//////////////////////////

Chapter Twelve

//////////////////////////

Scully drove him back to the hotel and helped him into bed 
before going up to her room.  He took some Tylenol and turned 
on SportsCenter but the seatbelt-shaped bruise across his 
torso continued to throb.  His pillow was like a lump at his 
back, but he couldn't reach around to fix it without his 
shoulder radiating sharp pain. 

He withstood it for another ten minutes before shoving 
himself out of bed.  He took the white terry cloth robe that 
the hotel provided and put it on over his T-shirt and boxers, 
and then limped down the hall to the elevator.  Two minutes 
later, he was knocking on her door.

She opened it wearing a matching robe.  Her hair was pinned 
up and her face was freshly scrubbed.  "Mulder, are you 
okay?"

"About that Vicodin," he said.  "You wouldn't be willing to 
share, would you?"

"Get in here.  You shouldn't be walking around like this."  

She shepherded him to the bed, which was already turned down. 
He slipped gratefully between the sheets as she went to the 
bathroom.  The room was now spinning in time to the pounding 
in his head.  He felt more than heard her return, and she 
pressed two pills into his palm.

"Take this," she said, handing him a glass of water.  He 
drank the whole thing down before setting it on the 
nightstand.

"Thanks."

The bed shifted as she sat down, and he felt her cool hand on 
his forehead.  "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah, I'm all right.  The night just caught up with me, 
that's all."

She propped herself up on one elbow and looked down at him.  
He forced himself to open his eyes all the way, and it was 
worth the effort -- she was naked under the robe and it was 
gaping at the middle.  "I'd say you got what you wanted," she 
said.

"Hmm?"  He was busy looking at her breasts.

"You wanted the killer to make contact.  Apparently, he did -
- with a one ton automobile traveling in excess of forty 
miles per hour."

Just the words made his bruises hurt.  "I was really just 
hoping for a letter," he said, "or maybe a phone call.  Even 
collect would have been acceptable."

"Well, he couldn't very well call you if he took your phone."

He looked up at her face.  "I hope he did take it, because if 
he didn't, it meant that he was following you.  He was lying 
in wait just two blocks from Annette's place.  If I hadn't 
driven by..."

She shushed him by laying her fingers over his lips.  "I hope 
he didn't take it.  Because if he did, it means he was close 
enough to you to pick your pocket."

He took her hand away but held it warmly in his own.  "That 
would be like him.  He's bold and he's clearly interested in 
the investigation.  We know he went to the town meeting.  But 
I have a question -- what were you doing at Annette's to 
begin with?"

"Oh, right.  You never got my message."  She rolled out of 
bed and went to her briefcase, where she shuffled through 
some papers.  "This is a tattoo Annette had on her shoulder," 
she said, showing him a photograph taken at autopsy. 

He squinted in the low light.  "It's a yin-yang symbol."

"Exactly.  I recalled seeing a picture frame with the same 
symbol in Annette's bedroom so I went back to have a look.  
The photograph in the frame is of Annette and another young 
woman, who is identified on the back as Sandi."

"Her friend, the other girl who got cut up."

"The picture was dated in 1998, so they've had recent contact 
with one another.  It shouldn't be too hard to find Sandi."

He nodded and set the autopsy photo aside.  "We can get 
started on that in the morning."  The Vicodin was starting to 
kick in, easing his pain and making him sleepy.

He heard Scully turn off the light and felt her slip under 
the covers with him.  "All right," he murmured, "a sleep-
over!"

"I'm afraid if you tried to go back to your room that I'd 
find you passed out in the elevator."

"There's a real risk of that," he agreed.  He bit his lip in 
the darkness.  "Scully?"

"Hmm?" she answered over a rustle of blankets.

"Why haven't you asked to be reassigned to the X-files?"

She said nothing and the silence fell like lead between them.  
Mulder tried again.

"Is it the work?  You don't think it's important anymore?"

"Of course not."

He hesitated.  "Because I don't know if Skinner told you, but 
the position needs to be filled in the next two days."

"He told me."

"If you don't express an interest, the position will default 
to Diana."

He heard her angry puff of breath and the covers jerked.  
"Interesting that she's the default."

"She's the only one who wants the job.  Unless, unless you 
want it."  He waited, hopeful.

