Scully stood frozen still, both hands in plain view, cursing the fact that she still wore her coat. For her to grab her own weapon would require an extra second to reach under that additional layer of clothing. Damn. "I understand you're upset, Mr. Presslee," she started. "Just call me Quinn," the man said. "I want you to slowly drop your gun to the floor. I know you're carrying one, even if I can't see it." She began reaching backward with one hand, and Quinn cocked his gun. "I don't want to hurt you," he said. "I don't hold with that. But I will kill you, if I think you're about to pull a fast one on me. You're not gonna pull a fast one, are you?" Scully gritted her teeth and shook her head. "No." "Good. Now go on, move slowly. Just put it on the floor, then step over here." He moved toward the chair in the corner of the room. Scully did as he ordered, moving as slowly as possible. Maybe Mulder had asked for help from some diner at the restaurant. Maybe someone had finally let go of their resentment and anger and unbent enough to give him a ride. "What are you going to do to me?" she asked quietly. "Nothin'. I don't hurt women. There are some sick guys out there who do, but I'm not one of 'em. That's not how I was raised." Presslee gestured with the gun. "Now go sit in the chair. Put your hands behind you." She did so reluctantly, eyes on the weapon aimed at her. When Quinn approached, she tensed slightly, gauging how hard she would have to hit him to knock him down. "Don't you be pulling a fast one," he warned. "I told you, I'll kill you if I have to. My little niece comes first here. Not you, not that skinny fellow you're working with, not the Sheriff. Just my little Linda." He spoke the words with quiet conviction, and Scully knew he believed every word of it. He would shoot her if she tried to escape; he would later mourn the fact to his buddies over a beer in the local bar, but he would still do it. She held still as he looped thin clothesline around her wrists, then attached them to the back of the chair. "Where's he at?" Quinn asked. "Who?" she replied, although she knew perfectly well. Presslee slapped her. "Don't smart off, woman. I know you know who I'm talking about." There was blood on her lip, and in her mouth, coppery and slick. "I thought you didn't hurt women," she said, tensing slightly in anticipation of another blow. "That's right," Quinn agreed. "But I don't let my women smart off to me, either. Now answer my question." "I don't know," she said. Quinn raised his hand again, and she added hastily, "I left him back at the restaurant. I don't know where he's going from there." Presslee frowned. "Debbie's?" Scully nodded. "Yes." She paused. "What do you want with us?" "I can't tell you that," Quinn said. He mimicked her. "Fed-your-al reg-you-la-shuns." Scully pressed her lips together in frustrated anger. Presslee approached, and she reared back in the chair as one hand suddenly dove under her coat. "Don't!" she cried. "Hush up," Quinn said casually. "I'm not trying to feel you up. I just wanta find your phone." His hand moved across her ribcage, and down to her hip, then bumped the cell phone in her pocket. As he removed his hand, his fingers brushed the underside of her breast, and a thin smile crossed the man's face. Humilation reddened Scully's cheeks, and she sat stock still as Quinn turned her phone over, figuring out how to work it. Finally he hit the Power button, and held it out. "I want you to call Agent Mulder." She lifted her chin. "No." Presslee slapped her again. She bit her bloodied lip to keep from crying out; the man's hands were incredibly strong. "I'm not gonna ask you again. Call Agent Mulder." "Why?" she asked, desperate to make the man talk. The longer she could stall him, the better the odds that Mulder would arrive on his own. "What do you want with us?" Presslee squinted at the phone, then pushed Speed Dial #1. As Mulder's name came up on the display, he smiled thinly again. "I'm gonna press this here Send button," he told her. "And when I do, you're going to talk to Agent Mulder. You're going to tell him to come meet you here." He pressed the barrel of his gun into her temple. "And if you don't, I'll shoot you and then I'll go find him anyway. So what's it gonna be?" She had no choice. "Call him," she ground out from clenched teeth. Quinn hit Send, and held the phone to her ear. The gun dug into the soft skin of her temple, a none-too subtle threat. "Mulder." He sounded slightly out of breath, and Scully's heart sank. Was he walking somewhere? "Mulder, it's me," she began, using her usual greeting. He seemed unsure of what to expect. "Where are you?" he finally asked. "I'm back at the hotel." The .45 pressed into her flesh, bringing tears of pain to her eyes. "I need for you to come back here. I need to talk to you, Fox." She held her breath and waited. Mulder didn't answer for a second. "Scully, is everything all right?" "Sure," she answered, too brightly. "I'll see you soon." Presslee took the phone away and turned it off. "Nice," he grunted. He tossed the phone onto the floor, then stomped on it with a huge yellow work boot. Plastic splintered under his foot, and computer innards splattered across the carpet. "What are you going to do?" she asked. Now that she had spoken with Mulder, she felt strangely calm. Her use of his first name had almost certainly tipped him off that something wasn't right; he would arrive here expecting the worst, prepared for anything. "Hush," Quinn ordered again. He took a red bandanna out of his pocket and before she could jerk away, tied it over her mouth. "I can't have you hollering away in here," he said, almost apologetically. Scully stared at him with wide eyes as he strode over to the phone on the nightstand, and yanked the cord from the wall. He walked back to her and tested the rope tied around her wrists. Satisfied that she wasn't going anywhere, he picked up her gun and the key to her room. At the door, he turned around. "I'm sorry to do this to you, but I gotta get my little girl back. One day, you'll have kids of your own, and then you'll understand." The warming March wind momentarily swept into the room as he opened the door, then it closed behind him and she was all alone. **** 1:13 p.m. She had called him Fox. He had not stayed long at the restaurant after she'd left, just enough to settle the bill. He had not held out any hopes of getting a ride from someone, so he had set off along the road, walking toward the police station. He assumed Scully had gone back there. But she had not. She had gone to the hotel, she had phoned him, and she had called him Fox. Scully, who had never tried to use his given name since a dark night on the Eugene Tooms case, had called him Fox. Mulder quickened his pace. Something had to be wrong. He couldn't think of what, and truthfully, it didn't matter. Scully had told him to come, so he would. An old Toyota was coming down the stretch of highway, and Mulder stepped out into the road, badge held high. He stood on the balls of his feet, ready to run if it appeared the driver wasn't slowing, but instead taking his chance to rid the town of a pesky FBI agent. The driver of the car turned out to be a woman, bleached blond and chewing gum. A sticky, screaming three-year old was strapped into a car seat behind her. "What?" she asked, eyes darting around anxiously. Mulder trotted around the car to the passenger side. "I need you to take me to the Rest Inn," he said, yanking open the door. The woman snorted. "I don't have to," she said. "I know you can't commandeer my vehicle. That only happens in Hollywood." As if agreeing, the toddler in the back let out a particularly piercing shriek. Mulder slammed the door shut as hard as he could, out of patience with these people. "I'm not commandeering your vehicle," he said angrily. "I'm *ordering* you to take me to the Rest Inn. And if you don't, I will arrest you for obstruction of justice, and then you can bet your ass I will take your car. Is that understood?" The woman stared at him, slack-jawed, the wad of pink gum in her mouth clearly visible. Finally she swallowed hard, and put the car in Drive again. "Asshole," she muttered under her