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

Chapter One

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


Anyone who didn't know him and the gold shield he kept in his 
breast pocket might think that Manny Ahuja was up to no good. 
It was near four in the morning, and he was driving the 
streets of Boston with his lights off.  The reason he was 
behind the wheel at such an ungodly hour was because of a 
phone call.  Thirty minutes ago, he had rolled over in bed, 
receiver pressed against his unshaven face, and heard the 
tense voice on the other line: "We may have a deuce."

Holy shit, mother of god.  He nearly crossed himself again 
now, thinking about it.

He had no trouble finding the joint; the entire street was 
dark except for one house that shone like a Christmas tree.

As he pulled up outside the place, he spotted two cruisers 
and his partner's Crown Vic parked in front.  O'Hara had been 
the voice on the other end of the line.  They had called him 
first because he was the senior detective, with seventeen 
years on the job to Manny's eleven.  O'Hara and Ahuja.  The 
Lou always joked that they should have been a friggin' tap 
dance act at Ellis Island.

Manny checked around for any signs of the press but did not 
see anything.  It was only a matter of time.  If they were 
really sitting on a deuce, the city was going to go boom in 
the next twenty-four hours.

A uniform cop nodded as Manny passed him at the door.  "Sir," 
the kid said, shifting from one foot to the other because of 
nerves or the cold.  "They're inside."

No, shit, Manny thought.  I'm a detective, first-grade.  I 
believe I can find the body by myself.

The screen door slammed behind him as he entered the small, 
neat living room.  There was no sign of anything amiss, save 
his presence, and Manny trooped toward the sound of voices in 
the back.

O'Hara met him the carpeted hall.  He was a foot shorter than 
Manny and nearly a foot wider to boot.  O'Hara hoisted his 
belt higher across his waist as he sidled up to Manny.  
"Looks like a deuce," he said.  "Male DB is bound hands and 
feet with duck tape.  Female shows signs of sexual assault.  
Both have superficial knife wounds and a gunshot to the head.  
It's got to be the same guy."

"Yeah, well we all said this asshole didn't come out of 
nowhere.  He's been practicing.  Does Chief know yet?"
  
"He's already in there.  Happy fucking Valentine's, eh?"

Manny drifted to the open doorway, where the Chief stood with 
another uniform and the Coroner.  The room was crammed full 
of old dark furniture.  In the middle, as a centerpiece, was 
a sleigh bed with two dead people on it.  The white sheets 
had been drenched in blood, as if someone had thrown a bucket 
of red paint over them.  It was starting to become rust-
colored around the edges as the hour of violence faded into 
the past.

The woman's eyes were open.  She had seen it coming but been 
unable even to scream because her mouth was taped shut.  The 
man was naked too.  He had a knife wound cut low across his 
belly, and Manny could guess exactly what the killer had 
threatened there.

You poor bastard, he thought.  When he didn't slice it off, 
you probably thought you were going to live.

The Chief walked over to where Manny hung back in the 
doorway.  "It's like a rerun," Manny said, nodding at the 
scene on the bed.  "Got to be the same perp."

"No one, I mean no one, uses the words 'serial killer,'" 
replied the Chief, holding up a single finger in front of 
Manny's nose.  "Not until we are one hundred percent 
positive, and even then, I don't want a single god damn word 
about this in the press unless it comes from my office.  Are 
we clear on this point, Detective?"

"Crystal."

As the Chief lowered his finger, Manny thought he noticed a 
slight tremor.  Boston hadn't seen a serial killer since 
Albert DiSalvo took to strangling women with their pantyhose.

Manny looked around at the blood spray, the tangled sheets 
and the pale, naked bodies.  Where the hell did you come 
from? he wondered. 

Maybe the guy was an import.  Maybe he'd just gotten out of 
prison.  Or maybe he had been among them all this time, 
becoming this ravening animal right under their noses.

////

The FBI did not celebrate Valentine's Day like a kindergarten 
class, or even like some other more casual offices.  There 
were no crepe paper banners or hearts tacked to the bulletin 
boards.  The most you might see is a red tie paired with the 
usual dark suit, or perhaps heart-shaped earrings if a woman 
were feeling particularly fanciful.

For her part, Scully wore her usual wrinkle-resistant black 
pantsuit and no-nonsense expression.  Valentine's had been 
just another day for her for six years now, and this one was 
not proving any different.

She looked up from her monitor and saw Mulder across the 
bullpen floor chatting up a blonde woman by the coffee 
machine.  He was biding his time, spending these last few 
days before they got the X-files back doing something close 
to nothing.  This morning he'd shown her a plastic dish full 
of paper clips and told her that he was already "packed."

She put her head down as he returned, but instead of taking 
his seat, he ambled around the desk to stand over her.  
"Here," he said, setting a candy heart down in front of her 
keyboard.  "I don't like the green ones."

"Be mine," Scully read flatly.  "Be your what, Mulder?"

He shrugged and popped a heart into his mouth.  "Partner, 
come Monday morning. I think they've finally decided we're 
not hiding Jeffrey Spender's body in the file cabinets."

"That was his blood all over the floor.  Something terrible 
happened to him in your office, Mulder."

"And the sooner they let me back there, the sooner I can 
figure out what it was."

Scully considered reminding him that, according to the closed 
circuit security cameras, Diana Fowley had been the last one 
to see Spender.  The tape showed them both getting into the 
elevator to go down to the basement; only Fowley reappeared.

"I just can't wait until we're done with these jerk-off 
assignments," Mulder said as he took his seat.

Scully rubbed her temples with one hand and wondered when, 
exactly, the X-Files had become the only legitimate work 
performed at the FBI.  Her phone rang and she picked it up, 
sighing her name into the receiver.

"Agent Scully," said Skinner on the other end.  "I have 
something to discuss with you, a matter of some urgency.  
Could you please come up to my office at your earliest 
convenience."

"I'm on my way now, sir," Scully said, preparing to stand.

Mulder's eyebrows rose.  "Hot date?" he asked.

"Skinner asked to see me."

"Just you?"

"Just me."

"He say what it's about?"

"Save my seat," she said as she left.

"Ask him if we can get new curtains," Mulder called after 
her.

In his office, Skinner motioned for her to take a seat as he 
regarded her with a serious gaze.  "You had asked me about 
the possibility of finding you work outside the X-Files.  Is 
that something you are still interested in pursuing?"

Scully sat up straighter and cleared her throat.  "I, uh, I 
wasn't thinking that my request would be granted this soon. 
Mulder and I haven't even been officially reassigned yet."

"That makes the transition even smoother, should you decide 
this is what you want."

"May I ask the nature of this prospective assignment?"

He slid a folder across the desk to her.  "Boston PD found 
Lauren and Michael Byrdek dead in their home this morning.  A 
man broke in, apparently tied up the husband and raped the 
wife before killing them both.  This is the second such 
attack in Boston area in the past two months."

Scully glanced up from the file.  "Serial killer?"

"That's where you would come in.  They want an FBI 
pathologist to examine the evidence and determine if this is 
in fact the work of a single killer."

Scully let out a long breath and closed the folder.  This was 
a choice assignment, a potential career-building case.  These 
sorts of opportunities generally went to established big 
names who had been working within the FBI for decades or the 
hot-shot young ones on the fast track.  Scully was neither.

"I'm honored to be considered," Scully said.

"The FBI owes you," replied Skinner.  "At least this much."

So that was the reason for their eagerness in granting her 
request for more work.  She had not sued either Peyton Ritter 
or the FBI over her accidental shooting the month before, but 
there was always room for her to change her mind.  Apparently 
the FBI brass realized this as well.

This wouldn't be a lengthy job, she figured as she peeked at 
the photos again.  She could possibly even return before next 
Monday.

"There's more," Skinner said, leaning forward.  

"More bodies?"

"No, not as far as I know.  But the Boston field office is 
losing a supervisor this spring to retirement.  Word has it 
they are looking to hire from outside."

"You're saying this could be an audition of sorts," Scully 
said.

"It all depends."

"On what?"

"On how far out you want to get."

Far out, Scully thought.  That's what she had thought about 
the X-Files when she had been assigned to them six years 
earlier.  Since then, she had been on both sides of the gun 
with Mulder, followed him and the evidence around the globe, 
been naked, grilled, cut up and bit.  Mulder trusted her.  He 
probably even loved her, in his way, but she had failed to 
get in on the birth of his paranormal universe.

In the beginning, there was Mulder.  And the Gunmen.  And, 
apparently, Diana.

No matter what she did, Scully would always be part of the 
"B" team.

"I'll do it," she told Skinner, standing up.  Then she 
hesitated.  "Sir, if this work keeps me beyond next 
Monday..."

He squinted at her.  "Yes?"

"What about Mulder?"

Skinner gave her a look that suggested she might have thought 
about this before she requested outside work.  "Agent Fowley 
has expressed an interest in staying on with the X-Files," he 
said.  "Her request is under consideration."

"By whom?" Scully asked, separating the words for emphasis.

Skinner looked surprised that she did not know.  "By Mulder.  
He didn't tell you?"

Scully dug her fingernails into the back of the leather 
chair.  "Tell Boston I'll be there this afternoon," she said.

///

Jake Winthrop sat at the kitchen table with headphones on, 
bobbing his head in time to the beat while his mother poured 
coffee behind him.  It was the first time they had been in 
the same room in nearly two days.  She had made him heart-
shaped pancakes with strawberries, just as she had done back 
in elementary school before Dad left.  Before the cancer.  
Before everything went straight to hell and left Jake holding 
the bag.

She set a mug by his plate and pulled one earpiece away from 
his head.  "I've got to get to the hospital.  Do you need a 
ride to school?"

He shook his head.  "Tommy's driving me.  He'll be over in a 
few."

His mother checked her watch and frowned.  "You guys are 
going to be late if you don't get it in gear soon."

"We'll make it okay."

"Homework all done?"

A little late to be worrying about that now, Jake thought.  
"Sure," he told her.  He made a mental note to bring a book 
home soon so she wouldn't get suspicious.

She grabbed her well-worn coat from the back of a chair and 
ruffled his hair on the way out the door.  "Be good," she 
said.  "And wear a hat.  It's ten degrees outside."

"Yeah, yeah."

Jake peeled an orange over the garbage can as he watched his 
mother scrape the frost from her windshield, get into her '89 
Toyota and drive away.  He smacked the bottom of the 
receiver, causing the phone to jump into his hand.  Dialing 
the numbers with one thumb, he licked sticky sweet juice from 
the fingers of his other hand.  "Tommy?  Yeah, she's gone 
now.  I'll be ready in five."

He hung up the phone and took the stairs two at a time up to 
his room, passing his mother's unmade bed and his sister's 
empty room.  Clothes littered the floor of his bedroom, and 
he sifted through them to find the jeans he wanted.  He 
fished a switchblade from the back pocket, testing it once 
before tucking it into his current pants. 

On his way out the door, he paused to stick one hand back 
into the room.  He lifted a Boston Red Sox hat from the end 
of the bedpost and put it on as he bounded down the stairs 
and out into the cold gray morning.

///

Whatever Scully was meeting with Skinner about, it seemed to 
take forever, and without anyone to tell him otherwise, 
Mulder used the opportunity to sneak down to the basement and 
feather his nest.  He tacked up a few of his old photos, 
placed his moon rock back on its shelf, and was admiring a 3-
headed pig fetus in a jar when he heard high-heeled footsteps 
behind him.

"Look what someone left us," he said without turning around.  
"It's Mother Goose meets the Grimm brothers, Scully."

He whirled to show her his new find and discovered Diana 
standing in the office.  "More like Mother Goose meets 
Chernobyl," she said with a smile.

"Diana, hey.  What, um, what brings you down my way?"

She pointed at a sad looking fern across the room.  "I came 
to get my plant."

Mulder scratched the back of his head as he watched her 
retrieve the fern.  He had a sneaking suspicion it was 
actually Scully's old plant, but he wasn't sure enough to 
raise an objection.  Besides, it was not as though Scully had 
thought to take it herself months ago when they had left the 
office.

No, Scully had walked out and not looked back.

"I see you're about ready to resume your rightful place 
here," Diana said, fern in hand.  "I hope you know I never 
wanted to take the job from you in the first place.  I argued 
at every turn for your reinstatement."

Her tone was friendly, but the implication was clear: quid 
pro quo.

"I appreciate that," Mulder answered mildly.

"I've been wondering if you've given any thought to my 
offer."

"To join the X-Files?"  Mulder coughed.  "I've given it lots 
of thought, but I'm sure you know that official approval 
isn't up to me."

She gave him a full smile, showing her impressive teeth.  
"Your word carries a lot of weight, Fox.  But I'm sure you 
know that."

"I think you may overestimate my power in the bureaucracy."

"I think maybe you underestimate it."  She picked at the 
fern's leaves.  "But in any case, it looks like you may have 
a position opening up here soon."

"What are you talking about?" Mulder asked, but the hairs on 
the back of his neck stood up.  Out of everything about 
Diana, her uncanny ability to know things about his life 
before he did was the one thing that gave him slight pause.

She's got connections, Scully had argued, and not the good 
kind.

Diana blinked at him, wide-eyed.  "I mean about Scully going 
to Boston."

"Boston?  I thought she just went to lunch."

"She must have had a hankering for lobster," Diana said, 
"because she's accepted an assignment in Boston.  Something 
about a possible serial murder?"

Mulder was feeling around for his cell phone.

"You mean she didn't tell you?" Diana asked.  "You know, I've 
heard they're looking for a new full-time supervisor up 
there."

Mulder hit speed dial and waited for the connection to go 
through.  He cursed when he got her voice mail and hung up 
the phone with an angry snap.

"I've got to go," he told Diana.

"You should be happy for her," Diana called.  "It's what she 
wanted."

Mulder halted.  "What did you say?"

"Scully asked for the work.  She wanted time away from the X-
files."

We don't even have them back yet, Mulder thought.  She's had 
seven months away.  What the hell is going on here?

He patted the doorframe several times and nodded to himself.  
"I've got to go," he repeated.

///

Jane Dunbar grew up as the only girl in a family of six kids.  
She had three older brothers and two younger ones, so she 
could shoot a BB gun by age four.  Her brothers always made 
her play the robber in "cops-n-robbers," and Jane used to 
joke that's why she was so good at thinking like a bad guy.  
She had made detective in just over five years, partially 
because she was female and the Mayor liked to have at least 
one token woman detective at all times, and partially because 
she got in early and stayed late almost every shift. 

She was tenacious.  She was smart.  She was also nosy.

"What's with the big hush-hush meetings?" she asked Manny 
Ahuja in the break room.  "You guys catch a hot one this 
morning?"

"You could say that."

"Must be big, you got the Chief in here."

"Mmm."  He sipped his coffee and concentrated his attention 
on the newspaper in front of him.

Jane popped the lid on a Coke and took the adjoining seat.  
She did not know Manny very well yet, but what she knew of 
him, she liked.  He did not grab her ass or call her "honey," 
and he did not expect her to clean the coffee machine every 
day.  He was young, like her.  Unlike her, he was quiet, 
which wasn't exactly helping her cause at the moment.

"Did you see that red-head in the suit come through here 
earlier?  I didn't recognize her."

Manny shrugged.  

"Aw, come on.  I know you must've met her.  You were back 
there with the rest of them."

"She's FBI, that's all I know."

Jane let out a low whistle.  "FBI, Jesus."  Her eyes went 
large as she put the pieces together.  "Holy shit, he hit 
again, didn't he?  We've got a serial."

Manny dropped the paper and grabbed her wrist.  "Where did 
you hear that?"

"That's got to be it, right?"  Triumphant, she pulled free.  
"Makes total sense now - the Chief, all the closed-door chit-
chat, and then the FBI comes calling.  I knew it!  I knew 
he'd hit again."

"Will you keep your voice down?"

"They must be forming a task force, right?  I mean, a case 
this big, they're going to need a lot of manpower."

"Don't get your hopes up," Manny said, picking his paper off 
the table.

"I can help.  You know I can.  I took that summer course at 
Quantico last year."

"You've been here ten months.  It ain't gonna happen for you 
yet."  He smirked.  "'Sides, you already got a big case, 
remember?"

Jane ran a hand through her hair.  "Oh, the hell with you.  
That's not a real case, and you know damn well it."

Manny grinned.  "Someone's got to investigate.  Someone's got 
to make the world safe for bald men everywhere."

As the newbie, Jane got the less-than-exciting fare on the 
detective menu, including habitual confessors, purse 
snatchers, kleptomaniacs, and lately, a hat thief.  For the 
past few months - maybe longer for all they knew - someone 
had been sneaking into people's homes and stealing their 
hats.  Folks came home to find their doors and windows 
jimmied and their hats gone.  

"Every serial killer has to start somewhere," Manny said.  
"Maybe this one was a hat thief back in the day.  You catch 
this guy, and you're saving lives."

He was teasing her, which ordinarily would be a good thing.  
Teasing meant she was fitting in.  But not now, when the PD 
was sitting on the case of the brand-new century, and she was 
stuck asking people shit like, "And when was the last time 
you wore the hat?"

O'Hara stuck his bald head in the door.  "We're set to roll," 
he told Manny.  "I'll meet you out back."

"Duty calls," Manny said as he sent his paper cup sailing 
into the garbage can with a perfect shot.  "If I see any 
suspicious hats, I'll let you know."

Jane gave his retreating back the middle finger salute.

///

With a new gunshot scar decorating both the front and the 
back of her, Scully had a renewed appreciation for the human 
body, both for its resiliency and its astonishing fragility.  
She dug out the embedded twenty-two caliber bullet from 
Lauren Byrdek's left prefrontal cortex and held it up to the 
light.  Blood and tissue clung to the metal pellet.  It 
seemed impossible that such a small object could end the life 
of a healthy, one hundred and twenty-five pound woman.

Lauren's bullet hit the silver tray with a clink; Scully 
would send it to ballistics for comparison with the bullets 
in the McPherson case, but she had little doubt they would 
match.  Those had been twenty-two caliber as well.

Dutifully, she catalogued each nick and scratch.  There were 
surprisingly few defensive wounds.  She gathered they must 
have been asleep when the killer entered the house.

Midway through her second autopsy, another gowned and masked 
person entered the autopsy bay.  He waved and joined her by 
the body.  "Dana, hi.  It's Ray Peterkin.  Remember me?"

For a second, she didn't.  Behind the mask and googles, she 
couldn't place his face, but his voice struck a familiar 
chord.  "Ray," she said, remembering.  "Of course."  They had 
come through the Academy together.

"I was so pleased when I heard it was going to be you doing 
the work here," he said.

"I didn't realize you were in Boston."

"For three years now.  I'm the principle liaison with the 
police on this case.  How did we manage to score you for this 
gig, anyway?  I thought you were chained to the X-Files."  

"I'm on furlough," Scully said, deadpan, but Ray smiled.

"Their loss, our gain." He looked down at Michael Byrdek's 
naked body.  "How's it going?  You have anything for us yet?"

"I think it's safe to say it's the same guy.  The MO is 
nearly identical, from what I can gather, and the bullets 
appear to be similar to the naked eye.  A DNA test on the 
semen samples should seal the case."

"How long will that take?"

"Quick and dirty, a day or so.  More thorough analysis will 
take longer.  I also isolated three pubic hairs which appear 
to be from a male Caucasian."

"This is great.  Anything you can give us, we'll take."

"Well, I think he's probably right handed.  You see this cut 
here?" She indicated a long slice across Michael Byrdek's 
belly.  "It's deeper at the right end, meaning the knife 
probably entered at this point.  It would be hard to pull off 
this sort of pattern from the left side."

"Can you tell what kind of knife it was?"

"Smooth edge, about six to eight inches long, I'd say.  I'll 
have all the details in my final report."

Ray pushed up the sleeve on his gown to check his watch.  
"Great.  What do you say I buy you dinner later and we can go 
over it?"

Her stomach rumbled in anticipation.  All she'd had to eat 
were some crackers and a cup of coffee on the plane.  "That 
would be fine," she answered.  "Give me an hour and a half to 
finish up here."

"That works for me."  He placed his hand on her back and 
smiled again.  "Good to see you, Dana.  I look forward to 
working with you for real instead of on some mock raid 
choreographed by Agent Wichouski."

Scully finished with the bodies about forty-five minutes 
later, giving her time to clean up and jot down her notes 
before Ray returned.  She sat alone in a tiny office, writing 
her report on her laptop.  Every few minutes, she had to stop 
and swivel her sore neck.

I'm getting too old for this, she thought.  In seven days she 
would be thirty-six.

It was nearing the time when Ray said he would meet her when 
she heard footsteps in the hall.  But instead of Ray, it was 
Mulder who rounded the corner.  "So let me get this 
straight," he said, "I get stuck with background checks for 
four days while Skinner offers you a fancy assignment up 
here."

Wearily, Scully shut down her computer.  "How did you find 
me?"

"Your plane ticket said Boston.  Not too hard after that.  
Proceed directly to the nearest morgue.  Do not pass go, do 
not collect two hundred dollars."

Right.  She guessed that was the wrong question.  "Okay then, 
why are you here?"  

"I heard you wanted out of the X-files.  You might have 
mentioned that, Scully, on your way out of town.  You might 
have given two weeks' notice or at least left a note."

"I never said I wanted out of the X-Files.  This is a 
temporary assignment.  I may be back in DC tomorrow."

"And if you're not?  What then?"

"Then maybe you can have Diana take my place.  Or were you 
just planning that anyway?"

"I wasn't---I never."  He paced the room.  "I have said 
nothing about Diana joining the X-files."

"Yes," she agreed.  "You said nothing."

"That's because nothing has been decided."

"When were you going to mention it?  When I came to work and 
found her sitting in my chair?"

"Scully, you and I have been over this and over this."

"Then we needn't go over it again."  She shoved her papers 
and her laptop into her briefcase.  When she raised her head 
again, Mulder was standing over her with his hands on his 
hips.

"You're trying to force my hand with Diana, is that what this 
about?"

She sighed.  "If that's what you think..." 

"I don't know what to think.  You leave town without a word.  
I have to find out from someone else that you're thinking of 
leaving the X-files."

"Who?" she challenged.  "Who told you that?"

Mulder blanched, and then sputtered.  "I--it doesn't matter 
who told me.  The point is, it should have come from you."

Scully gathered her coat and her things to go meet Ray.  "Go 
home, Mulder."

He shook his head.

"Mulder.  I'm here for a few days.  I will be back.  If you 
really want, we can talk about it then."

"The last time you went off on one of these expeditions 
alone, you ended up in the emergency room."

He didn't need to remind her.  She had swallowed two Tylenol 
earlier to calm the throbbing in her still-healing abdominal 
muscles.

"I got shot by the agent I was working with," she said, "so 
statistically, I'm safer in this room alone than with you in 
it."

He looked genuinely wounded.  "You really think I would shoot 
you?"

Scully took a deep breath and relented.  "No, Mulder, I don't 
think that.  But I do think you should go home."

"I read the case files on the plane up here," he said, and 
she did not bother to ask how he had obtained them.  "You've 
got an ugly one here, Scully."

"I know it."

"Skilled entry into the homes so that he doesn't wake the 
victims.  He's practiced at controlling both of them at once.  
Brings his tools with him and exits without detection.  This 
killer has been a work in progress for some time now.  He's 
probably already in the system.  He may have other victims 
the cops don't know about."

"Everyone is on it, Mulder.  Truly."

At that point, Ray Peterkin reappeared, looking much like she 
remembered with his short dark hair and wire-rimmed glasses.  
"Dana, sorry I'm running a bit behind."  He drew up short 
when he saw Mulder.  "Oh, I didn't realize you had company."

"Ray Peterkin, this is Fox Mulder," Scully said grudgingly.

"The Fox Mulder?" Ray asked, reaching to shake Mulder's hand.

"There better not be another one," Mulder replied.

Scully already saw the gleam in Ray's eye and mentally 
expanded the dinner list to include three.

"Say, I don't suppose you would mind taking a look at the 
case for us?"

Mulder slung an arm around Ray's shoulders.  "Ray, I already 
have some ideas."

The men walked out together, talking with great animation, as 
Scully followed silently, ever behind.

///



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

Chapter Two

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


James Dean Trumbull had, at age thirty-nine, outlasted his 
namesake by a good fifteen years.  His mother had fallen in 
love with the fifties film idol's tragic, romantic saga, 
and since Jimmy's father was not around to dispute her name 
choice, James Dean had been reborn in a Hoboken hospital in 
1960.  His mother was a great believer in karma, and she 
had felt the previous James Dean was cut down before he 
could achieve the successes due him.  By christening her 
son in the dead man's name, she truly believed that fate 
would pick off where it had left off, and Jimmy would enjoy 
a magic carpet ride into history.

Forty years later, she was still waiting.

Jimmy sat at his cramped kitchen table, surrounded by 
avocado-colored appliances, and leaned closer to the 
scanner.  He had a cigarette in one hand and a pen in the 
other, just in case he heard something worth writing down 
on his brand-new tablet of paper.

Amy entered the room just as he was blowing out a smoke 
ring.  "If you must do that, at least go out to the stoop," 
she said, waving her hand in front of her face.  She had 
her night watchman's uniform on -- sensible black shoes, 
blue polyester pants, and a shiny metal gun hooked to her 
hip.

"Can't," he told her.  "Got to be here to listen."

"You listen to that damn box more than you do me.  Sitting 
here all the time with that radio playing constantly.  What 
if one of the kids had a nightmare or something?"

"I'd hear 'em."  He blew out another long train of smoke.  
The police scanner crackled as the dispatcher radioed an 
armed robbery in progress.

Fuck that, he thought.  Get to the good stuff.

Amy's keys clattered onto the counter as she fished around 
in her purse for something.  "Well at least do the dishes 
if you're going to be sitting here in the kitchen all 
night."

"Something big is going down," he said.  "You can tell.  No 
one's saying anything yet, but you can hear it anyway.  
They're all on edge."

She picked her heavy winter coat up from the back of a 
chair.  "You think you're the only one with this toy?  You 
think there aren't a hundred reporters out there listening 
to the exact same thing you are?  And they've got jobs, 
Jimmy.  The papers are going to take their stories over 
anything you might come up with."
 
"That's why I've got to stay on top of this.  I have to 
find an angle no one else has."

Amy shook her head as if she had heard this story before.

"You wait," he said.  "You'll see.  I'll get my headline 
and then everyone will want a piece of me.  I'm going to 
be an overnight sensation."  He grinned and reached for her 
ass.  "You can say you knew me when."

"I know you, all right," she replied, ducking him.  She 
shrugged into her coat and picked up her old leather purse.  
"I've got to run or McCracken will have my ass."

"He can't have it.  Your ass is mine."

She made a face, but he could see the smile in her eyes.  
"There's leftover cupcakes in the fridge," she said, 
leaning down to kiss him.

Right next to the beer, he knew.  Chocolate frosted 
cupcakes with little hearts on them for Valentine's Day.  
Amy talked tough, but she was such a goddamned sap.

"I'll see you at six," she said.

"Drive safe." 

She left out the back way, into the alley, and cold air 
blew in through the kitchen, stirring the curtains and 
lifting the pages of his writing tablet.

"Five-six, be advised, suspect has previous warrant for 
attempted homicide."

Jimmy leaned back with his smoke, and listened.

/////

Ray Peterkin led Mulder and Scully six blocks across town 
to a tiny silver diner, which sat squeezed between hulking 
concrete buildings.  "The ambiance isn't the best, but I 
can vouch for the pot roast," he said as he held the door 
open for them.  "Besides, it's the best we can do tonight, 
with Valentine's Day and all."

The large windows inside had steamed over, and people sat 
packed close in the narrow booths.  Ray grabbed the one 
farthest at the end as an elderly couple stood to leave.  
Their half-empty cups of coffee and two scraggly dollar 
bills still lay on the table.

Mulder slid in first, and Scully took the seat next to him.  
He supposed he was lucky she hadn't opted to sit with Ray.  

"You didn't tell me you were bringing Agent Mulder with 
you," Ray said as they waited for the table to be cleared.

"That's because I didn't bring him," Scully said.

"Separate flights.  I couldn't get away as quickly, you 
know how it is."

Scully did not look at him.  "Well, as thrilled as I am to 
have you both here, I've got to ask -- who is minding the 
X-Files?"

At that point, Scully did turn.  "Yes, Mulder, who is 
minding the X-files?"

A young man in a dirty apron came to take the dishes away.  
Mulder leaned back to give him room.  "Ah, the X-Files are 
on hold for a few days.  They're redoing the office."

"Really?  Our ceiling tiles are half gone and we can't get 
anyone to fix them.  I'd love to know your secret."

"Have someone murdered at your desk," Mulder said.

Ray blinked, and Mulder smiled his best "am I kidding or 
not?" smile.  A waitress came and placed plastic menus in 
front of them, but they all took Ray's advice and ordered 
the pot roast.

"So what's the word?" Ray asked Scully when the waitress 
had gone.  "Can you sign off on a serial yet?"

"It's the same guy," Mulder replied before Scully could 
answer.  She glared at him, and Mulder swallowed half his 
glass of water.  

"As I said earlier," Scully began, "we'll have to wait for 
lab tests to be absolutely sure, but I think it's safe to 
say it's the same killer.  I wouldn't put anything out to 
the media yet, though."

Ray gave a frustrated sigh.  "They're still processing the 
prints from the Byrdek house, but we didn't get anything 
from the first scene.  I don't expect this one will be 
different.  He wears gloves the whole time."

"Powdered latex," Scully agreed.  "I found traces on both 
victims."

"There's no way this guy is an amateur," Mulder said, 
leaning across the table.  "You don't start out with two 
healthy young victims at once.  You have to work your way 
up to that kind of kill."

"So where did he come from?" Ray asked.  "Boston PD already 
started looking at similar MOs after the first homicides 
and nothing really jumped out."

"They should look at the rapes, too, particularly the ones 
where the victim sustained extensive injury."

Ray shook his head as their dinners were placed in front of 
them.  "I've done mostly simple homicide, a couple of 
kidnappings here and there.  Nothing like this.  Nothing 
where killing was the motive in and of itself."

"There's always a motive," Mulder corrected.  "Whether it's 
a need for dominance or a bizarre kind of curiosity at 
seeing the life go out of someone, they all have a reason."

"And this guy?"

Mulder looked up, fork in hand.  "Definitely he gets off on 
the power, or he wouldn't make the husbands watch.  I'd 
need to see the crime scene to say more."

"That can be arranged."

Mulder glanced over and saw Scully picking at her food.  
She had adopted strange eating habits recently due to the 
injury to her abdomen.  He was wondering whether to offer 
her his roll -- a bland food her intestines could probably 
handle -- when a lovely young black woman approached the 
table.  She had a basket full of roses individually 
wrapped.

"Good evening, gentlemen," she said, eyeing both Ray and 
Mulder from beneath thick lashes.  "A rose for the lady on 
Valentine's day?  Just one dollar."

Mulder chuckled as Scully focused on her plate.  She was 
not exactly the hearts and flowers type. "You've got the 
wrong table," he said.

But Ray was reaching for his wallet.  "I'll take one."

"Oh, how excellent," the woman replied, handing him the 
flower with a sweeping bow.  "May you always be lucky in 
love, sir."

Ray stretched the rose out to Scully.  "What the hey -- 
it's only a dollar.  That's a hell of a job, selling these 
things on a cold night like this."

Scully held the flower to her nose and inhaled.  "You 
shouldn't have," she said, but she didn't really sound like 
she meant it. 

"Maybe I can have them dig up a candle and some soft music 
too," Mulder said, craning his head around to look at the 
counter.

"Don't be ridiculous," Scully replied, all business again.  
She set the rose next to her plate. 

"Oh, hey.  I hope I wasn't stepping on anyone's toes," said 
Ray.  "I just felt sorry for the lady."

For the first time, Mulder noticed the other man was not 
wearing a wedding ring.

"How about we check out the crime scene now," Scully 
suggested.

Ray agreed quickly and pulled a pair of twenties out of his 
pocket.  He must have felt sorry for their waitress too -- 
that was a thirty percent tip.

Scully gathered her coat and her rose and slid out of the 
booth.  Mulder followed, fishing around in his pocket for a 
toothpick.  Instead he found a leftover candy heart, which 
he set on top of the money: KISS.

/////

Scully parked behind Ray, with Mulder pulling up right 
behind her.  His bright headlights lit up her car like a 
UFO beam, and Scully covered her eyes with one hand until 
he turned off the engine.  They both got out into the 
freezing, windless night as Ray approached.

"See that car parked over there?" he asked, nodding with 
his chin.  "That's the Herald's crime reporter.  We've got 
only a few short hours left before this thing goes boom."

"They must already know that two people were murdered 
here," Scully said, and Ray nodded.

"We haven't said the words murdered, only that the Brydeks 
were found dead early this morning, but you don't have a 
uniformed cop babysitting a house with CO poisoning."  With 
a last glance over his shoulder at the reporter in the car, 
Ray held out an arm towards the front door.  "Shall we?"

Mulder balked.  "Which way did the killer get in?"

"Through a kitchen window in the back.  Looks like he 
jimmied open the sash with his knife."

"Let's start there, then."

All three agents trooped around the side of the house, the 
ground hard and frozen beneath their feet.  No chance for 
footprints, Scully thought as they reached their 
destination.

The killer had picked a good spot.  Thick pine bushes hid 
the window from the side neighbors, and the trees at the 
back blocked the rear view.  

Mulder was clearly thinking along the same lines, because 
he surveyed the surrounding houses before proclaiming, "He 
didn't pick this one at random.  This is a reasonably 
pricey neighborhood, with many houses likely to have 
security systems.  Plus, he knew he would be hidden from 
view back here."

Mulder raised the broken sash partway and stood on tiptoe 
to look inside.  "You guys go around front.  I'll meet you 
in there."

"Mulder," Scully protested, but he was already wriggling 
his way through the window.

Ray watched Mulder's feet disappear into the darkness of 
the house.  "Does he always work like this?"

"You're lucky there wasn't a biohazard warning on the 
window," Scully answered as they walked back around to the 
front door.  "He would have jumped in sooner."

"They say he used to be the best."

Scully sighed.  "He still is."

Ray nodded at the uniformed cop guarding the door and 
removed the key from the lockbox.  "This seems sort of 
silly now to go through all of this if folks can just climb 
in through the back window like the killer.  I hope the 
reporter wasn't taking notes."

They entered the house and Ray felt along the wall for a 
light switch.  Scully pulled out her flashlight in the 
meantime and started for the bedroom.  She could hear 
Mulder's footsteps in the back.

She followed her own trail of light down the hall, catching 
the image of her shadow on the wall as she crept along the 
carpet.  The killer had come this way, she thought as she 
walked the same path.  

She could almost feel him, his heart accelerating as he 
neared the bedroom door, the knife in his gloved hand.   
Had he worn a mask?  Maybe not if he'd intended to kill 
them from the start.  Each step was counting down to death: 
five, four, three, two...

"Hey," Mulder said, making her jump as he flicked on the 
overhead lights.  "I think he must have subdued the husband 
first."

Scully looked at the dried bloodstains on the sheets and 
the spatter against the headboard.  The seeping stains on 
the pillows and the high velocity spatter were consistent 
with the gunshots to the head she had recorded during 
autopsy; the smears on the sheet indicated Lauren and 
Michael had struggled with their attacker, leaving marks 
from their superficial wounds.

Ray materialized behind her as Mulder walked around to 
Lauren's side of the bed.  "Anything missing from the 
house?" he asked Ray.

"Detectives are still trying to determine that, since the 
victims aren't available to clarify.  Nothing obvious was 
missing other than Lauren's purse."

"Most likely he took it as a souvenir."

"That's what we're thinking, yeah."

Mulder stuck his head into the master bathroom as Scully 
examined the armoir and the dresser.  "Has anything been 
disturbed in here?" Mulder called, his voice bouncing off 
the porcelain.

"Not to my knowledge," Ray replied.

Mulder pulled his head out of the bathroom.  "Then I think 
he may have used the toilet on his way out.  The seat's 
up."

"So?" Ray asked.

"You ever lived with a woman, Peterkin?  You live through 
one night where she goes to pee and almost falls in, and 
you never leave the seat up again if you value your life."

Ray smirked.  "Point taken."

Scully stared across the room at Mulder, wondering how he 
had come about this personal knowledge of co-habitation.   
The thought of Diana yelping in the middle of the night as 
her ass fell in was somewhat comforting.

"Scully?" Mulder asked, and she realized she was still 
staring.

"I have a void," she said, indicating the dresser.  The men 
came over to have a look.  "Something was sitting here 
behind the perfumes, see?  You can make out the dust 
outline.  It may have been a picture frame."

"Could be another souvenir," Ray ventured.

Scully noticed an odd reflection on the wooden arm of a 
chair sitting near the dresser.  She knelt down for a 
better look and discovered a tiny blood smear.  "Did the 
crime scene unit get this?" she asked.

"Don't know," replied Ray.  "They were pretty thorough."

Scully stood up and took her flashlight out again.  "I 
don't see any other blood in the area. Everything else is 
proximal to the bed.   Maybe it's unrelated to the 
murders?"

"No," Mulder replied, sounding grim.  He took a seat in the 
chair.  "If I put my arms down like this, see where my cuff 
lands?"  He held his arm a half inch from the chair so they 
could see his cuff lined up exactly with the bloodstain.

"He was admiring the scene," Ray said.

All eyes turned toward the bed.  "They may not have been 
dead yet," Mulder said.  "He could have been getting off on 
their fear.  But one thing is clear, he spent more than a 
few minutes in the house.  This was no drive-thru murder; 
he took his time."

"Meaning he knew he wouldn't be interrupted," Scully said.

"More than that," Mulder answered as he heaved himself out 
of the chair.  "He didn't have anywhere else to be."

/////

Jane stayed late that night, poring over the reports she 
had collected on the infamous hat burglar and keeping one 
eye on the Captain's office.  Ahuja and O'Hara had 
disappeared behind the door an hour before and had yet to 
emerge.  There was no sign of the red-headed FBI woman.

Jane decided to make another pass by the coffee machine in 
the break room in hopes of overhearing some dirt from 
someone more in the know than she, but all she found was a 
dilapidated newspaper and a snoozing uniformed officer.  
The coffee got stronger as the day wore on; by the 
nightshift, it was practically sludge.  Jane drank it down 
with extra milk and told herself the caffeine would help 
her stay awake.

She returned to her pile of missing hats, sinking down in 
her rolling chair with a sigh.  So far, the thief had 
pilfered at least five baseball caps, one hand-knit maroon 
hat, a black beret, and a gray fedora.  The hat owners 
could not verify anything else was taken, though one 
baseball-cap owner -- a twelve year old boy -- suspected 
half his bubblegum was also missing. 

Jane had worn her Boston Red Sox hat every day of summer 
during middle school.  She could appreciate the value of a 
good hat, but damned if she could understand the PD's 
desire to waste a detective's time and energy on a nothing 
case.

"It's just hats," she'd told the Lou.  "Who cares?"

"He's just taking hats for now," the Lou replied.  "Who's 
to say what's next?"

That had been three months ago, and since then, it was 
still just hats.

She heard the door to the Captain's office open and men's 
voices in the hall.  She was trying to figure out a natural 
way to go bump into them, when the Chief Malcolm Windsor 
himself appeared in the break room.

He fixed her with a tilt of his head.  "You're Dunbar," he 
said at last, pointing a beefy finger at her.  

Jane felt a thrill that he recognized her.  "Yes, sir."

"Is that stuff any good?"

Jane looked down at the cup in her hand.  "Truthfully, no."

"Ah, pour me one anyway, would you?"  He hitched his belt 
down a bit, freeing his belly to sit perched on the leather 
edge.  He sported white hair shaved close to the scalp, 
broad shoulders and hands that could crack a man in two.  
Jane had no doubt he cut a dashing figure in his day, but 
that seven years behind a desk had taken their toll.
"Here you are, sir," she said as she handed him a cup.  
"Cream or sugar?"

He waved her off as he lowered himself into the nearest 
chair.  "What are you working on, Dunbar?  Anything good?"

He's going to ask me to be on the case, Jane thought.  "No, 
nothing important," she said, trying not to act too 
excited.  "Just the hat thief, sir."

"The hat thief."  He snorted.  "You know I've gotten more 
than twenty calls a day about those damned missing hats.  
Tell me you're getting somewhere, Dunbar."

"I'm following a number of leads, sir."

He arched his back until it cracked and then winked at her.  
"I've told that one a time or two in my day -- means you 
don't have a damn clue who this punk is or why he's 
snitching the hats."

"I think it's probably just for kicks.  I mean, who needs a 
bunch of old hats?"

The Chief ran a hand over his own head.  "Someone without 
any hair."  He peered into the depths of his coffee cup and 
sighed.  "You were right.  This stuff is vile.  I'll know 
to take your word next time, Dunbar."

She accepted the cup back from him and their fingers 
touched.  He had the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

"You still on the job?" he asked.  "Or would you care to 
join an old man in a beer down around the corner?"

She had heard rumors that the Chief was a man of large 
appetites.  "Right now, sir?"

"If you've got work to do..."

"No," she said quickly.  "I was just thinking it was 
quitting time.  Let me get my things."  Through the window, 
she could see O'Hara and Ahuja at their desks.  "Are the 
guys joining us?" she asked.

"Those two old lugs?  I've seen enough of them for one day.  
Of course, if you want to invite them..."

"No, no."  He followed her out of the break room and to her 
desk, where she picked up her coat and her briefcase full 
of files.  

"Night, gentlemen," the Chief said, touching one of his 
strong hands to her back.  "Keep the city safe until 
tomorrow, eh?"

They said nothing, but Jane could feel the men's eyes on 
her as she walked out of the station.

////

Mulder followed Scully to the Marriott hotel where she was 
staying.  The clock on his dash read just after nine, but 
to him it felt like the middle of the night.  You profile 
one sick sonofabitch, you've profiled them all, he thought, 
even though he knew it wasn't true.

This guy kills because he likes it.  He probably doesn't 
even understand why, but he's obsessed and he's not going 
to stop until someone makes him stop.

That pretty much covered them all.

Scully parked before him but waited by her car until he got 
out of his.  She had the flower pressed against her nose 
again.  He looked down at her and said, "I never guessed 
you were the kind of woman who needed that stuff, Scully."

She took a last sniff before lowering the rose to look at 
him.  "No one ever needs a flower, Mulder.  That's rather 
the point of them, I think."

They walked to the front lobby, where the doors slid open 
to reveal blasting heaters overhead.  It stirred Scully's 
hair as she passed under them and tickled the back of 
Mulder's neck.

As he handed over his credit card to the desk clerk, Mulder 
thought, I'd better solve this case because that's the only 
way I get this money back.  

He wondered idly if Kersh had realized his absence yet, and 
if he would even care.  A few more days and Mulder became 
Skinner's problem again.

Scully entered the elevator with him but leaned against the 
opposite side.  "I think you should know," he said as the 
doors slid closed.  "I checked Diana out.  I took what you 
said seriously."

She dragged her eyes open to regard him with an unreadable 
gaze.  "And just how did you check her out?"

"I went to her place and looked around."

"And what, no membership card to 'Conspiracies R Us'?"

"Nothing suspicious whatsoever.  The worst thing I found 
was a pack of cigarettes."

"Let me guess.  Morleys."  At least she didn't roll her 
eyes.

"I would think you'd be happy that she's interested in 
continuing work on the X-files.  Think of how many times we 
could have used an extra pair of hands in the past six 
years, how much more we could have accomplished with three 
instead of two.  Okay, so Diana might not be the warmest 
person in the world, but she really knows her stuff.  She's 
the one who helped me amass the files in the first place."

"So you've mentioned," Scully replied, sounding irritated 
again.

The elevator car was slowing.  "Look, Scully, I just don't 
think you're being fair here.  You don't even know Diana."

"Funny," Scully said as the doors opened.  "I was thinking 
the same thing about you.  This is where I get off.  Good 
night, Mulder."

The shiny panels closed again, leaving Mulder alone with 
his shimmering reflection.

/////

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

Chapter Three

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



Scully had bathwater running and her blouse unbuttoned from 
top to bottom when she heard the shrill call of the hotel 
phone.  She stood over it and contemplated whether or not to 
lift the receiver at this late juncture, but decided Mulder 
would probably have used her cell phone.  "Hello?"

"Dana?  It's Ray.  I hope I'm not catching you too late."

Scully glanced at the red numbers on the bedside alarm: nine 
thirty-seven.  "I just got in," she said.  "What's up?"

"I was hoping I could convince you to come back out again for 
a quick drink."

"A drink?" 

"We, uh, we could discuss the case."

"Do you have something new?"  She had left him only two hours 
before.

"I have a little theory I'd like to run past you.  Of course, 
if you'd like to wait until morning..."

"No, I can meet you," Scully said as she tucked the receiver 
under her chin and began re-buttoning her blouse.  "Did you 
want me to call Agent Mulder as well?"

Ray paused.  "I'll leave that up to you," he said.  "I'll 
meet you at Mallory's in half an hour?  It's just a few doors 
down from where we had dinner this evening."

"I can find it."

So Scully redressed, slipped her tired feet back into her 
shoes, and pulled on her heavy winter coat.  She fished her 
rental car keys from the motel dresser and headed out to 
Mallory's bar.

She wedged her Taurus between two old filthy snow banks and 
stepped out carefully to avoid the slush.  Inside, Ray half-
rose from his chair and gave her a little wave.  Scully 
looked around the bar as she crossed the room; half the faces 
were familiar, and she spotted two uniforms.

"Local cop hangout, I see," she said as she pulled out a 
heavy wooden chair.

"We're here in high company," Ray replied.  "That's the Chief 
over there."

Scully turned in her seat to squint across the room.  Sure 
enough, Chief Windsor sat with three shot glasses in front of 
him and a young woman on his left.  "He looks comfortable," 
Scully said as she faced Ray again.

Ray took a sip of his beer.  "I don't blame him for wanting a 
drink.  This whole thing is going to hit the fan in the 
morning -- you can count on it.  I tripped over two reporters 
just on my way in here."

Scully glanced around again, eyeing the men in the bar with 
renewed suspicion. 

"Nah, they wouldn't dare come inside with so many cops here," 
Ray said.  "They'd be recognized in a heartbeat and wouldn't 
get a damn thing out of anybody.  You want a beer?" 

"Whatever you're having is fine."

Ray signaled the waiter and soon Scully had a pint of Blue 
Moon in front of her.  "Mmm," she said as she licked the foam 
from her lip.  "So you wanted to talk about your theory?"

"I was thinking about what Mulder said, how this guy knew the 
house wouldn't be alarmed like its neighbors.  Maybe he's 
been inside before -- delivery man, meter reader, something 
like that might allow him a way to case the place ahead of 
time."

Scully sipped her beer as she chose her words.  This was a 
very basic idea, something the Boston police had no doubt 
considered themselves.  "I think, um, I think that's very 
possible," she said.  "Definitely we should take a look to 
see who might have had access to the house in the past few 
weeks."

"Yeah, but I was also thinking we should check out this house 
painter."

"Excuse me?"

He pulled out a small plastic sign on a stick that read "Owen 
Bros Painting 722-9138."  "Found this as Mulder was climbing 
through the Byrdeks' back window.  Painters would get a real 
good look at the place, don't you think?"

"I do think.  Do we know if the Duponts also had their 
house painted recently?"

"I have my people looking into it right now," he answered as 
he tucked the sign away again.

"Nice work," Scully said, and he shrugged it off.

"You think SAC Tomasi would be impressed?"

Scully smiled, remembering their old hard-to-please 
instructor.  "If it ends up as the key to the case, then 
maybe."

"That old bastard hated me."

"Oh, it wasn't personal.  He hated everyone."

"Mmm, I don't know.  He told me once I wasn't going to last 
six months in the FBI, and that I should get out now and go 
pump gas or something."

