Blood Ties Chapter 4
(Blood Ties Series)
by Dawn





Georgetown
Friday
1:53 a.m.


The soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminated tracks of dried tears on
Mulder's face. Scully traced one with a featherlight finger, the smooth
softness of his cheek giving way to the rough stubble of his jaw. Mulder
didn't twitch, so far under that even his eyes were motionless behind
closed lids. Tonight, at least, there would be no dreams -- for Mulder,
anyway.

Scully leaned over to press her lips to his, tasting the salty residue
of his weeping. She stood, and the mattress creaked as if in complaint
as her weight lifted. She rolled her shoulders in a vain effort to
loosen muscles drawn taut with anxiety, then shuffled out to where Grey
slumped on her couch, staring blankly at the silent television. Scully
collapsed, rather than sat, beside him.

"What was that you gave him?" Grey asked after several minutes of
silence.

"Valium," Scully said wearily. "A truckload of it, in case you were
wondering. He'll be out at least six hours -- maybe longer, considering
his current physical condition."

"You always carry syringes and Valium in that little black bag of
yours?"

Scully sensed his uneasiness and guessed the reason. "Actually, it has
nothing to do with Mulder, believe it or not," she answered wryly.

She didn't go on to explain that the vial was a souvenir of her cancer.
Near the end, the headaches had become so excruciating her oncologist
had suggested it as a means of pain management. Grey noticed her
reticence and left it alone.

"I don't like seeing him drugged," he stated quietly, the fingers of his
right hand toying with the fringe on her afghan.

"I don't like *doing* it," Scully returned, an edge to the words. The
raw pain in his eyes diffused her anger and she sighed. "He was in
shock, Grey, and damn near dissociative. It was the Valium or risk a
complete breakdown."

Grey winced at the term, but nodded. Scully could see him replaying the
scene in Mulder's apartment. After Mulder's initial emotional outburst
he'd drawn into himself, trembling slightly with skin that was pale and
clammy.

Thank God, Skinner had taken over supervision of the crime scene. He'd
taken one look at Mulder and insisted they retire to Scully's apartment
immediately. Mulder had not argued, but followed Scully's lead as
docilely as a small child. *That* had alarmed her more than his tears.

As she drove them to her apartment Grey had questioned his brother
gently, managing to coax a few responses. But Mulder's answers were
sluggish, as if each required a monumental effort and a great deal of
thought. He'd stared out the window with eyes that didn't really see the
passing cars and his voice had been flat and lifeless.

Once home, Scully had led him back to her bedroom and handed him pair of
sweatpants and a tee shirt, assisting several times when Mulder lost
focus on the task and stood staring vacantly out the window. She sat him
on her bed, administered the Valium, and got him to lie down, stretching
out beside him and holding him close. She'd kept up a running patter of
calming words and gentle touches until his body went limp. Finally,
Scully had allowed her own tears -- for Mulder, for Jacqueline, and for
herself.

"Will he be all right in the morning?"

Grey's question pulled her from her drifting, anchoring her in the here
and now. "Mulder has an impressive set of coping mechanisms, Grey. He'll
be better -- much better. But I don't think any of us will be all right
until this monster is behind bars."

"Shame to waste the accommodations," Grey snapped venomously. "A bullet
would be too good for this psycho." He closed his eyes. "I'm afraid it's
going to be a long time before *that* memory fades."

Tears burned Scully's eyes and stung the back of her too-tight throat.
"At least it will, eventually. Mulder has an eidetic memory."

Grey looked at her in horror. "I guess I never considered the
ramifications of that. You mean every crime scene...?"

"Every crime scene, every killer, every victim," Scully said softly.

"How does he keep going? I don't think I could do it, Dana."

Scully actually smiled a little, thinking of Mulder's dry wit and
often-irreverent sense of humor in the face of the unspeakable. "Like I
said, he's got an incredible ability to roll with the punches."

"This is different, though, isn't it?" Grey said doubtfully. "Fox told
me the whole story of Samantha's abduction. I understand as well as you
what that killer did to him tonight. The lookalike, the Stratego game,
the television... That's not a punch, Dana. That's an atom bomb."

"There's more," Scully whispered, teeth clamping down hard on her lip.

"*More*?"

She hesitated, then pushed ahead. "I don't know how I'm going to tell
Mulder this, but if what I suspect is true he'll see it in the autopsy
report anyway. Mulder once told me that Samantha had broken her
collarbone by falling off a tire swing. When Roche claimed he'd killed
her, that was one quick way we had to determine the bodies we found
weren't hers."

"Go on," Grey prodded when Scully paused for a gulp of air to steady her
jangling nerves.

"I had only a moment to examine the body before we left, and I had to be
careful because they were still taking photos. But...I'm reasonably
certain that Jacqueline's collarbone was broken."

Grey muttered a quiet expletive under his breath. "How does this guy
know? Where's he getting this information? It's like he can see into
Fox's head!"

Abruptly, eerily, Scully was reminded of Mulder's words to her after
Roche's death...

*I profiled him, Scully. I got into his head, and somehow he got into
mine, got access to all my memories of Samantha. Some kind of...of nexus
was created between us...*

"I don't know how he's doing it," she said aloud, dispelling the memory
with a sharp jerk of her head. "Newspapers? The Internet?"

"*A broken collarbone*? *Stratego*? Come on, Dana! You're reaching and
you know it," Grey said, the warmth in his eyes softening the harshness
of the words.

Scully blew out a long gust of air, overwhelmed by the desire to sleep
and escape for awhile. "Mulder believed that some kind of link formed
between himself and Roche when he profiled him. He called it a nexus. He
thought Roche was able to draw on his memories of Samantha."

"But you don't agree."

Scully pressed her lips tightly together to bite back a sharp retort. "I
think other explanations exist. We just haven't thought of them yet."
Grey's raised eyebrow increased her level of irritation.

"Look, as far as I'm concerned, the key question is what this maniac has
in mind for Mulder. Tonight's little show only confirms the depth of the
obsession."

"Then we stay on Fox like white on rice," Grey said calmly.

Scully chuckled a little at that, and the darkness drew back just a
little. "Have I told you lately how glad I am that Mulder has a
brother?"

Grey grinned. "You just did, darlin'. Now I, for one, am going to get
some sleep."

"There's sheets and blankets in the linen closet," Scully said, yawning
at the mere mention of sleep. "I can make up the couch for you."

"Don't be silly. I've been making my own bed since I was four, I'll
handle it," he assured her dryly.

"Good night then, Grey. And thanks."

"Night, Dana."

Scully moved quietly into the bedroom and shut the door, undressing by
the slivers of moonlight that slipped through the blinds. Mulder was
curled up on his side, the deep, steady sound of his breathing a comfort
to her battered spirit. She slipped between the sheets and spooned up
behind him, tossing one leg over his and slipping her arms around his
waist. Though still deeply asleep, he pressed back into her warmth and
comfort. And for a little while, the demons were held at bay.


Georgetown
Friday
9:30 a.m.


The hiss of the shower spurred Grey to start a fresh pot of coffee. The
water ran for a very long time, cutting off just as he'd decided to
check up on his brother. By the time Mulder wandered into the living
room, hair damp and feet bare, Grey had a mug of the hot brew to place
in his hands. Mulder inhaled the aroma and made a small sound of
appreciation before dropping onto the couch.

Grey studied his brother surreptitiously under the guise of reading the
newspaper. Fox still looked haggard, like a rubberband stretched to its
limit and a breath away from snapping. But his eyes were clear and
sharp, minus the frightening vagueness of the previous night. All in
all, he looked amazingly composed for a man who had huddled shivering
and sobbing on the floor not twelve hours earlier. Coping mechanisms --
Dana wasn't kidding.

"Care to share your in-depth assessment with the subject?" Mulder asked
sarcastically, startling Grey from his reverie.

"Sure. Too pale, too thin, and looks like he could still sleep for about
a week. Happy now, little brother?"

Dad had been right when he said the best defense is a good offense. Grey
grinned inwardly when Fox huffed but dropped the attitude.

"Where's Scully?"

"At Quantico, performing the autopsy. She left about an hour ago."
Grey's tone softened. "Before she went she made me promise I wouldn't
let you anywhere near the place."

The affection and concern in Grey's face drove Mulder to his feet,
ostensibly to take his now empty mug into the kitchen. While a part of
him craved his brother's open and unconditional love like rain after a
particularly long drought, the cautious, guarded side warned that his
neediness would ultimately result in pain and loss. When it came to
people he loved sticking around for the long haul, Mulder's track record
was laughable.

"Scully worries too much -- so do you," he growled over his shoulder as
he carefully rinsed the mug and put it into the dishwasher. He'd have
left it in the sink at home, but this was Scully's apartment, after all.

Mulder expected a sharp retort, probably pointing to his recent meltdown
as evidence that any worry was more than justified. Grey said nothing,
however, and the silence pulled Mulder back into the living room. Back
into the line of fire, so to speak. He felt himself mentally gearing up
for an argument, hands unconsciously forming fists. He ignored the
nagging psychologist's voice in his brain that suggested he *wanted* to
provoke Grey's anger. That for Fox Mulder, accepting anger was much
safer and more familiar than accepting love.

As if reading his thoughts, Grey finally spoke. "Worrying goes hand in
hand with loving, Fox. Sometimes it's nearly impossible to separate the
two."

"I can handle this," Mulder replied stubbornly, moving onto firmer
ground. "I know I hared out last night, but it won't happen again."

In spite of his declaration his voice trembled slightly, which only
served to increase his impatience. Mulder clenched his jaw in an
unintentional imitation of Skinner and glared at his brother.

Grey's response was not at all what he expected, and caught him
completely off balance. "What's it like, Fox?" he asked, his voice
hushed and almost reverent.

Mulder licked his lips. "What do you mean?" he asked, though he was
fairly certain he knew.

"Profiling. Getting into the killer's head and trying to think like
him."

Mulder sat down on a chair, sparing legs suddenly shaky and weak. He
stared out the window and Grey watched his focus turn inward. When he
finally spoke, the words were as smooth as glass, as bitter as day-old
coffee.

"It's like reaching into a deep, dark hole for something you've lost,"
he murmured. "Sometimes the hole is filled with hideous things --
rotting flesh, the slimy larvae of monstrous mutated insects,
unspeakable creatures with sharp fangs and a taste for human blood --
but you only have to put your hand in a little bit to find what you
need. Sometimes the contents of the hole are less appalling but you have
to dig much deeper to get to your goal -- maybe even so far that it
seems you're hanging onto the edge with your toes. And then
sometimes..."

Mulder trailed off, a small shudder passing through his thin frame. When
he continued, his voice was little more than a whisper. "Sometimes, .the
hole is filled with every conceivable horror and some not even the most
twisted imagination could have conjured up. And you realize that to get
what you need, you have to go deep into that hole, deeper than you've
ever gone before. And once you're in, the terrible things all around you
begin to feel a part of you and you start to believe you'll never get
out. Because you've *become* the hole, and now you belong there."

He dragged his gaze from the window and over to Grey, half expecting to
see revulsion and disgust. Grey's face was unnaturally wan but his eyes
held only compassion and a profound respect.

"I've seen the emotional toll this exacts from you, Fox. Why do you keep
doing it?"

Mulder sighed and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "Because
I can. Because maybe next time I can stop the madness before it's too
late. And because I swore to myself a long time ago that I'd never let
anyone else be victimized without putting up a hell of a fight."

He stood and walked briskly back to the bedroom, reappearing several
minutes later fully dressed and carrying his keys. Grey groaned.

"Fooox! I promised her! You're going to get me into hot water with a
woman who packs a gun!" he whined.

Mulder's lips curved in the closest thing to a smile Grey had seen since
the arrival of the latest heart. "Relax, I'm not going to Quantico. I'm
going back to my apartment to examine the crime scene."

*Like that's supposed to make me feel better*? Grey thought grimly.

"You saw the crime scene last night," he said aloud, standing and
placing himself between his brother and the door.

Mulder rolled his eyes. "Yeah. Right. In case you didn't notice I was
the one babbling on the floor." He paused to gather his patience. "Grey,
I'm all right now, and I need to see it. That little nightmare was
engineered just for me, and it's entirely possible that there's
something there that only I would understand. I *am* going. You can
either make my life more difficult or support me in this."

Grey reluctantly moved aside but his face reflected his unhappiness.
"You know, sometimes I think you have the ability to irritate me more
than anyone else on the entire planet," he growled. "I just haven't put
my finger on how you do it."

Mulder opened the door and grinned smugly. "Check with Scully. She's
making a list."


Alexandria
Friday
10:48 a.m.


With the body long since removed and forensics departed, little remained
to indicate a crime except the yellow police tape and the scrawled
writing on the apartment wall. Grey stayed out of his brother's path as
Mulder prowled around the apartment like a lean wolf on the scent of its
prey. After nearly thirty minutes of scrutinizing the small living room
from literally all angles he plopped down onto the displaced coffee
table with a frustrated grunt.

"There's something here, I can feel it. I'm just not seeing it."

"Something in the message?" Grey suggested. "In the words he chose?"

Mulder stared up at the wall, chewing his lip. "I don't see any
revelations there. He's drawing a parallel between the game Samantha and
I played and the game he thinks we're playing. Obviously he considers my
little vacation to visit you an attempt on my part to quit."

"Okay. What about the way he's written the letters? Does the handwriting
tell you anything about him?" Grey prodded, grasping at straws.

To his astonishment his brother abruptly sprang to his feet and stepped
closer to the wall, looking decidedly ill. His eyes bore into the words
with frightening intensity.

"Fox?"

"Where's that file?" Mulder demanded, the words clipped and harsh.

"What file?" Grey asked, bewildered.

"The file you were reading last night at the bureau. Roche's file,"
Mulder snapped as if Grey were missing the obvious.

"It's in my briefcase, in your car, I think. Why?"

"Get it."

Becoming extremely annoyed with Mulder's dismissive manner, Grey
nonetheless did as asked -- or ordered as the case might be -- grumbling
a little under his breath. His brother literally tore the heavy file
folder out of his hands without a word of thanks and carried it to his
desk, where he began shuffling eagerly through the contents.

"*Fox*!" Grey said from between clenched teeth.

