Thunder in the Air(1/2)
by Tasha Abrams 

First started: April 21, 1999 

Disclaimer: Mulder and Scully do not belong to me. They are the property of 
Chris Carter, Ten Thirteen and Fox.

Classification: TA, slight MSR. Lots of angst.

Rating: R for violence and language -- Content Warning.

Spoilers: Monday, Pilot, small ones for Leonard Betts, Memento Mori and 
Gethesemane. Story takes place immediately after Monday.

Summary: Released back into society, Monty Propps begins a campaign of violence 
against the man responsible for imprisoning him. But when they begin their 
investigation, a new threat arises against Mulder and Scully. Sometimes, the 
faceless monster isn't the only one you should fear.

Note: The cities mentioned in this story exist, but I have taken liberties with 
them. The city of Fox Hunt, Tennessee is from my own imagination, and no 
resemblance is intended to any existing place.

Thanks: To Rachel, for all her editing help and support -- without her, this 
story would not exist. To XScout, for her beta reading and suggestions. To 
Pellinor for her Deep Background site, and for taking the time to answer some 
questions for a fellow X-Phile. 

Feedback: Is greatly desired at Syrinx42@yahoo.com

****

Newspaper headlines from around the country: 

January 30, 1997 -- Washington Post
EMT Killed in Freak Accident 

March 2, 1997 -- Wall Street Journal
Lombard Clinic Tightens Security After Leak 

May 5, 1997 -- Seattle Times
Murders in Canadian Mountains 

**** 

Lost among these...

April 19, 1997 -- Raleigh News and Observer
Killer Released From Prison

AP - Ten years ago the city of Greenville was terrorized by a series of 
killings, as young women from around the city were kidnapped and murdered. For 
weeks the city was a hotbed of local and state police, and finally FBI agents. 
Eventually, 38-year old Montgomery Propps, known as Monty to his friends, was 
arrested for the half-dozen murders the city had experienced. Yesterday, Propps 
was released from prison on good behavior, by all accounts a changed man... 

**** 

Headline from the Chicago Tribune, page 6... 

November 15, 1997 -- Murder Puzzles Authorities AP - Authorities of Fox River 
Grove are scratching their heads over a killing yesterday in their small 
community... 

**** 

Thursday, March 4, 1999 
6:58 a.m.

Her dreams were haunted. The foiled bank heist at Cradock Marine was still fresh 
in her mind. Time and again she had woken in a sweat, a scream on her lips, 
Mulder's blood on her hands. She had no idea why she should dream such a thing, 
but each time she woke with the certainty that she was dead, victim of a 
catastrophe beyond her comprehension. Each time she experienced a moment of 
limbo, where she existed neither in the spirit world of dreams, or the real 
world of the flesh. 

Finally giving up on sleep, Scully had dragged herself out of bed and gotten 
ready for work. While moving through her morning routine, she had felt sluggish 
and heavy, and she finally arrived at the Hoover Building earlier than usual and 
still tired. 

Despite the early hour, her partner was already there. Only slightly surprised 
to see him, she nodded a greeting. "Hey, Mulder." 

He glanced up, eyes red-rimmed behind his reading glasses. Files and papers were 
haphazardly spread across his desk, and computer printouts were stacked on the 
floor by his feet. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie was loosened, and Scully 
frowned as she realized it was the same tie as yesterday. 

She set her briefcase down. "Mulder, have you been here all night?" Mulder said 
nothing. He just drew a line through what he was reading and dropped the piece 
of paper onto the floor. Scully sighed and went down the hall for a cup of 
much-needed coffee. 

When she returned, steaming cup in hand, Mulder was standing in front of a wall 
map of the United States. Red push pins were scattered across it, with two 
yellow ones throw in for variety. Scully put her coffee mug on the desk and went 
to stand beside her partner. He was staring intently at the map, and she felt 
her arms break out in sudden gooseflesh. The bright red of those pins seemed 
ominous in a way she could not explain. 

"Mulder?" She kept her tone carefully modulated. She knew if she showed too much 
curiosity she wouldn't get any kind of answer. "What are we looking at?" When he 
did not reply, she raised her voice. "Mulder?" 

"Murders," he said hoarsely. 

Scully did a cursory count of the pins stuck in the map. Thirteen red, two 
yellow. "All of them?" Mulder nodded. "What are the yellow ones?" 

He said nothing. Scully pursed her lips and fought the urge to grab her partner 
by the shoulders and shake him until words spilled forth. "Who's being murdered, 
Mulder?" 

A muscle jumped in his clenched jaw. "Little girls," he bit out. 

Her heart constricted painfully. The loss of her daughter, her Emily, was 
suddenly right there with her in vivid detail, fresh and aching, a wound that 
was never allowed to heal. Her eyes closed. Little girls. Jesus. And what must 
Mulder be thinking? 

She laid a hand on his arm. "Mulder, have you slept at all?" 

Impatiently he brushed off her query. "I can't." 

"Why not?" she asked. 

Without removing his eyes from the map, Mulder pointed behind him. 

His desk was littered with faxes of police reports, newspaper articles and FBI 
field office reports. Laying on top of this explosion of paper was a single 
sheet. It was a photocopy of a newspaper article from the Raleigh News and 
Observer. The headline read, "Killer Released From Prison." There was a photo 
accompanying the piece, and the caption underneath read, "Taken two months 
before his arrest, Monty Propps relaxes outside his home in Greenville." 

Astonished, Scully looked up. "Mulder, what is this?" 

Mulder never blinked. "He's kidnapping and killing little girls. He stabs them 
to death, and leaves their bodies draped over the signs bearing the town's 
name." 

She frowned, knowing she was lacking an important piece of information. The 
problem was how to get that information from her unusually taciturn partner. 
"What's the key here? How did you connect these murders?" 

Mulder swallowed convulsively, then jabbed a finger at the map and a red push 
pin in the Pacific Northwest. "Fox Island, Washington state." A pin in New 
England. "Foxboro, Massachusetts." The Midwest. "Fox River Grove, Illinois. 
Should I continue?" 

Another shiver shook her. "My God," she breathed. "And these murders are all 
being committed by Monty Propps?" 

"It's his M.O.," Mulder said tersely. "He's out there, with every reason to hate 
me. This is his way of making sure I know about it." 

"What about the yellow pins?" she asked. 

"Fox Chase, Kentucky, and Fox Hunt, Tennessee. The only two cities without a 
murder." 

Yet. The word hung heavily in the air between them. 

Scully stood still for a moment, at a loss. Finally she walked forward, placing 
herself between Mulder and the map, forcing him to see her. "Mulder." 

He blinked, then focused on her. "Yeah." 

"Why don't we go tell Skinner about this? Then I suggest we figure out where 
Propps will strike next, and warn the local police in that town. I'll look into 
flights out of National -- we can try to beat him to his next victim." 

Slowly, Mulder nodded. With a silent sigh of relief, Scully put a hand on his 
arm and guided him from the room. 

**** 

7:27 a.m. 

A clearer picture emerged in Skinner's office. 

Monty Propps had been released from prison in April of 1997. An official letter 
from the North Carolina prison system had been sent to Mulder, informing him of 
this event. A faxed copy of this letter was now in Mulder's possession, but the 
original could not be found anywhere. "I probably threw the letter away without 
ever reading it. I was...preoccupied at the time," Mulder said in his defense. 

Preoccupied, Scully thought, feeling a burn of dull anger. Hadn't they all been, 
during that horrible spring and summer when she had been dying of cancer? 
Propps' release had gone unnoticed by any of them, until now, when it was far 
too late. 

Immediately following his return to society, Propps had lived with his mother in 
Raleigh for several months, before moving out in August. Since then no one had 
seen him. 

The first murder had occurred in November of 1997. A nine-year old girl in Fox 
River Grove, Illinois had been kidnapped from her backyard, in broad daylight. 
One minute she had been playing on her swing set, and then she was gone; the 
next time her parents saw her was in the morgue. Her body had been found three 
days after her disappearance, draped over the wooden sign welcoming visitors 
just outside city limits; she had been stabbed over a dozen times. 

