From: Dawn <sunrise@avenew.com>
Date: Sun, 27 Jan 2002 22:15:59 -0600
Subject: xfc: NEW: Blood Ties 10: A Dish Served Cold (8/19)
Source: xfc

Blood Ties 10: A Dish Served Cold (8/19)
By Dawn
sunrise@avenew.com


Great Smoky Mountains
Sunday
5:33 a.m.

The fire was dying.

Grey carefully shifted his brother forward and then eased him to
the ground, settling him on his good side, cheek cushioned on a
backpack. Fox made a small sound of complaint, eyelids fluttering,
and drew his arms more tightly against his body. Grey tucked his
jacket up around the hunched shoulders, laying one hand lightly on
his brother's head until Fox quieted.

He stood slowly, wincing at the pins-and-needles sensation in his
legs as circulation returned. The muscles across his shoulders and
neck felt stiff and tight from the rock's damp chill. He gingerly
rolled his head and stretched, hands propped in the small of his
back. The cold air raised gooseflesh on his bare arms and he
hastily gathered several sticks and crouched closer to the fading
warmth of the weak fire.

The flames eagerly accepted his offering, and he'd soon rekindled a
respectable blaze. The first pale threads of light penetrated the
trees, but in the small ravine the shadows remained thick. Grey sat
with knees bent, arms linked loosely around his legs, and wished
mightily for a cup of coffee--for Fox as much as for himself. Chills
had wracked his brother's body on and off throughout the cold
night, at times so violently that he could hear teeth clicking
together.

Grey had done the best he could with limited resources, stripping
off his own jacket and wrapping it around them both in an effort to
contain body heat. Toward dawn Fox had quieted, the shivers
tapering off, and Grey had managed a light doze which, though
brief, had taken the edge off his own weariness.

Soon it would be full daylight, time for them to strike out for the
cabin. No way to tell exactly how much ground they had yet to
cover, but he figured they'd traveled close to eight miles so far and
his internal odometer was usually accurate. That left another three
miles.

Three miles. It didn't sound like much. Until you factored in Fox's
rapidly deteriorating physical condition. They'd limped along at
little better than a snail's pace yesterday, his brother stubbornly
insisting he didn't need to rest while desperately trying to conceal
how badly he was hurting. How much worse would it be today,
after a night spent on the cold ground?

Grey tipped his head and ran one hand along his stubbled jaw,
shifting his eyes from the flames to scan his brother's face. Too
pale, drawn, the flesh under each eye darkening to a bruised
crescent. In the flickering light cast by the fire he looked far too
young and fragile to be an almost-40-year-old FBI agent adept at
tracking down aliens and serial killers.

Responsibility, weighty and encumbering, pressed down on Grey's
shoulders like a knapsack of rocks. It was all up to him, now, to
elude a killer, navigate them safely to the cabin, and get Fox the
medical attention he so desperately needed. And meanwhile the
clock ticked relentlessly.

Piece of cake.

"Whatsa matter? Something wrong?"

The raspy voice startled Grey. He watched Fox wrestle his eyelids
open and blink owlishly, brow furrowed.

Grey snorted. "Wrong? What could be wrong? There's a deranged
killer after us, you've got a bullet in your leg, and we're still a good

three miles from any kind of help."

"Oh, is that all. I was afraid the Mets won the World Series."
Deadpan. Sarcasm and dry wit intact.

The fist around Grey's heart loosened, and he rolled his eyes.
"Very funny. How's the leg?"

Mulder licked his lips, grimaced. "I'd rather talk about the Mets."

"Water?"

"Yeah."

Grey snagged his pack and extricated the canteen. He turned back
just in time to grab his brother's shoulder as he swayed
precariously close to the fire.

"Whoa! Easy, Fox."

Mulder sucked in a deep breath, then batted Grey's hands away.
"I'm okay. Just sat up too fast, that's all." He stared down at the
jacket that now lay pooled in his lap, obviously noticing it for the
first time. A mixture of shame and gratitude clouded his eyes, and
he thrust the coat at Grey without looking up. "Take this, you're
gonna freeze."

Grey held his tongue as he accepted the jacket and handed over the
canteen. He fished several energy bars from the pack and held
them up while his brother drank.

Mulder's lip curled and he took on a greenish hue. "Pass."

Grey opened his mouth to argue but thought better of it, handing
over three ibuprofen caplets instead.

"Breakfast of champions." Mulder tossed the pills into his mouth
with a wink and washed them down with more water, then passed
the canteen to his brother.

Grey ate two of the energy bars and some water before reaching
for the first aid kit. Mulder watched him lay out the supplies for a
moment, then turned his face away.

"I've been meaning to ask you about something. Where did you
learn so much about survival and navigating your way through the
woods?"

Grey's answering chuckle was little more than a cloudy puff of
vapor. "I was wondering when you were gonna ask me that
question. Guess it's time I shared that part of my sordid past."

"Bring it on." Mulder gave him a brief smirk, quickly returning his
gaze to the fire when Grey began to remove the bandage from his
leg.

"I hit a bad patch when I started high school, what my parents like
to call my PITA phase--you know what I mean?"

"The 'pain in the ass' phase? Are you kidding? Most of the brass at
the Bureau would swear I'm still there." Mulder ground the words
through clenched teeth. Despite Grey's efforts to be gentle, just
unwrapping the leg had caused him to break into a cold sweat.

"I see your point." Grey stared at the angry red flesh surrounding
the wound, loath to admit that it appeared even more inflamed.

"Anyway, I got in with the wrong crowd. Guys whose sole purpose
in life was to party hard, who believed that rules existed so that we
could break them. It was life in the fast lane and I was having a
great time. Until two things happened."

Grey poured the remaining hydrogen peroxide into the wound. His
brother choked off a moan, eyes squeezed shut and hands
clenched. When the bubbling and fizzing began to taper off,
Mulder cracked open one eye.

"Two things?"

Grey picked up a gauze pad. "Yeah. And they were doozies. First,
I got my midterm report. I was failing English Lit and only pulling
Ds in Geometry and Chemistry. This from a normally A and B
student." Grey shook his head, mouth twisted in a rueful grin.

"My folks hit the roof. Grounding me for life was discussed as a
viable option. Then, while they were still making up their minds, I
was arrested for possession of marijuana. Now I was dead meat."

Mulder snickered, groaned when the motion jostled his leg, and
snickered some more. "I can imagine."

"Anyway, to make a long story short, since it was my first offense
and I'd basically been a good kid, the judge let me off with a slap
on the wrist. My parents, however, weren't so forgiving. Next thing
I knew I was packed off to a kind of...boot camp for troubled teens.
I spent my spring break slogging along the Appalachian Trail using
muscles I didn't know existed and serving as dinner to mosquitoes
the size of horses. And the strangest part was, I loved it." Grey tied
off the bandage and sat back on his heels, a bemused smile on his
lips.

"I came back cured of my rebellious ways--" He chuffed. "Well,
mostly. And I continued to attend survival camps over the next few
summers, just for the fun of it." Grey shrugged a little sheepishly.
"And that's about it."

Mulder's eyes panned the ravine, the shadows all but banished by
the early morning sunlight. He glanced sideways at Grey, the
barest hint of a smile curving his lips. "Final exam time, Bubba.
Hope you studied hard."

Grey collected their packs, slipped his brother's arm around his
neck, and slowly stood. "Got it covered, little brother. Smooth
sailing."


10:30 a.m.

"So this is what you call...smooth sailing...huh? Remind me...never
to get in a boat with you."

"Here. Sit down and stop being a smartass."

Grey settled his brother onto a fallen log, dropped the packs, then
used the hem of his tee shirt to mop his face. Though the
temperature was pleasantly cool in the shade, he was drenched in
sweat and his muscles trembled with fatigue. He uncapped the
canteen, barely a quarter full now, took a few swallows, and
crouched down in front of Fox.

Despite his exertions and two sweatshirts, Fox's arms were tightly
laced around his shivering body. Cheeks flushed, eyes too bright.
Grey pressed the back of his hand to the damp forehead, dismayed,
though not surprised, by the heat. He rummaged through his pack
for more ibuprofen, peeled one of his brother's hands away from
his torso, and placed the caplets in the palm. Fox obediently
swallowed them with some water, his movements jerky and
mechanical.

A twig snapped somewhere off to their left. Grey stood, sharp eyes
carefully scanning the vegetation as he placed his body
deliberately in front of his brother. After several tense moments of
seeing nothing but a squirrel and several birds, his shoulders
slumped and he turned back to face Mulder.

"I know you're done in. But as near as I can figure we're almost
there. I just need you to keep going a little longer."

Mulder dipped his head. "Let's get this...over with."

Packs on his shoulders, Fox's arm slung around his neck, they
lumbered onward. Though Fox valiantly tried to help, with each
step Grey found himself bearing more and more of his brother's
weight, until his back screamed in protest and each breath cut like
a knife through his lungs. They scrambled up a small hill, nearly
tumbling head-over-heels on the way down when Grey's foot
caught on a protruding root.

Ahead, the vegetation thinned and the sunlight blazed brightly.
Grey's heart soared with hope, but his body could do no more than
maintain the steady plod forward. They dodged a pine tree, skirted
a bush bearing bright red berries, and staggered into a clearing.
Two hundred yards ahead, shaded by several large maple trees,
was the back of a log cabin nearly twice the size of theirs.

"That's it!" Grey crowed. "We made it, Fox! We made it!"

Caution abruptly dampened his euphoria and he tugged his brother
backward several steps into the cover of the woods while he
scrutinized the cabin and the surrounding area. A blue jay chased
several smaller birds from a feeder before settling down to claim
the spoils. Two smaller trees served as anchors for a clothesline,
where three white tee shirts and a pair of navy pants flapped in the
light breeze. Wisps of smoke drifted from a stone chimney.

The heavy thump of his brother's head hitting his shoulder made
Grey's decision for him. Fox's eyes slipped shut, then shot open as
he fought to hold onto consciousness.

"Looks quiet to me," Grey muttered. "C'mon, little brother. Just a
few more steps and we'll find you a place to lay down."

They limped around the side of the cabin. A long gravel driveway
snaked through the trees and up to an attached garage, the door
three quarters of the way closed. A porch ran past the front door
along the entire front of the cabin and an empty rocking chair
creaked back and forth in the wind. To the left of the door a
wooden sign proclaimed "Welcome" in bright, cheery colors.

Grey nudged his brother as they moved closer. "See that?"

Mulder snorted, winced. "Some hermit. 'S a disgrace...to recluses
everywhere."

"Not so loud," Grey cautioned. "We need that recluse to..."

One foot on the porch, hand coming up from his side to knock,
Grey froze. Eyes locked on the two- by ten-foot slice of garage
revealed by the partially open door. Lips tightening to a thin line
he shuffled back around the corner to press their backs tightly
against the side of the cabin.

"What's wrong?" Like the flick of a switch, Mulder's voice was
sharp, alert. "What is it?"

Grey eased him to the ground, dropping both packs and opening
his own. "I got a peek at the car in the garage. Tires are flat." He
pulled out his gun and stood. "Stay here. I'll be back."

Mulder squinted up at him. "Are you crazy? What good's that
going to do, you don't have any bullets!"