Mulder held up his hand, palm out, only to exclaim in satisfaction a
moment later as he snatched up a piece of paper. Ignoring Grey's
thunderous look he darted back to stand directly in front of the
graffiti, eyes leaping from the wall to the paper and back again. The
paper gradually started to quiver until it was shaking violently. Still
baffled but no longer angry, Grey walked over to Mulder's side and
gently removed the jittering report from the trembling fingers. His
brother noticed only obliquely, eyes fixed on the taunting words.

"Fox. What is it? What did you find?"

Mulder managed to look at Grey for only a moment before his gaze was
pulled back to the wall like steel to a magnet. "The handwriting," his
said quietly through nearly bloodless lips. "I thought it seemed
familiar. It's right here in the file, Grey. That handwriting belongs to
John Lee Roche."


Continued in part 10

Blood Ties IV: Shredded Hearts (10 of 16)
By Dawn
sunrise@avenew.com
Disclaimer in part 1


Norristown, PA
Friday 
3:05 p.m.


"I'm still not sure why we're doing this, Mulder," Scully admitted,
staring out her window at the red-bricked ranch house. "You heard
Skinner -- the local police did virtually nothing to preserve the scene.
The photos are probably more useful at this point."

*And you wouldn't have to face a grieving family*.

Scully left *that* thought unspoken.

Mulder shut off the car and turned to face her, jaw thrust out
stubbornly. "I need to see it firsthand," he insisted. "The fact that
the local boys were less than competent only increases the possibility
of finding something they missed."

"And, of course, Fox Mulder will be able to locate this elusive piece of
evidence that neither the Norristown police nor the local bureau could
discover," Scully said sarcastically, short-tempered from too little
sleep and too much worry.

Rather than bristling at her words, Mulder grinned cockily. "You catch
on fast, Scully."

Rolling her eyes in exasperation, Scully jerked open the car door and
got out, waiting with arms folded across her chest as Mulder exited and
crossed the front of the vehicle to reach her side. She started up the
walk to the front door only to be stopped when a gentle hand on her
elbow spun her around.

"Scully, I don't understand what's happening here. How the writing from
this maniac could resemble so closely the writing of another, very dead
serial killer. How this guy knew all those details about Samantha, right
down to her broken collarbone."

Mulder's eyes slipped shut for a moment and he took a deep breath before
continuing. "I can't think about it right now, not until I know for sure
whether that handwriting is a match. Grey's covering things at the
bureau until the lab finishes the analysis. Skinner's working with law
enforcement in the towns most at risk. My job now is to finish the
profile. And the only way I know to get into this guy's head is to
follow his footsteps. Please, bear with me on this."

If he'd resorted to the puppy dog face Scully could have held firm, but
a sincere Mulder was impossible to resist.

"I just hate to see you deal with this, Mulder," she confessed, studying
his weary but determined features. "These people are mourning the loss
of their only child. It won't be pleasant."

The beginnings of annoyance crept into his eyes, but Mulder surprised
Scully by appearing to consciously shrug it off. Instead he smiled
gently. "Then let's get this over with."

There was no doorbell, only a large, brass knocker that echoed harshly
in the quiet neighborhood, sounding oddly urgent. A woman with raven
black hair cut in a short bob and red-rimmed blue eyes stared
suspiciously at them, opening the door only a crack.

"Anne Stombres?" Mulder asked.

"Yes?"

They both held out their I.D.s -- it was practically an autonomic
response by now -- and she scrutinized them carefully.

"Agents Mulder and Scully with the FBI," Mulder said, his voice as
gentle and unthreatening as he could make it. "Could we have a moment of
your time?"

The crack did not widen. "I've already talked to the police *and* the
FBI. What more do you need from me?" Her voice was hoarse from tears,
ragged with emotion.

"Anne? Is there a problem?" interjected a deep voice from inside the
house.

A large hand wrapped around the door and pulled it completely open to
reveal not only Anne Stombres but also a dark-haired man. He was easily
Mulder's height, but heavily muscled with deeply tanned skin.

 "FBI, Agents Mulder and Scully," Mulder explained as he and Scully
re-extended their credentials for another perusal. "We just need a
moment, Mr..."

"Stombres. Pete Stombres. I'm Jackie's father. This isn't a good time
for us, you know?"

Scully winced a little at the understatement in those words. "We're very
sorry to intrude, Mr. and Mrs. Stombres. I assure you, we'll be as brief
as possible."

Pete Stombres's lips tightened in irritation but he moved aside in an
unspoken invitation for them to enter. Both Scully and Mulder were
surprised to see the man slip his arm comfortingly around his wife's
shoulders, and equally surprised when she leaned into his touch.

"What is it you need from us?" Anne Stombres repeated her earlier
question wearily.

"Actually, we just need to see Jaqueline's room," Mulder explained
cautiously, not wishing to upset either parent further.

Anne's eyes squeezed tightly shut, but a tear managed to trickle out
from beneath the lids anyway. "Agent Mulder, our daughter is gone. That
room is all we have left now. Can't you leave us that much?"

"The police went over Jackie's room with a fine-toothed comb," Pete
spoke up, obviously angered that they'd upset his wife. "What could you
possibly gain?"

Mulder looked silently at Scully, helpless in the face of the couple's
distress. Sending him a silent look of encouragement, she gingerly
attempted to explain.

"Mr. and Mrs. Stombres, my partner and I are trying to catch the man who
did this to Jackie and the other girls. Agent Mulder is constructing a
profile, a...picture of the killer, so to speak. He looks at a crime
scene through different eyes than a policeman would. He may find
something significant that they missed."

Anne fixed her gaze on Scully, her eyes dead. "To you it's a crime
scene, Agent Scully. To us, it's a little piece of Jackie that monster
couldn't take away."

Mulder started to speak, but Anne held up a hand to forestall him.
"Follow me. You can have five minutes."

The phone rang as they moved down a long tile hallway toward the back of
the house. "I'll get it," Pete said, giving his wife a small squeeze and
pressing a quick kiss to her forehead.

He moved through a doorway to their right that contained an office area.
Anne led them to the left, down another hall to a closed door at the
end. She paused with her hand on the knob for a moment as if steeling
herself for what lay beyond. Then she slowly opened the door and stepped
inside.

Scully fought the lump that formed in her throat as she took in her
surroundings. Jackie's room was the epitome of all that exemplified a
little girl. The walls were pink, and a large white canopy bed sported a
Minnie Mouse comforter. The bed itself was a sea of stuffed animals, and
a set of shelves was loaded with dolls and doll paraphernalia.  She
watched Mulder swallow thickly, then square his shoulders and begin
carefully going over the room, paying special attention to the window
where the killer had entered and then removed the little girl.

Anne leaned in the open doorway, the fingers of her right hand pressed
tightly to her lips, and her eyes brimming with tears. Those eyes never
left Mulder as he roamed restlessly around the room, stopping now and
then to scrutinize an area more closely. Mulder, now fully engaged in
investigator mode, was unaware of her regard. After initially canvassing
the entire room, he spent most of his time between the bed and the
window, even staring outside for several long minutes. Finally, he
turned back to Scully.

"I'm finished," he said quietly, though he still appeared distracted by
something.

Abruptly, Anne Stombres stood straighter, a hard expression replacing
the tears in her eyes. "Can I ask you a question, Agent Mulder?"

Scully recognized the wariness in Mulder's short nod, but only because
she knew him well. His professional mask was fixed firmly in place,
hiding the pain that came from sifting through the contents of a dead
little girl's room.

"You say it's your job to catch the killer, to draw a picture of him.
But have you ever taken a moment to look on the other side of the fence?
Do you have any idea what it's like to be the victim, to have someone
you loved stolen from you?"

Mulder's mask cracked, and Scully felt the sharp cut of the words as if
they had penetrated her own flesh. She watched helplessly as her partner
struggled to regain his poise. She expected an evasion, a deflection of
the question to safer ground. His candor shocked her.

"Yes. Yes, I do. My sister was abducted from our home when I was 12. We
never found her. That's why I do this."

Anne studied his face for truthfulness, her own crumbling when she found
it. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her lip trembling. "I'm not sure which I
think is worse -- the knowing or the wondering."

"It's the difference between a first degree burn and a gunshot wound,"
Mulder replied quietly. "Neither one hurts more, just in a different
way."

Anne didn't speak again until she'd accompanied them back to the front
door. As they started to leave, she laid her hand on Mulder's arm, and
he looked down to see gratitude in her eyes.

"Thank you, Agent Mulder. It may sound crazy, but knowing that the
person looking for Jackie's killer really understands what he's cost
us... Well, it means something to me."

Mulder ducked his head in acknowledgement, uncomfortable with any
further display of emotion. He watched as Anne shook Scully's hand with
another murmur of thanks before ushering them outside. When the door
shut firmly behind them he broke out into a cold sweat, his legs weak.

"You all right?" Scully asked softly as he raised a trembling hand to
brush the perspiration from his brow.

"Yeah. Just peachy."

She rolled her eyes, then frowned a little. "I remember you saying that
the Stombres were going through a divorce, even fighting over custody of
Jackie. They certainly seemed devoted just now."

Mulder shrugged, but his eyes were sad. "It's a fact of any tragedy,
Scully. It either brings people together or drives them apart."

Scully nodded, knowing without Mulder saying the words what the impact
on his family had been. She followed him down the walk, puzzled when he
turned left at the driveway and walked around the side of the house.

"Mulder? What are you doing?"

"Checking the ground outside Jackie's window," he called over his
shoulder as she labored to keep up with his long strides. "I thought I
saw something."

"It rained here last night. I don't think you're going to find
anything."

Might as well be talking to a brick wall. When Mulder was on the scent,
everyone and everything else was superfluous. Scully sighed, muttered a
few choice words, and followed.

By the time she caught up he was on his knees beneath the window, head
bowed to study the grass. His hand sifted through the long green blades
and he sat back on his haunches, something held tenderly between his
long fingers. Scully saw they were some kind of green leaves and
frowned, observing that there were no trees in the vicinity. As she
watched, Mulder lifted the leaves to his nose and sniffed.

"Mulder? Mulder, what is it?" Scully demanded as he closed his eyes and
went very still, the leaves quivering in his grasp.

"Mint. These are mint leaves, Scully," he muttered.

Deja vu again. As if it were yesterday, she heard Roche's soft, almost
gentle voice describe his abduction of Karen Ann Filipante.

*Mint grew outside her window. I stood outside her window atop sprigs of
mint*.

"What's happening, Scully?" Mulder asked, turning pleading eyes on her
face. "How could he have known?"


FBI Headquarters
Friday
7:00 p.m.


"Fox, eat," Grey ordered, setting a container of egg drop soup in front
of his brother.

"Yes, Mom," Mulder replied mockingly, but he picked up a spoon and took
small bite. "When did you say they'd have word on that handwriting?"

"I talked to Kristen about ten minutes before you two got back. She
promised she'd have the report done in an hour," Grey assured him.

Scully's eyes slid over to consider Grey carefully before moving on to
Mulder, who only took another sip of the soup and studied Anne
Stombres's official statement to the police. Scully rolled her eyes at
his indifference, forking another bite of shrimp fried rice into her
mouth. She, however, had heard something in Grey's voice when he talked
about Agent Harding -- not to mention the fact that he'd used her first
name. Very interesting. She'd have to revisit *that* subject at a later
date.

"Not that I don't already know what it's going to say," Mulder muttered,
slapping the casefile closed and staring into space. "It's *his*
writing. I know it."

"Mulder..." Scully protested. "You aren't honestly going to tell me that
you believe that John Lee Roche has returned from the dead to commit
these murders, are you?"

"You're only half right, Scully. He's definitely still dead, I'll grant
you that," Mulder said, his expression stony.

"So, what -- his ghost is committing the crimes? What are you trying to
say?" Scully pressed, annoyed by his stubborn persistence to take the
paranormal view. "Mulder, someone flesh and blood assaulted and
strangled those little girls. You're letting your emotions over this
case get the better of you."

Wrong thing to say, she knew it the moment it left her mouth.

"Oh, well then please enlighten me, Dr. Scully," Mulder sneered, his lip
curled in disdain. "How do you explain the evidence? The handwriting?
The killer's knowledge of my personal life? The damn mint leaves under
the window? Why don't you give me your oh-so-rational and scientific
explanation for that? I'm all ears!"

"It adds up to nothing, Mulder! There's a perfectly logical explanation
for those things, we just have to find it," Scully snapped, flushing.

"Such as?"

"Such as the Internet! The killer could have read all about the Roche
case, it's even conceivable that he could have obtained samples of
Roche's handwriting."

"Oh, that is such bullshit!" Mulder fumed.

Clang!

The metallic ringing startled them both and their heads snapped around
to discover the source. Grey stood grimly by a small metal table, a
ruler clutched in his hand and a grim expression on his face. He'd
evidently caused the sound by banging the ruler against the metal
tabletop, which still vibrated faintly.

"Okay, that's the end of this round. Now drop your fists and retire to
your neutral corners," he said dryly.

Scully had the good grace to look contrite. Mulder just scowled.

"Look," Grey continued, dropping the ruler and moving between them.
"We're all tired, and we're all frustrated. We also all want the same
thing. Turning on each other is not going to stop the next child from
being murdered."

"He's right," Scully agreed quickly, standing up and moving next to
Mulder. "And I'm sorry. I know you count on me to challenge your
theories, not disparage them."

Mulder reached out to grab her wrist, drawing her gently closer. "I'm
sorry too. I didn't exactly open my mind to your hypothesis either."

Grey smirked as they kissed, then jumped apart guiltily when the office
door opened and Agent Kristen Harding stepped inside, Skinner on her
heels.

"Hello, Agent Mulder, Agent Scully," she greeted. Her smile broadened a
little. "Hi, Grey."

Scully raised an eyebrow, her mouth quirking slightly when Grey noticed
and blushed.

*Hmmm. Very, very interesting*.

"You have the results?" Mulder asked, managing to sound both eager and
apprehensive at the same time. He stood up and came around to lean on
the front of his desk.

"Yes, I do. Though I can't say I can explain them," Agent Harding
admitted, brushing aside a strand of ash blonde hair. Her green eyes
looked momentarily at Grey before flitting over to Mulder.

