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From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Corpse 9/?
Date: 20 Jun 1995 06:38:39 GMT


Corpse 9/?
Fair warning - violence and profanity and that kind of stuff.  Go away it
that's going to trouble you, I really hate causing unlooked-for distress.

Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and the X-Files property of Chris Carter,
Ten-Thirteen and Fox, used by your's truly without permission.  I don't
profit, I like email.  I'm livengoo, and Emma Courtland, her town, and
everyone else in it are my creations and property, as is the story I'm
telling.  Ready for some more Mulderangst?  

Before I go on, special big thanks to my editing angels who spent entirely
too much time glued to the screen with ooey Goo-ey.  Rodent, Proofreader
Extraordinaire, Amperage the Psych-Maven, and the Seanster.  If you like
this story, trust me that they're half the reason you see it in its
present form.

Note added on posting: Hey!  You guys let me down on a boring Monday
night! Hardly any email at all, and I thought sure that last one would
have you in stitches!  No commentary? No threats? No nothing? Don't you
guys look for my stuff any more? :) :) :)     Goo!
________________________________________________________________

Fox Mulder's eyes were open, but not really focused yet.  I let Scully 
wrap the blanket around him, and turned to brewing tea.  When I 
set the mugs in front of them, and settled down in my seat, he looked a
little clearer, a little more connected.  Scully was fishing in my 
centerpiece, and I wondered if the stress had been more than I 
suspected, until she smiled triumphantly and pulled two pills out of 
it.  

"The Dramamine."  She looked up at him and displayed them like 
prizes in a treasure hunt.  "I knew you'd duck your medication."

He smiled rather thinly, and sipped his tea.

I mulled whether I could bring myself to start on him after that 
stunt Scully pulled, but I needed to know.  "Mulder, look, what was 
that you pulled with my computer?"  He looked completely confused. 
Clearly his gears had slipped a little on that one.  Scully looked 
tempted to shut me down.  "You have nothing to talk about, Dr. 
Scully.  I doubt the medical ethics board put their stamp of 
approval on what you just did."

Back to him.  "You were sending threats to Jerry."  

He still looked baffled.  "Threats?  I didn't threaten him."  His hazel 
eyes looked very ,very dark against skin that was much paler than 
usual. 

"What was all that about his career and advancement and all?"

"That?"  He actually sounded startled.  "I wasn't threatening him.  I 
was trying to warn him."  Scully leaned in then, tried to catch my 
eye.  

"I think you can wait for this, Emma.  Give him a little."

"Scully, he sent stuff that looked like threats to Jerry and you let 
him.  Now he says it's a warning.  Jerry's a friend of mine.  If I got 
him in trouble, I damn well want to know about it, and I don't think 
it can wait.  There are other people in the world, and they have 
lives, too."

Mulder sighed.  "I don't think he's in danger, but he should be more 
careful.  E-mail is not secure, and he was throwing information to 
you he shouldn't have."  He looked very unhappy, Scully looked like 
I was something she'd clean out of the bottom of the birdcage.  "I 
don't want to get into the details right now.  I'll need to talk with 
him, though, need to find out what he thinks he'll do with that 
information."  He looked at me like he was judging me, and I didn't 
have any idea what he was seeing.  He sighed again.  "There are 
people who I. . . have no real connection with, but who take an. . 
.interest in what I do.  They might cause him, and you, a problem.  
It's important to know and to be discreet."  He smiled and clearly 
gave it two beats.  "Trust no one."  I had no idea why that was funny, 
but Scully had cracked a grin that defused the anger I'd felt coming 
off her the last few minutes.  

"But I don't think you should have anything more to do with this 
case."  It came from so far out of left field I didn't even know it was 
there until it hit me.  Then I gaped at him, looking back and forth 
between him and Scully like they had just told me I was going to be 
audited.  Mulder was watching the table top, arms crossed, blanket 
still wrapped around his shoulders.  Scully was nodding slow, 
thoughtful agreement.  I was wondering how the hell they could set 
me up like they had that morning, put me through that nasty scene 
Scully pulled, and then dump me.

"Look, I don't know what makes you think I'm just here for 
babysitting and to get my house trashed."  Mulder glared at me a 
moment.  "But we've been through this already.  I'm along for the 
whole show.  I won't freak out on you, and I've already been a help to 
you.  That's got to count for something."  I was exasperated with 
them and I knew they could hear it.  

"Think about it, Emma."  Scully sounded more sympathetic than I'd 
have expected.  "It's not that you haven't helped or won't help.  It's 
too dangerous.  Mulder's right.  There are other groups involved.  We 
don't work in a vacuum.  Even if you'd just been willing to go along 
blind you might have come under scrutiny, but with what you went 
and learned any further contact with us might be dangerous to 
you."  

"And you think I'll just sit back now and let go?  You think I 
*could* just sit back now?"

"I'm sorry, it's just too dangerous.  It was bad enough before, this is 
just too dangerous.  For your sake and your friend's, we can't let you 
get any further involved."  Mulder had pushed himself on to his 
feet, not looking quite steady but looking very determined.  The sun 
had shifted to the front of the house and the kitchen was shady, lit 
only by the fluorescents that made his eyes look shadowed, 
exhausted.  He must have been at least as tired as he looked, but his 
expression was set in stone.  Scully had withdrawn from all of it and 
was packing up her medical kit.  Mulder forestalled me by walking 
back into the living room, picking up the files and papers that 
Scully had left when she saw my e-mail.  

I could feel this ill, angry tension in my stomach, fury at them, 
frustration.  I reached over and grabbed Scully's wrist.  

"So that's it?  You call me and ask me to babysit and then apologize 
and I send the bill for my mirror?"

"That's right, Emma.  That's it exactly."  She twisted her wrist free, 
but carefully, gently.

"Like hell!  Like hell, Scully!  I'm not here to pick up the pieces, I . . . 
I . . ."  I was sputtering.  It wasn't right and it wasn't fair, and I 
didn't have a leg to stand on.  They'd only ever let me in because I 
had guilted and pushed.  If they thought they had a reason they 
could push me right back out.

"Scully, listen, you're right, I'm sorry, you don't have to take me 
along.  And it may be dangerous, but I already know enough to get 
me in trouble but I don't know enough to keep me out of it.  Jerry's a 
friend, I mean. . . I might be able to help with. . . with the press 
and all."  I swallowed and fished in my head for something more 
solid than that  That was so thin it was anorexic.  Scully knew it, too.  
I could hear Mulder dragging that huge briefcase after him as she 
smiled consolingly at me.  I was totally at sea now, I'd played my best 
cards just to get this far, and after all that had happened today I just 
wasn't ready, couldn't think.  I didn't have anything left in reserve.

"You've come up with better in the past, Emma.  I am sorry we 
dragged you into all this, sorry about this morning."  She put a hand 
on my shoulder and I just felt sick and furious and used.  "You did 
me a favor today, you have no idea how big a favor.  I know it 
doesn't seem that way right now, but we're doing you a favor."

She turned back to her kit, securing the last few tools and closing it.  
Mulder was leaning in the hallway, looking tired and ready to go.  
Scully pocketed the two Dramamine she'd found, glanced at me 
almost apologetically.  She batted Mulder's hand off the briefcase, 
growling something about him undoing her hard work, and picked 
it up as well.  He nodded and got the door for her.  I followed, 
watched from my front door as they got into their plain blue car, 
her behind the wheel, and left.  They didn't even look back at me, 
the bastards.  I stepped back and slammed the front door so hard I 
could hear the living room windows rattle in their casements.  
______

I stalked back into my kitchen, stared around, grabbed their mugs 
and slammed them, too.  Right through the bathroom door, into the shower,
where I could get good follow through on it.  They made a nice shatter
against the tiles of my ruined bathroom.  I wanted to throw them at Mulder
and Scully.  I grabbed my jacket and keys and deserted my damn, ruined,
bloody house for my car.  Hours and hours, revving it up and tearing down
every road I was sure the cops never scanned.  I veered all over those
roads, scared I-don't-know-how-many  safe drivers, and ran my gas tank out
to fumes.  I must have taken years off the life-span of my transmission. 
I could hear the gears grind as I slammed them through speed shifts and
passed on solid lines on curves.  

It took an effort, but I was polite to the attendant at the gas station.  
I bought a six-pack to make up for any little nastiness that slipped 
past me.  And since I had them, well. . . when I finally pulled back 
up in front of my house I had four empties and an empty, lonely 
feeling in the pit of my stomach.  It was so dark out.  I hadn't turned 
on my porch light and the street lights were in front of other 
peoples' houses, and that seemed right somehow.  I tucked my bag of 
empties under my elbow, my last two cans dangling from my left 
hand.  It took me forever to find the lock.  I was having trouble 
keeping my balance in the dark, and started giggling when I missed 
the lock the sixth time.  I hadn't realized how much stress I'd been 
under. . . I mean, well. . . maybe I was feeling a little woozy.  When 
I got the key in the lock and turned and pushed through I almost 
lost my balance.  I stumbled up against the wall on the right, and 
sagged to the floor, giggling and sobbing and trying to catch my 
breath.  The cans went rolling across the floor and rattling into the 
next room.  

It was so dark.  Only the faintest hint of light worked its way into 
my hall, and it was a long time before I realized that I was seeing. . . 
feet.  Right in front of me.  The hand that grabbed the front of my 
sweater felt huge, the knuckles hard against my breastbone.  One 
finger, rough, touched my lips, freezing the scream on them, and a 
soft, hoarse whisper rasped my ears. 

"Quiet, quiet little lawyer.  No one would hear you, but me, and I'm 
sensitive."  The finger left my lips and traced my cheek, into my 
hair, back down my throat, along the collar of my shirt.  I felt sick 
horror trill along the insides of my thighs and into my belly.  I 
couldn't think, I wanted to kick him, scream, thrash, and I hung 
there in terror, trying hard just to breathe.

"Huh, whuh . . ."  Oh god, I couldn't even ask what he wanted.  The 
sobs welled up in my throat.  I wanted to puke I was so terrified, I 
wanted to wet myself.  Another sob choked me as his hand closed 
over my breast, tracing my shirt, my sweater.  I felt his skin against 
mine, rough fingers on my chest, as he shoved a piece of paper 
under my bra and patted my breast again.