breath. Mulder closed his eyes and let that one slide. **** Rest Inn 1:24 p.m. The brat in the back didn't stop squalling at all, until the very moment when the car came to a halt in the Rest Inn parking lot. Mulder squinted at the mother through a pounding headache, and wondered if he should investigate her and her child as having a psychic link; surely the two of them had engineered this whole thing. He got out of the car, ignoring the woman as she flipped him the bird when she didn't think he noticed, ignoring the way the toddler waved bye-bye. None of it mattered; it was already fading to the back of his mind. The car they had borrowed from Sheriff Smithfield in Kentucky was parked in the lot, down a few spaces from Room 14, the new accommodations Scully had moved to after the rock incident. Mulder himself was in Room 15, right beside an ancient Coke machine. Both doors were closed. There was a black pickup in the lot now too, that hadn't been there this morning. It looked like the one he'd seen parked at the curb of the Moser's house, the truck he assumed belonged to Quinn Presslee. Was Presslee here? Had he come forth with information on the case? Or had he come to intimidate them? Mulder walked toward Room 14, one hand hovering over his hip, ready to pull out his weapon. In this town, it didn't pay to take any chances. "Scully?" He put his ear to the door, but heard nothing. Moving two feet to his right, he knocked on the door to his own room. "Scully, you in there?" He was reaching for his room key when he heard a faint thump from inside Scully's room. Forgetting the key, he pulled his weapon. "Scully?" He tried turning the doorknob, but it didn't budge. "Scully, can you hear me?" That faint thumping noise sounded again, and Mulder turned to the side, ready to throw himself against the door. As he did so, someone came toward him from around the Coke machine. Startled, he looked up, directly into Quinn Presslee's face. It happened incredibly fast. The big man grabbed his wrist, squeezing and yanking down. The gun fell from his suddenly nerveless fingers, clattering on the cement sidewalk. He started to bring up his other hand, and Quinn seized it and pivoted on one foot, dragging Mulder behind him. The result was Presslee made a neat turn, while Mulder stumbled around in a large circle, stopping only when he came face-first into contact with the brick wall between Room 14 and 15. Quinn let go of his wrists, and he slumped to the ground, already unconscious. **** Room 14 1:26 p.m. Scully sat frozen in silence, straining to hear something, anything. Mulder had called her name, and she had managed to stand up awkwardly in the chair, then slam the legs down onto the floor. He had seemed to hear her, for he had called out to her again. Then there had been a loud thud against the wall, enough to startle her. Then nothing. She flexed her legs and managed to get to her feet again, bent over at the waist, the weight of the chair pulling painfully at her bound wrists. She took a halting step forward, then another, before having to sit down again. The effort left her panting heavily, and she almost missed the sound of a car engine starting. Wide-eyed, she looked up toward the window, wishing the drapes weren't pulled, that she could see. The sound grew closer, then a car door slammed, while the engine was left on idle. After a minute, another door opened, then was closed as well. The engine swelled as the vehicle was put in drive, then faded into silence as the truck pulled away. Oh yes. Truck. She knew who had just left. Quinn Presslee. And he had Mulder with him. Who needed to be able to see, when she could piece together what had happened just from the sounds from outside. Presslee had Mulder, and until she could get out of this room, no one would know, no one would help. Steeling herself, Scully rose to her feet again and started on the long journey to the door. **** Rhythmic rocking woke him, that of a vehicle in motion. There was a high-pitched screaming noise in his head...that little kid? No, that couldn't be right...he'd gotten out of that car, and there had been closed doors, and Quinn Presslee, and a brick wall coming closer and closer...He groaned, and tried to open his eyes. "Not yet, you don't," a voice said, then something heavy struck the back of his head, sending him back into oblivion. **** 2:27 p.m. An hour, that's how long it took. Slightly more than one hour elapsed before she reached the door, and at the end of those sixty minutes, she was drenched in sweat and blood, sick to her stomach at the thought of those wasted seconds, struggling not to pass out. Feebly she kicked at the door, hammering her heels against it. The bandanna had slipped from around her mouth as the sweat had poured down her face, and she shouted as loud as she could. Blood slicked her wrists and hands from where the clothesline had bit into her skin. Each painful step forward had put all the chair's weight on that tender flesh, until she had been whimpering under the gag, heedless of who might hear her. And dear God, there had to be somebody who would hear her. There had to be. **** Time Unknown Location Unknown Waking up this time was much worse. He was being lifted, carried through the air by two thick arms, then dropped to the ground. Black agony bolted through his head, and he moaned, fighting to maintain the tenuous hold he had on consciousness. "So you're awake, huh?" A male voice spoke from somewhere above him. Hands stripped off his suit coat, then he was turned over by a boot prodding at his ribs. "Hold still now," the man said. Mulder tried opening his eyes and was rewarded by another blast of pain. A deep groan was wrung from him, and he didn't move as his wrists were yanked behind him, then manacled together with his own cuffs. Strong hands gripped his arms and pulled him upright. The sudden change in posture hurt too much, and he grayed out momentarily, only to be brought wide awake again by sudden sharp pain in his shoulders. "Better stand up," the voice warned. Mulder hastened to get his feet under him, and when he did, the pain lessened. "You keep standing there, and you'll be fine," the man said. Mulder recognized his voice now -- it was Quinn Presslee. "Me and my buddies come here sometimes when we go hunting, and I designed that shelf myself. You're hooked to it nicely, and as long as you stand there nice and quiet like, you'll be fine. But you don't want to be falling down or nothing, or you'll hurt yourself. You got it?" What...? It hurt too much to even think. He started to let go again, to give in to the darkness pressing in so close. His knees buckled and he slid downwards, only to be jerked up short by pain in his wrists and shoulders. He moaned, feet scrambling to push himself upright again. Presslee grunted. "You learn real quick. That's good." Mulder took a deep breath and forced his eyes open. The right one didn't want to open at all, glued shut by blood and pain. Blurrily, he found Quinn and focused on the man. "What do you want?" The sentence came out as a weak croak. A chair creaked as Quinn's heavy bulk settled into it. "Now, I expect you're wondering what this is all about, aren't you, Agent Mulder?" Mulder let his eyes close again. It hurt just to try and see. The entire right side of his face was ablaze with pain; in his mind's eye he kept seeing that brick wall coming closer and closer, and wondered if he'd imagined hearing the snap of breaking bone before falling unconscious. "Well, I'm gonna tell you," Presslee said. "I don't hold with keeping people in the dark on things that are important to them. None of this 'federal reg-you-la-shuns' bullshit from me." Federal regulations. It was just the sort of thing Scully would say. He opened his eyes again, even the reluctant right one. "What did...you do...to my partner?" he gasped. "Nothin'," Quinn said. "She's just fine. Don't worry about her. What you need to be worrying about is how we get in touch with this maniac who's kidnapped my niece." It was unbelievable. His scheme to contact Monty Propps hadn't been necessary, after all. It seemed all he had had to do was wait for Quinn Presslee to show up. The irony struck Mulder