See disclaimers part 1 Burning Book An X-Files Thing By Vickie Moseley (vmoseley@fgi.net) In Tandem with Summer Part Eight Dana Scully's Personal Log Friday, November 10 We just pulled in. It's been the morning, day, and night from hell. I want nothing more than to run the tub full of bubbles, jump in and sit until the water turns from scalding hot to a giant ice cube. No such luck. For one thing, we aren't staying at the Venerable Plaza. This dump has a shower, and a fairly scuzzy one at that. Besides, I'm too wired from the night to try and go to sleep. So help me, if Mulder's insomnia is wearing off on me, I'll . . . No, I'm too glad he's around to let him torment me right now. Mulder woke up this morning. He was definitely in a mood. It was a good thing there were no spare railroad ties in the room, because I'm pretty sure he would have built a makeshift cross and nailed himself to it. Self-pity is never pretty. It's even uglier when topped with a good dose of self-hatred. If I hadn't felt so sorry for him, hacking and coughing and looking the worse for wear, I probably would have helped him find some wood. But I have to admit, I now have a healthy respect for men who prefer boxers over briefs. Oh yes. Phoebe finally made an appearence. She came in while Mulder was in the bathroom. Mind you, he had managed to get from the bed to the bathroom in front of me without bothering to cover up. Phoebe shows up, and suddenly, he's wearing a full robe and looking like my maiden Aunt Martha when she comes for a visit. It was funny, in a nails on a chalkboard sort of way. She came by to check on him. Yeah, right. I must admit, I think there may have been a little guilt and self- hatred in *her* eyes, too. It had been almost ten hours since our little conversation, and I tried very hard not to gloat at her somewhat chastened demeanor. Thankfully, Mulder was too occupied to notice the change. She told him that they were leaving. The Marsdens had decided that if they weren't safe at home and weren't safe in the States, they might as well go home. He asked if she was going to be leaving right away and she gave a vague answer and a promise to call. Gosh, where have I heard that one. But if I'm not mistaken, it's usually a male voice saying it. I wasn't sure how I should approach him after she left, so I went for the throat. I know Mulder well enough now. Nothing gets him out of the dumps faster than a good case. Or a good lead. And I had both. The information that I had patiently sat by his bed to tell him. I had him by the neck and he knew it. The thing I like most about Mulder is that he not only didn't mind, I think he expected it of me. I love it when I can throw a lot of clues at him at once. He gets this sort of impatient look on his face, like it's taking all of his concentration not to *beat* the information out of me. And then, as it starts getting finely ground in that grist mill mind of his, his eyes start to twinkle and he looks like a kid on Halloween with a sack full of candy and no school in the morning. I ran the names of all the male servants who'd worked for the victims' families in the past year and came up with 200 names. No wonder the colonies revolted. They couldn't afford the overhead. So then I looked for matches and found just one. Cecil L'Ively showed up a couple of times. But Cecil L'Ively was dead. He died in 1971 in a tenement fire in London. Then I found the name again, among the names of a group of children who had been killed in ritual burnings by a Satanic cult just outside of Bath, England in the early 60's. What would Chaucer think? But then came my favorite part. With Danny's help, I called INS. And found out that Cecil L'Ively had applied for and been awarded a visa to this country just two weeks ago; he arrived in Boston. As Mulder is so fond of telling me, there's no such thing as coincidence. We still didn't have a copy of the composite sketch the woman at the bar fire had given the field office, so I called and asked them to fax it to the hotel. Meanwhile, Mulder took off for the Cape to warn the Marsdens. Oh, yeah, and to save Phoebe. Face it. The man is constantly going to spend his life saving women, all because of the one that got away. It affects every relationship he has ever had and more than likely will affect every relationship in the future. I hate it-- it drives me to distraction when he's overprotective and usually I can throw him off the scent with just a nasty look. But I knew full well why he all but ran out of that hotel room like a bat out of hell. He was saving Phoebe. Some guys just do not learn. Especially the smart ones. He'd been gone about half an hour when the composite showed up on the fax. It was the driver. Cecil L'Ively was the Marsdens' driver and was with them at the Cape. So, what did I do? Ran like a bat out of hell to save my partner. Okay, so sometimes women never learn, either. Especially the smart ones. When I got there, Mulder had a very strange look on his face. It was almost a mix of sorrow and anger. He didn't look happy, that was for sure. And for some strange reason (no, I'm not that naive, I'm just looking the other way) Phoebe and the "Lord of the Manor" had been alone in the house while Lady Marsden and the two boys were taking a final walk around the grounds. I can't believe people actually live like this. They had found a can of argocyline while searching the house... the rocket fuel that Agent Beatty mentioned. A mundane explanation for the power of the fires, then, if not for the incendiary device. When everyone was supposedly safe back in the house, we discovered that the person we thought was the driver (that _was_ what he'd been doing the night before) was actually the caretaker of the house. Cecil L'Ively was the caretaker. It all fell into place like a little jigsaw puzzle. L'Ively had found out where the Marsdens were staying, had replaced the real caretaker, then sat and waited for his prey to show up. I have now gone back and underlined the part in my profile about "above average intelligence". But L'Ively had been sent upstairs to take care of the kids. So we searched the house, looking for L'Ively and the boys. We found the Marsdens' real driver, the one who had come over with them from England. He was burnt to a crisp in the bathroom of the servants' quarters. Phoebe shouted for Mulder-- we ran to the Marsden's master bedroom. The curtains had gone up in flames. Mulder grabbed a bath towel and started flailing it at the fire. I pushed the Marsdens back and hoped he'd follow me, but he kept beating at the flames even when a painting and the bed itself flared up. I thought of a lion tamer, holding off the beast with a chair and whip; Mulder was trying to face his fear the same way, snapping a damp towel at