"We've played poker--you should know by now I'm good at
bluffing," Grey hissed. "Besides. Even empty it feels good in my
hand."

He left before his brother could argue further, continuing along the
side of the cabin, around the corner, and toward the back door with
his spine firmly against the wood. French doors opened onto a
large deck. Grey flattened himself to the left of the door, inching
his hand out until he could curl his fingers around the knob.

It turned, easily.

Sucking in a deep breath, Grey nudged the door open.

"Chris? Chris Peterson?"

Nothing. The jay and several other birds took flight, the laundry
continued to flap in the breeze, and smoke still wafted from the
chimney. Grey tilted his head to peer through the glass. Colorful
braid rugs on a polished hardwood floor. A large stone fireplace,
the remains of a log smoldering on the grate. Everything neat and
in place. Except Chris Peterson.

Grey slipped inside but remained near the door. "Mr. Peterson?
Are you here?"

On the wall a large carved clock ticked relentlessly, the sound
absurdly loud in the silence. Grey crept through the greatroom to
the kitchen. Not a single crumb marred the spotless countertops
and the sink was free of dishes, with the exception of a lone water
glass. A desk in the corner bore a stack of opened mail and a
shortwave radio. Grey glanced quickly over his shoulder before
crossing to the desk and reaching for the power switch.

Nothing. Frustration welled up and he found himself muttering
whispered curses under his breath as he twisted dials and punched
buttons. The end result was the same--the radio might as well have
been a box of rocks.

Grey left the radio and strode down a narrow hallway to the front
of the cabin, anger undermining some of his caution. To his right a
nearly empty coat closet and a study, books lining the walls. To his
left a bedroom, the door slightly ajar.

Abruptly, inexplicably, the hairs on the back of Grey's neck stood
up. He swallowed, dry throat clicking, lay his palm against smooth,
six-paneled pine, and pushed.

The smell hit him immediately. Thick, coppery, it filled the air and
left a bitter tang in the back of his throat. A large four-poster bed
faced the door, a handmade quilt covering the distinctive form of a
man lying prone atop the mattress. Crimson splatters adorned the
quilt, walls, and even the ceiling like a bizarre work of modern art.

Still clutching his weapon, Grey walked slowly forward on stiff
legs, the back of his hand pressed across his nose and mouth. The
quilt cocooned all of the motionless form but a small fluff of steel
gray hair. Grey stretched out his hand and plucked at the blanket
with thumb and forefinger, drawing it carefully back to expose a
face.

"Oh my god."

The words felt torn from his numb lips, and he actually staggered
backward two steps before he caught himself. He closed his eyes,
breathed through his mouth, and waited for his pounding heart to
slow.

"Grey! Are you all right?"

He gasped, spinning, eyes wide. Fox leaned in the doorway, a
white-knuckled grip on the jamb all that was holding him upright.

"Grey?"

"We made a mistake, Fox. It's not what we thought."

His brother's eyes darted to the bed, took in the carnage. "What are
you talking about? You're not making sense."

Grey gestured to the body, face pale. "None of this is about you,
Fox. It never was. Our friend--it's me he's after." He paused,
swallowed. "And I know exactly who he is."


Continued in part 9

Blood Ties 10: A Dish Served Cold (9/19)
By Dawn
sunrise@avenew.com


Reagan National Airport
Sunday
8:16 a.m.


"What do you mean, 'nobody's home'?"

Scully balanced the cell phone precariously between shoulder and
ear while she attempted to heft her bag into the overhead
compartment. The absence of the long legs and strong arms that
normally performed the task fueled her worry and frustration,
sharpening her voice.

The voice on the other end of the line remained patient and
excruciatingly polite. "Ma'am, it's like I already told you. I sent one
of my best men, Jim McCullough, up the mountain first thing this
morning. He radioed in not fifteen minutes ago from the cabin.
According to him, when no one came to the door, he walked
around the area calling for Mr. Mulder and Mr. McKenzie.
Nobody answered."

"*Agent* Mulder and *Detective* McKenzie." The bag was
tugged from her grasp and shoved into the bin. Scully turned to
flash Kristin a tight smile before zeroing in on the hapless sheriff.
"Well, was the door locked? Did he try to look *inside* the cabin?
What if they were sick, or injured? Did he stop to consider..."

"No, the door was not locked, and yes, he searched the inside of
the cabin." The smooth drawl took on an edge. "Everything was in
place. The bed had been slept in, there was the remains of a fire on
the hearth, and a pot of coffee in the kitchen that was still warm."
A pause, and she could almost hear him gathering his composure,
see the patronizing smile. "They probably just went out for an
early morning hike, the weather's good and the fall colors are
awful pretty right now. I know for a city gal the idea of being
without a phone can be intimidating, but I don't think one skipped
call should unduly alarm you."

Scully dropped into her seat and fastened the belt, ignoring the
flight attendant's pointed glare at her cell phone. "Sheriff Edwards,
I am a federal agent, not a possessive wife. Believe me, I wouldn't
have insisted someone check on my husband and brother-in-law if
I didn't have solid reasons for doing so. But we can discuss that
when I get there."

An extremely long pause. "Ah...get here?"

Only her concern for Mulder kept Scully from laughing out loud at
the dismay in his voice. "That's right. I'm on an eight-thirty flight
to Raleigh, so with any luck I'll be in Spring Creek by early
afternoon."

"Now hold on, Agent Scully, I really don't think..."

"I have to go, Sheriff, the plane is about to take off. I'll see you in
a
few hours." Scully stabbed the power button and glared at the
phone, her emotions a confused blend of anger, worry, and wry
amusement.

"Something tells me they don't get many female law enforcement
officers in this neck of the woods. Either that, or the sheriff has a
death wish."

Kristen's dry sarcasm wrenched an explosive puff of air from
Scully's lips, coaxing them into a weak grin. "I wish I could say
that attitude was limited to small towns in the sticks, but I've come
across a fair number of my fellow agents that share Edwards'
views."

"Yeah. I've butted heads with a few myself." Kristen shook her
head and stared out the window as the plane pulled away from the
gate. "As women we work twice as hard to get half the respect. So
much for equality."

"That's the thing that impressed me about Mulder, right from the
start." Scully felt Kristen's eyes leave the window to study her face
but couldn't seem to suppress the wistfulness in her voice and
features. She countered with a chuckle that held equal parts humor
and regret.

"There I was, a virtual babe in the woods entering the dragon's lair.
Mulder knew I'd been sent as some kind of ringer, commissioned
to debunk his work. He was more than aware of Blevins' desire to
shut down the X-Files, and he had no way of knowing I didn't
intend to be a part of that agenda. Yet from the very first time I
walked into his office, he treated me as an equal, as someone of
value. He tested me, baited me...made me want to strangle him.
But..."

When she didn't resume speaking, expression pensive, Kristen
nudged her. "But...?"

"Even when he was acting like the world's biggest ass, he listened
to me. When he asked for my opinion, it wasn't just to follow
protocol or be politically correct. He really wanted to know what I
thought. We didn't agree--didn't even come close--but he respected
what I had to say. Took me seriously." Scully's mouth curved, her
gaze on a distant memory from a motel room in Oregon. "Even
when I gave him a pretty compelling reason not to."

Kristen leaned closer, her voice dropping. "Is it ever...I mean..."
She sat back, cheeks pink. "Never mind."

An arched eyebrow. "Go on."

"No, it's kind of personal and really none of my business."

"Now I'm really intrigued. Go ahead, ask me."

"It's just that you're together all day at work. And now that you're
married, you're together nights and weekends, too. Does it ever get
to be--I don't know--too much of a good thing? How do you keep
from bringing the work home, getting on each other's nerves?"

Scully pursed her lips. "We have our moments." Sighed. "To be
truthful, getting married hasn't changed us very much. We always
seemed to wind up spending our free time together, even after a
long day at the office or a week in the field. He's my best friend,
even when he's irritating the hell out of me."

Kristen nodded slowly, eyes drifting back to the window. "It scares
me sometimes." Softly, unsure.

"Grey?"

Another short nod. "I can be a control freak, you know? I like to
make lists, plan ahead. Even my job involves taking something
seemingly abstract and making it concrete." She chuffed a rueful
little laugh. "I'm not big on surprises."

Scully smirked. "And he turned out to be a doozy." She sobered.
"That's not a bad thing--is it?"

Kristen dipped her head. "It's amazing. But I can't... He's never
been anything but honest with me, Dana. Kate's death hurt him so
deeply. He may never be ready for any kind of lasting
commitment."

"Are you all right with that?"

"I thought I was." Kristen rolled her eyes. "Surprise."

"It's that damn lower lip." The seatbelt sign flicked off and Scully
reclined to a more comfortable position. She turned her head,
studying Kristen's profile. "Add to it the open vulnerability and a
somewhat irreverent sense of humor..."

"Not to mention a great ass." Kristen looked momentarily shocked
by her own words until they both erupted in laughter.

Scully laid a finger beneath her nose as she struggled for control.
"And before your know it..."

"It's too late." Kristen's eyes still sparkled, but her voice was
solemn.

 "Welcome to life with a Mulder. Sounds like a bad sitcom, doesn't
it?" She closed her eyes. "Let's just hope this particular episode has
a happy ending."

Kristen's reply was soft, nearly inaudible. "It has to."


Spring Creek Sheriff's Office
Sunday
3:36 p.m.

The coffee, at least, was good.

The conversation, on the other hand...

"I still think you ladies are making a mountain outta a molehill.
One missed phone call is no reason to panic. Those boys are
probably off somewhere having a grand ol' time, not realizing what
a fuss they're causing."

Scully sucked in a long, slow breath, examining a black scuff mark
on the toe of her boot while mentally counting to ten. "Sheriff
Edwards, I have neither the time nor the inclination to relate the
eight years of history that qualify me as an expert on what my
husband would and wouldn't do. Suffice it to say, Ms. Harding and
I are not alarmists, prone to flights of fancy. We are trained federal
agents with enough experience to sense when something is wrong
and enough confidence to trust that judgement.

"Now all I need from you is directions to the cabin and five
minutes with the officer who searched it."

Edwards' eyebrows knit together and he drew in a great lungful of
air. Before he could launch into the expected diatribe, however,
something in Scully's face pulled him up short. Clenching his teeth
together until he looked remarkably like an older Skinner with hair
and a paunch, he jerked to his feet and stalked across the room.

Flinging open the office door, he stuck his head out and bellowed,
"McCullough! Get your tail in here." To Scully and Kristen, he
added, "Jim'll answer whatever questions you have. Give you
directions to the cabin, too. If you're dead set on driving up there
now, I'd plan on spending the night. It's gonna storm and those
roads can be treacherous in the dark--even for folks that know
what they're doing."

Dignity intact, more or less, the sheriff tipped his chin and exited
the office, leaving them to wait in solitude for his subordinate.

Scully sighed and took a sip of coffee. "No one could accuse him
of being subtle," she muttered.

Kristen raised her own mug in a mock salute. "I'd heard through
the Bureau rumor mill that the X-Files division had a knack for
pissing off local law enforcement. It's kind of fun to see you in
action."