has amazingly funny, and a short chuckling sound escaped him. "You read my mind," he said. "What's that?" Quinn asked suspiciously. Mulder shut his eyes again; it hurt to talk. "I was thinking of doing the same thing," he said, moving his lips as little as possible. "Only I hadn't planned on doing it this way." He let his head fall back, and then jerked upright again as something hard and sharp dug into his skull. Presslee said, "You don't want to be moving around there, Agent Mulder. That shelf is just a row of hooks, up and down. I built that for me and my buddies, as a place to hang our hats and wet coats and our gear, when we was out hunting. I got you connected to one of those hooks, but there's plenty more above and below it. So don't be wiggling around a whole lot. You got me?" Mulder swallowed. "Yeah," he said. "Now, the way I figure it, this fellow who's got my Linda is really after you, not her. All we need to do is let him know that I've got you, and he'll come for you. Then we can do an even exchange. You for Linda. How's that sound?" Incredulous, Mulder stared at Quinn. "You want my advice on a plan where I'm the sacrificial lamb?" he asked in disbelief. Presslee's face darkened in anger. "Don't make fun of me, dammit. I'm not stupid. I know this ain't the best way to do this, but I didn't see any other choice. That's my niece he's got! Do you think I can stand back and let him hurt her?" The man got up from his chair and began pacing the small room. "Let me ask you, Mr. Mulder. What the hell would you do, if you were me? What would you do?" There was nothing he could say to that. Mulder stayed silent and eventually Quinn sat back down, calm again. "All right," he said. "That's what I thought. Now tell me, how do we reach this guy?" **** Rest Inn Room 14 6:45 p.m. Under her hand, Mulder's blood continued to pour from the wound, hot and bright arterial red. Already a thin line trailed from the corner of his mouth. Soon he'd start coughing, and the internal hemorrhaging would increase rapidly. "They better know. They damn well better figure it out," the gunman said. "Look," she said desperately. "Just walk in front of the window, and show them." Mulder's eyes opened briefly, glassy with pain and impending death. She thought he was trying to find her, and she stroked his cheek gently. "You want to get me killed!" Bernard shouted. Tears filled her eyes. "I just want everyone to live," she whispered. The flow of blood against her palm was slowing, as there was nothing left to give. Mulder's eyes were closed now, not to re-open. "You're in control here. And it doesn't have to end this way." The SWAT team was coming, and Bernard gave her a look of infinite sadness. "Yeah it does," he said. Her scream woke her up with a jerk. Cramped muscles cried out with pain and she slumped back in the chair with a moan. Four hours now in this chair, and Scully was beginning to think she'd spend the rest of her life in this room. Some fine summer day in June, when Frank Jessup finally got around to renting out all his rooms, he'd open it up to clean it and find her rotting corpse, still tied to the orange plastic chair that came with the room. No, dammit! She couldn't think like that. It was dark out now, and with no lights on around her, it was too easy to succumb to hopelessness. She had to be positive. Wearily, she began kicking at the door again, and shouting for help. Someone had to come, someone had to hear her. Nearly ten minutes later, sudden light bathed the room as a car pulled up. Scully intensified her screams and battered the door as hard as she could. She was rewarded by finally hearing a voice on the other side of the door. "Ma'am? Are you all right?" "No!" she shouted. "I'm locked in! Get me out of here!" "Agent Scully?" It was Sheriff Bedford, she realized with surprise. "Yes!" she cried. "Now get me out of here!" Five minutes later, Frank Jessup opened the door with his master key. He reached in and turned the light on. Scully cringed back from the onslaught of light, and heard both Jessup and the sheriff gasp. "What the hell happened here?" Bedford demanded. He strode forward, further squashing the remains of her cell phone, then bent down behind the chair. "Quinn Presslee happened," she said angrily. "He attacked me, then he kidnapped my partner. He's got some--" "Wait a minute," Bedford said. "He did *what*?" The ropes finally parted from her wrists, and Scully pulled them forward with a grateful sigh. The cuts there had stopped bleeding, but they still needed medical attention. She stayed seated, afraid to try to stand up and fall in front of these men. "Quinn Presslee attacked me. He told me he had an idea on how to get his niece back. He made me call my partner, and when Agent Mulder arrived, he attacked him, too." "Did you see this?" Bedford asked. "No," Scully said in exasperation. "But I heard it. My partner was outside that door, Sheriff Bedford. The fact that he has not yet come inside leads me to believe that he's no longer there." Bedford's eyes narrowed at her sarcasm. "Well," he said. "I guess that's something we'll have to look into." He gave her a long stare. "I think first we need to get you to a doctor, Miss Scully." One hand lifted and gestured to her face. "Looks like he roughed you up some." Scully brushed his hand away. "I'll be fine," she said. "I just need some rest and some water, is all." In the doorway, Frank Jessup said, "I got a first aid kit in the office, if you want it, Agent Scully." She gave him a grateful look. "Thank you, Mr. Jessup. That would be wonderful." Bedford left with Jessup. "I'll head out to the Moser's. See if they know anything about Quinn's whereabouts." Scully gained her feet, and stood, swaying. "No. You wait for me," she commanded. The sheriff stared at her, then shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said. "I'll be in the office, waiting for you." **** 112 Elm Street 7:28 p.m. Brandy and Douglas Moser were stunned when they heard what Quinn had done. Confronted with the evidence -- Quinn's truck had been seen in the hotel parking lot, the bruises on Scully, a scrape of blood on the wall of the hotel -- they were speechless. "I can't believe he'd do this," Brandy Moser finally said. Scully glared at them. Her wrists were bandaged, and a purple bruise was forming along her jaw from where Presslee had struck her. She was hungry and in pain, and in no mood to take any crap from anybody. "You better believe it," she spat. "Now tell us where he might have gone." Douglas Moser took offense to the way his wife was being treated. "Don't yell at her," he said angrily. "At least Quinn's out there, trying to do something about this. I don't see you guys out there finding this guy." Sheriff Bedford cleared his throat. He had refused to sit, and stood in the kitchen doorway, thumbs in his belt, rocking back and forth on his heels. He seemed perturbed by this latest turn of events, but was doing a good job of not showing it. Only to Scully had he expressed some misgivings. "Ol' Quinn, he's not been quite right since he lost his job," the sheriff had told her, on the way to the Moser's house. "What do you mean?" she'd asked. "Quinn was a welder, and a damn good one at that. He's got all sorts of burn scars on his hands to prove it, too. But he hurt his back one day, and the factory cut him loose, rather than keep him on part-time. They pay him disability, but he's still pissed about it. When it first happened, he threatened to blow the factory up, but he calmed down pretty quick after I came and had a talk with him." Bedford had given her a piercing look. "Quinn's the kind of guy who'll solve a problem with violence, every time. It's the only way he knows. I think maybe you know that now, too." Since then the sheriff had been quiet, but Scully had not forgotten his words. "Mr. Moser, I'm sorry if I've offended you," she said, striving hard for an even tone of voice. "But already today I've been assaulted by Mr. Presslee, and my partner has been hurt and kidnapped. So you can understand that I'm just a little on edge here." Moser inclined his head stiffly. "I don't know where he'd be," Brandy said. "He's only got his little house, out