Citizens of the small town northwest of Chicago were understandably upset. 
Police had vigorously pursued the case, but with no success. The murder went 
unsolved. 

In late December, just after Christmas, another little girl was kidnapped and 
killed in Fox Chapel, Pennsylvania. Same scenario, same M.O. No one linked this 
murder to the one in Illinois. 

There were no killings in January or February, then six months in a row with a 
little girl being murdered. September went by uneventfully, then the murders 
began again, right up until last month, for a total of thirteen deaths in all. 
Each town had "Fox" in its name, except for Muldrow, Oklahoma, and Muldraugh, 
Kentucky. In each case the victim was a little girl between the ages of seven 
and eleven. 

The killings were spaced out over the course of the months -- in both the 
beginning, middle and end of the thirty-day period. Assuming that there would be 
a murder in this month gave them no clue as to when it would happen. It could be 
today, or on the last day of the month. 

Skinner was clearly perturbed by all this unfolding information. "What do you 
propose to do about this, Agent Mulder?" 

Scully watched as her partner sat up straighter. "I've been thinkig about that, 
sir. From what I've been able to gather, there are two cities most likely to be 
targeted next by Propps: Fox Chase, Kentucky, and Fox Hunt, Tennessee." 

Skinner frowned. "Where do you think he'll go?" 

Mulder sighed. "I don't know, sir. After those two towns, I have no idea what 
he'll do." A grimace crossed his face. "Well, that's assuming he's working off 
the same atlas that I am, and that he realizes these two cities are the only 
ones left with 'Fox' in their name. My guess is that he's hoping for a 
confrontation before he runs out of towns." 

He paused and shifted in his seat. "It's my belief that he'll go to Fox Chase 
next, leaving Fox Hunt as his last target." 

"How sure of that can you be?" Skinner asked. Scully looked up at him sharply, 
both resenting the question on her partner's behalf, and wishing she had thought 
to ask it. 

Mulder seemed genuinely baffled. "As sure as I can be, sir. It's been eleven 
years since my original profile of Propps. He's probably changed some since 
then, but not overly much. He'll still put together complicated plans and stick 
to them at any cost. He prefers order and organization -- to him a fox chase is 
a disorganized melee, but a fox hunt is a carefully planned-out event. He'll 
move in that direction last." As he talked, Mulder's voice had grown in 
confidence and he now he said with quiet assurance, "He'll go to Kentucky 
first." 

"All right, then." Skinner dismissed them. "Report to me as soon as you can, 
agents." 

**** 

11:54 a.m. 
Ronald Reagan National Airport 
Washington, D.C. 

Their flight was scheduled to arrive in twenty minutes, Mulder saw with a frown. 
Scully sat beside him, leafing through the latest issue of the "New England 
Journal of Medicine". An open notebook lay on her lap, and occasionally she took 
notes in a neat cursive hand. The pervasive noise of the airport terminal seemed 
not to faze her at all. Mulder envied her and her calm. He himself sat 
restlessly, foot tapping, hands drumming on the armrests of the uncomfortable 
plastic chair. 

Monty Propps. After all this time, it was so unbelievable as to be ridiculous. 
If asked to choose those former UNSUBS who would come back to haunt him in later 
years, he would have chosen carefully -- John Lee Roche, John Barnett, Luther 
Lee Boggs, all a tentative yes, but Monty Propps? A definite no. 

He hadn't even been a full-fledged agent yet during the spring of 1986, when 
he'd first written that monograph. He'd been toiling at Quantico, one of a class 
of twenty-two prospective FBI agents. In class, he had shown an aptitude for 
profiling, for putting together a model of human behavior based on few clues. 
Even back then, he had exhibited the scary ability to put himself into the mind 
of a killer. 

His paper on serial killers and the occult had been nothing more than classwork. 
His instructor had distributed it at the Bureau, and two days a later a dour man 
from the Investigative Services Unit had come down to visit. He had asked 
several questions, shaken hands, and told Mulder to look him up when he 
graduated. 

The agent's name had been Bill Patterson. 

That monograph had helped capture Monty Propps, not quite two years later. 
Mulder had not personally been involved, as it had been Patterson's case from 
the start. But it was Mulder who remembered the paper, when things looked bleak 
and hopeless on the case, and who used it to come up with a working profile of 
the UNSUB. Patterson had been furious at what he perceived as Mulder's 
sneakiness, but he had evidently not scrupled to use the profile, because within 
four days Propps had been captured. Three months later Mulder had received a 
public commendation from the Bureau, and a private one from Patterson himself. 

The monograph, that cornerstone of his reputation, superseded him from that 
point on. His peers looked at him with a mixture of irritation and envy. 
Superiors watched him with a careful eye; Patterson kept a tight leash on him. 

He'd found the X-Files just in time to save his sanity. It was a relief to lose 
himself in tales of alien abductions and lake monsters, after years of serial 
killers and psychotics. Diana Fowley had entered his life around the same time, 
believing in both him and those files, and giving him the first guilt-free sex 
he'd had since leaving Phoebe Green and Oxford. 

Within months his golden-boy reputation had first tarnished, then been 
destroyed. After that, his peers just laughed at him -- the nickname Spooky 
Mulder took on a derogatory note. His superiors tried to talk some sense into 
him, then finally shook their heads and washed their hands of him. 

In 1993, Dana Scully had been assigned to the X-Files as his partner, and since 
then he had done the occasional profile, but he had never thought back to how it 
all began, to the Monty Propps case. 

Perhaps, Mulder now thought ruefully, he should have. 

**** 

Fox Chase, Kentucky 
4:12 p.m.

The city of Fox Chase lay to the south of Louisville, close enough for an easy 
day trip, but too far to be properly called a suburb. They had flown into the 
Louisville airport, where the sheriff of the small town had met them. He had 
explained that nobody in town knew of their federal visitors, and given the 
purpose of their arrival, he didn't want them to know until he was fully 
prepared. 

Headed south now on I-65, Sheriff Smithfield said, "Well now, it sure was good 
of you to come all this way yourself. Seeing as how you're the one responsible 
for it all." The big man paused and cleared his throat. "No offense." 

Mulder smiled tightly. "None taken." He supposed he couldn't blame the man, 
though. Through no fault of their own, the town's little girls were suddenly in 
danger. It was only natural that he take out his frustration on that man who was 
responsible for creating that danger. 

"We need to get the alert out as soon as possible," Scully said, "but we don't 
want to alarm people unnecessarily." 

The sheriff nodded. "Absolutely." 

"We're having a composite sketch made up," Mulder said. "We'll have it faxed to 
you as soon as it's ready." 

The problem with the sketch was that it probably wouldn't be very accurate, 
Mulder mused. FBI agents in North Carolina had visited the home of Sylvia 
Propps, but as expected, the woman had been very tight-lipped regarding her son. 
She had no recent photos for the agents, and she repeatedly claimed she had no 
idea of Monty's whereabouts. That left only the Raleigh prison guards to give a 
description of Propps, and they were going off two-year old memories. In all 
likelihood, Mulder knew, Propps would look nothing like the sketch made of him. 
Still, it would be better than nothing, and for a town suddenly made to fear for 
their daughters, it would be good to have a face to pin that fear on. 

"I can call Johnny at the TV station," Sheriff Smithfield said. "I'll let him 
know we'll be coming by later today." 

"Thank you," Mulder replied. "We'd like to go straight to the police station, 
though. I need access to a phone and your fax machine." 

Smithfield nodded again. "Sure." 

"Sheriff, are there any local activities involving children that you could put a 
police presence on?" Scully asked. "Girl Scout meetings, that sort of thing?" 

"Well, I don't know, right off the top of my head," Smithfield answered. "But 
I'll have someone get right on that when we get to the station." 

Mulder tried not to frown. It was a good idea, but one that wouldn't do any 
good. Propps avoided social situations like that. His victims had been kidnapped 
from their own backyards, or on their way home from school; one girl had 
disappeared en route to a friend's birthday party. 

Smithfield steered the police cruiser into a broad expanse of asphalt 
surrounding several red-bricked buildings. City hall, the police station, the 
post office, and the library all shared the same parking lot. Most of the spots 
were filled, and Mulder watched as a young woman and her daughter left the 
library, books clutched to their chests. His throat tightened as he watched; 
that little girl might wind up dead in three days, all because of him and a 
paper he'd written eleven years ago. 

