From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org
Date: Fri, 24 Mar 2000 22:23:57 -0600
Subject: One Stroke (1/2) by K. Elizabeth Kelly (Kelley2)
Source: direct

Reply To: kellymail@sprintmail.com


Title: One Stroke (1/2)
Author: K. Elizabeth Kelly (Kelley2)
Email: kellymail@sprintmail.com
Rating: PG
Classification: X
Spoilers: Unsure - but assume up to and including mid S7
Keywords: X-File, some UST
  
Summary: Continuing the story I began in Triangle
Squared.  An X-File, definitely.  While you don't need to have
read Triangle Squared and Square One, it could be helpful.
  
Archive: Please(!!) and anywhere as long as my name is
on it.  If you'd send me an e-mail with the location, I'd love to
go see it!
                      
Disclaimers: The characters we all know, as we all
know, are not mine. They belong to the guru of
conspiracy and anti-shipper (Chris Carter),
Gillian Anderson, David Duchovney, Ten Thirteen
Productions and anyone else who can lay the legal
claim to them that I cannot. Despite the tenets of
TXF, trust me on this one, I'm not making any
money off them! My characters (Reid Barton, Jerry Quinlan,
M/M Bickford) are mine (I'd make money off
them, but can't figure out how!).   May no one sue
me for using their characters and may no one use
mine without my permission!
  
Thanks: An significant debt of gratitude is owed CSue and
FoxPhile for their patience and strictness with me and to Betty
and Ves for their support.  Enormous thanks, also, to Teresa for
snatching each page off the printer to read on her way home. 
What more encouragement could you ask for?
  
Thoughtful feedback (whether pro or con) is
appreciated, flames are not. Pats on the back are
always gratefully accepted!  <g>
kellymail@sprintmail.com

***

Angston Memorial Home
Angston, Massachusetts

The room was quiet, the only sound the slight scratch of the
pencil as it crossed the pad in gentle strokes.  Despite the wan
sunlight that filtered through the vertical blinds, the room was
dim.  Joy Swenson studied the girl that sat beside her bed easing
the pencil markings into a portrait.  She couldn't see the girl's
face just now, her hair hung loose masking her features. [What
was her name again?]  She should know - she'd had her in
Sunday School.  Joy shifted in the bed, trying to ease the pain in
her leg.  The movement brought the girl's face flashing up.
[Reid.  That was it, Reid Barton.]

"Are you ok, Mrs. Swenson?"  Her voice was low, anxious.

"I'm fine, child, just tired."  Joy reached to pat the hand that
stretched toward her in reassurance.  "Keep on now.  Keep on."

Smiling briefly, Reid bent back over her drawing pad.  "I'm
almost done."  

The silence stretched for a few more moments until Reid sat
upright again and slowly tore off the page she had been
covering, setting it face down on the bed.  She stowed her
pencils in her bag and shrugged on her jacket before she bent to
kiss the frail woman lying so quietly against the pillows.  

"Here you go.  I hope they like it."  Her voice was quiet.  Mrs.
Swenson had been a part of her life for as long as she could
remember - it was sad to see her like this.

Joy looked up at the forlorn face above her and spoke gently,
"It's ok.  We all have our time and then the time passes and so
must we."

Reid blinked rapidly to fight the tears that threatened.  "Do you
want me to call the nurse on my way out?"

"Mercy no!"  Joy exclaimed, "All they ever want to do is stick
more needles in me!"

Reid smiled, as Joy had intended her to.  "Bye, then."

"Bye, Reid.  God bless."

As the door closed behind the girl, Joy lifted the picture,
looking at it intensely.  It was her - from the scar above her
eyebrow to her faith in the Almighty - both what she looked like
and who she was.  Smiling, she lay the portrait down.  She was
so tired.  

***
2 months later
Bradley International Airport
Windsor Locks, Connecticut

"So, Mulder, why are we here?"  Special Agent Dana Scully
glanced away from the luggage conveyor belt toward her
partner.  She couldn't help the slight edge that crept into her
voice.  "Instead of having dinner with my mother?"  She rather
thought it was the potential presence of her brother, Bill, at that
dinner that made this sudden trip to western Massachusetts so
essential.  

[Because I don't want to have dinner with that close minded
stiff necked martinet you call a brother.]   Noting Scully's
eyebrow rise and wondering again if she really could read his
mind, Mulder quickly held out the file he held in his left hand. 
"Four perfectly healthy children die suddenly of undetermined
causes.  The parents are suspected, but neither evidence nor
motive is found.  Food poisoning and trauma were likewise
ruled out."  He reached to grab their bags as Scully studied the
scant information that the file contained.  

"Mulder, these children were siblings." [For this, he pulled her
away from her mother's table?]  She closed the file, taking the
suitbag he handed her.

"So?"  He had hoped she wouldn't pick up on the children's
relationship so quickly - he could hear the genetic connection
theory coming and it was way too easy an answer.

She followed him across the baggage claim area, protesting as
she walked.  "So, it could be a genetic disorder or . . . or an
allergic reaction."

"None of the children had any known allergies.  There is no
history of hereditary illness on either side of the family.  In
addition, the parents claim that none of the children complained
of any pain or discomfort prior to their deaths."  He stopped at
the curb and set his bag at her feet.  "I'll get the car."  

She stared after him, before glancing through the pages in the
file once more.

By the time he returned, the keys to the rental dangling from his
hand jingling slightly from the bounce in his step, she had read
the file three times and nothing more had presented itself that
indicated the need for their presence.

"Our steed, Madame."  He opened the door for her.

"This is a case for an epidemiologist - not the FBI.  Clearly,
there is some medical factor here that has gone unnoticed."

"If there is, you'll find it and we'll go home."

"Mulder . . ."

His voice was light as he closed the door.  "Humor me, Scully." 


***
Angston Police Department

"Assistant Chief Quinlan.  Thanks for coming out here, Agent
Mulder, Miss . . ."  Jeremy Quinlan's eyes made a quick survey
of Scully's petite frame.

"Special Agent Dana Scully."  Scully kept her voice even.  She
was used to the sexism that still ran rampant in the out of the
way places they so often visited; she had learned long ago that
the best way to deal with it was to ignore it no matter how it
got her back up.

"Agent Scully."  His uniform was starched so stiffly it probably
could have replaced the kevlar vest he wore underneath.   "This
really has us stumped and I hate to close the case without
knowing even the cause of death."  He ushered them into his
small office, beaming with pride.  "I have the ME's reports right
here."  

Scully reached for the reports that Quinlan pushed toward
Mulder.  

Mulder noted the confused glance the man shot at Scully. 
"Agent Scully is a also medical doctor." 

The man's face cleared, "Then you'll probably want to meet with
the ME.  Let me see if he's available.  I'll be right back."  

As the door closed behind him, the pair glanced at each other.  

"Let me guess: he was recently promoted."  Her voice was dry
and a slight smile played around her lips as she looked over the
file at Mulder.

"Just a month ago, it would appear."  Mulder replied, gesturing
toward the framed commission lying on the desk.  "Could it be
the desperate urge to make a name for himself that gave it
away?"

"Mmm." Scully made a noncommittal noise as she studied the
reports, hoping that some easily explainable answer would
divulge itself if only she looked hard enough.

Mulder inspected the room.  Neat as a pin, as his grandmother
would have said.  There was little in the way of the knick-
knacks or clutter offices tended to accumulate over time.  A
standard issue metal desk stood in front of a standard issue
swivel chair.  The fluorescent lamp claiming the corner of the
desk was probably first purchased by the department in the
1970s and, by the looks of the metal, had a hard life in the
intervening years.  A framed portrait hung on the few feet of
wall that ran from the door to the window.  

Quinlan came through the door.  "Agent Scully?  This is Jeff
Hale, our M.E."  Scully nodded at the man standing behind
Quinlan.  "Jeff, why don't you take Agent Scully to see the
remains."  

Quinlan stood aside as she gathered the reports and followed
Hale, closing the door behind them.  

"Now that it's just us, where do you want to start?"

Mulder bristled inwardly on Scully's behalf.   "Well, my partner
will probably want to perform an autopsy on each of the
children and we'll go from there."

"No, really, where do you want to start?"

Mulder stood.  "Yes.  Really.  Also, I'd like copies of your files
on these deaths and any other deaths of a similar nature in the
last six or eight months.  Once we have Agent Scully's autopsy
reports, we'll interview the parents and others who had
connections with the children and see what turns up."  

"But, Agent Mulder, we only have the one body and it's been
autopsied already." Quinlan protested.

"Then she'll do a second autopsy on that one.  Where are the
others?"  

"Hey!  Our morgue is only so big.  This isn't D.C., you know!"  

Mulder ignored the defensive posturing and paused in the
doorway, "The morgue is?"

"Second hallway on the left, all the way at the end," replied
Quinlan automatically, unsure how the control had moved from
him to the pair from Washington in a matter of minutes.

***                      
Angston Police Department Morgue

Scully thanked Jeff Hale as he left to get a late lunch, leaving
her to her work.

"February 29, 2000, 3:45 p.m."  The Angston Police
Department had invested in a voice activated recording system
and Scully was glad not to have to manipulate a handheld
recorder as she worked.  "Autopsy of one Destiny Bickford,
age 4.  Subject is 42" in length.  Weight is," Scully turned to
look at the scale, noticing peripherally that Mulder had come in,
"48 lbs".  She nodded at Mulder, trying not to look at him,
knowing that if she did she'd have a much harder time keeping
this procedure properly in its clinical venue.  Emily was gone
and she still didn't know why or how.  The least she could do
was give Destiny Bickford's parents a better hope of
understanding.

"Proceeding with visual examination.  Subject shows no signs
of trauma - no contusions, abrasions or lacerations.  Dermis,
eyes, tongue and nails show no discoloration."  

Mulder settled against a lab stool to one side of the bay,
watching his partner go through the ritualistic rites of autopsy. 
She was efficient and thorough, her movements deft.  He was
interrupted in his reflection by the intrusion of Jeremy Quinlan.  

