Keywords:  None.

XxXxXxXxXxXxX
Chapter Eight
XxXxXxXxXxXxX

Pain, Scully remembered the minute she opened her eyes, was 
the one sensation you couldn't sleep through, the reason cuts 
and bruises in dreams never hurt.  The sharp twinges in her 
lower belly woke her just as the sky was lightening outside 
Mulder's window.  Mulder lay on his back next to her, one arm 
flung over his head, still deeply asleep.  She eased from the 
covers without waking him and shivered her way into the 
living room, where she retrieved her purse.

Her pupils contracted in the bright bathroom light.  She set 
the purse on the sink and frowned into the mirror. Shadows 
smudged the tired skin under her eyes; her hair was matted on 
one side and stuck up on the other, and she had wrinkled 
Mulder's T-shirt with her tossing and turning overnight.  
Scully examined this other woman with a clinical, detached 
eye: she looked small and terrorized, a victim.  That woman 
had been raped.  It would never be untrue.

Scully tore her attention from the mirror and fumbled with 
her purse.  The tampon lay at the bottom.  She took it out, 
put it in, cleaned herself up and washed down a pair of 
ibuprofen with Mulder's metallic-tasting water.  She thought 
about how easy it was now to swallow pills and make 
everything go away.

The cold porcelain sink touched her belly.  Scully looked 
down at the hard edge, moved closer to it, watched it press 
deeper and deeper into her flesh until the pain made her gasp 
-- a shocked, breathy sound that flooded the tiny bathroom.  

No VD.  No pregnancy.  That left AIDS still spinning on the 
Russian roulette wheel.  Even as the attack receded into the 
distance, her life was still not her own.  

She splashed water on her face, letting the cold drops 
trickle into her dry eyes.  She combed her hair with short, 
angry strokes.  Mulder's towels hung uneven behind her; his 
razor, his crumpled toothpaste tube, and his toothbrush -- a 
giant spray of bent bristles -- lay on the plastic shelf 
above the sink.  Scully put her own toiletries back in her 
purse.

On her way out, she straightened the towels and turned off 
the lights behind her. 

XxXxX

Mulder awoke on a long inhale, eyes popping open, breath held 
in, as he froze and listened to his shadowed apartment.  He 
didn't have to call her name to know she was gone.  His time 
with Scully was defined as much by her absence as her 
presence, certain stillness that settled within him each time 
she disappeared.

He released, let go, fingers flexing on the cool sheets.  The 
pillow held the shape of her head.  He remembered watching 
her wake up the morning after they had first made love, tense 
and waiting for her to bolt, only to have her smile and 
stroke his cheek.  Then she had hidden her face in the pillow 
and giggled while he'd pinned her down and nibbled at her 
ear.  

This morning he was left with only gray walls and the echo of 
her tears.

Mulder put bare feet to the floor and leaned his head into 
his hands.  He felt cheated, robbed; he wanted to howl like 
an animal.  Scully cried and he wanted to scream, to tear 
down buildings, to show the world what a terrible thing had 
happened.  Aren't you angry?  He wanted to yell at her.  
Don't you want him dead?  Mulder's fingers curled with 
impotent rage.  

Trial was too good for men like Watts, too civilized an 
answer to such a savage crime.  Jungle warfare.  Mulder 
wanted blood.  He wanted to hide in the bushes and watch his 
prey sweat in the summer heat.  Watts would never see it 
coming.  He would turn around and Mulder would be on him with 
a gun, with a knife, with his bare hands ready to rip him 
limb from limb.  This is how it felt, you son of a bitch, 
Mulder would say.  He heard the shot, felt the bones crack in 
his hands, saw the blood running on the ground. 

Justice, merciful and swift.

XxX

He looked up the address not intending to do anything with 
it.  He just wanted to know.  Watts had a name now, and a 
face, but Mulder wasn't satisfied.  He wanted to know where 
he lived, how to get to him.  Just as an insurance policy.  

Eleven Plumtree Lane, the computer spit out; a sweet 
fairytale place with big, white houses and monsters hiding 
inside.  Watts would be there, eating toast and eggs in his 
mother's kitchen like nothing had ever happened.