"It's all right, sweetheart.  You just tell Agent Mulder he can find 
me, or I'll find him.  Tell him I'm looking forward to  . . . meeting 
him."  His breath was hot in my ear, and his voice was the call of 
every nightmare I'd ever known.  When he released me and stepped 
back, I sagged to the floor.  Shame washed me as my bladder finally 
let loose, and I huddled, wet and sobbing, on my floor.  The sound of 
footsteps on broken glass was in my kitchen, then the door opened 
and closed.  

I didn't know anything for a long time then.  I came to myself 
huddled naked in my shower upstairs, in water so hot it scorched 
my skin.  Sobs still wracked my chest, and I must have sobbed a long 
time from the aching pain in my ribs and throat.  When I knew I 
was hearing myself I sobbed harder, but made no sound.  My throat 
was raw and shot pain through my head.  When I finally slapped 
the water off and crawled out, I found my clothes in a reeking heap 
on the floor.  I could not recall having left them there, or climbing 
the stairs, or how every light in the house came to be on.  

My back was against the wall when I edged past those clothes.  The 
smell of them made my guts twitch, the smell of my urine, and I was 
sure I could smell him on them.  I turned and fled to my bedroom, 
gagging and tearing open my drawers, yanking them free to spill 
clothes all over the floor.  I fell down trying to put on my jeans, the 
rug was rough on my butt.  I hadn't stopped to pull on undies, but I 
knew if I tried to get out of my jeans and do it right I'd fall apart, 
apart, never be able to do what I needed to do.  I pulled them on so 
hard it hurt and buttoned my fly and snatched up a shirt and pulled 
it over my head.  I had to try again and again to get it right, my 
hand kept getting trapped in the collar.  I couldn't breathe, panic 
choked the air in my chest, sobs threatened again and I choked and 
crawled to the phone, curled by the bed and tried to call the only 
people who might understand and could. . .not. . . remember their 
hotel.  I could see it but not its name.  When the operator asked if I 
wanted 911 I hung up.  

I half-crawled, half-ran back to the bathroom and used the toilet 
brush to turn through my clothes until I found the note.  My skin 
crawled as I reached for it, I almost started sobbing again.  Finally, I 
tore off toilet paper and picked up the note with the tissue wrapped 
around it.  A little triumph.  I drew a shaky breath and held the 
damn thing tight.  A little, little triumph.

I carried that note as though it was radioactive, down the stairs, 
picked up my purse, my keys.  The front door open, closed, down the 
steps to the sidewalk and into the car.  I jumped when the engine 
started.  I don't know how I got to their hotel without hitting 
anyone, but my car was still complete when I pulled in by their 
rooms.  Up the stairs, dragging myself along that iron railing, down 
the balcony to Mulder's room and pounding on the door and 
pounding and pounding and where was he?  I was sobbing and 
throwing myself against his door when the door next to his opened.  
Scully stepped out, puzzled, watched me a moment.

"Emma?"  Her voice was soft, somewhere between worried and 
aggravated.  How could I be thinking about . . . the sobs choked me 
again.  My arms hurt from pounding on his door.

"Mulder . . . answer.  Where are you?  Scully?"  I looked up at her as 
I slid down the door, too exhausted and scared and ill to stand any 
more.  Scully's arms were strong around my shoulders as she pulled 
me back to my feet, down to her room, in where it was bright and 
safe.  She pushed me back on the bed and settled my shoulders 
against her pillows.  "Scully, I have to tell Mulder . . ."

"Emma, Emma, calm down."  Scully was sitting next to me, holding 
my shoulders as I kept trying to sit up.  I'd didn't think she'd even 
been able to hear me, my throat was so raw.  Oh, I didn't want to 
start crying again.  I sucked in shaky, hard breaths and held still, 
made myself hold still, while she watched me, taking in the wild 
hair, the loose shirt.  My face must have been puffy and dreadful.  I 
was starting to get control, more because I was too exhausted to 
panic any further than anything else.

"Scully. . ."  She leaned close.  I don't think she could hear me any 
other way.  I could smell her shampoo, so clean, so different from 
his sharp sweat.  "I have to talk to Mulder, Scully.  He told me I have 
to tell Mulder."

"Who, Emma?  Tell me, you can tell me."

"Where's Mulder?"

She sighed.  "I gave him something to help him sleep.  It's going to 
take an awful lot to wake him up.  You can tell me, it's all right, you 
can tell me whatever you could tell him."

I could hear my own breath, harsh, panting, as I struggled up and 
grabbed my purse and dumped it out.  She must have thought I was 
mad, I was shaking and pointing at that note, among all the things 
I'd spilled from my bag.  Scully reached over with a pencil and drew 
it towards her with the eraser, worked it open and read it, her eyes 
growing wide and worried.

"Where did you get this Emma?  What happened?  What happened to 
you?"  Her voice told me she already knew what had happened to 
me, she had no doubt, but needed me to tell her anyway.  She sat on 
the foot of the bed and leaned close to hear my hoarse whisper.

"Scully, he was in my h-h-h-house when I got home.  He t-touched 
me, here . . . " I stroked my hand up my chest, to my throat, let it rest 
there where I could feel my own warm pulse racing.  "H-he told me 
I had to tell Mulder, had to give him that."  I pointed at the paper 
she held.  Had to say . . ."  The words were lodged in my head, but 
didn't want to be said.  "Had to say, he was looking forward to m-
meeting him, that Mulder needed to find him or he'd find Mulder."  I 
finally gasped my words out and stopped, biting my lip until it hurt, 
arms wrapped around my ribs.  Scully stared at the paper, looked at 
me.  She finally swallowed and got up.  She fished in her luggage 
until she found rubber gloves and a baggie, walked back over 
pulling the gloves on.  I watched her fold the message up and put it 
away.  She put it to one side, fished some more, found a bottle and 
came back with it and a glass of water.  

"Here, these are the same pills I gave Mulder, they won't hurt you."  
I looked up at her, my hands clenched together between my thighs.  
I tried to unclench them, tried to reach.  Scully finally helped me, 
helped me get my trembling hand to my lips with the pills, helped 
hold the glass still.  They stung going down, pills and cold on my 
throat.  I finally nodded.  She brought a washcloth to wipe my face, 
and helped me under the covers of her bed.

"You'll stay here tonight.  I'll call the police, you just go to sleep.  
I'll be here, you won't be alone."  She pulled the covers up to my 
chin.  "Emma, I need to go check on Mulder, I need to go make sure 
he's okay.  I'll come back in just a minute, I won't leave you, I'll 
come back."  Her voice was soothing, I nodded and curled my knees 
up to my chest, lay still while she made a phone call, another.  I felt 
waves of dark wash through me, she was going out.  I fought my 
eyes, pulling them back open until she finally walked back in, 
locked her doors and came back to the bed.  She sat and stroked my 
hair, telling me she was there, and I let go and slipped under at last.
________________
Cont.

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Corpse 10/?
Date: 21 Jun 1995 00:31:53 GMT


Corpse 10/?

Fox Mulder, Dana Scully and the X-Files property of Chris Carter,
Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  Emma Courtland, her town and everyone
but Mulder and Scully are mine, and not to be used without asking - and
receiving - my permission.  I used Mulder and Scully without, but I'm not
getting any money.  Hopefully I'll keep getting email!  Thanks to all of
you who wrote with comments and advice.  Oh yeah, and threats!  They go
down beautifully with the morning coffee.  That list of the 100 worst
country western titles, and the short story that featured me as a
character are permanently part of my files!  

Surprise! I'm posting a few hours early!
__________________

I woke up late, to a pounding headache, sore throat, and a deathly 
awful taste in my mouth.  I lay there a while, confused and 
wondering where I was and who I'd partied with and hoping I'd 
remembered a condom.  Then I saw a woman's suit hanging in the 
suit bag on the door and I remembered that a condom wouldn't have 
helped me.  I sat up with what would have been a shriek if my 
throat hadn't been sandpapered by my sobs the night before.  I was 
still in my clothes, and the reflection I saw in the mirror across the 
room was wild-eyed, hair every which way.  The jeans were chafing 
without underwear, as I was uncomfortably aware when I crawled 
out of bed and staggered to the bathroom.  I nearly tripped over a 
blanket, strewn over the chair where I suppose Scully had spent 
the night.

I rinsed my face and wet my hair back.  I could see scratches on my 
face and neck.  They looked like they were from a fingernail brush.  
I shuddered at the faint memories of trying to get clean, of 
scouring and brushing, of soiled clothes and fleeing my own 
house.  My eyes were desperate and puffy when I looked again, and 
I saw things no scrubbing would ever erase.  I heard a noise in the 
room and nearly jumped out of my skin until I realized it had to be 
Scully.  I dragged myself out there, and shivered at the surge of 
warm relief I felt on seeing her, even though I knew what I would 
see.  

She looked tired, though not nearly as bad as I knew I looked.  From
the way she worked her shoulders her neck was stiff, and the jeans 
and FBI Academy sweatshirt she wore really wrecked her cool, 
together Secret Agent image.  I smiled.  It felt like my face would 
crack, but I had to smile at the idea of Scully in those sixties suits 
and stuff from the reruns of the old TV shows.  She finished 
working her neck and looked at me, eyebrows up, clearly wondering 
how I was doing.

"Morning, Scully.  Thanks for looking after me last night."  My 
voice was. . . sad.  Really, really sad.  Absolutely shot.  She could 
only hear me because there weren't any other noises in the room, 
I'm sure.  I could see her suppressing a slight smile, and I knew the 
feeling.  Noisy, yammering Emma with that little mouse voice?  The 
last time I'd had laryngitis my friends had told me the only thing 
worse than me with my voice was me without my voice.  Truly 
pitiful.

"I just rousted Mulder out.  I expect room service will be up with 
coffee and breakfast by the time he's ready and over here.  I didn't 
think either of you would feel much like sitting in the coffee shop."

"Thanks."  God, if this kept up I'd just write out flash cards to use 
instead of making people read my lips.

"I hate to make you talk with your voice like that, but I want you to 
tell me and Mulder, both, exactly what happened last night."

God, she had to remind me.  I felt the anxiety and fear twist me up 
again.  I was across the room so fast, and grabbing her arm.  
"Scully," all my breath behind that hiss that was the loudest I could 
manage.  "Don't make me go home, don't leave me alone, please 
please. . ."  She was patting my hand, trying to break in.  She 
finally just talked over me.  Not hard to do just then.

