Title:  Blood Oranges
Author:  Syntax6
Chapter Nine

XxXxX

"She's lost him."  Jacobsen's tone was disgusted as he 
twisted on the metal bench inside the van.

"Shh."  Mulder ignored him, pressing a hand to one side of 
the headset so he could listen more closely.  Talk to me 
Scully, he willed across the wire.  Tell me what's going 
on.  The loud background noise had disappeared, but he 
thought he could make out the echoing sounds of her heels 
in the bathroom.

Jacobsen muttered an oath as his knees cracked loudly.  
"I'm telling you, it's no use," he growled.  "King blew her 
off when she wouldn't go back to his apartment with him.  
He'll never talk now.  We should just radio Bertelli and--" 

"It's too quiet," Mulder interjected tersely.  "Something's 
not right."  

Jacobsen sat up a little straighter, leaning closer to the 
amplifier and squinting in the semi-darkness.  "Yeah, what 
happened to the music?" he murmured.  Mulder stretched over 
to adjust the volume on the incoming transmission, which 
only caused the static to crackle more intensely.  Scully's 
footfalls had completely disappeared.

C'mon, c'mon, he thought wildly.  Say something.  The 
silent seconds plucked at his taut nerves.  
Saysomethingsaysomething...

Finally, he could not stand it any longer.  "It's been too 
long.  I'm going in there," he announced abruptly, pulling 
off his headset and beginning to rise from the bench.  
Jacobsen yanked him back down.

"Wait!  She's back."

Mulder scrambled for the headset again, catching Scully in 
mid-sentence.  <...too far away.  It's pretty cold out 
here.>

What the hell?  They were *outside*?  Every muscle in his 
body tensed at once. "It wasn't supposed to happen like 
this," he hissed to Jacobsen.  "We've got to--"  

"Shhh!" Jacobsen waved a hand at him.  "It's King again, 
and he's still talking.  Let's just see where this goes."

<I'll keep you warm, darlin', don't worry.  I'm glad you 
changed your mind about coming with me.>

<You're sure it's okay to leave the bar?> Scully's voice 
sounded thin and far away.

<It's my bar, I can do whatever the hell I want.>  There 
was an edge to King's statement that made Mulder inch 
closer to the back doors of the van.

"I don't like this," he said, feeling the sweat break out 
around his collar.  "Where the hell are they?  Out front?"  
Jacobsen did not seem to hear him, instead listening 
intently to the fuzzy conversation coming over the wire.  
Scully said something that was cut off by a wave of high-
pitched feedback.  A second later there was the sound of a 
car door slamming and the roar of an engine.

"Fuck," growled Jacobsen.  "They're on the move."

Mulder was already scrambling out the door.  "Call 
Bertelli," he yelled over his shoulder.  "Get her to tail 
them."  

He dashed across the heavy traffic on Massachusetts avenue, 
dodging screeching cars until he reached the door to 
Dempsey's bar.  Lebrea and O'Hearn jumped up at his 
entrance, but he barely glanced at them as he pushed 
through the people on dance floor toward the rear exit.  
The pounding music and laughter faded into the background 
as he hurled himself out the back door.

Nothing.  The street was completely silent.  

He jogged past the chain-linked fence and into the street, 
but could see no cars anywhere in the vicinity.  "Scully!" 
he hollered, his scream evaporating quickly in the night 
air.  There was no answer.

Jesus, what had she been thinking?  His heart pounded 
painfully against the wall of his chest as he considered 
his next move.  

"Agent Mulder!"  He turned as the two undercover officers 
burst from the rear door, guns at the ready.  Lebrea was in 
the lead.  "What the hell is going on?" she breathed as she 
caught up with him.  

"Scully's with King," he replied, pushing past her and her 
partner. "I don't know where they went." 

"Holy fuck," said O'Hearn, keeping pace with him as they 
all headed back into the bar.  "Now what?"

"Talk to the waitress."  Mulder did not slow down in his 
charge toward the front door.  "Find out if she knows where 
King was going.  If she does, radio the van and let me 
know."

He kicked open the heavy door, throwing all his anger and 
adrenaline against it so that it slapped into the outer 
wall with a satisfying crack.  Goddamn it, Scully!  So much 
for going in prepared.  He jogged back across traffic to 
the van, where Jacobsen was still listening through the 
headset.

"Bertelli's on her way to King's apartment in case they 
show up there," he reported as Mulder climbed over him to 
the other side of the bench.  

"The wire is still on?" Mulder asked, still breathing hard 
from his exertion.  

Jacobsen nodded.  "It's fading in and out, though.  They 
may be headed out of range." 

Mulder reached for his discarded headset, almost afraid to 
learn what was on the other end.  "Did you get a read on 
their location?" 

"King says he's taking her to the knives," Jacobsen 
whispered, "but I don't know where they're going yet."  He 
raked Mulder once with his eyes.  "She's a real piece of 
work, your partner.  This is the most insane breach of 
protocol I've ever seen.  Englehart's not going to know 
whether to murder her or give her a medal of honor."

Mulder turned away as he strained to hear the voices coming 
through the wire.  You don't get it, he thought, his pulse 
racing.  She's not thinking about getting a medal or making 
a big collar.  She's not thinking about anything but the 
victims.  

Not even me.  

Not even herself.

"Dammit," he muttered again.  The fury made his face flush 
hot, but he welcomed the burning sensation; it was easier 
to be angry than afraid. 

<...been collecting for years now.>  King's voice crackled 
to life.  <Must've got at least two dozen of 'em now, a 
couple left over from when my grandfather was a kid.>

Scully's voice was a little bit clearer.  <Oh, yeah?  What 
do you use them for?>  There was a pause, then King laughed 
darkly.  

<Why, darlin,> he mocked, <I use 'em for cutting, of 
course.>    

Oh, God.  Mulder squeezed his eyes shut.

"I don't get it," breathed Jacobsen, hunching next to him.  
"King's apartment was clean when we searched it!  He didn't 
have anything more dangerous than a steak knife."

Never did find the real crime scene, echoed a voice in 
Mulder's head, and the bottom of his stomach dropped 
suddenly to his feet.  He swallowed against the bitter 
nausea.  "They're not going to his apartment," he 
whispered, and King turned away.

Moments later, the wire went dead.

XxXxX

"It's not too much further, is it?" Scully asked, squinting 
out the passenger side window at the passing houses.  Her 
heart rate doubled with every mile they put behind them.

King squeezed her thigh.  "Not much further now, darlin'."

She nodded, hoping that her rising fear did not show on her 
face.  Back at Dempsey's, it had seemed like a good idea to 
push him as far as she could, but now she was starting to 
question the firmness of her position.  They had only been 
driving for ten minutes, and already she was completely 
lost.  

Time to even the odds again, she thought, catching the 
nearest street sight.  "Hey, my friend Lily lives around 
here," she commented as casually as she could.  King seemed 
focused elsewhere.

"Yeah?" he answered, sounding bored.  His hand crept up her 
thigh.

"Yeah, back there on Lincoln Street.  Nice neighborhood."  

Are you getting this, Mulder?  Lincoln Street.  She wished 
she could be sure the wire was still working.  King glanced 
at her with faint amusement, his eyes glinting in the 
darkness.

"People around here got money.  That doesn't automatically 
make them nice."

She swallowed with difficulty and shifted a little so his 
hand was not quite so high on her leg.  "No, of course not.  
They've got troubles just like everyone else, I'm sure."

"Yeah?"  He slid his hand back into place, squeezing her 
almost enough to hurt.  "What kind of troubles have you 
got, darlin'?"

"Oh, the usual," she hedged.  "Too little money, boring 
job, that sort of thing.  Nothing serious."

"Nothing serious."  He gave her a sideways glance.  "That's 
good, darlin'.  We should all be so lucky."

Scully twisted her fingers in her lap, glad for the 
reassuring weight of the gun against her leg.  More clues, 
she thought.  Give more clues.  "I wish I had a Bread and 
Circus near me," she said as they passed the corner market.  
"I just love their fresh vegetables."  Please, God, let the 
wire be on.  Pleasepleasplease.

"What are you, a health-freak?" King scoffed.  "I can't 
stand those yuppie-shit places."  He turned off onto a 
quiet, suburban street and parked under a flickering 
streetlight.  His hand moved from her thigh to the side of 
her face, where he stroked her with a roughened thumb.  Her 
breath caught.

"Is this it?" she managed tightly.

He nodded, his dark eyes boring into hers.  "Just come 
inside with me, darlin'.  I'll show you everything you 
wanted to see."

XxXxX

"Faster, dammit!" Mulder hollered from the passenger seat, 
one hand clutching the headphones and the other steadying 
the computer on his lap.  "We're running out of time."

"Where the fuck am I going?" demanded Jacobsen in return.  
"This is Lincoln Street and I don't see a goddamn thing!"

<Wow, is this house yours?>  Scully's voice was coming in 
more clearly now.  She had to be close.

<Not exactly,> King returned, and Mulder heard the sound of 
a door opening.  Don't go inside...don't go inside... 

<It's dark in here,> Scully remarked a minute later.  Shit. 

"King have relatives in the area?" Mulder asked quickly, 
tapping furiously on his keyboard.  Jacobsen shook his 
head.  

"His father is dead, and his mother lives in New York.  No 
sibs."

"What about the friend he talked about...Dave?  You know 
anything about him?"

Jacobsen swerved sharply on the narrow back road, nearly 
hitting an oncoming car.  "Dave Luden's his name.  He's 
been out of the country for the past three months, I think 
living with his girlfriend in Brazil."  His eyes widened.  
"Shit, you don't think--"

<It's right this way.>  King's deep voice sounded gruffer 
than usual, and Mulder heard the sound of Scully's heels on 
a hardwood floor.

<Where did you-->  She broke off with a gasp.

<Bitch.>  There was a loud crack, followed by the sound of 
King's heavy breathing.  Scully was coughing and choking.

"Ohgodohgod..."  Mulder muttered to himself as he typed 
even faster, searching for Dave Luden's address.

<Please...>  Scully's voice was thick and hoarse.

<Oh yeah, that's right.  Beg me.  You cop bitch, think 
you're so clever, coming into my bar like that.  I can 
smell your kind a mile away.>  The sound of material 
ripping grated in Mulder's ears.  <What have we here?>  
King snarled.  <Seems we're not alone in this conversation, 
darlin'.>

"He's made her!" Mulder barked painfully.  "Get us the hell 
out of here, now!"

"I'm trying, I'm trying!" said Jacobsen, trapped behind 
three cars at a red light.  Tires squealed beneath them as 
he drove up onto the curb. 

Finally the address appeared on the screen.  "Eighteen 
sixty three Carmine Avenue.  Is that close?"  

Scully made another choking sound.  King laughed.

fasterfasterfasterfaster...  Mulder leaned forward in his 
seat, as if he could somehow propel them with his body.

<Who's listening in, darlin?  Are they friends of yours?>  
Another low laugh.  <Let's see how much they like hearing 
you scream...>

XxXxX

Can't breathe.  Mulder, hurry.  Please hurry.

Tears of pain formed in her eyes as she struggled against 
the wall.  King had pinned her with one arm at her throat, 
crushing her windpipe.  In his other hand, he held a 
switchblade.

"You wanted to see?" he breathed on her face.  "Well, here 
it is, darlin', live and in the flesh."  

She gasped and jerked at the touch of the knife on her 
belly.

"Are you listening, Bertelli?" he asked into the wire.  "I 
sure hope so.  It's too bad you couldn't have been here for 
this little party.  I would have liked that.  So wouldn't 
Dana, right darlin'?"  The knifepoint nicked her sharply, 
and she squirmed backward.

Thinkthinkthink.

"Where should I cut you first?" he continued, his breath 
hot against her ear.  "Here on your soft, white belly?"  He 
drew the knife slowly down her front.  "Or maybe here, on 
your pretty, lying face?"  Its blade ran smoothly over her 
cheek.

He loosened his arm fractionally with the motion, and she 
gulped in painful breaths of air.  "No," she managed 
hoarsely.  "You...you promised to show me...show me your 
collection."

One corner of his mouth lifted in a smirk.  "Keep him 
talkin' till the back-up arrives, right darlin?  Yeah, I 
know all the tricks."

Scully's heart clenched in despair, but she realized it was 
working so far.  He had let up on her just a bit more.  "I 
want to see the knives," she told him steadily.  "I want to 
see the one you killed those women with."  

Out of the corner of her eye, she gauged it was thirty feet 
down the hall to the front door.  And she still had her 
gun.

"Oh, you cops are such dumb fucks," he laughed, shaking his 
head.  "I didn't kill those women."  He leaned in closer, 
speaking directly to the wire that poked up beneath her 
bra.  "You got that, Bertelli?  I said I didn't do it!"

"Show me," Scully challenged.

He paused, considering.  Then he drew the knife down the 
front of her face, stopping just at her throat.  "One quick 
peek."  He lowered his arm completely, and she coughed.  
"No funny moves," he warned, jerking her from the wall by 
her elbow.  "Or I will cut you into tiny pieces right 
here."

Scully nodded, moving gingerly toward the back of the 
house.  He followed close behind.  "Which way?" she asked 
when they reached the two doors at the end.

"Right."

They walked in step for a few feet, then King's toe caught 
on the edge of an oriental rug.  He stumbled off-balance, 
and Scully jerked away.  Gungungetyourgun...

Her heart was pounding as she tried to scramble further 
away and reach down under her pant leg at the same time.  
Her fingers had just touched the smooth steel when King's 
knife caught her across the arm.  She recoiled in pain.

"Oh, no you don't, bitch," he snarled, yanking her by the 
injured arm.  The cut was deep, and blood soaked rapidly 
through her silver shirt.  "That was stupid...*very* 
stupid."  They were both breathing hard.

"Please," Scully panted.  "Just let me go.  Right now you 
can still walk away."

"Oh, right," he spat.  "What about all the women?  I know 
that bitch Bertelli is just dying to send me away for those 
murders."

murderknifecuttoodeepsomuchbloodpainpainallgonecutcutcut

Oh, God.  She felt the knife at her throat again and 
squeezed her eyes shut, quivering, preparing for the pain.  
He shifted behind her, so close his breath stirred her 
hair.

Closecloseclose.

But not close enough.

He moved a fraction to the right, teasing the side of her 
neck with the knifepoint, but it was enough to change their 
center of balance.  

Scully grimaced.  Gotcha.

With one smooth movement, she elbowed his gut to bend him 
over, then grabbed his arm and ducked low to flip him over 
her head.  He yelled his surprise and hit the ground with a 
loud thud.  With shaking fingers, she retrieved her gun.

"Don't even think about it," she ordered coldly when King 
moaned and began rolling around on the floor.  "Face down 
and lock your fingers behind your head."

"Shit," he muttered, turning over and closing his eyes.  
Scully kicked his knife out of reach.

"Where are the knives?" she demanded, training the gun 
between his eyes.  Her arm was now completely covered in 
blood, but she could feel no pain.  King smiled up at her.

"Fuck you," he said softly.

Doesn't matter, she told herself.  If the knives were in 
the house, they would find them.  She struggled to keep her 
arms upright as she stood over King.  Finally, the front 
door crashed open, and she heard Mulder yelling her name.  
"In here," she called in a voice roughened by King's 
crushing arm.

"Scully, are you all right?"  Mulder appeared in the 
doorway with Jacobsen close behind.  She blinked rapidly as 
the lights came on.  

