From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: 9 Feb 2004 06:19:05 -0000
Subject: NEW: Number 22 (1/1) by Killeen
Source: direct

Reply To: kasebones@aol.com


Title: Number 22
Author: Killeen
Rating: PG-13 (for language and brief sexuality)
Category: XRA (Casefile, M/S UST, mild angst)
Summary: Mulder and Scully are following a series of 
kidnappings when they stumble upon much more than 
they bargained for.
Disclaimer: I don't own them.  I don't want them.  
They're more fun to play with when they're not yours 
anyways.  The big CC is the guy to talk to if you're 
willing to pay.  I, quite honestly, don't have the 
money.  Call 1-800-555-1013 for more details.
Spoilers: Season 6 (plus minor references to 
Ascension, Christmas Carol/Emily, Tempus Fugit/Max)
Archive: Anywhere, just let me know first
Feedback: ALWAYS welcome at kasebones@aol.com
Author's Notes: This was written as a birthday 
present for one of my best friends, Kirsten.  She 
alone is responsible for my exposure to the X-Files.  
So blame her if you must. :) In one crazy week last 
summer, she and I watched 38 entire episodes.  Yes, 
wow. Since then, she has guided me through the rest 
of the seasons, pointing out which episodes are must-
sees and revealing all the background information 
when I'm a bit overwhelmed or confused.  I much to my 
initial chagrin and current pride, was sucked in 
entirely.  I was a lost cause from the beginning.  So 
Babinator, this is for you. . . and whatever you say, I 
haven't reached your level of X-Files devotion.  Yet.

~~~~~~~~~~

NUMBER 22
by: Killeen

J. Edgar Hoover Building
February 25, 1999
3:37 pm

     'Damn,' he thought once more, 'what the hell was 
I thinking?  I should have been there.  And I wasn't. 
Damn it all.'
     He turned and refocused on the cramped office 
around him.  Piles of files lay ignored on every 
surface, and the walls were covered with pictures and 
posters of supposed proof of unexplained phenomena.  
The desk in front of him was no better.  Next to a 
partially eaten bag of sunflower seeds lay a stack of 
reports that he was supposed to finish and file by 
the end of the day.  Too bad he hadn't finished any.  
The half-done file he was working on just then stared 
accusingly at him, taunting him with yet another 
example of how Fox William Mulder failed to measure 
up and do the job before him.  'Crap,' he thought.
     He glanced over at Scully and grimaced.  He 
could still see the faded outlines of bruising across 
her face.  Her lips, usually so round and soft, were 
cracked where they had split.  Mulder's heart 
clenched at the sight of the scabbing cuts over her 
eyes and down her nose.  Her hands were wrapped and 
bandaged, her finger pads protected by enough gauze 
to allow her to type with some success.  Once again, 
she had been hurt and he hadn't been able to stop it 
from happening.
     "Mulder, if you don't stop staring into space 
and tapping that unfortunate pencil against the desk, 
you'll never get those reports done and on Skinner's 
desk by five."  Scully's voice cut through his self-
flagellation with cool reprimand.  His concentration 
broken, Mulder returned once more to the reality of 
the office and met her crisp and amused eyes.  There 
was a faint smile on her face as she looked at him.
     Mulder forced a goofy grin on his face and 
responded lightly, "What? And let the Skin-man regain 
any confidence he had in my responsibility as a 
clean, kind, obedient, loyal, and brave servant of my 
most beloved country?  Never."
     Scully's smile deepened and she shook her head 
slightly, her red-golden hair moving softly against 
her neck.  Mulder's hands itched to touch that 
glorious hair, to make sure that once again, Scully 
had returned to him safely.  Her body, so deceptively 
delicate, had, as he had reason to know, survived 
many trials, but the slightest bruise or scrape of 
her flawless skin tortured him because he hadn't been 
able to prevent it.  He wanted nothing more than to 
hold her body close to his and protect it from 
anything the world could throw at her.  She was his 
rock, his tether to reality.  Without her, he would 
fly to pieces in an instant.
     As she turned back to her computer and resumed 
recording data and finalizing her autopsy reports, 
Mulder swallowed and forced his thoughts away from 
Scully and back to the thoroughly unappealing report 
in front of him, but the words blurred before him and 
all he could remember was the time he had held her 
body in his arms: she had been broken and bleeding, 
all motion and energy gone from her limbs, the shine 
faded from her eyes.  Dying inside, Mulder gave 
himself up to the memory. . .

Hoover Building
One Week Earlier
12:22 pm

     "Hey Scully,"  Mulder said as he leaned back in 
his chair, tossing a baseball in the air and catching 
it, "What do you say we bust out of this joint and 
toilet paper the Skin-man's office?"
     He tossed and caught the ball again, leaning 
back in his chair with his feet propped up on his 
desk.  The ball just barely missed the ceiling before 
it came down again.  Mulder tossed it back up.  He 
peeked at Scully before he caught it again, grinning 
at her slightly superior and amused expression.  He 
caught the ball again, the sound of it connecting 
with his palm a satisfying thud.  The ball went up 
again.  Catch.  Toss.  Catch.  Toss.  Catch.
     He knew he had her when she played along.  "And 
how do you suppose we get enough toilet paper to do a 
decent job?  I, for one, wouldn't want to attempt it 
if I couldn't be sure I'd be proud of the result.  We 
don't have a bathroom in the basement, and anywhere 
else is likely to be crowded with tough, hard-working 
agents armed to the teeth,"  Scully said lightly.
     "Ah, Scully.  Where's your sense of adventure?  
A bathroom raid, carried out under the unsuspecting 
noses of the most powerful government in the world?  
It could be the crowning point of our careers,"  
Mulder replied seriously, only the sparkle of his 
hazel eyes revealing his mischief.  The ball 
continued to go up and down, creating a rhythmic 
background to the silence of their office.
     "God, I hope not.  You just want a chance to 
raid the ladies' bathroom anyways."
