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

Chapter Sixteen

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


Amy Trumbull was feeding the Michael and Karen their 
breakfast when someone pounded on her front door.  They rang 
the bell too, but she could hear the knocking from one floor 
away and the other side of the house.  The McCulskys 
downstairs would be livid -- it wasn't even seven a.m.. 

"Don't play with your food," she told Michael as she wiped 
her hands on a dishtowel.  "Mommy will be right back."

The pounding continued even as she hurried down the stairs. 

"All right, I'm coming!"  She flung the door open and there 
was a small army of cops on the other side.  The one in front 
showed her his shield.

"Detective Ahuja," he said.  "Are you Amy Trumbull?"

She hugged herself from the cold.  "Yes, I am.  What's going 
on?"

"We have a warrant to search your house, ma'am."

"Search my house?  For what?"

He gave her a paper even as they started surging past her and 
trooping up the stairs.

"My children are up there!  You're going to scare them!"  She 
ran after them with the search warrant still in hand.  "If 
you'll just tell me what you're looking for..."

"It's all right there in the warrant," Detective Ahuja said 
as the cops started taking her apartment apart.

"Mom?" Michael stood in the doorway still wearing his footie 
pajamas.

"Come here, baby."  She held him to her side as she turned 
the warrant right side up in her hands.  

"What are all the policemen doing here?" Michael asked.

She smoothed his hair, not really listening.  "This says 
you're looking for a .38 Smith and Wesson.  We don't have a 
gun like that."

One of the officers appeared with the lock box she kept in 
the bedroom.  "I found this in the closet," he said to 
Detective Ahuja.

"Do you mind opening this for us, ma'am?" Ahuja asked as he 
presented her with the box.

"Let me get the key."  She retrieved the key and opened the 
box.  It held her 9 mm and a spare clip.  "There, you see?  
This is the gun I use for work -- I'm a security guard 
downtown, and this is the only weapon in the house.  I told 
you we don't have a .38."

"Does your husband own a gun?"

"Jimmy?  No, of course not."

"You mind showing us where he keeps his clothes?"

"Why are you asking me about Jimmy?"  She led Ahuja to the 
bedroom and showed him Jimmy's dresser.  "Why are you asking 
us about the .38?"

Ahuja started opening the drawers and rifling through the 
contents.  "Your husband has been arrested, Mrs. Trumbull."

Amy immediately looked over her shoulder to see if the kids 
had heard, but they weren't in sight.  "Arrested?" she asked 
in a low whisper.  "What for?"

"Breaking and entering, assault on two federal officers, 
attempted rape and attempted murder."  He looked at her.  
"And that's just for starters."

"There must be some mistake."

Ahuja paused with a fistful of socks.  "No mistake," he said.  
"He was arrested at the scene."

"The scene of what?  I don't understand what you're saying.  
Jimmy is a reporter.  He's off working on a story about the 
recent murders.  I can call him."  She moved for the phone, 
but Ahuja stopped her with a gentle grasp of her wrist.

"Mrs. Trumbull, you need to call a lawyer.  Your husband is 
being held downtown on very serious charges."

She searched his face and saw pity.  "You're wrong," she 
whispered.  "Jimmy wouldn't do those things you're talking 
about.  He's a father!  He's trying to help you catch that 
man, and this is how you repay him!"

She jerked her arm away as two uniformed officers elbowed 
their way into her small bedroom.  "No sign of it in the 
living room," one of them said.  "Or the kitchen."

"My kids!"  Amy ran out ahead of the cops and grabbed both of 
her children.  She hugged them to her as the police poked 
every nook and cranny of her home.  "It'll be okay," she 
whispered to their heads again and again.  "We're going to be 
all right.  They're going to leave soon."

They huddled there together until Detective Ahuja returned.  
He stood over her, wearing salt-covered boots and his long 
winter coat.  She looked at his feet and wondered if he had 
tracked that mess all over her home.

"You don't have to tell me," she said.  "You didn't find what 
you were looking for."

"Your husband is the man we were looking for," he said, not 
unkindly.  "We just don't have the gun yet.  You should see 
about that lawyer."

They all left then, and Amy did not see them out.  She sat 
with the kids in her lap, rocking them until she heard the 
final door slam.  Michael patted her cheek.  "Mom, are you 
okay?"

"Yeah, baby.  I'm sorry about that.  They're all gone now."

"What did they want?"

"They were just looking for something.  That's all."

Michael looked at her with serious brown eyes so like her 
husband's.  "Something of Daddy's?"

