Abruptly, those eyes were wintry.  "Good.  Your predecessor found it 
impossible."  Rising, she turned toward the door; he regretted that 
suddenly, with an almost physical ache, wanting her to stay, to talk, to 
smooth the rough edges that still lay between them.  

God, she'd done this to him in the hospital, too, kept catching him 
between that weird sense of closeness--a woman he didn't know, didn't 
trust, and didn't entirely believe in--and hostility.  Or, at the very least, 
defensiveness.

It was only somewhat reassuring to see that he seemed to affect her the 
same way.

"Hey, Morgan, wait."  Rising himself, he was pleased to note that she had 
done him some good, his feet felt better.  "Thanks.  And not just for this."  
Looking down at his feet, bare save for the gauze wrappings, he spread his 
hands helplessly.  "For--for everything."

"Save it."  Her mouth thinned out and he saw that she really was angry.  
Or hurt, it was hard to say which.  "It was my responsibility to deal with 
Julian Harcourt."

"You saved my life." Guilt was doing a great job of keeping a rein on his 
own temper, which wanted to flare back at her.  Grow up, Mulder, he told 
himself ruefully, you earned this fair and square.

Morgan's eyes sparked.  "That was incidental.  When Walter and Dana 
came to me, I could sense Harcourt and his actions, not you.  I could 
sense him because you were still alive, but I couldn't sense you."  She 
looked away briefly, as if gathering her composure, and her voice went soft 
and low.  "I can only hunt monsters, I don't find the missing."

He considered that and swallowed hard.  If that was true--"It wasn't 
incidental to me."   Hunt monsters?  "Look, can we just start over?  
Pretend we just met today for the first time?"  That earned him a long look 
and a grudging nod.

"Okay."   Moving forward toward her, he held out his hand.   "Pleasure to 
meet you, Dr. Grayson.  I'm Fox Mulder, please call me Mulder."

Morgan regarded his hand thoughtfully, her mouth quirking oddly.  When 
she looked up to meet his eyes, she smiled peculiarly.  "Thank you, Agent 
Mulder, but my religion forbids me to shake hands with government 
agents."

There was a stunned silence.  After a moment, hanging poised between 
shock and anger, he felt his mouth curve.  "You evil bitch," he told her 
admiringly.  "Got me."

"Damn straight, Mulder."  She held out her hand, smiling sunnily, and 
shook his, firm grip, none of that limp handshake that some women used.  
A lot like Scully's.  "There, better?  Good, I'm going now, there's a movie I 
want to see again."

She really had a way of getting under his skin, he reflected, amusement 
tugging at the corners of his mouth.  "What is it?" he asked, reaching for 
his remote.  

Her expression became perplexed.  "Prophecy."

He clicked on the television and found the movie channel quickly.  "What's 
it about?"

"You mean you've never heard of it?"  Morgan's eyes glinted.  "Great film, 
war in heaven, angels killing angels, Christopher Walken plays the 
archangel Gabriel with some serious attitude.  The first thirty minutes drag, 
getting the pieces established, but it's wonderful, trashy fun."

He eyed the screen.  "It's up next.  Tell you what, I'll spring for popcorn if 
you get the sodas."  Slanting her a look, he saw her eyes were doubtful.  
"Scully loves this stuff."  Which wasn't quite true, Scully loved to watch 
them and point out the inconsistencies in each one they watched together.

"Where are you going to get popcorn?" she asked, laughing a little.

"Vending machine and microwave."  He offered her his most harmless 
smile.  "See how easy that was?"

"All right.  You want me to knock on Dana's door?"

"Yeah, I'd like to change my clothes anyway."  He gave her a last grin as 
she went out the door.  "Don't be late."

**************************************************************

Scully seemed to think the movie was dull.  Well, it did move slowly at the 
beginning, and maybe he was just affected by Morgan's evident enjoyment.  

Of course, once the first thirty minutes had passed, as promised, it got 
downright fun, although Scully kept rolling her eyes at Christopher 
Walken's take on Gabriel. 

Morgan kept smirking at that, rolling her eyes right back.  "Listen, I love 
this, they actually maintain the rules they set down--once the angels come 
to Planet Earth, they can be killed."

"That's just so that pathologist can discover something strange about 
them," Scully scoffed.  "Major plot device."

"Of course," Morgan told her gravely, "Good always has to defeat Evil, 
even if Good takes a lickin' doing it."

That hit a little closer to home than Mulder wanted to think about, given 
that Skinner had privately told him that Morgan had come within a hair's 
breadth of having her throat crushed.  Not that he really thought of a 
temperamental profiler as the embodiment of Good--that thought made him 
grin, thinking how easily that description might be applied to him--but she 
was at least wearing a white hat.  In the Harcourt case.

"Both of you, be quiet, I want to hear these famous lines Morgan keeps 
telling us are so great."

"Wait until Lucifer shows up," Morgan muttered and snickered when 
Mulder mock-glared.  "Quit hogging the popcorn, Mulder."

He handed it over and stretched his legs out on the bed, a little bemused 
at the relaxed atmosphere in the room.  Scully gave him an odd little smile 
and he rolled his eyes.  See, he told her silently, I can play nice with the 
other kids, Scully.

And swore she read his mind, because one corner of her mouth quirked up 
and she turned hastily back to the movie.

It was, after all, to his tastes.  A little on the B movie side, with Gabriel's 
trumpet shattering the windows of the school, but he liked Walken's manic 
drive to put an end to God's approval of talking monkeys, appreciated the 
epitome of evil being represented by a dead army colonel, and was 
thoroughly charmed by the final exchange between Lucifer and Gabriel.

"That," Scully told them both severely, "Was worse than the Abyss."

"How do you know?" Mulder asked and stretched, reaching for the remote 
to mute the sound.  "That got toasted in the VCR when it blew up."

"Morgan got another copy, I watched it with Geoff, if only to see what I 
missed.  At least in the Abyss, the science was the worst part.  This--"  
Scully gestured vaguely, "Was just plain silly."

Morgan yawned and uncoiled herself from the carpet.  "Well, compared to 
Monty Python, it's not silly.  Besides, Dana, can you really tell me with a 
straight face that you didn't love 'Still sulking in the basement over your 
breakup with the Boss?' "

Scully had to grin then, even though he could see the struggle as she tried 
to continue looking severe.  "Well, that was pretty funny.  The problem is, 
I'm not sure it was supposed to be funny."

"Black humor," Morgan told her serenely.   "And why not?  I really loved it 
when he told Thomas that little bit of whimsy about pressing his fingers 
against Thomas' upper lip.  When my daughter was born, I got a baby 
book at a shower that had that piece of sweetness and light in it.  And 
Walken makes it sound menacing."

Scully shook her head.  "I don't understand either of you, you'd think you 
liked being scared."

"Well, the desire to watch or read horror is generally linked to an 
externalization of our fears about other, more mundane events and things."  
Morgan stretched, putting both hands in the small of her back.

"By letting ourselves be scared by these movies," Mulder put in, feeling 
mischievous, "It becomes an almost cathartic experience, enabling us to 
better face the real life fears of the adult."

Scully snorted.  "Psychologists."  And her tone suggested she was saying 
lunatics.

Morgan grinned, tossed the empty popcorn bag into his wastebasket and 
followed Scully to the door.  "Well, it's not just psychologists, Dana, 
literary critics say the same thing."

That got another skeptical look which made Mulder chuckle.  "Aw, Scully 
don't you think we know what we're talking about?"

"In point of fact, Mulder, I wonder."  Scully opened his door, eyed his 
stocking feet and sighed.  "I didn't check your feet."

Morgan nudged her forward.  "I did, they look okay, and he redressed 
them."

"Thanks Moms," he told them drily.  "Gee, I wonder what I did before I had 
Scully?"

"So do I," Morgan told him, equally dry and pulled the door shut behind 
them.

Things were better in the morning, at least from Mulder's point of view.  He 
felt more relaxed with Morgan now, with the tension past, his nerves had 
settled down, he was able to focus on what she'd developed to this point, 
both with witnesses and with her profile.   

Sitting at the conference table in what had become the command post for 
this investigation, he went over her notes.

"Disorganized?"  He tipped her a questioning look.  "I'm betting organized."

Her expression was troubled.  "There are aspects of both types in this," 
she sighed.  "I suspect there was a great deal of planning, that these 
victims were selected.  But the organized type is generally able to function 
pretty well socially, albeit with the sociopath's mask.  I'm not sure this guy 
does.  He's got a mission, he's carrying it out, but I wonder just how well 
he really does function.  I think we're looking for a loner, someone drifting 
on the edges.  Someone subjected to outright abuse in the form of 
discipline as a child, an unskilled worker of some kind.  Socially 
inadequate, few friends, if any, and no family members."

He frowned at the notes.  "We don't have the goddamn crime scenes, but 
the bodies are dumped carefully.  I suspect he expected them to be found 
earlier.  There's something significant about the placement.  You said 
yourself that he targeted them, that's very organized behavior.  Restraints, 
no signs of sexual assault, and very little fucking evidence at the dump 
sites."

"I told you, there are both aspects in these cases.  The bodies are 
mutilated according to the cards, a man with a mission, but--"  Morgan's 
head turned and she looked out the window, her gaze going distant.  "But 
he's not tracking with the rest of us.  

"Obviously."  Only with effort could he keep the sarcasm from his tone.  
"He's killing kids because he believes he can summon Lovecraft's 
collection of beasties back to life."

Abruptly, Morgan knuckled both eyes, the pen falling to the table.  "Yeah."  
Very faintly.  "He drives a lot.  I think he does it as part of his job.  Maybe 
you're right, maybe I'm letting other things blind me.  Harsh father--I 
suspect that mom was gone or dead, more boys than girls chosen."

