~~ All the Way Home ~~


If chickens could come home to roost, then so could Carl.  
That was the way he thought of it, anyway.  He wasn't a bird, 
of course, but the shoes rather were.  Curved, sleek bodies 
with sharp pointy bits, flitting past him in shades of 
crimson, stripes of gold and polished, basic black.

It was lunch hour in DC, and Carl watched from his bench as 
the powerful suits poured out into the white city, which was 
awash in bright sunshine.  The hot rays belied the fall 
calendar.  Carl wished he could have made it back sooner, for 
the summer shoes.  Strappy sandals and naked toes.  His 
favorite time of the year.

But the energy of the city in autumn had its charms, too.  
The students were back, the politicians were humming.  
Everyone walked with purpose, and Carl loved the brisk 
cadence of their footsteps on the concrete all around him.  

He did not often watch the men, but today, his first day 
back, he tracked the sharp lines of their dark suits around 
the Mall.  Was this still Mulder's town, he wondered?  Did he 
walk nearby with his long Armani strides and cheap leather 
shoes?  Carl searched the men as best he could, watching the 
slope of their limbs and the curves of their ears, but 
nothing seemed familiar.  He grew irritated, then bored.

If Mulder wasn't here, so be it.  He had been just a crutch, 
anyway, an amusement for Carl these last eleven years.  All 
the nights when he couldn't go out and watch the shoes, he 
would lie in bed and remember his earlier collection.  They 
sent Mulder for you, he would remind himself, and he was the 
best. 

Carl smiled to himself, remembering.  He'd been better.

But that was then and this was now and there was a woman with 
four inch black sandals walking past.  He followed her with 
his ears -- click, click, click -- until she disappeared into 
the crowd.  His dick twitched in his pants.

Almost, he thought.  But not quite.

This was his first day, and he wanted a special shoe.  He was 
prepared to go home frustrated, if need be, rather than 
settle for off the rack at Macy's fuck-me pumps.  Been there, 
fucked that.  Carl grinned as the screams filled his memory.  

He wanted a young one this time.  A little girl with a closet 
full of big shoes.  Carl could tell the type with just one 
glance, and he wanted to take her favorite pair.  

It was near the end of the hour when he saw her.  The crowds 
were beginning to thin, and she was clearly late from her 
lunch.  An intern, he guessed.  Twenty-three at the most.  
Her thighs pushed at the edges of her narrow skirt with each 
hurried step.  She had a short stride, full of confidence.  
She couldn't know what he was when he fell into place behind 
her.

Snap, snap went her heels on the pavement.  Manolo Blahnik 
navy sandals, with conic toes like that supersonic airplane 
in France and spindly, sexy heels that came to a perfect 
point.  Carl's mouth grew dry as his erection swelled in his 
shorts.

At the crosswalk, she stopped, blonde and pouting.  He smiled 
at her.  "Excuse me," he said, "I can't help but noticing 
your shoes."

She looked startled, then pleased.  "They're new," she said 
over the rushing traffic.  "I probably shouldn't have 
splurged so much, but I saw them in the window and just 
couldn't resist."

"I know just the feeling."

"They were so worth it," she confided, obviously pleased to 
have found a fellow fanatic.  "My feet tingle with happiness 
every time I put them on.  They're my absolute favorite."

"I see."

The light changed then, and she gave him a little wave.  
"Bye, now."

Click, clack, click, clack.  Carl followed the line of legs 
down to those spectacular shoes.  "Bye," he whispered.

XxXxX

The night city.  It was a world almost as strange as any that 
Mulder's aliens might have inhabited.  Turned over in space, 
half a world from day, individual shapes meshed into a single 
purple-black form.  The shadows and street lamps danced past 
her car window, each defined by the presence of the other.  
Scully left the radio off as she drove.  Her head was still 
buzzing with memories of Mulder, a '96 Merlot and an AMC 
screening of "Vertigo."

She parked under a tree, its scraggly branches and waving 
leaves throwing a kaleidoscope pattern across her windshield.  
The engine cut out and left her enveloped in thick silence.  
Home at last.  Sleepy, she rested her head and watched as a 
cat crouched low and lithe at the curb before streaking 
across the street.  She wondered what it would be like to 
have eyes that came alive in the dark, to know what 
curiosities lay hidden in the achromatic landscape.

As the cat's tail twitched away into some bushes, her cell 
phone gave a smothered ring.  She dug it out from her pocket.

"Scully."

"When I get back to work, the first thing I'm going to do is 
start an X-File on Kim Novak's eyebrows.  Not a horror film, 
my ass.  Every time Hitch went in for a close up on those 
puppies I was afraid for my life."

She sighed, but with affection. "Mulder, you're supposed to 
be in bed."

"My neurons can grow back just as easily on the couch. 
Besides, what kind of date would I be if I didn't walk the 
lady to her door?"

She sat up and craned her neck around to peer out the rear 
window.  "How did you--"

"I've done the drive a million times, Scully.  This time of 
night, no traffic on the Key Bridge...pretty easy 
calculation." He paused for effect.  "It's not brain 
surgery."

"Right," she said, leaning back again.  "And it wasn't a 
date."

She heard the leather sofa creak as he shifted his weight.  
"No?  Let's examine the evidence.  I counted two people, low 
lighting, and a bottle of wine.  Plus, you admitted that you 
were here to check me out."

Her lips curved in a smile.  "To check up on you, Mulder.  
There's a difference."

"Remind me to speak to my HMO, then.  The neurologist I saw 
last week only gave me thirty minutes.  I'm due another three 
and a half hours."

"Perhaps he's not as vested in your good health as I am."

"Is that what you are, Scully?  Vested?"  His voice was low 
and teasing. "Exactly what sort of benefits are you expecting 
to accrue?"

"I was thinking of a mutual fund."

"Oh," he said, his voice catching the edge of wonder.

She pressed the phone closer to her cheek and smiled.  So 
many years of telling herself no-no-no, the impossible thing 
that wasn't supposed to be now was and she was still learning 
how to say yes-yes-yes.  Practice, in the darkened car with 
the sound of his breathing tickling her ear, was perfect.  
"It's almost one in the morning," she said.  "Get some 
sleep."

"Yeah."  She sat up to leave, fingers curled around the 
plastic door handle, when his voice stopped her.  "Scully..."

"Hmmm?"

"Do you remember your dreams?"

Rubber band images and fragmented conversation.  Missy was 
alive.  Skinner in Bermuda shorts.  Mulder, sometimes moving 
breathless over her, sometimes rushing away from her into 
danger.  Both versions caused her to wake to the sound of her 
voice calling his name.  "Yes, I remember."

"I remember, too.  That's why..."

"That's why what?"

He was quiet for a long moment.  "I think they took my 
dreams.  In the surgery, I mean.  I haven't had one since 
before I went into the hospital."

The car window was fogged and cool.  She rested her forehead 
against it.  "Mulder, that's not possible.  Dream waves are 
generated in your brainstem, along with breathing and heart 
rate.  Your injury was to the lateral left cortex."

"I know."

"More likely you just aren't remembering your dreams right 
now," she continued.  "Medication and stress can both affect 
memory function."

He chuffed.  "God, Scully, if my memory were susceptible to 
drugs and stress, the last ten years would be one big blur."

"You have a point."  She sat up with a sigh.  "Give it time, 
Mulder.  It's only been three weeks."

"Easy for you to say.  Your picture wasn't passed around to 
the Hoover building security guards."

"I see your talent for hyperbole has remained intact."

"It doesn't take a whole brain to do desk work, Scully.  The 
accounting department alone is proof of that."

"Mulder, you would be bored to tears."

"Yeah, you're probably right.  I'd hate to evaporate the 
brains I have left."

He joked, but she winced.  Three weeks was not enough time 
for her, either.  "I'll smuggle you home some tabloids to 
read tomorrow, how's that?"

"Spoken like a true partner."

"A truly tired partner," she replied, smothering a yawn and 
then reaching for her door handle.  "Good night, Mulder."

"Night," he said.  A pause.  "Sweet dreams." 

Outside, the night air was heavy and cold, like a wet 
blanket.  The slick, deserted streets shimmered under yellow 
lamps, and her heels clicked a measured rhythm as she crossed 
to her apartment building.  The first scream made her jump.

Keys in hand and pulse pounding, she waited several 
breathless seconds.  It came again -- sharp, terror-filled 
and human.  She began to run.

"Help, someone, please help!"

Scully followed the voice for two blocks.  The cries were 
getting closer, moving toward her.  Her breaths came in rapid 
white puffs as she rounded the corner.

"Help!"

She crashed into someone running just as fast.  A girl, maybe 
sixteen years old.  Her fingers bit hard into Scully's arm.  
"There's a man," she panted, her dark eyes wild and bright.  
"He's got a knife."

"Where?"  Scully could see no one else on the street.

The girl gulped air and jerked a nod behind her.  "Back 
there," she said.  "He's got a knife."

"Stay here."  Gun drawn, Scully jogged off in the direction 
indicated, scanning the shadows for any sign of life.  A man 
emerged from a darkened front stoop.

"What is it?" he asked, wide-eyed.  "I heard screaming."  

Scully glanced at his scruffy robe and hedge-hog hairdo.  Not 
the guy, she decided.   "Get back inside," she said.  He saw 
her gun and did as he was told.

She walked farther, passing parked cars and trees.  A dog 
barked from an open apartment window.  There was no man with 
a knife.  After another block and a half, she hit the edge of 
Montrose Park.  She stood in the middle of the street for a 
moment and searched the thick tree line for a glimpse of 
movement.  If he'd escaped into the park, he was as good as 
gone.

After another minute, Scully gave up the pursuit and hurried 
back to where she had left the girl.  There was someone with 
her now, a man in a long dark coat.  He had hold of her arm.  
"FBI!" Scully called, drawing her gun once more. "Get away 
from her."

The man dropped his hand immediately, and the girl shoved 
him.  "Where the fuck were you?" she hissed.

He took a drag on his cigarette.  "Around."

"You know this man?" Scully asked, moving closer to the pair.  
She saw the man was younger than she'd first guessed.  He was 
in his early twenties, Asian, with hair that fell across his 
forehead to cover one eye.

"Yeah."  The girl sounded disgusted.  "I know him."

He gave a thin smile around his cigarette.  "See?" he said to 
Scully as he flicked away the ash.  "It's love."

Scully ignored him but lowered her weapon.  "I couldn't find 
the man you were talking about," she told the girl.  "There 
was nobody back there."

The girl lit her own cigarette and eyed Scully with 
curiosity.  "You really FBI?"  

Scully withdrew her badge and displayed it silently.  The 
girl gave a long exhale of appreciation.   She wore six tiny 
silver hoops in her right ear and her black hair was held 
from her face with what seemed to be a red plastic clothes 
pin.  "What's your name?" Scully asked.

"What's yours?"

Scully flipped her ID open again.  "Dana Scully."

"I'm Vee," the girl said after a moment.  "He's Jimmy."

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Jimmy said, extending 
his hand.  There was a spider web tattooed up the front of 
it.  Scully decided to pass.

"What happened here tonight?" she asked.  "Who was the man 
chasing you?"

Vee glanced down the street and shrugged.  "Beats me.  Some 
homeless guy looking for change, probably.  It doesn't matter 
now.  He's gone."

"Homeless guys don't usually chase people with knives," 
Scully said.

"So he was a psycho homeless guy.  Or maybe I imagined the 
knife."  She tapped her cigarette impatiently, but Scully 
detected a slight tremor.  Vee took another quick puff.  
"Anyway, thanks and all, but can I go now?"

Scully frowned.  "Go where, exactly?  This man could still be 
around here someplace, and from your description he sounds 
dangerous.  You should at least file a police report."

"Police?" Vee snorted.  "I don't think so.  Seriously, I'll 
be fine.  I just got jittery when Jimmy didn't show on time.  
Sorry to trouble you."  She matched Scully's even gaze.

A liar, Scully thought.  But a good one.

"Such a vivid imagination," Jimmy said, brushing back a lock 
of Vee's hair.  She ducked from under his touch.

"Screw you."

He gave an indulgent laugh and dropped his cigarette to the 
ground.  The ember red tip glowed for a few seconds, then 
dissolved into a thin trail of smoke.  "Agent Scully, thank 
you for your time.  I promise that she won't bother you 
again."

His tone indicated that she was dismissed.  Scully narrowed 
her eyes, not about to be managed by a twenty-two year old 
kid in need of a haircut.  "Someone may have wanted your 
girlfriend dead," she told him.  "I'd say I'm the least of 
your problems."

Vee turned away sharply.  Jimmy's gaze lingered over Scully.  
"No problems," he murmured.  "Good night."

They walked away, his head bent low towards hers, and Vee's 
cursing floated back in the night.  Scully watched them grow 
smaller in the distance.  At the corner, he put his arm 
around her shoulder, and this time she did not shrug him off.  
A moment later they were gone.

The bitter wind whipped past Scully, chafing at her raw 
knuckles.  She walked to the center of the long, dark street 
and scrutinized the shadows one last time.  Nothing.  She 
returned home that way, alone walking the double yellow line, 
her footsteps only a little faster than usual.

XxXxX

Scully scooted her chair into the path of the ray of warm 
sunlight slanting through the basement window.  These days 
her lunch consisted of a large salad and two or three JAMA 
articles detailing patient recovery from brain surgery.  It 
was an awkward affair that involved turning pages with her 
left hand while she made blind, haphazard stabs at rolling 
cherry tomatoes with her right.  She had searched Medline's 
data base for sleep disorders, but so far had found nothing 
on cessation of dreaming following left temporal lobe injury.  
Not that she was surprised; Mulder's brain had always been 
unique.

The desk phone rang, jolting her from her thoughts, and she 
wiped her mouth before answering.  "Scully."

"Agent Scully, could I see you in my office?"

Her hand froze in the process of setting down her napkin.  
Skinner, not his secretary.  Usually this meant trouble of a 
personal sort, and she was not yet ready for another round.  
"Sir?"  

He cleared his throat.  "As soon as possible, please."

"Of course."  She discarded her lunch half-eaten, slipped on 
her suit jacket and headed for the stairs.

Kimberly looked surprised to see her.  Scully paused at the 
corner of the desk.  "What's going on?" she asked, but the 
other woman shook her head.

"I have no idea.  Something big.  He had me clear his whole 
afternoon schedule."

Scully glanced at the silent, closed door, but it wasn't 
giving away any secrets either.  Steeling her shoulders, she 
knocked and entered.

"Agent Scully, come in.  Thank you for coming so quickly."

Scully remained near the door, surprised by all the faces in 
the room.  There was a woman in her chair, wearing a wrinkled 
gray pantsuit and faded make up.  Thick black curls sprung 
loose from the knot at the base of her head.  The man in 
Mulder's seat was younger, leaning forward and scribbling 
notes on the yellow pad in his lap.  Against the far wall, a 
man she recognized as Adam Grenier scowled in her direction.

"I want to state again what a categorically bad idea I think 
this is," he said.

The woman sighed.  "Yes, we're all terribly aware of your 
position, Adam."

"Agent Scully," Skinner said.  "I believe you know Adam 
Grenier, our current head at the Behavioral Sciences Unit.  
These are two of his agents, Amelia Russell and Richard 
Arkin."

Agent Arkin stood to shake her hand, while Russell offered a 
polite nod.  "Sir, may I ask what this is about?" Scully 
said.

"Sit down," he answered, "and take a look at this."

Scully accepted the proffered folder and crossed to sit in an 
empty chair.  Inside the folder she found a photo of a young 
woman, dead and sprawled next to a line of day lilies. 

"That's Kerri Ann Talbot," Agent Russell said.  "Her body was 
found at the edge of Arlington National Cemetery twelve years 
ago."

"Her name sounds familiar," Scully said, flipping past the 
photo.  But underneath was one just like it, a brunette this 
time, her limbs askew and her eyes unseeing.

"I'm not surprised," Grenier cut in.  "Ms. Talbot's death 
received a great deal of attention in the press.  She was the 
first one killed."

"The first we know about," Russell replied.  She turned in 
her seat to face Scully.  "There were six other women 
murdered in DC that year.  All of them raped, strangled and 
dumped somewhere in the city.  People were scared to leave 
their homes."

"Yes, I remember now," Scully said.  She thumbed through the 
rest of the photos, trying to recall the ending.  There were 
no mug shots.  

"We turned the god damn city upside down," Grenier said, 
stalking across the room.  "Turned over every rock.  But this 
psycho never crawled out."

"No leads at all?"  Scully reached the back of the folder 
without encountering one single evidence report.  Just two 
dozen gruesome shots and seven tragic faces.

"It was Patterson's greatest failure," Grenier said.  He 
glanced at Scully.  "Mulder's too."

Scully felt her stomach clench.  "Mulder worked this case in 
'88?"

"For a few months," Skinner answered.  "Near the end."

She frowned at the photos on her lap.  The word "end" implied 
resolution, and there was none here that she could see.  
"What happened?"

"The killings stopped," Russell sighed.  "Jessica Gellar was 
found almost eleven years ago today.  She was the last one."

"Until now," added Arkin, and Grenier glared at him.  Russell 
handed Scully another folder.

"Ten days ago Grace Johnson was reported missing by her 
roommate.  The next day a couple of kids out fishing found 
her body down by the river, raped and strangled."

The photo was eerily similar -- bruises on the neck, a blank, 
washed-out stare, her long blond hair tangled in the emerald 
grass.  "How can you be sure it's the same guy?" Scully 
asked.

"It's him."  Grenier's voice was grim.  "I'd know this sick 
sonofabitch anywhere."

"The murders from eleven years ago all had a couple of things 
in common," Arkin said, "things that were kept secret from 
the press.  See, the killer apparently has some kind of foot 
fetish.  He steals their shoes and, well...cuts off their 
little toes.  Grace Johnson was found the same way.  Shoes 
gone and her little toes missing."

"We've been following the case since then," Russell 
continued.  "Grenier and I caught it first back in '87."  She 
shot him a pointed look.  "So I guess you could say it's been 
our failure, too.  I swear to God that I never wanted another 
crack at it, though.  Not like this."

Skinner leaned across his desk.  "There's been another 
death," he said.  "Last night, around 1 am.  A couple of 
tourists found her this morning in Montrose Park.  
Apparently, she was a student at Georgetown University, but 
at this point--"

Scully jerked in her seat.  "I'm sorry, did you say Montrose 
Park?"

"Yes, why?"

"I live near there," Scully breathed, feeling her salad roll 
around in her gut.  The acid taste of vinegar burned the back 
of her throat. 

"Freaks you out, doesn't it?" Russell remarked dryly.  

"Shit, the whole city's going to freak out," Grenier spat.  
"Just like last time."

Skinner cleared his throat.  "We need to know how Mulder is 
doing.  I realize he's not due back for another several 
weeks, but..."

"You want Mulder to investigate this?"  Memories of her late 
night chase dimmed as she realized what they were asking.  
"That's impossible.  He's still undergoing therapy for 
weakness in his right arm.  There's some mild aphasia.  Not 
to mention the kind of strain a case like this brings...Sir, 
you can't be serious about involving him."

"See, she agrees with me," Grenier said.  "There's no need to 
bring Mulder in on this."

"I'm afraid it isn't up to you," Russell snapped.  Softening, 
she turned to Scully.  "No one wants to see Mulder get hurt, 
I promise you.  But we have no choice."

"This was found this morning, lying beneath Elizabeth 
Kinney's right hand," Arkin said, handing her a clear plastic 
evidence bag.  It held a newspaper clipping dated October 29, 
1988.  

"I don't understand," she said.

"Turn it over," Russell replied softly.

It was Mulder.  Eleven years ago, in faded black and white.  
He stood near a line of police tape, looking drawn and tired 
as two anonymous men carried a body bag in the background.

"You see?" Russell asked.  "We didn't choose Mulder.  He 
did."

XxXxX 

XxXxX

Chapter Two

XxXxX

There was something to be said for setting minimal goals, 
Mulder thought as he folded clean tee-shirts into a pile on 
his coffee table.  Three loads of laundry made for a full 
afternoon.  He matched the last of the cotton edges in 
perfect symmetry, then started mating the socks.  It was 
trickier than it looked.  The fingers on his right hand 
fumbled a bit, and he swallowed a curse as one black sock 
slipped to the floor.

Scully had shown him pictures of neurons, with their tiny 
bodies and branching arms sketched in black and white or 
stained glowing green with dye.  "They don't grow back," she 
had said.  "But other neurons can form new connections and 
take over the work of the cells that have been lost."  
Sometimes he thought he could feel them growing, his brain 
itching as the spindly dendrites stretched across the empty 
space. 

At night he wondered about the lost cells.  Maybe they were 
in a lab, with people in white coats trying to grow his brain 
in a dish.  Or maybe they were in someone else's brain now, 
sprouting like jungle vines, strangling the thief from the 
inside out.  Revenge on the microscopic level.  He thought he 
could live with that.

He had four pairs of socks lined up in neat balls when there 
was a knock at the door.  Four-thirty.  Maybe Scully was 
skipping school, he thought with a smile.  He didn't bother 
with the peep hole.  He threw the door open wide and suffered 
the consequences, just like always.

It was Scully.  But she wasn't alone.

"Mulder," she said, "can we come in?"

He stood with his hand still frozen on the doorknob.  
Vaguely, he registered Skinner and some young guy he didn't 
know.  Even Scully seemed to blur before his eyes.  He saw 
only Adam Grenier's clenched jaw and Amelia Russell's 
wrinkled suit.

"Not again," he said.

XxXxX

The moon was just beginning again, a toenail-sized hole 
punched into the smooth navy sky.  Vee watched it from 
Jimmy's window while he rolled around in bed with his phone, 
talking business under the sheets.  She snatched the last of 
his cigarettes from the dresser, lit it, and cracked the 
window so she could tap the ashes down on the street below.  
The butt was just filter by the time he noticed her again.

"It's forty fucking degrees outside, Vee.  Shut the window 
already."

She turned her head to blow smoke at him.  "Shut it 
yourself," she said, and slipped from her perch.  

He caught her around the waist.  "Don't be like this," he 
said, nuzzling her hair, but she stayed rigid in his arms.  
"You know it's not my choice."

"It is your choice.  It's your fucking deal, Jimmy.  Don't 
pretend it's not."

"You're right," he sighed, releasing her.  "You got me.  It's 
all a big plan of mine to send you out on the streets with a 
psychotic murderer."

"You weren't the one who nearly got killed," she said.  "And 
I don't hear you volunteering to make the pick-up."

"You know I can't go.  I get busted again and it's an 
automatic ten years."

She crossed her arms over her chest.  "So you think I'll get 
caught, is that it?"

"Of course not.  But I can't take that kind of risk."  When 
she didn't answer, he frowned and picked up his cell phone.  
"Fine.  I can have Quoc do it if that will make you happy."

"Wait."  She stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

The first time she had seen Jimmy was in the Roach Room, down 
in the basement at Panache.  She'd had six guys on the couch 
with her, pretending to ooh and ahh as she passed her fingers 
in and out of the lighter flame, but they had been more 
interested in slipping their fingers under her skirt.  Jimmy 
had smoked cigarettes and just watched from the other side of 
the room.  By the time the pack of groping hands had given up 
on her, so had he.  She hadn't seen him again until the end 
of the night, when she'd come out of the bathroom into the 
dark hallway.  He'd grabbed her and pulled her behind black 
velvet curtains.  "Fire Child," he'd called her, his voice 
soft and filled with admiration.  "Not afraid of anything."

Later, when his hands had crept under her skirt, she had not 
moved them away.

"I'll do it," she said.  "Quoc's an idiot."

Jimmy gave her a slow smile.  "You're right.  Dumb as a box 
of hair, and not as pretty either."  He pulled her to him and 
kissed the top of her head.  "Listen, don't worry about some 
old bum in the park.  You probably just stepped on his turf."  

Vee laid her head on his chest and said nothing.  The men who 
slept in the park wore scruffy beards and three layers of 
clothing, not a Halloween mask with the face of Richard 
Nixon.  And Richard Nixon hadn't been carrying a candy bag, 
either.  Not at all.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the image of the young 
woman's drooping arms, which swayed as the man carried her 
into the bushes. 

Richard Nixon was a murderer.


XxXxX


This is what they should have scraped away, Mulder thought as 
the image of seven dead women swelled like a wave inside his 
head, cresting in a splash of bent bodies and yellow crime 
scene tape.  If he had to lose brain cells, the ones burned 
with those memories would have been his first choice.  He 
looked at the group standing in his hallway and resisted the 
temptation to slam the door.  

"Mulder?" Scully said, her eyebrows knitting in concern.  
"Are you all right?" 

Skinner looked uncomfortable.  "Agent Mulder, if this is a 
bad time..." 

"No, come in.  I'm fine."  He stepped aside and allowed the 
ghosts to follow them into the room, where they stood in an 
awkward semi-circle around his laundry pile.  

"I'm Richard Arkin," said the young agent he did not 
recognize.  "It's an honor to meet you, sir."

He extended his hand formally, as if Mulder were some VIP and 
not standing in a chaotic living room wearing sweats and 
ratty tee-shirt.  

"You look good, Mulder," Russell said, and he gave her credit 
for sounding like she almost meant it.  She had told him 
years ago that once you had seen a person naked, they could 
never be fully clothed in your presence again.  Since he'd 
been naked at the time, her statement had stuck with him.

"So," he said finally, unable to take the canned pleasantries 
any longer.  "Maybe it's not really him.  It's been almost 
eleven years now."

"Eleven years and nine days," Grenier answered.  He narrowed 
his eyes.  "The BSU doesn't fuck around, Mulder.  You know 
that.  We wouldn't be here if it wasn't him."

Mulder frowned, his head starting to throb.  "Yes, why are 
you here, Grenier?  I quit the BSU a long time ago."

"Eleven years exactly."  Grenier crossed the room to peer 
into the fish tank before meeting Mulder's eyes again.  "I 
looked it up."

"Well, this is a hell of an anniversary party, thank you."

Grenier spread his hands in a mock-gesture of good will.  
"Hey, don't thank me.  I wasn't the one who issued you the 
invitation."

"What are you talking about?"

"Mulder."  Scully touched his arm.  "Come sit down and let 
them explain."

As if they could, he thought.  As if anyone could come up 
with the words.  Kerri Ann and Angela and Maureen and Susan 
and Rachel and Michelle and Jessica.  He didn't want to hear 
who was next.

"Grace Johnson," said the new guy, a kid with big hands and 
big ears.  He handed Mulder a picture, and somehow Mulder 
made himself look.  "She was found nine days ago down by the 
river."

Mulder exhaled slowly as he took in her slim white wrists and 
dark purple bruises on her neck.  He counted four separate 
strangulation marks on the girl's throat; it had taken her a 
long time to die.  Blonde like Jessica had been.  So much 
fight in such a tiny body.

*I'm so sorry for your loss*

He had gone to the funeral like everyone else because the 
killer might have been there.  Instead he had found only 
victims.  Mr. and Mrs. Gellar, divorced parents thrown 
together one last time, had stood opposite one another like 
sentries of grief as the mourners poured out of the church 
doors.  

"I'm so sorry for your loss," he had said to the mother, as 
if she had misplaced Jessica, or watched her disappear down 
the rabbit hole.

"...Elizabeth Kinney this morning in Montrose park."  The new 
guy was still talking, handing him another folder.  "We got 
lucky because the Captain at the oh-nine remembered the case 
and flagged it right away."

Lucky, thought Mulder, counting five hand marks on the neck 
the time.  Right.

"The Coroner puts the time of death between eleven-thirty and 
two a.m., " Russell said.  "So at least we're working with a 
fresh crime scene."

Mulder closed the folder and rubbed his head with one hand.  
"He never left them out for very long -- twenty-four hours at 
the most.  Never did us a damn bit of good."

"Well, actually..."  Russell hesitated, and he caught her 
looking at Grenier.  "Actually, there is something new this 
time."  

"What?"

Scully shifted beside him and withdrew a plastic evidence bag 
from her jacket.  "Do you recognize this, Mulder?"

He scanned the yellowed newsprint inside the bag.  "It's a 
Gary Tanzini special.  He used to snap crime photos for the 
Post.  I punched him in the nose, and he won the Pulitzer.  
Who said life's not fair?"

"He won for the Pulitzer Prize for that picture?" Scully 
asked.

"No, for a whole series on the murders," Mulder replied, 
fingering the fragile edge of the aging picture.  "Tanzini 
never met a tragedy he couldn't exploit."

"Well," Russell said.  "He obviously has at least one true 
fan.  We found that this morning with Elizabeth Kinney's 
body."  

Just as she said the words, hot needles of pain lanced down 
the left side of his face.  His right hand tingled, spasmed, 
and he dropped the newspaper cutout.  

"Mulder, are you okay?"  Scully leaned into him, and he could 
smell the last traces of her perfume fighting with the sweat 
and dust of a long day.  Ordinarily he welcomed her familiar 
scent, but at that moment it burned his nostrils and made him 
dizzy. 

"Fine," he said through gritted teeth.  He retrieved the 
paper and looked up at Grenier.  "So that's it.  You're here 
because you think this has something to do with me."

"Are you saying you don't think that's the case?"  Skinner 
glanced from Grenier to Mulder.  

Mulder tossed the photo next to his laundry and leaned back 
on the couch.  "It could mean anything.  Maybe he's upset 
because his first kill went unnoticed in the press.  Maybe he 
wants to make sure you know he's back, that he's the same guy 
from before.  All I can say for sure is that this is an 
unusual departure for him; none of the murders eleven years 
ago had any sort of message attached."

"But it is a message," Russell pressed.  "And apparently it's 
to you."

"Yeah, and what the hell would you like me to do about it, 
Russell?  Write him back?"

"If that's what it takes to bring him in."

Mulder looked away, silent.  He'd had four months against 
this animal, at a time when he'd been at the top of his game, 
and come up with nothing.  "I can't help you," he said at 
last.  "I'm sorry."

"Fine," replied Russell, standing up.  "You can just watch 
the body count in the papers, then."

Fuck you, he thought, but couldn't make himself say the words 
out loud.  Because that's all any of them had ever been able 
to do -- count the graves and the tears.  If Russell was 
going down that road again, she was already fucked.

Grenier finally moved from his place against the wall.  "I 
think you've made a wise decision, Mulder.  If he's killing 
to get your attention, the last thing you should do is give 
it to him."

Mulder shook his head.  "It's not about me," he said.  "It 
never was."

"Finally, a point of agreement."  He bent to pick up the 
newspaper photo and slipped it into his jacket.  "Good to see 
you back on your feet, Mulder.  Take it easy coming back, 
okay?"

He didn't seem to require an answer, so Mulder didn't give 
one.  Instead, he walked them to the door, Scully lingering 
by his side as the rest filed out.  Russell stopped on the 
threshold.  "Do you remember the last thing you said to me 
before you left?"

Mulder tightened his hold on the doorknob.  "It was a long 
time ago, Amelia."

She ignored him.  "You said that if there was ever a lead on 
this case, we should call you.  You remember that?"

"If I thought there was any way I could help you, I would. 
But the truth is--"

"The truth is that there were hundreds of newspaper photos 
taken back then, both before and after you quit."  She 
paused, her expression softening.  "I heard about what you've 
been through, Mulder, and I'd love nothing more to give you a 
pass one this one.  But I don't think you get to walk away 
this time.  I don't he's going to let you."

"And I think you're wrong."

"I hope so."  She gave him a sad smile.  "I hope so."

He closed the door behind them and turned to find Scully 
regarding him with serious eyes.  "Are you all right?" she 
asked.

