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 Quinten'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.  "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 in 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.  It looked almost 
like him...

"Don't ask me to explain how it got there," Kitchens said.  
"Like it was burned on her brain or something.  But you and I 
may very well be looking at what the girl saw just before she 
died."

And it wasn't Nixon, Mulder realized, his heart starting to 
pound.  "Can I access my files from here?" he asked urgently.

"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

End chapter 11.  Continued in chapter twelve.

Thanks to the ever-amazing Alicia K. and hard-question-asking 
Joanne for beta services rendered.

Feedback is welcome at syn_tax6@yahoo.com