     "Scully, you cut me to the quick."  Mulder 
grasped his heart dramatically and then swore 
suddenly as the baseball came down before he was 
ready and hit him in the forehead.  In his frantic 
attempt to catch it again, he leaned too far back and 
toppled over, dragging his chair down with him.  The 
crash was almost deafening as a pencil can and tower 
of files followed him down.
     Scully started at the sound and then paused, 
leaning back in her chair with an open grin on her 
face.  After the last papers fluttered to the ground 
and silence once more reigned in the basement office, 
she could hear Mulder squirming underneath the 
rubble. 
     "I think I saw my life flash before my eyes,"  
his voice came plaintively out from under the chair, 
"and it was decidedly pathetic."
     Scully chuckled, knowing that he was waiting for 
a reaction, and then walked over to him, lifting off 
the chair so he could slide out.  He stood, his six-
foot frame dwarfing her smaller body, and rubbed his 
hair into an adorable disarray.
     "On second thought, Scully, I'm not sure I'm up 
for another close call with death."  He eyed her with 
his familiar exaggerated leer, "What say you and I 
catch a bite of lunch and you can look me over and 
see if I'm alright?  I think I'm feeling a little 
sore."
     She gave him her patented cool stare, and he 
grinned unabashedly.  He lived for these pointed 
repartees and chased her reactions with a single-
minded devotion.  Standing there, he could see the 
top of her head, and realized once more how truly 
tiny she was.  He resisted the urge to hug her and 
tuck her head under his chin, where he suspected she 
would fit perfectly.  But he held himself back and 
smiled instead.
     Scully looked over at her desk, where her to-do 
pile was significantly smaller than it had been 
earlier that morning.  She turned back to him and 
shrugged, "Let's go."
     Twenty minutes later, he and Scully were seated 
outside on a park bench with an Italian sub for him 
and a Caesar salad for her.  He knew that, as usual, 
he would finish his sub and end up eating half of her 
salad.  He had to resist the impulse to insist she 
eat; her shoulders were too thin already.  His eyes 
studied her face again; he already had every feature 
memorized: the delicate line of her jaw, the smooth 
curve of her neck, the way her eyes told him so much 
she never actually said.
     They continued their bantering all the way 
through lunch, each totally at ease with the other.  
And if Mulder was aware of her every breath and touch 
as they sat close on the bench, that was nothing new.  
They had been skating this edge of their relationship 
for longer than he could remember, but he was too 
afraid to test it by crossing over.  He limited 
himself to the occasional leer and joking suggestion 
and gentle touch or hug.  No more.
     Their lunch finished, Mulder and Scully walked 
back to the Hoover building at a leisurely pace, 
their arms brushing against each other every few 
steps.  He paused at an intersection and turned to 
her.  She raised her eyes expectantly, reading the 
sparkle in his own correctly.  "Scully, you'll never 
guess what I got for your birthday," he taunted.
     Her eyes widened dramatically.  "You remembered! 
And before hand too! Why, aren't we becoming the 
responsible adult?"
     He shook his head.  "You're supposed to guess, 
Scully.  That's part of the game."
     "I didn't know we were playing."
     "Come on, guess."
     She rolled her eyes and then tilted her head, 
eyeing him suspiciously.  "It had better not be 
embarrassing."
     He mimed despair, "I knew I shouldn't have 
listened to Frohike!  Come on, Scully, a serious 
guess."
     She thought.  He watched her eyes focus inward, 
and he drank in the sight of her face, glowing in the 
dappled sunlight.  She looked back at him and 
shrugged, "Another keychain?"
     Mulder groaned, his mind going back to the cheap 
keychain he had given to her on her birthday two 
years earlier.  He hadn't really known why he had 
bought it, but she had seemed to like it, so he 
counted it as a point in his favor.  "Sorry Scully, 
the Apollo 12's were all sold out.  I tried, 
honestly, I did. . ."
     "Cut the crap, Mulder.  What did you get me?"
     "You'll have to. . ." He stopped midway and strode 
quickly over to a newspaper box.  Feeding the quarter 
in quickly, he grabbed a copy and returned to Scully.
     "A tabloid, Mulder?  You're slipping further 
than even I would have suspected."
     "Look Scully," he said, ignoring her taunt, 
"What do you see?"
     She studied the article he pointed to with 
careful analysis.  Finally she blinked and sighed, 
"Mulder, it's just some publicity stunt for a poor 
middle-class housewife who's got nothing better to do 
than to call in a story so implausible that half the 
population of the United States will believe it.  You 
can't be serious."
     "Scully, listen.  These are precisely the 
stories that need to be investigated.  There's always 
the slightest grain of truth, and we need to find 
it."
     "Mulder. . ."
     "Wait, Scully. I've got something to show you."
     Mulder doubled his pace back to their office so 
that Scully had to practically run to keep up.  He 
could hear her muttering curses under her breath at 
the arrogance of long-legged people who think they 
can just walk all over everyone. . .  He grinned and 
sped up the pace.
     Once in the office, Mulder tossed the tabloid on 
his desk and pulled out a file from one of the piles 
filling the office.  Scully stood, her arms folded 
under her breasts, her shoes tapping a quick staccato 
rhythm on the floor.  Mulder glanced over at her and 
saw her expression of bored superiority.  He turned 
back and smiled so that she wouldn't see it.  So what 
if her corner of the office actually had some 
semblance of order?  His system worked for him.
     "See, Scully?  Last year, a thirty two year old 
woman was kidnapped from her home on February 18th, 
the year before a thirty year old woman disappeared 
on February 24th, and the year before, a twenty seven 
year old on February 22nd.  The pattern continues, 
women of decreasing ages disappearing in late 
February.  In 1978, a twelve year old girl was 
abducted from her home on February 23rd.  All with the 
note, 'Daddy's going to take care of you' left 
behind.  Don't you see, Scully?  This fits the 
pattern.  The kidnapper's striking again."
     Scully picked up the discarded tabloid, "'32 
Year Old Woman Returned From Abduction A Year Ago At 
Home Under Husband's Nose'?  Mulder, this article is 
next to one on how to grow your hair 12 inches in as 
many hours!  Seriously!?"