"Jesus," he said, heading for the couch.  "If I do sign on 
with the case and more people die, it's my fault because I'm 
letting this psycho play cat-and-mouse with me.  If I don't 
sign on and more people die, it's my fault for not helping 
with the investigation."

"None of it is your fault, Mulder."

He snorted.  "You must not have read the reports from eleven 
years ago.  It was my fault then, too."

She sat next to him.  "Is that why you left?"

"It's not that simple," he said, reaching for a balled up 
pair of socks.  He passed them from hand to hand as he 
considered his answer.  "Or maybe it is that simple, I don't 
know.  They brought me in to catch the bad guy, Scully, and 
instead I watched three young women die."

"You did all you could."

"You weren't there.  You don't know."  The words came out 
more harshly than he'd intended.  They had shared many 
private hells together, but this inferno was his own.

"I do know.  I know you."

He squeezed the sock ball in his fist.  "I didn't know me," 
he whispered at last.  "Not at the end."  He looked over at 
her.  "I guess that's why I left."

She said nothing, but placed her hand on top of his.  He 
rested his head against the back of the couch and closed his 
eyes.  "I almost couldn't.  I almost couldn't walk away."

"Is that why Grenier is angry with you?  Because you left?"

He gave a humorless laugh.  "Patterson was furious; Grenier 
probably held a parade."

"And Russell?" Scully asked, her voice soft.  He opened his 
eyes and looked at her.  Calm, patient.  Waiting for him to 
tell her what she'd already guessed. 

He sighed and withdrew his hand from under hers.  "I was 
involved with Amelia for a short time back then.  A few 
nights, nothing serious on either end.  Mainly I think she 
was using me to get out of a bad marriage."

"I see."  Her expression didn't change.  "Did it work?"

"Yes."  He hesitated, unsure of whether he should spill the 
rest of the story.  Like it mattered anymore, he thought 
finally.  "Grenier was the other half of that marriage."

Scully let out a long breath and shifted on the sofa so they 
were both facing forward.  "Well, that explains some things."

"Yeah, I guess it does."  He rubbed his face with both hands, 
then remembered there were other things still unexplained.  
"Hey," he said, looking sideways at her.  "Is this your case 
now, too?  I noticed Skinner came along for the ride."

"That's all it was," she said.  "They needed Skinner to sign 
you over to them if you agreed to the investigation, and I 
was here as a medical consultant more than anything else."

"And your medical opinion is?"

"You're still healing, Mulder.  It wouldn't be a good idea 
for you to be working a case right now.  But..."

"No one should have to work this case," he cut in wearily.  
"Eleven fucking years.  I'd hoped he was dead."

"Mulder, last night..."

"Grenier might call you in, you know.  Or Russell.  God, 
Scully, this case eats people alive.  You shouldn't..."

"Mulder."  The edge in her voice finally caught his 
attention.

"What is it?"

She took a deep breath.  "I may have found a witness."

XxXxX

The shoes, a pair of sleek, black velvet heels, quivered on 
his lap.  He stroked them.  Maybe she hadn't seen.

She ran, chastised the voice in his head.  She saw.

He could feel his heart contract with each pump, the blood 
audible as it sloshed around inside him.  How the hell was he 
supposed to have known there would be a girl in the trees?  
Who the fuck hung around in a tree at night?  

"Fuck," he said, and squeezed the shoes until they bent.  He 
had been careful, yes he had.  Grabbed her in the parking 
lot, taken her to the field -- no one around for miles -- 
gloves, a mask.   It took a while to squeeze the life out of 
someone.

Maybe the Mulder move had been too bold, he thought, 
beginning to sweat.  It was a tease, a final fuck you.  Now 
he wondered if it had been wrong to draw his attention in 
that way.  There wasn't supposed to be anything left for him 
to find.

He thought of the girl in the tree.  A special tree, he 
suspected, visited often like a much-loved friend.  He 
thought he might pay a visit himself.

Then Mulder could look all he wanted.

XxXxX


XxXxX

Chapter Three

XxXxX

Their usual meeting place was cordoned off with yellow police 
tape, so Vee waited behind some tall bushes at the edge of 
the park.  The wind sliced through the branches and pinched 
at her frozen fingertips.  Jackson was almost half an hour 
late.  She touched the envelope of cash inside her pocket and 
decided to give him another five minutes.  "No way in hell 
I'm doing this again," she muttered, stamping her boots on 
the hard ground.  "Quoc can freeze his nuts out here for all 
I care."

A man jogged by her hiding spot, his breath puffing in the 
air in front of him, and she startled at the intrusion.   
Richard Nixon's grinning face still burned in her memory, 
along with the sound of his footsteps pounding the pavement 
as he chased her down the street.  The jogger's cadence was 
shorter, and Vee allowed herself to exhale.  He'd be a 
fucking idiot to come back here now, she thought.

"There you are."

Vee jumped at the tap on her shoulder.  "Jesus, Jackson!  
What the hell are you doing?"

"Looking for you."  He nodded down the road to the crime 
scene.  "What happened?  Someone get iced?"

"Yeah, last night."  She willed herself not to think of the 
girl's white arms and vacant eyes.  Instead, she glanced at 
Jackson's hands, stuffed deep inside his denim jacket.  "You 
brought the stuff?"

He sniffed and rubbed his nose.  "Yeah, I brought it.  You 
got the cash?"

"Don't I always?"

"Then let's get on with it.  It's fucking freezing out here."

She withdrew the envelope from her pocket, tilting it so it 
was visible in the white beam of the streetlight.  "Now you."

He hesitated, glancing around them, then sniffed again.  "Ten 
Gs?"

"You want to count it now? Out here?"  Vee was getting 
irritated.

"No, no.  It's fine.  Here's the stuff."  He handed her a 
plastic bag filled with powder, and she gave him the money.  
They had barely completed the exchange when bright light 
flooded the bushes.  A siren blared briefly.

"This is the police," said a voice through a bullhorn.  
"Please come out slowly, keeping your hands where we can see 
them at all times."

Vee felt her knees go weak, but she glared at Jackson.  "You 
bastard."

"Little girl, this was an easy choice.  There was no fucking 
way I was going back to jail."  He flashed a mirthless smile 
that showed off his chipped front tooth.  "Give Jimmy my 
love, eh?"

"Come out from there.  Now."  A man with a flashlight and a 
nine mm revolver appeared at the edge of the bushes.  With a 
last withering look at Jackson, Vee went.

Four patrol cars had materialized from nowhere, and uniformed 
cops walked up and down the sloping paths, searching for what 
Vee could not guess.  A small crowd gathered near the gate to 
watch them pat her down and stuff her in the back of a 
cruiser.  

The noise was shut outside.  She sat on the cold leather 
seat, staring at the metal grid, and thought of her bed at 
home.  It was a Tuesday, and her mother made latkes on 
Tuesday.  But wait, no, she remembered.  First one of the 
month Mom worked late in the ER.  She wouldn't be home yet.  
She wouldn't know.

Vee slouched down and closed her eyes.  Her head was 
beginning to throb at the temples.  She rested it against the 
cool glass and watched the men in black congratulate 
themselves on nailing a hardened criminal.  When her gaze 
shifted again to the onlookers at the gate, she sat up a bit.

There was a man at the back of the crowd.  His hair stood on 
end and the slope of his shoulders was familiar.  He caught 
her staring and disappeared in the space of one blink.

Maybe it was just the way the shadows fell.  Maybe it was the 
way he seemed to be staring right at her.

She shuddered inside her thin coat and pulled away from the 
window, back into the dark of the patrol car.  Maybe it was 
just her imagination.

But she was suddenly not so upset to be locked in the back of 
a cop car.

XxXxX

The rubber mask squeaked as he stuffed his fists deep into 
his pockets.  He was cold, he was angry, but he knew he still 
had the upper hand.  The cops wouldn't know the right 
questions to ask, and what was this girl going to tell them, 
exactly -- go arrest a dead president?

He considered forgetting the whole damn thing.  Then he 
remembered her look of recognition in squad car.  "Shit," he 
muttered, and kicked the front tire on his car.  

At least he knew where the little bitch was now.  And cop 
shops were his specialty.  He smiled a little, thinking of 
how soon they would release her.  A bit more patience, he 
thought, and this whole thing would be finished at last.

XxXxX

Scully staggered into the basement office, trying to make it 
to the desk before the two-foot stack of folders and the 
cardboard coffee cup slipped from her arms to the ground.  
She muffled a curse as hot coffee sloshed over her fingers 
but managed to set everything down with no major disaster.

"Good morning to you, too."

She jumped and turned.  "Mulder," she said when she saw him 
standing in the fuzzy early morning light.  "What are you 
doing here?"

He waved a brown paper bag at her.  "Blueberry muffins," he 
said, and looked pointedly at her coffee cup.  "I'll share if 
you will."

"From La Parisienne?" she asked, trying to decide whether it 
was worth halving her morning caffeine.  He nodded, and she 
slid over to give him a corner of the desk, taking a few 
careful sips before handing him the cup.  Their fingers 
brushed.

"Mulder, you're freezing," she said, covering his hand with 
hers.

"Yeah, well, they never did a stellar job with the heat down 
here."

She met his eyes.  "How long have you been waiting here?"

"Not that long," he answered, shrugging off her concern.  
When she did not back down in her gaze, he slipped one hand 
free and touched her knee.  "It's okay, Scully, really.  I'm 
all right."

She hesitated and then nodded.  "Okay."

He tapped her knee lightly.  "What about you?  How are you 
doing?"

"What do you mean?"

He inclined his head in the direction of the folders.  "I see 
you've been doing a little light reading." 

"Oh, that."  She took a deep breath.  "I was up half the 
night and barely made a dent.  This man certainly didn't 
escape capture due to a lax investigation.  Mulder, is it 
really true that over half of the law enforcement personnel 
in DC were involved with this case at one time or another?"

He rubbed his face with his hands.  "Yeah, that sounds right.  
At one point, the task force was logging over a hundred phone 
calls a day from people who had supposed leads on the case."

"Hard to follow every single one," she replied, eyeing the 
teetering stack of folders between them.  She paused.  "Do 
you think he might be in there someplace, just overlooked?"

"It's possible."  He pushed away from the desk, crossing the 
room to stand by the bookshelves.  "But that's not where I 
would start."

She watched him trace the edges of one shelf for a few 
moments.  "Mulder, I thought you said you didn't want to get 
involved with this case again."

"Yeah, I did," he answered without turning around.  "But I 
realized something last night."

"What's that?"

He faced her.  "This guy can be caught, Scully.  He *was* 
caught.  That's why we haven't heard from him in eleven 
years.  It's the only explanation that makes sense."

"Possible," she agreed.  "But what if he simply moved 
somewhere else?"

"No," he said, shaking his head.  "No, he did time, I'd bet 
on it.  He was escalating at the time of the last murders -- 
Michelle Palevski and Jessica Gellar were killed less than 
one month apart.  If he had moved and started killing 
somewhere else, the bodies would have been piling up fast 
enough for any local PD to take notice."

"Okay, so he was in prison for the last eleven years.  What 
for?"

Mulder paced the office with slow, deliberate steps.  "Eleven 
years is a long time.  Assault, maybe, given his history.  
Kidnapping.  Conceivably some combination of breaking and 
entering, robbery and drugs, especially if they related to 
his foot fetish."

"My thinking exactly," said a voice from the doorway.  They 
both turned to see Amelia Russell standing on the threshold.  
"I knew you still had your edge," she said to Mulder as she 
entered.  "Patterson always said he didn't really train you, 
just pointed you at a case like a loaded weapon.  And 
then...bang, it was solved."

"I don't remember it quite like that," Mulder replied.

"See, that's the remarkable thing about memory," Russell said 
to Scully.  "Even the eidetic ones are selective."

Mulder move to stand at Scully's side, the case folders piled 
high in front them.  "Is there a reason that you came down 
here, Russell?" he asked.

"I came to see if Agent Scully would be willing to talk to 
you about helping with the investigation.  It seems I need 
not have bothered."

"I had a couple of ideas last night," he said.  "But Scully 
is still the one you want to talk to.  She may have a 
witness."

Russell looked sharply at her.  "What?"

"I live about three blocks from where Elizabeth Kinney's body 
was found," Scully said.  "Two nights ago, at approximately 
the time of the murder, I met a young woman who claims to 
have been chased by a man with a knife.  She was running from 
the direction of Montrose Park.  I looked around the area for 
the man in question but couldn't find any trace of him.  The 
girl then told me she thought it might have been a homeless 
person, and claimed she overreacted."

"My God," Russell murmured.  "This could be the just the 
thing we need to crack this thing wide open.  Grenier is out 
there now, coordinating a team of black and whites to canvass 
the neighborhood for possible witnesses.  Do you know 
anything else about this girl?  How can we find her again?"

"She said her name was Vee, and she had a male companion 
called Jimmy.  They headed off in the direction of downtown."

"Description?" Russell asked, pulling out a notepad and pen.  
Scully gave her the basic details.  "Jesus, I can't believe 
it," Russell said when she had finished.  "Maybe he finally 
fucked one up.  I'm going to run across town with this.  You 
two want to come along?"

"No, I want to visit GW and talk to some of Beth Kinney's 
friends," Mulder said.

Scully glanced over at him.  "If you give me a few minutes, I 
can go with you.  I'd like to give out a description of Vee 
to local high schools.  She couldn't have been older than 
sixteen, so it's possible someone there might know who she 
is."

"Good idea," he agreed.  He looked at Russell.  "What's Arkin 
doing now?  I could grab him instead and let Scully track 
down Vee."

Russell raised her eyebrows.  "You need a car?  I can get one 
if you're not supposed to be working on the books."

Mulder slowly flexed his hands in front of him.  "Not allowed 
to drive yet."

"If I remember correctly, that's a probably a good thing." 
Russell said.

"Well, Amelia, you know the amazing thing about memory," he 
answered.  "It's selective."

She laughed.  "Touch�.  And sure, you can have Arkin.  He's 
upstairs running through recent prison release records.  I 
had the same thought, that this creep has been behind bars 
somewhere for the last eleven years.  If we can find this Vee 
person, maybe she can ID him from the books." She looked at 
Mulder.  "I'll find Arkin and meet you upstairs in five 
minutes, okay?"

"Fine," Mulder said as she left.  He picked up his coat and 
slid one palm across the desk toward Scully.  "I'll see you 
later, maybe over at Grenier's check-point.  Let me know if 
you find anything on Vee."

"Sure," she replied, and tilted her head at him.  "Go easy on 
the co-eds."

He smiled.  "Scully, I've got a chaperone."

"Yes, I know.  Go easy on him, too."

His smile widened to a grin.  "Now there I make no promises."

XxXxX

"So explain to me what we're doing here?" Arkin asked as they 
sat in his idling car, waiting for foot traffic to clear from 
in front of the main George Washington University parking 
lot.  "Are you not convinced it's the same killer?"

"No, I think it's him."

"Then I don't understand.  What is there to gain from talking 
to Beth Kinney's friends?  This guy isn't someone she knew.  
He's a stranger who grabbed her off the streets."

"All the more reason to find out what kind of person Beth 
was.  We don't know where he grabbed her or why.  Maybe 
there's something in her last days that could give us some 
insight into why she died."

Arkin slid the car into a spot and cut the engine.  "I 
thought the best way to learn about the killer's mindset was 
to study his crimes -- the timing, the method, the 
commonalities among the victims..."

"And that's what we're doing," Mulder said as he got out of 
the car.   He squinted at the surrounding buildings.  "We 
want New Hall, right?

Arkin nodded, and they began walking.  "So what you're 
suggesting is that the victims might have more in common than 
long legs and fancy shoes."

"I'm saying we won't know unless we ask."

They reached the tan brick building and followed a young man 
with a backpack in through the front door.   A slender 
brunette answered their knock at the third-floor apartment.   
Her eyes were red-rimmed and her voice was hoarse as she 
asked how she could help them.

"Are you a roommate of Elizabeth Kinney's?" Mulder said 
softly.  The girl clasped a hand to her mouth and nodded.

"Yeah, I am.  Was."

"My name is Fox Mulder, and I work at the FBI.  This is Agent 
Arkin."

At the second name, the girl looked up.  "Richard?  I didn't 
recognize you."

Arkin flushed and cleared his throat.  "Hi, Sarah.  I'm sorry 
about Beth."

"Wait a second," Mulder said, turning to Akrin.  "You knew 
Beth Kinney?"

The younger agent shifted uncomfortably.  "Uh, yeah, a little 
bit.  My kid sister Danielle is a junior here.  She lives on 
the second floor."

"Beth interviewed him last year for the Hatchet," Sarah 
supplied helpfully.  "About being a profiler."

"Excuse us a moment," Mulder said, and walked Arkin down the 
hall by the arm.  "You knew the victim and you didn't say 
anything?"

"I didn't think it was relevant.  And I didn't *know* her -- 
I just spent an hour in the campus coffee house answering a 
few questions about profiling."

Mulder shook his head.  "Not cool, Arkin.  This is not the 
kind of information you keep to yourself."

"I know, I know."  He sighed.  "I'm sorry.  It's just...ever 
since we found Beth, all I've been able to think about is 
Danielle.  What if it had been her?  She's scared out of her 
mind and I'm supposed to tell her everything is going to be 
all right.  I just didn't want to drag these kids into it.  
I'm sorry, my mistake, okay?  It won't happen again."

Mulder held his gaze for a few seconds.  "You met her," he 
said at last.  "What was she like?"

"Smart.  Pretty.  Confident.  Just a real nice kid." He 
swallowed with difficulty.  "I couldn't believe it when they 
told me she was the girl in the park.  I wish to hell I could 
say I'd known her better -- then I might have some insight 
into why this bastard grabbed her."

"Well, you know her friends," Mulder said.  "That's a start."

Arkin drew a shaky breath, and they both looked back at Sarah 
standing in the doorway with her tissues in hand.  "Let's get 
going then," he said.
 
XxXxX

Scully sat at Mulder's desk, the folders pushed aside to make 
room for her laptop as she compiled names of the local high 
schools.  When the phone rang, she reached blindly to answer 
it.  "Scully."

"Agent Dana Scully?" said an unfamiliar voice.

Scully leaned her head in one hand and closed her eyes, 
suppressing a yawn.  "Yes, this is she.  Who is speaking?"

"This is Detective Pearson down at the oh six.  We arrested a 
girl last night who says she knows you."

Scully sat up, her heart beginning to quicken.  "A teenager?"

"Yeah, she won't give us her name.  We picked her up at 
Montrose Park on drug possession.  Word on the street is 
she's one of Jimmy Cho's girls."

"I'll be right there," Scully said, already gathering her 
coat.  "Whatever you do, do not let her leave."

"Oh, don't worry.  She's keeping us company for quite a while 
yet."  He paused.  "You guys looking at her for drug 
charges?"

Scully stretched backwards, speaking even as she hung up the 
phone.  "No," she said, "serial murder." 

XxXxX

In the subway car, Carl watched a woman in a business suit as 
she held the rail and swayed with the motion of the car.  She 
had narrow and glorious navy blue pumps; he imagined the feel 
of the leather on his skin.  It wasn't until after she had 
left, her heels clicking on the platform, that he noticed the 
newspaper she had been reading.

POLICE WON'T CONFIRM CONNECTION IN KILLINGS

He snatched up the section and devoured the tiny article on 
page four.  "Idiots," he breathed.  "What the fuck are they 
talking about, a possible connection?"  He scanned the three 
paragraphs again.

It had to be a press mistake, he thought.  The cops knew his 
work by now.  Jesus, who was running the FBI these days?

*Maybe you're the only one left.*

He wondered if it were true.  Grenier, Russell, Mulder... 
maybe they were all gone now.  Maybe they had forgotten who 
he was and what he could do.  Eleven years was a long time to 
be away.

He got off at Federal Triangle and went to stand outside the 
Hoover building, across the street amid the dozens of people 
hurrying along the sidewalk.  The wind came screaming down 
the rows of buildings, and most folks seemed to want to get 
back inside quickly.  Their rapid footsteps blended with the 
sound of the blood pounding in his ears.

You'll just have to remind them, he told himself.  They'll 
come back and set everything straight.

A woman came out of the front entrance.  She was rather far 
away, but he noticed her immediately.  Daring, three-inch 
heels.  Long skirt with a slit that showed off her strong 
calves.  Such tiny little feet.   He thought of her ten pink 
toes lined up in a perfect row.   

The image stayed with him as he followed her to her car and 
watched her drive away.

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Four

XxXxX

Scully paused on the low, flat steps of the precinct, her 
hair plastered against her cheek in the roaring wind.  The 
whistles and howls blocked out all other sound, but 
underneath she sensed a regular cadence, like a heartbeat.  
Or footsteps.  She clawed the hair from her eyes and turned 
to study the street behind her.  

No one was in sight. 

Leaves rattled along the sidewalk, tumbling over one another 
as a plastic bag danced in midair. The front door to the 
station banged open, startling her in her scrutiny, and two 
uniformed cops hurried down the steps.  As their voices 
faded, swallowed by the wind, she listened again but heard 
nothing hidden under the rushing gales.  She turned and 
climbed the rest of the stone steps, leaving the wind 
pounding angrily on the door behind her.

Inside, the station smelled of warm, stale air that had been 
cranked through an ancient heating system.  There was a bench 
covered in scattered newspapers, and the faded green walls 
displayed posters of cartoon characters warning kids to stay 
away from drugs.  "Excuse me," Scully said to the man behind 
the front desk, "I'm looking for Detective Pearson."

"Straight back on the left."

Scully threaded her way through the maze of desks to find a 
large black man with graying temples hunched over a computer 
keyboard.  He pecked at it with two fingers.  "Detective 
Pearson?" Scully said when he failed to look up.

He swiveled to face her.  "Agent Scully, I presume.  Thanks 
for coming."  He tilted his head, appraising her, then nodded 
at the computer.  "You know how anything about opening 
attachments?"

"Uh, sure."  She moved so she could see the screen.  "Trouble 
with a case file?"

"Naw."  He grinned.  "My son started college this fall, and 
it's either master this e-mail thing or lose contact until 
graduation.  This thing he sent today is supposed to be the 
latest standing in the football pool."

"Well," she said, leaning over to show him, "just enter your 
server name here, your password here...now click download, 
and there you go."

"Hey, thanks," he said as the list of names popped up.  He 
scanned them quickly, then chortled. "A four for the week! 
All his little computer models, and he'd do better flipping a 
coin." 

"I see Denver covered," Scully remarked.

"You know football?" 

She smiled.  "You work in law enforcement, and it's the water 
cooler chatter every Monday morning."

"Guess so," he agreed, rising to his feet.  He perched on the 
edge of his desk  "But speaking of chatter, we haven't been 
able to get word one out of your little friend.  You said you 
wanted her for serial murder?  She looks like a drowned 
kitten to me -- couldn't hurt a flea."

"We think she may be a witness to a murder that took place in 
Montrose park Sunday night," Scully explained.  "She reported 
seeing a man with a knife in the area at approximately the 
time of death."

Pearson let out a low whistle.  "That college girl killed in 
the park?  I heard about that.  But the papers said no one 
has officially connected her death to the girl found a couple 
of weeks ago.  Now you guys think it's the same guy?"

"There were a number of similarities between the two crimes," 
Scully answered.  "Right now we're exploring every angle.  
Would it be all right if I spoke with Vee for a few minutes?"

"Vee, huh?" He shook his head and sighed.  "Such a tough name 
for a little kitten.  Sure, sure you can see her -- she 
called you, after all.  Right this way."

Vee sat slouched at the table in an interrogation room, 
looking considerably more defeated than when Scully had seen 
her last.  She had pulled the metal ring from the top of her 
coke can and was sliding it down her fingers one at a time.  
At Pearson and Scully's entrance, she sat up straight.

"Seems you weren't lying about your connections, kid.  Agent 
Scully hurried down here in the middle of her day at your 
request.  I hope you'll show her the same courtesy."  He 
glanced at Scully.  "She's a minor, so I've got to stick 
around.  Hope that's okay."

"It's fine," Scully answered, her eyes on Vee.  "Detective 
Pearson told me about your trouble last night."

Vee shrugged but ducked her head.  "Yeah, they got me," she 
said.  "The big bad criminal."   She glared at Pearson.  "You 
must be so proud."

"I've got your mug shot on my fridge," he replied. 

"You asked to see me," Scully said, moving closer to the 
table.  "Why?"

"I want to make a deal."  Her chin stuck out, the bravado 
returned, but her eyes were still dark with fear.

"What kind of deal?"

"I can tell you stuff about that guy in the park, the one 
with the knife.  And if I do, you let me walk."

"I don't have the authority to make that kind of deal."

"But *he* does, right?  And he has to do what you say."

Scully and Pearson exchanged a glance.  "I'm afraid that's 
not the way it works," she said.  "The FBI has separate 
authority from the District of Columbia Police Department."

"The DA has discretionary power in these cases," Pearson 
said, pulling up a chair.  "And I might be willing to go to 
bat for you with the DA's office if you give me a good reason 
to."

Vee looked from Pearson to Scully and back.  "How much would 
I get?"

The Detective considered.  "Well, you're young, it's your 
first offense...we might be able to settle on some kind of 
probation."

When Vee still seemed to hesitate, Scully spoke up.  "This 
man chased you with a knife, Vee.  He's already killed at 
least one person and he knows what you look like.  I would 
think it would be in your best interest to help us catch 
him."

"Okay."  Vee sighed and leaned across the table.  "Okay, I'll 
do it on one condition -- my mom can't find out about any of 
this.  I'll tell you everything, I'll do the probation, 
whatever.  She just can't know about it."

Pearson shook his head.  "No dice.  You're under eighteen and 
we need a legal guardian to approve any kind of arrangement."

"Then fuck it."  Vee shoved her chair back and stood up.  

"What about your father?" Scully asked.  

"He's dead."  Vee turned away, hugging her waist with her 
arms.  "Go ahead and do whatever you want to me.  It doesn't 
matter anyway."

Scully walked around the table, moving to stand between Vee 
and Pearson's watchful gaze.  The girl's eyes remained glued 
to the ground, but Scully spoke softly to her.  "You think 
things will be better for your mother if she has to come down 
to the morgue and identify your body?  Is that what you 
want?"

Vee shrugged.  "He hasn't come after me yet."

"Yes, he has.  He chased you two night ago, and you have no 
reason to think he won't come back, not if he thinks you can 
identify him."

"But I can't," Vee whispered.  "I can't identify him."

"You must have seen something."

Vee was silent.

"Her name was Elizabeth Kinney, you know," Scully continued 
after a minute.  "She was twenty-one years old, a senior at 
George Washington University.  She brushed her teeth Sunday 
morning thinking it was just like any other day.  Twelve 
hours later she was dead.  How do you think her mother is 
feeling right now?"

"Stop, just stop."  Vee swiped at the tears on her cheeks 
with the cuff of her sweatshirt.  "Don't you get it?  I can't 
help you!  I never saw his face!"

"What did you see?" Scully pressed.  "Tell me."

Vee balked, taking a step backwards.  "Her arms...they were 
so white, like a ghost.  I saw him carry her into the 
bushes."

"What did he look like?"

Vee's eyes went blank and she stared at the wall, as if 
visualizing the scene projected before her.  "He was tall, 
over six feet, and dressed in dark clothing.  The jacket went 
all the way to his knees.  He wore a face mask that looked 
like Richard Nixon, but his hair stuck up around it."

At the word "mask," Scully felt her heart sink.  So much for 
a positive ID. "Is that it?" she asked  "Can you remember 
anything else about him?"

Vee thought for a minute.  "Um, he was strong.  He carried 
her like she weighed nothing at all.  Oh, and he was white.  
I know because I saw his neck from the side.  But that's it."

Pearson got up from the table with a sigh.  "Not exactly the 
ace you were hoping for, huh?" he said to Scully.

Vee hung her head.  "I told you I couldn't identify him."

Despite her frustration, Scully gave the girl's arm a light 
squeeze.  "It's all right.  We know more now that we did this 
morning, and that's something.  Would you mind sitting down 
with me and going over everything that happened that night?  
Maybe there is a detail we've overlooked."

"Yeah, okay."  Vee drew a shuddering breath and wiped her 
palms on her jeans.  "But first I'd like to call my mother."

XxXxX

He knew better than to follow her into the police station.  
He hadn't survived all those years in that hellhole prison 
just to fuck up and land himself back inside again.  Still, 
when the cab had dropped him off on the corner, when he'd 
seen her stop and look around, a tingle shot up his spine.  
None of the others had ever sensed him before, not until it 
was too late.

Her car was in the small visitor lot -- a blue Camry, and new 
if he was any judge.  He stroked the smooth hood, then 
pressed himself against the driver side door, removing the 
slim piece of metal from his jacket.  As a cop walked past, 
smiling at him, he smiled back and popped the lock open with 
one quick motion.

He climbed inside, his knees pressed almost to his chest, and 
placed trembling hands on her steering wheel.  She was so 
small he barely fit in her place.  He closed his eyes, 
inhaling deeply as he imagined her tiny feet on the pedals.

After a few minutes he started going through her things:  
several pens, sixty-seven cents in spare change, tube of 
coral-colored lipstick (which he opened and sniffed), 
tissues... nothing of real interest to him.  

Except.

He pulled open the glove box and withdrew sheaf of papers.
Registered to Dana Katherine Scully, it said, with her 
address plain as day. 

XxXxX

"This is our room," Sarah said as she opened the door for 
Mulder and Arkin.  "Beth had the right side."

Mulder took in the rumpled chenille bedspread, the armchair 
layered in sweaters and the desk piled high with papers and 
books.  "Looks like my office," he said to Sarah.

She answered with a small smile.  "Beth wasn't the most 
organized person on earth, but she was the smartest girl I 
ever knew.  Professors who swore they never gave out A pluses 
were always making exceptions for Beth."

"She was at a charity dinner Sunday night, is that right?" 
Arkin asked.

Sarah nodded.  "As part of her work on the Hatchet.  They 
were raising money for inner city kids to go to summer camp 
in the mountains."

Mulder wandered over to Beth's chaotic desk to examine her 
personal effects.  He passed over the chemistry textbook and 
collection of British poets anthology in favor of the framed 
black-and-white photographs that adorned her wall.  "Did Beth 
take these?" he asked

"Yes, she took a couple of photography classes last year and 
really fell in love with it."  Sarah paused as her voice 
cracked.  "I thought she was really good."

"I think so, too," Mulder answered as he studied the 
snapshots.  Sarah was in one, along with two other girls he 
didn't recognize.  They were standing under a street lamp at 
night, wearing short skirts and tiny clips in their hair, 
their eyes alight as they shared some sort of gleeful secret 
together.  Mulder thought that if he leaned close enough, he 
could hear the laughter bubbling right out of the scene.

Sarah materialized at his shoulder.  "This one was her 
favorite," she said, tapping the far right photograph.  "That 
was Ben on their first date."  

Mulder took it off the wall for a closer look, and he 
understood immediately why it had been Beth's favorite.  
Emotional connection aside, it was just *good*.  She had 
captured Ben in a three-fourths profile, an extreme close-up.  
He was smiling but his eyes were focused on the ground, as if 
she had just told him a joke that made him blush.  A man in 
love who wasn't ready to share it with the camera.  

"She, um, took his car that night."

"To the charity dinner?" Mulder asked as he replaced the 
photo.

"Yeah. His car was back in the garage, though, so..."

"She must have made it back to campus."

Sarah's eyes filled with tears, and she nodded.  "I'm sorry," 
she said, backing away.  "I don't think I can talk about this 
anymore right now."

"That's fine," Mulder assured her.  "We're almost done here, 
I promise."

She left the room, and Mulder returned to Beth's desk.  Arkin 
joined him.  "Find anything interesting?"

