XxXxX

Embers

XxXxX


Orange is the color of insanity.  

This sentiment, imparted to me many years ago by a drunken, 
would-be painter eager for us to "share the rainbow palette," 
resurfaces now as I stand mesmerized by the wall of flames 
licking tall into the night sky.

It seems fitting that this story should end in a blaze of 
orange.  Like a signal flare seen miles around, it is 
testament to the madness that consumed generations of one 
family and burned others who ventured too close to the flame.

One man has already died here tonight.  

Some would call it justice, saying that he finally got what 
he deserved.  Others might call it vengeance, though they, 
too, would probably be happy to watch him burn.

I shiver under my blanket, chilled despite the fact that my 
skin is scorched taut by my ordeal in the flames. The hair on 
my arm is singed black and dissolves into ash at my touch.  

A nervous EMT hovers near my elbow with an oxygen tank at the 
ready, prepared to leap in if I show any signs of passing out 
again.  I struggle to remain upright, though my lungs feel as 
though they have collapsed in on one another, smothering me 
from the inside out.  The acrid taste of smoke still lingers 
bitter in my mouth, and the sour tang of it makes me cough in 
deep, wracking heaves that nearly bend me over with their 
force.  This movement sends my EMT into immediate action with 
the oxygen mask, but I wave him away.  

He shuffles back a few feet, still standing specter-like in 
my shadow, watching me with worried, fearful eyes.

I have shocked them all with my earlier actions, I know.  No 
one is quite sure what to expect from me anymore.  They 
probably fear that I have lost my mind.  Maybe I have. 

I would be in good company, were it to be true. 

My gaze returns to the red-gold conflagration, blurring now 
from the stinging tears that cloud my vision.  Sudden, loud 
cries erupt from the fire-fighting team as a three-story wall 
tumbles inward with a groaning crash, sinking slowly into the 
raging flames.  The fire roars and pops as it devours this 
latest course of rotting wooden beams.

I know I should go to the hospital, but I cannot seem to 
leave this place of pretty pandemonium.  This place where I 
last saw Mulder alive.

Men in great black coats weave to and fro with the hose, 
while another sits perched high atop a truck, barking 
commands through a megaphone as though he were directing some 
bizarre form of square dance. 

Eventually, the flames will be extinguished and I will have 
to explain myself.  The men who are now scurrying around the 
harborside are going to want some answers.  How did I know to 
come here?  Who had started the fire?

When they ask, I am not at all sure what I can tell them.   
The events of the past few days are so jumbled in my mind 
that I cannot fathom how to construct from them a cogent 
narrative, especially one that will provide an acceptable 
explanation for the loss of life suffered here.

How does one go about extracting truth from madness?  And 
whose truth should I tell?

Mulder, if he lives, would probably begin the story in the 
seventeenth century with a tale of lies and witches.  For her 
part, Lee-Lee Centara would probably say that the horror 
started in 1981, with the death of her uncle Abe and the 
trial that had set everything in motion.   The others...well, 
they have all been permanently silenced, their stories buried 
forever by the bright orange shroud.

So it is up to me, and I can tell the story only one way.  It 
begins ten days ago, when I awoke in Mulder's bed with the 
stubble scratches still fresh and tingling on my skin.

XxXxX


XxXxX
Chapter Two
XxXxX

The sex was not new but the bed sure as hell was.
  
I had not intended to sleep.  I had not intended to be there 
at all, really, but Mulder obviously had greater foresight.  
He had bought a bed.  Boxes of file folders, once strewn 
about the room, now sat neatly stacked against the far wall.  
The sight of them sitting idle caused my heart to squeeze.  
"Oh, Mulder," I whispered.

At first I'd thought our present lackluster caseload was 
because of my recent illness; I'd thought he was giving me 
time to recover my strength.  Now I wasn't so sure who really 
needed the recovering.

I blinked and shifted a bit, which caused the hair on his 
legs to tickle the backs of my knees, and he snuffled into my 
neck.  Under the tangled sheet, one heavy arm lay warm and 
solid across my hip, keeping me snuggled firmly in a 
possessive embrace. I stroked his arm, playing with his long, 
tapered fingers and enjoying the silken texture of his sleep-
warm skin.  

I could not make myself sorry that it had happened again.  
Lord knows I'd wanted this, and if the bed was any 
indication, Mulder wanted it, as well.  Maybe too much.  The 
taste of last night's desperation lingered on my lips, as 
stinging as it had been two months ago. 

That first time had been fast because circumstances had 
dictated that it must be; last night had been fast because we 
could not be joined quickly enough to satisfy my overwhelming 
hunger.  Last night, he had leaned in close to study my new 
haircut and murmured, "You have a few loose hairs here, 
Scully," as the warm pads of his fingers brushed against the 
side of my neck.

And from that first touch, we were gone again.  

I think I passed out with him still inside me, too tired to 
come any more, but unwilling to surrender to my body's need 
for rest.

Now in the morning light, the memory of his hands on me 
caused a new ache to form--on my lips, my breasts, and 
between my thighs.  Anywhere he had touched, I began to burn.  
It was time to go.

I moved his arm over my hip and back onto his side.  I had to 
do this twice, because the first time he grunted something 
unintelligible and encircled me again.  Ever so slowly, I 
inched over to the edge of the bed, at last swinging my feet 
onto the cold, bare floor.

I rubbed my arms against the morning chill and began casting 
about for the remnants of my clothing, which lay strewn 
across the floor, mixed with Mulder's garments in an 
obscenely intimate fashion that spoke volumes about the 
activities that had taken place the night before.  

My panties were a scrap of lace that peeked out from under 
his rumpled shirt.  I flushed as I remembered standing nearly 
naked, clutching Mulder's head as he kissed me through the 
thin, damp material. 

I shook off the vivid memory and collected my clothes with 
renewed efficiency, eager to get as far away from the scene 
of the crime as possible.  The silk blouse smoothed over my 
memory-sensitized skin in a whispery caress, and I shuddered, 
slipping the tiny buttons closed with shaking fingers.  I 
glanced nervously again at Mulder, half-hoping he would wake 
and change my mind about leaving.

Almost done, almost done, I chanted inwardly.  The muscles in 
my legs protested as I tried to balance on one foot long 
enough to slip into my wrinkled pants.  After smoothing my 
clothing into place as much as possible, I scooped up my 
shoes and walked with silent steps toward the door.

But the boxes, stacked three deep along the wall, stopped me.  

There were easily two dozen of them, all topped with lids 
bearing labels like, "Supranumeral limbs and psychic 
ability." I fingered their dusty edges and wondered how long 
they had been sitting there, stagnant and shadowed. 

I'd told Mulder that they had given me the cancer to make him 
believe, but amazingly my cure seemed to succeed where my 
illness had failed.  After four harrowing years, they had 
finally reined him in.  These days he reminded me of a kid 
kicking rocks up and down the street -- bored and restless, 
with a dangerous lack of purpose. 

I glanced at the bed again.  Well, maybe not entirely without 
purpose.  But that was part of the problem.  Mulder was 
settling.

For half-truths.
For the status quo.
For me.

Tears stung my eyes and I blinked them away.  I had stayed 
too long already.  Under a weight of sadness, I moved slowly 
towards the door.  

"Leaving so soon?"

I jumped.  His words made my ears burn, and I hesitated 
before turning around.  "Mulder...hi."

"Hi," he answered, propping himself up on one elbow.  He 
nodded in the direction of the boxes.  "Are you looking for 
some bedside reading, Scully?  'Cause I could go get the 
Sunday paper."

I felt myself flush under his curious gaze.  "I was just 
admiring your new filing system.  It's very...organized." 

He patted the bed at his hip.  "Had to make room somewhere," 
he said, offering me a crooked smile.  I stood paralyzed on 
the threshold, shoes still dangling from my hand.  Mulder sat 
up against the pillows.  "What's going on, Scully?" he asked 
softly.  He was lean and golden in the morning sun.  It 
almost hurt to look at him.

"I...I have to get going.  Mass starts in a couple of hours 
and I have to get changed first."

He smiled again.  "You look just fine to me."  The words 
floated over me like a caress.  

"Mulder..."

"Scully."  He stretched one arm toward me, his fingertips 
grazing the edge of a slanting sunbeam.  "Come here."

I shook my head, but already I could feel our invisible 
rubber band snapping me back into place.  My hand found his 
without my willing it.  He tugged me unceremoniously onto the 
bed with him.  "I really have to go," I murmured as he traced 
a figure eight pattern on my knee.

"I know," he answered, but he did not stop touching me.  I 
rubbed the crisp cotton sheet between my thumb and 
forefinger.

"When did you get this bed, Mulder?"

He ducked his head, his fingers smoothing over the sheets. "A 
while ago, after the first time."
 
"Really?"  

"Well, the kitchen table is fine occasionally, Scully, but as 
a routine it lacks a certain romance, don't you think?"

I thought back to that night.  The night Mulder had asked me 
to lie for him.  "A lie to find the truth," he'd said.  We 
were working with borrowed minutes -- Mulder, who was 
supposed to be dead and me, who nearly was.  I remembered 
sitting naked from the waist down, the cool wood of the table 
under me as we kissed repeatedly, tongues parrying in the 
same sweet rhythm of Mulder's hips as he moved himself inside 
me.

"So was it hard enough for you?"  

My head snapped up. "What?" 

"The mattress.  Too hard?  Too soft?  I can never tell."

"Oh."  I cleared my throat.  "It was fine. It's just that..." 
I hesitated, not sure how to phrase my question.

"What?" he asked finally.  

"Well, I'm a little puzzled by your recent redecorating, 
Mulder.  You used to have six projects at once tacked up on 
the walls.  And what happened to your need to have all the 
files spread out for easy access?"

He shrugged. "They're still here.  I can access them any time 
I want."

"But you haven't accessed them," I pointed out.  "I can see 
the dust from here."  He frowned and pulled away from me with 
a sigh. 

"Don't you ever get tired of spinning your wheels in the mud, 
Scully?  Don't you get tired of chasing all the lies?"

"Is that what you think we're doing?"

"Well, isn't it?"

I considered our four years together.  "I guess I always 
thought we were chasing the truth, Mulder.  I was under the 
impression that's what you thought, too."

He was quiet for a long time, then stretched out to touch his 
fingertips to mine.  "I don't know what the truth is 
anymore," he said at last.  "At this point, I'm not sure I 
would recognize it even if I found it."

This was it, I thought.  This was the time to ask the 
question that had been bothering me for weeks.  I pressed 
against him so our fingers formed a makeshift bridge.  
"Mulder, did something happen?  Did something happen to you 
while I was in the hospital?"

He frowned.  "I told you there was a deal and that I turned 
it down.  Nothing's changed since then."

I searched his face for more information, but his features 
were carefully neutral.  "No, something has.  You just won't 
tell me what."  He looked away, hoarding his secret, and I 
withdrew my hand.  The distant sound of church bells bounced 
off our silence, reminding me of my stated purpose.  "I 
should go."

I slipped on my shoes and headed for the door.  The sheets 
rustled as he scrambled out of bed after me, but I did not 
slow down.  He caught me anyway, right at the front door.

He grabbed me by the shoulders.  "Wait a second, Scully.  
Please?"  I hunched in response, and his hands slid down to 
my neck, his thumbs rubbing teasingly over the fine hairs 
there.  Frozen under his rhythmic touch, I stood with my eyes 
squeezed shut and listened to the ragged sound of his 
breathing behind me. His hands took up a gentle massage of my 
shoulders, and he leaned in to lay his cheek against the top 
of my head.  "Scully..." he breathed.  "Don't go."

It was difficult to think when he was this close.  Part of me 
wanted to stay so badly, and the feeling only grew stronger 
as he held me. I could feel the heat of his skin warming me 
through the thin layer of my blouse.  Biting back a moan, I 
dropped my head forward, searching for the resolve to take 
those last steps out the door.

Mulder used the opportunity to kiss the base of my neck, a 
light brush that was clearly intended to be reassuring and 
not passionate, but I jumped all the same.

"Mulder, stop."  I pulled away from him, turning around so 
that he could see my face and know I meant it.

He stood before me barefoot and bare-chested, with the sheet 
cinched around his waist so that the ends trailed behind him 
on the floor like ceremonial robes.  My own pagan god of 
debauchery.

"I'm sorry," he said.  "I just thought..."

"I know, I know.  And you weren't wrong, Mulder, but..."  I 
groped for the right words but came up empty. "Now isn't the 
time."

His face scrunched up as his eyes grew sad.  "When will be 
the time?" he asked, and the mournful question vibrated in 
the air between us.  I had no answer to give him. 

"I'll see you tomorrow, Mulder, okay?" 

He nodded. "Yeah, okay."

With a shuddering breath, I opened the door and walked 
through it, closing it gently behind me. I lingered for a 
minute in the hallway, trying to catch my breath against the 
constricting pain in my chest.  I stared at the "forty-two" 
on his door until tears blurred my vision.  Blinking them 
back, I drew my fingertips down the smooth wood, offering one 
last caress to the man on the other side.

Then I left.

XxXxX

I did not see Mulder at all on Monday morning.  I could lie 
and say it was because I had too much work to do, but the 
truth was that on an ordinary Monday, I would have stopped in 
at his office first thing to share a cup of coffee and chat 
about the weekend.  This time, however, I knew only too well 
how Mulder's weekend had gone, so I concentrated my efforts 
on a pile of menial tasks that suddenly seemed of the utmost 
importance.

By two in the afternoon, I had triple checked the expense 
report from our latest foray into the field, alphabetized my 
stack of computer disks, changed the background pattern on my 
desktop monitor, and separated a chain of paper clips that 
had mysteriously appeared in my top desk drawer.  My phone 
had rung only once.  It was Skinner, wanting to know if I had 
seen my partner at any point that day.  

I held back my instinctive reply, which would have been to 
state once and for all that I was *not* Fox Mulder's keeper, 
and answered instead that I had not seen him anywhere.

I did not add that this was on purpose.

Skinner clicked off in his usual abrupt way, offering no 
"good-bye" and no explanation as to why he was looking for 
Mulder.  Apparently he was MIA somewhere.  Hardly unusual.  I 
wondered if perhaps Mulder was still on the premises, holed 
up in the basement and ignoring his phone because it might be 
me on the other end.

I headed downstairs, intent on getting our first contact out 
of the way, but his office was dark and shut up tight. I 
entered anyway, searching for any sign that he had been there 
earlier.  But since Mulder would never be mistaken for Mr. 
Clean, it was impossible to tell if anything had been 
disturbed recently.  I returned to my desk with the mystery 
unsolved.

Sometime late afternoon my computer beeped, informing me that 
I had new mail.  It was from Mulder, through his work 
account, and appeared to be a quote.