"Something they thought was Daddy's, yes.  But they didn't 
find it."  She kissed his head and squeezed her daughter.  
"You two run along and get dressed, okay?  Mommy needs to 
make a phone call."

She figured Hal Thompson at the Herald would know the truth.  
Wiping the wetness from beneath her eyes, she went to Jimmy's 
desk to try to find the number.  He hated it when she went 
through his things, but she believed in this case he would 
make an exception.  She found some notes from an interview 
with Agent Mulder and a draft of the story Jimmy had been 
working for the Herald.

"Mom?  Mommy?"

"Just a second, baby."  The drawer was stuck so she yanked it 
harder.  It came open with a sudden jerk, and she saw the 
papers were shuffled, probably by the cops.  She started 
pawing through them, looking for a phone number.

"Mom?"  Michael appeared at her side and held up a gun.  "Was 
this what the police were looking for?"

"Oh my God."  She took the .38 from him.  "Where did you get 
this?"

He looked frightened.

"Answer me!"

"It was in my secret hiding place."

"In your toy box?"

He nodded as he started to cry.  "Daddy put it there.  He 
said it was a secret and I shouldn't tell anyone.  Mom?  Are 
you mad at me?"

Amy didn't answer.  She barely made it to the bathroom before 
she was sick.


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


Mulder sat in an interrogation room with an uneaten egg 
McMuffin and a lukewarm cup of coffee.  He had a bandage on 
his neck and a few matching ones on his chest and belly, but 
at least this time when he faced Diana, he had clothes on.

"Where's Scully?" he asked her as she came through the door 
with fresh coffee.

"Still with Agent Peterkin giving her statement."  She sat 
down at the table and slid the coffee across to him.  "You 
two are lucky to be alive."

Mulder didn't feel lucky; he felt stupid.  Trumbull had 
stolen his key card and nearly blown him away with his own 
gun.  He scrubbed his face with both hands, the stubble 
scraping over his tender palms.  He still had red marks from 
where Trumbull had bound him with the phone wire.

"Is Trumbull talking?" he asked.

"He's hard to shut up.  Now that he's caught he wants to make 
sure we have every detail exactly right.  He's already 
talking about who should play him in the movie."

The irony was, Mulder thought, Hollywood was probably talking 
about the same thing.

"He confessed to lifting your phone," Diana said, ducking her 
head so Mulder couldn't quite see her eyes.  "He wanted to 
keep track of where you and Scully would be.  Apparently he 
was quite an accomplished pickpocket in his youth.  That's 
the only place we had him in the system -- for snatching 
wallets from the tourists fifteen years ago."

"He got my hotel keycard too," Mulder said.  "I never felt a 
thing."

Diana hesitated a moment.  "I assume you know," she said, 
"that you and Scully are off the investigation now.  We'll 
need you as material witnesses in his trial, so we can't have 
you collecting or analyzing evidence."

"At least we went out with a bang, right?"  Mulder tried to 
smile, and she managed a weak one in return.

"Let's get this over with, okay?  So you can go home and 
rest."

Home was the hotel, and he was in no hurry to get back there.  
He spread his hands on the table and leaned back in the chair 
with a sigh.  "Ask away."

He answered her questions about how Trumbull had met him in 
the station last night and they had gone out to the bar 
together.  He told her about Scully showing up, about their 
return to the hotel and her decision to spend the night.

Diana paused in her note taking but kept her gaze trained on 
the paper.  "Just for the record," she said, "you had no 
clothes on when we arrived.  Had you removed them before 
Trumbull arrived or was that part of his ritual?"

Mulder knew the rest of the victims had been found nude as 
well, some with their pajamas shredded.

"We had removed them beforehand," he said, and Diana raised 
her eyes to look at him.  He nodded almost imperceptibly and 
she tightened her grip on the pen.

"Okay then," she said, tucking her hair behind one ear as she 
bent over her work once more.  "Tell me what happened when 
Trumbull showed up."



Later, his statement duly recorded, Mulder went in search of 
Scully.  He found her skulking by the soda machines with 
Manny Ahuja, who had apparently bought her a Coke.  They were 
talking about California when Mulder joined them.

"I've still got family out there," Manny was saying. "Some 
cousins and my mom's sister.  Days like this with the snow 
piled three feet high, I wonder why I ever left."

"My brother lives near San Diego," Scully said.  "I spent 
some time there as a kid too."

"Let me guess -- Navy brat?"

Scully raised her eyebrows as she sipped from her can.  "How 
did you know?"

