Title: Cerebral Sustenance

Author: Frances Hayman Smith

E-mail: fi.smith@gte.net

Finished: September 2001

Written for: I Made This Productions Virtual Season 9

Category: X-File, MT, MSR

Spoilers: Excelsis Dei, Fight The Future (movie), Agua Mala,

Biogenesis, The Sixth Extinction, Amor Fati

Summary: Mulder and Scully are sent to Dallas to explore the

deaths of several people with Alzheimer’s disease

and Down syndrome whose conditions improved

dramatically just before they died.

Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner and the X-Files (and all other

references to anything in the X-Files) belong to Chris

Carter, Ten-Thirteen Productions, and Fox. They do not

belong to me. Neither do M*A*S*H, MAPSCO, King of the

Hill, Winnie the Pooh, the Discovery Channel, Disney

World, or Animal Planet. They are used without

permission. No copyright infringement intended and

no money made. All those new people are the creation

of the author.

Distribution: IMTP until October 12, 2001, then it can go

elsewhere. Just keep my name with it and let me

know where it goes.

A Note on Terms and Spelling: In researching this story I discovered

that there are several accepted spellings for the syndrome

caused by the chromosomal abnormality Trisomy 21. Some people

prefer Down syndrome, others Downs syndrome, and still others

Down’s syndrome. It may seem like a small point, but I wanted

to get it right. The majority of my net research came up with

“Down syndrome” so that is what will be used in this story.

CEREBRAL SUSTENANCE

TEASER

Screaming. He heard screaming coming from a warehouse. The old man

walked toward the worn gray building, listening. He looked up the dirty

gray walls, into the gray rolling clouds above and heard more screams,

painful screams. Surely someone’s being tortured in there, he thought.

He made his way to a grimy window, wiped off a small area and tried to

look in. What he saw was a big room with a few metal barrels and wooden

crates scattered around. He stood on tiptoe and wiped a larger area,

this time seeing a door on the far side of the room. He cocked his head

and noticed that the screaming had stopped. The door across the room

opened, and a handsome young man walked out mopping his face with a

handkerchief and breathing hard. The younger man stood for a moment,

shakily bracing himself on the doorknob, then walked out of the old man’s

sight. The old man sighed, shrugged, and backed away from the window to

resume his walk. He looked down and noticed that his slippers were

quite wet.

“Now why did I wear these slippers today?” he said to himself. “And

where am I anyway?” He fingered the laminated tag on a lanyard around

his neck, brought it up to his face, and saw the picture of a smiling

man looking back. He read the name and address under the photo.

“James Baylor, Preston Ridge Adult Care Facility.” He paused and

frowned.

“Excuse me, sir. Are you lost?”

James Baylor turned around and saw the smiling face of the young man

he had seen through the window. “I, I think, so, son.” He held up

the tag. “I think this is where I’m supposed to be.”

The younger man looked at the tag. “You’re a long way from there,

Mr. Baylor. How did you get here?”

Baylor dropped the tag. “I remember getting on a bus, to go to my office.

I got off and just started walking. Seemed like a good day for a walk.”

He smiled and looked up at the rolling clouds. “Doesn’t seem like such

a good day for walking now, though.”

The younger man followed his gaze up. “I think you’re right there, sir.

Why don’t you come with me? We can get a cup of coffee and see about

getting you back to Preston Ridge. How’s that sound?”

“That sounds really good, son. Thank you.”

X X X X X

ACT ONE

X-FILES OFFICE

Monday morning

Mulder walked into the office balancing coffee, a bag of donuts, and

an armful of files. “Good morning, Scully!”

“My, my, aren’t we cheery this morning,” said Scully, eyebrow slightly

raised. “Looking forward to some vacation time?”

“Yes on both counts,” said Mulder, smiling brightly. He set his load

down on the desk then leaned in close to Scully. “You’re reason enough

to make anyone cheery, even without the prospect of time off.”

Scully blushed, but looked pleased. “Why, thank you, Mulder.” She

rose from her chair and sat on the corner of his desk. “But there

must be something else.”

Mulder held his hand over his chest. “Scully! That’s all the reason

I need,” he said in a slightly offended voice. “But, you’re right.

There is something else.”

“And that would be, what, exactly?”

“How does a long weekend in Florida sound?”

“Mulder, we’re NOT going looking for mothmen again, are we?”

“No, no, Scully! Strictly vacation. Soaking up sun on a beach, or

maybe we could visit the Happiest Place on Earth.”

“Really? Disney World?” said Scully, smiling broadly.

“Whatever you want, partner,” said Mulder, nearly matching her smile.

“We just have to make it until Thursday without getting into a big case.

I’ll call and make some arrangements this morning. Sooooo, what’ll it

be? Beach or The Mouse?”

“Umm, The Mouse, I think. I haven’t been there in years. What about

you, Mulder?”

“Disney sounds good to me. I’ve never been there.”

“Never?” asked Scully.

“Never. I guess I just haven’t had a lot to be happy about until

lately. Didn’t think I’d really fit in there.”

Scully laid a hand on his arm, her eyes bright. “Oh, Mulder. We both

have a lot to be happy about now. I just know you’ll have the time

of your life.”

Mulder picked up her hand and placed a kiss in the palm. “Anytime

we’re together is the time of my life, Scully.”

They sat quietly looking at each other for a moment when the phone

began to ring. Still, they sat there.

“I guess we better answer that,” said Scully.

Mulder sighed. “Okay. But if this is a big, involved case, you’ll

be sorry!”

Scully laughed as she picked up the phone. “Scully.”

“Agent Scully, this is Kim. A.D. Skinner would like to see you and

Agent Mulder in his office right away.”

“Do you know what it’s about?”

“No, I’m afraid I don’t. But he doesn’t look angry, if that helps.”

Scully smiled. “It does, Kim. Thanks.”

Mulder looked at Scully. “Skinner want us in his office, right?”

“Yes, but according to Kim he doesn’t look angry.”

Mulder rose. “At least that’s something.” He took a sip of coffee.

“If he sends us to Timbuktu, Nowhere on a long, drawn out case, I might

just have to kill him.”

“Mulder!” said Scully as she whacked him on the arm. “You’ll have to

get in line behind me.”

X X X X X

A.D. SKINNER’S OFFICE

“Good morning, Agents,” said Skinner. When Mulder and Scully were

seated, he picked up a file. “I know both of you put in for some

vacation time, but we have something here that you need to look into.”

Mulder and Scully quickly exchanged looks before Skinner looked up.

“What is it, sir?” asked Scully.

“It’s a death. Actually several.”

“A serial killer?” asked Mulder.

“We don’t know. Four people have died in the Dallas area over the

last four months under somewhat similar circumstances. No connections

have been established between the victims. One was a confirmed case

of Alzheimer’s, two were suspect, at least before the autopsies, and one

young adult with Down Syndrome.”

“Two suspect?” asked Scully.

Skinner nodded. “All of the victims, except for the one confirmed

Alzheimer’s patient, were homeless people.” He handed her the files.

“The latest victim was the father of a neurologist.”

“Anna Jane Baylor,” said Scully. “I went to medical school with her.”

“Well, maybe that will help, Agent Scully. Mr. Baylor also had some

pretty highly placed friends who have requested our help. All the

information we have is in the files. You should get to Dallas as soon

as possible.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Scully as they rose to leave.

“Sorry to ruin your weekend,” said Skinner, smiling weakly.

They walked out of Skinner’s office, Scully’s head still down, looking

through the file.

“You know,” said Mulder, “I think he really was sorry to mess up our

plans.”

“Hmm?” said Scully as Mulder steered her away from a wall, still

reading.

“Why don’t you wait until we get back to the office to read that.

I wouldn’t want you to fall down some stairs or impale someone with that

pen in your hand, Scully.”

“Oh, sorry, Mulder.” Scully closed the folder. “This could be

interesting.”

Mulder punched the button for the elevator. “Why do you say that?”

“Mr. Baylor experienced a dramatic improvement in his condition in the

weeks preceding his death.”

“That’s pretty rare, isn’t it?” asked Mulder.

“Yes. The usual course is a gradual decline over several years.

Sometimes people seem to stabilize at a certain level for a while and

they may have some days better than others, but they don’t improve this

dramatically.”

They stepped off the elevator and navigated through the boxes and shelves

to their office.

“I wonder if someone was feeding him funny mushrooms,” said Mulder.

“Like at that nursing home we investigated several years ago?”

Mulder nodded. “The Excelsis Dei Convalescent Home.”

“I suppose we should make sure the victims are screened for ibotenic

acid,” said Scully, again flipping through the file. “But I doubt we’ll

find that.” She looked up. “I mean there haven’t been any ‘ghost

attacks’ reported in the area.”

“Have there?” Mulder grinned. “Something else for us to check out. I’ll

make our travel arrangements,” said Mulder.

Scully looked up quickly, eyebrows raised. “No seedy motels, Mulder.

It sounds like we may be talking to some rather influential people and I

don’t want to look, well -”

“Trashy? You don’t want to look trashy? I doubt we’ll be conducting

interviews at our hotel.”

“I was thinking more about what moths did to one of my suits at one of

‘your’ hotels,” said Scully, smiling.

Mulder sat at his desk, a pout forming on his face. “Okay, then, would

you like to approve my choice before I make the reservations?”

Scully looked thoughtful. “I think that will be acceptable.”

X X X X X

DALLAS POLICE AND COURTS BUILDING

Monday afternoon

Mulder held the door open for Scully as they walked into the Dallas

Police building. They introduced themselves and were directed to the

detective in charge.

“Detective Burns?” asked Mulder as they stepped into an office crammed

with folders, coffee cups, and photos.

A slightly disheveled, heavy man with thinning red brown hair rose from

the chair behind the cluttered desk and offered his hand. “Yes! And

you must be the FBI agents from Washington,” he said with a broad smile.

“Welcome to Texas.”

“Thank you Detective Burns,” said Mulder as he took the offered hand.

“I’m Special Agent Fox Mulder and this is my partner Special Agent

Dana Scully.”

“A pleasure, ma’am,” said Burns as he took Scully’s hand gently, but

firmly. “And please, call me Frank.”

Mulder raised his eyebrows slightly and Frank laughed. “Yeah, Frank

Burns, just like on M*A*S*H. But I try not to be so irritating.”

Scully grinned again. “I can tell already you’re nothing like that

character. I’m sure we’ll all work together just fine.”

Frank sat heavily in his chair and motioned for them to sit as well.

“Well, I sure am glad to have some help on this one.” He propped his

elbow on the desk and rubbed at his jaw. “I didn’t even think this

was a case until Anna Jane contacted me.”

“Dr. Baylor contacted you?” asked Scully.

“Yes ma’am. She told me she thought there was something fishy about

her father’s death.”

“Sounds like you know Dr. Baylor,” said Mulder.

“Yes, sir. I met her about three years ago when one of my daughters

starting having headaches that turned out to be a brain tumor.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Mulder.

“No reason to be sorry,” said Frank. “Anna Jane, Dr. Baylor to me

then, took it out. It wasn’t cancer so she’s doing just fine now.”

“What made Dr. Baylor think there was something wrong in her father’s

death?” asked Scully.

“Jim Baylor was a healthy man, except for the Alzheimer’s disease.

He died pretty suddenly, with no previous sign of a problem. I know

that’s not too unusual for an older man, but it was the remarkable

improvement in the weeks before his death that really had her

thinking.”

“And then you connected it with the homeless people who had died, and

shown an improvement in their conditions prior to death?”

Frank nodded. “Yes. Ordinarily, I probably wouldn’t have even heard

about those deaths, but my wife and I do some volunteer work at a

couple of shelters in the area. We were at a volunteer meeting a month

or so ago and a couple of the shelter managers mentioned that they’d

seen some people with Alzheimer’s and Down syndrome show big

improvements. Then, a few weeks later, each of them were found

dead. There was no evidence at the time of foul play. But when

Anna Jane’s father died under similar circumstances, it just seemed

to be too much for a coincidence.”

“Have you found any other connections between these cases?” asked Mulder.

“Not too much. There were some similar things found at autopsy. I’ve

got copies of everything for you here somewhere.” He began rummaging

around on his desk. “Ah, here we go. Police and autopsy reports, and

what little I’ve gotten from interviews.” He handed the files to the

agents. “There’s another employee at Preston Ridge who’s been on

vacation that I still need to talk to.”

Scully immediately flipped to the autopsy reports. “Would it be

possible for us to talk with the medical examiner?”

“Yes, Agent Scully,” said Frank. “I believe he’s tied up this afternoon

in meetings. I talked to him this morning and he said he’d be in his

office in the morning if you want to talk to him then.”

“Great,” said Scully. “That’ll give me time to go through these in more

detail.”

“That person at Preston Ridge I’ve been waiting on, ah,” Frank shuffled

through papers, “John Bowman, is due back at work at 10am tomorrow. I

figured you two would like to come along for that interview.”

“Yes, we would,” said Mulder. “Thanks.” He leafed through the files

for a moment. “You’ve talked to some of the people who knew the first

three victims?”

Frank nodded. “Didn’t get much. The only thing anybody really had to

say was how much better each of them seemed in the weeks preceding their

deaths.”

“No mention of anything else strange happening?” asked Mulder.

“Strange? Like what?”

“Ghosts, attacks by something unseen?”

“Um, no. Well, not anymore than usual anyway.”

Mulder sat up slightly and leaned toward Frank. “What do you mean, not

more than usual?”

“Agent Mulder, a lot of these people are into all kinds of drugs and

alcohol pretty heavily. Sometimes hallucinations get reported if a

cop is nearby, but it never amounts to anything. I mean, I’ve seen my

share of strange stuff, but I haven’t heard anything that would have any

bearing on this case.”

Mulder sat back, a bit deflated, rubbing his hand thoughtfully across

his mouth. “Nothing reported consistently by several people?”

Frank sat back, thinking. “Not that I can recall, but I can find some

of the guys who patrol that area. It’ll take some time to run ’em down,

though. Tomorrow okay?”

“That’d be fine. Thanks.”

“Anything else I can help you with today?” Frank looked at his watch.

“Don’t mean to rush you off, but I’ve got a departmental meeting in a

few minutes.”

“There is one thing,” said Scully. “I’d really like to talk to Dr. Baylor.

We went to med school together but I haven’t seen her in years.”

“Sure thing, Agent Scully. I’ll call her and let her know you’re coming.

And I guess you’ll need some directions. Are you familiar with the

Dallas area?”

Scully grinned and looked over at Mulder. “We’ve been here before, but

it’s been a few years.”

Frank pulled a book off a shelf beside his desk and handed it to Mulder.

“‘Mapsco’. Don’t leave home without it.”

Mulder opened the book and looked at page after page of maps. “This is

the whole Dallas – Fort Worth area?”

“No, sir,” said Frank, “just the Dallas area. Fort Worth has a ‘Mapsco’

all it’s own.”

X X X X X

“Do you remember traffic being this bad when we were here before?” asked

a squinting Mulder.

“Yes, it was. Just as bad as D.C. in some areas,” said Scully, turning

the map book in her hand. “It should be the next street left, then the

third house on the right.”

Mulder nodded and soon turned the Lariat rental Taurus into the concrete

driveway of a brick two-story house. As they got out, he looked up and

down the street to see many similar houses, with similar lawns and

similar mailboxes, not to mention landscaping and fences. “Wow, ‘King

of the Hill’ is alive and well.”

“What?”

“‘King of the Hill’, the animated show on Fox about a family that lives

in a neighborhood near Dallas, much like this one.”

Scully shook her head and closed the door.

“What?” asked Mulder in an injured tone.

Scully sighed and muttered something that sounded an awful lot like,

“Can’t take him anywhere,” to Mulder. They walked to the front door and

rang the bell. Scully cut another scathing look at Mulder. “What?” he

said again, a totally innocent look on his face. He was saved from

further reproach as the front door opened.

“Dana Scully? Is that really you?” asked the young blond woman who

opened the door.

Scully smiled broadly and stepped forward to hug her classmate.

“Anna, I’m so sorry about your father.”

Anna broke the embrace and motioned them in. “Thank you, Dana. It’s

been hard, but death always is.” She led them into a comfortable living

room. “Please, have a seat. Frank, um, Detective Burns, called and told

me you were on your way.”

“It really is good to see you, Anna. I just hate the circumstances.

How have you been doing?”

“Professionally, great. Busy practice, good partners, plenty of

patients. Personally, right now I’m pretty much a wreck. Mom died

about 7 years ago of a sudden heart attack. In many ways I’m glad she

never had to see Daddy in the last few years. But, as an only child, it

was tough for me to take care of him alone. Taking him to Preston Ridge

was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. I know it was the right

thing, really the only thing I could do, but it still hurt.”

“How long was he there?” asked Mulder.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Anna,” said Scully. “This is my partner, Fox Mulder.”

Mulder reached across the coffee table and shook Anna’s hand.

“Nice to meet you, Fox.”

“Just Mulder,” he said, smiling.

“Nice to meet you, Mulder,” said Anna. “Now, you were asking how long

Daddy had been at Preston Ridge?” Mulder nodded. “He’d been there

about eight months when he died.”

“And he had shown remarkable improvement in the weeks before his

death?” asked Scully.

Anna nodded. “Yes. It was truly remarkable. For the last

three weeks, he was almost back to the Daddy I’d always known, and

then,” she paused and sighed, “they found him dead in his room. A

ruptured aneurysm of the abdominal aorta was what the autopsy showed.

But it also showed many small cerebral aneurysms. Dana, he didn’t

have any of the big risk factors for aneurysms.”

“They do happen sometimes without those,” said Scully.

“Yes, I know. I suppose I’m just trying to find a reason that I lost

him.” She shook her head and wiped at her eyes. “It’s just not fair.

He was doing so well. I need to know.”

“We’ll do all we can to help you find out,” said Scully.

“Had you noticed anything else different about him? Any people he

talked about that you didn’t know?” asked Mulder.

“One thing did kind of puzzle me. When he was doing so well I talked

to him about coming back here, to live with me. He wanted to stay at

Preston Ridge. He said the people there were really helping him. He

talked a lot about a man named Jeff that I think worked there.” She

looked down and smiled. “All that time I was torturing myself about

putting him there, but in the end, that’s where he wanted to stay, even

when he knew what was going on. I’m not sure if that makes me feel

better about Preston Ridge or worse about myself.”

“I’m sure he was just doing what he thought was best for both of you,”

said Scully. “He had to realize that the improvement was likely only

temporary.”

“I suppose,” said Anna. “But you didn’t see him, Dana. He was just

so, so -”

“Normal?” asked Mulder.

“No, more than just normal. He was vital, almost sparkling, if that

makes any sense. Even though his body was that of an older man, it was

as if his mind was soaring.” She took a deep breath and looked at Scully.

“I suppose it could have been something like a moment of final lucidity,

but that just doesn’t happen with Alzheimer’s, and not for several weeks.

As a neurologist, I don’t know what to think. As a daughter, I am

glad I had my father back, even if it was for just a little while.”

“Did Detective Burns tell you about the other people who died under

similar circumstances?” said Mulder.

Anna nodded. “Yes. He asked me some questions about whether Alzheimer’s

or Down syndrome patients ever improved dramatically. The answer of

course is ‘not usually’. But you can never say never or always in

medicine.”

“Did you know any of the other victims?”

“No. I even looked back through my records to see if any of them had

been my patients, but they weren’t.”

“Anna,” said Scully, “I know this is hard, but we may need to come back

and ask some more questions after we get into this. Is that all right?”

“Absolutely. I’d really like to know what happened to Daddy. If we

can find out what caused the improvements, it could revolutionize the

treatment of many neurological problems. People with all sorts of

things that limit comprehension and social interaction could really

benefit.”

X X X X X

TRAIL DUST STEAK HOUSE

Monday night

“You’re awfully quiet,” said Scully as she watched Mulder chew his steak.

Mulder swallowed. “I was just thinking that we had to come all the

way to Texas to get a good steak.” He smiled and took another bite.

“And that I’m really glad I took my tie off before we came in.”

He looked around at all the ugly ties tacked to the walls around them.

They had been cut off people, with a pair of sheep shears, who were

wearing them when they came in.

“Yes, Mulder. It sure would be a pity for you to lose your Flying Toilets

tie.”

“Now, Scully, that tie’s a classic! Lots of people have Flying Toasters,

but how many people have Flying Toilets?”

“Not many, I hope,” said Scully. “No, really, Mulder. I know that look.

What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking about what Anna said right before we left.”

“About finding the cause for her father’s improvement?”

Mulder nodded. “If there is a specific agent involved, it really could

improve a lot of people’s lives.”

“Or kill them. Don’t forget that all these people are dead, Mulder.”

“All the people we know about. Scully, there could be more people

who are better, but still very much alive. And I’d like to try to find

some of them.”

“If they exist,” said Scully.

Mulder nodded again. “Do you have any ideas right now about causative

agents?”

Scully wiped her mouth with a napkin and sat back in the booth. “A

chemical compound or drug, environmental contaminant, viral infection -”

“What about an alien viral infection?”

Scully’s eyebrow lifted. “I hadn’t even thought of that, Mulder. It

would be a vastly different presentation of that kind of virus. What

we’ve seen so far really wouldn’t seem to support that.”

“Don’t discount them, Scully. We’ve seen many times before how they can

conduct experiments with no one the wiser.” He turned his attention back

to his steak. “Maybe they’ve found a way to control what happened to

me before they cut my head open.”

Before Scully could reply, Mulder’s cell phone rang. “Mulder.” He sat

for a moment and listened. “What’s the address?” He hastily scribbled

on a napkin on the table. “We’re on our way.”

“What’s going on?” asked Scully.

“That was Frank. They’ve found another body.”

X X X X X

ACT TWO

DOWNTOWN DALLAS

Another alley. Frank looked around, then up at the sky, hoping that

they’d finish gathering evidence before the rain started. Thunder

rumbled through the alley again. He looked up as two people approached

the scene.

“Agents,” said Frank. “Sorry I had to interrupt your dinner, but I

figured you’d want to see this.”

“What have we got here, Detective?” asked Mulder.

Frank motioned for the pair to follow him. “We had reports of a

disturbance in the area. Weren’t really sure if it was a mugging or

what. Turned out to be a one car accident.” He stopped and pointed

to a dark sedan with the front crunched up against a large dumpster.

“The horn blaring was the disturbance.”

“What does this have to do with our case?” asked Scully.

Frank smiled. “I’m glad you asked that, ’cause I’ve been asking myself

that for the past hour. I sure didn’t think a car accident went along

with everything else, but one of our astute observing officers found

some things that may link this to the other victims.”

“May?” asked Scully. “What is it?”

Frank nodded. “I’m getting to that. The driver, dead when the officer

found him, was identified as Joe Shaw, a pharmaceutical rep.”

“What company?” asked Mulder.

Frank looked pulled a pad out of his pocket. “Ah, Roush Pharmaceuticals.”

Mulder and Scully exchanged looks. Frank noticed. “Is that significant?”

“It might be,” said Scully. “Any indication of what happened?”

Frank nodded. “Looks like a pretty clear case of driving under the

influence. You can easily smell alcohol on the body. There was an open

bottle of vodka on the seat beside the driver and there’s a bar just

around the corner where he’d been drinking until the bartender refused to

serve him any more.”

“What connects him to our other victims?” asked Mulder.

“Well, it’s pretty circumstantial, and it may have nothing to do

with it,” said Frank as pulled open the front passenger door. There

were file folders scattered all over the place. “There’s a file here,

right on top, for Preston Ridge, the facility where James Baylor spent

the last few months of his life.” He picked up the file with a gloved

hand.

Scully snapped on gloves of her own and took the file. She looked

closely at the pages. “This seems to be a record of drugs and supplies

ordered from Roush for the facility.”

Frank picked up a piece of yellow paper in a bag of it’s own. “There

was this sticky note on the first page of the file.”

Mulder looked at it. “Jeff, warehouse at 5pm, enhancement trials update.”

“We’re looking into that now,” said Frank. “We’re checking out

warehouses in the general area, owners, uses, all that stuff. Should

have something on that sometime tomorrow. And we found something

else.” He picked up another evidence bag and showed it to the pair.

“It’s a broken vial. Still had a little brownish liquid in it, but

it looks like most of whatever was in there is gone.”

Scully took the bag. “We need to get an analysis on this right away.

And see if there’s any in the carpet on the seats. We need as much as

we can get to tell what this is.”

Mulder was still looking at the note. “Jeff, Jeff. Didn’t Dr. Baylor

Say something about a guy named Jeff? Her father talked about him.”

Scully handed the bag with the vial to a waiting forensics officer.

She turned to face Mulder. “Yes, she did. She said that she thought

it was someone who worked at Preston Ridge.”

“Another question to ask tomorrow morning,” said Frank. “I just wish I

knew this really had anything to do with the case you two got dragged

down here for.”

“Every piece of the puzzle is important,” said Mulder.

“Yeah, but is it the same puzzle, or a different one?” asked Frank.

Mulder smiled. “That’s why they pay us the big bucks, Frank. To

figure that out.”

X X X X X

GRAND KEMPENSKI HOTEL

Monday night

Mulder yawned and stretched as they walked into the hotel room. He

turned around and looked at Scully. “Ok, does this past muster?” he

asked, motioning around the room.

Scully smiled and walked slowly around Mulder. “Well, it is better

than you usually do -”

“Aw, come on -”

Scully turned quickly and kissed Mulder. Her hands laced around the

back of his neck as he cupped the back of her head. Reluctantly, Scully

pulled back. “You did good, Mulder. Too bad I’m too tired to make good

use of the Jacuzzi tub tonight.”

“Maybe tomorrow?” asked Mulder hopefully.

“Maybe,” said Scully. “But right now, we better get some sleep. We’ve

got a full day ahead of us.”

Mulder sighed. “You’re right. You want the shower first?”

“Mulder, there is a shower in each room. We could actually shower at

the same time.”

Mulder lay down on the bed. “Now, that would be a nice shower.”

“Mulder!” said Scully. “You know what I mean.”

“It sure would be nice if we could quit wasting the taxpayers’ money

and just get one room. But, I know we can’t do that. Yet.”

“Not yet.” Scully sighed. “Anyway, I’m going to shower now.”

Mulder yawned. “Just don’t use up all the hot water.”

“I won’t,” said Scully, knowing from the sleepy quality in Mulder’s voice,

he’d be asleep before the water even warmed up.

X X X X X

HOTEL RESTAURANT

Tuesday morning

Mulder sipped coffee as he watched Scully push a piece of cantaloupe

around her plate. Scully looked up to see him watching her.

“Want some?”

“Eck, no. I can’t handle healthy food this early. Besides, I think

I had enough pancakes and bacon to last me for a while.”

“I noticed,” said Scully. “You do know that it’s entirely unfair that

you can eat all that food and still stay looking so good. If I ate that,

it would go straight to my thighs.”

“Scully, you’re beautiful, and you will always be beautiful,” said Mulder,

reaching across the table to hold Scully’s hand.

Scully blushed a little. “Thank you, Mulder.” She glanced down at her

watch. “We better get a move on. I need to talk to the medical examiner,

and we need to meet Frank to go to Preston Ridge this morning too.”

Mulder took the last drink of his coffee. “Why don’t I drop you off there.”

“Where are you going?”

“I thought I’d go to the shelter where the Down syndrome victim, Pamela

Parker, was found dead. See if anyone could tell me more about her.”

Scully nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

X X X X X

DALLAS COUNTY MORGUE

“Dr. Wylie?” asked Scully as she stepped through the door to the medical

examiner’s office.

“Yes,” said a small thin man with a bushy gray handlebar mustache from

behind a desk. He pushed rimless glasses up his nose, rubbed a hand

across his balding head, “Oh, you must be Dr. Scully from the FBI.”

He stood and offered his hand to Scully.

“Yes, I’m Special Agent Dana Scully,” said Scully, sitting when he

motioned her to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“Detective Burns tells me you’re here looking into James Baylor’s death,

as well as those of several homeless people.”

“That’s right. I looked over the autopsy reports and had some questions

for you.”

“Ask away,” said Wylie, leaning back in his chair.

“On James Baylor, you determined the cause of death to be a ruptured

aortic aneurysm.”

Wylie nodded. “Oh, yes. His abdomen was full of blood. The rupture

was really quite dramatic. Biggest one I’ve seen in a while.”

“Do you think he should have exhibited some sign of problem related to

this prior to his death?”

Wylie pursed his lips and looked thoughtful. “Hard to say. Most of

these cause at least some abdominal pain, but a lot of people dismiss it

as a GI ailment they already have, or, in the case of Alzheimer’s

patients like this, unless someone witnesses them in pain, they could

just forget about it.”

“What about the reported improvement in his Alzheimer’s in the weeks

preceding his death? Did you find anything to explain it?”

“No. His brain looked like that of most other Alzheimer’s patients,

although he didn’t seem to be as advanced as his history would have

led me to believe. Plus he had all those cerebral aneurysms. You

don’t often see so many in one person. It’s a wonder he didn’t

rupture one of those, too. Some of ’em were pretty big.”

“And you found no toxins or drugs in his system that shouldn’t have

been there?”

“Nope. Of course, we didn’t even test for any of those until it was

connected to the other deaths. But when we did, we didn’t find anything

except medicines he was supposed to be taking.”

Scully nodded. “And nothing unusual in the other three victims?”

“Well, let’s see. One of ’em, the girl with Down syndrome had several

AVM’s in her brain.”

“Arterio-venous malformations?” asked Scully. “That’s an abnormal

collection of blood vessels that’s usually congenital, isn’t it?

“Yes, although sometimes they can result from trauma. One had

hemorrhaged quite a bit. She had pneumonia as well but the bleeding

in her brain was what killed her.”

“What about the other two?”

“Both had classic Alzheimer’s lesions, plus a bunch of cerebral

aneurysms and one had a huge basilar one. They each died when an

aneurysm ruptured. As I said, you usually don’t see that many aneurysms

in one person. To see it several times in just a few weeks, now,

that’s kinda strange.”

“Do you have any ideas why they could have developed so many?” asked

Scully.

“No, ma’am, I sure don’t. But since all these people experienced great

improvements in their conditions otherwise, well, it just seems to me

they might be related.”

“Yes, it sure does seem that way.”

“I was talking to a neurologist buddy of mine yesterday about these cases,”

said Wylie. “He told me if we ran across anyone like that and they were

still alive he’d love to run ’em through some tests in his department.”

“I’m sure he would. A treatment that could improve patients’ symptoms

that dramatically would be quite a breakthrough.”

Wylie nodded enthusiastically. “You better believe it!”

“Just one more question about the victims,” said Scully. “Would it be

possible to test for ibotenic acid in each of them?”

“Sure. Mind me asking why?”

“My partner and I ran across a case several years ago where a number of

patients in a nursing home, some of whom had Alzheimer’s disease,

experienced dramatic improvement in their conditions. Ibotenic acid

may have been why.”

“Isn’t that found in some kinds of mushrooms?” asked Wylie.

“Yes, it is. And that turned out to be the source in this case. But

it caused, ah, other things to happen as well. Not like what we’re

seeing here, but -”

Wylie nodded. “You’re wondering if someone found a way to use it

without those side effects.”

“Exactly. Of course, taking into account that all these people are dead,

it seems that whatever is involved here has its own set of problems.”

Wylie chuckled. “I’d have to agree with you there, Dr. Scully.” He

shook his head. “Don’t mean to rush you, but I’ve got an autopsy waiting.

Is there anything else I can do for you?”

“Is that the DUI drug rep from last night?”

Wylie flipped through some paperwork. “Um, yes, it is.”

“Mind if I watch?”

“Not a bit. An extra pair of experienced eyes and hands is always

welcome.”

X X X X X

SHELTER OF HOPE

Mulder closed the door of the rental car and walked to a door that read

“Shelter of Hope”. He opened the door and walked into a large room

filled with tables. People of all ages were scattered around the room.

Some people were eating, some talking, some drawing and painting. A

woman got up from one of the tables and walked toward him.

“May I help you?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Mulder, pulling out his ID. “My name is Special Agent Fox

Mulder with the FBI. I’d like to talk to someone about Pamela Parker.

I believe she was a resident here for a while.”

The woman put her hand over her mouth then sighed. “Poor Pam. I’d be

happy to answer any questions you have.” She extended her hand. “I’m

one of the managers of this shelter. Mary Webb.”

Mulder shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Webb.”

She motioned him to follow her into a small office. “Just Mary,” she

said. “Please have a seat.”

“Thank you,” said Mulder as he sat on one end of a rather worn couch.

“I take it you knew Miss Parker?”

Mary nodded. “Oh, yes. She’d been coming here off and on for about

two years. She was such a free soul. I believe she’d lived in a group

home for a while, and had spent much of her early childhood

institutionalized. Her mother surrendered her as an infant, so

she never had any family to watch out for her.” She smiled and shook

her head. “Pam was never good at following other people’s rules. She

liked to make her own. And she didn’t like to be confined. I guess

that’s why she drifted in and out as the mood struck her.”

“I understand that she had Down syndrome,” said Mulder.

“Yes, but she was quite high functioning. She held jobs in housekeeping

at hotels, worked at an animal shelter, even helped out in a library once.

She always got good recommendations from her employers, but she’d quit,

and move on to something else.”

“Did she like working in the library?”

“Oh, yes. She loved books, especially poetry. She didn’t always

understand the words, and she had trouble reading them herself sometimes.

I spent many an hour right here in this office reading to her.” She

paused and turned around in her chair to pull two small books off a

nearby shelf. “These were hers.” She handed them to Mulder.

“One is a book of poetry that I gave her. The other is one she wrote

her own poems and thoughts in. I haven’t had the heart to read any of

it since she died.”

Mulder took the books. He laid aside the well-worn copy of “Happy Poems”

and looked at the journal. Winnie the Pooh grabbing for a balloon graced

the cover, with the words “Pam’s Book” written in a childish scrawl across

the top. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

Mary shook her head. “Oh, no. Of course not.”

“Maaary. Mary where are you?” came a man’s voice from the other room.

Mary stood up and went to the door. “What is it Harold?”

“We need some more paper and paint and juice -”

“Alright, Harold. I’ll get it for you.” She looked back at Mulder.

“Will you excuse me for a moment?”

Mulder nodded and turned his attention back to Pam’s book. He flipped

through the pages and saw drawings, short poems, and some entries of

what appeared to be happenings on specific dates. He went to the end

and noticed that even though the writing was the same, the words were

more complex, the poems more abstract.

Mary returned in a few minutes. “I’m sorry about that, Agent Mulder,”

she said smiling.

“That’s alright,” said Mulder. “I don’t want to keep you from the

people who need you. But I do have a few more questions.”

“I’ll do my best to answer them,” said Mary.

“Were you the person who found Pam’s body?”

“Yes. She’d been fighting a cold for a couple of weeks and having bad

headaches.” Mary looked down at her hands. “She hated doctors and

every time I asked her about going to get some medicine for her cold, she

adamantly refused. They told me that when she died she had pneumonia. I

wish now I’d pushed harder for her to get some help.” She wiped at her

eyes. “Anyway, I went to wake her up one morning, and she was dead. She

was just lying there clutching her books.”