"I'm all right," she managed, feeling suddenly weak.  
Mulder came to her side while Jacobsen cuffed King and 
hoisted him from the floor.

"You're under arrest, you sonofabitch."  King gave Scully a 
lingering look as he was escorted out the door.  Mulder 
caught it, and moved protectively between them.

"Scully, you're cut," he said softly, taking her gun from 
her.  "We need to get you to a hospital."

For the first time, she looked down at the gaping wound on 
her right arm and was amazed that she had still been able 
to subdue King.  The terror finally penetrated through her 
adrenaline, and she started trembling.  "God, Mulder..."

"Sh, it's okay now.  It's going to be okay."  He guided her 
gently to the nearest armchair.  Removing one of the cloth 
arm flaps, he wrapped it around her injury and pressed 
inward to stop the bleeding.  Scully dutifully held her arm 
in the air.

"The knives are in the house somewhere," she whispered, 
suddenly fatigued.

"I know.  We heard over the wire."  There was no real 
reproach in his comment, but she felt a flush of guilt all 
the same.  His face was white and pinched, and she knew he 
must have been afraid for her.  And angry.

"I couldn't let him get away like that," she tried to 
explain.  "Not if I had a chance to stop him."

"Just rest now, Scully.  We'll deal with everything else 
later, okay?"

She nodded, leaning back in the chair.  Bertelli entered 
the room with two uniformed officers.  "You got him," she 
said quickly.  "Thank God it's over."

Yes, thank God.  Scully tried to smile but failed.  The 
world was starting to seem fuzzy and far away.  She felt 
Mulder's hands tighten on her arm and closed her eyes.  
"Get an ambulance," she heard him say.  

I'm fine, she insisted, but could not make the words come 
out loud.  Just find the knives.

Mulder's warm hand was stroking her forehead.  "Hang in 
there, Scully," he murmured.  "Help is coming."

She watched through slitted eyes as uniformed officers 
tromped back and forth through the house, gathering 
evidence.  Suddenly, one called from a nearby room.  "Hey, 
I found 'em!"

He appeared a few minutes later with a large wooden display 
case, folded in two.  "Let's see," Bertelli ordered, and 
Scully fought to sit up so she could look, too.  The 
officer parted the edges of the slim box to reveal about 
two dozen knives, each gleaming and clamped in its own 
spot.  "Great," Bertelli said grimly.  "Get those logged in 
right away."

Scully leaned back in her seat, the room spinning dizzily 
before her eyes.  "Not right," she murmured.  Mulder didn't 
seem to hear her.

"You did good, Scully," he said softly, resuming his gentle 
stroking.  "You stopped him."

She shook her head, fighting the looming blackness.  "Too 
big," she whispered, tugging his suit coat so he would 
listen.  "The knife should be small...'snothim..."  And 
then the world slipped away.

XxXxX

End Chapter Nine.

XxXxX

Chapter Ten

XxXxX

The faux leather chairs in the hospital waiting room were 
colored green, probably because someone had told the 
administrators that green was supposed psychologically 
soothing.  Instead, Mulder felt like throwing up.    Once 
again, his world had skidded to a halt only nanometers from 
the cliff into oblivion.   It was still teetering on the 
skinny edge. 

"Your partner is doing fine," the nurse had told a few 
minutes before, and he had not bothered to contradict her.  
She had not seen Scully's face when the knives were taken 
away or tasted her tears in the middle of the night.   She 
had not seen her partner disappearing under a river of her 
own blood.

No, Scully was not fine.  Not this time.  

He leaned back in the chair and stared unblinking at the 
muted TV, where a pretty-boy CNN anchor was silently 
relaying the middle of the night headlines.  The clock in 
the corner read three-nineteen, and he wished for just a 
few more minutes to get himself together before he had to 
go and see her.

God, there had been so much blood.   On the floor, on the 
chair...all over his fingers from where he'd tried to stop 
the life from leaking out of her.   It marked him still, 
the cuff of his shirt tinged bright red as the slowly 
spreading stain edged upwards, thread by thread.  He 
scrubbed his face with shaking hands.

This was always the worst part, when the immediate threat 
was gone and his adrenaline had evaporated, when his legs 
were all rubbery and his stomach was playing pinball inside 
his chest.  Hospitals made him feel nervous, itchy, 
helpless.  Usually he stayed only long enough to make sure 
she was all right, then fled the premises before she could 
tell him otherwise.

Are you okay, Scully?  I'll ask, but please don't answer.

"You can go in and see her now if you want."  The petite 
nurse with the long braid was back, smiling at him kindly.  
"Room six.  She's all stitched up, but we're going to need 
to check her electrolyte levels one more time before she's 
released."
 
He walked slowly down the hall until he came to the 
appropriate room, hesitating only a second before rapping 
gently on the outside.  "Scully?" 

"Come in," she answered, her voice thin with fatigue.  He 
poked his head around the door and found her propped up in 
an adjustable bed, half-heartedly sipping a glass of orange 
juice.   Her blood-soaked silver shirt had been replaced by 
an over-sized white tee-shirt emblazoned with the hospital 
logo, making her seem impossibly pale and tiny.

His heart lurched to his throat, and he swallowed several 
times as he entered the cramped room.  "Hey," he greeted 
her gruffly, approaching the side of the bed.

She glanced up at him somewhat warily.  "Hi.  I didn't 
realize you were still here.  Sorry this is taking so 
long."    

"It's okay."  He forced his eyes down to where her right 
forearm lay limp at her side, swathed in a gauze bandage.   
It was like stepping into a time machine--he was back eight 
years ago, heart pounding, stomach churning--trying not to 
hyperventilate in the claustrophobic little room with the 
antiseptic smell, trying not to scream as he made small 
talk over stark white bandages.   His lover.  His love.   A 
woman who should have been dead, but wasn't.

*How could you do this to me?*

"Mulder?"  Her voice caused him to jerk back again, and he 
realized he had been trembling under the force of the 
memories.  Her eyes searched his face worriedly.  "Mulder, 
are you okay?"

"Yeah."  He took a deep breath and nodded.  "Yeah, I'm all 
right," he repeated, sounding more sure this time.  He 
managed a wobbly smile.  Brushing her fingertips with his 
own, he found them reassuringly warm.  "What about you?  
How are you doing?"    

"Under the circumstances, I'd have to say I'm feeling 
pretty lucky."  She shifted her injured arm a little, as if 
assessing the damage.  "He did a number on the radial 
artery, but he missed the major nerves so there's no need for
surgery. I should be back to normal in a few weeks."  

Jesus, *surgery*?  He hadn't even known that was a 
possibility.  He moved to sit by her hip and began toying 
with the edge of the blanket draped across her lap.   After 
a moment, his fingers crept up to stroke the wrist of her 
uninjured arm.  Her eyes met his and held.  "You're sure 
you're okay?" he asked softly.  

"I'm okay," she answered, releasing a deep breath.  Her 
gaze shifted back to her lap.  "It's just..."

"It's just what?"  

She fidgeted restlessly and pulled her hand from his 
stroking fingers.  "This is so *wrong*, Mulder. Everyone 
here keeps acting like I'm some sort of hero, coming in to 
congratulate me on catching the killer--I don't know how to 
tell them it's not true."

Ah, so that explained the big bunch of flowers perched on 
the countertop  He had wondered.  "King had his cork in way 
too tight, Scully.  He may not have graduated to murder 
yet, but it's obvious now that it would have been only a 
matter of time before he used the knife on someone else--
someone without FBI training."

Scully looked away.  "I guess."

"No guess.  You saved someone's life tonight, Scully.  
We'll just never know whose."

She did not answer, but her hand inched back until their 
fingers tangled once more.  "I talked to Bertelli about an 
hour ago," he told her after a moment of silence.  "She 
said King is still refusing to answer any questions, but 
after his little performance tonight they have enough to 
hold him, no problem.  Most likely he'll be indicted 
tomorrow afternoon."

Her eyebrows knit together in a frown.  "For the murders?"

"Seven counts, plus the attack on you."

She shook her head.  "Joe King didn't kill those women, 
Mulder.  Those knives we found at the house were not small 
enough to make the kind of incisions on the bodies.  We're 
looking for something more like a scalpel."

"A scalpel?  You think it might be someone in the medical 
profession?"  

"Could be," she answered, leaning her head back against the 
pillows.  "But medical instruments of that sort are easy 
enough for a layperson to obtain."

He shifted on the bed, perking up a little.  "Still, it 
would fit with the profile.  We've said before that this 
guy is someone who cares about the victims.  It shows in 
the way he cleans them up afterward, the way he puts their 
clothes back on before dropping them off to be found."

Scully closed her eyes for a moment, then shook her head 
faintly.  "I don't think the killer is a doctor--it seems 
too antithetical to his viewpoint.  The primary emphasis of 
the medical profession is to save lives, not take them."

"No, no...I think you're right, Scully.  I don't think he's 
going to be your neighborhood pediatrician or even an 
emergency room intern.  More likely he works in a nursing 
home or funeral parlor, someplace that would satisfy his 
obsession with death."  Scully drew a sharp breath, her 
fingers tightening on his, and immediately he followed her 
thoughts back to four years ago.  Funeral parlor, death 
obsession....

Shit.  No wonder she had been jittery lately.  He lashed 
himself mentally for not seeing the parallels earlier.  
"Scully, I..."

"No," she said, sitting up and cutting him off.  "It's not 
like that, Mulder.  This is different."

It was hard to believe her, looking at her pale face, 
bandaged arm, and scratched neck.  The helplessness 
certainly felt the same to him.  "Evil is evil, Scully--it 
just wears many types of clothes."

She shook her head slowly, sadly.  "Mulder, haven't you 
been listening?   We're looking for someone who spends 
their days surrounded by death, someone who knows exactly 
how to work a crime scene, someone who honestly believes he 
is doing right by the victims.  We're not looking for evil, 
Mulder--we're looking for someone just like us." 

XxXxX

Lately I've been contemplating my own death.

I  think it's closer than I imagined, but I'm not afraid.  
I have watched the women very carefully for signs of what 
is to come.   I wonder if I will see Helen on the other 
side and if she will still be eight years old.  I wonder if 
she will still like knock-knock jokes and blue cotton 
candy.

I wonder if she will remember the day she died.

I remember the funeral best of all, when the thunder 
outside made it hard to hear Reverend Richmond as he talked 
about what a beautiful and sweet little girl Helen had 
been.  Momma cried a lot but Father just sat straight like 
a board the whole time.  I held Momma's hand tight and 
watched Helen lying in the white casket, wishing that I 
could go climb inside with her forever.

Father thinks I killed her.  I know because three years ago 
at Christmas he got drunk on home-made beer and came to the 
kitchen where I was doing dishes.  He caged me from behind 
and whispered in my ear, "Why didn't you save your sister?  
The water wasn't that deep, and you were the stronger 
swimmer...you could have reached her easily.  Tell me, huh?  
Tell me why you let our Helen die."

He wouldn't understand if I tried to tell him.  I didn't 
let it happen on purpose.  I didn't mean to make Helen go 
away forever.  It was just so beautiful the way she gasped 
and bobbed in the water, each breath a little more 
desperate.  And then finally the silence.  That wonderful, 
perfect silence when she disappeared beneath the rippling 
lake!  

Father could never understand the magnificence of such a 
moment.  

Only me.

Well, and now one other.

There is something in her eyes that tells me she knows, 
too.  She understands the primacy of pain, relishes it like 
I do, pulls it all inside where no one else can see.  I 
think she must have tasted death herself at one time--she 
has the look.  Oh, the things we will be able to teach each 
other!

Tonight she bled for me.   She wanted to find me so badly 
that she went under the knife in an effort to bring us 
closer.  If I needed proof before, I certainly have it now. 

They arrested the wrong person, of course--I find that 
almost amusing.  Poor Joe King.  It's not like I ever tried 
to find someone else to take my place; I know there can be 
no other.  I guess King was just so obvious that no one 
ever stopped to wonder who *else* might find Dempsey's Bar 
convenient.  Well, it's only a matter of time, now...

This is why I have to act quickly.  If she and I are to be 
together as I've planned, I must start planning immediately 
or the wrong person will die.  I think I will start by 
sharpening my knives. 

One for me.  One for her.

XxXxX

The elevator ride was making her dizzy.   Her injured arm 
in a sling, she reached a steadying hand toward Mulder, and 
he closed strong fingers around her elbow.  "Easy, Scully.  
We're almost there."

She nodded, barely hearing him over the buzzing in her 
ears.  It seemed like she had been up for three straight 
days, her skin pulled tight, her eyes so dry they could 
crack, her knees so loose they threatened to collapse at 
any moment.  And everywhere she could still feel the 
imprint of King's hard fingers on her body. 

Mulder followed her into her hotel room, carrying a bag 
filled with her prescriptions and fresh medical supplies.  
Once inside, he set it down and cleared his throat, 
standing near the door and swinging his arms around 
awkwardly.  "So...I can just leave you alone, if you want, 
or..."

"No, stay."  She turned from the bed to face him.  
"Please."   More than a nursemaid, she needed a reminder of 
why she was putting herself through all this--and proof 
that she was not going through it alone.

He gave a short nod, his face shadowed by the small light 
from the bedside lamp, but the awkwardness lingered.  "You 
want something to eat or drink?  Maybe some more juice?"

She sat gingerly down on the bed and gave him a weary look.  
"No, Mulder, please no more juice.  Any more and I'm going 
to take on an orange tint."  

"Okay.   It's probably best that we try to get some sleep 
while it's still dark out, anyway."

She was already pulling the sling over her head.  "I want 
to take a shower first."

He frowned his disapproval.  "Scully--"

"I can still feel his hands on me," she said, and he 
clamped his mouth shut, staring at her uncertainly with his 
shirt half undone.  Eventually, he turned away, shrugging 
out of his shirt with his back to her.  She thought the 
conversation was done.

"You're going to have to tell me soon."  The quiet 
intensity of his words startled her, and she paused from 
gathering up her nightclothes.  His eyes were shone like 
black marble in the yellow light.

"Tell you what?"

"Whatever it is you haven't been telling me."  His hands 
clenched around the shirt.  "I can't keep playing guessing 
games with you, Scully.  Whatever the hell is going on with 
you, no matter what it is, I need you to tell me--even if 
you think it's something I don't want to hear."

She waited a long moment before formulating her response.  
"Make sure you mean that, Mulder," she said softly.  "Make 
sure you really understand and believe it...because it goes 
both ways."  And then she disappeared into the bathroom, 
closing the door behind her with a firm click.

It took a few minutes to maneuver out of her clothing, but 
the enormity of the hospital tee-shit actually made the 
task much easier.  She splashed a bit of cool water on her 
face before attempting to remove the bandage on her arm.  
Twenty-three neat little stitches stared back at her as she 
surveyed her latest injury.  With a finger, she stroked the 
wound tentatively, moving as if in a dream as she traced 
the length of the line. 

One deep cut along the radial artery--just like half of the 
matching set that she had seen on Elizabeth.  How blessedly 
ironic.

Do you really want to know, Mulder? she wondered as she 
stepped under the steaming hot spray. It stung like a 
vinegar kiss, and she felt the handprints burn away.


When she returned to the bedroom, Mulder was sitting at the 
table with his glasses on,  pecking at her laptop with his 
right hand, holding a soda can in his left.  His eyes raked 
her once from head to toe, taking in her gaping pajama top. 
"Need some help?"  