"It was my job."  She shifted to face him and he could just 
make out her features in the scant light.  "I did some 
checking, Mulder, and my position was created specifically 
for me.  Diana's old position, the one you are always 
referencing about her co-founding of the X-files, it was an 
adjunct title and never specific to the X-Files.  You were 
the sole full-time agent assigned to the department.  The 
partnership did not exist until I came along."

All of this was true.  Scully curled into a ball under the 
covers and picked at the edge of the blanket.  

"I am the default, Mulder," she said in a quiet voice.  "At 
least I should be."

He scooted closer as best as his injuries would permit him.  
"So then put your name in, Scully.  I told you before, the 
territory is yours.  All you have to do is stake your claim."

She was silent another minute.  "A bullet going through your 
center," she said at last, "it has a way of getting your 
attention.  I had a lot of time to think when I was in the 
hospital, a lot of time to reflect on where my life was going 
and what I wanted to do with it now that I had another 
chance. I want to feel like what I'm doing matters, that our 
time together counts for something."

He reached out and cupped the side of her face.  "Then stand 
up, Scully.  Stand up and be counted," he murmured.

She covered his hand with hers, but when she spoke her voice 
was tinged with sadness.  "I'm standing," she said, "you just 
have to see me."

"I see you."  His hand tightened, and he tried to tug her 
closer but she resisted.  "Scully, I see you."

He kept pulling and at last she softened, allowing him to 
draw her close against his body.  "Your ribs," she said as 
she tried to keep her weight off of him.

"Shhh."  He put his lips to her hair and wrapped his arms 
tight around her back.  She was small and solid and warm. 
Slowly, her arms encircled him and she hugged him so gently, 
as if he might break apart under her slim weight.  He could 
feel her eyes squeezed shut and the tension still coiled 
inside her.  He stroked her hair, her neck, her back.

"I see you," he said again, and eventually, they slept.

/////////////

Mary Winthrop opened her eyes already assessing how many 
pills she would need to make it through the day.  Just two 
for now, she decided, rolling over to grope the nightstand.  
The precious little bottle fell into her hand and she 
swallowed the pills dry before she threw back the covers.

The place was a wreck.  Laundry piled high on every available 
surface.  Downstairs, there were dishes in the sink and 
somehow she was going to have to find the time to go shopping 
or Jake would starve.

She dragged herself into the bathroom and surveyed the damage 
in the mirror.  She looked like Kayla after chemotherapy, 
like she had been throwing up all night and hadn't slept in 
days.  Her skin was dull and her hair was shaggy.  Somewhere 
she had a box of hair dye with a smiling blonde model on the 
front picture, as if the elixir inside could magically 
transform her into such a creature.  But the dye would have 
to wait because she was late to work as it was.

God, maybe it snowed again.  Then she would have an excuse to 
be late.  She flicked on the bathroom radio as she reached 
for her toothbrush; the back of her mouth tasted like a dead 
animal.

The commercial was urging her to buy a new Ford truck -- like 
she had that kind of money just lying around.  She would kill 
for a new vehicle of any kind, something new and shiny with 
an engine that turned over on the first try.  

She pulled her hair back with a tie and prepared to wash her 
face as the news started. 

"Chief Windsor has confirmed this morning that FBI agent Fox 
Mulder was injured in a car crash last night in Medford.  
Agent Mulder is profiler from the FBI's Washington Bureau who 
has been working on the serial murder cases here in Boston.  
Windsor reports that, while the crash was serious, Agent 
Mulder was treated only for minor injuries and was released a 
few hours later from the hospital.  He will continue to work 
on the task force investigation into the eight recent 
homicides.  Windsor had no comment on the cause of the 
accident, but a source at the scene said it was believed to 
be a hit-and-run."

Water dripped down Mary's chin and she grabbed for a towel.  
"Get to the weather report," she commanded the radio.

"In related news, police are still investigating whether the 
murder of Annette Crenshaw is the work of the same killer who 
has been targeting Boston area couples.  Crenshaw's autopsy 
results are expected to be released later on today, but WBZ 
news has learned that her injuries are consistent with those 
sustained by the victims in the other murders.  And the 
police are apparently searching all possible angles for clues 
now, because Detective Jane Dunbar has joined the serial 
killer task force.  Dunbar, as many of you know, has been 
tracking Boston's elusive hat thief for many months.  Does 
her addition to the task force signal that the police believe 
the hat thefts are related to the killings?  Stay tuned to 
WBZ for more details."