"It's Roche's handwriting, isn't it?" Mulder pressed.

She frowned and chewed her lip. "It's a complete match," she affirmed.
She looked back at Skinner. "There's no mistake, sir. All the analysis
points to a 98.3 percent probability that the writing on Agent Mulder's
wall was made by John Lee Roche. It's all in my report." She handed it
to Mulder, still frowning. "It makes no sense."

"Thank you, Agent Harding," Skinner said gruffly. "I'm sure you've done
a fine job, as always. And thank you for putting in the overtime
necessary to finish this ASAP."

Harding smiled, revealing two dimples. "Thank you, sir. I just wish the
data could have been less confusing."

She turned to leave the office, but not before Scully saw her flash Grey
another small smile which he returned, eyes lingering on her until the
door closed and removed her from view.

An uneasy silence settled over the room. Mulder stared sightlessly at
the wall, pulling absently at his lower lip. Grey, Scully and Skinner
exchanged concerned glances until finally Skinner cleared his throat.

"I realize we're all scrambling to try and make sense of this," he said,
jaw clenched in the classic Skinner expression of frustration. "At this
point, I can't begin to guess at an explanation. Unfortunately, I didn't
come down to hear Agent Harding's report."

Mulder's eyes darted to Skinner's face, scrutinizing it intensely. "No,"
he murmured brokenly.

Skinner met his gaze without flinching, his brown eyes filled with
compassion and regret. "I'm afraid so, Mulder. He's taken another one."


Continued in part 11

Blood Ties IV: Shredded Hearts (11 of 16)
By Dawn
sunrise@avenew.com
Disclaimer in part 1


Chilmark, MA 
11:00 p.m. 
Friday


Under other circumstances Scully would have found the seating
arrangements amusing. Skinner had arranged for a bureau helicopter to
fly them to Martha's Vineyard, and a patrol car from the Chilmark PD
awaited them upon their arrival. Skinner, of course, had commandeered
the front seat, leaving Scully, Grey, and Mulder to cram into the back.
She now found herself in a position uncomfortably reminiscent of her
childhood -- sitting on the hump in the middle so that Mulder and Grey
had more room for their long legs. How many times had she sat similarly
squished between Bill and Melissa? God bless Charlie, who had come along
and forced her father to trade in the sedan for a station wagon.

So sitting here now, knees drawn up, left her feeling more like that
ill-tempered child than a grown woman. Any humor, however, died in the
face of Mulder's blank, shell-shocked expression as he gazed out the
window. Whoever the killer might be, he was pushing Mulder's buttons
with eerie accuracy. It actually did remind her of... She shoved the
thought away, offended that it had occurred to her.

Scully bit her lip savagely, wishing she could pull Mulder into her arms
and comfort him but all too aware of the Chilmark officer quietly
talking with Skinner on the other side of the steel mesh. She closed her
eyes, only to recall vividly the devastated look on Mulder's face when
Skinner informed them that eight-year-old Callie Westin had been
abducted from her home in Chilmark, not three miles from the house where
Samantha Mulder disappeared. That it had happened while her 13-year-old
brother was babysitting her after school. Since then, Mulder had been
operating on automatic pilot, his body present but his mind on two
little girls inexplicably linked by a madman.

The Westin home shone like a beacon in the darkness, every light ablaze
and surrounded by flashes of red and blue. Neighbors stood out in front
of their homes, watching the activity with grim fascination and talking
quietly among themselves. The police car pulled smoothly to the curb,
the sudden cessation of the engine a harsh reminder that they'd arrived
at their destination. Their driver exited the car quickly, leaving them
blinking in the sudden brilliance of the dome light. Mulder unfolded
himself from the back seat, regaining enough presence of mind to extend
a helping hand to Scully as she crawled out after him.

Skinner regarded them sharply, leaning one muscled arm against the roof
of the car. "Emotions are running high on this case," he said, keeping
his voice low. "I just want to remind you three that it's imperative you
maintain the utmost professionalism. Let's not make things any harder
for these people than we have to."

"I'm not going inside," Grey said, ignoring Scully and Mulder's stares.
"I think there's more than enough people in there already and I'll just
feel underfoot. I'd rather take a look around out here, see if I spot
anything useful."

Mulder reached into the pocket of his trenchcoat and extracted a
flashlight. "Here. I was a Boy Scout."

Grey snorted. "In what lifetime?"

Scully could have kissed him when Mulder grinned. Grey possessed a knack
for delivering just the remark to turn his brother from the darkness.
She unobtrusively gave his hand a small squeeze of gratitude as she
moved past him toward the house.

Organized chaos. Though small, the Chilmark police department had
rallied well to handle the Westins' crisis. Forensics was concentrated
in the back of the home, where the kidnapper had entered to remove
Callie from her bedroom. A short, heavy-set man with an authoritative
air questioned a couple sitting on the living room couch, hands linked
tightly together. Both looked to be in their 40s -- the woman's brown
hair peppered lightly with the beginnings of gray, the man sporting a
generous amount of silver at the temples. For a moment, as Scully
studied her face, the woman seemed familiar. Abruptly she realized it
was not Mrs. Westin's features that struck a responsive chord within
her, but the ravaged expression. The puffy eyes and haunted gaze echoed
Ann Stombres's with frightening accuracy.

Skinner stepped forward to introduce himself to the cop asking the
questions, a Captain Eddings. Mulder hung back, nudging Scully and then
ducking his head to speak softly in her ear.

"I'd like you to question them, Scully. I don't think I'm up for this
one. I'd rather just listen in and check out the crime scene."

Two separate emotions played tug o' war with her heart, battling for
predominance. Overwhelming relief that Mulder recognized his fragile
sense of control and was acting to preserve it. Deep sadness that the
killer had reduced him to such a state. Scully pasted on a smile she'd
seen in a magazine.

"No problem, partner."

Mulder's answering nod told her he recognized the counterfeit nature of
the smile but wouldn't call her on it. Scully turned her attention back
to Skinner just as he was making introductions to the Westins.

"...Special Agent Dana Scully and her partner Special Agent Fox Mulder.
They'd like to ask you a few questions of their own, if you could just
bear with us for a little bit longer."

Mulder listened while Scully took the Westins through the usual battery
of questions, leading them through the events up to and just after
Callie had disappeared. His ears registered the couple's strained,
halting answers while his eyes roved about the room, learning more about
the Westins as people and not just victims.

"Jason always watches Callie for the hour and a half after school until
I get home from work," Trish Westin recounted tearfully. "He's been
doing it for over a year now, and there's never been any problems. I
never thought anything like this..."

Mulder moved slowly around the sofa to a cherry table against the wall
that displayed a myriad of family photos, some candid and some
professional portraits. In one, a grinning boy that could only be Jason
carried a much smaller Callie piggyback, her eyes sparkling
mischievously at the camera as she waved her right hand. A sharp pain
pierced him, and his heart felt as if it literally twisted in his chest.

*Bad idea, Mulder. You're supposed to be maintaining some distance,
remember?*

"So Jason heard a sound that caused him to check on Callie? May I speak
to him directly?" Scully asked gently.

"Our pediatrician was by earlier and gave him something to help him
sleep," Ted Westin replied, defensiveness creeping into his voice. "He
was pretty shaken up."

"Understandably," Scully murmured. "Can you tell me exactly what Jason
told you he heard?"

"He said it sounded like Callie gasped," Trish began. Her eyes filled
with tears and she struggled to contain them before continuing. "He
thought maybe she was just playing at first. Callie has a very fertile
imagination, and she's always making up adventures, play-acting. He
called out to see if she was all right, but she didn't answer. That's
when he went back to her room, but..."

Her voice cracked and she covered her mouth with one hand as if to catch
the small sob that broke free. Her husband tightened his already iron
grip on her hand.

"Callie was gone. The screen was off the open window and she was no
where in sight," he finished gruffly. "Jason ran outside to look for
her, and when he couldn't find her he called Trish."

"I was mad at her," Trish whispered. "Mad that I had to leave work early
for what I was sure was a prank to scare Jason. They're always doing
little things like that to tease each other."

Unable to listen any longer, Mulder headed down another hallway to
another little girl's room. Defeat tried to envelop him like a hug from
an old friend but he shrugged it off angrily.

*She's still alive. It's not too late.*

Callie's room was as different from Jackie's as night and day. Where
Jackie's had been soft and feminine from floor to ceiling, Callie's bore
the distinct influence of an older brother. Star Wars figures resided
beside baby dolls, a soccer ball next to ballet slippers. Helplessly,
Mulder's thoughts turned to Sam, the girl who could hit a baseball but
still liked to dress up in his mother's clothes and have tea parties
with her dolls. He blinked rapidly, weaving among the officers dusting
for fingerprints and using small vacuum cleaners to retrieve hairs and
fibers.

"Any luck?"

A young policewoman looked up from her fingerprint kit, a grimace of
frustration distorting her features. "It's not looking good. They're
saying this is another of the Paper Hearts murders. Is that true?"

Mulder turned away, fighting nausea at her words. "Not if I can help
it," he growled.

He stalked back out of the room, intending to return to Scully and
Skinner when his eye caught a flicker of movement from across the hall.
A door, cracked slightly so that a tendril of light shone through, shut
quickly and Mulder heard the sound of retreating footsteps. He wavered a
moment, then stepped over to the door and knocked softly.

"Go away."

The voice was young, scared, and coated in misery. On another night, in
another time, it could have been his own. Mulder closed his eyes
tightly, then knocked again.

"I said, go away. I'm not talking to the police tonight, they said I
didn't have to."

"I'm not the police, I'm FBI," Mulder said dryly. "Does that count?"

Silence at first, then sounds of footstep returning. The door cracked
open and two brown eyes regarded Mulder carefully.

"Honest? Like that guy in those Jose Chung books that hunts aliens with
his partner?"

Mulder winced. "You *read* that stuff?"

The door opened a bit more -- now he could make out sandy brown hair and
the freckled face of the boy in the photo.

"I read everything. You didn't answer the question. You're really FBI?"

Mulder grinned and used his index finger to draw an X over his heart.
"Truth," he promised. "My name is Agent Mulder. Can I talk to you a
minute, Jason?"

The boy's reluctance was as obvious as his curiosity. "I guess so. But
come in here. They think I'm sleeping, but I threw that pill they gave
me away." He shuddered a little. "I don't want to sleep."

Mulder squeezed into the bedroom, glancing at a life-size poster of
Michael Jordan that adorned one wall before turning his gaze back to
Jason. The boy wandered over to plunk down atop his rumpled bed and
Mulder pulled out the desk chair for himself. Jason eyed him warily.

"You probably want to know how I could let someone just walk in here and
take my little sister," he said angrily. "After all I was the older
brother, right? I was supposed to be in charge."

Mulder felt the breath leave his lungs as if he'd been sucker-punched.
He tried to cover his distress by adjusting the angle of his chair,
deliberately taking slow, deep breaths as he did so.

*God, if you're up there like Scully thinks you are, cut me some slack.
I don't know how much more of this I can take.*

Jason squinted at him, evidently not fooled by his stunt with the chair.
"Why do you look like that?" he demanded.

"Like what?" Mulder said evasively.

"When I said that about being in charge your face got all white and you
looked like you wanted to cry. Why? She's not *your* sister."

Mulder had to admire the kid's powers of observation, if even they were
irritating the heck out of him at the moment. He returned Jason's
calculated stare and decided the boy deserved the truth. Beneath all his
brave words and stoic front, Mulder detected a crushing grief that only
a kindred spirit might recognize. If only just one person in his life
had understood, had stopped to assure him that Samantha's abduction
wasn't his fault...

"My sister was kidnapped when I was twelve. My parents were next door at
a neighbor's house and I was babysitting."

Jason's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You're not making that up to get me
to talk to you, are you? 'Cause that would be pretty cold."

Mulder shrugged. "Believe what you like. What matters is that I'm here
to help find your sister. If you saw or heard anything important, I need
to know."

"I didn't think so at first. I mean, when I first came into her room I
thought she was just playing a joke on me. That she was hiding under her
bed, or had snuck out the window and around to the back yard." Jason's
hard eyes softened into that of a confused little boy. "But then she
didn't come out. And Mom was crying and calling the police and they
started asking me lots of questions and getting me all confused and..."
A single tear trickled down his cheek. "Now I'm not sure."

"You're doing fine," Mulder assured him, meaning it. He couldn't help
admiring Jason's fortitude under the circumstances. "Could you tell me
what you thought you heard?"

Jason shook his head, but not as a refusal to speak. "Not heard. Saw.
When I first came into Callie's room and I saw the screen wasn't on the
window, I thought she'd broken it and was hiding so she wouldn't get in
trouble. When I looked out to see if I could find the screen, I think I
saw a car parked out on the street just behind the bushes."

Mulder tried to contain his excitement. It might turn out to be a dead
end, but it was the closest thing to an eyewitness they'd had so far.
Recalling Jason's words about a barrage of questions from the police, he
kept his voice deliberately nonchalant.

"Can you describe it for me?"

Jason closed his eyes as if searching an inner screen in his mind. "It
was white," he said slowly. "And long. And I think it had one of those
tops on it -- you know, with the windows in them?"

All the spit left his mouth. "A camper shell," Mulder stated, licking
his lips. "Anything else?"

Jason shook his head, still studying Mulder's face as if he were
preparing for an exam. If he noticed the discomfort this time, he didn't
question it, moving on to another topic. "Did they blame you? When your
sister disappeared?"

Mulder sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. "Yeah. Not as much
as I blamed myself, though."

He stood up and moved over to the door, wanting badly to get out of the
room, away from the sight of his own eyes in the child's face. He paused
with his hand mid-way through turning the doorknob. Forcing down the
maelstrom of his own fear and confusion he sought out Jason and captured
those eyes with his own.

"I want you to listen to me now, Jason, and if you only remember one
thing someone said to you tonight I want this to be it. This. Was. Not.
Your. Fault. You couldn't have stopped Callie from being taken, no
matter what you might have done differently."

Jason didn't nod, only appeared to absorb Mulder's appeal and file it
away for later consideration. Mulder opened the door but froze when
Jason suddenly spoke.