She nodded, gesturing weakly at the purple satin.  "The 
buttons are a bit much."

"I've got it."  He moved to stand in front of her, his 
nimble fingers fastening the buttons from the bottom on up.  
The whole experience reminded her of when she was little 
and her mother when she had buttoned her pink coat all the 
way to her chin every morning before school.  His touch was 
infinitely gentle, and she felt tears of relief prick her 
eyes that they could still find this thread of tenderness.   
When he was done, she squeezed his hand.  "Thank you," she 
whispered.

A slow smile spread across his face.  "No problem, Scully.  
Just think of me as your right hand man."

She brought her hand up to frame the side of his face, her 
thumb rubbing gently over his prickly cheek  "I do," she 
answered, her own smile sad but certain.  He leaned into 
her touch briefly before cupping the side of her head in 
his hands and pressing his lips to her hairline.

"Time for bed," he murmured softly, and she nodded, opening 
her eyes.  

The sheets were cold but his body was warm, and she found 
herself shifting closer to him as the settled in for the 
last few hours of darkness.  "Here, like this," he 
whispered, pulling an extra pillow from behind his head and 
placing it under her injured arm.  Then he sidled up behind 
her, wrapping his arm around her waist so he could stroke 
her stomach.  "Okay?" 

Oh yes.  Very okay.  Her eyes slid shut as she gave herself 
up to the rhythmic touch of his hand.  She was nearly 
asleep when his breath tickled her ear again.  "And in the 
morning," he murmured,  "if there's anything else you want 
to know about Elizabeth--anything at all--I promise I'll 
tell you, all right?"  She nodded, dreading what was coming 
next, but he only clutched her tighter.  Her travel alarm 
ticked the seconds loudly as she decided whether to take 
the out he had provided her.

No.  It wasn't fair.  "Okay, Mulder," she murmured, groping 
for his hand.  "We can talk in the morning."

"Mmmm..."  His voice came out as a sleepy hum.  "M'kay.  
Night, Scully."

"Night," she managed softly, but she knew she was kidding 
herself with the word.  Morning had already come.

XxXxX

End Chapter Ten.

XxXxX

Chapter Eleven

XxXxX

Scully awoke to throbbing pain, her injured arm laying 
across her stomach.  Every nerve seemed to scream in agony.  
She blinked slowly as the events of the previous evening 
came cascading back, then twisted her head on the pillow to 
look for Mulder.  He was gone.  The sheets were empty and 
rumpled, and she squinted at the window, trying to 
determine what time it was.  Shafts of bright light slanted 
in at all angles from behind the closed curtains.

"Hey, how are you feeling?"  Mulder's voice floated from 
across the room, and she lifted her head to find him.  He 
sat slouched with one shin propped against the table edge 
as he typed a final few words into her laptop.

"I'm okay," she managed, though her mouth felt filled with 
cotton.  "What are you doing?

"In a minute."  He rose from the chair and walked over to 
peer down at her.  "How's your arm?"

She shifted it in response, struggling to sit up, only to 
sink back down again when the white-hot pain lanced through 
her arm.  "It hurts," she whispered, eyes closed against 
the dizzying sensations.  She heard his footfalls move 
away, and a moment later there was the sound of water 
running in the bathroom.  He returned to sit on his side of 
the bed, scooting toward her with a glass in one hand and 
two capsules in the other.

"Here, this should help," he said, handing her the pills.  
She accepted them gratefully and downed them with several 
sips of cool water.  Mulder stretched out next to her on 
the bed, breathing quietly in the semi-darkness as she 
waited for the pain to recede.  Eventually he reached out 
and traced a line down her arm, close to the row of neat 
stitches.  Her hypersensitive skin tingled in near pain.

"That was a really dangerous thing you did," he murmured at 
last, his hand falling away.  She shifted to look at him, 
but he was not meeting her eyes.

"I know.  It didn't go as I'd planned," she admitted 
softly.  "Probably I should have found another way, but I'd 
been thinking all along that it wasn't him.  Then all of a 
sudden he's asking to show me the knives...I just had to 
know the truth."  

"I thought the same thing," Mulder said quietly.  "That 
maybe we'd been wrong, that it was King after all.  Then 
you left the bar, and by the time I got around back, you 
had disappeared."   

There was a hint of accusation in his words, and a 
lingering note of fear that made her flush with guilt.  Too 
many times she had been the one left behind, and she felt 
no satisfaction at having returned the favor.  "I'm sorry, 
Mulder."  She reached across with her good hand and tangled 
their fingers together.  "I wasn't thinking."

His hair rustled on the pillow as he turned to look at her.  
"Yes, you were.  You were thinking something, Scully--I 
just wish you'd tell me what it was."  She dropped her eyes 
to their joined hands, not answering.  Gingerly, she moved 
her right arm to close her fingers around his wrist, 
turning his palm up and loosening her left hand so she 
could trace the spot where his wedding band would have 
been.  He held his breath.

"Do you still have it?" she asked finally, her eyes gaze 
never leaving his fingers. 

"Yeah, it's buried in my stuff somewhere."  He paused.  "I 
don't really like to look at it."

She folded his fingers down and covered them with her own, 
considering his words.  "It must be hard," she whispered 
after a moment, "never to let yourself remember.  You lose 
so much more that way." 

"It's more complicated than you think," he answered, 
pulling his hand away, and her skin cooled at his 
withdrawal.  She shifted from him, laying back to stare at 
the stucco ceiling.  He sighed.  "I'm doing the best I can 
here, Scully, it's just...

"Just what?"  She sneaked a sideways glance.

"I don't think there's even a name for what happened with 
me and Elizabeth.  It all happened so fast--first it was 
good, then it was bad, then it was over--I didn't know what 
the hell I was supposed to be feeling.  It wasn't like a 
divorce because we still loved each other, and it wasn't 
like she had died and I could mourn her properly.   And 
then on paper our marriage didn't even exist anymore."  He 
propped himself up on one elbow so he could look down at 
her, his eyes troubled and sad.  "I finally went numb 
inside, and it took me a long time to make the emptiness go 
away," he finished quietly.  "I guess I've just been afraid 
of falling in again."

She held his gaze for a few silent moments.  "When did it 
go away?" she asked softly.

He smiled a bit and gently brushed a lock of hair off her 
forehead.  "I think you know,"  he whispered.  She smiled, 
too, and pulled him down so that his face was pressed 
against her neck.  His arm wrapped around her carefully, 
and they held each other in silence for several long 
minutes.  Then she kissed his head.

"Mulder."

"Mmmm?"  He hummed into her neck.

"You won't fall in again.  I won't let you."

He raised himself up to look down at her, and this time 
amusement marked his features.  "I'd put you up against my 
subconscious anytime, Scully." 

She gave him a tired smile.  "Better yours than mine," she 
answered with a sigh, and his eyes darkened, kaleidoscope-
like, to reflect his concern.  He squeezed her hand 
briefly.

"Maybe it's time you tell me what's going on."

She dropped her chin to her chest, trying to come up with 
the words.  "If I knew, I'd tell you," she replied finally.

He scooted closer.  "You asked if I ever heard the killer's 
voice in my head.  Why did you want to know about that?"

His earlier words echoed through her mind: *I think you 
know.*  But she did not say them aloud.  Instead, she 
twisted so they lay eye to eye.  "Ever since we got here, 
I've had this feeling about him--like he's very close."

"Close?" 

She nodded.  "Almost like...almost like he's inside me."

"You can pick up on what he's thinking?" Mulder asked 
carefully, and she felt great relief that he had not come 
out and used the word "mind-reading".

"I can't answer that," she replied.  "I don't know for sure 
if what I'm thinking is right."

"What are you thinking?"

She paused, then shook her head.  "Mainly what I've already 
told you--that the killer is motivated primarily out of 
empathy for the victims, and that he sometimes cuts 
himself, too."

"You actually hear his voice in your head?"  Mulder was 
eager in his questioning.

"Well, that's the strange part."  She stopped, and his eyes 
searched hers until she continued.  "It's not someone 
else's voice that I'm hearing--it's mine.  That's what 
makes me think that maybe I could be imagining the whole 
thing, maybe confusing some of his feelings with my own."  
She tilted her head to look at him.  "What do you think?"

He ran a hand through his hair and rolled to look at the 
ceiling.  "I don't know.  You've displayed some pretty 
incredible intuition in the past, Scully.  Maybe something 
about this case has sharpened it a little more."

"You mean because of Elizabeth?"

"Could be.  You would know better than I would.  Is there 
anything about these murders that seems different to you, 
or maybe even familiar?  Maybe you're drawing on some 
previous experience you're not consciously aware of, and 
it's somehow integrating with the facts of this case to 
give you a heightened perception of the killer's motives."

She gave a faint smile. 

"What?" he asked, turning to look at her.

"Nothing.  You just sounded a little like me for a minute."

His eyebrows lifted slightly.  "You were maybe expecting me 
to advance the possibility of a psychic connection?"

"I guess a little, yes."

"Well, you're not reading anyone else's thoughts, are you?"  
She shook her head.  "And you're not getting visions of the 
crimes in progress, or having premonitions of future 
victims?"

"No, nothing like that.  Nothing visual."

"Then I'd say it's a little early to set you up with your 
own 900 number," he said.  "You don't display any of the 
traditional indicators of psychic ability."

Thank God, she added silently.   But still she was troubled 
by the source of the voice.  "I've never been tempted to 
cut myself, either," she told him, moving to sit up against 
the headboard.  "So I don't think I'm inventing these words 
on my own."

"No," he admitted.  "Probably not."  He sat up as well.  
"Is there anything else?  Anything that might give a clue 
about his identity?"

She shook her head.  "Just that fact that he likes to cut 
himself.  That seems pretty unusual."

"Maybe not as much as you'd think," Mulder answered, and he 
slid off the bed to go retrieve her laptop.  "After you 
mentioned it to me, I did a little digging on the internet 
and found quite a bit on self-mutilation.  Apparently it's 
not nearly as uncommon as once thought.  Hundreds of people 
do it."

He brought the computer over to the bed and switched on the 
nearby lamp.  Scully scanned the first bit of notes he had 
typed, her brow wrinkling as she read.  "I'm not sure I 
understand. Is the cutting some sort of way to get 
attention?"

"Quite the opposite, actually."  He rejoined her on the 
bed.  "For most people it's a great secret, and they take 
care to place the injuries in areas that aren't likely to 
be seen by others."

She read a little farther, to the part where he described 
the types of burns and cuts that people inflicted on 
themselves.  It was gruesome.  "How terrible," she 
murmured, and he agreed.

"It's just like you said, Scully--they do it to make the 
pain go away.  It's a way of controlling the internal 
anxiety by giving them an external focus. The greater the 
anxiety, the more injury it takes to make the feelings 
subside."

"How do you make them stop?" she asked, scrolling further 
down the page.

"I had a tougher time with that one," he answered,  "From 
what I could find, it seems as though many psychologists 
have been reluctant to treat self-mutilators.  They're 
often afraid of them.  It's a hard disorder to treat 
because the patients frequently don't feel they are doing 
anything wrong."  He scratched the back of his head.  "But 
it seems like this profile fits our killer pretty well.  
We're dealing with someone who uses the knife to satisfy 
his pain."

Scully drew a sharp breath and jerked her hand away from 
the keyboard, blinking rapidly.  "Oh my God."

"What?" he asked, moving closer.  "What is it?"

She peeked at the screen again, where he had listed a bunch 
of traits that were best characteristic of people who liked 
to cut themselves.  "Female" was at the top of the list, 
followed by "has suffered a large psychological trauma", 
"trouble talking about negative feelings", "likes to feel 
in control" and "emotionally distant parents".  There were 
a few others, but Scully stopped reading.  She turned to 
face him, shaking slightly.  "This isn't just the killer," 
she said in a low voice.  "Mulder, this could be me."

XxXxX

I prepared the basement this morning.  It was a long drive 
out to the cabin and back, but it's worth it for my peace 
of mind.  The table has been shined, and the restraints are 
ready.  I hummed a little while I laid out the knives and 
congratulated myself on the new plan.  I don't know why I 
did not think of it sooner.

As I drove back to town, a voice in my head started 
worrying about her, saying that she would not cooperate.  I 
nearly ran off the road into a snow bank.

stupidstupidstupid!

How could you ever think anyone else would be sick like 
you?

My heart was racing, and my hands hurt from gripping the 
steering wheel.  What if I was wrong about her?  

Then I realized it was just Father talking inside my mind, 
and I relaxed.  There was no reason to be alarmed.  She 
might resist at first--I remember I hesitated the first 
time--but once she understood how it could be, cutting into 
warm flesh, she would join in immediately.

Rush hour traffic slowed me down at the bridge, but I 
didn't mind.  The night would come soon enough.

XxXxX

Mulder was quiet as he watched the stitches disappear under 
the sleeve of her lavender cardigan.  Wordlessly, he moved 
to help her fasten the buttons.  "I thought you said you 
would never consider hurting yourself," he said when he had 
finished.  She met his eyes briefly, then looked away.

"I haven't considered it.  That's why this is so odd."  She 
sank down slowly on the side of the bed, and after a 
moment, he joined her.

"Well, they're just risk factors," he said slowly.  
"They're not necessarily predictive of anything."

She nodded, lost in thought.  "It must be like gene 
penetrance," she murmured at last.

"Excuse me?"

"Just because you have the gene for something doesn't mean 
it's necessarily going to be transcribed," she said, 
shifting to face him.  "Take the breast cancer gene, for 
example.  Only eighty percent of the women who have the 
gene will actually go on to develop the illness."

He looked interested.  "So what's the difference?  What 
makes one woman get cancer and the other not?"

"That's the million dollar question, Mulder.  Most likely 
it's environmental factors that govern the gene 
transcription, but what those specific factors are has yet 
to be determined.  Chances are there's a whole host of 
contributing causes."

"So you think that self-mutilation has a genetic basis?"

She shook her head.   "That's probably too strong an 
assertion, but there is almost certainly a genetic 
component.  Complex behaviors such as this one are likely 
to be controlled by multiple genes and therefore more 
flexible in responding to environmental changes."

They lapsed into silence for a few moments, and Scully 
glanced once more at the glowing screen that listed the 
personality types prone to self-mutilation.  Gene 
penetrance.  Diathesis-stress.  All just fancy ways of 
saying that if X had been Y or right had been left, she 
might have turned to hurting herself as a way to manage her 
pain.  She shivered.  Some dark roads were best not taken.

"You okay, Scully?"

She drew her legs up on the bed and nodded slightly.  
"Yeah, I'm all right."  She dropped her eyes, toying 
absently with the edge of the blanket.  "Why, do you 
think?"

"Why did you turn out okay?" he asked.  Nodding, she met 
his eyes.  He looked uncomfortable.  "I don't know, 
Scully...I don't know if we'll ever know."

I have to, she thought desperately, squeezing her eyes 
shut.  I have to know whether I should look at that list 
and think "not me" or "not yet".

A warm hand closed over her knee, and she opened her eyes 
again.  "I think you're okay," he said softly.  "Look here, 
see?"  He leaned over and scrolled down to the bottom of 
the risk factors.  "Most people start when they're really 
young--teens and twenties."