"Ouch."

"Yeah.  Jack Willis liked me though."  He looked her up and 
down knowingly.  "Of course, not as much as he liked you."

Scully swallowed quickly to prevent choking on her beer.  
"Jack, uh, he was more easy-going."

"Yeah, especially if you were dating him."  At her look, he 
smiled and ducked his head.  "Relax, I don't think anyone 
else knew."

"How did you...?"

"You don't remember?  I ran into you at the jewelry store."

Scully did recall, now that he mentioned it.  "You were 
picking out an engagement ring," she said, searching to see 
if she could come up with the woman's name.  Nothing came to 
mind.  She had seen him once or twice with a slim brunette, 
maybe been introduced even, but the name had made no 
impression.

"That's right.  I asked your opinion on which ring I should 
go with, the diamond solitaire or the sapphire diamond 
combo."

"Which one did I pick?"

"You liked the sapphire."  He spread his hands on the table.  
"Maybe if I had listened to you, she would have said yes."

"Oh, I'm sorry."

"It was years ago.  Anyway, you were picking out a watch.  
You said it was for your father, remember?"

Scully felt herself color as she recalled the incident.  "I, 
uh..."

"Forget about it.  You didn't owe me any answers back then.  
You still don't.  But when I saw that same watch show up on 
Willis's wrist, I knew."

He was more observant than she had realized.  "It was many 
years ago," she said quietly.

"I was really sorry to hear about his death.  I thought about 
writing you, but I didn't know what the situation was, and by 
the time I found out, two months had passed."

Scully sat back with a shaky sigh. "We weren't... we weren't 
together then."

"I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."

"You didn't," she said, and meant it.  Time had faded away 
their split and Jack's troubling end; she remembered mostly 
good things now.

Ray raised his glass.  "To old loves," he said, and Scully 
smiled as she touched her glass with his.  

Her smile vanished as she caught sight of the evening news on 
the TV behind him.  A serious-faced anchor was saying 
something as the box to her left read, "Valentine's 
Massacre."

Ray caught her looking and turned to stare as well.  "Hey, 
can we get the volume turned up on that?"

The barkeep obliged him and turned the TV up until the 
anchor's voice could be heard over the chatter.  "...Byrdeks 
were killed in the exact same fashion as Steve and Ellen 
McPherson back on January fifth.  A source close to the 
investigation said that Boston PD has called in the FBI to 
help with the case, and that evidence indicates Boston does 
have a serial killer on the loose."

Across the room, the Chief slammed one fist down on the 
table.  "God damn it," he said, and yanked his coat from the 
back of his chair.  He was already on his way to the door 
when his cell phone rang.

////

Jake's alarm clock went off at six-thirty am, and he slammed 
his hand down on it to stop the awful noise.  His heart 
thudded wildly in his chest, and he wondered if he had been 
dreaming or if this was just how things were now.  He rolled 
out of bed, his feet hitting an empty pizza box on the floor.  
Last year his mother would have given him shit about it, but 
these days neither one of them had the energy.

Jake scrubbed his face with both hands and wandered into his 
mother's room still clad in boxers and a T-shirt.  The shades 
were drawn and his mother slept huddled under the thick quilt 
Grandma Huggins had made for her.  He shook her by the 
shoulder.  "Mom, it's six-thirty.  You gotta get up."

His mother didn't move.

"Ma, it's morning.  Come on."

"Ten more minutes," she muttered, squirming away from his 
hand.

"You've got work.  It's only Friday."  He snapped open a 
shade, which spun around at the top, slapping the windowpane 
with each pass.  Still his mother did not budge.  Jake picked 
up the prescription sedatives from her nightstand and took 
off the lid.  He counted the pills and found four missing 
since yesterday.

She said they helped her sleep.  She said they made the 
stress go away and left her floating on a gentle wave.  But 
Jake pictured her being sucked in by the undertow.

"Mom," he tried again.  "You've got to get up."

"Leave me alone, Jake."

"I've got to go to school."

"So go then."  She tugged the blanket over her face.

"What about work?"  She didn't answer.  "I'm taking your 
pills," he said.  "They'll be downstairs.  You'll have to get 
out of bed if you want them."

Not even his threats seemed to motivate her.  Jake slammed 
the door on his way out, his fury reverberating through the 
wall.  He hurried down the stairs and left without any 
breakfast.  He didn't even make her coffee, the way he 
usually did.

Fuck you, he thought.  Fuck everything.

He took her pills with him.

/////

Mulder waited in the hotel lobby for Scully with two Dunkin' 
Donuts cups in his hands.  She emerged from the elevator 
looking as irritated as she had the night before.  "I thought 
you were going to call me when you were ready," she said.  
"I've been waiting fifteen minutes."

"I thought we were going to meet down here."  He handed her 
the coffee and her frown relaxed just a bit.  He might not 
buy her roses, but he knew to order her coffee with low fat 
milk and two packets of sugar substitute.  "Did you see the 
news this morning?" he asked as they walked.

"I saw it last night.  We knew it was going to come out 
eventually."

Cold air hit them in the face as they exited the hotel, but 
at least the sun was shining.  Mulder paused to take out his 
sunglasses.  "I'm not so sure the news is a bad thing.  Did 
you see the crime scene photos with the bodies?  All of them 
posed spread-eagled.  We already know he likes to admire his 
handiwork, so it's a safe bet he wants us to admire it too."

"So we're giving him what he wants," Scully said flatly.

They reached the end of the walk, and Mulder veered left.  He 
got five steps before he realized she wasn't following him.  
"You coming?" he asked, dangling his keys at her.

Scully dangled hers back.

"You want to drive?" he asked, dubious.  He knew his way 
around Boston a lot better than she did; they both knew it.

"How about I just meet you there," she called.

Mulder spun in a half-circle, frustrated.  "Okay, fine."

Scully began walking away, but he yelled after her.  "I'll 
pull around front so you can follow me!"

She raised her Dunkin' Donuts cup in mock salute but kept on 
walking.  He saw her blue Taurus pull out behind him from the 
hotel lot, but when he looked back at the first light, an old 
woman in a beige Buick had taken her place.  Wherever Scully 
went, she went in a hurry.  He ended up parking next to her 
at the police station, and Scully was nowhere in sight.

He found her in the large conference room along with Ray 
Peterkin, Chief Windsor, and two dozen other men.  Scully was 
the shortest person in the room, easy to spot, and it was 
moments like this he was reminded that her job was unusual 
for a woman: she was the only female in the room.

"People, can we take a seat, please?" the Chief hollered over 
all the noise.  "I want to make this as fast as possible."

Mulder took the nearest chair, which put him next to the 
young detective he had met earlier.  "You knew this was 
coming the minute you caught the case, didn't you?" he 
murmured to Manny.

Ahuja nodded.  "I knew it was going to be bigger than me.  
Hell, it's bigger than all of us right now."

Chief Windsor shuffled a bunch of papers and then set them 
aside.  "As I'm sure you know by now, our killer has become 
an overnight sensation.  The city has logged upwards of seven 
hundred calls and it's just eight-thirty in the morning.  
We've got our usual local media to contend with, and the 
national guys are arriving with their trucks as we speak.  
I've got to give a press conference at noon and it would be 
nice if I had something to tell people."

"You got a wife?" Manny asked Mulder.

Mulder shook his head and held up his hand to show a bare 
ring finger.

"My girlfriend is freaking out," Manny whispered.  "She wants 
to go stay with her sister in Buffalo."

"Must be pretty worried to want to go to Buffalo in the 
middle of winter," Mulder whispered back.

"You ain't shitting me. But after what I've seen at the 
Byrdeks, I'm half ready to put her on the plane myself." 

"Now, we're establishing four principle lines of 
investigation," the Chief was saying.  "One, the tip line.  
We'll have the phones ready to go in half an hour, and a good 
portion of you all will be running down leads from that.  
Second, we're going back over old cases and seeing if there 
might be some connection to these homicides.  Third, we're 
going to have a team dedicated to trying to connect the 
Byrdeks to the McPhersons.  Why did he pick these two 
couples?  And finally, we are going to have the forensic 
teams working round the clock on both houses."

"Which straw did you draw?" Mulder asked Manny.

"Old cases.  You?"

"The same," Mulder said, although he didn't have any formal 
assignment.  

He glanced up front and saw Ray lean over to say something to 
Scully, who nodded.  Mulder felt like he was back picking lab 
partners in eighth grade science class.

"She your partner?" Manny asked as he caught him looking.

"We work together, yeah."

"You're lucky.  I gotta look at that all day."  Manny jerked 
a nod to O'Hara, who was blowing his red nose into a 
handkerchief.

"That's it for now," Chief Windsor said.  "If you're unclear 
about your assignment, see Captain Lowell or Agent Peterkin.  
Everyone make sure you have your cell phones and pagers on.  
Barring a significant breakthrough, we'll meet back here at 
shift change.  Let's get to work.  This guy's not sitting 
around on his ass, so neither can we."

"We've got a bunch of jackets pulled in the other room 
already," Manny said, "if you'd like to take a look."

"I would, thanks.  Be right there."

Mulder threaded his way against the flow of bodies to reach 
Scully and Ray at the front.  "I was told to see you about my 
assignment," Mulder said, tilting his head at Ray.

"Aw, hell, Mulder, you know more about running these kinds of 
investigations than I do.  Pick whichever team you like."

"Which team are you on?" Mulder asked him.

"I'm pursuing a connection between the victims," replied Ray, 
and Mulder nodded.

"I'll take cold cases," he said, and Scully looked mildly 
surprised.

"Agent Scully?" Ray asked.  "Which avenue appeals to you?"

Scully looked from one man to the other.  "I'll go with 
Mulder," she said at last, and Mulder was pretty sure he 
looked very surprised.

"I'll catch you both later then," Ray said, touching Scully 
lightly on the back.

"To what do I owe this honor?" Mulder asked her as they 
walked out of the conference room.

"Ray is right -- you've worked many of these cases in the 
past.  If you want to look at past crimes, I figure there has 
to be a good reason."

"Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it."

"You know it's funny you should mention that," she said. 
"I've been thinking it a lot lately."

Mulder did not have a chance to reply before they reached 
Manny Ahuja, O'Hara and a handful of others in conference 
room B.  "Dive right in," O'Hara told them.  "We got cold 
murders in this pile, cold rapes in that pile.  Over this 
way, we've got rapes with similar MOs and murders with 
similar MOs.  It's like looking for a needle in a god damn 
haystack."

Mulder took a seat and grabbed the first folder.  That's 
right, he thought, and I'm the magnet.

The detectives and agents drank coffee and pored over 
gruesome crimes by the metric ton.   "What about this one?" 
Manny called out.  "I got a white victim, mid twenties - 
she's a prostitute found unconscious after some john dumped 
her out of a car.  She said he threatened her with a knife 
and tried to choke her to death.  Had sex with her while she 
was passed out cold."

"When was this?" O'Hara asked.

"Last July.  She described the perp as a white male, dark 
hair, late thirties, early forties.  They never got the guy."

"There's enough there for a second look," O'Hara said.  "Put 
it in the pile."

"You can put it near the bottom," Mulder said without looking 
up from his folder.  "I don't think it's him."

"Why not?" O'Hara looked annoyed.  "It's closer than anything 
else we've seen."

"Whoever killed the Byrdeks and the McPhersons ejaculated on 
the women, not in them.  There was no sign of strangulation 
on any of the four victims, and this guy would have moved 
beyond your garden-variety hooker by last summer.  Lauren 
Byrdek worked as a stock analyst and Debbie McPherson taught 
fifth grade at a private school.  We know he didn't pick 
either victim at random, so it's safe to conclude he prefers 
his women a little more upscale."

"Well there's what he wants and what's available," O'Hara 
said.  "This girl would have gone with him willingly."  He 
held up a picture of a young woman's bruised and battered 
face.  Her dark hair had a bad dye job; the ends were frayed.  
She had pock marks on her cheeks and cheap purple eye shadow 
that had been smudged in the fight.

"She's not his fantasy," Mulder said dismissively.

"Okay then, you got a better candidate?" O'Hara asked.

Mulder nodded slowly.  "I like this one.  Unsolved rape from 
two years ago.  A college student who was moonlighting as a 
call girl on the side."

"Call girl, hooker, what's the difference?"

Mulder slid the girl's picture down the table.  "This one 
grew up with three squares a day and parents who paid for 
good orthodontia."

Scully took the folder from him and scanned it quickly.  "Her 
statement says he threatened her with a knife.  He held her 
captive for over three hours and ejaculated twice on her 
stomach.  She sustained superficial lacerations on her 
abdomen."

"Sounds like a pretty good match," Manny said.

"It's not bad," Mulder agreed.  "But even more than the 
similarity, he scared her badly enough that she risked jail 
and her reputation to report him.  This wasn't just another 
kinky john."

"The case is unsolved," Scully read.  "And the victim, 
Annette Crenshaw, is listed as moved -- no forwarding 
address."

"We'll find her," Manny said, taking the folder.

Scully stood up too.  "Where are you going?" Mulder asked.

"There's one way to be sure if it's the same guy, and we 
don't need Annette Crenshaw to get it.  The file says semen 
samples were taken in this case, which means they can be 
compared to the Byrdek and McPherson samples."

"Good thinking," Mulder said.  "Let me know what you find 
out."

/////

Jimmy hung around city hall plaza like the rest of them, 
packed in tight and waiting for the Chief to show up and make 
his big announcement, something they already knew -- a killer 
had taken control of the city.  The high buildings erected so 
close to the water created a wind-tunnel effect, sending 
biting gusts past his ears as Mother Nature roared like a 
demon.

The major press crowded in close with their cameras and their 
microphones.  Jimmy held his small cassette recorder deep 
inside his pocket.  It was about the size of a pack of 
cigarettes, and boy, he could he have used a smoke right 
then.  But the wind made that impossible, and he knew better 
than to light up in a crowd these days anyway.  It was almost 
as bad as being a murderer.  The way things were going, 
pretty soon they weren't even going to let you smoke in your 
own home.

Jimmy imagined a mob scene like this for future smokers.  
"There he is!" they would say.  "There's the dirty bastard 
with his cancer stick!  Give him the chair for poisoning our 
children's lungs."

Beside him, a thin blonde woman who looked like she might 
blow away in the breeze was trying to elbow enough room to do 
her stand up shot for the camera.  "I'm here at city hall 
where Chief Windsor is set to speak at any moment.  Cut!  
Bob, we need to do that again."

Her cheeks were red, whether from makeup, cold or excitement, 
Jimmy did not know.  He could feel her energy echoed around 
him.  There was a killer in the city and it was show time.

Curtain up, he thought as the Chief materialized at the 
podium.

Jimmy took out his cassette recorder, the one Amy had bought 
him at Target when he said he wanted to be a reporter.  
"You'll need it for interviews," she'd said.  "To make sure 
you quote everyone right."

Just then, the Chief was saying the magic words.  "We have 
confirmed it is the same man involved in both cases."

Flashbulbs went off around him.  The Chief had to blink 
rapidly, making him look like the shy kid who always got 
slapped with a wet towel after gym class.

I know you, Jimmy thought.  I know where you go to drink and 
I know where you get your women.

The reporters descended upon the Chief like a pack of 
seagulls, crying out questions, but Jimmy slipped free out 
the back.

He knew where to get his exclusive.

/////

Manny brought Mulder back an Italian sub for lunch.  For 
himself, he had chosen meatball and O'Hara had the chicken 
parm.  The men cleared off the paper trail of victims from 
one end of the conference table and sat down to eat.

"So how many of these SOBs have you caught, Mulder?" Manny 
asked.

"My share."

"Hey, is it true they're all bed wetters?" O'Hara asked.  
"And they all kill their pets and shit?"

"It varies, but the interest in death generally starts very 
young."

"I'm never having kids," Manny said before taking a bite.  
"Either you fuck 'em or the world does it for you.  No 
thanks."

"Aw, kids ain't all so bad."

"Yours aren't," Manny agreed.  "Thanks to Martha."

"You got kids?" O'Hara asked Mulder.

Mulder shook his head, his mouth full.

"So what's the worst one you ever saw?" Manny asked him.

"Kid?"

"No, serial."

Pfaster, Mulder thought.  The only time he'd ever had a 
victim sob in his arms.

"I, uh..."  He looked up and saw Scully coming towards them 
with a folder in her hands.  "They're all pretty bad."

He dusted the crumbs off on his pants and pulled out the 
chair next to him for Scully.  "I don't have good news," she 
said as she sat.  "It's not the same guy."

O'Hara smirked but said nothing.

"I didn't even have to run a DNA analysis.  The suspect in 
the Byrdek and McPherson cases has type A blood.  The one in 
the Crenshaw case is type O."

"Back to the haystack it is," Manny said with a sigh.  "I get 
the feeling we'll be going down a lot of blind alleys before 
this one is over."

Mulder took the Crenshaw file and flipped it open to see if 
there was a clue he had somehow overlooked.  He wanted to 
minimize the blind alleys as much as possible.  "There's a 
page missing from her statement," he said, shifting through 
the paper to make sure it hadn't been misplaced.

"What?  Give me that."  O'Hara took the file and looked for 
himself.  "What do you know?  He's right.  The last page of 
her statement is missing."

"Could have gotten lost," Manny said.

"Could have."

"Is there a copy somewhere?" Mulder asked.

"Why?" O'Hara wanted to know.  "It's not the same perp."

"I like to be thorough."

"Well, you're out of luck.  We've got the victim and 
perpetrator particulars stored on computer, but this was back 
in 1995.  Unless she handwrote another one, this typed copy 
is all we have."

"You think it matters?" Scully asked.

"Not especially.  I just think it's odd."

"I'm getting a soda," Manny announced, shoving back from the 
table.  "Anyone else want one?"

"I'll come," Mulder replied.  "You want a Coke, Scully?"

"Diet," she answered.

Mulder followed Manny to the machine and fished some coins 
from his pocket.  Manny elbowed him.  "Hey, check it out -- 
another suit."

Mulder followed the other man's gaze across the station and 
nearly dropped his quarters.  "Diana," he muttered.  "Shit."

"You know her?"

"She's FBI," Mulder replied.

"Man, her and Agent Scully too?  You government boys get all 
the luck."

Mulder leaned his head against the machine.  "Yeah," he 
replied.  "Some luck."

/////

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

Chapter Four

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


Scully shifted her tailbone away from the hard-backed plastic 
chair.  The dull, heavy ache had started in her abdomen 
again, and she waited with some impatience for Mulder to 
return with the soda.  Already she had palmed several Extra-
Strength Tylenol in anticipation of sweet relief; they 
nestled in her fist, resting atop the throbbing scar hidden 
beneath her tailored suit, as if the medication could seep 
like magic through the dark gray silk.

But instead of Mulder, Agent Fowley walked through the door 
and into the conference room.  Though she had no doubt come 
straight from a two-hour plane flight and taxi ride through 
the slush, her ankle-length raincoat bore not one wrinkle or 
stain.

Scully blinked, trying to make the image disappear like a 
hallucination, but Diana placed her briefcase on the 
conference table.

"Agent Scully," she said, nodding to her.  "I take it I've 
found the right place then."

"The right place for what?" Scully asked.

O'Hara twisted his thick neck to look at Scully.  "You know 
this woman?"

"Agent Diana Fowley," Diana said, extending her hand to 
O'Hara.  "Your chief called this morning for reinforcements.  
Since I'm between official assignments at the moment, I 
volunteered to help."

"To help the investigation?" Scully asked.  "Or to help 
Mulder?"

"Oh, is he here?" Diana cast her gaze around.  "I didn't 
know."

Scully narrowed her eyes.

"As far as the Bureau is concerned," Diana said, "Agent 
Mulder is AWOL.  No one had any idea where he's been or what 
he's been doing."

"Fetching soda," Mulder said from behind her.  He squeezed 
through the doorway without touching her and handed an icy 
can of Diet Coke to Scully.

Diana touched her fingers to her throat.  "Soda sounds 
wonderful -- flying really dehydrates a person."

Mulder stretched out and handed her his Coke, which Diana 
accepted with a wide smile.  

"Cheers," she said to Scully, lifting her can in Scully's 
direction. Scully barely suppressed an eye roll as she turned 
to slip the Tylenol into her mouth.  

"What are you doing here, Diana?" Mulder asked.

"The same thing you are, of course.  The Chief wanted all 
hands on deck.  My hands happened to be free, so..."

Scully remembered something about idle hands and the devil's 
work.  She set her can down with a little more force than 
necessary.  "Mulder, can I see you a minute?"

"Hmm?" He shifted to look at her, as if giving her a better 
view.  "What is it, Scully?"

She jerked her head at the door.  "Outside in the hall?  
Please?"

Mulder sighed and shoved his hand in his pocket.  "I need 
another trip to the machine anyway."

Scully followed him through the maze of desks to the back of 
the station where the soda machine glowed and hummed.  He did 
not look at her as he fed coins into its narrow metal mouth.

"Tell me you didn't call her," she said steadily.

"I didn't call her."

"Then how did she know you were here?"

"Who's to say she did?"  His can dropped into the chute with 
a thunk, and Mulder bent down to retrieve it.  Ordinarily she 
might have paused to appreciate the view, but at that moment, 
she was more apt to kick his posterior than ogle it.

"Oh, come on, Mulder.  You don't find it a little bit strange 
that she just happens to show up every place we are?"

"Okay, you've got me," he said as he popped the top on his 
Coke.  "I passed her a note in study hall."

Scully flushed, rebuked, and folded her arms over her chest.  
He thought she was being childish; she thought he was being 
myopic.  "Well, if coincidences are just coincidences, how 
come they feel so contrived?"

"Does it really matter so much why she's here?  We need all 
the people we can get on this case."

"You're the one who's always going on about motive."

Mulder swallowed hard and glared at her.  "Right, I forgot.  
Diana Fowley is a grand conspirator out to bring down the 
free world.  Surely you're not going to accuse her of also 
engineering a serial murder case."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"That's good advice," he replied, stalking past her.

Scully remained behind for a moment and traced the outline of 
a black square on the linoleum floor with her foot.  She had 
signed up for outside work to get away from the whole Mulder-
Diana fiasco and the two of them had followed right behind.  
From the minute she had arrived back in the States, Diana had 
managed to insert herself firmly between Mulder and Scully, 
and Scully had a feeling that was just how she liked it.

She stroked the cold front of the Coke machine and sighed.  
Mulder was right; the whole scenario reeked of junior high.  

Determined to rise above it, she squared her shoulders and 
returned to the conference room, where she found Ray Peterkin 
had joined the others.  "Dana, hey, come on in," he said, 
pulling out the seat next to him.

Since it was the one she had originally occupied, Scully 
accepted.

"I was just telling everyone that the house painting lead 
looks like a dead end.  The DuPonts did have their place done 
about four years ago, but it was a different company."

"And no other success linking the victims?"

He pushed his glasses up on his nose with one finger.  "Not 
yet.  Different churches, different grocers, different hair 
salons -- the list goes on like that.  We're still looking, 
though.  Agent Fowley is going to assist me in the search."

"Really?" Scully said, eyeing Diana on the other side of the 
room.  She had assumed the woman would have plastered herself 
to Mulder and stuck there for good.

"It's Mulder's idea," Ray replied, "and I readily agreed.  I 
could certainly use the help."

Mulder drank his Coke and would not meet her gaze.

At that moment, a uniformed officer poked his head in the 
room.  "Detective O'Hara?  I dunno who exactly to talk to 
about this.  A man just come in here claiming he's your 
killer."

"Cranks, the lot of them," O'Hara muttered, shoving back from 
the table.  "They'll confess to any damn thing just to get 
attention, but I'll check it out."

"I'll come too," Manny replied as he crushed his empty can.

Mulder got up as well, so naturally Diana followed.  Scully 
rose but ended up doubled over as a sharp pain hit her in the 
gut.  She sucked in a breath and braced herself on the table.

Ray touched her shoulder.  "Dana, are you okay?"

"Uh, yeah."  She put her hand to her abdomen, testing.  "I 
just stood up too fast, that's all."

"You sure?"

"I'm fine.  I just need to eat something."

"We could all use a bite.  After this, we'll grab some 
dinner."  He squeezed her arm with affection.  "Take it easy, 
okay?  We need you healthy and whole."

Her newly healed wound throbbed from front to back.  Scully 
envisioned an orange forensic laser passing through her to 
show the bullet's path in her body.  It was a wonder she 
didn't spout like a fountain when she drank.

She still had at least one round of plastic surgery ahead of 
her to minimize the scarring.

Healthy and whole, she thought.  Right.

/////

Jimmy had been past Mallory's bar but had never been inside. 
Hanging out in a cop joint was generally not his notion of a 
good time, but now he had a mission.

The place wasn't fancy, he saw.  There was a large U-shaped 
wooden bar with a couple of guys in pressed shirts working 
behind it.  The waitresses were middle-aged women with 
middle-aged waistlines, but they were about the only females 
in the joint.  

Jimmy spotted one young Asian woman near the back and there 
was a red head at a table in the middle.  He bellied up to 
the bar and pulled out his smokes.  They were threatening to 
make smoking illegal in all business places, even bars.  If 
the governor passed that law, Jimmy was getting the hell out 
of the state.

"Crazy-assed liberals," he muttered around his cigarette.  
"Country's going to hell and they're worried about indoor 
pollution."

The barkeep with the nametag "Dave" set a green cocktail 
napkin in front of you.  "What can I get for you today?"

"Sam Adams would be great."

Dave returned with the beer and Jimmy slid a ten across to 
him.  "Keep the change," he said.

"Hey, thanks."

Jimmy nodded, puffing on his cigarette.  "Looks like you 
don't have to worry about this place getting held up, huh?"

Dave grinned as he wiped down the bar.  "Oh, you mean all the 
cops?  Yeah, they like it in here for some reason.  Even the 
Chief comes by from time to time."

"Really?  You must have the liquor running for him pretty 
good right now, huh?  What with this killer on the loose."

"You see that table over there?" Dave nodded at the place 
where the redhead sat.  "Half of them are FBI."

"No shit.  I saw on the news that they're in town.  You ever 
hear them talking about the case?"

An odd expression flickered over Dave's face.  "You hear 
stuff," he acknowledged at length.  

"Anything good?"

Dave looked over his shoulder to make sure the other 
bartender wasn't watching them.  "I heard them talking about 
the bodies the other day.  Apparently the guy threatened to 
cut the man's dick off.  They found knife wounds... you know, 
down there."

"What a sick fuck."

"That's what I said.  And between you, me, and the lamppost -
- they ain't anywhere near to catching him."

"Oh?  How do you know?"

"They're all in here, right?"  Dave winked at him.  "Thanks 
again, buddy.  Let me know if you need anything else, okay?"

Jimmy lifted his hand from the bar as Dave went back to work.  
He took the last draw on his cigarette before crushing it out 
on the bar ashtray; it showed a buxom blonde with a comely 
smile.  Jimmy burned his ashes over her breasts.

He took his beer by the neck and wandered over near the table 
with the FBI agents.  Taking a seat behind them, he put his 
feet up on the opposite chair and pretended to watch the 
sports highlights on the big screen TV.

"...so everything was going according to the plan until this 
flare goes off behind one of the boxes, distracting the guy 
playing SAC.  We had two of the would-be suspects in cuffs 
already, but the third sees his chance to make a break for it 
and he tears ass out the back way, right past me and Scully.  
I'm still blinking as she takes off after him around to the 
back of the warehouse.  They had a twelve-foot chain link 
fence and the guy was making like Spiderman up a web when 
this one leaps up and grabs his ankles.  I rounded the corner 
and found them just like that -- him clinging for dear life 
to the top of the fence, and her dangling from his shoes with 
her feet clear off the ground."

The whole table laughed except for the woman, who just smiled 
and hung her head.

One of the men put an arm around her.  "That's nothing," he 
said.  "My first day as a detective, and you know what he did 
to me?  He sent in this little old grandmother with a made up 
story about how someone had been stealing her underwear.  I 
swear to God.  She sat at my desk and kept bringing out 
'samples.'  She even had pictures of her wearing the stuff!  
So there I am with granny thongs piling up in front of me, 
trying to take a report, and O'Hara's about pissing himself 
laughing in the background."

"It's true," the man who must have been O'Hara replied. "If 
you could have Ahuja's face.  He turned redder than a beet 
when she brought out the lace teddy."

Jimmy fingered the mini cassette recorder inside his jacket 
pocket.  There was no point in recording this junk 
conversation.  Idly, he sipped his beer and cast around for 
any sign of the Chief.

The warm breath and bodies had steamed over the bar's front 
windows.  Two more cops, these ones in uniform, let in a cold 
blast of air as they entered through the front door.  Jimmy 
was contemplating a second beer when the conversation at the 
Feds' table picked up.

"So then what are we dealing with here?" the one called 
O'Hara asked.  "How long before this guy hits again?"

"Can't tell for sure," another one replied.  Jimmy sneaked a 
look at him -- dark suit, tie, expensive hair cut.  This one 
was definitely a fibbie.  "I would guess sooner rather than 
later, though, just because of the short interval between the 
first two attacks."

"Can you tell anything about him yet?" O'Hara asked.

The other man twisted his beer bottle a few times before 
answering.  "In most cases, these men are answering a 
homicidal rage they don't even understand.  The anger is 
constant but the killing is not.  Many potential victims pass 
through their presence unharmed until the guy suddenly snaps 
and grabs the first easy target."

"Like Bundy, right?  Victims of opportunity."

Jimmy switched on his tape recorder and hid it behind his 
beer bottle.

"Exactly.  They may set out with a need to kill, but they 
select the first woman they can get into their car or the 
woman who's willing to leave the bar with them.  This guy is 
different.   He has put at least some preparation into 
selecting his victims, which makes the killing more personal.  
He is not simply murdering for murder's sake -- he is 
eliminating these particular people from the world."

"And getting off on it," said the younger cop with disgust.

"Why the DuPonts and the Byrdeks, do you think?"

The profiler shrugged.  "Don't know at this point.  He may 
have decided they were easy targets for some reason.  Maybe 
they represent something else, something he hates or resents.  
But the fact that he's carrying out these complex murders 
with such ease means he's been thinking about them for a long 
time.  He's a planner, this one."

"So then how the hell do we catch him?"

Jimmy held his breath, waiting.   His fingers tightened on 
the sweaty beer bottle.

"Well, that's the double edge of the sword.  The haphazard 
killers commit messier crimes and are more likely to leave 
behind evidence, but murders planned this carefully are in 
and of themselves clues.  Find the way he's picking them and 
you'll find him."

"Hey, look, it's the Chief."  He turned and yelled at the 
bartender to up the volume.

Jimmy snapped off his recorder.  Apparently he'd missed the 
big show; Chief Windsor was under the bright lights again, 
trying not to sweat in the freezing cold night."

"We are pursuing a number of active leads at this time," 
Windsor said.  "Our task force has established multiple lines 
of investigation so that we may proceed as quickly and 
efficiently as possible.  We will get this guy."

"And what do you suggest we all do in the meantime?" yelled 
someone from the crowd.

"Buy a big gun!" someone else hollered back.

"We do not recommend people rush out and purchase firearms," 
Windsor said.  "If you're truly concerned, buy a big dog over 
a big gun -- the dog may have an accident but it won't be the 
fatal kind."

"Amen to that," said one of the cops from the table.  "This 
one time, we got called out on an accidental shooting.  Six 
year old had shot his five year old sister in the head."

Jimmy stopped listening and slipped his recorder back into 
his jacket pocket.  He had heard enough.


////


Mulder tilted his chair on two legs and stretched out both 
arms.  Over a half-dozen beer bottles littered the table, 
scattered around the remains of a plate of nachos and a 
basket of Buffalo wings.  Scully had ordered a Caesar salad, 
but he'd noticed she did not eat much of it.  

"I've got to get home before my wife changes the locks," 
O'Hara said as he tossed a twenty on the table.

"I'm out too," Manny said.  "Catch you all on the wrong side 
of eight AM." 

Ray Peterkin stood as well.  "Dana?  Can I give you a lift?"

"I have my car, thanks."

"Then I will see you both in the morning."

Scully rested her chin in her hand as Mulder turned to watch 
the men go.  As they disappeared through the door, he leaned 
his head on Scully's shoulder.  "Dana, can I carry your books 
home?  Can I?"

She snorted and shoved him away.  "He was just being nice."

"He didn't offer *me* a ride."

She looked at him, deadpan.  "Maybe he doesn't like you."

"Not in that way, no."

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replied as she 
pulled some cash out of her wallet.

Mulder gaped at her.  Maybe this was his problem.  Maybe 
Scully was categorically unable to detect romantic interest.  
He was beginning to suspect her former lovers had just 
clubbed her over the head and dragged her into their caves.

He tossed his money next to hers on the table.  "Come on, I 
want to show you something."

"Mulder, it's late."

"This won't take very long.  It's just a few blocks away."

Scully gave her best martyred sigh as she pulled on her heavy 
wool coat.  Mulder held the front door.  "My car is right 
here," he said.  "I'll drop you back at yours after."

"After what, exactly?" 

"You'll see."

The automatic heater blew frigid air at them as the engine 
roared from a cold stop.  Sensible Bostonians were mostly 
home in bed so traffic was light as Mulder shuttled them 
across town.  He got a parking spot right in front.

"We're here," he said as he cut the engine.

Scully looked out and up at the neighboring glass skyscraper.  
"Where is here?"

"It's the John Hancock tower."

He took her up to the enclosed observation deck at the top.  
"We're open just twenty more minutes," the guard warned.

"I've seen this place from the ground," Scully said as they 
strolled to the windows.  "It looks like a giant blue 
mirror."

"Tough to miss," Mulder agreed.  The night was clear and 
dark, without a moon, and the city lay sparkling far beneath 
them.  "That's Cambridge over there, see?  You can make out 
the colored tops on the Harvard and MIT buildings."

The river cut through the lights like a black ribbon.  At its 
end, beyond the city, lay the endless ocean.

"On a clear day you can see parts of Cape Cod," Mulder told 
her.

"What about Martha's vineyard?"

Mulder smiled as she named his hometown isle.  "It would be 
out this way," he said, guiding her to the other side.  "But 
you can't see it from here."

Scully looked out anyway, as if imagining.  "It's so 
different from D.C.," she murmured.  "The lights go in waves, 
the way the streets curve at odd angles."

"That's what happens when you have a bunch of cows lay down 
the path for you."

She turned her head to look at him.  "You're kidding."

"Okay, so the cows didn't lay *all* the roads.  Only some."  
They wandered over for a different view.  Mulder stroked the 
smooth hand railing and wondered how much he should say.  
"This place used to seem like Disneyland to me as a kid.  
Back on the island, the tallest buildings we had were the 
lighthouses.  This was a booming metropolis in comparison."

"I suppose it would be."

"Now of course I know how small it is.  You can tell that 
from up here, the way you can see the end of the lights where 
you can't in a place like Washington, New York or L.A.."

"It's a different perspective," Scully agreed.  She turned 
and leaned the small of her back against the rail. "Is that 
what you wanted to show me?"

"In a way."  Tell her, he thought.  Tell her now.

Scully turned again to look out the window.  "It's so 
beautiful like this," she said.  "It's hard to imagine 
there's a killer down there, you know?"

"Yeah."  He tapped his fingers on the rail and looked at the 
floor.  "Scully, I wanted to make sure you know: I had 
nothing to do with Diana showing up here today."

"Forget about it.  You're right that we can use the help."  
She stiffened and started moving away, but he caught her arm.

"No, wait."  His heart started pounding as his secret came 
closer to escape.  "I need to talk to you about Diana."

Her eyes glinted in the low light.  "You've approved her 
assignment for the X-files."

"What?  No."

"What then?"

He ran a hand through his hair.  He considered the 
possibility that Diana had already told her, but couldn't 
decide whether that would make his confession better or 
worse.  "I haven't--I haven't been completely honest with you 
about our history together, and I thought... well, to be 
truthful, I thought it wouldn't matter.  But it doesn't look 
like she's going anywhere and it's not fair to keep asking 
you to trust her when I haven't explained why I do."

"She helped you found the X-files, Mulder," Scully said 
wearily.  "I know."

"That's not all."

She looked him up to down.  "I know you slept with her."

This made him blink.  "You do? Um..."

"The Gunmen told me."  She turned her gaze back to the night 
city below them.  "It doesn't change anything as far as I'm 
concerned."

"That's all they said?  That I slept with her?"

"Actually I believe they used the word 'chickadee,'" Scully 
replied.  "I pieced together the rest."

"Well, there's more."  God help him, he had not wanted to 
mention this part.  The first time Diana showed up, his 
history with her hadn't mattered much.  

Scully waited, looking wary.  "What is it?"

"We were married."  The words sounded as scary as they had 
felt.  He was sure he felt the building sway.

"Married?"

He gave a short nod.  "Not for very long."

"Married?  To Diana Fowley?"

"For all of nine months, yes.  It was an impulsive thing."

"What happened?"

He shrugged.  "The X-files? I wasn't really ready to be 
married, I suppose."

"Then why did you?"

"I liked the idea of marriage.  I still do."  He took a deep 
breath.  "And...I loved her."

Scully looked at the floor.  "Well, thank you for telling me.  
I think it's time we got going so they can close."

"Scully, wait.  I just wanted you to understand."

"What?"  Her arm was trembling under his touch.

"I know her.  Diana, she can be headstrong and maybe even a 
bit chilly sometimes but she was never anything but honest 
with me.  Even at the end, when honesty was hard.  I've never 
had reason to doubt her."

"I gave you reason," Scully whispered.  "At least I thought I 
did."

"I told you that I checked her out.  I went to her place."

"Was she there?"

He hesitated, remembering their kiss.  "Not at first.  But 
she showed up and we talked.  I didn't find anything in her 
apartment that suggested she was working with conspiracy."

"You talked," Scully said flatly.

"Folks?" called the guard from down the hall.  "I'm going to 
have to ask you to clear out so we can lock up."

"We're coming," Mulder called back.  "Scully, please..."

"You talked and that's all?" she asked.  

He waited just a beat.  "That's all."

Scully's eyes narrowed.  She had caught the hesitation.  
Mulder cursed inwardly and dropped his hold on her arm.  "If 
I asked Diana, what would she say?"

"You'd have to ask her," he replied, knowing she never would.

Scully shook her head.  "Forget it, it's none of my business 
anyway."  

She walked away, the sound of her heels sharp against the 
hard floor and echoing walls.  He watched the flare of her 
coat and the angry set of her shoulders and felt deflated.  
Of all the answers she could have given, this was perhaps the 
worst.

She said nothing on the short drive back to her car, and he 
had nothing more to add.  He followed her glowing taillights 
back to the hotel and trailed her into the lobby.  If she 
knew he was behind her, she did not give any indication.

When she stopped at the desk, he halted near a tall potted 
fern.  The last thing he wanted to do right now was ride up 
with her in the elevator.  Scully received a couple of 
written messages and something else as well.

Mulder peeked out just in time to see her holding cellophane-
wrapped rose to her face.  She smiled, he saw, and then 
walked slowly to the elevators.

It was a long time before he followed.

/////

Jane Dunbar bent over her desk, deep in thought as she 
studied the papers' accounts of the serial murders.  Despite 
her detective's shield, she did not have access to the 
official reports.  She had to make do with the civilian rags 
just like everyone else.

She had the end of her braid in her mouth, a childhood habit 
she'd mostly outgrown, and a red pencil at the ready to 
underline anything that might be important.  "Estimated time 
of death between midnight and four in each case," she 
murmured as she highlighted the passage.  "Night owl like me, 
are you?"

Her phone rang and she reached for it blindly, reluctant to 
take her eyes from the page.  "Dunbar," she said.

"Got a live one for you, Sergeant.  Man and a woman in 
Brighton just home from a concert and they found someone 
inside their apartment.  He hustled out the fire escape with 
the man's hunting cap."

"Damn, he got away?"  She was already pulling on her jacket.

"Patrol units are searching the area, but I thought you'd 
want to know ASAP."  The dispatcher gave her the exact 
location.

"Thanks.  I'm on my way."

Jane rarely got to run her siren, but she had it on as she 
raced across the city to Brighton.  GPS helped her find the 
apartment, but she wouldn't have missed it even without the 
fancy satellite assistance.  Three cruisers were parked 
outside, and a uniformed officer met her at the building's 
front door.

"Detective," he said.  "No sign of him yet."

"Did anyone get a good look at him?"

"None of us even laid an eyeball on him.  The victims are 
upstairs, but I don't think they would be able to make an 
ID."

Jane thanked him and went inside, where she rode the elevator 
up to the fourth floor.  "Mr. and Mrs. Lanford?" she said 
when she found the young couple.  "I'm Detective Jane Dunbar.  
Can you tell me what happened this evening?"

"We just got back from a concert at Symphony Hall," the woman 
explained with a sniff.  Black mascara had smudged under her 
blonde lashes.  "Beethoven piano concertos."

"About what time was this?"

"It was eleven fifteen," Mr. Lanford replied.  "At least 
that's what the clock on the dash said when we parked the 
car."

"When I saw him standing there, all I could think of was the 
news," Mrs. Lanford said.  "That serial killer who is 
murdering couples -- I thought it was him."

"Back up for me for a second," Jane said as she took careful 
notes.  "You came in through the front door here?"

"Yes," Mr. Lanford said.  "It's the only way in, save for the 
fire escape."

"What did you see when you came in?"

"The bedroom light was on," Mrs. Lanford said.  "We never 
leave the lights on.  Ever."

"Okay, and so then what happened?"

"Nick went to go check it out."

"I thought maybe I had forgotten, just this once.  But then I 
heard a thump."

"A thump?"

"Yes, Bonnie has a metal replica of the Eiffel Tower sitting 
on her dresser."

"From our honeymoon," the woman interrupted.


"I think it fell over as he went back out the window," Nick 
said.  "I found it on the floor."

"Did you touch it?"

He looked sheepish. "Yeah, I picked it up.  Sorry about 
that."

His wife gave a watery laugh.  "All those years of watching 
'Law and Order' for nothing!"

"Okay, so you heard the thump and you went to the bedroom?" 
Jane asked.  "This way?"  She walked through the carpeted 
living room towards a hallway.

"Yes, it's back on the left," Nick said.  

"Excuse the mess," Bonnie called.

Jane smiled.  "No worries.  I'm trained to see only clues."  
She found the bedroom lights on, the bed unmade, and a pile 
of unfolded laundry sitting on an armchair.  She knelt down 
to see if she could detect any footprints in the carpet.

"He was going out the window as I came in," Nick explained.  
"I could see he had my hat."

"Did you see anything else?" Jane asked from the floor.  She 
saw many impressions.  It would be difficult to sort out the 
intruder's.

"He was tall, like me.  Thin.  Dressed all in black.  He had 
a hooded sweatshirt on, and the hood was pulled up."

"Did you see his face?"

"No."

"Wait here, if you would, please."  Jane crossed carefully to 
the window.  "Do you usually keep this locked?"

"We do, but it's a weak lock.  This is an old building with 
old windows."

"The landlord will be replacing them now," Bonnie said in a 
tone that did not suggest any argument.  "All of them.  And I 
am not sleeping here tonight."

"That's a good idea," Jane said.  She could see the marks 
where the suspect had jimmied the lock open.

"You think he'll come back?" Bonnie asked fearfully.

"No, but CSU is going to want to go over your apartment for 
evidence."  She turned and faced them again.  "Where was the 
hat?"

"In that closet over there," Nick told her.  "On the shelf 
with the others."

Jane crossed again and opened the sliding doors with her 
foot.  Sure enough, there was a mish-mash pile of hats 
sitting on the shelf.  She spied several Boston Red Sox hats, 
a bowler, a blue knit beret and a white tennis visor.  "Just 
the hunting hat is missing?"

"As far as we know."

"Huh."  She wondered why he didn't take the others.  She 
turned to the Lanfords with what she hoped was a reassuring 
smile.  "You don't happen to have a picture of the hat?  A 
photo with you wearing it, perhaps?"

Nick frowned.  "Can't I just give a description?  I mean, 
it's a camouflage hunting hat."

"Just give her the picture," Bonnie said.  "It's not like 
they're going to print it in the paper."

"They did with the last guy!"

Bonnie marched into the room and pulled open a bedside table.  
"Here," she said, handing a photo to Jane.  "Please take it."

Jane looked down at the picture, which showed Nick Lanford 
wearing his hunting cap and a Winnie-the-Pooh bathrobe.  Jane 
cleared her throat.  "Thanks," she said.  "This will be 
extremely helpful."

////

Hannah McKillop woke up already afraid.  She didn't know 
exactly what had awakened her, or what the source of her fear 
was.  She sat up in bed, searching herself and the room.  
Could it have been a dream?

She heard the dog's toenails downstairs on the kitchen floor 
and then a whimper.  After that, silence.  "Tom," she said, 
shaking her husband.  "Tom!"

"What is it?" he asked, rolling over.

"I heard Duke downstairs.  I think something's wrong."

"Probably chasing a raccoon outside," mumbled Tom.  "You know 
how he gets."

"It's February.  There are no raccoons."

"Squirrel then."  He settled back down on the pillow.

Her heart wouldn't stop racing.  She didn't know of any 
squirrel that were active at three in the morning. "Please, 
could you just go and check?"

Tom sat up with her.  "If I go down to the kitchen, will you 
go back to sleep?"

"Yes, I promise."  

He swung his feet to the floor and cursed.  Her pulse spiked.

"What is it?"

"This floor is fucking cold."

"Take the bat with you."

"Hannah..."

"Just take it, okay?"

"I feel like a god damn idiot," he muttered as he went to the 
closet.

Hannah listened but she did not hear anything else from 
downstairs.  You're being ridiculous, she told herself.  
Everything is just fine.

Then she saw the flashlight beam in the hallway.  She barely 
had time to squeak before the light was in her eyes, blinding 
her.

Tom crashed against the closet door as the lights came up.  A 
large man stood there with a knife in hand.  She could see 
blood on it and knew her dog was dead.

"Please," she whispered.

"Get out," Tom yelled.

The man set the knife on the lace doily atop her dresser and 
withdrew a gun from his back pocket.  "Nobody scream," he 
said, pointing it at them.  "I can't fucking stand the 
screaming."

"Take whatever you want," Tom said, his hands up.  "My wallet 
is on the nightstand."

"Get back in the bed," the man said.

"We have cash in the safe," Tom replied.

"Get in the fucking bed now!"

Hannah clutched the sheets over her naked chest.  She could 
see his eyes looking at her through the thick ski mask. His 
breath was ragged. "What do you want with us?" she choked 
out.

"I'm going to kill you," he said, matter of fact, and Hannah 
began to pray.

////

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

Chapter Five

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


Scully slept like the dead, awaking still groggy at the 
persistent beep of her travel alarm.  She staggered into the 
bathroom and turned on the shower to a rain of hot, stinging, 
needles.  Shedding her pajamas to the floor, she walked into 
the spray, closing her eyes as the water blasted away 
yesterday's skin and turned her into a new person.

Her twin bullet holes no longer burned in the shower.  She 
touched the one on her belly gently, probing for feeling.  
The skin at its edges was tender and sensitive where the scar 
itself was raised and deadened.  She recalled the force of 
the bullet as it had ripped through her; the fiery pain had 
stolen her breath.  The wall was hard at her back as she 
fell, that long slow slide into death.

Except that she had lived instead.  Now she would carry this 
new reminder of her stolen life everywhere, yet another 
talisman of her dance with the dark side.

The plastic surgeon's office had phoned two weeks ago to 
schedule her an appointment, but Scully had not had the 
chance to return the call.  There was Cassandra and Spender 
and all the missing people in the stars.  And Diana and 
Marita and those angry words in the Gunmen's lair.

And Mulder, always Mulder.

