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 This author's email address has changed to:  slash_evidence@ameritech.net

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Date: Sat, 01 Aug 1998 10:05:12 -0500
From: Vampyres Incorporeal <vii@netdirect.net>
Subject: NEW: Cold Cases III: Prescient Perception II (01/13) (X/CRA)



Title: Cold Cases III: Prescient Perception II (01/13)
Author: Hope                
E-Mail: vii@netdirect.net
Feedback: Please!
Rating: R (Adult Situations, language)
Category: X/CRA
Spoilers: Current (5th-X Files/6th Homicide) Seasons
Archive: Yes
Summary: The Homicide people work murders, The X Files
people work an x file, and somewhere in the midst, there's
some chardev, some romance, and an ending.
Keywords: Mulder, Scully, Bayliss, Pembleton, Munch,
Kellerman, Taylor, murder, x file, homicide, romance, angst,
conspiracy, kidnaping, "stone whodunit"
Disclaimer: Homicide: Life on the Street and its characters c
1994 Baltimore Pictures and NBC. The X Files and its
characters c 1994 1013 Productions and FOX. All rights
reserved. No infringement intended. Tom Grissom c 1998
EA Karras, used with permission.
Notes: Okay, so this is the last big story in the Slash-
Evidence series; it's also the second half of the Prescient
Perception novel. It picks up immediately after part one, no
time lag at all. After this is the Epilogue (already posted,
because I threw a fit, shame on me,) and the series is
complete. Thank you so much for reading and writing, it's
been a blast. And to answer the most Frequently Asked
Question: Yes, I'm still going to write. Yes, I'll even write
Slash-Evidence stories, but no, I'm not writing any more big
trilogies in this set. *grin* Thanks to everyone who patted
my head and said I could do it.

Baltimore, Maryland
Homicide Unit

     Bayliss had decided on his next victim, and was
stalking him carefully. He waited until just the right
moment, then moved in for the kill. Leaning against
Munch's desk, he put a hand on the older man's shoulder.
Mustering the perfect, solicitous tone, he smiled
sympathetically. "How are you, John?"
     John glared up at him. "How do you think I'm doing,
Tim? I just wasted two days in court, and came to discover
that my colleague and business partner wants to make the
moves on my ex-girlfriend. The corpse of our relationship
isn't even cold yet. How do you think I feel?"
     "That's tough," Bayliss nodded. 
     "Tough doesn't begin to describe it. She walked into
my life, pursued me, let me chase after the one-armed man
for her, track down her double, and now . . . what? What do
I have? What did John Munch get out of this relationship?
I'll tell you what, nothing! No, actually, that's not true. I got
to find out that Meldrick Lewis is a backstabbing,
adulterous son of a bitch."
     "Bet you'd like to hurt him," Tim said, egging him
on.
     Munch stared over his glasses. "If I had the time or
energy, I'd stuff his body into a ten-gallon drum and drop it
into the bottom of the harbor."
     "Well, what would you say," Tim said, moving in for
the kill. "If I could give you the opportunity to throw very
hard objects at Lewis, and he would stand there and _let_
you?"
     Smiling faintly, Munch leaned back. "You have my
attention."
     "Softball, Munch, softball is the answer to all your
troubles. See, Lewis said if I could get the rest of the
homicide unit to agree, he would play. And if he played,
there would be heavy. . .rocklike balls. . . and, well. . . you
could accidentally miss. You know, throw to first base,
oops!" Bobbing his head and smiling, Tim leaned over.
"Softball, John. The perfect revenge."
     Munch sat up. "Softball, huh? I'm not going to wear
those stupid pants."
     "No, no, no, of course not," Tim grinned. "So see,
it's a triple victory. I get my game, you get to lob balls at
Lewis, the money goes to charity, everyone's happy."
     "Who's on the team so far?"
     "Well, me, Lewis, Stivers, Kellerman, Taylor. . . and
you, if you agree."
     Considering this, Munch pushed up his glasses. "I'll
do it, Tim, and not only will I do it, I will make Meldrick
Lewis wish he had never picked up a bat."
     "That's the spirit, Munch."

     Poring over Martin and Bernice Patterson's bank
statements, Taylor grinned. On the very day their son
disappeared, they withdrew eight thousand dollars from
savings. She carefully compared the records, making sure
the money hadn't gone toward one of their bills, or into one
of their other accounts. When she was satisfied that the
money was well and truly missing, she threw herself out of
the chair and headed for Howard's desk. Smoothing the
papers in front of her sergeant, she pointed out the
withdrawal.
     "Right there, Sarge," Taylor said. "That's how he
got away."
     Kay looked up. "Then let's bring them in for
questioning, hah?"
     Picking up the documents, Taylor did a quick two-
step jig, and slid back toward her desk. Passing Pembleton
on the way, she reached out and tweaked his cheek, earning
a glower, but she laughed it off. Down by midnight tonight,
she grinned to herself, picking up the phone. This time for
sure.

Just Outside Upper Mill, Washington

     Maps and photographs spread out on his lap,
Mulder punched a handful of coordinates into his handheld
GPS. Blinking his eyes, he moved to make himself more
uncomfortable in the seat. With the belt buckle digging into
his hip, he was sure to stay awake. The unit chirped, and he
wrote down the results on the atlas. He compared the atlas
with the notes Scully had pasted together, then breathed a
sigh of relief. Looking up, he nodded. "Just keep going
east."
     Scully nodded, switching lanes to avoid a dead . . .
something in the road. "For how long?"
     "I'll tell you when we get closer," he murmured,
running a column of figures on a sheet of scrap paper. "It'll
be at least forty minutes."
     "Mulder?"
     He didn't look up. "Hmm?"
     Taking a sip of her coffee, she glanced over at him.
"Why were you at the hospital?"
     He shrugged. "He said he liked taking tests, so I
picked up a book of quizzes."
     "I'm curious," she said, handing him the coffee.
"You seem very. . . concerned for him."
     "I would be concerned about anyone in his
position."
     She shook her head, trying to find the right words.
"You barely know him, but you . . . I don't understand why
you're so insistent on protecting him."
     "Tom Grissom just wanted to do his job," he
murmured. "And he ended up being an x file. That doesn't
seem very fair to me. I've been wondering . . . if everything
we've done, all the things we've tried to change. . . we're
pawns, Scully. We can't see the whole board, and we don't
know who's moving the pieces. All we can do is go forward,
and I wonder if we're not doing their work for them. None
of our answers make any sense, unless we change
perspectives."
     "To what? We've been places they didn't want, seen
things we weren't supposed to see. . ."
     He laughed softly. "Every step of the way, someone
outside us has stepped in to help. X, Marita, Krycek. . .even
you, in the beginning. We have done everything they wanted
us to, and when we stepped out of line, they smacked us
back. What better way to send someone in the right
direction than to tell them they're forbidden to go there?
We've probably done far more harm than good."
     Nodding, she considered this. "If that's true, then
aren't we doing what they want now? They erased most of
that tape, but not the one part that led us here."
     "Yes, but I'm not going to do what they expect me
to," Mulder said. "We'll get Grissom out, but when we get
back, I'm doing things by the book. Whatever evidence we
find, whatever secrets we uncover, I'm going to demand an
inquiry. I may never get all the answers, may never get any
answers at all, but this is bigger than me and my petty
concerns."
     "And what about your sister?"
     Mulder sighed. "Samantha is gone. I can't save her
now any more than I could when she was taken. I have to
concentrate on the bigger picture."
     "I don't know what to say," Scully whispered,
reaching over to take his hand. She examined his face for a
moment. He looked calm, resolute, a far cry from the wild
passion he'd displayed throughout their partnership. He's
serious, she realized. He's going to give it up. Wondering
where that left their careers, she squeezed his hand again. 
     He winked at her, finished with introspection. "Say
that when we're done with all this, we can get a pe-can log
at Stuckey's."

Baltimore, Maryland
540 Eislen Street

     Ducking underneath a plastic tarp, Bayliss held his
flashlight under his face for effect. Pembleton ignored him,
following the uniform through a small maze of wood and
tools scattered on the floor. The smell of freshly-dug dirt
hung in the air, mixing with the odors of new paint and
caulk. Kneeling down, he took the flashlight from the
uniform. 
     "This is your fault," Frank griped, shining the light at
his partner. "You couldn't have been available yesterday
when dunkers were falling from the sky, oh no. It had to be
today."
     Stepping carefully, Bayliss came to a stop behind
Pembleton and looked down at the skeletal remains still
half-buried in the crawlspace. It seemed almost comical, the
jaws gaping open, dirt packed into the eye sockets. This is
just like a pirate's stronghold, he decided, his mind singing a
quick rendition of 'Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum'. Smiling to
himself, Tim patted his partner on the shoulder. "Oh, come
on, Frank. A stone whodunit can be fun."
     "Since when," Pembleton grumbled, trying to juggle
the flashlight, his notebook and a pen at once. Sketching a
crude diagram, he shook his head. "Or is this more of the
newly improved Tim Bayliss?"
     "It'll give us a chance to think," Bayliss said, making
careful note of the surroundings. "No one's waiting for . . .
this person to come home, we have all the time in the world.
It's like a Sherlock Holmes mystery. That doesn't appeal to
you?"
     "Okay, Mr. Fun, you put it under your name."
     Laughing, Bayliss waved the photographer over. "I
don't think I can do that. I have lots of fun, and you have so
little. I'd hate to take away from your meager reserve."
     "This could turn out to be nothing," Pembleton
mused, standing up and shielding his eyes as the flash bulb
went off. "This doesn't have to be a murder. It could be an
example of a very inexpensive burial plan."
     Leaning down, Tim fingered a shattered hole in the
top of the skull. "I dunno, looks like murder to me."
     "Quit touching that. We'll let the ME decide if it's
murder."
     With a grin, Bayliss waved his flashlight at Frank as
he walked toward the stairs. "It's a murder, Frank. A tasty,
well done, full bore, stone whodunit."
     "I can't believe this," Pembleton replied, following
his partner. "It's only eleven thirty and I'm already sick of
you."

(End Part One)


Title: Cold Cases III: Prescient Perception II (02/13)
Author: Hope                
E-Mail: vii@netdirect.net
Rating: R (Adult Situations, language)

Homicide Unit

     Standing in the observation room, Taylor and
Howard watched Martin Patterson play with the handcuff
chained to the table. His wife was in another room,
obsessively wringing her hands with anxiety. They both
reeked of guilt, from their broken gait as the Annapolis
uniforms brought them in, to their startled expressions when
Howard informed them they would not be staying together. 
     "I'll talk to the husband," Taylor said finally,
glancing up at the clock. "You talk to the wife."
     Howard nodded, stepping out of the room and
heading for her first round with Bernice Patterson. Pasting a
look of studious concern on her face, Taylor made her way
into the box. She shut the door quietly, leaning against it.
     "Jeez, it's hot in here, innit," she asked idly fanning
herself with the collar of her shirt. "You want something?
Coke? Cigarette?"
     Martin shook his head, staring down at the table.
She shrugged, and lit a cigarette for herself, lingering over
the first drag. "So how was the ride up? Everyone treating
you okay?"
     "I really think I should talk to a lawyer," he
mumbled. His proud, cocky stance from yesterday had
disappeared. 
     She shrugged. "You're not under arrest. You don't
need a lawyer."
     "I'm not under arrest?"
     She laughed. "Hell no. Y'ain't wearing handcuffs are
you? I just wanted to ask you some questions. I told you
we'd talk again, didn't I?"
     Rubbing his head, Martin looked around. "Where's
my wife?"
     "Oh, they're beating her with rubber hoses in the
next room over," Taylor said flippantly, then held up a hand.
"I'm just kidding. We don't do that anymore. So, Martin,
Marty. . . where's your son?"
     "I told you yesterday, we don't know where he is.
He's a grown man."
     "Mm hm, but you're not even a little worried about
him," she asked, tapping ashes into her hand. "I mean, what
with his girlfriend murdered and him missing, if that was my
kid, I'd be worried sick."
     "We're worried," Martin said quickly. "Very
worried."
     "Very worried. You don't look worried. Sure didn't
look worried yesterday." She shrugged, moving on. "Did
you like Victoria?"
     "What?"
     "I said. . ." She rolled her eyes. "Did you like
Victoria? You know, the dead chick in question?"
     "I only met her once or twice. She seemed nice.
Ryan liked her."
     "What do you do for a living, Marty," she asked,
then answered her own question. "Oh wait, I already know.
You're an architect, right? At Simmons and Greavy, as a
matter of fact. You make good money?"
     He leaned back, his face hard. "That's none of . . ."
     "It's okay, you don't have to fumble. I already know
that, too. You make a lot of money, Mart-o. Lots and lots.
Way the hell more than I do, which if you ask me, sucks out
loud. I mean, I could get shot at work, and what's the worst
thing that could happen to you? Tragic protractor mishap?"
     "What does that have to do with my son?"
     She grinned, dropping her cigarette into an old cup
of coffee. "Well, you make a shit load of money, but
goddamn, even eight thousand dollars is a lot to have
missing."
     Warily, Martin shook his head. "I don't know what
you're talking about."
     Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out his bank
statement. She walked over and laid it in front of him.
"Eight thousand dollars. Gone. Poof! That was nearly half
your savings. Did you report it stolen?"
     "This must be a mistake," Martin hedged, looking
down at the highlighted number. 
     She slid the first sheet away to reveal a photocopy
of the transaction. "That your signature?"
     "I. . .I. . . it looks like mine, but I . . ."
     Snatching the sheets up, she crossed her eyes. "Why
are you wasting my time, Marty? Where's the eight
thousand dollars?"
     "I paid off my Visa," he growled.
     She winced, as if being hit, then fingered through the
papers again. She slapped down a copy of his Visa bill. "Oh,
wrong again. So sorry. Want another shot?"
     "I want a lawyer," he snapped.
     Shrugging, the grin never left her face. "Strike two,
there Marty. We went over that. You're not under arrest,
you don't get a lawyer. Now. . . if you want me to arrest
you, I'll see what I can do."
     He started to rise. "Then I want to leave."
     "Hey cool, go right ahead," she said genially. "But
get used to seeing me, okay? 'Cause every time you take
your lovely wife out to dinner, I'm gonna be right there.
Every time you walk down to the corner store to pick up a
copy of Newsweek, I'll be there too. I'll come to your job,
I'll come to your house, I'll come to your country club. . .
see, I don't have much of a life, so I'll make myself
comfortable in yours until you tell me where that eight
thousand dollars went. I know you gave it to your son. You
know you gave it to your son, so why can't we just get
down to the basics. You tell me where he is, and I'll leave
you alone."
     Just as Martin started to speak, Howard burst into
the box. "Hey, Mr. Patterson." She sauntered over to the
table, staring up at the ceiling for effect. "Guess what your
wife just told me. It's very interesting."
     Taylor leaned against the wall. "Ooh, interesting. I
like interesting. You like interesting, Mart-o?"
     "Mrs. Patterson said that you all took out eight
thousand dollars and gave it to your son," Kay said. "And
then he drove a car you rented to Pittsburgh, where he's
now trying to establish a new, law-abiding life. That sound
about right?"
     "I'm not saying anything," Martin choked, his face
turning red. 
     Kay grinned at Taylor. "I don't think we need to
hear him say anything, anyway, do we?"
     "Nope." Taylor looked down at her watch. "I'll go
call Pittsburgh PD, then I'm gonna be gone for an hour or
so, Sarge, okay?" She glanced over at the elder Patterson,
shaking her head.  "You get comfy, Mart-o, you're not
going anywhere just yet."