Scully nearly inhaled her next swallow. Coughing and spluttering,
she accepted the napkin from Kristen, glaring as she pressed it to
her lips. "That's *Mulder's* MO, not mine. He's the one that can't
seem to get along with the other kids in the sandbox."

Kristen's mouth twitched. "Uh-huh."

"It's true!"

"So those stories about you in Bermuda..."

"That was completely different; Mulder's life was at stake. We
found him floating facedown in the ocean, for God's sake! If I
hadn't pulled rank on that mealy-mouthed police chief..."

"And that bombing in Dallas? Something about you two being in
the wrong building, tampering with evidence..."

"That 'wrong' building turned out to be the right building and we
saved a lot of lives! Maybe I wasn't exactly patient when we were
trying to evacuate, but we didn't exactly have time to go through
proper channels and make nice. As for the evidence, we were
obligated to find out the truth, even if that meant..." Scully trailed
off, chagrined by the amusement in Kristen's eyes and her own
lame explanations. "Oh, God. I really have become more like
Mulder."

Movement drew her gaze. A uniformed officer stood nervously in
the doorway, dark eyes darting to Scully, then Kristen, and back
again. He looked to be in his mid twenties, still a little green
around the edges.

"I'm Jim McCullough. Sheriff says you ladies want to talk to me?"

Scully and Kristen stood, accepting the proffered hand.
McCullough's grip was firm, if slightly moist.

"I'm Agent Scully and this is Agent Harding. My husband and
brother-in-law are currently staying in the Preston cabin, and are
overdue in contacting us. I understand you're the one who drove up
there this morning in order to check on them." Scully moved
casually around the desk as she spoke, claiming the sheriff's chair
and motioning for McCullough to occupy the one she'd vacated.

"Ah...yes, ma'am. Yes, I did." McCullough perched on the edge of
the seat, palms smoothing up and down the material of his neatly
pressed slacks.

"Can you tell us what you found?"

McCullough stared at her, slack-jawed for a moment.
"Uh...nothing. Didn't the sheriff tell you?"

"I'm aware you were unable to locate Agent Mulder or Detective
McKenzie. What I'd like to know, is what you did find."

McCullough's brow furrowed. "Not a thing. Far as I could see,
they'd had breakfast and gone out--most likely for a hike. Sheriff
said you ladies were worried, but I sure didn't see any reason to
be."

Kristen leaned forward, capturing his attention. "Nothing
looked...odd? Out of place or disturbed? An overturned chair,
maybe, or a broken window? We're not looking for bloodstains or
a smoking gun, Officer. It could be something as innocuous as a
spilled cup of coffee."

McCullough shook his head. "'Fraid not. Only coffee I saw was in
a pot--still warm, even. Do you really think if something terrible
had happened they'd be taking time to make coffee?"

Scully glanced at Kristen, seeing her own frustration mirrored in
pursed lips and rigid spine. She sighed. "Sheriff Edwards said you
could give us directions to the cabin."

McCullough bobbed his head. "Be glad to. It's not complicated--
there's basically only one way up once you get out of town. Here."
He grabbed a small notepad and pen from the desk blotter and
began jotting down notes.

Scully glanced at the wall clock, dismayed at the lateness of the
hour. By the time she and Kristen reached the cabin the sun would
be setting. Too late to do much more than search the interior. Any
forays into the surrounding area would have to wait until morning.
Her heart sank with the realization that she held no hope of finding
Mulder or Grey safely inside.

"Here you go." McCullough handed her simple but specific
directions written in neat, block printing. "If that's all, ma'am, I
really should be getting back to work."

Scully nodded, eyes scanning the piece of paper without really
seeing it. McCullough was halfway out the door when she abruptly
lifted her head.

"Officer McCullough?"

He turned, shuffling feet betraying his impatience. "Yes, ma'am?"

"Why were you so certain they'd gone hiking?"

His face screwed up. "Ma'am?"

"Earlier you said Agent Mulder and Detective McKenzie had 'most
likely' gone hiking. Was there some reason you believed that to be
the case?"

Puzzlement smoothed into indulgence. "Well, of course, I can't say
for sure. But being that they were gone so early and didn't answer
when I shouted, I just figured it was the logical explanation.
'Specially since it wasn't like they could drive anywhere until they
fixed that flat."

Scully's eyebrows soared. "Excuse me? Are you saying they had a
flat tire?"

McCullough blinked. "That's right. The one up front, on the right."

"You didn't think that was important enough to mention?" Kristen's
voice could have cut glass.

An unperturbed shrug. "It's not like we don't see plenty of 'em
around here. All you have to do is hit a sharp rock or slip off the
road into a ditch and you can kiss your tire good-bye. I wouldn't
worry--those fancy SUVs always have spares." He looked at
Scully. "Was there anything else?"

"No, I think you've given us all you're able." Scully's dry tone was
lost on McCullough, who seemed grateful to make his exit.

Kristen looked at Scully. "What do you think it means?"

"Maybe nothing." Scully stood and walked around the desk.
"Maybe everything, I don't know. What I do know is that it's been
24 hours since they were supposed to call, and it doesn't sound as
if they ever made it down here for supplies. Something is wrong,
despite that pot of coffee Officer McCullough finds so reassuring."

"I'm beginning to suspect Officer McCullough couldn't find his ass
with both hands," Kristen observed.

Scully chuckled, a little amazed she could. It loosened the fist
around her heart just a bit. "An apt assessment. What do you say
we get up there and see for ourselves?"

Kristen nodded, her face turning grim. "I say the sooner the better."

Continued in part 10

Blood Ties 10: A Dish Served Cold (10/19)
By Dawn
sunrise@avenew.com


Peterson cabin
Sunday
12:03 p.m.


Somehow he made it across the room. Every step sent bright
shards of agony through his injured leg, telegraphing the pain from
hip to toe. His body was a jumble of contradictions, limbs
shivering uncontrollably though heat flushed his cheeks and
burned the tender skin beneath his eyes. His heart hammered
wildly in his chest, fueled by the horror on Grey's face, while his
brain felt sluggish and disconnected.

Three steps from the bed Mulder stumbled and nearly went down
on the slippery hardwood floor. His sharp hiss of pain snatched
Grey from his own nightmare just in time to snag a handful of
Mulder's jacket and halt the plunge.

"Thought I told you to stay put." The gruff words were a reflex,
spoken without malice. Grey draped his brother's arm around his
neck, steadying him.

Mulder stared at the bloody sheet, which had fallen back over the
dead man's face when Grey grabbed him. "Looks like Jed...won't
be much help. What did you mean...?" For the first time Mulder
noticed an odd but familiar odor lurking beneath the heavy,
metallic smell of blood. "What the hell...is that?"

Grey grimaced. He gingerly reached down and tugged back the
sheet. Mulder blinked, swallowed.

Chris Peterson's eyes bulged from the sockets like two pale blue
marbles, mute testimony to the terror he must have experienced.
His skin, leeched of color, contrasted sharply with the bright
crimson droplets that splattered his cheeks and pooled over his
chest. His lower jaw sagged, revealing a white, crystalline
substance that filled his mouth and spilled from between blue lips.

"Mothballs." Grey's face was still, his voice flat.

Mulder's beleaguered stomach did a long, slow roll, the
combination of sight and smell proving too much for his already
tenuous self-control. He closed his eyes and breathed through his
mouth, swaying a little despite Grey's firm grip.

Grey immediately drew the soiled sheet back over Peterson.
"Enough. Let's get you somewhere you can lay down before you
fall down."

Mulder shook his head, feet dragging as his brother steered him
toward the bedroom door. "Wait! Not yet. I need to know..."

"You will. I'll tell you the whole story. But not until I get you
settled and finish securing the house."

Mulder allowed Grey to propel him onward, feeling as if he were
operating in slow motion while events around him hit fast forward.
His normally fluid thought processes lurched and stuttered as badly
as his shivering body, images of the dead man tangled up with his
yearning for Scully and his fear of what he'd seen written on Grey's
face.

Back in the family room, Grey lowered him onto the large couch
and disappeared. Mulder flopped back against the cushions like a
rag doll, unable to do more than listen as his brother checked the
locks on doors and windows, rummaging through drawers and
cupboards as he passed through each room. A loud thud from the
front hallway and Mulder bolted upright, fingers reflexively
scrabbling at his waist for a nonexistent gun.

Several smaller thumps and Grey's muttered curses assuaged the
tightness in his chest. Mulder willed tense muscles to relax,
keeping his ears keyed to his brother's every movement until
Grey's footsteps signaled his return. His brother engaged the lock
on the French doors, fingers absently massaging the crown of his
head.

Mulder frowned. "Are you all right? What happened?"

Grey dropped his hand, expression sheepish. "I was ambushed by a
box of files."

Mulder just quirked an eyebrow.

"It fell off a shelf in the coat closet," Grey growled. "I was hoping
to find a gun, not a decade's worth of tax returns."

"No luck."

An impatient puff of air. "Plenty of luck--all of it bad." Grey's eyes
panned the windows, his posture stiff and guarded.

"Tell me. All of it."

His brother's quiet command regained Grey's focus. He ran a hand
over his face and around to cup the back of his neck, dropping chin
to chest. With a gusty sigh, he wandered over to sink into the chair
opposite Mulder. Elbows on knees, he laced his fingers together
and chewed on his lip.

"About six years ago..." His voice faded to a whisper and he
stopped with a sharp shake of his head. "This is hard. You're
asking me to go back to a place I...I never wanted to revisit."

Mulder nodded, hugging his arms against his body to conserve
heat and hide his shivering. "'S Okay. Take your time."

Grey drew in a long breath. "About six years ago there was a string
of unsolved murders in Raleigh. The victims seemed random--
male, female, black, white, professional, blue collar. All ages, all
backgrounds. Under normal circumstances it probably would have
taken us quite a while to link them together as products of the same
killer. Except for the fact that he was leaving a very specific
calling card."

"The mothballs."

Grey tapped a finger to his nose. "We knew we were in trouble by
victim two, and we'd called in the FBI after the discovery of
number three. The profiler was useless." He hunched his shoulders,
shot Mulder an apologetic grin. "In my opinion. He spouted a lot
of suppositions about the killer that could have been attributed to
half the population--white male, thirty-five to fifty, average height
and above average intelligence. Said the condition of the bodies
showed anger, rage. That the reduction of time between killings
indicated he was escalating, getting good at what he was doing and
enjoying it. All very interesting, but..."

"It didn't put you any closer to catching your killer."

The effortful, thin sound to his brother's voice drew Grey's eyes
like a magnet. "You look awful," he said, digging into the front
pocket of his jeans. "I didn't find a gun, but I did manage to
scrounge these prescription painkillers from the medicine chest.
Looks like our friend the hermit got migraines."

Before he could stand, Mulder waved a weary hand. "Later. Keep
going."

The line between Grey's eyes deepened. He looked about to argue,
but Mulder's steely glare evidently caused him to reconsider. He
leaned back, raking his fingers through unruly hair.

"Finally, after the fourth death, we made a connection. It was so
simple, really. All the victims had achieved success. In some cases
that success didn't fit into the normal definition of the word. Along
with a dead lawyer, we had a construction worker. Turned out he
not only owned the business, he'd built it from the ground up."
Grey snorted softly at his unintentional pun.