She stepped free from the tub and toweled the remaining 
moisture from her body.  Steam occluded the mirror so she 
swiped a patch clear with her hand to see her own face and 
worn-out body in front of her.

Mulder had seen the scar, she knew.  He had peeked during 
their decontamination procedure and gotten an eyeful.  If he 
had any comment, he did not share it.

Scully wrapped the towel around her wet hair and pulled down 
another clean one to wrap her body.  On her way back to the 
main room, she paused to touch the rose sitting in the water 
glass.  Its peach petals tickled her pruned fingertips.

No card was attached.  The man at the desk said he had not 
been on duty when the flower was dropped off for her.  "Maybe 
a secret admirer," he'd suggest last night with a smile.  
"One day late."

One day late, Scully thought again as she went to dress.  
That would be in keeping with her usual luck on the romantic 
front.

She was in the process of buttoning up her blouse when her 
cell phone rang.  The caller ID read, "Mulder, F." 

"Yes?" she said, attempting to button with one hand.

"He hit again, Scully.  Last night.  A South Boston couple 
was found dead this morning by the woman's sister -- both of 
them shot to death in the bedroom."

"Where are you?"

"I'm on my way to the scene now."

Figures, she thought.  He was always two steps ahead of her, 
even when they were staying at the same damned hotel.

He gave her the address and she said she would meet him 
there.

She finished buttoning, her scars disappearing beneath the 
expensive silk.  By the time she left her room, Scully 
appeared perfectly whole once more.

//////

Mulder had to fight his way to the crime scene.  Millicent 
Road was like the streets he had shown her before from the 
skyscraper, narrow and crammed with SUVs where cows had once 
tread.  The police had blocked off the road from both ends 
with their cruisers to keep the press and curious gawkers 
away.  

He slowed his car down and showed his ID to the uniformed man 
guarding the street, and the cop moved aside to wave Mulder 
through.  Mulder stopped several houses away, behind the 
crime scene van, because passage became impossible near the 
McKillops' house -- a half dozen cruisers, two ambulances, 
and the Chief's car all sat double-parked in the street.

He walked across the dead lawn and up the front steps.  The 
pictures of the previous crime scenes had prepared him for 
the horror inside, but two-dimensional images never compared 
to the sight and smell of dead humans.

The living room was small but neat with a leather couch and 
matching armchair.  Mulder touched the end of a bobbing fern 
as he pressed deeper into the house.  He poked his head in 
the kitchen, which was decorated in all white with only a 
collection of blue vases by the window for color.  In the 
corner by the sliding door, stood a uniformed officer.  "This 
where he got in?" Mulder asked the man.

"Appears so," he replied, and looked at the ground.  

Mulder walked around the center island so he could see what 
the officer was looking at, and jumped back a bit when he got 
the answer.  "Oh, no," he said, covering his face with his 
arm.  

On the floor lay a slaughtered dog.  It had bled out all over 
the white tile; the officer stood at the very edge of the 
sticky pool.

"Everyone else upstairs?" Mulder asked.

"Yes, sir.  In the bedroom, sir."

Mulder knew exactly what he would find.

Cops clogged the hallway upstairs, forcing him flat against 
the wall as he made his way to the bedroom.  Ray Peterkin and 
Chief Windsor were already inside.  So was Diana.


"I still say this guy has to be in the system someplace," 
Windsor was saying.  "Ours or someone else's.  Look at this -
- it¹s like a god damn rerun.  You don¹t get this controlled 
without practice."

"We¹ll broaden the search," Peterkin replied.  "Look for 
similar MOs along the East Coast."

"Worth a look," Mulder murmured as he crept closer to the 
bloody bed.   The victims were both nude with their hands 
tied.  The man had been fastened hand and foot to the 
headboard, kept completely immobile while the killer had 
enjoyed his playtime with the wife.  Both victims had 
superficial cuts on their torsos and a gunshot wound to the 
head.

Blood had pooled beneath them and coagulated on the white 
sheets.  As Mulder knelt for a better look, the stench of 
urine and sweat from the bed nearly knocked him back on his 
heels.

"If you¹ve got a better idea," Chief Windsor snapped, "I¹m 
sure we¹d all love to hear it."

"Not better," Mulder said as he stood.  "Just different.  I 
think it¹s entirely possible this man has had a run-in with 
law enforcement somewhere.  But I¹m wondering now whether 
it¹s necessarily so."

"This is a highly sophisticated crime," Diana pointed out.  
"He controls two adult victims easily.  He gets in and out 
without any witnesses and leaves little trace evidence 
behind.  The degree of confidence here is impressive."

"Agreed," Mulder said.  "But Windsor said it best -- the 
amount of control is staggering.  It¹s possible he has been 
rehearsing this for so long that hands-on training wasn¹t 
necessary, so to speak."

"So he just wakes up one day and starts killing people?" 
Windsor asked.

"They all wake up one day and start killing people," answered 
Mulder.  "Some of them just start earlier than others.  
Here¹s a question for you:  this guy is so smart and 
organized that he leaves no fingerprints, no witnesses, and 
very little in the way of fiber evidence behind, but he 
doesn¹t bother with a condom -- why?"

Peterkin slapped his notepad against one palm and shook his 
head.  "Because he knows his DNA isn¹t in the system."

Mulder turned and gave him the double-fingered point.  "That 
man wins the washer-dryer!"

"So he's not in CODIS," Diana replied.  "That only means his 
DNA is not in the system, not that he himself doesn't have a 
record."

Mulder tilted his head and looked at her.  She looked nearly 
the same as the day they had met, with her tailored charcoal 
gray pantsuit and her dark hair worn down around her 
shoulders.  Despite everything that had happened since then -
- their brief partnership and even briefer marriage -- it was 
really that first day he always remembered when he looked at 
her.  He hadn't been in the basement yet; no, the FBI had 
made him nurse his new obsession out in the open where 
everyone could walk past his files and snicker.  Perhaps they 
had thought this would cure him.

So he had been bent over a series of grainy photographs of 
the night sky in 1968 when she'd approached.  Her shadow had 
obscured the entirety of his small cubicle, interrupting his 
work so that he had been forced to put down the magnifying 
glass and deal with her.  "Agent Mulder, my name is Diana 
Fowley," she had said.  "I was wondering if you might need 
some assistance with your work."

Mulder hadn't said anything for a moment.  Then he had held 
up a photograph for her scrutiny.  "I'm looking for UFOs," 
he'd told her, daring her to blink.  "It's like 'Where's 
Waldo' only with aliens."

Diana had bent ever-so-slightly at the waist and studied his 
picture.  "There," she'd said, tapping it.  "On the left."

Mulder hadn't bothered to check her work; he had finally 
looked at her face, expecting to see amusement in her eyes, 
but found only curiosity.  "This isn't for The Enquirer," 
he'd said.  "I actually believe in this stuff."

"So do I."

Looking back on it now, Mulder saw he had been ripe for the 
picking.  He had gone from the man whom no one questioned to 
the man whom no one believed by his own design, but that had 
not lessened the sting.  Diana gave him the one thing no one 
else had: validation.

"Ahem," said Peterkin, and Mulder turned.  Scully had arrived 
at some point during his staring contest with Diana because 
she was now standing in the doorway, cheeks pink from the 
cold or from pique at being the last one on the scene.

"Agent Scully," Windsor said with a resigned sigh.  "Looks 
like we've got another deuce for you."

"I can see that."

Scully was putting on a pair of rubber gloves from her 
pocket.  They were purple, not like the white latex the 
others wore, because somewhere along the line Scully had 
developed a mild allergy to latex from repeated exposure.  
When she could, she used the rubber now.

As he watched her small hands disappear under protective 
cover, he thought about how many times he had seen her do 
this, how many times they had stood together in a room full 
of death.

She stepped to the bed and examined first Tom McKillop and 
then Hannah.  The room was silent except for the faint 
clicking from the baseboard heaters.  "Rigor is fully present 
in both victims," Scully said.  "My guess is that time of 
death was approximately six to eight hours ago."

"We'll bag them up and ship them to the morgue for you," 
Windsor said, "but I'm not sure what good it'll do.  We've 
got two more deaths and we don't know anything more than we 
did yesterday."

"On the contrary," Mulder said.  "We've learned he watches 
the evening news."

"Beg your pardon?" the Chief said.  "He watches the news?"

Mulder pointed at the door.  "You didn't notice the dead dog 
downstairs?  The very big dog?"

"It's a Boxer," Scully supplied.  "His throat was cut."

"Yeah, I saw the dog -- so what?"

"So that was your exact advice on the evening news," said 
Mulder.  "Get a very big dog instead of a very big gun.  
That's what you said."

"I know what I said.  You really think this was on purpose?  
That he picked a house with a dog because of what I said to a 
bunch of reporters?  Maybe it was a coincidence."

"Mulder's right," said Diana.  "This killer knows exactly 
what he's getting into before he enters a house.  He would 
have known about the dog in advance and come prepared for 
it."

"Exactly," Mulder said, "which tells you something else."

"What?" Windsor said impatiently.

"He's not stalking particular victims," said Scully.  "He has 
a roster to select from and will adjust as the situation 
demands."

Mulder nodded at her.  "So trying to find him via his victim 
selection may be more difficult than we had anticipated."

"Great," Windsor said.  "That's just great.  I've got another 
brutal crime scene, the press howling at the door, and now 
you're telling me we aren't going to find this animal in the 
system or by figuring how he picks the victims.  How the hell 
are we supposed to catch him then?  Can you tell me that?"

Mulder paused and shook his head.  "I can't," he admitted.  
"Not yet.  But in the meantime, I'd watch what you say on the 
news."


/////


Jake took a cup of coffee from the pot before it was fully 
finished brewing.  His bagel sprang up from the toaster and 
he pulled the peanut butter down from the cupboard.  Licking 
the excess from his thumb, he grabbed the remote and switched 
on the TV.

There was a special news report playing.  A young handsome 
reporter stood against a gray sky and shouted into his 
microphone.  "Police have confirmed that it is another double 
homicide -- the third in as many months and the second this 
week alone.  Victims are believed to be Hannah and Tom 
McKillop."

Jake leaned back, the counter edge digging into his spine.  
There were crowds of people in the background as everyone 
pressed in for a better look.  He saw the twirling blue 
lights from the cruisers and the yellow police tape flapping 
in the wind.

These people wouldn't be so eager, he thought, if they knew 
how easy it was for someone to get inside.

He closed his eyes and imagined the scene on the inside of 
the McKillop house, blood running red on the walls.  The 
reporter's voice echoed in his head: "The picture we're 
getting now is the coroner's van as it presumably is taking 
the McKillops' bodies to the city morgue.  One source I 
talked to say the couple most likely died sometime after 
midnight last night."

"Morning."  

His mother's voice startled him, making him jump and slosh 
coffee down the front of his T-shirt.  "Mom," he said as he 
touched the spreading stain.  "You're up early."

She looked lucid, her hair combed and her clothes neat.  
"I've got an early shift," she said as he helped herself to 
coffee.  She smiled and tousled his hair.  "I'm surprised 
you're so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, though.  You got in 
awfully late last night."

He froze.  "What do you mean?"

"I heard the door, honey.  I didn't look at the clock but it 
was long after I'd been to sleep.  Where were you?"

"Studying."

"With Tommy?"

"Yeah."  He dumped out the rest of his coffee in the sink 
while his mother stopped in front of the TV.

"What on earth are you watching?" she asked.  "Oh.  Oh, no.  
There's been another murder.  We should get better locks or a 
dog or something.  God, this is awful."  She sank into her 
chair, her gaze transfixed on the screen.

"Mom?  Mom, I've got to go change for school."

"Okay, honey."  She didn't turn from the TV.  

The handsome reporter was talking about how the police were 
searching the neighborhood for any witnesses.  "The Chief is 
expected to have another press conference later today to 
discuss these developments, and we will be sure to bring you 
that event live when it happens.  I'm Bill Harris, NBC news."

Jake ran up the stairs two at a time until he reached his 
room.  He slammed the door behind him and leaned against it, 
his heart bouncing around his other organs like a pinball.

"Jake?" his mother called up to him.  "If you can be ready in 
ten minutes I can give you a ride to school.  Jake?"

He did not answer her.  Instead he ransacked his desk, 
throwing aside schoolwork and comics until he found the pill 
bottle he was seeking.  He opened it with shaking fingers and 
swallowed two of her pills dry.

"Jake, did you hear me?"

"I heard you!" he shouted back.  He backed slowly into the 
chair and rested his head in his hands.  "I heard you," he 
murmured to himself.  "I heard you."

////

Scully walked around with Mulder on the first floor of the 
McKillop house.  "These floors have been redone recently," 
she said, eyeing the smooth hardwood.

"He was a lawyer and she was an architect," Mulder replied.  
"They might have been young but they had some money."  He was 
looking through the top drawer of a mahogany desk.

She stooped to pick up the previous day's newspaper from 
where it sat folded on the coffee table.  "COUPLES KILLER 
HITS AGAIN -- police confirm serial killer loose in Boston," 
read the headline.  And you still never saw it coming, she 
thought as she replaced it gently.

She wandered over to the towering bookcase.  It held a 
collection of photos, collectibles and antique books.  She 
smiled as she spotted an original edition of "Gulliver's 
Travels."  But then a smudge on the shelf above her head 
caught her attention.  She stood on tiptoe for a better look, 
and the smear appeared to be a bloodstain.  "Mulder?  Come 
take a look at this."

Mulder materialized over her shoulder.  "What've you got?"

She pointed at the stain.  "It looks like blood."

"It certainly does."  He was taller, so he could see what was 
on the shelf above.  "It's right in front of this book...oh, 
it's not a book.  It's a photo album."

He carefully brought down the album, which was white with the 
date May 24, 1993 stamped on the cover.  There was another 
bloody smear on the lower right-hand corner.  "Looks like 
their wedding album," Scully said.  "What would the killer 
want with that?"

"I don't know," Mulder replied as he lifted the cover with 
one gloved finger.  "But did you know that something like 20% 
of burglars look through family photos while they're in the 
home?"

The first picture in the album had been removed.  All that 
remained were the faint traces of the adhesive.  

"He took it as a souvenir," Scully said.

"We should go back and check the other houses, see if he took 
anything from there. It won't help us now, but it might help 
link him to the scenes after we catch him."

Scully smiled a bit.  "Such certainty," she murmured.  "It's 
refreshing."

Mulder smiled back at her and nodded his head toward the rear 
of the house.  "Come on, I want to see how he got in."

She trailed him outside, drawing her coat around her as the 
winter wind blew her hair free from her collar.  She shivered 
and hurried across the frozen ground to keep up with Mulder.  
He stood on the small back patio next to a covered grill.

"It's the same as before, Scully.  He jimmied the back door 
open and came in through the kitchen.  The dog must have met 
him there.  He would have cut its throat immediately to keep 
it quiet."

Scully turned around and looked at the narrow backyard.  "No 
tree line to keep him hidden here.  Anyone from these 
neighboring houses might have seen him enter."

"Possible," Mulder agreed, not sounding like he believed it 
was likely.

Scully hugged herself.  It was cold and she didn't see much 
purpose for standing out here any longer.  "I'd better get to 
the bodies," she said.

"Scully."

She stopped and turned to look at him.  He was squinting from 
the wind and the bright daylight, his hair on end as a 
particularly frigid breeze blew their way.  "We're okay?" he 
asked. "About last night?"

"What do you mean?"

"About Diana..."

She stiffened at the words and cut him off.  "Is this going 
to be some new confession, Mulder?"

"What? No."

"Because unless it relates to the case in some way, I don't 
really see the point in even having this conversation."

Mulder took a step forward and lowered his voice.  "She's on 
this case."

"You think that's somehow escaped my observation?"  She took 
a breath and wondered if this was some Mulderesque way of 
asking her permission to renew his relationship with Diana.  
"Look," she said, "if you're waiting for some sort of 
screaming catfight in the hall..."

Mulder gave a sarcastic chuckle and looked at the sky.

"What?" she demanded.

"Cats fight to defend their territory.  We both know that's 
not how you operate, Scully.  Diana applies for the X-Files 
and you come running up here looking for another assignment."

"She's not why I'm here."

"No?"

"You're making this too personal."

He looked at her.  "I believe you're the one who reminded me 
of your personal interest."

She looked back at him for a long moment.  "So that's what 
you're waiting for here?  For me to 'defend my territory' 
with guns blazing?"

"I know what she wants," he said, and Scully huffed and 
rolled her eyes.  "You, I can never tell, but Diana has 
always been easy to read.  She sees what she wants and she 
goes after it."

"Is that why you married her?"

"So then it does bother you."

"I didn't say that."

Mulder scrubbed his foot on the grass in frustration.  "Hey," 
he said suddenly, "who is that?"

Scully turned around in the direction he was looking and saw 
a man in a suit hanging around in the neighbor's yard.  
Mulder took off after him, but the man didn't run.  Instead, 
he started jogging towards Mulder.  Mulder had him by the arm 
when Scully caught up to them.

"Who are you?" Mulder demanded.

"Bill Harris, NBC news.  See?"  He used his free arm to show 
his press credential, and Mulder dropped his hold in disgust.

"You're not supposed to be here," Scully told him.

"I'm not that close," Harris protested.  "And I didn't cross 
the police line."  He was trying to see past them to the 
McKillop house.  "You think he entered through the back, like 
before?"

"No comment," Mulder said.

"I heard there was a dead dog this time too.  Can you confirm 
or deny?"

"No comment," Mulder repeated.  "Now get out of here before I 
have to arrest you for interfering with a police 
investigation."

"Who's interfering?  The investigation is on another property 
entirely.  And it's not like I brought the camera.  Please, 
can't you give me something?"

"I can give you a go directly to jail card," Mulder replied, 
taking hold of his arm again.  "If you don't get out of here 
in ten seconds.  Two people are dead and instead of following 
leads on that case, we're forced to be out here with you -- 
on another property entirely."

"I think it's more than one guy," Harris blurted.  "I mean, 
it's got to be, right?  How can one guy be getting away with 
all of this?"

"Leaving," Mulder said, walking him across the lawn away from 
the McKillop's house.  "Now.  And if I see you back here, 
there won't be a warning next time."

"Okay, okay.  I've got it."  Harris stalked off as Mulder and 
Scully watched him go.

"Two killers," Mulder mused. "That's extremely rare."

"Only one DNA type found on the bodies so far," Scully said.  
"Speaking of, I have two of them waiting for me at the 
morgue.  I'd better go."

"Scully..."

"It's my territory, Mulder," she yelled back as she walked 
away.  "I've got to go defend it."  She did not stomp, 
exactly, but the ground met the force of her footsteps with 
an equally unyielding resistance.  It wasn't until later, 
when she was stewing over Mulder's imperiousness at a red 
light, that a thought occurred to her.  Mulder had chosen the 
X-files.  So had Diana.  Scully had merely been assigned to 
them with no choice involved.

"You don't defend your territory," Mulder had said.

What he didn't understand was that she was no longer sure it 
was hers to defend.  Or indeed, if it had ever been.


////


Manny entered Mallory's bar at around four-thirty, shortly 
after the shift change.  He scanned the room from left to 
right and waved to a couple of guys he recognized from the 
six-ten.  They motioned him over to their booth, but Manny 
shook his head.

He took a stool at the bar and grabbed a handful of pretzels.  
The regular guy, one he had seen before, came to ask him what 
he wanted.  "I'll take whatever light beer you've got on 
tap."  Gina would approve of that decision, even if she 
wouldn't like the pretzels and peanuts.

When the beer came, Manny smiled at the guy.  "Thanks... 
Dave, is it?  I could sure use one of these today."

"Yeah, I saw on the news today that it's a bad one.  I guess 
I won't be seeing the Chief in here any time soon, huh?"

"How do you figure?"

"On account of the press outside.  You wouldn't want to be 
caught with a pint in your hand while there's a homicidal 
maniac on the loose, now would you?"

"No, I sure wouldn't."

"Hey, level with me. You guys any closer to catching this 
lunatic?"

"We're closer than we were this morning," Manny hedged.

Dave looked unimpressed as he wiped down the bar.  "I hear 
the cops come here and talk the talk.  Everyone likes to go 
on about their cases, about the big fish they caught.  Funny 
how no one ever mentions the ones that get away."

"Who said he's getting away?"

"So far?  Him."

Manny took a long drink and glanced up at the TV.  They were 
teasing a report on the killer for five o'clock, with a 
special report from Bill Harris.  "Well, don't believe 
everything you see on the news," Manny said.  "This guy isn't 
invincible."

"You want another one of those?" Dave asked, nodding at 
Manny's beer.

"No thanks.  I'm actually looking for a guy named Lou 
LeBlanc.  Do you know him?"

"Sure, he works out of the A-1.  Nice guy except for nights 
that the Sox lose.  I saw him just a little while ago."  He 
leaned over the bar and looked to the left.  "That's him at 
the table by the window.  He's the one built like a weather 
balloon."

"Sox win or lose today?" Manny asked.

"It's spring training.  Who cares?"

"Betcha Lou knows. What's he drinking, do you remember?" 

"Sure, a Jack and Coke on the rocks."

"Can you give me one?"  Dave brought the drink and Manny set 
a twenty on the bar in return.  "Thanks," he said as he took 
his beer and the drink and went in search of Lou LeBlanc.

Lou was sitting with two other guys, one white, one black -- 
all of them clearly off-duty cops, all of them with many 
years on the job. Manny would be the youngest guy at the 
table by a good decade. All three looked up in unison as he 
approached the table.  "Can I help you?" one of the not-Lous 
asked.

"My name is Manny Ahuja.  I work out of the D-4, and I was 
wondering if I could talk to Lou for a minute."

Lou looked him up and down and was apparently not impressed. 
"Do I know you?"

"No, sir.  I just wanted to pick your brain about one of your 
old cases."

"You a detective?"

"He detected your drink," one of Lou's pals said with a 
smirk.  "Check it out."

Manny held up the Jack and Coke.  "It's yours if you want 
it."

"What case you want to talk about?"

"About two years ago, a prostitute named Annette Crenshaw 
reported an assault.  You caught the case."

Lou's features hardened and he knocked back the rest of his 
drink.  "Sorry, can't help you."

"I have some of the report with me, if you'd like to take a 
look at it."

"I don't need to look at it.  I said I can't help you."

"I see.  And does your lack of cooperation have anything to 
do with the parts of the file that are missing?"

At that point, the white non-Lou stood up and pressed his 
considerable belly into Manny's.  "Look, kid, you seem to 
speak English all right, but you don't understand so good.  
He can't help you."

"Suit yourself," Manny said, setting down the Jack and Coke.  
"I have to find out what was in those missing pages one way 
or another, and if that takes going to the brass..."

Lou laughed, a phlegm-laced ironic chuckle, but his eyes held 
no amusement.  "Oh kid, that's the last thing you want to do.  
Do yourself a favor.  Put the file back in the drawer and 
walk away.  It's been laying there for two years now, hurting 
no one.  Leave it be."

Manny held his temper.  "I'd like to take that advice, sir, 
but you see this file has surfaced in conjunction with the 
serial murder case I'm working on."

Lou's mouth fell open just a bit.  "You're working the 
serial?"

"That's right, and whatever is in this file may help us catch 
the guy."  It was a half-lie, really.  Scully had already 
said the DNA didn't match.  But the MO was so similar, and 
the missing pages had piqued Manny's interest.  Now the cop 
on the case wouldn't talk and the little hairs on the back of 
Manny's neck were standing up.  What the hell had he walked 
into here?

Lou's shoulders slumped and he reached for the drink Manny 
had brought.  "You're on the wrong trail, kid.  There's no 
connection in the Crenshaw case."

"I can't be sure until I see the pages."

"Well, I don't have your damn pages."

"Yeah, funny thing, that -- no one seems to have any record 
of them." 

Lou shrugged.  "Stuff gets lost.  Shit happens."

"But surely you have some original notes on the case."

"I got nothing."  He rubbed his face and then snatched up his 
drink.  "Me and the kid are going to go have a chat, okay?  
Save my seat."

"You sure, Lou?"

"I'm sure."  He jerked his head to get Manny to follow him 
away from the others.  They went to the back end and took an 
empty booth by the pool table.  Lou swallowed half his drink 
and then regarded Manny with darkened eyes.  "You seem like a 
good cop.  Must be a smart one too if they have you on the 
task force.  So use your head here and stay away from the 
Crenshaw case.  There's nothing to be found there."

"You know what happened to the missing pages, don't you," 
Manny said, leaning forward.  "Just tell me what's in them."

"You're not getting it, are you?  Those pages are missing for 
a reason, and that reason's got nothing to do with your 
serial killer."

"Then tell me the reason."

Lou shook his head.  "Like talking to a goddamn wall," he 
muttered.  "You're the detective -- you figure it out."

"She was a call girl who was raped and brutalized," Manny 
said.  "That much is still in the file."

"We never did catch the bastard either."

"Kind of hard when you're only working with half the 
information."

"Hey, everything related to her assault is right there in the 
file.  The guy just got lucky this time."

"Everything related to her assault," Manny repeated, trying 
to think.  "So you're saying the missing part has to do with 
something else?  What?"

"Think about it.  If you're worth your stripes, it'll come."  
Lou took another drink and looked around nervously.

"Some other john?  Someone who'd rather not have his name in 
a police file?"

"Now you're getting it."

"Who?"

"Never mind who.  You got what you came for.  Now if you'll 
excuse me, I've got to get back to my boys."  Lou heaved 
himself out of the booth and walked away without a backward 
glance.

Manny sat with his beer, twirling the bottle and racking his 
brain for more answers.  Annette Crenshaw had come into the 
station to report the assault, but somewhere in the 
interview, she had mentioned another name.  Someone she 
thought might be able to help her, maybe.  Someone in the 
government.  Or a cop.

Manny got up, knowing he had exhausted this road for the 
moment.  Lou wasn't saying anything more and the papers had 
gone missing.  That left only one person who knew the content 
of the file: Annette Crenshaw herself.

/////  

Scully spent a long day on her feet, quietly cataloging each 
indignity done to Hannah and Tom McKillop.  She measured each 
wound and combed their bodies for any hairs or fibers that 
might be of later use.  As she snapped their pictures under 
the bright light, she thought again of their wedding album 
and the happy photos within it.

If you wanted a souvenir picture, Scully thought, you should 
have taken one of these.

She knew some cultures believed that photographs could steal 
a person's soul.  Maybe that was what the killer had wanted -
- a memento of what he had taken.

Near the end of the afternoon, she was cleaning up when Ray 
Peterkin appeared at the door.  He waved at her through the 
Plexiglas window and she went to see what he wanted.  "Any 
news?"

"Not a lot.  Give me ten more minutes and I'll give you the 
full report."

He peered past her at the shiny metal tables that still held 
the McKillops' bodies.  "I'll be back in ten, then," he said, 
and disappeared down the hall.

Scully put away her tools and the bodies before scrubbing 
death from her hands with strong lemon soap.  She exchanged 
her white lab coat for her navy suit jacket and checked her 
hair in the mirror.  She looked slightly better than a dead 
person, she decided with a sigh.

The hall outside was empty so Scully kept walking in the 
hopes of finding Ray but he was nowhere to be seen.  She 
opened the back door that led to the parking lot and found 
him huddled close to the building, trying to get out of the 
wind as he smoked a cigarette.  "I didn't know you smoked," 
she said as she joined him.  She didn't have her winter coat 
on, so she stood as close as etiquette would allow.

"I don't, not usually."  He looked rueful.  "I picked it up 
from a college girlfriend but I only do it now when I'm 
stressed or drunk."

"I'm guessing it's the former and not the latter?" Scully 
asked with an arch of the eyebrow.

"No, but the bottle is looking pretty good right now too."  
He held out the pack to her.  "You want one?"

Scully surprised herself by saying yes.  The old friend felt 
sleek and warm in her cold fingers.  Ray cupped his hand 
around hers as he lit the end of her cigarette.  The tip 
flared to life, nearly burning him, but he didn't flinch.

"I see you've done this before," he remarked, amused.

"Way before college," she replied before taking a puff.  "But 
you know what they say about girls maturing early."

"Yes, but I have a scientific question for you: do the boys 
ever catch up?" His eyes twinkled in the streetlights and 
Scully found herself smiling.

"The results of that experiment are still pending," she said.  
The taste of the tar took her back to warm summer nights on 
her parents' back porch, sneaking quick puffs and watching 
their bedroom in case the light came on.

A woman came out of the back door, forcing them to move 
aside.  She looked at them like they were crazy, shaking her 
head before pulling her hood up and walking away.

"When did smokers become lepers?" Ray asked.

"When people caught on that it could kill you." Scully noted 
the irony of having this conversation in front of the city 
morgue.

"Everything will kill you, some things just faster than 
others."  He blew a smoke ring.  "At least we'll look cool on 
the way out, right?"

Scully smiled again and shivered.  "There is a theory that 
smokers really are cool people, you know.  At least the early 
ones.  The theory is that the cool people take it up because 
they're rebellious and fearless and the rest of us follow 
because we want to be more like them."

"Who did you want to be like?" he asked.

"Allison Shalinsky.  She had long hair that curled at the end 
and everyone always wanted to sit next to her on the bus.  
She wore eye makeup and owned her own moped.  Rumor was she 
even had a tattoo somewhere, and let me tell you that every 
boy in the seventh grade was determined to find out where."

"Ah," Ray said knowingly.  "In my class, her name was Barbara 
Mansfield.  She wore the tightest little sweaters..."

"Did she have a tattoo?"

"If she did, I was never lucky enough to find out."  He eyed 
her.  "What about you, Agent Scully?  Do you have any ink?"

Scully felt her cheeks grow warm and she looked at the 
ground.  On her back, the tattoo seemed to burn.  "I..."

"You do!"  He looked amazed and tickled at the same time.  
"Oh my God, I wasn't serious.  Where is it?"

"Covered up," she said, meeting his gaze. He held it for 
longer than was strictly necessary.

"It's going to snow soon," he said, leaning back against the 
wall.

"How do you know?"

"See that light on top of the old Hancock tower?  It's 
flashing red, which means snow is coming.  I hope it holds 
off until after the town hall meeting tonight."

"What meeting?"

"Didn't you hear?  The Chief is having an open meeting 
tonight to answer the public's questions about this case.  
Reporters can attend, but no cameras inside.  We're all to be 
there with our dress-suits on, looking like we know more than 
we do."

"That's for sure.  I didn't find a thing on the bodies that 
advances the case beyond what we already know."

Ray crushed out his cigarette on the side of the cement 
building and tossed it in the garbage.  "With luck, we won't 
have to say anything.  We're just window dressing so the 
Chief can show off how many people he has working on this 
very important case."

Scully got rid of her cigarette also.  Ray held the door open 
for her as she stepped back inside the heated building.  "He 
advertised this meeting?"

"On the airwaves all day," he said as they walked.  "Why?"

"All these people working the case, they're going to be lined 
up for the public tonight instead of hunting the killer.  
Seems to me that would be a highly opportune moment to 
strike."

/////

Mulder took his place on the stage quite near Chief Windsor.  
The public would be expecting an FBI profiler, and Windsor 
would have one at the ready.  He smoothed his tie and looked 
again for Scully.  When he had tried her cell phone earlier, 
she had not answered, and so far she was a no-show for the 
meeting.

The auditorium was filled with the sound of people walking in 
and sitting down.  The crowd struggled to find room for their 
heavy coats in the narrow seats.  The house lights were up 
but Mulder couldn't really make out too many faces.  It 
looked like they were in for a packed audience.

At two minutes to seven, Scully appeared with Ray Peterkin on 
her heels.  Ray was to sit to Windsor's left while Scully's 
place card put her next to Mulder.  She sounded out of breath 
when she took her seat.  "Running a little late?" he asked.

"The autopsies took longer than I thought they would," she 
said.

"Find anything good?"

"Unfortunately no.  Cause of death was a gunshot wound to the 
head.  I retrieved a few more black fibers consistent with 
yarn from a ski mask and that's about it."

Mulder leaned over and sniffed her.

"What are you doing?"

"You smell like cigarettes."

She didn't get to reply because Windsor called the meeting to 
order.  Mulder watched the faces in the front row as the 
Chief went over every avenue of investigation.  It was an 
even mix of men and women, young and old.  The case seemed to 
have spooked everyone in the city equally.

When Windsor opened the floor for questions, the first person 
to stand up was a young man who appeared to be about college 
aged.  "Have you been able to detect any pattern to when he 
attacks people?" the man asked.

"Other than he strikes in the middle of the night, no we have 
not found any pattern as yet," Windsor replied.

A woman in a knit cap was next.  "I heard all the women had 
long hair.  Is that true?"

"All three female victims did have longish hair, but this is 
true of many women.  We have no reason to believe that hair 
length had anything to do with these women being targeted."

"But you don't know for sure, do you?" the woman asked.

"No, ma'am, we don't know for sure, but I promise you that if 
we learn anything that might help people protect themselves, 
we will share it with you immediately.  Right now, I don't 
think long-haired women have anything in particular to fear."

The next question came from a familiar voice.  "Bill Harris, 
NBC News," he said.  "I want to know if you have any evidence 
that suggests this might be the work of two killers, not 
one."

Windsor looked at Mulder.  Mulder shook his head very 
slightly.  "Right now we have no reason to believe there is 
more than one killer," Windsor replied to Harris.  "The 
evidence from the scene is consistent with the work of one 
man."

"I don't believe it," Harris said.  "These are young vital 
individuals.  Surely the men would not stand by idly and 
allow some monster to rape and murder their wives.  They 
would fight.  The women would fight too, I should think.  It 
would be two against one.  A second killer goes a long way to 
explaining how they are able to overpower two adults."

"Mr. Harris, I thank you for that theory and I promise we 
will take it under advisement.  Next?"

Another woman stood up.  "What if it's the hat thief?" she 
asked. "What if he's not just taking hats anymore?"

"We have not found any missing hats from the homes of the 
victims," Windsor said.  "There is no reason to believe the 
hat thief is connected to these murders."

A man in the back yelled out: "If you can't even catch a hat 
thief, how the hell are you going to catch this guy?"

Mulder and Scully looked at each other.  The man had a point.

/////

That night at home, Bill Harris had all the newspaper 
clippings related to the serial murders spread out across his 
dining room table.  He had a robe over his pajamas and a mug 
of coffee in his hand.  Somewhere in all this ink had to be 
evidence that could prove his theory.

"Bill, aren't you coming to bed?"  His wife Stella came and 
put her arms around his neck from behind.  She smelled of 
rose-scented bath salts, and he smiled as her hair tickled 
his cheek.

"Soon," he said.  "I just want to look at this a little 
more."

"You've been looking for hours now."  She stroked his hair 
back from his forehead.  "You need rest."

"I know, and I'll be up in just a few minutes, okay?"

She sighed and kissed the top of his head. "I don't know how 
you can look at this stuff and not get nightmares.  It gives 
me the creeps."

He pulled her arm around and kissed the inside of her wrist.  
"You, my darling, have nothing to worry about."

She laughed and hugged him again.  "This from the man who 
won't even defend me from a spider in the bathroom."

"You can't use a twenty-two caliber pistol on a spider."

"I've always hated that thing," she said, "but now I have to 
admit I'm kind of glad we have it."  She tilted his head far 
back so she could look at him.  "You do know how to fire it 
right?"

"Of course."

"And actually hit what you're aiming for?  With my luck, a 
guy breaks in here and you'll end up shooting me."

"Never," he told her with a grin.  He reached back and drew 
her face down for a kiss.  "Go to bed.  I'll be up in ten 
minutes."

But two hours later he was still sitting over the clippings, 
taking notes and jotting down a timeline.  He used a red pen 
and wrote in a scrawl only he could decipher.  "I'm going to 
break this case wide open," he said to the empty room.  "I 
can feel it."

He was contemplating another pot of coffee when he heard a 
strange noise from the den, like the sound of the floorboards 
creaking.  He froze, listening, and heard it again.

It's the house settling, he told himself, but the lump in his 
stomach said there was trouble.  The house just wasn't that 
old.

Harris crept to the hall and peered down the dark corridor.  
He saw nothing and the noise had stopped.  His breathing 
shallow, he tiptoed to the closet where the gun was stored.  
He cracked open the door and reached up to get the lock box 
down.  There he was, stretched in the air, his fingers just 
brushing the metal case, when a knife pressed against his 
neck.

"Hello, Mr. Harris," hissed a voice behind him.  "Say one 
word and I'll cut you right here."

Harris barely choked back a sob.  Oh, God please no, he 
thought.  Stella, are you hearing this?  Call 911, baby.

"Turn around," ordered the man.  "Slowly."

Harris turned and faced his captor.  In the semi-darkness, 
all he saw were glinting eyes through a ski mask.  

"We're all alone, you and I."  He was breathing through an 
open mouth behind the mask.  The knife bit into Harris's 
neck, drawing blood.

"Please, whatever you want," Harris whispered.  "I can make 
you famous."

The man laughed.  "I'm already famous.  Don't you watch the 
news?"

"What do you want with me?"  His knees threatened to give out 
beneath him.  He had broken into a cold sweat.  One quick 
slice of the knife and he would be bleeding out on the floor.

"It's simple.  You wanted to know how one man could possibly 
be doing the things I've done.  I came to show you."

Harris thought he might be sick.  "Please no."

"Let's go find your wife, hmm?  I bet she wants to know too."

Later, as he screwed his eyes shut against the images and 
sounds of his wife being raped, Harris had only one thought 
running through his mind over and over again.

Stella, I'm sorry.  Stella, I'm sorry.

And then finally, there was nothing.

/////

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

Chapter Six

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


Jane got up extra early because she knew if she was going to 
get to Chief Windsor she would have to do it before the task 
force had its morning meeting.  She dressed with special 
care, choosing her favorite navy pantsuit with the matching 
pinstripe blouse.  She curled her hair into a bun at her nape 
and put on her lucky silver necklace with the dolphin charm.

"Mom's got to run in early, boys," she said as she filled the 
cats' bowl full of Kibble.  She scratched first Caleb and 
then Ralph behind the ears.  "You be good."

She glanced outside at the pouring snow and thanked God again 
for her landlord, who always plowed the driveway several 
times per storm.  Traffic was slow but crowded as she headed 
downtown.  Everyone, it appeared, considered their jobs 
essential.

If you don't think you're essential then maybe your boss 
doesn't either, Jane thought as she fiddled with the car 
radio to try to get an updated report.  Snow through the 
morning, it said, ending around noon.

She reached the station and took the elevator up to Windsor's 
office.  Checking her look in the reflective doors, she 
fluffed her bangs and undid another button on her blouse.  
She had rehearsed her speech all night; now all she needed 
was an opportunity to deliver it.

"He's not seeing anyone right now," the secretary told her 
when she reached the outside office.

Jane glanced at the nameplate on her desk that read "Esther 
Quimby."  The woman couldn't have been more than forty-five 
years old.  Esther?  Really?

"I just need a minute," Jane said.  "It's about the task 
force.  Could you just tell him I'm here?"

"I don't care if you're here to tell him he just won the 
Publisher's Clearing House," Esther replied.  "He left strict 
instructions that he's not to be interrupted this morning."

Jane resisted the temptation to stomp her foot.  "He knows 
me, truly."

"Chief knows everybody.  That's his job.  My job is to make 
sure everybody doesn't come knocking on his door when he 
asked them not to."  She looked pointedly at Jane.  "You can 
have a seat and wait if you like, but you're not going in 
there."

"Fine, I'll wait."

Jane sat in one of the chairs against the wall, next to the 
potted plant and the water cooler.  Esther went back to 
sipping from her giant cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee and 
reading her email.  Jane crossed her legs and bounced one 
foot as she tried to think of a plan.

Esther's slurping finally gave her an idea.  She got up and 
wandered over to the desk again.  "That's a nice picture 
you've got there," she said, pointing to the calendar hanging 
behind Esther on the wall.

Esther turned and looked at the image, which depicted a photo 
of a giant waterfall.  "Oh, it's all right, I guess.  I got 
it for free."

"Is that Niagara Falls?"

"No, it's in South America some place."

"I went to Niagara Falls with my parents when I was a kid," 
Jane said.  "It was pretty fun, but we went on one of those 
boat rides, down real close, you know?  And I had to pee so 
bad I could hardly stand it.  All that rushing water just 
made it worse.  It was like torture!"

Esther smiled faintly and looked at her monitor.  "It sounds 
rough."

"Don't you hate it when you have to go and there's no place 
around?  That's the worst."

Esther didn't answer this time, so Jane went to the water 
cooler and pulled a cup free.  She filled it slowly, letting 
the sound of the running water linger in the room.  Then she 
drank it down in a few quick gulps and refilled the cup.  
Esther did not appear to be paying any attention.

Jane gave up and returned to her seat.  She had just picked 
up a newspaper to read when Esther rose from behind the desk.  
"I'll be back in two minutes," she said.  "If the phone 
rings, don't answer it."

"I won't touch a thing," Jane said with a smile.  She waited 
until Esther was out of sight before hurrying to Windsor's 
office door.  

She knocked and entered at the same time.  "Sir?"

He adjusted his glasses up his nose and looked at her.  
"Jane," he said.  "Now is not the best time."

"I realize that, sir.  If I could just have a minute."

He sighed and swiveled his chair away from his desk.  "I'd 
spend a minute just arguing with you, I know.  Come in and 
have a seat."

"Thank you, sir."  She perched on the very edge.  "The other 
night when we were having drinks you said I could come to you 
if I ever needed help on a case..."

"I've got my hands full right now."

"I realize that.  That's why I'm here.  I want to join the 
task force."

His eyebrows rose.  "In what capacity, exactly?"

"As you know, I've been tracking the hat thief for some time.  
I think there may be some possibility that he's the man the 
task force is seeking."

"You think he's our killer?"  The Chief looked unconvinced.  
"That's quite a big leap from hats to homicide."

"Whoever is taking the hats has one big thing in common with 
the killer -- they both can get in and out of people's houses 
at will and leave essentially no evidence behind."

"That's it?  That's your big connection?  That isn't enough 
of a link to hang your hat on, detective, if you'll pardon my 
pun."

"I think it makes sense to join the investigations.  I can 
still work the hat end of things, but this way if there are 
any other connections between the cases, it will be easier to 
find them because I will be up-to-date on the homicides as 
well."

He looked her over, a glint in his eye.  "You've got nerve.  
I like that.  I bet you can be a real ball-buster when you 
want to be."

"If the balls need busting, sir, then yes, I won't hesitate."

He licked his already-wet lips and gave her a speculative 
look.  "These cases couldn't be more different if one was 
named Jack and the other Jill.  You're smart enough to know 
that.  But you're in here angling for any entry into the task 
force because you think it's your ticket to the fast track.  
You did your hair up all fancy and put on that low-cut blouse 
and came in here to hustle an old man."

"Not so old," Jane replied, trying to stay strong.

He laughed and leaned forward.  "Give me one honest-to-God 
reason why I should put you on this case, Dunbar."

Jane didn't blink. "Because I can help you catch him."

"Okay, consider it done, then." He put his glasses back on 
and returned his attention to his desk.  "And if the hat 
thief does turn out to be our killer, I'll buy you a drink."

Jane paused on her way out the door.  "And if he isn't?"

"Well, then you'll buy me one."


////

Mulder woke up to gray light slanting in between the 
curtains.  The air outside his bedcovers was cool, making him 
shiver as he approached the window.  He tugged aside the 
curtain and found his window covered in tiny snowflakes.  At 
the top, where the windowpane was still clear, he could see 
the snow continuing to trickle from the sky.

He dropped the curtain with a sigh and went to take a quick 
shower.  On his way down, he stopped on the fifth floor to 
see Scully.  He knocked on her door but there was no answer.  
Bending back to see the tag on the wall, he double-checked 
that he had the correct room number. Then he rapped a second 
time and called her name, but there was still no reply from 
the other side of the door.  Mulder went back to the elevator 
and considered his options.  He could grab breakfast in the 
hotel restaurant, but that would take at least fifteen 
minutes and Scully was apparently ahead of him.   He decided 
to use a drive-thru on his way to the station.

Outside, wind made the snow dance, sending frosty curls of 
ice into his face and around his legs.  Mulder kept his head 
down and muttered something about how people in D.C. had the 
sense to stay home in weather like this.  The hotel had 
plowed the parking lot, creating great mountains of snow by 
the corners, but the concrete was still icy and slick beneath 
his feet.

"Oh, shit," he said when he saw his car, which was buried 
under at least eight inches of snow.  Did the rental even 
have a scraper?  He grimaced at the thought of clearing the 
snow with his hands.

As he circled, wondering how best to attack, his ass hit the 
car behind him, sending an avalanche of snow down his 
backside that took his breath away.  "God damn it," he said 
though clenched teeth and used both hands to brush the wet 
mess from the back of his coat and legs.  He turned to glare 
at the offending car and saw that it was Scully's.  "Huh," he 
said, and checked his watch.  It was nearly nine.  

He started gingerly back across the parking lot, his shoes 
slipping with each step.  Maybe she had taken a taxicab to 
avoid driving in the mess, he thought.  Or maybe someone had 
picked her up.  He had a flash of Ray Peterkin dropping by 
for breakfast.

Back at her room, Mulder knocked loudly.  "Scully, it's me," 
he said.  "Are you in there?"

He got no response, so he started digging around in his 
pocket for her room key.  They habitually swapped extra key 
cards for safety and convenience, but he'd rarely had to use 
his.  

As the lock clicked open, Mulder suddenly considered that 
maybe she wasn't alone.  Perhaps Ray had dropped by the 
evening before.  Perhaps Ray was still here.

The room was dark with the curtains still drawn and he 
couldn't hear any noise coming from the bedroom.  What the 
hell, he thought, and took a peek.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw her alone, sound 
asleep under the covers.  The bedside clock read nine-oh-two, 
and Mulder considered waking her.  Her travel alarm sat on 
the nightstand near her head, along with a half-full cup of 
water and her glasses.  Mulder moved closer and glimpsed a 
prescription pill bottle hidden behind the water.

He picked it up and squinted at it.  Painkillers.

He shook the bottle lightly and heard the sound of perhaps 
five or six pills inside; the label said there had initially 
been thirty.

Replacing the bottle on the nightstand, he knelt by the side 
of the bed and leaned close to Scully.  Her breathing was 
shallow and even, but he was still concerned that she might 
have taken too much.  It wasn't like her to oversleep in the 
middle of a murder investigation.

"Scully," he said softly, touching her shoulder.  "Scully, 
wake up."

Her eyelids fluttered and he drew back his hand.  She inhaled 
sharply as recognition dawned.  "Mulder," she said, sitting 
up.  "Jesus, you scared me."

"Sorry about that."

"What are you doing here?  What's wrong?"

"You didn't answer your door," he said as she reached to turn 
on the bedside lamp.  "I got worried."

"My alarm didn't go off."

He plucked it from her nightstand and studied the buttons.  
"You've got it set for 7PM instead of 7AM."

"Sorry," she said, snatching it back.  "You go on without me, 
okay?  I'll catch up."

"I'll wait," he said as he rose from his crouch.  "I need 
someone to help me dig out the car."

"Excuse me?"  She tossed aside the covers and slid out of 
bed.  He watched her for any sign of pain but she completed 
the motion without wincing.

"We got about a foot of snow overnight.  Our cars are now 
each buried inside an igloo.  I figured it would be easier 
for us to take one car today rather than try to find parking 
for two amid the snow banks." 

He heard the toilet flush and the water run.  A moment later 
she emerged to select a suit from the wardrobe.  "You're 
really going to hang around here and watch me dress?" she 
asked.

He flopped onto the chair.  "If you make it good, I'll slip 
some cash in your belt."

She did not dignify him with an answer as she took a blouse 
from its hanger.  The wind outside intensified, howling 
against the windows.  

"Hey, you didn't happen to pack a shovel, did you?" he asked.

"Sorry, no."