Mary snapped off the radio and tossed the towel over the bar.  
She peeked between the slits in the Venetian blinds to see a 
gray morning but no new snow.  "Crap," she said with a sigh.

She found some halfway-clean clothes and wriggled into them 
before going downstairs to find coffee.  If there was a God, 
Jake would have been up and making it by now.

But the kitchen was deserted.  The remnants of her TV dinner 
from last night still sat by the sink, untouched.  Jake's 
backpack and jacket were missing from his chair, though, so 
he must have taken off for school already.

Mary settled for instant coffee, which she put in a travel 
mug so she could take it with her.  She gripped a stale bagel 
between her teeth and opened the back door with her butt.  As 
she stumbled out onto the rickety porch, she noticed a void 
where her car should have been.

Her heart started thudding and she tried to think.  

I parked it here last night.  I know I did.

Sometimes she was hazy about details, but she clearly 
remembered pulling into the driveway last night.  

"God damn it," she said, forcing her way back into the house 
through the swollen wooden door.  The bagel fell to the floor 
and rolled away.  "Who the hell would steal my piece of crap 
car?"

She started going through her pockets and her purse for the 
keys, but could not find them.  Oh, it had been stolen, all 
right, but it was an inside job.

"Jake!" she hollered at the top of her lungs.  "Jake, I'm 
going to kick your ass!"

She stomped up the stairs to his room, aware she wasn't going 
to find him.  He had taken the car, so why would he be here?  
She threw open the door, and sure enough, he was gone.  It 
was impossible to tell if he had slept in his bed since it 
was perpetually in disarray.

Clothes littered the floor.  Half his dresser drawers were 
open.

"I am going to kill you for this," she muttered, kicking his 
sneaker out of her way.  "How the hell am I supposed to get 
to work?  I need to work to make money, to put food on the 
table and buy all these piece-of-shit clothes you've got on 
the floor."

She sank onto his bed and put her head in her hands.  Tears 
burned the back of her eyes.  She had been late three times 
this month already; one more time and she could get fired.

"Think," she told herself, trying to still her trembling 
hands.  "It's too late to take the T."

A cab, she thought.  Yes.  

She had only ten dollars in her purse downstairs.

"You take the car, and I take your piggy bank," she told 
Jake's empty room.  She started going through it, looking for 
his old Winne-the-Pooh bank.  There had to be some money left 
in it or she was really screwed.  

She went through his dresser, his desk, and even checked 
under the bed: no bank.  At last, she went to the closet and 
jerked open the door.

A rain of hats fell down over her head.  "What the hell is 
this?" she asked as she stooped to pick one up.  It was a 
gray fedora with a feather in it.  "What the hell is with all 
these hats?"

And then the morning broadcast came back to her.

////////////////

The phone woke Scully, dragging her from under the warm 
covers and the heat of Mulder's body pressed against hers.  
She felt for it blindly and her voice was still rough when 
she said hello.  

"Dana?  It's Ray.  Did I wake you?"

She looked at the clock, which read nearly nine in the 
morning.  Beside her, Mulder still slept like the dead.

"I'm up," she said, keeping her voice low as she turned away 
from Mulder.  "What's going on?"

"We have a little situation that could become a problem.  I'm 
downstairs in the lobby.   Can you meet me?"

"You're downstairs now?"

"Yeah, I've got something you need to see."

Scully cast another look at Mulder before easing out from the 
covers.  "Okay, give me five minutes."

"I'll be here."

She crept into the bathroom with her clothes, where she 
dressed quickly and ran a comb through her hair.  The worst 
of the damage repaired, she took just her hotel room key with 
her as she slipped out the door.

Downstairs, Ray was dressed in his long winter coat as he 
paced by the front desk.  "Hey, good morning.  How's Mulder 
doing?"  He had two cups of coffee in his hands and a paper 
tucked under one arm.  He handed her one of the coffees, 
which she cupped in her cold hands.

"He's banged up but he'll be all right."

"Any leads on the guy who hit him?"

"Not yet.  Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Actually, no."  He nodded his head towards the very end of 
the front desk.  "Here, I'll show you."

She followed him away from the clerk and sipped her coffee 
while he pulled out the newspaper, which he spread between 
them on the desk. "COP CRASH" screamed the headline in big 
letters.  Scully let out a slow breath.  "I'm not surprised 
it made the papers," she said.  "There were reporters there 
almost as soon as the ambulances showed up last night."