Inside the station it was almost uncomfortably warm, as heaters worked overtime 
to combat the chilly March air. Scully unbuttoned her coat as they walked 
through the halls. The building was quiet too, with phones and voices all 
sounding vaguely muted, as if coming from far away and not just down the hall. 

Smithfield ushered them into an empty office. "You can use the phone in here," 
he said. "Fax machine number's there." He pointed to a list of numbers 
thumbtacked to the wall. "Holler if you need anything." He left. 

Mulder and Scully exchanged a glance. "Good ol' Southern hospitality," Scully 
murmured. 

They shrugged out of their coats and wasted no time. While Scully set about 
finding out community events involving children, Mulder made a call to 
Washington and gave the sketch artist the fax number at the station. He then 
called the police department in Fox Hunt, Tennessee. 

The woman who answered the phone had an accent so thick it could be cut with a 
knife. "Fox Hunt Po-lice," she drawled. 

"This is Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI," he said. "I need to speak with 
the sheriff, please." 

"Just a moment, suh," the woman said. The phone clicked loudly as it was put on 
hold. 

The man who picked up had an only slightly less thick accent. "Bedford here." 

Mulder introduced himself again. "Sir, I'm calling to inform you of a potential 
threat to your town and its citizens." 

There was a full ten seconds of utter silence from the other end. "Excuse me?" 

"I have reason to believe that a man named Montgomery Propps may be in the 
vicinity of your town, sir, and that he may be planning a crime. This man has 
been kidnapping and killing young girls, from the ages of seven to eleven, for 
several months now." 

Scully appeared in the doorway, a sheaf of paper in her hand. She tapped 
something on the paper, and Mulder held up a finger, signaling her to wait. 

"Agent...Mulder, was it? Is this some sort of prank?" 

Mulder sighed. "No, sir. This man, Monty Propps, was released from prison almost 
two years ago, for committing the same type of crimes back in 1988. Now that 
he's been released, he's gone on a--" 

"What makes you think he'll target us?" Bedford demanded. 

"I can't quite explain it to you over the phone," Mulder said, "but I--" 

"Maybe you better explain it to me in person, Agent Mulder," the sheriff said 
harshly. "Because as of this morning, I've got a little girl missing from my 
town, and now you call me up, telling me you know who did it. Seems to me you've 
got quite a lot of explaining to do." 

Mulder could barely hear the sheriff through the sudden roaring in his ears. 
"We'll be there as soon as we can," he managed to say. He laid the phone down 
with a shaking hand, missing the cradle. The handset fell to the desk with a 
loud clunk. 

"Mulder?" Scully hurried forward, hanging the phone up. "What is it?" 

"He's there, Scully." He choked the words out. "I was wrong. He's there. He's 
already taken a victim." 

**** 

4:46 p.m. 

Scully took charge; she had to. Mulder was too shell-shocked to do more than 
stare at the phone with a dreadful fascination, as if expecting it to ring any 
second and deliver more bad news, to lay another dead little girl at his feet. 

Smithfield was agitated by this latest turn of events. "You mean to tell me that 
this pscyho is coming here next?" 

Scully glanced at Mulder, but he gave no sign that he'd heard the sheriff's 
question. "If he holds to his M.O., he won't come here until sometime next 
month. However," she hastily added, "Agent Mulder and I will apprehend the 
suspect before that can happen." 

"I sure hope so," Smithfield said darkly, "for that little girl's sake." 

Mulder said nothing, but he winced as though the sheriff had physically struck 
him. 

Scully glared furiously at the man. "When the sketch of Propps is faxed over, 
show it to all your men. Increase police presence at local events likely to 
feature children. Have an officer go around to the schools and do the usual 
speech about staying away from strangers." She gathered up her coat. "And get 
someone to take us to the airport." 

Smithfield nodded. "You could probably drive it faster," he said blandly. 

"What?" Scully snapped. 

"'S only about a four-hour drive. By the time we got you to the airport, you 
flew into Memphis or Nashville, and then drove out to your new destination, you 
coulda driven there yourself." 

"Fine," Scully said, with only slightly less hostility. "Know anyone who can get 
us a car?" 

Smithfield smiled, although his eyes remained hard. "Sure do." 

**** 

Western Tennessee 
8:47 p.m.

The town of Fox Hunt made tiny Fox Chase in Kentucky look like a thriving 
metropolis. The police station stood by itself off the state route that served 
as the town's main street. The post office was a small addition in back, and a 
single Chevy truck emblazoned with the U.S. Post Office logo was parked in back. 
Two police cruisers were in front of the building, and inside, light shone 
through the lobby windows and only one other office. 

"You say they're expecting us?" Scully asked anxiously, as they pulled up. 

Mulder nodded, swallowing hard against the icy ball in the pit of his stomach. 
He had faced many horrors in his career at the FBI, but the thought of walking 
into that police station terrified him like few things had. How could he face 
these people and hold his head up? He, who was single-handedly responsible for 
the recent grief and fear these people were experiencing? 

Scully took a deep breath. "May as well do it," she said softly. 

Mulder followed her out of the car, walking slowly, each step a struggle 
forward. Even the air here seemed oppressive, slumping his shoulders and 
weighing him down. 

At the door, Scully paused. "Mulder... I know what you must be thinking, but you 
can't blame yourself. You couldn't have known." 

He tried to smile and failed miserably. "I said he'd go to Kentucky first," was 
all he said, before pushing open the door. 

It was warm inside the station, and deathly quiet. A water fountain in the lobby 
gurgled once, sounding abnormally loud in the stillness. "Hello!" Scully called. 


Footsteps sounded down the hall. "Hello!" a man called. From the lone lighted 
room, a young man emerged. He was dressed in a khaki uniform, and had hair so 
blond it was almost white. He seemed surprised to see them. "Y'all made good 
time," he said. "I didn't expect you for another hour." 

"Oh," Scully explained. "We forgot about the change in time zones, when we 
called and said we'd be here at 9:30." She paused. "I'm Special Agent Scully and 
this is Special Agent Mulder." 

*Special* agent, Mulder mused cynically, recognizing the ploy as one aimed at 
gathering respect from the audience. It didn't work. 

"Officer Rowland," the deputy said. He shoved his hands into his pockets and 
rocked back on his heels. It was a curious gesture, at odds with his youth. 
Mulder realized he must have copied it from someone he admired, someone older. 

"Officer, where is everybody?" Scully asked, making no effort to hide the doubt 
in her voice. 

"They're down at the church," Rowland said, "havin' a town meeting over what's 
happened." 

"Will you take us there?" Mulder asked. 

"Can't," Rowland apologized, with no trace of actual apology in his voice. 
"Can't leave the station untended." 

"Well then maybe you could direct us there." Scully's tone was icy. 

Rowland nodded. "Sure. I could do that. Just head into town, and turn left on 
Vine Street. The church'll be on your right. You cain't miss it." 

"Thank you," Mulder replied in his best colorless, G-man voice. He and Scully 
turned and left. 

"A town meeting," Scully murmured, as they walked to the car. "What do you think 
they're discussing?" 

How to run me out of town, Mulder thought sourly. "Maybe the sheriff's telling 
them we're coming." He slid behind the wheel of their borrowed car. 

"Oh, good," Scully observed acidly. "More Southern hospitality." 

Despite himself, Mulder looked at his partner and felt a wry grin spread across 
his face. 

**** 

Heavenly Star Baptist Church 
8:57 p.m. 

Rowland had been right; there was no way they could have missed the church. Not 
only was it topped by a huge, gory crucifix, it was the only building along Vine 
Street with cars in the parking lot. Even on the front steps, they could hear 
the voice of someone from inside, and as Mulder opened the door, the shouting 
grew louder. 

"Are we gonna to stand back and let this happen to our children? Are we gonna 
let them be taken from our bosoms, and from our homes? Are we gonna let them be 
kilt by the light of the moon?" 

"No!" roared the crowd. 