“Is there anyone she talked about that you didn’t know? Anything strange

that happened before she died?”

Mary wiped her eyes again. “You mean, besides her improvement?”

Mulder nodded. “And I’d like for you to tell me about her improvement.”

“I don’t recall her talking to me about anyone in particular. You might

want to talk to Harold out there,” she inclined her head out the door.

“He was one of her friends here. But the change in her was, was -”

“Sparkling?”

“Yes, that’s it! It was as if so many things she’d struggled all her

life to understand were suddenly clear to her. She took great delight

in everyday things. Sometimes she would just sit and listen

to other people talk or watch birds and bugs outside.” Mary laughed.

“After she started getting better, she sat in front of the TV in the

big room here and dared anyone to change it from the Discovery channel.

She was like a sponge, just trying to absorb every bit of information

she could.”

Mulder nodded. “Could I talk to Harold for a moment?”

“Sure. Let me get him.” Mary went out of the office and returned

with a balding middle-aged man wearing a bright orange T-shirt and

jeans pulled up too high. He appeared to be another Down syndrome

resident of the shelter. “Harold, this is Agent Mulder. He’s a

kind of police man, and he wants to ask you some questions about Pam.”

“Pam didn’t do anything wrong!” he said. “But she died.”

“I know, Harold. Pam didn’t do anything wrong, but we want to find out

more about why she died.”

“She was sick. Real sick.”

“Did she talk to you about that?”

Harold nodded. “She said her head hurt real bad a lot and she coughed

and coughed. Then she’d just cry it hurt so bad.”

“Did she tell you about anybody she had met that may have given her

something?”

Harold sat quietly and looked from Mulder to Mary. “She told me it

was a secret.”

“What was a secret, Harold?” asked Mulder.

Harold just shook his head and made a zipping motion over his mouth.

“Harold,” said Mary, “I think Pam wouldn’t mind you telling her

secret now.”

“Really?” asked Harold, looking intently at Mary.

“Really,” said Mary. “Tell us what Pam’s secret was.”

Harold looked back and forth between Mary and Mulder. “Well, I guess

if you think it’s ok, Mary.” Harold sighed and looked down at his hands.

“She told me there was this man who gave her pills that made her feel

better.”

“Do you know who it was?” asked Mulder.

Harold shook his head violently. “Oh, no! I told her not to talk

to that man! You shouldn’t take things from people you don’t know!

Pills can hurt you!”

“That’s right, Harold, they can. But Pam said they helped her?”

Harold nodded. “She said she could under, under-”

“Understand?” asked Mulder.

“Yeah, understand stuff better.”

“And you don’t know the man’s name, or where Pam went to get the pills?”

Harold shook his head again. “No, no. I didn’t want no pills from him!”

He stood up. “I gotta go now.” He walked out of the room.

Mary looked at Mulder. “Well, that’s the first I’ve heard about any

pills. But if Harold said he didn’t know who she got them from, I believe

him.”

“No pills were found in any of Pam’s belongings?” asked Mulder.

“No, nothing like that,” said Mary.

“Would you mind if I kept Pam’s book for a while. I’ll get it back to

you.”

“That would be fine. I want to help in any way I can,” said Mary.

“Do you think you can find out what happened?”

“We’re going to try,” said Mulder.

A middle-aged woman walked into Mary’s office as Mulder was getting up to

leave. “Mary, have you seen Jo Jo?” She stopped suddenly when she saw

Mulder. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know you were talking to someone.”

“That’s all right, Carol,” said Mary. “We were just finishing.” She turned

to Mulder. “Agent Mulder, this is Carol Pierce. She’s one of our

volunteers. Carol, this is Agent Mulder. He’s an FBI agent that’s looking

into Pam’s death.”

Carol extended her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Agent Mulder.”

Mulder shook her hand. “It’s nice to meet you, too. Did you know Pam?”

“Yes, I did. She was one of my son’s best friends. They really

seemed to have a connection.” She looked down and wiped at her eyes.

“Since Pam died, Jo Jo’s just been beside himself. He’s a handful

anyway, and he’d been doing so well. I suppose he still is, but it’s just

not the same.”

“Excuse me for asking, but does he have some sort of problem?” asked

Mulder.

“Yes,” said Carol. “He’s autistic. He’s been in all kinds of therapy

most of his life, but since we started coming here to help, he’s just,

blossomed. He’s talking more, he’s interacting better with other

people. He’s just a new person. He slipped back a little right after

Pam died, but now he seems to be making progress again.”

“Do you know why?” asked Mulder.

“No,” said Carol, “and frankly I don’t care. For the first time in his

life my son is able to communicate and participate easily. It’s like a

miracle. But right now, my miracle boy has wandered off. He may have

improved a lot, and he may technically be an adult, but he’s still my

son.”

“I haven’t seen him at all today,” said Mary.

Carol shook her head. “He must have taken off right after we got here.

I saw him talking to Harold and I just thought he would stay there. I

got busy in the kitchen and lost all track of time.”

“How long do you think he’s been gone?” asked Mulder.

“Oh, maybe thirty or forty-five minutes,” said Carol.

“I’ll help you look,” said Mary.

“I could give you a hand, if you’d like,” said Mulder. “Do you have

a photo of him?”

“Oh, thank you!” said Carol. She reached into her apron pocket and

removed a small purse. “I have a picture here that was taken about

a month ago.” She removed the photo and handed it to Mulder.

The photo showed a shy looking young man with brown hair sitting on

a porch. “Maybe we should start with Harold,” said Mulder. “You did say

Jo Jo was talking to him when you first got here, didn’t you?”

“Yes, that’s right,” said Carol.

They walked over to the table where Harold was happily painting. “Harold,

have you seen Jo Jo?” asked Carol.

Harold looked up and nodded. “He was here a little while ago.”

“Did he say if he was going anywhere?” asked Mary.

Harold shook his head. “No.” He went back to his painting.

“Harold,” said Mulder, “did Jo Jo say anything to you?”

Harold nodded again and smiled. “He said my painting was pretty.”

Mulder smiled. “Did he say anything else?”

Harold sat for a moment, thinking. “Oh, yeah. He said his head hurt, and

he was gonna go look for his Mommy.”

Carol looked worried. “He didn’t find me, Harold. Where was he going to

look? Did he say?”

Harold shook his head again. “No.” He turned back to his paints.

Mulder looked up at Carol. “Any idea where he might have gone?”

Carol bit her lip, worry evident in her face. “I told him I was going

to be in the kitchen today. The only time I wasn’t was when I took the

garbage out. And he didn’t tell me he had a headache. He’s had a few

pretty bad ones lately. He used to have them a lot, but they got better,

until the last few weeks. I never would have come in today if I’d known

that.”

“How about if we split up and look around here first,” said Mulder. “He’s

probably still in the building.”

“I sure hope so,” said Carol.

Mulder began opening doors as Mary talked to other people in the room, and

Carol looked in the sleeping areas. He looked in a few offices and a

a linen closet with no result when he noticed a door at the end of the hall

that was slightly open. He pushed on it carefully and walked into a

dark room. “Jo Jo? Are you in here?” There was no response. He

found a light switch near the door and flipped it on. The room was full

of old furniture and cleaning equipment. He looked quickly around and

was about to leave when he saw a splash of color in the back corner. He

pushed through the stuff in the room so that he could get a closer look.

It was a red high-top shoe similar to the ones he’d worn when he played

basketball in junior high. He leaned over to pick it up but his hand

never reached the shoe. In the corner beside the shoe, lay Jo Jo. He

was curled into a ball with his hands over his head. Mulder carefully

approached him. “Jo Jo?” He didn’t move. Mulder knelt beside him and

reached for his arm. When he touched it, it fell and Jo Jo began to

fall with it. Mulder caught him and tried to push him back into the

corner. Jo Jo was dead.

X X X X X

DALLAS COUNTY MORGUE

“Well, Dr. Scully,” said Dr. Wylie, “I think we’ve got a pretty clear

case of traumatic death here.” He pointed at the open abdomen in front of

him. “Ruptured his spleen and damaged his liver when he hit the steering

wheel.”

“Not to mention what the windshield did to his head,” said Scully.

“Would you mind still running toxicology and -”

Wylie nodded. “And we’ll check for ibotenic acid too. ‘Course his

blood alcohol level will probably be through the roof.”

Scully’s cell phone chirped in her pocket. She stripped off her

gloves and backed away from the table to answer it. “Scully.”

“Hey Scully,” said Mulder, “you about done slicin’ and dicin’?”

Scully smiled. “I think so. That drug rep apparently died from

injuries he suffered in the accident. They’ll run toxicology,

too, but -”

“It doesn’t look like he was murdered,” supplied Mulder.

“Right. Did you find anything?”

“Yep. Another body,” said Mulder. “And a journal kept by Pam.

According to one of her friends, she was getting pills from someone.”

“Wait, wait,” said Scully. “Did you say another body?”

“Yes, I did. It was the son of a volunteer here. Scully, he was

autistic, and he’d gotten a lot better. Sound familiar?”

“Yes, it sure does,” said Scully. “Did I hear you say something about

pills?”

“Yes, ma’am, you did. But none were found in Pam’s belongings and the

mother of this latest apparent victim doesn’t think her son was taking

anything he wasn’t supposed to. Feel like doing another autopsy?”

“Send it on. Maybe we can get some answers now that we have some

idea what we’re looking for.”

“So you found some connections?”

“All of these people had massive hemorrhages and aneurysms. Whatever

this stuff is, it must weaken blood vessels, especially in the brain.”

“The body should be there soon. They just took it away and are cleaning

things up here.”

“Are you on your way here?”

“Yes, ma’am. I don’t think I’m going to get much else out of the mother

right now and Frank said he’d meet us at Preston Ridge in about an

hour. Hopefully, we’ll make it there by then.”

“Better call him and make it two if you want me to do this autopsy,” said

Scully. “And don’t worry, Mulder. I’ll read the map and navigate for you.”

Mulder chuckled. “Thank you, Scully. I knew there was a reason we

make such a good team.”

X X X X X

PRESTON RIDGE ADULT CARE FACILITY

“Mornin’ Agents,” said Frank brightly. He was standing in front of a

clean two story brick building holding a cup of coffee.

Mulder and Scully walked up the sidewalk past well-manicured lawns and

heavily mulched flowerbeds. “Good morning, Frank,” said Scully.

“Findin’ your way around okay?”

Mulder nodded. “Thanks to the ‘Mapsco’. It’s been a really big help.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Frank. He pushed the glass door open and

motioned the agents in. “That was bad about Jo Jo this morning. I bet

poor Carol’s beside herself right now.”

“Do you know her?” asked Mulder.

Frank nodded. “Met her at volunteer meetings. That boy was her life,

Agent Mulder. I sure hope we can find out what happened to him.

Did y’all find anything else this morning?”

“Yes,” said Scully. “The drug rep died of injuries sustained in the

accident, and Mulder found out that one of the victims had been getting

pills from someone to make her better.”

“Really,” said Frank. “Well, providing it wasn’t your usual kind of

feel good pills, we may have something to go on. No clue where she

got ’em, I suppose?”

“No, afraid not,” said Mulder.

“What about Jo Jo, Agent Scully? What did you find?”

“He had hemorrhaging AVM’s in his brain, like Pam did.”

“What are AVM’s?” asked Frank.

“They’re abnormal collections of blood vessels. When they are present,

they are commonly found in the brain. Most of the time the person

is born with them. Sometimes a penetrating trauma like a gunshot

wound can result in an arterio-venous fistula, but it’s different. Not

a true AVM.”

“So, it was something he was born with?”

“Possibly. But they’re not all that common. I just can’t help thinking

that two people who knew each other and died in the same manner – that’s

just too much coincidence. What about that broken vial from last night?”

asked Scully. “Any results yet?”

Frank shook his head. “Not yet. There wasn’t much there and we didn’t get

anything else useable off the seats or carpet. It was all pretty much

soaked in vodka.”

“Maybe we can find out something else here,” said Mulder.

“Let’s hope so,” said Frank. He directed them to a reception desk in the

lobby. A distinguished looking silver haired woman looked up as they

approached. “Mable, how are you today?”

Mable smiled. “Why Frank Burns, you old devil. What are you doing

here?”

“Business, I’m afraid.” He turned to Mulder and Scully. “Mable, I’d

like you to meet Special Agents Mulder and Scully. These fine people

are from the FBI and have come all the way from Washington to give me

a hand.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you both,” said Mable. “I suppose this is

about Mr. Baylor?”

Frank nodded. “Yes, it is.”

Mable shook her head. “He was such a wonderful man, even when the

Alzheimer’s had him strong in its grip.”

Frank nodded. “He was that. I was wondering if we could talk to

John Bowman. I believe he was due back today from vacation.”

Mable looked down at a chart in front of her. “Um, yes, he’s here.

He’s in the recreation room at the moment. You can go on through.

You know the way don’t you, Frank?”

Frank smiled. “I think I remember. Straight down the hall, then

left?”

“That’s it!”

Frank led the way down the hallway and into a large room with tables,

a television, couches, and a piano. At one end of the room a still life

of fruit and wine was set up with several people painting the scene. A

younger man with longish brown hair was helping one lady and had his

back to the door. When he stood up, Frank cleared his throat. The man

walked over to them, a friendly smile on his face.

“Good morning. May I help you?”

“John Bowman?” asked Frank.

“Yes,” said John.

Frank pulled out his ID, as did Mulder and Scully. “I’m Detective Frank

Burns from the Dallas Police Department, and these are Special Agents

Mulder and Scully of the FBI. We’d like to talk to you about James

Baylor.”

“Certainly,” said John. “Just give me a minute to let the class know

I’m leaving.” He walked to the still life and looked at the people

who were painting. “Ladies and gentlemen, I need to step out for a few

minutes, so you just go on with what you’re doing.”

A small gray haired lady raised her hand. “John, can you help me for

just a minute before you go?”

John looked at Frank and shrugged. “Sure Bea, what do you need?” He

squatted beside the lady.

Mulder looked around the room and noticed a man who had been watching

television turn slightly around to look at them. He smiled at the man.

The man smiled back and motioned for Mulder to come over.

“Are you really from the FBI?” asked the man.

“Yes, sir, we are,” said Mulder.

“I heard that other man askin’ John about James Baylor.”

“He did. We’re helping him look into Mr. Baylor’s death,” said Mulder.

“Did you know Mr. Baylor, Mister -”

“Adams, Chester Adams,” said the man, offering Mulder his hand.

“Yes, I knew Jim. He was one of my best friends in this place.”

Mulder shook the man’s hand. “You don’t like it here?”

Chester motioned for Mulder to sit down. “Nah, I like it fine here.

Just miss having my own place. Jim sure made it nicer though. We

talked about all kinds of stuff. ‘Course, a lot of times, Jim

wouldn’t remember what we’d talked about the day before, but he was

a grand guy. Good friend.”

Mulder glanced up at Scully and with a look, let her know he’d stay here

while they interviewed John Bowman. “Mr. Adams, do you recall anything

strange happening in the weeks before Mr. Baylor died?” He watched

Scully and Frank go out of the room following Bowman.

“You mean besides him getting better?”

“Yes. Did any people come around you didn’t know? Was Mr. Baylor

taking any pills other than his prescribed medication?”

“I don’t know about pills, Mr. Mulder. We all take so many that an

extra one could get thrown into my own pile and I might not notice it,”

he chuckled. “Jim mostly just had his daughter coming to see him. A

few times people he used to work with came. And then there was that

young fellow, ah, what was his name?” Adams screwed up his face then

shook his head. “Ah, I don’t remember. Heck, maybe I never even knew.”

“Was he a friend, relative, co-worker?” asked Mulder.

“Don’t know. He’d just come and sit and talk to Jim. Come to think

of it, that was about the time Jim started getting so much better.”

“Do you remember what he looked like?”

Adams nodded. “He was, oh, about 30, 35, short real curly blond hair.

Fair skinned, dressed nice. Sometimes he was wearin’ a suit, sometimes

not, but neat all the same. Real friendly. Jim always seemed to enjoy

his visits.”

“Did you see his car?”

“No, sir. I’m afraid not. Always just saw Jim sittin’ with him.

Introduced myself once, and he was real polite.” Adams paused. “Maybe

I did hear his name. Seems like it was Josh, or Jeff, or Gene. Somethin’

like that.”

Mulder nodded, thinking of the note they’d found in the drug rep’s car.

“So, Mr. Baylor didn’t talk about him?”

“No. He was pretty tight lipped about stuff most of the time. He

seemed a little upset or something that time I introduced myself.” He

shook his head. “But Jim wasn’t always quite all there. You know,

the Alzheimer’s.”

Mulder nodded. “Anything else you can think of?”

Adams sat thinking for a moment. “Yeah, there is. A week or so

before Jim died I saw him doubled over in his room, like he was in

terrible pain. I asked him what was wrong and he just kept saying he

was fine. When the pain let up, he made me swear not to tell anyone

about it. He said his health was his own business.”

“So he never told anybody about it either? Never tried to see what had

caused the pain?”

“Nope. I asked him about it again the next day and he said he was sure

it was just somethin’ he’d eaten. And that he was so happy to have his

mind back.” Adams paused. “That was after he’d gotten a lot better.

I remember him saying several times how he’d rather have his wits about

him, even if he was in pain, than to live in the fog the Alzheimer’s

caused him.”

X X X X X

“Please, have a seat.” Bowman motioned Frank and Scully to chairs in

front of his desk. “What would you like to know about Mr. Baylor?”

“Did you know him well?” asked Scully.

Bowman nodded. “Pretty well. He participated in activities when he

was able. He seemed to enjoy painting, and he was pretty good at it.

He told me many times that he wished he’d discovered painting when

he was younger.”

“Did he have a lot of paintings?” asked Frank.

“Yes, quite a few. I believe his daughter has them all now.” Bowman

paused. “Mable told me that she displayed some of them at his wake. I

really hate that I missed his funeral.”

“You were on vacation when he died?” asked Frank.

“Yes. Visiting some family and friends out in New Mexico. Most of the

time I was up in the mountains near Ruidoso, so my cell phone didn’t

work. I didn’t hear about his death until I called in a couple of

days ago.”

“Mr. Bowman, do you know of any strange things that happened to

Mr. Baylor while he was here?” asked Scully.

“No, not that I can recall. Although, he did give us quite a scare

several weeks ago.”

“What happened?”

“He wandered off for a few hours one day. We believe he got mixed

in with a crowd gathered out front to go to a mall. When the bus

arrived to take the group on the mall outing, he didn’t get on. As

near as we can figure, he walked down the street to a DART bus stop.”

“DART?” asked Scully.

“Dallas Area Rapid Transit,” said Frank. “So, he got on a bus?”

Bowman nodded. “That’s what the man who brought him back told us.

By that time, Mr. Baylor couldn’t quite remember.”

“You’re lucky someone brought him back safely,” said Frank.

“Yes,” said Bowman. “We all were. As a rule, we keep up with our

residents quite well, but people are unpredictable. Especially

those with Alzheimer’s.”

“Did his daughter know about this incident?” asked Scully.

“Oh, of course,” said Bowman. “I told her myself. I remember her

saying that he had done things like that a number of times before he came

here. We were all just so happy to see him back, safe and sound.”

“Who brought him back?” asked Frank.

“I don’t recall his name,” said Bowman. “It should be on file in the

main office. I think he came to visit Mr. Baylor several times after

that.”

“Do you remember what he looked like?” asked Frank.

“Mid thirties, fair skin, curly blond hair, nice suit,” said Bowman.

“I can have them look up the report in the main office if you’d like.”

“Yes, please,” said Scully. “I have one more question. Do you know

if he was taking any medication?”

“Of course he was. There should be a list in his records. All

medications are administered to residents on schedule. So many here

would forget to take it or not take the right amount. Our nurses and

aides make sure everyone here gets what they need at the appropriate times.”

“So Mr. Baylor wasn’t taking any extra supplements or vitamins?”

asked Scully.

“Even vitamins are handled by our nursing staff. As I said, it

should all be in his records.” He turned and picked up the phone.

“I’ll call the office and have them pull that incident report. You

can look at it on your way out.”

“Just one more question,” said Frank. “Do you have an employee here who

may have worked with Mr. Baylor named Jeff?”

“No,” said Bowman. “I don’t know of anyone with that name who works

here.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bowman,” said Scully. “If we have any more questions,

we’ll let you know.”

X X X X X

Mulder was still talking with Mr. Adams when Scully and Frank trailed

Bowman into the room.

“Pretty lady,” said Adams. “Is she your wife?”

Mulder smiled. “No, she’s not my wife. She’s my partner.”

“Judging from the look in your eyes, son, I’d say she really is your

partner. Take good care of her.” Adams wiped his face with a

handkerchief. “Lord knows, I miss my wife. Best partner a man could

ask for. You take care of yours, now, son.”

“Oh, I plan to do that for a long time, Mr. Adams.” They shook hands

and Mulder walked across the room to the door where Scully and Frank

stood. “Find out anything?”

“Maybe,” said Scully. “We need to pick up a report on the way out.

What about you?”

“Maybe,” said Mulder.

They briefed each other on the interviews as they walked back to

Mable’s desk.

“So, the visitor Mr. Adams talked about could be the ‘Jeff’ that

Anna told us about, and is probably the same man who brought him back

when he wandered away that day,” said Mulder.

“Probably,” said Scully. “Let’s just hope the report gives his name

and address.”

As they approached Mable’s desk, she got up and waved some papers.

“I have the report you want right here. One of the girls in the office

brought a copy over a minute ago.”

“Wow, that was fast,” said Frank as he took the papers. “Y’all wouldn’t

want to come work down at the police department, would ya’?”

Mable blushed and laughed. “Aw, Frank! You know I couldn’t leave these

nice people here.”

Frank laughed and nodded. “Thanks again, Mable.” He flipped through

the pages as they walked to the door. “Name here is Jeff Smith. Home

address is in Plano.”

Mulder looked over Frank’s shoulder after they exited the building.

“There’s that name again. Is there a phone number?”

“Yep, here it is,” said Frank, pointing to a number.

Mulder quickly dialed the number on his cell phone. He waited for a

moment before he punched a button and put the phone away. “It’s not

a working number.”

“Ten to one the address is bogus too,” said Scully. “And probably

the name.”

“One way to find out,” said Frank. “I’ll call in and run a check

on Jeff Smith.”

“We can ride by the address,” said Mulder.

“Then, I want to go back and talk to Anna again. Maybe she knows

something more about this guy,” said Scully.

“I’ll call y’all when I find anything out. Could take some time, though.

I bet there are at least 100 Jeff Smiths in the Dallas area.”

“Oh, Frank, one more thing,” said Mulder. “Did you ever talk to any

of the officers that patrol areas where some of the victims were found?”

“Sure did. They didn’t remember anything stranger than usual for that

area. No ghosts, ghouls, or zombies sited,” he laughed and waved at the

pair as he got into his car.

They got into the car and Scully opened the “MAPSCO”. She quickly found

the street they were looking for and they headed for Plano. Forty-five

minutes and several construction zones later, they arrived only to find

a park. Mulder pulled the car over and they sat looking at children

playing on a nearby soccer field while a buxom young woman jogged past

with a pair of sleek red Doberman pinschers.

“Nice,” said Mulder.

“Mulder, you’d better consider your next words carefully.”

“What? I was just going to say nice dogs. Now, you can’t tell me those

weren’t nice looking dogs, Scully.”

“Since when did you become a dog expert, Mulder?”

“You don’t have to be an expert to appreciate good looking dogs,” said

Mulder, “although I have been watching some of the dog shows on Animal

Planet lately.”

“Yeah, right,” snorted Scully. She looked around again. “I don’t think

this is Jeff Smith’s house.”

“Not unless he likes living in the open,” said Mulder. “Why don’t we go

talk to Anna again.”

Scully called Anna while Mulder drove slowly through the crowd of mini

vans and SUVs discharging more kids in soccer uniforms.

Around the corner behind them, a fair skinned man with curly blond hair

jogged along the sidewalk. The woman with the dogs waved to him from

the tree where she’d stopped to rest. “Hi, Jeff!”

X X X X X

ACT 3

DR. ANNA JANE BAYLOR’S HOUSE

“Anna, I’m sorry to disturb you again,” said Scully. She and Mulder

stepped into Anna’s living room.

“It’s fine, Dana,” said Anna. “I told you I’d help in any way I could.

So, what can I do for you today?”

“We were at Preston Ridge earlier. John Bowman told us about an incident

when your father wandered away.”

“Oh, yes. That was scary. But at least I didn’t have to look for him

alone, like I did when he was living here with me. We were just so

lucky that man brought him back.”

“Did you meet him?” asked Mulder.

“No, I didn’t. I was on my way to Preston Ridge when they called and

told me Daddy was back. By the time I got there, the man was gone

and Daddy was pretty fuzzy about what had happened. The only thing he

remembered was that he had been trying to get to work and got lost.”

“Do you know if this man ever visited your father after that?”

asked Scully.

“I don’t think so. At least, not that Daddy mentioned.”

“Anna, we asked about an employee named Jeff. There isn’t one,”

said Mulder. “Do you think he could be the man that found your

father and brought him back?”

Anna sat on the couch in thoughtful silence for a moment. “I don’t

know. I suppose it’s possible. From the way Daddy talked about

him helping so much, I just assumed it was someone who worked there.”

“Did he say how Jeff helped him?” asked Scully.

“Not specifically. I guess that’s why I thought it was someone who

worked at Preston Ridge.”

“Mr. Bowman also told us that your father painted a lot while he was

there,” said Mulder.

Anna nodded. “Yes, he did. And he was pretty good. I’ve got his

paintings upstairs.”

“Would you mind if we looked at them?” asked Mulder.

“No, of course not,” said Anna. She led them up the stairs to a

bedroom. “This was Daddy’s room when he lived here. I put all of his

things in here. I suppose I’ll have to go through everything sometime

soon.” She motioned to the far side of the bed. “The paintings are

over there.”

Mulder and Scully moved to the stack of canvases and rolls of paper.

They saw several still-lifes similar to the one they’d seen earlier in

the day, some landscapes, and a few people. “Do you know all of these

people?” asked Mulder.

“Most of them. Some are residents at Preston Ridge, some are family, and

I think one is of a staff member.”

“Was it someone you know?” asked Scully.

“No. I guess that’s why I assumed it was a staff member.”

“Could you show us that one?” asked Mulder.

“Sure.” Anna picked through the paintings until she found it. “Here

it is.” A man with curly blond hair smiled up at them from the canvas.

Mulder and Scully looked at each other. “Jeff?” asked Mulder.

Scully raised her eyebrow and looked at Anna. “You’re sure you don’t

know who this is?”

“Quite sure,” said Anna. “Do you think he could have had something

to do with Daddy’s death?”

“We don’t know yet. Do you mind if we hang on to this for a while?”

asked Mulder.

“Be my guest,” said Anna.

X X X X X

DALLAS POLICE and COURTS BUILDING

11:49 AM

9/23/01Tuesday afternoon

“Well, well, if it isn’t my two favorite FBI agents,” said Frank as

Mulder and Scully entered his office. “Was the address bogus?”

“It was a park,” said Scully. “Did you find anything about Mr. Jeff

Smith?”

“Not at that address, obviously. I was wrong about the number of

Jeff Smiths. It was a hundred and seven, not a hundred. So far we’ve

found a couple with police records, but nothing earth shattering.

One’s a small time crook; the other had one arrest for indecent exposure.

Seems he mooned his girlfriend at the wrong time.”

“Those don’t sound like the kind of man we’d be looking for,” said

Mulder. “I was thinking more along the lines of a doctor, a chemist,

or some sort of biomedical scientist. If he is giving out some drug

that causes people with brain problems to get better, he’s got to have

some way of formulating and making it.”

“Not necessarily, Mulder,” said Scully. “Lots of people make all kinds

of drugs in kitchens and bathrooms. They’re just following a recipe

someone else came up with.”

“I don’t think this guy is like that,” said Mulder.

“Well, the name is probably not his real name anyway,” said Frank.

“I think the Jeff part might be right,” said Mulder. “That name

just seems to keep popping up.”

“Yeah, but with the descriptions we got at Preston Ridge, we could

bring in a whole bunch of people.”

“How about a picture?” asked Mulder.

“You’ve got a picture of this guy? Why didn’t you say so?”

“Well, it’s a painting actually, and we don’t know for sure it’s him.

But it’s a place to start,” said Scully.

“What about the warehouses? Anything on that yet?” asked Mulder.

“Well, we’re running down ownership on lots of warehouses and empty

buildings.”

“Any Jeff’s in the bunch?” asked Mulder.

Frank looked down his list. “There are a few. I suppose we could

concentrate on those.”

“Look for someone with a medical or science background,” said Mulder.

“A doctor, or pharmacist, or chemist -”

Frank nodded. “I get the picture. And speaking of pictures, what

about that painting?”

“Right here,” said Mulder. He propped the canvas on Frank’s desk.

“Could we get a picture of this? I’d like to take it back out to

Preston Ridge and see if anyone recognizes him.”

“Sure thing.”

“Mulder,” said Scully, “I really need to go talk to the ME again, see

if any strange substances have turned up in our victims.”

“I’ll drop you off there, and go on to Preston Ridge. I’ll be back to

pick you up when you’re done.”

X X X X X

DALLAS COUNTY MORGUE

“Dr. Wylie?”

“Yes, Dr. Scully. Nice to see you again.”

“You too, Dr. Wylie. Have you gotten any more results on foreign

substances in any of the victims?”

“Yes. I was just about to call you. We found something resembling

ibotenic acid in the blood of all the victims. And there seems to be

more to it. We’ve got people working on that now.”

“Great!” said Scully. “Mind if I look over the reports?”

“Not at all,” said Wylie. He handed her a small stack of folders.

“Make yourself at home here. I’ve got to go back down to the morgue.

If you need me or any other information, just check with my assistant

out front.” He turned to leave, then stepped back into the room. “One

more thing. The lab wasn’t able to determine what the substance was

that was found in the vial of our DUI victim’s car. There was too much

vodka mixed in with it. Sorry.”

“I was afraid of that,” said Scully.

Dr. Wylie shrugged. “We’ll just have to keep on looking.” He walked

out of the office.

Scully opened the top folder and began reading. All five bodies showed

some level of these compounds, along with other things as yet

unidentified. The levels had been measured in blood, but she wondered

if the amount in the brain might be even higher. She stepped out of

Dr. Wylie’s office.

“Excuse me,” she said to the man sitting at a computer.

“Yes, Dr. Scully,” said the man. “What can I do for you?”

Scully looked at the nameplate on his desk. “Justin?” He nodded.

“Justin, could you tell me where the lab area is? I’d like to see

about running some other samples. And I have some ideas of other

things to test for.”

“Sure thing.” He removed a small map from a file on his desk.

“Okay, here we are, and here’s the lab. Just go down the hall and -”

Scully looked closely at the map. “It’s near the autopsy bay

area, right?”

“Yep,” said Justin.

“I think I can find it. Thanks,” said Scully.

X X X X X

PRESTON RIDGE ADULT CARE FACILITY

Mulder knocked on the door to Mr. Adams’ room.

“Come in,” said a voice from inside.

Mulder walked in and saw Mr. Adams sitting in a chair in front of a

television. “Mr. Adams?”

“Agent Mulder, please come in,” he attempted to stand up.

Mulder motioned him to remain seated. “I didn’t want to disturb you,

but I need to ask you another question.”

“Sure. What is it?

Mulder removed the photo of the painting he’d carried in his suit pocket.

“Do you recognize this man?”

Mr. Adams pushed his glasses up his nose and peered closely at the photo.

“Well, it looks like that fellow that visited Jim. Mind you, I only

saw him a few times, and mostly from a distance, but it looks like him to

me. Was that one of Jim’s paintings?”

“Yes, it’s a photograph of one his paintings.”

“You think that man did something to Jim, don’t you Agent Mulder?”

“We think it’s possible. If you can think of anything else about him, it

would be very helpful.” He handed one of his cards to Mr. Adams.

Mr. Adams shook his head. “Nothing else comes to mind right now, but if

I think of anything I’ll let ya’ know.” He looked closely at the photo

again. “It just burns me up how some people take advantage of other

people.”

“Me too,” said Mulder. “That one of the reasons I do what I do.”

“I guess it would be.”

Mulder next looked up John Bowman, to see if he recognized the man in

the painting. He told Mulder he thought he’d seen the man, but couldn’t

be sure where. Mable, the receptionist, also confirmed that she’d seen

him and that he had visited Mr. Baylor. He was on his way out the front

door when his cell phone rang.

“Mulder,” he answered.

“Agent Mulder, this is Frank Burns. I’ve got some information on a couple

of warehouses. A Jeff Maxin owns one. He’s a doctor. He inherited the

place from his grandfather who was in the import-export business years

ago. The warehouse hasn’t really been used for much in years, but he

still pays taxes and insurance on it.”

“That sounds promising,” said Mulder. “What’s the other one?”

“An old building owned by a Jeffery Stevens. He was a biochemist, but

is retired. He bought the place a couple of years ago and has filed

permits for renovation, but no work has been done yet.”

“Also promising. Any other information on these two men?”

“Both men live within a 10 mile area of that park that ‘Jeff Smith’

gave for an address, and both men are fair skinned and blond.”

“Any resemblance to the painting?”

“Some on both accounts. Maxin has curly hair, but Stevens’ eye color

matches the painting. Stevens is older than Maxin, but only by 8

years. They both have facial hair in the DMV photos, and the painting

doesn’t.”

“Well, at least we’ve got a couple of good leads,” said Mulder.

“And I sure am glad,” said Frank. “Look, I’ve got yet another meeting

to go to. How about we meet up later and go check these guys and

the buildings out.”

“Sounds good to me. Could you give me those addresses? It may take

me a little while to figure out where they are in the ‘MAPSCO’.”

X X X X X

DALLAS COUNTY MORGUE

Scully sat at a lab bench while waiting for the latest batch of

results. She’d had a few ideas about what the compound found in

James Baylor and all the other victims might be. They were testing for

these things now, but the waiting was hard. She was looking over more

paper work when her cell phone rang.

“Scully.”

“Agent Scully, this is Frank Burns.”

“Hello, Frank. Any news?”

“Well, that’s what I called to ask you.”

“They’re still running tests, but we have some ideas. It may be

tomorrow before we know much. What about you? Anything on the

warehouses?”

“Yes. I talked to your partner a little while ago and told him about

two possible places and people. I thought we’d ride by the buildings

and try to run down the people a little later.”

“Sounds good,” said Scully. “I’ll call Mulder and have him pick me

up.”

“No hurry,” said Frank. “I’ve got a couple of things to take care

of here before I can go.”

“We’ll meet you at your office in a bit then.”

“Great. I sure am glad you two came down. I don’t think I’d have made

this much progress on my own.”

Scully smiled. “I’m glad we could help, Frank.” She ended the call,

then hit the speed dial for Mulder’s phone. It rang several times

before going to voice mail. She frowned and waited for the beep.

“Mulder, it’s me. Call me as soon as you get this. You better not

have lost this phone, or turned it off. I bet the battery ran down.