"This isn't the part that concerns me."  He opened the paper 
to the section inside that detailed Mulder's crash.  "It's 
this sidebar over here on Mulder."

She was too far away to make out the fine print, but she 
recognized the faces in the picture immediately; it was 
Mulder and Diana, a photo taken years ago, presumably when 
they still worked together.

"I didn't know they'd been married," Ray said.

"For a short time, yes.  Where did the paper get this photo?"

"Where did they get the story, period?  This has potential 
for disaster, Dana.  With the way that Mulder has been 
courting the killer, this story may as well paint a bulls-eye 
on Agent Fowley's chest."

"Has she seen the paper?"

"I don't know.  I haven't been able to reach her this 
morning."

"Can I keep this?" Scully asked as she folded up the paper.  
"I'd like to show it to Mulder."

"Sure, it's yours.  But we're going to have to figure out 
something soon.  If this guy really took a run at Mulder last 
night, he shouldn't be left alone anywhere.  And now, maybe 
the same is true for Agent Fowley."

"I'll be sure to relay your concern."

The clerk sidled down the desk until he was standing in front 
of them.  "Excuse me, Ms. Scully?  I have a delivery for you 
that came this morning."

He handed a deep purple flower across the desk to her.  It 
was wrapped in cellophane, a single large blossom atop a 
long, slender stem.  "An iris," she murmured, holding it to 
her nose.  It didn't have a strong scent, but it smelled like 
tender petals and fresh green leaves.  As usual, there was no 
card.

"Pretty," Ray offered.

"Yes, it is."  She looked up to find him watching her 
closely.  "Ray..."

"Yes?"

She held the flower to her chest and shook her head.  
"Nothing.  I'll talk to Mulder and let you know what he says.  
Thanks for dropping by with this."

Upstairs, she found the lights on and Mulder sitting up in 
bed.  He had CNN playing, which he muted when she walked in 
the room.  His cheek was bruised but he looked less wan than 
he had the night before.  

"There you are," he said.  "I was starting to wonder."

"Sorry about that.  I was just downstairs talking to Ray 
Peterkin for a moment."

"Ah," he said, looking her over.  "And did he bring you that 
flower?"

"He brought the coffee, actually.  And this."  She crossed 
the room and put the paper in his lap.  "There's an 
interesting piece about you and Diana on page twenty-one."

"Me and Diana... what?"  He opened the paper and scanned the 
article as she finished her coffee.  "It's our old friend 
Jimmy Trumbull again with the scoop," he said when he had 
finished.

"Ray is concerned the article could make a target of Diana."

"I'm concerned too.  I also want to know where he got the 
story."  He set his jaw against the pain as he started out of 
bed.  "But first I'm going to need some clothes."

"Where are you going?"

"I think it's time I talked to Mr. Trumbull myself.  If he's 
so keen on feeding the killer information, I'd like a little 
control over the content."

"And what am I going to do?"

He looked back over his shoulder at her.  "You're going to 
drive.  My car is in the Little Shop of Horrors."

//////////////////

Jimmy was in exile on the back balcony when the fibbies 
showed up.  Amy had the kids inside, fixing their lunch, and 
she didn't want him stinking up the house with his cigarette.  
So he saw them coming a mile away, and of course he 
recognized them.

He allowed himself a little satisfied smile as they started 
the long trek up the front walk.  A few weeks ago he had been 
a nothing, a nobody, and now his name was in the paper and 
the FBI agents had come calling at his house.

The man, Mulder, limped from his car wreck but Jimmy noticed 
he carried no cane.  "Tough guy, are you?" he murmured.

As if he'd heard, Mulder stopped on the walkway and looked up 
at him.  Jimmy stared back until the woman tugged on Mulder's 
arm and they continued on their way.

Jimmy hurried back inside to meet them.  "FBI is here," he 
told Amy as he took off his coat and scarf.

She glanced up from where she was serving the kids mac-and-
cheese.  "The FBI is here?  At our house?"

At that moment, the doorbell rang.  "I've got it," Jimmy said 
as he went downstairs to meet them.

"What do they want?" she yelled after him, but Jimmy didn't 
answer.  They weren't here to talk to her.

He yanked open the front door and found them standing there, 
just like he'd expected, only they seemed smaller up close 
and personal.  "Yeah?" he asked them.

"I'm Agent Mulder and this is Agent Scully," Mulder said, 
showing off his FBI badge.

"I know who you are."