"Then I say we fight back against this monster, this madman who dares come into 
our peaceful town and breathe his foul breath! I say we fight him, with our 
prayers, with our fists, and with our weapons, if we must." 

The throng roared again, wordlessly. Mulder looked down at Scully and was 
relieved to note that the expression of shocked confusion on her face was 
physical evidence that she felt the same way he did. 

The man at the front of the church was obviously the minister. He strode back 
and forth with an ease that had to come from Sunday after Sunday of doing the 
same thing; despite his shouting and evident agitation, he hadn't broken a 
sweat. Off to the left were two police officers, uniformed as Rowland had been. 
To the right stood a burly man with a gold star pinned to his chest -- the 
sheriff, Dave "Buck" Bedford. 

Bedford noticed the two new arrivals only seconds before the man with the 
microphone did. He started forward, but not before the pastor cried, "And look! 
Into our midst comes the one responsible for unleashing this monster on our 
helpless children. The one--" 

The microphone emitted a shocked squeal as Bedford yanked it away. "That'll be 
enough," he said gruffly. 

As one, the people of Fox Hunt turned in their seats to stare at the federal 
agents as they walked up the main aisle of the church. They had to sidestep the 
baptismal fount in the middle, and as Mulder stepped away from Scully, he felt 
strangely vulnerable. When they met again in front of the fount, relief washed 
over him, but his unease did not entirely vanish. 

People muttered to themselves as they passed, and one weeping woman hissed, 
"Babykiller!" Mulder refused to avert his gaze from the sheriff, but beside him, 
Scully's head whipped to the right and she glared at the woman who had spoken. 

"Now, let's all stay calm," Bedford said into the mike. "These here are FBI 
Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully. They're going to help us get little Linda 
back. You can count on it." There was a reassuring note in the man's voice, but 
his eyes were flinty hard as they bored into the approaching couple. <You'd 
better,> they said. 

Stripped of his mike, the minister slunk to his seat, giving Bedford center 
stage. The sheriff waited until Mulder and Scully had joined him before speaking 
again. "Now I know you all are upset. I'm upset myself. I knew and loved Linda 
Moser, like most of you did. But there's no sense in getting all worked up over 
something we can't control." He threw a dark look toward the minister. "I know 
some of you are thinking about what Reverend Doutrie said, and thinking that it 
makes sense. But I am here to tell you that I am the law in this town, and 
anyone who takes a gun into his or her hands will have to face me. Is that 
understood? There will be no vigilante justice in Fox Hunt. Not as long as I'm 
sheriff." Bedford stared out into the audience, not threatening, merely stating 
a fact. 

Mulder felt marginally cheered by Bedford's speech. After his rude welcome by 
Officer Rowland, he had not expected such a show of support. 

The sheriff turned to him. "Now, Agent Mulder. You told me over the phone 
earlier today that you knew who had done this. What can you tell us about this 
man?" 

A hush fell over the crowd as Mulder took the proffered microphone. For over ten 
years he had delivered profiles to expectant law enforcement officials. He had 
made speeches about alien abduction or UFO crashes, spoken to people who had 
scarcely waited for him to finish before starting to laugh. Giving lectures had 
always been something he had excelled at, yet standing at the front of this 
church full of people waiting for him to deliver a miracle, he felt horribly 
nervous and uncomfortable. 

"As Sheriff Bedford told you, I spoke with him earlier today. I was calling to 
warn him that--" 

"You shoulda done that *yesterday*!" a man in the back cried out. 

"Shut up, Bill Henry!" half a dozen people chorused. Bedford glared in that 
general direction, and silence descended again. 

Mulder continued as if the interruption had not occurred. "I was warning him 
that there was a potential criminal in his jurisdiction. I had reason to believe 
a convicted serial killer might be targeting the populace of this town." He 
paused, and said the words that would forever brand him in the eyes of the 
people who lived here. "However, I did not believe that this man would come here 
today. I had every reason to believe he would instead target another city, in 
Kentucky. I was wrong." 

"Damn straight!" "Why didn't you come here first?" "What kind of FBI agent are 
you?" The shouts rose up from the crowd, ugly and full of pent-up anger in 
search of a target. 

Mulder glanced helplessly at Bedford, then froze. The sheriff had his hands 
thrust deep in his pockets, and was rocked back on his heels. His face was 
studiously blank; there would be no help from him. 

Surprising him, Scully grabbed the microphone. "We're getting off the subject 
here," she said, her voice firm. "What's important here is that we find Linda 
Moser and return her to her family." 

"How you gonna do that?" yelled a woman in the front row. 

"By gathering all the evidence," Scully said coolly. "Not by standing around 
shouting at each other. This is a police investigation, and in order to do our 
jobs right, Sheriff Bedford, Agent Mulder and I need your cooperation and help. 
I think we'd all agree that we want to find that little girl as soon as 
possible. We need to work together on this." 

People were nodding in agreement now, and Mulder silently blessed whatever God 
had seen fit to give him Dana Scully as his partner. 

"Starting tomorrow morning, we will be working around the clock on this case. 
We'd ask that you go about your business like normal. Keep your eyes and ears 
open for anything strange. If you see or hear anything out of the ordinary, 
don't do anything yourself, but report it to the police, or to Agent Mulder or 
myself." Scully paused, then looked at Bedford. She held up the microphone, one 
eyebrow lifting in silent query. 

Lazily, the sheriff pulled one large hand from his pocket and took the mike. 
"Listen to what the lady says, folks. Go on back to your homes. Try to get some 
sleep tonight. We'll all get through this, together. Good night." 

For a moment the throng stayed put, then one person rose, followed by another. 
Within ten minutes, the church had emptied, except for a few people clustered in 
the aisle. 

Bedford gestured to them with the hand holding the mike. "That there's the Moser 
family. I asked them to stay behind. I figured you'd want to talk to them." 

Mulder nodded. "Yes. Thanks." 

Bedford looked at him, and all his earlier neutrality was gone, vanished just 
like the crowd it had served. In its place was a thinly veiled anger. "Don't be 
thanking me yet," he said. 

**** 

Including the minister, there were five people who remained standing in the 
aisle -- two men and two women. One of the women was the lady who had called 
Mulder a babykiller. 

Bedford waved them forward. He put a hand on the elbow of a crying woman. "This 
is Brandy Moser," he said. "It's her little girl who's been kidnapped. And 
this," he tilted his head to indicate the man standing beside her, "is her 
husband, Douglas." 

Something needed to be said. "I'm very sorry for what's happened," Mulder said 
sincerely. "I want you to know--" 

"This is Brandy's sister, Lea Presslee," Bedford continued. "And her brother, 
Quinn Presslee." 

Four sets of eyes bored into him. Mulder bit his lip and fought against the 
overwhelming urge to bow his head and accept their silent reproach. <Murderer>, 
those hard eyes said. <You did this. Your fault.> 

Douglas and Brandy Moser had obviously spent much of the day crying. They were 
young and blond, and had matching sets of red-rimmed, bloodshot blue eyes. Doug 
still wore the olive-green work uniform he had been wearing when the police had 
informed him that his daughter was missing. His hands were rough and calloused, 
but they lay on Brandy's arm with gentleness. The blond woman stood with her 
arms wrapped tightly around her ribcage, but she leaned into her husband's 
touch. They were still very young; Mulder guessed they were not much over 
thirty. 

Lea Presslee was shorter than her sister, and blonder. She stood slightly to the 
side, occasionally muttering what were probably supposed to be words of comfort. 
Round and pale, she was not really a part of the group. She was the one who had 
hissed the epithet at Mulder, and she glared at him with undisguised anger. 

Quinn Presslee was also short, but what he lacked in stature, he made up for in 
sheer bulk. Mulder had never seen a more solid-looking man. He had short, 
grizzled hair cropped into a crew-cut, and the reddened complexion of an 
alcoholic. His hands were large-knuckled, and looked capable of committing acts 
of brute force. 

It was Scully who broke the uncomfortable silence that had fallen over them all. 
"We appreciate you staying, but I know you have all had a long, exhausting day." 
A soothing note entered her voice. "Why don't you all try to get some sleep? 
Agent Mulder and I can come by tomorrow and ask our questions." 