He felt badly then, bit his lip and looked at his own notes before rising to 
pick up the marker for the whiteboard on the wall.  "Let's see what we can 
work out," he told her peaceably and created two columns.  "Going on 
strictly physical evidence, what have we got."

She knuckled her eyes again, reddening them and looked up at him 
thoughtfully.  "On strictly physical evidence," she repeated and shook her 
head fractionally.  "Okay.  Targeted."

"We don't know that for sure."  He offered her a faint smile in apology.

She looked at him silently for a long moment and put her head down on 
the table on her arms.  "Do you only use physical evidence?"  Her voice 
was muffled.

"No, of course not."  He moved forward, patted her shoulder.  "But that's 
where I start out."

She was silent for a long moment, her head still down.  And when he 
patted her shoulder, he'd felt her flinch.  "Fine."  At last, she raised her 
head and spoke, her tone almost flat.  "Ritualistic.  Bodies are transported 
from kill sites.  Careful control of evidence left at dump sites.  Use of 
restraints, ligature marks on body.  Weapon is not at dump site.  Pattern 
may be lunar, which further suggests planning and targeting."

Stepping back to the board, he wrote under the Organized heading, 
finishing it up to say drily, "Well, that takes care of physical evidence."

Morgan's mouth curved humorlessly.  "So it does."

The door opened and Scully came in, carrying a sheaf of fax paper.  
"Bingo, Morgan.  The kids in New Hampshire, except for the first, all 
attended the Nyarlothotep tournaments."

More evidence of planning and targeting.  He arched an eyebrow in 
Morgan's direction.  "What did you get from the body in the morgue."

"Well, the wounds are inflicted with relative care," she told them soberly.  
"With something very sharp.  Something that may be re-sharpened as he 
works.  Flesh doesn't cut smoothly, generally, but I don't see much sign 
that he hurried with his work.  Very deft, almost surgical precision.  And 
no, Mulder, that doesn't mean I think the killer is a surgeon.  It doesn't take 
anatomical knowledge to do what was done to that boy."

Morgan shivered, rubbed her hands over her upper arms.  "All right.  The 
physical evidence would appear to rule out a disorganized killer.  The killer 
has someplace to himself, someplace he can work undisturbed."

Noting the shiver, Mulder considered it, considered the dark crescents 
under Morgan's eyes and wondered.  Scully gave him a brief, puzzled look 
and pulled out a chair to sit down.

"He's mobile throughout the New Hampshire and Massachusetts, but he 
doesn't appear to have traveled any farther.  I ran a request through our 
database and haven't come up with any matching cases.  Yet."

Morgan shivered again.  "You won't," she told him, so softly he had to lean 
forward to hear her.  "He's here.  Not terribly far.  But he drives at night, 
choosing the spots.  Choosing where the next sacrifice must be.  Praying 
to his gods."

His skin suddenly prickled to gooseflesh beneath his clothes.  Jesus, this 
was getting to her.  Getting to her as badly as any case had ever gotten to 
him.

Suddenly, she lifted her head and gave him a crooked smile.  "I gave this 
up, before your Assistant Director contacted me about you.  I gave it up--
and here I am again, can't stay away from the hunt. What do you suppose 
that means?"

"It means you don't like seeing kids murdered."  Scully's voice was almost 
too loud in the hush Morgan's words had left.  

Mulder's mouth was too dry.  Moving casually, he reached for his cooling 
coffee and took a sip.  Took another.  "Maybe this is hitting you a little 
hard," he finally managed, keeping his tone carefully uninflected.  "It might 
be a good idea to take a step back.  Go back home for a couple of days."

"Todd Greene doesn't have that much time, I don't think."  Morgan turned 
abruptly to face the board.  "So, that's what we've got that's concrete, 
Mulder.  Let's see what we can spin out of theory, shall we?"

After another look at Scully, Mulder nodded and moved back toward the 
board, his fingers slick on the marker's surface.

********************************************************************
"I'm worried about her," Mulder told Scully, walking out of the barracks 
toward their car.  "Very worried.  She's pretty much on the edge."

Scully glanced back over her shoulder, tucked a lock of hair behind her 
ear.  "That's the pot calling the kettle black," she told him, a little 
humorously.  "Have you ever worked on one of these that you weren't on 
the edge?"

He scowled.  "I told you, Scully, that was a long time ago."

"You scared the hell out of me with Patterson," she told him bluntly, 
stopping to tilt a serious gaze at him.  "Mulder--I wasn't sure what was 
going on in your head.  And yeah, I'm worried about her, too.  But she 
seems to think this is part of the process.  And she's talked to me about it 
a damned sight more than you ever have."

He could feel his mouth thin out, managed to suppress the flare of anger 
that answered that comment, and unlocked the driver's door, flicked the 
master lock button to let Scully in on the passenger side.  

There didn't seem to be any reply to that outside of something that might 
lead to a quarrel.  And he didn't want to fight with his partner.  Especially 
not over St. Morgan of Fucking Arc.  "All right," he told her levelly, "Maybe 
I'm seeing things."

"I didn't say that."  Scully settled into the seat, pulled the seat belt across 
and snapped it with a sharp click.  He got a look just as sharp.  "Here she 
comes, let's leave it alone for now."

Morgan came out, tilting her head up to put on sunglasses.  He was 
freshly amazed at the difference in her looks.  She looked thinner, of 
course, but she'd been thinner when she'd come to see him before getting 
her own release from the hospital.  Thinner and wearing a cast on one 
wrist.  But more than that--the casual professor look was gone, she looked 
sharp enough to cut, that nineties look.  Nice legs, he thought and shook 
his head again at his own absurdity.

"So, where are we eating?" Morgan asked, sliding into the back seat.  
"You know, you guys aren't my babysitters, you don't have to keep hauling 
me around with you."

"Your table manners are fine, I don't mind,"  Mulder looked up in the 
rearview mirror and got a blank look instead of a smile.

That blankness and distance would last for most of dinner, he'd found, after 
two days.  Then, as if shedding some burden, Morgan's native mischief 
would return.  

And he hadn't just been carping, he was sincerely worried.  He could 
swear he'd heard sounds in the night, sounds like someone suffering from 
nightmares of the horrific variety, the kind he was most familiar with.  And 
Morgan kept looking tired and worn after those nights.  

"I thought we might drive a little farther tonight," he told the car in general.

"Seafood."

"That's about an hour, Mulder."  Scully tilted him a quizzical look.

"Yeah, I thought we could change, really get something decent to eat.  Not 
that the Italian place isn't good," he told the rearview mirror, "But seafood--
my dad left me the place on the Vineyard, and I grew up in Chilmark.  I'll 
steer you right, Scully."

"That sounds fine."  Morgan's voice was distant again, she was staring out 
the window.  Probably at nothing at all, just those wheels turning in her 
head.

It made him nervous.  And also reminded him that maybe, just maybe, 
Scully wasn't that far wrong about *him*.  Maybe he did this, too.  And had 
sworn he would never lose himself as he had after Oklahoma.  

Never again, he repeated to himself silently, but it scared the living hell out 
of him to watch someone else veering close to the cliff edge of that same 
disaster.

**************************************************************************
"Unofficially," Mulder finally said, over the last of the lobster.
"Unofficially, 
what do you think about this guy."

"You know what I think, you read my profile notes."  Morgan smiled faintly 
and licked her fingertips quite unselfconsciously, quite without intent. 

But, for a minute he was aware of her only as a woman, not as a 
colleague, and that awareness leaked over to include Scully, something he 
jerked his mind back from even as his pulse sped slightly.

"I'm going to have to do four extra miles," Morgan sighed, evidently replete, 
and held her thumb up at him.  "Bonus points for the idea, Mulder.  It was 
fabulous."

Scully grinned and peeled the last of her boiled shrimp.  "How to enjoy 
death by cholesterol, Morgan."

Morgan nodded happily.  "I know.  It doesn't seem fair that seafood should 
have so much."

"It's the healthier kind," Scully pointed at her with a shrimp tail.  "Unlike 
the junk that Mulder usually eats."

"May I point out that this was my idea?"  He arched a comic eyebrow at 
his partner and was relieved to hear Morgan snicker.  She'd been largely 
silent during the ride, answering only when spoken to directly, and 
absently then.  On the other hand, maybe she had a problem with low 
blood sugar--something to ask Scully.

"I think we've got someone who lives in two realities," Morgan added 
suddenly, toying with the crust from her bread.  "Someone who manages 
to hold down a job of sorts, who makes enough to keep himself in gas 
money and tournament fees.  No signs of sexual assault, the sacrifice is 
the key to his religion.  He really believes in the Elder Gods, he's choosing 
his sites carefully."  She took a bite of the crust and gazed at him 
thoughtfully, her face glowing faintly from the candle in the center of the 
table.  "I wish I could break that code."

He nodded and swallowed.  Jesus, he was in bad shape if somebody 
chewing on a crust of bread could raise his pulse.  On the other hand, it 
was at least a cheerful development, given the last few months.  "But you 
still think he's basically disorganized, I take it."

Her brows drew together and she looked past him again.  

He was getting very tired of that and developing one helluva lot more 
sympathy for the people who had put up with him when he was profiling 
non-stop.  No wonder they'd walked on eggs around him.  

"Well," Morgan began and tipped him something that almost looked like an 
apologetic smile.  "It's just that I'm getting a very clear picture of him.  And

despite the evidence, I still think we're talking about a loner, very poor 
social skills."

"The two styles aren't necessarily exclusive of each other," he told her 
gently.  "I've seen them firsthand, believe me."

Those eyes came back to him, almost green in this light. "I believe you," 
she told him softly.