"Emma, no one's going to leave you alone.  You're scared.  Just calm 
down  We'll talk about what happened, figure it out."  The knock at 
the door stopped her.  My heart was in my throat, but she answered 
bravely, let in the tray of coffee, donuts, fruit, and tipped the 
harmless waiter.  She was right about the timing.  We'd just poured 
our coffee when Mulder knocked and let himself in.  He looked a 
little better rested, a lot less pale, but preoccupied as hell.  The look 
he gave me was worried, but he was polite enough - or hungry 
enough - to let us get our food and to grab a couple donuts and some 
coffee before he tried asking questions.

He took a big bite of powdered sugar donut, licked off all the powdered 
sugar except a spot at the corner of his mouth, and started.  I knew 
it was coming.  I gulped my bite, chased it with hot coffee to distract 
myself, and waited for him to walk me back through hell.

"I'm sorry I wasn't awake for you last night, Emma.  I hear you had 
a bad time of it."  I nodded, appreciating what he was up to with his 
innocuous little comments.  His voice was gentle and calm.  He was 
watching to gauge my mood.  "Scully said you were terrified when 
you showed up last night.  She told me what you told her, but I think 
we both need to hear it again.  Can you tell us what happened?"  

I took a breath that rattled in my chest, it went so deep.  I knew 
what they wanted from me, and wanted to get it over with.  "Where 
do you want me to start?"  He started a little at the hissing whisper 
that was left of my voice.  A faint, slightly guilty look to Scully.  Did 
that man feel guilty over everything in the world?  

"You left yesterday, and I was kind of mad.  I went driving, couple 
hours maybe.  I drank some beers.  It was late, full dark, when I got 
home.  I didn't leave the porch light on, and you know there aren't 
any street lights close."  They nodded.  They were both leaning in 
close, to save me raising my voice as much as possible.

"I went in, and shut the door.  Maybe I was a little drunk.  I was 
sitting on the hall floor, and he was waiting for me."  Mulder 
twitched.  Scully sat back with a look on her face that was way too 
controlled.  I suddenly remembered what Jerry had said about her 
being abducted, looked to her and saw sympathy and carefully 
hidden fear.  "He. . . pulled me onto my feet.  He was fondling me, 
pushing against me.  I was so scared."  I didn't look at Mulder.  I 
didn't want to think about the things I'd said to him.  "He shoved a 
note in my bra, and told me I had to tell you."  Okay, think hard, 
they'd want the exact words.  Scully had poured a glass of water and 
handed it to me.  I gulped gratefully, closed my eyes a moment, saw 
him, a darker shadow against shadows, heard him.  "He told me . . . 
told me that Mulder could find him, or he'd find Mulder.  He called 
you 'Agent Mulder.'  He had this low, horrible whisper of a voice, not 
like a real voice at all.  He said he was looking forward to meeting 
you.  He said I had to tell you that and then he dropped me."  I 
sniffled.  My nose was all stuffed with snot and my eyes were 
watering.  Mulder put a box of tissues on my lap, and I wiped my 
eyes and blew my nose. 

"I was so scared."  My voice broke.  You could barely hear it, but it 
broke.  "I was so scared.  He let go and I just curled up."  I felt like I 
was confessing, like now I'd started I wanted it all out, all out of me, 
no matter how ashamed or stupid I felt.  "I wet myself I was so 
scared.  I heard him go out the back and I ran upstairs and I had to 
get clean, had to clean him off me."

Scully leaned in, put a hand on my knee.  Mulder was watching me 
with concerned eyes.  "Emma, did he hurt you, touch you besides 
what you said?"

"You mean was I raped?  No."  I whipped my head back and forth.  
"He didn't hurt me.  I was just so scared, and I picked that note up 
with the toilet paper, and I came here, and you were asleep, and 
Scully . . ." I was starting to choke up again.  I didn't want to and I 
was doing it anyway.  Mulder scooted his chair in closer.  Scully put 
an arm around my shoulder.

"It's all right, Emma.  It's okay to be scared.  You were very brave, 
you did just right."  His voice was so sure, so soothing.  Scully was 
holding my shoulders tight, letting me know I was not alone, I was 
safe.  

"I feel so stupid.  He didn't even hit me and I'm so scared . . ."

"No, no, you have every right to be scared."  I looked up at him.  He 
meant it.  "You were very brave.  We're both glad you weren't hurt."  
He looked over my head at Scully, a worried, sad, relieved look.

I sniffled disgustingly, a nasty, wet sniffle, and forced a smile.  "You 
can't get rid of me now.  I'm too scared not to tag along.  If I have to 
see this guy again, I want it to be with you two in front of me."

I could hear Scully snort.  Mulder gave me a grin, a little admiration 
maybe in there with the humor.  Scully let go and settled back into 
her chair.  This time Mulder got me the water.

"Really, you can't ditch me.  Don't leave me alone.  I mean it.  I'm 
afraid he'll come back."

"That's not his pattern, Emma.  You know that."

"Yeah, well, little girls aren't his pattern either.  Look, I've got a 
guest room and a fold-out couch.  Please, please, I wasn't in the way 
before, I won't be in the way now, but I'm scared.  If you aren't 
there, what if he comes back?  He isn't playing by the rules.  He's 
not.  You know he's not.  I don't want to die like that."

"We could get you a police guard.  Step up patrols.  You can stay 
with family."  Scully didn't sound convinced by her own 
suggestions.  I suppose the look I gave her could be described as 
withering.

"Yeah, and temporary restraining orders keep guys from blowing 
away their girlfriends.  Look, you two know I'm right.  This isn't 
some stunt, please."  I didn't try to hide that little pleading note.  
They were talking in looks again, but I could read this one loud and 
clear.  When Scully finally nodded, and Mulder's face relaxed from 
its guarded look, I knew I'd have guests that night.  And I let out the 
long, shaky breath I hadn't known I'd been holding.

__________________________________

Mulder and Scully checked out before 11:00, saving us taxpayers the 
cost of another day's hotel bill.  And then we went to spend the day 
with the cops.  I don't know how many times I told my little story.  
By the time I was done my voice was gone, I was writing my 
answers on a legal pad, and it all felt like it had happened to 
someone else.  The next time someone tries to lecture me about 
desensitization I'm going to listen more closely.

My federal house guests had disappeared into the bowels of the 
police station when the locals started repeating the same questions 
they had already covered ad nauseum.  I didn't mind - much.  I 
understood that they had other stuff to do besides hold my hand at 
the cop shop, although I was awfully, awfully glad to see them when 
I was finally cut loose at about two in the afternoon.  They were in a 
little office the cops had cleared for them, reviewing the autopsy 
reports on Sally McCormick and Tommy Dalbert and a batch of 
people who I'd never have had the chance to meet.  

Scully handed me a cup of coffee when I had slung myself into one 
of those cheap wood-and-vinyl, twenty-year-old chairs you only 
find in places like that.  The coffee was horrible and I drank every drop 
so it couldn't spill on anything it would eat a hole through.  She'd turned 
back to Mulder and the two of them were conferring, head to head, 
over some kind of lighted table.  When I drifted over I saw rows of 
fingerprints and smudges, and frustrated looks on their faces.

"Which are which?  You two don't look happy."  They must have 
made out the hiss of that question.  Mulder tapped the top row of 
smudges, face drawn up into a disappointed frown.  

"These are the best we could get from your note."  He pointed at a 
line of smudges with only a fraction of whorl clear.  "There weren't 
any clear prints on the back door he broke in through.  Nothing 
anywhere else - I'm afraid your house is going to be a real mess."  
He looked apologetic.  "We couldn't get anything at all from the 
body."  A look of real pain flickered over his features.  "And all this 
is the most solid stuff on any of these cases we've seen so far."  He was 
running his hand back through his hair.  With a nervous gesture 
like that, I could see why he kept it short enough not to ruffle 
easily.

Scully was looking over notes in a hand I recognized from the notes 
that had been piled up in his room.  A piece of paper was carefully 
weighted on the table above his notes.  It looked like a copy of an old 
newspaper.  Standing next to Scully, I could see a clipped column, 
part of a masthead, Vin- something.  It was a picture of a pretty 
young girl, a story about a missing child.  I swallowed.  The paper 
was from a copier, not yellowed, but I didn't really need to see the 
name of the girl to know how old that article must be.  And scrawled 
across it, cheap pen and writing so messy it must have been with 
the person's - man's - wrong hand: "I understand."  

I put my coffee cup down with a trembling hand and stepped back.  
Mulder's back was still turned, to look at the fingerprints that 
couldn't help him, and I was somehow glad that he couldn't see that 
note for at least those few minutes.  Scully looked over her shoulder 
at me, curious then understanding.  When she looked back to the 
notes all I could do was wonder how anyone could do this job, hunt 
people who did this kind of thing.  I had to force myself to step back 
up and read over her shoulder.

Longhand outline of a man's life, his mind, what he wanted in 
nightmare details and clinically cool language.  I skimmed bits of 
what Fox Mulder had written.  The killer was certainly in at least his 
mid-thirties judging from the earliest crimes, probably forty to 
late-forties.  Physically, strongly built, at least six feet tall - the 
height was a detail marked in over the line and I knew it was my 
description that gave that.  Caucasian.  Had been abused, had had at 
least one sibling, probably a brother, sibling(s) probably dead (How 
could he know?  Somehow I didn't question it.)  Almost certainly 
lived with his father and was abused by him, judging from the 
victims.  May have killed his siblings, very likely killed his father.  
Then Mulder started embroidering.  Father probably fixated on 
UFOs.  Son certainly fixated on UFOs, choosing his hunting grounds 
from UFO hot spots.  Mulder suggested that earliest killings may 
have been in Roswell and of an atypical pattern, therefore 
unidentified as part of this man's string of victims.  The killer was 
highly intelligent, but unlikely to be credentialed.  His pattern of 
kills made it unlikely he had stayed in one place several years as 
required for college or a professional position.  

He chose his victims based on physical similarity to his father, and 
to either himself or his brother.  He may have stalked them, though 
the police had no record of stalking reports from the victims.  Lack 
was possibly the killer's care, possibly societal expectations, since 
Mulder felt strongly that the killer chose his targets carefully.  
Killer was obsessed but capable of deviating from his pattern.  