"'History has little to do with truth; it is merely one 
version of events, told by the men lucky enough to live to 
write it down.'"

I pushed my glasses further up my nose and leaned in for a 
better look, in case I had missed something on the first 
pass.  But the same cryptic sentences reflected back at me.  
What the hell?

I was unsure how I was supposed to interpret the words.  
Mulder was not one to distribute internet frivolities, so I 
suspected that the message was more than your standard Quote 
of the Day.  Was it a reference to what had happened over the 
weekend?  

Confused, tired and jittery from too much coffee and too 
little sleep, I was not in the mood to trade word riddles 
with Mulder.  I banished his message to cyberspace with one 
click of a button.

The action brought me some satisfaction, and I leaned over my 
stack of paperwork with renewed vigor, determined not to give 
Mulder's witticism any more thought.  

But ten minutes later, I was drumming the end of my pen 
against the desk and glancing idly around the room.  He wins 
again, I thought with disgust, and opened my web browser to 
begin tracking down the source of the quote. 

My search for "history" revealed wisdom for the ages, with 
pithy remarks by everyone from Joseph Stalin to Woody Allen.  
I scrolled through them quickly, scanning each one for a 
match with Mulder's message, but none seemed to even 
approximate his words.

It was time for another trip to the basement.

This time, the door was wide open, with light streaming into 
the hall.  The smell of Chinese food wafted from within the 
room, reminding me that I had skipped lunch. I found Mulder 
at his desk, feet up as he shoveled what looked like Kung Pao 
chicken into his mouth straight from the container.

"'Bout time you got here," he grumbled around a mouthful of 
hot peppers.  How he could eat them like that, I would never 
know.

"If you wanted to speak with me, you could have indicated 
that in your message," I replied.  "I didn't realize it was a 
summons."

He scraped a last bite of sauce-laden chicken from the bottom 
of the container and popped it in his mouth before replying.  
"Here, take a look at this," he said, sitting upright and 
handing me a battered book with the American flag emblazoned 
on the cover.  We were careful not to touch hands in the 
exchange.

"United States History," I read aloud as I flipped through 
the pages.  The text was large and accompanied by frequent 
photos, pictures and drawings of the major figures and events 
that comprised American history.  "It appears to be a 
children's history text, Mulder.  What of it?"

"It's *my* American history book, to be precise," he 
answered.  "From fourth grade with Mrs. McIvor."

I glanced once more at the textbook.  Sure enough, it read 
"Property of the Fitzpatrick Elementary School, 1971."  

"Is this where you got the quote?" I asked, surprised.  
"'History has little to do with the truth' doesn't seem like 
a sentiment one would find in a fourth grade textbook."

He fiddled with a pencil, his brow furrowed.  "No, the quote 
is from my father," he said at last.  

I lifted my eyebrows at him and took a seat on the edge of 
his desk. "Go on."

"He said that to me one night when I was studying the Civil 
War at our kitchen table, right from this very book."  For 
emphasis, Mulder waved the thick text in the air with one 
hand.  "He made quite an impression on me, too."

"How so?"  

"You see, I'd never thought about it before, that the stuff I 
read in school might not be the whole truth.  I just assumed 
that if I saw it in a text book, it must be true."

"You and all the other ten year-olds, Mulder."  I was still 
confused about where he was going with this story.

He gave me a wry grin.  "Yeah, I know.  Most kids have other 
things to think about than truth and history--believe me I 
did, too.  But I never forgot what Dad said that night, and I 
never looked at history the same way again once I realized 
that it was always the winners who got to write the story."  
He shrugged.  "I thought it was unfair."

I shrugged back.  "To the victors go the spoils."

His eyes met mine and for a long silent moment we just looked 
at one another.  My skin tingled.  I was just about to speak, 
to ask him where he had been all day, when he stood and 
walked over to the fax machine.  As if on cue, it started to 
hiss and beep.

"I kept the book," he said, watching the machine and not me, 
"because I always wondered which stories didn't make the 
cut."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to halt the beginning 
of a tension headache.  "Is there a point here, Mulder?"

He nodded at the book on his desk. "Page one thirty-eight," 
he said.

I flipped to the designated page with exaggerated impatience, 
scanning the bold text.  "The Salem witch trials?"

"Fascinating stuff, isn't it?" he asked as he pulled several 
sheets of paper off of the fax machine.  "Some girls playing 
parlor games cry 'witchcraft!' and the next thing you know, 
twenty innocent people are dead, victims of mass hysteria."

I moved from the desk to a chair.  Apparently, we were going 
to be a while.  "Okay, Mulder, I give up.  What do the Salem 
witch trials have to do with anything?"

"Not the Salem trials, Scully," he replied.  "Those are well-
documented and duly recorded.  I'm interested in the one that 
didn't make the books."  He stretched out one long arm to 
hand me the papers he had retrieved from the fax.  The top 
one appeared to be a sketch of a dark-haired woman, about 
twenty-five years old, dressed in traditional Colonial 
American attire with a bonnet and long dark dress.  I looked 
at Mulder questioningly.

"Her name was Elysian," he said, downing a half a bottle of 
ice tea in one swallow. "She lived in Tiburton, Massachusetts 
at about the time that all hell was breaking loose in Salem."

It was then that I noticed the woman was not just standing 
demurely with her hands behind her back.  She was on a 
platform with a wooden railing at her waist, and I could see 
the end of a piece of rope peeking from around her skirt, 
indicating her hands were probably bound. 

"She was on trial for witchcraft?" I asked.

Mulder shuffled some papers around his desk, piling them into 
a folder.  "I don't know that there was a formal trial, but 
Elysian was accused of collusion with the devil and burned at 
the stake in 1692."

I glanced again at the stoic woman in the sketch.  "Who were 
her accusers?"

He handed me another sheet of paper, this one also an old 
black and white sketch, depicting a stern looking couple and 
three small boys.  "Sarah Pritchard, wife of Jacob Pritchard, 
the town minister.  The Pritchards were also Elysian's 
employers.  Apparently, they met her on a trip to Barbados in 
1690.  Elysian's husband had died, so she took her daughter 
to live with the Pritchards way up north."

"So what happened?"

"Exactly?  I can't say.  The good citizens of Tiburton were 
the ones writing this story, and they buried the details 
along with the body.  These sketches are about all that 
remain.  I got them from a woman named Cathleen Duncan.  She 
lives in Tiburton and has apparently made quite a study of 
its history.  It's her opinion that no one ever really 
believed Elysian was a witch.  She thinks they just wanted 
her gone."

"Well, they certainly got their wish." I exhaled a long 
breath and set the papers down on Mulder's desk.  He 
immediately scooped them into a pile.

"Maybe.  Maybe not," he said cryptically.

"What are you talking about?"

He paused his shuffling to look at me.  "The last thing that 
Elysian said before they lit the logs was that she would be 
back to punish them all, to make sure that the good people of 
Tiburton paid for their sins.  Now, accounts vary on the 
exact wording of her threat, but most people I've talked to 
seem to agree that she promised to burn Tiburton to the 
ground."

"I can understand her anger," I said.  "But I hardly know 
what she could do about it."

"I suspect that's what the people in Tiburton thought, too, 
right up until six months ago."  He glanced over at me again, 
preparing for the punch line.

Always the straight man, I parroted my line. "And what 
happened six months ago?"

"The town of Tiburton started burning to the ground."

"Arson?" 

"Dunno. Ten fires so far, and three deaths.  Each fire is of 
undetermined origin, and there are no suspects and no 
witnesses."

"Mulder..." I began to prepare my usual spiel, the one about 
how there was no such thing as ghosts, how every fire did 
have an earthly origin, even if it was undetermined, but then 
I stopped.  "Mulder, if it is Elysian setting these fires, 
why now?  Why would she come back for revenge over three 
hundred years later, when the people responsible for her 
death are long buried?"

He tilted his head at me and closed his briefcase with a 
snap.  "Excellent question, Agent Scully.  If we find her, we 
can ask that one first. John Kazdin of the local PD tossed 
the case our way this morning."  

"So that's where you've been all day?" I asked. "Researching 
this?"

He nodded.  " I figure if we're going to chase lies, they 
should at least be interesting ones."

I suddenly felt unbelievably foolish.  I had presumed he was 
off sulking somewhere, obsessing over what had happened 
between us, but instead he had been working while *I* was the 
one having a hard time letting go.  I felt my cheeks go hot.  

"I've got tickets for seven tomorrow morning," he said, "if 
that's not too early."

"No, it's fine."  I fingered the edge of his tattered 
textbook as I stood.  "Can I take the files home with me 
tonight?"

He handed me the papers wordlessly, and I made it to the door 
before he spoke again. "Scully?"

I turned around.  "What?"

"Was it a mistake?  The bed?"

Everything went so still that I could hear my heart beat in 
my ears.  Images of tanned limbs and white sheets spun 
through my mind, and I swallowed them down as I met his eyes.  
"I hope not," I whispered finally.

I led that hope out of the basement with me, took it home and 
wrapped myself with it as I waited for sleep to come.  

XxXxX

End chapter two.  Continued in chapter three.

XxXxX

Chapter Three

XxXxX

Mulder was driving, but I was no longer sure where we were 
going.

At ten-thirty on a cheery November morning, Tiburton did not 
seem like the setting for a witch's playground.  Sun-dappled 
trees lined the streets with arching gold and crimson 
branches, and the local schoolyard teemed with laughing, 
screeching children. The passing houses were looming 
Victorian-era structures with sloping roofs, hanging eaves 
and rounded towers.

Mulder pulled to a stop outside one large house, set in from 
the road on a hill.  "We're here," he announced, and I 
followed him out of the car.

"This is a motel?" I asked, wrinkling my forehead in doubt. 
With the sun at its back and a pointed iron fence at its 
front, the house cast a formidable and ominous shadow.  "The 
owner isn't named Bates, is he?"

Mulder looked almost amused as he slammed the trunk shut.  
"Duncan."

"Duncan?  As in the woman who gave you the drawings of 
Elysian?" 

He nodded.  "Convenient, isn't it?"  After a bit of fumbling, 
he managed to open the catch on the gate and we walked up the 
path to the house.  As the shadows faded, it appeared more 
welcoming, and I admired the potted copper mums that 
decorated the stone staircase. 

The inside was like stepping into the pages of "Anne of Green 
Gables." There was a generous foyer, with low ceilings and 
crisp white walls.  Dark molding edged the room, and a gold-
trimmed oval mirror hung to our left.  To the right, a large 
fireplace sat dark and silent, though the faint scent of 
burnt pine in the air suggested recent use. 

There was a desk near the stairs, and a woman with wire-
rimmed glasses peeked out from behind a computer monitor.  
She glanced from me to Mulder, inching her frames downward 
for a better look.  "Agents," she said with perfect 
confidence, "welcome to Tiburton."

I gathered we did not blend in with the local color.

"Cathleen Duncan?" Mulder asked.  The wooden floors were 
uneven and creaked as we walked on them.

"That's me."  She smiled and adjusted the thin black sticks 
holding her hair on top of her head.   "You must be Agent 
Mulder." 

"Yes, and this is my partner, Dana Scully."

"Pleased to meet you," she said, extending a slim hand to me.  
I found it warm and strong.  She gave us each a form to fill 
out and watched over the rim of a green mug as we scrawled 
our information.  "Are you here to search for witches, too?" 
she asked me, and I saw Mulder's pen freeze in mid-signature.

"I'm here to try to find out who is setting the fires," I 
replied.  "Which in my experience tend to have decidedly 
human motives behind them."

She regarded me with curious eyes.  "Like revenge?"

"Well, yes.  Revenge could be one possible motive.  But 
statistically, arson is more often motivated by profit, the 
desire to cover up another crime, or pyromania.  I have 
trouble attributing any of these motives to someone supposed 
to be a witch."

Ms. Duncan smiled as she took our forms.  "As do I."

"Really."  I glanced at Mulder, who looked at me the way our 
cat Tigerlily used to when she presented me a dead mouse.  
Instead of a headless rodent, Mulder had found me a fellow 
non-believer.  Good boy.

"I told Agent Mulder yesterday I didn't think Elysian was a 
witch.  I think she was a lonely woman in the wrong place at 
the wrong time."

"You said you thought the townspeople just wanted her gone," 
Mulder broke in, leaning across the counter.  "Why did you 
say that?"

She pushed her glasses up on her nose and hit a few keys on 
her computer, entering our data.  "Are you familiar with the 
term 'mulatto'?" she asked after a moment.  Mulder nodded.

"It's an old-fashioned name for a person of mixed race."

"Exactly.  Elysian's father was white and her mother was 
black.  Needless to say, people in Tiburton at the time were 
not especially forgiving of such unions."

"But the Pritchards must have been comfortable enough with 
her background to hire her," Mulder said.  "They brought her 
all the way from Barbados."

"Oh, I'd say Jacob Pritchard was really comfortable with her.  
He was comfortable with her at least a dozen times before 
Sarah Pritchard found out."  She looked up from her monitor.  
"Jacob confessed, said he'd been tempted by the devil, and 
Sarah forgave him because in 1695 she had no other choice."

"But she didn't forgive Elysian," I said as the story became 
clearer.  

"No."  Ms. Duncan's voice grew soft.  "They murdered her with 
the townspeople's blessing."

"What about the threat Elysian made?  The promise to come 
burn Tiburton to the ground."  Mulder sounded curious, but 
the question lacked his usual edge.

Ms. Duncan shrugged.  "The words of an angry woman.  I 
believe she *wanted* to make them pay.  I hope they believed 
it, too.  I hope the Pritchards lived the rest of their days 
waiting for their house to go up in flames."

"Ten fires in the past six months with no determined motive 
or origin," Mulder said after a moment.  "What's your 
theory?"

She tilted her head.  "Don't know.  Maybe it's coincidence.  
Maybe it's someone obsessed with Elysian's legend."

"Know anyone like that?" he asked.

"Many folks around here know the story well."

"But none so well as you."  

Her color heightened, and I shot Mulder an appraising look.  
He would not meet my eyes.

"I wish I had the stamina to run around starting fires," Ms. 
Duncan said finally.  "But I'm afraid you'd have better luck 
with Elysian."

There was an odd clanking sound as she rose from her stool, 
and in a moment I understood why.  Ms. Duncan wore braces on 
both legs and used modified crutches to walk.  "Please excuse 
me for not accompanying you upstairs," she said as she 
retrieved a pair of keys from the back wall.  "But I don't 
think you'll have any trouble finding the rooms.  They're on 
the second floor in the east corner."

The key was cold and solid in my hand, its long round body 
and tiny flagged ending a delicious contrast to the usual 
plastic card I received.  Mulder and I retrieved our bags and 
moved toward the narrow staircase, but Ms. Duncan stopped us.