     Mulder ran his hand through his hair.  "Scully, 
I think there's enough of a pattern here to justify 
looking into it.  All the kidnappings have occurred 
in the Mid-Atlantic, and there's a pretty clear 
relationship between age, date of disappearance, and 
victim."
     "Mulder," Scully said, "if what you're saying is 
true, then one man has been kidnapping women every 
year for what, twenty-one years?  What makes you 
think that we'll be the ones to catch him?  He's 
gotten away this long."
     "All I'm saying is that we should look into 
it."  Mulder's eyes begged her.  He knew she didn't 
like going into an investigation with nothing less 
than tenuous connection, that she wanted charts and 
tables and proof that there was indeed something to 
look into.  A tabloid, he knew, represented none of 
those things.
     She sighed.  "Fine, Mulder.  But don't expect to 
find anything."
     He smiled and shook his head, pleased that she 
would go with him.  He needed her there to check his 
work and stop him from concocting too many wild 
theories. She was the anchor of their relationship, 
and her cool scientific mind kept his intuitive one 
reasonable.  "I'll reserve us a car.  We'll go to 
Annapolis tomorrow."

Annapolis, Maryland
2:10 pm

     Scully yawned behind her hand as she and Mulder 
questioned the husband of the woman who had 
disappeared the year before.  It had quickly become 
obvious after they arrived that the woman in fact 
had not reappeared, only her wedding ring.  Mulder 
could feel Scully getting restless and forced himself 
to focus again on the man in front of him.  Craving 
the attention of two federal agents, the man, one 
Opus Carver, recounted the night a year ago when his 
wife disappeared.
     "She was right there on the couch next to me 
when she said she heard something outside.  I told 
her it was nothing, that it was just the wind pushing 
the mailbox over.  It was a stormy day and all.  But 
she wanted to check.  Next thing I knew, she didn't 
come back.  She was gone."
     "Where did you find the note, Mr. Carver?" 
Mulder asked.  "What did it say?"
     "It was on the front lawn, by the end of the 
driveway.  It said, 'Daddy's going to take care you.'  
What does that mean, Mr. Mulder?  My Kay's father was 
dead."  Opus Carver's voice sought answers.
     As he listened, Mulder noticed portraits of a 
woman on the end tables and above the fire place.  He 
supposed she was Carver's wife.  From every frame, 
she smiled out with cheerful exuberance, her auburn 
hair curling gently above her shoulders.  'Another 
innocent victim.  What did she ever do to deserve 
it?'  Mulder's eyes stopped their search of the room 
and returned to Carver's face.
     "I don't know, Mr. Carver.  Did you give the 
note to the police?"  Mulder queried.
     "Yes, sir.  I did."  Carver swallowed.  "Do you 
think you can find her?"
     Mulder traded a look with Scully.  She swallowed 
and stepped forward.  "Mr. Carver, kidnap victims 
usually aren't found after more than 25 hours have 
elapsed since their disappearance.  Our job here is 
to make sure nothing like this happens again."
     Carver nodded, his eyes disappointed.  Scully's 
face softened.  "Mr. Carver," she said gently, "We'll 
do our best to find out what happened to your wife."
     Carver nodded silently.  Mulder watched Scully, 
his heart swelling as he heard her comfort a man with 
whom she had no relationship or history and had never 
met.  He was continually humbled by her generous 
empathy and her willingness to sacrifice to comfort 
another.  Her physical beauty was surpassed by the 
beauty of her spirit, and Mulder once again thanked 
whoever might be listening, whether it be the 
government or God, that she had been set in his path.
     The two of them walked back to the car, each 
consumed by their own personal thoughts.  Mulder 
started the car in silence and drove halfway to the 
police station before saying a word.  "She did 
disappear right under his nose, Scully.  No scream, 
no loud noises, just silence.  What could he have 
done?"  Inevitably, his thoughts turned to his 
sister, Samantha.  The long pent-up guilt, built up 
over years of murders and kidnappings, reared its 
ugly head once more.  He faced that ugly monster and 
accepted full responsibility.  He had failed her when 
she needed him most.  Nothing he did could ever 
redeem that moment of weakness.
     He startled when he felt a soft touch on his 
hand.  Glancing over to the passenger seat, he saw 
Scully looking at him with her deep, wise eyes.  Her 
small hand lay over his, and he smiled, meeting her 
eyes with some difficulty.  Her expression remained 
serious, but her eyes lightened and she turned her 
wrist so that they were holding hands.  Feeling some 
of the pain recede, Mulder sighed and squeezed her 
hands.  'What did I ever do to deserve her?'
     At the Annapolis field office, he and Scully met 
the agent in charge of Kay Carver's kidnapping a year 
ago.  As always, Mulder saw the other man take in 
Scully's petite radiance, his eyes running from her 
copper head to her heeled shoes.  And as always, 
Mulder felt the familiar run of jealousy through his 
veins.  He stepped closer to Scully, telling the 
Agent in silent terms, 'She's mine, Buddy. Hands 
off.'
     He could see the agent take a second look at the 
two of them: Mulder's tall and dark body towering 
over her small pale body with possessive protection.  
The agent took a step back and cleared his throat, 
his dark brown eyes startling against the blond mop 
on top of his head.
     The agent stepped forward and extended his hand 
with a cheerful grin, "I'm Special Agent David 
Findley, nice to meet you."
     Mulder shook his hand and smiled, "Fox Mulder.  
Likewise."
     Scully stepped forward and shook his hand with a 
warm smile.  "Dana Scully.  What do you have to show 
us?"
     Findley pivoted and led Mulder and Scully back 
to his desk in the corner of the room.  He gestured 
for the two of them to take the pair of empty chairs 
to his left while he riffled through his filing 
cabinet.  Mulder looked over Findley's desk and 
noticed with a small twinge of annoyance that it was 
immaculately clean and well-organized.  In the corner 
of his eye, he could see Scully making the same 
assessment and coming to an obviously different 
opinion than he.  She met his eyes and her mouth 
quirked up in an ironic smile.  He grinned 
shamelessly back at her.  'Hell,' he thought, 'he's 
probably as unoriginal and boring as he is 
organized.'