"Why wait?" Lea Presslee asked. "Every moment we wait is time we could be 
spending looking for Linda." There was a thin, reedy note to her voice; Mulder 
guessed she went into fits of hysterics at least twice a week. 

"Time is important, Ms. Presslee," Mulder said. "But I think we'd all agree that 
we won't accomplish anything tonight. It would be better if we all got some 
sleep and started in the morning with rested minds." 

As if the parents of little Linda Moser could sleep. Mulder knew they would 
spend a sleepless night, crying over the fate of their young daughter. 

For himself, too, sleep would be an unattainable goal. It mattered not that he 
had been up all last night, uncovering the horrific details of this case. He 
would not sleep tonight. 

He supposed it could be considered a self-imposed penance, for being solely 
responsible for the death of fourteen little girls. 

**** 

After the Mosers and Presslees had left, Sheriff Bedford gave them cursory 
directions to the Rest Inn. "Frank Jessup, who runs it, he'll probably charge 
you an arm and a leg, but he don't get much in the way of business this time of 
year." He gave them a smile that said, <He'll screw you over, and he'll do it 
with my permission, and if you don't like it, why, that back seat of your car 
looks mighty comfy.> 

Scully forced herself to maintain a blank expression. "Thank you, Sheriff. We'll 
come by the station in the morning." 

Bedford waved them off. "No need. You can jes go straight to the Moser's. 
They're the third house on the right, once you turn on Elm Street." He didn't 
say which way to turn. 

Scully nodded. "Good night, Sheriff." He grunted, then walked out of the church. 
She watched him go, a pained expression on her face. As a federal agent, she had 
encountered prejudice and lack of cooperation before -- most notably from 
Sheriff Teller of Connersville, Oklahoma -- but rarely had she been met with 
such blatant hostility. 

"You ready to go, Mulder?" she asked. 

He nodded briefly, staring off into space. "Those people hate me, Scully," he 
said dully. "And the thing is, I can't blame them. I can't get angry with them 
for judging me before they even met me. Because if I were in their position, I'd 
hate me, too." 

She laid a hand on his arm. "But you're not in their place, Mulder. You're you, 
and you're going to catch this man, before he can hurt that little girl." She 
squeezed his arm. "You *will*, Mulder." 

He looked down at her. "I hope so." 

**** 

Rest Inn 
10:13 p.m.

Frank Jessup did indeed take advantage of them, practically salivating with 
greed as he wrote up their bill. "You folks enjoy your stay here," he said, one 
eye closing in a brief wink. 

Scully took back her credit card and mustered a grimace that could almost pass 
for a smile. "Thank you." 

Jessup had plenty of rooms available, and he'd given them two that were side by 
side. He'd lamented the fact that the rooms lacked a connecting door, and 
managed to imbue even that fairly innocent statement with innuendo and 
suggestion. Scully had clenched her fists at the man's crudity, and fought the 
desire to go for her gun. 

She clutched her room key tightly as they left the office and got back in the 
car. Mulder drove across the parking lot to where their rooms were located. 
Besides Jessup's battered pickup truck, there were only two other vehicles 
parked there. Neither one looked as if it had been driven in months. 

She had Room 19; Mulder was in 20. He parked the car directly in front of her 
door, and turned the keys with a small sigh. 

In their haste to arrive in Tennessee, they had not made time to eat, and Scully 
ventured a timid, "How does a late dinner sound?" 

Mulder shook his head as he got out of the car. "I'm not hungry." 

She wasn't surprised. She said nothing as Mulder retrieved their luggage from 
the trunk. They walked up the sidewalk, separating at the doors to their rooms, 
each painted a garish shade of blue, and flaking badly. 

"Are you going to be all right?" she asked, reluctant to enter her room and 
leave her partner alone for the night. 

"Yeah," he replied, but he stared at the ground as he spoke. 

"Will you do me a favor?" she said. 

He looked up at her. "What?" 

"Try to get some sleep," she said softly. 

A sudden smile crossed Mulder's face, momentarily illuminating his eyes. "I'll 
try," he promised. 

Heartened by his words, she smiled back, then went into her room. 

**** 

Rest Inn Room 20 
3:42 a.m. 

The sound of a car engine shutting off woke him. For a moment he was 
disoriented, then the air conditioner under the window kicked on, and Mulder 
remembered where he was. 

He got out of bed, feeling vaguely surprised that he'd slept at all. He had seen 
midnight come and go, sitting at the chipped Formica table in the corner, poring 
over old case files and police reports. At some point he had moved to the bed, 
intending only to lay down, but the papers strewn carelessly on the floor were 
mute evidence that he had indeed slept. 

It was chilly in the room, and Mulder approached the window reluctantly. The 
drapes billowed slightly outward as cool air was blown under their fringed hems. 
Mulder stood to the left of the window and pushed the thick drape aside with his 
hand, peering outside. 

Through the dirty glass, he could see a fourth car in the parking lot now, 
sitting next to their own borrowed Ford. Two amorphous shapes sat in the front 
seat, and two or three more in back. None made any move to get out; they merely 
sat there, watching. 

Mulder waited. 

Fifteen minutes later he accepted that the people in the car seemed content to 
merely sit there, and Mulder yawned and let the drape fall back. He turned 
around, heading back for the warmth of the lumpy bed. 

He had no warning or alert; there was just a split-second filled with the sound 
of splintering glass, then something struck him in the small of his back, 
driving him to the floor with a muffled grunt. That impossibly heavy something 
thudded onto the carpet beside him, scant moments after he fell. He lay still, 
paralyzed by the sudden tingling pain that swept through his entire body. 
Whoever they were, they had either been standing right outside the window, or 
they had one hell of a good arm. Dimly, he heard the slam of a car door and the 
roar of an engine swelling, then fading into the night. 

Scully. The pain was starting to melt away from his extremities, and center on 
his back, where he had been struck. He managed to push himself to his knees with 
rubbery arms. Scully. A blow strong enough to knock him down could snap her 
spine in two. 

The door leading outside rattled in its frame as someone knocked on it. 
"Mulder?" Scully called, sounding scared, but unhurt. "Mulder, are you all 
right? Let me in." 

Shakily, he stood, wincing at the pain emanating from the middle of his back. 
Beside his left foot was a huge rock, with a note rubber-banded around its bulk. 


"Mulder!" Scully was shouting now. "Mulder, answer me!" 

"Coming," he rasped. Jesus, that rock was huge. Good thing it had only struck 
his back, and not his head. 

Scully had her weapon out and seemed to be on the verge of shooting out the lock 
when Mulder finally staggered to the door and opened it. She was wild-eyed and 
panting, but her hands were steady on her weapon. "Mulder, what happened?" she 
cried. "Why didn't you answer?" She lowered her gun, and became just a short 
woman in blue pajamas, standing on the sidewalk of a seedy hotel in Tennessee. 

Mulder tried to shrug, then winced. One hand vainly reached behind him, seeking 
to assuage the pain. "More of that Southern hospitality, I guess," he said. 

Scully shouldered past him, and into the room. Her eyes swept around, seeing the 
rock, the shards of glass on the floor, the hole in the drapery where the 
missile had shredded it. She turned to look at him. "Mulder, did it hit you?" 

"I would say, more like it...*landed* on me," he said, going for some humor, but 
falling far short. 

"Are you hurt?" she demanded, striding determinedly forward. 

"I'm fine, Scully. Really. I--" 

"What's goin' on here?" Frank Jessup waddled up, all five feet of him wrapped in 
a ragged maroon bathrobe and an impenetrable cloak of indignation. "You two 
tearing up my hotel?" 

Mulder gave Scully a weary look, and slumped against the doorframe. Let her deal 
with it. 

**** 

Scully shot her partner an alarmed glance as he sagged against the wooden 
doorway. She wanted to make sure he was all right and find out who had done 
this, but right now Frank Jessup demanded all her attention. 

"Who did you talk to tonight?" she asked the man, using her best Ice Queen tone 
of voice. 

He blinked at her. "Huh?" 

"I said, who did you talk to? Who knows we were staying in these rooms?" She 
took a step toward Jessup, uncomfortably aware that she was clad only in her 
pajamas, but refusing to show it. 