Quinlan looked over at the slight woman in goggles, face mask
and apron, currently extracting tissue samples for further study,
and winced.  Mulder took the files he held forward.

"These are our files on the Bickford kids - Destiny, age 4,
Fergus, age 8, Johnson, 9, and Tom, Jr., 10.  We wouldn't
normally have even had a file on this type of thing; it's just that
4 kids in the same family dying is a little strange."

"You could say that."  Mulder opened the top file, glancing at
the picture stapled to the inside cover.  "Is this . . ."

"The kids' father, Tom Bickford."  Quinlan answered. 

Mulder's tone was lightly questioning.  "Your notes indicate
that he and Mrs. Bickford were questioned as suspects.  Was
there any history of child abuse or neglect?"

"No.  Tom and Lisa are a bit weird with all that art stuff, but
they don't beat their kids.  We just asked about the situation,
that's all.  Could we talk about this outside?"  Quinlan asked
without a pause.

Mulder tilted his head slightly, looking quizzically at the young
assistant chief.

"It's just that . . ." he jerked his head toward the cadaver,
obviously hoping Mulder would catch his meaning and allow
him to save face.

Mulder waited several seconds before responding, enjoying the
situation.  "It's just . . .what?"

"I don't do so well with that kind of stuff." Quinlan hissed.

Mulder eased up from his perch.  "Scully, Assistant Chief
Quinlan is going to introduce me to the parents."

Quinlan, whose tee time was rapidly approaching, stuttered for
a minute before agreeing.  "Yeah.  It's probably better that
way."  He followed Mulder toward the hallway door.

"Mulder?"  Scully's voice floated across the bay.  "There's an
exit to the parking lot right there."  She gestured with a bloody
hand to a door at the opposite end of the room.  "It's much
more direct."

He stifled a smile and headed across, forcing Quinlan to follow;
the route taking them directly by the table and then through the
small morgue.

***
Bickford residence

Lisa Bickford brought the dish of green beans to the table,
reminded again of her loss by the table's length.  Pulling out the
nearest chair, she lowered herself into it, still clutching the
vegetables.  She held her shoulders stiffly as she looked
longingly at the large picture above the buffet.  Would that she
could pull her children from that picture and put them at her
dinner table where they belonged.  She looked unseeing toward
the ceiling, willing the tears to drain back into her head.  Just as
she realized she was losing the battle, the doorbell rang.  A
wayward tear still running down her cheek, she slowly rose and
moved to the door.

"Mrs. Bickford?"  Quinlan asked when the door opened.  "We
need to talk to you again." 

"I'm sorry, Mr. Quinlan, we are about to eat dinner.  Another
time?"

"There may not be another time.  I've got investigators up from
Washington looking into your kids' deaths."  His tone was
condescending and the phrasing thoughtless; Mulder was not at
all surprised that the woman stiffened.

"If you must."  She replied stonily and stepped aside.

"Wait."  Mulder held Quinlan's shoulder as he started through
the door.  "Special Agent Fox Mulder."  He held his badge open
for her inspection.  "Would it be easier for you if my partner
and I came out later tonight or tomorrow morning?"  Quinlan
shot him a dirty look, but Lisa Bickford's face eased.

"Tomorrow morning would be much better."  She replied
gratefully.  "I could even meet you in town, if you preferred that
to coming all the way out here."  

"It's not a problem.  We'll meet you here at," Mulder glanced at
his watch as Quinlan headed to the cruiser in disgust, "say,
9:15?"

"That would be fine, Agent Mulder.  Thank you."  She closed
the door slowly as he traced his steps back to the rental car. 
How much longer was it going to be before Jerry Quinlan could
let her babies rest in peace?  She leaned against the back of the
door and looked around at the rooms on either side of the
hallway, now devoid of the habitual chaos that had always
accompanied her brood, feeling the walls of her chest constrict
tightly around the place where her heart used to be.  

***
Wok World

They ate in companionable silence.  It shouldn't surprise him by
now, but Mulder was still astonished by the ease with which
Scully managed chopsticks.   He always resorted to asking the
server for a fork.  He watched her as she ate, the burnished
copper of her hair drifting downward as she bent her head
slightly toward the plate.  She looked over the teapot at him,
blue eyes knowing.  Did she really know what he was thinking? 
At the moment, he both hoped she didn't and hoped she did. 
"Well?"

"Nothing."  Scully said, swallowing the last bite of her chicken. 
"I've sent the blood samples up to a friend of mine, who's a
visiting professor at Smith this year.  She should be able to get
back to me at some point tomorrow but, frankly, I doubt she'll
find anything.  It's as if their batteries just ran out, Mulder."

His relief at her choice of topic was half tempered with regret. 
They were inexorably moving toward a place he wasn't sure she
was ready for them to go.  He didn't want to push her, but he
was finding it more difficult these days to wait.  Pushing it
aside, he forced his mind to the case at hand.

"What did Hale have to say about it?"

She hesitated.  If she shared the M.E.'s wild guess with Mulder,
she could only predict too well the outcome.  "He suggested
that perhaps a massive emotional burden of some sort produced
an intolerable quantity of hormones."  

Mulder looked intrigued and Scully hastened to make known
her own opinion in the matter.  

"We'll know for sure when the lab results come back - but there
were no outward signs of excessive hormones.  In addition, for
such a 'massive emotional burden' to affect all of the children, it
would have had to have been in the home.  According to the
reports, the Bickford household is a model of domestic felicity."

"What if it wasn't in the home?"  Mulder countered, "What if
the children were jointly exposed to another source of stress?" 
He punctuated his words with his fork.

"Such as?"  Waiting for the inevitable, she sat back in her chair
and crossed her arms over her chest.

"Group abduction."  Scully waited.  "Or . . ."

"Or what, secret government experiments?"  Her skepticism
could be read on her face.    "Even if they were jointly exposed
to some stressor outside the home, Mulder, it would be
extremely unusual that the parents would notice no behavioral
or emotional changes in their children."

"My point is that we shouldn't reject it out of hand, particularly
before you have the lab results back."  

***
The Derhad Academy
Parents' Night

Reid Barton stood beside her desk, eyeing the rows of artwork
that hung on the walls.  She smiled warmly at the young boy
that rushed into her room, parents in tow.

"Miss Barton!  Miss Barton!  I brought my mom and dad to see
my picture."

"Good for you, Tim - I'm sure they'll be very proud of you. 
You did a very good job.  Do you remember where we hung
it?"  

The child made a beeline for the wall behind her desk.  "Look, I
did it all by myself."  He cried, pointing to the little portrait he
had made of the teacher standing beside him, her long blonde
hair framing her face in yellow crayon with white skin and a
great big pink smile.

The mother smiled and knelt beside the boy.  "That's beautiful,
Timmy!  Did Miss Barton teach you to draw like that?"

Timmy nodded vigorously.  "She draws really good.  Don't you,
Miss Barton?"

Reid blushed.  "I wouldn't say that - I do my best to give the
children a love of creating art, that's all."

"Show them!" Timmy demanded, holding up a drawing pencil
he spotted on the floor.  With the supreme dictatorial nature of
a 7 year old, he flipped over a flyer for the evening that was
lying on her desk.  "You can use this."  He looked up at her
earnestly.

She looked up at the parents for support, but found none.

"He won't be happy until you do," offered the father, "just a
quick sketch?  Timmy, sit down for Miss Barton, please."

Reid took up the pencil and studied her subject in the bland
overhead light of the schoolroom.  Slowly, her hand began to
move across the page, speeding as the outline of Timmy's face
was rendered.  As she glanced up again, Timmy's head had
fallen onto his arms.  

"I think Mr. Tim is more ready for bed than to have his portrait
made."  She laughed and handed the unfinished sketch to his
parents. 

Mrs. Webern smiled affectionately at her son.  "He started a
new allergy medication today.  I guess the non-drowsy claims
were a little exaggerated."

"Come on, Tim.  Time to go."  The father began to ease the
coat onto the limp little arms.

The boy lifted his bleary eyes from the desk and allowed the
coat to be zipped up.  "Daddy, I don't want to!"

"I know, little guy, but we have to."  

"No! NO!"  Tim began to cry, mustering the intensity in his
sobs that only an exhausted child can.

"I'm sorry, Tim, but it's time," his father said calmly as he
hoisted his reluctant offspring.

"Can Miss Barton come too?"  The little voice hiccupped from
his father's chest in between sobs.

"You'll see Miss Barton in school tomorrow, Tim.  She has her
own home to go to."   Mr. Webern turned to Reid.  "I'm sorry -
I think he just hit the wall."

"It happens."  Reid replied and smiled at the group.

Reid waved at Tim as he was carried through the door.  

"Bye, Tim.  See you tomorrow."

Reid glanced at the clock as they left.  Time was up.  She
gathered her purse and walked slowly out of the room, glancing
back briefly before locking the door.  

"Good night, Reid," called Berta Johns, the music teacher from
across the hall, "You coming to the party at Beth's?"

"I don't think so, Berta.  I'm beat.  The 'parent-thing' really
wears me down." 

"Don't I know it!"  Berta replied, "See you tomorrow then."

"Tomorrow," echoed Reid as she continued down the hall.

***
Reid Barton's apartment.

Reid locked the door behind her, dumping her handbag on the
floor next to the door.  Ignoring the fervent blinking of the
answering machine, she retreated to her bedroom, stopping only
to pick up a small frame from the table by the couch.  Not
unlike the simple portrait Timmy had so proudly exhibited
earlier, the blue lacquered frame held a crayon picture.  Bravely
drawn on the paper, a father and mother stood smiling next to a
child who held out a flower toward them.  The sky was
represented by a cross hatch of blue crayon with a yellow sun
smiling in one corner, its beams stretching from the heavens to
the bright green grass under the family's feet.  In one corner,
wobbly letters spelled out the title and the artist:  Mommy an
Daddy an me Reid age 4.  Reid curled around the picture on
the bed, trying to ease the ache that threatened to overcome
her, and let the tears she had been hiding all evening go.  