on Kirby Road. He doesn't have any other family. You might ask my sister, Lea." "We've got an officer out there now," Bedford said. "You can't think of anywhere else he might go?" Scully asked. She clenched her hands into fists in her lap, ignoring the pain as the flesh around her cut wrists was pulled taut. "No ma'am, I can't," Brandy said. Her eyes hardened, and Scully realized this interview was over. **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 7:32 p.m. He couldn't be sure, but Mulder thought Presslee had been gone for four hours now. He had stayed around for a while, talking about the best ways to get Monty Propps' attention, then left, mumbling about making things right. He had come back almost an hour later, with grocery bags of food and clothing, but had left almost immediately. He had not been back since. Time had a way of stretching out when you were in pain, Mulder realized. Second became hours, minutes became years, and an hour was a century. His right cheekbone was broken, and that side of his face was swollen and bruised. Dried blood from cuts just over his eye and on his cheek made it difficult to see. Twice now he'd been unable to prevent his knees from buckling, and his aborted downward plunges had dug the steel handcuffs deep into his wrists. He'd discovered that he could bear to lean back against the hooks in the shelf for a little while, before their sharp points started to sink into his flesh, and he had to stand erect again. But the effort of standing straight was wearing on him, and he found himself leaning backwards more and more often as the night continued. Despite Quinn's reassuring words, he worried about Scully. What had happened to her? Over and over he replayed their short phone conversation in his head. She had not sounded hurt, but that didn't mean anything. Presslee could have hurt her after she hung up. She could be injured, or dead, even. No, not dead. He had heard those thumps in the hotel room, just before Presslee had attacked. He had to remember that. Dead people didn't thump. Scully was alive, and he had to hold on to that. She would be looking for him, and probably aware of Presslee's plan. She would be doing everything she could to stop Quinn. Presslee had turned the lights off when he'd left the last time, and the darkness of the cabin was absolute. Mulder let his head fall forward and concentrated on standing. **** Fox Hunt Police Station 8:08 p.m. As they entered the building, a young officer immediately accosted them. It was the same man, Scully saw, who had been talking to Rowland earlier that morning, who had witnessed their silent battle of wills. "Sheriff! You got a fax from North Carolina! It's that guy!" The officer waved a piece of paper around, and Bedford had to literally grab it from the young man's hand. "Thank you, Keith," Bedford said, his voice heavy with sarcasm. "Thank *you*, sir!" the officer said. He did a smart about-face in the hallway and went back the way he had come. Scully followed the sheriff back into his office, and went to stand at his side. She had only seen Monty Propps in his mug shots, and although she knew the sketch wouldn't be entirely accurate, it would still be her first good look at the man. The sketch showed a man who looked like he'd stepped off a college campus. Thin and small, he wore glasses and had dark hair with a receding hairline. He looked utterly harmless, the kind of man who one would meet in a library or a grocery store buying broccoli. Scully stared at the drawing, committing it to memory. Without moving her eyes from the paper, she said, "Get this out. I want a copy nailed to every telephone pole in town. I want it on the front page of the newspaper. I want it broadcast on TV. I want people to see this man, what he looks like. Someone might have seen him last week, and not known who he was. Someone might recognize him now." Bedford nodded. "Sure don't look like a killer," he remarked. He shook his head. "Then again, I've seen all types. You never know who will be a killer, do you?" Scully looked up at the man. "No, you don't," she said carefully. "Sheriff, I know you are going to focus your efforts on finding this man, but I am going to need some help in finding my partner." Bedford dropped his gaze. "Agent Scully, this here's a small town. I've got a small force, and we're already stretched thin enough as it is." He gave her a deprecating glance. "Fact is, for three years now I've been trying to squeeze more money out of the town treasury for my budget, so I can get some new officers. And every year--" "I don't want to hear your sad history, or your excuses," Scully snapped. "There is a federal agent out there, who is hurt and in danger. Do you mean to tell me that you won't spare any men to help find that agent?" The sheriff met her eyes, and the aw-shucks look faded, replaced by cold cunning. "Agent Scully, you gotta understand something. Probably half this town thinks Quinn Presslee's done the right thing by taking matters into his own hands. And of those half, I suspect none of them would shed a tear if your partner were to die." He crossed his arms, rocked back on his heels. "Now, I'd be happy to lend you an officer to help, but I gotta tell you, I don't know just how much help he'd really be to you. If you catch my drift." Scully was shocked speechless. It was one thing to hold a grudge, to be angry with someone for being responsible for the kidnapping of an innocent little girl. She could understand that, much as she despised it. But to deliberately turn your back on a fellow human being in danger... "Fine," she said icily. "I appreciate all the help you've given us so far, Sheriff Bedford. I will be sure to commend you and your officers to the Department of Justice." Bedford frowned, and she drew herself up to her full height, sadly aware that even so, she was still over a foot shorter than the sheriff. "As a federal officer, it is my reluctant duty to inform you that I will no longer be helping your investigation, Sheriff Bedford. You and your men are on your own." Stiffly she bowed her head once, then turned around and left the station. **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 8:42 p.m. Presslee stumbled as he entered the cabin, and muttered a string of curses. He hit the light switch with one large hand, and watery yellow light pierced the gloom. Against the wall, Mulder shut his eyes from even that weak glow. "All right," Presslee said. He sat in the chair again. "I've done my part. Now all we do is wait." Mulder opened his eyes and stared at him dully. Most of Quinn's words washed over him and made no impression, but he did hear and understand the word "wait". The tiny hope that Presslee's arrival had sparked died a quick death then. Quinn leaned forward, planting his elbows on his knees. "Didja hear what I said?" he asked, squinting at his prisoner. "I got the word out on the streets," he said. "I even got ol' Bud Williams down at the high school to get a word out on the radio for me. Bud and me go way back, you know. We was in school together, and all that." None of it made any sense to Mulder. He was beyond caring. The only things left in his world were pain and the need to stand up. There wasn't room for anything else. Presslee stood up, knees cracking. "I'm gonna be staying here tonight. I don't know how long this guy will take 'fore he shows up. But I figure, better safe than sorry, you know?" He went into the far corner of the room. A rust-stained sink and battered white refrigerator stood against the wall; a hot plate sat on a Formica counter so warped it appeared to ripple. "I guess you must be thirsty," Quinn said. He turned the faucet on and let the water run for a while, to get the dirt and rust out. From across the room, Mulder stared at that precious water running down the drain and wanted to cry. Seeing the water had admitted a third thing into the narrow scope of his world: thirst. Presslee finally filled a Dixie cup with water and carried it over to Mulder. "Drink it slowly now," Quinn warned "I don't want you getting sick all over ya'self." He tipped the cup, and Mulder opened his mouth, sucking greedily at the few drops Quinn allowed