I already knew the stuff about how he changed his name, burned 
his houses, moved on, always moved on.  Then Scully hit the next 
page of notes.  Mulder's handwriting was a little messier, this was a 
rougher draft.  The killer was recreating alien abductions.  Some of 
his. . . torture. . .was well known from popular books.  A lot of it 
was highly detailed and not well known at all, requiring deep 
familiarity with abductions and current theories.  

Innovative, although relatively crude (relative to what?) methods used 
to simulate the damage done to abductees.  I could hear Scully swallow 
as she read this.  An attached forensic report detailed a lot of it, 
detailed how various pathologists, including Scully, thought the . . . 
simulations had been done.  I felt my stomach turn as he discussed 
Dremel tools, sanders, micro-drills, tools for carving stone, 
generating electrical currents, heat.  I blinked my eyes into focus 
and kept reading, feeling ill.

Reasons.  Mulder had started loosely, with what seemed obvious to him.  
The killer was killing those responsible for his abuse, his pain.  What 
had Mulder been thinking when he wrote this stuff?  The pen point had 
dug into the page, tearing through the paper in some places.  Lines 
were scratched out with big, messy stokes that bled ink.  I could imagine 
his hands, black with the smeared ink after writing this stuff.  The 
killer, beaten by his father, and Mulder speculated the father had killed 
the sibling, probably by accident.  This was underlined, and margin 
notes highlighted it as an emotional crisis point.  From the obvious he'd 
gone to the murky.  The alien abduction stigmata was how Mulder 
referred to it.

A long paragraph on demonic possession theories on the top of the next 
page made no sense until I saw the line below it.  The reported number 
of possessions was almost identical to the number of alien abduction 
cases reported, with similar patterns of abuse occurring.  I felt the 
sweat on my palms, glanced up to see Mulder standing at the table now, 
sorting through files of their "possibles."  The abuse inflicted by this 
killer was brutal.  Flayed sections of flesh, chemical burns, heat burns, 
worse.  All designed to mimic alien abduction cases and excruciatingly 
painful to a live person.  Mulder was theorizing the abuse was somehow 
structured as part of an elaborate delusion, with the killer either 
imagining himself alien, or acting on behalf of the "delusional (?)" 
aliens.  And a note at the bottom, referring to another file.  I leaned 
over and found the file he had cited, found a crumpled flyer for some 
convention on UFOs, articles listed, one by M.F. Luder highlighted.  I 
hated the New York Times acrostic, but even I could figure that one out.

A second note was paper-clipped to it.  Messy, scrawled handwriting, like
the writing on the article about Samantha Mulder.  "Why did you stop
looking?  She's still out there."  The page was torn and wrinkled, and I
knew it had been balled up.  Another old, dated, page of notes caught my
eye in the file.  Sun flooded through the venetian blinds behind me,
heating the room, warming my back almost uncomfortably, but chills ran up
my spine when I saw that note, from nine months ago.  Mulder had been
doodling little space ships across a sheet of paper.  I 
recognized his tight pen lines on the page, and then three towns 
written down, fast and messy, as though he'd written them without 
looking at them, reading something else.  We were at the top of the list.  
I looked up to meet his eyes, watching me.

"You knew."  I barely made a sound.  If he hadn't been watching me 
he'd never have noticed it.

But he nodded at me.  "I wasn't sure.  I didn't *know*.  But . . .  I was 
pretty sure.  And there was no way to warn anyone."  I stared at 
him.  Surely he could have told someone.  But what could he have 
said?  Be careful, I'm sure a UFO serial killer will drop by in the next 
year?  He was right.  There was no way to warn us, only be ready to 
try to pick up the pieces.  

Scully had glanced at us, but was chewing on a pen, reading the 
notes they had from traffic reports.  There were a lot fewer of them, 
and Mulder's notes were all over them, but still entirely too many. 
He sagged into the chair across the table from her and ran his 
fingers back through his hair again until the bangs stood up.  His 
garish grey and red and orange tie stood out in the drab room.

The files spread in front of him had notes on them.  He slowly separated 
out about a dozen files and tossed them carelessly into the middle of the 
table.  Scully looked up at them,at him.  He was looking at the nine he 
had left.  He'd dismissed the dozen on the table.  She paged through them,
looking up at him quizzically from time to time, obviously wondering why
he had discarded them.

He'd laid his nine out in three rows of three, totally oblivious to the 
looks Scully was giving him.  Slow, drifting motion of his hands over 
the files.  There were pictures on some, and police artist sketches on 
others.  Fox Mulder stood there, tugging on his lower lip and staring at 
each of them.  Every so often he'd reach out, page through some notes.  
And he pulled one out and tossed it with the dozen on the table.  Pulled 
another.  Scully must have had enough because she cleared her throat, 
and he looked up with startled, hazel eyes ro find her staring at him.  

"I know you're eliminating files, Mulder.  Do you want to share why?"  
The smile she gave him took the sting out of words, and he grinned 
back.

"Intuition?  I called the 1-900-psychic hotline?"  He looked down and 
pulled another, handing it to her.  She paged through it, confused.

"I don't understand, Mulder.  He's been in the right places, has the right 
experience to be able to do this, the right build, even the car with the 
crumpled fender."

"Which he crumpled on the corner of the house, I know.  But the house 
has a chunk out of the woodwork, and he. . . I don't know, Scully.  No, I 
do know.  I'm looking for this. . . matrix of things.  It's hard to explain."

"So try.  We're not stupid.  She may know how you work, but I don't and 
if you can catch this bastard I have a right to know how."  I leaned over 
to look at the six files he had left in front of him.  "You pulled a bunch
of them, why?"  He might have gotten offended if I hadn't sounded so 
pitiful, hissing my questions, but he took mercy on me.

"He's choosing his victims, so he comes in contact with people in the 
town where he takes them.  Now, he might be driving in from 
another town, like a salesman with a regular territory."  He tapped a
file.  "Or he might be in town and have a lot of contact in or out of
work.  But he comes in contact often enough to look them over and get to
know 
them.  These people are not randomly chosen and if he's  sitting outside 
their houses, watching them, then it's because that's just what they 
expect him to do."  He started fanning files out.  "Telephone lineman, 
furnace repair, gas meter checker, carpet cleaning service, yard 
maintenance landscaper.  All mobile, all with access, and all of them 
have visited the Dalbert home within the last year.  And every former 
victim who kept records had some claim that any of these might have 
filled.  Although most of them didn't keep any real records at all, or they 
were missed on the initial search."  He sighed and tried to run his hands 
through his hair again, winced at the pain in them.  He finally crossed 
his arms in a nervous, edgy motion.

"It could be any of these six, but. . . "  He carefully moved three of them 
to his top row, and stood staring at them, tapping each one in turn like 
he was running through checklists in his mind.

"You know, I feel like something is tickling in my head."  He was 
smiling, but it was not a pleasant expression, almost a grimace.  
"We've seen something in one of these reports. . . "  He picked up a 
stack of paperwork that looked like a Congressional health plan 
proposal from its size.  Dropped it with a loud thud.  "Hell, let's get out of 
here."  I could see the frustration in the way he grabbed his jacket, 
shoved the notes in his briefcase, which Scully grabbed before he could 
get it with those cut up hands of his.  I took it from her, since my throat 
might be bad but my arms worked just fine.  Scully packed her own 
notes neatly, lining the edges up in her satchel and putting her pen in 
the little loop that the manufacturers put in for the few people who 
were that tidy.

Mulder was quiet, sullen in his irritation with himself when we left.  
Scully let them know we were on the way out, and I was about as 
noisy as anyone with full-blown laryngitis.  Scully had looked down 
my throat and pronounced I'd be fine in a day or two, but that I'd 
really strained my vocal cords the night before.  They followed me 
home, and I was careful not to lose them at any corner and to keep 
my passenger door locked.  I didn't seriously believe anyone, any 
particular one, would approach me today.  I just didn't want to take a 
chance.  And I knew damn well that after the message I'd delivered 
Scully had no intention of letting her partner go anywhere but the 
men's room on his own. 
_____________________________

=====================================================================
======

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Corpse 11/?
Date: 22 Jun 1995 05:24:56 GMT


Corpse 11/?

Dana Scully, Fox Mulder, Walter Skinner and the X-Files property of Chris
Carter, Ten-Thirteen, and Fox Broadcasting.  I confess, I used 'em without
permission.  Anyone who really wants me to stop can let me know.  I don't
make any money, and I like email!  Keep it coming! The story, Emma
Courtland, her town and everyone else in it are all mine.  Mulderangst
galore!  And to the person who threatened me with bratwurst and polkas -
you and the one who sent anesthesia threats are neck and neck in the daily
threat competition!

________________________

Fall breeze blew chill through the inch gap I left in my window, 
and the wheels slipped on  gold and brown leaves when I turned 
around corners.  It was late enough to have that gold glow in the 
air, and softening shadows at ground level.  Only the roof of my 
house was lit in direct sun when I pulled up, far enough ahead so 
there was room for the bureau car behind me.  I helped Scully get 
their bags and Mulder stood by, looking like he felt useless.  

We got Scully's stuff upstairs, where she started to put it away in 
neat stacks in the drawers and in the closet, as I'd seen at the hotel.  
I'd just tossed Mulder's cases into the living room by the fold-out 
couch, where he said they'd be fine.  I'd overlooked the downstairs 
bathroom, but now I had my broom out.  He joined me, looking 
sheepish at the sheer scale of the mess he'd left behind.  It was 
impressive.

His broom and my whisk broom gathering jagged crumbs of glass 
was most of the noise for a few minutes.  He was carefully picking 
up the big chunks when I glanced at him.  The bruises, stitches and
bandages made me wince with sympathy.  He moved his fingers carefully
enough that I knew his hands really hurt him.

"Careful, Scully'll chew us both out if you slice a finger off."  My 
voice reminded me of the sound the glass made under my broom.  He 
grinned.  "Mulder, do you do this a lot?  Not trash houses I mean, get 
hurt?"

He looked up at me, hand poised over a big piece lodged behind the 
toilet tank.  "The truth?  Lately quite a bit, not mirrors, but I get a 
little . . . damaged.  It's funny because I made it through most of the 
eighties in Violent Crimes and only got really hurt twice, and one of 
those was getting caught at the bottom of an FBI/NSA rugby scrum."

"So what happened?"