He grinned.  "A good Irish family out in the hot California 
sun?  There can only be one reason."  He raised his can in 
Mulder's direction.  "We're toasting to L.A. winters, Mulder.  
Care to join us?"

Mulder shook his head and looked at Scully.  "How are you 
doing?" he asked as he reached out to touch her wounded 
cheek.  The doctors had put in three stitches just under her 
left eye, which had turned swollen and black.

She stood still under his ministrations, not ducking him as 
she usually did.  Her skin was pink from the glow of the red 
Coke machine.  "I'm all right.  You?"

"Trumbull is offering casting suggestions for the movie.  I'm 
thinking of Johnny Depp to play me."

"Hey, yeah," Manny said.  "Wasn't he on some cop show a few 
years back?  He's got experience!"

Mulder wondered what it would be like to be an actor, to step 
into someone else's life for a few weeks and then shed it 
again when the movie wrapped or the TV show got canceled.  
Johnny, or whoever it was that embodied him, would wipe the 
blood away and peel off the fake scars; the real ones would 
be with Mulder forever, reminding him he could never truly be 
anyone else.

He let his fingers find the back of Scully's neck and 
massaged the knot there.  "You want to go back to the hotel?  
Get some rest?"

"I suppose we do have one good room left," she replied.

"It's a madhouse over there," Manny told them.  "The press 
are swarming, looking for you."

"Maybe we should stay somewhere else," said Mulder.

Manny shuffled his feet a little.  "If you want, you can stay 
with me and Gina for a couple of days.  We've got a real nice 
guest room, and I already checked with her.  She said it 
would be an honor to have you."  He looked from one to the 
other.  "She makes a kick-ass lasagna."

"What do you think?" Mulder asked, looking down at Scully.

"I like lasagna."

"We'll take it," Mulder said, extending his hand to Manny.  
"And thanks."


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


Jane ducked into the ladies' room late in the afternoon.  She 
hadn't changed in over twenty-four hours and her stomach held 
mostly coffee and stale donuts.  Her hair looked afright but 
there was little she could do about it without some gel and a 
strong blow dryer.  What she needed now was a hot meal and 
about sixteen hours of sleep.

She splashed water on her face and patted it dry, pausing to 
give herself one last frown in the mirror.  It was then that 
she heard the weeping.

Someone was crying softly in one of the stalls.

Jane bit her lip, wondering if she should intrude, but one 
did not devote one's life to public service without a deep-
seeded need to help others.  "Hello?" she called out, walking 
back in the direction of the noise.  "Are you okay in there?"

There was a sniffle and a voice said, "I'm fine."

Jane touched the door and leaned her head closer.  "Are you 
sure?  Is there anything I can do?"

"You've done quite enough, thank you."

Ah, Mrs. Winthrop.  Jane recognized the voice at last.  She 
backed away from the door, intent on leaving, but she 
couldn't just walk out on someone in distress.  "Is there 
someone I can call for you?"

The stall opened and Mary Winthrop stood there with a wad of 
toilet paper in her hand.  Her hair was matted on one side 
and her nose was red.  "I have to go to the hospital," she 
said.  "My daughter isn't doing well.  The doctor said..." 
Her eyes welled up again and she held the tissue paper to her 
face.  "She said to come quickly."

"I'm so sorry."

Mary leaned her back against the door, almost sagging.  "God, 
so am I.  That's all I am anymore is sorry, but it doesn't 
ever change one damn thing."  She turned bleary eyes to Jane.  
"I heard you arrested someone on the murders.  My lawyer says 
that should help Jake."

"It will."

"But you're still going to send him away."  She shook her 
head slowly.  "I'm losing them both at the same time."

"Jake is young and he doesn't have a record," Jane said in 
what she hoped was an encouraging tone.  "The judge might not 
be too hard on him."  Deep down, she knew the odds weren't in 
Jake's favor.  His thefts were small, but it was a highly 
publicized case and he did break into people's homes.  As 
harsh at it was, his dying sister might be his only chance at 
a sympathy vote.

Mary heaved herself away from the wall.  "I'd better get 
going.  Do me a favor?  Don't tell Jake where I went.  If he 
found out that I knew how bad off Kayla is and didn't tell 
him..."  Her lip quivered.  "I just don't see the point in 
upsetting him in advance."

She started for the door, and Jane heard herself talking 
before she had planned anything to say.  "Mrs. Winthrop, 
wait.  What if Jake could go with you to the hospital?"

"Can he really do that?  The lawyer said not until he posted 
bail, and that won't happen until tomorrow at the earliest."

"He can go if he's in police custody."  Jane crossed the room 
to meet her at the door.  "I'll go with you."