"Guess you wouldn't have had room for it with all that 
Vicodin."

Her shoulders squared but she didn't turn to look at him.  
"That's not your business."

"It is if my partner is hurt, if she's got the beginnings of 
a kick-ass drug habit."

"I'm not," she said, pinning him with her gaze from across 
the room.

"Not hurt?  Not a drug addict?"

"Not your partner."

She turned to go back to the bathroom, but he was up and out 
of his chair in a flash.  She beat him to the door, but 
followed so quickly that she didn't have time to close it in 
his face.  "Get out," she said flatly as he entered the 
bathroom behind her.

"What was that supposed to mean?" he demanded.  "That we're 
not partners?"

"It's a statement of fact," she said, her arms folded across 
her chest.  She wouldn't look at him.  "As of this moment, we 
have no official connection to each other.  We haven't had 
for nearly a year now.  Until the X-files are reopened, we 
are two people who happen to work at the FBI."

God damn, he wanted to grab her and shake her sometimes.  "I 
can't believe you would even say that," he said.

She ripped open her travel case and started pulling 
toiletries out onto the counter.  "It's the truth, right?  
You're so fond of the truth."

"The truth -- we're just two people who happen to work at the 
FBI.  That's really what you think."

She shrugged and kept pulling out makeup.

He rolled his eyes and sank onto the edge of the tub.  "You 
are so full of shit."

"No, you are," she said, slamming down her hairbrush and 
turning around.  "The phone rings with an X-file lead and you 
hare off into the night without so much as a 'see you later, 
Scully,' and what am I supposed to think?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"You've run off to Bermuda, to California, to Chicago and God 
knows how many other places I don't even know about. Not once 
did you tell me you were going.  Not once did you even 
mention the X-Files to me." 

"All of that was extra-curricular work.  I had no idea you 
wanted to spend your free time tracking X-file leads."

"You never even asked."

He snorted.  "Oh, so you're saying you would have been 
delighted to come.  You wouldn't have frowned at me and said, 
'Mulder, there's no such thing as the Bermuda triangle' or 
'Mulder, you're crazy -- the devil is not stealing babies in 
Hollins!'"

"Of course I would have!  That's my job!"  She faltered, 
leaning back against the counter.  "Or at least I thought it 
was."

He shook his head, unable to come up with a response.  Scully 
sighed and took a step towards him.

"I'm not addicted," she said quietly. "To the Vicodin." 

"The pill bottle is almost empty."

"And did you see the date it was filled?  Nearly two months 
ago, Mulder."

Oh. Now he felt like an ass.  He rubbed his face with his 
hands, making his hair stand on end in the front.  "Okay, so 
I won't be checking you into any twelve step programs."

She gave a wry smile.  He looked at her.

"I didn't realize it still hurt so much," he said.

"It doesn't.  Not compared to before."

He nodded heavily, and looked at his shoes.  They seemed huge 
and black compared to her small bare feet.  He became aware 
that he was still wearing his overcoat -- in the bathroom, no 
less.

"Mulder..."

He looked up again.

"Are you going to move so I can shower?"

It was his turn to smile.  "And if I don't?"

She gave a casual shrug and started unbuttoning her purple 
pajama top.  "I'll have to step over you, I guess."

Their eyes met and held, but he could still see the quick, 
efficient movement of her hand as she worked the buttons free 
one by one.  At last, her hand dropped away and the material 
parted slightly at the middle.

Mulder looked and saw the shadowed curve of one breast and 
the dainty hollow of her bellybutton.  Her skin was white and 
unmarked and he felt his mouth water at the thought of 
touching it.

"Last chance," she said, her voice a bare whisper in the 
porcelain-covered room.  Her fingers played with the edge of 
the pajama top.

Mulder surprised himself by reaching up and brushing her hand 
aside.  With one finger, he nudged the bottom right side of 
the material away.  Slowly the scar came into view.

Scully held her breath but let him look.  The bright light of 
the bathroom hid nothing, revealing every jagged edge of the 
puckered scar.  It was still quite red.  Mulder thought it 
looked like a tiny mouth opened in an angry scream.

She quivered as he touched it, her belly rippling.  He traced 
the edge with one gentle finger, mapping the raised edges and 
letting the hardened tissue trail across his skin.  "Does 
this hurt?" he asked her softly.

She shook her head in slow motion.

He let his finger wander beneath her pajama top, across her 
waist and around to the back.  When he reached the matching 
scar behind her, he flattened his whole hand against her hip 
so he was holding her in place.

Her breath caught and she tensed, but she didn't move away as 
he started leaning closer.  He saw the scar getting nearer, 
saw his breath stir the fine hairs on her belly.  He could 
smell her skin and the silk of her pajamas.

Her hand came up to rest on the top of his head.  He closed 
his eyes.  In another instant, his lips would be against the 
scar.

"Mulder," she breathed, and he froze.  Her nails pricked his 
scalp and he heard only the sound of the blood rushing in his 
ears.

He never found out what she was going to say because the 
phone rang.  Startled, she stepped back.  "I, uh..."

"I'll get it," he said as he rose from the tub.  "You 
shower."

He left her standing there, unbuttoned and dazed, and went to 
answer her bedside phone.  "Hello?" he said, rubbing his eyes 
with one hand.

"Agent Mulder?"

"Peterkin?  What's up?"

"Did I misdial? I thought I had Agent Scully's room."

"She's in the shower.  What's going on?"

"You need to come right away," Peterkin said.  "There's been 
another attack last night.  He broke into a TV reporter's 
home -- Brian Harris."

"Yeah, I know him," Mulder said, recalling the guy he had 
shooed away from yesterday's crime scene.

"Everyone around here knows Harris; he's been on NBC since 
the eighties.  He was even at the meeting last night, 
remember?  Anyway, he killed Harris's wife but we may have 
caught a break -- Harris is alive.  They're taking him to 
Mass General for treatment."

"We'll be right there," Mulder said.

/////


Scully stopped with Mulder at the front desk.  "I don't 
suppose you have a shovel or an ice scraper or something?" he 
asked the concierge.  "Our car had disappeared into a snow 
bank."

"Our staff is out there shoveling now, sir," the man in the 
suit replied.  "Just indicate which car is yours and they 
will have it cleared post haste."

"Thanks," Mulder answered as he pushed back from the counter.

"Oh, Ms. Scully?" the concierge called, and Scully turned 
back.  "This was delivered for you this morning."

He handed her a long-stemmed flower.

"No card attached?" Scully asked.

"I'm sorry, no."

Scully accepted the flower and examined its blossom as she 
trailed Mulder through the lobby.  "What's with the flora?" 
he asked her.

"I don't know.  Someone left it for me."

"Someone?"

"There's no card, so I don't know who it's from."  She held 
it for his inspection.  "It's a bird of paradise.  See the 
way the pointed ends look like wings?  We used to see them a 
lot in San Diego."

"Some paradise," Mulder commented as they walked out into the 
cold.  "That bird is going to wish it had flown south for the 
winter."

Scully tucked the exotic blossom inside her coat.  The snow 
and freezing temperatures would probably kill it, but she 
didn't want to take the time to return it to her room.

Their cars had been freed from the mounds of snow, and Mulder 
climbed into the driver's seat of his.  Scully followed suit, 
pulling the flower loose as the engine turned over.  Mulder 
glanced at her.  "So you've got a secret admirer, is that 
it?"

She sniffed the bird.  It didn't carry much of a floral 
scent, but the organic smell of green leaves and tender 
petals filled her nose -- a spring breeze on a miserable 
winter's day.  The only question was who had given it to her.

She tucked it out of sight from Mulder's curious gaze.  "Did 
Peterkin say how injured Harris was?" she asked him.

"No, just that he was being taken to the hospital for 
treatment."

"If he's been shot in the head, we're not likely to get much 
out of him."

"I'm betting he wasn't shot."  He was hunched far over the 
steering wheel, leaning as close as he could to the flake-
covered windshield.  The car crept along at twenty miles per 
hour.

"Why do you say that?"

"He's alive on purpose," Mulder said without looking away.  
"The killer wants Harris to tell his story.  Why else would 
he pick a reporter?"

At the hospital, they found a uniformed officer standing 
guard outside and Peterkin and Diana inside talking to 
Harris.  Harris lay in bed with a bandage around his head.  
There were swaths around both wrists as well, and one nostril 
was rimmed with dried blood.  A large bruise swelled across 
his left cheekbone.

"You," he said when he saw Mulder and Scully.  "I remember 
you."

"Mr. Harris, we're very sorry for what's happened to you," 
Scully said.  "We heard about your wife."

His face crumpled and he clenched his fists.  "I knew when I 
woke up that she was dead.  I couldn't see anything, but I 
knew."

"Mr. Harris has sustained numerous injuries," Diana said.  
"The doctors have asked us not to stay in here too long."

"I want to tell you what happened," said Harris.  "It's all 
just so hard to remember."

"You were saying he attacked you first in the downstairs 
hallway," Diana said.  "Did you see his face?"

"No, he wore a black ski mask."

"How tall was he?" 

"My height, a little taller, maybe.  He wore thick gloves, 
work gloves."

"What exactly did he say to you?" Mulder wanted to know.

Harris took a deep breath.  "He said he wanted to show me.  
He wanted to show me how he was doing it all by himself.  I 
told him I could make him famous but he didn't care."

"He cared," Mulder replied gently.  "That's probably why he 
let you live."

Harris buried his face in his injured hands.  "He should have 
taken me and let Stella live.  The station would have jumped 
on the story anyway.  He doesn't need me to get attention.  
Why?  Why would he do this?"

Mulder looked grim.  "Just to prove he can."

"Is there anything else you can remember about him that was 
remarkable?" Diana asked.  "An accent?  The color of his 
eyes?  Maybe he used a name?"

"Nothing like that," Harris said sadly.  "It was dark and I 
couldn't see his eyes.  He spoke in a low, rough voice the 
whole time, as if he was disguising it.  No particular 
accent."

"What about a smell?" Mulder asked.

Harris considered.  "His jacket smelled a little like 
cigarettes."

"We should check the ground outside for butts," Diana 
murmured.

"Under all this snow.  Great," Peterkin answered.

Scully looked at Mulder but his face gave away nothing.  She 
knew what he was thinking -- it was unlikely this killer 
would have been dumb enough to leave a cigarette butt right 
outside the house.

A nurse appeared to check Harris's IV line.  "How are you 
doing here?" she asked.  "Okay?"

Harris said nothing, apparently numb.

"I think you all had better let Mr. Harris get some rest 
now," the nurse told them.  "You can talk to him again later 
today."

"No, please.  I want to help."

"You've helped a lot," Mulder assured him.  "Really.  
Everything you've told us gives us new information on the 
case, and helps us get closer to catching him."

Harris sagged against the pillow.  "You must think I'm a 
fool.  He let me live to tell my story, yes, but only because 
he knows I can't give you anything of value.  I'm no help at 
all."

They left then, congregating in the hall outside his room.  
"He's right, you know," Diana said.  "So far nothing Harris 
has added gives us any new information.  We even knew about 
the ski mask."

"He followed him home to show him how he was committing the 
crimes," said Mulder.  "He wanted Harris to know there was 
only one man behind them.  He wanted Harris to know he was 
wrong."

"You're thinking we can use that to lure him out," Peterkin 
said.  "That if we say things he views as insulting that he 
will show up to correct us."

"Maybe," Mulder allowed.  "But he's already shown up and we 
missed it."

"What do you mean?"

"Harris never put his two-killer theory on the air.  That 
means his attacker was at the town meeting last night.  He 
probably followed him home."

"I guess I should get to the morgue," Scully said, "and take 
a look at the wife's body while it's still fresh."

"I want to see the house," said Mulder as the group started 
walking.  

Scully touched his arm.  "We have one car, remember?"

"I'll drop you," Diana said.

Scully turned her head and found with surprise that Diana was 
looking at her, not Mulder.

"I'm heading back to the station and it's on my way," Diana 
added.  

Mulder looked at Scully like a boy seeking permission to go 
off with his friends to the park.  "Okay?"

"Fine," she replied stiffly.  "I'll see you later."

She followed Diana out to the hospital parking garage.  
Wherever Diana had found to stash her car overnight, it was 
indoors.  She barely had any trace of snow or salt on the 
sedan.

"Thanks for the lift," Scully said once they were inside.

"Anytime."  Diana smiled at her.  "It gives us a chance to 
talk."

Ah, Scully thought, shifting in her seat.  Here we go.  
Aloud, she said, "Talk about what, exactly?"

"I feel like we may have gotten off on the wrong foot 
somehow."

"Is this the 'why can't we be friends' speech?"

"Actually, no," Diana said as she steered the car out into 
the snow.  "I figure you and I are past that point, don't 
you?  I have no particular quarrel with you but it's pretty 
clear you haven't liked me from the start."

"I don't know you."

"And you don't care to," Diana said, not sounding concerned.  
"That's fine.  I'm just curious about your intentions.  I 
know you know I've applied for the X-Files position.  I was 
just wondering whether you were considering it as well."

"Considering it?"

"Didn't Mulder tell you?  As the original agent, he's been 
officially reassigned as head of the X-files.  He gets to 
select one other agent to join him on the team."

"I thought he was considering adding a third position."

"There's no money for that.  Brass has already said no.  
Apparently they've been waiting for Mulder's answer for a 
week now, but he has yet to name a partner.  I gather you 
must be my competition."

Scully laughed softly but without humor.  "It was my job for 
five years."

"I understood you didn't particularly care for it.  That's 
why you're here in Boston, isn't it?  To pursue other 
options?"

"I wouldn't have done the job for five years if I didn't care 
for it," Scully replied.  "You were there, what?  Six months 
before you walked away?"

"I had to leave for personal reasons.  You wouldn't 
understand."  She looked sideways at Scully.  "Or maybe you 
would.  Maybe that's why you're looking at leaving too."

"I haven't gone anywhere," Scully said.  "It would be a 
mistake to think otherwise."

As they neared the morgue, Diana navigated the car to the 
side of the road and squeezed between two snow banks.  "This 
is your stop," she said.  "Careful getting out."

"I'll watch my step, thank you," Scully said.  She got out 
without putting her foot into a snowdrift and picked her way 
to clear sidewalk.  Slush kicked up in her direction as Diana 
peeled away, disappearing into the blinding white haze.

///////

At his kitchen table, Jimmy had his tape recorder and his 
notepad out as he tried to think.  Karen and Michael ran 
through the room screaming, their little sock feet skidding 
on the linoleum floor.  Jimmy swallowed a gulp of lukewarm 
coffee and hollered out to Amy, "Can't you keep them quiet 
for one goddamned minute?"

Amy appeared in the door with a hairbrush in her hand.  "I've 
got to get ready for work.  It's your job to keep them out of 
my hair right now."

"I'm working too."

"No, Jimmy, you're playing cops and robbers, the same as the 
kids."

"I'm onto something big here!" he yelled after her.  "Just 
you wait!"

When she returned, her hair was pulled back tight and she had 
her uniform on.  "There's tuna casserole in the fridge.  
Michael has to go through a magazine and cut out pictures of 
three things that start with C.  Can you help him with that?"

Jimmy looked up from his notes.  "Huh, what?"

"I said, can you help Michael with his homework?  It's due 
tomorrow."

"Yeah, yeah.  Whatever he needs, I'll do it."

"Not do it yourself.  Help *him*."

"That's what I said!  I'll help him."

She grabbed her coat.  "You're staying in tonight, right?  
You're not going out to that cop bar again?  The kids need 
you."

"I'm here, ain't I?"

"Ginny Olsen is nice enough, but with everything that's going 
on, I don't feel safe with just a teenage girl looking after 
the kids, especially at night."

"The kids will be fine.  Nobody's doing anything to little 
kids."

"Just promise me you'll be here with them."

"I promise already."  He swallowed the rest of his coffee and 
made a face.

Amy kissed his cheek and yelled to the kids.  "I'm going to 
work now!  See you in the morning.  You be good for Daddy!"

"We will!" they yelled back in unison.

"Little stinking liars," Jimmy said without rancor.  Amy 
laughed and kissed him again.

"Do something useful tonight, okay?  Start the laundry."

"Get going or you'll be late," he told her.

Late that night, Jimmy clipped the magazine collage to the 
refrigerator and set the basket of clean laundry next to the 
stairs.  He checked the kids' room and found them fast 
asleep.  Retrieving Karen's stuffed cow from the floor, he 
tucked it under the covers with her and then closed the door.

He grabbed his coat, his tape recorder and his keys.  With a 
last check of the locks, he headed out into the night.  

I'll be gone two hours, tops, he thought.  No one will even 
know the difference.

He took the T across town to Mallory's bar.  The barkeep, 
Dave, seemed to recognize him now.  "What'll it be?" he 
asked.  "A Heineken?"

"Yeah, thanks."  Jimmy looked around for a familiar face and 
thought he spotted one of the task force detectives in a 
corner booth.

"You a reporter?" Dave asked him.

"What?" Jimmy laughed. "No, I'm not a reporter.  Why would 
you ask that?"
 
"Well, I haven't seen you in here much before these killings 
started, and now you come around pretty regular.  I know 
you're not a cop 'cause none of the cops seem to recognize 
you."

"I'm just a guy looking for a cold beer."

Dave hesitated a minute and then smiled.  "We got plenty of 
that.  But you'd best stick to the beer.  The boys in blue 
get an inkling you might be in here spying on 'em, and 
they'll liable to whoop your ass."

"Who's spying?  Not me."  Jimmy sipped his beer.  "You must 
get an earful, though, huh?  All these cops in here all the 
time talking about their cases.  I bet you could write a 
book."

"Maybe I will someday.  You enjoy that beer, okay?"  Dave 
moved on and Jimmy took his beer down to the other end of the 
bar, where he could see the two cops in the corner better.  
They were definitely on the task force.  He remembered the 
young Hispanic one clear as day.

Jimmy shifted to a table, where he pretended to be 
contemplating the plastic menu of appetizers.  The cops were 
so engrossed in their conversation that they didn't seem to 
notice him.  He switched on his recorder and set it on the 
table between the salt and pepper.

"You don't have any idea what you're getting into here," the 
old cop was saying.

"You don't think this stinks like three-day-old fish?" the 
Hispanic one said.  "Annette Crenshaw comes to report a rape 
and only part of her statement goes missing?"

"Yeah, I think it stinks.  But Leblanc was telling you 
straight, Manny -- let sleeping dogs lie on this one.  It's 
not related to our case."

"Everyone keeps telling me that.  I keep wondering how they 
can all be so sure if they haven't seen the missing pages.  
What about you, O'Hara?  You seen 'em?"

"Of course not.  Don't be a jackass.  I'm just trying to keep 
you from stepping in it."

"You've got an idea what's in that statement, don't you?"

Jimmy risked a look at them again.  The old balding cop 
seemed like he wanted to get the hell out of there.

"All I know is, nothing good," the old cop said.  "You play 
with fire, you're going to get burned."

"So you're not going to help me find her then?"

"We've got a case already.  And the bodies are piling up like 
old newspapers if you hadn't noticed.  What do you want to be 
chasing down some cold rape case from two years ago for?  
Maybe some rookies took the statement to jack off with -- you 
don't know."

"This statement disappeared in triplicate.  Someone wanted it 
gone."

The old cop shook his head.  "You go ahead and turn over that 
rock, and you don't have any idea what'll crawl out at you."

"Her parents live in Woburn.  I'm going out there to visit 
them tomorrow and see if I can find the girl.  Are you going 
to come with me, or are you just going to give me some other 
clichéd crap about fire and rocks?"

"I've got my pension to think about."

"Fine.  I'll go alone then."

"I'll go, okay?  Someone has to watch your ass."

"You think the parents will be packing heat?"  The Hispanic 
cop sounded amused now.

"I think if someone wanted that girl gone, she may be harder 
to find than you think."

Jimmy switched off his recorder and smiled.  Pay day, he 
thought, and headed home to his kids.

//////

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

Chapter Seven

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


For breakfast, Scully selected a butter croissant instead of 
her usual bagel.  She took it and a steaming cup of coffee to 
a small table in the back, where she sat with the morning 
paper.  No sooner had she cracked the center fold when Mulder 
appeared at the tablecloth's edge.  "Just the person I was 
looking for," he said as he pulled out the chair across from 
her.

"Well, you found me," she said, suppressing a sigh as she 
tucked the newspaper away.

He touched his finger to the pink rosebud in a vase.  "Your 
admirer again?"

"There's one on every table," she replied, and he turned 
around to look.

"So there is.  I think he may be stepping out on you, 
Scully."

She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and 
finger.  At this rate, she would be hitting the painkillers 
before she finished breakfast.  "What did you want to see me 
for?" she asked him.

"I was thinking about the case last night."  He leaned 
backwards in his seat as the waitress brought him a cup of 
coffee.  Without asking, he helped himself to Scully's cream.  
"In going after Harris, this guy may have inadvertently given 
us the answer to how to catch him."

"How so?"

"He's clearly following the case.  Hell, he even attended the 
town meeting about him, which is pretty daring when you think 
about how many law enforcement officials were in attendance. 
And now we know that his reputation is important to him.  He 
attacked Harris to prove Harris wrong, to show him that there 
was only one man behind the murders."

"You want to use the media to draw him out."

Mulder sat back and nodded.  "If he's not going to make a 
mistake on his own, we have to force him into one.  He feels 
threatened, or like we're underestimating him, he might make 
contact with us to show us how wrong we are."

Scully recalled Stella Harris's body from the morgue, with 
its precision knife wounds and the gun shot wound to the head 
that had shattered the left side of her skull.  "What are you 
proposing, exactly?"

"I want to give a news conference today.  I'll stand up and 
give a psychoanalysis of this guy, something like he must 
really want to do his mother but can't because his penis is 
too small."

"Mulder!"

He smiled and popped a bite of croissant into his mouth.  
"Okay, so I won't use precisely those words, but that's the 
general idea."

"You want to bait him into coming after you," she said.  
"Mulder, that's crazy.  Did you see what he did to Harris?  
And that was without any planning."

"I'm not hoping he pays a visit to my hotel room, no.  I just 
want him to make contact."

"We've seen how he makes contact, Mulder.  It involves a 
knife and a gun and most of the time his victims don't live 
to tell the tale."

"Have you got a better idea?  Because we've had three murders 
in just this week alone."

"I seem to recall performing the autopsies, yes."

"So then you know how important this is."

She pushed away her plate, her appetite gone.  She did not 
want to have his body on a slab, pale except for the dried 
red blood.  Her hand trembled at the thought of having to cut 
into him and she clenched it to stop the shaking.

"Why you?  Why not Ray or Chief Windsor?"

"I know what to say.  Besides, they've both been all over the 
news for days now, clearly not making any headway on the 
case, and still our killer hasn't been moved to respond at 
all."

"But if you told them what to say..."

He shook his head.  "There's one other problem.  Peterkin and 
the Chief aren't married or living with anyone.  That's 
obviously one of this guy's main triggers.  He doesn't attack 
single men at all, that we know of, and the men he does kill 
are almost incidental.  The rage isn't directed primarily at 
them but at the women.  He just likes to make them watch."

"Mulder, you're not married either."  A sudden, horrible, 
thought occurred to her.  "You're not, are you?"

"Not for many years now, no."

She exhaled.  "Then I don't understand."

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about," he said, leaning 
over the table.  "I may be able to push this guy's buttons 
all by myself, but it would help if I had a woman.  He wanted 
to show Harris up, but he wanted to do it in front of the 
wife.  I think if it looks like I'm in a committed 
relationship of some sort, it might help draw this guy out."

"You... you want me to be your wife?"

"Girlfriend."  A smile tugged at his lips.  "We wouldn't want 
to rush into anything."

She shook her head a bit, trying to shuffle her thoughts into 
some form of order.  This is insanity, she told herself, 
lowering her eyes as Mulder reached out to take her hand.  A 
flush of heat went through her as they touched.

"The Chief and Ray," Mulder said, his voice low, "he's 
probably had his eye on them for a while now.  He knew Harris 
was married from his wedding ring.  I'm mostly an unknown 
quantity, and so are you, because we're from out of town."

Scully tensed but did not pull her hand away.  "What sort of 
charade are you proposing here?"

"Nothing too elaborate.  I want to make sure we look cozy for 
the cameras.  I'm not saying we need to start necking at the 
press conference."

"Mulder."

"Hmm?"  His thumb was making lazy circles on her wrist.

"I can't believe you just used the word necking."

He gave her a slow smile and a squeeze before letting go of 
her hand.  "Before you say yes, you should consider the risk 
involved.  If I make myself a target, and you are linked to 
me, then you become a target as well."

"I'm aware of that."

"I don't expect a direct attack but we would have to be on 
guard for it."

She let out a shaky breath and folded her hands in front of 
her.  "I can handle the risk."

"So you'll do it?"

"What if I said no?  What then?"

"I don't know.  I hadn't considered that you'd say no."  He 
tilted his head, studying her.  "Are you saying no?"

"There's always Diana.  She'd probably jump at the chance and 
she certainly has practice playing your... how did Frohike 
phrase it? 'Your little chickadee.'"

Mulder shook his head in a dismissive gesture.  "No, not 
Diana."

"Why?"

"For one thing," he said, setting aside his linen napkin and 
standing up, "there's your hair.  You are the only redhead in 
that entire station house, which means you stand out in a 
crowd.  We're going for noticeable here."

He put his arm around the back of her chair in a proprietary 
manner and leaned down so close she could feel his breath on 
her cheek.  "And secondly," he murmured before brushing his 
lips across her skin, "there's only so much I can fake."

/////

Overnight the temperature plunged to near zero, and the sky 
dumped a fresh coating of snow over the city.  The ice 
crystals were so cold they squeaked beneath Manny's boots as 
he made his way from the station to his car.  The sun turned 
the frozen world into a giant, flashing mirror, with laser 
beam rays that stung his eyes even as the frigid air lashed 
at his face.

At the car, he found O'Hara leaning against the hood and 
smoking a cigarette.  He wore a old leather police jacket and 
reflective sunglasses.  His gnarled knuckles were red from 
the cold.  "'Bout time you got here," he said to Manny as he 
dropped his smoke into the gray, flattened snow.  "I'm 
freezing my tail off."

Manny nodded at the crushed cigarette.  "I thought you quit."

"Oh, that?  It wasn't even mine.  I bummed it off of 
Knudsen."  He grinned, showing even white teeth.  "Don't 
worry, I'm not going to stink up your precious car."

The sedan chirped as Manny hit the remote to unlock the 
doors.  They climbed inside and the engine ground to life, 
sounding sluggish from the cold.  Their breath fogged in the 
cabin, and Manny could smell the remnants of the cigarette on 
his partner's clothes.

"Let's go on and get this over with," O'Hara said, rubbing 
his hands together.

Manny set the car in gear.  "You don't have to come."

"Someone's got to save you from yourself."

"Is that what you're doing here?  Saving me?"

"Hey, I spent all that time housetraining you."  He grinned 
again.  "Hate to see all that effort go to waste."

Manny steered the car towards Ninety-three and adjusted the 
rearview mirror in time to see the city receding into the 
background.  "Annette Crenshaw's parents weren't too eager to 
talk.  They said Annette moved out west last year and they 
barely hear from her now."

"Great.  So then why are we driving all the way out here?"

"Part of that training you gave me -- it's harder to lie in 
person than it is over the phone.  I want to look these 
people in the eye and see what they tell me."

"You think they're hiding Annette?"

"First the statement goes missing, and now Annette is AWOL 
too?  I want to find out why."

O'Hara stomach heaved with his great sigh, and he shook his 
head.  "You just better be careful where you step.  The last 
place this girl was seen was a cop shop -- our cop shop, no 
less."

Manny kept his eyes on the road and did not answer.  He 
didn't want to give voice to what they were both thinking; 
perhaps it was a cop that had helped Annette disappear.

//////

Jimmy was waiting when the cop car rolled out of the station. 
It was a nice one, a late model Crown Vic with a steel gray 
paint job.  Jimmy drove a beat-up old Chevy with a rusted 
back wheel well and shoddy transmission.  The damn thing had 
refused to turn over six times that morning before it had 
finally shuddered to life.

He followed the cops onto the highway and stuck as close to 
them as he dared.  The freezing air created great white 
plumes of exhaust that the wind whisked away.  One of the 
rear windows rattled as he nudged the needle up to seventy; 
the cops were in a hurry.

They took the first exit to Woburn and drove through town, 
off the main drag to a quiet, tree-lined street.  Mounds of 
snow had piled up on the corners, and there was not a soul in 
sight.  The cold had even the kids indoors.  Jimmy hoped his 
weren't driving Amy too insane because otherwise he was going 
to catch hell for leaving her alone with them.

The cops stopped outside of a cape house with a large, 
scraggly tree in the front yard.  The number read forty-nine.  
Jimmy hung back as the cops went inside, settling in with his 
thermos of hot coffee and his notepad.

//////

Paul and Eileen Crenshaw served them mugs of coffee in their 
cramped living room.  The worn, overstuffed furniture was 
really too big for the size of the room, especially with the 
large screen TV parked at one end.  Manny was a bit afraid to 
sit on the sofa for fear that it would swallow him whole.  
Paul took the old rocker-recliner while Eileen perched on a 
chair she had dragged from the kitchen.

"So why do you want to talk to Annette?" Paul asked.  "She 
ain't in any trouble, is she?"

"Not that we know of, sir," Manny replied.  "We want to talk 
to her about a police report she filed a few years ago.  She 
reported an assault."

"And you guys never caught the bastard that did it," Paul 
said.

"Paul," his wife replied.  "Let them have their say."

"We have some follow-up questions we need to ask Annette," 
Manny said.  "Any help you can give us in locating her would 
be much appreciated."

"Why?" Paul demanded.  "Why now?  You people didn't give a 
rat's ass what happened to Annie back then, so what's with 
the big push to find her now?"

"Maybe they have a new lead," Eileen said hopefully.  She 
turned washed-out blue eyes to Manny.  "Do you?"

"We aren't sure," Manny said, hedging.  "Part of Annette's 
original statement is missing.  We need to find out what she 
said."

"Missing?" Eileen echoed.  "As in, you lost it?"

"As in missing," replied Manny.  "We don't know what happened 
to it."

"I don't get why you're even looking," Paul said as he set 
his coffee mug down.  "It's not like you're going to find the 
guy after all this time.  After all, it was just some hooker 
who got cut, right?"

"Paul!"

"It's the truth," he answered.  "That's all these cops see.  
They don't give a damn what happens to Annie, and they never 
have."

"When was the last time you saw your daughter?" O'Hara 
interrupted.

The couple looked at each other.  "Two years ago," Eileen 
answered at last.  "Before she moved to California."

"Where in California?"

"To Los Angeles.  She was staying with a friend there and 
looking for a job."

"The friend's name?"

"Bonnie Samson, but it doesn't matter.  She left Bonnie's 
after a few weeks.  We haven't heard from her more than a few 
times since then.  She's called collect once or twice to say 
hello and let us know she's alive.  The last time was more 
than six months ago.  She was living in Denver then."

Manny picked up a framed portrait photo from the end table 
closest to him.  It showed a girl with honey-blonde hair and 
a winsome smile.  "Is this Annie?" he asked.

Her mother nodded.  "That was taken when she was a senior in 
high school.  She was runner-up for home coming queen."

"Mrs. Crenshaw," O'Hara said, "back when Annie was...after 
the assault, did she give any indication that she might have 
known the guy who did it?  I mean, was he a regular customer 
or anything?"

The woman shook her head slowly.  "Annie didn't tell us much.  
She seemed eager to get away, and I can't blame her.  The man 
who did it was still out on the streets."

"You think she talked to us about that stuff?" Paul said.  
"You think she was proud of what she was doing?"

"We're just looking for anything that might help us find 
her," O'Hara told him.  "Anything that might tell us what was 
in the missing part of her statement."

Eileen pulled a tissue from a box on the coffee table and 
dabbed at her nose.  "Have you been assigned to look into the 
case?" she asked.

It was Manny and O'Hara's turn to share a look.  "In a way," 
Manny said.

Paul was not fooled.  He sat forward in the great rocker and 
squinted at Manny.  "No way in hell," he said flatly.  
"There's a serial killer in Boston for the first time in 
decades, and you're telling me they spare *two* big city 
detectives to come out here and sniff around on an old 
assault case?  I'll get out the hip boots and my shovel for 
that level of B.S." 

"Actually," Manny said, "your daughter's case has come up in 
conjunction with the investigation of the Boston murders."

"Oh, my God." Eileen covered her mouth with one hand.  "Why?  
How?"

"Son of a bitch," Paul said.  "You think it's the same guy, 
don't you?"

"We can't know until we talk to Annette," Manny lied.

The parents looked at each other once more and Paul shook his 
head.  "We can't help you," he said as Eileen looked at the 
floor.  "You've come all this way for nothing."

/////

Jimmy resisted the urge to turn on his car engine to get some 
heat going.  Instead he held the coffee thermos right under 
his nose and let the steam warm his face.  He wished to hell 
that he could find a way inside the house, but there was no 
way to arrange it.

He slouched a bit as the mail truck came by, but the mailman 
probably wouldn't have spotted him over his own thick scarf 
and the hat pulled low over his eyes. Jimmy watched as he 
shoved a packet of mail into the Crenshaw's box and flipped 
the red flag upwards.

What the hell, Jimmy thought as the truck continued on down 
the road.  He cast a look around to see if there was anybody 
watching and then exited his car.  Jogging across the street, 
he pulled the mail of the Crenshaw's box and started flipping 
through it.

Bill, bill, catalogue, junk mail, junk mail...

He stopped when he got to a blue envelope with a hand-
addressed label to Mr. Paul Crenshaw.  There was no return 
address but the postmark read Medford, Massachusetts. Jimmy 
shoved the card in his pocket and returned the rest of the 
mail to the box.

The car door creaked as he opened and closed it again.  He 
sunk into the cold leather seat with a shiver and tried to 
slit the envelope with his frozen fingers.  At last it tore 
nearly in half and a Snoopy card came tumbling out into his 
lap.  

Jimmy read the inscription: "Daddy, do you remember when we 
used to read the Sunday funny pages together?  Snoopy always 
makes me think of you.  Happy birthday!  Love, A."

A, he thought, as in Annette.  Very interesting.

He started the engine before the cold could freeze his balls 
off.  No point in waiting around for the cops now because he 
was one step ahead of them.  They weren't going to be finding 
Annette Crenshaw here in Woburn.

On his way home, he stopped at a shopping plaza to make a 
phone call.  "Give me Harold Thompson," he said when he 
reached the Boston Herald.  "Tell him it's about the serial 
case."

A moment later, the line clicked through and an irritated 
voice on the other end said, "Thompson."

"Mr. Thompson, this is James Trumbull," he said.  "I think I 
have a lead you're going to be very interested in."

"I don't know any James Trumbull," Thompson replied.  "And I 
don't have time for games."

"I'm not playing any game.  What if I were to tell you two 
cops from the task force are out in Woburn chasing an old 
assault case?"

He could almost hear Thompsom come to attention.  "Go on," he 
said.  "I'm listening."

//////

Manny squeezed his large body into the narrow pink powder 
room off of the Crenshaw's kitchen.  He drained the morning 
coffee from his bladder and then washed his hands in the tiny 
sink.  It had a chip missing, and he fingered the cracked 
porcelain before drying his hands on the paisley hand towel.

But instead of returning to the living room, he slipped up to 
the second floor and poked his head into the master bedroom.  
It was neat but decorated with equally large furniture.  The 
pink and green drapes were 80s relics, sad and tired and 
desperate to be put into the dumpster or a time capsule.  

He scanned the series of photos sitting on top of the 
dresser.  Annette had been a much-loved little girl, or at 
least a well-documented one.  They had pictures of her as a 
toddler, as a gap-toothed grade schooler, right on up through 
high school prom.  

His internal clock was ticking; he knew he had to get back to 
the others before the Crenshaws became suspicious.  In his 
hurry, he almost missed it -- a bedside photo, also of Annie.  
This one was taken at Christmas.  She held up a new sweater 
with a decorated tree shining behind her.

"Son of a gun," Manny muttered.

Downstairs, he and O'Hara said their goodbyes and went back 
out into the cold.  O'Hara seemed cheerier as he drew the 
seatbelt over his large belly.  "If we stop at Mickey's rib 
joint on the way back, maybe this won't have been a total 
waste of time."

Manny tossed a framed photo onto his lap.

"What's this?" O'Hara asked as he picked it up.  "Another 
picture?  Where did you get this?"

"The Crenshaws' bedroom."

"And you just took it?  Jesus, Ahuja."

"Somehow I don't think they're going to be filing any 
complaints.  They were lying to us."

"Lying about what?"

"The last time they saw Annie.  Did you catch that ornament 
on the tree?  It says Christmas 1999.  That was just two 
months ago."

"What are you going to do about it?"

Manny started the car.  "Pull their phone records.  Ten to 
one they're in there calling her right now."

/////

They held Mulder's media conference in the same auditorium 
where the town hall meeting had taken place, but this time 
seating was reserved for the press so it was only partially 
filled.  Scully hung back stage, unsure of her exact role as 
the faux girlfriend.  Mulder hadn't said much to her since 
their breakfast meeting, so she was left standing with Ray 
and Diana and Chief Windsor as they waited for the star 
attraction to make his appearance.

He emerged from the back door with a sheaf of papers in his 
hands about five minutes before the scheduled start.  The 
Chief scowled.  "This is your dog and pony show, Mulder," he 
said.  "How do you want to run it?"

"If you'll just say a few words explaining who I am, I'll 
take it from there."  Mulder touched Scully's elbow and 
nodded to a shadowed corner.  "Can I talk to you for a 
minute?"

She followed him to the side, aware of the curious gazes 
tracking their every move.  "What is it?" she asked.

He stood close to her, crowding her space, and leaned his 
head down when he spoke.  "It's show time," he whispered as 
he tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

She felt her face warm and risked a glance to the others.  
"There are no cameras here, Mulder."

He ran a hand down her arm to her hand, which he held tight 
when he reached it.  "I didn't tell them about this part of 
the plan."

"What?"

"Shhh."  He turned to hide her from view.  "I don't 
particularly care if they buy the act or not, but I'd prefer 
that they do.  Cases like this tend to get media leaks, and 
the fewer people in on the act, the better chance we have of 
making it seem real."

"So, what?  You want our colleagues to think we hopped into 
bed overnight?"

"That works."  He kissed her forehead and grabbed her by the 
shoulders.  "Smile, Scully, and look like you enjoyed it."

She plastered on her best smile and followed him back to the 
rest of the group.  All of them were looking at her with new 
interest, making her totally uncomfortable.  She remembered 
the studies finding that, when people knew whom a man was 
sleeping with, he was perceived as having more power.  For a 
woman, it was the opposite.  When her bed partner was known, 
she lost some of her status.

Scully squared her shoulders and avoided looking at any of 
them.

"Show time," Chief Windsor said grimly, and went out to 
introduce Mulder to the press.

Mulder sidled up to Scully.  "Fix my tie," he muttered.

She frowned.  "Your tie is fine."

"Fix it anyway."

She sighed and adjusted his tie for him.  Diana was watching 
the entire time.  Mulder went out to the podium on cue and 
faced the press.  Scully could see him but not the audience, 
however the numerous flashbulbs indicated they had a good 
turnout.

"Thank you all for coming," Mulder told them.  "As promised, 
we want to keep everyone apprised of any new developments on 
the case, especially in light of the attacks the other night 
on Bill Harris and his wife Stella.  We are still processing 
evidence from the scene, and new developments should be 
imminent.  But already the killer has made one key mistake: 
he let Bill Harris live.  This is a sign he is becoming more 
careless, and we hope to now catch him in other mistakes."

Ray materialized at Scully's elbow.  "The guy won't like that 
much -- Mulder insinuating he meant to kill Bill but failed."

"That's the general idea," Scully whispered back.

"We've already formed a considerable psychiatric profile on 
this killer," Mulder continued.  "He is most likely white, 
above average in height and strength.  He is about average in 
intelligence but is good with his hands, maybe working as a 
day laborer.  He feels inferior to women and this is why he 
targets them.  The men he resents because they have been 
tricked into relationships by the women, and so they must die 
too."

"Is he just making this stuff up as he goes along?" Ray 
asked.

"Actually, I'm sure he's put enormous thought into it," 
answered Scully.

"I can't overestimate the importance of having a live 
witness," Mulder said.  "Right now, Bill Harris is giving us 
the kind of detail we could only guess about from the 
previous murders.  I expect when all this is over, we will 
look upon Harris as a hero in this investigation, as the one 
who broke the case wide open.

"At this time, I'd also like to introduce a colleague of 
mine, Special Agent Dana Scully, who is an expert in forensic 
pathology."  He stretched out an arm to her, so Scully had no 
choice but to join him on stage.  "Agent Scully has examined 
each of the bodies and sent potentially case-breaking clues 
to Washington for analysis."

He skimmed her back and rested his hand a moment at her waist 
before returning his arm to the podium.  Scully blinked into 
the bright lights and tried not to squint.

"We have worked together on many serial murder cases before, 
and I'm here to tell you that we've never left one unsolved.  
We're standing here in front of you now so that you know we 
are committed to catching this killer and that we are 
accountable.  We will get him.  The clock is ticking down on 
his freedom even as we speak."

The press wanted to ask questions, but Mulder wasn't taking 
any.  "We want to keep them hungry," he murmured at Scully's 
temple, and she nodded to show she understood.

They walked off stage together.  Chief Windsor peered around 
them at the press corps and raised his eyebrows.  "If they 
run half of what you said, he'll be pissing mad."

"Let's hope so," Mulder said.  He took Scully's hand.  "We've 
got to get out of here."

He led her around back to the main parking lot.  

"You've got your coat?" he asked when they hit the door.

"It's back in the board room."

Mulder shrugged out of his suit jacket and draped it around 
her shoulders.  "We shouldn't be out there for long.  The 
reporters will be looking to get more comment, so we just 
want to walk past them to the car.  We'll just drive it 
around the block and back in, okay?"

Outside, light snow had begun falling again, trickling past 
the streetlights in a silent, twirling dance.  The cold hit 
Scully like a wall, making her shiver, and Mulder pulled her 
close to him as they hurried to the car.

As expected, there was a pack of cameras to document their 
dash across the parking lot.  Scully felt a bit like a 
celebrity trying to escape the paparazzi.  Mulder opened her 
door for her and then ran around to the other side.  "Okay?" 
he asked her breathlessly.

She hunkered down in the cold seat and nodded.  

"We'll get some heat going in a second," he said, sounding 
optimistic.  Scully knew better.

As they drove out of the lot, Scully looked back over her 
shoulder at the reporters.  "Do you think they bought it?"

"Them?  Yeah.  Whether the killer is paying attention or not, 
I guess we'll find out soon enough."

Boston did not exactly have a block, they discovered.  
Between the crooked cow paths and the one-way streets, they 
ended up having to circle several city blocks to get back to 
their original destination.  In rush hour traffic, this was a 
slow process.

Ice crystals stuck like cotton candy to the windows.  
Eventually, the car warmed up to the point where there was 
heat.  Scully held her ice-cold fingers over the vents and 
prayed for circulation to return.

"We made it," Mulder said when they arrived back at the 
parking lot.  They had been gone long enough that the 
reporters had dissipated, leaving just a few lonely cars 
disappearing under a fresh coat of white snow.

They ran back to the rear door as fast as they could, Mulder 
momentarily fumbling with the freezing handle before they 
could get inside.  Scully stomped the snow from her feet.

"Here," she said, trying to give him back his jacket, but he 
shook his head.

"Keep it.  It furthers the illusion."  He smiled at her and 
touched her hair.  "Scully, I hate to break this to you, but 
you have some really cold dandruff," he said as he brushed 
the snow away.

He was in a similar situation, with ice crystals flecking his 
dark locks and his cheeks pink from the cold.  He looked like 
a winter prince.

She shivered and jerked away as he managed to get an icy drip 
of water on the back of her neck.  "Jesus, that's cold."

"Sorry."  He cupped her nape, his warm hand sliding 
underneath her hair and wiping away the water.  He left it 
there for longer than necessary, caressing the base of her 
skull with the pad of his thumb.

"Mulder, you can stop now.  No one is here to see."

"I just want to make sure you're warmed up."

"I'm warm."

His thumb made another gentle pass through the fine hair at 
her neck.  "Really warm?  Just because I'm a pretend 
boyfriend doesn't mean I can't offer real heat."

"I'm really warm."

He grinned and squeezed the back of her neck.  "Still got the 
touch," he said before he dropped his hand.

"Now your tie really is crooked."  The running back and forth 
to the car had set it askew, and she reached to fix it

"Everyone would think that you've had your wicked way me," 
Mulder said.

Scully paused.  "Well, in that case..." She undid it further 
and moved the knot to one side.

Mulder chuckled and slung an arm around her shoulders as they 
walked back to the main hall.  "Scully, you're the best 
pretend girlfriend a guy could ever have."

"Yeah, that's what they all say."

"You mean I'm not your first?" he asked in mock surprise.  
"And here I thought you were a pretend virgin."

She held the door open for him.  "Well, on that count, Agent 
Mulder, you are decidedly correct."

He was still laughing when she shut the door.

///////

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

Chapter Eight

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


Jake wasn't sure if the hospital had visiting hours because 
such restrictions did not apply to him.  He had long ago 
discovered the loose basement window by the staff parking 
lot.  It was no big thing to pry it all the way open with his 
switchblade and lower himself inside.  

The room was some sort of storage for useless or broken 
hospital equipment -- spare parts, he guessed.  There was a 
wheel chair with a busted footrest, a few tangled IV poles 
and a bunch of old monitors that he had no idea what they 
did.  Keyboards, binders, an ancient Mac IIe -- he had pawed 
through most of the junk by now and declared it useless.  
Though on one occasion, he had taken the wheelchair for a 
little spin down the hallway.

This night, however, he bypassed it all and skulked along the 
dim hall, past the boiler room, past the service elevator 
until he reached the emergency staircase.  He jogged up five 
flights until he reached the appropriate floor and then poked 
his head out for the all clear.  The hallway was lit because 
it was always lit, even after eleven at night on a Wednesday.  
But no one was around.

He slipped from the stairwell and tiptoed three doors down, 
where he cracked the door to peer inside.  From the darkness, 
he heard, "I'm awake."

He let the door slide closed behind him as his eyes adjusted 
to the dark.  "Hey," he said, "how are you doing?"

"Okay."  She struggled to sit up for him, and he moved to 
join her on the bed.  "I haven't seen you for a few days.  
You know, they would let you come in through the front door."

He elbowed her.  "Where's the fun in that?"

"Mom's worried about you."

He shook his head, toying with the edge of her blanket.  "I'm 
all right.  She just worries too much."

"I'm worried about you too," she said, taking his hand.  He 
could feel every one of her bones.  "You don't look good."

"This from a girl in the hospital.  I'm fine."

"Mom says you don't even talk to her anymore."

"Kayla, I said I'm fine.  Leave it alone, okay?"

She settled back onto the pillows, her bald head making a 
shadowed dent in the white cotton.  "Fine, forget I even 
asked."

"I didn't come here to argue with you."

"Why did you come?"

He shoved his hands deep into his pockets and felt the smooth 
edge of his switchblade.  "I couldn't sleep."

"Me either.  I don't think I'll ever get used to sleeping in 
here, the way you can hear people walking in the halls at all 
hours of the night.  I can't get them to leave the curtain 
open, either.  Mom says it makes a draft."

"Here, I'll get it."  He jumped up from the bed and went to 
the window, where he drew back the heavy beige curtain.  
White light from the street lamps streamed into the room, 
illuminating her pale face.

"I can see the snow," she said.