"Agent Mulder."  We turned in unison, and I wondered when it 
was we began to answer to each other's names.  She shifted on 
her crutches.  "Agent Mulder, seriously...did you really come 
here expecting to arrest a witch?"

There was a silence, and I held my breath, as if even the air 
in the room depended on his answer.  He managed to avoid a 
real one.  "John Kazdin seemed to think it was a 
possibility," he replied.

Ms. Duncan twisted her mouth in a parody of a smile and 
looked at the floor for a long moment.  "I'm afraid John 
believes in many impossible things," she said at last.  She 
raised her head again.  "Enjoy your rooms.  I'll be in the 
kitchen if you need anything."

Upstairs I found my room was the color of clotted cream, with 
a thick quilt on the bed and bright sunshine cascading 
through the lace curtains.  It smelled of cinnamon, and there 
was a painting of sailboats on the wall.

I opened the window, tilting my face to the wind.  The sea 
breeze tickled my nose as it tickled my memory, and for a few 
moments I was ten years old again, running along the wooden 
pier with my brothers, our shouts mingling with the cries of 
the seagulls overhead. 

"Do you like it?"  I turned to find Mulder standing next to 
the cherry dresser.  I let my smile answer for me and 
returned my gaze to the leaves swirling their way down to the 
backyard.

He came to stand with me at the window, leaning out so that 
his shoulder touched mine through the heavy fabric of our 
coats.   A group of brown-spotted birds flitted back and 
forth from the trees to the roof of a small well sitting in 
the yard.  "A wishing well," Mulder remarked, his eyes 
following mine.  "I haven't seen one of those in years."

"Well, then maybe we should stop by on our way out."  The 
cancer gone, my blood renewed, I was ready to believe in 
wishes again.

He turned his head to me, squinting in the sun.  When the 
wind blew my hair across my face, he brushed it away with one 
leather-clad finger.  "I think I've used up my wishes for 
this year," he said, his eyes bright.  

As he pulled away, the sharp wind replaced his warmth.  I 
turned and watched as his black coat melted into the dark 
hall.   It was a long time before I followed. 

XxXxX

We stopped at the Tiburton police station only to find that 
Detective Kazdin was on break at Kit-n-Carl's Café around the 
corner.  It turned out to be less of a French-style lunch 
spot and more of an old-style diner.  A regular slice of 
American pie.  It was painted blue with a shiny silver base 
and a faded pink neon sign on the roof.  I was willing to bet 
that it had been years since all the letters lit up.  Mulder 
smiled at me as we approached the door.

"Buy you a cherry Coke, Scully?"

I had a brief flash of him as a teenager, with gangly legs 
and an awkward smile.  The boy you thought you knew because 
he made smart-ass jokes from the back of the class.  I smiled 
back. "Vanilla, Mulder.  Always vanilla."

A bell jangled when we entered, and all conversation ceased 
as four dozen eyes froze us at the door. A mix of cigarette 
smoke and black coffee perfumed the air, and the pop of bacon 
frying echoed off the surrounding Formica while we lingered 
there -- a black-cloaked contrast to the denim and flannel 
crowd.  

"Agent Mulder, Agent Scully!"  In the back corner, a 
uniformed cop beckoned to us.  Mulder leaned into my hair.  

"Check it out, Scully," he whispered.  "It's the place where 
everyone knows your name."

Mulder and I had worked cases in small towns before, towns 
where our presence was almost as noteworthy as whatever 
oddity had drawn us there in the first place.  But it was not 
curiosity that made the diner seem so claustrophobic.  The 
bearded men, the frazzled mothers, the apron-clad staff -- 
all tracked us in unison as we moved through the room.  Their 
silence seemed incestuous, their eyes daring us to expose the 
family secret.

"Detective Kazdin?" Mulder said as we approached the green 
plastic booth.  

"It's John," he said, and his words broke the spell.  Our on-
lookers at least gave the pretense of returning to their own 
food.  Detective Kazdin indicated the other side of his 
table.  "Please, won't you sit down?"

Mulder slid in first.  "I take it you don't see many 
unfamiliar faces in here."

Kazdin smiled.  "Well, let's just say you and your partner 
have a particular presence.  Did you find a place to get 
settled?"

"Cathleen Duncan is putting us up," Mulder said, already 
fiddling with a straw wrapper.  "You were right to point us 
in her direction, by the way.  She's been very helpful with 
the background on Elysian's story."

"You're staying at Cathy's?"  Kazdin looked at us in 
disbelief.

"She volunteered her place when I contacted her about the 
sketches," Mulder said.  "Is there a problem?"

"No, no.  Not at all.  It's just..."  He broke off and looked 
out the window.  "I was just surprised, that's all.  She 
hasn't taken many visitors since the accident.  Forget I said 
anything, okay?  I'm sure she'll treat you real nice."  His 
tone suggested the topic was closed. 

"Why don't you tell us what you know about the fires," I 
suggested in the silence that followed.  Kazdin looked 
relieved.

"Mulder told me your background is in pathology," he said, 
turning green eyes to me.   His lashes were thick and dark, a 
beauty that was wasted on a man with a ten-dollar hair cut.  

"Yes, that's right.  I understand you've had three deaths 
connected to these fires."

He took a long swallow of coffee as he nodded.  "Two in July 
and one just last week, the night before Halloween.  You're 
welcome to take a look at Joe Bowman's body, if you like, but 
there's no doubt to the cause of death."

"Smoke inhalation?"

"Burned.  All three of them, over 90% of their bodies."

I could feel Mulder watching my face, trying to gauge whether 
this finding was normal.  I hadn't decided that question for 
myself yet.  "Were the fires explosive?"

"Well, that's not clear at this point.  As I said yesterday 
on the phone, the state fire marshal has not been able to 
determine the point of origin of these fires.  Some of them 
have been complicated by the roof falling in, and the one at 
Bowman's Autoshop blew up half a dozen tanks of gasoline."

At this point, a waitress brushed past our table, and Kazdin 
halted his narrative.  "Hey, are you hungry at all?  They 
serve a mean blueberry muffin here."  Without waiting for our 
answer, he touched the woman's sleeve.  "Lee-Lee, help these 
people out, would you?  They've had a long trip today."

She turned without a word and pulled a pad from her apron 
pocket.  "Yes?" she said, a whisper hidden in the diner 
chatter.  Mulder ordered coffee and a muffin, not sparing her 
a second glance, but when her eyes met mine I could not look 
away.  She was too gaunt for someone who spent her days 
surrounded by food; the shapeless blue sweater nearly 
swallowed her whole.  Her hair was short, with wide dark 
curls, and she brushed her cheek as if to tuck it behind her 
ear, a habit that suggested she'd recently had it cut. 

Beautiful and hiding it, I thought, searching her gray eyes 
for the reason why.  She must have felt me probing because 
she ducked her head and broke contact .  The moment I placed 
my order she slipped away.

"Lee-Lee's the best," Kazdin said as she left.  "Her 
stepfather is the mayor and her brother Andy is our Chief, so 
there's always great service here for the boys in blue."

I wondered how the stepdaughter of the mayor and the sister 
of the police chief wound up waiting tables in a greasy 
spoon.  

"What about the victims?" Mulder asked, pulling me back to 
the case at hand.  "Any connection there?"

"Well, they all knew each other, but that's not saying much 
around here.  Like I said, Joe Bowman worked at the Autoshop.  
He was a good mechanic and generally a good guy.  Ran up a 
couple of friendly debts playing poker, but nothing serious.  
No reason for anyone to want to kill him that I could find."

"So you're pursuing this as a murder investigation?" I asked.  

"We're trying to cover all angles.  But the Coroner did say 
it was unlikely that the bodies would have been burned as 
much as they were in the fires without some help.  They were 
a little too 'well-done' if you get my meaning."

"And the other victims?" Mulder wanted to know.  "Any leads 
there?"

"Not a one," sighed Kazdin.  "Regina Tuttlesworth was a nurse 
at the local hospital.  Husband died two years ago, kids 
grown and scattered around the country.  Stanley Garber was a 
defense attorney.  He was the first one to die, and we 
figured maybe he had a client who got shafted and wanted a 
piece of Garber's hide, but so far nothing has panned out.  
Besides, why would the perp go after Regina and Joe, too?  It 
doesn't make sense."

Lee-Lee returned with our food and would have disappeared 
again if a broad-shouldered man in a tweed jacket had not 
stopped her.  "Hey, Lee-Lee, how's about a cup of coffee?"

"Sure, Andy.  Just a minute."  She withdrew from his hands 
with a graceful twist.

"Morning, Chief," Kazdin called, and the new arrival 
sauntered over to our table.  "Have you had a chance to meet 
Agents Mulder and Scully?"

"Can't say I've had the pleasure," he said grinning at us, 
and we did another round of hand pumping.  "Chief Andy 
Purcell.  Glad to have you aboard.  I'm not much for this 
witch nonsense Johnny's been selling, but a fresh perspective 
on the case couldn't hurt.  Folks are scared, and I wish to 
God I had something to tell them.  But we've followed almost 
every damn lead that's come our way, and so far we've got 
bupkis."

Lee-Lee appeared with a steaming cup of coffee and a plastic-
wrapped blueberry muffin, which she tucked into the pocket of 
Purcell's coat.  He squeezed her hand.  "Thanks, sweetie, I 
appreciate that.  Listen, has Jeff been through here this 
morning?"

"Haven't seen him since last Tuesday."  She glanced around 
his shoulder to see if we were listening.  "He must be off on 
some story...you know how it is."

"Yeah."  The word was gruff and laced with steel.  Chief 
Purcell was not pleased.  "Well, if you see him, tell him I'm 
looking for him, will you?"

Lee-Lee nodded and vanished into an arriving party of five.  
After a pause, Purcell turned around again with his fake 
smile back in place.  "Now where was I?"

"Following leads," said Mulder.  There was a new edge in his 
voice, as well.  "You said you followed 'almost every' lead.  
Which ones didn't you pursue?"

The smile faltered a bit, and he waved the air with his hand.  
"Well, you know.  Sometimes we get calls from obvious 
crackpots - the kind who say they saw Elvis setting the 
fires.  I can assure you we followed every *real* lead.  But 
this is a small town, with limited resources.  We can't be 
answering every fruitcake looking for attention."

"You have a record of these crackpots?"

Purcell shot Kazdin a hard look.  "Well, sure we do, but..."

Kazdin broke in.  "You can check the files if you want, Agent 
Mulder, but the Chief is right.  These individuals are either 
confused, lonely people or kids playing tricks.  We had one 
old woman call in and say her cat was starting the fires."

Mulder gave a smile I recognized -- quick and bright and 
three steps ahead of everyone else.  "Perfect," he said.  
"Let's start there."

XxXxX

Mulder and I traveled the twenty-five miles to the Spaulding 
Home for the Elderly and the Infirm alone, as Purcell and 
Kazdin remained unconvinced that a cat could be connected to 
the fires.  We found a plump woman at the front desk, 
answering the phone in front of a wall plastered with smiling 
Turkeys and shiny Pilgrim hats.  Her eyes softened when we 
told her our business. 

"I'm sorry, but Mary Centara is no longer with us.  She 
passed on about a month ago.  Heart failure."

Mulder looked disappointed.  I wondered if he really believed 
the nonsense about the cat.  "Mary called the Tiburton Police 
Department on September 12 in response to a news program 
about the fires taking place there.  Do you know anything 
about that?"

"I'm afraid not.  There is a phone available on the floor, 
but I don't know if Mary used it.  I can't imagine what kind 
of information she would have had about those terrible 
fires."

"She said she knew who was setting them."  Mulder was going 
all the way with this one.  I watched the woman's face for 
her reaction as he named the suspect.  "She said it was her 
cat."

"What?"  She chuckled and gave Mulder an indulgent look.  
"For land's sakes, dearie, you came all the way out here for 
that?  Mary was a sweetheart, but she didn't follow reality 
very much at the end.  She mistook me for Elizabeth Taylor 
and thought Bill the laundry man was stealing her 
undergarments.  Besides, Mary didn't have a cat, a fish or 
any other kind of pet.  It's not allowed."

"Oh."  Mulder frowned but made no effort to leave, so I took 
over the reins.

"So then you have no idea what motivated Mary to call the 
police about the fires?"

"And say it was her cat?  No, it seems to me...oh, wait.  
This is Mary Centara you're talking about, right?  Then she 
probably meant *Kat* not 'cat'."

"Excuse me?"

The woman sighed.  "Well, of course.  That makes a little 
more sense anyway.  Kat was Mary's daughter, short for 
Katherine.  If I remember correctly, Kat got into some 
trouble over a fire when she was a teenager.  Poor Mary must 
have seen the report and gotten mixed up."

Mulder straightened at my side, listening intently now, and I 
felt my own pulse quicken.  Maybe Mary was not as confused as 
everyone thought.  "What happened to Kat?" I asked.  "Is she 
still in the area?"

"Well, loosely speaking, yes she is.  Kat died about ten 
years ago."  She lowered her voice and leaned closer to us.  
"She was in prison.  For murder."

"Murder?"

"Killed her own brother, that's what they say."  She paused 
and began rustling around on the desk.  "I think Mary kept a 
picture of her someplace.  We've called a half dozen times, 
but we can't anyone to come fetch her things.  Ah, here it 
is!"  She held up a silver key.  Mulder and I stared at the 
drooping red and brown streamer in the hall as she 
disappeared into the backroom.  In a few minutes, she 
returned with a small box.

"There's not much.  Just some costume jewelry, a nice watch 
and a few photos.  Here...this would be the one you're 
interested in."  She handed me snap shot of a young woman 
leaning against a tree.  It was black and white, but I 
recognized the eyes immediately.

"Mulder, this is the woman from the diner.  Our waitress."

His breath tickled my cheek as he leaned down for a closer 
look.  "Sure looks like her, doesn't it?"

"Lee-Lee," I said, remembering her pale face and trapped 
expression.  The woman at the desk shook her head.

"No, that's Katherine," she corrected.  "Lee-Lee is her 
daughter, Mary's granddaughter.  Course, around here Mary 
used to call her by her given name -- Elysian."

Mulder jerked his head up.  "Elysian?"  

"Yeah, you know...like that old witch story.  Sad name for 
the poor child."

The wind howled, rattling the doors behind us, and the 
picture fluttered from my hands to the floor.

XxXxX

End chapter three. Continued in chapter four.

XxXxX

Chapter Four

XxXxX


Detective Kazdin and Chief Purcell were drinking coffee and 
discussing a recent mugging when Mulder and I returned to the 
station.  "Well, did you arrest Fluffy?" Purcell asked with a 
grin.  "Maybe she left some catnip at the scene of the crime 
-- that would really nail her."

