Part 8 of 27: Table Setting

Apartment 304.

The a/c was running full blast: the apartment was like a freezer. Which would 
explain why the neighbors hadn't called in the odor.

Mulder pulled his jacket tight as he stepped inside and Sauceda followed hard 
after. The apartment was nice enough, pleasantly furnished: combination living 
room/kitchenette with doors leading off left and right, but all this was 
absorbed peripherally. The main attraction was on the table, splayed legs facing 
the front door for maximum shock value.

As far as Sauceda was concerned, it was working. He was grateful that his 
partner had a good seven inches over him: the pathologist could duck back behind 
for a minute's reprieve. Jesus, Mary and Saint Joseph, he'd never get used to 
looking at crap like this. Not ever.

Behind him, Purdue was on the cell phone calling for Harris and whatever passed 
for an investigative support team in this burg. He sent the super downstairs to 
direct them up. The old man was more than eager to comply.

Mulder stepped through the apartment cautiously, his attention focused 
everywhere, roaming, roaming. Always roaming back to the body of Ms. M-something 
Kelly. He spared a questioning glance for Sauceda and the pathologist grimaced 
into action: found a place for his bag, dug out the Polaroid. He was snapping 
away at the body when Mulder discovered the stereo was on.

Purdue stepped over. "What've we got?"

"Turntable left running." Mulder fished a pen out of his coat and reset the 
switch to automatic.

Purdue watched the needle set itself to the little forty-five disk. "Just forego 
any drum solo's on this one, okay?" the ASAC suggested. "I think your partner's 
got enough on his hands right now."

Mulder grinned and slipped off his shades, continuing his circuit of the rooms. 
He stopped in mid-step as the song blasted from the speakers: a jazzy upbeat 
number with get-back-Jack horns and a driving swing beat. Ella Fitzgerald does 
Rogers and Hart.

"This can't be love because I feel so well, no sobs, no sorrow, no sighs--"

Sauceda looked up at the two of them like they'd sprouted secondary heads.

"Evidence," Mulder quipped.

Sauceda noted the absence of the shades and warily resumed his initial 
inspection of the body. The song was short and he sighed as Ella completed her 
little spin. And glanced up sharply as the horns be-bopped again. Might have 
known the little punk would have set the machine to automatic.

"This can't be love, Ella crooned again, "because I get no di-i-i-zzy spells. My 
head is not in the sky. My heart does not stand still--"

"Wanna bet, sweetheart?" Sauceda whispered under his breath, regarding the 
swollen corpse before him. "Jeezus, Marty turn that crap off. Like it's not bad 
enough--"

Mulder not only ignored him, he began singing along as he approached the body. 
"But still I love to look in your eyes," Mulder's soft tenor cut short and he 
nodded his head to the instrumental interlude.

Sauceda's face was red and he was breathing hard, just staring at Mulder: those 
clear eyes, that angelic face-- the Angel of Death with a devil-may-care grin. 
Sometimes, at least once a day, Sauceda wondered if Mulder was even sane 
anymore. Sometimes, now specifically, Sauceda didn't much give a damn. 

Over Mulder's shoulder, Purdue was watching the two of them like he was 
anticipating a fist fight. The pathologist kept his voice a low hiss as his 
partner made a circular, hands-off inspection of Ms. Kelly. 

"Now I know why you can catch these bastards, Marty. It's 'cause you're as 
twisted as they are."

Mulder had moved from the feet to the torso and bent over slightly. He briefly 
lifted eyes and brows at Sauceda without comment. Sauceda rolled up his tape 
measure with a disapproving snap. He pushed past Purdue as the investigative 
team made their entrance and quietly fanned out through the apartment.

Sauceda turned back at the door, though, watching Purdue watching the profiler 
alone with the body in the kitchenette.

"This can't be love," Mulder sang softly along with Ella's sultry purr, "because 
I love to look in your eyes." He carefully lifted the tablecloth draped over the 
face and looked down into the empty gouges where the aforementioned eyes should 
have been. Just as carefully replacing the checkered shroud, he moved to the 
lower torso, lifting the skirt to expose the disembowelment. A wire coat hanger 
protruded from between the legs. Mulder's expression never changed.

An officer with a camera approached. Mulder stepping back to allow the 
photographer room to work. He requested snapshots of the contents of the cabinet 
drawers, requested-- respectfully-- that the fingerprint team not overlook 
possible prints on the closet and the stereo. Asked if the rape kit would be run 
on site or at the morgue.

 



 Sauceda knew what Purdue was watching for. But except for that damned 
 forty-five playing round and round, he would find nothing wild or weird about 
 Mulder's behavior. Nothing spooky. At crime scenes, Mulder was generally devoid 
 of overt reaction; emotionally, he was habitually-- and remarkably-- flat. He 
 behaved like a man who'd seen it before, right down to the last detail: read 
 the book, seen the film, bought the T-shirt. No surprises; he'd already gotten 
 the overview, thank you-- in his dreams. Sauceda's vision focused back on the 
 body; he turned away with a jerk and stepped down the hall.





When Purdue pressed past the officers gathering in the door, he found Sauceda in 
a corner of the hall, looking through his Polaroid's.

"Is there a problem, Hot Sauce?"

The pathologist shook his head. He knew the ASAC was fishing for clues on this 
little spat with Marty but damned if he'd concede the point. Instead, Sauceda 
waved his photos vaguely. "Sometimes it just helps to get a little perspective 
with the photos first," he insisted. "Get passed the touchy-feely stuff, you 
know?"

The ASAC pocketed his hands. "So, you always take your own photos?" 

Sauceda was caught off guard by the sincerity of the question; Marty was usually 
the focus of attention these days. Sauceda squinted, wondering if Purdue 
actually cared or if he was just being kind. The ASAC's face was bland as 
butter. Sauceda shook his head stubbornly. *Hell, Len, you're getting as 
paranoid as the kid.*

"I've found others don't have the same outlook I do sometimes," he admitted. "I 
know what I'm looking for. Besides, Marty likes it; I keep the copies for him." 
He grimaced. "Not that's he's not in there collecting his own Kodak moments."

Purdue nodded. "Eidetic memory." 

Sauceda was squinting again. Purdue squinted back uncertainly and Sauceda 
dropped his head, staring at the photographs without really seeing them. 
Mulder's memory was beyond legend; it was verifiable fact. While most people saw 
the beauty of it, however, few thought about it long enough to imagine the 
horror. Sauceda'd certainly thought about it, though. 

"Wonderful thing, that kind of talent, huh?" Sauceda noted quietly. "Marty's 
memorized every book he's ever read. He can recall every conversation he's ever 
had or heard. Recalls every event right down to the smell in the air and the 
sensations of touch. And he never forgets. He can't forget." He lifted his chin 
to find Purdue watching him patiently, like he was waiting for the other shoe to 
land. Sauceda tossed it to him. "It's all in there, Reg, every crime, every 
corpse in implicit detail. Imagine keeping that shit locked up in your brain for 
the rest of your life."

Purdue looked away, point taken evident in the pained shift of those dark eyes. 
Sauceda felt guilty suddenly. Sixty-four years of life behind him and he still 
too often just didn't understand himself. Why was it he always seemed to be 
talking about Marty behind his back? Why couldn't he ever manage more than 
preliminary chatter and tough talk to the kid's face? Sauceda swore silently, 
consoling himself with the dubious fact that Marty'd probably hand him his balls 
just for trying a more compassionate approach. He pushed the thoughts aside as 
he moved back into the apartment. 

Mulder was standing in the middle of the room again, just staring, slowly 
panning left. Stopping, moving again. Moving to the window, lifting the shade. 
Looking out. Look back at the room with the sunlight at his back, pulling the 
shade again. Humming softly all the while. Sauceda felt a pressure on his back 
and stepped aside to let Purdue re-enter.

Mulder noted the movement and stopped humming, regarding his partner quietly. 
Sauceda returned the deceptively vacant look. 

"You done, Len?"

With Sauceda's nod, Mulder waved the pathologist over to join him back at the 
body. The coroner had begun his own preliminary work; the forensic technician 
was busy repeating Sauceda's measurements and temperature taking. The tablecloth 
shroud had been removed. Mulder stood respectfully at the shoeless feet while 
Sauceda assumed a position near the victim's head, arms folded, watching Mulder. 
He would be getting all too clear a look at the remains in the autopsy bay.

The body was swelled to bursting, the skin blistered and green; fluids leaked 
from every orifice, rigor mortis a distant memory. With a permissive nod from 
the technician, Mulder resumed his scan of the horror from all angles, mentally 
cataloging everything. There were times Sauceda envied the young man that 
steel-trap of a mind; this was not one of those times. This... this was the 
stuff of nightmares. Hell, their being here was the result of one of Marty's 
less intense ones.

Mulder had paused again at the eyes, empty beneath the softly curling hair 
matted with crusted blood. His own eyes bled from cold green back to hazel and 
human, and he looked up at Sauceda, swearing under his breath.

"She's got Imelda's hair. Len, I'm sorry--"

Sauceda nodded, shrugged, and looked away.

Mulder clamped his mask back down but it didn't fit as tightly this time. He 
retreated to the wall, several feet from his partner, out of the way of the 
coroner with his endless variety of kits and labeled baggies. 

"So what're we looking at?" Mulder asked distantly after a minute's reflection. 
"A good two weeks?"

"More like two and a half," Sauceda estimated.

"A woman that pretty, no friends calling, wondering where she is?"

"Back off it, Marty," Sauceda growled, "that's Harris' job. Remember what 
Purdue--"

Mulder waved away the protest. "Just speculating, Len. Don't get yourself 
excited."

Sauceda squinted at the damaged face as Mulder regarded the hanger. "Marty. How 
do you know she was pretty? You dream--"

Mulder sighed, unpocketing a baggied driver's license for his partner's 
inspection. "A woman looks that good in a mug shot, she's bound to be a 
knock-out in reality, wouldn't you think?" he noted reasonably.

Sauceda shrugged, not looking at the photo. 

Mulder re-examined the bit of plastic for himself before tossing it into a box 
of evidence at his feet. "So *you* speculate, Lenny," he insisted, staring into 
the box blankly, "how come she's here two weeks with no one noticing?"

"Two and a *half* weeks. How the hell should I know? Maybe she's a loner. Like 
you."

Mulder grinned at him over the body. Made Sauceda's skin crawl. The younger man 
shrugged. "If I'm laid out two weeks, my guts on my dining room table, you 
wouldn't come looking for me, would you, Hot Sauce?"

"Two and a half weeks, dammit. And sure I would."

"No, you wouldn't."

"Damn you," Sauceda snarled, "I said I would-- And I would, too. What the hell's 
wrong with you, anyway?"

Mulder shrugged. "I know people."

"You don't know shit, you little prick. You gonna pull that son-of-a-bitch 
routine, put the damned shades back on. Half-ass punk," Sauceda hissed. "And 
turn that stereo off. If you're done ogling her, I'd like get the hell outta 
Dodge. I'm gonna have a full afternoon of this crap."

Mulder resumed his grin but obediently donned the shades. "I don't know, Len," 
he quipped, "I thought maybe we could hang out and hear how Purdue explains this 
to Harris."

"Maybe he doesn't need to."

Harris' voice from the door made Sauceda jump. Purdue didn't look too amused, 
either. Mulder, the little bastard, grinned like a Cheshire cat behind his gold 
lenses.

"Home invasion," Harris leaned against the doorframe, regarding the profiler. 
"Just like you said."

Mulder's grin settled into a friendly smile; he had Harris hook, line and sinker 
and obviously knew it. Harris seemed to be enjoying the taste of the bait, 
though. And why not? "Assists" like Mulder was offering often wound up bringing 
promotions to the ones still left in town with the Fibbies moved on.

Harris waved a hand at the room in general. "Watching you move around the scene 
here, Mr. G-man, if I didn't know any better I'd say you were just slightly 
turned on by all this."

"What makes you think you know better?" Mulder blinked over his shades.

Harris chuckled wisely and turned to Purdue. "Speak to you outside, sir?"

Purdue followed without so much as a glance for his dynamic duo and Sauceda gave 
Mulder a shove that knocked him back against the wall.

"Hey!"

"Hey?" Sauceda demanded, "Hey? Look, Marty, it's one thing to go jerking people 
from DC to Seattle when it's *your* butt on the line, but you're hanging Purdue 
out to dry now--"

"Bullshit," Mulder spat the word, straightening his tie indignantly. "Like 
Purdue gives a damn what someone else thinks. The last time that man knew what 
intimidation was, Gerald Ford was in office."

"You're wrong, Marty--"

"Since when? He's fine. You'll see. Besides, what do you care?"

Sauceda knew only that he *did* care for some reason. Purdue was a decent man 
who tried to be fair, who seemed content to simply step out of the way and let 
his agent do their jobs. After Patterson, it was a refreshing change of pace. 
Still, Sauceda surrendered the argument. He was unaccountably angry right now; 
bodies like this had a way of doing that to him. And Marty always seemed to be 
the one standing by to take the heat, like it was his just due or something. 

"What's with this sudden happy rush of yours, anyway?" Sauceda's tone was that 
of a cross-examination. "Harris is right. You're prancing around here to that 
damned music, smirking like a kid with his hand in the candy jar--"

"I do *not* smirk--" Mulder looked scandalized.

"And there's a dead woman on the table, if you hadn't noticed."

"I've been paying attention, Len."

"So what gives?"

Mulder shrugged. "It's not kids. God, I'm so sick of working kids..." He sighed, 
running hands through his hair and his focus fell back on the body. "Damnation," 
he whispered.

Sauceda's voice was softer in spite of his best efforts. "Ah, hell. Come on, 
Marty. Let's get out of the way."

Mulder followed him meekly enough, down the stairs past the super's verbal 
barrage as some poor officer took his statement, out into the mid-morning air. 
Sauceda blinked, dazzled in the onslaught of sun and temporarily envied his 
partner his shades.

Purdue and Harris were standing by their borrowed Chevy. Harris glanced up as 
the men approached, stepping back with a deferential nod as he moved off to 
intercept the evidence van.

Sauceda raised his brows at the ASAC. "How're we doing?"

Purdue took a hard look at Mulder. "We're doing just dandy. Seems Harris called 
up the NCIC as soon as we left his office yesterday. Then spent half the night 
on the phone with damn near every detective you boys have worked with from 
Baytown to Seattle. And most of the homicide division in Shreveport."

Mulder grinned. "We're screwed."

Sauceda face was incredulous. "Jeezus, Reg, I thought you said this Harris was 
your pal. He's got a hell of a lot of nerve checking us out. You piss him off 
and now he's taking it out on the rest of us or something?"

Purdue shrugged. "No. Harris just isn't the trusting type. We're here under his 
invite: we screw up, we make him look bad. Nothing personal, gentleman. He 
warned me beforehand--" 

Sauceda choked. "He warned *you*--"

"Christ, Len," Mulder was grinning mischievously. "You got a few skeletons 
hiding in your closet? So the man likes to keep his bases covered. Lighten up."

The ASAC folded his arms. "Apparently you cover *your* bases pretty good, too, 
Mulder. Harris seems to think you can't take a bath without walking on the 
water. Problem with that is, I've worked with him before. He's not that easily 
impressed."

Sauceda frowned. "And that's a problem?"

"Sure," Mulder mused. "Now he expects miracles. And PDQ."

Purdue shook his head. "No. But, among other things, he's got some other cases 
he wants you to look at."

"Okay."

"Not okay."

Mulder looked bewildered. "Sorry?"

"Not 'til this one's profiled. One serial at a time."

"Since when? Every profiler in the bureau does multiple cases--"

"This one's kids."

Mulder paused, pale in the sun behind the shades. His voice was quiet. "All the 
more reason to get started--"

"Most recent kill was fifteen years ago. One of Harris' pet projects. UNSUB's 
probably dead by now, it'll keep. That's an order."

Mulder glanced at Purdue then looked abruptly off up the street. He shrugged. 
"You're the boss."

Purdue's eyebrows did a quick hop. "So they keep telling me. Sauceda, they want 
to get you set up with the autopsy before the body, ah--"

"Pops? Thanks."

"Harris is making arrangements with the coroner now. I'll be following up at the 
precinct--"

"Gee, Dad," Mulder quipped, "guess that leaves me with the car."

"Guess again, smart ass. When we hand you the evidence all neatly typed and 
cross-referenced, Harris is going to get the finest profile he's ever held in 
two hands. Therefore," Purdue smiled sadistically, "I'm having an officer drive 
you back to the hotel so you can get started studying up on all those statistics 
you learned in serial killer school."

Sauceda rolled his eyes. "Studying up. Yeah, right. Enjoy your nap, Marty."

"Thanks, Hot Sauce. I will."

Purdue studied them both but kept his mouth shut. His face said he really didn't 
want to know if they were serious. Sauceda grinned. Purdue was right: some 
things in life you were just better off not knowing too much about. Marty Mulder 
was one of them.

Sauceda laid a hand on Mulder's arm, directing a smile to cover the vice-like 
grip. "Just do us all a favor, Marty. This time, hold off the full profile until 
we give you some evidence to actually base it on. Okay?" 

Mulder shrugged. "Whatever." 

Sauceda thought he looked a little sad, though.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Mulder's chauffeur was a first year rookie cop still green enough to be 
impressed with the initials on the agent's badge. That could have made the ride 
fairly interesting if Purdue hadn't given him strict orders not to mess with the 
boy's head. Still, Mulder couldn't help but feel they were making this whole 
thing entirely too easy on him. And somewhere in the back of his genetically 
predisposed-for-paranoia mind he couldn't help wondering when the other shoe was 
going to hit.

So he sat meekly in the car and occupied himself by writing out his profile in 
his head. Like he usually did. 

Mulder was well versed in all the Bureau's stats and indicators: the killer does 
this and so, because of this and that-- so he's so tall and has a limp and he 
wet his bed till he was twelve and his father beat him every third Saturday. 
Mulder hadn't slept through the training; he knew all the formulas and he could 
give them back in spades-- along with enough of the terminology to make it all 
sound good. 

Mulder's insights however had little to do with psychological surveys. His 
profiles were worked off the bits and flashes in his head, images disjointed, 
randomly ordered, wildly skewed perspectives like Polaroid's slipped from the 
Twilight Zone. He was red/green color blind-- something Personnel was told to 
conveniently forget when he'd been accepted at the Academy-- but the images in 
his head were in full color. And developed to nerve-shattering clarity. 

Mulder's profiles were simply the critical interpretation of such visions, 
instinct and training merging to create a unique whole. The beauty of it was: no 
one had ever proved him wrong, or cite why he should be wrong. Because he had 
the same facts they did, twisted and expertly knotted, ends tucked neatly away. 
And the fact that he was usually not wrong was lost on no one. 

Dazzle them with bullshit and frightening accuracy: perfect combination as long 
as he didn't get too cocky, didn't get too free on the particulars.

There was a limit after all, to the number of things you were supposed to know. 
Get too desperate to stop the killing, get past the line, spout off one too many 
details and they pumped you full of Haldol and call the shrinks in. Didn't 
matter that the details were faultless, didn't matter that meanwhile, some kid 
somewhere was being tortured to death--

Post Traumatic Stress, they labeled it. Only no one seemed to notice he was 
never out of the stress long enough for it to really qualify as 'post' anything.

Motel. Key in the lock. Mulder saw the figure on the bed and caught himself just 
before he hit the light switch. Closing the door quietly, he leaned against it, 
just watching Kay breathe in the muted light of the drawn shades: a white sheet 
draped over glorious curves.

He glanced at his watch. High noon. Well, he hadn't really given her much 
opportunity to sleep...

He slid off his jacket in the silence, shed his shoes and tie. Her face was 
peaceful and calm, untouched by the horror that was apartment 304.

Mulder slipped onto the bed beside her and Kay rolled over into him sleepily, 
sliding her hand down his chest and sighing back into dreams that left her face 
soft and smiling.

His shades were off and SOB mode on temporary hold. His chest hurt suddenly and 
there was a pain in the back of his throat trying to choke him. Mulder gathered 
her against him, gathered her against that Polaroid reality in his head, reveled 
in the sensation her breath steady on his chest, her heartbeat rhythmic and 
real, the smell of her hair filling his head with what was truth in everyone 
else's world.

This must be what it feels like to be alive, he thought. His tears were a 
surprise, but silent by long practice.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX Part 9 of 27: Dazzled

3:22 p.m. West Wheeling Precinct Interrogation Room Two. 

"I don't get it," Harris grieved for the third time this afternoon. "No one 
heard anything. Paper thin walls and a damned .22 pistol firing point blank... 
Even if the clown's made himself a silencer, that only muffles the detonation-- 
nothing muffles a muzzle blast--" 

Purdue crossed his legs and stared at the scuffed toe of his shoe. "Hell, Nat, 
people even rig silencers for those damned paintball guns, now. It wouldn't 
surprise me one way or the other, anyway. Maybe ballistics can find some 
indication. I don't think the killer would necessarily need one though. A .22 
fired that close... the target'll soak up most of the blast. Of course, that 
would come closer to the technique of a professional hit--" 

Harris was nodding-- he knew all this, of course, they were simply 
brainstorming, tossing around the facts and waiting to see what fell out. Purdue 
glanced briefly at his profiler silent across the table and frowned. "Hell, 
Harris, you know how people are. They don't listen or they think it's the TV. Or 
they just don't want to get involved--" 

"Nah uh," Harris grunted. "Maybe in New York. Maybe in DeeCee. But this is 
Wheeling. People aren't like that here--" 

Purdue shrugged. "People are people, Nat." 

The detective shook his head, adamant, and like Purdue, he looked to Mulder for 
support. 

The profiler must have felt Harris' plea peripherally; he hadn't looked at 
anyone directly since Purdue had ordered him to take off his shades. 

"Don't ask me," Mulder murmured. "I have it on good authority that when it comes 
to people I don't know shit." He rubbed at his eyes, missing Sauceda's glare. 
"These aren't professional hits. I think our killer's just had enough practice 
to know how to play with his toys by now." He scanned the room vaguely, meeting 
no one's glance. He looked tired. Old. "Anybody find a slip cover for that 
record on the turntable?" 

Harris frowned, watching the profiler. He'd seen less severe cases of fidgets in 
four-year-olds at Sunday services. "Why?" he asked. "You're thinking the killer 
brought the record with him?" 

"Would put an interesting spin on things, don't you think?" Mulder studied the 
scratches in the table, using his thumbnail to add a few more. 

The detective considered a moment, uncertain where the younger man was going 
with this. "We found some Quaaludes in the jewelry box," he noted. 

Mulder, eyes down, shook his head. "Can't dance to that." 

Harris scanned the table again. Purdue and Sauceda were watching the young 
prince furtively and looking nervous. Neither man had spoken privately with 
Mulder since his arrival back at the precinct all of a half hour ago and Harris 
would be damned if he could figure what was getting everyone's dander up. 

Still, for a man who'd apparently been off to take a nap, Mulder was looking 
pretty worn. Without the seclusion of his shades, he was suddenly vulnerable and 
reticent, a far different man than the cocky SOB Harris had picked up at the 
airport yesterday. Hell, this wasn't even the same man that he'd spoken to this 
morning. 

Leonardo Sauceda, at his partner's side as constant as a shadow, scowled at the 
detective's cool perusal. Harris blinked like he'd been caught in the glare of 
headlights and quickly found something else to focus on. He wound up staring at 
the crime scene photos scattered on the table. 

"Okay," the detective offered, pushing back one of the photos in disgust. "Not 
that we're exactly small town here but even I get the thing with the hanger. 
'Object rape' they call it. Postmortem. Right?" 

Mulder chewed the inside of his cheek. "Not that simple," he said. And said 
nothing else. 

After a minute, Purdue took up the point with a shrug. "An obvious association 
with back street abortions. Maybe." He frowned, analyzing his own statement. 
"But this is the Eighties, so who needs to go to the back streets? Abortion's 
legal." 