SUSPECTED RAPIST FREED, Mulder's paper said, though it was 
not front-page news.  They had called his victims to tell 
them.  Who would tell all the other women in the city?

Mulder left the house late with his hair still wet and his 
tie in his hand.  When the car engine roared to life with an 
angry snarl, Mulder jerked the shift into gear.  He cruised 
the streets and watched the cars and people and trees flow 
by; they seemed curiously unreal, computer generated, like he 
could hit a button and make them all snap to black.  His car 
became part of this videogame world, on a track he had to 
follow, where the end was predetermined.  All Mulder could do 
was grip the wheel and hold on tight. 

XxXxX

Arriving late herself, Scully paused and frowned at the 
locked office door.  In seven years of basement-level 
investigation, she'd had to use her X-Files key perhaps four 
times.  Mulder was always there first.

She pushed open the door, flicked on the lights, and stood 
alone at the center of the quiet room.  She looked at the 
disarray on his desk, as she had looked on the tangle of 
bedcovers of his bed earlier that morning.  Heat colored her 
cheeks as she remembered her breakdown and the things she had 
said to him.  Not even when she had been dying had she ever 
begged him like that.  Scully hugged herself.  Surely he must 
fear she was losing her mind.
 
She sniffed twice and took a deep breath.  Mulder wasn't 
here, but the work always was.  She could handle that.  She 
could hold Rentham's files in her hands and enter the cold, 
hard facts of their lives without giving anything more away.  
She could sit in Mulder's chair and wait for him to come wary 
through the door, show him she could hold up her end.

Scully would zig.  Mulder would zag.  He said occult; she 
said occlusion.  This was how it ever was, how it ever shall 
be, world without end.

Because, deep down, they always feared the same thing.

Amen.

XxXxX

Eleven Plumtree Lane was a corner lot, slate gray two-story 
colonial with white shutters and two chimneys.  Mulder parked 
across the street, absently worrying a seed between his teeth 
as he studied his subject.  The house revealed no secrets:  
windows shut, curtains drawn.  Thick green grass coated the 
front yard, probably reborn every spring by someone named 
Pedro, and cheery pink and white petunias lined the front 
path.  The driveway had been redone recently in fresh black 
asphalt.  Either no one was home or the cars were all put 
away in the garage.

The backyard showed a deck with a barbecue.  No swing set, no 
toys; little Greggy was a big boy now.  But Mulder saw the 
remnants of his childhood hidden among the branches of the 
towering old oak:  a tree house, barely visible behind a 
waterfall of thick leaves, perfect for a young voyeur who 
loved to hide and watch.

Mulder stared, almost trance-like, chewing and waiting.  He 
imagined driving his car right through the front door.  He'd 
come for noise, for release; the house just sat in stone 
silence, mocking him.

A sharp rap on his passenger-side window jolted Mulder from 
his stupor.  He turned to see Detective Savioshy peering in 
with an unfriendly frown.  "Agent Mulder," he said as he 
opened the door.  "Mind if I join you?"

Mulder sighed and tossed away a seed.  "I was just leaving."

"That's not what my boys tell me."  The leather seats of the 
Taurus creaked as Savioshy settled his considerable weight 
into a chair used to holding Scully.

"Your boys?"

"They're on mower detail today."  Savioshy pointed two houses 
down where a lawn crew worked in the morning sun.  Upon 
closer inspection, Mulder could see that a couple of the men 
were more interested in the Watts residence than in the house 
in front of them.  "Meyer gave me a call a little bit ago and 
said you looked like you'd settled in for good."

"Meyer should worry about his own job."

"That's good advice," Savioshy agreed readily, and Mulder 
glared at him.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning your office is quite a ways away from here."

Mulder shrugged. "So I took the scenic route in."

"There's nothing for you to see here."  Mulder squinted out 
at the house again, and Savioshy sighed.  "Go home, Agent 
Mulder.  We're handling this, I promise you."

"Are you?" Mulder turned around in his seat again.

"I caught the guy."

"Yeah, and now look where he is."

"I'm not any happier about that than you are," Savioshy shot 
back.  "But it's out of our hands."