"I took over the X-Files.  I suspect Mr. Riggins told you about them."  
His look was a little sour.  I also didn't miss that he'd found out 
exactly who Jerry was at some point in the last day or so.  

"Weird shit?"

"Exactly."  His grin was back now.  "The weirdest.  The serial killers 
who nobody can figure, the aliens and werewolves and all the rest."  
He waved his fingers like a storyteller spooking five year olds, his 
hazel eyes sparkling, and I almost cracked up right there.  I 
probably would have really enjoyed all this , if the faint warning 
voice in the back of my head wasn't telling me that he'd actually 
found enough shit to register on the weird shit meter.  And he was 
here because now we were on that meter.

"You're going to catch this guy, aren't you Mulder?"  

"I'm going to do my best, Emma.  I'll do my best."  And we went back 
to sweeping up the glass.

We were about done when I heard the throat clear behind me.  I 
must have been a little more nervous than I'd thought.  I flipped my 
dust pan and broom across the room.  Mulder grinned, picked it up 
and handed it back to me.  "After UFOs, serial killers and the Bar 
exam you let Scully scare you?"

I looked at her over my shoulder.  She was giving a curdled look to 
her partner.  "It took me long enough to put those stitches in.  Nice, 
neat, tidy stitches that won't leave ugly scars.  If you pull them loose 
I am not going to be happy with you."

"You need to start doing embroidery, you'd be faster."

"You're courting death, Mulder."  She leaned in past me and flipped 
on the sink, hand under the spout and *wham*.  Sploosh! 

She was up against superior force and, unfortunately, I was in the 
middle.  When he turned the shower massage on her she squeaked 
and ducked.  

"C'mon Emma."  Her smile was struggling to get past the 
disapproving frown.  "As long as you're putting up with us, the least 
I can do is help with dinner.  And I'd like to take another look at 
that throat of yours."  She grabbed a towel off the rack and tossed it to
me, and we left him to finish up.

I must say, dinner a la FBI was a marvelous thing.  Scully and I 
rooted through my cookbooks and put together a menu we liked.  
Then we dug through my phone books until we were satisfied and 
handed a list and a phone number to Fox Mulder, who then 
proceeded to blow through four times their per diem on our order.  
No fuss, no muss, no pots, no pans.  Craig Claiborne, eat your heart 
out, and dinner will be here in less than an hour.

Since Mulder'd done his good deeds for the day, he got to crash in the 
living room and laugh himself silly in front of "Unsolved 
Mysteries."  Scully and I whiled away the time, cleaning fingerprint 
powder off a lot of my kitchen.  The stuff was insidious, like black 
corn starch.  We got the easy stuff, but the rest would wait for a 
rainy day when I wanted to waste time toothbrushing it out of the 
grout.  Not to mention the black smudges lurking all over my hall 
and living room, everywhere they hoped - wrongly - that the killer 
might have left a print.  Blecch.  Housework.  Another charge to 
chalk up to his evil slate.  And it was unusually boring, since I still 
couldn't hold up my end of a conversation.  I'd be back in full hue 
and cry in a day or two, but was still sounding thin that night.

Dinner was. . . . oooh, murg saag and raita and jasmine rice, carry-
out Indian!  We sat on the living room floor - somehow, the kitchen 
table didn't appeal for dinner - and stuffed ourselves.  I guess they 
had an agreement about shop talk over dinner, because there 
wasn't any.  Just poppadoms, tea, then those Indian desserts so sweet 
they'd blow cavities in stone.  Scully'd pulled "The Russians are 
Coming, The Russians are Coming," from my collection of 
fashionably little-known videos and Alan Arkin filled any thin 
spots in the conversation.  

The movie ended and the files came out, but with nowhere near the 
intensity of the daytime.  More idle speculation on how this guy 
made his money, how he paid for his house, than anything else.  It 
was all nice and safe and distant from violence but still close 
enough to work so they felt like they were earning their pay.  I 
tried to pay attention, but discussions of who received insurance 
checks and how you faked an identity bored me more than the 1995 
Tax Code.  About eleven I wished them goodnight and dragged my 
sorry self upstairs, where I crawled into my favorite flannel 
nightgown and tried to sleep with the lights off.  I finally had to 
turn them back on.  I kept feeling hands on me, thinking I smelled 
him.  When I finally fell asleep, I don't recall dreams but I doubt it 
was peaceful.

I woke up with my heart pounding, hands sweating, wondering 
what I'd heard that awakened me.  I finally identified pacing from 
downstairs, a steady, even, practiced pacing.  I wasn't the only one 
with trouble sleeping tonight.  Then a counterpoint, a soft shuffle 
of feet past my door and down the stairs.  Hell, if everyone else was 
up, I might as well be up too.  So what if it was three in the 
morning.  I almost barrelled down the stairs when I heard soft, just-
short-of-whisper voices downstairs, and all my small child intincts 
kicked into play.  

Curiosity is a dreadful thing.  It will put a person in really silly 
situations, like me.  I huddled up three steps down from the top, in 
the dark and the top of the stairwell, faintly striped by the light 
flooding through the bannisters from downstairs.  I could see 
Mulder's legs as he turned through the far reach of each pacing 
cycle, could hear both of them, her softer than him.  And I listened.

" . . .didn't mean to wake you."

"I know, don't worry about it.  I never sleep well unless I have my 
own pillow."

"Is Emma still asleep?  Bad enough to drag her into all this. . ."

A soft laugh.  "She practically forced her way into this at gunpoint.  
She was sound asleep when I went by.  I think I could hear little snores."

"From experience, don't tell her she snores."

"It's different from a woman than a man.  I guess she must have 
been worn out.  She's not used to this stuff."

"Just a nice, innocent lawyer?"  I'd figure out a way to get him for the 
ironic inflection on that.

Scully smothered a laugh.  "I wouldn't say that.  Emma's 'just a lawyer' 
the same way Richard Nixon was 'just a lawyer."  I think 'act of god' or 
'natural disaster' is closer to the mark."

Now his voice smiled.  "Not like you and me, huh?  Upstanding servants 
of law and order and we do crises every day, two before breakfast."  

"At least.  But we do them better on a full night's sleep."

"I got some sleep."  It sounded like a stock line.  Almost on the level 
of "hi, howya doing?"

Scully clearly thought the same thing.  "You got some sleep.  What, 
two hours?  Maybe?  I've still got the sedatives from. . ."

He cut her off.  "NO.  No.  Sorry, Scully, but I'd rather have the 
nightmares.  Besides, our friend broke in here last night, I'd rather 
not be out and drugged down here."  Oh god, the skin crawled up my 
sides and between my legs, I hadn't thought. . . 

"You don't really think he'll come back here?"  Thank you, Scully, 
thank you for asking.

"Maybe not, but I'm still not taking sedatives."  And thank YOU, 
Mulder.  I'd rather have a light sleeper downstairs with that kind of 
idea buzzing in my head.  I swallowed and breathed deeply, trying to 
slow my heart down again.

He'd stopped pacing, I could hear paper shuffling.  "Why don't you 
go back to sleep, Scully.  You could use a good night yourself, after 
the last few days."

"I'm not the one pacing."

"No, you're not."  The smile had left his voice.  "You've got the 
McCormick autopsy."  It wasn't a question.  There was a long pause.  
Her voice was too careful to be neutral when she spoke again.

"She's not as bad as the others.  Messy, but faster.  I can tell you what
I found, you really don't need. . ."

"I need to see it.  And she was faster because she wasn't personal."  
His voice wasn't angry, more resigned than anything else.  I heard 
a zipper I suppose was on her satchel, more paper.  It took what felt 
like a long while, listening to them while my bare ankles chilled 
and I wrapped my flannel and robe tight around me.  Then his voice 
came back, and put chills up my spine to match my ankles.  
"Strangulation."  A long sigh.  "Repeated.  She was probably 
unconscious during most of it.  He didn't take as long because she 
didn't mean anything to him, but I imagine he was there the other 
night, watching us find her.  Makes it pretty certain he had a 
brother instead of a sister.  Likely mom was dead or left.  Single 
father.  I doubt there were any women close to that household, or 
he'd be angry at them, too."  I could hear a pen scritching in the 
quiet of the house, before Scully spoke again.

"Mulder, I think you're right about this, but. . .  I mean, do you 
think it was like you and. . ."  It was quiet for a long time, longer 
than it had been before.  When he finally spoke again I had to 
strain to hear him.

"Like Sam?  No.  No, I think his father killed his brother.  He might have 
done it himself, but I just think. . . I think his father did it."

There was a rustle of fabric, different from the paper.  "Be careful, 
Mulder.  He's not like you.  Don't let him get into your head."  She 
sounded worried, very worried.  

"I know that.  Besides, my job is to get into his head, not the other 
way around."  The smile was back in his voice, but it didn't sound so 
easy now.  They were quiet again, reading from the sound of papers.  
Every so often one would ask for some memo or other.  Scully 
finally broke the silence.

"With what came back from the state police and the Bureau, and 
with Emma's description of height, we're down to six of the 
original twenty-three.  The sixprobables, and the three you picked."

"Not good enough.  He's still going to commit the one he's here for.  
And he may do more.  I know he's one of those three. . .  We have to 
stop him here, Scully."

"You think something's going to change?"

"It already has.  He's deviated for sport.  He's playing a game now, 
not just doing his ritual.  He'll play against us, or the local cops, 
anyone.  And he'll pick up the pace because he thinks he can get away 
with it.  Unless he gets set in a pattern, or makes a mistake, he'll be 
right."  Mulder's voice was clinical, detached.  Not like the day in 
the restaurant, predicting the brother, but chilling all the same.  
"If we miss him here, they'll never catch him.  He's been at it too 
long to make a mistake.  We need to catch him while he still has a 
pattern to follow, or no one will be able to predict him."

"What are you thinking?  Stake out your three?"

"He's too careful.  Smart.  He stalks his two main targets somehow, 
chooses them to fit his ritual.  And he's planned all of it, the blood 
you found on the bodies was smeared, not wicked away.  No fibres.  
Plastic wrap for them and dump them anywhere.  It's killing them 
that's the important thing to him, how he kills them.  He's acting out
some fantasy with the main ones, and he's religiously exact in how he
kills them.  He varies but. . . the main elements are all there.  God, I
can 
feel him in my head.  I know *what* he's doing, just not exactly how he 
selects them."