He swallowed hard again, double checked the locks on the doors in the 
back of his mind.  "Yeah."

Scully kicked his ankle gently under the table.  "How's Aarin?"

Morgan blinked, then smiled ruefully.  "Not very happy with me.  He 
doesn't like it when I have to leave, although he loves Em."

"And the cats."  Scully's tone was light.

"And the cats.  And Bear.  And Geoff, even."  Morgan's eyes were easier, 
happier.  "Jess and Caroline are visiting with Robin.  He was so excited, 
had to take Robin all over the house to see everything."

"Robin?"  Mulder arched an eyebrow again, feeling a bit left out of this flow 
of information.  It was ridiculous to feel the sting, Scully didn't have to 
share everything in her life with him, he was her partner, for God's sake, 
nothing more.  But he did nonetheless.

"Robin's the boy who got himself and Aarin away from--"  Morgan made a 
vague gesture, as if unwilling to say more about it, then smiled.  "Jess was 
on duty that night.  He and Caroline adopted Robin.  Evidently, his mother 
had vanished sometime during the eight years since he was taken.  He's 
adjusted well, considering, but it's taken a lot of work, on their part and 
his."

His mouth abruptly tasted bitter.  Sometimes it was just so damned hard 
to think about what people did to kids, never mind work a case like this 
one.  He supposed Morgan fended it off by remembering that some kids 
got rescued, some kids healed.  More or less.  Taking a quick sip of beer, 
he shook his head.  "I would imagine."

"Yeah."  Morgan shook it away.  "Robin's my source of information on the 
Magic tournaments, but I certainly don't claim to be the expert.  We really 
need to see one of these things, I think.  And maybe get a feel for how he 
works."

"Not a bad idea," Scully agreed.  "But I'm not dressing in costume."

"No, no, it's not that kind of role playing."  Morgan laughed softly.  "It's not

even like D & D or any of the permutations out there.  I'm probably 
mis-stating when I say it's any kind of role playing, except that Robin says 
you decide what kind of, oh, say magician you are, and specifically collect 
cards for that type."

"Thank God," Mulder muttered and rolled his eyes.  "So, which of us is 
going to be the Elder God worshipping maniac?"

"At first, I thought we could let you knock yourself out," Morgan told him, 
laughing again, "But then I thought, no, how uncharacteristic--you get to be 
one of the white hats, chasing down the evil maniacs."

"What are you going to be?" he asked drily, reaching for the check.

Morgan abstracted it neatly from under his hand and grinned as she rose.  
"The evil maniac, what else?  I told you, I find monsters."

Scully gave him what looked very much looked like a silent warning.  He 
licked lips suddenly dry.  "But you're wearing a white hat, too."

Already moving away from the table, Morgan's expression went solemn.  
"But it works better if I become the monster when I'm hunting."

That was what he was afraid she'd tell him.  And didn't find himself any 
more comfortable than he had earlier in the evening.

Morgan fell asleep in the back of the car on the way back to the hotel.  
When he was sure she really was asleep, he turned toward Scully.  "Am I 
just being a jerk, or is there really something to worry about, Scully?"

Scully spared a glance backward.  "You  mean Morgan?  I'm not a 
psychologist, Mulder.  But she's a lot like you, she feels for the victim 
almost too intensely."

"I don't identify with the monsters," he growled, then sighed when he felt 
her eyes move to him.  "All right, maybe I do."

"And it bothers you to watch her do it."   Scully's voice was soft.  "As 
much as it bothers me to watch *you* do it, Mulder."

He sighed again.  "Yeah.  Like she isn't a professional.  I keep thinking of 
her as Glinda, Scully, and I'm treating her like she doesn't know what the 
fuck she's doing, but she does.  And she's good at it.  And a part of me 
resents that she pulls it out of nowhere."

A low chuckle came from the passenger side of the car.  "So do you, 
Mulder.  Right out of nowhere."

He almost resented that, but what else was it?  It was preferable to think 
that he was putting pieces together in his unconscious based on his 
education, his observations, the evidence....but honesty compelled him to 
admit that he couldn't swear to that.  

"It only looks that way," he finally muttered, keeping his voice low. 

"That's probably what's happening with Morgan, too."  Scully yawned.  
"You've only seen her under fire, Mulder.  I've seen her at home.  I think 
she'll be all right."

Maybe this was all about resenting Morgan, he told himself wearily.   

Although he did like her, more or less.  Did respect the abilities that were 
evident in her profile notes.   Wished she was back in DC doing whatever 
the hell it was since he'd last seen her.  Summer session, he supposed, 
had left her free to take this job.  

It was impossible not to feel slightly ashamed and wonder if he was so 
damned egomaniacal that he couldn't work with another profiler anymore.

"Well, I hope you're right, Scully," he finally sighed, after a long, 
comfortable silence.  "I hope I'm just being a jerk."

That got another chuckle.  "You're just being Mulder," she told him and 
chuckled again.  "And face it, she's an X file all on her own, Mulder."

Unable to prevent it, he grinned.  "Yeah, but at least we don't have to arrest 
her."

**********************************************************************************

The dental records for the New Devon body were finally matched to a Ricky 
Greenwald, aged fifteen.  Ricky, too, had attended Nyarlothotep 
tournaments in the New Devon area, and his parents had reported him 
missing two days after he had failed to show up for dinner.

Ricky Greenwald, it appeared, had been a bit of a hardcase kid, smart ass 
to the local cops, failing grades in school, problems with alcohol and 
drugs.  None of which made it any easier to look at his ravaged corpse in 
the photographs.

"He still deserved to live," Morgan had said softly, echoing what was in all 
their minds.

Mulder had given her a bleak nod, looking down at the glossy color 
detailing of Ricky's suffering and death.

By Thursday, they had all fallen into a routine that consisted of breakfast 
at the Inn, a day's work at the barracks or interviewing friends, relatives, 
and possible witnesses, broken by lunch at whatever local diner was least 
unpalatable.  

Evening was more work, paperwork mostly, tracking names and 
addresses, and generally at the Inn.  Morgan had used the scanner at the 
barracks to load the tournament signup sheets into files and run a program 
to select duplicate names from the six relevant sheets; the computer had 
obligingly spit out twenty-five names, the owners of which were currently 
being located for interviews.

He found it was more than strange seeing Donovan around again, trading 
banter, talking about baseball.  They'd never been close friends, more like 
acquaintances, but Donovan had never treated him like a freak or lunatic, 
or expressed any evidence of resentment that Patterson had singled him 
out while he was still in training.

And it was almost pleasant to be around a former classmate who treated 
him as if he were any other agent, more or less.  Almost pleasant, or 
would have been, if he'd liked Donovan.  But Donovan was in the grey area, 
a neutral memory, and nothing in their current exchanges sparked any 
more than that.  

Now his partner--Stoddard was weird, no doubt about it, moving like a 
shadow behind Donovan.  

He found himself idly wondering if Donovan had been sent to keep tabs on 
him.  

During a lunch with Scully, eaten at the end of the conference table--
Morgan had gone off to do some errand, he supposed--he broached the 
subject with her.

"You get the feeling they're keeping tabs on us, Scully?"

Scully sighed and poked the plastic fork into her salad.  "My take on it is 
that the regional ASAC in Boston wants a piece of this, wants to know 
what you're doing, and wants a little credit when the case breaks."  Her lip 
curled slightly.  "Bureau politics."

He chuckled and took another bite of his sandwich, thinking that over, 
fishing for the name of the ASAC.  Then:  "Ross Bergman, that's who it is.  
I don't know him, but I've heard he's a real hard ass.  He doesn't know me, 
and probably doesn't like anything he's heard about me."  Grinning, he 
licked the mustard that had leaked onto his fingertips and arched both 
eyebrows at her.  "You suppose Skinner sends out little newsletters on 
which of his agents is the biggest pain in the ass?"

"I doubt it," she told him severely.  "But news flashes--that I can believe."

He grinned more broadly.  "Oops, then I must be right, they're our 
watchdogs.  I can just see *that* briefing--Donovan, if Spooky starts 
spouting poetry, get a butterfly net and drag him back to the nearest 
hospital."

That got a quizzical look, but he'd never told her about his fast-burn and 
crash under Patterson and wasn't about to open that can of worms now.  

But he did find it amusing that Morgan seemed to find ways of getting rid of 
the two, whether on her own coin or with Kelsey's connivance.  

"Morgan doesn't like them either," Scully told him suddenly and sighed, 
pushing the fork into the plastic container and snapping it closed. "I've 
enjoyed about as much of this as I'm going to, Mulder."

His eyes moved to his french fries.  "Yeah, me too."  Taking the last bite of 
sandwich, he wadded up the paper with the fries and stuck them into the 
grease-stained paper sack, slam-dunking the whole thing into the 
wastebasket as she rose.  Scully regarded that with amusement before 
tossing the remains of her lunch after it.

"Hey!"  He arched an approving eyebrow.  "Good shot."

Scully smirked briefly, then sobered.  "Morgan manages to get rid of them 
an awful lot, Mulder.  And I swear, Kelsey helps her."

Leaning back, Mulder stretched out his legs and thought about it.  Yeah, 
Scully was right.  "Maybe he doesn't like them, either," he muttered.  
Although Kelsey wasn't one to leap to conclusions, his lecture to them 
notwithstanding.  In fact, he found himself liking the big bluff trooper, who 
talked like a country boy, but showed a wit as incisive as any he'd met in 
the urban jungle of Washington.  Abruptly, he grinned at his partner.  "I 
tried to get Kelsey to tell me some Skinner stories.  But he was too smart 
for me."

Scully sipped at her iced tea, the straw making that slurping sound when 
she hit the ice.  "What did he say?"