She read over the words once, then twice more before she 
looked up at him again.  Sudden tears filled her eyes and 
she blinked them away.  "No more complaining about turning 
thirty-five," she whispered with a near smile, and he 
smiled and wrapped an arm around her, hugging her close.  
After a few moments, she pulled away.  "He's still out 
there, Mulder.  It's just a matter of time until he kills 
again."

"Probably sooner rather than later," he agreed.  "There 
were two victims this week alone."

"I was thinking," she began slowly.  "If we're right about 
the killer cutting himself, he might be doing it at the 
crime scene."

"Could be.  The profile suggests he'd be likely to cut more 
during times of extreme stress.  I'd certainly put a murder 
scene in that category."

"Well, then some of the blood traces on the victims might 
be his."

Mulder looked confused.  "Wouldn't you and Dr. Atkins have 
spotted something like that before?"

"We didn't assay every single stain--there were so many of 
them and we believed the blood all came from the victim.  
But Marianne Maubry's results should be in by now.  We were 
pretty thorough with her, so perhaps there is something in 
her screens we haven't seen before."

"Okay.  Why don't I run over to the morgue and pick up a 
copy?"  He was already on his feet, reaching for his coat.

"Mulder, I can--"  His ringing cell phone cut short her 
protest.

"Hello?" he said, still struggling into his jacket.  "Hey, 
how'd it go?  Uh-huh...uh-huh...yeah, she's doing fine." He 
paused and mouthed, "Bertelli".  

"Did they charge King?" Scully asked, rising from the bed.  
He nodded.

"In an hour?" he asked, and checked his watch.  "I don't 
know if I can make it--I'm heading to the morgue right now 
to grab Marianne Maubry's lab results.  Scully thinks 
there's a possibility that the killer left his blood 
behind."  There was a longer pause as he listened to 
Bertelli's response.  "Yeah, well...if the blood is a 
match, then we'll have King for sure, won't we?  And if it 
isn't..." 

Scully turned away.  Blood or no blood, King wasn't the 
killer.  Why couldn't they see that?

Moments later, Mulder snapped his phone shut.  "Bertelli is 
less than pleased, and judging from the swearing in the 
background, Jacobsen shares her opinion.  They've already 
handed King over to the D.A."

"Without the murder weapon?"  Scully was incredulous.

"Yeah, well they're still searching King's apartment and 
his buddy Dave's house.  In the meantime, Englehart's 
crowing to the media that the case is closed."

"At least until the next victim shows up," she sighed. 

"Speaking of, I'm going to head out now and pick up the 
reports.  If I have time, I'll catch King's arraignment at 
one."  He began walking toward the door, and she followed 
him.

"I'll meet you there.  I'd like to talk to Bertelli and 
Jacobsen myself."

He paused in the doorway, peering down at her.  "Are you 
sure it's a good idea to go?  The press is going to be 
crawling all over the place."

"They're about to charge a man with seven murders he didn't 
commit, Mulder.  I can't just sit in my hotel room and let 
that happen."

He glanced at the arm she held protectively against her 
side.  "As far as I'm concerned," he muttered, "they can 
bury Joe King so deep he'll be pumping in daylight."

"Don't worry, I'm not going to be advocating his release," 
she answered darkly, and he nodded.

"See you in an hour or so."

"Mulder, wait."  He stopped and turned around.

"What?"

"Just...be careful, okay?"

He stepped back across the threshold and placed a kiss on 
the top of her head.  "An hour, Scully.  I'll see you 
then."

"Yes, see you."  Then she watched him walk down the hall 
and out of sight.

XxXxX

Mulder walked along the corridor of the basement morgue 
until he reached the swinging doors.  Inside he found Dr. 
Atkins standing, forceps in hand, over a dead man about 
sixty years of age.  She looked up when he entered.

"Agent Mulder," she said with some surprise and set aside 
her safety goggles.  

He held up his hands.  "No food this time--am I clear to 
come in?"

"Sure, sure."  She snapped off her gloves.  "What can I do 
for you?"

"Actually, I'm here for Scully.  She was wondering if the 
lab results for Marianne Maubry have come back."

"Oh, I heard about what happened last night!  Is she okay?"

"Other than a cut on her arm, she's doing fine," he 
reported.

"Did she lose much blood?"  Mulder jumped as a tall, thin 
man materialized behind him.  Jesus, had the doors even 
opened?  He looked up at the man's pale, solemn face.

"I'm sorry, have we met?"

Dr. Atkins stepped forward.  "Agent Mulder, this is my 
technician, Howard Everby.  He's been helping me and Dana 
with this case."

"I heard he cut her pretty badly," Howard said, his dark 
eyes fixed on Mulder.  Mulder stared right back.  The man's 
tone was entirely flat, but his dilated pupils suggested 
excitement.

"She's going to be fine.  The cut wasn't that bad," he said 
carefully, watching Howard for his reaction.  The other man 
nodded slowly.

"Very good," he answered softly.  Then he turned to leave.

"Howard, wait.  Did the labs come back on Marianne Maubry 
yet?  Agent Mulder would like to see them."

Howard turned from the door to look at Mulder again.  
"Why?"

Dr. Atkins faced him, as well.  "Yes, why?  I thought the 
bartender from Dempsey's was being charged with the 
murders.  Englehart sent a memo this morning."

"It's not King," Mulder informed them.  "He's dangerous, 
but he's not responsible for these murders."

Both Dr. Atkins and Howard went completely still.  After 
several beats of silence, she spoke softly.  "Howard, get 
the labs, will you?"  Without a word, Howard disappeared 
through the swinging doors, and she returned her attention 
to Mulder.  "Dana agrees with you about this?"

"She feels as strongly as I do--maybe more so.  She's off 
at the courthouse trying to intercept Bertelli and Jacobsen 
right now."

"And if she is not successful?"

He shrugged.  "We'll keep searching.  The real killer is 
making more mistakes, now.  We're bound to catch a break 
soon."

At that point, Howard returned with a folder.  "These are 
the results," he said to Dr. Atkins.  She nodded in 
Mulder's direction, and Howard paused, glancing down at the 
folder before finally handing it over.  Then he moved to 
stand behind Dr. Atkins.

"Thanks," Mulder said, hardly looking at them as he headed 
for the door.  "We'll keep you posted."

He began leafing through the reports as he made his way out 
of the basement, pausing on the staircase to hold a graph 
up to the light.  "Should have paid more attention in 
chemistry," he muttered, continuing on his way.  Outside 
the bracing wind forced him to cut short his perusal.  He 
held the folder close against his chest as he walked around 
the back parking lot.

In the car, he rubbed his hands together to warm them, the 
folder resting on the steering wheel.  He opened it again 
and turned to the section detailing the hematological 
analysis.  Squinting, he attempted to decipher which tests 
had been run.  The final page revealed the big payoff.

"Holy shit," he murmured, pulling the sheet free from the 
rest.  "Am I reading this right?"  He reached for the phone 
to call Scully, but then there was a tap on his window.

XxXxX

Of course he must die.  I should have seen it sooner.  
Elizabeth.  Dana.  He hurt them both so much--who's to say 
how many others he's wounded along the way?

Well, no more.

"Hey," he says somewhat warily, rolling down his window.  I 
can tell he's surprised to see me.  In my pocket, I uncap 
the syringe.

"Find anything interesting in the reports?" I inquire, and 
he nods, fumbling with the folder on his lap.

"Yeah, the blood typing showed--"  He breaks off suddenly, 
tilting his head to one side.  I can guess very well what 
it showed.  Just as I am preparing to withdraw the syringe, 
he looks up at me--looks almost right through me--and I 
know the puzzle pieces have fallen into place.

"It's you," he whispers, horrified.  "The blood, the marks 
on the bodies..."

"Yes," I admit calmly.  I'm almost pleased he's figured it 
out.  "It's me."

And the needle slides into his neck with no problem at all.

XxXxX

End Chapter Eleven.

XxXxX
Chapter Twelve
XxXxX

In the bathroom, I open my arm with a two inch cut.  The 
blood runs warmly over my skin, but it does little to calm 
my shaking.  I try again with the other arm.  Soon I am 
awash in red.

Jesus, it wasn't supposed to happen this way.  How long has 
he known?  Who else could he have told?  If he said 
anything to Dana...if he even *hinted* his suspicions, I 
could be in serious trouble. 

Stupidstupidstupid

You didn't think you would really get away with it, did 
you?

My head snaps up.  Not caught yet, I think.  I was careless 
but not irrevocably so.  There is still time to fix this 
problem before I bring Dana to the cabin.  So what if this 
wasn't the way I planned?

I take several deep breaths and realize the voice has gone 
away again.  Pressing paper towels to my wounds, I hold the 
arm with the larger cut above my head until all the 
bleeding has stopped.  Any remaining evidence disappears 
down the sink in a red swirl.

The knife is cool and sharp in my hand, and I smile with 
relief.  I wonder if he will bleed any differently from the 
women--faster perhaps? More salty?

It is time to find out.

XxXxX

Scully had no choice but to enter the Cambridge courthouse 
through the front doors, where a mob of reports were 
waiting to swoop down on her the instant she got out of the 
taxi.  They cackled questions at her as a beefy uniformed 
police sergeant elbowed a path through the crowd.

"Agent Scully, is it true King broke your cover in under 
five minutes?"

"How does it feel to have caught Cambridge's only serial 
killer?"

"Can you confirm the rumor that King had sexual relations 
with the victims after their deaths?"

"No comment," Scully snapped as a particularly pushy woman 
shoved a microphone at her, jostling her injured arm within 
the sling.  She ignored their shouts, but still they 
hollered out questions.  Pushing en masse up the stone 
steps like the incoming tide, they propelled her into the 
building on a wave of noise.  The marble foyer was 
blissfully quiet.

"Can I see some ID?" asked the solemn, dark-skinned guard 
by the metal detector.  Scully showed him her badge, and 
his eyes widened a bit.  "Nice work last night," he said 
softly, straightening to his full height.  Scully gave him 
a short nod.

"Thank you.  Has the arraignment started yet?"

"Not for another few minutes, I don't think.  It's down the 
hall and the second door on your left."  He gestured 
through the frame of the metal detector, and Scully 
dutifully emptied her pockets.  "You carrying?" he asked as 
he pushed the basket of keys and change to the other side 
of the table.  She shook her head.  "Okay, then.  You're 
clear to go on in."

Collecting her things, then glanced up at the guard again.  
"Has another agent come through here recently, do you 
know?"  It was now a few minutes to one, and Mulder had 
said he would try to make it if he could.  She was 
surprised she had not heard from him yet.

"No, Ma'am, no one else from the FBI.  Plenty of the CPD 
blues, though."

"Thanks."  Scully punched up Mulder's number on her phone 
as she walked down the corridor toward the courtroom.  
Pausing outside the door, she waited for him to answer but 
instead reached the automated messaging service.  "Mulder, 
it's me.  I'm at the courthouse for the arraignment.  If 
you got the reports on Marianne Maubry, bring them over 
here.  I'd like to take a look at them."

It was crowded inside the courtroom, which smelled of stale 
heat and wet winter clothing.  Judge Anna Yin sat at the 
bench with a weary frown as the accused were paraded before 
her, one by one.  Scanning the room, Scully spotted 
Bertelli and Jacobsen standing in the corner and watching 
the proceedings with intense interest.  Jacobsen looked 
like he had not slept in two days, but Bertelli was dressed 
in a neat burgundy pants suit that nicely complemented her 
Italian coloring.  

Perfect for the press conferences, Scully thought, 
repressing a tired sigh.  She threaded her way through the 
on-lookers until she reached the detectives. 

"Well if it isn't the woman of the hour," said Jacobsen.  
"If you weren't so indisposed, I'd give you the old high-
five." Scully ignored him.

"Dana, how are you?"  Bertelli greeted her with concern.

"I'll be fine," she answered, eager to move past her injury 
and on to the point of her visit.  "King hasn't been 
arraigned yet?"

"He's up next," Jacobsen said, and just at that moment the 
side doors opened and the bailiff escorted Joe King into 
the room.  Gone was the cocky, angry man Scully remembered 
from the night before.  King now appeared pale, terrified 
and defeated.  A complete hush fell over the courtroom as 
he joined his attorney by the defense table, and moments 
later the clerk read off the charges.

"The Commonwealth versus Joseph Anthony King, docket number 
218356.  Charges are concealing a deadly weapon, one count 
of kidnapping in the first degree, one count of attempted 
homicide in the first degree, and seven counts of first 
degree homicide."

Scully leaned over to Bertelli.  "You've got the wrong 
man," she whispered urgently.  "King did not kill those 
women."

"Oh?"  Bertelli arched an eyebrow.  "And who did, may I 
ask?"

"I don't know that yet, but I'm sure it wasn't King."

Jacobsen looked annoyed.  "I didn't realize they had 
started issuing crystal balls at the FBI."

Scully colored slightly at the remark but pressed forward 
with her argument anyway.  "There's no need to summon any 
psychic powers here.  We don't have one piece of solid 
evidence linking King to any of the crime scenes--no 
witnesses, no DNA, not even a footprint.  You're telling me 
that a man who didn't graduate high school had the ability 
to pull off such a clean crime scene?"

Jacobsen shrugged.  "So he watches a lot of 'Law and 
Order'.  Or maybe he just got lucky there for awhile."

"And the murder weapon?" Scully persisted.  "That hasn't 
turned up in any of the searches, has it?"

"Yet."  Bertelli was frowning.  "Look, Dana...I'm not sure 
why you're suddenly convinced of King's innocence, but the 
fact remains that he had access to the victims, the means 
to kill them, and a violent temper that goes a long way 
toward motive.  The rest will fall into place soon, I'm 
sure."

"What about the barbiturates?"

"What?"  Bertelli looked confused.

"The drugs that the killer used to sedate the women.  Did 
you find any barbiturates among King's possessions?"  The 
two detectives exchanged a look, then fell silent.  Scully 
sighed.  "I expected as much.  You're not likely to find 
them, either.  Not until we find the real killer."

Just as the words left her mouth, the Judge remanded Joe 
King into the state's custody pending trial.  Scully shook 
her head.  "I've got to see those lab reports."

"What reports?" Jacobsen wanted to know.

"The lab work up on the last victim, Marianne Maubry.  
Mulder was supposed to pick up a copy from the morgue and 
bring it over here."  She checked her watch and found it 
was quarter past one.  "I can't imagine what could be 
taking so long."

As Joe King was led away, much of the crowd stood up to 
leave.  Scully and the detectives found themselves pushed 
tighter into the corner.  "Maybe he just couldn't fight his 
way in," Jacobsen suggested.  "Give him a call."

Scully nodded and tried phoning Mulder once more, but again 
there was no answer.  As she was deciding what to do next, 
the ADA approached.  "Agent Scully," he nodded at her.  
"Walter Litton with District Attorney's office.  I 
recognize you from the news.  Thanks for your help in 
nailing Joe King--that was an incredible risk you took, 
following him back to the house.  I hope you can rest easy 
now that we'll take it from here."

"But--" 

He continued over her protest.  "Rob, as the arresting 
officer, you need to answer a couple more questions for me.  
Do you have a minute?"

Jacobsen looked from Scully to Bertelli.  "We done here for 
the moment?" he asked.  Bertelli waved him away.  

"Yeah, go on.  I'll catch you back at the station."  As the 
men walked out of the room, Scully turned to Bertelli.  

