anywhere near Mulder or Leah, she would put a bullet right

between his eyes.

Scully had stirred twice through the night, awakening Mulder, and

checking that his condition hadn’t worsened by asking him his name

and street address. The second time, tongue in cheek, he had given

her his name and *her* address, mumbling “I live with you, Scully,”

then had told her to leave him alone.

She had offered to relieve the reporter, who was sitting on her own

mat, her knees drawn up to her chest, her hands wrapped around

them. The woman had turned her down with a promise to wake her

up several hours before morning.

Saturday, April 7, 2001

Leah was tired. Thoughts of what lay beyond the tent in the

meadow, and the unknown location of the escaped inmate had

helped to keep her awake. They’d have to scrape her off the ceiling

if she saw one more shadow or heard one more snapping branch.

Grizzly bear or the escaped inmate? In her mind, there wasn’t a hell

of a lot of difference. Either way, you ended up dead. She had even

imagined the strike of a match, and the smell of cigarette smoke

accompanied by a soft cough for Chrissake.

Watching the agents sleep, Leah knew that Scully would be

irate once she discovered that she had slept all night. It was just

after dawn — there was enough light to make out Mulder’s pale

features. Extending her hand, she felt his forehead. He was warm,

too warm. She thought back to the stream that they had passed what

seemed like ages ago. The water would be cool there, much cooler

than what they had left in the water bottles. It wouldn’t take long to

get the water and return.

Mulder would feel much better.

She made her way quietly out of the tent. Was he standing outside,

watching, waiting? No sense of danger raised the goose bumps on

her skin. Nothing happened. No arm shot out of the darkness to

stop her. Inspecting the path for several yards in both directions, she

couldn’t see Dugas. Steadying herself, shaping her palm into a fist,

she thought, *I can deal with this.* If he wanted her to be scared,

she would remain calm. Besides, what was there to be frightened

of? She knew now that there was no one there. The killer wasn’t

that careless — the length of time he’d eluded law enforcement

personnel before his capture was proof of that. He would have

made a run for it.

Not thinking it was too easy, she made her way to the stream. She

walked swiftly, not wanting to take too much time.

Mulder roused to the feel of a definitely female body against his.

Jolting him awake, he remembered where he was. Realizing with a

start that he and Scully were alone in the tent, he wondered what

had happened to Leah. Had she left on her own, or had Dugas

taken her? If he’d taken her, why hadn’t he killed him and Scully

why they slept?

*Because he’s a sadistic bastard. He’d want you to see death

staring you in the face.*

He had a bad feeling. Shaking Scully awake, he told her that Leah

was gone. Searching the tent for a clue to her disappearance, they

discovered that she had taken a backpack and the empty water

bottles.

She had gone to the stream.

“You stay here,” Scully ordered, retrieving her Sig Sauer. “I’ll go.”

“Not on your life,” Mulder answered stubbornly.

Leah was so intent on filling the bottle with water that she didn’t

know the serial killer was there until his knee struck her in the back,

knocking her into the stream, arms first. Ignoring the pain in his leg,

Dugas’ arm whipped around her neck, hauling her to her knees, his

breath hot on the back of her neck.

Her trachea constricted, Leah struggled and twisted, but her efforts

were useless against the inmate’s hold. Choking, she fought harder,

but, with his other hand, he grabbed her by the hair and slammed

her head into the ground. It stunned her enough to cease her

thrashing.

Panting, his chest heaving, Dugas reached beneath his jacket, pulling

out a knife with a double-edged blade. Pressing the tip to her throat,

he whispered in her ear, “You feel that?”

“Y-yes,” she whimpered in terror.

“I know what you’re thinking. You want to scream for help.”

“N-no, I don’t.” Even if she wanted to, she couldn’t. The fear had

quashed it out of her, making it hard to breathe. *Keep your wits!*

She had to, if she was going to survive.

“You scream and you’re dead. You’re dead, she’s dead, *he’s*

dead. This knife gives me the right to slash your throat open. I could

cut off your head.” Absorbing her fear, Dugas was intoxicated.

“What will the papers say, Miss Reporter?”

“My death won’t make the papers.”

“Come on, you’re an opinionated bitch, I’m a fugitive.” Dugas

pressed the blade further into her skin and moved it downward,

drawing blood. That should make her less defiant.

She made a small noise.

“Freeze! Federal Agent!”

Swinging his head around, Dugas saw Mulder, positioned feet apart,

his arms fixed and directed at the at the inmate’s head, holding his

weapon. The effort to grip the gun in his injured hand, and to stand

unaided was costing him dearly. His face was etched in agony. His

partner was beside him, in an identical pose.

Unfazed, Dugas threatened, “What I did to all of the women?

That’s what I’m going to do to her — and to Agent Scully, too. And

you, Mr. F.B.I? You’re going to die today.”

Discharging the firearm, Mulder shot to kill.

The three survivors were quiet. All of a sudden, the persistent gray

sky that had hung over their heads for days was replaced by the sun.

It peeped out from behind some clouds. Even obscured, its light was

brighter than Mulder had ever seen before, warming him. It was a

sign, a sign that they had survived the most horrible of

circumstances. He turned to gather the two women in his arms,

hugging them with relief. “It’s over,” he said. “Finally over.”

Underlining his words, there was a sound of a helicopter in the

distance.

~~~~~~~

Epilogue

~~~~~~~

Mulder’s apartment

Alexandria, VA

Saturday, April 7, 2001

Lying on his left side, pressed into the back of the black leather

couch, Mulder moved to his back, shifting his feet. Making an

inarticulate sound of grief and pain, he woke suddenly, his harsh

breathing the only sound in the darkness. He was surprised to find

that the rain on his face was tears. Obliterating the tracks with his

hand, he swung his feet to the floor.

It had been a damn dream. He took a deep breath, expelling it

between his teeth.

Locking his fingers behind his neck, he leaned forward until his

elbows rested on the coffee table. His head hanging, Mulder cursed

silently. If he hadn’t dealt with it, he had buried it. Again, he

couldn’t get to his gun.

And good men who had been his friends still died.

The telephone rang, distracting him from his low spirits. He

considered letting it continue until the machine picked it up, but it

might be Scully, calling to see if he was okay. Lifting the receiver

awkwardly with his bandaged hand, lacking the grace he ordinarily

possessed, at least he had made it out of the park alive. He was

thankful that Scully was alive. Leah was alive.

Even if the others weren’t.

“Mulder,” he answered.

“Leah Pearl. I see the hospital didn’t keep you long. How are you

feeling?” the reporter questioned.

“No comment,” he replied, and she laughed.

“I’ve had places that hurt worse,” Mulder added. “Is it safe to come

clean?”

“Off the record,” she said.

“I told Scully that the hospital needed the bed. I actually convinced

the staff that it would be better for both me and my roommate — the

chatterbox from hell — if I mended at home.”

Pausing, she told him, “I’ve been writing my story.”

*Oh.* “Hazy about something?”

She hesitated. “Well, no… ”

Mulder waited.

“It’s been on my mind. I see it over and over. I can’t think about

much else.”

He had his own memories. Closing his eyes, his heart heavy, Mulder

thought that, in a minute, he might even be able to breathe.

When she spoke, he opened them again.

“I haven’t been able to go to sleep… I never heard Dugas coming. I

was only aware of him when I felt his breath. You gave me a second

chance.”

“I did my job.”

“Maybe,” she said, “but knowing that doesn’t prevent me from

being grateful. He would have killed me if you hadn’t been there. I

learned a disconcerting lesson out there. It’s my job to get at the

truth. But, was it actually the truth, or was it my truth? I feel like I

should apologize to you, Mulder.”

“You did your job the way you thought you were supposed to,” he

responded. It was his way of apologizing to her, too.

“I understand now and I wanted you to know. I hope you have a

speedy recovery,” she finished. Maybe her words could save *him*.

“Thanks. I’ll see you around,” Mulder said. Replacing the receiver,

he stretched his right leg out on top of the coffee table. Reaching for

the television remote, his movement was arrested by two gentle

knuckle raps on the door.

“Mulder, it’s me.” Scully told him, her voice muffled by the door.

“Come in, Scully!” he called, hearing the sound of her key in the

lock.

“I can’t see a damn thing. Were you sleeping?” She flicked a light

switch, illuminating the room with a warm, golden glow and

obscuring the vista of city lights beyond the living room window.

She blinked her eyes back into focus.

“Nah,” Mulder denied, “Just sittin’ and thinkin’.” He didn’t want to

tell her about the nightmare. Not yet.

Hanging her coat on the coat rack to the left of the door, and

carrying two paper bags into the living room, she put them down

next to his foot. Looking for outward signs that he’d had a bad

night, she couldn’t see anything noticeable. Reaching into one bag,

she plucked out a videocassette. “Here you go, Mulder,” she said,

dropping the gift into his lap. “Another hilarious, inept movie from

the king of bad cinema.”

“Bride of the Monster! This isn’t bad… ” Mulder asserted.

“… It just isn’t good either?” Scully countered.

“You always speak your mind, Scully,” the grin in his voice letting

her know that he didn’t mind. It was one of the reasons why he

appreciated having her for his partner. “It was probably Ed Wood’s

best-known film after Plan Nine from Outer Space, and seventy-two

year old Bela Lugosi’s last speaking role,” he said with reverence.

“Do you know that Wood stole the rubber octopus from the

Republic Pictures back lot? He forgot the motor, so Lugosi had to

fling the tentacles around himself as he was fighting the monster.”

“A special effects milestone.” The amusement in her voice lightened

the sarcasm.

Not dissuaded, patting the space beside him, Mulder invited, his

eyes eager, “Ma’am?”

She gazed at him, absorbing him. In the lamplight, he was

incomparably handsome. She’d been fearful that he’d been taken

away from her. But he was safe, alive, occurring to her, every time

she looked at him, as a miracle.

“Sure, Mulder, why not?”

Tickled that she didn’t try to say goodbye and escape, Mulder gave

her a lopsided grin. Quoting Lugosi’s Dr. Vornoff, he mimicked, “I

vill create my own race of atomic supermen that vill conquer the

vorld!” Giving her the option to bow out all the same, he said, “I

know that Ed Wood isn’t a love of yours… ”

“He’s not on my list at all,” she answered. *But you are.* She

seated herself to his left. Mulder’s hand, warm and secure, found

hers. He laughed and squeezed her fingers, lacing them together

with his.

She gazed down at their hands, locked together. He held hers more

tightly.

“Scully? What’s in the other bag?”