Washington State
Highway 410

     "Go ahead and pull off," Mulder said, pointing to a
thick copse of trees on the side of the road. "We'll have to
walk from here."
     Scully eased the truck onto the side of the road,
pulling behind the foliage for cover. Throwing it into park,
she leaned back and stretched, her spine popping from top
to bottom. From here, they had to walk deep into the
woods, break into a government facility which purportedly
did not exist, find Grissom, and escape unnoticed. An
ambitious to-do list, and the only thing she could think was,
I hope there aren't any sewers.
     Slipping out of his seat belt, Mulder grinned over at
her. "You know, I loved Hawaii Five-O when I was a kid.
Going undercover, book 'em Danno. . . I even loved the
shirts."
     "Well, I loved the Partridge Family," she smirked.
"What's your point?"
     Pulling a backpack from the rear seat of the car, he
frowned. "My point is, this is just like Hawaii Five-O."
     "This is nothing like Hawaii Five-O, Mulder. If
anything, it's more like. . . Mission Impossible."
     "Mission Impossible didn't have cool shirts," he
grumbled, watching her over the roof of the truck. "I'm
going to ask Skinner to requisition some. I think that's what
we need. Cool shirts."
     "Forgive me if I don't back you up on this one." She
felt a spot of rain fall onto her cheek. "And if you get the
shirts, I'm going to demand a school bus."
     "You can't go undercover in a school bus."
     She snorted, locking, then closing the door. "You
can't go undercover in Hawaiian shirts either. So which
way?"
     Looking down at the GPS, he compared their
coordinates with his map. "North, north and more north.
And you could, in Hawaii."
     They started into the woods together, and she
peered over at him. "Just once I'd like to get an assignment
in Hawaii. Don't they have any ghosts or goblins there,
Mulder? There has to be something supernatural there."
     "Would you wear the shirts then?"
     "No."
     "You are no fun at all."

Baltimore, Maryland
Baltimore City Court House

     Kellerman thanked the judge with a grin and a
cheerful handshake. Smoothing his hand over his hair, he
stepped into the hallway and put his arm around Taylor's
shoulders. She smiled wanly at him, a heavy pit in her
stomach. She had shown up on time, positive that he
wouldn't be anywhere near the courthouse at noon. Much to
her surprise, she was wrong. He'd even brought flowers and
rings. Ever the gentleman, he paid for the license, and
wheedled his way into Susan Aandahl's office. Now, with
ten minutes left on their lunch hour, they stood in the
bustling corridor together, husband and wife. He smiled
broadly at her, shaking her shoulder. "You don't look very
happy, Mrs. Kellerman."
     "Very funny," she scowled. "So when are we going
to get this annulled?"
     He stepped back, looking at her in amazement.
"What?"
     "It was a dare, Mike. A dare. Joke's over now, you
won. . ."
     Pushing his hands in his pockets, he shook his head.
"I made a promise. I intend to keep it."
     She shoved the flowers at him. "Are you nuts?
We've known each other for three weeks!"
     "I asked. You said yes. We'll work it out."  
     Stunned, she stared at him long and hard. He was
serious. He actually expected them to go through the
motions of really being married. Opening and closing her
mouth, she couldn't think of anything to accurately express
her sense of shock, dread and outright horror. He didn't help
either, he just stood there, smiling at her discomfiture. She
threw up her hands in defeat and started down the hall,
scowling when she heard his voice trailing after her. 
     "See you tonight, honey."
     "Like hell," she snapped back, not even sure if he
heard her.

(End Part Two)


Title: Cold Cases III: Prescient Perception II (03/13)
Author: Hope                
E-Mail: vii@netdirect.net
Rating: R (Adult Situations, language)

Maryland Historical Society

     Cramped into two carrels, Bayliss and Pembleton sat
side by side, researching the history of the house on Eislen
Street. Frank adjusted his glasses, leaning back to rest his
eyes. The tiny, broken type on the records was beginning to
make him a little queasy. Bayliss looked up, turning in his
chair.
     "Hey, listen to this," he said, running his finger down
the page to find his spot. "'Built in 1804, the site was
originally a single family residence. Shortly after that, a
section was added to accommodate a busy turn of the
century inn. At the beginning of the twentieth century, a
third section was added to house, among another things, a
tailor shop and a florist.' The second section, that's where
our body is."
     Frank slumped. "Well that's just wonderful. An inn.
This is going to stay in red forever, and may I repeat, it's
your fault."
     Grinning, Tim turned back to his book. "Why don't
we photocopy the list of previous owners? Maybe they still
have records from way back when. . ."
     "They're probably dead, Bayliss," Pembleton sniped.
"And why are you so cheerful today? Are you just trying to
annoy me?"
     "Things are right with the world, Frank." Tim
nodded, his face alight with a smile. "I'm in love. My bar is
in the black, my clearance rate is in the black, and I'm back
on the road with the crankiest homicide detective in
Baltimore. All is as it should be. Why shouldn't I be
cheerful?"
     Pembleton stared at him for a moment, before
shaking his head and breaking into a grin. "So you've given
up on that softball game?"
     "Nope."
     "Then things are not right with your world, as I,
your partner, am still refusing to play."
     Pushing his chair back, Tim stood up to make
copies. "You'll play," he said confidently, then shuffled off
to the Xerox, whistling under his breath.

Somewhere in The Pacific Northwest

     "No, I just see those two," Grissom gasped,
struggling to stand up. The lights were on again, and a
blinding whiteness surrounded him. When he closed his
eyes, he saw a cornfield, perfect rows of grain reaching for
the sky. In the middle of the field, he saw circles, perhaps
manhole covers. It felt very real to him, so real he could
taste the humid air and feel the corn silk on his skin. 
     "And what is underneath," the voice asked
soothingly. 
     Eyes still closed, he stumbled forward, but felt as
though he were trudging through the field. He looked at the
covers, reaching down and touching the hot metal. At least
it's warm here, he though, then tried to pull the first one off.
"I can't get down there. They're bolted on."
     "Try harder Tom, you've almost got it."
     He felt his mind stretch, reaching underneath the
metal disks to divine what they hid. He found himself in a
maze of corridors. Reporting these findings, the voice urged
him on, telling him which way to go. He wound his way
through the task, forgetting that this was only a mental
exercise. He touched doors and walls, leaning against one to
catch his breath. He tasted blood in his throat and the image
faded. Forcing himself back up, he pressed forward, finally
arriving at the right door. He put his hand on the knob, and
pushed it open.
     Shocked out of the vision, he fell to the floor of his
cell, the cold overwhelming him again. When he'd opened
the door, he'd seen himself- naked, covered in sweat and
blood, his eyes squeezed closed as he bobbed back and forth
like a madman. Sickness overcame him, and he vomited up
sour blood. "Please, please I did what you wanted."
     Suddenly, the lights dimmed to a reasonable level,
and the door swung open. The sudden extremes left him
nearly blind, but he could make out a feminine shape
stepping inside. Leaning over him, her hands slipped over
his skin, gently warming him. He reached up desperately,
clinging to her waist. "Please get me out of here, please.
Please."
     He felt a sharp pain stab through his hip. After so
much cold, his veins suddenly felt full of fire, and the pain
was gone. His mind was still cloudy, but he didn't fight her
when she stepped away. She pulled him to his feet,
managing to keep him upright despite being much smaller,
and walked him carefully into the main hallway. He blinked,
trying to remember landmarks, but unable to make out
anything more than vague shapes.
     Helping him into another room, she sat him on a cot
and began peeling off his crusted bandages. She apologized
each time one stuck and had to be pulled off, but he didn't
even feel it. Once the bandages were removed, she stepped
away. He heard water running, her hands splashing in it, and
he guessed she was going to clean the wounds to dress them
again. 
     Murmuring soothing nonsense, she knelt down next
to his cot. Bathing him tenderly, explained what she was
doing each step of the way. When she finished, she
disappeared long enough to dispose of the bloodied water,
leaving him to shiver on the cot.  She wasn't gone for long,
returning this time with a towel and robe. Drying him
carefully, she slipped a robe around his shoulders and pulled
his arms into the sleeves. With a soft smile he couldn't see,
she patted his cheek. "We'll get you some broth to start, and
then the doctor will take a look at you, okay?"
     "Where am I," he asked, starting to feel dizzy. 
     Her response was the sound of the door closing and
being locked.

Somewhere Just Off Highway 410

     Sitting under a tree, Scully leaned her head back and
closed her eyes. The flight and long drive were catching up
with her. She didn't care that rain fell in spatters through the
forest canopy, she needed to rest. She heard Mulder digging
through his backpack, mumbling something about beef
jerky. Opening one eye, she watched him retrieve a small
plastic jar, and open the lid. He shook it, examining the
contents, then held it out to her.
     "Lunch?"
     "No thanks," she murmured, stretching her ankles. "I
just want to take a nap."
     He shrugged, fishing out a piece of beef jerky and
popping it into his mouth. Dropping the jar back into the
bag, he pulled it over to sit next to her. "I'm a good pillow."
     "Mulder," she whispered, leaning over to lay her
head in his lap. "What about after. . . after the inquiry. What
then?"
     "There are other mysteries out there." He stroked
her hair carefully, looking down at her. "Hundreds of other
x files."
     "I worry that you're giving up for the wrong
reasons." Opening her eyes, she glanced up at him. "We're
closer than we've ever been to the truth."
     He shook his head, leaning his head against the tree.
"We don't know that. It's not disillusionment, Scully. It's
looking at the evidence. The facts say that we've been the
devil's right hand. It's all there. We're close enough to the
truth to lie for them, far enough away to be no real danger. I
see it now, so clearly, and I wonder how we didn't notice
before."
     With a sigh, she tried to settle in. "Without this, all
of this, what do you have left?"
     "An extensive collection of fine adult
entertainment," he laughed. He looked into the distance, his
face pensive. "At the risk of sounding sentimental, I have
you. I have Tim. I actually have a life. I forgot what it was
like to actually live, Scully. Not just survive, but to live. We
won't give up, but we won't play by their rules anymore."
     She could tell by the tone of his voice that he didn't
want to think about it anymore, and she couldn't blame him.
He was only echoing the same things she'd told him time
and time again, but now she was afraid. Sounding content
with a decision was a far cry from being content with it. She
caught herself falling asleep and jerked her eyes open.
Remembering the last time they'd been deep in the woods,
she looked up at him blearily. 
     "I think you should sing for me."
     With a laugh, he looked down at her. "Joy To The
World?"
     "No," she groaned, closing her eyes and slipping
toward sleep. "Anything but that."
     "Then what?"
     She was awake long enough to make her request.
"How about Shaft?"

Baltimore, Maryland
Office of the Chief Medical Examiner

     "So what can you tell us," Bayliss asked, standing
over their skeleton. 
     Cox drew her finger along the curve of her eyebrow,
crossing one arm over her chest. "Well, it's a female,
probably between fourteen and sixteen from the teeth. She
never had children, and she spent a lot of time hunched
over, probably carrying something heavy."
     "Any idea how long ago this might have been?"
Pembleton didn't look up from his notebook.
     Shrugging, she picked up one of the finger bones.
Holding it out for them to examine, she turned it over in the
light. "There are no fatty deposits left, and the marrow is
calcified, so I'd say at least fifty years. You want anything
more than that, and you'll have to talk to a forensic
anthropologist."
     Pointing to the hole in the skull, Bayliss cleared his
throat. "But it's a murder, right?"
     "Yep," she nodded. "Blunt object, probably round.
The bone's shattered pretty good, so it was fairly heavy, and
from the way the fractures are shaped, it probably had a
handle." She demonstrated what she meant with her fist
acting the part of the weapon. She swung forward, gently
pressing her hand against the hole, then sliding it back with
a jerk. "I had most of the fragments, I pieced them together
if you want to see it."
     Pembleton shook his head. "That's not necessary.
Thank you, Doc."
     "I told you it was a murder," Bayliss grinned, pulling
his coat back on.
     Frank rolled his eyes. "When you get your MD, then
you can say 'I told you so'."

(End Part Three)


Title: Cold Cases III: Prescient Perception II (04/13)
Author: Hope                
E-Mail: vii@netdirect.net
Rating: R (Adult Situations, language)