Mulder's hands, wrapped around the wheel, felt more than 
capable.  "They let him go," he said slowly, "because the 
prima fascia evidence was not sufficient to support remand.  
The DA makes his case with your evidence, Detective."

"And that's why I'm here," Savioshy replied steadily.  "Why 
are you here?  This is still my case, Mulder.  It's still an 
open investigation, and we will nail this bastard's balls to 
the wall.  I hate like hell that he's out.  As a man, as a 
father, it makes me sick.  But as a detective, I know it 
gives me another shot at him.  He led me to the goods once, 
and just maybe he'll do it again."

"You mean his--"  Mulder choked on the word.  "His trophies."

Savioshy gave a short, grim nod. "The nail in his coffin."

Mulder clenched his hands and looked down at the steering 
wheel.  "Could work," he admitted after a minute.

"Not with your ass parked out front watching the joint, it 
won't."

"Okay, okay.  You've made your point." 
 
The leather groaned and released as Savioshy got out.  He 
leaned back inside the car, half draped over the door.  "Give 
my regards to Agent Scully."

"I don't think it's your regards she's after."

Savioshy's puffy cheeks tightened with a grimace.  He nodded.  
"Just the same, you stay out of this.  The last thing this 
case needs is the two of you deciding to administer a little 
back alley justice."

"Scully doesn't even know I'm here!"

"Yeah.  That's what I'm afraid of."  Savioshy patted Mulder's 
doorframe a few times.  "Good-bye, Agent Mulder.  You have a 
good day at work, okay?"  The car shook when he slammed the 
door shut, shuddering around Mulder.  

He started the engine and idled a moment longer, one last 
look at the house.  The curtain in the top window closed 
quickly, winking at him, and Mulder revved the engine to a 
threatening roar.

You can't hide forever, you sonofabitch, he thought, and the 
tires peeled away.

XxXxX

Scully was so certain it was Mulder on the other end that she 
answered her cell phone without glancing at the caller ID.  
"Mulder, where are you?"

"Dana?"

"Oh, Chris."  Scully deflated a bit in her chair.  She 
pinched the beginnings of a headache between her eyes.  "What 
can I do for you?"

"I'm sorry to bother you at work like this, but we just got a 
court date for the preliminary hearing, and I need to go over 
your statement with you ASAP."

"Now?"  Scully glanced at the wall clock again and wondered 
one more time where the hell Mulder had gone.

"Later today would be fine.  You could drop by after work?"

Scully eyed the precarious stacks of folders on Mulder's 
desk.  She did not really have a time called "after work." 
"Okay," she said.  "I'll be there."

Just as she snapped off her phone, Mulder strolled through 
the door, chewing gum, with his jacket slung over one 
shoulder.  "Hey," he offered.

"Mulder, it's almost noon."

"Is it?"

"Where have you been?"

"The dentist."

No one left the dentist's office chewing gum.  Scully leaned 
back in Mulder's chair and folded her arms.  "Mulder?"

"Hmm?"  He stopped chewing and looked right at her, eyes wide 
and guileless.  Clearly he did not expect her to call him on 
it.  She opened her mouth and shut it again.  "What?" he 
asked.

"I, uh..."  Her pulse went liquid as she accepted the lie; it 
was easier not to know.  She sat forward.  "I finished 
entering the data from Rentham's files."

"Great."  He came around the desk and leaned one arm on the 
chair behind her.  The hair stood up on the back of her neck.  
"Anything jump out at you?"

Scully cleared her throat and tried to focus.  "Not from the 
numbers.  But looking through all these files, Mulder, you've 
got to think Rentham had help gathering the data.  He's got 
over a thousand folders here, and we found only twenty-seven 
people living inside the compound.  Where did he get all this 
other information?"

"We know there are underground networks and sources for 
people who have experienced alien abduction."

"Exactly.  And at this point, I'd say we know them all.  How 
come we'd never heard of this guy before?"