"Then there was the high school literature teacher. Nothing
unusual about her at first glance. 'Till we found out she'd won
several prestigious awards for her poetry and had recently been
approached by a major publishing house interested in printing a
collection of her work. Even our housewife was voted citizen of
the year by her hometown in recognition of her charity work."

Mulder raised an eyebrow. "Sounds like your profiler wasn't so
worthless after all. That's a nice piece of work."

Something in Grey's face shifted, a hint of color rising in his
cheeks, but he just nodded. Mulder's eyes widened and delight
nudged the exhaustion from his expression. "You? You're the one
that made the connection?" When his brother's silence spoke
louder than words, he continued, "I'm impressed, Bubba. That's
downright...spooky."

"There were a lot of folks working on the case," Grey disclaimed.
"I was just lucky enough to put the pieces together. Anyway, in the
end it really didn't matter. Thanks to my blunder, our killer fled a
crime scene and got away clean."

"What happened?"

Grey stood, walked over to gaze out the French doors, his back to
Mulder. "Fate? Blind chance?" A sigh. "Kate had already been
diagnosed and she...she wasn't doing so well. She was in the
hospital overnight, having a treatment. Visiting hours had ended
and I was headed home.

"It was late--the nurses had cut me some slack and let me stay
longer than usual. I was walking to my car in the parking garage
when...I smelled it."

Mulder blinked. "Smelled it?"

"Camphor. Like someone had been packing away sweaters for the
winter. Sharp and bitter. I just...stopped dead in my tracks. Stood
there sniffing the air like some kind of bloodhound, thinking I'd
gone round the bend. That I was so far into the damn case I was
starting to smell things that weren't there."

Mulder strained to see his brother's face. Gave up. "I've been
there."

Grey didn't turn, but his hunched shoulders eased a bit. "Yeah. I
bet you have." Seconds passed with no sound but Mulder's ragged
breathing. "So just as I was about to start walking, convinced I was
crazy, I heard a sound. Like something heavy being moved,
dragged across the concrete. It only lasted a second, but it was
enough to send me in the right direction. Straight into the middle
of a God-awful mess." Grey's voice trembled. He cleared his throat
and plowed on.

"I never saw his face. He was bent over the body at first, then took
off running as soon as he heard me coming. I chased him, but he
lost me among the cars." Grey huffed, shaking his head. "Maybe I
was lucky. I wasn't armed, and judging from the condition of the
victims, he uses one heck of a hunting knife."

Mulder frowned at the self-deprecation; let it go. "The victim?"

"Survived--sort of." Grey finally turned, his face blank. "A doctor
from the hospital. Attacked inside the car, according to the forensic
evidence, then dragged outside. Guess he needed more space. I
interrupted the bastard as he was putting on the finishing touches.
The doc pulled through, but there was brain damage. I heard he
wound up in a nursing home."

Mulder let his head drop onto the back of the couch, struggling
against eyelids increasingly determined to close. "It wasn't your
fault he got away. You stumbled onto something you were
completely unprepared for and unequipped to handle. No one
could blame you."

Grey blinked, animation seeping back into his features. "This from
the master of self-castigation." But he slowly returned to sit in the
chair. "The fact of the matter is that I had the perfect opportunity to
stop the monster, and I came up empty. A permanently crippled
victim and a vanished perpetrator. Hell, *I* blame me."

"Vanished..." Comprehension bypassed the fuzziness. "You never
found him?"

"Never had the chance. After that close call in the garage he must
have packed his knife in mothballs--or left town. The murders
stopped, and as time passed the case sank to the bottom of the pile
and was filed, unsolved. I had other things on my mind by then.
Like watching my wife die." Grey's long fingers curled into fists.
"I thought that was the end of it. I haven't thought about the sick
bastard in more than three years."

"And now he's back."

Grey's eyes darted to his brother's face. "Why now? And, more
importantly, why me?"

"I wouldn't be surprised if he was out of circulation for a while. It's
not uncommon for a killer to be temporarily sidelined--even
apprehended--by some other crime. He could have spent the last
few years in jail.

"As for why you? You got in his way. He had a good thing going
until you came along and spoiled it. A lot of serial killers are
meticulous about the process of death--compulsively so. When you
interfered with that ritual, he may have fixated on you." Mulder
gnawed his lip. "Did you receive a lot of attention after the incident
in the garage? Media coverage?"

Grey's lips tightened to a thin line. "Yeah. Didn't seem to matter
that the man I saved was little more than a vegetable. The press
had me billed as the hero, taking on the killer with my bare hands.
I even got a letter of commendation for it."

"A sign of success in our business--wouldn't you say?"

Grey's intense gaze shifted from Mulder's face to his injured leg.
"I'm so sorry, Fox. I know you only came up here for me, and now
you're stuck in this nightmare because of it."

Mulder shrugged, though the normally fluid movement looked
stiff. "Hey, forget it. To tell you the truth, it's a refreshing change
to have someone else be the target of the crazed killer."

Grey expelled a short puff of air and shook his head. "Gotta hand it
to you, little brother. You always know the right thing to say."

He stood and walked into the kitchen, returning moments later
with a glass of water and an amber bottle. At the sight of the clear
liquid Mulder's thirst, forgotten in the distraction of Grey's story,
returned with a vengeance. He accepted the glass and tried not to
guzzle, watching over the rim as Grey shook two small white pills
into his palm and extended it.

"What's that?"

"I told you, remember? Something with codeine. If it'll treat a
migraine, I'm sure it'll take the edge off the pain in your leg."

Mulder set the glass on an end table, disconcerted by his own
jittering fingers. "Uh...I'll pass. But if he's got some ibuprofen in
that medicine chest, I'll take a couple."

Grey's brow furrowed. "Take the pills, Fox. I'll still consider you a
manly man, I promise."

A firm shake of the head, accompanied by a grimace. "You don't
get it. This has nothing to do with a fragile ego. In my present
condition those pills will knock me out--not something I can afford
considering our killer is out there somewhere, just waiting for the
right opportunity to renew your acquaintance."

"You said it yourself--he's out there. And that's where he'll stay if I
have any say in the matter. You, on the other hand, are in very
rough shape. That leg is infected; you're already running a fever.
Antibiotics would be real handy at this point, but we both know
that ain't happening. So I'm going to clean and dress the wound,
and then you're going to get some sleep. I'll keep watch for our
friend."

"And then what? How long do you think we can just sit here,
Grey? We have no weapons to speak of, and pretty soon it will be
dark. Odds are, that's what he's waiting for." Mulder's voice
trembled with anger and fatigue. "You know what has to happen.
You just don't want to face it."

Grey's scowl deepened. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The storm passed abruptly, and Mulder became very calm. "We
know who he is, and we know what he wants. He's orchestrated
things very carefully to get you here--isolated, weaponless, and
hampered by my injury. We can't just hang out, waiting for him to
play the trump card."

Grey's eyes narrowed. "I don't think I like where this is headed."

"If you get started now, you'll still have a good five hours of
daylight. If you stay off the road, keep to the trees..."

"NO! Forget it! I'm not leaving you, Fox. You're in no shape to
defend yourself. You'd be a sitting duck."

"Better me than us both!" Mulder leaned forward, face twisting in
anger and pain. "I'm tired of being a liability to you. Without me,
you can make it out of here, get help. *Think*, Grey. Look at this
logically, objectively. You'll see the truth."

Grey clenched his fingers around the pills, stalked across the room.
For a split second Mulder thought his brother was going to drive
his fist into the wall. Instead his shoulders relaxed, and he walked
back to sit in the chair. He bent forward, locking eyes with Mulder.

"The truth is, you're my brother, Fox. There's nothing logical or
objective about it. So whatever happens next, we'll deal with it.
Together."

Mulder looked away, struggling to push words past a closed throat.
"You're crazy."

Grey leaned back. Smiled. "It's been said. Look, Dana and Kristen
have got to suspect something is wrong by now. Knowing those
two, I think I can say with confidence that they will track us down.
We just have to dig in and give them time."

He stretched out his hand, the two little pills still nestled in his
palm. "At least take one. I'll go raid Jed's medicine chest for
something with a little less kick."

Mulder stared at the pills for a long moment before fumbling one
to his lips with unsteady fingers. He washed it down with the
remaining water, still evading Grey's eyes. His brother collected
the empty glass and stood, intending to refill it.

"Grey."

The subdued voice stilled his feet, turned him back. "Yeah?"

"It's not logical for me either. That's why I wanted you to go."

Grey's mouth curved and he tipped his head in acknowledgement.
"United we stand, little brother. The bastard doesn't have a
chance."

Mulder's tentative nod sent him on his way.


Continued in part 11

Blood Ties 10: A Dish Served Cold (11/19)
By Dawn
sunrise@avenew.com


Great Smoky Mountains
Sunday
7:18 p.m.


"...It took Grey twelve hours to hike back out, and another fifteen
for the rescue workers to reach us. Mulder was in pretty bad
condition by then--shocky, cracked ribs, a concussion. His injuries
would have been serious enough on their own, but coupled with
the blood loss from the original attack.... Well, he was incoherent
for most of the trip to the hospital." Scully tightened her fingers on
the steering wheel, peering through the windshield at the slice of
road illuminated by headlights.

"You must have been terrified. Alone in those woods after dark,
Mulder hurt and that...that thing just a stone's throw away."
Kristen's voice held equal parts fascination and dismay, the voice
of a woman witnessing a car wreck.

"I've had better nights. I wish I could say it was the first time I had
to deal with Mulder under those conditions." Scully formed her
lips into a hard little smile to conceal an overwhelming sensation
of vulnerability. "I'd certainly hoped it would be the last."

Kristen gazed out the window at the dappled shadows of passing
trees and foliage. When she eventually spoke, her voice barely
broke the drone of the engine. "It's not your fault. Whatever has
happened, whatever we find--there was no way to predict it."

Scully's gaze swung to Kristen's face, the car drifting to the right
along with her eyes. She snapped both forward, concentrating on
the rutted, uneven stretch of road for several long minutes before
responding.

"He didn't want to go. He joked about it--we both did--but I think
underneath..." A sharp shake of her head and anger crept into her
voice. "It's not surprising, really. I mean, every time the man has
ventured into a wooded area not part of a city park system
something terrible has happened. I don't know why I..."

Kristen's hand on her arm stopped the deluge of words.

"You did it for him. Because every hour spent hiking, or playing
basketball, or...or even arguing who's going to win the World
Series--each moment he and Grey can spend together--chips away
at those thirty-seven years they were cheated."

Kristen's fingers tightened briefly before retreating. "They needed
this trip, Dana. Whatever has gone wrong doesn't change that."

Scully concentrated on dodging potholes, ignoring stinging eyes
and the burn at the back of her throat. Feeling...unstrung. And just
a bit bemused. Kristen's appearance at her door that morning,
duffel bag in hand, had taken her by surprise. Her own worries for
Mulder and Grey, and the driving need to do something about
them, had been single-minded in intensity. Adding another person
to the mix, one with fears and intentions just as urgent, was a
complication Scully had neither time nor energy for.

She'd never expected the resignation to become gratitude.