"We didn't get to speak to the initial complainant," Mulder 
said.  "Mary Centara died a few weeks ago."  He cocked his 
head at Purcell.  "But then again you already knew that, 
didn't you?  Mary was your grandmother."

Purcell halted in mid swig.  "I didn't realize it was Mary 
who had called about the fires.  But to answer your question, 
no.  She wasn't my grandmother.  She was Katherine's mother."

"Kat's mother," Mulder agreed, and Kazdin sputtered in his 
coffee cup.

"Kat?  The Kat?"  He recovered and cast a swift look at 
Purcell.  "Sorry there, Andy...it's just, well...shit.  You 
know."

Purcell frowned.  "I don't know.  Frankly, I don't see how 
this has anything to do with anything.  Mary was a sick 
woman, and my stepmother died many years ago."

"Is this her?" I handed over the picture from the nursing 
home, and Purcell nodded once before thrusting it back at me.

"Excuse me if I don't include it in the family album."

Mulder made himself at home on the corner of Kazdin's desk.  
"You and Katherine didn't get along?"

"We got along fine."  Purcell set his mug down and folded his 
arms over his chest, sizing Mulder up.  "You want to tell me 
why my family history is suddenly FBI business?"

"We talked to someone who said Katherine was involved in a 
fire setting incident when she was young," I said, and 
Purcell jerked his gaze to me.

"Katherine is dead," he said, narrowing his eyes. 

"But her daughter isn't."  I held up the photo again, and 
Purcell snatched it away.

"You leave Lee-Lee out of this.  It's got nothing do with 
her, and I will not have you bothering her with this 
horseshit, understand?"

"Easy, Andy."  Kazdin got up from his chair.  "They're not 
saying she did anything wrong."  He looked at us.  "Are you?"

"No, but we think she may have been at the fire on September 
twelfth," I said.

"And then Mary saw her on the news," Kazdin concluded.  "It's 
a possibility.  The fires always draw a pretty big crowd."

"So maybe she was there," Purcell said.  "So what.  Like John 
said, we get a hundred gawkers at every one of these things."

I glanced at Mulder to see what he thought of this argument, 
since Purcell did have a valid point.  Purcell caught our 
silent exchange and scowled.

"It's about her name, isn't it?  Kazdin here put a bug up 
your ass about witches, and now you're thinking Lee-Lee had 
something to do with those fires.  Look, Katherine was the 
one obsessed with that story, not Lee-Lee.  Lee-Lee's never 
had a dishonest day in her life, and she's paid a high price 
for what her mother did.  Now, you poke around the fire sites 
all you want, question folks up and down Main Street -- I 
don't care.  But you stay the hell away from Lee-Lee."

He stalked off in the direction of his office, and Mulder 
turned to Kazdin.  "What did he mean about Lee-Lee paying for 
her mother's actions?  Katherine went to prison, didn't she?"

"Murder one.  I was in high school at the time, but her trial 
was big news around here."  He craned his neck around to 
glance at Purcell, who was visible through the glass windows 
of his office.  "Come outside with me for a minute.  I could 
use a smoke."

He picked up a pack of Marlboros from his desk, and we 
followed him out the front door.  It took half a cigarette 
for him to talk again.

"The woman at the home...did she tell you why Kat got sent 
up?  I mean, did she tell you any details?"

"No," Mulder said, hunching against the wind.

Kazdin nodded and took another long drag.  "Thought as much.  
Folks don't talk about it anymore, especially now that Carson 
Purcell is the mayor."  

I hadn't considered the political aspect.  "It's hard to 
believe the town would elect a man whose wife was a 
murderer."

"Oh, no...that's just it.  Deep down I think folks felt sorry 
for him.  Sorry for the whole family, really.  Kat may have 
been a little crazy, but people understood why she did what 
she did.  I mean, imagine how you would act if you found out 
your brother was sleeping with your fifteen year-old 
daughter."

"What?"  I felt my stomach turn over.  Suddenly I understood 
why the young woman in the diner had looked like she wanted 
to disappear inside her clothes.

"Yeah, the whole mess came out at the trial.  Kat found some 
dirty pictures and figured out it was Abe who took them.  She 
shot the sonofabitch that night."  He shook his head.  "Poor 
Lee-Lee, she took it real hard.  Had some kind of a nervous 
breakdown.  She was in the hospital until a few months ago, 
which is probably why Andy doesn't want you talking to her." 

"She was in a mental hospital for fifteen years?" Mulder 
asked.

Kazdin shrugged.  "Like I said, she took it hard.  Seems okay 
now, though."

As Mulder had done the math in one direction, I was 
subtracting in the other.  "When was Lee-Lee released?"

"Let's see now..."  Kazdin scrunched his face as he thought.  
"I guess it was back in April.  Yeah, that's right.  Andy and 
me and some of the other guys went to opening day at Fenway, 
and Lee-Lee came along."  He grinned.  "The Sox trounced the 
Tigers, eight to two."

Seven months ago, I tallied.  Just weeks before the first 
fire.  From the grim set of Mulder's mouth, I could see he 
had made the connection as well.  Kazdin wasn't far behind.

"Shit."  He stomped out his cigarette on the ground, then 
shook his head.  "No, I can't believe it.  What's her 
motive?"

"I don't know," Mulder answered.  "But I think it's about 
time someone asked her."  He touched my elbow and drew me 
aside.  "Scully, I think you should be the one to go talk to 
her.  I'll go with Kazdin and check out the fire sites."

"You don't want to talk to her?"  This was Mulder's forte, 
drawing out stories from wounded women.  A few sympathetic 
questions and they would spin their life history for him.  
Maybe that was one reason I kept my own painful memories 
tucked away inside -- I wasn't ready to be just another 
victim, another medium he used to contact the unexplained.

"No, I definitely want to talk to her."  Mulder kept his 
voice low, his back to Kazdin.  "But if what he says is true, 
Lee-Lee might respond better to a woman.  Besides, she likes 
you better anyway."

"What?"

"You got the bigger muffin," he said.

So I went to the diner alone.

XxXxX

Lee-Lee's shift was over at the diner, but the manager 
directed me to her house. It turned out to be a pale blue 
Cape with white shutters and a neatly trimmed lawn.  A green 
Ford Explorer was parked in the drive.  Either Kit-n-Carl's 
had some impressive tippers or her family was helping with 
her living costs. 

I was about to ring the bell when I heard voices coming from 
the inside -- a man and a woman, and they were arguing. "What 
good would it do now?" said the man.

I did not catch her response, but the man was not pleased.

"That's shit, Lee-Lee, and you know it!" 

"Andy said..."

"Fuck Andy.  This isn't about Andy.  Look, you've just got 
to..."  He lowered his voice so I missed the rest of his 
instructions.  A few seconds later, I heard him mention 
"investigation" and "the FBI."  Must be my cue.

I rang the bell, and the door opened to reveal Lee-Lee 
Centara.  She was older than I'd thought originally, nearer 
my own age.  Her face was white and her eyes were tired, but 
there was no trace of the tears I had expected from the sound 
of the argument.  Perhaps she was tougher than she looked.  
"Can I help you?" she asked, wedging her body in the door so 
I could not see inside.

"Dana Scully," I said as I showed her my ID.  "I'd like to 
talk to you for a few minutes if that's okay."

"About the fires?" I nodded, and she bit her lip.   "I'm 
afraid I can't help you."

I raised my eyebrows a touch.  "Can't or won't?" 

"Can't," she replied with more fortitude, squaring her 
shoulders in the doorway.  "I don't know anything."

"Then it wouldn't hurt to hear my questions, would it?"

She hesitated a moment, then glanced behind her into the 
house.  "No...I guess not."

"Lee-Lee, who's at the door?" called the voice from inside.  
She didn't answer but moved so I could enter.  I stepped into 
the tiny entryway and found myself facing a slimmer, blonder 
version of Andy Purcell.  "Who are you?" he asked, frowning.

"Jeff, please."  A hint of color crept across Lee-Lee's face.

"Dana Scully, FBI," I answered.  "Who are you?"

"Jeff Purcell.  I'm her stepbrother.  Does Andy know you're 
here?"

"Yes," I lied, and he narrowed his eyes at me.

"What do you want with Lee-Lee?"  

"I just want to ask her a few questions."

"About the fires," Lee-Lee added, and he turned his gaze on 
her.  "I told her I didn't know anything."

"Of course you don't.  But then what's with the questions?  
Lee-Lee, you know you don't have to talk to her.  She's got 
no legal right to be in here, and you don't have to answer 
anything you don't want to."

It seemed to me that he was the one who didn't want to answer 
the questions.  Lee-Lee must have sensed my curiosity rising 
because she began herding him towards the door.  "It's fine, 
Jeff.  If I don't do this now, she'll just come back another 
time."

Jeff balked in the door as she handed him his coat.  "I don't 
like this, Lee-Lee.  You should have someone here with you.  
You should call Andy or Dad and..."

"It's just a few questions," she insisted.  "Let me handle 
this, okay?"

He sent me a cutting glare and turned so she was hidden 
behind his back.  "This is the big time, Lee-Lee," he said in 
a fierce whisper.  "The Feds don't mess around.  You should 
have someone here to protect your interests."

"I know what my interests are," she replied clearly, making 
no effort to match his hushed tone.  "I promise I'll be 
fine."

There was a tense moment of silence, then Jeff stepped around 
her to the door.  "I'll call you later," he said, and to me 
it sounded like a warning.  

Lee-Lee seemed relieved to have him gone. "Sorry about that," 
she said.  "He and Andy have been pretty protective of me 
ever since..."

"Ever since you got out of the hospital?" I finished gently.

She hesitated and then gave a quick nod.  "I guess I don't 
blame them, but it's frustrating sometimes.  I feel like I 
just got my life back, and now it should be up to me what to 
do with it, you know?"

I did know.  I remembered the breathless seconds that 
followed my doctor's announcement, how it felt to live a 
miracle.  "What do you want to do?" I asked as I followed her 
to the sofa.

She shrugged and ducked her head.  "I don't know.  When I was 
young I wanted to travel.  There were pictures in our 
geography book of India, China...places that seemed so 
different from here.  I used to imagine what it might be like 
to live somewhere else."

I thought of the trial and the allegations of incest.  No 
wonder she had wanted to get away.  "Perhaps now you can find 
out," I said.

"No."  Her face became shadowed.  "No, I can't."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."  She drew her legs up under her and sucked 
her hands into her sweater sleeves.  "So what did you want to 
ask me?  I told you I don't really know anything."

"Yes, I know what you said, but you also didn't seem very 
surprised to have me show up here this afternoon." 

"Wouldn't you expect it?  You're not the first one to wonder 
about my name.  Jeff said you would probably be coming 
around."

"You think I'm here because of your name?"

"Aren't you?"  She looked confused.  "Haven't you heard the 
story about her?"

"Yes, I've heard the story.  I think it's very sad."

Lee-Lee nodded and turned to look out the window toward the 
setting sun.  The light turned her eyes almost black.  "My 
mother believed it, you know.  She believed Elysian was a 
witch and that she would come back one day to burn the town.  
That's why she named me after her, so that I might escape the 
fire."

"So far it seems to be working."

She jerked her gaze back to me.  "I'm not setting those 
fires."

"I didn't say you were.  But you were there when they 
happened."

"Afterward, yes.  Everyone was there."  She twisted her hands 
in her lap.  

"The fires started just a few weeks after you came back to 
live here.  Doesn't that seem odd?"

Her eyes filled with tears.  "I'm well now," she said 
miserably.  "Everyone said so.  It wasn't supposed to be like 
this."

She sniffled and I searched my pocket for a tissue.  I found 
several with deep creases from where they had been wedged 
aside, suddenly and wonderfully useless. 

"You think your illness has some connection to the fires?"  I 
asked as she wiped her eyes, and I made a mental note to talk 
to her doctors about her stay in the mental hospital.  Maybe 
it hadn't been just a nervous breakdown after all.

"No, not like you think.  I just..."  She broke off with a 
sniffle.

"Just what?"

"Sometimes...sometimes I think maybe I shouldn't have come 
back here.  Maybe it's too late."

Jeff had been saying something along those lines when I 
arrived, but I still didn't understand the reference. "Too 
late for what?"

She shook her head.  "I'm sorry.  I wish I could help you, 
really I do.  No one wants this to stop more than me."

"Then help us catch the killer.  Anything you've seen or 
heard that might help, no matter how small it seems, please 
tell me."

"I don't know anything."  For the first time since the 
conversation had started, I felt sure she was lying to me.  
But I had no proof, no leverage with which to push her.  She 
got up from the couch and went to stand near the door.  "I 
think you should go now."

I searched for some way to keep the conversation going but 
found none, so I stood to leave.  As I reached the door, I 
handed her my card with the hotel number scribbled on the 
back.  "If you think of anything, please call me."

She studied the FBI logo for a long moment.  "I heard you 
investigate impossible things," she said.

"In a way, yes.  But I would say the cases are surprising, 
not impossible."

She looked at the card again and then back up at me.  "Do you 
think if you believe in something hard enough you can make it 
true?"

"I believe you should be careful what you wish for."

She shut the door behind me without a reply, but I could feel 
her watching as I drove away.

XxXxX

Back at Cathleen Duncan's house, I decided to go for a run 
before Mulder returned.  It was an activity I'd embraced with 
gusto since my recovery.  No longer fatigued or nauseated, I 
relished the feel of the pavement pounding against my feet as 
my legs carried me swiftly along.   With each step I was 
making friends with my body again, believing in its strength 
and sweating out the sense of betrayal.   

I did six miles and met Mulder in the hall on my way to the 
shower.  Dressed only in sweatpants, he was leaving the 
bathroom as I was heading in.  I tried not to watch the 
errant droplets sliding along his collarbone.  "Hey," he 
greeted me as he rubbed his head with a towel.  "How did it 
go with Lee-Lee?"

"It was interesting.  I got to meet stepbrother number two."

"Oh, yeah?"

"They were arguing when I got there but hushed it up quickly 
after that.  He was not thrilled when he found out the 
purpose of my visit."

"Did he let you talk to her?"

"Yes, she kicked him out, and I think it's a safe bet he ran 
to Chief Purcell with the whole story.  I'll tell you all 
about it after I shower, okay?"

He nodded.  "Should be a good conversation.  I've got my own 
two cents to add."

I took over the bathroom and stripped out of my robe.  As I 
stepped into the tub, my nipples hardened, kissed by Mulder's 
steam.  My body warmed to the wet embrace, and when I turned 
the slippery handle I groaned with the pipes as the hot spray 
came to life over my head. 

The shower lasted a little longer than usual.