him. The parched tissues of his throat cried out at the liquid, and begged for more. Presslee lowered the cup and drained the rest himself. Mulder watched him drink and could not stop himself. "More, please," he croaked. Quinn shook his head. "Nuh-uh." He crushed the cup in one huge fist. He went over to the door and locked it, then dropped the cup in a trash can by the door. He unrolled a navy blue sleeping bag, and toed off his boots, setting them carefully at the foot of his makeshift bed. Yawning, the big man walked over to the door and hit the light switch. In the dark, he fumbled his way to the sleeping bag and crawled in. He yawned again and said, "You just go on to sleep now. You and me, we got a busy day tomorrow." Within minutes, he was snoring. Mulder closed his eyes and hoped he could remember not to lean backwards for too long. **** Rest Inn Room 15 11:13 p.m. The Coke was warm and flat by now, but Scully took a sip anyway. She needed the caffeine, if she was to stay up. She sat at the table in Mulder's hotel room; she had been too spooked to stay her in own room, and Frank Jessup had obligingly given her the key to this one. Spread around her was the accumulated paperwork this case had generated. The Nashville Bureau office was running a background check on Quinn Presslee. She had given them the fax number of the Rest Inn, rather than that of the police station. Other information had been faxed to her earlier in the evening, but it was still depressingly sparse. Right now she was reading his work record from the factory, which was nearly flawless until his back injury. A co-worker had been carrying some welding face masks, and not paying attention to where he was walking. He'd tripped over a ladder, toppling the equipment onto two men; Quinn Presslee had been one of them. The accident had been over a year ago. Since then, Presslee had divided his time between living off his disability pay, and living off his sisters. Lea Presslee had been as unhelpful as her sister. Divorced at age 26, and the mother of a six-year old boy, she was jaded and bitter far beyond her years. She didn't know where Quinn could be, and furthermore, she said, even if she did she wouldn't tell. Unfortunately, Scully knew Lea's attitude was the prevailing one in town. People were proud of Quinn for taking action; he showed the gumption most of them lacked, but wished they had. Linda Moser was known as a bright, loving little girl; FBI Agent Fox Mulder was just the man responsible for her kidnapping. When it came to feeling compassion for a victim, there was no comparison. A huge yawn cracked her jaws, making her wince in pain. The words on the page blurred before her. She rubbed her eyes and started reading through Presslee's hospital records from the accident. Somewhere, in this mountain of paper, there had to be one small nugget of important information. Somewhere, there had to be the one clue that would point her in the right direction. Somewhere, her partner was waiting for her to find him. **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin Time Unknown "Fox." He laughed. "No..I even made my parents call me Mulder." It was a blatant lie, but she wouldn't know that. "I wouldn't put myself on the line for anybody but you," Scully said. She smiled, and he returned the gesture, feeling safe and relaxed. Her blue eyes grew very serious. "I need to talk to you, Fox." Sudden fear blossomed within him. "No," he said, "I can't, Scully. No." If he listened to her, if he went to the hotel, it would all happen again, the pain, that brick wall, the pain...no. Scully merely stared at him solemnly. "I need to talk to you," she repeated. Against his will, his feet began moving. "No," he moaned in protest. But his feet refused to obey. They slid out, and suddenly he was falling, down and down and down, until the blazing agony in his shoulders and arms became unbearable and he was screaming, trying futilely to stand again, stand and stop the pain, just stand... "Goddammit, shut up!" A fist came flying out of the dark, and Mulder jerked fully awake at the impact, horribly aware of who and where he was. He was still sliding downward, his arms slowly being torn from their sockets, his wrists nearly touching his collar as they were pulled further and further upwards. Frantically he scrambled to stand up straight, tasting blood in his mouth from the blow, his face a red mask of pain. "Jesus H. Christ," Quinn Presslee swore sharply. "What the hell are you trying to do, huh?" He thumped back to his sleeping bag, muttering curses under his breath. "Please," Mulder whispered. "I can't--I can't stand like this anymore. Please just let me down." "Nope." Quinn yawned. "I know all about you feds, and that hand-to-hand combat you all know. No, you're staying put." Desperation gave him strength to shout. "I can't even stand up here! What do you think I'm going to do to you?" Presslee didn't reply. "Please, Quinn," Mulder said. "I'm begging you. Is that what you want to hear? I'm begging you, please, just let me down." "What I want," Quinn growled, "is for you to shut the fuck up, or *I* will shut you up. Is that what *you* want?" The sleeping bag rustled as he rolled over. Oh God... There was no point in further humiliating himself. The rush of adrenaline-fueled anger left as quickly as it had come, and all the pain came crashing back, sapping his strength. Mulder hung his head and choked back a helpless sob. **** Saturday, March 6, 1999 Fox Hunt, Tennessee The dawn was barely perceptible. Gray storm clouds loomed on the western horizon, combatting the pearly new light in the east. The weathermen warned commuters to take their umbrellas to work today, and be sure to dress the kiddies in their raincoats. It was going to storm today, and bad. **** 7:36 a.m. 112 Elm Street Just before dawn, Scully had finally managed to get some sleep. She'd lain sprawled across the table, her head pillowed by Quinn Presslee's records. She'd dreamed of the big man, his hand coming toward her face over and over, dispassionately hitting and hitting. She'd woken with a jolt, her neck cramped and aching, eyes swollen and hot. Unable to fall back asleep, she'd decided to pay the Mosers another visit. Maybe in the first light of a new day, they'd be more cooperative. She'd arrived as Douglas Moser was leaving for work, putting in some Saturday overtime to compensate for the hours he'd missed on Thursday and Friday. Brandy had greeted her and now the two women sat in the kitchen, sipping weak coffee. "Doug and me," Brandy said, "we got a special savings account down at the bank. Every month we put some of Doug's paycheck in it. It's to pay for Linda to go off to college. Some months it's harder to get by, but we never miss a deposit in that account." The woman's lower lip trembled briefly, then her mouth hardened. "Linda's going to go to college. Hardly anyone from this shitty little town ever leaves, ever gets away, but my Linda will. She's smart enough. She's going to go away, and I hope she never comes back." Scully gripped her coffee mug. "I had a daughter once," she said softly. Brandy looked up at her, wide-eyed. "What happened?" she whispered. Usually when she thought of Emily, Scully kept herself under a tight rein. Now, however, things were different. She'd never use her dead daughter for personal gain, but she would not deny herself her emotions this time. "She died." Brandy Moser's face softened. **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 6:48 a.m. Quinn Presslee woke up early, as he always did. He washed up in the cracked sink in the corner, then dressed in a clean T-shirt and the same overalls he'd worn yesterday. He made himself some eggs for breakfast, whistling tunelessly as the yolks sizzled in the frying pan. When they were done, he sat at the table and ate. **** 112 Elm Street 7:50 a.m. "What happened to your little girl?" Linda Moser's mother asked. Scully drew a deep breath and tried not to hate herself for the tears running down her face. "She got sick. The doctors couldn't do anything for her." "I'm sorry," Brandy said. The treacherous tears receded, and Scully wiped them away, wincing as her fingers touched the bruise on the