Mulder's grin broadened.  "He said, 'I believe I'll let Walt tell you about
that, 
Mr. Mulder.  I wouldn't want him to come after me.' "

Scully's gaze went distant.  "He doesn't seem to mind us."  Her eyes 
came back to him, suddenly mischievous.  "I think he actually likes you, 
Mulder.  Whatever Skinner's said about you can't be all bad.  And he 
doesn't even get cranky when you give attitude."

"I never," he told her with dignity, "Give anyone attitude."

She only laughed and rose, taking her cup to dump it with the rest of the 
trash before heading out the door.

***********************************************************

By nine that evening, Mulder was ready to give attitude to anyone, having 
pored over more lists, cross-checking and checking against other lists.  
This was the tedious part of an investigation, and it left him short of temper 
and with his head aching.  His reading glasses needed to be changed, he 
thought gloomily, and tossed the offending pair across the bed.   Swinging 
his legs down, he considered his bag with an offended look.

Naturally, he had arcane medication of every kind in his suitcase, but not a 
simple bottle of aspirin.  Scully would have some, he thought, and glanced 
at the clock, sighing when he saw the time.  

Scully was already long gone, sleeping the sleep of the clear of 
conscience.  But Morgan--she was as sleepless as he was, and for 
reasons just as good--and he could hear her television.

Pulling jeans on over his shorts, he padded over to the door that connected 
his room to hers and unlocked it to tap on the door on her side.

"Come in," a voice called, at his knock.  

Unbelieving, he tried the door to find it unlocked; outraged, he opened it 
and frowned at her.  "Are you crazy?  Leaving the door unlocked, a woman 
alone?"

She was sitting cross-legged on the bed, her laptop in front her.  Giving 
him a weary look over the top of her glasses, she raked a hand through her 
hair, setting it into greater disorder.  "Thanks, Dad, but I'm fine.  Unless 
you were planning on coming in and assaulting me--I was going to bother 
you a while back and changed my mind.  What's up?"

"I have a headache," he told her, resigned.  "I don't know why I bother 
saying anything to you, you're going to do what you want to anyway."

Morgan rose, her expression bland.  "It only irritates you because you 
recognize that quality in yourself."  Her tone was crisp, professional; a 
moment later, she shot him a mischievous look from over her purse.  "I 
have acetaminophen, ibuprofen, and buffered aspirin.  I'm cheap, I buy the 
generics.  Which do you want?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, but she refused to say more.  Surrendering to 
the throbbing in his head, he grimaced.  "I'll trade you a Darvocet for four 
ibuprofen."

"I don't need the Darvocet," she told him reasonably and retrieved a small 
plastic bottle from her purse.

"That's good," he grinned.  "I lied, I don't have any Darvocet anymore."

"Really?"  She regarded him without rancor and shifted to stand hipshot, 
hands at her waist.

"Really."  He leaned against the door jamb, amused.  Clad in a rumpled, 
oversized Santa Fe T-shirt, she looked smaller and less imposing than 
usual.  And her shorts barely showed under the T-shirt, which made his 
grin widen.  "What are you watching?"

Morgan glanced at the television and grinned wickedly.  "It's a Terminator 
fest.  Want to stay up and nitpick temporal inconsistencies with me?"

"Temporal inconsistencies," he repeated, rolling the words over his tongue.  
"I like that.  Which ones are your favorite?"

That brought her eyes back to the television.  "Well, the first one isn't too 
bad, really.  I mean, temporal paradoxes abound--John what's his name 
gets sent back by Sarah's son, so that the kid could be conceived.  But 
the second one--Jesus.  The most irritating one is the fact that they 
convince the scientist not to work any more on the project, after shooting 
him, of course, and Arnie doesn't immediately disappear.  Okay, it's 
marginally acceptable that maybe the evil corporation gets someone else 
to do the work, so the future doesn't change, so Arnie doesn't disappear 
then, but if I stretch it that far, why don't the cyborg arm AND Arnie 
disappear after the firefight at the corporation?  I mean, really, if you're 
going to create a fictional world, make it consistent."  Her tone was 
amused and scornful.  "And why does Arnie have to dive down into the 
molten metal.  Once they dispose of the arm and the chip, Arnie ought to 
go poof."

He'd thought he was the only one to notice weird details like that.  "I 
suppose you could do better," he challenged, tipping her a lazy grin, trying 
not to laugh too hard.

"I certainly could."  Morgan's chin came up in defiant challenge and she 
sat down on the bed again, eyeing him as if she expected argument.

He considered that for a moment, but he believed her.  "Yeah, I'll bet you 
could."  Sitting down beside her on the foot of the bed, he laughed.  "I 
guess if the money goes out of ghostbusting, you could write horror 
novels."

That got a look from under tousled bangs.  "I'll bust your chops," she told 
him tartly.  "Just keep pushing it, Mulder.  I'll turn you into a toad."

"You aren't really a witch," he jibed, laughing again, "You can't."

"Oh, yeah, maybe not, but I can make you believe you're a toad.  And 
that's half of reality right there."  She gave him a sharp look, holding his 
gaze; after a few moments, he almost believed her.

Holding up both hands, he laughed again.  "I give, I give, I'd look funny as a 
toad, my feet would be bigger than my body."  

Morgan smirked at him.  "Ah, but is it true what they say about toads with 
big feet?"

Startled and delighted, he smirked back.  "I dunno, what do they say about 
toads with big feet."

Her eyes danced with mischief.  "The same thing they say about men with 
big feet, Mulder.  Although a friend of mine swears by the nose as an 
accurate indicator."

He felt the tide of color rise to his hairline, heating his face.  By either 
standard, he thought dimly and squelched that thought firmly before his 
errant mind could follow it anywhere dangerous.  But still--"I suppose you 
insist on proof," he leered playfully.

"Proof?"  Her cheeks turned pink, but she didn't back down, and her eyes 
glinted.  "Sure, Mulder.  Be my guest."  Arching an eyebrow suggestively, 
she put one hand out as if to assist.

"That's all right," he said hastily, and regarded her with some respect.  She 
hadn't even flinched, calling his bluff.  "I think I'll leave it to your 
imagination."

"I have a very vivid imagination," she retorted and grinned at him again, still 
a little pink.

"You're dangerous."  He found he was laughing, laughing honestly and fully 
for the first time in a long time.  "You scare the hell out of me."

Perhaps wisely, she ignored that and scooted back to cross her legs, 
tailor fashion.  "So, you up for the end of Terminator I and all of Terminator 
II?"

Taking a close look at her, he realized that, despite the ribald foolishness 
of a moment before, she wasn't asking for anything but company.  

"Yeah," he grinned.  "I'm out of change, though, no popcorn."

That earned him a merry look.  "Just as well, I ate too much at dinner"

She hadn't eaten much at all, he thought, slanting her a look.  He 
supposed by that fact that she was dieting or something like it.  But she 
looked fine to him.  "Why are women always convinced that they're fat?"

"Poor socialization," she told him sternly, her eyes on the television.  "Now 
shut up, this is my favorite part."

He looked back at the screen as Linda Hamilton inched backwards, away 
from the horrific metal skeleton that pursued her.  "You gotta be kidding--
this is your favorite part?"

"Well, apart from the brief scene where they have wild sex, yeah."  She 
thwacked him lightly with a pillow and shifted to lie on her stomach like a 
kid.  "Okay, here it comes."  Her eyes narrowed in concentration, and she 
spoke the line in perfect time with Linda Hamilton.  "You're terminated, 
fucker."

He completely lost it then, falling backward as he gave in to hilarity that 
seemed to last forever.  She was an original, he thought finally, wiping his 
eyes.  "Damn, you're something else, lady."  He leaned up on elbow to 
smile at her.  "So how come you live with Sharon and Geoff?  How come 
you never got married again?"  It was a nonsense question, trying to work 
past the awkwardness of knowing her, yet not knowing her.  A dumb 
making small talk question.  He should have known better, he'd never been 
particularly good at small talk.

It had an unfortunate effect.

Her eyebrows drew together, dark angled lines that spoke of temper.  
"What makes you think I was ever married at all?"

Ouch.  This was going to cost.  

"Um," he said, and raked a hand through his hair, trying to decide whether 
to lie or not.  No, not from the look in her eyes, she'd see right through it.  
"Skinner has a file on you."

Irish temper awakened, worse than he'd ever seen in his rational partner.  
"He has a file on me," she repeated, her tone purest ice.  "And what, pray, 
does that file contain?"

"Just a bio, really.  You know, when you were born, where you went to 
school, when you got married...."  His voice trailed off uncomfortably.  
When you were widowed, he added silently, when your daughter and 
husband died and how.

"I'm surprised my bra size isn't immortalized there."  Her tone was acid, 
her brows drawn together .  "Find anything interesting in there, Agent 
Mulder?"

He swallowed, decided on honesty.  "Yeah, the fact that they didn't 
mention your more colorful abilities."

"Thank Fortune for small favors."  She scowled at him.  "If Walter hadn't 
been a friend of Gene's, if Harcourt hadn't been what he was, you wouldn't 
know either."

"Chicken?"  He lifted a brow questioningly, amused in spite of her temper.

Her mouth flattened out.  "No, you twit, I just have certain objections to 
spending my life locked up in a ward belonging to one of the nastier shops 
in DC, while they slice bits and pieces of my brain and study them."

Jolted, he closed his mouth, thinking of things better forgotten.  "Smart 
woman."

Her expression softened and her gaze went distant for a moment.  "Who's 
Banton?"

He felt chilled; she had plucked the name from his thoughts, he thought, 
and shook it away.  "Someone I met a long time ago.  He's dead now."  Or 
wishes he was, he thought and deliberately turned back to the television.  
"There she is, all alone in the desert, talking into her tape recorder."