When I returned to my room he was sprawled on top of my bed, 
but at least he had added a tee-shirt to his attire.  "Hot 
shower?" he asked, and I was glad the water had already 
pinkened my skin.  

"I have to get dressed, Mulder."

"Who's stopping you?"

"Mulder."

"Okay, okay."  He got up and pulled a stack of print outs 
from my bedside table.  "I just wanted to show you these."

As he handed me the images, he stood so close I could smell 
the traces of soap on his skin. "What am I looking at here?"

"These are crowd scenes printed from news footage from each 
of the fires.  Kazdin slipped them to me after our tour of 
the crime scenes."

I searched the grainy faces for Lee-Lee. "Any luck?"

"Yup, right there."  He tapped the paper in my hand.  "And 
here..." He pulled out another page.  "And here...all in all, 
Lee-Lee Centara shows up at seven of the ten fires."

"She denied setting them," I said as I studied the images, 
"and right now I don't think --"

"Hello?"  There was a knock at the partially-opened door, and 
Cathleen Duncan poked her head in.  "Oh, excuse me," she said 
when she caught sight of us.  Mulder stepped back, and I 
smoothed my robe self-consciously.

"No, it's fine," I said as she started to back away.  "What 
can we do for you?"

She halted awkwardly in the door.  "Oh, I was just wondering 
if you would like to join me for dinner.  I've got more 
vegetable soup and biscuits than I know what to do with."

It was the best offer we'd had all day, so Mulder followed 
her to the kitchen while I threw on some clothes.  When I 
joined them a few minutes later, Mulder was chopping parsley 
as Cathleen set the table.  "Can I help?" I asked, but she 
waved me aside.

"Sit, sit.  Everything is about done, anyway."  She set out 
the glasses.  "I don't know what I can offer to drink -- 
there's only juice, milk and water around here."

"Water is fine, thank you.  It smells absolutely amazing in 
here."

Cathleen grinned.  "These big old kitchens are just made for 
day-long cooking.  I'm happy to have the chance to do it 
again."  She put down her crutches and sat next to me as 
Mulder ladled out generous portions of soup.  I leaned over 
to inhale the rising scent of herbs and vegetables.

Mulder shoveled in several mouthfuls before proclaiming the 
soup magnificent.  It was the first time in weeks that he 
seemed more focused on his own plate than how much I was 
eating.  Perhaps we were both finally healing.

"How is the case coming?" Cathleen wanted to know.  "Have you 
found Elysian yet?"

"Actually, yes," Mulder answered.  "She works at the diner 
downtown."

Cathleen's eyes widened.  "Oh my goodness, I'd forgotten all 
about Lee-Lee.  No one in school ever called her by her given 
name."

"You went to school with her?" I asked, breaking apart a 
fluffy biscuit.

"She was a year ahead of me, but yes, I knew her.  No one 
could believe what happened."

"So it's true about her uncle, then?" Mulder said.

"Well, I guess it was.  That's what came out at the trial, in 
any case.  I was always a little surprised that they charged 
Katherine with first degree murder given the extenuating 
circumstances.  If you ask me, her attorney should have been 
able to negotiate a better deal."  She sighed.  "But no one 
ever said Stan Garber was the sharpest knife in the drawer."

Mulder coughed on his water.  "Stanley Garber was Katherine's 
attorney?"

"Yes, why?" Cathleen asked. 

"He was one of the people who burned to death in the fires."  
He sat up in his seat, leaning eagerly toward Cathleen.  
"What about Regina Tuttlesworth or Joe Bowman?  Any 
connection there?"

Cathleen gave a helpless shrug.  "Not that I know of, but I 
was fourteen at the time of the trial.  I don't remember all 
the details."

"Mulder, what are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking revenge might have been the motive all along, 
Scully.  Maybe we've just been working the wrong century."

XxXxX

That night, an explosion rocked my sleep.  I awoke with a 
jolt, sitting straight up in bed, but there was no noise.  No 
screams, no crashes, not even a whisper.  A ghostly silence 
swallowed all sound, leaving me with only the pounding of my 
heart.  A dream?

I waited, tense and expectant.

After a few seconds, strange light flickered through my room.  
I tangled myself in the covers, dragging the sheet with me in 
my race to the window.  Mulder's footsteps sounded in the 
hall.

"Scully?"

"Fire!" I shouted to him, not turning around.  The flames 
danced just out of my range of sight, so I couldn't identify 
the source of the blaze.  "Find Cathleen and call 911!"

I opened the window and shivered in the blast of icy wind.  
The smell of burning gas and melting rubber wafted toward me 
in clouds of black smoke, and I coughed as I recognized the 
frame of our rented Taurus between the roaring flames.

Someone had set fire to our car.
Someone who might still be outside.

"Mulder."  I grabbed my gun from its holster, searching the 
floor for my shoes.  I was almost out the door when the phone 
ran, its jangling blending with the wail oncoming sirens.  
Hesitating,, I snatched up the receiver.  "Hello?"

"Get out of Tiburton."  The voice was low and raspy, 
punctuated with shallow breaths.  

"Who is this?" 

"You've been warned," it said again, and the line went dead.

XxXxX

End Chapter Four.  Continued in Chapter Five.

XxXxX

Chapter Five

XxXxX

The air was thick with the noxious stench of burning gas, 
melting rubber and charred leather.  Red lights from the fire 
trucks swirled through the smoke billowing into the sky as 
Mulder and I stood on the front lawn, wool coats covering our 
thin nightclothes in the bitter November night.  The heat 
from the fire melted the frost at our feet.  Beside us, 
Cathleen Duncan was rigid with anger.  A few yards closer and 
her 300 year-old house would have been in danger from the 
blaze.  

"This wasn't any witch who did this," she said, her fingers 
clenched on her crutches.

"Not unless witches have taken to making telephone calls," I 
agreed, and Mulder looked at me sharply. 

"What?"

I sighed.  "Someone called me a few minutes ago.  He or she 
wanted to make sure we got the message."

"Let me guess," Mulder said, eyeing the flames devouring our 
car, "quit the case or next time we might be in the car when 
it gets barbecued." 

"Well, the caller didn't have your way with words, but yes, 
that was the basic theme of our exchange."

"You didn't recognize the voice?"

"No," I replied, irritated because I couldn't give a better 
answer.   "It was raspy, like a whisper.  Probably male but I 
couldn't say for sure."

Just then a police car jerked to a halt in front of the 
house, its front right tire hopping the curb onto the 
sidewalk.  John Kazdin leapt from the driver's side and 
pushed past the gathering crowd to join us on the lawn.  
"What the hell happened?" he demanded as he climbed the hill.  

"Someone torched our car and then called Scully to gloat 
about it," Mulder answered, but Kazdin did not seem to hear 
him.  His eyes were on Cathleen.

"Cathy, are you okay?"  He enclosed her in a fierce, brief 
hug, careful not to knock her off balance.  The familiarity 
of the embrace, the instinctive tilt of their bodies into a 
moment of perfect unity, told me all I needed to know about 
their prior relationship.  She patted his back and shifted 
away.

"I'm fine, John.  No one got hurt."

His face shadowed with disbelief, Kazdin gave a quick nod, 
and I recognized this pas de deux as well.  It was a dance 
Mulder and I had perfected in the last year -- perfunctory 
questions with automatic answers.

"You two pissed someone off pretty good," Kazdin observed as 
he moved to stand next to Mulder.  The dying flames danced in 
the black of his eyes.

"Everyone's got to have a talent," Mulder answered.

Kazdin ignored him.  "Witnesses?"

I shook my head, stepping in line with them.  "None so far.  
But the explosion was enough to wake the dead."

"Hey!"  We turned in unison to find an overweight man of 
about sixty trudging up the path.  It was two in the morning, 
but he wore a suit. 	

Kazdin straightened his shoulders as the man drew near. 
"Mayor Purcell," he said by way of greeting, and Mulder and I 
exchanged a look behind his back.  Apparently we were now 
important enough to draw out the big guns.

"Kazdin, what's happening?"

"Car fire, Sir.  No witnesses so far."

Purcell nodded as though he'd been told the secret of the 
ages, then squinted at Mulder and me.  "You the FBI?"

"Agents Scully and Mulder," I answered, and he gave my hand 
the politician squeeze. "It was our car that blew."

He raised his eyebrows.  "Connected with the case?"

"We think so, yes."

Purcell nodded again, clasping his hands behind his back and 
rocking on his heels.  We watched together as the 
firefighters hosed down the blackened shell of our Taurus.  
"I understand you've been questioning my family," Purcell 
said after a few moments, his eyes still on the scene below.

"I talked to Lee-Lee this afternoon," I replied.  "But 
there's been no formal inquiry."

He jerked his head around to me, his chubby cheeks puffed 
with repressed anger.  "Damn straight there's been no formal 
inquiry.  You people ought to be ashamed of yourselves, 
dragging her into this mess on account of some old ghost 
story.  Lee-Lee's a good girl.  She didn't have anything to 
do with these fires."

Mulder scratched the back of his head.  "So your family keeps 
telling us," he said, and I saw him glance at the remains of 
our car.

Mayor Purcell scowled.  "You don't get it, do you?  Lee-Lee's 
a sensitive girl.  Your questions...the stress..."  He broke 
off with a muttered curse, grinding his toe into the grass at 
his feet.  "I just don't want to see her get hurt again."

The crowds in the street were beginning to break up as the 
firefighters reined in their hoses.  I wondered if my caller 
was somewhere in the shadows, watching the last tendrils of 
smoke curl into the night sky. 

Purcell interrupted my thoughts with quick, sharp words.  
"You talked to her," he said, meeting my eyes.  "You must 
know she couldn't do this sort of thing."

"Mr. Purcell, I don't know your stepdaughter well enough to 
answer that question.  But I will say this -- she's stronger 
than you think."

The wind, tinged with black smoke and gas fumes, sliced 
through our little circle and made Purcell's thin hair stand 
on end.  "One o'clock tomorrow in my office," he said.  "I'll 
have Lee-Lee there and you can ask all the questions you 
want.  Then I expect we will consider this matter settled."

He huffed his way back down the hill without waiting for our 
answer.  Cathleen shivered in his wake.  "I don't care how 
many votes he gets every year," she said.  "He always seems 
like a bully to me."

"Aw, he's not that bad," Kazdin protested.  "He's just 
protecting his family, that's all."

Cathleen stuck out her chin.  "Don't kid yourself.  Lee-Lee's 
not his family...those boys are.  Men like Carson Purcell, 
they know the difference."  She pulled her coat tight around 
her body, then adjusted her position on the crutches.  "I'm 
going inside.  There's hot tea in a few minutes for anyone 
who wants it."

She was careful not to look at Kazdin as she made the 
invitation, but even in the darkness, I saw his jaw tighten.  
"I can't," he said.

"Of course," she answered softly.  And then she was gone.

"Shit," Kazdin said in her absence.  There didn't seem to be 
any good reply to that, so Mulder and I kept quiet.  After a 
moment, he turned to face us.  "I didn't realize you 
questioned Lee-Lee," he said, his tone somewhat accusing.

"Not extensively," I countered.  "We talked for a few 
minutes."

Kazdin shook his head.  "You don't get it.  It doesn't work 
like DC here.  You can question folks all you want, but you 
aren't going to get any answers until you understand where 
they're coming from."

"And where is that?" Mulder asked.

"Here," Kazdin answered, spreading his arms.  "Most people 
have lived in Tiburton all their lives.  Their parents are 
here, their grandparents are here..."  He took a deep breath.  
"Look, I'm not saying you can't push.  But you've got to be 
subtle about it.  You want to come in here and shake things 
up, but whatever falls loose, these folks are going to have 
to live with the consequences."

"They are already living with the consequences," I said.  
"Someone is setting these fires for a reason."

"Yes, I get that.  But for someone -- maybe more than one 
person -- the fires are not as bad as the reason behind 
them."

Mulder tilted his head to one side.  "You think she's doing 
it, don't you?"

Kazdin looked away for a long minute before replying.  "Let's 
just say I'd like to be at the meeting tomorrow afternoon."

"Fine by me," Mulder said.  "But I don't know how much we'll 
get from Lee-Lee if her pit-bull relatives are around.  Hey, 
I wanted to ask you...Joe Bowman and Regina Tuttlesworth, 
were they connected to Katherine Centara's trial in any way?"

Kazdin looked at the stars as he considered.  "I was fifteen 
back then so the details are pretty fuzzy.  I know Stan 
Garber was her attorney, but..."  He looked back at us 
suddenly.  "You know, I think Regina might have been involved 
in the trial.  The name does sound familiar.  I can check and 
let you know, okay?"

"Great," Mulder said, and we moved a few steps closer to the 
house.  Kazdin halted as we reached the path.

"I'll be in touch," he said.  He glanced from us to the 
house.  "Give Cathy my regrets."

"Sure," I said.

But I suspected she already had them.

XxXxX

Back in bed, I could not sleep.  The moon pushed eerie white 
light into my room, and I flipped under its glare for twenty 
minutes before rising from my tangle of covers.  The glowing 
shafts drew me to the window, where I squinted up at the pan-
flat face in the sky.  I followed its beams to the earth and 
found a familiar figure hunched inside his black coat, 
leaning against the well in the yard.

I was not surprised by our shared restlessness; Mulder's 
movements had long had the power to make my senses hum.

My coat and shoes were still handy from my last outing, so I 
slipped them on and went to join him in the moon-lit yard.  
The air was a strange mix of burned car and dead leaves.  
Remnants of both crunched under my feet as I made my way 
across the lawn.

He looked up at my approach and slid aside without a word so 
that I could have a piece of the well.  "Find a wish after 
all?" I asked as I took my place.  He shook his head slowly.

"I was thinking about what Kazdin said...about living with 
the consequences."

"And now you think we shouldn't push Lee-Lee?  Mulder, what 
he said was--"

"I found Samantha."

"You what?"  I turned to look at him.  He tightened his lips 
and turned his eyes to the ground.

"Well, 'found' might not be the best word for it.  More like 
she was dangled in front of me in exchange for my 
cooperation."

"The deal," I said, with sudden realization.  "The one you 
told me about."

He let out a long breath and nodded.  "Just like getting a 
toaster with your new checking account -- bank with Morley & 
Company and get one free sister and the cure for cancer."

My fingers flew automatically to the back of my neck.  I 
rubbed the tiny scar as my stomach folded in on itself.  "I 
thought you said you didn't take it," I blurted, unable to 
look at him.

"I didn't."

"Then how...?"

"A freebie.  A tease.  Maybe part of some greater plan.  I 
don't know."

"I can't believe you didn't tell me."  My voice was sharp as 
the wind and brittle as the leaves.