     Findley coughed and turned back to them.  He 
handed Mulder a thick file, saying as he did so, 
"This is what we've got for you.  Granted, I'm not 
sure the connection is strong enough to link them all 
together, the distance between kidnappings being too 
large for a serial offender."
     Mulder listened with one ear while he shuffled 
through the sheaf of papers.  He handed Scully half, 
knowing she hated being left out of the loop.  
Findley's words washed over him, as if in an entirely 
different world.  Inside, his mind was whirring and 
twisting, absorbing every detail and storing it away 
to be pulled out and connected to a larger whole.  As 
he looked through the information, he was struck by 
two new connections that hadn't occurred to him 
earlier.
     "So what you're saying, Findley, is that for 
twenty-one straight years, women have been 
disappearing on or around February twentieth in a 
pattern of increasing ages, all with blond to red 
hair and from trusted and safe locations?  And the 
FBI hasn't seen fit to make the connection and do 
something about it?"  Mulder heard his voice rising, 
and struggled to control it before his rage at the 
stupidity of the agents was released.  He paused when 
Scully put her hand on his arm.  He met her eyes and 
was able to drain away some of his anger. 'Bless you, 
Scully,' he thought. 'what would I do without you?'
     Findley recoiled from the verbal onslaught, and 
his dark eyes narrowed beneath his pale brows.  
"Mister, what do you think you're pulling here?  How 
in the hell would we have put together a string of 
murders with nothing more than a date range to go on?  
Women and girls are kidnapped every day. Hell, we 
could have a thousand women in that folder if you 
really wanted some connections!"
     Mulder regarded him with a blank expression.  He 
knew that he was right, regardless of whether or not 
he could prove it.  This time though, he told 
himself, he would.  His heart clenched a little at 
Findley's unknowing mention of kidnapped women and 
girls.  Hell, he knew they disappeared.  He could 
never forgive himself for the time two of those 
victims had been taken -- and hurt.  He had gotten 
one of them back, but the other was still out there, 
waiting for him to rescue her.  'Samantha,' he cried 
silently, 'I'm sorry.  I'll find you. . .'
     The rest of the meeting with the Annapolis Field 
Team was relatively successful.  Mulder sulked for 
the remaining time, and Findley studiously avoided 
talking to Mulder directly, so Scully was forced to 
bridge the gap.  Mulder saw her throw several pointed 
and angry glances at him, but he ignored them, 
content in his world of wronged self-pity.  He 
watched her as she talked, as she got the information 
they needed and managed to win back some reluctant 
good will from the touchy Agent Findley.  A few 
minutes later, he and Scully were on their way out 
and towards the motel where they would be spending 
the night.
     After driving past several options, they pulled 
into a suitably cheap and just-right-for-an-agent-of-
the-US-government establishment on a side street of 
the nearby highway.  They were assigned their usual 
connecting rooms, Mulder using his charming grin and 
a bit of well-timed flirtation to win over the desk-
clerk.  She, a respectable middle-aged woman with 
graying hair, too red lipstick, and a face running to 
jowly, was only too happy to comply.  He could feel 
Scully's amusement and grinned to himself.  He 
wondered idly what would happen if he ever flirted 
with her seriously -- not that his jibes weren't 
deadly serious, but if he meant for her to hear what 
he really wanted to say.
     While they each opened the doors to their 
individual rooms, Scully taking the one on the right 
as she always did and Mulder throwing his bags onto 
the bed of the left room, his mind still sought 
answers to the intriguing puzzle of why they were 
there.  He knew there was a connection; he wouldn't 
have dragged them both up here if there wasn't 
something of interest.  He just didn't know if he 
could find it and prove it.
     Mulder crossed his room and opened the door 
connecting the two rooms, only to be confronted with 
Scully doing the same thing.  He leaned against the 
door frame and waggled his eyebrows, saying in his 
best leering voice, "Going somewhere, Scully?"
     She shot him her patented cool disapproval 
glare, and he grinned, his heart swelling at the 
expression.  God, his Scully was wonderful.
     She turned and walked back into the center of 
her room. He followed.  While she began unpacking her 
bags and folding her clothes with crisp precision 
into the drawers, he stretched out on the bed and 
propped his head on his hand.  "Scully," he asked, 
"Why do you insist on unpacking your bags in every 
motel we stop?  For all we know, we'll only be here a 
night."
     "Just because you don't mind living in a 
suitcase and being forced to wear crowded and 
wrinkled clothes doesn't mean that I'm going to live 
the same way.  And we will only be here tonight if I 
have anything to do with it.  Mulder, it's my 
birthday in a few days, and I want to be home, not on 
the road in some FBI-paid-for motel room."
     "We could order room-service," Mulder offered 
helpfully. Scully groaned and turned back to him, 
leaning down to pull off her heels.  Mulder never 
ceased to wonder how so small a body could hold so 
large a spirit.  Every time she took off her heels 
and shrank a few inches, he was struck by how truly 
tiny she was, and how perfectly she would fit against 
him, his body curled around hers.  He could feel 
himself growing hot, and he waggled an imaginary 
finger at his crotch for becoming turned on at such 
inopportune moments.
     She put a pile of mail on the dresser next to 
her and Mulder eyed it warily.  "What's that?" he 
asked. "Worried you'll miss your chance for ten 
million dollars?"
     She shot him a glare that was tempered with 
good-natured humor.  "I didn't get a chance to read 
it before I left, so I caught the mailman on my way 
out and brought it with me to read tonight.  He's 
such a sweet old man, so cheerful and polite."
     He nodded.  It was a typically Scully thing to 
do:  cover all corners and prepare for all 
situations.  She was nothing if not thorough.  
     "So what do we have, Mulder?  Why are we here?"
     "Scully," he said, moving to a sitting position, 
"you have to admit that the connections do seem a 
little startling.  Starting twenty one years ago, 
women have been kidnapped from their homes without 
any noises or suspicious characters lurking around.  
There were no suspects in any of these kidnappings; 
everyone was accounted for.  But doesn't it seem a 
little odd that twenty one women and girls would 
suddenly walk out and never return, all on or around 
February twentieth?"