Homicide Unit

     "Christ on a stick, how long does it take to get from
Pittsburgh to Baltimore," Taylor complained, watching the
clock beat slowly toward the next minute mark."Why
couldn't we have just gone out there and gotten him? It
would be a hell of a lot better than standing around here
jerking off."
     "You got a dick, Taylor," Lewis asked idly, looking
up from his desk.
     "Yeah," she said, tugging at the waistband of her
pants. "You wanna see it?"
     He laughed, shaking his head. "No thank you."
     "Calm down," Howard said, walking past. "He'll get
here soon enough, hah?"
     "This is driving me fucking nuts," she sighed, turning
on her heel. "It's only four hours away, for god's sake."
     "Are you making coffee," Mike asked, rising from
his desk to join her. 
     She raised an eyebrow at him, and shook her head.
"I'm just buying a Coke. Whoever emptied the pot this time
can make his own damned coffee."
     He followed her into the break room, dogging her
every step. Ignoring him, Taylor nodded to Gharty, pulling
his attention away from his newspaper. She hadn't spoken to
him much, mostly because he spent most of his time
distancing himself from the rest of the unit. He was the
oldest detective there, and from what she could gather, he
was the second newest. Catching bits and pieces of shop
talk, she had pieced together that his partner had died earlier
that year, but she never had figured out the details. The
name was in black in Tim's column, so if she were
desperately interested, she could ask. In any case, Gharty
was not Kellerman, and she was actively avoiding the latter.
     "So Stu," she said, sliding into the chair across from
him. "You gonna play in this little softball charity thing?"
     He stared at her blankly. "What are you talking
about?"
     "You know, the all-homicide softball for the kids
thing?"
     Gharty crossed his arms over his chest, glancing up
at the hovering Kellerman. "I don't know anything about
any softball for charity."              
     "Oh." Wiggling the tab from her can of coke, she
tried another subject. She pretended that she didn't notice
Mike bouncing edgily from foot to foot, waiting for her
acknowledge him. "How's the Faegan case going?"
     "Wait a minute," Gharty said, narrowing his eyes.
"This is all homicide? S'posed to be all of us?"
     She shrugged, raising an eyebrow. "Yeah, I guess
so. I dunno, it's Tim's thing."
     "Are you playing?"
     Holding her hands out, she nodded. She didn't
understand the determined look on Gharty's aged face, and
she wasn't about to try. "Well yeah, but jeez, it's not a big
deal or anything."
     Gharty pushed his chair back. "Where's Bayliss?"
     "I dunno, he left with Frank about two hours ago,"
she frowned. "Uh, Stu? The Faegan case?"
     He waved her off, heading into the squadroom. "It's
down."    
     Mike bent over, propping his elbows on her table.
"You doing Bayliss' dirty work now?"
     "I don't know what the fuck that was," she said
seriously. "What do you want?"
     Tilting his head, he lowered his voice to a whisper.
"I just wanted to talk to my wife."
     She looked around edgily. "Knock that shit off. I'm
only your wife until I can get the papers filed, Christ. You
trying to get one of us transferred?"
     "I won't sign 'em," he said, grinning. "Come over
tonight. I'll make it special. It'll be . . . almost like we're
married."
     "For-fucking-get it." She shook her head
emphatically. 
     "You're so eloquent," he smiled, standing up. "That's
one of the things I love about you."
     She crossed her eyes in disgust, and stood up. "You
are so fucked up there aren't even words to describe the
level of fucked up you are."
     Kay stuck her head into the break room. "Hey
Taylor, your guest has arrived."
     Grinning artificially at Kellerman, Taylor stood up
and headed for the door. As she entered the squad room,
she saw a familiar face escorting Ryan Patterson to his
destiny. Eric Sands from Pittsburgh homicide handed their
perp off to a uniform, and smiled at Taylor. "It's been a
while. Slumming in Bawlmer now, huh?"
     "Sands, you son of a bitch," Taylor said, walking
over and pounding him on the shoulder. "Yeah, got the old
choker back on in Charm City. Where the charm is. . . I
dunno. What the hell took you so long?"
     "Well hey, he's not a serial killer," Sands answered,
shrugging. "Not a high priority. You miss Indy?"
     Looking past him, she smirked. "Hell no, nothing
there to miss. You gonna stay over? I'll take you over to
The Waterfront, I'll even buy."
     Waving his hand, he stepped back. "I have to get
back, I'm on gummint time."
     She snorted. "Shit, Sands, what better time to have a
free drink than on the clock?"
     Eric leaned forward, a mysterious half smile on his
face. "Drink. Drive. Drink. Drive. Tell me if you see a
problem here."
     Laughing, she put her arm around his shoulder,
nodding as they walked toward the front doors. "Okay,
okay, okay.  Next time then, for sure. I appreciate your
dragging his sorry ass up here, even if it did take you for
fucking ever to do it." Stepping back, she shook his hand. "I
mean it about those drinks, okay?"
     She stood at the door, watching until he entered the
elevator, then swung around. Shaking her hands as if
preparing for a sprint, she took a deep breath. "Come on,
Howard, we gots us a boy in the box!"

Somewhere in Washington State

     Scully's "little nap" had turned into a lengthy dead
sleep. Rather than waking her, Mulder carefully slid from
underneath her, walking around to stretch his legs.
According to the GPS, the facility was still five miles north
of their current position, and it was all over rough terrain.
He mulled over the situation, trying to plan as best he could
with his limited knowledge. Unless they could get in and out
without tripping the alarms, they would have to steal a
vehicle. Furthermore, even if they managed to escape
unharmed, it was a long way back to D.C..
     Looking back at his sleeping partner, he felt almost
guilty with his decisions. Once again, he hadn't taken her
needs into the equation. The x files weren't just about him
and his questions anymore- she also had a stake in
uncovering the government's dirty little secrets. Watching
her shudder and cover her face, his sense of protectiveness
rose. Maybe it was too soon, he thought. She deserved to
know what had happened to her. Running his fingers
through his damp hair, he struggled for the right answer. He
was sure he was right, because the evidence was there.
Brushing aside rumination, he dug into his bag for another
piece of beef jerky. He'd ask her about it later, he decided.
He could always change his plan.

     The sky inched toward darkness, the patter of rain
never slowing. They still had quite a hike in front of them,
and he didn't want to waste what little light was left. He
checked his watched, then shook her gently. Scully shifted,
rolling off the backpacks and hitting the ground with a thud.
Still tired, she looked up at him in a daze, extending an arm
so he could help her up. "My back is killing me."
     "Then let's start hiking," he said cheerily. "That'll
make it all better."

Baltimore, Maryland
Homicide Unit

     "I didn't do anything," Patterson said, the moment
Taylor and Howard walked into the box. Taking off her
jacket, Taylor tossed it on the side table. 
     "Uh huh," she nodded, sitting down across from him
and slapping a Miranda waiver down in front of him. "You
wanna talk to me, you gotta sign this."
     He took the sheet, reading it closely. He glanced up
at Taylor and held his hand out for a pen. She dropped one
in his hand, watching him initial each line, then sign the
bottom with a flourish. Smugly, he pushed the waiver back
at her. "I didn't do anything."
     Howard took a few steps forward, shaking her head.
"Of course not. We just want to ask you a couple questions.
You know, get up to speed on things."
     Ryan sat back, throwing his arm over the back of the
chair. "Ask away, ladies."
     "If you didn't do anything," Taylor asked idly. "What
were you doing in Pittsburgh?"
     "Vacation. I had time coming," he smiled.
     Howard made a face. "Who goes on vacation in
Pittsburgh?"
     "I like big cities," he shrugged. 
     Taylor reached into her pocket and pulled out a
pack of cigarettes. She offered him one, then lit it for him.
She lit one for herself too, and leaned back. "So what did
you do in Pittsburgh, Ryan? You go away for two weeks
and you never try to call your girlfriend once?"
     "We were on a trial separation," he said, his eyes
wide with innocence. "I feel bad about what happened to
her. I should have been there to protect her."
     Raising an eyebrow, Kay leaned forward. "Protect
her, hah?"
     "Yeah. Protect her," he nodded. "Guess you all don't
believe in that kind of thing."
     Taylor looked up at Kay, amused. "Do we look that
tough, Sarge? I kinda like having a man around, you know,
to kill spiders and shit."
     "The big hairy ones," Howard agreed. "I can't stand
'em. They make my skin crawl."
     "You kill spiders for Victoria," Taylor asked, sliding
the ashtray across the table for him to tap. 
     "She'd have a cow if she heard you call her that. She
liked to be called Vic."
     Howard shrugged. "Guess we don't have to worry
about that, do we?"

     Tim dropped a photocopy on Frank's desk, smiling
victoriously at his partner. He stood back, watching his
partner with gleeful anticipation. "Look what I found."
     Picking up the sheet, Pembleton pored over it, his
mouth slowly falling open. Looking at Bayliss, he shook his
head. "Where did you get this?"
     "The archives," Tim said proudly, flipping the paper
with his forefinger. "I went through the microfiche, using
my finely honed skills as a member of Miss Riordan's fifth
grade Super Readers Club, and found. . . this."
     "Fifteen year old girl," Pembleton read. "Reporter
missing by her _employer_?"
     "Nineteen thirty seven, Frank. She lived at the inn,
doing laundry and cleaning up, only one fine day in June,
she never came down from her room. Gone in the night."
Bayliss raised an eyebrow. "Of course, they only reported
her missing because she'd been paid for a week she hadn't
yet worked, but, oh well. Now your Jane Doe has a name."
     "Bertie, who would name a child Bertie," Pembleton
mused, rising from his desk. He regarded his partner with a
cool, impressed stare. He remembered the conversation on
the roof, the determined look on Bayliss' face as he
explained the new nature of their partnership. With or
without Frank Pembleton, he _was_ a good detective, and
that gave Frank a sense of pride. He'd been there when Tim
was a wide-eyed rookie; he'd been his mentor as he
struggled through each step. He had been part of that, and
he liked to think that, in some way, he had contributed to
the process. Summoning the best compliment he could,
Pembleton patted Tim on the shoulder. "You're working the
hell out of this case, Tim."
     Tim half-bowed, and grabbed his jacket, enjoying
the grudging praise. "I told you, Frank. A stone whodunit
can be fun."
     "So where are we going now?"
     "Department of Health," Tim answered. "Find out if
Bertie Prior has any living relatives."

(End Part Four)


Title: Cold Cases III: Prescient Perception II (05/13)
Author: Hope                
E-Mail: vii@netdirect.net
Rating: R (Adult Situations, language)

Somewhere in Washington State

     Shrouded in rainy darkness, Mulder and Scully
carefully edged over a rise. They moved slowly, slipping
behind trees as the sound of a generator grew louder. They
glanced back and forth, signaling when it was safe to move
forward with gestures. They worked perfectly together,
keeping track of where they'd been and plotting where to go
next. When they reached the top, they slowly came back
together, lying on their stomachs and pulling themselves
through the brush until they reached the top. 
     Scully reached into Mulder's backpack and pulled
out the night goggles. Strapping them on, she peered
through the trees, biting off a gasp when a rabbit bounded
past her field of vision. The eerie greenness of the IR
seemed to light up the forest, revealing its secrets in a flood
of lime. Surveying the area, she picked out something odd.
Crunching forward a little, she took of the goggles and
handed them to her partner.
     "What do you see," she whispered, turning his face
in the right direction. He adjusted the hardware, scanning
the area with an eye to detail, then settled on something
odd. In the middle of an old growth forest, he saw a single
stalk of corn. Handing the equipment back to her, he tried
to guess how far away it was, then gave up. It was too hard
to tell in the dark. 
     Leaning in, he murmured his best plan. "We'll go in
together, low. We can't crawl the entire way there, or we'll
be here until tomorrow night. I'll take the rear, you cover
the front, okay?"
     She nodded, climbing to her hands and knees, then
into a crouching walk position. Waiting until he tapped her
on the back, she started forward, taking care to stay on her
feet. They were moving without flashlights now; they didn't
want to signal their approach if at all possible. The forest
floor felt alive, grabbing at her ankles, trying to hold her
back. Mulder's footsteps had fallen into a pattern with her
own, so that their sounds melded together into one. 
     After what seemed like hours, they reached the corn
stalk. Scully bent it back, peeling the husk down. It looked
like perfectly ordinary corn; it just didn't belong in the
middle of the Pacific Northwest. She felt Mulder unbuckling
her backpack and rooting around in it, then felt the heavy
weight of goggles being pressed into her hand. They were
too heavy to wear for any length of time, but they'd have to
make do with the discomfort for a while. She put them on,
adjusting to the sudden light again. When her eyes focused,
her mouth curled into a little O. It wasn't just one corn stalk;
about four yards away was the beginning of an entire field.
Mulder muttered something to himself as she retrieved his
goggles for him. 
     "Gotta be something down in there," he said softly.
     She nodded, the goggles pulling at her hair. "I don't
see any towers, no cameras. . . I haven't heard any guards or
vehicles. I think if we hurry, we'll be okay."

     They walked quickly, separated by a row of corn,
keeping track of each other by the sound of hard dirt
cracking under their feet. Mulder's mind was spinning with
possible explanations for the sudden patch of agriculture,
but none of them made sense. He couldn't figure out how
the leap between kidnaped psychics and farming was made.
Ticking his tongue against his teeth, he stopped and pulled
the GPS from his pocket, followed by the folded map. The
night goggles made it hard to read the digital display, but he
managed to make out the coordinate numbers, then match
them to the map. According to this, they were right on top
of their target.
     "Scully," he hissed, putting the map and monitor
back into a pocket. "Start looking for an entrance."
     Creeping forward slowly, she kept her eyes to the
ground, kicking at anything that seemed out of place. Her
heart was pounding, anxiously reflecting the fact that they
were in the middle of breaking into a government facility.
They'd done it before, lots of times, but each new situation
presented a thousand variables, and she wondered if this
would be the time when their luck ran out for good.
Snapped out of her thoughts by Mulder's voice, she looked
up to see him waving at her frantically. She hurried over,
watching him scrape away a layer of dirt from a manhole
cover. Kneeling down, she put herself to work helping him,
the rich scent of new dirt filtering up in an almost cloying
perfume. 
     Once it was clear, they reached back simultaneously,
pulling a crowbar from their packs. Wedging the edge
underneath the rim, they pried it up, jerking a little too hard
and flipping it into the next row. Mulder grinned sheepishly
at his partner; that, combined with the goggles made him
look like something from an Ed Wood movie. Covering her
mouth, Scully forced laughter back into her throat, and
peered down into the hole. No ladder and a long drop, she
realized, and worse than that, running water. She missed the
good old days of bullshitting their way into bases.
     Mulder pulled a length of rope from his belt, and
fashioned a loop at one end. Wrapping the loose end around
his arm, he lowered it a bit, and indicated that she should
step down. She eyed him warily for a moment, sitting on the
edge of the hole, then wedged her heels against the loop and
held on. She went down smoothly, and as she got closer to
the bottom, rank air began to fill her nose. Having become a
connoisseur of sewers lately, she mentally rated this one 'not
so bad.' The water was deeper this time, rising well over her
ankles. 
     Letting go of the rope, she stepped back to look up,
trying to figure out how Mulder planned to join her. A few
seconds later, she was showered with chunks of earth as he
slid too fast into the hole. Foul water splashed up on her,
but she was too distracted by the clanging above her to
notice. He'd tied the rope to the manhole cover. Why he'd
plummeted down instead of sliding at an even pace was
answered when he stood up, catching his breath. "Hands
slipped."
     "Good to see you again, Grace," she joked as he
took the map from his pocket again. "Which way?"
     He glanced around for a moment, then pointed to
the left. "Here there be tigers. Let's go."

Baltimore, Maryland
Homicide Unit

     Taylor paced unevenly, her nerves on edge. She
knew it didn't show; her face was placid and flippant, the
same as it had been when they walked into the box with
Patterson, but her mind was a whirlwind of discarded
strategies and tactics. Howard wasn't helping much. The
sergeant's laconic interrogation style kept butting heads with
her own scattershot technique. Each time she felt some
headway, Kay took it away in another direction. If she were
being unbiased about the situation, they were both making
headway, but in the heat of the small room, it just made her
angry.
     "So tell us again how you came to borrow eight
thousand bucks from your parents when you have six
thousand in your own accounts," Kay drawled, drinking the
dregs of her latest cup of coffee. 
     "Ladies, I'm just repeating myself here," Ryan said,
leaning back and smiling smugly. "I lent them that money,
they were just paying it back. No point in using up my
savings if I already have money elsewhere, right?"
     Screw it, Taylor decided. They'd held their cards
close to their vests and gotten nowhere. It was time to go
full barrel. "You know, Ryan, I like a good story as much as
the next guy, but you're full of shit. Now how do you think
we found your ass so fast, huh? Where do you think we got
that information, you stupid fuck?"
     Howard looked over at the other woman, surprised.
Things had been going slowly, but she hadn't expected
Taylor to jump ship in the middle of the interrogation. Now
Patterson was on the defensive, his whole body stiff against
the chair. "She's a little edgy 'cause we think you've been
lying to us, Ryan."
     With a cold glare, Taylor stormed toward the door.
She summoned her most saccharine voice. "May I speak to
you, Sergeant? Outside? Please."