So he left it open and returned to the bed with her.  She 
patted the space next to her hip, and he reluctantly shifted 
so they were shoulder-to-shoulder.  She snuggled into his 
arm, her gaze still on the window.

"Let's pretend we're inside a snow globe," she said.

They used to pretend all sorts of things when they were 
little.  They pretended the dog was a man-eating lion escaped 
from the zoo.  They pretended their couch was a pirate ship, 
sailing the seven seas in search of fresh bounty.  After 
their father died, they used to pretend he was watching from 
heaven.

Kayla still pretended.  Jake knew better now.

For years, they'd had a pretend sibling whose name began with 
"L." It was a game they had started before kindergarten, when 
Jake was learning his letters for the first time and he had 
shown her on the fridge.

"This is for me," he'd said, showing her a purple "J."  "I'm 
Jake and my name begins with J.  You're K for Kayla.  See?  
We're right next to each other in the alphabet."

Kayla, eighteen months younger, had not really grasped the 
concept of letters yet, but she was pleased to find out that 
they were together.  "Together!" she had echoed, helping him 
push the magnets so close that they'd touched.

"Next is L," Jake had said.  "Mom and Dad need to have 
another baby and name it something L."

"L," she had repeated.  "L-L-L-L! Lollipop?"

"You can't name a baby Lollipop.  How about Larry?"

"Larry!"

The name had changed off and on over the years, but the joke 
always remained the same:  Hey, mom, can we put out an extra 
stocking for Laurel?  I was going to take out the trash, but 
Lonny said he'd do it!

Eventually the L came along, all right, but it wasn't Larry 
or Lauren or Lisa.  It was leukemia.

Kayla leaned her head against his shoulder and he could feel 
she was getting tired.  "Tell me about school," she murmured 
wistfully. 

"What's to tell?  It sucks.  They make you sit there all day 
in uncomfortable chairs, the heating never works right, and 
the teachers talk about stuff you'll never need to know."

"Okay, then tell me something else."

"Like what?"

"Tell me a story, like you used to."

He shifted, looking away from her.  "I don't know any 
stories."

"Yes, you do.  Tell me that poem again, the one from Alice 
and Wonderland."

The Jabberwocky.  He'd used to scare her with it back when 
they were kids.  "I don't know if I remember it," he said 
with a sigh.

"Try and see."  She settled in, her eyes slipping closed.

He tucked the covers up over her shoulder. "Twas brillig, and 
the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe," he 
whispered, and the ends of her mouth curled up in a smile. 
"All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws 
that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious 
Bandersnatch!

"He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe 
he sought -- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood 
awhile in thought.

"And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with 
eyes of flame, Came whiffling through the tulgey wood, And 
burbled as it came!

"One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade 
went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He 
went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock? Come to my arms, my 
beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!' He chortled in 
his joy."

Kayla did not stir as he finished, so he eased away from her 
and went back out the way he'd come, through the fiery belly 
of the building with images of a monster still dancing 
through his head.


///////


Mulder was too keyed up to sleep so he went to Mallory's bar 
instead of the hotel.  His cheeks tingled from the cold, and 
he paused at the door to remove his gloves.  The freezing 
temperatures and light snow had kept most customers away.  
SportsCenter played on the TVs as the barkeeper restocked the 
rows of glasses over his head.  Mulder hung his coat along 
the row of wooden pegs and froze as he recognized a 
particular long black wool coat with gold buttons.  Diana.

He turned around slowly and spotted her at the bar.  She 
appeared to be the only woman in the place, and he didn't 
know any of the half-dozen other patrons.  He suppressed a 
sigh and went to join her.

"Fox," she said, leaning back in welcome.  She had what 
looked like the remains of a scotch on the rocks on a napkin 
in front of her.  "This is a surprise."

"You know me.  I aim to keep people guessing."

The bartender threw a towel over his shoulder and asked 
Mulder what he wanted to drink.  "I'll have what she's 
having," he said, with a nod in Diana's direction.  "And 
another one for the lady, please.  On me."

"Yes, sir. Coming right up."

Diana brushed her hair back with a sweeping motion.  "I 
enjoyed your little show today."

"Hmm?  Oh, yeah, the press conference.  I guess we have to 
hope the killer buys it."

"Not that show.  The one with Scully."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Oh, please, that extended mating dance you put on for us 
today?  I wanted to stand up and applaud."  She accepted the 
fresh drink from the bartender and took a sip.  "Actually, I 
should applaud.  It's a brilliant move, trying to lure him 
out by pretending you're in a relationship with her."

"How do you know it's pretending?"  The liquor went down warm 
and smooth.  He curled his fingers around the glass and 
stared at the amber liquid.

Diana laughed a bit, and he glanced at her.  The lines around 
her eyes crinkled now when she smiled; perhaps she was 
vulnerable to the effects of time as much as the rest of 
them.

"Well?" he demanded, and she shook her head in an amused 
gesture.

"I could go on about how I've seen the two of you interact 
for months now, and how I find it incredible that you would 
suddenly be acting like lovebirds in front everyone in the 
midst of a serial murder investigation.  But that's not 
really it.  I do have to give you both credit, though, for 
being reasonably convincing.  I think Ray and the Chief both 
bought it hook, line and sinker."

"But not you."

"I know you, Fox.  Once burned, twice shy.  Very shy, if your 
recent romantic past is any evidence."

"What do you know about my romantic past?"

She hid a smile with the glass.  "The Bureau is one big water 
cooler," she said at last.  "You know that better than 
anyone.  You must have heard the buzzing we generated upon my 
return."

Actually, he had long ago tuned out the buzz. "Is that what 
the water cooler is saying?  I'm still pining away for you 
and that's why I haven't been involved with anyone?"

She gave a little shrug and her hair fell forward again, 
obscuring part of her face.  "It's just idle talk."

"You missed most of the talk when you left," he said before 
taking another swallow.  "You went to Europe and I'm the one 
who got stuck with the prying eyes."

"And that still makes you angry."

"No."  He set the glass on the bar.  "To tell you the truth, 
I don't much feel anything about it anymore."

She looked him over searchingly and then gave an odd smile.  
"You were always a quick learner, Fox, and I figure that our 
history would have been a powerful lesson.  I couldn't 
imagine you trying to mix sex and FBI politics again."

"Meaning I wouldn't sleep with my partner."

"You said it.  I didn't."

Mulder rubbed his temples with one hand.  In way, perhaps she 
was right.  That first case with Scully, when she had come to 
his room half-naked and the thrown herself against him, that 
night he had picked partner over sex.  And he had been 
picking partner ever since.  Maybe Scully sensed that 
ambivalence? Maybe this was why she always found a way not to 
hear him when he tried to make his feelings clear.

"Still," Diana said, "it was great while it lasted, wasn't 
it?  You and me?"

He raised his head.  "It was so long ago, it's hard to 
remember."

"Fox." She swiveled her stool to face him.  "Come on now," 
she said as she reached out to touch his tie.  "We both know 
you have a terrific memory."

He looked down at her long fingers as they stroked over his 
tie.  "So which is it, Diana?  Are you after sex or a 
partnership this time?"  She met his eyes.  "You're so sure I 
won't do both."

Her eyes narrowed as she studied him, and she dropped his 
tie.  "You know very well I've put in for the X-files 
position."

"Then maybe you'd better keep your hands to yourself.  We 
wouldn't want to give the wrong impression."

"Excuse me," the bartender said.  "Either of you mind if I 
smoke?"  He dragged an ashtray down the bar.

Mulder motioned a "go right ahead" gesture, and the guy took 
out a pack from his breast pocket.  "You want one?" he asked 
them.

"No," Mulder said.  "Thanks."

"I don't smoke," Diana replied.

Mulder turned to her.  "You've got Morleys at your house," he 
said, and she arched an eyebrow.

"Agent Mulder. You went through my things.  Without a search 
warrant, no less."

Crap, Mulder thought.  Busted.

"My intimate things," Diana continued.  "Find anything in 
particular that interested you?"

"No."

"Care to share the reason behind your search?"

He shrugged and she gave a knowing smile.

"It was Scully, wasn't it.  She doesn't trust me.  Funny 
though, that you would listen to her.  I wouldn't have 
expected that."

"You mistake agreement for interest," he said.  "Just because 
I don't always agree with Scully doesn't mean I'm 
uninterested in what she has to say."

Diana rolled an ice cube around in her mouth.  "And yet," she 
said, "here you are with me."


//////


Scully left the office very late.  The only sound in the long 
hallway was her heels echoing on the hard floor with each 
hurried step.  The door to the parking lot opened with a 
great crash, flinging wide in the icy wind.  She forced it 
shut and pulled her collar up to her ears as she started 
across the lot.

A streetlamp flickered, weakening, and she quickened her 
pace.  Mulder's words about making herself a target came back 
to her as she fumbled for her keys.  She was up to her shins 
in snow and the cold had already numbed her fingers through 
her gloves.  She dropped the keys and cursed as she stooped 
to search for them in the snow.

At last her fingers met the keys, and she leaned against the 
car for help in getting up.  Her abdominal muscles complained 
at the effort, and she told them mentally to hang on.

The door had frozen shut.

She was forced to set her briefcase in the snow and tug on 
the handle with all the force she could muster.  It came free 
with a crackling sound, sending her staggering backwards.  
She shivered, the wind biting at her ears as she retrieved 
her things and climbed inside the car.  

"Please, God, let this thing turn over," she said as she 
stuck the key in the ignition.  The engine did not sound 
happy, but it came to life.  "Thank you, thank you," she 
muttered.

But when she tried to back out of the space, the rear wheels 
were stuck.  The wind had piled drifts high behind the tires, 
and the previous snow had created a layer of ice beneath the 
snow.

"No, no, no," Scully said, and desperately tried it again.  
The wheels made an awful squealing noise but her car stayed 
in place.  "No," repeated Scully in despair as she leaned her 
head on her arm over the steering wheel.

A sharp rap on the window made her jerk upright.  There was a 
large man outside, his face wrapped in a dark scarf.  He 
rapped again and Scully reached for her gun.

"Dana," the man yelled.  "Do you need some help?"

The voice registered in her brain just as her fingers touched 
the gun.  It was Ray.

She opened the car door and looked up at him.  Only his eyes 
were visible over the scarf. "Need some help?"

"Ray, you about scared the life out of me.  What are you 
doing here?"

"Sorry.  I just saw you down here from my makeshift office up 
there." He turned and indicated a lighted room on the third 
floor.  "I thought you might need some help digging out."

"Thank you, that would be wonderful," she said as she stepped 
out into the snow.  "I appear to be stuck."

"Happens a lot around here this time of year," he said.  His 
breath puffed out in white bursts from behind the scarf.  She 
followed him to the back of the car, where he set to work 
removing the packed snow from beneath her tires.  "You 
shouldn't be walking around by yourself," he told her.  "Not 
after what Mulder said today."

"I imagine the killer is pretty unhappy with him," Scully 
agreed.  She hugged herself to try to keep warm.   Her teeth 
were starting to chatter.

"You too, considering."  He stopped shoveling and looked her 
up and down.  "How come you didn't tell me?"

"Tell you what?"

"About you and Mulder."

Scully shifted her feet back and forth.  "We don't tell many 
people.  It's not something we like to advertise."

"Funny, I thought you sure wanted someone to get the message 
today."  He turned his back to her and resumed shoveling.  
Scully stepped out of the way to avoid getting hit with the 
snow.  "I would have thought the Bureau'd have a policy 
against that sort of thing," he called back.  "You know, 
against partners getting involved."

"They don't," she said.  She knew because she had looked it 
up once.

He stood up and leaned on his shovel.  "I guess that's good 
for you, then."  He indicated her tires.  "You should be good 
to go now.  Be careful of this big ice patch here."

"Where?"  She moved in closer to see.

"Right down there on the left."

She ducked down for a look, but his shadow was looming over 
her.  "I can't see."

"Here," he said, and she saw the shadow of the shovel lift 
over his head.  Her heart lurched to her throat and she 
scrambled out of the way.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, breathless.  Behind him, 
the parking lot grew brighter as a new car pulled in, its 
headlights shining right at them.

Ray stood poised with the shovel high over his head.  "I'm 
going to break up the ice for you," he said.

"That's okay, really."

The car glided up close to them, leaving deep tire tracks in 
its wake.  Mulder got out but left the engine running.  
"Scully?" he said.

"Mulder."

"I was just driving by on my way home to see if you were 
still here."

"My car is stuck.  Ray was just helping me get it free."

Ray jabbed at the ice behind her left tire.  "I've cracked it 
some.  You should be okay now."

"Just leave it," Mulder called.  "I'll give you a lift, and 
then we can drive back together in the morning."

Scully knew a good offer when she heard one.  She was not 
relishing the drive back through the snow on unfamiliar and 
semi-ploughed streets.  "Perfect," she said as she got her 
briefcase from her car.  

Ray was still standing there with his shovel and a strange 
expression in his eyes.  "I guess I'll see you both 
tomorrow," he said.

"Thanks again for the help," Scully replied as she hurried to 
Mulder's car.

They both got in and she immediately put her hands over the 
vents.  Her joints were so cold they ached.  "You okay?" 
Mulder asked over the roar of the heater.

She nodded.  "Just cold."

"It's twenty below out there."  He reached for her hands and 
took them between his.  "Jesus, you're like a block of ice."

She tried to answer, but her teeth were chattering.  Mulder 
tugged her closer until they met in the middle, the gearshift 
poking awkwardly between them.  He tucked her hands inside 
his coat and put his arms around her, rubbing her briskly 
like she was a dog fresh from the bath.

She tucked her nose against his wool coat and closed her 
eyes.  Gradually, feeling returned to her fingertips and the 
shell of her ears started to burn.  Tears stung her eyes and 
her nose ran.  She sniffed.

"Better?" Mulder asked, his voice a pleasant rumble beneath 
her ear.

"Yeah."  But they held each other a while longer, his chin 
resting atop her wet head.  "You smell like a sailor on shore 
leave," she said at last, "like alcohol and cigarettes."

His hand swept down her back.  "I was at the bar."

"Alone?"

"I just wanted a drink to unwind.  What were you doing here 
so late?"

"I was going through the Harris's financial records."  She 
drew back a bit and he took her hands again, rubbing them to 
further warm her.  "You want to know something interesting?  
They had their house painted last summer."

"I thought you decided there wasn't a link with the house 
painting."

"It's different companies, but I started thinking that maybe 
it could be one man who has worked for several companies."

"Worth checking out, definitely."  He squeezed her hands and 
smiled.  "I think you're almost thawed, Scully.  I've always 
wanted my own defrosted cave woman."

"I hate to break this to you, Mulder, but I am a thoroughly 
modern being.  I want a coffee maker, a hot shower, and 
expensive sheets.  Not necessarily in that order."

He tugged her closer again, his warm hands slipping beneath 
her coat.  She shuddered.  "You probably shouldn't be out by 
yourself right now, you know."

"Neither should you."

"Hey, I was at a bar, not hanging around in a lonely parking 
lot in the middle of the night."

"So you're saying you weren't alone."

"I'm saying no one was standing over me with a shovel in a 
back alley parking lot."

"Ray was just trying to help."  She leaned her forehead 
against his chest and closed her eyes again.  He felt so warm 
and good she was willing to stay like this forever.

"Yeah, I just bet he was."  His hands on her body became less 
rigorous, gentling from a rub to a caress.  He found the 
sides of ribcage and his thumbs brushed the edges of her 
breasts through her clothes.

Scully stopped breathing.  He repeated the motion and her 
fingers tightened on his shirt.

"He has a thing for you, you know," Mulder said.  Their 
breathing had completely fogged the car.  Scully was suddenly 
acutely aware of the vibrations of the gearshift against her 
leg.

"Don't be ridiculous," she murmured.

"You don't see how he looks at you.  Like he wants to put his 
hands all over you."  

Her skin rippled under Mulder's hands.  He was openly feeling 
her up now, through her clothes and his gloves.  She shifted 
to try to bring his hands up higher.  Mulder was saying 
something else but she barely heard him.

"He probably wishes it was him in this car right now."  His 
breath tickled the edge of her ear.  "He wishes he could be 
touching you like this."

She gasped as his thumbs found her nipples.  "Yes," she said, 
her eyes still closed.  She started rubbing her hand on his 
thigh.

"He wants to taste you," Mulder breathed a moment before his 
hot tongue touched the edge of her ear, and she bit back a 
whimper.  "He wants to put his hands here.  And here."

Scully strained to be closer through their many layers of 
clothes.  Her breasts felt full and heavy under his stroking, 
her nipples hardened into desperate peaks.  Her lips brushed 
the skin just above his collar.  "Mulder," she whispered, and 
immediately his hands stilled.

He withdrew, breathing hard, and wiped his mouth with his 
sleeve.  "That's what he wants, Scully," he told her.  "Don't 
you forget it."

She felt cold again, and dazed from their groping.  "I--I 
won't."

Mulder nodded and put the car into gear.  Scully settled back 
on her side, still trembling a bit as she pressed her 
forehead to the cold glass.  She wiped it clear with one hand 
and the snowy night came into view again.

Upstairs, from the glowing office, she could see a dark 
figure standing there.  Watching.

/////////// 


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

Chapter Nine

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

Jimmy put on his only suit to go meet with Hal Thompson at 
the Herald.  He had purchased it three years ago at a K-mart 
for his father's funeral and hadn't worn it since.  It took a 
bit of squeezing, but he managed to make it fit.

"I'm so proud of you," Amy had said to him that morning after 
breakfast.  "I have to say I didn't think this little scheme 
of yours was going anywhere."

"That's because you don't understand the news business," he'd 
said.

"Oh, and you do?"

"I know enough to know these jackasses are going to be 
begging me for my information."

"How much will they pay?"

"Is that all you think about is money?"

"We could use the money, Jimmy."

"I know we could use it.  Jesus, you think I'm blind?  But 
that's not always how it works.  I have to give them a taste 
to whet their appetites.  Then maybe they'll give me a job."

"Just don't let them use you."

It was with those words ringing in his ears that Jimmy rode 
the elevator up to the main offices of the Boston Herald 
newspaper.  "I'm here to see Hal Thompson," he told the young 
man at the main desk.  "My name is James Trumbull."

The young man looked unimpressed.  "Do you have an 
appointment?"

"Yes, I do."  Jimmy drew himself up to his full height and 
looked around at the people working in the offices.  No one 
was paying him any mind.

Just you wait, he told himself, they will.

The kid at the desk finally checked the computer.  "Mr. 
Thompson is expecting you," he said with some surprise.  "You 
can go right in.  It's the office at the back."

"I can find it, thanks."

He liked the fact that Hal Thompson stood when he entered the 
office.  "Mr. Trumbull, thank you for coming in today," he 
said.  He had a great big voice to match his great big chest.  
In another life, Hal Thompson had been a Texas cowboy.  He 
even had a bit of a drawl.  "Won't you have a seat?"

"Call me Jimmy.  Everyone does."

Thompson smiled, displaying a row of capped white teeth.  
"All right, all right.  Jimmy it is.  You said on the phone 
that you had a little business to discuss with me, Jimmy."

"I've been following some of the cops on the serial case, and 
it seems like it's taking an odd turn.  There's this old case 
with part of a file missing, and one detective is trying to 
track it down.  Seems a call girl filed an assault report a 
couple of years ago and now no one can find her."

"You don't say."  Thompson leaned back in his chair and ran a 
hand through his shock of white hair.  "You wouldn't happen 
to know this girl's name, now would you?"

"I've got her name.  I even think I may know where she 
lives."

"Interesting.  Very interesting.  And your sense is that the 
cops think this girl is connected to the serial murders?"

"It makes sense.  Otherwise, why would cops on the task force 
be trying to find her?"

"Good point."  He narrowed his eyes at Jimmy.  "Just what are 
you proposing here?"

"I want to write the story for you, freelance."

"Have you written for other publications in the past?"

Jimmy felt his cheeks warm just a bit, but he stood his 
ground.  "No, this would be the first time.  But I took a 
writing course a few years ago at the BU extension school.  
Got an A, too."

"I'm sure you did," Thompson said, dripping with 
condescension. "But that's not the same as actual journalism 
experience."

"How am I supposed to get experience if you don't let me 
try?"

"We're a major newspaper in a big-market town.  We can't just 
let anyone off the street publish in our paper."

"It's my story."

"What if we gave you a shared by-line?  You could tell the 
story, but one of our writers would write it.  You would get 
credit for your investigatory work."

"No way.  I want just my name on it or there's no deal.  I'm 
sure the Globe would be happy to listen to what I've got to 
say."  He rose from his chair, prepared to leave, but he knew 
Thompson wouldn't let him get far.  The Globe's coverage of 
the case already outstripped the smaller Herald's.

"Wait, just wait.  Don't rush off now.  I'm sure we can work 
something out to our mutual satisfaction."

Jimmy sat, feeling very satisfied indeed.

///////

The morning dawned bright and clear, if still cold.  Scully 
joined Mulder for a quick bite in the dining room before they 
headed out into the winter day.  As they passed the front 
desk, the concierge called out to her.  "Ms. Scully?  Ms. 
Scully, wait one minute, please."

They both turned and waited because Mulder could go nowhere 
without her.  Her car remained buried as a modern ice 
sculpture back in the downtown Boston parking lot.

"This was delivered for you this morning," the concierge 
said, handing a lily across the desk to her.  "I thought 
perhaps you would want to get it into some water quickly."

"Thank you," Scully said, studying the newest addition to her 
collection.  It was pale yellow and smelled delicious.  She 
walked slowly back to where Mulder stood.

"Another one?" he asked.  "This is getting serious, Scully."  
The twinkle in his eye told her he was teasing.  "The next 
thing you know, this guy is going to be sending you bouquets.  
Then it's potted plants.  Soon you'll be tending a whole 
garden together."

"I don't really understand the purpose to this," she said as 
they walked to the car.  She did her best to shield the lily 
from the bitter cold.  "If someone wants my attention so 
badly, why is there never any card?"

"It wouldn't be from a secret admirer with a card," he said, 
as if explaining the obvious.

"Yes, but that's my question.  Why keep it secret?"

He unlocked the doors and they got inside.  "Maybe he's shy.  
Maybe he was disfigured in tragic tractor accident and is 
afraid that you'll find his visage unpleasant.  Maybe he just 
wants to mess with your head."

"It better not be the tractor thing."

He gave her a sideways glance.  "Scully!  I had no idea you 
were so prejudiced against injured farmers."

"Mulder, wait..."

"I was kidding."

"No, wait.  Stop the car."

He pulled over to the curb.  "What is it?"

"See right there? It's a flower shop just one block from our 
hotel.  I want to check it out."

Mulder sighed and put the car in park.  "Fine, but hurry back 
or the bus is leaving without you."

She looked back over her shoulder as he put the seat back and 
pulled out the morning paper.  "You're not coming with me?"

"To find out who's sending you flowers?  No thanks.  I'll 
stay here with the sports page."

So Scully walked the block alone until she reached the door 
of "Bloom County."  There was a slim Asian woman arranging 
flowers behind the counter.  "Yes, may I help you?" she asked 
when Scully approached.

"Maybe.  My name is Dana Scully, and I'm staying at the hotel 
down the street.  Someone has been sending me flowers, and I 
wondered..."

"Dana Scully, yes.  We sent over a flower this morning.  Did 
it not get there okay?"

"Oh, the flower was lovely, thank you, but it didn't come 
with any card."

The woman checked her computer.  "That's right.  No card.  
The purchaser ordered in cash yesterday."

"Cash.  So he was in here?"  Scully tried to see the monitor.

"Probably so.  I wasn't working yesterday, so I wasn't here 
to take the order."

"Do you know who did?"

"That would be Sally Perkins.  She might know.  Sally will be 
back tomorrow if you want to ask her."

"Thanks, I might do that."

She returned to the car to find Mulder's nose buried in the 
paper.  "Any luck?" he asked her as he closed it up.

"No, the order was placed in cash and the woman there wasn't 
on duty at the time."

"Tough luck," he said as he started the car.

"Mulder, I was thinking... do you think it could be Ray who 
is sending the flowers?"

"Ray?"

"Well, you're the one who suggested he has, ah, certain 
feelings for me."  The words brought back the memory of last 
night, when they sat in this very car and he showed her what 
Ray thought of her.

"Sure," he said, sounding tired all of a sudden.  He rubbed 
his face.  "Could be Ray."

"The question then is, what do I do about it?" 

"That has to be up to you."


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


They sat in a rapidly cooling car outside a duplex house in 
Medford.  The bottom floor belonged to Annette Crenshaw.  
Manny had already tried the number they had gotten from her 
parents' phone bill, posing as a credit-card salesman, and 
Annette herself had answered.  She was home.

"Promise me," O'Hara said, "that this will be the end of it.  
We've got real work to do."

"What if she won't talk?" Manny asked.

"Then I say hallelujah and we can get back to the maniac who 
is murdering half of Boston.  Let's get on with it, shall 
we?"

The men got out of the car and climbed through the narrow 
passage between the snow banks.  The street itself was quiet, 
most people gone to work.  A pair of crows sat on the phone 
wire overhead, watching the cops as they walked up the front 
stoop.

"I hate those damn birds," O'Hara said.  "They're bad luck."

"That's black cats, you idiot, not black birds."

"Yeah?  What's that one from the creepy poem?  Nevermore?  
That guy died, Ahuja, and I think it was the bird that did 
it."

Manny rang the bell.  "That was a raven, not a crow."

"Same difference."

Manny heard footsteps on the other side of the door, and a 
minute later, it cracked open to reveal a petite young woman 
with dark hair.  "Yes?" she asked them with the chain still 
in place.

Manny showed her his badge.  "Are you Annette Crenshaw?"

"Yes," she said, sounding wary.  "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, ma'am.  We just have a few questions we'd 
like to ask you.  My name is Detective Ahuja and this is 
Detective O'Hara.  We're with the Boston Police Department."

"Questions about what?"

"Do you mind if we come in and explain?  It's pretty cold out 
here on the porch."

She hesitated a moment longer and then closed the door to 
release the chain.  "May I see your identification again?" 
she asked.  They both offered up their IDs.  "Come in then.  
Watch out the cat doesn't get out."

A silky feline brushed up against Manny's legs as he stepped 
into the hall.  He scratched its ears before following 
Annette to her living room.  The cat ran after them, its soft 
feet like thunder on the hardwood floors.

"Please, have a seat," Annette said as she curled like a 
teenager into an overstuffed armchair.  "Tell me how I can 
help you."

Manny thought he saw a faint scar on her neck, possibly from 
the attack.  A moment later he was sure when she moved her 
hand to cover it.  "We have some questions about a report you 
filed two years ago with Detective LeBlanc.  You said you'd 
been assaulted."

"That's right."

"Part of your statement is missing," Manny explained.  "We're 
just here to fill in the gaps."

"You're working on my case?" she asked, and Manny felt a pang 
of guilt.  

"In a way," he said, and ignored the feel of O'Hara's eyes on 
him.  "We're trying to piece together what happened.  Can you 
tell us what you said to Detective LeBlanc that night?"

"I'm really trying to forget it."

"That's understandable."

The cat jumped up onto the chair with her and Annette pulled 
it into her lap.  "I don't even remember what I said to him, 
so I'm afraid I can't really help you.  I was pretty upset 
that night."

"Maybe if we showed you the part of the statement we do 
have," O'Hara suggested.  "Maybe that would jog your memory."

"I don't understand why this is so important.  It's not like 
you're going to catch this guy."

"Annette," Manny said, "it took major guts for you to go to 
the station and report this the first time.  The hardest 
part, you did that already.  We're just asking you to read 
the statement and see if there is anything you can remember 
about what's left out."

The young woman frowned but eventually stretched out her 
hand.  "Okay, I'll look."

They sat in total silence as she read through the pages.  
Manny saw her eyes well up and she kept one hand on the scar 
the whole time.  When she was done, she handed the pages 
back.  "It's all there.  Everything about... about what he 
did to me is in there."

"But the last pages, the ones with your signature and 
everything, those are missing."

"I'll sign it again if you need."

"No, it's not that.  We just need you to try really hard to 
remember what was in the missing pages."

"I told you I don't remember."

Manny studied her.  "I think you do.  As awful as what 
happened was for you, I think that's a night you remember 
forever.  It must have killed you to walk into a cop shop and 
tell everyone what happened.  Most girls in your situation 
would have just kept quiet."

"I was afraid," Annette murmured, bowing her head.  "I wanted 
them to catch him."

"We're still trying," Manny replied softly.  "Won't you help 
us?"

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

"You have all the information already."

"Annette, listen," Manny said, sitting forward, "whatever was 
in these pages, someone in the station didn't want it to get 
out.  That's why it went missing.  We need to know what was 
so important that someone felt the need to try to cover it 
up.  You're the only one who can tell us."

She shook her head.

"Was it a cop?" O'Hara asked bluntly.  "Was it a cop who cut 
you?"

"I don't know who cut me."  She stood up, sending the cat to 
the ground with a confused "meow." "I never should have 
reported this in the first place."

"But you did.  Whatever you said then, you need to tell us 
now if we're ever going to catch the guy."

"You don't understand," she said, her back to them.  "I 
didn't leave anything out.  There's nothing more to say.  
Sandi was right, I should have left well enough alone."  She 
wiped at her eyes with one hand.

Manny grabbed a tissue from the coffee table and handed it to 
her.  "Who's Sandi?"

"She was my friend.  She got hurt pretty bad too, a few weeks 
before I did, but she kept her mouth shut.  She said the cops 
would give us nothing but trouble."

"Is that what happened?  Did the cops give you trouble?"

"No, everyone was really nice."  She squared her shoulders 
and faced them.  "Look, I'm sorry I can't help you, but you 
have everything you need to know."

"If a cop threatened you," Manny said, "tell us.  We can 
protect you."

She smiled sadly.  "You can't even catch the guy who raped me 
and nearly cut my throat in half.  That part of my life is 
over now, okay?  I've got a good job.  I pay my taxes.  I'm 
not hurting anyone here.  All I want now is to be left 
alone."

Manny gave her his card.  "If you change your mind," he said, 
"this is where you can reach me.  Day or night, okay?  That's 
my cell number."

"I won't change my mind."

"Maybe.  Maybe not."  He put out his hand and she shook it.  
"Two years is a long time to keep such a big secret."

"I told you.  There's no secret."

"Yeah.  I know what you told me.  Hang onto that card, okay?"

They left then, and O'Hara put back on his sunglasses.  
"Those damn birds are still sitting there."

"Will you shut up about the birds already?"

"Can't help it.  Birds just give me the willies.  What did 
you think of the girl?"

"Oh, there's a cop involved.  I know it for sure now, and she 
knows his name.  She just can't say it yet."

"Stay out of this.  I'm begging you."

"Mark my words.  We'll be back here before the week is out."

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

That night, Annette watched the ten o'clock news from her 
bed.  Willow curled into a ball near her hip and was asleep 
within seconds.  Annette let her fingers play over the golden 
fur as the news anchor started in with the main story.

As it had been all week, the serial murder investigation led 
off the broadcast. "Channel Fifty-six News has learned there 
may be a new development in the hunt for Boston's serial 
killer.  In the morning, the Boston Herald will report on an 
old case involving an alleged assault on a local woman named 
Annette Crenshaw two years ago.  Sources close to the story 
believe that this person responsible for this attack may be 
the same one who is now murdering virtually at will in the 
Boston area."

"Oh, my God," Annette said, sitting up.  Willow yawned and 
stretched.  "Oh, my God."

She grabbed the phone from her nightstand and plucked the 
card the Detective had given her earlier.  As he had 
promised, the phone rang through to him immediately.  
"Detective Ahuja," he said.

"This is Annette Crenshaw," she said, so angry she was 
shaking.  "Why didn't you tell me why you were here?  Why 
didn't you say it has to do with the serial murder case and 
that you think I might have been attacked by that guy?"

"I didn't say it because we don't think it."

"That's not what the news says!"

"The news?  What news?"

"On channel fifty-six just now, they said you were looking 
into my case in relation to the murders."

"Well, the news has it wrong."

Annette sank back down on the bed.  "Why would they say that 
if it wasn't true?"

"The news gets a lot of things wrong.  If it makes you feel 
any better, I can tell you we looked at the blood type of the 
killer and the man who attacked you, and they don't match.  
Does that help?"

"Not really."  Her initial adrenaline fading, she realized 
she had a new problem.  Everyone in the world would know 
about her assault.

"While I have you on the line," Detective Ahuja said, "is 
there anything else you'd like to tell me?"

Yes, she thought.  Go to hell.  

But her mother had raised her better than that.  She merely 
hung up on him.


///////////


It was fucking cold but Jake went out anyway.  Tommy and 
Chris came along, with Tommy providing the transportation in 
the form of his mom's Taurus.  "This ride is bogus," Chris 
said from the back seat.  "It's like going cruising with my 
grandmother."

"Hey, I've had your grandmother and she was pretty hot," 
Tommy said, and Chris kicked the seat.

Jake took a sip from the bottle they had hidden inside a 
paper bag.  "You going to share that?" Chris asked, and so 
Jake handed it back to him.

"This shit is boring," Tommy said as they drove through Davis 
Square.  "All the shops are closed up and it's too damn cold 
for anyone to be outside. There's nothing happening."

"We have to make our own excitement," Chris said.

"Like what?" Tommy asked.

"Tufts is up the street, right?  Let's go see if we can talk 
our way into some girl's room."

"And do what, study with her?  It's a fucking Wednesday 
night.  There aren't any parties going on now."

"Hey, where I am, there is always a party."

"We could break into a house," Jake said.

The other two shut up in a hurry.  "What did you just say?" 
Tommy asked.  "Did you just say we should break into a 
house?"

"It's easy," Jake told him.  He took out his switchblade to 
show them.  "You jimmy the window open with this and you're 
inside in no time at all."

"Jesus, where did you get that?" Chris asked, leaning forward 
from the back seat.

"It was my dad's."  Jake held the knife so it glinted in the 
passing streetlights. "So are you in or out?"

"I don't know, man," Tommy said.  "So we break into some 
house and then what?  What if people are home?"

"If you're quiet then it doesn't matter."

"Yeah, but what if one of them hears you anyway?  Or what if 
there's a dog?"

Jake laughed.  "You're scared of a dog?"

"There's that psycho going around killing people right now," 
Chris reminded them.  "People are scared shitless.  I know if 
I saw some strange guy in my house I'd shoot first and ask 
questions later, you know what I'm saying?"

"Oh, like you have a gun," Tommy said.

"My dad has one.  I saw him cleaning it just the other 
night."

"So what you're saying is you two are too chicken shit to do 
it," Jake said.  "I understand."

"Some other time, maybe," Tommy said, exchanging a look with 
Chris.  "Right?"

"No way," Chris said.  "That is some fucked-up shit he's 
proposing.  I don't want any part of it."

"Are you calling me fucked up?" Jake demanded, whirling on 
his friend.  "Are you?"

"Hey, take it easy, man," Tommy said as he tried to keep the 
car on the road.

"Take it back!" said Jake, lunging into the backseat.

"Get off me!  God, you are really a psycho.  Tommy was 
right."

Jake sagged back into his seat, looking at his oldest friend 
in the passing light.  "You said I was a psycho."

"No, of course not.  Don't believe Chris, man.  You know he 
makes shit up all the time."

Jake flicked the blade open.  "I think he's telling the 
truth.  I think you did call me a psycho."

"Put the knife way, huh?  We don't need that.  I'm trying to 
drive here."

"Maybe I am a psycho.  How would that be?  The two of you in 
this car with me, and I'm a psycho?  I could slash you right 
here and they wouldn't find your bodies until morning."

"Stop it," Tommy said.  "Just stop it!"

"I want him out of the car," Chris said.

"Fine with me," Jake said.  "Pull over."

"Jake, listen.  You don't need to do this."

"Pull over!"

Tommy steered the car to the curb and Jake leapt out into the 
freezing cold night.  "Here's your psycho!" he hollered at 
them, kicking the door shut with his boot.  "How do you like 
that, huh?"

As the car sped away, he waved good-bye with his knife.


/////////


It was after ten when Mulder and Scully finally got around to 
dinner, which took the form of cold pizza and sodas in the 
conference room.  "So," Mulder said, "did you ask Ray about 
the flowers yet?"

Scully looked behind her to see if anyone else might be 
listening.  It was just the two of them in the room.  "No, 
and I don't think I will."

"Why not?"

"Because what if I'm wrong and it's not him?"

"So then he would say no, it wasn't him.  Big deal."

"It is a big deal.  I don't want to presume a relationship 
that isn't there."

Mulder stuffed the remains of a pizza crust in his mouth and 
reached for his soda.  "You mean you don't want to risk him 
saying yes."

"I-- that's not what I'm saying."

"I know it's not what you're saying.  It's what you're doing.  
It's what you're always doing -- running the opposite way 
when you think there might be some chance that real, live 
feelings are involved."

She put down her slice.  "So you think I am an unfeeling 
person.  That's what you're saying."

"No, that's what *you're* saying.  I'm saying you don't 
really want to figure out who this guy is because then you 
would have to address the fact that he has some romantic 
feelings for you.  That could get messy.  What if you don't 
return his feelings?"  He took a large bite from a new slice.  
"Or worse yet," he said through his chewing, "what if you did 
return his feelings?  As long as this man's identity remains 
a mystery, you don't have to deal with him."

"I'm going to find out," she said.

Mulder shrugged.  "Suit yourself."

She put her pizza aside and they sat in silence for a moment.  
"You know, Mulder, what about your reaction to the flowers?"

"My reaction?  I have no reaction, Scully, except perhaps 
amusement at the entertainment value."

"Yes, and why is that?"

"Do think I should have some reaction?"  He took his feet 
down from the extra chair and looked at her.  "What reaction 
would you like me to have?"

"Forget I mentioned it."

"No, I'm genuinely curious.  What would you like me to say 
here?"

"I just... I mean, in the car, when you said those things to 
me... when we..."

"Groped around like teenagers?"

"Mulder!"  She checked over her shoulder again.

"Relax, Scully, we're supposed to be groping, remember?  
That's the general idea."

So it was all part of the hoax?  She put her head in her 
hands, confused.  She wasn't sure whether she wanted to kiss 
him or kill him.

He reached over and touched her shoulder gently. "I think... 
I think you need to figure out your reaction to the flowers 
first.  Then I'll figure out mine.  Okay?"

"Is this a private party or can I join?" 

Scully looked up to see Manny Ahuja in the doorway.  "Come on 
in," she said, and he fished a can of Coke from the table as 
he took a seat on the other side of Mulder.

"How's it going?" he asked them.  "You two must feel like a 
couple of turkeys on Thanksgiving morning, huh?"

A couple of turkeys sounds about right, Scully thought.

"We feel pretty safe here, surrounded by rugged law 
enforcement," Mulder drawled, and Manny grinned.

"Listen, I wanted to pick your brains about something.  I've 
been following up on that other case, the one with the call 
girl who got attacked and then part of her statement went 
missing."

"I thought we decided that was a different assailant," Scully 
said.

"We did.  But the missing statement has been eating at me.  I 
figure it's got to be suppressed for a reason, right?  But 
everyone starts warning me away, telling me not to dig too 
deep.  Even O'Hara didn't want to get involved.  Anyway, we 
tracked down the girl today and she didn't really help us 
much."

He recounted a visit to Annette Crenshaw in which she claimed 
there was nothing missing from her statement.

"The girl is clearly spooked," he said.  "I think we've got 
some major cover up going on here and someone has warned her 
not to talk."

"Cover up of what?" Scully asked.

"That part I don't know.  I can't get her to tell me what was 
in the missing part of the statement, and I'm convinced she 
hasn't forgotten it like she says."

"Theories?" Mulder asked.

Manny hesitated.  "I think she must have been seeing a cop.  
I think that's maybe why she felt comfortable enough to come 
down here and report the whole thing in the first place.  
Maybe that cop's name is in the file."

"A good guess," Mulder agreed.  "But that's an awful lot of 
trouble to go to just to hide an indiscretion with a 
prostitute."

"I won't know more until I can get the story out of her."

"Sounds like you may just have to wait until she's willing to 
talk," Scully said.

"There might be another way," answered Mulder.  "If she won't 
tell you, find out who she's told.  Her parents, maybe?"

"They won't talk either. We tried them."

"What about a friend?  Someone she was working with back then 
might have known her client list."

"She did mention this one girl, Sandi, but she didn't give a 
last name."  He sighed.  "In the meantime, I've got bigger 
problems.  Any minute now, the Chief is going to want to know 
why the news is reporting the Crenshaw case is connected to 
the serial murders."

"They said that?  Why?"

"Damned if I know.  I don't even know how they found out 
about it.  I haven't talked, and I can't imagine O'Hara has 
either."  His cell phone rang and he checked the ID.  "Right 
on cue," he said as he got up from his chair.  He gave them 
both a mock salute.  "We who are about to die salute you."


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


He entered the way he always did -- silently.  Her old house 
had plenty of ill-fitting windows and he slipped easily 
inside out of the cold.  He narrowly missed stepping in the 
cat's water bowl in the kitchen before heading for the 
hallway towards the front.

The cat itself appeared, and he managed not to kick it across 
the room.  It hissed once.  He hissed back and it ran back 
into the bedroom.

"You can run, kitty, but you can't hide," he whispered.  He 
turned on his small flashlight and crept closer to the 
bedroom.

It was so quiet he could hear her even breathing.  He flicked 
his light over her sleeping form.  Slowly, slowly, he 
advanced.  He did not come this far to rush things now.

She did not awake until his fingers closed around her throat. 

Her eyes were wide and frightened.  He shrunk her pupils to 
tiny black dots with his flashlight.  She was struggling, 
kicking, but he was much too strong for her.

"Hello, Annette," he said.  "We're going to have so much fun 
together."

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

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

Chapter Ten

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


Scully gave the shower handle a twist to turn it off, and as 
the water disappeared she became aware of a banging noise 
from the outside.  Grabbing a thick towel, she wrapped 
herself in it and opened the bathroom door.  Steam poured out 
around her even as the chill raised goose bumps on her arms. 
Someone was beating on her hotel room door.  She stood on 
tiptoe to peer through the peephole.

"Scully?  Scully, it's Mulder."

She held the towel up with one hand and cracked the door with 
the other.  "What is it?" 

He looked down at her bare legs.  "Get dressed in a hurry.  
We've got another murder."

"Another?  So soon?"

"It gets worse.  The victim was Annette Crenshaw."

"I'll be ready in five minutes."

She dried as best she could but ended up forcing pantyhose 
over slightly damp skin.  They resisted and she cursed them 
out as a run developed down one leg.  No one will notice, she 
thought, and pulled on wool trousers over the nylons.

Her hair was still wet, nearly dripping at the end, but she 
went to join Mulder, who was pacing the hall and chewing on a 
coffee stirrer.  "You stopped for coffee?" she asked, 
incredulous.

"What? No."  He pulled the red straw out of his mouth.  "This 
was in my pocket."

Of course it was.  She suppressed a roll of her eyes.  "Tell 
me what happened," she said as they walked down the hall.

"Annette worked at a pre-school.  When she didn't show up for 
work this morning at seven and didn't answer her phone, they 
sent someone to her place to check on her."  He glanced down 
at her.  "Because of what had happened on the news.  They 
thought she might be too upset to come.  Instead her co-
worker found her dead in her bedroom." 

"Same killer?"

"I guess we'll find out when we get there."

Forty minutes later, standing in front of a bloody bed that 
could have been a carbon copy of the other murder scenes, 
they had their answer.  Annette Crenshaw's pajama bottoms had 
been torn from her body, and the top sliced open.  Buttons 
lay strewn about the bed.  Her arms were bound overhead, and 
tape covered her mouth; a trickle of dried blood was visible 
on her chin.  Her hair on one side was matted in blood, stuck 
to her head where the bullet had pierced it.  She lay stiff 
and unseeing amid the chaos.

Manny Ahuja had a cat under one arm.  "This is my fault," he 
said.  "I must have led him here somehow.  I had no idea this 
was going to happen.  I didn't think he'd come after her like 
this."

"You couldn't know," Mulder said quietly as he eased further 
into the room.  

"I don't get it," said Manny.  "This was supposed to be an 
unrelated case.  The blood samples didn't match.  Why would 
he come after Annette if it's a different guy?"

"Maybe there's a connection we haven't found yet," replied 
Mulder.  "Or maybe it's the same as before -- we know this 
guy watches his evening newscast.  Annette's name was 
mentioned on more than one station last night."

"But how would he know where she lived?" Scully asked.

"That I can't explain."  Mulder knelt down near the open 
closet door.  There was a sweater, a belt, a couple of shoes 
and a felt hat on the floor.  "This is new, huh?  He hasn't 
gone through the closet before."

"That we know of," Ray Peterkin said as he joined the group.

"What would he want with the closet?" Manny asked.

"I've got blood here," Mulder said as he moved the sweater 
with one gloved finger.  Scully crouched next to him and saw 
a smear of blood on the dark carpet.

"Maybe a footprint?" she said.

"Did someone say footprint?" Jane Dunbar stuck her head in 
the door.  "'Cause we've got 'em.  Come check it out in the 
kitchen."

The group, including Manny and the cat, followed her to the 
kitchen.  She had the lights off and took out a flashlight as 
she walked to the back door.  "Right here," she said as she 
shone the light on the pale linoleum floor.  "See?  He's 
getting sloppy.  It's a perfect salt print."

"The bastard must have come in through the back door," Manny 
said as he stroked the cat's head. 

Jane looked out the back window.  "There are more footprints 
out here leading away from the house.  Hard to tell how much 
we'll get from them because of the melting snow.  At least 
this guy is starting to make some mistakes."

"Maybe this murder was personal," Manny suggested.  "He's 
more emotional over this one."

"Maybe," Mulder agreed, but Scully noticed he didn't sound 
convinced.

At that moment, Chief Windsor stepped into the house.  His 
heavy boots clanked through the hardwood hall, and he scowled 
at the lot of them in the kitchen.  "Well, do we have another 
one or not?" he asked.

"It looks like the same killer, sir," answered Manny.  "All 
the same elements are present -- forced entry, victim bound 
to the bed, signs of sexual assault and the gunshot wound to 
the head."

Windsor pinned him with a cold blue gaze.  "I met O'Hara 
outside, and he tells me you two already knew the victim.  I 
understand I have you to thank for the mess on the news."

"Hey, we never talked to the press."

"Someone sure as hell talked!  I've got at least fifty calls 
this morning asking me, what do I know about Annette 
Crenshaw?  And now we've got another dead girl on our hands.  
You want this case so bad, Ahuja?  Well, you can be the one 
to explain this to her parents."

Manny squared his shoulders.  "I'll talk to them," he said.

The chief looked disgusted.  "You're damned right you'll talk 
to them.  Then you'll have a long talk with me -- you and 
O'Hara both are lucky I don't just suspend you right here, no 
questions asked."  He ran his gaze over Manny one last time.  
"And get rid of that damned cat."

In the exchange, Scully failed to notice Mulder disappear 
from the room.  She went in search and found him standing on 
the threshold of the open front door.  Outside, cop cruisers 
with their lights on littered the street.  Neighbors had come 
out from their houses to gawk.

The bitter wind frosted the ends of Scully's damp hair, 
making her shiver.  "What are you thinking?" she asked as he 
moved aside in the doorway to make room for her.

"I'm not sure yet," he said, "but I can tell you one thing -- 
this killer is as controlled as ever."

"How do you know?"

Mulder stepped out onto the stoop.  "Look at the walkway 
here. It's been shoveled."

"So, it's been shoveled.  Maybe she has a good landlord."

"It was shoveled before the snow ended.  See, there's about a 
half inch still here on the ground."  He ducked down and put 
his finger in to prove his point.  "No landlord is going to 
come over here in the middle of the night and shovel, 
especially before the snow had stopped."