Just call me, OK?”

She shook her head, wondering if he’d ever remember to charge his phone

at night. Maybe she’d just have to start fishing it out of his pocket

and putting in on the charger herself. A sly smile crept across her

lips. Fishing it out of his pocket might be a fun start to the

evening.

X X X X X

SOMEWHERE IN DOWNTOWN DALLAS

Mulder stopped at a red light and took the opportunity to look at

the ‘MAPSCO’ again. He made a right turn then began looking for the

warehouse. He drove past it, looking carefully. “Looks like nobody’s

home,” he said to himself. He drove down the street further and found

a small pay parking lot. He jammed money in the slot numbered with the

place he’d parked the car and walked back toward the warehouse. He

fumbled in his jacket for his phone and punched the speed dial

number for Scully. Nothing happened. He stopped and looked at

the phone. It was dead. He sighed and put the phone back in his

pocket. He’d just look around for a few minutes and go pick up Scully.

There would probably be nothing to see here anyway. It wasn’t like he

was ditching her or anything; he was just doing his job. He walked

first to a door sporting a chain and padlock.

“Well, I guess I won’t be getting in that way.”

Mulder looked carefully at the door, then continued around the building.

It was a dull gray color, matching the clouds that had rolled over

downtown in the last half hour. Thunder rumbled and a flash of

lightening reflected in a window. Mulder looked up, promising himself

he’d just take a quick look in the window, then leave before he got wet.

He stepped up to the window and saw where a small area had been rubbed

clean. Well, maybe not clean, but cleaner than the rest of the window.

He wiped it with his hand and looked inside. He saw things that should

be in a warehouse like barrels, crates, and boxes. He was about to step

back when he noticed light coming under a door on the far side of the

room. He was looking closer when a bone-chilling shriek caused him to

stand very still. He continued to stand there, watching and listening

when he saw the door open and a man with curly blond hair step out.

“Jeff, I presume,” said Mulder softly. He watched as the man walked

across the warehouse floor to another doorway. Mulder quickly stepped

back from the window and walked around the corner just in time to see

the man coming out.

“Dr. Jeff Maxin?” he asked.

The man looked up at Mulder as he was locking the door. “Yes.”

“Dr. Maxin, I’m Special Agent Fox Mulder of the FBI.” He removed his

ID from his pocket and showed it to Maxin. “Could I ask you a few

questions?”

“What’s this about?” asked Maxin.

“I’m helping the Dallas Police investigate some deaths of people in

this area, and I’d like to ask you if you’ve seen anything unusual.”

“Oh, well,” said Maxin, “I’m not really here that much. I’ve got a

little apartment set up inside and just come here to get away. I’m

sure you know how it is. You just need a little space to yourself

sometimes.”

Mulder nodded. “Yes, everyone does now and again.”

“Is this about those homeless people they’ve found dead?”

“Yes, it is,” said Mulder. Large drops of rain hit the concrete all

around them as thunder shook the small window beside the door. “Could

we go inside to continue this?”

Maxin stood still for a moment then shook his head. “Oh, of course.”

He unlocked the door and opened it, motioning for Mulder to go in ahead

of him.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” said Mulder turning around to take in the

layout.

“I inherited it from my grandfather several years ago. Never quite

knew what to do with it, so I decided to make it into my personal

retreat. Not the best area of town for relaxing, but I may eventually

remodel the whole thing into a place to live.” He watched Mulder look

around. “What exactly do you want to know Agent, ah -?”

“Mulder,” said Mulder. “I suppose you read about the deaths in the

newspaper?”

“Yes. It’s quite sad. People living and dying on the streets like

that.” He shook his head and looked sympathetic.

“So, you didn’t know any of them?”

“Me, oh, I don’t think so. I may have seen them around, but I never

really paid that much attention.”

“What about James Baylor. Did you know him?” asked Mulder.

“No, that name’s not familiar.”

“Then, could you tell me why Mr. Baylor painted a portrait of you?” He

showed Maxin the photo of the painting.

Maxin looked at the photo closely. “I guess it does look something like

me.” He stepped back. “I have no idea why he painted it. Perhaps this

person knows someone who looks like me.”

Mulder pocketed the photo. “Would you mind if I take a look around

Dr. Maxin?” He began to stroll away from the door.

Maxin followed him. “What you see is it, Mr. Mulder. Just a dusty old

warehouse no longer in use.”

“What’s in these barrels and crates?”

“They’re empty.”

“Didn’t you say you had an apartment here?” Maxin nodded. “Where is

it?”

Maxin pointed at the door that Mulder had seen through the window

earlier. As Mulder took a step toward it, Maxin gasped and clutched his

head. He stumbled back into a crate and sat on it.

“Are you all right, Dr. Maxin?” asked Mulder.

Maxin swallowed hard and took a few deep breaths, still holding his head.

“Migraine. I get terrible migraines.”

“Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I have some medication in the apartment.” He stood up, and with shaking

hands fumbled through his keys. He stood and moved slowly to the door.

After a couple of attempts, he got the key in the lock and opened the

door. He walked in, followed closely by Mulder. “I’ll just get my

medication out of the kitchen.”

Mulder watched him walk into a small kitchen and open the cupboard beside

the sink. He walked further into the small room observing the comfortable

furniture, television, DVD player, and complete stereo surround sound.

“Nice set up you’ve got here.”

Maxin emerged from the kitchen still holding a glass of water.

“Thank you. As I said, it’s my little retreat. I was watching some

horror movie just before I left. The screams are quite realistic with

this system.”

Mulder nodded. “I’ll bet.” He wandered around the room. “What’s

through that door?” asked Mulder, pointing to a closed door.

“Bedroom, bathroom. Nothing special.”

Mulder moved toward the door, but Maxin stepped in front of him. “It’s

a private area, Mr. Mulder.”

“I was just going to use your bathroom, unless you have something to

hide.” He pushed past Maxin and opened the door. Inside he saw an

elaborate lab set up. “Interesting bathroom you have here,” said Mulder.

Maxin took his hand out of his pocket and before Mulder could turn

around, he jammed a needle into his arm.

Mulder stumbled back holding his arm. “What did you do to me?”

“I told you this was a private area, Mr. Mulder.”

Mulder lurched away from Maxin, knocking over a row of glass beakers

on the lab counter. “Is this where you decide how smart to make

someone? Who has to die to gain knowledge?”

“Oh, now that’s not fair Mr. Mulder,” said Maxin, slowly following as

Mulder moved away from him. “My goal is to help people know their full

mental potential. Most of us only use a small portion of our brains

but I suspect you use a bit more than a lot of people.”

Mulder looked around. Maxin stood between him and the door to the

apartment but he saw another door and bolted for it. He swung the

door open and stumbled into another small room. The light was low but

he was able to see a human shape on a cot. He bent down to get a closer

look and realized that the shape was covered head to toe with a white

sheet. He turned around as Maxin blocked the light from the lab.

“What did you do?” Mulder growled. “Is this one of your test subjects?

One of your lab rats?” He tried to stand up straight but dizziness

washed over him and he grabbed for the edge of the cot.

“That is one of my friends. A friend with some problems that I was

able to help.”

“Help? Looks to me like you killed your friend.” Mulder took a deep

breath, trying to focus on Maxin.

“It is unfortunate that he died, but I can assure you that I did not

kill him. He just couldn’t take the pain.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Mulder, groggy now and trying to

keep Maxin in sight.

“There’s a trade off for great intellect and insight, Agent Mulder.

This man’s body just couldn’t bear that cost any more.”

“Death seems like a big price to me.” Mulder’s vision blurred and he

sank to the floor.

“You shouldn’t have opened that door. But don’t worry, you won’t

remember any of this.”

X X X X X

ACT 4

DALLAS COUNTY MORGUE

Tuesday afternoon

Scully was getting worried. That Mulder sense that she’d developed over

the years was sending shivers up her spine. She looked at her cell phone

one more time to make sure it was working and nearly dropped it when it

rang. She took a deep breath and without even looking at the display

answered it. “Mulder, you had better be on your way here.”

“Ah, Agent Scully, it’s Frank.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’ve been expecting Mulder to call.”

“So have I,” said Frank. “I thought you’d both be here by now. I tried

his phone, but all I got was voice mail.”

“Me too,” said Scully. “His phone battery probably died. But he still

should have been here by now.”

“Yeah, even if traffic was slow. You don’t think he could have gone to

check out any of these buildings, do you?” asked Frank.

“Did you give him the addresses?”

“Yes,” said Frank. “He said he wanted to try to figure out where they

were.”

Scully sighed. “He probably did go to one of them on his own. Would

you mind picking me up here?”

“Sure thing. Then we’ll see if we can figure out where he is.”

X X X X X

MAXIN’S WAREHOUSE

Dr. Jeff Maxin watched Mulder closely as he lay on a cot in his lab.

Something was wrong. He should have been coming out of it by now. He

had thought he’d just incapacitate him for a few minutes then get him

out of the warehouse. When the agent woke up, he’d have no idea what

had happened in the half hour or so before he’d stumbled onto the lab.

He had no wish to harm the man. After all, he was a doctor and had

taken an oath to help people. That’s just what he intended to do –

to continue doing. But he still had work to do on the brain enhancing

drug. He had to refine it. He’d been hoping to get more support from

Roush Pharmaceuticals, but that lush of a rep had to go and kill

himself in a car accident. He checked Mulder’s pulse and opened his

eyelids. What was wrong? Mulder’s respiration was shallow. He put an

oxygen mask on Mulder’s face.

“This shouldn’t be happening,” Maxin said to himself. He pushed

equipment over to the cot and began pasting electrodes all over Mulder’s

head. “Let’s just see what’s going on inside here.” Maxin watched the

display on the machine closely. “No, no, this is all wrong. You can’t

be in a coma, Agent Mulder. Not from a sedative.”

Maxin stood up and paced back and forth. He knew he had to get the agent

out of there, that others probably knew where he had gone. He picked up

a bottle from a shelf and withdrew some of the amber liquid inside.

“I guess you’ll just have to be another test subject, Mr. Mulder.”

X X X X X

DALLAS COUNTY MORGUE

Scully stood in front of the building, trying to stay out of the rain.

Frank Burns pulled his car to the curb and opened the door, motioning

Scully to get in. Scully sprinted through the rain and into the car,

wishing that she had an umbrella.

“Nasty weather!” said Frank as Scully wiped at the water running off her

face. “Sure wish it could’ve held off for a few hours.”

“Any news on Mulder?” asked Scully.

Frank shook his head. “Afraid not. I’ve got officers checking out the

residences of the two men I told Mulder about. We’ll check out the

warehouse and the other empty building.” He handed Scully the file of

information. “I thought we’d go to the building owned by Jeffery

Stevens first. It’s closer.”

Scully nodded. “Let’s go.”

The rain slowed the already congested traffic, but they made it to the

building relatively quickly. They got out into the blowing rain and

ran for the shelter of the building. Frank knocked on the front door

as Scully rubbed the glass of a front window and looked in. No one

came to the door. Frank stepped beside Scully and looked in too.

“Doesn’t look like anyone’s been in there in a while,” said Frank.

Scully nodded. “Let’s go around back and see if there’s another way

in.”

“Okay, but at least take my umbrella. My hair takes a lot less time

to dry.”

Scully smiled and took the umbrella. “Thanks, Frank. How about if I

go around one way and you go the other. We’ll meet in the back.”

“Sounds like a plan,” said Frank.

They set off in opposite directions. Scully rounded the corner of the

building and saw a side entrance. She ran to the covered entry and tried

the door. It was locked. She peered into a window in the door and saw

only a dusty hallway. She sighed and tried to wipe rainwater off of her

face again. Her Mulder alarm was really going off now and her heart beat

faster. She just knew that he’d gotten himself into trouble, again. She

looked out into the pouring rain then sprinted to the next corner. Frank

waved to her from a doorway at the rear of the building as she approached

him.

“This door’s locked too,” said Frank. “It really doesn’t look like

anyone’s been in this building recently.”

Scully nodded. “There’s a side entrance that was locked and looked

the same.”

“On to the warehouse?” asked Frank.

“Yes, and quickly. I have a bad feeling,” said Scully.

Frank nodded. “I know what you mean.”

They made their way back to the car and tried to shake off some of

the rain. Frank’s radio crackled to life and Frank answered it.

Scully listened as Frank was informed that the officers had talked

to Jeffery Stevens but could not locate Jeff Maxin.

Frank looked over at Scully. “10-4. Please dispatch two units to

the Maxin warehouse,” and he gave the dispatcher the address. “I’ll

meet them there. Do not enter the building until I arrive. Repeat,

do not enter the building until I arrive.”

X X X X X

MAXIN’S WAREHOUSE

Maxin stood over Mulder, monitoring him impatiently. “Come on, now,

Mr. Mulder. That should have given you quite a jump start.” He peeled

back Mulder’s eyelids again. “Come on!” he shouted. Maxin stalked away

from the cot shaking his head. He walked back to the shelf and picked up

the bottle of amber liquid again. He inserted a needle into the bottle,

intent on drawing more out when he heard a rustling noise. He turned to

see Mulder moving slightly on the cot. He set the bottle down and went

back to check Mulder again. When he tried to look at Mulder’s eyes, a

hand weakly tried to brush him away.

“Go ‘way, Scully. Jus’ let me sleep,” Mulder mumbled.

“Oh, no, Mr. Mulder. You can’t go back to sleep, now. It’s time to

leave,” said Maxin.

Mulder opened his eyes and squinted at Maxin. “Where are we goin’?”

slurred Mulder.

Maxin slipped an arm around Mulder’s shoulders. “Now don’t worry about

that. Just come along.”

Mulder shook his head as Maxin pulled him up. “Who, who are you? An’

where’s Scully?”

“Come on, now, we need to go.”

“Where are we goin’?” asked Mulder again, this time a little clearer.

Maxin half dragged Mulder from the lab into the apartment. He leaned

Mulder against the wall as he opened the door into the warehouse.

X X X X X

Scully wiped fog off the car window and looked into a parking lot as

they approached the warehouse. “There’s Mulder’s car!”

“Are you sure?” asked Frank.

“Pretty sure. It’s a Lariat rental car, same make and model as the one

we rented.”

“Well, I guess that means he’s probably here.” Frank spotted two Dallas

Police cars at the curb beside the warehouse and parked behind one. One

of the officers approached the car as Frank got out. “See anything?”

The officer shook his head. “The door in the front is chained shut, but

we did find another entrance on the side.”

“Great,” said Frank. “Agent Scully and I will go in first. You come

in behind, okay?”

“Okay.”

Frank and Scully approached the door with guns drawn. Frank motioned

one of the officers to open the door then he and Scully sprang through.

They stopped and looked at barrels and crates. Frank pointed at

a closed door across the room. Just as they started moving toward the

door, it opened. They held still for a moment as a man with curly

blond hair came out dragging Mulder.

“Hold it right there!” said Scully gun pointed at Maxin. “Let him go!”

Maxin immediately let go of Mulder, and he slumped onto the floor.

“Move away from him slowly,” said Frank, gun also aimed at Maxin. He

motioned for the officers to come in. Maxin backed away from Mulder

as the officers rushed in and grabbed him.

“Hey!” said Maxin. “Leave me alone! I’ve done nothing wrong. I

helped him.”

Scully put her gun away and ran to Mulder’s side. “Mulder, can

you hear me?”

“Scully, ‘s that you?” Mulder said thickly.

“Yeah, Mulder, it’s me. Are you okay?”

Mulder yawned. “I’m jus’ so tired.”

Scully looked up at Frank. “Call an ambulance.”

“Is he okay?” asked Frank.

“I don’t know. He doesn’t appear to be bleeding anywhere.” She ran

her hands down his arms.

“Ow!” shouted Mulder. “That hurts!” He clutched his arm. “Ya’ didn’

haf ta hurt me!”

“It’s okay, Mulder,” soothed Scully. “Let me look at it.” Frank

helped her sit Mulder up and she took off his coat then rolled up his

shirtsleeve. “There’s a bruise and what looks like a puncture wound.”

She got up and walked over to Maxin. “What did you give him?” Maxin

looked away. “Answer me!” shouted Scully.

“He’s fine,” said Maxin.

Scully grabbed his shirtfront. “I asked you what you gave him!”

Maxin stared back at Scully silently. She let go of his shirt and

went back to Mulder. “Frank, would you sit with him here? I need

to find out what he was given.”

Frank nodded and Scully walked into the open door of the apartment,

then into the lab. She searched the shelves and saw several bottles

of sedatives, a large bottle of capsules that was not labeled and a

vial of amber liquid. She turned around and saw a rumpled cot with

several discarded syringes nearby. She picked up the syringes and

put them into a plastic bag that she’d found on the counter then

walked back into the warehouse. She handed the bag to Frank and

turned to Maxin.

“Are you Jeff Maxin?” she asked. He nodded. “Jeff Maxin, you have

the right to remain silent -”

“Am I being arrested?” asked a surprised Maxin.

“Yes,” said Scully coldly.

“On what charge?”

“Suspicion of murder and assault of a federal officer for a start,”

said Scully. She finished reading him his rights as the ambulance

arrived.

X X X X X

BAYLOR UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER

Tuesday night

Scully sat beside Mulder’s bed, watching him sleep. She sighed and sat

back in her chair, relieved that he seemed to be okay. Analysis of the

syringes she found detected Versed, a powerful sedative, in one, and the

substance they had found in the victims in the other. Mulder’s blood

had shown both of these. The doctors had recommended that Mulder be

hospitalized until he slept off the effects of the Versed. Scully

wanted him kept here until they determined exactly what the other

substance was and how it might affect him. She knew she’d have a fight

on her hands once he woke up, but she would insist.

Mulder stirred then opened his eyes. He saw Scully smiling at him and

smiled back. “Hey, Scully,” he croaked.

“Hey, yourself, Mulder.” She leaned over and kissed him gently.

“Mmmm. What’d I do to deserve that?”

“You woke up,” said Scully.

Mulder looked around. “I’m in a hospital?”

“Yes, you are. Do you remember what happened?”

Mulder frowned. “I remember talking to Mr. Adams about the painting,

and then, um, it’s all fuzzy and mixed up.”

Scully sat down on the bed and held Mulder’s hand. “You did something

stupid.”

“Again?”

Scully smiled. “Yes, again. You went to check out a warehouse, alone,

with a dead cell phone. Jeff Maxin attacked you.”

“What’d he do?”

“Apparently he injected you with Versed.”

“That’s, um, a sedative or something, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Then he gave you some of the same substance we found in the

victims.”

Mulder tried to sit up straighter. “Why? Why did he give me that?”

Scully shook her head. “I have no idea. He’s in custody now. I had

planned to go down and question him as soon as I knew you were all

right.”

Mulder nodded and pushed the covers off his legs.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Mulder?” asked Scully.

“Getting up. It’s going to be hard to question Maxin from here.”

He swung his legs around.

Scully got up to stand beside him. “Mulder, you’re in no shape to get

out of this bed. You’ve had a pretty big dose of Versed plus the other

substance. We have no idea what effect that might have on you.”

Mulder looked Scully in the eyes. “Scully, you just said yourself that

I’m all right.”

“I said no such thing, Mulder. What I said was that I was going to

question Maxin as soon as I knew you were all right. I’m still here.”

“I feel fine. Sleepy, yes, but fine.”

The door to Mulder’s room opened and Anna walked in. “Well, I see

you’re awake now,” she said.

“Awake and trying to leave,” said Scully as she frowned at her

partner.

“I don’t think that’s such a great idea,” said Anna. “You’re bound

to still be feeling the effects of the sedation. And, I was hoping you

could help me out with something.”

“What’s that?” asked Mulder suspiciously.

“I’d like to run some tests.”

“Oh, no. I’m fine. Just fine, thank you. If one of you will hand

me my pants, I’ll be on my way. We have an investigation to finish.”

“Mulder, listen to what she has to say,” said Scully.

Mulder looked from Anna to Scully. He sighed and sat back in the bed.

“Okay, I’ll listen, but I make no promises about staying here.”

Anna stepped forward. “Mulder, this is a big opportunity for us. You’ve

been given a drug that seems to greatly enhance or perhaps even restore

brain function. We need to find out what’s happening in you right now.”

“But I feel completely normal,” said Mulder. “I’ve had no brilliant

insights, made no great discoveries, heck, I can’t even remember what

happened to me.”

“That’s probably due to the Versed, Mulder,” said Scully. “People who

get it usually don’t remember it.”

“Mulder, please. Let me run a few tests and see what’s going on in that

head of yours. It could help a lot of people,” said Anna.

Mulder looked closely from Anna to Scully. “You really think it might?”

“It could, Mulder. You told me yourself that this could improve a lot

of people’s lives. How about it? Will you help?”

Mulder lay back on the bed again. “Okay, okay. You’ve ganged up on me,

used my own words against me, and talked me into it. On one condition.”

“What’s that?” asked Scully.

“That you go now and question Maxin. I don’t want anything to happen

to him before we can find out more about what he was doing.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to stay with you?” asked Scully.

“I’m sure.”

X X X X X

LEW STERRETT JUSTICE CENTER

“Dr. Maxin, my name is Special Agent Dana Scully. I will be questioning

you regarding your attack on Special Agent Fox Mulder a few hours ago.”

Maxin nodded. “He is all right now, isn’t he?”

“He seems to be. Dr. Maxin, we need to know exactly what happened.”

“I’m not a bad man, Agent Scully. I just want to help people.”

“So you tried to help Agent Mulder by sedating him, then giving him some

other substance.”

Maxin shook his head. “You’ve got it wrong. All of you. I never

wanted to hurt anyone. I just wanted to help.”

“You keep saying that, Dr. Maxin. What, exactly did you do?”

Maxin looked down at his cuffed hands. “Agent Scully, have you ever

seen a brilliant person ravaged by disease? A disease that robs them of

the thing that makes them who they are? Have you?”

“If you’re talking about Alzheimer’s disease, yes, I have.”

“My father was a neurologist. He was a wonderful doctor and father.

He saw people every day whose minds were dim and getting dimmer with

each passing day. He wanted to find some way to help those people regain

what they’d lost, and in some cases, what they never had.”

“That’s quite an admirable goal, Dr. Maxin, but what does that have to do

with what you’ve been doing?”

“Everything! Don’t you see? He did it!”

“I don’t understand. What did he do?”

“He came up with a drug that gives the brain a boost but he was never

able to test it on human subjects. Except for me. I’ve been taking some

form of it for the last several years. You see, Agent Scully, I’m a man

of quite average intelligence, but with this drug, I could continue my

father’s work. I just wish he’d had the chance to try it himself, before

he died. You see he had Alzheimer’s disease, too.”

“Are you telling me that you’ve been testing an unapproved substance

on human subjects?”

“With consent, of course, but yes.”

“With consent of people who were not able to understand what you were

asking of them!” said Scully.

“Perhaps, at first, but when they could understand, they all wanted to

continue the treatments.”

“Until they died.”

Maxin shook his head. “It is unfortunate that some of my subjects died,

but they all died of natural causes. Agent Scully, I am not a killer.

I am a doctor. I help people. And I’d be able to help many more if the

drug company I’ve been talking to will back my father’s discovery. If

only that representative had not killed himself with alcohol, we might

already be on our way. Besides, not all of my subjects are dead. I’m

not dead.”

“There are other people who have been receiving this drug?”

Maxin nodded. “Oh, yes. Including Agent Mulder.”

“And we’re back to Agent Mulder,” said Scully. “What happened? He

discovered your little lab, didn’t he. So you drugged him!”

“I only wanted to subdue him so that I could take him out of my lab.”

“So you injected him with Versed?”

Maxin nodded. “Quite a safe drug. One I’ve used many times. But he

didn’t react well to it.”

“What happened?” asked Scully.

“He didn’t wake up. He was, in fact, comatose. It is a possible, if

unlikely reaction.”

“So, instead of calling for help, you gave him your drug?”

“Yes. It had the desired effect.”

“Are you aware that your ‘wonder drug’ may cause vascular abnormalities?

Abnormal vessel growth and weakening of arteries?”

“I think you’re mistaken,” said Maxin smugly.

“I don’t think I am,” said Scully. “Ruptured cerebral and aortic aneurysms

killed three of your victims. Two more died when AVM’s hemorrhaged.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t care what you believe. You have been killing people in the so-

called name of science, but it stops here.”

X X X X X

BAYLOR UNIVERSITY MEDICAL CENTER

Mulder pulled on his pants and was looking for his shirt when a wave

of dizziness washed over him. He slid into a chair and closed his

eyes, willing the dizziness to pass. After a moment he opened his eyes

and found that the room wasn’t moving anymore. He let out a big sigh

and rubbed his temples. A headache was building that reminded him a

little of what had happened when he’d seen that rubbing from the alien

spacecraft, but at least he wasn’t hearing any voices. He sat back in

chair and stretched his back, realizing that he ached all over. The

places where Maxin had injected him and where the IV had been were

hurting more than anything like that had ever hurt him in the past.

He knew he was all right because Anna had just told him that all of his

tests were normal, but he couldn’t help wondering what Maxin’s drug

might really do. He knew Scully would be wondering the same thing.

But he was fine. Really.

Scully walked into the room.

“Have you already finished questioning Maxin?” asked Mulder.

“For now. He’s safely behind bars. I wanted to come check on you.”

Mulder leaned over and picked up his shoes. “I’m fine, Scully.

Just like I tried to tell you.”

“He’s right, Dana,” said Anna as she entered the room. “All the scans

were within the normal range.”

Mulder smiled. “That’s me. Mr. Normal.” He looked at Scully. “Can

we go now? I’ve got a few questions I’d like to ask Dr. Maxin myself.”

“Do you really think he’s okay now, Anna?” asked Scully. “You didn’t

find any evidence of aneurysms?”

“No, Dana. We didn’t find anything. Now get out of here,” said Anna.

She smiled and handed Mulder his discharge papers.

Mulder smiled broadly and got to his feet. He held the papers to his

chest. “I’d like to thank the academy for this award.” Scully hit him

on the arm. “Ow!” It was a standard response when she playfully

whacked him, but this time it had really hurt.

“We’ll be leaving now,” said Scully. As she helped Mulder gather the

rest of his things, the phone rang.

“I’ll get that,” said Mulder, still rubbing his arm. “Mulder.” He

paused. “What? When? Are they bringing him here? Okay, we’ll be

there as soon as we can.” He hung up the phone.

“What happened?” asked Scully.

“That was Frank. Another prisoner attacked Maxin. They’re taking him

to different hospital.”

“Let’s go.”

X X X X X

PARKLAND HOSPITAL

“Over here,” shouted Frank from the ER waiting area as Mulder and

Scully walked in.

“What happened Frank?” asked Scully.

“Maxin had a run in with another prisoner. The officer who was there

said some words were exchanged, then the guy decked Maxin.”

“What else?”

“That’s it. At first Maxin just seemed dazed then he started wailing

like he was in horrible pain. I know that getting hit in the face

hurts, but this guy was going overboard.”

“If he was acting, why was he brought here?” asked Mulder.

“That’s just it, Mulder. He wasn’t acting. He was really in agony.

They were trying to settle him down when he started going into shock.”

Mulder looked at Scully. “Is it possible for someone to die of pain?”

Scully raised her eyebrow. “Well, I suppose that the pain response

could trigger other things, maybe even shock.”

“So it is possible?”

“Maybe, but not probable. Mulder, being hit in the face wouldn’t cause

that level of pain.”

“What if something made Maxin more sensitive to pain?”

Scully looked closely at Mulder. “Are you saying that Maxin’s drug

causes increased sensitivity to pain?”

“It could. Scully, when I talked to Chester Adams about James Baylor

he told me that he’d seen him doubled over in pain. When Adams asked

him what was wrong, he just blew it off and told him not to tell anyone.

He said that he’d rather live in pain than live in the Alzheimer’s fog.”

“Mulder that pain was probably from the aneurysm. They often cause

abdominal pain.”

“And what about Pam Parker, one of the other victims? She was in a lot

of pain as well and refused to seek help. Scully, don’t you see, it’s

as if they both knew that the pain was part of their new awareness.”

Scully shook her head. “Mulder -”

A nurse approached Frank. “Detective, the doctor wanted me to tell you

that your prisoner is stable now, if you’d like to see him.”

Frank, Mulder, and Scully got up. “Yes, please.”

Then nurse led them down a hallway into a treatment area. Jeff Maxin

lay on the bed with his arm handcuffed to the bedrail. He did not

open his eyes. A doctor stood next to the bed with a chart in his hand.

“Detective Burns?”

“Yes,” said Frank, extending his hand. “This is Agent Mulder and Agent

Scully.” He motioned toward the pair. “What’s happening here, Doc?”

“His nose is broken and he has some contusions on his face, but that’s

about it.”

“Why was he in so much pain?” asked Mulder.

“I don’t know. But he did show all the signs of someone with a massive

trauma. At first we thought he was acting, but he wasn’t. It took some

pretty powerful drugs to calm him down.”

“Tranquilizers?” asked Scully.

“Pain meds,” said the doctor. “He’ll probably be out for a while.

I suppose he’ll be moved to the secure ward?”

“Yeah,” said Frank. “Will he be okay there?”

The doctor took another look at Maxin’s record then set it down. “I

don’t see why not.”

“I’d like to stay with him,” said Scully.

“I’m staying too,” said Mulder.

An orderly arrived a few minutes later with a uniformed police officer.

They all escorted Maxin to his new room.

“I have to hit the road, guys. We still need to clean up at the

warehouse. It sure looked like there was a lot to go through there,”

said Frank.

“Be sure to get all his notes and computer files,” said Scully. “This

could still be quite a medical breakthrough.”

“Will do, Agent Scully.”

The agents sat in silence for a few minutes after Frank left.

“You don’t think the drug is responsible for Maxin’s reaction, do you,

Scully?”

“I don’t know Mulder. I do know that messing around with brain

chemistry and function could have undesirable effects. I suppose

it’s possible.”

“It is possible,” said a weak voice from the bed.

The agents stood next to the bed. “What is possible?” asked Scully.

“Pain. Severe pain. But most of my subjects were willing to endure

the pain if it meant they could be, enlightened. Even I have been

through a lot of pain. Migraine headaches can be quite debilitating

under normal circumstances, but what I suffered was agony.”

“Was it worth it?” asked Mulder.

“Oh, yes. A few hours of pain was not too high a price for genius

intellect. I’d do it again.”

“Well, you won’t have that opportunity, Dr. Maxin,” said Scully.

“Everything in your lab is being confiscated as we speak.”

“Perhaps someone else can carry on the work,” said Maxin. He put

his hand to his head and gasped.

“Dr. Maxin,” said Scully, “what’s wrong?”

Maxin’s hand dropped and his body seemed to go slack. He slumped further

into bed as his eyes rolled back.

“Mulder, get some help!”

Mulder rushed to the door. “We need some help in here!” He went back

to Scully’s side. “What’s happening to him?”

“I don’t know,” said Scully. She opened one of Maxin’s eyes. “This

pupil’s dilated, eye’s bloodshot.” She opened the other one. “This

one’s not. Mulder, I think he’s just ruptured an aneurysm.”

The door burst open and a crowd of doctors and nurses rushed in. “He’s

not breathing!” said one nurse. They immediately set to work on him,

but he did not respond. After a grueling half hour, the doctor

pronounced him dead. Scully talked with the doctor and made arrangements

for an autopsy to be done. They walked out of Maxin’s room just as Frank

stepped off the elevator.

“What happened?”

“That’s a question we seem to be asking a lot,” said Mulder.

“Maxin’s dead,” said Scully.

“What? How? He was only hit in the face for goodness sake!”

“It looks like he may have had a cerebral aneurysm that ruptured,” said

Scully. “We’ll know more after the autopsy.”

“Did you already get the warehouse cleaned out?” asked Mulder.

“The warehouse was cleaned out, all right, but not by us.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that a bunch of people claiming to be a forensics crew dismissed

the officers who were watching the warehouse. When the real forensics

crew arrived, all they found was a whole lot of nothing.”

“Do you have any clue as to who might have done this?” asked Scully.

Frank shook his head. “I was kinda hoping you guys might.”

“I have some ideas, Frank, but nothing I could ever prove.” Mulder

turned to Scully. “They did it again. Ripped all the evidence away

from us.”

“Mulder, it could have been anyone. It could have even been Roush.”

“Exactly,” said Mulder.

X X X X X

EPILOGUE

THE GRAND KEMPENSKI HOTEL RESTAURANT

Wednesday morning

“What, no pancakes?” asked Scully after the waitress had taken their

orders. “Mulder are you feeling all right? Tell me the truth.”

Mulder sighed. “I’m just not hungry this morning. Besides, you’re

always telling me I should eat healthier.”

“I don’t really call coffee and a donut ‘healthy’ Mulder.” Scully sat

back in the booth. “You look tired, Mulder. Maybe you should go back

to your room and rest while I finish up with Frank this morning.”

“I’m okay, Scully. Really.” She frowned at him. “Okay, okay. I am

tired. I just couldn’t get comfortable last night so I didn’t sleep

very well.”

“And?”

“And what?” he asked. Scully continued to frown at him. “And my head

hurts.”

“Is that all?” asked Scully.

“Yeah,” said Mulder. “That’s all. I’m tired and sore, but would you

expect any less knowing what happened to me yesterday?”

Scully looked closely at her partner. “I suppose not. But, Mulder, I

really need to know if something’s wrong. We don’t know exactly what

Maxin gave you or what it might do. You will tell me, won’t you?”

“Scully, I’m fine. Anna told you that last night. Maybe I’m sore

because of that exaggerated pain thing Maxin talked about, but that’s

all, Scully. Really.” And he hoped it was.

X X X X X

DALLAS POLICE AND COURTS BUILDING

Wednesday morning

“Well, if it isn’t my FBI friends. Come on in,” said Frank.

“Have a seat.”

“We just wanted to finish up with this case before we headed back

to D.C.” said Mulder. “Have you found anything else in the warehouse

or who it was that cleaned everything out?”

“Not a thing, I’m sorry to say. Looks like the only evidence we have

of Dr. Maxin’s brain enhancing drug was in the syringe that he injected

you with. And we wouldn’t have even had that if Agent Scully hadn’t

picked it up.”

“Unfortunately, it wasn’t enough to do a very good analysis. I doubt

anyone will be able to reconstruct the compound. At least not yet, but

it will provide a good starting point for further research,” said Scully.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” said Frank. “Your boss, A.D. Skinner called

this morning. Seems he couldn’t get either one of you on your cell

phones last night, so he wanted to leave a message.”

“What did he say?” asked Mulder cautiously.

“He said to tell you that if you wanted to go ahead with your vacation

plans, you could just email or fax your reports in to him and leave

from here.”

“Wow,” said Scully.

“Double wow,” said Mulder.

Frank smiled. “He sure sounds like a nice guy.”

“He is,” said Scully. “And we’ve got a report to finish so we can start

our vacation. Right, Agent Mulder?”

“Oh, right, Agent Scully. Right!” said Mulder. “Frank, do you have a

place I can plug in a laptop?”