"Oh, you must have known," he answered, pushing away from the 
well.  "Where the hell did you think the chip came from?  Did 
you think I just found it under my pillow one morning, like 
the tooth fairy?"

"No, but..."

"But nothing!  You knew, Scully.  You knew but you couldn't 
bring yourself to ask.  You didn't want to hear the dirty 
details, and I can't even blame you."  He paused, his angry 
breath evaporating in the night air.  "Consequences, Scully," 
he said more softly.  "You didn't want them."

I felt the my face flush hot. "How can you speak to me about 
consequences?  I live them every day, Mulder!  I've lived 
them in hospitals, in cemeteries...even inside my own skin.  
Maybe I don't talk about the things I've lost, but that 
doesn't mean I'm not aware of them.  It doesn't mean that I 
don't want answers, that --" 

"Scully..." He tried to cut me off.

"--that I don't want justice.  You've convinced me, Mulder.  
You said this work was important, and I've seen more than 
enough to believe you're right.  I'm in this as deep as you 
are, maybe deeper.  And now you seem like you're just giving 
up, and I don't understand that, and --"

"Scully!"  He grabbed me by the shoulders.  I stopped, trying 
to catch my breath, and he squeezed me hard.  "I know.  I 
know what you've risked, Scully...what you've lost.  No one 
knows more than me."

I wilted, suddenly spent.  "Then why are you stopping?"

"Why aren't you?"

Our eyes held for a long minute before he dropped his hands.  
I swayed at the loss of connection, unaware he had been 
holding me up.  He turned away with a jerk and returned to 
his spot against the well, arms folded over his chest.  I 
stood rooted in place, staring dumbstruck at a Mulder who was 
no longer there.   When movement returned, I resumed my 
position at his side.

"Is it because of Samantha?" I asked after a minute.  "You 
know the truth and so that's it for you?"

He snorted.  "Some truth.  Let me tell you how it was."  I 
listened as he recounted the painful conversation, complete 
with her tearful exit.

"So you think it was really her?" I asked when he fell 
silent.  I couldn't imagine it was.  I couldn't imagine that 
she would just walk away if she were the real thing.  

Mulder considered my question for a long time.  "I don't 
know," he whispered at last.  "I always thought I would know, 
that I could be sure...but now..."  He shrugged.  "Maybe 
there have been too many lies.  Maybe you've convinced me, 
too, Scully, and now I need proof."

"We can find that proof," I said, my throat aching at his 
defeated tone.  He shook his head.  "Mulder..."

"I've been trying to figure out why I didn't follow them, or 
why I haven't made any effort to track her down.  I could do 
it, I suppose.  I could find a way to get to her, maybe prove 
she was a fraud...maybe find she wasn't.  Maybe she really is 
a suburban mom with a husband and a life that doesn't need 
disrupting."

"You can't really believe that.  If that woman was really 
your sister, she has a right to know the truth.  So do you."

His hands clenched, he dropped his head, the fine arch of his 
neck pale in the moonlight.  "She doesn't remember what I 
remember, Scully.  She doesn't seem to want to remember.  And 
maybe I don't have the right to question that, because..."

I waited, watching his shadowed profile for several long 
moments.  "Because?"

"Because even if it's her, even if I do find Samantha...I'm 
never going to get her back.  Not really."  He looked up at 
last.  "And that's the truth."

I moved closer to him, the cold, hard stone digging into my 
lower back.  Our shoulders touched, warm and solid, and we 
were silent for a long time.  I let his sadness seep into me, 
absorbing it and making it my own the way I always did with 
Mulder's pain.  This sense of loss I understood.  My sister 
was had not vanished the way Mulder's did.  There was no 
endless quest on her behalf, no chasing traces of her around 
the world.  Melissa was forever still.

This year I turned thirty-three, the age Melissa was when she 
died.  Next year, I would be the older sister.  There weren't 
words sufficient to describe the heartache that gripped me 
whenever I thought of that.

But Mulder knew.

His hand crept across to find mine, and he squeezed it hard 
before releasing me with a sigh.  "I'm tired, Scully."

"It's late," I replied, forcing myself to take the easier 
meaning of his words.  He nodded and let me keep my 
illusions.

We crept inside the dark house and tried not to make too much 
noise on the creaking staircase as we returned to our rooms.  
Mulder murmured good-night to me outside my door, brushing my 
fingers with his, and I hurried inside before I could give in 
and pull him with me.  As I burrowed under the covers, I 
realized the moon was gone from my window.  I was plunged 
into darkness once more.

XxXxX 

End chapter five.  Continued in chapter six.

XxXxX

Chapter Six

XxXxX

The crack of dawn parted to reveal a bitter gray sky with 
low-slung clouds, as if the ashes from the night hung 
suspended in the air over us.  The wind rattling the panes of 
my window, I shivered into my clothes with haste and escaped 
into the quiet shadows of the hall.  Mulder's door was still 
closed.  I debated a minute whether to knock, but then 
decided I should search out some coffee before searching out 
Mulder.

Downstairs, the kitchen radiated warm light and the scent of 
cinnamon and black coffee.  I gathered that either Cathleen 
was an early riser by nature or the events of the previous 
evening had troubled her sleep.  I felt a prick of 
conscience, remembering my talk with Mulder about 
consequences.  It seemed unfair of us to drag ours into her 
home.

Nearing the door, I stopped short at the sound of voices 
coming from within the kitchen.  Kazdin had apparently 
decided it was okay to set foot inside the house and was 
saying something about the sink.  "...just need another U-
joint and a new valve here.  It would be no problem for me 
to..."

"No, John.  It's fine.  I'll take care of it."

There was a short pause and the sound of his boots scuffing 
on the hardwood floor.  "Silly to pay someone when I can do 
it in an hour."

"No.  I appreciate the offer, really.  I just don't think it 
would be appropriate."

"Appropriate?  I must have put months of my life into this 
place by now.  What does one more hour--"

"Amy Quinlan."  Her voice was so soft I nearly didn't hear 
her.  But Kazdin did.

"Makes no difference," he answered tightly.

Cathleen sighed.  "She's good for you, John, and I think -- "

"No!  I do not want to have this conversation with you."

I felt trapped, having listened too long but unable to break 
away. When at last I turned, I bumped into Mulder's chest.  
His hands gripped my arms.

"What's going on?" he asked in a low voice.

"Kazdin's here."  I could tell from the look on his face that 
he'd drawn the same conclusions about Kazdin's relationship 
with Cathleen.  "We should go."

Mulder nodded, but before we could move, Kazdin pushed into 
the hall.  "Hey," he said, crowding with us into the narrow 
space.  He cleared his throat.  "I, uh...I dropped off a car 
for you to use while you're here.  It's nothing special, just 
an old department Chevy, but it'll get the job done."

"Thanks," Mulder answered, and we all found cracks in the 
wall to study as the awkward moment lingered.  Finally, 
Kazdin spoke again.

"I checked some old newspaper clippings this morning, and 
Regina Tuttlesworth was involved in Katherine Centara's 
trial.  She was a neighbor who testified about the time of 
the gunshots coming from the Centara's house.  She also saw 
Lee-Lee running out the back door a few minutes later."

"What about Joe Bowman?" I asked.

Kazdin shook his head.  "Don't know yet.  I'll search the 
official records today and let you know what I find."  He 
held out his hand, dangling the keys between us until Mulder 
reached for them.  "See you at noon," he said, and then 
stalked out the front door.

"High noon on Main Street," Mulder murmured after he left.  
"I hope you remembered to pack your white hat and spurs, 
Scully."

"No, but I've got my six shooter."

"My hero," said Mulder, and we went into the kitchen for 
coffee.

XxXxX

The rain arrived before we finished breakfast, so Mulder and 
I waited out the hours before our showdown with the Purcell 
family at Cathleen's house.  She set us up in her own living 
room with a roaring fire --dutifully contained by an iron 
screen -- and plush golden chairs.  I let the warmth from the 
hearth chase away my chill as I pored over autopsy reports, 
but Mulder stood with the floor lamp by the window, as
far away as possible.  Between the howling wind and crackling 
fire, I could only hear snatches of his phone conversation.   
I knew he was trying to get through to Dr. Vitton, the man 
who had treated Lee-Lee after her breakdown.

At eleven-thirty, he finally sat down, his eyes on me and not 
on the fire. "We should get going soon."

"Did you reach Dr. Vitton?"

"Yes."

The rain filled his silence, pattering against the window
panes.  "And?" I prompted eventually.  "Did he talk to you?"

"Some.  He's very fond of Lee-Lee.  You can add him to the 
list of people who think she's incapable of committing these 
crimes."

"Fifteen years is a long time to be hospitalized for a mental 
disorder, Mulder.  There must have been something wrong with 
her."

He nodded.  "Vitton said she had some kind of dissociative 
disorder, presumably brought on by the abuse from her uncle 
and the trauma of his murder.  Lee-Lee didn't speak for 
almost a whole year after that night.  Since then, she's had 
recurring panic attacks every time they push her to talk 
about the details."

"It sounds vaguely like post-traumatic stress disorder," I 
said, and Mulder agreed.  "But then that doesn't make sense 
with the length of her hospitalization," I continued.  
"People with PTSD are usually out-patients."

Mulder leaned back in the chair and tapped his cell phone on 
his knee, looking thoughtful.  "What if I told you that 
Mayfield Hospital was a private institution?"

"You mean her family was paying to keep her there all those 
years?  Why would they do that?"

He shrugged.  "Maybe they know something about her that the 
doctors didn't.  Or maybe she knows something about them.  
All I know is Dr. Vitton was ready to release Lee-Lee three 
years ago.  He said she was nervous but looking forward to 
leaving."

"What happened?"

"She had a nice long visit with her family and the panic 
attacks started up again."

"So the implication is that they were keeping her sick.  If 
that's the case, why let her out now?  What's changed?"

"I don't know," he said, looking into the fire at last.  "I 
don't think we'll be able to answer that until we find out 
what happened the night Abe Centara was murdered.  There may 
have been a verdict, but there's been no resolution for these 
people.  Just look at the way they all treat Lee-Lee like 
she's still fifteen years old.  Time goes forward but not the 
Purcells -- they're still stuck in that one night."

His face was carefully neutral, but I could feel the 
undercurrent in his words, hear the sense of recognition.  
"So what do we do about it?" I asked.

"Only one thing we can do."  He stood up, his face grim as he 
studied the dying flames.  "We unstick them."

XxXxX

The rain had dissipated by the time we reached City Hall, but 
the wind had doubled in force.   It howled around us and 
shook leaves off the trees like a schoolyard bully as we 
hurried inside from the storm.  Carson Purcell's secretary, a 
woman with small eyes and a cloud of silver hair, gave us a 
frosty smile as we presented ourselves.  She picked up the 
phone.

"Sir?  They're here."

A moment later a door to our left opened and Purcell 
appeared, beefy hand extended.  "Right on time," he said as 
he pumped Mulder's hand.  "I like that -- shows respect.  You 
want some tea or coffee?  Soda?  I can have Evelyn fix you up 
in just a minute."

"No, thank you," I said.

He nodded, pleased with my answer.  "Just right," he said.  
"Just right.  Best to get down to business straightaway."

Just as he started to shepherd us toward his office, the 
front door flew open and Jeff Purcell lurched into the room 
out of breath.  "What the hell is going on?" he demanded, 
glaring from me and Mulder to his father.  "I stop by the 
station to talk to Andy and find out he's here with Lee-Lee 
for some hush-hush meeting you cooked up.  Funny, but my
name seems to have been left off the guest list."

Carson Purcell frowned.  "Calm down, Jeffrey.  It's not what 
you think.  The Feds have some questions for your sister, and 
I felt it would be better for her to answer them here than at 
the station."

"You already asked your questions," he said, scowling at me.  
"She told you she doesn't know anything."

"There's been another fire," I answered, and that revelation 
stopped him short for a minute.

He blinked.  "Where?  When?"

"Our car was torched last night," Mulder said.

"And you think Lee-Lee did it?  That's bullshit."

"Jeff, please.  Not here, not like this."  Carson Purcell's 
voice was low and steely.  I cast a glance at Evelyn, who was 
devouring the scene with clasped hands and eager eyes.  
Better than the daytime soaps.

"Fine," Jeff growled, straightening his wind-blown coat.  
"Let's go inside, then."  He started toward the office, but 
Purcell stopped him.

"It's crowded enough as it is.  If you want to wait here, you 
can, and I promise I'll fill you in afterward."

Jeff jerked his arm free.  "You're kicking me out?  I can't 
believe this!"

"Jeff, listen to me..."

"No, you listen!  I don't know what you and Andy think you're 
doing, but I am NOT going to sit in the yard like some 
goddamn dog while you manipulate Lee-Lee with touchy-feely 
interviews!  Just because I moved away, just because I got 
OUT of this shit hole doesn't mean you get to tell my side of 
the story."

"Is there a problem here?"  Andy Purcell emerged from the 
office. Drawn to his full height, he was a good five inches 
taller than his brother and heavier by about thirty pounds.

But Jeff was not backing down.  He pushed right into Andy's 
face and said, "Finally got what you wanted, little brother?  
You the man in charge now?  Did you hold her hand and promise 
it would be okay?"

"The fuck you know about it," spat Andy, pushing him away.  
"Where the hell have you been the past fifteen years?"

"Not here!" Jeff's voice was on the edge of tremble.  "So I 
didn't hang around on Dad's coattails.  So what!  You think 
this makes you better somehow?"

"That is enough!" Purcell cut in sharply.  He yanked Jeff by 
his elbow until his son stumbled backward a few steps.  "Get 
out," he ordered.  "Now."

The fury in Jeff's eyes was so strong that for a second I 
thought he would charge at Purcell, knocking him flat on the 
plush gray carpet. But the rage died impotent, and instead he 
stalked toward the door, kicking over a chair along the way.  
The door closed behind him with a reverberating slam that 
stirred our clothes with its breeze.  Purcell made a low 
noise in his throat and tugged at his tie.

"Sorry for that," he said, nodding at Evelyn to retrieve the 
errant chair.  "Shall we?"

His office was dim thanks to heavy red drapes and the clouds 
outside, and it smelled faintly of stale cigarettes.  Lee-Lee 
sat at the far end of a black leather sofa, huddled inside a 
beige trench coat.  Purcell lowered himself down next to her 
and squeezed her knee.  "Don't you worry, honey.  In a few 
minutes we'll have this all straightened out."

Mulder, Andy and I sat in the chairs provided, and then there 
was a short silence as we tried to figure out where to begin.  
To my surprise, Lee-Lee made the opening gambit.

"I didn't do it," she whispered, raising her eyes to mine.

"Do what?" Mulder interjected.

"The fire at your house last night.  Or any of the ones 
before, either.  Why can't you just believe me?"