     "Mulder, you're stretching.  There must be a 
reason why these crimes have never been connected 
before.  The Field Office had to have known what they 
were doing."
     "I doubt it.  They're obviously a bunch of 
incompetent fools over there who probably couldn't 
tie their own shoes without help."
     "Mulder, it didn't help that you blew up at 
Agent Findley like that.  He was just trying to be 
helpful.  And then you sulked like a baby for the 
rest of the time."
     He widened his eyes innocently and gestured as 
if to say, "Who? Me?"
     Scully snorted and shook her head, her eyes 
frustrated and amused.  He wondered sometimes if she 
knew how much he could read from her eyes.  Over the 
years, he had gotten good at peeling back the layers 
hiding what she was really feeling.  While others at 
the Bureau might call her cold and hard, he knew that 
underneath her strict professionalism and 
uncompromising code of morals and ethics lay a woman 
who was as warm and loving as they came.  Scully had 
it in her heart to love deeper than anyone he knew, 
and he loved her for exactly that.  She was truly his 
other half, making him whole whenever he fell short, 
and picking up the slack whenever he couldn't carry 
it all.
     He watched as she peeled off her jacket and 
retreated to the bathroom to put on some more 
comfortable clothes.  The horny part of him licked 
his lips, waiting to see what she looked like when 
she wasn't wearing a suit and nylons, when her body 
was softened instead of hardened.  The other part of 
him continued to work on the puzzle that was niggling 
at the back of his mind.  But he was mostly thinking 
about Scully.
     "Hey Scully," he called to her, hearing the sink 
water run and the splashing of her washing her face, 
"What do you make of this?"
     "What?"  she answered, opening the bathroom door 
and dabbing off the last of her make-up.
     His Scully-sensors went haywire at the sight of 
her standing there in only a pair of sweatpants and a 
long-sleeved t-shirt.  With her make-up off, she 
looked softer, more vulnerable, more loveable.  He 
knew his eyes had widened appreciatively when he saw 
Scully's eyes warm.  Sometimes he wondered whether or 
not she thought about him like he thought about her, 
but inevitably he tossed out the idea as 
preposterous.  What could she have to love about him, 
she who was so perfect and flawless?
     Regaining some control with an effort, he held 
up the file and motioned her over.  "This,"  he said, 
"the pattern of the kidnappings is going generally 
southwards.  The perp should be in Northern Virginia 
by now if I'm reading this right."
     She sat next to him on the bed, and he scooted 
over to make more room for her.  Picking up a file, 
she started reading. "Mulder," she said, "did you 
read this?  The remains of this girl, and"  Scully 
picked up another files and quickly flipped through 
them, "this one, and this one and this one were 
found.  Each body was beaten and had her hands 
burnt."
     Mulder grabbed one of the files she was holding 
and began reading it, his eyes moving faster and 
faster across the words until he stopped, caught by 
an odd phrase.  "This body was found with a party 
dress on that her family had never seen before.  
Whoever he was, the kidnapper dressed her in the 
dress, burnt her hands, and then beat her to death."
     Scully shuddered slightly at the thought, and 
Mulder did a quick review of his words, realizing 
that this was probably bringing up memories of her 
own abduction.  She probably sympathized with these 
victims on a very deep and personal level.  The two 
of them continued reading the files, pausing every 
now and then to read something to the other.  
Gradually, a case built up before them.  A single 
predator had indeed kidnapped every one of these 
women, and unless they stopped him, he would strike 
again, and very soon.

The Courier Home
The Next Day
3:41 pm

     Scully and Mulder sat on the floral couch in the 
Couriers' home.  Around them was a living room out of 
a Laura Ashley catalog, every color matching and 
complementing the others, the light woods and floral 
motifs creating an airy and delicate feel to the 
room, as if it would break in an instant.  This was 
the fifth such home they had visited, following the 
pattern of the kidnappings as they had happened 
twenty-one years ago.  The Couriers' daughter, 
Caitlin, had disappeared from her home one sunny 
afternoon on February 22, 1982.  She had been 
seventeen.
     The Couriers themselves sat on the couch across 
from them.  They held hands and Mrs. Courier looked 
ready to cry at the least provocation.  The couple 
was built just like the room around them:  delicate, 
airy, fragile.  Mulder looked over at Scully, knowing 
that she would understand his hesitation.  He knew 
that he would probably say something that would ruin 
everything, so he wanted her to take the lead.  She, 
as always, read him correctly and asked the first 
question.
     "Mr. and Mrs. Courier, can you remember anything 
unusual about the day Caitlin disappeared?  Anything 
out of the ordinary?"
     The Couriers looked at each other, and Mulder 
could almost see the pain the question caused in 
them.  After seventeen years, the anguish was still 
too sharp.  Finally, Mr. Courier cleared his throat 
and started, the words coming reluctantly out of him.  
"Caitlin had come home that morning from sleeping 
over at a friend's house the night before.  She was 
excited that day because it was her birthday the next 
day.  She tried on dozens of outfits for the date she 
had with her boyfriend that night.  I remember coming 
in and teasing her about the piles of clothes that 
covered her room.  She merely stuck her tongue out at 
me and said, 'Oh, Daddy' before turning back to the 
mirror."  Here, his voice broke, "My little girl was 
so beautiful!"
     Scully smiled comfortingly and waited for him to 
get himself under control again.  Mrs. Courier was 
weeping silently into an embroidered handkerchief.  
After several long moments, Mr. Courier spoke again.  
"She was waiting for the birthday card her 
grandfather always sent her.  They had such a special 
relationship.  But I guess she never got it.  About 
3:00 that afternoon, I heard the doorbell ring and 
Caitlin call that she'd get the door.  I guess she 
thought it was the mailman.  I didn't hear anything 
for the next several hours, so I guess I thought she 
had gone back to her room.  I could hear her music 
playing though.  Then when her boyfriend arrived, I 
went up to check on her and she wasn't there.  She 
wasn't anywhere."