X X X X X

DISNEYWORLD

Thursday afternoon

Mulder stood at the cart, waiting for lemonade. He shielded his eyes

and looked around watching happy people walk and talk all around him.

Today he was one of the happy people. He took off his sunglasses and

rubbed his eyes. He’d have been happier still without this headache.

He knew he should have bought a hat on Main Street because if he had a

hat that would cut down on some of the glare that was surely causing

this headache. He put his sunglasses back on and looked back at

the bench where Scully sat. She certainly seemed to be having a good

time and so was he. He’d never imagined a theme park could be this fun.

Well, except for maybe the ‘Tiki Birds’ and ‘It’s a Small World’. Those

were just a bit too, uh, sappy. But ‘The Haunted Mansion’ and ‘Peter

Pan’s Flight’, and of course ‘Splash Mountain’, those were fun. And

they still had so much left to do. He got the lemonades, popped a

couple of aspirin into his mouth, took a drink, and walked back toward

the bench.

Scully sat back on the bench in the warm sun and sighed. It was so good

to relax. She was still concerned about what affects Maxin’s mystery

drug might have on Mulder, but he seemed to be doing quite well now.

She watched as he brought back two large lemonades for them and

plopped down beside her.

“Ah, Scully, this is the life. I’m beginning to see why Arthur

Dales retired to Florida.”

“Mulder, he retired to a trailer park, not Disney World.”

Mulder shrugged. “Still, the weather is nice here.”

“Except when there are hurricanes.”

“There is that,” said Mulder. He took a long drink of his lemonade.

“So, what do you want to do next, Scully? The ‘ExtraTERRORestrial

Alien Encounter’? ‘Space Mountain’?”

“Again, Mulder? I was thinking maybe we could find some lunch.

I’m getting hungry.”

Mulder pulled a map out of his pocket. “It says there’s a place to get

something to eat near ‘Space Mountain’. Let’s ride those two things -”

“Again,” said Scully.

“Again,” said Mulder, “then you can get something to eat.”

“Aren’t you hungry, too?” asked Scully. “You only had a piece of toast

and coffee for breakfast. That was hours ago.”

“What can I say?” said Mulder. “I guess I’m just too excited being in

the Happiest Place on Earth.” He took Scully’s hand and pulled her off

the bench. “Besides, I was thinking I might try to talk to someone

about the ‘Alien Encounter’. I think we could give them some pointers.”

THE END

AUTHOR’S NOTES:

Special thanks to the crew at IMTP. Without your invitation to submit

a pitch, I probably would never have written this. And to my sister,

Erin, for doing the artwork and trailer, to my husband, Len, for his

technical (and other!)support. And to Vickie Moseley for her help and

wonderful suggestions. I couldn’t have done it without all of you.

The inspiration for this story was an article in THE DALLAS MORNING NEWS

on February 12, 2001. The title is “Pumping It Up – Efforts to boost

mental performance raise sticky ethics issues” by Sue Goetinck Ambrose.

I am not a neurologist (I’m a veterinarian), so I made up effects that

this mythical drug could have. However, DART (Dallas Area Rapid Transit),

Baylor University Medical Center, Parkland Hospital, the Dallas Police

and Courts Building, the Lew Sterrett Justice Center, the Grand Kempenski

Hotel, and Trail Dust Steak House are real places/entities. And yes,

they really do cut ties off of people who wear them into the Trail Dust,

with the patron’s permission. The patron gets a free drink in exchange

for the tie as well as applause from everyone else. It’s really quite a

production. And my husband does actually have a Flying Toilets tie.

Some of you may also remember that Parkland Hospital was where JFK was

taken after he was shot.

I used my husband’s knowledge and the “Mapsco” to find everything! (As a

resident of the DFW area, I can tell you that these books of maps are a

MUST if you want to get anywhere. I only wish you could get daily updates

for them.)

My apologies to anyone who knows a lot about Down syndrome, Alzheimer’s

Disease, and autism for any misrepresentation or inaccuracy. My

information came mostly from the web. I have very little personal

experience with any of these problems.

All inaccuracies are my own fault.

Feedback appreciated.

Frances Hayman Smith (fi.smith@gte.net)

TITLE: Necessary Evil

AUTHOR: dtg

WEBSITE: http://dtg-xf.freeservers.com/ or

http://home.earthlink.net/~dgoggans/firsthtml.html

KEYWORDS: case file, MSR

RATING: R for a few rough words & situations.

SPOILERS: References to FTF and Field Trip.

ARCHIVE: VS9 for two weeks after release, then

Ephemeral & Gossamer. Anywhere else,

please let me know first.

SUMMARY: Mulder’s profiling genius may finally

have met its match.

DISCLAIMER: Some of the characters in this story

belong to Chris Carter, 1013 and Fox.

No copyright infringement is intended.

AUTHOR’S NOTES: This story was written especially for

IMTP’s Virtual Season 9. Special thanks

go to Bonetree, Michelle, Sally, Ten

and Vickie for sticking with me through

my rapid-fire rewrites. It’s hard to

beta a moving target. <G> Any flaws

that remain are mine alone.

****

Necessary Evil by dtg

****

TEASER

“Please, don’t do this. I promise, I won’t tell

anyone if you’ll just let me go.” She blinked

furiously, trying to clear her vision.

“Down on your knees.”

“No! Oh, please… why are you doing… ” She gasped

with pain as her tape bound wrists were jerked down

behind her back, forcing her to drop to her knees on

the gravel.

“I said, on your knees!”

Hands grasped her ankles and pulled, shifting her

weight heavily forward and driving the sharp stones

painfully into her flesh. She heard another length of

tape rip from the roll and felt her ankles being

bound tightly together. She could see her car, a

tantalizingly short distance away through the trees

where she’d parked under one of the mercury vapor

lights. For safety. She had known that the lot would

be mostly empty when she returned to it. And it *had*

been. The only other car had been parked next to

hers. All that empty space, and the last two cars had

somehow ended up side by side. Someone had been

hidden in that car. Waiting.

“My husband has money. He’ll pay whatever you ask if

you just let me go.” She cried out again as her

wrists were yanked roughly down toward her feet. She

felt the tape being wound around them, securing her

into a bowed position. Exposing her chest.

She could barely breathe now, terror combined with

the awkward posture making it a struggle to pull in

enough air to speak.

“I can get you whatever you want. Please, listen to

me. I have childr…”

The blade plunged directly into her heart. She had

only enough time to turn disbelieving eyes toward her

executioner.

“You *are* getting me what I want.” Her killer

watched the light fade from those eyes forever, then

pulled the blade free and walked casually back to the

car.

***

ACT I

Basement office

Monday, February 11, 2002

9:20 AM

Mulder’s pencil mercifully ceased its mind-numbing

table dance and back flipped into the ceiling. “Isn’t

it a little soon for your closed door sessions with

Skinner to be starting up?”

Scully put down the folder she’d been trying to focus

on since her return from Skinner’s office ten minutes

ago. “He’s worried about you, Mulder. He didn’t want

you on this case any more than I did. He just wanted

to know how you’re doing.”

“So why didn’t he ask me?” Mulder swiveled his chair

to face her with his arms crossed over his chest.

“Better yet, why didn’t *you* tell him to ask me?”

She turned her chair toward him and mirrored his

posture. “How do you know that I didn’t?”

He made a palm up gesture with his right hand and

raised his eyebrows, the unspoken question clear.

*Well, DID you?*

“For your information, I did. But he knows you,

Mulder. That’s why he’s concerned. I guess he’s just

not ready for another of your brushes with eternity

so close on the heels of the last one.” She let the

much-too-fresh memory darken her eyes. “Neither am

I.”

Her partner seemed to deflate at that, the irritation

draining out of him. He uncrossed his arms. “I know

that, Scully. But I’m not as fragile as the two of

you seem to think.”

Scully noticed the change in posture and softened her

voice. “It has nothing to do with fragility or

weakness. Skinner just wants to make sure that

I’m…”

“…keeping the leash short enough?”

Mulder finished her thought so accurately that it

made both of them smile. She wouldn’t have put it in

quite those words, but that was essentially what

Skinner had just assigned her to do. Keep her partner

away from the deep end.

In spite of his protests, she knew that Mulder

counted on her vigilance when he worked on cases like

this, but that didn’t completely eliminate his

resentment at being watched so closely. He had to

bristle once in awhile, just to preserve his dignity.

It was a routine they were both familiar with.

“So, what have you got so far?” She gestured toward

the growing stack of legal pads bearing his trademark

stream-of-consciousness scrawl.

He turned back to the desk and began to flip through

his notes. “It’s what I *don’t* have that’s driving

me nuts.” Scully raised an eyebrow at his choice of

words, and he shot back a quick *don’t even go there*

look. “There’s just nothing about the killings that

stands out. A single stab wound to the heart. No

trophies that we can identify. No mutilation. No

sexual overtones. No common locations. Yet they’re

clearly all the work of the same man.” He closed the

pad and looked up at her. “You should tell Skinner to

stop worrying. Even if I *could* get into this guy’s

head, it looks like the greatest danger to my psyche

would be terminal boredom.”

Both eyebrows went up at that. “A boring serial

killer?”

One corner of his mouth quirked up in a somewhat

abashed grimace. “Another poor choice of words. What

I’m trying to say is that the murders are so damn…

*impersonal*… I could almost believe they were the

work of a contract killer, except that there’s

nothing about the victims that makes that even a

remote possibility.”

Scully pulled a sheet of paper from the folder on her

desk. “Could there be a connection among the victims

that we’ve missed?” She looked over the list again.

Six men, three women, ages from 18 to 61, occupations

ranging from janitor to psychiatrist, both single and

married. All white with no single ethnic or religious

background predominating. No criminal history for any

of them. Vastly different economic situations from

borderline poverty to conspicuous wealth. Seemingly

nothing in common apart from the way they died. She

handed the list to Mulder.

He scanned it and shook his head. “The computers

haven’t come up with a single common factor and I’ve

had them input every characteristic I could think of.

But there *has* to be one.” He stood up and began to

gather papers together. “There’s a link, we just

haven’t dug deeply enough to uncover it.” He was

rolling his sleeves down, getting ready to put on his

coat. “We need to interview the next of kin of each

of the victims again, starting with the most recent.”

Scully let out a small, resigned sigh. It was going

to be a long day.

***

Home of Marcy Barringer

4810 Oxford Green

Reston, Virginia

11:15 AM

Marcy Barringer’s body had been found three days

previously in a wooded area adjacent to the Reston

Mall. Her husband had reported her missing when she

failed to return from work Thursday night, and a

jogger found her body on his predawn run just ten

hours later. Her murder was number nine in as many

weeks. The task force SAC’s request for Mulder’s

services had arrived on Skinner’s desk that same

morning, accompanied by a recommendation from the

Director himself.

What they now knew to be the first killing in the

series had taken place forty miles west of D.C. on

Thursday, December 13th. Every Thursday night since

then, there had been another murder, each taking

place incrementally nearer to the capitol. Reston was

thirty minutes from the Hoover building, and the

Director apparently wasn’t prepared to wait for the

bodies to start piling up on his doorstep.

The woman who answered the door of the well kept

colonial was dressed in a simple black dress and

heels. Her exasperated expression changed swiftly to

confusion when she realized she didn’t know her

visitors.

Mulder and Scully displayed their badges for her.

“I’m Special Agent Mulder with the Federal Bureau of

Investigation and this is my partner, Special Agent

Scully. May we speak with David Barringer?”

“He’s not here. I was just on my way to meet him at

the funeral home. I thought you were the babysitter.”

She leaned to one side and looked distractedly behind

them. “She’s late.”

“And you are…?”

“Karen Waters. David is my brother. Is there

something I can help you with?”

“We won’t take more than a few minutes of your time.

May we come in?”

The woman hesitated for a moment, then stepped back

and opened the door so they could enter. They

followed her to a small, cozy room with three book

lined walls. The shelves ran from floor to ceiling

and were crammed with hardcover volumes. She

gestured toward the couch as she sat in the arm chair

directly opposite.

“There was a police detective here yesterday. He

talked to both of us. What else do you want to know?”

“Agent Scully and I have just joined a task force

that’s working on a series of killings that may be

related to your sister-in-law’s death.”

“The detective already told us that it was the same

man who’s killed eight other people.” She looked from

Mulder to Scully. “Why haven’t you caught him?”

“That’s why we’re here, Ms. Waters.”

The woman’s posture sagged. “What can *I* tell you

that could possibly make any difference?”

“If it *was* the same man, then there may be

something that all of the victims had in common,

something that put them in contact with the killer.

Did your sister-in-law have any hobbies or special

interests, maybe a club or an organization where she

would have come in regular contact with strangers?”

“You think she *knew* the man?” The thought clearly

horrified her.

“Not necessarily, but she may have come in contact

with him recently.” The killer was planning these

murders well in advance. It was one of the few

aspects of his profile that Mulder felt reasonably

sure of.

She thought for a moment. “I’m sorry, there was

nothing like that. Marcy is…” Her breath hitched

and she looked away for a moment. “Marcy *was*

devoted to her family. There wasn’t much time for any

outside interests. Her family was everything to her.

She only took the job at the mall for something to do

during the day after Kimmy started school. They

didn’t need the money.” She pressed a curled index

finger to her lips, struggling for control. “If she

hadn’t been working, she would have been at home,

safe, instead of where that animal could get to her.”

The doorbell rang at that moment and the woman nearly

leaped from her chair. “That’s the babysitter. I’m

sorry, I have to go now.” Both agents rose and

followed her to the front door. They waited as she

admitted a teenaged girl who immediately headed for

the back of the house without even glancing at the

two strangers.

Mulder reached into his pocket and handed Karen

Waters his business card. “Please call if you

remember anything that might help. And we do still

need to speak with your brother as soon as possible.”

The woman studied the card for a moment, then nodded

to both agents in turn. “I’ll tell David you were

here. I’m sure he’ll call you soon.”

They had nearly reached their car when the woman

called to them. “Agent Mulder! Wait for a moment.”

They turned to see her coming down the walk with an

envelope in her hand.

“I was just going through the mail and found this.”

She handed the envelope to Mulder. “I don’t know if

that’s the type of organization you were referring

to, but Marcy spent time as well as money on it. I

never would have remembered it if I hadn’t seen that

bill.”

It was a window envelope addressed to Marcy Barringer

from Helping Hands, Inc. The return address was an

office building in the business district near

downtown D.C. Mulder handed the envelope to Scully

and turned back to Karen Waters. “I’m not familiar

with the name but it sounds like a charity.”

“It is. Marcy told me about the work they do with

needy families. Not handouts but helping hands.

Volunteers visit with the families and help them get

off public assistance by finding them jobs and

housing.”

Scully exchanged a look with Mulder. “Did she work

with the clients?” If so, it could be how she met her

killer.

Karen shook her head. “Oh, no. Marcy did fund raising

for them. It was something she could do from home,

calling prospective contributors and asking for their

help.” She smiled. “She was good at it. Marcy was a

very persuasive woman.”

“May I keep this?”

Karen shrugged and turned back toward the house. “I’m

sure it’s just a receipt or something. If it’s

anything David needs, please copy it and return it to

him. I hope it helps.”

Scully opened the envelope when they were in the car.

It was a receipt for $2,500. “I’d like to get a look

at her bank records to see how often she made

donations like this.” She held it up for Mulder to

see.

He made a noncommittal sound and started the engine.

“Where to next?”

***

Helping Hands, Inc.

Collier Building, Suite 910

Washington, D.C.

4:35 PM

Mulder had mentioned Helping Hands at the next

interview almost as an afterthought, and was

surprised to find that the victim had been a regular

contributor to the charity. When the next two

interviews yielded the same results, it became

obvious that Karen Waters had given them the link

they’d been looking for.

Despite having arrived at Helping Hands unannounced,

the two agents found themselves being ushered into

the manager’s office with an uncommon alacrity that

had them trading surprised glances. A stunningly

beautiful woman, nearly as tall as Mulder, rose from

behind the desk and shook their hands as Scully

introduced herself and her partner.

“I’m Elizabeth Saxon. You had some questions for me?”

She gestured for them to take the two chairs facing

her desk and returned to her seat behind it. She

leaned expectantly forward, smiled briefly at Scully,

then fixed her attention on Mulder.

“We’re investigating the death of a woman who did

some fund raising work for your organization. Marcy

Barringer. What can you tell us about her?” The woman

met Scully’s question with a blank look, then turned

back to Mulder.

“Marcy Barringer is dead?”

“Yes, Ms. Saxon, her body was found three days ago.

It’s been in the papers. You didn’t know?” Scully’s

tone prompted Mulder to shoot her a questioning

glance.

“No, I didn’t. I’ve been out of town. I’m very sorry

to hear this.” Her distress seemed genuine. “What do

you need from me?”

“Marcy Barringer’s death may be related to a series

of killings that we’re investigating. We’re following

up on some information that shows several of the

victims had connections to Helping Hands.”

Scully finally had the woman’s attention.

“What kind of *connections*?”

“Marcy Barringer worked for you. Two other victims

appear to have been regular donors. A third was a

recent client.” Scully watched closely for a

reaction. There was none. She saw Mulder at the edge

of her peripheral vision, his expression as impassive

as usual. He showed no inclination to join in the

discussion.

“I see. What can I do to help?” The woman directed

her question to Mulder who, to his credit, turned to

face his partner to wait for her response.

“We’d like to see a list of your clients and

contributors. We may need an employee roster as well,

but not at this point.”

Despite the fact that Scully was asking the

questions, Elizabeth Saxon seemed determined to keep

her focus on Mulder. She reached for the phone on her

desk. “Of course. Anything to help.”

While she spoke briefly with someone regarding

Scully’s request, the two agents undertook a silent

discussion of the behavior of their interviewee.

Mulder was amused. Scully, plainly, was not.

“We can pick up those lists, if you’ll follow me.”

Once again, she addressed her comments directly to

Mulder. She came around the desk and waited for him

to stand, then headed for the door.

Elizabeth Saxon led the way down a carpeted hall to a

wooden door marked “Records”. On the other side of

the door was a windowless room lined with filing

cabinets. It smelled of old paper and new plastic. At

a large metal desk in the center of the room sat a

man who was busily entering data into a computer, his

eyes fixed on a copy stand to his right. He looked up

and stopped typing when the door opened.

“Kevin, these are the F.B.I. agents I asked you to

get the information for. Agent Mulder, Agent Scully,

this is Kevin Hawkes. He’s been converting our paper

files to a computer database.” She smiled at the

young man. “It’s going to make our lives much easier.

Or so he tells me.”

Kevin blushed to the roots of his blonde hair. “Um,

it’s going to be very helpful… once it’s finished.

It’s been quite a job.” His lopsided grin was

ingratiating. “It would have made putting these lists

together a piece of cake. Instead, I’m afraid all I

have is a half dozen scratched out pages. They’re

complete but not very user friendly.” He handed a

small stack of pages to his boss.

“Thank you, Kevin. I’m sure these will be very

helpful.”

Elizabeth Saxon moved toward the door and Mulder

began to follow her until he noticed that Scully was

apparently not finished here.

“Mr. Hawkes, how long have you been working on this

project?”

The young man swallowed visibly and blushed even more

deeply than he had a moment ago. “Um, Ms. Saxon hired

me a couple of months ago. She, um, she’s been very

kind to me.”

He seemed to lose the power of speech at that point

and his boss came to his rescue. “Kevin came to us a

few weeks before Christmas. He had been living in a

group home and he needed some help getting on his

feet. When we learned of his expertise in computers,

we hired him to help with this project. He’s really

been a godsend.”

She turned toward the door again, seeming as anxious

to leave as Scully was to stay and ask more

questions.

“Kevin, do you mind if I ask what kind of group home

you were in?”

The young man raised his eyes to Scully’s. Something

flickered in them for an instant, pure and intense.

Then it was gone. He shook his head and returned to

his keyboard.

“Thank you, Kevin.” Elizabeth Saxon opened the door

pointedly and stepped through. When the agents

followed, she closed it firmly.

“Kevin is a very fine young man and I don’t want him

upset with needless prying into his personal

affairs.” She shot a meaningful look in Scully’s

direction before striding quickly back to her office

with the two agents in tow.

When Mulder and Scully caught up with her, she had

already resumed her seat behind the desk. Her hands

were folded in front of her once again, but the smile

was gone.

“I’m beginning to wonder if I shouldn’t have waited

for a warrant of some kind. I don’t wish to have my

clients or my contributors interrogated.”

Mulder could see the hackles rising and stepped in

before Scully could respond. “If you’d feel more

comfortable, then by all means, wait for the

warrant.” He’d dropped his voice to a throaty,

soothing baritone that gave Scully pleasant shivers.

His eyes were fixed on Elizabeth Saxon’s.

The transformation was amazing. The woman went from

cold fury to flushed pleasure in the space of a heart

beat.

“I’m sorry if I overreacted. This has just been such

a shock.” She smiled and walked back around the desk,

holding out the papers to Mulder. Scully, it seemed,

had ceased to exist for her.

“Thank you, Ms. Saxon.” He tried to take the papers

from her, but she held on to them for a moment

longer, touching his hand as she released them.

Mulder, Scully noticed, actually backed up a step.

“We’ll be in touch.” Mulder was already halfway to

the door. Scully gave the woman a curt nod and

followed him.

When they were safely in their car, Mulder sat back

and blew out a breath that puffed his cheeks. He

turned to face Scully and found her eyes twinkling

with amusement.

“Too bad we can’t bottle that boyish charm of yours,

Mulder. We’d make a fortune.”

His innocent ‘who me?’ expression melted quickly into

a sheepish smile. Scully knew that he wasn’t

oblivious to his own attractiveness, nor was he above

taking advantage of its effect when circumstances

warranted.

He put the key in the ignition, then sat back and

tilted his head to look at her. “So, what do think

about Mr. Hawkes? I don’t have to ask your opinion of

Ms. Saxon.”

Scully shot him a quick look. She decided to let that

one pass and answer his first question instead. “I

think Mr. Hawkes bears closer examination. At the

very least, I’d like to know what problem he had that

put him in a group home.”

“I agree, but I doubt very much that he’s going to

pan out as the killer. Call it a feeling.”

“I haven’t seen the profile yet. He doesn’t fit?” She

picked up the lists from the seat where Mulder had

laid them and began to scan for familiar names.

“That’s just it. There effectively *is* no profile.

Everything I’ve come up with to this point could fit

just about any Caucasian male in the city, including

me.”

Scully turned and regarded her partner closely. His

words had a defeated air that surprised her.

“Mulder, we’ve only been on the case for two days.

Don’t you think you might be expecting too much?”

He shook his head. “No, Scully. I’m missing something

obvious and it’s bugging the shit out of me. Nobody

who has it in him to murder nine total strangers can

possibly be this nondescript.”

“Well, we seem to be on the right track.” She held up

a sheet of paper. “I’m only two pages into the list

and I’ve got four of the nine victims.” She checked

the page heading. “They’re all contributors so far.”

More page shuffling. She looked pointedly at her

partner. “Kevin didn’t include the employee roster.”

“She didn’t ask him to, Scully. That was a ‘maybe’,

remember? I’ll go back and get it from her.” He had

his hand on the door handle, then paused and gave her

a wry grin. “On second thought, I’ll call and have

her fax it when we get back to the office.”

“Chicken.”

***

Hoover Building

SAC Wallace Gilmore’s Office

6:05 PM

A progress meeting with SAC Gilmore and the rest of

his task force had begun a few minutes ago. The new

information was received with the same odd blend of

relief and irritation that invariably greeted one of

Mulder’s breakthroughs. His genius for asking the

right questions was both admired and resented by his

peers– a fact of life that Mulder, unlike his

partner, had long ago learned to accept.

“This is a pretty obscure connection, Agent Mulder.

Do you really think the killer expected us to uncover

it?” Special Agent Linda Milligan was the only person

in the room other than Scully who didn’t seem to have

been struck dumb by the link Mulder had just laid out

for them. She was sitting forward in her chair and

her gray eyes were alight with interest.

Mulder was pleasantly surprised by her question. “No,

I don’t, which makes it all the more significant.”

The woman opened her mouth to respond, but Gilmore

threw her a stony glance and cut in. “Significant in

what way?”

Mulder heard the edge in the man’s voice but ignored

it. “If the killer didn’t expect us to make the

connection, he may not have made any attempt to

disguise its link to him.”

Linda Milligan quickly took advantage of the SAC’s

momentary silence. “So, you’re saying he may work at

Helping Hands? What about the man who gave you the

lists,” she consulted the report in front of her,

“Kevin Hawkes?”

Mulder looked directly at Scully as he began to

answer the question, turning back to Linda Milligan

only toward the end. “Hawkes is a possibility, of

course. But I don’t think we can afford to focus on

him exclusively.”

Gilmore picked up the report and tapped it on the

table as he stood up. “Whatever other possibilities

you may uncover, let’s not lose sight of Mr. Hawkes.”

He moved to his desk. “Keep me informed of your

progress.”

The meeting was over, and the task force members

began to disperse.

Linda Milligan approached Mulder and Scully a moment

later in the hall outside Gilmore’s office.

“I think I may have stirred something up with that

question.” She smiled ruefully at Mulder. “I’m

sorry.”

Mulder touched her shoulder briefly and shook his

head. “It was a good question. I wish I had a better

answer.” He smiled at her and Scully watched the

familiar flush rise in the woman’s face.

“I’m still sorry I asked it in front of the SAC.” She

slapped his arm softly, smiled at Scully and headed

off down the hall.

Mulder and Scully began walking in the opposite

direction. “You should really try to keep a lid on

that charisma, Mulder. I’m beginning to worry about

you.” Her expression was very close to a full smirk.

They reached the elevator and he leaned down to speak

softly into her ear. “*You* were immune for an

awfully long time.”

He stepped quickly into the empty elevator, then

stood there grinning at her. “Skinner wanted to see

us when we got back. I’ll try to rein it in before we

get to his office.”

It was a short, but interesting, ride between floors.

After a brief meeting with Skinner, who seemed to

want nothing other than to see Mulder’s current state

for himself, they returned to the basement office.

Mulder began to rework his profile from this new

perspective, tossing out virtually all of his

previous efforts. Scully’s review of the Helping

Hands lists had turned up the names of every known

victim: three clients and six contributors. While

Mulder factored that into the mix, she put in a

request for Marcy Barringer’s bank records and a

background check on Kevin Hawkes. The results would

be available before the end of business tomorrow.

Two hours later, it took everything she had to pry

Mulder from the office. He grudgingly agreed to go,

but only if she would come home with him for takeout

pizza. Blackmail rarely worked with her, but the

prospect of getting him to eat was too tempting to

pass up.

***

Mulder’s apartment

10:45 PM

Mulder had obligingly consumed half of the pizza

under Scully’s watchful eye before returning to the

profile. For the next two hours, they sat at opposite

ends of his couch while he tried to immerse himself

in the mind of their quarry.

Scully had brought a stack of medical journals along

and was midway through a particularly interesting

article when she became aware that her partner had

begun muttering under his breath. She glanced up just

in time to see the papers he’d been working on make a

high arc over the coffee table and fly in all

directions.

“DAMMIT!” The pencil followed, hitting the far wall

before bouncing back nearly at her feet.

They were silent for a long moment, Mulder seemingly

as surprised as she was by his outburst. Then he

sagged back against the couch and blew out a huge

breath that took the last of the tension with it.

“Feel better?”

He looked over at her with a tired smile. “A little.”

He scrubbed both hands roughly over his face and

leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

She moved next to him and placed her hand gently on

his back, rubbing slow circles over the knotted

muscles.

“You need to get some rest, Mulder.” She squeezed his

shoulder and got up. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

It seemed to take him a moment to process what she

had just said. She had her coat on before he

responded.

“It’s late, Scully. Why don’t you just stay here?”

“Would you promise to get some sleep if I did?” She

paused at the door with both hands on her hips.

“Well, not right away.” His mouth curved into a

sleepy grin that made her tingle.

“Our first interview tomorrow is at 8:00 in the

morning, Mulder,” but she was already pulling off her

coat.

He stood up and came slowly toward her, his eyes soft

and smoky. “I’ll set the alarm.”

***

Casey’s Bar

Tuesday, February 12th

2:28 AM

“Good night, Harvey. I’m outta here.” Eight hours on

her feet were two more than she’d been ready for

tonight, but then she hadn’t counted on Tim not

showing up. *Next time he wants me to cover for him

so he can entertain another of his ‘friends’, he can

just piss up a rope.*

She grabbed her coat and purse from behind the bar

and scooted out just ahead of the night manager,

Harvey Kendall, as he stopped to secure the back

door. He was having trouble with the lock, as usual,

and was still mumbling curses at it as Micki got into

her car.

“Please start.” It was the same prayer she offered up

every time she turned the key on nights like this. “I

promise to buy you a new battery as soon as I get

done paying for your tires, okay?” A 1985 Nova with

180,000 miles on it had seemed like a bargain at

$500. That was before the transmission repair, the

alternator and four new tires had reared their ugly

heads.

With both eyes closed, she pumped the gas pedal once

and turned the key, releasing a huge sigh of relief

when the engine roared to life. *Yeah, I hear it.

Muffler’s going, too.*

She was two blocks from home when she remembered the

cats. There had been barely more than a handful of

dry food to feed them before she left for work and

four sets of green eyes had regarded her balefully as

she had divided it among their dishes. There was a

convenience store on the next block. The price would

be outrageous but she was in no mood to drive the

five extra blocks to the all night supermarket.

The small parking lot was deserted and she weighed

the danger of car theft against the likelihood that

the damn thing wouldn’t start again if she shut if

off. With a weary sigh, she left the engine running

and dashed into the store.

She returned with her purchase a few minutes later,

too delighted to find her car still there to take

note of the car that had appeared next to hers. If

she had, she might have wondered where its occupant

might be since she had been the store’s only patron.

***

Mulder’s apartment

7:17AM

He was on his way out the door when the phone on his

desk started to ring. This early, it couldn’t be good

news. Scully had left over an hour ago with her hair

still wet from a quick shower. She’d be on her way to

work by now, but she would have called his cell

phone. He walked back to the desk and snatched up the

receiver with a faint sparkle of alarm tingling along

his nerve endings.

“Mulder.”

“There’s been another murder.” It was SAC Gilmore.

“I’m having the police preserve the scene for your

arrival.”

“On a Tuesday? You sure it’s the same guy?”

“I’m sure. You will be, too, when you see her.” He

gave the location and Mulder straightened quickly in

surprise. “Casey’s Bar? Do we know the victim’s

name?”

“Yeah, Michelle Manrow, 28. She was…”

“She was a bartender.” Mulder’s voice was soft.

“You knew her?”

“Yeah. I knew her.” *Well, I’d say that about does

it, Spooky. Looks like 86 is your lucky number.*

“Be sure you include that in your report, Agent. I’ll

expect it on my desk by this afternoon.”

When Mulder didn’t respond immediately, the SAC hung

up. It was nearly a minute before Mulder replaced the

receiver. He didn’t think to call Scully until he was

halfway to his car.

***

Casey’s Bar

7:52 AM

Scully had been only a few blocks from Casey’s when

Mulder reached her and she’d arrived at the scene a

good twenty minutes ahead of him. He found her

talking with a uniformed officer when he entered the

alley behind the bar. She looked up as he approached,

excused herself from the conversation she’d been

having and crossed to meet him.

“This could be a copycat.” Mulder kept moving toward

the body and Scully fell into step at his side. “Her

hands are tied in the same manner, but the wounds are

different.” When they reached the body, he crouched

next to it and pulled back the sheet. “It’s not

Thursday. And I checked the list, Mulder. Her name

isn’t on it.”

Micki Manrow lay on her left side with both hands

taped to her ankles behind her back. The front of her

shirt was soaked with blood, but most of it had come

from the gaping wound in her throat. Mulder replaced

the sheet gently and stood up.

“If it *was* the same guy, he’s changed his spots.

Was she killed here?”

“No. It looks as if she was killed elsewhere and then

dumped here. The night manager was contacted shortly

after the body was found. He said he watched the

victim drive away about 2:30 this morning.”

Mulder rubbed both hands roughly over his face. “He

must have followed her from here. But why bring her

back? And where’s her car?”

“The police are looking for it now.” She placed her

right hand gently on his arm. “Mulder, I know she was

a friend of yours. I’m sorry.”

Mulder nodded and looked away for a moment. “Who

found the body?”

She gestured toward a middle aged man in a running

suit talking with two detectives. “He was on his

morning run and needed to relieve himself. This was

the first secluded opportunity.”

Mulder smiled and shook his head. “That’s too stupid

to be a lie.”

His partner returned the smile. “I thought so, too.”

“Agent Scully?” One of the detectives who had been

talking to the jogger came trotting over to them with

a cell phone in his hand. “We located the car in a 7-

Eleven parking lot four blocks west of here on the

corner of New Hampshire and H. We’ve already pulled

the security video. The Forensics lab can make you a

copy if you want to stop by later this morning.”

Mulder was already heading for his car. Scully

thanked the detective and followed after him, bracing

herself for the storm she’d felt coming the moment

she’d heard his voice on the phone.

***

7 Eleven

912 New Hampshire Ave

8:14 AM

Mulder had wedged his car into the last open area in

the parking lot, leaving Scully to park behind a

squad car at the curb. She found him sitting in

Michelle Manrow’s car, gripping the steering wheel

with latex gloved hands.

“Mulder?”

His gaze remained fixed on the windshield. “There’s

blood in the trunk. He took her back to the alley in

the trunk of her own car, then drove it here and

parked it.”

“Mulder…”

He released the steering wheel and began to search

the interior of the car, flipping down the visors,

poking through the contents of the glove box and

shining his flashlight around the litter strewn

floor. His movements were just a little too tight,

skirting the edge of control.

Scully moved away, recognizing his need to deal with

his anger before they could get back on track. She

spotted someone she knew from the D.C. Crime Scene

Unit and spent the next few minutes catching up on

what little evidence had been obtained from the car.

Mulder pulled her aside as she was finishing her

notes. “I’m heading back to the office. I’ll see you

there.”

“I won’t be long.”

He gave her a quick smile and left. As far as she

could determine, he hadn’t spoken to anyone on the

scene but her.

***

ACT II

Basement office

11:10 AM

Scully had reviewed the records of all previous

autopsies, but this was the first of the victims she

had been able to process herself. The wounds of all

the previous victims looked like straightforward

executions with no hint of the anger displayed in the

killing of Micki Manrow. The killer’s pattern had

changed, but she was certain now that it *was* the

same man. The tape bindings on the wrists and ankles

were distinctive, as was the upward angle of the

chest wound and the type of weapon used to deliver

it. None of those details had been made public, so

the possibility of a copycat was remote in the

extreme.

Mulder was sitting in front of the VCR when she

returned to their office. He stood up and stretched

when she walked in.

“How’d it go?”

“It’s the same man, Mulder. I’m sure of it.”

Mulder nodded as he aimed the remote at the VCR and

began to rewind the tape. “Not a copycat.”

“The chest wound is identical: an acute, upward angle

into the heart made with a long, thin-bladed weapon.