The phone rang and Mulder held up one finger at her.  
"Mulder," he said after he'd palmed the receiver.  "Hi, 
Sheriff.  Yeah, I was just talking about the case with Agent 
Scully now.  Uh-huh.  What?  When?"  He stood up from the 
corner of the desk, and Scully swiveled her chair around so 
she could see his face.  He shook his head at her questioning 
look.  "Yeah, I got that.  What do you mean 'gone'?  Uh-huh.  
What about Tina Appleby -- did you talk to her?  Okay, how 
about the others?"  He listened for a minute and then ran a 
hand through his hair.  "No, I don't know.  Yes.  Yes.  Yeah, 
you do that."  He hung up the phone with a slam.

"What?" Scully asked.

"Jared Rentham's body disappeared from the morgue sometime 
over the weekend.  The ME was backed up, and when he went to 
do the full autopsy this morning he found Rentham was gone."

"Gone," Scully repeated, and Mulder made a disappearing 
"poof" gesture with his hands.

"Just like that.  The Sheriff says Tina Appleby is missing, 
too.  All the members of Rentham's compound have apparently 
vanished into thin air."

"Mulder, that's -- What is the Sheriff thinking, that the 
members of Rentham's group somehow absconded with the body?"

"Don't know.  Security cameras were no help, but the Sheriff 
is going to send us a copy anyway.  In the meantime, no one 
saw anything; no one knows anything."

Scully flipped open the closest file and let it fall shut 
again.  "So it's back to Texas?"

"Maybe."  He did not sound any more enthused about the 
prospect.  "I get the feeling the Sheriff won't be making 
this case his top priority.  As far as they're concerned, the 
investigation is over.  The cult has disbanded, Rentham is 
dead, and his killer is locked away in jail."

"Without a body, Chet Appleby's trial might be more 
difficult."

"Sheriff isn't too worried," Mulder informed her darkly.  
"Apparently they've got two federal agents as witnesses to 
the murder."

Scully lifted her eyebrows in answer and tossed her pen onto 
the desk.  "Mulder," she said, staring at the reams of files 
in front of her.  "*Have* we ever run across Rentham before?"

"In person?  No way."

"Maybe just a photo?"

Mulder looked thoughtful.  "I don't think so.  Bony head, 
large eyes -- I think would have remembered this guy, 
wouldn't you?"

"I guess."

"What, you know him?"  She had his full attention now.  He 
locked eyes with her as she searched her memory one more 
time.  Rentham's thin nose.  Rentham's cool hand on hers.  
His calm, deadened voice.

"No," she said abruptly.  "Of course not."

"You know," Mulder said as he moved some files aside so he 
could sit near her on the desk.  "I think you might be onto 
something, Scully.  Rentham is the place to start, not Texas.  
Why take the body?  It doesn't help Chet."

Scully sighed.  "Maybe the members of Sanctuary House got 
tired of waiting to bury him."

"Maybe.  Or maybe someone didn't want that autopsy done."

"Why?" Scully spread her hands.  "Like you said, Mulder, 
there isn't any dispute about the cause of death in this 
case."

"It isn't Rentham's death I'm interested in," he said, 
getting to his feet again.  "It's his life."

Scully protested as he pushed between her and the computer.  
"Jared Rentham was a failed fortune teller from New Orleans."

"And what else?  That's the question."  Mulder started 
typing, hunting and pecking around his tie as he leaned down 
over the keyboard.  A minute later, he tilted the screen so 
she could see it.  "Check it out, Scully: Jared Rentham was 
seventy-one years old."

"So he's Dick Clark."  Scully rubbed her temples again.  "So 
what?"

Mulder hit some more keys.  "Make that Dr. Rentham," he said.  
"He graduated from Harvard medical school in 1956."

"License?" Scully asked, putting her hands down.

"None.  Doesn't look like he practiced anywhere."

"So what did he do for almost fifty years?  Shuffle Tarot 
cards?"

"I don't know," Mulder said as he straightened again.  "But I 
think we should head to New Orleans and check it out."  He 
reached for the phone.  "Skinner will sign off, no question -
- we can be down there before sunset."

"Mulder, wait."  He halted in mid-dial. "I can't."

"Scully, I know we haven't agreed on certain aspects of this 
case, but--"

"Preliminary hearings start next week.  Chris needs me to go 
over my statement."

"Chris?"

"ADA Clark.