Gone was the tentative, uncertain woman she'd shared Chinese
takeout with the previous evening. Unexpectedly calm and
coolheaded, Kristen was revealing a keen eye for detail and a
wickedly dry sense of humor. The former had already proved
invaluable during their interview with Sheriff Edwards; the latter a
welcome escape valve when the pressure became unbearable.

Scully's lips twisted in a rueful smile. The old saying about misery
and company wasn't so far off the mark.

"Stop! I think you just passed it."

Kristen's warning tugged Scully's attention back to the road. Her
foot reflexively hit the brake and the car jerked to a standstill, tires

spitting gravel. She checked the rear view mirror--more from habit
than from necessity--and carefully inched the vehicle backward to
a break in vegetation that signaled the private drive.

Scully cranked the wheel hard to the left and jockeyed the car
around the curve. "Sharp eyes. I completely missed it in the dark."

"Don't thank me. Officer McCullough may be a rotten investigator,
but he draws a heck of a map."

They traveled the quarter mile or so in silence, eyes fixed straight
ahead. When the cabin solidified out of the darkness into the
headlights' glow, Kristen sat forward, eyes narrowed.

"No lights."

Scully pulled up behind the crippled SUV and turned off the
engine. Her gaze moved over Grey's car, to the darkened cabin,
and back again. "You didn't really expect them to be gathered
around a fire toasting marshmallows--did you?"

Kristen's expression remained impassive. "Are you kidding? Give
me some credit." She opened her door and slipped outside, then
leaned back in, her face unusually pale in the harsh dome light.
"Telling ghost stories, maybe. This is Mulder we're talking about."

The laugh snuck past Scully's lips before her brain could rein it in.
She sucked in a deep breath, released the steering wheel, and
stepped out of the car. The temperature had dropped with the sun,
the crisp air a sharp but welcome contrast from the car's stuffy
interior. Though the day had been fair, incoming clouds obscured
the moon and most of the stars. Without headlights, darkness
shrouded Grey's car, softening edges to an indistinct blur. Scully
pulled a flashlight from her pocket and thumbed it on.

Her legs felt tight, muscles cramped with inactivity and tension.
Evidently plagued by the same discomfort, Kristen was shuffling
her feet, one hand propped on the hood as she pointed and flexed.
She followed Scully in a slow tour around the SUV that ended
beside the jacked-up rear axle.

Scully crouched down, panning the flashlight beam over the jack
and the damaged tire that lay on the ground beside it. "There could
be any number of causes for this. The question is, why didn't they
fix it?"

Kristen's head popped around the rear of the vehicle. "The answer's
right back here. The spare is flat." When Scully joined her she
gestured with her own flashlight. The tire was still mounted on the
tailgate. Kristen had peeled back the cover, exposing the sagging
rubber. "It's not obvious at first because of this covering. It must
have been a very unpleasant surprise."

"No doubt." Scully's gaze shifted from the tire to the cabin, the
crease between her brows deepening.

Easy enough to get a flat tire navigating roads as rough as those
leading up to the cabin. A pothole, an especially sharp rock--even
briefly slipping off the shoulder could cause that kind of damage.
Nothing unusual there. Nothing to set off an alarm bell, even for
someone as paranoid as Mulder.

"What are the odds." Kristen's soft utterance, not exactly a
question, drew Scully's attention. She met Scully's intense stare
without flinching. "One flat, sure. But two? And one of them brand
new?"

Scully's tongue snaked out to moisten dry lips and her fingers
drifted to the weapon at the small of her back. "Let's take a look
inside." In the distance, a low rumble of thunder underscored her
words.

The door was unlocked. Gun now in hand, Scully nudged it open
and swept the flashlight beam across the dark room. She could
sense Kristen at her shoulder--could feel the faint puff of the other
woman's breath ruffle the hair at the nape of her neck. The air
inside the cabin, only marginally warmer than outside, smelled
faintly of coffee grounds and ashes.  The slow, measured tick of a
clock and the low hum of a generator seemed to enhance the
stillness, rather than break it.

Scully stepped all the way into the room and crossed to the brass
floor lamp that stood beside the couch. Her fingers fumbled with
the switch until a soft click and a flood of golden light signaled
success. Kristen squinted against the abrupt shift from darkness,
her eyes leaving Scully to scan the room. She glanced uneasily
toward the opening at her back, closing the door firmly before
moving into the kitchen.

The darkened bedroom caught Scully's eye. She crossed to the
open doorway, the light from the greatroom providing sufficient
illumination until she could locate another lamp. As officer
McCullough had indicated, the bed gave every appearance of
having been slept in--the pillows rumpled, the sheet and blankets
tangled together. A pair of faded jeans was flung over a chair and
Grey's duffelbag, familiar from his many visits, sat on the floor,
unzipped, one sleeve of a navy thermal shirt trailing out.

Frowning, Scully left the bedroom and returned to the greatroom.
She crossed to the fireplace and sat on the hearth, first placing her
hand inside the opening and then fingering the cold ashes. Teeth
sunk into her lower lip, she swiveled to face the large couch. A
pillow and a neatly folded sleeping bag occupied one end, Mulder's
duffel perched on top.

Scully stood and walked over to the bag. She tugged open the
zipper and reached inside, operating on autopilot, her hands taking
on a mind of their own. Her fingertips encountered soft cotton, and
she pulled out the New York Yankees tee Mulder slept in on cold
nights. The sharp, twisting pain, centered somewhere between her
heart and her gut, took Scully by surprise. Blinking hard, she
brought the worn fabric first to her nose, then to her cheek.

"Dana?" Kristen's head popped into view, her expression
immediately turning contrite. "Sorry. Could you come over here?"

Scully tucked the shirt back into the duffel before joining Kristen
in the tiny kitchen. Kristen's face was oddly expressionless except
for a slight crease between her brows. Scully quickly took in the
short, L-shaped counter beside a small refrigerator and sink. A
coffeemaker sat on the butcher-block surface, about an inch of
dark brew in the glass carafe.

"Does Mulder drink coffee every morning?"

Scully's eyes jumped to Kristen's and she couldn't help the smile
that tugged her lips upward. "Neither Mulder nor I are what you'd
call morning people. Caffeine is a necessity."

"How does he take it?"

Scully arched an eyebrow. "How does he take it? His coffee?"
When Kristen nodded, she continued in a voice coated with
impatience. "Well, since he can't inject it directly into a vein, he
settles for sugar, no cream. Why?"

Kristen held out a red ceramic mug bearing the inscription "Hot
Stuff." "Officer McCullough was right about the coffee. He just
overlooked an important detail--there's only one mug. Grey is just
as addicted to his morning cup of coffee as you say Mulder is. Did
you notice another mug around here anywhere?"

"Well...no. But I wasn't exactly looking either."

"Don't bother. You won't find one."

Scully pursed her lips, studying Kristen's face. "What are you
trying to say?"

"Dana, someone was in this cabin last night, but I don't think it was
Mulder or Grey. Not only are we short one mug, this coffee is
black--I tasted it. Grey always uses creamer..."

"And Mulder adds sugar." Scully turned to gaze at the bedroom
with narrowed eyes.

"What is it?"

"The bed is unmade, but Mulder's sleeping bag is folded up."

Kristen's response was soft, painful. "Grey's one of the neatest
guys I've ever met. He wouldn't leave the bed unmade, Dana. I'm
sure of it." She set the mug on the counter as if loath to continue
touching it.

Scully met her frightened gaze without flinching. "Okay, let's go
over what we know. They were going to drive into town Friday
afternoon for supplies."

"And to touch base with us."

"Yes. We know they arrived safely because Grey's car is here, but
we can't be sure when they discovered the flat tires. Suffice it to
say, they were unable to drive into town as planned. What would
have been their next logical move?"

Kristen's eyes went wide. "The radio! Grey told me there was a
short wave radio for emergencies."

Both women began moving through the cabin, searching. Scully
was the first to spy the small, rolltop desk in the corner across from
the fireplace. She pushed back the cover, exposing the radio
beneath.

"Here it is."

As Kristen looked on, she manipulated knobs and switches without
success. Finally giving up, she dropped the mic and stepped back
with a grimace.

"I don't claim to be an expert, but I think we can safely say this
radio is useless."

"Two flat tires and a broken radio. Factor in our mysterious third
party, and I'm starting to see a pretty disturbing pattern."

Scully eyed Kristen sharply. "Anyone can have a run of bad luck--
Mulder's turned it into an art form. But this is all beginning to feel
a bit..."

"Contrived?"

"I was going to say planned. Lacking transportation or the means
to radio for help, Mulder and Grey wouldn't be left with many
options, would they?"

"Only two that I can think of. Sit tight and wait for someone to
come. Or hike out, find someplace with a radio or a car." Kristen
uttered a wobbly laugh. "Grey is the original Grizzly Adams,
Dana. I've no doubts what he'd do."

"Nor do I. Mulder might not know a maple tree from an oak, but
he'd never be content to stay put and do nothing. Their duffel bags
are here, but their backpacks and hiking boots are missing. I don't
think it's a matter of *if* they went, but where."

"Back to town?" But doubt laced Kristen's voice.

Scully wandered over to the window, arms folded tightly across
her chest. "That's a twenty-five mile trip. On the other hand,
Sheriff Edwards mentioned a neighboring cabin about ten to
twelve miles up the road. The owner resides there year 'round."

Peripherally, she could see Kristen's head bob.

"We could take it slow and still be there in half an hour." Scully
locked her eyes onto the indistinct strip of road leading away from
the cabin. Leading toward Mulder.

So tempting.

"It's raining." Kristen peered over Scully's shoulder. "The roads
will be wet, slippery. And I guess there's the very real possibility
that whoever brewed that cup of coffee is out there, somewhere."
She uttered the observation in a painstakingly neutral voice.

Scully turned to face Kristen, prepared to reassure. Her impatience
to reach Mulder had been steadily growing, inversely proportional
to the distance between them. They were close now--she could feel
it in her heart, in the very marrow of her bones. The prospect of
waiting impotently at the cabin for another ten hours was
unthinkable, and yet...

They'd be going in blind, wide open to whatever threat might be
waiting for them. Lacking the illumination from moon and stars,
flashlights and headlights would be indispensable--and possibly
deadly. Blunder over the edge of a ravine or stick out like a sore
thumb? Neither was a viable alternative.

Yes, she'd ventured into risky situations before, but usually with
Mulder at her back. Though Kristen was an FBI agent, she lacked
field experience. Her expertise involved a microscope, not a gun.
Rushing headlong into the unknown with such an inexperienced
partner could land Mulder and Grey in deeper trouble. Or worse,
get someone killed.

Scully slowly released a breath of air. "You're right. We won't do
them any good by driving into a ditch or stumbling into a trap.
We'll talk out our next move and try to get some sleep. We can
head up the mountain as soon as it's light."

Kristen's eyes looked very large in the pale glow of the lamp.
"Dana. What do you really think happened here?"

Scully laid her index finger under her nose, considering the
kitchen, then the bedroom. When her gaze returned to Kristen, her
eyes were granite. "I think they were set up. I think someone
followed them here--maybe even got here ahead of them. I think
they were manipulated into navigating these woods on foot in
search of help. Possibly--though I don't like to consider it--without
weapons."