"Maybe it's a protest against abortion," Sauceda offered. "Or maybe this is an 
old wound the killer's protesting, from before abortions were legal." 

Mulder sighed, tiring of the discussion. "Oh, it's an old wound, all right. It's 
festering and incurable. But this is not a social protest." He drummed his 
fingers on his unopened laptop and Sauceda frowned, squinting at the machine so 
hard he missed Purdue's question. 

"Any evidence the victim had an abortion at some point? Sauceda?" 

"Huh? Uh, no sir. None. Ditto on the prostitute. Goes without saying for the 
male victims." He looked back at Mulder and pointed accusingly at the computer. 
"You got a profile, don't you?" he hissed. "You little shit. You couldn't just 
wait for a chain of evidence--" 

Purdue cut the man short with a growl. "I requested Mulder to start work on a 
*preliminary* for us, Sauceda. He knows his job. I trust his judgment." 

The ASAC was using that tone of voice parents took when they were trying to 
spell out their arguments in front of the kids. Harris didn't need Sauceda's 
sudden guilty glance in his direction to tell him who was the alleged kid here. 
The pathologist mumbled something indistinctly submissive and took a sudden 
interest in a water stain in the ceiling. 

Harris had done his research: a dozen phone calls to five different states, 
faxed photos and reports, even a few e-mails. And twenty-three lawmen in seven 
jurisdictions had confirmed one singular fact: Purdue's new pet profiled off the 
invisible, the unknown. And then waited for the evidence to line up and back 
him. The kid was cagey about it, certainly, tossing the profile out as a 
"preliminary report" subject to change as lab reports and witnesses became 
available. Only there never seemed to be any changes. Because the "preliminary" 
was always dead on target. 

Harris had decided he could learn to like that in a profiler. And he was more 
than willing to play whatever games Mulder deemed necessary to maintain his 
cover. 

"How about it, son," the detective asked. "You got something for me?" 

 Mulder shook his head. "Let's talk about this first," he insisted. 

 Sauceda's brows made a climb for the back of his head but he kept his comments 
 to himself. 

 Purdue prompted levelly, like a teacher working a third grader through the 
 multiplication table: "Mulder, you said last night that something was off, that 
 you felt something wasn't right." 

 "Yeah, well," the young man answered, apparently uncomfortable with this game. 
 "It hit me, now it's on. But I don't think it's going to be too popular." 





"It hit you when?" Sauceda asked warily. 

Mulder gave him a withering look. "During my nap," he snarled. 

Harris had been watching Mulder's eyes since the shades had come off. They were 
red and bloodshot like he'd gone a few rounds with some bad tequila. Only he 
walked too steady for that and word was the kid didn't drink. That just left a 
crying jag but Harris had sat through some serious horror stories on the phone 
last night; after some of the tales he'd heard from Shreveport, the detective 
wasn't ready to concede that Fox Mulder knew how to cry-- not after three 
hardened cops had sworn the kid had walked dry-eyed through shit that had given 
them nightmares. Still, they *had* mentioned he had a tendency to wear those 
shades a lot, maybe-- 

Mulder caught Harris' open stare and jerked his head down abruptly. He dragged 
his hands through his hair and left them resting on the back of his neck, arms 
forming a shield of sorts against prying eyes. "You want the report?" he asked 
Purdue. 

"You in a hurry?" Purdue's voice was quiet. 

Mulder didn't bother to look up. "I have a headache," he admitted. 

"If the shades help that, put them back on," the ASAC offered. 

Mulder pulled the shades from his pocket, paused and then sat them on the 
laptop. It was a small act of defiance but Harris was damned if he could tell 
whether Mulder was directing it at Purdue or if it was a self-inflicted assault. 
The profiler spoke, his voice flat, his vision focused on the shades. 

"The weapon of choice is interesting. A .22 isn't likely to be someone's old 
service revolver--" 

"Great," Harris spat, "at least we don't have another one of 
guy-gone-nuts-in-Nam things--" 

Mulder shook his head. "A .22's more in line of what men buy their wives for 
protection. To carry around in a purse or something. Most women I know pack at 
least a .32 if they've got a choice. It's not too bad on the recoil and it's 
more accurate at a greater distance--" He interrupted himself, shrugging off his 
own lecture apologetically. "Anyway, the point is, a .22's can be a killer if 
you use it right, but it's not an overkill like a .45 or a .357. Of course, it's 
also easier to handle if your upper body strength is not particularly well-toned 
or you're not used to handling firearms--" 

Mulder paused, actually pulling away, as Sauceda leaned past him, grabbing a can 
from the soda collection sweating rings in the center of the table. 

"Geez, Marty, so the killer's not a professional, fine." The pathologist 
shrugged. "Given our victim array, I can buy that. So maybe the killer's some 
young punk like Harris' friend Albert--" Sauceda offered the detective a 
derisive grin across the table, "--just out to make a name for himself and he's 
borrowed momma's gun to do it. Right?" Sauceda snickered and popped his beverage 
open for emphasis. Harris chose to ignore him. 

Mulder, indifferent, continued blandly. "The victimology suggests that the 
killer is Caucasian, late forties, possibly early fifties. Long-time victim of 
emotional and physical abuse including sexual abuse by at least one family 
member. There is a strong attraction toward men, and an equally strong hatred 
and distrust of them. The hatred also extends to women the killer sees as weak 
or flagrantly provocative. Diagnostically, the perpetrator is a paranoid 
schizophrenic, a functionally delusional psychopath." 

Harris raised a critical brow. This was more the man he'd dueled with yesterday. 
"So loosely translated," he noted wryly, "my APB's gonna be for a middle-aged 
white male? That narrows our suspect list down to, what, several hundred 
thousand people in this state?" 

Mulder sighed and flipped through his photo collection before tossing Harris a 
chosen Polaroid. "The victim's positioned on the table facing the door," the 
agent pointed to the photo. "The killer wants to leave the body as exposed as 
possible. As humiliatingly as possible." 

Harris nodded. 

"Only, the killer can't quite bring himself to do it." 

"Could have fooled me," Sauceda growled. 

"The hem of the skirt was left down. Not up," Mulder continued, oblivious. "The 
tablecloth was placed over her head. The killer doesn't feel good about the 
crime. There's begrudged deference. That's important. There wasn't any such 
concern for the others. Not even for the prostitute--" 

"The prostitute was mutilated but not exactly gutted. And there was no object 
rape," Purdue conceded. 

"The latest victim endures far more profanity than the rest," Mulder nodded. 
"But then at the last... Why the final courtesy? At that point Ms. Kelly's 
nothing more than a piece of meat. What does the killer care?" 

Harris frowned. "Shouldn't we be asking you?" 

"You *are* asking me," Mulder insisted. "I'm just trying to lead you to see 
something here. Okay?" 

"See what?" 

Mulder rose, went round to Harris' office and reappeared with a hanger from the 
detective's coat rack. He peeled off the cleaner's paper wrap and stared at it a 
minute before handing it to Sauceda. 

"Show me what you found, Lenny." 

Sauceda's eyes went wide. "You've got to be kidding." 

"It's okay, Len. Please. It's important." 

Sauceda glanced round the room looking for a rescue that wouldn't come, 
apparently, but finally resigning himself to set to work. Disgust fueled his 
muscles and with each twist and pull he glanced up at Mulder standing over him. 
Mulder waited patiently, eyes hooded, emotions masked. When at last, Sauceda had 
approximated the shape of the weapon in the body, he handed the bit of wire back 
to his partner. 

Mulder didn't take it. Mulder just looked at it and then regarded Sauceda 
expectantly. 

"What!" Sauceda exploded. 

"Look at it, Len." 

Sauceda gave both the wire and his partner the same disgusted expression. 

"No, Len," Mulder sighed. "Think. You're the killer. You're angry enough to 
kill. To kill quickly, kill relatively painlessly, a quick shot through the 
heart, but angry enough to kill all the same. Then you decimate, desecrate the 
body because you're so full of rage, killing is not enough for you. You gouge 
out her eyes with a spoon. Rip her intestines out with a barbecue fork. You rape 
her, but not with your body, you don't want to get too messy here--" 

Harris grunted. 

"--not too personal. Everything you've done past the shooting has been done with 
something you've found at the scene. You've got an apartment full of objects. 
Now, you're going to rape her. What are you going to use?" 

Sauceda stared at Mulder, his eyes wild. "I'm not raping her, Marty," he hissed. 
"I'm not killing her and hacking her up, either. To hell with you." He threw the 
wire at the table like it had caught fire. "I'm not going to even think about 
what he--" 

"No, you're not, but you expect *me* to, goddam you." Mulder's voice was 
dangerous and razor-edged. Sauceda flinched against his glare. Mulder squeezed 
his eyes shut suddenly, as though pained by the sight of his partner's fear. He 
spun quickly, jerking his eyes open again, a slight hesitation betraying a 
passing attack of vertigo. He recovered before Harris could rise, however, and 
reached for his shades. Harris spared a quick questioning glance at Purdue, 
stone still across the table. 

"Is anyone working with me here?" Mulder asked quietly, shielded once more 
behind the mirrored gold. 

Purdue stared at his agent, stared at the wire. "I wouldn't use a hanger." He 
looked up and found Mulder regarding him. "I'd use... I don't know... that kind 
of hatred, that level of violence-- I'd use something... bigger?" He shook his 
head. "A broom handle. A bottle-- God, I can't believe I'm even imagining this." 


"Welcome to the wonderful world of profiling, sir," Mulder grimaced. "Now. Why 
bigger?" 

Purdue couldn't seem to answer his own reflection in the shades. Mulder gave him 
a sad smile and a nod and slipped back into his chair. "Harris?" 

The detective shifted uncomfortably. "This must be one hell of a profile," he 
sighed. "A bigger object? Yeah." 

"Why?" 

Harris looked around the table, embarrassed. "Because... size matters?" 

Mulder nodded; he suddenly looked like he wanted to spit. "Because you're a man. 
Size dominates, size conquers. Size wounds." Mulder slapped his open palm 
against the table and it echoed like a bullet slamming into concrete. All eyes 
jerked up. The shades were off again; his pupils were dark and dilating by the 
second. He pointed at the hanger. 

"That's not a man's weapon," he threatened. "The eyes," he pushed another photo 
across the table, setting it spinning to the floor with a little plop. "A man 
takes out your eyes in rage, he gouges them with his thumbs. He doesn't rummage 
through the kitchen looking for a damned teaspoon." He slapped away a third 
Polaroid and it went sailing to join the other. "A man slits you open with a 
knife, guts you like a deer. He doesn't grab a barbecue fork and scrape away at 
you--" 

Purdue was blinking rapidly. "You're saying we're hunting a woman? Mulder, 
statistics prove the incidence of women as serial killers is next to nil--" 

"Next to," Mulder emphasized. "There have been several apprehended--" 

"Always operating with a partner, usually male--" 

"Usually--" 

"And when we sat down at this table you said this was a solitary killer--" 

"Don't interrupt," Mulder requested blandly. "I hate that." 

Purdue stared at him. 

The profiler seemed to concede a silent point before rubbing at his face 
wearily. His hands were trembling. He placed them flat against the table and 
took a deep breath. 

"Listen," he pleaded. "The incidence of serial killers of the female persuasion 
can be expected to rise as the population of serial killers rises. It's 
inevitable. This is the hip disease of the eighties. I think they're out there. 
Their numbers are not as high as their male counterparts perhaps, but they're 
out there." 

"Marty, that's just speculation--" 

"Perhaps, they're not being caught as frequently because they're smarter," 
Mulder continued doggedly, "more adaptive. But mostly I think because they're 
not *expected*. Most men don't believe them capable. And the majority of law 
enforcement is, unfortunately, male. Case in point: why is it I'm the only 
person at this table who believes it's even possible?" 

"Why would any woman want to do this to another woman?" Harris demanded. 

"Why would any man want to do this to a woman? Or another man? It happens every 
day, Detective. This isn't a rape, it's an experiment. She's playing out 
fantasies of revenge, lashing out against people that are probably long dead." 

Sauceda looked at the remaining photos on the table. His face was thoughtful. 
"And covering the head, the skirt... She couldn't quite leave her there like 
that. Exposed. Even after all she did..." 

Mulder nodded. "Gender courtesy. She's still adapting. Still able to be touched 
on some level with the guilt of what she's doing. And that's our trump. She'll 
make a mistake at some point, give herself away. She's already left at least 
that clue. Problem is, it's also our problem. As long as she's capable of 
perceiving how we see her work, she's not developed tunnel vision. She can still 
see part of the big picture, though the edges are terribly fuzzy." 

Purdue shook his head. "I don't think I follow." 

Mulder spun another of the photos to him gently. "Look. She's still capable of 
turning from that door and looking back at that body and seeing what we see. Not 
just what she wants us to see, but what we actually will see. And it scares her. 
She's still shape shifting. She can be anyone she needs to be. Do and say 
anything she needs to live with herself. She's adaptive to her immediate 
situation. You could interview her right now and she'd pass through your net and 
you wouldn't give her a second glance. Probably help her with her coat and hold 
the door open for her." 

Sauceda had a distant look on his face. "Man walks down a dark street, sees a 
woman, wonders why she's out so late alone. Keeps walking. Sees a man, he pays 
attention, considers his options: flight or fight. A woman walking down the same 
street. Sees a man, same thing. Sees a woman... wonders why she's out so late 
alone. Keeps walking." 

Mulder smiled sadly. "You're a woman, alone in your apartment. Another woman 
knocks on your door, asks to use the phone--" 

"I let her in. Next thing, I'm gutted on my own kitchen table." Sauceda 
shuddered. "Jeezus, Mary and Saint Joseph, help us." 

Mulder slipped on the shades. "Why is it you start praying every time I get 
turned on?" 

Sauceda glared at him. Even Harris could tell, though: this wasn't turned on. 
This was Fox Mulder, hiding behind his SOB shades and kiss-my-ass attitude. 

Sauceda played along for the sake of the assembled audience. "You're sick, 
Marty." 

Mulder inhaled deeply, "Like you can't taste it." 

Sauceda's frown deepened. "Taste what?" 

"The hunt. For the most dangerous prey of all. The wounded animal. The one that 
thinks and reasons. Serialus killeria. The female of the species. Angry enough 
at last to leave her lair for vengeance." 

Harris regarded the twin mirrors. "Wounded?" 

"Geberth's Practical Homicide Investigation," Mulder noted, quoting: "'No one 
acts without motivation.' Not even serial killers." Mulder's voice was distant. 
"It's taken a long time. And she's definitely out to get her money's worth." 
Mulder stared down, unseeing, at the photos. "She's even trying out new surgical 
instruments, going from a hunting knife to cooking utensils. More familiar 
territory. Maybe she'll keep the method. Maybe she won't. But she's trying it on 
for size." 

He removed the shades again, rubbing at invisible pressures behind his eyes. 

Harris was chewing his lip, now, reviewing the discussion. "What about that 
record on the turntable? You think she brought it with her, don't you? What? She 
likes to hum along to the tune while she works? Like you?" 

Mulder's eyes were hard and dark as they focused on the detective. There were 
too many years of pain locked away behind that hostile stare; Harris felt he 
could count centuries if he could just force himself not to look away. 

Mulder settled the dilemma for him, however, retreating back behind his Ray Ban 
armor. The profiler's voice was civil enough, though. Dead, actually. Lifeless 
and cold. 

He said, "Her mother would listen to the radio until late in the night, 
listening to it while she lay alone in her bed trying not to think about where 
her husband was and what he was down the hall doing; listening to the music so 
she wouldn't hear her daughter pleading for mercy." 

Harris licked his lips distastefully, comprehending the image Mulder's words 
were painting. "How the hell," he whispered, "would you know something like 
that, Mr. G-man?" 

The profiler had looked away, however, nodding to himself. "Man. Woman," Mulder 
insisted to the wall beyond Purdue's head. "They've each betrayed her in their 
way and she's capable of hating both equally. There's still a great deal of 
confusion in her mind: who to love, who to hate; the conflict between the normal 
sensations of sexual desire, and the anger and fear of a child who's been 
violated repeatedly and given no voice to protest." He frowned, staring down at 
his hands, his voice quieter. "She's the type of child I profiled in Shreveport 
and Seattle: abused and silenced. Only this one didn't die. This one has endured 
the abuse of a father. Of a husband." He nodded solemnly. "For years she just 
wanted to be left alone. Now, she just wants justice." 

Even through the shades, they could feel the storm roaring. Purdue opened his 
mouth and formed the word "Mulder." The word was availed no voice, however. No 
one spoke. No one moved. 

Sauceda squeezed his eyes shut, mouthing a silent prayer as Mulder's world-weary 
voice whispered, invoking supplications of his own. 

                   "The doors open in early evening.
                   Swinging their purses, the women
                   Poured down the long street to the river
                   And into the river.
                   I do not know how it was
                   They could drown every evening.
                   What time near dawn did they climb up 
                      the other shore,
                   Drying their wings?
                   For the river at Wheeling, West Virginia
                   Has only two shores:
                   The one in hell, the other
                   In Bridgeport, Ohio.
                   And nobody would commit suicide, only
                   To find beyond death
                   Bridgeport, Ohio."

                    

Mulder glanced up from his distant perdition, hesitated. Then the mask slammed 
back down. He raised a sardonic brow at Harris. "So," he demanded, "where the 
hell did you hide my ashtray?" 

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 



Part 10 of 27: Not Waving, Drowning

Wednesday evening. 

Sauceda was tired. Harris had nit-picked Mulder's profile for two hours, going 
over each point, Mulder's every answer prompting only more questions, an endless 
parade of inconsequential detail. Sauceda never failed to marvel at his 
partner's patience for these kinds of discussions-- and the amount of 
psychobabble Marty could dredge up to make it sound like he'd just pulled all 
this Spook crap out of a textbook somewhere. 

Hell, who knows, Sauceda conceded, maybe he had. Some of it anyway. 

Harris had dropped his skeptic routine, at least, apparently too fascinated by 
Mulder's insights to realize how odd all this looked: a seasoned police veteran 
being schooled by an upstart rookie. But the detective's interest was sincere 
and he wasn't fawning over the kid-- maybe Purdue really had known what he was 
doing when he hauled them here to Wheeling. Sauceda dared to hope they wouldn't 
have to go through the rookie hazing so many of these cases started out with. 
Most cops didn't appreciate Uncle Sam trotting out to tell them how to do their 
jobs; more often than not, Feds were about as welcome as a flu epidemic. Sauceda 
was generally viewed as the lesser of two evils, though: he might be a Fed, but 
at least he wasn't a Rookie Fed. The locals would take one look at Mulder's 
fresh too-damned-young face and the die was cast. There was always one 
overly-promoted ass who'd set in with the sarcasm, then the whole team would 
wind up blowing off brilliant profiles as so much hocus pocus, completely 
ignoring credentials and qualifications. 

Marty always swore it didn't bother him, insisting the only ones hurt by the 
attitude were the victims. But victims of homicides are notoriously silent and 
it was Marty's reaction Sauceda had to look at: the pain that had no place in 
the young man's wise-ass cracks, the way he held his shoulders walking across 
blood-soaked carpets. Even his words were often deliberately chosen, flippant 
and cold, calculated to prove he wasn't emotionally invested in his own life's 
work. The victims could afford their silence; Marty, after all, hurt enough for 
all of them. 

Harris' dinner invitation was a thoroughly pleasant surprise, then. Sauceda sat 
up with a grin and damned near choked when Purdue had the nerve to decline. A 
disappointed puff of air escaped Sauceda's throat with audible force and the 
ASAC sent him a murderous look. Sauceda nodded reluctantly. After Mulder's 
little upset at the diner last night, the last thing they'd need was a repeat 
performance with an audience. Still, it might have been nice.

Harris didn't tolerate rejection, however. Apparently, he'd put out the word the 
boys from the Bureau were working one of his cases and he was anxious to show 
them off. He was hauling Purdue's crew to the Pasta Palisade even if Harris had 
to kidnap them. Purdue was equally unyielding and the dispute took scant seconds 
to degenerate into the viciousness only true friends are capable of. Sauceda, 
disgusted, pulled his penknife and cleaned his nails. Well, hell. He disliked 
Italian food anyway. Didn't this burg have a decent steakhouse? 

Mulder, consummate instigator that he was, seemed to be enjoying the fray. He 
sat enrapt behind the haze of his cigarette, never blinking, eyes never 
wavering. Sauceda grinned mischievously and gave his partner an encouraging nod. 
Mulder's answering chuckle brought both Purdue and Harris up for air and the 
profiler waved his cigarette in the sudden silence. 

"Hell, Harris, if Purdue hates spaghetti that much, we can leave his butt here. 
I'm starving." 

The ASAC leveled a glare that could have melded sheet metal and his verbal 
response bordered on the obscene. Mulder answered with a grin just this side of 
manic. Purdue's scrutiny turned wary but he yielded his end of the debate and 
Sauceda resigned himself to the specter of soggy noodles and ketchup-splattered 
garlic bread. 

Purdue's surrender seemed to leave Harris slightly dazed. He shook his head. 
"Hell, Mulder, you don't even worry about getting written up for 
insubordination?" 

Mulder shrugged. "I have a reputation to maintain." Despite the words, there was 
no challenge implied by the young man's tone. His voice was too flat, the words 
a reflex, his momentary humor past. He sat simply staring at the photo before 
him, staring through it. Dark blue suit, blue shirt and lemon yellow tie only 
highlighted the pallor of his face. Sauceda wondered how the state of Mulder's 
health had escaped his notice until now.

There was still work to be done at the precinct, though. Ms Kelly's body had 
been positively ID'd; her sister was flying in from Tulsa in the morning. Not 
that they expected much from her. Statements were still being taken from 
neighbors and co-workers. Harris, thorough and not shy about ruffling a few 
professional feathers, had gotten the crime lab to spray Luminol throughout the 
apartment and even in the outside hall. The chemical, which caused even 
invisible traces of blood to fluoresce, revealed the killer's tracks through the 
kitchen and living room and even took them to the elevator. The sight had 
brought the boys in blue to total silence: glowing footprints, short, dainty 
steps, size six-and-a-half pumps. Everything from then on out had been *Mister* 
Mulder. *Special Agent* Mulder. And spoken with reverence. 

Special Agent Mulder insisted on holding up his end of the paperwork and by six 
o'clock his blood-shot eyes had begun to clear. Sauceda, however, was still 
keeping a close watch on him: Mulder's walk was no longer terribly steady, and 
his pupils had developed a bad habit of slipping out of focus. His handwriting 
had degenerated to almost complete illegibility but he resolutely ignored 
Sauceda's offers to take dictation. And Sauceda decided if he heard "I'm fine, 
really" just one more time he was going to pull his gun. Purdue didn't improve 
the situation by stopping in with another report: statements from the super and 
two more neighbors. The ASAC walked in talking, stopped mid-sentence and did a 
double take. 

"Agent Mulder? Are you all right--" 

Mulder promptly told the ASAC to go take a flying piss and leave him the hell 
alone. 

On that happy note, Harris popped his cheerful face in and informed them it was 
chow time. No one answered but it took no special training to detect the tension 
in the room. Harris told Mulder to get his butt in the Ford. Mulder accepted the 
rescue, grabbing his suit jacket. Harris ignored Purdue's renewed efforts to 
decline their invitation and followed Mulder down the hall. Purdue and Sauceda, 
conspicuously not invited for the ride, dutifully followed in the Chevy. 

They'd driven several blocks before Purdue asked: "The someone walking up 
behind--" 

Sauceda nodded, "--is getting closer." 

"Shit!" Purdue slammed his palm against the steering wheel. "So why the hell 
does he insist on going through on this dinner? What? It'd kill him to admit to 
weakness or just needing some goddam help?" 

Sauceda considered a moment as the car echoed the ASAC's rage. "Yeah," he 
answered softly. "I think it would, actually." 

The rest of the drive was remarkable only for its utter lack of conversation. 
There was simply too much to say to even bother. 