***
Bickford Residence 
9:10 a.m.

Scully examined the house as they pulled up.  A brick colonial
with white and green trim, it was genteel, but not stuffy.   A
bulb garden ran along the brick walkway to an arched trellis
covered with old-fashioned climbing rose vines just before the
front steps.  The crocuses were slightly past peak and the tulips
stood out brightly against the grass that had yet to green for
spring.  The air was cool, but not cold, and smelled pleasantly
fresh, she noted as she stepped from the vehicle.  A large ball,
forgotten at the close of the fall, lay half deflated under the edge
of the hedgerow and one could just make out the end of a swing
set sandwiched between two apple trees on the side.  She could
almost see Destiny running toward her brothers, struggling to
hold onto the ball that was really too large for her small arms,
almost hear the call and response of the children's voices as they
argued over whose turn it was to swing and whose to push.

"Ready?"  Mulder asked as he waited for her to come around
from the passenger side.

"Hmm?"  Her reverie broken, she stepped onto the brick walk
with determination, "Yes.  You?"

"Ready as ever."  Mulder smiled - a heartwarming thing when it
happened as it was all too rare - and held out an arm to usher
her toward the house.

They waited patiently for a minute before Lisa Bickford
appeared, holding a dishcloth, and opened the wide green door.  

"I'm sorry.  I'm running a little late.  Do you mind waiting while
I finish the dishes?"  She didn't wait for an answer but moved
back to let them in.   

They stepped into the front hall and stood expectantly.  Scully
looked up at the woman who didn't appear to be present
anymore, her face a mask of grief.

Scully's voice was low, soothing.  "Mrs. Bickford?"  

Lisa started and flushed.  "I'm sorry.  That's happened a lot
since. . . well, since the kids died.  The living room is right
here."  She gestured to the right.  "It'll just take me a minute." 
She passed through the dining room to the kitchen, leaving the
door swinging in her wake.  They could hear muffled voices
from the kitchen arguing before the water began to run.

The pair glanced around.  It was a well proportioned room with
large windows.  The floors were wood plank, battered from the
ages but recently varnished.  Area rugs, busily patterned,
provided visual relief from the expanse of wood as did the navy
drapes.  The furniture was slipcovered in a neutral cotton duck. 
Books lined one wall.  A practical room, Scully thought, well
suited to a family with four children.

A door slammed somewhere in the house, the sharp noise
muted by walls and carpet, and Mrs. Bickford came in, wiping
the last traces of water from her hands on the back of her jeans. 

"Will your husband be joining us?" Scully inquired.

Mrs. Bickford flushed.  "No.  Tom . . . he's . . . he's just too
frustrated with the police to talk about it."  She tried to recover
her composure.  "How can I help you?"

"Why is your husband frustrated with the police, Mrs.
Bickford?"  Mulder leaned forward on the sofa, elbows on his
knees and hands clasped in front of him.  Scully admired that
about him, his ability to be nonthreatening; it made people so
much less nervous.

Mrs. Bickford looked at the floor and then through the front
window.  "You may have noticed that Jerry Quinlan isn't very,
well, socially adept?"

Scully nodded.

"He is so anxious to solve what he sees as a 'case' that he really
rankled Tom.  Tom's not the most patient person in the best of
times, although he tried for my sake to leave this one alone, but
Jerry's implication that Tom and I had something to do with it
was the proverbial straw."  Her voice broke and she studied her
hands briefly, trying to get herself under control.  "Our children
are *dead*, Agent Mulder.  I would give everything I ever had
to make that not be so and I hope to God that it never happens
to anyone again, but nothing is going to change that." 

Mulder touched Mrs. Bickford's clasped hands briefly.  She
looked at them for a moment before pushing her hair behind her
ears.  "What do you want to know?"

The remainder of the interview went as they had expected.  No,
the children didn't complain of anything except feeling tired,
which was to be expected since they had been up very late for
several nights in a row.  There were no unexpected changes in
the household and the children did not seem disturbed or upset. 
They simply didn't wake up one morning.

"I've been over and over this in my head," Lisa Bickford said,
her voice dropping to a whisper, "and I can't make it make
sense."  She looked up at Scully, whose guarded expression
gave little hint of the emotions held so strongly in check.  "You
understand, I think.  It just won't make sense."

"It rarely does, Mrs. Bickford."  Mulder said gently as he stood
up.  

Mrs. Bickford showed them to the door.  "I want this to be
over.  I need to bury my last child and let them all rest in
peace."

"The police should be able to release her body shortly."  Scully
said in response, "We're just waiting for additional test results."  

Mrs. Bickford's voice was quiet.  "Thank you."

***

Mulder pulled the car door closed behind him, but sat for a
moment without starting the car.

"What's wrong, Mulder?"

"We're being watched."

"By whom?"  Scully glanced around.

"Tom Bickford, I think.  See, right there?"  Mulder pointed
toward a lanky figure standing in front of a barn, staring at them
with undisguised anger. He paused with his hand on the door
handle to look back at her.

She opened the door.   "I think we should hear Mr. Bickford's
reason for avoiding us."

The man didn't move as they approached him.

"Mr. Bickford?"  Scully asked.

"What the hell do you want?"  The voice, as gravelly as a
highway embankment, struck a note discordant with the quiet
beauty around them.  A tall man, his face lined, his hair shot
with gray, he stood, hardened by time and tide.  The jeans he
wore were oily at the knees and he held a sheaf of wires in one
hand.  

"We'd like to ask you a few questions about your children."  

"I have nothing to say."  He turned to walk into the barn behind
them.

Mulder put a hand on Bickford's shoulder to restrain him. 
Bickford spun around, his eyes black with fury.  "If you don't
take your hand off me, I will sue you for battery before you can
reach your motel."  Mulder pulled his hand up quickly, holding
it up briefly to show he meant no harm.  Bickford proceeded
deliberately into the barn, leaving Mulder and Scully in the
driveway.  

Scully looked at Mulder.  He nodded in answer to the question
in her eyes and followed.

The barn was dark, small slices of watery sunlight poking
through the loose siding.  Bickford could not be seen.

"Mr. Bickford?"  Mulder called.  

The barn flooded with light as the bare bulbs hanging from the
rafters illuminated.  Surprisingly, there was no straw, no
animals, just heaps of metal scrap - rusting and polished - and a
blowtorch.  They could see the wires that Bickford had carried
in with him in a pile near the torch. 

"Repair shop?"  Scully whispered to Mulder.  He shrugged.  

Tom Bickford came around the corner wearing a welder's apron
and dragging a large polished metal box.  Ignoring their
presence, he took up a large sledgehammer, sending the heavy
head smashing into the smooth sides of the flat box.  The box
bent around the hammer, almost as if trying to shield itself from
the blow, and Bickford tossed the wires onto the crumpled
surface.  Sliding his face shield over his head, he lit the
blowtorch.  As the intense heat hit the assortment of thin wires,
they fused to the surface almost instantly.   He threw another
handful of wires on and repeated the process.

"This is ridiculous,"  Scully said to Mulder over the noise, "and
needs to stop, now."  She moved into the open area in the
center of the floor, directly opposite Tom Bickford.  "Mr.
Bickford.  My name is Dana Scully and I'm a special agent with
the FBI.  We need to ask you some questions.  If you don't care
to do it here, we can do it at the police department - your
choice."  Her voice held that note of command that Mulder
associated with the aspect of her he termed Action!Scully.  

Tom Bickford studied the scarlike pattern of melted wire, still
holding the blowtorch, apparently ignoring her.  He set the
blowtorch to one side and gave the metal creation one more
violent blow with the sledgehammer before removing the face
mask.

"I don't care who you are.   I'm through talking."  He gestured
toward the mangled box before him.  "This is all I have to say." 
He picked up the sledgehammer again, studying the metal.

Scully glanced at Mulder.  He tilted his head slightly toward the
door.  As they left the barn, she glanced back at Tom Bickford,
still standing with the sledgehammer amidst the metal scraps
and staring at the mutilated creation before him.

Title: One Stroke (2/2)

***
Angston Police Department

It appeared that the Angston Police Department enjoyed casual
Fridays a bit actively.  The only uniforms to be seen were those
on the youngest officers stuck on traffic duty that day and an air
of celebration permeated the entire building.

"Nothing?" Scully held the phone tightly to her ear, trying to
block out the commotion around her.   "No, it was just a guess
anyway.  Thanks for your help."  

She shook her head at Mulder as she crossed to where he and
Quinlan stood talking.  He spoke briefly to Quinlan before
meeting her halfway.

"Nothing?"  He asked.

"No unusually high levels of neurotransmitters or hormones. 
No trace of foreign substances in the blood.  No abnormal high
levels of histamine.  You get the idea."  She sighed.  [Lethal
levels of hormones might have been hard to explain as a cause
of death, but at least it would have been an answer.]

Mulder nodded, acknowledging the disappointment in her
voice.  "I've asked Quinlan to get us a background check on
Tom Bickford.  Turns out he has a reputation as a person you
don't want to cross."

"Which is why they investigated him in the first place."  Scully
nodded in understanding, "but why didn't Quinlan tell us that to
begin with and why wasn't a background check run?"

"Hey," Quinlan interrupted as he approached, "Do you think I
want my budget slashed from here to kingdom come? 
Bickford's on the town council.  And a background check
*was* run," he handed Mulder a thin stack of paper, "I just
pulled it from the file before I gave it to you."

Scully opened the file she held, looking down at it to hide her
consternation.  "Is there anything else missing from this file,
Assistant Chief Quinlan?"

Quinlan seemed oblivious to the facetiousness in her voice. 
"Nope.  That about does it.  We didn't run a check on Lisa -
she's kind of flaky, but she adored those kids like nobody's
business.  You can use my office to look at that, if you want."

"Thank you."  Scully replied, still glued to the file, and moved
to do so.  At the door, she turned back toward Quinlan.  "I'd
like one on Lisa Bickford too."

Quinlan scowled but nodded. 

She closed the door behind them and slapped the file shut. 
"Can you believe these people?  What the hell does he think he's
doing eliminating material from official files?"

