~~ 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 might consider filing 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 half-eaten lunch, 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 in the same way.  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 

Continued soon in Chapter Two.

Thanks to Alanna, Alicia, and Jerry for helpful beta!

All feedback is welcome at syn_tax6@yahoo.com