Snuggling closer to him, she smiled widely. “A full thermos of hot

chocolate.”

~~~end~~~

Deb

Additional thanks: To David, because you are the biggest inspiration

of all.

.

TITLE: Eyes of Texas

Email address: shannara@xemplary.com

and dev1025@uswest.net

ARCHIVE: Sure, just let us know where.

DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully and the X-

Files belong to 1013, Chris Carter and FOX TV. No

copyright infringement intended. Yadda,

yadda, yadda. All other characters are ours.

SPOILER WARNING: “Triangle,” “all things”

RATING: R

CONTENT: Case File, MSR

CLASSIFICATION: X, MSR

COMMENTS: Written for the I Made This Productions

Virtual 8th season. Author’s notes at end. Special thanks

to our beta readers, Vickie and Michelle, and to Suzanne

for her expert advice in her field. And to Jan, who gave

me the idea to use spooky Fort Travis.

SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully go to Galveston, Texas

during Mardi Gras to investigate sightings of a Civil War

ghost ship. They take the time to enjoy the festivities and

Mulder takes the opportunity to try to get closer to Scully.

Eyes of Texas

By Laurie D. Haynes and Katvictory

It is said a ghost is a memory of a promise left

unfulfilled. Of words left unspoken or a love that refuses

to die.

March 1862

Galveston docks

Jamie Simmons set down his sea bag on the dock in front of

the gunboat Denbigh, a side-wheeler. Straightening his

brand new Confederate Navy uniform and finger-combing his

sun-bleached hair he searched the crowd for his Anne. There

she was, climbing out of a carriage. With a wave of his

hand, the young sailor called out to her, finally catching

her eye. His heart skipped a beat when her dark eyes

flashed in notice. She beamed a greeting, then gathering her

skirts in hand, she picked her way through the mud over to

him. With her shining black hair and dancing brown eyes,

surely Anne Landry was the prettiest girl in Texas, if not

the whole South.

He’d known her all his life, having grown up on Bolivar

Peninsula, the son of a fisherman. Being neighbors, they’d

played together as children. Caswell Landry was the

lighthouse keeper, a fine man and highly respected by all

who made their living from the sea. Jamie had been

courting Anne the last year and had even asked for her

hand, but she had continually turned him down, though she

encouraged no other suitors.

“You look very handsome in your uniform, Jamie, but I wish

I could talk you out of this foolishness.” The young woman

sighed as she smoothed down the soft broadcloth of his

collar. Jamie smiled. She was always doing little caring

acts like that. By habit, her hand went to brush at his

unruly bangs and he was surprised to note her eyes

glistened with frightened tears.

“Oh, Anne, I won’t be away that long.” he soothed,

stroking her gingham-covered arm. “Just a few more months,

I hear, and we’ll have those Yankees licked and I’ll be

back home.”

“I hope so.” The choked reply sounded strange coming from

the normally strong-willed, self-assured Anne.

Jamie took her hand gently. “Anne, I love you. Please say

you’ll marry me the next time I’m in port.”

She squeezed his larger hand, but shook her head. “I’m not

ready for that, yet. And I’ve told you before, I’m not sure

I want to be the wife of a soldier.”

Her reply stung and his eyes narrowed in indignation, “I’m

a Navy man, not a soldier.”

“You know what I mean. When the time comes for me to

marry, I want a husband who will be around for his family.

You come back safely — for good — and we’ll talk further

about it,” Anne said, refusing to meet Jamie’s eyes.

He took her chin and tilted her head up to meet his gaze.

“Can you honestly tell me you don’t love me?” Jamie asked.

“I’m not sure.”

The Denbigh’s first mate shouted to Jamie to come aboard.

“Will you at least give me a kiss to hold me until I see

you again?” he whispered, suddenly frightened that the time

for departure was now at hand.

She put her hand on his cheek, but shook her head. “It

wouldn’t be seemly — out in public and all.”

Jamie took her hand in his and kissed it. He smiled

brightly at her, but she could see the disappointment in

his eyes.

He sighed, letting her go, then picked up his bag and

walked the boarding plank to the steamer without another

word. He turned around to see Anne waving at him and glumly

returned the gesture. Anne turned and walked away from the

docks in search of a carriage to take her back to the

ferry, then home.

Anne stood out on the deck of the ferry, noticing the wind

was picking up and the bay water growing choppy. Looked

like a storm brewing. Her father would be up all night

making sure the beacon light stayed lit to warn ships in

the area of the shallow shoals of Bird Key.

She turned out to be right. It was a terrible gale that

night with gusts blowing fiercely, rattling the shingles on

their house. Anne took dinner up to her father, hard at

work in the lighthouse, then stayed to help him keep the

lanterns filled with oil. By dawn, the wind had died down,

and exhausted, Anne lay down on a cot. She woke to feel her

father shaking her. Bright sunlight was streaming in the

windows and her father had his spyglass in hand.

“Anne, wake up, it looks like some ship wrecked during the

night. Tell your mother to gather some blankets and make

bandages, then take one of the horses and gather some men

to come help. We’ll need boats to rescue any survivors.”

The young woman did as she was told. As she saddled her

favorite horse, she thought of Jamie and hoped the Denbigh

had been safely at sea when the storm hit.

Two hours later, Anne rode the horse down to the beach

near Fort Travis, across the dirt highway from the

lighthouse.

She saw fishermen and fort soldiers in boats hauling

aboard unmoving sailors — dressed in gray. Anne’s heart

clenched tightly in her chest as she made her way to the

water’s edge. Dismounting, she walked along the row of

bodies lying on the beach until she came to one — a blond,

burly young man.

Falling to her knees, she confirmed it was indeed Jamie —

his eyes now open and unseeing and his beautiful face slack

in death. Anne threw herself on his chest and sobbed.

“Nooooo, you were supposed to come home. You promised

you’d come back to me. I love you, Jamie, you can’t die.”

Anne’s mother, seeing her heartbroken daughter, walked

over to her and pulled her up, intending to draw her into

her arms, but Anne pulled away and ran far down the beach,

out of sight. She tore off her dress and plunged into the

now gentle surf. She swum as hard as she could, as far as

she could until at last, exhausted, she could no longer

swim or stay afloat — even if she had wanted to. She sunk

beneath the waves, the victim of a broken heart.

ACT I

3:25 a.m. January 2001

Just offshore Fort Travis,

Bolivar Peninsula,

east of Galveston Island

The Coast Guard cutter was gaining on the cabin cruiser

which had ignored all commands to stop, and continued to

speed out to sea. The water was calm, but fog was rising

off the ocean, making it increasingly difficult to see the

boat they were sure was operated by drug smugglers. The

ghostly tendrils left damp dew-like prints upon the glass,

further obscuring the cutter captain’s vision. But the

slower outlaw runner was losing this race, thanks to the

military vessel’s radar advantage.

Suddenly, a paddle-wheeler appeared out of the dense fog

and the young helmsman quickly spun the wheel to avoid a

collision. The cabin cruiser escaped into the mist as the

commander ordered the helmsman to put the cutter in

neutral. The cruiser was quickly vanishing off the radar

screens, while the cutter’s crew puzzled over what the

devil The Colonel was doing operating long after dark. They

all knew the paddle-wheeler’s home base at Moody Gardens

had long since closed down for the day to the tourists. The

search continued until morning as the men shined their big

spotlight out over the calm, dark, fog-enshrouded waters,

but it was in vain. The ancient craft had disappeared once

more into history.

February 2001

Hoover Building, Washington, D.C.

Scully walked in the office and smiled at the sight of her

partner loading the slide projector. She set down the

Starbucks sack on the desk and pulled out two coffees and a

couple of pastries.

“Oh, Scully, you take such good care of me,” joked Mulder

as he reached for a cup of coffee and an apple Danish.

She wiped some frosting off her mouth from her own Danish,

then swallowed and asked, “So what have we got?”

“New case,” Mulder mumbled around a mouthful of pastry.

“Hit the lights.”

A color photo of an old military bunker appeared on the

portable screen.

“This is Fort Travis Seashore Park,” Mulder explained.

“Hardly looks like a beach park to me,” Scully commented.

Another photo, apparently the view of the ocean as seen

from the bunker, came up on the screen.

“It’s an old World War II artillery battery,” Mulder told

her. “Fort Travis’ history stretches back to the days when

Texas was a nation of its own. It’s said to be haunted by

all the soldiers and other people who have died there,

either of sickness, starvation or drowning in the

hurricanes that frequently plague the Gulf Coast. In 1900,

the worst hurricane, in terms of loss of U.S. lives, hit

Galveston and completely destroyed it, killing thousands.”

“Not another ghost hunt, Mulder! Is that all you have to

go on?”

“It gets better.” Mulder put up a slide of some sort of

debris sticking out of the ocean. “This is the wreck of the

Confederate gunboat Denbigh. It went down in a storm in

1862 just offshore Fort Travis. All hands were lost.

Legends persist that from time to time, the Denbigh makes

an appearance — as a ghost ship, still patrolling the

Texas coastal waters. Last month, a Coast Guard cutter

chasing suspected drug smugglers saw the ghost ship —

almost ran into it. They thought it was the tourist paddle-

wheeler The Colonel, which operates out of Galveston. But

it wasn’t. The ship disappeared without a trace — and

paddle-wheelers are hardly as fast as a Coast Guard vessel.

And The Colonel never left port after it returned from its

evening dinner cruise.”

Scully sighed. “Well, I know better than to let you go

alone on something like this. Last time you went hunting

ghost ships, we had to fish you out of the ocean. I’ll go

on one condition — no ditching!”

“Aww, Scully, I promise. I’ll be good.”

“In that case, when do we leave?”

“Well, our appointments with local law enforcement aren’t

until Monday, but I thought we’d fly down this afternoon.

See, Mardi Gras is going on down there, and I cleared a

little free time for us…”

Scully paused to study his face, finally offering a smile.

“I think my budget can afford a little R&R.”

“Good, cause I used your Visa number to make the

reservations at the motel,” Mulder replied, pretending to

disassemble the projector.

Scully knew he was trying to keep from grinning and she

fought to contain her own smile, pretending instead to give

him a stern glare. Though she wasn’t eager to go chasing

ghosts, she knew Mulder could use a little relaxation time

after some tough cases recently. As could she. She was

looking forward to it and knew Galveston to be a charming

city.

“OK, you win,” he said. “It’ll go on my card. This place

is a little upscale to get away with putting it on the

Bureau’s tab.”

*************************************

ACT II

Pulling into the parking lot at Pier 21, Mulder parked the

rental car they had driven from Houston’s Hobby Airport.

Scully eyed their hotel, a stately-looking inn overlooking

the Galveston harbor. Handsome sailboats and cabin cruisers

filled the slips in the marina out front. “You were

serious! Mulder! What’s gotten into you? This is a NICE

place. It’s old, isn’t it? A historical building?”

“Actually, yes, although the Harbor House didn’t begin its

life as a hotel. In Galveston’s heyday as a seaport, this

was a steamship terminal. Like a lot of old buildings here

in the historical district, it’s been converted. The

conversion on the Harbor House was only completed

about two years ago.”

They got out of the car and as Mulder took their bags from

the trunk, Scully looked around the area. The first thing

she spied were the masts of a tall sailing ship.

She grabbed Mulder’s arm and pointed out the ship to him.

“Oh, look at the Elissa! My dad would have loved it.”

“I see you know your tall ships. It docks over at the Texas

Seaport Museum. We can go over there later and then grab

some dinner at Fisherman’s Wharf.”

Scully took her own bag from Mulder and the two walked

into the lobby and checked in.

“Just one thing, Scully… I hope you don’t mind, but I

got us a suite instead of separate rooms. The …uh…

price was better. I’ll take the sofa bed and you can have

the bedroom. OK?”

The hopeful look on his face was so appealing, Scully

couldn’t bring herself to say no.

The bellman led them to their room, opening the door to

reveal pickled wood floors and Berber carpets. He set their

bags down, then walked over to the table in the center of

the living area. A bottle of champagne was chilling in a

bucket, beside which sat a bowl of chocolate-covered

strawberries.

“Shall I open the champagne for you?” asked the bellman.

Avoiding Scully’s incredulous gaze, Mulder answered, “No,

that’s all right, I’ll do it.” He handed the man 50 cents

and urged him out of the room.

“Thanks for nothing, big spender,” mumbled the bellhop as

Mulder all but pushed him out the door.

“Well, what do you think?” he asked, grinning at Scully,

whose jaw was still hanging open.

The dazzling smile with which she favored him definitely

made the dent in his credit card worthwhile.

“I think you’d better open the champagne and pour us

some,” she replied, and crossed over and kissed him on the

cheek. “Thanks, Mulder, this is wonderful!”

He popped open the champagne and poured as she held the

two flutes. Taking their glasses, they walked over to the

big picture window and looked out at the harbor.

“Look at all the oil rigs! I didn’t know they drilled for

oil right in the harbor,” said Mulder.

“Actually, those are offshore rigs that are in between

jobs or are in for repairs or refurbishing. That one

over there is really an offshore oil museum.”

“How do you know so much about Galveston, Scully?”

“I did my residency at the University of Texas Medical

Branch — right here in Galveston. After I broke it off

with Daniel, I wanted to do my residency as far from

Baltimore as I could.”

“Eight years together, almost, and I never knew you did

your residency here. I can’t believe I don’t remember that

from your personnel file,” Mulder said in wonder.

A horse-drawn carriage pulled into the parking lot below

their window and a young couple stepped out.

Scully lightly touched Mulder’s arm. “I want to do that!

Let’s go. Bring the champagne!”

“Whoa, Scully, don’t you think we should change clothes,

first?”

“Oh, just take off your jacket and tie and come on.”

Mulder gave her a lopsided smile and pulled off his suit

coat and tie, tossing them onto a chair, then rolled up his

sleeves. Scully had already divested herself of her own

jacket and was waiting at the door with the ice bucket,

champagne bottle and glasses.

“I’ve got the champagne, grab the bowl of strawberries.”

Mulder chuckled at Scully’s lighthearted enthusiasm. It

was very refreshing. The profiling case last month in

Newark had been a rough one and they both were very

much in need of a vacation.

They managed to catch the carriage before it left — Mulder

had run after it and made the driver stop — and they

climbed in, laughing.

“Is it OK for us to have our champagne in here?” Mulder

asked the driver.

“Sure. It’s Mardi Gras, it’s allowed.” The driver clucked

to the Clydesdale and it started walking and soon sped up

into a trot.

They rode through the streets of the historical Strand

district, admiring the old buildings and the sights of old

Galveston. Workers were setting up a stage on Old

Galveston Square in preparation for tomorrow’s round of

bands while children played with the giant chess game set

up on the Square in front of the Strand Brewery.

Mulder plucked a chocolate-covered strawberry from the

bowl and held it to Scully’s lips. She smiled then

delicately bit off a piece. She took a sip of champagne and

moaned in contentment, reaching for the rest of the

strawberry.

“Uh, uh, uh, you wouldn’t want to get your fingers all

messy with chocolate, would you?” Mulder teased. Scully

smiled and opened her mouth wide and her partner plopped

the remaining berry into her mouth. He started to withdraw

his hand, but she grabbed it and deftly sucked the smears

of chocolate off each of his fingers.

The mild springlike day suddenly seemed much warmer.

Mulder bent over, leaning toward Scully, his intent

obvious, but she halted his advance by grabbing another

strawberry and thrusting it at his mouth. When he opened

his mouth to laugh, she stuck the whole thing inside. He

could only respond with a boyish grin of resignation.

Mulder sighed, understanding perfectly what she was doing.

He squirmed a bit and tried to adjust his trousers without

being obvious they had grown tight very quickly.

The moment had passed. They sipped at the sparkling wine

slowly, neither partner speaking as they took in the

passing sights, until Scully broke the ice, deciding she’d

would set things on a slower track.

“So was our presence requested here to investigate the

ghost ship sighting?”

“Well, no, not officially,” he replied.

“Were we asked on this case at all?

“Oh, sure, a member of the Galveston Historical Society

wrote me about it. He’s also a reserve Coast Guardsman and

was there when the patrol boat spotted the ghost ship.”

Scully brought the long-stemmed glass to her lips as she

gave a slight nod to her partner’s answer, her eyes never

leaving his face. The steady clip-clop of the horse’s

hooves seemed terribly loud in the silence and Mulder

shifted his attention to the passing scenery, not quite

liking where the conversation was heading. He did have

plans for this weekend. Plans that involved some in-depth,

serious communication with his partner, but the time wasn’t

right. And he wasn’t quite ready. Maybe after a few more

bottles of champagne, he mused to himself, finishing off

the contents of his glass in one quick gulp.

To his surprise, Scully leaned forward and tapped their

driver, “Let us off here, okay?” she asked handing the man

a twenty and bounding from the carriage, leaving the half-

empty champagne bottle and ice bucket behind. With a shrug

and a puzzled grin, Mulder followed.

They entered a small Mexican restaurant, Mamacita’s, a few

blocks off the Strand. The place was full, the small room

was awash with the lively noise of conversation. Most of

the customers appeared to be locals, a lot of them Latinos,

but there were also a couple of tables of what were either

hospital workers or medical students, by the looks of the

scrubs they wore. Mulder and Scully took the only seats

available — near the back, to the side of the brown-

lacquered swinging kitchen doors. Not a prime table, but

the rich aromas of onions, spices, meat and seafood that

wafted though to tease their senses each time a brightly-

attired waitress exited the warm back room, was a plus.

Mulder stared at the menu, his appetite aflame, “Well,

what should we start with?” he asked, licking his lips,

hoping the service was speedy.

Scully hadn’t even bothered to pick up her brightly-

painted bill of fare. With a tilt of her hand she signaled

the young senorita who was their waitress who after

introducing herself, stood poised to take their order.

“Well, Maria, we’ll start with your chili con queso dip

and large top shelf margaritas on the rocks. For dinner we

both want the Number 5.”

She turned to meet her companion’s stunned gaze and after

a hasty study of the plastic-covered placard, Mulder

nodded his approval.

“The seafood chimichanga is to die for, but we’ll probably

need a doggie bag ’cause the queso and chips tend to fill a

person up. Not to mention Mamacita’s margaritas. If you can

down two and still walk out of here, you’ll get to wear the

macho hombre sombrero.” Her eyes danced in the soft light

of the red tinted candle light, glinting almost violet.

“I’m game,” Mulder grinned, enjoying the view.

The dark haired girl quickly brought a huge bowl of thick,

peppered cheese and a heaping basket of blue and white

tortilla chips, then returned with their drinks.

“Okay, I see the scam,” Mulder laughed, surveying the

monstrous 20-ounce glass that was filled to its salt-dusted

brim. “Scully, I have a confession here. I’m a really cheap

drunk. So, be gentle.”

Her warm, rich laughter floated into the humid air and she

slid her hand across the checkered table cloth to rest atop

his own. “I promise.”

The two agents dug into the hot spicy food, sipping at the

strong, tart drinks, relishing the odd dichotomy that

something that cooled the throat so well could warm the

blood so fully. Soon, their meals were set before them and

though the spicy mixture of crab, cheese, onions and

chilies was a treat, Scully’s warning was all too true;

their bellies were practically full from the first course,

so they could only finish about half of the chimichangas.

Still, they sat in their spot, enjoying the company and the

atmosphere too much to leave. An hour passed as the next

round of Mamacita’s special elixir was ordered. The crowd

had changed, the room now filled more with younger, more

gregarious patrons, but the only notice the partners gave

the louder patrons was to ease their chairs closer in order

to hear each other.

“…so, I’d eat here almost every evening…breakfast too.

They have great huevos rancheros. The owner’s husband used

to seat me. He was such a sweet man. He called me his

little red child. ‘Mi hija roja.’ I haven’t seen him

tonight, though.” Scully paused to sip from her glass, by

habit, her tongue dancing across to gather the salt

crystals. She sighed, then smiled at feeling the quick

squeeze her partner offered her, urging her to continue.

“I haven’t had the nerve to ask if something happened to

him.” Her eyes glittered and she absently brushed at the

wetness that had suddenly dampened her cheeks, surprising

her.

“Could they have switched management? Just kept the name?”

Mulder murmured softly.

“I dunno. Maybe.” She quickly covered her mouth, her tears

ending in a soft burp which immediately brought on a rush

of giggles. The muted lighting almost, but not quite

covered her blush.” I think I’ve reached my limit.”

Mulder smiled and caught the waitress’ eye.

“Would you care for some sopapillas for desert?” the girl

asked reaching for their plates.

“No, thank you. Could we get you to bring us a container

so we can finish these later?” Mulder asked, stilling her

hand. The young woman gave a smile and a quick nod in

answer and turned, but the agent stopped her.” Say, my

friend hasn’t been here in a while and she was wondering

about an older man who used to seat the customers. The

owner.”

The senorita’s smile grew broad,” Gray hair and mustache?”

she asked.

Scully nodded, the fear that had twisted her stomach at

Mulder’s query lessening at the waitress’ expression.”Oh

yes, that’s Abuelo. My grandfather. He still works here

during the week, but…well weekends tend to be a bit too

much for him. Will you be here Monday?”

Scully nodded and the woman offered another brilliant

grin. “Well, make sure you stop by. He’ll probably remember

you. I think Abuelo remembers everyone he’s ever served.”

“We’ll do that.” Scully murmured gratefully.

“See, a happy ending,” Mulder teased,

Dabbing at her eyes, his partner began to laugh. “Great,

you just might get me on a crying jag.”

Mulder’s chuckle was cut off mid-chortle by the jostling

shove of a drunk who almost landed in his lap. The faux pas

might have ended there, with the agent solemnly helping the

inebriated offender to his feet, but it wasn’t the night

for it. The young man, who looked to be in his mid-20s,

cast a bloodshot eye upon the stunned Scully and apparently

liked what he saw.

“Hey, babe,” he drawled. “Ditch the old dude and let’s go

party!”

Mulder stood up. He had a couple of inches on the younger

man, though the guy was muscular — but with a beer gut —

and probably outweighed him by 30 pounds. He tapped

Drunk Kid on the shoulder and took him by the arm, leading

him away from Scully, and pointing him toward the door.

“C’mon, sonny boy, time to call a cab and go home. Gotta

save some party for Mardi Gras, huh?” he said, in a not

unfriendly tone, but Scully noted the glare in his eyes.

“Mulder…” Scully murmured, and her partner half-turned

in answer to her call.

This was, of course, not the best of tactical maneuvers

when disposing of something as potentially volatile as a

belligerent and inebriated pest. It was not a mistake the

agent would have committed had he been in his usual top

form. But of course, almost 40 ounces of Mamacita’s toxic

blend of Jose Cuervo and Cointreau rarely left many at

their best. Drunk Kid picked that moment to gather enough

wits about himself to see an opportunity to break free. He

immediately jerked his arm away from Mulder’s grasp.

Naturally, the partying lad was more than outraged that

this ‘old dude’ had stepped in and messed up his patented

pickup routine, so a wild, roundhouse punch instantly

followed his emancipation.

The blow caught the agent squarely on the jaw, not

solidly, but with enough force to knock him into the next

table, which luckily was unoccupied. The bad news was the

table was waiting to be bussed, and leftover food, dishes

and glasses went flying onto the floor with a crash as

Mulder sprawled on the none-too-solid piece of furniture.

He got up, shaking his head, and advanced on the drunk, who

was reaching out to grab Scully. But Scully took care of

herself. A sharp blow with the heel of her hand to the

drunk’s chin knocked him into the arms of his more sober

pals, who had come to try to break things up.

The waitress walked up with the boxes of food for Mulder

and Scully.

“Look, sir, we don’t want any trouble here. Please take

your food and go,” she asked Mulder. “And as for you,

Craig,”

she said, rounding on Drunk Kid, “Get out before I call the

police. And don’t you ever darken this door again!”

Drunk Kid lunged at Mulder again, who simply sidestepped

and let him crash into the previously-mauled table.

“That does it!” announced Maria, the waitress. “I’m

calling the police!”

“C’mon, Mulder, let’s get out of here,” urged Scully,

tugging on Mulder’s arm, and finding it hard not to giggle

at the sight of their harasser sprawled out on the terrazzo

floor, smearing huge globs of guacamole across his face as

he cringed from the young waitress’ bilingual tongue-

lashing.

Mulder picked up the sack with their boxes of food, after

handing Maria a $50 bill to cover their dinner and the

damages, and they left out the back.

They ran the four blocks to the hotel, their laughter

bouncing off the weatherbeaten brick buildings to follow

them the entire way.

Slipping the magnetic card in the lock, they opened up the

room and went in. Mulder set the sack down on the table and

strolled over to gaze out the window, absently rubbing his

jaw where the drunk had punched him, as he silently took in

the dazzling view of the harbor at night. Scully followed,

grin fading, changing instantly to a frown when she spotted

his wince. She took Mulder’s chin in hand and turned his

head to examine the slight swelling and darkening bruise on

his jaw.

Without uttering a word, she retrieved a hand towel from

the bathroom and wrapped some ice cubes from the small

refrigerator freezer. Returning to Mulder, she made him sit

down and then gently placed the ice pack against his jaw.

Mulder covered Scully’s hand with his own. She allowed it

to stay a moment, then withdrew her hand, leaving his own to

cup the cold pack to his injury. He watched in silence as

she moved away, refusing to meet his gaze. Her stroll

across the richly-furnished room seemed aimless at first,

though she tried to feign interest in the already studied

room decor. Finally, her eyes came to rest on her bag,

sitting where she’d dropped it outside the bedroom door

upon their arrival. Quickly, with newfound purpose, she

strode over to the unpacked luggage.

Her yawn was huge, a little too forced, Mulder thought

ruefully to himself, when she turned and attempted a grin

to announce, “Wow, I’m worn out. We’ve got a long day

tomorrow, guess I’d better get to bed.”

“Want some company?” Mulder asked, only half-joking.

Scully rolled her eyes and shook her head, but a grin

tugged at her lips. The risque, teasing remark was

something familiar. This type of teasing banter, filled

with droll, sexual innuendo had become, over the years,

second nature to her. She was comfortable with it, after

all, this was how it had been between them forever. Mulder

would feed her a come-on from his ‘Little Black Book of

Pick-up Lines’ and she’d either make a disgusted face, roll

her eyes or zing one of her million and one ego-deflating

jibes right back at him. At last, things were back to

normal. Hallelujah!

She was much more at ease when dealing with this Mulder,

her Mulder, and not the oh-so-serious, shockingly romantic,

maddeningly sexy impostor who had arranged this weekend

and who expected something from her which she was terrified

to give. Her sigh of relief just might have been audible,

but it caught in her throat when she met his eyes and she

knew there was no way to stop what was coming. The

combination of champagne and margaritas they had indulged in

earlier was one that tended to loosen tongues and

lower inhibitions.

“Scully, why won’t you allow yourself to love me? I’ve told

you my feelings. I’ve told you I love you.” Mulder

murmured softly, his face a blend of hurt and sadness that

brought tears to her eyes. She couldn’t continue to meet

that

deep, soul-searching stare, not and say what she had to, so

she turned to gaze out at the moonlit harbor. The soothing

hum of the air conditioner gave her the courage to continue.

“When you give yourself to a man, they say I love you,

then they’re finished. They roll over, go to sleep and the

next morning you’re alone again.”

His hand stretched out and though it was not at all cold

in the room, she shivered when his fingertips caressed her

tear-stained cheek. “That’s why you leave first,” he

whispered. Her answer was a barely perceptible nod.

“It’s time to start moving toward that next step, but it

doesn’t matter how long it takes us to get there. I just

need to know that you’re looking at the same future I am

and that’s where we both want to head.”

“I see it,” her reply was a barely audible whisper. The

shaking sigh that came before she continued was just this

side of a sob. “I want to go there with you, but…”

“You won’t be alone. I’ll be here every inch of the way.

So, just relax. Try to enjoy the trip. OK?”

His hand lingered to smooth her cheek. With another slight

bob of her head, she agreed to his plan, melting into the

strong warmth of his arms that pulled her to his chest.

Kissing the top of her head, he gave her a hug. “OK, then,

if you’re gonna make me sleep alone, help me unfold this

sofa bed.” The tease came with a rueful grin.

Scully smiled and together they removed the cushions from

the couch and opened it up into a bed. She fetched a couple

of extra pillows from the closet shelf and tossed them on

the bed before bidding Mulder goodnight and retiring to the

bedroom, shutting the door.

*****************

Mulder slept poorly and rose at dawn. Donning running

shoes and shorts, with no shirt, he started out jogging

toward the seawall, about a mile and a half away. Reaching

the seawall he ran west along it, relishing in the cool

morning sea air and the waves rolling in gently with the

incoming tide.

He was not entirely surprised to find other runners out

for their morning jog. Thoroughly warmed up, he pushed

himself to run faster and kept up the pace for the next

three miles before slowing down to a jog, then a walk to

cool down gradually. By now, the sun was up and the ocean

looked very inviting to his sweat-covered body. He walked

down the steps and pulled off his shoes and socks, then

plunged into the water — colder than he’d expected,

despite the warm weather for this time of year. Because of

the water temperature, he didn’t stay long. He swam out a

short distance then turned around, catching a little wave

and body surfing back the rest of the way.

Emerging from the water, he wished he had a towel. Stuffing

his socks in his pocket, he washed the sand off his feet

and stuck them in his shoes. Climbing the stairs, the agent

resigned himself to what he reasoned was going to be a much

slower, decidedly chillier jog to the hotel, only to be

pleasantly surprised by the welcome sight of Scully parked

in the rental car beside the seawall .

“Have a good swim?” she asked with a grin, stepping out of

the car and throwing him a towel.

“Yeah,” Mulder replied, rubbing himself down with the

terrycloth and shivering. “But how’d you know where to find

me? And to bring a towel?”

“I know you like to run in the mornings. Everyone goes

running along the seawall, here, and it made more sense

you’d run away from the main part of town, so I just drove

along the seawall until I saw you as you headed down to the

beach. As for the towel, I just came prepared.”

Scully noticed him shivering then. “That water stays cold

until at least April or May. What were you thinking?”

“I was hot. Wanted to cool off.”

She reached in the car and pulled out a sweatshirt. “Here,

put this on. I bought it from the hotel gift shop.”

He looked at the Harbor House logo on it then thankfully

pulled it over his head.

She spread the towel on the passenger side of the car seat

and Mulder climbed in.

“I’m starved! What say I get cleaned up then we go grab

some breakfast? Maybe some huevos rancheros from

Mamacita’s?”

“I rather think we wore out our welcome last night, with

all that testosterone running so high,” Scully commented

with a chuckle.

“Hey! You’re the one that punched out that drunk, not me!

I was the injured party,” Mulder responded indignantly.

“Speaking of which, how’s your jaw this morning? Did you

leave the ice pack on all night like I told you?”

“Yes, dear,” Mulder joked. “Really, though, it was

nothing. I’ve had far worse. Hell, you walloped me harder

than that drunk kid.”

“I did not!”

“Well, your 1930s self did, anyway.”

Scully snorted in disbelief. “In your dreams, Mulder.”

“Hey, my dreams about you are a lot more pleasant than

that,” Mulder retorted with a leer.

Scully shook her head and started the car. They drove back

to the hotel and she picked up a morning paper while Mulder

showered.

Mulder chowed down on a Denny’s Grand Slam as Scully

nibbled on a dish of fresh fruit and unfolded the morning

Daily News. She read the headlines, “Park caretaker says

corpse appears on beach.” Continuing into the body of the

story, she noted the location. Scully handed the paper to

Mulder and showed him the story.

“So, now we have a front page story of the caretaker at

Fort Travis Park finding a body on the beach, which he

maintains disappeared before he’d gone 10 feet when he took

off to call the cops. Who, of course, find nothing to

validate his claims. Sounds like your ghost ship isn’t the

only mysterious thing that happens around there. Just hope

there’s a little more for us to go on for our case or we’re

going to have a lot of time to kill until we’re due back in

Washington. ”

Mulder ignored his partner’s teasing jibes, poring over

the story with great interest. “Says here, the caretaker

described the body as being dressed completely in gray

clothes. A Confederate uniform, I wonder? A ghost of one of

the Denbigh sailors?”

“You’re reaching, Mulder. It was probably just some local

kid who partied a little too heavy, then went swimming in

his clothes.”

“If that was the case, why didn’t the caretaker see the

kid running off?”

“Maybe he was seeing things, maybe he’d been nipping the

bottle on the job, maybe he didn’t really turn around to

look back at the corpse as quickly as he thought he had. He

could have a medical condition that has left him prone to

dementia or hallucinations. Maybe it was just some trash on

the beach and he needs glasses,” Scully postulated.

“Sounds like this poor guy needs medical help. How ’bout

we go visit him and you can check him out while I ask him a

few questions?”

Scully heaved a sigh and protested. “I thought we were

going to Mardi Gras, Mulder.”

“We will.” He looked at the Mardi Gras schedule in the

paper. “The big parades aren’t until later this afternoon,

then the Fabulous Thunderbirds and Boz Scaggs will be

playing in the evening. We have time to go check out the

beach at Fort Travis and then be back for the main

attractions. OK?”

Scully nodded in reluctant agreement to the day’s itinerary.

She had to admit the ferry trip across the bay was

pleasant enough in itself. The two of them stood at the

back of the ferry, tossing bread to the seagulls (Scully

had insisted on stopping at a convenience store and picking

up a loaf). They laughed as the gulls acrobatically grabbed

the pieces of bread thrown into the air, excitedly

shrieking

to one another in the process.

The entrance to Fort Travis was a short distance from the

ferry landing and they quickly spied the park caretaker’s

house, an American flag waving out front.

They showed their IDs to the fiftyish man, who introduced

himself as Jimmy Duhon. Mulder questioned him about the

strange sight the man reported.

“Is this the first time you’ve seen something like this?

Or does it happen a lot?”

“Well, I’ve been here over two years, and I’ve seen some

strange stuff, but never this. I mean I never saw no body

before, leastwise none that didn’t stay put.”

“What kind of stuff?” queried Mulder.

“Some nights, there are strange lights and moans out on

the beach and sometimes from the fort itself.”

“Sir, are you sure it’s not just kids making out by the

water?” asked Scully.

“That was my first thought,” replied Duhon, “but when I go

down there with my big flashlight, there’s never anybody

there.”

“Excuse my asking this, sir, I’m not passing judgment,”

said Scully, “but do you drink in the evenings?”

“No, ma’am! I don’t hold with drinkin’. Never took a drop

in my life. I’m a God-fearin’ Christian man,” the caretaker

snapped in reply.

“I apologize. I wasn’t trying to insult you, I was just

trying to rule that out,” said Scully, trying to smooth

Duhon’s ruffled feathers.

“Mr. Duhon,” asked Mulder, “could you describe the clothes

the body was wearing? You said they were gray.”

“That’s right. I didn’t pay that close attention, you

understand, I didn’t want to mess with the body and screw

up a possible crime scene — I watch Law and Order on TV,

so I know cops are sensitive about that stuff. But I did

catch the color.”

“Can you remember any more details about the clothes or

the person?”

“It was a man, and he had dirty blond hair. Definitely

looked dead to me. He was completely wet and he wasn’t

movin’ and didn’t seem to be breathin’ — but I didn’t

touch him. As for the clothes, now you mention it, I recall

a wide leather belt with a brass buckle like rodeo cowboys

and country singers wear, though maybe not as big.”

“You’ve seen pictures of Confederate soldiers, haven’t

you?” asked Mulder. “You think that man might have been

wearing a uniform?”

“I guess he could have been. You reckon he was one of them

fellas that does whatchamacallit… re-enactments?”

“No, I think you may have seen a ghost of a Confederate

sailor,” Mulder told him, ignoring Scully’s sigh.

“Well, there is that old Rebel ship that’s sunk out there.

Sometimes I see the paddlewheel stickin’ up out of the

water at real low tide. I reckon that might be it. They

said a bunch of young Johnny Rebs drowned when it

went down in a storm.”

“Yes, in 1862,” Mulder confirmed. “Could you show us on

the beach where you saw the body?”

Duhon took them out a little east of his house, which

itself was on the eastern edge of the park, and pointed out

the area where the body had turned up. Looking back at his

office, he saw a camper trailer had pulled up.

“Looks like I got some tourists to take care of,” the

caretaker said. “You folks need anything else, you just

holler.” He left them to their investigation and returned

to his office/house.

Mulder and Scully scanned the beach sand, looking for some

clue. Scully spotted the remains of a hand-rolled

cigarette, and a bit further down, a blackened area on the

sand, along with some charred driftwood.

“OK, Mulder, seems pretty obvious to me what was going on.

Some kids were out here having a party, smoking a little

‘weed’ around the campfire. I’m sure that’s what the

caretaker heard. And it was probably just one of the kids

playing tricks or sleeping, instead of a real body. They

probably jumped up and ran off as soon as he left to call

the police.”

“Scully, you have no romance in your heart,” teased

Mulder. “Even though you’ve seen ghosts yourself, you

dismiss the notion that Mr. Duhon might have seen one.

Don’t be so stuffy. Look, here we are, just you and me and

a long stretch of beach.” He took her hand. “Nice day for a

walk.”

“Mulder…”

“Hey, I’m just asking you to go for a walk, that’s it.”

“I really don’t know what to make of this ‘mood’ you’ve

been in these last few days,” Scully murmured, a puzzled

frown wrinkling her forehead, but with a shake of her head

she began to stroll down the beach with him.

“Scully,” Mulder said in exasperation. “I’m not pushing

you, but you did promise you’d relax. Why can’t you open

up and let me in?”

She looked away from him and withdrew her hand.

“Aren’t we on a case, right now? It’s dangerous work that

we do, Mulder. We have the perfect working relationship.

Other relationships, a different kind of relationship could

be distracting. Plus, if we were to become involved and

something was to happen, it would be so much worse, don’t

you think?”

“No. Scully, I would be devastated if I lost you, but to

lose you without ever getting to truly love you like I want

would be the worst thing I can imagine.”

As they reached a certain spot on the beach, they felt a

sudden chill, which vanished as they moved on.

“Scully, did you feel that?”

“That chill? Probably just a localized temperature

inversion.”

“Or something else entirely, maybe,” Mulder said, and

walked back to the spot.

He stood there for a minute, Scully watching him from

where she had stayed, and he seemed to hear a woman’s

voice, as from a distance, calling for someone, but he

couldn’t quite make out what was said.

“Did you hear that?” he asked Scully excitedly. “There was

a voice!”

“No, Mulder, I didn’t hear anything. It was probably the

wind. Now, are we finished here? I want to go back to

Galveston and catch the rest of today’s Mardi Gras

activities.”

“OK,” he agreed, “But we’re coming back tomorrow night to

watch for that ghost ship? Deal?”

“Deal,” she agreed, grinning, and offered her hand.

Mulder smiled, pleased to see she was showing some

enthusiasm again. They walked back to the car to return to

Galveston.

On the journey back across the ferry, they were escorted

part way by a pod of dolphins, which promptly took off in

pursuit of a shrimp boat when it passed by.

ACT III

They parked at the hotel and walked over to the Strand.

Purchasing a couple of large margaritas from a street

vendor, they got into position just in time to catch the

beginning of the Krewe of Gambrinus (named for the mythical

god of beer) parade. Row after row of colorfully-attired

marching bands played rousing jazz tunes. Scully elbowed

Mulder, who was openly admiring the scantily-clad coeds in

a drill team from the University of Houston. He grinned at

Scully and put his free arm around her, drawing her close.