Harris and Mulder were waiting for them in the parking lot of the restaurant. If 
anything noteworthy had transpired within the Ford, Harris was admitting 
nothing, and Mulder's face was ominously innocent. The detective escorted them 
in and didn't bother to wait to be seated, making a beeline for a corner table 
and the middle-aged man who was waving at them frantically. Aside from the hokey 
wave, the stranger wasn't exactly the standout type; in fact, he reminded 
Sauceda of Abbot and Costello-- the shorter half. Cheap, decade-old double knit 
blazer and matching corduroy loafers should have provided comic relief but one 
look at the man's cocky grin had Sauceda's paranoia button sliding over to 
yellow alert status. 

"Agent Fox Mulder," Harris beamed, "this is Andrew Nilson. Reporter for the Ohio 
Sun." 

Sauceda bit back a string of profanity worthy of a Marine sergeant. Hell on a 
shingle, a friggin' *reporter*-- Mulder didn't need this right now. None of them 
did. It was a disaster waiting to happen. Not one of Harris' guests made the 
vaguest move to sit and the detective hesitated. 

Purdue ignored Nilson's proffered hand, slipping his own into his pockets. 
"Shit, Harris," his smile was tight, "What's the problem? You piss off every 
reporter in Wheeling and have to swim the river to find one willing to swallow 
your current line of bull?" 

Harris didn't answer, ignoring the thinly veiled animosity, too busy watching 
Mulder slowly return Nilson's handshake. Mulder spoke slowly too, reluctant and 
careful. 

"I may as well tell you straight up, Mr. Nilson, I don't generally talk to 
reporters." 

"Really?" Nilson gave him a politician's smile. "Why's that?" 

"The last reporter I granted an interview quoted me. The killer took the 
comments personally and escalated. Another four kids died before we found the 
son of a bitch." 

Nilson shook his head. "Well-- surely you can't blame all those killings on the 
reporter, Agent Mulder." 

"No, not all of them," the agent conceded. "But if I blame just one, that's just 
one too many. Don't you think?" 

Nilson's laugh was a response of nerves, the man was obviously unaccustomed to 
being flustered, but Mulder jerked his hand back like he'd been electrocuted. 
Nilson gave him an apologetic shrug. 

"Look, kid, I've worked quite a few cases with SAC Vara out of the Cincinnati 
field office. You can check with him if you're worried about my credentials--" 

Mulder's voice was cold. "Considering Terry Vara couldn't find a criminal on San 
Quentin Point, you'll pardon me if I don't take that as a glowing 
recommendation." 

Nilson blinked and got his hands on his hips. "Well. I'll tell him you said so." 
His smile was calculatedly dangerous. 

"I've already told him," Mulder assured, "but you feel free to remind him." 

Nilson finally stopped grinning long enough to regard the boyish face, the 
utterly calm, listless eyes. Sauceda could have warned him not to look too 
close: still waters were often deadly and the unfathomable depths of Mulder's 
soul were no exception. Nilson broke away of his own accord, however, as Harris 
tried for an intervention. 

"Nilson's not like that, guys," the detective promised. "I've used him before. 
You know: proactive reports to lure the suspect into a false sense of security, 
things like that. I figure you guys might want him to help us out with this 
one." He looked pointedly at Mulder. "I have *not* shared any current 
information with him on this case." 

"That's right," Nilson side-stepped Mulder for another try at Purdue. "I don't 
print anything, sir. Not one word until you've rubber stamped it." 

Mulder rubbed his eyes. "So much for freedom of the press." 

He sat heavily in the nearest chair and Sauceda resisted the urge to feel his 
forehead for a temperature. He took the seat to Mulder's left, frowning as the 
reporter grabbed the seat to the right, almost slamming into Purdue to grab the 
coveted space. Sauceda tried to recall where it was Judas had sat at the Last 
Supper. 

The waiters descended and the homey fragrance of fresh baked bread prompted an 
unspoken truce. They made small talk and ordered, except for Mulder who remained 
absolutely mute. For all intents and purposes, Marty could have just as soon not 
been there. For all intents and purposes, suddenly, he wasn't. 

Nilson, apparently unfazed by Mulder's stoic silence, maintained an easy banter. 
He wasn't fooling Sauceda, though. Out of the corner of his eye, the reporter 
was cataloging every breath Marty took. 

*The ass--* Sauceda only just managed not to say the words aloud. Each lull in 
the conversation set his heart to pounding, and he slipped his formidable 
conversational skills into overdrive, intent on keeping the reporter busy 
talking or listening, trying to insure Mulder wouldn't be expected to take too 
active a part in the proceedings. Purdue was way ahead of him, though, and 
assumed the lion's share of the burden. Harris snapped to a minute after with 
the air of a man who'd gotten a swift kick under the table. Between the two of 
them, they quickly had Nilson spilling his guts about every case he'd ever 
assisted on. Nilson, assured of making a good impression, was happy to oblige. 
With the reporter adequately distracted, Sauceda risked a closer assessment of 
his partner. 

Mulder sat quietly, making no sudden moves, uttering not a sound. But the 
tension radiating off him made the hair on Sauceda's right arm rise up against 
his shirtsleeve. The calm of his demeanor was an inadequate veil, Mulder's 
muscles, tortured and too fiercely restrained, trembled occasionally. His pupils 
were fully dilated and had the fixed, unfocused quality Sauceda expected to find 
when he pulled the sheet back on a gurney. The eyes were feral, possessed of no 
human conscience. Thoughts flickered over their surfaces like the candlelight, 
leaving no trace within the boundless depths-- it would have been easier, 
Sauceda imagined, to leave an imprint in a pool of oil. 

*Shit,* Sauceda hissed mentally, *what the hell did the kid do with his shades?* 


Sauceda ordered for the both of them, making the process look routine and even 
expected. He ordered himself a beer-- hell, he wanted something worthwhile out 
of this evening, after all-- and ordered Marty a glass of wine. 

On the other side of the table, the ASAC had been hazarding the occasional 
questioning glance. His brows did a short dance on the wine order and Sauceda 
gave him a determined twitch of his jaw. With members of the media present, he 
couldn't exactly break out the Valium, but it was obvious they'd be having 
serious problems if he didn't get the kid medicated somehow. 

Nilson pretended oblivion. "So," he waved a hand vaguely, indicating the dining 
room without being too specific, "howdoya like the joint?" 

Sauceda frowned to keep from swearing. He might have known he had this goon to 
thank for his inevitable indigestion. The Palisade was what Sauceda's wife would 
call "a fancy place." Sauceda usually translated that to mean okay food you have 
to pay double for and wait twice as long to get. Right now a bucket of chicken 
would have been just fine, thank you, so long as they had Mulder in the quiet 
sanctity of his motel room. 

Mulder glanced up just then, his face lit with sudden interest. He looked Nilson 
full in the face then looked away without speaking; Sauceda recognized the 
event: a random flicker of memory and neurological response. Whatever had 
brought Mulder's attentions to focus wasn't located anywhere near *this* zip 
code. 

To Nilson, however, Mulder's actions could easily be interpreted as deliberate 
disinterest. "This," the reporter waved again, eyes narrowed slits, "is one of 
the finest restaurants this city has to offer." 

Sauceda couldn't resist. "Well, then, maybe we won't be in town too long." He 
felt a breeze pass across the bit of exposed leg between the hem of his pants 
and the top of his sock. Across the table, the ASAC looked like he was 
recalculating his aim. Sauceda pulled his feet under his chair and attempted an 
apology of sorts. 

"I'm just more of a steak and potatoes man, Mr. Nilson. Sorry." 

Nilson eyed him suspiciously but seemed willing to accept a truce. "You know why 
homosexuality's on the increase now, don't you?" he asked knowledgeably. 

Sauceda's brows scrolled up and he chanced a speculative glance at Harris. The 
detective was beet red, just about the shade of the tablecloth. 

Sauceda answered the reporter with a cautious shake of his head. 

"It's all these damned hormones they're pumping into the beef." Nilson nodded. 
"Gotta watch your intake of that stuff. I've got stats that would curl your 
hair--" 

"My hair's curly enough, thanks," Sauceda grumbled, then winked viciously, "if 
you had a decent perm, though, you'd be quite a looker." 

Harris gawfed, and effectively ended all conversation with one of his more 
involved "Hey, Reg, do you remember when" stories. It was apparently one of his 
more embarrassing memoirs but Purdue egged it on with the occasional ribald 
laugh and wink. Grinning resolutely, Purdue spent most of the meal with his 
fists clinched, wielding knife and fork like implements of destruction, chewing 
with menacing passion. 

Mulder, on the other hand, was holding out fairly well. He hadn't refused the 
wine. In fact, once placed in his line of vision, the young agent seemed content 
to devour most anything: bread sticks, wafers, wine and water-- every item was 
consumed with the same dispassionate deliberation. His motions were hesitant and 
brittle, as tightly controlled as a blind man who's been told to reach into a 
fire, but at least the kid was eating. Sauceda began to hope they might just 
pull off this fiasco-- unless of course, Nilson stuck his Budweiser too far into 
Marty's territory. 

Sauceda had to remind himself not to stare as Mulder worked his way through most 
of his lasagna, oblivious to the world. The water was sipped with the same 
unconscious reflex that had downed the alcohol but mid-way through the meal, 
Mulder's movements began to assume more of their accustomed grace, the 
hesitation becoming simply discreet deliberation, the muscles more fluid with 
only an occasional tremor. 

Mulder had begun focusing again, too, staring around him with the air of a man 
awakening in new surroundings. Sauceda was reminded of his own father, stolen 
from him even before death, kidnapped by the cruel hand of Alzheimer's. Marty 
had the same startled expression and watched, bewildered, as Harris attempted to 
diagram a particularly involved section of his story with a napkin and several 
forks. 

Harris made his point, and Nilson and Purdue exploded with laughter. Mulder was 
instantly alert and wary, every muscle tensed for flight. Sauceda reached to lay 
a comforting hand on his arm and thought better of it, fearful of the Marty's 
reaction to an unexpected touch. 

Mulder, meanwhile, had discovered Nilson at his right flank. His mouth opened in 
a kind of half-strangled gasp and he suddenly dropped his head to stare at his 
plate. Harris hesitated mid-sentence and Nilson glanced over, confused but 
silent, mouth full of linguini. The pasta sauce on his lip reminded Sauceda of 
an image in an old horror flick: vampire gorging on blood. 

Mulder was blinking rapidly and seemed to need to concentrate just to pick up 
his fork. He buried the instrument into the remains of his garlic bread, an 
action performed with such slow, murderous deliberation that Sauceda was certain 
they'd lost him again. Mulder gave him a sidelong glance, though, and shifted 
hesitantly in his chair until his shoulder just touched Sauceda's. Sauceda 
returned the contact with a reassuring nudge that said, "I've got your back, 
partner." Or at least, that's what he hoped it said. Marty could comprehend the 
motivations of any psycho on the planet; the rational mind, however, was 
sometimes a bit more unpredictable. 

Mulder turned his head to regard Sauceda warily, blood red tablecloth reflecting 
in the highlights of his hair, light from the candles dancing over the 
translucent skin of cheekbones. Mulder's jaw was darkening with the hint of 
stubble, a whisper of graphite on vellum. 

Sauceda maintained the eye contact but he had no answers for those oil-dark 
pupils. Mulder's face radiated the certainty that he was utterly alone, the 
unyielding conviction that all Sauceda's good intentions would not change that 
fact. At that moment, Sauceda would have killed to reassure him otherwise. The 
pathologist had no facial expression adequate to state the fact, however. Mulder 
resolutely laid down his fork and the jaw turned away, clinched tight. 

Nilson was watching, enrapt, apparently, at the site of the profiler finally 
alive and breathing independently. The table was spared his witty repartee, 
however, as the waiters descended to remove the dinnerware and make room for the 
inevitable. 

In the commotion of coffee orders, Mulder pushed his chair back a bit, favoring 
Sauceda's side. Sauceda crossed his legs and relaxed into his seat; the position 
put his shoulder lightly against his partner's. He gulped gratefully when Marty 
didn't shove him away. 

Nilson rolled his eyes over the profiler, sizing him up as the agent quietly 
ordered a cappuccino. Mulder's position forced Nilson to turn his head back 
awkwardly to get a clear look at the young man. Nilson didn't dare reposition 
his chair without ramming into a patron at the next table. Mulder's maneuver 
made Sauceda smile. Marty could set up an interrogation like no other agent he 
knew-- even when he was the intended target. 

Mulder returned Nilson's gaze, as cryptic as the Sphinx. The reporter twisted in 
his seat, vainly seeking a position that would alleviate his tactical 
disadvantage. Across the table, Purdue snorted. 

Nilson stopped struggling and dredged up his wise-ass grin again. He leveled it 
on the ASAC, finally adopting that let's-get-down-to-business tone Sauceda had 
so dreaded. 

"I'm curious, Mr. Purdue. Isn't it rather unusual for the Special Agent in 
Charge to be out in the field like this? I mean, this must be quite an important 
case if--" 

"*Assistant* Special Agent in Charge." Purdue's smile and voice were flat. "And, 
no. To both questions." 

Harris returned Nilson's questioning glance with a look of pure innocence. 
Nilson jerked his head in Mulder's direction. 

"And I guess you're going to try to tell me it's standard procedure for a 
profiler to operate almost exclusively out in the field? And to be assigned a 
partner?" 

Purdue's voice was patient enough, but the look he gave Nilson suggested he'd 
commit homicide with glee. "Sauceda is a pathologist, Mr. Nilson," he explained. 
"His medical expertise is invaluable. Agent Mulder is at his best in a hands-on 
situation--" 

"Agent Mulder," Agent Mulder quipped quietly, "is here for the view." 

Nilson gave Purdue a triumphant sneer and twisted around to view the young 
agent. "Of the city?" Nilson mocked, "Or the corpses?" 

Mulder's eyes narrowed as he leveled them on his opponent. "The corpses, of 
course. And I hold the patent on the smart ass routine at this table, Mr. 
Nilson, try another." 

Nilson's mouth opened, and abruptly closed as Harris sputtered delightedly. The 
detective wriggled his brows as Nilson glared at him. 

"Give it up, Andy," Harris suggested amiably. "If that one tells you he's not 
talking, you're not gettin' get jack." 

Nilson tried for an agreeable smile but only managed to grit his teeth. He 
fidgeted a minute, apparently trying to determine some way to redeem the 
situation. The perpetual stare Mulder was giving him didn't seem to be helping 
any. Sauceda chuckled just watching Nilson's wheels turn. The guy had probably 
offered to buy dinner when Harris brokered this deal and now he'd be trying to 
figure how he was going to take it off his expense account if he couldn't get 
enough information to produce a story with it. 

Across the table, Nilson noted the pathologist's bliss and gave him an acrid 
look. Sauceda didn't mind, and widened his grin. Hanging out with Marty got him 
enough good press; he could afford a few sour grapes now and then. 

"Okay, guys," Nilson tried his politician's grin once more, "we've obviously 
gotten off on the wrong foot here but, really, I'm just looking for a story, you 
know? Isn't there anything you can tell me about the case that I *can* print?" 

Purdue answered. "No." 

"What about the freedom of the press?" Nilson gave Mulder a crocodile smile, a 
last ditch effort. "Come on, Agent. Just one insight?" 

Mulder shrugged. "We have five victims." He was back to swirling patterns in the 
sweat of his water glass but glanced up sharply as Nilson registered a protest. 
Sauceda cursed the fact that Marty's head was turned away from him and he was 
not privy to the look the young man gave the reporter. Whatever it was, it was 
effective; the words died in Nilson's throat. Mulder's face was tranquil as 
glass as he turned back to take a swig of his water. 

"Look," Nilson wet his lips watching him. "I can understand you don't want to 
alert the killer to your understanding of any recent developments but... Hell, 
I've written the first victims' stories from every angle by now. Surely, there 
should be no problem discussing them." 

"No problem," Mulder conceded. "And no point, ether." 

Nilson swore. "Okay. So how about just discussing some non-specifics?" 

"Non-specifics," Mulder mused, "that would be what? The weather? Last night's 
Knicks game?" 

Nilson chuckled. "Harris is right. You're tough, son--" 

"No, I'm not," Mulder's voice was suddenly bitter and Sauceda's panic button 
snapped into the red zone. "I stare at photos of body parts for hours on end and 
hand people's babies back to them dead. That doesn't mean I'm tough." 

"What does it mean, then?" Nilson grimaced. "You're a nut case?" 

"That, or I'm really hard up for the cash." 

Nilson laughed. Sauceda joined him, grinning from relief, grateful for Mulder's 
continued composure, the momentary bitterness firmly squelched. Purdue even 
managed a tight chuckle. Harris, though, was breathless, watching the profiler. 
Mulder's face was unreadable, his eyes too bright. 

"Okay, Agent." The reporter took his time lighting a cigarette, slid the package 
across the table with a nod and settled in his chair. "How about I just throw 
out some questions? You answer, or not. Up to you. No strings." 

Mulder helped himself to a cigarette and allowed Nilson to light it for him 
before tossing the pack to Purdue. He took a deep drag and sat back, legs 
crossed, both arms resting comfortably on the chair arms, hands hanging loosely. 
He bearing was almost regal, like some monarch lounging on his throne, 
surrounded by his minions. He even smiled. There was no humor in it, but it was 
a generous effort nonetheless. He said, "There are always strings, Mr. Nilson." 

"My friends call me Andrew, Fox." 

"My friends call me Agent Mulder, *Mister* Nilson." Mulder exhaled another 
lungful of smoke and regarded the reporter through the haze. 

Nilson tried twisting around to the profiler. "Okay," he shrugged. "There're 
strings." 

"So ask," Mulder granted. 

Nilson hiccuped on his smoke and took a minute to consider his sudden good 
fortune. "Okay, ah. I understand that most profilers put a lot of stock into 
what they call the killer's signature. That the signature isn't supposed to 
change through the course of the killings." 

Mulder nodded and Nilson relaxed visibly. 

"Okay. But all the other victims were homeless, more or less. So doesn't that 
make this a departure from the previous signature--" 

Mulder smiled. It wasn't a particularly kind smile and Nilson hesitated. 

"Define signature, Mr. Nilson." 

The reporter glanced back at Harris. "Well, it's part of the MO, isn't it? How 
the killer does the crime, how he sets up the scene, the kinds of things he 
leaves behind--" 

Mulder was shaking his head. "That's MO, alright. But it's primarily staging. In 
routine murder, staging's something the killer does to disavow his work. To 
throw off the investigation: making rape look like routine burglary. That kind 
of thing. It's a way of saying 'look for this person. This someone-not-me.'" 

The profiler flicked his ashes over the remains of his lasagna, and stared at 
his water glass. "Serial killers as a rule, are immensely proud of their work. 
Their MO is variable: whatever is necessary to accomplish the murder. It's the 
signature that's static. Whatever's necessary to gain satisfaction from the 
crime: the type of degradation they engage in, the types of victims they're 
attracted to, the fantasy life their behavior displays. When a serial gets into 
posing, it's usually part of the signature, not the MO. It's their way of 
saying, 'In case you haven't noticed, this is my work.'" He smiled without 
looking up. "'I made this.'" 

Nilson frowned. "So... you see no change in the signature?" 

"I see an artist becoming more confident in the skill necessary to accomplish 
the work. An artist ready to spend more time on the work itself, with less fear 
of interruption." 

"Ah. So, he changes the MO. Moves indoors to avoid interruption. But shouldn't 
that have occurred to him before?" 

"I assume you're an educated man, Mr. Nilson. College graduate?" 

Nilson shrugged. "Sure." 

"Greek and Roman mythology still required courses for journalism?" 

Nilson squinted. "Yeah. The myths cover all the basic plotlines of humanity. 
From Shakespeare to Watergate. What's that got to do--" 

Mulder nodded. "You'll recall, then, the story of the birth of Athena?" 

Nilson smiled indulgently, "I'm... afraid that particular story escapes me just 
now." 

"It's one of those trick questions they like to pull on Jeopardy," Mulder 
returned the flat smile. "According to myth, Pallas Athena wasn't born at all. 
She sprang fully formed from Zeus' head. In full body armor, no less." He gave 
his cigarette a cursory puff. "Bet that was the headache from hell." 

"So...," Nilson's face was twisted in the effort to comprehend. "Your point is 
that none of us arrives fully formed? And the killer has evolved to this point? 
Okay. That makes sense." 

Mulder's cigarette smoked itself in his hand, forgotten. He was lost once more, 
somewhere in the depths of that glass of water. "Goddess of wisdom and war. 
Goddess of discernment and death. Ever wonder about the connection, Mr. Nilson? 
What it was the ancient Greeks knew, what they understood that they would 
attribute such attitudes to the same personality?" 

Nilson was silent, putting out his cigarette even as he watched Mulder's vacant 
stare. 

Sweat was running down Sauceda's face and he was trying desperately to find 
something to say, a tow line to rescue Marty from whatever sea of thought he 
seemed intent on drowning in. 

But Purdue was quicker to grab the line. "It's time to put this show to bed, 
gentlemen. We've got a considerable amount of information to sort through in the 
morning--" 

"One last question?" Nilson apparently wasn't too proud to beg. 

Purdue opened his mouth, closed it again; he turned to Sauceda but for the life 
of him, Sauceda could find no viable argument. "Sorry, but the kid needs his 
nap" just didn't apply when the kid was twenty-six with a reputation for being 
hell on wheels when he wanted to. Right now would have been a good time for him 
to want to, but everything Marty seemed to want was in the small confines of 
that damned glass of water. 

Nilson took his opportunity. "For the record, Agent Mulder," he asked. "How do 
you see your role as a profiler?" 

Mulder dropped the corpse of his cigarette into the glass and watched it drown. 
"If I'm ever given one last question, Mr. Nilson, I sincerely hope I do better 
than that." 

Nilson grinned ruefully. "I don't know. I've always been told there are no 
stupid questions." 

"Of course there are. Certainly not every question is legitimate. Ask the wrong 
question, you get the wrong answer." He glanced up. "Unless you're really 
listening." 

The look in Mulder's eye was positively seductive. 

"I'm listening." 

"Maybe. Like I said, you're an educated man. And I've just sat here and told you 
our entire case. Now. You tell me what I've said and we'll both know." Mulder's 
brow furrowed. "Just don't let me read it in the newspapers." 

Nilson stared, recovered. "That doesn't answer my question." 

Mulder shook his head, obviously disappointed. "For the wrong question, you're 
awfully hot for an answer. Okay, how do I see my role?" He closed his eyes for a 
moment, suddenly pale, drained, decades older. "My mother's father's father was 
a tailor. I'm a tailor. I try to thread the clues together before someone puts 
out the eye of the needle. That quotable enough for you?" 

"Positively poetic," Nilson grinned. 

"Then I've probably plagiarized it from somewhere and you could be sued for 
using it." Mulder stood abruptly. "I need some air," he announced, voice husky, 
and turned on his heel, striding for the door. 

Sauceda snapped to in a delayed reflex and jumped up to follow. He was obviously 
tailing his partner but dammit, he didn't care one way or the other right now. 
Let Purdue make some kind of cover story if he wanted to. This kind of crap was 
supposed to only happen to Marty when he was dreaming. Or when the case was 
really bad. If Marty thought things were this bad already.... 

"Christ," he whispered, resisting the impulse to cross himself. 

Mulder slammed through the door of the restaurant and didn't even pause. Sauceda 
was right at his heels, praying all the way, pleading for the tension in the 
young man's shoulders to loosen, praying for the storm to pass them quickly. 
Mulder headed straight for the Chevy, crawled into the backseat and slammed the 
door. 

Sauceda peered through the glass a moment, seeing nothing but shadows of 
shadows. Voices raised in anger echoed across the parking lot. Harris and Nilson 
were having it out at the door of the restaurant with Purdue standing near to 
keep apprised of the situation. His dark eyes were watching Sauceda. 