     At this, his wife started crying more noisily, 
and he turned to comfort her.  Mulder watched as the 
husband and wife took on the other's pain and 
supported each other through the agonizing experience 
of reliving their daughter's kidnapping.  'Have I 
ever supported you like that Scully?  Have I ever 
been able to comfort you and relieve you of your 
load?  I don't think so.  I leave you to struggle on 
alone, without any help or consideration.  God, I'm a 
selfish son of a bitch.'
     Scully let them cry a little longer, and then 
she asked, in a soft voice, "Do you have any pictures 
of Caitlin we could look at?"
     Mrs. Courier nodded slightly, wiping at her 
blurring mascara.  She got up and disappeared from 
the room.  In a few moments she was back with two 
albums, each lovingly covered in pink fabric.  "This 
one has her baby pictures," the woman said in a 
hiccupping voice, "and the other has her later 
photos."
     "Thank you," Scully said, handing the second 
album to Mulder.
     The Couriers stood up and moved towards the 
door.  "Call us if you need anything," Mr. Courier 
said.  "We'll just be back in the kitchen."
     Mulder nodded, and the couple moved through the 
doorway and out of the room.  The living room was 
silent except for the turning of pages.  It was soon 
obvious that Caitlin Courier had been a remarkably 
pretty girl, her tall lean figure and bright coppery 
hair giving her a unique beauty that the average 
tanned blonde couldn't compete with.  Mulder saw a 
lot of what made Scully beautiful in Caitlin's 
pictures.  Like Caitlin, Scully didn't fit into the 
mold.  She was uniquely perfect, her very differences 
catapulting her above the rest of the average 
beauties, because if Dana Katherine Scully was 
anything, she was not average.
     Suddenly, Mulder became aware that Scully had 
stopped turning the pages of her album.  He 
immediately turned from his contemplation of the 
wonders of Dana Scully to the real thing.  She sat 
rigidly still, looking down at a picture of Caitlin 
at her seventh birthday.  Caitlin, her face round and 
smiling delightedly at the camera, sat surrounded by 
streamers and balloons.  A cake with lit candles lay 
in front of her, their flames reflecting brightly on 
her little girl enthusiasm.   Mulder looked blankly 
at the picture for a moment before it clicked.  
Scully's one picture of Emily was almost identical to 
this one: a little girl at her birthday party in her 
frilly party dress surrounded by the people who love 
her most.   His heart ached to take Scully and give 
her a hug to wipe off the lost and pitiful look on 
her face.  'Oh, Scully, I couldn't stop it.  I 
couldn't save her.  I'm sorry.'
     Wait.  Birthday.  Party Dress.
     Quickly, Mulder flipped forward in Scully's 
album.  Several pages later, he stopped, finding what 
he wanted.  There it was: the connection.
     "Scully," Mulder said, getting her attention, 
"look at this."
     Scully looked down and Mulder heard her sharp 
intake of breath.  There it was, in a picture of 
Caitlin at eleven years old, with one girl standing a 
little off to the side.  She also had reddish hair, 
pulled back into a high ponytail, her bangs brushing 
the top of her forehead.  But what was most 
interesting was her dress.  With proud satisfaction, 
Mulder leaned  back and let Scully voice the 
connection.
     Sure enough, she turned to him, her eyes 
expressing wonder at the connection.  "Mulder, that's 
the same dress one of the victims was found in!"
     Mulder nodded, acknowledging the fact.  He 
didn't know how he did it, only that he knew when he 
was right.  Somehow the victims had echoed this 
moment in time:  a girl standing alone at her own 
party, dressed for the occasion and getting none of 
the attention.  The dress, white except for some pink 
and purple striped ruffles on the sleeves and hem and 
a bold pink satin ribbon around the waist, was too 
unique to be coincidentally connected.  He stood up 
and strode to the doorframe, the album under his arm.
     "Mr. and Mrs. Courier?" Mulder called down the 
hallway.
     A moment later, the couple appeared in the 
doorway with apprehensive expressions on their faces.  
He smiled reassuringly and held out the album to 
them. "Do you know who this girl is?"
     Mrs. Courier took the album and looked at the 
picture, her face more relaxed when she realized it 
wouldn't be a question about her daughter.  She 
sighed and said in a more controlled voice than 
earlier, "That's Cassandra Gains.  Poor girl, she was 
killed in a car accident a few days later.  This was 
her eleventh birthday party.  She and Caitlin were 
born only a few hours apart."
     Scully asked the next question, "A car accident 
you say?  What happened?"
     "No one really knows why, but she and her mother 
were driving out to visit her grandparents in rural 
Pennsylvania.  For some reason, they must have driven 
into the other lane.  A sixteen wheeler rammed into 
them and they both died instantly.  Her father was 
inconsolable.  Caitlin was a wreck after she heard.  
She and Cassandra had always been friends, but they 
had drifted apart before Cassandra's death.  It was 
so tragic."
     Mulder nodded sympathetically.  He asked, "Do 
you mind if we borrow this picture?"
     Mrs. Courier shook her head.  "We still have the 
negatives.  We can make another copy."
     "Thank you," Mulder said, peeling out the 
picture and putting it in his jacket pocket.  "And 
thank you for all you time.  I know this must have 
been hard."
     "No, thank you, Agent Mulder,"  Mr. Courier 
said, "and you, Agent Scully.  I appreciate your 
interest.  It kills us that we don't know what 
happened to Caitlin."
     Scully smiled sadly and stepped forward to shake 
both the Couriers' hands.  "We'll do our best, sir.  
Thank you."

Annapolis Field Office
5:13 pm

     "Cassandra Gains," Mulder announced, leaning 
back in his chair and running his hand through his 
hair in weariness, "to all respects looks to have 
lived the normal average life with loving parents and 
happy memories.  But what I can't understand is why 
someone who obviously knew both Cassandra and Caitlin 
would dress the kidnap victims in that dress.  What 
special meaning does that day have?"
     "It was the last day Cassandra Gains was happy 
and alive,"  Scully responded from her perch on the 
edge of his desk.  They were alone in the corner of 
the office, Mulder's rudeness to Findley having 
alienated them from the rest of the staff and earned 
them a collection of stony glares and awkward 
silences.