"Nothing new so far.  I mainly just wanted to get a sense of 
who she was."

Arkin sighed.  "A real good kid."

"Yeah."  Mulder picked up a book on photography and began 
flipping through it.  Several pages were dog-eared, including 
one near the back that caused Mulder to freeze in place.  

"What is it?" Arkin asked, leaning over.

"It's Tanzini's photo, the one that was found on her body."

"You're fucking me."

"No, look.  There are a couple of Tanzini specials in here, 
all taken during the first series of murders eleven years 
ago."

"Makes sense, doesn't it?" Akrin said.  "Considering that 
series won the Pulitzer and all."

Mulder stared down at the book, which also had hand-writing 
in the margins.  Beth had drawn an exclamation point next to 
one of the photographs -- a street crowd circled by police 
tape as they watched one of the bodies being taken away -- 
and the message "call Irene."

"You knew her friends," Mulder said.  "Who's Irene?"

"Never heard of her.  But it's not like I knew all her 
friends.  Could be anyone.  Why?  You think it's important?"

"I think that it's interesting that one thing that 
differentiates this murder from all the rest is that 
photograph, and that the *same* photograph turns up among the 
victim's possessions."

Arkin flipped through the book.  "That one and about a 
hundred others.  She's got marks on a bunch of these."

"True.  I think I'll hang on to it anyway."

As they left, they passed Sarah and several of her friends, 
where they were talking quietly in the living room.  "We're 
finished for now," Mulder said.  He held up the book.  "Is it 
okay if I take this?"

Sarah nodded as she stood.  "Sure, fine.  Anything that 
helps."

"Did Beth know anyone named Irene?"

"Irene?"  The girl's brow furrowed in thought, but then she 
shook her head.  "No, I don't think so.  She never mentioned 
her, anyway."

"Okay, thank you."  Mulder handed her his card.  "If you 
remember hearing about an Irene, or you think of anything 
else you think we should know, please call me."

"I will."

Arkin ruffled her hair.  "Take care of yourself, okay?"

They left the apartment in silence, Arkin more subdued than 
when they had arrived, Mulder lost in thought with the book 
tucked under one arm.  It was lunch break at GW, so students 
were streaming through the doors as the agents tried to exit.  
Outside, there was one man standing motionless amid all the 
activity.  Mulder recognized him immediately.

"Tanzini," he murmured, and Arkin followed his gaze across 
the campus to where a large man in an overcoat was leaning 
against a bike rack.

"What the hell is he doing here?"

Mulder felt the old anger flash hot and quick inside him.  
"Scavenging," he replied, walking off the path and over 
toward the photographer.

"Mulder," Tanzini said at his approach.  "They say that time 
heals all wounds.  What do you think?"

"I think you better leave these kids alone, or I'll hold my 
own press conference and let everyone know what a snake you 
really are."

Tanzini chuckled.  "My superiors are well aware, I promise.  
Why do you think they pay me the big bucks?"

"It's about money, then?"  Mulder yanked his wallet out of 
his pocket and tossed a pair of twenties at Tanzini's feet. 
"Here, take these.  Take a couple more.  Whatever it takes to 
get you the hell out of here."

"Agent Mulder, relax.  I'm unarmed, see?"  He opened his coat 
to demonstrate his lack of a camera, then stooped to pick up 
Mulder's money.  Folding it carefully, he handed it back.  "I 
just wanted to talk to you for a minute."

"How did you know I was here?"

If lizards could smile, Mulder thought, they would look like 
Gary Tanzini.  The other man put his hands in his pockets and 
rocked back on his heels.  "You know a newsman never reveals 
a source.  But my sources do tell me interesting things these 
days.  Word on the street is that he's back."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Mulder replied 
tightly, and Arkin looked at the ground.

"Oh, come on," Tanzini said.  "Grace Johnson, Elizabeth 
Kinney -- both of them strangled with their little toes cut 
off.  It's got to be the same guy."

"No comment."

Tanzini held his gaze for another moment, then shook his 
head.  "Sure, okay.  We both know I'm right."

"Stay out of this, Tanzini.  I'm warning you."

"That was always your problem, Mulder.  You didn't see that 
we're on the same side."

"I know where I stand," Mulder answered.  "And it sure as 
hell isn't next to you."

Tanzini sighed.  "Look, despite what you think, I don't take 
any personal pleasure from photographing these crimes.  I'm 
just there to tell the story, to let people know what's going 
on.  And the more people that know about it, the more likely 
it is that one of them will come forward with information to 
help your case."

Mulder was silent for a moment.  "You let us worry about the 
case," he said finally.  He turned to Arkin.  "We're done 
here."

As they turned to leave, Tanzini called after them.  "What 
makes you think you can catch him this time, Mulder?  He's 
already killed two girls right under your nose, and you're 
stuck poking around a dorm room for clues."

Mulder froze for a fraction of a second, but kept moving 
without turning around.  Arkin fell back.  "Mr. Tanzini," he 
said.  "You know anyone named Irene?"

At this, Mulder did turn around.  The photographer looked 
confused.  "Irene?" he said.  "Can't say that I do.  Why?"

Arkin exchanged a look with Mulder, who shrugged.  "Might be 
a clue," he said, and both agents walked away.

XxXxX

Scully pinched the bridge of her nose as she stepped out of 
the interrogation room into the hallway; two hours of 
questions and Vee's story hadn't changed.  She had seen the 
aftermath of the murder but not the murder itself, and there 
was no way she could identify the man's face.  Scully wished 
she could be sure the killer knew it, too.

She pulled out her phone to call Mulder when she noticed a 
tall woman standing ramrod straight at the other end of the 
hallway and staring through the tinted window into the 
interrogation room.  It wasn't until she wiped the tears from 
her face, an exact mimic of the silent gesture Scully had 
seen Vee make, that Scully realized who she was.  "Mrs. 
Kroener?"

The woman jerked at the sound of her name, as if noticing 
Scully for the first time.  "Yes."

"I'm Dana Scully and I work at the FBI.  I've been talking to 
your daughter for the past few hours."

"Virginia is in trouble with the FBI, too?"  Mrs. Kroener 
sounded desolate.

"No," Scully said gently.  "She was a witness to a murder the 
other night in Montrose Park.  We wanted to ask her some 
questions about what she saw."

Mrs. Kroener's mouth twisted, and she swallowed several times 
in quick succession.  "Ginny saw someone killed?  Oh, my 
God."

"She didn't see the actual killing, no."

"Oh, God."  The woman turned back to the window, where inside 
Vee had laid her head down on her arms.  "I don't understand.  
I don't understand how this happened."

"Mrs. Kroener..." Scully hesitated.  "There is a slight 
possibility that Virginia could be in danger if this man 
thinks she can identify him.  Detective Pearson has agreed to 
step up the police patrol on your street, but you might 
consider having her stay out of town with a friend or 
relative just to be safe."

The other woman nodded, her eyes still on her daughter.  "I 
have a sister in Baltimore.  But I don't know if Ginny will 
stay there."

Scully said nothing. 

"When she was four," Mrs. Kroener continued after another 
moment, "we went to a picnic sponsored by our temple.  There 
was a clown there for the children, handing out balloons.  
One little boy let his go by accident, and he started crying 
inconsolably.  Ginny took one look at him and marched right 
over with her balloon.  'Don't be sad,' she said.  'We can 
share.' I thought to myself then that I would never have to 
worry about her.  That she...she had a good heart."

"I'm sorry," Scully whispered, and Mrs. Kroener nodded.

"I should go talk to her.  Please excuse me."

Alone in the hallway, Scully once again pulled out her phone.  
It rang in her hand.  "Scully," she said, expecting to hear 
Mulder on the other end.

"Agent Scully, this is William Beasley from the pathology lab 
at Quantico.  Do you remember me?"

"Yes, of course.  What can I do for you?"

"I've completed the post-mortem exam on Elizabeth Kinney.  
There were some abnormalities in the brain tissue, markings 
that I've never seen before.  Word around here is that you're 
something of an expert in the unexplained, so I thought you 
might like to come take a look."

"What kind of markings?" 

Beasley hesitated.  "I can't do them justice over the phone.  
It's best you see for yourself." 

"I'm on my way."

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Five

XxXxX

XxXxX

Exhausted, Scully left the labs at Quantico eight hours 
later, with more questions than she had answers.  The crystal 
chill of the night air woke her up a bit as she walked across 
the parking lot, but the heft of her briefcase, loaded with 
thick new files, still weighed her down.  

"Some expert," she muttered, slamming the car door shut 
behind her.  The discolored neurons in Elizabeth Kinney's 
brain were as foreign to her as they had been to Beasley's 
team.  She leaned her head back and sighed.  It had taken six 
years, but she'd finally realized that her knowledge alone 
was never going to be enough; her science needed his 
hypotheses.  She picked up the phone.

"Mulder," he said a minute later.

"Mulder, it's me."

"Scully, hey.  Are you still over at Quantico?  How's it 
going?"

"We're done for now, but Beasley was right that there is an 
odd discoloration on parts of Elizabeth Kinney's visual 
cortex.  It could be evidence of an old injury, I suppose, or 
a viral infection, but we didn't find any evidence of this in 
her medical records."

"Why don't you bring what you have over here?  We can take a 
look at it."

She glanced at her dashboard clock.  "It's late, Mulder."

"Come over," he urged.  "I...I have something I want to talk 
to you about, too."

She took a deep breath and made up her mind.  "Okay, fine.  
But I'm going to need food."

"It will be here before you will," he promised, and she hung 
up the phone.  

She leaned forward, about to turn the key in the ignition, 
when she noticed her glove box was not closed properly.  
Twisting around, she scanned her car for anything else out of 
place.  Nothing.  She hesitated a moment longer, then shut 
the door on the glove box so it latched.  

By the time she reached Mulder's apartment building, she had 
forgotten the incident entirely.

His hallway smelled like disinfectant, but even the dim light 
couldn't disguise the fact that it never looked any cleaner.  
There was a draft coming through the vents, and Scully 
shivered as she knocked.  Mulder opened the door an instant 
later, his dark figure surrounded by buttery light and 
warmth.  "Hey," he said as he took her elbow and drew her 
inside.

"It's freezing out there," she said, shedding her coat and 
slipping off her high heels.  She flexed her sore toes.  "How 
can it be this cold so early in November?"

"Have some tea," he suggested.  "It'll warm you up."

He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a mug of 
green tea.  She wrapped her hands around it and sniffed 
experimentally.  He was still standing by her side, watching, 
so she took a small sip.  She didn't have the heart to tell 
him she had OD'd on green tea during her battle with cancer; 
it had been one of the few things she could keep down at the 
time, and just the scent of it called up memories of nausea 
and a thousand red hot needles pressing behind her eyes.

"Better?" he asked as she swallowed another taste.  The cup 
burned against her palms, which were raw from the dry air and 
repeated washings, but she clutched it tighter.  

"Yes, thank you."

"Good.  Let's eat first, okay?  I got Chinese."

They sat on his couch, facing one another with plates of 
spicy chicken and tofu on their laps.  Beside them, his 
coffee table was a collage of shoe pictures, dozens of 
dazzling high heels, and she recognized some of them as those 
believed to belong to the murdered women.  Her gaze slid from 
the array of shiny photos over to her own shoes sitting 
neatly under her coat.  "It's the shoes that do it for him, 
isn't it," she said.

"Yes," he said without hesitation.  "At the root of this 
guy's psychosis is a garden variety shoe fetish.  Last time 
we tried to get to him that way, chasing down leads in sex 
shops, shoe stores, that sort of thing.  Nothing panned out."  
He popped another bite in his mouth.  "You wouldn't believe 
how many people out there are into shoes, and I mean *really* 
into shoes."

Scully picked up one photo, a close-up of a navy pump covered 
in sequined flowers.  The tag at the bottom said it had 
belonged to Jessica Gellar.  "The shoe fetish is quite 
common," she said.  "The theory is that it's because our 
brains are wired so that that sensory processing from the 
feet is right next to the processing for the genitals.  In 
some people, the two regions may actually overlap."

"And the shopping region?" he asked.  "Do women have that one 
right next to the shoe neurons, too?"

She frowned.  "Mulder."

"Scully."  He mimicked her tone, but he was smiling.  "Have 
you looked in your closet lately?"

She considered her four racks of shoes and finally smiled, 
too.  "Okay, you have a point.  I like shoes."

"Why?" he asked, looking genuinely curious.  He cleared his 
throat.  "Is it...is it what you said about..."

"No!" she answered in a rush.  "No, that's not it."

"Then what?"

She thought a moment, glancing over at her shoes again.  She 
took in their delicate slope down to the toes, their solid 
heels, the way the light gleamed off the soft leather.  "They 
have such personality," she said at last, turning back 
towards Mulder.  He didn't look at her like she was crazy, so 
she continued.  "They make me feel stronger, in a way, like I 
take up more space in the world."

He smiled.  "In those shoes, Scully, you certainly do."

"It's not just the height," she said.  "That matters, yes, 
but it's the sound, too.  The rhythm goes all the way through 
me -- I feel it, I hear it.  It's like an extension of what's 
inside me."  She broke off and shook her head.  "I'm afraid 
I'm not explaining this very well."

He extended his leg until he touched her stocking-clad foot 
with his toes.  "No, I get it."

She pressed back with her toes and smiled at him.  "Plus, 
they look cool."

"No argument here."

Their dinner over, she put aside her plate and shifted so her 
feet were on the ground.  She saw he had several pages of 
notes to go along with the shoe pictures, but the handwriting 
was cramped and awkward.  Concerned, she studied his face for 
signs of fatigue.   There were lines around his eyes.  
"Mulder, are you doing okay?  We can always talk about this 
tomorrow."

He shook his head, moving so that his position mirrored her 
own.  "No, I'm all right.  It's been easier than I expected 
actually."  He paused.  "The only strange thing is that I'm 
still getting these weird sensations in my right hand."  He 
held it out for demonstration.  "It's like someone has an 
electric razor buzzing under my skin."

She took his hand in hers, holding tight.  "Is it doing it 
now?"

"No."

"Squeeze," she said, and his fingers curled around her palm.  
She released him and held up one finger.  "Can you touch my 
fingertip with yours?  Good, how about now?  And over here?"

"Give it to me straight, Doc," he said after a few rounds.  
"How long have I got?"

"Not funny." She refused to meet his eyes.

"Scully," he said, demonstrating excellent dexterity as he 
captured her fretful hands in his.  He leaned over so that 
their foreheads touched.  "I'm okay.  I promise."

She forced herself to nod.  "But you weren't," she whispered.  
He didn't remember being on that cold table in the DOD, 
didn't even remember his rescue.  She had to live with those 
images alone.

"I know," he murmured near her ear.  "I know."

After another minute, she pulled away, breaking contact, and 
they both sat back.  "So," she said, "what did you find out 
from Elizabeth's friends?"

"Nothing that really stands out as a lead right now," he 
admitted.  "Except for one thing -- Richard Arkin knew her.  
She interviewed him for the school paper a couple of months 
ago."

"You're kidding me."

"Nope.  His sister is a student there."

"Then what the hell is he doing on this case?"

Mulder shrugged.  "He said he was okay with it, that their 
contact was brief and that he didn't know anything that would 
be important to the case."

"Strange that he wouldn't mention it before."

"Yeah, he agrees that was a mistake."  He reached under the 
table and pulled out a book.  "We also found this among 
Beth's things.  It contains the photograph found on her body.  
Could be a coincidence -- she bought this book for a class 
last year -- but the fact that she'd actually marked the 
pages seemed strange to me."

"Who's Irene?" Scully asked, looking at the section on 
Tanzini's photos.

"Don't know yet.  I've got Arkin working on that one." He 
paused.  "We ran into Tanzini on the campus."

"You what?"

"He was hanging around the dorm, probably after another 
prize.  I told him to get lost."

She eyed him.  "With words, I hope."

He grinned.  "I was a good boy, don't worry."

Scully closed the book with a sigh and reached for her 
briefcase.  "I just wish Vee could have been more help."

"Well, there's the mask information we didn't have before.  
That's something."  He shook his head.  "A homicidal maniac 
in a Richard Nixon get-up.  Only in DC."

"Here's what we found in the autopsy," she said, handing him 
a folder.  "The top ones are coronal sections of her brain, 
near the back.  Occipital cortex."

"Vision stuff, right?" he asked as he scanned them.

"Yes, and these are the original samples.  They have not been 
stained with anything."

"Then what are these purplish lines, here?"

"I don't know," she replied.  "I've never seen anything like 
it before.  The cells aren't decayed, just discolored.  Her 
blood and other tissue samples came back normal."

"Huh," Mulder said, holding one of the photos closer to the 
light.  "Looks like a long, curved line here...a circle here.  
Any sort of pattern that you saw?"

"None we could decipher."  She looked at him hopefully.  "Any 
theories?"

"Sorry to disappoint you, but not at this time.  I can check 
the computer and let you know."

She let out a long breath and leaned back against the couch.  
"Okay, your turn.  What did you want to talk about?"

He set down her folder and took his place next to her.  "This 
guy is good, Scully.  He's the best I've ever seen.  We can 
wait around for him to make a mistake, but who knows how many 
girls could die before that happens?"

"I agree.  But what choice to we have?"

"I've been thinking.  How did he get so good?  How did he 
just show up here twelve years ago and start killing people 
in such a way that the entire DC police force and the FBI 
couldn't catch *one* break on the case?  The answer is 
practice.  Kerri Ann Talbot can't have been the first person 
he murdered.  He was already skilled by then."

"You think there are others."

"I know there are," he said, excited now.  "And that has to 
be the way to nail him.  Find the first victims, back when he 
was just learning and still sloppy.  It's the one thing we 
didn't try eleven years ago.  These days, information systems 
among local PDs are much more integrated.  We can have them 
comb their old files for any murders that might fit this 
guy's general MO."

"Not a bad idea," she agreed.

"Glad you approve," he answered.  "Because if I get a hit, 
I'll need someone to come with me."

"Of course."  She yawned and propped her feet up on his 
table, knowing it was time to go home but unwilling to move.  
Her shoes waited for her by the door.

"Here, feel," he said suddenly, placing a hand on her belly.  
"It's doing it now."

She froze under his touch, not even breathing.  His palm 
print melted through her blouse onto her skin, and he began a 
slow sweep of his thumb, catching one of the delicate buttons 
on each rhythmic pass. 

"Feel that?" he murmured.

Her mouth went dry.  "I...yes."

"Tingles," he said, as if she weren't already buzzing from 
head to toe.  Heat curled up the back of her neck, making her 
ears burn.  

"Mulder..."

"What?"  The button popped free under his rubbing, and his 
thumb slid under the loose cloth.  She felt every ridge of 
his fingertip as it teased the skin above her bellybutton.  

"I need to go."  Another button broke free, and he began 
stroking her with all fingers, his golden skin half-hidden by 
the white edges of her blouse. 

 Does it still count if you keep your clothes on? she 
wondered.  

"Stay," he coaxed, his breathing warm and heavy near her ear.  
She could feel his exhales on her neck.

"I can't."  She placed her hand over his but didn't still his 
movements.  After another second, he stopped and tangled his 
fingers with hers.  She turned her head to look at him, to 
make sure he wasn't taking her no as a rejection, and found 
him dark-eyed and hungry.  His hair stood on end near the 
scar at his left temple, which combined with the heat and 
power of his rigid muscles as he held himself in check, made 
him look slightly dangerous.  She had never seen him quite 
this way, and he sight both thrilled and terrified her.

This was not Mulder, her friend.

Not her partner, Mulder.

This was a Mulder she didn't know yet.

He squeezed her hand, where it rested with his on her 
stomach.  "You should know by now, Scully, that I have 
possibly the world's worst timing."

"No, it's not you.  Mulder..."

"What?"  He had relaxed back into his familiar self, but her 
heart was still quivering inside her chest.

"Things are different for me now," she murmured.  "After 
Africa, after you being gone like that.  It's like you said 
in your dream -- the world is turned upside down."

He nodded slowly.  "Except for me," he said with a smile.  
"I'm still here."

She cupped his cheek and smiled back.  "Exactly."

"Scully, I hope you know," he said, ducking his head, "that's 
not going to change.  I mean, no matter what."

"I know."

He nodded again, then used their joined hands to pull her 
with him as he stood.  She refastened her blouse and gathered 
her things.  At the door, he watched her slip on her shoes.  
"Those have one distinct advantage I don't think you've 
considered," he said as they lingered by the door.

"Yeah?" she asked.  "What's that?"

"They make you the perfect height to do this."  He leaned 
down and kissed her gently, just long enough for her to feel 
the soft pressure of his lips and his heat against her face.  
Before she could kiss him back, he was busy opening the door.

"Night, Scully," he said, looking awfully pleased with 
himself.

She stood dumb-struck another moment before collecting her 
swirling senses.  She paused in front of him on her way out 
the door.  "Good night, Mulder," she murmured, and pecked him 
on the corner of his cheeky grin.  

His eyes widened as she pulled away.  "You're right," she 
agreed.  "The perfect height."

And she maintained her cheeky grin all the way to the car.

XxXxX

It was possibly the most risky thing he'd ever done, entering 
her home.  His heart was beating so fast that the beats ran 
together, and he could feel the hot rush of blood in his 
face.  In the closet, the smell of her perfume lingered on 
her clothes.  His shoulder brushed the plastic of a dry-
cleaning bag as he climbed inside the cramped space.  With 
shaking fingers, he turned on the light.

And gasped.

Four rows of shoes, in perfect alignment.  He got hard at 
just the sight of them.

She is the perfect one, he thought, the one to show them all.  
Surely Russell, Grenier and Mulder would come back to find 
the man who killed a pretty FBI agent.  

He selected a black, open-toed sandal and rubbed it against 
his cheek.  

His mind made up, he began going through the rest of her 
things in an effort to know the best way to grab her.  Not in 
her home.  Never there.  He expected her to scream and there 
was no way the neighbors wouldn't hear.

He pulled down a box from the shelf and pawed through the 
papers inside.  Some letters, cards.  Wait.  

A picture.

She was outside, wearing an FBI jacket and talking to...

He couldn't believe it.

Mulder.

Shit.  He trembled so much he nearly dropped the box.  It was 
almost too good to be true.  Planning, he thought, it would 
take more planning.  He kept the picture but shoved the box 
back up on its shelf.  On his way out, he stopped, hesitated; 
he took the sandals, too.

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Six

XxXxX

Mulder sat up straight, gasping and blinking in the darkness 
as the blanket slid from his legs to the floor.  Purple ink 
blot images expanded and shrunk in his memory, and the sound 
of twigs snapping gave way to the soft burble of his fish 
tank.  

A dream.  At last.

It slipped like a shadow from consciousness even as he dug 
his fingers into the couch in an effort to hold on.  There 
had been branches hitting him in the face...he was 
running...Irene was there, but he could never get close 
enough to see what she looked like...Scully.

Still breathing hard, he lay back and let the couch cushions 
rise up around him.  His phone prodded painfully at his hip, 
so he picked it up, hitting the first memory button.  It was 
ringing her number by the time he held it to his ear.

"Hello?" she mumbled a moment later, her voice thick with 
sleep.  He raised his head enough to see his clock read five-
oh-six.  Oops.

"Hey, Scully," he said, keeping his voice soft. "It's me."

"Mulder, what's going on?  Are you all right?"  He heard the 
covers rustling on her end.

"I'm fine," he assured her.  "I just had a dream."

"Oh," she replied, sounding confused.  Then she said it 
again.  "Oh!  See, I told you they would come back."

"Yeah, okay."  He smiled into the receiver.  "I guess you 
deserve an 'I told you so' every once in a while."

"Usually I'm just too polite to say it," she answered, and he 
snorted.

"Usually you're just not in a position to say it."

He heard her shifting under the blankets again and imagined 
her curled up in bed with the phone pressed to her ear. 
"You're awfully cocky for someone who woke me up at five in 
the morning."

"Scully, I'm all kinds of things at five in the morning."

"Yes, and the continued success of our partnership depends on 
you refraining from phoning to share them."

The emerging dawn cast gray light into living room, 
reflecting his possessions in long, thin shadows on the 
walls.  Trees, he remembered, with white light shining 
through them.  The cold, crawling feeling from his dream 
returned, and he realized that his main reason for calling 
was to hear her voice.  To make sure she was okay.

"Mulder?" she said, as he was listening to her breathe.  "You 
didn't fall asleep on me, did you?"

"I'm still here."

When he didn't say anything further, she prodded him again.  
"You never told me about your dream."

He sat up and swung his feet over onto the hard floor, 
rubbing his morning stubble with one hand.  "I don't really 
remember it that well."

Running, leaves crunching, trees and white light.  He felt 
his neurons stretching with spindly arms, trying to recapture 
the important part of the fuzzy memory, but there was only 
empty space.

"Well, give it time," she said gently.

"Yeah," he answered, thinking that time was the one thing he 
didn't have.  Two dead girls in the space of one week meant 
that the killer had not enjoyed his time off.  Mulder touched 
the tender skin at his hairline.  If there was a clue 
somewhere, short-circuited in his sparking brain...

"...crazy, but I was reading last night that..."

"What?" he interrupted.  

"About the anomalies we found in Beth Kinney's visual 
cortex," she said, with a touch of impatience.  "I remembered 
I had actually seen similar patterns in *stained* cortex from 
a monkey study a few years ago, so I dug out those articles 
last night and reviewed them."

"Back up to the part about you being crazy."

There was a short silence on the other end.  "Not me, Mulder.  
The..."  She hesitated. "Theory."

Despite his nagging worry, her words made him relax into a 
grin.  "You mean *your* theory, Scully?  You have a crazy 
theory to share with the class?"

"You want to hear what I found or not?"  She sounded annoyed 
now, so he decided not to push it.  

"By all means, lay it on me."

She sighed.  "I can't explain it, and it may not even be 
related, but results from animal studies have found radio-
labeled neurons in the visual cortex that correspond to 
recent patterns of visual activity."

"Animals with radio-active brains?  What?"

"It's a way to see what cells were active during a set period 
of time," she explained.  "Cells use glucose when they're 
active, so if you give a monkey radio-labeled glucose, the 
cells that are active during that period of glucose 
administration will light up later."

"Okay, I get it.  So in visual cortex, you would see which 
cells were activated by the monkey looking at things."

"Exactly.  And studies have shown that the images the animal 
sees can actually be reflected on the brain, kind of like a 
fun house mirror.  In any case, the staining patterns in 
these experiments are similar to the discolored neurons in 
Elizabeth Kinney's brain."  She paused.  "Only without the 
radio-active label."

As what she was saying sunk in, Mulder got up and began to 
pace the room.  "Scully, you're telling me that we might have 
a picture of what Beth Kinney was looking at right before she 
died?"

"Well, I wouldn't go that far; we still don't know what 
caused the discoloration of her neurons.  Plus, even if there 
were a discernable pattern, there's no guarantee that we 
could accurately reconstruct it."

"Can we try?"

"It's a long shot, Mulder.  And it's just a theory, 
remember?"

He smiled.  "But crazy enough that it might just work."

XxXxX

Scully stepped into her closet, scrunching her toes on the 
cold wood floor as she considered her choices.  The overhead 
bulb illuminated her army of black suits.  She selected one 
that was still encased in plastic from the dry-cleaners, 
pressed and neat, and combined it with a pale blue shell and 
her new black leather ankle boots.  

It seemed the more ridiculous her life was, the more serious 
her clothes became.

And it was definitely a three-inch-plus kind of day.  The 
kind of shoes that gave a person the necessary authority to 
ask the tech boys to find out what a dead girl had seen 
before she died.  

She hung her robe on a hook but stopped short in her turn to 
exit.  Her box of keepsakes hung over the edge of the top 
shelf, its lid displaced.  Frowning, she pulled it down and 
rifled through the contents, unable to recall opening it 
recently.  Everything was in order, so she replaced the lid 
and slid it back into its proper place.

With a last, puzzled shake of her head, she smoothed the coat 
sleeve of the nearest suit and closed the door behind her.

XxXxX

Okay, he had made some mistakes.  He could admit that.  The 
park was too public a place to dump the body, and Lord knew 
he was still deep in shit over that little slip-up.   But not 
for long; he had a new plan all in order now.

He dug out his folder, the one with all the old newspapers in 
it, and went over the old kills one more time. 

SHOE KILLER HITS AGAIN!

CAPITAL CRIMES: 8 DC MURDERS STILL UNSOLVED

FBI PROILER TO JOIN MANHUNT

Mulder, he thought as he studied the haggard man in the 
photo, knowing now that he must have gotten the message. 

He grinned.  "Time to come out and play."

By evening, she would be dead.  And it would be Mulder's 
move.

XxXxX

Mulder returned to the basement, on his second cup of coffee 
before seven a.m. to find Grenier standing next to his desk.  
Mulder watched silently from the door for a minute as the 
other man lifted several of sheets of paper with one 
fingertip and peered at the contents underneath.

"My shopping list," Mulder said eventually, and Grenier 
dropped his hand.

"Oh, you're here."

Mulder sipped his coffee.  "Yeah, but I could go back out 
again if you weren't finished snooping."

Grenier's jaw tightened and he stepped away from the desk.  
"You're working for me now, Mulder.  It's not spying to 
wonder what my agents are doing with their time."

"Golf, mainly," Mulder replied.  "But I'm managing to work 
the case between holes."  Grenier met his humor with stony 
silence, and Mulder moved to collect the papers on the desk.  
"You want to know what I'm thinking, Grenier, why don't you 
just ask me?"

"You still don't take any notes," Grenier answered, frowning.

Russell knocked on the open door even as she entered the 
room.  "It would be a waste of paper, Adam."  She glanced at 
Mulder.  "How's it going?  I heard Scully couldn't pull 
anything useful from the girl in the park."

"No, the guy was wearing a mask.  I talked to Scully last 
night, and we're going to pursue a slightly different angle."  
Off Russell's inquiring look, he said, "I've put out a notice 
to local departments across the country detailing the basic 
MO and asking if they've seen anything similar in their old 
files, particularly files from about 15 years ago.  If we can 
find where this guy got started, we might be able to find out 
who he is."

Grenier shook his head.  "Jesus, Mulder, that could take 
weeks to get a hit."

"Or days," Mulder pointed out.  "It depends on how quickly 
people check their records.  All I need is one crusty old 
detective to look at the sheet and say, 'I remember this.'"

"It's a long shot at best," Grenier answered.  "I say we push 
the mask angle.  There can't possibly be that many places 
that sell Nixon these days."

Russell nodded.  "It's focused, it's on target.  I like it."

"I do, too," Mulder agreed.  "I think you should stick with 
it."

"But you're still going after cold cases," Grenier said.  "Of 
course."

Mulder smiled.  "You've got the whole BSU at your disposal," 
he said.  "You couldn't possibly need one brain-damaged 
agent, especially if he doesn't take notes."

"Suit yourself," Grenier answered with a glare.  "I'll be 
upstairs dealing with the mayor for the next hour, if anyone 
needs me."

Mulder shook his head as the other man left.  "Just like old 
times," he said to Russell.

Her mouth twitched in a smile.  "Not exactly, no.  Adam's 
been gone a whole," she checked her watch, "thirty-three 
seconds, and we haven't laid a hand on each other."

Mulder sank into his chair and scrubbed his tired eyes.  "The 
last hand I remember is his, connecting with my jaw.  Not 
that I blame him, after what happened."

"You think that was about the sex?" she asked, tilting her 
head at him.  "Oh, Mulder, for someone who has such great 
insight into the criminal mind..."

"What?"

She sighed.  "I *wish* he'd been angry about the sex.  Then 
we might have had some hope of rebuilding our marriage.  But 
Adam was always about work; he saw nothing else, not even me.  
Not until the end, anyway, when I finally got his attention 
by screwing the FBI's Golden Boy right in the task force 
headquarters."