side of her face. She sipped at her coffee, grateful for the steadiness in her hands. "Brandy, I don't want you to suffer the same loss that I did. I don't want anyone to ever go through that, not if I can help it." She reached out and laid her hand atop the other woman's. "And I *can* help it, this time. Let me help you, Brandy." The young mother nodded through her tears. "Then help me," Scully urged. "Help me find my partner." **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 7:55 a.m. The knock on the door was faint, and Presslee almost missed it. Then it came again and a vicious smile crossed his face. He threw a glance at his semi-conscious captive. "What did I tell you?" he asked. **** 112 Elm Street 7:58 a.m. "I want to help you," Brandy said, "but..." Her voice trailed off, and her eyes slid to the side. Her hand left Scully's grasp. "But what?" Scully asked. "If I help you find Quinn, I'll be the reason he goes to jail," the younger woman said. "Quinn's my only brother. He's looked after me all my life. I can't just turn my back on him now." A slight glint of defiance darkened her eyes. "Besides, at least he's out there doing something." Scully chewed at her lip and forced herself to stay calm. "I understand you wanting to protect your brother, Brandy. I know the feeling -- I have an older brother, too. I know how that is." She paused. "But Agent Mulder is the one who originally caught this man. He's the one who put him in jail the first time. And Agent Mulder is the best way of capturing this man a second time. If we don't find him first, we may never find the man who took your little girl." Scully lifted her coffee cup, then set it down. "Brandy, I know you don't want to hear this, but all those other little girls only lived for three days after being kidnapped. You realize today is day three for Linda. If we don't find her today, we won't find her alive at all." Brandy jerked as if slapped. She turned her head, staring blindly outside, at the empty swing set in the backyard. Scully waited, one foot tapping impatiently. Finally the other woman looked at her again. "Can your partner really find this man?" she asked. Scully stared her in the eye. "Yes," she said. **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 8:02 a.m. The first rumbles of thunder were on the air as Quinn opened the door to the cabin. The wind was freshening from the west, and he could smell rain. The man on the front porch was small and slender, with dark hair and glasses. He wore a brown jacket over a white shirt and jeans. He looked only a few years older than Quinn himself. His face was round, but his eyes were hard, deep set and dark brown. "You the man who's got my Linda?" Quinn asked. The man nodded. "I got someone you've been looking for," Presslee said, and opened the door wider. **** 112 Elm Street 8:15 a.m. Brandy made another pot of coffee, and poured a cup for herself and for Scully. "What will happen to Quinn?" she asked. Scully thought fast. "He'll probably be charged with two counts of assault on a federal officer," she said. "But if he cooperates with us, we might be able to drop the kidnapping charges." Brandy stared at her, brow furrowed. Scully leaned forward. "Brandy, kidnapping is a federal offense. It's also one of the few capital offenses. You can be executed for it. Do you understand what I mean when I say we could drop those charges?" The woman's eyes grew round. "You wouldn't kill him! He's just trying to help!" "We won't kill him," Scully replied curtly. She was running out of patience, but more than ever, she needed to be careful of what she said and did. Brandy was high-strung now, ready to bolt at a moment's notice. She had to keep the woman calm, keep her focused. "What's important here isn't what will happen to Quinn," she said. "What's important is getting your daughter back safely. Everything else is only secondary." "Not to me," Brandy said stubbornly, but her eyes wavered, and the hands gripping her mug trembled. "Where is Quinn?" Scully asked softly. **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 8:10 a.m. There were voices surrounding him. Some were talking, and one of them was whimpering, a soft sound with every other exhalation of breath. But the voices and the whimpers were far off, of no consequence; they couldn't reach him. There was pain out there, too. Bad pain. He didn't want to feel that, or hear those voices any clearer, so he hunkered down where he was and tried to make himself small. Maybe the pain would miss him that way, and pass right over him. Then one of the voices spoke in his ear, close and sinister. "Hello, Fox," the voice said. Reluctantly, Mulder opened his eyes and re-entered the world. **** 112 Elm Street 8:17 a.m. "I wish I knew," Brandy said, shaking her head. Scully got up from her chair; her disappointment was so keen she could not sit still. She paced the linoleum floor. "What do you mean, you don't know?" "I don't," Brandy said defensively. "It's not like he called, or anything. He knows you'll be looking for him." She was still protecting her brother, Scully realized. In two quick strides she crossed the kitchen and knelt in front of Brandy. "Listen to me," she cried. "Your brother will be fine! I give you my word on that. Nothing will happen to him. Just tell me where I can find my partner!" **** 8:21 a.m. Outside, it began to rain, softly at first, then with increasing violence. The wind grew, whipping the trees, bending them nearly in half before snapping them back. Thunder rumbled more insistently now, and on the horizon, the first strobes of lightning lit the sky. **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 8:25 a.m. Mulder was awake now, wide awake and terribly aware. Yet the pulsing agony of his body was pushed to the background. He was too shocked by what he saw. Presslee had done it. He had gotten Monty Propps to come. Propps stood in front of him, watching him the way a man would watch a football game on TV, half with amusement, and half with rapt attention. He seemed genuinely interested in what he saw. "Well?" Quinn could not stay in the background any longer. "I got him for you. Even roughed him up a bit for you, too, since I figured that's what you'd want." He made a sound that was supposed to be a self-deprecating cough. "So how 'bout it? How's about you giving me back my niece now? You take him and we'll call it even. How's that sound?" Propps blinked. "I think..." he said slowly. "Run," Mulder croaked, to Quinn. "He's going to kill you." Presslee frowned at him. Propps reached under his coat, a movement that Quinn could not see. He pulled out a gun and turned around, firing as he did so. The bullet caught Presslee high in the forehead, spinning him around as he fell to the ground, back arching and hands clawing at the air. He landed with a sick thud. For a grisly second his body continued to convulse, then he lay still. Mulder licked his lips as Propps put the gun back under his coat and turned back to face him. "What now?" he asked. Propps smiled, a mere thinning of his lips. His eyes didn't change at all. "Now," he said, "we talk." **** 112 Elm Street 8:28 a.m. Brandy Moser reacted to Scully's loss of control with one of her own. She leaped from her chair. "I don't care about your partner!" she shouted. "All I want is my little girl back!" "Then help me!" Scully cried. "Tell me where I can find your brother." She took a menacing step toward the blond woman. "If you don't, Brandy, your little girl dies. Is that something you want on your conscience for the rest of your life?" Brandy flinched and went white as a sheet. Tears spilled down her cheeks. She took a step backward, shaking her head. "I want my little girl," she wept. "Where's Quinn?" Scully asked, heartlessly refusing to give in to her urge to comfort the crying woman. Brandy bowed her head and wrapped her arms around herself. "I don't know," she sobbed. "He may be at the cabin he uses for hunting. That's the only place I can think of." "Where is it?" Scully demanded. "Out along the state route," Brandy said. "About half an hour west of here." Scully was out the door before she could finish speaking. **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 