"I'm going to head out, too.  I want to go over to the 
morgue to see if Mulder is still there.  If not, I can at 
least get a copy of the lab report."

"I'll go with you," Bertelli suggested.  "That way you 
don't have to catch a cab."

Scully gave her an appraising look.  "You're willing to 
consider that King might not be guilty?"

Bertelli paused at the doorway, considering the question.  
"Let's just say I'll be interested to know what the lab 
report reveals."  

XxXxX 

In the parking lot behind the morgue, Scully paused at the 
sight of a familiar red Taurus.  "What is it?" Bertelli 
asked, coming to stand beside her.

"This is our car.  Mulder must be inside."  So why wasn't 
he answering the phone, she wondered to herself.

The building was quiet when they entered and even more 
silent as they reached the basement level.  There was no 
sign of Dr. Atkins or Howard anywhere.  "Mulder?" Scully 
called as they walked toward Dr. Atkins' office, but there 
was no answer.  She pushed open the door to the office.  
"Hello?"


The room was empty, but the desk lamp was on and papers 
were strewn across the desk.  Scully leaned down to 
scrutinize them.  "Is that the report you wanted?" Bertelli 
asked from behind her.  Scully scanned a few more lines, 
then straightened up.

"No, this isn't it.  Maybe it's in Howard's office."  She 
glanced over at Bertelli.  "I'll check there if you look 
down the hall for Mulder.  He must be here someplace."

Bertelli hesitated only a second.  "Okay, sure."  She left 
and Scully walked around the corner to Howard's office.  In 
contrast to Haley Atkins' room, his was immaculately clean.  
Even the paperclips were neatly aligned in their shallow 
dish.  Scully shivered, glancing over her shoulder to make 
sure he was not creeping up on her.

"C'mon, c'mon...where are you?" she muttered, flipping 
through the stack on the corner of his desk with her good 
hand.  None of the files bore Marianne Maubry's name.  
"Great," Scully grumbled.  "Now what?"

She turned and saw the tall, gray filing cabinet sitting in 
the corner.  Anal as he seemed, perhaps Howard had already 
filed the report away, she reasoned.  She tugged sharply on 
the top drawer, but it opened only halfway.  "What the 
hell?"

She pulled on the handle a few more times, then noticed a 
catch on the side.  Releasing the hook, she slid the drawer 
fully open.  "Oh my God."  

Inside was a miniature shrine to Dr. Atkins, complete with 
a half dozen candid photos, a pair of latex gloves and what 
looked to be a lock of her hair.  There was also a 
container of pens, one of which Scully recognized as 
belonging to her and suppressed a shudder.  She pulled out 
a pair of gloves from the box on Howard's desk and lifted 
out the jar of pens, bringing them closer to the window to 
see them clearly.

Her heart stopped.

"No," she whispered, even as the hairs on her neck rose to 
attention.  The maroon lettering stood out in stark relief 
against the creamy background:  "Charleston Hotel".

Marianne Maubry's hotel.  Her hotel.

Scully coughed suddenly as her throat seized up.  Her eyes 
were watering.

"Scully!"  Bertelli's cry echoed from down the hall--
surprised and horrified. 

He's back, Scully thought immediately, then realized she 
was unarmed.  In the hall she found a steel pole, part of a 
disassembled gurney, and she picked it up before cautiously 
entering the autopsy bay.  Bertelli stood motionless in the 
corner.

"What is it?" Scully asked, not moving from the door.  She 
clenched her left hand around the pole.

"He's dead," whispered Bertelli.  "His throat's been slit."

Scully walked into the room and finally caught sight of 
Howard lying on the floor, a large red smile gaping across 
his neck.  She knelt next to the body and felt his cheek 
with the back of her hand.  "He's still very warm.  Did you 
see anything?"

Bertelli shook her head.  "Not a thing.  He was like this 
when I came in."

Scully stood up and looked around.  "No sign of much 
struggle," she noted. 

Mulder, she thought.  Where the hell was Mulder?  A chill 
chased down her spine.

"I guess I had better call this in," said Bertelli.  
"You're okay here with him?"  Scully glanced down at the 
dead man and nodded.

"I'll be all right."

"Okay, back in five, I promise."  Bertelli jogged toward 
the doors, which swung closed behind her with a loud 
"smack".  Then all was silent.

Scully took a deep breath and then knelt to study the body 
once more.  "Probably a similar knife," she mused softly, 
noting the clean edge on the cut.  "But no slow bleeding 
out this time--he caught both carotids in one slice."   As 
she stood up, she noticed a folder sitting on the nearby 
countertop.  She picked it up and found Marianne Maubry's 
labs at the front.  Toward the back was a page from Anne 
Hingham's file--blood analysis she had never seen before. 

"So there were two blood types...we could have known this 
months ago."  She flipped to Marianne's report and 
discovered something more.  Marianne and the killer both 
had blood type O positive, so the lab had run some more 
thorough tests, including a chromosomal readout.  "My God," 
breathed Scully, staring at the results.  "It's a woman."

"Hello, Dana."

Scully spun around to find Haley Atkins standing five feet 
away.  In her hands was a gun; it looked suspiciously like 
Bertelli's.

"Haley," she said cautiously, her eyes trained on the 
weapon.  "What's going on here?"

Dr. Atkins took a step closer.  "I think you know by now.  
I think maybe you've always known."

"You killed those women," Scully said, amazed by how calm 
her voice sounded.  "And Howard, too."

Dr. Atkins cast a dispassionate glance at the man on the 
floor.  "I had no choice with him.  He found out about the 
cabin, about the women."  She blinked guilelessly at 
Scully.  "I couldn't let him ruin everything for us."

"For us?" Scully licked her lips.

Dr. Atkins shook her head faintly, as if in wonder.  "I 
never thought there would be another person like me."  She 
smiled.  "Then you came.  It's fate, don't you think?"

Scully had barely moved since the woman had entered the 
room.  Now she took a small step forward.  "I don't 
understand.  Why don't you put the gun down and we'll talk 
about it?"

"No!"  She tightened her grip on the weapon.  "Don't make 
me do it, Dana," she whispered.  "I don't want to have to 
kill him by myself."

Scully froze.  "Kill who?" 

"Mulder, of course."

"You...you have Mulder?"  

"Yes."  She smiled broadly and nodded toward the door.  
"Come with me, Dana...then we can have him together."

Scully went.

XxXxX

End Chapter Twelve. 

XxXxX

Chapter Thirteen

XxXxX

The road seemed to lead directly into winter, as the banks 
of snow rose higher around them and bleak clouds appeared 
like wisps of smoke on the horizon.  Scully guessed it had 
been ten minutes since she had seen any sign of 
civilization.  She glanced again at the gun resting in 
Haley Atkins' lap, wondering if she could be quick enough 
to grab it.  Her fingers inched a little closer.

As if sensing the motion, Dr. Atkins tightened her grip on 
the gun.  "We're nearly there.  It won't be long now."

Scully looked out at the passing trees.  "Where exactly are 
we going?"

Dr. Atkins gave a strange, twitching smile.  "The scene of 
the crime," she whispered, and Scully shivered in her seat.  
The cold caused her injured arm to ache all the way to the 
bone.

"What about..."  She stopped and swallowed hard, as visions 
of Howard's separated throat flashed through her mind.  
"What about Mulder?  Will he be there?"

"Oh, yes," Dr. Atkins murmured.  "Of course he will be 
there.  It's his destiny."

Scully kept her eyes focused on the gun.  "I believe we 
choose our own destiny."

"Is that so?"  Dr. Atkins gave her an appraising glance.   
"Let's hope you choose the right one, then." 

The car hit a sharp bump as they turned off onto a snow 
covered back road, where tall pine trees nearly blocked out 
the gray afternoon light.  They jostled along with the 
dashboard rattling until Scully heard a thump from the 
trunk of the car.  She twisted in her seat.  "Mulder? 
Mulder, is that you?"

"Nearly there," muttered Dr. Atkins as if she had not 
spoken.  Scully turned back to face her.

"Is he all right?" she demanded.  "What did you do to him?"

Dr. Atkins frowned at her, knuckles turning white as she 
clenched the wheel with her free hand.  "Don't worry, Dana, 
he's perfectly untouched.  Did you think I wouldn't wait 
for you?"

The car bumped and rolled around another corner, and Scully 
saw a large wooden cabin looming up ahead in the clearing.  
There did not seem to be another living soul around.  
"Please," she said, a note of panic beginning to creep into 
her voice.  "Haley, this is not what I want.  What I want 
is for all of us to be safe.  It's not too late to stop 
this.  If you'll just turn around and go back--"

"No!  No, I can't!  I can't stop."  She turned wild eyes to 
Scully.  "Don't you see?  I can't ever stop.  And once you 
see how it can be, you won't want to stop, either."  She 
brought the car to a halt outside the cabin, causing Mulder 
to hit the side of the trunk with a sharp jolt.  Scully 
winced at the sound.

"Please," she whispered again.  "Don't do this."

Dr. Atkins raised the gun, her eyes gone cold.  "Get out," 
she ordered flatly.  Scully got out of the car, and Dr. 
Atkins met her with the gun barrel on the other side.  "I'm 
sorry you're having so much trouble with this, Dana, but 
you'll see in a minute that it's for your own good."

Scully felt her eyes sting with tears.  Whether it was from 
sorrow or the bitter wind she did not know.  "How?" she 
asked achingly.  "How can you think that good will come 
from hurting people?"

"I...I thought you knew."  Dr. Atkins looked surprised.  "I 
saw you cutting the bodies.  You had such care, such a 
gentle touch...I was sure you did it, too."

"Did what?" whispered Scully, already afraid of the answer. 

But instead of replying aloud, Dr. Atkins pulled open her 
long wool coat and tugged up her blouse.  Scully gasped.  
Angry brown scabs crisscrossed over the woman's midsection, 
marring the white surface with scars and barely-healed 
wounds.  Some were so deep they had clearly required 
stitches.  "Let me see your arm," breathed Dr. Atkins, 
licking her lips.  "Let me see where he cut you."

"My God."  Scully was still staring at the terrible cuts on 
Dr. Atkins' stomach.  Nothing Mulder had said could have 
prepared her for this.  "You really did this to yourself?"

"For a long time now.  It was the only way I found to stop 
the screaming.  But then..." She lowered her blouse again 
and shrugged a little.  "Then one day it just wasn't enough 
anymore."

"You need help," Scully said softly, taking a step toward 
the other woman.  "Please...let me help you.  There are 
people we can talk to, people who understand the kind of 
pain you're in."

"You mean the talking heads?" Dr. Atkins laughed bitterly.  
"Those idiots who come on the nightly news and try to 
dissect me for the viewers at home?  What a bunch of crap 
that is!  They don't understand a thing about us, Dana, not 
a thing! They all think I'm a man, for chrissake!"

"We can find someone," Scully implored, but Atkins cut her 
off.

"No.  You know who understood?  The women from Dempsey's--
they all knew about pain."  Her eyes narrowed.  "Like 
Elizabeth, for instance.  She knew.  She even put herself 
under the knife to try to make it stop, that's how much he 
hurt her."

"Mulder tried to help her, not hurt her," Scully protested 
through chattering teeth.  Her thin sweater was no 
protection from the swirling snowflakes that had began to 
fall.  

"He didn't help her!" sneered Dr. Atkins.  "*I'm* the one 
who ended Elizabeth's misery, not him!  She told me she 
wished she had never married him!  What kind of love is 
that?"

"You've got it all wrong," Scully insisted urgently.  
"Mulder is not like that."

"Oh, no?  You're saying he never hurt you?  Don't bother to 
lie about it because I could see it all over your face--and 
his.  Guilt is always so easy to read."

Scully hugged herself with her good arm.  "Not everything 
is that easy," she murmured finally.  "But the hurt doesn't 
have to go on forever."  She dropped her eyes to the other 
woman's hidden scars.   "Not if you don't want it to."

Dr. Atkins' lips curved into a smile, and she nodded 
slowly.  "I knew you would understand.  Of course there is 
pain at first, but I know exactly how to make it go away."  
She waved the gun in the direction of the trunk.  "Come on, 
then.  It's time to begin."  She tossed Scully the car 
keys.

Scully hesitated only a moment before inserting the key and 
popping the lid.  Mulder blinked up at her, his mouth taped 
and his hands bound behind his back.  Relief and worry 
swirled in his eyes with equal measure as he raked his gaze 
over her once.  She leaned down a bit closer, searching him 
for any sign of injury.  "Are you okay, Mulder?" she asked 
softly.  He nodded.

"Help him out," ordered Dr. Atkins from behind them.  "And 
make it slow."

It was an awkward process with his hands pinned at his back 
and her arm still in the sling, but eventually Mulder stood 
beside her in the snow.  Scully glanced behind him and 
noticed his fingertips were turning blue.  "We need to 
untie him," she said, fixing Dr. Atkins with a level gaze.  
"His circulation is cut off."

"That problem will be fixed soon enough," returned the 
other woman coolly.  She indicated the cabin with a nod.  
"Let's go."

Scully met Mulder's eyes and then turned to head for the 
cabin.  If they were lucky, there might be a phone she 
could reach.  The snow crunched under her feet as she 
walked, but after a few steps she realized the only sound 
behind her was the wind.  She turned around again and saw 
Mulder still standing by the car with Dr. Atkins.  
"Mulder?"

Dr. Atkins brought her other hand up to the gun, aiming the 
barrel directly at Mulder's chest.  "Tell him to get 
moving!" she yelled out.  Mulder shook his head.

Oh, God, Scully thought frantically.  He doesn't think 
she'll do it.  He doesn't think she'll switch her weapon.  

Thoughts of Howard and Bertelli flooded her mind again as 
she walked back towards the car.  It was already clear how 
far Atkins was willing to go to keep her plans on track.  
"Mulder, please," she murmured.  "Just come inside."

"Better listen to your partner, Agent Mulder."  Dr. Atkins' 
eyes narrowed.

Mulder looked down at the gun and then shook his head 
again.  Dr. Atkins gave no second warning; she shot him 
instantly.

"Mulder!"  Scully screamed as he fell to the ground, 
curling inward in pain.  She knelt beside him in the snow.  
"Mulder, are you okay?  Where were you hit?"  His moans 
were muffled by the tape.

"Get him up," said Dr. Atkins coldly.

"He's been shot," Scully snapped, stating the obvious.  "He 
can't get up."

"He can and he will."

Scully ignored her, still searching over Mulder for the 
point of entry.  Then her hand grazed his pants leg and 
came away covered in blood.  "Jesus," she murmured, 
pressing against the wound.  She looked up through the 
falling snow at Dr. Atkins.  "We need to get him to a 
hospital.  Now."

"We need to get him inside," returned the other woman, "or 
my next shot won't be so low."

Mulder began twisting in an effort to get up.  After a 
moment of indecision, Scully helped him to his feet, 
wrapping her good arm solidly around his shoulders.  At 
least inside there was still the possibility of a phone.  
"Can you make it?" she whispered, squeezing him tight.  His 
eyes slid shut in pain, but he nodded.

Slowly, they made their way to the cabin, with Mulder 
leaving bright red splotches of red on the new-fallen snow.  
"Not up," said Dr. Atkins when they reached the stairs.  
She nodded toward the bulkhead.  "Down there."

As they paused to open the metal doors, the wind howled 
across the frozen lake, and Dr. Atkins turned towards the 
sound.  "I hear you, Helen," she murmured.  "I'll be coming 
soon."