She smiled back and pointed out a huge float coming into

view.

As the float passed by, Krewe members threw out strings of

beads and foil doubloons. Mulder set his drink down by

Scully and concentrated on catching the little treasures

tossed into the crowd. Scully even caught a couple of

beaded necklaces that were tossed to her by a young man on

the float, who smiled and winked at her.

Mulder moved back to Scully, placing several strands of

Mardi Gras beads over her head.

“There! Your next birthday present,” Mulder joked.

Scully laughed, took a few of the beads and hung them

around Mulder’s neck, and handed him several doubloons.

“And yours!”

“Wow, you’re early,” he chuckled, pulling her close to

give her a chaste forehead peck in thanks.

Her giggling reply floated over the din of the crowd, “You

know me, always planning ahead.”

He grinned as she turned back to watch the celebration and

was happily surprised when he felt her lean back against

his chest. Wrapping his arms about her to pull her closer,

he was beaming as he rested his chin lightly atop her head

to finish watching the festivities.

Then came the big Saturday spectacle — the Momus Grand

Night Parade — a colossal display of 20 spectacular floats

depicting dazzling circus themes. Again there were showers

of beads, trinkets, specially-minted doubloons and also, 25

free round-trip airline giveaways. Scully grabbed one

ticket and Mulder gave a Michael Jordanesque leap to

intercept another that was headed for further back into the

crowd.

“I believe our next vacation is taken care of,” Mulder

said, sharing a grin with Scully as they each showed their

prizes.

Parades over, they made their way over to Old Galveston

Square to hear the Fabulous Thunderbirds and then Boz

Scaggs. Mulder left to buy them another round of

margaritas. Millions of twinkling lights decorated the

concert area as Scully searched the milling crowd for

her partner, finally spotting him as he broke through a

huge group of fervently-partying revelers on the far

side of the quad. He gingerly picked his way through

the maze of bodies, two plastic glasses of Jimmy

Buffet’s favorite held carefully out front as though this

prize deserved to lead the way.

“Wow, what took so long? The Thunderbirds should be

starting any minute,” Scully asked when at last he made it

to her side. She offered a quick smile of thanks as her

partner handed her a frozen margarita.

“Well, the sidewalk’s drinking the first round I bought,”

Mulder explained with a sheepish grin.

Her chuckles were cut short when the excited murmurs of

the audience announced the band members were taking their

places on the darkened stage.

“You know, I got to see Jimmy and Stevie Ray Vaughn back

in ’90. It was one of their last concerts before Stevie Ray

died. I wish Jimmy was still with the Thunderbirds, but, I

hear they’re still a great act, even without him,” Scully

whispered quickly as a hush of anticipation fell over the

crowd.

“I’m impressed, Scully,” Mulder remarked just before a

rousing cheer split through the quiet as the first riffs of

a slide guitar came from the stage. Soon, the night was

filled with the exciting, rollicking sounds of the fabulous,

rocking roadhouse blues band. Mulder couldn’t help the grin

that lit his face as he watched his normally reserved

partner “get down” to the raunchy soulful music of these

native Texan performers. He couldn’t still his laughter

when her inhibitions were totally cast aside during the

bands rousing finale encore of “Tuff Enuff” and she jumped

to her feet to dance to the gritty rock tune.

“God, that was great,” she yelled breathlessly, trying to

be heard over the din of the standing ovation. Her face was

flushed with excitement and she surprised her partner

further with a crushing hug.

Left momentarily speechless by the gesture, Mulder enjoyed

the warmth of the small arms that circled his waist so

tightly. It wasn’t until the embrace ended that he finally

found his voice. “I never knew the blues affected you so

deeply, Agent Scully.”

She grinned up at him, her eyes sparkling as she teased,

“Hey, you ought to see what happens when I hear Clapton. I

really melt to ‘Slowhands.'”

“I’m really glad to know that, Scully,” Mulder replied

with a wry smile, “I mean, so I know what to give you for

your next birthday and all.”

She cut him a glance, assuring herself of the humor that

lay behind his double entendre, then chuckled to concede

that he’d won this battle of risqué wit.

The refreshment run went smoother this attempt and Mulder

made it back to their spot with time to spare before the

next concert started. The silver light of the late winter

moon set the mood for Boz Scaggs’ set of smooth, slow rock

tunes and ballads, and it wasn’t long before the agents

joined the crowd that was dancing to the romantic rhythms

in the center area of the moon and star lit square.

A hush seemed to fall across the audience when the

familiar soaring strings and haunting keyboards announced

the beginnings of the artist’s most popular hit.

<A HREF=”http://web.wtez.net/lh61062/music/Boz_Scaggs_-

_Look_What_You’ve_Done_To_Me.mp3″>Click to hear Boz

Scaggs</A>

“Hope they never end this song.

This could take us all night long.

I looked at the moon and I felt blue,

then I looked again and I saw you.”

Mulder glanced down at his partner’s face and grinned at

the sight of her face — so breathtakingly beautiful in the

silvery light. Her eyes were closed and a slight smile

tilted her small, lush, lightly-parted lips. Suddenly the

lids slid open and he was caught in the spellbinding light

of those two sparkling gems that had always so captivated

him.

“Eyes like fire in the night,

bridges burning with their light.

Now, I want to spend the whole night through,

and honey, yes, I’d like to spend it all on you.

“Love, look what you’ve done to me,

never thought I’d fall again so easily.

Oh, love, you wouldn’t lie to me,

leading me to feel this way.”

A smile teased Mulder’s wide, full mouth, making his

eyes glow with lights that flickered and danced in their

always-compelling hazel depths. He leaned into Scully’s

touch as she caressed the warm, slightly stubbly skin of his

jaw. He felt a sense of rightness as she sighed and rested

her head against his chest, swaying to the music and the

muted rhythm of his heart.

“They might fade and turn to stone.

Let’s get crazy all alone.

Hold me closer than you’d ever dare,

close your eyes and I’ll be there.

After all is said and done,

after all you are the one.

Take me up your stairs and through the door.

Take me where we don’t care anymore.”

Mulder felt her soft sigh of contentment though his shirt

and smiling, he slipped a finger beneath her chin, forcing

her to lift her head and meet his gaze. Slowly, as if drawn

together by some unstoppable force, their lips moved to

touch. Feather soft at first, then feeding on the emotions

stirred as cautious tongues began to probe deeper, bodies

melded, souls meshed.

“Love, look what you’ve done to me,

never thought I’d fall again so easily.

Oh, love, you wouldn’t lie to me … would you,

leading me to feel this way?”

“I love you, Scully,” Mulder murmured, over and over,

tasting the smooth soft flesh of her neck. “Tell me you

want me, please, say this is what you want.”

He felt the warm, pliant body he was holding, instantly

grow rigid, then stumbled backwards as she pushed away. The

separation was painful, and a jolting agony came as a

result of its unexpected suddenness.

“Love, look what you’ve done to me,

never thought I’d fall again so easily.”

“Scully?” his tone was part question, part knowing plea.

“I can’t…” she cried, then whirling, she slipped away,

disappearing into the crowd.

“Oh, love, you wouldn’t lie to me,

leading me to feel this way.”

***********

Mulder cursed himself for pushing her. *I always manage to

screw everything up. She’s the best thing that ever

happened in my sorry life, and now I’ve scared her off.

But… I love her. I thought she loved me. Guess I was just

fooling myself, as usual.*

Morose, Mulder made his way off the Strand and to the

nearest liquor store he could find. He bought a fifth of

cheap tequila and wandered off down to the harbor where he

plopped himself down on the dock, legs hanging over the

edge, and opened the bottle. He took a long swig and

coughed as the liquor burned its way down.

“Drinkin’ alone? Why ain’t you at Mardi Gras, the big

party?” said a deep, resonant voice from nearby.

Mulder whirled around to see a middle-aged black man

cleaning fish on the dock beside a charter fishing boat.

The clientele had apparently all left, and the crew was

busy washing down the boat.

“Parties are highly overrated,” replied Mulder. “So why are

you standing there cleaning fish instead of being at Mardi

Gras?”

“I’m workin’. Just cleaned a bunch of fish for some folks

who came off that party boat. They gave me these as a tip.

Gonna take ’em home to the family.”

Mulder stood and walked over to the man and offered him

the bottle.

“Here, have a drink on me. Then I won’t be drinkin’ alone.”

The older man chuckled and took a sip of the tequila to be

companionable, then handed it back to Mulder.

“Thanks, but I can’t have too much. Wife’ll shoot me if I

come home plastered.”

“How long you been married, Mr. …?” asked Mulder.

“Henry Feathers. It’ll be 37 years this April,” the man

replied with a grin. “And you are?”

“Fox Mulder — but just call me Mulder. Tell me, in 37

years of marriage, have you been able to figure out women?”

“Not completely, guess I never will. You got woman trouble?”

Mulder took another swig and wiped his mouth on his

sleeve. “You could say that. I’ve known her almost nine

years and been in love with her most of that time. The last

year, we’ve been getting closer and I thought she was

finally ready to let me in. I guess I pressed her too hard

and scared her off. Now, I’m wondering whether I was

kidding myself all along that she cared more for me than

just as a friend.”

“Nine years?” Henry whistled. “I thought my Amelia took a

long time to warm up to me. I courted her for a year before

she’d let me kiss her and it took three years to get her to

accept my proposal.”

“Well, it’s complicated between Scully and me,” Mulder

told him, easing himself down on the dock and handing the

bottle back to Henry.

Henry took another drink, returned the bottle, then

started putting his fresh fish fillets in plastic bags,

then in the cooler at his feet.

“You see, we work together, we’re partners.”

“You own a business?”

“No, we’re FBI partners — out of Washington.”

“You down here on vacation or business?”

“A little of both.”

Henry nodded and asked, “You checkin’ into that drug

smugglin’ I’ve been hearing rumors about?”

“No, we’re FBI, not DEA. We’re in a special department

that investigates unsolved cases — often with a paranormal

bent.”

“Like ghosts and stuff?”

“Yeah, like that. Coast Guardsman told me about this ghost

ship that appears off Fort Travis. We came down to check it

out. Since it’s Mardi Gras, I thought Scully and I could

have a little fun, too.”

“Galveston and Bolivar are full of ghosts, that ain’t

nothin’ new,” said Henry. “So what’s the problem with you

and your woman?”

He sat down on the dock beside Mulder, who passed him the

bottle of tequila.

“We were dancing, having a great time. Then we kissed. She

seemed to be enjoying it, then I told her I loved her

and… well, anyway, she spooked and ran off.”

“I get the picture. Women are funny, that way. They say we

men have a tough time committing, but they’re just as bad,

I’d say,” Henry mused.

“So how did you get Amelia to break down and let you in her

heart?”

“I just waited her out and let her come to me when she was

ready. Didn’t give up, though. I kept courtin’ her. And I

made it a point to let her know how special she was to me.”

Henry stood up and gave Mulder back his bottle.

“Well, I reckon I’ve had enough. Wouldn’t do for me to go

stumblin’ home to the missus, drunk as a skunk. And I gotta

get these fish home and put in the icebox. Gonna have a

fish fry tomorrow for the family.”

“How many kids you got?”

“Five — three boys and two girls. All of ’em are married

and I got seven grandkids and one on the way.”

“Sounds like a fine family.”

“I’m sure you and your woman will patch things up and have

a family of your own someday.”

“No, Scully can’t have children, I’m afraid,” Mulder said

wistfully.

Henry laughed. “That’s what they told my wife before she

got pregnant with our first. I wouldn’t be too sure about

all that.”

Mulder shrugged, knowing it was all too complicated to

explain to a stranger.

“Well, nice talking to you, Henry. Thanks for the

companionship — and the advice.”

“It’ll be OK,” Henry told him. “If she loves you, and I

bet she does or she wouldn’t have stayed with you all these

years, she’ll come around. Just don’t give up on her.”

Henry loaded his ice chest in the back of his pickup, then

with a wave to Mulder, climbed in and drove off.

Mulder downed the rest of the bottle in silence,

accompanied by only his self-condemning thoughts. Much

later, though the sounds of Mardi Gras were still going

strong, he weaved his way back to the Harbor House and to

their room.

After several attempts, Mulder managed to get the door

open and stumbled into the room. The door to the bedroom

was shut, but the sofa bed was already pulled out and the

covers turned back. Mulder clumsily stripped to his boxers

and collapsed on the bed, out before he could even climb

under the sheets.

Ensconced in her room, Scully heard Mulder come in and she

feigned sleep just in case he opened her bedroom door.

Hearing his sigh as he hit the bed, Scully finally drifted

off herself. She woke two hours later and noticed the light

was still shining under the door. Quietly, she arose and

carefully opened the door.

She saw Mulder sprawled face down on the bed, snoring

softly and mumbling in his sleep. “Scully…”

She approached and caught the strong odor of tequila.

Tears sprung into her eyes as she picked up a blanket and

covered Mulder, then lightly kissed him on the cheek before

turning off the lights and returning to her room — to a

fitful night of tossing and turning, finally falling asleep

just before dawn.

************

Mulder awoke early as the morning sun’s rays brightened

the room. His head was pounding unmercifully and his mouth

tasted like something vile. He tried covering his head with

the other pillow, but it was no use. He gave up on sleep,

rummaged through his bag and found a bottle of aspirin,

shaking out four and downing them with a glass of water. He

showered, letting the warm water stream over his aching

head, then got out and dressed, preparing to go in search

of food.

Not trusting himself to drive just yet, he wandered around

the Strand on foot. Street crews were busy cleaning up the

mess from the night before and cops were rousting a youth

who had passed out in front of a shop on the square.

Finally, he found a café open for breakfast and downed

several cups of coffee and a huge stack of pancakes. By the

time he finished, it was almost 9 a.m., so he ordered a

large cup of coffee and an order of Eggs Benedict to take

back for Scully.

Mulder arrived back at the hotel room around 9:45, to hear

Scully showering. He tried not to think about what it would

be like to join her. Those kind of thoughts had brought him

nothing but trouble, so far.

She emerged, wrapped in a thick terrycloth robe.

“I brought you breakfast,” Mulder told her, acting as if

everything was normal. “It’s on the table, there. When you

get ready, let’s go to Moody Gardens, OK? I’ve heard it’s

pretty spectacular.” He looked at the brochure he’d picked

up in the hotel lobby. “They have a Rainforest Pyramid, an

aquarium, a 3D IMAX and a Ridefilm Theater. And then

there’s the paddle-wheeler, The Colonel, and lots more.”

Scully nodded and sat down at the table. She took a sip of

coffee, then opened her box of food.

“Mmmmm. Eggs Benedict! How did you know I loved this dish?”

“You mentioned it once to me when I commented on one of

your low-cal breakfasts,” Mulder replied with a grin. “You

said you wished you could order Eggs Benedict, but if you

ate like that on the road all the time, you wouldn’t be

able to walk, let alone run.”

Scully finished her breakfast while Mulder read the

brochure to her aloud. It took her another half-hour to

dress and put on her makeup and when she came out of her

room, Mulder was sound asleep on the sofa bed, the

television turned to some old movie.

She chuckled and lightly patted his face, calling to him.

Mulder’s eyes flew open and he sat up, suppressing a groan.

“Ready to go?”

He nodded and stood up, stretching.

“I think I’d better drive,” she said, and he gave her no

argument.

As they drove out Seawall, Scully commented, “I’ve never

been to Moody Gardens. Back when I was doing my residency,

the gardens were all they had. All these other attractions

came later.”

The two of them spent the day touring Moody Gardens,

laughing at the antics of the penguins at the aquarium, and

marveling at all the exotic colorful butterflies and birds

in the Rainforest Pyramid. Mulder couldn’t talk Scully into

the Ridefilm Theater, but they did go for a cruise on The

Colonel, then caught “Alien Adventure” at the 3D IMAX.

The sun was starting to go down as they made their way

back to the rental in the parking lot, still chuckling over

the movie and discussing how real the 3D effects made

things seem.

Fastening his seat belt on the passenger side, Mulder

said, “OK, on to Fort Travis. It’s getting dark, now, so

maybe we won’t have long to wait until the ghost ship shows

up.”

Scully sighed, but complied, driving them back to Bolivar

and the old fort.

They decided to wait in the car until it was completely

dark, talking a bit about nothing in particular — and most

certainly not the events between them of the previous day —

and fell silent, finally falling asleep, both tired from

too little sleep.

Mulder awoke when he heard an engine in the distance.

Looking out the windshield, he saw a light out on the water.

He shook Scully. “Wake up. Looks like our ghost ship is

making its appearance.”

Scully sat up and they pulled their flashlights and guns

from the glove compartment and got out to go investigate.

Both of them had decided to bring their weapons, though

they had left them in the car while at Moody Gardens.

As they walked by the fort, they heard voices and saw a

light waving around through the battlements.

Mulder motioned to Scully and they quietly made their way

over to the fort to see, not ghosts, but three very live

men bringing boxes out of one of the previously-padlocked

storerooms. The room beside it was also open.

“I don’t think this is on the up and up,” Mulder whispered

to Scully, and reached for his gun. She followed suit and

they crept up closer.

“That will be far enough,” came a voice from behind them.

Mulder started to turn around.

“Uh, uh, don’t do that. I’ve got a gun. Now, both of you,

nice and easy, pitch your guns behind you.”

Mulder exchanged a glance with Scully. He tossed his back

a few feet behind the man. He had hoped that would distract

the guy, but it seemed the man knew what he was doing.

“Now, you, little lady.”

Scully reluctantly did as he commanded.

He picked up her gun, then backed up a few paces and

scooped up Mulder’s revolver.

“OK, hands on heads and march,” ordered their captor.

They made their way to the fort and the three men there

looked up, drawing their guns as their friend approached,

herding Mulder and Scully in front of him.

“Looky what I found, guys!”

“Coupla nosy tourists, Mike?” asked one of the others.

“No, Gary, I think they might be cops. They were both

packing.”

Mulder got a glimpse of the inside of one of the boxes,

which had plastic bags full of tan-colored enamel-like

cookies. The boxes were marked “U.S. Army MRE” but these

were not containers of food.

“Crack, Scully,” Mulder told her, nodding toward the

container.

“They got ID on them?” asked Gary, ignoring Mulder. “They

sheriff’s department? DEA? Take a look, Bobby,” he

instructed one of the men who had been helping him.

Bobby was not a particularly good-looking fellow, with his

burr haircut and the scar stretching from the corner of his

mouth to his ear.

He patted Mulder down, first searching for extra weapons,

and quickly found the gun around the agent’s ankle. Pulling

out Mulder’s wallet from his hip pocket, Bobby grinned at

the hundred dollar bills in there and pocketed them for

himself. He found Mulder’s badge case and opened it.

“This one’s a fed, all right, but FBI.” He tossed the

badge to Gary, then moved over to Scully. Looking her up

and down, he grinned and proceeded to paw her, ostensibly

looking for her ID and any other possible weapons.

She looked over at Mulder and saw the fury building in his

face at her treatment. Scully groaned, reached out, took

Bobby by the shoulders as if she was going to draw him to

her for a kiss. Instead, she thrust her knee between his

legs — hard — and he collapsed to the ground.

While the others’ attention was on Bobby and Scully,

Mulder tackled Mike and started wrestling him for the gun.

“Run, Scully! Go get help!”

Instead, Scully kicked Bobby in the head and quickly

looked for a gun as the other two moved in.

Gary ran up to Mulder and Mike, pulling a knife as he

went. He grabbed Mulder around the neck and stuck the knife

into the agent’s back. Mulder cried out in surprise and

pain, and Mike easily broke free. Mulder collapsed to the

ground as Scully struggled with the fourth man.

“That’ll be enough of that, lady,” ordered Mike. “Unless

you want me to finish off your boyfriend, here.”

Scully looked over her shoulder to see Mulder writhing in

pain and Mike standing over him, his gun trained on the

agent’s head. She immediately stopped struggling and ran

over to Mulder. Dropping to her knees, she asked worriedly,

“Where are you hurt?”

“My back…” Mulder managed to say.

She noted the blood on his shirt, then pushing it up, saw

the wound — in the area of the kidney. Scully pulled off

her sweatshirt, wadded it up and pressed it to the wound

as their captors stood around watching.

Gary glanced at his watch. “Shit, we’ve got to hurry up.

We’ve got to meet Salinas with this shipment in 15 minutes!

We don’t have time to deal with these two. Lock them in the

storage rooms.”

Bobby was standing by then, if a little awkwardly. “I want

this one for myself,” he said, indicating Scully.

“Later. And you can share,” replied Gary with a laugh.

“Put them in separate rooms. We don’t want any trouble from

him when we come back later to get some tail. When we get

finished, we can haul the bodies offshore and feed ’em to

the sharks.”

Hearing they were going to be separated, Scully tied the

sweatshirt around Mulder, to try to keep pressure on the

wound.

They dragged a groaning Mulder into one room and chained

the door back, then pushed Scully into the room beside it,

locking the door after them.

Scully heard their voices move away from the fort. She

walked over to the dividing wall between the two rooms and

called out to her partner.

“Mulder! Can you hear me?”

Lying alone in his dark cell, Scully’s voice was like a

light penetrating the gloom surrounding Mulder.

“I hear you,” he called back weakly.

“Are you having trouble breathing? Any blood in your mouth?”

“Breathing is OK, not great. I don’t think … they got my

lung, though,” Mulder told her.

“How’s the bleeding?”

“Dunno.” His voice definitely sounded weary.

“Reach behind you and see if it’s coming through the

sweatshirt I tied around you.”

She heard Mulder grunt in pain as he reached around and

put his hand to his back. He could feel the wetness on the

back of his hand, though it was too dark to see.

“Mulder?”

“Yeah, Scully.”

“Are you still bleeding?”

“Yeah.”

“Lay on your back. That will help put pressure on the

wound.”

He did as she instructed, then cried out lightly at the

pain.

“I know it hurts, but you’ve got to do this.”

“‘K, Scully. I know. You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Truth, Scully.”

“I’m a little bruised from the manhandling, but I’m not

hurt. Mulder, I’m going to get you out of here. It’s going

to be all right.”

“Ummm,” Mulder mumbled. He was feeling more tired by the

second.

“Stay with me, Mulder. It’s lonesome over here.”

“Tired.”

“OK, rest a bit, then, but don’t give up, you hear me?”

“OK.”

Mulder closed his eyes and tried not to think about the

possibility he might not make it out this hellhole. He

never did like total darkness. It was so oppressive.

Instead, he replayed the events of the weekend — at least

until Scully had run away. Hopefully, he’d have another

chance to show her how important she was to him.

“I thought Anne and I would have plenty of time, too,”

said a man’s voice from the darkness.

Mulder’s eyes flew open and he saw a young man sitting

across from him. Light surrounded the figure and penetrated

the gloom of the cell.

*What the hell?!* Mulder thought. “Who … you?”

“Name’s Jamie Simmons, Mr. Mulder. I sort of … live

around here. Or used to.”

Mulder took in the youth’s clothing. He was dressed all in

gray.

“How … know me?”

“I saw you and your lady out here yesterday, walking on

the beach. Looks like you’ve bought yourself some trouble.

I did that, once. All my friends were joining up, so I did,

too. Thought it was the right thing to do. But it didn’t

turn out so well. Had a beautiful girl waiting for me, but

I blew it.”

“You’re a …” Mulder said, not sure whether to put a name

to what he was seeing.

“Ghost? Yeah, I guess that’s right. I seem to be tied to

this area. My shipmates, too. Difference is, they don’t

know they’re ghosts and the ship was lost long ago.”

“Why?” Mulder asked, completely fascinated.

“I don’t know. I know for me, I feel like there’s

something unfinished. Maybe it’s because Anne is tied to

here, too. I see her sometimes, but I can’t reach her.”

Jamie shook his head. “You two remind me of us. I didn’t

stop to think of the consequences of running off to war.

And I never could get Anne to fully open up to me. Here,

let me show you what happened to us.”

In the far corner, a tableau played before Mulder’s eyes.

He saw a little girl and boy playing together on the

seashore, then the scene changed and he saw them, older,

walking hand in hand along the same stretch of beach.

Then at last he saw them standing on a dock. The boy

looked like he did now and he was talking to his girl.

“I even proposed to her, but she wouldn’t have me,” said

Jamie sadly. “My ship went down that night and that was it.

I thought I’d have a lot of years and Anne and I would have

a passel of kids and grow old together.”

“What happened to Anne?” Mulder asked.

“She found me on the beach, then swam out into the ocean

and drowned herself.”

Mulder nodded in understanding.

*I don’t think I could go on if anything happened to

Scully,* he said to himself, too weak to talk much, but it

seemed Jamie could hear him anyway.

“She might just feel the same way, you know.”

“Doesn’t want me.”

“She’s just scared, Mulder. Afraid to get too close.

Afraid to be hurt. Anne was the same way.”

In the next cell over, Scully had dozed off, but awoke

when she heard Mulder speaking. She listened for a moment.

He seemed to be carrying on a conversation — a one-sided

conversation.

“Mulder!” she called out. “How are you doing over there?”

“‘Scuse me,” Mulder said to Jamie, then answered Scully.

“Still here. Not feeling too great, though. Getting cold in

here.”

Scully was even more worried. She was having a tough time

keeping warm in the dank room, herself, and knew it must

be even worse for Mulder.

“You must be going into shock, Mulder. Hang in there.”

She heard him talking again to someone.

“Mulder, is there someone in there with you?”

“Yeah. Jamie. He’s a ghost.”

“You’re delirious, Mulder. Try to rest.”

Mulder chuckled, then groaned as the laughing jarred his

wound.

“Doesn’t believe in you,” he explained to Jamie, who

grinned widely.

Scully stood and felt along the wall until she came to the

metal door. She pushed at it futilely. It was no use. The

lock and chain were quite secure.

“You love him, don’t you, Dana?” came a voice from the

back of the room.

Scully whirled around to see a young woman standing

against the rear wall.

The dark-haired girl was wearing a long gingham dress in

a 19th century style.

“Who are you and how did you get in here?” Scully demanded.

“Anne Landry. I’m from around here. I know this place well.”

“Is there some sort of secret entrance? Can you show me?”

Anne shook her head.

“Why not? Listen, my partner is next door and he’s badly

hurt. He needs a hospital.”

“He’s more than just your partner, isn’t he?”

“What are you talking about? How do you know me?”

“I saw the two of you out on the beach yesterday. I

couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. You know, you

really should give him a chance. He loves you a lot. You

never know how much time you’re going to have, so you

should make the most of it.”

Scully was completely baffled, now, but it suddenly

occurred to her the only light in the room was coming from

the woman. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a ghost. And

she still didn’t like it. At least this ghost didn’t seem

to mean any harm to her.

She slid to the floor, muttering, “Why me?”

“Jamie wanted me to marry him, but I kept turning him

down. That kind of commitment was just too scary. I kept

thinking I liked things as they were, but yet there was

that longing. But I just couldn’t get past my fear. And

too, he was going off to war. I remember how handsome he

looked that day on the dock. I wouldn’t even kiss him. I

was worried about what people would think,” Anne told

Scully, and called up the scene at the docks that fateful

day in 1862.

The agent watched, her jaw hanging open, at the glimpse

into the past that ended in tragedy for both young people.

“You’re both dead, now. Aren’t you together?” Scully asked

her.

“I thought I could join him if I died, too, but it didn’t

quite work out that way,” Anne replied sadly. “I can feel

him near, but I can’t approach him. It’s like I’m being

punished for taking my own life. I’m tied to this area and

because of me, Jamie is, too. He won’t move on without me.”

“I’m sorry things went so badly for you. I do care about

Mulder, but it’s just so overwhelming.”

Talking about Mulder reminded Scully to check on him

again. She moved closer to the wall between them.

“Mulder?”

“Here, Scully. Been talkin’ to Jamie,” he mumbled.

She didn’t tell him about her own visitor. She still

wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t imagining the whole thing.

“Scully? It’s cold, really cold. Can’t get warm.” His voice

was definitely growing weaker.

“Gotta … rest.” He tried to take a deep breath, but

couldn’t — it hurt too much. “Scully…?”

“Yes, Mulder?”

“Love you, Scully. Always.”

Tears began to run down her face.

“Oh, Mulder. You know I care, don’t you?”

There was no reply.

“Mulder?”

Still nothing.

She turned around, to seek out Anne again, but instead saw

Mulder standing before her, his lips moving, but no sound

emerging.

“How did you…?” she started to ask, then he disappeared

before her eyes.

“No! Mulder!” Fearing the worst, she ran to the door and

began banging on it. “Someone, anyone, please help us! Oh,

God, please don’t let him die.”

Mulder was now unconscious and could not hear her, but

Jamie did, and walked through the door of Mulder’s cell.

Moving over to the one that held Scully, he looked up at

the night sky. “Lord, please give me the strength to do

this. Let me help these people.”

Jamie concentrated and focused intensely on the metal

door, then reached out, touched the padlock and it fell

off.

“All right!” He pulled the chain through the door and

threw it down, then opened it up and saw Scully standing at

the entrance.

“I heard you yelling, ma’am. Need some help?”

“Yes, thank God! I’m an FBI agent and my partner is badly

wounded and locked in the next cell over. Please unlock it

so I can get in there to him.”

He nodded and accompanied her to the next door. Scully

couldn’t quite see what he was doing, but once again, Jamie

managed to activate the tumblers in the lock. Scully pulled

the chain out herself and flung open the door. She could

barely make out the figure lying on the floor next to the

wall. Running over to Mulder, she kneeled beside him and

immediately felt for a pulse. It was there, but very rapid,

as was his breathing, which seemed to be growing weaker.

She called back over her shoulder, “Call 911! We need Life

Flight right away!”

Jamie was puzzled at her words. He figured she was asking

for outside help, but he didn’t quite understand what she

was saying. But he knew someone who would. As Scully tended

to Mulder, Jamie disappeared.

A moment later he reappeared in Jimmy Duhon’s bedroom.

“Wake up, Jimmy! There’s some folks need your help!”

Duhon woke rather slowly to see Jamie standing beside the

bed. With one hand, he reached for his glasses on the

bedside table, and with the other, pulled a pistol out of

the drawer and trained it on Jamie.

Jamie laughed. “I wouldn’t worry about that, Mr. Duhon.

But there’s a man and woman over at the fort and they need

help. Man’s been stabbed. She said get help, so that’s what

I’m doin’.”

Duhon’s eyes narrowed, but he reached for the phone anyway

and dialed 911, requesting police and an ambulance. He hung

up the phone and turned on the light. His visitor had

vanished.

“I’ll be damned!” Duhon mumbled, reaching for his clothes.

Once dressed, he quickly looked through the house but saw no

one. Grabbing a flashlight, he opened the door to go over

to the fort.

As he ran, he suddenly remembered where he had seen the

young man before. “Oh, shit! That’s the boy I saw dead on

the beach!” *Least he’s a polite fella, even if he is a

ghost.*

The ambulance and sheriff’s deputy arrived at the fort

right behind Duhon. He saw them coming in the gate and

waved his flashlight at them. The deputy was one he knew —

had dealt with before.

The deputy stopped the car beside Duhon and rolled down

his window.

“What’s up, Mr. Jimmy? Dispatcher said you called for cops

and an ambulance.”

“Somebody came and woke me up, sayin’ a man had been

knifed down at the fort. I’m just gettin’ here myself.

C’mon!”

The deputy got out and was joined by two paramedics,

hauling a stretcher, and the four ran quickly to the fort.

Seeing the doors open that were normally locked, it was

easy to figure out where the trouble was.

Moving quickly to the nearest room and shining their

flashlights in there, they saw Scully bent over Mulder,

giving him artificial respiration.

She looked over her shoulder and sighed in relief to see

that help had arrived.

“He stopped breathing just now,” she told the paramedics

as they pulled their equipment out of their case, then

resumed breathing for her partner.

One medic quickly placed an ambu bag over Mulder’s

mouth and nose and started ventilating him, while the

other started an I.V. of saline solution. After gathering

Mulder’s vitals, they radioed them into UTMB in Galveston

and put mast pants on him to try to stabilize his blood

pressure.

The doctor on the other end quickly diagnosed Mulder’s

symptoms and instructed the paramedics to start a unit of

plasma expander.

The deputy led Scully a little ways off and quizzed her,

“What happened here, ma’am? What were you two doing here?”

She showed the officer her ID and briefly explained the X-

Files.

“We were here to check out the stories of the ghost ship.

We were walking over to the water, when we saw lights and

noises coming from the fort. We went up for a closer look

and saw some men moving some boxes around. It all seemed

pretty strange to be doing that after dark, so we were

going in to investigate when we got caught. Turns out they

were smuggling crack cocaine. You should check these boxes

of MREs in these rooms. I don’t think you’ll like what you

find. Anyway, there was a struggle as we tried to get away

and one of them stabbed my partner and then locked us up in

these rooms. If it hadn’t been for that young man who heard

me yelling, and got the doors open, Mulder would probably

be dead, now.”

Duhon nodded knowingly and asked, “This young fella, was

he dressed in gray? And had blond hair? He showed up at my

place, saying you needed help over here.”

“That’s him! Do you know him?”

“Not exactly, but I seen him before. He was the body I

found on the beach the other day.”

“What do you mean?”

“That boy was a ghost, ma’am. He disappeared right after I

called 911.”

Scully shook her head, but did not dispute what Duhon said.

“I’m … not sure about all that. Look, they’re getting my

partner ready to transport. I’ve got to go. Officer, if

you’ll look me up at the hospital later, I’ll try to ID

some mugshots for you.”

With that, Scully walked alongside the paramedics as they

rolled the stretcher to the ambulance.

“We’ve called for Life Flight,” the senior paramedic told

her. “We’re gonna meet them at the ferry landing, where

it’s all lit.”

She nodded and insisted on riding with them, but they made

her ride up front with the driver. There was a window to

the back, though, so she could watch them working on Mulder.

Within just a few minutes, they were at the ferry landing

and they could see the chopper coming in to set down. The

paramedics rushed Mulder to the air ambulance, turning him

over to the others in the helicopter, who had already

brought themselves up to date on the patient.

This time, Scully would not let them keep her from

accompanying Mulder.

“I’m an FBI agent and a medical doctor. And I know his

medical history thoroughly.”

The chopper pilot nodded in assent and she climbed in

behind Mulder.

The flight over the bay was quite short, but necessary.

Though the ferries ran all night, Mulder’s condition was

too serious to wait the 30 minutes it took to ride across

on the ferry.

Thanks to the fluids going in and an oxygen mask, Mulder

was again breathing on his own, but his blood pressure was

still far too low. Once at the UTMB emergency center — a

complete building of its own — they quickly unloaded

Mulder’s stretcher and ran him into the emergency room and

the waiting hands of the doctors and nurses.

Scully quickly informed them of Mulder’s medication

allergies, then allowed herself to be led away to complete

the necessary paperwork.

That done, she returned to the emergency room to find them

preparing Mulder for surgery.

Mulder’s doctor saw Scully and approached her.

“I’m Dr. Doug Wells. You’re Agent Mulder’s partner?”

“Right. And next of kin. How is he? You should know I’m a

medical doctor myself, though a forensic pathologist.”

The doctor nodded and proceeded to fill her in on Mulder’s

condition.

“I’m pretty sure he’s bleeding internally. There may be

some damage to the kidney and it looks like the renal vein

was nicked as well. We’re taking him to surgery

immediately. If you’ll go to the waiting room, I’ll come

out when it’s over and let you know how things went.”

Wells started to walk back to Mulder, then turned to Scully.

“You said you were a medical doctor yourself. You look

awfully familiar. Did you go to school here?”

“No, but I did do my residency here in pathology. I

finished up 10 years ago. Were you here, then?”

“Yes, I was. I must have run into you at some point. My

girlfriend then was in pathology — Brenda Vickers — you

know her?”

“Yes! We roomed together my second year here.”

“I thought I knew you from somewhere. Brenda and I are

married. She’s on staff here, too.” He saw Mulder being

wheeled into the elevator. “Looks like our ride is here.

I’ll talk to you later.”

Scully rode up in the elevator with them, though, and

talked to Mulder, who was still unconscious.

She stroked his hair back from his forehead and whispered

to him.

“You’re going to be fine, Mulder. I’ll be waiting for you.

You fight, now, you hear me?”

The elevator came to a halt and they took her partner on

to the operating room while she found a restroom to try and

clean up.

She looked at Mulder’s blood on her hands and suddenly,

the grave situation hit her hard and tears began flowing

down her cheeks. It wasn’t the first time he’d been close

to death, but it never got easier.

Scully washed up and went back to the waiting room.

Checking her watch, she saw it was nearly 7 a.m. Skinner

would probably be getting ready for work. She found a phone

and dialed his home number.

The assistant director was very good about the whole

thing, promising her any assistance necessary and making

her promise to let him know how Mulder’s surgery went.

Scully hung up the phone and wrapped her arms around

herself. It was a lonely feeling, being by yourself in a

hospital waiting room, anxiously awaiting news of a loved

one.

*Loved one.*

She turned the words over in her head. *One who is loved.*

She sighed greatly and sat down to wait.

*I guess I do love him. It’s just so hard to say it —

like if I say it aloud, then it will disappear, and him

along with it.*

The thought of Mulder not in her life was a very hollow

feeling. He’d told her she made him complete, but the

opposite was true, as well. *He makes me complete, too.*

Almost three hours, numerous cups of coffee and several

old magazines later, the surgeon finally emerged, his

scrubs stained.

Scully almost ran up to him, but maintained her dignity.

“He’s a fighter, that one,” Wells told her. “It was as I

thought. The left kidney had a minor laceration and the

renal vein had a tiny hole where the knife just caught it.

If the vein had been severed, Agent Mulder would not

have made it. He had a rough time in the operating room.

We were pretty concerned about his blood pressure — it

plummeted at one point — but he stuck in there with us.”

“How is he?”

“I’d still call him critical, and we’ll keep him in ICU

for at least a couple of days, but I think he’s going to be

fine. We got him here in time.”

“Thank you, Doctor. When can I see him?”

“He’ll be in recovery for the next hour or so and then

we’ll get him settled in ICU. I’ll send a nurse to let you

know. He yawned and pulled off his surgical cap.

“Well, I’m going to get cleaned up and make rounds.

Brenda should be on duty by now. You ought to drop by and

see her later on. I’ll tell her you’re here, too.”

“Thanks, Doug — for everything. Yes, it would be great to

see her again. Right now, though, I’m too worried about

Mulder to be very good company,” Scully told him.

“Completely understandable. I’ll see you later, I’m sure.”

Wells left for the staff lounge to get ready for the rest

of his day.

Scully took the opportunity to call the Gunmen to let them

know Mulder’s condition.

“We’ll hack into their database and make sure they’re

treating him right,” Frohike swore, but Scully made him

promise to leave it alone.

“I’ll call you if there’s any change in his condition.”

She listened for a moment. “No, you don’t need to come down

right now. Yes, I’ll let you know if I need you to do

anything.”

The next two calls were to Skinner at FBI headquarters

and to her mother.

“Hi, Mom, it’s me,” she said, calling home. “I’m in

Galveston at the University of Texas Medical Branch. Yes,

the same place I did my residency.” She gave Maggie a

chance to speak, then assured her mother, “No, I’m fine.

It’s Mulder. He was badly wounded by drug smugglers. No,

we’re not on drug enforcement detail, we stumbled on them

while investigating another case.”

She heard Maggie sigh and complain.

“Yes, I know it’s a dangerous job. But you know I love it,

Mom. We make a difference.”

Scully let her mother vent her frustrations.

“Well, Mom, I’ve got to go. They’ll be coming soon to take

me to Mulder. I love you.”

Her mother said something she didn’t quite catch.

“What’s that, Mom?”

Maggie repeated herself.

Scully shook her head and raised an eyebrow. “No, Mulder