"Agent Mulder? You never said what happened to your sister. Did you ever
find her?"

Dark, humorless laughter threatened to erupt from his lips, and Mulder
clamped them tightly together.

*Kid, you have no idea what a loaded question that is.*

"I'm not sure," he admitted aloud.

Jason frowned. "How about Callie? Can you find her?"

Mulder resisted the urge to avoid the boy's probing stare. "I'm going to
do everything in my power."

Astonishingly enough, his promise satisfied Jason and he bobbed his
head, turning away.

Mulder stepped into the hall and closed the door. The noise, bright
lights, and commotion seemed overpowering after the quiet intensity of
his sojourn in Jason's room, battering his senses relentlessly. He
pressed both palms flat against the wall and leaned his forehead against
the smooth surface, shutting his eyes. Disjointed images and snippets of
conversation scrambled together in his sleep-deprived brain.

*Mulder, promise me you'll try to keep your perspective.*

*Do you have any idea what it's like to be the victim, to have someone
you loved stolen from you?*

*You went behind my back to Skinner? How could you do that to me,
Scully?*

*You're not just getting into his head, Mulder, you've let him get into
yours.*

*Did they blame you?*

And she was beside him, as always, when he needed her most. A soft, cool
hand pressed to the back of his neck, ruffling the hair. Mulder cracked
open one eye to find Scully regarding him with concern and an almost
blinding love.

"I need to get out of here," he said hoarsely.

Without hesitation or speaking another word, Scully took his hand and
led him back through the living room and out the front door. When they
reached the car, Mulder leaned back against the door and stared up at
the star-filled sky. Scully followed suit, ignoring the fact that her
body pressed more tightly along his than protocol would dictate. She
felt him lean into her gratefully, but he remained silent.

After several minutes Skinner and Grey joined them.

"There's a good sized puddle of oil near the curb where the street runs
behind those lilac bushes," Grey said, handing Mulder his flashlight.
"Looks like a car was parked there for awhile. Our friend has a leak.
Unfortunately, that doesn't tell us anything about the model."

"A white El Camino," Mulder said woodenly. "With a camper shell."

Scully pushed off the side of the car and spun to add her incredulous
stare with the others. "Mulder, that's..."

"Roche's car. I know, I dreamed it, remember?" Mulder replied bitterly.

"Roche? Where did you get that description?" Skinner demanded sharply,
one hand fiddling with something in the pocket of his coat.

"Jason Westin. I spoke with him just now. He saw the car when he went in
to look for Callie," Mulder explained. "Just the car, nothing else."

"He wasn't sleeping?" Scully questioned.

"Obviously. He palmed the sedative that the doctor gave him." Mulder's
lips curved a little. "He's a tough kid. Scared and confused, but
tough."

Scully heard the emotion behind Mulder's words and returned to his side,
slipping her hand into his. He looked down at her and cocked an eyebrow,
imitating her familiar gesture.

"Got an explanation for this one, Scully?"

Scully's brow creased in irritation. "A different one from yours, I'm
sure," she said dryly. "Though I do admit that it's unnerving..."

"It's worse," Skinner cut in grimly, finally removing his hand from his
pocket to reveal a piece of paper in a sealed evidence bag. Mulder
sucked his lip between his teeth, eyes riveted on the note.

"They found this in Callie's room, under her pillow," Skinner explained
tersely. "It had your name on the envelope, Mulder. I'm not sure what it
means, but I have a feeling you will."

Mulder continued to stare at the proffered bag for a moment before
reaching for it with a trembling hand. The streetlight illuminated the
neat, almost feminine handwriting, identical to that found on his
apartment wall. Mulder's eyes moved rapidly over the words and he slid
slowly down the side of the car, curling forward to rest his head on his
knees. Scully removed the note from his slack fingers and read, an
involuntary gasp wrenched from her throat. The message was simple and
all too familiar.

*I can't wait to see your face.*


Continued in part 12

Blood Ties IV: Shredded Hearts (12 of 16)
By Dawn
sunrise@avenew.com
Disclaimer in part 1


Holiday Inn 
Boston 
Saturday 
3:30 a.m.


"SAMANTHA!"

The scream tore Scully from a deep sleep and sent her fumbling blindly
for her weapon, knocking the alarm clock on the floor in the process.
Her initial panic faded as she became more aware of her surroundings and
her ears registered the harsh, jagged breathing of the man beside her.
The pale moonlight reduced Mulder to little more than an indistinct
silhouette, but Scully could feel the tremors that wracked his body as
they vibrated through the mattress. She reached over to switch on the
small bedside lamp, its illumination muted but enough to chase back the
shadows.

Scully observed him carefully for a moment without attempting to touch
him. Shortly after the shift in their relationship she'd been awakened
by Mulder in the throes of a particularly intense nightmare and had
rushed to comfort him, winding up with a bloody nose for her efforts.
She'd taken it in stride, even made a small joke, but Mulder had been
horrified. Since then, she'd learned to use a more cautious approach.

He sat rigidly upright, hands fisted in the bedclothes, knees drawn up,
and eyes staring wildly at the wall. His tee shirt stuck to his back and
a light sheen of perspiration coated his face. Scully saw that he was in
the "in-between" place, no longer asleep but not really cognizant
either. She very gently lay her right hand on the nape of Mulder's neck,
brushing her thumb back and forth over the short hairs there. It was an
action she'd performed many times, and she knew it calmed him. After a
couple minutes he dropped his forehead onto his knees and relaxed just a
bit, though an occasional shudder still signaled his distress.

"A seven?" she asked quietly, referring to the scale they'd invented to
rate Mulder's nightmares -- one signifying merely strange and ten
indicating paralyzing terror.

"More like an eight," Mulder replied, the words muffled.

"Want to talk about it?" Scully tried hard to keep the question neutral,
but it wasn't easy. Truth was, she longed to have Mulder open up and
confide in her, but he remained especially reticent about his nightmares
-- claimed he'd only scare her with his scarred psyche.

"It was an old favorite -- Roche kidnapping Samantha while I watch,"
Mulder said, voice deceptively light. He didn't add that in the dream
he'd been an adult, and that Jason Westin had appeared, pointing his
finger accusingly and snarling, "How could you possibly save *my*
sister? You couldn't even save your own!" Instead Mulder just added,
"I'm fine, Scully, no big deal."

Rather than call him a liar, Scully slipped out of bed and padded into
the bathroom. She filled the tumbler on the sink with cold water and
after taking a sip herself, returned and nudged Mulder, whose head was
still propped on his knees. She lay back down and watched him drain the
rest, noting the way the water sloshed as he brought it to his lips.
Mulder set the glass carefully on the floor by the bed and finally met
her eyes.

"Thanks, Scully."

She looked at him -- tousled hair, shadowed eyes, tentative smile -- and
two thoughts filled her mind. The first:

*This man is extremely high maintenance, and always will be.*

And immediately on the heels of that:

*I love him. There's no place else I'd rather be.*

Mulder looked at her quizzically. "Scully?"

"Hmm?"

"What were you thinking just now? You had a funny look on your face."

Scully smiled. "That the only good thing about a nightmare is having
someone hold you afterwards," she said.

The look that spread over his face was a gift, and well worth a thousand
sleepless nights. Mulder could be a bastard -- arrogant, cynical, and
insensitive. Life had hardened him in many ways, caused him to take on
layer after layer of protection. She was one of the very few allowed to
view those layers from a different angle. To see the childlike wonder.
The unwavering loyalty. The selfless love. The world only saw the
irritation. Scully saw the pearl.

Scully flicked off the light as Mulder uncurled and snuggled down beside
her, his head pillowed on her chest. She pressed a kiss to the hair on
the top of his head and curled her arm around his shoulders.

"You want me to give you something to help you sleep?" she
asked gently.

A slight shake of his head was her answer, and she didn't press. She ran
her fingertips lightly up and down the skin of his arm, smiling when he
shivered a little, then went boneless.

"I know you don't believe that Roche is the killer, Scully," he murmured
drowsily. "And I know it sounds crazy. I'm the one who put the bullet in
his head, after all. But the mint leaves, the car, the note -- how can
you explain it?"

Scully sighed. "I don't know, love. I'll admit, when I saw that note I
was shocked. But there must be a logical explanation. Those interviews
were filmed; maybe the killer managed to get his hands on the
videotapes. As for the car - - well, we can trace that through the DMV
tomorrow. We know it's still out there somewhere."

Mulder didn't respond, but she could tell he was still awake, felt his
tension return. "How do *you* explain it, Mulder?"

"Remember Luther Lee Boggs? He claimed he could channel the souls of the
dead. If I remember correctly, he even had *you* believing him. What if
our killer is somehow channeling Roche?"

Scully grimaced at the memory. "That was a difficult time for me,
Mulder. I was vulnerable, you said so yourself."

Mulder lifted his head to stare into her eyes, mouth curving. "You
believed him, Scully. You can't deny that."

Scully's mouth moved soundlessly as she desperately attempted to refute
him, but Mulder only laid his head back down, still smiling.

"I still think we need to explore a more mundane interpretation," she
finally insisted.

"Hey, Scully. In our line of work, channeling *is* mundane," Mulder
replied smugly. He sucked in a deep gulp of air and nuzzled his face
into the silk of her pajama top. "I have to find her, Scully. Before
it's too late."

The pronoun usage was not lost on Scully. She lifted her hand and wove
her fingers into his hair, tugging gently until he raised his head. "WE,
Mulder. I know that Jason got to you tonight, and I understand why. But
you aren't the only one that wants to bring that little girl home
safely. Skinner, Grey, and I are in this, too."

Mulder ducked his head in a silent concession, then smiled. "I can't
believe he's spending his vacation time like this," he said, referring
to his brother. "It's not exactly the downtime he'd intended."

Scully pursed her lips, eyes twinkling. "It may have its side benefits."

Mulder's head popped back up. "What are you talking about? Why do you
suddenly look like the cat that ate the canary?"

"Let's just say someone at the bureau finds your brother
very...interesting. And the feeling seems to be mutual."

Mulder's eyebrow arched. "Who?"

"Agent Harding," Scully said, enjoying her chance to be smug.

"Get out!"

"I'm serious, Mulder! If you hadn't been so wrapped up in the case you
might've seen the looks they were giving each other. Did you notice they
were on a first name basis?"

Mulder snorted. "He's on a first name basis with *Walt* too, but I'm
pretty sure that doesn't indicate attraction." He feigned a shudder.
"God, what an image!"

Scully smacked his shoulder but couldn't avoid snickering. "Don't take
my word for it then. Just watch the next time they're together."

"I never saw you as the matchmaker type, babe," Mulder said smirking.
"Gonna have to start calling you 'yenta,' I guess."

Scully bit back her retort when his hand crept up and he began casually
unbuttoning her pajama top, all the while pressing soft kisses to the
skin that was revealed.

"Mulder? What are you doing?" she asked a little breathlessly.

"Changed my mind," he answered in a husky voice that sent shivers up her
spine. "I'm taking you up on your offer."

"Offer?" Her fingers tightened in his hair and she wriggled a little as
he hit a particularly sensitive spot.

"Yeah, you know. To give me something to help me sleep."

Scully closed her eyes and sighed again, this time in contentment.
"Never let it be said I reneged on an offer."


Brockton, MA 
Saturday 
9:30 a.m.


Mulder leaned against the car and stared at the small, rundown bungalow
while he waited for Scully to join him. The early morning sunshine had
given way to dark clouds that threatened rain, and a cool breeze ruffled
his tie and provoked a small shiver.

"Definitely a fixer-upper," he remarked dryly, indicating the roof
shedding shingles and the peeling paint.

"This is the place," Scully confirmed. "Steve Cole, 1414 Dinah Avenue.
She smiled. "Relax, Mulder. I'm sure he's forgotten all about the way
you helped him detail the car."

"I still find it awfully coincidental that he's living in the Boston
area," Mulder mused, ignoring her jibe. "When do the records say he
moved here?"

"Not long after we saw him. He was a kid still living with his parents
then, Mulder. He's twenty-three now, and a mechanic at a local car
dealership."

Mulder started ambling toward the house. "All right. Let's hear what
he's got to say."

Steve Cole had matured since the day they'd searched Roche's old El
Camino at his home in Hollyville, Delaware. He'd lost the gangliness of
a teenager and become more muscular, now sporting a mustache in addition
to his shoulder-length sandy hair. He greeted them politely and ushered
them into a tiny, cluttered living room. Scully shot Mulder an amused
glance as she moved aside several tee shirts to sit down on the couch.

"You understand why we're here, don't you Mr. Cole?" she began briskly.

Cole frowned. "Not really. I explained on the phone, Agent Scully, that
I no longer have that car. I reported it stolen over three months ago
--you can check the police report."

"We've seen the report, Mr. Cole, but we needed to follow up on this
personally. We have a witness that placed a car like yours at the scene
of a kidnapping, and it's vital we do everything we can to track it
down," Scully explained patiently.

Cole's annoyance turned to interest. "Really? That car's something else,
huh? First owned by a serial killer and now stolen by a kidnapper.
Cool."

"We'd just like to hear the details surrounding the theft," Mulder spoke
up when he saw Scully's lips tighten and her eyes narrow. "When it
happened, how you discovered the car was missing -- that sort of thing."

"Happened two months ago, on July 18. I remember because it was exactly
two weeks after the fourth," Cole said helpfully. "I'd gone out with
some friends and got back at about 8 that night. Never would have
noticed the car was missing until the morning, 'cept I needed to fix the
towel bar in the bathroom and I keep my toolbox in the garage. When I
got out back I saw the lock had been jimmied and the car was gone."

"None of your neighbors saw anything suspicious?" Scully asked.

Cole's lip curled in disdain. "There's not exactly a neighborhood watch
around here. No one would notice if you marched naked down the middle of
the street singing the Star Spangled Banner. No, no witnesses."

Mulder seemed about to comment on Cole's illustration but Scully nipped
it in the bud with a warning glare. "Anything else you think we should
know? Any ideas who might have taken it?" he asked instead.

Cole shrugged. "Beats me. It wasn't exactly worth much, though I'd fixed
it up and it still ran well." He eyed Mulder shrewdly. "This kidnapping
has something to do with those Paper Hearts murders, doesn't it? I've
seen it on television. You think the guy sending you those hearts stole
my car?"