Scully shivered with cold and horror, and Mulder grunted in 
pain as they maneuvered down the rickety steps into the 
basement.  Then Dr. Atkins flipped a wall switch, and 
Scully blinked rapidly in surprise.  

It was an autopsy bay.

The floor was tiled and equipped with a drain, and a long, 
silver table gleamed under the fluorescent light.  The only 
difference was that this table had restraints.

"Up you go," ordered Dr. Atkins, waving the gun at Mulder.  
Scully felt her heart lurch into her stomach.

"Haley, stop.  Don't do this."

"You'll understand soon, Dana.  This is the way it has to 
be.  I'm sorry about the gun, but I need it until I'm sure 
you will cooperate."

Scully swallowed with difficulty as Mulder started to sway 
on his feet.  "I'll...I'll cooperate, I promise.  Just tell 
me what to do."  

Dr. Atkins smiled.  "Excellent.  Put him on the table, will 
you?  I'll make sure he's strapped in nice and tight."

Mulder's eyes were fixed on hers, and for the first time, 
Scully detected real fear in his gaze.  She squeezed his 
arm as they moved toward the table.  Just for a minute, 
Mulder, she told him silently.  We're going to get out of 
here, I promise.

Aloud she said, "I need to untie his wrists now."

"Fine," answered Dr. Atkins, and Scully made quick work of 
the knots.  Mulder flexed his fingers gingerly, and she 
pressed them briefly in reassurance.  "Now step away," Dr. 
Atkins commanded.  "I'll do the restraints."

Pulse pounding in her ears, Scully watched as Dr. Atkins 
pinned Mulder like a butterfly with leather restraints at 
his ankles and wrists.  Blood from his leg smeared the side 
of the silver table.  Dr. Atkins tested each knot with a 
sharp tug before proclaiming herself satisfied.  "That will 
do for now," she murmured, and Scully felt her panic 
ratchet up another notch.  

Maybe Dr. Atkins had been lying when she said she would put 
the gun down.

"What...what do I do now?" Scully managed in a tight voice, 
and Mulder twisted his head to stare at her with huge, dark 
eyes.  She turned away.  

XxXxX

End Chapter Thirteen. 

XxXxX

Chapter Fourteen

XxXxX


"Get the camera," said Dr. Atkins, watching her carefully.  

Scully blanched.  "Camera?" she whispered.

Dr. Atkins nodded.  "We need to take the first picture 
before we begin.  You can find it on the counter over 
there, under the other photos."

Scully turned around slowly and saw for the first time what 
Mulder must have seen from his place on the table--neat 
rows of Polaroid photos, hanging like a gallery of death on 
the far wall.  Her lips parted with silent horror, and she 
moved inexorably towards the terrible display. 

Each of the seven women stared back at her from pairs of 
snapshots, the right side capturing their tear-stained 
cheeks and pleading eyes.  Scully raised her hand as if to 
touch them, hovering for an instant over their terrified 
faces, then swallowed hard and dropped her hand, forcing 
her gaze to the row on the left.  Their individuality 
seemed to evaporate, all pale skin and bottomless eyes 
blending to create a single portrait of death.

"You see?  It's beautiful," whispered Dr. Atkins at her 
shoulder, and Scully startled backwards.  Her breathing was 
quick and shallow.

"I...I see," she answered in a thin voice.  Her gaze darted 
to Atkins' right hand, which still held the gun.  She 
licked her lips as she met the other woman's gaze again.  
"They seem...very peaceful."

Dr. Atkins smiled. "Exactly," she murmured, reaching out to 
stroking Scully's injured arm through the sling.  "Now you 
understand."

Scully moved away from her touch under the pretense of 
retrieving the camera.  "I want to take the picture," she 
said.  There was a moment of tense silence as Dr. Atkins 
considered.  At last, she relented.

"Very well.  I supposed you've earned it."

Scully took carefully measured steps back to where Mulder 
lay on the table.  He squirmed at her approach.  "Lie 
still," she whispered, raising the camera.  His eyes seemed 
to burn hers through the lens.  Just as she might have 
snapped the shot, she paused.

"Where is the button?" she asked, turning to face Atkins.  
The woman frowned. 

"It's there on the top.  The red one."

"I don't see...oh, you mean here?"  Abruptly, the flash 
went off, filling the room with an instant of bright light.

Dr. Atkins cursed and raised an arm to her eyes, and Scully 
took the time to yank hard on the knot at Mulder's wrist.  
It loosened only a fraction.  "Yes, there," hissed Dr. 
Atkins, blinking at her like an angry mole.  "Just take the 
damn picture already."

Scully turned and snapped one of Mulder.  As she set the 
camera aside, she noticed him twisting his wrist subtly 
back and forth.  "What now?" she asked, hoping to distract 
Dr. Atkins just a little longer.  

"Now the knife," Dr. Atkins replied softly, and Mulder 
began twisting a little faster.  Scully's breath caught as 
the woman laid the gun on the Formica countertop on the 
other side of Mulder.  Dr. Atkins smiled and picked up a 
shiny scalpel from where it lay amidst a tray full of 
surgical instruments.  "Shall we start with a Y incision?"

Scully coughed, nearly gagging.  "The marks on the bodies," 
she said hoarsely.  "They were like autopsies."

Dr. Atkins ran her thumb lightly over the blade and nodded.  
"My father taught me you should always start with what you 
know."  She crossed the few steps to Mulder, so that she 
stood on his right side and Scully stood to his left.  She 
undid the buttons on his shirt with swift, efficient 
movements, then sighed as the material parted to reveal the 
broad expanse of his chest.  Her eyes glowed as she looked 
up at Scully.  "I'll go first," she whispered.  "So you can 
see how it's done."

Scully tensed as the gleaming blade moved closer and closer 
to Mulder's chest.  He flinched at the first contact, 
moaned as a line of blood began to appear.  Scully looked 
at the gun, six feet away.  

Dosomethingdosomething! 

She had cut him nearly two inches now.

"Who was Helen?"  Scully blurted the words before she knew 
what she was saying.  Dr. Atkins froze.

"What?"

"I asked who Helen was," Scully repeated, breathing hard.  
Blood was running down Mulder's chest in tiny red rivulets.

"She was my sister," said Dr. Atkins, straightening up with 
the scalpel in her hand.  "My twin sister, actually.  She 
died a long time ago."

Scully thought frantically for any words that might keep 
the conversation going.  Mulder's wrist was nearly free.  
"You must miss her."

Dr. Atkins dropped her gaze to the floor.  "Every time I 
look in the mirror," she whispered.  

"I know that feeling," Scully said a moment later, taking a 
cautious step forward.  "I lost my only sister a few years 
ago.  Sometimes I can't even believe she's really gone."

Dr. Atkins' stared at her with new interest.  "How did she 
die?"  

"She was killed--shot in my apartment."  Scully paused.  
"She was shot by someone meaning to kill me."

Dr. Atkins eyes widened.  "She died in your place?" 

Scully gave a short nod.  "Yes."

The woman nodded also, her expression grim.  "Then he will 
die in hers."  Dr. Atkins returned her attention to Mulder, 
who was nearly covered in streaks of blood.  "He will die 
for your sister and mine, and for Elizabeth and for you and 
for all the others, too."  Her hand shook as she lowered 
the scalpel to Mulder's chest once more.

"Wait!" Scully cried, and Atkins stopped abruptly.  Scully 
swallowed twice in rapid succession.  "I want...I want to 
do it."

Dr. Atkins hesitated only a moment before handing the knife 
across to her.  "Of course.  It's your right."  Then she 
watched intently as Scully slowly removed her sling and 
rolled up her sleeves.  Her breathing quickened audibly at 
the sight of the stitches on Scully's arm, and Scully 
noticed her excitement.

"You want to hear about it?" she breathed, and the woman 
nodded slowly, taking a step closer.  Scully also moved one 
step towards the foot of the table.  "It was a switch 
blade," she murmured.  "Long and sharp.  He held it to my 
neck first.  See?"  She brushed her hair out of the way so 
Dr. Atkins could see the nicks on her throat.

"Did it hurt much?" asked the woman softly, moving yet 
closer.  

"Yes," Scully whispered.  "But I liked it."

Dr. Atkins squeaked.  "You...you did?"

"Mm-hmm.  There was so much blood I felt like I could taste 
it."  She risked a quick glance at Mulder, who was 
listening with his eyes riveted on her face.  He had gone 
completely still.

"I've tasted it before," Dr. Atkins confessed in a small, 
excited voice.  "It makes your gums swell up and your 
throat sting."

Scully nodded, barely hearing her.  They were only steps 
apart now, but Dr. Atkins still stood between her and the 
gun.  What was worse, she showed no signs of moving any 
closer.  Scully felt tears of frustration prick her eyes.

Thinkthinkthink!  Whatdoesshewant?

At last it came to her.  Clenching her fingers around the 
steel blade, Scully brought it slowly toward the inside of 
her uninjured arm.  Dr. Atkins held her breath, and Mulder 
cried out from beneath his tape.  Scully dared not look at 
him.

Eyes fixed on Dr. Atkins, she let the tip of the scalpel 
sink into her skin.  "Yesssss..." said the woman, drawing a 
step closer.  Mulder began thrashing on the table.

"You like that?" whispered Scully.  She lengthened the cut 
another few millimeters, and Dr. Atkins moved near enough 
that she could feel her breathing.

"More."

Scully waited the length of one heartbeat...
and another...
and another...

Then she struck.

"Don't move!" she commanded, setting the blade against Dr. 
Atkins' neck.  "Don't even blink."  She glanced over at 
Mulder.  "Mulder, are you okay?"

Her answer was more squirming and muffled words.

"This is not how it ends," whispered Dr. Atkins. "This is 
not our destiny, Dana."

"You're right about that," Scully agreed darkly, her arm 
shaking with pain and fatigue.  "Now let's get over there 
and untie him.  Slowly."

They inched towards Mulder, Scully never dropping the 
scalpel from Dr. Atkins' neck.  But as they reached first 
of the restraints, Dr. Atkins shifted suddenly, grabbing 
Scully's injured forearm with vice-like force.  Scully 
cried out in pain as the scalpel fell to the floor.  She 
scrambled to retrieve it, but Dr. Atkins was faster. 

She lashed out and caught Scully across the shoulder.  "How 
dare you?" she yelled, outraged.  "How dare you insult me 
that way?"

Scully backed away as Dr. Atkins kept swinging.  "Haley, 
please, I--"  

Then a shot whizzed past them, exploding noise into the 
room.  Both women froze.  Scully recovered first and moved 
quickly to one side.  Mulder was arched off the autopsy 
table, the gun clenched in his freed left hand as blood 
trickled down his chest.  He had the back of Haley Atkins' 
head clearly in his sights.

"Drop the knife, Haley," Scully ordered.  "It's over now."

The woman looked across at her, tears streaming down her 
face.  "I can't," she whispered.  "You know I can't stop."

Then with lightning quick motion, she ran the blade down 
the side of her neck.  "Haley!"  Scully screamed as the 
woman slumped to the ground.  She knelt quickly at her 
side, but wound was too deep and too large to stop the 
bleeding.  Dr. Atkins had already lost consciousness.

*This is the way it's supposed to end*

Scully froze.  Her words or Haley's?  

"Scully.  Scully are you okay?"  Mulder's breathless voice 
floated across the room, shaking her from her thoughts.  
She rose unsteadily to her feet and walked to his side.  

"I'm okay," she said, accepting his one-armed, bloody 
embrace.  His left hand still clutched the gun, which 
scraped over her spine.  "You?"

"Okay."  He squeezed her hard and then dropped his arm.  
"Let's get the hell out of here."

Scully nodded her agreement and helped him get free, her 
rust-tinged fingers working quickly at the knots.  He 
leaned on her heavily as they limped through the blood, and 
her nose tingled at its heavy, metallic scent.  Mulder 
lurched to a halt in front of the body, as if paralyzed by 
under force of Dr. Atkins' dead stare.  Scully urged him 
forward.

"Come on, let's go."  So much of their blood already 
stained the room, seeping into tile cracks and mingling 
with the traces left by women who had not escaped.  She 
refused to let Haley Atkins claim even one drop more.

Together, they mounted the dark staircase and pushed their 
way into the frigid night.  Mulder shivered violently, and 
Scully worried it was more from shock than cold.  "Hang on, 
Mulder," she murmured.  "I've got the car keys."

The snow was falling furiously now, invisible in the dark 
but icy cold as it clung to their skin.  "Where is it?" 
Mulder asked, stumbling at her side.  She struggled to hold 
him upright.

"There, I think."  Just as she spoke, the sound of an 
approaching car engine echoed from the trees.  A few 
seconds later blue and red police lights began to dance 
across the snow.  Scully squinted as two Ford Explorer 
cruisers appeared in the clearing, highbeams lighting the 
woods like the sun.

"God bless four-wheel drive," Mulder muttered, already 
sagging again by her side.  Two uniformed officers got out 
of the car with their guns drawn.  

"Hold it right there!" one called sharply.

"We're FBI!" Scully answered.  "And we need an ambulance."

The officer lowered his gun and jogged toward them.  
"Ambulance is coming right behind us--it had some trouble 
in the snow.  Where is Haley Atkins?"

"Dead," Scully said succinctly.  "She's in the basement."

"We're on it.  You can wait in the car." He turned and 
waved to the other officers.  "This way!"

Three of them laid siege to the cabin as the fourth, a 
young man with kind blue eyes, helped Mulder and Scully 
into the back of one of the cruisers.  They accepted the 
blankets gratefully.  "Hell of a job," he told them 
solemnly.  "You can bet people will remember this for a 
long time to come."

He slammed the door and then disappeared into the falling 
snow.  Mulder shuddered, and Scully moved closer to him on 
the seat.  "You okay?" she asked.  Eyes closed, he nodded 
and groped for her hand.  He squeezed her fingers 
painfully.

"He's wrong, Scully."

"About what?"

"About the remembering.  Haley Atkins wasn't a monster from 
under the bed--she was the girl next door.  It won't be 
very long before people have forgotten that."

Scully was silent for a long time, then rested her head 
against his shoulder in the darkness.  "Not me," she 
whispered.

XxXxX
 
End Chapter Fourteen. 

XxXxX

Chapter Fifteen

XxXxX


"Please, this really isn't necessary."  Scully fidgeted as 
a third year medical student named Ben attempted to stitch 
up her latest cuts.  He met her eyes and smiled.

"It will just take a few minutes.  And you know it will 
help with the healing."

"Really, I'm fine.  My partner--"

"He's going to be okay, I promise you.  Dr. Amalia is in 
with him now, and she's the best we have."

Scully nodded distractedly, trying to glance past him and 
the striped curtain.  "I want to talk to her."

"Of course.  I'm sure she'll let you know what's going on 
as soon as she can."

Scully dropped her gaze to where Ben was gently stitching 
the inch-long cut she had made on her left arm.  He caught 
her looking.

"Used a scalpel, huh?" he murmured.

Scully froze under his touch.  "What?" 

"The woman you caught tonight.  She used a scalpel to kill 
those women in Cambridge."

"Yes, it was a scalpel," Scully answered, releasing a long 
breath.  She wished he would hurry up and finish.  She 
wanted to see Mulder.  She wanted to find out what had 
happened to Detective Bertelli.  She wanted to do 
*anything* besides sit in this too quiet corner and 
remember how easy it had been to turn the knife on herself. 