The pathologist tried leaning nonchalantly against the side of the car. Tried 
the pose with his hands in his pockets. Tried it again with only one hand in his 
pocket, the other serving as a prop for his head. He wasn't tall enough to make 
the pose look comfortable, though and he was grateful when Harris finally got 
Nilson packed off in his car. Nilson had to pass the Chevy on his way out of the 
parking lot and Sauceda feigned interest in a billboard, blinking painfully as 
the headlights of Nilson's Chrysler grazed his eyes. The reporter lost no time 
in peeling off down Market Street. 

Now it was Purdue and Harris' turn to have some words. They kept the volume down 
though, and Harris looked like he was offering an apology. Within the confines 
of the Chevy, Mulder hadn't so much as twitched. 

Unable to remain still any longer, Sauceda paced the length of the vehicle, 
watching for some hint of motion behind the glass. The profiler sat perfectly 
still, the darkest shadow of all, eyes glinting now and again as Sauceda moved 
back and forth, casting shadows of his own in the lights of the parking lot. 

After an impossibly long minute and a half, the pathologist deemed Mulder'd had 
enough time to sort through all the insanity of the world and he carefully 
popped the door handle. He paused, waiting for a barrage of profanity to tell 
him he wasn't welcome. There was none and he frowned, opening the door 
cautiously. 

The interior lights must have burned out in the too-old two-door; the car 
remained dark even with the door open. In the dim light filtering through the 
glass, Mulder was pale, glistening with sweat, unruly wisps of hair plastered 
ink black against the parchment white forehead. His head lolled back listlessly 
against the seat, his lips moving, producing no sound. 

Sauceda turned at the sound of shoe leather on gravel and swore. Purdue was 
approaching, Harris following behind. 

The pathologist closed the door protectively, careful to prevent the latch from 
catching, and moved to the fender nearest the two advancing men. He didn't speak 
and pointedly avoided Harris' eye. 

The detective was only heading for his own vehicle, however. He gave Sauceda a 
cursory nod, wishing them both a quick goodnight. 

Purdue waited for Harris to get his engine started before turning to Sauceda. 
"He keep the lasagna down?" he demanded. 

"So far," Sauceda grimaced. "But, I don't think Toto's in Kansas anymore. At 
least not much of him, anyway." 

The ASAC eased the door open and knelt. Sauceda stayed at his shoulder, trying 
not to block the light as Purdue took stock of the situation. 

Purdue turned to glance up at him warily. "We going to have another body in the 
morning?" 

The pathologist frowned. "Wouldn't that put her a little ahead of schedule?" 

"Now wait just one damned minute," Purdue hissed. "I thought he only did this 
kind of crap when the crime was going on. You know, real time." 

Sauceda shook his head patiently. "That'd be way too easy, wouldn't it? Marty's 
not really into easy." 

"So I've noticed." 

Sauceda snorted. "You ain't seen jack. Sir. He's just gotten better at hiding 
it, that's all." He reached over Purdue's shoulder and laid a gentle hand on 
Mulder's arm. The nerves trembled in the muscles beneath his hand. "Marty?" he 
asked softly, "who's car you sittin' in, kid?" 

Mulder blinked slowly against the headlights of a passing truck, his profile 
blue-white then deep gray again. In the flash of the high beams, the pathologist 
noted Mulder's pupils: they were dilated, restricting only sluggishly in the 
glare, unfocused or just too deeply focused for the confines of the car. 
Mulder's lips moved again, still with no sound. 

Sauceda squeezed Mulder's arm cautiously. "Marty." 

Mulder's volume came up obediently to a hoarse whisper. His eyes scanned as 
though reading a far distant script. 

"There were two babies," he murmured. "Years back. Before it was too late for 
babies." Mulder licked his lips, concentrating on the scene playing for his 
perception alone. "The first was a fetus... swam away in the toilet of the Enron 
station outside Belaire, Ohio. The second--" He gasped in the gleam of 
headlights as a second car passed. Sauceda's jaw trembled with the realization 
that it was no longer just sweat shimmering on the profiler's cheeks. 

"I don't want to see, Lenny," Mulder begged, voice pitifully small, strained 
with grief. "I don't want to know these thing--" Sauceda pushed the ASAC aside; 
Purdue surrendered the ground without struggle, allowing the older man to 
squeeze a hip onto the floorboard. Sauceda grasped Mulder's arms, offering too 
little support-- but it was everything he had. 

"It's okay, Marty. All this crap's just gone on too long, kid. That's all. You 
just need a rest--" 

 Mulder moaned-- a despairing, keening wail cut short almost as soon as it 
 began. He leaned forward, every muscle trembling with the effort to contain the 
 outburst. 

 Sauceda watched, powerless to offer any more than the comfort of his presence. 
 Purdue's face in the door beside him was pinched. 

 "The more I see," Mulder moaned, voice distorted with pain, "the more I see, 
 the more comes for me to see-- Oh, God, I just want them to go away and leave 
 me alonegoawaygoaway--" 





Even as he pleaded, Mulder pulled away from Sauceda's steadying hands. Sauceda 
relented and Mulder pressed back against the seat, rolling his head hopelessly, 
lost once more in his invisible far off world. 

"The second baby was twenty-six weeks before it cast itself out." Mulder 
grimaced, one hand fluttering fretfully to his chest. He left it lying there as 
though the pain was continuous, but inconsequential. "He never mentioned them," 
he insisted. "Her own husband, her savior, her knight in shining armor and he 
never mentioned them. Not even in passing. No what-if wistful look... like they 
never existed. She hates him for it. In his grave, she hates him for it." 

Mulder's voice wavered, began fading, whispering and fading as he cringed away 
from the visions in his tormented brain: "He sleeps in a ditch of fire, and 
cannot hear; and where, in earth or hell's unholy peace, men's suicides will 
stop, God knows, not I." 

Mulder gasped again. "Not I," he insisted, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Not I--" 


Purdue jerked up, pulling Sauceda to his feet. The action sent them both 
lurching free of the car and Purdue held onto Sauceda's arm, roughly protecting 
him from stumbling as he shoved the keys into his hand. No explanation was 
necessary and Purdue ran for the opposite side of the vehicle and wrenched the 
door open. Sauceda, clamoring dutifully in behind the wheel, fought to pull the 
driver's seat forward, his attention tightly focused on the image in the 
rearview mirror. 

All the movement seemed to snap Mulder's spell and he looked around warily to 
find Purdue seated next to him. He spent a moment simply blinking, apparently 
trying to identify which reality he'd landed in this time. 

"You look tired, Mulder," Purdue noted calmly. "Ready to get back to the motel?" 


Mulder silently scanned around him. He caught Sauceda's stare in the rearview 
and Sauceda gave him a smile he apparently didn't register. The profiler's focus 
moved on and Sauceda followed the track of his eyes: the oddly empty bucket seat 
beside Sauceda, the not quite empty parking lot, and again the ASAC. Purdue 
exuded a confidence and calm that had no place here. 

Sauceda knew from experience that Mulder wouldn't recall how he'd gotten here; 
he watched the young man glance quickly at Purdue's quiet face, quickly away 
again. 

Mulder ran a hand through his hair then fumbled in his jacket pocket. His hands 
were trembling but he managed to slip the shades on. Sauceda held his breath, 
vision weaving from Mulder to Purdue back to Mulder: a pale man in a dark car on 
a dark parking lot, wearing shades. 

Purdue made no comment, allowing the young man this small defense. Sauceda 
breathed a prayer of blessing on the ASAC as he started the engine. 

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Part 11 of 27: Sunday Mourning Paper

Saturday. May 14, 1988. 7:36pm. Fort Henry Motor Lodge. Room 37. 

The door was unlocked and swung open slightly as she knocked. Mulder was clearly 
visible from the door: flat on his back on the bed, one arm shielding his eyes 
from the overhead light. His other arm stretched out beside him, fingers tangled 
tight in the bedspread, fist knotted even in his sleep. He was still dressed-- 
well, jeans and a T-shirt, anyway-- surrounded by reports, diagrams, and photos 
she knew better than to focus on. The television was blaring: CNN with more 
boring details of the Bush/Dukakis debate.

Kay switched off the light and got the volume down on the television. Mulder 
stirred fitfully, arm sliding from his eyes to rest above his head, bare feet 
shuffling briefly. She held her breath, waiting for him to still again before 
turning on the bedside lamp. Even in the muted light she could see the sweat on 
his face, the random twitch of muscles. He was haggard, too tense to be truly 
resting, his eyes rimmed with red. Kay laid her palm against his face gently; he 
was feverish but not seriously so and there was no REM motion beneath his lids-- 
he wasn't dreaming yet, thank God. Four nights they'd spent together and she'd 
woke every night to his trembling and moaning, his body clammy with night sweat. 
He never spoke about it. Even in the daylight. Even holding her hand through the 
Overlook park this afternoon. Even nibbling her ear in the movie theater when 
he'd dragged her to see "Die Hard"-- and then spent the whole movie necking with 
her in the balcony. 

He sighed again, jaw working silently and she leaned to kiss his forehead. There 
was regret in the kiss. Regret for the mysteries that shut his heart away. 
Regret for the fear he woke to each night. Emotionally closed one moment, the 
next, suddenly and fiercely passionate, he was a mystery as deep as any he found 
in those files of his. And although he refused to admit it, she knew he was 
afraid-- afraid for himself, afraid for her. 

And Kay loved him for it. 

She switched off the lamp, collecting his files carefully, unwilling to wake him 
just yet. In the glow of the TV, the photographs were blissfully indistinct. 
There was enough light, however, to identify the newspaper slung across the 
floor: the early issue of the Sunday Ohio Sun. Kay had read it herself just a 
few hours ago. "FBI's Finest Stalks Serial Killer" the headline bragged. What 
followed was a whole range of articles dealing with Mulder's work on previous 
cases-- told in enough detail to make her skin crawl. Yesterday, Mulder had 
sworn this new case was quiet right now, that he was just filling time on other 
cases, helping out at the precinct until Purdue said it was time to go. But he 
ate less every day and he feared sleep, fought it like hell, reaching out 
sometimes in the night, just to reassure himself that Kay was still there. 

The television went bright as she bent to retrieve the paper. Children's faces 
stared up at her, smiles solemn in the newsprint ink: row after row of tiny 
photos-- kids dug up from shallow graves or found on the side of the road while 
her Fox hunted their killers. Christ, was there no wonder he jerked when she 
touched him unexpectedly? Sometimes life just... well, caught up with you after 
a while. Maybe he was hearing all those little feet fleeing after him. Maybe he 
just had nowhere else to run--

A distant peel of thunder rumbled, just audible beyond the walls and windows. 
Kay crammed the newspaper into the wastebasket and emptied Mulder's ashtray on 
top of it. 

By the time she emerged from her shower, Mulder had rolled to his side, facing 
the television. She belted his robe around her as she crossed the room. 

"Fox?"

Still locked in desperate sleep, Mulder shifted his head against the pillow, 
huddling away from her voice. Turned in profile, he looked almost boyish. His 
hand fisted spasmodically then he was motionless again. She sighed.

There was just enough room on the TV side of the bed for Kay to lie comfortably; 
she could slip between the sheets and not even wake him if she was careful. She 
managed to do just that and was feeling rather proud of herself when his 
breathing altered abruptly.

"Oh-- Fox, I'm sorry. I didn't mean--"

"Uhm." His voice was husky, groggy. He slipped his arm around her waist, 
spooning her up loosely and she settled in beside him.

"Comfortable?" he mumbled. Kay nodded and felt him kiss the back of her neck. 
She wriggled slightly, ensuring him his share of the pillow and an adequate view 
of the television. Her concern earned her another kiss, this one on the top of 
her head.

By mutual consent she manned the remote control and they watched "Family Ties," 
"Night Court" and Ted Koppel. There was no conversation; she offered the simple 
comfort of her presence and he simply accepted it. She couldn't tell whether he 
slept or not: his breathing was regular enough but his tension never eased. She 
lay in his arms, her head light against his collarbone, her back warmed by the 
motion of his breathing. 

She was asleep herself when she felt him rise, moving cautiously. She listened, 
drowsy and content, as he undressed: the rasp of his zipper, the sighs of 
fabrics in motion. The mattress dipped as he slipped under the sheet and she 
rolled against him, wrapping her arms around his chest. His scent was warm as 
life itself and she inhaled deeply, circling his nipple with feather soft 
kisses. He grunted softly and laced his fingers through her hair, a gentle thumb 
stroking her earlobe. His other hand fumbled behind her, his evening stubble 
scratching her forehead pleasantly, and then the TV was abruptly silent as he 
located the remote control. She smiled against his neck and felt a tug at her 
waist as he unknotted the belt of the bathrobe. It surrendered willingly and he 
pushed the fabric aside, pulling her close, sighing at the warmth of skin 
against skin. She wrapped her thigh over his hip, inviting but not insistent. He 
kissed her softly, pulled her head to his chest-- and then the world was 
suddenly still again. There was only the beating of his heart, the pattering of 
rain against the window.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

3:17 AM.

Kay woke to a thump against the floor. She reached one hand out, seeking him in 
the dark but found only the empty sheet, still warm. The light filtering through 
the drapes was too dim to see clearly but she could hear him breathing, gasping 
in pain or fear. 

 "Fox?"

 He didn't answer and she crawled across the bed, calling softly, hands 
 scrambling. She found his tousled head, a shadow amongst shadows, propped 
 against the mattress as he sat on the floor.

 "Fox, honey? Did you fall out of bed?"

 He gave no answer and she ran her hands through his hair, down his neck and 
 shoulders, squeezing his upper arms in comfort as much for herself as for him. 
 He was alive and whole, why wasn't he answering-- God. He'd had another dream 
 and she hadn't even woke to help him-- 





He pushed her away and struggled to stand. She didn't insist when he refused her 
help and stumbled to the bathroom; she was simply grateful when he didn't close 
the door on her. 

He was on his knees and retching before she could locate the light switch. The 
harsh bulb was not kind: his skin was chalk-white and slick with sweat, his ribs 
too prominent suddenly as he strained. Kay ran for the bed and snatched up the 
blanket to lay across his shoulders but he tugged it into his lap instead, 
suddenly modest in his illness.

"Let me go get your partner, Fox, okay? I'll be right--"

He grabbed for her abruptly, pulling her into the floor beside him.

"No--" he choked, the grip on her wrist desperate and painful as he fought to 
control the next spasm. "He'll tell Patterson," he gasped at last. "You can't 
tell--" He spit a mouthful of bile into the bowl and shivered. "Promise me. 
Promise!"

She didn't know this Patterson so the promise came easily and he seemed to take 
comfort from it. He released her, resuming his vomiting. Kay felt that it would 
continue forever, and it did, long after there was anything left in him to come 
up. It was painful to watch and he didn't answer her questions, flinched each 
time she tried to touch him. She finally surrendered, waiting patiently in the 
doorway, clutching her robe and trembling as she listened to him gasping for 
air. 

The worst of it finally passed. He accepted the glass of water she offered him, 
rinsing his mouth gratefully before vomiting what little liquid had trickled 
down his throat in the process. His entire body shook and he grabbed his head 
suddenly, pulling at his hair. His moan was pure animal pain. She reached to 
hold him and Mulder pushed her away, snarling as he scrambled to his feet, 
swearing. The words were slurred and indistinct and his eyes were fiercely 
dilated, frightening in their intensity. And when they turned on her, there 
wasn't even the vaguest hint of recognition. She retreated to the door.

He climbed into the bathtub, slapping at the shower control, and stepped beneath 
the pounding stream without even waiting for it to warm. Mulder apparently 
needed all his concentration just to stand. He planted both hands against the 
tile, eyes squeezed tightly shut. The tension pouring off him was violent; it 
flavored the room and shook her to the core.

She marveled at the transformation in him. This was not the man who had tucked 
her into bed a few hours ago. Not the man who had held her, made love to her 
this morning. Only the memory of the man who *had* held her, had loved her, gave 
her the courage to remain now. 

"Want me to scrub your back, Fox?" She thought a playfully sensual tone would be 
comforting to him, something that would reach the man beneath the pain. But her 
voice quavered pathetically and she almost choked on the words.

He pressed his forehead against the tile, refusing to look at her. "I need to 
get out of here," he rasped. "I've got to get out. I can't--" whatever he 
couldn't do was drowned beneath the water.

Kay bit her lip. "You can't leave just now, angel. You're sick, and it's only 
four o'clock in the morning--"

He exploded, slamming the side of his fist against the tile. It hit with the 
force of a sledge and every muscle in his body jerked. Kay yelped in terror. 

"Goddam it! Leave me alone!" he screamed. The eyes he turned on her were black, 
crazed with fear and a desperation she had no answer for but total panic.

She fled for the bedroom, found his clothes rumpled in the chair and shimmied 
into his T-shirt, too frantic to even wipe at her tears. Something shattered in 
the little room behind her.

*The mirror-- Oh, God, he's hurt. He's hurting himself--* 

She snatched up his trench coat, fumbling it on as she ran for the door. Her 
foot caught in the hem and she stumbled, slamming her shoulder and the side of 
her face against the door frame. Mulder's angry snarl echoed from the bathroom, 
and suddenly the pain was no match for her panic. She fled, half blinded, out 
into the night.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The slam of a door had Purdue moaning against his pillow. Seconds later the echo 
of frantic pounding had him wide awake and struggling into his trousers. The 
racket was coming from Sauceda's door, just next to his own, and showed no sign 
of letting up. 

*Dammit to hell. Lenny could sleep through a freaking hurricane.* 

Shirtless, shoeless, Purdue grabbed his gun and checked the view out his window.

"Christ Almighty--"

Purdue jerked his door open and Kay spun at the noise, her fist still resting 
against Sauceda's door. Sauceda popped the door open a second after, clad in 
slacks and a T-shirt. Kay squealed a silent "Oh!" and stumbled back in 
confusion. She wavered uncertainly between the two men, one hand unconsciously 
tugging at her hair. She was trembling violently, crying so hard that Purdue 
doubted she could even speak. The air was misty with light drizzle, plastering 
her hair to her face and neck. Mulder's trench coat had slipped from one 
shoulder, pulling the collar of her T-shirt with it. There was a bruise there as 
big as a man's fist. A perfect match for the one just above her eye.

"Help him!" she wailed. "You've got to make him stop!" Before Sauceda could grab 
her, she whirled and fled back toward Mulder's room, bare feet slapping 
concrete, coat dragging in the rain after as she ran.

Purdue caught up with her just before she reached Mulder's door. She barely 
stifled her scream as Purdue pulled her away. 

"You stay *out here,*" he hissed. "Do you hear me? You stay out here or you go 
to my room and stay there."

She nodded without really comprehending the order. Purdue noted Sauceda out of 
the corner of his eye; the pathologist had his medical kit in one hand, his 
revolver in the other, shoulders hunched against the mist. He assumed the 
standard back-up position next to Mulder's door, prepared to cover the ASAC's 
entrance.

Purdue took a deep breath and set his back against the opposite side of the door 
frame. Rain dripped from the eave of the roof and onto his bare back, setting 
him to shivering despite his best efforts. Kay backed up down the walk, 
clutching the trenchcoat, her eyes wide. She shook her head vehemently. "Don't 
hurt him. You can't hurt him--"

Purdue waved her back and rapped the door calmly. "Mulder?" 

There was no response. Purdue wiped sweat and rainwater from his face.

"Mulder, its Reggie Purdue. I'm coming in, son. We need to talk. Okay?" 

Still no answer. Purdue watched Sauceda wipe his hand on his damp pant leg, 
resume his grip on his weapon. 

Purdue tried the knob. It turned easily and he let the door swing open a few 
inches. And waited. 

Nothing. A glance at Sauceda earned him a nod. Purdue shook his head and entered 
slowly, his face a mask of friendly composure. He held his gun low, tucked 
behind his thigh. His posture was neutral, his free hand in plain site. He 
wasn't exactly dressed like an ASAC and was counting on that fact to make him a 
little less threatening. 

Mulder was standing on the other side of the bed, oblivious to his entrance. The 
profiler was dressed, a pullover and jeans stuck to his damp skin, water running 
from his hair down into his collar. His right hand was bleeding, splattering his 
clothes, but he didn't seem to notice. Mulder's motions were manic, his steps 
jerking and unstable, both hands shaking hard enough to make even the smallest 
task an effort, but he searched the room methodically, dilated pupils intense 
and roaming. *He's not sane.* Purdue's gut rolled over with the realization. 
*Christ help me. This is it.*

"Agent," Purdue asked calmly, "what are you doing?"

Mulder slung a book from the top of the nightstand, fumbled behind the lamp, 
patting down the surface like he didn't trust his eyes to tell him that nothing 
else was there. "I'm going for a run," he answered finally. The response was 
slurred, only half considered. He pulled at the nightstand drawer next and 
patted it down as well. 

"You're not leaving this room, son." Purdue's words were not a challenge, simply 
a statement of fact. "We need to talk," he repeated. He noted the stack of files 
littering the dresser: cases from armed robbery to triple homicide, Mulder's 
work for the past week and he wanted to spit suddenly. This was his doing. He'd 
brought him here, handed him the files. He was responsible for this man wrapped 
in madness. For the bruised woman panting in the door behind Sauceda's 
shoulder--

Mulder turned but didn't look up, his brows frowning in concentration as much as 
anger. He knelt to slip his arm under the mattress. "I'm going for a run," he 
repeated, numbly. He might have been talking to himself. "Where the hell's my 
gun?"

Purdue slipped his finger off the trigger of his Ruger, laying it flat against 
the trigger guard. "You don't need a weapon, Mulder. Let's just sit down and 
talk. Then you can run-- okay?" 

"I've got a crime scene to detail--"

Purdue nodded, familiar with the pattern now. "Listen to me, Mulder. You're not 
going anywhere until I know you're in control."

Mulder was on the floor, feeling under the bed, his voice muffled. "I'm in 
control, dammit," he growled.

"Like hell."

Mulder's dark head jerked up, enraged. Purdue knew the dangers of antagonizing 
injured wildlife, but at least he finally had Mulder's attention. 

The young man struggled to stand, and Purdue felt Sauceda step up beside him.

"Calm yourself, Agent," the ASAC warned softly. "Or we'll have to do it for 
you."

Mulder was finally on his feet, finally fully aware, his voice a hiss. "You said 
there'd be no drugs unless I requested--" 

"Do you think you're in control enough to know to request a drug, Mulder?" 
Purdue waited for the question to register. He watched reason flickering in 
those feral eyes, fighting it's unsteady way through the madness. 

He heard a rustle behind him in the door, then Kay's voice, tender, pleading. 

"Please, Fox. Please let them help you."

Sauceda wouldn't allow her to enter, however. Across the room, Mulder's answer 
was to remain quite still, both hands pressed against the bed, the closest bit 
of furniture to offer support. Blood pooled onto the rumpled sheet but Mulder 
didn't see. He was watching Kay, Purdue, and Sauceda with the same wide-eyed 
horror. Thunder rolled somewhere to the south.

Purdue held his tone steady. "Everything's going to be all right, Mulder--"

Mulder swallowed hard and tried to stand upright without support. It was a 
valiant effort and he gasped. "He's dead. She's killed again. We've got to go 
see."

Purdue shook his head and chanced one cautious step forward. "I'm not walking 
onto a crime scene with you in this state." Mulder took a step back and the ASAC 
froze. 

"We've got a job to do, Mulder," Purdue remained patient. "I'm not losing 
evidence because you can't hold it together."

"I can hold it together," Mulder's voice was an angry plea now. Purdue advanced 
slowly and Mulder retreated, backing himself into the wall. "I was all right in 
three-oh-four," he insisted, "You remember. I was fine. I was okay. Right?"

Purdue nodded carefully, slipping his weapon into the back of his waistband. 
"Because you gave yourself time first, son." He paused, just a few feet from the 
young man, and presented his empty palms. "This one's not getting any deader, 
Mulder. Me and Sauceda have to get dressed. You gonna have it together by the 
time we're ready?"

Mulder's nod was emphatic, his eyes wild, watching Purdue's hands. His own hands 
clawing the wall behind him reflexively, like he was contemplating his odds of 
tunneling through.