Unperturbed, Mulder plopped down into Quinlan's swivel chair. 
"It happens all the time, Scully - you know that."

"This is not a government conspiracy - It's just a small town
case of paranoia!"

"Just because you're paranoid doesn't mean they're not out to
get you."  Mulder propped his feet on the desk and held out the
report.  "Want to read the background check?"  

Still frustrated, Scully took the papers and sat down.

As she read, Mulder surveyed the office idly, wondering how an
oaf like Quinlan could get himself promoted to assistant chief. 
He noticed a small stack of plaques on a filing cabinet that he
hadn't seen earlier and rolled over to flip through them. [Looks
like Jerry Quinlan hasn't much to be proud of - three for perfect
attendance at union meetings and one to the police department
as a whole for aiding Toys for Tots.  Ah, a classic case of 'who,
not what'...]   The portrait on the wall caught his eye as he
looked around for anything to occupy his mind while Scully
read.  It was simply framed, a plain gilded wooden band
surrounding the pencil drawing of an older woman.  As he
started to get up to look at it more closely, Quinlan came in
with the background check on Lisa Bickford.

"Like it?"  He asked Mulder, noticing his gaze, "That's my
grandmother."

"Talented artist."  Mulder commented, taking the second report.

"Yeah, she's pretty good."  The sound of breaking glass cracked
the air and Quinlan turned.  "Shit."  He turned from the office. 
"Berker, what the hey did you do this time?"  He pulled the
door closed as he left to deal with whatever imminent crisis was
brewing.

"This is interesting."  Scully commented.  "Tom Bickford has a
graduate degree in chemistry and worked for Naval Intelligence
during the war in Vietnam."

"And?"

"You don't think that's significant?"

"Why?"

"Well, for one, I would think that he would be familiar with
various chemicals used for assassination."

"Maybe."

"Maybe, Mulder?  This is a man who, as we witnessed this
afternoon, has a very short fuse, a tendency toward violent
behavior and, apparently, the intellectual means to make it
possible.  I think this definitely warrants a closer look."

"I don't know, Scully.  It just doesn't feel right to me.   A
tendency toward violent behavior doesn't mean infanticide. 
You said yourself there were no unusual chemical substances
found in the tissue or blood samples."

"That we found."

"You found no evidence of injection."

"It could have been ingested.  I think we should go talk to the
Bickfords again."

***
Bickford residence

Scully knocked on the door one more time and stretched
backward slightly as she waited. [I've got to start bringing some
sort of lumbar support for these rental cars.]  The yard was
quiet; she could hear the rustle of the wind in the trees
overhead. [Or is that Mulder?]  "I don't think anyone's home."

"I think you're right," came a voice from the bushes from where
Mulder stood looking in a dining room window, hands cupped
against the glass.

"What are you doing?"
                                   
"Just looking around."

"Two words, Mulder, search warrant."

He began to thrash back through the overgrown azaleas.  "I'm
not searching - just looking.  Let's check the barn."

Scully sighed as she grudgingly followed.   "So did you see
anything interesting?"

"Just the dining room."

"And?"

"No gallon jugs of poison or confessions scrawled on the
walls."

Scully snorted.

"There was a family picture I'd like to get a better look at."

She cocked her head slightly toward him.  "Why?"

"Just a hunch."

He didn't have to look at her - he knew she was rolling her eyes.

"Would you prefer 'just curious'?"

"Curiousity killed the cat, Mulder."

Standing in the open door, she waited as Mulder found the light
switch in the rear, stifling a snort as he tripped over the
sledgehammer on his way.  The lights came on in due course,
but Mulder didn't appear.  "Mulder?"  She swore she could hear
the dust settling around the stacks of metal.  She raised her
voice.  "Mulder?"   

"Back here."  

She found him squatting in an old horse stall.  Laying on the
floor, she could see the metal object that Tom Bickford had
worked so hard to destroy earlier.  

"Destroy or create?"  Mulder said, reading her expression.  She
glanced at him in inquiry.  "Look, the pieces fit together."  He
pointed to three similarly brutalized objects laid next to the one
they had witnessed, gesturing to show the overall connection.  

Scully crouched next to him, "Or create *and* destroy."  She
ran her fingers over the tortured metal nearest her absently as
she contemplated the circle the pieces would have made if
pushed together.  As she did, her fingers met a sharp edge. 
"Ow."  

Mulder's head turned quickly toward her.  "You ok?"

She pulled her hand away, examining the fingertips as she did. 
"Yes."  She pulled a tissue from her pocket and held it tightly
against the cut.

"You're bleeding on the art, Scully."  

"MoMA will cancel my membership for sure."  She said drily.  

Mulder reached over with his handkerchief to wipe the blood
from the metal.  As he blotted up the small drops, he carefully
avoided the edges.  "Hey,"

"Hey." Scully replied, inspecting her finger. [Good, the
bleeding's stopped.  A Band-Aid back at the motel should do it. 
Probably ought to get a tetanus booster back in DC.]  She
winced at the thought.

"What do you make of this?"  Mulder carefully traced the letters
incised into the metal.  

"Destiny."  She moved around the stall to another piece. 
"Fergus."

"Johnson."  Mulder confirmed on the third piece.

"And Thomas," she read from the final one.

"I would really like to find Tom Bickford."  Mulder said as he
straightened, brushing the dust from his pants.

Scully nodded.

***
Angston Police Department

"Cripes, you guys come in and out the door more times than a
dog."  Quinlan was beginning to be sorry he had ever inquired if
the FBI would send someone out.  He looked at the pair that
stood before his desk with pure irritation.

"Tom Bickford."  Mulder said.

"Yeah?"

"Where is he?"

"How would I know?"  

"Assistant Chief, you as much as admitted earlier to protecting
Mr. Bickford from our possible scrutiny.  It's not beyond the
bounds of imagination that you may have warned him we
wanted to talk to him."  Scully didn't try to keep the edge from
her tone.

"I didn't."  

Scully crossed her arms and regarded him coldly.  

"Really, I didn't."  He stood up behind the desk.  "How about
this?  I'll send a couple guys out looking for him.  Okay?"  

Scully turned on her heel and left the office.

"She's a pushy little thing, isn't she, Agent Mulder?"  Quinlan
said, pulling a cigarette out of a pack in his desk.

"I wouldn't let her catch you saying that."  Mulder retrieved the
files Scully had left on the desk.  

Smoke began to float around his face in hazy waves and Mulder
headed for the door, pausing as his hand grasped the knob. 
"Who's the artist?" He nodded toward the gold frame.

Quinlan squinted at him through the smog.  "Girl name of Reid
Barton.  She teaches out at Derhad.  Why?"

"I'm thinking of having a picture drawn."  Mulder closed the
door behind him, leaving Quinlan to his confusion.

"Come on."  He met Scully at the reception desk, guiding her
toward the door, 

"Where are we going?"  

He pulled the door open for her.  "To play that hunch."

***

The Derhad Academy

The teachers' lounge was crowded with educators wolfing
down sandwiches, grading tests, making last minute
adjustments to lesson plans.  Mulder and Scully stood in the
doorway behind the school secretary.  The secretary pointed to
a slender woman, barely more than a girl, sitting at the table in
the center of the room.  "That's her."  She stated and turned on
her heel, the door almost catching Mulder as he hurriedly
moved inside the madhouse.  

The pair threaded through the assemblage until they stood next
to the girl indicated by the secretary.

"Reid Barton?"  Scully asked over the noise.  The girl looked
up, gray eyes luminescent in her tanned face.

"Yes.  Can I help you?"  The voice was melodic and her smile
friendly.

"I'm Agent Scully and this is Agent Mulder.  We're with the
FBI."  Scully flipped her badge case open briefly and looked
doubtfully around the chaotic room.   "Is there a place we can
talk?"  

"Sure."  Reid said, picking up her sandwich.  She glanced at the
agents and then around the room.  "We were supposed to have
a staff meeting over lunch, but it looks like a no go." She zipped
the sandwich back into its baggie and stashed it in her knapsack. 
"I have the afternoon free and was going out to the fieldhouse
to draw anyway.  I just have to stop by my apartment to pick up
my things."

She eyed the two agents curiously as they walked with her to
her apartment in one of the high school dormitories. [What
graceful bone structure the woman has in her face.  His is more
roughly hewn, but he has an energy in his eyes that makes up
for it.  An attractive couple.  Well, I suppose they're not really a
couple since they work together.  The FBI probably doesn't
allow that.  But the way he guides her, with his hand on her
back occasionally, always slightly nearer than one would
expect, maybe they were a couple and aren't any more... or
maybe they aren't yet, but will be.]

Unaware of the interested hypothesizing going on next to them,
Mulder and Scully followed Reid patiently across the campus.

Reid unlocked the door to her apartment, apologizing for its
state of dishevelment.

"In the war between art and cleanup, art wins.  Sleep and
cleanup, sleep wins.  Dinner and cleanup - you get the idea." 
She smiled at them, searching their faces for a confirmation of
her speculations.   Finding no answers there, she turned to
gather her drawing pencils. 

The corner of Scully's mouth turned up briefly and she waited
for Mulder to make a comment regarding the state of his own
apartment.  When he didn't, she turned to look at him and he
wasn't there.

"Mulder?"

"I'm over here."  

She followed the voice around the corner and found him
standing in front of a display of sketches.  The bits of paper
easily covered the small wall where they hung, each held up by
a brightly colored pushpin.  It looked like the bulletin board in
Mulder's office, she thought with amazement, correcting herself
slowly - the bulletin board that was in Mulder's office before the
fire destroyed it.  There was seemingly no rhyme or reason to
the pattern - just a haphazard arrangement of preliminary
studies.  Scully recognized the woman from the drawing in
Quinlan's office, the Bickford children.  

"What do you make of it?"

Mulder shrugged.  It wasn't the time to go into what he
thought.  This case, which he figured would be nothing - merely
an excuse to avoid Bill Scully's animosity, was rapidly turning
into something.  What the something was remained to be seen.