The throat wound was delivered first, based on the

amount of blood…” She saw him wince and mentally

kicked herself for being so graphic. Now was not the

time for professional detachment. This victim had

been his friend. She softened her tone. “The tape

bindings were the same, too. I don’t think there’s

any doubt it’s the same man.”

He nodded. “I have to agree, but that presents a new

problem. Micki had no connection with Helping Hands.

Either that link is nothing more than a hell of a

coincidence, or the killer knows we’ve made the

connection.” He clicked the ‘stop’ button on the

remote and stared at her. “Maybe he saw us yesterday

at Helping Hands.”

“Maybe we saw *him*.”

His eyes darkened with an expression she knew all too

well. “You think it’s Hawkes.”

“I think we need to talk to him as soon as the

background check comes back.”

He moved to the other side of the desk and lowered

himself into the chair as if he’d aged twenty years

in the past few minutes.

“Mulder, if it *is* him, there’s no way he could have

known that Micki was your friend. Besides, it

wouldn’t make any sense for him to strike out at you.

*I* was the one pushing him yesterday.”

He leaned forward and propped his elbows on the desk,

pressing clenched fists against his eyes. “Whether he

chose her for my benefit or not, she’s dead because

he was still out walking the streets. And we’re not

going to stop him with what I’ve come up with so

far.” He dropped his hands to the desk and regarded

her with weary eyes. “I picked up a copy of the

security tape.” He gestured toward the VCR. “It

confirms the clerk’s statement. Micki came in at 2:40

AM and left six minutes later. The clerk went out for

a cigarette break at 3AM, came back in at 3:12. No

other customers until 4:30, then two D.C. cops

stopped by for coffee.”

Scully leaned her hip against the desk, arms crossed

over her chest. “The clerk didn’t see or hear

anything?”

Mulder picked up a typed page from the stack in front

of him and handed it to her. “His statement says that

there was a car in the lot when he went on his break.

He thought it was odd since there was nobody in it

and he hadn’t had a customer since Micki left.”

She looked up from the statement in surprise. “Did he

remember anything about the car? Color, make,

anything?”

“Dark two-door. That’s about it.” He shoved the chair

back from the desk and stood up. “See if you can get

them to rush that background check. I’m going to pay

a visit to Elizabeth Saxon. She’s protecting Hawkes

and I want to know why.”

Scully gave him a half smile. “Well, you’ll probably

get a much warmer reception without me.” The gentle

jab earned her the soft chuckle she’d been trying

for.

Mulder headed out the door, grabbing his jacket as he

passed the coat rack. “Call me when you get the

results of the background check. I’ll see what I can

charm out of Ms. Saxon.” He gave her a wink and

closed the door before she could find something to

throw at him.

His newfound ability to pull out of a mood still

caught her off guard. Just a few months ago, her

teasing attempt to lighten him up would have met with

a very different response.

A sudden rush of emotion made her throat ache and

blurred her vision for a moment. They could so easily

have lost it all.

She shook her head, impatient with her own self

indulgence. This was one of the side effects of their

relationship that she *had* anticipated. She picked

up her notes and turned to the computer.

Her plan was to create a matrix of all the data they

had uncovered, something like the ones she had used

to solve logic problems in college. She was halfway

through typing the names down the left side of the

matrix when she saw it, and her fingers froze in mid

stroke.

“It can’t be that simple.”

She reached for the phone.

***

Helping Hands

12:15 PM

“Agent Mulder.” Elizabeth Saxon crossed to meet him,

taking his outstretched hand in both of hers. “I

heard on the news that there’s been another murder.

Was it the same man?”

“That’s not why I’m here.” His voice and his body

language were all business.

She released his hand and moved to one of the chairs

in front of her desk, gesturing for him to take the

one facing it. “I understand. You’re not at liberty

to discuss it.” She folded her hands in her lap. “You

said you had some questions for me.”

“What can you tell me about Kevin Hawkes?”

Her expression darkened immediately. “Why are you and

your partner so interested in Kevin?”

“Why are you protecting him?

She looked as if she were about to deny it, then

changed her mind. “Kevin is special. He’s very

bright, but he’s not as stable as he appears to be.

None of what’s happened to him is his fault. The way

your partner seems to have seized upon him as her

main suspect gives me cause for concern.”

“My partner had some questions that she didn’t have

an opportunity to address when we were here

yesterday. You seem very confident that Kevin isn’t

the killer and I’m interested in knowing how you can

be so sure about a man you barely know.”

She regarded him levelly for a moment. “I have

excellent instincts about people, Agent Mulder, and

I’m never wrong. I suspect that you operate in much

the same way.” She paused as if she expected a

response but he only gestured for her to continue.

“My volunteer staff here is small and I often have

to help process new clients. That’s how I met Kevin.”

“Does that processing include asking background

questions? Do you know how he came to be in the group

home?”

“Kevin has had a very hard life. His parents were

killed in a fire when he was eight years old. With no

living relatives, he ended up in foster care. He was

twelve years old when his foster parents were

murdered in front of him by a man who was never

caught. Kevin was able to call for help but when the

police arrived, he was catatonic. He stayed that way

for four years.”

“Was he ever considered a suspect?”

That seemed to surprise her. “Of course not. He was

only a child. How could he have overpowered two

adults and done something like that to them?”

Mulder tilted his head, conceding her point. “But he

remained under psychiatric care after he came out of

the catatonia?”

“He had no memory of what had happened. I gather that

there were other emotional problems, but I don’t know

the details. He’s on medication now and will be for

the rest of his life, I suppose.” She reached over

and took Mulder’s hand so quickly that he didn’t have

time to react. “He’s *not* a killer. No matter what

the circumstances seem to indicate. I need to know

that you believe in his innocence.”

Mulder gently pulled back his hand and stood. “I need

to talk to him.”

“He called in sick today. I can give you his

address.” She got up and walked around the desk to

write it down. “He lives in the basement apartment in

my building.”

Mulder felt a shock of recognition when he read the

address. Hawkes lived only a few blocks from Mulder’s

own building. It was one coincidence too many for his

taste. “I know this area. A little pricey for a man

just off public assistance.”

A faint flush rose in her cheeks. “Well, it quite

literally *is* my building. I own it. Kevin needed a

place to stay and I was having a tough time finding a

tenant for the basement apartment. I don’t charge him

full rent, of course, but it’s better than having it

sit vacant.”

“He said you’d been very kind to him. I would call

that quite an understatement.” Mulder was impressed

by her generosity, but at the same time, it made him

vaguely uneasy for reasons he couldn’t quite put his

finger on.

Her eyes grew distant for a few seconds. “He and I

have a lot in common. It felt good to be able to

help.” She gave him an appraising look. “I think you

would have done the same. It may conflict with the

tough image you have to project, but I’ve never seen

such compassion in a man’s eyes.”

Mulder was stunned to feel the heat rising in his

face. She was simply trying to win him over and he

knew it, but she’d somehow managed to hit a button he

wasn’t aware of. Any hope that she wouldn’t notice

the effect she’d achieved withered when he met her

delighted gaze.

“I’m sorry, Agent Mulder, if I’m making you

uncomfortable.” Her voice and her expression said

exactly the opposite.

His cell phone rang at that moment, and he hoped the

relief didn’t show quite as plainly as he suspected

it did. He nearly snatched it from his pocket.

“Mulder.”

“Mulder, it’s me.”

He turned his back on Elizabeth Saxon’s satisfied

smile and walked a few steps away. “Did you get the

background check?”

“No, it won’t be ready until after 3PM. I was going

over the list of victims’ names and I spotted

something that may mean nothing, but…”

“What, Scully?” Her hesitance was odd.

“It’s the names, Mulder. The victims’ names.”

Mulder quickly ran through the list in his head.

Manrow, Barringer, Aldringham, Winchester, Becket,

Dover, Lancaster, York, Dundee, and Greene. All

Anglo-Saxon surnames, but not unusual. Did she mean

*first* names?

“Similar in what way?”

“They’re all… I don’t know… *English*. Like

characters in a Dickens novel. Well, except for the

last two.”

He was speechless. It had been staring him in the

face for three days.

“Mulder?”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes.” He shoved the

phone back in his pocket and glanced back at the

woman whose smile had vanished. “I’ll be in touch.”

***

Basement Office

1:25 PM

“How the hell could I have missed this?” Mulder was

pacing rapidly in front of his desk as he gestured

wildly with the list in his right hand.

Scully was watching him from her seat behind his desk

where she had been when he stormed into the office a

few minutes ago. She rose and snagged his wrist as he

turned to begin another circuit.

“Mulder, sit down.” He sighed heavily and closed his

eyes for a moment, then plunked down in the seat she

had just vacated. Scully pulled a chair up next to

him and turned him so they were facing each other.

“The names are a message, I think we agree on that.

And they’re English, native to the United Kingdom.

After I called you, I looked them up on a genealogy

website. He chose these people from a list, based on

the fact that their names meant something to him. But

what?”

He was shaking his head. “There *is* no message,

that’s his point. He chose the names because they

were neutral and unremarkable, just like the way he

kills. No emotion, no meaning. Nothing. That’s why

the profile is so damn universal.” He ran the fingers

of his right hand roughly through his hair. “I’m

doing a piss poor job of explaining it, I know. We’ve

been looking for meaning when the *absence* of it is

the message.”

“So how will this help find him?”

“I don’t know.” He swiveled the chair back to face

his desk and gave the stack of legal pads a shove

that sent them tumbling to the floor. “A conventional

profile isn’t going to catch this guy.” He tipped his

head back and closed his eyes for a moment, then

turned to the keyboard and began to type.

***

“Thanks, Mark… No, I’ll pick it up myself in a few

minutes. You’re a lifesaver.” Scully hung up the

phone and turned to see Mulder tapping away at the

keys, as focused as he had been for the past two

hours.

He hadn’t heard the phone ring and she knew she would

have to touch him in order to get his attention.

Breaking his concentration when he was like this was

difficult and he rarely welcomed the interruption. It

would be better to wait until he surfaced on his own.

Mark Christiansen had worked at top speed to complete

the background check on Kevin Hawkes, as a favor to

Scully. The undeniably cute young man from the

Records unit had an obvious crush on her and she had

taken a wee bit of advantage of that fact to gain his

cooperation. Like Mulder had done with Elizabeth

Saxon, except that Mulder had seemed less the

instigator in that little interaction than the object

of it.

There were a few other names she needed Mark to check

out. All of the Helping Hands employees had to be

screened now, and Scully had just decided to add

another name to the list. Elizabeth Saxon’s gender

made her monumentally unlikely to be the killer, but

there was something about the woman that bothered

her.

She got up and crossed to the door, looking back at

Mulder still huddled in front of the computer as if

it was a roaring campfire. *He’ll never know I’m

gone.*

***

The phone was ringing again.

“Dammit.” He spun his chair toward the sound and

snatched the receiver up to his ear. “Mulder.”

Silence for a beat, then “Agent Mulder? It’s

Elizabeth Saxon. I… did I call at a bad time?” Her

hesitant, wary tone made him ashamed of himself.

He took a breath and tried again. “Sorry, I was in

the middle of something. What’s up?”

“I need to see you right away. I’ve come across some

information that I think you need to know about.”

“What is it?”

“Please, I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.

Can you come to my office?”

She must have sensed his reluctance.

“I think you’ll want to talk to Kevin after I tell

you what I’ve found, Agent Mulder. I can keep him

here for you.”

“All right. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

He scribbled a quick note to Scully and headed for

his car.

***

Elizabeth Saxon’s office

5:08 PM

“What did you want to tell me?” Forty minutes of rush

hour traffic had fried his patience. *This better not

be a ploy to get me over here.* As soon as the

thought crossed his mind, he heard Scully’s voice in

his head. *A little full of ourselves, are we

Mulder?*

Elizabeth Saxon stood up when he entered the room.

She crossed to meet him, holding out a handwritten

list. “This is what I wanted you to see.”

He took the list from her and scanned it quickly.

“What am I looking at?”

He had left the door open behind him and she walked

around him to close it. “It’s a request I received

from my accountant to verify some overtime payments

to one of my employees.” She came back to stand in

front of him. “These are all for Kevin Hawkes.”

There were a dozen dates on the list, each

accompanied by a start and stop time and the total

hours worked. The first was December 13th. The last

was the night Micki was murdered. He looked up at

Elizabeth and found her swaying slightly, her eyes

losing focus. He dropped the list and grabbed her by

the shoulders.

“Are you all right?” When she shook her head weakly,

he helped her to the couch and sat her down.

“I guess it just hit me. Could I have some water?”

She pointed toward a plastic sports bottle on her

desk. When he handed it to her, she took several long

swallows. “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe

Kevin could do anything like this.”

Mulder tilted his head slightly and watched her for a

moment before turning to retrieve the list from the

floor. He held it out to her. “What do you think this

proves?”

“Don’t you see? He was here alone on the nights those

people were killed. I always let him use my car when

he came in late at night to work, so he wouldn’t have

to ride the Metro. After he signed in with the guard,

he could easily have left by my private door,

committed the murders and returned the same way.

The guard would testify that he was here the whole

time. It’s a perfect alibi.”

“It’s hardly an alibi. He would have to know that

you’d testify to what you just told me.”

She shook her head. “No, he knows how much I trusted

him. He would expect me to believe in his

innocence… to vouch for him.” She bowed her head.

“And it might have worked.”

When Mulder didn’t respond, she looked up at him.

“Are you going to talk to him now?”

“You said he called in sick today. Is he here?”

The question seemed to surprise her. “I…I called

him and said I needed his help with something. He got

here a little while ago, and I gave him a project

that would keep him busy until you arrived.”

When Mulder turned to leave, she grabbed his arm.

“Please be careful. I’m afraid of what he might do

when you confront him.”

He reached down and disengaged himself. His

expression was neutral. “Is he in the office where we

met him yesterday?”

“Yes, at least he was an hour ago when I gave him the

project.”

“I’ll just be asking him to come with me to make a

formal statement. There’s no need for you to be here

if it’s making you uncomfortable.”

She nodded. “If it’s okay then, I think I’ll go home.

I just can’t face the thought of seeing him taken out

of here in handcuffs.”

“I doubt it’s going to come to that.” He almost

smiled.

She picked up her coat and walked with him to the

lobby. When he turned toward the records office, she

went out the front door.

He had just reached Kevin’s door and had his hand on

the knob when she came running down the hall toward

him, wide-eyed and out of breath.

“He’s gone! He took my car and he’s gone!”

***

Hoover Building

SAC Gilmore’s conference room

7:18 PM

The entire task force was seated at the large oval

table, each with a copy of Mulder’s hastily typed

report. SAC Gilmore sat at the head of the table and

A.D. Skinner was at the opposite end, flanked by his

two agents.

Gilmore closed the report and laid it on the table in

front of him. He folded his hands on top of it and

looked directly at Mulder. “You don’t believe the

evidence you yourself gathered, Agent Mulder?”

“I didn’t say that. I believe the evidence, I just

don’t think it makes Kevin Hawkes the killer.”

Mulder’s tone was mild and reasonable. Skinner had

been on the receiving end of that calm, infuriating

equanimity on many occasions and he could see it was

having the same effect on SAC Gilmore. He cut in

before Mulder could further fuel the man’s

frustration. “We’ve got the police looking for

Elizabeth Saxon’s car and we have the suspect’s

apartment under surveillance. I’m sure Agent Mulder

means that the evidence, while compelling, is largely

circumstantial.”

If Mulder appreciated his boss’s intervention, it

didn’t show in his expression. “It’s all too

convenient. All but the last victim are connected to

Helping Hands where there just happens to be an

emotionally disturbed man with full access to the

victims’ names and addresses. This man also just

happens to have the use of a car and documented proof

that he wasn’t at home when the murders were taking

place.” Mulder picked up his report copy and flipped

it toward the center of the table. “All that’s

missing is a video of him committing the crimes.”

Gilmore wasn’t swayed. “And he fits your profile,

Agent Mulder. To a tee.”

“So do at least a quarter of the men in Virginia,

including you.” Mulder’s tone was treacherously close

to insolence. This time his partner jumped in.

“I agree with Agent Mulder in that the evidence seems

too convenient, but we won’t really be able to make a

determination until we can talk to the man.”

“Which you did yesterday. Agent Mulder’s report

indicates that *you* suspected Hawkes almost

immediately and requested a background check, the

contents of which are nothing if not disturbing.” A

copy of the background check was included in Mulder’s

report. It confirmed what Elizabeth Saxon had told

him. “The suspect’s flight would seem to validate

your first impression.” Gilmore looked pointedly at

Mulder who returned his gaze levelly. “He may in fact

be in the process of killing his next victim as we

speak, a possibility that could have been prevented

had you been allowed to act on your instincts when

you first talked with the man.”

Skinner looked from Mulder to Gilmore, his expression

unreadable. Then he pushed his chair back and stood

up. “I’m sorry, but I have another meeting.” He

looked at Mulder. “Keep me informed of your

progress.” He turned and left the room.

Gilmore frowned slightly at Skinner’s abrupt

departure and also stood, signaling the end of the

meeting. “We’re covering all avenues of egress as

well as we can with the resources available. There

will be a progress meeting here tomorrow at 3PM,” he

again directed his gaze at Mulder, “unless something

happens before that.”

The room began to empty. Mulder and Scully, being

farthest from the door, were the last to leave. When

they went out into the hall, Gilmore was waiting for

them.

“Agent Mulder, I’d like a word with you,” he glanced

at Scully, “in private.”

Mulder nodded at Scully. “I’ll catch up with you.” He

read the caution in her eyes and acknowledged it with

another nod.

The SAC wasted no time in getting to the point. “This

case too normal for you, Mulder? Is that the problem?

Because if it is, I want to know before somebody

*else* dies while you’re busy ignoring the obvious in

search of the bizarre.”

“Sir, I don’t believe I’ve proposed any theories,

bizarre or otherwise. All I’ve said is that the

evidence is too pat to be anything but contrived.”

“Contrived by whom? And for what purpose?”

“That I can’t answer. But the killer *does* have a

goal, and when we find it, we’ll find him.”

Gilmore looked at him for a long moment. “You already

found him, Agent Mulder. And you let him get away. I

hope no one else has to die before you acknowledge

your mistake.”

***

Scully was waiting next to Mulder’s car when he

reached the parking garage.

“What did he want?”

Mulder unlocked his door and leaned one elbow on the

roof of the car. “The usual. He wanted to remind me

that sometimes a cigar is just a cigar, or something

to that effect.” He gave her a small grin. “It’s

okay, Scully. I’m used to it.”

She hesitated for a moment, biting her lip. “Mulder,

what makes you so sure that it isn’t Kevin Hawkes?

The evidence points overwhelmingly in his direction.”

“That’s part of the problem. It’s all too cut and

dried. When have you ever seen a case this perfect?”

“He even fits your profile.”

“Such as it is, yeah. So does Skinner. So do I.”

She studied his face for a moment. “Why don’t you

come over tonight? We could make popcorn and watch

old movies.” Her hand rested on his arm.

“You worry too much.” He took her hand and squeezed

it gently. “Go home and take a bubble bath.” The

corner of his mouth quirked up. “I’m thinking of

doing that myself.”

“Get some rest, Mulder. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She matched his smile.

Mulder got in his car and watched as she walked to

hers, then pulled out of the garage and headed for

home.

***

Shell Service Station

Baltimore, MD

7:19 PM

He only had four dollars in his pocket. If he pumped

more than that, he was screwed. As the numbers rolled

closer to the mark, he began to let up on the handle

every couple of seconds, treading the fine line

between being financially embarrassed and getting

enough gas to make it back to Alexandria. This would

buy him no more than a quarter of a tank but it was

better than the fumes he was running on now.

He released the handle with a flourish as the price

rolled to an obliging stop at $3.94. Close enough.

It was a busy night. There were four people ahead of

him in line for the only open register, and every

damn one of them was buying lottery tickets. He was

weighing the merits of just tossing his money on the

counter when the sound of his name made him look up.

There was a police scanner somewhere behind the

counter and Kevin couldn’t believe what he was

hearing.

“…wanted for questioning Kevin Jerold Hawkes, 24.

Subject is five nine, one hundred fifty pounds …”

What the hell? He looked furtively at the other

patrons and saw no sign that they were paying

attention.

“…ten murders have been attributed…”

He reached the front of the line as the dispatcher

began to give a description of the car he was

driving. His boss’s car.

He paid for the gas and speed walked to the car,

trying very hard not to look like a fugitive. The car

was a liability, but leaving it abandoned at the pump

under the glaring fluorescent lights would be worse.

That BITCH! ‘I can help you,’ she’d promised him.

That sweet, beautiful face… smiling with her eyes,

lying with her heart.

He tamped down his fury with an iron will. It

wouldn’t do to draw attention to himself… not now.

Not yet.

He pulled carefully into traffic and headed for

Alexandria.

***

Saxon Arms

Alexandria, VA

9:35 PM

Four hours and thirty minutes into a four hour

stakeout, tempers were wearing a little thin, but

that wasn’t the only reason she was ready to throttle

her smirking partner.

“Why are you so fascinated by all this, may I ask?”

She flipped the empty paper cup onto the floor of the

bureau issued sedan and fixed him with steely gray

eyes.

“I’m not ‘fascinated’, it’s just that I’ve had fifty

bucks in the pool for the last two years. The last I

heard, it was worth over two grand. I think Rawlings

is just sucking up the interest.”

“I’ve never understood why Mulder and Scully, above

every other couple in the Bureau, draw so damn much

attention. Who the hell cares if they do it or not?

They wouldn’t be the first and they damn sure won’t

be the last.” She peered up and down the street for

the tenth time in the past thirty minutes. “And where

the hell is our relief?”

“They’re late. And no, they wouldn’t be the first.

There’s just…”

A gunshot from inside the building had both agents

out of the car and running. They were halfway to the

building when the front door flew open and a woman

wearing nothing but a short, untied robe came toward

them at a dead run.

“He tried to kill me! Oh my God, he tried to kill

me!”

Agent Linda Milligan reached the woman first,

grabbing her by both shoulders to drag her to a halt.

Her momentum was such that it pulled them both around

in a half circle before it dissipated, leaving the

woman facing the building she had just fled.

“Who tried to kill you? Was it Hawkes?”

“YES! Kevin Hawkes. He’s in my apartment, third

floor.” She was crying now, the hysteria changing

rapidly to shock. “He’s dead. I killed him! I killed

him!”

Elizabeth Saxon’s green eyes glazed over and rolled

back as she crumpled to the sidewalk.

***

Saxon Arms

10:04 PM

The call from SAC Gilmore had been terse and vaguely

gloating. Scully was certain that his pleasure at

telling Mulder the news must have been exquisite.

She pulled up just as doors on the Coroner’s van were

being closed. She got out quickly and held up her

badge.

“Just a moment, please.”

The attendant gave her a weary look, opened the doors

and stood back. Scully rolled the stretcher out

partway and unzipped the plastic bag enclosing the

remains of Kevin Hawkes.

There was a neat, round hole in the middle of his

forehead and his expression was one of utter

astonishment. His shocked blue eyes stared back at

her above a mouth still open in surprise. The image

of him blushing at her question yesterday afternoon

put a lump of pity in her throat, and she quickly

closed the bag.

“Thank you.” She stepped back and watched the van

pull away.

She went directly to the third floor apartment and

found it filled with people. CSU techs were

everywhere, taking photographs, slipping pieces of

evidence into plastic bags, dusting every surface for

prints. They threaded through the crowd with the

grace of toreadors. At the center of their dance was

the yellow tape outline that marked where the body

had lain, a scarlet spray decorating the center.

Mulder wasn’t there, although she had seen his car

out front. Gilmore was. He smiled broadly when he

turned and saw her.

“Agent Scully, glad you could make it.”

“Yes, Sir. Where is Agent Mulder?”

Gilmore smirked shamelessly. “He was here a minute

ago. Check out the killer’s apartment down in the

basement. Mulder’s no doubt down there trying to

disprove his death.” He clearly found himself

incredibly witty.

Scully turned on her heel and left the apartment,

stiffening her back against Gilmore’s undisguised

glee.

She found Mulder in the basement apartment which was

a wasteland compared to the one she’d just left. With

Hawkes having already been identified as the killer

to everyone’s (with one notable exception)

satisfaction, there was nothing left to investigate.

He was crouched in the middle of the sparsely

furnished living room with one of the CSU techs. They

were poking through the contents of a cardboard box

with latex gloved hands.

Mulder looked up and smiled in her direction. As he

often did, he seemed to have sensed her presence

before she even entered the room.

She returned his smile. “What’ve you got there?”

He fished a roll of duct tape out of the box and held

it up for her. “A smoking gun?”

The tech braced his hands on his knees and stood up.

“Looks that way.” He looked down at Mulder. “You seen

enough?”

Mulder dropped the tape back into the box and rose

effortlessly to his feet. He peeled off the latex

gloves and dropped them into the box. “It’s all

yours.”

The tech picked up the box and headed for the door.

Scully stepped back to let him by, then crossed to

Mulder.

“Go ahead, Scully.” He smiled. “You *did* tell me

so.”

“You’re only right 98.9 per cent of the time, Mulder,

by your own calculation.”

He chuckled softly at the memory, which was the

reaction she’d been hoping for. She reached for his

hand and gave it a gentle tug. “Come on. Let’s get

out of here before Gilmore drops by. One more smirk

and I’ll deck him myself.”

They threaded their way through the mass of news

media people in front of the building and reached

Scully’s car.

“I could come home with you… make you some tea?”

Tempting though her offer was, Mulder had something

more pressing. “Thanks, but I want to stop by the

hospital for awhile. I’ve got some questions for

Elizabeth Saxon.”

Scully couldn’t hide her dismay. “Why, Mulder? What

will questioning her accomplish now? The killer has

been found.”

“Has he?”

“There was physical evidence in his apartment and he

was shot trying to kill his boss. You can’t seriously

think he *wasn’t* the killer.”

“It’s too damn tidy, and I’m not just saying that

because it looks like I was wrong about Kevin Hawkes.

As for the physical evidence, *I* have a roll of duct

tape in my apartment as does every man in America. I

just want to talk to her and clear up a few details

while it’s all fresh in her mind.”

“She’s being treated for shock. How reliable do you

think her memory is *now*?”

“Better than it will be tomorrow.” He placed his hand

lightly on her shoulder. “Look, there’s no reason for

you to stick around and join me on Gilmore’s shit

list. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Scully extracted a promise from him to keep his visit

short and inconspicuous, then got in her car and

drove off.

Mulder watched until she turned the corner, then

headed for his own car.

***

ACT III

Inova Mount Vernon Hospital

Alexandria, VA

Room 320 10:55 PM

Mulder found Elizabeth Saxon flat on her back,

staring blankly up at the ceiling. She raised her

head up when he entered the room and smiled when she

saw who it was.

“Agent Mulder. What a nice surprise.”

She reached out her right hand to him and he had the

absurd impression that she wanted him to kiss it. He

gave it a brief squeeze.

He pulled a chair close to the bed so she could see

him in her supine position. “Do you feel up to

answering a few questions?”

“I’m okay for someone who was almost killed by a man

she trusted.” She shook her head and looked away.

“I’m sorry, that was uncalled for.”

“It’s all right. I understand.” He waited until she

turned back to him. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I’ve already given a statement to the police. What

else do you need to know?”

“I’ll get a copy of the statement. Is there anything

you’ve remembered since the police were here?”

“No, I haven’t. Like I told them, he was already in

my apartment when I came out of the shower. Maybe I

left the door unlocked, I don’t know.”

“He attacked you?”

She closed her eyes. “He never said a word, just came

at me. I ran to the desk and got my gun. I shot him.

Then I ran out of the building and found two FBI

agents right out front.” She turned to face him

again. “That’s really all there is.”

Mulder stood and touched her shoulder briefly.

“You’ve been very helpful. If there are any more

questions, I’ll contact you at your office.” He

turned to leave.

“Agent Mulder?”

He turned back at the door.

“I’m sorry it was Kevin.”

“Yeah. So am I.”

***

Basement Office

Wednesday, February 13th

12:09 PM

Mulder had come in to the office cloaked in one of

his introspective moods with little to say about his

visit with Elizabeth Saxon. Long experience told

Scully not to press him. His instincts had failed him

this time, and she would just have to let him work

through it.

There were several passably interesting cases waiting

to be reviewed, and they spent the morning going over

them. As lunch time approached, Scully suggested that

they go out for a change.

“How about something greasy and unhealthy, Mulder?

That ought to boost your spirits, not to mention your

cholesterol.”

He brightened noticeably. “Now, that’s a…”

The phone rang and he rolled his eyes at her

comically as he brought the receiver to his ear.

“Mulder.”

He glanced at Scully and mouthed *Elizabeth Saxon*.

“No, that’s all right. What’s up?” He listened for a

moment. Whatever she was saying seemed to be making

him slightly uncomfortable.

“Uh, I’m sorry, I already have plans.” Another pause,

then he began to shake his head. “No, not at all.

Maybe another time.” He hung up and sighed audibly.

“You seem to have made quite a conquest.” This didn’t

seem to be amusing him as much as it had the first

time. She suddenly regretted teasing him.

“Not funny.” He closed the folder he’d been working

on and stood up. “I’m starving. Where are we going

for lunch?”

They wound up at Casey’s and Mulder spent the whole

time talking about Micki Manrow. Scully had known

they were friends, that he would stop by Casey’s to

see her from time to time, but nothing specific.

Hearing him now, having his own private wake in her

memory, touched her in a way she couldn’t explain.

“I met her at a very low point in my life, right

after the OPR hearing on the Dallas bombing. Skinner

had just told me we were going to be blamed for it…

and you had just asked me if my heart was still in

the work.” He had been studying his hands as he

talked, but he looked up at her now to let her see

in his eyes what he couldn’t put into words. “She was

a good friend.”

By the time they left to return to work, his mood had

lightened. As they walked back to the Hoover

building, they resumed their debate on which of the

pending cases they would work next. Mulder’s

preference was the six unexplained deaths in western

Montana. It was Scully’s *least* favored for a number

of reasons, not the least of which was its disturbing

similarity to the case a few weeks ago in Elmwood,

Ohio. The one that had nearly killed him.

“Scully, six perfectly healthy women between the ages

of twenty and thirty, found dead in their cars with

no discernible cause of death. In a town with a total

population of 473. You don’t think…”

“Agent Mulder?”

They both stopped and turned toward the voice,

directly into Elizabeth Saxon’s adoring gaze.

***

Basement office

Tuesday, February 19th

5:40 PM

“I’m not sure this is a good idea, Mulder.”

Elizabeth Saxon had begun calling him at the office

the day after their ‘chance’ encounter. She had then

called him twice on Thursday and three times on

Friday, her excuses becoming more transparent each

time. He’d come in to the office this morning looking

grim and exhausted after a three-day weekend spent

dodging the woman’s calls and hoping she would take

the hint. Scully had spent *her* weekend helping

redecorate her mom’s kitchen. As much as Mulder hated

the smell of paint, he’d spent all day Sunday helping

her, just to avoid the phone.

When the calls had resumed this morning, he’d agreed

to meet the woman for coffee after work. It had

become apparent that nothing short of the unvarnished

truth was going to get through to her.

“I’ll admit that I don’t have much experience

discouraging crushes,” there was a definite twinkle

of mirth in his eyes, “but I *do* have a degree in

psychology.”

“Psychology isn’t going to do you much good in this

situation. A woman as smitten as Elizabeth Saxon

appears to be isn’t likely to welcome being told

she’s delusional.”

“Delusional, Scully? She’s delusional because she

finds me irresistibly attractive?” His exaggeratedly

wounded look was not totally feigned.

“You’re *completely* irresistible, Mulder. I think

I’ve conceded that on a number of occasions.” That

got her a grin. She’d recently spent Valentine’s Day

(and night) demonstrating just how irresistible she

found him. “I’m just saying that you’re not going to

be able to talk her out of feeling the way she does.

It doesn’t work that way. And she obviously thinks

you are attracted to her, too. If you do manage to

convince her you’re not, she could become an even

greater problem than she already is.

“‘Hell hath no fury’? I think that will be less

likely if I use a little charm when I discourage

her.”

“Would that be the same charm that got you into this

in the first place?”

“Cute, Scully.”

***

Scully’s apartment

Georgetown, MD

8:15 PM

The bubbles were going flat all around her, deflating

in a quiet chorus of hissing pops. And the water was

becoming too cool for comfort. Scully opened the

drain, stood up and turned on the shower to rinse the

soap off and wash her hair.

When she shut off the water a few minutes later, she

heard the phone ringing. Mulder, no doubt, reporting

on his meeting with Elizabeth Saxon. She quickly

toweled off and donned her robe. If it had gone as

badly as she expected, she was going to invite Mulder

over for some tea and sympathy.

The machine was cutting off at the end of his message

as she reached the living room. The phone rang again

an instant later as she was reaching for the

receiver, but it wasn’t Mulder’s number on the caller

id. It was a trunk line at the Hoover building. She

was frowning slightly as she picked up the receiver.

“Scully.”

“Agent Scully, it’s Mark Christiansen. I was just

leaving you a message and the machine cut me off.

Must have been a little long winded. I’m sorry to

call so late but you said you wanted the results as

soon as possible and I just finished.”

She smiled into the phone. “Mark, are you still at

work?”

She could almost hear him blushing. “It’s okay, I had

some other work I had to finish, too. This took a

little longer than I expected. You didn’t mention

that I’d be searching databases in London.”

Alarm tingled through her. “What do you mean?”

She heard him shuffling paper. “Elizabeth Saxon, AKA

Elizabeth Dresser, AKA Elizabeth Masterson, born

Elizabeth Alice Baker on June 14, 1963 in Sisters of

Charity Hospital, London, England.”

Scully’s mouth went dry. “She’s a British citizen?”

“Not any more. Married Henry Masterson in 1989, a

psychiatrist at the clinic in Boston where she spent

a few years as a patient after college. She renounced

her British citizenship shortly after they were

married. He died in a fire two years later, leaving

her a very wealthy woman. She then married Walter

Dresser, an IBM executive from her old hometown. She

moved back to London for a couple of years, then came

back to the states when Walter met an untimely end in

a car accident. She changed her name legally to Saxon

a little over a year ago, just before she set up the

charity she runs and, from all appearances, largely

funds from her own money.”

“Mark, where did she go to college.”

He flipped some pages. She already knew the answer,

but the word still hit her like a physical blow.

“Oxford.”

***

Elizabeth Saxon’s apartment

8:17 PM

Scully was right. This wasn’t going to be as easy as

he’d hoped. He had agreed to meet her for coffee, but

telling her at Starbuck’s had felt wrong. So he

agreed to have dinner with her. Then the table at the

restaurant had seemed too, well, *public* for the

conversation he had in mind. So here he was, in

precisely the last place he wanted to be, and she

seemed way too happy to have him there.

“I’m such a klutz with a corkscrew. Could you give me

a hand, Fox?” Her voice floated out from the kitchen,

soft and warm with the invitation that had been in

her eyes all evening. And now she was calling him

‘Fox’.

He looked heavenward for a moment, then rose wearily

from the couch and went out to the kitchen. She held

out the corkscrew and a bottle of wine.