"N-no one," Jessup blustered. "Hey, you gonna pay for fixing that window?" 

"No," Scully said coldly. "We will not. You'll be lucky if we pay for these 
rooms at all. Now I want you to tell me who you spoke to tonight." 

The proprietor looked from her to Mulder, who was now standing erect, although 
his face was too pale for her liking. Seeing no help from either quarter, he 
shrugged one chubby shoulder. "I talked to lots of people," he said petulantly. 

"Who?" she demanded. 

"I can't remember all of 'em!" Jessup cried. "Lots of people!" 

"Did you know that endangering the life of a federal officer is a crime 
punishable by time in prison, Mr. Jessup?" Mulder asked lazily. 

Jessup's face went white. "P-prison?" 

Mulder nodded. "Add obstruction of justice to that charge, and I think you're 
looking at a minimum of three years." 

"I can't remember!" Jessup cried. His eyes were round and fearful. "Honest!" 

Scully looked long and hard at him, then nodded. "Mr. Jessup, I suggest you find 
us two new rooms. *Nice* rooms. And I also suggest you think twice before 
telling anyone which ones we are staying in." 

The hotel owner nodded frantically. "Sure, sure," he agreed. "Anything else?" 

"Yeah," Mulder said. "How 'bout some ice?" 

"Sure, I can do that," Jessup said. "Just give me a few minutes. You folks wanna 
get your stuff together, and meet me in the office? I'll get you your new keys, 
and your ice." He left, bowing and scraping cravenly, bathrobe flapping in the 
night wind. 

As soon as he was gone, Scully rounded on her partner. "Mulder, let me look at 
you." 

"I'm fine," he said faintly. The edge to his voice was gone. "I just need to sit 
down." He wobbled his way to the bed and sat. "Oh, and that ice." 

"Where did it hit you?" she asked, walking forward. 

"My back," Mulder said. "It knocked me down." 

Scully shook her head, looking at the size of the rock laying on the floor. 
"I'll bet," she whispered. 

Mulder lifted his T-shirt reluctantly, letting her see the injury. An angry red 
patch was centered in the small of his back. Tentatively she pressed her fingers 
to the spot, and Mulder winced, inhaling sharply. Scully dropped his shirt, and 
stood back. "Well," she said, "it missed your kidneys, and anything vital. But 
you're going to have one hell of a bruise there, and you'll be sore for a day or 
two." 

Mulder scowled. "If this is Southern hospitality," he muttered, "I think I'm 
moving to Canada." 

Scully chuckled, then yawned. 

Half an hour later they were installed in their new rooms, an ice bucket 
brimming with frozen cubes sat on each bathroom countertop, and the note that 
had been wrapped around the rock was bagged as evidence. 

Scully pulled off her latex gloves and sat at the table across from Mulder. 
Between them, the rock and note sat, tagged and labeled, utterly 
innocuous-looking in their plastic evidence bags. 

The note read: "Maybe we should ask this killer if he likes tall FBI agents, 
instead of little girls." 

**** 

Friday, March 5, 1999 
8:12 a.m. 
112 Elm Street

The Moser's lived in a small house, but it was the nicest one on the block. 
Their lawn was a neat square of green, and the paint job was only a couple years 
old. A black pickup truck stood in the driveway, and another, nearly identical 
vehicle was parked at the curb. 

Scully carefully schooled her expression as she got out of the car. She was 
probably being paranoid, but maybe she hadn't imagined that twitch of the window 
curtain. Either way, it just made good sense to be cautious. 

After the intrusion on her night's sleep, she had gone back to bed, but only 
tossed and turned fitfully. Toward dawn she had dozed, but it had been a 
restless, uneasy sleep, and this morning she was exhausted, and her eyes felt 
full of gritty sand. She had dressed carefully, sure that she would forget 
something in her fatigue, and leave the motel sans pants or something else 
equally unforgivable. Frank Jessup had provided a box of donuts and some weak 
orange juice for a "continental breakfast", but Scully had not eaten. 

Mulder looked as tired as she felt. There was a downward slump to his shoulders, 
and he carried himself tightly, as if any jostling movement would break him. She 
wondered if he was in pain from where the rock had struck him, but she knew 
better than to ask. 

A T-shirt-and-overall'ed Quinn Presslee answered the door before they could even 
knock. Scully decided it must have been him peeking through the window, watching 
for their approach. He said nothing as they came in, but grunted slightly as he 
shut the door behind them. 

Inside, the house was clean and tidy. Most of the furniture was secondhand, and 
bore a chipped finish, or bad upholstery, but it was free from dust and stains. 
Framed photographs hung on the walls; some were of Douglas and Brandy, but most 
were of a beautiful red-haired girl with dimples and a wide smile. 

The Mosers sat on a flowered loveseat, knees touching. They murmured a greeting 
to their guests, but did not get up. Quinn Presslee sat on an armchair covered 
in a yellow sheet with a grunt. Scully sat beside Mulder on the couch and pulled 
out her notebook and pen. 

She had thought Mulder would leave it up to her to start, but he surprised her 
by speaking right away. "I know this is difficult for you, Mr. and Mrs. Moser. I 
know you've already told your story to Sheriff Bedford, and we'll try to be 
quick, and get this over with as soon as possible." 

The men were silent, but Brandy inclined her head. "Thank you," she murmured. 

"Why don't you just tell us what happened, from the beginning?" Mulder asked. 

Brandy Moser inhaled deeply, threw a glance at her husband, then began speaking. 
"Linda didn't go to school yesterday. When she woke up she told me her throat 
hurt and she felt a bit feverish, so I kept her home. She went back to bed for a 
few hours, while I did some housework." She paused, and her hands gripped each 
other tightly on her knees. "Around nine o'clock, Linda got up, and said she 
felt better. She asked if she could go outside and play. I told her she could, 
as long as she stayed in the backyard, and kept her coat on." 

Reflexively, Scully looked up, toward the rear of the house. A tiny kitchen was 
to her right, and over the sink was a window. Surely Brandy Moser had stood 
there for years, watching her only child at play. 

"She went outside around nine-thirty, and I checked on her every now and then. 
When I looked for her at eleven o'clock, she wasn't there. I went outside and 
I--I called f--for her. But she wasn't there. She was g--gone." Brandy broke 
down into tears, unable to speak anymore. 

Scully winced. The pain of losing a daughter was one she knew all too well, but 
losing Emily was entirely different from what the Mosers were experiencing. 
"What did you do then?" she asked softly. 

Douglas gave her a look that said, What do you think she did? From his armchair, 
Quinn Presslee grunted sourly. 

Brandy wiped her face. "I went outside and looked for her. I called, but she 
didn't answer. I knew something was wrong then." She lifted wet eyes to Scully. 
"You see, Linda is very bright. She's a lot smarter than Doug and me. She 
wouldn't hide for no reason. She wouldn't do that. So...so I went back inside 
and I called Doug, then I called the police." 

The young woman scrubbed at her tears. "When the police came out, they couldn't 
find anything. There was an adult-sized footprint near the back fence, but that 
was all." 

"Until you called Buck," Douglas Moser said to Mulder, "and said you knowed who 
did this." 

"I do know," Mulder agreed. "His name is Monty Propps." 

Brandy stared at him, wide-eyed. "How do you know that?" 

"He's done this sort of thing before," Mulder said. "In 1988, in North Carolina. 
He kidnapped and killed six women. He was very good at it; he was hard to 
catch." 

"But you caught him, dincha?" Quinn Presslee said. They were the first words 
Scully had heard him speak. 

Mulder nodded. "Yes, I did. Propps was released from prison two years ago. Since 
then he has been committing crimes, moving from one town to another." 

"Killing little kids," Doug Moser said sickly. 

"Mr. Moser, we will find this man before he can hurt your daughter," Scully said 
firmly. Even as she spoke the words, she was mentally berating herself. <Don't 
make promises you can't keep.> 

"Got any idea why he'd come to our neck of the woods?" Quinn asked. "I bet you 
got some idea, doncha, Mr. Fox Mulder?" None-too subtle anger colored his voice, 
deepening it. 