Mulder looked away, and she moved to stand next to his chair.  
"I'm sorry," she said.  "That came out wrong."

"No, I don't think it did."

Russell was quiet for a long moment.  "If Adam couldn't see 
me, it was mainly because he was angry that Patterson 
couldn't see him.  He studied hard, he took all the notes he 
could, but he could never make the pieces fit the way you 
can.  None of us could."

Mulder threw a pencil at the ceiling. "So the entire BSU was 
happy to see the door slam on my way out, is that what you're 
saying?"

"Let's just say it was kind of like playing on the Bulls with 
Michael Jordan."

He grimaced. "Sorry about that."

"I'm not," she replied with a small smile.  "I can say I got 
to play with the best."

"Thanks," he said.  "Me, too."  After another moment, he 
cleared this throat.  "I guess things must be okay if you can 
still work with him.  I mean, considering..."

"We took a break.  I worked Violent Crimes for a year.  Plus, 
we're both seeing other people right now, which helps."  She 
ducked her head, trying to meet his eyes.  "What about you?  
You seeing anyone these days?"

"Uh, not...not like that, no."

"Uh-huh."  She held out her hand.  "Let me see your phone."

"Why?"

"Just let me see it."  He fished it out of his pocket and 
handed it over to her.  "They were bulkier back then," she 
mused as she flipped it open.  "But I seem to remember a 
period of several months when I was number one."

Mulder's mouth went dry when he saw her hit the first memory 
button.  "Amelia, no..."

"It's ringing," she said, ignoring him.  He grabbed for the 
phone, but she turned away.  

A second later, he could hear Scully's voice on the other 
end, "Mulder, I was just about to call you.  My car won't 
start so I'm going to be a little late."

He swiped at Russell again and missed.  "Agent Scully, it's 
Amelia Russell.  I'm sorry to hear about your car trouble.  
Can we send someone to pick you up?"

He missed Scully's response because he was too far away.  
"Give me that," he mouthed.

"No, everything's fine.  I think Mulder's new angle on the 
case sounds promising.  Yeah...okay, here he is."

His hand closed over the phone before she could say good-bye.  
"Scully, what's happening?  What's wrong with your car?"

"I don't know.  This morning I got in and the engine wouldn't 
turn over.  I'm just going to catch a cab.  See you in half 
an hour or so, okay?"

"Okay, Scully."  He clicked off to find Russell eyeing him 
with a triumphant grin on her face.  Despite himself, he 
smiled back.  "You think you're so clever."

"So how long has she been number one?"

Mulder looked at the floor, feeling something break open 
inside him at the prospect of admitting the truth.  Amelia 
waited, and at last he met her eyes.  "Since the beginning," 
he said simply.

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Seven

XxXxX


The Bureau was large, and Scully had learned not to waste the 
endless hours she spent walking from one end of the building 
to another.  Phone tucked under her jaw, she flipped through 
the latest task-force updates with one hand as she clutched 
her lunch bag with the other.

"Okay, then, how soon can you tell me what's wrong with it?"  
Her voice echoed in the basement stairway.  "Fine.  Yes, I'll 
be at this number all afternoon."

She hung up as she reached the familiar, murky hallway, where 
Mulder's office was the only source of light.  As she paused 
to shift her belongings and put away the phone, she heard 
laughter coming from inside, wafting into the hall along with 
the spicy scent of pizza.  She walked towards the door but 
stopped short when she heard Mulder and Russell talking.

"Remember Paul Peterson?" Mulder was saying.

"'Pants' Peterson?" Russell answered.  "Of course I know him.  
I was there the night he got caught on the fence, remember?.  
Believe me, you don't forget a hairy ass like that one any 
time soon."

"He made SAC last week.  Organized Crime."

"No way!"

"Way," Mulder countered.  "And you know what this means, of 
course?"

"Proof that my mom was right," she said with a sigh.  "Life 
really isn't fair."

"No, just think of it -- all those brown nosers in OC will 
now have to pucker up and kiss..."

Russell laughed, and the sound caused a sharp twinge in 
Scully that took her by surprise.  She blinked as she drew 
back from the door.  It wasn't as though she thought Mulder 
had sprung into existence the day she had walked into his 
office.  Of course not.  But until that moment, she hadn't 
considered the fact that there were parts of him she would 
never know, parts that lived only in memories that she didn't 
have. 

She took a deep breath and relaxed the death grip she had on 
the paper bag containing her lunch.  Squaring her shoulders, 
she entered the office.  "Hey," she said, and Mulder sat up 
in his chair.

"Scully, I was just about to call you.  Where have you been? 
Everything okay with your car?"

"The tow truck was an hour late, and then I decided to go 
straight to the lab with the images, since that 
reconstruction we talked about is going to take some time to 
complete."

"Reconstruction?" Russell asked.  "What's that about?"

Mulder glanced at Scully and pushed to his feet.  "Oh, 
probably nothing," he said vaguely, and Scully felt the air 
in the room shift as he moved to stand at her side.  Russell, 
she realized, was welcome in the basement as an old friend.  
Not as a partner.

Russell apparently sensed this, too, because she put aside 
her paper plate and stood to leave.  "I should go check in 
with Adam," she said.  "You going to keep working on the 
list?"

"Paroled felons 'R us," he replied.  "Scully and I will take 
the rest of June."

"Great," Russell said as she collected her jacket.  "I'll 
talk to you both later, then."

She left the room, and Mulder nudged the pizza box in 
Scully's direction.  "I saved you a piece."

She eyed the greasy box top and shook her head.  "I've got a 
sandwich, thanks."  She grabbed Russell's empty chair and 
drew it up next to the desk.  "What have you been up to this 
morning?"

"Phoning parole officers about recently released violent 
offenders to make sure everyone's been checking in on time."  
He sat on the edge of the desk next to her.  As she went to 
take the first bite of her sandwich, he grinned and held out 
a long list of printed names.  "Saved you some of those, 
too."

XxXxX

He got into her apartment the same way he had the night 
before -- right through the front door.  His shoes were 
special, of course, and he had learned long ago not to make 
any noise when he walked.  They never knew he was coming 
until he clapped his hand over their mouths.  Hard, so they 
couldn't bite.  Thick leather gloves, in case they tried to 
anyway.

It took him some searching to find her phone.  He dug it out 
from under the unmade bedcovers, wondering who she could have 
been talking to, curled up under the sheets.  Out of 
curiosity, he punched the first memory key as he wandered 
over to her closet.  Just to see.

"This is Fox Mulder.  Leave a message at the beep."

"Shit!" he said, and the phone clattered onto the floor.  He 
stared at it as his heart began to pound.  Number one on her 
home phone.  This was going to be better than he ever 
expected.  

He picked up the phone and took it back over to the bed.  
Sitting down, he fingered her silky pajamas as he hit the 
memory key again. 

Do you fuck her? he thought as the message played once more.  
Does she put those pretty heels in the air for you?

He broke the connection before the beep, then promptly 
redialed.  Mulder asked him to leave a message as he groped 
around under the bed for her shoes.  Yesterday's pair, 
discarded with one pump turned over on its side, sat in the 
shadows near the foot of the bed.  He pulled them onto his 
lap and stroked the smooth, worn leather.

"This is Fox Mulder.  Leave a message at the beep."

He grinned and stuck his fingers inside one shoe, feeling the 
individual hills and valleys created by her tiny toes.  He 
clicked off the phone.  "I've got a message for you, Fox 
Mulder," he whispered. "Just wait and see."

Her phone was easy enough to split open; he added the 
necessary bits in less than five minutes.

On his way out, he paused at the closet door.  It was cracked 
about six inches, revealing the rows of glorious shoes 
inside.  Swallowing hard, he managed to tear himself away.  
That was for later. 

First, he had to catch a cab. 

XxXxX

There was a light rain falling, more of a mist than anything 
else, and Vee watched the ends of her mother's hair curl as 
they stood outside of Union Station.  She stood still and 
unsmiling while her mother straightened her jacket collar and 
wiped a smudge off her chin with her thumb, just as though 
Vee were heading off to her first day of kindergarten.

"You know I would go with you if I could," the older woman 
said.

Vee turned her head away.  "I know."

"It's just that I lost so much time last spring when Daddy 
died."

"It's fine, Mom."  Vee cut her off impatiently, and her 
mother halted her fussing, her hands wilting in the air 
between them.  "You should go," Vee told her.  "You're going 
to be late for the hospital."

"I can at least walk you to the train.  Remember your Aunt 
Bridget will meet you in Baltimore -- right at the station, 
so be looking for her, okay?"

"You told me a million times."  Vee scuffed one of her boots 
on the ground, her eyes already on the doors of Union 
Station.

"Let's go then."  Her mother sighed.  

Inside, they fought the press of hundreds of weary travelers.  
Vee swiftly threaded her way through the men in suits and 
careening children, forcing her mother to work to keep up 
with her.  Her ticket bought, Vee found the gate where her 
train waited for departure, but the security man wouldn't let 
her mother pass.  

"Not without a ticket," he said.  "Sorry."

"Fine," her mother answered flatly.  "Wait here."

"Mom, this really isn't necessary..."

"I am watching you get on that train, Virginia," her mother 
answered.  "Now wait here."

A few minutes later, her mother returned with the cheapest 
one-way fare possible, and they entered the gate together.  
Vee would have boarded without looking back, but her mother 
caught the end of her jacket.

"Ginny..."

Vee turned.  "What?"

"Be careful. Please."  She reached out and engulfed Vee in a 
hug.  "I know this isn't you," she whispered fiercely.  "I 
know you're not happy.  And when you come back, I promise 
we're going to find a way to fix it."

Vee looked up at the ceiling in an effort to hold back the 
sudden tears.  This is me, Mom, she thought.  Everything you 
ever said not to do, I've done.

She reached around her mother with the arm not holding her 
suitcase and patted her awkwardly.  "I've got to go now, 
Mom."

With a sniff, her mother nodded and released her.  "Call me 
when you get there."

Vee entered the train and slumped down in the nearest seat, 
clutching her small suitcase on her lap.  Outside, her mother 
was the only one standing still amid the crush of passengers 
hurrying to board at the last minute.  Her mother waved, and 
Vee looked away.  When she turned back to the window moment 
later, her mother had gone.

Nothing matters anymore, Vee thought.  Her head spun, her 
heart raced -- her body was so light she felt she might 
disappear.

"Is this seat taken?" asked a woman with large glasses and a 
frumpy skirt.

"No," Vee replied, feeling herself move without even willing 
it.  "Here, you can have the window."

She pushed her way off the train into diesel-scented air.  A 
conductor touched her arm.  "The train leaves in two minutes, 
miss."

Vee ignored him and began walking back to the main part of 
the station.  As she past a round, silver garbage can, she 
tucked her ticket into it.

XxXxX

Mulder had the phone in one hand and a ball of therapeutic 
clay in the other.  "Not for three weeks?" he said as he 
practiced squeezing.  "Okay, what's your last known address 
for McGreggor?"  He set aside the clay and jotted down the 
information relayed to him.  "Got it, thanks."

"A hot prospect?" Scully asked from where she was manning her 
phone across the room. 

"Not any hotter than the other two dozen names we already 
have," he answered.  He tossed his clay in the air and caught 
it neatly.

"You're getting better," Scully observed.

"The Yanks will be calling any day.  Keep your eye out for 
scouts lurking in the halls, Scully."  

"They're liable to get swallowed by all the boxes," she 
replied.  "I wouldn't quit your day job just yet."

He gestured expansively at the chaos surrounding him.  "Leave 
all this glamour for millions of dollars and legions adoring 
fans?  I wouldn't dream of it."

Scully didn't get a chance to answer because there was a 
knock at the door.  "Come in," Mulder called, and an older 
man entered the room with a tired felt hat in his hands.  He 
glanced at Scully before settling his gaze on Mulder.

"Agent Mulder, my name is Elliot Gellar.  Do you remember 
me?"

Mulder sat up slowly, all traces of humor evaporating from 
his features.  "Of course I do."  He rose and moved around 
the front of the desk.  "You're Jessica's father."

"That's right.  We spoke many years ago, at...at the 
funeral."  He looked down at the hat in his hands.

Scully got up from her chair and approached the man.  "Mr. 
Gellar, I'm Dana Scully, Agent Mulder's partner.  Would you 
like to sit down?  I can take your coat."

"No, no.  Thank you, dear, but I can't stay."

"What can we do for you, Mr. Gellar?" Mulder asked.

His chin came up.  "I won't keep you, I promise.  I just saw 
the papers and I had to know...is it him?"

Mulder glanced at Scully, who turned her gaze to the floor.  
"Yes, I believe it's him," he said softly.

Gellar swallowed convulsively and clenched his hat.  "All 
these years, I thought he was dead.  I tortured myself with 
it, every waking hour of every day.  What if he'd died just a 
little sooner?  Jessie might still be alive." 

"Sir, are you sure you wouldn't like to sit down?" Scully's 
voice was gentle.

He shook his head.  "I've been doing some reading, you know," 
he said to Mulder.  "On the kind of work you do, and the kind 
of animals you chase.  I don't know how you manage it, day 
after day."

I couldn't manage it, Mulder thought, but he said nothing.

"My wife thinks *I'm* the monster for wanting to know all the 
details," he continued.  "But I have to know.  I keep waiting 
for the one thing that will explain it all, the thing that 
will tell me why Jessie had to die.  Last year, I saw an 
interview with a serial killer on television.  He was talking 
about his victims.  'She was dead the moment I saw her,' he 
said, and that's when I knew."

"Knew what, Mr. Gellar?" Scully asked when he didn't say 
anything further.

He drew a shuddering breath.  "There was nothing I could have 
done.  Nothing Jessie could have done.  It was over the 
minute he saw her.  Maybe..."  He broke off, hesitating.  
"Maybe that goes for you all, too.  There was nothing more 
you could have done."

"We have some new avenues to explore this time," Mulder said.  
"We're doing everything we can."

Gellar nodded.  "I know.  That's part of why I wanted to come 
here, to tell you that I understood how hard you tried."  He 
cleared his throat.  "I should be getting home now.  Good 
luck with the search, and please -- let me know if you learn 
anything, will you?"

"You have my word," Mulder answered.

Scully walked the older man to the door, and he shook her 
hand politely before leaving.  "Whew," she said when he had 
gone.  "That was intense."

"Yeah."  Mulder lowered himself into the nearest chair, 
rubbing his face with his hands.  "Jesus."

"You okay?" Scully asked after a moment.

"Yes," he said.  "No."

She walked over and leaned against the desk next to him.  
"What is it?"

"It's exactly what he said, Scully.  That's been the most 
terrible thing about this, the thing I hardly can even bring 
myself to think about."  She waited, and he sighed.  "Gellar 
wonders what if this guy had died before he could kill his 
daughter.  But now he knows that wasn't a possibility."

"Yes," Scully agreed.  "And?"

Mulder traced the edge of the desk with one finger until he 
bumped into her hip.  He did not meet her eyes.  "I was the 
best, Scully.  I know you're not supposed to say things like 
that, but it's true.  I was supposed to catch this animal, 
and I gave up.  I thought he was dead, too."  At last, he 
raised his head enough to look at her.  "Maybe another day, 
another week..."

"You can't think like that," Scully broke in.  "You don't 
know that anything else you could have done would have led to 
this man's capture."

"That's just it," he replied.  "I'll never know."

XxXxX

The rain had soaked Vee through to her skin, and her hair was 
plastered against her neck by the time she reached Jimmy's 
apartment.  She fumbled the key with numb, wet fingers, but 
finally managed to open the door.  Her damp suitcase wobbled 
before toppling over in the entryway.  

"Fuck it," she muttered, and kicked it for good measure.  She 
shut the door behind her.  

"Hello?" she said to the empty living room. 

Silence.  Either Jimmy wasn't home, his stereo was broken, or 
he was sleeping one off in the bedroom.

Vee helped herself to a Coke from the fridge and wandered 
down the hall to his room.  "Jimmy?" she called.  "Are you in 
there?  I jumped the train, and..."

She pushed the door open and froze.  Jimmy was on the floor, 
unconscious, and standing over him, with that smiling rubber 
mask, was Richard Nixon.  He lunged at her.

Vee screamed and grabbed the first thing she could get her 
hands on, the oak bookcase to her right.  She pulled it over, 
saw the hundreds of CDs, books and tapes crash down on Nixon, 
then ran like hell before he could get up.

Getoutsidegetoutsidegetoutside.  Her legs threatened to 
buckle under her as she pounded down the staircase toward the 
front door.  Behind her, she could hear Nixon's footsteps 
gaining ground.

"Please God, please God," she muttered, her hand trembling 
over the banister.  His knife clattered against the metal 
rail.

Sobbing, she threw herself out the front door, stumbling into 
the rain.  Her heart slammed painfully against her chest, her 
lungs on fire, but she did not stop running.  At the corner, 
traffic came to a squealing halt as she zigzagged across the 
dark street.

She did not look back.

XxXxX 

Scully hung up the phone and leaned her head in one hand.  "I 
need some coffee," she said.  "You want anything?"

Mulder shook his head, not even looking up from his computer 
screen.  She stood up and stretched as the phone rang.  When 
Mulder made no move to answer it, she said, "I guess I'll get 
that."  A moment later, she stretched out the receiver 
towards him.  "It's for you.  Sheriff Lydell from 
Bakersfield, Ohio."

Mulder grabbed the phone.  "What can I do for you, Sheriff?  
Yes, I sent that teletype."

Scully went to leave, but he stopped her by waving his hand.  
She turned and waited.

"Really," Mulder said.  "And this was in nineteen eighty-
five?  What about the second one?  I see."

Scully felt her pulse pick up as Mulder stood and began 
gathering his things.  "What is it?" she said, but Mulder was 
still listening to the man on the other end of the phone.

"Get me everything you have on both murders," he said.  
"We'll be there as soon as we can."

He hung up the phone and picked up his jacket.  "What?" she 
asked.  "You got a hit?"

"Could be," he replied.  "Bakersfield has two unsolved 
murders from late nineteen eighty-five and early nineteen 
eighty-six.  Both victims were young women.  Both had 
mutilations on the feet.  If we're lucky, we can get a flight 
out of here tonight."

Scully was already collecting her belongings.  "Any 
suspects?" she asked as they closed up the office.

"Not yet."  He paused.  "But this is him, Scully.  I can feel 
it.  These are the bodies he thought we'd never find, and 
they're the ones we're going to use to nail him."


XxXxX

Carl parked in a darkened alley, out of view of the street, 
and tried to calm himself down.  So far all he had to show 
for the day was another dead body, and this one had worn the 
most despicable kind of sneakers -- cheap and dirty.

He adjusted his headset, making sure he could hear over the 
rain drumming against the roof of his car.  His cab.  At 
least he had that.

He'd driven past her apartment building fifteen minutes 
earlier and seen the light in her bedroom window.  Was she 
going out tonight?  Or would he do better to catch her in the 
morning, on her way to work?

His headset clicked on, and he heard ringing.  A moment 
later, a woman's voice said, "Yellow Cab.  What number are 
you calling from?"

He sat up as he heard Scully give her number.  "I need to go 
to Dulles," she said.  "How soon can you get here?"

Carl was already starting his engine.  It was dark, raining.  
She wouldn't even realize he had the wrong name emblazoned on 
his car.

"We'll have someone there in fifteen minutes, ma'am," said 
the woman.

Carl planned to be there in ten.

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Eight

XxXxX

The rain poured over his cab in sheets, but Carl sat warm 
inside with the engine idling.  Her apartment was just around 
the corner.  He had pulled over to wait out his ten minutes, 
and to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything.

Rope -- check.

Knife -- check.

Childproof locks engaged -- check.

Dana Scully was getting in, but she wasn't getting back out 
again.  He hummed tunelessly and drew a happy face in the 
condensation on his window.  Outside, a car rushed past him, 
and he saw it pause at the corner, its red turn signal 
winking at him through the rain-blurred windshield.  He 
leaned over the steering wheel to catch the license plate 
illuminated in his high-beams.

Government issue.

"Shit," he muttered, just as her phone rang.  His headset 
clicked on when she answered.

"Hello?"

"Scully, it's me.  I'm outside."

Carl sat up in his seat. "Shit, shit, shit!" he said, his 
voice growing louder with each exclamation.  He pounded the 
wheel with his fist.

"Mulder, what are you doing?  You're not supposed to be 
driving."

"Don't worry, I used my left foot."

"Mulder..."

"Kidding," he said.  "I'm feeling fine, really.  And I could 
drive this route blind-folded.   Think of this way -- I just 
saved you sixty bucks in cab fare."

"GOD DAMMIT!" Carl roared.  He shook the wheel hard enough to 
jostle the cab in place.  Grinding his teeth together, he 
gunned the engine.  The car fish-tailed around the corner and 
accelerated up the street toward Mulder.

"I'm driving to the airport," Scully was saying.  Carl barely 
heard her over the pounding in his ears.  He clenched the 
wheel until his knuckles locked.

"Fine, I'll--"  The crunch of metal on metal cut off Mulder's 
response as Carl dragged his cab alongside Mulder's sedan.  
"Jesus!" Mulder said, but Carl didn't slow down.  Still 
accelerating, he sped off into the rain without looking back.

XxXxX

"You're sure you're okay?"  Scully glanced at Mulder as she 
adjusted the rearview mirror.  Hunched and scowling, with his 
wet hair stuck in clumps to his head, he looked like a 
wounded sea monster come in from the cold.  "Maybe we should 
stop by the hospital and catch a later flight."

"It's just a dent," he said.

"What?" she said, alarmed.  She reached for his injured arm.

"The car, the car," he said impatiently, pulling away from 
her.  "I'm fine."

Her brow furrowed as she debated whether to override his 
insistence, but eventually she drew back and settled into the 
driver's seat.  "We'll be lucky to make it at this point, 
anyway," she said as the engine turned over. 

"Well, you're a hell of a lot better off with me than in that 
cab," he muttered.  "That guy didn't even slow down when he 
hit me."

"You said that cab was white, Mulder.  I called Yellow Cab.  
So you can rest easy...my life was never in jeopardy."

He didn't answer, instead turning his head to look out into 
the black, rain-streaked night.  The sidewalks were deserted, 
but he felt the seconds ticking down until the next murder.  
He was willing to bet the killer had already selected his 
next victim, perhaps was actively stalking her.

*I'm going to get you where you live* he willed to the empty, 
shadowed streets.  *By tomorrow night, you'll have a name, 
you sonofabitch.*

XxXxX

Carl skidded around a corner, still driving at speeds to 
match his racing heart, leaving arcing splashes of water in 
his wake.  "Think," he ordered himself, clutching the wheel.  
"She said the airport.  That means they're going somewhere.  
Where?  Where?"

Fuck, it was too late to follow and find out.  Maybe he could 
call and ask what flight they were taking.  "All wrong, all 
wrong," he muttered, shaking his head.  "Why the hell are 
they going to the airport?"

*Ohio* said a little voice inside him.  Carl screeched the 
cab to a halt in the middle of the road.

"No," he whispered.  

Car horns blared behind him as drivers flashed their beams 
into his car.  He squinted and pushed the mirror away with an 
angry shove.  "Fine!" he yelled.  "What the fuck do you know, 
anyway?"

It can't be Ohio, it can't be Ohio.

He drove without seeing anything, taking mindless turns, 
until up ahead...

...a woman.

Waving to him from under her umbrella.  Pretty legs sticking 
out from beneath her raincoat, all wet and cold in those 
sheer stockings.  And the shoes -- tiny pinpoint heels and a 
gold buckle at the front.

Carl licked his lips.  The rope was still there.  The knife.

Yes.

I'll teach you to leave town, he thought as he brought the 
car to a stop at the curb.  He punched the locks on the 
doors, and the woman climbed inside.

"Thank you so much," she said with relief. "I thought I'd 
never get out of that rain.  This has been the absolute day 
from hell."

Carl smiled.  "Sit back and relax," he said as he clicked the 
locks into place.  "Let me make it all better."

XxXxX

Mulder awoke with a jerk, as though someone had shaken him, 
but he was alone in the center aisle of the plane, sprawled 
across four seats.  He blinked as his eyes adjusted to the 
dim light.  The vibrating whine of the plane's engine hummed 
around him, but in his head, he still heard the echoes of 
screams and twigs snapping.

It was the dream again, with running and Nixon's face in the 
shadows.  Only this time he recognized the person who was 
screaming.

Him.

He twitched under the too-small blanket, which slid to the 
floor, and he retrieved it with a touch of surprise; someone 
had covered him up.  Still horizontal, he tilted his head all 
the way back until she came into view across the aisle -- 
upside down and frowning as she massaged her right foot.

"Hey," he said, and she paused to glance at him.

"Hey, yourself.  You timing is improving, Mulder -- the 
flight is just about over."

He checked his watch and stretched.  "Tell me you saved my 
bag of peanuts, Scully.  I'm starving."  A moment later the 
foil packet landed squarely on his chest.  "What a partner," 
he said as he sat up and tore it open.  It ripped in half, 
launching peanuts all over his lap and the surrounding seats.

"Well done," Scully observed.

"I don't know my own strength," he replied as he popped the 
several of the stray nuts in his mouth.  "This physical 
therapy thing really works."

"Good to know," she answered, still rubbing her foot.

"Maybe I'll be like the Bionic Man, rebuilt to be better than 
before."

She stopped massaging to look at him.  "Promise me you will 
only use your powers for good."

"I'll start right now," he said, downing the last of the 
peanuts.  He stood up and moved to take the aisle seat next 
to her.  "Cramp?" he asked, nodding at her foot.

"Yeah, but it's a little better now."

"Let me see."  He tugged her slightly off balance, placing 
her stocking-clad foot in his lap.

"Mulder, what..."

"Here?"

"Ow, yes!"  Her foot jerked, but he held her still.

"Just a second," he promised, kneading the spot below the 
cramp.  He knew he had the right place when she relaxed and 
leaned her head back against side of the plane.  "I've been 
thinking about the Nixon mask," he said after a moment.

"What?"

"Why he wears a mask," Mulder clarified, using his thumb to 
press against her instep.  "It's not something I would have 
expected.  This guy is proud of his killings.  He leaves them 
out for everyone to see.  Killers who wear masks -- 
particularly masks depicting another person -- are generally 
uncomfortable with their crimes, at least at some level."

"Maybe deep down he is uncomfortable with them," she 
answered. 

"Maybe."  He squeezed her foot.  "When we catch him, we can 
ask."

"Mmmm."  She had closed her eyes, and he smiled as he slid 
his palm over the top of her foot and down the other side, 
comparing their size.  Sometimes he forgot how very little 
space she did take up in the world. 

"You know the average person walks enough in his or her life 
to go around the earth three times?"  He stroked the arch of 
her foot with one finger.  "No wonder it hurts."

She flexed her foot once, her eyes still closed.  "I feel 
like I've clocked that much just today."

"One day would be more like nine thousand steps," he 
corrected absently.  He was busy tracing the bumpy slope of 
her toes.  "I wonder if there could be a Jungian aspect to 
the shoe fetish," he said a minute later.

"Mulder, if there's anything in our collective unconscious 
about shoes, it's probably because Nordstrom's spends so much 
on advertising."

He smiled.  "But there's evidence that our ancestors wore 
shoes as far back as ten thousand years B.C. -- that's about 
250,000 generations of half-off sales."

She opened her eyes and regarded him with interest.  "For 
someone who owns a grand total of three pairs of shoes, 
Mulder, you seem to know a lot about the subject."

"I read," he said with a shrug.  "It sticks."  He gave her a 
sideways glance.  "I guess this means my brain still works 
okay."

"Mulder."  Her voice was soft and full of affection.  "You 
have the best brain I know."

He ducked his head, surprised at the flush of pleasure he got 
from her words.  "Really?"

"Really."  She wiggled her toes in his lap and smiled.  "And 
your hands aren't bad, either."

He knew a hint when he heard one, and resumed his task two-
handed, rolling his thumbs over the soft flesh covering the 
ball of her foot.  "How's that?"

"Not...bad," she said with a sigh, relaxing against the plane 
once more.  Her eyes closed.  "I do love you," she said, and 
his hands froze.  Only his heart continued moving.  

His sudden stillness caused Scully to open her eyes again, 
and he turned his head to look at her.  She was calm and 
certain, and, he realized, so was he.  He gave her a slow 
smile.  "I know," he said, and she arched an eyebrow.  

"Yes?" she said.

"Yes."  He leaned over her out-stretched leg.  "I just didn't 
think you would actually say it out loud unless the plane was 
crashing."

"Very funny."  She nudged him playfully with her foot.  
"Actually, Mulder..."  He felt her toes creep up his inseam.  
Again, he stopped breathing.  "If this plane *were* falling 
from the sky, I'm not sure I would waste my time talking."

"Uh, no?" he managed.  She was kneading the inside of his 
thigh, warming the skin there with her slow caress.

"No."  At her ankle, her pulse fluttered under his 
fingertips, and he began unconsciously mimicking her rhythm 
by sliding his palm along the underside of her leg.  She 
arched her back and squirmed, sending pulses of pressure down 
his thigh.

"What...what would you do, Scully?"

Her fingers trailed over her throat as she considered the 
question.  "Mmm, I could show you," she allowed, "except..."

His insides lurched.  "Except!"

"Except the captain has turned on the seatbelt sign."  She 
leaned across her legs to stroke his cheek.  "Time to get 
upright and securely fastened, Mulder."

Before he could react to her touch, she was gone -- feet back 
on the floor, seat belt around her waist.   "Upright, 
fastened," he muttered as he fumbled with his belt. 

"Need some help?"  Her tone was so innocent.

"You have done quite enough, thank you."  To his credit, he 
tried to sound upset.  Her laughter said she wasn't fooled.

The plane began its measured descent, and Mulder felt like an 
astronaut returning from the moon -- a strange and beautiful 
place he'd seen every day but had never been allowed to 
visit.  Her hand slipped through his, soft and strong and 
unfamiliar, and Mulder sat back and let the universe spin 
around him.

XxXxX


XxXxX

Chapter Nine

XxXxX

There was a light snow falling by the time they reached the 
town of Bakersfield, Ohio -- population six thousand.  "And 
two," Mulder added as they crossed the border.

Scully squinted out the window as she drove, taking in the 
sparse number of buildings on the main drag. "Hopefully we 
won't be here long enough to count."

"What's the matter, Scully?  You have something against 
small-town charm?"

"I like charm just fine," she answered as she pulled into the 
driveway of the Bakersfield Inn.  The engine cut out.  "But 
let's face it, Mulder -- we're not going to catch this guy 
here.  Even if these murders were committed by the same man 
we're searching for, he's long gone from this place."

"Ah, but the clues remain."  They retrieved their overnight 
bags from the car and headed for the entrance to the Inn.  He 
held the door open for her, and they both stamped snowflakes 
from their shoes on the mat inside.

"Welcome," said a round-faced woman behind the front desk.  
She put aside an Agatha Christie novel to greet them.  "You 
all must be the FBI, right?"

"Right as rain," Mulder agreed.  He brushed off his overcoat.  
"Or snow, in this case."

"First of the season," the woman said.  "You're lucky you 
made it in before it hit."  She took out her ledger and 
consulted.  "Let's see...I can give you separate rooms on 
floors one and two, or else I've got two rooms together on 
the second floor that share a common bathroom.  Which do you 
prefer?"

Mulder glanced at Scully, who said, "The joined ones are 
fine."  She returned his look.  "I'll just make sure to lock 
the bathroom door."