8:33 a.m. "I must say, of all the ways I'd pictured this moment, I never imagined it this way." Monty Propps seemed genuinely perplexed. He paced the floor in front of Mulder, hands clasped behind his back. "I don't know how to go on from here." "You could let me down, and we could discuss it over a game of Hearts," Mulder offered. Propps smiled again. "I rather prefer you where you are," he said. Mulder let his eyes close, and struggled to force his thoughts into order. "Where's Linda?" "Oh, she's fine," Propps said vaguely. "Don't worry about her." He stopped pacing and sat on the floor, Indian-style. "Actually, if you want to know, she's in my hotel room." It took a moment for the words to sink in. "Hotel?" he croaked. "That's right," Propps said. "Room 23, if I recall correctly." He cocked his head slightly. "I was delighted to learn you and Agent Scully had moved into the Rest Inn. It was a perfect opportunity. Linda and I moved in right beside you, later that night." He paused delicately. "After you changed rooms, that is." Mulder stared at the man in shock. "What?" Propps smiled thinly. "That fat sluggard who runs the place never goes into the rooms, unless he knows someone is going to use them." "How did you know that?" "I watched him. I learned. You can discover a lot about someone by watching and learning, Fox. I'm very good at it. After all, I had plenty of time to learn while I was in prison." He paused, chewed on his lip. "Most people are creatures of habit, Fox. They-- Oh, but of course, you must know that already. That big psychology degree you have gives you insight into everyone on this planet, doesn't it?" For a moment his eyes glinted with anger, the first real emotion he'd shown that morning, then it subsided. "No matter. Suffice it to say, I have been in Fox Hunt long enough to have watched and learned all I needed to know." Propps stood up. "And now I'm going to kill you, Fox. I hope you've learned something from all this." **** Fox Hunt Police Station 8:40 a.m. The station was on her way, or she would not have stopped there at all. Despite the urgency of the situation, she retained enough presence of mind to want more firearms and manpower at her back when she stormed Quinn Presslee's wooden shack. Sheriff Bedford was apologetic. "I'd love to help you, Agent Scully," he said. "Truly I would. But I've got a situation down on the south side of town. Lightning struck a strip mall out that a-way, and I've got a fire and potential looting problem down there." She pursed her lips. "Fine," she snapped. She was halfway out the door when Bedford called, "I know where Presslee's cabin is. As soon as I get this situation squared away, I'll come join you." **** Quinn Presslee's Hunting Cabin 8:45 a.m. The elements raged outside with a fury that only spring storms could summon. The wind howled through chinks in the walls of the cabin, and the lights flickered, then went out entirely. Overhead, clouds collided and the thunder of their meeting shook the earth. Lightning flashed again and again. Monty Propps stood in the center of the cabin, an oasis of calm. He held the gun on Mulder, but seemed disinclined to fire. In the gray half-light that filtered through the dirty windows, his expression was indiscernible. "You know, I never understood how you could do it," he mused. Mulder opened his eyes. "What?" "How you could do what you did," Propps said. Mulder shook his head painfully. "I don't understand." "See, you didn't even know me. You still don't know me, although you think you do. Yet you wrote this paper on me, and what you wrote got me arrested." Propps started pacing again, walking deliberately back and forth, three steps one way, three steps back the other direction. "Understand, I expected to be caught one day. I knew I wasn't invincible. But the way it happened!" The glimpse of anger he'd shown earlier returned. Propps stopped his pacing briefly, and pointed his finger at Mulder. "You didn't play fair." "I did what I had to do," Mulder returned. "Yes," Propps said. He began his walking again. "But while I went to jail, you got all the glory. You and your magic paper. You went on to become famous, the best damn profiler in the FBI." He threw a sidelong glance at Mulder. "I know all about you," he said. "You and your history at the Bureau. I know you could have gone all the way to the top, but instead you pissed it all away on some stupid UFO assignment, or something." "The X-Files," Mulder muttered, not sure why it mattered. "Whatever." Propps waved him off. "But don't you see? You rode my coattails to the top! You had it all, while I rotted away in prison, running for my life in the laundry room, praying to God I didn't drop the soap in the shower. "My life has been a very real one. But you, you've been living a lie all this time. You're a sham, Fox Mulder, a counterfeit. You're not real." Propps came to a halt, and his head cocked to the side again. "The thing is, I couldn't stop thinking about you, and what you did to me," he said. "As much as I wanted to, I couldn't stop. So I decided to get your attention." "By killing little girls," Mulder said wearily. "It seemed fitting, given what happened to your sister," Propps said. Enraged, Mulder tried to lunge forward, to wipe that smug smirk from his tormentor's face. The cuffs about his wrists yanked him up short, and he fell against the wall. One of the hooks in the shelf impaled his lower back, and he jerked forward reflexively, needing to get that awful thing out of his body. Skin and muscle were torn apart; the pain was terrible, and he cried out hoarsely. Monty Propps smiled again, and this time it reached his eyes. "Oh dear," he said. **** 9:00 a.m. The storm showed no signs of abating, and Scully was forced to drive slowly. The wipers were useless against the torrential downpour, and she drove with her window down and her head out in the rain. Her hair was plastered to her skull, and the bruise on her face stood out starkly against her pallor. The cabin was two miles from the county line, Bedford had told her. The odometer now said she should be getting close, and Scully slowed the car to a crawl, searching through the curtain of rain for a building, terrified that she'd miss it and have to turn around and start all over. After another three-tenths of a mile, she saw it, set back from the road. She slammed on the brakes, and the car slewed across the wet pavement, wheels spinning, seeking traction. It finally came to a halt at the base of a huge tree whose spreading branches were utterly devoid of leaves. Leaving the headlights on, Scully turned off the car and flung open the door. Instantly the wind grabbed it from her grasp and threw it against the side of the vehicle, where it sprang back. She jumped out of the way, narrowly avoiding being struck. She was soaked in seconds. The ground here was treacherous, running with rivers of red mud. Slipping and falling to her knees, she made her way to the cabin. **** Inside the Cabin 9:04 a.m. "It's too bad," Propps remarked, "that I haven't got much time to spend here. I'd love to make this last longer. I've really enjoyed our meeting like this, Fox." We'll have to do it again sometime, Mulder wanted to say, but speech was impossible. The pain was all-consuming now; there was nothing else. Propps raised the gun. "If there is any justice in this world, Fox, and I believe there is, you and I will meet again in the after-life. And this time we'll have all of eternity to play around." **** Outside the Cabin 9:05 a.m. Thunder boomed directly overhead, then the lightning struck, horrifically loud, and Scully screamed involuntarily, ducking her head. Behind her a tree splintered and caught fire, burning wood chips flying all around her. One struck her arm, leaving a raised welt there before dropping to the ground where it sizzled briefly, then went out. Over the storm, she heard a single gunshot. **** Inside the Cabin 9:05 a.m. Propps smiled. "Oops," he said serenely. "Missed. Betcha didn't see that one coming, did you? Mulder stared at him and waited. In the heavens, thunder rumbled again, and lightning strobed, blinding him with blue afterglow. And finally, another