Mulder met the man's stare levelly. "You seem to have an idea of your own, don't 
you, Mr. Presslee?" 

"Damn straight I do," Quinn said. "That fellow's pissed at you for putting his 
ass behind bars. And now that he's out, he's getting himself some revenge. Only 
he's killing little girls to do it." He looked at Mulder challengingly. "Am I 
right, or am I right?" 

"You're right," Mulder said quietly. "However, what Agent Scully said is 
correct. We will find this man first. Your daughter will not be harmed." 

Scully gripped her pen tightly. Oh Mulder.... 

The Mosers seemed uncertain what to do now. They stared at Mulder in mingled 
anger and hope. "I-- So what happens now?" Brandy finally asked. 

"I'd like to take a look around outside," Scully said, standing up. "I'm sure 
the police did a thorough job gathering evidence, but I'd like to see it 
anyway." 

Douglas nodded. "Sure. Just go on through the back door." 

Scully walked through the family room and into the kitchen. The back door was 
curtained in the same flowered material that covered the loveseat. Feeling 
slightly ill, she pushed the door open and stepped out into the morning. 

**** 

The Moser's backyard was as tiny and well-maintained as the front. A swing set 
dominated the area, and a wooden fence surrounded it all. Yellow police tape was 
strung across the yard, jarringly bright against the gray March morning. A 
slighty frayed jump rope was tied to one of the swings. The hot pink plastic end 
wobbled back and forth in the cool wind. 

Mulder stared at it all, his throat tight and aching. That jump rope, sole 
evidence that once-upon-a-time a young girl had played here, struck a painful 
chord deep within him. There were probably half a million jump ropes with hot 
pink handles scattered around the globe, yet at the moment, the only one he 
could picture was one that was probably stashed in an attic trunk somewhere on 
Martha's Vineyard: Samantha had loved to jump rope. 

He glanced over at Scully, and was unsurprised to see her eyes were wet. A 
different kind of pain clutched him then, one that was reserved strictly for his 
partner -- there would be no pink jump ropes in her future. 

They walked down the lawn toward the gate, Mulder moving slowly because of his 
back, and Scully matching her pace to his. Eventually, they ran out of grass to 
cross, and there was nothing to see but wooden fence and a single footprint. 

It was a smallish print; it could have been made by either a short man or a 
taller woman. Set off from the fence by a yard at most, it existed by itself, a 
single imprint in a grassless patch of red earth. Looking down at it, Mulder 
felt sudden fury sweep through him. 

Somewhere in this small town, a little girl was crying, and Monty Propps was 
laughing at him. 

**** 

Fox Hunt Police Station 
9:42 a.m.

They mounted the steps to the station slowly. Mulder was chagrined to admit he 
didn't want to go inside that building, and face the anger and resentment 
within. He was tired and hungry, and the aspirin he'd taken early that morning 
was not working; his back hurt terribly, and he longed for a few hours' 
uninterrupted sleep. 

For a fleeting moment he thought of leaving, anyway. He could do it; God knew he 
was good at it, even. He could turn around and skip down the steps, throwing 
Scully an excuse over his shoulder. He could let her be the one to deal with the 
police, with the ugliness this case was stirring up. He could sneak back to the 
hotel and sleep, then come back later, feeling rested and human again. 

One glance at his partner was enough to dispel any ideas along that line. 
Self-disgust filled him. Dear God, had he really entertained the thought of 
ditching his partner? Now? Here? When all this was his fault, did he really 
think that running away from it would solve anything? 

Scully climbed the steps beside him, unhurried, her head bowed, a stray lock of 
red hair bouncing against her cheek. Her expression was grim, but determined. 
Mulder knew she would never think of running, she would never abandon little 
Linda Moser, and a town whose need for hope outmatched its need for anger. 

She would always stay, she would always carry on, and that was one of the 
reasons he loved her, Mulder knew. Her stubbornness, her willingness to overcome 
any obstacle in order to go forward, her loyalty, her sheer persistence -- was 
it any wonder they were still partners after six years? Anyone else would have 
run off screaming within the first three months. 

But Dana Scully was not "anyone else." She was who she was. She was Scully, and 
he loved her. He couldn't run off on her, not now, not ever. 

Mulder increased his pace a bit, just enough to ensure that he reached the top 
of the steps before Scully did. He opened the door for her, and as she walked 
through he touched her back lightly, the way he always had, and the way he hoped 
he always would. 

**** 

9:44 a.m.

The receptionist was almost seventy, with graying hair pulled into tight curls 
all over her head. She wore a shapeless blue dress, and looked as solid as Quinn 
Presslee. Quite probably she had worked here all her life. She stared at them as 
they walked past, glaring at these two strangers who dared intrude on her turf. 

Two younger officers were walking down the hall toward them as they entered the 
station; one of them was Officer Rowland. He nodded slightly in greeting. 
"Enjoying your stay?" he asked. 

Mulder clenched his fists inside his coat pockets and wished he could slam the 
kid against the wall. No doubt Rowland knew all about the rock being thrown 
through his window, right down to the identity of the man who'd done it. 

"Actually, we are," Scully replied in a too-bright voice. "In fact, I was 
thinking of getting some real-estate information about this area. I really like 
it here. I might buy a summer home here." 

Rowland and the other officer stopped dead in their tracks. The young mens' eyes 
narrowed, meeting Scully's in a contest of wills. Mulder stood off to the side, 
utterly forgotten by all three of them. 

The other deputy surrendered first. He pointed to an open door on his right. "I 
gotta-- " He quickly ducked into the room. 

His exit broke the spell. Rowland gave Scully a brief smile. "I'm sure we could 
fix you up just right," he said. The double meaning of his words was not lost on 
either agent. 

Mulder strode forward. This was ridiculous. "Do you have an unused office we 
could use, for our investigation? We need a phone and access to a fax machine. I 
also need to see the police report on Linda Moser's kidnapping." 

Rowland made no move to help. He crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels, 
mimicking Sheriff Bedford. "Speaking of faxes, we never did get that sketch you 
promised us of this guy, Agent Mulder. What's that all about?" 

Dammit. Mulder cursed inwardly. He had wanted to make copies of that sketch, and 
post one on every upright surface in town. He'd planned to broadcast the sketch 
on the local TV station, fly it from a banner behind a Cessna-152 -- whatever it 
took, he wanted the people of Fox Hunt to know their enemy. 

But now, with no sketch, Monty Propps was still the faceless enemy. And he, Fox 
Mulder, was known to the townspeople all too well. 

**** 

10:13 a.m. 

After coming up with every excuse in the book, and some original ones, Officer 
Rowland had finally caved in and taken them to a back office. While passing 
through the hallway, Scully had seen Sheriff Bedford sitting in his office, feet 
up on his desk, smiling lazily in their direction. He had probably heard every 
word of the confrontation in the hallway. 

"I've about had it with these people," she'd muttered, after Rowland had left 
them alone. 

Mulder had gotten a look of careful consideration on his face. "Well..." he'd 
finally murmured, "we've got a full tank of gas...it's about three hours to 
Memphis...wanna go see Graceland, Scully?" 

She'd smiled, despite herself. 

That lightness of mood hadn't lasted. Mulder had wasted no time in calling the 
sketch artist he'd drafted to make the composite drawing of Propps. He had not 
been on the phone for long before making a series of other calls. Now he hung up 
for the last time, and dropped his head into his hands. "Do you want to hear a 
story, Scully?" 

She pursed her lips. "That depends on if it has a happy ending." 

Mulder spoke into his laced fingers, muffling his voice. "The sketch artist I 
contacted got into a car accident on his way to the prison to interview the 
guards. He's in the hospital, in traction with a broken neck. The Raleigh Bureau 
office has been trying to contact me since then, leaving me messages, both at my 
office in DC, and finally with one Sheriff Smithfield, in Fox Chase, Kentucky." 

He looked up, hair standing up where his fingers had pushed at it. "Goddammit, 
Scully! What is with these people? Don't they understand we're trying to *help* 
them?" Angrily, he stood, then winced and sat back down heavily. "God..." 

Scully got to her feet. "Mulder." She went to his side, then stopped, unsure 
what to do. "You should go see a doctor," she finally said, falling back on her 
favorite line. 