"Oh."  The phone hung limp in his hand.  "Of course you can't 
go, then."  Sitting behind stacks and stacks of possible 
victims, Scully felt guilt hiss out of her like air from a 
punctured tire.

"Maybe I can reschedule."

"No, Scully.  No."  The tenderness in his voice clawed at 
her.  For seven years, Mulder had marched them all over the 
globe with never a backward glance to make sure she was 
following.  Melissa had died.  Her father.  Scully had not 
missed a moment of work.  To put herself first now, after 
everything, and for Mulder to let that happen... "We'll both 
go tomorrow," he said, putting the phone aside.  "That's soon 
enough.  Today we can just chase it down from here."

"Mulder, no."  She stood up.  "You go now and I'll just catch 
a later flight.  It's not a problem."

He shrugged and started sorting through the folders again.  
"So we both go later.  There's plenty of work to do here."

"And I'll do it.  You go on ahead."

He looked up, meeting her gaze for a second.  "Scully," he 
said softly, shaking his head.  "I can't."

It was the same aching tone he had used the night before, 
when she had clung to him, choking on her own life, when she 
had cried and crumbled and... begged him not to leave her.  
The lump in her throat sprung up again as her fingers curled 
around the back of the chair.  "Mulder," she began.

"It's one night," he said to the floor.

"And then one night becomes two, becomes ten.  Where does it 
stop?"

"He's out there, Scully.  You said it yourself."

"Yes, and that's exactly where I want to leave him.  Out 
there, away from me.  If I let him in here, let him affect my 
work, let him affect *your* work -- then, Mulder -- he's 
never going away."

Mulder's mouth twitched downward.  "What if he walks, have 
you thought about that?"

"What if he does?" she parroted back.

"You're saying you wouldn't care?"

"Of course I'd care!  But that's not the issue."

"I think it is.  I think until they get this animal off the 
streets, in a cage where he belongs, you can't be too 
careful."

"Mulder‹"

"You know what he's thinking now, Scully?  Because I do."  He 
slapped the folders down viciously.  "I've lived inside a 
dozen others like him, and let me tell you, the view from in 
there is one you don't forget.  Watts isn't sorry for you.  
He *hates* you."

"I--I know that," she whispered.

"No."  Mulder shook his head resolutely.  "You don't know. He 
hates you, Scully, hates you and all the others for bringing 
the law down on him and tearing apart his perfect little 
life.  He's thinking maybe if he'd killed you, things would 
be better for him right now.  And he's restless.  He hasn't 
been able to prowl the way he likes, hasn't found release.  
He's stuck in his momma's house with the white lace curtains 
and no new victims and he's been reliving his old conquests."

"Mulder, please."

"No!"  He hit the desk with his fist, making her jump.  "You 
need to hear this, Scully.  You need to know so you can 
protect yourself."  But he wouldn't look at her.

"I can protect myself!"

"No, apparently you can't!"  

She stiffened as if struck, and so did he, horror spreading 
over his features as they stared at one another.  His mouth 
opened and closed several times.  "Scully, I didn't mean--" 
he started, but she held up both hands.

"Don't."

"I didn't mean it."

He'd ripped the band-aid off her giant wound. "Yes, you did," 
she replied, smarting over every inch of her skin.  

"No, not like that.  I'm sorry.  I--I just don't want 
anything to happen to you."

"Well, it's too late for that, now, isn't it."  He had no 
good answer to that one, and so he remained silent.  She 
shuddered, defeated.  "Go to New Orleans, Mulder.  Please, 
just go."

He nodded slowly, gathering his jacket and things like a 
shell-shocked solider.  Scully did not move a muscle as he 
walked with heavy steps towards the door.  He halted at the 
frame, half-turning over his shoulder.  "I'm sorry," he said.  
"I can't stop hating him for this."

Scully said nothing, letting him go even as her eyes grew hot 
and liquid.  She looked up at the ceiling, vision blurred, 
and listened to the sound of his footsteps fade down the 
hall.

XxXxX

At five, Scully arrived at Chris's office just as the 
secretary was leaving for the day.  "Have a seat," the woman 
told her with a kind smile.  "He's just finishing up another 
meeting right now, but he should be right with you."