"Okay, if you'll just sign here," the woman said.  "Oh, wait, 
and I forgot.  Pete Lydell dropped this off for you earlier."  
She handed then a thick manila envelope.

"Great, thanks," Mulder said.  "Is there anyplace to grab 
something to eat around here?"

"No, sir, I'm afraid everything is locked up tight as a 
drum."  She thought for a moment.  "Let me see if I can have 
Patsy rustle you up something from our kitchen.  It won't be 
much, but it'll take the edge off."

"That would be wonderful, thank you," Scully said.

His bag slung over his shoulder, Mulder had the file open 
before they reached the stairs.  "Lydell says he'll meet us 
in his office tomorrow at eight-thirty," he reported as they 
climbed.  "And these seem to be copies of the reports on two 
murders he told me about over the phone."

Scully paused outside her door.  "Anything new?"

"Susan Perry's body was found here in Bakersfield," he 
reported, scanning as he flipped through the pages.  "Dee-Ann 
Tucker was found in Kirby, where she apparently lived."  He 
glanced at her.  "I wonder how far away that is from here."

"About ten miles back on Route 80," Scully answered.  "We 
passed signs on the way into town."

"Huh," Mulder said, eyeing the folders again.  "I would have 
expected them to be closer together."

Scully smothered a yawn in the sleeve of her wool coat.  "You 
can give me the rest of the highlights in a few minutes.  
I've got dibs on the shower."

He nodded absently and let himself into the room.  Tossing 
his bag in a chair, he stretched out on the bed and turned on 
the nearby lamp.  As he held up the top folder, a series of 
photographs slid out onto his stomach.  The first one was a 
color portrait, air-brushed and matted, showing a young woman 
with a wide smile and mischievous hazel eyes.  Her pink 
blouse was open at the collar, and he could just make out a 
delicate necklace that spelled out "Susan" gold script.  A 
senior year portrait, he guessed, taken only a few months 
before she died.  Just eighteen years old.

Reluctantly, he traded the bright and happy picture for those 
that followed -- black and white crime scene photos showing 
her bruised neck, scattered clothes, and mutilated toes.  
When he held it up next to the light, he detected tooth marks 
on the side of her left foot.  Her little toe had been 
chopped off.

The photos from the second murder looked much the same.  Dee-
Ann Tucker died on or about February 3, 1982, having been 
reported missing by her mother the previous day.  The search 
team found her body propped under a tree in the local 
schoolyard -- raped, strangled and missing both little toes.

He had read both files front to back by the time Scully 
entered from the bathroom a half hour later.  Her hair was 
wet.  He gave an appreciative glance at the curved, bare legs 
that stuck out from under her robe, and an even more 
appreciative glance at the sandwich plate she held in her 
hand.

"Courtesy of Patsy downstairs," she said, joining him on the 
bed.  

"Thank God," he said as he sat up.  "Man does not live by 
peanuts alone."

She tucked her legs under her and took one of the sandwiches 
from the plate.  "Anything else of interest in the files?" 
she asked.

"Looks like the same guy from DC," Mulder answered with his 
mouth full.  "Both of the murdered girls had toes missing."

"Did they have any suspects back at the time of the original 
investigations?"

"Nothing that panned out.  The local boys chalked it up to a 
drifter who had moved on to another town."

Scully looked thoughtful.  "Could be possible, I suppose."

"No, our killer is a nice, corn-fed Midwestern boy, all 
right." he replied.  "From a small town where everyone knows 
everyone.  All we have to do is find out who knew this animal 
twelve years ago."

"Great," she said with a sigh.  "There are only six thousand 
people.  Should take us no time at all."

He shook his head.  "There are two people who knew him for 
sure," he said, tapping the folders next to him.  "We can 
start there."

XxXxX

Scully fell asleep halfway through "M*A*S*H," curled in her 
fuzzy robe with the blue light flickering over her face.  He 
muted the television and watched her for a few minutes, 
letting the gentle rhythm of her breathing wash over him like 
waves.  At last he rolled out of bed and padded on bare feet 
to the closet, where he found a worn cotton blanket.  He took 
it back to the bed and sat by her hip as he tucked it around 
her, stretching across and caging her body with his own.  She 
opened her eyes, and he froze in place above her.

"Mulder?"

"It's okay," he murmured, reaching up to stroke the curve of 
her face with his finger.  "Go back to sleep.  I'll take your 
room tonight."

She blinked at him a moment longer, then stretched, arching 
under the blanket and brushing his belly with her own.  He 
sucked in his breath as she released a sleepy sigh.  He 
swallowed with difficulty and leaned down to kiss her temple. 
"Night, Scully," he whispered.  As he moved to pull away, she 
stopped him with two hands on his chest.  His face hovered 
inches from hers.

"No, wait," she said.

Breathless, he waited.  "What?" 

"I think..."  She shifted under him, her hands sliding up so 
her fingers splayed across his cheek.  "I think the bed..." 
Her face tilted up to his.  "...is crashing."

Her hands fell away as their lips met, brushing first at one 
angle, then the other.  They connected only with their kiss.  
Mulder quivered just above her, his fingers digging into the 
bed sheets.  He tasted her mouth and smelled her skin and 
felt her twisting with need beneath him, her breath hot 
against his face. 

She whimpered, and he was lost, crawling over her even as she 
urged him into bed with eager, stroking hands.  The blanket 
slipped to the floor.  He panted in between frantic kisses on 
her lips, her ears, her eyes.  The ends of her hair were 
still damp, and he took the curled tips in his mouth, sucking 
off the last sweet drops.  He wanted to taste her everywhere.

His cock poked around inside his sweat pants, and when she 
parted her legs he rubbed himself between them.  "Oh, yes," 
she murmured, her eyes drifting shut.  She slipped her hands 
under his shirt and stroked the length of his back, her 
nimble fingers finding the sensitive skin on the sides of his 
ribcage.  "Scully," he whispered against her mouth, and she 
swallowed the sound as she wrapped her legs around him.

Arching away from her, he tugged open her robe, releasing her 
body heat and clean, spicy scent into the air between them. 
Her fingers curled into his tee-shirt, tugging upwards, and 
he obliged her by shrugging it off.  She returned her touch 
immediately, tracing his ribs down to his belly as she 
planted tiny kisses along his jaw.

He tried, he tried not to go from zero to fucking in sixty 
seconds.  The avalanche of need inside him almost didn't care 
that it was her hand on his cock, pumping so sweetly.  But he 
forced himself to open his eyes.  To see her.  To remember 
the shadow curve of her waist, the warm weight of her 
breasts, the feel of her pointed hot tongue on his skin.

Her breathing grew light and fast as touched between her 
legs.  He stroked her gently before trailing hot and wet 
fingers down her thigh.  Her hips jerked under his hand, and 
he returned to his purposeful rhythm at her center.

She turned her face away, her cheek pushed deep into the 
pillow as she panted in little "oh" shaped breaths and 
followed the movements of his hand. He was prepared to rub 
her this way for as long as she needed, trying to give her 
the time to let go.  But Scully clenched around him after 
only a few seconds, gasping and shaking under his fingers.

He kissed the pulse fluttering at her throat, and she twisted 
her fingers in his hair.  "Good," she said, licking her lips.   
Her eyes were still closed.

"Take your time," he said as he rolled next to her.  He 
traced a circle around the nipple closest to him and tried to 
control the spasms of his hips against her thigh.

"Time," she answered, tugging down the waistband of his 
pants.  He slid them down and off in one motion.  They kissed 
face to face for several long moments before she rolled 
herself on top of him, the terry cloth robe slipping down to 
her elbows like a wrap.  Her breasts peeked out from between 
the folds, and he watched her eyes as he took both nipples in 
his fingers and rolled them gently back and forth. 


Her lips parted, her eyelids heavy, she reached behind her to 
stroke him from root to tip.  After another moment, she 
shifted onto her knees.  

He squeezed his eyes shut briefly. "Slow," he warned through 
clenched teeth.

"Yeah, yeah," she agreed, positioning him between her legs.  
She slid downwards a couple of inches, then stopped, and he 
forced himself to hold back a groan.  

"Okay?" he asked.  He could feel himself pressing tight 
inside her.

"Mmmm."  She closed her eyes and wrinkled her forehead the 
way she did whenever she was thinking hard about something --
her lips pursed, her skin flushed. 

Thinking about fucking me, he thought, and nearly went over 
the edge right then.

"Oh," she said, a sound of surprise and delight as she opened 
up and he slid all the way inside.  She leaned down and 
kissed him softly, then drew away to look into his eyes. 
"Well?"

He kissed her back, once hard.  "Mayday," he said, and then 
gripped the bed as her laughter rippled through him.  

She reached up and matched her palms to his, folding their 
fingers together.  He bumped his hips against her, and she 
made a small, choked sound of pleasure as she bore down with 
an answering push.  They made love slowly at first, her cheek 
against shoulder, his hands caressing her smooth back under 
the robe.  Then her fingers found his nipples with a light 
scrape, and he began to sweat.  She licked the side of his 
neck.

"Can't," he said, more to himself than her, as the tempo 
started to carry him away. "Can'tcan't."  He was pumping 
himself into her with smooth, short strokes.

"You can," she whispered back, her breathing uneven.

She sat up, bringing him deeper, and he groaned.  He held her 
hips as she rose and fell, until the pulses of pleasure began 
shooting down his spine.  She swooped down and kissed him, 
and he hugged her tight as he shook and shook.

When he opened his eyes again, his heartbeat slowing, Scully 
was draped over him with a satisfying dead weight.  He mapped 
the individual ridges of her vertebrae with his fingers, 
learning every velvet ridge.  Her skin was every bit as 
peach-fuzz soft and smooth as it had been under his hands 
seven years earlier, when she had dropped her robe for him in 
the candlelight.  He felt a lump form in his throat at the 
small reminder of her innocence back then, amazed that the 
same star-bright, cocky young woman was the Scully he now 
loved.

He kissed her ear, and she tightened her arms around him.  
Her hips, he noted, were still bucking against his at odd 
intervals.  The inner clenching sent shivers though him, but 
he softened and slipped out of her all the same.  She 
twitched and murmured something into his shoulder.

"More?" he breathed, reaching down to stroke her lightly.  
She buried her hot face in his neck and nodded, already 
pushing against his fingers.  He let her set the easy pace.  
His need assuaged, this time he could pay attention -- feel 
the edges of her teeth against his shoulder, hear the hitches 
in her breathing.  He urged her on with whispered words, the 
damp threads of her hair tickling his lips.  She came with a 
quick yelp and a long, shuddering sigh.

Afterward, they drifted in a pile of heavy limbs and lazy 
kisses.  Through sleepy eyes, he noted the grainy shadows 
dancing on the ceiling, and he chuffed against the fragrant 
hollow of her throat.

"What?" she murmured.

"We left the TV on," he explained, amused.

She kissed the back of his neck.  "So turn it off," she said.

So he did.

XxXxX

Sheriff Lydell, as Mulder and Scully discovered, was actually 
the county sheriff and worked out of the neighboring town of 
Kirby.  The six inches of snow had been cleared overnight, so 
Scully had no problems on the roads.  Even the cows were out, 
twitching their tails at the side of the road as they rooted 
around under the snow for something to eat.  At the Kirby 
town border, they passed a small sign that read "Ohio Is For 
Lovers."  Scully smiled.  She kept her eyes focused straight 
ahead, but when she stretched her hand across the seat, she 
found Mulder's fingers there, waiting.

They parked outside the gray concrete building where Sheriff 
Lydell's office was located.  He greeted them inside with hot 
coffee and a pair of old leather chairs on rickety wheels.  
"Sit, sit," he insisted.  "I'm glad you were able to make it 
despite the storm."

Not the usual phenotype for a small-town Sheriff, Scully 
thought as they sat.  Pete Lydell was perhaps four inches 
taller than she was, with thinning hair, wire-rimmed glasses 
and a caterpillar moustache.  He chewed it for a moment 
before launching into his explanation of why he had contacted 
them.

"Susan was the first murder I investigated," he said, 
clearing his throat.  "So far, Dee-Ann has been the only 
other one.  You can see then why I remembered them.  I almost 
couldn't believe it when I read your bulletin off the wires 
yesterday."

Mulder pulled out the files he'd brought with him.  "It does 
seem like your two murders here fit the pattern we've seen in 
our case.  I think it's likely that we're looking for the 
same perpetrator."

"Sonofabitch," Lydell murmured.  "After all these years."

"What I need from you is anything not found in these files," 
Mulder said.  

Lydell gnawed his upper lip again as he thought.  "It was a 
long time ago," he said slowly.  "And I don't think there's 
too much that didn't make it into the files.  Susan was just 
eighteen years old, you know, and Dee-Ann had a three-year 
old daughter at home.  We wanted this guy bad, looked at 
every angle we could."

"I think the killer probably knew these girls," Mulder said.  
"At least casually.  And it's possible that he knew them from 
the same place.  I know they lived in different towns, but 
were you able to come up with any connection between the two 
of them?"

"See, that's the thing.  We looked at that."  Lydell shook 
his head.  "They didn't go to school together, didn't work 
together, didn't attend the same church...didn't even have 
any mutual friends that we could find."

Mulder frowned, and Scully held out her hand for the files.  
"May I see those?"  He gave them to her.

"What about the smaller things -- repairmen, hairdressers, 
that sort of thing?" Mulder asked.

"Nope."  Lydell sighed.  "We checked out those folks, too, 
and every one of them came back clean."

Scully noticed that both victims had work addresses on 
Sycamore Street, and pointed that out to Mulder.  "Are these 
two places close to one another?" she asked Lydell.

"They're about three blocks apart, yes.  Susan was a checker 
at Byron's Pharmacy, and Dee-Ann worked part-time at 
Lucille's Restaurant."

"Is that near here?" Mulder asked, already getting up from 
his chair.  Scully rose, too.

"Sure, it's our main shopping area.  Just down the street and 
around the corner."

"Then let's start there."

They side-stepped the icy patches on the sidewalk as Lydell 
led the way to Sycamore Street.  The shoppers were already 
out and about, bundled in thick winter coats with their noses 
buried in their collars while they hurried from store to 
store.  Lydell jangled a cow bell as he opened the door to 
Byron's Pharmacy.  He took off his wide-brimmed sheriff's hat 
and approached the young man behind the counter.

"Morning, Steven."

"Hey, Sheriff.  You here for more of those cold pills?"

"No, I'd like to talk to Jerry, if he's around."

Steven nodded to the rear of the store.  "Sure, he's in back 
doing the ordering."

Jerry had a large belly and an easy smile.  He pumped 
Lydell's hand several times before scraping several chairs 
across the room so Lydell, Mulder and Scully could sit, too.  
"What can I do for you folks today?" he asked, eyeing the 
strangers with curiosity.

"It's about Susan, Jerry."

The older man needed no further clarification.  "Oh," he 
said, the light dimming from his eyes a bit.  He shuffled 
some papers on his desk.  "Is there...is there some new 
information?"

"This is Agents Mulder and Scully from the FBI," Lydell 
explained.  "They think the man who killed Susan may be in 
Washington, DC now."

"I see."  His mouth tightened.  "Killing more little girls, 
right?"

"Not if we can stop it," Mulder answered gently.  "That's why 
we're here."

"Jerry, we need to know who else worked here at the time 
Susan did," Lydell said.

The other man's eyes widened.  "You think it was one of my 
people?  No way anyone I knew could have hurt that sweet 
little girl."

"Probably not," Lydell soothed.  "But just for the record, 
who was working with Susan back then?"

Jerry leaned back in his chair and stroked his chin.  "Well, 
let's see now.  I don't have need for a lot of people.  Back 
then, it was Susan and Nick Greer and Martha Vilbin."  He 
frowned.  "You can't possibly think Nick had anything to do 
with this."

"Nick Greer is one of my deputies now," Lydell told Mulder 
and Scully.  "I don't think he could be involved.  For one 
thing, he still lives right here in town.  Never been to DC 
as far as I know."

"No short-term workers you might have hired around that 
time?" Mulder asked.  

Jerry shook his head.  "Sorry, no."

"Thanks, Jer," Lydell said as they rose. "You've been a big 
help."

"Sure thing."  Jerry glanced from Mulder and Scully to the 
Sheriff.  "You'll let me know if..."

"I promise," Lydell assured him.  "Anything I hear, you'll be 
the first to know."

They left the shop, and as they walked down the blocks to 
Lucille's restaurant, Lydell said, "Susan was Jerry's niece.  
Her death about ripped him apart."

At Lucille's Restaurant, the owner, a man named Bud Lovett, 
also vouched for every single one of his employees.  Most 
still lived right in the area, and he couldn't imagine any of 
them hurting poor Dee-Ann Tucker.

Outside on the street, Lydell sighed.  "I was afraid it would 
turn out this way.  We interviewed most of these folks at the 
time of the murders, and nothing popped out even then."

"Maybe he didn't work with the women," Mulder replied, 
scanning the storefronts.  "Maybe he worked near them."

Before Scully could reply, Mulder was stalking across the 
street, his open coat flaring in the wind.  She followed with 
Lydell close on her heels.  

"You going to go store by store?" he called, sounding 
confused.

"Not necessary," Mulder answered without looking back.  "Tell 
me -- what kind of shoes were Susan and Dee-Ann wearing when 
they disappeared."  He came to a sudden stop on the sidewalk.

"Susan had been dressed up for a holiday party," Lydell 
answered.  "And Dee-Ann was a bridesmaid in her sister's 
wedding the day she was killed.  So they were both wearing 
fancy-type shoes, I would say."

"Exactly," Mulder murmured, tipping his head back to look at 
the store sign hanging over their heads.  Scully followed his 
gaze.

SILLIMAN'S SHOE SHOP

Scully turned around and faced the street.  With a chill, she 
realized she could see both the pharmacy and the restaurant 
from where she was standing.  

"You won't have too much luck asking in there now," Lydell 
said.  "Silliman's changed ownership about six years ago, 
when Norma Burnheardt retired."

"Does she still live nearby?" Mulder asked.

"I think she moved to Indiana to be with her kids.  But we 
can try to get her on the telephone."

The wind blew then, swinging the wooden sign above their 
heads.  "The sooner, the better," Mulder said grimly, and 
they began the walk back to the office.

It took them a half an hour to track down Norma Burnheardt in 
Indiana, but she was friendly and eager to help.  They put 
her on the Sheriff's speaker phone.

"I'm especially interested in any young men you might have 
had working with you in late 1985 or early 1986," Mulder 
said.  "Perhaps someone who left the area soon after that."

"Oh, sure," she said immediately.  "That would be Carl 
Quentin.  But you can't be looking for Carl. He used to give 
lollipops to the kids and spent hours with the ladies, 
helping them pick out shoes.  He was a quiet boy, a nice 
boy."

Scully felt her heart begin to pound.  She picked up the 
nearest pen and wrote on a piece of paper, "Carl Quentin is 
on our list -- paroled recently in DC."

Mulder glanced at the paper and nodded.  "Do you know where 
Carl went when he moved, Mrs. Burnheardt?"

"He had a cousin in Maryland, I believe."

Just then, Mulder's cell phone rang, and he excused himself  
to the other side of the room.  Scully kept one eye on his 
back as she thanked Norma for her time and hung up the call.  
A minute later, Mulder returned.

"Vee lied to you," he said.  

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that this guy sure seems to think she can ID him.  
That was Grenier on the phone.  The D.C. cops responded to a 
nine-one-one call at the apartment of Jimmy Cho yesterday 
night and found him unconscious with the place a mess.  This 
morning he told them a guy in a Richard Nixon mask did it, 
and awfully concerned about Vee."

"Where is she now?"

"No one knows.  Her mother put her on a train yesterday 
afternoon, but Vee never got off on the other end."

"Jesus," Scully breathed.  "Did you tell him what we found 
out here?"

"Yeah, but we're a little too late."  His hands fisted, and 
he looked away.  "They found another body this morning."

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Ten

XxXxX

Richard Arkin met Mulder and Scully at the airport, where the 
Ohio storm had preceded them in the form of steady rain.  In 
the car, he paused before starting the engine, turning to 
scrutinize Mulder.  "How did you know?" he asked.  "How did 
you know where to find him?"

"We haven't found him yet," was Mulder's reply.

Arkin nodded once in agreement.  "He hasn't checked in for 
parole in two months.  Grenier's got him turned upside down, 
but so far there's been no sign of the sonofabitch.  Him or 
the girl, either."

Scully felt a rush of relief.  She'd been picturing Vee 
broken and bruised, with bare feet and unseeing eyes.  "That 
means she's probably still alive."

They drove into town with rain snakes slithering down the 
windows as Arkin filled them in on the latest developments.  
"The most recent vic's name is Ellen Cavanaugh.  Age twenty-
seven, last seen at a late dinner meeting around nine p.m. 
last night.  Her colleagues say she was going to go back to 
the office for her briefcase and then catch a cab home.  At 
one a.m., her fianc� reported her missing.  The search team 
found her body down by the river about six hours later.  
Russell's got men canvassing over there for witnesses now, 
but so far nothing has panned out."

"What about Carl Quentin?" Mulder asked.

Arkin apparently was not the type to need notes, either.  
"Carl Allen Quentin," he quoted, "age thirty-six.  Born in 
Canton, Ohio.  Mother's deceased, father is unknown.  He was 
released from Maryland State Prison in September after 
serving eleven years on a sentence of twenty-five to life."

"What were the charges?" Scully asked, leaning forward 
towards the front seats.

"Quentin was arrested July 13, 1988 in Beltsville, Maryland 
for attacking a woman in a local park.  A local officer 
walking his regular beat caught the animal red-handed in the 
bushes.  Three weeks later, Quentin was charged and convicted 
of assault, attempted robbery and attempted murder in the 
first degree."

"Robbery?" Mulder said, twisting around in his seat.  "That 
doesn't quite fit."

"I had the same thought," Arkin agreed.  "So I did a little 
checking.  Talked to both the vic and the Beltsville PD 
officers who caught the case."

"And?"

"And Quentin had a knife when he attacked her.  He snapped 
her purse off her shoulder and tossed it into the bushes, but 
no one can swear that he was ever after her money.  It was 
just another charge to stick him with and run up his 
sentence."

"So they think the true motive was..."

"Rape.  The asshole strangled her until she passed out.  By 
the time the foot patrol happened by, Quentin had her shoes 
and tights off.  He was..."  Arkin paused and cleared his 
throat.  "He was sucking on her toes."

XxXxX

The dour clouds brought night out early, leaving only a weak, 
flickering street lamp to illuminate the outside of Carl's 
ramshackle home.  Mulder peered out the car window as Scully 
pulled to a stop in front of the building.  He could feel a 
tingling in his fingers and toes that had nothing to do with 
his tangled, screaming neurons; it was the sense that he was 
close, that the evil he was chasing was now near enough to 
touch.  He was about to walk the steps of a murderer.

Mulder glanced at Scully, and found her staring that the 
shadowed, run-down old building, too.  What had once been the 
pride of some upstanding family was now a crumbling front 
porch, a peeling shingled wall, a boarded up front window.  
"Just like the movies," he said.

"Yeah."  Scully ducked farther down, her eyes on the rickety, 
slanting roof.  "Why do I feel we're at that part when the 
entire audience is yelling, 'Don't go in there!'"

His heart was drumming, his hand already on the door, but 
Mulder stopped at something in her tone.  He'd heard echoes 
of it before, on cases where the investigating officers 
suddenly realized that when they caught the monster, they 
would have to see it.  To know it.  

Dale Guthrie, he remembered, had said it best.  The old 
Alabama cop had come along on a bust twelve years ago, when 
they grabbed a man who had been murdering little boys, 
boiling their limbs and then polishing their bones for his 
collection.  In the crackling excitement, amid the swishing 
of the kevlar, only Dale was quiet and standing still.

"I want this SOB's balls roasted on a stick," he'd said when 
Mulder had asked if he was okay.  "I wish I could make him 
live out thirteen deaths of his own.  But I'm not sure I want 
to know the thing that takes apart little children like 
that."  He had shaken his head.  "I'm not sure a person could 
ever unknow that kind of evil."

You can't, Mulder thought then and now.  Instead you know it 
over and over again, horrifying each and every time.

He grazed the back of Scully's hand with his finger.  "You 
okay?" he asked.

She straightened immediately.  "Yes," she said, but to him it 
sounded like she was testing her answer.  He waited, watching 
the pale outline of her cheek, until she met his eyes.  "He's 
not even here, Mulder, and the surveillance team is just 
across the street.  Let's just get this over with."

They made their way toward the dilapidated house, Scully 
walking ahead and Mulder listening to the even sound of her 
heels on the wet pavement.  The front door remained unlocked 
from earlier in the day, when Grenier had served the initial 
search and seizure warrant.  Scully pushed it open and 
stepped inside.

"Leave the lights off," he murmured behind her.  "If he's 
coming back here, we don't want him to know we're onto him."

Scully withdrew her flashlight and glanced the beam around 
the living room, illuminating the opened desk drawers, the 
displaced sofa cushions and the scattered papers.  "He's 
going to know the instant he walks through the door," she 
observed.  "This place has been tossed upside down."

"We're not staying," Mulder said, turning on his flashlight 
and pushing past her.  "I just want to see."

"See what?" she asked as she followed.  The floors creaked 
under their weight.

Mulder navigated a careful path through the overturned chairs 
and the scattered books, the powerful beam of his flashlight 
catching the tattered green drapes and the faded paisley 
wallpaper.  In the dining room, there was a velvet painting 
of a basset hound hanging on the wall.  He paused as some 
newspaper crinkled under his feet.  "This is where interior 
decorators go to commit suicide, Scully."

Her gentle snort floated back to him in the darkness.  "Did 
you see the ceramic frog in the corner?"

They walked through the kitchen, where Mulder stopped to 
check the open drawers.  "No silverware," he noted.  "If 
there were knives here, Grenier must have bagged them 
earlier."

Scully peeked into the pantry, then opened several of the 
overhead cabinets.  "Not much in the way of groceries.  Just 
a few cans of soup and a box of Cheerios."

"Let me see that."  He shone his beam over the empty, dusty 
shelves.  "The bedroom must be upstairs," he said a moment 
later.

He led the way up the narrow staircase, using the worn wooden 
banister as a guide.  "What are you looking for?" Scully 
asked over his shoulder.

"I don't think he brings them here, Scully."

"What?"

They reached the bedroom, and both trained their flashlight 
beams inside, criss-crossing over the rumpled bed and 
dishevled piles of clothes.  "Where are the shoes?" Mulder 
asked softly.  "There was no mention of them in Grenier's 
report."

"You think he's learned not to keep them?  Eleven years in 
prison could have taught him not to hold on to the evidence."

"He wouldn't be able to help himself."  Mulder shook his 
head, stepping into the room.  "No food, no shoes...look how 
few clothes there are here.  The drawers are completely 
empty, but there's only one pair of pants on the floor."  He 
went over to the closet, which emitted a whine as he opened 
it.  Inside, bare metal hangers waved with the slight breeze.  
"Check it out," he said, motioning to her.  She joined him at 
the door, and he pointed out the empty shoe rack.  "Not even 
one pair."

"He doesn't live here," Scully murmured.

"I don't think so, no.  I think it may have been a convenient 
address to give the parole officer his first couple of weeks 
outside, but this street is crammed with houses.  There's no 
way he could bring the women here."

"So much for the surveillance out front," she said.

Mulder cast his beam toward the cracked ceiling.  "It 
couldn't hurt.  He's been here before and might have some 
reason to show up again, but I think we'd do better to figure 
out where he's headed next."

"Well," said Scully.  "We know that part.  We just don't know 
where she is."

Vee, he remembered.  Their reluctant witness.  "She must be 
getting ready to come in from the cold by now," he said.  "I 
assume Grenier has some people watching her house."

"And Jimmy's place," Scully answered as they left the 
bedroom.  "But it's a bigger waste of time than the van we've 
got outside of this place."

Mulder stopped on the stairs to turn and look at her.  "Why 
do you say that?"

"Because there is no way she'd lead this guy back to someone 
she loved."

"Well, then...has she got any enemies?"

Scully answered with a trace of smile.  "Now that you mention 
it, Detective Pearson might want to watch his back."

They took one last look around the apartment, Mulder standing 
in the middle of the living room as Scully lingered in the 
front doorway.

"Mulder?  Are you coming?"

"Yeah."  His feet felt glued to the floor even as his mind 
raced ahead, sorting what he knew so far.  There was 
something else that hadn't turned up at the house -- the 
mask.  It nagged at him, grinding the gears in his head, but 
he couldn't quite grasp *why* this bit of information seemed 
so crucial.

"Mulder?" She shone her flashlight at his knees.

The invisible tethers snapped loose, jolting him back to the 
present.  "Yeah," he said again.  "I'm coming."  One foot in 
front of the other, he followed his partner's light back into 
the open air.

XxXxX

The soft white of her hallway walls blurred before Scully as 
she yawned on her way to her front door.  Her ankles hurt 
from standing, and the weight of her briefcase seemed to 
multiply with every step.   At her door, she yawned again, 
automatically raising the leaden briefcase so she could cover
her mouth with her elbow, despite the fact that no one would be
awake one fifty-six a.m. to see her. 

I'm too old, she thought, contemplating the white-paneled 
door with slow blinks, to always be waking up in one state 
and going to bed in another.

But then she remembered where she had awakened, with Mulder's 
hands whispering over her thighs and the gentle scrape of his 
stubbly cheek against her shoulder.  They'd had only ten 
minutes, her eyes on the clock as his long fingers stroked 
between her legs.  Thinking oh-I-can't-can't-come-this-fast-
but-please-oh-don't-stop-oh.  Her skin flashed hot at the 
memory, tingling away her fatigue.

Flushed, she glanced around at the empty hallway, thankful 
there had been no one there to catch her standing, eyes 
closed and mouth open, clutching her keys in front of her own 
door.

The door.

There was something different about it, she realized now that 
she was more alert.  She frowned and bent to study the lock.  
Faint scratches in the metal made her set aside her briefcase 
and draw out her gun.  All traces of fatigue gone, her heart 
picked up speed as she slowly inserted the key into the lock.

The click of the tumblers pierced the silence, and Scully 
winced, sliding the door open without further sound.  Her 
living room was dark, but she could make out something black 
and rumpled on her couch.  She inched towards it, her finger 
already poised on the trigger.  Peering over the edge of the 
sofa, she saw it was...

...a coat.

She lowered the gun and cocked her head, listening.  There 
were muffled sounds coming from her bedroom.  She walked to 
the short hall and found blue light slanting through the 
cracked door.  The adrenaline rush that had gripped her in 
the living room began to fade.  With a small sigh, she 
switched her gun to her left hand and pushed the door all the 
way open with her palm.

Vee startled on the bed, nearly upsetting the can of Coke she 
had in her hand.  "Hi," she said.  "I didn't really think 
you'd be in the book.  Nice place."

Scully folded her arms, gun and all, and said nothing.  Vee 
looked sheepish.

"I didn't know where else to go," she said after a moment.  
She stretched a pizza box across the bed.  "Pizza?"

Scully narrowed her eyes, then leaned out for an experimental 
sniff.  "What kind?"

XxXxX

He hadn't eaten in two days.  At night, he saw her face in 
fitful dreams.  The voice inside him said, "She will be your 
ruin," and he would clench his hands to strangle the voice 
until all was silent again.

He went to the park.  Mud clogged his boots as he stood in 
the dripping bushes, watching her tree.  He had not come this 
far to fail now.

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Eleven

XxXxX

They sat on her bed in mirroring positions, propped on 
pillows with their legs tucked beneath them.  Scully took a 
bite of the spicy garlic and tomato wedge Vee handed her and 
had to admit that, for a person with a pierced eyebrow, Vee 
did have pretty good taste in pizza.