     "Admit it, Frank"
     "All right, all right. It's. . ."
     "Come on, I'll even say it with you. . . a stone cold
whodunit can be. . ."
     "Fun."
     "See, I knew you could do it."
     Grinning at each other, Frank and Tim looked up in
time to see Taylor lay into the venerable Sergeant Howard
just outside the box. Perking up, they walked more quickly,
not wanting to miss the fireworks. Their case was going
well, surprisingly well, so they had more than enough time
to catch up on office dynamics.
     "Just stay out of my goddamned box," Taylor
shouted, glancing through the window at her suspect.
     Bayliss raised his eyebrow and looked over at Frank.
"Sounds like she's marking her territory."
     "We'll have to do something about that," Pembleton
replied lightly, trying to make out Howard's low-key
response.
     "I mean, that's your box."
     "Yes, it is." Frank nodded. "She seems a little
tense."
     "More than usual?"
     Frank stared up at the ceiling for a moment, then
shook his head. "Not really."
     Turning on her heel, Howard stalked into the break
room, her fingers moving on invisible scales, or perhaps an
imaginary neck. Taylor looked around, then set her sights
on Tim. Crossing the room in a matter of seconds, she
stopped directly in front of them. Crossing her arms over
her chest, she smiled winningly at Frank. "Detective
Pembleton, I would be honored if you would lend me your
partner for a half an hour."
     Rubbing his chin, Frank looked away. "I don't know
if I can do that, Detective Taylor. After all, he is my partner.
I've trained him very carefully, and you might. . ."
     "Thanks Frankie." With a wink, Taylor grabbed
Tim's shoulder and started hauling him toward the box.
Glancing over her shoulder, she grinned at Pembleton, then
turned her attention back to Tim. "D'you mind?"
     "No, no, no, I live to serve," Bayliss answered
wryly.
     "Good. Just do everything I tell you to, okay? Trust
me."

(End Part Five)


Title: Cold Cases III: Prescient Perception II (06/13)
Author: Hope                
E-Mail: vii@netdirect.net
Rating: R (Adult Situations, language)


     When Taylor walked back into the box, it was
followed by a hard-faced Bayliss. Patterson leaned back in
his chair, watching the submissive way she moved around
him, trying to figure out the change of roster. She smiled
apologetically at him, shrugging her shoulders. Tim put his
hand on the back of her neck, walking her back to the table.
     "Sorry 'bout that," Taylor said almost meekly, taking
a seat across from Ryan. "Now where were we?"
     "Who's that?"
     She nodded her head toward Bayliss, who stood
behind her chair, his hand still in place. "My boss. See, this
is my first case. I've only been in homicide three weeks, and.
. . well, anyway, you're sorta my guinea pig. He's just gonna
watch, okay?" She laughed sheepishly, victory dawning in
the back of her mind when Ryan settled back with a grin.
"So where were we?"
     Patterson glanced up at Tim, taking notice of the
way his fingers dug into the woman's shoulder, the way his
presence seemed to calm her down. "I'm not sure,
Detective."
     "Let me think, let me think," she murmured, leaning
back. That was Tim's signal to squeeze harder. She
pretended to hide a wince, measuring the weight of the
action on Patterson's expression. "The eight thousand
dollars, you said that was money you lent your parents,
right?"
     "That's right."
     She nodded, looking up at Tim for a nod of
approval. "Okay, and you borrowed that money back and
went to Pittsburgh, right?"
     "That's right."
     Taylor bit the corner of her lip, appearing to be
mulling over the questions, playing perfect nervousness for
her audience. "And they rented a car for you. . . "
     "I didn't want to use my credit cards," he explained
cleanly, confidently. He relaxed, smiling apologetically at
her "boss" for causing all this trouble. "I was afraid Vic
would have them shut off, since we just had a fight and all."
     "Oh. Oh well that makes sense," she murmured, then
suddenly slapped her hand on the table. "Sense in the
goddamned Twilight Zone!"
     Just as she'd instructed him, Bayliss pushed aside his
reservations and jerked her back hard into her seat, sharing
a 'you know, they get out of line sometimes' glance with
Patterson. Taylor cleared her throat, trembling from the
adrenaline. She knew to Ryan, it would look like fear, and
guys like him lived on other people's fear. Making a show of
finding her voice, she knotted her fingers together in her lap
like a penitent schoolgirl. "What were you fighting about?
Before you left?"
     "Everything. Whether the sky was blue or green.
Whether it was day or night. It was over a long time ago,
but we didn't want to admit it."
     "Whose idea was the separation?"
     "It was mutual." Ryan shrugged. "It wasn't fun
anymore."
     "What wasn't fun," Taylor pulled against Tim's hand,
her voice weak. "Beating her up?"
     "I never hit Vic."
     Taylor tilted her head. "Never? Not even once?"
     "No, not even once."
     Standing up, Taylor slapped Tim's hand off her
shoulder, and leaned across the table, getting up in
Patterson's face. "That's bullshit and you know it."
     Bayliss took a step forward on cue, dinner theatre in
the box. "That's enough, detective."
     She whirled around, pointing at him and growling.
"Are you on his side?"
     "I said, that's enough detective."
     "Yeah, well fuck you," she retorted, starting to turn
back. She caught a glimpse of Patterson's face, eagerly
waiting for Bayliss to put her in her place. "You stupid son
of a bitch, you may as well admit it now. I know you
fucking killed her, you know you fucking killed her. . ."
     "Sorry, it'll be a minute," Bayliss told her suspect,
then silently begging her forgiveness, he did as he was told.
Grabbing her arm, his fingers bit into her bicep as he
forcibly dragged her away from the table. Slamming the
door open, he shoved her into the squadroom, shot another
apologetic look to Ryan, then shut the door behind him. 
     Covering her mouth, Taylor stifled a giggle. "Did
you see the look on his face?"
     "I did not enjoy that," Bayliss lied, staring past her
and trying not to smile.
     "The hell you didn't," she grinned. "Everybody
wants to slap me around. Now you get to say you did.
Thanks." She started back into the box, but he stopped her
with a gentle hand on her shoulder. 
     "But explain something to me. I just destroyed your
authority. What's that going to get you in there?"
     Smiling up at him, she turned the doorknob.
"Maneuvering room."

Somewhere in Washington State

     "The good news is," Mulder groaned, lifting Scully
up onto a concrete platform. "This place is still under
construction. Very little security."
     Getting on her knees, she held her hands down and
helped him up. "The bad news is?"
     "I have no idea where the hell we are." Pulling the
map out of his pocket, he smoothed it against the wall.
"These are complete plans. We should be around here, but
that should have been a staircase."
     Looking around, she pursed her lips. "The
generator's running, that means they're open for business."
     "Hope so," Mulder muttered, glancing down the
ledge. "These look like cells, so this is my best guess. Any
thoughts?"
     "I think I want some of that beef jerky," she said,
digging into his backpack as they walked in his preferred
direction. Unscrewing the cap, she pulled out a piece and
tried to examine it, then changed her mind. Beef jerky was
not best viewed through night goggles, she decided, and bit
off the end. Her stomach jumped at the sudden taste of salt-
cured meat, threatening to rebel. She hadn't had anything
but water since the rest stop hours ago, but she kept
chewing. Beef jerky or hunger pangs, and hunger pangs
made it hard to fire her weapon.
     "I can change my plan," Mulder said suddenly,
reaching into the jar. "If you want me to. If you want me to,
I will."
     "Which plan," she asked, peeling the edge of the
jerky with her teeth. When I get home, she thought, I'm
going to go to a real restaurant and eat real food. "Rescuing
the damsel Grissom?"
     He shook his head, dropping a step behind her.
"About the inquiry. About changing our focus. I didn't ask
you."
     Swallowing, she shook her head. "No, you didn't."
     "So I'm asking now."
     She stepped over a small stream of waste water
running from a pipe in the wall, reaching up to adjust her
headset. His penitent tone surprised her; she hadn't really
considered the fact that he hadn't asked her- she'd grown
used to his summary decisions. "I don't think this is a very
good time to discuss it, Mulder."
     "Why? According to your map, we have about 400
meters to go before anything interesting starts to happen."
He laid his palm against her shoulder.
     "Because I don't know the answer yet." Scully
glanced back at him, shaking her head. "Let's just
concentrate on the task at hand, okay?"
     "Okay."
     A small smile crept to the corners of her mouth.
"Thank you. Thank you for asking."
     They moved forward slowly, careful examining their
surroundings, the echo of their footsteps picking up a four-
four beat. They weren't far now; soon they'd be inside and
the real excitement would begin. Scully tilted her head,
listening closely. Whatever had caught her attention was
gone now, and she turned her attention back to their path.
Taking a few more steps, she heard it again. Turning around
to look at Mulder, she put her hands on the small of her
back, battling against the weight of her backpack.
     "Are you singing?"
     He grinned, holding his hands up in an "I-don't-
know" gesture. When she turned back around, she heard
him again, singing a little louder this time. "I think I love
you so what am I so afraid of? I'm afraid that I'm not sure
of- a love there is no cure for. . ."
     Laughing at his painfully off-tune serenade, she
shook her head. Unable to do anything else, she picked up
the pace and hummed along with him.

     "Goggles off," Mulder said softly. "The light grid
starts in the next section."
     Pulling off the goggles, Scully rubbed the deep
grooves they'd cut into her cheeks. For a moment, her face
felt almost cold without them on, but losing their weight
was a relief. It was eerily dark without the green glow, and
she knelt down carefully and slid out of her backpack.
Blindly, she slowly felt for the clasp and released it,
dumping the goggles into the bag. 
     "You have the ESD wand in there," Mulder
mumbled in the darkness, invisibly tearing through his own
pack. 
     Scully felt around for it, finally producing a tube that
felt like a truncated flashlight. "I wonder if I could use one
of these as a defibrillator. . . probably not. I'm ready, you
ready?"
     "I am so ready," Mulder replied, mocking a teen-
ager's voice. "How about a kiss for good luck?"
     Her snort echoed through the inky blackness. "You
have your lucky chicken's foot. Let's go."
     They stood up, pulling the straps on their packs as
tight as they could. Scully's hand filtered down to touch the
reassuring coldness of her gun, then she took a few steps
until her outstretched arm hit the wall. She heard Mulder
thump against the wall, her signal to start walking.
     "There should be a door to the right, about four feet
up," he said. 
     She pulled her gloved fingers along the wall, the
leather catching in small pits and grooves. The texture
changed from rough concrete to smooth metal. Searching
the plate, she tested the doorknob. Of course, it was locked,
so she looked for, and found, an electronic keypad. 
     Stepping back, she extended the ESD wand, careful
to fold out the shielding bell. She placed it over the lock,
making sure to cover the entire device. Telling Mulder to
move away, she punched her finger against the trigger in the
base, twisting the articulated ring to engage it. The wand
hummed for a moment, then stopped. Collapsing it into its
compact state, Scully stuffed the wand in her pocket, then
slowly opened the door. 
     She squinted her eyes at the faint light, pushing into
the hallway. If possible, it was cooler in this section than it
had been in the sewers. It looked like a set from Star Trek,
miles of cold grey walls, broken only by a dark green stripe
halfway up. Supports shot out around doorways, triangular
slices digging for support into the ceiling. There were
mountings for cameras in each corner, but no cameras.
According to the map she'd pieced together, this was a
collection of small holding cells, their starting point.
     Mulder took the left side, she took the right, and
they went door to door, peering through observations slots.
The rooms were tiny, painted a shocking white, a concrete
slab jutting from the side to make a bed. Though his sight
was obscured by such a limited view, he could imagine the
horror someone would feel trapped in such a claustrophobic
space. He paused to take  photographs with a small camera,
making a record for the inquiry. 
     "Someone was in this one," Scully hissed, waving
him over to one of the cells on the far end of the hall. He
took a few more pictures, then made his way to her.
Leaning down, he peered through the slot, shaking his head.
Dark streaks of blood stained the walls, and the stench of
body wastes filtered out, stinging his nose. Shaking his
head, Mulder produced the camera and took several more
pictures. Straightening up, he shook his head at his partner.
She pointed at the floor, a single scuff of blood pointing the
way. With a nod, they followed the clue, walking side by
side, watching for signs of life, cameras, or alarms.
     The dim light never grew any brighter, casting oddly
faint shadows over them as they continued their search.
Their quiet banter was gone, replaced with stiff, determined
expressions. The facility might not be finished, and they may
have had an easy time breaking in, but it was bound to get
harder. They knew from experience that complacency
would be their downfall, so they remained hyper-vigilant.
They passed door after door through long, identical
hallways, watching for another sign of Grissom's presence.
They stopped at a corner, and Mulder held a finger to his
lips, listening.
     "Two times two is four times two is eight. . ."

(End Part Six)


Title: Cold Cases III: Prescient Perception II (07/13)
Author: Hope                
E-Mail: vii@netdirect.net
Rating: R (Adult Situations, language)

Baltimore, Maryland

55 Market Place
Harbor Park United Artists Theatre

     "Dr. Doolittle," Tim said seriously, staring his niece
down.
     "Armageddon," she replied, putting her hands on her
hips, craning her head back to look up at him.
     "Small Soldiers," he offered.
     "There's Something About Mary," she countered.
     "Mask of Zorro?" He was faltering. 
     She shook her head. "Lethal Weapon Four."
     "Those aren't real cops," he sniffed, digging his
wallet from his pocket. "I've never blown anything up in my
entire career."
     Grabbing his arm, Kelly hung from it as if she were
three, not thirteen. She batted her eyes. "Pleaaaaaaaaaase
Uncle Tim?"
     Handing her a twenty, he shook his head. "Go get
tickets. And if you tell your mother, I'll hide your body and
no one will ever find it."
     "Detective Pembleton will," she giggled, then ran
over to the box office. She waved back at him, making sure
the clerk knew she was with an adult, then tapped her feet
impatiently as she waited. Tim smiled indulgently, watching
her take a few stabs at adolescent flirting. He wasn't
worried; he knew if anything untoward happened, his
appearance towering over the offender would nip it in the
bud. To other adults, he looked less than threatening, but
his sheer height would terrify a fourteen-year-old on the
make.
     "She doesn't resemble you."
     Turning to place the voice, Tim stood his ground
warily. A gaunt man stood casually a few feet away,
watching Kelly mouth off to a couple of boys. He lifted a
cigarette to his lips, holding it oddly between his thumb and
forefinger. A long plume of smoke snaked around his head,
waving and dissipating in the light wind.
     "Aren't you a little old to be looking at little girls,"
Tim asked, crossing his arms over his chest. He didn't have
to read the brand on the cigarette, he recognized it from the
tiny gold band circling the filter. Mulder had told him it
might happen, he'd warned him a thousand times that he
could appear from nowhere, and that meant danger. Bayliss'
heart beat hard, hoping his niece wouldn't walk back over
with the tickets.
     "I'm just interested," the man said, dropping the half-
smoked cigarette to the ground. "In your life. It's been very.
. . public. Consider me a fan."
     With a cold smile, Tim leaned over, his face inches
from the other man's. "I don't care who you work for, I
don't care what you do, I don't care, period, but this is my
city. I'm still wearing my badge, and I will not hesitate to
arrest you."
     "I can make this all go away, Detective." He lit
another cigarette, his expression never wavering from
detached amusement. 
     Tim recognized the line, its intonation. He could
even hear the beep of his answering machine echoing in his
head. Boldly, he reached out and took the cigarette from the
man's mouth and flipped it into the street. "Get out of
Baltimore."
     The man stepped back, shrugging. His face didn't
show it, but secretly he was impressed with Tim's bravado.
He walked toward the corner, pausing to throw a parting
shot. He was safe; there were too many people around for
Bayliss to act. "Your niece is a lovely girl. I hope you can
protect her."
     He was wrong. Tim dove through the crowd,
crossing the distance between them in seconds and grabbing
the man's jacket. Looking around quickly, he ignored the
stares of moviegoers, glad that his badge was safely tucked
into his inside pocket. BPD public relations were bad
enough without him ending up above the fold on
tomorrow's Baltimore Sun, roughing up an 'innocent'
civilian. He dragged the man to the curb, and shoved him
into a waiting cab. Slamming the door, he leaned into the
window.
     "Don't come back."