and I are NOT going to get married. We’re partners, just

friends.”

Maggie protested, but Scully cut her off.

“Bye, Mom, talk to you soon,” she said, practically

hanging up on her mother.

She sat down again on the comfortable plaid sofa and

leaned her head back. The next thing she was aware of was a

nurse shaking her awake.

“Dr. Scully? Agent Mulder is in ICU now, if you’d like to

go see him.”

Scully stood up quickly. “Did he wake up from the

anesthesia all right?”

“Yes, but he’s still very groggy and out of it. He did ask

for you, though.”

Scully would have run, but waited for the nurse to lead

her to the room, then thanked her.

She definitely could not say that Mulder looked good, but

just the fact that he was no longer lying in a dark, damp

concrete cell, bleeding out, made him look so much better.

Scully crossed over, pulled up a chair and took Mulder’s

hand.

His eyes fluttered open and he focused on her. He gave her

a weak grin.

“How do you feel?” she said, asking the same question she

always asked when he was in such condition.

“Like… the target in a knife-throwing act,” he replied.

She chuckled and brought his hand to her cheek, then kissed

it.

“Scully?”

“Yes, Mulder?”

“Love me?”

She took a deep breath, looked down for a moment and

replied,”Yes, I do love you, Mulder. Very much.” Scully

looked up to see his reaction, only to discover he was

sound asleep and likely had not heard a word she said.

She smiled indulgently and kissed him lightly on the lips,

before leaning back in her chair and closing her own eyes.

Epilogue

The beach at Fort Travis Seashore Park was deserted — save

for two figures walking quickly toward each other.

The young man took the woman he loved into his arms and

swung her around, then kissed her with a passion that had

not wavered for 139 years.

“Oh, Anne, I’ve waited so long for you to come to me.”

“I couldn’t before, Jamie. But now we can be together. By

helping those two lovers, we helped ourselves.”

As daylight broke, a bright stream of sunlight pierced

through the overcast sky and shone down upon the two.

Jamie grinned at Anne and gallantly offered his arm.

“May I have this dance, ma’am?”

“It would be my pleasure, sir,” she replied with a wide

smile.

She took his arm and they began dancing to a tune only they

could hear. Together they waltzed up the sunbeam, laughing

in joy as they went, and then disappeared from view.

The End

Authors’ note: The Denbigh really was a Confederate boat

and its wreckage really does lie on Bird Key, just offshore

Fort Travis Seashore Park. But the real Denbigh, while

indeed a sidewheeler, was a blockade runner, not a gunboat.

It did not wreck in a storm in 1862. It ran aground in 1865

(about a month after Lee had already surrendered at

Appomattox) and the Union, who had been trying for years

to catch this boat, caught her stranded on the shoals and

shelled her, then boarded and burned her. The crew all

escaped and were later rescued by another Confederate

vessel. One crew member is listed as having drowned in 1864

when the Denbigh first visited Galveston. To read about the

Denbigh archaelogical project and the boat’s history go to

http://nautarch.tamu.edu/projects/denbigh/denbigh.html .

Galveston was an important Texas city in the 19th century.

In 1860, it was the largest city in Texas and the primary

seaport. For a brief history of Galveston during the Civil

War, go to

http://nautarch.tamu.edu/projects/denbigh/galv01.htm .

TITLE: Your Past is Showing

INFO: Written for I Made This Productions Virtual Season 8

AUTHOR: Jo-Ann Lassiter

EMAIL ADDRESS: 70302.3654@compuserve.com

DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Post anywhere. Thanks.

SPOILER WARNING: Up to, but not including, “Requiem”

RATING: PG

CLASSIFICATION: S, A

KEY WORDS: M/S UST; Sk/M/Sc friendship

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters created by

Chris Carter and

Ten Thirteen Productions. Characters used without

permission. No

infringement intended.

THANKS: To Gerry, for her usual bang-up job of beta-ing.

SUMMARY: When Scully and Mulder travel to Newark, New

Jersey to assist A.D. Skinner with a case, Mulder discovers

that he and Skinner had previously been assigned to the

same case there ten years earlier. While Mulder’s

recollection of the case is somewhat hazy, Skinner’s is all

too clear.

Your Past is Showing

By Jo-Ann Lassiter

70302.3654@compuserve.com

Prologue

Newark, New Jersey

Thursday, May 16, 1991

“Set?”

“Set,” the voice came crackling over the headset.

“On three. One, two… go!”

Eight helmeted forms, covered neck to foot in bulky navy

blue, lumbered across the field of weeds and uncut grass

toward the ramshackle two-story house.

Two figures at opposite ends of the field dropped to their

right knees and took aim at the house. “Tear gas ready!”

they announced almost simultaneously.

The man in the lead nodded. “Do it.”

As the canisters were fired, the front door burst open.

One man with a semi-automatic machine pistol threw himself

out the door, hit the porch flat on his stomach, and opened

fire on the task force. His only cover was a battered

rocking chair, but it provided enough of a barrier for him

to pick off each member one by one. He screamed that they’d

never take him alive.

The man was right. By the time it was over, he was dead.

So was everyone else.

*****

X-Files Office

Thursday, February 15, 2001

8:30 a.m.

“Don’t get comfortable, Scully. You won’t be there too

long.” Mulder breezed through the door, a large manila

envelope in his hand.

The female agent frowned. “Oh, come on, Mulder. We’ve been

out of town all week.” She sighed as she lowered herself

into her chair. “All right. What’s up?”

Her partner walked over and sat on a corner of her desk.

“We’ve been asked to consult on a case.”

Scully looked thoughtful for a moment. “The Chairman of

the Board killings?”

Mulder stared at her, a bemused smile on his face. “Mind

telling me how you made that connection?”

She schooled her face into recitation mode. “Number One:

The persons in question were all presidents of

international corporations. Two, they all died of a lobar

intracerebral hemorrhage, which in itself wouldn’t have

been suspicious, until a second and then a third CEO died

of the same cause. And, three…” She met his eyes. “That’s

where Skinner is.”

Mulder’s face broke out in a grin. “How did you know he

was there?”

Picking up several sheets of paper from the corner of her

desk, she waved them in the air. “These expense reports. I

brought them up to him, and Kim said he’d gone up Monday.

The Newark SAC’s out with a respiratory infection, and they

wanted someone high profile to take charge of such a high

profile case.”

Mulder nodded, standing. “Well, we’d better get home and

pack. We’re booked on the eleven o’clock out of National.”

“This morning?” She groaned. Why couldn’t they just once

catch her before she drove all the way in to work?

” ‘Fraid so.” He moved to the coat rack, unhooking her

coat. Sighing, she walked over and let him help her into

it. “Meet you at the gate between 10 and 10:30?” he asked.

At her nod, he touched a hand lightly to her arm. “Can I

interest you in a bagel from Katz’s?”

She brightened at his offer; the best bagels on the planet

came from that little hole in the wall shop down the street

from Mulder’s apartment. “That’d be great, Mulder. Thanks.”

He slipped into his own coat. “My pleasure, partner.” When

he held the door open, she grabbed up her briefcase and

strode out ahead of him.

They walked to the garage in silence, parting at Mulder’s

car; he always got a prime spot, since he arrived at the

crack of dawn. Scully wasn’t too much further away, but she

still envied him those few less steps she might have saved

her aching feet at the end of a hard day.

She looked back when she reached her car and gave him a

wave. He waved back, then got in and pulled out. Scully was

behind him until the first corner, where he went straight,

and she turned right. Flicking on the radio for background,

she tried to remember what the weather was like in New

Jersey this time of year.

Newark Field Office Bullpen 1:05 p.m.

“Excuse me.”

Mulder decided that ninety seconds of standing in front of

a desk waiting to be acknowledged was ninety seconds too

much. The agent on the obviously personal phone call

glanced at him, threw an irritated glare his way, then

turned his back on him.

The D.C. agent blew out an exasperated breath; Scully came

into his line of sight, and he scowled at her. “Oh. You’re

back.”

He watched her eyes take in the man making goo-goo noises

over the phone; when her eyes met his he knew she was fully

aware of the score. “I couldn’t get anyone at Reception to

acknowledge me, either, Mulder. Let’s go find the A.D.

ourselves.”

The man’s eyes bugged, and Mulder was impressed at the

speed with which he blew off someone who, mere seconds ago,

had commanded his utmost attention. Yessiree bob, a little

name-dropping went a long way.

“You’re Fox Mulder,” the man declared, as if informing him

of a momentous occurrence.

Mulder’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, I am.” He held a hand out

toward Scully. “This is my partner, Dana Scully. We’d like

to see Assistant Director Skinner, please.”

The man nodded to them. “Special Agent Eric Stone,” he

introduced himself, pushing the chair back and standing.

Scooting out from behind the desk, Stone led them down a

corridor. “This way, please.” The agent stopped in front of

a door bearing the title, ‘Conference Room 3.’ Stone hooked

his thumb toward the door. “Skinner’s in there.”

Mulder blinked at the man’s sudden return to disrespect.

He sighed and nodded. “Thanks.”

Just as Mulder raised a hand to knock, Stone spoke. “Er…

Agent Mulder?”

Mulder lowered his hand. “Yeah?”

“You probably don’t remember me, but I was here in ’91

when you caught Henry Linderman.”

Mulder furrowed his brows in concentration, trying to

recall the time frame. “Ninety-one?”

Stone nodded. “May of ’91. It was amazing. You weren’t

even here two days when you wrote the profile that nailed

the guy.” Stone’s eyes hardened. “It’s too bad you didn’t

get here a couple of days sooner, before *he*…” Mulder

followed the man’s eyes to the closed door. “…got

everyone killed.”

Mulder looked up quickly. He had heard that the

investigation had not gone well, that there had been a

bloodbath right before his arrival. But he had not heard

that the blame had been placed on the previous SAC, and

he’d had no idea that that SAC had been Skinner.

Mulder smiled wanly. “Um…” What do you say to someone

who has just paid you a compliment, but at the expense of

another? “How’ve you been, Agent Stone?” he asked, lamely.

“Fine, thanks. At least until a few days ago.” Stone left

no doubt in Mulder’s mind as to what happened — or,

rather, who arrived — a few days ago.

Mulder felt uneasy with Stone’s obvious animosity toward

Skinner. He’d come to respect his boss, and was pretty

close to considering the A.D. a friend.

“Well, it was nice to meet you, Agent Stone,” Scully said,

“but we’d better report in.” She rapped sharply on the

door. Stone beat a quick retreat, and Mulder sighed

gratefully.

At the muffled, “Come in,” Scully turned the knob and

pushed open the door; Mulder followed his partner in.

“Scully, Mulder… come on in.” Mulder exchanged a look

with Scully; Skinner sounded almost excited to see them.

“Sit down, please.” He gestured them to the comfortable-

looking chairs in front of his desk. “Have a good flight?”

The agents’ eyes met once more. Skinner *never* indulged

in small talk. “Er… yes, sir,” Scully answered.

“Good; good,” Skinner said, nodding. “Find the motel all

right?”

Mulder’s eyes widened. What was going on here? “Actually,

no,” he answered. “We picked up our rental and came

straight here. Sir, are you all right?”

Skinner seemed surprised, then annoyed by the question.

“Fine, Agent Mulder.” The A.D. straightened his shoulders,

and any hint of anxiety fled. “Have you had time to

familiarize yourselves with the case?” he asked, all

business.

“Yes, sir,” Scully answered. “I understand you’re holding

the last victim for me?”

Skinner nodded. “Victor Ramsay. President of Anchortron

Development Corporation.”

Scully flipped through her notes. “Ramsay? I don’t — ”

She looked up quickly. “Another one? Six now?” At Skinner’s

clipped nod, she asked, “When?”

The A.D.’s voice was tight. “This morning.”

“Same as the others?” Mulder asked.

Skinner sighed, nodding.

“Do you have any suspects, sir?” Scully asked.

“Not really,” Skinner said, and Mulder could almost taste

the man’s frustration.

“So what have you got?” Mulder asked.

“Not a whole hell of a lot.” Skinner pushed his chair back

hard, then stalked out from behind the desk. Mulder and

Scully followed him to the far wall, where a street map and

several assignment boards were hanging. As the A.D.

outlined the various teams and their progress thus far,

Mulder couldn’t help but wonder at the lack of several key

elements.

“What about charitable organizations?” Mulder asked when

it appeared that Skinner was done. “Environmental issues?

Were the companies damaging the surrounding areas in any

way?”

Skinner grabbed a legal pad and handed it to his agent.

“Here. Make a list.”

Mulder looked at him, then the assignment boards drew his

attention. “You should already be on these, sir. Who’s your

profiler?”

The A.D. met his eyes. “You.”

Mulder stared at Skinner. “You’ve been working this case

without a profiler?”

“Might as well be,” Skinner huffed out, and Mulder’s jaw

dropped. He had never known Skinner to malign an agent in

front of other agents. Skinner sighed and scowled in what

could only be construed as distaste. “My profiler’s Roger

Neuberg.” Skinner looked pointedly at Mulder. “Explain

anything?”

To say that Mulder was appalled would be the granddaddy of

all understatements. Neuberg definitely had to have friends

in high places, because the man, to put it bluntly,

couldn’t tell his ass from his elbow.

“How the hell did this case draw Neuberg?”

Skinner laughed, but Mulder could tell it wasn’t from

amusement. “You’re going to love this.” Mulder glanced

Scully’s way and caught her confused eye; he nodded that

he’d fill her in later. “The widow of the third victim

requested him. Once it had been speculated that one person

was responsible for both killings, she used her influence

and asked that a friend of her husband’s be assigned the

case.”

Mulder shook his head. “So you’ve been stuck with Neuberg

all this time.”

The A.D. nodded. “He’s still the profiler of record. But I

want to solve this case, and the only way to do that is to

bring you and Scully in on it.” The A.D. met Scully’s eyes

and Mulder was amazed to see discomfiture in the man’s

eyes. “Thank you for coming here, Agents. You didn’t have

to, and I want you to know I appreciate it.”

“It’s no trouble, sir. We’re glad we could help.” Mulder

was pleased — and relieved — by Scully’s statement. He

hadn’t exactly posed the trip as a question.

“Where’s Neuberg now?” Mulder asked.

“Who the hell knows?” Skinner said in an ‘and-who-the-hell-

cares’ tone. “So long as he stays out of my way.” An

inkling of a smile touched Skinner’s mouth. “Don’t take

this the wrong way, Mulder, but he’s an even bigger pain in

the ass than you.”

Mulder laughed. “That’s kind of hard to believe, sir.”

Skinner rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s me.

Maybe it’s being in this office again.”

Mulder looked quickly at his partner, warning her *not* to

ask the obvious question. “Most of the same agents still

here?” Mulder asked quietly.

“Yeah.” Skinner sighed. “I don’t know why the hell they

sent *me* here.”

Mulder wouldn’t insult him by telling him that they sent

him because he was the best man for the job. Perhaps he

was. But Skinner knew exactly why it was he was sent into

such a potentially volatile situation. Presidents of

powerful corporations were being killed, men with friends

in the hierarchy of the Bureau. No, an ordinary A.D. would

not do for this case. The HQ A.D. would, however, do quite

nicely.

Even if it meant dropping him into the middle of a war zone.

***********

Newark Field Office

Conference Room 3

5:10 p.m.

Skinner stood up and stretched, feeling every one of his

forty-eight years. Glancing at his watch, he sighed. It was

almost time for the field teams to begin reporting in. He

supposed he should get set for another fun-filled evening

of “Kick the A.D..”

Christ, but he hated this office. The chairs were

uncomfortable, the “heat” was undetectable, and the

lighting gave him a headache. Then there was the tiny fact

that everyone in this office — with the possible exception

of the third-shift janitor — hated his guts.

Well, not anymore, he amended, as his gaze fell upon the

solitary agent hunched over at one end of the conference

table. As he rubbed his aching back, Skinner wondered if

Mulder was subject to the ravages of time; the agent had,

after all, been in the same position the last time Skinner

looked over, about two hours ago.

“Mulder?”

The agent immediately straightened and looked up, puzzled

for a moment; then Skinner saw him regain his bearings and

direct his gaze toward the A.D.. “Sir?”

“How’s it going? Want to take a break?”

Mulder closed his eyes tightly for a few seconds; when he

opened them he squinted up at Skinner, then leaned back in

his seat. The A.D. smiled when he heard the bones in

Mulder’s back crackling. “Oh, God, that feels good,” the

agent moaned, rubbing up against the seat back like a

contented cat.

Skinner had to laugh. “I take it that’s a ‘yes?'”

As Mulder massaged the back of his neck, he rose and

arched his back. “What time is it?” he asked.

“A little after five.”

The agent kneaded his fingertips into his eyes. “Mm. That

sounds about right.” He looked around the empty room.

“Anyone back yet?”

As Skinner shook his head, he couldn’t keep the sour look

off his face. “Any second now,” he said, unenthusiastically.

When his agent looked a little lost for words and just

nodded, Skinner sighed. If anyone knew how he felt, it was

Mulder, yet that didn’t mean that Skinner should weave him

his tale of woe. “How about a cup of coffee?” he asked the

agent, gesturing toward the coffee pot in the small kitchen

to the right of his desk.

Mulder started walking toward the kitchen, then stopped in

mid-stride. “I, uh… think I’d better get rid of the last

two cups before I take another,” he said, smiling

sheepishly. “Excuse me.” And he disappeared into the

private lavatory which, besides the kitchen, was the

conference room’s –hell, the entire office’s — only

redeeming trait.

“Of course, Agent Mulder,” Skinner said to the air. He

strode over to the coffeemaker and eyed the carafe

suspiciously. How long had it been since he’d made that

last pot?

Well, if he couldn’t remember, it had been too long. He

poured the thick black liquid down the drain and rinsed the

pot. As he was tearing open a packet of coffee, the door

opened. “I’m making a fresh pot,” he called. “I think the

other one was about to get up and walk…” His voice

trailed off when he finally looked up and discovered that

his ‘guest’ wasn’t Mulder, but Special Agents Rodriguez,

Dalton and Cejka. “I’ll be there in a minute, Agents,” he

said as business-like as he could. He positioned the coffee

grounds in the maker and poured water into the opening at

the top. Mutterings of ‘one long coffee break’ and ‘…know

who’s doing all the work around here” reached his ears, and

Skinner felt his face flaming, though whether from

embarrassment or anger he truly couldn’t tell.

Deliberately taking his time, Skinner strolled back to

behind the desk. “Your reports, agents?” he asked crisply

when none of the men volunteered anything.

Three identical manila folders were produced from nowhere

and slapped down in unison. Taking the one nearest him,

Skinner flipped open the binder and skimmed the contents.

Neat, precise handwriting and carefully-detailed phone

calls met his eyes. Cejka’s. Opening the next one he sighed

at the barely legible and incomplete scrawlings. He

directed his gaze up at the bored-looking man.

“Agent Dalton…” he began, then stopped when he took in the

barefaced annoyance on the other man’s face. They’d played

this scene too many times already. Skinner closed the

folder and tossed it back to its owner. “Print it, type it

or dictate it. I don’t care which, and I don’t care how,

and I want it in an hour.”

“Now wait just a minute — ” Dalton’s angry rebuttal was

cut short by a Skinner who’d put up for too long with the

agent’s slipshod work.

“Do it, or find yourself another line of work,” the A.D.

said, enunciating each syllable precisely. The two stared

at each other until Dalton snatched the folder off the desk

and stalked from the room.

Skinner watched him leave, then directed his glare to the

two remaining agents. Letting out a breath slowly, he

nodded to them, easing up on the intensity of his gaze.

“Your report looks fine, Mr. Cejka, and I know yours will

be, too, Mr. Rodriguez. You can both leave.”

Satisfaction mixed with disgust tinged Rodriguez’s eyes

before he turned and left; Cejka was unreadable. He just

nodded curtly and followed his fellow agent out.

The sound of a throat clearing nearly gave Skinner

whiplash when he twisted his head around toward the noise.

Mulder stood in front of the lavatory door, hands in

pockets and eyes averted. “I didn’t mean to listen, but I

didn’t want to interrupt,” he said in an apologetic tone.

“It’s all right, Mulder,” Skinner said, gesturing him

over. “I’m sure it’s nothing you haven’t heard before.”

The agent looked offended for a moment, then returned

Skinner’s smile. “Maybe not the words, but the tone is

awfully familiar.” Mulder sniffed the air. “Do I smell

fresh coffee?”

“Help yourself.” Skinner indicated the full pot, then

flipped open Rodriguez’s report.

Mulder nodded and held out his hand. “Can I get you a cup?”

Surprised, Skinner looked up. God, he’d missed common

courtesies these past few days. “Um… Yes. Thank you.” He

surrendered his empty cup to this agent. “Black, please.”

“Right.”

Skinner watched his agent for a second, then turned back

to the report. Rodriguez had been onto something promising

when last he’d checked…

*****

Newark Field Office

Conference Room 3

6:30 p.m.

This was all too surreal, Scully thought, watching the

Newark agents interacting with her partner. They were

treating him like the second coming of God; nothing, it

seemed, was too good for Agent Mulder.

Scully couldn’t complain about her treatment, either.

While she wasn’t held in the high regard with which her

partner was being regaled, she was given the utmost respect

and courtesy. Adoration by association, she supposed.

It was painfully obvious that no amount of association

would elevate Skinner above that of “bottom-crawler,”

however. She wondered what exactly had happened here in May

of 1991 and whether Skinner had, in fact, been responsible

for the deaths of those agents. She couldn’t bring herself

to believe that he could have committed such an offense and

risen to his position of assistant director; the FBI wasn’t

in the habit of rewarding incompetence with promotion.

So why were these agents treating him so disrespectfully?

Why was he allowing it?

Her head jerked up as the latest team burst through the

door.

A female agent Scully didn’t recognize dropped a sheaf of

papers directly on top of the report Skinner had been

reading. “Our findings, *sir.*” Scully watched as the woman

turned on her heel and walked out the door, not waiting to

be acknowledged, not deigning to meet Skinner’s startled

gaze.

The A.D.’s eyes locked with hers, and Scully gave him a

slight nod, if for nothing else than to let him know that

he had at least one agent who felt respect toward him. Even

as Scully saw the gratitude reflected in his eyes, she felt

his embarrassment at her having witnessed the disdain shown

him by the other agent. Lowering her eyes, Scully returned

her attention to the reports.

A few pages later, the air beside her stirred and she

looked up to find Mulder invading her personal space. “Save

me,” he whispered, and she was just about to berate him for

disturbing her with his childish behavior when she saw that

he was dead serious.

He was clutching the legal pad with his notes like it was

the only thing keeping the wolves at bay. “They finally

getting to you?” she said in a quiet voice.

“They got to me the first five minutes,” he whispered

harshly. His eyes drifted over to their boss, reading alone

at the desk, then back to her. “Anything in there?” He

indicated the autopsy reports with his chin.

She blew out a breath. “Not so far.” Her eyes took in the

pad covered in Mulder’s scrawlings. “How about you?”

He shook his head, smiling slightly. “Nothing I’m ready to

share.”

Scully smiled tiredly. She’d returned from the morgue an

hour ago, with only an aching back to show for her efforts.

As she’d filled Skinner in on her non-findings, she noticed

that her boss’s eyes kept roaming over to where her partner

sat, immobile except for his hand, which was skittering

over the legal pad balanced on his knees. In a hushed

voice, Skinner had informed her that, except for one short

break, Mulder had been that way since she left, tucked away

in the corner, steadily filling the pad with page after

page of his thoughts on the case.

He’d worked quietly until about half an hour ago, when the

agents who’d been reporting back finally decided to disturb

him. Mulder had employed all his tried and true ‘Spooky at

Work’ tactics, but the Newark agents weren’t having any of

it. Mulder was their hero, and they weren’t about to let

the opportunity to finally express their gratitude slip

away.

Beside her, Mulder stiffened suddenly, and Scully could

see that the agents were on to his ploy, already on their

way over to hail the master profiler, savior of the Newark

office, once again.

“Mulder, we have to get going,” she said, some of the

alarm in her voice genuine. “I forgot to call the motel and

tell them to hold our rooms.”

Her partner caught on immediately, his feigned dismay

overlaid with gratitude and relief. He had a look in his

eye that said that if they weren’t in a roomful of agents,

not to mention in the presence of the Assistant Director,

he would sweep her off her feet and plant a big, wet one on

her lips. Gathering up her reports, he guided her toward

their coats.

“We’re calling it a day, sir. We have to get to the motel

to check in,” Mulder said to Skinner, the invitation to

join them heard clearly by Scully. She hoped that the A.D.

had heard it, too.

Skinner pushed his chair back and stood up. “That sounds

like a good idea. I’m going to head back, too, so why don’t

you follow me? The turnoff to the motel is easy to miss in

the dark.”

“Thanks, sir. We’d appreciate not wandering the New Jersey

countryside at night.”

The agents who’d been approaching Mulder had frozen in

place as soon as Mulder had engaged Skinner in

conversation. The A.D. addressed them now. “Why don’t you

all go home, too? Get a fresh start in the morning.”

A few murmurs and mumblings was all the response his

declaration garnered before the agents turned their backs

and walked out the door without so much as a, “Yes, sir.”

Scully stared after them, aghast at their behavior. She

wondered how long Skinner would put up with their juvenile

behavior before coming down on them. Turning back around,

she was surprised by the mask of quiet defeat Skinner was

wearing. As he moved toward the coat rack, however, she was

secretly pleased to find his expression steeling into one

she was more familiar with: resolve and determination.

It hit her then why Skinner had asked for her and Mulder.

While it was true that the case was most likely an X-File

and they would have been called eventually, that wasn’t the

reason Skinner had requested them. More than his need for

their investigative skills, more than Mulder’s profiling

talent, to put it quite simply, he’d needed to see a

friendly face.

***********

Act II

6:53 p.m.

Rental Car

“All right, Mulder, are you going to tell me what’s going

on with Skinner?”

Without taking his eyes off the rear lights from Skinner’s

car, Mulder nodded. “As much as I can. As Stone mentioned,

it was May of ’91. I wasn’t called in until the tail end of

the case.”

“From what I gathered listening to the other agents, it

was only the tail end because you came in and solved it.”

Mulder shifted uneasily; he preferred not to talk about

his VCS days much although his success rate was unmatched

even today — even by the two of them. “They’d already done

most of the legwork and information-gathering. All I did

was sort it out and stitch it together.”

Scully nodded. “What about Skinner? How does he fit into

the equation?”

Mulder drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “The day

before I came — it was a Saturday, I remember — they

changed SAC’s. The Thursday before, eight agents conducted

a raid on a suspect’s residence. The suspect turned out

later to have no connection to the case, but the guy was

packing like you wouldn’t believe. The agents approached

the house, and there was no cover — I went out and looked

at this place after it was all over — and there was no

cover anywhere.”

He stopped talking; he’d been at the academy with one of

the agents involved, and while not a friend, the man had

been one of very few who hadn’t ridiculed him at every

opportunity, who’d even gone so far as to be friendly

toward him. It had never even crossed his mind that

Parrow’s death had been the fault of the Special Agent in

Charge at the time: Walter Skinner.

“They were very tight-lipped about the details, but all

eight were cut down in a matter of seconds.”

Without even looking at her, Mulder could feel her horror.

“Were they wearing vests?”

Mulder nodded. “They were wearing body armor, head to toe.”

Scully drew in a breath sharply, and Mulder knew she’d

guessed. “Cop Killers?”

“Cut through their shields like they were paper.”

“And Skinner sent them down there?” The disbelief in her

voice almost made him smile. It might be annoying when

posed in regard to his theories, but never in regard to her

loyalty.

Mulder shrugged. “To tell you the truth, at the time I was

so stressed out from the job that it never occurred to me

to ask.” He glanced at Scully, their eyes meeting for a

brief second. “But given what we know of Skinner, I doubt

it was he who sent those men to their deaths.”

Scully was staring at him. “You never found out?”

“I never had reason to; the damage had already been done.

I wasn’t looking for anyone to blame.” The truth was — and

Mulder felt rather ashamed to admit it — the incident had

been filed away as soon as the case was over. Free time for

him in those days was practically unheard of. The few

moments he did have were too precious to waste on something

he could do nothing to change, something that no longer

affected his life.

Until now. Now someone he knew and respected and even

cared for was being hurt by those events. And as surprised

as he was to admit it, it *was* affecting him.

“Did you ask Skinner about it?”

The right blinker on Skinner’s car flicked on and Mulder

automatically followed suit. “I didn’t even know it had

been him until we got here. Until Stone.”

The two cars turned onto a narrow one-lane road, the

‘Fairbright Motel’ sign tucked neatly out of sight behind

an overgrown fir tree. Skinner was right; he and Scully

would have passed by without an inkling that the dirt road

they were traveling down led to their “home away from

home.” If for no reason other than leading them safely to

shelter in the wilds of New Jersey, two very tired federal

agents owed Skinner their gratitude.

Yet it went beyond that, Mulder knew. More than once,

Skinner had pulled their asses out of the fire. More than

once he’d proved that their loyalty was not displaced.

“I think I’d like to find out what happened.”

Mulder wasn’t sure which of them actually voiced it.

***********

Another Rental Car

7 p.m.

Shifting the car into park, Skinner leaned back with a

sigh. Home at last.

As assistant director, he’d been subjected to his share of

animosity, but never this constant nor unrelenting. He

never thought he’d ever hear himself thinking it, but thank

God for Mulder and Scully.

As he unbuckled his seat belt, he allowed the tension of

the past hour to flow out of him. He’d survived another day

in Newark.

Had he made an error in judgement, though, calling in

Mulder? After all, so far as the Newark agents knew, it was

the younger agent’s profile that had pulled Skinner’s ass

out of the fire nine — hell, almost ten — years ago. And

here he was about to do it again.

How much of that old case did Mulder recall, Skinner

wondered. Skinner had heard about Bill Patterson’s “Golden

Boy,” of course. Everyone had. Practically since the day

Mulder had set foot in Quantico, the rumor mill hadn’t just

sparked, it had been aflame. The guy’s solve rate was

phenomenal. And his caseload must have been tremendous,

given the number he’d brought to a satisfactory conclusion.

Skinner glanced up into his rearview mirror, watching as

Mulder pulled into the spot behind him. When Mulder quit

the ISU for the X-Files, Skinner, like everyone else, had

been astounded. How could the man throw away such a

promising career for the pursuit of a whim?

Older and wiser now, Skinner knew how, and he knew why.

Mulder had been overworked and underappreciated. He came,

he solved, they sent him somewhere else. Until today,

Skinner would bet that Mulder hadn’t even known it had been

Skinner’s bacon that he’d saved.

The A.D. smiled, thinking over the last hour. It was quite

a nice change to see Mulder as the recipient of praise

rather than mockery, even though it very obviously made his

agent uncomfortable. Scully seemed to enjoy Mulder’s

newfound popularity, too; although she’d been very good at

concealing her pleasure from her partner, the one time

Skinner had made eye contact with her, she couldn’t hide

her grin.

Even so, he was never so glad to be out of anywhere as he

was to be out of that godforsaken office. They may love

Mulder, but they hated Skinner with a passion. Should he

set the record straight? Should he tell them what *really*

happened all those years ago?

If he wanted to survive the week, he might have to. They

only question was, would they believe him?

Fairbright Motel

7:02 p.m.

Scully wasn’t surprised one bit when Skinner followed them

into the motel office. She’d seen the A.D. angry, sad,

scared and hurt, but she’d never seen him starved for

companionship. Until today, as a matter of fact, and only

because she was seeing it with her own eyes, she’d never

even suspected that he could be.

“Mr. Skinner, is everything all right?” The worried-

looking older man behind the desk addressed their boss

while they filled out the reservation cards.

“Fine, Mr. Roux. I just brought my agents over.” He nodded

toward Mulder and Scully.

“The ones from D.C.?”

Scully looked up, surprised that Mr. Roux was privy to

that information, but she was even more surprised when

Skinner’s face reddened slightly. “Agent Mulder, Agent

Scully,” he said by way of introduction. “This is Mr. Roux,

the owner of the Fairbright.”

Mulder held out a hand to the solidly-built man. “Nice to

meet you, sir.”

The owner shook his hand. “And you as well, young man.”

When Mr. Roux took Scully’s hand, his eyes twinkled with

mischief. “Mr. Skinner didn’t mention that one of you was a

lovely young woman.” Until he winked at her

conspiratorially, Scully hadn’t been sure how to take that,

but she quickly realized that Mr. Roux was having fun with

her boss — another first for her.

“Life is just full of surprises,” Skinner said, smiling,

and Scully was beginning to wonder if she was in one of

Mulder’s parallel universes. Meeting her partner’s eyes,

she found that he was every bit as perplexed as she.

“Yes, indeed,” the motel owner agreed, “and some more

pleasant than others.” Mr. Roux switched his gaze to

Skinner. “The restaurant’s open for another hour.” He left

the statement hanging.

Skinner suddenly looked ill at ease, and Scully thought

she’d put him out of his misery. “There’s a restaurant in

the motel?” she asked him.

The A.D. relaxed a little. “Best chicken, broccoli and

ziti I’ve ever had.”

Immediately, Scully’s mouth started watering. “Really?”

She looked at her partner, and then turned to their boss.

“Would you mind if we joined you?”

Skinner didn’t even try to hide his delight. “I was hoping

you might.”

Scully finished her card and handed it to Mr. Roux. “Will

we have time to take our things to our rooms?”

“Yes m’aam,” the owner said. “The dining room doesn’t

actually ‘close.’ Just the kitchen does. So as long as you

get back in time to order your meal — say, half an hour —

you can take as much time as you want to eat it. We’ll get

the dishes in the morning.”

“Oh, we shouldn’t be that long,” Scully said. She turned

to Skinner. “Sir, Mulder and I just want to drop off our

suitcases.”

The A.D. picked right up on her unasked question; he

nodded. “I’ll wait for you to order.”

Mulder handed her a key, and she followed him out the

door. “Our rooms are on the other side of the building,” he

said, getting in the car.

Nodding, she got in, then let out a yawn.

“Tired?” Mulder asked softly, starting the engine.

“A little,” she admitted, as Mulder pulled away from the

office. “Mulder…” She hesitated, wondering whether or not

she should ask.

He looked at her when she didn’t continue. “Scully.” He

smiled.

Feeling more at ease by his relaxed manner, she decided to

plow ahead. “Do you ever miss those early days when

everyone looked up to you?”

His sharp bark of a laugh was so sudden and so unexpected

that she jumped. He pulled into a parking slot and gazed at

her, his expression a mixture of amusement and

astonishment. “What?”

They’d never actually spoken of his time with the ISU, but

she knew that before the X-Files, he was considered top of

his field.

“I don’t mean do you miss the work,” she said quickly. She

knew full well that if he hadn’t discovered the X-Files, he

would have either gone insane or gotten himself killed if

he’d remained a profiler. “I mean the fact that you were

the best, the one everyone came to with their ‘unsolvable’

cases.” Every once in awhile, she remembered what he used

to be, what he still was; she let a little of that awe show

now. “Do you miss being that much in demand?”

He stared at her a moment, as if he couldn’t believe she’d

asked such a thing. “Is there a reason you’re asking me

this?” he said, finally, his curious tone underlaid with a

tinge of suspicion.

She shrugged her shoulders. “Not really. Just watching you

with those agents today… it got me wondering if every so

often you don’t wish you were back on top again.”

His eyes ensnared hers. “Maybe after being dragged through

bile by a mutant, or contracting a deadly retro-virus, or

being burned alive in a train full of alien corpses…” His

eyes were boring into hers so intently, she forgot to

breathe. “Never, Scully.”

He looked away, and her breath came out in a whoosh. “Why,

Mulder?” she asked, softly.

Her partner sighed. “I was in demand — yes. I was the

best of the best –no braggadocio intended, but I was. And

I never had a minute, I never had a *second* to myself.

There were stretches when I didn’t leave the office for a

week at a time. There was no respect involved, Scully.

There was only Spooky Mulder working his ass off to save

all the lives that would be lost if he didn’t. Well, guess

what, Scully? I couldn’t. I couldn’t save them all, and as

soon as I realized that I threw my guts up for a solid

week. And do you know what happened?”

She shook her head.

“Nothing. They still brought me cases. As I hunched over

the toilet, as I lay with a fever, as I was coughing up a

lung, they brought them to me. And I worked on them until I

ended up in the hospital.” His eyes blazed with anger. “And

they brought them to the goddamned hospital until the

doctor found out and forbade me to do anything but lie in

bed. He complained all the way to the director, and then

finally, finally, they left me alone.”

Scully stared at him. “I had no idea.”

“It’s one of the reasons I don’t like to profile these

days.”

She knew the other, more important reason: his tendency to

identify too closely with the killer, to become so wrapped

up in the case that he loses himself. “They remember you

here, Mulder. They respect you.”

He nodded thoughtfully, then looked at her and grinned. “I

guess there’s no pleasing me, is there, Scully? I should be

lapping it up, all this attention. But it’s driving me

crazy.”

She smiled at him. “That’s one of the few areas where

we’re similar, Mulder. Neither of us accepts praise well.”

She opened her door. “Let’s put our stuff in the rooms and

get back to the restaurant.”

“Okay.”

Mulder popped the trunk and got the suitcases while Scully

opened her door. “Do you want to leave yours in here for

now?”

Mulder’s eyes widened, and he let out a small cough,

probably, she was sure, from swallowing the ribald remark

his fertile brain had automatically supplied. “All right,”

he finally said, and she gave him a part-disappointed/part-

appreciative smile while he placed the luggage inside.

When he met her gaze, he shrugged and grinned

apologetically, stepping aside so that she could close and

lock the door. “Come on,” she told him, just as her

stomach rumbled. “Let’s get back. I’m starving.”

Mulder nodded and headed toward the car.

“Let’s walk,” Scully said, and he veered away.

“Nice night,” he agreed. “Cold, but no wind.” He sniffed

the air. “Smells like snow, though. I’ll bet it starts

before the night is through.”

“Oh, don’t say that, Mulder,” she moaned. “We just got

over winter.”

He smiled. “Yeah. In D.C. But not here.”

“I don’t care. I’m tired of snow.”

They walked for about a minute, then he sniffed again. “I

don’t know. Maybe I was mistaken. Maybe we’ll just get

rain.”

She looked at him. “Think so?”

“Do you want me to tell you the truth or tell you what you

want to hear?”

She considered a moment. “Tell me what I want to hear. I’m

a little tired of the truth, too.”

He gave her an amused smile, then looked up to the sky

where fat white flakes were starting to drift down. He held

out a hand and caught a few in his palm.

“Looks like rain,” he said.

***********

Fairbright Motel Restaurant

9:35 p.m.

As Mulder returned to the booth after his visit to the

restroom, Scully stood up to let him back in. Smiling his

thanks, he reclaimed his seat next to the window, eyeing

Scully’s half-eaten chicken, broccoli and ziti as he passed

by. He thought what a shame it was that she’d decided to

destroy the remains of her meal by shredding her napkin

into it; even after consuming a “super burger with all the

trimmings,” he was still hungry. He poked at the greens

still on his plate, seriously considering choking them

down. Delighted when he discovered a cache of french fries

under an abandoned lettuce leaf, Mulder popped them into

his mouth, one savory piece at a time.

Once he’d consumed them all, he looked across the table at

Skinner. He could tell by the glazed look in his boss’s

eyes that Skinner was very far away indeed. More

importantly, though, his garlic bread was untouched.

“Sir?” Mulder called softly, so as not to scare him.

Skinner didn’t budge an inch; the blank look remained

“Sir?” Mulder’s voice was a fraction louder this time.

Skinner’s expression was startled as he looked away from

the window and into the agent’s eyes. Then he blinked and

sighed. “Sorry.” Gesturing toward the winter scene outside,

he smiled sheepishly. “The snow. It can be mesmerizing.”

Mulder’s eyes darted toward the white parking lot, the

white cars, the white grass. “You mean the rain?”