"With her dog."  Morgan let it pass, for which he was thankful.  "Okay, 
next up, the good Terminator."

Watching her settle back again, he found himself marveling again at how 
easily he seemed to connect with her.  

It was like what he shared with Scully, and that was both a gift and 
something to be feared.  He trusted her, even when his temper flared; she 
met him face to face, like Scully, never bowing, never taking flight.  There 
hadn't been many people in his life who had done that, who hadn't fled, 
either from him or into hate, into coldness, into dislike.  

Now--if he was honest with himself--there were three, though Skinner's 
kindness to him made him vaguely uneasy.  He wasn't used to it, and he 
doubted it, but he was well enough trained in his craft to wonder if it went 
back to mistrusting his father.  God, life was so skewed sometimes, how 
could you ever get down to the roots and yank them out?

He didn't know.  He didn't know if anyone did.  But right now it didn't 
matter; rolling over to match her position, he settled back himself, sharing 
the moment with a friend.

Morgan fell asleep before the end of the movie, as easily and quickly as a
child.  

Mulder let her sleep, content to watch the movie's finale before rising to turn 
the television off.  When he turned back to the bed, she had drawn her 
knees up, fists tucked under her chin, her eyes moving rapidly under 
closed lids.  

Whatever the dream was, it didn't seem pleasant.  

She made a sound in her throat, fear or anger, and her fists tightened.  
Pulling the edge of the bedspread over her, he sat down, watching, feeling 
the faintest touch of worry at the base of his spine.

Without warning, she exploded up, nearly whacking him in the nose with 
her elbow, breathing hard as if she'd been running.  Wide, unseeing eyes 
held his and she made another sound in her throat, sliding back against 
the head of the bead, hands out to fend him off.   

He stayed where he was, careful to sit very still.  "Morgan, you were 
dreaming--it's a dream, that's all, you're all right."

Still, she stared at him, unseeing, body rigid.

This isn't going to work, he thought and ruefully touched his nose.  

Well, if he could avoid her elbows, he thought it would be all right; moving 
quickly, he leaned forward and pulled her against his chest, trapping her 
arms between them.  "Shh," he whispered, rocking her.  "It's okay, it's a 
dream."

She was shivering, suddenly awake.  "Oh, shit."  She caught her breath on 
a sob.  "Sorry, did I hit you?"

"Nope, I was careful."  He slowly loosened his arms.  "You aren't going to 
hit me now, are you?"

That got a wan smile.  "No, not yet."  Then, apologetically, "Sorry, it 
happens sometimes."

He brushed a lock of hair back from her face.  "No surprise."  Julian 
Harcourt's existence lay between them, a corpse that refused to stay 
buried, Harcourt's death another ghost story you didn't tell after dark.  "You 
want to talk about it?"

"Hell, no."  She shivered again.  "Ask me sometime in the daylight, okay?  
It's not Harcourt, believe it or not."  A keen look came his way, making him 
uncomfortable.  "You?"

"Yeah, I dream about him sometimes."  He shrugged, making light of it.  
"Just another day in the Mulder psyche.  I dream about my sister, too."

She wiped her eyes on her sleeve like a kid.  "Do you want to talk about 
it?"

He laughed softly.  "Be each other's therapist?  I don't know, Morgan, I 
don't think that's appropriate."  And he'd rather have bamboo shoots driven 
under his nails than talk about it with this woman who was, and yet was 
not a stranger.

"That's not what I meant."  She laughed softly, all quicksilver mood, now 
wicked again.  "It would be highly inappropriate for me to take you on as a 
client.  I've seen you naked."

He blushed at that, caught completely off guard.  She had, actually, 
though it had been dark, and God only knew what she'd seen at the 
hospital.  "That doesn't seem fair."  He hoped his tone was quelling.

Her expression was demure.  "It's okay.  I don't think about it often."  She 
looked at him from between lowered lashes, doing a wicked imitation of a 
southern deb with far more knowledge than a southern deb should have.

Rashness deserved some reward, he thought, feeling wicked himself.  And 
glanced briefly at her breasts, splendid, even under an oversized T shirt, 
making her blush as his eyes lingered.  "Until I even the score, you 
shouldn't think about it at all."

That turned her pinker.  "Even the score," she muttered and flicked a half-
hearted grin at him.  "You'd run screaming from the room, Mulder, let me 
give you fair warning."

He doubted that.  Her suits were tailored, but the silk shells she wore 
clung lovingly to her body.  And the skirts were shorter than Scully's, 
above her knee, showing off more leg.  Nothing spectacular, nice firm, 
sturdy legs, but more of them then he was used to seeing from his partner.  

God, he needed to get a life if watching her lick butter off her fingertips 
made him breath faster, but it was reassuring to find out his libido wasn't 
really dead, only sleeping.  

"Go back to sleep," he said aloud and rose, "Thanks for the movies.  My 
headache went away, I didn't even need the pills."   With a final grin, he left 
her.

**************************************************************
Another body was discovered the next day.  Kids out in the hills, outside of 
Kensington, adolescents gone hunting a private place for a little fooling 
around.

They'd found something else, instead.

The only good thing about it was that the body had been there for some 
time.  Possibly months.  Only skeletal remains, the smaller bones 
scattered by the action of animals.

But the teeth were still intact, amazingly enough.  

And it was clear from the bones that were left that the savagery of the 
mutilations matched what they'd gotten from the other autopsy reports.  

Scully painstakingly gathered the bones at the site, hunched down 
The New Devon autopsy provided them with a little more information, but 
not much.  Mutilations were similar, weapon seemed the same, something 
nastily well honed and narrow of blade.  

Morgan stood over to one side, watching the team work, watching as men 
spread out to search for missing bones, for any evidence that might have 
survived the months since the body had been dumped.  Mulder glanced 
over at her, noted the pallor.  She wasn't sleeping well, he was suddenly 
certain, and reckoned he hadn't been so far off in his assessment of 
nightmares.  Hell, he had his own, for that matter.

Long strides took him to stand beside her.  "No sense in you standing out 
here to get rained on," he told her, eyeing the overcast sky.  "It's long past, 
Morgan."

"There's still something here," she told him stubbornly and looked up the 
hill.  "Something...."

Her voice trailed off and irritation made his shoulders twitch.  "Go on back 
to the barracks.  You can't do much hill climbing in a suit, for God's sake."

That got him an absent look, one that might have held as much irritation as 
his tone, except that Morgan was miles away.  Doing whatever the hell she 
did to scan the airwaves.  "Morgan," he began, but she turned away from 
him and started to ascend the hill, careful in her pumps.

Looking back at Scully, he saw his partner look up, gaze at Morgan 
distractedly and go back to work.  He couldn't help Scully with the almost 
archaelogical work of getting the bones back, but he could probably keep 
Morgan from breaking her neck--turning back, he started after Morgan, 
cursing under his breath when she vanished into a knot of undergrowth.

"Morgan,  you're going to ruin your hose," he called after her, grinning in 
spite of annoyance.  If nothing else, working with Scully had given him that 
insight, and remembering Scully's constant bitching about pantyhose 
made him grin as he covered the remaining yard between him and the 
brambles.  How in hell had she gotten so far ahead of him so quickly?

"Have you got a flashlight?" she called back, her voice sounding oddly 
muffled.

He paused, frowning, and pushed the brambles aside, cursing silently as 
several stung his hands.  "Yeah, what for?"

"There's a kind of cave in here."  She was hunched down, holding a good 
sized bunch of branches away from a shadowy opening in the hillside.

"So?"  But he sighed, rubbed his forehead and nodded.  "Don't go in there, 
I'll be right back."

On his way down, he passed Gene Kelsey.  "There's something that looks 
like a cave up there," he told him quickly and opened the trunk of the 
bureau car.  Found, blessedly, a decent and high powered flash light.  Not 
to his usual taste, but what the hell, it was better than nothing.

"Don't let her go exploring on her own," Kelsey called after him, then bent 
over to watch Scully work.

Of course, the twice damned woman had already gone in, all he saw was 
one shapely ankle before she vanished inside.  Cursing a blue streak, he 
pushed through the undergrowth, taking a number of thorns and scrapes 
and catching several on the fabric of his suit.  "Morgan, I'm going to be very 
irritable.

"I'm right here," her voice was faint.  "Wow, it opens up some past the 
entrance, Mulder."

That was good, he decided, because the entrance wouldn't accomodate 
more than one of the Seven Dwarves at a time.  He had to duck walk 
through, which increased his sense of being put upon, but found himself 
standing, albeit hunch over, next to Morgan in the dimness.

"He's been here."  Morgan's voice was hushed and she shivered.  "I can 
feel him here."

"Great, what does that tell you?"  He managed to modulate his tone so 
that is was only moderately cutting.  

"This is where he started."  Morgan shivered again, glided ahead of him to 
the opposite wall of the--it was too small to be properly called a cave, he 
thought, but it would have made a nice animal den. 

A big animal den.  And the thought made him shiver like Morgan, 
considering what they hunted.

She knelt on the dirt, heedless of hose and suit.  "Here," she told him 
urgently.  "There are more here."

When he flicked the flashlight over her face, her eyes were all pupil, not 
even contracting in the light.  That brought another shiver.

"C'mon, let's get out of here before we trample evidence," he told her, not 
sure why he believed her.

"Here," she insisted, "We have to dig here."  And rose to go to the right, 
putting her hands palm down against the mixture of rock and dirt of the 
wall.  "And here.  He's put someone here."  Her fingers clawed at the dirt 
and he was stirred forward, shining the light on the wall of the cave as it 
slowly, nightmarishly, began to crumble.