Homicide Unit

     Taylor sat next to Patterson, the lights off in the
box. She'd drawn the shades, pulled in a VCR, and settled
back. The room flickered with ghastly blue light, and she
made sure his eyes were glued to the muted television set.
She ran a commentary, telling him everything he was seeing,
her voice the only sound. He recognized his home on the
tape, but only barely. The tape shook as it walked through
his living room, stopping to highlight a section on the
carpet, glowing a deep blue. 
     "See, Ryan, that's Vicky's blood," she whispered,
sliding her arm around his shoulder. His body was stiff, and
he clenched his teeth when she touched him. Her
monologue droned on, fast enough that he didn't have a
chance to answer her rhetorical questions. "That's in the
living room, where you hit her first, bloodied her nose. All
over that carpet, good thing it was dark, huh? I mean, white
carpet would have been a disaster. Now we're going into the
kitchen; weird how it glows like that, blue, darker blue for
your girlfriend's blood, and there's lots of it. Right there, on
that arch, see her hand print? You did a really good job of
cleaning up, Ryan, really good. Too bad we have neat stuff
like Luminol, huh? 
     "Okay, there's the sink, and look at all those streaks,
just running around and around and around, that's where
you rinsed your hands and those rags right back there, you
know, after you killed her and cleaned up. Why did you
clean up, I'm really curious? I mean, her body's right there
on the floor. . . oh, look at that glow. You can almost see
her shape in that stain, you know, all twisted up, and dead
dead dead on that floor. Were you going to hide her body,
and just ran out of time, or what? Did you get scared? 
     "Oh here, check out this long shot, it's beautiful.
Look at that, your entire kitchen alight with Vicky's blood,
see right there, that really bright patch? That's where you
pounded her head until her eyeballs popped out. Even the
ME was impressed, she couldn't put her face back together,
and she does this shit every day. For a little girl, Vicky sure
had a lot of blood in her, huh? 
     "You know, we have about five liters of blood, I
think that's about a gallon and a third, 'bout the same
amount as, oh here it is, 'bout the same amount of milk as in
that jug right there. Hey, I can see killing your girlfriend and
all, but stopping in the middle of cleaning up for a drink of
milk? That'd make a hell of an ad campaign, wouldn't it?
Beating and strangling your loved ones can be murder, but
milk gives me all the energy I need. . . here's a good shot of
the floor, you know, we stood on your kitchen table to get
it. See those round smears next to the big blob that used to
be Vicky? Those are your knees and feet, babe, where you
sat on her little teeny body and squeezed the life out of her.
Like she wasn't gonna die anyway, but you wanted to make
sure you did it right, right?
     "Now we're gonna go upstairs," she nodded,
glancing over at his face. He was still clenching his teeth,
but he was very much in the moment. She saw his mouth
quiver slightly, and she covered her own grin. He was going
to break, and he was going to break hard. "Nice bathroom,
beautifully decorated. Did Vicky do that sponge painting on
the wall? I mean, you can't see it here, really, but I noticed it
at the time, very precise, great use of color. Hey, check out
the sink, same as the kitchen sink, all those swirling,
glowing streaks. This would make a great design scheme,
actually, now that I think about it. Fluorescent blue streaks,
swirls, very nice, very nice indeed. 
     "There's your toothbrush, all glowy and pretty. . . I
bet that makes your mom proud, that you brush your teeth
so regularly. You know, a little bit of blood, that tastes
kinda good really, you know, when you cut yourself in the
kitchen, you lick it instead of going and getting a band aid. .
. but hell, that much blood, it's bound to taste bad, especially
with the milk you drank and all. 
     "Moving on now, there's the toilet, no glowing
there, guess you piss in the shower, huh? I was wondering,
how did you get a permit for a tub that deep? Very nice,
very nice, and look. Look, you can see where you leaned
against the wall, letting that water wash away the evidence.
. . well, looking like it washed away the evidence. That
drain, man, it really glows, don't it? All her blood washing
off your naked body, down into that drain, collecting in
those pipes. . . we tore those pipes out, Ryan, did you know
that? Got 'em down in evidence control right now, full of
Vicky's blood, your hair, and nobody else's. Considering
what you did to her, I'd've wanted a shower too. After a
while, blood really smells bad, I should know. I get to smell
it every single day.
     "Glowing gets a little dimmer here, I mean, you did
just take a shower and all, but, here, let me fast forward to
the bedroom, look at that big bright patch in the middle of
your bed. Did you beat her up when you were fucking, or
was that just another happy occasion? We cut a big old hole
in that bed, right though the floral print, and sent that baby
down to the lab. Blood, all that blood, in your living room
and kitchen and bathroom and bedroom, I mean, jeez, she
shoulda been a donor as much blood as she lost in this
house. You know, give something back to the community."
     The screen flickered with snow, and the scene
abruptly changed from the soothing blue of the crime scene
to the blinding white of the ME's office. Cox's face appeared
on the screen, silently explaining each step of the autopsy.
The video panned down, showing Victoria's nude,  battered
body, still mostly whole on a steel slab. Patterson looked
away, biting his lower lip.
     "No, come on," Taylor urged, putting her hand on
his cheek and turning him to face the screen. "Watch with
me. This is pretty neat. I really dig it when the doc pops the
eye back into the skull, you'll like it."
     "Turn it off," he rasped, squeezing his eyes closed.
His whole body shook with revulsion and rage.
     She frowned. "But you're gonna miss the Y incision.
You really shouldn't miss that, it's great. You get to see
Vicky's heart and lungs and. . ."
     "I said turn it off," he screamed, trying to shake her
arm of his shoulder. His hand tugged against the cuff on the
table, and he found himself trapped. 
     Taylor leaned in closer, waving her free hand at the
screen. "What? What's the big deal here? They're just taking
her apart. She can't feel it. Not like when you beat her face
against the counter, the ME says she was conscious all the
way til the end," she lied, smiling innocently. "I mean, this is
all very scientific, you know. Set pattern, no pain, hey look
at that, those look like hedge clippers, huh?"
     "You're fucking sick, fucking sick," he shrieked,
scrabbling to get away from her. His chair slid from
underneath him, and he fell to his knees with a thud. His
arm was still chained to the table, keeping him from going
far. Taylor pushed her own chair away, and sat next to him.
Grabbing the remote, she turned the sound back on, and
Cox's matter-of-fact description of her acts filled the room.
     Taylor moved closer to Patterson, nodding softly.
"They use 'em to cut the ribs out, so they can get to all the
good mooshy stuff inside. They're cutting out the heart
now, wanna lay money on how much it weighs? Nah, that's
not fair, I already know the answer. I know how much her
lungs weigh, and her liver, and pancreas, I even know that
she had kim chee and chobab as her last meal. She was
Vietnamese, right? Why was she eating Korean food? That's
kinda weird." Even in the darkness, she saw him tense. Any
second now, he would push at her, striking out, and she
waited for it. As soon as he lost control, the confession
would come after. "Oooh, hear that crack? They just pulled
her ribs right out, snap!"
     He flailed at her with his forearm, trying to get
away, trying to make her shut up. His breath was fast and
ragged, and the table rattled with his motion. "You don't
know when to shut up! Just shut up! Shut the fuck up!"
     "She didn't shut up, was that the problem, Ryan,"
Taylor yelled back quickly, moving away from his attack.
"She wouldn't shut the fuck up, where was she going? She
was leaving your ass, wasn't she? She was gonna shut up for
good, and you wanted to stop her. Grabbed her purse,
grabbed her head, and smashed it over and over. . ."
     "Shut up!"
     "Into that counter, until her eyes popped out, who
was she leaving you for, did she finally buy a fucking clue?
Did she. . ."
     "Shut up, you stupid bitch, shut up!" He spat as he
screamed, his eyes wild as he swung at her again. 
     Calculating her next move, she tilted her head. "You
wanna hit me, Ryan? You need to hit somebody? Come on,
I won't even press charges, just like Vicky, it'll be just like
old times, she liked getting hit, didn't she? Well hell, I like it
too, come on, hit me." Leaning forward, he swung again,
catching her in the throat. He pushed harder, slamming her
against the wall, and she managed to keep her smile
completely intact. Sucking in a hard breath, she prayed that
Giardello wouldn't burst through the door. "Gonna kill me,
Ryan? It's easy the second time, or so I've heard, gonna kill
me like you killed her? Gonna kill me? Gonna kill me? What
did Vicky say, Ryan? What did she say when you did this?
What did she say?"
     "She didn't say anything," he screamed, wrapping his
hands around her throat. "She finally just shut the fuck up!"
     Much to Patterson's surprised, Taylor peeled his
fingers away easily, gracefully standing up to look down on
him. If she had been upset or surprised by his attack, she
didn't show it at all. She walked around the table, snapping
off the tv, turning on the lights. She waited until Ryan's
breath slowed to pick up his chair, then helped him to his
seat. She stepped back, measuring his defeat in the slope of
his shoulders and pallor of his skin. Pulling the other chair
to face him, she sat across from him. 
     "Tell me what happened," she said softly, putting her
hand over his. 
     He stared at her, his face broken, his eyes rimmed in
red. He knew it was too late to lie, and her expression had
changed completely. She was a picture of sympathy, waiting
for his story, wanting to hear his side. Taking a deep breath,
he looked away, and did as she asked.

(End Part Seven)


Title: Cold Cases III: Prescient Perception II (08/13)
Author: Hope                
E-Mail: vii@netdirect.net
Rating: R (Adult Situations, language)

Somewhere in Washington State

     They followed the voice carefully, pinpointing its
location. The multiplication tables never sounded more
ominous than as they stood outside the door, listening to
them being repeated as a mantra. Scully pulled out the ESD
wand again, positioning it over the lock. She activated it,
and the lock clicked in defeat. Looking over at Mulder, she
tested the doorknob, confirming it with a quick smile.
Putting away the wand, she pulled out her gun, and pressed
her back against the wall. They nodded a practiced three
count, then kicked open the door.
     "It hurts again," Grissom moaned softly, his head
lolling heavily to face the door. Mulder cleared the room
quickly as Scully rushed over to the cot, shoving her gun
back into its holster. She laid the flat of her hand against his
forehead, shaking her head. He was shivering with a fever,
and the dressings over his wounds were grey-green from
infection. Turning, she dug through the white medical case
next to the cot, finding only an empty syringe and a roll of
gauze. She took the gauze and dropped it in her pocket,
then shrugged her backpack onto the floor. 
     "Tom," she said quietly, pulling out her emergency
pack and unclasping the latches. "Tom, it's Dana Scully, do
you remember me?"
     "The b'yu'ful doctor Dana," Grissom mumbled,
dropping his hand on her shoulder. It twitched and shook,
the heat from the fever burning through her shirt. "My
knight'n shinin' Donna K'ran."
     "Today it's J.C. Penney's, but thanks for noticing,"
she said, pulling out a blood pressure cuff. She strapped it
around his arm, pressing her finger into a vein, counting and
pumping before slowly releasing the air. Not bothering with
the stethoscope, she laid her head against the side of his
chest, counting the number of shallow breaths he took in
twenty seconds. She noticed the sickly yellow tinge he was
developing, then lifted the blanket to smell his skin and the
stain of urine underneath him. Sickly sweet, she noted, then
turned back to dig in her bag. Shoving a syringe needle
through a rubber topped bottle, she measured out a
quadruple dose, then swabbed off his hip with an alcohol
rub. "Tom, Tom, listen to me. Are you allergic to penicillin?
Come on, pay attention to me here, I have to know before I
give you this."
     Opening one eye, she saw that the jaundice just
beginning to appear in his skin had already stained the
whites. He bared his teeth in an approximation of a smile.
"I'm 'lergic to strawb'ries."
     "Okay," she muttered, stabbing the needle into him
quickly, and pressing the plunger down. "I'm giving you
ampicillin, it'll make you feel better, but if gets hard to
breathe, or if you feel disoriented, you tell me, okay?"
     Mulder stood in the hallway, glancing back and forth
down either end. "We need to get moving, Scully."
     "We can't take him through the sewers, his infection
is already too widespread to risk contamination," she said,
discarding the syringe, and opening another one. She pulled
out another bottle, prepared another injection, and pierced
his hip again. "And we have to get him to an emergency
room, soon. What I just gave him. . . it's the best I can do in
the field, but he's going to die if we don't do something
now."
     Pulling off his backpack, Mulder tossed it down next
to her, and walked over to the cot. He sat at the end with
his back to Grissom, directing Scully to push him into a
sitting position. When he was up, Mulder wrapped the
man's legs around his waist, pulled his arms over his
shoulders, then pulled the thin blanket around to tie it in a
knot at his sternum. He stood up slowly, adjusting the
makeshift sling. Scully knelt down, emptying Mulder's
backpack of everything important, then forcing the items
into her own sack. She was responsible for protecting the
three of them now, and she couldn't afford to be
encumbered.
     "The map," Mulder groaned, shifting to compensate
for Grissom's weight. "Front pocket here."
     Grabbing the map, she pinned down their current
location, then traced her finger over labyrinthine halls and
tunnels, searching for a quicker, cleaner exit than the
sewers. She was nervous about Grissom's condition, not
sure he would survive much longer no matter how smoothly
their escape went. Running several paths, she finally chose
one, and nodded. "Let's go."
     Moving as quickly as they could, Scully led Mulder
through the complex, referring to the map frequently. They
went through large rooms filled with computer equipment,
still pristine and covered in plastic, a cafeteria, what
appeared to be a recreation room, and through a bundle of
offices. She could hear Mulder breathing heavily behind her,
trying to answer Grissom's nonsensical questions in a
soothing voice as he kept up the pace. 
     She cut through a series of white rooms, split in half
by a plexiglass wall, glancing back every so often to make
sure her partner was keeping up. Her heart raced as they
entered an administrative area, long rows of desks impeding
their flight. They were at least three hours from the next
hospital, at least four hours from the next Level One
hospital. She pressed her hand to the slight bulge created by
her cross, and prayed. 
     Suddenly, a loud alarm went off, making her cover
her ears. Bright flashing lights began to cut through the
semi-darkness, creating a surreal tableaux. Rather than look
for the source, they pressed on, hoping to make it to the exit
before guards poured into the facility. Two more turns, she
thought, just two more turns. 
     "Put him down," a woman said, stepping out of the
shadows. 
     Scully raised her gun, advancing. "Federal Agents,
raise your hands and face the wall."
     "Are you trying to kill him, Agent Scully," the
woman asked, raising her hands and stepping forward. One
of the emergency lights illuminated her face.
     "You're under arrest for the kidnaping of Thomas
Grissom," Scully replied, ignoring the shock that rippled
through her. "Against the wall."
     "We have the facilities to treat him here," Elsa Bettis
said, facing the wall. She wore the same smug smile she'd
worn when she'd been arrested in Baltimore for murdering
Ballard. Scully advanced, reaching into a side pocket to pull
out handcuffs, and snapping them onto the woman's wrists.
She knew this woman's weaknesses, and saw the cold
amusement for what it was; a thin veneer over a framework
of self-doubt.
     "Move, now," Scully ordered, pulling her by the
wrists and pushing her forward. "You have the right to
remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against
you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If
you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you.
Do you understand these rights?"
     Elsa nodded, glancing back over her shoulder. "So
good to see you again, Agent Mulder."
     "Shut up and keep walking," Scully snarled.