Another long pause as Kristen absorbed her words. "And then?"

It was a question she didn't want to answer, though it had been
foremost in her mind. Scully shook her head. "Mulder and I have
made enemies, some powerful. It's been more than 48 hours now,
with no contact from either of them. We both know that's not a
good sign."

Kristen's chin came up and her jaw tightened. "I feared the worst
when Grey was kidnapped, and again when that bomb went off at
the hospital. He proved me wrong both times."

Scully smiled, but merely tipped her head toward the door. "I'm
going to grab our bags from the car."

"Need some help?"

"I'm fine. No sense in both of us getting wet."

Stepping into the darkness felt a little like escaping, despite the
frigid drizzle bombarding her. Scully didn't want to squash
Kristen's determined optimism, but she also didn't feel up to
supporting it. Her investigator's intuition told her something bad
had been waiting for Mulder and Grey, hiding in the trees like an
animal stalking its prey. Had they sensed the danger?

Unlikely.

She pictured them hiking up the road, trading insults and inane
observations. Mulder and Grey could get into heated discussions
on the damnedest topics. She'd once endured an hour-long
argument over the veracity of NYPD Blue.

Scully's throat constricted and hot tears mixed with the cold rain on
her cheeks. Odds were, they'd never seen trouble coming until it
was too late.

A twig snapped in the bushes, startling Scully from her morose
thoughts. A shiver worked its way up her spine like icy fingers.
Eyes darting around the clearing, she popped the trunk and pulled
out the two bags. The warm spill of light from the cabin windows
beckoned her, hastening her footsteps. Kristen flung open the door
as Scully approached, her silhouette a welcome reassurance.

She hoped Mulder was warm and dry. Prayed he was safe.


Continued in part 12

Blood Ties 10: A Dish Served Cold (12/19)
By Dawn
sunrise@avenew.com


Peterson Cabin
Sunday
8:16 p.m.


**All-encompassing darkness. It wraps itself around him like a
living blanket, so thick he can't see his hand in front of his face.
Worse than the darkness, though, is the death. It's everywhere--in
the leathery skin brushing his cheeks and arms, the brittle bones
that snap and crack beneath his boots, and the rich, sick-sweet
smell of decay that fills his nostrils.

He crouches under the mound of inhuman corpses, sweat trickling
between his shoulder blades, breathing in short, sharp pants. The
rusty screech of the trap door, the thump of boots hitting the
ground, and barked commands double his heartrate and dry his
mouth. He becomes stone, unmoving, barely breathing. Wishing
for Scully's presence even as he's grateful she's hundreds of miles
away.

Calm, he thinks. Just stay calm.

Until all hell breaks loose.

A blast of sound and hot air, scattering bones like popcorn and
singeing the small hairs at the nape of his neck. The hissing crackle
of flames ignites a fear within him that is decades old, a panic he
struggles to control.

Out. Got to get out.

Tunneling through bodies, the acrid stench of fire and ash lends a
new potency to the odor of death. Scrabbling with his fingers,
kicking with his feet. He gulps for oxygen, finds none. The
superheated air sears his throat and melts his lungs.

Can't think. Can't breathe.

Have to get... **

"...out. Gotta get out."

"Shh. Easy, Fox. Easy."

Grey refreshed the washcloth in a pan of water and resumed
running it over Mulder's face and neck. Heat radiated from his
brother's body like a furnace, quickly turning the cloth from cool to
tepid. Grey didn't need a thermometer to tell him that the fever had
grown dangerously high. Though lucid an hour previous, Mulder's
condition had rapidly deteriorated into delirium. Wherever he'd
gone, it wasn't a nice place.

"No...the fire...gotta...trapped... I gotta..." Mulder's fingers
scratched at the cushions, his breathing harsh and labored.

"There's no fire, little brother. You're right here with me. It's just a

dream."

Grey returned the cloth to the pan, grimacing at water already too
warm to be effective. An image of Mulder, convulsing with fever
caused by pneumonia and the mysterious alien virus, flashed
vividly before his eyes. Terrifying enough in a hospital with
trained medical personnel. If it happened here...

Despite the closed blinds, darkness pressed through the cabin's
windows, accented by the restless, grasping shadows of tree limbs
stirred by the wind. Rain drummed a staccato beat on the roof and
burbled in the gutters. The fire crackled and snapped on the hearth.
And the clock on the wall kept a steady rhythm, sounding the hour
with a mellow chime.

Sounds that should feel familiar, even comforting, instead served
to increase Grey's gnawing uneasiness. The cabin might give the
impression of a safe haven, a refuge from the elements and a killer,
but that was illusion. They were trapped, virtually unarmed, and
Fox had become a liability rather than an asset.

Grey had never felt more alone in his life.

"Okay, Dana, what do I do?"

He uttered the question aloud, but mumbled. Slightly embarrassed.
Mostly desperate.

Mulder's legs thrashed and he sucked in a shallow gulp of air.
"Hot...Scully, can't...can't...."

Grey dropped the cloth and stood, grasping his semi-conscious
brother beneath the arms and hauling him upright. "Dana might not
be here, but I know what she'd say. We gotta cool you down, Fox,
and that little bowl of water sure as hell ain't doing the trick."

Mulder whimpered as Grey levered him off the cushions, his knees
buckling and his head sagging until his chin brushed his chest.
Grey draped his brother's arm around his own shoulders and gritted
his teeth, struggling to manipulate one hundred and eighty odd
pounds of nearly dead weight. Fox's body felt like a live coal, his
overheated skin uncomfortably hot where it rested along Grey's
side.

"Jeez, Fox. What's Dana been...feeding you?"

They staggered down the hallway like two soldiers after an all-
night drinking binge. Mulder alternated between silent passivity
and agitated ramblings that made little or no sense. Unintelligible
muttering, most of the words were garbled from the fever. Yet the
few Grey could decipher left him with a prickly feeling at the back
of his neck. Krycek. Alien. Merchandise.

Father.

They finally reached the end of the hallway. Grey propped his
brother against the wall and reached for the bedroom doorknob,
hesitating when his fingertips brushed the cool metal. He let his
eyes slip shut, took a deep breath. Preparing or postponing--he
couldn't have said which.

He shoved open the door and groped for the light switch, the other
hand knotted in Mulder's shirt as he struggled to prevent his
brother from sliding down the wall. The air inside the room felt
heavy, the slightly musty fragrance of damp wood tainted by the
underlying sick-sweet odor of decay. Grey shouldered his brother
and steered him past the bed, wrinkling his nose and keeping his
eyes fixed on the bathroom doorway.

Once inside, he lowered Mulder to the closed seat of the toilet.
Two beige bathsheets were draped over a long towel bar near the
shower stall, and Grey was able to rustle up two more from a
cupboard under the sink. He turned on the shower and fiddled with
the dial until the water temperature felt lukewarm but not cold,
absurdly grateful that Craig Peterson's plumbing was more
sophisticated than the Preston's.

Pausing with hands on hips, Grey watched his brother teeter
precariously to the right, eyes glassy and unfocused. "All right,
Fox, here we go. Believe me, I don't like this any better than you."

He rolled up his sleeves, then proceeded to strip Mulder down to
his boxers. When he slid the jeans down his brother's legs he was
dismayed by the condition of the bullet wound. In just a matter of
hours the surrounding skin had turned tight and inflamed, the
wound now oozing infection.

"Dear God, Fox, no wonder you're burning up. We've got to get
you out of here."

He hauled Mulder to his feet and wrestled him into the stall. The
cool spray shocked his brother out of his stupor. Mulder flailed his
arms, spluttering and choking when his struggles succeeded in
earning him a mouthful of water. Resistance rapidly gave way to
exhaustion and he slumped mutely in Grey's hold.

After ten minutes Mulder's skin had noticeably cooled and he was
able to stand mostly on his own, leaning heavily against the tile
wall. Grey's arms quivered with fatigue and the abused muscles in
his back voiced their protest by tightening into painful spasms. He
turned off the water and wrapped two of the towels around his
brother. Mulder allowed himself to be guided back to his seat on
the toilet, where he huddled, shivering.

Grey glanced down at his own drenched shirt with a grimace. He
peeled it off and added it to the pile of discarded clothing, helping
himself to another of the large towels. Once he'd dried off, he
draped it around his neck and crouched down in front of his
brother.

"How are you doing? You gonna be all right while I try to find us a
change of clothes?"

Mulder's dark hair clung to his skull, accentuating the pale, nearly
translucent hue of his skin. Water droplets trailed like tears down
his cheeks and pain had etched lines around his mouth. To Grey's
intense relief, however, his brother met his gaze, clear-eyed.

"Something in flannel," he croaked. "'S what all well-dressed
hermits are wearing."

"I'll keep that in mind." Unreasonably reassured by the sarcasm.
"You just concentrate on staying vertical."

It got him a long-suffering roll of the eyes that left him chuckling
softly.

Grey searched the bedroom quickly, rifling through the closet and
pawing through drawers. Always mindful of the dead man at his
back, a constant prickling between his shoulder blades. Two
sweatshirts and a pair of sweatpants. A bit large--Chris was a
jumbo-sized hermit--but they he figured Fox could manage.

Back in the bathroom he found Mulder had removed the wet
bandage from his leg and was staring at the wound with horrified
fascination.

Grey handed his brother the clothing. "The latest in high fashion."
He pulled on the second sweatshirt, then began removing bandages
and antiseptic from the medicine chest.

"Green Bay? You've got to be kidding."

Grey favored him with a raised eyebrow. "Hey, it's warm and it's
dry. Would you rather have the Chicago Cubs?" Gestured to his
own shirt.

"God, no." Mulder struggled into the sweatshirt, lip curled. "If it
looks like I'm going to die, please take this off."

"That's not funny."

"You're telling me. Not bad enough we're stuck with a dead hermit;
we have to wind up with a dead hermit who has terrible taste in
sports teams."

"You must be feeling better. You've got your smart mouth back."

"Yeah." Wearily. "I feel just peachy."

Grey rebandaged the wound without further comment. The routine
was becoming painfully familiar to them both--Grey doing his best
to be gentle but thorough; Mulder striving to cooperate by holding
still. Once he'd slathered on antibiotic cream and swathed the leg
in gauze, Grey sat back on his heels.

"Need some help with those pants?"

A sharp shake of the head, and Mulder discarded the wet towel and
boxers, working the soft fleece up to his waist. Even tightly
cinched the pants were almost comically large, riding low on his
hips and pooling around his ankles. He endeavored to tie the
drawstring with trembling fingers, swaying on his feet.

Grey grabbed hold of his arm, steadying him. "Whoa! Easy, Fox.
Sit down."

Mulder yielded, unconsciously leaning into Grey's solid support.
He curled forward, forearms braced on thighs, and closed his eyes.
Concentrated on his breathing and waited for the dizziness to pass.
"Just...just give me a minute."

"Take all the time you need. I'm not going anywhere."

It struck a nerve, sparked an abrupt, irrational flare of temper.
Mulder's head came up, his eyes overbright. "You should. Screw
this, Grey! You ought to hike out, go for help. We both know you
could make it without me slowing you down. The only reason
you've stayed is to play nursemaid. I'm not helpless, damn it; I'll be
all right."