"Is she really dead?"

Startled, both Scully and Ben looked up to see Detective 
Bertelli peering around the curtain.  "Claudia," Scully 
breathed with relief.  "What happened?  Are you okay?"

The other woman nodded as she squeezed into the tiny space, 
snowflakes still melting on her dark green overcoat.  She 
reached up and touched the back of her head gently.  "It's 
just a minor concussion.  Atkins whacked me with something 
as I was heading upstairs to call in about Howard." She 
hesitated, her eyes raking Scully for any signs of 
permanent damage.  "So is it true?  She's really dead?"

"Yes.  When Mulder got control of the gun, she slit her 
throat rather than surrender."

"Son of a bitch," Bertelli said in an angry whisper.  "I 
still can't make myself believe it.  I can't believe it was 
her."

Ben finished bandaging Scully's arm, and she drew it 
protectively off the table into her lap.  "You're all set," 
he said, rising from his chair.  "Can I get you anything?"

"Dr. Amalia," Scully answered immediately.

He smiled.  "I'll get right on it.  Anything else?"

She rubbed her eyes as fatigue set in.  Though the clock on 
the wall read a few minutes past eight, she felt like it 
was the middle of the night.  "A cup of coffee?" she asked 
finally.  

"Make it two," said Bertelli.  She moved into the seat Ben 
had vacated.

"Two coffees, coming up."  He drew the curtain closed 
behind him as he left.

"How about you?" Bertelli asked when he had gone.  "How are 
you doing?"

Scully took a deep breath, rubbing her knees as she 
considered.  "I'll be okay," she replied.  "Eventually."

"And Mulder, is he..."

"He's fine," Scully broke in quickly, but her gaze darted 
to the curtain again.  It wouldn't really be true until she 
saw him with her own eyes.

Bertelli leaned back in her chair.  "If half of what I'm 
hearing is true, you did a hell of a job, Dana."

Scully shook her head faintly, fingering the hem on her 
sweater.  "Tonight never should have happened.  It never 
should have gone this far.  If I had identified the 
characteristic patterns of autopsy on the victims' bodies 
from the start..."

"Don't."  Bertelli's voice was hard, with an edge of pain.  
"Don't even start, Dana, because I will win that game every 
time.  Do you know how many conversations I had with Haley 
Atkins about this case?  Hundreds.  And I never suspected 
her for a minute, not even for one *second* did I think she 
was capable of this."  She turned in her chair so that they 
were face to face.  "I saw the photos, too, and if there 
was a pattern there, she hid it well.  How many wounds did 
the last victim have?  Seventy two?"

"Seventy-seven," whispered Scully, averting her eyes.  

"See?  There was no way you could have known.  Not really."
Bertelli turned back around and was quiet for a long time.  
"I keep seeing Howard lying on the floor," she confessed 
finally.  "He was a huge guy, and she was able slit his 
throat straight across with a single cut.  I keep 
thinking...why not me?  I mean, she knocked me out cold.  
Why didn't I wake up dead?"

Scully glanced at her sideways.  "I don't know.  Maybe she 
didn't have time.  Maybe she didn't have the knife with 
her.  Maybe..."

"Maybe what?"

"I think she liked you, Claudia."  Scully took a deep 
breath before continuing.  "I think she liked you and she 
saw how much this case has taken out of you.  Maybe she 
didn't want to take any more."
 
Bertelli face grew sad, almost wistful.  "You know the 
funny part?  I liked her, too."

"So did I."

When Ben arrived with the coffee, he gave Scully a sample 
package of painkillers as well.  "Figured you could use a 
Tylenol chaser," he said with a slow smile.  She accepted 
them gratefully.  "Dr. Amalia will be out to talk to you in 
a couple of minutes, but don't worry...Agent Mulder is 
doing fine.  He is not even going to need surgery."

"Thank you."

"No."  The young man's gaze flickered from Bertelli to 
Scully.  "Thank you," he said softly.  He smiled again and 
left the room.

"At least it's finally over," Bertelli said, sipping her 
coffee.

"Right," Scully agreed.  "Over."

And then they stared at the walls together in silence, 
pretending it was true.

XxXxX

Scully had punched thumb nail sized holes around the rim of 
her Styrofoam cup when Dr. Amalia finally arrived.  
Bertelli had long since left, dragged away by an insistent 
Jacobsen before she had finished her coffee.  

"Dr. Scully," said Dr. Amalia warmly, "I'm sorry to keep 
you waiting, but I bring good news.  Agent Mulder is doing 
fine now -- we've moved him upstairs to a private room."  
Her kind brown eyes radiated concern.  "What about you?  
How are you feeling?"

"Fine."  Scully noticed that the woman's ID badge was on 
upside down.  "Busy night around here, it seems."

"Yes, very.  Thanks to the snow, we've had three motor 
vehicle accidents in the past hour alone." 

"I remember those days," Scully answered with a small 
smile.  She hesitated.  "Mulder is really okay now?  He was 
shivering, and there was so much blood..."

"He did require a transfusion, but his blood pressure has 
been stabilized for over an hour.  Fortunately, the bullet 
passed through his leg without hitting the bone."  She 
smiled.  "He'll be hobbling around for a few weeks, but 
there should be no permanent damage."

Scully tightened her hand around the cup, crushing the 
walls in on themselves.  "Thank God," she whispered.

Dr. Amalia nodded.  "Would you like to see him?"

"Yes, please."

"He's in room 211 in the Kelley wing.  I can have someone 
show you where it is if you want."

"No, I can find it, thanks."

She opened the door to room 211 quietly and found Mulder 
lying on the bed with his eyes closed.  He was as pale as 
the pillow, but his breathing was slow and even.  His lower 
left leg, bandaged and propped several inches off the bed, 
stuck out from under the blanket.  Scully blinked back 
tears of relief as she gently tucked the covers more 
securely around him.  He opened his eyes.

"Hey," he said hoarsely, a tired smile tugging at his 
mouth.  He reached for her hand, and she gave it willingly 
as she took the seat next to him.

"You're still cold," she chided, bringing her other hand up 
to rub his chilled fingers between her palms.  He let her 
warm him for a few moments, then lifted his hand to cup the 
side of her face.

"You okay?"

"I'm all right."  She turned her head to kiss the fleshy 
spot at the base of his thumb and then took his hand again.  
"Bertelli stopped by earlier.  Jacobsen, too."

Mulder smiled.  "And he didn't bring me any flowers?  I 
think the romance has gone, Scully."  

Despite her lingering anxiety, Scully smiled, too.  If he 
was cracking jokes, he *must* be feeling better.  "The gift 
shop is closed," she told him.  "But they both send you 
well wishes."

"Bertelli's okay?"

"Yes, Atkins just knocked her out.  Lucky for us, too, 
because she's the reason help showed up so quickly 
tonight."

Mulder nodded and turned their joined hands over so he 
could see the inside of her arm.  Her sweater was bunched 
at the elbow, displaying a taped, white bandage.  He 
reached up and touched the edge with his index finger.  
"You're sure you're all right, Scully?" 

She pulled her arm away, tugging her sleeve back down as 
she did so.  "It's just a small cut, Mulder.  Only four 
stitches."

His eyes met hers.  "That's not what I asked."  

"Well, I'm not sure what answer you want.  Tonight wasn't 
exactly a pleasant experience, but we survived and Haley 
Atkins won't be killing anyone else.  Given our situation a 
few hours ago, I'd say this is the best possible outcome, 
wouldn't you?"

"I'm not criticizing you, Scully, far from it.  You were a 
revelation tonight."  His eyes were solemn but his tone was 
tender. "There's no doubt in my mind that we would not be 
having this conversation if you hadn't done what you did."

"Or you," she protested, remembering who had stopped Atkins 
at last.  

He studied her face for a long moment.  "This goes deeper 
than just tonight, Scully.  Somehow Haley Atkins thought 
that you shared her sickness, but that was her mistake.  
Don't make it yours, too."

Scully swallowed past the sudden lump in her throat.  "I 
won't."

"Good," he murmured, his eyes sliding closed.  She sat and 
watched as his breathing evened out again.  After a few 
minutes, her eyelids grew heavy, and she yawned.  Someone 
had thoughtfully placed a blanket and pillow on the nearby 
cot, and she rose quietly, hoping to join him in a nap.  
Then there was a knock on the door.

She glanced at Mulder, but he did not stir.  Setting aside 
the blanket, she went and cracked the door open several 
inches.  On the other side was a petite woman with pale 
skin and black corkscrew curls.  She seemed cold, as if she 
had just come in from the outside.  "May I help you?" 
Scully asked cautiously.  The press had been sniffing 
around the hospital almost since their arrival.

"Um, I hope so," the woman said, shifting nervously from 
one foot to the other.  "I was...I was looking for Fox 
Mulder."

Scully did not move from where she was blocking the door.  
"And you would be?"

"Oh, sorry.  I'm Deborah Pullman."  She hesitated.  
"Elizabeth Callahan was a friend of mine."

Scully paused, turning her head so see if Mulder was awake, 
but he slept on.  She moved out into the hallway and closed 
the door gently behind her.  "He's sleeping right now," she 
explained.  "I can give him a message if you like.  I'm his 
partner, Dana Scully."

"I know," Deborah answered softly.  "I heard about you on 
the news.  That's how I knew to come here."  She dropped 
her gaze to the floor.  "That's how I found out about Liz, 
too.  I tried calling her when I got back from Toronto, but 
she didn't answer.  I figured she was just out shopping, 
you know?  But then I turned on the TV."

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks," said Deborah, shoving her hands in her pockets.  
"She was a good person.  A good friend.  I'm really going 
to miss her."

"How did you know her?" Scully asked, curious.  Their 
search of Elizabeth's background had turned up no close 
contacts.

Deborah gave a wry smile.  "I bumped into her at the 
laundry mat a year ago and we got to talking.  You might 
say we had a lot in common."

"Painting?" Scully guessed, noting the splatters on the 
woman's jeans.  

"Yes," Deborah replied.  "And this."  She stuck out her 
wrists, and Scully's breath caught at the sight of the deep 
scars.  Then as if embarrassed by her display, Deborah 
tucked her hands back inside her coat.  "Anyway, I can't 
stay now.  My boyfriend is waiting in the car.  I just 
wanted to stop by and give him this."  She withdrew an 
envelope and handed it to Scully.  It was addressed to 
Mulder.

"What is it?"

"I found it on Liz's desk when I went to clear out some of 
her things today.  She talked about writing him a lot, but 
I guess she never found the guts to mail it."  She paused, 
licking her lips.  "Somehow I don't think she would mind 
now."

"Thank you," Scully murmured, staring at the neat script on 
the front.  "I'm sure he will appreciate your gesture."

Deborah shrugged.  "Liz would have done it for me.  Listen, 
I've got to go, but I'm having a small service for Liz on 
Tuesday morning.  If he wants to come, you can tell him 
it's at eleven o'clock at St. Anthony's in Cambridge, 
okay?"

Scully smiled.  "Okay.  I'll tell him."  She watched the 
woman walk out of sight before returning to Mulder's room, 
the slim weight of the envelope in her hand.  He was awake 
again, blinking at her sleepily.

"Who were you talking to outside?"

"A woman named Deborah Pullman.  She was a friend of 
Elizabeth's who was out of town until recently."

Mulder shifted on the bed, pulling himself up a few inches.  
"What did she want?"

"She wanted to tell you about a memorial service she's 
having for Elizabeth on Tuesday...and to give you this."  
Scully extended the envelope towards him.  He stared at it 
without picking it up.

"What is it?"

"She found it in Elizabeth's apartment.  It's addressed to 
you, Mulder."

He looked at it for several seconds longer, then raised his 
eyes to hers.  "Open it, will you, Scully?"

She frowned.  "Mulder, I don't think..."

"Please?"

She waited another moment before relenting.  Taking the 
seat beside him once more, she slit the end of the envelope 
and removed the single sheet inside.  

"Read it," he ordered softly, and she felt her heart rate 
pick up.

"Mulder, are you sure about this?  Elizabeth meant this 
letter for you, not me."

"It's okay," he said.  "Just tell me what she says."  Then 
he folded his hands across his stomach and stared at the 
ceiling as she unfolded the paper.

"Dear Fox," she read,

"I was thinking of you the other day and decided to write 
you a letter.  Who knows, maybe I will even mail this one.  
I've written you half a dozen times since my father died 
two years ago, but I can never seem to get them all the way 
to the mailbox.  I guess I'm a little afraid of what you 
might think of hearing from me after all this time. 

"I was thinking of how we first met.  I know you always 
said it was at the Morrison's Halloween party, but it 
wasn't.  It was first day of second grade, when I was the 
new kid in Samantha's class.  I spent the whole morning 
making mistakes -- forgetting people's names, taking a 
wrong turn on the way to the bathroom, using the good white 
paper to practice my spelling words -- so that recess 
seemed like a blessing.  Then everyone decided to play 
'Sardines,' and I had no idea where to hide.  I looked 
behind every damn tree on the playground, but each one had 
someone behind it shaking their head and motioning for me 
to get out.  The only one left was too skinny to hide even 
a lamppost, but I was desperate.  Imagine my surprise when 
your hand shot out of the branches above my head.  You 
pulled me up without a word -- never even told me your 
name.  But we won the game, and I have never forgotten it.

"I wonder sometimes if you ever remember those early days 
or if you just remember how it ended.  Sometimes I wish we 
had never married.  Because then I could call you up right 
now and say, 'Fox, you remember the time Billy Haggerty 
dared you to go skinny dipping in the Anne Morrison's new 
pool?  I thought I'd die laughing when her father turned 
the floodlights on and hauled your skinny naked butt back 
down the block to your parent's place.'  Then maybe I could 
even get you to do your Nixon impression again, or we could 
debate the best flavor of Popsicle from Mr. Houlihan's 
Store.  It would be so nice to share these memories with 
someone again.

"But then I remind myself that if we had not married, I 
would not be here writing this to you now, and I am 
grateful you reentered my life when you did.

"I hope that you are happy now because I'm getting closer 
every day, and I think we've both earned a little 
happiness.  I'm even painting again after four years in 
creative hibernation.  It was terrifying to pick up the 
brush at first -- I was afraid I might have forgotten how 
to use one, it had been so long since I tried.  But once I 
started working, I didn't stop for sixteen hours.  It was 
glorious.  I've been thinking that I might take a workshop 
or two this summer -- maybe try to get a local show 
together.

"If I do scrape together a show, I will be sure to send you 
an invitation.  I hope you will come.  I hope you will see 
my hand sticking out of the branches and come tell me 
everything you've been doing these past seven years.  

"I'll be up here waiting.

"Love, Liz."

Scully ignored the stinging in her eyes as she refolded the 
letter.  "I'm so sorry, Mulder."

He nodded, still staring at the ceiling.  "What's the date 
on the letter?" 

She dropped her chin to her chest and stroked the edge of 
the letter with one finger.  "December fifteenth," she said 
reluctantly.

"That was over two months ago.  I guess she wasn't going to 
send this one, either."

"Maybe she would have sent it eventually," Scully 
countered.  "You never know."

"Yeah," he echoed hoarsely.  "You never know."  After 
another few moments, he turned his head to look at her.  
"Is it still snowing?"

"It might be.  It was coming down pretty hard a while ago."  