“I’m cutting up some fruit and cheese. Why don’t you

take that out to the living room and I’ll be with you

in a moment.” She gave him a radiant smile and turned

back to the counter.

Mulder was starting to feel a little sick. He set the

bottle and corkscrew on the table and walked over to

put his hand on her shoulder.

“Elizabeth, we need to talk.”

She must have heard something in his voice, because

she froze in mid chop. She spoke without turning

around, just the tiniest tremor in her voice.

“Why do I not like the sound of that?”

He took her gently by the shoulders and turned her

around to face him.

“Look, I’m doing a terrible job of this. The reason I

agreed to meet you is that I think I’ve given you the

wrong impression about…”

She reached up and pressed her fingertips against his

lips.

“Please don’t say it, Fox. We’ve only known each

other for a few days. You haven’t given it a chance.”

“Elizabeth, I’m sorry. This has nothing to do with

you or how long we’ve known each other. I’m not

interested in pursuing a relationship with anyone.

Not at this point in my life.”

She looked into his eyes for a long moment, her

expression blank. Then she smiled sadly. “I knew you

were too good to be true.” She turned away from him

and leaned against the counter. “It’s okay, Fox.

Really. I guess it doesn’t matter that I caught your

killer for you, at the risk of my own life.” There

was a slight edge to her voice and her back had

stiffened.

Mulder took a step backward. “You didn’t do that for

me, Elizabeth. You said he was going to kill you.”

All of his internal alarms were going off

simultaneously.

“I did more for you than you’ll ever know.”

It happened so quickly and in such close quarters

that he had no chance to react. One moment, she was

resting against the counter with her head bowed. The

next, she was flush against him, pressing both hands

into his chest. There was incredible, numbing pain in

her touch and he felt his legs buckle. He couldn’t

feel his arms at all. The pain radiated out from his

chest, into his belly then down his legs and up into

his head. He began to sag toward the floor, but it

seemed to have disappeared. And he just kept

falling…

***

Scully’s apartment

8:20 PM

She’d hung up with Mark and dialed Mulder’s number.

It rang twice and then the machine came on. She

waited for his message to play out, then called out

to him. “Mulder, it’s me. Pick up if you’re there.”

Clearly, he wasn’t.

It was almost eight thirty. He was meeting her at

Starbuck’s at six. Where the hell could he be?

She punched in his cell phone number. *Answer your

phone, Mulder.*

It didn’t even ring. She heard the first words of the

wireless company’s “Customer is out of range” message

and hung up. Why would his cell phone be turned off?

She felt the first flutter of panic and took a deep

breath. What she’d learned about Elizabeth Saxon was

disturbing, but it didn’t necessarily make her

dangerous. She was two years behind Mulder in college

and probably never even saw him. He certainly didn’t

know *her*. It was nothing more than a coincidence.

So where the hell *are* you, Mulder?

***

Elizabeth Saxon’s apartment

8:31 PM

Awareness returned with a stinging slap that rocked

his head to the side and left the taste of blood in

his mouth. He was propped against something soft and

his hands were bound tightly behind his back. He

opened his eyes and found Elizabeth Saxon kneeling at

his side.

“You’re a real piece of work. I can’t believe I let

you do this to me twice.”

He blinked, trying to focus eyes that felt like they

were coated with sand. “Eliz…”

She backhanded him with his own gun.

“*DON’T* you dare pull that ‘concerned friend’ crap

with me again! I’ve had all I can stomach.”

She rolled back on her heels and stood up, towering

over him with hatred blazing from every pore. “You

and I are going to take a little drive to the

country.”

She grabbed a fistful of his shirt and hauled him to

his feet. When his knees started to buckle, she

tightened her hold and jerked him upright.

“If you pass out on me, I promise you won’t like what

I’ll do to bring you around.” She held on to him for

a moment, watching him shake his head trying to clear

it. Then she backed up a few steps and felt behind

her for his topcoat draped over the arm of the couch.

She hung the coat over his shoulders. “Wouldn’t want

you to catch your death.”

“What makes you think I’m just going to follow you

meekly to your car so you can kill me?”

“What makes you think I’m going to kill you, Fox?”

She smiled. “We’re just going to find somewhere out

of the way so we can talk.” The smile slipped. “Just

like old times.”

“Old times? We don’t *have* any ‘old times’.” The

effects of whatever she’d used on him was wearing

off. He began to work on loosening the tape around

his wrists, hoping the coat would cover the movement.

“Wrong again, Agent Mulder. But don’t worry about

that now. We’ll have lots of time to reminisce when

we get where we’re going.” She picked up her own coat

from the couch and slipped in on. “Move very

carefully out to the parking lot. If you try to get

away from me, you die.”

“Two murders in your apartment in the same week might

generate some attention.” He stiffened his stance but

softened his voice. “Look, untie me and we can talk

right here. You can even keep the gun for now.”

“That’s very generous of you, but I’d be willing to

take my chances with the law. I’m a very convincing

liar and I’m not afraid to give myself some equally

convincing injuries to back up my claim of self-

defense.” She pointed the SIG at his head. “Don’t

test my resolve. I promise you’ll lose.”

Mulder quickly reviewed his options. If he pushed

this woman, she would kill him. If he went along with

her, she’d probably kill him anyway, but it would buy

him some time. Scully had to be wondering where he

was by now. Eventually, she’d come looking for him.

“Where are we going?”

“Somewhere private. Now, move.”

They walked quickly to the parking lot. Mulder turned

toward his captor’s car, but she grabbed his arm.

“We’re taking *your* car.” She pulled his keys from

her pocket and opened the passenger door. When she

had him situated and firmly buckled in, she moved to

the other side and got in behind the wheel. She

placed the gun in her lap.

“Sit back and relax. We’ve got a long way to go.”

***

Saxon Arms

9:09 PM

“Hello. This is Elizabeth Saxon. I can’t come to the

phone right now. Please leave a message.”

Scully pressed the ‘END’ button and worked on

leveling out her breathing. Mulder’s car was not in

the parking lot, but she hadn’t expected it to be.

She was here to see the last person she could be

certain had been with her missing partner.

She had finally called Skinner as she was driving

here from Mulder’s apartment. She had quickly

summarized all that she knew, including how she had

found Mulder’s apartment empty and undisturbed. The

background check had alarmed their boss as much as it

had her, but she could sense his discomfort as he

asked the obvious question.

“Are you certain that Mulder isn’t… well, *with*

this woman somewhere? I don’t mean to be indelicate,

but if she’s as attractive as you describe… ” He

left the rest unsaid but clearly understood.

“Sir, I’m not certain of much at this point, but I

*do* know that Agent Mulder is not on a *date*.”

At Skinner’s stunned silence, she had apologized for

her tone and promised to call him with an update

after speaking with Saxon.

She listened at the door for a moment before she

knocked. When there was no response, she efficiently

picked the lock and entered the living room.

A single light was burning in the kitchen off to her

right. The living room was in shadows. She reached

along the wall, found a switch and flipped it.

The coffee table was shoved out of place, sitting

perpendicular to the couch. In the kitchen, she found

two empty wineglasses and an unopened bottle of

Beaujolais on the table. A cutting board on the

counter held sliced apples and cheese.

Scully quickly checked the bedroom and bath to assure

herself that she was alone in the apartment, then she

returned to the living room and began to search for

evidence that her partner had been there. She found

it almost immediately when her toe brushed against

something tucked just under the front edge of

the couch: a black leather wallet holding Mulder’s

badge and ID.

***

State Route 50 E

45 miles E of D.C.

10:06 PM

He’d been leaning forward to ease the pressure on

his shoulders, but the position was making the

muscles of his lower back clench in protest. He

winced as he moved back against the seat and Saxon

noticed.

“We’ll be turning off the highway in about an hour. I

can let you stretch your legs for a bit then if you

promise not to make me shoot you.”

Mulder turned toward her, leaning half against the

car door. “Where are we going?”

She looked at him appraisingly for a moment, then

looked back the road ahead. “I don’t suppose it

matters at this point. Who are you going to tell?

We’re going to a cottage I have in Rehoboth Beach.”

“And then what?”

“And then I’m going to tell you a story, Fox.” She

smiled at him again. “After that, I guess we’ll just

have to see.”

***

10:16 PM

“It’s me, Frohike. Hurry up.” Scully stood at the top

of the open metalwork stairs listening impatiently to

the clank of innumerable locks and bolts being

disengaged. The door finally opened and the little

man stood back as she pushed past him into the lair

of Mulder’s favorite paranoiacs.

Byers, dressed impeccably as he always was no matter

what hour of the day or night she saw him, stood next

to the congenitally rumpled Langley.

“You said it was an emergency. Where’s Mulder?”

“That’s what I need you to help me find out.” She

handed Byers the folder she’d stopped at the office

to retrieve. “This woman,” she pointed to the black

and white photo that had come with Mark

Christiansen’s background check, “has taken Mulder

somewhere. I want to know where.”

Three sets of eyes lingered for a moment on the

undeniably beautiful woman in the picture, then rose

as one to look at Scully. Byers spoke first.

“Did he, uh, did he go with her willingly?”

Frohike glared at him. “Of course not.” He turned to

Scully. “Who is she?”

She quickly outlined the profiling case and Elizabeth

Saxon’s connection to it, describing her apparent

attraction to Mulder as objectively as she could. “I

couldn’t reach him on his phone, so I went looking

for him. I found this under the couch in her

apartment.” She held out his badge.

“So what can we do?” Langley moved to his computer

and cracked his knuckles.

Forty-five minutes later, Scully was on her way to

Rehoboth Beach, Delaware with a copy of Elizabeth

Saxon’s real estate transfer in her hand, more

certain than ever that Mulder’s life was hanging

in the balance.

***

Route 404, 3 miles NW of Denton, MD

11:15 PM

“I’m pulling over here to use the restroom. You’re

coming with me.”

It was a small rest area with a single wooden

structure and room for about two dozen cars. The only

other occupant was an idling tractor trailer rig

taking up one entire side of the asphalt lot.

Elizabeth walked around the car and opened his door.

“Try to get away and I promise, you’ll regret it.”

She pulled roughly on his aching shoulder until he

stood next to the car, then she prodded him in the

back with his gun until he moved toward the building.

He stopped opposite a pair of doors and looked at her

over his shoulder.

“Which one?”

“The Women’s, of course.” She reached around him and

opened the door, insuring his cooperation with another

painful jab.

“I can’t afford to take my eyes off you, so I’m

afraid modesty will have to go by the boards.” She

placed him against the wall next to the first stall

and unzipped her jeans with one hand, keeping his gun

pointed at him with the other. She backed into the

stall and used the toilet.

When she was finished, she wrestled her jeans back up

and approached him cautiously. “Do you need to use

the restroom?”

He shrugged the coat from his shoulders and twisted

around, sticking his bound hands toward her. “Yeah.

Untie me.”

She smirked at him. “Nice try, Fox. If you need to

go, you’ll just have to let me help you.”

“No.” The revulsion on his face was echoed in that

single word.

Her expression went utterly blank and the gun wavered

for an instant. When she spoke, her voice had lost

all inflection. “I won’t touch you.” She motioned him

toward the exit and waited until he moved before she

picked up his coat. She placed it back on his

shoulders with an odd gentleness and opened the door.

When they were back in the car, she started to turn

the key but stopped and turned to face him.

He was shocked by the tears coursing down her face.

“You’re such a bastard.” Her voice was a husky

whisper, thick with tears. “But you’re so damn

beautiful.”

“Elizabeth, I…” She cut him off.

“I knew you wouldn’t recognize me. I didn’t want you

to. But I thought… after you talked to me… ” Her

eyes grew distant for a moment, then turned back to

him. “I’ve loved you for half of my life.”

Mulder’s brow was knitted into a deeply puzzled

frown. “Elizabeth, I have no idea what you’re talking

about.”

“You were in love with someone else. Someone who

didn’t deserve you. But the things you said to me,

the way you touched me…” She took a hitching

breath. “I thought you could love me.”

“Please believe me, Elizabeth. Whoever you’re

thinking of, it wasn’t me. I…” The fury in her eyes

made him stop.

“IT. WAS. YOU. You have no idea what I’ve been

through, no idea what I’ve done for you… to change

my appearance, my voice… my LIFE! I’ve done things

that no one should have to do, just to bring us

together. I thought that once you saw me again, once

I helped you get your job back…”

“What…” Mulder’s mouth had suddenly turned to dust.

“What are you saying?”

“Just shut up and listen to me.” She swiped furiously

at her cheeks. “On June 14, 1985 you went to a

friend’s graduation party at a pub. It was my twenty-

second birthday and I was there celebrating alone.

You and I had had a couple of classes together that

term, but you didn’t even recognize me. You told me

later that I reminded you of someone you had lost,

and that’s why you approached me. We talked for hours

while you tried to drink yourself into a coma. Then I

took you home with me, and we made love until dawn.”

Memory flooded back.

He hadn’t wanted to go that night, still raw and

bleeding from Phoebe’s most recent betrayal, but the

lure of alcohol induced oblivion had overcome his

desire to lick his wounds in private. He had arrived

late and spent the first hour trying to catch up.

He’d just drained his fifth pint of dark ale when

he saw her, alone at a table in the corner. What had

drawn his attention was her long, brown hair and the

way she was curled in on herself, as if the world was

closing in.

Two hours later, his brain sodden with way too much

ale and his wounded ego seduced by her obvious

adoration, he’d gone home with her and fucked her

until he passed out.

Remorse and a killer hangover had arrived

simultaneously, and he’d left before she awoke. He

never saw her again, in part because he was trying

not to, but mostly because Phoebe was suddenly back

in his life. Until this moment, he’d completely

forgotten the entire incident.

He struggled to find his voice. “Elizabeth…” But

what could he say? ‘I was drunk.’? ‘I needed somebody

to fuck Phoebe Greene out of my system.’? ‘I didn’t

recognize you because you’re pretty now.’? He tried

again. “Elizabeth, I…”

She continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

“I followed your career, read all about the fame you

were earning with your profiling ability. And then,

it was all over. You lost it all and ended up with

nothing. That was when I realized how I could help

you. I knew you would be grateful, and I knew that

once you saw me again, saw how I’d changed myself

into a woman you would love…” Her expression

hardened along with her voice. “But you’re just like

every son of a bitch I’ve ever known, aren’t you,

Fox? You never cared about me. I was just something

to do until Phoebe looked your way again. I know that

now.” Her eyes took on a distant expression.

Everything I did… it was all for nothing.”

His stomach was rolling. “Elizabeth, what did you

do?”

She focused on him, smiling. “You know, Fox. I can

see it in your eyes. I killed those people for you.”

***

Route 404

11:31 PM

Scully gripped the wheel with one hand, holding the

cell phone away from her ear with the other in an

attempt to lessen the damage from Skinner’s booming

condemnation.

“Sir, I couldn’t wait. Mulder is in serious danger, I

know it.”

“Agent Scully, we have an A.P.B. out on Mulder’s

car. The police will pick them up. You’ve put Agent

Mulder *and* yourself in danger with this stunt, and

you’ve given her a hell of a head start.”

“Mulder knows she’s delusional, Sir, but he has no

idea she’s a killer. I have to get to him before he

finds out the hard way.”

She could hear him pacing. “You are NOT to enter that

house without backup. I’ll have the police go there

now and stake it out. Contact me when you get there.

I’m on my way.” He hung up.

She disconnected the call and slammed the phone onto

the seat with such force that it bounced off the

dashboard toward her face. She flinched reflexively.

When she looked back up at the road, there was a car

directly in front of her, pulling out of the rest

area to her right. She braked sharply and fought the

wheel for a moment to get the car under control.

It was Mulder’s car.

***

Mulder turned quickly in the seat as the headlights

bore down on them. Elizabeth Saxon glanced casually

over her shoulder and stepped on the gas, leaving the

skidding car in their wake.

***

Scully’s SIG was in her hand. She had no memory of

pulling it from her holster. In the brief flash of

her headlights, she had seen Mulder looking back from

the passenger seat. She knew he hadn’t seen her.

She could follow them all the way to the house and

risk setting up a barricaded suspect with a hostage.

Or she could stop the car somehow and risk getting

Mulder killed in the crossfire. As she was weighing

these equally unappealing options, the car ahead

switched abruptly to the left lane, opening the lane

ahead of Scully.

***

“Elizabeth, what are you doing!”

She had switched lanes with eyes riveted on the rear

view mirror.

“It’s your partner, Fox. I’d recognize that red hair

anywhere.”

He turned to look in the side mirror. Without the

glare of the headlights coming directly at them, he

could see the car. It was Scully’s, and he felt cold

fear for the first time since this nightmare had

begun.

***

Scully slowed to let Mulder’s car pull ahead and to

give herself time to think. If the woman had seen

her, she wasn’t giving any indication. Scully was

helpless to do more than watch them pull away,

knowing that her partner’s life depended on her not

provoking a confrontation while he was so vulnerable.

She picked up her cell phone to dial Skinner’s

number, her eyes riveted on the passenger side of the

car ahead.

***

Mulder turned to Elizabeth. “It’s over, Elizabeth.

Don’t let what I did to you ruin the rest of your

life.”

She glared at him. “Too late, Fox. The damage is

done.”

“No, it’s not. You can be helped. *I* want to help

you.” He glanced back at Scully’s car, and Elizabeth

saw the look in his eyes.

“You’re afraid for her, aren’t you? It’s written all

over your face.” When he turned back to her, she

twisted her lips in disgust. “Are you fucking her,

too?”

“NO!” He answered too quickly and she sneered at him.

“Maybe I’ve been going about this all wrong.” She

picked up the gun from her lap and thumbed off the

safety.

Mulder was thrown forward as she stepped hard on the

brakes, bringing Scully’s car abruptly alongside. His

partner’s startled face turned toward him and their

eyes met for an instant.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the SIG coming up,

pointing at Scully’s head from a distance of less

than ten feet.

He threw himself at the gun.

***

Scully barely had time to register the flash of brake

lights. Before she could react, Mulder’s car was next

to hers and she found herself looking directly into

his eyes. An instant later, he was moving to his

left. The sound of a gunshot and the accompanying

muzzle flash turned her blood to ice.

“MULDER!”

***

The gun discharged, blinding them both with the

flash. His momentum was transferred to Elizabeth and

she jerked the wheel to the left as she fell toward

the door. The rear end slid to the right and

continued around until the car was skidding

backward at close to fifty miles an hour.

Elizabeth pulled desperately at the wheel and

succeeded only in sending it into a 360 degree spin

that carried it over the median and across the

opposite lanes into the dark trees beyond.

***

Scully watched in horror as Mulder’s car spun out of

control across the road. When it reached the opposite

shoulder, it caromed off a utility pole and flipped

end over end into the dark, throwing sparks and

shards of glass and metal in its wake.

***

EPILOGUE

Anne Arundel General Hospital

Annapolis, MD

Wednesday, February 20th

9:21 AM

“Agent Scully?”

She was just coming out of Mulder’s room, on her way

to the nurses’ station to raise a little hell, when

A.D. Skinner’s voice turned her around. He was coming

toward her at his usual brisk pace, his face creased

with concern.

“How is he?” Skinner came to a stop at her side and

placed his hand on her shoulder.

“He hasn’t fully regained consciousness yet, Sir, but

he’s going to be fine. I was just on my way to speak

to his nurses.” She did not attempt to disguise her

irritation. “Why don’t you go in and see him? I’ll be

right back.”

She turned on her heel and continued on her mission.

When she reached her goal, she grabbed the first

nurse she could reach and explained, in no uncertain

terms, her opinion of the LPN who had just fled

Mulder’s room in terror after badly bungling an IV

insertion under Scully’s watchful eye.

“I want a new kit brought to me. I’ll handle it

myself.”

The nurse regarded her calmly and explained that the

LPN had already told her about the ‘problem’ in room

318. She would be sending another nurse down shortly.

Her tone was so kind that Scully immediately

regretted her outburst.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be difficult, but the

woman hurt him trying to insert a simple IV and I

don’t want her near him again.”

The nurse smiled a bit stiffly. “You’ve earned

something of a reputation in the past few hours, Dr.

Scully. I think she was just nervous. I’ll come down

and take care of the IV myself. Would that be okay?”

Scully smiled back. “That would be fine. Thank you.”

When she returned to Mulder’s room, she found Skinner

leaning over his bed. He looked up with the same

concerned expression he’d worn in the hall.

“He’s in a coma?”

“No sir, he’s unconscious. He’s been awake a few

times, not enough to know where he is yet, but his

vitals are all good. He has a concussion and some

cracked ribs, but he’s going to be fine.”

Skinner’s relief was evident in the way his entire

posture relaxed. “That’s good news.”

The nurse Scully had spoken with earlier came into

the room with a fresh IV kit.

“Sir, let’s go out to the lounge for a few minutes.”

She smiled at the nurse and received an understanding

nod in reply. Truce was declared. She really didn’t

want the nursing staff in an uproar. Mulder would be

having that effect on them himself soon enough.

They walked a few steps down the hall to a small

waiting room and sat on the couch.

“Agent Scully, you have some explaining to do.” With

his immediate concern for Mulder resolved, his anger

over her actions had apparently returned full force.

Scully nodded. “Yes, Sir. I know that. But I want you

to understand that I had no choice under the

circumstances. Mulder had no idea who this woman was,

or how dangerous she could be. If I had allowed them

to reach their destination, I’m certain she would

have killed him.”

“You allowed her to get a head start before you

called me.”

“That wasn’t my intention, Sir. It just worked out

that way.”

He snorted at that. “We’ll discuss this tomorrow

morning in my office.”

“Yes, Sir.”

There was a brief, awkward pause.

“So Kevin Hawkes wasn’t the killer after all.” The

concern was back in his voice.

She shook her head. “No, sir, he wasn’t. Mulder was

right about that from the beginning. Hawkes was just

another of her victims.”

He shifted uncomfortably and glanced toward Mulder’s

room. “I understand there were journals found in her

apartment which seem to indicate that she planned

these murders to… attract Agent Mulder.”

“One of the task force members stopped by a little

while ago and told me about them. I gather that

Elizabeth Saxon was quite specific about her plans.

She apparently believed she would come out of this as

the heroine who found the killer, and that it would

somehow bring Mulder to her.”

“She thought killing ten people would bring Mulder to

her?”

“She was a textbook sociopath, Sir. I… came across

her medical history when I was trying to find where

she had taken him. Sociopaths are totally devoid of

remorse or compassion, willing to do whatever it

takes to get what they want. Killing those people was

nothing more to her than a necessary evil.”

“Where the hell did Mulder come in contact with her?

And how could he not have recognized her when he saw

her again?”

“They were both at Oxford at the same time, though he

clearly didn’t remember that. I would guess that

she’s changed her appearance drastically over the

years.” Scully sighed wearily. The tension of the

past few hours was beginning to catch up with her.

“When he finds this out, you know what it’s going to

do to him.” Worry was etched deeply into his face.

“Yes, Sir. I do.”

“Dr. Scully?” The nurse they’d left in Mulder’s room

was standing in the door to the waiting room. “I’m

finished, if you’d like to go back to the patient’s

room.”

“Thank you.” Scully and Skinner stood.

“I’ll see you in my office at 8:00 AM tomorrow.” He

tried for another stern look, but his heart was

clearly not in it.

They parted at Mulder’s door and Scully resumed her

place at his bedside. He was very lucky, though she

doubted he’d agree for the next few days. In addition

to the concussion and cracked ribs, he had a head

laceration that had required twelve sutures. There

were also two burns on his chest which she suspected

had come from a high voltage stun gun. That would

explain how a 120 pound woman had been able to subdue

an armed FBI agent.

“Skinner is *really* pissed, Mulder.” She caressed

the stubble on his pale cheek and ran her thumb

gently over his swollen lips. “I think I’m in for a

taste of what he usually saves for you.”

She reached for his hand and brought it up to her

lips for a soft kiss. Then she turned her head and

rubbed his knuckles against her cheek. “Come on,

Mulder. Wake up.”

“I’m awake.” The sound of his voice brought her head

up so quickly that she accidentally bumped the newly

inserted needle in the back of his hand, making him

wince in pain.

“Oh, Mulder. I’m sorry.” She rubbed the spot gently

in the way she knew he loved. “How do you feel?”

He looked at her with such sadness in his eyes that

it made her throat ache. “Scully, it was her. She

killed all those people. She killed Micki. For me.”

His voice was tight with pain, not all of it

physical, she knew.

She cupped his cheek, then moved her hand up to

smooth the hair back from his forehead. “I know.”

He swallowed painfully. “What happened to her?”

“She’s dead. She was thrown from the car. Her body

was found crushed beneath it.” The woman would have

killed him without a second thought. Scully felt no

regret at her death, but the pain in her partner’s

eyes made her cringe at what she’d just said.

“I knew her… a long time ago. I…”

“At Oxford.” Her voice was very soft.

“For one night… I didn’t know how much pain she was

in, and I didn’t care. I treated her like…” He

couldn’t finish the thought but she read the rest in

his eyes.

“Mulder, you were what? Twenty-two? Nothing you could

have done would justify what she did to those people.

Or to you.”

He took a deep breath and immediately regretted it.

“Ribs hurt?” She laid her hand softly against his

side.

“A little.” He shifted uncomfortably and Scully

reached for the call button. A nurse appeared shortly

and injected pain medication into his IV port. His

eyes began to drift shut almost immediately.

“You sleep, Mulder. I’ll be right here.”

He mumbled something and reached blindly for her

hand. The fierceness of his grip surprised her.

“…needed a friend…” and he drifted back into the

dream he’d been having before he awoke… about a

sad eyed girl with curly hair, sitting alone in a pub

on a warm summer night.

***

End

TITLE: Bitter Harvest

AUTHOR: Michelle Kiefer

E-MAIL ADDRESS: MSK1024@AOL.COM

DISTRIBUTION: Archive if you like, just tell me where.

DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully belong to 1013,

Chris Carter, and to the X-Files.

SPOILER WARNING: none.

RATING: PG-13

CLASSIFICATION: Casefile, MSR

SUMMARY: Mulder and Scully investigate the heart related

deaths of seven young people in a small town. Will Mulder

get too close to the truth?

COMMENTS: Written for the IMadeThisProductions VS9 season.

Please visit my other stories at:

http://members.aol.com/msrsmut/MichelleKiefer.htm

Maintained by the wonderful Jennifer.

Author’s notes at the end.

August 20, 2000

Dental office of Dr. George Taft

5:30 PM

It is so important to give thanks at a time like

this. Truly, he thinks, it is integral to the process.

George Taft rests his hand on the young man’s head and

offers up his silent gratitude to whatever makes this

possible. He regards the sleeping man before him.

“Thank you, Phillip, for the blessed sacrifice you will

be making,” he whispers through blue-tinged lips.

So weary these last few days, it has taken every bit

of strength just to put one foot in front of the other.

He can hear the wheeze in his chest from the fluid that

fills his lungs. He must hold onto the chair’s armrest,

just to stay upright. Just a few more minutes, he

thinks. Just hold on.

Timing is everything: a little longer and he wouldn’t

have the energy to do what he must. Too soon and he

would deprive the donor of whatever joys he might

experience in his last few days of life. He hopes

Phillip, while unaware of his upcoming sacrifice,

lived his last days to the fullest.

The man sleeps, so peacefully, oblivious to the

significance of the moment. His wavy brown hair

spilling over the headrest, Phillip’s strong young

body is stretched out along the light blue naugahyde

of the examination chair. A lovely harvest.

Vivaldi fills the air, an important part of the ritual:

The Four Seasons. “Winter,” is the perfect accompaniment

for the preparations–the restful, yet expectant strains

enabling the subject to accept George’s quiet suggestions.

“Peaceful, Phillip, be at peace. Float away on a cloud

of sighs. Rest your spirit, Phillip, soft, sweet,

gentle, no resistance. Sleep now, sleep, glide along

on angel’s whispers.”

“Winter” ends and for a moment, there is only pure white

silence. No sound of movement from the outer office,

the staff gone. Taft waits, waits, waits for the

perfect moment for completion of the ritual. There,

ah yes, there it is, he thinks, as the first triumphant

notes of “Spring” sound in the air. The swell of the

music causes Taft’s weary heart to beat a little faster

in anticipation.

“Spring,” the rebirth of life after the stasis of winter.

And now, the rebirth of George Taft. Taft’s fingers tremble

a little as he unbuttons Phillip’s shirt. The man sleeps

on, innocent as the angels, as the shirt is drawn open.

He is still so young; his chest is nearly as hairless as

a boy’s.

Can’t think about the loss, Taft admonishes himself. Not

if the sacrifice is to have any meaning at all. Some must

die so others can live; this is the way things have been

for thousands and thousands of years. Phillip’s sacrifice

will not be in vain. No, George Taft wouldn’t let that

happen.

He can almost hear his mama’s voice. “You must rest and

get well, Georgie. You have gifts the world needs.” He

would lie, bundled up against the winter chill and watch

the other boys play in the street. “Take your medicine,

Georgie, and so you can get well enough go back to school.”

He knows now what he needs to do.

Taft unsnaps his white jacket, pausing a moment to catch

his breath. He has almost left this too long, past the

point of exhaustion. Taft’s breathing rattles, his chest

heaving. It is time.

Placing his left hand on the baby skin of Phillip’s chest,

Taft presses his right hand over his own aching heart. His

bulbous, blue-tipped nails stand out against Phillip’s pink

skin. His hands are on fire, almost burning the skin of his

own chest. The smell of singed hair fills the room.

Taft smiles, watching his fingertips become pale and then

pink. Yes, it is ordained. So it has been and will always

be, George Taft will live; he will live. His joy is only

slightly tinged with sadness as he looks on the sleeping

man. “Thank you, Phillip,” he whispers.

* * *

ACT I

January 15, 2002

Hoover Building – basement office

1:45 PM

She reminds him of a schoolgirl bent over her books. Her

hair is tucked behind her ears, her face a study in pure

concentration. She’s caught her lower lip between perfect,

white teeth, and he feels very adult emotions begin to

stir. Maybe she doesn’t remind him of a schoolgirl after

all.

“Hey Scully, I’m starved. Why don’t we grab some lunch?”

“Hmmm.” Still bent over her reading, she raises one hand

in both greeting and a request for his patience. “Not

right now, Mulder. I’m busy.”

“Come on, Scully. Breakfast was hours ago.” He mustn’t

let her see how pleased he is to find her totally absorbed

in the medical records he asked her to review. Still, he

can’t resist a little prodding. “Interesting stuff?”

“Fascinating. Seven young adults, undiagnosed with any

congenital heart defects or other health problems, all from

the same small town and all dying of congestive heart failure.”

“I sense a ‘but’ coming,” he says as he hitches a hip onto

the desk. “Go ahead. You know you want to.”

“Okay, since you mentioned it.” She crosses her arms

and smiles up at him. “‘But’, Mulder, where is the X-File?”

“You don’t think it’s odd that all seven people died

within the last twelve years?”

“It is certainly anomalous, especially considering the

small population of the town. But while this is

interesting on a medical level, I don’t see anything in

these records that would indicate a supernatural cause.”

She levels a shrewd look in his direction. “What

haven’t you told me?”

She’s on to him. He smiles to think that she knows him

so well. It’s somehow comforting to know that someone

has him figured out.

“Scully, it sounds like you don’t trust me.” His

defensive tone is offset by a smile he can’t keep out

of his eyes.

“I believe I’ve only heard the first shoe drop,” she

says, poking his thigh. “Come on, spill.”

“Okay. The second to the last victim,” he says, sorting

through the files until he finds the right one. He

opened the file and began to read. “‘James Forrester,

age 25. Died March 11, 1999.’ There was something that

didn’t make it into the official report.”

“Why am I not surprised?” Her tone is ironic, but he

senses interest.

“Before he died of heart failure, James spoke with his

sister, Rachel Walker. He told her that someone had

stolen his heart and left him with one that was

worn out.”

“The autopsy notes make no mention of scars on

Forrester that would indicate he’d ever had surgery. He

became very ill as his organs shut down and was probably

hallucinating. It isn’t uncommon, and the hallucinations

can be very intense. How did you find out about this

anyway?”

“Rachel Walker has been trying for years to get someone

to investigate what happened to her brother.”

“And she finally hit paydirt,” she says with a flourish

in his direction. “Mulder, I’m sure Ms. Walker is

grieving for her brother and would like this to be

somebody’s fault. It’s not unusual for a relative to

need to place blame when a loved one dies.”

“All right. What else could have caused so many young

people in that community to die of heart failure?”

“There are a number of things that can cause

damage in young hearts. Coxsackievirus can destroy

heart tissue as well as several other viruses. Chronic

bacterial infections can lead to coronary problems,

not to mention cocaine use. Non-surgical organ hijack

doesn’t even make the list.”

“The last victim, Phillip Hajus, had a full physical exam

three days before he became ill. No heart problems were

detected even though he had an EKG. Scully, something

more than a virus happened here, and I think we need to

investigate.”

“When do we leave?” she asks, stacking the files.

“What?” This is far too easy. “Just like that–when

do we leave?”

“Yes, when do we leave for…” She opens the file on

the top of her stack. “Elmwood, Ohio?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, we have a flight at 5:25

tonight. Hey, didn’t we miss a step here? Aren’t you

going to say something like…?”

“Like Mulder, this should be investigated by the local

health department? Or Mulder, there is a logical

explanation for these deaths?”

“Yeah, something like that. You’re throwing off my

balance here. Probably interfering with the planetary

alignment.”

“Don’t worry. You’ll get your sea legs soon enough.”

She rises, straightens her suit and sauntering through

the door, tosses him a smile. “Well, are you coming?

I thought you were hungry.”

* * *

January 16, 2002

Office of Dr. Mark Kirkland

9:20 AM

“This is definitely not the Redbook my mother read.”

Mulder flips the pages on the glossy magazine. “There

must be four articles on sex in this issue alone.

You should read this one, Scully–‘Seven Sex Secrets

That Will Curl Your Man’s Toes’.”

“I haven’t heard any complaints.” She settles a stern

look on him before finding herself smiling. Masking the

sound of tearing paper with a series of loud coughs,

Mulder rips the the pages out and stuffs them into his

breast pocket.

“Future reference,” he assures her.

Fidgeting in her chair, she checks her watch. Dr.

Kirkland had agreed to speak with them this morning,

fitting them in between the flu shots and checkups.

They’d been waiting for three quarters of an hour, and

her backside was growing numb.

From deep in the inner offices, a child’s sudden cry

shatters the quiet of the room. Several waiting patients

glance up at the door leading into the exam rooms. A

young boy, who had been pushing a small car across the

carpet, climbs onto his mother’s lap with a whimper.

The wailing becomes louder as the door opens, and a

red-faced toddler is carried screaming through the office.

“The doctor can meet with you now.” The receptionist has

a voice that could crack glass. Her sour expression

reminds Scully of a nun she’d had as a teacher in high

school. The woman shoots Mulder a withering look as they

pass the desk, probably having noticed his magazine maneuver.

Yes, Sister Mary Constipation in the flesh.

Dr. Kirkland comes to greet them in the hall, ushering

them into his office. He is younger than Scully thought

he would be, no older than mid-thirties. He shakes each

of their hands as they introduce themselves. He seems

to hold Scully’s hand a beat too long.