"We believe you, honey," Purcell said soothingly, and patted 
her again.  Andy's jaw tightened as he nodded.

"Where were you last night?" I asked.

"Home in bed," she answered.  "I went to sleep early because 
I worked double shifts at the diner yesterday.  I didn't know 
about the fire until Andy called me this morning."

Before we could question her further, there was a short, loud 
knock on the door and John Kazdin burst into the room.  I had 
forgotten that he was supposed to be present for this 
discussion.  "Sorry I'm late," he said, his breathing uneven.  
"But I thought you might like to see this."

Mulder was closest, so he accepted the piece of paper Kazdin 
offered. He looked at it for a few seconds and then handed it 
to me without a word.  Purcell frowned.  "What is it?" he 
demanded.

It was a computer printout of the names of the men and women 
who had served on the jury that convicted Katherine Centara 
of murder in 1981. Number eight, circled in red ink, was  
Joseph Bowman.  I passed the list to Purcell and turned my 
attention back to Lee-Lee.  "What did you think of your 
mother's trial?" I asked.

She looked stricken.  "I...I wasn't there.  I was in the 
hospital."

"But you must have heard about it," I countered.  "You knew 
she was convicted, didn't you?"

Lee-Lee bowed her head and then nodded slowly.  "Yes."

"I don't see what this has to do with anything," Purcell 
broke in with a huff.

"Sir, you said you would let us ask all the questions we 
want," I told him.

He narrowed his eyes.  "Within reason."

Mulder leaned forward in his chair.  "Well, with three dead 
people connected to your wife's murder trial, I'd say these 
questions are not just reasonable but obvious."  He looked at 
Lee-Lee.  "What did you think about your mother going to 
prison?  She was trying to protect you, wasn't she?"

Lee-Lee's eyes filled with tears, and she covered her mouth 
with her hand.  "It's all my fault," she whispered through 
her fingers.  "I should have been there."

"Been where?" Mulder pressed.   Lee-Lee shook her head, mute.  
"You
were there the night of the murder, weren't you?  Regina 
Tuttlesworth testified that she saw you running out of the 
house after the gunshots."

"Can you blame her?" snapped Andy.  "Kat had just shot Abe in 
our driveway, for chrissake!"

"Did you see the shooting?" Mulder asked her.  "Is that why 
you ran?"

"I don't remember," she answered, swiping her eyes with 
delicate fingers.  Tears shimmered on her lashes.  "I don't 
remember that night.  But...but I should have been there, at 
the trial.  If I had been there, maybe they would have 
understood..."

She trailed off in an aching whisper, but I wanted the rest 
of the thought.  "Understood what?"

"My mother was a good person.  She never meant for this to
happen...none of us did."

I glanced sharply at Mulder to see if he had caught the odd 
phrasing of her words, and he gave me a tiny nod.  "What do 
you mean, 'none of us did'?" I asked.  Lee-Lee drew back, a 
little too quickly.

"Nothing, I...I just meant..."  Floundering, she looked to 
Andy for help, and he jumped right in.

"All right, that's enough.  This interview is over."  He 
stood and extended a hand to Lee-Lee.  "It's all horseshit, 
anyway."

"Mayor Purcell," Mulder started, but Purcell held up a hand 
to stop him.

"I think my son is right," he said as he rose.  "Lee-Lee has 
been through enough this year, and I don't want her bothered 
with this ridiculous theory any further."

Mulder looked to where Lee-Lee was being led from the room by
Andy.  "With all due respect, I don't know if that's going to 
be possible.  Someone is burning your town to the ground, and 
they don't show any signs of stopping."

Purcell wiped his palms on the front of his suit and moved to 
stand behind his sprawling oak desk.  He began shuffling 
papers around, and for a minute I thought he wasn't going to 
answer.  When he spoke, his voice was soft, his eyes still on 
his busywork.  "You've got nothing. A theory, that's all.  If 
you get more, you can come back and we'll talk again.  I'll 
be here."  He paused and looked up at last.  "And so will my 
lawyer."

We were clearly dismissed, so Kazdin, Mulder and I left the 
office under the watchful eye of Evelyn.  "Bye," she called 
with false sugar but true relish.  I would bet good money I 
knew where Purcell made his bed at night.

In the hall, Kazdin let out a long breath.  "I didn't want to 
believe it," he said, "but then I got that list and something 
inside me just went cold.  I'm thinking maybe you're right 
about Lee-Lee, that maybe she's been boiling over her 
mother's conviction all these years and now she's finally 
getting revenge.  I mean, hell, she always seemed sweet to 
me, but they didn't lock her up for fifteen years for 
nothing, right?"

"Right," answered Mulder, but he did not sound too sure. 
"Would it be possible for me to get transcripts from 
Katherine Centara's trial?" he asked as we walked down the 
steps toward the front door.

"Sure.  Ride back with me, and I'll get you the police 
records, too."

"Great.  I'll be with you in just a sec."

Mulder and I stood by the doors as Kazdin braved the wind and
rain.  "What are you looking for?" I asked.

"Fishing, mainly.  I don't know."  He scratched his head and 
moved a little closer.  "Scully, when she said that part 
about none of them meaning it to happen...what did you take 
that to mean?  We're talking gut reaction."

I hesitated.  "Well, it could mean anything, I suppose, but I 
had this flash..."

"Yeah?"

I took a deep breath.  "For a second it sounded like her 
relationship with Abe was consensual."

"Exactly."

"You think that's what everyone is trying to hide?"

"Could be.  It might help explain Lee-Lee's guilt over not 
testifying at her mother's trial."

"As in, perhaps the family didn't want her to testify.  
Interesting." I checked my watch.  "While you're chasing the 
court transcripts, I think I'll head over to the morgue and 
check out Joe Bowman's body."

"Good idea," he said, palming me the keys to our borrowed 
Chevy.  "I'll catch you back at Cathleen's then."

And we went our separate ways into the rain.

XxXxX

It was dark when I left the coroner's office, and the rain 
had begun to freeze.  Shivering under my umbrella, I walked 
across the slick street to the municipal parking facility to 
retrieve my car for the half hour drive back to Tiburton.  
The garage was nearly deserted, filled with long shadows and 
the stench of gas fumes and concrete.  The hollow echo of my 
heels on the pavement underscored my isolation, and I picked 
up my pace.

My heart contracted with relief at the sight of my car.  I 
slammed the door and leaned against the steering wheel for a 
moment, feeling ridiculous for letting the jitters get to me.

But I jumped at the sound of my cell phone just the same.

"Scully," I said, leaning back in my seat and running a hand 
through my hair.  Seven-thirty and it was already a long 
night.

"How was the dead guy?" Mulder asked.  I could hear him 
cracking sunflower seeds, and my stomach rumbled in empathy.

"Still dead.  I didn't get anything more than the county 
coroner.  In all likelihood, the killer used some form of 
accelerant on the body, but with the chemicals from his auto 
shop that blew with the fire, I can't say for sure.  Maybe 
the killer brought his own mix, maybe he just improvised."

"Well, the transcripts make interesting reading."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah.  Guess who blew the whistle to Katherine about Lee -
Lee's involvement with Abe?"

"Jeff?"

"You're half right.  It was a joint effort by Jeff and Andy."

"No kidding."  I yawned, and when I opened my eyes I noticed 
a piece of paper sitting on my windshield.  Had it been there 
all along?  "Mulder, hold on a second."  I craned my neck 
around but could not see anyone.

"What's going on?"

"There's something on my windshield," I said.  "A paper of 
some sort." I looked around again and decided to retrieve the 
slip from outside the car.  Phone to my ear, I got out and 
pulled the paper free from the windshield wipers.  It was a 
hand written note, penned in big block letters.

YOU WERE WARNED.

"Well?" Mulder said.  "What is it?"

"Mulder, I think..."  I was stopped by the sound of my own 
skull cracking.  Bright lights flashed in front of me as I 
fell to the ground, chin scraping the pavement while the 
phone skittered away.

Then all went black.

XxXxX

Continued in Chapter Seven.

XxXxX

Chapter Seven

XxXxX

I clawed my way out of the black unconsciousness, blinking 
against the radiating pain in my head.  My teeth throbbed as 
my stomach roiled, and dirt and stale exhaust fumes from the 
pavement stung my eyes.  The memory of my attack came 
flooding back, followed by a bolt of panic.  Maybe I still 
had company.  Gingerly, I lifted my head from the ground to 
see. 

Big mistake.  The world spun around me like a merry-go-round 
from hell, and I scraped my fingernails against the concrete 
in a vain effort to hold on.

"Scully! What's going on?  Scully, answer me!"

It was Mulder's voice.  He sounded far away, like he was 
talking through a sea-shell, only the roar of the waves was 
inside my head.  "Mulder?" I whispered, swallowing my rising 
nausea.

"Scully!  Answer me, dammit!"

"Mulder."  My cheek still resting on the cold, gritty 
pavement, I opened my eyes again and saw the source of his 
pleas.  It was my cell phone, which had slid under my car 
during the attack and now lay just out of reach.  I stretched 
my fingers toward it.  "Mulder, I'm here," I called, inching 
along the ground.

"Scully?"

My fingertips brushed the phone and caused it to turn a 
pirouette on the oil-stained concrete.  I slithered closer, 
trying to keep my head as still as possible.  Halfway under 
the car, I finally made full contact.

"...hell is going on? Scu--"

"Mulder."  I lay flat again, eyes closed.

"Finally," he snapped, but I heard the relief in his voice.  
"What the hell happened?"

"Someone hit me from behind...knocked me out."

"Jesus," he choked.  "Are you okay?"

"Mmm, okay.  A little dizzy, s'all."

"Don't move.  I'll get help, all right?  Just stay still."  I 
could hear him pounding down the stairs of Cathleen's house.  
"Where are you?  Is the guy still there?"

I opened my eyes again, squinting into the shadows of the 
garage.  "I don't know," I whispered.  "I never saw him."

"Okay, just hang on.  Where are you?"

The waves in my head rolled as I struggled to come up with 
the name.  "Lawrence," I said finally.  "The parking garage 
across from the county coroner's office."

"Just a second."  I heard the phone muffled against his chest 
and the sound of voices in the background.  In a moment, 
Cathleen came on the line.

"Dana?"  She sounded worried but calm.  "Mulder's calling 911 
right now.  Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," I insisted, attempting to sit up again.  Pain 
lanced through my head, blazing against the back of my 
eyeballs.  I bit back a moan.

"Just lie still," Cathleen said.  "Don't try to get up." 

There was blood on my hands from where I'd scraped them in 
the fall, and they shook slightly as I tried to rise.  
"No...it's okay, really.  I'm..."   I stopped short as my 
vision blurred, the world fading to black.

"Help's on the way right now," Cathleen said, her voice 
sounding distant and tinny over the ringing in my ears.  
"It'll be okay."

I didn't have the energy to answer, so I lay limp and dazed 
while she babbled about the skill of the Lawrence EMTs who 
had taken care of her last year.  So tired, I thought, 
fighting to follow her words.  I felt like I was sinking into 
the concrete.  After another few moments, Mulder came back on 
the line. "Scully?   Scully, you still there?"

"Yes."

"There should be someone with you in under five minutes," he 
said, "and I'm on my way."

"Mulder, you don't have to..." I trailed off when I heard a 
car door slam.  Dimly, I realized he must have asked Kazdin 
to drive him.

"Fifteen minutes, Scully.  We're going to run the siren."  He 
was trying for humor, but I caught the frayed edge of fear 
underneath.  I imagined him leaning forward in his seat with 
the phone pressed against his ear, his free hand gripping the 
door handle as he prepared to leap from the car the moment it 
stopped.

I'm fine, I tried to reassure him.  No fuss necessary.  But 
the words got lost in the dizzy twirl inside my head.

"Scully, talk to me.  You've got to stay awake."

"M'awake," I managed, beginning to shiver on the cold, hard 
ground.  The rain had started again in full force; I could 
hear it rushing past the garage opening, the hissing sound 
wending its way into my semi-consciousness.  So sleepy.  I 
wondered if I was in shock.  

"Scully, we're...few...the...road block...around, okay?...on."  Mulder 
crackled in and out on a wave of static.

"What?"

"...Sc...re me?"

My fingers ached with cold, numb around the phone.  "I can't 
hear you, Mulder," I whispered, drifting further away.

"...ly!"

A crack of thunder exploded, shattering the air around me, 
but I didn't open my eyes.  This is the way the world ends, I 
thought.

And the phone slid from my grasp.

XxXxX  

I awoke to the sound of sirens echoing in the garage, and 
within seconds there were two EMTs and a pair of uniform cops 
buzzing around me.  The ones with the blankets had as many 
questions as the ones with the guns, each side pushing me for 
answers about the attack.

"Did you see the guy before he hit you?"

"Do you have any pain in your neck?"

"Anyone suspicious hanging around when you walked in?"

"Can you follow my finger, please?"

"When did you first see the note on your car?"

Still shivering, I did my best to answer them all as I was 
strapped onto a gurney bound for Lawrence General Hospital.  
The screech of tires on the entry ramp caused us all to jump, 
but then I recognized a familiar door slam.  "Scully!"  
Mulder pushed his way through all my inquisitors until his 
face was directly over mine, his worried eyes taking in my 
bumps and scrapes.   "You okay?" he asked, breathless.

I nodded and regretted it.  "It's not that bad.  I'll be 
fine." 

Just then one of the cops appeared with a length of lead 
pipe.  "Found this in the back stairwell," he said, holding 
it out for our inspection.  Mulder's lips tightened and he 
stepped a little closer to me, as if the threat was somehow 
still real.  "It's got blood on the end here," the cop 
continued.  "Looks like some hair, too."

The sight of the pipe waving in the air made my head throb 
and my stomach roil.  Kazdin took one look at me and tugged 
the cop aside.  "Let's just get it bagged, okay?"

"Time to go," declared one of the EMTs, opening the back 
doors of the ambulance.  Mulder frowned.

"I'm coming with you."

"No," I protested weakly.  "Someone needs to stay here, find 
out what happened..."

"I'm on it," Kazdin said, stepping into my line of sight.  
"I'll run this down to the end, I promise."

So Mulder followed the gurney into the ambulance, hunching 
next to me on a bench as the ambulance lurched to a start.  
Seconds later, we were swaying gently en route to the 
hospital.  I opened my eyes a bit and saw Mulder chewing on 
his thumbnail. "I don't get it," he said when he caught me 
looking.  "Why you?  First the phone call, now this...it 
doesn't make sense."