The whole damn thing was unstable.  He found himself wondering later if it 
was even a natural cave, but at the moment, all he could do was watch as 
dirt and rock and God alone knew what else began to rain down, as the 
ceiling followed and he tried to pull Morgan out of it.

********************************************************************************

"Where did Mulder go?"  Scully looked up, peeling her gloves off.

Kelsey looked up the hill, startled, blinked and frowned.  "He said 
something about a cave up there."

Scully followed his gaze.  "In the hill?"  She gave him a doubtful look.  "I'm 
not a geologist, but is that common in this area?"

"Nope."  Kelsey frowned, barked at a few of his troopers and started up the 
hill.

Three, than four men spread out and worked up the hill.  Then, while Scully 
was supervising the removal of what remained of the body, a shout came 
back down.

The four remaining men moved fast, going toward their cars, opening 
trunks.

With a final glance toward the ambulance, Scully frowned and started up 
the hill.

*******************************************************************************
The fucking entrance had also collapsed.  Like pulling out a keystone and 
having the arch collapse--Jesus.  Mulder found the flashlight in the dark, 
blessedly still working, set it aside and grimly kept digging with his hands.

Came away with what looked very like bones and felt his flesh prickle with 
unease.  "Shit," he told the bone--a forearm perhaps?  

Scully would know, and be able to tell him the proper name.  

But Morgan still lay under the dirt--he dug faster, suddenly panicked, found 
a pump and threw it aside.  His fingers closed around what felt like a foot, 
a live, warm foot--he yanked hard, found the other and yanked harder.  
Pulled a warm, if not breathing, body out of the dirt, straining his back and 
shoulders in the struggle with the loose earth that wanted to swallow her 
back up.

She wasn't breathing.  Fighting panic again, he brushed frantically at her 
face, pulled her mouth open and made sure her airway was clear, cleaned 
the loose earth away from her nose.  Still nothing--Christ, he hoped he 
remembered CPR, he was overdue for his refresher course.  

Pinching her nose shut, Mulder bent over her and forced breath into her.  
She held the dank, sour odor of the grave she had discovered and his skin 
prickled where it touched her.  "Come on, dammit," he growled, bent and 
repeated the sequence, found the small bone that lined up his hands, 
pressed hard on her ribcage.  Did it again, sweating in the dark chill, 
suddenly terrified that she wasn't going to start breathing again.

But she coughed finally, made a kind of protesting sound; he rolled her 
onto her side as the coughing escalated into a jag, held her tightly, the dirt 
on both of them gritty under his fingertips.

"Spit," he advised, trying not to shake.  "You had dirt in your mouth."

She shuddered and he heard her trying to spit.  "What happened?" Her 
voice was husky, not much more than a whisper.

"Well, it's just my uneducated opinion, but I think you pulled the wall down 
on us."  The sharpness of his tone made him flush in the darkness and he 
put his arms around her again, felt her shaking.  "Evidently, it was pretty 
precarious."

"Are we--can we get out?"

"Not yet."  Letting go of her, he sighed and found the flashlight again, 
aimed it toward what he thought was the entrance.  "Next time I follow you 
into a cave, I'm bringing a shovel."

"Don't follow me next time."  But her voice was tremulous, shaky, and--he 
suspected--near tears.

He heard a scraping sound, held the light on the entrance and saw earth 
shift.  "Well, someone's got a shovel," he told her, more relieved than he 
wanted to admit.  This was too much like being entombed alive.

"Mulder?"  A man's voice, he thought it might be Kelsey's, penetrated the 
gloom.

Scooting carefully to the front, he leaned close to the entrance and 
shouted back.  The scraping sound resumed.  Turning, he pulled Morgan 
closer, felt the shivers that wracked her and put both arms around her.  
Shock, he reckoned and sighed.  "They're going to get us out.  Jesus, how 
embarrassing."

"Yeah."  Her voice was still shaking.  "Um, Mulder, I think there's 
something I should tell you.  A couple of somethings."

"If you're going to confess your undying passion, wait until we get cleaned 
up."  Grimacing, he brushed at her hair, then at his own, thinking of bugs, 
spiders, worms.....and shuddered slightly.

"I wasn't."  Her voice was still trembling.  "I'm, um, very claustrophobic."

He considered that, rolled his eyes.  "Naturally, so you go into a cave.  Let 
me guess, you read too much Tolkien as a kid."

Her shivering was worse.  Taking off his suit jacket, he shook it and draped 
it over her shoulders before putting his arms back around her and tipping 
the light up.  "See, we've still got the light."

"Uh huh."  More shivering.  "Mulder, there are at least three more bodies 
here.  Maybe more.  I think this is where he started.  But now he has a 
better kill site, he's moved on."

He eyed the darkness uneasily.  "We'll find out when they dig the place 
out again, Morgan."  Preferably with a bulldozer to take down the outer wall 
if it, he told himsef, because he was damned if he was coming in here 
again.

The scraping noises grew louder.  "Brace it, goddammit," he heard faintly, 
then more scraping sounds.  The tip of a shovel broke through and he 
pulled Morgan back a little as the soft earth spattered on his feet.

The light breaking through was the second most welcome thing he'd ever 
seen; the first had been Scully's smile in her hospital bed when she'd 
come out of the coma.  "See, we're almost out."

Morgan's shivering was nonstop, almost a steady vibration that he could 
feel in his bones.  "Uh huh."  Her voice was breathy and thin; he tightened 
his arms reflexively.

And Kelsey's head and body emerged.  "Damn fool thing to do," he 
growled at them and reached down to haul Morgan out bodily, leaving 
Mulder to follow.

They found the bones of four victims in the grave.  Or at least that what 
Scully told him later.

"They all look about the same age, young males, probably between 13 and 
15."  Scully took her glasses off and regarded him wearily.  

"Long day," he told her softly.  Her eyes were a little bloodshot, her eyelids 
starting to droop.  "Why don't you get some sleep, Scully. It's nearly 
11:00."

"Long day," she agreed and sighed.  "How's Morgan.  What did the doctor 
say?"

"Morgan bitched about going into the emergency room all the way there," 
he told her, smiling a little.  "She's worse than I am, Scully."

"Lord."  Scully rolled her eyes.  "That's saying a lot, Mulder."

He managed a chuckle. "Yeah.  But she's okay.  Evidently she didn't 
actually inhale any of that shit into her lungs.  But she's cranky and 
wheezing, he made her take an inhaler anyway.  She was still coughing."

Scully considered that and shook her head.  "She was right, Mulder.  And I 
think she's right about where he started.  The bones aren't--aren't as 
marked as the body we found outside.  He was still honing his technique."

Cheerful thought.  He nodded, already feeding that into the computer in the 
back of his brain.  "Can you give me an idea how long they've been there?"

That triggered a mordant smile.  "Carbon dating?  No, I'm matching dental 
records tomorrow.  Too tired to do a decent job tonight."

Rising, he crossed the room and held out his hand.  With the faintest 
smile, she took it, let him pull her up and walk her to the door of his room.  
"Go to bed, Agent Scully," he told her and kissed her chastely on the 
forehead.  "I'll see you in the morning."

"Get some sleep yourself, " she told him mildly and let herself be guided to 
her own door.  "Mulder, we are going to get this guy, aren't we?"

He nodded at her after a moment. "Yeah, we're going to get him, Scully."  
The next words were harder to say.  "But I don't know that we're going to 
have time to find Todd Greene."

Her mouth thinned slightly.  Nodding, she unlocked her door and went 
inside.  He waited until he heard the bolt shoot before going back down to 
his own room.

Sleep wasn't going to be easy to find tonight.  And he suspected he wasn't 
the only one for whom that was true.

********************************************************************************

Animal tranquilizers in the blood; maybe he didn't want his victims to 
suffer, Morgan thought, re-reading the New Devon autopsy report.

That thought made her lift her head, letting impressions come to her.  
Since Harcourt's death, she hadn't had any ability to close her mind at all 
to whatever flowed through on the ether.  She'd spent an afternoon with 
Aarin at Williamsburg and had to deliberately steel herself to the 
sensations left by slavery, terror and pain long dead and buried, save for 
what she could feel.

And that cave--God, what she could feel there, it was worse than 
Harcourt's cellar of horrors.

She could only pick up surface emotions from living, thank God, but that 
was more than she wanted.  And touching them physically was a 
nightmare, sensing deeper feelings, a maelstrom of emotional response.  

Scully, though, was soothing; her emotional structure was steadier, built 
on the core of love from her family, and expanded to take in friends.   
Walter Skinner was well-defended, strength and frustration.  Gene Kelsey 
was a core of concern for his family, extending outward to those he 
protected.

Occasionally, she could sense a flash of concern from both Kelsey or 
Scully, concerning either her or Mulder.  Lately, it was both.

Mulder, on the other hand, was harder to sense, despite his intensity.  She 
rather suspected, given the circumstances of their meeting, that he had 
built a wall between them, and she was just as glad to have it that way.  
They kept veering between the verge of friendship and the edge of hostility, 
and it tired her.

Honesty compelled her that she'd helped him build that wall herself, too 
wrung out to want to feel any of his emotions.  She suspected he'd not 
welcome any of hers, either.

Turning back to the computer, she let her mind clear and began to type 
again.

**************************************************************

Peter Stoddard lay back on his bed and considered.  Out of the ordinary, 
he had been told, and smiled faintly.  The woman was out of the ordinary, 
all right.

"She's spookier than Spooky." Donovan tossed his jacket on the chair, 
one of the habits that annoyed Stoddard the most.  "He just goes into this 
trance and pops up with the answer.  She tells you the answers before you 
ask them."

Stoddard nodded absently.  He'd seen Mulder's record, heard the stories.  
But this woman was one step beyond Mulder in terms of eerieness.  One 
look at the body and she announced the killer was on a lunar cycle, an 
assessment Mulder now seemed to agree with.  