He stood up and walked back to the stoop, where a shovel 
rested against the front of the house. "And since Annette was 
dead, that leaves her upstairs neighbors or..."

"Or the killer."

He gave a quick nod of assent.  "We need to canvass the area 
and see if anyone saw or heard him.  Maybe we'll get lucky."

Jane stepped out from the house and joined them on the front 
porch.  "The Chief is pretty steamed," she said.  "I've never 
seen him like this before."

"You've seen a lot of him then?" Mulder asked, squinting from 
the sun.

"Oh, no.  I just mean...  This case is making everyone a 
little nuts."

Scully put her hands in her pockets and hunched her shoulders 
against the wind.  "I'd best speak to the coroner about 
transport of the body," she said.  "Although I can already 
guess what I'm going to find upon autopsy.  It's just more of 
the same."

"The closet is the new twist," Mulder reminded her.  "We 
haven't seen that before."

"I have," said Jane.  She looked at them both.  "From the hat 
thief."

"There was a hat on the floor," Mulder agreed.  "Maybe your 
instincts are right on this one.  Maybe the cases are 
connected."

Scully hated to break up such an intriguing brainstorming 
session, but there was one detail they were overlooking.  "In 
that case," she said, "why didn't he take the hat with him?"

///////

Manny took a deep breath and steeled himself before opening 
the door to the Captain's office, where Annette's parents 
waited.  He jerked it open and both immediately turned their 
heads to look at them.  He froze, trapped by the force of 
their unspoken accusation.

They seemed smaller than when he'd last seen them, bent and 
broken now as they sat in their separate armchairs.  Mrs. 
Crenshaw still wore her heavy winter coat.

"We don't want to talk to you," said her father.

Manny did not advance into the room.  "Okay, I can get 
someone else if you'd like, but I'm the one who has been 
following your daughter's case."

"You're the one who got her killed!"  Mr. Crenshaw's jaw 
trembled and he gripped the armrest.  "You put her name all 
over the news, and now Annie is dead!"

"I had nothing to do with the news.  I swear it."

"All we know is that you came to the house looking for her, 
and now she's dead."

"I am so sorry about that.  Truly."  He took a tentative step 
into the room.  Mrs. Crenshaw pulled a tissue from her purse 
and blew her nose.

"She was doing so well," her mother whispered sadly.  "I 
thought all the trouble was behind her now.  I thought we'd 
all escaped."

Manny drew up a chair and took a cautious seat.  "I need to 
know about that trouble she was in."

"You already know," her father bit out.  "You know... what 
she was."

"She was a call girl."

Her mother nodded and dabbed at her nose.  "Of course, that's 
all you ever see.  You didn't know her."

"No, I didn't.  That's why I need you to tell me.  I need you 
to tell me what secret Annie was protecting.  What happened 
the night she reported her assault?"

Her father frowned. "What's that got to do with this?  Are 
you saying it's the same guy?  He came back?"

"I don't know what to think right now.  I need to find out 
what Annie told the cops that night."

"Why ask us?  Ask them."

"I have asked.  I'm not satisfied with the answers."

Her parents traded a look.  "You think... you think a cop 
might have hurt Annie?"

"Anything you can tell me about what happened to her -- I 
need to know."

"She didn't like to talk about it," her mother answered with 
a sniff.  "She just wanted to move on.  I could see she was 
afraid, but in a way, I was almost glad.  It seemed to shake 
her up enough that she started getting her life together.  I 
didn't want to ask too many questions."

"I asked her point blank if she knew the guy that did it to 
her," her father said.  "She said no."

"Someone gave her money," said Mrs. Crenshaw in a hushed 
voice.

The look her husband gave her told Manny that this was news 
to him.

"Go on," Manny urged.

"After it happened, someone gave her money.  She used it to 
get the apartment and enroll in a new school."

"I thought that was savings from her job."

"She was a drug addict, Paul.  She didn't have any savings."

"Why didn't you tell me?" he demanded.

"Annie didn't even want me to know.  It just slipped out one 
day.  She said it was a settlement from the escort service, 
on account of what happened to her, but I got the feeling it 
was from a client."

"Did you know her clients?"

"No, of course not.  We didn't even know she was..."  She 
broke off with a sigh. "There was a lot we didn't know."

"So you have no idea what Annie might have said to the cops 
that night?"

"She didn't even tell us about it until six months after it 
happened," her mother answered, and her face crumpled again.  
"My poor baby girl."

"The news is saying it's the same guy who killed those 
couples," her father said.  "Is that really true?"

"We're trying to answer that now," Manny told them.  "I 
promise you we'll keep you informed of any new developments 
we have in the case."

"When can we see her?" Mrs. Crenshaw asked, raising watery 
eyes to his.

Manny looked away.  Right now, Scully had their daughter 
splayed open on an autopsy table, a last violation of 
Annette's person that her parents did not need to witness.  
"I'll let you know," he said as he rose.  He extended his 
hand.  "I'm very sorry for your loss," he said.

They did not shake it.

"When you see us again," her father said, "it had better be 
to tell us the name of Annie's killer.  Otherwise we have 
nothing to say."

Manny left then, and leaned against the wall on the outside 
of the office.  His hands were trembling and the back of his 
neck was sweaty.  In his mind's eye, he saw Annette curled in 
her armchair with her cat.  He saw himself leaving the house. 
Somehow, he had passed death on its way in and never even 
known it.

O'Hara saw him standing there and crossed the room.  "You 
talk to the parents?"

"They don't know anything except that they hate me."

"They probably hate the whole world right now."

Manny shoved away from the wall.  "Then they can get in 
line."

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

Jake woke up with a jerk, as if startled awake from some 
outside force, but the house was quiet.  His mother was 
either still passed out in her bedroom or had gone to work 
without waking him.

He breathed a bit easier as he sat up.  Apparently the cops 
hadn't been sniffing around.

He had slept face down in the pillow with his overcoat and 
shoes still on.  His arms and shoulders ached as though he 
had been in a fight.  The clock read after noon. 

Fumbling around through the covers, he located the TV remote 
and switched on a local channel.  Sure enough, the cops were 
out in Medford.

Jake sat back against his pillows and chewed on his nails.  
If Tommy and Chris saw this news report, what would they say?  
Or maybe they were down talking to the cops right now.

"A source close to the investigation told me that detectives 
believe they may have caught a break in the case -- a 
footprint left behind in the house that may belong to Annette 
Crenshaw's killer."

Jake's gaze flew to his sneakers.  They were the same black 
hi-tops he always wore, with the ratty shoelaces and the pen 
ink on one side that read, 'F U' upside down.  Except now 
they were a bit different.  On the right one, near the toe, 
was a dark brown smear of blood.

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

Mulder had long ago perfected the art of walking and talking 
on the phone at the same time, but the teeming mass of people 
in the Boston police station made it difficult.  He had to 
dodge bodies and try to hear and Scully was not making the 
conversation any easier.

"I understand what you're saying, but I'm going to be here at 
least two more hours finishing this autopsy," she said.

"I need you there.  I've got the entire Boston media lined up 
for three PM.  We want to make sure to hit the early 
newscasts."

"Well, then you'll just have to go on without me this time.  
I can't sew her up just to rip her open again for the sake of 
a news conference."

"Can't you have someone else take over?"  Mulder flattened 
himself against a wall to make room for an officer coming 
through with a handcuffed suspect.

"Mulder, this is my job.  I can't hand it off to someone 
else, not something this important, and not halfway through a 
critical investigation."

"You said it yourself.  We're not likely to get anything new 
from the autopsy.  We have to go after this guy in front of 
the cameras.  We have to push him harder so he'll make 
contact.  If you want to help catch this guy, you'll do 
better down here than you will in the morgue verifying the 
same two pieces of non-identifying evidence we already have."

She huffed.  "So now I don't want to catch this man?"

He fisted one hand, frustrated.  "No, that's not what I 
said."

"You implied that what I'm doing has no meaning."

"Of course it has meaning.  Just not immediate meaning, which 
is what we need right now."

"We tried it your way, Mulder.  We posed for the cameras and 
you said all the right things and this guy didn't take the 
bait.  He hasn't sent us so much as a postcard."

"We know he watches the news.  It's our best bet to 
communicate with him."

"So go communicate.  I'm going to be here with the body."  

She hung up then, and Mulder bit back a curse as he pocketed 
the phone.  He had just about reached the front door when he 
heard someone calling his name.  He turned to see Diana 
hurrying towards him.

"Mulder, where are you going?" she asked.

"I'm going to buy a newspaper."

Her brow wrinkled in confusion.  "We have a dozen right 
here."

He pulled out a section from his inside jacket pocket to show 
he already had the paper he needed. "I want to talk to the 
Herald about the article they ran this morning on Annette 
Crenshaw.  What did you need me for?"

"I wanted to say you were probably right about the shoveling.  
A canvass of the neighborhood found two people who heard 
possible shoveling sounds in the middle of the night, but 
neither of them got up to look.  One thought she must be 
dreaming."

"Great, thanks." He turned to leave, but she stopped him with 
a touch on the arm.

"Mind if I tag along?"

"With me?  I guess that would be okay."  He dangled the car 
keys. "But I'm driving."

As they started across town, Diana pulled the mirror down on 
her side and began applying lipstick.  Mulder watched her out 
of the corner of his eye.  It's funny, he thought, the small 
gestures that take you back.

Diana pressed her lips together.  "I heard you have another 
news conference scheduled this afternoon."

"That's right."

"You and Scully plan to cozy up for the cameras again?"

"Scully is doing the autopsy on Annette Crenshaw.  She won't 
be making it to the conference."

"Oh?  Trouble in paradise?"

"It's her job, Diana," he said, irritated at her and Scully 
at the same time.

His phone rang again, and he expected to find it was Scully 
calling to say she had changed her mind, but the number on 
the ID was the tie line for FBI Washington.  "Mulder," he 
said, wondering if it was Kersh trying to haul his ass back 
home.

"Mulder, it's Skinner.  I see you're making headlines in 
Boston."

"Sir, about that--"

"Save it.  I don't care what you're up to if it's helping 
them catch that sick sonofabitch."

"Sir?"

"I'm calling about the X-files.  They officially open again 
next week and we have only one field agent assigned to the 
department.  That's you.  I need to know what other name to 
put on the paperwork."

Mulder chanced a look at Diana, who was listening openly.  "I 
can't really answer that right now."

"Here's the thing.  I've got your name and an application 
from Diana Fowley seeking assignment to X-Files.  I don't 
have anything from Agent Scully."

Mulder tightened his grip on the wheel.  "I think that's a 
matter you might want to take up with her."

"I plan to.  But as the senior agent in the department, your 
wishes carry some weight.  If you want, I can simply approve 
Agent Fowley's application and the process will go ahead."

"No," Mulder blurted.  "I mean, not yet.  Can't this wait 
another week?"

"I can stall maybe another forty-eight hours.  After that, 
forces greater than me will see to it that Fowley's name is 
added to the paperwork."  He paused.  "Unless you have some 
particular objection to her assignment that you'd care to 
share with me."

Skinner had not been there when Diana had walked away the 
first time, but he must have heard the office gossip.  First 
Diana, and now Scully was threatening to leave.  Maybe I'm 
the problem here, he thought dully.

Aloud he said, "I'll let you know."

He clicked off the phone to find Diana watching him.  
"Skinner?" she guessed.  He didn't answer.  Diana nodded to 
herself and settled back in her seat.  "He called me earlier 
today too, to see if I still had interest in joining the X-
files.  I assured him my heart is still in it."

"Your heart is still in it," he repeated.

"Of course."  She smiled.  "It always was."

He parked the car outside of the main offices for the Boston 
Herald.  The sun had vanished behind high, thin clouds, 
turning the sky a pale gray.  Scrawny trees stuck out of 
large snow banks and a river of slush flowed along the curb.  
Diana, with her stylish leather boots, sidestepped the mess 
with the agility of a mountain goat.

"Remind me what we're doing here," she said as he opened the 
front door for her.

Mulder hid an ironic smile.  He wouldn't be reminding her; he 
had never told her in the first place, but of course, she 
knew that.  "I want to offer them an exclusive of my own," he 
said.

////////

Jane was working the shoe comparison by herself.  She had a 
large double-mug of coffee and a computer program to try to 
help her figure out the manufacturer of the shoe from the 
crime scene.  First, she had to be sure the shoe did not come 
from Annette herself, but this was easy to determine.  For 
one thing, Annette had taken a petite size six shoe and the 
print from the kitchen was much larger.  

Jane did due diligence, though, and excluded all shoes from 
Annette's closet as the possible print-maker.  She noted for 
the record that there were no male shoes found inside the 
house.  Ahuja and O'Hara were searching through the victim's 
past for any male friends or boyfriends; these too, would 
either have to be eliminated or filed as potential suspects.

She rubbed her eyes and hit "next" on the computer program.  
Detective work had always seemed so glamorous to her as a 
kid.  Now she knew it consisted primarily of sitting around 
on your ass going through records or sifting through garbage.

This is better than garbage, she thought, hitting the button 
again.

The computer kicked back a possible match.  She sat up, 
squinting closer for a better look.  The tread pattern did 
appear to duplicate the pattern from the kitchen print.

"Converse hi-tops," she said.  "I don't know anyone over 
eighteen who wears Converse hi-tops."

Her heart rate sped up as she printed out the results. 
"Jane?"

She jumped and put a hand to her heart.  "Chief Windsor, you 
scared me."

"I wanted to find out for myself how you were coming with the 
footprint."

"I just got a match."  She handed him the results.  "I think 
we maybe be looking for a kid."

"I can't believe that.  An impulsive teenager doesn't commit 
crimes this clean.  They throw a cement block through a drug 
store window and leave their prints all over the place as 
they're looting it.  That's why we catch so damn many of 
them."

"Maybe he just has youthful taste."

Windsor considered the possibility with a frown.  "This is 
good work, Dunbar."

"Thank you, sir."

"But I need to ask you something now, and you must be 
straight with me."

"Sir?"

"These media leaks... the story about Annette Crenshaw.  Do 
you know anything about that?"

"What?  Of course not.  You're not thinking that I had 
something to do with that article in the Herald."

"The timing is peculiar.  Just after you joined us on the 
investigation. The reporters can be both persuasive and 
persistent. I know you're young, you're looking to prove 
yourself and make some sort of mark."

"Prove myself on the squad, sir.  Not in the papers."  She 
could feel her collar getting hot.  "I would never compromise 
the investigation by talking out of turn to the media."

"Yes, well."  He peered down at her from behind his glasses, 
and for once, he looked like the old man he was.  "I should 
hope not.  Keep your nose clean, Dunbar.  Your reputation 
means as much as your record in this department, and once 
it's tarnished, you can never get the shine back again."

"I'll remember that, sir."

"Good."  He tapped her on the shoulder with the computer 
printout. "And for now, let's keep this little development 
just between you and me."

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

Mulder waited in a small interrogation room for the press to 
finish gathering.  He had changed the venue this time, opting 
for an intimate briefing in the station newsroom itself.  The 
place would be jam-packed but at least he would be on the 
same level as the reporters rather than high above them on 
the stage.  He wanted the killer to see him on his level, 
open and available, even vulnerable.

He tugged his tie, which seemed to be choking him further 
with each passing minute.  His watch read three-to-three.  He 
sat on the table rather than in one of the chairs and went 
over mentally the points he planned to make in front of the 
cameras.  

The door cracked open and Diana poked her head in the room.  
"You look nervous," she said as she shut the door behind her.  

"I'm not nervous.  I just want to get this over with."  He 
tugged at his tie again.

"Here, let me fix that," she said, moving his hand away.

He tried not to focus on the feel of her fingers brushing his 
neck.  "Are there a lot of people in there?"

"They're sucking out all the oxygen.  But then again, I think 
that's pro forma where the press is concerned."

"See, now I always thought they sucked blood."

"Vampiric media -- now there's an X-file."  She finished off 
his tie and smiled at him.  "There.  Now you're perfect."

He looked down at the tiny white polka dots.  "I thought it 
really said, 'I'm a showy know-it-all who deserves some 
killing.'"

"Hmm.  Well, perhaps, 'I'm a showy know-it-all whose fashion 
sense is so terrible it deserves to be put out of its 
misery.'"

"Hey, you gave me this tie."

"Oh, God.  I did?"

"No." He grinned.  "But I had you there for a second."

"Yeah," she said, smiling softly, "You had me."  She stepped 
a bit closer, fitting herself between his legs.  "You know, 
if you need someone to play your girlfriend for the cameras 
tonight..."

"Diana, I don't think..."

"I seem to remember we give a pretty good show."  She pressed 
her lips to his.

The door opened again and Scully stood there staring.  Mulder 
stared back, but she recovered first.  "I'm sorry," she said 
in clipped tones, and the door swung shut again with a bang.

"Scully, wait a second."  He scrambled off the table after 
her, shoving aside Diana in the process.  He caught up with 
Scully in the back hall near the soda machine and the 
emergency exit.  "Scully, stop."

She froze but did not turn around.  He touched her shoulder.

"That wasn't what it looked like."

She faced him then, and he could see the tired shadows under 
her eyes.  "It looked like you were kissing."

"Not exactly."

"Forget it.  I don't even want to know."  She tried to leave, 
but he sidestepped and blocked her path.

"I thought you weren't going to make it."

"I have to go back afterward and write up my notes from the 
tapes, but I managed to get through most of the work."

"And?"

She wasn't looking at him.  "You were right.  There was 
nothing of consequence."

"Of course it's consequential.  When we catch this guy, we're 
going to need all that evidence to tie him to each of the 
murders."

"But first we have to catch him."  She took a deep breath and 
her shoulders sagged.  "So that's why I'm here."

He took her by the shoulders and squeezed.  "I'm glad."

"Right.  Sure."

"Scully..."

She broke away from him and backed up a step.  "You still 
don't see it, do you?  You keep bringing her around, testing 
us both for... I don't know what for, Mulder.  I don't know 
why you keep running to her and then running back to me to 
see what I think of it all.  I wish you'd just figure out 
what you want."

"I know what I want."  He took a step toward her.

"I don't think you do."

"That's because you keep mistaking that Diana's presence has 
any bearing on my feelings for you."

"And just what are those feelings, Mulder?"  She risked a 
glance at him.  "Because I don't think they're very clear."

"Okay."  He grabbed her then with one arm around her back, 
practically lifting her off her feet.  He pressed his lips to 
hers and held her tight.  She was stiff and surprised at 
first, but as he continued the embrace her body and lips 
softened against his.  She tasted like lipstick and smelled 
like lemon.

Reluctantly, he set her back down.  She stared at him, wide-
eyed, her cheeks now a lovely shade of pink.  He wanted to 
kiss her again but he had a room full of reporters waiting.

"So are you going to come be my girlfriend or what?" he 
asked.

She tucked her hair behind both ears and smoothed her suit 
jacket over her hips.  "I, uh...yes."

"Well, okay then."

They walked out of the alcove looking pretty much the same, 
except now they were in step.  As they entered the crowded 
conference room, Mulder deliberately touched his hand to her 
back.  She looked up at him.  

"Good luck," she murmured.

Everyone had turned out for the show.  Ray, Diana, Chief 
Windsor, Ahuja, O'Hara and all of the Boston media.  Hal 
Thompson of the Boston Herald gave Mulder a wink from his 
seat in the front row.  Then he whispered something to the 
man sitting next to him.  Mulder was willing to bet this was 
the elusive Jimmy Trumbull, author of the ill-fated and ill-
informed Annette Crenshaw story.

He took the main podium, which was covered in microphones 
like mushrooms on a forest log.  Flashbulbs went off in his 
face.  "Good afternoon, and thank you all for coming.  The 
last time I stood before you, I told you that this killer was 
close to making a mistake.  Well, he's made it.  In going 
after Annette Crenshaw last night, he has proven one thing to 
us: he may be calculating, but he lacks creativity.  He is 
depending on the media reports to tell him what to do.  You 
mention Annette Crenshaw, and she becomes his target.

"In his haste to prove himself, he is becoming sloppy.  We've 
recovered many footprints from the scene today.  The snow may 
be unpleasant for most of us, but for this man it is an 
enemy.  He left his calling card all over Annette Crenshaw's 
property and we are in the process of tracking his shoes now.

"His zeal has also revealed another clue.  In committing 
these murders, he shows us that he has no outside life to 
speak of.  Anyone with a job, with a family, could not manage 
the pace this killer has set.  If he has any such ties, they 
would be greatly suffering by now.  So we ask anyone who has 
noticed erratic, suspicious behavior in a male family member 
this week to please contact the police.  Repeated absences or 
late-night comings and goings are an important clue.  He may 
be tired and sleep a lot during the day.  He could have 
scratches by now from struggling with the victims.  

"I am standing here today to let you know that we are as 
outraged as you are that he continues to go free.  We are 
working around the clock on this case and we are accountable.  
But most importantly, we will catch him.  Thank you."

Mulder took no questions; they would only be a waste of time, 
and time was something the investigation did not have.  The 
other law enforcement officials followed him out the private 
entrance back into the station.

He took Scully's elbow and pulled her aside.  "Well?  How did 
I do?"

"The hook is well and truly baited," she answered.  "If he 
doesn't make contact now, he's probably not going to."

"I guess I'd better go sit by the phone then."

"I've got to get back to the morgue."

"Scully, wait."

"What is it?"

He hesitated.  "No one can get in over there without ID, 
right?"

"After hours it's locked up tighter than a drum."

"But there are other people there now."

"For a while, yes."  She gave him a curious look.  "Why?"

"My little interview is going out over the airwaves, probably 
as we speak.  I just want to make sure you're going to be 
safe."

She smiled.  "I'll be fine.  It's not my face on his TV, 
remember?"

"Yes, but I'm going to be here surrounded by a hundred of my 
friends in blue."

"Good.  Watch your back, okay?"

"I'll call you."


Mulder did as promised and hung out by the tip line for 
several hours.  The phones rang off the hook with dozens of 
new suggestions, but nothing that sounded like messages from 
the killer.  

O'Hara hung up after one call and sighed.  "That woman wanted 
to turn in her husband, her uncle *and* her best friend's 
brother for suspicious behavior.  I said, 'Lady, they can't 
all be the killer.  Pick one.'  Then she told me it was her 
mailman."  

"Maybe our guy watches the late news," Ray suggested.  "He 
does seem to be a night owl."

"Well, then I move we go over to Mallory's for a beer and a 
burger," O'Hara replied.  "Let the new shift take over the 
phones for a while.  That way, we can be back here in time 
for the late, late show."

"I'll take a rain check," Ray replied.  "I've got an errand 
to run."

"I've got to call my girlfriend," Manny said, and then 
grimaced.  "If I've still got a girlfriend."

O'Hara shrugged.  "You and me, Mulder?"

"Yeah, okay. I could use something to eat."

The men walked the few blocks to the bar, despite the cold; 
few pedestrians were out even though the night was still 
young. Mallory's had a reasonable crowd because of the recent 
shift-change.  "When the day's over," O'Hara explained, 
"sometimes you want to go anywhere but home."

They took seats at the bar, where Dave was working with a 
second man for the evening.  It was Dave who brought their 
beers, and he gave Mulder a familiar nod.  "I saw you on TV 
today," he said.  "You're really a profiler?"

"That's right."

"He can read the psychos' minds," O'Hara said.

"I wish it worked that way," replied Mulder.  "It doesn't."

"Have you caught serial killers before?" Dave inquired as he 
poured another beer from the tap.

"Yes, a few."

"And you really think you can get this guy?"

"Yes."  

O'Hara shifted on the stool and looked at him.  "I like your 
confidence," he said, shaking his head.  "After this week, I 
ain't too sure anymore."

"I have to think we can catch him," Mulder said.  "Otherwise 
I may as well go home right now."

"When will you go home?" Dave said.  "I mean, if you guys 
don't get him.  Will you just stay here as long as it takes 
or do you just give up after awhile?"

"You're awfully interested in my comings and goings," Mulder 
said.

Dave shrugged.  "I'm not trying to ride you or nothing.  I 
think you got guts."

"Hey, what about the rest of us?" O'Hara demanded.  "We're 
just chopped liver?"

"It isn't your mug on the TV saying those things," Dave said.  
"If the killer doesn't get him like that Harris guy, I figure 
the townspeople will run him out of here on a pole.  There's 
only so many times you can tell folks you're sure that you're 
going to catch the guy before they want to see the results."

"Listen, you little punk..."

Mulder stilled O'Hara with one hand.  "It's okay.  He's 
right."  On the TV overhead, SportsCenter switched to 
competitive pool.  Mulder checked his watch and it read eight 
o'clock.  Scully would be done at the morgue by this time.

He groped around in his pocket for his cell phone but came up 
empty.  He tried the other pocket and got more of the same.  
"That's odd."  He stood up and tried his pants and his 
overcoat.  No phone.

"What's your problem?" O'Hara asked.

"I can't find my cell phone."

"Use mine."

"No, thanks, I need to figure out what happened to mine.  I 
must have left it back at the station."

O'Hara took a swallow of beer.  "It ought to be safe there."

"I'm going to head back anyway."  Mulder tossed a twenty on 
the bar.  "I'll see you back there, okay?"

"I'm right behind you."

Mulder jogged back the way they had come, his breath turning 
to icy puffs in the frozen night.  At the station, he started 
retracing his steps and looking for his phone.  He checked 
the interrogation room, the conference room, and the area by 
the tip phones.  He even ducked back to the soda machine to 
see if it might have fallen out while he was smooching 
Scully.

Baffled, he walked back to the bullpen area.  "Hey, there you 
are."  Manny was eating take-out Chinese food straight from 
the carton.  "Scully called here about twenty minutes looking 
for you.  She said she couldn't get you on your cell phone."

"I can't find my phone," Mulder said.  "Have you seen it?"

"No, man.  I haven't seen any phones lying around anywhere."  

Mulder accepted the pink message slip.  "I can't read this."

"Sorry about that."  Manny took it back and studied it.  "Oh, 
yeah.  She said she found a tattoo on Annette's body and she 
wanted to check something back at the house."

"At the house -- at Annette's house you mean?"

"Yeah, I think that's what she said."  He sat up suddenly and 
put his Chinese food down on the desk.  "Hey, you don't think 
she's alone, do you?  I mean, it could be dangerous, 
especially given that whole 'killer returns to the scene of 
the crime' thing."

"We don't know he's doing that."

"We don't know he's not."

Mulder was already heading for the door.  "I'm going to meet 
her.  Call Scully, tell her I'm coming.  Tell her not to go 
into the house until I get there."

"I'm on it."

Mulder picked up speed until he was out-and-out running for 
the lot.  Suddenly his whole "bait the killer" scheme seemed 
like a really bad idea.  In the car, he reached for his cell 
phone out of habit again and cursed when he couldn't find it.  
"God damn it, where are you?"  He ran his hand under the seat 
in case it had fallen out while he was driving.  Nothing.

"I had it this morning," he said.  "I know I did.  And I put 
it back in my pocket."

He dodged a slow-moving Buick by crossing the double yellow 
lines.  All the cops were out looking for a serial killer; 
there was no one around to bust him for traffic violations.

A chilling thought hit him.  What if the phone had been 
stolen?  Lifted, perhaps, by the killer he was seeking.  It 
could have come at any time his coat was unguarded.  An 
experienced pickpocket could have had him on the street and 
he wouldn't even have noticed, he'd been so distracted.

He wished he'd taken O'Hara up on the offer of a phone.  Now 
he was stuck barreling through narrow roads while Scully was 
all alone.

Manny's words came back to him: "She tried you on your cell."  
If the killer did have his phone, then he also knew exactly 
where Scully was.

Mulder nudged the needle up a bit higher.  Scenery flew by; 
other cars blared their horns but Mulder barely heard them.  
He heard only his heartbeat thundering in his ears: hurry, 
hurry, hurry.

The car skidded around icy corners.  Mulder leaned forward, 
trying to negotiate the dark streets as best he could. 

Then, out of nowhere, headlights appeared on the other side 
of the road.  The beams were too bright and getting closer.  
Mulder shielded his eyes and jerked the wheel, but it was too 
late.

The car smashed his left front with a great sound of 
crunching metal and shattered glass.  Mulder held the wheel 
tightly, trying to correct it as the steering gave way and 
the car hit a snow bank.  The wheels caught the edge and sent 
the car careening into the air, where it flipped twice and 
landed upside down.

Mulder had only a second to realize he was alive.

The high beams were back, and they were coming right at him a 
second time.  He could only close his eyes, brace his legs, 
and scream.

/////////

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

Chapter Eleven

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


The whole of Annette Crenshaw's old house, upstairs and 
downstairs, was dark when Scully arrived.  The couple in the 
second floor apartment had not needed any urging from the 
police to clear out; their neighbor's body exiting the 
downstairs on a coroner's stretcher had been incentive 
enough.  From the looks of things, half the street had left 
with them.  Houses up and down the row sat black and empty.

Scully stood on the front porch, her breath misting in the 
cold night, and felt around in her pocket for the key.  She 
had to detach the crime scene taped "X" over the front door.  
The old wood stuck momentarily, and she had to throw her 
shoulder against it to break it free.

She immediately reached around to flick the hall light on but 
kicked the loose snow from her boots before stepping inside.  
The old house creaked with the weight of her footsteps as she 
walked through it.  The hardwood floors, high ceilings and 
small rooms told Scully the architecture dated back at least 
a century, likely more.  

As she touched the smooth, cold doorknob to the bedroom, she 
thought of how many hands had been there before hers, how 
just twenty-four hours earlier Annette had probably tugged it 
closed for the last time.  

The door opened with a faint whine.  Scully could still smell 
the blood in the room before she hit the light switch.  The 
overhead fixture set the small room ablaze with light, 
shining a spotlight on the silent, violent scene.  The sheet 
was torn, drenched in blood.  Scully could make out the dried 
stain where the body had been.  The rope was gone from the 
headboard.

She turned her head, deliberately not looking anymore, and 
hurried to the dresser.  Annette's small apartment had not 
given her much storage space and the top of her dresser was 
crammed with knick-knacks, beauty supplies and framed photos.  
Scully spotted the one she was after and lifted it free from 
the rest of the clutter.

It showed Annette with another young woman about her age; the 
other girl was fair where Annette was dark.  They had their 
arms around each other and smiled big for the camera.  But 
what intrigued Scully was the frame, which was decorated with 
dozens of tiny yin-yang symbols.

She flipped the frame over and opened the back to release the 
photo.  "Me and Sandi, 1998," it read on the reverse side.

She was about to dig out her phone and try Mulder again when 
she heard the cry of a police siren in the distance.  It 
sounded like it was getting closer.  Scully set the picture 
down and jogged to the front of the house to see the street.  
She ducked down in the dark living room, her face close to 
the cold windowpane. 

A black and white unit went racing past with its lights 
flashing.  A second one was close on its heels, and an 
ambulance skidded around the corner, bringing up the rear.

Wide-eyed, bent over to peer out the window, Scully wondered 
what the problem was, and then her cell phone began to ring.

Its insistent chirp faded almost to oblivion as a fire truck 
went screaming past the house.  Scully fumbled with one hand 
for her phone.  "Scully," she said, a little breathless.

"Agent Scully, it's Detective Ahuja."

"Detective," she said as she turned away from the noise 
outside.  She put her hand over her free ear and tried to 
hear.  

"Agent Mulder asked me to call you.  He said his cell phone 
has been stolen and there's some possibility the killer took 
it."

"When?"

"He doesn't know when.  But if you've left him any 
messages..."

"I told him I'm here."  Scully whirled first one direction 
and then the other, checking to make sure she was alone.  "I 
left three messages for Mulder telling him I was going to 
Annette's.  I wondered why he wasn't picking up."

"Sit tight.  Mulder's on his way.  Everything's okay there?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine."  She reached over and turned on 
another light.  The sirens had stopped and the house had gone 
quiet again.

"Wait, what?"  

She heard voices in the background.  "What's going on?"  
Manny asked a question she couldn't quite hear.  "What's 
happening?" she asked again.  She heard rustling, the sound 
of Manny standing up.

"There's been an accident," he told her.  

"Oh my God."  She knew.  All at once she knew.

"Mulder was driving to get you..."

"I've got to go."  She clicked off the phone and started to 
run with it still clutched tight in one hand.  Outside, the 
frosty air hit her like a wall but she kept going, the hard 
heels of her boots splitting the icy edges of the sidewalk.

She ran past her car.  It never even occurred to her to get 
in.

She took in painful gasps of frigid air.  Her mouth was cold 
and open, the wind making her eyes tear.  She nearly fell at 
one patch of ice, catching herself hard against the rough 
scrape of a tree.  

Please be okay, she thought.  Please, please, please. 

The emergency vehicles came into view as she rounded the 
corner onto the main street.  She saw red and blue lights 
spinning crazily, and the bright glare of a dozen high-beam 
headlights.  "Oh, God." 

Her stomach flipped as she jogged closer, rounding the end of 
a fire truck to see the crash scene in all its twisted glory.  
A fireman stopped her, his heavy gloved hand catching her 
square across the chest.  "Ma'am, you can't go in there."

"I'm FBI."  She tried to break loose to find her ID but she 
couldn't tear her eyes away from Mulder's car.  It was upside 
down, the windows smashed.  Hunks of snow lay scattered in 
the street.

"You can't go in there."

"He's my partner!"  She wrenched free of him and ran to the 
car.  Two EMTS were crouched by the driver's side door.  She 
fell down on her knees next to them.  "Mulder?  Mulder are 
you okay?"

"Ma'am, please..."

"Scully?"

"Oh, God," she said, exhaling when she heard his voice.  She 
placed a trembling hand on the shell of the car and tried to 
lean down to see him.  "Are you all right?  Mulder?"

"I'm all right.  My legs are stuck."

It was dark, but they had high-intensity flashlights trained 
on him.  She could see him squinting at her but there was 
blood running down his face. "You're okay?  Can you move your 
toes?"

"Toes are a-okay."

"Ma'am, we need to you move aside so we can get your friend 
out of here."

"Mulder," she said, reaching inside for him.  His hand closed 
over hers and his grip was reassuringly strong.  She squeezed 
him tight.

"I'm all right, Scully.  They just have to cut me out of 
here, okay?"

"Ma'am."  One of the EMTs grabbed her arm and tried to move 
her forcibly out of the way.  "You need to let us do our jobs 
now.  Your friend is going to be all right."

"I'm a doctor," she said, not letting go of Mulder.

"That's all very good, but unless you can operate the Jaws of 
Life, we need you to step aside and let us work.  Okay?"

Scully looked up and saw a man standing there ready with the 
tools necessary to spring Mulder.  "Okay," she said, 
reluctantly letting go of him and trying to rise to her feet.  
She required EMT assistance for this small task, as 
adrenaline had suddenly made her legs turn to rubber.  
Rounded shards of glass clung to her wet pants.

They backed her up more than thirty feet before going to work 
on the crumpled car.  Scully hugged herself and tried not to 
give orders.  The metal they were cutting was decidedly too 
close to Mulder's head.

Manny Ahuja appeared behind her and touched her gently on the 
shoulder.  "Hey, I got here as fast as I could.  How's 
Mulder?"

"They're peeling back the sardine can now.  He seems to be 
okay, but of course we won't know anything until we get him 
to a hospital."  She glanced up at him.  "What the hell 
happened?"

"Don't know.  I just heard the call come in."  He looked 
around at all the cruisers and trucks.  "I don't see the 
other car anywhere.  Looks like a hit and run.  Icy street, 
dark night -- could be an accident."

"You don't really believe that."

"If it's our boy, he's sure changed his M.O."

The men managed to pry open the car enough to help Mulder out 
onto the stretcher.  Scully hurried forward again.  "Mulder, 
are you okay?"  She took his hand and he squeezed it.

"Score one for American craftsmanship," he said as he turned 
his head to look at the scrap heap that used to be his 
Taurus.  "Although I don't know how I'm going to explain this 
to the rental agency.  Do you think the eleven dollar 
insurance surcharge will cover this?"

She peered at the cut near his temple, but it did not appear 
too deep.  He had glass flecking his hair, which she gently 
brushed away.  "Are you hurt anywhere?"

"Ma'am, we need to get him to the hospital."  The EMTs 
started rolling the gurney to the waiting ambulance; Scully 
walked with them.

"Is your stomach tender?  Can you breathe okay?  How many 
fingers am I holding up?"

"Seventy-six."

"Mulder," she said, frowning at him.  "This isn't funny."  
But she saw one of the EMTs hide a snort against his sleeve.

"I'm all right, really.  My chest hurts from the seatbelt and 
the dash really messed up my knee, but I'm going to be fine."

"He could have internal injuries," Scully told the EMTs.  "He 
needs X-rays and possibly a CT scan."

"Yeah, and you know a really good place where he can get all 
those things?  The hospital!"  They halted at the ambulance 
to prepare to lift him inside.

"I'm going with you."

"The officers can take you right behind us."

"I'm going with you."

Mulder weakly raised one arm.  "Guys, she carries a gun.  You 
probably don't want to have this fight."

"Fine," the older one said with a sigh.  "Get in."

They ran the lights and siren despite the fact that it wasn't 
a strict emergency.  Scully leaned over Mulder and used her 
pocket flashlight to check his pupils for proper reactivity.  

"When the car was in the air, my life flashed before my 
eyes," Mulder said as she pulled back one eyelid and peered 
down at him.  "Check to see if it's still in there, will 
you?"

"Mulder."  She drew back and laid a hand gently on his chest.  
"What happened?"

He covered her hand with his own.  "I was on my way to meet 
you at Annette's when this car came out of nowhere, crossed 
the yellow line and slammed into me."

"Accident?"

"Only if he accidentally backed up and did it a second time."

"Did you get a look at the car?"

He shook his head.  "All I saw were two headlights getting 
closer and closer." 

She gripped his hand with both of hers now and bowed her 
head.  "You could have been killed."

"I think that was the general idea, yeah."

"Manny said your phone had been stolen.  He said the killer 
may have listened to your messages.  Mulder, if he heard me 
and went after you..."

"Hey, shh.  We don't have any idea what happened yet."  He 
extracted his hand and touched her cheek.  "I'm just glad he 
didn't go after you."

"I'm not the one who made a target of myself."

The ambulance pulled to a stop in front of the hospital, and 
the EMTs shifted to prepare for disembarking.  "We're going 
to take him inside now and let the emergency docs have a look 
at him," said the one.  He looked at Scully.  "Assuming 
that's okay with you."

"Yes, please," she said, not taking the bait.  

They unloaded Mulder, and he reached for her hand again on 
the outside, lacing their fingers together.  "Don't knock it, 
boys," he said.  "Most guys just get to play doctor -- I've 
got the genuine article."

The men laughed and Scully felt her face warm, but she didn't 
let go of Mulder's hand.  

After all, she was the genuine article.

//////////

Jane sat in a back booth at Mallory's with a beer in front of 
her.  She had a file folder by her thigh and a shredded red 
napkin in her lap.  For the third time in ten minutes, she 
checked her cell phone for any messages, but there were none.  
She had left just the one for him -- meet me at Mallory's at 
nine -- and she did not dare call again.

She picked with her fingernail at the edge of the silver 
label and kept one eye on the door.  A couple of unis blew in 
on a cold wind, stomping their boots on the mat and then 
bellying up to the bar.  

As usual, she was practically the only woman in the place.  
Loud, male voices echoed off the hard floor while sports 
played silently on the TVs.  Some sort of rock song banged 
out a bass line she could feel in the wooden bench, and she 
touched the folder to make sure it didn't slide to the floor.

One of the bartenders slipped free and approached her table.  
She saw him coming and suppressed a roll of her eyes.  "Can I 
get you another?" he asked, wiping his hands on a green apron 
and nodding at her empty beer bottle.

No way he would have asked her that if she'd been a lone male 
officer sitting in the corner.  "I'm fine, thanks."

"You sure?"  He grinned and leaned down.  "It's on the 
house."

"No, thank you.  I'm waiting for someone."  She tried to see 
around him to the door.

He gave a good-natured sigh.  "Of course.  All the beautiful 
ones are taken, right?"

Jane was instantly suspicious and she gave him a second look.  
No one had ever called her beautiful before.  "Aren't you 
supposed to be on the other side of the bar?"

But he was not dissuaded.  He smiled a bit and shoved his big 
hands into the pockets on his apron.  "Aren't you supposed to 
be out catching criminals?"

A sudden draft told her the door was open again, and she 
leaned out of the booth for a look.  Across the room, Chief 
Windsor met her gaze and frowned.  

"My other party is here," Jane said to the bartender.  "If 
you'll excuse me."

He turned for a look and whistled.  " I know when I've been 
one-upped," he said.  " Tell the Chief whatever he wants to 
drink, it's on me, okay?"

Windsor was undoing the scarf from his neck as he reached 
Jane's table.  "I got your message," he said in a low voice.  
"Did we have to meet here?"

"I figured this would look casual," she said as he sat down.  
"Besides, isn't this where you take all the girls?"

"What did you want?"

She picked up the folder and slid it across to him.  "The top 
one is the print I showed you earlier, the sneaker print 
found at Annette Crenshaw's place.  The bottom one was from 
the Fontana's back porch last fall."

Windsor studied the images side-by-side.  "They appear to 
match."

"They're a near-perfect match.  The recent one shows a little 
bit more wear, but I'd bet money they're from the same guy.  
See that mark at the top?  That's an irregularity in the 
rubber from where the pattern didn't quite cut through all 
the way.  It's the same in both prints."

"Who are the Fontanas?"

"They found two hats missing.  They didn't report it until 
after the case made the papers, so we didn't pay much 
attention to the print at the scene.  I figured any tracks by 
the doer would have been washed away by then."

Windsor tapped the photos and nodded. "This is good work, 
Dunbar."

"The killer and the hat thief are connected.  We have to go 
over everything again with a fresh eye.  Maybe he left clues 
at the hat scenes that he didn't leave at the murders."

He leaned forward in the booth.  "You can't tell the others 
about this."

"Sir..."

"We have no definite proof of a connection, not yet."

"This is proof."

"It's a strong lead.  I'm not saying it isn't.  But we need 
to keep this under our hats just a bit longer, so to speak."

"I think the others need to know what they're dealing with."

"Listen, Jane, we've got a leak somewhere.  The reporters are 
everywhere.  I had two of them tail me in here.  For all I 
know, they've got their telephoto lenses pressed against the 
windowpane and they're taking shots of us right now."

Uneasy, Jane glanced behind him to see if she could glimpse 
anyone watching.  For the first time, she noticed that many 
of the other officers were keeping tabs on them, watching out 
of the corner of their eyes as they pretended to talk or 
argue about the game.  

Maybe this wasn't the best place to meet, she thought.

"At least let me tell the FBI."

"When we have something more concrete.  Right now, it's the 
best lead we have, but if it gets out to the press, all he's 
going to do is destroy the sneakers.  What good would that do 
any of us?"

His beeper went off and he reached down to answer it.

"Excuse me," he said.  "I have to get this."  He pulled out 
his cell phone and dialed the number from the pager.  
"Windsor here.  Yes.  You're kidding me.  Is he hurt?  Yes, 
okay.  Yes, I know what this means.  Where did they take him?  
I'm on my way."

"Trouble?" Jane asked when he hung up the phone.  

Deep lines wrinkled Windsor's brow.  "Someone ran Agent 
Mulder off the road tonight."

"Oh, no.  Is he all right?"

"He'll live."  His sharp blue eyes pierced her.  "Keep a low 
profile, Dunbar, and remember what I told you.  If I see this 
in the papers tomorrow, it will mean your shield.  Don't make 
me regret bringing you on board."

"I won't say anything."  She took the pictures back and 
tucked them away.  "But if the killer is going after Mulder, 
doesn't he have a right to know everything we've learned?"

"Let me worry about Mulder.  You just stay out of the papers 
and make sure this guy doesn't get a mind to come after you."

Later, in bed that night with her doors double-locked and the 
evidence tucked in her desk, Jane thought back on the Chief's 
words.  He probably hadn't meant it that way, she thought, 
but it had almost seemed like a threat.

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

By this time, Mulder had sampled emergency departments all 
across America, and he gave the Boston Mercy General ER a B-
plus.  It had the same over-bright lighting that gave human 
skin a faintly green glow, the same harried staff in white 
coats and mismatched scrubs and the same scratchy gray 
blankets that smelled like hospital laundry soap.  But they 
let him have a Coke instead of juice and he got through X-ray 
in about half the time it usually took.

Whether this was because of his hotshot FBI status or the 
fact that Scully was running interference for him, he could 
not say for sure, but he was willing to bet they were willing 
to discharge him just to be rid of her.  

At the present moment, she was leaning over him and examining 
the stitch job they had done on the cut by his hairline.  
"Maybe we should have the plastic surgeon take a look at it," 
she said, smoothing his hair back for a better view.  "Just 
to be sure."

He batted her hand away.  "It's fine.  It's just six stitches 
and no one can see it anyway.  As long as I don't go bald, 
the world will never be the wiser."

She put her hands on her hips.  "It's your gamble."

"Hey, my dad died with a full head of hair."

"It's your mother's father you need to worry about.  The 
primary gene for male pattern baldness is autosomal dominant 
inherited from the mother."

He walked his fingers across the blanket and tickled her 
thigh.  "Say 'autosomal dominant' for me again, Scully."

"You are a sick and twisted individual," she replied, but she 
let him tickle her.

"Good thing I'm in a hospital then."

She reached down and took his hand.  "Good thing."

"Fox?"  The door swung open and Diana came through it, 
causing Scully to drop his hand and step backward.  He would 
have reached for her again but she was now beyond his grasp.  
"My, God, are you okay?"

Either she was over-acting for show or the bruises on his 
face were worse than Scully had let on.  She pushed between 
him and Scully and touched his cheek.  "They said your car 
was so mangled they had to cut you out of it."

"Let's just say I went from a four-door sedan to a compact in 
a big hurry."

"Is anything broken?"

"Just bent," he replied, struggling to sit up.  Diana reached 
behind him and adjusted the pillow.  "I'm fine, Diana.  
Really.  They're taking good care of me."

Scully leaned against the wall with her arms folded across 
her chest.  When he tried to meet her gaze, Diana's face 
became a blur.  He couldn't see them both at the same time.

Extricating his hand from Diana's, he sat forward with a 
groan.  "It's past midnight and this old man wants to get to 
bed.  Scully, can you hand me my pants?"

Scully pushed away from the wall and frowned at him.  
"Mulder, you haven't been cleared to leave yet.  You need 
crutches.  You need painkillers."

"I can walk," he said, gritting his teeth as his bare feet 
hit the floor.  His knee, with its deep bruise, screamed in 
protest.  "Pants?" he said, holding out an arm towards her.

Scully didn't move.

"It's kind of cold out there, Scully.  I'd prefer not to 
freeze my ass off -- literally."

With an obvious sigh, Scully picked up his dirty pants and 
handed them to him.  He sat back on the bed and looked 
pointedly at Diana.  "Do you mind?"

"Oh, of course," she said, taking the pants from his lap.  
"Let me help you."

He snatched them back. "No, I mean would you mind waiting 
outside."

She froze and looked at him for a moment, studying his eyes 
to see if he really meant it.  He did.  "Sure, whatever you 
want," she said as she straightened.  "I'll just be outside."

She left, the door latching softly behind her, and Scully 
stepped toward him.  He grimaced as he bent down to slip his 
feet into his pants.  "You didn't have to ask her to leave on 
my account."

"I didn't.  Oh, ow."

Scully caught his arm as he fell forward in pain.  "Easy, 
there."  She let him use her as a brace as he slowly 
maneuvered into his pants.  They were torn at the knee, hard 
in spots from the dried blood, but at least now his bare ass 
wasn't hanging out the back door.

"She's seen more of you than I have," Scully said as he 
stretched behind her to grab his shirt.  "And we both know 
you're not shy."

He winced as rib muscles contracted.  "You don't get what's 
going on here, do you, Scully?"