the fire. But it wasn't helping and everything was burning. We finally backed out into the hall. Mulder put the towel to his nose and realized that the rocket fuel accellerant was every- where; the house had been rigged to burst into flame with just a spark. Phoebe and I herded the Marsdens out. Mulder was right behind me when we got downstairs. I directed the Marsdens out on the lawn and called the fire department on my cell phone-- I'd already made sure that the local forces were on alert. When Phoebe joined us, Mulder wasn't with her. "He's gone to look for the boys," was all she said, and got that same look on her face that she'd had when we were waiting for the firemen to bring him down the stairs at the hotel. I wanted to run in after him, but she caught me arm. "L'Ively," was all she said. At that moment, I really hated Phoebe Green. Of course, she was right. L'ively was still at large. Running up to help Mulder might have given the bastard the opportunity to kill Marsden and his wife and make off into the night again. So when I went back into the house, it was not to help Mulder; it was to find Cecil L'Ively. I didn't have to look far. He was coming down the stairs as I came in. I had my gun drawn and challenged him to stay put. He, of course, figured he had all the cards. "You don't know that one spark from that gun won't blow this whole place to kingdom come," or words to that effect. And Mulder was still upstairs, searching for the boys. I couldn't risk it. I had to wait until I had him outside and had a clean shot. He jumped down the stairs, daring me to make a false move. I backed up, giving him enough room to come forward, out into the open. Like a fly in a spider's web. When he got to the bottom landing, Phoebe splashed him with the rocket fuel. I'm still not sure exactly what happened next. I could hear the flames upstairs and I was getting really frightened that Mulder might not make it down when he appeared, carrying the boys, one under each arm. He was coughing again, but otherwise, none the worse for wear. It was then that I could finally turn my attention to L'Ively. I knew Phoebe had him covered. He had run out onto the front yard. He was cackling madly and screaming, "You can't burn me-- you can't fight fire with fire--" And then he just burst into flame. It was incredible. He was totally engulfed in fire within the blink of an eye. The fire department arrived. The house was a complete loss. I fully expected to be called upon to announce Cecil L'Ively's time of death, but amazingly, he was still alive. The severity of his burns were such that I truly doubted that he would survive the trip to the hospital. Due to the international nature of the incident, the paperwork will probably still be there at our retirement party, but most of it has been put off for the time being. We made a brief statement to the local sheriff and we'll wade through the piles of forms tomorrow in the office. I kept expecting a call from the hospital announcing the death of the suspect, but none came. I also expected that I would getting myself a room and traveling back to DC tomorrow by myself. Mulder could have easily taken a day or two to say goodbye to Phoebe. Considering the fact that he's in the office more often than not on weekends and holidays, he could have rented a rowboat and oared her back to England and it wouldn't have put a dent in his comp time. I stopped by to tell him that I was leaving the station. He asked me to wait for him. That surprised me. Quite a bit, actually. And I think the most surprising part was that way he said and the look in his eyes. He looked like a man who had just been acquitted. It had been a horrific trial, and he wasn't unscathed, but he was whole and he was free. And for that, he looked truly grateful. So am I. On the drive to the motel I couldn't put the thought of L'Ively out of my head. I don't buy the pyrokinetic horse shit that Mulder was throwing back at the Bureau arson lab. But I do have no compunction declaring that Cecil L'Ively was indeed the instigator in all those murders and fires. The man is a vicious criminal, one of the worst. He kills his victims for the unattainable, the love of their own loved ones. And when he achieves his goal, that of clearing the way, he drops the object of his affection and goes off to the next unattainable goal. This was not love. This was the worst form of greed and covetousness. "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife." Adultery never rang so true as when applied to Cecil L'Ively. Whether he set his victims aflame with a match or with a snap of his fingers makes no difference to me. He is guilty of murder, of several murders. And in my mind, the attempted murder of a Federal Agent. He was positive that Mulder was dead or dying when he came down those stairs in Cape Cod. I'm certain of that. I don't care who handles the details. I just want Cecil L'Ively off the streets forever. An English prison is just as good as an American one, as far as I'm concerned. I just don't want to have him walk into my life again. I'm curious about his very survival. But is it enough to make me reconsider his guilt? Not in the least. The criminal has been apprehended, is in custody. The case is closed. I'm just happy that we survived this one. Monday, November 13 I finally got through the paperwork that had piled up since my foray into arson investigations and international relations. I think next time one of Mulder's 'friends from Oxford' shows up on our door, I'm going to drag him off on a nice ghost hunt in the Adirondacks. Maybe search for the biological sister of the New Jersey Devil Woman. Something nice and safe. I went down to see how he was doing. He was sitting in his office, glasses on, staring into space. Looking too pensive for a man who just escaped the net. I couldn't resist teasing him just a little. I mean, after all those times he's gotten me . . . I feigned my best English accent (hey, I made a damn fine Eliza in 11th grade) and asked him to lunch. I thought the poor boy was gonna jump out of his skin. Phoebe never called. I guess our little talk made her stop and think about what she was doing. Or, more likely, she has already set her sights on some other poor guy. I feel for him, whoever he is. But my partner seemed to be handling it, as well as I think I would have under the circumstances. She sent him another tape. He hadn't listened to it. We went out to the mall for lunch. Hot dogs at the stand by the Archives. Mulder still had Phoebe's cassette; he told me that he didn't want it, but that it didn't seem right to just throw it away. I had some matches. So when the Capitol foot patrol was looking the other way, we set the tape on fire, tossed it in the garbage can, and let it burn. the end.