"Thank you for your time, Mr. Cole," Scully said shortly, standing up
and offering her hand. "I'm sure you can appreciate the fact that we
aren't at liberty to discuss the specifics of an ongoing investigation."

If Cole resented her brusqueness he didn't let on, merely saw them to
the door without further comment.

"What do you think?" Mulder asked, leaning back into the passenger seat
while Scully buckled her seat belt.

"I think he typifies the worst in human nature  -- the sick fascination
with car accidents and other disasters," Scully replied, pursing her
lips in distaste. "Other than that, I'd say he's a dead end. The police
were unable to collect any useful evidence at the time of the theft, so
we have no way of knowing who took the car or where he is now." She
pulled her eyes from the road long enough to take in Mulder's defeated
expression. "Sorry, love. I'd hoped this would be our break, too."

Mulder closed his eyes. "All I can hear is the ticking of the clock,
Scully. Time's running out for Callie Westin."

There was really nothing to say to that, so Scully just drove in
silence. Though the drive to the Boston field office took less than 30
minutes, Mulder surprised her by slipping into a deep sleep. Risking his
wrath, she changed course and returned to their hotel, shaking him
gently awake when he didn't rouse on his own. He mumbled an apology as
he sat up, rubbing his eyes and blinking. When he realized their
location he scowled.

"Why are we here, Scully? I thought we were headed back to the bureau."

Scully mustered every ounce of patience she possessed. "Mulder, you're
exhausted. Go grab a nap, there's nothing you can do right now anyway.
Grey's coordinating the lab analysis with the D.C. bureau and he'll call
when the results come in. And Skinner asked me to accompany him to get
an official statement from Jason Westin."

Mulder's brow furrowed. "Why you? I'm the one he talked to last night.
Or did Skinner forget that?" he asked through clenched teeth.

"He didn't forget," she replied mildly, curbing her own irritation and
the desire to snarl, "Why not me?" "He's worried about you, Mulder. He
sees what this case is doing to you, and he's trying to spare you any
unnecessary stress. This won't be easy for Jason, and Skinner feels you
are too emotionally invested to remain objective."

"I'm touched you all seem to know me so much better than I know myself,"
Mulder sneered. "Tell me, Scully, do you and Skinner have a
regularly-scheduled time when you meet to decide my life for me? You
know, whether to remove me from a case, whether or not I'm capable of
conducting an interview? Is it marked on your calendar?"

"Stop it!" Scully snapped, flushing with anger. "You know that's
ridiculous! I already apologized about asking Skinner to take you off
the case. Anyway, this is completely different!"

"Is it? It doesn't feel different."

"I had nothing to do with this! Skinner made the decision."

"But you agree with him, don't you? You were only too happy to go along
with it. Go along with *him*," Mulder said nastily.

Scully's eyes widened. "What exactly are you implying?"

"You figure it out."

"No. You're the one that brought it up. What did you mean?" Scully's
voice shook with fury, masking the impending tears.

Mulder looked at her, his face expressionless. "I'm not blind, Scully.
I've seen the way Skinner looks at you. Hell, he made a deal with
Cancerman for you! Who could blame you for getting tired of my shit and
wanting someone lower maintenance?"

Scully could only gape at him in shock as he threw open the car door,
her mind stuck on the fact that Mulder had echoed her own thoughts of
the previous night.

"Mulder..." she said helplessly.

He leaned in the open door. "Save it, Scully. I'm too tired, remember? I
need a nap."

He shut the door firmly and didn't look back. Scully leaned her forehead
against the slick plastic of the steering wheel and wondered what
exactly had just happened.


Continued in part 13

Blood Ties IV: Shredded Hearts (13 of 16) 
By Dawn
sunrise@avenew.com
Disclaimer in part 1


Holiday Inn 
Boston 
Saturday 11:15 a.m.


Remorse hit fifteen minutes later. That was the problem with remorse,
Mulder mused, lying on the bed with his fingers laced beneath his neck.
It always came too late, after the damage was done. Definitely not a
proactive emotion.

So he lay on his back, replaying the argument with Scully over and over
in his mind, wincing in all the spots where he'd acted like a jackass.
He found himself wincing a lot.

The little voice in his head, the one that had whispered from the
beginning that his relationship with Scully was doomed to failure, had
risen to a shriek. Mulder had few misconceptions about his character. He
loved Scully too much not to admit she deserved better than he could
offer. Maybe after today, she'd come to the same conclusion.

His thoughts meandered from Scully to Jason, and from Jason to Callie.
His bitter disappointment over the lead to Roche's car tasted like bile
in the back of his throat. The first concrete piece of evidence in three
long months, and it had ended in a brick wall. Mulder's eyes slipped
shut and he drifted, neither awake nor asleep, but somewhere in between.
He recalled meeting Steve Cole for the first time and finding Roche's
collection of hearts hidden in the El Camino's camper shell, tucked
between the pages of a copy of Alice in Wonderland.

Alice in Wonderland. Sam had adored the book, coaxing him to read it
aloud to her countless nights at bedtime. The rumors that Lewis Carroll
had been a pedophile coupled with Roche's twisted obsession tainted but
couldn't completely negate those happy memories. He remembered Sam
dressing as Alice for Halloween one year, furious when he teased her
mercilessly by pointing out that Alice was a blonde, not a brunette.
She'd even used their old and bad tempered cat as a prop, insisting
everyone call the feline Dinah, like Alice's cat...

Dinah.

Mulder's eyes flew open and he bolted upright so abruptly that his
vision momentarily grayed while the blood struggled to catch up with his
head. How could he have forgotten? Alice had a cat named Dinah. And
Steve Cole currently resided on Dinah Avenue. Coincidence? Not likely.

Mulder carefully searched his memory, analyzing Cole's every word. Like
a slap in the face, it hit him.

*You think the guy sending you those hearts stole my car?*

*No one* knew the killer mailed the hearts personally to Mulder. The
media had ferreted out the fact of their existence, but only a handful
of agents directly assigned to the case knew he was the recipient. So
how had Cole known?

Unless Steve Cole was the killer.

Mulder stood and began to pace, running his fingers nervously through
his hair. Time to use logic. Scully would be proud. He felt a splinter
of pain at the thought and set it deliberately aside. Callie's life
depended on his full attention.

Fact one: Steve Cole owned Roche's old El Camino, conveniently reporting
it stolen just prior to the first murder.

Fact two: Steve Cole moved to the Boston area, the city Roche once made
his home and where he'd spent his final hours. In addition, he lived on
a street that bore the name of a character from the book that was the
crux of Roche's obsession.

Fact three: Cole knew the killer sent Mulder the cloth hearts,
information that had not been made available to the police, let alone
the general public.

Conclusion?

At the very least, Steve Cole merited a closer look. Mulder stalked over
to his suit jacket and fished out his cell phone, dialing the Boston
field office with trembling fingers.

"Yes, I'm trying to locate Detective Grey McKenzie," he told the
frighteningly perky receptionist. "He's working on the Westin
kidnapping. This is Special Agent Fox Mulder, could you page him for
me?"

Mulder waited, pacing restlessly in the small confines of the room.
Outside, rain pattered on the window in a soft staccato beat broken
occasionally by a low rumble of thunder. He stared at the dark,
low-hanging clouds and thought about Callie Westin, scared and
vulnerable, in the custody of a killer.

"Come on, come on," he muttered under his breath, left hand clenching
and unclenching in an impotent fist.

"I'm sorry, Agent Mulder, but they said he stepped out to get some
lunch," the receptionist said cheerfully. "Can I take a message or have
him call you?"

"No. I mean, yes! Tell him I said that I think Cole is our man, and I'm
going to check him out," Mulder said hurriedly. "Tell him to get Agent
Scully and meet me there."

"Yes, sir."

Mulder hung up and flipped the phone book open to the car rental
section, grimacing when he considered Scully's reaction to what he was
about to do. He'd promised -- no more ditching. But Grey was
unreachable, and if he called Scully she'd insist he wait until she and
Skinner could get back from the interview with Jason. Too much time
wasted, time that Callie didn't have. Jason's solemn face popped into
his mind.

*What about Callie? Can you find her?*

Mulder picked up the phone and dialed.


On route to Brockton 
Saturday 
1:30 p.m.


Scully received Grey's frantic call when she and Skinner were still
about 30 minutes from the Boston bureau. They'd taken the helicopter to
New Bedford, where Jason and his parents had met them for the interview,
and were nearing Logan Airport when Scully's phone chirped and all hell
broke loose. Skinner broke several speed records to reach the bureau,
where Grey was ready and waiting to jump into the car.

"Tell me again -- everything," Scully demanded tersely as they sped down
Highway 24 to Brockton.

"Dana, there's not much to tell," Grey replied, his own frustration
evident. "I left to grab some lunch at about 11:30. When I got back
there was a message from Fox saying that he believed Steve Cole was the
killer and he was going to investigate. He said for us to meet him
there."

Scully cursed like the sailor's daughter she was, oblivious to Skinner
and Grey's surprise. "He swore to me that his ditching days were over!"

"He's not thinking past Callie Westin," Grey remarked quietly. "I heard
him scream out Samantha's name last night. This case has crossed the
line for Fox, become far too personal."

"I know that!" Scully snapped. She stopped and took a deep breath,
calming herself. "I'm sorry, Grey, I don't mean to take this out on you.
This is my fault. I never should have left him alone, not knowing the
state he was in." She closed her eyes and rubbed her temples. "Past
experience should have taught me a lesson."

Skinner, who had remained conspicuously silent since Grey's phone call,
glanced sharply at her from his position in the driver's seat. "I was
wrong back then, Scully. I should never have made you responsible for
Mulder, it wasn't your job."

"But it is now," Scully said softly, catching her lip between her teeth
and gazing out the window at the slackening rain.

"Scully, you were there this morning, you heard the same things Mulder
did. Can you think of anything Cole may have said or done that would
have convinced Mulder he was the killer?" Skinner asked mildly, trying
to direct the conversation to more a more productive topic.

Scully considered the question carefully, frowning. "He told us about
how the car was stolen," she recalled slowly, then made a face. "He
thought it was 'cool' that first a serial killer and then a kidnapper
would be interested in the car. Creep."

"Then he asked if our interest had anything to do with the Paper Hearts
case and..." Scully broke off abruptly, going very still.

Grey leaned over the back seat. "What? What did you remember?"

"He said something about Mulder receiving the hearts. But that's
confidential, the only way he could know that is if..."

"He's sending them," Skinner cut in grimly, pressing his foot more
firmly to the gas pedal. "Hang on, we're almost there."

Cole's street lay deserted and silent. A single tan sedan hugged the
curb halfway down the block from the bungalow. Skinner parked behind it
and they got out, Scully striding over quickly to peer in the windows.

"Looks like a rental," she observed, worry creeping into her voice.
"Could be Mulder."

Skinner reached the front door first and ignored the doorbell, pounding
on the wood with the side his fist. "Federal agent, open the door!" he
ordered loudly.

Cole didn't come to the door, and they detected no movement through the
half-opened blinds on the picture window. Skinner repeated his order
once more, then stepped back and delivered a strong kick that splintered
the cheap wood and sent the door rocking back on its hinges.

Seconds after entering, Scully knew the house was deserted. She went
through the motions, spreading out from Grey and Skinner to search the
four small rooms thoroughly, but her heart thumped wildly in growing
fear. Her Mulder alarm, engaged the moment she'd answered her phone to
Grey's barely concealed panic, had risen steadily in volume until it
blocked out all other thought. Her heart already knew Cole was the
killer, and that somehow he'd taken Mulder. It was just a matter of
confirmation.

They met up in the kitchen at the back of the house, empty handed.
Skinner, his weapon still gripped in both hands, gestured out the back
door at the ramshackle, single-car garage. Scully and Grey followed
silently as he led the way across the tiny backyard to the structure.
The large wooden door hung partially open, the bottom suspended two feet
above the concrete floor. No one was surprised when Grey lifted it the
rest of the way with an earsplitting squeal of rusty hinges to reveal a
vacant interior.

Scully spied a dark patch on the filthy floor, and walked quickly over
to examine it more closely. Skinner watched as she leaned down and
touched two fingers to the spot, then rubbed the substance between
fingers and thumb and gave it a small sniff.

"Oil," she announced, the word ripe with unspoken emotion. "It's fresh.
I'm sure the lab will find that it matches the oil found at Callie
Westin's house."

"He could still be all right, Scully," Skinner said, moving over to lay
one hand on her shoulder as she rose to her feet. "He could be following
Cole somehow. We don't know that's Mulder's car outside, and there's
nothing so far to indicate he's been incapacitated or taken against his
will."

"There is now."

Grey stood in the open doorway, hair slightly damp and curly from the
rain and his face stricken. "I went around the side of the garage to the
window. There are a lot of tracks in the mud and someone brushed the
dirt off the panes so you can see inside. And I found this."

Grey stretched out his right hand, revealing fingers stained crimson.
Scully slammed her eyes shut against a sudden deluge of tears.

"Mulder," she whispered brokenly.

Shaking off his own inertia, Skinner took charge. Pulling his cell phone
from the pocket of his black trench coat, he slid into Marine mode and
began issuing orders.

"Grey, check the plate on that rental and see if you can trace it to
Mulder. You can use the phone in Cole's house. Scully, call the lab at
Quantico and get them to fax a copy of Mulder's blood and DNA
information to the Boston bureau. Also, you'd better grab a sample while
you can, it's a miracle the rain hasn't washed it completely away
already."

"There's an overhang," Grey explained, still subdued. "It's held off the
worst of the moisture." He turned and headed for the street, shoulders
hunched against the drizzle.

"I'll get forensics down here to do a complete sweep and inform the
local boys what's going on," Skinner continued. "Once we cover the
basics we can begin to figure out where Cole might have gone."

Seeing that Scully had paused with phone in hand while she regained her
composure, he sighed. "Scully . . . Dana. We know who we're after now,
and he doesn't have much of a lead. We *will* find him. Mulder is a
trained agent and a psychologist; he'll hold Cole off until we can get
there."