"Ready?"  Reid stood at the door, opened to the hallway.  The
pair followed her out the door and down the hallway silently.

"Do you ski, Ms. Barton?"  Mulder asked.

"Not if I can help it." Reid replied, "Why?"  

He gestured toward her complexion apologetically.  "The tan."

"Oh, I'm outside a lot even in the winter.  I do a lot better
working with nature as a model."  She laughed, "Although it is
awfully hard to manipulate a pencil wearing gloves!"

They tried to avoid the wetter patches as they trudged across
the playing fields; the winter's snow had been heavy and left its
mark even yet in the waterlogged ground.

"How long have you been drawing?"  Scully asked, trying to
avoid the bramble bush that threatened to snag her coat.

Reid easily avoided the next bank of thorns, shifting her bag to
the other shoulder.  "As long as I can remember.  But I didn't
get obsessive about it until . . ." she broke off, concentrating on
crossing the makeshift stream that ran through just ahead.

Scully stepped carefully over the brooklet.  "Until."

"Until my parents died,"  Reid replied wistfully, "when I was 4." 


"I'm sorry."  Scully said.  She glanced at Reid feeling
uncharacteristically awkward and reflecting on that odd phrase
that everyone uses when they don't know what to say.
Reid looked back at her, the sorrow flickering through her eyes. 
"It's ok.  It's been a long time."
They walked for a time in silence before Mulder couldn't take it
anymore.

"How did they die?"

"The house burned down - everything was lost.  The firemen
got me out, but my parents were already dead.  They think they
must have been smoking in bed and fallen asleep.  All I had left
was a drawing of them.  A stupid 4 year old kid's crayon
drawing of them that I had refused to let go of when they put
me to bed that night."  She stopped abruptly, surprising Scully
until she realized they'd arrived at the fieldhouse.  Reid
unlocked the door and swung it open for them.  She began to
set up her easel and arrange her pencils.  Her gaze was
unfocused, however, and her actions stopped in the middle of
the act of laying her pad upon the easel.  "Actually," She set the
pad down and turned to look at them with an air of self-
revelation, "That's probably why I started being so serious
about art.  It was all that I had left of them." 

Mulder glanced at Scully; his hazel eyes reflecting his interest.  
"Is that why you draw portraits, Ms. Barton?"

Contemplating the idea, Reid looked away.  Through time and
space, she thought she could see all those she'd ever portrayed,
the faces lined with age or pain when she had known them at
peace now.  "I suppose that could be it, though I don't ever
remember thinking about it."  

"You're very good at it."

She sat down in front of the easel, studying her selection of
equipment pensively.  "The first I'd ever done from a live model
was of a friend's partner who was dying.  It was a lot different
than working from a mannequin, when all you have to do is
make it look the same.  But Ted didn't want to see what
Anthony looked like - he could have done that with a camera. 
He wanted me somehow to transpose onto paper who Anthony
was - what he stood for, what he felt, what he dreamed of.  I've
tried to do that in every one since."  She shook herself briefly,
dispelling the somber attitude that threatened, and smiled.  "It's
hard, but it seems to make people happy."  

Reid flipped her sketchbook open to a view of the field before
them and picked up a pencil.  She slowly began her work, the
pencil tip shading the broken lines of the bent grass in the field
through the window.

"Mulder, may I speak with you for a moment outside?"  Scully's
voice had that curious quality that it always took on when he
was about to get the whispered what-the-hell-are-you-doing
lecture.

He glanced at Reid, who no longer appeared to be aware of
their presence, and followed.

"What are we doing here, Mulder?  We should be looking for
Tom Bickford."  The frustration was thick enough it could have
been packaged as insulation.

Mulder nodded.  "You're right," he replied amiably.  

"Oh."  Scully said, surprised at his easy capitulation, "Then why
are we here?" 

"Curiosity, Scully."  Mulder headed back through the weed-
choked field.  "You coming?"

***
Bickford Residence

"Please have a seat.  I must have just missed you earlier."

"Thank you."  Scully pulled a chair out from the dining room
table, glancing at Mulder.  "Mulder?"

He turned away from the wall and sat down.  Mrs. Bickford
looked expectantly at the pair.

Scully cleared her throat and carefully worded her statement. 
"Some questions have been raised about your husband's temper,
particularly in combination with his background."

Controlled anger descended onto Lisa Bickford's face.  "No."
 
"Has Tom ever shown any resentment toward your children?"  

"What parent doesn't, Agent Scully?  What parent doesn't get
angry with their children?  What parent doesn't sometimes say
hurtful things they later regret?  Tom is no different.  But he
loves them.  Even as they are cold in their graves, he loves
them."

"Mrs. Bickford, we saw his work in the barn."  

"So what?  If he relieves his anger and desolation through
sculpture, what of it?"  Her voice was rising and had taken on
an overtone of desperation.  "My husband served his country
well and honorably in a war that left him an emotional
nightmare.  Just because he's a vet and happens to have a quick
temper, everyone assumes that he beats the kids or that he's a
time bomb.  Why does no one believe me?"  The tears came in
an burst and she huddled around herself in a vain attempt to
ease the pain.

Mulder looked to Scully quickly; she looked away.  "We believe
you, Mrs. Bickford."  Mulder assured her gently.  "We just have
follow every lead, however remote."

Lisa Bickford's sobs tapered away slowly, leaving her aching
and embarrassed.  

"Can I get you a tissue?" Scully offered, her personal
discomfort in such blatant emotional expression begging her for
relief.

"Umm," Mrs. Bickford sniffed, still not fully in control of her
emotions, "Please excuse me.  I'll be right back."  She fled the
room.

"We believe her?"  Scully inquired of Mulder.

"Don't you?"  He asked, standing to stretch his legs.

"Every woman that loves her husband would protest his
innocence."

"I think she's telling the truth, Scully."

"I'm sure she *thinks* she is.  Ignoring a spouse's behavior
simply because one cannot bear to understand what's going on
is extremely typical of abusive situations."

"Did Destiny show any signs of abuse?"

Scully paused, realizing the logic of the question but frustrated
nonetheless.  "None."

"Well, there you go."  He turned toward the wall next to them,
obviously feeling the argument was done.

"There are more kinds of abuse than. . .  What are you doing?" 
Mulder was leaning over the buffet staring at the wall.

"I'm trying to read the signature.  Here, you look at it."  

Scully leaned in toward the frame hanging there.  "Reid
Barton," she replied easily, Why?"

"No reason.  It's good, don't you think?"

She backed up to glance at it quickly.  "Very nice.  I think I
should check on Mrs. Bickford."

A toilet flushed and water began to run.

"Look at it."

"I am looking at it, Mulder."

"No, I mean it, Scully, *look* at it and tell me what you see."

She rolled her eyes, but looked back at the painting.  "The
colors are vivid and the faces lively.  It's well executed and a
good physical likeness of the children if the photograph on the
buffet is any comparison."

Mrs. Bickford reentered the room, clutching a glass of water. 
Her face was still blotchy, but she was composed.

"Did you do this?"  Mulder asked.  

"Oh no," she replied, "our work is only in sculpture.  That was
done by the art teacher over at Derhad Academy, Reid Barton." 


Mulder's voice was almost reverent.  "It's beautiful."

Lisa Bickford nodded.  "Sometimes it's like my kids are living in
there and I feel like I could just reach in and drag them out to
be with me."  She pulled a small bottle from her pocket and
looked at it.  "Of course, that could be the SAM-e talking." 

"Does Ms. Barton do a lot of portraiture?"

"She does some - mostly elderly or terminally ill people.  She
kind of got a name for being good at that and people are
anxious for something to hold onto, you know?  She doesn't
like to do it though; only does it for friends even."  Lisa sighed,
"We had to beg and beg to get her to do the kids and we're
close."  She set the pill bottle on the table and changed the
subject.  "Let me tell you about Tom."

As they talked, Scully's eyes were drawn back to the wall. Her
prosaic description to Mulder hadn't done justice to the
ineffable aspect of the painting.   

"Scully?"  She looked back to find her partner watching her
intently.

"What?"

"Are you ok?"

"I'm fine, Mulder, why?"

Lisa Bickford broke in, "Don't worry about it, Agent Scully; It
happens to me all the time.  It just pulls you right into it."  Her
medication had taken effect, it seemed, and she spoke calmly. 
"All good art does - The sculpture that you saw in the barn has
so much anguish in it, I can't even look at it or I get lost even
with the drugs."

As they walked toward the car, Mulder spoke again.  "Scully, I
had to call you 3 times before you responded.  Are you sure
you're ok?"

"I'm fine."  She said almost angrily, her tone changing as she
continued, "I was just thinking."

"About what?"

"About the likelihood that Tom Bickford killed his children."

"I didn't, but if ever I wanted to kill anyone, it's now."  

They looked up to see Bickford leaning on their rental car.

"Why's that, Mr. Bickford?"  

"Have you ever lost a child, Agent Mulder?"  Tom Bickford
didn't bother answering Mulder's question.

Mulder was taken aback, as much by the man's belligerence as
his question.  "Excuse me?" 

Bickford's voice was rife with disgust.  "Answer the question."  

"Mr. Bickford," Scully answered for Mulder, "I hardly see that
Agent Mulder's personal life has a bearing on this
investigation."

"What about you, Agent Scully?"  He dragged the syllables of
her name and title out as if distasteful even to say.  "Have you
ever lost a child?"

"Mr. Bi . . ."

"Answer the question." 

Mulder watched Scully's face; the searing pain that flashed
across the delicate features was brief, almost instantaneously
hidden away.  She girded her professional detachment about her
as if it was armor.

"Yes, Mr. Bickford."  She stated flatly.  "I have."

The silence around them stretched elastically, gradually
encompassing the entire yard, as if the world itself was waiting
to hear Tom Bickford's reply.  He slowly straightened, wiping
his hands on his jeans as if wiping their very presence from his
life, and walked away.

"Leave my wife alone."  The words were defiant, but the tenor
of his voice had changed: the anger had dissipated, leaving only
a sorrow too deep to explore.