"You lied to me," she said to the girl a few moments later, 
and Vee turned her eyes to her lap.  "You did see his face." 
Scully remembered what Mulder had said about the Nixon mask 
not making sense with the rest of Quentin's profile and 
considered the possibility that Vee had invented that part, 
too.  "Was there ever a mask?" she asked.

Vee's chin came up.  "I told you there was.  And I didn't  
lie.  I didn't see his face that night."

Scully shifted, setting aside her pizza.  "Wait a minute -- 
you saw him more than once?"

"Well, that's the thing."  Vee hesitated.  "Is Jimmy okay?"

"He's in stable condition in the hospital.  The doctors say 
he should be able to go home soon."

Vee released a long breath.  "Thank God."

"But it's not going to be okay for him to go home until we 
can be sure he won't be attacked again," Scully continued.  
"Not to mention the fact that you're in serious danger right 
now."

"Yeah, I guess so."  She turned away from Scully and began 
shredding her paper napkin into long strips.  "The night that 
the girl was killed, that happened exactly like I told you 
before.  I saw him bring her into the bushes, and he *was* 
wearing a mask."  She glanced at Scully, defiant and 
demanding her belief.  Scully wasn't prepared to give it just 
yet.

"Go on."

"The next night I was busted in the park, and apparently it 
was one hell of a show because a million people showed up to 
watch."

"A million," Scully repeated, deadpan.

"Well, maybe twenty."  She paused.  "That's when I must have 
seen him, I guess."

"What do you mean you 'guess' you must have seen him?"

Vee shrugged.  "There was a guy standing near the gate with a 
bunch of other people.  He wasn't wearing the mask, but he 
seemed kind of familiar to me.  Like the way he was standing 
-- kind of hunched around the shoulders.  And his coat was 
the same."

"Jesus," Scully breathed.  "Why the hell didn't you tell us 
this before?"

Vee seemed taken aback.  "I didn't know for sure it was him.  
He could have been just another creepy guy in the park."

"But he wasn't."

"I guess not."  She hung her ahead again.  "I'm sorry for all 
the trouble.  I guess maybe I didn't want it to be him, you 
know?"

"Yeah," Scully said, leaning back against the pillows.  "I 
know."

XxXxX

They all sat around the table -- Mulder, Scully, Grenier and 
Russell each with a mug of coffee.  Vee held a make-shift 
photo line-up comprised of Carl Quentin's 1988 mug shot and 
five other similarly scruffy convicts.  No one was moving.

After a few silent minutes, Grenier leaned over to Scully.  
"I thought you said she could ID this guy," he said in his 
best stage whisper.

Scully ignored him and inched her chair closer towards Vee.  
"Take your time," she said.

Vee looked up at her.  "He's in here, right?  The guy who 
killed all those women?"

"You tell us," Mulder answered.  

"Well," she said slowly, eyeing the photos in front of her 
again.  "This one *could* be him, I guess.  I only got a 
quick look, though, and it was dark."

"How sure are you?" Grenier pressed.

"I don't know."  Vee sounded irritated, and she glared at 
him.  "Number three looks the most like the guy I saw, okay?  
That's the best I can tell you."

Scully glanced from the picture Vee had indicated to Mulder. 
He gave her a small nod.  Grenier apparently picked up on it 
too, because he snatched the photo line-up off of the table.  
"Thank you, Miss Kroener.  If you'll just wait here for a few 
minutes."

He strode out of the room, and Russell followed.  Scully 
looked at Mulder, her eyes phrasing what she could not say 
aloud:  you know him...what the hell is going on?

Mulder's eyes answered with a look she knew well:  how the 
hell should I know?

"We'll be right back," Scully murmured as she and Mulder rose 
in unison.

Outside, they found Grenier pacing the hall.  Russell did not 
look pleased.  "It's too risky," she was saying.  "And 
there's no way in hell the mother would agree to it."

Grenier came to an abrupt halt. "Quentin has not checked in 
for his parole in two months," he snapped.  "He has no known 
whereabouts or associates.  Don't even try to tell me he's 
been living in that house we tossed yesterday, because we 
both know that's not the case.  The only picture we have of 
him is twelve years old.  Tell me, Amelia, just how do *you* 
think we should go about catching him?"

"You cannot expose a sixteen year-old girl to this kind of 
danger," Russell replied.

"She's already exposed!" Grenier roared.  "I'm trying to get 
her *out* of danger!"

"What's going on?" Mulder asked, and Grenier shifted his 
scowl.

"Nothing you need to worry about, Mulder.  You're no longer 
on this case."

Scully blinked, and Russell gasped.  "Adam, what are you 
doing?"

"Exactly what I should have done when we had this girl the 
first time.  We know he'll come out for her."  All three 
agents looked at him in silence.  "What?" he said after a 
moment.  "You want to wait until he kills another one?  You 
*know* this is the best way to go.  I'm the only one with the 
balls to admit it."

"It's not legal," Scully said quietly.  "And even if it were-
-"

"It's legal enough if we get the mother's okay.  Jesus 
Christ, I'm not talking about putting her on the streets by 
herself!  There will be three dozen highly-trained FBI agents 
looking out for her.  It's probably safer than anything else 
we could do for her right now."

"What about...what about a decoy," Russell suggested.  
"Someone who looks like the girl instead of Vee herself."

Grenier paused.  "Could work," he admitted a moment later.  
"Especially if we put the real thing out there for a few 
minutes and then make a switch."

"Where are you planning to do this?" Mulder asked.

Grenier's eyes flicked over him, as if he was debating even 
answering the question, but eventually he said, "The park."

Mulder shook his head.  "Too exposed."

"You are off this case, Mulder," said Grenier through gritted 
teeth.  "Good-bye, sayonara, go back to playing in the 
basement.  There is no way I'm taking a brain-damaged agent 
along on this bust."

Scully felt the words like a slap, but Mulder didn't even 
flinch.  "It's not safe," he said softly.

Surprised at his even temper, Scully felt the heat well up in 
her as she prepared to do battle in his defense.  She frowned 
at Grenier.  "There is no way you can justify--"

"It's not safe," Mulder interrupted, stilling her.  "But it 
might work."

She turned to him.  "Mulder, she's underage and a civilian."

"Use the decoy," he said.  "Do it someplace that is more 
contained than the park."

"Mulder..."

"He's right, Scully," Mulder murmured.  "We can't wait around 
for Quentin to kill again.  This is the best move we've got."

"I'm going to talk to the mother now," Grenier said, turning 
to walk down the hall.  He stopped, turned back and pointed a 
finger at Mulder.  "You," he said.  "Stay out of it from now 
on.  I mean it."

As he walked off, Russell sighed and rubbed a hand over her 
eyes.  "There's no way in hell her mother will agree to this.  
I mean, seriously.  'Can we please use your sixteen year-old 
child to trap a serial murderer, Mrs. Kroener?' I don't think 
so."

Scully saw a dark flash in Mulder's eyes, and he reached out 
to grip Russell's wrist.  "If she does agree, don't go to the 
park.  Do it somewhere else."

Russell looked down to where his fingers were biting into her 
skin.  "I'll see what I can do," she said, pulling free.  
"But you know how he is."

"Yeah," Mulder said as she walked off after Grenier.  "That's 
the problem."  Scully waited, watching him, and as he turned 
away, he gave the wall a swift kick.  "God dammit."

"I'm sorry," she said.  "It's really your collar, Mulder.  We 
wouldn't be here if it weren't for you."  She took a step 
closer towards him, running her fingers lightly down to his 
elbow.  "We could go over his head," she murmured.  "You 
deserve to be there."

"No," he said, shaking his head and not looking at her.  "If 
he goes through with this, the last thing that girl needs is 
two agents engaged in a pissing match."  He turned to her.  
"You're going along?"

"I -- he didn't say."

"Go.  Someone needs to look out for Vee."  He gave her arm a 
brief squeeze.  

Scully held his gaze, searching for whatever it was he wasn't 
telling her.  "There's still something missing, isn't there?"

He hesitated.  "Maybe not.  Maybe I just can't believe that 
we're this close to ending it."

"But we are."  She smiled a little and took his hand.  
"Thanks to you."

His fingers tightened around hers, his mouth set in a grim 
line.  "Tell me tonight," he said hoarsely.  "When it's 
over."

XxXxX

Prison, thought Carl, and shuddered as he always did when the 
word came to mind.  Prison was a horrid, smelly place where 
everyone had to dress the same and the shoes were worn-out 
old sneakers.  He had survived only by remembering the shoes 
from his past.  The pointed toes, the velvety suede pumps, 
the sharp stiletto heels.  With buttons and bows and sequins, 
he had counted the girls in his mind.

And he had learned some things.

Alvin Wayne Goodacre, for example, had taught him better 
technique.  No more fumbling around on the neck for the best 
place to squeeze.  Carl now knew about the carotid arteries, 
and how to make a woman pass out in under a minute with just 
some steady pressure.  If it looked to the cops like it still 
took him some time to choke the life out the girls...well, 
that was because Carl liked to do it that way.  After.

He took his glinting knife and cut himself a fresh length of 
rope.  This one he planned to choke for a long time.  He 
thought of her wheezing, gasping as her terrified eyes 
realized that it still wasn't over.  That he could bring her 
to the very edge and then yank her back again as often as he 
pleased. 

A song came on the radio as he worked.  Carl turned it up and 
sang along.

XxXxX

People who didn't believe Einstein's theory of time 
relativity had never been on a stakeout before, Scully 
thought.  Her inner world had gained speed throughout the 
day, to the point where her brain was on a constant hum.  
Outside, the minutes ticked by with plodding, elephantine 
slowness.  The brambly bushes that defined her hiding spot 
grabbed at her hair, scratched her cheek and shook water over 
her every time the wind blew.

No joggers allowed that night.  No teenagers out for trouble.  
The park was as silent as a grave.

Scully shifted, peering through the leaves as best she could. 
A few tray drops fell onto her eyelashes, and she blinked 
them away.  "Not the park," Mulder had said, but here they 
were anyway.  Scully had been punished for voicing his 
concerns by banishment to the far side of the park, stuck 
babysitting a tiny side entrance while Grenier's team circled 
the decoy Vee where Quentin had appeared the last time.

Earlier, Daniel Rubin from VC had passed around a mock mug 
shot, during their ten minute sandwich break.  "I hear this 
is the guy we're looking for," he'd quipped, handing her a 
piece of paper with Nixon's face pasted into the usual 
background of height markings and ID numbers.

Scully shivered, listening for any sounds of scuffling, twigs 
snapping or footfalls on the walkway.  They were only fifteen 
minutes from 1 a.m., Nixon's usual witching hour.

XxXxX
 
Mulder returned to play in the basement, as ordered.  There 
was no way he could go home until he heard one way or another 
what happened in the park.  When the phone rang, he snatched 
it up before it could complete one full trill. 

Relief surged in his veins.  It was over.  "Mulder," he said, 
but it wasn't Scully on the other end.

"Agent Mulder, it's Rob Kitchens from the tech lab.  They 
told me you were still here."

"Yeah," Mulder agreed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing 
his eyes.  "I'm on stakeout.  What's your excuse?"

"Um," the younger man sounded confused.  "I've been working 
late on the reconstruction that Agent Scully sent us.  I, uh, 
I don't think you're going to believe what we found."

"Try me," Mulder said, his mind still in the park.

"It's, well...can you come see for yourself?  I have it up on 
my computer now."

Mulder checked his watch.  Five minutes to one.  How long 
would Grenier wait out there, he wondered?  "Sure, I'll come 
right now."

"Great."

Mulder checked his cell phone, making sure it was on, and 
headed out the door.  A few minutes later, he found Kitchens 
sitting in the lab, staring a computer monitor with his arms 
folded across his chest.  "Okay, I'm here," he said.  "What 
have you got?"

"We scanned and isolated the discolored patches from the 
brain slices that Agent Scully gave us.  Then we recombined 
them into a 3-D image like this."  He swiveled the monitor so 
that Mulder could see.  Mulder squinted at the image.

"It looks almost like a face," he said, surprised.  "Like one 
that's been stretched in a fun house."

"Exactly what we thought," Kitchens agreed.  "But you have to 
remember we're dealing with brain images, and human brains 
don't track everything on a one to one relationship with the 
outside world. So..."  He hit a couple of keys on the 
computer.  "I corrected for the distortion as much as 
possible.  This is what I got."

The image loaded slowly, adding lines like an old dot-matrix 
printer.  "Oh my God," Mulder said, moving closer to the 
monitor.  It was a more like an imprint than a photograph, as 
though someone had pressed his face into the sand and they 
were looking at the after effects.  But the lines were clean 
and clear.  Mulder traced them with one finger, trying to 
pick out Carl Quentin's image, but he was working with a 
memory of an eleven year-old photograph.

"Don't ask me to explain how it got there," Kitchens said.  
"Like it was burned on her brain or something.  I've 
never..."

"Can I access my files from here?" Mulder asked suddenly.

"Sure."

Mulder brushed him aside and waited with little patience as 
the network chugged along.  He exported Quentin's old mug 
shot from his database and downloaded it onto Kitchens' 
desktop.  "Can you tell me if this is the same face as the 
reconstructed image?"

Kitchens' looked doubtful.  "I can overlay them and tell you 
if the lines match."

"That's fine, do it."  He watched as Kitchens imported 
Quentins' mug shot into a photo manipulation program.  
Kitchens resized the shot to match the reconstructed face.  A 
few minutes later, he was edging the two images closer 
together.   Mulder leaned in for a better look.  "Well?"

"Let me enlarge it."  The faces doubled in size, and Mulder 
felt his stomach drop to his feet.  "Nope," Kitchens' said.  
"Not too far off, but you see the eyes are father apart on 
your guy.  The forehead is bigger, too."

"It's not him," Mulder whispered.  Then he remembered the 
park.  "It's not him!"

And he began to run.

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Twelve

XxXxX

"I know he's on a fucking stake out," Mulder said into the 
phone as he swept through the halls.  "But he's looking for 
the *wrong man*."

"I'm sorry," said male dispatcher on the other end.  "I have 
specific orders -- no calls through to Agent Grenier at this 
time."

"Get me Russell then."

"Agent Russell is unavailable.  I'm sorry, sir, but..."

Mulder hung up with an angry snap.  As he rounded the corner 
to the requisition office, he hit the memory key for Scully's 
number.  Her phone rang unanswered.  "Dammit," he muttered, 
both at the phone and at the locked door of the office.   The 
flat, gray night lighting was on, but he couldn't detect 
anyone inside.  He pounded on the door anyway.  "I need a 
car!"  

In between the painful beats of his pounding heart, he heard 
remnants of his dream.  The dead, wet leaves at his feet, the 
snapping of the branches, the scream that he was struggling 
to keep inside.  Scully.  

Danger, danger -- the word shattered his head, leaving 
pinpoints of white light dancing before his eyes.   He had to 
get to her, had to let her know.   A car, where's a car?

XxXxX

Scully squinted at her watch in the bushes, trying to tilt it 
so she could catch some light from the street lamp.  Past 
one-thirty.  She rubbed her cold hands together a few times, 
peering out at the dark, empty walkway.  There was not a soul 
in sight.

She clicked on her walkie-talkie.  "Position one, this is 
position eight," she said, careful to keep her voice low.  
"There's been no movement on this end.  How much longer are 
we going to stay out here?"

After a moment, Grenier's voice crackled back at her.  "Hold 
your place.  He's coming."  A pause.  "I can feel it."

His words sent a shudder through Scully, as if she could feel 
it, too.  She took a step towards the opening of the bushes, 
and the wind blew, moving shadow people all around her.

XxXxX

His left side felt panicked, hot and sweating, vibrating with 
energy; his right side was sweating, too, but cold and numb.  
Weak.  Mulder tried to coordinate them both as he dashed 
through the darkened halls toward the parking facility.   

Too fast on the stairs.  He slipped, catching himself on the 
railing before he could fall.  "The mask was wrong," he 
muttered, resuming his frantic descent. "I knew it was.  
Someone else knew.  Knew some but not enough.  Dammit, 
dammit."

A woman, cleaning the stairs with a broom that looked like a 
furry white animal, pressed herself against the wall with 
surprise as he passed her.  He lurched to a stop.  "Do you 
have a car?" he asked.

She blinked, holding the broom handle to her chest.  

"A car, a car," he repeated impatiently.

"Si, yes.  I have a car."

"I need to borrow it," he said, and she blinked again.  
"Please, it's urgent.  It's an emergency."  He pulled out his 
badge, barely repressing the trembling his right hand as he 
showed it to her.

"Is old," she said, frowning.  "My car."

"I don't care.  Please, can I borrow it?"

She pursed her lips, then dug a set of keys out from the 
large pocket on her dress.  "It's red Toyota on the second 
floor, space two twenty-two."

"Thank you," Mulder breathed, snatching the keys from her.

"My shift is finished in three hour!" she called after him.

He waved the keys over his head in answer, barely registering 
the statement as he pushed the door open to the parking 
garage.  Jogging through the rows of cars, he called up 
Scully's number again on his phone.  "Answer, c'mon, answer."

Her voice-mail came on, and Mulder suppressed a curse as he 
levered himself into the car.  His knees pressed almost to 
his chest in the tight space designed for a much shorter 
driver.  Pushing the seat back as far as it would go, he 
started the engine.  His tires squealed all the way out of 
the garage.

XxXxX

Russell shifted behind her curtain of branches, frowning as 
the sleeve of her windbreaker caught her on a prickly limb.  
Jenna Cullam, the agent selected to play Vee, paced about 
twenty feet away.  Russell could see the other woman's  
breath misting in the air, her rapid white puffs a mirror to 
Russell's own growing anxiety.

"Position one," she said.  "This is position three.  Can you 
read me?"

"What is it?" Grenier sounded tense.

"Any sign of activity from your end?"

"Not yet, but let's give it until two."

The moon disappeared behind the clouds, darkening her hiding 
spot, and Russell squinted through the bramble toward the 
gate.  Her pulse skipped a beat.  

There was a shadow, long and human-like, edging its way into 
the park.

"This is position three," she said over the main channel.  
"We've got company."

*

Across the park, Scully grabbed her walkie-talkie.  "Position 
one, please advise."

"Hold your positions," Grenier ordered.  "We go on my say so.  
Position three, can you confirm the suspect's identity?"

Scully waited out the following beats of silence, frozen in 
place with her heart pounding out the seconds.  At last, 
Russell's voice crackled over the line.

"It's a male," she said.  "The right height and weight, but I 
can't see his face.  Wait...he's moving in on Cullam!  He's 
going for his weapon!"

Scully emerged from her place in the bushes, prepared to run.

"Now!" hollered Grenier, and Scully felt a hand clasp over 
her mouth.  Her walkie-talkie slipped to the ground.

*

Mulder recognized Cullam immediately, but the confusion on 
her face said she had not placed him.  "Agent Mulder," he 
said, reaching for his badge.  "Where's Gren--"

Like lightning, she had a gun pointed at his chest.  "Stay 
where you are!"

Mulder froze in place as the bushes seemed to come alive 
around him.  Agents rose up like something from "MacBeth," 
with weapons drawn and leaves sticking in their hair.  
"Wait," he called.  "Wait."

"Get down!" yelled a voice he recognized.  Grenier.  

"It's Mulder," he insisted, but the other man didn't seem to 
hear.

"Get the fuck on the ground before I blow your fucking head 
off!"

*

She struggled, wriggling and trying to find his ribs with her 
elbow, but his grip was iron strong.  His hands closed around 
her neck, and within seconds, her breath evaporated...her 
head growing fuzzy and the park faded from view.

He unclasped her mouth.  "Help," she called weakly.

But it was too late.

*

Mulder lay face down in the cold dirt.  "It's me, *Mulder*," 
he said again, and this time Grenier seemed to pause.

"Get some light over here," he commanded, and Mulder squinted 
as three high-beam flashlights shone on his face.  "God damn 
it," Grenier muttered.  "What the hell do you think you're 
doing?"

Mulder got up slowly, breathing hard and shielding his eyes 
from the harsh light.  "Carl Quentin did not kill Elizabeth 
Kinney."

Grenier seemed to snap.  "God damn you..."  He lunged at 
Mulder, but Russell slipped between them.

"Adam, stop."

"I told you to stay the hell out of this!  I *ordered* you to 
stay away!"

Mulder's temper rose, too.  "Are you deaf, Grenier?  I said 
you're staking out the place for Quentin!  He's not going to 
show here!"

"What the fuck do you mean, 'the wrong place'?" mocked 
Grenier.  "This is your boy we're after, Mulder.  You're the 
one who said it was him."

"It is," Mulder agreed.  "But not this time."

Russell looked at him with wide eyes.  "What the hell are you 
saying?"

"I'm saying that the man who killed those women eleven years 
ago, the man who murdered Grace Johnson and Ellen Cavanaugh -
- that's Carl Quentin.  He is *not* the same man who killed 
Beth Kinney in this park.  Therefore, Quentin is sure as hell 
not going to come looking for Vee."

"A copycat," breathed Russell.  "Shit."

"That's not possible."  Grenier shook his head.  "There were 
too many things that were the same, too many details..."

"But there were other things that *weren't* the same.  Like 
the Nixon mask.  It never made any sense, and now I know why.  
And why would Quentin include a newspaper clipping on just 
that one kill?  The answer is he didn't.  It was someone else 
hoping that we'd connect Beth's murder with all the others."

*

Carl taped her mouth, wrists and ankles after putting her in 
the trunk.  Her gun he deposited safely in his coat pocket.  
Paused in the process of shutting the lid, he reached out to 
stroke her tiny feet.

Boots tonight.  Low and sensible for tracking murderers in 
the woods.  Fortunately, he still had that pair of heels he'd 
stolen from her closet.  They waiting at home for his 
consummation.  

He grinned and slammed the trunk shut.

*

"Assuming this is true," Grenier said, his breathing puffing 
out in front of him.  He still glowered at Mulder.  "Why in 
the fuck did you come down here now to tell us?  Someone 
wants this girl dead, and just maybe we could have had a 
chance to catch him in the act."

"You never had a chance," Mulder replied.  "This guy probably 
knew what you were planning before you ever got here."

"The fuck he did."

"Just *think* about it for a second, would you?  How could he 
have known about so many details of the crime scene?  He has 
to have an in, Adam.  He has to be connected with the 
killings from eleven years ago."

"You're saying he's a cop," Russell said.

"Perhaps," Mulder agreed.  "At the very least, he has to have 
been in a position to know the details of the murders.  Up 
close and personal."

"Fuck," Grenier said, reducing his vocabulary every time he 
opened his mouth.  "I still don't believe it."

"Excuse me."  Richard Arkin stepped forward.  "I just don't 
understand one thing."  He glanced nervously at Mulder.  "If 
Quentin isn't going to show here because he's not the guy in 
the mask, and the mask guy isn't going to show because he's 
got inside information...I agree with Agent Grenier.  I don't 
understand your hurry to get down here."

Mulder frowned.  "Because..."

Grenier folded his arms over his chest.  "Do enlighten us."

"Because..." Mulder searched his brain for the exact reason.  
There had been danger, he was sure of it.  "Because a man 
like Quentin is probably interested in his own 
investigation," he said at last.  "He's likely familiarized 
himself with the leads on this case, may even be close by, 
just not where you're looking."

"And where should we look, exactly, seeing as how you..."

Scully.

Mulder craned his neck around, looking for her in the crowd 
of agents.  "Where is Agent Scully?"

Russell turned as well.  "I'm not sure.  She was stationed 
with Arkin on the other side of the park, near the side 
entrance."

"I haven't seen her since we got the call," Arkin said.  "But 
I took the short way over here, through those trees."

"Scully," Mulder murmured, beginning to push through the wall 
of people surrounding him.

Scully, who was now a lead agent on this case.

Scully, whose car was suddenly having trouble.

Scully, who had a rampaging cab driver outside of her 
apartment.  A cab driver who may have then kidnapped and 
killed whatsherface a few hours later.

Scully, who wore stylish, four-inch heels.

"Oh, shit," he murmured, breaking into a run. "Scully!"  The 
slippery leaves squished under his feet.  Panting, he half-
slid down a hill, branches clawing at his face.  "Scully!"

He reached the side entrance of the park only steps ahead of 
Russell, Grenier, and Arkin.  "Where is she?" Mulder demanded 
of Arkin.

"I...I don't know.  She was supposed to be right by the door, 
behind those bushes."

The sharp boughs scraped at Mulder's hands as he pawed 
through the bushes Arkin indicated.  "Scully!"

She wasn't there, but a cursory examination with his 
flashlight found red hairs caught on one of the branches and 
Scully-size footprints in the soft earth.  His stomach gave a 
sharp twist.

"Mulder!"  Russell's voice called him out of the brush.  He 
turned his flashlight to where she stood staring at the 
ground.  "You'd better come see this."

Mulder closed his eyes reflexively, not wanting to see.  
"What is it?" he asked, managing to make his feet move the 
short distance to Russell's side.

Scully's walkie-talkie lay in the dirt at her feet.

XxXxX

She couldn't breathe.  Squirming in the dark, she hit her 
head on something made of hard metal.  Her arms ached from 
where they were pinned behind her back, her knees at her 
chest.

The man, she remembered, big and strong.  Choking her from 
behind.  It had to be Carl.

She felt light with fear, her fingers rapidly going numb.  
Each breath was a struggle not to hyperventilate.  Think, 
think, she ordered herself.  How to get out of this alive?

She tried to keep her head clear, but her mind kept turning 
over the crime scene photos, echoing the police reports that 
told her time was already running out.

Carl's victims all had one other thing in common besides 
their missing little toes:  none had remained alive longer 
than twelve hours after her abduction.

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Thirteen

XxXxX

Mulder ran through the gate and into the middle of the slick, 
shiny street.  He stopped, turned frantically in one 
direction then the next, but there was no one to be seen.  
The wind blew hard, sending a shower of fat, cold drops down 
upon him.  In the distance, he could hear the rush of a car 
passing through a deep puddle.  Taillights winked at him from 
several blocks away, rounding the corner and disappearing 
into the black night.  Gone.

He bent over, gulping in sharp breaths of air that burned his 
lungs.

Footsteps behind him, heavy boots on the wet pavement, and 
Grenier's angry voice.  "Gone as in fucking not here.  Yes, 
that's what I'm saying."  Mulder stood up slowly and turned 
to see Grenier glaring at him as he growled into the walkie-
talkie.  "A car, a person...hell, even a goddamn shadow!  Did 
you see fucking *anything*?"

Mulder's gaze flickered to Russell, who lingered just outside 
the gate.  She ducked back inside, but not before he caught 
the censure in her eyes.  No one had seen anything, he knew 
as she did, because they had all been on the other side of 
the park, mistaking him for a suspect.  Not more than five 
minutes.  Just long enough for his world to crack open and 
leave him bleeding raw fear into the empty street.

"Anything?" he asked as Grenier lowered his walkie-talkie.  
The other man shot him a long, disgusted look.

"Venaldi saw a large black sedan drive past on the east side 
of the park about fifteen minutes ago.   That's it."

Mulder's panic ratcheted up another notch.  "That's not 
enough.  What about the men on point in the cars?  What about 
--"

"There's nothing!" Grenier roared, taking a step closer.  
"Every pair of eyes was over on the west side with you, you 
asshole.  God damn it."

"We've got to figure out where he's taking her," Mulder said.  
"It's the only chance."

"We," Grenier cut in, "are not going to do a damn thing.  I'm 
having you arrested for interfering with a federal 
investigation.  And when this is over, I am damn sure going 
to have your badge for this."  He signaled to two nearby 
agents.  "Nickerson, Zuffy, take him in."

They looked uncertain.  Grenier whirled on them.

"I said now, Agents!"

Mulder's heart pounded painfully inside his chest, his anger 
rising.  "We're wasting time," he said.  "We need to go back 
over the..."  Nickerson grabbed his arm, but Mulder shook him 
off.  "NO!  Fuck you, Grenier.  This is it, when seconds 
matter, and I know you hate it, I know you hate me but I am 
the one who can do this.  I'm the one who can get inside this 
guy's head.  After, after we find her, if you want to have it 
out, if you want to fucking duel at twenty paces, then I will 
be there.  But right now, you have an agent MISSING, Adam, 
and we don't have TIME to fuck around with the slow, careful 
way!"

Grenier looked like he might take a swing at him.  "And whose 
fault is that?"

"Jesus," Mulder said, pushing past the confused, younger 
agents.  "You want to hear me say it?" he called over his 
shoulder as he stalked back in the direction of his car.  "If 
I tell you what you want to hear, then can we start looking?  
I did it! Okay, I did it!  I caused the distraction. Happy 
now?"

He could hear Grenier on his tail.  "You were always a fuck-
up.  I was the only one who could see the truth."

Mulder halted abruptly, and with one quick motion, grabbed 
Grenier by his coat.  "She has hours!  Don't you understand 
that?  In a few hours it's not going to matter whose fault it 
was!"

The fight seemed to leave Grenier immediately, and up close 
Mulder could see the fear in his eyes.   His lips were 
colorless, his breathing shallow.  "Okay, then.  What the 
fuck are we going to do?  Where would he take her?"

Mulder released his fists and tried to tamp down his rising 
tremble.  "I don't know yet," he admitted.  "But we sure as 
hell aren't going to find out standing here."

XxXxX

Scully braced as best she could against the cramped, slippery 
walls of the trunk, but her feet were tightly bound and she 
could no longer feel her arms behind her back.  She 
concentrated on taking slow breaths and trying to figure out 
where she was being taken.  Probably well outside of the 
city, she guessed, estimating they had been driving for most 
of an hour.  Most of it at high speeds, so they had been on 
one highway or another.

But when the car began a steep upward climb, her thoughts 
spun dizzily, threatening to spiral out of control.  Up the 
mountain again.  Trapped in the trunk.  Up, up, and away.  
Gone.  Flashes of her previous struggle sprang alive in her 
memory -- tied, gagged and fighting Duane Barry every 
stumbling step into the wind.  

She squeezed her eyes shut against the breathless, paralyzing 
terror.  Stop it, stop it.  Think about now.  Think about how 
to get out.

The car slowed, taking several winding turns, but still 
climbing a steep grade.  One particularly large bump caused 
Scully to hit her temple on the car jack.  The pain gave her 
focus.

There was no way to overpower him from the trunk of a car -- 
no element of surprise, no leverage and no mobility, given 
her bound hands and feet.  She tried twisting her wrists to 
loosen the tape, but only managed to dig the edges further 
into her skin.  Panting through her nose from the effort, she 
laid her cheek on the gritty floor of the trunk.  

*Think* she ordered herself, stretching as much as she could 
within the confined space.  More pain.  Something hard 
pressed against her hip, trapped between her body and the 
unforgiving floor.  She wriggled but the object moved with 
her.  

Her cell phone.  Thank God.

Bracing her feet on the side of the trunk, she gained enough 
leverage to roll over.  The deep muscles in her shoulders 
screamed though every painful inch.  Phone, phone.  Her heart 
pounded the word over and over.  She flexed her numb fingers, 
but they were helpless, tied behind her back.  The phone 
remained sagging in her pocket near her waist.  Scrunching up 
her legs, she tried to fold herself inward enough that she 
might nudge the phone with her chin.  

A contortionist she was not.  The tendons on her neck burned 
and stretched; her joints creaked loudly in the blackness.  
She sucked the tape over her mouth in and out as she 
struggled, ripping the top layer of skin from her lips.  Her 
chin grazed the pocket of her windbreaker, but the phone just 
slipped around inside.  Momentary tears of frustration stung 
in her eyes, and she rested, breathing hard and tangled in 
the dark.