The words, meant to be determined and forceful, sounded as
fragile as dry leaves in a strong wind. Grey didn't react to the fury
in his brother's voice. He crouched down until they were eye to
eye, hands clasped loosely between his knees. When he spoke, his
voice held a mixture of irritation and compassion.

"I'm gonna say this one more time, and then I don't expect you to
bring the subject up again. I'm not going to leave you, Fox. Not to
get help, and sure as hell not to save my own skin. I understand
why you think I will--why you've come to expect it. But those days
are gone, little brother. I'm not Samantha, or Pheobe, or...or
Diana." Softer. "And I'm not Bill or Teena. I'm here now. And I'm
here to stay. Okay?"

Mulder blinked, his eyes cutting away to fix on the darkened
bedroom. "I...yeah."

"Glad we got that settled." Grey laid a hand briefly on his leg,
stood. "You about ready to head back to the couch? I've seen about
all I care to of this bathroom."

It earned him a phantom smile, not much more than a flicker at the
corners of Mulder's mouth. "I'm ready."

They were halfway across the bedroom when Mulder's feet began
to drag and Grey noticed him staring at the shrouded figure on the
bed. "Fox? What is it?"

"Just trying to see...Jed--was he a big man?"

Grey frowned at the effortful sound of his brother's voice; chose
not to comment on it. "You gotta ask? Those sweats make you
look like a kid playing dress up." When Mulder didn't respond,
Grey tugged him forward. "Come on, Fox. You look ready to fall
on your face, and it's getting to the point where I'm not sure I could
stop you. You're no lightweight, you know."

"Sorry."

Grey regretted the sharpness of his words when he felt his brother
struggling to bear more of his own weight. "Why?" Softer. An
apology without apologizing.

"Why what?"

He held onto patience--barely. "Why did you ask how big Peterson
was? What difference does it make?"

"Because... Hold up a minute."

Grey leaned against the wall, waiting for Fox to catch his breath.
From the pinched look around his brother's eyes and mouth, the
pain had to be bad. Very bad.

"If he's a big man...means he'd be hard to overpower." Mulder
swallowed; licked dry lips. "Stands to reason...he wouldn't go
down...without a fight."

Grey's brow furrowed. "Not much evidence of a struggle."

"Just what I...was thinking."

And then he got it--saw where his brother was headed. "You
think... You think Peterson *knew* him?"

One shoulder lifted. "'S possible." But his face said that was
exactly what Mulder thought.

Grey stared at his brother for a long moment before tightening his
hold and resuming the trek to the family room. "I don't know, Fox.
What you're suggesting makes sense--in an odd sort of way--but
I..."

Grey stumbled back a step. Nearly dropped his brother in a
reflexive grab for a gun that wasn't there. Froze.

A man on the couch. Dark hair slick from the rain, mud-caked
boots. One arm casually slung across the cushions. The other
extended, fingers curled around a gun aimed at Grey's head.

"Well, don't just stand there. Come on in, sit down. I was
beginning to think you two died back there." A shark's grin. "But
that would be just a little premature, wouldn't it?"


Continued in part 13

Blood Ties 10: A Dish Served Cold (13/19)
By Dawn
sunrise@avenew.com


Peterson Cabin
Sunday
10:02 p.m.


Mulder sensed a subtle shift in his brother's posture as Grey
tightened his grasp on the arm slung across his shoulders. At the
same time he released his hold on Mulder's waist, allowing his left
arm to drop behind the shield of their bodies. Slowly, discreetly
inching his fingers toward his back pocket. Grey's face smoothed
into a blank mask as he tipped his head toward his brother and
arched an eyebrow.

"I don't remember hearing the doorbell, do you?"

"No. Of course...I don't remember...inviting anyone in, either." His
tissue paper voice was a far cry from the glib, breezy tone Mulder
had hoped for, but it would have to do.

Their intruder raised his free hand, idly spinning a keyring around
the index finger. "No invitation necessary. I picked these up when I
stopped by earlier." His smile widened but his eyes went flat as he
rose slowly to his feet. "And Detective McKenzie? When you've
finally located whatever it is you're searching for in your back
pocket, you can put it right over here on the table."

Grey stiffened, anger turning his muscles rigid. Mulder dropped
his head, turning his face away from the killer. "Not now," he said,
sotto voce. "He's holding all the cards."

Grey yanked an object from his pocket and tossed it onto the
coffee table. A Swiss Army knife, the one he kept in his pack. He
bared his teeth in an insincere smile.

"Anything else I can get you? Coffee? Tea? Mothballs?"

The killer's face contorted into a snarl and his finger tightened on
the trigger. He seemed to catch himself, consciously pushing aside
anger as his expression smoothed and he gestured casually with the
gun. "Take a seat. Our boy Fox, there, looks like he's about to keel
over."

Grey had already begun moving Mulder toward the couch. The
killer's words hit him like a verbal slap, and his feet momentarily
tangled up with his brother's. Mulder's soft grunt of discomfort
regained his attention.

"Sorry," he murmured, lowering Mulder carefully. "You okay?"
He watched his brother lose the battle to remain upright, his head
flopping back onto the cushions.

Mulder's eyes, the only bit of color in his face, blinked lazily and
his tongue swiped at dry lips. "You're kidding...right?"

Grey straightened and turned. "Look, whoever you are--I want to
get one thing straight. I don't know how you tracked us here or
figured out my brother's name, but any grudge, any unfinished
business, is between you and me. Leave Fox out of it."

The killer circled slowly until he was standing directly opposite
Mulder and Grey. "No, you get something straight, Mr. Bigshot
Hero. In case you haven't noticed, you're in no position to give
orders. Now shut the hell up and sit down or the next bullet's going
right between your brother's eyes."

The threat, backed by the cold fury in the killer's eyes, effectively
extinguished Grey's defiance. He dropped down beside Mulder,
lips compressed to a thin line.

"You know, I'm hurt." The killer pocketed Grey's knife and then
strolled over to perch on the arm of a chair. "I know I don't exactly
have the most memorable face, but I still thought you'd've
recognized me by now." His lip curled. "*Detective*."

"I don't know what the heck you're..." Grey's voice faded away, his
eyes widening in astonishment as he scrutinized the killer.
Shoulder-length dark hair caught into a ponytail at the nape of his
neck. Brown eyes, a long, thin nose, and the mouth... "Wait a
minute, I...oh, my god."

Mulder's gaze darted to his brother's face. "Grey?"

Grey was slowly shaking his head, oblivious to the anxiety in
Mulder's voice. Tension crackled in the air as he and the killer
continued to lock eyes. "You...you're.... *Jake*?"

"Aw, you do remember. I'm touched."

All the color drained from Grey's face and his left hand clutched
the arm of the couch in a white-knuckled grip. "B...but...that's
impossible. That can't be."

Mulder frowned at the stutter. In the space between one breath and
the next, the killer's revelation had transformed Grey from cool
professional to bewildered child. Mulder pushed back his own pain
and fatigue, leaning forward to lay a calming hand on his brother's
shoulder while turning studiously neutral eyes on the killer.

"So. I take it you two know each other."

The killer laughed--a harsh, humorless sound sharp enough to draw
blood. "We've crossed paths once or twice, nothing earth
shattering. But we do share a bond that's much more...intimate."

Grey seemed to get hold of himself, regaining a bit of his
composure. "Where are my manners? Fox, this is Jake Preston."

Mulder stared at his brother for what seemed like an eternity while
his sluggish brain tried to process the significance of the name.
When synapses finally fired and the connection became clear, he
knew his own face probably looked nearly as shell-shocked as
Grey's.

"*Preston*? As in...Mark Preston? Your partner?"

Jake grinned toothily. "We're cousins. There's a family
resemblance--don't you think?"

"You're responsible for this? For Peterson?"

Jake's smile flattened out and he stared at Grey. A slow, deliberate
nod.

"Brandmeier? Feeney? All the others?"

"All except the good doctor. And we know whose fault that was,
don't we? I have to say, I was sweating that night. I thought sure
you'd seen my face and would eventually realize who I was."

Mulder felt the tremors thrumming through Grey like electrical
current. He tightened his fingers on his brother's shoulder, a subtle
reminder of both support and warning. Grey shrugged it off, his
teeth clenched.

"Why? Why would you do it--to them, to your cousin? Innocent
people who never..."

"No one is innocent, Detective! We all have our debts to pay, even
those of you who've been handed life on a silver platter.
Everyone's marker gets called in eventually."

"That's how you attempt to justify cold blooded murder? As some
kind of...of cosmic *reckoning* with you working the scales? Is
the dead man lying in that bedroom supposed to be your twisted
idea of justice?"

Jake leaned forward, arms crossed so that the gun rested easily in
the crook of his elbow. "What would you know about justice,
McKenzie? You and Mark, you're exactly alike. It's easy to be self-
righteous when you're standing on the mountaintop. Try slogging
through the mud with the rest of us before you pass judgement."

Grey sucked in a sharp breath and his face went very still. "It's no
coincidence, is it, you killing those people on our beat? This is just
as much about Mark as it is about them."

Jake's eyes narrowed. "I had a job to do. If it happened to impact
my cousin, to shake up his picture perfect life, well, so be it."

"That's bullshit! He's been good to you, gone out of his way to try
and help. I know for a fact that he hired you to do landscaping and
yard work for him when you couldn't find a job anywhere else."

"Spare me the guilt trip! My saintly cousin is nothing more than
the favored son of a favored son. A twist of fate is all that separates
us--our positions could just as easily have been reversed."

Grey's hands curled into fists, his body a tightly coiled spring.
Mulder dug his fingers into his brother's shoulder, speaking over
the resulting grunt of pain.

"How so?"

Jake's gaze jerked from Grey and he seemed to really look at
Mulder for the first time. "What's this? Some kind of game to keep
me talking?"

Mulder returned his stare, face guileless. "You keep harping
about...fate and justice. I assumed you...want us to understand."

Jake studied his face for a moment, then smiled--the barest curve at
the corners of his mouth. "All right. I'll play." He leaned back, feet
casually crossed at the ankles. "It's an old story, really. My father
was one of two sons born to a poor family in rural West Virginia.
My grandfather, Lucas, was one in a long line of Prestons to work
the mines--backbreaking, thankless work for minimum wage that
destroyed your body until you were old before your time. But
Lucas was different, a dreamer, determined for his children to have
a better life." Jake's lip curled. "One of them, anyway."

"I'm guessing it...wasn't your father."

Grey frowned at the heat from the hand on his shoulder and the
tremor in his brother's voice, but held his tongue.

"My father, Benjamin, was the oldest. From a very young age he
was expected to be the second man of the house, responsible for a
lot of the chores his father couldn't do after a twelve-hour shift in
the mine. That included helping his mother take care of his brother
and two sisters.

"He loved school--maybe because it was the only time he had for
himself--but he studied hard and earned good grades. He knew an
education was his only chance, his ticket out of the mines. And that
was the last place he wanted to wind up.

"But when he was fifteen, my grandfather got sick. Black Lung.
Within six months the old man couldn't work at all, and there
wasn't enough food on the table.  Three weeks before his sixteenth
birthday, my father quit school and went to work in the mines. He
had no choice."