"What?" she asked as she took the shirt from him.  She held 
it so he could slip an arm through one sleeve.

He smiled. "It's a changing of the guard."

Her mouth twitched.  "One more bad pun and I'm going to have 
the nurses in here with the drugs."

"I could almost go for them right now," he said as he leaned 
his head on her shoulder.

"Oh, Mulder." She stroked his hair.  "They would be for me, 
not you."

He chuckled and raised his head.  "Let's get out of here, 
okay?"  

"I think you're going to need shoes."

He looked down, and sure enough, his feet were still bare.  
"Right.  Shoes."

A few minutes later, he was dressed enough for the outside 
world, so they started gingerly for the car.  They passed the 
waiting room, where Diana had been joined by Manny Ahuja and 
Chief Windsor.  Mulder's knee hurt like hell but he knew he 
had to stop and say a few words.

"Agent Mulder," Windsor said, extending a hand.  "Good to see 
you up and about.  How are you doing?"

"I hadn't realized the human body was collapsible, but you 
learn something every day.  They've fluffed me up again and 
I'll be all right."

"Detective Ahuja informs me you have reason to believe this 
wasn't an accident."

"No, sir, it wasn't.  Whoever hit me knew exactly what he was 
doing."

"So someone knew your car, knew where you were going."

"Probably whoever lifted my phone," Mulder agreed.

"Mulder, about that..."  Manny pulled a silver Nokia from his 
pocket.  "We found this at the scene, across the street from 
where your car landed.  It looks like it was thrown free in 
the crash."

Mulder took his phone and studied the casing from all angles.  
It had a crack on one side and a broad scratch mark 
consistent with hitting the pavement at high speed.  "I 
checked my car.  The phone wasn't there."

"Maybe it slipped under the seat," Diana suggested.

"Maybe."  He handed it back to Manny with two fingers.  "Do 
me a favor and have that printed, will you?"

"I'll get right on it."

"I could have it sent to our labs," Diana offered.

"Faster this way," Manny replied as he returned the phone to 
his pocket.  "I'll have an answer for you by morning."

"You're really so sure someone lifted your phone?" Windsor 
asked.

Mulder touched his head where it was beginning to ache.  He 
wasn't really sure of anything.  "The phone looks like it was 
thrown from a car," he said, "but it might not have been from 
mine."

///////////


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

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."

////////


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

Chapter Thirteen

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

Mulder found Diana in the conference room that was serving as 
task force central.  It was lunchtime and most everyone was 
off wolfing down a sandwich and coffee somewhere, so she sat 
alone amid the stacks of file folders, framed by a photo 
gallery of the dead on the back wall.

"You're looking about as well as could be expected," she said 
when she noticed him standing there.

He kicked the doorstop free and let the heavy door swing shut 
behind him, sealing them together in the windowless room.  
Diana leaned back in her chair and her mouth curled up in an 
inviting smile.  "I didn't realize this was to be a private 
meeting," she said.

"I asked Scully to wait outside." His knee throbbed as he 
hobbled closer, and he leaned both hands on the back of a 
chair to take his weight off of it.   "I wanted to make sure 
you understand what I am about to say very clearly, because 
it has nothing to do with me and her or you and her or the X-
files or who owes what to whom." 

"You sound upset."  She brushed her hair back over one 
shoulder.  "Is something wrong?"

He clenched the chair, his fingers biting into the fabric.  
"There was an interesting story in the Boston Herald this 
morning about our marriage and divorce.  I talked to the 
writer, Jimmy Trumbull, and he wouldn't reveal his source but 
the only people here who knew about our marriage were you, 
me, and Scully.  I know I didn't say anything, and Scully 
would rather have recreational root canal than discuss my 
relationship with you, so that leaves just one possible 
snitch left."

"Our marriage is a matter of public record, as is our 
divorce.  Anyone could have found out about it with a few 
simple inquiries."

"Providing they even knew to look.  I can't imagine Trumbull 
showed up at the press conferences and thought to himself, 'I 
bet those two used to be married!'"

"Perhaps he sensed a certain history..."

"Oh, save it.  You fed him the story and we both know it.  Is 
that why you took my phone?  To prove some sort of connection 
between us?"

"What? No."  She rolled back from the table as if she might 
get up and leave.

"Your prints were on my phone," he said steadily.  "I never 
gave it to you to use, so you must have helped yourself."

"I--I may have borrowed it."  She did stand then, and they 
were eye to eye across the table.  "I don't really remember.  
What does it matter anyway?"

"You took it.  You took it probably before the press 
conference yesterday, in the room when you...when I..."

"When you kissed me."

"You kissed me," he said, more loudly than he'd intended.  
"And you were picking my pocket at the same time."

"Oh, don't be ridiculous.  You sound like a virgin school 
girl.  If you have to ascribe ulterior motives to me to 
justify what happened between us, that's your problem, not 
mine.  I certainly did not steal your phone like a common 
thief."

"So my missing phone was just a huge coincidence.  That's 
what you're saying."

"I don't know what you did with your phone!  Half the time, 
it's lying around on the table here somewhere.  Anyone could 
have taken it."

She halted, as though aware she'd said too much, and he 
narrowed his eyes at her as he straightened to his full 
height.  "Is that what happened, then?  You found it lying 
around?"

"I may have moved it out of the way once or twice."

"Your prints were on the buttons, Diana."  This was a lie, 
but she couldn't know that.

"Maybe I used it by mistake."

"I don't think you've ever done anything by mistake."

She shook her head lightly, not looking at him.  "Given our 
history together, I can't believe you'd say that."

"What did you do with my phone?" he asked her softly.

She shoved the chair out of the way with a hard push.  "Fine, 
I checked your messages.  I thought I was doing you a favor, 
but I gather you don't see it that way."

"Funny, then, you never relayed them to me.  Did you learn 
anything interesting?  Snooping about the X-Files job, maybe?  
See if Skinner had called with any updates?"

She looked him up and down searchingly.  "I didn't find out 
anything," she said at last, and he saw this was the truth.  
How disappointing it must have been for her.  "You always did 
give so little away."

"So you figured you'd just go rifling through my life for 
answers."

She walked to the end of the table, dragging her fingertips 
across its surface.  "Oh, please, Fox, spare me the righteous 
indignation over this.  I seem to recall coming home a few 
weeks ago and finding you -- uninvited -- in my living room.  
You had searched through my home pretty thoroughly, by your 
own admission, so don't you stand here now and pretend I've 
crossed some indelible line.  I've only been following your 
lead."

Mulder sagged a bit, touching the chair again for support as 
the pounding in his head grew louder.  He rubbed his eyes 
with the heel of one hand.  "What do you want from me, 
Diana?"

She rounded the corner of the table and drew closer to him.  
"What I've always wanted, to be your friend, your comrade in 
arms.  We work so well together, Fox."

He shook his head, more to himself than to her.  "If you 
really believed that, you wouldn't have left seven years 
ago."

"That was my mistake," she said, her voice low and urgent.  
"I don't blame you for being angry."

"That's just it.  I'm not angry.  I'm not really anything.  I 
suppose I should be grateful that you had the strength to 
walk away before things got really ugly.  Maybe I have been 
grateful.  Maybe that's why..."

"Why what?"  She shifted to try to meet his eyes.  When they 
connected, she drew back and blinked at him.  "You've made up 
your mind," she said flatly.  "You're going to keep Scully on 
the X-Files."

"The choice isn't mine.  It's hers."

She laughed richly, but without humor.  "Isn't this just true 
to form?  She doesn't want you and all of a sudden you can't 
live without her.  What if she says no?  Have you thought of 
that?  You'll be right back to where you were seven years 
ago."

He studied her for a moment.  "That's your real mistake, 
isn't it -- I will never be that person again, but you can't 
see that.  You expected to come back here and find me just as 
you'd left me, and you don't understand why I'm not falling 
right into line."

"Don't kid yourself.  We're all the same, good, bad or 
indifferent.  We may get older but we never really change."

His gaze flicked over her as he considered this.  "I hope 
not," he said quietly.  It would mean he had never loved her, 
and he had a stupid, romantic notion that love was always 
real.

He pushed himself upright again, preparing to leave.  "Stay 
out of the papers," he said.  "Or you could end up dead."

"That's the general idea, isn't it?" she asked him, her eyes 
a little too guileless.  "Make you look like you have a 
romantic attachment to catch the killer's attention?"

He limped towards the door, but she followed him.

"The killer wouldn't know any better," she said in a rush.  
"He's not falling for your charade with Scully, and all the 
other victims were married.  You and I have that, at least."

He paused, leaning on the door. "It has to be a believable 
attachment.  You and I are no longer believable."

She touched his elbow, dropping her gaze and sidling closer.  
"We could sell it, Fox.  We could catch this guy.  Remember, 
you're the man who can believe anything."   

"Not anymore."  He removed her hand.  "If I find you've been 
talking to the press again, I'll have to tell Chief Windsor."

"It's too late," she said, sounding a little desperate.  "I 
mean, the article is already out there.  I've made a target 
of myself and this is the thanks I get in return?"

"I'd clean my gun," he said as he slipped through the door.  
"Keep it close.  And don't forget to lock your doors."

The door shut between them as she continued protesting, and 
Mulder staggered away, his past still dragging, but the 
weight of it becoming more bearable with each new step.

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

Mary Winthrop called in sick to work.  Mr. Callahan probably 
didn't believe her sob story but at that point she didn't 
much care.  She started calling Jake's friends, at least the 
ones she remembered, and asking them if they knew where he 
might be.

"Tommy," she said when she got him on the line.  "It's Mrs. 
Winthrop, Jake's mom."

Her clearest memories of him were from years ago, when she 
used to pick him and Jake up from Little League.  He was 
forever a red-headed pudgy kid with dirt and orange popsicle 
juice on his face.

"Hey, Mrs. Winthrop."  His voice had deepened and he sounded 
like a man now.  He and Jake were the same age, the same 
class -- did Jake sound like this and she just hadn't 
noticed?

She strained to keep the worry from her voice.  "I'm trying 
to find Jake," she told Tommy.  "Do you know where he is?"

"I haven't seen him for a couple of days."

She put her head on one hand and slumped over the kitchen 
counter.  "The last time you talked to him... did he seem 
okay?"

"How do you mean?"  

God, she didn't know what she meant.  Did he sound like a 
killer?  There was no way to say those words outside of her 
head.  "I mean, things have been a little stressful here at 
home with Kayla's illness, and I just wanted to make sure 
Jake is doing okay."

"Can't you ask him?"

"I'd like to, if I could find him.  Do you have any idea at 
all where he might have gone?"

"Last time I saw him, he was in Davis Square."

"Davis Square?  Why?"

"We were just cruising and he wanted out.  I figured the T 
runs through there, so..."

"Why did he want out?  Did he say?"

"Well...to tell you the truth, he was pretty messed up that 
night.  More messed up than I've ever seen him."

She braced herself, eyes screwed shut as she gripped the 
phone tight against her ear.  "Drugs?" she whispered.

"No, nothing like that.  He was just talking crazy."  Tommy 
paused.  "And he had a knife."

Mary clapped her hand over her mouth, afraid she might be 
sick.

"Mrs. Winthrop?  Are you still there?"

"Thank you."  She managed to get the words out and hang up 
the phone despite her trembling.  She tried to think.  Where 
would he go?

She reached for her pill bottle and swallowed another couple 
of sedatives.  

Just think, she told herself, but her brain felt fuzzy and 
far away.  You've got to find him.  This has all got to be 
some big mistake, and when you find him, everything will be 
okay.  Just find him fast.

She put on her winter coat and gloves and went out into the 
cold, blustery day.  She had no car but she had T fare enough 
to get where she was going, the one place she could think 
that Jake might run to if he was in trouble: to Kayla.

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

Scully ate her chicken salad sandwich away from the others in 
a small back office on the second floor.  The room was 
undergoing renovation; there was plastic on the floor and two 
ceiling tiles were missing.  But it had an old table, a bunch 
of chairs and, most importantly, a window.

She had her back to the door and was watching the people 
outside struggle through the mounds of fallen snow when a 
sharp knock got her attention.  She turned and found Ray 
standing there with a folder in his hands.  "Manny said I 
might find you up here."

She grabbed a napkin and wiped her mouth.  "I just wanted a 
little peace and quiet."

"Mind if I sit down a second?"

"Not at all.  Just excuse my mess."  She moved her half-eaten 
sandwich and its wrapper out of the way as he pulled out a 
second chair.

"I got the phone records you asked for," he said, handing her 
the folder.  "All the long-distance numbers Annette Crenshaw 
called in the past two years."

"Great, thanks."  

"You're just going to start calling them and asking for 
Sandi?"

"Starting with the in-state numbers first, yes.  Finding 
Sandi is our best chance to figure out what exactly happened 
to Annette the night she reported the assault."

He shook his head.  "She's one victim out of eight.  Why are 
you so sure she's particularly important?  Seems more likely 
he picked her just to mess with our heads.  We deny she has 
any involvement with the other killings and so he takes it 
upon himself to make her involved.  We look like lying idiots 
and he has a good laugh at our expense."

"It's a possibility," she agreed.  "We still have to check it 
out." 

Ray looked over his shoulder.  "Where's Mulder gotten to?"

"I don't know.  He said he had something to do and he'd catch 
up with me later."

"Great.  I mean, I wanted to talk to you alone for a minute 
anyway."

Scully froze while reaching for her Diet Coke.  "Oh?" 

"My director pulled me aside today to ask about you, whether 
I thought you would make a good addition to the Boston 
Bureau.  I said I think you're terrific, of course, and I 
would love to have you up here for good.  I just didn't 
realize you were seriously considering a move."

She covered for a minute by taking a sip of her soda.  "I, 
uh, I haven't made any official application," she said at 
length.

"But you're interested?"

She thought of Mulder in the night, holding her with bruised 
arms.  I see you, he said, and she was starting to believe 
him.

Sometimes it was easier to see in the dark.

"Actually, I told my AD this morning that I would take the 
opening on the X-Files," she said.

Ray sat back in his seat, leaning away from her, and gave her 
a half-smile.  "I knew it sounded too good to be true.  It's 
funny, though -- back at the Academy, I never would have 
pegged you as the type to chase ghosts and goblins."

"Back then, I wasn't." 

"Mulder changed you."

"A lot has changed me.  Mulder said it was my choice whether 
I wanted to return, and he was right."

"I can't believe he was willing to risk letting you go."

She realized then how big a risk it had been for him, how 
much it must have cost him to leave the decision up to her.  
But where Ray was frowning and befuddled, she was humbled.  
Risk was hard for her, hard for her to do and hard even to 
acknowledge its value in others.  Only Mulder had ever shown 
her its beauty.

She smiled and looked down at her soda can where it sat 
nestled in her lap.  "I can't believe it either," she 
murmured with quiet awe.

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

Night threw darkness over them like a blanket over a parrot's 
cage.  The moon was just a shaving in the sky and the street 
lamps blotted out the stars.  White light beamed down on the 
long stretch of snow in the hospital's back yard.  No one had 
cause to walk there so it sat pristine and silent as the 
grave.

Jake crunched through the hard outer crust, his boots sinking 
deep into the frozen landscape.  His fingers were raw from 
the cold and he hadn't eaten in over twenty-four hours.  He 
wedged open the window and dropped down in his usual spot, 
taking a moment to enjoy the high heat from the nearby 
furnace.  It made his face flush hot and his ears burn.  He 
sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve.

He skulked along the deserted hall until he reached the 
service elevator.  No one was about so he slipped past it to 
the stairs.

When he reached Kayla's room, all was dark.  He opened the 
door as quietly as he could and sneaked inside.  Her slim 
form was a lump under the covers.  He crept up to her bed and 
pulled a chair behind him.  All he wanted to do was sit and 
think for a few minutes.  He was tired of driving all day.

When she reached for him, he gasped.

"Jake," she whispered, and he took her hand.

"It's me."

"You're ice cold."

"Sorry," he said, scooting closer.  "It's below freezing 
outside."

She clutched him with surprising strength.  He couldn't see 
her face in the dim light.  "Jake, I'm sorry," she said, and 
it sounded like she had been crying.

"For what?" he asked just as the lights came up.

His mother stood by the wall.  Her face was pale and she held 
a black beret in her hands. 

"Mom," he said as he got to his feet.  "What are you doing 
here?"

She held out the beret.  "You gave this to Kayla.  Where did 
you get it?"

"From a thrift store.  It only cost a dollar.  Mom, what's 
going on?"

"I found the hats," she said, barely audible.  "I went to 
your room and I found the hats."

His heart rate picked up and he started for the door.  His 
mother moved as he did, blocking his escape.  

"Jake, please," Kayla called.

"What have you done?"  His mother's eyes were wild and 
stoned.  "Tell me."

"I haven't done anything!" He tried to shove her out of the 
way but she resisted.  "Let go of me!"

"Tell me," she said, clutching his coat.  "I need to know.  
We can help you, Jake, but I have to know what you've done."

He could hear Kayla crying in the background.  "Nothing!" he 
roared.  He shoved harder and his mother's back hit the door 
hard enough to knock the breath from her.  She grabbed her 
throat and stammered.  "Mom," he said, immediately contrite.  
"Mom, I'm sorry.  I'm sorry."

She grabbed him hard and held his head to her breasts.  "Tell 
me," she rasped.

"I'm sorry."  Once he started, it was all he could say.  He 
thought if he said it enough times everything would be okay.  
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

Her fingers fisted in his hair so tightly it brought tears to 
his eyes.  She dragged his head up so she could look at him.  
He had never seen her eyes so dark.  "Did you kill those 
people?"

"I--"

She shook him.  "Did you?"

His eyes filled as his knees buckled.  He started to collapse 
but she held him up.  "Mom, I'm in so much trouble."

One of her hands slipped down to root around in his pocket.  
She withdrew his knife and held it between them.  He saw it 
glinting there, imagined its feel in his hand.  He could take 
it from her in one easy motion and fight his way free.

He could leave them both.  He would never have a family 
again.

"Mom.  There was so much blood."

"Tell me," she said, and so he did.

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


Mulder hobbled back into the small office with two paper cups 
of coffee.  Scully moved the phone and her papers out of the 
way and accepted his offering gratefully.  Her eyes were 
starting to blur from looking at all the telephone numbers.  
"Any luck?" he asked her.

"Not yet, but I have another dozen left to try."  She took a 
sip of the coffee, which was surprisingly good for a cop shop 
brew.  "This isn't bad."

"But wait, there's more."  

She heard a rustling and he reached into his suit coat pocket 
and withdrew a vending-machine package of Hostess chocolate 
cupcakes.  He tore a paper towel in half and set one cupcake 
in front of her and the other in front of himself.

"I haven't eaten one of these since college," she said.

He picked his up.  "A toast."  He waited until she raised 
hers as well, and then he touched them together.  "Happy 
birthday," he said.

"Oh my God."

He grinned.  "Forgot, didn't you."

She put her hand to her forehead and closed her eyes.  "With 
everything that's been going on..."

"Yeah, I know."  He looked at her fondly.  "If it makes you 
feel any better, I forgot myself until I had to fill out an 
accident report for the Bureau.  They make you write the date 
about a billion times and eventually it seeped in through all 
six layers of cortex."

She looked at the sad cupcake sitting on a torn napkin.  "And 
to think, I promised myself I'd spend this year's birthday in 
Maui." 

"I could hula if you want."

"In your condition?  I'd probably end up having to perform 
CPR."

"Might be worth it."  He bit his cupcake in half and ended up 
with chocolate frosting stuck to his upper lip.  "Sorry I 
couldn't find any candles, but I think you still get to make 
a wish."

She was busy looking at the chocolate smear on his lip.  
"Hmmm?"

"A wish," he repeated.  "You need to make one."

"I am not wishing on a Hostess Cupcake from the vending 
machine."

He smiled, making the chocolate look even more enticing.  
"Yeah, you'd probably wish for a mansion and end up with a 
double-wide trailer."  He pointed at her cupcake.  "At least 
take a bite."

"I don't know..."

His hand moved closer, touching her middle and toying with a 
button on her blouse.  "Come on, Scully," he said, leaning 
in.  "One little bite."

"Okay."  

He froze as she kissed him; she could feel his hand waving 
around behind her head before he finally grabbed her tight.  
She had one arm around his neck and the other on his thigh 
and he tasted like chocolate and sin.  

Regretfully, she broke away.  They were both breathing 
unsteadily.

She sat back and licked the corner of her mouth.  The 
chocolate was completely gone from his face.  "You're right," 
she said.  "Not bad."

He was spared from answering because her phone rang.  "Boston 
Police Department, this is Agent Scully speaking."

"Agent Dana Scully?  This is Max Bloomenthal.  You left a 
message on my machine earlier?"

Max, she thought, scrambling for her papers.  "Yes, Mr. 
Bloomenthal.  We are trying to locate a woman named Sandi 
Plecker."

"Well, that's why I'm calling.  She's sitting right here."

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

Jane was where she usually was at nine o'clock at night -- 
sitting at her desk with her shoes off and her hair loosened 
into a ponytail.  She was eating an apple and going over some 
old reports of the previous hat thefts.  One of the guys 
thought it would be funny to leave a patrolman's cap on her 
chair, so she was wearing that too.

The phone rang, and it was the dispatcher.  "Detective 
Dunbar, I've got a lady who says she needs to talk to you 
right away.  She says she has information about your hat 
case."

"Patch her through," Jane said, rocking back in her chair.  
She stretched and prepared for another crank. "This is 
Detective Dunbar.  How can I help you?"

For a long moment, all she heard was ragged breathing.

"Hello?"

"Detective," said a woman's voice at last.  "I've seen you on 
TV.  You seem like a good person."

This was not the usual intro, but Jane was prepared to play 
along.  "I try to be," she replied.  "And you are...?"

"Do you have any children?"

"No, Ma'am I don't.  I've got two nephews, though."

"I have two children myself."

Jane checked the wall clock and wondered how long this was 
going to last.  "I was told you had information for me," she 
said, hoping to spur the woman along.

"I was wondering if you might come out to my house.  My boy 
Jake and I would like to talk to you face-to-face."

"Talk about what?"

The woman hesitated again.  "About that case you've been 
working on, the one with the missing hats."

"Do you and your son know something?" 

"You might say that."  She paused.  "I found them all in his 
room."

Jane sat up, instantly more alert.  Don't get ahead of 
yourself, she cautioned silently.  This is still probably a 
crank.

"He wants to turn himself in," the woman said, her voice 
wavering.  "But I want to make sure he's going to be okay 
first.  He's a good boy."

"Your son has confessed?"

"He's ready to tell you the whole story."

She scrambled for a pen and scratch paper.  "Give me your 
name and address and I'll be right there."  She tucked the 
phone under her chin as she scrawled the information.  "I'm 
coming right away, Mrs. Winthrop.  I promise."

"Just you, right?  No one else will come."

"I... I'll see what I can do, all right?  I promise not to 
show up with a posse."

"No lights and sirens.  Please.  I don't want the neighbors 
to know."

Lady, if your son is a serial killer, his secret isn't long 
for this world, Jane thought.

"I'll be discreet," she promised.  

She started out the door and then remembered she didn't have 
her jacket.  As she plucked it from the back of her chair, 
she caught sight of Annette's picture from the murder scene.  
There was a chance that she was walking into the home of the 
man who had done this.

Suddenly uneasy, Jane glanced around the station at the other 
cops.  O'Hara was eating a donut.  She didn't see any sign of 
Manny.  

The only one who knew the whole story was Windsor.  

She snatched up the phone and dialed his number.  "Yeah, this 
is Windsor," he said.

"Chief, I need you to come with me."

"Who is this?"

"It's Jane Dunbar, sir.  I may have found our killer."

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


Sandi Plecker lived about twenty miles outside of Boston in a 
ramshackle house with her boyfriend.  He answered the door 
with bare feet, ripped jeans and a flannel shirt over a T-
shirt from a Cure concert.  "I'm Max," he said.  "Come on 
in."

There was a low-hanging light fixture in the small entryway 
that Mulder had to duck.  Scully followed him as Max led the 
way to the kitchen.  It had a grungy stove and peeling 
linoleum.  The whole place smelled like clove cigarettes.

At the table, Sandi sat with a mug in her hands.  She looked 
just the same as she had in the photo Scully had found -- 
long blonde hair, thin eyebrows and watery blue eyes.  "You 
the FBI?" she asked.

"I'm Agent Scully and this is Agent Mulder."

"Please, have a seat," Max said.  "Can I get you some herbal 
tea?"

"No, thanks.  We're just here to talk to Sandi."

She crossed her arms over her breasts.  "About what?"

"About Annette Crenshaw."

At the mention of her name, Max reached out and rubbed 
Sandi's arm.  "I heard about what happened to her," Sandi 
said.  "I can't believe it."

"When was the last time you talked to Annette?" Scully asked.

"Three weeks ago?  We had lunch in the city."

"Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm her?"

Sandi looked confused.  "I thought it was that psycho, the 
one from the news who's been killing all those people."

"We're just trying to learn as much about Annette as we can," 
Scully explained.  

"She was a sweet person.  I can't believe anyone would do 
that to her."

"Annette was attacked once before," Mulder said.  "She 
reported it to the police."

Sandi's expression became more guarded.  "I don't know 
anything about that.  I wasn't there."

"We know you and she were friends," Mulder said.  "You worked 
together."

"I don't do that anymore."  Again, Max patted her.

"Annette said you were also attacked around the same time she 
was."

"Annie told you that?"

"Was it true?"

She shrugged and started rotating her mug of tea where it 
sat.  "I had a guy get freaky on me, yeah.  He seemed normal 
at first.  Then he wanted to tie me up.  I'd done that 
before, no biggie.  But he tied me tight.  And then he wanted 
me to play dead.  I get the creeps just thinking about it."

"Did you know this guy?" Mulder asked.

"Huh-uh.  He was a first-timer.  Barbara -- that was who ran 
the whole thing -- she tried tracking him down from his 
credit card, but I turned out to be stolen.  He got away with 
it, but not before leaving me with a little something to 
remember him by."  She pulled down her sweater to reveal a 
scar on her neck.

"He cut you?" asked Scully.

"I thought he was going to kill me.  I really did.  But I 
guess he just lost his nerve or something.  He untied me and 
dropped me off outside of the city.  When the same thing 
happened to Annie, I said, 'that's it, I've had enough.  I 
don't want to end up dead before I'm twenty-five.'  I got out 
of the business and took Annie with me."

"We heard she might have had a little help."

Sandi looked wary.  "What do you mean?"

"Her parents seemed to think that someone paid Annie to keep 
her mouth shut.  We're wondering if she might have known the 
guy who did it."

"Annie?  No, she would have told me.  Right?"

"You're the one who knew her," answered Scully.

"Annie had some high roller clients.  We all did.  Maybe she 
asked one of them for some money.  I bet that they'd be 
willing to open their wallets for her."

"Anyone in particular she might have turned to?" Mulder 
asked.

Sandi shook her head vaguely.  

"Someone in law enforcement, perhaps," Scully suggested.

Sandi tensed and pulled her mug close to her chest.  "I told 
her not to report it," she mumbled.  "Annie wouldn't listen.  
She said she knew someone who could make it right."

"Who?" Scully pressed.  "Did she say?"

"She didn't want to, but eventually she told me."  Sandi 
looked up at them.  "He's all over TV, the pompous jackass.  
She used to call him Chief Wind-bag."

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


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

Chapter Fourteen

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


They sat in their dark car outside Sandi Plecker's place, 
both of them frozen from the shock rather than the cold.  
Scully looked at Mulder and saw the hot puffs of his breath 
misting in front him, saw the sheen of wild adrenaline in his 
eyes.

She had the wheel, her leather-covered hands resting on 
either side, while Mulder gripped the side passenger's 
armrest.  "Mulder..." she said, not really sure where she was 
going with the statement, but he cut her off.

"Makes you wonder, doesn't it?" He turned his head slowly, 
without moving any other part of his body, like something out 
of a fun house horror show.  His eyes were black in the 
night.

"Chief Windsor is in charge of the whole investigation."

"Makes you wonder how much of the evidence we can trust."

"I did the autopsies," she said.  "I sent the results to the 
lab for analysis."

"And who's to say he didn't go in there and alter them?"

Forget altering evidence, Scully thought as she looked at her 
lap.  The Chief was possibly their killer.

"Give me your phone." Mulder held out his gloved hand.

She fumbled around in her pocket with cold-numbed fingers 
until she fished it out for him.  "What are you going to do?"

"I want to call Manny Ahuja and have him meet us at the 
evidence locker again."

"Mulder, he works for the Chief.  If we let him in on 
this..."

Mulder put the phone to his ear.  "He's the one that started 
us down this path to begin with.  Do you think he would've 
tracked down Annette Crenshaw if he knew he'd find a dirty 
Chief of Police on the other end?"

"I hope so."

He looked at her quizzically.

"If he's afraid of outing the Chief, Mulder, there's no way 
he's going to meet us."

"I don't plan on telling him," Mulder replied before Manny 
picked up the phone.  "Hey, Ahuja, it's Mulder and I've got 
Scully with me.  I need you to do us a little favor."

///////////

Jane reached the quiet street before Chief Windsor did.  The 
address Mrs. Winthrop had given her turned out to be a two-
story flat with aging wooden shingles and a rickety fire 
escape winding like ivy down the back side.  A person could 
jump down from there into the alley and easily disappear into 
the night.

She rubbed her hands together to warm them and cast a look 
down the street for any sign of the Chief, but she appeared 
to be the only soul alive.  Most of the other houses were 
dark, the parked cars silent, and the too-white street lamps 
cast an eerie glow over everything.

On the second floor of the Winthrop home, a curtain moved and 
Jane caught a glimpse of a shadowed figure watching her.  She 
blew on her fingers and hunched her shoulders as the wind 
picked up.

Can't put this off forever, she thought.

Her boots crunched through the snow and ice as she walked up 
the front walk and onto the porch.  Mary Winthrop yanked open 
the heavy door before she had a chance to knock.

Her pale blue eyes were stricken, the tender skin beneath 
them wet and swollen.  She clutched a ravaged tissue in one 
hand and held her heavy sweater closed with the other.  
"Thank you for coming so quickly," she said to Jane as she 
backed up to let her into the house.  "I didn't know who else 
to call."

Jane kicked the loose snow from her boots before stepping up 
into the entryway.  The hall was dark but light shone from a 
room behind them.  She touched her weapon to make sure it was 
on her hip as she peered around Mary Winthrop in search of 
her son.  "You did the right thing, ma'am," she said.  "We 
want to make this as easy as possible for Jake."

Jake.  Jane's family had owned a dog named Jake when she was 
small, a great big goofball retriever who had chased her and 
her brothers around the yard during the day and made a 
perfect floor pillow for watching TV at night.

"Jake's a good boy," his mother said, an echo of words Jane 
had used years ago as she'd frolicked with her dog.

She gave the woman a queer look and tried to nod in agreement 
as she wondered just what the hell Jake had told his mom 
about his sins.  Have you read the papers, she wondered?  Do 
you know the evil your son has done?

"He's been mixed up," Mary said as she led Jane deeper into 
the house, "after his dad left and his sister got sick.  I 
think maybe this was just his way of acting out -- you know, 
to get some attention."

"Uh-huh."  Jane looked around the shabby living room.  The 
gray-green sofa might have been fashionable in the 70s, but 
the cushions had worn flat and the stitching had come loose 
at one arm.  The coffee table was clean but nicked; a well-
thumbed TV Guide lay next to the remote.

Maybe if you had given some of that attention to Jake instead 
of the TV, Jane thought.

"Is Jake here now?" she asked pointedly.

"He's upstairs.  I'll get him."

Jane wandered the room, peering at old family pictures as 
Mary went to summon her son.  She picked up a portrait photo 
of two kids, a boy and a girl who appeared to be close in age 
-- about seven or eight, Jane guessed -- both of them apple-
cheeked and smiling for the camera.  In the back, Mary called 
up the stairs, "Jake, Jake!  Can you come down here, please?"

She might well have been calling him for supper.

She walked to the edge of the room, and through the open 
archway to the small dining room, she could just make out the 
staircase in the dim light.  Jake emerged from the shadows, 
the wooden stairs creaking with each step.

Mary put an arm around him and shepherded him forward into 
the light.  "Jake, this is Detective Dunbar."

He had longish, dark hair that hung down over one eye.  His 
hands were shoved deep into the pockets of his baggy jeans, 
and the plaid shirt he wore gaped open to reveal a faded T-
shirt with Oscar the Grouch on the front.  He looked like all 
the boys Jane had pined for in high school and not much like 
a murderer.

Still, she minded her training.  "May I see your hands, 
please?"

Jake gave his mother a worried look, but she nodded.  He 
withdrew large, pale hands and showed them to Jane with the 
palms facing up.  His fingers had a fine tremor to them.

"Turn your pockets inside out for me, please."

Jake did as she asked, sending a stick of bubble gum, a 
polished rock and a mini deck of cards to the floor.  He had 
yet to say a word.

"Why don't we sit here at the table?" Jane suggested as she 
pulled out a heavy oak chair.  "You can tell me what you told 
your mother."

Jake didn't move.  He returned his hands to his pockets and 
looked at Jane with dull eyes.  "I took the hats," he said, 
his voice barely above a whisper.  "I'm the guy you've been 
looking for."

Jane recalled the sneaker print at Annette Crenshaw's home 
and dropped her gaze to check out Jake's footwear -- Converse 
hi-tops, the same brand as the print.  She cautioned herself 
to move slowly so as not to frighten him off.

"Why don't we sit down?" she said again, turning her back to 
him.

"I could show them to you."

His soft words vibrated through her, making her heart quiver, 
and she froze momentarily.

"They're upstairs in my room," he said.

"It's true," Mary said as Jane turned around.  Her eyes were 
dark, their pupils dilated.  She spoke in hushed tones.  
"That's where I found them."

"Then let's go," Jane said.

She followed them up the creaking stairs into the dark upper 
floor.  The hall smelled like dust and old wood.  Jane 
reached out her hand to the banister to steady herself 
through the unfamiliar terrain.

Jake led them to his room, where he pushed the door open with 
the flat of his hand.  He flipped the switch to reveal two 
naked light bulbs at the center of the ceiling.  The bed was 
unmade, blankets slipping to the floor, and clothes and 
crusted dishes littered every possible surface.

Jake walked a few steps to the right and then moved so she 
had a clear line of sight.  "Here they are."

It was like finding a buried treasure; the bounty spilled out 
from the closet to the floor.  She had seen pictures of the 
stolen hats, had imagined them a hundred times over as she 
had worked the case, but now here they were in front of her, 
a mishmash of colored felt, knit yarn, and tough, baseball-
cap wool.  Part of her wanted to drop to her knees and throw 
them in the air with joy.  It had seemed impossible that she 
would ever find them again.

"They're all here?" she asked.

"Not all."  He backed up until he sat on his bed.  "Some of 
them are with my sister in the hospital."

"Kayla," his mother supplied.  "She has leukemia."

Jane recalled all the jokes from her early days on the hat 
case.  *Start rounding up bald guys, Dunbar.  They're your 
best suspects!*

I'm going to need separate evidence bags for every one of 
these, she thought as she studied the mess.

Downstairs, the doorbell sounded, followed by someone 
pounding on the front door.  Jake and his mother both jumped 
at the noise.  "I thought you were going to come alone," Mary 
said to Jane.

"That's probably my boss," Jane replied.  "I need him to help 
negotiate a surren-  an interview of this magnitude."

The Chief banged again as Mary still didn't move.

"He's a good guy," Jane told them both.  "He can help you."

Mary hesitated a beat longer and then moved for the door.  
"I'll be right back," she whispered, leaving Jane alone with 
her son.

"These hats," she said to him, "they aren't the whole story, 
are they?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"I'm talking about the other night, about Annette Crenshaw."

From the way the color drained from his face, she knew he 
understood.

"I know you were there," Jane said. "Your shoes put you in 
her kitchen."

He stuck his feet under the dirty sheet, but Jane had already 
spotted a second pair of sneakers in among the hats.  She 
fished out the nearest one and held it up with two fingers, 
studying it under the light.  "Looks like blood on this one."

"I didn't kill anyone."

"Who said anything about killing?" she shot back, and he 
hunched his shoulders.

"I saw the news.  I know that lady is dead."

"I'd say you knew about it long before the news."

She heard the tread of feet on the stairs and the low rumble 
of the Chief's voice.  Damn, and I was just getting 
somewhere, she thought as Jake looked expectantly at the 
door.

"He's really never been in any trouble before," Mary was 
saying as they entered.

Windsor had on a Russian fur hat, perhaps the only thing 
missing from Jake's collection, and a navy scarf wound around 
his neck.  Jake leapt off the other side of the bed and 
pressed himself against the windows.  For a moment, Jane 
feared he would flee.

"Jake, wait a second," she said.  "He's not going to hurt 
you."

"I know you.  I know you!"  Jake was trembling as he looked 
at Windsor.  "You were there the night she died."

Jane looked from the teenager to her boss, whose mouth was 
set in a grim line.

"Son," he said, "we're going to take you some place where we 
can talk."

"I saw you," he said.  "You were there."  He turned wild eyes 
to Jane.  "He was there.  I found her and she was dead, but 
he was there!"

Jane felt each single hair stand up on the back of her neck.  
"Sir?"

"He doesn't know what the hell he's talking about," Windsor 
said.  "And we're taking him downtown now."

"I'm not going anywhere with you!"  Jake was still shaking, 
and there were tears in his eyes.  His mother ran to him and 
threw her arms around him.

"I won't let you take him."

"Look, you have no choice -- I have a warrant," Windsor said, 
and Jane looked at him in surprise.  So that was why he was 
late.  Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder.  "Don't 
make this difficult for your son."

"Please, don't do this," Mary begged.

The Chief started forward, but Jane stepped between them.  
"The boy can ride with me," she said.

Windsor towered over her, his lip curled back over yellowed 
teeth.  "You're dangerously close to insubordination here, 
Dunbar."

Blood pounded in her ears but she stood her ground.  "Charge 
me as you see fit," she said.  "The boy is riding with me." 
She held out an arm to Jake and motioned him to her.  "Let's 
go, Jake."

Her knees managed to hold her up all the way downstairs and 
back to the car.   She put Jake and his mother in the rear 
and climbed behind the ice-cold leather steering wheel.  When 
she started the engine, a great cloud of white steam billowed 
out from under the car, obscuring the arriving cruisers' 
lights into a bleary red haze.

Jakes eyes, little more than a pair of white rims, met hers 
in the rearview mirror.   He said nothing as she started the 
car forward.

They drove to the station in silence with the high glare of 
the Chief's headlights bearing down on them from behind the 
entire way.

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

The door flew open with a gust of wind and Manny stood on the 
other side with stray flakes of snow in his hair.  He 
entered, shoulders hunched against the cold, and held his 
hands to his mouth to blow on them.  "This better be good," 
he told Mulder and Scully.  "I left a nice warm bed with a 
nice warm woman in it."

"We need you to get us into the locker again," Mulder said.  

"Now?"

Mulder stood aside and motioned for Manny to approach the 
officer behind the desk.  The man was entering something into 
a computer spreadsheet and listening to oldies on the radio.  
"Is your party finally complete now?" he asked them in a 
bored voice.

"Detective Ahuja," Manny said, hauling out his shield for 
display.  "I need to pull the Crenshaw box."

"You know the drill.  Fill out this form and I'll bring it to 
you around the side here."

Manny scrawled his information on the form and led Mulder and 
Scully to the small, windowless room, where they waited for 
the evidence box to arrive.  Scully pulled out a chair while 
Mulder hobbled to the far end of the table and sat on the 
edge.  Manny took off his gloves.  "Are you going to tell me 
what this is about?"

Scully looked at Mulder, who shook his head almost 
imperceptibly. 

The silence stretched out and Manny tried again.  "Look, 
something must have happened for you guys to pull me out of 
bed and drag me down here to look at this stuff again."

The officer brought the box labeled "Crenshaw -- 03921" into 
the room and set it on the table.  "Here it is.  Have a 
blast," he said as he exited again.

Manny reached for the box but Mulder stopped him.  "We're 
going to need to take this with us," he said, and Manny 
folded his arms across his chest.

"Not until you tell me what we're looking for."

"Nothing we can see here.  I want to take it to the lab and 
have Scully run some tests on it."

"This stuff has been through every test there is.  The blood, 
the semen stains -- they've all been analyzed."

"I'm not after the contents," Mulder said, and Scully got his 
meaning immediately.  If Windsor had been down to tamper with 
the evidence, he might have left his fingerprints on the 
Crenshaw evidence box.

Manny had caught on too, and he narrowed his eyes at them.  
"You're thinking I'm right about a dirty cop," he said.  "You 
think someone was down here messing with this box."

"Someone with the power to sign it out, no questions asked."

Manny sighed and wiped his hands on his jeans.  "My prints 
are already all over it, but every cop is in the system.  
Should be easy enough to eliminate."

Scully already had her reference sample in mind.  Chief 
Windsor's prints would also be on file and easy enough to 
check.

"What do I tell the desk sergeant?" Manny asked.

"The truth," Scully answered.  "That we're taking the 
evidence to the lab for more testing."

"You have a suspect yet, or is this just a fishing 
expedition?" Manny asked.

"Call it fishing," Mulder said, sliding off the table.

At that moment, Manny's cell phone gave a muffled ring from 
inside his coat pocket.  "Busy night," he commented as he 
took it out.  He glanced at the ID, and his face registered 
surprise.  "It's O'Hara.  I thought he went home hours ago."  

Manny answered the call as Scully put on gloves to pick up 
the box. 

"Hey, man, I thought you were taking it easy tonight.  What 
gives?  You're shitting me. And they brought the kid in now?  
I'll be right down."

He snapped off the phone and looked at them.  "Dunbar caught 
her hat thief, and he may just be our killer too.  She's got 
him in the box downtown.  I've got to get over there fast."

"I'll go with you," Mulder said, limping after him as quickly 
as he could.  He turned back over his shoulder to look at her 
as she followed them down the hall to the door.  "I'd make 
sure to do those tests yourself," he advised.  "Let me know 
what you find out ASAP."

"I'm on it."

Outside, the parking lot was dark and the wind howled in her 
ears.  She kept her head down and held the box protectively 
against her chest.  When she reached the car, she went to the 
passenger side to tuck the evidence safely on the seat.  She 
stood as Manny's car peeled past at great speed, the flashing 
light lit up like a pinball machine.

For her part, Scully walked cautiously over the ice-crusted 
parking lot as she rounded her car to get behind the wheel.  
He may be our killer, Manny had said.  But she had evidence 
that might prove otherwise.

She nudged the car out of the lot and headed straight for the 
lab, the balance of two lives resting on the seat beside her.

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

Jake hunched down in the hard chair they had provided for him 
in the interrogation room.  His mom sat to his left, gripping 
the edge of the table to still the trembling he knew she was 
feeling.  Can't very well pop the pills here in front of 
everyone, now can you, Mom.

"Some great idea you had," he said to her, "going to the cops 
like this."

"You think they weren't going to catch up with you?" she 
whispered back.  "You were at a murder scene!"

He remembered the yowling cat and the dead woman's 
expression.  He had crept into the dark room and found the 
closet door.  He had it open and was shining his flashlight 
in for hats when the smell hit him.

Without thinking, he had trained the light in the direction 
of the foul odor, and that was when he saw her.  The sheets 
were bloody and she was tied to her bed.  He'd thought she 
might still be alive because her eyes were open, but a few 
steps closer and he discovered the truth.

"I didn't kill her," he told his mother for the hundredth 
time.  "You have to believe me."

"It doesn't matter what I believe," she said, rubbing her 
forehead with one hand.  "What matters is what they can 
prove."

"They can't prove I did it," he said, but the words lacked 
conviction.  "That Chief guy was there.  I saw him sitting in 
his car when I went by the place the first time.  Maybe he 
did it."

"Don't be ridiculous," his mother snapped.  "He was probably 
there to interview her or something."

"What if he tries to frame me?"

"Jake."  She grabbed his head with both hands.  "Just don't 
say anything else, okay?  We're going to find you a lawyer."

"How are we going to afford that?"

She dropped her hands and shook her head sadly.  "I wish 
you'd thought of that before you started breaking into 
people's homes and stealing from them."

He wished the same.  He hung his head backwards over the 
chair and looked at the cracked ceiling.  The room had no 
windows, no air.  The heat had been turned way down and he 
knew that there were men on the other side of the large 
mirror watching him.

He sat up and looked right at it.  The Chief was back there; 
he could feel it.

The door started to open, and he held his breath to see who 
would come through it.  It wasn't the Chief and it wasn't the 
Detective lady either.  This guy had a cut on his cheek and 
walked with a limp.

"Mrs. Winthrop, Jake," he said, nodding to them.  "My name is 
Fox Mulder and I work for the FBI.  Are you doing all right?  
Can I get you anything?"

"I'd like to call a lawyer," his mother said.

"Certainly, you can use the phone any time you'd like, but 
Jake will have to stay here with us."

"You can't talk to him without me."

"On the contrary," the man said.  "We can talk all he wants -
- his statements just can't be used against him in court."

Jake started to feel ill again at the mention of court.

"You want anything to eat or drink?" Agent Mulder asked them, 
like they were out at a restaurant and he was their waiter.

Jake shook his head.

"Nothing? No coffee?  Soda?"

"A little heat would be nice," Jake said.

"Yeah, you wouldn't think the Boston PD would be behind on 
their oil bill."  He went over and banged on the mirror with 
the soft side of his fist.  "A little heat in here, please?"

Almost instantly, the vent in the ceiling began to pump out 
hot air, and Agent Mulder took a seat across from Jake.  
"So," he said, folding his hands on the table.  "Hats.  Were 
you starting a collection, or did you just really not like 
that haircut?"

"Don't answer that," his mother said.

"He's already on record admitting to the hat thefts," Agent 
Mulder said in a reasonable tone.  "I'm just curious as to 
his motivation."

"They don't send the FBI in for some missing hats," his 
mother said.  "You're here to get him to admit to murder."

"Not if he didn't do it."  Agent Mulder looked at Jake, his 
expression blank.  "Did you do it, Jake?"

"Don't answer that," his mother said again.

"You should answer it," Mulder said.  "You should answer 
everything because right now the cops are going through your 
house with a fine-tooth comb.  They already have your sneaker 
with blood on it.  That puts you in Annette's house, in her 
bedroom even, the night she was killed.  If you've been 
following the media coverage of this at all, then you know 
the cops need someone to pin this on.  They're getting 
desperate, and you look mighty good to them right now."

Jake crossed his arms and wiped sweaty palms on the sides of 
his shirt.  "Locking me up won't help them," he said, his 
voice on the edge of tremor.  "Because I didn't kill anyone."

"Okay, convince me."  Mulder sat back in his chair as though 
he was settling into a Barcalounger in front of the TV.

"What?"

"You want to tell your side of the story, this may be your 
only shot to do it.  The guys on the other side of that 
mirror there are drawing up the papers to charge you with 
murder."

Jake eyed him.  "And you want me to think you're my friend.  
Right, like I believe that crap.  You're on their side, and 
you think if I start talking you can get me to say I killed 
that woman."

"What makes you think that?"

"I watch TV.  I know how this works."

Mulder looked at him a minute, and then stretched across the 
table, so close that Jake could feel his breath on his face.  
"Watch a lot of crime shows, do you?" he asked, and Jake 
turned his head away so he didn't have to see the agent's 
eyes.  "Well, then maybe you remember this part too -- the 
cops always win."

"You leave him alone!" his mother said, grabbing Jake's arm.

Mulder sat back.  "Hey, I'm the only one here willing to 
entertain the idea that he's not a killer.  But if he doesn't 
want to talk..."  He pushed away from the table and started 
to get up to leave.