(End Part Eight)


Title: Cold Cases III: Prescient Perception II (09/13)
Author: Hope                
E-Mail: vii@netdirect.net
Rating: R (Adult Situations, language)

Baltimore, Maryland
Apartment of Tim Bayliss

     Tim was startled out of his light sleep by someone
pounding on his door. For a moment, he was afraid that
Kelly had gotten it in her head to prowl the building and had
been picked up by a patrol officer. Rolling off the couch, he
stumbled over to stare out the peephole.  To his relief, it
was not his niece, but to his surprise, it was Mike
Kellerman. Undoing the locks and chain, he swung the door
open, scratching the back of his head.
     Reeking of whiskey, Kellerman slowly shoved his
finger into the middle of Tim's chest. "If I ever see you
touch Khrystyne that way again, I'll shoot you."
     Grabbing Mike by the shoulder, Tim pulled him
inside and shut the door. "What the hell are you talking
about? Jesus, it's three in the morning."
     With a pronounced sway, Kellerman fell back
against the door, staring blearily up at Tim. "I'm not
kidding. I am not kidding. I saw you drag her out of the
box. I'm not kidding. I'll kill you."
     "I'm sure you will," Bayliss said soothingly, leading
Mike to the couch and pushing him down. He headed
toward the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. "How much
whiskey have you had tonight, Mike, jeez."
     "You are not listening to me," Kellerman
enunciated, trying and failing to stand up. "You already
took Cox from me, you son of a bitch, I want you to keep
your hands off my wife. Let me have something that's mine,
okay?"
     Turning around, Tim wasn't quite sure he'd heard the
other man correctly. "I don't know what you just said to me,
but I'm going to pretend I didn't hear it."
     "My wife," Mike repeated, shaking his head to clear
it. "My fucking wife. Mine. Don't touch her." Looking
around, he propped himself up on the arm of the couch.
"Jesus, Tim, you even have a fag house. I bet you roll your
socks."
     With a frown, Bayliss pulled a mug from a cabinet.
He pulled the coffee carafe out quickly, shoving the cup
under to catch the flow. Cursing when the hot liquid
steamed down the side of his hand, he looked back over at
Kellerman. "Yeah, thanks, I do. Don't you puke on my
carpet."
     "I loved her, I really loved her," Mike mumbled,
wrapping his arm around one of the throw pillows. "I really
loved her, and you . . . well, that's what you're good at
right? Took Emma from Lewis, took Cox from me. . .
who'd you take Mulder from?"
     Shoving the mug of coffee into Kellerman's hands,
Tim dropped himself into a chair. "Why are you here,
Mike?"
     "'S'where you are," he slurred, blowing at the coffee
steam. "And I had to tell you that. And ask you stuff."
     Tim rubbed his upper lip, leaning forward. He had
been angry at him for a long time, but he couldn't find it in
his heart to be angry anymore. Kellerman looked beaten, his
blue eyes almost grey with exhaustion. Tim set aside the
ugly words they'd thrown at each other and reached out.
"Talk to me, Mike."
     "No. No. I just want to know why you took her
from me." Kellerman turned the cup in his hands, watching
the liquid inside lap up at the edges. "That's what I want to
know."
     "I was lonely," Bayliss admitted. "I was lonely, and
she was lonely, and that's all it was."
     "Then fucking apologize to me."
     Nodding, Tim knotted his fingers together. "I'm
sorry."
     Kellerman started laughing bitterly, setting the cup
down too hard on the end table. "You're sorry, I'm sorry,
the whole fucking world's sorry." 
     Slowly, his laughter turned into strangled sobs, and
he fell forward, blonde hair hiding his face. What a night,
Bayliss thought wryly, getting down on his knees to put his
arms around Kellerman. Mike stiffened for a moment, then
leaned his head against the older man's shoulder. He shook
with each sob, soaking Bayliss' shirt as he tried to catch his
breath.
     "You said. . . you said not having any secrets made
it better," Kellerman wept. "You said that. I don't feel
better."
     Tim nodded. "It takes a while. It hurts a lot first."
     "I feel like an idiot." The words caught in Mike's
throat and it took him a second to find his voice. "You're
not my friend."
     "You're not going to remember any of this
tomorrow," Tim murmured, rubbing Mike's back
comfortingly. "And then we can be enemies again, and
everything will be okay. Okay?"
     "I'll remember," Mike responded softly, pulling away
and leaning against the back of the couch. "I'll remember.
You better remember too."
     Pulling the pillow from Kellerman's arms, Tim
dropped it to the side and pushed him down. Covering him
with the blanket, he nodded. "Just go to sleep, okay?"
     Mike rolled his head to watch Tim walk down the
hall for the linen closet. "Hey, hey."
     "Go to sleep Mike."
     "No wait, I gotta tell you something."
     Returning with a sheet and a blanket, Tim made
himself a pallet next to the door. If Kellerman tried to leave
in his drunken stupor, he wouldn't be able to without
waking him. "Okay, what?"
     "I shot Luther Mahoney," he whispered, starting to
pass out.
     "I know you did." Laying down, Tim covered his
eyes with his forearm.
     "That's my secret," Mike mumbled, settling in
against the pillow. "That's my secret. His gun was down."
     It was a popular opinion around the unit that a guilty
man, once arrested and thrown in the box, would
immediately fall asleep in relief. Tim looked over at
Kellerman, listening to him begin to snore softly, then stared
back up at the ceiling. It was going to be a long, restless
night.

Aboard Case Closed

     Taylor sat on Kellerman's bed, her euphoria at
putting the Ngyuen case having long since turned into
depression. He'd said to come over, he'd make it special,
and while it was true that she was six hours late, she had at
least shown up. He'd put some thought into it, she realized.
A pair of unopened candles lay on the bar in the kitchen,
next to a bottle of cheap champagne.  That's where she had
found the roses, now wilted from lack of water. Dragging
on a cigarette, she reread the note she'd found nestled in the
green florists paper. "I want us to try."
     She tucked the card into her shirt pocket, and kicked
off her boots. Jerking the rubber band from the end of her
braid, she flipped it into the corner, and shook out her hair.
She flopped back in his bed heavily, watching the smoke
dance above her head as she listened to the harbor at night.
He probably went to get a drink, she told herself, taking
another drag on the cigarette. Went and got a drink, then a
couple more, and do you blame him? Stubbing her cigarette
out, she willed herself to sleep. They were going to get a
divorce anyway, so she tried to convince herself the
wedding night didn't really matter.

Somewhere in Washington State

     Handcuffed to the passenger-side door, Elsa
watched Mulder warily as he pulled back onto Highway
410. She listened to Scully trying to soothe a delirious
Grissom in the back seat, then turned to look out the
window. The forest seemed to fly by, and she didn't dare try
to peek at the speedometer.
     "I'll tell you everything you want to know," she
offered. "Just let me go. Please don't take me back to
Baltimore."
     Mulder raised an eyebrow, but didn't look over.
"What will you tell me?"
     "I know a lot, Agent Mulder," she murmured,
twisting her wrists around inside the handcuffs. "I know a
whole lot."
     "Then start talking," he said coldly, checking Scully
in the rear view mirror. She was holding a saline IV over
her head, trying to pump fluids into Grissom's dessicated
body before his kidneys failed. Her face was tense as she
monitored his pulse, letting go of the artery only long
enough to squeeze the bag.
     Elsa stared down at her feet. "Promise me you won't
take me back to Baltimore."
     "Okay," he said lightly. He had no intention of
taking her back to Baltimore. She was going to D.C. to
stand trial, and testify at the inquiry. He didn't feel bad at all
over misleading her. "I won't. I promise."
     "I don't know the details," she murmured, trying to
crack the window a bit. The car felt humid and it smelled
awful. Mulder didn't bother helping. "But they take people
like Tom, like me, so they can figure out how we work."
     "Why?"
     "Listen," she said. "This is how it works, as far as I
know. They take people like me, and Tom, people with
special abilities, and they test us. Hell, I've been through six
surgeries since they got me out of prison. They look at our
genes, and our brains, and figure out how we do what we
do, so they can engineer it, I guess."
     A cold chill ran down Mulder's spine, but he kept his
face impassive. "Why?"
     Elsa shook her head, shifting uncomfortably in the
seat. "I didn't follow all of it. I guess. . . I guess they tale
what they learn and build these genes, and inject them into
like fetuses and stuff. They're trying to make the babies have
psychic powers or the blood gift, or whatever. I don't get
how it works."
     "Then how did you end up here, taking care of him,"
he asked, the pieces falling together in his mind. They
abducted civilians to get the raw materials to build the
clones. Then, they edited the genes from people like Tom
and Elsa, to enhance the clones. He could only think of one
reason why they might be doing something like that, and it
had military involvement written all over it. He'd been right
all along; they were gearing up for a secret war.
     She shrugged, slipping down in her seat. "It was
either work for them or go back to prison. I didn't have a
choice about the testing, but I chose to stay. Prison. . . I
didn't belong in prison. Anyway, I was convenient, and I
know how to follow instructions, so they sent me out here
to get him ready for testing."
     "God damn it," Scully spat. "Stop the car, and call in
for a helicopter, he's coding."
     Glancing over his shoulder, Mulder watched his
partner lay the young man flat on the back seat, then
straddle his waist. She pressed her hands into his sternum,
slamming down hard. He could hear the sickening crack of
ribs, and saw blood starting to seep from his wounds again.
Pulling over quickly, Mulder pulled out his cell phone and
dialed frantically. 
     "Come on, Tom," Scully gasped, pumping his chest
for five beats, then reaching down to grab the ambu-bag
from her medical supplies. She slapped the mask over his
face, her hands shaking. She needed another pair of hands,
and she needed to intubate him. Starting CPR again, she
stared up at Mulder, mentally urging him to finish the phone
call so he could help her. "Hurry up, Mulder, I need help."
     "I'm trying," he said, the phone still pressed to his
ear. He climbed out of the car, and opened the back door,
ready to step in as soon as both hands were free. The look
on Scully's face scared him as she fought hard to bring him
around. He took the ambu-bag and compressed it, the only
thing he could do until he got off the phone. Just as he hung
up, the skies opened up and it started to rain again.

(End Part Nine)


Title: Cold Cases III: Prescient Perception II (10/13)
Author: Hope                
E-Mail: vii@netdirect.net
Rating: R (Adult Situations, language)
     
The Next Day
     
Baltimore, Maryland
St. Elizabeth Nursing Home

     "What a pleasant surprise." Despite the stoop to her
back, and the quavering shake in her hands, Aldith Prior
looked perfectly regal in her wheelchair and pink house
dress. She smiled at the two detectives before her, inviting
them to sit. Tim and Frank returned the smile, taking seats
next to her.
     "It's been a long time since anyone visited," she said,
without a hint of self-pity. "Such handsome men. You must
be married."
     They both nodded, and Tim ignored Frank's slightly
raised eyebrow. "Ms. Prior, we were hoping we could ask
you some questions about something that happened a long
time ago. . ."
     She nodded slowly. "Of course you do, police
officers always have lots of questions. Don't be scared,
Detective. I'm not as fragile as I look."
     "Your sister, Bertie," Frank said gently, leaning
forward. "We're investigating her disappearance."
     Aldith's face fell into a bittersweet smile. "You've
finally found her? I don't suppose she's alive."
     Tim shook his head, feeling a little guilty for
enjoying this case up til now. "No ma'am, I'm sorry. Our
guess is that she died shortly after she disappeared."
     "So. . . you're here to give me bad news, hold my
hand, then ask me probing questions about her life," Aldith
said softly, reaching out and taking one hand from each
detective. "It's been a long time, you're right. It would be
nice to have answers. Ask away, gentlemen."
     "Well. . . what happened the night she disappeared?"
     Aldith sighed, leaning back in her chair. "The thirties
weren't easy on any of us. Mr. and Mrs. Phillips offered our
parents three dollars a week for each of us, to work at the
inn. Bertie was clumsy, so she ended up doing laundry, I
worked in the kitchen and dining room. Times were tight,
and we were lucky to have a job, you see. Daddy lost
everything in the crash, and mama was sick. I'm not telling
you this for pity, I'm telling you so you understand what
comes next."
     Frank nodded, squeezing her hand gently. "Please,
go on."
     "So we worked, worked hard, and we only had
Sundays off, so all of our friendships happened under that
roof. The Phillips' boy, Dwayne, he took a shine to Bertie,
following her around like a puppy. Now Bertie, she was
beautiful, really beautiful. Not like these silly, unnatural
supermodels you see today, but pure. Everyone who saw
her knew she was something special, and she got used to
having a lot of attention paid her. Dwayne would carry
baskets for her sometimes, when he could sneak away from
the stable. He always made her feel . . . odd. We'd lay in bed
at night, and she would tell me everything he'd done for her
that day, and she always finished with, 'but I wish he hadn't.'
She didn't feel comfortable telling him no; he was the
owner's son, and we had to keep our jobs. It got worse, he
would follow her everywhere, even to church, and we
caught him in our armoire once, watching through the
filagree."
      Shaking her head, she frowned softly. "The day
before she disappeared, she told me that Dwayne proposed.
She refused, of course, but I suppose he pressed the issue.
The sleeve of her dress was torn, but she said nothing
untoward happened. I have my suspicions, but I don't know
and I try not to think about it. Anyway, she finished up
work the next night and went to bed without supper. When
I got upstairs, she wasn't there. I waited up for her, but she
never came back. 
     "The next morning, the Phillips were so angry. They
called Bertie all sorts of horrible names, and dragged me
down to the police station to help report her missing. They
said she'd run off, and wanted to have her arrested because
they'd already paid my parents for that week. I wouldn't sign
the report, because I didn't believe she ran away."
     Tim nodded solemnly, squeezing Aldith's hand. "So
what do you believe?"
     "He killed her, I'm sure. I only saw him once after
that, loading his things into a car. They said he got an
apprenticeship in Annapolis. He couldn't even look at me,
not even from the corner of his eyes." She bowed her head,
her voice no more than a whisper. "Where. . . where did you
find her?"
     "In the crawlspace," Frank answered. "We found her
in the crawlspace of the inn."
     "Oh my," she said, and a single tear ran down her
papery cheek. "Did you find her ring? I'd like to have it
back, if you did. I don't have anything to remember her by."
     