Skinner was relieved to see Scully's eyes harden and her shoulders
square in determination. She sent him a quick nod of acknowledgement and
began punching numbers ferociously into the phone. Satisfied, Skinner
stepped away to make his own calls, wishing his own confidence matched
his words.


Continued in part 14

Blood Ties IV: Shredded Hearts (14 of 16) 
By Dawn
sunrise@avenew.com
Disclaimer in part 1


Location unknown 
Saturday 
??:??


At first, his only sensory perception was pain. It engulfed his five
senses so that not only did Mulder feel, but saw, smelled, tasted, and
heard it as well. He couldn't remember who he was or why he would be
hurting this much, his brain a confused jumble of sounds and images that
wouldn't translate into coherent thought.

Gradually he became aware that he was curled on his side, the surface
beneath him hard and smooth. An annoying sound intruded on his pain -- a
soft, incessant whimpering that abraded his raw nerve endings until he
wanted to scream. He attempted to raise one hand to explore his head,
which seemed to be the source of his distress, but something cold and
metal anchored one hand to the floor by his cheek and the other arm was
pinned beneath his body. He snaked his tongue out in an effort to soothe
dry lips, moaning a little when even that small action increased the
pounding in his brain. The quiet sobbing rose a notch in volume. Why
didn't Scully make it stop?

Like a magic charm, that one semi-lucid notion caused a cascade of
memories to click into place. He was Fox Mulder. He'd been hunting a
serial killer, a killer that kidnapped little girls...

Mulder's eyes flew open and he tried to sit up, only to learn his
previous suffering was just the tip of the iceberg. White-hot agony
sliced through his skull, ripping a hoarse scream from his parched
throat. Before the torment could begin to subside an overpowering wave
of nausea caused him to be violently, unreservedly ill. The whimpering
rose to a wail for several minutes before receding.

Blearily thankful he'd skipped lunch, Mulder dragged himself away from
the mess he'd made. His blurred vision registered the fact that he was
handcuffed to a large pole, and he leaned his forehead against the cool
metal while struggling to remember just how he'd landed in such a fix.

Searching his memory was like looking through a piece of Swiss cheese,
the continuity broken by irregular holes. He recalled driving alone to
Steve Cole's house, but couldn't remember why Scully and Grey hadn't
been with him. He knew he'd circled around to the back of the house,
covertly peered in several windows to determine that its owner was not
inside, then cautiously made his way to the garage. But he couldn't
recollect why the garage had seemed so important or what he'd been
trying to find.

The rain had picked up a little, he remembered, making him grateful for
the roof's slight overhang that provided some shelter. A thick layer of
dirt and grime had coated the garage's single window, turning it opaque.
Mulder pictured himself brushing aside the grit with the palm of his
right hand and then dusting it off on his trenchcoat. The glass had felt
cool on his cheek as he pressed close to avoid the glare. Then...
Nothing. He had a vague feeling of triumph, then intense pain. From his
current predicament, Mulder gathered that he'd found whatever he'd been
looking for, and Cole hadn't been pleased.

As his discomfort ebbed to a more manageable level, Mulder was able once
again to note the soft sobbing. He slowly pulled himself up to where he
could brace his back against the pole, fighting against the urge to
vomit again. For the first time he comprehended that he was sitting on
the floor of a bus. Someone had removed most of the front seats,
creating a large open space around the pole to which he'd been cuffed.
Mulder squinted against doubled vision, tracking the origin of the
cries. A small girl with curly brown hair and tearful blue eyes pressed
herself more tightly into the corner between one of the remaining seats
and the wall of the bus, regarding Mulder with barely restrained terror.
Another puzzle piece snapped into place.

"Callie? Are you Callie Westin?" Mulder asked, flinching as each
syllable sent a knife through his head.

No words, but the barest nod of the head acknowledged his question.
Struggling to put on his most reassuring smile, Mulder ruthlessly pushed
back his own misery.

"Callie, I'm an FBI agent and I'm here to help you. My name is Fox," he
said soothingly.

Even as he uttered the words, Mulder realized how ridiculous they must
sound. Inexplicably, a scene from Star Wars popped into his head - Luke
and Han breaking into the detention block to rescue Leia only to become
trapped themselves.

*This is some rescue! When you came in here, didn't you have a plan for
getting out?*

He squashed hysterical laughter that threatened to slip out and pulled
his wandering attention back to the little girl. Callie's sobs tapered
off to sniffles but she didn't attempt to approach him. Frustrated,
Mulder realized what a frightening picture he must present. The pain in
his head caused him to periodically grimace, he could feel the
stickiness of drying blood down his neck and onto his collar, and he'd
just puked like a drunk after an exceptionally productive binge. Then
inspiration struck.

"Callie, I talked to Jason last night. I promised him I'd do everything
I could to find you and bring you home."

Callie's lip trembled and fresh tears spilled down her pale cheeks. "I
wa...wa...want t..to g..go home!" she moaned.

Mulder silently held out the arm not encumbered by the handcuffs and in
seconds it was filled with a soft, silky-haired bundle with an iron
grip. For just an instant, the child in his lap eclipsed his own hurt
and fear, and he actually smiled.

"Shhh," he crooned. "It's okay, kiddo. Did he hurt you?"

Callie shook her head, releasing her death grip on his neck and
considering him gravely. "But I don't like the way he looks at me. And
he talks...he talks like he's two different people."

"What do you mean?" Mulder asked.

Callie shrugged and scrubbed away her tears with one small fist.
"Sometimes he's nice. He told me I could call him Steve and he promised
he wouldn't do anything bad to me and he'd take me home soon. But then
he changed. His voice sounded different -- scarier. He called me Alice
even though I kept telling him my name is Callie. And he said he's going
to take me away from here to a better place." The corners of her mouth
turned down and her lip stuck out. "I don't want to go to a better
place, Fox. I want to go home. Please, take me home!"

Mulder looked down at himself, sparking another stab of pain. Cole had
stripped off his jacket and both weapons, leaving no way to contact
Scully and no means for defense. He tugged hard on the cuffed hand,
succeeding only in abrading his wrist. The metal pole, bolted to both
floor and ceiling, never quivered. As for his physical condition - he'd
received enough blows on the head to recognize a concussion like an old
friend. Vomiting, dizziness, blurred vision, and the attention span of a
two-year-old all indicated a serious trauma and seriously compromised
his ability to rescue himself, let alone a small and relatively helpless
child.

Recognizing that his thoughts were wandering once again, Mulder turned
his gaze back to Callie.

"Listen, kiddo, you're not chained are you? Have you tried to get out of
here?"

"I tried," Callie replied, chest still hitching occasionally but calm
again. "He's got it all locked up and the windows won't even open. He
caught me trying to break one when he brought you in and he was got
really mad. Said that if I ever tried it again he'd make me very, very
sorry. Said he'd hurt Jason."

Mulder gritted his teeth against a surge of anger at the girl's words.
"All right, Callie, I want you to listen closely because we don't have
much time and Steve could be back any minute. I'm going to be looking
for a chance to distract Steve in any way that I can. I'll grab him,
trip him -- something that will give you a chance to get out of here. I
need you to be ready to run when that happens. Don't worry about me and
don't stop, no matter what happens or what Steve might say. You just
head for that door and keep going. Do you understand?"

Callie nodded, but her blue eyes considered him soberly, reminding
Mulder of Jason's appraising stare. "But what about *you*, Fox? How will
you get away?"

How do you explain to a child that the plan to save her life will most
likely cost your own? That the plan itself is little more than a last
ditch effort with a slim chance for success? You don't.

Mulder smiled. "You'll go and get help," he replied easily. "Then you
come back and rescue me."

His answer achieved the desired effect. Callie smiled, pleased with the
idea of saving not only herself but her new friend as well. "What do we
do now, Fox?"

Mulder leaned his throbbing head back against the pole and closed his
eyes. "We rest a little, and wait," he replied, vaguely concerned when
his words slurred lazily but unwilling to focus on the reason.

He struggled against the lethargy that crept over him, making his limbs
feel leaden and his thoughts liquid. Scully's voice, sharp with worry
echoed in his mind.

*Mulder, you have a concussion. You have to stay awake.*

"Can't, babe," he mumbled, feeling the impending darkness carry him away
from the pain and giving himself over to it willingly.


Boston Field Office 
Saturday 
5:35 p.m.


"Stop it."

Scully raised her head from the conference table and regarded Grey,
brows drawn together. "Stop what? I'm not doing anything!"

"You're giving up on him," Grey replied. "Resigning yourself to the fact
that we won't find him in time."

"I am not!" Scully snapped, leaning across the table to glare at him. "I
would never give up on him. *Never*."

"Good. Because we *are* going to find him, Dana. We'll figure out where
he is and haul his ass out of the fire just like every other time."

Scully raised an eyebrow and his vehemence. "Who are you trying to
convince? I'm already there."

Grey sighed and slumped forward, burying his face in his hands. "I can't
believe this is happening." He abruptly smacked both hands, palms down,
on the table with a sharp crack that startled Scully. "How could he do
it, just walk in there like that? Is he out of his mind? Doesn't he ever
stop to think -- at least about everyone else, if not about himself?"

Scully sat silently through his ranting, caught between the urges to
laugh and to cry. "Grey, you already know the answers to those
questions. You were the one who reminded me how personal this case is
for him. Mulder's problem isn't that he doesn't think about others.
That's all he thinks about."

"I hate feeling this way! He's trapped God knows where with a killer and
I'm pissed at him. Can you believe it?" Grey ran both hands through his
hair and then dropped them to his sides. "What is bothering you, Dana?
Aside from the obvious, I mean."

Scully stared at the oak tabletop, pressing the tip of her tongue into
her cheek. "When I accepted the fact that I loved Mulder, I had to
accept that I could lose him. I'd be a fool not to prepare myself for
the possibility, it's in the very nature of what we do. What I can't
accept..." She broke off, breathing deeply. "What I can't accept," she
continued softly. "Is that if Mulder dies now, the last words spoken
between us will be words of anger."

Grey studied her face. "You had a fight?"

Scully pursed her lips and shook her head. "Actually he fought -- I just
listened. But I guess that was part of the problem. He was being a
suspicious, insecure bastard and I was too tired and angry to invest
myself in yet another session of reassuring him. So you see, I'm worse
off than you are, Grey. You just *missed* the clues -- I saw them and
turned the other way."

Grey reached across to take her hand. "Don't be so hard on yourself,
Dana. I love him, but Fox does require a rather large emotional
investment."

Scully's lips curved but her eyes glistened with tears. "Mulder calls it
'high maintenance.' He said he wouldn't blame me if I wanted someone
that needed less."

"Such as?"

Skinner chose that moment to enter the conference room, a stack of files
in his hand. Scully gave Grey's hand a quick squeeze and released it.

"You wouldn't believe it," she murmured wryly. "You have the blood type
analysis, sir?"

Skinner tossed the folder on the table in front of her. "No surprises,
Scully. The blood type matches Mulder's and they found several of his
prints on the window."

"The car was rented under Fox's name," Grey confirmed, sliding his own
folder toward Skinner. "He used his badge as muscle to get it delivered
to the hotel as quickly as possible."

"I ran a thorough check on Cole, hoping to come up with something that
might tell us where he's gone," Skinner said, sitting down on a corner
of the table. "I'm afraid I've come up empty. Both Cole's parents were
killed in an auto accident two years ago and their home was sold shortly
after. He has no siblings, and from what his boss tells me, not many
friends. Called him a real loner that keeps to himself."

"There goes my suggestion," Grey said gloomily. "I was thinking he might
have gone back to Delaware, where he lived with his folks."

Scully tore her eyes from the relentlessly ticking clock, bowing her
head and rubbing the tight muscles at the base of her neck. "We don't
know enough about Cole," she observed, frustration sharpening her tone.
"Mulder would say..." She froze, sitting up straighter.

"Mulder would say what?" Skinner prodded.

"We're approaching this from the wrong direction," Scully said slowly.
"Last night, when Mulder and I were discussing the case he put out this
off the wall theory..."

"Nothing unusual there," Grey muttered.

Scully shot him a quelling look and continued. "He suggested that the
killer could be channeling the spirit of John Lee Roche, hence his
ability to know all the little details only Roche would know."

"Channeling?" Skinner repeated incredulously. "Scully, you're not
suggesting..."

"No, sir, but it doesn't matter. Whether you subscribe to Mulder's
theory or not, you must concede that *Cole* believes it to some degree.
He's done everything he can to push Mulder's buttons regarding Roche."

"I think I see where you're going with this," Grey said, catching her
fire. "We shouldn't be wondering where *Cole* would go. We should figure
out where *Roche* would go."

"If you proceed on the assumption that Cole is acting as Roche, you need
to include the element of revenge," Skinner mused. "After all, Mulder
prevented Roche from getting what he wanted, not once but twice. It
follows that he'd want his revenge to have meaning for Mulder."

"That's it!" Scully pushed herself to her feet walking quickly around
the large table to a map of the Boston area pinned to the far wall.
"He'd go back to where it all ended, where Mulder killed Roche." She
scanned the map quickly, then pointed with a trembling finger. "Right
there. The place where Roche took Katelyn Holmes. The place where he
forced Mulder to chose between Samantha and an innocent child. Revere."

Two long strides and Grey had the door open, tapping his foot
impatiently. "What are you waiting for? Let's go."


Continued in part 15

Blood Ties IV: Shredded Hearts (15 of 16) 
By Dawn
sunrise@avenew.com
Disclaimer in part 1


Revere, MA 
Saturday 
5:15 p.m.