"Prove that you're in control, Mulder. Sit down."

Mulder met his gaze with one of complete panic.

"You can sit down, can't you?" Purdue demanded calmly.

Mulder stared at him, opened his mouth, closed it again as though he didn't 
trust himself to speak. His Adam's apple convulsed. "I'm all right," he 
whispered. "I'm all right. I swear. I'm not crazy--"

Purdue sighed heavily. *Jesus, but this hurts.* "No one thinks you're crazy, 
Mulder." 

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut against the lie. Purdue didn't want to startle 
him, didn't want to have to rush him, but Mulder was starting to lose some 
serious blood. The wall was smeared with it; it dripped from his hand and onto 
his untied running shoes. Meanwhile, Mulder was whispering, short insistent 
little phrases as untranslatable as the tongue of angels. 

Purdue tried again, voice soft. "You're in a difficult position, Mulder, 
operating under a lot of stress. It's not failure if you can't do it on your own 
ever so often."

Mulder's injured hand fluttered to his chest, rubbing at some pressure there. 
Purdue shifted his stance, prepared to take the young man down; he froze 
mid-step as Mulder's eyes blinked open again. 

"Valium," Mulder whispered. "Ten milligrams." His face was defeated and 
resigned. "Better make it fifteen."

Sauceda had been ready for him and approached carefully, his only weapon a 
syringe filled with clear liquid. Mulder frowned as he registered the drug and 
Lenny shrugged an apology. 

"It'll work faster this way, Marty, that's all. Let's get your sleeve rolled up, 
'kay?" 

Mulder tugged at his sleeve obediently, froze with the realization that his hand 
was bleeding. He paused, regarding the injury blearily, then glanced up at 
Purdue, his face unreadable. Sauceda chattered away comfortingly, delivering the 
drug with practiced hands. 

There must have been something familiar and unwelcome in the burn of the 
medication, however; the needle was barely out of his arm before Mulder's eyes 
went wide and he grabbed for Sauceda. Sauceda was quick on his feet, however, 
already dancing away, needle aloft as he fled.

"Goddam you," Mulder hissed after him. "Goddam you, you had no right--" The drug 
hit him then, hard and impossibly fast. Purdue caught him as he staggered.

"What did you do to him?" Kay demanded. Sauceda tried to intercept her and she 
slapped at him furiously. "What the hell did you do?" Sauceda wrestled her into 
the chair as she flailed at him bitterly.

Purdue had his hands just as full with Mulder. The younger man was in no shape 
to put up a full fledged fight but he was giving the ASAC hell in spite of it. 
Purdue gasped with the effort to hold him, grateful that Mulder wasn't lucid 
enough to remember much of his training. 

Mulder was registering Sauceda's struggle with Kay, however. Enraged, he slammed 
Purdue into the wall, knocking the breath out of the ASAC. He spun to go after 
Sauceda but Purdue had a handful of Mulder's shirt and was holding on for dear 
life. Mulder swung at him, but ineffectively, his focus still on Sauceda.

"You leave her alone! You leave her the fuck alone!" 

Mulder's shout and Purdue's frantic swearing brought the second fight to a 
finish. Kay and Sauceda turned, wide-eyed and gasping. Sauceda flushed beneath 
Purdue's glare and retreated to a corner. Kay pulled Mulder's coat about her 
regally and wiped her face on the sleeve. 

Purdue used the distraction to good advantage and got Mulder's arms pinned 
behind him. Mulder's resistance was failing, the drug finally beginning it's 
work in earnest. Purdue dragged the young man face down onto the bed and held 
him there. Mulder swore at him blearily, words slurring against the sheets. 

Sauceda held out a plastic baggie to Kay, a flag of truce. "Here. Go down to the 
ice machine and get some ice--" He half muttered "please" and snatched up his 
medikit, crawling up onto the bed to kneel beside his partner. Kay watched a 
moment as Sauceda applied pressure to Mulder's bleeding hand then she 
disappeared into the dark with the little bag. 

Mulder, caught up in the reflex of the fight, was still struggling furiously, 
his muscles hindered by the drug ravaging his system. He lashed out at Sauceda 
despite Purdue's best efforts to hold him. Sauceda seemed content to wait him 
out, holding Mulder's wrist tight, keeping the towel pressed to the injury.

"Shit, Sauceda, you sure he doesn't need another dose?"

Sauceda grimaced. "I should have shot him full of Seconal. Sorry, but it's been 
a while since he's been this bad. I just didn't think he'd fight like this." 

Purdue snorted. "You look at her face again and try telling me that."

"Oh, hell, he didn't hit that girl, Reg. You know he didn't."

"I don't know any such thing. He's a crazed animal--"

Kay's reappearance ended the argument. She stepped to the bed tentatively, eager 
to present her baggie full of ice. The bruise on her forehead was bad but the 
blow hadn't been low enough to cause any swelling of the eye itself. She'd been 
fortunate, Purdue mused. 

Mulder moaned and made another effort to rise and the ASAC shoved him back down 
with a bit more force than necessary. Kay stared at him in horror and he looked 
away. He'd come to respect Mulder but temporarily insanity was a plea he'd never 
had much use for-- he'd rot in hell before he'd listen to her defend this man.

Sauceda sighed and pointed her to the chair. "Get some of that ice on your 
face," he insisted. Her mouth worked in surprise and his voice softened. "We'll 
use the rest on his hand, okay? But I can only handle one patient at a time." He 
turned back to Purdue without waiting for her answer. "You got him?" he 
demanded.

Purdue laid himself across Mulder's back and got a better hold on the injured 
arm. Mulder didn't fight him now; his muscles still jerked but it seemed more 
reflexive than any real effort. His eyes were mere slits. He looked like a child 
fighting sleep. A very sick child. 

Purdue shook his head. "What the hell *did* you give him, anyway?" 

"Thorazine," Sauceda held Mulder's hand to gain the best light as he pried a 
piece of glass from the knuckle. "Valium won't cut it when he's really bad."

Purdue grimaced watching Sauceda dig for another tiny bit of slivered mirror. 

"All this stuff hits him hard," Sauceda assured, blinking in concentration as he 
worked. "You hafta be careful. Half the psychopharmaceuticals on the shelf will 
put him out in five minutes even at low doses. His system's just... off like 
that. I swear to God he's not human sometimes." 

Purdue eyed Kay, busy dabbing at her face with a washcloth full of ice.

"It's not so bad," Sauceda insisted, inspecting Mulder's hand. "Bled like a 
sonofabitch, but no real damage." Mulder was still conscious but just barely, 
his eyes only half focused. "'S'okay, Marty," his partner promised, slathering 
ointment into the wound. "'S'all right. You quit fighting the medication and get 
some rest. Okay?"

Mulder didn't respond. Sauceda smiled pleasantly, putting the finishing touches 
on his bandage. He pushed himself off the bed and slipped off Mulder's shoes, 
nodding at Purdue. "You get his shirt, I'll get his pants." 

Purdue scrambled to his feet. "Don't you think he needs to go to a hospital?" 

Sauceda stared at him. "The wounds are superficial. Unless you're just looking 
to make sure this gets on his record." 

"I'm filing on this, Lenny," Purdue warned. "And you're co-signing it." 

Sauceda frowned. "But-- Shit. Just help me get him in bed."

By a concerted effort, they got the bloodied sheet off the bed and Mulder 
stripped down and under the bedspread. Sauceda added a blanket for good measure, 
pushed the young man onto his side and repositioned his pillow. Mulder eyes were 
still open but Sauceda declared it was just out of sheer cussedness. Each time 
Sauceda was in reach, Mulder slapped at him groggily.

Kay finally had enough of the two men playing nursemaid and shoved Sauceda aside 
to sit on the bed next to Mulder. She held his uninjured hand while Sauceda 
propped the bandaged one against a pillow and slipped the rest of the baggie of 
ice under it. 

Purdue watched the young couple closely. With Kay near, Mulder had stopped 
struggling completely. In fact, he seemed grateful for her presence, staring up 
at her with an unspoken plea. She leaned to whisper in his ear and he lay 
motionless, all his effort concentrated on listening, her hair cascading across 
his face, shielding the moment from Purdue's view. Mulder squeezed her hand 
softly as she sat up. His eyes remained closed. His breathing finally calmed. 
His face was suddenly just newly born, too tranquil, too perpetually innocent; 
no scar of time betrayed the horrors hidden beneath the sealed lids. 

Kay nodded at the ASAC shyly. "Thank you," she said.

Purdue sat on the end of the bed and rubbed his face. "So. What started the 
fight?"

"I don't-- No. No, there was no fight. He just--" she paused staring at him 
closely. "He just had a bad dream and it upset him."

"So he took a swing at you."

Her face flooded with comprehension. Then anger. "He never touched me. I tripped 
and hit the door--" 

"The door do that, too?" Her coat sleeve had pulled back and he pointed an 
accusing finger at the bruised imprint of Mulder's fingers across her wrist. She 
looked down, looked back up at him like she wanted to spit.

"You son of a bitch--" she hissed.

Mulder moaned again, his bandaged hand fingering the blanket fretfully. She 
lowered her voice to an indignant whisper. "He didn't hit me, he didn't even try 
to hit me. When he broke the mirror I wasn't even in the same room--" She set 
her jaw. "He's not that kind of man--"

Purdue sighed. "Well, what the hell am I supposed to think? You were scared to 
death when you came running down that hall--"

She squeezed her eyes shut. "I have... bad memories. It's nothing to do with 
him." She glared at him imperiously. "You've got to believe me. He didn't hurt 
me. God is my witness."

Purdue kept his face closed. "Unfortunately, God's not here to testify and I 
have to file a report." 

"Screw you and your damned regulations. He didn't hurt me!"

Sauceda squatted next to her. He looked tired and old suddenly. "Don't worry 
about it, kid," he nodded resolutely. "I'll be filing a report of my own." He 
glared at Purdue. "Marty's never hit a woman in his life." He sighed and 
indicated Kay's forehead. "How's your headache, kiddo? Any problems with your 
vision, any sudden piercing pain or pressure?"

She shook her head resolutely but allowed Sauceda to examine her briefly, 
checking the dilation of her pupils, testing minor motor skills. Sauceda seemed 
pleased with the results but she absolutely refused to allow Purdue to drive her 
home.

"I'm staying here. You'll need someone to watch him. It might as well be me." 
She glanced at Sauceda. "I'd rather it be me."

Purdue opened his mouth to protest but Sauceda was already shaking his head. He 
pointed at Kay's eye.

"He's going to blame himself the minute he sees that. Hey!" He held his hands 
surrender fashion as her anger rose again. "I know he didn't do it. But he's 
gonna feel responsible. You know it, too. Look, maybe it's best to give him a 
couple of days. I'll explain it to him." He shrugged gently, "We'll take you 
home and you can call him tomorrow, all right? It'll be okay. You two'll work it 
out." The tenderness in his voice had Purdue blinking owlishly. "This isn't 
about you, Kay," Sauceda insisted. "You didn't do anything wrong." 

The two men waited as she stared down at the young man beside her, considering, 
maybe fighting tears. 

"I'll get dressed," she answered finally, then paused as she stood, fumbling for 
the pocket of the coat. "Oh. You want his gun?" She held the weapon up with a 
grimace. Purdue accepted it solemnly. 

"It was in the pocket when I put it on," she said levelly. "I wasn't trying to 
protect myself from him or anything."

Sauceda frowned at the weapon in the ASAC's hand. "Is he getting it back?" he 
demanded.

Purdue swore but Sauceda waited him out. Kay watched them warily, confused, but 
both men understood the significance of the question. 

"Yeah," Purdue agreed, finally. "Yeah, he's getting it back." 

Sauceda beamed. "Well, hell, then. I'll get housekeeping in here to wipe that 
wall down."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Part 12 of 27: Didn't We Just Leave this Party?

Sunday. May 15, 1988. 11:37 AM. The Valley Inn, Bridgeport, Ohio. Room 6.

*Hell of a way to spend a Sunday.... * 

Harris excused himself from the motel room, dodging crime technicians and 
equipment with equal care. The carpet was slick with intestines and bits of 
organs; just walking across the floor could earn a man hazard pay. 

The motel, The Valley Inn, was located just off I-70, still in view of the Ohio 
River. It was small, simple but nice enough, a privately owned affair that could 
have been the stunt double for the Bates Motel, sans mansion. A maid had 
discovered the body in Room Six a little after nine; Bridgeport PD had taken one 
look and put out a courtesy call to Harris. He didn't take long identifying the 
handiwork: the star-shaped hole of a .22 semi-automatic, close-range, the jagged 
V-shaped incision that opened the gut from breast-line to groin. There were 
variables in the presentation, but Mulder had warned them she was adaptable; 
Harris would lay good money it was their girl.

The deputy at the door stepped aside to let him pass. He eyed the detective like 
he was expecting an apology or something. Like it was Harris' fault this monster 
had decided to expand her territory across the river. Harris smiled at him 
brightly and swore beneath his breath.

*Where the hell is Purdue? Called him a freaking hour ago and if he's off 
drag-butting around--*

He paused on the porch, squinting in the sunlight. It was a beautiful day with 
just enough of a breeze to keep things comfortable. A great day for hauling the 
kids to the zoo, or playing Frisbee with the dog. Not hanging out in blood 
spattered motel rooms listening to the coroner bitch and moan. 

Most people tended to think that Harris' job was glamorous, a kind of Sam Spade 
routine with a regular paycheck, roughing up bad guys and sweet-talking 
mysterious dames. Harris swore it was more like being in the army: an unlimited 
process of hurry-up-and-wait while someone else pulled all the strings. Harris 
pulled strings when he could get them though: based on Mulder's revelations, 
Harris had sent two officers to Bellaire, scavenging records of miscarriages for 
the past twenty years. They'd been at it since Thursday with little to show for 
it; Belmont County had plenty of records but so far, there'd been nothing 
mentioning an Enron station. It didn't help that most of the older stuff wasn't 
on computer yet and a lot of early trimester deaths weren't even recorded. A 
pretty slow go with not much hope of yielding anything solid. Still, aside from 
several thousand handgun registrations it was all they had to go on right now.

The squeal of a bad rotor announced Purdue's arrival. Harris spat and got his 
hands on his hips as the borrowed Chevy pulled into the parking lot. Purdue 
might have a reasonable excuse for being late but Mr. G-man was overdue for a 
little ribbing. It wasn't like Mulder to let the locals get the jump on him like 
this. Besides, the kid had been a little too quiet lately; maybe a good-natured 
tongue-lashing would get him back to his old obnoxious self. God knew Harris 
could use the comic relief.

Purdue was the first to exit the vehicle. The look on his face kept Harris on 
the porch, hands slipping off his hips of their own accord. Reg looked like he'd 
spent the night grieving-- or maybe drinking. He wasn't meeting Harris' eye, 
either. Sauceda was next to tumble out; he looked tired, too, but began fussing 
softly, almost automatically, as he reached into the back seat. Purdue waited 
for him patiently, both men oddly subdued.

Harris squinted through the glare on the windshield. Sauceda was trying to help 
Mr. G-man out of the car and his efforts earned him an irritated backhand just 
this side of criminal assault. He dodged the swing deftly, waiting as Mulder 
finally managed to unfold his six-foot frame from the back seat. Purdue watched 
the proceedings with his hands in his pockets. 

The profiler's movements were awkward and hesitant and he made several grabs for 
the car door before actually locating it. Once vertical, however, he took great 
care with himself, pausing to button his jacket, straightening his tie with 
studied concern. He was dressed to the usual nines, Armani suit and 
golder-than-thou shades but his right hand was bandaged, gauze wrapped tight 
across the knuckles, allowing only the fingertips to protrude. Both hands shook 
a little as he patted the tie down and his steps were slow and deliberate like 
he was walking on unpacked sand. 

Harris frowned, scanning the solemn faces surrounding the profiler. *What the 
hell have they done to you, kid?*

Sauceda hovered behind his partner, watching Mulder's progress carefully but 
staying well beyond the range of his swinging arm. Harris took the hint and 
stepped back as Mulder approached. There was a single step to the porch and 
Mulder navigated it with a care that should have been hysterical. The 
detective's mouth went spitless. He made no attempt to hide his anger as he 
looked Purdue square in the eye. The ASAC jerked his head away with the disgrace 
of the guilty. 

Harris bit his lip and led the way into the room. Sauceda proceeded to the 
already well-perused body and began digging in his bag. Purdue stationed himself 
in a bare spot against the wall, an unobtrusive location that put him only a 
couple of steps from Mulder, Harris noted. 

Mulder refused to enter, though, taking in the room from the door, leaning 
against the frame like he was just to tired to go any farther. Golden mirrors 
reflected the body across the room and the shades didn't move for a long time. 
Mulder's breathing was quiet but rapid and Harris recognized the tension pouring 
off him: he'd seen that bare edge of hyper enough times in Nam.

The ASAC wearied of the silence and settled his arms across his chest. "What've 
we got, Nat?"

Harris shrugged and waved at the room in general. "Like I told you: same crap, 
different day. It's a weeknight so the motel didn't have many guests. Nobody saw 
nothing and, of course--" he sighed, "nobody heard anything, either."

 "There's music," Mulder announced. The steadiness of his voice surprised 
 Harris, the direction of his shades still hadn't moved from the body. "A 
 record," Mulder insisted. "A tape. Something." It was not a question. Sauceda 
 was watching him, chewing the inside of his cheek.

 Harris poked a thumb at the boom box on the dresser behind him. "I rewound the 
 tape. It's a homemade dub. One song. No background noises as far as I can tell 
 but we'll have it analyzed, of course."

 Mulder nodded. "Tell me about the body."





Harris raised an eyebrow at Purdue, stoic, busy watching his profiler. "Male, 
twenty-five, single. Just moved into the area for a job with the Wheeling PD. 
The East Precinct. Apparently he's been living here waiting for his apartment to 
empty out at the end of the month."

"But we're back to the routine guttings," Mulder noted. This wasn't a question 
either. "No apartment three-oh-four."

"Maybe the last one kind of vented some steam, you think?"

"If she hadn't gutted him according to pattern, we wouldn't have been called," 
Mulder answered wearily like such facts should be clear. "Play the tape."

Harris hesitated but Mulder stood like it was everything he could do to keep 
from self-detonating. It was apparently a delicate balance and Harris had no 
desire to unsettle it. He hit the play button without comment. 

Jump-back-Jack beat. Swing horns. And Phil Collins. "We're two hearts, living in 
just one mind, we'll be together till the end of time--"

"Correct me if I'm wrong," Purdue squinted, "but isn't this song a bit recent to 
be one she'd associate with a bad childhood?"

"She's got her own repertoire now," Mulder's voice was distant, listening. "It's 
just the chorus? No verses?"

Sauceda shook his head fretfully and pulled out his measuring tape.

Harris shrugged. "I'm not all that familiar with the tune, son."

"It's just the chorus," Mulder repeated the words to himself, then seemed to 
recall there were other people present. "She's afraid we won't take the hint," 
he explained, finally swinging the shades in Harris' direction. "We got a 
newspaper on the premises?"

"Yeah," Harris grimaced, suddenly unable to withstand Mulder's scrutiny himself. 
"Sunday's Ohio Sun. Look, Mulder, I'm sorry about--"

"Where was it?" Mulder demanded, his expression unchanged.

"Under the tape player." 

Purdue frowned, chewing on his lip as he studied the profiler.

Mulder was nodding. "The whole paper or just the section on me?"

Harris sighed. "Well, just the section on you, actually--"

"Your friend Nilson must not write too well," Mulder smiled vacantly. "She 
thinks we're idiots." He frowned, the action not greatly affecting the 
dispassionate cast of his face. "Or maybe she's trying it on for size," he 
brooded. "Yeah. She'll go for subtle later."

Purdue was looking more uncomfortable by the minute. "Mulder, what the hell?" He 
waved a hand at the bed. "You think this was set up for your personal benefit?"

Mulder didn't answer, busy weaving his way over to the body. Sauceda stepped 
back but the profiler ignored him, regarding the bloodied form coldly. "She left 
the eyes," he noted.

Harris scanned the tight faces in the room. "Significant?"

Mulder leaned over for a closer view of the corpse. "She wants me to see," he 
explained reasonably. He glanced up at Purdue. "He looks a little like me, don't 
you think? Same hair color. Same build. Similar jobs." Mulder managed another 
smile; this one bordered on genuine.

"He's a couple inches shorter," Sauceda offered warily.

"He's staying in a motel," Mulder insisted. "I'm staying in a motel."

Harris stared down at the baggied newspaper. "Christ. She wanted this to be 
you?"

Purdue approached the foot of the bed and stared down. "We need to put a body 
guard on you, Agent?"

"No," Mulder answered hastily. "No, it's not me she's after." He noted Purdue's 
look and set his jaw. "It's not. Not really. But she'll escalate. She's got 
something to prove now," he explained patiently. "And her own personal fan club 
courtesy of the Ohio Sun." He shook his head, his voice going soft. "She's been 
manipulated all her life. Lied to and controlled. And she's tired of it. She's 
just so damned *tired* of it." It sounded more like a confession and Mulder's 
voice containing all the weariness in the world at that moment. Harris felt as 
if his life force had drained away just listening to it, that if he were not 
careful his heart might forget to beat. Purdue was frozen, watching Mulder's 
profile in fascination. The profiler's face behind the shades was pinched and 
hard. He removed the shades to rub at his eyes and put them back on without 
looking up. His hands were shaking again. 

Sauceda shifted beside him, swallowing hard. "Marty, how'd you know about the 
music?" His voice was guarded.

Mulder shrugged vaguely, pocketing his hands. "Maybe I heard it in a dream."

Sauceda grimaced at the mess that was the body on the bed. He grabbed Mulder's 
arm and a few of Harris's alarms went off when Mulder jerked at the contact. 

"Marty, did she do this to y--"

Mulder shook him off, his voice a soft warning. "It's just music, Len. Don't get 
bent out of shape."

Sauceda had to be tired: Mulder's response had him seething. "Let me explain 
something to you, kiddo," he growled. "This shit ain't exactly easy for the rest 
of us, either. These damned dreams of yours are so hot, why don't you just dream 
us up a name? Huh? Then we could all get home--"

Mulder's whole body shook and Harris stepped forward, watching the dam crack 
just this side of disaster.

"A name?" Mulder hissed. "I gave them a fucking name in Shreveport and they had 
you shoot me full of Thorazine. Put me down like a rabid dog. Just like you did 
last night." 

Purdue stepped forward, arms ready, but he didn't touch the young man. Mulder 
ignored him, intent on his partner. 

"You want a name now, Lenny? Sisyphus. How's that for a goddam name? 'Sisyphus, 
her sleeves rolled, ready now to start getting that apocalypse out of the 
cellar' while we bear up under a genocide or so." He smiled bitterly. "There. 
More poetry over dead bodies. Chalk that one up on the Spooky chart while you're 
at it." 

Mulder spun on his heel and promptly froze at the sight of Purdue so close. He 
got his shivering under control by what must have been sheer force of will. In a 
voice barely a whisper Mulder announced, "I need some air. And some aspirin." 
Purdue allowed him to sidestep him, watching as Mulder stalked back out into the 
sun.

The men stood quiet a minute, waiting for some of the tension to dissipate from 
the air. 

"Sorry," Sauceda shook his head at the ASAC. "Not real bright on my part. I'll 
go find him." 

Harris managed to restrain himself until the pathologist was out the door. "And 
just what the hell," he hissed, "do you think you're playing at here, Reg? You 
had no business bringing that man in here, expecting him to work a crime scene, 
for Chrissake."

Purdue set his shoulders. "He was... agitated. I thought if he could see it with 
his own eyes, it would-- I don't know. Calm him down. Maybe."