Skinner stared at him a moment, then his gaze drifted back

to the window. “Awfully big raindrops, Agent Mulder.”

“Yes, sir, they are,” he agreed.

Mulder watched as Skinner carefully avoided eye contact

with him, choosing instead to meet his partner’s annoyed

eyes.

“Is he all right, Agent Scully?” Skinner whispered, as

though Mulder wasn’t sitting right next to her and hearing

every word.

Scully pushed the remains of her meal away, shifting over

in the booth so that she was a little further away from

Mulder. “That’s always debatable, sir.”

Skinner’s eyebrow raised, and his expression changed from

worried to amused. “What about at this minute?”

“Agent Scully’s sick of snow, sir,” Mulder offered.

Mulder was surprised to see the A.D. break out into a

smile. “Ah,” Skinner said, nodding. “I sympathize whole-

heartedly.” His boss looked out the window once again. “The

rain is accumulating at a rather alarming rate, Agents. May

I suggest that we head to our rooms?”

Mulder grinned as Scully rolled her eyes and shook her

head in exasperation. “Any idea how much we’re supposed to

get?” Mulder asked, scanning each face.

Skinner shrugged. “I didn’t hear any weather forecasts

today.” The A.D. looked at Scully questioningly.

She shook her head. “Me, neither.”

“Well, then, we’ll be surprised, won’t we?” Skinner

started to rise and Mulder pointed to the garlic bread.

“Are you going to eat that?”

Skinner looked down, then back up at Mulder. “You’re still

hungry, Mulder?” he asked with such awe in his voice that

Mulder supposed he should be embarrassed.

But he *was* hungry, damnit. For about half a second,

Mulder considered a sarcastic response, but that wouldn’t

gain him any brownie points–or food. “Yes, sir,” he said

in as contrite a voice as he could muster.

Skinner hoisted the plate, offering it to Mulder. “It’s

yours.”

Mulder grinned, scooping the bread off the plate and

devouring a third of it on his first bite. “Thanks,” he

said, around the mouthful.

“You’re welcome,” Skinner said in a slightly amused voice.

Scully was shaking her head, not commenting, but Mulder

heard her tsking him all the same.

Finishing off the final piece, Mulder cleaned his hands on

his still-intact napkin and rose, following Skinner and

Scully to the restaurant entrance. He waved a good-night to

Mr. Roux as they passed through the lobby.

When he stepped out into the night, a blast of snow-filled

wind struck him in the face, and he staggered back a step.

Turning up the collar on his overcoat, his eyes drifted

down to Scully’s high-heeled shoes, then to the slick, snow-

covered surface upon which they were about to travel. He

was suddenly very sorry they’d left the car back at the

rooms.

“Scully? Mulder?” Mulder looked up to find the A.D.

holding open the front passenger door of his rental car.

Grasping his partner’s arm gently but firmly, he guided her

to the car. She gave him a grateful smile as she settled in

safely and Skinner closed the door.

“Thanks, sir,” Mulder told him. “It was much nicer out

when we decided to walk.” He pulled open the back door and

slid in.

“No problem, Mulder,” Skinner said, getting in and

starting the engine. “Our rooms are fairly close together.”

Mulder and Scully exchanged a glance, and Skinner suddenly

looked uncomfortable. “I, uh, thought it might be easier if

we wanted to discuss the case.”

Mulder nodded, feeling a pang of sympathy for his

superior. He had no idea what to say, so he leaned back and

sat quietly while Skinner backed out carefully, then drove

them to their rooms.

Helping Scully navigate the slippery ground once again,

Mulder waited while she unlocked the door. Meeting the

A.D.’s curious look, Mulder explained. “We just dropped the

luggage in Scully’s room earlier.”

Skinner looked at Scully, then back at Mulder. “Of

course.” Still holding Mulder’s gaze, he reached into his

pocket and withdrew a key. “Good night, Agents.” His gaze

flicked over to Scully and then he began the slippery trek

to his room.

“Good night, sir,” they said, and Mulder wondered what the

hell all those meaningful looks had been about.

As Skinner disappeared through his doorway, Mulder stepped

inside Scully’s room and reached for his suitcase. His hand

hovered over it a second, then he asked, “Are you going to

be using the laptop tonight?”

His partner stifled a yawn. “Unh, uh.” She gestured toward

it. “It’s all yours.”

He smiled and picked it up, slinging the strap over his

shoulder. “Thanks.”

“Uh, huh,” she said, tiredly.

A sudden impulse overtook him, and Mulder had to reach

over and cup her cheek in his hand. “Do you know you’re

adorable when you’re sleepy?”

“Uh, huh,” she said, tiredly, and Mulder chuckled.

“I’ll let you know what I find out,” he said, softly,

letting go. He smiled as she let out a huge yawn.

“Tomorrow,” he added.

She nodded. ” ‘Night, Mulder.”

” ‘Night.”

Pulling the door closed, he checked that it was locked,

then headed next door. Once inside, he logged on to the FBI

database, found the casefile, read it, then downloaded it

to the hard drive; a quick call to the lone gunmen got him

access to the human resources records.

Mulder had never really given much thought to Skinner’s

career before the point where he’d intersected with

Mulder’s life. He’d been assistant director for as long as

Mulder had known him, yet logically Mulder knew that at

some point, Walter Skinner had been a field agent. He’d

assumed the man had had his share of rough cases, bad cases

and even downright horrific cases. And as Mulder dug a

little deeper into Skinner’s work background, he found that

he was right.

He also found that, while not the disobedient maverick

that Mulder may have been, his boss had bucked the system a

few times himself. The bulk of Skinner’s aberrant behavior

occurred during his early years at the Bureau, with the

balance of his career spent with an eye toward advancement.

All very predictable considering Skinner’s current

position, and all very upwardly mobile — with one notable

exception.

It was that one exception that surprised — and confused —

Mulder.

Why would a man so ingrained in bureaucracy request

control of a little-known, little-respected, and career-

killing division like the X-Files?

*****

Room 1246

1:46 a.m.

Skinner thumbed the off button on the remote, effectively

plunging the room into darkness. Through the thin motel

walls, he could just hear the sound of Mulder’s TV, and the

steady click-click of a computer keyboard. Christ, didn’t

the man ever sleep?

Lying in bed with his eyes wide open, Skinner snorted. Who

was he to talk? Since he’d arrived in Newark, the most

sleep he’d gotten in any one night was four hours. He had

to stop letting all the hostility get to him. God help him,

he didn’t think he could take it much longer. Four days

had been hard enough. He couldn’t imagine how the hell

Mulder dealt with it for eight years, let alone four days.

Feeling himself getting drowsy at last, Skinner made a

promise to himself. Now that he had someone in his corner,

he wasn’t going to take any more of the blatant disrespect

being shown him at that office.

He’d felt nervous coming in, even though he knew that he

should have had no reason to feel that way. If Robertson

hadn’t taken Skinner’s being made SAC over him so

personally all those years ago, he wouldn’t have ignored

Skinner’s orders not to raid that militant’s compound, and

Robertson wouldn’t have gotten himself killed — along with

seven other agents.

But there had been no way to prove that Robertson had

disobeyed a direct order. The only witnesses were dead.

Skinner had been very fortunate that the review board had

seen fit to believe him, even though they had still

replaced him.

That case had hung like a noose over his head until a

computer programmer, updating the office’s files to the

latest software, had discovered a hidden file on

Robertson’s old computer. Goddamned bastard had kept a

journal.

Six months later, a copy had finally filtered its way down

to Skinner. Robertson had recorded Skinner’s explicit order

to stand down and Robertson’s intention to disregard that

order; Skinner had actually felt lightheaded that such a

huge weight had been lifted off his chest.

Perhaps that was the reason he’d felt the need to have the

journal accompany him to this office where he was so

despised. Perhaps he finally wanted to clean the air and

clear his name.

*****

Act III

Fairbright Motel Restaurant

Friday, February 16

6:45 a.m.

Scully took a sip of her coffee, using the movement to

throw a surreptitious glance at each of her companions.

After greeting her ten minutes ago, both men had lapsed

into introspective silence, speaking only to relay their

orders to the bright-eyed waitress.

“Looks like it didn’t snow too much longer after we went

to bed last night,” she remarked.

“Hmm?” Mulder looked up, a befuddled expression on his

face, before realization entered his eyes. “Oh. No. It

changed to rain around 1:30.”

Scully looked at him in dismay; she wondered just how much

sleep he’d gotten last night.

“Were you working last night, Agent Mulder?” Skinner asked.

Mulder shook his head. “Just doing a little research, sir.”

“On the case?”

Another shake of Mulder’s head. “No. I… uh… needed to

take a break from it for awhile. I had something I needed

to check out.” Scully noticed how he was careful to avoid

any eye contact with their boss.

“Oh.” Skinner went back to staring out the window.

Mulder had obviously found something interesting, or he

wouldn’t be in such a contemplative mood. She could tell

from his demeanor that though it was nothing bad, it had

shaken him nonetheless. Catching his eye, Scully questioned

him with a raise of her eyebrow. A barely-imperceptible

shake of his head was his confirmation that, yes, he’d

discovered something interesting, and, yes, he’d disclose

it to her when they were alone. With a crease of her brows,

she asked if he was okay. The smile in his eyes told her

that he was.

They held eye contact another few seconds until the

waitress appeared with their meals. Sneaking a glance over

at Skinner, Scully blushed when she found herself under

Skinner’s appraising gaze.

The A.D. glanced at Mulder, then gave her a tiny smile

before giving his full attention to his Belgian waffle.

Scully leaned back in her seat and let out a breath

slowly. Picking up her fork and knife, she cut a piece of

her omelet and stuck it in her mouth, chewing thoughtfully,

wondering just when it was that the unspoken communication

that she and Mulder shared had evolved to include Skinner.

And whether or not that should worry her.

*****

Newark Field Office

9:05 a.m.

Mulder tried not to fidget while Skinner read over his

report. It was as complete as he could make it with the

information available, yet Mulder still felt that it was

lacking. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was missing

some important piece of the puzzle.

“I’ll get agents out to those locales you specified,

Mulder. Nice work.”

Skinner’s voice startled him out of his introspection.

“I’d like Scully and myself to join them, sir.”

The A.D. pondered his request a moment, then nodded.

“Okay. You can take number three.”

“Actually, sir, I’d like to see all of them. I may be able

to glean a little more insight as to who might be next if I

can talk with them myself.”

Skinner watched him a moment. “Is something bothering you,

Agent Mulder?”

Blowing out a frustrated breath, Mulder nodded. “There’s

something I’m not getting. Something’s missing…” He

concentrated on trying to figure out what. “It’s the

killer,” he said, finally. “I can’t get a real handle on

him. I can’t get inside his head. These killings are just a

little too cold, a little too calculated for your average

serial killer.”

“Sounds more like an assassin than a serial killer.”

Mulder stared open-mouthed at Skinner before his vocal

cords caught up to his brain. “That’s it. That’s it

exactly. There’s no emotion involved. These people are

being executed. The commonality won’t be personal, it’ll be

professional. The key to finding the killer isn’t in

profiling *him,* it’s in profiling his victims.

“What about this?” Skinner held up Mulder’s report.

“It’s still valid, sir; since I didn’t have a good feel

for the perpetrator, I focused on identifying the most

likely targets by comparing them to the victims. I was on

the right track, but the wrong train.” Mulder tapped the

report in Skinner’s hands. “I’d like to do a little fine

tuning, though. Give a little more attention to the

businesses. That’s where Scully and I will concentrate our

efforts.”

“Do you want me to hold off on releasing this?”

Mulder shook his head. “No. Go ahead.” He met Skinner’s

eyes. “We’ll need a copy of the interview transcripts,

though, so we can pick up where the others left off.”

Skinner nodded. “All right. When do you propose to begin

your interviews?”

Mulder thought a minute, calculating what would be

necessary to complete his profile. “We should be ready

early this afternoon. I’m going to have Scully check more

thoroughly into the victims’ corporate backgrounds. Maybe

it’s as simple as how they got their starts.”

Mulder made a move toward the door. “With your permission,

sir?”

The A.D. nodded, and Mulder left to track down his partner.

Newark Field Office

11:26 a.m.

“Assistant Director Skinner?”

The booming voice startled Skinner, although it was the

recognition factor rather than the timbre that surprised

him. “Director?” The A.D. stood up behind the desk,

blinking in confusion at the director of the FBI and the

attractive middle-aged woman at his side. Neither looked

particularly happy. “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I understand you’ve called in another profiler.”

Skinner met the man’s eyes, frowning just the tiniest bit.

“Not exactly, sir.” At the director’s upraised eyebrow,

Skinner hastened to explained. “I asked two of my agents

from D.C. to consult on the case, because of the bizarre

nature of the…” His voice faltered as the face of the

middle-aged woman registered in his mind as belonging to

the wife of one of the victims. “…because of the unusual

circumstances surrounding this case.”

Noting the slightly grateful expression in the director’s

eyes only appeased him marginally. “Then you aren’t

replacing Neuberg?” The director’s eyes darted to the

woman, whose name Skinner now recalled as Birmingham.

“Is that an option?”

“It could be. May I ask why?”

Skinner’s gaze darted to the woman, then back to the

director. “Agent Neuberg appeared to be having a difficult

time with this case,” the A.D. said, wording it as

tactfully as he could.

The director seemed to accept that, and turned to the

woman. “Did Agent Neuberg mention that fact, Mrs.

Birmingham?”

Mrs. Birmingham squared her shoulders. She fixed her glare

on Skinner while delivering her reply to the director. “He

said that his superior was a difficult man to work for, and

that nothing Roger came up with pleased him.”

Skinner had to admit that that much was true. Garbage

presented as fine cuisine was still garbage.

“Well, Skinner?” the director asked. “Were you giving Mr.

Neuberg a hard time?”

“I don’t think so, no, sir.”

The director leafed through several papers he was holding

in his hand. “Agent Neuberg states that you dismissed his

profile outright. He also states that you were short with

him in front of other agents — he has corroborating

statements from the other agents to support that — and

that you deliberately excluded him from last night’s

meeting.”

Of course, he would have corroborating statements from the

other agents; they all hated Skinner. But what in hell else

was he talking about. “Meeting? There was no meeting last

night.”

“In the conference room. Around 6 p.m. You, your agents,

and all the other agents.” The director looked up from

where he had been reading. “According to Agent Neuberg,

he was never invited to attend, even though he is the

profiler

of record on this case.”

Skinner shook his head, sighing. “Sir, that was no

meeting. “The Newark agents were talking with one of my

agents from D.C. They’d worked together before, and they

were getting re-acquainted. It was all very informal and

spontaneous; there were no ‘invitations’ extended.”

Apparently satisfied with that explanation at least, the

director nodded. “As to the other matters…” The director

looked him square in the eyes, waiting.

Skinner decided that he may as well get it out into the

open. Perhaps then he could concentrate on the specifics of

the case, rather than on the personal emotional aspects of

this case. “Sir, Neuberg gave me nothing any first-year

agent couldn’t have come up with. His profile as to the

make-up of the killer was a textbook generalization that

fits fifty percent of the population — and it’s that low

only because he’d utilized the well-known edict that serial

killers are almost always male. After only a few hours,

Agent Mulder has given me a clear-cut idea as to where to

center our efforts.”

The A.D. took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “As to

the ‘words’ Agent Neuberg and I shared, I was out of line

for speaking to him as I did in front of his fellow agents,

and while I apologize for the method, I don’t apologize for

the content.” Straightening himself up to his full six-feet

two inches, Skinner eyed the shorter man. “He has no

business being on this case, and if you want me to catch

this killer, I’d have a much better chance with him out of

my hair.”

Just the inkling of a smile lifted the corners of the

director’s mouth, and Skinner mentally kicked himself for

using that particular analogy. It took the steam out of an

impassioned plea when your audience was trying very hard

not to laugh at you.

Mrs. Birmingham had no such compunctions, however, and let

out a guffaw that so contrasted her refined appearance that

Skinner stared in open-mouth amazement. Quickly covering

her mouth, the woman blushed and stared at Skinner in

shock. “I’m sorry. It’s just…” She turned away, but not

before Skinner saw the tears of laughter threatening to

spill

from her eyes.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Birmingham. I understand,” Skinner

told her quietly. He knew that sometimes the most minute

things could set you off when you were trying so hard to

hold it together.

Pulling a handkerchief out of her purse, the woman dabbed

at her eyes before turning back around, all evidence of

weepy widow extinguished. “He’s right, Louis. I should

never have forced Roger’s all-too-questionable talents upon

Mr. Skinner. The man may be married to my sister, but he’s

still not the brightest bulb on the tree.”

The director nodded curtly. “Very well. Neuberg’s off the

case.” He looked at Skinner. “Do you require the services

of another profiler? I know Agent Mulder is no longer

profiling full-time, and he may not–”

“No, sir. Agent Mulder’s got a pretty good handle on this

case. With your permission, I’d like to have him officially

sanctioned as the profiler of record. He and his partner,

Agent Scully.”

At the director’s questioning gaze, Skinner explained.

“Agent Scully is a gifted pathologist, and her insights

often have a direct bearing on Agent Mulder’s findings.”

“All right, Walter.” The director placed a guiding hand on

Mrs. Birmingham’s arm, directing her gently toward the

door. “Good luck.” After one last second of eye contact, he

disappeared through the door.

Skinner sank down slowly into his chair, took off his

glasses and rubbed his eyes.

Christ, you never knew who was going to pop up out of the

woodwork in this damned place.

******

Manning Research & Development Corporation

Office of Wilfred Manning, President and CEO

4:43 p.m.

“This way, please.” Mulder and Scully were ushered into a

— what could only be described as ‘posh’ — office. The

administrative assistant brought them to the front of an

imposing mahogany desk, where she stopped and addressed the

nattily-dressed man of about fifty behind the desk. “Mr.

Manning, these are Agents Mulder and Scully from the FBI.”

She nodded to the agents and took her leave.

Mulder extended a hand to the man behind the desk.

“Pleased to meet you, sir.”

It was when Manning impatiently waved to the two chairs

behind them that Scully noticed that he was speaking on the

telephone. She exchanged a glance with Mulder, who

reclaimed his hand, and they took the indicated seats.

Scully crossed her legs, pulling out her pen and notebook.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw her partner do the

same.

At the sound of the phone’s being put to rest in its

cradle, she looked up. “Mr. Manning, as you know, you’ve

been identified as a potential target–”

Manning waved his hand in dismissal. “You can dispense

with the preliminaries, Agent…” He looked from face to

face, his own expression one of annoyance. “Which is

Mulder, and which is Scully?”

“I’m Agent Scully,” Scully answered, feeling a little

peeved herself at the man’s rudeness.

“Fine. Agent Scully, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty.

What do you want to know?”

At Scully’s first question and Manning’s answer, Scully

heard Mulder curse under his breath. After jotting down

Manning’s response, she glanced Mulder’s way. “Pen’s out of

ink,” he said, sheepishly. “Do you have another one I can

borrow?”

As Scully started to search through her purse, Manning

tossed a pen to Mulder. “Here, use this. I don’t have all

day.” Opening his top middle drawer, he pulled out another

pen.

“Thanks,” Mulder mumbled, and Scully could feel his

embarrassment.

About ten minutes into their interview, Scully noticed

that Mulder had grown quiet. A few minutes later, when

Manning put a halt to the proceedings — for the fourth

time — to take a phone call, Scully used the opportunity

to check on her partner.

“Mulder, are you feeling all right?” Scully asked.

He shook his head shakily. “I think… I… need to

leave,” Mulder replied, and Scully was alarmed by

the pain she could discern so easily in his voice.

“What is it?” she asked, leaning over a little closer to

him. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she asked, gently.

“My… head…” Suddenly, he bolted out of his chair,

notebook and pen falling to the plush carpeting with a

‘ploof, ploof.’

“Mulder!” Scully said frantically, as Mulder

staggered toward the door. Manning was staring at Mulder as

though he’d tracked something nasty into his immaculate

office.

Hastily dismissing whoever he was talking to, Manning

addressed Scully. “You two stop off for a couple of beers

before you came here?”

Appalled, Scully rose, focusing her attention on the man

who’d been far and away their most unpleasant interview of

the afternoon. She gave him her coldest glare. “Thank you

for your time, Mr. Manning.” Picking up Mulder’s notebook,

stashing it in her suit pocket, she felt a certain

satisfaction at leaving Manning’s expensive pen where it

lay. Then she pivoted away, striding quickly to catch up to

her partner, who was at the door, searching blindly for the

doorknob.

Not giving a damn about what it looked like, Scully

wrapped an arm around Mulder’s middle, pulled open the

door, and guided them through; she was worried by Mulder’s

complete aquiescence as he let her lead him out. He was

leaning so heavily on her that she was convinced he was

going to pass out.

When they burst through the front doors, Mulder walked a

few steps, gave a huge shudder and dropped down onto the

nearest step. Leaning forward so that his head was resting

on his knees, Mulder gasped, “Oh, God. Oh, Christ. Oh,

fuck.”

“No, Mulder, get up.” Scully pulled at his arms, trying to

raise him. “I’m going to take you to the hospital.” She

tugged him again, but didn’t budge him. “Mulder, please!”

she pleaded, getting really scared now.

“Scully, wait,” Mulder, breathless, told her. “I’m all

right now. Just need a minute…” He continued to breathe

so heavily that Scully was certain he’d hyperventilate.

“Relax.” She rubbed a hand across his back. “Relax,

Mulder.” His breathing started to calm. “Easy, now. That’s

it,” she soothed.

Finally, Mulder drew in a deep shuddering breath and

straightened. The tears still clinging to his eyelashes

bore silent witness to what he’d just been through. His

eyes held a remnant of fear when they looked into hers.

“That was most decidedly not fun.”

Scully reached up and very gently dried his eyes with her

fingers. “Do you know what happened?” she asked, her

fingers lingering on his closed eyelids, her thumbs rubbing

gentle circles on his cheeks.

“Unh, uh.” Mulder tilted his head up, as if reaching out

to her fingers with his face. “I’d consider going through

it again, though, if this is the end result,” he said

softly.

Scully let her hands rest on his face more fully. “You

don’t need to go through that to get to this point, Mulder.”

She felt him go utterly still beneath her hands. “I

don’t?” he asked, and she noted how his voice was still

shaky from his ordeal.

“No, you don’t,” she said softly.

His eyes opening and looking at her like she’d just told

him he’d won a million dollars shocked her to her senses.

Just what in God’s name was she thinking? They were on the

front steps of a multi-national business, about two minutes

away from a shift change, and she was…

She pulled her hands away from his face and stood up. “For

God’s sake, Mulder, you were in agony. Nobody in his right

mind would want to go through that again. Come on. I still

want you to get checked out at the hospital.”

Ignoring the look of bewilderment and then hurt on his

face, Scully helped him to his feet. “I’m fine,” he

mumbled; then, as she was about to protest, he added, “but

I’ll go.”

She was stunned. Mulder voluntarily submitting to a stint

in the emergency room? Whatever had happened to him had

scared him pretty badly.

Shoving prim and proper Agent Scully to the back of her

mind, Scully allowed her emotions to the forefront for

once. Taking her partner’s arm gently, she led him away

from the building.

When they reached the car, Mulder drew the keys out of his

pocket, unlocked the passenger door, then handed the keys

to her. Waiting until she was seated before he seated

himself, Mulder slid into the seat, reaching for the seat

belt. As he clicked the buckle home, Scully caressed his

cheeks with her fingertips.

Mulder’s head snapped up in surprise.

“Just so you know…” She let her hands trail down his

face before she let go.

After a few seconds of staring at her, he swallowed and

nodded. She almost didn’t catch his smile before she turned

away to reach for her seat belt.

******

Rodgers Memorial Hospital

Emergency Room Bay 3

9:36 p.m.

Mulder lay huddled on his side, shivering. After they’d

put him through a battery of tests, they’d plugged him into

an I.V. and relegated him back to bed, which was fine with

him, except that it was twenty below zero, and they’d left

him without a blanket.

As he and Scully had begun their journey to the hospital,

Mulder had been glad he’d agreed to go, because the closer

they’d gotten, the worse he’d felt. His headache had

returned, and they’d had to stop three times so he could

throw up.

He didn’t know what they were pumping into him, but it was

working because the urge to vomit had — thankfully —

dissipated, and his headache had lessened. He shivered

again.

If they could only remember that he was a person, not just

a patient, and bring him twenty or thirty blankets, he

could die a happy man.

He wondered where Scully had got off to. He’d been pretty

out of it when they’d arrived at the hospital, and this was

the first time he’d actually noticed her absence. Lifting

his head, he found that it sat curiously heavy on his

shoulders. He felt a kind of hazy awareness of his

surroundings. Was he in a real bed? Was he lying on top of

the covers? Could he navigate himself into a position where

he could actually utilize the damned things?

Attempting to sit up made the room shimmy and shake around

him, and he dropped back down like a rock. He lay on his

back, panting, for a few minutes, then resigned himself to

his blanketless fate and rolled onto his side, curling his

body in as much as he could in an attempt to conserve his

body heat.

As he lay pondering the fact that he hadn’t warmed himself

up by the exertion of trying to sit up, he heard his name

being called softly.

“Scully?” he murmured, not opening his eyes.

The voice was deep and masculine. “It’s Skinner. How are

you feeling, Agent Mulder?”

“Cold,” he replied, without having to think about it. His

body was beginning to shiver in earnest. “Very fucking

cold.”

In a matter of seconds, something heavy and — warm –was

draped over him. Greedily reaching for it, he pulled it up

over his shoulders, hunching down into its depths.

“Careful, Mulder, you’ll dislodge the I.V.”

He felt Skinner carefully arranging the cover around the

I.V. line. “Thanks,” Mulder said, rubbing his cheek against

the material, surprised at its roughness, but not enough to

give it up.

“You’re welcome. Better?” Skinner’s voice held the gentle

quality the A.D. only used for those occasions when Mulder

was dying, or…

“Not your fault,” Mulder whispered, getting drowsy now

that he was toasty warm.

“I shouldn’t have called you in on this,” Skinner argued,

more with himself than with Mulder.

“I’m fine, sir.” He carefully rolled onto his back so he

could see his boss, taking care to hold onto — what he now

saw was — Skinner’s coat. Blushing served to make him a

little warmer, and he reveled in it. He fingered the coat.

“I appreciate this.” Smiling sleepily at Skinner, he

yawned. “Warm now. Tired now.” He closed his eyes.

“Is it all right for you to sleep?” Skinner asked,

nervously.

“Didn’t say not to.”

“All right, then.” He felt Skinner’s hand closing around

his arm. “Get some sleep. I’ll try to find Scully.”

” ‘Kay.”

The room, and Skinner, faded away.

******

Rodgers Memorial Hospital

9:42 p.m.

Skinner walked out into the organized chaos that was the

emergency room triage. Picking his way toward the

admissions desk, he spotted Scully and quickly detoured her

way, relieved that he wouldn’t have to ask the ninety-seven-

year-old woman behind the desk for help in locating his

agent.

“Scully!” he called, just before she disappeared behind a

door.

The door opened a second later, and Scully gestured him

inside. “Did you just get here?” she asked.

“About ten minutes ago.”

Scully appeared to be calculating. “Did you see Mulder?”

she asked.

Skinner nodded. “He’s sleeping. He says he’s fine. Is he?”

Looking into her eyes, trying to gauge his agent’s true

condition, the A.D. was heartened by what he saw there.

“He’s not fine yet, but he will be.”

“What happened?” Skinner asked.

Scully started walking away, and it was then that Skinner

noticed that they were in a private room containing one bed

— and one patient. “A less severe version of what happened

to him.” She indicated the patient in the bed.

“Who is he?”

“Wilfred Manning.” When Scully noted his struggle to place

the name, she elaborated. “He’s on Mulder’s list.”

“He’s still alive?” Skinner stared in shock at the man

lying so still, hooked up to all sorts of machines.

“For now.”

“What happened to them?”

Scully sighed tiredly, and Skinner could have kicked

himself for putting her — and Mulder — through this.

Damn, but it was selfish of him to have called in these two

for what he could now see was a purely personal reason.

While there was no doubt that Mulder’s profiling skills and

Scully’s forensic ones were definite plusses, Skinner could

have — and should have — just as easily gone through

channels to request another profiler.

“Sir?” His agent’s laying a hand on his forearm jolted him

back to the present.

He gave her a rueful smile. “Sorry. You were about to

explain…”

Nodding, Scully flipped open Manning’s chart. “Lobar

intracerebral hemorrhage occurs when there is a bleeding in

the superficial white matter of the cerebrum. While he did

have a bleed, which caused cerebral edema, they were able

to repair the damage quickly, mostly because we knew

exactly what we were dealing with. Plus, we think Manning

may have become suspicious at the first sign of pain and

called for help immediately, based upon what happened to

Mulder.”

Skinner just looked at her, puzzled.

“What happened to Mulder, happened in Manning’s office,”

she told him.

Skinner stared at her in disbelief. “Why were they both

affected? Why weren’t you?” He broke off suddenly, really

looking at her now.

“No, you’re right,” she reassured him. “I wasn’t affected.

But neither was Manning — at least not at the same time

Mulder was.”

“Have you figured out how they were affected?”

Scully nodded gravely. Walking over to the closet, she

tugged on the door, and it slid open, revealing a man’s

suit jacket dangling from a hanger. She pointed to the

right breast pocket. “I think it was that.”

Skinner’s attempt at reaching for the pen was aborted by

his agent’s hand shooting out and grasping his wrist

tightly. “Don’t touch it!”

Her rebuke was sharp, but he deserved it. “Sorry,” he

said, freeing his wrist from her surprisingly-strong grip.

“Is it still activated?” Starting toward it, he checked

himself and decided to wait until he heard what she had to

say.

“I don’t know. I haven’t had time to check.” She eyed the

pen with loathing. “I only know that Mulder had possession

of that thing for ten minutes, and look what happened to

him.” Walking back over to the bed, she looked at the man

lying there. “Manning would have been in better shape if he

hadn’t had that…” She indicated the pen with her chin.

“…on his person. He’s lucky the paramedics had to remove

his jacket to treat him, or he’d be dead.”

“Is Mulder… Did Mulder suffer any damage? Any bleeding?”

His agent met his eyes and nodded. “Very little, though.

We were able to get it under control right away, without

surgery. You know, it’s funny…” She stopped in mid-

sentence, staring out into space. Skinner knew to give her

a minute to gather her thoughts. “That device wasn’t

activated when Mulder first started using it. And Manning

had been using it before that.” She pierced him with those

blue eyes of hers. “Either it activated itself at a certain

point, or someone activated it while we were there.”

Skinner didn’t like the implications that engendered. “Do

you think that Mulder was the intended target?”

Scully pondered this thought for a minute, then shook her

head. “No. I think Manning was the target. Mulder’s using

the pen was a purely random event. The killer couldn’t know

that his pen would run out of ink at that precise moment.

He couldn’t know that Manning would give Mulder his pen.”

Skinner nodded his agreement. “We’d better get that to the

lab so they can tell us how it works.” Was it controlled

remotely by someone in the building? Did it have a further

range? Was it on a timer? Was it activated by some other

method, by touch, sound, light?

Scully nodded. “I’ve already put in a call.” She glanced

at the door, then back at him. “Do you… would you mind

waiting for them here? I left word that they were to come

directly to this room, but I don’t want them to disturb

Manning. You know how carried away the tecchies can get

over something new.”

The A.D. laughed softly. “All right.”

His agent started for the door, then hesitated. “I’ll

be… I need to…” She pressed her lips together tightly.

“Go ahead,” he said, gently.

Smiling gratefully, if a little embarassedly, Scully

nodded and left to see her partner.

*****

Act IV

Rodgers Memorial Hospital

Room 2437

Saturday, February 17

6:43 a.m.

When Scully’s eyes shot open, she was blinded. Giving a

strangled cry, she shifted in the chair, until she was out

of range of the sunbeam that had attacked her. Squinting

against the light, she wondered if it was possible to be

part vampire, and then she decided that, yeah, before that

first cup of coffee, it was a definite possibility.

A soft chuckle off to her left reminded Scully of where

she was. She whirled toward the sound, her mouth already

forming its, “Mulder!”

But Mulder was holding a finger to his lips, and she

whispered instead, “What?”

Her partner’s eyes shifted to the non-sunny side of the

room, where A.D. Skinner sat sprawled, dead asleep, in the

most uncomfortable position Scully could ever recall seeing

a human being in. “Mulder, we’d be doing him a favor if we

woke him up out of that human pretzel imitation he’s doing.”

Mulder shrugged. “It didn’t seem to do you too much harm.”

“But I’m shorter. Not to mention younger–”

“Not to mention cuter,” Mulder interjected, eyes twinkling

mischievously.

Scully stared at him for a second. Well, someone was

feeling better. “I’m glad you think so,” she said dryly,

taking particular delight in having turned the tables as

his face reddened. “So, how long have you been awake,

watching me sleep?” She let her gaze drift to Skinner

momentarily. “Or have you been watching him?”

Mulder imitated her action of glancing at Skinner, then

returning his gaze to her. “Well, now that you mention it,

there is a certain boyish charm–”

“Ahem,” a deep, gruff voice interrupted, and Scully

thought she might bust a gut at the look of astonishment on

Mulder’s face — Mulder’s very red, very flustered face.

“Sir, we were just about to wake you up,” Scully told

Skinner in an attempt to give her partner a little time to

gather his wits about him.

Skinner gazed at her. “Oh, is that what you were doing?”

As she tried to formulate some sort of answer, Skinner

turned toward her partner. “Feeling better, Agent Mulder?”

“I was,” Mulder mumbled, and Scully almost felt sorry for

him.

Skinner stood up, wincing when he straightened his back.

Eyeing Scully, he shook his head. “Tell me you aren’t

feeling the effects of that torture device,” he said,

indicating the chair she was still sitting in.

She shrugged, trying to hide her smile.

“Well, I’m going back to the motel and then I’m heading to

the office.” He turned his gaze to Mulder. “Are you being

released today, Agent Mulder?”

Glancing at Scully before looking at Skinner for the first

time since Skinner had awakened, Mulder shrugged

sheepishly. “To tell you the truth, I have no idea. I

really don’t remember all that much after we got here. I

was pretty fuzzy…” He stopped, frowning. “I’m even fuzzy

about being fuzzy.”

“That’s from the injury, Mulder,” Scully told him. “One of

the symptoms is a drop in alertness.”

“Yeah, well, I can certainly attest to that,” Mulder said.

“How’s Manning?” Skinner asked Scully.

“What about Manning?” Mulder interspersed. “Was there an

attempt on his life?”

Scully nodded. “On yours, too, when you come right down to

it.” Mulder just stared at her, and after a few seconds

passed Scully realized that she’d been waiting for his

usual quick response, but it wouldn’t be forthcoming — not

yet, anyway. “We think it was Manning’s pen, Mulder. It

would explain why you and Manning were affected and I

wasn’t.”

“I should have gotten this, shouldn’t I?” Mulder said, as

if reading her mind. “I should have made the connection. It

should have been so clear to me.” His look was one of

pleading. “But it wasn’t.”

“It will be. Soon. Very soon.” She patted his face. “Don’t

worry. You’ll be making those unsubstantiated leaps of

logic before you know it.”

“When?” he asked, sounding, as only Mulder could, both

petulant and worried.

Scully sighed. “You’ve been through a lot, Mulder, and

believe it or not, you’ve been very lucky.”

Mulder lowered his eyes, nodding. “I know.” Scully had

filled him in on the causes, symptoms and treatment for LIH

when they got the case, so she was sure he was well aware

that he could very well have gone another route — he could

have died, or he could have suffered loss of brain

functions.

“Scully, how do you know I’m not–”

“You’re not,” she said fiercely. “I’ve been over your

chart a hundred times. You didn’t have any brain damage.

This… fuzziness as you call it, is mostly from the

medication.”

Mulder’s eyes darted to the I.V. line. “How much longer?”

Scully pressed Mulder’s call button. “Let’s find out.”

“Er… I’m heading out now,” Skinner said, an apologetic

look on his face. “Scully?” He motioned her over.

Giving Mulder a look of encouragement, she squeezed his

arm before walking across the room to where Skinner had

moved.

“When you get a chance, I need whatever you and Mulder

found out yesterday,” he said, his voice a near whisper.

“And if he’s up to it — if *you* think he’s up to it, I’d

like his thoughts on it, too.”

“Yes, sir,” Scully said, nodding.

“And, uh…” Skinner paused, looking uncomfortable, his

eyes settling on her partner for a moment before meeting

her eyes again.

Scully thought she would cut the man a break. “I’ll call

you as soon as I know, sir.”

His face reflecting his surprise, then his chagrin,

Skinner nodded stiffly. “Thanks,” he mumbled. Then he

turned and left quickly, almost bumping into the nurse as

they met in the doorway.

“Mr. Mulder… Dr. Scully… Do you need help with

something?” Scully watched in amusement as the nurse tried

to check out her boss without being too obvious about it.

Scully tried to hide her smile. “Agent Mulder was

wondering when he could get his I.V. line taken out.”

The nurse walked over, smiling in sympathy. “It can be

rather uncomfortable, can’t it?” She picked up Mulder’s

chart, seemingly unsurprised to find it lying on the foot

of his bed rather than outside the door where it belonged.

“I’m sure you know this already, Dr. Scully, but he’s

coming along quite well. Dr. Hallinan left orders that if

he was awake and alert and in no pain, we could remove it

as early as 7 a.m.” She glanced at her watch. “We have

about four minutes, but I think that’s close enough.”

Mulder studied the ceiling while the nurse pulled the

needle from his vein, and Scully looked out the window to

give him some privacy.

“All done,” the nurse announced cheerfully. They thanked

her, and she left.

“Am I getting out of here today?” Mulder asked.

Scully nodded. “I’m pretty sure you are, but you’ll have

to take it easy for a few days. No more interviews,

Mulder,” she told him pointedly.

Mulder rubbed his forehead. “From what you told me about

the pen, it doesn’t look like it’ll be necessary anyway.

Anything back from the lab yet?”

Scully shook her head. “Not that I heard.” She leaned back

in her chair. “Skinner said he’d let me know when they

found something.”

When Mulder yawned, Scully stood up, stretching. “You know

what? I’m going to let you sleep while I go back to the

motel to take a shower and change. When I come back, they

should be about ready to release you.”

Not until she finished speaking did she realize that

Mulder hadn’t uttered one word of protest.

She laid a kiss on her sleeping partner’s cheek and

tiptoed out.

*****

Newark Field Office Saturday

8:43 p.m.

Mulder reflected upon what a dubious stroke of luck it had

been that he’d handled that pen, that once they’d

discovered the means by which the murders had been

committed, it had been ridiculously easy to trace them to

their source.

Lawrence Dexter III, certified genius according to the

tecchies, certified disgruntled environmentalist and

suspected killer according to the FBI, was now in custody a

few doors away from the office in which Mulder lay resting

on a couch, forbidden from questioning the suspect by his

partner.

Amazingly enough, Mulder was perfectly okay with that

order. He saw no need to personally interview the suspect.

For a genius, the guy had been dim-witted enough to use his

own name and credentials at each of the locations he’d

worked. Mulder couldn’t get over the fact that they’d

actually sat in Manning’s waiting room with the man. He and

Scully had even spoken to Dexter, had apologized for

bumping him from his appointment to consult on the firm’s

computer system. It was a service Dexter had performed

regularly for MR&D and, they knew now, for the companies of