"You appear to know a lot of things."  Mulder tilted his head 
and gave Jimmy an almost-smile.  "Do you mind if we come 
inside and talk to you about it?"

"How'd you know where to find me?"

"You're in the phone book," Scully said, and Jimmy felt the 
rebuke like a slap.

Stupid, stupid.  Some crack investigator you are.

"Come on up," he invited them.  "Watch the kids' crap on the 
stairs."

He marched them up the steep and narrow staircase, past the 
kids' boots and toys.  Amy was waiting in the living room for 
them with an anxious look on her face.  "This is my wife, 
Amy," he said to Mulder and Scully.

"Nice to meet you, Amy," Mulder replied.

"Can I get you anything?" she asked.  "Coffee?  Tea?  Mac-
and-cheese?"

"She's feeding the kids," Jimmy explained.  "Don't let us 
keep you, hon."

"Oh, okay.  I'll just be in the kitchen if you need 
anything." She disappeared in the back but he knew she would 
be over-hearing every word.  Their apartment was just that 
small.  "Please, have a seat," Jimmy said.  He was conscious 
of the threadbare sofa and the chair with the broken back.  
The agents wore expensive-looking suits.  

Mulder took out a copy of the "Boston Herald" that looked 
like the morning edition.  "I saw your piece today," he said.

"What about it?  It's all true."

"I didn't say it wasn't.  I'm curious as to why you decided 
to write about my past relationship with Agent Fowley."

Jimmy shrugged.  "You're on the front page.  You're news.  
Anything about you sells copy right now."

"But how did you find out about it?"

Jimmy locked eyes with him, feeling better now that he knew 
what Mulder was after with this little visit.  "A reporter 
never reveals his sources."

"So someone tipped you."

He shrugged again and looked at the floor.  You poor sap, he 
thought.  You know so much less than you think you do.

"Was it the same person who tipped you about Annette?" Mulder 
asked.

"Who said I got a tip?  Maybe I was doing my own 
investigation."

Scully stared at him with the bluest eyes he had ever seen.  
They gave nothing away, no matter how long he looked into 
them.  He shifted uncomfortably under the weight of her gaze.  
"I've been following the case for a while now."

"It doesn't bother you, Mr. Trumbull," said Scully, "that you 
wrote about Annette's existence and that night she was 
murdered?"

"Are you saying I had something to do with it?"

"I'm saying apparently the killer is a fan of your work."

"Distribution of the paper is over one hundred thousand.  I 
can't say who reads it.  I just write the truth."

"Except it wasn't the truth," Mulder interjected.  "The task 
force was not investigating Annette Crenshaw's attack."

"Just because you didn't know about it doesn't mean it wasn't 
happening."  Jimmy had tailed O'Hara and Ahuja for days.  The 
hell they weren't investigating.

Mulder tossed the paper onto Jimmy's coffee table.  It was 
folded back to reveal his story, the one with the old file 
photo of him and the lady agent Fowley.  It was a stroke of 
genius to have the photo guys dig that one up, he thought.

"Your article here could have made a target out of Agent 
Fowley."

"You're saying this guy feeds off my work?"

"Someone came after me last night.  But you already knew 
that.  Now you've given the killer a new target."

"But that's good, right?  If you know where he's going to 
hit, you can be ready for him."

At least, that was what Agent Fowley had said when she'd fed 
him the story.

"That's not the point," Mulder said, leaning forward.  "The 
point is your words are dangerous right now.  The killer is 
watching what you write and possibly taking cues from it."

"I can't control what other people do.  I'm just doing my 
job."

"Except it isn't your job, is it?  You're working freelance 
for Hal Thompson."

"Work is work."

"Not if I convince him not to print it."

"You--you can't do that.  There's freedom of the press."

Mulder stood up with effort.  "I've already talked with 
Thompson.  He doesn't want the Herald painted as spurring on 
a crazed killer.  He's willing to work with us."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning your next piece is going to be ghost-written -- by 
us."

Jimmy rose too.  "I want to talk to Hal about this.  I want 
to talk to the lawyers.  You can't just tell us what to 
write."

"Mr. Trumbull," Scully said. "Someone is already telling you 
what to write.  We're offering you a chance to circumvent the 
tipsters and go straight to the source."

"I'd get an exclusive?"

"When everything is over with," Mulder said.  "Maybe yes."

He could see the headlines now.  There would be TV and movie 
deals, maybe a book as well.  "So tell me exactly," he said, 
"what would I have to do?"