"Oh, well yeah," the words were bitter. "I know this kinda thing just soothes 
the hell out of *my* nerves." Harris held up his hand against Purdue's protest. 
"Look, I don't pretend to know how Mulder works these things, okay? And I don't 
wanna know. But he's obviously in trouble. And apparently we're all just 
supposed to stand around and watch him fall apart?"

"I deny him access, he'll see it as failure--"

Harris shook his head. "You just don't get it do you?" Purdue blinked at him. 
"Look, you have problems getting the kid off this case, fine, I'll do it for 
you. I've got a profile. He's done good work on the other cases I handed over, 
I'll write him a nice commendation and you take his butt home."

"I can't just--"

"Murder's not a federal jurisdiction, Reg. He's off the case. Dammit, take him 
home."

Purdue closed the distance between them, his voice a painful hiss. "*You* don't 
get it, Nat. If I take him home, that's just where he goes-- home. And--"

"Shit-- Would you listen to yourself? If he's so damn bad you don't trust him to 
his own supervision, then get him in a hospital, Reg. What the hell's wrong with 
you?"

Purdue sighed, paced two steps away and turned. "Patterson's used the mental 
health system like a club. I swore I wouldn't do that to him--"

"Reg, If the kid needs help--"

"But Mulder doesn't see it that way. He *won't* see it that way. Don't you 
understand?"

"Yeah. I understand. I understand you've got a hell of a problem. Look. I'll 
give you a couple of days to make some kind of arrangements. But as far as I'm 
concerned, Mulder's off this case. Off any case in my jurisdiction. For his own 
sake." He shook his head. "Hell, take him back to Quantico and let him teach--"

"Patterson'll have him back in a heartbeat. The Bureau's not going to let that 
kind of talent stagnate sitting on his thumbs."

"Talk to Skinner, explain the circumstances." Harris's eyes narrowed. "Or is he 
still not returning calls? Christ." Harris shook his head. "Then God help him, 
Reg. Because you obviously can't."

"Like hell." 

Reg's face flushed red as he passed. Harris grabbed his arm.

"'She's been manipulated, lied to and controlled'" He quoted Mulder softly and 
waited for Purdue to look him in the eye. "God Almighty, Reg," he hissed. "Just 
who the hell is he *really* profiling now? The perp or himself?"

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

The officer that drove Mulder back to the motel reported that the young man was 
quiet during the trip and insisted that he was going to nap the rest of the day. 
Sauceda was skeptical but didn't bother to say so. He had an autopsy to do, 
after all, and Purdue surely knew the score well enough by now. 

Several hours into the dissection, however, Sauceda glanced up to find his 
partner watching through the window of the autopsy bay. Mulder hadn't even 
changed clothes, his hair as rumpled as his navy suit. The shades were gone, 
though. Mulder held an unopened can of soda in one hand; his forearm lay across 
the glass, forehead resting against it. His eyes were hollow, haunted. Sauceda 
smiled at him, Mulder didn't change expression but he at least seemed to take 
Sauceda's greeting as a kind of invitation. 

He entered quietly, nodding without actually looking Sauceda in the eye. The 
pathologist watched him swing himself up to sit on a cabinet across the room. 

Sauceda's mind was a whirl. Marty didn't often visit with him in morgues. In 
fact, Marty never visited with him in morgues. Marty occasionally popped round 
to spend time with a *corpse* he found particularly unsettling, but that was an 
entirely different thing. Sauceda shut his tape recorder off.

"Hey, kid."

"Hey." Mulder's voice was soft. He busied himself scanning the array of 
equipment on the cabinet beside him.

"You get some sleep?"

Mulder shook his head.

"Hell. Marty--"

"Kay called."

Sauceda swallowed. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So. So how is she?"

Mulder shrugged, still not looking at him. "I told here we're just in town a 
couple more days." Sauceda waited him out. "She wants to see me tonight."

Sauceda finally let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. He 
grinned. "See? Told ya."

Mulder stared down at his unopened can of soda. "I didn't mean to hurt her, 
Len."

"Shit, Marty, you didn't hurt her. Didn't she tell you? What? You didn't believe 
her?"

Mulder didn't answer.

"Marty--"

"I just don't remember!"

Sauceda sighed. "Look, don't get yourself agitated, kid. I just need to finish 
up here. Almost done, then we'll go get something to eat. I'll tell Purdue I 
picked you up at the motel. Okay?"

Mulder nodded.

Sauceda watched him a minute before turning on the recorder. He didn't really 
have much to add to his report, just a few general observations but he liked to 
keep the recorder on in case something occurred to him. He moved from the 
stainless-steel table containing Kress' yellowed body, to the scale hanging 
beside him. He scooped up the stomach and internal organs hanging there and 
patted them down into a clear plastic bag. 

Across the room, Mulder began rattling a bottle of pills. Bag in hand, Sauceda 
watched as the profiler dumped about five too many aspirin into his palm and 
popped the top on his soda can. Mulder was in the process of downing both when 
he noticed Sauceda's glare. 

Mulder shrugged an apology and choked down the tablets before the pathologist 
could protest. Sauceda scowled as Mulder leaned his long frame against the wall 
above the cabinet and blinked at him innocently. Sauceda sighed. Maybe by the 
time they were done here the aspirin will have finally convinced the young man 
that his body didn't hurt anymore; Sauceda just hoped Marty could manage the 
wait quietly. Mulder in the autopsy room always made him nervous. He'd just 
never bothered to figure out why.

Sauceda dropped the bag into the open cavity in Kress' abdomen and rolled the 
contents around a minute, trying to make them fit back in the hole he'd pulled 
them from. He laid the slab of ribs back on top, stepping back to judge his 
handiwork. A few adjustments and he finally returned to his discussion with the 
tape machine.

"Final conclusions: no defense wounds are present on the hands or arms. No blood 
traces or skin fragments under the fingernails. Victim died without struggle. 
Tox screens reveal no drugs present, minimal alcohol levels. Death resulted 
almost immediately from a .22 caliber gunshot wound entering posteriorly just 
below the aorta. Powder burns and residue indicate skin contact range. Victim 
has been gutted postmortem via a "V" incision beginning just below the nipples, 
ending at the bladder--"

"You know," Mulder lisped, ignoring Sauceda's flaming look and the gloved hand 
popped over the microphone. "When I was in university there was this guy in 
Suffolk. The constable found his body in a little patch of woods off the main 
road. He was just laying there, draped over a log, like he'd been sitting there 
and fell off and never got up."

Sauceda sighed impatiently. "So the guy fell off a log, bumped his head and 
died. Can I finish--"

"Nope." Mulder took another swig of his beverage, staring absently at the 
gurney. "Coroner found no evidence of cranial injury, no stroke, no aneurysm. No 
nothing. Just a perfectly healthy man sitting on a log for a week and a half."

Sauceda was squinting. "A week and a half? What? He just sat there 'til he 
died?"

Mulder's stare was intense, his voice far too reasonable. "Yep. Inquest ruled a 
suicide." 

Sauceda tried to fathom those eyes across the room. He had to swallow down the 
tension in his throat before he could speak. "What are you thinking about, 
Marty?" he demanded.

Mulder head shook almost imperceptibly. "Nothing."

"Well, stop thinking it," Sauceda growled.

Mulder blinked at him but didn't request clarification.

Sauceda swore heatedly before removing his hand from the mike. 

"The majority of the small intestine," he continued shakily, "has been excised 
along with the liver, gallbladder and ascending colon. Stomach and pancreas have 
been incised randomly but remain intact. Weight of the organs collected from the 
scene are consistent for an adult male of the victim's general build. No body 
parts or fragments thereof appear to be missing."

"All items present and accounted for," Mulder quipped. He'd waited for Len to 
switch the mike off but only just. He winked and took another swig of Sprite 
while Sauceda snapped off his gloves peevishly.

"You know, Marty, you're awfully smug considering you think this lady is so hot 
for your liver. And gall bladder."

"Let's not forget that ascending colon." Mulder's voice was tired. "She's not 
after me, Hot Sauce. She's just out to interest her new audience."

Sauceda removed his scrubs and moved to the sink, washing up carefully, giving 
the profiler time to inspect the body if he wanted. Mulder made no move to do 
so, however, apparently content with his post on the cabinet, staring vacantly 
at his soda can. 

Across the room, Sauceda bit his lip, watching the lanky form reflected in the 
stainless steel back splash of the sink. He didn't much like what he saw. The 
kid had managed to gain a few pounds since Seattle but they were a few too few 
to do him much good. Still, the past couple of days had been pretty quiet and 
the nights blissfully so until last night. Sauceda had begun to hope this Kay 
had been good for the kid, had even begun chiding himself for not hauling a 
woman in for Marty in Shreveport when they really needed help.

Sauceda dropped the thought and tapped on the window for a tech to remove the 
body. He hesitated a minute and then pulled a chair up to Mulder's counter.

"Look, Marty, I... I want to apologize for switching drugs on you last night--"

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head violently. "Don't. Don't do 
that. I don't want to think about that right now."

"But--"

"No, dammit. Look, you did what you thought you had to do, what you thought was 
best for me. Let's just leave it there." 

Sauceda could tell Mulder really wasn't feeling that generous, he probably just 
didn't have the snap to win an argument right now. And Marty didn't like to 
lose. Not to Sauceda, anyway. 

Mulder chewed his lip, considering his words. "I meant what I said this morning, 
Len. That's how I feel... But, hell, maybe you were right. I don't know. I 
can't-- Maybe."

"And maybe not," Sauceda conceded.

"Yeah. And maybe not."

Mulder's voice had been a little too bitter just then and they sat locked in 
silence by mutual agreement. Several minutes passed and Mulder began swinging 
his feet softly against the cabinet doors. Sauceda smiled. The kid just didn't 
do sitting very well.

"How are you, Marty? Really."

Mulder shrugged, staring at the wall. "I feel a lot better." 

Maybe it was true, but it was certainly relative. Sauceda didn't press it, 
though. He was watching the body being wheeled away, thinking about that 
incision.

"You heard the music, Marty--"

"Did I feel the knife? We're not discussing that either."

"Marty--"

"Screw you, Lenny," Mulder suggested wearily.

"But we never discuss this crap--"

"That's right. We don't discuss it and I don't keep winding up in shrink's 
offices for knowing too much." Mulder bit his lip again. "Shit."

Sauceda kept his voice soft. "Purdue wants to know how much of it you're not 
telling."

"Well, screw Purdue, too." Mulder took another swig of Sprite.

Sauceda rubbed the back of his neck. "Marty." There was no answer. "Marty. How 
come you told Kay not to tell me you were... sick?" 

"'Cause you'd have done just what you did. I don't like the drugs, Lenny. They 
do... stuff to my head." Mulder wasn't looking him in the eye anymore.

"You told her that I'd tell Patterson."

Mulder sat up straight, looked like he was considering fleeing. The knuckles 
were white around his soda can. "Is there a point to this, Len?"

Sauceda kept his tone gentle. "You were confused, weren't you? You didn't 
remember Patterson wasn't around anymore--"

Mulder's eyes were hollow. "I'm tired, Lenny. Just lemme alone. Okay?"

The admission and the plea had Sauceda blinking. Mulder's eyes were hollow, 
focused on the opposite wall. His jaw twitched convulsively.

"One question, Marty?"

No response.

The pathologist sighed. "So. How is it you can do this when the killer's a 
woman?" 

Mulder frowned and turned to look at him blankly. 

"You know," Sauceda nodded, "the spook stuff."

Mulder's laugh was humorless. "Jeez, Len, you're some piece of work. I don't 
even know what this crap is or where it comes from and you go getting your Latin 
machismo all in a wad because I'm tuning in with a woman. Hell, why can I tune 
in with men, for that matter?"

"Cause you are one. Same with the kids. You've been a kid."

Mulder shook his head, his voice sour. "You got it all figured out, partner, you 
explain it to me."

"It's just a question, Marty." Sauceda scrubbed at his face with both hands. 
"Hell, never mind."

Mulder's face was pinched. "I don't know," he said distantly, "maybe-- All 
vertebrae animals are essentially female, right? It just takes the addition of 
hormones at a critical stage to create the male. Of course, that would imply 
that this shit is locked in the genetic code..." He rolled his eyes and gave 
Sauceda a seductive wink. "Hey, maybe all that machismo of yours has just put me 
in touch with my feminine side."

"Sounds like this Sisyphus of yours missed a few doses of something when she 
plopped off the assembly line."

Mulder's voice was quiet again. "All the experts will tell you that in violence 
we forget who we are. She doesn't forget, Len. She finds."

Sauceda reached out and stilled the steadily drumming foot, leaving his hand 
resting on it. "Some of these wackos find their compulsion to kill fearful and 
bewildering. They want to be caught so they'll be stopped. Is that why she's 
focusing on you, Marty? Hoping you'll stop her?"

"She doesn't want to be stopped, Len. She wants to be appreciated."

Sauceda tugged gently at Mulder's shoe, asked softly, "So when does it get to be 
too much?"

"When she gets caught," Mulder shrugged. "Or when she says it's enough."

"No, Marty. I mean for you. When does it get to be to much for you?"

Mulder tried to smile, failed. "When I get caught," he said. "Or when I say it's 
enough."

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Part 13 of 27: Hostile Takeover

Sunday. May 15, 1988. 10:13 PM.

Mulder woke with a start. The lights were off-- it'd been daylight when he'd 
gotten back to the motel, sunlight streaming brightly through the window, so he 
hadn't bothered to switch on the overhead light. Now the security halogens from 
the parking lot filtered through the curtains, casting the room in an unearthly 
greenish glow. Mulder checked his watch and grimaced. Christ, where was Kay?

He rolled off the bed and made a frantic dive for the phone. No messages at the 
front desk. Mulder tried to tell himself he wasn't overly surprised. It didn't 
help though. The shattered feeling in his chest was just too much to ignore, 
somehow. He slammed down the receiver and promptly jerked it up again. His hands 
were shaking so hard it took three times to pound in the number for information; 
sorry, sir, that number is unlisted. 

Mulder banged the receiver down yet again, left his hand on it a minute, trying 
to determine if there was another source he could call. He had any number of 
contacts in the Bureau that could get him a phone number-- but instinct and 
common sense told him the last thing any woman would want is a man who would use 
his badge to violate her privacy. 

Hell, maybe she'd come by and just hadn't wanted to wake him.... Mulder made a 
quick search of the room but found no note. His frustration and disappointment 
were instant and intense, and directed entirely at himself. 

The room blurred without warning. He swore heatedly, clawing at his eyes. Tears, 
unbidden and unwelcome, came entirely too easily for him lately and he despised 
himself for it. It was another sign that he was losing control. Yeah, like he 
needed another sign. 

She didn't work Sundays as far as he knew but he was instinctively drawn to the 
window and its view of the diner. Chris' sat, squat and small in the shadow of 
the Wal-Mart, lights out, empty.

Mulder grimaced and dropped his head against the cool pane of window. Did you 
say you were disappointed, Fox? Hell, let's translate that to what you really 
mean: you're scared shitless, terrified she won't be back. You fucking jerk, 
you'd never even asked her for her phone number. Been so long since you've had a 
woman put up with you more than a few hours that you've forgotten all the little 
niceties, all the necessary protocols. Wonderful, Fox. Just great. That one 
little oversight probably told her volumes about your level of interest in what 
mattered to her--

He peeled off his jacket and the bed caught it with an unsatisfying thump. His 
tie was close behind. He ruffled his hair fitfully, crossing the room on 
instinct, eyes closed against the emptiness.

Hell, the least she needs is a break. You haven't exactly been making her life 
easier by being here. It'd serve you right if she left your butt flat out--

His pacing had brought him to the door. He yanked it open, stepped out. He 
peered into the darkness, this way, that way, looking for that familiar form to 
come dancing out of the dark, that soft, confident swing of hips, those creamy 
legs, that glorious smile. The longing was so intense, he even sniffed for her 
perfume; reality slammed home with the bitter fragrance of blacktop oil and gas 
fumes from the highway. 

There was a man downstairs near the motel office, kneeling at the ice machine 
with a Kentucky Fried Chicken bucket. In the dim light, Fox could read the 
stained T-shirt: "Don't even ask."

He grunted. "Don't worry. I won't." 

A car honking insistently across the parking lot brought Mulder back to himself. 
It was an unsettling awakening. He was back inside his room, door firmly shut, 
staring out the window at Chris'. He had no clear remembrance of his actions or 
how he'd gotten there, no idea how long he'd stood there this time. Fear kept 
him from looking at his watch. Best to know only that he was terribly tired and 
that his left arm was throbbing unmercifully. Then suddenly low-grade headache 
he'd had for weeks pulled a switchblade on the base of his skull. Mulder gasped 
as the combined pains escalated, slamming into his frontal lobe.

He found the bed without realizing he was even looking for it, collapsed in a 
writhing ball, just trying to remember how to breath, forcing oxygen to his 
brain, waiting for the episode to pass. It would pass. It would pass. It always 
passed... 

And at last it did, receding as abruptly as it had hit. He lay quite still for 
some time after, hesitant to move, fearful any motion on his part would invite a 
repeat performance. It was a full half hour before Mulder could convince himself 
to risk a few tentative, rational thoughts and he was careful to keep them 
simple, calm, stripped of any emotive quality. He never knew just what would 
trigger these events, after all. 

He made himself some more promises, without bothering to reason out just how he 
was going to pull them off. It's going to be all right, Fox. You're going to get 
yourself together and then you'll make it right in the morning. She'll call. 
You'll see, she'll call. Maybe her mom took sick, or... something. Maybe... 
maybe she'll let you make it all up to her. Hell, she's got to call, she's not 
the type to just walk off without at least telling you off. If she just calls, 
you can handle it from there. You can make it right. You're good at that. She'll 
listen. You know how to make her listen--

It was a convincing argument when he didn't bother himself with details, and 
Mulder found he was finally able to stretch out on the bed without the headache 
rising to more than the dull-drone level he'd grown accustomed to. Something 
slid across the mattress and bumped softly into his hand: the remote control.

He stared at it a moment, punching buttons blearily and solely on instinct. The 
television complied with the commands and Mulder curled to his side, propping 
his throbbing head on the pillow. He got the moisture blinked from his eyes and 
dried his face with his shirt sleeve, resolutely oblivious to either action as 
he struggled to concentrate on the channels fleeing across the screen in a rapid 
blur. 

Ah, the marvels of modern technology: forty-seven channels of nothing, 
twenty-four hours a day. He settled on HBO and "The Fly." It was the damned 
remake, Jeff Goldblum and Geena Davis, but Geena looked good enough to make even 
the gross-out scenes worthwhile. Hell, she could pull mutated hairs out of his 
bare back anytime.

The thought of small, soft hands running down his shoulders hit a bit too close 
to home, though, and Mulder jerked up guiltily. The movement sent the pain in 
his head escalating into the danger zone and he froze waiting for the inevitable 
neurological assault. The spasm retreated mercifully, however, back to normal 
levels. Mulder sighed gratefully-- carefully-- and switched the channel over to 
the safer haven of CNN.

The tones of "Larry King Live" followed him into the bathroom. Gary Hart was 
assuring Larry that he was running higher in the polls than George Bush. Larry 
didn't sound too convinced. Mulder drowned out the discussion with a twist of 
the shower control, allowing the water to heat up while he stripped off. 

Yeah, she'll call, he reassured himself, back to what really mattered in this 
election year. You've just got to pull yourself together, here, Fox. You're no 
good to her if you're falling apart...

He stepped under the warm, steady stream, closing his eyes against the torrent 
as it poured over his head. The simple motion triggered a wave of vertigo that 
tried to buckle his knees. Mulder held himself steady, hands flat against the 
tile, and somehow managed not to blackout. 

Christ. Where the hell was all this crap coming from, anyway? He'd slept most of 
the morning, spent the rest of the day fairly quietly: getting chauffeured from 
the crime scene, calling a taxi to haul him to the morgue. He'd kept lunch down, 
even if Lenny *did* have to threaten him with a mandatory physical to get him to 
eat it. He'd even managed to get out of eating dinner, although he'd probably 
have to listen to Sauceda bitch about it in the morning. Major annoyances had 
been kept to a minimum, though and, all things considered, it had been a fairly 
pleasant day as far as murder investigations go.

Mulder pushed away from the tile and back under the stream of the shower. The 
water congealed into steaming rivulets down his neck and shoulders, highlighting 
the tension in the muscles there. He flexed his arms carefully, trying to pull 
the pain loose, but the action only served to reveal further areas of tension. 
Hell. Muder had already taken to popping half a dozen aspirin every few hours, 
you'd think that would be enough to get rid of most any pain for a while anyway. 
You know, Fox, if you collect any more signs of stress, you're going to have to 
consider requesting a leave of absence, maybe even put yourself in for medical 
treatment--

Yeah, right. He'd tried that in Shreveport and they'd left him on the case, 
calling Baez in and scaring the shit out of him. Mulder had just one point in 
his favor in Shreveport: the results of his Rorschach tests were consistent with 
sanity. He grinned without joy: that must have broken Patterson's balls...

Mulder tore the paper off a fresh cake of soap, wrapped it in a wash cloth and 
began scrubbing himself down. The motions were automatic and vaguely comforting 
and his thoughts slipped into autopilot, flying where they willed. 

Lathering his chest and abdomen, Mulder thought about the latest victim: Officer 
Kress, gutted in his own motel room, his badge on the dresser.

Yeah. Right where you leave yours usually... Well. Is that the problem, Fox? You 
wondering when she'll come for you? When it'll be your guts being ripped out and 
plopped on the floor?

Mulder forced himself to think about it, brutalized his frontal lobe into 
analyzing the photos stored away in that filing cabinet of a mind, gauging his 
reactions clinically. There was no aching in his chest at the thought, though, 
no change in his heart rate. His balls hadn't taken a dive for his abdomen. 
Nothing he would label as fear.

Well, maybe *that* was the problem, then. After all, any rational man would be 
afraid. Because at some point, somewhere, Fox Mulder would be on this woman's 
list of things to do. He had lied to Purdue on that count. Well, not lied, 
really. He wasn't on the list yet after all. And he did intend to catch her 
ASAP--

The water was noticeably colder and he searched the washcloth suspiciously, 
flinging it at the far end of the tub when he found only a small sliver of soap 
remaining. He dove under the showerhead to rinse before the hot water failed 
entirely. "Shit, Fox," he hissed. Losing track of time, standing in the shower 
half the night-- What's wrong with you anyway? It's not like this is a sexual 
molestation case. Kress had been nude but it's not like there was any evidence 
of--

Kress had been the only victim nude. Mulder froze, evaluating the thought. The 
others had been partially undressed, the clothing pulled back for the benefit of 
the blade but Kress, Kress had been robbed of all dignity, his clothes flung in 
the corner, stained with blood and gun powder. 

And Kress looked like you, Fox. A couple inches shorter, maybe. A couple of 
pounds heavier. A little thicker through the chest... She's coming onto you, 
sir, being coy and seductive. What's that you'd said about her getting 'round to 
subtle later? Well, well, Fox. It's later than you think.

The thought soured in his stomach. And was disturbingly intriguing. Mulder 
grimaced, shutting the water off. Sauceda was right: he was becoming as twisted 
as the perps he hunted.

Mulder toweled himself dry, resisting the shiver that took him suddenly. 
Strange. He could swear he wasn't cold... 

He found his robe hanging on the back of the bathroom door and slipped it on. 
The trembling stopped abruptly. The terry fabric still smelled like Kay: Heaven 
Scent and Sassoon shampoo. He smiled, pulling the robe close as he climbed into 
the bed.

He would locate her in the morning, no more waiting for her to come to him. He 
was a Federal agent, after all, trained for manhunting. Besides, he'd heard that 
a certain amount of groveling was good for the soul...

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

Monday. May 16, 2:07 AM.

"Fox! Help me, Fox!"

"Samantha--!"

The sound of his own cry woke him even as he groped the darkness seeking 
Samantha, reaching out to calm his sister's fear.

He was alone. The fact had long ceased to amaze him-- he always woke from that 
dream alone. Always woke sweating and shaking with the pain of uncertain horror, 
and certain loss. He gulped air rapidly, struggling to reorient himself, to 
dismiss the dream, convince himself it didn't matter.  