One look at Todd Greene's room, and she announced that the killer was 
targeting kids through the tournaments, a statement was being borne out 
by the tournament lists.  They were culling the names now, checking them 
out one at a time, eliminating them from suspicion.  

Finding the cave, she'd predicted the bodies that had been unearthed, and 
if he read between the lines of Mulder's notes, without any damned 
physical evidence whatsoever. 

He was beginning to see why his superiors were interested in her; he found 
her pretty fascinating himself, and was even more fascinated to see that 
she didn't like him.  Or Donovan, for that matter, but Donovan was a prick, 
he didn't blame her.

"She's got great tits, though," Donovan stood at the window, staring down 
at the parking lot.  "She had her jacket off today and was standing near the 
window--helluva lot better view than a bunch of patrol cars."

"Shut up, Mike," Stoddard told him and got off his bed, slipping his shoes 
back on.  "And leave her alone.  The last thing I need is to have you scare 
the crap out of her.  Keep your eyes on Scully instead."

"Scully's tasty," Donovan regarded him with a sneer.  "But she's a first 
class ballbreaker."

Donovan, Stoddard thought distantly, tying his shoes, was an oaf.  

"Mulder's still clang when he walks," he said drily, his reluctant admiration 
coloring his voice.  "She can't be that good at it."

"I doubt Spooky ever had any."

Stoddard straightened.  "That's where you're dead wrong, Mike," he told 
him, still dry.  "I wouldn't be surprised to find that Spooky has a double 
set."

That earned him a contemptuous look; he went out, taking the elevator to 
the first floor and walking out onto the street.  A pay phone would do just 
fine, if he could find one far enough away from the hotel to avoid notice.  

Putting his hands in his pockets, he began to stroll casually down the 
street.  At a corner gas station, he fed quarters into the slot and waited 
until the familiar voice.

"She's very interesting," he told it, smiling faintly.  "Spookier than Spooky, 
as Donovan says."

He heard the flick of a lighter in the background.  "Is she now?"  The old 
man sounded only vaguely interested, but Stoddard knew better.  You 
didn't send someone like him to observe unless some serious interest had 
been taken.  "Spookier in what way?"

"Answering questions before they've been asked.  Nothing spectacular at 
this point, but I think she's making Spooky's teeth grind.  She keeps 
making assertions that I think he agrees with, but he's going on evidence, 
and she's just walking around with her eyes half closed."

"That proves nothing.  Good profilers operate with intuition as well as 
evidence."

"Yeah, but I've been watching the other two.  And they watch her like they 
expect her to, I don't know, raise the devil."  Stoddard grinned.  "Just an 
update anyway.  Is there anything in particular I should be watching for?"

"Anything out of the ordinary, as I told you before."  There was the sound 
of a deep inhalation, a deep drag on one of those shitty cigarettes the old 
man liked.

Stoddard grimaced.  "That covers a lot of ground.  She went into Todd 
Greene's bedroom and came out saying that the killer was targeting them 
through these card game tournaments.  Mulder dressed it up with a lot of 
song and dance, but he agreed with her." 

"That's interesting, but not surprising.  She appears to have played a large 
part in getting him out of trouble on a recent murder case."  Another deep 
inhalation.  

"Yeah, well she got into a little trouble today, went into a hole in the 
ground and pulled the wall down on herself."  Leaning against the plexi-
glass shield of the phone, Stoddard related the details he had been able to 
garner from Mulder, Scully, and Gene Kelsey.  Grayson wouldn't talk to 
him, that was a given, but he'd gotten enough from the others to be highly 
suggestive.

"That's very interesting."  The old man's voice was a little sharper now.  
"Just keep an eye on her, and report regularly.  Remember what I told you, 
I want no action taken that will alert her to our interest."

Stoddard sighed.  "Donovan's becoming a problem."

"What kind of problem?"

"He's making her very, very nervous.  And he's sloppy, he's not even 
following case procedure up here."

"I'll have a word with his superior."  The old man sighed.  "That should take 
care of that."

"Good.  Because if he makes her any more nervous, I'm going to have to 
deal with him myself.  She's looking at the two of us as if she knows why 
we're here."

"Maybe she does," the old man told him and the phone disconnected.

Regarding it thoughtfully, Stoddard wondered.  If his impressions were 
correct, she might very well know more than was comfortable.  The only 
positive was her clear reluctance to speak of whatever she sensed.  
Unless it related to the case.

He hoped that would remain the case.

**************************************************************

Morgan and Mulder were bickering again, Scully discovered, coming back 
from the ladies room to the long room that served as command center.  

Gene Kelsey shot her a grin as she came in, then turned a tolerant gaze 
on the two who were pointing pens at each other's papers, banging on the 
whiteboard, (which sported lines going in all directions and names jotted 
down where the lines intersected), and arguing some bit of arcana related 
to the respective profiles.  

What Scully found hilarious about it was that the two profiles were 
uncannily similar.  Morgan's was more detailed, pulling things out of the 
woodwork that Mulder only suggested as possibilities.  

"Mulder, this is way past the kind of guy that never moves out of his 
parent's basement," Morgan snapped as Scully moved closer to the fray.  
"I don't think he functions that well.  If he does have a job, it's one where he

doesn't have contact with other people much."

He frowned.  "He's got to be reasonably functional, he goes to these 
damned tournaments.  I hardly think the promoters would let some one in 
who was visibly delusional."

"How would they know?  These things are all about role playing, using the 
cards to define the parameters of your character's personality and 
actions." 

Mulder scowled at her and Scully judged it time to intervene before things 
got too personal.  "Okay, people."  She clapped her hands like a teacher, 
biting back a smile when Mulder glared at her.  "You're arguing how many 
angels dance on the head of a pin."

Morgan gave her an absent look.  "I think it was determined to be ten 
thousand in 1343."  She turned to Mulder again.  "Come on, you need to 
go to one of these things.  There's one on Friday night in Wilmington.  
Lose the Fibbie uniform and we'll go play this nauseating game."

"Fibbie uniform?"  He unfolded from the chair, his expression incredulous.  
"Excuse me, but this suit is *not* Brooks Brothers.  And how do you know 
they'll let us in."

"Wave your magic Fibbie ticket at them, they'll let us in."  Morgan gave 
him a serene smile.  "And we can check out the possibles on their list."

Mulder looked to Scully for a response, his eyebrows raised.  

Scully shrugged.  "Why should Donovan and Stoddard have all the fun?" 
she told him, trying not to laugh.  "Morgan, there is no Fibbie uniform.  And 
I think you made that up about ten thousand angels."

Mulder gave her a bemused look.

"No, I didn't, I swear.  And there is a Fibbie uniform," Morgan winked at 
Gene Kelsey.  "It has a big red target painted on the back.  Dana's suit 
doesn't--one of the few perks of being a woman in the Effa Bee Eye.  It's 
like a big Shoot Me sign."

"Target," Mulder repeated, his mouth quirking.

"A big red one," she retorted.

"Children."  Scully kept her voice stern, but she couldn't prevent a smile.  

It was beyond good to see Mulder this relaxed.  They'd been here almost a 
week and a half and he was still in his right mind.  Morgan, she wasn't so 
sure of.  Mulder had told her about Morgan's dreams; he had checked on 
her three nights now, and woken her from them each time.

It embarrassed Scully that she never heard her, never woke, but she 
seldom slept as lightly as her partner.  And it was a relief, she admitted to 
herself, to have his protective streak focused on someone else.

"Why don't you all get some lunch," Kelsey suggested mildly.  "They won't 
have those printouts from Vehicle Registry until later anyway."

"We just ate three hours ago."  Morgan sighed, resting her chin on her 
hand.  "I'm not hungry."

"I am."  Mulder lifted her by her elbow.  "And so are you."

"God, you're annoying.  Does he do this to you, Dana?"  Morgan's eyes 
were mischievous, despite the tone of complaint.

"He does when you aren't around," Scully told her, amused.  "But you 
manage to keep us both busy.  Morgan, a piece of toast and a cup of 
coffee is not a balanced meal."

"You should hear her go on about *my* dietary habits," Mulder told 
Morgan.  "So don't complain.  She counts my cholesterol intake at the 
table."

Donovan came in then, looking tired.  "Okay, we've run these guys down, 
Mulder--all accounted for."

"What about Wilson, in Kensington," Morgan asked, all humor and 
mischief snuffed.

Donovan gave her a disbelieving look.  "He's a cop, for Christ's sake."

"And cops are human.  I want Wilson checked."  Morgan's voice was 
edged.  "If it's too much, I'll do it myself."

For the hundredth time, Scully wondered why Morgan disliked Donovan.  

She wondered why *she* herself disliked Donovan.  He was a gorgeous 
specimen, black Irish with that pale skin and blue eyes, and she ought to 
be regarding him with at least a little hormonal stir; instead, she found 
something about him to be faintly repellent.  

Stoddard, on the other hand, gave her a chilly feeling on the back of her 
neck; they were watching Mulder, she was certain of it, and Stoddard gave 
off the malign aura of someone working for that cigarette smoking bastard 
who used to haunt Skinner's office.

"I'll take care of it."  Donovan's eyes were hard with dislike and his tone 
just short of outright ugly.

Morgan nodded shortly and gently removed her elbow from Mulder's hand.  
"Okay, let's go," she told him, sounding resigned.

Mulder regarded Donovan thoughtfully.  "We're going to lunch.  You want to 
join us?"

"Sure." Stoddard stood in the doorway.  "Sounds good."

Morgan's mouth quirked slightly, but she kept her expression pleasant as 
they walked out together.