“Dr. Kirkland, two young men were patients of yours when

they died of congestive heart failure, James Forrester

and Phillip Hajus.” Mulder begins his questions before

Dr. Kirkland has even released her hand, his voice

projecting calm confidence. Somehow this pleases her.

“Yes, they were my patients. Tragic, both of them so

young.”

“And neither had any history of heart problems?”

“Neither. I’d seen Phillip Hajus just days before he

become ill. He was going off to Ohio State for his

freshman year and had a very thorough checkup. After he

died, I thought that perhaps I’d overlooked something, a

virus or infection. But all the bloodwork came back fine,

and his EKG was normal.”

“Dr. Kirkland, there were five similar deaths in this

area prior to James and Phillip.” Mulder draws a folded

sheet of paper out of his breast pocket and hands it to

Kirkland. “Are any of these names familiar to you?”

“I took this practice over in 1998. These people may

have been patients of my predecessor, Dr. McNamara.

We might have their records in the basement.”

* * *

January 16, 2001

Elmwood, Ohio

2:10 PM

“Mulder, nothing adds up here.” She pushes back from

the table in frustration. “No history of heart disease

in any of the families. All seven of these patients

were remarkably healthy according to their records.”

He probably should tell her that she has a smudge of dust

on her nose. He won’t, though, not right away. It isn’t

often that he gets to see a less than perfectly put

together Scully.

They’ve spent the morning in the dusty basement of

Kirkland’s office, having persuaded the doctor to allow

them access to the medical records for the deceased

patients.

“I’ve been working out a timeline,” he says. They

hunch together at the tiny folding table, heads bent

over Mulder’s legal pad. “David Kissel died March 10,

1990. Maryanne Polasky died July 21, 1992. Frank

Sherwood, October 24, 1994. Cathleen McCarthy died

November 13, 1996. William Desrosier, May 28, 1998.

James Forrester on March 11, 1999, and finally, Phillip

Hajus dead on August 20, 2000. The length of time between

each death decreases over the years. There are over two

years between Kissel and Polasky, and then progressively

less time between each death. Whoever or whatever is

doing this, needs to do it more often.”

“Mulder, these records don’t indicate that anyone is

‘doing’ anything. I’ll admit there is a puzzle here,

but I’d guess it has to do with some sort of undetected

virus or bacteria.”

“Whatever this is, the timing is right for it to happen again,

very soon.”

“The timing on these deaths could very well be completely

random. If you look hard enough, you’ll find patterns

anywhere.”

“Scully, something happened to James Forrester. He

felt his heart being removed and replaced by another.

I want to speak with his sister.”

She regards him for a moment, and he wonders what she’s

thinking. “Okay, but you have to feed me first; I’m starved.”

He checks his watch, shocked to see that it is already

after 2:00 pm. Lunch sounds pretty good. He leans

toward her, pulling his handkerchief out of his pocket.

“Deal. Hey, Scully. C’mere. You have a smudge on

your nose.”

* * *

January 16, 2002

Rachel Walker residence

3:45 PM

“I know what you’re thinking. I thought Jimmy was

delusional too, at first. I know sick people hallucinate,

and Jimmy was so very sick at the end.”

Rachel Walker’s steady brown eyes gaze at them across her

scrubbed pine table. The woman sitting before them

is spare and tall, as serious as a college textbook.

They sit in her tidy kitchen, the air scented with pine

cleaner and ripe bananas.

“But you came to believe what your brother told you.”

“Yes. Jimmy was in and out of consciousness for days,

but he always came back to this. With each day, he

became more positive. Someone had lulled him to sleep

and removed his heart. He was so sure, so unwavering.

He wanted me to write it down.”

“Did you?” Mulder’s voice has a little edge of

excitement. That edge always worries her.

Rachel Walker nods, solemnly, the gleam of tears in her

eyes. She rises and walks into the living room. From her

vantage point at the table, Scully watches her retrieve a

notebook from the desk. Rachel holds the notebook against

her chest for a moment, her head turned away from the

visitors, before returning to the kitchen.

Placing the notebook on the table with reverence, she

carefully flips through pages until she comes to the

right place. She emits a tiny gasp at what she sees there.

March 10, 1999 is scrawled across the top of the page.

“This was written the day before James died. He’d been

sleeping more and more, having a lot of trouble breathing,

but that day, his eyes were clear, and he seemed really

‘there.’ It took him a long time to tell his story. He

had to keep stopping because he was so out of breath.”

She wipes a tear away, overcome with the memory.

“This is what Jimmy told me: ‘I felt myself falling

asleep. A soft voice was telling me to let go, to drift

off. I could hear music playing, something familiar, but

I couldn’t place it. Even the music was telling me to let

go, and I felt myself shut off. A hand was on my bare

chest, but I don’t remember how my shirt came off. Soon

the hand felt really warm, then hot. I felt my heart being

pulled out of me. It didn’t hurt, but for a couple of

seconds, my chest felt empty, and then it felt like another

heart was dropped into me. For some reason, I knew this

wasn’t my own heart.'”

“Rachel, is that all James said?” Mulder’s voice is

low, persuasive. “Was there something you didn’t write

down?”

“Jimmy told me he knew who took his heart. I didn’t believe

him at the time. I still can’t believe it.”

“Who was it, Rachel? I think Jimmy would want you to tell

us.”

“He said…he said he opened his eyes at the end and saw

Dr. Taft. I didn’t believe him. Dr. Taft has been our

dentist for years. I thought Jimmy was confused because

he’d been to Dr. Taft right before he got sick. I thought

he’d gotten mixed up. But after a while, I just couldn’t

go to Dr. Taft anymore. He didn’t act odd or anything,

but he just started to give me the creeps.”

* * *

January 16, 2002

Elmwood Motel

11:15 PM

“Mulder, could you hand me the file on Maryanne Polasky?”

Scully reaches out to take the folder out of his hand.

The eleven o’clock news drones on in the background: small

town stories that seem dull to big city dwellers.

She’s stretched out on the bed, in pajamas that are

little more than tap pants and a camisole, the deep blue

fabric contrasting with her pale skin. She seems totally

unaware of her effect on him, and he wonders if that is a

careful illusion. He forces his eyes back to the open

folder before him on the motel room table. He’s going

to find it difficult to sleep tonight.

“I think we need to talk to this Dr. Taft tomorrow,” he says.

After speaking with Rachel Walker, they’d spent the rest

of the afternoon and most of the evening interviewing

Phillip Hajus’ parents and the Polasky and Desrosier

families.

“Mulder, we have no evidence that he’s caused any of

these deaths.” She rolls onto her stomach and writes

some notes in the file folder. The panties’ soft

cotton clings to the gentle swell of her bottom, and

his mouth gets a little dry.

“Hajus, Polasky, and Desrosier all saw Taft just days

before they became ill. I’m betting that the other

victims were his patients, too.”

“Mulder, this is a small town with one dentist.

According to Rachel Walker, Taft is an outstanding

practitioner, gentle and good with fearful patients.

I wouldn’t be surprised to find that all seven people

saw him. I’ll admit the timing is a little suspicious,

but I’m still thinking more in terms of accidental

transmittal of bacteria.”

“So, we call in the morning and make an appointment.

I could probably do with a cleaning,” he says,

watching as she pushes herself off the bed. Damn,

that camisole is snug. She moves to stand between

his legs, her hands bracketing his face as she leans

in to kiss him.

“I think your teeth are pretty clean,” she says,

pulling back. “It’s getting late. See you in the

morning.”

She gathers up some of the files and walks barefoot

through the connecting door and into her room.

Oh yeah, sleep will be elusive tonight.

* * *

January 17, 2002

Dental office of George Taft

11:25 AM

“Dr. Taft, your next appointment is here.” Betsy’s

somewhat shrill voice cuts through the intercom. Ah

yes, his next appointment. He’d felt a prickle of

worry when the federal agents had called earlier to

make an appointment.

Taft tries to catch his breath. Losing his composure

would be a terrible error in judgment. “Send

them to my office, Betsy.”

The two people who introduce themselves as Special

Agents Mulder and Scully seem younger and better looking

than Taft would have expected. The woman is truly lovely,

with dewy skin and bright blue eyes. She offers a small,

fine hand for him to shake. Glancing down, she seems far

too interested in his blue tinged fingers.

The man is tall and intense. Taft feels the nervous

vitality of the man, his handshake firm and almost

testing. There is an inquisitive quality to the man’s

eyes that worries Taft.

“Dr. Taft, we’re looking into the deaths of several

young people who were patients of yours. I believe all

the people on this list were part of your practice.”

Agent Mulder hands him a slip of paper with a list of

familiar names.

“Yes, some of these names go back a number of years,

but I think they were all mine.” No point in hedging

on something so easily traced. Calm yourself, he

admonishes, these people can’t prove anything. “Do

you think their deaths were somehow related to me?”

“We’re looking into a number of possibilities,” the

woman says. Her voice is cool, like clear water

running over stones in a mountain brook. “I’d like

to take a look at your autoclave, Dr. Taft, and look

at the records for these patients.”

“Certainly. I assure you that I’ve invested in the

best equipment. I know our small town might seem a bit

provincial to you, but we don’t stint on health issues

here.”

“Dr. Taft, the family members we’ve spoken with have

nothing but praise for you. I understand that these

young people were in for dental care days before they

became ill.”

The man unnerves him, as if he knows many secrets.

Taft tries to will his heart to stop pounding, and feels

himself grow a bit faint. Please God, don’t let me pass

out, he prays.

“I’m afraid I don’t remember details, but I believe all

of these people were healthy when they left my presence.”

“Thank you for your time, Doctor,” the man says,

slipping the list of names back into his pocket. “Oh,

one more question. Do you always work with an assistant?”

“I fail to see the relevance of that.” The man’s eyes

seem to narrow just a bit. “Yes, usually I do have an

assistant present.”

“‘Usually’?”

“Well, there have been occasions when my assistant

needed to leave before my last appointment, but that’s

quite rare.” He doesn’t like that question at all, and

is relieved when the two agents finally seem satisfied

and leave. Closing his office door after them, Taft

listens to their voices as they speak to his assistant.

He lowers himself onto his desk chair, his chest heaving

with exertion. He needs to act soon, he thinks, or it

will be too late. Donor selection is so important, though,

and he hasn’t found the right person. Taft fights

panic at the thought that he might not have the

strength to keep searching.

He’d thought he had a good candidate last week.

Unfortunately, he’d found the man took care of his

aging mother. Taft couldn’t bear to cause hardship to

the man’s family. It was so important to find someone

with no dependents. The magic might not work

if he is selfish and chooses a donor carelessly.

The visit by the federal agents worries him. He has

been in this small town too long. Taft feels a deep

sadness at the thought of leaving. He’s grown fond

of his patients and employees.

His life has been by necessity a lonely one. From a

childhood spent with his nose pressed against the window,

he’s grown used to the solitary life, having to forego

so many things: wife, children, friends. His

work has been the one true joy in his life. He must

find a donor soon and move on to another town.

* * *

January 17, 2002

Bob’s Elmwood Grill

2:10 PM

“Why the hell didn’t you get an order of French fries? We

both know you’re going to steal mine.” He already detects

the covetous gleam in her eye.

“They taste better from someone else’s plate. It’s a

proven scientific fact.” To make her point, she lifts

one golden spear and brings it to her mouth. He watches

as coral lips part, and perfect white teeth sink into

the fry.

“So, Ms. Scientific Fact, what did you make of old Dr.

Taft?” he asks, taking a large bite of his cheeseburger.

“His equipment was state of the art, just as he said,

Mulder. We’ll just have to see if the samples I took

yield anything.”

“Medical science isn’t going to explain this one.

There’s something else here. I’m sure of it. James

Forrester was adamant in his belief that Taft had taken

his heart.”

“I checked the records for James Forrester’s appointment.

He had nitrous oxide during his treatment. Hallucinations are

not unheard of from nitrous. What Rachel Walker wrote down

is nothing more than her dying brother’s confused and drugged

imaginings.”

“Did you notice the time of James’ appointment?” he asks,

forcing his voice to remain low.

“I believe it was 4:45,” she says in a tone that shows

she knows exactly where he is going with this conversation.

She stabs a piece of lettuce in her grilled chicken salad

with a bit more force than seems necessary.

“And Taft admitted that he’s been alone for his last

afternoon appointment on occasion. He’s hiding something,

Scully.”

“Well, I’ll admit, there was something strange about him.

He seems to be in poor health. His fingernails were blue

and rather clubbed, and he seemed to be struggling for

breath.”

“And that sounds like…”

“All right, that sounds like heart disease. And lung

cancer. And about a dozen other conditions that affect

pulmonary function. In other words, it proves nothing.”

Her eyes are riveted to his last French fry, and he raises

his hands in surrender. Smiling, she snatches it up.

“I’m going to take my samples up to the Cincinnati office.

Do you want to come?”

“No, I have a few things to check out around here.”

* * *

ACT II

January 17, 2002

Dental Office of George Taft

5:25 PM

This has always been his favorite time of the day. The

last rays of January sun slant through the blinds, and

the office is silent. George Taft straightens up the

examining room, moving slowly and breathing hard. Tears

burn in his eyes, blurring the instruments before him.

By rights, he should leave these small tasks to his

assistant. He enjoys the day’s final details, though, too

much to hand them off. He isn’t sure if he can bear to

leave a life he loves so much. He braces himself against

the counter, the feeling of loss weighing heavily on his

heart. His heart. One could almost laugh.

“Dr. Taft?” A man’s voice echoes from the outer office.

He feels the surge of fear as the voice calls out again,

this time a little closer. He recognizes the voice now,

that of the male federal agent.

“I’m back here,” he calls out, stifling a cough.

“Your office door was open. I was hoping to catch you

before you left for the evening, Doctor. I have a few

more questions.”

There are moments in life when the direction one needs

to take is illuminated with perfect clarity. It occurs

to George Taft that this is one such moment, the answers

to all the questions laid out before him like his

instruments shining in the waning sunlight.

“I’m not sure what more I can tell you,” Taft says,

cautiously. The tiniest of smiles comes to his blue lips.

Agent Mulder studies the dental care poster on the wall

with a bit more interest than it requires.

“Before his untimely death, James Forrester talked about

his last visit to you. He said he had a strange

experience.”

“That was so long ago. I don’t remember anything out of

the ordinary at all.” Taft is pleased to note the vitality

of the man before him. Such a strong and healthy man,

perfect for the harvest.

“Tell me Doctor, do you often play music during your

appointments?” Agent Mulder’s bright, inquisitive

eyes lock on Taft.

“Yes, actually, I find classical music relaxes the

patient as well as myself.” Taft switches on the audio

system, the strains of soft classical music filling the

air. Magical music, the rhythmic pulsing of wintry ice

and snow.

“You love your work, don’t you?” the agent asks.

Taft smiles, excitement beginning to fill him. “Oh yes,

I consider myself very fortunate. I find a great deal of

satisfaction in what I do. I don’t think there is anything

as important as that, do you?”

“No, I guess there isn’t anything more important. I

imagine you would do anything in your power to keep on

with your work.”

“I suppose I would. My biggest regret is that I never

had a son to carry on with my practice. Do you have

a family, Agent Mulder?” Taft watches as the merest

hint of emotion flickers over the man’s face. Taft can

sense a deep sadness in Agent Mulder. It brings him a kind

of quiet joy to know he can end that sorrow. Ah, yes,

he has found the perfect donor. End this man’s pain

and extend his own life. Fate has truly smiled today.

“Is that how you choose them, Doctor?” Agent Mulder asks.

“You look for victims that have no dependents?”

Poor man, Taft can already see the slight glazing of the

eyes that signals the music is working. “I’m sure I have

no idea what you are talking about.”

“Oh, I think you’re quite aware. Is the music part of

it, too? James Forrester remembered music.” The agent

is speaking slower now, a very good sign.

“Isn’t it wonderful music? So restful, so peaceful.

It’s Vivaldi, you know. ‘L’Inverno’: ‘the Winter.’

Doesn’t this passage capture the essence of the earth,

asleep under a blanket of soft snow? Agent Mulder, you

seem tired. Why don’t you sit down?”

“You take whatever you need, don’t you? Those young

lives were sacrificed so you can keep on living.”

He’s struggling, swaying on his feet, eyes beginning

to close. “You’re nothing more than a thief. Why is

your life more valuable than theirs?”

“You’re so tired. I know you don’t mean those harsh

words. You just need to relax, to let go. Angel’s

wings will carry you, Agent Mulder, soft, soft, up

into the clouds. So peaceful, so gentle, rest now,

dear one, and let all the pain drift away.”

Agent Mulder’s knees start to buckle, his hands

reaching out to steady himself on the chair’s armrest.

It is easy now for Taft to guide the agent into the

examining chair. A wonderful subject, on all accounts.

“No more pain, dear heart. No more sadness for you.

Feel the warmth of sweet baby’s whispers as they cradle

you and surround you. Gentle, soft, peaceful. So tired

now, sleep sweet man.”

James had been a poor choice after all, resistant to the

music, to the words. He’d struggled against them, never

really succumbing to the magic. It was too late,

unfortunately, to find another donor at that point. Taft

had completed the transfer with his subject hovering near

consciousness.

But this one is different. Agent Mulder doesn’t stir

when Taft spreads his overcoat lapels wide, followed

by his suit jacket. The agent slumbers on as Taft loosens

his tie and unbuttons his shirt. “Winter” draws to a

close, as it always does. Taft waits, his excitement

barely contained for “Spring” to rise up like glorious

dawn from the silence.

It is time. Taft unsnaps his white coat and prepares

his mind for the transfer. Thanks, of course, thanks

must be offered. He is grateful to fate and the FBI

for sending the perfect donor to his door. He gives

silent thanks to Agent Mulder for his most beautiful

gift.

Hands in place, Taft feels the familiar warmth seeping

into his skin. He welcomes the burning, the fire of

purification and renewal. He watches with quiet joy as

his fingernails become pink as a baby’s again.

Agent Mulder sleeps as a child does, his features peaceful

and unaware. Taft looks upon his face with tenderness and

brushes back a lock of the man’s hair. “Thank you, my

friend, more than words can say, for your selfless

donation.”

Taft feels strength returning and draws sweet air into

his lungs. He would love to savor this glorious moment,

but time is the enemy now. There are important tasks

to carry out. He leans close to Agent Mulder and

whispers into the man’s ear.

“Open your eyes, dear heart.” Taft smiles as the man

complies, hazel eyes only half open. “In a moment,

you will rise from this chair. Your only thought will

be that you need to sleep. You must rest, nothing else

matters. The need to stretch out on your bed will

supplant all other needs. You will go to your room for

a lovely sleep, and when you wake, it will be as

if we never spoke. You won’t remember coming here.”

* * *

January 17, 2002

Elmwood Motel

8:20 PM

“Mulder?” she calls out, pushing open her motel room

door. He hadn’t answered when she’d knocked at his door,

and now she feels the first prickles of worry.

She’d been detained in Cincinnati, waiting for hours

while a short-staffed lab tested her samples. Worry

wars with annoyance as she looks down at the lab

results before her. Nothing. There was nothing at

all out of the ordinary on any of the swabs or samples

she had taken from Taft’s office.

She’d tried Mulder several times on her cell phone,

wanting to let him know she was delayed. Now it is

long past dinnertime, and she hopes he hadn’t waited

for her. It’s just like him to get involved in the case and

forget to eat.

The doors connecting the two rooms are ajar, and

Scully wonders if the maid left them that way.

She pushes the door open and peeks inside. Mulder’s

room is dark, and there seems to be a slightly

darker shape on the bed.

“Mulder?” She flips the wall switch, bathing the room

in light. Mulder lays, sprawled over the bed, still

wearing his overcoat and shoes. She feels a twist

in the pit of her stomach at the sight.

“Mulder?” She shakes his shoulder, relieved when he

begins to stir. “What happened? Do you feel sick?”

“Go ‘way. Le’ me alone,” he mumbles into the bedspread.

She rests a hand on his forehead, then moves it to his

neck, trying to decide if he feels feverish. His skin

is warm, but bundled in his coat, his temperature would

be up.

She needs to check him out, alarms sounding in her head.

This can’t be okay. She’s learned to listen to those

alarms. She rolls him onto his back, noting the pallor

of his skin. He should be flushed from overheating.

“Scully, what the hell are you doing?” he sputters as

he looks around the room. “What happened?”

“You were dead to the world, still wearing your coat.

It looks like you walked in and collapsed. Let’s get

that coat off.” She helps him shrug out of the coat,

and suit jacket. He sits forward, holding his head in

his hands.

“What time is it?” he asks, voice muffled.

“It’s after eight, Mulder. Where were you all

afternoon? I tried to call, but your phone was off.”

“I…I don’t remember. You and I had lunch.

Everything after that is just blank.”

“Mulder, that was six hours ago.”

“God, I feel tired. I must be getting the flu,

Scully. I can’t remember anything but wanting to lie

down and sleep.”

“You don’t seem to have a fever,” she says, feeling

his face again, her touch almost a caress. “Do you

feel nauseous?”

“No, just exhausted. I’m going to go to bed.” He pushes

himself off the bed and loosens his tie. He wavers as he

unbuttons his shirt, reaching for the desk to steady

himself. “I’ll be all right in the morning.”

* * *

January 18, 2002

Elmwood Motel

7:15 AM

He wakes to the rustling of sheets and the feeling of

movement next to him. Turning his head, he sees Scully,

propped on one elbow, her face pink from sleep, hair a

tousled copper cloud. She is his favorite early morning

sight, one he usually doesn’t see on weekdays.

“How are you feeling this morning?” she asks, scooting up

in bed to sit against the headboard.

He remembers now, waking here last night, still wrapped

in his coat, disoriented, and missing hours of time.

Scully had been worried enough to spend the night in

his bed.

He doesn’t speak immediately, unsure of his answer. He

is more unnerved by the void in his memory than he wants

to admit. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed,

he feels a wave of dizziness. As if beyond his

control, his hand flies up to his swimming head.

“Mulder?” Her hand goes to his shoulder, and she climbs

around to sit beside him. “Are you lightheaded?”

“Yeah, a little. My chest feels kind of tight, too.”

That is something of an understatement. His chest feels

like it has a thirty-pound weight on it. “I guess I

really do have the flu.”

He hates getting sick when they’re on a case. Scully

needs a partner who is working at top capacity, not a

coughing, sneezing mess. She rises and slips through

the connecting door to her room. He hears her root

through her luggage, returning with a thermometer

and a concerned look.

“Open,” she says, pressing the button to turn on the

digital unit. She stands between his knees, fingers

firm at his wrist as she finds his pulse. He inhales

the warm, sleep scent of her skin, wishing he had the

energy to draw her onto his lap and kiss her. He settles

for resting his palm against her bare thigh. The thermometer

beeps, and she begins to move again, as if released from

some sort of stasis.

“Your pulse is fast, Mulder,” she says, removing the

thermometer from his mouth.

“I can’t help it, Scully. What with you doing the sexy

doctor thing and all.”

“Very funny. You don’t have a fever. I think you should

get back into bed and rest.”

“Can’t Scully. We’re really close here; I can feel it.

I have an idea about how Taft chose his victims, and I

want to check it out.” Something nags at his brain, just

beyond the edge of his memory. What was the Yogi Berra

quote? Déjà vu all over again?

“Tell me your theory, and let me check it out. I think you

should get back in bed.”

“Work now, fun later. I’m going to take a shower and see

if I can knock a few of these cobwebs out of my brain.”

“Good luck with that,” she says dryly. Her voice softens

as she runs her fingers through his hair. “I want you to

tell me if you feel worse, okay?”

“You’ll be the first to know.” He pushes himself up and

fights the vertigo as he pulls clean underwear out of

his bag.

The water is refreshing, and he does feel slightly

better, though a wave of dizziness leaves him clinging

to the handhold set into the shower wall. The warm,

moist air seems almost too thick to breathe, though. He

pushes open the door, glad to hear the sound of the

shower in Scully’s room. He needs to rest for a few

minutes before dressing, and he would rather not set

off her worry radar.

He congratulates himself for getting dressed before

Scully appears. If he were honest, though, he’d admit

he was seriously winded putting on his shoes,

and he’d almost blacked out bending over to tie them.

Scully returns, fully armored in her dark gray suit,

carrying her briefcase and laptop. Her hair is neat

and controlled now, but he misses the wild tangle

splayed out on his pillow. She eyes him with concern,

perhaps dubious about his ability to stay on his feet.

“You sure you’re up to this?”

“Let me at ’em,” he groans, rising from the bed.

Scully spends breakfast watching him push his eggs

around the plate. He’d ordered them to appease Scully,

but now he can’t bear to even think about swallowing

food. The now forty-pound weight on his chest doesn’t

seem to allow for anything else to enter his body.

“Mulder, did you eat dinner last night?” Scully asks

over the rim of her coffee cup.

“I’m just not hungry,” he snaps. “Listen, if you’re

finished with your coffee, I’d like to check some

stuff out at town hall.” He signals for the waitress

to bring the check and hopes Scully might just forget

about his lack of appetite.

He pushes open the diner door, suddenly struggling for

breath in the icy air. A coughing fit earns him a discerning

look from Scully, as they walk across the parking lot. He’s

beginning to wonder if this is the flu after all.

He feels progressively worse as they pore over records

at town hall. He can hear a wheeze in his chest and

wonders if it’s noticeable to Scully. She shoots him

worried glances over the dusty books. It seems Elmwood

has never moved into the computer age, and town records

are stored in a cavernous back room. Their

credentials granted them carte blanche from the clerk.

“Scully, none of the seven victims were married or had

children. I think Taft may be choosing them on that

basis. He doesn’t want to impact others lives any

more than necessary, but his own survival is imperative.”

“Mulder, let me remind you that we haven’t established

Dr. Taft as having done anything. Your theory is

completely circumstantial.”

“Granted. But all the victims saw him shortly before

their deaths, and all had late afternoon appointments.

We need to talk to him again. But first, I want to

find out a little more about him.” He rises from his

chair, gathering up the record books to return to

the clerk. The room spins around him, and he grips

the table to steady himself.

The forty-pound weight on his chest seems to be

increasing by the minute. Crushing pain overwhelms

him, and the books drop from his arm, landing on the

floor with an echoing thud.

“Mulder?” Scully is at his side in a moment, hand

at his elbow. “Mulder, what’s the matter?”

He can’t speak, can’t pull air into his lungs. A

horrible sound reverberates through the room, like

chains scraping on gravel. He’s shocked to realize

that the sound is coming from him, from his chest.

A great weight is pushing him down, buckling his knees

until his fingers begin to slip from the table. Scully

grips his arms, unwittingly causing him pain. He feels

her lowering him to the floor, and a wave of love pours

over him. Thank you, he thinks, for not letting me drop

like a stone.

He can’t see her. The room seems dark and shadowy,

but he can hear her voice, frightened and urgent.

“We need help! Somebody call 911!”

* * *

January 18, 2002

Brantley Memorial Hospital

Brantley, OH

12:30 PM

“Forty-one year old male–chest pain, loss of

consciousness. BP 90 over 50. I want an arterial

blood gas, CBC and Chem 7.” The ER resident and

nurses diddn’t notice her following them into the

exam bay. “And send cardiac enzymes, too. We don’t

know what we’re dealing with.”

The ambulance ride had been harrowing. Elmwood didn’t

have a hospital, so Mulder was transported to Brantley,

twenty miles away. He’d regained consciousness in the

ambulance, eyes panicky over the oxygen mask as he

struggled to breathe. His fingers had felt swollen and

chilled in her grip.

“You’ll have to wait outside, Miss.” One of the nurses

tries to guide her back through the doors.

“I’m a medical doctor and Agent Mulder’s partner. I’d

like to stay; I won’t get in the way.”

The resident glances at her, and after a moment, nods

to the nurse. “His partner?”

“We’re FBI agents.”

“How long has he been having difficulty breathing?”

“He started feeling ill last night, tired and lightheaded.

He’s only been out of breath this morning, as far as I

know.”

They both look to Mulder, who nods slightly, under the

oxygen mask.

Scully watches the ER staff deftly remove Mulder’s clothes

under cover of the hospital gown draped over him. His

shirt and slacks are bundled up. She feels Mulder’s shoes

through the plastic bag they hand her, still warm from

his feet.

She clutches the bag close to her chest as she watches

them attach EKG leads to Mulder’s chest. She can barely

see him behind the flurry of activity surrounding the

gurney. His eyes, wide with fear, seem to search for

her. She can only imagine his anxiety as he fights to

breathe. Dear God, how many times must he go through

this?

“Bev, call Dr. Cerino. I want a chest X-Ray and an EKG,

right away.” The resident bends close to Mulder. “I’m

Dr. Kahn. We’re going to try to get you a little more

comfortable, Agent Mulder, but first we need to do some

tests. We’re calling a cardiologist right now.”

An hour later, she stands before a light box with Dr.

Cerino, studying Mulder’s chest films. She’d expected

to see evidence of pneumonia, perhaps, but not this.

The older doctor levels a rather severe look at her.

“I can’t believe you let his condition go this long.

Enlarged cardiac silhouette, diffuse pulmonary edema.

His heart didn’t get in this condition overnight.”

“I assure you, Agent Mulder has not been experiencing

any symptoms that would point to this. He runs or

swims almost daily, not to mention playing basketball

two or three times a week when we’re home. He’s had

several injuries lately and received medical care

that would surely have uncovered a heart condition.

I can’t explain it, but…”

“Has he sustained any blows to the chest? An auto

accident? Could bleeding inside the mediastinum be

causing the enlargement?” Dr. Cerino’s voice has

lost the edge, and she’s grateful. It had been

hard enough establishing her right to consult about

Mulder’s condition.

“No. No trauma to the chest as far as I know. He had

a slight concussion last month, but he recovered

completely.”

“I’ve started him on Lasix, and hopefully that will

relieve some of the fluid congestion in his lungs.”

Cerino says as he pulls the chest films down from the

light box and slips them into the envelope. “I’m

scheduling him for a transthoracic echocardiogram.”

* * *

Brantley Memorial Hospital

Cardiac Care Unit

5:45 PM

January 18, 2002

He wakes to the all too familiar sound, the beep,

beep, beep of the heart monitor. It should be a

comforting sound, but instead, it reminds him that

the sound may only be temporary.

Drawing air into his lungs has become the all-consuming

focus of his life. In and out, in and out, easing the

air beneath the anvil pressing on his chest. His

breathing does seem a little easier now, probably from

some of the medications he’s receiving and the oxygen

flowing through the nasal cannula. The head of his bed

is raised to help him breathe, but that hasn’t kept him

from dozing off and on all afternoon.

He wonders where Scully is. She’d been in and out of

his room since he’d been admitted, consulting with his

cardiologist and checking his test results. He had

been able to gauge his condition by the worry he found

on her face each time she entered his room.

He’d been poked and prodded, stuck like a pincushion,

and he felt far too lousy to even complain. The last

test hadn’t been painful, at least. He remembered the

shock of cold jelly on his chest and the slight pressure

of the ultrasound sensor rolling over him.

He raises his head at the sound of footsteps, feeling

a burst of happiness at the sight of Scully. She favors

him with a tremulous smile, taking his hand in both of

hers. Her firm grip feels both comforting and

frightening in its intensity.

“Hey, how are you feeling?” Her voice cracks, just

a little. No one else would notice, but he can tell

that she is rattled.

“Like an elephant is sitting on my chest.”

“That’s from the fluid in your lungs, Mulder. You

have what’s called pulmonary edema. The doctor has

you on a diuretic that should help relieve the fluid

buildup in your lungs and other tissues. The EKG

also showed an arrhythmia–actually, an atrial flutter.

You’re getting a blood thinner as well as

medication to help your heart beat normally again,”

she says, indicating the bottle hanging from the IV pole.

“I guess I don’t have the flu after all.”

“No. I won’t lie, Mulder. Your condition is very serious.

You’re maintaining your blood pressure for now, but just

barely.” She looks down at their linked hands, tracing

the edge of his plastic hospital bracelet.

“So, what happened to me, Scully?” He notices that her

expression grows graver by the moment.

“Mulder, you have extensive damage to your heart muscle.

Dr. Cerino is concerned with the rapid onset of this.

When viruses or bacteria damage heart muscle, it’s

often fast, but not overnight. I’m not sure I can

explain what happened. The echocardiogram results are

really strange.”

She pauses, perhaps wondering how to explain the

unexplainable. Her eyes drift to the digital readouts

on the equipment surrounding his bed.

“Strange?” he prompts.

“I had your medical records shipped from Georgetown-

made them rush them as an emergency actually. They

came a few minutes ago.”

“Scully, what are you getting at? You’re making me

nervous, here.”

“Mulder, your echocardiogram today showed an anomaly

of the mitral valve. The valve was what is called

tricuspid, meaning it has three leaflets instead of

the normal two.”

“And is that what’s making me sick?” he asks.

“No. The anomaly doesn’t affect the function of the

heart at all. You could live your whole life and

never know you had it.”

“Scully, what aren’t you telling me?”

“Mulder, you’ve had an echocardiogram in the past.

Actually, you’ve had more than one. Your medical

file is quite extensive–I had to pay for the extra

weight when they shipped it.” She favors him with a

forced smile. “This anomaly doesn’t show at all in

either the echocardiogram you had in Alaska back in

1995, or from the one you had eighteen months ago in

Raleigh. Your heart clearly showed a bicuspid mitral

valve in both tests. A normal heart with two

leaflets.”

“This isn’t my heart, is it?” he asks, eyes riveted

to hers. He can see the beginning of a rationalization

building in her, the pull of old patterns drawing her

back into rigid disbelief. He feels the chill of

fear; they can’t afford for Scully to close off to

all the possibilities.

“Mulder, I can’t explain it, but no, it doesn’t

seem to be the same heart.”

“So whose heart is this and where is mine?”

She doesn’t say anything for long moments. Her fingers

slip from his as she makes her way to the window.

“I had a hunch. I really can’t tell you what possessed

me to do this, but I had to check something out.

Phillip Hajus was treated at this hospital, as were

almost all the victims.”

“You checked his records.” In spite of the gravity of

the situation, he can’t help smiling.

“An echocardiogram taken when he was fourteen showed

Phillip Hajus had a tricuspid mitral valve. The

echocardiogram he had when he was hospitalized before

his death, no longer showed that. I don’t think anyone

questioned it at the time. They probably assumed that

there was a mix-up with the earlier records.”

She remains at the window, her face a tightly controlled

mask. This isn’t easy for her. He wishes he wasn’t

tied up with wires and tubes and could put his arms

around her.

“Unfortunately, we still don’t know how this happened,”

she says crossing back to the bed.

“Scully, this ‘happened’ the same way it happened to

James Forrester, Phillip Hajus, and all the rest of

the victims.”

“How? How can a heart be removed and replaced with

absolutely no sign of surgery? There isn’t a mark on

your chest, Mulder.” Her voice rises with every word,

fear and panic turning up the volume. “According to

your theory, all the victims were in the presence of

George Taft before they got sick. But you weren’t

alone with Taft.”