every single victim. It was also how he was able to find

out which companies used the same types of chemicals that

had killed his mother two months earlier.

Skinner had actually picked Dexter as most likely from the

list of names and bios they’d hastily put together. When

the technicians had dissected the pen, they were terribly

excited to find that it contained a highly-specialized

microchip; Skinner was excited to find that only ten people

in the Newark area had purchased the chip in the last

month. Once they had the list, Skinner had skimmed it and

immediately pointed to Dexter’s name.

As well as having the capability to conceive and assemble

the device necessary to transmit the frequency necessary to

damage a person’s brain, Dexter was an ex-marine. It was

his “Special Services” status that put Skinner on to him.

No mere egghead, he. The man had “skills.”

Once they confronted him, the man had cracked like an

eggshell. He’d readily admitted to killing the men, but he

didn’t seem to understand that he’d done anything wrong.

Why, he’d questioned, was it wrong to kill people who

killed other people? It was exactly what he’d done when he

was a marine, he’d explained, and he’d never been accused

of wrongdoing then; rather the opposite — he’d been

congratulated, even decorated.

If killing was wrong, why did his own country condone it?

Why did they teach him how to be so good at it? Hadn’t he

been fighting for mom and country? When someone threatened

his country, he’d kill them. This time someone didn’t just

threaten his mother, they’d *killed* her. He’d merely

carried out his duty. Couldn’t they see that? Didn’t they

understand? He was only doing what he was supposed to do!

Mulder sighed. Although the FBI had more than enough

evidence to convict Dexter, it was looking more and more

like they weren’t going to have their day in court — at

least not at this point in time.

“You’re thinking again.”

Eyes still closed, Mulder smiled at his partner’s voice.

Either she was getting better at skulking about, or he’d

been concentrating way too hard. In any event, he hadn’t

heard her open the door or walk up to him.

Opening his eyes, he swung his legs over the side and sat

up, offering her a seat beside him. “Anything new with

Dexter?”

Scully plunked herself down a few inches from him,

surprising the hell out of him by dropping her forehead

onto his shoulder. “Where should I start?” she murmured,

and Mulder could feel the movement of her lips against his

arm.

“Is he still looking good for an insanity plea?” he asked,

softly, hardly daring to breathe lest she should take it as

an indication to move.

“Mm, hm. But Skinner thinks it’s all a very good act.”

“Because of the Special Services thing?”

“Uh, huh.” Scully leaned back into the cushions, and

Mulder deemed it safe to take air into his lungs again.

“So what’s happening now?”

“Skinner’s requested his military record.” She placed a

hand beneath his elbow and stood, helping him to his feet.

“We’re going back to the motel to get some sleep.”

It never even occurred to Mulder to question her. Even

though he’d been ‘taking it easy,’ with the exception of

the last hour he’d been taking it easy in a chair or on his

feet. As Popeye would so eloquently put it, he was pooped.

“Skinner?” he asked.

Shaking her head, Scully aimed them toward the door.

“Going another few rounds with the locals, I imagine.”

Mulder stilled her hand as she reached for the doorknob.

“They’re opposing him?” At her nod, he commented, “I should

think they’d want to see Dexter stand trial and not get off

on some plea.”

Scully sighed. “I swear if he told them to be careful,

they’d shoot each other just so they could do the opposite

of what he said.”

Mulder blew out a breath. “God, they’re even more

infantile than I gave them credit for.” He let go of

Scully’s wrist, and she opened the door. “Should we stick

around?” he asked. “Lend some support?”

“Tomorrow, maybe.” She placed a hand on the small of his

back and gave him a gentle shove. “Tonight we’ve been

ordered to bed.”

He had to turn and look at her; she could not have made

that remark in innocence.

“Gotcha,” she said, smiling evilly.

“Scully, my heart,” he said, dramatically, flattening his

palm over the proper area on his chest.

“Mine, too,” she said, softly.

Then she gave him another nudge, propelling him down the

corridor on his two suddenly-rubbery legs.

***************

Newark Field Office Conference Room

Saturday

8:39 p.m.

“What the hell is wrong with all of you?” Skinner’s eyes

roamed over the eleven agents assembled around the

conference table. “This is real life! This isn’t some

schoolyard where you take a stand against the school bully.

Think very hard about this before you turn in those

reports. Please. This man is a cold-blooded killer, not

some poor schmuck we decided to pick on.”

“You can’t dictate what we put in our reports, Skinner,”

Dalton snapped. “We may have had to kowtow to your commands

before, but the case is over.”

“Fine. It’s over. But, please… Think very hard with

regard to what you’re about to do — about what you’re all

about to do.”

“It’s not as though our reports hold any sway with the

trial anyway,” Rodriguez put in. “They’ve got more than

enough evidence–”

“The evidence is not what’s in question,” Skinner cut him

off. “We have him dead to rights; that part is cut and

dried. The question before the attorneys is *how* to try

him: as a criminal or as criminally insane. There’s a huge

difference, as you all know.”

“Look, Skinner,” Dalton said. “I interrogated him. He

cried like a baby the entire time.”

“It’s an act,” Skinner said, shaking his head. “It’s all a

very good act.”

“Oh, come on,” Agent Falite spat. “Are you telling me that

that guy’s wetting himself was an act?”

“Yes!” Skinner yelled. “Don’t you get it? This is

precisely why he could get away with using his own name. No

one would believe anybody could be that stupid. And then he

uses the insanity angle.”

“Nope.” Cjeka spoke up from the end of the table. “Not

buying it. The guy’s a fruit. I have an uncle who’s a

permanent resident in a psychiatric home, and Dexter is a

carbon copy of him.”

Skinner looked around the table at each stubborn face.

“Doesn’t it bother you that this man has killed six people?”

“You killed eight.” Eric Stone was staring at him with

unabashed hatred in his eyes.

A little taken aback, Skinner muttered, “You don’t know

what you’re talking about, Stone.”

“Don’t I?” Stone spewed, rising from his seat. “I lost a

good friend in that raid, Skinner.”

“We all had friends that you sent to their deaths,”

Donnelly charged, also standing.

“We’re not here to talk about that,” Skinner said, in as

calming a voice as he could muster. “We’re here–”

“No!” Rodriguez bellowed. “You’re not brushing it aside

again.”

All around the table, agents were standing, shouting

accusations at him, murderous intent in their eyes. Skinner

recognized that the situation was getting out of control.

He thanked the powers that be that he was seated close to

the door. With eleven angry agents encroaching upon his

territory, Skinner started backing toward the door. He

yanked it open — and found his escape route blocked.

“What’s going on?” Mulder asked.

*****

Newark Field Office Conference Room

Saturday

8:44 p.m.

They’d almost made it.

A dozen or so more steps and they would have been out the

door. But the angry shouting coming from the conference

room by which they had been passing could not be ignored.

They’d both known who was in there and who the intended

target of that anger most likely was. Mulder had glanced at

her quickly before he’d reached for the door, only to have

it pulled open by Skinner.

“What’s going on?” Mulder had managed to ask —

And then a fist came flying at him from out of the mob of

agents surrounding their boss. Mulder took a hit high to

the cheekbone, staggering back into her arms, flailing out

in an attempt to right himself. Only Skinner’s reaching out

and grasping Mulder under the armpits saved them from

landing in a very undignified heap on the floor.

“Rodriguez, you jerk! You clocked Mulder, not Skinner,”

came Stone’s voice.

“I’ll fix that right now,” Rodriguez said, reaching for

the A.D., who was still holding onto a dazed Mulder.

“You touch him, I’ll shoot you.” Scully held her weapon in

both hands, her firearm trained on Rodriguez’s chest.

“Whoa, Agent Scully. We have no argument with you. There’s

no need for that.” He indicated her gun.

“There’s no need for any of this,” Mulder said, rubbing

his face, pulling himself gently out of Skinner’s grip.

“Thanks, sir,” he said, positioning himself between the

agents and his boss.

“Hey, I’m sorry, Mulder,” Rodriguez said. “I didn’t mean

to — ”

“No, you meant to hit an assistant director of the FBI,”

Mulder said, and that seemed to bring them to their senses.

Very slowly, they backed away, drifting back to their

seats. Scully lowered her weapon and holstered it.

“You ladies and gentlemen seem to be operating under a

misconception,” Mulder addressed them. “May I suggest that

you read the special addendum to the events of May 16,

1991? I believe you’ll find it very interesting reading.”

“We’ve already read his lies,” Stone spewed.

“They’re not lies, and they’re not his,” Mulder said.

“They’re Robertson’s.”

“Rob — He was killed in the raid,” Dalton countered. “How

could he have given an account of it?”

“I never said he did,” Mulder replied blandly.

“Then what –”

“Just read it,” Mulder said, “and if it should necessitate

a revision in your reports, I’m sure you’ll have time

before the 10 a.m. deadline.”

Scully touched his elbow, and she was pleased to see the

smile return to his eyes. He laid a hand on her upper arm,

a gesture that meant that he needed another minute;

inexplicably, she also read apology in his eyes. When he

turned toward Skinner, indicating the door with a tilt of

his head, she knew why.

She read the uncertainty in Skinner’s eyes as he

interpreted Mulder’s message; when he locked eyes with her,

she gave him a small smile and a minute nod of her head.

The possibility of a romantic evening with her partner

would have to be put on hold yet again.

The story of their life in one simple sentence.

She gathered up Mulder and Skinner, and they left the

conference room.

******

X-Files Office

Thursday, February 22

3:24 p.m.

In the end, it hadn’t made an iota of difference.

Mulder didn’t know whether the Newark agents had changed

their reports or even whether they’d read about Robertson’s

journal. He hadn’t asked.

“Hey, partner, who was that on the phone?” Scully asked as

he was hanging up.

“Skinner,” he said, hurrying to help her with the mountain

of file folders she was carrying. “Jesus, Scully, did you

say a *little* research on spontaneous regeneration?”

“Mulder, can I… Thanks,” she said, as he relieved her of

two-thirds of the stack. “Can I help it if you’ve

accumulated a ton of information on the subject?” He

followed her eyes as she took in the piles of folders on

every available flat surface. “…on a lot of subjects.”

“Hey, I’m nothing if not thorough.” Following her to her

desk, he set his accumulation atop hers.

“So what did Skinner want?”

“Oh. Uh, Dexter.” Mulder flipped open the top folder.

“They’re going ahead with the insanity plea.”

Scully sighed loudly, and Mulder looked up. “He fooled

them all, didn’t he?” she asked. “Dexter’s going to get

away with murder.”

The folder no longer holding his interest, Mulder closed

it and tossed it back onto the heap. “Maybe.”

“Sometimes I wonder why we even bother.” She sat down

heavily in her chair.

Mulder touched her lightly on the arm. “You know why.”

Continuing as if he hadn’t spoken, she said, “Why do a

good job when the criminals get off with a slap on the

wrist?” Finally acknowledging his presence, she looked up

at him just as he opened his mouth to offer his opinion.

“Oh, excuse me, this one will get sent to his room without

his supper.” She crossed her arms, her posture exuding

frustration.

“Scully,” he started in his ‘voice of reason,’ then

stopped. She was right. They broke their asses to catch

these guys, to get them off the streets, and for what? So

some court-appointed psychiatrist can ‘rehabilitate’ them?

Well, it worked just fine for Eugene Tooms, and it’ll be

just as successful with Dexter. Looking down at her just

then, he saw his emotions mirrored in her eyes, and an

overwhelming sadness washed over him.

Look what he’d done to her. Wasted away her youth,

stripped her of her innocence, robbed her of her belief in

right and wrong, good and bad.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Scully said, standing up and grabbing

his hand.

“What?” he said, confused, stumbling over his feet as she

dragged him toward the coat rack.

“You are not going to wallow in self pity, or pity for me,

or whatever it is you want to wallow in.” She snatched his

coat off its hook and held it open for him; he stared at

her in stunned silence for a moment before the sheer force

of her indignation snapped him out of his funk.

“Scully, it’s only 3:30,” he said, finally finding his

voice. “Where am I going?”

He tried to hide his pleasure when she removed her coat

also. “*We* are going…” She stopped. “…somewhere fun.”

“Fun?” he asked, tickled. “I didn’t know you indulged in

‘fun,’ Scully.”

“I have been known,” she replied in an affronted tone, “to

bat the occasional ball, down the sporadic quart of rocky

road ice cream–”

“You madwoman, you,” he laughed, getting more into the

spirit of the moment. Maybe things weren’t as dismal as

he’d painted them after all. “So where are we going?”

“To…” She ceased all movement, thinking. “I don’t know,

Mulder,” she admitted. She gave his arm a tug, then opened

the door. “But let’s go now.”

He followed after her without giving it a second thought.

******

Epilogue

Assistant Director Skinner’s Office One Week Later 9:37 a.m.

Skinner looked up from his report at the knock on his

door. “Yes?”

His assistant opened the door and stepped inside. “This

just came for you, sir.” She handed him a sealed letter-

size envelope.

“Thank you.” Accepting the mail, he waited until the door

closed behind her before he returned to his desk and opened

it.

He let out a huff of breath as he read the contents:

Lawrence Dexter III escaped from custody en route to the

Newark Federal Court Building from the Raynham Psychiatric

Hospital. Two guards and one bystander were killed during

the escape. At the recommendation of the staff

psychiatrists, Dexter had not been handcuffed.

The End

Feedback is appreciated!

Jo-Ann at 70302.3654@compuserve.com

SNOWMAN

Story and Illustrations by CindyET

TITLE: Snowman

AUTHOR: CindyET

E-MAIL ADDRESS: cindyet@tdstelme.net

INFO: Written for I Made This Productions Virtual Season 8

DISTRIBUTION: Archive anywhere — but please drop me a

note to tell me where.

DISCLAIMER: The characters Fox Mulder and Dana Scully are

the property of Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions. No

copyright infringement intended. This is for fun, not

profit.

SPOILER WARNING: Vague references to War of the

Coprophages,

Rain King and Je Souhaite.

RATING: R (Language and Violence)

CLASSIFICATION: X

SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully travel to the remote town of

Caribou Corners, Maine, to investigate the chilling death

of 10th-grader Danny Davis. The murder weapon? An icicle.

The motive? Unknown. The killer? Depends on whom you ask.

Some believe he’s human. Some claim he’s a legendary man of

snow. The one thing everyone agrees on: he’s going to kill

again.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: Special thanks to Marybeth for the great

beta.

You’re the best! Any errors found herein are mine.

FEEDBACK: Please. Write to cindyet@tdstelme.net.

AUTHOR’S WEBSITE:

http://www.crosswinds.net/~bluefroggie/cindyet.html

SNOWMAN

PROLOGUE

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Caribou Corners High School

Caribou Corners, Maine

Friday, February 16

2:59 p.m.

“Heads up,” a voice warned and a pencil whizzed like a

dart toward the bulletin board, just missing the teacher’s

right shoulder. Ricocheting off the wall, the miniature

harpoon tumbled to the floor with a chattering bounce. It

settled at Ms. Spencer’s feet.

“Ooops. Almost nailed her.” A flurry of tittering giggles

swirled through the class of grinning tenth graders.

At the front of the room Connie Spencer swallowed and

blinked. The pencil’s broken tip pointed at her like an

accusing finger and she struggled to keep her knees from

buckling. Clearing her throat, she selected a nub of chalk

from the blackboard’s powdery tray. Her fingers trembled as

she wrote, causing the chalk to sputter and skip. Her back

to her students and her arm jogging with the rise and fall

of her shaky letters, she strained to recall when, or even

how, things had grown so out of control. She knew it was

long before today. Or even before the start of school five

months ago. In fact, Connie Spencer couldn’t remember a

time when she hadn’t felt afraid.

In a shivering script, she wrote the students’ assignment

on the blackboard.

— 10-page essay on the theme “tales within tales” as

illustrated in Mark Twain’s “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of

Calaveras County” —

Disgruntled groans, rumbling through the room like an

avalanche, died when the bell rang, ending the school day

and marking the start of Winter break. Books slammed shut.

Chairs scraped backward. The students poured out the door,

hurrying to their lockers and their coats. Turning from the

blackboard, Connie Spencer gaped at the disheveled rows of

empty desks and breathed the room’s chilling silence into

her lungs with a feeling of longed-for liberation.

“Hi Mommy!” Seven-year-old Katie twirled into the room,

arriving from her afternoon dance lesson. “We practiced

pirouettes in ballet class today,” she said and proudly

demonstrated her newfound skill.

“That’s very good, Katie.” Connie watched her daughter

whorl around her. “Did your dad drive you?”

“Nope. Miss Tredwell drived.” Katie spun again, her bulky

winter coat flaring like a woolen tutu. “Miss Tredwell said

my pirouette was best in class.”

“Don’t boast, Katie.”

“Well, she did!”

Connie was certain Katie told the truth, that the ballet

teacher had indeed complimented the girl. Not because Katie

was an especially good dancer, but because Anne Tredwell

was a kindhearted woman. Connie was grateful for the

special attention the dance teacher lavished on her

daughter.

Connie and Tom Spencer’s divorce had been hard on Katie.

Their marriage had been even worse. The memory of her ex-

husband’s uncontrolled temper knotted Connie’s stomach even

after two years. Although Tom Spencer was granted

visitation rights with his daughter, a court order kept him

at a safe distance from his ex-wife.

Sliding into her coat, Connie watched her daughter spin

happily around the room.

“You ready, honey?”

“I know a song, Mommy. Wanna hear it?” The girl didn’t

wait for an answer but launched into her song. “Frosty the

snooowmaaan, is a fairytale they SAY. He was made of SNOW

but the children KNOW how he came to life one DAAAY!” While

Katie sang, Connie took hold of her hand and led her into

the hall. Their rubber boots squeaked against the glassy

floor as they walked toward the exit. Halfway down the

corridor, Katie abruptly stopped at the door of the

school’s biology lab, locking her sherbet-colored boots in

place and halting her mother.

“Hi, Uncle Phil!” The girl waved a mittened hand at the

biology teacher.

“Hello, Katie. Hi, Con.” Phil Peters smiled and waved

back. “Doin’ anything special for winter break?” He stepped

into the hall, plunging his arms into his coat sleeves

before pinching Katie’s nose and making the girl giggle

with delight.

“No. No plans. How about you, Philly?” Connie answered,

her unease lessening somewhat in her older brother’s

calming shadow.

“Not a thing. Just the way I like it.”

“Whaddabout Winter Carnival?” Katie asked. “Aren’t you

gonna go, Uncle Phil?”

“Of course I am. How ’bout you?”

“Uh huh! I’m gonna build a snowman for the snowman

contest. I know a song. Frosty the snooowman…” she began

again.

Peters held open the door and Katie pranced out into the

snow, singing her song and twirling in dizzying circles.

“Be glad to give you a lift home, Con,” Peters offered,

ushering Connie out into the cold.

“No, thanks. We enjoy the walk and it isn’t far.”

“Okeydoke. Hey, if the weatherman’s right about Sunday’s

snowstorm, I’ll be by to shovel your driveway.” He winked

and headed to the parking lot, strains of “thumpity thump

thump, thumpity thump thump” making him smile as he waved

goodbye.

“Look, Mommy, look! It’s Frosty!” Katie ran through knee-

deep drifts to a large snowman standing guard in the

schoolyard. A striped scarf in the school colors flapped

around the snowman’s neck and two tiny stone eyes appeared

to squint across the yard at Connie. A wide line of pebbles

dotted the white face, creating a lop-sided grin while

skinny, bent arms branched out into woody fingers swayed in

the breeze, waving hello to the girl’s waiting mother.

Katie rubbed her mittens over the snowman’s big round belly.

“Mommy, look…” Katie stopped mid-sentence when she saw

three familiar boys exit the school behind her mother.

Danny Davis, Ricky Hart, and Benjamin Shute.

“Troublemakers” she’d heard Uncle Phil call them.

“Hey, Ms. Spencer,” Danny sniggered as the three scruffy

tenth-graders crowded around Connie.

“She looks kinda nervous, Danno. Maybe you scare her,”

Ricky giggled, looming over his much smaller teacher.

“Do I scare you, Ms. Spencer? BOO!” He puffed in her face,

his breath blowing a lock of her dark hair across her

forehead.

“G-go home, boys.” She tried to steady her voice but it

whined from her throat like wind skimming across the icy

school yard.

The boys laughed. “‘Go home, boys, go home, boys,'” they

mimicked.

Danny pushed closer until he squeezed Connie firmly

between himself and Ben. The slippery fabric of his down-

filled vest squealed against her raspy wool coat. The boy’s

airy winterwear exhaled the odor of pizza, cheap cologne

and car grease when he pressed into Connie and she held her

breath against the smell.

“We’re havin’ waaaay too much fun right here, Ms. Spencer.

Ain’t you havin’ fun, too?” he asked.

Connie shook her head, her eyes fixed on Danny’s widening

smirk.

“P-please go…” A wave of fear blurred her vision and in

her mind’s eye she saw her ex-husband’s raging face

floating between her and the haughty teen. She could almost

feel Tom Spencer’s brutal fingers crushing her throat.

A biting swirl of snow billowed around the three teens and

their teacher. Across the schoolyard, Katie lost sight of

her mother in the sudden squall. The percussive crack of

shattering ice boomed through the air as long icicles

plunged from the school’s overhanging roof, one after the

next, detonating on the sidewalk with the raucous pulse of

a Gatling gun. Katie blinked with each explosive jolt.

“Mommy…?”

She was answered by a gurgled scream. The vortex of

blowing snow sucked skyward, popping Katie’s ears and

inexplicably taking the blizzard with it. When the blowing

snow cleared, Danny Davis lay sprawled on the sidewalk with

a four-foot-long spear of ice stuck through his neck. His

mouth was packed solid with snow. Blood pumped from the

wound splitting his throat and the vermilion puddle haloing

the boy’s head steamed with the lost heat of his dying

body.

A scraping *schht, schht* of ice drew Katie’s attention

away from the frightful scene. Glancing over her shoulder,

she was certain she saw the frozen snowman’s stony smile

twitch. The words “catch me if you can” whistled past her

ears.

ACT I

Two days later

Route 1, Northern Maine

*Schht, schht, schht.*

Scully sat in the driver’s seat, watching Mulder scrape

ice from the windshield of their rental car. A fog of

breath huffed from his nose with each thrust of the scraper

across the glass. Despite the car’s suffocating defroster,

this was Mulder’s third trip into the stormy weather to

clear their view. Lashes laden with ice and dark hair

turning white, he squinted to avoid the onslaught of

stinging sleet that pinged and bounced off the de-iced

surface of the car.

“The Ice Man Cometh,” he announced, sliding into the

passenger seat and slamming the door behind him. A blast of

bitter air followed him inside, causing Scully to shiver.

“You look like an abominable snowman,” she said and

shifted the car into drive.

“Didn’t know you were up on such things, Scully.” A shake

of his head sent a spray of melting snow in her direction.

She sniffed her disapproval, flooding her sinuses with the

humid smell of his damp wool coat. “I watched ‘Rudolph’ as

a kid.”

“Well, I always thought I had more in common with Yukon

Cornelius than with the Bumble. I identified with the

prospector’s elusive quest for the unattainable.”

“Silver and gold?”

“Metaphorically speaking.” With a sly half-smile, Mulder

plunged an icy hand down the back of Scully’s collar. She

let out a yelp of displeasure when his chilly fingers

pressed into the bare skin of her neck. “Pay dirt, Scully!

I may have just struck the mother lode,” he chuckled into

her ear.

“Stop it, Mulder. Tell me about our case,” she advised.

He withdrew his frigid fingers and rearranged himself

comfortably in the passenger seat.

“Danny Davis, tenth grade student at Caribou Corners High

School, died when an icicle pierced him through the neck.

His lungs were packed like a snow cone.”

“How did an icicle pierce his neck?”

“Well, that’s the question, Scully. His two best friends,

Benjamin Shute and Ricky Hart, who were witnesses, say

Danny was stabbed by their teacher, Connie Spencer.”

“So if the boys saw Ms. Spencer stab Danny, how is this an

X-File?”

“You know I *love* it when you ask that. It send chills up

my spine every time.” He shivered to emphasize his point.

“Just give me the facts, Mulder.”

“Ricky and Benjamin weren’t the only ones to witness

Danny’s unlikely demise. Actually, quite a few people saw

what happened.”

“Do they corroborate the boys’ story?

“Snowball’s chance in hell, Scully. Phil Peters, the high

school biology teacher who happens to be Connie Spencer’s

brother, was standing by his car in the school parking lot

about sixty yards away when the incident occurred. He

insists the event, although unusual, was an accident. He

claims a strong wind knocked a row of icicles from the

school’s overhanging roof and Danny was simply an

unfortunate victim when one falling icicle flew at him and

stabbed him in the neck.”

“Flew at him?”

“Sounded suspicious to me, too. A dance teacher, Anne

Tredwell, was in the parking lot as well, talking with

Peters. She’s uncertain about what she saw…or actually,

what she didn’t see. She said the blowing snow made it

impossible to know for sure what happened. But based on Ms.

Spencer’s character, she’s adamant that Connie Spencer

didn’t kill the boy.”

“X-File, Mulder, X-File. Get to the point if there is one.”

“There is. Ms. Spencer’s seven-year-old daughter was

present, too. She claims a snowman killed Danny.”

“A snowman?”

“A snowman.”

“This girl is how old?”

“Seven. Her name is Katie.”

“Explain to me why you think Katie’s allegations are worth

risking our lives driving to Caribou Corners, Maine, in

this snowstorm?”

“Katie’s version of the event was corroborated by the

school’s custodian. The janitor, Elwood Jenkins, was in the

schoolyard shoveling snow at the time the alleged attack

took place.”

“And he says a snowman killed the tenth-grader? With an

icicle?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know how unlikely that story sounds?”

“I do. Or I did. But after a little digging, I’ve changed

my mind.”

“And what did you find?”

“An old legend, Scully.”

“You’re not planning to sing ‘Frosty the Snowman,’ are you?”

“Not at all. This is something with a little more local

flavor.” Mulder’s limbs vibrated with excitement and Scully

marveled at his frenetic enthusiasm. No matter how many

myths and legends he encountered, his fervor never seemed

to wane.

“According to legend…” she prompted, causing him to

smile and launch into his story.

“According to legend, back in the early days of Caribou

Corners when the small village was little more than a few

families settled bravely in the remote north woods, a

handsome trapper named Georges Desjardins married a pretty

farm girl named Catherine Dawes. Georges adored his

beautiful young wife and lavished her with devoted

attention. In turn, Catherine loved Georges with all her

heart. On the eve of the happy couple’s first wedding

anniversary, a mysterious stranger visited their home

demanding to be fed and given a place to spend the night.

Although the stranger was fearsome in appearance, having

skin and hair and even eyes the color of new fallen snow,

Georges and Catherine were kindly people who opened their

home to the man. During dinner, the stranger told them his

name was Maledeneige.”

Scully snorted. “Man of snow?”

“That’s what the legend says, Scully. Anyway, after

dinner, Maledeneige took a white stone from his pocket and

laid it on the table. ‘This is a magic stone,’ he told the

young lovers. ‘It has the power to protect you from your

fiercest enemies. Since you have treated me with kindness

tonight, I will offer you the stone in exchange for a kiss

from your pretty wife.’ Well, Georges did have an enemy, a

brute of a man named LaRoche who was a trapper, too. Both

men hunted the same forest. One day, finding his line of

traps sprung but empty, LaRoche had accused Georges and

threatened to kill him. Although Georges was innocent, he

believed the surly trapper meant to kill him the next time

they met. Not wanting to leave Catherine a widow at the

hands of LaRoche, Georges agreed to trade his wife’s kiss

to Maledeneige for the magic stone.”

“I don’t suppose Catherine had anything to say about all

this?”

“If she did, it’s not mentioned in the legend. So,

Maledeneige took Catherine in his arms and kissed her long

and hard. He continued his kiss until she became frightened

and began to struggle. Despite her protests, Maledeneige

persisted with his unwelcome kiss. Georges grew jealous and

angry at the sight of the stranger’s snow white lips

pressed against his struggling young wife’s mouth.”

“What did he do?”

“He tackled Maledeneige and the two men fought. Georges

was no match for the white-eyed stranger and Maledeneige

soon had the upper hand. With a ferocious twist, he snapped

Georges’ neck, killing him.”

“No!” Scully found herself caught up in Mulder’s tale.

“Yes! The stranger then turned to Catherine. ‘Now both the

magic stone and you are mine!’ he said. Mad with grief and

fright, Catherine grabbed a pot of boiling water from the

stove and hurtled it at Maledeneige. The scalding water hit

him full in the face. His snow-white skin melted like

candle wax as he screamed in agony. Covering his wounds

with his hands, he ran from the house, vowing to return and

kill Catherine later that night.”

“So what happened?”

“Catherine was afraid for her life. So she took the magic

stone the stranger had left behind and packed it into the

center of a snowball. From the snowball, she built an

enormous snowman. ‘My husband is dead and I am alone,’ she

told the snowman. ‘You must protect me from the evil of

Maledeneige.’ To her astonishment, the snowman nodded. And

he slid across the yard to stand guard at her front door

while she hid inside the house.”

“Did Maledeneige come back?”

“He did. And he was more frightful looking than ever with

his features distorted by his burns, and his white eyes

staring out of gaping holes in his scarred, snow-white

flesh. Unaware the snowman contained the magic stone,

Maledeneige climbed Catherine’s steps and prepared to break

down her door. The snowman grabbed Maledeneige by the neck.

It shoved a frosty fist into the stranger’s terrible mouth,

past his melted white lips and down into his throat. The

snowman’s arm filled the surprised man’s gullet, packing

his lungs with snow and suffocating him. Maledenaige was

killed and Catherine was saved.”

“Well, that’s a good fairytale, Mulder, but it doesn’t

explain the death of Danny Davis.”

“That’s not the end of the story.”

“Oh. So what happened next?”

“The snowman continued to guard Catherine against all

enemies. But try as he might, he couldn’t save her from her

own grief. You see Catherine’s heart broke when her loving

husband was killed. She couldn’t live without him. She fell

ill and soon died. And without Catherine, the snowman was

left to search for others who might need his protection. To

this day, the snowman returns to Caribou Corners each

winter where he roams the countryside looking for

injustices against the weak, avenging cruelties visited

upon the helpless.”

“So he’s a good guy? Everyone lived happily ever after?”

“That would depend on your point of view, Scully. I doubt

Danny Davis or his family would look at it quite that way.”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Connie Spencer Residence Caribou Corners, Maine

*Schht. Fump.*

*Schht. Fump.*

*Schht. Fump.*

Connie paused at her snow shoveling when she saw an

unfamiliar car pull to a stop at the end of her half-

scraped walk. She didn’t recognize the official looking man

who sat in the passenger seat or the red-haired woman

behind the wheel. When they stepped from the car, Connie

blinked in surprise at their smart wool coats, impractical

calfskin gloves and ankle-high boots. Neither wore a hat

and their salon-cut hair flailed in the sleety wind.

Clearly they weren’t locals. Connie glanced over at the

driveway where Phil leaned on his shovel staring at the

strangers, too.

“Ms. Spencer?” Mulder asked and when Connie nodded, he

hooked Scully’s elbow and escorted her through the snow to

the cleared portion of the walk. He reached into his breast

pocket and withdrew his ID. “I’m Agent Fox Mulder and this

is my partner Dana Scully. We’re with the FBI.”

At the sight of Mulder’s badge, Phil abandoned his snow

shovel to join his sister. Nearing the agents, he extended

a hand and introduced himself.

“I’m Phil Peters, Connie’s brother,” he smiled. “You’re

here about Danny Davis?” he guessed.

“Yes. May we ask you each a few questions?”

“Sure,” Peters ushered them toward the house.

“Actually, Mr. Peters, we’d prefer to interview you

separately,” Scully said as tactfully as possible. “The

garage?” she suggested, gesturing to the open door.

“Oh…uh, sure. Whatever you say.”

“Shall we go inside, Ms. Spencer?” Mulder asked, guiding

Connie with a sweep of his arm.

Connie stabbed her shovel into the snowbank and led Mulder

into the house. “How ’bout we sit by the woodstove?” she

invited.

The heat from the stove was welcome after the stinging

cold outside. Connie motioned Mulder to the couch.

“Tell me what happened at the school last Friday, Ms.

Spencer,” Mulder prompted.

“Well, Katie…that’s my daughter…Katie and I were on

our way home. She stopped to get a look at a snowman in the

schoolyard. I-I waited for her on the sidewalk. That’s when

some boys from my class came along and…well, they

uh…they s-surrounded me.” Connie picked at a ragged nail.

“Was Danny Davis one of the boys?”

“Yes. And a couple of his friends. Ricky Hart and Ben

Shute.”

“What did the boys say?”

“They…they didn’t say much really, but I knew they were

trying to scare me.”

“Why would they do that?”

“They’re not my best students. I-I told them to go home,

but they wouldn’t go.” Connie gulped for air at the memory.

“You felt in danger?”

“Yes.”

“Why was that?”

Connie thought back to the panic that had surged through

her at the time. Trapped between the boys, unable to

breathe, she had sensed the grip of her ex-husbands fingers

around her throat. She felt it again now and the feeling

was so real, she raised a hand to her neck to prove to

herself that no one actually held her.

“I-I felt cornered, I guess. The boys are a lot bigger

than I am.” Connie lifted her torn nail to her teeth.

“How was Danny killed, Ms. Spencer?”

“I-I’m not sure. I mean I know an icicle…” Connie

shivered, the scene still vivid in her mind. “It went

straight through his neck. I guess it fell from the roof

when the wind started blowing.”

“Ms. Spencer, did you want Danny dead?”

Despite his gentle tone, Connie flinched at the question.

She wondered how he knew, how he had guessed that for a

single, brief moment she had wanted the boy dead. The shame

of that desire now flared across her cheeks and she looked

away from the agent’s prying eyes.

“No! I-I was afraid, but I didn’t want him dead. He was

just a boy, for goodness’ sake. I didn’t kill him. It was

an accident. It had to be an accident.”

“The other two boys, they claim you stabbed Danny in the

neck.”

“They’re mistaken. I-I did no such thing.”

“Your daughter said Danny was killed by a snowman. Why

would she say that?”

“Agent Mulder, she’s just a little girl. She imagined it

is all.” Connie’s eyes flashed with anger. “Danny’s

death…well, it was a horrible thing for a child to see.

And Katie’s already seen more than her fair share of

horrible things.” As soon as the words were out of her

mouth, Connie wished she could take them back. Ashamed of

her failed marriage, she had no desire to explain her years

of abuse. Not to this complete stranger. Not to anyone. How

do you convey the constant fear? The beatings. The black

eyes and broken bones. Connie had lost several teeth while

Katie watched, wide-eyed and frightened. Even as a baby in

a high chair, Katie bore silent witness to one terrible

bloody encounter after the next. Tom Spencer never hit his

daughter, but Connie had suffered his unpredictable

battering for five long years.

“What are you saying, Ms. Spencer? What exactly has Katie

seen?”

“Agent Mulder, Katie’s father and I are divorced. Our

marriage wasn’t a happy one. It was hard on Katie. That’s

all I meant.”

“I’d like to talk with your daughter,” Mulder said. When

Connie’s eyes widened, he quickly added, “About last

Friday.”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“I can understand that, but Katie witnessed a possible

murder. I need to question her about what she saw. Please,

call her in.”

“She…she’s not here right now. She’s with her father.

They’re at the schoolyard, building a snowman…for…for

tomorrow’s Winter Carnival.”

* * *

In the garage, Peters leaned against Connie’s old Dodge.

“Sorry I can’t offer you a chair, Agent Scully. You’re

welcome to share the bumper.” He smiled.

“I’m fine, Mr. Peters. This won’t take long. Can you tell

me what happened last Friday?”

“A terrible accident,” Peters became serious and shook his

head. “Freaky. As you can see, we’ve had a lot of snow in

Caribou Corners this winter. It’s several feet deep on most

roofs and the school’s no exception. I’d have to say a

sudden gust of wind caused the snow to slide off the school

roof, taking the icicles with it. Danny…well, he was

standing beneath it when it happened and an icicle caught

him in the neck. He bled to death in a matter of a few

minutes. The report said the icicle hit his carotid artery.”

“Was Danny standing alone under the overhang?”

“No, Connie and two other boys from her class were on the

sidewalk as well. Ben Shute and Ricky Hart.”

“But no one else was hurt?”

“No, thank God.”

“You’re aware, aren’t you, that the other two boys have

accused your sister of stabbing Danny with the icicle?”

“Yes, I’ve heard that. Those boys…well, there’s no nice

way to put this, Agent Scully…those boys are

troublemakers. Connie’s had a hard time with ’em all year.

I know from personal experience they can be disruptive and

they have little respect for authority. Connie warned the

boys weeks ago that if they didn’t buckle down, they’d fail

her class. A failing mark would mean repeating tenth grade,

so you can see why the boys might want to make trouble for

Connie.”

“When the accident occurred, did you have a clear view of

what happened?”

“I’d been watching them, keeping my eye on them from the

minute the boys showed up, in case Connie needed my help. I

was about to intervene when the wind started blowing the

snow around. I saw what happened, Agent Scully. I was

looking right at them. Connie didn’t stab that boy. Nobody

stabbed him. It was an accident, not murder.”

“Mr. Peters, I have to ask you this.” Scully looked a bit

embarrassed. “Why did your niece claim a snowman killed

Danny Davis?”

Peters relaxed and actually laughed out loud.

“She’s a 7-year-old, Agent Scully. She’s heard that silly

old snowman legend all her life and took it to heart when

the accident occurred. She’s just trying to make childish

sense of a terrible situation. You don’t put any credence

in a crazy fairytale like that, do you?”

“Scully?” Mulder interrupted, poking his head around the

doorframe. “If you’re finished here, I’d like to head over

to the school. I wanna get a look at that magic snowman.”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Caribou River

2:32 p.m.

Ricky Hart reset the tip-up and de-iced his fishing hole

using a beat-up skimmer to clear out the slush. A fat

hornpout lay dying at his feet, its gasping gills sluggish

as it simultaneously suffocated and froze. Several yards

away, a couple more traps waited to snare an unwary fish or

two.

“Leave it be, Jack!” Ricky ordered, frowning at his

pestering dog. The shaggy mixed-breed danced around the

boy, begging for a handout. To keep the dog away from his

fish, Ricky tossed the hornpout into an Igloo cooler and

closed the lid. He aimed a half-hearted kick at the dog.

When a northerly wind skated along the river’s frozen

surface, Ricky turned his back to the blustering snow.

Keeping an eye on his traps, the boy pushed his hands

deeply into his pockets in an effort to keep them warm. He

shivered as another swirl of snow penetrated the worn

fabric of his jeans, biting the backs of his legs from his

calves to the tops of his thighs.

Glancing at the high school perched on the distant slope,

Ricky thought back to Friday. Danny’s death was Ms.

Spencer’s goddamn fault, he was sure, although he hadn’t

truly seen her do it. At the time, he’d closed his eyes

against the blowing snow, but even so she was to blame.

He’d told the sheriff as much, too. Ms. Spencer was a

wacko. Everybody knew she was nuts. Hell, her husband went

off and left her because she was certifiably crazy, so damn

paranoid Tom Spencer couldn’t stand to live with her

anymore. They should lock her away in a loony bin

somewhere. No way was he going back to her class, even if

it meant a suspension.

Jack barked and trotted to the far trap. Snout buried in

Ricky’s tracks, a frosty sneeze threatened to send the dog

bumping into the tip-up.

“Com’ere, Jack,” Ricky called and whistled through his

teeth. Jack stood at attention, ready to bolt back to the

boy. But then he hesitated, nose in the air. His hair

bristled along the ridge of his back. He looked beyond his

young master and barred his teeth. A low growl gurgled from

his throat, even as his tail slid between his legs.

“Jack! What’s a’matter, boy?” Ricky took a step toward the

hunched dog as Jack released a spatter of warning barks.

*Schht. Schhhttt! Schhhhhtttttt!*

A scraping current of air plowed into Ricky’s back,

popping his eardrums and propelling him forward. He

stumbled and a frosty arm, bitter cold and alarmingly

powerful, caught him around the waist from behind,

preventing him from sprawling to the ice. The arm squeezed

and forced the air from the boy’s lungs. Ricky tried to

inhale, desperate for a breath as his ribs cracked, but a

sleety hand folded over his face, blinding him and blocking

his mouth. The intense cold scalded the boy’s nose, cheeks

and chin. He sucked against the glacial hand, his breath

hitching in his empty chest. His arms flailed like the

hornpout’s gills, desperate at first, but slowing, slowing.