*"Fox! Help me!"*

*An incandescent beam of pure white light envelops his sister's slight
form and lifts her into the air. He watches for an instant, both
horrified and mesmerized, before lurching into action. He tries to crawl
over to the tall chest of drawers where he knows his father keeps a gun,
only to realize that one wrist is handcuffed to a tall metal pole that
grows up from the middle of the floor like a bizarre sapling. He tugs
wildly, noticing now that he's a grown man and not a boy.*

*"Samantha!" he screams, pulling harder, heedless of the way the metal
bites into the tender flesh of his wrist until it draws blood.
"Samantha!"*

*"You said you would save her! Why don't you save her?"*

*He spins and looks up into the cold, furious eyes of Jason Westin who
points one accusing finger at the girl's rapidly disappearing body.*
 
*"Do something! You couldn't save your sister, I should have realized
you couldn't save mine!"*

*Confused, his eyes dart back to the little girl and he gasps,
dumfounded. Long dark tresses have been replaced with short curls,
terrified brown eyes with blue.*

*"Fox, I want to go home! Help me!"*

*A shadowy figure wearing a tall hat and an old fashioned waistcoat,
garb of the Mad Hatter, steps out of the light and gathers the child's
body into his arms, effortlessly subduing her struggles. It turns to
reveal the smugly smiling face of John Lee Roche.*

*"I'm taking her away from all this, to a happier place," he announces,
retreating into the light.*

*"Fox!  Fox, wake up! He's coming!" Callie screams.*

"Noooo!"

"You heard her, wake up!"

Something hard connected with Mulder's side, telegraphing a burst of
pain from his ribs to his head and forcing the air from his lungs. His
eyes flew open and he gasped for breath, groaning and retching
helplessly as he fell onto his side. Bright sparks danced before his
eyes, obscuring his vision for several minutes and the sudden ringing in
his ears blotted out sound. He lay very still, panting weakly from the
pain and the after affects of his dream.

"...time you woke up and joined the party, Agent Mulder," Cole was
saying cheerfully. "We have so much to discuss. And besides, you were
worrying little Callie."

Mulder carefully hauled himself upright, wincing as now both head and
ribs protested loudly. Callie shrank back in her corner, watching with
wide scared eyes. He met her gaze with a wink and saw her bob her head
in understanding.

"You and I obviously have different ideas about what makes a good
party," he told Cole, wishing his voice sounded stronger. "No music, no
beer..."

"Very funny, very funny," Cole replied, waving Mulder's gun in his right
hand. "You can make all the jokes you want, but I've been looking
forward to this moment for a long time."

Cole's congenial voice and mild expression left Mulder totally
unprepared for the heavy workboot that connected with his already aching
ribs. Mulder screamed.

"That's for the number you did on my upholstery with your penknife,"
Cole explained flatly.

"Stop it! Don't hurt Fox!"

Callie crossed to Mulder's side in a flash, small hands planted on her
hips and eyes snapping angrily behind her tears.

Cole laughed -- a cold, humorless sound. "Got a little buddy, huh? She
might not be so crazy about you once she figures out you can't help her.
*Fox.*" He turned a stern gaze on the child. "Go sit down, squirt."

Callie hesitated, looking uncertainly at Mulder. He scraped up a
somewhat sickly smile and nodded, so she retreated slowly. Mulder sucked
in a deep breath, regretting the action immediately when his ribs
screeched in protest. Working hard to rein in his wandering attention,
he squinted up at Cole.

"What did you mean when you said you'd been waiting for this?"

Cole smiled, leaning casually against the side of the bus and tapping
his chin with the Sig. "I know all about you, Agent Mulder. After that
day you came to search my car I got real interested. Not just in the
previous owner, but in the man who tracked him down. So I started doing
a little investigating of my own -- dug up every bit of information on
you and John Lee Roche I could find. As I read about you, how you caught
Roche and all those other killers, one thing became very clear to me."

"What's that?"

The smile became a shark's grin. "That I could do better. That I could
do anything those criminals did, and worse, and never get caught. The
more I thought about it, the more I read, and the more I read, the more
ideas I got. Props, Boggs, Mostow, Roche -- I studied 'em all. But I
kept coming back to Roche, to how he eluded you for so long before you
finally caught him."

"So you decided to copy Roche's crimes," Mulder jibed, injecting sarcasm
into his voice. "That's called a copycat killer, Cole. It's nothing
special. We get them all the time."

Cole flushed at his dismissal. "So you say. But here *I* am, and there
*you* are. Who outsmarted who? Anyway, there's more to this than you
think. Haven't you wondered how I've done it, Agent Mulder? How I knew
all those things about you -- about Roche -- that I couldn't have
known?"

Mulder shifted uneasily but said nothing, willing Cole to come closer so
that he would be within reach. He took a covert peek at Callie, relieved
to see she was paying close attention to the interaction between Cole
and himself.

"Two years ago my parents and I were in a car accident, hit by a drunk
driver," Cole continued, slouching away from the wall and pacing across
the width of the bus. "All three of us were dead at the scene. They
couldn't revive my folks, but they did manage to bring me back. Only I
didn't come back alone." 

Mulder licked his lips, his heart fluttering wildly in his chest. "What
are you talking about?"

Cole stared at him, eyes losing focus and then rolling back in his head
to expose the whites. His body twitched once, then shifted. The
shoulders drew back, the spine straightened, and the chin dipped
slightly downward. Cole blinked lazily, then returned his gaze to
Mulder's face, just the barest hint of amusement touching the corners of
his mouth.

"Mulder. Long time no see."

Horror washed over Mulder from head to toe. His entire body broke out in
gooseflesh and the small hairs on the back of his neck rose. That voice
-- Cole's, and yet not. The tone, the inflection was as different as
night from day. He'd hunted liver-eating mutants and giant flukemen,
carnival freaks and tentacled sea monsters, but nothing had come close
to sparking the fear that voice produced.

Roche's eyes looked out of Cole's face and he smiled. "What's the
matter, Mulder? Aren't you glad to see me?"

"No," Mulder said, shaking his head in spite of the dizziness the
movement provoked. "No, it's not possible."

The smile widened until it became gleeful. Roche's smile. "Why can't you
believe this, Mulder? You hunt visitors from outer space, don't you? Why
not visitors from beyond the grave?"

"How...?"

"Don't you remember what you told me? You said a connection formed
between us, a nexus, because you profiled me. Well, my buddy Steve here
did a little profiling of his own. Guess maybe that's why we were able
to hook up when he almost died. Lucky for me, right? I promised I'd show
him just what to do, and he jumped at the idea."

Mulder swallowed, clenching his trembling fingers into fists. "Why? What
do you want from me, Roche, if that really is you? What could you
possibly expect to gain from all this? You're dead."

Roche's grin faded and his eyes turned hard. "I want what I deserve,
Mulder. What you took away from me on that bus. This is my second
chance." He deliberately held Mulder's gaze while tilting his head in
Callie's direction. "And this time, you won't stop me."

"You son of a bitch!"

A red haze of fury clouded Mulder's vision and sublimated his pain as he
cursed and pulled savagely at his cuffed wrist. Roche just watched,
smirk firmly back in place. Mulder's physical injuries finally overcame
his anger and he slumped back against the pole, gasping for breath.

"You really should take it easy, Mulder," Roche said mildly. "You get a
ringside seat for the festivities and it'd be a shame if you passed out.
After all, I'm doing it for you."

"You want revenge? You want payback for what you think I took from you?
Then just put the gun to my head," Mulder hissed. "Leave Callie out of
this."

Roche shook his head, picking at some dirt under his thumbnail. "Mulder,
Mulder. That would take away all the fun. Anyway, I know you. Killing
you now would hurt far less than letting you watch. In fact, I might not
kill you at all. Just imagine the memories I can leave you with for the
next thirty or forty years."

Mulder struggled against a wave of nausea and revulsion, desperately
seeking a way to lure Roche closer. "You always were a coward, Roche. A
big man with little girls, but spineless if you had to deal with anyone
your own size. I heard how popular you were in prison."

Roche's eyes narrowed and he took a step forward. "You're reaching,
Mulder. You're just trying to aggravate me."

*Just a little bit more* Mulder thought.

"Not according to the guards. "'Course, to hear them tell it, you didn't
really mind..."

"You mean the guard that looked the other way when you hit me?" Roche
asked, the amusement strained now. He shrugged, taking another step and
leaning down tauntingly. "Some..."

Mulder pounced, putting all of his pent up rage and frustration behind
the movement as he rammed his head into Roche's midsection and wrapped
his free arm around his waist, tackling him. The impact of his head
meeting the solid wall of flesh caused him to see stars, but he managed
to keep his body covering Roche as the killer squirmed.

"Run!" Mulder screamed and vaguely registered a blurred figure as it
darted past.

Roche twisted, trying to raise Mulder's gun, which was currently pinned
to the floor by Mulder's left arm. Mulder strained to preserve his hold,
nearly pulling his right arm from its socket in the process. He shifted
his body to the left, two things occurring in rapid succession. Roche's
arm slid from under his own and tipped the gun toward Mulder's head just
as Mulder became aware that his knee had come to rest between the
killer's two legs. Reacting without stopping to think, Mulder lunged,
bringing the knee up hard.

Roche screamed, his hand jerking upward as his finger tightened
reflexively on the trigger, discharging two rounds in quick succession
before the gun slipped from his hand. Moaning, he curled into a ball,
offering no resistance when Mulder scooped up the weapon and scrabbled
back toward the post, nearly frantic to ease the tension on his shoulder
and wrist.

For several minutes neither man moved, Roche groaning and cupping the
flesh between his legs and Mulder teetering on the edge of
unconsciousness. Roche was the first to regain mobility, rolling slowly
to a sitting position.

Mulder raised the gun clutched in his left hand, but it wobbled badly.
"Don't move."

"You're not going to use that, Mulder," Roche said patronizingly.
"You're right handed, aren't you? Anyway, you can barely lift it."

"Shut up and give me the key to the cuffs," Mulder growled, blinking at
the stinging sweat that ran into his eyes.

"Un-uh. I don't think so. That little key is the only security I've got
left." Roche rose cautiously to his feet. "Why don't we call it a draw,
Mulder? You've spoiled my recreation for the evening, so I'll just be on
my way. I'm sure they'll find you soon."

"Freeze!" Mulder barked, surprised when the word came out more like a
whisper than a roar. "I'm warning you, Roche. Don't make me do this
again. Now sit down and toss me the key."

Roche stilled, but showed no intention of sitting. "Don't you want to
know, Mulder?"

Mulder grit his teeth, the gun gaining another pound with every minute
Roche stonewalled. "Know what?"

"Your sister. Don't you want to know if she's here?"

Mulder's finger bore down slightly on the trigger. "Shut up!"

"I can tell you. You'll know once and for all if she's still alive. But
if you shoot me now, you'll go on wondering," Roche persisted, his voice
smooth as honey as he took a small step closer.

Mulder blinked in confusion, the gun dropping imperceptibly as he
battled against the pain in his upper body and the roaring in his ears.
"No. No, I..."

This time it was Roche's turn to pounce.


Revere, MA 
Saturday 
6:37 p.m.


"That's it, right there!" Scully exclaimed.

She shot out of the car the moment Skinner pulled to the curb, shifting
her feet restlessly until Grey and Skinner reached her side. One at a
time they scaled the fence, dropping down to survey the menagerie of
public transportation busses that crouched like giant beetles, some
still operable and some decrepit and rusted with disuse.

"Where do we even begin?" Grey asked. "We'll never..."

"Wait! Listen," Scully interrupted, motioning him to be silent.

Over the hum of traffic floated a faint whimper, followed by the sound
of fists striking wood. The whimper rose to heartbroken sobs.

"This way," Skinner said, heading around the corner.

At the sight of the small figure huddled by the base of the fence, all
three broke into a run. The child, a small girl with curly brown hair
and large blue eyes, gasped and cowered back against the boards. By
unspoken agreement, Skinner and Grey dropped back to let Scully approach
the child.

"Callie?" she questioned gently. "Are you Callie?" When the little girl
nodded Scully gave her a radiant smile. "It's okay, you're safe now. My
name is Dana, and that's Walter and Grey. We're FBI agents, and we've
been looking for you, sweetheart."

To Scully's amazement, at the word FBI Callie leaped to her feet and
began babbling hysterically, seizing hold of her hand and tugging.

"Hurry, hurry! You have to help Fox! I promised I'd bring help!"

Scully's heart leaped with unexpected hope, but she forced herself to
remain calm. "You've seen Fox? Where is he, Callie, is he all right?"

"Steve hurt him! I'm afraid he'll do something really mean to him when
he sees that I got away. Hurry!"

Two loud bangs interrupted Scully's reply, echoing off the fence and the
surrounding busses.

"Show me," Scully said sharply, no longer resisting Callie's frenetic
tugging.

Callie unfalteringly led them down three rows of busses and then across
four, toward the back of the lot where the older, retired vehicles were
parked. When she pointed to bus 176, Scully stopped and crouched down so
that she could look into the little girl's eyes.

"This is as far as you go, Callie. I want you to go and wait over there
behind that bus. Walter, Grey, and I will take care of Fox."

When the little girl was safely out of range, Scully turned to Skinner,
who had just finished phoning for backup. "I suggest we split up, sir."

Skinner nodded. "I agree."

"I'll take the back door," Grey volunteered. "You two take the front. He
knows Scully, but he won't be expecting me."

They separated and moved cautiously into position. Grey groaned inwardly
at the sight of a large padlock affixed to a chain that ran through the
rear door. He waved Skinner and Scully onward and quickly extracted a
small lock pick from his coat. Taking a deep breath to still his shaking
hands, he set to work.

Skinner eased the metal door open, wincing a little when it emitted a
soft creak. He moved up two steps, Scully right behind, crouching to
stay hidden behind the panel that normally would have divided the front
seat from the driver. He peered around the edge to see Mulder slumped
against a metal pole, his right hand cuffed, the left training a gun on
Steve Cole. Mulder's body prevented Skinner from seeing if Cole was
similarly armed.

"Your sister," Skinner heard Cole say to Mulder, his voice smug. "Don't
you want to know if she's here?"

*What in the hell is he talking about?* Skinner thought, taking in
Mulder's ragged reply even as he tried to see Cole's hands.

"I can tell you. You'll know once and for all if she's still alive. But
if you shoot me now, you'll go on wondering," Cole persisted.

Mulder's body shifted and in that instant Skinner saw that A: Mulder was
losing his grip on his weapon, and B: Cole was unarmed but about to make
a move.

"Now, Scully!" he said, lunging to his feet. "Federal Agent! Freeze!"

The next sixty seconds passed in slow motion for Skinner. He sensed
Scully bring up her own gun. He watched Mulder's left hand seesaw wildly
and drop toward his lap. Cole hesitated momentarily, eyes darting up to
assess their proximity before narrowing as he commenced his lunge toward
Mulder. Skinner's finger tightened on the trigger, but pulled back as a
shot rang out. Cole staggered, then dropped to his knees with a
surprised look on his face, to reveal Grey standing behind him, gun
still leveled at his slumped body.