     Mulder looked at her sharply, surprised to hear 
her adding to the case.  She had started this case 
with an elephant's share of skepticism and more than 
a whit of doubt.  He nodded, his brain adding that 
piece of information to the puzzle.  They were silent 
a few moments longer.  Finally, Mulder moved, taking 
his feet off the desk and turning in his chair to 
face her directly.  
     "What if," he started, focused inward but 
expecting the expression of indulgent patience that 
crossed Scully's face momentarily, "what if 
Cassandra's death affected someone so deeply that its 
impact continues to haunt him or her even today?  If 
her birthday party was the last time she was happy 
and alive, it would make sense for the kidnapper to 
want to return to that moment, hence the party 
dresses on the victims.  That only one of them was 
found with the dress still on might suggest that the 
suspect realized it would be too big a connecting 
clue.  The growing ages of the victims would make 
sense as well if the kidnapper was trying to recreate 
the event.  Each year would mean another year passed, 
another year older.  The birthday would indeed mark 
the growth of a young girl, the victims getting older 
as she herself would have grown."
     He waited and snuck a look at Scully's face, 
gauging her reaction to another of his out-there 
theories.  It didn't matter in the end if he knew he 
was right, only if he could convince her to believe 
him.  Then she would look into the matter and they 
could find out what really happened.  But Scully was 
nodding, imperceptibly of course, but nodding all the 
same.  He was glad to know that he still claimed some 
modicum of respect in her eyes.  He leaned back once 
more, for the moment done.
     "That would make sense,"  Scully started, her 
blue eyes veiled in thought as she considered the 
evidence supporting his claim.
     Mulder interrupted her, "What?  Did I just hear 
the enigmatic Dr. Scully admit that I was right?  
This is a night for the history books!"
     Her eyes warmed and her lips curved marginally, 
enough for him to feel some satisfaction at having 
caused her amusement.  "I throw out a couple bones 
for you every once in a while, don't I?"
     He grinned, enjoying the connection between 
them, their eyes, hazel to blue, tied together by a 
line of unspoken emotion.  There was so much they'd 
never said, so much that they didn't need to say.  
They knew each other heart and soul, had bared their 
darkest fears to each other in the night, and had 
held each other through the worst of storms.  They 
had stood by the other even when the way ahead looked 
dark and threatening and their futures doubtful.  His 
Scully was a treasure, one he had no intention of 
ever losing.
     Finally, she turned away and cleared her throat.  
"I think you might be right, Mulder.  Whoever is 
doing this is holding himself to a pattern.  The 
succession of kidnappings on or around February 24th, 
since that was Cassandra Gains's birthday and we can 
assume there is some connection to her, makes sense 
if we assume he is trying to recreate a feeling or 
event.  The victims' similar coloring reflects 
Cassandra's own coloring.  The choice of Caitlin 
Courier must have been easy since she and Cassandra 
had the same birthday and looked alike.  The only 
obvious hole is who was he?  Someone the victims all 
trusted, or there would have been more noise.  And 
why kill them?"
     "He wanted to recreate Cassandra's last day of 
happiness.  Perhaps he finally realized what he was 
doing and became enraged that the women or girls had 
survived when Cassandra had not.  They were, after 
all, substitutes in his eyes for Cassandra herself.  
If the original died, so must the replacements."  
Mulder worked through that analysis as he spoke, only 
vaguely aware of how heartless his words must have 
sounded. "There were victims whose bodies were found 
were beaten and their hands burnt.  The burning hands 
would make sense when you think of a lit birthday 
cake.  That would be the closest weapon, besides 
fists, at hand.  The kidnapper and killer obviously 
used both."
     Scully looked Mulder in the eye.  "I can't deny 
that this case bothers me.  I fit all the criteria 
for the next victim, but I have a gun and training to 
protect myself when these women did not."  She 
paused, and Mulder watched her choose her next words 
carefully. "I think we can find and stop this man.  
We only have to find him, and find his next victim 
before he can get to her."
     Mulder swallowed.  "And soon."

J. Hoover Building
Two Days Later
8:21 am

     Two days later, they had still not found any 
real leads.  They had returned to Washington after a 
couple more interviews had revealed nothing new.  
Cassandra's family was practically non-existent, her 
father working double shifts for the postal service 
and living alone.  Any connections they could make 
between victims seemed flimsy and contrived even to 
themselves.  Finally, Mulder slammed down with a thud 
the file he was reviewing for what seemed like the 
twentieth time.  "I can't find any god-damned 
connections here, Scully!  I know it was the same man 
who kidnapped all these women and murdered them.  I 
just don't know who!"
     He leaned forward onto his desk and put his head 
in his arms.  He was failing.  Again.  Somewhere out 
there, there was a woman living her life without fear 
or confusion.  She probably had a loving family and a 
cheerful husband.  Hell, she probably had three 
angelic children and a bright future.  And he 
couldn't stop her from getting hurt.  She would 
disappear silently, just like the others, and no one 
but he would ever know what happened.
     He heard Scully's shuffling of papers stop and 
the gentle placement of the file on her desk.  He 
could imagine how ordered it was and how centered it 
was on her desk.  Her chair squeaked as she turned 
it, and Mulder heard her take a deep breath.  
     "You're doing all you can," she said. "There's a 
connection there.  You know it and I know it.  We 
just don't know what it is yet.  But we'll find it.  
We just need to keep looking and not give up."
     Mulder hunched his shoulders.  God, she was so 
good.  She kept him going even when he was ready to 
quit, when the odds seemed too far out of his favor.  
In the end, he knew, he always gambled, but in this 
case he didn't even know what the bet was.
     Finally, he straightened his shoulders and 
picked up the file.  He heard Scully do the same.  
When he was sure she was immersed in her reading, he 
looked over at her.  She looked up and met his eyes.  
In that moment of silent communion, something passed 
between them.  Something that made him find the 
energy to keep looking.  Someone believed in him, 
wholly and completely, with no reservations, and he 
would do anything and everything he could not to 
disappoint her.
     A few hours later, they had still found nothing.  
Blearily, Mulder stretched, his shoulders popping.  
Scully got up and lifted her jacket from its hook 
near the door.  "I have to run home and pick up some 
gifts for Mom and Bill.  I'll be back in an hour or 
two."