I’m dying, the boy thought as snow filled his mouth,

glutting coldly across his tongue and pressing against the

back of his throat, stretching the malleable skin to an

impossible thinness. The fist of snow filled him, expanding

until the boy gagged on the arctic pain. Frosty shards

grated the fragile membranes of his mouth, his throat. His

insides split and ripped lengthwise, bursting like a frozen

water pipe, as the plug of snow jammed his gullet. Packed

solid with icy crystals, the boy lost consciousness and

slipped stiffly to the frozen surface of the river.

ACT II

Caribou Corners High School

3:12 p.m.

Katie’s giggles reached Mulder and Scully the moment they

stepped from their car. Crossing the school parking lot,

they watched the little girl wrestle with a snowball at

least half her size. Unable to budge the monstrous sphere

another inch, her father joined her effort, helping her

lift the ball into place atop a similar globe.

“Next we make Frosty’s head, Daddy!” Katie squealed and

danced a crooked circle around the headless snowman.

Tom Spencer ignored his daughter’s frolicky enthusiasm,

staring instead at Mulder and Scully. Even from several

yards away, he could make out the badge on Mulder’s

proffered ID.

“I haven’t gone near Connie,” Spencer insisted, gloved

palms raised. “I don’t know what she’s told you, but I

haven’t broken the restraining order.”

“We’re not here about that, Mr. Spencer. We’re

investigating the death of Danny Davis and we’d like to

speak with your daughter.”

“Katie? What for?”

At the mention of her name, Katie stopped her spiraling.

“Me?” she asked, her reedy voice quavering into nothingness.

Scully approached the little girl and knelt in the snow,

putting her eye-to-eye with the seven-year-old.

“Hi, Katie. My name is Dana,” she introduced gently.

“That’s a nice snowman you’re making.”

“Yep!” the girl brightened. “His name is Frosty. D’you

know Frosty the Snowman?”

“Yes, I do. The song says he came to life one day.”

“Uh huh! Thumpity thump thump, thumpity thump thump,”

Katie sang, “Look at Frosty GO!” The girl’s enthusiasm made

Scully smile. The child was cute. With dark hair peeking

out from under an ice cream-colored cap and a shallow

crescent dimpling her wind-chapped chin, she resembled her

mother, but without Connie’s undercoat of sadness. “My

snowman’s gonna come t’life, too!” Katie proudly claimed,

“‘Cause I got a magic stone.”

“A magic stone?” Mulder asked, stepping closer and giving

Scully a quick glance.

“Yep! Wanna see it, mister?”

Mulder nodded and crouched, too. Katie tugged off an icy

mitten and dug into her pocket. Withdrawing her hidden

treasure she unfolded her fingers with a triumphant smile

and exposed a snow-white stone.

“What makes your stone magic?”

“It’s gonna bring Frosty to life. Like the hat.”

“The old silk hat in the song?”

“Yep. Only, I din’t have no hat so Mr. Jenkins gave me

this magic stone.”

“Mr. Jenkins?”

“He works at Mommy’s school. He fixed the song.”

Mulder looked confused. “Fixed the song?”

“Like this: ‘There musta been some magic in that white

stone Katie found, ’cause when she placed it in his

hhhhhead, he began t’dance arounnndddd!’ See?”

“Have you ever seen a snowman come to life, Katie?” Scully

asked.

The girl’s happy smile vanished, melting into a tremble of

fear. Dread peaked her delicate brows, transforming her

into a miniature replica of Connie Spencer.

“Yes,” Katie whispered.

“Where?”

“Here.”

“At the school?”

“Mm hm.”

“Can you show me?” Scully held out a gloved hand. Mitten

dangling, Katie placed her tiny fingers in Scully’s palm.

With Mulder and Tom following a few paces behind, Katie

towed Scully across the schoolyard to the snowman standing

guard at the front walk.

“Him.” She thrust an accusing finger at the leaning snowman.

To Scully the snowman looked like any average snowmen:

three giants spheres of snow, one stacked precariously atop

the next, tilting the figure a bit and giving it the

impression of motion. Small stones defined the eyes and

mouth; its expression appeared grim but not necessarily

malevolent.

“Tell me what happened, Katie,” Scully asked gently.

The girl sucked her lip into her mouth. Her brown eyes

glossed with tears.

“Danny wanted to hurt Mommy. He scared her. The snowman

doesn’t like Mommy to be scared.”

“He doesn’t?”

“No. He got mad and blew the wind and knocked the icicles

off’n the roof and made a whooshey noise and…and stuck an

icicle in Danny’s neck.”

“You saw him stick an icicle in Danny’s neck?”

“Well…”

“Did you see it, Katie? Did you really see it?”

“Um…not zackly. But the snowman smiled real mean when

Danny got stuck.”

“The snowman smiled?”

“Uh huh. And he said ‘catch me if you can.'” Katie

mimicked a whispering voice, soft as blowing sleet.

“Isn’t that what Frosty says in his song?”

“Yeah, but…but Frosty doesn’t say it like that. Frosty

says ‘Catch me if you CAN!'” Katie sang the familiar

melody. Then she pointed at the snowman. “He sounded like

schhht, schhhhht, caaaatchhhh meee ifff youuu caaannn.”

Again she whispered.

Scully nodded and gave the girl’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“Thank you, Katie.”

“You finished?” Spencer asked, fists on his hips.

“I think we’ve heard enough,” Scully answered. “How about

you, Mulder?”

Mulder opened his mouth, but his reply was lost in the

blaring siren of the Sheriff’s passing cruiser.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Caribou River

4:01 p.m.

“Damn!” Sheriff Ted Riley swore as he lifted Ricky Hart’s

face from the slush-filled fishing hole. “How in hell…?”

He rolled the dead boy’s stiff body onto its back. A

conglomeration of ice and snow plugged the teen’s yawning

mouth. Blue lips stretched agonizingly around a frozen

mass. The boy’s eyes were wide-open, lids glazed in place

with a veneer of crystal clear ice.

“He was dead when I got here, Ted. I didn’t think I should

move him, you know, in case…well, in case I accidentally

disturbed some evidence or something.” Anne Tredwell, ill

dressed for the biting cold and the setting sun, marched a

nervous triangle between the dead boy’s three abandoned

fishing holes. She dodged a lopsided snowman located

halfway between the farthest hole and the body. The snowman

leaned toward the boy’s corpse like a curious bystander at

a car accident.

“You did right, Anne,” the sheriff assured her,

disappointed to see the dance teacher’s twitchy pacing had

already flattened a wide expanse of surrounding snow,

obliterating any incriminating footprints. But truth be

told, if Anne hadn’t spotted Ricky from her home atop the

river’s bank in the first place, the dead teen certainly

would have laid face down in the fishing hole all night.

The falling snow would have covered any tracks and the

sheriff would have had to chisel the boy out of the ice in

the morning. “Damn,” he swore again.

“Is the ambulance coming?” Anne asked, her voice watery

with overwrought nerves.

“Yeah, but the coroner might’ve been a better choice.”

“I was hoping, you know, that maybe the medics could

revive him. You hear about that all the time. Kids drowning

in cold water and being brought back to life.”

“I don’t expect that’s gonna happen in this case, Anne.”

“I just can’t get over it. Danny last Friday. Ricky today.

Do you think there’s a serial killer on the loose?”

“It’s a bit premature to speculate about…” The sheriff

fell silent, surprised by the approach of an unfamiliar man

accompanied by a red-haired woman.

“Sheriff, I’m Agent Fox Mulder,” the man said from a

distance, holding out a badge.

“FBI?”

“Yes. This is my partner Agent Scully.”

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t call the Bureau.”

“No, sir. We’re here to investigate the death of Danny

Davis.”

“Agent Mulder, Danny died in a freakish accident. His

death was nothing more than a stroke of very bad luck.”

Mulder nodded at Ricky’s body. “And this boy? Another

stroke of bad luck, Sheriff?”

“Might be. It’s possible he slipped, knocked himself out

on the ice and drown in his fishing hole.”

“And I’ve been told *my* theories are farfetched.” Mulder

raised his brows at Scully before returning his attention

to the body. “This boy wouldn’t happen to be a former

friend of Danny Davis, would he? One of the boys who

witnessed Friday’s ‘accident’?”

“And if he was?”

“Since you seem to believe in fluky strokes of misfortune,

Sheriff, you might want to put the remaining boy in

protective custody. I hear bad luck often comes in threes.”

“You’re jumping to some mighty big conclusions, Agent

Mulder.”

Mulder offered the sheriff a small shrug before wandering

away to inspect the nearby snowman.

“He does that.” Scully squatted next to the dead teen and

snapped on a pair of latex gloves. “Mind if I take a look

at the body?” Without waiting for the sheriff’s permission,

she prodded the icy plug filling Ricky’s mouth. Finding the

blockage rock-hard, she wriggled an index finger between

the chunk of ice and the boy’s hardening cheek. “This is

odd.”

“What’s that, ma’am?” the sheriff asked, clearly irritated

by the agents’ meddling.

“His oral cavity is completely occluded.” She reached

beneath the boy’s collar and squeezed his neck. The

pressure caused blood to ooze from the teen’s mouth and

nose. “His trachea and esophagus are impacted. The

hemorrhaging indicates his passages have ruptured. And he

hasn’t been dead for very long. Was he on his back like

this when you found him?”

“No, he was face down in the fishing hole,” Anne Tredwell

answered. Still pacing, she dodged around Mulder and the

snowman.

“That’s impossible. I mean, it’s theoretically feasible to

drown in a fishing hole” — Scully eyed Mulder who had

plucked the carrot nose from the snowman’s scowling face —

“but this boy’s throat and mouth wouldn’t be obstructed

like this. The water, no mater how icy, would have drained

out.”

“Well, that’s how I found him,” Anne insisted, marching

back to the dead boy.

“And you are…?” Mulder asked.

“Um, Anne Tredwell. I live right over there.” She

indicated a house on the bank with a sweep of her ungloved

hand.

“You witnessed the death of Danny Davis, too, didn’t you?”

Mulder recalled her name from his list of witnesses. With a

snap, he bit off the end of the snowman’s former nose.

“Well, yes and no. It happened so fast. I really didn’t

see much of anything. It was very windy. Snow was blowing

everywhere. It was impossible to make out what happened.

But I’m quite sure it was an accident.”

“Didn’t Danny’s friends say he was killed by their teacher

Connie Spencer?”

“Ricky and Ben were wrong about that, Agent Mulder. Connie

Spencer wouldn’t hurt a fly. Not after all she’s been

through.” Anne was adamant.

“And what would that be?”

“She was beaten almost to death by her ex-husband. Several

times. The man is a monster.” The dance teacher nodded

solemnly.

“Now Anne, you don’t know for a fact if that’s true or

not,” the sheriff cut in. “You’ve only got Connie’s say so

on it.”

“Then why was Connie granted a restraining order?” Anne

argued.

“You know as well as I do why the judge granted that order.”

“Why was that?” Mulder asked, chomping on his carrot.

“If it’s any of your business, Agent Mulder, the order was

granted to keep Connie from falling over the edge, so to

speak. She’s not exactly the most stable person.”

“That’s not true!” Anne objected. “She’s been through some

tough times, but she’s not crazy. It’s her ex-husband who

should be locked away! He’s the insane one, not Connie.”

Mulder looked past Anne and the sheriff and pointed the

remaining nub of carrot at a man standing on the crest of

the hill near the school. “Who’s that?”

“That’s just Elwood, the school’s custodian,” Anne

identified the man.

Barely visible in the late afternoon dusk, the bent figure

stepped into the shadows and vanished.

“Elwood Jenkins? Didn’t he claim a legendary snowman

killed Danny Davis?” With a curious squint, Mulder

scrutinized the now noseless snowman.

“Jesus Christ.” The sheriff rolled his eyes. “Don’t tell

me you believe that foolish story.”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Connie Spencer Residence

4:41 p.m.

Tom Spencer stood at the end of Connie’s walk and watched

Katie wave to him from the front steps. She flashed him a

happy smile before she slipped inside the house. She was

such a sweet girl. A good girl. Even-tempered. Easy-going.

Not like her mother, thought Spencer. Life with Connie had

been one nor’easter after the next. Soon after their

wedding, she had sunk beneath the surface of depression

like shattered spring ice on the Caribou River. And like

those choking, broken flows, she had tried to drag the rest

of the family down with her. Paranoid, delusional, prone to

hysterics. He was relieved to be out of the glacial

whirlpool. But he missed Katie; he no longer saw her every

day. Limited to weekends and vacations, his time with her

was never enough. Goddamn that judge for granting Connie

custody.

Connie’s snowy walk shimmered, reflecting the glow of the

living room windows. Where the sheen faded to black,

Spencer waited, hunched against the cold, glaring angrily

at the house.

Connie has no right to Katie, he thought. The crazy woman

blew everything out of proportion. Always did. Things had

not happened the way she made them sound to the judge.

*Schht. Schht.* He shuffled his cold feet against the

granular snow. Feeling chilled, he thrust his gloved hands

into his pockets.

I’ll get Katie back, he thought.

*Schht. Schhhht. Schhhhhtttt!*

Behind him a massive fist drove a sharp punch into

Spencer’s lower back, sending a spiral of pain through his

kidneys, buckling his knees. With his hands trapped in his

pockets, the surprised man was unable to stop his fall and

he hit the ground hard. His head bounced against the frozen

walk, splitting his cheek. He watched a pool of steamy

blood form in the snow beneath his throbbing nose.

Wriggling in an attempt to free his trapped hands, Spencer

found himself caught beneath a crushing knee against the

small of his back. The weight pressed him with unbearable

force and he thought he heard a rib pop. Then a second. He

tried to scream, but couldn’t suck in enough breath to

shout for help.

With fingers so cold they burned, two icy hands wrapped

around Spencer’s throat and squeezed. Tom Spencer listened

to the gargle of his own strangled voice when his larynx

burst with a quiet collapsing snap. With a nauseating feel

of weightlessness, Spencer was lifted and spun wildly onto

his back. The movement was so rapid, a salvo of panic shot

from Spencer’s aching neck to his exploding heart. His

fright bore a bone-chilling hole straight through his

stomach to his bowels.

Powerless to stop the assault, Spencer shut his eyes to

the terror. He felt his jaw pried open by arctic fingers. A

fist of snow plunged into his mouth, freezing his tongue

and plugging his throat. Two tears leaked from his closed

lids, searing a scalding path down his frostbitten cheeks.

I’m fucked, Spencer thought as he lost consciousness.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Elwood Jenkins’ Residence

5:13 p.m.

“Knock again, Mulder.”

Mulder rapped harder on the peeling wood door as Scully

peered through a black window.

“He’s not home, Scully.”

“Want to wait for him? We could sit in the car for a while.”

Mulder shrugged. He was getting hungry. Breakfast had been

a muffin on the plane and lunch had been no more than the

snowman’s carrot nose. His mind kept wandering back to the

Caribou Corners House of Pizza, the little restaurant

they’d passed on their way to Jenkins’ house.

“Let’s give him another fifteen minutes,” Mulder agreed

and walked to the car. He fished in his pocket for his

keys. “If he’s not back by then, we’re gonna–” Mulder

never finished his sentence. A wet, cold snowball hit him

in the back of the head, bursting on impact and spraying

him with slush and ice. “Jesus!” He spun to face Scully, a

look of startled surprise on his face.

Scully looked equally surprised. And guilty. She raised

her palms, already backing away and apologizing.

“I really didn’t expect to hit you, Mulder, I–”

“Oh, right, Ms. Never-Misses-At-The-Firing-Range.”

“That’s different! That’s with a gun.”

Having cleared most of the melting snow from his neck,

Mulder marched toward her. Revenge sparkled in his eyes and

a slanting grin tugged at his lips.

“No, Mulder. Wait. It was an accident. I didn’t–”

“An accident! You’re telling me you weren’t aiming at my

head?”

“Well…”

“Where were you hoping to hit me, Scully?”

“Well…” She continued to back away. Glancing over her

shoulder, she tried to gauge the terrain, searching for a

possible route of escape. The moment her eyes left him,

Mulder launched himself at her.

“You can’t outrun me, Scully,” he shouted, plowing through

the snow, quickly closing the gap between them. She

laughed, feinted left and dodged right, but he anticipated

her move and cut her off. She shrieked as his arms closed

around her waist and he lifted her off her feet. “You’re

doomed, Scully,” he whispered in her ear.

“No, Mulder, wait…”

She struggled against his bear hug and managed to slip a

hidden fistful of snow down his already chilled neck. He

howled at the shocking cold and nearly dropped her. Off

balance, he tumbled to the ground, taking her with him.

Sprawling in the snow, he rolled until she was trapped

firmly beneath him.

“Now what, Scully?” The rumble of his voice vibrated

against her chest and he grinned as he scooped up a palm-

full of snow and showed it to her.

“You wouldn’t,” she challenged.

“No? Why wouldn’t I? Give me one good reason not to wash

your face.”

She answered his smile with a chuckling laugh, her steamy

breath puffing humidly against his cold-chapped cheeks.

“Because you’re a better person than I am?”

“Hardly.”

“Because your mother taught you not to pick on girls?”

“You’re an FBI agent, Scully.”

“Because…uh, because…”

“Hmmm?” He held the snow closer.

“Because I’m really, really sorry?” she wheedled.

“Are you?”

“No.”

He aimed the snow.

“Wait!” she demanded with another hitching chuckle. He

paused, hand in the air, snow inches from her smiling

mouth. “Don’t you have something a little less cold you

could press to my lips?” She smiled sweetly and arched an

eyebrow.

“Are you flirting with me, Agent Scully?” He lowered the

snow away from her face.

“Are you laying on top of me, Agent Mulder?”

“So I am.” He let the snow sift slowly through his fingers

and kissed her reddened nose. Combing her wet hair away

from her face with a snowy glove, he considered kissing her

again.

*Schht. Schht. Schhhht.*

Startled, Mulder scrambled to his feet at the scrape of

approaching steps. He hauled Scully up after him and a

blizzard of snow fell from their coats.

“Who the hell are you?” a bent figure asked from the dark.

“And what th’hell are y’doin’ in front of my house?”

The crooked man, no more than a silhouette, shuffled to

his front door while Mulder and Scully self-consciously

dusted the snow from their clothes.

“I’m…uh, I’m Agent Fox Mulder. This is my partner Agent

Dana Scully. We’re…uh, we’re with the FBI.” Mulder

managed to dig his ID from his coat. He shook snow from his

badge.

“Really? You investigatin’ the snow in my front yard?” The

bent man unlocked the door and stepped inside.

“Uh, no, sir. We’re…uh, are you Elwood Jenkins?”

“And if I am?”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions. May we come in, Mr.

Jenkins?”

Hissing disapproval, Jenkins waved them in. He flicked on

the hall light.

Mulder couldn’t help but gawk in astonishment at the bent

man’s appearance. Despite Jenkins’ stooping posture, the

willowy man stood at least an inch or two taller than

Mulder. Curved like a branch weighted with ice, his head

swayed in front of his chest as if battered by the wind.

More startling still was Jenkins’ snow-white complexion;

the skin of his face had no pigment whatsoever. His hair,

his brows, his lashes were ashen. Pale lips split his paler

face. In fact, the man was so colorless his teeth resembled

a row of yellow pencils when compared to the pallid tint of

his skin. Mulder gaped at the man’s shocking white-blue

eyes and Jenkins’ frosty irises stared defiantly back at

the dumbfounded agent.

“Ask your damn questions,” Jenkins insisted. He invited

them no farther than the front hall and left the door ajar.

Mulder was struck by the hall’s frigid air; the temperature

was at least ten or twenty degrees colder inside than out.

The chill raised the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Did you witness the death of Danny Davis?” Mulder’s

breath fogged the air with each word.

“Yup.”

“Can you explain to us what happened?”

“I can describe it but I cain’t explain it.” Frosty

currents swirled from Jenkins’ nostrils, rising like

chimney smoke through the chill. “The Snowman done it.”

“A snowman killed Danny Davis?”

“Yup. Putta icicle right smack through the boy’s neck.”

“How?”

“I told ya, I cain’t explain it. But he done it. He done

it through the powers of Mal-dee-nej. It’s magic, s’what it

is. Cain’t say it no plainer.” Jenkins bobbled impatiently,

eager to be rid of the pestering agents.

“You believe in the legend?”

“‘Course. Don’t you?”

“Why would a snowman kill Danny?” Scully asked, clearly

dismissing the incredible fairytale.

Jenkins’ head stilled for a moment as he studied Scully.

His white-blue eyes combed her face and hair. She gasped

when he suddenly plucked a slip of ice from the tangled

strands of her hair, his warped fingers brushing her soft

earlobe, searing her with cold. An involuntary shiver

shuddered across her shoulders and she instinctively

stepped out of his reach.

“The boy musta done somethin’ t’get the Snowman angry.”

“Such as…?”

Jenkins sighed, air chuffing from his lungs like winter

wind through bare tree branches. *Scht, scht, scht.*

“How th’hell do I know? Snowman protects those that need

protectin’. And the boy, he weren’t zackly no angel,

y’know. Not too many angels in this town, truth be told.

Mebbe that’s why the Snowman’s stays on in Caribou Corners.

I’d hafta guess the boy deserved what he got.”

“Mr. Jenkins, where were you late this afternoon, just

before you watched us pull Ricky Hart’s body from his

fishing hole?” Mulder asked.

“At the school. Cleanin’ up.”

“Cleaning up?”

“Y’know,” Jenkins lips twisted upward, exposing his

yellowed teeth. “Takin’ out the trash.”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Caribou Corners Motor Inn

6:57 p.m.

Mmmmm, Scully sighed, lowering herself into the bathtub’s

steamy water. Thick, humid air caressed her, curling her

hair and forming silvery beads on her flesh. Her legs

reddened as she slipped beneath the soap bubbles. The water

warmed her numbed limbs, drawing her down until only her

head and knees peaked above the water’s surface. She closed

her eyes and let her hands float at her sides.

“Scully?” Mulder’s voice was muffled by the intervening

bathroom door.

“What do y’want, Mulder?” she murmured without lifting her

lids.

“Pizza’s here,” he announced, opening the door and

thrusting the box into the room. The smell of oregano

wafted on the steam, causing her to open one interested eye.

“Vegetarian?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means there were two choices: pepperoni or double

cheese. Since there isn’t any pepperoni on this one, I’d

hafta say it’s vegetarian.”

“Fine.” She closed her eye once more. “I’ll take it.”

“Uh…Scully…you want me to come in?”

“I…” She hesitated and he wondered what she was

thinking. Or doing. Would she get out of the tub, put on

one of those damn terry robes that hung down to her ankles,

hiding every curve? Or would she just spread a thin layer

of bubbles modestly over herself and allow him to come in?

The changes in their personal relationship made second-

guessing her more difficult than ever. But despite their

new closeness, he doubted she was at a point where she’d

feel comfortable inviting him to watch her bathe.

“It’s okay, Mulder. Just bring it in.”

Yes! He pumped his arm. And almost dropped the pizza.

“Okay. I’m coming. I’m coming *in*.”

She stared up at him from the tub, a thick layer of

bubbles hiding everything but her head and knees.

“You use the whole bottle of soap?” He stared in disbelief

at the mountain of opaque bubbles.

“Why? Were you planning on a bubble bath later?”

“No…I…Where do you want the pizza?”

She opened her mouth, begging silently for a bite. With a

smile, he hooked a slice from the box and aimed the point

at her waiting lips.

“You gonna join me?” she asked when she’d finished

swallowing her bite.

“In the tub?”

“The pizza, Mulder. The pizza.”

“Oh, right. Of course. Uh, I’ll just take a slice

and…uh…” Sweeping his arm in the general direction of

the door, he let his eyes drop below her neckline. Damn,

couldn’t see a thing. “I’ll sit outside.” He grabbed his

pizza and stepped from the room.

Leaving the door ajar so they could talk, he settled on

the floor just outside the bathroom. “Still think Danny’s

death was an accident, Scully?”

“I don’t know about Danny, but I’m damn sure Ricky Hart

didn’t fall into his fishing hole and drown.” Her voice

slipped softly through the crack between the door and the

jamb.

“What do you think happened?” He could hear a light splash

of water. He let his head fall backward against the wall.

“I’d prefer not to speculate until after tomorrow’s

autopsy. How about you? You have any theories?”

“Oh, you know me, Scully. I prefer to speculate *before* I

have any evidence. Facts just tend to get in my way.”

“Soooo…?”

“It was the Snowman, Scully.”

“With a magic rock in his head?” Definite splash sounds now.

“Mm hm.”

“Then who put the rock in the snowman’s head, Mulder? And

why? Jenkins?” she asked. “You have to admit he’s strange.”

“True. But I dunno. I checked Jenkins’ background before

we left DC. As a matter of fact, I checked all the

witnesses’ backgrounds. None of them had criminal records.

None of them had so much as a parking ticket.”

“That could just mean the killer is clever.”

Mulder swore he could hear Scully soaping…some part of

her body or other. Was that even possible?

“Connie Spencer had motive and opportunity. That would

make her the prime suspect,” Scully went on.

“Anne Tredwell swears Connie couldn’t kill a fly.”

“The sheriff disagrees with Tredwell about Connie’s

emotional state.”

“I don’t think she did it, Scully. For now I’m sticking

with my snowman theory.”

“Are you saying you believe the snowman acted alone?” she

chuckled.

“Scully, can I confess something to you?”

All sounds of splashing water or frothing soap stopped.

Not a single bubble popped.

“Yeah. Of course, Mulder. What is it?”

“I hate snowmen. I’m not afraid of them. I just hate them.”

“There’s something vaguely familiar about this

conversation. You aren’t going to describe a peculiar

childhood snowman epiphany, are you?” Her splashing resumed.

“Well…I wouldn’t call it ‘peculiar’ necessarily.” Was

she laughing?

“No? Does your story end with a girlie scream?”

“No, it doesn’t. Okay, maybe a little scream. But a very

manly one.” He was sure she was smiling; he could hear

it…at least, he could hear something.

“What’s your snowman story, Mulder?” Scully suddenly

appeared in the hall, wrapped from armpits to thighs in a

towel. She wasn’t smiling, bless her. She was kneeling to

sit next to him. All muggy and pink, she stretched her legs

out beside his and took his hand.

“One day, when I was a kid, Sam and I built an army of

snowmen,” he began, thankful for her steamy grip.

“An army?”

“Okay, a corps. Uh…actually, there were only six. But

they were big.”

“So what happened?” She diverted his attention from her

smile with a wriggle of her toes.

“We built the snowmen to guard our castle.” God, her toes

were cute.

“You had a castle?”

“Mm hm. Well, a fort. Uh…a trench/cave sort of thing.

Anyway, we built the cave after we built the snowmen. What

we failed to anticipate was that the cave didn’t have the

necessary architectural reinforcement to support the weight

of the snowmen on its roof.”

“I think I see where this is going. It collapsed?”

“Yes, with Sam inside. I was scared to death. That might

have been when I screamed. Snowmen were tumbling all over

the place, heads rolling, eyes falling out.”

“Smiles turned upside down into frowns?”

Her toes were downright sexy, but her comment drew his

eyes back to her face.

“Laugh if you want, Scully, but I thought for sure Sam had

been killed. I dug down through the snow, calling her name

over and over again.”

“Was she hurt?”

“No. Just terrified. Although, less so than me. I finally

managed to get her out. She was crying. I was crying. But

the snowmen…the snowmen just laughed at us.”

“They laughed? They actually laughed?”

“They’re creepy, Scully. They’re creepier than clowns. Or

mimes. They’re creepier than clowning mimes.”

“Mulder, you can’t seriously have a snowman phobia.”

“I told you, I’m not afraid of them. I just hate them.” He

moved their linked hands into his lap and traced his thumb

over the hills of her knuckles.

“I see. Your distaste for snowmen isn’t going to cloud

your perspective on this case, is it? You sound like you

might be going into this with a distinct bias.”

“I’m trying to keep an open mind, Scully. I–”

Across the room, the phone rang. Mulder released her hand

and heaved himself from the floor. Scully waited, listening

to his one-sided conversation, not much more than a series

of “uh huhs.”

“Well?” she asked after he’d hung up.

“There’s been another death. Sheriff’s decided to call

this one a murder.” He returned to offer her a hand up.

“Who’s been killed?”

“Tom Spencer. Connie’s been brought in for questioning.”

ACT III

Aroostook County Sheriff’s Department

Presque Isle, Maine

7:47 p.m.

Connie slumped in her chair, her head bowed over the

interrogation table and her arms hugging her sides. She

hunched beneath the weight of Sheriff Riley’s grilling.

When an uncontrolled lock of hair fell across her face,

curtaining her eyes and blinding her to the room, she

didn’t tuck it away. Instead, she squeezed her lids shut

behind the swaying drape, fortifying her flimsy wall of

denial.

Still wearing their coats, Mulder and Scully leaned

against the wall while Sheriff Riley paced angry circles

around Connie. The sheriff had become increasingly

irritated by Connie’s silence. Pulling no punches, he

battered the unnerved woman with his blunt questions.

“Connie, did you kill your husband?” the sheriff asked

outright.

“Ex-husband,” she whispered, eyes still shut.

“Did you kill your *ex*-husband?”

Connie wagged her head, waffling her swathe of hair.

“But you wanted him dead, didn’t you?”

“Nooo.” She shriveled in her seat and a tear shivered down

her cheek.

“No? Weren’t you afraid of him? Weren’t you afraid he was

going to hurt you? Maybe hurt Katie? He beat you, didn’t

he? That’s what you claimed in court. That’s why you

insisted on a restraining order, wasn’t it? Weren’t you

afraid…afraid for your life?”

“I didn’t kill him. I didn’t kill anyone! I didn’t! I

swear I didn’t!”

The sheriff stepped closer, stopped his pacing. “What

happened three years ago, Connie?”

Connie shook her head.

“You know what I’m talking about,” the sheriff hissed.

“You pointed a gun at a student.”

Mulder exchanged glances with Scully.

“T-that’s not t-true!” Connie stuttered. “He lied about

that!”

“It happened, Connie. You pointed a gun at Paul Davis —

Danny’s older brother. Three years ago you threatened to

kill Paul.”

“N-nooo! I didn’t. He threatened *me*! He came to my

house. He said he’d hurt me if I didn’t g-give him a

passing grade.”

“So you pulled a gun on him.”

“I didn’t! H-he made that up.”

“Three years ago you threatened to kill Paul. Two days ago

you murdered his brother Danny. Danny’s death wasn’t an

accident at all, was it?”

“Yeeesss–”

“You killed Danny. You killed Ricky. And you killed Tom.

Now you’re going to prison — for the rest of your life.”

“Pleeease–”

*Schhht-scht.*

The inward swing of the door interrupted Connie’s plea.

Phil Peters stood at the threshold accompanied by a woman

in a business suit. The woman crisply crossed the room and

set her briefcase on the table.

“No more questions, Sheriff,” she said. “I’m advising my

client to remain silent.” She raised a quizzical eyebrow at

Mulder and Scully. Scully displayed her badge and the

lawyer’s eyebrows climbed higher. “FBI?” she asked.

“I didn’t call them, Vick,” the sheriff insisted.

“Con, are you okay?” Peters’ worried eyes took in his

sister’s tear-stained face.

“Where’s Katie? I thought she was with you, Philly.

You…you didn’t bring her here, did you?”

“No. No, of course not,” he soothed. “Katie’s with Anne.

She’s fine.”

Connie sagged with relief to know her daughter was safe

with the dance teacher.

The sheriff waggled two fingers, beckoning Mulder and

Scully out of the room into the hall.

Once in the corridor, Mulder asked, “Exactly how do you

think Connie Spencer killed her ex-husband and those two

boys, Sheriff?”

“I won’t know that until the bodies are autopsied.”

“I’d be glad to perform the autopsies right now,” Scully

volunteered.

“By all means. The sooner we know the cause of death, the

sooner Connie Spencer will begin her life sentence.”

“I don’t think Connie murdered anyone,” Mulder argued.

“Agent Mulder, Connie Spencer had motive and opportunity

to kill all three victims. I’m confident the autopsies will

prove she’s guilty.”

“Earlier today you said Danny’s death was an accident.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” The sheriff bristled. “Tom’s

murder convinced me Connie’s to blame.”

“I don’t agree. I think you need to place the third boy in

protective custody.”

“What the Christ for? We’ve got our killer locked up right

here.”

“You’re wrong, Sheriff. The killer is still out there and

Benjamin Shute’s life is in danger,” Mulder insisted,

keeping his voice low. His restraint ignited a flare of

anger in the sheriff’s eyes.

“Oh really? And just who do you think the murderer is,

Agent Mulder?”

“I think there are paranormal aspects to this case. We

need to be looking for a supernatural killer.”

“Jesus Christ. Don’t tell me you believe that crap about a

storybook snowman, Agent Mulder.”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“You’re spouting fairytales, for chrissake. The idea is

ridiculous. Our killer is right here,” Riley’s shout

zigzagged down the corridor. He stepped closer to Mulder

until the two men stood toe-to-toe.

“Ben Shute needs protection,” Mulder maintained.

Before his insistence provoked the sheriff into a brawl,

Scully placed a finger on her partner’s sleeve. “You check

on Ben, Mulder. I’ll perform the autopsies. Maybe we can

solve this case before morning,” she said. “I’ll meet up

with you later.”

Giving her a quick nod, Mulder brushed past the irate

sheriff and headed for the exit.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Shute Residence

Caribou Corners, Maine

9:07 p.m.

Mulder mounted the Shute’s sloping front steps, taking

care not to slip on the ice. He rapped loudly on the storm

door and waited.

*Schht. Schht.* Tree branches scraped overhead. Mulder

raised his collar against the wind. He knocked again.

*Schhht. Schhht.* Peering over his shoulder into the dark,

Mulder watched a fine powder of snow billow horizontally

across the driveway. Ice-covered branches waved at the

starless sky.

Inside someone shuffled toward him. The door swung open to

reveal a beer-bellied man with an unlit cigarette dangling

from his lips. He frowned at Mulder’s badge and with a

grunt of displeasure, he let Mulder in.

“What the hell do you want?” The man scratched at his

unshaved chin.

“I’m looking for Benjamin Shute. Is he your son, sir?”

“Christ almighty, what’s the boy gone ‘n’ done now?”

“He hasn’t done anything, sir. I’m only concerned for his

safety. Is he at home?”

“Sure. Up in his room.”

“You’re certain?”

“Course I’m sure. You can hear his friggin’ rock ‘n’ roll

blastin’ all the way down here.”

It was true. Mulder could hear the regular thrum of drums

and bass guitar.

“Mind if we check, sir, just to make sure?”

“Christ.” The man turned and lumbered toward the back of

the house. Mulder followed him through the dark hall and up

a steep staircase.

“What makes you think my son ain’t safe?” The man pounded

a beefy fist against the door when they reached the boy’s

bedroom.

“Ricky Hart was killed today, sir. I think your son may be

the killer’s next target.”

The man was genuinely shocked. “Benjy!” he called out,

trying to be heard above the blaring music. “Benjy, open

this fuckin’ door!”

The door slapped open, liberating the screams of the

Pajama Slave Dancers. The boy’s father bumped past his

skinny son and snapped off the blasting boom box.

“Christ, Benjy, you’re gonna go deaf listenin’ to that

shit.”

The chastised boy thrust his chin at Mulder. “Who’s he?”

“FBI agent. Claims your life’s in danger. Says Ricky’s

dead.”

“Rick’s dead?” Ben’s eyes rounded. “Holy shit. I just saw

Rick on the river ‘fore I went t’Miss Tredwell’s today.”

“What time was that?” Mulder asked.

“‘Round one o’clock.”

“Did you help Ricky build that snowman down on the river?”

“What the Christ are you talkin’ about?”

“Benjy, watch your fuckin’ mouth.” His father held up a

fist.

“The snowman. By the fishing holes. Carrot nose?” Mulder

said, tapping his own nose.

“We dint build no friggin’ snowman. We look like babies to

you?”

Mulder ignored Ben’s smart-mouthed question. “Why were you

at Miss Tredwell’s?”

“She pays me to shovel her driveway.”

“You see anything strange while you were there?”

The boy shook his head, then blushed with embarrassment.

“Uh…yeah, there was somethin’ I guess. When I was

shovelin’, I…uh…thought I heard…well, a voice.”

“A voice? What did it say?”

“It was a whisper, kinda. I-I thought it was just the

wind. It said, ‘Catch me if you can.’ Does it mean

somethin’?” The boy’s face drained of color. “Did…did Ms.

Spencer kill Ricky, too?”

“That woman’s a lunatic,” the boy’s father said.

“Shouldn’t be teachin’ kids nothin’.”

“Ben, has anyone other than Ms. Spencer ever threatened

you or your friends?” Mulder asked.

“Sure, that asshole janitor, Jenkins. He’s always cussin’

at us kids. A coupl’a times, he chased us outta the

schoolyard like he owns the place. He raised a shovel at us

once.”

“Why did he do that?”

“I dunno. He’s a freak.” Ben shrugged and stared at the

worn floorboards.

“Boys’ll be boys, Agent Mulder.” A nervous laugh shook

Ben’s father.

“Ben, I want you to stay inside during the next day or

two,” Mulder told the boy, “And I want someone to stay with

you. Can you do that?”

“But tomorrow’s Winter Carnival! I was plannin’ on goin’,”

the boy whined.

“You’ll do as you’re fuckin’ told.” His father thrust a

finger at the boy’s nose.

“Don’t go out of the house, Ben,” Mulder warned. “Not for

any reason. And lock your doors.”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Aroostook County Morgue Presque Isle, Maine

Using heavy-duty cutters, Scully snipped through the

costal cartilage of Ricky Hart’s ribs, shearing his sternum

free from his ribcage. The detached piece of bone and

cartilage resembled a giant twenty-legged spider as she

lifted it from the boy’s chest and laid it gently in the

tray beside the corpse. Flaring the flesh like bloody

wings, Scully exposed the lungs and liver, burst trachea

and the bulging esophagus beneath. An incision in the neck

revealed decimated vocal chords. And although the plug of

ice had melted from the boy’s mouth, his bruised lips and

tongue remained blistered from their exposure to severe

cold.

Scully inspected the damaged trachea. The cartilaginous

rings were separated and the intervening membranes were

shredded all the way down to the bifurcation and beyond.

The bronchial tubes remained swollen. She prodded the right

bronchus. It was hard. Frozen. As was the external serous

coat of the lungs. Using a scalpel, Scully carefully cut

through the subserous tissue. The alveoli underneath

contained a plug of solid ice, despite the above freezing

temperature in the morgue.

“This isn’t possible.” She dug at an icy cylinder running

through the right bronchus, chiseling loose a barrel of

frozen snow. At the center she uncovered a small, white

stone and she plucked it from the snow with her gloved

fingers.

“Ouch!” She dropped the stone. Even through the latex of

her glove, the rock was so cold it hurt her thumb and

forefinger. Using steel pincers this time, Scully lifted

the stone to inspect it more closely.

Her eyes widened as a coat of frosty crystals formed

thickly around the white rock, expanding it until the stone

resembled a miniature snowball.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Caribou Corners High School

10:06 p.m.

“What the hell?” Mulder muttered, rubbernecking and

hitting the car’s brakes. The vehicle skidded to a stop. He

threw the car into reverse and floored the gas, spinning

the tires and flinging snow into the air. The school’s

lights had caught his eye; they were all on, spilling from

the windows in long blue-white rectangles. Their glow

illuminated an astonishing fairytale kingdom of frozen

castles, twisting dragons and sturdy snowmen in the

schoolyard. Mulder shut off the engine and practically

leapt from the car.

He guessed the numinous realm had been created for

tomorrow’s Winter Carnival sometime after he and Scully had

left the school earlier in the day. But the size and number

of the sculptures seemed physically impossible considering

the short amount of time that had passed since he had

visited the school in the afternoon. The sudden appearance

of the structures made their presence seem all the more

charmed.

Drawn like an eager child to Santa’s Village, Mulder

entered the crystal empire. He ran a gloved hand along an

icy wall as he explored one of several castles, walking

beneath a toothed parapet and around a barrel-shaped

turret. Arched doors punctured the twelve-foot-high walls

at regular intervals and he peered through one opening

after the next. He couldn’t see more than a foot or two

into the gloom.

Beyond the first castle, an enormous frozen, snow-scaled

serpent twisted up out of the ground. Mulder stopped by the

dragon’s yawning head and touched a finger to one of the

mythical beast’s sharp icicle teeth. A glossy tongue curved

between the creature’s gaping jaws. Sticking his head into

the monster’s maw, Mulder quickly examined the beast’s

frosty gullet.

Withdrawing from the dragon, he paused in front of a

phalanx of snowmen lining the imaginary parade ground and

blocking his path. Reluctant to cross in front of them,

Mulder studied the row of white faces. Grim-mouthed and

stony-eyed, the snowmen seemed to ignore the agent’s

squinty inspection. He pursed his lips and softly whistled

the first stanza of Frosty the Snowman. When silence

followed his deliberate rendition, he tried a second

stanza, picking up the tempo a bit. Nothing stirred except

the snowmen’s willowy arms, flailed by the chilly wind.

“At ease, men,” he ordered and marched quickly forward,

jingling his keys and whistling the rest of the familiar

children’s song.

*Schht. Schhht.*

Mulder froze mid-step, his last note trilling eerily off

the icy castle walls.

*Schht. Schhht.*

He drew his gun.

*Schht. Schhht.*

Something moved on the far side of the schoolyard.

Something white. And tall.

“Federal agent!” Mulder called out. “Freeze!” he yelled

and then rolled his eyes at the irony of his demand.

“Jus’ me, Mr. Mulder,” Elwood Jenkins hollered back.

A fog of air billowed from Mulder’s lips as he chuffed his

relief. He lowered his weapon and crossed the yard to

Jenkins.

“Still trackin’ your killer?” The janitor leaned on his

snow shovel, the school’s fluorescent lights tinting his

pale skin an icy blue. “You might have a hard time catchin’

this one.”

“Why’s that?”

“Snow can be an unpredictable thing,” he answered, seeming

to dodge Mulder’s question. The custodian’s bobbling head