////////////////

In the car, Scully was quiet.  She had both hands gripping 
the wheel and she wasn't glancing over at him the way she 
usually did.  He tapped her leg.  "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking it's dangerous for you to keep baiting the 
killer.  I'm thinking if you had told me ahead of time that 
this was your purpose in visiting Jimmy Trumbull, I wouldn't 
have driven you over here."

He smiled.  "That's why I didn't tell you."

"Mulder..."

"Scully, it's working.  I've clearly got this guy's attention 
now, and he's starting to break pattern."

She checked the rearview mirror as he said it, and Mulder 
found himself looking as well.  There was no sign they were 
being followed.

"He nearly killed you last night," Scully said, her voice 
barely above a whisper.  "I don't want to give him another 
chance."

"I don't want that either."

She looked at him then, her eyes worried.  "Your plan with 
Trumbull..."

"That's only part of my plan."

Her eyebrow quirked and she looked back at the road.  "Are 
you going to tell me the rest, or do I have to wait until we 
get there again?"

"First, I need your phone."

"I want to know what for."

"To call Ahuja.  We're going to need him for this."

"You're not going to have him bait the killer too, are you?"

"No, we're going to need Manny to fish in an old pond."  He 
reached over and patted her pocket.  "Now are you going to 
give me the phone, or am I going to have to go in and get 
it?"

The side of her mouth curled up and so Mulder did a little 
fishing of his own.

Half an hour later, they met not Ahuja but O'Hara at the 
evidence lock up.  O'Hara was drinking out of a giant Dunkin 
Donuts cup and reading the Herald when they arrived.  

"So let me get this straight," he said to Mulder, holding up 
the article about Diana.  "First you did that one, and now 
you're with this one?  You FBI guys sure get around."

"Where's Manny?" Scully asked pointedly.

O'Hara slurped his coffee.  "He said he'd catch up with us.  
What do you need?"

"We need your help getting out the old evidence from the 
Crenshaw case.  Can you sign it out for us?"

"I can ask."  He went up to the desk and made the request for 
them.  As they waited, he leaned against the counter.  "What 
do you want with this old stuff?"

"Part of the file went missing.  I'd just like to get a look 
at the source material."

The officer returned with a box that was covered in a fine 
layer of white dust.  "No one's touched this in years," he 
said.  "If you want to get a look at it, I'm going to have to 
buzz you inside."

O'Hara led Mulder and Scully to a small back room where they 
could examine the contents of the box.  There wasn't much 
there.  It contained a pair of black velvet heels, some 
ripped stockings, a red silk scarf, and a skirt and top.

The skirt was cheap imitation black leather and the blouse 
was a red-and-white polka dot halter-top.  The skirt had been 
dusted for prints at one point; there was still traces of 
powder on the front.

Mulder held it up for Scully to see.  "Does this say 
expensive call girl to you?"

"She was a junkie," Scully said. "She probably wasn't wasting 
a lot of money on clothes."

"But if you want rich clients, you have to look the part.  
This outfit is more dime-bag hooker."

"There's blood on it," O'Hara said.  "That part matches her 
story."

"These shoes are expensive," said Scully as she picked one 
up.  "Maybe she just skimped on the clothing."

"Hey, if you're not going to be wearing it long," O'Hara said 
meaningfully.

"What size was Annette?" Mulder asked.

"Her pajamas just said small," Scully replied.  "But she 
wasn't very big -- five feet, two inches, one hundred and ten 
pounds."

"This skirt is a size ten."  He checked.  "So is the blouse."

"Maybe she lost weight?" O'Hara said.

"Maybe.  Or maybe these aren't her clothes."

O'Hara's cell phone rang and he dug it out to answer it.  
"O'Hara," he said.  "Yeah, they're both here.  Yeah."  He 
handed the phone to Mulder.  "It's Manny.  He wants to talk 
to you."

It felt good to have his hand around a phone again.  
"Mulder," he said.

"Mulder, I got the results back on your phone and I'm afraid 
it's a bust.  The only prints on it were yours, mine, and 
Agent Fowley's."

////////

End chapter twelve.  Continued in chapter thirteen.

Smooches to Amanda for her help!

It's been a hard week, but I always enjoy escaping to Mulder 
and Scully land for a while.  Thanks as ever for reading.

Feedback always welcome at syn_tax6@yahoo.com