***
Reid Barton's Apartment

"Lisa Bickford told us that you're very selective as to your
subjects."  Scully's voice floated across the room from where
she stood at a window.  Despite her seeming comfort with the
interrogation, if you could call it that, Mulder thought he
detected a slight unease and mentally thanked her for agreeing
to come. 

"I don't like to do them," Reid said softly, "I feel like I'm taking
part of them away to store it on paper."  She paused, "I know it
sounds crazy, but I do."

"Ms. Barton," Mulder began.

The girl interjected, "Please call me Reid."  Her shoulders had
gradually hunched and she hugged herself as though cold.

"Reid, then."  He looked over her shoulder at a half finished
sketch of the meadow sitting on the easel.  He supposed all the
years of asking all the difficult questions should make this
easier, but it didn't seem to be giving him any comfort at all. 
"Are all the people you've drawn portraits of dead?"

She was silent.

"Mulder," Scully crossed the room, remonstration in her voice,
and bent to look into the girl's face.

"I'm ok."  Reid's voice sounded thin, confused.  "I just wonder
sometimes whether they're choosing me or I'm choosing them." 
She glanced up at them, her eyes questioning.  "You know? 
Whether I somehow know they're dying before they come to
me?"  She closed her eyes.  "It scares me sometimes."

***

"Are you implying that she's another Clyde Bruckman," Scully
asked as the rental car started up, "or is it Alfred Fellig?". 

"That's not at all what I'm getting at Scully," he replied
somewhat frustrated, "I'm not suggesting she knows how and
why these people are dead.  What if she's causing it?"

Scully stared at Mulder in unabashed disbelief.  "What possible
motive could Reid Barton have to kill her subjects?"

"I don't think it's intentional any more than Bruckman's ability
was.  I think that somehow in her translation of who they are to
paper, she's drawing more than their images from them."

"You're saying that she kills people by drawing them."  Her
voice was flat.

"Think about it, Scully."

The look she gave him would have cut glass.  "I *am*."

"Islamic art is strictly nonrepresentational, do you know why?" 
Mulder didn't wait for an answer, but plunged ahead, "Because,
in Islam, to draw a person would be to usurp the role of the
creator - to take upon oneself the role of God.  Many native
cultures refuse to allow pictures to be taken of them, afraid that
the capture of their images on paper will somehow capture their
soul.  Even in the early days of photography in our own
country, people would have portraits taken of their dead
children to retain some part of them in the home."

"Mulder, those beliefs are based in ignorance - a primitive and
superstitious attempt to explain the inexplicable.  There is no
quantifiable evidence to support them."

"How do you quantify soul, Scully?  Death and the creation of
images have been inextricably linked in vastly differing cultures
throughout history.  From tomb paintings to death masks, art
has been a part of death rituals for centuries."

"But what you are suggesting is not only that art is part of the
ritual, but the cause of death itself."  Scully was trying to be
reasonable and she kept her voice even.

"What if that's the next evolution of art?"  

Her voice she could manage, but her eyebrow ascended without
her control.  "Excuse me?"

"What if art's next evolutionary step is actual life?  What if, even
as it becomes self-aware, it's drawing life from those around it?"

"You're saying that not only is 'art' causing deaths, but it,
absent the artist even, has a desire to live.  What's next, Mulder,
the Mona Lisa stepping off its wall at the Louvre and looking
for a date?"  She paused.  "Art is a concept.  It can't desire to
live.  It can't control its own creation."  Her words were cut
short by the ringing of Mulder's cellphone.

He glanced at her before answering, but she was staring out the
window in frustration.

"Mulder."  He listened for a few minutes.  "We'll meet you
there."  He clicked off.

Scully looked at him.  "What?"

"One Timothy Webern has been taken to the hospital with
symptoms similar to those of the Bickford children."

***
Cooley Dickinson Hospital
Northampton, Massachusetts

Scully stood deep in conversation with Timothy Webern's
doctor as Mulder watched the child through the glass. 
Timothy's mother sat next to him stroking his hand; his father
stared out the window. The child appeared to be peacefully
asleep.  He glanced at Scully, now studying the test results the
doctor was reviewing with her.  Her copper hair shone even in
the dull overhead light and he could not help noting the way her
suit jacket pulled back just enough as she gestured - showing
the rounded line of her breasts under the closely fitted blouse. 
He took a quick breath and quickly looked back at the sleeping
child.  The point at which they were going to have to address
this was approaching more rapidly than he cared to think.  He
couldn't believe that he was lusting after his partner's body while
a child lay dying.  His tumultuous train of thought was broken
by her hand on his shoulder.  Hoping his face didn't reflect his
turmoil, he turned toward her without losing his focus on the
child.

"Dr. Anderson doesn't feel that we should speak with the
parents now.  She's about to speak with them regarding the test
results.  I've asked her to review her records regarding other
patients who have had similar symptoms recently and to call us
once she's finished." 

"The test results?"

"Showed nothing out of the ordinary.  Nothing that could
explain his condition.  They're going to run an MRI as soon as a
slot opens up."   Her hand still on his shoulder, she followed his
gaze to the child.  "There's nothing we can do here at the
moment, Mulder.  Let's give the parents a chance to absorb it
now and head back in an hour or two to talk to them."

Mulder reluctantly turned from the glass, finally registering the
hollow look in Scully's eyes.  "Are you ok, Scully?"

"I'm fine," she shook herself slightly, hoping he wouldn't notice. 
The truth was, she reflected as they headed for the car, she
needed to find out what caused Destiny Bickford's death but
couldn't swallow, even if true, Mulder's notion that somehow
the portraitist was to blame.  It was simply ludicrous,
particularly given the ready made suspect of Tom Bickford,
who they should be interrogating.  Both lauding her sensibility
and deploring her inability to reach beyond the rational, she was
caught in a quandary that was all too familiar.  Add to that mix
the potent knowledge that Mulder had been watching her with
that hungry, anxious look in those beautiful eyes, and, well, she
wasn't heading that direction tonight.

"I think we need to get a search warrant for the Bickford
house."

"On what grounds, Scully?  We have no evidence to support
one."

"The peculiar nature of the children's deaths and Tom
Bickford's background."

"Very weak."  Mulder replied, catching the look she shot him,
"Hey, I'm only telling you what the judge is going to say."

"We could at least ask."  Her jaw was set.

"Tell you what, why don't you drop me at the motel and then
you can go over the police department to request one?" 

"What are you going to do?"

"Just make some phone calls, poke around."

The scenery went by in a melange of gray and white.

"Fine."

***
Angston Motor Lodge
Angston
9:45 p.m.

Mulder was staring, unseeing, at the piece of paper given him
by Mr. Webern, as Scully came in with the pizza.  He set the
image aside upon seeing her.  

"Ah, every man's fantasy."  She raised one perfectly groomed
copper eyebrow.

"Come on, Scully, a sexy woman bearing hot pizza - what more
could a guy ask for?"

She set the pizza down with a slight smack against the desk. 
"Oooh, and a little bang too, for good measure."

She opened her mouth as if to protest, but stopped as she
noticed the paper.  "What's that?"

Mulder sat up, lifting the slice of pizza away from his mouth,
and mumbled around the hot cheese, "Photocopy of a sketch of
Timothy Webern, by Reid Barton.  Mr. Webern stopped by to
drop off some medical records for Dr. Anderson and the
original was sticking out of his bag.  I got the folks at the front
desk to photocopy it for me.  Timothy's still hanging on, by the
way."

Scully took the sketch, studying it.  "So much for her reluctance
to do portraiture."

"Actually," Mulder replied, "when I asked him about it, Mr.
Webern said she was very reluctant to do it and only acquiesced
when they, as he put it, ganged up on her at Parents' Night."

"Parents' Night?"

"Timothy Webern is a student at Derhad Academy."

"It's not finished."  Her statement was more a question.

"Timothy fell asleep before she could complete it."  Mulder
explained, pulling an extra piece of pepperoni off a neighboring
slice.   "How did you do with the search warrant?"

"They won't even file the paperwork until the morning," she
said tightly, "until they get Quinlan's approval."


He stood up.  "We need to talk to Reid Barton again."

"Mulder, it's 10:00 at night.  You can't go interrogating people
at this hour without some sort of proof."  She yawned, suddenly
feeling drained.  "She's hardly a flight risk, even if she is
somehow unintentionally drawing people to death."

"You wanted to go search someone's house at this hour." 
Mulder looked intently at Scully.  "You look tired."

She yawned again. "I don't know what it is - just all of a sudden
overwhelmingly exhausted.  Besides, Mulder, that's different.
*He* very likely has something to hide."   The phone rang, the
harsh jangle disturbing the uneasy silence that had fallen over
the quiet of the room.  Scully picked the phone up slowly, "
Scully," she mumbled into the receiver.  

"I'm sorry to bother you, but I thought you'd know.  I heard
that Tim Webern is in the hospital.  Is he ok?"  Reid's tone was
slightly anxious.

Scully mouthed "Reid Barton" in response to Mulder's
questioning look.  "He was brought in this afternoon, but no
diagnosis has been made yet.  He seems comfortable.  Why?"  

"He's one of my students."  A slight relief made its way over the
phone line.  "I didn't want to bother his parents to come pick up
his sculpture if it was true." 

"His sculpture?"

"Just a class project from last month.  They were all supposed
to have been picked up by last week and I've been making the
calls tonight to parents who forgot."  She paused.  "Are you
alright, Agent Scully?"

"I'm fine."

"You sound tired."

"Really, Reid, I'm fine."

"Ok," Reid's voice was hesitant, "but maybe you should get
some rest or something?"

Scully gave a brief laugh.  "Ok, Dr. Barton, good night."  She
hung up the phone.

"What did she want?"  Mulder asked his partner as the bright
strands spread across the desk in unknowing imitation of
Timothy Webern.

Scully lifted her head with effort.  "She heard about Tim
Webern and was curious."  She caught the look in Mulder's eye. 
"Mulder, you are not going out to harass that poor girl tonight."