nodded at the crystal kingdom. “Some days somethin’ can be

made of it. Castles. Or dragons. Other days, it just as

likely slips through your fingers. People are like that,

too, I’ve noticed.”

“Meaning?”

“Sometimes people and things are hard to grab onto. They

ain’t always what they seem.”

“Including yourself?”

“S’pect so.”

“Katie Spencer said you gave her a magic stone to bring

her snowman to life. Did you give her a stone, Mr. Jenkins?”

“Yup. Girl needs a friend.”

“Is the stone magic?”

“Like most things, that depends on who you’re talkin’ to.”

“I’m talking to you.”

The white-skinned man smiled, showing his yellow teeth.

“You’re a smart man, Mr. Mulder, an’ you know s’well as I

do there ain’t no such thing as absolute truth. The

storyteller has one truth. The list’ner has ‘nother. We

pick ‘n’ choose our own truth based on our point of view.”

“The truth is the truth.”

“Yup, it is. But it don’t look the same t’everybody. Take

you, fr’instance. You believe in magic stones and killer

snowmen. Me, too. So does the little girl. But Sheriff

Riley, he wouldn’t be caught dead believin’ such nonsense.

Could be he just needs to step a bit closer to change his

perspective. Or mebbe you need t’step back t’change yours.”

“Do you know something about the murders that you’re not

saying?”

“I know somebody’s killin’ people. An’ it’ll take lookin’

at it from the right angle t’find just who’s guilty and who

ain’t.”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Aroostook County Morgue

Presque Isle, Maine

11:42 p.m.

The body of Tom Spencer gaped below Scully’s probing

fingers. She searched the frozen lungs for a white stone

similar to the one she’d removed from Ricky Hart. She

couldn’t explain how the rock had become lodged so deeply

in the boy’s lung, but she was certain she would find one

in Tom Spencer as well. For the past couple of hours she’d

watched the first stone grow thick with frost where it sat

on a stainless steel tray. The snowy coating had increased

in circumference by several inches. The rock now resembled

a four-inch snowball. And apparently it was still growing,

despite the fact that the tray was balanced on top of the

room’s chugging radiator.

“Ah, there you are.” Scully pried loose a stone identical

to the previous one, careful to use pincers to lift the

cold rock from Spencer’s lungs. Although Scully had

thoroughly searched Ricky Hart’s chest for other bits of

foreign debris, she had found nothing but the one stone.

The same seemed to hold true for Spencer.

*Schhht.* Sheriff Riley pushed his way through the autopsy

bay doors.

“How’s it going, Agent Scully? Find anything to

incriminate Connie Spencer?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“What’s that?” he indicated the stone she held in her

pincers.

“Good question. It looks like an ordinary rock.”

“But…?”

“But, I can’t figure out how it got past the rima

glottides to become so deeply embedded in the lung. If

inhaled, it should have traveled no further than the

bronchus where it would become fixed, occluding the lumen

of the tube and causing respiratory failure on that side.

However, this stone pushed beyond the physical limitation

of the tubes. As did the one I removed from Ricky Hart.”

Scully pointed at the tray resting on the radiator.

“What the hell–?” The sheriff walked to the tray and

reached for the snowball.

“Don’t touch it!” Scully warned. “It’ll burn you like a

chunk of dry ice.” She dropped the second stone next to the

first. “I can’t explain it,” she said. “Aside from the

stones, both victim’s lungs were packed with ice and snow.

Tom Spencer had several broken ribs. Ricky Hart’s larynx

was crushed. We’ll have to wait for the toxicological to

tell us if either or both of the victims were drugged

before they died.”

“Well, I’m gonna hold Connie in custody until you’ve

submitted your final report. I was hoping you’d find

something a little less mysterious and a little more

incriminating, Agent Scully. I want to keep that crazy

woman behind bars.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Sheriff.”

“You heading out?”

“After I stitch and wrap the body. I’ll be another half

hour at least.”

“You want me to wait? Give you a ride back to your hotel?”

“Thanks but I’ll call Mulder when I’m through here. I’ll

be fine.”

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Leaving the morgue behind, Sheriff Riley stepped out into

the swirling snow. He fitted his hat more tightly to his

head and zipped his jacket against the bluster. It wasn’t a

fit night for man or beast. And that’s exactly why he never

expected to see a white figure bending over the hood of his

car.

Striding the length of the walkway, Riley’s hand settled

on his gun. The white figure shifted and blurred. It slid

and spun at an alarming speed. *Schht. Schhht.* A blast of

razor-sharp sleet peppered the sheriff’s face, causing him

to momentarily lose sight of the strange figure. The wind

whistled past him, whispering in his ears as it went: catch

me if yoooou caaaan. Riley checked behind him. Nothing. He

turned back to the car; the intruder was gone.

“Nerves must be playing tricks on me.”

Rounding the car’s bumper, he gasped when the heel of his

boot suddenly skidded out from under him. At first he

thought he’d hit a patch of ice, but the ground beneath him

wasn’t hard or smooth. Or stationary. It dragged strangely

beneath the soles of his boots, bucking and pulling, like a

rug being yanked out from under him. “Shit!” He lost his

balance and toppled backward. He fell with a bone-jarring

thump. “Dammit!” Pain sparkled up his spine.

*Catch me! Catch me if yoooou caaaan!*

Sitting on the icy ground, Sheriff Riley wrenched his gun

from his holster. He peered into the blowing snow and aimed

into the churning air. His hat flew from his head and

twirled wildly away.

*Schhht. Schhhht. Schhhhhht.*

A snowy fist materialized out of nowhere and smashed into

Riley’s jaw, whirling him like his hat. His gun spun

unfired from his hand and landed somewhere behind the

cruiser. Blood spouted from his ear. A second wallop

blinded him, smashing coldly into his face, cracking the

bridge of his nose. A third strike knocked him flat on his

back.

Frosty fingers gripped Riley’s ankles. He felt himself

dragged dizzily across the ground. Thrashing his arms, he

uselessly tried to grab onto something solid in an attempt

to slow his skidding movement away from his car.

“Who are you?” he yelled, unable to see his assailant.

“What the hell do you want?”

With a pull that nearly tore his legs from his hips, Riley

was hurtled several yards through the air. A terrified

squeal exploded from his throat when he collided against a

slanting bank of snow. The impact emptied his lungs and

numbed his legs and arms. Paralyzed and helpless, he

blinked in disbelief as a crushing weight of snow dropped

and buried him within a tomb of white. Pinned beneath

several feet of snow, the sheriff struggled to move, to

breathe. Gasping for non-existent air, his mouth gaped. A

blizzard sucked past his lips. Frost expanded across his

tongue, inflating like an ice-cold balloon. It rushed down

his throat. Gagging him. Suffocating him. Overstuffed…his

neck gorged, bursting…he silently cursed that he’d been

wrong about Connie Spencer.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Aroostook County Morgue

1:57 a.m.

Mulder parked his car behind the sheriff’s cruiser. He was

surprised to see the sheriff’s vehicle still here. Scully’d

told him on the phone that Riley had left at least forty-

five minutes ago. Unbuckling his seatbelt, he swung his leg

from the car and put his foot down on top of Sheriff

Riley’s half-buried pistol. He plucked the gun from the

ground.

“This can’t be good.” He pocketed the gun and drew his own

weapon.

Nearby trees pitched and clawed and crackled, flogged by

the wind. A hulking snowman stood guard beside the

sidewalk, its flinty eyes seemingly directed at Mulder.

Wedged tightly atop the snowman’s head was the sheriff’s

hat.

“Nope, not good…at all.”

Glancing at the morgue’s dimly lit entry, Mulder’s concern

for Scully rolled uneasily in his stomach. Halfway to the

steps, he noticed something strange and spiky protruding

from the snowbank. Sliding his flashlight from his pocket,

he aimed it at the unexpected object.

“Shit.”

The beam of light exposed five fingers curling stiffly

from the snow.

Mulder clambered up the bank, sinking to his knees in the

drift. He exchanged his gun for his cell phone and quickly

dialed 911. Cradling the phone under his chin, he pawed at

the snow, uncovering a buried wrist, arm, shoulder. He

talked and tunneled, spouting directions and shoveling snow

with his hands. Recognizing the sheriff’s jacket, he let

the phone drop and dug faster.

He searched for the sheriff’s face, hoping against hope

that the buried man was still alive. Scooping and tossing

snow, he clawed downward. Sweat striped his face and

drenched his neck, chest and back despite the cold. Skating

between his parted lips, frantic breathy plumes chugged

from his lungs only to be grabbed by the wind and yanked

into the blackness somewhere above his head. The pulse of

his heart throbbed outward from his ears where it collided

with a scream of passing air.

*Foooxxxxx!*

The bridge of a nose and the wells of two eyes came into

view. For a brief instant, Mulder thought the face was

Sam’s, her mouth opened in a terrified cry. He struggled to

keep the evening’s pizza in his stomach.

Beneath his palm, a bulging wad of snow plugged the

sheriff’s mouth. Riley was dead. Mulder abandoned the body

and ran to find Scully.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Aroostook County Morgue

Two Hours Later

In an effort to control his adrenaline pumped limbs,

Mulder hugged his arms to his chest and jammed his jittery

fingers into his armpits while he watched Scully dig into

Sheriff Riley’s frozen chest. The sheriff’s body lay split

up the middle on a steel table in the morgue where the

Deputy and the ambulance crew had placed him earlier. The

crew had preferred not to stick around for the autopsy and

the Deputy excused himself to see to the release of Connie

Spencer. With the perfect alibi this time, it seemed Connie

was innocent after all and the Deputy saw no reason to hold

her any longer.

Hanging over Scully’s shoulder, Mulder peered into the

open cadaver.

“Find it yet, Scully?”

“Give me a minute. I’m checking the bronchus now. Yep,

here it is.” She held up a small white stone, trapped

between the prongs of her pincers. The stone immediately

developed a bristly coat of frost.

“Abracadabra.” Mulder waggled his fingers over the

changing stone.

“I refuse to believe this rock is magic, Mulder.”

“Then why is it growing fur like some freaky arctic Chia

Pet?”

“I couldn’t say.”

“And how did it get inside the victim’s lungs, past

those…those tiny little tubey thingies.” He waved at the

sheriff’s exposed bronchi.

“I can’t explain that either. But just because I can’t

explain it doesn’t mean anything mystical or supernatural

is going on.”

“Oh, come on, Scully. You think an ordinary person did

this? Killed these people?”

“Well, what’s your theory, Mulder?” Scully dropped the

frosty stone onto a tray. “Do you think the magic stone of

Maledeneige is responsible for bringing to life a murdering

snowman, whose mission is to right the world’s injustices

and avenge the cruelties of man, and in order to do so, he

shoves a frosty fist into the lungs of his victims thereby

simultaneously suffocating and freezing them to death?”

“Sounds kinda unlikely when you say it, but it does give

new meaning to the term ‘cold-blooded,’ huh?”

“A person is responsible for these deaths, Mulder, not a

snowman.”

“I’m inclined to agree,” he said, surprising her. “The

snowman is simply the murder weapon.”

“Wonderful. That’ll look great in our report.”

“In the legend, the magic stone is imbued with protective

powers that turn an enemy into a victim. All the victims

here could be considered a threat to Connie Spencer. The

boys, her ex-husband, even Sheriff Riley might be viewed as

her enemies.”

“So who would be most interested in protecting her? Her

brother?”

“Possibly. Or Anne Tredwell. She’s been supportive of

Connie. Actually, Elwood Jenkins has been sympathetic as

well. He was the one who gave Katie her magic stone and

he’s been outspoken in his opinion that the victims got

what they deserved.”

“But the victims never posed any real danger to Connie.

Would Jenkins or Tredwell or even Peters kill four people

based on an imagined threat?”

“It’s a matter of perspective, Scully. Jenkins said

something about that earlier today. He said, ‘we pick ‘n’

choose our own truth based on our point of view. There

ain’t no such thing as absolute truth.'” Mulder mimicked

Jenkins, bobbling his head and hunching his back.

“You’re quoting a janitor, Mulder.”

“A man who takes out the garbage may know a thing or two

about the truth of life. Besides, he’s right. You’re

choosing your own truth right now, Scully. You’re looking

at this case through your highly polished scientist’s

lenses. And although I’m willing to admit that your logical

point of view often serves us well, it also blinds you to

less rigorous conclusions.”

“Mulder, after seven years with you, sometimes I am

willing to accept a less-than-scientific explanation for

the things we encounter.”

“When?” He smiled. “Once in a blue moon?”

“Hopefully not that often. But need I remind you of Ansen

Stokes, the Invisible Man from Olivette, Missouri?”

“Rendered imperceptible by a magic genie.”

“Mm. I was open to extreme possibilities in that case. Too

bad my proof went poof.”

Mulder chuckled. “The invisible man disappeared — there’s

a nice irony to that.”

“Not nice at all, Mulder. The whole thing was very

embarrassing.”

“Awww, but you were so cute believing the unbelievable.”

He touched his finger to the tip of her nose.

“My point is, Mulder, I put my biases — my scientist’s

lenses, as you call them — aside,” she batted his hand

away. “And if we’re going to be honest and admit our biases

here, let’s not overlook your own preconceived fear of

snowmen.”

“I’m not afraid of them, Scully. I told you, I just hate

them.”

“Whatever.”

“Besides, I’m willing to agree that *in this case*, the

snowmen are probably not acting on their own. Someone is

using them to protect Connie. And I’m not sure we can rule

out Connie herself.”

“You said earlier that Connie wasn’t a murderer.”

“I don’t think she is…consciously.”

“Uh oh. Is that another theory I hear knocking at the door?”

“Yes, but it’s a familiar one. Remember Holman Hardt?”

“The weatherman from Kansas. Mulder, Holman may have

tossed a cow at you, but he never killed anyone with a

snowman.”

“But he could have. His repressed feelings of love for

Sheila erupted in tornadoes, snowstorms and even a flying

cow. The point is, he was doing it unconsciously. Why

couldn’t Connie’s fears, real or imagined, be responsible

for a similar phenomenon?”

“You’re giving up on your magic stone theory?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Well, if what you’re saying about Connie is true — and

I’m not saying that it is — then there’s someone else we

need to consider as the murderer.”

“Who’s that, Scully?”

“Katie.”

ACT IV

Caribou Corners High School

Next Morning

Unable to penetrate the deep overcast, the mid-morning sun

glowed like a nickel coin in a pewter sky, slurred low on

the horizon despite the early hour. The schoolyard joggled

with sherbet-colored knit hats, fluttering scarves and

ballooning down-filled coats. Screechy kids’ voices

vibrated across the glittering ice sculptures.

“Crowded,” Scully commented, arm linked with Mulder’s,

more for the windbreak of his body than from any romantic

notion.

“Hearty souls, must be used to the cold.” He glanced at

her reddened nose and flailing hair. “You need a hat,

Scully.”

“I’m not the hat type.”

“Who exactly is the ‘hat type’?”

“Cowboys, astronauts, magic-hat-wearing snowmen named

Frosty,” she paused, looking around. “Jesus.”

“Jesus? He wore a crown of thorns, but not a hat per se.”

“No, Mulder, I was just commenting on…all this.” She

waved a gloved hand at the ice castles, the snowmen, the

dragon.

“Oooh. I–”

“Miss Dana, Miss Dana!” Katie skipped breathless and

smiling toward Scully. “Com’ere! See my snowman!” The

little girl tugged excitedly on Scully’s hand. Scully

grabbed Mulder’s arm and allowed herself to be pulled along

by the girl, feeling like a link in a very short chain of

Crack the Whip.

Anne Tredwell waited for Katie beside a crooked line of

Snowmen; more than three-dozen entries stood ready for the

judges’ consideration later in the day.

“Good morning, Agents. When Katie saw you arrive, she

insisted on showing you her snowman.” Anne’s eyes never

left Katie. Fatigue grayed the dance teacher’s face but she

forced a smile. “She barely slept at all last night,” Anne

confided. “Not until Phil called and said he’d brought

Connie home from…” She glanced at Katie to gauge whether

or not the girl was listening, “J-A-I-L.”

“Is Mommy ‘n’ Uncle Phil comin’ t’see Frosty?” Katie asked

her dance teacher.

“Yes, sweetie. They’ll be here soon.”

“Yippee!” Katie pranced a circle around the snowman. “Do

you like my snowman, Miss Dana?”

Scully inspected Katie’s entry. The snowman looked as if

it smirked with a broad stone-studded grin wrapped from one

nonexistent ear to the other. Instead of a traditional

carrot nose, Katie had stuck a pencil above the wide mouth,

giving the snowman a beaky, bird-like appearance. Two

pennies served as eyes and slanting twig brows lent an

expression of worry to the bloodless face. One of Katie’s

ice cream-colored hats topped the stack of snowy spheres;

the pompom jittered in the nervous breeze.

“Very nice, Katie. What do you think, Mulder?”

“I think there are a heck of a lot more snowmen here this

morning than there were last night. And there were a lot of

snowmen here last night. How…?” Mulder gazed down the

long line. The number of snowmen had practically doubled in

the last few hours.

“Mulder, what do you think of *Katie’s* snowman?”

He turned his attention to the girl’s entry. Taking his

time, he scrutinized the snowman from all sides. Finally,

nose to pencil, he stared into the snowman’s penny eyes.

“Looks like a prize winner to me,” he announced.

“Really?” Katie squealed with delight and clapped her

mittened hands.

“Definitely.” Giving the neighboring snowmen a suspicious

glance, Mulder adjusted the knit hat on Frosty’s broad

skull.

“Agent Mulder knows what he’s talking about, Katie. He’s a

snowman expert.”

“Let’s not brag,” Mulder suggested, not amused by Scully’s

subtle jibe. “Did you put your magic stone inside your

snowman, Katie?”

“Nope.” She pawed through her pocket and produced the

white stone. She held it up high for Mulder to see before

showing it to Scully and then to Anne. “I’m saving it for

later. I dint want Frosty to run away before the contest!”

she giggled.

“Good plan.”

“Mulder.” Scully’s face had become serious. “By the school

door.” She pointed.

Across the schoolyard, Elwood Jenkins posed with one long

white hand on the school’s open door, staring directly at

Mulder. Jenkins’ pale head bobbed as if nodding agreement

to Mulder’s unspoken intent to follow the janitor into the

school. With a yellow smile, Jenkins disappeared behind the

closing door.

“I’ll be back,” Mulder murmured and trailed after the

vanishing janitor.

* * *

Stepping inside the school, Mulder found the hall dark and

empty. Jenkins was nowhere in sight. Jesus, it was cold. He

guessed the building’s heat had been lowered for winter

break, but it seemed unlikely the school would be left cold

enough to allow the water pipes to freeze.

“There’re igloos pumping out more BTUs than this place,”

he muttered, starting down the hall in search of Jenkins.

Joggling the handle of each door he passed, Mulder found

one classroom after the next locked tight. Further down the

hall, however, he could see a shaft of fluorescent light

spilling out across the floor and he hurried to the small

suite of lit offices.

The outer room was clearly home to the school’s secretary.

Squeezed between a bookcase and a photocopier, her desk was

cluttered with family photos, porcelain knick-knacks and a

snowglobe that cheerily begged “Let it snow! Let it snow!

Let it snow!” Behind her desk, two open doors led to twin

offices. A lamp illuminated only one.

Mulder edged toward the lit room. Careful. Tense. He drew

his gun and paused at the inner door. Leaning cautiously

over the threshold he saw that the office was vacant and

Jenkins was nowhere to be found. But against the far wall,

a single drawer in a bank of dusty file cabinets gaped

open. Mulder felt certain the drawer had been purposely

left ajar just for him.

Glancing over his shoulder to double-check for Jenkins, he

crossed to the file cabinet. He peered into the open drawer

where he found hundreds of file folders bearing the names

of students who had attended Caribou Corners High School

more than a decade ago. Troubled students. These were the

guidance counselor’s files.

One folder peaked above the rest as if recently removed.

He read the folder’s handwritten tab: PETERS, CONNIE T —

Connie Spencer’s maiden name. Mulder pulled the folder from

the drawer and spread it open on the desk.

* * *

“Mommeeeee!” Katie shrieked when she noticed Connie and

Phil Peters approaching. The girl plowed into her mother’s

outstretched arms. Peters playfully tugged his niece’s

swinging hair. “Hi Uncle Phil! Mommy’s here!” Katie bounced

with delight, announcing the obvious.

“Yep. No way she’d miss seeing your snowman take first

prize. Where’s Miss Tredwell?”

“With Miss Dana and Frosty. Over there.” Katie pointed a

mittened finger.

Peters excused himself and crossed the yard to the line of

snowmen where Anne and Scully stood watching Katie’s

reunion with her mother.

“Hi Anne. Thanks for taking Katie last night.”

“My pleasure, Phil. You know the girl’s always an angel.

Uh…have you met Agent Scully?”

“Yes, we’ve met.” Phil nodded at Scully. “Where’s your

partner this morning?”

“Inside.” Scully tilted her head at the school. “With

Jenkins.”

* * *

Mulder’s index finger traced a handwritten message

scrawled in red ink across the bottom of Connie’s first

grade report card: 2/19/71: Connie Peters admitted to

Caribou Corners Memorial Hospital — nervous collapse.

Connie hadn’t missed a single day in the first two

reporting periods of her year in Grade 1. Her marks

indicated she was a good student. But the report card

remained blank for the third and fourth quarters. Mulder

studied the tiny class photo taped to the back of the

report card. Connie looked just like her daughter Katie,

right down to the shallow crescent dimpling her chin when

she smiled at the photographer. A second report card was

clipped to the first. The attached photo showed an almost

unrecognizable girl hollowed by grief. And fear? She looked

frightened. Scared to death. Evidently Connie had been

readmitted to school in the fall of ’71 to repeat the first

grade. Mulder scanned the marks on the second report card,

looking for clues that might reveal something about her

emotional state. U’s representing unsatisfactory behavior

filled the report. Connie no longer took part in group

activities or paid attention during class. Her work was

often late. She wasted time daydreaming. The teacher noted

the seven-year-old appeared to be overtired and often wore

the same clothes to school for several days in a row. The

report card was signed by a Mr. H. Tredwell, not Connie’s

parents.

Returning to the file cabinet, Mulder retrieved Phil

Peters’ records in hopes of finding more information about

Connie’s first grade decline. What would cause the seven-

year-old to suffer a nervous breakdown? And why didn’t

Connie’s parents sign her card? He flipped quickly through

Peters’ folder.

In 1971, Phil Peters also attended Caribou Corners

Elementary School, but as a third grader. His marks

indicated he was a good student, like his sister before her

hospitalization. Satisfactory grades filled his card. His

entire card. Evidently whatever had bothered Connie hadn’t

altered her brother’s study habits. Peters had missed only

one day of school the entire year. February 19. The day

Connie was admitted to Caribou Corners Memorial. That

didn’t tell Mulder much. Whatever had pitched Connie off an

emotional cliff evidently hadn’t affected her brother Phil.

Ruffling through the folder of papers, notes and report

cards, Mulder stopped when he came to a letter from a

Presque Isle physician.

Gentlemen, Our psychiatric review indicates that the

patient (Philip K. Peters, 9 years old) is mentally and

emotionally sound, despite the recent loss of both parents

(Robert and Janet Peters, d. February 16, 1971). The

patient is communicative, even ebullient, and presents no

symptoms of depression. He worries about his sister (Connie

T. Peters, age 7, currently at CCMH) but demonstrates no

emotional impediment. We are confident Philip can

successfully finish out the year at Caribou Corners

Elementary School. Sincerely, James Miller, MD

“Ebullient? With two dead parents and a sister in the

loony bin? Dr. Miller needs to take his head out of his

ass.”

Mulder flipped the doctor’s letter over. He arched an

eyebrow at a big red question mark drawn on the back of the

sheet. Taped to the lower half of the page was a yellowed

newspaper clipping — Robert and Janet Peters’ obituary.

“Shit,” Mulder hissed, reading the obit.

The clipping reported that Connie and Phil Peters’ parents

had died when a roof-full of snow slid from their home,

crushing them both to death on their front steps. The two

children had the misfortune to witness the bizarre

accident. And coincidentally, or perhaps not, Janet Peters’

maiden name was Desjardins — the same name as Georges and

Catherine in the tale about the legendary killer snowman.

Mulder felt the hair on his neck prickle.

*Schht. Schht.*

Mulder spun to see Phil Peters glaring at him from the

outer office, feet scuffling the floor. Despite the

distance, Peters recognized the newspaper clipping.

“How exactly did your parents die, Phil?” Mulder asked,

closing the folder and setting it on the desk, freeing his

hands.

“It was an accident.” Peters nervously swayed, rocking

side to side in the doorframe.

“Was it? Or is that just the story you’ve been telling

yourself…and everyone else…all these years?”

“No!” An overcast of rage darkened Peters’ folding

features.

“No? Are you sure? Are you sure you didn’t cause the

deaths of your mother and father? Using a magic stone,

perhaps?”

“NOOO!”

* * *

“Nooooo!” Connie moaned, lurching as the schoolyard’s snow

suddenly shifted and pulled beneath her feet. The white

ground rippled. Billowed.

Scully snatched at the air in an effort to keep her

balance. She felt as though she stood on the bloated back

of a waking giant. Surging. Swelling. Quaking the line of

snowmen beside her with a shivery squeal of sliding ice.

*Schhht. Schhhht. Schhhht!*

Katie’s eyes widened and filled with tears.

A swirl of stinging sleet blew across the schoolyard.

Connie dropped to her knees. She groaned again and covered

her head.

The howling gale sliced over the yard and zigzagged

through the castle doors with a series of piercing shrieks.

When a snapping fissure split the castle’s wall, fracturing

the frozen turret and causing the parapets to teeter and

fall, Anne screamed. Her cry was lost among the startled

shouts of the panicked crowd.

Scully snagged Katie’s hand and lifted the frightened girl

into her arms.

* * *

“What happened thirty years ago, Peters? What really

happened?” Mulder inched closer to Peters and the door.

**God damn it! I just shoveled that walkway!**

Peters flinched at the anger in his father’s imagined

voice.

“What is it, Peters? What?” Mulder asked.

**What…what the hell would possess you to build a

snowman right in the middle of the walk, Philly?**

Peters blinked, trying to bring Mulder’s face back into

focus.

**Don’t talk back to me, young man. Just get rid of it!

Connie, stop your bawling!**

“No. No, no, no,” Peters hummed, staring at an invisible

shovel thrust into his hands by a memory. He could see his

sister’s crying face, looking so much like Katie. His

father’s fist gripping the tiny girl’s arm. Lifting her.

Setting her down roughly, impatiently, in the front hall.

Returning to stand next to their mother. Fists on his hips.

Just outside the door. Below the overhanging roof. The

snowman…the snowman…

**Catch me if you can!**

Mulder took another step forward. Peters’ head snapped up.

“Stay where you are!” he screamed, halting Mulder.

Stumbling backward toward the hall, Peters broke into a run.

Mulder sprinted after him.

* * *

“Nononononono,” Connie keened, her face buried in her coat

sleeves. Anne Tredwell, despite her own fear, tried to calm

Connie.

*Catch meeeee! Catch meeeee if you caaaaaaan!* The wind

spiraled around the line of wobbling snowmen.

Katie gripped Scully. “It’s happening again, Miss Dana!”

the girl warned, tears spilling from widened eyes. She

buried her face in Scully’s neck when one of the castles

collapsed with an earsplitting explosion. Chunks of ice

hurtled toward the crowd, scattering the screaming

visitors. Scully hunched protectively over Katie as a

blizzard of icy needles detonated from each crashing block.

The pummel of hail raised a sudden, blinding veil of snow.

The wind tossed the haze across the schoolyard like a snow-

white blanket thrown over a bed.

Scully caught a glimpse of Phil Peters. Like a ghost, he

materialized out of the maelstrom and raced to the phalanx

of snowmen, calling Connie’s name. He spotted his collapsed

sister at the end of the row, crumpled on the ground and

crying. Lurching his way toward Connie, Phil raised his

arms to protect his face from the churning snow and pitched

himself into the blasting wind.

Appearing behind Peters, Mulder also raised his arms to

protect his face from the gale. Hair flailing and eyes

squinting, he hurried past the procession of snowmen in

pursuit of Peters.

When Peters reached Connie, he shoved Anne Tredwell

roughly out of his way. Hauling Connie to her feet, he

shouted something at her and although Scully was only a few

feet away, she couldn’t hear him over the wind’s deafening

howl. The blast was so loud, it was almost as if there were

no sound at all. A vacuum of noise sucked painfully on

Scully’s overloaded eardrums.

Peters gripped Connie’s shoulder, keeping her upright.

Together, they turned to face Mulder.

*Schhht. Schhht.*

Several snowmen slid out of line.

“Oh, nooo,” Katie whimpered against Scully’s cheek.

*Schhhhhht!*

One of the snowmen blocked Mulder’s path, separating him

from Connie and Peters. Another loomed into place behind

the agent. Mulder swiveled, realizing too late he was

trapped.

Scully set Katie down. “Stay here, sweetie,” she shouted

into the girl’s ear.

“No!” the girl screamed, gripping the fabric of Scully’s

coat.

“Yes!” Scully insisted. Already she’d lost sight of

Mulder. He was completely surrounded by a shiver of

rolling, tumbling snow.

“No!” Katie cried again.

Several snowmen toppled, appearing to come unglued. The

rolling spheres separated. Spun. Slid.

“I have to help Agent Mulder.”

Katie shook her head. “He’s gonna die,” she whimpered.

“No. No he’s not,” Scully told the girl firmly. Looking

over Katie’s head for Mulder, Scully knew he must be buried

somewhere beneath the trembling jumble of broken snowmen.

“Use my magic stone, Miss Dana.” Katie dug into her pocket

and produced the tiny, white stone.

“Katie, I don’t think–”

“Please, Miss Dana. Hurry,” Katie urged, pressing the

stone into Scully’s palm.

The memory of Sheriff Riley’s packed lungs flashed into

Scully’s mind. Was Mulder already dead, his chest plugged

and his gullet split wide open by a frozen fist of ice and

snow? Desperate, Scully took Katie’s stone and ducked into

the bluster, brushing past Connie and Peters. Two more

steps and she stood beside the massive sculpted dragon.

With a frantic look in Mulder’s direction, she embedded the

stone deeply into the serpent’s frozen forehead.

Pop. Pop, pop. Ice sputtered and snapped like a volley of

firecrackers, causing Scully to flinch at each blast. The

ground rumbled, shook. Vibrated her teeth. The serpent’s

icy scales bulged and bucked along the dragon’s rippling

crystal skin. Grinding and scraping, the serpent’s head

shifted and unfolded, rising ten, fifteen, twenty feet into

the blowing air. Its jaws snapped shut, clapping like a

rifle shot. It slid onto its clawed feet, heaving its

hulking belly from the ground, lashing its great tail and

leveling an expanse of ground around it more than forty

feet wide. A storm ruptured from the dragon’s gaping maw

when it bellowed.

The monster’s head swung downward, plummeting until its

frosty nostrils stopped within an inch or two of Phil

Peters’ shocked face. Its glassy eyes rolled, focusing on

the frightened man. The crystal lids slowly blinked. Peters

trembled and the snowy serpent huffed, spewing a blizzard

of snowflakes at the shaken man. Peters released his hold

on Connie and, unsupported, the stunned woman slipped to

the ground.

The serpent’s head lifted, peered over Peters to where

Mulder lay buried, pinned beneath a shifting bank of ice.

Flicking out its tongue between icicle teeth, the dragon

tested the flavor of the air. Then with a sudden snap, the

serpent struck, clamping its jaws tightly over Phil Peters’

head.

The wind stalled. The ground stopped trembling. The

snowmen stood motionless.

The icy dragon shattered like a broken mirror.

Scully hurried around Phil Peters’ bleeding body to dig

Mulder from the snow.

EPILOGUE

Caribou Corners High School

The Next Day

10:12 a.m.

“We don’t have to do this,” Mulder trailed Scully across

the parking lot to the schoolyard where sections of

shattered snowmen lay scattered like wounded soldiers on a

battlefield. The skin on his face appeared frostbitten and

a nasty scrape blazed his left cheek. Even so, he looked

pretty healthy for a man who’d been attacked by an army of

snowmen not twenty-four hours earlier. “Do we?”

“Yes, Mulder. It’s time you faced your snowman phobia.”

“I told you, I’m not afraid of them–”

“I know, you just don’t like them.” She offered him a

sympathetic smile. “It’ll be fun, I promise.” She gave his

arm a

squeeze of encouragement, but even so his creased brow

remained creased. “I’ll start,” she suggested, scooping up

a handful of snow. She patted it into a perfectly round

snowball and rolled the tiny sphere along the ground. The

ball quickly grew in size, picking up snow until it was as

large as a human head.

“What did the hospital report say?” he asked, content to

let Scully push the head-sized snowball into something the

size of a beach ball.

“Connie told the staff psychiatrist everything.” She

grunted as she shoved the snowball, now at least three feet

in diameter. “She gave her doctor permission to share the

story with us.”

“So what happened in 1971? How did Robert and Janet Peters

die?” Mulder reached out to steady Scully as she rocked

back and forth trying to jostle the overgrown orb another

foot or two. The giant snowball already outweighed her.

“You gonna help me or not, Mulder?” She swiped a damp lock

of hair from her face.

“Doncha think it’s big enough? Start the next one. When

it’s ready, I’ll lift it on top of this one.”

Frowning at him, she began a second snowball.

“You were saying? Robert and Janet Peters…?” Mulder

prompted.

“Connie said she and Phil found a bag of white stones in

the garage during the winter of ’71. After finding the

stones, Phil told Connie the legend of Maledeneige. He

claimed the stones were a secret stash given to the

descendants of Catherine Desjardins.”

“But the legend said Catherine died soon after her husband

Georges was killed. She didn’t have any descendants. Did

she?”

“Like most stories, years of telling the tale have spawned

several interpretations. In the version Phil relayed to

Connie, Catherine Desjardins didn’t die of grief over the

death of her husband but died in childbirth and the Snowman

supposedly returned to Caribou Corners each winter to

protect Catherine’s descendants.”

“Janet Peters’ maiden name was Desjardins,” Mulder said.

“Exactly. Phil knew that. So, seven-year-old Connie and

nine-year-old Phil believed they were descendants of

Catherine Desjardins and they also believed they had

discovered the legendary stones of Maledeneige. So they

built a snowman in their walkway to test the magic.”

“What happened?”

Scully pointed to the second fat snowball. “This one’s

ready, Mulder.”

He eyed the original boulder several yards away. Hefting

the massive snowball from the ground, he groaned with

aching effort. “Are we havin’ fun yet?”

“You’re not having a good time?” Scully sounded honestly

surprised. While he struggled with the enormous ball,

wrestling the weighty sphere into position, she continued

her story. “Connie remembers her father being furious when

he saw the children had built a snowman in the middle of

his recently shoveled walkway. He insisted Phil remove the

snowman and clear the walk. Connie was sure the snowman was

magical and she didn’t want to destroy it. So she started

crying. Impatient with her tears, Robert Peters carried his

daughter into the house.” Scully tilted her head and eyed

the headless snowman. “It’s crooked, Mulder.”

Mulder adjusted the snowman’s belly.

“Connie remembers being set on the floor just inside the

door,” Scully went on. “Her father and mother stood outside

on the front step. The ground started shaking. There was a

terrible roar and then snow and ice slid from the roof,

burying and killing Janet and Robert Peters.”

“I’ll bet the snowman was laughing.”

“I don’t think so, Mulder.” Scully formed a new snowball

for her snowman’s head.

“Well, obviously the snowman viewed Robert Peters’ anger

as an attack on the children, so it protected them by

killing the parents. The magic stone worked.”

“Mulder, the stones weren’t magic. Connie found out later

that the stones had been purchased by her father to improve

drainage beneath the front steps. He’d bought three 75-

pound bags of crushed white rock and stored them in the

garage for the winter.”

“But the snow on the roof…”

“It was an accident, Mulder. Caribou Corners had over

eighty inches of snowfall by February of ’71. I checked.

It’s no wonder Robert Peters was angry about shoveling his

walk. He’d probably done it a million times by then.”

Mulder didn’t look satisfied. He leaned an elbow on the

shoulders of the headless snowman and surveyed the results

of yesterday’s mayhem. “But, Scully…”

“Mulder, Connie and Phil believed the stones were magic

the day their parents were killed. They blamed themselves

for their parents’ deaths. That’s why Connie had a nervous

breakdown. Phil went into a state of denial. Even after

they found out the truth, they couldn’t shake the emotional

effect. They always felt somehow to blame for building that

snowman and placing their parents in harm’s way that day.

With their parents gone, Phil became overprotective of his

sister…to the extreme. Keeping his guilt bottled up for

thirty years, Phil finally snapped. He saw Connie’s

students, Tom Spencer, even Sheriff Riley as a threat to

Connie. Phil killed them, Mulder. There was no magic

snowman.”

“I don’t know, Scully. How do you explain the stones you

removed from the victim’s lungs? How do you explain all

this?” Mulder waved his hand at the cracked castles, the

broken dragon, the smashed snowmen. “Don’t tell me this was

caused by a freakish earthquake or something. You saw that

dragon come to life, Scully. You put Katie’s stone into its

head — to save me. You must’ve believed it was magic.”

Scully tossed Mulder the finished snowman’s head and he

twisted it into place.

“Mulder, I…I was desperate. ‘Desperate times call for

desperate measures.’ ‘Necessity is the mother of

invention.’ ‘A magic stone in the dragon’s head is worth

two in the bush.'”

“Hmm. Hackneyed and hacked at cliches aside, Scully, you

obviously acted on the belief the stone was magic.”

“I didn’t really think about it, Mulder. I just did it.”

“Very unscientific of you.”

“Well, maybe there was a blue moon last night.”

“Scully, you saw what happened. I saw it. We both saw it.”

He eyed the faceless snowman. “Maybe Janet and Robert

Peters’ deaths were no more than the result of a tragic

accident. But what happened here yesterday was no accident.

Phil Peters used the snowmen to protect Connie. He wanted

the snowmen to kill the boys, Tom Spencer and Sheriff

Riley. He wanted me dead, too. And he used magic stones

like Katie’s to bring the snowmen to life.” Mulder left the

snowman and wrapped his arms around Scully’s waist. “Like

Jenkins said, you’re choosing your own truth, Scully. Take

off your scientist’s lenses,” he murmured into her ear.

“Only if you promise to try wearing them for awhile.”

“Only if you promise to give up on this horrible snowman

building activity.”

“You’re really not having fun?”

“I can think of plenty of things to do that would be more

fun than this.” He waggled his brows.

“Mulder, for seven years I’ve listened to your suggestive

intimations. You plan to make good on those at some point

or are you all talk and no action?” She flashed him a

disarming grin.

“I-I’m action.”

“Really? Then how about you stop flappin’ that handsome

jaw and start…um, performing. Action Boy.”

“Well, I didn’t mean right here, Scully. We’re…on a

case.” He whispered the last part.

“Our case is over,” she whispered back.

He lightly kissed her lips.

“I haven’t made *that* many suggestive suggestions, have I?”

“No? For a guy with a photographic memory, your lens has

become pretty cloudy. Let’s see if I can clear your

aperture. If I remember correctly, you once asked me what I

was wearing while we talked on the phone. You told me my

knowledge of World War II aircraft turned you on. You asked

me if your tree-climbing prowess turned *me* on. And you

suggested making a honeymoon video while we were working on

a case. I even think I recall an invitation to join you in

bed while on that same case.”

“Oh, *that*. Scully, my intentions were strictly

professional.”

“You meant one thing but I heard another?”

“Must be. Remember what Jenkins said? He said there is no

absolute truth. We each derive our own truth from our own

perspective.”

“The truth is out there but it may not be the same truth

for everyone?”

“Exactly, Scully. You’ve got it.”

“Ah huh. Okay, Mulder, just so there won’t be any

confusion, explain to me *exactly* what you meant when you

said you could think of plenty of things to do that would

be more fun than building this snowman. I wouldn’t want to

misunderstand…you know, like I’ve so obviously

misinterpreted the honeymoon video thing. Let’s not leave

anything open to individual interpretation, shall we? Let’s

be sure your truth is my truth.”

“I guess I just meant…you know…that we might enjoy…”

He shrugged.

“Another pizza and a bubble bath?”

“There you go!” He kissed her nose. “We’re seeing this

exactly the same way.”

Linking his fingers through hers, he drew her away from

the Snowman and led her toward the car. Twisting to look

over his shoulder, he glanced back at the faceless snowman

one last time.

“Um…Scully, is that snowman smiling?”

“Who cares, Mulder. I’m smiling and at this moment, that’s

all that should concern you.”

THE END

Authors notes: Thank you, VS8, for allowing me to

participate in this project.

Feedback, good or bad, is welcome on “Snowman” or any of

my stories. I don’t even pretend to be a professional

writer, so any pearls of wisdom are very welcome. Send

comments to cindyet@tdstelme.net.

My other fanfic can be found at my website,

http://www.crosswinds.net/~bluefroggie/cindyet.html,

generously maintained by the wonderful bluefroggie.