"Our victims had so little in common.  Some of them shopped in the 
same grocery store, but no real common patterns between them that 
the cops found."

"You mean besides things like they all had air conditioning or 
heating, but some lived in houses and some in apartments?"  
Mulder sounded exasperated.  

"Yeah, and two legs and two eyes. . . " Scully's black amusement 
seemed to break that mood.  When he spoke again he sounded 
absorbed in the problem, tangled in this puzzle.

"None of our three stand out.  Nothing specific, not UFOs or 
professions or anything besides mobile professions and bad luck.  
No one in all the towns or states of our murders, but one of them had 
to be.  One of them is faking a background, so well we can't tell the 
real one from the fakes.  So we have to distrust them all.  No real 
common ties between the victims.  I've been looking at traffic 
reports to find damaged vehicles around the right time for Tommy, 
and comparing them to damage from. . . .last year.  It's such a long shot,
trying to find that one truck.  Everybody out here has a truck."

"What makes you think it's a truck?  Why do you. . . "  Her voice 
trailed off.  No sound of papers or pens.  I was almost ready to dash 
for my room when she started again, sounding odd.  "Why didn't you 
turn around that night?  Just drive back into range and call?"

A deep breath.  "I. . . I froze.  Like I did in the woods.  I would have 
driven off the road if I hadn't been even more scared of that.  He 
didn't overtake when I dropped out of range.  He stayed on my tail. 
I remember those damn high beams in my mirror."  He sounded far 
away, distracted.  I could picture his eyes, wide and dark.  "He tailed 
me damn near to Selman's.  He finally pulled past when we caught 
up with a state trooper."

"Why didn't you tell me?"  The frustration with the worry sounded 
practiced.  He'd done this to her before.

"What?  Tell you that I didn't call because I had a hunch?  The 
heebie jeebies?  I was spooked?"  Frustration with something I 
couldn't quite read.  Just as practiced.  Another pause.

"Yes, call me because you were spooked.  You usually have your reasons.  
Haven't I listened to them before?"  She sounded angry and worried.

"Scully, I felt like he. . . was just waiting.  And after the notes this time 
and last time, he's getting closer to me while I get closer to him.  He's 
trying to get on the same wavelength with me, I can almost feel him 
doing it."

She was quiet for a long moment.  When she spoke next her 
voice was flat.  "You think you know which one of them it is, don't you."  
It wasn't a question.

"I don't have any hard evidence."

"That's never stopped you before.  Which one?'  Damn it, all I could hear 
was paper moving.  Why didn't one of them just say his fucking name?

"Did you ever get a clear look at the truck?  Or at him?"  She sounded 
distracted, like she was reading while she asked.

"No, not really.  It was too dark.  I only noticed the funny paint 
because of odd reflections when he passed.  And. . . well, I was 
trying to figure out what scared me about him."

"Even if it was just a hunch. . . Mulder, I've backed enough of your 
hunches in the past.  Tell me about it next time, okay?  Questions are 
one thing, but don't keep me in the dark."  It sounded like a long-
running point with them.

  It also ended their talk.  When I heard Scully walk out to the 
kitchen for water I finally crept back to my room and slept, but not 
very well at all.

____________________

I was up early.  It was more comfortable to get up than to lie there, 
imagining stealthy footsteps in my house.  As it turned out, not all 
the stealthy footfalls has been imaginary.  Mulder had been up 
before me, and long enough to have run, showered, shaved and 
dressed.  He was sitting at my table, writing notes, looking clean and 
innocent in his shirtsleeves.  Suit jacket and tie hung over the chair 
that nobody but my mother ever sat in.  

"Wow, how long have the "After Dark" people been making 
matching clothing?"  I fingered the heavy silk of the tie.  "It's a 
Lissajou tie, right?"  Nice, charcoal grey silk, with loud, neon 
patterns.  I hadn't known Mulder could copy Scully's Look.  I guess 
he saved it for special occasions.

I left him in peace while I made something a lot better than the 
instant coffee he was drinking.  I'm pretty sure he forgave my 
fashion critique when I put a mug of Guatemalan coffee in front of 
him.  I know he forgave me when I started breakfast and the aroma 
of cinnamon and French toast filled the house.  When he walked 
over to pour another cup of coffee his smile was wide and genuine.

"That smells great.  I didn't know you could cook."

"Why?  Just because almost everything you've eaten in my company 
was cooked by someone else?"

"Mm hmm.  That and the fact that your refrigerator isn't much 
better than mine."

I snorted.  "I know how to change the oil in my car, too.  That 
doesn't mean I ever do it."

"Point taken."  He leaned in to inhale French toast scent.  "I haven't 
had French toast in years.  The frozen stuff just isn't the same."

"You mom used to make it for you?"

The flicker of pain was off his face almost before I saw it.  
"Sometimes.  Mainly for my sister."

"Sam?"

The look he gave me warned me to let it drop.  It was probably just 
as well that movement from upstairs distracted us both.  I flipped 
the toast and Mulder poured another cup of coffee, dumping 
sweetener and cream into this one.  He must have practiced a lot, 
because when Scully finally showed up and gulped down half of it, 
she pronounced it perfect.

The toast got similar approval ratings.  There weren't any leftovers.  
The two of them were just topping off their caffeine levels when a 
cellular phone started chirping from the empty chair.  Mulder 
fished it out of his jacket pocket and opened it up.

"Mulder."  Whoever it was, Mulder suddenly sat up like he was at 
attention.   "Uh huh.  Yes sir."  He put his hand over the mouthpiece 
and mouthed a name at Scully.  She nodded, also sitting straight, as 
though the caller could see her.  I leaned over and asked her if it 
was the son of J. Edgar Hoover.  The look she gave me clearly 
regretted that I had my voice back, but she was too busy trying to 
puzzle out the conversation from just Mulder's half to put any 
serious *zing* on it.  

He was frowning and drumming his pen on the table.  "Yes sir, I 
have received one possible threat. . . .No, the person who found the 
first victim was used as a courier.  He made no contact with me."  
Scully's eyes went wide and she winced.  He made some kind of 
shushing motion at her.  I guess she knew what it meant.  "I'm sorry 
the local authorities interpreted it that way, sir," he went on after a 
moment.  "No, sir.  I. . .yes, I did suspect the second victim would be 
atypical.  . . .Yes, I mentioned that. . . .  They offered.  I don't think 
it's a good idea. . . . Because I think he'll leave, and I think we need 
to get him here.  He's deviating from his pattern, this may be our 
best opportunity.  . . .I understand, no I won't take risks."  Scully 
rolled her eyes.  Mulder made a sour face at her.  "Yes, she's right 
here . . ."  He offered the phone to her.  She looked at it like it was a 
scorpion, but she took it.

"Yes sir?  . . .Yes sir, he has.  . . . Yes sir, I have.  . . . No, we. .
. we're 
staying with Ms. Courtland."  Scully winced and held the phone 
away from her ear for a moment.  "Because we had reason to believe 
some contact might be made again, sir, and that our presence would 
not prevent that but could help the situation."  Mulder was half-
cracking up.  Scully was giving him the evil eye.  "Yes sir, she's 
been very cooperative, sir.  Very cool under pressure."  I took a 
little bow.  Scully looked like she'd enjoy driving her fork through 
my heart.  "No sir, she refuses protective custody and will not leave 
the area."  I'd have mouthed 'Damn straight' back to her, but Mulder 
shook his head at me.  "No sir, at this point I have to concur with 
Agent Mulder's assessment of the situation, sir.  . . .Yes, I'm aware of 
protocol in threatening situations, but no direct threats have been 
issued," she had her eyes screwed shut and her fingers crossed, 
"and I believe Agent Mulder has correctly surmised that he will 
become less predictable after this.  We may never be able to catch 
him if we don't catch him here. . . .Under advisement, sir.  . . .Yes 
sir.  I will sir, thank you."  

She disconnected with a huge sigh of relief.  

"Mulder, if you ever set me up like that again, I will make a special 
point of getting even, for the next year.  And you know I can."

"I'm sorry, I couldn't let him put a guard on me.  I have been 
careful and I will be careful.  Our man will take off if he does that."

"You don't know that.  And Skinner didn't promise no guard, he only
promised to 'take it under advisement.'  You really need a guard, you
know, and what was that about not being contacted?"

"Scully, listen to me.  Trust me.  I KNOW.  He will cut and run.  You 
said you would back my hunches, I've never been as sure of 
anything."  I'd been listening in wide-eyed amazement to this tissue 
of half-truths and wild speculations and just couldn't keep my peace 
any more.

"You mean, like you were about that truck?"  I bit my tongue the 
minute it was out of my mouth.  Bit it so hard I tasted blood.  But once 
a smart-ass, always a smart-ass, and it was too late to pull the words 
back.  The two of them swiveled to glare at me.  

"Snooping again, Emma?"  Scully's voice was low and dangerous.  
"We may need to put a bell on you."

I decided it was time to clear the table.
__________________

=====================================================================
======

From: livengoo@tiac.net
Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative
Subject: Corpse 12/?
Date: 23 Jun 1995 02:01:25 GMT


Corpse 12/?

Okay, I'm never really sure what ratings apply to.  Suffice to say that,
at various times, Corpse features a fair amount of violence and profanity.

Disclaimer time!  Scully and Mulder and the X-Files property of Chris
Carter, Ten-Thirteen and Fox Broadcasting.  The Trouble with Tribbles
property of Paramount or Desilu or whoever, Emma and Jerry and Emma's
dinky town are all inventions of and property of Livengoo, as is the story
I've been glomming this board up with!

I love email and particularly threats.  C'mon, they help me wake up in the
morning.  Good for the creative juices.
Goo
_____________________________

By the time I'd finished Scully had headed upstairs to finish getting 
ready and Mulder was in the living room, busy on her laptop.  I 
drifted in behind him, testing the waters to see whether I could 
expect to be snubbed all day, since I didn't think they could just 
dump me now.  Mulder looked up from whatever he was up to, and 
gave me a somewhat sour grin and turned the computer so I could 
see it.

"Here, you'll just hover over my shoulder until you see it anyway."  
Registration numbers?  And descriptions . . . blue trucks.  Thirty 
blue trucks.  And six of them belonged to people on their list.  I 
glanced up at him.

"Mm hmm.  We're going to drive around and look."

"Easy as that?"