"Wait," Jake said.  "They're really going to charge me?"

Mulder shrugged as though he didn't really give a damn.

Jake looked at the mirror and imagined again the faces on the 
other side.  "That guy from before," he said in a low voice, 
"the Chief.  Is he out there?"

"Why do you ask?" Mulder replied, and Jake saw the sudden 
interest in his eyes.

"I don't want him listening in."

"I'm not sure I can stop him."

"Jake, I really think we should wait for a lawyer."

"It's the truth," he told her.  "You always said the truth 
could never hurt me."

She looked sad suddenly as she brushed hair from his eyes the 
way she had when he'd been a little boy.  "I'm not sure 
that's the case anymore," she whispered.

Jake took a shuddering breath and looked at Agent Mulder.  "I 
was at her house that night but I didn't kill her.  She was 
dead when I went inside.  But I walked by the place earlier, 
around nine -- you know, to check it out and look for a way 
in.  I saw the lights on and there was just one woman inside.  
That Chief guy, he was sitting in a car outside her 
apartment."

"You're sure," Mulder said.  "You're absolutely sure it was 
him?"

"I knew him from TV.  I knew he was a cop so I just kept 
walking.  When I went back later, he was gone and that woman 
was dead."

"Did you see him get out of the car?"

"No.  I just saw him sitting there looking at her front door.  
The lady was already dead when I went into the house.  You 
gotta believe me."

"You know what?"  Mulder tapped his fingers lightly on the 
table.  "I do."

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

Mulder exited the room to find a small crowd gathered around 
the two-way mirror.  Jane Dunbar had a front-row seat, as did 
Manny, O'Hara, and Ray Peterkin.  Diana and Chief Windsor 
hung back, the Chief leaning against the wall with his hands 
shoved in his pants pockets.

"So he's sticking to his story," Jane said.  "Annette was 
dead when he got there."

"He's pretty clear on that."  Mulder looked at the Chief.  
"He's pretty clear on the part where you were there too."

"I can explain."

Mulder braced himself against the wall to take some of the 
weight off his bad leg.  "I think we'd all like to hear it."

"When I saw on the news that Crenshaw was implicated in the 
serial homicide investigation, I looked her up and went over 
there.  I wanted to find out if she knew anything."  He 
glared at Manny.  "That's when I found out I had you to blame 
for the whole mess.  She told me you'd tracked her down and 
asked her questions about an old assault case.  I talked with 
her for maybe fifteen minutes, was satisfied she didn't have 
any information to contribute to the task force, and I left."

Manny looked from Mulder to the Chief and back again.  
"That's a lie."

"The hell it is," Windsor said, straightening himself up.  
"That girl was just fine when I left her."

"Maybe so, but you didn't hear about her on the news.  The 
story broke at ten pm -- I know because Annette called me 
herself to chew me out when she saw the story.  That kid in 
there says he saw you at her place around nine."

"Did you see a watch on him?" Windsor said with a snarl.  
"Because I sure don't.  He's a thief, he's got blood all over 
his shoe, we know he was in the house, and we confiscated a 
knife from his bedroom.  You're going to take his word over 
mine?  Think long and hard about your career before you 
answer me, Ahuja."

"I believe him," Mulder said, mostly because he wanted to see 
how the Chief would react.  

His cheeks puffed out and he turned a dark red.  "If you're 
accusing me of something, you'd damned sure better have the 
evidence to back it up.  I've been in law enforcement since 
you wore short pants and tugged on your momma's apron 
strings."

"I'm not accusing you of anything," Mulder replied as he 
pushed away from the wall.  He nodded at Jake on the other 
side of the window.  "He is."

"Well, then he's a liar," the Chief said, his voice 
dangerously soft.  "He's caught and he knows we've got him.  
He'll say anything to get a better position.  If your 
insinuations against me rest solely on the time-telling 
abilities of a teenager, a common criminal, then they don't 
teach 'em like they used to at the FBI."

He stalked off and left them standing there in silence.  Jane 
looked at Mulder.  "Do you believe his story? That he was 
there to ask her about the TV news report?"

"I believe he's right about one thing -- no one will believe 
differently based on the word of that boy."

He left the small room then, half dragging his wounded leg 
behind him as he moved toward the main bullpen of the 
station.  Diana followed him.

"You know something, don't you," she said.  "Something you're 
not telling the rest of us."

He halted, weary.  "I don't want to play twenty questions 
with you."

"Then tell me what's going on."

"I can't tell you what I don't know."  He had absolutely no 
proof that the Chief was guilty of anything more serious than 
an indiscretion with a call girl some years ago.

Diana bent her head to him, her voice a low murmur.  "If you 
have any indication that Windsor is dirty..."

"I don't."

She drew back and looked at him, as if searching for some 
magic indicator that he was lying to her.  "Tell me then... 
where's Scully?"

"She's not here some place?"  He made a show of looking 
around for her.

"No, but I bet you know exactly where she is."

He patted himself down.  "You know, she might have left a 
message on my cell phone -- oh wait, someone took it from me 
and then it ended up wrecked in the accident."

"I told you I didn't take your phone.  I borrowed it and then 
I put it back."

Jane appeared before Mulder could say anything else.  "The 
kid has lawyered up," she said.  "His mother won't let him 
say another word for now, but it hardly matters on the hat 
thefts.  We've got him cold on that one.  I just need for 
people to come in and ID their hats from the ones we took 
from Jake Winthrop's bedroom."

"Will there be a line-up?" Mulder asked with a smile.  "Tell 
me, sir, can you pick out your Yankees cap from among these 
five here?"

Jane smirked back.  "Shows what you know.  No one around here 
would be caught dead with a Yankees cap."   A puzzled look 
came over her as she, too, peered around the room.  "Hey, 
where is Agent Scully?  Shouldn't she be here?"

Diana crossed her arms.  "I was just asking the same thing."

At that moment, Mulder spotted a familiar face across the 
station room.  "Look, it's Jimmy Trumbull.  He's an 
investigative reporter -- maybe he knows were Scully is.  I'd 
better go ask."

He hurried away as fast as his leg could take him.  Jimmy had 
a notepad out and an openly curious expression on his face.  
"Agent Mulder, I heard a pair of unis talking outside on 
smoke break, and they said something about you guys arresting 
the hat thief tonight."

"That is the word on the street," Mulder agreed.

"Any truth to it?"

Mulder bit his lip.  "Tell you what," he said.  "Let's go 
down the street and you can buy me a drink.  I want to talk 
to you about our joint project."

"You mean the plan to lure out the killer?  The guys outside 
said the kid you got locked up already looks pretty good for 
the murders."

"Let's just say they don't have the full story."  He grabbed 
Jimmy's elbow and steered him toward the door.  Turning back 
over his shoulder, he called to Jane.  "If Scully calls, tell 
her I'm at Mallory's bar, okay?"

Jane waved to signal she'd heard, and Mulder walked Jimmy out 
into the cold night.  The reporter shuddered against the wind 
and pulled his leather jacket closed.  "I took the T here," 
he said.  "My wife has the car."

"Well, the whole world knows where my car is," Mulder said.  
"In a scrap heap somewhere.  Looks like we're walking."

Jimmy eyed his leg with some skepticism.  "You don't look 
like you're making it to the corner, let alone six blocks."

"We'll walk and talk," Mulder said, hobbling along.  "Take my 
mind off it."

"You mind if I record this?"

"I'd prefer you didn't."

Jimmy shrugged and returned his pocket recorder to his coat.  
"Suit yourself."

"The cops are right," Mulder said as they walked.  "We did 
arrest a teenage boy tonight who confessed to the hat 
thefts."

"And the part about the killing?"

"I don't think he did those."

"Why not?  Source I had said he was there the night of 
Annette Crenshaw's murder."

"For one thing, these crimes are too sophisticated for 
someone that young, and for another, this guy is taking his 
cues from the newspaper, and this kid doesn't strike me as a 
big reader."

"Do you have any other leads then?"

Mulder glanced sideways at him.  "Like you said, the cops 
think they have their man."

"They'd look pretty damned stupid if there was another 
murder.  Windsor's career would never recover."

That's one way to put it, thought Mulder.  Out loud, he said, 
"What can to you tell me about Windsor?"

"Mostly has a good rep.  He got the job six years ago, and 
right after there was some talk about a rookie woman cop that 
he may or may not have propositioned. She left the squad and 
moved away -- no charges or anything -- and Windsor made a 
big point after that of promoting women, giving them 
opportunities and stuff like that.  He helped clean up the 
Combat Zone and has quieted some of the gang violence in 
Chinatown, so people are willing to look the other way on the 
womanizing rumors.  They figure if Mrs. Chief doesn't want to 
complain, then neither should they."

"This incident with the rookie, how far did it go?"

"The way I heard it, he had a few beers in him and said 
something he shouldn't have.  That's it.  Why, you know 
something different?"

"No.  He seems inclined to believe it's the kid, that's all, 
and I was wondering about his background."

"Windsor believes it's the kid?"  Jimmy shook his head.  "Did 
you tell him your concerns?"

"He's aware."  They crossed the street in front of the 
stopped cars, headlights shining off the wet pavement.  "But 
I still want to take another shot at luring this guy out.  If 
I'm right, he'll want to make a move, especially now if he 
thinks his reputation is being usurped by a teenager."

"Usurped.  I like that.  You think I can write something that 
spurs this guy into action, huh?"

"You managed it once."

"That was without your help," Jimmy pointed out as they 
reached the bar.  He held the door open for Mulder, and the 
smell of smoke wafted out into the night.

The guy had a point, Mulder thought as he limped into the 
room.  A surprising number of people sat scattered among the 
various tables.  Jimmy took out his wallet as they walked up 
to the bar.

"I'll get it," he said.  "With the money I'm going to make 
off this exclusive, I'll even buy you two."

Mulder sank down onto the stool and closed his eyes for a 
moment.  He felt every one of his dozen bruises.  "Just a 
beer is fine," he said.

The ever-present barkeep Dave stuck a frost mug under 
Mulder's nose.  "The place is buzzing," he said. "Something 
about a big arrest tonight?"

"Wouldn't know," Mulder replied.

"I hope you finally caught this guy.  My sister wants me to 
put bars on her windows, she's so scared out of her mind."

Mulder jerked a nod at Jimmy, indicating a booth near the 
back.  "Let's go talk over there, okay?"

Dave threw a dishtowel over his shoulder.  "Was it something 
I said?"

Jimmy brought his beer to the table Mulder had selected and 
took out his notepad.  "Okay, so let's hear it, your big 
plan."

"I was thinking this arrest tonight could work to our 
advantage.  We can't come right out and say this kid did it, 
but if the real killer even suspects that someone else has 
taken credit for his crimes then he's going to want to set 
the record straight.  Look what he did to Harris when Harris 
questioned whether one man could be committing these 
murders."

"So then what do you want me to say?"

"I want you to say that we have a suspect in custody and that 
the police have taken a confession.  The details of the 
confession are confidential, but the implication will be that 
he has confessed to these murders."

"Won't I get my ass sued for this?"

"Not if it helps break the case."  Mulder swallowed several 
gulps of beer and set the glass back down.  The beer sloshed 
wildly inside, meaning he was losing some coordination.  The 
long day and the injuries made it hard to concentrate.  His 
head ached, his leg throbbed, and he just wanted to get this 
conversation over with.  "Here's the key thing," he told 
Jimmy.  "You have to say I'm leaving town."

"You're leaving?"

"I'm considering it.  If I leave then he has to get my 
attention again some how.  Plus, it signals my disinterest 
and suggest I concur with the detectives that this case is 
solved."

"I thought you wanted to get this guy."

Mulder scrubbed his face with both hands.  "Ultimately, yes, 
but so far the usual methods aren't working.  I'm trying 
something new and I need your help to do it."

"I said I'd go along."  Jimmy was quiet for a moment, 
thinking, and Mulder looked at him.

"What?"

"I was just thinking... what if he comes after me?"

Mulder shook his head.  "I doubt he would do that."

"It's my name on the article.  He went after Harris, didn't 
he?  I've got a wife and two little kids at home.  What if he 
thinks I'm the problem and wants to set me straight?"

"You're just the messenger.  You're repeating what I say, 
with my name attached to the quotes."

"Yeah, but what if this guy doesn't see it that way?"

"He needs you," Mulder said.  "You're his window into our 
world."

Jimmy sat back, looking bemused.  "I hope that fancy FBI 
training of yours is right on this one.  You sure seem pretty 
confident considering you haven't caught this guy yet."

"We're going to catch him.  And you, you can say you helped, 
right?  That's something."

"I'm glad my wife's a night watchman.  She's got karate 
training, you know, and she carries a gun."

"Never under estimate the allure of an armed female," Mulder 
replied, amused, and Jimmy gave a reluctant smile.

"Yeah.  Yeah, you're probably right that he'll want you and 
not me."  He raised his glass.  "A toast.  To catching this 
bastard PDQ."

"I'll drink to that."  Mulder touched his mug to Jimmy's, but 
when he tried to pull away, Jimmy followed him, keeping their 
mugs joined.

"We're going to make history," he said, "you and me."

Mulder smiled.  "To history."

They drank together and Mulder spied Scully over the rim of 
his beer mug.  He set it down and licked the foam from his 
upper lip.  "Excuse me," he said, when he saw her beckon him.

Jimmy turned to see what had caught his attention.  "Hey, 
take your time."

Mulder limped over to the door to meet Scully.  Her 
expression was grim.  "What did you find out?" he asked her 
in a low voice.  All the eyes in the room were upon them.

Scully turned her back to the room, and Mulder moved with 
her.  "You were right, Mulder -- Windsor's prints were on the 
box, inside and out, and on the leather skirt too."

"You're going to love this.  He was at Annette Crenshaw's 
place the night she died."

Scully's eyebrows shot up.  "You're kidding me."

"No, the kid they arrested tonight, he was there. He says he 
didn't kill Crenshaw and I believe him.  He saw the Chief 
outside the house at about nine at night."

"That would have been several hours before her death."

"I know.  If he killed her, the timeline doesn't quite fit.  
He would have to have spent a great deal of time in the 
house, and I don't think he did."

"Why not?"

"Because Manny Ahuja says Annette called him during the ten 
p.m. news broadcast when she saw her story being aired.  Why 
would she call one cop if she had another standing in front 
of her?  And why would she even be watching the news if she 
was entertaining Windsor?"

"Did Windsor say what he was doing there?"

"He said he saw the news and went to go talk to her."

"But if the news was at ten and he was there at nine..."

"Exactly.  It doesn't add up.  But he swears she was alive 
when he left, and he was there around nine, she had to be 
alive to make that phone call to Ahuja after ten."

"So he's telling the truth about leaving her alive."  She 
took a breath.  "That's a relief."

"Unless he went back later."  He leaned against the wall and 
sighed.  "We're not going to sort this out now."

"He's guilty of tampering with evidence at the very least," 
Scully reminded him.  "We can't keep quiet about this."

"And we won't.  But showing our hand now doesn't strengthen 
our position; it weakens it.  We need to find out more about 
the Chief's history with Annette before we do anything 
further.  It's also worth checking if Windsor did sign into 
the evidence locker back around the time of Annette's 
attack."

"You think he would risk putting his name down for her case?"

"Not for hers.  For some other prostitute's case, most 
likely.  That's where he got the clothes to make the switch.  
We find her case and it's possible we find the evidence from 
the night of Annette's assault."

Scully checked her watch.  "It's after one a.m.. You want to 
go over there now?"

"No."  His face cracked with a yawn.  "Please tell me you 
have a car."

"I have a car."

"Then Agent Scully, I suggest you take this tired old man 
home and put him to bed."

She looked to the back booth, and he turned in time to see 
Jimmy wave at them.  "What about your date?" Scully asked, 
deadpan. 

"You can put him to bed too if you want, but his wife might 
object."  He took his coat from the rack where it hung next 
to Jimmy's, and Scully helped him put it on.  He tingled when 
her fingers brushed the back of his neck while straightening 
his collar.  "He should be happy," he said to Scully as they 
walked to the door.  "I've given him his exclusive."

"You told him about Windsor?"

"No, nothing like that.  This is a special piece, Scully, 
designed for wide circulation but only one reader."

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

Scully drove them back to the hotel and helped Mulder up to 
his room.  At the door, he leaned his back against the wall 
and patted his pockets.  "I've got the key in here 
somewhere," he said, his eyes closed.

"I've got it," she told him, and dug out his spare key card 
from her coat.

The heater inside the room was clicking and blowing, and the 
place smelled like Mulder's apartment despite the few hours 
he had spent there.  She flipped on one of the lamps and took 
a seat in the short armchair as Mulder flopped on the bed 
with his coat still on.  "I may just sleep like this," he 
said.

Scully gave a tired smile that he couldn't see.  "I'd 
recommend removing your shoes at least."

He grunted something unintelligible in reply, so Scully got 
up, undid the laces and slipped each shoe to the floor.  He 
wiggled his toes inside his sock and muttered, "You're right, 
that's much better."

She sat on the bed by his hip and smoothed his tie from where 
it had flipped over during his collapse onto the bed.  
"Mulder," she said, "while we're here like this, I just 
wanted to thank you."

He opened one eye and peered at her.  "For the cupcake?  It 
was nothing."

"For the flowers."

He opened both eyes then and sat up.  She smiled a bit, 
looking at her lap because she couldn't take the sudden 
intensity of his gaze.  The heater ticked off the passing 
seconds and Scully finally spoke again.

"You seemed so supremely uninterested in who might be sending 
them," she said, "and I guess that should have been a larger 
clue."

He still was looking at her and not saying anything.  She 
felt herself flush, which might have been because she had yet 
to remove her coat.  

"But I was thinking about why there was no card," she said, 
her fingers edging closer to his good knee.  "Because what 
would be the purpose of sending all these flowers to signal 
interest if no name was included with them?  I figured then 
that perhaps the sender considered his sentiments were 
already understood.  There was only one person that could 
be."  

She looked up at him, and a slow smile spread across his 
face, but he still didn't say anything.  She took an uneven 
breath and rested her hand on his knee.

"I understand you've been offering exclusives this evening," 
she said, her voice low and gravelly. 

"That's true," he murmured.  "Interested?"

"You said I had to defend my territory," she said, and he 
leaned his forehead against hers.

"Scully, I meant--"

She shushed him by touching her fingers to his lips.  They 
felt so soft and wonderful that she left her hand there, just 
the barest fingertips grazing his bottom lip.  

"Scully," he whispered, and his mouth moved under her hand.

"My understanding, Mulder," she replied, "is that to defend 
one's territory, one first has to mark it."  To drive home 
the point, she scored her nails lightly on his thigh.

He actually shivered, and when he spoke his voice came out as 
a low growl.  "Hurt me, beast woman."

She laughed because it was so unexpected, but then she held 
his head in her hands and kissed him soundly.  He wound his 
arms around her back, gathering her close as she wooed him 
with her kiss.  She ran her fingers over his warm scalp until 
his hair stood on end.  When she pulled away, Mulder was 
dark-eyed and breathless, and that glorious mouth had become 
tender and wet. 

She touched her thumb to the edge of it, satisfied.  "A good 
first effort," she said.

"I would like nothing more to continue the mauling, but I'm 
afraid if you got me horizontal I would just fall asleep.  I 
was just going to shower to try to loosen up these sore 
muscles and then hit the hay."

This sounded glorious.  She stood up and shed her overcoat.  
"I'll join you," she said, and Mulder's mouth fell open in 
shocked delight.

"Agent Scully.  Are you asking me to play naked movie star 
games?"

"What you wear in the shower is your own business," she 
replied, taking off her suit jacket and undoing the cuffs on 
her blouse.   She slipped off her shoes and headed for the 
bathroom with Mulder's uneven footsteps following right 
behind her.

When she turned around, she saw he had managed to rid himself 
of his wool coat and suit jacket.  His tie hung loose at his 
neck and his feet were bare.  Scully undid each button on her 
blouse with military efficiency while he stopped undressing 
to watch.

She took the tie from his neck and then leaned into the tub 
to start the shower.  Feeling a bit shy after her 
unprecedented boldness, she divested herself quickly of the 
rest of her clothing and hopped behind the curtain without 
looking at him.

A moment later, he poked his head in.  "Okay?" he asked, and 
she nodded.  She held out her arms to him so he would have 
something to brace himself on as he tried to get his bad leg 
over the high rim of the tub.  She dug her toes into the 
bathmat so she didn't collapse under their combined weight.

At last, he was in safely.

"Hi," he said, his hair becoming plastered to his head as the 
water fell over them both.  He was suddenly modest now too, 
his gaze not dipping below her shoulders.

She made herself look.  He had broad, slippery shoulders with 
a tiny mole above his right clavicle.  A seatbelt-shaped 
bruise stretched across his chest like a Miss America banner.  
She touched it lightly and then pressed her lips to the 
center of his chest.

His hand cupped the back of her head and squeezed.  "It's 
okay, Scully."

"You could have been killed," she said against his wet skin.

In answer, his hand trailed down her spine and then to the 
side, where his nimble fingers found the rough exit wound on 
her back.  He kissed the top of her head and she held him 
tighter.

They stood like that for a long time, and the water started 
to lose some of its heat.  Scully shuddered and drew away.  
"We'd better get down to business here."

He smiled.  "Usually when you say that to me in the shower, 
it has a whole different meaning.  Of course, usually it's 
also in my head."

"Speaking of your head."  She poured out a small amount of 
shampoo into her hand and stood on tiptoe.  Mulder bent 
forward to give her better access, and she lathered him up, 
enjoying the feel of her hands sliding behind his ears and 
back.

"My turn," Mulder said when she had rinsed him clean.  She 
eyed the miniature hotel shampoo bottle and hesitated just a 
fraction of a second.  That stuff was liable to kill her 
hair, which seemed to require a special color-treated formula 
to prevent it from looking faded and blotchy.

But she turned her back to him and closed her eyes, and the 
result was pure heaven.  He took more time working in the 
shampoo than she ever did, his strong fingers massaging every 
inch of her scalp.  She was pretty sure that if the shower 
water hadn't provided some cover noise, he could have heard 
her humming with pleasure.

When they were both clean, she stepped out first and grabbed 
the nearest fluffy towel.  She wrapped herself and then 
helped Mulder back over the tub; this time, she got a look at 
the bruise on his knee and she winced in sympathy.

"Ouch," she said.

"Yeah.  You don't have any of those magic pills on you, do 
you, Scully?"

"They're in my purse, actually," she replied from under a 
towel as he dried her hair.

"I think this makes you my pusher," he said when she gave him 
two tablets.

"Allow me to push you closer to the bed, then."  It was 
nearing three in the morning now.

They crawled under the covers and turned out the lights.  
Mulder scooted across the bed until he could wrap his arms 
around her, and she burrowed closer to his warmth.  Yes, she 
believed she could get used to this.

"Happy birthday," he said through a yawn.

"Mmm."  It wasn't her birthday any longer, but she was, for 
the moment at least, happy.

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

Jimmy Trumbull waited outside in the freezing cold for the 
papers to be arrive on the corner.  At five a.m., the 
delivery guy showed up and loaded them into the machine, but 
he wouldn't give Jimmy a free copy.

Punk ass, Jimmy thought as he slipped in his quarters.  I'm 
only on the freakin' front page.

Sure enough, there was his exclusive:  SUSPECT NABBED IN HAT 
THEFTS, SLAYINGS

He tucked the copy under his arm and walked the block to 
Mulder's hotel.

The lobby was dead.  There wasn't even anyone behind the 
desk.  Jimmy took the elevator up, whistling tunelessly.  He 
paused to check his teeth for food in the golden reflection 
of the shining doors.

It left him off on Mulder's floor with a soft "ding," and he 
walked down the empty hall until he reached Mulder's room.  
For the hell of it, he dropped his copy of the Herald in 
front of Mulder's neighbor's door.  They could read all about 
it when they got up in the morning.

Then he checked the silent hall again.  No one was there.

Jimmy pulled out his ski mask, took out his knife, and used 
the keycard he had taken from Mulder to let himself inside.

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


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

Chapter Fifteen

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

Mulder awoke as if swimming up from deep in the ocean, the 
light growing brighter as he struggled breathlessly to the 
surface.  Something cold and hard, almost wet, pressed 
against his cheekbone.  He opened his eyes to find the steely 
nose of a gun in extreme close-up.   His gaze traveled over 
the gun to the gloved hand, up the leather-covered sleeve to 
a pair of dark eyes staring down at him from behind a ski 
mask.

"Don't make a sound," the man said in a rough whisper.  
"Don't even breathe."

Mulder's chest froze of its own accord, the air still in his 
lungs even as his heart sounded a silent, horrified alarm.

Scully.  

He felt her presence by his side but he couldn't even look at 
her.  From the total silence, he assumed she was still 
asleep.  

The man shoved the gun barrel deeper into Mulder's flesh, 
making him wince as the pain radiated through his earlier 
bruise from the car accident.  Through one squinted eye, 
Mulder finally recognized the identity of the weapon pointed 
at him -- his own gun.

The man reached into his jacket with his spare hand and 
tossed a newspaper onto Mulder's chest, the rustling of the 
pages overloud as they crashed onto the blanket.  Beside him, 
Mulder felt Scully begin to stir.

"I got your message," the man said.  His mouth was a thin and 
pink line, surrounded by the white-knit outline from the 
mask.  That mouth was familiar.

Scully went rigid, the covers trembling, and the man turned 
his gaze to her.

"Move an inch and you'll be wearing Mulder's brains all over 
those tits."

The voice was familiar too, Mulder realized, but he couldn't 
quite place it.

"You wanted me?"   The man took in low, ragged breaths as he 
poked Mulder again with the gun.  "You got me."


The man scraped the gun barrel from Mulder's cheekbone down 
to his jaw, stubble scratching against metal with each 
passing millimeter.  Mulder held his breath as the gun grazed 
the edge of his mouth.

The man watched him closely for any reaction, the thin mouth 
parted in anticipation of Mulder's fear, so Mulder tried not 
to give him any.  "You wanted us to meet," he said.  "And 
here we are.  But you're still wearing that mask."

The mouth turned up in a grim smile as he stroked Mulder's 
chin with the gun.  "You didn't figure it out," he said in 
the same gruff whisper.  "So the mask stays on."

"I know you," Mulder said slowly, his frantic mind trying to 
piece the clues together.  The man smelled like smoke, as 
Harris had said.  Mulder had smelled the smell before, had 
seen that mouth...

All of a sudden, he had it -- a flash of that mouth from the 
night before, when he had sat across from it in a crowded bar 
and tried to read it over the loud noise.

"Take it off," Mulder whispered.  "Jimmy."

The mouth curled again, this time in a grudging smile.  He 
used his free hand to tug off the ski mask and looked down at 
Mulder with his hair now on-end. "Very good, Mr. FBI 
Profiler.  But you're still too late by my count.  I'm armed 
and dangerous and you're... not."

He looked at Scully, who had yanked the sheet over her chest.  
"I didn't expect to find you here, though.  I guess the show 
wasn't all for show, now was it?  This means I'll just have 
to improvise."

He leaned over Mulder, giving him a good whiff of his 
cigarette-stained leather jacket, and yanked the phone cord 
out of the wall.  "Turn over," he said, motioning at Mulder 
with the gun.

"No."

"Mulder," Scully said, tensing beside him.

Mulder kept eye contact with Jimmy.  "I won't do it."

"Then how about I blow your brains out right now?"  Jimmy 
jabbed the gun hard under Mulder's chin.

Mulder backed his head away but still refused.  "This is a 
hotel, with not-very-thick walls -- not a private house.  You 
fire that gun and everyone will hear it."

"And it would be the last thing you would hear.  I could 
shoot you both and be gone before anyone was the wiser.  This 
nice hotel with rich folks all asleep in their beds?  You 
think they'll hear shots and come running?"  He laughed at 
the thought and whipped Mulder's chest with the phone wires.  
"Turn over now."

"No."

His heart thudded madly against his ribs, but Mulder kept his 
voice calm.  Shooting them and running was not Jimmy's 
fantasy.  They might be dead, but Jimmy would have lost the 
game, lost control of the situation. If control was the 
ultimate goal, Mulder wasn't about to give him any more than 
necessary.

"Shoot me if you have to," Mulder said.

Jimmy turned the gun to Scully.  "How about I shoot her 
instead?"

But Scully had caught on to Mulder's approach, so she gave 
Jimmy a level stare and said, "Go ahead.  The end result will 
be the same."

Jimmy's arm shook, the gun trembling, and he stalked around 
the bed to Scully.  In a flash, he struck her across the face 
with the gun.  "You like that?  Huh?  How about this?"  She 
cried out as he hit her again, this time cracking the gun 
down on her fingers as she raised her hands to protect her 
face.

Mulder broke from the bed as fast as he could, heading not 
for Scully but for her gun holster that sat on the desk.  The 
Vicodin made him sluggish, but it held back the pain as he 
limped toward her weapon.  He got about four steps before 
Jimmy shoved him backwards, sending him sprawling naked onto 
the rough carpet.  "Did I say you could move?" he hollered, 
towering over Mulder.  He kicked him hard in the injured 
knee, and the searing pain nearly made Mulder throw-up.

But the plan had worked enough to make him stop hurting 
Scully, and she was busy creeping off the bed behind Jimmy's 
back.  Mulder dragged himself backward, as if making for the 
door, and Jimmy followed.  

"I'm in charge now," he said, breathing hard.  He kicked 
Mulder again for emphasis.  "You'll do as I say."

He tucked the gun in his pants and pulled out a knife, using 
one hand to haul Mulder up.

"Freeze right there!"  Behind them, Scully had retrieved her 
gun.  In the dim light through the curtains, Mulder could see 
her holding it.  There was blood leaking down one side of her 
face.

Jimmy had an arm around Mulder's throat now, choking him.  
Mulder could also feel the knifepoint against his belly.  
Jimmy's voice was a hard rasp right in his ear: "Go ahead and 
shoot if you think you can hit me and not your lover."

It was dark where they stood, but Scully could probably get 
the shot off.  Mulder licked his lips.  Jimmy was strong and 
he could barely stand up; there was no way he could get out 
from his grip without help.

"Let him go," Scully ordered.

"Make me."  The knife sliced into him and Mulder let out a 
painful hiss.  "Put the gun down or I keep cutting."

Scully fired far to the right of them, a blast that shook the 
wall.  "Let him go."

But Jimmy did not cooperate. He wasn't willing to yield 
control quite yet.  The knife bit deeper into Mulder's belly, 
and he could feel the blood begin to slide down into his 
pubic hair.  He bit back a painful sob, but that was all it 
took.

"Okay!"  Scully put up her hands.  "Just stop it!"

"Throw the gun away," Jimmy replied, still holding the knife 
at Mulder's intestines.  "Now!"

Scully tossed the gun into the corner, where it landed with a 
heavy thud.  Mulder closed his eyes, feeling their chances 
slipping away.  Jimmy dragged him to the bed, where he shoved 
him face-first into the mattress.  Mulder tried to struggle, 
but the knife wound and the knee injury made him no match for 
Jimmy's strength.  He pinned him with his knees and had his 
hands bound behind his back in no time at all.

Practice makes perfect, Mulder thought in dark irony.

Someone pounded on the outside of their door.  "Agent 
Mulder?" a man called from the other side.  "Agent Mulder, 
are you in there?  Your neighbors reported a gunshot."

The knife blade settled at Mulder's throat.  "Don't say a 
word, either of you."

"Agent Mulder, we're coming in."  He heard the door snick 
open but they ran into the deadbolt.  "Someone's inside," the 
voice said.  "Agent Mulder?  Agent Mulder, please answer us 
or we're going to call the police."

Thank god, Mulder thought, closing his eyes against the 
mattress.

But Jimmy leaned over him and spoke directly in his ear:  "By 
the time they get here, this will all be over."

Their would-be rescuers disappeared, and Jimmy used the rest 
of the telephone wire to bind Mulder's feet to his hands, 
effectively hog-tying him on the bed.

"Not so fast," Jimmy snarled over his head.  Mulder strained 
to see, and realized that Scully was inching toward the 
corner where her gun lay.  "Now that Mulder is bundled up 
nice and snug, it's time for you and me to have some fun."

Bile rose in the back of Mulder's throat.  He thrashed 
around, but this just made his bonds tighter. "Don't listen 
to him, Scully," he said.

"Fight all you want," Jimmy told her as he advanced across 
the room.  "I like it when they fight."

"Stay away from me."  Scully had backed herself up against 
the window, her arms raised to resist him, but Jimmy still 
had his switchblade. 

He slashed once and caught her across both hands.  Scully 
cried out in horror and pain, and Mulder screwed his eyes 
shut against the terrible sound.

The mattress bounced as Jimmy threw Scully back down next to 
Mulder.  "It's better over here," he said, panting with the 
effort.  "This way Mulder can watch."

///////

Dawn cracked the sky like an egg, gray light pouring out onto 
the earth below.  Manny took his reheated mug of stale coffee 
into the break room, looking for a little peace.  Instead he 
found Agent Fowley there with her own cup of coffee.  She 
looked as haggard as he felt.

"Hey," he said pulling up a chair, figuring it would be rude 
to turn around and walk out again.  "How's it going?"

She took a deep breath and exhaled it slowly.  "The Winthrop 
boy is in with his lawyer now, and it's unlikely we're going 
to get to talk to him again before the arraignment."

"We don't have him for the murders."

"No, just the thefts at this point.  We can add the murder 
charges later if warranted."

Manny gave her a sideways look.  "So you don't think he did 
it either."

"He's a confused seventeen year-old kid.  I just don't think 
he has it in him to commit crimes of this magnitude.  Ripping 
off a few hats is a long way from double homicide."

Manny rubbed one hand over his grizzled face and considered 
their other suspect: his Chief, the man who had given him his 
gold shield.  It did not seem possible that this same man had 
cut up nine people and raped a half-dozen women.

Agent Fowley seemed to read his mind.  "Ray Peterkin is 
asking for Chief Windsor to be removed from the case."

"I think that's best, however things shake out from here."

They said nothing then, the silence acknowledgement enough 
that Windsor's career was over no matter how the case 
proceeded.  Manny hoped like hell that the Chief wasn't a 
killer, that his hands had some dirt on them but no blood.  
Every man and woman in blue would wear the stain.

The door swung open and Jane came in with a sheaf of papers 
in her hand.  Her thick braid had come loose through the long 
night, hairs sticking out around her face in a frizzy blonde 
halo.  She sank down in the chair nearest Manny and put the 
papers in front of her.  "Benson just gave me these," she 
said.  "I guess Agent Peterkin was asking for them but I 
can't find him around anywhere."

"He's back at the local bureau," Fowley answered.  "What have 
you got?"

Manny slid the papers in front of him and gave them a look.  
"It's a bunch of names."

"The painting companies sent them over and Benson put the 
list together.  These are all their employees, past or 
present, for the past five years.  I guess Peterkin was still 
following up on the house painting lead."

Manny flipped through the pages one by one, scanning all the 
names.  "Wait a second," he said.  "James Trumbull.  Is that 
Jimmy Trumbull, the newspaper guy?"

Jane leaned over to look with him.  "I don't know.  Seems odd 
for a news reporter to be painting houses."

"He was a free-lance reporter," Diana said.  "Maybe he needed 
extra money."

"Owen Brothers Painting," Manny said as he checked the name 
of the company.  "That was the place the Byrdeks used, wasn't 
it?"

"I'll get the file," Jane said.  Her chair skidded back on 
the linoleum floor as she hurried to retrieve it.

Manny kept reading.  "Here he is again.  Trumbull worked for 
Pro Paint in 1997.  Didn't one of the other victims use 
them?"

Jane reappeared at the door, but without the file.  "We've 
got trouble," she said.  "Nine-one-one just got a call from 
the Marriott hotel -- there was gunfire in Mulder's room."

/////////

Scully could taste the blood where it had run down her face 
to the edge of her mouth.  Adrenaline made her whole body 
tense and weak at the same time, and there was nothing she 
could do to help herself or Mulder.

Her leg protested in pain as Jimmy's knee pinned her thigh to 
the bed.  The cops were coming; they had to be.  She just had 
to keep him distracted long enough for help to arrive.  
Jimmy, however, seemed intent on getting down to business.

He ran the knife down the center of her body, pausing to nick 
the edge of one breast.  His eyes were glassy and she could 
see the bulge in his pants.  "Didn't expect to find you 
here," he said again.  "Nice little bonus."

The knife pressed into her belly and Scully huffed a breath 
in fear.  Immediately, he smiled at her and she realized this 
was what he wanted: to make her afraid.  She swallowed and 
steeled herself.

"The police are going to be here any minute," she said.  
"There are men in the hall.  You'll never get away."

Jimmy petted her with the knife.  "That's the difference 
between you and me -- I don't care if I die.  I'll live 
forever in infamy."

"What about...what about your family?"

He faltered, his face slipping into uncertainty before he 
corrected it again.  "You don't talk about them."

Mulder's head nodded on the bed.  She couldn't see his face, 
but the message was clear: keep going.

"Your kids," Scully said, her chest rising and falling under 
the glint of a knife.  "You think they won't care?"

"I said shut up!"  He held the knife tight against her neck.  
She felt the blade on her carotid artery and thought of the 
others who had died this way.

Mulder made a snuffling noise.  "Scully, careful."

"Yeah, careful, Scully."  Jimmy ran the knife from one side 
of her neck to the other.  "You don't want to bleed all over 
these nice expensive sheets."

He took out a length of rope from his back pocket.  She had 
seen enough of his handiwork to gage his intent; he meant to 
tie her hands to the headboard and rape her.  But the others 
all had bed posts that made such a feat possible.  The 
headboard in the hotel was smooth.

She saw the moment Jimmy deduced the problem.  The knife 
slackened and he hesitated with the rope in the other hand.  
He shifted just enough to allow her to free one of her legs.  

She kneed him sharply in the groin and shoved him backward 
with all her might.  He hollered in agony and crashed into 
the armchair.  Shaking, Scully scrambled from the bed and ran 
for the door.

Her had touched the deadbolt just as Jimmy grabbed her hair 
from behind.  Tears stung her eyes but she kept trying to 
open the bolt.  "Help!" she cried.  "Someone please help us!"

The knife slit into her neck and she jerked her head to the 
side, nearly wrenching free.

"God damn little bitch," Jimmy said, kicking at her as he 
struggled to keep hold of her.

"This is the police," said a voice on the other side of the 
door.  "We're coming in."

Jimmy cursed and let go of Scully.  She had bloodied his lip 
in the fight, and he stared down at her with wild eyes.  He 
would kill her now or not -- there was little she could do 
about it.  

She started to crawl away from him as he pulled the gun out 
from the back of his pants.  The rug burned her knees and her 
arms trembled.  She closed her eyes and heard Mulder's 
anguished cry as the door busted open.  "Scully!"

The gunshot shattered her.

Time slowed and she was back in Fellig's apartment, hearing 
the men's voices, feeling the force of the shot.  She sagged 
to the ground, her face to the floor.  The force of the 
arriving officers' boots shook the ground.

"Agent Scully?  Agent Scully, are you all right?"

She touched her stomach and her fingers came away bloody.  
"Oh, God," she said again.

"Scully?"  From the bed, Mulder called to her.

"I'm shot," she said, feeling light-headed.  She laid her 
head back down as someone knelt over her.  "He shot me."

She couldn't do it all again.  The hospital, the weeks of 
terrible pain, the struggle to walk again.

Gentle fingers probed at her belly.  "You're not shot."

"Scully, what's going on?"  Mulder sounded far away.

She forced herself to open her eyes and saw Manny Ahuja at 
her side.  He took her hands and helped her up.  "You're 
cut," he said, "but not too badly.  You'll be okay.  Can we 
get a medic in here?"

Not shot.  Okay.

She touched herself again and realized it was true.  But then 
where did the shot go?  

She looked past Manny and saw Jimmy lying on the floor with a 
bullet wound to his knee.  He was panting in pain, his hands 
cuffed behind his back.  

Manny took a blanket from the bed and wrapped it around her 
shoulders.  "Are you all right?"

She staggered forward then, towards Mulder, where another 
officer was working to free him.  "Mulder," she said, bracing 
herself with one arm on the bed as she held the blanket 
closed with the other.  "Are you okay?"

"I'm all right."  He flexed his arms as he was freed at last.  
"I'm okay," he said again, sounding more sure now.
 
She fell into him and grabbed him with both arms, wrapping 
the blanket around them both.  "Thank God," she whispered 
against his chest.  He held her tight and she felt his lips 
at the top of her head.  She did not open her eyes.

"How did you know?" Mulder asked someone behind her.

To her shock, it was Diana Fowley who answered.  "He painted 
the victims' houses.  When we got the call that there were 
gunshots in your room, we had a pretty good idea who we would 
find on the other side."

There was a pause.

"Didn't expect to find both of you here, though."

Mulder hugged Scully closer but did not reply.  The EMTs 
showed up with bandages and more blankets.  "Agent Scully?  
We can tend to those cuts now."

Reluctantly, Scully raised her head from Mulder's chest.  She 
saw the blood from her cheek had mingled with the cuts on his 
chest.  "You all right?" he asked her again, lifting her chin 
so he could see into her eyes.

She nodded and pulled away as one of the medics wrapped a 
blanket around Mulder from behind.  Mulder was watching the 
cops take Jimmy out the door.

"He was right," Mulder said.  "We're all going to make 
history together."

Scully shivered as she looked around the wrecked room.  The 
chairs were overturned and blood smeared across the white 
sheets.  Rope and phone wires lay scattered on the floor.  
Scully pulled the blanket tighter around her shoulders as she 
said, "Somehow I don't think this was the ending he had in 
mind."

"No," Mulder said.  "He'll get his headline, but he's done 
writing the story."

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


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

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 didn't make Jake wear handcuffs, but he walked as if he 
were attached to a ball and chain.  The closer they got to 
Kayla's 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 don't know what to say."

Kayla was in a coma now, Jane knew.  The content of the words 
probably didn't mean a thing.

"Just go in and be with her," Mary said, still petting him.  
"She'll know you're here."

They all went through the door together and Jake shuffled to 
his sister's bedside.  She lay thin and pale beneath the 
blankets, as still as snow.  "Hey, Kayla.  It's me, Jake."  
She didn't 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 Kayla's arm with the tips of his fingers.  
"I'm 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 'Through the Looking Glass.'"  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 you'd 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 Jimmy's arraignment dawned clear but bitter cold.  
The sun stung at Amy's 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 couldn't 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.

"It's 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 Jimmy's face as he fell 
bleeding on the white steps.

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

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




/////////

Epilogue

/////////



Scully took her hot mug of coffee to her kitchen window, 
where she held aside the curtain to peer at the neighboring 
tree.  It had delicate green flowers now, a harbinger of the 
thick foliage to come.  Soon the cherry blossoms would be out 
and spring could settle in earnest.

Mulder entered, and she dropped the drape to greet him.  He 
had shaved but was still dressed in his boxers and a T-shirt.  
He had been off the crutches for over a week now, and the 
cuts had healed for both of them.  Their hellish days in 
Boston had quieted with the howling of the winter wind.

"Coffee," was all Mulder said as he sank down in one of the 
chairs.

She poured him a mug and set it steaming in front of him.  
"And here I thought you would be the one all up-and-at-'em 
today, Mulder.  We finally have the X-files back and here I 
am dressed for work while you're... dressed for a college 
dorm."

He swallowed  a few large sips of coffee before replying.  
"I've got time.  I can get my clothes on as fast as I can get 
them off."  He eyed her.  "Not as fast as you can get them 
off, though.  I think you set some sort of land speed record 
last night, Scully."  

She swatted him and went to retrieve her bagel from the 
toaster.  She spread it liberally with cream cheese before 
returning to the table, where she proceeded to lick the 
excess from her thumb.

"Besides," he said before she could sit down.  "This allows 
me to satisfy one of my long-running fantasies."

She paused in mid-lick.  "Oh?"

"Mmm-hmm."  He slid a hand up under her skirt.

"I believe you've satisfied that one already," she replied as 
his fingers grazed her thigh.

"No, no, you have to be wearing this outfit for it to work.  
You see this slit here?  I've had dreams about this slit.  
I've written sonnets about it."

"I find this hard to... believe."  Her breath caught as he 
gave her the barest touch between the legs through the double 
barrier of her nylons and underwear.  He held her gaze as he 
brushed back and forth, increasing the pressure slightly with 
each pass.

Scully looked down at the illicit sight of her skirt hitched 
up and Mulder's arm beneath it.  The tendons in his forearm 
flexed as he stroked her.

"Mulder," she whispered.  "We're going to be late."

"I was right about that slit. Very tasty.  Wait a second," he 
said, moving away from her.  "I have something for you, and 
I figure now is the best time to give it."

She raised her eyebrow at him as he got up and went into the 
bedroom.  As long as he was gone, she figured she would get 
that glass of water.  She had it half drained by the time he 
returned.  His hand was behind his back.

"Have a seat," he said.

"Why?" she asked, wary.

"Okay, don't have a seat."

So she was standing at the sink with half a glass of water 
and damp underwear when he gave her a black velvet jewelry 
box.  Her stomach clenched and she regarded his outstretched 
hand as though he were presenting her with unknown alien goo.  
"What's this?"

"It's a box.  You have to open it to find out what's inside."

Feeling vaguely ill, she set the glass on the counter and 
took the box.  She took a breath and made herself flip the 
lid.  Inside was a diamond solitaire and a gold wedding band.  
"Hoo boy."  She raised both eyebrows and stared at the rings.  
"Mulder, um... I..."

She heard snickering and looked up at him.  He was grinning 
his smug grin again and not looking very much like a man who 
was proposing marriage.  She narrowed her eyes. 

"What's going on?"

"They're for our first case."

"We have a case?  That involves wedding rings?"

"And California.  Surf's up, Scully!"  He rode an imaginary 
wave in her kitchen while she put the rings next to the glass 
on the counter.

"And the wedding ring part?" she asked again.

"Oh, yeah.  We're going undercover and we'll have to be 
married to fit in.  We're braving the deepest darkest part of 
Republican suburbia, Scully -- make sure to bring both guns."

"Not a problem," she said darkly, tempted to use one on him 
now.

"I got you good," he told her, looking pleased.  "The look on 
your face when I got the box out!  Now let's see if they 
fit."

She allowed him to slide both rings onto her left hand, and 
they stood together to admire them.  She waggled her fingers.  

"Perfect," Mulder said, kissed her head.  "Now I really do 
have to get dressed or we'll miss our flight."

Scully leaned against the sink and let the sunshine warm her 
from behind.  If she held her hand just right, the diamond 
seemed to wink at her.  She smiled back at it.

Married, she thought, to the X-files.

///////////

That's all there is, there ain't no more.  The End.

Many chocolate Mulders of gratitude to Amanda for all her 
help with this story, and for designing its beautiful cover! 

Notes:  This is always the bittersweet part for me, when the 
story is over and I feel like the characters might disappear 
forever.  But the fun part is completing the story I meant to 
tell, and this one has special meaning because it is a tip of 
the hat to one of my favorite authors who died this past 
July.

Ed McBain essentially invented the police procedural novel 
back in the 1950s with his 87th precinct series about a group 
of cops working in a fictional city that really was New York.  
The novels were clever, funny and gritty all at once, and his 
detectives seemed like real people who kept on living once 
the pages were done.  After 55 novels in this series, the 
characters are at last silent with McBain's death, and I will 
miss them all.

"Overnight Sensation" is bit of McBain's style as seen 
through the syntax6/XF lens, and there are nods to his work 
throughout the fic.  I will never match the master, but it 
sure was fun trying.  I hope you enjoyed the story as well.  
If you'd like to learn more about McBain and his work, you 
can visit http://www.edmcbain.com/

Thanks as always for reading!

Cheers, syntax6

Syn_tax6@yahoo.com