Homicide Unit

     Sitting at the typewriter, Taylor sped along, filling
out her paperwork for the Ngyuen case. The steady rhythm
of the daisy wheel was almost comforting in its regularity.
Glancing over at the board, she was proud that the first
name in her column was black, stark and bold for all the
world to see. Giardello had gently warned her that she
shouldn't make a habit of the manhandling technique, but
he'd also congratulated her in his own, grudging way. "Pick
a partner. Anyone but Kellerman." As if summoned by her
thoughts alone, dragging Mike planted himself next to her. 
     "I have to talk to you," he said quietly. There was
nothing playful about him, his fire seemed gone. 
     She didn't have the heart to smack him down for not
being at the boat the night before. "So talk. I'm listening."
     He shook his head. "Not here."
     "I have to get this done," she said, nodding at the
form. "I'm not trying to blow you off, but can it wait until
lunch?"
     He nodded sharply. "Yeah. Whatever."
     "Mike, wait," she said, rolling her chair back to
block his exit. "I _want_ to talk to you. No shit, okay?"
     "I gotta go," he replied. "Lunch, okay? Meet me on
the roof?"
     "Will do."
     She watched him walk away, sadness rising in her.
Going to bed with him had been a fluke, having an affair
with him had been a comfortable arrangement between two
lonely, dysfunctional people, but getting married. . . she
wanted to be angry, she wanted to blame it all on him, but
she'd stood in front of the judge and said the words on her
own. He hadn't held a gun to her head, she had walked into
it with her eyes open. Part of her believed it might be her
last chance- another part of her thought it fit with the
reckless chaos of her life. Get married to a stranger, grow
into him as time went by. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad, she
decided. They could give it a try. She could always torture
him until he made it up for not showing up on their wedding
night. Shaking her head, she turned back to the typewriter,
picking up the rhythm again. 

Seattle, Washington
Harborview Medical Center

     Roused from sleep by someone shaking her
shoulder, Scully squinted up at the pink-scrubbed nurse. It
took her a moment to remember where she was, but when
she did, she sat bolt upright. "How is he," she said
anxiously, standing up and smoothing her clothes. She knew
she smelled bad, and probably looked worse, but she didn't
care.
     "He's fine, Dr. Scully," the nurse said comfortingly,
putting her hand on Scully's shoulder. "He's awake, he'd like
to talk to you."
     Her eyes widened. "He can talk?"
     "He can write," the nurse said, leading her toward
the room. Leaving Scully on her own, the nurse disappeared
down the hall, whistling to herself. Hovering at the door,
Scully took a mental inventory of everything leading in and
out of Grissom's body. He was still intubated, but that
would probably come out later that day, if he was awake
and aware. She could tell, even from here, that his jaundice
was fading. Considering what she'd done to him in the field,
she was surprised (and relieved) that he'd made it at all. As
if sensing her presence, he turned and waved her in weakly.
     Walking in, she smiled softly. "How are you feeling,
Tom?"
     Picking up a pencil stub, he scribbled his answer for
her. "Been better. Mulder?"
     She pulled up a chair and sat next to him. "Agent
Mulder flew back to Washington about an hour ago with
Elsa, she's the woman who was. . . she was the woman at
the facility."
     "U arrest her?" He looked up at her plaintively.
     Nodding, she sighed. "Yes. We arrested her."
     He tore off a page in the notepad, then wrote for a
long time, pausing every so often to catch his breath. Finally
he finished, and held it up for her. "They said u did some
fancy work on me, said I nearly died. That true?"
     "I just did what I had to," she smiled, laying a hand
on his shoulder. "You were fine. You were safe."
     Shaking his head, he tore off another sheet and
scribbled again. "Jumper cables?"
     Scully laughed softly, lifting the sheet over his chest.
Two black burns just under his left nipple stared back,
coated in a salve and left to breathe. "You make do with
what you have in the field."
     "Thank u, IOU big time," he wrote, nodding
seriously. 
     Standing up, she put a hand on his cheek. "You have
to get some rest. We're flying you back to a private hospital
in D.C. later today. Armed guard this time, I promise."
     He grabbed her hand before she walked away, and
she paused while he wrote another note. He folded it in half,
then wrote Mulder's name on the outside. Pressing it into
her hand, he tried to smile around the respirator's tube. 
     "You're welcome," she said, answering the thanks in
his eyes.

Washington, D.C.
Office of AD Walter Skinner

     Dropping the film and paperwork on Skinner's desk,
Mulder took a seat and waited for him to look it over. His
thoughts flashed back over working with Scully in the rain,
doing everything in their power to bring Grissom back to
life. She had impressed him with her tenacity, and he made
absolutely sure to include ever detail of dedication in his
report. Now he sat impassively, waiting for his superior's
feelings on the matter.
     Skinner read over the notes, rubbing his temple with
his forefinger. Every so often, he glanced up at Mulder,
considering his demeanor as he waited, weighing it against
his statements in the report. Finally, he closed the folder on
the file, and leaned back. 
     "Elsa Bettis and Marita Covarrubias have already
retained attorneys, and are willing to plead to kidnaping,"
Skinner said finally, taking off his glasses. "You don't look
pleased, Agent Mulder."
     Mulder nodded. "If they plead, they'll disappear, sir."
     "Are you really serious about this inquiry?"
     "Yes sir, I am," he said firmly, sitting up in his chair.
"I want this to be on the official record."
     Shaking his head, Skinner sighed. "You realize that
your request will probably be denied."
     "Yes sir, but the request will still be on the record,"
Mulder answered. "For now. . . that's enough for me."
     "If you do get the inquiry, you may face charges of
breaking and entering," Skinner said. "At the very least, you
might lose your appointment with this agency."
     Mulder stood up, buttoning his jacket. "I'm willing
to take that risk, sir. I'm tired of fighting for nothing. It's
time something came of all this."
     Nodding, Skinner tapped on the folder. "I'll put
things in motion, Agent Mulder."
     "Thank you, sir."

(End Part Ten)


Title: Cold Cases III: Prescient Perception II (11/13)
Author: Hope                
E-Mail: vii@netdirect.net
Rating: R (Adult Situations, language)

Lauraville, Maryland
2752 Strathmore Ave

     A woman in her late fifties answered the door,
staring at the two detectives with curiosity. She stepped
outside, holding the door closed with her hand. "Can I help
you?"
     "Ma'am, I'm Detective Bayliss, this is my partner,
Detective Pembleton," Tim said, holding up his badge. "Are
you Glenda Matheson?"
     "Yes," she said warily, examining the badge, then
looking over at Frank. "Is there something wrong?"
     "We're looking for Dwayne Phillips, we understand
he lives here?"
     She tilted her head, looking at them strangely. "Well,
yes. . . "
     "Could we speak to him," Frank asked, reclipping
his badge to his jacket pocket.
     Shaking her head, she opened the door for them,
then stepped inside. "You can talk to him, but I don't know
if it will do you any good." She led them into the hallway
outside a living room, leaning against the wall. "My father's
a very sick man. He's had four strokes in the last two years,
and he has Parkinson's disease. . . he hasn't spoken a word
in months. What's this about, gentlemen?"         
                                   
     
     Tim peered into the living room, catching a glimpse
of a tiny old man in a recliner, staring at a television that
wasn't even turned on. The man's hand quivered spastically
on the arm of the chair, shaking his entire body. "Ma'am,
this . . . um. Frank, can I speak to you for a moment?"
     "Sorry about this, just a minute" Pembleton said,
stepping aside with Tim.
     "What do we do now," Bayliss asked quietly. "This
guy's too far gone to answer questions, and even if he did
do it, we can't arrest him. He wouldn't even know what he
did."
     Rubbing the back of his head, Frank shrugged.
"We'll talk to him anyway. If we come away with something
then. . . I don't know."
     "Mrs. Matheson, do you mind if we talk to him
anyway," Tim asked. "We won't stay long, I promise."
     "Sure, if you want to," she said softly, her voice
telling them they were wasting their time. "You could
always ask me, I might know the answers."
     "I'll talk to her," Frank decided summarily. "You talk
to Mr. Phillips."

     Kneeling in front of the old man, Tim introduced
himself. "Hi, Mr. Phillips. I wanted to ask you a few
questions." He wasn't even sure if the man was looking at
him, but he pressed on, keeping his voice low. 
     "We're here because of a crime you committed in
nineteen thirty seven," he whispered, trying to keep eye
contact with the man, trying to read his thoughts. "We have
reason to believe you murdered Bertie Prior, a girl who
worked in your parents' inn. Now. . . at your age, we
wouldn't bother with a trial, or prison- that would just be
cruel, but . . . if you could just tell us, so we can put Bertie's
sister at rest knowing what really happened, I'd appreciate
it. Can you do that for me, Mr. Phillips?"
     He watched the eyes, a vague flicker of recognition
dancing across their rheumy surface. The man chewed at
nothing, his body constantly in motion with his disease, but
very slowly, he nodded jerkily. Oh god, Tim thought in
horror. He's still in there, his mind's still active. This was
worse than prison, he decided.
      "Okay, Mr. Phillips, one more thing. Bertie had a
ring, a little gold ring with a heart carved into it, do you
know where that is?" While the man had no reason to lie,
the ring would be the only proof. It was a long shot, but
Tim had to ask. Raising a shuddering hand, a glint of gold
caught Tim's eyes. Reaching out to steady him, Bayliss
pulled the sleeve back to reveal a medical bracelet. Hanging
from the chain, the ring Aldith had described swayed and
rocked with Mr. Phillip's jitters. Nodding, he patted the
man's hand, standing up. 
     "Thank you, Mr. Phillips."

Later

Homicide Unit

     "We'll issue a warrant," Giardello said, leaning back
in his chair, watching his detectives from the corner of his
eyes. "Put the name in black, and we'll leave it at that.
You're absolutely sure about his diagnosis?"
     Frank nodded. "We spoke to his doctors. There's no.
. . there's no hope of recovery."
     "Then let the man die in peace," Gee said
magnanimously. "All done here?"
     Pembleton stood up, heading back into the
squadroom. Bayliss lingered for a moment, standing on the
other side of Gee's desk, his face serious. Their case was
down, it had a sad ending, but he was over that. He had
other things in mind now.
     "Something else, Tim?"             
     Crossing his arms over his chest, Tim nodded. "Sir,
for the last three days, no four days. . . no three, never
mind, anyway, for the last couple of days, I've blackmailed,
bribed, taunted and coerced my co-workers into playing a
softball game for charity. I owe you everything, so I won't
insult your intelligence by trying that. I'm asking you,
straight out. Will you please play with us, as a unit, in the
Deathball Match?"
     A smile quirked over Gee's lips, and he rocked in his
chair. "You want me to play softball."
     "Yes sir, I would." Tim waited nervously for a
response. "I'd like that very much."
     Giardello laughed ominously. "Why?"
     Tim tilted his head. "You're our lieutenant," he said,
as if that explained everything. 
     "This is not a league," Giardello asked, leaning
forward to prop his chin in his hands. "This is a one-time
occurrence, a single game? No turning around, no puppy
dog eyes at a later date?"
     "Just one game, Gee."              
     Waving his hand to dismiss Tim, Giardello chuckled
quietly."One game," he nodded, as close to saying yes as he
would ever be.

     Taylor walked out onto the roof, taking a hard drag
on her cigarette. Mike stood at the fence, his fingers knotted
through the chain links, staring out at the water. Cool wind
tugged at her bangs, rich with salt from the harbor. She
wondered how long it would take her to get used to that, to
everything about this city. Joining him at the fence, she
leaned against it, offering him her smoke. Taking it, he
considered it before pulling a drag and handing it back. 
     "So you wanted to talk," she said, staring into the
grey-blue sky.
     He nodded solemnly, his expression dark. "I went to
Tim's last night."
     "I got the roses, thanks," she said, pushing her free
hand into her pocket. "Why'd you go to Tim's?"
     "Just stupid shit, I had to talk to him," he mumbled,
looking over at her. "I have to talk to you, too."
     "Go ahead." She didn't try to second guess him,
though she desperately wanted to. She knew he would tell
her everything if she'd just shut up long enough to listen. 
     Taking the cigarette from her again, he sighed. "A
while back. . . a while back I worked a bunch of murders, all
narcotics related, okay? Same guy behind it, and every time
we arrested him, he just ended up walking. Anyway, push
came to shove, he shot one of his capos in Druid Hill, broad
daylight, then fled. We followed him, and. . . well, anyway, I
shot him. He had a gun, but it was down. I lied to Giardello
about it, said he had it to my partner's head."
     She nodded, waiting for him to finish. "Go on."
     "So this is the deal," he said softly, looking up at her
helplessly. "I lost everything over this scumbag, my partner,
my faith in myself. . . did a real good job of alienating
everyone around me. I'm tired of being angry. I'm tired of
being a liar, and I'm tired of being a bad cop. I'm gonna do
something about it today, but I figured. . . I don't know. I
know our whole relationship is fucked up, but I just wanted
to tell you."
     His words resonated in her, reminding her of things
she'd learned to ignore. The cold stares of her co-workers in
Indy as she walked through the unit, marked as a traitor for
testifying against her own. She hadn't had a partner to lose,
but she'd had everything else. By the time the task force had
formed, she was officially tainted goods. No one would
work with her, everyone avoided her, and she struggled by
on her own, every step a battle to keep ground she'd earned
years before. Her life as a cop was over in Indianapolis, and
she hadn't lied to Kay. Taylor didn't know how to be
anything but police, and looking at Mike now, she suddenly
realized how alike they were. 
     Shaking her head, she reached out to pull him to her.
Uncomfortably, as if unfamiliar with tenderness, she
wrapped her arms around him, holding him close. "You are
not a bad cop, Mike. I've watched you work. You're a dumb
ass for lying to Giardello, but you're not a bad cop."
     He leaned back a little, nodding. "I'll let you decide.
. . I'll let you decide what happens to us, Khrys, but I gotta
go talk to Gee. I might not be police tomorrow, but I can't
live with myself anymore."
     "'Bout time, stupid," she murmured affectionately,
running her fingers through his hair. "Go talk to Gee. I'll see
you tonight."