"Maybe, maybe not.  Even if we find it, what can we do about it?  
Following me and making me nervous isn't illegal.  There's no blue 
paint on Dalbert's car, no real way to tie it to the crime.  On the 
other hand, then we might be able to find a spot for a stake out.  Right
now I recall that country as too open.  Any car parked out there would
stick out. . ."

"Like a whore in church."  I sighed.  "Well, if you can find a good spot,
and you already think you know the most likely ones. . .  That's
something, isn't it?"

"Sure, if we find the truck.  If I were him, I'd have it in a garage, just to 
confuse things, if it's even registered.  He takes a risk of getting 
pulled over if it's not, but we've all talked our way out of tickets.  It 
might be worth the risk.  There's some other stuff I want to check 
out, too."

My doorbell rang before I could ask him what ever happened to law 
abiding citizens.  I found a cheerful, stocky cop on my porch, 
grinning like a fool.

"Ms. Courtland?  Nice to meet you. . . I'm Wallace Posner.  Chief 
asked me to drop by and stay with you folks today."

I could hear Mulder walk up behind me.  For that matter, I could 
almost feel him, kind of like a charge of static electricity.  His voice 
was low and entirely to polite to be pleasant when he asked Officer 
Posner why he was here and why he thought we wanted him to ride 
along today.  I could hear Scully rattle down the stairs, see Posner's 
eyes track her.

"Well, Chief Watson told me he talked with a Mr. Skinner at FBI, and 
they didn't want to send along a fibbie, pardon, but that the Chief 
thought it would be better if somebody stayed with you today.  Just 
show the local face, know what I mean?  Can I come in?"

I probably would have invited him in, if Mulder hadn't hung right 
over my shoulder like that.  Scully wasn't right behind me or 
anything, but I knew she was close by and definitely paying 
attention.  I was thankful when I heard Mulder start, and heard her 
cut him off, since I had visions of eternally pissed off cops and 
traffic tickets until the day I died.

"Thank you, Officer Posner.  That's very helpful."  Her voice was so 
chirpy she could have been related to Jiminy Cricket.  She'd stepped 
up next to me, and I backed into Mulder, forcing him away from the 
door so he couldn't fume in this poor kid's face.  Personally, I had no 
objection to having a practical and risk-averse local boy riding 
along with us.  About then I realized my mistake.

"Ms. Courtland was recently threatened, and we were very 
concerned about leaving her.  With you here I'm certain 
everything will go smoothly."  That duplicitous, sneaky, crafty two-
bit con-artist had hold of the schlep's arm and was leading him into 
my house.  Out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of Mulder's 
grin, as he reached for his coat.  It was a fait accompli almost before 
I knew it had happened, Posner parked in my living room with a 
cup of the leftover coffee in hand, Mulder and Scully in coats and 
dashing for the door, wishing me well like parents leaving the kid 
at daycare.  I confess to visions of stealing their car keys, and 
clapping them in leg-irons as I watched them drive off.

I turned back to my living room, and Officer Posner, who was sipping
coffee and watching Bryant Gumbel pretend to be something other than a
sportscaster.  He turned a huge and revoltingly wholesome smile on 
me, patted his sidearm and informed me that I was safe as houses.  I 
forebore telling him that this house had not proved particularly 
safe.

Posner hypnotized himself with daytime TV while I cleaned up the 
rest of the remains of breakfast.  When I walked back in he was 
goggle eyed in front of Sally Jesse.  I have no idea what topic she 
was covering.  Everyone in front of the audience looked like people 
I would normally avoid.  I skirted the set and unplugged my 
keyboard, lifting it carefully so I would not have to touch the 
stained keys.  He must have noticed me finally.

"Whew, what happened to that?  Looks like you spilled ketchup all 
over it."

I snorted.  "Agent Mulder.  He bled all over it."  Officer Posner was 
still goggling when I carried it out.  Half a bottle of hydrogen 
peroxide and I had it pretty clean, although some of the keys stuck.  
I called the mail order shop and ordered a nifty new board with all 
sorts of goodies, but this one would do until it arrived.

We'd moved on to Susan Powter when I carried my cleaner keyboard 
back and plugged it in.  Officer Posner assured me I wouldn't 
bother him as I keyed in my password, and started reading my e-
mail.  He was absolutely impervious to any notion that the problem 
might run the other way, and with the way I felt I was afraid that if 
I started on him I might wind up arrested for assaulting a police 
officer.  Besides, it was federal agents I wanted to assault.  The local 
traffic dogs would just be convenient targets.  Not worth it.  

Lots and lots of e-mail from the office.  Where did I put some file or 
other?  When would I come back and do the legal scut work?  The 
paralegals were getting tired of doing the nasty stuff that usually 
got delegated to associates, and my particular friend over at the 
Registry of Deeds missed my bright company at lunch.  I'd almost 
forgotten about my job in the last few days, as I gobbled vacation 
days and hung out with the fashionable crowd of killers and feds.  I 
wondered if there were jobs for dirt lawyers in D.C.

Jerry had written, of course.  The first five messages were too irate 
to be particularly coherent.  By the sixth message he was starting to 
get concerned again.  From the headnotes the ninth had come in 
while I was  . . .  chatting with the killer.  Yesterday's messages all 
had to be deleted, there were so many and they all said the same 
thing, begging me to write or call.  I glanced at the phone machine, 
suddenly aware I hadn't checked my calls in days.  Ooops.  The thing 
was blinking faster than it's little mechanism was built for.  I 
winced and read Jerry's most recent message.

FROM: IN%"JERRY_RIGG@TATTLER.TRIB"
TO: IN%"DIRTLWR@TIAC.COM"
SUBJ:  

Emma.  I know you're there.  I called the cops and 
they said that you and your new friends were all 
still alive.  They also said that you had been "contacted" 
by the killer.  Write me.  I've left notes for the 
Feds too.  I'm not mad about F.M., he sent mail, he 
explained, just write me.  NOW.  Give me an exclusive 
and I'll definitely forgive you.  Even if you already 
sold out to the locals, write me.  I'm worried.  I told 
you those two would get you into trouble.

Write me, Emma.  Now.

Jerry.

So I wrote.  I spent a couple hours explaining what had happened 
and soothing Jerry's ruffled feathers.  I moved from e-mail to the 
phone upstairs when I decided that it was too distracting to try to 
explain all this with Geraldo discussing hairpieces for genitals in 
the background.  I left Posner to the merkins and retreated.  No 
clicks or static on my line, and if I remembered my Miami Vice that 
meant I wasn't being bugged.  So I told Jerry about Mulder's 
hunches, and Scully's stitches, and the blood on the keyboard and 
how it felt to have a killer breathe in your ear and fondle you.  

And I cried again, but softly.  The wracking sobs never took me this 
time.  And Jerry wasn't mad, didn't yell.  He told me what he 
thought.  Told me about Dana Scully's being kidnapped, and what 
happened.  Told me about what his friend at the FBI had told him, 
about Mulder's home, his parents, his sister.  Told me why Fox 
Mulder felt like he could predict a man had been beaten as a child, 
lost a sibling, gone over the edge.  And this time I cried for Mulder 
and Scully instead of for myself.  And I told Jerry what I'd thought 
when I first met them, and what I thought last night, and this 
morning, and now.  We talked until I didn't have anything left I 
could put into words.  

When I finally hung up from my call with Jerry, the late-afternoon 
sun was full and golden through the windows, but the house was 
chill with the autumn cool.  It would be cold tonight.  It took an 
effort, but the little details of real life didn't go away because more 
interesting things were happening, so I called the furnace and air-
conditioner place and asked for someone to come out and turn my 
furnace on.  I might know how to do all kinds of things, but my dad 
had taught me early that plumbers and furnace men deserve to put 
their kids through college, too, and that the first time the toilet 
overflows or the furnace blows you stop squawking about their 
kids' tuition.  Having had my furnace blow out on a cold winter 
night, and my plumbing do terrible things on a hot summer day, I 
took his words of wisdom to heart.

The guy who answered the phone sounded frazzled, like half the 
town had called after the weather report promised sub-zero 
temperature tonight.  What excuse did they have for calling late? 
They hadn't played courier for a killer.  Lazy swine.  So my furnace 
man would be out late, but he'd be there.  

I went down to find Posner watching Power Rangers.  I missed 
Mulder and Scully, at least they played DOOM, or did stuff.  I hid in 
the kitchen, making a lasagna florentine to keep from having to 
talk to Posner and thought about what I had learned, and hedged all 
of it off in my mind so I wouldn't, for god's sake, say anything 
tonight about what I'd learned.  

Somewhere about six, as Posner switched to Star Trek and I got the 
garlic bread ready to go in the oven, the furnace man showed up.  
Posner came to the door and checked his ID.  Then I showed him the 
basement door and started my salad.  Not more than ten minutes 
later my wayward house guests finally returned, saving me from 
the dreadful spectre of dinner with Posner.  

"Hello!"  I suppose I sounded inordinately happy to see them.  They 
certainly didn't seem to expect a warm greeting.  "I'm glad you're 
back.  I've got dinner started.  Why don't you get cleaned up?"

They looked at each other like they expected booby traps in the 
bathrooms, but Mulder headed for the downstairs room, while Scully 
drifted out to the kitchen to wash her hands in the sink.

"Smells good, Emma.  We could have ordered out again.  You didn't 
have to cook."  She watched me tuck the garlic bread in the oven.

"It's no problem.  Officer Posner was busy watching TV, and I had 
nothing to do, so I made dinner."  I smiled brightly at her, with 
every guilt-inducing twitch I'd ever learned from watching 
younger cousins.  With a name like Scully, and the crucifix she 
wore, I figured I had a good chance of inducing guilt on the level 
requiring confession to resolve.  Scully licked her lips, peeked 
around the hall just long enough to gauge Posner's entertainment 
tastes, and came back trying not to giggle.  

Mulder walked in, shaking his head.  "You'd think everyone had 
seen 'The Trouble with Tribbles.'  I only wish I could forget the 
dialogue, so how does he sit there laughing like it's the first time 
he's ever seen it?"

"I don't know, Mulder.  Must be an X-File."  Scully had taken over 
slicing tomatoes for the salad and missed the look he gave her for 
that. 