XxXxX

"You've caused enough trouble," Grenier growled as he grabbed 
Mulder's car keys.  "The last thing I need right now is to be 
scraping your brains off the pavement after you've crashed 
this thing."

"Come with us," Russell added.  "It's better anyway."

"Whatever," Mulder said as he climbed in the back of their 
car.  "Let's just get moving."

"Where would he go?" Russell asked in the car.  "Indoors, 
right?  Even though the bodies are..."  Mulder flinched, and 
Russell halted, clearing her throat.  She continued in a 
softer tone. "Even though they're found outside, he must take 
them inside for a period of time.  He needs privacy for what 
he does."

Mulder gave a short nod, his leg bouncing nervously in the 
back seat.  "He's got a place somewhere, yeah.  Someplace 
cheap, with few neighbors."

"We've still got men at the other address," Grenier said.  
"Just in case he shows up there.  And we're watching Scully's 
place now, too."

"Scully's place?" Mulder said.  "Why?"

"He likes their shoes, right?  Maybe he wants them to model.  
It's a shot in the dark, but it's better than nothing."

"Yeah, okay," Mulder agreed.  A thought hit him.  "Her phone!  
Does she have her phone with her?"

"I don't know," Grenier said, but Mulder was already digging 
out his phone.  "I gave orders that all phones were supposed 
to be off, in any case.  It's SOP."

"No answer," Mulder said a moment later.  He leaned forward 
into the front seat.  "Have someone keep trying.  And if it 
rings through, let me at him."

XxXxX 


Her arms had gone from numb to shooting pain, and the phone 
still lay in her pocket.  She had managed to widen the mouth 
of the pocket with her chin, but she couldn't get the phone 
free.  Dirt in her eyes caused them to fill with tears, which 
then ran down her face and glued sticky strands of hair to 
her cheeks.

Carl had slowed the car further; time was running out.

Frantic, she tried rolling back and forth to slide the phone 
out of her pocket, but the angle was wrong.  She felt her one 
chance slipping away.

The air was thinning; she felt dizzy and weak, and the fear 
of carbon monoxide poisoning caused a shiver up her spine.  
Even her teeth seemed to ache from the exertion.  She lay on 
her back, trapping her arms beneath her, but the pain barely 
registered anymore. Any minute, he was going to stop the car 
and pull her out.  He would have a knife, and...

Scully swallowed hard against her gag reflex.  
Thinkthinkthink.  One last try.

With grim determination, she braced her feet against the side 
of the trunk and her knees against the top.  Her squashed 
arms radiated with hurt, but she ignored their complaint and 
began rocking back and forth, inching her knees over her 
head.  The process was agonizing, slow enough that she felt 
her muscles nearly tearing from her bones.  She stopped every 
few seconds to catch her breath.

Halfway though a full back-flip, she felt the phone drop out 
of her pocket and onto her chest.  She froze, cramped and 
crooked, so it wouldn't slide off into a dark corner 
somewhere.

*How the hell do I turn it on?*

Her fingers no longer responded to her command.  She couldn't 
tell if they were even moving.  Worth a try, she thought, 
turning in pain-filled millimeters to her right side.

The car stopped.

Scully went limp, her heart pumping so fast there was no 
space between the beats.  The rush of blood roared in her 
ears.  Outside, she heard crunching footsteps.  The sound of 
the trunk popping was like a gunshot; she jumped as the lid 
cracked open.

"Well, well, well," he said, pinning her with a beam of 
bright white light.  "What do we have here?"

Her eye muscles jerked in spasms.  She squinted up at his 
looming silhouette, unable to see his face.  He passed the 
flashlight beam over her in a lingering caress, ending with a 
long look at her feet.

"We're going to have so much fun," he murmured.  Scully saw a 
flash of his hand, and then he had by the hair, tangling a 
fistful in his fingers until tears pricked her eyes.  "Oh, 
yes, we are."

She squirmed and he yanked her back in place.  "Stop that."  
He released his grip, then pulled a knife in front of her, 
bringing it down to her face and illuminating the toothed 
edge with his flashlight.  "We can do this the easy way or 
the hard way," he said.  "But it's going to be my way no 
matter what.  Understand?"

Scully gave a small nod.

"Very good."  He slid the knife blade lightly along her 
cheek.  "Let's get started then."

As he bent to release her feet, Scully stared up at the 
darkness.  Trees, she thought.  It smelled like the woods.

"What the fuck is this?"  He held up her cell phone.  "You 
are a nervy one, aren't you, baby?  But I don't think you'll 
be needing this any time soon."

He pocketed the phone, and Scully closed her eyes.  The tape 
on her feet ripped open under his blade, and her legs shook 
with weak relief.  Carl hummed as he worked.

"Okay now," he said, hoisting her out of the trunk by her 
waist.  She trembled and nearly fell to the ground.  "Move."

The knife blade reappeared at her neck, and Scully took 
several stumbling steps forward.  Behind her, Carl shone the 
flashlight into the dirt path ahead.  Scully's stomach 
clenched when she saw the tracks at her feet -- pointed toes 
and tiny, round heels.  Where the others had gone before.

A death march, she thought, and Carl shoved her along.  One 
step closer.

XxXxX

The BSU meeting room was a grisly shrine to Carl Quentin.  
Pictures of the victims hung on the wall, with the latest 
three given a prominent position in the center.  Mulder 
pulled Beth Kinney's photo down.  "He didn't do this one."

"So you've mentioned," Grenier snapped.  He made a sweeping 
gesture to the rest of the horrific pictures.  "But what 
about all the rest?  Take a look, Mulder.  Take another good 
look at what this animal can do."

"Shut up, Adam," Russell said.  "It's not helping."

Mulder sank into a chair, his head in his hands.  He didn't 
need to look.  The images came fast and furious whether he 
wanted them or not.  Bare white necks covered in bruises, 
limbs askew and vacant, unseeing eyes.  He raised his head 
and stared at the long line of faces.  Under each girl, there 
was a picture of the shoes she had been wearing at the time 
of her abduction.  The shoes weren't recovered, of course; 
they'd had copies sent from the manufacturers.

"They never found the shoes," Mulder murmured.

"What?" Russell asked.  Mulder stood and walked to the 
photographs.

"The shoes.  They never found them." He turned to Arkin.  
"What address did Quentin give when he was arrested in '88?"

"Uh..." Arkin pawed through the papers on the conference 
table until he found the correct folder.  "Baltimore.  He was 
living with his cousin."

"The hell he was.  There's no way Quentin could have been 
bringing the women home and not have the cousin know about 
it."

"Maybe he did know about it," Grenier said, his eyes 
glinting.  "Have we got someone on the cousin?"

"He moved to Atlanta in 1991," Russell said.  "We checked 
earlier, and the house belongs to a newlywed couple now."

Mulder shook his head.  "Did they search the house in '88?"

"Yeah," Arkin said, consulting the reports.  "The cops 
suspected Quentin might be responsible for a half dozen 
muggings in the Beltsville area at the time.  They tossed the 
cousin's place right after Quentin was arrested.  No other 
incriminating evidence was found."

"That's it," Mulder said.  "He's taking them all to the same 
spot, the same place he used eleven years ago."  He looked at 
Arkin.  "Get the cousin on the phone.  I want to know if the 
family owned any other property, had any usual vacation 
spots, any place Quentin might go."

"You got it."

Mulder glanced at the clock and felt the second hand's 
movement vibrate inside him as it ticked away the time.  Two 
hours had already passed.

XxXxX

The first thing she saw was blood on the sheets.  Rumpled, 
white sheets streaked with red-brown smears.  There were 
pieces of rope tied to the bars of the headboard.

"I have everything prepared for you already," he said from 
behind her.  "I've been waiting a long time."

Scully tried to stop shaking.  The cabin was cold, dirty, and 
there wasn't much light.  Her legs were wobbly, and her hands 
were still tied tightly behind her back.  Quentin had yet to 
lower his knife.  He kept it at her neck as he walked around 
in front of her.

She drew back just an inch at the sight of him, so different 
than the mug shot she had seen earlier.  Blond, spiky hair 
replaced his previous dark brown.  There was a scar on his 
left cheek, and he had lost a lot of weight.  "Surprise!" he 
said, grinning, and she saw he was missing a front tooth now, 
too.  "It's me, the man you've been looking for!"

He reached out with his free and touched her hair.  "I bet 
you never dreamed I was this close.  I've never had an FBI 
agent before."

Agent, thought Scully wildly, that's it!  If she could just 
engage him as an agent instead of a victim, she might buy 
herself some time.  She forced herself to stay still under 
his stroking.

"If I take the tape off, will you scream?"

She shook her head slowly, holding his gaze.  He tilted his 
head as if appraising her.  "Okay, I'll do it.  But remember 
there's more where this came from."

He took the edge of the tape and yanked.  Scully gasped as 
more of her skin ripped away.  Quentin laughed.  "Stings, 
don't it?"

"Thank you," she said, hoping to catch him off guard with 
non-confrontational approach.  Quentin appeared unfazed.

"Get in the bed," he ordered.  The knife gleamed in his hand.

Scully swallowed with difficulty and took a tentative step 
toward the bed.  Something else, she thought desperately, 
something else he might want from you. "Carl, please..."

He caught her hair.  "What?  What did you call me?"

She gritted her teeth through the pain.  "Carl Quentin.  It's 
your name, isn't it?"

"And how the fuck did you know that?"

Scully felt a surge of relief.  She had him going now.  
"Mulder found you.  In Ohio."

"Fuck," he said, and the knife point nicked her throat.  
"That sonofabitch."

"We know about Dee-Ann and..."  Her addled brain struggled to 
come up with the name.  "...and Susan Perry."

"Bitches, both of them."  He pushed her closer to the bed.  
"Keep moving."

Scully's gaze caught the line of shoes he had displayed on 
shelf by the bed, all familiar pairs from the photos she'd 
seen in the dead women's folders.  Except the end pair.  
Black, open-toed sandals.  A pair she had bought at Gucci on 
impulse last year.  "You've...you've been in my house."

He shoved her down onto the filthy sheets.  "Several times," 
he told her with a grin.  "And you never even knew it, did 
you?  You think you're so hot, but you don't know so many 
things."

"Mulder knows who you are," she pressed, trying not to watch 
as he readied the rope.  "He'll find you here in no time."

"Fuck Mulder," Quentin said, his smile gone.  "He's a 
nothing, an idiot, do you understand me?  All those years and 
he never figured it out.  He thinks he's got me now...why?  
Because of a name?  He knows *nothing*!"

"He found your first murders.  He can find--" She broke off, 
wheezing as his hand closed around her throat.

"Shut up!  Mulder's a goddamn cocksucker who couldn't find 
his ass with both hands.  I've got news for you, honeybitch -
- Mulder's never gonna find me.  He believes every lie in 
press about me.  Looks in all the wrong places.  Trust me, 
we're not going to have any interruptions."

He released his grip, and Scully coughed, sucking in painful 
breaths.  "What lies?" she croaked.

"Ah, ah, ah."  His grin was back, and he wagged a finger at 
her.  "A good little agent would have figured it out on her 
own.  Maybe that's Mulder's problem, huh?  He's been hanging 
out in the ghetto too much."

What lies? Scully thought, frantic as he slit the tape behind 
her back.  Her hands throbbed as the blood returned.  It was 
a brief respite, because he immediately shackled one arm to 
the headboard. 

"There we go.  Nice and tight."

Scully fought her panic and looked around the room for 
something, anything, to get him talking again.  Below the 
shoes he had taped dozens of newspaper reports on the 
killings, but it was too dark for her to read anything more 
than the headlines.

POLICE SUSPECT SERIAL KILLER AFTER THIRD VICTIM FOUND	

DC SLAYER CLAIMS SEVENTH VICTIM; POLICE CLAIM NEW LEADS

MAYOR CALMS PANICKED CITY

Then, the new ones:

INTERN, 22, FOUND MURDERED

ARCHITECT MURDERED; POLICE SEEK CAB DRIVER

Wait, she thought, wait.  Where was Elizabeth? 

Leaning over to tie down her other arm, he blocked her view 
of the newspaper articles.  She counted the shoes instead.  
Nine.  Nine pairs, not counting hers.  Ten bodies.  No mask.

"It wasn't you," she whispered, and Carl froze.

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Fourteen

XxXxX


"Is this Steven Lynch?"  Mulder paced as far as the 
conference room phone cord would allow.

"Yes," said the man on the other end, his voice sleepy and 
annoyed.  "And it's four in the morning.  Who is this?"

"Mr. Lynch, my name is Fox Mulder.  I'm an agent at the FBI, 
and --"

"I told the man last week that I hadn't seen him."

Mulder halted his pacing.  "Excuse me?"

"Carl," said Lynch with impatience.  "When the man called 
yesterday to ask about him, I said I hadn't seen or spoken to 
Carl in over ten years.  I thought he was still in prison."

"Do you have any idea where he might be now?" Mulder asked.

"No, like I said, I moved away and haven't talked with him 
since."  A pause.  "The sick freak, attacking that woman like 
he did."

"Mr. Lynch, it is extremely important that we find Carl right 
away.  Can you think of anywhere he might have gone?  
Friends, other relatives, favorite places...anything."

There was a short silence on the other end.  "What did he do 
this time?"

"Mr. Lynch, please..."

"It's something bad, right?  He's killed a girl this time, I 
bet."

"He has my partner," Mulder snapped, running a hand through 
his hair.  He took a deep breath.  "He took her and we need 
to find them fast.  So please, think.  Where would he go?"

"I...I wish I knew.  He went someplace when he stayed with me 
-- sometimes he didn't come home for days.  When I asked him 
about it, he said he had a girlfriend."

"Any idea who that might have been?"

"No.  I never saw him with any woman, to be honest."

Mulder's heart clenched and fell, sweat breaking out on the 
back of his neck.  His one lead was dimming fast.  "Did your 
family have any other property in the area?  Somewhere else 
he might go?"

"We weren't like the Rockefellers, Agent Mulder.  That house 
I sold in Baltimore was the only one my family has ever owned 
up there."

Mulder said nothing.  He hurled the phone receiver at the 
wall, where it bounced off and fell to the floor, dragging 
the rest of the phone with it.  The air crackled but nobody 
moved; Grenier, Russell and Arkin stood stock-still, watching 
as he took several ragged breaths.

"What, um, what should we do now?" Russell asked at length.

Mulder walked to the door, not answering.  At the threshold, 
he paused without turning around.  "I don't know," he said, 
and left.

XxXxX

Vice-like, his fingers grabbed her chin.  "What did you just 
say?" His eyes flashed fever-bright, his breath warm and 
fetid as he leaned over her.

Scully quivered but held his gaze.  "The murder in the park," 
she said.  "It wasn't you."

"Heh."  He released his grip and stroked the side of her 
face.  "Not bad, FBI woman.  I'm impressed.  Russell and 
Grenier, I didn't expect them to get it, but Mulder..."  He 
trailed off.  "He's not what they said he was.  He's not the 
best, or he would have known it wasn't me."

"He knows your name," Scully said again, her breathing 
shallow.  The ropes bit into her wrists.  "It's only a matter 
of time before he finds you here."

Carl laughed, a harsh, humorless sound that grated all the 
way to her bones.  "Baby, Mulder had twelve fucking years to 
find this place.  I don't think he's gonna come sniffing 
around here now."  He leaned down, pressing his full weight 
on her, and put his lips right next to her ear.  "We're all 
alone."

Scully turned her head.  "Get off of me."

"Get off of me," Carl mimicked.  He pulled back and grinned.  
"I'll get off, all right, baby.  Yeah."

Scully swallowed, watching him rub the bulge in his pants.  
Fear tingled all the way to her toes.  "I'm the only one who 
knows," she said, struggling to sound strong.

"Shut up." He licked his lips and reached for the button on 
her jeans.  Her heart lurched.  Instinctively, she drew up 
her legs, twisting away from him.  He slammed her back into 
position with one swift motion.  "Do that again and I'll 
break your knees."

One hot tear leaked down her temple and into her hair.  She 
squeezed her eyes closed as he yanked down her pants.  "I'm 
the only one who knows it wasn't you," she repeated.  "I can 
tell them and set the record straight."

"That so."  He snorted as pulled off her boots and socks.  
They hit the floor with a thud, and he discarded her pants as 
well.  "I bet you'd have lots to tell them now, wouldn't you, 
baby?  Bet they'd love to hear all about it."

As he went to retrieve her spiked heels from his trophy 
shelf, Scully tugged hard on her restraints.  The knots 
rubbed her skin raw, and bars of the headboard rattled.  Carl 
didn't even bother to turn around.  "It's not worth the 
struggle, I promise you.  The others tried to get loose, too, 
but they only managed to work themselves into a sweat."

Her heart in her throat, Scully kept yanking.  The left bar 
was loose, wobbling back and forth with each frantic pull.  
Carl frowned as he approached the bed.

"Don't make me tie your feet, too.  I hate it when I have to 
do that."

Scully trembled, weak from fear and exhaustion.  She jerked 
at his touch on her leg.  "Listen, you're right.  Mulder has 
no idea.  He doesn't know where you are, he doesn't know 
about the girl in the park, he doesn't know anything about 
what you're really like."

"He knows what I'm like," Carl said calmly, as he slipped her 
left shoe on her foot.  He smiled at her.  "And soon you'll 
know, too."

"But don't you want him to know he was wrong?" she persisted. 
"He should have known it wasn't your work.  Look how quickly 
I figured it out.  Mulder is a coward, a fraud."

"Damn straight," Carl said.  His lips tightened into a grim 
line.  He moved to put on her other shoe, but Scully kept 
talking, trying to make him listen.

"We could...we could tell him," she said.  "We could show him 
how wrong he was."

Carl rubbed her foot, seeming distracted by the velvety 
contours.  "And how are we going to do that?"

Her heart thudded.  This was it.  The last shot.

"We could call him."

Carl's head snapped up, and he looked at her with narrowed 
eyes.  "You think I'm an idiot?  You think I don't know about 
traces?"

"The cell phone," she said quickly, the words tumbling out 
through her terror-numbed lips.  "They can't trace it except 
to a general area.  Here in the woods there'd be no time for 
them to figure it out."

He ran icy fingers up her calf, tracing the curve of her 
knee, and Scully willed herself not to shudder.  "You got him 
on speed dial, huh?  Yeah, I'll just bet you do."

She moved her foot to his lap, but her caress came out as 
more of a spasm.  He didn't seem to care.  "Just think about 
it," she said hoarsely.  "You've got me here, trapped.  Don't 
you want Mulder to know about it?  Don't you want him to know 
that you've won?"

He cupped her foot, stilling her movements.  "Maybe I'll let 
him listen to you scream.  Would you liked that?"

Scully flinched at his words, turning her head away.  The row 
of shoes loomed on the shelf to her right.  She stared at 
their pretty bows and sequins and wondered if she was going 
to die.

Carl shifted on the bed, his heavy hand lifting from her 
foot, and Scully dared to glance at him again.  He'd pulled 
out her phone.

"He was number one on your home phone," Carl said.  "I called 
him but I didn't leave a message."  He patted her calf.  
"What message should we give him now, do you think?"

Scully said nothing.  *Turn it on* she willed him.  *Just 
turn it on.*

Like magic, he did.  "Let's see, baby.  He might be too busy 
to come play with us now.  Maybe he's still jerking off in 
the park.  What do you think?"

Her pulse picked up, hammering in her throat as she saw him 
hit the first memory key.  He was actually going to dial.  
Oh, please, she thought, twisting again at her restraints.  
The ropes held fast.

"It's ringing," Carl told her with a gleeful grin, and Scully 
began to pray.

XxXxX

Mulder was in the hallway leaning against the wall when his 
cell phone gave a muffled chirp, deep within his pocket.  He 
had it out in nanoseconds.

"Mulder," he said, freezing in place even before he could 
hear an answer.  There was a loud crackle on the other end, 
but no one spoke.  His heart turned over.  "Scully?" 

Grenier and Russell ran out into the hall with Arkin hot on 
their heels.  Mulder turned away from their questioning 
looks. "Scully, is that you?"

"Guess again, Mulder."

"Quentin," Mulder said, whirling around and snapping at the 
other agents.  Grenier nodded and they scattered in three 
different directions, already on top of the trace.  "What's 
going on, Quentin?  What are you doing with Agent Scully?"

The man gave a soft laugh that sent a prickling ripple of 
fear down Mulder's back.  "Oh, come on, Mulder.  You know 
what I'm doing.  You've seen the pictures."

Mulder gripped the phone so hard that it threatened to snap 
in two.  "She's a federal agent, Carl.  You hurt her and it's 
an automatic death penalty."

"That's assuming you catch me.  Which, I have to say, doesn't 
seem too likely, now does it?"  He laughed again.  "You 
weren't even looking in the right place!"

"But I was," Mulder said.  "You were at the park."

"But not where you were looking!"  His sing-song sounded like 
a four year-old's.

"No, you were with Agent Scully." Mulder's stomach tightened; 
he closed his eyes.  "Tell me...is she all right?"

"I don't want to talk about that right now.  I have something 
else to talk about."

Russell reappeared.  "We've got the tower traced," she 
mouthed.  "But keep him talking."

Mulder tried to think, tried to put himself in Carl's place, 
but when he did he saw Scully, bruised and broken on the 
ground.  "No," he said.  "I won't listen.  Not until I talk 
to Scully."

Silence followed, and Russell looked alarmed.  "What the hell 
are you doing?" she hissed.  Mulder brushed her off.

"I'm going to hang up, Carl."  He waited another second.  
"I'm hanging up now..."

"Wait!"

Mulder waited, shaking as the seconds passed.  He heard 
rustling and Carl's murmur.  Then, "Mulder, it's me."

"Scully!"  Thank God.  Her voice was roughened, scared, but 
she was still alive. Tears stung his eyes.  "Scully, where 
are you?"

She did not answer.  He heard more scuffling, then Carl's 
voice on the line again.  Hard, angry.

"Now," he said, "you'll listen to me."

"Yes," Mulder said, walking a circle in the hallway.  "Yes, 
okay.  What is it?  Anything you want, it's okay.  We'll get 
it for you.  Just don't hurt her."

Quentin answered with a hacking cough.  "Like your partner, 
do you, Agent Mulder?  She's a pretty one.  Smart, too.  
Smarter than you, Mr. Hot Shit FBI."

"She's the best we have," Mulder agreed.  Russell gave him a 
questioning look, but he couldn't answer it.  Quentin was one 
step ahead of him in this conversation.

"She guessed my secret right off," Carl continued.  "She's 
the one who thought we should tell you, too."

"What?"  Mulder was losing patience, his nerves stretched 
razor-sharp.  "What do you want me to know?"

Carl's breathing grew deeper. "I want you to know I have your 
partner tied up.  I've got her in bed, Mulder.  And she's 
wearing those pretty shoes just for me."

Mulder swallowed, nearly gagging.  "You leave her alone, you 
bastard!  You leave her alone or--"

"Or you'll what?"

"This call is being traced," Mulder said desperately.  "You 
don't have time."

"I have plenty of time for what I need to do.  So go ahead 
and trace the phone, Agent Mulder.  I'm sure you'll find it 
eventually."  He paused.  "Here, I'll even give you a hint --  
it'll be right next to Agent Scully's body."

And the line went dead.

XxXxX

He snapped off the phone and gave her a gapped-tooth grin.  
"You were right," he said.  "That was fun."

Scully felt her insides begin to shred apart in fear as 
tossed the phone aside.  "But you didn't tell him.  He'll 
never know--"

"He doesn't fucking deserve to know!"  Carl's smile became an 
angry snarl.  "He's a fuckup, and we're not going to mention 
his name again, understand?"  Scully said nothing, and Carl 
grabbed her throat, squeezing until she gagged.  "I said, do 
you understand?"

"Yes," she gasped.

"Good."  He released her and patted her cheek.  "Then we'll 
get along just fine."

He moved from the bed, back toward his shelf, and Scully 
tracked him with her eyes as she yanked with all her might on 
the ropes holding her to the headboard.  The left side nearly 
slipped free.

*C'mon, c'mon* she begged silently as the ropes chafed more 
skin from her wrists.

Carl turned around from his shelf.  He had a pair of hedge 
clippers in his hand.  Scully couldn't suppress a choked 
sound of terror, and he blew her a kiss.  "For later," he 
said, holding them up so she could get a better look.

Not enough time, she thought wildly.  There's not enough time 
to find me.

XxXxX

"Figures we couldn't catch a break," Grenier muttered as he 
returned with the read-outs on the phone trace.  "Widest 
search area possible.  A half dozen towns in the foothills 
and a bunch of the mountains, too."  He glanced at Mulder.  
"I've already got teams headed out there.  We can leave right 
away."

Mulder was already moving.  "Get me the cousin again," he 
called back down the hall. "I want to talk to the cousin."

XxXxX

He sat on the bed, the springs squeaking under his weight, 
and pulled her left foot into his lap.  "Oh yeah," he 
murmured, bringing it to his crotch.  

Scully closed her eyes.  Notyetnotyet.

He leaned down to put the garden shears on the floor; her 
heart pounded faster and faster, almost pushing through her 
chest.

"Okay," he said, rising up again.  "Now for --"

She kicked him hard in the face, catching his right eye with 
the point of her heel.  He howled in pain and doubled over at 
the waist.  Scully pulled harder at her restraints, kicking 
him again even as she tugged.  The bar holding her left arm 
broke loose.

"Bitch!" he screamed, clutching his eye and swinging at her 
with his free hand.  She rolled away.  "You fucking bitch!"

With her left hand, she ripped the right bar out from the 
headboard.  He lunged at her just as she slipped off the bed.  
Shaking, she ran for the door.

"Oh, no you don't!"  Carl caught her by the hair, hard enough 
to bring tears to her eyes, but she didn't stop struggling. 
She brought her heel down on top of his foot.  With a gasp of 
pain, he released her.  "God dammit!"

She stumbled, crying out in pain as her left foot turned over 
at the ankle when she caught it on a loose floorboard.  Her 
shoe fell off.  

He grabbed her again by the left arm, but she scooped the 
shears from the floor with her right and bashed them against 
the injured side of his head.  He contracted in pain.  
Yanking free from his grasp, she scrambled again towards the 
door, her lopsided gait now slowing her down.  She kicked the 
other shoe off as Carl moaned behind her.  

"Open, open," she pleaded with the door, not daring to look 
over her shoulder.  It rattled in its frame, the lock stuck, 
and she could hear Carl getting up from the floor.  
"Please..."  Finally, the lock slid clear, and she ran out 
into the cold, black night.

Which way, which way?

She went into the woods, away from the path, picking her way 
though the sharp branches and slippery leaves.  Her own 
breathing was harsh in her ears; she didn't stop to listen 
for him following her.  

The clouds obscured the moon, making it impossible to see 
where she was going.  She ran blindly through the trees, her 
wounded ankle throbbing with each step.  The bars from the 
headboard still dangled from her wrists by the rope, but she 
couldn't stop long enough to undo the knots.  Sticks and 
rocks scraped against the tender bottoms of her feet, and 
whip-slender branches lashed across her bare legs.  Her tears 
flowed freely now, but she kept going.

At last, shaking with cold and adrenaline, she stopped in a 
small clearing.  Drizzle had started to leak from the sky, 
plinking small drops on her goose-pimpled skin.  Around her, 
there was only the whispering sound of the rain on the leaves 
and the occasional gust of wind.  No cars, no road.  She had 
no idea if she was five hundred or five thousand feet from 
Carl's cabin.  In the dark woods, she might have been running 
in circles.

The crack of a branch snapping made her jump.  She turned 
around in a tight circle, trying to see in every direction at 
once, but the ink-blot night cloaked the woods in secrecy.  
He could be anywhere, she thought with a shudder.  Keep 
going.

So she ignored the night chill and the cuts on her feet and 
pushed into the dense thicket of trees once more.  She had 
not walked for more than fifteen minutes when she saw a light 
flash in the distance.  She froze, hugging herself against 
the rain and cold.  The beam of light crisscrossed through 
the darkness, and she heard the crunch of footsteps.

Oh, God, she thought.  It's him.

She scrambled back the way she had come.  Down a steep hill, 
through the thicket, she reached the bottom and paused for 
breath against a rocky ledge.  The footsteps were closer than 
before, and this time she heard voices.  Voices!

"Scully?  Scully, are you out here?"

"Yes," she said, barely recognizing the rasp masquerading as 
her voice.  The footsteps began to move away.

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Fifteen

XxXxX

There wasn't a path in front of him, only tangled bramble 
waiting to scratch his eyes out.  Mulder hacked his way 
through the woods with one arm, dodging the worst of the 
barbed branches as the flashlight in his left hand provided a 
slim beam of light to follow.  Behind him, Russell thrashed 
her own trail.  "I don't see either of them," she said.

Mulder paused, shining his light around in several 
directions.  The beam illuminated the slanting rain.  
"Scully!" he called.  "Scully, where are you?"

"Maybe he took her with him," Russell said.  "We could be 
losing time..."

"There were tracks into the woods," Mulder snapped.  He 
walked deeper into the darkness, twigs crackling under his 
feet.  "Scully," he yelled again.  "Scully!"

He heard a faint scuffling sound.  "Mulder?"

"Scully!"  He bounded through the woods in the direction of 
her voice.  "Scully, where are you?"

"Mulder!"

He flashed the light around wildly, trying to find her among 
the trees.  "Scully, talk to me.  Scully?"

"I'm here," she said, sounding desperate.  He ran faster, 
making zigzags through tall trees, slipping on the muddy 
leaves at his feet.

"Scully!"

"Over here!" Russell called, and Mulder abruptly changed 
course.  He pushed through a tall thicket and saw her at the 
bottom of a steep incline, trembling with cold and squinting 
under the glare of Russell's flashlight.  His heart stopped 
at the sight of the ropes still tied around her wrists.

"Jesus," he muttered from ten feet away.  He half ran, half 
slid down the hill towards her.  "Scully, are you okay?"

"I'm cold," she said as he reached her.  He took off his wool 
overcoat and put it on her, gathering her close.

"Are you okay?  Are you hurt anywhere?"

She pressed against him, still shaking.  Her teeth chattered. 
"My feet are cut.  I may have...may have sprained an ankle."

"Scully."  He hugged her tight.  "I'm so sorry."

Several more flashlights joined Russell's as another rescue 
team arrived.  Mulder turned away, instinctively blocking 
Scully from the glare and curious eyes.  She had not stopped 
trembling.

"Paramedics are on their way down," Russell called, and 
Mulder nodded.

"Come on," he murmured to Scully, "let's sit down.  Rest your 
feet."  

He tried to coax her down onto the forest floor with him, but 
her fingers dug into his shirt, protesting.  "He's in the 
woods, Mulder.  He followed me."

"Grenier's got every man looking for him right now," he told 
her, brushing back the hair that was stuck to her cheek.  
"It's okay, Scully.  It's going to be okay."

He gently tugged her down with him, and this time she 
relented, her slow, rigid movements telling of her lingering 
pain and fear.  She slumped against his shoulder, shivering 
as he used his own cold-numbed fingers to fumble with the wet 
knots at her wrists.  His struggle only chafed her further, 
and she winced, burrowing into his chest.  He kissed her 
temple.  "Sorry, sorry."

"Quentin didn't kill Beth Kinney," she told him. "He didn't 
have her shoes."

"I know," he replied as he tried to maneuver the coat so that 
it would cover her feet.  

She shuddered, her breathing still light and fast on his 
neck.  "How?"

He rubbed his cheek against the top of her head.  "Your 
autopsy findings.  I'll explain later."

"Hey, down this way!" Russell yelled, and a few moments later 
the paramedics appeared at the top of the hill.