Mary searched her face.  "You'd do that?  Why?"

"I have five brothers."  

"Oh.  Then you know how it is."

"Yes, I do."  She opened the door for Mary.  "Let's go see 
about getting Jake out of here, okay?"

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

Gina and Manny set the table for dinner while Mulder and 
Scully took turns showering in the peach-colored guest 
bathroom.  They had abundant hot water to sooth the aches and 
fluffy towels with which to pat their tender wounds.  

Scully examined the damage to her face as she dried her hair.  
She looked like she had done ten rounds with a heavyweight 
champ, and her sore muscles supported the analogy.  She 
touched her stitches gingerly.  Another case, another scar.  
At least this one would be minor, and it was certainly 
preferable to the alternative; she and Mulder could have 
matching slabs at the morgue by now.

She made herself as presentable as possible and went to join 
the others at the dinner table.  Gina had set out white 
plates and white candles.  There was a basket of garlic bread 
covered in a green napkin and a giant pan of lasagna sitting 
in the center.

"I have salad too," she told them.  "Let me get it."

The food smelled wonderful, and for the first time that day, 
Scully felt hungry.  She set her napkin in her lap and shared 
a soft smile with Mulder.  He squeezed her hand under the 
table.

Manny entered carrying a tray of four wine glasses and a 
bottle of red.  "I bought this burgundy six years ago," he 
said as he put the glasses on the table.  "I always said it 
was for when I broke a really big case.  Well, I don't think 
they get bigger than this one, and it seems like you guys 
should be the ones to share it with me."

Gina took her place at the table, her dark eyes round and 
dancing from the candlelight.  "You three should share it," 
she told Manny.  "I didn't do anything."

"You cooked us this magnificent meal," he protested as he 
spread his arms.  "And you kept me going this whole time, and 
I know that wasn't easy."  He leaned over and smacked a kiss 
on her mouth.  "So thank you."

Color tinged her cheeks but she looked pleased.  "Well, hurry 
up and pour before the food gets cold.  These people want to 
eat!"

Manny gave them all a glass.  "A toast," he said, "to finally 
getting this bastard."

"Manny!"

"I'll drink to that," Mulder said, putting his glass in.  
They all clinked together, and Scully took a sip.  The wine 
was rich and smooth, the tang of it spreading across her 
tongue and disappearing like warm fire down her throat.

She looked over at Mulder and saw him staring at his wine 
glass rather than drinking it.  Manny took her plate from in 
front of her to put some lasagna on it as she touched 
Mulder's arm.  "You okay?"

"Hmm?  Yeah.  Just thinking."

"About?"

He shook his head.  "It's nothing."

"No, what?"  

He tilted his glass, sending the candle's reflection through 
it.  "What happened today... I should have seen it coming.  I 
didn't think he would take a run at us in the hotel but I 
just kept asking for it and asking for it.  I should have 
known his ego was big enough to try it."  He looked at her at 
last.  "I nearly got us both killed."

"Your plan was to draw him out," Manny said as he set 
Scully's plate back down.  "It worked."

"Just to be clear," he said more to her than to Manny.  "This 
was never my plan.  I didn't want him to show up and try to 
kill us."

"I know that, Mulder.  I knew the risk when I agreed to it."

"Still," he said, sounding troubled.  "I'm sorry."

"I'm not."  They all looked up and Gina sat there with a 
deadly serious expression.  "If you hadn't done what you did, 
this man would still be out there.  More people would have 
died.  He was a killing machine and you stopped him.  What I 
think?  You are heroes.  All of you."

She stretched out her hand to Manny.  "Honey, could you pass 
me the salad dressing?"

And with that, they ate.

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


Jane didnıt make Jake wear handcuffs, but he walked as if he 
were attached to a ball and chain.  The closer they got to 
Kaylaıs hospital room, the slower he moved.  He balked 
completely at the door.  

Mary smoothed his cowlick down and looked at her son with 
sympathy.  "Honey, I know this is hard."

"I donıt know what to say."

Kayla was in a coma now, Jane knew.  The content of the words 
probably didnıt mean a thing.

"Just go in and be with her," Mary said, still petting him.  
"Sheıll know youıre here."

They all went through the door together and Jake shuffled to 
his sisterıs bedside.  She lay thin and pale beneath the 
blankets, as still as snow.  "Hey, Kayla.  Itıs me, Jake."  
She didnıt answer, of course, so he turned around and gave 
his mother a stricken look.

She nodded her encouragement.