Posner finally finished watching re-runs for the first time, and 
walked out to join us.  I was thrilled at the chance to share his 
scintillating company with them.  I was having so much fun 
watching them try to be polite to him, that I nearly jumped out of 
my skin when I heard footsteps on the basement stairs.  I'd 
forgotten about the furnace man.  Scully and Mulder didn't look 
much more calm when the door opened and he asked for a glass of 
water.  I turned to get it for him, and when I turned back Scully and 
Mulder were watching him like hawks, while Posner rattled on, 
and he was watching them right back.

He saluted with the glass.  "Heard about you two, here to catch that 
poor boy's killer."  His voice was deep, strong.  It cut through 
Posner's chatter like a knife, and Mulder went very still.  A shiver 
ran down my back.  Scully was staring at the man, and didn't 
untense when he finally turned and walked back downstairs.  
Posner, of course, missed all of it.  

Scully turned back to Mulder, met his eyes.  Something went back 
and forth between them, a lot of somethings.  I didn't get a chance 
to decipher it, however, as a phone at Posner's belt chirped.  We all 
reached for our cell phones before we realized it was his and not 
ours'.  

He flipped his phone open, started to greet whoever called, but cut 
off short.  We watched his eyes get wide and round, watched his 
mouth shape an "O", and a look of pride lodge on his blobby 
features.  When he disconnected he smiled triumpantly.

"I got to go, folks.  I don't think you'll be needing me no more.  
Sarge says we just arrested the killer!"  He spun on his heel, 
marched into the hall, grabbed his hat and jacket and we heard the 
door shut.

Scully stared at Mulder.  He stared back, then slowly shook his head.  
The chills ran up and down my spine, watching them.  I could hear 
movement from the basement and my stomach twisted.  Steps 
mounted the stairs.  The two of them turned to watch the door, Scully 
dropping back to the left, out of line with Mulder.  The door opened 
and he was standing there, three steps down, tool box in hand.  

"I heard they got the killer.  Could hear that young guy all the way 
through the floor.  I guess the big hunt's off."  He set his big, steel 
tool box on the floor and stepped up the last riser into the kitchen, 
stood there with his greasy hands, and watched us with open 
curiosity on his face.  Or rather, he watched them.  He'd just glanced 
past me on the way to Scully.  I could see him measure her against 
his own six foot frame.  I'd have guessed him at thirty pounds 
heavier than Mulder, and strong.  Strong enough to lift one-thirty-
five or one-forty off the floor.  Chills ran up and down the soft skin 
of my arms.  

He finished judging Scully, and didn't dismiss her when he looked 
over at me.  My heart stopped, and it took me a moment to realize he 
was asking to wash his hands at the sink.  I stepped out of the way, 
quickly.  I couldn't look away from him, but I heard the FBI agents 
shift, instinctively keeping a clear line of fire.  The kitchen had 
never felt small before, but when I backed up against the table and 
couldn't get out without crossing Mulder's line to my left,  I could 
almost feel the heat coming off the other bodies in that room.  

He turned from the sink, took in where we stood without surprise.  
His eyes settled on Mulder now, and he stepped towards him fast and 
held out his right hand.  I saw Scully's hand twitch towards her gun 
before she realized what was happening.  Mulder should have won 
an Oscar.  He reached out and shook hands without missing a beat.

"It's so good to meet you at last.  You'll probably be in town a couple 
more days, what with questioning the killer and all.  I'll make a 
special point of looking for you."  A shit-eating grin, and tendons 
stood out on the bastard's wrist.  That handshake had to hurt like 
hell.  It would have hurt even under the best of circumstances.  
With the stitches along the back of Mulder's hand, and the cuts, I 
didn't want to think about how it felt.  The big bastard let go and 
looked at his hand in unconvincing surprise, I could see red stains 
from where I stood, and he looked back at Mulder and smiled 
apologetically.  "Sorry, didn't realize you had a hurt paw."

Mulder's jaw was tight with clenched teeth, but he smiled back.  
"Quite all right.  I should watch out for traps more carefully."  He 
was edging back away from this man, small steps like he was trying 
to stop himself from doing it and couldn't.  He looked thinner than 
ever, next to the bulky build of the man who'd just wrung his hand.  
I could see stains on the bandages, feel Scully tense and angry next 
to me.  The bastard's smile was wider than ever as he let Mulder 
retreat those few steps.  

"Maybe you'll drop by and visit, keep a newcomer company.  I 
mean, now that the killer's caught and you'll have spare time."  
Friendly, neighborly tones, but not so different from the voice I could 
remember whispering from the dark.

He smiled around at us all again, dropped a written receipt, scooped 
up his tool chest.  "I know everyone'll feel so much safer.  Good to 
meet you two."  He gave a cocky little salute and was gone, footsteps 
sounding loud in my hall, and the door opening, closing, firm and 
steady.  Mulder was down the hall an instant later, while Scully 
dialed on her phone.  I stood at the end of the hall, vibrating with 
feelings I didn't even know how to name, watching Mulder look out 
my front windows, note a truck pulling off.  Behind me I could hear 
Scully introducing herself as me, thanking the person on the other 
end, wanting to talk to the supervisor of whoever had done the 
work on her furnace.  

I watched Fox Mulder stare out those windows while she talked.  
Watched him swallow convulsively a couple of times, both hands 
clenched on my white gauze curtains.  He left smudges of red on the 
fabric.  Scully's voice behind us was complimenting the supervisor 
on having such helpful, friendly employees.  I felt a hysterical 
laugh lodge in my throat at her words.  I don't think Mulder even 
registered what she was saying, his eyes were wide and dark, 
watching a road where that panel truck had long since ceased to be 
visible.

A pen scritched behind me.  Mulder finally turned away from the 
window.  He stared at me a moment, as though he were trying to 
remember who I was, then brushed past me to grab his brief case 
from the floor by the couch.  He yanked files out, spilling them 
every-which-way, and shuffling about ten of them to one side.  He 
was using his left now.  He must have finally realized how his right 
hurt.  It was curled tight up against his ribs, leaving little stains on 
his shirt.  It didn't take much to see which files he wanted when he 
tried to grab them one-handed.  I reached past and took them from 
him, meeting his eyes and nodding.  

We went back to the kitchen together, and he flipped on the all the 
lights at every switch we walked past.  The cold light of the ceiling 
fixture flooded the kitchen, hard and blue-white.  Scully 
disconnected from her call, looking tired and excited and jumpy all 
at once.  She moved to his right side, pulling his hand so she could 
see it, while I spread the folders over the table.  

"Bastard.  Mulder, why the hell did you let him shake your hand?"  
She looked back at me, back in my role of gofer.  "Emma, up in my 
room there's a little carry-on.  It's full of medical supplies.  I stocked 
up before I returned the ambulance crew's kit."  She gave Mulder 
an exasperated look.  "Just as well."

I must have been getting used to all the blood and mess.  I barely 
noticed the sweet smell of it this time, or the way Mulder hissed and 
flinched as she peroxided and bandaged and fussed.  He wouldn't let 
her take the time to do more, pulling his hand away finally and 
turning to the table where their files were spread out.  He knew 
exactly what he was looking for, and pulled aside receipts from each 
file.  Scully moved over next to him, looking at the papers he spread 
out with his left hand.  I looked over her shoulder, at a series of 
receipts for repairs on heating and air conditioning units, boilers, 
fans.  Sometimes a name would show up, but most of them were in 
different names.  There weren't very many.  Mulder was cursing 
people for not keeping records.  Scully was tracing letter loops with 
a fingertip. 

"Look at this, Mulder.  The writing changes some, but the spikes are 
all the same.  I'm not a hand-writing expert, but they look similar."  
She glanced up at him.  He was nodding, eyes traveling over them so 
fast I don't think he even really saw them.  He probably didn't need 
to see them, with his memory.

"You got a name?"

"Peter Kane.  The supervisor said he took over the call for another 
man who had to leave early."

"Kane.  We've got him on the short list.  Damn it.  Did he say when 
he'd be leaving work?"

"Not for a couple hours.  They're busy tonight."  Scully was intent 
on the files, puzzling this out on her own.  Even I knew that 
handshake game had been more than an old jock's testosterone 
games.  Scully might have questioned him before, but she clearly 
agreed with him on Kane now.  

"Let's get out there, then!  You guys can arrest him . . . "  I must 
have startled them.  They both looked around like they'd forgotten I 
was there.  They looked like they wished they'd been right, too.

"Arrest him for what, Emma?  Shaking Mulder's hand?  Fixing your 
furnace?  You need a warrant to search a house, or cause, and they 
think they've arrested the killer."  Scully's voice was tight with 
frustration and anger.  She looked back at her partner.  "You 
shouldn't have let him touch you.  You can't let him play those 
games with you, can't let him get inside your head."

Mulder actually smiled.  "Watch it, Scully.  Before long you'll be 
reading his aura.  Does this mean you don't think the locals beat us 
to the punch?"

She hesitated.  "I want to see the man they arrested.  I'm not 
convinced they're totally wrong.  There have been copycats before.  
But do I think they have our killer?  No."

"Fine.  One of us needs to see their scape goat anyway.  You head 
down there and I'll go watch for Kane."

"No!"  Scully and I were back in chorus.  We glanced at each other, 
started to talk over each other, and I let her have the lead.

"I'll go see their perp, but I don't want you sitting out there alone.  
I don't want you anywhere alone with Kane free.  You come with me."  
Mulder was shaking his head at her, a dead stubborn look on his 
face.  How could she be thinking of leaving anyone alone tonight?  

I stepped up right behind them.  "I am not sitting alone in this
house,either!  What if he comes back?  Hell if I'm sitting here on my
own.  Bad enough you ditched me with the village idiot.  I am not sitting
here waiting to see if he shows up or you do!"  Scully was frowning but
Mulder grinned at me.

"There you go, Scully.  Emma and I take  . . ." he glanced at the 
receipt, "Cecil Heating and Air, and you take small-town Blue."

I could see her opinion of that, but I'd learned my lesson that 
morning.  I whipped past her and was in my coat, waiting by the 
door, less than a minute later.  "C'mon, Mulder.  We don't want to 
miss him.  We don't know how many calls he has tonight."  Who said 
you can't pull the same trick twice?  Mulder grabbed a file and he 
and I were out that door before Scully could come up with 
something good enough to stop us.  He wasn't delighted to have me 
tag along, but I think she'd have handcuffed him before she let him 
out the door alone.
________________________
Cont.