(End Part Eleven)


Title: Cold Cases III: Prescient Perception II (12/13)
Author: Hope                
E-Mail: vii@netdirect.net
Rating: R (Adult Situations, language)

Washington, D.C.
Mulder and Scully's Office

     "I did what you said," Mulder announced as his
partner walked through the door. She had reassembled
herself admirably, wearing a navy suit so clean, it fairly
crackled. He stood up to greet her, taking a few steps in her
direction. "I asked for the inquiry."
     Scully nodded, reaching into her jacket pocket.
"Grissom's going to be okay. A couple of months, he'll be
good as new."
     They stared at each other for a long moment, saying
nothing. Their world was on the verge of a big change, and
they shared that knowledge with silent regard. The X files
could be shut down, and they could lose their badges.
Whatever truths that remained might be forever lost to
them. The air was heavy with anxiety and anticipation, but
Scully was the first to break the mood with a half smile.
Whatever happened, they had tried. "We're going to be
okay, too."
     He returned the smile, walking over to put his arm
around her shoulders. "That's what I like about you, you're
so positive."
     "Well, you're in charge of brooding," she said softly,
leaning her head against his shoulder. "I have a note for you,
from Tom."
     He took it, stepping back and examining her face.
"Did you read it?"
     "Of course not," she responded, not really offended.
     "I would have," he grinned, unfolding the small
sheet of paper. There were three wavy lines carefully drawn
in an unsteady hand, and underneath, three words. 'I was
wrong.' Mulder looked up suddenly, making the connection.
Water and smoke, two men he knew. He blanched, then
recovered quickly. 'I was wrong,' he read again, then looked
up at Scully.
     "I have to go to Baltimore."

Baltimore, Maryland

     Walking out of Giardello's office, Kellerman grinned
at Taylor and flashed her a thumbs up. He went to his desk,
picked up his jacket, and saluted Lewis on his way out the
front doors. A few moments after he disappeared, Gee
stepped into the squadroom, his eyes angry as he scanned
over his detectives. "Have you picked a partner yet,
Taylor," he barked.
     She pulled her feet off the desk, nodding over at an
unknowing Munch. "Yeah, the ugly one in the corner
there."
     "Fine. Munch, Taylor, you're up," he scowled, then
turned his attention elsewhere. "Lewis, Stivers, my office
now."
     Staring at each other, the named detectives stood up
warily, making their way toward his office. They weren't
stupid. Giardello's voice had been plenty loud enough to
know that Mikey was getting the reaming of a lifetime.
They'd seen Kellerman leave in the middle of his shift, and
now their lieutenant was calling them for a private meeting.
Lewis shrugged at Terri, standing to the side so she could
walk into the office first. Gee slammed the door hard
enough to rattle the glass, then walked behind his desk. "Sit
down," he commanded, then shook his head. "No, don't.
This won't take long."
     Lewis stared down at the tile floor, preparing
himself for the worst. From the corner of his eye, he could
see Stivers doing the same, hardening her face in
anticipation.
     "I just had a very interesting conversation with
Detective Kellerman, perhaps you remember him, Lewis, he
was your partner," Gee snapped, leaning forward. "Most
interesting indeed. He told me that he lied to me about the
Mahoney shooting. What do you have to say about that?"
     Stivers shook her head. "Sir, I. . ."
     "Stop," Giardello shouted. "I'm going to say this in
the clearest fashion possible, so I expect you to hang on my
every word, do you understand me? I just heard the most
elaborate song and dance version of the truth ever
performed in this office, beautifully acted by Kellerman. He
managed to not only admit that the shooting wasn't as clear
cut as he had previously stated, but he also did his very best
to keep your names out of it. He did not implicate you in
any way, he took full responsibility for his actions and all of
_your_ actions shortly thereafter. I give all my detectives as
much leeway as I possibly can, because I trust you to do
right by me, but. . ." He paused, his eyes burning with rage.
"You have not done right by me. I will not take away from
Kellerman's honorable sacrifice on your parts by
investigating this further. However, this is how things are
going to be on _my_ shift, from now on. You two will not
work another case together, even if there are fifteen bodies
on the Inner Harbor and you're the only ones answering
phones, do you understand me?" He waited for them to
agree, then moved on. "Furthermore, your continued
inclusion in this squad will be probationary, not on paper,
just in my sight. If you ever think about lying to me again, if
you even consider it for the briefest of moments, you will no
longer work for me. Do you understand?"
     "Gee," Lewis started, but closed his mouth when the
Lieutenant stared through him. "I understand."
     "Now get out of my office," Gee spat, turning his
back on them.

     "Why me," Munch asked suspiciously, raising his
eyebrow as Taylor teetered on the edge of his desk, flipping
the back of his paper with her fingers. She'd sat there
annoying him until he finally gave her his undivided
attention.
     She smiled broadly at him, leaning over to whisper.
"You amuse me."
     "I amuse you," he repeated stiffly. "That's no way to
choose a partner. Who said I wanted a partner anyway?"
     "Too bad, Munchie, 'cause you got one." 
     He raised an eyebrow. "Don't call me that."
     "Okay, Johnny."
     "Don't call me that either."
     "Okay, asshole."
     "I can live with that." He shrugged, turning back to
his newspaper, then looked back up at her. His expression
was even as he held out his hand. "Gimme a quarter."
     Taylor reached into her pocket, produced a coin,
and dropped it into his hand. Sliding to her feet, she
pounded him on the back and slid across the rough floor to
her desk, not bothering to ask for an explanation.

The Waterfront

     Mulder and Scully entered the bar, quietly engaged
in conversation. He'd wanted to go up to the squadroom,
but she'd talked him out of it. If Tim was managing to get
past the stigma of their relationship, there was no point in
opening the wound again. She put her hand on his back
when she saw Kellerman sitting at the end of the bar, and
she was torn. She liked Kellerman, but she also knew that
something had transpired between this young, angry man
and Bayliss. Deciding that discretion was the better part of
valor, she walked over to say hello, leaving Mulder to make
his phone call.
     "Dana," Mike said, patting the stool next to him.
"Want something? I'll buy."
     She shook her head. "No, thanks. What are you
doing here at this hour?"
     "It's just Coke," he said, holding his glass up for her
to smell. He grinned at her, almost proudly. "I got
suspended."
     Her mouth dropped open. "Mike. . ."
     "Nah, nah, don't get upset on account of me. I'm
relieved," he said, draining his Coke, and turning around to
face her. "This is a very good thing."
     She stammered for a moment, trying to think of
what to say. Congratulations? He smiled again, patting her
on the shoulder. "Thanks for trying. 'Scuse me, I have to
have a couple words with your partner there."
     Raising her eyebrows, she watched him wander over
to her partner, waiting patiently for him to finish the phone
call. Mulder's face was hard as he listened to Kellerman,
then slowly softened. Shrugging, Mike shook the other
man's hand, and headed out the door, turning around to
wave goodbye to Scully.
     "What was that all about," she asked in amazement
as Mulder joined her. 
     Holding a hand up, Mulder shook his head. "He told
me that for a switch hitter, I was okay by him, and he
apologized for hitting my boyfriend."
     They stared at each other for a moment, then started
laughing quietly. She leaned her head forward on the bar,
her lack of sleep catching up with her. "I can't believe I
came all the way to Baltimore with you."
     "I didn't twist your arm, sister," he said.
     Wendi finally made her way down to them. "Mulder,
Dana, want something? On the house."
     "Just coffee," Mulder said, dropping two dollars on
the bar anyway. "I don't want to wear out my tab," he
explained, winking at her, then turning back to Scully. "You
want me to take you to Tim's? He won't care if you crash
there for a couple of hours."
     "No," she moaned, sitting up and pushing her hair
from her eyes. "I'm fine."
     "I'm fine," he mimicked, pushing her shoulder
gently. "Give in, girl detective, you're human."
     She started to say something when Tim burst into
the bar, with Pembleton and Munch close on his heels. He
rushed over, pinching Mulder's shoulder, and picking Dana
up to spin her around. "You're back, you're safe," he
grinned, kissing her on the cheek, then placing her back on
the stool. He turned, and grabbed Mulder by the shoulder
and pulled him toward the kitchen. "You, I'm mad at you."
     She watched in amusement as they disappeared
behind the swinging doors, then finger waved at Frank as he
took a seat at the far end of the bar. Standing up, she waited
for John to come over to her, nervously expecting another
confrontation. Instead, he reached out and took her hands,
shaking his head.
     "Lewis is a no account wastrel," he said softly, his
voice contradicting his sharp words. "He drives like a
maniac, is subject to terrible mood swings, and he's worn
the same hat for the entire eight years I've known him. You
can't trust a man who doesn't buy a new hat every once in a
while." Leaning down, he kissed her on the cheek, reveling
in the scent of her perfume one last time. "Be happy, Dana."

     "You said you'd call," Tim murmured between
kisses, not caring that the steam was wrinkling his suit
beyond repair. They had secluded themselves behind an
inventory cart, but it was still incredibly hot in the kitchen.
"Gone for almost three days, and you didn't call once."
     "I'm an inveterate bastard. Forgive me?" Mulder
leaned back, staring into Tim's eyes. He wanted to ask him
if he'd had any unusual conversations with black-lunged
conspirators in the past few days, but he decided it could
wait. Tim was safe, he was well, and he was in a good
mood. That was enough answer for now.
     "Hell no," Bayliss grinned, leaning his forehead
against Mulder's. "You're going to have to make this up to
me. Repeatedly."
     Laughing, Mulder tightened his arms around Tim's
waist. "I am at your mercy."
     "Say 'Good job, Tim'," Bayliss commanded softly,
reluctantly disentangling himself from his lover's arms. His
kitchen or not, the rest of their reunion could wait until he
was off work.
     "Good job, Tim," Mulder parroted, squeezing his
hand before letting go. "What did you do?"
     "While you were away saving the world," he teased.
"Frank and I solved a sixty-six-year-old murder, and I
managed to convince eight out of ten people in the homicide
unit to play a charity softball game."
     "Really? Who're the hold outs?" They walked
toward the bar together, poking each other childishly.
     "Frank's holding out, but I have that covered. I just
can't figure out how to ask Kay," he admitted, holding the
door open for Mulder. "Any deeply psychological ideas?"
     Considering it a moment, a wicked grin spread
across Mulder's face. "Oh yes, I have ideas aplenty."

(End Part Twelve)


Title: Cold Cases III: Prescient Perception II (13/13)
Author: Hope                
E-Mail: vii@netdirect.net
Rating: R (Adult Situations, language)

Later

Homicide Unit

     Howard walked back into the unit after lunch, tying
her hair in a knot at the base of her neck. She was looking
forward to a few quiet hours, hoping that the phone would
ring only for lab results and interdepartmental questions.
She furrowed her brows when she saw a tiger lily laying on
her in box, a small note taped to its broken stem. Looking
around, everyone else was hard at work, so she picked it up
warily. With a grimace, she accidentally ruined any chance
the flower would ever have of standing upright as she pulled
the paper from it. Unfolding the sheet, she raised an
eyebrow.
     "Dear Kay," it read. "Once upon a time, many
moons ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I showed you every
delight Washington holds deep within its heart. Also a long
time ago, but not nearly so much, you promised me you'd
show me the charms of Charm City, as guided by your
glorious light. It would be my deepest honor if you would
start that tour with a box seat, in a softball field, while you
demonstrated your athletic prowess in an endeavor for unit
morale and public service. I promise to buy you a box of
Cracker Jack, and I'll even let you keep the toy this time.
See Tim for the details, he is the keeper of all my secrets.
Most sincerely, your eternal servant, F.W. Mulder."
     Glancing up, she laughed silently to herself, catching
Bayliss watching her warily. She nodded at him, holding up
the note and grinning when he bounced excitedly in his
chair.

Later

Somewhere on Chesapeake Bay
Aboard Case Closed

     "Four weeks," Taylor said, peeling the tab from her
Coke can. They were surrounded by water for miles,
shrouded in cool darkness. "That's a shitty way to start a
marriage, unemployed."
     Kellerman shrugged, smiling at her. "I'm all for
women's lib. You can support me."
     Wrapping her arms around his waist, she pressed her
cheek against his back. She closed her eyes, relaxing enough
to enjoy his presence. "I don't love you yet, Mike."
     He nodded, glancing back at her. "I don't love you
yet, either."
     "When are you going to tell your parents," she
murmured, breathing in the sea air and his rich scent. 
     "I dunno," he said, turning around to take her in his
arms. "I have four weeks to think about it. When are you
going to tell yours?"
     She shook her head. "I won't. They don't care. I
don't either, really."
     He lifted her face to meet his, regarding her
seriously. "Wanna talk about it?"
     "Fuck that," she said softly, stepping back and
pulling him with inside the boat. Kissing him gently, she bit
his lower lip, then grinned. "I wanna find out what you're
like in bed when we're both sober."
     "Novel idea," he smiled, shutting the door behind
them.


     Unlocking the door, Frank raised an eyebrow. He
heard his wife and daughter laughing together, shushing
each other. His curiosity was piqued. He paused long
enough to listen to it, his heart lifted by the sound of his
eldest child's joy, before pushing his way inside. 
     As soon as they saw him, his wife scooped the baby
up in her arms, telling Olivia to stand up straight. Lined up
neatly, they greeted him with stifled laughter, watching his
expression melt from confusion to good-natured irritation.
Each one of them wore a blue and white baseball jersey, the
fronts emblazoned with "Pembleton" in block letters.
Looking at his son's back, Frank shook his head in defeat
when he read the logo. "Baltimore Homicide Unit."
     "Tim," he muttered, kicking the door closed gently,
and moving to kiss his wife.
     Mary nodded, smiling broadly. "Tim."
     With a sigh, Frank leaned down and picked up
Olivia, kissing her neck until she giggled hysterically, trying
to wriggle from his grasp. "Uncle Tim give you that shirt,
Livvy? You want daddy to play softball with crazy Uncle
Tim?"
     Olivia nodded her head frantically, putting her hands
on top of Frank's head. She kissed his nose, then rubbed his
pate frantically, bouncing in his arms. "Uncle Tim says
rubbing the baldy is good luck."


     Grabbing the phone as he came in, Tim jumped
when Mulder walked past and goosed him. Shaking his head
at his lover, he turned his attention back to the call. "Hello?"
     "I bat clean up, I play right field," Frank said, then
hung up. 
     Grinning, Tim dropped the phone and walked into
the kitchen, grabbing Mulder's waistband. Kissing the back
of his neck, he pressed against the other man's back
seductively. "Frank said yes. Let's go celebrate."
     "What about dinner," Mulder protested, laughing as
Tim forcibly dragged him toward the stairs by his belt.
"Does this count as part of my penance for not calling?"
     "No," Tim shouted happily. "That comes later!"


     "I don't know, I kinda like it," Scully said, stepping
back to get a better look. She tilted her head, taking in the
details of Teddy Pendergrass' face contorted into song on
black velvet. 
     Meldrick pursed his lips, waiting for her final word
on the subject. "This is very important, Dana. Take your
time."
     Nodding, she slipped an arm around his waist,
smiling up at him. "I'm pretty sure, Mel. I kinda like it."

*************

Mix 106 Deathball Tournament Final Score:

Baltimore Homicide Unit-1
Office of the State's Attorney- 4


*************

(From the Washington Post, page 24)

Guilty Pleas Accepted In Grissom Case

Washington, D.C.- Elsa Bettis and Marita Covarrubias
pled guilty in the kidnaping of FBI Special Agent
Thomas Grissom today, bringing to close rumors that
they were key witnesses in an internal investigation on 
classified military and government projects. The two
women, dressed conservatively and represented by the
same attorney, exchanged guilty pleas for imprison-
ment at an undisclosed federal facility. . .

(End Part Thirteen)
(The End)     

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bene, cum Latine nescias, 
nolo manus meas in te maculare. 
vii@netdirect.net
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~