Jake turned back with sagging shoulders.  He reached out and 
tentatively stroked Kaylaıs arm with the tips of his fingers.  
"Iım sorry this happened to you," he whispered.  "It should 
be me in here and not you."

Mary covered her mouth with her hand but said nothing.

"Hey, Mom brought you ŒThrough the Looking Glass.ı"  He 
picked up the book from the end table and leafed through it.  
"Remember when you used to beg me to read this over and 
over?"

Mary stepped forward.  "I marked the place where we left 
off," she said quietly, "if youıd like to continue."

Jake found the dog-eared page.  His voice only trembled a 
little as he began to read, "After a while the noise seemed 
gradually to die away, till all was dead silence, and Alice 
lifted up her head in some alarm. There was no one to be 
seen, and her first thought was that she must have been 
dreaming..."

Jane slipped back out into the hall, where nurses passed from 
room to room and strange pieces of medical equipment lounged 
against the wall.  She found a quiet corner and closed her 
eyes to all of it, leaning back and drifting away in her mind 
to a land of tea parties and magic white rabbits.

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

The day of Jimmyıs arraignment dawned clear but bitter cold.  
The sun stung at Amyıs eyes as she made her way to the car, a 
broken down old station wagon that she had to turn over three 
times before the engine came to life.  The ancient metal body 
shuddered around her as the cold from the vinyl seats seeped 
through her wool coat.

She was numb anyway; the horror still gripped her tight.  She 
slept at night with her children, unable to answer them when 
they asked her why she was crying.  The phone was off the 
hook because she couldnıt take the repeated calls from 
everyone and anyone, all wanting to know what it felt like to 
be married to a murderer.

There were pictures in the paper of all the people he had 
killed.  The cops were expecting quite an angry mob today, 
despite the freezing temperatures, as everyone turned out to 
get a look at the monster in their midst.

Amy had not seen him since his arrest.  The thought of it now 
made her almost throw up, but she had to go.

Those pictures, the lives now lost, everyone murmured over 
them in such sympathy.  Those poor souls.  What a terrible 
thing.  

But for her, there was no sympathy, no tears.  She felt the 
icy rage of the city as clearly as she did the winter chill.  
How could you?  How could you marry such a man?  How could 
you have never known what he was?

Her own mother had asked, and Amy had no answer.

She clutched her purse on her lap as she directed the car 
toward the courthouse.  It felt heavy and hard, the gun 
bearing the weight of its steel body and all the other bodies 
it had gathered over time.  She knew their names and faces 
now.   Michael Brydek.  Annette Crenshaw.  Hannah McKillop.  
The list stretched on and on.

She was going to turn the gun over to the cops and seal his 
fate.  Maybe she could pack up the kids and move somewhere 
far away where no one would ask them about their serial 
killer father.

The place was parked up for three blocks, like the circus was 
in town.  Amy plunked her quarters in the meter like a 
dutiful citizen and trudged back through the blinding wind 
until she reached the courthouse.  With her hood on and the 
scarf over her mouth, no one could recognize her.  She had to 
shove her way to the front, where the cops had set up 
barricades along the staircase.  

She pulled off one glove and put her hand in her purse.  The 
gun burned her fingers it was so cold.  Just as she clasped 
her hand over it, the cars pulled up.  Two cruisers had their 
lights on.  Maybe one of those cops would take the gun. 

She wanted Jimmy to see her hand it over.

He arrived in a shiny black town car with his fancy lawyers.  
They were lining up three deep to represent him because James 
Dean Trumbull was the biggest thing to hit Boston since Larry 
Bird.  Funny, but no one had offered her a bit of help.


The officers led the way, and Amy felt the crowd push at her 
back, bending her over the metal railing at her waist.  She 
struggled to get loose to see.  He was coming.

There he was on the steps with his lawyers on one side.  They 
had dark coats and thick briefcases.  Someone had given Jimmy 
a good suit.  The one they got from K-mart was still at home 
in their closet.  She had even restitched the hems for him, 
the lying dirty bastard.

"Itıs him, there he is!"

Jimmy turned and waved as if he was on the red carpet.  He 
did not see her.  She was just another face in the crowd.

She heard herself yell, but the words were lost in the voices 
hollering around her.  The gun felt like cold fire in her 
hands.

She cried out again, and pointed it.   One shot, then two.  

The cops swarmed at her, an ocean of blue, pushing her back 
into the crowd as the metal barrier came crashing down.

The last thing she remembered was Jimmyıs face as he fell 
bleeding on the white steps.

She floated away from the noise, free.  It was over.

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

End Chapter Sixteen.  Continued in the Epilogue.

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