But it did matter. His dreams of Sam had never involved blood before and he'd 
never woke from them with this kind of pain radiating through his chest and down 
both arms. Something was wrong. Something had to be wrong. 

Mulder'd had the same dream for so many years now that he could no longer recall 
if he'd even lived the events-- or if he'd simply dreamed the events so often-- 
so vividly-- that they had become reality to him. He was unwilling to decide 
upon the truth, however. If the dream was just a dream it was surely the 
reflection of impending madness. If it was a reflection of reality and the 
events were real-- 

Mulder never allowed himself to finish that thought. It was impossible. He 
didn't want to believe.

Mulder dropped back to the sheets and flung his arm over his face, shielding 
himself from the twilight of this room that was not his own, this empty bedroom 
that was too much like his own. He thought of the Sam in this dream: bathed in 
unearthly light, her gown glowing red, blood red and bleeding more even as she 
called for him. And he couldn't reach her. He could never reach her--

His chest constricted with the memory and he gagged, made it to the toilet only 
just in time. There were tiny streaks of blood in the bowl when he was done. He 
stared at the sight a long minute, his mind a whirl of too many thoughts. 
Without coming to any conscious conclusions, Mulder flushed the evidence away 
and moved to the sink to rinse his mouth. His own image stared out of the mirror 
at him, accusingly. There were dark rings under the eyes, a shadowing under the 
cheekbones that he hadn't noticed when he'd shaved yesterday. His irises had 
disappeared entirely, his pupils fully dilated even in the bright mirror lights.

What he needed most, he decided, was sleep. Even if just to fight the 
depression. Truthfully, he needed a lot of things, but right now he'd settle for 
sleep... Jeezus, if only Kay were here...

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

2:23 AM.

Sauceda opened his door blearily, and let Mulder in. He opened his mouth to ask, 
"You on your own tonight, Marty?" but closed it before the words formed. Mulder 
was fiercely private on some subjects. Besides, if Kay had been a no-show, there 
was no use embarrassing the kid. Or hurting him.

He settled for telling Mulder he looked like hell. Mulder thanked him, then just 
stood there, hesitantly. Sauceda frowned.

"We expecting another body in the morning, Marty?"

Mulder shook his head. "No, this is... It's personal." He said it quickly, his 
face closed and the pathologist didn't press it. No one got through the shield 
when it went up that tight and even at this ungodly hour, Sauceda knew better 
than to try.

Sauceda tucked his hands in his robe. Even in T-shirt and jeans, Mulder could 
manage to make him feel underdressed. "What can I do you for, then, kiddo?"

Mulder grimaced. "You got anymore of those sedatives Baez prescribed?"

Sauceda concentrated on keeping his breathing even. He knew how Marty felt about 
taking drugs of any kind. No way this was a simple request for him and Mulder 
refused to meet his eyes, suddenly interested in the weave of the carpet.

Sauceda tried to not make a big deal of locating the capsules in the bottom of 
his bag. He kept his conversation light and his expression neutral even when 
Mulder's hand shook when he held it out for the pill. Even when Mulder spilled 
the glass of water for the other hand shaking so hard.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

8:23 AM.

Mulder woke with James Wright echoing through his drugged fog:

"The moon drops one or two feathers into the field. The dark wheat listens. Be 
still. Now. There they are, the moon's young, trying Their wings. Between trees, 
a slender woman lifts up the lovely shadow Of her face, and now she steps into 
the air, now she is gone Wholly into the air. I stand alone by an elder tree, I 
do not dare breathe Or move. I listen. The wheat leans back toward its own 
darkness, And I lean toward mine."



He lay a long while, leaning back toward the darkness without really entering 
it, waiting for his head to clear, the fog to lift and the nausea to ease. He 
recalled vague dreams of Sam and blood. Something about Kay. And more blood. 
None of it was clear, though, just snatches of snapshots, blurred by the 
Secobarbital haze. He finally gave it up. And wished it would give him up.

The shower helped. At least the nausea had dissipated and he managed to get 
dressed without incident. That was important. Mulder was a master of 
presentation; it was the first rule of Faking It: look good and they invariably 
assumed you felt good, and then you avoided all those difficult questions...

 From habit, he crossed to the window while he knotted his tie. Kay wouldn't be 
 at work yet, of course, but he'd come to find the view oddly comforting anyway.

 He paused in mid-step. Odd. There was a bigger crowd than usual in front of 
 Chris'. A dozen police units. Harris' Ford. 

 The coroner's Buick.





Mulder didn't remember the numbed walk across the parking lot. Only knew that 
suddenly he was there, flashing his badge on instinct, reaching for the door 
with it's "Closed" sign. Most of the activity appeared to be centered behind the 
soda counter. 

Purdue blocked him before he was halfway across the room.

"Step back, Agent."

"No--" Mulder's voice was muffled in his own ears, as if traveling from a great 
distance; he studied the commotion over the ASAC's shoulder, the wisp of dark, 
blood crusted hair curling on the floor, just visible beyond the corner of the 
counter. Purdue was speaking but none of it registered. Nothing registered but 
that soft brunette tress...

Purdue raised his voice, trying to be heard above the roar in Mulder's head.

"Mulder, you're not coming in on this--"

The young man moved to push past and Purdue wrapped his arms around Mulder's 
chest and arms in a tackle posture and half-carried, half-dragged him back to 
the door. Mulder was too numb to struggle; he stared at the ASAC blankly and 
Purdue released him, still keeping himself resolutely between the profiler and 
the body behind the counter. Harris was there, too, suddenly, and took an uneasy 
stand behind Purdue.

"You're not getting in on this one, Mulder. That's an order." Purdue's voice 
softened, his eyes dark. "I'll give you a report later, son." He licked his 
lips. "Come on. Let's step outside."

"No." The word sounded too weak and ineffectual to adequately convey much, but 
right now, it was the only word Mulder found he knew.

Sauceda's eyes over the counter were large and round and pained. Sauceda turned 
away guiltily from his partner's gaze.

Purdue had a solid grip on Mulder's right arm. "Outside," he insisted softly.

Mulder didn't resist; he simply didn't move, didn't allow himself to be moved. 
*No. No. No. No--*

"Don't do this to yourself, Mulder," Purdue whispered at his ear. "Let us handle 
it. It's too close, son. Let's step outside."

Sauceda was suddenly close at hand now, taking his other arm. "This what you saw 
last night, Marty? When you asked for the pill?"

Mulder muttered something, he didn't know what. Something about being too close 
to see... He closed his eyes, searched his short-term memory for some snatch of 
the dream. The blood. Sam. But Sam hadn't bled when they'd stolen her away from 
him. Kay did though. Beautiful Kay with the smiling eyes. 

He realized he was still speaking, couldn't comprehend his words, couldn't 
snatch them back. He forced himself to open his eyes, forced himself to focus, 
bit his tongue until he drew blood and used the pain and salty anger to bring 
his mind forward. He owed it to Kay.

*Sweet God. Kay.*

"Where is it?" His voice was harsh, vision boring into Sauceda, the weaker of 
the two links which held him. Purdue swore as Sauceda handed him the sheet of 
paper, tagged within its baggie. Mulder took it and read.

It was John Ashbery. From the book laying beside his bed a parking lot away...

"...you forget the direction you're taking. Suddenly you are interested in some 
new thing And can't tell how you got here. Then there is confusion Even out of 
happiness, like smoke-- It's anybody's story, A sentimental journey--'gonna take 
a sentimental journey,' And we do, but you wake up under the table of a dream: 
You are that dream, and it is the seventh layer of you. We haven't moved an inch 
and everything has changed."



Mulder heard a soft voice: "See you tonight?" Heard his own voice: "It's a 
date." He felt Sauceda watching him. Purdue, watching him. Harris. But they were 
so far away. And Sisyphus was so close, so stiflingly close. He forced himself 
to breathe. In. Out. Again. The room was very dark suddenly and there was a rush 
of movement, then searing light.

He blinked, realized he was outside now. And the hands on his arms were holding 
him up. He tried to help them, managed a good imitation of a man standing, 
confident he could maintain it if no one let go.

The motel stared at him across the parking lot, cheap and gritty in the morning 
sun. Someone's horn was broke at the Wal-Mart. There was a tight pain in his 
left arm that had nothing to do with Sauceda's grip.

"It's to you, isn't it?"

Mulder took a moment to register the question, took another to seek out the 
questioner. Purdue's face was masked; Mulder didn't bother to nod. The ASAC 
spoke across his chest to the pathologist.

"Get him back to the motel and keep him there."

"No--" Mulder heard the moan, didn't recognize his own voice.

Purdue swung back to him, his face cold and the young man flinched 
involuntarily. The eyes regarding him gentled and Mulder's stomach turned. He 
tried to freeze his face into SOB mode, tried to find some way to blow Purdue 
off. He tried desperately to think of something, anything to prove he wasn't 
worth the pity, to force a distance between himself and all approaches. There 
had to be some way to convince these men that he could handle the unimaginable 
horror behind the counter, that he could touch just once more the pale, soft 
arms that had held him just the morning before--

He could think of nothing. Only one word would come and he cringed as he said 
it. 

"Please."

Purdue pushed Sauceda away, took both Mulder's arms, squeezing them, trying to 
draw him back to conscious recognition of his words.

"Mulder. You cannot be objective on this one. You know that. You need distance 
to operate--"

"There's never been any distance," Mulder whispered, closing his eyes against 
the intensity of Purdue's face, against the morning sun reflecting off the Buick 
beside him. "There's never been any distance. Not on any of them. From the first 
one, the first set of photos, they're walking around in my head. All of them. 
Every case--"

"Dammit, Mulder, look at me." 

Mulder obeyed. 

"The killer's gone after someone you know," Purdue hissed. "Left you a note. 
It's personal. She want's your attention--"

"She's got it," he hissed. He struggled resentfully against the arms that held 
him, and Purdue spun him around and slammed him back against the Buick.

"What happens the next time she thinks she's not got enough of your attention?" 
Purdue demanded. "Who's next on her list, Mulder? Sauceda? Me? Goddamit, think! 
I need you rational right now." He shook his head mournfully. "*You* need you 
rational right now."

Mulder stopped struggling and Purdue pushed verbally while he still held some 
leverage. "Listen to me, Mulder. Maybe she decides she wants all of it and you 
open your door to a pretty little thing with a .22 in her purse. Now that may be 
okay with you, but I'm not letting you off the payroll that easily. You're going 
back to the motel and you're going to pack your butt back to Washington. Today. 
Right now."

Harris' voice behind him was a point of calm in the maelstrom: "I'll assign a 
guard detail till he's on the plane."

And just like that. Mulder finally comprehended: they weren't going to let him 
see her. Not even a glimpse around the counter.

She lay on the floor where she'd stood on tiptoe to kiss him. And they wouldn't 
even let him see her.

He felt a door close inside his soul. A light went out, something precious shut 
away forever. And he was left with only with the eclipse as his life passed into 
sudden total darkness.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX 

Part 14 of 27: Long Day's Journey into Nightmare

Monday. May 16, 1988, 11:22 AM. 

Mulder only vaguely comprehended the drive to the airport. He remembered coming 
to and finding himself back on his bed at the motel, his suitcase lying next to 
him, Lenny on the phone. Since then, Mulder had been functioning solely on 
automatic: Lenny told him to sit and he sat; Lenny told him to walk, and he put 
one foot before the other, repeating the process dully until told otherwise. 

The ease with which he fell into this arrangement surprised him. All his life 
Mulder had suffered from an unfounded paranoia, the deep-seated sensation that 
he was being maneuvered, controlled somehow. Absurd as it was, he'd never been 
able to shake it and finally came to credit this fear to either some kind of 
chemical imbalance or-- worse-- an inherent tendency to madness. He raged 
against it, this certainty that things were not what they seemed and the equal 
certainty that such anxieties had no basis in reality. But because of it, he had 
rarely followed easily. 

He was finding this new procedure, however-- Lenny's monosyllabic commands, his 
own ready compliance-- rather intriguing. The set-up required little thought and 
no emotional response whatsoever. Still, he couldn't help but feel vaguely 
uncomfortable, like a man driving into a darkened tunnel and hearing the distant 
whistle of a train. Only, just now, it wouldn't have occurred to him to turn 
around.

Besides, through his window in the back of the Chevy, there was no visible 
tunnel. Instead, Wheeling and its environs sped past, a blur of channels with no 
personal significance, demanding no response, evoking none. Even the voices of 
Purdue and Sauceda, bickering in the front seat, were muffled as if traveling to 
him through a great depth of water. It reminded him of his childhood: his 
parents' constant conflicts muted and distorted by walls, doors, and his own 
adolescent innocence. Except now, the emotional trauma was blissfully absent.

Mulder's upper arm throbbed petulantly and he rubbed at it, finding the telltale 
knot left by one of Sauceda's less diplomatic needles. Mulder didn't remember 
the injection nor did he much care. He just knew he didn't hurt anymore; this 
was surely a marvelous enough thing and Hot Sauce could be forgiven his small 
treasons. 

The images out the window slowed and then turned, focusing suddenly on the 
Wheeling-Ohio County Airport which had greeted him just-- was it only a week 
ago? Lenny was speaking again, tugging at his arm from the open car door. Mulder 
obliged, grateful that Lenny was there to help him keep things straight, there 
to help him out of the car. It was good to have friends. Mulder spoke the words 
aloud. Sauceda blinked at him like it was the revelation of angels.

Purdue escorted them into the complex, waiting with Mulder while Sauceda 
disappeared to tend to luggage and whatnot. He kept asking questions Mulder 
couldn't quite comprehend; the roar in his head had apparently deafened him to 
all but the simplest sentences. Still, it seemed important that he answer, so 
each time Purdue paused, Mulder shook his head or nodded. Either action was 
entirely random, but at least he had a fifty-percent chance of being right. And 
he must have done pretty well because after a bit, Purdue patted a fresh pack of 
cigarettes into his jacket pocket and told him everything was going to be okay 
now. Mulder was relieved to hear it.

Sauceda was back and it was time to walk some more. Purdue led them through the 
terminal, flashing badges and such. Mulder presented his badge, discreetly 
revealing the weapon on his hip to the gate attendant, behavior as routine now 
as tying his shoes. This time he must have screwed up the procedure, however; 
Sauceda and Purdue were back hissing at one another almost immediately. Mulder's 
forlorn look silenced them both. Lenny sighed and told him to get the hell on 
the plane. 

They were taxi-ing down the runway before Mulder realized that Purdue hadn't 
joined them. Sauceda didn't volunteer any explanations and, comfortable in his 
reclined seat, Mulder didn't inquire. The window beside him was misted with 
rain, the view outside dispassionate as a Monet landscape, color bleeding into 
color with few distinct lines. Between Sauceda's uncharacteristic silence, the 
patter of rain and resonate hum of engines, Mulder finally relinquished control, 
content at last to surrender to oblivion. 

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

They were circling Dulles when he woke. By that point Mulder was no longer 
stoned but he sat quietly, his lids heavy and half-closed as the announcements 
of final approach echoed from the intercom. Sauceda wasn't fooled by the dazed 
look, however, and commenced his usual chatter. He'd made plans, he said, and 
Mulder would be spending the night at *his* place and, my, wouldn't Imelda be 
excited. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. 

Mulder didn't respond, busy weighing his options. Sauceda could be a cagey old 
cuss when he wanted: overt resistance would have him force-feeding Mulder Valium 
and hauling him home to Georgetown despite all protest. Sauceda'd pulled that 
trick before, after all-- in Newark, the first time Patterson had employed the 
drugs against him. All Sauceda needed was for Mulder to make a scene: he'd flash 
his badge, declare "psychotic episode" and airport security would be on Mulder 
in a heartbeat. Sauceda'd probably prepared the syringe before they left 
Wheeling. Mulder had no delusions about his position-- or his partner's 
determination on some subjects. 

Sauceda's reflection in the window was watching him now, frowning. After a 
minute, Sauceda leaned across him, fumbling for Mulder's seat restraint. "Here, 
kid, let's get you buckled in, 'kay?"

Mulder pushed him back, his voice mild. "Not in public, Len, people will talk." 
He struggled to sit upright and tried working the buckle himself. His fingers 
were numb, though, and it took a few tries to get it right.

Sauceda smiled uncertainly. "So. How you feeling, Marty? You sleep okay?"

"I had a choice?" 

"Now, Marty--"

"Look, Len. We're not doing this, okay?" Mulder's voice was as diplomatic and 
reasonable as he could make it, "I'm going home. I haven't been there in a week. 
I'm tired, I'm fed up and I just need some time to myself. And that's it."

He could have saved his breath, Sauceda was not taking *no* for an answer and 
Mulder's calculated silence had him swearing brutally in no time. When Mulder 
bothered to respond, he kept his tone calm and disinterested, infuriating 
Sauceda even more-- which, of course, was the whole point. Lenny was tired and 
Mulder knew he shouldn't be doing this but what could he say? Sometimes 
self-preservation was a bitch. 

Several minutes into Sauceda's diatribe, a wide-eyed flight attendant was sent 
to Mulder's rescue. She insisted Sauceda calm down for the sake of the other 
passengers and to watch his language. Still, Lenny wasn't having it. Mulder, the 
obstinate catalyst for all this commotion, smiled languidly from his window 
seat, genuinely appreciative. The woman's answering smile said that surely this 
is the gentlest of men, born innocent of both violence and original sin. She 
glared at Sauceda and made her way to the forward cabin with the air of a woman 
with something to report. 

Sauceda caught on at last and let loose with another string of profanity. He 
kept his voice down this time, though, regaining his composure as he jerked his 
seat belt tighter. He had to get his hands busy doing something, apparently. 
Anything to keep from knocking the shit out of his partner and getting himself 
arrested. 

"You *are* going home with me, you little piss-ant punk," he hissed. "And you 
damned well better *like* it, too."

Mulder didn't answer.

"Goddammit, you are. And that's final. You're in no condition--"

"I'm fine, Len. Real--"

Sauceda twisted in his seat. "God is my witness, one of these days, someone's 
gonna 'I'm-fine-really' you to death and I'm gonna be laughing my ass off." He 
looked like he wanted to spit, both hands clenched tight into his armrests. 
"You're not 'fine-really.' Mentally and emotionally you're about *this* far from 
loony-tune land, and you know it, you little shit."

"I damned well *am* fine. Or I will be as soon as I get home and out from under 
your goddam thumb." Mulder gritted his teeth, careful to maintain his veneer of 
composure. "You know, you seem to keep forgetting that *I'm* the psychologist in 
this team." 

"Uh huh," Sauceda glared doggedly. "And that means what, exactly? That you can 
explain why psychologists have one of the highest suicide rates in America?"

"Is that why you're hauling ass back to DC with me, instead of doing your 
fucking job and working up an autopsy?" Mulder's voice shook ominously and he 
turned away again to the window, deliberately shutting his mind away from images 
of bodies and blood and that brunette tress... 

It took a few minutes to steady the erratic hammering in his chest; he finally 
became aware of a light pressure on his arm. He looked down to find Sauceda's 
hand, comforting, reassuring, curled around his wrist. He flinched it off. 

"Of course," he mused soberly, "you shared that bit of dubious statistical 
trivia with Purdue?" 

"Damned straight I did."

Sauceda was blinking rapidly. Mulder couldn't determine if the grimace on the 
man's face was triumph or pain. It didn't much matter, he supposed. Mulder's 
emotional armor still held; as long as he could keep it that way, he'd win. And 
for some reason, he desperately needed a win right now. 

"It's not happening, Lenny," he assured coolly. "I'm not going home with you. 
End of discussion."

Sauceda glowered. He looked desperate, his cheeks flushed with mental effort. 
"The hell you're not," he growled finally. "I have a gun, you know."

The threat brought Mulder up short for all of three seconds. "So have I," he 
noted slowly. "Is that what you and Purdue were arguing about at the airport?"

Sauceda blanched, his hostility draining away with his color. "I stood up for 
you, Marty. I didn't let him pull your gun or your badge. You owe me." 

"I'll send you an FTD bouquet." 

Sauceda flinched like he'd been slapped. Mulder turned away, completely unable 
to look him in the eye suddenly. 

"Ah, come on, Marty," Sauceda moaned his despair, "I called Imelda hours ago, 
she's expecting you." He rubbed his face wearily when Mulder failed to respond. 
"She's gonna be *real* disappointed if you don't show--"

They disembarked with Mulder enduring a barrage of emotional blackmail. Sauceda, 
however, found himself playing a one-sided game of tug of war-- with Mulder 
flatly refusing to pick up his end of the rope. Caught up in the details of 
luggage retrieval and the navigation of crowded terminals, Lenny finally calmed 
a bit. Mulder warily agreed to share a cab but he had no illusions that the 
truce was anything but temporary.

Sauceda insisted that the driver start the car while the two men loaded their 
own luggage. Nothing unusual for the penny-pinching pathologist-- keeping the 
tip to a minimum was Sauceda's credo. But when Lenny tossed his once precious 
suitcase into the trunk and sprinted for the backseat like a man fleeing a fire, 
Mulder shook his head wearily. He plopped into his seat in time to catch the 
tail end of Sauceda's bargain: a twenty-dollar tip if the driver drove straight 
to Lenny's home and refused to drive his partner any further. 

Sauceda smiled up at him innocently-- until Mulder waved a fifty over the seat. 
The driver's grin couldn't have gotten much bigger-- just his luck to have 
picked up two extravagant loons. Sauceda pushed himself into his corner to sulk. 
Mulder didn't bother to interrupt him.

In the silence of the drive Mulder found himself shuffling through the same 
aimless ramblings he'd been meditating on for months now: the unnecessary 
savagery of life, the treacherous nature of sanity. Bandaged fist pressed to his 
mouth, elbow on the door, he wondered why he didn't simply give this all up, 
just surrender and walk away. He'd thought about it often enough and God knew no 
one would care. And the problem was, no one *would* care. The only person Mulder 
would have walked away for was three hundred miles away now, lying on a 
stainless steel tray. 

Mulder dropped his head against the window. Christ Almighty. He didn't want to 
think about Kay like that, cold as ice, probed and prodded by the gloved hands 
of strangers. At least if Sauceda had stayed, it would-- 

No. He shook his head rapidly, rolling his forehead against the glass. Lenny or 
a stranger. It made no difference. Not for her. Not for him. Nothing would ever 
be the same again. Nothing would ever be right. Mulder wished they'd at least 
let him see the histamine test-- he'd know then if she suffered or if her death 
had at least been quick--

He marveled that his mind could even form such thoughts without his heart 
exploding. There was a pressure in his chest, certainly, a sensation of a fist 
tightening around the cardiac muscle. But otherwise a great emptiness pervaded 
his being. Even his weariness was distant, like a coat borrowed from a stranger, 
held out of courtesy until called for. Emotionally, he was a wasteland: a barren 
sea of ash, the benign face of a dormant volcano. Mount Saint Helens came to 
mind.

In the quiet of the car, with Sauceda notably mute, Mulder searched for some 
remnant of the pain that had threatened to erupt and engulf him on the plane. 
This, however, had bubbled quietly back below the surface as well, and there was 
no way he could blame it on the pharmacokinetics of Valium. The psychologist in 
him knew that he should find this oppressive numbness disturbing, another 
symptom of depression to add to his formidable collection, but he just couldn't 
manage to care. 

Beside him, Sauceda's voice was solemn. "Whatcha thinkin' about, Marty?"

Mulder shook his head. "Nothing."

"No, kid. Seriously."

"Seriously, Len. I'm thinking about Nothing."

Sauceda let it go and Mulder was granted a few more miles of silence. 

"Marty?"

"Yeah, Len."

"How about you just have supper with us? You gotta eat, you know."

"I'm not hungry, Len."

"But--"

"And if I go and don't eat, Imelda'll get all hurt about it and I don't want 
that, either."