Shaky as I was, I still felt a flash of anger.  Of course it 
made sense.  No matter how hard I pushed, at the end of the 
day I was still smaller and weaker -- a more horrific victim 
with my slim hands and curves than Mulder was in his broad-
shouldered strength.  But the worst part was always 
afterward, when Mulder himself looked at me with fresh 
knowledge of my vulnerability.  I vowed not to let him do it 
this time.  "Well, you weren't exactly an easy target 
tonight," I said.  "You were off with Kazdin and then back at 
Cathleen's."

He did not answer me, so I closed my eyes again, shivering 
under my damp clothes and scratchy blanket.  "Cold?" Mulder 
asked, and moments later I felt his hand groping for mine.  
He gently extricated my whole arm, setting it onto the warm 
denim of his lap.  I let myself doze for a few seconds as he 
rubbed some heat back into my stiff, frozen fingers.  He 
brought me back with a sharp tug.

"Got to stay awake," he murmured, slipping back into a 
rhythmic caress.

"Trying."

"Keep talking, it'll help."  He paused.  "You didn't get any 
look at the guy?  Not even on your way into the garage?"

Guy, he said, assuming my attacker was male.  I'd done the 
same thing.  But a sudden thought troubled me.  "Mulder, what 
you said...about me getting the phone call."

He scooted closer.  "Yeah?"

"It was the bedroom phone, not my cell.  I doubt that number 
is listed."

"Probably not.  So?"

"I gave it out that day," I said, "to Lee-Lee Centara."  

Mulder didn't answer, his face grim.  We did not speak again 
for the remainder of the ride, and no amount of Mulder's 
rubbing was enough to chase away my chill.

XxXxX

The memories rode in immediately, on a scent wave of latex 
and starch.  My skin felt suddenly hot and tight, even as my 
blood ran cold.  There were too few days between me and my 
last trip into the war zone of my health; I wasn't ready for 
another tour just yet.   With bright lights in my eyes and 
pricks in my arm, I was poked, prodded and scanned by a half 
dozen doctors. They took pictures of my brain while I churned 
my secret terror -- what if it was back?

My results came back clean.  I know because we looked at them 
together -- the ER doctors studying the small hemorrhage at 
the back of my head as I searched the middle for any traces 
of a tumor.  Their brows wrinkled in concern, but I lay back 
in relief at my continued suspended sentence.  Around eleven, 
the doctors were debating in the hall whether to keep me, but 
I had had enough.

"Hand me my clothes," I said to Mulder, who was lurking by 
the window with an aura of ennui, staring at the incandescent 
raindrops as they slid down the glass.  

"What?"

"My clothes," I repeated, easing out from under the thin 
sheets.  "I'm fine, and it's time to go."

He blinked at me for a few seconds and then reluctantly 
gathered my rumpled suit from the chair.  "Scully, the 
doctors said -- "

"Mulder."  I waited until he met my eyes.  "No hospital."  

He searched my gaze and saw I meant it.  "All right," he 
murmured, relenting.

Mulder stood with his back to me as I wriggled into my suit, 
the discarded cotton hospital gown lying in a warm heap at my 
feet. I swayed as my balance slipped, but finally managed to 
get both legs into my pants.  My main doctor, Peter Newton, 
entered just as I was brushing the worst of the parking lot 
grit off of my jacket.

Dr. Newton had a round, pink head that was trimmed with white 
fringe.  Like Santa without the beard, I thought, and guessed 
he was probably popular with children.  "Well," he said when 
he saw me.  "We were just trying to decide if we should keep 
you tonight for observation, but I see you've already made up 
your mind about that one."

"I'm fine, really," I said.  "I'm not even dizzy any more."

"Hmm," he answered, looking at my chart.  "It really would be 
better to have someone keep an eye on you tonight, just to be 
sure.  Head injuries can sometimes be unpredictable."

"I'll keep an eye on her," Mulder volunteered, and I turned 
to look at him.  His expression was unreadable.  Dr. Newton 
squinted at him appraisingly.  

"You'll have to wake her every hour or so.  And if there's 
any double vision, disorientation or slurred speech she'll 
need to be back in the ER immediately."

"I can do that," Mulder agreed with no hesitation. 

Dr. Newton thought for another second, then nodded.  "Okay, 
then," he said as he handed me the list of warning symptoms.  
"At least let me write you a prescription for the pain, just 
in case it gets worse later on."

"Not necessary," I said, retrieving my coat.  Dr. Newton 
frowned, and Mulder placed a hand on my back.

"I'll give her a bullet to bite," he said, deadpan.  I didn't 
quibble so long as we kept moving in the direction of the 
door.  By the time we reached the glowing red exit sign, my 
breathing had eased considerably.

Outside we found Kazdin, smoking under the front awning as 
rain dripped all around him.  From the lines on his face and 
the number of butts at his feet, I guessed I wasn't the only 
one with painful hospital memories.  He crushed out his 
cigarette when he saw us coming.  "What's the word?" he 
asked.

"I'm fine," I assured him.

"As hard-headed as they get," Mulder drawled, and I glared at 
him -- but not too long.  His terror had clearly not worn off 
yet if he was still reduced to such obvious punch-lines.

"The Lawrence PD has agreed to turn the case over to us," 
Kazdin said.  "They're sending us the reports and stuff in 
the morning.  In the meantime, I can drive you home."

Mulder and I waited, surrounded by the cold and the sound of 
dripping rain, while Kazdin retrieved his squad car.  When he 
pulled up, I climbed in the back and was surprised when 
Mulder followed me in.  "You don't have to martyr your knees 
like this," I told him wearily.  "I'm not going to fall into 
a coma on the way home."

"I know," he answered, and I was too tired to argue further.  
I slumped down in the black leather seat, fishing around in 
my pockets for a packet of Tylenol.  I was prepared to 
swallow them dry, but Mulder withdrew a half-full water 
bottle from his coat and handed it to me silently.  I drained 
the remainder of the tepid water, then eased my head back 
against the seat, wincing as my lump made contact.

"Sorry about the grate," Kazdin called through the iron mesh 
separating us.  "I'll have some heat back there for you in a 
sec."

I huddled deeper into my coat, fatigue settling over me like 
a lead blanket.  My eyelids drooped, but I stubbornly forced 
them open again.  In my lap lay Dr. Newton's parting orders, 
and I knew the fine print without having to read it:  there 
was a small but not infinitesimal possibility that I could 
drift off and never awake again.  Rationally, I knew I 
shouldn't worry.  But trapped like a prisoner in the back of 
a squad car and reeling from the pain in my head, the 
niggling fear inflated from party balloon size to loom over 
me like a Macy's Thanksgiving Parade float. 

My head jerked in my struggle for wakefulness, and Mulder 
slid closer to me on the seat.  He smelled like rain.  
"Shhh," he whispered, his fingers warm on my face.  "Sleep, 
Scully.  I'll wake you when we get there."

On the strength of his promise, I tucked my cold nose into 
the warm wool of his shoulder and slept.

XxXxX

Back at Cathleen's, Mulder and I declined her offer to heat 
some leftover soup.  All I wanted was a hot shower and to 
pour myself into bed.  Taking his surrogate doctor role 
seriously, Mulder objected.

"Showers are slippery, and you're exhausted.  Why not wait 
until morning?"

"Mulder, please."  I rubbed my eyes and tried to think of 
words to explain to him the dirt I felt in every pore.  "I'll 
be fine.  It's just for a few minutes."

"Um, you could use mine if you want."  Cathleen had been 
standing in the front hall with us, listening to the 
argument.  She shifted on her crutches.  "It's got railings 
and a stool inside."

"Oh, no, thank you," I said.  "It's very kind of you to 
offer, but we've been more than enough trouble all ready."

"No trouble," she answered simply.  "Follow me."

I hesitated another moment, but the desire to wash the grime 
from my skin proved too powerful to resist.  Easier to follow 
Cathleen than waste time and energy fighting with Mulder.  He 
went upstairs while I trailed Cathleen to the linen closet.

"Here you go," she said with a smile, handing me a fluffy 
peach towel.  I managed a tired smile in return.

"Thank you.  You've been more generous than Mulder and I 
deserve, given the mess we've dragged into your home."

She shook her head in a dismissive gesture.  "I'm just glad 
you're all right.  And besides, it's actually nice to have 
people in here again.  I've been rattling around by myself 
ever since --"  She stopped abruptly, then turned back to the 
closet to smooth out some towels.  "Ever since last year," 
she finished a moment later.

"Detective Kazdin said you'd been in some kind of accident," 
I said quietly.  She nodded.

"Car accident."  Her lips tightened, her fingers curling in 
on the pile of towels.  "Drunk driver."

My eyes swept over the braces on her legs.  "I'm sorry," I 
murmured, and she shut the closet door with an angry snap.

"So am I."

She left me to my shower, and I sat under the hot spray for 
long minutes.  Many thoughts swirled out of me, mingling with 
the water before flowing down the drain.  I thought of 
Cathleen and her accident, of Lee-Lee and the way she had run 
from the house the night her uncle died.  I thought of Mulder 
in the backyard, unraveling a little more of his pain as 
Samantha dimmed further from memory.  I thought about how 
easy it was to shatter a life, and how many of us were 
walking wounded -- the shrapnel of yesterday still curled 
under our skin.

XxXxX

In my room, Mulder hovered while I got ready for bed.  "Here, 
let me do that," he said, reaching for my robe when I tried 
to hang it.

"I've got it."

I bumped into him twice in between brushing my teeth and 
swallowing more Tylenol.  He set an extra glass of water on 
the nightstand.  "Sure you don't want to eat something?"

"I'm fine, Mulder."  I moved to turn down the bedcovers, and 
something in the motion caused a wave of dizziness to sweep 
over me.  I flattened my hand on the mattress.

"You okay?"  

"Yes, I just need to lie down," I answered, crawling slowly 
into bed.  Mulder lingered by my feet.

"Are you sure?  Maybe we should call Dr. Newton.  It says on 
the sheet that dizziness--"

"Mulder, stop it!" I snapped.  "I told you I'm fine.  Why 
can't you just back off and--"

"Because I don't know whether I can believe you!" he 
interrupted angrily.  I just stared at him.  "You were 
*dying*, Scully, and you never said a damn thing!  You fucked 
me and sent me on my way without ever opening your mouth 
about the metastasis."

My face felt like it would crack from fatigue, but I managed 
a protest.  "I told you I had cancer...I told you it was 
serious."

"Bullshit!  You let me walk out the door thinking everything 
was the same, and I come back to find you hooked up to a 
ventilator, Scully -- fucking life support!  And they 
said...they said you might not wake up again."  He broke off, 
turning his head away from me.  "And then to find out that 
you knew all along..."

I could have lied and said I'd wanted to spare him further 
worry -- there was nothing he could have done about it, 
anyway -- but the truth was more hollow, more selfish.  I 
hadn't wanted to speak of death for fear the words might 
bring it into the room.  I'd imagined it lurking in the 
shadows, waiting for me to whisper my defeat.  Instead, I'd 
reached for Mulder and buried my fears in him.

The silence stretched between us, and I searched the fog in 
my head for something that would fill the gap.  "I'm fine 
now," I said as steadily as I could.  "Really."

He narrowed his eyes at me, then nodded.  "Whatever."  
Shutting off the light, he slid between the sheets next to 
me.  I could tell by the frequent rustling that he was still 
upset.

"Mulder," I whispered.  "I'm sorry. I had no idea you were 
angry about that."

The rustling stopped.  "Neither did I," he admitted finally.

"You're right, I should have told you."

"Yes."  He paused.  "But maybe I wouldn't have listened."  
The words were small and light, floating away from us in the 
dark.  He took my hand and pressed a kiss to the center of my 
palm before folding my fingers over it.  "Sleep now," he 
murmured.

I opened my hand again and touched the rough stubble of his 
cheek.  "Goodnight, Mulder." 

Through the night he wove in and out of my dreams, pulling me 
from sleep with whispered words and soothing me down again 
with gentle hands.  But it was disorienting, almost painful, 
to be woken so often, and by the sixth time I was near tears 
of frustration.  The covers were twisted at my feet, scraping 
against my skin, and my pillow was hot under my cheek.  The 
room seemed to tilt on its axis every time I moved my head.  

Only Mulder was holding still.

"C'mere," he said, curling his body into mine.  I burrowed 
closer as his hands swept my back with long strokes.  Limbs 
quivering, I squeezed my eyes shut. "Shhh," he whispered.  
"It's okay.  Just breathe with me."

So I concentrated on the rise and fall of his chest against 
my cheek, matching my rhythm to his.  In. Out. In. Out. 
Slower.  Slower.

I slipped into sleep a final time, Mulder's hands reshaping 
me, smoothing back the pieces of myself I had lost along the 
way.

XxXxX

End chapter seven.  Continued in Chapter Eight.


XxXxX

Chapter Eight

XxXxX

I was alone on a vast beach.

The salted sea breeze whipped my long skirt against my legs 
while the ocean tickled my ankles, its white surf swirling in 
and out with the tide.  I curled my cold toes into the sand 
even as it slipped out from under me.  Eyes closed, I 
listened to the rhythmic rush of the waves and the chatter of 
the sea gulls overhead.  Their cries grew closer, more angry 
and raw, until they weren't birds at all but human screams.

I gasped as my eyes flew open.  Silence.

There was no beach and no screams.  Just my bedroom, draped 
in shadows, and Mulder's heartbeat creating the ocean sounds 
beneath my cheek.

I released a slow breath as my pulse dropped back to normal, 
wrapped safe in the covers with Mulder.  His tee-shirt was 
soft and sleep-warm against my bruised cheek, and I closed my 
eyes again, listening to the rain pattering against the 
windows outside.  I drifted as the seconds slowed. 

Mulder sighed in his sleep, his legs mingling with mine as 
his faint breath stirred my hair.  Blinking sleepily, I 
stretched with care and my sore joints registered their 
immediate protest.  All traces of my dream faded as the dull 
ache of reality began throbbing at the back of my head.  I 
rolled from Mulder and slipped free of the heavy quilt, 
staggering in the semidarkness toward the door.

The floorboards were cold and smooth beneath my feet, the 
first gray haze of dawn making long shadows on the wall.  In 
the bathroom, I swallowed a pair of Tylenol tablets with the 
lights still off and then shivered back to bed.  Mulder 
stirred under my added weight, squinting at me in the fuzzy, 
indigo light.

"Hey," he said in a hoarse whisper.  

I shifted to face him.  "Go back to sleep, Mulder.  It's 
still early."

"Mmmm."  His fingers threaded through my hair, touching my 
scalp lightly.  "How's your head?"

I closed my eyes under his gentle massage.  "Okay."  His 
fingertips smoothed in rhythm from my crown to my temples, 
easing the ache until I was near purring with pleasure.  The 
backs of my ears grew warm and tingled.

After a few more glorious seconds, he slipped his hand down 
to palm the curve of my face.