Skinner climbed quickly up the remaining step and tugged Cole's sprawled
body to the side. Grey's bullet had removed a portion of the killer's
skull, and Skinner didn't need to search for a pulse to determine Cole
was dead. Scully, sparing Cole only a perfunctory glance, knelt down to
examine Mulder with gentle hands.

When Grey didn't move, continuing to stare blankly at Cole's lifeless
body, Skinner stood and stepped to the right to block his view.

"Grey."

Grey dragged his eyes up to meet Skinner's. "Yeah."

"Why don't you go take care of Callie and wait for the police to get
here. They'll never find us in this maze."

Grey licked his lips and nodded. "Sure. Is Fox all right?"

"He's hanging in there," Scully called over her shoulder. She looked to
Skinner. "Could you get him uncuffed, sir?"

Skinner searched Cole's cooling body, squinting in the rapidly failing
light. When he located the keys in the man's jacket, he turned and
reached for Mulder's wrist.

"My God," he muttered, paralyzed for an instant by the sight of the
torn, bleeding flesh.

"Careful," Scully warned as he gingerly removed the metal bracelet. "I
think he's dislocated that shoulder."

Skinner clenched his jaw. If Mulder's wrist and shoulder were any
indication, the agent had put up one hell of a fight.

Mulder had not spoken or acknowledged their presence. His hazel eyes
appeared glassy and unfocused and his head lolled drunkenly. Scully
tenderly cupped his chin in her hand, noting the dilated pupils.
"Mulder, it's Scully. Are you with us?"

Mulder responded lethargically. He blinked and his eyes wandered to
Scully's face. Awareness seeped in like water through a sluggish drain.

"Scully?" he murmured, a small line creasing his brow. He attempted to
reach for her, only to utter a strangled moan and lose what little color
remained in his face.

"Sir!" Scully said sharply, but Skinner was already there, slipping his
shoulder behind Mulder to prevent him from listing further to the left.

"Easy, Mulder," he said gruffly.

"Mulder, where does it hurt?" Scully asked. Seeing his eyes turn vague
again she grasped his left earlobe between her thumb and index finger
and pinched.

"OW!" Mulder yelped, swatting aimlessly with his left hand. But his gaze
sharpened. "Whadju do that for?"

"Sorry. I need you to stay with me, Mulder. I can see you took a blow to
the head. Where else are you hurt?"

"Everywhere," Mulder growled. At her look of irritation, he sighed.
"Ribs. And my arm feels like it's been torn off at the shoulder."

"That's what you get for pulling it out of the socket," Scully replied
lightly, using her thumb to stroke his cheek.

Mulder's eyes, which had been drooping, flew open wide. "Callie! Where's
Roche? Did you get Roche?"

Skinner wrapped an arm around Mulder's chest in an effort to quiet his
frantic struggling. Mystified, he frowned at Scully.

"Roche? What's he talking about?"

Scully shook her head. "Mulder. MULDER, STOP!"

Her harsh command stilled Mulder's thrashing but his eyes still roamed
restlessly.

"Callie is *safe*, she's with Grey," Scully continued, speaking slowly
and distinctly.

"What about Roche?" Mulder insisted.

Scully bit her lip. Her initial impression was that none of Mulder's
injuries were life threatening, but his apparent dementia worried her. A
siren wailed in the distance, moving closer.

"Mulder, you aren't making sense. *Cole* is dead. Grey shot him."

Mulder slumped, his relief at her words evident. "Then Roche is gone
too," he muttered, shivering.

Scully caressed his brow and cheek, the skin clammy and cool under her
fingertips. "He's in shock," she said, stripping off her coat and
tucking it around Mulder's body.

Outside, she heard Grey shouting directions and the sound of running
feet. Mulder had zoned out again and this time she let him go, stepping
aside for the EMTs while quickly giving a rundown of his condition.

Once she'd relinquished responsibility for his care, she could only
stand trembling with her fist pressed tightly to her lips while the
paramedics checked Mulder's vitals and efficiently immobilized his
shoulder. Grey climbed into the bus, dodging bodies and equipment to
reach Scully and Skinner.

"They're taking Callie to the station," he said. "They'll contact her
parents and arrange for them to come and pick her up. How's Fox?"

"Living up to his reputation as the human equivalent of a Timex watch,"
Scully replied dryly, but her voice shook.

"What was all that about, Scully?" Skinner asked, keeping his voice low
so as not to be overheard. "Why was Mulder calling Cole Roche?"

"He's disoriented from the blow to his head and in a great deal of pain,
sir. He didn't know what he was saying," Scully answered, but her face
was troubled.

"We're ready to transport, ma'am," spoke up a dark-haired EMT who looked
about fifteen to Scully's haggard gaze. "We'll be taking him to Boston
General."

"I'm coming with you."

Skinner suppressed a grin at the steel in her tone and the technician's
hasty acceptance. Scully in doctor mode was a force to be reckoned with.

"Smart kid," Grey muttered, and Skinner lost his hold on the smirk.

"Definitely."

The EMTs maneuvered Mulder out the back door of the bus with Scully on
their heels. Skinner walked over to greet the officer in charge and
began the lengthy process of securing the scene, but found himself
unable to banish Mulder's words from his mind.


Concluded in part 16

Blood Ties IV: Shredded Hearts (16 of 16) 
By Dawn
sunrise@avenew.com
Disclaimer in part 1


Georgetown 
Monday 
5:07 p.m.


"Sir! Come in."

Scully stepped aside and ushered Skinner into the living room. Grey,
sprawled in a chair and flipping through a newspaper, stood and extended
his hand.

"Hey, Walt. What brings you to this neck of the woods?"

"Just thought I'd stop in to check on the errant patient," Skinner said,
sinking into another chair and loosening his tie. "How is he?"

"Completely zonked and drooling on the pillow, last time I checked,"
Scully replied, lips twitching.

Skinner's eyebrows soared. "*Mulder*? In the middle of the day?"

"He's on some pretty heavy painkillers for the shoulder and ribs,"
Scully explained. "Keeps him pretty snowed half the time."

"It's been remarkably quiet," Grey agreed, grinning.

"I think we all could use about a week's worth of sleep," Skinner said
wearily. "We've certainly earned it."

"I thought I'd come in for a while tomorrow. I should have my report
finished later tonight." Scully said.

"There'll be an inquiry into the shooting, but it's just a formality,"
Skinner remarked, noticing Grey flinch slightly at his words. "You *do*
realize you had no choice? A few seconds more and Cole would have had
your brother's gun, and maybe his life."

Grey had been staring out the window, nodding his head at Skinner's
reassurances. "I do know that. But the truth is, I'd only killed a man
once before. It wasn't any easier this time."

"The day it becomes easy is the day you should turn in your badge,"
Skinner returned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "You did a good job,
Grey. I've already sent a letter of commendation to your captain."

Grey's lips curved. "Thanks, Walt. I appreciate it."

"I just hope things stay quiet for now," Scully mused. "Mulder's not
going to be released for field work for at least three weeks. Maybe we
can actually get caught up on some paperwork for a change.

Skinner snorted. "Now *that* would be an X-File." He frowned. "Scully,
I've wanted to speak with you about Saturday night. Specifically, what
Mulder said about Roche."

Scully's manner immediately turned from open and receptive to guarded.
"Sir?"

"Mulder kept calling Cole, Roche. Did you ask him about that?"

Grey muttered something and Scully shot him a look that could have
turned sand to glass. "Shut up, Grey."

"I take it you have broached the subject," Skinner said dryly.

Scully sighed. "Sir, he was suffering from a grade three concussion, a
dislocated shoulder, and three cracked ribs. He can't be held
responsible for what he thinks he saw."

"He thinks Cole was - -what did you call it? channeling? -- John Lee
Roche." It was a statement, not a question.

"He doesn't just think it, he's convinced of the fact," Grey spoke up,
his face neutral.

"And you think it's all in his head?" Skinner asked.

Grey shrugged. "Frankly, I'm not sure what I think. I don't believe in a
person possessing the ability to channel the spirit of a dead man. But
Fox's conviction is...disturbing."

"I've been a little disturbed myself," Skinner admitted. When Scully
cocked an eyebrow he hastened to explain. "Scully, when we were hiding
on that bus, just before Grey shot Cole, did you hear what he was saying
to Mulder?"

"Only a word here and there," Scully confessed. "It was hard to hear
behind that partition."

"Well I did. Cole was talking to Mulder about his sister."

Scully looked flustered. "His sister?"

Skinner nodded. "He asked."

"He asked if I wanted to know if she was there."

Mulder's calm voice startled them, prompting an exchange of uneasy
glances. Ignoring their discomfiture, he moved slowly across the room
and lowered himself carefully onto the couch. He was clad only in a pair
of jeans, a large sling immobilizing his right arm and shoulder. Skinner
winced at the deep bruising that colored this left side in shades of
black and blue.

Scully looked at Mulder accusingly. "You didn't mention this part."

Mulder rolled his eyes. "Why waste my breath, Scully? You don't believe
me about Roche, and this is just more of the same."

"What did he mean 'if she was there?'" Scully asked.

"Out there, the great beyond, among the dead," Mulder replied
flippantly, but his eyes told a different story. "He said he could tell
me once and for all if Sam was dead or still alive."

 Scully moved her hand to weave her fingers with his. "Did you believe
him?"

Mulder leaned his head back and closed his eyes. His answer was soft,
but firm. "I believe that wherever Sam is, dead or alive, it's not with
a man like John Lee Roche."

No one spoke for several minutes. Finally, Skinner cleared his throat
and reached into his jacket to extract an envelope.

"You might not know that I met with the Westins yesterday," he told
them. "They asked me to express their deepest appreciation to you three
-- especially to you, Mulder. And Callie asked me to give you this."

Mulder accepted the envelope, eyeing it for a moment before attempting
to open it. Scully watched him fumble one-handed, then reached out and
gently pried up the flap and extricated a sheet of paper. Mulder
unfolded it, spreading it gently across his lap. Skinner and Grey leaned
forward for a better view.

It was a crayon drawing of two people standing in a field of flowers,
hand in hand. One was tall and thin with dark brown hair and a long
black coat, the other short and curly haired with a smiling pink mouth.
A bright yellow ball of a sun and three fluffy white clouds filled the
blue sky. Across the bottom in scraggly letters was printed "I love you
Fox" followed by the name "Callie."

"She's quite an artist," Grey observed appreciatively.

"She's quite a kid," Mulder corrected, running one finger reverently
over the page. "They both are."

Skinner stood up. "I've need to get going," he said briskly. "I've got a
backlog of paperwork that piled up over the last few days."

"Sure you wouldn't like to stay for dinner, sir?" Scully asked, also
standing. "You're more than welcome. Mulder's been nagging me for a
pizza and I figured I'd give in."

Mulder clapped his left hand to his chest. "Moi? Nag? Scully, you wound
me!"

"I'll take a rain check," Skinner said dryly, lips quirking in
amusement. "Thanks anyway, Scully."

"Guess it'll be pizza for three, then," Mulder said cheerfully.

"Ummm. I meant to say something about that," Grey said, checking his
watch. "I won't be joining you guys for dinner tonight. I, uh, have
plans."

Mulder leaned forward like a shark scenting blood. "Plans? Do tell, big
brother."

Grey blushed. "I asked Kristen out to dinner tonight. To thank her for
all her help on the case," he added hastily.

"Kristen? As in Agent Harding?" Scully asked, shooting Mulder a smug
grin.

"That's the one. She's picking me up in five minutes, so I guess I'll
just walk down with Walt," Grey said, bolting for the door and the
relative safety of the hallway.

"Don't be too late," Mulder called. "You know how Scully and I worry
when you're not home before midnight."

"Shut up, Fox."

Scully saw her boss and Grey out the door, then returned to the couch.
Seeing Mulder squirm a little in search of a comfortable position, she
leaned into the corner and pulled him back against her, weaving her
fingers through his hair where it lay next to her chin. He sighed
contentedly, running his hand up and down the soft skin of her leg.

"Scully, I've recovered pretty much all of my memory," he said
hesitantly.

Scully smiled, knowing exactly where he was headed. "That's good,
Mulder."

Mulder was quiet for a few minutes, still absently stroking her leg.
"I'm sorry, Scully. I was a jerk, and I had no right to say the things I
did."

"Apology accepted," Scully replied softly. She leaned over to look him
in the eye. "*Skinner*?"

Mulder shrugged, flushing. "He does think the world of you, Scully. And
you gotta admit, he's built."

Scully shook her head, grinning. "I can't help it, Mulder. I like my men
tall, dark, and paranoid."

"Yeah?"

"Absolutely."

Scully leaned over to press her lips to his cheek. The next thing she
knew, Mulder had hooked his hand around the back of her neck and pulled
her down for a kiss that quickly left her breathless.

"The kids have all gone out for the evening, Ma," he murmured, nibbling
his way up the column of her neck. "However shall we occupy ourselves?"

"Down boy," Scully gasped, but tilted her head back to give him better
access. "You're not exactly in the best condition right now."

"Listen, babe," Mulder said, his voice low and seductive. "I guarantee
all the necessary equipment is in perfect working order." He waggled his
eyebrows.

Scully laughed. "You're incorrigible, Mulder."

"You've got it wrong, Scully. That's encourageable."

Scully snickered, then gasped as he proceeded to show her just exactly
what he meant.


Location Unknown 
Monday 
6:00 p.m.


On the television screen an anchorman provided voice-over for footage on
the death of a serial killer and the rescue of his intended victim. The
man studied the videotaped images, his nicotine-stained fingers working
the remote control to reverse, start, and then freeze the film
repeatedly. Hooded eyes scrutinized the figure preserved in stasis -- a
tall man with dark, wavy hair and a vaguely familiar face. The man blew
out a long puff of smoke, shaking his head in wry amusement.

*I always underestimated you, Bill. Dead all this time, and you can
still surprise me.*

The hand not occupied with the remote picked up the phone and punched in
a familiar number.

"Alex? We need to talk."


End