“Wasn’t I?” he asks, his voice loud in his ears. He is

forced to stop when interrupted by a coughing fit.

When he continues, his voice is hoarse and low. “You

don’t know that at all. I can’t remember where I was

from lunch yesterday to when you woke me up last night.

Anything could have happened to me.”

He sees the growing horror in her face. Hours of

missing time, a huge chasm of memory. He knows she’s

painfully aware of the concept.

“We need to find out more about Dr. Taft, Scully.

I need you to call the Gunmen.”

* * *

Dental office of George Taft

January 18, 2002

5:15 PM

“Good night, Dr. Taft. Don’t work too late, now.”

“I won’t, Betsy. Enjoy your evening.”

He draws a deep breath, pleased with his ability to

do so without a coughing fit. What joy there is in

simple things. A walk at lunch, the winter sun on

his face, a full day caring for his patients that

didn’t end in crushing exhaustion.

If only he didn’t feel this ambivalence at leaving.

He knows he should be packing, making plans to

disappear. But to leave his practice and his

patients with no successor, would be like

abandoning his child.

Part of him drifts into complacency, sure that the

threat from the FBI is removed. The woman was so

concerned with his dental equipment, he’s sure she

doesn’t suspect him. The man will not be a problem

after a few more days.

The man’s words echo in his head, no matter how

hard he tries to block them out. “You’re nothing

more than a thief.” Is he? Does he not have a

right, even an obligation to survive? People

depend on him: Betsy who raises her child on the

salary he pays her, the rest of his staff who

rely on the steady dental practice.

And what of the patients, some of whom were too

afraid to seek dental care before they found him?

Mouths that had been long neglected out of fear,

now healthy because of his calming presence. Who

would care for them if he were dead?

Taft remembers the first transference. So very ill,

his heart muscle destroyed by the fever, he’d stood

over a patient and felt terrible anger. How could he

be dying while that callow youth was gifted with

health? Watching from his office window, Taft had

seen the boy drive recklessly into the parking lot,

nearly hitting a pedestrian as he arrived for his

appointment. Taft cursed an unfair universe that day.

As he stood, gasping for breath over that sleeping

boy, he’d felt the overpowering desire to trade his

fate for that careless child’s. He’d become dizzy

and actually braced himself against the body of his

patient, while clutching his own heart in pain. When

the chest pain ceased as quickly as a light being

extinguished, he had been truly stunned. It was only

as his health returned that he truly understood what

had happened. He’d been shocked days later when the

young man’s tearful mother had called to inform him of

her son’s death due to an unknown heart problem.

Vivaldi had been playing that day, as he recalls.

That wasn’t unusual, as the Four Seasons had been

his favorite piece, but he had to wonder if it was

part of the magic. It was best, he thought, not

to question his gift too closely, so he made sure

the music was part of the ritual.

He wonders sometimes if fate had not played a diabolical

trick on him that day. Perhaps it was a punishment for

his audacity at cursing life’s inequity. Giving him the

means to correct fate’s error was a temptation impossible

to resist. Surely, his survival was ordained, even

required. Wasn’t it? Did he not have gifts to share

with the world?

“Why is your life more valuable than theirs?” He can

still hear Agent Mulder’s wavering voice as the man

swayed on his feet. The simple fact is that no one

has ever asked that question before. James could only

stare at him in horror, unable to speak. Of course,

his life is more valuable. His survival *is* imperative,

is it not?

Why does this question haunt him?

* * *

Brantley Memorial Hospital

Cardiac Care Unit

January 18, 2002

8:15 PM

“Try some of this orange, Mulder? It’s pretty

juicy.” She’s trying so hard, keeping the

atmosphere light.

“I don’t think I could swallow it. Wish I could

have some water.” He’s so tired. Breathing

is so much work now, more difficult by the hour.

“I know you’re thirsty, Mulder. They have to

restrict your fluids. Try a piece of this

orange. It might help.”

Scully’s eyes never seem to leave him. He finds

himself fighting sleep, afraid that if he closes

his eyes, he’ll never see her again. He allows

her to break off a tiny piece of fruit and pop it

into his mouth.

“Thanks,” he says, shaking his head when she offers

another piece. The orange was refreshing, but it

didn’t distract him from his desire for a large

glass of cold water. It seems there are so many

things he wants and can no longer have.

They wasted so many years, days slipping through

their fingers like shiny coins. So many years of

standing too close to her, breathing in her scent,

hoping to brush against her arm. The times when

he got a chance to touch her were golden and far

too rare. He should be grateful that they’ve had

even these short months, but all he feels is

bitterness.

Anger stirs in his chest, anger that their time

together will be cut short. He hasn’t had enough

hours of holding her, enough minutes spent kissing

her, enough mornings waking next to her. His fury

leaves him gasping. Scully, her concern obvious,

comes to sit beside him on the bed.

“‘S okay. Come on, you need to relax.” She runs

shaky fingers though his hair, whispering softly

until he is able to draw oxygen into his lungs

again. Tears slide from his eyes, drifting down

to his jaw. Scully doesn’t tell him not to cry,

and he’s grateful for that. Instead, she silently

joins him in his sorrow, her tears mingling with his.

The ringing of her cell phone shakes them both out

of their quiet moment. Snatching a handful of tissues

from his bedside box, she flips open her phone.

“Scully.” Her voice trembles just a little. She listens,

quietly drying her eyes. “Hi Frohike…Yeah, he’s

holding his own.”

Pulling a pen and pad out of her jacket pocket, she

sits, hunched over, listening to Frohike on the other

end of the phone. She moves off the bed, after a few

minutes, her body stiff and tense.

“Okay. Okay, thanks…I will.”

“Frohike hoping to have a chance with you soon?”

He knows immediately that his effort at humor is a

horrible mistake. She stares at him, shock playing

over her tearstained face. When she speaks, her

voice is a fierce whisper. “Don’t say things

like that.”

“I’m sorry.” He closes his eyes, wishing he could

call back his words. “What did Frohike say?”

“They looked into Taft’s background as we asked.

George Taft was born in Elmwood, March 5, 1947. His

childhood wasn’t terribly remarkable, though

he was a sickly child. Doctor’s records indicate

rheumatic fever and note that his mother went

overboard coddling him. Pretty understandable,

I guess. Rheumatic fever can cause heart

damage.” She keeps her eyes on her notes.

“The mother may have given him an outsized view of

his own worth, the all encompassing importance of

his own survival,” Mulder says. Speaking is becoming

harder and harder. The airflow through the cannula

seems to be decreasing.

“He left Elmwood when he went to university. Again,

nothing unusual in his college years. Graduated from

OSU College of Dentistry in 1971. The guys found a

record of Taft being hospitalized in 1979, though the

diagnosis was never clear. He suffered from an

extremely high fever of unknown origin but appeared

to recover. He moved shortly after that and lived

for a number of years in the Columbus, Ohio, area.

Frohike said they haven’t been able to confirm it yet,

but there seems to be a spike during the 1980s, of

heart related deaths among young people in that area.”

“I think he may be getting ready to move on, Scully.

You need to check him out.” Perhaps the tubing on the

cannula is kinked somewhere. He struggles to draw air,

panic bubbling up in him, threatening to spill

out of his pores.

Dropping her pad, Scully eyes him with concern as she

searches urgently for the nurse call button.

* * *

Brantley Memorial Hospital

Cardiac Care Unit

January 19, 2002

9:45 AM

“Good morning, Mr. Mulder. I see you had a rough night.”

She startles at the sound of Dr. Cerino’s voice, and

snapping awake, forces down her embarrassment at being

found dozing. The older man is studying Mulder’s chart.

“You could say that.” Mulder’s voice is little more

than a husky whisper, muffled by the full oxygen mask

he had been switched to during the night when his

breathing became worse.

The night had been more than rough. Mulder had thrown

PVCs and gone into ventricular tachycardia, necessitating

a change in medication. He narrowly missed defibrillation,

his heart finally returning to normal rhythm. Scully was

sure the crash cart by Mulder’s bed would have been put

to use before morning. Any idea of questioning George

Taft had flown from her mind as she watched Mulder

struggle for breath.

“Good morning, Dr. Scully. I’m glad you’re here.

We need to discuss our options.” Laying the chart

on the bed, Cerino examines Mulder, listening to his

heart and testing for edema.

Mulder looks so much worse this morning, and it

shocks her a little. His skin is gray; his face,

puffy. His jugular veins are distended, and the

pronounced wheeze in his breathing is gradually

progressing to a rattle.

Pushing her hair behind her ears, she rises from the

chair and moves next to the bed. She feels sticky

and rumpled and far too exhausted. Somehow, though,

the fear that sits like a jagged block of ice in her

chest makes any other considerations seem trivial.

“I’m getting worse.”

Mulder’s tone is matter-of-fact, calm almost, and

she finds that utterly terrifying. She raises her

eyes to meet Dr. Cerino’s, wondering what he will say.

She’s pretty sure there aren’t any real options to

be discussed and that Mulder is all too aware of

that fact. Reaching over the bed rail, she slips

her hand into his.

“Yes, you are. I’m concerned at how quickly your

condition has deteriorated. I suspect you both are

realists, so I’ll speak frankly.” Cerino clears his

throat. “Your heart has sustained tremendous damage,

far more quickly than I’ve ever seen from a viral or

bacterial infection. Now, we’re doing all we can

with medication to maintain your blood pressure, to

clear your lungs and keep your heartbeat regular, but

this is becoming more and more difficult.”

Cerino pauses, perhaps to allow them to process all

the information. He replaces Mulder’s chart in its

slot and moves to the side of the bed.

“I think your only chance is a transplant, Mr. Mulder.

I’ve contacted the transplant coordinator at

University of Cincinnati Medical Center and asked

for you to be slotted high on the list. We’re going

to do everything we can to buy you time.”

Blinking back tears, she squeezes Mulder’s hand. His

eyes are closed and his head turned away.

“I’ll leave you to try to absorb all this.” With a

surprisingly gentle touch, Dr. Cerino pats their

clasped hands before withdrawing.

“I’m not going to make it, Scully.” His words are

barely audible, his eyes still shut.

“Mulder, you can’t think that way.” Her own voice

is low. She gently turns his face back to her.

“Mulder look at me.”

He opens his eyes, and she can hardly breathe at the

look of sadness and love.

“Mulder, you have to keep fighting. We can’t give

up hope. I…Mulder, I don’t want to lose you.” She

swipes at the tears that slide down her cheeks.

“We need to talk now. They may need to intubate

you soon.”

“Goody,” he quips. His small joke has the desired

effect and she smiles, which seems to please him.

“I know that years ago, we decided to forego extreme

measures, Mulder, I mean if it ever looked hopeless.”

“Looks pretty…hopeless, Scully.” Each word is

a gasp.

“No!” Her voice is much louder than she intends. She

takes a deep breath and continues, “This isn’t right.

This isn’t a natural illness, or an injury in the line

of duty. It’s unnatural and I won’t give up on you.

Something was stolen from you by means we don’t

understand. I refuse to give up until I know how

this happened and why it can’t be put right again.”

“Admit my heart…stolen? Scaring me…. Like

my dream…come true.”

She can barely hear him from behind the oxygen mask.

His words come out in little puffs, and she sees how

much this speech has cost him.

“I’m not completely convinced at all. You have to hang

around and continue to badger me with far-fetched

theories, or I’m sure to revert back to an unbeliever.

Promise me you won’t ever stop pushing me.”

“Even if…have to haunt you,” he whispers. His eyes

drift shut, exhaustion and oxygen deprivation pulling

him down into sleep.

Her need for coffee becomes stronger with each minute.

She walks down the hall, searching her pockets for

change to use in the coffee machine.

“Dr. Scully. I was wondering if we might have a word.”

Cerino falls into step next to her, his hands in his

slacks pockets, white coat pushed behind him.

“Sure, I was just getting some coffee.”

“Why don’t we go into the staff lounge? The

coffee’s better there, anyway.”

He leads her into the lounge and waits until she

pours a cup of coffee. The room is empty, still

retaining the impression of laughter and bustle.

It reminds her of other rooms in other hospitals.

They sit at a table, and she nods at him,

encouraging him to speak.

“I think it’s time to call Mr. Mulder’s family.”

“He…um. He doesn’t have any family. I’m sort

of ‘it’.” She can’t believe how incredibly sad

that sounds.

“Maybe you’re enough.” Cerino’s voice is soft,

too kind to bear, really.

She feels the sting of tears and swallows them back.

If she starts crying now, she may never stop. She

raises a trembling hand to shield her face, feeling

much too exposed in her grief.

“I have to finish my rounds, Dr. Scully. I’ll stop

back a bit later.” Placing a gentle hand on her

shoulder, he rises.

“Thanks.” She smiles up at him, her vision blurred

by tears. He leaves, closing the door quietly behind

him. Pulling out her cell phone, she dials a familiar

number.

“Kim? Hi, it’s Agent Scully. Can you put me through

to the assistant director? Yes. It’s an emergency.”

* * *

ACT III

Brantley Memorial Hospital

Cardiac Care Unit

January 19, 2002

11:45 AM

He dreams about being underwater. The ocean is

turquoise and clear, and he can see the sunlight

as it glints and flashes on the surface. He sees

the light, but no matter how hard he swims, he

can’t reach the surface.

His chest hurts, starved for air, and the blood

pounds in his ears. The sun is almost blinding now;

he’s so close, but he still can’t break the surface.

“Mr. Mulder?” A voice, ungarbled by the ocean. “Mr.

Mulder, it’s Carol Morgan. I’m going to take your

vitals now.”

“Mmm.” He isn’t underwater anymore, but sadly, his

chest still hurts, and his head still pounds.

“Scully?”

“Right here, Mulder.” Someone brushes the hair

back from his forehead. Probably Scully, unless

Nurse Carol is getting fresh. His eyes finally

obey his request to open. It is Scully after all.

Carol goes about her business, taking his temperature,

checking his output, noting the level of medication

left in his IV. She examines his hand, checking the

IV needle under the bandaid. He likes her the best

of all the nurses because she’s got the gentlest

hands and the nicest disposition.

“All set, Mr. Mulder. I’ll be back in a little

while with some ice chips for you.” She pats his

shoulder, and smiles at Scully before she briskly

walks from the room.

“Not much time.” The words come out in a grunt, propelled

by the tiny bit of air he exhales. “Can’t say all

I want to.”

“I know.” Her voice is thick with emotion. She lifts

his hand to her lips, tenderly kissing the knuckles.

“I know.”

It comforts him to know that words aren’t needed now

that he hasn’t got breath left to say them. He won’t

tell her not to mourn. How could he ask her to do

something he would find impossible? He doesn’t need to

ask her not to forget him. Some things are just

understood.

“So tired.” The words come in a ragged whisper. Tell

me I can let go. Tell me I can stop clinging to this

useless body. He’s powerless to loosen his grip until

she gives the word. But Scully says nothing, her lips

pressed resolutely against his hand, now wet with her

tears.

His eyes meet hers and there is no release there,

nothing but a wordless plea to hold on, a desperate look

that says she won’t give up. Her strength has always

amazed him, and he hopes fervently that he can do what

she asks of him. But he feels the undertow, dragging him

deeper into the dark water. She presses one last kiss to

his palm before lowering his hand to cradle against her

breast.

“Mulder, we talked last night about Taft. I have to

leave for a little while. I need to talk to him and…”

“What? Tell him…give it back?” He gasps out the

question. “Need to…be careful.”

His chest feels as if someone were pressing on it

with an iron hand. He hears a rushing in his ears

and wonders if he’s fallen underwater again.

“Mulder?”

He can’t answer. He wants to, but the water is cold,

and he is sinking fast. He tries to hold on, but his

fingers grow numb. Somewhere above the surface, he

hears shouting and the shriek of an alarm.

“He’s in V-fib!”

* * *

“Mulder?” Her voice sounds shrill in her head. “Mulder!”

He isn’t breathing at all, and the sensors are rivaling

her voice for shrillness. She presses the call button,

but knows that the staff will be there in seconds from

the ringing alarm.

The monitor shows ventricular fibrillation, but disbelief

makes her check for a pulse–his wrist, his arm, and

finally his neck. Nothing. She tears off his gown and

thumps her fist on his sternum, but the tracing doesn’t

change. People are flooding into the room, shouting at

each other in shorthand.

“V-fib, start compressions!” she screams, and then she

pulls off Mulder’s oxygen mask, fitting her lips over

his to push air into his unyielding lungs. A hand on her

shoulder notifies her that help is here, and someone fits

a face mask tight against Mulder’s mouth with a bag to

squeeze in the breaths. She sees the laryngoscope and

the endotracheal tube, and she steps out of the way.

“200 joules!” Dr. Cerino calls from the end of the bed,

and she hears the whir as the defibrillator charges.

“Clear!” Scully steps back at the sound of the voice,

and she watches as Mulder’s body arches with the

electrical charge.

“Still in fib!”

“Charge to 300. Clear!” Again, the paddles push

against skin, and again, Mulder’s body jerks and

settles back in a sort of macabre dance.

“V-tach! I’ll take it!” Cerino announces with

grim jubilation. “Check for breath sounds.”

Someone with a stethoscope listens and watches as

Mulder’s chest rises with the push of air from

the Ambu bag.

“You’re in,” she announces.

“Lidocaine, one amp,” Cerino orders calmly.

“We need more access,” someone complains, and a

voice across the bed answers.

“He’s got a nice antecube; someone give me an angio.”

“Lido’s in.”

Scully barely perceives individuals in the mob, and

she notes their efforts with strange detachment.

Patients who’ve had near death experiences report watching

themselves be worked on, having died and been resuscitated.

She doesn’t remember that from her own experience. Now,

she watches, almost from outside her body as Cerino

charges the paddles one more time.

She wonders if she and Mulder have achieved some kind

of symbiotic connection. It is as if her own body lies

on that bed, and people are furiously working to bring

her back to life.

Her eyes slide shut, no longer able to watch Mulder’s

still body. She doesn’t need to see. Her mind provides

all the information she needs. Without a miracle, she’ll

never hear Mulder’s voice again, never listen to him

laugh, never kiss his lips again. She listens to the

voices around her and the piercing alarms from the

various monitors. These are the sounds she will

remember.

Hot anger settles in her belly, a sharp knot of

burning fury that threatens to slice her through.

She swallows bitter tears. Giving them vent

would bring relief, but she wants to hold onto that

anger. There is something she must do now.

“Dr. Scully?” Cerino has a gentle hand on her arm,

but she can barely feel it. “We’ve got a rhythm going,

for now. I’m going to have a Swan placed and start

him on some cordarone. We’ll place some pads on his

chest, in case we need to shock him again, and we’ll

get a gas to check for acidosis. I don’t need to tell

you how unstable he is. Without a transplant–”

“Thank you, Doctor. I have to leave for a while.”

“Dr. Scully, wait.” Cerino grabs her arm, firmly

this time. “I was on my way to talk to you before

all hell broke loose down here. I got a call from the

transplant coordinator at University of Cincinnati.

Mr. Mulder has been accepted into the transplant

program. I was just going to arrange for transport.”

“No. We can’t move him yet. I need to do something

first.” She’s sure Cerino thinks she’s gone mad. She

hopes he isn’t right.

“What are you talking about? We can’t delay here–they

won’t hold his bed indefinitely. He’s unstable as it

is. If we wait, he could decline to the point where he’s

no longer a viable candidate.”

“At the rate his condition is deteriorating, he’ll die on

the table, if he even survives the trip. A few hours

aren’t going to make much difference, Doctor.” She shakes

off his hand. “I really need to go.”

“Dr. Scully,” Cerino begins, before she cuts him off.

“I promise, I’ll be back in a couple of hours. I

may have an alternate solution.” She can’t explain

further. In her heart, she knows that science is

failing Mulder, that medicine can’t save him. She isn’t

sure if she is even capable of it, but somehow she has

to think like Mulder, to do what he would do if their

positions were reversed. “I called our superior earlier.

He may arrive before I get back.”

Cerino’s shocked expression barely registers as

she rushes from the room.

* * *

Dental Office of George Taft

January 19, 2002

12:30 PM

“Nothing to eat for at least an hour, Martha.

Wouldn’t want you to bite your tongue while

your mouth is still numb.”

The grateful look in Martha Bergen’s eyes is balm

to Taft’s heart. She’d neglected her mouth for

years, terrified of the dental drill. Without his

deft handling of her fear, she’d still be in

unnecessary pain. Who else could have helped her?

“Thank you, Dr. Taft. Thank you more than words can say.”

Martha climbs from the examining chair and straightens

her dress.

“Take care now, Martha. Have Betsy make an appointment

for a cleaning.”

“I will, thanks again.”

He hears voices echoing from the reception area, and

instinctively he knows something is wrong. This is not

the sound of mild Martha and screechy Betsy. A woman’s

voice to be sure, but edged with steely authority.

“I’m a federal agent. I need to see Dr. Taft

immediately.”

“Doctor is booked through the afternoon with patients.

Perhaps if you could come back later this afternoon.”

Betsy’s shrill voice drifts off. “Hey, you can’t

go back there.”

Panic bubbles in his throat, and he bolts through the

door and down the hall. He passes Mrs. Philbrick,

waiting for him in exam room three, barely aware of

the lady’s stunned look. He catches a glimpse of

movement behind him, the blur of black clothes, a

flash of bright hair.

The heart in his chest beats steadily as he fumbles

with the lock on the back door. He bursts through

the door and down the musty utility stairs. He hasn’t

been out through the emergency exit in years, not

since Betsy accidentally burnt a pop tart in the

toaster oven.

“Dr. Taft! Stop right there!”

The thud of heels behind him on the metal-edged

stairs propels him forward. Who would have thought

such a small woman could make so much noise? Her

shoes sound like gunfire as they hit the stairs.

He pushes the steel emergency exit door open with

enough force to send it clanging into the brick wall.

The air is cold, the pavement slippery with remnants

of snow and ice. His dress shoes have no traction,

and he slips and slides through the alley. His pursuer

seems to have no such problem.

“Dr. Taft, stop now.” Her hand closes over his upper

arm with an iron grip. She has a gun in her other hand,

and a look of desperation in her eyes. In spite of the

cold air and his inadequate clothing, he feels the

trickle of sweat down his back. This woman is

terrifying in her intensity.

“What did you do to him?” Her voice is cold, like

cracking ice. She isn’t even winded from the chase,

while he’s puffing with exertion.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t

done anything.”

“You stole his heart. That’s why you’re healthy now.

You look considerably better today than you did

two days ago, Doctor.”

“What nonsense. I can’t believe a professional

person such as yourself could believe such a wild

story.” She can’t prove anything; she can’t prove

anything. Repeat it enough, and he might just

convince himself.

“You’d be surprised at what I believe, Doctor. I

believe you hypnotized my partner. I believe you

traded hearts with him and left him to die. I don’t

know how you did it, but I know what you did.”

“You can’t prove anything. Who would believe you?”

The woman raises her weapon, her icy cold gaze

burning into him. “What gives you the right to

take his life away from him?”

“I only do what I need to survive, no more and

no less.”

“Your survival is all that matters? Your life?

What about those you steal from?” Her eyes burn

into him, and he has to lock his knees to keep from

falling. “You’re coming with me.”

He backs away, but her hand tightens on his arm.

The cold hard steel of the gun presses into his

side. His voice wavers when he tries to speak.

“If you shoot me, his heart will die with me.”

“Then I’ll just have to render you a suitable organ

donor, Doctor.”

“You’re bluffing.” Would a federal agent shoot an

unarmed man? He isn’t sure when he looks into

her eyes.

“Maybe I am. I wouldn’t take that chance if I were

you. I have very little to lose, Doctor.” Her

bitter smile frightens him, little more than a baring

of her teeth. “We’re going to the hospital.”

“No!” His knees threaten to buckle, and he fears

he might soil himself.

“You’re terrified. You’ve never had to face the

result of what you do, have you?” The anger in

her voice scorches him with its force. “Never had

to see your victims struggle to breathe. Damn you,

Dr. Taft. It’s time for you to look at what

you’ve left behind.”

* * *

Brantley Memorial Hospital

January 19, 2002

2:00 PM

The irony of the situation might be humorous if it

wasn’t so damned tragic. Dr. Taft seems to be on

the verge of a full-fledged panic attack at the

prospect of entering the hospital. She wonders

if he might go into coronary arrest with Mulder’s

strong, healthy heart in him.

She feels her own panic attack building. What will

she find when they get to Mulder’s room? Has she

condemned Mulder to death? She prays that she hasn’t

made the wrong choice.

She leads Taft through the lobby, a firm grip on his

arm. She may be the only thing holding him up at

this point. She has re-holstered her weapon, secure

that Taft is too frightened to bolt. Just to be safe,

though, she reminded him of its presence when they

entered the building.

For the hundredth time, she wonders if she has made

the biggest mistake of her life. She isn’t equipped to

make the leaps Mulder achieves with ease. She is as

earthbound as the roots of a tree.

Taft was right. She would be hard pressed to

prove what she believes. Without proof, can

there be justice? In spite of the echocardiograms,

her evidence is shaky at best. He was probably right

about her bluff, too.

The nurse at the cardiac unit station eyes her with

sympathy as they round the corner. The nurse smiles

at them, probably thinking Taft is one of

Mulder’s relatives, come to say goodbye.

They pause at the door to Mulder’s room, listening

to the hiss and whoosh of the ventilator and the

steady beep of the heart monitor. She feels a tiny

wave of relief at that relentless sound. But Mulder

is so very still on the bed, his mouth open around

the endotrachial tube in a silent scream.

“Let’s get closer, Dr. Taft,” she says quietly,

pushing him forward. “He’s dying. I don’t know if

he’ll last through the night. Look at him.

What right did you have to forfeit his life for

yours?”

She pushes Taft close to the bed and reaches out to

touch Mulder’s hand. Her own fingers shake, and she

feels the warmth of tears on her face, cooling as

they slide down. Together, she and Taft watch the

mechanical rise and fall of Mulder’s chest, air

forced in; air pushed out.

Scully watches the monitors, noting the steady decline

in Mulder’s condition since this morning. The dentist’s

body trembles under the steady pressure of her hand,

and his face is a mask of horror.

“Please, Agent Scully. I think I’m going to

pass out.”

“Can you make this right again, Doctor?” She forces

the words past the lump in her throat.

“I…I don’t know.”

“Do the right thing, Dr. Taft.” She speaks softly,

not trying to hide her tears. “You know in your

heart what you need to do. Make this man whole again.

Please.” The last word is no more than a whisper.

“I’ll try,” he says, nodding. “I don’t know if I

can reverse it. I…I need to be alone with him,

to be able to concentrate.”

* * *

He has to force himself to look at the man. Agent

Mulder’s face is almost unrecognizable to him now.

The handsome features are bloated, the tanned skin,

gray under the harsh hospital light.

But it isn’t this terrible sight that makes him want

to fix this. No, it isn’t this face, but the face

of the woman, desperate with grief. That is

the face that he fears would haunt him to his grave.

He’d worked so hard through the years, to cause no

unnecessary sorrow. Knowing that the donor would

be at peace, far from the tragedies of the world,

was his comfort. But those left behind know no peace.

He knows what he must do now. Carefully drawing

Mulder’s hospital gown down, he tries to avoid

dislodging any of the wires attached to the man’s

skin. The forced rise and fall of that chest is a

distraction, and he hopes it won’t prevent him

from concentrating properly.

He slowly unbuttons his own shirt, trembling fingers

making that difficult. The woman’s words whisper in

his ear: “Do the right thing.” If only he could.

Taft wonders if the magic can even work without the

music. The melody of the ventilator and heart monitor

will have to suffice. He presses a hand on Agent

Mulder’s chest, unnerved by the artificial movement.

His other hand rests on his own chest, over the

steadily beating heart within. Please let the

wrong be made right.

The familiar old heat penetrates his skin, the

scent of singed hair again fills the air. He

feels the sting of tears, the choke of a sob rise in

his chest. His hands begin to shake as blindly,

he reaches for the handrail on the bed.

Agent Mulder stirs slightly, but seems mostly unchanged.

He hopes that the reversal is not too late. More than

anything else, he wants to see Agent Scully again, to

see the look of sorrow change to one of hope.

Unfortunately, the room is growing darker. His fingers

feel numb, and the bedrail slips out of his grasp.

* * *

Brantley Memorial Hospital

Cardiac Care Unit

2:45 PM

Without the wall at her back, she would probably

fall into a heap on the floor. She stands, eyes

closed, praying so hard that words have ceased

to contain the thoughts. She doesn’t doubt that

God understands anyway.

From behind the door, the sound of something soft

and heavy hitting the floor jolts her out of her

prayers. She stands, frozen in place, for long

seconds, before carefully pushing the door open.

Taft is sprawled on the floor by the bed, clutching

his chest and moaning. It is the man in the bed,

who brings a soft cry to her lips. Mulder is

moving slightly, hands clutching the blankets. She

scans the monitors in disbelief.

Confident that Mulder is in no danger, she checks

Taft, laying a gentle hand on his neck, checking for

a pulse. It’s weak and thready, and he’s beginning

to gasp, undoubtedly in pain.

“We need help in here!” she cries out, pressing the

call button on the bed. Footsteps are already echoing

down the hall. She returns to Taft’s side, taking

his icy cold hand in hers. His panic-stricken eyes

bore into hers. “Help is on the way, Doctor.”

Nurses and the cardiac resident arrive and seem for

a moment unsure of which man to attend to. Scully

indicates Taft with a nod of her head. She’s

pretty sure Mulder doesn’t need anything she can’t

handle.

Aware of the frenzied activity behind her, as the

cardiac team works on Taft, she lowers the bedrail.

Hitching herself onto the bed, she takes Mulder’s

head between her hands.

His eyes flutter, gradually focusing on her face.

Her heart threatens to burst inside her at the

dawning recognition in his eyes.

“It’s okay. It’s going to be just fine.” She mumbles

platitudes, happy this time because they are true.

“Don’t try to fight the vent. I know it’s

uncomfortable, but it won’t be there for long.”

He nods his understanding, his eyes drifting shut.

She threads her fingers through his hair, and the

monitors tell her what she already knows. His rhythm

converts to a normal, regular beat, and the back

pressure in his pulmonary artery has begun to drop

from its dizzying height. His oxygenation climbs,

and he squirms a little, even as he sleeps, his

healthy body protesting the discomfort of all the

tubes and wires.

She turns at the sound of increased movement

behind her. Part of her mind had been keeping

track of the activity over Dr. Taft; now they’re

preparing to move him out of Mulder’s room. She

catches the resident’s glance, and he shakes his

head almost imperceptibly. Leaning over, she presses

the call button again.

“Please page Dr. Cerino.”

Cerino arrives half an hour later, stunned at first

into silence at the sight of a mostly alert Mulder.

Cerino examines Mulder, shaking his head the entire

time.

“I don’t understand. His heart is beating normally;

his lungs are already clearing. What happened?”

“I’m not sure I can explain it, Doctor.” Actually,

she isn’t sure how much Cerino could handle. And

maybe if she’s very honest with herself, she isn’t

sure how much professional disbelief she could

take right now. Cerino levels a questioning look at

her, but she can only shake her head. He turns back

to his patient.

“Mr. Mulder, I think we’ll have you off the ventilator

by morning. Your lungs are still very congested,

so I’d like to let the vent do the work for a while

longer. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” Her voice is relaxed for

perhaps the first time in days.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile, Dr. Scully.

You should do it more often.”

* * *

Brantley Memorial Hospital

Cardiac Care Unit

8:45 PM

“You know, one of these days, I’m going to start

ignoring the ‘come quick; he’s dying’ phone calls.”

Mulder looks up to see his superior lounging in the

doorway, arms folded. Skinner’s relieved expression

belies the tone of his words. An exhausted Scully

startles at the sound of their boss’s voice.

“I’ll try to keep that in mind the next time.” Mulder’s

voice is a hoarse croak, throat still sore from intubation.

His condition improved so much by early evening,

Cerino decided to extubate him.

“Sir. I tried to reach you with the news.” Scully

is flustered, quite attractively so. Pink cheeks

look good on her. “Honestly, Sir, Mulder really was

very ill.”

“I know.” Skinner’s voice turns serious. “We were delayed

on the runway at National due to snow. I called but you’d

left the hospital, so I spoke with Mulder’s cardiologist.

I know how close it came. So tell me what happened.”

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather wait until our latest

epic case report comes across your desk?” Mulder rasps.

“You mean wait for the sanitized version? No, I’ve had

a long trip and could use a nice story. I think I’d like

it unvarnished this time. Go ahead, I’m going to get

comfortable,” he says, pulling over a chair.

* * *

Georgetown, Washington DC

January 29, 2002

8:15 AM

“Your hair is tickling me.”

His voice rumbles under her ear, pressed against his chest.

She enjoys the early morning warmth of his skin as she

nestles against his side.

“Hmm? You say something?” She mumbles, drowsily. Saturday

morning. Nowhere she needs to be and nothing she

needs to do except lie here and listen to the only music

she ever wants to hear. She smiles against the bare skin

of Mulder’s chest, enjoying the symphony of respiration

and heartbeat.

It will be a long time before either she or Mulder are

able to put this behind them. He hadn’t talked about

it, but she knew the specter of death still haunted him.

He’s awakened several nights, gasping and mumbling about

being underwater.

She knows he’s curious about her actions, but he hasn’t

pressed her for explanations. He seems to know that

she needs to work through the questions in her own heart

before she can answer his. More than anything else, this

may be why she loves him so much.

She finds herself hard-pressed to let Mulder out of

her sight. Every evening, there seem to be reasons for her

to stay over: she’s lost track of time, her eyes are too

tired to drive, her favorite movie is just coming

on TV. Mulder seems to be enjoying her attention, though.

She finds herself cherishing every touch, every word, every

kiss. Well, maybe that wouldn’t be the worst legacy to be

left with.

George Taft had almost stolen this all away from them.

He’d died the day before Mulder left the hospital; his

body had simply burned out the heart in his chest.

She’d sat by his bed that last day, waiting with him for

death. Taft was barely conscious, but she’d felt a need

to be there.

She didn’t think Mulder understood, really. She didn’t

fully understand herself. But Taft had finally done one

unselfish thing, and she didn’t want him to die alone.

Mulder was almost completely recovered. He’d have to take

it easy for a few more days, but his body had eliminated

just about all the extra fluid in his tissues, and his lungs

were finally clear. And his heart was beating.

Mulder’s stomach emits a fierce growl. That’s back to normal too.

“Come on, Scully, let’s get some breakfast. I’m starved.”

“Not right now, Mulder. I’m busy.”

End.

Author’s notes:

I have a long list of folks to thank, so bear with me.

First, thank you to Teddi Littman for answering my many

dentist questions. Thanks go to Kestabrook for beta and

warm friendship. More thanks to January, for her great

ideas. Tons of gratitude to the entire IMTP core group,

for their hard work. They are amazing ladies, and I’m

honored to know them. Very special thanks to Kel, for

beta, medical advice and translating English into “ER”ish.

Thanks also to Theresa for her artwork.

Let’s all of us cherish every moment.

Michelle Kiefer