gunshot. Only, this one missed too. **** Inside the Cabin -- Scully 9:06 a.m. With the last crack of thunder, the storm spent itself. The rain slackened off, and became a soft drumming on the roof. The wind died off almost completely. Outside, the fire fizzled out, although the tree continued to smoke. Monty Propps dropped his gun, an almost comic expression of shock on his round face. In dreadful slow motion, he collapsed, his glasses falling off his nose and hitting the floor first. The rest of his body followed suit with a muffled crunch of shattering glass and plastic. Scully stood immobile in the doorway, weapon still aimed, water streaming down her face and pattering onto the floor. Across the room, Mulder stared at her in wide-eyed disbelief. "Scully," he managed, before passing out. **** Inside the Cabin -- Mulder 9:06 a.m. His own scream brought him back to consciousness, fighting to get his feet under him, breathing in harsh gasps. Oh God oh God... "Mulder!" She was there, miracle of miracles. She was truly there. He had not dreamed her. Her arms went around him, holding him up, and for a blessed moment the agony in his shoulders lessened. Scully. He wasn't sure if he said her name aloud, but she heard anyway. "I'm here," she said. "I'm going to get you out of here. You're going to be all right." She reached behind him, sliding the handcuffs over the hook in the shelf, finally allowing his arms to fall behind him. He cried out at the movement, and Scully tightened her grip around him. "It's all right," she repeated. "I'm here." **** Inside the Cabin -- Scully 9:08 a.m. She managed to get Mulder to the ground and lay him on his side. Blood poured from a fresh wound in his lower back and more of it ran from deep cuts in his wrists. The cuffs there were sunk deep into his flesh from his terrible efforts to stay on his feet. She didn't want to try removing them just yet, so she let them be. The blood bothered her intensely. It reminded her strongly of her dream, of cradling her dying partner in her arms on the floor of the bank. Don't die on me, Mulder, she prayed. Please God, don't die. "Scully." His eyes were closed, but tears of pain ran down his face. Oh God, his face. It was obvious where he'd struck the brick wall of the hotel; the bruising there was a hideous shade of blackish purple. Dried blood crusted over cuts over his right eye and along his broken cheekbone. "Scully." "I'm here," she said automatically. Still on her knees, she crept toward a blue sleeping bag that had been carelessly kicked under the table. She dragged it forward and draped it over Mulder's body. "I'm here," she repeated. "He..." Mulder's eyes opened, wildly searching the room. "Is he--" "He's dead," she said. "Both of them." The cabin reeked of blood; there would be no more hunting parties held here. Mulder's suit coat was balled up in the corner, and she took it up, patting it down until she found the cell phone in one pocket. She seized it and dialed 911. "Fox Hunt Po-lice Department," drawled the old receptionist. "This is Special Agent Dana Scully," she snapped. "I'm at Quinn Presslee's cabin, out on the west side of town. I need an ambulance out here right now. I don't want any excuses. You do it, and you do it now. Understand?" "Yes, ma'am," the receptionist said, startled out of her usual meanness. Scully turned the phone off and knelt over Mulder. He was shaking with pain and shock, and she stroked his uninjured cheek. "It's okay," she said. "The ambulance is coming." "Dint....know they...had one," Mulder gasped between shudders. She smiled, sitting back a bit so she wouldn't drip water on him. "I guess they must," she said. "The woman didn't contradict me." Mulder's eyes opened then. "Linda," he said. Scully shook her head. "We'll find her, Mulder. It's all right." "No!" He shuddered convulsively and groaned. "I...I know where...she is." She frowned. "Where is she?" The idea that a ten-year old girl could be nearby, perhaps having witnessed all this horror, made her blood run cold. "The hotel," Mulder whispered. "Room 23. Propps...had it." Stunned, Scully couldn't speak for a moment. She picked up Mulder's cell phone again. Behind her, the door opened, and Dave "Buck" Bedford stumbled in, soaking wet and hatless, his gun held out before him. He took one look at them and his shoulders slumped. "Dear God," he breathed, then shut the door behind him. **** Epilogue J. Edgar Hoover Building Monday, March 22, 1999 2:12 p.m. The steady sound of typing finally came to a halt, and Scully risked a peek from her reading. She watched as Mulder printed out his report, gathering the papers up, signing them and putting them into a manila folder. Today was his first full day back at work, and he had wasted no time in getting busy. "I thought our meeting with Skinner wasn't until tomorrow," she said. The AD had already gotten a brief summary of the case, including Linda Moser's safe recovery by Sheriff Bedford, and her return to her parents, scared but unharmed. But he had also wanted an in-depth analysis of what happened, as usual, and that was scheduled for first thing in the morning. Mulder looked up. "It is," he said, a bit perplexed. She gestured to the file. "I think this is the first time I've ever seen you write up the entire report by yourself." Mulder glanced at the file, then down at his lap. "I--" He bit his lip. "It seems like I shouldn't let anyone else do the work that's rightfully mine," he said. Scully frowned. "What does that mean?" she asked. Mulder looked at her again. The cuts on his face were almost completely healed, as were those on his wrists. The wound in his lower back still pained him a bit, but he hid it well. "It means," he said, "that--" He stopped, floundering for words. Finally he gave up. "I don't know what it means," he admitted. "I just know that I'm not going to depend on you to do all the work from now on, Scully." She smiled at him teasingly. "What, is there a full moon tonight?" Mulder didn't share in her amusement, and she sobered up. "Mulder, I don't feel like I do all the work. We're partners. We work together." He nodded, and dropped his gaze. One hand fingered the folder on the desk. "My therapist says I should talk to you about what happened," he said, in a low voice she barely heard. Her heart started pounding. "Okay." Mulder started to get up, then sank back into the chair. "I thought maybe we could go back to my place?" he tentatively asked. "Okay," she said again. She closed the journal she'd been reading and laid it on her desk. She stood up and grabbed her briefcase. "How about we take my car?" Mulder looked up at her and nodded. He got up, grimacing slightly, an expression Scully pretended not to see, although it hurt to do so. She met him at the doorway, and as they walked through it, she lifted her hand, meaning to touch his back softly, the way he always did for her. Instead of meeting cloth, her hand bumped his on its way up, seeking to touch her and guide her forward, an instinctive motion on his part. Scully smiled, and let her hand clasp his, squeezing tight. Mulder returned the gesture, and together they walked down the hall. ***** END Author's Notes: This story came from idle musings of mine one day -- I'm embarrassed to say I really can't remember how I originally got on the subject. But the end result was that I started thinking about Scully's comment in Pilot, about Mulder's monograph and how it caught Monty Propps. Of all the fanfic I'd read, none addressed this case, or even really mentioned it, other than in passing. And I wanted to explore it some. At first, this story was going to be a pre-XF one, set in 1988, but I like Scully too much to do a story without her, so I gave up that idea pretty quickly. The only other alternative seemed to be the "killer from Mulder's past comes back to haunt him" storyline. However, this is so cliched that I wanted to give it a twist. Hence, I created Quinn Presslee, the bad guy who makes the other bad guy look downright saintly. Until you meet him, that is. I hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. As before, I would love to hear from you. You can always write to me at Syrinx42@yahoo.com Tasha Abrams