Grey made a small noise in his throat and Jake glowered at him.
"What?"

Grey scowled back. "I've heard this story. Mark's dad remembers it
well."

"Really? Did he tell you the rest? That when my grandfather died a
year later, he left the little bit of insurance money that remained
after the burial to his younger son, Jonathan?" Jake bared his teeth.
"My father spent the next twenty years of his life at the bottom of a
hole, eating coal dust, so Mark's could go to college. How's that for
justice?"

"Is that your father talking? Or you?" Mulder asked. "Seems to
me...it's not your bitterness...to carry."

"Oh, but you're wrong. My grandfather's...tunnel vision concerning
his younger son resulted in more than just a college diploma for
Mark's dad. Pop quiz, Mr. FBI. One brother earns a degree in
mathematics and winds up working as a CPA at a respected
accounting firm. The other quits high school for a manual labor
job, crawls into a bottle and never comes out." Jake tipped his
head, sarcasm dripping from his words. "They each have a son.
Which winds up the detective? And which one the detective's
gardener?"

Jake lurched to his feet, pacing back and forth with the gun tapping
restlessly against his thigh. "I always knew I deserved better than
what my father got. Yeah, the only way I'd go to college would be
on my own dime, but I had that covered. I never had the highest
GPA, but hand me a football and I could work magic. By my
senior year I had a scholarship to WVU in the bag."

He chuckled, a harsh, jagged sound. "Second to the last game of
the season, we're losing by six points, and I make a 40 yard run for
the goal before they take me down. A hit from the left, another
from the right, and my knee just...popped." Jake stopped pacing,
expression blank, focus turned inward. "Sixty seconds and both my
football career and my life were over. All my plans, dreams...I had
to pack them away along with my jersey."

"In mothballs."

Mulder's soft rasp drew Jake's glare. "Yeah. Now you're getting the
picture. I deserved that scholarship; deserved the chance my father
was denied. If it wasn't for that injury I'd be making big bucks by
now, hiring a gardener not being one. Instead, I had to sit back and
watch while my classmates, kids I could think circles around, went
off to school, graduated, and began successful careers."

Jake's eyes went distant, his expression a mixture of pride and
vindication. "They took what should have been mine. Everything I
fought for, worked so hard to achieve, was handed to them on a
silver platter. And with every stroke of the knife, with every drop
of their blood I spill, I take another piece of it back."

Mulder slowly shook his head. "You view success like a jealous
lover. If you can't have it, no one can."

A predatory smile spread slowly across Jake's face. "Well, well,
well. You actually live up to your reputation. Mark said your
brother's always telling him what a genius you are. That you used
to be the FBI's boy wonder, catching killers who had everyone else
chasing their tails by figuring out how they think."

"Is that how you knew I was coming up here?" Grey cut in, voice
low, rigid. "You pumped Mark for information?"

"He might have mentioned it." Jake's grin never touched his eyes.
"And it's amazing what you can overhear while trimming bushes
under an open window."

"Then you also had to have realized that I wouldn't be alone. That
Fox would be with me."

"Realized? I counted on it. The dead fox was a nice touch, don't
you think?" He chuffed at Grey's incredulous stare. "You're a cop,
not some high school teacher. Alone you were twice as dangerous.
You needed a handicap."

"And I thought...Spooky was insulting," Mulder muttered.

Grey threw him a quelling look. "I meant what I said, Jake. This is
between you and me. I want you to leave Fox out of it."

"And I meant what I said. You aren't in control, I am."

Mulder snorted derisively and Jake rounded on him. "You think
this is funny?"

Mulder pressed a shaky hand to his chest, widened his eyes
theatrically. "Me? No, I don't think you're funny." He waited a
beat, then added, "I think you're pathetic."

Color crept up Jake's neck until his whole face flushed, and he
went very still. "Pathetic?" He ground the word between his teeth
like chewing a bone.

Grey tensed, alarmed that his brother had inadvertently provoked
their captor. Until Mulder's fingers squeezed his shoulder and he
caught a gleam of satisfaction in his brother's eye, the truth hitting
him like a sucker punch. Mulder's needling was calculated,
deliberate. Grey swallowed thickly and waited.

"Yeah, pathetic. All of you are. Remember...I used to catch
dirtbags like you...for a living. You're all the same...think you're
Manson, Bundy, and Hannibal Lecter rolled into one. Superkiller."
He laughed.

Jake lifted the gun, his finger twitching on the trigger. "You won't
think it's so funny when I add another hole to your head."

"Fox..."

Mulder waved Grey off, his brief glare communicating his
intentions as clearly as words. *Wait. Be ready.*

"Oh, come on," he said to Jake, laughter still lingering in the smirk
twisting his lips. "You're a smart guy...right? Surely you...can see
the irony. You think you've got control...'cause you wave around a
gun...when the truth is...you're powerless. You're enslaved by...the
sick compulsion...to kill. You get away with it...but you keep
coming back. Eventually...your own weakness...will get you
caught. It already...almost did."

As Mulder spoke, Jake's breathing had accelerated to short, sharp
pants nearly as effortful as his own respiration. Every muscle in the
killer's body seemed wired, like a cat poised to pounce.

"You don't know what you're talking about. I've planned every
move I've made. I've run circles around you both, you never knew
what hit you." He jerked a thumb at Grey, nearly vibrating with
anger. "Him catching me with the doctor in that parking garage
was just dumb luck."

Mulder braced himself, licking his dry lips and forcing another
chuckle. "It was dumb all right. Told you...you're just like all the
rest."

The jab found its mark. Jake launched himself at Mulder with a
growl, the gun nearly forgotten in his rage. Mulder had just enough
time to choke out, "Grey, now!" before the killer seized him by the
throat and dragged him to his feet.

A fierce but eerily silent struggle commenced as Mulder fought to
break Jake's grip while Grey wrestled him for the gun. As Grey
clutched Jake's wrist with both hands, desperately searching for the
pressure point that would compel him to drop the weapon, the gun
swung wildly--first toward Grey, then Jake, and finally discharging
harmlessly into the ceiling. Now cursing, the killer tightened his
fingers around Mulder's throat until a high pitched whine filled his
ears and black dots obscured his vision. His eyelids fluttered and
his arms fell loosely to his sides.

Grey ground his foot onto Jake's and shoved, momentarily
throwing the killer off balance. Before he could press his
advantage, however, he sensed his brother's stillness. He turned,
terrified to see Mulder hanging limply in Jake's grasp, lips blue.
The split-second distraction was all Jake needed. He flung Mulder
onto the couch like a rag doll and brought his fist around in a hard
blow just under Grey's ribs.  All the air whooshed out of Grey's
lungs and he reflexively released Jake's wrist, tumbling back down
onto the couch beside his coughing, gasping brother.

Snarling, Jake backhanded Grey with the barrel of the gun,
splitting his lip and smashing his cheekbone. He then grabbed the
semi-conscious Mulder by the hair and jammed the weapon up
under his chin.

"You stupid son of a bitch! I oughta waste him right now. Is that
what you want? Huh?"

Grey struggled to remain conscious, spitting and gagging on the
blood that flooded his mouth. "No! Jake, don't!" Tears, whether
from pain or fear, blurred his vision, trickled unheeded down his
cheeks. "Please."

The broken, pleading tone mollified Jake. "You try something
stupid like that again and..."

"I won't. I swear I'll cooperate. Just...just don't hurt him."

Jake smiled, relaxed. "That's more like it. Stand up. Turn around
and put your hands behind your back."

Grey obeyed, wincing when cold steel bit his wrists. He watched
his brother laboriously haul himself upright. The violent coughing
had tapered off, but Fox still gulped for air in wheezing pants and
the flesh under his chin had already begun to darken in angry,
finger-shaped bruises.

"What now?" Grey asked, hating the defeat in his voice. He tried to
rally. "You know, you've made your point; you outsmarted us.
We're overdue checking in; it's just a matter of time before
someone comes looking for us. Fox's partner and another agent
from the Bureau are probably already on their way. If you cleared
out now..."

"Partner? His *wife*, you mean." Grey didn't have to see Jake's
face to detect the disdain. "A woman. I think I'll take my chances."
He grabbed Grey above his right elbow and spun him around.
"We're gonna take a little trip, a walk down memory lane. Back to
the beginning, to where it all went wrong."

"What about Fox?"

"In his condition he'd only slow us down. He stays right here. Only
question is whether or not I put him out of his misery before we
go."

It took every ounce of strength Grey possessed to suppress his
emotions. "If you let him live, I'll do whatever you want. You kill
him, and I've got nothing left to lose."

"No!" Mulder's hoarse cry startled them both. "Grey, you can't..."
His protest was cut off by another round of coughing.

"Shut up, Fox." In contrast to the words, Grey's tone was gentle.
He looked back at Jake. "Well?"

Jake's eyes darted between the two brothers. "You're forgetting
again," he told Grey, gesturing to the gun. But there was more
amusement than anger in his demeanor as he watched Mulder
struggling to stand. "All right. But I swear, you give me any
trouble and I'll waste you on the spot, then come back for him.
Understand?"

"Yeah." Grey blinked, jaw clenched, and looked down at his
brother. "Now give me a minute, okay?"

Jake looked ready to argue but shrugged instead, stepping back a
few paces but keeping the gun trained on them both. "Make it
quick."

Grey carefully sat down on the coffee table, facing his brother.
Mulder shook his head, his pale face showing equal parts distress
and anger.

"Don't you do this...don't you dare do this. You can't...trade your
life for mine.  I won't let you."

Grey leaned forward, wishing desperately he could lay a calming
hand on his brother's leg. Fox was trembling and it was obvious he
was very close to complete collapse. "It's not your decision to
make, Fox. You were never supposed to be a part of this equation.
I'm taking you out of it. Now."

Mulder stared at him, eyes glazed with fever and tears, lip
trembling. Before Grey knew what had happened his brother's fists
were knotted in his shirt with an adrenaline-fueled grip.

"You promised me, you bastard! You promised you'd never leave
me, said you were here to stay. You got me to trust you--damn it,
you made me believe." His voice cracked and the tears spilled
over. "Grey, please don't..."

Grey tipped his forehead down to rest against his brother's and
fought to squeeze words past the chokehold of grief. "Whatever
happens, however this ends, I will still be with you, little brother.
Remember that. 'Cause if I find out you're blaming yourself for this
I'll find some way to kick your ass."

"No. I won't let you...I won't..." Mulder tightened his grip, past the
point of reason.

A grunt of impatience, several quick footsteps, and Jake was
between them. "Let him go."

Mulder's face instantly transformed from anguish to rage. "No.
You let him go...or else take me, too."

"Oh, for..."

Jake drew back his foot and kicked Mulder's injured leg. Mulder
shrieked, his eyes rolling back in his head as he slid to the floor.

"No!" Grey lunged against the hand that snagged him by the arm
until the muzzle of the gun nudged his temple. He froze, shivering,
as he was forced to listen to his brother's incoherent moans.

"Are we finished now?"

The implication was clear. Leave Fox, or watch Jake shoot him
where he lay. Grey's shoulders slumped and he nodded, squeezing
his eyes shut.

"Let's go."


Continued in part 14