Her partner gave her a faint smile. "I thought I did that last night when I let 
you examine me." 

She cocked her head to one side, her gesture of exasperated affection. 
"Mulder..." She sighed. "How much does it cost to get into Graceland these 
days?" Surprised, he looked up at her. "What?" she said in mock indignation. 
"You can talk about running away, but I can't?" 

A strange mixture of emotions crossed Mulder's face, darkening his eyes. A short 
chuckle escaped him, and he shook his head slightly. 

"What?" Scully asked. 

"Nothing," Mulder said. "It's just-- I'm glad you're my partner, Scully. I 
wouldn't want anyone else here with me." 

She relaxed somewhat. "I wouldn't either," she said. 

"That's good," Mulder replied, "because one of us has to call Skinner. And I'm 
going to be busy calling Sheriff Smithfield and retrieving my messages." He 
picked up the phone and began dialing. 

**** 

She used her cell phone, since there was only one phone in the office, and she'd 
be damned if she wandered the halls, begging for the use of another phone. 

Skinner was glad to hear from her; although he never said anything specific, it 
showed in the tone of his voice. "How are things in Kentucky, Agent Scully?" 

She'd moved to one corner of the office, so their separate conversations 
wouldn't overlap, and she glanced up at Mulder, at the tension in his hunched 
shoulders, the white-knuckled grip he had on the phone. "We're no longer in 
Kentucky, sir," she said. 

Skinner waited, saying nothing, and she continued speaking. "After we arrived in 
Fox Chase, Agent Mulder and I learned that a young girl had been kidnapped in 
the town of Fox Hunt, Tennessee." 

Nine hundred miles away, the Assistant Director let out a sigh. "May I assume 
that is your new location?" 

"Yes, sir," she replied. "We are working toward finding Monty Propps and 
bringing him in." 

"You're sure it's him?" Skinner asked. 

Scully blinked. "I don't see who else it could be, sir." 

"All right. Have you contacted the Bureau in Memphis?" 

She shook her head, a gesture Skinner couldn't see. "No, sir, not yet. Although 
we may have to do that, very soon. We're finding the local authorities here to 
be...less than cooperative." 

Skinner grunted. "I'm sure." He paused, perhaps wondering if he should even ask 
his next question. "How is Agent Mulder?" 

Scully glanced up at her partner again. His posture hadn't changed much. "He's 
fine, sir. We're both under a lot of pressure, but it's nothing we can't 
handle." In other words, <Don't be a friend right now. Be my boss.> 

He got the message. "Let me know if you need anything," the AD said. 

"Thank you, sir." She hit the End button and put her phone away. 

**** 

Debbie's Kitchen 
12:38 p.m.

Whoever Debbie was, Scully mused over a forkful of cold chicken, she wasn't much 
of a cook. Fox Hunt's only sit-down restaurant was mostly empty, even during the 
lunch hour, which suited the federal agents just fine. 

"The guy in Raleigh said he'd have us a sketch by six tonight," Mulder said. He 
hadn't eaten much of his meal, choosing instead to push the food around on his 
plate until it had blended into a cold, brownish hash. 

"And Smithfield?" she asked, laying down her fork. 

"He'll get a copy faxed to him, too." Mulder drew a wavy line through the mush 
on his plate with the edge of his knife. "After lunch I want to go to the high 
school." 

Scully frowned. "Why?" 

"They have a radio station broadcasting from there," Mulder replied. "The 
students run it themselves. They do football games and that sort of thing." 

Her stomach clenched hard around the food she'd just eaten. "And?" 

"Propps must know I'm here by now," Mulder said. "I think it's time he and I 
finally got together and had a chat." 

"Over the radio," she said flatly, one eyebrow unconsciously lifting. 

Mulder shook his head. "In private. Just him and me. I'll extend the invitation, 
and hope he shows up." 

"Mulder, no!" Through her shock, part of her was completely unsurprised. She 
should have suspected Mulder would try something like this. 

"It's the only way, Scully. He's been doing this for over a year. He knows how 
to hide, how to get away with it. He'll do it again here, if we don't stop him." 


"So you're going to do, what? Just turn yourself over to him?" she asked 
caustically. 

Her partner looked up at her, and there was faint hurt in his eyes. "Do you 
really think so little of me, Scully?" 

Fear for his safety made her disregard caution. "No. I think more of him!" 
Mulder winced, but she ignored it. "This man is a killer, Mulder. You said it 
yourself -- he's been doing it for years. He's used to getting what he wants, 
and right now what he wants is to get *you*. If you give yourself up to him, 
he'll kill you like all his other victims, and then go on killing, without 
batting an eye." 

Her voice had risen throughout her tirade, and abruptly she realized that they 
could probably hear her back in the kitchen. She leaned in and lowered her 
voice. "Mulder, look. I know that you feel...trapped here...like there's no 
other solution. But there is. There has to be." She sat up. "I won't let you do 
this." 

Mulder stared at her. "It's not your decision," he said. 

"Whatever happened to not wanting anyone else here with you?" she asked, aware 
that she was aiming below the belt by throwing his words back at him, but not 
caring. "I think what you meant by that was that you knew you could ditch me, go 
off and do your own thing, no matter how reckless or dangerous, and I'd not stop 
you. Anyone else wouldn't let you do it." 

"Scully--" 

She stood up, interrupting him by the sudden motion. "Well, I'm telling you now, 
Mulder, that I won't stand back and let you do this. And if you persist in doing 
it, then you'll do it with someone else here, not me." 

Moving quickly, but with deliberate calm, she left the restaurant. 

**** 

12:57 p.m. 

Halfway to the hotel, she realized that by taking the car, she had effectively 
stranded Mulder at the restaurant. She took a perverse satisfaction in this. 
Maybe he would think twice about his scheme if he had to walk all the way to the 
high school. 

Frank Jessup's pickup still sat where it had been parked all night. But now it 
had been joined by a newer, black vehicle. And a man sat in front of her door. 
Scully got out of the car hesitantly. Her visitor was Quinn Presslee, Brandy 
Moser's older brother. He had not struck her as the voice of reason earlier, and 
she could think of nothing that would have made him change his attitude. 
Suddenly she wished she had not left the restaurant by herself. 

"Agent Scully?" Presslee had been lounging against the wall, and at her approach 
he straightened up. The day had turned fairly warm, but over his blue coveralls, 
he now wore a vinyl black jacket. 

"Yes." She made her voice brisk and professional. "What can I do for you?" 

Quinn hooked his thumbs in his belt. "I wondered if I might talk with you about 
this case of yours." 

She made no move toward her door. "Do you have any more information on it?" 

He frowned. "What does that matter?" 

"It matters a lot, Mr. Presslee," she said. "Under federal regulations, I am not 
allowed to discuss an ongoing case with anyone other than the parties involved." 


"Linda's my niece," Quinn growled. "I would say that makes me involved." 

She could stand out here and quibble over semantics, or she could let the man 
in. Scully pulled out her room key. "Yes, you are," she sighed. 

The big man followed her inside, rubbing his hands together as he did so. "Gonna 
storm tomorrow, they say," he said. He shut the door and looked at her 
expectantly. 

She did not pursue the small talk. "What can I do for you?" she repeated. 

"I had an idea about how to flush this guy out of hiding," Quinn said. "Wanted 
to run it by you first." 

She made a small gesture. "Go ahead." 

Presslee unzipped his jacket. "Well, it works like this. See, a guy like me..." 
He trailed off and rubbed a large hand across the lower half of his face. 
Earlier this morning he had been perfectly clean-shaven, but already he had the 
good start of a stubbly beard across his cheeks. 

"A guy like me, Agent Scully, don't have much. I've never been married. I lost 
my job a year ago when they put me on disability down at the factory. I used to 
be union president, but I lost that, too. So my sisters and their kids is all 
I've got. They're my family, and I love 'em like they was my own kids." 

With a speed Scully would not have thought the man capable of, he moved. One 
hand reached into his jacket, and a split second later, a .45 was pointed at 
her. "And I aim to see that nothing happens to that little girl, you 
understand?"

****