The waiting area boasted a coffee machine, a bright sunny 
window, a green leather couch and two wingback chairs with a 
table of magazines between them.  Scully selected one of the 
chairs and a three-week old issue of Time, which she set on 
her lap but did not read.  She left smudgy fingerprints all 
along the shiny blue cover as the minutes ticked past in 
total silence.  At last, she heard a door open down the hall 
and Chris Clark's baritone echoed off the walls.

"My nephew did the same thing when he was four," he was 
saying.  "My sister didn't find the frog until she went to do 
the laundry."

A woman's laugh answered, and a moment later both she and 
Chris entered the waiting area.  "Dana, hi," Chris said.  
"Thank you for coming down."

Scully nodded in reply.  She hung back, waiting for the woman 
to leave, but Chris jerked his head to indicate she should 
join them.  Scully smoothed her skirt and crossed the room.

"Dana Scully, this is Gloria Raymond."

Scully hesitated.  There was only one reason to introduce 
them.  She forced herself to look at this other woman, who 
smiled and extended her hand.  She gave Scully's hand a hard 
shake.  "Hi," she said.  "Call me Glory."

"Glory," Scully repeated.  "It's nice to meet you."  Maybe it 
was Chris's gardening influence, but the name Glory made 
Scully think of morning glories.  The woman vaguely resembled 
a flower, too, with wisps of teased blond hair flowing out 
from around her face and bright cherry lips in the center.

"Chris said it's just us two so far," Glory remarked.  
"Everyone else is still scared.  Me, I did a dance in my 
kitchen when I heard they caught him.  I say bring it on, and 
let's fry the bastard."

"Not likely," Chris cautioned.  "Think prison -- for a good 
long time."

Glory shrugged.  "That works.  I've heard what they do to 
guys in prison, and it couldn't happen to a nicer fella." She 
looked Scully from head to toe.  "Killer shoes," she said.  
"'Course they would do me in but good, seeing as how I stand 
on my feet eight hours at a time.  You work in the city?"

"Uh, yes.  I do."

"Me too!  Willoughby's restaurant on Sixth Street.  If you're 
ever in the neighborhood, stop by and say hi.  Dinner's on 
the house."

"Thank you," Scully managed.  "I'll keep that in mind."

"I mean it."  Glory grabbed her hand again and squeezed.  
Scully tensed at the unexpected touch, pasting on a smile.  
"We've got to stick together through this, right?"

"Right."  Glory searched her face, as if trying to determine 
whether Scully truly felt the solidarity, and her expression 
softened.

"We'll be okay," Glory said firmly, backing it up with a 
short nod.  "You'll see."

Speechless, Scully nodded with her.  Chris put an arm to 
Glory's back.  "Thanks for your help today.  I really 
appreciate it."

"No problem.  I'd best be picking up the kids now.  Call me 
if anything changes, okay?"

"You know I will."

"Good luck," Glory told Scully.  "I'm sure I'll see you again 
soon."  She grinned and waved as she left.  Scully lifted her 
eyebrows and waved back.

"Wow," she said when the other woman had gone.  "She's, um, 
quite something."

"I call her 'Hurricane Gloria'," Chris said.  "She's been 
just absolutely terrific about everything since day one."

"Have you known her long?" Scully asked as they walked the 
hall to his office.  Chris understood the real question 
immediately.

"Glory was attacked last summer," he said.  "She's been 
waiting a long time for this day to get here."  He opened his 
office door and let her enter first.  "Welcome to the den of 
entropy."

His office held a large desk with a computer monitor on it, 
which was decorated with a dozen post-it notes.  Stacks of 
papers spread across the rest of the surface.  Behind, there 
were floor-to-ceiling bookcases, with books flopping over 
every which way.  There were two low-back metal armchairs in 
front of the desk, and a small couch in the corner.  Chris 
steered her towards the couch.

"I expected more greenery in here," Scully said as she sank 
into the leather.

"I wish.  This room gets so little light that only my rubber 
plant has thrived." Chris nodded at the five-foot potted 
plant with the large shiny leaves.  "He's straight out of a 
Steven Segal movie."

Scully gave him a questioning look.

"Hard to kill."

