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, never had.  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

Continued in chapter three.

Many thanks to Alanna, Alicia and Jerry for eagle-eyed beta!

All feedback is welcome at syn_tax@yahoo.com