"It's the cavalry," Mulder murmured.  "We're going to get you 
out of here, okay?"

She nodded but did not loosen her hold on him.  He stroked 
the back of her head and rocked them both in a gentle rhythm.  
She had stopped shaking, but he wasn't sure whether that was 
a good sign or a very bad one.

Two rain-slicked EMTs arrived carrying a stretcher, and the 
man knelt down next to Scully.  "Agent Scully, I'm Bob 
Eckland, and this is Eliza Bennett.  We're going to take care 
of you now, all right?  Tell me, are you hurt anywhere?"

Scully sat up from Mulder's embrace, and the loss of her 
weight caused a painful lance in his chest.  There was 
nothing more he could do.

"My ankle may be sprained," she said, her voice hoarse.  
Eckland cut the ropes from her wrists, and she flexed her 
fingers.  "Other than that, I'm okay, I think."

"All right, we're going to take you to the hospital and check 
you out, get you out of this rain."  He smiled at her.  "Try 
to relax.  We'll have you out of here ASAP."

Mulder climbed back up the hill with the stretcher, his 
fingers resting on the cold metal edge.  Scully pulled her 
arm out from beneath the blanket and clasped his hand.  
"Almost there," he said.  He gave her hand a reassuring 
squeeze and tried not to notice the angry red circles around 
her wrist.

As they neared the edge of the woods, Mulder saw more 
flashlights circling around in the darkness, men searching 
for Quentin.  Russell's walkie-talkie squawked periodically 
as Grenier updated their orders.  Quentin seemed to have 
vanished.

His cabin loomed in front of them as they emerged from the 
clearing.  Lit up like a Christmas tree, it shone under the 
bright searchlights and swirling red patterns created by the 
crush of cop cars that surrounded it.  Scully's hand 
tightened around his, and Mulder felt the squeeze all the way 
to his heart.  He had seen the inside with its bloody sheets, 
thick rope, and garden shears.

"You traced the cell phone?" Scully asked as they paused 
while the EMTS opened the back of the ambulance.

"Yeah," he said, running one finger down her cheek.  "Thanks 
to you.  Quentin's cousin helped us narrow the search area; 
seems they used to go hiking around this area years ago."

"Okay, we're ready to go," said Eckland.  "We'll just --"

He was cut off by a flash of blinding white light.  "What the 
hell?" Russell said from behind them, shielding her eyes.  

Mulder blinked rapidly.  As his vision cleared, he spotted 
Tanzini standing twenty feet away.  "That sonofabitch."

"Mulder..." Russell said, but he was already moving.  

Tanzini grinned when he saw him coming. "Tough choice, isn't 
it, Mulder?  Go with the lady or stay and catch the man who 
got away the last time.  What's it going to be?"

Mulder grabbed for the camera, but Tanzini ducked out of 
reach.  "You're under arrest, Tanzini.  For interfering with 
a federal investigation."

"I'm not interfering.  I'm just standing here."  He snapped 
another picture, the flash exploding in Mulder's face.

"You goddamn sonofa..."  Mulder lunged at him, intent on 
strangling the man with his own camera, but a hand bit into 
his shoulder and held him back.

"Arrest this idiot," Grenier growled, and two other agents 
stepped forward to take Tanzini into custody.  "And the 
camera stays with us."  He glared at the photographer.  "You 
may have pulled this shit on Patterson's turf, but you stay 
the hell away from my investigations, you go it?"

"You don't own this property, Grenier."  Tanzini struggled 
but the two agents held him fast.  "You'll be hearing from my 
attorney, and the paper's attorney, you can count on that!"

"Get him out of here," Grenier said with disgust.  He turned 
to Mulder.  "How's she doing?  Is she okay?"

Mulder glanced to where the ambulance waited.  "Yeah, I think 
so."  He looked back at Grenier.   "Get Quentin, okay?  I'll 
be at the hospital."

XxXxX

Scully lay under the hospital blanket and watched the 
raindrops slide down the window outside.  Her feet had been 
cleaned and bandaged, her wrists were wrapped, and her ankle 
was not even sprained.  The finger-mark shaped bruises on her 
neck would heal quickly, she knew.  In a few days, no one 
would be able to tell what had happened to her.  No one would 
know that she had lain on a bed where nine women had died.  
No one would know that she still had fear dripping down her 
insides, sticking to all the soft places and making it hard 
to breathe.

"Can I get you anything?  A soda, something to eat?"  Mulder 
sat with her, prodding her to speak at regular intervals and 
then lapsing into awkward silence as he chewed on his 
thumbnail.

"No, thank you."  It was the third time he had offered, and 
she almost accepted just so he would leave her alone.  She 
felt raw and vulnerable, split open and on display, as if he 
were waiting for the moment she would break.  He was stuck in 
the drab little room because of her pain, and for some 
reason, she resented it.  She rolled away from him on the 
bed.  

He hadn't been terrified in the trunk or tied to the bed or 
choked or cut or found half-naked in the woods.  Her cheeks 
burned at the memory.  "I want to go home," she whispered.  

She felt his touch on her back.  "I know."  He paused, 
apparently choosing his words carefully.  "But we need to get 
a forensic team in there first, just in case..."

"In case for some reason we can't convict him of nine 
murders," she said angrily.  "I know.  It's always nice to 
have breaking and entering as a back up plan."

Mulder said nothing for a long moment.  Then, "You can always 
stay with me tonight."

His words, light and unsure, caused tears to clog her throat.  
He was trying so hard, so why wasn't it enough?  "Thanks," 
she said with a sniff.  "That would be nice."

"'kay."  He gave her another careful pat.  "We can...we can 
order Chinese.  Or pizza."

She squeezed back the hot tears.  "All right," she murmured.  
She tried not to think of her tub and her soft sheets.  She 
tried not to think of yet one more invasion of her home, when 
the fingerprint team would dust every inch with black powder.  
Instead, she thought suddenly of another person who couldn't 
go home.  "Vee," she said, sitting up.  

"What about her?" 

"Where is she?  She's still in danger, Mulder.  Whoever 
killed Beth Kinney is out there somewhere and presumably 
still wants Vee murdered."

Mulder frowned.  "I'm not sure what happened to her," he 
said.  "Last I saw her was with you, when she picked Carl out 
of the lineup."

"You've got to find out," she said.  He looked hesitant, 
reluctant to leave her.  "Please.  We have to know that she's 
protected."

He took a deep breath and nodded.  "Okay.  I'll go see what I 
can find out."

"Thank you," she said, settling back against the pillows.  
"I'm just afraid that someone may have thought the threat was 
over and sent her home."

Mulder left, and a few minutes later there was a knock at the 
door.  Russell poked her head inside the room.  "Is it okay 
if I come in?"

Scully sat up again, drawing her knees to her chest.  "Did 
Mulder send you down here to baby sit me?"

Russell entered and held out a cup of coffee.  "No, I just 
wanted to make sure you were okay.  I also thought maybe you 
could use one of these."

"Thanks," Scully said, accepting the paper cup.  "Any word 
from Grenier about the search?"

"Nothing so far," Russell replied as she sat in Mulder's 
chair.  "They're still looking the last I heard.  Should be 
easier now that it's daylight."

"He has my gun." 

"Yes, we heard.  His car was still in front of the cabin, 
though, so we're hoping that he couldn't have gotten very 
far."

Scully sipped the hot coffee, then shifted uncomfortably when 
she saw Russell staring at her wrists.  Russell, she 
remembered, was one of the people to witness the aftermath in 
the woods, when Scully had been terrified and trembling in 
her underwear.  She set aside her coffee and slipped her 
hands beneath the blanket.  "You really don't have to stay. 
I'm all right. I think they're releasing me shortly, anyhow."

"I'm glad," Russell said.  "And I'll get going soon so you 
can rest."  She bit her lip, then leaned forward in her 
chair.  "I just...I just wanted to tell you something."

Scully's pulse picked up, and she tensed as she imagined a 
dozen terrible things.  Whatever this woman wanted to say, 
she was sure she didn't want to hear it.  No forced attempts 
at reassurance, no tidbits about Mulder from the past.  
Somehow she knew that smallest word could collapse her 
tenuous control into shards of glass.

"I, uh, I never said this to anyone before," Russell 
continued, her eyes on the floor, and Scully dared to take a 
breath.  This was not the opening she had expected.

"What is it?"

"I knew one of these guys once.  When I was little.  My mom 
owned a little grocery store in this town outside of 
Portland, and I used to like to play there while she worked.  
There was this guy who came in all the time.  He'd talk to 
her and make her laugh, and he always bought one of the 
nickel lollipops for me.  I remember he wore cowboy boots and 
smelled like sandalwood.  Mr. Sugarman.  He liked to say he 
was as sweet as his name.  Sometimes..."  She swallowed hard.  
"Sometimes I would sit on his lap in the back of the store 
and read books with him.  I pretended he was my father."

Scully listened in silence, sensing where the story was going 
but needing to hear the awful conclusion all the same.

"Anyway," Russell continued.  "One day, my mom opens the 
morning paper and runs to throw up.  I looked and saw Mr. 
Sugarman on the front, but she wouldn't tell me what had 
happened.  Two days later I was playing behind the counter 
when I heard a couple of women talking.  Turns out that 
Sugarman had been arrested for the murder of five little 
girls.  He strangled them and buried them right in his 
backyard."

"That's horrible," Scully whispered.

"Yeah." Russell raised her eyes and looked at Scully.  "I was 
alone with him so many times, when Mom went to check 
something in stock.  He could have...it would have been so 
easy for him to..."  She shook her head.  "I don't know why 
he didn't."

Can't even say the words aloud, Scully thought.  I 
understand.  "I'm glad he didn't," she said to Russell.  "I'm 
glad you're okay."

"Thanks," Russell answered.  "I can say the same for you."

Scully ducked her head, considering.  "Yeah," she said at 
last, "I guess you can." 

Mulder returned then, surprised to see Russell had taken over 
his chair.  "Did they get him?" he asked quickly.

"Not yet," Russell replied as she stood to leave.  "But we 
will.  If there's one thing that Adam knows how to do, it's 
conduct a search."  She touched his arm, then glanced at 
Scully.  "I'll let you know the moment I hear something, 
okay?"

"What about Vee?" Scully asked.  "Is she okay?"

Russell squeezed her eyes shut and ran a hand through her 
hair.  "Damn, I totally forgot about her."

"She fine," Mulder said.  "They've still got her and her 
mother down at the Hoover building.  I told them not to send 
them home under any circumstances."

Scully let out a long breath.  "Good."

"Jesus, with everything that happened, I'd forgotten about 
the other guy."  Russell gave Mulder a questioning look.  
"You're still positive we've got a copycat?"

"It's true," Scully answered.  "Quentin said so himself.  
Plus, he didn't have Beth's shoes.  Someone else murdered 
her, and that's the person Vee saw in the park."

Russell sighed.  "Any suggestions on where to start looking?"

Mulder sank into the chair and scrubbed his face with his 
hands.  "I would pull photos on anyone involved in the 1988 
investigation.  Have Vee look through them for a familiar 
face."

"I can imagine the shit storm if it turns out to be one of 
our own," Russell said.  She gave a half-hearted attempt at a 
smile.  "I guess we're all off the hook, huh?  She's met us 
and I don't remember hearing any accusations of murder."

The words caused a chill to run through Scully as she 
mentally rewound the past few days.  "Not Arkin," she 
murmured as last.  "Vee has never met Arkin."

XxXxX

XxXxX

Chapter Sixteen

XxXxX

Scully finished drying her hair with Mulder's ancient dryer.  
His robe came almost to her feet, and his socks sagged around 
her ankles.  She stared at herself in the mirror, pushed her 
hair behind her ears, but it wasn't long enough to hide the 
finger marks on her neck.  

"Scully?"  He tapped on the door.  "The food's here."

"Just a minute."  She pulled up the collar on the robe and 
retied the sash around her waist.  Gingerly, she walked 
toward the living room.  Even with the thick socks, each step 
put painful pressure on her wounded feet.

"Hey," he said when she appeared.  "Did you find everything 
you needed?"

I don't even have any underwear, she thought, but aloud she 
said, "Yes, thanks." She wrapped her arms around herself to 
ward off the draft.

They stood in silence for a minute, then he touched her 
shoulder.  "Come sit down and eat.  Is hot and sour soup 
okay?"

"It's fine," she said as she lowered herself onto the couch.  
Her sore muscles stretched and cramped at odd intervals, 
making her movements stiff and jerky.  He tucked a blanket 
around her waist.  "I'm fine, Mulder.  Just sit down and 
eat."

The wind whistled outside, rattling his loose window panes as 
they ate without speaking.  Scully swallowed several bites of 
soup, feeling the burn all the way to her stomach, but the 
taste barely registered.  After a few more bites, she 
couldn't get the soup past the back of her throat.  She set 
the bowl down on the table and curled her feet up under the 
blanket.

"No good?" Mulder's voice was so careful, gentle.  She almost 
wished he would scream at her, make some noise to match the 
tumult she felt inside.

"I'm not very hungry."

"Me either," he answered, and placed his bowl next to hers.  
"You want to lie down?  Get some rest?"

She shook her head.  In the hospital, she had tried to sleep, 
but her eyes had sprung open every time she'd closed them.  
Fight or flight, she knew, the body's natural response to 
danger.  Her mind understood she was safe, but her body was 
still prepared to flee.  She couldn't make it quiet.

Mulder shifted, his eyes turned away from her.  "Scully, I 
think you should know what happened at the park, what I 
did..."

"No."  She pushed across the sofa towards him, landing 
awkwardly on his leg.  Her fingers bunched in the soft cotton 
of his shirt.  "No," she repeated against his neck.  His 
heartbeat thudded in her ear, and he moved slowly to embrace 
her.

"Scully," he murmured, his voice thick.  "I thought...on the 
phone, when he said..." 

"Sssh, sssh."  She sat up in his lap and swallowed his words 
with desperate kisses, ignoring her own tears.  "Stop."

Make it stop.  She clutched him fiercely, her breath hitching 
in her chest.  He kissed her back just as hard.  Bruising, 
hot kisses with stubble scrapes and velvet tongues, fighting 
even as they loved.  She pinned him back against the couch.  
Hands everywhere. Parted thighs.  Pushing everything inside 
herself into him as he rose up hard between her legs.  

She gasped, eyes flying open at the memory of his cock under 
her foot.  Fear in her throat.  She grabbed at Mulder's hands 
and he brought them under her robe, stroking her fevered 
skin.  Make it stop.  Please don't stop.  Panting, she led 
him onward, opening his pants and drawing him out.  He threw 
his head back with a gasp.

"Scully..."

She slid her tongue in his mouth, no time to think.  Push him 
in.  Push everything out.  She rocked in his lap as he held 
her hips and gave her what she needed.

"Please," she whispered, the word scratching at her throat.  

"Ah, yes.  Scully."  His face screwed up in pleasure-pain.

Faster, faster, rubbing inside and making her burn.  Tears 
leaked from her eyes, blurring her vision.  She heard her own 
voice choking and pleading.  Wait.  Stop.

His face above hers, the shears in his hands.

Mulder's face, hot against her neck.  She pricked her nails 
against his scalp.  "Yeah," he breathed, and her muscles went 
rigid.

No.  

The word wouldn't come out.  She gulped for air, shaking, but 
he didn't notice the change in her.  Help.  She grabbed him 
tight, and he groaned.  A few more thrusts and he stopped, 
pulling her close.  She jerked away.

"Scully...?"  His lids lifted, showing fatigue and confusion 
in his eyes.

Struggling, she scrambled off him and ran to the bathroom.  
Stop, stop.  But the fear kept coming, crashing over her in 
waves so fast that she couldn't catch her breath.  She 
slammed the door even as she heard his footsteps coming after 
her, but inside, her terror continued unabated.  The knife at 
her throat, his hands on her neck.  She flattened herself 
against the cool door and tried to get control.

Itsokayitokayitsokay.

"Scully, please."  Mulder was on the other side.  She shut 
her eyes and continued her gasping breaths.  "Scully, let me 
in."  He jiggled the knob.

"I'm sorry," she choked out. "I didn't mean to do that."

"It's okay.  Scully, it's all right.  I'm the one who's 
sorry.  Please let me in."

She hid her face in her hands, her cheeks hot and wet to her 
touch.  "I can't," she said between breaths.  "I can't make 
it stop."

The door knob rattled with more force.  "It's all right," he 
said.  "You don't have to stop it.  Not tonight."

"I'm sorry."  She moved way from the door and released the 
lock with shaking fingers.  He stumbled through in a rush, 
his face ashen and his pants still undone.  "I'm sorry," she 
said as she hugged him.

His arms closed around her gently.  "You don't have anything 
to be sorry for," he murmured, rocking her.  "It's okay."

"It's not."

He kissed her head.  "You're right, it's not."

"I want to go home."

"I know." 

She shivered in his embrace, and he rubbed the length of her 
back with long, soothing strokes.  Gradually, the choke-hold 
of fear receded, leaving her quivering and spent.  Her 
heartbeat followed his into a slow, even rhythm, and she 
sighed against his shoulder.  He was warm and solid in her 
arms.

"Better?" he whispered at her temple, and she hugged him in 
answer.  He smoothed her hair down, his hand resting at the 
base of her neck.  

She closed her eyes as the tension inside finally eased.  The 
cabin faded away, and she was left standing safe with Mulder, 
their bare toes touching on the cold tile floor.  She took a 
long, shuddering breath.  "Yes," she said.  "Better."

XxXxX

He awoke disoriented in a tangle of sheets and blankets.  It 
was nighttime, black as pitch.  Scully's side of the bed was 
empty, and he could see no light coming from the bathroom.  
Concerned, he got up and went to look for her.

He peeked around the corner into the dark living room and saw 
her curled under a blanket on the couch.  The slim light from 
the street lamp outside told him she was awake, but he 
hesitated whether to disturb her privacy.  He stood frozen, 
listening to the storm beat against the windows as wondered 
if maybe they had shared enough emotional turbulence for one 
day.

"It's okay," she said softly, turning on the sofa.  "You can 
come in."

Still cautious, he approached with slow steps and sat a good 
distance away from her, mindful of her space.  He knew better 
than to hold her too tightly.  "What's up?" he asked.  
"Couldn't sleep?"

She shook her head.  "I was listening to the rain."  She 
paused, and the sounds of sheeting drops and rushing cars 
filled the silence.  "This kind of rain always reminds me of 
you."

"Really?"

She smiled a little and nodded.  "Because of that first 
case," she explained.  "In Oregon."

"That was some rain," he agreed, somewhat surprised by her 
admission.  He smiled, thinking that from then on, the 
pouring rain would make him think of her, too, and this 
moment on the couch.  These small ways that she changed him, 
the way he became a different person every time he talked 
with her, was one of the things he loved most about her.  He 
took her hand.  "I was born in rain like this, you know."

"Is that so."  She shifted to settle against his side, and he 
wrapped one arm around her.

"Yep, it was a hurricane.  My mother almost didn't make it to 
the hospital on time."

He felt her smile, warming him though his tee-shirt right to 
his very center.  "Tell me more," she said.  

So he did.

XxXxX

In the morning, they went to her apartment, where she frowned 
at the disarray but ignored it in favor of clean clothes.  
She dressed in jeans and a soft-knit sweater because work 
clothes were impossible due to the cuts on her feet.  
Sneakers only for at least several more days.

She inched her closet door open to get them, trying not to 
look at the rows of heels that lined one wall.  Now that she 
knew, the empty space where the black sandals had been seemed 
to expand and scream for attention.  She shut the door with a 
sharp slam.

"Everything okay?" Mulder asked, poking his head into the 
room.

"Yes, fine."

His cell phone rang.  "Mulder."  She watched his face as he 
listened.  "Well, are they still out there?  How far is the 
road?  Uh-huh.  Yeah.  Yeah, okay.  I'm coming in now."

"What is it?" she asked when he'd finished.  He looked away, 
the phone clenched tightly in his fist.

"They haven't found Quentin.  Grenier now thinks he might 
have reached the highway on the other side of the woods 
before we even got there."

Scully sank onto the bed.  "But then where would he go?"

"Hitchhike?  Carjack someone driving past?  I don't know.  
How the hell this animal keeps besting the entire FBI is 
beyond me."

"Well, this time we know what he looks like," Scully said.  
"And we know his name.  It's only a matter of time before he 
gets caught."

"It's already been twelve years too many."

Scully looked at the door of her closet and did not reply.

XxXxX

"You sure you want to do this?" Mulder asked outside the 
evidence room.

Scully nodded.  "It's fine.  I'm the one who was there, after 
all.  Maybe I can help."

"I don't doubt it," he said with a small smile. 

He opened the door, and inside they found all the items that 
had been collected from Carl's cabin catalogued and spread 
out on a long table.  The newspaper clippings had been placed 
in protective plastic bags, but the shoes remained lined up 
as neatly as they had been on Carl's shelf.  At the end of 
the table lay the garden shears, still tinged with blood.

Mulder glanced at Scully, but her expression was unreadable.  
She walked slowly once around the table.  "My shoes aren't 
here," she said at last.

"What?"  He looked now, too, and found she was right.  The 
black velvet sandals she had described were not with the rest 
of the shoes.

"They're not here," she said again, more upset this time.  
"Do you think this means he still has them?"

Mulder felt the question like a punch to his gut; there was 
no way he could lie to her.  "Yes," he said tersely.  "I 
think he probably has them."

Scully stared at him without moving for a long minute.  "Do 
you think he'll come back?"

He hesitated, choosing his words with care.  "I don't think 
so.  He knows we know who he is this time; it would be 
suicide to come back here now."

"But he might." 

"He's come back before," Mulder said.  "So it's possible.  
But I doubt he'd even make it across city lines."

Scully looked at the long row of shoes.  "I wish I could say 
that was enough for me."

"I know," he said, crossing to her and giving her a quick 
squeeze around the shoulders.  "I don't like it, either."  He 
released her and moved to the table.  "So what do you say we 
see if we can figure out where he might have gone, okay?"

Scully nodded, joining him by the evidence.  "Any sense of 
where to start?"

"Not a clue."

They worked from opposite ends, poring over Carl's notebooks 
and newspaper clippings.  Scully found nothing that stood out 
to her, but after an hour, Mulder looked up with excitement. 
"Is there a magnifying glass around here?"

"Uh, yes.  Behind you."

He grabbed the glass and removed one newspaper article from 
its bag.  Scully walked over to see what he had found.  He 
had the magnifying glass trained over one of Tanzini's old 
photos.  "What is it?" she asked.

"I think I know who Irene was," he answered.

"Who?"

"Irene, the name in Elizabeth Kinney's textbook."  He set 
down the magnifying glass and turned to look up at her.  "And 
if I'm right, I also know who murdered Elizabeth Kinney."

XxXxX

Irene Sherring lived in modest brick house outside of 
Richmond.  There was a tricycle in the yard, and Ford 
Explorer parked in her drive way.  Scully glanced up and down 
the mostly-deserted street.  "If it's true," she said to 
Mulder, "this woman could be in real danger."

"I agree.  That's why we have to make sure."

They knocked on the door, and a few minutes later a round-
bodied woman with a toddler on her hip answered.  "Yes?" she 
asked as she hitched the child up a little farther.  In the 
background, Bugs Bunny was having it out with Yosemite Sam at 
about twelve thousand decibels.

"I'm Fox Mulder," Mulder said over the din.  "And this is 
Dana Scully.  I spoke to you on the phone this morning."

"Of course," she said.  "About Dan.  Please come in."

They dodged a minefield of toys as they followed her into the 
room.  A boy of about six lay in front of the TV, eating 
Cheerios straight from the box.  "Steven, turn that down 
please."  She continued in to the kitchen, where she set the 
little girl down amid a pile of plastic donuts.  "Have a 
seat," she said.  "Can I get you some coffee?"

"No, thanks," Mulder answered.

"Okay, then."  She sat and took a deep breath.  "What's this 
about Dan?"

"Your late husband worked with Gary Tanzini at the Post, is 
that correct?" Mulder asked.

"He worked with Gary sometimes, yes.  But he didn't like it.  
Gary was always bossing him around like he was some pee-wee 
assistant.  Dan went to Harvard!  He was no idiot."

"Mrs. Sherring, did your husband maintain a dark room at 
home? Scully asked.

The woman picked up a cloth and wiped what looked like a 
grape-juice stain from the table.  "Of course he did.  
Sometimes he'd be in there for days on end."

"And at the time of his death," Scully continued, "was he 
working with Tanzini on the series of murders that took place 
in the city in 1988?"

"Oh, God.  Yes, now that you mention it, he was.  I'd almost 
forgotten about that.  Dan hated that job.  He had nightmares 
almost every night."  She snorted.  "'Course, I saw where 
Tanzini got the grand prize for that series a few years back.  
The public just couldn't get enough of it."

"This is the important part," Mulder said.  "Think carefully.  
After Dan's accident, did Tanzini ever contact you about 
collecting some negatives, or maybe some equipment?"

Mrs. Sherring considered.  "I believe he did, yes.  He came a 
few days after the funeral to get some cameras that Dan had 
borrowed from work.  Why?"

Mulder looked at Scully, who pulled out a copy of the photo 
he had picked out earlier.  "Mrs. Sherring," she said, "I 
think you might want to look at this."

XxXxX

Tanzini was in his office when Mulder, Scully and two of the 
DCPD's finest arrived at his door.  If he was nervous, he did 
not show it.  "Mulder," he said, "I was just telling my 
lawyer all about that stunt you and Grenier pulled the night 
before last."  He peered over his glasses at Scully.  "You're 
looking much better today."

She ignored his comment.  "We have some questions for you, 
Mr. Tanzini."

"Yeah?" He glanced from her to the two uniformed officers.  
"What's with the troops, Mulder?  Shouldn't you be out 
looking for your murderer?"

"I have," Mulder said.  "And I've found him."

For the first time, Tanzini looked concerned.  "I don't 
understand."

"Sure you do," Mulder said.  "You killed Beth Kinney and 
dumped her body in Montrose Park."

"What the hell are you talking about?"  Tanzini stood, too, 
his face turning pink with anger. "That's a damn lie!"

"You want me to prove it?" Mulder asked.  "I can."

"I want you to take your goons and get the hell out of my 
office."

"Beth interviewed you for the paper last year," Mulder 
continued as if he hadn't spoken.  "She did a nice article on 
your Pulitzer."

"So what?  That means I killed her?"

"No, but that's probably when she found out you had worked 
with Dan O'Dell back in 1988."

"I worked with Dan.  Big deal."

"The big deal is you stole some of his work," Mulder shot 
back.  "Those photos that won you your big prize?  He took at 
least one, probably more."

"The hell you say."

"I don't have to say," Mulder said, pulling out the copy of 
the old photo.  He waved it at Tanzini.  "A picture is worth 
a thousand words."

"What the fuck are you trying to pull here, Mulder?  I can 
call the mayor, you know, and he'll..."

"You're in the picture."

"Excuse me?"

"The picture you supposedly took.  Right there in back of the 
crowd, with your own camera.  That's what Beth saw, and 
that's why you killed her."

Tanzini glared at him in stony silence for a long minute.  
"The little bitch should have just kept her mouth shut.  I 
took hundreds of photos every bit as good as Dan's, and I 
taught him everything he knew."

"Take him away," Mulder said.  He watched as the two men 
handcuffed Tanzini and read him his rights.  "Somehow I don't 
think the Post is going to be covering your legal fees on 
this one," he said.

"Go to hell."

Mulder indicated the door with a sweep of his hand.  "After 
you."

XxXxX

"Yeah," said Vee from her place at Scully's side.  "That's 
definitely him.  No question this time."

"Okay, get them out of there," the sergeant said through a 
microphone, and a uniformed cop led Tanzini and the other men 
in the lineup out through a side door.

"So that's it?" Vee asked.  "He won't get out on bail or 
anything?"

"He shouldn't be allowed bail," Scully replied.  "But even if 
he is, you won't have to worry.  He knows we have more than 
enough evidence to convict him, and his secret is already 
out.  There's no reason for him to target you now."

"I guess," the girl said, but she didn't sound convinced.  
"You'll tell me if he gets out?"

"I promise."

"Okay."  She shoved her hands in her pockets.  "My mom's 
waiting, so I guess I should go.  But I wanted to give you 
this."  She pulled out a key chain with a small stuffed lion 
attached.  "It used to be my good luck charm, because I won 
it playing skee-ball in the fourth grade."

"Quite a prize," Scully observed.  "But you can't give away 
your good luck charm."

Vee shrugged.  "It hasn't been that lucky for me lately.  I 
figured it might work better for someone else."

Scully smiled.  "Okay, thanks.  I'll try it out."

Vee nodded and went to the door.  "I thought you might need 
it more anyway," she said, turning around.  "'Cause they 
caught the man who was after me.  Hope it works."

The door closed behind her, and Scully stared at the scruffy 
miniature lion in her palm.  "Yes," she said.  "Me, too."

XxXxX

XxXxX

Epilogue

XxXxX

Two weeks later, Mulder sat in his office making friends with 
his files again.  He wanted something juicy for his first 
case back on full duty.  There was a report on a man who had 
survived a plunge off of a thirty-two story building in 
Chicago that seemed interesting.

He set the file aside when he heard his partner's familiar 
gait in the hallway.  "Hey," she said as she walked in the 
door.  "Welcome back."  She eyed the stack of files on his 
desk.  "You must have been in here early."

He grinned.  "And you, I should note, were not."

She smiled back and held up a bag.  "Shopping," she 
explained.  "There was a sale that started this morning."

He leaned down to peer around the corner of his desk.  On her 
feet were a pair of sleek, black heels, a little narrower 
than he was used to seeing.  "Those look new."

"They are.  I put the old ones in the box."  She walked over 
and sat on the edge of the desk.  "I got tired of looking at 
the blank space on my shoe rack, and it was time for a new 
pair, anyhow."  She paused.  "And at least I know he hasn't 
touched these."

"I talked to Grenier this morning.  They're following a lead 
in Idaho, of all places."

"I hope it pans out."  She turned the file in front of him 
around so she could read it.  "What have you got for us?"

He tugged it back.  "How do you feel about deep dish pizza, 
Scully?"

XxXxX

Carl sat on the park bench even though it was really too cold 
to eat lunch outside.  He thought about heading south, where 
people didn't have to wear boots for five months out of the 
year.

After a few minutes, a young woman joined him.  Her hair was 
wrapped in a pretty pink scarf, and she seemed to be waiting 
for someone.  Carl felt the old tingle start when he glanced 
at her feet -- smart black pumps with a white stripe across 
the toe.

"Can I help you?" she asked when she caught him looking.

He smiled to reassure her.  "I'm sorry," he said.  "I just 
have to say I love your shoes."

XxXxX

The End

If you made it this far, I'd love to hear from you.  All 
comments and questions are welcome at syn_tax6@yahoo.com

This one is for Alicia, who has stuck with me through 1.5 
years and 5 novels.  Not to mention sesame-seeded villains, 
marathon phone conversations and a hair-raising trip up the 
Space Needle.  Alicia, thank you!  You make the world-wide 
web as friendly as a backyard barbecue. 

Sexy, strappy, open-toed sandals of thanks to:

Alanna, for asking questions that made me rethink my choices.

Alicia, for being fast, funny and a good friend.

Jerry, for much help with plot.

Luperkal, for fielding all of my GW questions.

Joanne, who spent 3000 miles this summer listening to me iron 
out the plot.

Diana, for on-the-spot Mulder characterization consults.

Mara, Triton and Jen, for feedback beyond the call of duty.

Nancy, for the amusing and entertaining theories.

It's been fun, folks.  Thanks for letting me play.

syn