"Go check, would you?"  His eyes were luminous in the soft 
light.  Wordlessly, she rose and drew back the curtain to 
reveal cascading snowflakes, swirling about under the 
yellow light of the street lamp.  She moved to the side so 
he could see.  

"She loved the snow," he said at last.  His eyes flickered 
as he tracked the falling flakes.  "As kids, we would all 
get together and go sledding for hours, 'til our butts 
nearly froze off.  Liz always complained that we didn't get 
more snow in DC."

"It's beautiful," Scully whispered, turning to face the 
window.  "Almost like it's erasing the world."

"Leave it open, okay?"

She nodded and walked back over to the bed.  "You should 
really get some rest, Mulder."

"You, too," he answered, shifting to one side of the bed.  
She understood his intentions immediately.  

"Mulder, I can't.  Your leg..."

"Needs you as much as the rest of me.  Get in."  He lifted 
the covers for her.

Scully hesitated only one second longer before slipping off 
her shoes and grabbing the extra blanket from the cot.  
"Tell me if I hurt you," she said quietly as she settled 
next to him.  

"S'fine."

It took a little maneuvering to get comfortable because she 
was technically on the wrong side of the bed; he usually 
slept on her right. She closed her eyes, listening to his 
heartbeat, but the events of the day still clutched and 
clawed at her.  She started to shake uncontrollably.

"Scully?"  

"It's okay, Mulder," she answered through her quivering.  
"It's just the adrenaline wearing off."

He stroked her hair awkwardly, his touch heavy and warm on 
her scalp, and she burrowed closer.  His voice rumbled 
beneath her ear.  "Shhh, Scully...it's all right."

She nodded, still shaking against him.  "I know."  She 
squeezed back the hot tears and forced herself to look out 
the window, where the flakes were fluttering past in 
perfect silence.  The wind tickled them as they twirled and 
pasted a rim of crystals around the window's edge.  Scully 
imagined she could pick just one flake and follow its 
journey down from the sky.  Eventually, the peaceful quiet 
and Mulder's gentle stroking helped ease her shuddering, 
and she slept dreamlessly inside the icy cocoon.

XxXxX

End Chapter Fifteen.


XxXxX

Chapter Sixteen

XxXxX


Scully was up to her elbows in lemon-scented bubbles when 
Mulder limped into the kitchen.  "You're supposed to be 
resting," she said with a frown.

He made a face.  "Scully, I have barely moved all week.  
Just this morning I had to turn away a family of spiders 
looking to set up shop in the curve of my shoulder."

She sighed.  "So help me, Mulder, if you have attracted 
*any* insects into my bed..."  She trailed off as she 
resumed scrubbing the lasagna pan.  It was more difficult 
than usual because she still did not have complete use of 
her right arm.  

He hobbled a little closer.  "Don't worry, Scully.  It's 
not insects I'm hoping to attract into your bed."

"Nice to see your afternoon painkillers are kicking in," 
she answered dryly.  "But you still shouldn't be walking on 
that leg.  Not without crutches."

"I'll go back if you'll come with me."  He leaned against 
the counter next to her, looking hopeful.  She smiled.

"Mulder, I was in there with you all morning."

"Doing the Sunday crossword puzzle while I was sleeping 
doesn't count."

She rinsed off the pan and set it in the rack to dry.  "You 
weren't sleeping when I started.  I can't help it if you 
find my idea of entertainment boring."

"Never boring, Scully."  He leaned in and nuzzled her 
temple.  "And I promise you will have my full attention if 
you come keep me company now."

Her skin tingled under his touch, and she hid a smile.  
"Okay, Mulder," she sighed after another moment.  "You win.  
Anything to keep you from bouncing the basketball on the 
ceiling again."

He had the grace to look sheepish.  "I didn't realize it 
would leave marks."  She took his hand and led him silently 
back towards the bedroom, not admitting that the marks had 
long since ceased to bother her.   They were not that 
visible anyway, and she liked the small reminder that her 
bed was no longer hers alone.

Once under the covers, he held her close, slipping one hand 
beneath her sweatshirt to trace warm circles on her belly.  
"You smell like Joy," he murmured against the top of her 
head, and the words warmed her even though she knew what he 
really meant.

"Most people don't consider dishwashing liquid an 
aphrodisiac," she teased before kissing the underside of 
his chin.  He squeezed her affectionately.

"Their loss, I'm sure."  

She shifted so that less of her weight was pressing on her 
right arm and allowed her fingers to slip beneath the edge 
of his tee shirt.  His skin was soft and sleek, and she 
reveled in the firm feel of his sleeping muscles.  He 
murmured his approval against her hair.

"Mulder?" she asked after several minutes of quiet 
touching. 

"Hmmm?"

"Tell me about your wedding."

He pulled back just enough to look into her eyes.  "You 
want to know about my wedding?"

She nodded.  "If that's okay."

"Of course it's okay," he replied, running the back of his 
finger down her cheek.  "I told you that you can ask me 
anything you want."

"I guess I just want to know what it was like."

"It was very windy," he said.  "That much I remember.  
October on the Vineyard is always that way."

"You had it outside?"

"No, just the reception.  The service was in the chapel of 
Liz's church.  It was pretty low key since neither of us 
was really into planning.  Liz used to joke that she wanted 
to get married at Lenny's Pub wearing her jeans and 
sandals."

Scully smiled against his shoulder.  "Sounds like you made 
a good match."

"Yeah, I was all for the idea.  Liz looked great in jeans.  
But in the end she opted for tradition and went with the 
dress.  It was long and straight, not really fancy.  I 
probably have a picture somewhere if you want to see it 
sometime."

"I would," she said, and he kissed the top of her head.

"Anyway, I remain convinced that her father wanted the 
reception outside just so he wouldn't have to let me in the 
house.  But at least the wind kept him busy.  He spent half 
the afternoon climbing trees in his tux, trying to rescue 
the napkins and paper plates.  Liz thought it was the 
funniest thing she had ever seen."

"I'm impressed she kept her sense of humor.  Many brides 
would have had a fit."

Mulder smiled.  "I think the four glasses of champagne 
probably helped," he said.

"Mmm, yes.  I imagine it would."  

She closed her eyes, and he shifted position slightly, 
running his hand down the length of her back.  "So are we 
okay now?" he asked eventually.  "With Elizabeth and 
everything?"  His question was casual, but she felt him 
tense beneath her cheek.

"Yeah," she said softly.  "We're okay.  I'm adjusting."

"Adjusting?"

"To the idea that you were married once."  

"Well, I wish you luck.  I'm still adjusting myself."  He 
continued the soothing motions on her back, and she was 
quiet for a few minutes, enjoying the steady rhythm of his 
heartbeat next to her ear.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you ever want to get married again?"

His hands froze, fingers digging into her spine.  "Um, 
okay."

She shook her head and pulled away.  "Okay is not really an 
answer to the question, Mulder."

"I don't know what kind of answer you want," he replied 
cautiously.

"An honest one."

He withdrew his hands and stared up at the ceiling.  "Well, 
honestly...I kind of like things the way they are now."  He 
glanced at her quickly, as if afraid of her reaction.  She 
propped herself up on her elbow and looked down at him.

"So do I.  I don't have some hidden agenda here, Mulder.  I 
was just wondering how you felt about the idea of marriage 
since we've never really discussed it before.  I mean, up 
until a few days ago I had no idea you had personal 
knowledge on the subject."

He fidgeted beneath the covers and met her eyes briefly.  
"You want to know how I'd feel about us getting married?"

In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought, bracing 
herself.  "Well, I meant the question more generally, but 
if you want to put it in the context of our relationship, 
that's okay."

His squirming stopped immediately.  "Scully, that's the 
only way I can imagine it," he said. 

She fell into a stunned silence for a moment, then looked 
down at him searchingly.  He looked right back.  "Really?" 
she asked at last.

"Really," he said, and they half-smiled at one another.

Then she leaned down and kissed him lightly, her lips 
barely catching on his.  When she would have pulled away, 
he stopped her by curving his hand around the back of her 
head, his fingers threading through her hair.  He massaged 
her scalp slowly and gently, coaxing her into a deeper 
kiss.  As she parted her lips, the tip of his tongue grazed 
hers, and arousal pricked sharply inside her.  She pressed 
closer, melting onto him as her world shrank to the feel of 
his leg pressing between her thighs and his tongue moving 
in her mouth.

He broke off the kiss and nuzzled her cheek, his breath 
tickling her sensitized skin.  "Tell me what you imagined," 
he whispered.

Her eyelids fluttered open.  "Wha...what?"

"About getting married," he said as he slipped his hands 
beneath her sweatshirt once more.  She sat up slightly, 
easing the stress on her arm and allowing him to find her 
breasts.

"I, um...it's changed a lot since I was young.  I don't 
care much about the ceremony anymore."  She licked her lips 
as he began rubbing circles over her nipples.

"Scully," he said teasingly, "don't tell me you were one of 
those girls who used to play 'wedding' all the time."

She smiled as she tugged his shirt up over his stomach.  
"God, no.  But when we lived in Annapolis our house was 
just down the street from the chapel, and Melissa and I 
used to watch the wedding parties on the weekends.  We had 
some pretty grand ideas about how our own weddings would 
be."

"Ten bridesmaids and a rented cathedral?"

"Complete with a horse-drawn carriage and the long, white 
dress with the bow on the butt."  He made a face and she 
tickled his ribs.  "I was six years old, Mulder.  I can't 
be held liable for any wardrobe choices I made back then."  
She drew her fingertips slowly down his chest.

"And now?" he asked.

"Now I don't care about the details.  The clothes aren't 
important, the location doesn't matter, and I don't think 
there is anything particularly romantic about getting 
married on Valentine's Day.  I think it's more about 
promising that you'll be there for the day *after* the 
wedding and all the days after that."

He was quiet for a long time, his hands unmoving on her 
back.  "Well, when you put it that way, Scully, I think 
maybe all we have left is the details."

"Maybe," she whispered.  "But it's still a big step, 
Mulder, and we don't have to work it out right this 
minute."

"Good to know," he replied, rubbing against her subtly with 
his hips until his erection pressed into the seam of her 
sweatpants.  Her neck flushed hot and her nipples tightened 
against his palms.  She leaned down to kiss him again, and 
this time it was deep and open from the start as they 
shared mingled sounds of pleasure.

Their gentle rubbing escalated to the point where the bed 
shook rhythmically with each thrust.  "Your leg," she said 
breathlessly when he broke off to plant light, sucking 
kisses up the length of her neck.  

"It's fine," he muttered, taking her mouth again and 
tugging at the waistband on her sweatpants.  She tried to 
help but didn't want to stop the sweet friction between her 
legs long enough to cooperate. "Scully..." 

"Okay, okay."  Trembling, she eased off him enough to pull 
down her pants and underwear.  His erection poked out 
through the opening in his boxers, his hips twitching as he 
waited.  She shivered as she discarded the remnants of her 
clothing and then helped him off with his boxers.  

Climbing over him once more, she dropped her head to his 
shoulder as she took the hard length of his cock in her 
hand.  "You feel so good," she murmured, and he quivered.  
Then she began a slow up and down movement that caused him 
to groan into her ear.

His fingers brushed the insides of her thighs several times 
before sliding between the curls to touch her.  "Scully," 
he breathed, his voice full of praise and awe.  He rubbed 
the swollen folds gently and then teased her clit with two 
slicked fingers.  Her hips jerked into his hand.  "Scully, 
are you close?"

Eyes squeezed shut, she panted into his shoulder.  "Yes."  
Her hips were pushing more insistently against his 
caressing fingers, searching for a rhythm.  He shifted so 
that she could position the head of his penis between her 
legs.  "Oh," she cried softly when he began to push inside.  

She raised up enough to kiss him, her tongue entering his 
mouth as his cock entered her body.  His hands gripped her 
hips tightly.  "Okay?" he asked hoarsely when he was all 
the way in.  

"Oh, yes."  She licked the salty place at the base of his 
neck and began to move on him slowly.  The bed bounced 
gently beneath her knees as she slid him in and out of her 
body, and she hummed her pleasure into his shoulder.  His 
tee shirt smelled like sweat and laundry detergent.

She tried to keep it slow, to draw out the feel of his cock 
rubbing inside her, but soon they were thrusting in furious 
unison.  He arched his head back on the pillow.  "Scully, 
please..."

She widened her legs, bearing down on him even more, and 
drew his hand back between their bodies.  He stroked her 
with firm, quick movements.  "Yes," she encouraged through 
clenched teeth.  He kept up his caresses as she cried out 
and tensed in orgasm, the waves buffeting through her one 
after the other.   Then clutching her close, he groaned his 
own climax in her ear.

For several minutes, she lay draped across him bonelessly 
as the pleasure still tingled through her.  He smoothed the 
back of her hair and kissed her temple.  "You all right?" 
he asked in a roughened voice.  

"I'm fine."  In fact, her right arm was a little sore, but 
it seemed a small price to pay.  "This beats the hell out 
of a couple of Tylenol."

"Not to mention the Sunday crossword puzzle," he pointed 
out, and she laughed.  Then they lapsed into such a long 
silence that Scully assumed he had fallen asleep.  But his 
voice came floating from above her head.  "You know, 
Scully, Valentine's Day is definitely not the most romantic 
day to get married."

"Oh?"  She rested her chin on the back of her hand and 
looked up at him.  "Pray enlighten me, Mulder.  What then 
is the most romantic day to get married?"

"February twenty-ninth."

She rolled her eyes.  "Uh-huh, I see.  That way you only 
have to remember it once every four years.  Very romantic."

"No, Scully, you're not looking at right.  February twenty-
ninth is actually present in *every* day for about one 
extra minute.  We just choose to add it back in all at 
once."

Scully thought about the idea for a moment and realized he 
was right: there was a bit of February twenty-ninth tacked 
on to every day of the year.  She smiled at him.  "Okay, 
Mulder, you talked your way out of that one.  Very well, I 
might add."

He grinned cheekily and tucked a lock of hair behind her 
ear.  "Told you."

She shifted to lie next to him, pulling the covers around 
them and listening as his breathing evened into sleep.  She 
closed her eyes and the clock ticked off several minutes 
before she suddenly opened them again.  Glancing once at 
Mulder, she slid quietly from the bed and padded over to 
the top of her dresser, which displayed the mini calendar 
sent courtesy of her savings bank.  She picked it up and 
shut her eyes, taking a deep breath before turning it over 
to check the back.

Yup, there it was.  

February 29, 2000 -- almost one year away.

She smiled and went back to bed.

XxXxX

The End

If you made it to the end, I would love to know what you 
thought.  All types of feedback welcome at 
syn_tax6@yahoo.com

Long winded author's thanks:

Big virtual hugs of gratitude to my two beta readers, Fawn 
Liebowitz and Beaker!  This story is much stronger for your 
input, and I thank you.

Special thanks also to Alicia, for helping me through my 
mid-story disenchantment and brightening my days with 
clever e-mail, and to jerry and Kim for the early and 
frequent encouragement.

This story was challenging for me to write because a number 
of the issues raised within it are quite personal.  I have 
been especially appreciative of the comments and questions 
I've received along the way.  Thanks particularly to 
Angelique for sharing *her* story.  I'll be rooting for 
you, dear. :-) 

Galia, Pat, and Brigitte...what can I say?  You make my jaw 
drop with your generosity.  Thank you.

Syntax6