"Ah."  Another time, she might have smiled at the joke.  
Instead she just leaned back against the cushions and rubbed 
her eyes.

"Hard day?" Chris asked as he sat next to her.

"You could say that."  

"I have just the cure," he said, and she rolled her head to 
look at him.

"I'm not really up for more gardening."

His knees cracked as he rose.  "I'm thinking malt, not 
mulch."  He went to a cabinet near the desk and withdrew a 
bottle of scotch.  "Clock says it's officially after hours," 
he said.  "What do you say?"

She nodded and he poured them each a glass.  He returned with 
the liquor in hand and a yellow legal pad tucked under his 
arm.  Scully sipped as he repositioned himself next to her on 
the couch.  "It's good," she said, letting the warm fire 
trickle down her throat.

"Dad gave me the bottle when I graduated law school."

"Mmm."  Scully leaned her head back again, cradling the drink 
on her thigh.  "That's nice.  For graduation, my father gave 
me the cold shoulder."

"You went to law school?" he asked, curious, and she snorted.

"Med school."

"You're kidding.  And he wasn't over the moon?"

"Oh, no.  The doctor part was just fine; it was the FBI he 
couldn't stand."  She stared at the particleboard ceiling.  
"Some days I can't stand it either."

"What was his beef with the FBI?"

Scully gave a short, dark laugh.  "Too dangerous.  I might 
get hurt!"  She glanced at Chris to see if he was 
appreciating the irony, but he just looked uncomfortable.  
Scully took a liberal swallow of the expensive booze before 
sitting up.  "Listen," she said, "I've got an eleven p.m. 
flight to New Orleans, so let's just do what we have to do 
and get out of here, okay?"

Chris set the pad down and folded his hands.  "I'm sorry 
you've had such a tough day.  We can do this tomorrow or 
Thursday if that would be easier."

She shook her head and drank some more.  "I'm here," she 
said.  "What do you need?"

He produced a folder very similar to the ones she had been 
sifting through all day on Mulder's desk.  This one had her 
name typed neatly on the label.  "I have a copy of your 
statement to the police.  I'd like to go over it with you now 
and make sure there isn't anything you left out, or anything 
you might have remembered in the meantime."

"Fine," she said wearily, and Chris picked up the pen.  For 
nearly an hour they went over the details of what she had 
said, and he explained to her the next few steps.

"The earliest we'd be at trial would be August, but Bellamy 
will probably delay as much as possible.  September or 
October is more likely."

Heavy with alcohol, Scully took a minute to process.  Months 
away, she concluded with a sigh.  She stretched out and put 
the glass on the coffee table.  "Will I have to testify?"

"I'd say it's likely.  We are proceeding on all counts right 
now, even without the victims' testimony, but the case is 
definitely stronger with your input."

"My input," Scully repeated dully.  "Right."

Chris leaned back next to her, shifting the weight of the 
sofa so that their shoulders touched.  "I know it's hard," he 
said gently.  "You're doing great so far."

She nodded without looking at him.  "Mulder thinks," she 
said, taking a deep breath, "that it will all be over when 
Watts goes to prison."

"What do you think?"

She shrugged.  "For him, maybe it will be."  

Chris's voice was soft near her ear.  "What about for you?"

Her shoulder rose and fell again, and she focused on her 
hands.  "For me, it is over.  It happened.  It's done.  
Everything else is just...details."

He appeared to think about this for a minute.  "I can see 
that, I guess, if I squint real hard.  I spend my life on 
those details."

"Well, that's the difference between you and me," she told 
him as she sat up.  "I refuse to spend my life there."

XxXxXxX

The scotch wore off before she even reached Reagan National, 
so Scully had another drink in the dark airport bar.  She 
wore her work suit buttoned and her leave-me-the-fuck-alone 
expression, and the rogue businessmen kept right on moving.  
When her phone rang, she fished it out and stared at the 
glowing little screen.

Mulder.

She snapped it on just before the voicemail would have kicked 
in.  "What?" she demanded.

"Forget New Orleans, Scully," he told her, sounding as hollow 
as she felt.  "The Sheriff just called from Texas.  Tina 
Appleby is dead."

XxXxXxXxX 

End Chapter Eight.

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