     Mulder nodded.  "Isn't it traditional, Scully, 
for the birthday girl to do the receiving instead of 
the giving?  At least that's the way it's always 
worked for me."
     Scully smiled, her hands lifting her purse and 
pulling out her keys.  "Just a few somethings I found 
that I knew they'd like.  I don't think I'll see them 
both together for a while.  I've got to make the most 
of the opportunity."
     He grinned and she smiled as she disappeared 
through the door.  'She's so generous all the time.  
She keeps giving and giving and never expects 
anything for herself, even when she deserves it.  
What did I do,' he thought for the millionth and 
first time, 'to ever deserve her?'
       The clock ticked away the minutes in the small 
basement office, and Mulder knew he was making no 
progress.  He couldn't seem to focus, knowing that 
there was something he was missing, something 
important.  It hovered right at the edge of his 
consciousness.  Finally, swearing in frustration, he 
pushed himself out of his seat and paced the room, 
rubbing his hands together as he tried to recreate 
his thought process.  But it wasn't coming.  He 
ground his teeth together in frustration.  'What the 
hell was it?!  It has to be. . .'
     He was interrupted by a knock on his door.  He 
spun around in anger to see one of the building 
delivery boys dropping off the day's mail.  He 
grunted his acknowledgment and acceptance and turned 
back to his thoughts as the boy left.  'Oh well, I'm 
still just the crazy fed in the basement, making a 
living, though barely, off of his crack pot theories.  
Where was I?  Connections, connections. . .'
     He returned to his chair, spinning around and 
around while chewing on a pencil.  What connections?  
Caitlin Courier was. . . 'Oh my God.  The mail.'
     He pushed himself to the desk and frantically 
unearthed the sought-after file.  He flipped through 
it, his fingers flying past unimportant sheets of 
paper.  There it was:  Ira Gains, Cassandra's father, 
a postal worker living in Washington, D.C. in a cheap 
section of Georgetown.  'My God.'  The Couriers had 
said Caitlin was expecting a card from her 
grandfather.  David Carver had mentioned the sound of 
the wind against the mailbox.  'The mailman. . .'  
Who better?  Everyone trusted their friendly 
neighborhood mailman.  He drove by every day and 
smiled cheerfully at the children; he came to the 
door and politely asked for signatures for packages. 
'He came to the door. . .'  He probably could know 
every detail about your family from what you got in 
the mail.  Ira Gains worked for the Postal Service 
and had been apparently inconsolable after his 
daughter's death.  He would have reason to want to 
recreate his daughter's last day alive.
     Suddenly, Mulder sat up straight, the hairs on 
the back of his neck beginning to tingle.  'The 
mail.'  He checked his watch.  It would be arriving 
soon.  'Scully!'

Present Time
3:40 pm

     By the time he had gotten there, it was all 
over.  Ira Gains, proudly wearing his Postal uniform 
was knocked unconscious against the wall, a bullet 
wound through his shoulder. Scully was in no better 
shape.  Her face bore the evidence of repeated blows, 
and a dozen shallow cuts were bleeding.  There was a 
birthday cake upside-down on the carpet, and Mulder's 
frantic eyes found the painful signs of burns on 
Scully's delicate hands.  The painting above her had 
the glass broken, and it was obvious that she had 
been thrown there with considerable force and then 
slid down the wall.  A bundled up party dress was 
half hidden in the shadow of the corners.
     Mulder remembered racing from the office to her 
apartment in Georgetown, pulling into a space and 
vaulting out of the car before it had completely 
stopped moving.  His mind had raced, imagining a 
thousand horrible things that could have been 
happening to Scully as he ran towards her door.  He 
had taken the steps three at a time, turning the 
corners with reckless speed and not caring what her 
neighbors might think.  'Scully!'  his mind had kept 
shouting. 'Scully!  Scully!'
     The door to her apartment had been open and he 
had barreled though, drawing his gun as he did so.  
His eyes, which had looked for nothing else, first 
saw Scully's limp form against the wall.  His 
overactive imagination had pictured her hitting the 
wall brutally, her body folding and breaking like a 
rag doll, going limp on the floor.  A man's bloody 
body had lain against the other wall, and Scully's 
gun was in her hand. 
     Assured that the man posed no further threat, 
Mulder ran to Scully, throwing his gun aside, and 
checked for breathing, fearing the worst.  But she 
had been alive.  Tears streaming down his face, the 
release of the stress too much for him to hold in, he 
had gathered her limp body in his arms and hugged her 
close, rocking her back and forth as his body shook 
with silent gratitude.
     At one moment, he had become aware of her eyes 
on him and had looked down, meeting her dazed but 
still blindingly blue eyes.  She had attempted to 
smile, but had instantly winced.  Finally she said, 
with her eyes closed and obviously fighting the 
oblivion of unconsciousness, "I knew you'd come. . ."
     Scully's soft clearing of the throat brought him 
back to himself with a jolt.  He had been completely 
lost in the painful memories of the week before. He 
grinned towards her, hoping the gesture seemed 
normal, but knowing that it wasn't quite successful.  
Looking at her alive and gloriously beautiful and 
breathing, Mulder thanked whatever deity was 
listening that his Scully had been returned to him.  
'If she hadn't. . .' he shuddered, afraid of 
continuing those thoughts.
     Scully set down her pen and turned to face him, 
crossing her legs as she regarded him.  He wondered 
what she was thinking.  Finally, a half smile on her 
lips, and her eyebrow arching in amusement she 
remarked, her tone playful, "You never did give me my 
birthday present, Mulder."
     He grinned, the expression genuine now, and 
settled back into his chair, "That's because you 
never guessed it."
     "Oh come on, Mulder.  It's past the day, just 
give it to me!"
     "Greedy, aren't we, Scully? Tsk, tsk, tsk."  He 
taunted her with a smugly superior smile, his arms 
folded across his chest.  As he watched her eyes 
close in annoyance and heard her groan in frustration 
at his childishness, his heart swelled.  His Scully 
was back to him, and all was right in the world.

End.