"That's okay, Marty, she'll understand--"

"No!" Mulder scrubbed at his face wearily. "Hell, Len, I just want to sleep in 
my own bed. That's all." He forced himself to look his partner in the eye. "If I 
get in any trouble, or if I feel the need to talk, I'll call. I owe you, 
remember? Len, I swear, I'm not going to do anything to myself."

It took a long minute for Sauceda to nod and he chewed his lip as he did so. It 
obviously wasn't okay. Mulder resigned himself to being granted two or three 
hours to himself, four at the outside, before Sauceda showed up at his doorstep, 
ready to spend the night. Sauceda said nothing further, though, and seemed 
almost grateful when the cab finally stopped to let him out. Mulder couldn't 
blame him. Sauceda was a good old man. Most days he deserved a hell of a lot 
better than Marty Mulder. 

Sauceda turned before closing his door, bending low to peer back into the car, 
trying to see Mulder clearly. The profiler sighed, steeling himself for the last 
of the argument. Considering the outcome was already determined, he could afford 
to be patient.

Over Sauceda's shoulder, he could see Imelda, raven-haired, exquisite even at 
sixty, standing on the stoop of the porch. She waved at him-- a sincere, 
welcoming gesture extended to a near stranger, a man who went out of his way to 
give her husband so much hell. Her smile was genuine and Mulder felt his heart 
clinch against the glow in her eyes, the joy, the unaccountable willingness to 
give even a small part of herself away for the sake of her husband. God in 
heaven. To have found a woman like that, with a smile like that-- A woman to 
spend your life with, to grow old with. To-- 

Mulder choked down bile. Surely God was the source of all evil, to put such 
glorious beings in the world and then snatch them away with savage hands--

Imelda's smile turned uncertain, apparently discerning Mulder's distress even 
with the distance across the yard. He managed a grimace and about half a wave 
before retreating to his corner, eyes resolutely forward, too full of moisture 
to even see out the windshield. He felt Sauceda shifting uneasily. 

"Marty, are you sure--"

"Christ, Len--" Mulder moaned, then caught himself, trying for a softer tone, 
still not looking directly at his partner. "Go on, Hot Sauce, enjoy your 
family." He shrugged. "I-- just need some time to myself right now. And hey, 
I'll see you in the morning, right?"

He felt the older man lean into the car a few more inches, peering at him. 
"You'll come over for breakfast then?"

God, he was tired of talking, why did Lenny insist that he keep talking-- "No, 
Len, I'll see you at the office--"

"Uhuh, kid. No office." 

Mulder turned. Sauceda was frowning intently. 

"Purdue's put you on five days mandatory leave of absence." Mulder opened his 
mouth and Sauceda cut him short. "It's not negotiable, Marty. It's already been 
filed. He faxed it to Skinner this morning." Sauceda's voice softened uneasily. 
"You want time, kid, he's giving it to you."

Mulder blinked, considering the cast of his partner's eye. Sauceda held his gaze 
with an effort, that much was obvious, but he didn't look away.

Mulder responded at last, his voice quiet. "You want my gun, Len?"

Sauceda gulped too much oxygen with the question; he recovered well though, eyes 
still level and Mulder could almost see the gears turning behind them. Sauceda's 
fist clenched and unclenched nervously, anxious, obviously, to claim the cold 
metal of the Sig. He was a long time reaching his decision, every tormented 
thought etched across his face. Finally, he shoved his hand in his pocket.

"No, Marty," he nodded even as he choked on the words. "I don't need to take it. 
I know that."

Mulder clamped his jaw tight and turned away to his window. His own decision 
took brief seconds. When he turned back, Sauceda was looking over his shoulder 
mouthing some silent comfort to Imelda. Mulder pulled his weapon.

"Len?"

"Yeah, kid--" Sauceda leaned back in then froze at the sight of the Sig, 
magazine ejected, laying benignly in the young man's palm.

"Here," Mulder said simply, possibly the most difficult word he'd formed in 
months.

Sauceda's chin trembled. His knees didn't look too stable either. He leaned 
farther in to the car but made no move to receive the weapon. "No, Marty, I--"

"Yes." Mulder bobbed his hand to emphasize the gift upon it. "I want you to have 
it, Len." He actually managed a shrug. "If nothing else, it'll keep Purdue off 
your ass."

Sauceda waited a long minute and Mulder endured his penetrating gaze stoically. 
The pathologist's hand trembled when he finally reached for the weapon. He 
wrapped his fingers around it, letting the fingertips pass gently over Mulder's 
palm as he did so. The stroke conveyed comfort, trust-- regret. Mulder pulled 
away, wincing regrets of his own as he shoved his hand to his chest, wrapping it 
in the warmth of his jacket. His fingers were numb, as cold as the metal they 
had surrendered.

"I'll just hold it for you, Marty," Sauceda whispered, then cleared his throat 
and tried for a more flippant tone. "You just let me know when you want it, 
okay? Just let me know. 'Cause, I ain't gonna break my back toting an arsenal 
for the both of us, you know?"

Mulder nodded but kept his eyes resolutely forward. He had no energy left for 
the conversation, no witty comebacks, no further reassurances to offer. 

Sauceda's door was a long time in closing, but even then Mulder didn't shift 
position, didn't break the tightly controlled rhythm of his breathing. He was 
too busy concentrating as the cab pulled away. It took everything he had not to 
look back, not to turn his head and watch the happy reunion on the porch as it 
receded silently in the distance beyond his tunnel.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

4:14 PM. 2630 Hegal Place, Alexandria, VA.

The driver misunderstood his directions and let Mulder out on the curb at the 
back of his building. Mulder collected his bag and paid the fare without 
comment. 

The walk in took him across the parking lot. His red Monte Carlo, sporting a 
fine coat of dust, was still in its space next to the trash dumpster, none the 
worse for the down time, apparently. Mulder would have to remember to run it a 
while, keep the battery charged. Maybe he'd just take the time off without 
bitching about it this time, take a real vacation and drive up the coast, visit 
with his dad. He had friends in Boston he hadn't seen in a while, too. It would 
do him good to get out, go away to someplace where no one knew what he did and 
know one would question how he felt. Live like a normal human being again. 
Mulder speculated on the idea without actually imagining himself doing it, 
though; he just had no heart left for life. Sauceda had taken it all away when 
he'd laid the sheet across Kay's face--

Mulder gasped at the sudden roar in his chest, the sickening kicked-in-the-balls 
agony that echoed through his larynx and squeezed off his air supply. He 
stumbled, slammed into the side of the trash bin, managing to knock the rest of 
his breath out in the process.

His vision pulsed white hot, nausea burning from his lower intestines to his 
sinus cavities but he held quite still, waiting it all out, gulping air, 
clinging to the dumpster until his legs were reasonably stable. His headache was 
back with a vengeance but this time it seemed focused rather oddly around his 
right eye. A second's not-so-gentle probing located the source: an inch-long cut 
along his right cheek that was bleeding with comic ferocity. Still, the roaring 
in his chest had subsided to a dull ache and his hearing seemed to have been 
restored-- that's when he heard the muffled squeak.

It was accompanied by a frantic scratching-- and coming from the dumpster. 
Mulder held his breath a moment, fingers still unconsciously palpitating his 
cheekbone. Able to resist any temptation but curiosity, he took a quick look 
around. That would be all he'd need, after all: his neighbors reporting him to 
the super as some kind of pervert with a trash fetish. The coast clear, he poked 
his head over the lip of the trash bin.

Nothing. The squeaking and scratching had abated as well. Well, hell. Mulder 
reached in, tugging gingerly at bits of debris and the unseen creature exploded 
with a squeal of terror. Mulder jumped back, heart pounding but neither the 
squealing nor the scratching subsided this time. He chanced a second look sans 
hands. 

It was a kitten. Scrambling free of the trash, it was old enough to have both 
eyes and ears open but probably wasn't fully weaned yet, so filthy little else 
could be distinguished except that its eyes were piercing green. Those eyes 
stared wildly into Mulder's own, a flurry of filthy fuzz and gaping maw 
squealing like his life depended on it.

The little guy was right, Mulder admitted. It probably did. Hell, this was just 
great. What was he going to do with a cat? He didn't want the damned thing. 
Still, it wasn't like he could leave it here to die, either. Mulder swore-- and 
reached dutifully into the bin, wriggling welcoming fingers toward the mewling 
mass of fur.

"Here, kitty-kitty," he sang softly. "Come home with me and I'll take good care 
of you, okay?" That sounded suspiciously like a line he'd used in a bar once. 
Come to think of it, it had worked, too.

And it was working again: the kitten didn't resist. In fact, it dug its claws 
into the arm of Mulder's jacket and clung for dear life. Mulder winced, trying 
to disentangle himself and avoid further injury for either of them. The little 
fellow was a fighter and Mulder had no sooner gotten the kitten loose from one 
arm than he had a repeat performance on the other one.

"Great. Now I know why you were in the dumpster, you little--"

Disentangling himself, Mulder deposited the squirming body into the side pocket 
of his luggage and closed the flap over it. The insistent mewling and his 
battered face earned him a few suspicious looks as he made his way down the hall 
and slipped into the elevator. He let out a grateful sigh when he finally 
reached his door.

The phone was ringing before he got his key in the lock. Mulder took his time, 
though, carefully settling the bag on the couch before answering.

"Yes, Lenny, I'm home, now," he informed the receiver.

Sauceda's laugh was full of forced pleasantry, his voice pitched a little higher 
than normal.

"Hey, Marty!"

Mulder sighed. "Hey." 

Another pause. Mulder filled it by grabbing a tissue from the box beside the 
phone and dabbing blood from his cheek.

Sauceda tried again. "Hey, kid, look, we've got a great spread over here. 
Imelda's made chicken enchiladas just like you like 'em: lotsa cheese--"

"Purdue's already on your case, isn't he?"

"Ah. Quesadillas, too. With extra sour cream and pico de gallo. Extra hot."

"Listen, Len. Did he e-mail you the autopsy report yet?"

"Friggin' hell, Marty--" Sauceda's voice was a seething hiss and then bright 
again as he called out some excuse to Imelda. Mulder listened to the rattle 
through the receiver as the older man jerked the phone into a more private 
location. "What the hell's wrong with you?" Sauceda must not have gotten very 
far, he was still trying to keep his voice down.

"I have to know, Len."

Sauceda swore heatedly. "You don't need to know jack, you little prick. Look, 
I'm coming over there to get you and I'm not listening to any more of your flack 
about it."

"Will you show me the report?"

"Show you the--" Sauceda lapsed into a sudden litany of Spanish. It was melodic 
and rapid-fire, satisfying to the ear as only flagrant profanity can be in a 
foreign tongue. "I swear to God, Marty. I freakin' swear to God, I'm calling 
Skinner myself and I'm having you committed. Do you hear me? Do--?"

"Do it, then."

"What?"

"I said fucking do it. And the first time I get the chance I'm biting my fucking 
wrists out--"

"Look, Mart--"

"I just asked you a question. That's all. And I'm sick of the goddam threats--"

"Christ, Marty, I--" Sauceda's voice was a high pitched squeal.

Mulder's was ominously calm. "All I want is the work-up on the blood chemistry, 
Len. That's it. I won't ask for the rest."

Sauceda was panting heavily. "I-- Marty, I can't do it. I'm sorry, kid. Purdue 
said--"

Mulder gulped air. "She was alive, wasn't she? Jesus Christ, she was alive when 
she--"

Mulder's voice was steady enough but his knees refused to hold him upright any 
longer. He slid to the floor quietly, wedged between the coffee table and the 
couch, the rattle of the table too gentle for Sauceda to hear. 

She'd been alive. He knew it. He'd always known it. Sisyphus had found her but 
hadn't killed her immediately, just knocked her unconscious and began her work. 
Mulder had profiled the Baytown case where drawing and quartering had been the 
modus operandi. He was well versed in the procedure: with even minimal skill, a 
human could be flayed, colon deposited on the floor to one side of the body, 
stomach and kidneys removed to the other side. Done right, it could take hours 
for a victim to die. Kay would have been conscious near the end, in too much 
pain to move, too much pain to scream. And she would have been grateful for 
death when it came--

Mulder's grief suddenly was too deep for words, it rendered him motionless, 
almost unaware of feeling at all, his mind numbed by the truth. Lenny's voice 
filtered through to him, urgent, frantic. Mulder didn't trust his voice, though, 
couldn't get his hands to stop shaking. He forced himself to concentrate, to 
feel the warm reality of the couch against his back, the rug wrinkled beneath 
him, the unyielding solidity of the coffee table where he'd rested his forehead. 
He took one deep breath and sat up.

"Lenny?" The calm in Mulder's voice surprised even him. "Lenny, tell Imelda that 
I appreciate all the trouble she went through, okay? I'll make it up to her, I 
promise. I just don't want her worrying about me. You know I don't look so hot. 
I haven't been eating right and--"

"Marty, are you okay?"

"I've got to have some time, Len. Just give me that much, okay? Then I'll be 
okay again. You know I will. And I promise. You know I don't break my promises."

Sauceda's sigh came through the line with the intensity of a North Atlantic 
squall. "I don't like the idea of you being alone, kid--"

There was a tearful cry from the other end of the couch. One fuzzy kitten paw 
had liberated itself from the bag and was clawing air. Mulder's jaw worked 
silently for about two seconds, busy on a new thought. "I'm, uhm. I'm not alone, 
Lenny. I've invited a friend over."

Sauceda's voice was suddenly and pathetically relieved. "Yeah? Well, hell, 
Marty, why didn't you say so. Anybody I know?"

"Nah. Ah. Just somebody who lives in the building."

Sauceda gushed his delight and then, dammit, he wanted facts: a name, a brief 
social history.

"How about I just fax over some prints for you?" 

"Jeez, Marty, I didn't mean to--"

Sauceda droned on. The clawing was starting to look desperate. Mulder frowned; 
it was quite likely his new "friend" was struggling for oxygen by this point. 
Mulder began talking faster now, walking on his knees to reach the bag. "What? 
Yeah, call me later, 'kay, Len? Yeah, well, we might step out for dinner, maybe 
a few beers, so don't get hacked off it I don't answer. No, I'm *not* taking my 
damned cell--" Mulder grunted reassuringly a few more times and finally just 
hung up. He got the flap open, yanking his hands away to avoid further 
entanglement.

Finally freed, the kitten flipped out backwards, no worse for the wear, tiny 
claws scrambling for traction on the wood floor. The squealing had not abated 
and showed no signs of doing so now. Undeterred by unfamiliar surroundings, he 
lit out across the expanse of the apartment and disappeared into the darkened 
the kitchen. 

Mulder scarcely noticed. The same velcroed pocket that had revealed the kitten 
had yielded one more dubious treasure. Mulder tugged the book free, holding it 
like a thing afire. Its gray cover was now lightly clawed, one corner sporting 
fresh teeth marks. Mulder's hands were trembling suddenly; he swore at them as 
he fished the note from his jacket pocket and spread the evidence bag flat on 
the coffee table. He laid the book of poetry beside it, opened to page sixteen, 
and read.

And all the typed lines on the paper in the bag were all the typed lines he had 
highlighted, blue ink, in the book, how many months ago?

Just so.

XXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXX

5:10 PM. 

A trip to Mrs. Beckman's up the hall got the kitten settled in: cat litter, a 
couple cans of food, her vet's business card.

The bath had been traumatic for them both but the kitten seemed to have forgiven 
him. Its freshly toweled fur still poked wildly at opposing angles, yellow and 
white stripes confused into manic swirls. Clumsy and slightly damp, the little 
creature managed to look every bit as pathetic as he had in the dumpster but at 
least the smell was better. 

Mulder served the food like he'd seen it done in all the cat food commercials: a 
saucer with the chunks mounded up for the benefit of the camera. The arrangement 
didn't seem to benefit the cat any, however. The little thing seemed to scarcely 
know what to do with the bits of meat, had difficulty getting the hang of even 
lapping at the gravy. A closer inspection revealed the animal had a mouth full 
of teeth but that they didn't seem to be useful for chewing on anything other 
than Mulder's new wingtips. He tried a little strategy, mashing a bit of the 
food with a fork and stirring in diluted cream. The little body trembled over 
the bowl like he'd provided manna from God.

Mulder dumped the litter into a hospital basin collected from a trip to 
Georgetown Medical Center last year: a grazing gunshot wound that had hurt like 
hell and hadn't even left a decent scar. The pan was a bit deep, he imagined, 
but kitten managed okay. In fact, the little guy seemed to know exactly what to 
do with it-- even if he did exit the box backend first. With a little luck, this 
Doctor Dolittle crap might just turn out to be easier than he'd thought.

Yeah. Sure. Somehow, that just had the suspicious ring of famous last words...

9:22 PM.

Things were rapidly getting out of hand. Mulder had spent most of the evening on 
the floor playing chew toy for a damned cat he didn't want, then the little imp 
had the nerve to take a dump behind his chair. Meanwhile, Sauceda had called him 
at least a dozen times. Between the two, Mulder had about had his fill of 
Sauceda. All the while, images of Kay's final hour had haunted him until he was 
ready to literally climb the walls. He shouldn't have given Sauceda his gun. 
Shouldn't have made all those promises. 

Mulder finally gave up trying to stay sane at home and tried the bar on the 
corner. Drummond's was just walking distance from his apartment, an infrequent 
after-work stop since he'd moved to Alexandria-- the place was quiet, dim, lined 
with old Ronald Colman and Jimmy Cagney posters. There were too many booths, too 
many secluded tables to allow for dancing, which was just fine with Mulder most 
nights. It reminded him of the pubs that had fed him in England: good food, 
strong brew, clientele too self-absorbed to be annoying. Most of the time 
anyway.

Tonight he'd managed to choke down the soup of the day and about half a 
cigarette before attracting company. The woman was quite a bit older, thickly 
set, pretty enough, he supposed, but she just didn't seem to care that he wasn't 
interested. She didn't belong here, that much was obvious: long, tribal 
earrings, black tights, bright spangley, ah, blouse-thing. She seemed determined 
not to let him get drunk in peace so he staked out a booth near the jukebox, 
intent on exorcising his demons with good scotch and Depeche Mode's "Stripped."

She followed him over and invited herself to sit down. Well, she tried to sit 
anyway, managing only a grotesque sprawl. She walked like she'd had about four 
beers too many but she found everything so incredibly funny Mulder felt like a 
heel trying to shoo her off. He finally stopped protesting and let her sit 
there. She wasn't really bothering him, after all; she just seemed to want some 
place to sit while she sang. She kept her voice to a reasonable level, unlike 
most drunks he knew, her voice was surprisingly pleasant, and she even knew most 
of the words. 

When she started warbling to a Karen Carpenter number, though, Mulder excused 
himself to the men's room. She waved graciously, intent on her high note and 
Mulder slipped down the hall and out the back door. She was still going strong 
when the door whispered shut behind him.

11:43 PM.

It was late and he was tired, but Mulder knew sleep would be long in coming. The 
weariness was depression, of course, and the insomnia simply more of the same; 
his mind was rebelling out of principle, his body suffering the results. 

*Well, hell, he mused. See? I don't need a shrink. I recognize the symptoms. And 
as long as I'm able to recognize them, I'm not in any real trouble. I can't be 
in any real trouble, right? I just need a little time, that's all.* 

He repeated the notion like a mantra, a shield against that little area of his 
conscience that insisted otherwise. Unbidden, a scene from his childhood played 
itself out in his mind: Sam gone three months, his parents oblivious, deep into 
another late night argument, Fox cracking his door just a bit to peek down the 
hall. His mom wrapped in a chenille robe, hands on her hips, her back to her 
son, shouting at his father. And the words: "Well of course he's proof, Bill! 
Proof that a lie repeated long enough will became indistinguishable from the 
truth-- Goddammit, is that the legacy you're going to leave your own son?" If 
his father had responded, Fox hadn't heard. 



                                                    He wondered why he should 
                                                    think on such things now. 
                                                    Didn't he have enough to 
                                                    worry about that he felt the 
                                                    need to go dragging up 
                                                    ancient history? Mulder fled 
                                                    from thought, turning the 
                                                    television up until it was 
                                                    impossible to think anymore. 
                                                    Emotionally, he could no 
                                                    longer afford the luxury of 
                                                    being cognizant. At least 
                                                    not tonight...



He waited several minutes for a thumping against the wall or the ceiling, maybe 
the floor: irate neighbors who might not want to listen to the program he had 
on-- especially at this hour. There was nothing. The neighbor below him was 
half-deaf so that was no surprise. Mrs. Beckman next door would be too sweet to 
say anything, dammit, and whenever he'd asked, she was always quick to claim she 
was a sound sleeper. Mulder preferred to believe her. The room above him was a 
mystery. The super couldn't seem to keep it occupied for very long, anyway. The 
tenants usually moved out after only a week or so. Maybe he was just renting to 
the wrong kind of tenants; as far as Mulder'd been able to determine they'd all 
been professional military men of the ilk his father would have labeled Defense 
Department goons. Dad could smell them a mile off. Said they'd sell their own 
mothers for a bit of Pentagon pie. 

A thump near the floor had him peering into the shadows below the coffee table. 
It was the kitten, bewildered and pained, staring at the table leg in mute 
offense. Mulder sighed and stroked its head. The cat rolled to its back and 
attacked his hand with abandon, all four paws scrambling at the air. It made a 
sound like Purdue's pager when it was on vibrator, no doubt a determined attempt 
at a growl. Mulder shook his head. His mother's cat-- an aging Tom since the 
world began-- had been an elegant, disdainful creature who would have died of 
embarrassment had it made just one graceless motion. The kitten, on the other 
hand, was all fur and paws and far too much energy. It alternately scrambled and 
slid across the floor, tripped-- twice-- on the rug and would certainly suffer 
permanent brain damage if it collided into just one more piece of furniture.

He shook himself free of the little monster and lay back, kicking off his shoes. 
The kitten immediately scurried to investigate. Having sniffed, slapped and 
hissed with no retaliation from the sneakers, the little beast claimed one for 
himself, dragging it off by the laces. Mulder stretched fitfully, staring at the 
noise on the TV screen, not really seeing much, drifting slowly into the 
gentling haze of sleep. 

A commercial blared, rousing him enough to get his eyes open if only just 
partially. Mulder found himself focusing on the beckoning welcome of a woman: a 
nice looking brunette holding out a Lowenbrau. When she looked into the camera, 
Mulder realized she had stolen Kay's smile--

Unprepared for the assault, Mulder was defenseless against the raging that 
exploded in his chest. He squeezed his eyes against it, pressing his back into 
the sofa. Try as he might, though, there was no escaping the encroaching 
pressure radiating from his heart, threatening to choke off his windpipe. 

He resolved himself to the attack and stopped cringing. It would either pass or 
kill him; he would not allow himself to speculate on which result would be most 
preferable. Instead, he observed the extent of the sensation, noted with 
clinical detachment the quality of the pain as it radiated down his arm, the 
intensity of his heartbeat as it hammered against his vocal cords. 

After a few minutes, the pressure subsided to a light caress, soft as feather 
kisses. And he felt his body slowly responding, even now, with just the memory. 
Even as his hands still shook, even as he gasped for air. Even with Kay in a 
body bag in cold storage. Because of him.

Mulder covered his head with his arms, trying to block the memory of the look of 
her eyes. Those soft, gentle eyes, watching him as he walked into the diner. 
Watching him as he dressed. Watching him as he read her the poems. Watching him 
as he moved against her--

A sudden pressure on his leg had him gulping air frantically. He jerked upright, 
clawing at the moisture in his eyes. The kitten, tiny talons fastened to his 
jeans like velcro, mewled up at him, its face a pitiful bit of fuzz. Mulder 
choked his heart back down into his rib cage and fell back in relief.

Well, hell. That's what he got for hauling home strays.

The late show was running "Attack of the Thirty Foot Woman." Mulder relaxed with 
the realization that she, at least, was a blonde. He was asleep before the 
second set of commercials, the little tabby purring, uninvited, upon his chest.

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