He turned to look at his partner.  She looked haggard.  Come to
think of it, he was more exhausted than usual as well.  He
reluctantly set his coat back on the chair.  "You're right.  She's
not going anywhere.  Let's go to bed."  He held a hand out to
help her up and she availed herself of the assistance.  As she
stumbled toward the bathroom, he asked, "Which bed?"

"I don't care; your pick."  She mumbled in reply, trying to cover
the yawn that threatened.  They had been sharing motel rooms
for about a year now.  After a couple of occasions when they
were forced to share due to circumstances, they realized it was
easier to work if they weren't always having to back-and-forth
between two rooms.. [Always 2 beds though.  Unfortunately.] 
He flopped onto the bed farthest from the bathroom, flipping
the tv on.

Scully felt slightly less spent after she washed her face and
stopped in the bathroom door a minute to study Mulder as he
lay on the bed, sound asleep, in his clothes with the lights and
the tv on.  He had on the clothes he had gone running in earlier
and the t-shirt hugged his chest.  She quelled the rush that
seeing him in a t-shirt always caused and moved forward.  She
couldn't find what he'd done with the remote and resorted to
turning off the television at the set.  She turned the reading light
over his bed off with a click and bent down to kiss him on the
forehead.  He stirred slightly, but did not waken, and she
climbed into her own bed, asking herself if what she was feeling
was relief or disappointment.

***

Reid Barton's apartment

Agent Scully had believed her excuse for inquiring and Reid
Barton hung up the phone with both relief and consternation,
staring at the sketch emerging on her easel.  A slight woman
nestled against a much taller man - you could almost feel the
heat radiating from the bodies although few details existed to
indicate their relationship.  "It's true.  It's all true."  The
carefully crafted emotional control she had maintained through
the conversation crumbled. 

Reid picked up an eraser, her anxiety quickly evolving into
desperation.  She frantically scraped at the pencil marks.  "I'm
killing them.  I don't know how, but it's true."  She ripped a
hole through the paper in her effort to obliterate the drawing.

[Anthony, Mrs. Swenson, now Timmy and Agent Scully . . . for
God's sake, my *parents* - all of them.  How is this happening? 
Why me?]

She collapsed against the drawing board, tears running across
her cheeks to the paper below, croaking over and over. "Why
               me?  Why me?"  

***
Angston Motor Lodge

Mulder was awakened the next morning by a pounding at the
door.  He looked over at Scully, still asleep, the covers wound
around her closely, a pillow pulled over her head.  He hated to
wake her, but it was one of the hazards of sharing motel rooms. 


"Scully," he shook the pile of blankets slightly, "We've got
company."

"Shit,"  said the voice from under the covers succinctly.  "You
stall; I'll clean."  Mulder smiled at the pile and headed for the
door.  

He ran his hand through his hair as he opened the door, filling
as much of the doorframe as he could manage.

"Good morning, Agent Mulder." Quinlan was holding a sheaf of
files and making a valiant effort to look past Mulder into the
motel room.  He had a bet riding on whether they were sleeping
together or not. 

"Just the man I wanted to see," Mulder groaned inwardly and
pulled the door closed behind him, heading for the rental car, "I
need a background check on . . ."  He opened the car door,
thanking the heavens he hadn't locked it the day before, and
pulled out a notebook.  Flipping the page, he ran his finger
down a list of names.  ". . . Reid Barton.  The portrait artist?"

"I know who she is," Quinlan groused, "You can't possibly
think that little thing killed the Bickford kids."

"Not at all," Mulder replied lightly, "I think her drawings did."

Quinlan stared at Mulder as if he had suggested that the cow
*had* jumped over the moon and landed right there at the
Angston Motor Lodge.  Finally, he decided that Mulder was
joking and started to laugh.  "No way.  But, hey, you want a
background check, I'll get you one.  Where's the lovely Agent
Scully this morning?"

Mulder headed back to the door, Quinlan dogging his heels. 
"Scully?"  He paused with his hand on the doorknob, "She's
wrapped up at the moment.  Did you need her for something?  I
can call her cellphone."

Frustrated, Quinlan shook his head.  "Nah, just asking."  He
turned and headed toward the cruiser.  "I'll send a patrolman
out with that background check."  

Mulder opened the door and started in, but was stopped by
Quinlan appearing immediately behind him.  "Hang on a minute
- I almost forgot to give you these."  Quinlan handed over the
stack of files.  "The hospital asked that I bring these over.  Oh,
and the judge denied that search warrant Agent Scully wanted." 
He craned his neck to see around Mulder.

Mulder took the files.  "Was there something else, Chief?"  

Quinlan straightened, frustrated and no wiser for his attempt. 
"Nope.  I'll be heading out now.  Call me if anything comes up."

"Will do."  Mulder replied and managed to get in the door
without Quinlan following.  He looked around the room. 
Damn, she was good.  Scully's bed looked as if it hadn't been
slept in and the only sign of her presence was her briefcase and
laptop on the desk. Evidently, she must have heard the door
close, because the shower started and soon a cloud of steam
crept from under the door. [The problem with sharing a motel
room is that I can hear her showering and have a very active
imagination.]  He shook his head and turned to look at the files
he had been handed.

Scully emerged to the world directly, fresh, clean and fully
dressed - and smelling slightly of bodywash, Mulder noted. 
"My turn.  Leave me any hot water?"  

"You're hot enough already, Mulder.  Go shower."  She
mentally stared at herself, gapejawed.  Had she really just said
that?

He waved toward the files on the bed, turning quickly so that
she wouldn't see him blush.  "Quinlan brought by the medical
records and the news that the search warrant was denied."   She
nodded and he shut the bathroom door behind him.  

The problem with sharing a room with Mulder was that she
could hear him showering and it incited more than her
imagination.  She picked up the top file in the stack, reviewing
the statistics neatly arrayed on the chart.  

Chart after chart reflected similar results.  While the causes of
death were different and as to be expected for each patient, the
manner of death was remarkably similar.  The file notes
referenced no unusual complaints by any of the patients; in fact,
nearly all of the attending nurses had commented in the last
days on how much more restful the patients had been.  Scully
closed the sixth file.  Mulder was right. [Well, partially right, in
that all of the dying people had been drawn by Reid Barton, but
who's to say that they hadn't all had contact with Tom Bickford
either?  Damn these small towns with everyone's hands in
everyone else's back pockets!  We should've had that warrant.]

"Well?"  Mulder asked from the bathroom doorway.  He was
stripped to the waist and toweling his hair.  

Scully bit her tongue just enough to return her to the files.  "Art
is *not* killing these people."  

He tossed the towel into the bathroom and headed for his
suitbag.  He pulled a shirt off the hanger, inquiring as he
buttoned it, "What then?"  

"I, I don't know - some new variety of untraceable toxin or..."  

Mulder was rummaging around in the suitbag.  "Scully, have
you seen my ties?"

"You left them on the back of the bathroom door."

He headed back into the bathroom.  "Leaving aside the question
of motive, Tom Bickford, maybe, but where would a 22 year
old art teacher from East Bohicksville lay hands on any sort of
untraceable toxin?"  

"Maybe these people have some other connection that we don't
know about." Scully persisted.

"And the art teacher is being framed?"  His voice echoed off the
walls of the bathroom.

"More peculiar things have happened, Mulder, but (a) I still
don't agree that Reid Barton is a suspect and (b) connection
doesn't necessarily mean they were murdered.  What if they
were all in the same place at the same time and exposed to
Legionnaire's Disease or some such?"

"Legionnaire's Disease can be traced - you found no evidence of
bacterial or viral infection."

Her frustration rang through the room.  "Mulder, I refuse to
accept that art is, beyond the normal sense, living and, not only
living, but killing.  Art.  Can't.  Hurt.  You."

Mulder appeared from the bathroom, smiling.  "Well, let's go
look for a connection then, shall we, Ms. NEA?"  

She stuffed the files in her briefcase and headed to the door. 
"Let's."

***
Angston Police Department
Assistant Chief Jeremy Quinlan's Office
4:30 p.m.

"You're certain that your grandmother didn't know any of the
other deceased?"  Scully prodded.

The small room was stuffy, although the heating vent was
spewing more dust than heat and Quinlan pulled at his collar. 
"Agent Scully, my grandmother lived a very sheltered life. 
Once my grandfather died, about the only thing she left the
house for was church.  She never worked outside the home. 
She didn't attend lectures.  She didn't go to concerts.  She didn't
even go to the grocery store - my sister, Betty, went for her." 
His tone was becoming pedantic as he went through his litany.  

Patiently, Scully pressed further.  "You say she went to church. 
Could there be a connection there?"

"She taught Sunday School at the First Congregational for 40
years - she could very well have had *some* of these people as
students there.  But several of these people didn't attend First."

"What about as visitors?"  Mulder asked.

"At least one of them was an orthodox jew, Agent Mulder; and
I can assure you that Ruben Schnellglassen made a point of
never setting foot inside First Congregational."

"What about Tom Bickford?" 

"You mean did Tom Bickford go to First Congregational or did
he have contact with these people?"

"Both." Scully spoke patiently despite her urge to throttle the
man.

"No, he did not go to, nor, to my knowledge, visit, First
Congregational."

Mulder shifted in the chair.  "What about contact?"

"As I said yesterday, Tom's on the Town Council - he sees a lot
of people at a lot of events.  He makes it a point though to not
be alone with people so that no one can accuse him later of
corruption.  Like Billy Graham."

Scully roused herself.  "Billy Graham?"

"Yeah, you know - he won't ever be alone with a woman who's
not his wife.  Good advice if you ask me.  At any rate, I knew
most of these people, even the funny ones, and I can't think of
any tie that would bind all of them together."

Scully, aggravated, sat back in her chair. [Where did they get
this guy?  'Funny ones'?!].  "Other than the fact that they had
their portraits done by Reid Barton."

Quinlan nodded.  "Other than that," he said, leaning to get the
ringing phone from his desk.

Mulder straightened from where he lounged against the door. 
"I need to go check something out.  You coming?"