Lunch was a disaster, as Scully had expected.  Morgan was not 
comfortable with Donovan and Stoddard; hell, even *she* wasn't 
comfortable with Stoddard.  He was creepy, and she felt guilty for feeling 
that about a fellow agent.  

Donovan just got on her nerves, by contrast, playing old Quantico buddy 
for Mulder's benefit while grilling Morgan about her profile.

Morgan's exasperation finally overflowed, washing away good manners.  
"Look, Agent Donovan, I'm trying to eat here, okay.  I don't want to discuss 
this, it screws up the process."

He subsided, looking irritated.  Scully was willing to bet that he disliked 
Morgan as much as Scully was beginning to suspect Morgan disliked him.  

Oblivious, Mulder kept on discussing pre-Columbian artifacts with 
Stoddard, who was showing more animation than she'd seen from him in 
the entire time since their arrival.

The lunch was drawing to a dismal finale when Mulder's cell phone beeped; 
setting his cup down, he answered it, frowning as he listened.  When he 
turned it off, he looked at them, his expression distant.  "There's been 
another one," he told them, and rose, nearly knocking his chair down.  
"They found the body outside Kensington."

Morgan *did* knock her chair over.  "Todd Greene?"

Mulder glanced at her briefly.  "No, this victim is female.  Throws the lunar 
cycle off a bit, doesn't it."

Looking at Morgan, Scully saw she'd gone pale.  "Let's go, guys."  She 
looked at the other two agents.  "Dr. Grayson can ride with us."

**************************************************************

The coppery smell of blood was grotesque, putting her hand over her nose, 
Morgan tried to take shallow breaths through her mouth, shunting the 
nausea off to one side as she stared down at the mutilated body of an 
adolescent girl.  

Sinking down on her heels beside Scully, she studied the wounds, 
memorizing them, hearing Mulder's voice in the background, just a low 
murmur as he got the details from the police officer on the scene.  

A familiar voice rose above that--turning, she saw Chad Wilson and felt her 
skin go prickly with gooseflesh.

Shaking it off, she turned back to the body.  "It's not our guy," she told 
Scully faintly, still breathing through her mouth.  "Look at the cuts.  
Different weapon, less deliberation.  More savagery."

Scully gave her a mild look.  "He could be escalating," she pointed out.

"Yeah, but the weapon's different.  The last four found were the only ones 
we could check, but I'm willing to bet he has a knife that he's consecrated 
to this work.  This is different."

After a moment, Scully nodded cautiously.  "It looks that way, but the 
mutilations are too damned close to overlook."

"Copycat."  Morgan fought nausea.  This had once been alive, a girl who 
dreamed of friends and love and all the other things girls dreamed of.  "And 
it's a girl, not a boy.  Our guy only takes boys."

"That we know of," Scully answered and slanted her a worried look.

Thirteen bodies unaccounted for, Morgan thought and nodded reluctantly.  
"It's not our guy," she repeated and shivered, her gaze going unfocused, 
feeling something chilly touch her, something malign.  It distracted her, 
she reached for it, followed it back to a source that hinted at the malignity 
which had stolen Todd Greene.  Only hinted, it wasn't the same.  But-- 
"But he knows him," she told Scully, suddenly certain, her stomach tying 
into a knot.

"Get out of here, Morgan, this isn't your job."  Scully lifted her head again, 
her eyes concerned as Mulder's voice came from behind.  He came 
forward, stood behind her, his expression stony.  "You don't need to be 
here."

"The hell."  Morgan kept her temper by conscious act of will, only just 
managing not to flinch from him.  Old echoes, tall men--she needed to get 
over that.  "It *is* my job."

Mulder gazed down at her.  "You've turned an interesting color," he told 
acidly, "And if you throw up on the body, it's going to play merry hell 
checking for fibers."

"Fuck off, Mulder," she muttered, her voice barely loud enough for Scully to 
hear and give her a wide-eyed look.

His face held a warning of stormclouds.  "What?"

"I said leave me alone, I'm fine, I'm doing my job, just like you're doing 
yours."  But she stood up anyway, knees shaky.  Smoothed the front of 
her skirt.  "It's not our guy."

His mouth twisted a little.  "Yeah, I heard you tell Scully.  We'll talk about 
it later, all right?  The last thing we need to do is start speculation before 
Scully's done the autopsy."  Steely tone, completely flat and a little too 
loud.  

Lifting her chin, Morgan met his eyes, furiously angry.  "You forget, Agent 
Mulder, I'm not FBI.  I don't answer to you."

They held that look for several moments, eye to eye, both of them holding 
back.  

"I don't forget anything," he hissed, "But I hope to God you've got the 
sense everyone else seems to think you have."

Fuck off, she thought again and brushed past him before she did the 
unforgivable and slapped his face.

**************************************************************

Waiting at the morgue, Mulder regarded Morgan's shoulders guiltily and 
went out into the hall to the vending machine, thinking of peace offerings.  
The coffee he brought back wasn't quite good enough to serve, but he 
remembered she drank it black, when she wasn't pouring artificial sweetner 
into it.

Sitting down beside her, in one of the plastic, molded chairs, he sighed, 
held the cup out.  "I lost my temper out there, I'm sorry.  No matter how 
often I see it, it still makes me angry."

She glanced up at him.  "Me, too."  She sighed.  "I know my job, Mulder."

"I know that."  He sprawled, sipping at the vending machine coffee with a 
grimace.  "I'm a jerk, I take the easy route to hell.  That was a low blow out 
there, and I'm sorry.  I do respect you professionally, Morgan, you just 
scare hell out of me sometimes."

Morgan's mouth quirked briefly and she slid a glance sideways.  "You do 
have a way of punching my buttons at times."

He glanced at her, offered a rueful smile as apology.  "Well, you don't have 
to keep letting me.  Punch me in the jaw, why don't you?"

Her mouth twitched.  "Unfortunately, I'm not, by nature, violent.  Too much 
of it growing up, I suppose."

That brought his ears to a point.  "Oh?" he asked casually, suddenly 
feeling nervous; he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to hear any echoes of 
his own life in her story.

"Yeah."  She wrapped one arm around herself and sipped at the coffee, 
managed a shrug.  "Bad scene, pretty gothic.  But I survived.  Some 
don't."

He fought a shiver that wanted to snake up his spine.  "How did you?"

She looked at him then, a little puzzled.  "Well, I kept my head down as 
much as possible.  I was a girl, girls didn't count, I wasn't as important as 
the boys, I wasn't targeted as often, unless I got in the way, or did 
something to really get the attention focused on me."

That rocked him; thinking back, he thought about Sam's evident favored 
status with a new slant and wondered, his heart aching.  His father, after 
all, had chosen Sam to be taken.  Or had he?  The cup turned in his hands 
as he considered that, the dark liquid a mirror.  He could go crazy trying to 
figure that one out, figure out the whys and wherefores and whereases.

Morgan sighed.  "Then, I guess I got married to a guy who was nonviolent, 
but just as manipulative verbally and mentally.  After he died," she laughed 
softly, "I went into therapy.  Initially, just so I could identify my own 
buttons, so if people pushed them I could stop reacting.  Too bad it's not 
that easy."  This with a mordant smile in his direction.

"How did you get into this?"  He gestured vaguely, wondering.  Her family 
had been destroyed by a drunk driver, not by a murderer.  What would 
make a woman want--as she had said--to hunt monsters.

She sipped coffee again, avoiding his gaze.  "It was a long time ago."

He waited until she sighed and looked at him, arched a questioning brow.  

Morgan's mouth flattened out.  "I came home one night with a friend--isn't 
this in my dossier, Mulder?  Haven't you already read this?"

Flushing, he shook his head, freshly embarrassed about that.  "If it is, 
Skinner didn't let me see it."

Another sigh and she looked away.  "My friend Cele had left her husband.  
He was a long haul trucker, of all things, violently jealous, pathologically 
suspicious, and violent.  She'd filed for divorce and gotten a restraining 
order, the whole ball of wax, and was staying with me.  No kids, thank 
God.  We came home one night, about three days after she'd filed, and he 
was there."  Her mouth trembled briefly.  "To make a long and painful story 
short, he killed her, thought he'd killed me, and shot himself in the head in 
my livingroom."

Exercising curiosity, he'd ripped bandages off scars.  His chest hurt in 
empathy, he wanted to reach out to her, to touch her, but her guarded 
posture warned him against it.  He contented himself with nodding, his 
gaze still on her.

A brief look, a twisted smile and she shrugged.  "I went into psychology 
after that.  I wanted to find out what bred monsters.  I wanted to stop them.  
And sometimes I do."  She shrugged, end of story, no epilogues here, 
obviously, at least not so far as he was concerned.

None that she was going to share with him, anyway.

He thought about that, took a drink of coffee, ignoring the flat vending 
machine taste, thought about her book.  "How did you get involved with 
abductees?  I thought you didn't do clinical practice."

Her smile returned, but there was a shadow moving behind her eyes.  "I 
don't now.  I did for a while.  What else do you do in between murders, you 
work for a living, you try to use what you know.  But I got too close to it, it 
was too hard.  Kids thrown out of their homes like unwanted pets, they've 
grown up and gotten inconvenient, they aren't cute anymore, they have 
minds of their own.  And all I could do was put a bandaid over them and 
watch them bleed to death."

He was silent for a long while, waiting, and began to think she wouldn't say 
anymore.

But she looked back at him, really seeing him for a moment before her 
gaze went distant again.  "Anyway, one of the kids came in, terrified and 
definitely suffering from Post Traumatic Stress, I worked with him for about 
a year.  Something had definitely been happening to him, but I couldn't 
decide if he'd gotten into a rough crowd and was screening the memories, 
or if it was really as inexplicable as it seemed."