Scully glanced at Quinlan, who had leaned back in his chair and
put his feet up, settling in for a long conversation.  "Gladly."

***
Reid Barton's Apartment

Reid opened the door, just as Mulder raised his hand to knock. 
Her face was chalky under her tan and her clothes looked as if
they had spent the last several days in the hamper, paint spots
flecked her hands and jeans.

"You're here."  Her voice was hoarse, likely from crying, Scully
surmised, from the state of her eyes.  She stood back and
allowed them to come in, closing the door quietly behind them. 
"Have a seat."  She offered, gesturing toward the sofa.   "Can I
get you something to drink?"

"No, thank you."  Scully answered for both of them as she gave
the paint spattered sheet that covered the sofa an investigatory
look.  Mulder, being Mulder, wandered off into Reid's studio.

"Oh, don't worry - the paint is from last week.  It won't get on
your clothes."  Reid sat cross-legged in a chair bearing a
matching dropcloth, her shoulders slumped.  "Are you here to
arrest me?"

Scully glanced at her hands.  "No."  She paused before looking
into Reid's face again - the anguish in her eyes was far too
similar to that which crept into Mulder's when he was most
deeply disturbed.  "but it does seem like someone is trying to
make us, and you, think that you are somehow killing the
people you've drawn.  Can you think of anyone who has a
grudge against you?  Maybe someone who is jealous of your
talent?  Someone who hates you even?"  

Reid shifted in the chair, picking at a paint splotch on her knee. 
How could she make her see?  "It's not someone else, Agent
Scully, it's me."

"What do you mean, it's you, Reid?"

"I'm killing them.  I don't know how, but . . ." The frantic rush
of her words was interrupted by Mulder's voice approaching
from across the room.

"Scully, look at this."  She reached up and took the paper from
his hands.  The wrinkled piece of watercolor paper still bore a
vague pencil outline of two figures although the demands of an
eraser had worn holes through the fibers in places.  The image
had a nagging familiarity that Scully couldn't quite place.  "It's
us."  Mulder saved her the trouble.  Scully stared at the scrap,
eyebrows knitted.  It was them or, more precisely, had been. 
Somehow Reid had caught on paper the elusive emotions that
they themselves were unwilling to fully acknowledge.

Reid's eyes began to water.  "I didn't mean to - I just wanted to
capture - I mean, she's just so beautiful.  I didn't know."  

Scully looked back at the girl shaking in the chair opposite her. 
Her voice was gentle as she spoke.  "Is this why you were
concerned when I said I was tired last night?"

She nodded, trembling again at the thought.

"And then you erased it?"

"I had to do something," Reid cried, "I didn't know what else to
do."

Scully sighed and stood, approaching the girl.  Putting a hand
quietly on Reid's shoulder, she replied, "Reid, you didn't do
anything.  As you can see, we are both still here and we're fine. 
We're going to find out what's going on here and it will be ok. 
People cannot draw other people to death."  Scully glanced
over her shoulder at Mulder who was staring into the middle
distance in front of Reid's easel.  "Will you be alright if we go to
the hospital now to check on Timothy?"

Reid drew in a quivering breath and tried to sit up more fully. 
She nodded hesitantly but couldn't keep her voice even.  "I
think so."  

Scully straightened and headed toward Mulder.  

He held up an eraser from the pile next to the easel.  "Mind if I
borrow this?" 

Reid shook her head.  "Go ahead." 

"We'll call you later to check on you." Scully promised from the
door, concerned about the pain in the girl's face.

Reid stared at the door as it closed behind them.  By then she
would know for sure.

***
Cooley Dickinson Hospital

Timothy Webern lay unresponsive in his bed.  He could easily
have been mistaken for any other sleeping child were it not for
the nutritional IV running to his arm and the monitors blinking
next to the bed.  

Mulder and Scully watched the child through the glass.  Mulder
turned to Dr. Anderson, standing to Scully's right.  "How is
he?"

Dr. Anderson shrugged.  "It's baffling.  We can find nothing
wrong with him.  No evidence of viral or bacterial infection. 
No elevated white cell count.  In fact, his body chemistry seems
in perfect balance.  There is nothing out of the ordinary except
for the slight steady decline in heart rate and blood pressure. 
We've tried chemical stimulants, electric shock."

"Brain activity?"  Scully asked.

"Likewise slowing."  Dr. Anderson gazed through the glass at
the little boy.  "He's perfectly healthy and, yet, he's dying.  And
I can do nothing."

Mulder rolled the eraser around in his hand.  "Scully, do you
have that drawing?"  

"The one from Parents' Night?"  She asked, surprised, and rifled
through her briefcase, "It's right here."  She handed him the
photocopy. 

"I need the original."  He turned to the doctor.  "Have you seen
the original of this sketch?  Mr. or Mrs. Webern might have
brought it here with them?

Dr. Anderson studied the photocopy, confusion clouding her
face.  "I believe the original is on the bedside table, Agent
Mulder.  Why?"

"Just an idea."  He opened the door to the room.  

Through the glass, Scully and Dr. Anderson watched his brief
conversation with Mrs. Webern, who reached for the sketch
reluctantly but allowed him to take it.  

He put the paper up against the window and raised the eraser.

The movement caught Mrs. Webern's eye and she flew from
Timmy's bedside.

"No!"  The vehemence in her voice penetrated the hall before
Scully could react.  The chair she had been sitting in collided
loudly with the floor as she threw herself at Mulder.  "No! 
That's mine - mine."  The level of distress in her voice was
rising.  "Make him stop!" she pleaded as Scully came through
the doorway.

"What do you think you're doing?"  Scully quickly moved to
pull his hands off the picture. 

He stood like a rock, continuing to wipe away the pencil
strokes.

She reached again for the paper.   "Mulder, stop!"  She
demanded as the doctor tried to restrain the tiny dark-haired
woman that raged at Mulder.

As she did, a small voice found its way through the chaos. 
"Mommy?"

Mrs. Webern froze in Dr. Anderson's grasp.  "Timmy?"

The voice came again and they could see Timmy turn toward
them, fear written in his face.  "Mommy?"

"Oh my God.  Baby, Mommy's coming, Mommy's coming.  It's
alright.  Mommy's coming." She spun out of Dr. Anderson's
arms in her rush to get to her son.

Mulder handed Scully the eraser and the sketch and had the
grace not to say 'I told you so.'

"Could you leave the room, please?  I'll call you later," Dr.
Anderson assured Scully on her way to her patient.  Scully
nodded distractedly.

"Mulder, how did you know that erasing the sketch would do
that?"  Her words echoed in the tiled corridor.

He looked at her frankly.  "I didn't."

"We should call Reid."  Scully pulled out her cellphone and a bit
of paper.  "I'm sure she'll be relieved."  She said as the phone
rang on the other end.

***
Reid Barton's apartment

Reid heard the phone ringing, but couldn't summon the energy
to answer it.  She was almost in a state of shock by now -
numb, beyond caring.  All she had to do is finish the painting
and it was over.

***

"That's funny."  Scully passed through Mulder held for her. 
"There's no answer."

"No answer."  His face darkened.  "Scully, we have to get over
there."  He broke into a trot.

"Why?  You can't think she's running?"  Scully took off behind
him if only to keep up.

"No.  I think it's worse than that."

Grateful again for an unlocked car, he was in gear before Scully
could get the door closed behind her.

"What then?"  She asked breathless from the run.

"I think she's drawn the end."

***
Reid Barton's apartment

Mulder banged on the door frantically.  "Ms. Barton?"

"Reid?"  Scully shouted behind him, gun drawn.

Students began to pour into the dormitory hallway, staring at
the two adults outside Miss Barton's door.  Mulder stepped to
one side and nodded at Scully.  She aimed her weapon and shot
the lock through.  There were some screams in the gathering
crowd and the students whispered to one another.

Mulder looked over his shoulder at the people assembling and
held his badge out.  "FBI - I'm going to have to ask you to stay
back.  You . . ."  He pointed to a student in the front.  The
student gulped.  "You're in charge - Keep people in their rooms
or in a common room somewhere.  No one is to leave until we
say so.  Ok?"  The young man nodded.  "Go."  Mulder turned
back to the door.

As Mulder stepped into the tiny front hall of the apartment,
Scully approached from the bedroom.  He looked questioningly
at her and she shook her head slowly.   "Better call it in," was
all she said as she moved to the studio area.  

The painting that rested on the easel was still damp, but the face
that stared up at Scully was true.  The agonizing sadness in the
eyes seemed mingled with relief, as if the end, as it approached,
was not the horror she expected, but warm, forgiving even, and
the wistful smile seemed almost assuaged of guilt.  Scully's eyes
drifted to the sketch of Destiny Bickford on the wall, the bright
yellow pushpin a beacon.  The same love that beamed from the
child's face seemed to envelop Reid's last work as if, in making
her atonement, she had found absolution.

Scully didn't hear Mulder come up behind her until his arms
went around her, pulling her to him.  Whether to comfort her or
himself, she did not know, but leaned against him.

As the EMTs arrived, the breeze from the door brushed a
sketch from the coffee table to the floor.  Though erased
through in parts and tear-stained in others, a man and a woman
were still visible on the battered paper, finding in the union of
themselves the strength and understanding to fend off the
weariness inherent to life.

Epilogue:

Scully pushed the prongs on the picture frame back into place
and flipped it over to make certain the picture was centered and
secure.  She looked for a long moment at the scarred paper -
the rough surface the eraser had furred visible even through the
glass - before hanging the small frame on the nail she had put
into the brick wall especially for that purpose.  She reflected on
the image under the glass.  Despite the erasure, the lines
remained, curving as bodies did when held by a lover.  [How
could someone that young be so clear in her vision, see through
the walls they so painstakingly maintained?]  She brushed her
fingers over the tiny "RB" in the corner.  [Soon, Mulder. 
Perhaps sooner than either of us thinks.]  The doorbell rang,
breaking her reverie.  She glanced at the security monitor and
smiled at Mulder's expression.  She hit the buzzer.  "Come on
up."

The end.